I fell down the dark hole that is anime and this is what resulted.
Currently Waiting On:
Haikyuu Season 5
Yuri On Ice Season 2/Movie
Girls Und Panzer Das Finale 3
Finished Watching:
Naruto
Haikyuu: To The Top
Ouran High School Host Club
Rascal Does Not Dream of Bunny Girl Senpai
Girls Und Panzer
Sound Euphonium
Yuri On Ice
This is for my bb @sugusplaything just this once event âĽď¸
Tw: MDNI, 18+
Part 1 Part2
Loving Ryomen Sukuna is a bit like willingly walking into a burning building and being surprised when you get third degree burns.
You knew the fire was there. You saw the flames. You smelled the smoke. And your dumb ass walked in anyway because the warmth felt nice.
Sukuna Ryomen: A selfish bastard, commitment phobe, serial heartbreaker, occasional decent friend, andâŚfor the past six months⌠the man whose bed you crawled into like a pathetic little moth drawn to an extremely hot, emotionally unavailable flame.
Friends with benefits.
Six months. That's how long you'd been doing this little dance with him. Six months of watching him leave your bed to go to someone elseâs and telling yourself it was fine because you agreed to this.
No strings. No feelings.
The problem? You forgot to tell your heart about the arrangement.
Your phone buzzed at 11:47 PM. You already knew who it was
Sukuna: you up?
And there it was. The modern equivalent of a booty call smoke signal. Your thumb hovered over the screen while your dignity staged a small protest somewhere in the back of your skull.
Don't do it, the last remaining brain cell screamed. Have some self respect.
You typed back: maybe
See? Growth. That was practically playing hard to get.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Sukuna: that a yes or a no?
You: depends. what's in it for me?
Sukuna: me.
God, the audacity of this man. But It worked. It always fucking worked. Because you were a clown, and this was your circus.
Twenty minutes later, you were in his apartment, and his mouth was on your neck, and his hands were everywhere, and for a few blissful hours, you could pretend this meant something. That the way he held you afterâŚmeant something. That when he murmured "stay" against your hair, he meant it the way you wanted him to.
You'd known Sukuna since forever. Since you were eight years old and he was the mean kid who pulled your hair on the playground. Since you were fourteen and he showed up at your door at midnight because his dad was drunk again and he had nowhere else to go. Since you were seventeen and he held your hand at your fatherâs funeral without saying a word because he knew you didn't need words.
He was your person. Your best friend. The one constant in your life.
And then, six months ago, shit happened. Maybe it was the way he looked at you⌠both of you drunk on cheap wine. Maybe it was how he said "I've always wondered" before he kissed you
"This doesn't have to change anything," you'd whispered after, your forehead pressed against his.
"No feelings," he agreed.
"No strings."
Famous last words.
The first time you saw him with someone else, you told yourself it was fine. Expected, even. That was the deal, right? He could do whateverâŚ. whoeverâŚ. he wanted. You had no claim to him. No right to the jealousy that clawed at your throat when you watched her laugh at something he said.
You went home and cried in the shower for forty five minutes, then texted him like nothing was wrong.
The second time, you learned to swallow it faster. Shove it down into that little box where you kept all the feelings you weren't supposed to have.
The third time. The fourth. The fifthâŚ.
You got good at it. You could watch him flirt with someone at a party and still end up in his bed two hours later, because you were built different. Damaged different, but who's keeping score? Pathetic, really. Truly embarrassing behavior for a grown woman.
March 15th.
Your birthday.
You woke up to seventeen texts from various friends and family, a call from your mom that went to voicemail, and radio silence from the one person who'd never missed it.
Sukuna had remembered your birthday since you were nine years old. The year his mom was sick and his family had no money, he'd stolen flowers from the neighbor's garden and presented them to you with dirt still clinging to the roots. "They're not dead yet," he'd said, like that was the selling point.
You'd kept them until they were.
But today? Nothing. Not a text, not a call, not even a stupid meme with the crying cat that he always sent because he knew it made you laugh.
He's busy, you told yourself. He'll remember later.
You checked your phone at least eight thousand times throughout the day. Totally normal. Just a girl, standing in front of her phone, waiting for a man who promised her nothing to give her something.
By 7 PM, you'd graduated from "he's busy" to "maybe his phone died" to "maybe he's dead in a ditch somewhere and I should call hospitals."
9 PM, you were on Instagram.
And you saw his story, time stamped thirty minutes ago. Sukuna at some fancy restaurant with fairy lights and candles, and across from him sat a girl with perfect hair and pretty eyes,
He was on a date.
Something in your chest cracked. Like ice under pressure, spiderwebbing outward until the whole surface was compromised. You stared at that story for longer than you'd ever admit. Watched it loop three times. Four. Let the image burn itself into your retinas.
And then, finally, something clicked.
You were hurting yourself.
Every time you answered his late night texts. Every time you convinced yourself that maybe this time he'd look at you different. Every time you swallowed your feelings . You were doing this to yourself.
He wasn't the villain here. He'd been honest from the start. No strings. He'd kept his end of the deal.
You were the one who broke the rules.
You crawled into your bed, and let yourself cry. Ugly crying that leaves you dehydrated and blotchy
~~~
You're packing when he finally texts. Not packing packing. Just... putting things in boxes. His hoodie that had somehow came to your closet. Little pieces of him scattered around your apartment like landmines.
For one stupid, hopeful second, your heart leapt. Maybe he remembered. Maybe this was him texting to apologize, to explainâŚ
Sukuna: come over
Translation: Iâm horny, come over and spread your legs.
Ah, the late night classic. The mating call of the emotionally unavailable fuckboy. Your fingers itch to respond.., muscle memory at this point⌠but you don't.
When have you become this person? This pathetic, desperate girl who waits by her phone for scraps of attention from a man who canât even remember her birthday?
You stare at the message until your screen goes dark, then you go back to shoving his things into the box
Twenty minutes later, there's a knock at your door.
Of course. Because god forbid Sukuna not get what he wants.
You consider ignoring it. But then he knocks again, harder, and calls out: "I know you're in there. Your light's on."
Oh ffs
You yank the door open. Sukuna's standing there in that leather jacket you've always secretly loved, hair pushed back
"Didn't answer my text," he says, inviting himself in.
"I was busy."
What are you doing?" He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrow raised like you were the confusing one here.
âCleaning."
Sukuna pushes off the doorframe and walks toward you, and God, you hate how your heart still stutters. How your body still remembers every place his hands have been.
"You're being weird," he sys, reaching for the box. "What'sâŚâ He stops and stares at the contents. "Why is my shit in here?"
"Because it's yours." You yank the box away. "Take it.â
Sukuna stares at you. That look he gets when he's trying to figure out an angle. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing's wrong.â you say, starting to feel numb. You are so tired you can barely feel anything at all.
He steps closer. That gravity pulling you in, same as always. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and your treacherous body leans into it
"Can I stay," he murmurs. The voice that's gotten you into bed more times than you can count.
And for one pathetic second, you almost say yes.
Then you remember⌠The candles. The other girl's hand in his.
You pull back. "Not tonight."
He looks confused because Sukuna doesn't hear "no" very often. "Why?"
You look up at him, his eyes are fixed on you, waiting for your response. "I'm tired. JustâŚ. go home, Sukuna."
He doesn't move. "Did I do something?"
"No. You didn't do anything."
That's the problem. You didn't do a single fucking thing.
"Then whatâŚâ
"It's my birthday." The words fall out flat and exhausted.
Silence.
You watch it hit him. The slow widening of his eyes. Confusion, then realisation, then guilt showing on his face before he smothers it
"Shit," he breathes. "Fuck, IâŚ.."
"Don't." You hold up a hand. "Don't do the thing where you apologize and I pretend it's fine and we fuck and nothing changes. I can'tâŚ. " Your voice cracks. Goddamn it. "I can't keep doing this."
Sukuna's face has gone still. You've never seen him look like this before.
"You were my best friend," tears stream down your face "For fifteen years. And now I'm just... what? Just someone you fuck when you're bored?"
Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.
âWe agreed no feelings.â He finally says. And there it is. The rejection youâve been expecting, wrapped up in his typical Sukuna way.
A laugh rips out of you. You are crying and laughing at the same time. You wipe your eyes roughly with the back of your hand. Your face is probably a mess⌠puffy eyes, snotty nose
"You're right," you whisper. You feel like throwing up. Youre so exhausted but the only thing you can think of is how you needed to get out and away from Sukuna âI think we should stopâ
You expect him to argue. To charm his way out of it like he always does.
"Okay," he says finally.
Okay. Just like that.
You weren't expecting it to hurt this much.
He leaves.
You sit on your bed and cry until you can't breathe, then cry some more.
Happy fucking birthday to you.
~~~
What you don't see is Sukuna in his car, parked outside your building for two hours, staring at his steering wheel.
What you don't see is him pulling up fifteen years of photos on his phone. You at eight, cake on your face. You at sixteen, asleep in his passenger seat. You at twenty, laughing so hard you spilled champagne all over your clothes.
What you don't see is the moment he realizes the hollow feeling he's been ignoring for months isn't boredom, isn't restlessness, isn't anything fixable by another nameless girl in another forgettable bar.
Hello, i was wondering if i can request a Love and deepspace fanfic. I was thinking of an angsty fanfic with Rafayel but reader is not the main character in the game.
For the plot, maybe like Rafayel and reader are in a situationship but its getting serious and then he meets MC. The reader slowly starts realizing the he will never choose her over MC and that no matter how many amazing masterpieces Rafayel creates she can never be his muse.
. .âďšđŞ đđđđđđđ : Rafayel x Non MC!Fem!Reader
. .â á . đđđđđđđ : Three months. One month before Hannah. One month during Hannah. And... there wouldn't be a month after Hannah, since you'd leave before there could ever be one.
. .âęę . đđđđđđđ đđđđđđđđ : non mc!fem!reader, she/her pronouns are used for reader, no use of 'y/n', fluff + angst + hurt/no comfort, swearing (fuck), situationship.
. .â áśť đ đ° đđđđđđ'đ đđđđ : the mc in the fic's name is hannah, sowwy :3 part 2 is out (Ëśáľ áľ áľËś)
"Do you want to go out next week?" You broke the comfortable silence that had been settled in the air for about an hour now, not looking up from the book you're reading. You and Rafayel were content on sitting in each other's silence in the studio, finding comfort in just each other's presence alone. You did this a lot â just sit there in the warm sunlight shining through the large windows, with the soft sounds of the ocean waves outside crashing against each other, content with just watching Rafayel paint.
Rafayel was diligently working on another one of his bound-to-be-famous masterpieces, sitting high up on his ladder to reach the highest corners of the huge canvas with his paint palette in one hand, and a perpetually moving paintbrush in the other, along with a few differently sized paintbrushes for different purposes resting in his lap. You were sitting on the couch, reading a book that Tara had recommended to you. The book wasn't really your thing, but you said you'd give it a try for Tara's sake.
Rafayel's paintbrush strokes became slower as your question drifted through the air, the streaks of colour it left behind slowly fading out as the paintbrush ran out of its paint. He turns his head towards you, lips slightly curved up in a faint, amused smile.
"Like... on a date?" He muses, the hand holding his paintbrush coming to rest on the wrist of the hand holding the paint palette.
A light pink blush dusts over your cheeks in embarrassment. You had not realized what the question would come off as if you worded it like that, only comprehending how it came off after you already said it.
"I mean... it could be... if you want it to be- I don't know." You shut your book and flipped it over to look at the back, pretending to read the description to avoid eye contact with Rafayel. A soft chuckle floated throughout the air, and you looked up at the source of the chuckle with confusion evident in the way that your eyebrows furrowed together, forming a crease in between them.
"And what if I want it to be?" He asked with a hint of amusement in his voice, a smirk playing on his lips as he began to slowly descend down the steps of the ladder, carefully balancing the paintbrushes on top of his paint palette in his hand.
"Consider it a date then! I don't know!" You sputtered and brought a hand up to rest against your eyebrows as you would if you were trying to block the sunlight outside, keeping your head down to try and hide the deep blush in your cheeks that was rapidly deepening in shade as the seconds ticket by.
Chuckling, he placed the paintbrushes inside a bucket of various other paintbrushes next to the ladder, leaving the paint palette to rest next to the bucket and standing up to grab a moist old kitchen rag that hung over one of the steps of the ladder. He cleaned off the dried splotches of paint on his hands, turning his hands over a few times each to ensure that there was no more paint on them.
Tossing the rag back over the step of the ladder â completely missing the step, the rag landed on the floor â, he ran his hands through his hair with a sigh while making his way over to you on the couch. Plopping down with an exaggerated groan, he arched his back off of the couch to release a loud crack, the crepitus echoing throughout the large, quiet studio.
He noticed you were still hiding your face with your hand, and gently pried your hand from your face with his own, holding your hand between both of his as he gave you an amused smile, resting his elbows on your thigh.
You were almost one-hundred percent sure that he could see the bright red hue of your cheeks and the tips of your ears, and if he did, he didn't say anything â which you were thankful for.
You noticed the small smudge of paint on his left cheekbone â a beautiful deep sea blue mixed with streaks of bright red â, and you snickered. His smile immediately faltered as a crease formed between his eyebrows, looking utterly confused as to why you were laughing.
"What? What's so funny? What are you laughing at?" He let go of your hand and lifted his elbows from your thigh to sit up straight.
Your snickering subsided, leaving a warm smile on your face as you placed your book down in your lap. Bringing your hand up to his cheekbone, you pointed your index finger at the smudge of paint on his cheek that he had failed to notice himself when cleaning the paint from his hands.
"You've got some paint. Right. There." You poked his cheek with your finger when you said 'there'. Pulling your hand back to rest on your leg, he brought his own up to touch his cheek.
"How did it even get there? I didn't even let the paintbrush get anywhere near my face." He pouted, running his fingers over his cheekbone, feeling the cracks of the dried smudge of paint.
"You probably just scratched your face with your hand after you got some paint on it while in thought." You shrugged, leaning back into the couch and you crossing your arms over your chest, crossing one leg over the other.
"Get it off." He whined, dragging out the 'f'.
You raised your eyebrows at him, cheeks starting to burn up again at his request. You've had multiple intimate experiences like this on almost a daily basis, and it flustered you every single time.
"Please?" A pleading look presented itself in the form of a pout on his face, along with his hands clutching together over his chest to signify begging.
Sighing, you got up with a slight shake of your head, an amused smile playing on your face. You went over to the ladder and bent down to grab the moist kitchen rag off of the floor, shaking it to rid it of any potential dust and grime. Standing up and turning around, you headed back to the couch and sat down next to Rafayel.
You motioned for him to come closer with your index finger, stopping once you deemed him close enough.
Settling your hand on his right cheek gently, you began to softly rub at the paint smudge with a corner of the rag, eyes focusing solely on the smudge and avoiding eye contact to avoid further embarrassment. What you didn't notice was the soft look Rafayel adorned his eyes as his eyes skimmed over your features. From your eyes, to your nose, to your lips... your soft, beautiful lips. He wanted nothing more than have them meet his own.
Rolling your eyes at the smug smirk on the greasy face of the carnival game stall owner, you roughly grabbed your bag from it's position atop the counter, pulling the strap over your shoulder and scoffing at the greasy man. You had lost at the same game for the fifth time in a row now, and you were almost one-hundred percent certain it was because the game was rigged. Your proof? The smug look on his face every time you lost, and the fact that no one attending that festival had won that game once in that entire night. The game wasn't even that hard, a simple hit-the-target game, but the problem was that the ball way too light, and the target rigged to be way too stiff to knock over, even with a heavier ball.
"Fucking scum... I ought to bend his knees in the opposite direction..." You mutter to Rafayel, adjusting the strap of your bag hanging over your shoulder while glaring at the greasy owner over your shoulder, and to no one's surprise, he was already in the process of scamming someone else in the exact way he'd scammed you. Taking notice of Rafayel's silence, you turn your head in his direction â or what would have been his direction, had he still been next to you â, and noticed that he was no where to be seen.
"Rafayel?" You called, looking around you with furrowed brows.
"What the..." Doing a full circle in place while trying to spot your... friend? Come to think of it, you didn't even know what you and Rafayel were anymore. Way too close to consider yourselves just friends, but you never established an official relationship, so you weren't a couple, either. Neither of you ever asked about it, as if there was some sort of silent agreement between the two of you to not question the status of your relationship.
Finally spotting that familiar head of dusky purple hair near a kingyo-sukui stand next to a fountain, you began to walk in that direction, meandering around the hundreds of people walking in multiple different directions.
'Why would he just walk away like that? Without even telling me?' You wonder to yourself with furrowed brows, gripping your bag against your side to prevent it from wildly swinging around.
Your feet came to a sudden halt when you noticed he was talking to someone, and you'd recognize that familiar hunter uniform anywhere. Hannah.
You by no means had any issues with Hannah, you'd even go as far as to call yourself her friend. But knowing she was somewhat of an introvert who tended to avoid heavily crowded public spaces, why would she be here? At a heavily-crowded festival? And in her hunter uniform, no less.
Their interaction seemed to be quite short, as Rafayel was already walking back in your direction, hands in his pants-pockets. You leaned to the side to spot Hannah over Rafayel's shoulder, looking at the back of Rayafel's head with a confused look, her mouth slightly ajar as if she were still speaking. And knowing Rafayel, he probably did walk away while she was still in the middle of her sentence.
Rafayel walked past you, wordlessly telling you to follow after him. You scrambled to catch up with his long strides, dodging strings of running kids being followed by their exhausted parents. "Do you know her?" You questioned, finally catching up with Rafayel.
"I think... I found her... I think I found my bride..." He muttered with a far-off look in his eyes, looking back over his shoulder just in time to catch sight of Hannah handing the small goldfish that he had caught for her off to a little kid, who was vibrating with excitement.
Your heart dropped. You had known all about his... previous life. As a Sea God. How could you not? You told each other everything. And you knew he's been searching for his bride for eight-hundred years now.
Shit...
You awkwardly sat next to Rafayel on the couch in the studio, silently staring at him as he typed away on his phone, an ear-to-ear smile on his face as he does so. The two of you had been sat in an uncomfortable silence for the past twenty minutes, and every time you'd go to say something, you'd backtrack.
"Who are you talking to?" You fiddeled with your sleeves, the atmosphere felt... strange. Uncomfortable, even. Talking to Rafayel had never been so... difficult... before. The two of you would never sit together in silence for longer than five minutes before finding something to talk about.
"Oh, it's just Hannah." He shrugged, not looking up from his phone. He has been... distant lately, almost avoidant. Ever since he approached Hannah at that kingyo-sukui stand, it's as if he's been pulling away from you. He began to avoid your hugs. His text messages became shorter, more vague. The time in which he'd take to answer your calls got longer and longer until you'd eventually be sent to his voice-mail.
Your worst nightmare was starting to become true in front of your very eyes. You were losing Rafayel. It was bound to happen eventually. They would find each other eventually, and you would eventually become nothing more than a road-block in their relationship. A memory.
"I see..." You looked back down at your hands, picking at your nails. You and Rafayel would go on to sit in that same uncomfortable silence for the next hour. You didn't even know why you were still there. The silence was suffocating. You didn't want to be there anymore. So you left Rafayel, muttering an awkward 'see you later,' preferring to sit in silence in your bedroom, over sitting in silence with Rafayel.
Your heart felt heavy with ache as you sniffeled, puffy eyes starting to spill fresh tears as you shuffled through the hundreds of drawings Rafayel has given you throughout the years. There were drawings from birthdays, drawings from hospital visits, 'good luck, don't die' drawings he'd give you before you'd go out on missions. So many drawings. So many memories. Those memories meant everything to you. But they meant nothing to him. He's started to replace your memories with the ones he's made with Hannah. To think that he could replace you just like that; it put a indescribable ache in the deepest part of your stomach.
You didn't know why were you handling this so badly. You and Rafayel aren't together, you never were, and you could never be. His heart only ever belonged to her, since the very beginning. He could never be with you when after all this time, he's found his beloved bride. His muse. His first love. How could he ever settle for you when she was entwined into the very fabric of his existence. The person he'd betrayed the entire ocean for.
You tossed the stack of drawings back into the drawer and shoved it shut with more force than intended, unintentionally knocking some items that were still waiting to be packed off of the desk. You stomped your foot as your body began to rack with sobs, bending down to pick up the fallen items on the floor. A few photo frames, some random paint-stained plastic cup you dug out of the back of your bathroom cabinet, and... some of his paintbrushes.
Picking up one of the last of the fallen photo frames, you turned it over, seeing that the glass cover was now cracked. Your eyes scanned over the picture inside the photo frame, and your breathe hitched. It was a picture of you and Rafayel at one of his art exhibitions, before she came into his life. When he still enjoyed your company. When your friendship meant more to him than what he made it seem now.
The glass had cracked right down the middle, splitting between you and Rafayel. 'How ironic' you thought to yourself with a scoff, throwing the photo frame to the ground, small fragments of glass scattering across the floor as the glass shattered even further from the force.
You stood up with the framed photos that you weren't intending on leaving here in your arms, walking towards your bed and placing them down onto the fabric of mattress, void of any sheets. Beginning the tedious process of carefully wrapping each photo up in bubble wrap and putting them into one of the many boxes scattered around the room, you sniffled every now and again, cheeks raw from the constant tear-wiping from your sleeves.
You were moving out.
You couldn't live with Rafayel anymore. It hurt you too much â having to see how sweetly he was treating Hannah while he was treating you no better than he would treat a bothersome stranger at one of his art exhibitions.
Everything began to fall apart after Rafayel met her. He became distant, cold even. He started avoiding you, preferring to hang out with Hannah instead; how could he not? She was his very first love. His only muse. He had found his bride again, and he sure as hell was not planning on letting her go a second time.
As time passed, you became nothing more than a stranger in his studio; with short, vague replies and obligatory politeness being the only exchanges you and Rafayel would come ever have anymore. He stopped responding to your texts after a month of knowing Hannah, opting to just delete your chat every time you'd send new messages. You stopped sending them at some point aswell, preferring to sit with the ache of not sending him messages, over the ache of having your messages ignored as if you were some meddlesome fan trying to get his attention.
As you wiped the salty tears from your cheeks with the sleeves of your hoodie, you finished packing up the final box â the one that hurt the most to pack â, filled with framed pictures of various sizes and holding hundreds of memories each. Sealing the box's flaps with a few layers of packing tape.
Picking up a different, slightly smaller box filled with books and old mission reports and balancing it on top of the one you had just finished packing, you promptly dusted off your hands. You could do whatever you wanted since Rafayel was out, and to no surprise, Hannah was with him. They were barely ever apart anymore, just like you and Rafayel used to be at some point. He has fully replaced you, and he doesn't even seem to regret that decision one bit.
You shook your head to rid your mind of the thought of them together, digging the balls of your palms into your eyes until you were seeing stars. Removing your hands, the stars slowly faded as you grabbed the stacked boxes on top of the bed. Beginning the long, painful process of moving all of your things out of the house and into your car.
Rafayel didn't need you anymore, so why would you hurt yourself even more by staying in his house and hoping that he'll eventually come around and come back to you?
After hours of moving the boxes from your bedroom in Rafayel's studio to your car in the driveway, you gave your surroundings one last somber look while standing in the middle of your now uncharacteristically bare bedroom, before making your way to the front door, slowly gripping the handle with trembling hands and walking outside. Opening your car door in the driveway, you shakily climbed in with a heavy heart.
You had purposely left some souvenirs in your bedroom â like the shattered picture frame of you and Rafayel on the floor near your desk â in hopes that it'll make him feel bad.
As horrible as it was to say, you hoped that he would feel horrible after coming home and discovering you were gone. You hadn't blocked his number either, hoping that he would call you and admit how large of an asshole he'd been, or text you begging you to come back. The least he could do was show even the smallest sliver of remorse for all that he's done.
Who pours all their love and affection into a relationship, just to disappear without even so much as an goodbye? You'll admit with a broken heart that you and Rafayel were never official, but to get up and leave as if the past few years meant absolutely nothing, all because of someone else? It was a level of cruelty that you couldn't even begin to unpack.
He promised he'd never hurt you, yet here you were; pulling out of the driveway with tears in your eyes, your belongings packed into carboard boxes in your car, squeezed and arranged like Tetris cubes as to not have to make a second trip back for any other belongings, leaving your spare key to his studio on your desk in your bedroom. You didn't leave a note. You felt he didn't deserve one.
Driving down the dimply lit neighbourhood, you promised yourself that once you arrived at Tara's apartment, you'd stop crying over Rafayel, and finally come to terms with the fact that you could never be his muse. Rafayel could create thousands of paintings, enough to fill up six Louvre Museums in Paris, and you would not be in a single one of them. And you'd come to accept that. You'd be someone else's muse some day, but for now, you'd work on picking yourself back up again.
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synopsis : gojo satoru has always been a little ridiculous when it comes to you. thatâs what happens when you grow up with someone who once wrote âi wanna be a princess when i grow upâ in the second grade yearbook and never quite stopped deserving the crown. twenty years later, heâs still finding new ways to treat you like royaltyâcarrying your bags, buying you candy, pretending itâs all just friendly devotion. but the truth is, satoruâs been yours longer than heâs willing to admit⌠and itâs starting to get a little too hard to hide.
tags -> slice of life-ish, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, misunderstanding but itâs soft and stupid, first kiss, white rose symbolism, fluff, YEARNER SATORU, oblivious idiots in love, princess treatment, satoru-centric, lighthearted with feelings, emotional constipation, love confessions, happy ending, art not mineâwill credit as soon as i find source!
wc â 10.3k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?
a/n: this was supposed to be a short, silly fic about satoru being down bad and giving you princess treatment because of something you wrote in a second grade yearbook. but then i blacked out and woke up 10.3k words later, emotionally compromised and surrounded by strawberry candy wrappers. so yeah. i hope you enjoy this soft, dumb, painfully slow-burning love story between two idiots whoâve clearly been married since they were seven. as always, reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated and returned with a consensual kiss on the forehead đ˝đš
satoru's brain operates on a frequency that should probably concern medical professionals. right now, that frequency is completely hijacked by the sight of you sprawled across his couch, ankles crossed, unwrapping a piece of strawberry candy with the kind of focused concentration most people reserve for defusing bombs. you hum something tuneless under your breath, fingers working the wrapper with methodical precision, and he thinks this might be how people spontaneously combust.
the thing is, he's been in love with you since the second grade, which makes him both devoted and completely unhinged. it started with a yearbookâthose flimsy little books where seven-year-olds write their life plans in crayon. you'd written âi wanna be a princess when i grow upâ in that careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration like it always does when you're thinking hard. when you asked what he wanted to be, he'd scribbled âastronautâ because it was the only job he could think of that might get him to the moon fast enough to bring you back a rock that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.
twenty years later, he's still trying to make good on that promise, just in different ways.
âsatoru, you're staring,â you say without looking up from your candy wrapper, voice carrying that familiar note of fond exasperation. your lips curve into the smallest smile as you speak, and his pulse does something acrobatic against his ribs.
âi'm appreciating,â he corrects, settling into the opposite end of the couch with deliberately casual movements. his hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the windowâthose impossible pale strands that seem to drink in sunlight and reflect it back like spun moonbeams, never quite behaving despite his half-hearted attempts to tame them each morning. the light makes them appear almost translucent at the edges, ethereal in a way that's always made strangers do double-takes on the street. âthere's a difference.â
you finally look at him properly, lifting your gaze from the candy wrapper, and he gets to see the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you're trying not to smile. it's the same expression you've had since childhoodâthat particular combination of amusement and affection that you've never quite learned to hide. the sight of it makes his chest feel too small for his heart, like someone's trying to stuff an ocean into a teacup. âappreciating what, exactly?â
âyour dedication to proper candy unwrapping technique.â he gestures toward your hands with exaggerated seriousness, watching the way you smooth out each wrinkle with your fingertips. âvery thorough. very princess-like.â
there it isâthat little snort-laugh that means he's being ridiculous but you're charmed anyway. your head tilts back slightly with the sound, exposing the graceful line of your throat, and you ball up the wrapper with unnecessary force before throwing it at his face. he catches it with reflexes that are definitely overkill for crumpled plastic, his hand moving faster than thought, fingers closing around the small projectile before it can make contact. âyou're so weird.â
weird doesn't begin to cover it. he's the kind of weird that keeps mental notes about how you like your coffee (too much sugar, splash of vanilla creamer, stirred exactly twelve times counterclockwise), the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking hard about something, how you always steal his hoodies but pretend it's accidental even though you've been doing it for fifteen years. the kind of weird that's been carrying a torch so long he's surprised it hasn't burned his hands off.
âweird in a charming way though, right?â he asks, leaning forward slightly. his eyesâthose unsettling ice-chip irises that seem to shift between arctic blue and pale silver depending on his moodâfix on your face with an intensity that would probably make anyone else uncomfortable. but you've been looking into those eyes for two decades, watching them go from bright and mischievous in childhood to something deeper, more complex now. something that holds secrets he's never quite brave enough to voice.
âweird in a⌠uniquely satoru way,â you concede, and the fondness in your voice makes his stomach flip. you've moved on to the next candy, and he watches the precise way you smooth out the wrapper again, fold it into a tiny perfect square like you're performing surgery. these are the moments that undo him completelyânot the big gestures or dramatic declarations, just you existing in his space like you belong there. like maybe you always have.
his phone buzzes against the coffee table, vibrating insistently, but he ignores it. nothing's more important than this: you humming off-key under your breath, the late afternoon sun painting everything golden and soft, the way you've unconsciously tucked your feet under his thigh for warmth. your toes wiggle slightly against his leg, and he has to concentrate on not shivering at the casual contact. domestic bliss wrapped up in strawberry candy and the scent of your shampooâsomething floral and sweet that he's never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere.
âremember when we used to do this in elementary school?â you ask suddenly, holding up the neatly folded wrapper between your thumb and forefinger. the paper catches the light, creating tiny rainbows at the creases. âyou'd always try to make yours into origami cranes.â
âkey word being âtry,ââ he says, but he's smiling at the memory, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself. his hair falls across his forehead as he tilts his head, those pale strands shifting like seafoam. you sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, patient as anything while he struggled with paper folds, your small hands guiding his through the steps over and over again. telling him it was okay that his cranes looked more like abstract art, that they were beautiful in their own way. you'd been doing that his whole lifeâmaking his failures feel like victories just by witnessing them with that soft, encouraging smile.
âi still have some of them,â you admit, ducking your head slightly as if embarrassed by the confession. your fingers twist the new wrapper, creating small accordion folds. âin my apartment.â
his heart does something complicated against his ribs, a stuttering rhythm that makes him wonder if cardiac episodes can be triggered by pure affection. âthe terrible cranes?â
âthe terrible cranes.â you pop the candy into your mouth, and he tracks the movement without meaning to, watches the way your lips close around the sweet treat, the slight movement of your throat as you swallow. when you catch him staring, a faint blush creeps up your neck. âthey're in my memory box with all the other important stuff.â
important stuff. he files that away with all the other small revelations you drop without realizing their weight, adds it to the mental catalog he's been building for years. you keep his terrible origami. you think their childhood memories are important enough to preserve in a special box. you're sitting in his living room like it's yours too, feet tucked against his leg like the contact is natural, necessary even.
âwhat else is in there?â he asks, genuinely curious but also desperate to keep you talking, to hear more about the pieces of your shared history you've deemed worth saving.
you consider this, working the candy around in your mouth thoughtfully. âlots of things. movie ticket stubs from our first pg-13 movieâremember how we snuck into that theater in eighth grade? your mom's chocolate chip cookie recipe that you wrote out for me in high school because i wanted to learn how to bake. that polaroid from senior prom where you're making bunny ears behind my head.â
each item hits him like a small revelation. he remembers all of itâremembers the way you'd grabbed his hand in the dark theater during the scary parts, how you'd insisted on writing out the recipe even though you'd never shown any interest in baking before, the way you'd laughed so hard at his bunny ears that you'd snorted and immediately turned red with embarrassment.
âyou kept the recipe?â his voice comes out softer than intended, almost wondering.
âof course i kept the recipe. your handwriting was so bad i could barely read it, but i kept it anyway.â you grin at him, that bright, uninhibited smile that makes his chest feel too tight. âstill can't make cookies worth a damn, but i have the recipe.â
âi could teach you,â he offers without thinking, then immediately wants to take it back because it sounds too much like a date, too much like something more than friends would do together.
but you just nod enthusiastically, bouncing slightly on the couch. âyes! we should definitely do that. i've been wanting to learn forever, but every time i try on my own they come out like hockey pucks.â
the casual way you accept his offer, like spending an afternoon in the kitchen together is the most natural thing in the world, makes his pulse skip. he can already picture itâyou in his kitchen, flour in your hair, probably getting more ingredients on yourself than in the bowl. him standing behind you, hands covering yours as he shows you how to fold in the chocolate chips, trying not to think about how perfectly you'd fit against his chest.
âsatoru?â you're looking at him with that slightly concerned expression that means he's been quiet too long, lost in his own head again. your brow furrows in that particular way it does when you're trying to read his mood. âyou okay?â
âyeah,â he says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended, scratchy around the edges. he clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that's become automatic over the years. âjust thinking.â
âdangerous,â you tease, but there's something softer in your eyes now, something that makes him wonder if you can see right through him. if maybe you've always been able to see through him, and he's been the only one pretending otherwise.
the afternoon stretches out, lazy and warm, filled with the comfortable silence of two people who've known each other long enough that conversation isn't always necessary. you've finished your candy and are now absently braiding the hem of your shirt, fingers working the fabric with the same methodical precision you'd used on the wrapper. he thinks about how easy it would be to just say it. to tell you that he's been yours since before he knew what that meant, that every day feels like borrowed time because surely someone this good, this bright, this perfectly imperfect can't actually want to spend her free time with someone like him.
instead, he reaches for the tv remote and pretends his hands aren't shaking. pretends he doesn't notice the way you watch him move, doesn't see the little frown that crosses your face when he turns away from you to focus on the screen.
the opening credits of some mindless sitcom fill the silence, but he's not really watching. he's thinking about memory boxes and terrible origami cranes and the way you said âimportant stuffâ like it meant something. like maybe he means something.
like maybe twenty years of almosts might finally be leading somewhere.
the farmer's market on saturday morning is your idea, which means satoru trails behind you like a devoted shadow, carrying your reusable bags and pretending he's not cataloguing every smile you give to the vendors. you're wearing that sundress he likesâthe one with tiny cherries printed on cream-colored fabric that makes your skin look like it's been kissed by sunlightâand he's having what can only be described as a religious experience watching you examine peaches with scientific precision.
the dress hits just above your knees, swaying gently as you move from stall to stall, and he has to actively work to keep his eyes from following the movement. the morning sun catches in your hair, highlighting strands he's never noticed before, and when you lean over to smell a particularly promising piece of fruit, he has to look away before he does something stupid like stare at the graceful curve of your neck.
âthese are perfect,â you announce, holding up a peach that's blushed pink and gold, soft to the touch but not too yielding. your fingers cradle it carefully, thumb brushing over the fuzzy skin with reverence. âsmell.â
you thrust the peach toward his face with the enthusiasm of someone who's discovered buried treasure, and he dutifully inhales, though mostly what he's registering is your proximity and the way your hair smells like vanilla and something uniquely you. something he's never been able to identify but would recognize in a crowded room. âsmells good,â he manages, and you beam like he's just solved world hunger.
your whole face lights up with the compliment, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he thinks distantly that he'd probably agree with anything you said if it meant seeing that expression again. you could tell him the peach smelled like old socks and he'd nod along just to keep you smiling.
âright? we're definitely making cobbler this week.â you're already moving toward the vendor, pulling crumpled bills from the small purse slung across your body, but the words stop him cold.
we. the casual assumption that he'll be there, that his kitchen is your kitchen, that making cobbler together is just what you do. his chest goes tight with affection so intense it borders on medical emergency. you don't even question whether he'll want to spend his sunday afternoon elbow-deep in flour and fruitâyou just assume, with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to doubt their welcome in his space.
âwhatever you want, your highness,â he says, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. it's been happening more frequently lately, that old childhood nickname finding its way into casual conversation. you've been âyour highnessâ in his head for so long that sometimes it escapes into real conversation, and every time it does, you get this lookâhalf amused, half something else he can't quite read but desperately wants to understand.
âyou and that nickname,â you mutter, but you're smiling as you hand the vendor your money, counting out bills with careful precision. your cheeks are slightly pink, though whether from the compliment or the morning sun, he can't tell. âi swear you're never gonna let me grow up.â
if only you knew. he's acutely aware of how grown up you are, how you've traded pigtails for soft waves that catch the light and crayon drawings for the kind of smile that could probably power a small city. he's noticed every single change, catalogued every new freckle and laugh line, the way your voice has gotten slightly deeper, more melodious. somehow he's fallen deeper with each transformation, like he's been in love with every version of you that's ever existed.
âexcuse me,â the peach vendor says as she hands you your change, coins clinking softly in your palm, âyou two are just the cutest couple. how long have you been together?â
satoru's brain short-circuits so completely he's surprised smoke doesn't start pouring from his ears. his mouth opens and closes without sound, and he can feel heat creeping up his neck, probably turning his face an unflattering shade of red. you laughâthat bright, surprised sound that makes his stomach flipâand shake your head quickly, hands fluttering in denial.
âoh, we're notâwe're just friends,â you say, but there's something in your voice, a slight hesitation before the word âfriendsâ that makes his pulse stutter.
just friends. the words hit him somewhere behind his sternum, not quite pain but not quite relief either. the vendor looks embarrassed, starts apologizing profusely, but you wave her off with easy grace while satoru stands there wondering if his internal combustion is visible from the outside. his hands tighten on the straps of your bags, knuckles probably white with the effort of appearing normal.
âhappens all the time,â you tell him as you walk away, weaving between other shoppers with practiced ease, and there's something in your voice he can't identify. something almost⌠wistful? âpeople always think we're dating.â
âyeah,â he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of strained. his throat feels tight, words coming out rougher than intended. âweird, right?â
you glance at him sideways, and for a second he thinks you might say something else. your lips part slightly, like you're considering it, but then you just shrug and move toward the flower stand, leaving him to follow and contemplate the particular torture of being mistaken for your boyfriend by strangers when he'd give anything for it to be true.
the flower stand is a riot of color and fragrance, buckets of blooms arranged in careful rows. the vendor is a tiny elderly woman with silver hair pinned back in a neat bun, and she takes one look at them approaching and immediately starts gushing about her roses, hands gesturing enthusiastically toward a display of pink blooms that smell like summer and promises.
âfor your girlfriend?â she asks satoru with a conspiratorial wink, gesturing to the roses with the confidence of someone who's been in the matchmaking business for decades.
âjust friends,â you say again, quicker this time, the words tumbling out before satoru can even process the question. he tries not to read too much into the way your smile falters slightly, the way your shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.
but the woman is persistent, pressing a single white rose into his palm with another wink that suggests she knows something they don't. the flower is perfectâpetals like silk, stem thornless and smooth. âsometimes the best love stories start with friendship, young man. trust me, i've been selling flowers for forty years. i know these things.â
satoru stares down at the rose, its petals soft as silk between his fingers and impossibly white, like fresh snow or clean linen or every perfect thing he's ever tried to find words for. when he looks up, you're already walking toward the next stall, shoulders tense in a way that makes him want to chase after you and demand to know what you're thinking. what you're feeling. whether the flower vendor's words affected you the same way they affected him.
instead, he pays for the rose without arguing about the price, tucking it carefully into one of the bags where it won't get crushed, and follows because that's what he's always done. followed you, waited for you, hoped that someday you'd turn around and see him the way he sees you.
the way he's always seen you.
âsatoru, come on,â you call over your shoulder, already three stalls ahead, and he realizes he's been standing there longer than he thought, lost in his own head again. you're holding up a small jar of honey, sunlight catching the golden liquid inside. âthey have lavender honey. remember how much you liked it at that restaurant last month?â
you remember. of course you remember. you remember every small preference, every casual comment, every little thing that most people would forget within minutes. it's one of the things he loves most about youâthe way you pay attention, the way you care enough to file away the smallest details about the people you love.
he jogs to catch up, bags bouncing against his side, and finds you already chatting with the honey vendor about different varieties and flavor profiles. you're animated when you talk about food, hands gesturing as you describe the restaurant where he'd first tried lavender honey, and he finds himself falling in love with you all over again just watching you exist in the world.
âwe'll take two jars,â you're saying, already reaching for your wallet, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.
âi've got it,â he says, pulling out his own money before you can protest. your skin is warm under his fingers, and he has to resist the urge to let his thumb trace across your pulse point.
âyou don't have toââ
âi want to.â and he does. wants to buy you honey and flowers and anything else that makes you smile like that. wants to be the reason for that soft, pleased expression that's currently gracing your features.
you let him pay, but not without rolling your eyes in fond exasperation. âyou spoil me.â
âgood,â he says simply, accepting the jars from the vendor and tucking them carefully into the bag with the rose. âyou deserve to be spoiled.â
the words slip out before he can stop them, too honest, too revealing, and he watches your expression shift into something he can't quite read. you duck your head, hair falling forward to hide your face, but not before he catches the faint blush creeping across your cheeks.
âcome on, your royal highness,â you say, bumping his shoulder with yours, and the casual contact makes his heart stutter. âlet's go home and make that cobbler.â
home. you said home, not his place or his apartment, but home. like it's yours too. like maybe it always has been.
maybe it always has been.
back at his apartment, you're quiet in a way that sets his nerves on edge. you've been friends long enough that he can read your moods like weather patternsâthe slight tension in your shoulders that means you're thinking too hard about something, the way you're biting the inside of your cheek that suggests internal debate. right now there's definitely a storm brewing behind your eyes, thoughts churning in a way that makes him want to reach out and smooth the furrow between your brows.
you're sitting on his kitchen counter, legs swinging in a restless rhythm, heels occasionally bumping against the cabinet below. he's putting away the morning's purchases with probably unnecessary focus, arranging the peaches in a bowl like they're precious artifacts, trying to ignore the way your silence is making his skin feel too tight.
âsatoru,â you say finally, and something in your tone makes him turn around immediately, abandoning his careful arrangement of fruit.
âyeah?â
you're fidgeting with the stem of the white rose he bought, twirling it between your fingers like you're trying to solve a particularly complex equation. the petals have opened slightly since this morning, revealing deeper layers of ivory and cream, and in the afternoon light streaming through his kitchen window, it looks almost ethereal in your hands.
âcan i ask you something?â your voice is smaller than usual, uncertain in a way that makes his chest tighten with immediate concern.
his heart starts doing that thing where it forgets how to beat properly, rhythm stuttering against his ribs. âalways.â
âdo you ever thinkâŚâ you pause, take a breath that seems to require effort, start again. âsometimes i wonder if i'm reading too much into things. like maybe i think someone likes me and it's all just in my head.â
the bottom drops out of his world.
someone. you think someone likes you, which means there's someone you're paying attention to, someone who's maybe been giving you signs that you're trying to interpret. his brain immediately starts cycling through every male friend you have, every coworker you've mentioned in passing, that guy from your yoga class who definitely stares at you too much and makes comments about your form that seem less than professional.
the rose trembles slightly in your hands, and he realizes you're nervous. actually nervous about asking him this, which means whoever it is matters to you. matters enough that you're seeking advice, validation, reassurance that you're not imagining things.
âlike who?â he asks, and his voice comes out strangled, like he's being slowly crushed by invisible hands. like all the air has been sucked out of the room and replaced with something thinner, harder to breathe.
you look up at him, and there's something vulnerable in your expression that makes his chest ache. something raw and uncertain that he wants to protect, even as it's currently destroying him from the inside out. ânever mind. it's stupid.â
âit's not stupid,â he says quickly, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn by the magnetic pull that's existed between you since childhood. âwhoever it is would be crazy not to like you.â
wrong thing to say. he knows it immediately because your face does something complicated, cycling through disappointment and resignation before settling on a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. that careful, practiced smile you use when you're trying to hide how you really feel.
âyou have to say that. you're my best friend.â
best friend. there it is again, that careful designation that feels more like a cage every time you say it. he wants to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that he's been crazy about you since before he knew what crazy about someone meant, that every day he doesn't tell you feels like a small betrayal of everything you've ever meant to each other.
instead, he says, âi don't have to say anything. i say it because it's true.â
and it is true. brutally, completely true. whoever this mystery person is, they'd have to be blind and stupid not to see how incredible you are. not to notice the way you light up a room just by entering it, the way you remember everyone's favorite coffee order and check in on people when they're having bad days and laugh so hard at terrible jokes that you snort a little, which only makes you more endearing.
you're quiet for a long moment, still twirling the rose, and he can practically see the thoughts churning behind your eyes like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. when you finally speak, your voice is small in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and protect you from whatever's making you doubt yourself.
âsometimes i think i make up feelings where they don't exist,â you say, barely above a whisper. âlike maybe i want something to be there so badly that i convince myself it is.â
and oh. oh, you're talking about him, aren't you? you're sitting here in his kitchen, talking about reading too much into things, about wanting feelings that might not exist, and he's too much of a coward to realize you're talking about him. the signs are all thereâthe way you've been looking at him lately, softer and more lingering than usual. the casual touches that seem to happen more frequently. the way you said âhomeâ earlier like you meant it.
except what if you're not? what if there really is someone else, someone who's been giving you mixed signals while satoru's been pining from the sidelines like an idiot? what if he's the one reading too much into things, projecting his own desperate hopes onto innocent moments of friendship?
âyou're not stupid,â he says finally, because it's the only safe thing he can think of, the only response that won't reveal everything. âif you think someone likes you, there's probably a good reason.â
you slide down from the counter, rose still in hand, and for a second you're standing close enough that he can count your eyelashes, see the tiny flecks of gold in your eyes that he's memorized over years of study. close enough that if he just leaned down a little, if he was brave enough to close the distance...
âmaybe,â you say, but you sound doubtful. disappointed in a way that makes him want to take back everything he just said. âor maybe i'm just really good at lying to myself.â
you're moving toward the living room, and he follows because he always follows, brain spinning through every conversation you've had recently, every look, every moment that might have been a sign he was too scared to read properly. you settle onto the couch like you're planning to stay for a while, curling up in the corner with your legs tucked beneath you, and he takes his usual spot on the opposite end, careful to maintain the precise distance that says âbest friendâ instead of âhopelessly in love with you.â
the white rose ends up in a glass of water on his coffee table, petals catching the light from his windows, and you're staring at it with an expression he can't quite read. contemplative, maybe. wistful.
âthis person,â he starts carefully, hating himself for asking but needing to know, âhow long have you been thinking about them?â
you give him a look that's equal parts amused and exasperated, head tilting in that way it does when you think he's being particularly dense. âare we really doing this?â
âdoing what?â
âthe thing where you help me analyze my pathetic love life like we're in high school.â you're picking at the throw pillow in your lap, fingers worrying at a loose thread. âsitting around dissecting every interaction and trying to figure out what it all means.â
pathetic love life. as if you could ever have anything pathetic about you. as if whoever this mysterious person is doesn't realize they're the luckiest person alive just to be on your radar. just to have you thinking about them, analyzing their behavior, wondering if they feel the same way.
âi'm being a good friend,â he protests, though the words taste bitter in his mouth. bitter like the coffee you drink when you're stressed, bitter like the medicine you have to swallow when something's wrong.
âyou're being nosy.â
âcan't i be both?â
you laugh despite yourself, and the sound goes straight to his chest like it always does, warming him from the inside out. âfine. but you can't make fun of me.â
âwhen have i ever made fun of you?â
âconstantly. it's like your primary form of communication.â but you're smiling now, some of the tension leaving your shoulders, and he counts it as a victory.
youâre not wrong. teasing you has always been safer than the alternative, easier than letting you see how seriously, completely, utterly gone he is for you. easier than admitting that every joke is just a way of buying more time in your presence, every playful insult a cover for the compliments he really wants to give.
âi promise to be nice,â he says, crossing his heart with exaggerated solemnity, and you snort at the theatrical gesture.
âi'll believe it when i see it.â
you're quiet for a moment, picking at the throw pillow, and he can see you working up the courage to say whatever it is you're thinking. your teeth worry at your bottom lip in a gesture he recognizes from childhoodâyou used to do the same thing before spelling tests and soccer tryouts and the first day of school each year.
when you finally speak, your voice is so soft he has to strain to hear it, has to lean forward slightly to catch every word.
âit's been a long time,â you admit, not looking at him. âlike, a really long time. since we were kids, maybe.â
since we were kids.
since. we. were. kids.
his heart stops beating entirely, just quits on him right there in his living room, because unless you had some secret elementary school boyfriend he doesn't know about, unless there's some childhood friend he's completely forgotten about...
you're talking about him.
you've been thinking about him.
since you were kids.
âoh,â he says, because his vocabulary has apparently shrunk to single syllables, because every word in the english language has suddenly abandoned him when he needs them most.
âsee?â you say quickly, finally looking up at him with eyes that are bright with what might be tears. âi told you it was stupid. forget i said anything.â
âno,â he says, too loud, and you startle slightly at the volume. âno, it's not stupid. it's...â
it's everything. it's his every prayer answered, every birthday wish granted, every star he's ever wished on coming true all at once. it's twenty years of hoping and waiting and pretending to be content with friendship finally, finally meaning something.
âit's what?â you ask, and there's something hopeful in your voice that makes his chest feel like it might crack open, like his heart might actually burst from the sheer force of what he's feeling.
he opens his mouth to tell you, to finally, finally say what he's been carrying around for twenty years, and then he panics. because what if he's wrong? what if you're talking about someone else after all? what if he says everything and ruins the most important friendship of his life? what if you look at him with disgust or pity or worse, that careful politeness you use with people who make you uncomfortable?
âit's brave,â he says instead, taking the coward's way out, watching the light in your eyes dim slightly. âwhoever it is would be lucky to have you thinking about them.â
your face falls so subtly he almost misses it, just a slight dimming of the light in your eyes, a barely perceptible tightening around the corners of your mouth. but he's been studying your expressions for twenty years, cataloguing every micro-expression, and he knows he's fucked up. knows he's missed something crucial, said the wrong thing, let fear win when courage was what the moment required.
âright,â you say, and your voice is carefully neutral, scrubbed clean of the hope that had been there moments before. âlucky them.â
you're pulling away from him, not physically but emotionally, retreating behind the walls that friendship has never required before. building barriers in real time, and he's sitting there like an idiot, watching it happen, knowing he caused it but not knowing how to fix it without potentially making everything worse.
the rose on the coffee table seems to mock him with its perfect white petals, a symbol of something he was too scared to claim when he had the chance. when you were sitting right there, telling him everything he's ever wanted to hear, and he was too much of a coward to hear it properly.
too much of a coward to take the leap that might have changed everything.
you leave not long after that, claiming an early morning tomorrow and some excuse about laundry that you both know is bullshit. the way you gather your thingsâphone sliding into your palm with deliberate precision, keys jingling once before being muffled in your grip, that little cross-body bag with its worn leather strap that you always adjust twice before leavingâfeels like watching his entire future pack itself away in slow motion.
satoru's throat constricts as he tracks each movement, his vision tunneling on the careful way you avoid his gaze. there's something devastating about the ordinary nature of your departure, the way catastrophe can masquerade as routine. you're folding in on yourself, shoulders curved inward like you're protecting something fragile in your chest, and he knows with sickening clarity that he put that defensive hunch there.
âtext me when you get home safe,â he says, one hand automatically reaching up to rake through his hairâthose moonspun strands that never learned proper behavior, always catching and scattering light like captured starfall. the words scrape against his vocal cords like sandpaper. it's what he always says, has been saying since you got your first car at sixteen and his anxiety about your well-being became a living thing with teeth and claws.
âalways do,â you reply, your fingers worrying at the delicate chain of your necklaceâthat thin silver thing that catches at your throat when you swallow nervously. your voice carries the hollow ring of obligation rather than affection. you still won't look at him directly, your gaze fixed somewhere around his left shoulder where his sweater pulls slightly across his collarbone, and the absence of eye contact feels like a physical ache behind his sternum.
the click of his door closing echoes through the apartment with the finality of a coffin lid. satoru stands there for a full minute, staring at the wood grain, before the magnitude of his cowardice hits him like a freight train carrying twenty years' worth of missed opportunities.
the apartment transforms in your absence, walls stretching impossibly wide, ceilings vaulting into cathedral heights that make him feel ant-small and infinitely alone. the couch still holds the impression of your body, cushions dented where you'd curled your legs beneath you, and he finds himself gravitating toward that spot like a moth to flame. when he sits down, the lingering warmth of your presence soaks through his jeans, and he has to press his palms against his eyes to keep from doing something pathetic like burying his face in the throw pillow you'd been hugging.
the white rose sits on his coffee table like an accusation, its petals pristine and mocking. sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and satoru had been too much of a fool to recognize the universe handing him a script.
his phone buzzes against the glass surface: home safe. thanks for today.
the message glows on his screen, twelve words that somehow contain multitudes of disappointment. he can picture you typing it, thumb hesitating over each letter, probably tucked into your favorite corner of your couch with that oversized cardigan pulled tight around your shoulders, rewriting it three times before settling on something safely neutral. you used to add heart emojis to these check-ins, little digital affirmations that he'd treasured more than he had any right to. their absence now feels like a door slamming shut.
he types: anytime. sleep well. his thumb hovers over the send button for thirty seconds, jaw working silently as he wars with himself.
then deletes it. tries: we should talk about what happened. his teeth catch his lower lip, worrying at the skin until it stings.
deletes that too. his fingers hover over the keyboard, shoulders hunched forward in defeat, cycling through seventeen different responses that range from desperate to devastated. i love you gets typed and erased four times, each deletion making his chest cavity feel emptier. please come back so i can fix this makes it halfway before he chickens out, his hand scrubbing down his face hard enough to leave red marks. i've been yours since we were seven and i'm sorry i'm too scared to be brave never even makes it past his mental rough draft.
finally, he settles on: anytime. sleep well.
the delivered notification appears, and then... nothing. no immediate response, no typing indicator, no late-night follow-up like you sometimes send when you can't sleep. just radio silence that stretches into the night like a chasm.
satoru spends the next six hours staring at his ceiling, replaying every microsecond of your conversation with the obsessive precision of a crime scene investigator. his hair fans across the pillow in ethereal wisps, those pale strands seeming to glow with their own inner light against the dark fabric, like captured lightning or the first frost of winter given form. the way your voice had gone soft and vulnerable when you said since we were kids. the hope that had flickered in your eyesâthose beautiful eyes he'd never been brave enough to hold contact with for more than stolen momentsâbefore he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, your shoulders drawing inward and your hands clasping tightly in your lap until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.*. the hope that had flickered in your eyes before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.
since we were kids. the phrase loops in his mind like a broken record, each repetition driving the knife of realization deeper into his chest. unless you'd harbored some secret elementary school crush he'd never known aboutâwhich, given that you'd been attached at the hip since kindergarten, seemed unlikelyâthere was only one person you could have been referring to.
him.
you'd been talking about him.
and he'd been so paralyzed by the possibility of being wrong that he'd missed the moment entirely, let it slip through his fingers like water through a broken dam.
by the time dawn creeps through his blinds, painting everything in shades of regret and determination, he's made a decision that will either save his life or end it completely. the resolution sits in his chest like a live wire, sparking against his ribs every time he breathes. he's going to tell you everything. twenty years of accumulated feelings, every birthday wish spent on your happiness, every star he's wished on while thinking of your smile. all of it.
the thought terrifies him so completely that he has to grip the edge of his mattress to keep from floating away on a tide of panic.
sunday afternoon arrives with the punctuality of a church bell, and with it comes the familiar sound of your key in his lock. you'd exchanged spare keys sophomore year of college, a practical decision born of too many instances of locked-out roommates and forgotten textbooks. what had started as convenience had evolved into something more significantâthe quiet intimacy of belonging in each other's spaces, of being trusted with unrestricted access to the small, private corners of each other's lives.
now, listening to that key turn, satoru's heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to break free and run away before his mouth can ruin everything permanently.
âhey,â you say as you appear in his doorway, and the single syllable carries the weight of exhaustion that makes his chest constrict with guilt. there are shadows under your eyes that weren't there yesterday, and your smileâwhen it finally appearsâlacks its usual wattage.
âhey yourself,â he manages, his voice cracking slightly on the second word.
you move through his space with less than your usual confidence, the easy familiarity replaced by something more cautious. instead of immediately claiming your usual spot on the far end of the couchâthe corner you'd long ago designated as yours, complete with the throw pillow you'd brought from your own apartment and the way you always tucked your feet up under youâyou hover near the armchair, fingers worrying at the strap of your bag.
the careful distance you're maintaining might as well be measured in miles rather than feet. it's like watching you interact with a stranger's apartment, all politeness and uncertainty where there used to be ownership and ease. the sight of it breaks something fundamental in satoru's chest, some load-bearing beam of his emotional architecture crumbling under the weight of what his cowardice has cost them.
âabout yesterday,â he starts, the words tumbling out before he can lose his nerve entirely.
âwe don't have to talk about it,â you interrupt quickly, finally settling into the armchair but perched on its edge like you're ready to flee at the first sign of discomfort. your hands clasp in your lap, knuckles white with tension. âi was being weird, and awkward, and i made things uncomfortable. we can just pretend it never happened and go back to normal.â
but normal is what got them here in the first placeâtwenty years of careful boundaries and unspoken feelings and the kind of willful blindness that masquerades as friendship when it's really just elaborate emotional self-harm.
âyou weren't being weird,â he says firmly, rising from the couch to face you properly. the movement is too quick, driven by urgency rather than grace, and you startle slightly at the sudden change in his position. âi was being an idiot.â
something flickers across your expressionâsurprise, maybe, or the faintest spark of hope quickly tampered down. âsatoruââ
âjust let me say this, okay?â the words come out rougher than intended, scraped raw by a sleepless night and the weight of everything he's been carrying. âbefore i lose my nerve completely and spend another twenty years being a coward.â
you go very still, and he can see the exact moment you decide to let him speak. your shoulders settle back against the chair, hands unclasping to grip the armrests instead, and you give him a small nod that somehow contains multitudes of permission and trepidation.
the silence that follows feels crystalline, fragile enough that the wrong word might shatter everything beyond repair. satoru runs his hand through his hairâthose pale strands that never quite cooperate, that catch light like spun moonbeams even in the dim afternoon glow filtering through his blinds. the gesture is pure nervous energy, fingers combing through the silky mess as if he might find courage tangled somewhere in the roots.
âwhen you were talking yesterday,â he begins, then stops, takes a breath that tastes like terror and determination in equal measure. âabout thinking someone liked you since you were kids...â
he watches your face carefully, cataloguing every micro-expression. the way your lips part slightly, the flutter of your eyelashes as you blink too fast, the barely perceptible forward lean of your body like you're drawn toward his words despite yourself.
âyou were talking about me, weren't you?â
the question hangs in the air between them, loaded with twenty years of almosts and maybes and the kind of hope that feels dangerous to voice. your breath catchesâa sharp, barely audible intake that he might have missed if he weren't paying attention with the focused intensity of a man whose entire future hangs in the balance.
âsatoruââ you start, but he's already moving, dropping to his knees in front of your chair with the graceless desperation of someone who's finally found the courage to stop running from the thing that matters most.
his hands hover just above your knees, not quite touching but close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating through the soft cotton of your sundressâa different one today, this one scattered with tiny daisies that make him think of childhood summers and innocence and all the ways you've been beautiful to him across the years.
âbecause if you were,â he continues, words spilling out in a rush now that the dam has finally burst, âthen i need you to know that you weren't reading too much into anything. you weren't making up feelings that don't exist or convincing yourself of something that wasn't there.â
your eyes are wide, pupils dilated in a way that makes the familiar color seem deeper, more infinite. he can see his own reflection in them, distorted and desperate and more honest than he's ever been in his life.
âi've been crazy about you since the second grade,â he confesses, the words scraping against his throat like they're made of glass. âsince you wrote that you wanted to be a princess in our yearbook and i decided right then and there that i was going to spend the rest of my life making sure you felt like one.â
the admission settles between them like a living thing, breathing and vital and impossible to take back. your hands tighten on the armrests, knuckles going white again, but this time it looks less like tension and more like anchoringâlike you're holding on to keep from floating away on the enormity of what he's just revealed.
âevery door i've ever opened for you,â he continues, momentum carrying him forward now that he's started, âevery time i've carried your bags or bought you flowers or called you âyour highnessââit wasn't just being a good friend. it was never just friendship.â
his voice cracks on the last word, twenty years of careful pretense finally crumbling under the weight of truth. âit's all been because you're my princess. you've always been my princess, and i've been too much of a coward to tell you.â
silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded with possibility. satoru can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, can feel the subtle tremor in his hands where they still hover near your knees. you're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, cycling through what looks like shock and disbelief and something that might be the beginning of joy before it gets tampered down by uncertainty.
he's never felt more exposed in his life, kneeling here in his own living room with his heart splayed open like a roadmap to twenty years of devotion. the vulnerability is excruciating, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive, waiting for you to either pull him back from the brink or push him over the edge entirely.
âyou,â you say finally, and your voice comes out barely above a whisper, thick with something that might be tears or laughter or both. âyou complete and utter idiot.â
the words hit him like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp exhale. his heart, which had been hammering with nervous hope, stutters and nearly stops entirely. this is it, then. the moment where twenty years of friendship dies on the altar of his feelings, where he learns what it costs to love someone who can't love you back.
âlook, if you don't feel the same wayââ he starts, already beginning the retreat, already starting to build the walls that will let him survive the aftermath of this spectacular emotional implosion.
âof course i feel the same way!â you explode, suddenly on your feet, the force of your movement sending him rocking back on his heels. your hands are gesturing wildly now, cutting through the air with the sharp precision of someone who's been holding back way too much for way too long. âi've been in love with you since we were kids, you absolute disaster of a human being!â
the words slam into him with the force of a freight train, reorganizing his entire understanding of reality in the space between one heartbeat and the next. of course i feel the same way. the phrase echoes in his skull, bouncing off the walls of his mind like a pinball machine gone haywire.
âyou have?â he asks, and his voice comes out small and wondering, like he's afraid that speaking too loudly might break whatever spell has made this moment possible.
âyes!â you're pacing now, three quick steps to the window and back, your sundress swirling around your legs with each sharp turn. âwhy do you think i've been hanging around your apartment every weekend for the past fifteen years? why do you think i never date anyone seriously? because i've been waiting for you to figure it out!â
he's scrambling to his feet now, desperate to close the distance between you but afraid to move too fast, like you're some wild thing that might bolt if he makes the wrong move. âyou've been waiting for me?â
âforever,â you say, and now you're definitely crying, tears streaming down your cheeks while you laugh with what sounds like relief and frustration and twenty years of pent-up emotion finally finding release. âi've been waiting forever, and you justâyesterday when i was trying to tell you, you justââ
âi panicked,â he admits, finally closing the space between you in two quick strides. his hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing away the tears with a gentleness that belies the tremor in his fingers. âi thought maybe you were talking about someone else, and i couldn't handle it if you were.â
your skin is soft under his palms, warm and real and perfect, and he can't quite believe he's allowed to touch you like this. that you're letting him catch your tears, that you're leaning into his touch instead of pulling away.
âsomeone else,â you repeat, shaking your head with enough force to send your hair flying. âas if there could ever be someone else. as if anyone else could even compare to you.â
the words hit him like salvation, like every prayer he's ever whispered to the dark finally being answered. âreally?â
âreally,â you confirm, and then you're rising up on your toes, hands fisting in the front of his shirt to pull him down toward you. ânow stop being an idiot and kiss me before i lose my mind completely.â
he doesn't need to be told twice.
their lips meet in the middle of something that's been building for twenty years, soft and desperate and perfect in a way that makes his brain go completely offline. you taste like the strawberry lip balm you've been using since high school, sweet and familiar and right in a way that makes him wonder how he's survived this long without kissing you.
your mouth is warm and yielding under his, and when you sigh against his lipsâthis tiny, breathy sound of contentmentâhe thinks he might actually die from the sheer overwhelming rightness of it all. his hands slide from your face into your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he deepens the kiss, pouring twenty years of accumulated longing into the connection between your mouths.
when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together like you can't bear to be more than an inch away from each other. your hands are still fisted in his shirt, holding him close, and he can feel the rapid flutter of your pulse where his thumbs rest against your throat.
âholy shit,â you breathe, and the profanity sounds like a prayer falling from your kiss-swollen lips.
âyeah,â he agrees, voice rough with emotion and the lingering effects of the best kiss of his entire life. âholy shit.â
you laugh, the sound bright and bubbling and infectious, and he finds himself grinning back at you with an expression that probably makes him look completely unhinged. he doesn't care. he's just kissed his best friend, his princess, the love of his entire life, and she kissed him back, and if that's not worth looking a little crazy over, then nothing is.
âso,â you say, and he can hear the smile in your voice even with his eyes closed, can feel it in the way your lips curve against his when you speak. âwhat now, your highness?â
the nicknameâhis own endearment turned back on him with teasing affectionâmakes him groan and drop his head to your shoulder in mock defeat. âyou're never going to let me live that down, are you?â
âabsolutely not,â you confirm cheerfully, arms winding around his neck to hold him close. âi've got twenty years of princess jokes stored up, and now that i know you meant them...â
âi meant every single one,â he says, pulling back to look at you properly. your hair is messed up from his hands, lipstick smudged in a way that probably matches his own mouth, and you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars just for you. like he's something precious and beloved and yours. âi meant all of it.â
âgood,â you say, going up on your toes to kiss him again, soft and sweet and lingering. âbecause i've got twenty years of being your princess to catch up on.â
this time when you kiss, it's slower, more exploratory. a conversation conducted in the language of lips and tongues and shared breath, twenty years of friendship providing the foundation for something deeper and more complex. he maps the shape of your mouth with the dedication of a cartographer, memorizing every curve and hollow, the way you taste like strawberries and forever and every dream he's ever had.
your hands slide up into his hair, fingers combing through the pale strands that have been catching light and hearts since childhood, and he thinks distantly that he's never going to get tired of this. of touching you, of being allowed to touch you, of the way you melt against him like you were made to fit in his arms.
when you break apart this time, it's with the reluctant awareness that you still have things to talk about, logistics to work out, twenty years of carefully maintained boundaries to navigate in this brave new world where you're allowed to love each other out loud.
âwe should probably talk about what this means,â you say, though you make no move to step out of his arms. if anything, you settle more firmly against him, like you're claiming your space in his embrace.
âit means i'm yours,â he says without hesitation, the words coming as easily as breathing now that he's allowed to say them. âif you'll have me. it means i've been yours since we were seven years old and you asked me to be your friend, and i'm never letting you go again.â
your eyes go soft and liquid at his declaration, and he watches you blink back fresh tears with the tender fascination of someone who's finally been given permission to witness your every emotion.
âi've been yours too,â you whisper, voice thick with feeling. âfor so long that i can't remember what it felt like before.â
âthen it's simple,â he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo and the new, intoxicating knowledge that he's allowed to do this now. âwe stop pretending otherwise.â
you laugh, the sound muffled against his chest where you've pressed your face. âyou make it sound so easy.â
âisn't it?â he asks, genuine curiosity coloring his voice. âwe already do everything else together. we already know each other's worst habits and biggest fears and what makes each other laugh until we can't breathe. now we just get to add kissing to the list.â
âand other things,â you add, pulling back to look at him with an expression that's equal parts innocent and suggestive, and he feels heat pool low in his stomach at the implication.
âother things,â he agrees, voice dropping to something rougher, more intimate. âlots of other things. twenty years' worth of other things.â
you shiver slightly at the promise in his voice, and he files that reaction away for future reference, cataloguing it alongside every other response he plans to learn by heart.
âso what's first?â you ask, settling more comfortably in his arms like you're planning to stay there for the foreseeable future.
âfirst,â he says, pressing another kiss to your hair because he can, because you're his now and he's allowed, âwe order way too much chinese food and eat it on the couch while we figure out how to tell people that we're finally together.â
âpeople are going to say they saw it coming,â you predict, tilting your head back to look at him. âwe're going to get so many âabout timeâ comments.â
âlet them,â he says, grinning down at you with unrepentant joy. âthey can say whatever they want. i'm just happy i don't have to pretend anymore that i'm not completely gone for you.â
âcompletely gone,â you repeat, testing the phrase like you're tasting wine. âi like that. makes it sound properly dramatic and ridiculous.â
âit is dramatic and ridiculous,â he confirms. âtwenty years of pining? that's shakespearean levels of absurd.â
âbut worth it,â you say, and it's not a question.
âabsolutely worth it,â he agrees, sealing the promise with another kiss that tastes like strawberries and new beginnings and happily ever after.
later, when you're curled up together on his couchâyour couch now, he supposes, since everything that's his has always been yours anywayâsharing lo mein and sweet and sour chicken while some forgettable movie plays in the background, he thinks about that second-grade yearbook tucked away in his bedroom closet.
about seven-year-old you writing about being a princess in careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration. about seven-year-old him deciding that if you wanted to be a princess, then he'd find a way to make it happen, even if it meant becoming an astronaut just to bring you back moon rocks that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.
mission accomplished, he thinks, pressing a kiss to the top of your head where it rests against his shoulder. though the seven-year-old version of himself probably never imagined it would involve quite this much kissing.
not that he's complaining.
âsatoru?â your voice is sleepy, muffled against his shirt where you've pressed your face into the curve of his neck.
âmm?â
ânext time just tell me you love me from the start, okay? save us both some time.â
he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and making you smile against his skin. âdeal, princess. though for the record, i do love you. have always loved you. will always love you.â
âi love you too,â you mumble, words slurring slightly with approaching sleep. âmy ridiculous, dramatic, completely wonderful disaster of a man.â
âyour disaster,â he corrects softly, fingers combing through your hair with reverent gentleness. âalways yours.â
you hum contentedly, settling more firmly against him, and he thinks this might be what happily ever after feels like. strawberry lip balm and sunday afternoons and the girl of his dreams finally, finally in his arms where she belongs, where she's always belonged, where she'll stay for as long as he has breath in his body to keep her there.
yeah, he could definitely get used to this.
the white rose from yesterday's market sits on the coffee table beside their empty takeout containers, petals still pristine and perfect in their small glass of water. a symbol of new beginnings and answered prayers and the kind of love story that starts with friendship and ends with forever.
sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and as satoru drifts off to sleep with you warm and safe and his in his arms, he thinks she might have been the smartest person he's ever met.
summary: when your housing falls through, the last person you want to end up living with is your best friendâs arrogant, hockey-playing brother, satoru gojo. sharing a space with him feels like being trapped in the sin bin, but the longer you live together, the harder it is to ignore the fact that breaking the rules might be worth the penalty.
pairing: ice hockey player!gojo satoru x fem!reader
details: fluff, angst, smut (fingering, nipple play, riding, couch sex, shower sex), enemies to lovers au, roommates au, best friendâs brother au, college au. contains: profanity, alcohol consumption, mentions of death. art by kynlv1. 16.2k words.
sin bin (n.) â (in sport) a box or bench to which offending players can be sent for a period as a penalty during a game, especially in ice hockey.
01. how to piss off your new roommate 101 (an introductory course).
There are only three rules you asked Satoru Gojo to follow:
No bringing random girls home.
No hockey gear all over the living room.
Do your own laundry.
Sure, it might not be your house, because, technically, youâre the one moving in, but you think youâre being pretty reasonable. Itâs just your bad luck that your new roommate happens to be the worst at following rules, because right now, at one oâclock in the morning, you are subject to him breaking rule number one alreadyâand very loudly, at that.
Thereâs a thud against the wall, and a muffled laugh, followed by a low, drawn-out groan that sends every nerve in your body firing at onceâthough not in the way Gojoâs current âguestâ might be feeling. You clutch the pillow over your head, suffocating yourself with cotton in a desperate attempt to block out the obscene noises. It doesnât work. Nothing does. Not your loud sighs, not the rustle of your own blanket, not even the way you jam your phoneâs speaker against your ear and crank your playlist until the bass rattles.
Your playlist doesnât stand a chance against Gojoâs bedroom door and his absolute disregard for your sanity.Â
Rule number one, you think bitterly, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. It wasnât a suggestion. It was the bare minimum. You had been so clear when youâd moved in three days ago. No random girls; no trail of hockey gear sprawling through the apartment; no mountains of dirty laundry festering in the communal space. Simple, enforceable rulesâor so you thought. Apparently, Satoru Gojo is not the kind of man who respects laws, rules, or any other socially acceptable guidelines for how to coexist with another human being. Especially not when heâs this loud.
A particularly obnoxious moan makes you snap. You swing out of bed, feet hitting the cold wooden floor, and stomp into the hallway. You pause in front of his bedroom door, hand hovering in the air, knuckles inches away from knocking. Maybe you should just let it go. Itâs not worth the fight. Not worth seeing that infuriating grin of his, the one that makes you want to throw a shoe at his face.
You hear another giggle from inside.
Nevermind. Definitely worth it.
You pound on the door. âGojo!â
The noises cut off instantly. For a blissful moment, thereâs silenceâno laughter, no groans, just the sound of your own shallow breathing and the pounding of your fist against the door. Then comes the telltale rustle of sheets, followed by footsteps, slow and deliberate, as if heâs taking his sweet time just to make you more irritated.
âRoomie?â His voice drips with amusement, low and lazy, as if heâs been waiting for this moment all night. âCanât sleep? You couldâve just asked nicely if you wanted me to tuck you in.â
Your jaw drops, heat rushing to your cheeksânot from embarrassment but from pure, undiluted fury. âRule. Number. One,â you bite out, enunciating every word. âDo you even remember what rule number one is?â
Thereâs a soft laugh on the other side of the door, and you can hear his guest giggling faintly too, like this is all some joke to them.
âYouâre no fun,â he says. The doorknob clicks, turning slowly.
The door swings open to reveal Satoru Gojo, all six-foot-something of hockey-playing, rule-breaking glory, leaning against the frame. Heâs shirtlessâof course heâs shirtlessâskin glistening with a sheen of sweat that makes you roll your eyes so hard you swear you see your brain. His white hair is mussed and sticking out at odd angles, like heâs just come off the iceâor, well, not the ice, but something just as irritatingly active.
He smirks down at you. âDidnât know you were such a light sleeper. Or⌠Are you jealous?â
âJealous?â Your voice cracks an octave higher. âOf what, exactly? The fact that you sound like youâre starring in a bad porno?â
His laugh is immediate, loud, and unrestrained. He leans closer, bracing one arm against the frame just above your head, his bare chest far too close for comfort. âIf you were watching, itâd be a good one.â
Your face burns hotter. âYouâre disgusting.â
He laughs again, and the girlâthis poor, probably very lovely girlâsteps into the hallway behind him, wearing one of his oversized jerseys and looking anywhere but at you.
âI should⌠probably go,â she mumbles.
âYeah,â you mutter before he can say anything. âYou probably should.â
She scurries past you without a second glance, and you suddenly feel a little bad for her. Not because of Gojoâthough he is the worstâbut because she has no idea what sheâs walked into. Sheâs just another girl in a long line of them, another notch on his stick, and probably clueless to the fact that he thrives on the attention, not the intimacy.
Gojo watches her disappear around the corner, then turns back to you, his smile gone slack. âYou didnât have to be mean.â
âI wasnât,â you snap. âI was trying to sleep. Sorry if thatâs inconvenient for you and yourâwhatever.â
Gojo studies you for a moment, his head tilting just slightly as if heâs trying to decipher something written on your face. Itâs unnerving, the way his eyesâbright and unnaturally sharp even in the dim hallwayâlinger on you, taking their time. For the first time tonight, heâs quiet, though not in a way that feels like victory. Itâs the kind of quiet that makes you more aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the glimmer of sweat on his skin, his overbearing presence in the narrow hallway.
âWhatever?â he repeats. âThatâs harsh, even for you.â
âDo you ever take anything seriously?â
âNot really,â he says. âKeeps me young and pretty, donât you think?â
The audacity of this man. Pretty. He says it like itâs a fact, like heâs fully aware that half the campus would line up just to run their fingers through that ridiculous white hair. You hate that it is a fact, that his lean, cut frame and infuriating confidence somehow make him stupidly, obnoxiously attractive.
âUnbelievable,â you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. âDo you even remember the rules we agreed on when I moved in? Or was I talking to one of your empty hockey helmets?â
âYou wound me. Iâm a great listener. I heard every word you said that day. I just donât⌠care.â
Your hands ball into fists. âYou donât care.â
âNot about rules,â Satoru teases. âYou, though? I care about keeping you entertained.â
âEntertained?â you echo, incredulous. âBy waking me up at one in the morning withââ You cut yourself off, scowling as the words die on your tongue.
He grins and steps forward. âWith what, sweetheart?â he asks, voice dipping into that husky, too-casual tone that makes your stomach do stupid things.
You take a step back; then another, until your back almost hits the opposite wall. âYouâre impossible,â you spit out, but your voice is thinner than youâd like.
âYouâre cute when youâre mad.â
âStop saying that!â
âWhat?â His grin widens. âItâs true. You get all flustered. Bet you donât even know youâre pouting right now.â
âIâm notââ You snap your mouth shut, realising that you are, in fact, pouting, and that only makes his grin that much more smug.
âAdorable,â he says simply, leaning back.
âYouâre annoying as fuck.â
âAnd yet, you moved in here.â
You inhale sharply, the reminder stinging more than youâd like to admit. Heâs rightâyou did agree to this arrangement. You had convinced yourself it was temporary, a few weeks max while you figured out your own place. Rikoâs brother had been the last resort. You never expected it to feel like⌠like this. The hallway feels too small. Heâs too close, too much. You can smell his cologneâclean, a little sharp, something that clings to him even after a game or whatever this was. You hate that your brain even registers the detail.
âGo to bed,â you manage to grit out.
âCareful,â Gojo drawls, stepping back. âSounds like youâre starting to like telling me what to do.â
You donât dignify that with a response. You spin on your heel, storming back to your room, and slam the door behind you.
You donât see him again until morning, which, unfortunately, is only a few hours later.
The scent of coffee drags you from your room, bleary-eyed and determined to avoid any and all conversation. But the moment you step into the kitchen, there Satoru isâshirtless again, because apparently he doesnât own clothesâleaning against the counter. His white hair is damp, still dripping from a shower, and his sweatpants hang low on his hips as he scrolls lazily on his phone.
âMorning, roomie,â he drawls, not looking up. âSleep well?â
You grab a mug and pour yourself coffee. âYouâre lucky I donât own a bat.â
âAh, threats of violence. My favourite way to start the day.â
You donât answer. You canât, not when heâs standing there like that: hair damp and curling at the ends, little droplets of water slipping down the curve of his neck, trailing over his collarbone. It should be illegal to look that good at 7:42 in the morning, and in sweatpants, no less.
Instead, you wrap both hands around your mug and focus on not throwing it at his stupid, smirking face.
âAwfully quiet this morning,â Gojo muses, locking his phone and tossing it onto the counter. âWhat happened to the yelling? The righteous fury? The deeply unsexy threats about noise ordinances?â
You take a long, scalding sip of your coffee. âIâm choosing peace today.â
âThat so?â
âYup. Thought Iâd try being the bigger person and see how it feels.â
âYou sure itâs peace youâre feeling? âCause it kind of looks like repressed rage. Or maybe,â he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the counter, âyouâre just still flustered from last night.â
You nearly choke. âFlustered?â
âUh-huh. You did knock on my door in the middle of a good time.â He winks. âCanât blame you for being curious.â
âYouâre delusional,â you state.
âMaybe so,â he acquiesces. Gojoâs grin is lazy and crooked, shamelessly amused as he watches you struggle to maintain even a scrap of composure. You busy yourself with sipping coffee again, even though itâs too hot and definitely burning the tip of your tongue. Small price to pay for the distraction.
He shifts his weight and the movement draws your eyes before you can stop yourselfâdown to where his sweatpants slouch indecently low, the V of his hips on full display. Your eyes snap back to your mug so fast youâre surprised you donât get whiplash.Â
âIâm not flustered,â you mutter, mostly to your drink.
Satoru hums, unconvinced. âOf course not. Youâre the picture of serenity.â
He reaches for the coffee pot and you realise, with a petty kind of satisfaction, that thereâs not enough left for a full cup. You watch, vindicated, as he tips it all into his mug and frowns down at the half-full result.
âYouâre the worst,â he says, utterly serious.
âIâm the one choosing peace, remember?â
âThat was obviously a lie.â
You shrug and sip. âMaybe Iâm just learning from the best.â
Gojo laughs, low and bright, and leans further over the counter, like heâs trying to invade your personal space just for the hell of it. âYouâve got a mouth on you, huh? I like that.â
âBet you say that to all your roommates.â
âYouâre my first,â he says, eyes twinkling. âBe gentle with me.â
You scoff, setting your mug down with more force than necessary. âI donât even want to know how you ended up on the lease.â
âSimple,â he says, straightening and sauntering toward the fridge. âMy old place burned down.â
You blink. âSeriously?â
âWell. Not all the way down. But it did get very, very singed.â
âAnd they let you sign another lease?â
He turns, carton of milk in one hand, and says, âYup,â popping the âpâ at the end. You roll your eyes so hard you see stars, but thereâs a weird warmth curling in your chest now, beneath the irritation and caffeine. Despite yourself, your gaze lingers on him a beat too longâon the line of his shoulders, the relaxed slope of his spine as he leans down to peer into the fridge.
âYou gonna keep ogling me orâŚ?â he says without turning.
You startle, cheeks warming. âI wasnât ogling.â
âUh-huh.â
âI wasnât!â
He straightens again, milk in hand, and gives you a look that says he knows heâs won. âYouâre bad at lying. Your ears go all red.â
You clap your hands over them instinctively, which only serves to make him chortle. âI hate you,â you grumble, grabbing your mug and heading for the living room.Â
âI love our morning chats,â he calls after you. âThey really centre me for the day.â
You flip him off over your shoulder.
âYouâve got a great energy, roomie! Keep it up!â
It turns into a sort of game, after that: who can rile up their roommate the fastest. Satoru Gojo, of course, plays to win.
He starts smallâmild provocations disguised as âaccidents.â The shower mysteriously runs cold whenever you step in after him. Your favourite snacks vanish from the cupboard, only to be found later half-eated and crumpled under his bed. He starts setting his alarm ten minutes earlier than yours and singing obnoxiously loud in the mornings. Itâs always the same songâsomething bubblegum pop and irritatingly catchy, like Twice or Britney Spearsâand it sticks in your head all day, pulsing behind your eyes like a migraine.
You retaliate, of course. You start leaving passive-aggressive sticky notes around the apartment:
Replace the toilet paper next time, you sicko.
If you touch my almond milk again, I will cut off your balls in your sleep.
Why do you shed like a cat? Buy a lint roller. Freak.
You switch the labels on his shampoo and conditioner. You hide the remote. You change the password on the Wi-Fi.
It only fuels him. The worst part is, the bastard laughs. Every time you glare at him, every time you yell his name across the apartment, every time you swear youâre going to murder him in his sleep, he just grins like the cat that got the cream. Somehow, impossibly, he always wins.
Nanami is already at your usual table in the campus cafĂŠ when you arrive, tossing your bag into the seat opposite him with a force that rattles the salt shaker. He doesnât look up from his coffee when he asks, âWhat did he do this time?â
âHe unplugged the fridge, Kento,â you groan, slumping into your chair. âThe fridge. All my groceries are ruined. My oat milk exploded.â
âDid you check the breaker?â
âDo I look like someone who knows what a breaker is?â
âYes,â he says. âYou are a functional adult. You are enrolled in a university. You should know how electricity works.â
âOkay, Mr. Engineer,â you mutter, rubbing your temples. âI was too busy trying not to throw Gojo out the damn window.â
âI thought you lived on the first floor.â
âExactly my point.â
You look down, picking at your cuticles. You wish Gojo, your best friendâs annoying brother, wasnât your last resort. The student dorms were all occupied, and you had to find housing at the last minute. Gojo offered, because heâs known you since you were an acne-riddled teenager in middle school, and also, most likely, out of obligation for his little sisterâs best friend. Why else would he put up with you and pay half the rent? You remind yourself that youâre in his house, and not the other way around, and try to stay grateful for that fact.
You also wish you could tell Riko about her older brother, but you canât because Rikoâs dead.
Nanami sets down his cup with a soft clink, eyes lifting at last to meet yours. Thereâs no pity in themâheâs not the typeâbut thereâs understanding. With every ounce of his understanding nature, Nanami says, flatly, âYouâre going to give yourself a stroke before midterms.â
You exhale through your nose, pressing your palms to your eyes. âItâs like he wants me to lose it. He keeps bringing random girls home, Kento. At 3 A.M. And theyâre loud. One of them used my toothbrush.â
Nanami looks visibly disturbed. âWhy do you know that?â
âBecause it was wet.â
âYou should throw that out.â
âI did throw it out. And then I wrote a note. And you know what he said? He said, âOh, my bad, was that your toothbrush? I thought it was for guests.â Guests, Kento. He has a guest toothbrush now, that he keeps in the same cup as mine. Iâm being psychologically tortured.â
âHeâs always been like this,â Nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like heâs the one being victimised.
âYou were on the same team as him for three years,â you say. âHow did you not murder him in a locker room?â
âBecause Iâm not an idiot,â he replies. âI kept my earbuds in and my mouth shut. You, on the other hand, are picking a fight with a man who once got suspended for pelting a referee with jello shots.â
âThat was him?â you gasp.
âOf course it was. Who else brings jello shots to a game?â
âI knew it wasnât a food poisoning incident,â you mutter, leaning back in your chair. âThey kept blaming the vendors, but one of those things hit Riko in the back of the head.â
Nanamiâs expression softens for a second. He clears his throat, glancing out the window. You follow his gaze, the familiar ache blooming in your chest. Itâs been two years since the accident, since the call you never thought youâd get. Since Satoruâs voice broke down over the phone, rasping your name, saying it over and over again like it would change something, like you could undo it just by being there.
Sometimes you forget sheâs gone. You still scroll through your photos and stop at the ones of her, still think to text her dumb updates about your day. You still reach for your phone when Satoru does something particularly stupid, your thumb hovering over her name like muscle memory.
Itâs worse around him. He reminds you of herâsame nose, same stupid grin. Same laughter echoing off the apartment walls, loud and fearless and full of something thatâs been missing since she died.
You scrub a hand over your face. âI donât even know why he let me move in,â you say quietly.
Nanami, annoyingly perceptive as always, says, âBecause youâre the only person left who reminds him of her.â
Your throat closes up. You glance away, blinking hard. Itâs easier to talk like this with Nanami, with someone who knew her, who understands whatâs been left behind in her absence.Â
Itâs just harder when you go home, when Gojoâs waiting in your kitchen, stealing all your forks, leaving crumbs everywhere, making a mess of your carefully managed grief. Itâs harder when he smiles at you, wide and unbothered, like nothing in the world could touch him, like he isnât hurting just as much. Maybe thatâs why you havenât packed up and left, or havenât demanded he take you off the lease.
âDo you want to come watch us practice today?â your friend asks gently. âYou could use the break.â
âSure,â you agree, nodding.
The rink on campus is mercifully empty, barring the ice hockey players and their coach. You huddle deeper into your hoodie, tugging the sleeves over your palms as your breath fogs in the cold air. The bleachers are metal and unforgiving beneath you, but thereâs something calming about the sharp scent of ice and the dull echo of skates carving into the rink. Nanamiâs team is already mid-practice, moving like clockwork in their matching jerseys, passing the puck to each other. Nanamiâs form is unmistakableâbroad shoulders, crisp turns, no-nonsense efficiency. Heâs the kind of player who never wastes energy, never showboats.
Which is probably why it takes you a second to notice the blur of white helmet skating circles around everyone else.
Even from here, you can tell itâs Gojo. Nobody else plays like thatâreckless, fast, stupidly dramatic. He doesnât pass so much as he dares his teammates to keep up with him. One second, heâs flicking the puck behind his back to someone mid-sprint; the next, heâs skating backwards while taunting the goalie, stick dragging lazy arcs on the ice. It should be annoying. It is annoying. But itâs also hypnotically, infuriatingly graceful.
You watch, arms tucked tight around your ribs, as Gojo ducks past a defender and pivots sharply on one skate. The move is flashy, unnecessary, but completely effective. He spins just out of reach, like heâs showing off for a crowd that isnât even there. Then again, knowing him, maybe the absence of an audience is what makes it fun.
He catches the puck again mid-glide, lets it roll across his blade for the briefest second, and sends it arcing across the ice with a lazy flick of his wrist. It lands right where he wants itâat Nanamiâs feet. Nanami redirects it into a clean slapshot that smacks against the boards with a heavy thunk. The coach blows his whistle and yells something you canât quite make out, and the players all begin to split into drills.
Gojo circles back to the bench, tugging off his helmet. His hair is damp and flattened at odd angles, cheeks flushed red from exertion, but heâs smiling. He laughs at something one of the younger players says, throwing his head back like everything in the world exists solely for his amusement. His grin is sharp and his posture is loose with confidence, like heâs never known a moment of self-doubt in his entire life. He stretches his arms overhead, the hem of his jersey riding up just a little over his pads, and you force yourself to look away before your eyes linger too long.
Itâs stupid. Youâre here to support Nanami. Youâre here because your friend thought you needed fresh air, something different, something other than the quiet churn of your own thoughts. Youâre not here for him.
But when Gojo finally turns, like heâs felt your eyes on him all this time, and spots you across the rink, he smilesâwider this time. Brighter. You look away too fast to know if he waves.
The drills resume. Theyâre brutal, repetitive, the kind that test stamina more than strategy. Nanami is steady and solid, the way he always is, never showy but always in the right place at the right time. Gojo, by contrast, is everywhere. He darts around the rink, weaving in and out of formations, making near-impossible shots just to see if he can land them.
You settle into your seat, arms hugging your knees, and try not to think too hard. But itâs hard not to, especially when every stupid little memory rushes in like floodwater. The way Gojo always takes the last Pop-Tart in the box but leaves the wrapper on the counter; the way he sings obnoxiously loud in the shower and always, always manages to steal your charger right when you need it most; the way he tilts his head and looks at you, eyes too blue and too knowing, like he enjoys seeing how close he can get to pissing you off before you snap. Perhaps worst of all: the way he never apologises, just looks at you, smug and smugger, until you roll your eyes and pretend you werenât mad in the first place.
Asshole.
You donât realise how long youâve been staring blankly, wrapped up in your own thoughts, until someone else joins the bleachers. The guyâs tall, wrapped in a wool coat and beanie, sipping a coffee that steams in the cold air. He glances at you briefly, offers a polite nod, and turns his attention back to the rink.
Gojoâs still showing off. The teamâs moved to scrimmage now, red versus blue, and heâs the first one to score. He raises both arms in triumph, sticks his tongue out, and skates backward toward the bench, basking in invisible applause.Â
You groan quietly and bury your face in your hands. âGod, I hate him.â
The guy next to you chuckles. âYou know him?â
âYeah,â you say looking up.
âHeâs not so bad. Bit of a drama queen, but heâs good. Probably the best player weâve got.â
You donât say anything. You donât want to give Gojo the satisfaction, even by proxy. Instead, you wait for the moment he inevitably catches sight of you againâbecause of course he does, because nothing in his life is ever subtle. His head tilts. His grin turns sharklike. He lifts his stick and points it right at you, mouthing something across the rink. You groan again and pull your hood up.
Later, when youâre halfway back to your shared apartment, your fingers still freezing from the cold, your phone buzzes.
Gojo: you looked cute freezing your ass off up there
Gojo: want me to warm you up? đ
You: đ
02. the beginnings of affection (an existential crisis).
In high school, you made the grave mistake of telling Riko you thought her older brother was hot. It wasnât a lie, because he wasâtall, lean, unfairly pretty in that model-off-duty way, with a smile that had left many a classmate in a state of ruinous delusion. But back then, he was an idea, a rumour, a hallway myth in an expensive uniform and designer sneakers.
Now you live with him. Now you know better. Underneath his veneer of hotness lies a cold, twisted soul incapable of feeling remorse.
Yet. This morning, you catch yourself staring.
Heâs leaning against the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into a chipped mug that says Worldâs Okayest Roommate. His hairâs still damp from a shower, falling in soft curls over his forehead, and heâs wearing a hoodie that doesnât belong to him. Yours, actuallyâthe one you thought you lost three weeks ago. It fits him, though itâs oversized on you, the faded design on the front nearly unreadable. His sweatpants are slung low on his hips, and one of the pant legs is tucked into a sock for some godforsaken reason. Thereâs a smear of toothpaste on his cheek.
And yet you think: cute.
Which is concerning.Â
You frown into your cereal, spoon halfway to your mouth, and try to rationalise it. Maybe itâs sleep deprivation. Maybe itâs the new shampoo heâs using. Maybe youâve finally been broken by the sheer absurdity of sharing space with him. That must be it. A slow descent into madness. Like Stockholm Syndrome, but for roommates.
He catches you looking and grins.
âWhat?â you snap.
âYou were staring,â he says smugly, raising his mug to his lips.
âI was zoning out,â you lie. âYou just happened to be in the way.â
âMhm. Donât worry,â he says, winking. âHappens all the time.â
âYouâve got toothpaste on your face, weirdo.â
He wipes it off with the sleeve of your hoodie. Not his hoodie. Yours. You make a mental note to burn it.
âIâm going to start charging you rent for borrowing my clothes,â you mutter, standing to rinse your bowl.
Gojo hums. âThen Iâll start charging you for moral support. You know, the way I bring light and laughter into this apartment.â
âYou bring irritation and trauma.â
He laughs. You pause, hand on the faucet. You shouldnât feel warm. You shouldnât feel anything. But there it is againâthat awful flutter in your chest; that twist in your stomach like youâve just misread a question on an exam and realised too late. You stare down at the water running into the sink and think, no. No, no, no. Not this. Not him.
Your hand tightens on the faucet. You donât look up. If you do, heâll see it: the flicker of something not quite annoyance, the hiccup in your heartbeat. The very beginnings of affectionâor, worse, the remnants of it you thought youâd long since buried.
âYouâre being quiet,â your roommate observes, voice languid with interest.
âIâm thinking about how Iâll kill you,â you reply. âMaybe poison. Something slow. Arsenic in your overpriced protein shakes.â
âOoh. Thatâs hot. Do I get a last meal?â
âYou already ate the last of my oats yesterday.â
âUntrue,â he says cheerfully. âI gave it to my teammateââ
You finally turn to glare at him, but itâs a mistake. Heâs still wearing your hoodie, still smiling with toothpaste in the corners of his mouth and hair curling at his temples. His mug is held loosely between his fingers and he taps it against his hip like heâs about to say something clever.
He doesnât. Instead, he just looks at you. You blink first.
âDonât look at me like that,â you mutter.
âLike what?â
âLike youâre about to say something stupid and ruin my morning.â
Satoru grins. âI was gonna say you look nice. But I see now that would be stupid.â
Your cheeks burn. You hate that he still gets to you. Hate that, despite all the bickering and unsolicited borrowing of clothes, you still feel something twist inside when he looks at you like that. He finishes his coffee and sets the mug down. âIâm going to be late,â he announces, stretching until the hem of your hoodie rides up and reveals the slope of his back. You look away like youâve been burned.
âDonât forget your umbrella,â you say, because itâs drizzling outside.
He grabs the umbrella by the door. âIâll be back around seven,â he calls, halfway out. âDonât wait up.â
âI wonât.â
But the door shoots behind him before the lie is even fully out of your mouth. Thereâs no point denying it. The problem isnât that heâs hot. Itâs that heâs warm, sometimes; thoughtful in ways you donât expect, and annoyingly perceptive. The problem is that, in the hazy moments between arguments and insults and irritation, youâve let your guard slip.
God. Youâre so screwed.
âHey. Hey. I thought I told you not to wait up.â
âI didnât wait up for you.â
He toes off his shoes with a grunt, dropping his keys into the dish by the door and pulling off his jacket in one fluid motion. The collar of his t-shirt is wrinkled, stretched a little too wide at the neck, like someone had tugged at itâmaybe he had, or maybe it was already like that. His hairâs a windblown mess, strands sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes are rimmed with red like heâs either been up too long or had one too many drinks. Or both.
But heâs still Satoru, still maddeningly good-looking in that careless way of his, still the same insufferable guy who leaves the toilet seat up and sings Twice songs in the shower.
Youâre curled up into the far corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around you, half a bowl of popcorn abandoned on the coffee table. You werenât waiting upâreally, you werenâtâbut the TV is playing some old sitcom on mute, the light from the screen flickering across your face in soft, silvery flashes. Your phone is dark in your lap. Youâve read the same sentence in your book five times. You glance up when he speaks, and he stops mid-step, tilting his head at you.
âI didnât wait up for you,â you repeat, quieter this time, and go back to pretending to read.
He smiles faintly, like he doesnât believe you but wonât push. âRight,â he says, voice low. âOf course not.â
He throws his jacket over the back of a chair and pads into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You try not to follow him with your eyes. Try not to notice the way his shoulder blades shift beneath the fabric of his shirt, the way he hums softly under his breath as he opens the fridge and lets the light spill out across the tiles.
âYou didnât answer my text,â you say after a moment, tone sharper than you mean it to be.
âMy phone died.â
You nod, once. Stupid. You donât say anything else.
Satoru walks back into the living room, glass in hand, and sinks into the armchair opposite you with a groan. âRough night,â he says, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. âDidnât think it would go that late.â
âDidnât think you were going out at all.â
That makes him crack an eye open, a ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. âJealous?â
You snort. âOf your terrible taste in dive bars and worse taste in company? Never.â
âI didnât stay long,â he says. âThe music sucked.â
âYou go for the music?â
âI go for the distraction.â
Outside, itâs started to rain again, a slow, gentle drizzle against the windows. You stare at the pattern of drops sliding down the glass, trying to ignore the shape of him in your peripheryâbroad shoulders and long legs and bare feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. Heâs too close and too far all at once.
âDo you⌠want some popcorn?â you ask eventually.
Satoru opens his eyes again and blinks at you. âIs this the part where you admit you were waiting for me?â
You scowl. âForget it.â
âIâm kidding.â He sits up, leans forward slightly, eyes warm now, too warm. âIâd love some.â
You push the bowl towards him, watching as he picks out a piece and pops it into his mouth.Â
âThis,â he says, chewing thoughtfully, âwould be the part in a romcom where we kiss.â
âThis,â you say, rolling your eyes, âwould be the part in a horror movie where the protagonist makes a terrible decision and dies five minutes later.â
âThatâs just rude.â
âGood.â
But he smiles at you, bright and boyish, like thereâs no place heâd rather be than in this shitty living room at one in the morning with rain tapping against the windows and you scowling over a bowl of popcorn. You hate that it makes your heart ache; hate that, for all your better judgement, for all the times heâs made you want to scream into a pillow, thereâs a part of you that softens around him. A part that keeps watching the door when heâs late. A part that stayed up, no matter what you said.
âWe should bond,â Satoru says suddenly. âDo you have any plans tomorrow?â
You blink. âBond?â
âYeah. Like team-building. Except weâre not a team, and thereâs no building.â
âThatâs the worst pitch Iâve ever heard,â you say, but the corners of your mouth tug upwards despite yourself.
He shrugs, leaning back into the armchair again and tossing a piece of popcorn into the air, catching it clumsily with his mouth. âI donât know. I feel like weâve been circling each other. Might as well make it official.â
âMake what official?â
âThis thing,â he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. âOur roommate truce-slash-rivalry-slash-situationship.â
You nearly choke on your own breath. âWhatâwhat situationship?â
âOkay, fine. Maybe not that last one.â
You throw a pillow at him, and he catches it with one hand, laughing. The room is too warm, or maybe thatâs just your face. You glance away, shaking your head.
âAnyway,â he continues, âI was thinking. Since itâs Saturday tomorrow, and weâre both obviously in need of deep, soul-cleansing joyââ
âYou mean you want to avoid your hangover.â
ââwe should go skating.â
âLike, on the ice?â you ask.
âNo, on a frying pan,â he says. âYes, on the ice.â
âCome on,â Satoru calls. âItâs just frozen water.â
âI know what ice is,â you hiss.
He skates back toward you, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and a beanie pulled snug over his snowy hair. Of course he makes gliding over a frozen lake look like second nature. He probably was born skating. You glare at him from your self-imposed prison at the edge of the ice. Your fingers are locked in a white-knuckled grip on the guardrail, your knees slightly bent like your body already knows itâs about to betray you.
Satoru stops a few feet away, his skates coming to a perfect halt with the faintest spray of ice. âYouâre going to have to let go eventually,â he says, amused but not unkind.
You shake your head immediately. âI donât trust frozen water. Or you.â
âThatâs fair.â He shrugs. âBut one of those things is going to get you moving, and itâs not the ice.â
âThat doesnât even make sense,â you say, narrowing your eyes at him.
âDoesnât have to. Come on,â he coaxes, holding out a gloved hand. âIâll go slow. Promise. Baby steps.â
You glance down at the ice, then at his hand, then back at the ice. Itâs unfair, really, the way he looks so annoyingly trustworthy in moments like this. As if he hasnât spent the better part of your shared time together being the most irritating man on the planet. As if he didnât just spend the last twenty minutes zipping across the lake like a show-off while you contemplated your mortality from the safety of the shore.
Still, you let go of the guardrail. Just a little. Your hand slips into his, and his fingers tighten reassuringly around yours. He doesnât tug; he waits, steady and warm and patient, until you peel yourself entirely away from your comfort zone and step onto the ice.
You immediately regret everything. Your foot slides, your balance tips, and you let out a strangled noise as you clutch at him with both hands now, absolutely abandoning any pretense of dignity. Satoru laughs, open and delighted, the sound echoing across the lake like it belongs in a different world.
âIâve got you,â he says. His grip is solid, his body a firm counterweight to your graceless flailing. âJust stand. Donât try to walk yet. Feel how your skates sit on the ice.â
âI hate this. I hate you,â you mutter, clinging to his coat.
âYouâre doing amazing,â he says, and you scowl because heâs grinning now, and itâs not helpful at all.
Slowly, he eases you forward, step by wobbling step. The cold nips at your cheeks, your breath fogging between you in soft white puffs. Every movement feels like a gamble, your muscles tense with the knowledge that at any second, you could end up flat on your back.
âYou skate like Bambi,â he observes cheerfully.
âSay that again and Iâm taking you down with me.â
âYouâd have to catch me first,â he says. âAnd given your current progress, Iâd say thatâs not happening in this lifetime.â
You lurch at him, purely out of spite, and he lets out a surprised yelp as he stumbles back a little, catching you both from falling with more grace than youâll ever possess. You end up in his arms, your face smushed embarrassingly against his chest, heart pounding from more than just the cold.
âYouâre not bad at this,â he murmurs near your ear. âFor someone who looks like theyâre skating on stilts.â
You pull back to glare at him, but his smile softens into something almost fond, and you blink. Heâs still holding you, hands braced at your waist now, fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. His touch is warm through the layers. You donât say anything. Youâre not sure you can.
He leans back, clears his throat a little, and says, âAlright. Lesson one: donât look down.â
âWhat?â
âNo, seriously. Head up. Trust yourself a little. If you stare at the ice, your body will think you want to meet it.â
You lift your gaze slowly, reluctantly, and focus on the horizon instead: trees dusted in frost, a sky bruised with early twilight, and Satoruâs impossibly pale eyes, sharp and bright and filled with something you canât name. He starts guiding you again, his hands still at your waist, your balance a little steadier now. Each glide is cautious; itâs progress, however painstaking.
Youâre still clumsyâmore shuffling than skatingâbut the panic has dulled, replaced by a nervous sort of awareness: of your feet, of your breathing, of him. The cold cuts through the air with a crispness that sharpens everything, from the bite in your lungs to the sting in your cheeks, but somehow, with Satoruâs hands anchoring you, it all feels a little softer.
âLook at you,â he says, low and a bit smug. âYouâre a natural.â
You snort. âIâm one step away from death.â
âDeath by ice is very poetic,â he muses. âWeâll put it on your tombstone. Beloved roommate. Skated once.â
You elbow him weakly, the motion throwing off your centre of gravity just enough to send you pitching forwardâagain. You gasp, arms flailing, but he catches you effortlessly, laughing as he draws you back upright like itâs nothing. Like itâs second nature to steady you.
âThatâs lesson two,â he says, grinning down at you. âDonât do that.â
âYou are the worst teacher.â
âAnd yet,â he says, steering you in a slow arc, âyouâre still standing.â
The lake is quiet, save for the dull scrape of blades against the ice, the rustling of wind in the trees, and the shouts and hoots of a group of teenagers skating on the other end. You imagine the rink gets really crowded later in the evening, but for now, itâs just the two of you, wrapped in shades of silver and slate, the world narrowed down to the stretch of frozen water and the steady cadence of his voice in your ear. You take another step. Then another. Satoru doesnât let go, even though you think you could maybe handle it on your own now. But you donât ask him to.
âThis wasnât just about the skating,â he says after a while.
You glance up at him. His expression is unreadable now, the teasing stripped back to something quieter. You try for lightness. âOh? Is this the part where you declare your undying love for me?â
âNo. I did that last week. You were too busy yelling at me about the dishes.â
You huff a laugh, but it catches in your throat, because heâs looking at you in that way againâlike youâre the only thing in focus. Like the cold and the ice and the time you called him a walking disaster donât matter.
âI just wanted to do something with you,â he says. âRikoâRiko and I used to do this all the time as kids.â
â...Oh,â you say dumbly.
He doesnât look away when you say it. His hands havenât moved from your waist, and you realise, belatedly, that youâre not gripping onto him anymore. Youâre standing.
âShe used to hold my hand like youâre doing now,â he continues, a half-smile flickering across his face, wistful. âOnly, she had these tiny little gloves with cats on them, and sheâd nearly pull me down every time she slipped.â
You can see it, easilyâRiko as a small blur of determination, dragging her too-tall older brother around a rink, shrieking with laughter while he pretended not to be terrified of falling. You wonder what it was like, growing up with someone like that; with someone who looked at Satoru and saw more than the smirking exterior, who loved him before he learned to weaponise his charm.
âIs this where you guilt-trip me into being nicer to you?â you ask.
âNo,â he says. âYou being mean to me is the only thing that keeps me grounded.â
You donât know what to say to that. Not when your chest is doing that awful thing againâthat fluttery, traitorous ache that started as irritation and now feels like something worse. âDo you ever stop beingââ you begin, but you donât finish.
Because he lets go. Just like that.
Your breath catches, skates faltering as your arms instinctively reach for himâbut you donât fall. Your legs wobble, sure. Your equilibrium protests. But youâre still upright, and still moving, slowly and awkwardly and without grace. And heâs just standing there, a few feet away now, watching you with a look thatâs proud and amused and terribly fond.
âYouâre doing it,â he says, and the words hang in the air like steam, like warmth in the cold.
You stare at him. âYou tricked me.â
âObviously.â
âYou let go.â
âI did.â Satoruâs smile is maddening. âBut look. Youâre fine.â
You arenât sure if youâre grateful or angry or both. The lake is wide around you, open and echoing, and your arms feel empty without his to cling to. But youâre skating. When you reach him againâbecause of course you make your way back, clumsy half-glides bringing you close enough to grab his coat again if you want toâhe doesnât move away.
âI hate that youâre right,â you mutter, breathing hard.
âIâm always right.â
âYouâre never right.â
âYouâre right,â he says solemnly. âIâm only ever hot and devastatingly charming.â
You shove him. It doesnât do much; heâs solid, annoying, smug. But he laughs, and it echoes across the lake again, bright and honest. Then his hands find yours once more. âNext time,â he says, leaning in close, âweâll try a spin.â
You gawk at him like heâs insane. âI will murder you on the ice.â
âIâd die happy.â
You should pull away. You should say something cutting, something that reestablishes the boundaries heâs always so eager to toe. But you donât, because heâs warm even through your gloves, and the sky above you is bleeding into a soft lavender dusk, and his breath is a whisper against your cheek when he adds, âYou were really brave today.â
âDonât make it weird,â you mumble.
âToo late.â
You close your eyes, just for a moment. Without warning, you tug his hand and take a step back on the ice, away from him. Itâs shaky. Messy. Maybe even stupid. But you donât fall, and when you glance over your shoulder, heâs already following.
You donât end up at the ice hockey teamâs practice on purpose. Itâs all a matter of circumstance: youâd forgotten to bring your keys, and Satoru had practice immediately after classes, so you decided to pay him and Nanami a visit because youâre meticulous and already ahead of all your assigned readings, so you have some free time anyway.
Your boots squeak faintly against the rubber mat lining the entrance as you step inside, the sharp scent of ice and that weird rubbery tang from equipment stinging your nose. Itâs colder than you expect it to beânot just chilly, but bitingâand you hug your coat tighter around yourself, muttering under your breath about your own stupidity for forgetting your keys.
Through the glass panels that separate the stands from the rink, you catch sight of the team already in warm-ups, skating brisk laps along the boards. Nanami is easy to spot, with his clean-cut form and too-serious expression, weaving between teammates. Satoru, in contrast, is a blur of motion and colourâgrinning, flippant, always moving like heâs daring gravity to catch him. You know itâs him even with the helmet on. Thereâs something unmistakable about the way he skates, fast and loose like he was born with blades for feet and no sense of self-preservation.
You slip into the bleachers, choosing a middle seat and tucking your hands between your thighs for warmth. Your breath fogs in front of you in soft clouds. Below, the players yell instructions at one another, the thud of pucks hitting boards punctuated by the scrape of blades on ice. You expect to be bored within ten minutes, but strangely, youâre not.
You catch yourself watching Satoru more than you should.
Heâs wearing a dark jersey with the number six on the back, paired with white hockey pants. He skates like he owns the ice, like the world is some elaborate game designed for his entertainment, and heâs the only one who knows all the rules. Heâs obnoxiously good, of course. His passes are sharp and clean, his puck handling seamless, like the stick is an extension of his arm. He doesnât celebrate the goals he scores, but you can tell he enjoys each one. Itâs in the way he glances towards the stands after every shot, like heâs half-expecting applause. Like maybeâjust maybeâhe knows youâre watching.
And, of course, the one time you lean forward with genuine curiosity, Satoru catches your eye. You immediately sit back and pretend to examine the very interesting metal railing in front of you. When you look up again, heâs skating backwards towards the centre line, grinning like a lunatic. You roll your eyes.
Practice drags on, but in that weird hypnotic way that makes time pass fast. The drills shift from technical to scrimmage-style, players darting about, sticks clashing, shouts echoing through the space. Nanami plays with all the joy of someone forced into it by obligation, but you admire his skill all the same. Satoru, on the other hand, is infuriatingly smooth, darting past defenders and spinning to block shots.
At some point, you begin to lose feeling in your toes. You pull your legs up into your seat and burrow deeper into your coat. Satoru scores another goal with a fancy little flick of his wrist and has the nerve to wink at you through the glass. You flip him off, and he beams like youâve handed him a bouquet of roses.
When practice ends, the players skate to the benches, pulling off their helmets and guzzling water. You consider leaving before Satoru can come find you, but by the time you make the decision, heâs already peeled off his gear and is jogging toward the stands, a towel slung around his neck and his hair a snowy mess of sweat-damp curls.
âYou stalking me now?â he calls up, voice echoing through the cavernous space.
âI forgot my keys,â you reply flatly. âTrust me, if I had other options, I wouldnât be here.â
âAw,â he says, leaning on the railing in front of you. âSo you missed me.â
You stare down at him, unimpressed. âYou smell like a wet dog. I can smell it all the way up here.â
âStill came to see me, though.â
You open your mouth to reply with something scathing, but the words donât quite come. Not when heâs standing there with flushed cheeks and a grin thatâs more sunshine than snow, squinting slightly because of the overhead lights. Not when you remember, fleetingly, that Riko once told you her brother was really quiet, and you remember, again, that he changed after she died. The thought vanishes before you can dwell on it.
âWeâre out of milk, by the way,â you say instead.
Nanami skates over. His jersey is soaked through, but his hair remains irritatingly neat under his helmet. He slows to a stop beside the boards, stick tucked under one arm, and gives you a nod in greeting. You nod back.
âShe came all the way out here just to tell me weâre out of milk,â Satoru says.
âI didnâtââ You cut yourself off with a sharp exhale and gesture vaguely in his direction. âWhy do you talk like that?â
âHe talks like that because he has no concept of shame,â Nanami says.
âYou wound me, Nanamin.â
Nanami doesnât dignify that with a responseâjust raises a single brow and skates off toward the locker room. You watch his retreating figure for a second, then glance back at Satoru, now balancing precariously with one arm out.
âYou are so dramatic,â you mutter, standing and starting down the bleachers.
âI prefer being called expressive,â Satoru calls after you, hopping off the railing and jogging to meet you at the base of the stairs. He smells faintly of sweat, rubber, and whatever chemical funk lives permanently in every locker room, but heâs grinning so widely you almost forget to wrinkle your nose. Almost.
âI can see your hair freezing,â you say as you fall into step beside him. âThatâs disgusting. Go shower.â
He throws an arm around your shoulders; the gesture makes your skin bristle from the chill still clinging to his clothes. âBut you like me gross,â he says, bumping your side with a playful swing of his hip.
You scoff and shove him off, barely managing to keep your balance as your boots skid slightly on the damp rubber flooring. âI like you better when youâre not radiating the scent of boiled socks.â
âSo specific,â Satoru laughs. âWere you composing that one in your head the whole time I was on the ice?â
âNo,â you mutter. âIt came naturally. Like an allergic reaction.â
You follow him through the back hallway toward the locker rooms. Itâs quieter here, the sounds of the rink replaced by the low hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional groan of old plumbing in the walls. The linoleum floor is scuffed and water-stained, and everything smells like damp towels and disinfectant. You slow your steps, lingering near the door to the playersâ lounge while Satoru pushes through the locker room entrance.
He peeks back before disappearing inside. âYou waiting out here, or are you coming in for the full experience?â
âI value my life,â you deadpan.
âSuit yourself,â he singsongs, tossing the towel from his neck over your head before ducking inside with a grin. You yank the towel off with a sound of disgust and drop it on the floor. A few minutes pass. You idle on your phone, scrolling through old messages, then flick over to your calendar. Everythingâs already done: papers outlined, deadlines logged, readings colour-coded and annotated. Youâre bored.
Ten minutes later, the door creaks open and Satoru emerges, hair damp and pushed back from his face, now in grey sweats and a university hoodie two sizes too big. He looks softer like this, more human, like he couldâve been anyone else, if the world had been a little gentler.
âWhat?â he says, catching you staring.
You blink. âNothing.â
He tosses his duffel bag over one shoulder and jerks his chin toward the exit. âCome on. Letâs hit the store. You said weâre out of milk, right?â
âAnd bread,â you add as you fall into step beside him again. âAnd you used the last of the eggs and just⌠put the empty carton back in the fridge.â
âFalse accusations. I plead innocent.â
âYou plead lethargy.â
03. conflict resolution (the eternal affliction).
Christmas comes and goes, and the new year begins with you and Satoru deciding to sell the TV. It had been half-broken for weeks anywayâSatoru insisted it gave the screen a âvintage haze,â but you insisted it gave you migraines. So, on the second day of January, in a rare moment of mutual decisiveness, you both posted a picture of it on Facebook Marketplace with a joke caption, and watched the replies pour in. Some poor soul came to pick it up that evening, and just like that, your living room was quieter than it had been in days.
Maybe you needed the quiet. The holidays had been a blur of noiseâfamily phone calls, missed trains, clinking glasses, and Satoruâs very enthusiastic and very drunk rendition of Last Christmas that made your upstairs neighbour leave an aggressive Post-It on your door.
Now, itâs snowingâthick, slow flakes that coat the windows and silence the city. Youâre curled up on the couch with two blankets and a cup of peppermint tea you donât really like, watching Satoru fiddle with the thermostat.
âItâs broken,â he says for the fifth time, shirt riding up slightly as he bends down to look behind the radiator. âIâm gonna sue the landlord.â
âYou say that every week,â you reply, blowing on your tea. âYouâve never sued anyone in your life.â
âI could,â he says indignantly, standing upright. He looks infuriatingly good in sweats and a hoodie, even with socks that donât match and a piece of tape stuck to his elbow from when he tried to fix the window seal this morning. âYou donât know what I get up to when youâre asleep.âÂ
You raise an eyebrow. âYouâre usually asleep before me.â
Satoru points a finger at you. âExactly. Thatâs what I want you to think. But maybe Iâve been moonlighting as a lawyer in the dead of night. Ever think about that?â
You take a long sip of your tea to hide your smile. âYou canât even read the rental agreement without getting a headache.â
âYou said youâd never bring that up again!â
âYou were crying, Satoru.â
âIt was printed in a size 10 font, what do you want from me?â
You laugh. Outside, the streetlights blur into glowing halos. Inside, itâs dim and warm, the air thick with the scent of peppermint and laundry detergent, and something you canât quite placeâSatoru, probably, who always smells like something slightly sweet, like sugar cookies and whatever shampoo he uses when he forgets yours isnât his. You look over the rim of your mug at him. His hairâs messier than usual, falling into his eyes. Youâve told him to get it trimmed. He hasnât listened.
âItâs still getting colder,â you say quietly, watching the snow. âYou think weâll get snowed in?â
Satoru flops onto the couch beside you, his body warm where it presses against your blanket-wrapped one, his knee knocking lightly into yours. âGod, I hope so,â he mutters, tugging the throw off your legs to cover himself. âWe could use the time off.â
âYou donât even work a real job,â you remind him.
He frowns, the expression exaggerated and pouty. âExcuse me. Iâm a public servant. Iâm out there risking life and limb every day, for our stupid old landlord. Or did you forget who shoveled the steps this morning?â
âBadly,â you point out. âYou missed half the landing.â
âI was conserving energy,â he says primly, âin case we do get snowed in. Youâll be thanking me when itâs day four of no groceries and youâre chewing on the couch cushions.â
You scoff, curling your feet under you. âWeâve got food. I made sure.â
âI saw.â He grins, tilting his head to rest against the back of the couch, blue eyes sparkling. âI saw you hide the good snacks in the cereal box. Youâre so sneaky.â Satoru reaches for the remote out of habit, then remembers the TV is gone. âOh. What are we supposed to do now? Talk to each other?â
You smile around the rim of your cup. âWe could play cards.â
âWe could commit tax fraud.â
You nudge his leg with yours. âSatoru.â
âFine, fine,â he sighs. âBut only if I get to cheat.â
âYou always cheat.â
âYou always let me.â
He says it quietly, but he looks at you like heâs talking about something else entirely. Maybe he is. You set the mug down carefully, your fingers too warm now to keep holding it. Youâre suddenly aware of everything: how his thigh brushes yours, how heâs slouched so far down the cushions that his hoodieâs ridden up again, showing a sliver of pale skin and the waistband of his sweats; the scar on his hip he told you he got from an ice hockey accident; the way he shifts when you donât say anything, like he feels your gaze and likes it.
The peppermint flavour in your mouth goes sticky and sweet.
âIâm bored,â he says again, softer. âYou wanna do something stupid?â
âLike what?â
He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. âLike take a really hot shower. Together. For environmental reasons.â
You huff, trying not to laugh, even as your stomach does a slow somersault. âVery eco-conscious of you.â
âExactly. Iâm a hero.â
You roll your eyes, but the thought lingersâhis body wet and close, fogging up the glass, your cold skin pressed to his. It lingers longer than it should. You lean your head back against the couch and try to chase it away, but Satoru leans closer, propping his chin on your shoulder, voice lazy and low, as he says, âYouâre thinking about it, arenât you?â
âNo.â
âYouâre such a bad liar.â
You shoot him a look, about to say something, but it dies on your lips. Heâs close. His eyes are sleepy but sharp, his breath warm where it brushes your cheek. You blink slowly. You think you could kiss him and heâd let you. You think if you said please, heâd let you crawl into his lap and never leave.
âI donât even like peppermint,â you deflect, mostly to yourself.
âRiko used to say you always drank it in winter.â
âItâs supposed to feel festive.â
âYouâre festive,â he says, almost absentmindedly, like the words slipped out without thinking.The snow falls harder. The pipes groan, and the heater hisses weakly. You pull the blanket higher around your neck. âYouâre not warm enough,â he observes.
âThanks for the update.â
âIâm just saying. We could fix that.â
âIs this you trying to seduce me?â
âIs it working?â
You stare at him. Heâs gorgeous like thisâhalf-lazy, half-serious, the kind of effortless pretty that shouldnât be allowed in sweats and two-day-old hair. You think about the way his voice goes low when heâs teasing you, like it is now. The way he always runs a hand down your back, firm and gentle, when he knows your dayâs been long. Itâs unbearable, sometimes, the want. The wanting him like this.
âI could be convinced,â you say quietly.
âOh, yeah?â
He doesnât move right away; he watches youâsearching, maybe, or waiting for you to change your mind. You donât. He shifts to face you more fully, and leans in slowly, like heâs giving you time to pull away. His fingers brush your jaw, warm and careful, and then he kisses you.
It starts soft, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. You answer with a small sound at the back of your throat, leaning in, tilting your head, letting your mouth part just slightly under his. Satoru deepens it with a low noise that vibrates between you, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to anchor your close. His lips are warm, his mouth sweetâpeppermint and the leftover hint of something honeyed from dinner. He kisses like he does everything elseâwholeheartedly, a little cocky, and all-consuming. Your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto as he presses in.
His other hand slides beneath the blanket, settling against your waist. Youâre still bundled up in layers, but you feel the heat of his palm through the cotton. Your whole body reacts to it: shivering, softening, leaning closer. You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound.
When he finally pulls back, itâs just barely, his nose brushing yours. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown, a flush high on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold. âYou sure?â he asks roughly. âBecause Iâll stop. Iâll stop right now ifââ
You kiss him again, quick and firm. âIâm sure.â
Satoru lets out a breath, then nudges the blanket off both of you. The cold air hits your skin for half a second before heâs pulling you onto his lap, coaxing you into straddling him. You go willingly, knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. Itâs clumsy at firstâyour feet slide, your knee bumps the coffee tableâbut he steadies you with both hands on your hips, and it stops being funny.
Your faces are inches apart. You can see every speck of silver in his eyes, the pink curve of his bottom lip, the threadbare collar of his hoodie that dips just low enough to show the line of his throat. Your fingers slip under the hem of it, and he shudders.
âThis okay?â you ask quietly.
He nods, but adds, âDonât ask like that. Like Iâd ever say no to you.â
You kiss him again. His hands moveâup your back, under your shirt, leaving trails of heat where they go. Youâre both flush with warmth now, the kind of warmth that fills your chest and settles low in your belly. The radiatorâs broken, and your teaâs gone cold, but it doesnât matter, not with his body beneath yours, not with his mouth at your neck now, pressing soft, reverent kisses to the place where your pulse beats.
âSatoru,â you whisper, and he groans softly against your skin like itâs the best thing heâs heard all week. You tighten your fingers in his hoodie, tugging just slightly, and he lifts his head to look at you. You run your hands down his chest, over the soft cotton. âThis has got to go.â
He grins, crooked and flushed. âYou just want an excuse to touch me.â
You tug the hoodie up, and he raises his arms without a word, letting you pull it over his head. His hair is mussed even further, sticking up in a dozen directions, and you canât help smoothing it down with your hands. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the planes of his chest scattered with faint scars.
âYouâre staring,â he says, softer now.
âYouâre pretty,â you reply, just as quiet.
His smile faltersânot in a bad way, but in that way it does when you say something that actually gets to him. He swallows, reaches up, and brushes your hair back behind your ear. âYouâre not supposed to say things like that when Iâm trying to be cool.â
âYouâre never cool,â you whisper, leaning in again. âIâm on birth control. Just so you know.â
His laugh is rough, but it dies in his throat the second you crush your mouth to his againâall heat, no patience now, just the wet slide of his tongue against yours. His hands are already pushing under your shirt, fingers tracing every rib, until his thumbs drag slow circles under your breasts. You arch into his touch.
âOff,â he says, yanking your shirt up. You lift your arms, letting him strip it away, leaving you in just your braâsome flimsy lace thing heâs already eyeing like he wants to tear it off. The cold air hits your skin, but you barely feel it, not with the way his gaze burns over you. His hands are on you again instantly, palming your tits through the lace, squeezing just hard enough to make you whimper. His thumbs flick over your nipples, already stiff, and you gasp when he leans down to lick a hot stripe over the fabric.
âSo beautiful,â he says, teeth catching the edge of the cup. He tugs it down, freeing one breast, and seals his mouth over it with wet, filthy pulls of his lips while his tongue flicks the peak. You moan, thighs clenching, already grinding down against his lap where his cock strains against his sweatpants.
âSatoruââ Your fingers twist in his hair, holding him to your chest as he switches sides, biting lightly at the other nipple through the lace before dragging the cup down to give it the same treatment. His free hand slides between your thighs, cupping you through your pants, and you shudder when he presses the heel of his palm hard against your clit.
âFuck, youâre soaked,â he groans against your skin, fingers rubbing slow, torturous circles. âCan feel it through your pants.â
Youâre panting now, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction. He undoes the string of your pants with one hand, shoving them down your thighs along with your underwear. His breath hitches when he sees how wet you are, glistening and swollen.
âLook at that,â he rasps, dragging two fingers through your folds, spreading your slick. He slides one finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, teasing. âAlready so fucking tightâhowâre you gonna take me?â
You whine, hips jerking, trying to him deeper, but he just chuckles, adding a second finger, curling them just right to make you gasp. He pumps them slowly, his thumb circling your clit in time, until youâre trembling, your thighs shaking around his wrist.
âNot yet, sweetheart,â he murmurs, pulling his fingers free with a filthy sound. You nearly sob at the loss, but he unbuckles his jeans, shoving them just enough to free his cockâthick, flushed, already leaking.Â
âRide me,â he orders, voice rough.
You donât hesitate. You reach between you, guiding him to your entrance, and lower yourself into him inch by inch. The stretch burns, the way he fills you so perfect, it steals your breath. Both of you groan as you take him to the hilt, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles, and his head falls back against the couch with a groan. His hands roam your bodyâsqueezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, then sliding down to grip your ass, urging you faster. You comply, bouncing on his cock now, the slap of skin echoing in the room. Every thrust drags him against that perfect spot inside you, and you can feel the coil of pleasure tightening, your clit throbbing with each movement.
âGonna come,â you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. âSatoru, Iâmââ
âLet go,â he urges, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles. âCome on my cock.â
The orgasm crashes through youâyour back arches, your walls clamp down on him, and you cry out, shuddering as pleasure rips through every nerve. He fucks you through it, his hips jerking up to meet your frantic movements, until he groans and spills inside you with a low moan.
You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and spent. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as your heartbeat steadies. He tilts your chin up, after a moment, kissing you slow and lazy.
âSo,â he mumbles against your lips. âAbout that shower.â
âYes, please.â
He peels you off the couch with a groan, your legs shaky, your skin still fever-hot where his come drips down your inner thighs. The bathroom tiles are cool under your bare feet as he guides you in, his palm never leaving the small of your back, like he canât stand not touching you for even a second.
Steam fogs the mirror before the water even hits your skin. Satoru adjusts the spray with a rough twist of his wrist, testing it with his fingers before pulling you under the warm heat. The water sluices over your shoulders, your breasts, his hands following its path like heâs trying to watch every inch of you with his touch instead.
âYou missed a spot,â you tease, breath hitching when his thumbs drag over your nipples, already stiff again from the contrast of heat and his calloused fingers.
âFucking smartass,â he says, but thereâs no real bite to itânot when his cock is already thickening against your hip, the tip flushed and leaking. He crowds you against the tile, his mouth searing a path down your throat, sucking bruises into the tender skin below your ear. Water beads on his lashes when he looks up at you, fingers hooking under your knee to hike your leg over his hip.
âTurn around,â he orders, voice frayed with want.
You obey, bracing your palms against the slick wall as he presses flush against your back. His cock nudges between your thighs, not quite inside itâjust rutting against your slick folds, teasing. The head catches on your entrance, the stretch just shy of unbearable, and you whimper, pushing back.
Satoru chuckles, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head aside. His other hand slides between your legs, fingers spreading your slick over your clit. âStill dripping,â he says, circling that swollen bud just hard enough to make your knees buckle. âLike youâre fucking made for me.â
You gasp when he finally pushes insideâslow, deliberate, stretching you with every inch until his hips meet your ass. The water cascades over both of you as he starts to move, deep, rolling thrusts that have you arching, your nails scraping against tile.
âLook at you,â he groans, tightening his grip on your hip. His other hand leaves your hair to grab your breast, pinching your nipple as he fucks into you harder. âTaking me so fucking good.â
Itâs too muchâthe drag of his cock against your walls, the slap of skin, the way his teeth sink into your shoulder. Youâre babbling, half-formed pleas and his name, your thighs trembling with every thrust.
âGonna make you come again,â he grits out, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing circles. You come with a cry, your walls fluttering around him as your climax crashes over you. Satoru fucks you through it, his hips stuttering as his own release hitsâa harsh groan against your neck as he spills inside you.
He holds you up when your legs give out, turning you in his arms to kiss you slow and filthy under the spray. His tongue licks into your mouth, while his hand drifts down to your ass.
âClean now?â you mumble against his lips, dazed.
He laughs, thumb brushing your lower lip. âDirty as hell.â His other hand slides between your thighs, gathering the mix of water and come dripping down your skin. âGonna have to do this again.â
You shiver as he brings his fingers to your mouth, watching your lips part to suck them clean.
Spring is sprung, but nothing changes between you and Satoru. Itâs as if the two days you spent snowed in right after New Yearâs are just thatâtwo days that exist outside of your usual periphery, kept locked away in the recesses of your mind like a dream you canât decide whether to revisit or forget. The world has thawed and so, seemingly, has he. No more late nights curled together on his couch. No more cereal-for-dinner declarations or tangled limbs under too-warm blankets. That strange liminal space you existed in, suspended in the hush of snowfall and the hum of radiator heat, disappears as soon as the city begins to bloom again.
Instead, things shift back into old rhythms.
You start finding mismatched socks in the laundry again. His cereal bowls accumulate in the sink in quiet protest of dishwashing. You bicker over the thermostat settings like you always used tooâSatoru insists that 24°C is the perfect temperature while youâre constantly reaching for the dial to turn it down. He steals your phone charger without asking. You use his shampoo out of petty revenge. He hogs the bathroom mirror every morning, combing through his hair with a devotion that borders on tragic. And you⌠you go back to pretending that none of it ever meant anything more.
You try not to notice how careful he is now, how his gaze lingers a little too long but his fingers donât. How he keeps his distanceâplayfully, almost purposefully. As if closeness is a privilege thatâs been revoked. As if intimacy was a mistake that neither of you are willing to acknowledge.
And because itâs easier this way, you donât ask.
Instead, you both fall into the easy charade of Just Roommates, the same performance you perfected before that blizzard rewrote the script. Itâs familiar, comfortableâuntil it isnât.
Because one night, he doesnât come home.
You notice it sometime around 11:30 P.M. His shoes arenât by the door, his keys arenât clattering into the dish like they usually do. The apartment is quiet in a way it hasnât been for months. You try not to worry. Heâs an adult. He disappears sometimes. Thatâs just Satoru being Satoru. But something in your chest prickles with unease, and your thumb hovers over your screen for a good five minutes before you finally open your messages.
You: hey, you coming home tonight?
No reply. The text sits there, read but unanswered. You sit on the couch for another half hour, idly scrolling, not really seeing anything. Your eyes keep darting to the door like he might waltz in with some dumb excuse and a bag of chips. When the clock hits 1:04 A.M., you give up pretending and text Nanami.
You: do you know where satoru is?
Nanami: hold on.
Nanami: yeah. unfortunately.Â
Two seconds later, an image pops up.
Itâs a picture taken at a frat partyâone of those messy, overcrowded events where the musicâs too loud and the floorâs sticky with God-knows-what. Thereâs a blur of colour and movement, people crowding the frame, but itâs not hard to spot him: Satoru, in the centre of it all, unmistakable even with the grainy quality of the photo. Heâs half-sitting on the back of a couch, red solo cup in hand, sunglasses perched uselessly on the bridge of his nose despite it being well past midnight. His head is tilted toward a girl beside himâbrunette, bright lipstick, her arm draped over his shoulder.
You stare at the image for longer than you mean to.
The girlâs laughing. Satoruâs smiling. And not that small, soft sort of smile he gives you when he thinks youâre not looking, but wide and lazy, the kind he usually wears when heâs trying to charm his way out of something.
Your stomach curls, cold and unpleasant. You shut your phone off. The apartment is still too quiet. You brush your teeth with shaking fingers, climb into a bed that feels a little too big, and press your eyes shut like that might block out the sudden ache in your chest.Â
It shouldnât matter. Youâre just roommates.
You think about the girl heâd brought home that day, three days into your moving in. Youâd felt bad for her, knowing that she was just a notch in his over-filled stick. Is that what you are, too? Just another person he slept with? His little sisterâs best friend, whoâs never been the same after she died, just another name on his list?
Maybe itâs your own fault. You knew what he was like.
The morning after, you donât reach for your phone. You donât check to see if he came home sometimes after you fell asleep. You donât look for his shoes by the door. You just go about your day like youâve got somewhere to be.
Itâs easier this way. To keep moving. To stay busy. To pull your focus away from the image etched into the backs of your eyelids: the shape of him in someone elseâs orbit, grinning like he didnât have your heartbeat tucked between his palms only a few weeks ago.
When you finally do check your phone, thereâs no apology. Just a half-hearted âmy bad lolâ text that arrives sometime around 10 A.M., flippant and thoughtless, as if it never even occurred to him that you mightâve waited up.
You donât answer. He doesnât push. The silence becomes your new rhythm.
Where once there was casual ease between you, there is now only space. Deliberate, careful space. You start closing the door to your room whenever heâs home. You keep your headphones in, even when youâre not listening to anything. You stop making dinner for two. You stop leaving him notes on the fridge. He seems to notice, but doesnât say anything. Maybe heâs relieved. Maybe heâs too oblivious to put the pieces together. Or maybe this is just easier for him, too.
You start planning your exit. You donât tell him. You donât know how to. You start searching on your laptop late at night, under the covers like itâs something shameful. Studio apartments, room shares, sublets posted by strangers who spell everything in lowercase. Nothing looks promising, but you scroll anyway, determined to find something, anything, that doesnât have him in it.
You start making lists in your notes app. Things youâll need: a kettle, your own set of plates, a bathroom rug. Things youâll miss: the way he sings when heâs in the shower, the sound of his laugh echoing down the hallway, the smell of his shampoo. And then there are the things you donât let yourself write down. Like the way his arms felt around you that night on the couch. Or the look in his eyes when he thought you were asleep. Or the fact that, for a brief few moments this winter, you really, truly believed he could be something more.
You donât talk about any of it. Not to him, not to Nanami, not to your friend who sits next to you during class. You just swallow it down like a bitter pill and keep moving.
Some nights, he comes home late and you pretend to be asleep. Some mornings, he lingers in the kitchen a little too long, like heâs waiting for you to say something, anything, but you never do. You sip your coffee in silence, watch the steam curl up, and keep your eyes fixed on the window. Itâs not that you donât want to talk to him. Itâs that you donât trust what youâd say.
Because the truth is this: youâve overstayed your welcome, not just in this apartment, but in the idea of him. You let yourself want, and now youâre paying for it.
And Satoruâheâs still Satoru. Beautiful and reckless and untouchable in the ways that matter most. He flits around you like he doesnât notice you pulling away. Or maybe he does, and heâs letting you go. So you send in applications. You tour a too-small studio with cracked linoleum and convince yourself the peeling walls are âcharming.â You lie on your bed at night and stare at the ceiling and imagine what itâll feel like to live in a place where his laugh doesnât echo through the walls.
Spring has sprung. The world is warm and blooming again. But youâyouâve never felt colder.
When you tell Nanami youâre moving, he doesnât chide you for it. Just shrugs, and asks if you want any help with packing. You nod, grateful, and ask if you can accompany him for their ice hockey practice that evening. You need to give Satoru your keys back, and you would prefer to do it with your friend next to you.
The rink is always colder than you expect. Even in the early blush of spring, when your jacket is too light and the wind a little gentler, the ice rink clings to winter. Nanami doesnât say much on the walk over. Heâs not the type to pry unless invited, and youâve been⌠quiet, to say the least. A silence cushioned in resignation more than sadness. As if the version of yourself who cried into her pillow over Satoru in January has finally dulled into someone softer, steadier.
You sit in the bleachers with your arms tucked close to your chest as Nanami skates onto the ice. The boys are already roughhousing, and Satoruâheâs grinning. Always grinning.
You spot him the moment he hops the rail. His hair is a mess under his helmet, and his jersey hangs a little lopsided over his pads, but thereâs that same carefree energy, as though nothing in the world has ever really touched him. Not even you.
You fold your fingers around the keys in your coat pocket and press them tight into your palm. Practice is what youâve come to expect. Fast. Loud. A blur of bodies in motion, blades on ice, the occasional thud as someone crashes into the boards. You watch the way Satoru movesâlike he owns the rink, like gravity is just a suggestion. You realise, belatedly, that you are looking. Maybe too hard.
When the whistle blows and the scrimmage ends, the team filters off the ice in staggered waves, peeling off helmets, slapping shoulders, shouting about drinks and dinner plans. Nanami nods at you from the bench, motioning that heâll meet you outside. Youâre halfway down the bleachers when you hear his name.
âHey!â Satoruâs voice cuts through the buzz of conversation. You turn. Heâs jogging over with that same impish grin, helmet under one arm, hair sweat-damp and eyes far too blue. âYou came.â
You blink. âYeah.â
âYou missed me, huh?â he teases, bumping your shoulder with his. âDonât look at me like that. I know you love watching me play.â
There it isâthat familiar tilt of his head. A part of you wants to smile back, the way you always do. Fall into the rhythm again. Pretend.
But not this time.
You pull your hand from your coat pocket and extend it toward him, fingers curled around the small, silver ring of keys. âHere,â you say simply.
Satoru stills. He looks at your hand like he doesnât quite understand what heâs seeing, like the keys might bite him if he takes them. âWhatâŚ?â his voice falters. âWhatâs this?â
âYour spare,â you reply. âIâm moving out.â
He doesnât take the keys right away. He stares at you, the confusion sharpening into something quieter, something more serious. âYouâre serious.â
âI wouldnât be here if I wasnât.â
You donât say I wouldnât have watched you skate around like nothing ever happened if I wasnât. You donât say I wouldnât have dragged myself back into this space, this icebox version of our past, if I didnât want to close the door for good.
He finally reaches out and takes them, curling his fingers slowly around the metal like it might dissolve. You notice the way his smile has faded. The rink is suddenly very quiet.
âI see,â he says. Itâs the most subdued youâve heard him in weeks.
You take a step back. âGood game, by the way.â
You walk away.
04. the end (happily ever after).
âYou canât leave until the end of the month,â Satoru says by way of greeting, toeing off his shoes at the entrance. âYou signed the lease with me. You have to stay until April.â
You pause halfway through stacking one of the moving boxes, fingers curled around a stack of your dog-eared books. âAre you seriously quoting the lease at me right now?â
Satoru shrugs out of his jacket. âIâm just saying. Itâs legally binding.â
You set the books down a little too hard. âWhat, so now you care about the rules?â
âIâve always cared,â he says.
âNo, Satoru. You care when itâs convenient. You care when it means getting the last word. You donât get to act like this now, after weeks of pretending I donât exist.â
âI wasnât pretendingââ
âYou stopped coming home,â you snap, the words catching in your throat like thorns. âYou stopped showing up. You stopped talking to me.â
âI needed space,â he says, and you laughâcold and bitter and hollow.
âFrom what? From me? From whatever happened that weekend?â
He says nothing. Just shifts his weight and stares at the floor like the grain of the wood might suddenly rearrange itself into answers.
You swallow. âRight. Of course. That weekend didnât mean anything. Just like everything else.â
âDonât do that,â Satoru says quietly. âDonât put words in my mouth.â
âIâm just trying to figure out what we are,â you retort defensively. âWere. Because you clearly figured it out a long time ago and didnât bother telling me.â
âItâs not like that.â
âNo?â Your voice shakes. âThen what about the girl from the party, Satoru? What was that?â
His head jerks up. âWhat girl?â
You cross your arms. âNanami showed me a photo. Some frat party. You and some girl. You lookedâhappy.â
Something flickers across his faceâconfusion first, then something like hurt. âYou mean Misaki?â
âI donât know her name. I just know you were smiling. With your arm around her. And I know I donât sleep with people I donât care about. So maybe it didnât mean anything to you, but it did to me. And you were just going to go back to your life like nothing happened, I wish youâd said so before I gave a damn.â
âMisaki,â he says again, stunned. âSheâs dating Hajime.â
You blink.
âSheâs my teammateâs girlfriend. He wanted a photo of all of us for her birthday because sheâs moving to Osaka. Thatâs it. We all posed for a stupid picture, and then I left. I didnât even want to go.â
You want to believe him. You really do. But your chest still aches with weeks of uncertainty, with that night you nearly cried yourself to sleep on the mattress you were already half-packing away. âThen why didnât you just tell me?â
âI thought I already fucked everything up,â he admits. âYou stopped talking to me. You looked right through me. I thought I crossed a line, and you regretted it.â
You shake your head, disbelieving. âYouâyou thought I regretted it? Satoru, Iââ You cut yourself off. Swallow it down.
He steps forward, hands out like he wants to reach for you but doesnât know if heâs allowed anymore. âI didnât want to risk making it worse. But then you stopped coming to practice. You stopped leaving your door open. You were just⌠gone.â
âThe only thing we ever had in common,â you say, âwas Riko.â
His face falls.
âSheâs dead, Satoru. And maybe⌠maybe we were just trying to hold on to each other because she was the one who tied us together.
âNo.â His voice is firm. âNo, thatâs not true.â
You look away. âIsnât it?â
âMaybe at first,â he says. âBut not anymore. Not for a long time.â
âThen why didnât you say something?â
âBecause Iâm an idiot. Because I thought I had more time. I miss you. Every day. I miss going grocery shopping with you. I miss your hair in the drain and your mugs on the counter and the way you used to fall asleep on the couch back when we still had the TV. I miss you,â he repeats, quieter this time, âso no. You canât leave. Not until I get to ask you out properly.â
For your first date, Satoru sneaks you into the campus ice rink at one in the morning.Â
âNicked the keys from the coach,â he says. âDonât tell Nanamin.â
The air inside the rink is biting and crisp, even colder than you remember from the times youâd come to watch practice. Satoru flips the lights on, flooding the empty arena with a soft, almost romantic glowâclean white against the polished glass, shadows stretching long along the bleachers. You stand near the edge of the rink, hugging your coat tighter around your body.
âI canât believe you stole from your coach for this,â you say, though youâre smiling.
Satoru shakes the keys at you. âBorrowed. Itâs borrowing if I return them.â
âYouâre unbelievable.â
âIâm endearing,â he corrects, walking backwards towards the ice, arms spread wide. âAnd this is your first official date. Has to be memorable.â
You roll your eyes, but your heart is soft and melty, like it always is around him now.
Heâs already laced into his skates, having arrived with them slung over one shoulder. You, on the other hand, have to sit at the benches while he kneels in front of you to help you with yours. His fingers are quick and practiced, tugging the laces snug before double-knotting them with a flourish. It should be embarrassingâbeing fawned over like thisâbut thereâs something reverent in the way he moves, like this is a ritual of his own making, and it tugs at something in your chest.
âYou do this for all your first dates?â you ask, trying to sound casual, but failing. Youâre too aware of the way his breath fans over your thighs, or the way his touch lingers just a little too long against your ankles.
He glances up at you, bright eyes amused. âYouâre my first. Be gentle with me.â
The ice is smooth, freshly resurfaced. Satoru leads you to the centre, gliding effortlessly, show-offy as ever. He does a little spin, throws both arms in the air like heâs just scored, then turns and offers you a hand.
âYou know I canât skate like that.â
âLucky for you,â he says, stepping closer and tucking his fingers through yours, âI happen to be very good at holding people up.â
Youâre wobbly at first, your legs unsure, and he skates backward slowly, pulling you along. His hands are steady on your waist, his smile wide and proud. And once you find your rhythmâstill shaky, but uprightâyou circle the rink together, the only sounds the soft hiss of blades on ice and your laughter echoing against the rafters.
Itâs surreal. Youâve seen him like this before: in his element, cocky and sure of himself on the ice. But itâs different now, because now, every glance he throws your way feels like it means something. Halfway through, he slows to a stop and pulls you in close. âYou know,â he says, softer now, âI used to dream about this.â
You blink up at him. âAbout breaking and entering university property?â
âNo,â he says. âAbout you. Being with you. I used to imagine all the ways I could maybe get you to see me the way I saw you. And it always started with something like this.â
You flush. âSatoruâŚâ
âDo you remember,â he says, nudging his forehead against yours, âafter the snowstorm? When I told you I wouldnât regret it?â
You nod.
âI meant it,â he says. âI still mean it.â
The kiss comes naturally, like exhaling. Youâre both half-frozen, and he tastes like mind and cold air, but itâs perfect anywayâslow and warm and just a little clumsy, because youâre still in skates and your balance is terrible, and he laughs into your mouth when you nearly topple over.
âIâve got you,â he says, arms anchoring you close.
When you eventually sit on the benches again, sipping hot chocolate from a thermos heâd smuggled in his bag, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and leans in to whisper, âNext time, Iâll bring you here in the daytime like a normal person.â
You hum, smiling against the rim of the cup. âBut I think I like this version better.â
Satoruâs fingers find yours and squeeze. âMe, too,â he says.
The final buzzer sounds.
The crowd erupts around youâhorns blaring, feet stomping, voices swelling into an anthem of unbridled celebration. On the ice, bodies collide in a heap of jerseys and helmets, gloves flung into the air like confetti. The scoreboard flashes a victorious 5 â 4, and you swear your heartâs beating just as fast as the game-winning slapshot Satoru landed in the final two minutes.
You stay seated in the bleachers, slightly breathless, fingers clenched around the hem of your coat. The whole rink pulses with energy. You could cut the adrenaline with a knife. Students are screaming their heads off. Someone nearby throws a foam fingers into the rink. Your ears are ringing and your eyes are locked on the number 6 jersey, skating lazy circles while his teammates swarm Nanami in a dogpile near the goal.
Satoru Gojo.
You watch him turn, searching the stands. The grin on his face is dazzling, sweat-slicked hair sticking out of his helmet in damp tufts. He lifts his stick over his head like a banner, pointing it directly at you when he finds you in the crowd.
Your heart stutters. Youâre not even embarrassed about how wide your smile stretches.
He doesnât even wait for the rest of the ceremony.
Not ten minutes later, heâs climbed the barriers and jogged up the bleacher steps, ignoring the photographers, the shouts of âGojo! Pictures!â and Nanamiâs loud, âGet back here, Gojo!â He finds you in the fifth row, standing now, half-shocked and half-laughing, and barrels straight into you.
âHeyââ you start, but then heâs kissing you.
Itâs not the first timeâGod knows it wonât be the lastâbut something about it makes the rest of the world dissolve. Your hands find the sides of his face, fingers catching on the straps of his helmet, as he presses you back gently against the guardrail. He tastes like mint and ice and sweat, and his smile never fully disappears against your mouth.
âI knew youâd come,â he murmurs between kisses, his voice rough with exertion. âCould feel it.â
You swat him lightly on the chest, breathless. âOf course I came. Itâs the finals.â
âYou didnât come to the semi-finals,â he teases, lips brushing the shell of your ear. âThought Iâd been demoted.â
âYou were in the sin bin for half the game,â you retort. âNot exactly sweetheart behaviour.â
He grins against your cheek, pulling back just enough to look at you. The crowdâs still losing their minds around you, but neither of you seem to notice. His helmetâs off now, clutched in one hand, and his forehead leans against yours.
âYou came tonight,â he repeats. âThatâs all I needed.â
It hits you, then, just how many people are watching. Phones are out. A chantâs already building in the lower rowsâGojo! Gojo! Gojo!âbut he doesnât care. He kisses you again like youâre the only person in the arena.
Maybe you are.
âGod,â he says, breathless as he pulls away, âyouâve got no idea how long Iâve wanted to do that after a win.â
You smile, fingers curled loosely in his jersey.
âWell,â you whisper, tugging him closer, âguess youâve earned it.â
operation: get over your childhood crush! â gojo satoru
synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friendâwho definitely doesnât see you the way you wantâyou hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.
contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably
notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P
The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoruâs bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. Youâre both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like itâs the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.
Satoruâs Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. Youâre curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.
âYour room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,â you mumble, nose scrunching.
âThatâs because you bought it,â he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.
âBecause your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.â
âHey!â He whines. âI shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?â
You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. âRude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.â
âAh yes,â he deadpans, ânothing like artificial sugar scent.ââ
You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. Thereâs a long pause before you say, âYou know, if we fail our exams, Iâm blaming your Digimon addiction.â
He grins. âIâm raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And Iâve never failed an exam, donât wound me now!â
âThey look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.â
He gasps, clutching his heart. âTheyâre champions, you monster.â
You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.
His glasses are tilted again. Of course.
You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. âHonestly, youâd be lost without me.â
âNot true.â He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. âOkay, maybe. Iâd probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.â
You smile faintly. âAnd thereâd be no one there to patch you up.â
âTragic,â he agrees. âWould bleed out on the floor, probably.â
âYouâre so dramatic.â
âYouâre so bossy,â he counters, shooting you a sideways look.Â
âAdmit it,â he says, voice full of faux-smugness, âyouâd miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.â
You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, âDonât joke about that.â
Itâs quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.
He doesnât say anything.
You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.
But something inside you twists, the same something thatâs been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.
Another type. Thatâs not you.
âYou know,â you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure modelâs latest issues as its wallpaper. âYou could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? Itâs anti-girl repellent.â
He makes a noncommittal sound. âDoubt it.â
âI donât. Youâve got that whole genius-who-doesnât-realize-heâs-hot thing going on.â
He glances at you, skeptical. âIs that⌠a thing?â
âIt is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.â
He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. âWell, good to know I have options.â
You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.
You shouldnât ask. You really shouldnât.
But youâre lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.
So you pretend itâs a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. âHey, be honestâdo you think Iâm cute?â
He goes still.
His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think youâve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.
âNot like⌠like that,â you say quickly. âI just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls youâre into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?â
His jaw tightens.
Youâre still trying to play it off. âI mean, Iâm not fishing for compliments. I justâwas wondering. Curiosity. Science.â
He finally turns to look at you.
His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, heâs not smiling.
You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.
Then he shrugs.
ââŚNah.â
It slices through the air with quiet finality.
Your heart drops. You donât let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.
You laugh. It sounds forced.
âYeah, thatâs fair. I mean, I wasnât expecting a yes or anything.â
Heâs silent.
You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. âI should head home soon. We didnât really get any studying done, anyway.â
âItâs late. Why donât you stay the night?â
Usually, youâd accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.
âItâs fine, I have something to do anyway,â the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.
And you miss the way he watches youâguilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue.Â
You knew it was time. Ten years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.
It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.
Youâd been doomed since day one.
And to make things worse, youâd both gotten into Japanâs most competitive universityâtogether. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You werenât just stuck with him. You were haunted.
But you were young. And hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldnât keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it âsmelled like you, so why not?â
You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and todayâs topic wasâunfortunatelyâyour love life.
âHonestly, I canât believe youâve been stuck on Gojo for this long,â Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. âYou could do so much better.â
âIt was kind of cute in high school,â Shoko added âbut now itâs just sad.â
You sighed, blowing on your drink. âI know, okay? Itâs not like I havenât tried. But heâs literally the only guy Iâve ever been close to. I donât even talk to guys besides him.â
âThatâs because heâs been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,â Utahime said flatly. âI swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.â
You wrinkled your nose. âThat doesnât sound like âToruâŚâ
Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.
Utahime cleared her throat. âIt doesnât matter! What matters is you are hot. Youâve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.â
You peeked up at her, unsure. âYou really think so?â
Utahime leaned forward, smirking like sheâd just won a war. âI know so. And thatâs why Iâve come up with a plan.â
You narrowed your eyes. âA plan?â
She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. âOperation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.â
You blinked. âThatâs⌠a long title.â
Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. âItâs either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.â
You stared into your cup, sighing. âFine. Iâm in. Whatâs step one?â
Utahime grinned.
âWhatcha doing?âÂ
Gojoâs voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. Heâs far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.
You donât even glance up. âStudying.â
The two of you are supposed to be studyingâ finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like itâs second nature.
He hums, skeptical. âLiar.â
You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.
âWait,â Satoru says slowly. âAre you on a dating app?!â He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.
You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. âKeep your voice down, idiot!â
His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like youâve stabbed him. âI leave you alone for two minutes and youâre already planning a life with someone named âKeita, aspiring DJ and spiritual healerâ? Iâm wounded.â
âYou werenât supposed to read that far.â
âIâm a speed-reader,â he says with a smug grin. âItâs part of the whole âgeniusâ thing.â
Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isnât the first time heâs done something like this. He grins like heâs won a prize.
âSatoru!â
âRelax, Iâm not texting anyone,â he says, fingers flying across the screen. âJust⌠optimizing.â
Your heart drops. âWhat are you typing?â
âNothing~â
You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.
âGive it back!â
âPatience.â
âGojo Satoruââ
âOkay, okay!â he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like heâs done you a huge favor.
You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.
ââŚWhat did you do?â
âI didnât message anyone,â he assures, too innocent to be trusted. âIâm not that cruel.â
You narrow your eyes, suspicious.
âBut,â he adds with a grin, âI didnât know you were dating.â
âIâm not,â you mutter, clicking your phone off. âJust⌠considering it. Trying. Itâs not going well.â
âGood.â
The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesnât match the light tone heâs trying to play off.
You raise an eyebrow. âGood?â
He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. âI mean, itâs good youâre not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.â
You snort. âYou are a guy.â
âExactly. I know what weâre like.â
You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. âIâm sure you think youâre the exception.â
âI know I am,â he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. âIâm just⌠looking out for you.â
The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.
You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesnât help. The words come out before you can stop them.
âYou know with the way things are going⌠maybe you should just date me at this point.â
Silence.
Itâs a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.
Gojo freezes.
You panic. âI didnât meanâlike, I was just jokingââ
But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. âMaybe I should.â
You blink.
And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.
âAnyway,â he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, âYuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.â
You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.
You donât even notice what heâs done until laterâuntil you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.
Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.
You want to scream.
Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?
Yeah. Not going great.
Not at all.
You werenât sure why you agreed to it.
Maybe it was the look in Utahimeâs eyesâdetermined, dangerous, hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she wouldnât let you walk out of her apartment looking like a clown. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone elseâs eyes. Someone who wasnât Gojo Satoru.
âToday,â Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, âis the first day of your Gojo-less futureâ
You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasnât your usual styleânot the dewy makeup you werenât used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.
But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked⌠beautiful.
When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing the edge of your coat. You spotted him immediatelyâGojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.
He didnât notice you at first.
Then he looked up.
His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.
âWhaââ he said eloquently. âWhâwhat did you do.â
You blinked. âHi to you too.â
He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.
He blinked. âYou look like⌠like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with⌠I donât know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.â
You blinked.
Utahimeâs voice in your head: Youâre hot. Unstoppable. Heâs going to be speechless.
And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.
You tried to laugh. âSo I look like a cartoon?â
âA beautiful cartoon,â he said, serious now. âLike the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.â
Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.
But the moment passed.
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, âYou just⌠you look different. Thatâs all.â
Different.
Not better. Not prettier.
Just different.
You swallowed. âYeah, well. Thought Iâd try something new.â
âI didnât say it was bad,â he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.
âI should⌠use the restroom,â you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.
In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully youâ the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You werenât like those girls on the magazines.Â
What you didnât see, what you couldnât see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.
He didnât even notice.
âYou good, Satoru?â Shoko asked, walking by.
He blinked. âI think I just saw my best friend⌠and my final boss⌠and my future wife⌠all at once.â
Shoko snorted. âYouâre a dork.â
Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, âIâm so doomed.â
Itâs a mild Friday evening when you meet himâKazuya, the guy from your psychology class. Heâs polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.
Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. âA change of pace,â they called it. âYou need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.â
Exactly. That was the point.
Youâre sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.
âWell, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.â
Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enoughâ
Satoru.
In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like heâs been there the whole time.
You blink. âWhat are you doing here?â
He shrugs. âThirsty. Wanted a drink.â
âAt this cafĂŠ? On this side of campus?â
âYeah,â he says, tone innocent. âWeird coincidence, huh?â
Kazuya offers a polite smile. âYouâre her friend, right? Gojo?â
âOh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.â He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. âWhatâs your name again? Kaname?â
ââŚKazuya.â
âRight, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.â
You stare at him, incredulous. âSatoruââ
But heâs already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuyaâs arm. âOoh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.â
Kazuya blinks. âDo you⌠like developmental theory?â
âI like being correct,â Gojo says with a cheeky smile. âAlso, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him âthe Freud of toddlersâ last semester.â
Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. âReally?â
âIâI mean, yeah,â you mumble. âSort of.â
Gojo beams. âTold you.â
Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.
âSo, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?â he says, offering a gentle smile. âI thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinatingââ
âOh, riveting,â Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the cafĂŠ. âNothing like bonding over Pavlovâs dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was âpsychologically resonantâ? Real charmer, this one.â
You shoot Satoru a look. âI was twelve!â
Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. âI actually thought that was pretty moving, too.â
âWow,â Satoru deadpans. âA match made in neuroscience.â
Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. âSo, uh, any research plans after graduation?â
You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.
âShe used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.â
âIs that true?â Kazuya turns to you, amused now.
âTechnically, yes,â you mutter into your drink.
By the time your cup is empty, you realize youâve laughed more at Satoruâs interjections than you have at anything Kazuyaâs said. Not because Kazuya wasnât interestingâhe was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didnât stand a chance.
Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,
âSo⌠is Gojo your boyfriend?â
The question hangs awkwardly.
You and Satoru answer at the same time.
âNo,â you say quickly.
âYes,â he says with a smile.
You both turn to stare at each other.
âI meanâno,â he corrects, waving his hands. âJust a joke. Hah. Obviously.â
Kazuya blinks. âRight.â
You canât meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the cafĂŠ is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.
âI should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.â Itâs the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.
Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. âThanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.â He hesitates, then adds, gently, âI just think maybe youâve already got someone.â
You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. Thereâs nothing to say.
Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe thatâs just the confusion burning in your chest.
Satoruâs already waiting for you. Of course he is. Heâs leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.
He doesnât say anything right away. Neither do you.
You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. âYou didnât have to crash it, yâknow.â
âI didnât crash,â he replies without looking at you. âI was invited.â
âBy who?â
âFate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.â He shrugs.
You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.
âSo,â he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, âhowâd it go?â
You glance at him. He still wonât meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like heâs holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.
âHe was nice,â you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.
âNice is boring,â he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.
You laugh, soft and tired. âYouâre the worst.â
He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. âBut you like me anyway.â
You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.
You donât answer.
You donât have to.
Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel⌠bearable.
Almost good, even.
Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didnât. And maybe, just maybeâ his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did⌠maybe it all meant something.
You let yourself believe it, just a little.
And that was your first mistake.
It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. Youâre both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.
Youâre halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and saysâfar too casually:
âSo, guess who asked me out?â
You hum absentmindedly. âWho?â
âAyane.â
The name hits you like a slap.
You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. ââŚAyane? From the biochem track?â
âYeah,â he says, practically glowing. âYou know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.â
You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.
Sheâs beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of eleganceâlong legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.
But heâs not joking now. Heâs beaming.
âShe asked me out to dinner this Friday. Sheâs so smart, tooâI didnât even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. Itâs wild.â He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. âI thought sheâd never go for a guy like me, yâknow?â
You force a laugh. âA guy like you?â
âYeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ârefreshing.ââ He grins.Â
Your stomach sinks.
This is what you thought you wantedâfor him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.
But now that itâs happening, it feels like someoneâs slowly pulling your ribs apart.
âOh,â you manage, smiling like youâve practiced it. âThatâs great. Iâm happy for you.â
He doesnât notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.
Because it isnât just that heâs going out with someone else.
Itâs that he chose her.
Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesnât need to try. Her, with everything youâre not. And more than that, itâs that he made you believe you could have meant more to himâwhen really, heâd been searching for someone else all along.
You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.
He doesnât follow.
You donât cry until youâre halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.
For the first time in years, you donât text him goodnight.
You donât wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, âHey, genius. Sleep.â
You go silent.
And when he texts the next day, you donât reply.
You skip your library meet-up. You donât sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.
Itâs not because youâre mad. Itâs because youâre heartbroken.
And you canât keep pretending it doesnât matterâthat he doesnât matter.
You werenât just losing your best friend.
You were losing the love of your life.
And he didnât even notice.
It takes him three days to notice youâre gone.
Wellâno. Thatâs a lie.
He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesnât echo in the cafĂŠ line. When your name doesnât pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, âthis reminded me of you, idiot.â
But he tells himself youâre busy.
Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.
So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.
But then Friday comes.
And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. Sheâs telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think isâ
Youâd be making fun of me right now.
Youâd be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. Youâd be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. Youâd be⌠you.
Ayane is lovely.
But she doesnât laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.
She doesnât ask about why his glasses are always crooked (itâs so you could fix them). Doesnât tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesnât call him âSatoâ like itâs some private joke only the two of you get.
He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.
Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.
And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.
He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.
No new messages.
Just the last one you sent days ago:
âLaundry. Rain check?â
And nothing since.
He waits. Another day. Then two.
You donât show up to class again.
You donât like his latest meme.
You donât comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.
You are silent.
And Satoru Gojoâbrilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps aheadârealizes, too late, that heâs been a fool.
That he didnât just lose a study partner.
He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.
The one person he couldnât replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.
And for the first time since he was a kidâ
Heâs afraid.
Itâs been a little over a week.
A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering âtoo sweet for meâ when you really meant âI got this for you.â Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.
And Satoru is suffering.
He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (âHey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?â). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.
But you were always one step ahead.
You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (whichâouch, even though you hadnât used it seriously). You didnât even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a âyou really fumbled the bagâ look in her eyes.
Gojo Satoru is⌠just tired.
Miserable.
So when he finally finds youânot because heâs chasing you down this time, but because heâs walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first metâit knocks the wind out of him.
You donât look surprised to see him. Just... tired too.
âI figured youâd find me eventually,â you say quietly.
He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like heâs preparing for a fight.
âYouâve been avoiding me,â he says, like it isnât obvious. âWhy?â
You look away. âYouâre smart. Figure it out.â
Gojo looks down at his feet.
âI didnât know you felt that way.â
Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.
Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. âLook, I canâtâI canât take this anymore.â
You glance up.
âI canât either.â
Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like heâs been holding up the world. âThatâs good,â he breathes, stepping forward. âBecause the silent treatmentâGod, I thought I was going toââ
âI donât think we can be friends anymore.â
The words stop him cold.
âWhat?â he breathes.
You laugh, but itâs hollow. Like something already broken. âDonât you get it? I canât be friends with you and pretend that nothingâs changed. That Iâm okay just being your best friend. Iâve been in love with you for years, Satoru.â
His heart stutters. You donât stop.
âAnd I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesnât even look at me that way.â Your voice cracks, but you push through. âDo you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like youâll never be enough?â
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. âYou never even thought I was cute.â
He looks like heâs been hit.
âIâve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. IâI canât do it anymore.â
You finally meet his eyes, and thatâs when he sees it: the hurt youâve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.
And for once, Gojo Satoru canât find a single thing to say.
Not yet.
Not until he stops you from walking away.
âWhere did you get an idea like that?â His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. âI-I donât think youâre just cute, are you kidding?â he blurts, eyes wild.
âY-youâre breathtaking! Everything Iâve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playgroundâsince you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!â
Your breath catches.
He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.
âI love you! And not like a brother. LikeâI want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. Sheâd be the boss of the house.â
You gape.
âWaitââ
âIâm not done!â he says, hands thrown up. âThen weâd have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and theyâd absolutely terrorize usâbut their sister keeps them in check, sheâs fierce like you.â
You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.
âI want to move to Kyoto,â he says, softer now. âBuy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes weâll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where itâs quiet.â
You cover your mouth, stunned. âYou⌠really thought all that out?â
âItâs easy,â he breathes, âwhen all I can think about is you.â
He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesnât blink.
âI go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even thatâs ruinedâmy lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!â
A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.
âYou idiot,â you murmur.
âI am,â he nods solemnly. âIâm the worldâs biggest idiot. And Iâm in love with you.â
Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.
âIs it too late?â he asks, voice cracking slightly. âPlease tell me itâs not too late.â
You stare at himâthis man, this brilliant, ridiculous, loyal boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.
âItâs not too late,â you whisper.
He doesnât speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.
Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.
âIâve been waiting to do this for years,â he whispers.
And then, finally, he kisses you.
Itâs not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but itâs warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home. Like every unanswered question finally getting its answer.
When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. âSo⌠are we still doing the whole âOperation: Get Over Gojoâ thing, or?â
geto suguruâs guide on fraternising with the enemy
summary: geto suguru has been your greatest rival since your first year at hogwarts, always outdoing you in class and always getting under your skin. when heâs picked as the hogwarts champion for the triwizard tournament instead of you, you think you couldnât possibly hate him moreâuntil he corners you one evening and asks for your help.
⢠pairing: slytherin!geto suguru x gryffindor!fem!reader
⢠contains: romance, angst, slowburn, academic rivals to lovers au, hogwarts au, profanity, dragons, injuries, fights about blood purity, mentions of underage drinkingâplease let me know if iâve missed anything!
⢠word count: 24.2k
⢠playlist: the course of true love never did run smooth
⢠note: big big thank you to @etherealyoungk for making this gorgeous banner! thank you for reading âĄ
The only thing worse than losing to Geto Suguru is being expected to smile about it.
When the Goblet of Fire coughs out the charred piece of parchment with his name written on it, it feels as though the entire Great Hall erupts around you. Hoots of excitement ricochet off the enchanted ceiling, mingling with groans of disapprovalâchiefly from your housemates, who baulked at the audacity of a Slytherin representing Hogwarts. You, however, couldnât join in either chorus. No, you sit frozen at the Gryffindor table, lips pressed tightly together in an attempt to keep your tears at bay.
Geto Suguru stands from his place among the Slytherins, shrugging off his best friendâs arm from around his shoulders. His head turns, and somehow, through the sea of cheering faces, his gaze locks onto yours. There is something almost incendiary in his lookâsmugness molded into a smile, something defiant in the tilt of his jaw. You grind your teeth, irritated.
Suguru is now the Hogwarts Champion, elevated above the rest of you. You are nothing more than the runner-upâa title no one cares enough about to utter aloud.Â
âHard luck,â Utahime, your friend and the Head Girl, murmurs beside you, her hand light as a feather on your shoulder. Her voice is low and kind, yet utterly ineffective against the disappointment you feel. You give her a tight, forced smile, though your silence only seems to amplify her sympathy.
This wasnât how it was supposed to go. Not after years of outpouring your soul into every spell and hex you learnt, every essay you wrote, every late night spent at the library. You had scraped, clawed, and bled for this chance, and somehow, despite all your efforts, Suguru had stepped in and robbed you blind. The betting pool Shoko and Mei Mei had organised suddenly feels cruel in hindsight. Everyone had bet on either you or Suguruâno one else had even come close to being a contender.Â
Your hands tremble slightly as you push back from the bench. You barely register the names of the foreign championsâAleksandar Ivanov of Durmstrang, AmĂŠlie DuPont of Beauxbatons. You donât care. The Great Hall feels stifling, so you stand up abruptly and begin weaving your way towards the exit.Â
The cool air of the corridor hits you like a balm, soothing the heat rising in your chest. You walk with no real destination, footsteps echoing faintly against the stone walls, until you reach one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds. Moonlight spills across the landscape, painting the Forbidden Forest with silver. You lean against the cold stone ledge, and inhale deeply.
The bitterness simmering in your chest refuses to ebb. You had wanted this so badly, had poured every ounce of effort into proving you were the best, not just to Hogwarts but to yourself. But, as always, Geto Suguru had swooped in and stolen it from you.
âRunning away so soon?â
You donât turn immediately. Instead, you close your eyes and inhale slowly once more. When you finally turn, Geto Suguru stands a few feet away, leaning against the wall. His black hair is tied back neatly, save for a loose strand that falls against his cheek.Â
âI didnât realise I needed your permission to leave,â you say coolly, crossing your arms over your chest.
âItâs not as much fun winning,â Suguru says, âif my competition isnât around to see it.â
âCompetition?â You scoff. âThat implies we were on equal footing to begin with.â
His smile widens, and he takes a step closer. âYouâre not giving up that easily, are you? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave.â
You want to snap at him, say something cutting enough to wipe that stupid self-satisfied grin off his face, but the words stick in your throat. Heâs insufferable, yes, but you know thatâs exactly what he wantsâto pull a reaction from you. And Merlin help you, heâs good at it.
âWhat do you want, Suguru?â you ask, exhaustion finally seeping into your tone. âShouldnât you be celebrating with the rest of your house?â
âOf course, but like I said, itâs no fun if my favourite rival isnât around to see it.â
You bristle at his words. âFavourite rival? You were desperate to beat me, Suguru.â
âSo were you,â he points out, and it takes all your self-restraint not to do something horrifically stupid like punch him in the face. âIf Iâm desperate, it only means youâre worth the effort.â
âCongratulations, Suguru,â you say hollowly. âYouâve won the Gobletâs favour. What do you want, a parade?â
âI want your help.â Suguru steps forward, his movements unhurried, his expression calculated.
You blink. âWhat?â
âYou should be proud,â he says. âYou were a close second.â
The words sting more than you would like to admit. You narrow your eyes at him. âSpare me your pity.â
âItâs not pity,â he replies. âItâs acknowledgment. Youâre good. Maybe even better than me in some ways.â
You suck in a breath sharply, thrown off balance. This is not what you expectedânot from Geto Suguru, at least. You ask warily, âIs this some sort of tactic to get me to like you?â
Your rival chuckles wryly. âNo, but itâd be stupid to ignore the fact that youâre good. You wouldnât have been the biggest threat to my name being called otherwise.â
His admission leaves you momentarily speechless, a rare occurrence when it comes to Geto Suguru. You canât decide whether to feel insulted or flattered, so you settle for glaring at him instead. The torch light softens the planes of his face, casting a warm glow on his cheekbones and the edges of his smile. He infuriates you so much.
âHelp me,â Suguru says again.
âAre you out of your mind?â
âIâm serious,â he says, folding his arms. âYouâre as competitive as I am, and you hate losing. If anyone understands whatâs at stake in this tournament, itâs you.â
âThatâs a very pretty way of saying you want me to do your work for you,â you shoot back.
âIâm asking because I know youâre capable,â he presses on, ignoring your jab. âYou think I havenât noticed how good you are at strategising? Or how quick you are to spot weaknesses, whether itâs in a spell or a person?â
You stare at him, suspicious. Itâs not the first time someone has acknowledged your abilities, but itâs the first time heâs done it. As much as you loathe to admit it, Suguru isnât the type to hand out compliments lightly.
âYouâre insane,â you say finally, shaking your head. âYou want me to help you win the tournament I should have been chosen for?â
Suguruâs expression hardens. âI want you to push me,â he says. âTo challenge me the way only you can. And when I winâbecause I will winâitâll be as much your victory as it will be mine.â
You consider his words. A small, reckless part of youâthe part that thrives on competition, on proving yourselfâbegins to wonder what it would be like to be a part of this, even from the sidelines. To have your brilliance tied to the triumph of something bigger than either of you.
âFine,â you say, voice clipped. âBut donât think for a second that this makes us friends.â
âOf course not.â Suguruâs easy grin slips back in place. âLetâs meet at the library tomorrow after dinner. Donât be late.âÂ
You donât reply, merely walking past him and heading back into the Great Hall. Utahime is probably wondering where you vanished off to, and as much as you hate her sympathy, you donât want to worry her, Shoko and Mei Mei just because you were a sore loser.
The fireplace in the Gryffindor common room crackles with a sort of joyousness you canât be bothered to feel. Its warm glow dances across the walls, a merry flicker that feels utterly inappropriate given your current mood. The plush armchair youâve claimed for the eveningâone thatâs usually a source of comfortâis perfect for brooding. You curl into yourself like a grumpy gargoyle, letting your misery seep into the cushions.
Laughter echoes off the wallsâthe other students are busy gossiping about the Triwizard Tournament. Discussions about the champions and the potential tasks all merge into one unintelligible blur. The Triwizard Tournament is a magical contest held between the three largest wizarding schools of Europe: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Durmstrang Institute, and Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, with each school being represented by one champion, chosen by the infamous Goblet of Fire. The selected champions compete in three tasksâeach designed to test the studentâs magical ability, intelligence, and courageâand the winner gets to take home the Triwizard Cup.
The Durmstrang championâs brute strength, the Beauxbatons championâs unnatural graceâit all seems so irrelevant compared to the singular thought lodged in your mind like an annoying splinter: Geto Suguru is Hogwartsâ champion.
Youâre still seething about it. Not only has he outdone you in classes year after year, heâs now claimed the one thing you truly wanted. And then, as if that wasnât enough, the boy had the gall to corner you after dinner with a request that still makes your head spin.
You groan and bury your face in a pillow, muffling your frustration. The universe, it seems, has a cruel sense of humour.
âStill sulking, I see.â
You donât have to look up to know itâs Shoko. She has an unnatural knack for finding you at your most pitiful moments. When you peek over the pillow, you see her leaning against the back of a sofa, her robes askew and her hair half-tied.
âSulking is putting it lightly,â Mei Mei comments, her pale hair shimmering in the firelight. She takes a seat on the armrest of your chair. âIâd say this borders on full-fledged wallowing.â
You glare at both of them, hugging the pillow tighter. âGo away.â
âNo,â says Shoko, simply.
Mei Mei leans in conspiratorially, resting her chin on her hand as she observes you. âHonestly, itâs not the end of the world. So you didnât get selectedâbig fucking deal. Thereâs always nextâoh.â
âNext time?â you snap, sitting up straight. âThere isnât a next time, Mei Mei. This was the last chance.â
âExactly,â she quips with mock cheerfulness. âAll the more reason for you to savour your second-place status. Itâs a rare opportunity for someone as annoyingly competent as you.â
Before you can retort, Utahime appears, carrying a steaming cup of tea. She sets it down on the small table beside you and gives Mei Mei a pointed look. âStop tormenting her,â she says, shooing the girl off the armrest.
Mei Mei sighs dramatically but moves to the nearby sofa, lounging on it with her legs hanging off the arm. âSorry for trying to motivate her.â
âMore like antagonising her,â Utahime mutters, taking Mei Meiâs vacated spot. She turns to you, her expression softening. âAre you okay?â
âNo,â you admit. âBut I donât want to talk about it.â
âOh, for Merlinâs sake.â Shoko rolls her eyes. âItâs not like you lost to someone undeserving. Suguru is very competent. In fact, Iâd say heâs as good as you.â
âIs that supposed to be helpful, Shoko?â Utahime hisses. She pats your hand comfortingly. âIgnore them. Theyâre just jealous that they werenât even in the running.â
âJealous? Hardly,â Shoko says. âCan you imagine studying for our N.E.W.T.s while having to worry about whether weâre going to survive these godforsaken tasks?â She shudders, the thought of the end-of-year exams enough to make her lips turn downwards.
You shake your head, exasperated, but her words bring a small smile to your face. Utahimeâever the observant oneânotices, and squeezes your hand gently. âYouâll be alright. This doesnât define you. Youâre still brilliant, still one of the best witches Hogwarts has ever seen. And if Suguru doesnât see that, thenââ
âHe does,â Shoko cuts in unexpectedly. She crosses her arms, her gaze flickering over to the fireplace. âTrust me, he knows exactly how good you are. Why do you think he asked for your help?â
You gape at her. âHow didââ
âSatoru told me. He said Suguru left the Great Hall and didnât celebrate with the rest because he was busy searching for you.â
You blink. Youâd known Satoru, Suguru and Shoko had known each other since they were childrenâthey all belonged to three of the most prominent Pureblood families in the Wizarding Worldâbut you didnât think they were that close. Evidently, you were wrong.Â
But thatâs one of the main reasons youâre so desperate to prove yourself. Youâre a mere Muggleborn, a witch born to non-magical parents, and getting thrust into the magical world so quickly felt overwhelming. All of a sudden, you had an explanation for all the oddities that occurred when you were a childâteacups breaking even though you never touched them, books floating straight out of the bookshelf and into your handsâbut it was clear that in the world of witches and wizards and strange creatures youâd only ever read about, you still had to claw your way to the top.
Geto Suguru, because of his privilege as a Pureblood, having grown up witnessing magic firsthand, was already one step ahead of you.
You despise him for it.
Shokoâs reminder of Suguruâs request makes irritation bubble up inside you all over again. âItâs not fair,â you say, fingers curling into the soft material of the cushion. âHe doesnât get toâhe has no right to ask me for help after I worked so hard to get here.â
Utahime and Mei Mei stay silent, not willing to come to any conclusions, but Shokoâs gaze snaps to you, her eyes narrowing. âAre you saying Suguru doesnât work hard either?â
âNo, Iâmââ You falter, the words getting lodged in your throat under Shokoâs unwavering stare. âI needed this. I needed to prove myself.â
Utahime squeezes your hand again. âIf you really donât want to, you could always say no.â
âCan I, though?â you ask, more to yourself than anyone else. âIf I refuse, and he loses, Iâll think itâs my fault for not helping him. And if I help him, and he wins, Iâll have to live knowing I contributed to his victory.â
âIs that really so bad?â Mei Mei chimes in. âIâm not sure what exactly is going on here, but from what I can gather, it feels like Suguru is genuinely asking for your help because he thinks youâre the best person for the job.â
âListen,â Utahime says, âwhatever you decide, it doesnât change anything about how smart you are, or how strong of a competition you were to him. Youâre still one of the top students Hogwarts has ever seen, and one silly competition isnât going to change that.â
You want to rebuke her words. The Triwizard Tournament isnât just some silly competition; itâs the one way you thought you could prove that you belong in the magical world just like Suguru and Satoru and Shoko, and the rest of the Purebloods do. But Utahimeâs gaze turns imploring, and you know Mei Mei and Shokoâs patience is running thin, so you muster up a smile.
âThanks, Utahime,â you say gratefully. âIâll think about it tomorrow.â
Shoko rolls her eyes, though not unkindly, and Mei Mei flashes you a grin. âWell, if weâre all done rescuing this one from her lonely little pity party, Iâm ready to go to bed,â she says, stretching her arms above her head.
Utahime glances at you questioningly, so you tell her to go ahead and that youâll come up to the dormitory in a few minutes. Shoko stays behind. When you meet her gaze, sheâs already looking at you, brows furrowed in a small frown.
âIâm sorry you didnât get in,â she says finally, âbut donâtâdonât do something reckless or hurtful, okay?â
She turns around and strides up the staircase to the girlsâ dormitory before you can ask her what she means by that. The common room is quieter now, the excitement of the champion selection having died down. You stare at the fire still crackling, and push down the sting of rejection that still hasnât gone away completely.
Tomorrow, youâll decide. Tomorrow youâll see what exactly Geto Suguru, the newly-proclaimed Hogwarts champion, wants from you.
Geto Suguru is late.Â
Are you surprised? Of course not. If thereâs one thing he can be relied upon for, itâs his remarkable ability to waste your time. Still, knowing all this doesnât make it any less irritating, especially when he was the one who sought you out in the first place.
The library is colder than usual, the stone walls and high ceilings doing little to trap the dayâs residual warmth. You wrap your cloak tighter around yourself. At this rate, youâre starting to feel like a fool for agreeing to this. The library is otherwise deserted, as it usually is at this hour. Itâs just you and the librarian, Madam Pince, as well as a trio of Durmstrang students who have no business being here. They stare at you every now and then, huddled together. Your cheeks burn; if Suguru doesnât show up soon, youâll have wasted the evening for nothingâand youâll have the added humiliation of curious foreign students studying you like theyâve never seen another human being before.
The table before you is cluttered with blank parchment and unopened books, all untouched. The light from the sconces creates shadows that flicker and dance over them. Normally, the library is where you find peace. You can drown yourself in tomes about advanced charms or obscure potions, tuning out the noise of the castle. Tonight, however, the quietness grates on your nerves as you tap your quill against the tabletop impatiently.
The clock on the wall ticks. You glance at it for the fifth time in as many minutes, annoyed.
The doors creak open at last, and Geto Suguru finally strides in. His dark robes billow slightly as he walks. Thereâs a faint flush on his cheeks, and a stray lock of hair clings to his temple. He doesnât look the least bit apologetic.
âYouâre late,â you say, when he finally stops opposite you. You donât bother keeping the accusation out of your tone.
Suguru slides into the seat opposite you, entirely unbothered. âI had things to do.â
âLike what? Admiring your own reflection?â
âThatâs not a very nice thing to say, little lioness.â Before you can snap at him for the nickname, the Slytherin continues, âIf you must know, I was hunting for something important.â
âMore important than the meeting you asked for?â you retort, narrowing your eyes at him.
âIâd argue theyâre related,â Suguru says, and before you can press him further, he pulls out a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket and spreads it out on the table.
You lean forward, your annoyance eclipsed by curiosity. The parchment is covered in messy, scrawled notes, and the handwriting is illegible in some places, but certain words stand out: fire, movement, creature.
Frowning, you ask, âWhat is this?â
âInformation.â
âAbout?â you prompt, though you have a sinking suspicion on what it is.
âThe first task.â
You blink. It hasnât even been twenty-four hours since the champions were chosen. Geto Suguru works quickly, you must begrudgingly admit. âWhere did you get this?â
âSnuck into the Headmasterâs office and nicked it from there,â he explains. âThe Durmstrang and Beauxbatons champions already know, Iâm sure.â
You nod. Heâs right. The Triwizard Tournament is more than just a friendly competition between schoolsâitâs a way for each institution to gain power and prestige. Itâs a matter of honour and pride, and a way to showcase each schoolâs magical prowess. Thereâs no doubt that the other champions are being helped by their respective school heads.Â
âWonât they notice itâs missing?â you ask, scanning the parchment once more.
Suguru scoffs. âDo you think Iâm an amateur? I duplicated the original parchment and brought it.â
You clench your jaw, fingers tightening around your quill. The words swim before your eyes, forming a picture you donât want to see. Fire, movement, a creatureâthereâs only one possible scenario, and your stomach churns at the thought.
âDragons?â you ask, voice quieter now, tinged with unease.
âPossibly,â Suguru says. âBut it could be something else. They might want to mix things up.â
âLike what?â you press. Different creatures run through your head, each more terrifying than the last. âManticores? Chimaeras?â
âToo wild,â he muses. âTheyâd want something dangerous but controllable. Something they can contain.â
You frown, thoughts racing. âA griffin?â
âUnlikely,â your rival says, tapping his fingers on the table, âbut not impossible.â
You sit back, arms crossed. Despite all these possibilities, Suguru doesnât seem fazed. He leans back as well, mirroring your position, eyes flickering to the parchment he stole from the Headmasterâs office. How is he not afraid? Your heart rabbits at the thought. Thereâs less than a month for the first task to take place; you and Suguru will have to map out all the possible outcomes and prepare for the worst. In a way, youâre gratefulâmaking a to-do list and crossing things off it one by one is one thing you can handle. The rest is up to Suguru, now.
âIf it is dragonsâor something similarâyouâll need to prepare for fire,â you begin. âA lot of it.â
âGo on.â
âYouâll need protective charms,â you say, scribbling it down on the blank piece of parchment in front of you. âAnd something to help with visibility. Smoke can be just as dangerous as fire if you canât see what youâre doing.â
Suguru nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. âGood points. What else?â
You hesitate, studying him. For once, he seems genuinely interested in your input, not just humouring you. Itâs disconcerting, seeing him so serious, so focused. âIf itâs not dragons, or any other big creature,â you say cautiously, âthen it could be something smaller but equally dangerous. Fire crabs, maybe. Or Blast-Ended Skrewts.â
âCreatures with coordinated attacks,â he murmurs, brows furrowing slightly. âThat would be challenging.â
âAnd if itâs not a creature at all?â you add, mind spinning with possibilities. âWhat if itâs something more abstract, like a puzzle or an obstacle course involving fire?â
He considers this, shifting in his seat. âThen Iâd need to think on my feet,â he says finally.
âYou mean youâd need to rely on luck.â You scoff.
Suguruâs placid smirk returns, and you immediately regret opening your mouth. He glances at you, and says lightly, âLuck has served me well so far.â
âOverconfidence isnât a strategy, Suguru.â
âNeither is pessimism,â he counters sharply.
You bristle at the remark but bite back the retort on your tongue. Arguing with him isnât going get you anywhere, and despite your frustration, you know he needs your help. If he goes into the first task unprepared, it wonât be just his pride on the lineâitâll be Hogwartsâ, too.
You sigh, dropping your quill into your inkpot. âFine. If weâre doing this, then weâre doing it properly.â
He spreads his arms out, palms facing upwards. âThen thereâs only one thing left to do. We have to find a place to practice.â
The Room of Requirement is something of a Hogwarts myth, the kind of thing that people will bring up in conversation only to sound far more interesting than they really are. Itâs a concept shrouded in mystery, its existence neither confirmed nor denied, referenced only briefly in Hogwarts: A History as âa chamber of peculiar use, appearing only to those in great needâ.Â
For most students, the idea of a room that appears when one is in great need is nothing more than a charming storyâlike the rumours about the Bloody Baronâs long-lost treasure, or Peeves the poltergeistâs supposed alliance with the Slytherin Quidditch team.
Pacing up and down the seventh-floor corridor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet, you find yourself hopingâreluctantlyâthat this particular myth holds a grain of truth.
Mei Mei had mentioned it once, offhandedly, when discussing the lengths sheâd go to for privacy. âThe Room of Requirement,â sheâd said. âItâs the kind of place that knows what you need before you do. A bit unnerving, if you ask me.â At the time, youâd rolled your eyes and dismissed it as Mei Mei being her usual cryptic self. But now, with Suguru expecting a place where you can practice in secretâaway from prying eyes and endless questionsâyou find yourself clinging to the possibility of its existence.
You pause mid-step, glancing at the blank expanse of the stone wall. It looks as unremarkable as every other corridor in the castle. âGreat need,â you mutter to yourself, feeling a bit foolish. âRight.â
You begin pacing again, focusing on what you need. Your footsteps echo faintly in the empty hall. I need a place to practice, you think. A place where no one will interrupt. A place with enough room to practice spellwork, with everything I need.
On your third pass, something shifts. The air around you seems to hum faintly, and the smooth stone wall ripples like water stirred by some invisible hand. A door begins to materialise, the brass handle gleaming slightly in the torch light. For a moment, you just stare, half-expecting it to vanish as suddenly as it appeared. But it doesnât. It stands there, solid and tangible, as if it had been there all along and youâd just failed to notice.
Taking a deep breath, you grasp the handle and push the door open. The room that greets you is nothing short of extraordinary.Â
Itâs cavernous, the ceiling arching high above you like the vaulted nave of a cathedral. The walls are lined with shelves stocked with spellbooks, potions ingredients, and various magical artifacts. At the centre of the room, thereâs an open space with a dueling platform. You take a tentative step inside. To the side, there is a row of practice dummies, some made of rusty metal and some made of scuffed wood. The door closes softly behind you, sealing you into this impossibly perfect place.
âSweet Merlin,â you breathe out, marvelling.
You walk slowly around the room, taking it all in. The books on the shelves seem to shimmer faintly, their spines marked with titles like Defensive Charms for Advanced Duelists and The Art of Magical Adaptation. Some of the titles are ones youâve come across on your rare trips to the Restricted Section of the library, while others are entirely unfamiliar.
Still, a part of you canât shake the feeling that youâre trespassing. The room feels alive in a way the rest of the castle doesnât, as though itâs watching you, waiting to see what youâll do next.
You turn your attention to the dueling platform, running a hand over the smooth, polished wood. If Suguru has any hope of surviving the first taskâand youâre still not entirely sure why you care if he doesâthis is where youâll need to start.
The thought of working with him here, in this quiet, secretive space, stirs a complicated mix of emotions. Annoyance, of courseâheâs insufferableâbut also a grudging respect. Suguru may be arrogant, but heâs also skilled, and you canât deny the challenge of matching wits with him.
You sigh, glancing towards the door. Youâll have to tell him about the Room of Requirement soon, but for now, you allow yourself a moment of quiet triumph.
The Room of Requirement is real, and you found it.
Geto Suguru is understandably skeptical about the Room of Requirementâs existence, but words fail him when you take him to the seventh-floor corridor and show him. His incredulity crumbles into quiet awe when the door takes shape in front of you both, and you canât resist the smug grin that forms on your lips.
You push open the door, and, theatrically sweeping your arm out wide, say, âLadies first.â
âHow mature.â Suguru rolls his eyes but steps inside tentatively. His eyes widen when he scans the room, sees the bookshelves and the practice dummies and the dueling platform. A small scoff escapes his lips. âWow. I canât believe you found the Room of Requirement before me.â
âIâm sure being the Hogwarts champion means youâre always busy,â you comment, sarcasm dripping from your tone.Â
The champions arenât busyânot yet, at leastâand a lull in the excitement about the tournament was brought about chiefly by the professors assigning copious amounts of homework and essays. You have an essay on the influence of tea leaf clumping on upcoming Quidditch matches for your Divination class due tomorrow, but you canât bring yourself to care.
Suguru scowls. âForgive me for not wanting to waste my time on a wild goose chase.â
âI found the Room of Requirement, Geto. Itâs hardly a goose chase if it exists, is it?â
âTch. This was a fluke.â
âAre you going to continue debating about this roomâs existence while weâre in the damn room, or are you going to actually practice?â You sniff disdainfully, crossing your arms over your chest.
âYou want me to hex a practice dummy?â His smile returns, faint but just as mocking as ever. âHow riveting.â
âNo, actually,â you retort, your own lips curving upwards. You step onto the dueling platform and hold out your wand. âI want you to hex me.â
He falters, blinking at you owlishly. âYou want me toââ
âDonât get all worked up,â you interrupt. âItâs a practice duel, not a declaration of war.â
Suguru grins, teeth flashing in the dim light. He shrugs off his robes and leaves it in a heap on the floor. His tie is loose, and his shirt untucked, but he quickly ties his long hair up and clambers onto the platform, gripping his wand tightly. He steps back, adjusting his stance, and gestures for you to begin.
You donât hesitate. âExpelliarmus!â
He deflects the spell easily, wand slicing through the air. âProtego.â
The red flash of your spell rebounds harmlessly off the invisible shield he conjured, and before you can regain your footing, he counters with a quick Stupefy. You barely dodge it. The jet of light whizzes past your shoulder and strikes the wall behind you.
Gritting your teeth, you flick your wand and say, âIncarcerous!â
The ropes that shoot from your wand nearly catch him, but Suguru is quicker. He steps aside neatly, his wand a blur as he attacks with a Disarming Charm. âExpelliarmus!â
Your wand flies out of your grip and straight into Suguruâs waiting hand. You huff, cheeks flushed with heat and sweat beading on your forehead. Glaring at him, you gesture for him to toss it back to you. He obliges, maddeningly proud, and not a single hair out of place.
âI didnât realise Iâd be dueling someone so⌠unprepared,â he taunts.
âYou were just lucky,â you retort. You step back into position, determination to best him burning in your chest. âAgain.â
For the second round, youâre more prepared. Spells fly back and forth, crackling through the air. Suguru is fast, but youâre clever, weaving around his attacks and shooting back with different sorts of jinxes.
âConfundo!â you shout, aiming directly at his chest. Suguru deflects it with a flourish, but his stance falters for a split second. You donât waste the opportunity. âRictusempra!â The Tickling Charm hits him squarely, and he lets out an undignified yelp, doubling over with laughter.
âY-youââ Heâs laughing too hard to finish the sentence, face red and eyes watering. Clutching his side, he tries to regain control.
You lower your wand, a victorious grin spreading across your face. âWhatâs the matter, Suguru? Ticklish?â
He glares at you through his laughter. With a flick of his wand, he casts Finite incantatem, the general counter-spell for any minor jinxes or hexes, straightening up and smoothing out his shirt. âUnnecessary.â
Your smile widens. âOh, I donât know about you, but I found this particularly amusing.â
âResorting to petty jokes now, are we?â Still, you can sense the grudging respect in his tone. âNot bad, little lioness.â
âHigh praise, coming from a conniving snake,â you say, though the words lack their usual bite.
You enjoyed it, you realise. You enjoyed dueling with Geto Suguru, the one person who youâve had it out for ever since you joined Hogwarts. Flopping onto the floor and catching your breath, the thrill of the duel doesnât seem to wear off. Even Suguru fidgets with his wand, mouth set in a grim line. You tear your gaze away and stare at your own wand instead. There is something about being evenly matched with him, the way both of you anticipate each otherâs next moves, the way you dodge and attack with equal strength.
âSame time tomorrow?â Suguru breaks the silence.
You hesitate, then nod. âYeah. Same time tomorrow.â
Geto Suguruâs face is on the front page of the Daily ProphetâWizarding Britainâs newspaperâ alongside AmĂŠlie DuPont of Beauxbatons and Aleksandar Ivanov of Durmstrang. The picture moves, as all photographs in the magical world do, with AmĂŠlie in the middle, tucking a strand of her silver-blond hair behind her ear while her light blue skirt billows slightly in the wind. Aleksandar is more serious, thick eyebrows set in a frown with his burly arms crossed over his chest.
In the centre is the bane of your existence himself. His long hair is half-down and pinned back. His robes are neat and pristine, the Slytherin crest and his Prefect badge gleaming. He twirls his wand between his fingers, lips curled upwards in a lazy smirk, though his eyes are as sharp as ever. The headline underneath the picture reads:
CHAMPIONS PREPARE FOR GLORY: INSIGHT FROM THE TRIWIZARD FRONTLINES
The Great Hall is noisy during breakfast, the smell of food and the cacophony of students eliminating all other senses. Your hand tightens around your fork and you stab at your eggs aggressively. Utahime takes the newspaper and flicks it open to the page with the Championsâ interviews.
ââHogwarts Champion, Geto Suguruâ,â she begins to read aloud, ââimpresses everyone with his unparalleled spellwork and ability to stay calm under pressure.ââ
Shoko, halfway through her toast, snorts. âSounds like he wrote it himself.â
ââWhen asked about his preparation for the first taskâ,â Utahime continues, ââhe credited his regimen to âcareful planning and focused practiceâ.ââ She pauses, raising an eyebrow at you. âDoes that sound familiar?â
You refuse to rise to the bait, though your cheeks warm despite yourself. Two weeks of training in the Room of Requirementâof dodging his spells, practicing wandwork, and biting back your own irritationâhave left their mark.Â
Mei Mei, peering over Utahimeâs shoulder, comments, âOh, look. He also mentioned something about collaboration. About how it elevates oneâs abilities.â
âHow diplomatic of him,â you mutter. âHe really loves the sound of his own voice, doesnât he?â
âTalking about me again?â
You freeze, the unmistakable drawl sending a shiver of annoyance down your spine. Looking up slowly, you find Suguru himself standing opposite you, flanked by Gojo Satoru. âMorning, Gryffindors,â the latter greets cheerfully, blue eyes twinkling. Suguru, however, merely slides into the seat across from you, his dark eyes not leaving yours. You grab your goblet and take a sip of your pumpkin juice just to have something to do with your hands.
Satoru drops unceremoniously on the bench next to Shoko without invitation, snatching a piece of toast from her plate. âMerlin, itâs lively here.â
âGo away, Satoru,â his female friend replies. âGet your own toast.â
âSharing is caring.â Satoru bites into the toast with gusto.
âI hope you choke on it,â Shoko says flatly.
Utahime mumbles an apology and leaves when the Head Boy, Nanami Kento, calls her over. They have to discuss something about the first Triwizard Tournament task that will be taking place the next day. Mei Mei escapes to the bathroom, leaving the four of you sitting by the Gryffindor table. Itâs a sight in itself, really, because itâs rare for Slytherins to be mingling with Gryffindors so amicably. Yet, Shoko and Satoru remain oblivious to the stares as they continue to bicker over breakfast, while you shift uncomfortably.
Suguruâs eyes flick briefly to the half-folded Daily Prophet near your hand. âEnjoying the article?â
Your stomach twists. âI havenât read it,â you lie, glaring down at your mutilated eggs.
âShame. I was curious about what you thought.â
âDonât flatter yourself,â you snap, though the heat crawling up the back of your neck betrays you. âWhy would I waste my time reading about you?â
âYouâre awfully defensive for someone who doesnât care,â Suguru says.
âI donât care.â
Satoru leans over. âDo you think theyâll hex each other before the first task? Iâve got ten Galleons on it.â
âMake it fifteen,â Shoko says, âand Iâll lend you my wand for the counter-curse.â
You glare at both of them, but Suguruâs voice draws your attention back. âSince youâre clearly not invested,â he says, tone light but eyes determined, âany advice for tomorrow?â
You blink. Of all the things youâd expected him to ask, it hadnât been this. âDonât get yourself killed,â you say bluntly.
He huffs out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. âNoted.â
âWell, this has been fun,â says Satoru, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. âBut I think Iâve exhausted our dear Shokoâs hospitality.â He swipes her goblet and downs her pumpkin juice.
âTouch my plate again, and Iâll set your robes on fire,â Shoko warns.
With a laugh, Satoru ruffles her hair and saunters off, leaving you and Suguru alone in this tense, uncomfortable silence. âGood luck tomorrow,â you say finally, not meeting his gaze.
âThanks,â he says, quieter than usual.
When he stands up to leave, you canât help but feel a pang of unease. The first task is tomorrow, and while you would never admit it, you hope he comes out of it unscathed.
Dragons. Your hunch about the first task was right.
The cold November air is sharp as knives, cutting through the layers of your robes as you grip the railing of the stands surrounding the makeshift arena. Excitement and dread churns together in your stomach, though youâd die before admitting the latter. The stands are packed, students and professors bundled in thick scarves and gloves, all leaning forward eagerly to catch a glimpse of the champions. Amidst the black of the Hogwarts robes, there is also the pale blue of Beauxbatons and the dark red of Durmstrang. The excitement is palpable, everyone buzzing with anticipation for the first task. You find yourself crammed in between Utahime and Shoko.
You swallow hard, keeping your eyes fixed on the arena below. The dragons are corralled in an enclosure just beyond the championsâ tent, their massive silhouettes casting long shadows on the frosted ground. Even from this distance, you can hear the occasional growl and the rustle of leathery wings.
âDragons,â Utahime mutters, rubbing her gloved palms together worriedly. âHow can they call this a school competition and then throw dragons at the students?â
âTheyâve done it before,â Shoko drawls lazily, though her sharp eyes betray her worry. Satoru stands next to her, arms crossed over his chest and lips pressed into a grim line. You shiver; itâs bad enough that Shoko is worried, but seeing the normally cheerful Satoru so serious makes you anxious. âAt least theyâre not asking them to fight them barehanded,â she continues. âThat would be more fun.â
You donât contribute to their conversation. Your gaze moves to the championsâ tent, barely visible through the enchanted mist that swirls over the field. Suguru is in there. You wonder how heâs preparing himselfâheâs facing one of the most dangerous magical creatures alive, after all. The thought makes worry pool in your stomach.
From somewhere below, a voice booms across the field, magically amplified to reach every corner of the grounds. âWitches and wizards, welcome to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament!â
The crowd erupts into cheers. Utahime wrings her hands beside you, and the most you can manage is a weak clap.
âThe task,â the announcer continues, âis as daring as it is dangerous. Each champion must retrieve a ring from the heart of the arena. But guarding the rings are some of the fiercest magical creatures aliveâdragons!â
A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by excited whispers. Utahime lets out a low groan. âThey canât be serious. This isnât a tournamentâitâs a death wish.â
Shoko shrugs. âTheyâll be fine. Mostly. The Ministry of Magic wouldnât let them die. Probably. They could get horribly maimed or injured, though.â
âReassuring,â you mutter. Youâve been pretending to be indifferent for ages, but the truth is, youâre terrified for Suguru.
The announcerâs voice booms again. âOur champions will face their dragons one by one, drawn randomly to determine the order. The task is not merely about bravery, but also ingenuity, strategy, and magical skill. The ring holds a crucial clue to the next taskâso it is imperative that they succeed!â
Your hands are numb against the railing, but youâre not sure if itâs because of the cold or because of something else entirely. The first task is madnessâcomplete and utter madness. And yet, as the announcerâs voice booms again, calling out Suguruâs name, something in your chest curdles with a chill far worse than the cold.
âFirst, Geto Suguru, representing Hogwarts, will face the Hungarian Horntail!â
The sound is deafening. Cheers erupt from every corner of the stands, the Hogwarts students roaring loudest of all. Even the Slytherins, with their restrained, cold demeanourâthe exception being Satoru, of courseâcannot contain their pride.Â
Geto Suguru steps into the arena, holding his wand loosely in one hand with the other tucked into the folds of his robes. His long hair is swept up into a tight knot. You canât hear him over the noise, but you swear you see him mutter something under his breath.
The Hungarian Horntail is enormous. Even from a distance, its obsidian scales glint ominously, and its massive, bat-like wings shift restlessly as its amber eyes lock onto Suguru. The ring lies just beyond the dragon, perched atop a precarious pile of boulders. It gleams like a star, a tiny thing thatâs almost not worth the effort, you think. But of course, Suguru is just like you, and pride comes before anything else. Youâre sure heâs already thought of a dozen different ways to get past the beastâbecause itâs something you would do, as well.
The Horntail snorts, sending a plume of smoke spiraling into the air. The arena is silent now. Suguru takes his first step towards the dragon.
âIs he insane?â Utahime whispers, voice trembling. âDoes he not see the size of that thing?â
âHe does.â Itâs Satoruâs first proper sentence this morning, and the assurance with which he says it alleviates some of your worryâthough not by much. âHeâs Suguru. He always knows exactly what heâs doing.â
You remain silent, not taking your eyes off him. He moves slowly, with the kind of deliberacy that makes it clear heâs prepared. No step is wasted, no motion is hurried. Heâs in controlâor at least, thatâs what he wants everyone to think.
âConfringo!â The spell erupts from his wand, creating a fiery blast that hits the ground near the dragonâs massive claws. The Horntail snarls, tail lashing out and gouging deep scars into the earth. The Blasting Curse he used isnât meant to hurtâitâs meant to provoke.
Suguru casts another spell, this time to conjure a dazzling array of shifting, flickering lights. The dragonâs attention is drawn to the display; it tilts his head and looks up, mesmerised. You clench your jaw. Itâs a bold move, because dragons are intelligent, but their curiosity is a double-edged sword.
âHeâs trying to confuse it,â Utahime murmurs, clutching the ends of her scarf. âThatâs risky.â
Risky is an understatement, you think. Suguru doesnât stop. He moves his wand, pointing it low, and you see him mouth a spellâGlacius. The ground beneath the dragon becomes a slick sheet of ice. The Horntailâs claws scrape against the surface, wings flaring out as it tries to balance itself.
But it recovers quicklyâtoo quickly. With a guttural roar, the beast lunges towards him, jaws snapping. Your heart thuds in your chest, but Suguru dives out of the way and smacks hard into a large rock. He slumps against it, chest heaving with heavy breaths. You hear Utahime and Shoko gasp beside you, but itâs drowned out by the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears.
Get up, you want to say. Get up and get that bloody ring, Geto. Itâs sillyâof course he canât hear youâbut thereâs a gash on his arm, and his robes have darkened with blood, and it feels like if you somehow think it, Suguru will make it happen. Itâs a flimsy mindset, but youâll take whatever shreds of comfort you can get.
The dragon charges towards him, nostrils flaring and eyes gleaming. Suguru scrambles to his feet, the ends of his robes frayed and face streaked with dirt. He lifts his wand and casts a Protego maxima, a shimmering shield that briefly halts the dragonâs fiery breath. The shield holds for just a moment, but itâs enough time for Suguru to reposition himself, his eyes darting towards the ring.Â
âCome on,â you say under your breath, fingers tightening around the railing.Â
âLumos maxima!â
A burst of brilliant, blinding light shoots out of his wand, illuminating the arena. You let loose an exhale; heâs clearly learnt from the dragonâs reaction to light earlier. Itâs a good strategy, you will admit. The Horntail lets out a snarl, massive eyes narrowing against the glare. It thrashes, swinging its tail wildly, but Suguru has already limped away.Â
The dragonâs claws gouge into the earth once more, its bat-like wings flapping violently as it tries to shake off the distraction. Suguru uses the brief opening to dart closer, his focus entirely on the ring. His wand moves in a tight arc, and the light shifts into a pulsating sphere, hovering just beyond the Hungarian Horntailâs reach. It works. The orb of light draws the dragonâs attention away from Suguru.
âHeâs using it as a decoy,â Shoko says, leaning forward.
âSmart move,â Satoru chimes in, hushed.Â
His blue eyes glitter knowingly at you, though, and you turn away, feeling your cheeks heat up. Suguru must have told him about all the research you did about dragons and their different breeds, and how theyâre not so different from catsâif you take out the fire-breath and the wings and the long tail, or the fact that they could eat a human alive in a heartbeat.
Suguru raises his wand again, muttering an incantation. A shimmering net of magical energy bursts forth, wrapping around the dragonâs front claws. The Horntail roarsâbut its movements are hindered enough to give him the opening he needs.
The ring glints in the faint sunlight, and with a quick Summoning CharmâAccioâit soars straight through the air to him.
The Horntail senses it immediately. With a furious roar, it pounces, its massive jaws snapping shut mere inches from Suguruâs outstretched hand. But Suguru is faster. With a final, desperate leap, he snatches the ring out of the air, landing hard on the frost-dusted ground. He rolls to his feet, the ring clutched tightly in his fist, and sprints towards the edge of the arena.
The Horntail thrashes behind him, but itâs too late. The magical barrier seals shut just as Suguru crosses the threshold. The dragon lets out a frustrated roar that echoes through the stands. The crowd erupts into cheers, the noise ringing in your ears. Hogwarts banners wave wildly in the air, and Satoru and Shoko let out a series of loud hoots, while you simply sigh, relieved.
âHe did it,â Utahime breathes out.
âOf course he did.â Shoko beams proudly.
You donât say anything. Your heart is still racing, your chest still tight. He did it. He passed the first Triwizard task.
Suguru hobbles past the stands, dark eyes scanning the crowd, one hand pressed to where the gash on his arm is. You curse yourself for feeling irrationalâfor wanting him to look at you. He does. His gaze lands on you, and he pauses for the shortest of moments. The corner of his mouth curls upwards in a small half-smile, and then heâs gone, disappearing into the tent where the champions will be tended to.
âHe couldâve died,â Utahime mutters, shaking her head as the next champion is announced.
You glance back toward the arena, frosted fingers loosening their grip on the railing. The first task is over, but the dread in your stomach doesnât subside. The dragons may be gone, but the Triwizard Tournament is far from over.Â
The Room of Requirement glows faintly in the dim light of the lanterns it conjured up, their golden halos casting long, flickering shadows over the stacks of books and piles of scrolls you and Suguru pulled out of the bookshelves lining the walls. You sit cross-legged on a soft, velvet cushion on the floor. Suguru paces in front of you, the soles of his boots soft against the tile.
The ring, when Suguru gives it to you, is warm to the touch and made out of the same gold the wizarding world uses to shape Galleons out of. A part of the ring is flattened into a signet, engraved onto which are a collection of dots. They look like pockmarks on an otherwise smooth surface. You rub your thumb over them curiously.
âLook inside,â Suguru says. He picks at the ends of the bandage wrapped around his arm, restless and jittery. âThereâs something written on the inside of the ring.â
Turning the ring over in your palm, you bring it close to your eyes and squint. The words are tiny, and, for all intents and purposes, make no sense to you whatsoever. The ringâs golden surface glints, the engraving on the signet catching the shifting light. You roll it between your fingers, the faint warmth oddly soothing, though Suguruâs squirrely pacing sets your nerves on edge.
âWould you stop fidgeting?â you snap, squinting at the letters once again. âItâs hard enough to focus without you stomping around like a restless Hippogriff.â
âIâm thinking,â Suguru retorts, though he halts mid-step and folds his arms across his chest. âUnlike you, whoâs just staring at the thing as if itâll start talking.â
âIt might!â you fire back. âItâs magical, isnât it? Who knows what sort of enchantments itâs got?â
âItâs a ring, not a bloody Howler. Let me see it again.â
Reluctantly, you pass it over, careful not to touch his injured hand. His fingers brush against yours anyway, and the warmth lingers annoyingly on your skin. Suguru holds the ring up to the lantern light, tilting it to study the dots engraved on the signet.Â
âThese dots look like theyâre arranged deliberately,â he murmurs, tracing the marks. âTheyâre not random.â
âWell, obviously.â You roll your eyes. âThe question is, what do they mean?â
He ignores you, dark eyes narrowing as he turns the ring over and studies the inscription. ââEgo sum principium mundi et finis saeculorumâ,â he reads aloud, the Latin rolling maddeningly smoothly off his tongue. âIt sounds ominous.â
âIt means something,â you say, leaning forward to snatch a book off the pile in front of you. Itâs a dusty tome with Enigmatic Latin Phrases emblazoned on the cover, though you have a sinking suspicion itâs going to be less helpful than you hoped. âIt has to. Why else would it be engraved on a magical artifact?â
Suguru plops down onto the cushion opposite you, sweeping away a bunch of scrolls. He places the ring on the ground in between you both. âIf itâs a clue for the next task, then it has to be related to the Triwizard Tournament somehow. Something symbolic, maybe?â
âBrilliant deduction,â you deadpan, flipping through the pages of the book. âDidnât realise you were such a scholar.â
âAnd I didnât realise you were such a comedian,â he drawls. âLetâs focus. What do you think it means? The phraseââI am the beginning of the world and the end of agesâ. What does that sound like to you?â
You blink at him. âHow did you translate that?â
âStudied Latin and French when I was kid,â he says smugly, in a manner that makes you want to deck him. Wonderful. Another aspect in which Suguru is already one step ahead of you, you think bitterly. âBut thatâs not the point,â he continues. âWhat do you think it could refer to?â
You look down, tapping your quill against the edge of the book. âIt could be a reference to time,â you muse aloud. âThe beginning and end⌠It's cyclical. Like a clock, or a calendar, maybe?â
âOr a journey,â Suguru adds, tilting his head. âSomething that starts and ends with the same person. The champions?â
âPossibly. But it could also be something more abstractâlike fear. Everyoneâs afraid of something; itâs universal. The start and end of every challenge.â
Suguru picks up the ring again, running his thumb over the dots. âAnd this?â he says, gesturing to the engraving. âWhat if itâs pointing us somewhere? A location, maybe? Or a specific kind of task?â
You frown and lean closer. âThe arrangement of the dots,â you say slowly, âlooks⌠familiar. Like a pattern.â
âLike a constellation,â Suguru supplies. âYouâre right. Itâs got to be one.â
The conclusion settles over you both, but it doesnât offer much clarity. You chew on the inside of your cheek, considering. âIf itâs a constellation, then itâs symbolic, right? They all have stories tied to themâmyths, legends.â
âYeah, but which one?â Frustration creeps into his voice. âThese dots could be anything. Thereâs no clear shape.â
âIt could be something obscure,â you suggest. âMaybe even something specific to the wizarding world. I think weâll have to make a trip to the Astronomy Tower some time soon, though.â
âGreat,â says Suguru flatly. âSo weâre supposed to decipher a constellation in a shape Iâve never seen and an inscription that sounds like it was prophesied by a second-rate Seer.â
âBetter than wandering blindly into the second task. Though, knowing you, youâd probably manage to make it out alive. Cockroaches always do.â
He scowls, but his lips twitch upwards by the slightest. âAnd here I thought we were having a moment.â
âWe werenât,â you say immediately. The back of your neck prickles with heat.
Suguru rolls his eyes, though not with malice. He stretches his arms over his head. The action causes his shirt to ride up slightly; you avert your gaze quickly. âIâm starving.â
âWhat?â
âIâm hungry,â he repeats, standing up. âAll this thinking has drained me. Fancy a trip to the kitchens?â
âItâs nearly midnight,â you point outâbut your stomach growls faintly in agreement. âAnd Iâm not sneaking around the castle because you canât stop eating.â
âSuit yourself,â he says with a shrug, heading towards the door. âI bet the house-elves have made ĂŠclairs for tomorrowâs dinner.â
Well. Youâve always been weak to chocolate. Muttering a curse under your breath, you scramble to your feet and find yourself following him, the ring warm inside your pocket.
The Hogwarts kitchens are a marvel, a hidden oasis of warmth nestled beneath the castleâs chilly stone walls. Suguru finds the painting of a fruit bowl by the Hufflepuff common room, and tickles the pear. It lets out a loud giggleâyou cringe, hoping Filch, the caretaker, and his evil pet cat, Mrs. Norris, are nowhere around. The pear transforms into a shiny brass door handle, and the moment the painting swings open, youâre met with a rush of buttery heat and the mingling aromas of chocolate, caramel, and freshly baked bread.
The kitchens are bustling with movement. House-elves dart about with a speed and efficiency that puts magic itself to shame. Pots clatter, ovens hum, and enchanted trays of golden pastries glide through the air.Â
A small, wiry house-elf with parchment-like skin and eyes like twin garnets appears in a puff of flour and indignation, his thin arms folded over his chest. A neatly pressed tea towel with the Hogwarts crest embroidered on it covers his tiny body.
âYoung master should not be here!â the elf scolds. âIt is forbidden to disturb the kitchens so late at night!â
âGood evening to you too, Sukuna,â Suguru says smoothly, brushing past the house-elf and into the kitchen. He inspects a nearby tray of ĂŠclairs, plucking one up and sniffing it appreciatively.
Sukunaâs bat-like ears quiver, his expression contorting between outrage and resignation. âMaster Geto always does this. Always sneaking in like a naughty student. Not even a little bit nice and polite like the young Hufflepuff miss who always comes to say hello.â
âThatâs because I am a naughty student,â Suguru says cheerfully, winking raunchily at you; you huff and roll your eyes. He sinks his teeth into the ĂŠclair with a pleased hum. âAnd you, Sukuna, are a saint for indulging me.â
The elf huffs, though his cheeks flush slightly at the praise. His gaze shifts to you, eyes narrowing slightly. âAnd this one? Is this young miss also here to pilfer desserts?â
âIâ what? No!â you sputter, though your stomach growls traitorously at the scent of chocolate and cream wafting from the ĂŠclairs.Â
Suguru leans against the counter, lips tugged up in a smirk as he regards you. âDonât be shy,â he says, gesturing towards the tray. âSukuna wonât bite. Probably.â
âOnly if asked nicely,â Sukuna mutters darkly, but he waves a hand, and another tray of ĂŠclairs floats down onto the counter as though by invitation.
Despite yourself, you reach for one. The pastry is warm, its golden shell yielding easily beneath your fingers. When you bite into it, the rich, velvety chocolate spills over your tongue deliciously.
âGood, isnât it?â asks Suguru.
You hate that heâs right. âItâs passable,â you say, lifting your chin imperiously.
He barks out a laugh, brushing crumbs off his trousers. âSure it is. Thatâs why youâre reaching for another one already.â
You glance down and curse under your breath. Grumbling, you take another bite of your ĂŠclair, determined to ignore the victorious glint in his eyes. Sukuna, meanwhile, seems torn between chastising you both and taking pride in your obvious enjoyment. In the end, he settles for clicking his tongue and vanishing to attend to an overflowing cauldron of treacle in the corner. The kitchen falls into companionable quiet, broken only by the distant clatter of utensils and the murmur of house-elves bustling about.
âSo,â you say finally, licking a smear of chocolate off your thumb, âare ĂŠclairs your usual midnight snack, or is this just an excuse to avoid figuring out the second task?â
Suguru raises an eyebrow, feigning offense. âIâll have you know Iâm perfectly capable of eating and thinking at the same time.â
âYouâre more a connoisseur of distractions. Very good at distracting yourself,â you say, without any real bite in your voice.
âDistractions are necessary,â he says lightly, gaze steady on your face. âSometimes, stepping back helps you see things more clearly.â
You chew on that for a moment. âFine. Iâll admit you have a point there. But the second task does seem to be rather interesting, donât you think?â
He grins, teeth flashing in the light. âIâd be disappointed if you didnât think so.â
You roll your eyes, but a small part of you warms at the compliment. Across the room, Sukuna reappears with a teapot and two mismatched cups. He sets them down with a flourish.
âIf young master and young miss insist on loitering, at least have tea,â the elf says, somehow managing to sound both fond and exasperated at the same time.
Suguru raises his half-eaten dessert in a mock toast. âTo Sukuna, the real hero of the Triwizard Tournament.â
The house-elf grumbles something unintelligible, though you catch the faintest beginnings of a smile before he disappears again.Â
âAre you always this insufferable?â you ask.
Suguru smirks, taking a small sip of tea. âOnly with people who make it fun.â
You shake your head, biting back a smile of your own. For all his arrogance and sharp edges, there is something oddly disarming about Suguru like thisâunguarded, his cutting wit tempered by the soft glow of the kitchen lights. The two of you sit in silence for a while, finishing off the tea and ĂŠclairs. The warmth of the kitchen seeps into your bones, making you feel drowsy and comfortable. Your eyelids feel heavy, and you wrap your arms around yourself.
âAlright,â Suguru says finally, setting his cup down with a clink. âDonât fall asleep on me, little lioness.â
ââm not falling asleep,â you mutter sleepily.
âI think weâre done for the day,â he says. âIâll walk you back to the Gryffindor Tower.â
âI can walk back on my own.â
Suguru sighs, not unkindly. âI know.â
The Yule Ball is one of the highlights of the Triwizard Tournamentâa night where students get the opportunity to dress up and dance, and indulge in the sort of revelries Hogwarts is usually so strict about. Utahime is convinced that some students will find a way to smuggle in Firewhiskeyâwizarding alcoholâand is currently stressing out over how to regulate the intake of beverages of the students over a plate of hash browns and scrambled eggs.Â
Nanami Kento, the Head Boy, is trying to diffuse a Situation thatâs taking place at the Slytherin table. Some poor Hufflepuff girl (the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, you later recognise) had the balls to ask out Fushiguro Toji, notorious womaniser and blood purity freak, as her date for the Yule Ball. You nearly drop your cutlery when he calls her a Mudbloodâa slur meant for people like you, born to Muggle parents. Gritting your teeth angrily, you glare at the back of Fushiguro Tojiâs head. What a nasty, vile excuse for a man.
The Situation is diffused when the girl passes out, a ball of yellow fabric clutched tightly in her hands. You have to give it to her; it takes serious guts to publicly ask out someone, though you wonder what sort of curse possessed her to ask Fushiguro, of all people.
âAbsolute menace,â you mutter under your breath, stabbing your scrambled eggs with unnecessary force.
Mei Mei turns a page of Witch Weekly with a sigh. âHonestly, these pureblood types are so predictable. Such flair for cruelty, yet so unoriginal.â
âYouâd think heâd at least come up with a creative insult,â Shoko adds dryly, her teacup balancing precariously on her saucer.
âMissed me, ladies?â Satoru, perpetually grinning like a Cheshire cat, plops himself onto the bench opposite you. His white-blond hair gleams under the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, and his tinted glasses perch at the end of his nose in a way that makes him look both ridiculous and infuriatingly charming.
Shokoâs reply is swift. âNot particularly.â
Mei Mei grunts out a greeting, and you merely smile politely at him. Utahime, still fretting over the logistics of conducting the Yule Ball, slides out of her seat in a hurry and mumbles something about finding Nanami so they can discuss things properly.Â
âYou wound me, Shoko,â Satoru says, clutching his chest theatrically. âAnyway, Iâve got a pressing matter to discuss.â
âDoes it involve you somehow setting fire to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom again?â Mei Mei asks, not looking up from her magazine.
âThat was one time,â Gojo replies, feigning outrage. âNo, this is much more important. The Yule Ball. Whoâs asking who? Gossip is flying around faster than a Nimbus 2000.â
Of course, wherever Gojo Satoru goes, Geto Suguru is bound to follow. He approaches your little group, dark hair tied back neatly, expression as composed as ever. He slides onto the bench beside you with a nod of thanks to Mei Mei, who moved her plate of toast to accommodate him.
âTalking about the Yule Ball, I presume?â Suguru asks, reaching for a slice of buttered bread.
âOf course we are,â Satoru says, leaning forward conspiratorially. âItâs the event of the year, Suguru. Surely someoneâs asked you by now.â
Your fork pauses in mid-air. For some reason, you find yourself wanting to know the answer.
Suguruâs lips quirk upwards, the ghost of a smirk. âAs a matter of fact, someone has.â
The table collectively turns to him. Shoko raises a curious brow. Even Mei Mei closes her magazine in favour of staring at Geto Suguru like heâs just sprouted a pair of antlers on his head.
âDetails,â Satoru demands, grinning wide.
âSheâs from Beauxbatons,â Suguru says. âAsked me yesterday afternoon. I said yes.â
A sharp pang blooms in your chest, prickly and unwelcome. You drop your gaze to your plate, pressing your lips together and willing yourself not to react. It doesnât matter. You donât care. Suguru could go with whoever he wanted. He isnât your friend, and he certainly isnâtâno. Absolutely not.
âLeave it to you to snag a Beauxbatons girl,â Mei Mei comments. âThey always go for the broody ones.â
Gojo snorts. âBroody? Suguruâs about as broody as a cauldron full of kittens.â
âAre we done analysing my date?â Suguru asks.
âNot even close,â Satoru says, but his attention soon shifts to Shoko attempting to balance her goblet of water on her saucer as well. Mei Mei picks up her copy of Witch Weekly once more and flips through the glossy pages.
You pick at your food, your knife scraping against your plate. The thought of Suguru dancing with some elegant Beauxbatons girlâsomeone undoubtedly beautiful and graceful and more poised than you could ever beâmakes your stomach churn unpleasantly. The image of them laughing together, her delicate hand resting on his shoulder while his wraps around her waist, is as vivid as if it had been etched into your mind.
âYouâre quiet,â Suguru murmurs, soft enough that the others canât catch it.
âJust tired,â you lie, not meeting his gaze.
He doesnât push further, but you feel his eyes linger on you for a moment longer before he returns to nibbling at his toast.
Shoving aside the annoying ache of jealousy, you straighten in your seat and force a pleasant expression on your face. Fine. If Suguru had a date, then so would you. Someone handsome. Someone confident. Someone who would make him think twice before flashing his perfectly polite little smile at you and your date.
âYou know,â you begin, loud enough to draw the attention of your friends, âI think Iâll ask one of the Durmstrang boys.â
âOh?â Shoko says, interest clearly piqued. âGot anyone in mind?â
âNot yet,â you admit, grabbing your goblet and swirling your pumpkin juice absentmindedly. âBut thereâs bound to be someone suitable. Theyâve got that rugged, intimidating thing going on.â
Satoru bursts into laughter, nearly knocking over a plate of sausages. âMerlin help whatever poor bloke youâve set your eyes on.â
You scowl. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âOnly that youâre not exactly the type of person to swoon over a man thatâsâwhat did you say it was?ârugged and intimidating.â
âWell, weâll see,â you say, lifting your chin defiantly. âMaybe Iâll surprise you all.â
With that, you turn back to your half-finished breakfast, and Satoru launches into a dramatic recounting of his supposed rejection by a RavenclawââHer loss, reallyââand you donât look at Suguru at all. Still, as the meal ends the Great Hall empties, your resolve falters. You canât help but glance at Suguru one last time. Heâs listening to something Satoru is saying, lips curving upwards in a smile.
The pang returns, sharp and insistentâbut you ignore it. After all, there are plenty of Durmstrang boys to choose from. Surely one of them would do just fine.
There are many ways to get yourself a date for the Yule Ball. Youâve watched it happen over the last week: dramatic declarations of affection in the Great Hall, quiet notes slipped between textbooks, bashful confessions in various corners of the castle. But this? This is different.Â
This is not the ideal method of asking someone out. Borderline stalking the Durmstrang champion because you saw him trudge through the snow towards the Black Lakeâwhere the Durmstrang ship is dockedâfrom the window of the Gryffindor common room is hardly what anybody would call dignified. Yet, here you are, braving the sharp, icy wind, and the crunch of snow underfoot, determined to follow through with your ill-conceived plan.
Your goal is straightforward, or so you tell yourself. Aleksandar Ivanov is a handsome man, someone impossible to ignore. His broad shoulders are draped in a thick, fur-lined coat that seems to defy the chill of Scottish winters, and his sleek, dark hair catches the fading light of the afternoon. He looks like something out of an old wizarding tale, that sort of unrealistic hero who was carved out of marble and brought to life.
Aleksandar Ivanov is not your type at all.Â
No, this has nothing to do with the hulking Bulgarian himself, and everything to do with Geto Suguru.
You hate the way you felt when Suguru mentioned his date. You hate that the image of him dancing with someone elseâthat faceless girl draped in blue satinâfeels like a thorn lodged deep in your chest. Most of all, you hate that you care. So, youâve decided on a solution: The bold, handsome Durmstrang champion on your arm at the Yule Ball. Thatâll show him.
Aleksandarâs strides are long, the dark fur of his coat fluttering slightly in the breeze. Heâs alone, his hands tucked into his pockets. You can see the faint outline of the Durmstrang ship in the distance, its masts swaying gently as the lake ripples against the hull. The sight fills you with a sudden sense of urgency. If you donât catch him now, youâll lose your chance.
âExcuse me!â you call out, your voice carrying over the air. Aleksandar slows, then turns, his piercing green eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, you feel rooted to the spot, your carefully rehearsed words scattering like leaves to the wind.
âYes?â he says. Thereâs a faint accent to his voice.
You force yourself to take a step closer, and then another, until youâre standing just a few feet away. âGood evening,â you say, forcing a smile. âAleksandar, isnât it?â
âIt is,â he says, the corner of his mouth twitching, though it doesnât become a full smile. âAnd you are?â
You hesitate. Your name feels oddly small when you say it. The cold nips at your cheeks, and you resist the urge to shove your mittened hands into the pockets of your jacket.
âWell, then,â Aleksandar says, tilting his head slightly. âWhat can I do for you?â
âIâŚâ You clear your throat, cursing the way your voice wavers. âI was wondering if youâd like to go to the Yule Ball with me.â
Aleksandarâs expression doesnât change, but something flickers in his eyesâamusement, maybe, or curiosity. He takes a step closer, and you resist the urge to back away. âInteresting,â he says at last, drawing the word out. âYou do know youâre not the first person to ask me to the Yule Ball, yes? Youâre very beautiful, but why, exactly, would you want to go with me?â
Your cheeks flush with the heat at the sudden compliment, but your prepared responsesâsomething about his reputation, his charm, his skill in the Tournamentâsuddenly feel hollow. You canât tell him the truth, either, that this is about someone else. So you scramble for a suitable response.
âWell, youâre the Durmstrang champion,â you say, aiming for nonchalance but landing somewhere closer to desperation. âIt seemed fitting.â
Aleksandar raises an eyebrow. âFitting? Is that all?â
âYes,â you lie, though your voice lacks conviction.
For a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant lapping of the lakeâs waves against the shore. Then, to your surprise, Aleksandar smilesânot the cool, detached smirk you were expecting while he brutally rejects you, but something warmer, almost amused.
âVery well,â he agrees, his voice carrying a hint of humour. âIâll be your date.â
âReally?â The word escapes before you can stop it, and you cringe at how eager you sound.
Aleksandarâs smile widens. âYes, really. Though I must admit, I am curious about your true intentions.â
âMy intentions?â you repeat, trying your best not to sound sheepish. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou see,â he says, âmy intentions with you are rather simple. Word travels fast around the castle, and I know you were the closest person to best the Hogwarts champion in claiming the title. Besides the fact that you are very pretty, I think it will also make my competitor waver a little, no?â
You bite your tongue. Heâs right. Aleksandar Ivanov is more than just a pretty face and brute strength. Heâs also cunning and intelligent. Youâre certain he would be a Slytherin if he attended Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang Institute.
âAnd you,â he continues. âYou donât strike me as the type of person to make bold declarations for the sake of tradition. There is something else, isnât there?â
The same thing as you, Ivanov. I want to see the Hogwarts champion waver, you think. Instead, you stiffen, and say, âThereâs nothing.â
âHm.â Aleksandar doesnât look convinced, but he doesnât press the issue. âWell, whatever your reasons, I look forward to the Ball. I trust youâll make for an⌠interesting evening.â
You nod, too flustered to do anything else. âOf course.â
âLetâs match,â he says. âWhat are the colours of your⌠house, as they call it?â
âScarlet and gold.â
âWear a red dress. Until then, dovizhdane.â Aleksandar turns back towards the ship.
You blink, but manage a stiff nod before walking away. Youâve done it. Youâve secured a date for the Yule Ball. But why, despite everything, do you still wish it was Suguru youâd be meeting on the dance floor?
âLupus,â you read aloud, from the book Celestial Phenomena And Their Meanings placed on your lap, âis a constellation that is associated with wolves in Greek and Roman mythology. The stars that now form the constellation Lupus used to be part of the Centaurus constellation. They represented a sacrificed animal impaled by the centaur, which was holding it toward the constellation Ara, or the altar.â
Suguru rolls the ring around in his palm, chin propped on his other hand, sitting cross-legged across from you. âInteresting,â he muses. âAnything else?â
The signet catches the light of the Room of Requirement, glinting golden. It wasnât hard to map out the dots to pictures of constellations and figure out which of the star-clusters was engraved on the ring. The harder part, now, is trying to piece together what it could possibly mean, and how it is related to the Latin inscription on the inside of the ring.
You clear your throat and say, âIt says itâs also connected to the founding of Rome and the story of Orpheus.â
He straightens up at that, dragging a hand through his hair. Heâs left it loose for the evening, and it spills over his shoulders, long and soft. Your hand itches to smoothen out the top of his scalp, but you bite back the urge and internally scold yourself for being an irrational mess around him.Â
âCan I have the book?âÂ
You wordlessly pass it to him, leaning back on your arms and stretching your legs out in front of you. The velvet cushion is downy to the touch, and warm under your fingertips. An enchanted fire crackles in the corner, preventing the chill from outside from creeping in.
âIt could also represent King Lycaon of Arcadia, who was turned into a wolf by Zeus,â he reads, eyes roaming over the page curiously.
âThe question is,â you press, âwhat does all this mean? Lupusâwolves in general, reallyâhave always been associated with survival, but the myth says it was a sacrificial animal caught by the Centaur. What does that mean? How does this connect to the inscription inside the ring?â
Ego sum principium mundi et finis saeculorum. I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages.
âSome great sacrifice, perhaps?â Suguruâs brows furrow in that way they always do, pinched together when heâs thinking hard about something. âBut what would we sacrifice?â
âThe answer to the riddle?â you suggest.
âWhich is, what, exactly?â
You grimace. âIâve no clue. It could be anything.â
He hums, fingers tracing the signet of the ring. âI wonder,â he murmurs, âif this is a test of more than just knowledge. The Headmasterâs riddles are rarely based on facts alone. He likes to see whatâs in people, not just what they know.â
âA moral riddle, then?â You raise your eyebrows, shifting slightly on the cushion. Leaning forward, you peer at the ring once more. The Latin inscription glints faintly, almost as if itâs daring you to unravel its secret. âIt could be literal. A physical sacrifice. Orââ You pause, chewing your lip. âOr it could be metaphorical. Something symbolic. The myths about wolves and sacrifices arenât just about death. Theyâre about transformation. Survival. Endings and beginnings.â
âHm.â Suguru tilts his head, his dark hair shifting with the movement. His gaze shifts from the ring to you. âTransformation. That ties neatly with the inscription, doesnât it? The beginning of the world and the end of ages⌠sounds rather apocalyptic, donât you think?â
âDonât start spinning doomsday theories. We have enough to worry about without you prophesying the end of the world.â
âNot the world. Something about the world.â
âOr⌠Maybe it does have something to do with sacrifice. An emotion attached to it, maybe?â The question is rhetoric, simply you tossing out whatever unrealistic theories you can come up with, but Suguru leans forward, interested.
âYou mentioned fear last time,â he says. âI think that makes sense, but what would the second task be? Dementors? Do they expect us to know how to cast a Patronus Charm?â
âI donât know, Suguru,â you say. Your shoulders slump, defeated. Your head spins with various possibilities, each more far fetched than the last. âThis is annoying me.â
Suguru huffs out a soft laugh, shoulders shaking. âTired already, little lioness?â
âDonât call me that,â you grouse.Â
âNoted.â He grins, all teeth and lips. You look away and ignore the way your pulse quickens. The sight of him like thisâlong limbs sprawled about, hair framing his face, his shirt creased and tie undoneâmakes your stomach flip in ways you donât want to comprehend. âBy the way, have you found yourself a date to the Yule Ball yet?â
You blink, disoriented by the sudden question. âActually, I have,â you admit, face flushing with heat for no apparent reason. âAleksandar Ivanov.â
âIvanov?â Suguruâs voice trembles with something that sounds suspiciously close to disbelief. You want to crow with victoryâthis is what you had wanted, after allâbut instead, all you feel is a strange sense of dread growing in your abdomen. âThe Durmstrang champion?â
âYes,â you say, lifting your chin slightly. âHeâs⌠nice.â
âNice?â Suguru scoffs. âThatâs the best you could come up with?â
You glare at him. âWhatâs wrong with nice?â
âNothing, if youâre describing a cup of tea or a particularly fluffy cat. But a date to the Yule Ball?â He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. âIvanov isââ
âWhat?â you interrupt, your irritation rising. âHandsome? Intelligent? Charismatic?â
ââa pompous peacock with an accent that makes people swoon for no good reason,â he finishes, his voice dripping with disdain.
You bristle, crossing your arms. âYou already have a date to the Ball. I donât see how it matters to you who I go with.â
âIt doesnât,â he says quickly. âI just didnât take you for someone who falls for shiny boys from other schools.â
You bite back a retort, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of riling you up further. Instead, you turn your attention back to figuring out the constellation, rifling through the pages of another book you pick up from the stack in front of you. The silence stretches, and Suguru is the first to break it, tentatively.
âDid you hear about Nanami docking points from Slytherin? Twenty this time. All because of Toji and that Hufflepuff girl.â
Your stomach twists at the mention of Fushiguro. âHe called her a Mudblood,â you say bluntly. âShe fainted because of it.â
Suguruâs fingers curl into fists, his expression clouding. âFushiguroâs an idiot, but docking points for something he said? Thatâs unfair.â
âItâs completely fair,â you say, anger rising in your chest. âHe used a slur, Suguru. Against her. Against people like meâMudbloods, as Fushiguro would say. So yes, I think Nanami was right to take points away.â
The words hang in the air, heavy and cold. Suguru says nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he sighs, shoulders slumping. âI didnât meanââ
âDidnât mean what?â you bite back, voice rising. âDidnât mean to defend him? Didnât mean to make excuses for someone who thinks people like me are lesser than him?â
âIâm not defending him,â Suguru snaps. âI just think punishing the whole house for someone elseâs stupidity is unfair.â
âUnfair?â You laugh bitterly. âYou want to talk about unfairness? Try walking around this castle knowing there are people who look at you and see something dirty. Try hearing that word every time you walk past a group of pureblooded Slytherins. Try knowing that despite everything you do, you will always, always be ousted by someone simply because they were born into the fucking wizarding world while you werenât. But, of course, you wouldnât know what that feels like, would you, you privileged ponce.â
Suguru flinches. You pick up your wand and cloak from the discarded heap on the floor and, anger still simmering in your chest, stride out of the Room of Requirement without a glance back.
As per custom, the selected champions must always enter the Yule Ball after everyone else. After days of gruelling ballroom dancing practice brought upon you and your housemates by your head of house, who did not want you to besmirch the Hogwarts name by acting like a âbabbling, bumbling, band of baboons,â you like to think youâre quite the connoisseur of waltzing.
Aleksandar offers his arm to you, the dark red of his dress robes accentuating his cheekbones and eyes. Your own gown ripples with every movement, the deep crimson satin soft against your skin.Â
You descend the staircase carefullyâtripping because of your heels would be an embarrassment you donât want to experienceâand donât look at Geto Suguru. Youâre still furious at him, and you want absolutely nothing to do with him at all tonight.
âYou look very beautiful,â the Durmstrang champion murmurs under his breath. âIt is an honour to be with you.â
You laugh shakily. âThank you. And likewise.â
He smiles without teeth. âI believe your champion is glaring at us.â
âIs that so?â You glance sideways at your date. âHe should be paying attention to the pretty girl on his arm instead, donât you think?â
Aleksandar opens his mouth to say something, but before he can reply, the doors to the Great Hall open, and a professor hurriedly begins ushering in the couples.Â
AmĂŠlie, tall and graceful, with her long hair pinned into an elegant French braid, is the first to enter to a smattering of applause from the gathered students. Her peony-blue dress shimmers under the lights of the enchanted chandelier, and she walks with her head held high and her hand tucked into the crook of her dateâs arm. Her date is a flustered Hufflepuff boy, someone youâve seen around the corridors occasionally; he looks like heâs been struck by a Confundus Charm, what with the dazed look in his eyes. (You canât blame him. The Beauxbatons champion is gorgeous.)Â
Next, is Suguru. You stare at the back of his head while he leads his date into the Great Hall. His long, dark hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, held in place by an emerald green ribbon. His dress robes are the same colour, swishing around his knees with every step he takes. And, of course, thereâs his dateâthe nameless, faceless Beauxbatons girl who matches his elegance and grace in every manner possible. Youâve heard her name being tossed around, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Jealousy is a fickle thing, and you are petty enough to succumb to it. They are the epitome of a perfect wizarding couple, you think; something in your mouth sours. The fact that you are still angry at Suguru does nothing to ease your mind.
You snap your gaze away as soon as they enter the Great Hall. Aleksandar nudges you gently, a faint smile playing on his lips. âShall we?â
You nod, and he leads you forward. The Great Hall is breathtaking, even though youâd seen it earlier when helping Utahime with the decorations. The enchanted ceiling reflects a clear winter night sky, complete with gently falling snowflakes that vanish just before reaching the floor. The tables along the edges of the wall are laden with sweets and drinks. The floating candles that are normally present above your heads are nowhere to be seen, instead replaced with glittering chandeliers. A large space in the centre has been cleared for dancing, and a live wizarding orchestra has set up their instruments in the far corner.
The applause, as Aleksandar leads you out, feels distant, like a dull roar in the back of your head and you force a smile to your face. You can still see Suguru out of the corner of your eye, his emerald robes catching the light while he and his date glide further into the hall. He doesnât look back, which is somehow worse than if he had.
Youâre startled out of your thoughts when Aleksandar leans close to murmur, âYouâve gone quiet. Thinking about something?â
âNothing important,â you reply quickly, flashing him a grin that doesnât quite reach your eyes.
âGood,â he says with a wry chuckle, âbecause Iâd hate to think I made you lose interest already.â
The comment earns him a genuine laugh this time, albeit a small one. The Bulgarian seems pleased, though, and gently steers you towards the centre of the hall, where the champions are to open the first dance. The room is full of expectant eyes, students from all three schools whispering and staring. You spot a few familiar faces in the crowdâShoko with Haibara, looking like theyâve been dragged into something way out of their depth; Nanami with the Hufflepuff girl heâd rescued from Fushiguro, a rare, happy smile on his face; Mei Mei and Utahime laughing at something by the dance floor.Â
And, of course, thereâs Satoru, leaning against the refreshments table with a goblet of pumpkin juice in his hand and a knowing smirk plastered on his face. He doesnât look the least bit disgruntled about not having a dateâa rare feat, considering how much of a drama queen he is. He catches your eye and wiggles his eyebrows at you, mouthing something indecipherable that youâre certain isnât polite.
âEyes up,â the Durmstrang champion says, low but not unkind. âYouâre with me tonight.â
Thatâs right, you suppose. You are, so you shake your head and smile, turning to face him and resting your left hand on his shoulder. The orchestra strikes up a slow, elegant waltz, and Aleksandarâs hands find your waist.
The music swells, filling the enchanted hall with a lilting melody. Aleksandar guides you across the polished floor with a confidence that matches the proud poise of his bearing. For all your nerves, you fall into step easily, your waltzing practice smoothing out any initial awkwardness.
âYou are good at this,â he murmurs, soft.
âI think Iâm just very good at faking it,â you reply, glancing at the other couples. Suguru and his Beauxbatons date are near the centre of the hall, their movements seamless as if theyâve been dancing together for years. Itâs a sight that would have been mesmerisingâif it wasnât so maddening in your eyes.
Aleksandar notices the flicker in your gaze but doesnât comment on it. Instead, he shifts closer, his hold steadying you as he turns you in a spin. The room blurs briefly, the crowd fading into a swirl of colours before youâre pulled back into his orbit.
âYouâre distracted,â he says lightly, though thereâs an edge of knowingness in his voice. âIs it the crowd? Or is it something else?â
You open your mouth to deny it but catch the quirk of his brow, the faint amusement in his expression. He knows. Of course, he knows. âIââ
âIt seems your true intentions were not so different from mine, after all.â Aleksandar smiles, a quick flash of teeth. âI suppose I must try harder to ensure I have your full attention.â
Aleksandarâs green eyes hold a hint of mischief in them. You smile, despite yourself. The waltz continues, each musical note cascading into the next. Around you, students start filling up the empty spaces on the dance floor, twirling and gliding, some with excellent prowess, others with two left feet. Still, your mind lingers on Suguru. Itâs infuriating, how he fills up the crevices in your head, his absence from your line of sight louder than the applause once the dance ends.Â
The song draws to a close with a flourish. Aleksandar bows low to you; you return the gesture with a curtsey, your gown sweeping the floor. When you straighten up, he leans close to you, his voice low enough only for you to hear. âIf you need an escape, just say the word. Iâd be happy to whisk you away from⌠whatever it is that is troubling you. Consider it a favour.â
You laugh softly, his offer half-serious and wholly tempting. âThank you, Aleksandar.â
Before you can say more, you catch Suguru moving from the corner of your eye. You glance upâand there he is. Geto Suguru, standing a few paces away with his date, his dark eyes locked on you in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. He doesnât smile, doesnât nod, doesnât do anything except look, and itâs enough to make your breath hitch.
Aleksandar shifts, stepping just slightly closer, his hand brushing against yours. âShall we get drinks?â
âYes,â you say, far too quickly. âLetâs.â
You let Aleksandar lead you away, but you canât shake the feeling of being watched, his gaze burning into your back long after youâve disappeared into the crowd. Despite yourself, a small smile graces your lips when you spot Satoru, still lounging against the snacks table. He grins and waves when you catch his eye, and sets his goblet down when you and Aleksandar approach.
âWell, well,â Satoru drawls, ocean eyes roaming over your figure. âImpressive. I didnât think youâd clean up this well.â
âAt least Iâm not a lone stag at a coupleâs event,â you retort, smile widening despite yourself. Satoru does look rather dashing, however, clad in navy blue dress robes with golden curlicues embroidered all over. âSatoru, this is Aleksandar, as Iâm sure you know. Aleksandar, this is my friend, Satoru.â
Aleksandar offers him a polite nod. âA pleasure to meet you. Iâve heard⌠Well, not much, actually. Though I imagine your reputation precedes you.â
Satoru snorts, unfazed. âNot much? Oh, Iâm wounded. Surely the great Aleksandar Ivanov, Durmstrangâs star champion, has at least heard of my devastating good looks.â He flashes his most charming grin, but it only seems to amuse Aleksandar further.
âIâm afraid that hasnât reached Durmstrangâs halls. Perhaps you should consider advertising.â
You stifle a laugh, glancing between them. âDonât encourage him,â you say lightly, earning yourself an exaggerated pout from Satoru. âHe already has a big enough head as it is.â
âThat, I can believe.â The Bulgarian casts a sidelong glance at you.
âSmart guy,â Satoru muses. âI like him.â
âAnyway,â you cut in, cheeks warming. âWe were just getting drinks.â
Satoru gestures dramatically to the table laden with butterbeer, pumpkin juice, and other sparkling drinks contained within golden goblets. âHelp yourselves. And I would greatly appreciate it if neither of you told Utahime that all these drinks have been spiked with Firewhiskey by yours truly.â He points with his chin behind your shoulders to where Utahime is clumsily attempting to teach Mei Mei how to do the two-step.
Aleksandar grabs a goblet of something orange and fizzy, passing one to you before taking one for himself. It tastes sweet, and slightly sour, and it bubbles deliciously on your tongue before you swallow. The two of you bid farewell to Satoru and venture towards a quieter, more secluded spot. âThis is nice, no?â he asks, and you hum in agreement.
âYouâre quite popular tonight.â
You freeze, recognising the tone before you even begin to turn. Slowly, you glance over your shoulder to find Suguru standing a few feet away, his date nowhere to be seen. You hate how seeing him alone fills you with a twisted sense of triumph. His expression is carefully blank, unreadable, and for a moment the noise of the Great Hall fades away.
âI didnât realise you were keeping track,â you reply evenly.
His lips curve slightly, not enough to be a smirk but enough to make your skin prickle. âOf course not. Just observing.â
You tilt your head, offering him a smile that borders on a grimace. âThatâs very thoughtful of you. Maybe you should focus on your own date instead of mine, though.â
Aleksandar shifts beside you, but he remains silent. Suguruâs gaze flicks briefly to him before settling back on you. âSheâs more than capable of taking care of herself. Besides, you seem to enjoy the attention.â
âIâm sorryâare you implying something?â
âNot at all.â Suguru steps closer, and, voice low, continues, âJust that you seem to be⌠compensating.â
The jab cuts deeper than you want to admit. âCompensating for what?â
He doesnât answer immediately, letting the silence drag on long enough to make your stomach twist. âYou tell me.â
Before you can respond, Aleksandar clears his throat, his green eyes darting in between you both. âI think Iâll grab another drink. Excuse me,â he says, and slips away with a polite nod.
âGreat,â you mutter, glaring at Suguru. âNow youâve scared off my date.â
âOh, please. Heâll come back. Heâs too invested in playing the perfect gentleman to leave you alone for too long.â
âAnd what about you? Whereâs your date, Suguru? Or did she finally realise what an insufferable prat you are?â
His eyes narrow. âSheâs fine. Unlike you, I donât need to flaunt her to get a reaction.â
âWhat, in Merlinâs name, is your problem?â you hiss. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, a mix of anger and something else you donât want to name.
âMy problem?â he repeats, a dry laugh escaping his throat. âYou, apparently. Always finding a way to needle at me.â
âYouâre the one who came over here,â you shoot back. âIf you have such an issue with me, why not stay on your side of the Great Hall?â
The Hogwarts championâs gaze flickers briefly, something shuttering in his expression. âDonât get ahead of yourself. I just wanted to see how long youâd keep up the act.â
Your brows furrow; your patience is wearing thin. Placing your half-empty goblet on a nearby floating tray, you cross your arms over your chest. âWhat the fuck are you talking about?â
âThat guy,â he says, gesturing at Aleksandarâs retreating figure. âPretending like youâre actually interested in him.â
You stare at him, your chest tightening at the implication. âStop it,â you say quietly, steadily.
âStop what?â
âStop acting like you care,â you snap. âYou made it perfectly clear earlier whose side you were on. Donât act like you suddenly care about who I spend my time with.â
The mention of your earlier argument over Toji hangs heavy between you, and for a moment, Suguru looks away, jaw tightening. Really, youâre thankful Fushiguro isnât anywhere near you both. Knowing him, you think heâs the sort of person who thrives off of attention, no matter whether itâs good or bad. Heâd be elated to know that Hogwartsâ beloved champion and the schoolâs runner-up are locked in an argument over himâbut itâs not really about Fushiguro Toji, is it?
âI donât care,â he says finally, though his words lack conviction. âMaybe I just donât like seeing you waste your time.â
âFunny,â you reply. âI could say the same about you.â
The words linger in the air, stubborn as static. Suguruâs eyebrows knit together, and he reaches out and grabs your wristânot roughly, but firmly enough to send your pulse racing. âWeâre not doing this here,â he says, through gritted teeth, pulling you towards the door.
âWhat are youââ you start, but he cuts you off with a brisk, âJust come with me.â
You inhale sharply, but follow him down the hallways and up the staircases. You know where heâs taking you before the door to the Room of Requirement even appears. Once inside, the door shuts with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the dimly-lit space. You pull your hand free, glaring at him.
âWhat the Hell is this about, Suguru?â
âYou infuriate me,â he says, voice cutting and low and breathless. âYou drive me fucking insane, did you know? I dislike you so much.â
You blink at him like heâs just sprouted another head. âWhat the fuck? How much did Satoru let you drink?â
âIâm not drunk,â he says, eyes narrowing. âIâm just angryâand jealous. Iâm so envious, Merlin help me.â
âWhatâs wrong with you?â
A wry, sardonic chuckle escapes his throat. He lowers his head, strands of hair that spill out of the ribbon framing his face. âI donât know.â
âYouâre such a hypocrite.â You swallow around the lump that forms in your throat. Goosebumps erupt across your shoulders when a sudden cold draft of wind makes you shiver. âI hate you.â
He lifts his face, then, gaze resting on your lips. His mouth parts slightly, as though to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he takes a step closer, and it feels like the room shrinks around you with each inch of space he eliminates. âYou hate me?âÂ
Your heart pounds as you glare up at him, refusing to yield. âI do,â you snap, though your voice wavers just slightly.
Suguru lets out a bitter laugh. âLiar,â he says, so quietly, it almost doesnât register. His hand moves before you can think to react, cupping your jaw, fingers brushing along the sensitive skin behind your ear. His thumb skims your cheek. âYou hate me so much, but youâre still here. You can walk away. I wonât stop you.â
Your breath catches in your throat. You stay rooted in the spot, and your nails dig into your palms. âShut up,â you whisper, though it sounds more like a plea than a command.
He doesnât. Instead, his thumb moves lower, brushing along the corner of your mouth, lips turning up in a half-smirk when he sees the way your eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments. âYouâre flustered,â he notes, soft, âbut you hate me, right?â
Something inside you snaps. With every ounce of venom you can muster, you repeat, âI do.â
And then youâre grabbing him by the front of his emerald green dress robes, yanking him down until your lips crash against his. Itâs uncoordinated, a clashing of teeth and anger and frustration. Suguru freezes for half a second before he groans against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist as he pulls you flush against him.Â
Itâs not gentle. His lips are rough, demanding, teeth scraping your bottom lip as if to punish you for every word youâve ever said to rile him up. But youâre just as relentless, fingers tangling in his hair while you blindly undo the ribbon holding it in place, pulling sharply enough to draw a hiss from his throat.Â
âYouâre impossible,â you mutter against his mouth, breath coming out in short gasps.
âSo are you,â he fires back. His lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing the skin there. âYou drive me mad.â
You donât bother replying, instead tugging his hair harder, forcing his mouth back to yours. His hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging into the silk of your dress as if heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets go. Youâre barely aware of the way Suguru backs you up against the nearest wall, his body pressing against yours while his mouth moves hungrily against your own.
âSay it,â he murmurs against your lips, low but somehow pleading.
âSay what?â you breathe out, though you know exactly what he means.
âSay you donât hate me,â he demands, the words said into your neck, teeth skating over your skin and making you shudder.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you bite back a gasp. âNo,â you whisper defiantly.
He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and wild, chest rising and falling heavily. âLiar,â he mutters again, before crashing his lips against yours and swallowing any further protests.
(Later, when you stir from sleep, your dress barely doing anything to shield you from the chill, the first thing you notice is Suguru beside you. His head rests against the stone floor, hair unbound and spilling like ink over the cold surface. You donât know when you fell asleep, but you do know how you ended up so close, your hands almost touching.
When his eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep, neither of you speaks. He exhales softly, gaze dipping to where your fingers nearly meet, and though his lips donât form the words, the apology is there. You know this because he hooks his little finger with yours, and squeezes.)
For the next month, you do the logical thing: You avoid Geto Suguru at all costs.
This, youâve decided, is a perfectly reasonable course of action. A brilliant one, even. It takes careful planningâadjusting your usual routes between classes, lingering longer than necessary in the library, arriving at meals either too early, or too lateâbut you are nothing if not meticulous, and you refuse to let him and your feelings for him become an inconvenience.Â
You do feel guilty, however, about not helping him out with the second task, but the way you see it, Suguru is more than intelligent enough to figure it out on his own. (You refuse to acknowledge the fact that you spend time trying to piece it out when you canât sleep at night, staring up at the canopy of your four-poster bed.)
Youâre doing quite well, really. Or, you would be, if not for your insufferable friends.
The courtyard is unusually lively today. The air hums with the lingering remnants of winter, crisp but pleasant beneath the afternoon sun. Studentsâboth Hogwarts and notâlounge in clusters across the stone benches and patches of grass, basking in the rare moment of warmth. Laughter carries through the open space like birdsong.
You sit with your friends at one of the broader stone benches, a small pile of books and a stray Golden Snitch hovering in the air beside you (pilfered from the Quidditch supply closet by Slytherinâs star seeker, Gojo Satoru himself). It should be peaceful. It should be, butâ
âYouâre objectively wrong, and I refuse to entertain this nonsense any further.â Utahime crosses her arms, looking positively scandalised.
Satoru scoffs. âUtahime, be serious.â
âI am serious! Youâre the one who sounds like an idiot.â
âI am an idiot,â he says, as if itâs obvious. âBut at least Iâm right.â
Shoko exhales slowly, pressing her fingers against her temples. âMerlinâs beard, what are you two even arguing about?â
âMore importantly,â Mei Mei pipes up, swiping the Snitch from the air, âare we supposed to care?â
âYes,â you say dryly, âif only to prevent them from tearing each other apart in the middle of the courtyard.â
Utahime turns to you, looking deeply affronted. âYou agree with me, donât you?â
âI donât even know what the argument is about.â
Satoru gestures broadly with both palms. âIâm simply saying that if a Thestral and a Hippogriff were to fight, the Thestral would obviously win.â
Silence. You blink. âThatâs what youâre arguing about?â
âFirst of all,â Utahime says, ignoring your incredulity, âthat is completely wrong.â
âOh, this will be good,â Satoru says, only a tad bit sarcastic. He sprawls onto a patch of dewy grass and leans back on his hands. âDo explain.â
âHippogriffs are way more aggressive than Thestrals,â Utahime says. âAnd they have stronger beaks and claws. Theyâd win in a fight easily.â
âThestrals literally eat meat,â Satoru argues. âTheyâre meant to take things down.â
âSo do Hippogriffs!â Utahime points out. âThestrals eat meat, but that doesnât mean theyâre fighters. They hunt only when necessary. They wonât even attack unless provoked.â
âAlright, but letâs say they were provokedââ
âBy what, your stupidity?â
Satoru grins. âAt least Thestrals donât try to smite your face off because you bowed down to greet them at the wrong angle. Plus, they have the advantage of being invisible to everyone except those whoâve come face-to-face with death.â
Utahime makes a noise of frustration, and before you know it, the conversation has devolved into a full-blown debate. Mei Mei, ever the neutral one, watches with amusement, and Shoko starts taking sides. She and Utahime argue passionately in favour of Hippogriffs, citing their sheer power and aggression, while Satoru insists that Thestrals are stronger due to their skeletal structure and ability to take down large prey. You are promptly dragged into the discussion, despite having absolutely no opinion on the matter.
âItâs obviously a Hippogriff,â Utahime exclaims, gesturing wildly.
âYou would think that, wouldnât you?â the only Slytherin in the group shoots back.
âWhat is that supposed to mean?â
âI donât know, but Iâm sure itâs insulting.â
You pinch the bridge of your nose. âHonestly, this is the dumbest thing Iâve everââ
âYou agree with me, donât you?â Satoru rounds on you, eyes gleaming.Â
You exhale, immediately regretting being within earshot of this conversation. âWhat?â
âYou agree that a Thestral would win.â
You narrow your eyes. âI never said that.â
âYeah, but you will.â
You sigh defeatedly, looking to the others for support, but Utahime merely juts her chin out. âSuguru wouldnât agree with you,â she says pointedly.
Satoru snorts. âSuguru would agree with whatever sheââ he points to youâ âsays.â
And just like that, your world tilts. The conversation continues around youâmore bickering, more laughterâbut it all fades into a dull hum, a sort of background noise to the sudden rushing in your ears. Suguru would agree with whatever you say.
Itâs absurd. Itâs just Gojo Satoru being Gojo Satoru, throwing out careless words without stopping to think about them. But the worst partâthe part that unsettles you the mostâis that he might be right.
You think of the way Suguru used to argue with you, sharp-tongued and obstinate, yet never truly cruel. How he always listened, even when he pretended not to. How, more often than not, he did end up on your side, whether by reason or sheer inevitability.
You inhale sharply, hands curling into fists on your lap. You make no move to join back in on the conversationâbecause, really, what is there to say?
That you can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin? That you can still taste the Butterbeer heâd had on the eve of the Yule Ball when he slotted his lips against yours? That his name has lodged itself between your ribs, stubborn as a curse? That your heart stutters at the mere thought of him; that you cannotâwill notâlet yourself dwell on what could be if you let go of your pride, and he relinquished his arrogance?
No, thereâs nothing to say at all.
When you agreed to help Utahime rearrange the awards and plaques in the Trophy Room after classes, you certainly were not expecting her to lock you up in said room with one Geto Suguru. If it was any of your other friendsâShoko, Satoruâyou would not have been very inclined to help out, but it was Utahime who asked, which is why you acquiesced. At least you can say, with utmost certainty, that sweet, loving Utahime Iori is not sweet or loving at all.
Thereâs a brief moment of silence as the heavy door slams shut behind you; you reach for your pocket instinctively to pull out your wand and cast Alohomoraâthe Unlocking Charmâand make your escape. Then, you belatedly realise that youâd left your wand in your dormitory after classes. Your fingers curl around nothing, and you feel rather stupid.Â
Dust motes dance in the golden afternoon light, settling over gleaming plaques and silver trophies, their engravings telling stories of menial victories long past. The air smells like polish, but you hardly notice. Your pulse roars in your ears, loud enough to drown out all other sound but the one voice you had hoped to avoid indefinitely.
âUtahime,â you call through the door, voice strained but not yet desperate. âThis isnât funny.â
Thereâs no answer, save for the sound of retreating footsteps. You spin on your heel, fully prepared to ignore Suguru entirely until Utahime returns, but then he shiftsâjust the slightest movement, a tilt of his head, a shift of his weight from one foot to the otherâand itâs as if some sort of invisible thread yanks you to him.
âI didnât expect the Head Girl to actually agree to bring you here,â he says, voice low.
He looks tired. You hate that you notice.
His hair is loose, strands slipping over his shoulders, dark against the pale slope of his throat. His uniform is slightly disheveledâtie loosened, shirt rolled up to his elbowsâbut itâs his face that makes something in you twist uncomfortably. There are shadows beneath his eyes, bruised with exhaustion, and though his usual easy arrogance lingers in the set of his jaw, his shoulders are rigid, as though heâs bracing for impact.
You force yourself to turn away, to focus on the nearest plaque. The etched names are a blur as you try and fail to appear unaffected. Draconius Falmoy: Head Boy, 1869, it reads.
âYouâve been avoiding me,â Suguru says. There is no accusation in his toneâjust fact, cold and clear as glass.
You trace the name engraved on the plaque with a fingertip. âIâve been busy.â
A humourless laugh. âRight. Too busy to even look at me?â
You clench your teeth. âDonât be dramatic.â
âDramatic?â His voice sharpens, something brittle underlying it. âYou havenât spoken to me in a month. I donât even know if youâd still acknowledge my existence if we werenât locked in her together.â
You suck in a breath sharply, counting backward from ten in your head. Youâve spent weeks perfecting the art of pretending Suguru doesnât exist; youâre not about to let him unravel it now. âI donât know what you want me to say,â you manage to say, turning around to face him properly at last. âThat Iâm sorry? That I feel guilty?â
Suguru watches you, unreadable, dark eyes wrought with something you canât name. âI didnât ask for an apology.â
âNo,â you say, crossing your arms over your chest, âbut you clearly want one.â
Something in his expression flickersâhurt, maybe, or something close to itâbut it vanishes so quickly, you think you might have imagined it. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
âI donât understand you,â he says finally. âYou kissed me, and then you disappeared.â
Your stomach lurches. âIt wasnâtââ
âWhat?â He steps forward, gaze locked on yours. âIt wasnât supposed to happen? It didnât mean anything?â
You hesitate, because you know thatâs what you should say. You should roll your eyes, scoff, tell him heâs being ridiculous and move on like the Yule Ball never happened. He takes another step forward, and heâs close, nowâclose enough that you catch the faint scent of parchment and cedarwood, familiar enough after all the weeks youâve spent in the Room of Requirement with him. You should say, Of course it didnât mean anything, Suguru, donât be stupid, but the words stick in your throat, prickly and unyielding.
âTell me it meant nothing, and I wonât bother you ever again,â he promises, soft, and somehow thatâs worse.
You swallow hard. âSuguruââ
He shakes his head, a bitter smile curling at his lips. âNevermind.â He turns away, shoving his hands into his pockets. âYouâre good at that, arenât you? Pretending.â
 The words cut deeper than they should. You donât respond, because what could you possibly say? That heâs right? That every morning, you tell yourself it was a mistake, that it didnât matter, that you can keep pretending it never happenedâonly to feel his touch lingering on your skin like a phantomâs fingers?
No. You canât say any of that. Instead, you press your lips together and say nothing.
The silence that follows is thick and heavy and suffocating. You donât move. Neither does he. You count the seconds in your head, waiting for somethingâanythingâto break this unbearable tension.
Then, at long last, a knock raps against the door. âAlright,â Utahime calls out, sounding far too smug for your liking. âI think youâve suffered enough.â
The lock clicks. The door swings open. Suguru doesnât spare you a glance as he strides past, his shoulder just barely brushing yours as he leaves. The Trophy Room suddenly feels too big, too quiet, and youâre left standing alone amidst the gleaming remnants of past victories, your heartbeat echoing loud in your ears. (You have the gnawing feeling that Draconius Falmoy, Head Boy of Hogwarts in 1869 would laugh at your predicament.)
âIâm sorry,â Utahime tells you, as you fall in step with her. âHe kept asking me to help him find a way to talk to youâhe even promised he would donate the thousand Galleons he gets as prize money for the Triwizard Tournament to St. Mungoâs Hospital of Magical Maladies and Injuries, if he wins.â
You donât say anything, only look down at the stone floor of the corridor as you walk back to Gryffindor Tower. You canât fault Utahime; she has always been extremely kind-hearted and gentle, and you know the idea of a donation to the wizarding hospital would sway her completelyâespecially considering the fact that itâs been her dream to become a Healer after she graduates Hogwarts.
âAre you mad at me?â she asks, after a beat.
âNo,â you say, flashing her a small smile that you hope is convincing. Truthfully, youâre just mad at yourself.
The plan is simple: Bribe Geto Suguru with sweets and pray he doesnât hex you on sight.
Itâs not your most sophisticated scheme, nor your most dignified, but after an entire month of avoidance, and the disaster that was the Trophy Room incident, youâve resigned yourself to desperate measures. You are doing this, not because you feel guilty, but because you had agreed to help him out with the Tournament, and you donât want to feel like a shitty person for going back on your word. Regrettably, it is incredibly difficult to help someone when you canât look them in the eye.
Aforementioned desperate measures include grilling Shoko for every last detail about Suguruâs favourite things. She doesnât make it easy.
âYouâre acting like youâre about to woo him,â sheâd remarked, flipping idly through the pages of her Potions textbook and entirely uninterested in your plight.
âIâm not trying to woo him.â
âYouâre learning all of his favourite things, buying him chocolates, agonising over the best way to give them to himâall on Valentineâs day, too. Iâm certain that thatâs called wooing.â
Your face had burned; it wasnât your fault the organisers decided to conduct the second task only ten days before the holiday of love. âIâm apologising,â youâd insisted.
Shoko had hummed, but despite her incredulousness, sheâd humoured you and rattled off a list of trivial details about Suguruâs preferencesâhis favourite tea (jasmine), his favourite book (something tedious and philosophical), the subjects he likes best (Charms and Transfiguration, though you knew this already). Most importantly, of course, the only Honeydukes chocolates he actually cares for: dark chocolate-covered honeycomb. (âBut only from Honeydukes,â Shoko had warned. âHe says the other ones taste like burnt sugar.â)
Which is how you find yourself in Hogsmeade, the wizarding village closest to Hogwarts, the morning air crisp and cold, clutching a small, carefully-wrapped box of sweets like your life depends on it. Hogsmeade is lively, bustling with students eager to escape the castle for the day. The scent of butterbeer and freshly-baked pastries wafts through the air. All around you, couples wander hand-in-hand, jumpers pulled tight around their bodies to ward off the early spring chill, and their laughter bright against the grey sky. Shopfronts are decorated in ridiculous shades of pink and red, hearts and flowers strung across windows in celebration of Valentineâs Day.
The sight makes you feel vaguely ill, because this is not a romantic gesture. (Then why does it feel like your heart is about to leap out of your throat every time you think of him?)
You donât linger in HoneydukesâHogsmeadeâs best chocolatierâfor longer than necessary, as much as the toasty warmth and aroma of cocoa makes you want to stay. Making quick work of purchasing the chocolates, you step back out onto the cobbled streets, heart hammering at the thought of what youâre about to do.Â
Itâs not that youâre nervous. Not really. Itâs just that approaching Suguru after everything feels a bit like facing a sleeping dragonâyou donât know if heâll tolerate your presence or scorch you on sight. Still, you have to try.
You find him standing outside The Three Broomsticks, a pub and restaurant owned by the friendly Madam Rosmerta. He is not alone; Satoru and a few Durmstrang students surround him. He looks relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets, but thereâs something in his expression that wasnât there before. The tiredness clings to him still, there in the worn-out slump of his shoulders. Guilt gnaws at your ribs.
You hesitate, watching him laugh at something Satoru says. Maybe this is stupid. Maybe he doesnât care anymore. Maybeâ
Suguru turns and sees you. You donât think youâve ever stood so still in your life.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. The noise of Hogsmeade fades into the background, muffled and distant, like the world has shrunk down to just the space between you. His expression is shuttered, brows knitted together in a frown.
Your fingers tighten around the box. You should leave. You should turn around, pretend you never saw him, andâ
His gaze flickers to your hands. Oh, Merlinâs beard.
With a sharp inhale, you straighten your spine and march forward before you can change your mind. Satoru notices you first, perking up like a dog catching sight of a squirrel. âHey, look who it is! Fancy seeing you over here.â
You ignore him and stop directly in front of Suguru. His eyes widen slightly, like he hadnât expected you to actually approach him. You shove the box into his hands.
Suguru blinks, catching it before it can fall. âWhatâ?â
âItâs an apology,â you mutter, staring at the ground. âTake it or leave it.â
He doesnât say anything immediately. You wonder, vaguely, if youâve made a horrible mistake. If heâll laugh, or hand it back, orâ â...Honeycomb?â he asks quietly.
â...Yeah.â
Something shifts in his eyes, something subtle and indecipherable. He stares at the box, fingers tightening around the edges. When he finally looks back at you, thereâs something in his gaze that makes your breath hitch.Â
You donât wait to see what he does next. Instead, you turn on your heel and walk away, determined to ignore the pounding of your heart.Â
You donât look back. You donât see the way he watches you go, either.
(That night, when you tentatively enter the Room of Requirement for the first time in what feels like forever, you find Suguru already there, sitting cross-legged on one of the cushions. The box of Honeydukes chocolates lies open on the ground in front of him. You drop down onto the cushion opposite him, and wordlessly, he pushes the box closer to you.)
The sky is pale, streaked with the last wisps of winter clouds, the sun still struggling to bring warmth to the February chill. It is not quite cold, not quite warm, that strange in-between where the air nips at exposed skin but doesnât truly bite. The Quidditch pitch has been transformed. The stands are packed with students, banners waving in the light breeze, and an expectant hush hangs over the crowds, despite the murmur of conversation.Â
The Black Lake gleams darkly in the distance, but the task does not take place in its depths. Instead, the champions stand in a row on the dewy grass of the Quidditch pitch, preparing for whatever horrors the second task of the Triwizard Tournament entails.
You already know what those horrors are.Â
The riddle had taken a frustratingly long time to decode, to come up with a proper answer instead of a mere hunch. Ego sum prinicipium mundi et finis saeculorum; once the answer had clicked into place, it had seemed almost too simple. I am the beginning of the world and the end of ages. What was the first thing humans ever knew? What was the last thing they felt before death?Â
Fear.
And so, the second task would force the champions to face their deepest fears, drawn from the constellations carved into the rings they had procured from the first task. It is an elegant, cruel bit of magicâone that ensures their struggles are uniquely personal.
From your place in the stands, youâre offered a clear view of the champions standing in the centre of the field, their expressions barely concealing their tension. Their rings glint in the light, the engraved constellations gleaming like ancient runes. Anticipation coats each of the champions like a second skin, shoulders stiff, hands clenched, magic thrumming in the air. Youâd arrived earlier than your friends, so you sit alone, fingers curling into the hem of your robes.
In front of the champions is a large, dome-like structure that shimmers faintly with spells and charms. That is where the task will take place, hidden from the eyes of the over-eager audience to grant the champions some semblance of privacy while they complete the second task.Â
You spot Suguru immediately. He stands with his back straight, arms crossed over his chest, face completely blank. His long hair is tied back loosely, a few strands slipping free and brushing against his cheeks. He does not fidget, does not shift from foot to foot like the other two, but there is a tightness to his stance, a rigidity in the way his shoulders refuse to relax.
A hush falls over the crowd as the first champion is announced to enter the dueling arena. Aleksandar Ivanov tries to hide his nervousness, but you can see the slight hesitation in his step and the way he grips his wand so tightly, his knuckles turn white. His ring bears the constellation Hydra, the many-headed serpentâa symbol of resilience, of something that cannot be easily destroyed. You wonder what he fears.
A glittering door begins to take shape, starting from the base of the dome. It creaks open, revealing a dark, yawning abyss beyond. Shadows slither across the ground, shifting and twisting, while the Boggart inside, enhanced by Tournament magic, begins to take form.Â
Boggarts, as youâve studied in your Defence Against the Dark Arts class, are amortal, shape-shifting non-beings that take on the form of its observerâs worst fear. Because of their shape-shifting ability, no one knows what a Boggartâs true shape is, as it changes form instantly upon encountering someone. The incantation used to banish a Boggart is simpleâdispel the fear with amusement while casting Riddikulus. However, seeing as the Boggarts the champions must face are magically enhanced, you suspect a simple Boggart-Banishing Spell will not be enough. The thought alone is enough to fill your mind with worry.
Aleksandar steps into the darkness, the door vanishing behind him. The rules are simple: Each champion must navigate a maze of illusions, battle their own fears, and rescue the person chosen for them. The champion who succeeds in the shortest amount of time will earn the most points. An enchanted hourglass hovers in the air, grains of sand slipping through its neck to mark the passage of time.
You barely breathe as the minutes tick by, until Aleksandar finally emerges. His friendâthe person he had to rescueâjogs out behind him, looking ashen but otherwise alright. Itâs the Durmstrang champion whose face is drawn, whose hands are trembling. He is victoriousâbut shaken.
The Beauxbatons champion is next. AmĂŠlie takes longer than expected. She stumbles as she exits, her breath ragged, and her face streaked with something that might be tears. Her hands shake so violently that she can barely accept the glass of water being handed to her.
It is grueling. It is cruel.
And Suguru is yet to go.
You swallow hard as he steps forward, the light catching the gold of his ring, the constellation Lupus etched onto its surface. The wolfâstrength, transformation. But strength does not mean the absence of fear.
He does not hesitate, moving towards the domeâs entrance. You can hear people whispering around youâstudents murmuring their predictions, placing their bets, trying to guess what exactly a boy like Geto Suguru could possibly fear. You grip the edge of your robes tightly.
The door shimmers into existence before him, tall and forbidding. It creaks open slowly, revealing the same thing it has for the previous two championsâan abyss of darkness, shifting and coiling like smoke. He steps inside. The door disappears. The enchanted hourglass flips, grains of sand slipping through its narrow neck. You exhale, only then realising that you had held your breath.
The stands are still buzzing with conversation, but it is nothing more than a distant hum in your ears. Your entire focus is on the closed dome, on the way your heart beats faster than it should, as if your body already knows something your mind is yet to understand.
What is he afraid of?Â
Suguru is not fearlessâno one isâbut he has always carried himself in a way that makes him seem like he is. Unshaken, unbothered, his composure held so effortlessly that it has always frustrated you in ways you dare not name. He stands with an arrogance that makes it hard to imagine him afraid of anything at all.
Still, you know that arrogance is a performance. A shield. Suguru hates appearing weak, more than anything else, so he deludes everyone else into thinking he is not. You had thought that the riddle that you had agonised over for weeks was cruel in itself, but this is worse. The waiting. The not-knowing.
Your stomach twists into impossible knots as the minutes drag on. Five minutes. Six. Eight. You count each grain of sand slipping down the hourglass. Ten minutes pass.
Twelve minutes, and thenâ
The door bursts open. Suguru steps into the light, and he is not alone. Your breath catches in your throat.
Gojo Satoru stumbles behind him, blinking against the sudden brightness. His white hair is disheveled, his expression more one of confusion than relief. He shakes Suguru off with a scowl, tugging his sleeve free from where Suguruâs fingers still grip the fabric.
âYou didnât have to drag meââ Satoru starts, but he stops as soon as he catches sight of Suguruâs face. His expression shifts; wariness replaces irritation, amusement slips away like a mask crumbling at the edges.
Suguru stands rigid, shoulders taut with unnatural tension. His face is stony, unreadable, perfectly blank in the way that only means heâs holding something back.
The hourglass stops. It has only been slightly less than thirteen minutes.
Geto Suguru is the fastest champion to finish the second task of the Triwizard Tournament.
The cheers begin, slow at firstâsomeone in the stands starts shouting his name, then another, and another, until the entire pitch is filled with applause and hoots. You barely hear it.
Suguru is not okay.
He doesnât acknowledge the cheering, doesnât even react to it. His jaw is clenched so tightly that you can see the strain in his muscles. He isnât even looking at Satoru anymoreâhis gaze is fixed somewhere beyond him, unfocused and distant.
Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, his eyes liftâand he sees you.
For a fleeting moment, something breaks in his expression. A flicker of something raw and fractured, a crack in the mask. He huffs quietly, tiredly, and he walks away without a word.
Your stomach sinks. Something is wrong.
You barely notice the way the crowd is still celebrating his victory, the way students are excitedly chatting about how he finished faster than anyone else, because of course he didâGeto Suguru is the strongest, after all.
(But strength does not mean the absence of fear.)
Your fingers tremble slightly as you watch his retreating figure. His posture is stiff, and his steps are too controlled. You should look away, should let him leave. You should accept that whatever happened inside that dome is his burden to carry.
But you canât, because suddenly, all you can think of is the way he looked at you just now. Like he needed to see you; like you needed to see him.
And, well, itâs quite silly in retrospect, but itâs a realisation that settles over you quietly, as if itâs been there all along and youâve just stupidly buried it underneath your own pride and arrogance: You donât hate Geto Suguru at all.
âGo away,â Suguru says, stubborn as ever. He is propped up against a pillow on one of the beds in the Hospital Wing. An empty vial of Calming Draught is placed on the stand next to him, though you donât mention it. Beside it, a half-empty box of Honeydukes chocolates.
âNo,â you tell him, just as obstinate.
Suguru scowls. âI donât want company.â
You ignore him, dragging a nearby chair closer to his bedside with an obnoxious scrape against the floor before sitting down. He doesnât look at you, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the tall windows of the Hospital Wing, where the afternoon light spills golden over the Hogwarts grounds. His hair is slightly dampâmost likely due to sweatâand the dark strands cling to his forehead.
âAre you hurt?â you ask, eyes flicking to the empty vial of Calming Draught.
He scoffs. âWouldnât be here if I was.â
âYou are here.â
He sighs, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if trying to rub away whatever still lingers in his mind. âItâs just protocol. The Healers made me take a Calming Draught after the task, and apparently, that warrants a few hours of observation.â
You glance at him. He might not be physically injured, but there is something wrong, something unsettling in the way he carries himself.Â
âYou were in there only for thirteen minutes,â you say carefully. âThatâsâ Thatâs insane, actually.â
âI won, didnât I?â he mutters.
âThatâs not what I asked.â
He barks out a short laugh. âNo. It isnât.â
Silence, again. Suguru isnât like thisânot normally. He thrives in competition, in the thrill of battle, in the excitement of a challenge. He doesnât dwell. He doesnât let things linger like ghosts at the edges of his thoughts. But right now, it feels like he is being haunted.
âI saw your face when you came out,â you say, quieter this time. âYou werenât okay.â
His fingers curl into the sheets, gripping tightly. âIt was just a Boggart.â
âA magically enhanced Boggart,â you remind him. âWe donât know how they worked, what theyââ
âItâs over,â he snaps, cutting you off. âIâm done talking about it.â
You stare at him, waiting for him to meet your gaze, but he doesnât. His shoulders are rigidâdrawn tighter than they were before the task commencedâand his body is tense, as if heâs holding something in so tightly, it might crack him apart.
â...Was it Satoru?â you ask gently. âIs that what youââ
Suguru flinches, and somehow, that tells you enough. Your stomach twists. What did he see? Suguru and Satoru had come out of the dome togetherâSatoru unharmed, though clearly confused. The task had required him to rescue someone, and heâd done just that by saving his best friend. But what had he seen in there?
Suguru finally exhales, turning his head to you. âIt was just a task,â he says. âAnd I won. Thatâs all that matters.â
âStop pretending,â you say, voice sharper now. âI saw you after the task, and you werenât fine. You still arenât.â
Suguru narrows his eyes at you, but doesnât respond. Instead, he looks away again, staring out the window like it might offer him some escape. You wait for some kind of acknowledgement, some crack in his carefully constructed walls.Â
âIâm fine,â he says, but itâs too strained to be convincing. âIt was just a stupid Boggart. Itâs over.â
âNo, itâs not,â you argue. âItâs obviously still bothering you, so justâjust admit it. Tell me what happened, Suguru. I can try to help.â
He whips his head back toward you, eyebrows furrowed, patience wearing thin. âI donât need to explain myself to you,â he snaps. âItâs over. Iâm fine. End of story.â
You refuse to back down. âDonât shut me out. Iâm not going to just sit here and pretend I didnât see the way you almost cracked when you came out of the dome!â
Suguruâs eyes flash with anger, his fingers curling into fists on his thighs. âI donât need your pity, alright? So just drop it.â
âNo, I canât just drop it.â Your voice trembles with frustration. Why wonât he just listen? âI fucking care about you, and I can see itâs bothering you. What the Hell are you so afraid of?â
His entire body stiffens at your words. His gaze darts away again, and you knowâyou knowâheâs trying to hold something back. He opens his mouth like heâs about to say something, but then he shuts it again.
âIâm not afraid,â he mutters, but thereâs a brittleness to his voice that betrays him. âI told you, Iâm fine. Itâs over. Stop pushing.â
âYouâre lying. What is it? What did you see in there?â
Suguru glares at you, his chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. Then, in a sudden burst of frustration, he spits out the words that heâs been holding back for far too long. âIt was you, alright?!â
You freeze. â...What?â
âIt was you,â Suguru repeats harshly. âI saw you in thereâbut you werenât you.â he falters, but the words keep coming. âYouâyour eyesâthey were empty, like something had taken you and left nothing behind. I couldnât reach you. You were just standing there. Gone.â He stops, swallowing hard, trying to reign in his emotions, but itâs too late.
Your mouth runs dry, your pulse racing as his words echo in your head.
Suguru turns away from you, but you can see the rigidness in his back. âI couldnâtâcouldnât bring you back. I tried, but you were just gone, and there was nothing I could do.â He inhales wearily. âLike a Dementor had sucked the soul out of you, and I couldnât do anything about it because my Patronus Charm wouldnât fucking work, andââ
Your mind whirls. You know his fear now. Itâs not some grand disaster, some monstrous threatâitâs losing you. Losing you in some way that he canât fix.
âIâm sorry,â he mutters. âI shouldnât have said that.â
For a long moment, you donât speak. The only sound between you is the faint rustling of the Hospital Wing curtains shifting in the late afternoon breeze. Suguruâs chest rises and falls unsteadily. He refuses to look at you now, as if saying it out loud was already enough, as if giving his fear a form has made it real.
Of all the things you could have imagined, youâd never expected this. Suguru, who meets every challenge with an infuriating smirk, who stands unshaken even in the face of the impossibleâhe had been terrified. And it had been because of you.
You open your mouth, then close it. What do you even say to something like that?
Your heart aches at the way heâs withdrawn, curling in on himself as though heâs trying to make himself smaller. As though, now his secret has slipped, heâs bracing himself for whatever comes next.
So, instead of speaking, you move. Slowly, cautiously, you reach forward and wrap your arms around him.
Suguru stiffens immediately. His whole body goes tense under your touch, like heâs caught between the instinct to pull away and the desperate need to hold on. But then, after a beat of hesitation, he exhales shakilyâand lets himself collapse into you.
It almost knocks the breath out of your lungs. His arms lock around you, tightâso impossibly tight that it almost hurts. He buries his face against your shoulder, and he grips onto you like heâs afraid that if he lets go, youâll disappear; like heâs trying to convince himself that youâre real, that youâre here.
You donât say anything. You just hold him.
His breathing is uneven, shallow at first, but gradually, as you rub slow circles into his back, it steadies. One of his hands curls into the fabric of your robes at your waist, clutching you like youâre a lifeline.
You feel him take a shuddering breath. âI know it wasnât real,â he murmurs into your shoulder. âI know that. But itâfuck, it felt real.â
You nod, letting him press himself closer. âI know,â you whisper.
âI couldnât do anything,â he admits. âI couldnât do anything. I was right there, and youâyou were just standing there, and I kept calling your name, but you didnât even blink. And my Patronusâit wouldnât work.â His grip on you tightens. âIt wouldnât fucking work.â
You donât need him to explain why that matters. A Patronus is a partially-tangible positive energy force created from the casterâs happiest memories, either incorporeal as a burst of white mist, or corporealâstronger than the incorporeal oneâwhere it takes the form of an animal. Itâs used to ward off Dark Magicâmost commonly, creatures known as Dementors, which thrive off of negative emotions. The image of you, hollow, is what happens if a Dementor gets close enough to a person to perform the Dementorâs Kiss: Sucking the soul out of a person, leaving them a shell of their former selves. The Patronus Charm is complicated and difficult, so much so that most experienced wizards themselves struggle with casting it.Â
You know how powerful Suguruâs magic is. The fact that, in his fear, he hadnât managed to cast itânot even an incorporeal oneâÂ
You swallow past the lump in your throat. âYou wouldâve saved me.â
He makes a sound at the back of his throat, something like a scoff. âYou donât know that.â
âYes, I do,â you say fiercely, protectively. âIf that had been real, you wouldâve found a way.â
Something in him seems to rupture in him at your words. His arms tighten just a fraction more before he finallyâfinallyârelaxes against you. The tautness in his muscles begins to ease, his breathing growing softer, deeper. He still doesnât let go, but it isnât out of desperation. Itâs something else now.
âI hate this,â he says, after a pause.
âHate what?â
âThat I had to see that.â He exhales against your skin. âThat you had to hear all of this.â
You shake your head, pulling back just enough to look at him. âSuguru.â
He finally lifts his head. His face is guarded but tiredâso tired. His eyes, dark as ink, roam over your face. You meet his gaze and let your hands move up, threading gently into his hair. âI donât care that youâre afraid,â you say, softly. âIâm afraid, too.â
Suguru looks at you for a long time, unreadable. You wonder if heâs going to argue, if heâs going to brush you off, or deflect with sarcasm, the way both of you have been doing all this time. But he doesnât.
Instead, his hand moves to your face. The touch is hesitant at first; his fingers ghost over your cheek, like heâs still trying to convince himself that youâre real. Then, his thumb brushes over your skin, slow and soft. You donât dare to breathe.
His gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. âYouâre still here,â he murmurs, so quietly that you almost miss it.
And then he kisses you.
It isnât rushed. It isnât desperate. Itâs slow, reverentâlike heâs memorising you, like heâs savouring the fact that youâre here, that youâre warm and breathing and safe in his arms.
Your fingers tighten in his hair as you press closer, melting into him while his lips move against yours. Itâs gentle, but when you sigh softly into his mouth, he lets out a quiet groan and deepens the kiss. His hand cups the back of your head, his other arm winding around your waist to pull you closer.
(The door to the Hospital Wing swings open.Â
âOi, Geto, you decentâ Oh, Merlinâs saggy ballsââ
A loud, scandalised gasp echoes through the room, followed by Gojo Satoruâs unmistakable cackle. You barely have time to react, to get off Suguruâs lap, before he stiffens, head snapping towards the entrance. Standing in the doorway are Shoko and Satoru, both with varying expressions of shock and amusement.
âOh, donât stop on our account,â Satoru drawls, sporting a shit-eating grin. âThis is way better than what we came here for.â
Shoko hums. âYeah, I was expecting to find Suguru all sulky and broodingânot getting snogged to within an inch of his life.â
Suguru groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. âKill me.â
You, on the other hand, are trying very hard not to combust. âOh, sweet Merlin.â
Satoru dramatically clutches his chest. âMy best friend, growing up so fast. Next thing I know, youâll be writing poetry about her eyes, or something.â
Suguru, who absolutely has thought about writing poetry about your eyes (though he would rather die than admit it), scowls. âShut up, Satoru.â
âCanât. This is the highlight of my week.â
You groan, hiding your burning face in your hands. âI hate both of you.â
âAw, donât be like that,â Shoko coos. âShould we give them some privacy? Maybe light some candles to help them set the mood?â
Wordlessly, Suguru raises a hand and lifts up his middle finger.)
June brings summer hand-in-hand to the castle, and along with it, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. The days leading up to the third task are restless. The maze looms at the edges of the Quidditch Pitch, its towering hedges charmed to shift and writhe, concealing whatever dangers the tournament has yet to unveil. It is a final trial of wit and endurance, a labyrinth where victory lies at the centre.
You hate it.
âYouâre scowling,â Suguru observes, watching you from his spot on the grass. Heâs leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him.
âYou should be worried too,â you counter, plopping down next to him. âThat thing is practically breathing.â
âAnd what would you have me do? Duel the shrubbery?â
You huff, glaring at the maze once more before turning back to him. âYouâre taking this too lightly.â
He grins. âBecause youâre worrying enough for the both of us.â
You reach over and flick his forehead. He lets out a dramatic groan, falling onto his back as though youâve mortally wounded him.Â
âUnbelievable,â you mutter, shaking your head, though youâre biting back a smile of your own. âHow am I supposed to be stressed when youâre like this?â
âThatâs the idea,â he muses, folding his arms behind his head. His dark hair spills over the grass, strands catching the sunlight. âI canât have my little lioness fretting herself to an early grave.â
You smack his shoulder without hesitation. âCall me that again, and Iâll start rooting for the maze.â
Suguru barks out a laugh, turning his head to look at you properly. Heâs smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. âIâll be fine.â
You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his. He squeezes once, gently, before tugging you closer. You let out a small oomph before sprawling onto the grass next to him.Â
The sun dawdles in the horizon, stretching out the day for as long as it will go. You turn your head and brush your lips against his, content and happy. The third task waits, unseen and uncertain, but at least there is this.
Whether Geto Suguru emerges victorious or notâwell. Thatâs insignificant, you think.
⢠a/n: if you read this entire thing, iâm giving you a big hug. this fic is so many things, but it is mainly a labour of love towards the fandom that first got me into writing and reading fanfiction at the wee age of eleven, and the fandom that currently occupies most of my tiny little brain. it is also the longest fic i have written till date, and i am proud of myself for it. this fic would not be possible were it not for my two best friends, @mahowaga & @admiringlove helping me out, letting me bounce ideas off of them, wracking our brains together to come up with the second task, and lurking on my google doc while i was writing, leaving comments that make me giggle even now. thank you for reading, and i hope you have a wonderful day!
You know the working daddy captain fanart that you've reblogged recently.. I can't get Kuroo and his son out of my head so may I request a domestic married life au oneshot revolving around that particular fanart - him, his wife and their first kid, a toddler son? Fluffy and romantic, no angst please. If you're up to date with the manga maybe it could be based on post timeskip Kuroo? Thanks a lot!
DILF Day Care With Daddy Kuroo TetsurĹ đ¤ąđźđź đđ
(Fluffville)
âźď¸ TIMESKIP SPOILERS BELOW âźď¸
âââââââââââ
âYeah. Yeah. So thatâs what I told Jim in marketing already. To send Bokuto to Tampa to surprise a Japanese little league team there and to send a camera crew with him. Kenma is already putting our ads on his YouTube channelâhe told you what?! That heâs not doing it? Well did he say why?! That bratty cat, must have caught him on a bad day. Okay. No, I need this handled TODAY, Greg! Hold on, he will. Heâs currently in Italy at some big video game tournament but Iâll stop by his office right now to work it out with his assistant. Just give me thirty minuââ
âOh no you donât, Kuroo Tetsuro!â
The wife of the sexiest businessman in the Japanese Volleyball Association Corporation set a cup of French vanilla coffee in front of her talkative husband before stomping her foot. Kuroo quickly covered the speaker part of the phone and gave you a pleading face.
âNo!â You repeated. âI am going to Lev and Alisaâs Vogue Magazine cover day-party at their mansion. The babysitter is on vacation. Which means you and only you have to take River to his appointment cross-city.â
Giggling because he understood his own name, almost 2-year-old baby River TetsurĹ blew bubbles with his own spit and clapped his tiny hands. Kuroo looked down at the miniature baby he held in his lap as he was on the phone. River looked up at his Daddy and Kurooâs stomach tightened in return. He quickly said bye to his group call with the interns.
After marrying you 2 years ago, TetsurĹ never thought he would love someone as much as he loved you....but he was happily mistaken 9 months after the honeymoon when little River Kuroo popped out.
***
âThis is my son?â Kuroo, decked out in a light blue hospital dressâtook his baby from the doctors hands. He was the first to hold him. He stared down at his son, already seeing the start of little jet black hairs pressed to his babyâs head.
âYes.â The nurse grinned, moving Kurooâs hand so that it was supporting the newborns neck.
Fresh tears sprung out of the ex-middle blockerâs eyes as he shuffled his son to one arm as he moved hastily to hold your hand and show you. He squeezed your hand and the tears kept pouring, showcasing the life you two just created to the wife he loved so much.
âOh Kuroo....â you whispered drowsily as your eyes filled with tears also. You looked up at your husband in amazement. âHe looks just like you.â You whisper to him and then sit up so that you can hold your beloved son yourself.
âYeah, he does.â Kuroo handed him over to your weak arms, still keeping his hands under yours to support you and the baby. He kissed you on the side of your forehead and wiped your tears. âI love him so much already, Y/N. I love you so much.â
You smiled through your happy tears and leaned your head in to reciprocate Kurooâs embrace, then leaned down to kiss your baby boy. After a few minutes of admiring him, you handed him back to Kuroo and told him to show the baby to your families and Kenma who were all still waiting in the waiting room. You knew Kenma seemed disinterested to others because he was on his video game, but all who knew him well knew that Kozume was only distracting himself because he was itching to meet his new Godson.
âOkay.â Kuroo whispered into your hair before taking River and planting a kiss on your lips.
***
Returning from his flashback, Kuroo realized that you were in the middle of lecturing him about the balance between work and parenting. He was a phenomenal father and he was there 95% of the time, but he was still a businessman and that meant sometimes he had to work more than he would like to.
Your son started to cry because he didnât like seeing his mum worked up, so like second nature, Kuroo gave his two index fingers to River to grasp in his tiny hands. That, combined with his dad bouncing him on his the leg (which is exactly what Kuroo was doing) stopped Riverâs crying in its tracks. River loved holding onto his fatherâs fingers for some reason, it soothed him. Baby River blew more spit bubbles and giggled.
Kuroo watched you lecturing him, biting his lip because damn was his wife sexy when she was mad. You were all dressed up for this day party in a long black sundress that hugged your curves and as his eyes roamed your figure Kuroo decided that the amazing morning sex you two had earlier suddenly wasnât enough.
ââKuroo!! Are you even listening?!â
He returned his eyes back up to yours.
âUh yes. Listening and undressing you with my eyes. Yep.â
You narrowed your eyes at your man then reached over the expensive island to use Riverâs bib to clean your sonâs snot and spit off his babyface.
You leaned in for a kiss from River and the angel cutely bumped his face against yours, getting saliva all over you. You used his bib to wipe your face too.
âRiver, honey? Mommy is going to go and have some fun at a party that mommy put on the obvious calendar weeks ago.....the party that she has been excited about going to FOR MONTHS! So, baby boy, your annoying twin will take you to see Dr. Wimble this time because he shouldnât be working on his days off anyway not to mention he promised, okay my Riv-honey?â
Kuroo deadpanned. âI hate when you speak to our son but youâre really talking to me.â
âDonât care. I left both your boysâ breakfast is on the stove. And Donât forget Riverâs diaper bag!â You stole a sip of your husbandâs French vanilla before snatching the car keys and your purse off the island.
Kuroo tried to think about what he was going to do as he continued to bounce his son on his leg, his analytical brain running through dozens of scenarios in a matter of seconds. No matter how he spun itâthough, the sexy businessman knew he wouldnât be without his son today. Looking down at his spiky haired mini-me that looked back up at him with bright, happy eyes, Kuroo realized thatâno matter how he spun itânor would he desire to be without his son today.
âWait, Y/N! What time is the appointmââ
ââCalendar! Use it!â You yelled dryly before you shut the door and headed to the car Kuroo bought you for Valentineâs Day.
Back inside, Kuroo dragged his sonâs high chair next to him at the island and served him the kiddie breakfast you made. Your husband sat beside him, giving River his finger while he drank his coffee and ate his food with one hand. When both boys were done he picked up River and walked over to the calendar.
You were right: it was there. In plain capital permanent marker on todayâs date:
It read:
RIVERâS APPOINTMENT - 3:30PM
HAIBAâS VOGUE PARTY - 1PM
DO NOT MAKE PLANS KUROO!
River giggled as if he was making fun of his father and Kuroo looked down at the love of his life. âRiver, should daddy piss mommy off and erase it so that daddy looks like he was right?â
River stopped giggling and pouted up at his daddy, his tiny lip quivering like he would cry if he did anything to upset mommy.
âOkay okay!â Said Kuroo hurriedly, giving his son his finger again so heâd stop crying. River smiled. âWe have 2 and a half hours until your appointment Rivs, which is on the other side of town, and in between is Uncle Kenmaâs office. So we will stop there on the way and then the park. Letâs go, son.â
The raven haired baby cheered. âYWAY DA!â
In 30 minutes flat, Kuroo was decked out in an elegant Armani navy blue business suit. He had every colour and material. He collected Riverâs diaper bag, packed snacks and his baby chest carrier.
Locking up, Kuroo buckled his son in the back of his 2020 Jag, checking thrice if he was safe in his car seat. Then, he clicked the button to play Riverâs favourite kid show on the car tv and handed him the stuffed cat Hinata got River for Christmas. It was his all time favourite toy.
Once Kuroo parked in front of Kenmaâs high-rise office, he strapped on his baby carrier over his Armani suit and placed River in it. The tall and sexy businessman garnerned SO MANY stares as he looked PRIMO SEXY DILF as he locked his car and strutted inside Kenmaâs office building with his son, pressing the elevator button. As he waited, he called his best friend who was in Italy. Kuroo held his phone in between his shoulder and cheek before he snapped at his friend.
âKenma. Do you need me to hop on a plane with River and crash your video game tournament right now?! Because I will.â
There was murmuring on the other line.
Kuroo gasped.
âWHAT DO YOU MEAN RIVER CAN COME BUT I CANâT?!â
River squealed loudly because he heard his name.
âListen Kozume....... I have the keys to your loft, did you forget? Youâll come home to a mountain of Riverâs diapers in your game room if you back out now. You canât just say no because my administrators are calling too much!!â
Baby River smiled cheekily and clapped his adorable hands as he rode the elevator with his daddy all the way up to his godfathers top floor.
That boy had a mother, father, godfather and a long list of pro volleyball player uncleâs who doted on him....
summary: you try to make sense of everything after that night with gojo satoru, the slytherin prince, but as much as you try to run away from it, it seems to follow you more. but he has to hate you for it, right? that could be the only explanation for why he seeks you out...right?
warnings: 18+ mdni all characters are 18, gojo slight angst, messy makeout, gojo eating pussy like his life depended on it, fingering, unprotected sex, penetrative sex
word count: 12k
note: yay! part two is done! please comment and reblog, it's really appreciated. thank you @jadeisthirsting for beta reading! <3
slytherin!gojo masterlist + jjk masterlist
If there was one thing you grew to understand about Hogwarts, it was that the castle was entirely unpredictable.Â
From the moving staircases, the random ghosts that would appear out of nowhere, to the disappearing portraits that sometimes only reappeared to listen in on student gossip, you knew you had to expect the unexpected when it came to ancient school.Â
But never in your wildest imagination would you have thought that you wouldâve kissed Gojo Satoru.Â
You couldnât even pretend that it didnât happen, despite the fact you wanted so desperately to obliviate your mind and move along with your life.Â
You could still feel his lips on yours, even days after it happened. You could feel his hands on your body, the way he held you to him, the way he kissed down your neck. You could still hear the way he said your name, breathless, almost desperate.Â
âFuck,â he had whispered, heavy on your lips as he dipped down again to kiss down your chin tilting your head up to expose the column of your neck, âFuck,â he said once more, diving down as he sucks and bites at your skin, his movements growing faster and more erratic once he hears the soft and sweet mewls that escape your swollen lips.Â
You tried to blink it away.
âSatoru,â he had said against your skin, âNot Gojo. Not you.âÂ
Not you.Â
That Saturday and Sunday you refused to move from your bed, huddled under blankets as the other girls in your dorm came and went. You could hear the loud party they held after yet another win at the quidditch game, so you just cast a silencio charm around your room, feeling your mattress create a permanent dent in the fetal position you were lying in.Â
One of the kinder girls of your dormitory, Celeste, crouched down to where your head peeked out from your swarm of blankets, her brown brows furrowed together with worry, but you promised her it was just a stomach flu, nothing to worry about, and told her to go enjoy the party.Â
That next Monday morning you made sure to go to the transfiguration classroom, glad to find that skipping breakfast helped to see that nobody except for Professor McGonagall seemed to be in the room, of course, aside from that little snowy owl perched atop her desk, its wide eyes blinking slowly at you as you walked in.
You remember how Professor McGonagall looked up briefly, annoyed that a student was here before classes even started, but she did a double take when she noticed it was you, welcoming you by saying your last name with a little bit of surprise.Â
âHow may I help you?â Her eyes looked at you over her glasses, her hands lay flat on her desk, next to the quill she was just using.Â
âProfessor, I have a request to ask of you.âÂ
A part of you was glad that you were such a good student, one who never asked for much and gave everything you had towards the work you did, especially for her class. McGonagallâs thin bow raised slightly, her lips pursing together as you motioned for you to continue. You swallowed thickly, pulling out the thick pieces of parchment tied together, your contribution to her essay, as you laid it down on her table.Â
âI would like to change my partnersâŚif possible,â your voice was shaking, âI have my work all done here,â quickly going to show her the work that you had done, but her hand outstretched, her slender finger grasping yours as you halted your movements.Â
When you looked at her face, the only emotion you could trace, which was one you had never seen on the older woman, was genuine concern.
âHas Satoru doneâŚsomethingâ She tried to find the right words, but you insistently shook your head, trying to act as if nothing was wrong aside from you.
âNo, no,â you sputter out, âItâs me. Heâs done nothing wrong. I just,â you sigh, trying to calm down your heart, noting that the large clock outside had struck three times and that her first-year students would be filing in any minutes, âPlease, Iâd do the rest of the essay alone if necessary.â You know that you were pleading with her at this point, but you couldnât care.Â
McGonagall looked you over once, noting the bags under your eyes, the way you actively looked like you hadnât slept in days, and thought for a long second before she nodded, waving you along as other students started to come in.Â
âIâll take care of it,â she said, a promise, and you thanked her extensively, bidding her goodbye as you ran across school to make sure you didnât miss Lupinâs riveting defense against the dark arts lesson about warding off vampires.Â
And she stuck to her word.Â
That day you sat in your usual seat, in the back, but instead of Gojo sitting next to you was a disgruntled Charlie Reeve, his arms crossed like a petulant child, depressed to be split up with his friend despite not having any work done.Â
You saw his flash of white hair, stopping in confusion when he saw the Gryffindor in his seat, your eyes locking briefly as his nose flared.Â
âOh, Mister Gojo, I had to rearrange some partners,â Professor McGonagall called out, motioning him to come sit up front with Benny Thompson, âSome people thought itâd be better to leave this essay until it was absolutely necessary.â She cast the two Gryffindor boys a knowing look, not necessarily a lie, and deep inside you felt grateful that she was able to find something believable.Â
And so, with all of your tedious efforts to make sure that you never bumped into Gojo Satoru, you went weeks without really seeing him.Â
Of course, it was difficult, increasingly so as it seemed that he was everywhere you went. When you went to the library, he was there, at your usual table, either reading or working on homework, which meant that you had to weasel your way into the astronomy tower to do your work.
And then he began to go to the astronomy tower, youâd see him looking over the ledge, his hair flickering in the wind, his back thankfully to the stairs as you quietly made your way down, running away to find somewhere else.Â
Sometimes when you were lying in bed, trying to go to sleep, unwillingly, your mind traveled back to that night. And it seemed like all your hard work was in vain because despite trying to act as if he didnât exist, he was something that you could never forget.Â
Gojo acted indifferent, however, which both helped and stung a bit. Helped because you were glad he went back to forgetting that you existed, and though you wanted him to act as if he maybe had feelings for you, you knew he never would, and so you blended back into the background
But despite it all, you found that somehow October bled into the unforgiving winds of November, which slowly turned into the winter of December.Â
Your classes were wrapping up, and teachers no longer cared much seeing that they too were looking forward to the long-awaited and deserved break.
You found that with the workload that was slowly dying down (for you at least, seeing how you had finished up most of your exams, and all the essays and projects the professors had assigned to you months in advance were done, unlike some people who believed in the power of magic enough to leave it to the last week), you visited Hogsmeade more. It offered you some solace to take your mind off of everything.Â
The snow was beginning to set both on the ground and on top of all the roofs and signs, making the small village look like a wonderland youâd see inside a snow globe. A part of you couldnât stop the happy smile that made it on your face as you walked through the cobblestone streets, looking inside every shop as if you had the money to spend.Â
On one of the Saturdays, you were able to give yourself a rest from the work you had to finish before the break started. You bundled up, a silver and green scarf wrapped around your neck, your old mittens (passed down from your mother, of course), and your thickest knitted sweater, went out for Hogsmade.Â
Hogsmeade is usually busy during December, which you like, pretending that you were somewhere far away, perhaps a little village in France, as you gently make your way around the eager students ready to buy things for their families for the holidays.Â
After a couple of years of visiting this place, youâve picked up some key knowledge. Never go to Honeydukes before seven, otherwise, itâs entirely ransacked and they sometimes stock up on Saturdays at half past seven. Zonkoâs is only good once in a while, otherwise, itâs too overwhelming, and Gladrags Wizardwear had something marked off if they went unnoticed for too long.Â
And, perhaps the best part of your visits to Hogsmeade, you had a pass from McGonagall, which let you stay an extra two hours. While most students made their way back before their ten oâclock curfew at night, you were able to get special permission from Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape to stay till midnight.Â
You told them that you didnât do anything crazy and that the only reason why you longed to stay out late was really only for Saturdays because the three broomsticks sometimes brought in the wizarding jazz society, a group of witches and wizards who played live on their respective instruments. It was your favorite part of Hogsmeade, and after some negotiation, you were allowed out after ten.Â
But before then, you spent your time in the other shops, browsing for nothing in particular.Â
You found yourself admiring some of the intricately made quills outside a window that was on display. Surely expensive, but you simply looked at them, your face almost pressing up against the chilly glass to get a closer look.Â
There was a group of friends a couple of feet away from you, and you could hear the giggling now and then about something, but you didnât think itâd be best if you looked over to see what was going on, mind your own business.Â
You walked along, moving to the next shop window when you noticed that the giggling almost seemed to be following you.  Â
You felt yourself peeking over briefly, somehow not being shocked that it was some of the seventh-year Slytherins, the kids you had grown up with, looking over at you, the girls pointing to something near you as they laughed behind their hands.Â
Tough skin, you reminded yourself, trying to ignore it as you tried to look at the new cauldrons. At least, you wouldâve distracted yourself had you not heard a loud, almost animated rip.Â
You look down, but not quickly enough to see your bag tear open, some of your knuts fell out, along with your chapstick, your tissues, and some other miscellaneous things.Â
It didnât take a genius to glance over at the girls, to see one of them with their wands out as one of the other girls cackles, and while you were used to their antics, it didnât hurt any less.
You bent down, going on your knees, trying to find some of the things that had disappeared in the snow. One of the girls, Avery McKenna, who talked loud seemed to talk even louder, as if wanting to get your attention.Â
âSatoru! Satoru, look!â She spoke in a whisper which was louder than your normal speaking voice, and you looked from your lashes at the mention of his name.Â
And you saw him as one of the other girls shuffled around, tugging at his coat sleeves to direct his attention away from whatever shop window he was looking into as she pointed a finger at you on the ground. You quickly looked back down before you made eye contact with him, your fingers growing cold from the bite of the snow.Â
You didnât want to know what he looked like, what sort of smile would take over his face at the sight of you looking like this. You pick up your bag, putting it under your arms so that it wonât grow wet from the snow, inspecting the gash with a heavy heart, realizing that thereâs no way to mend it. It looks like a wolf had slashed its claws through the fabric, something that no needle and thread, or even a reparo charm could fix.
You shove the coins in your pockets, holding the rest in your gloved hands as you stand up, cheeks heating up in embarrassment as you feel their stares on you, the snow seeping in through your pants, causing you to shiver as you try to find a place you could into to get this sorted.Â
Thankfully, The Three Broomsticks was just up ahead, and so you tried to mute out all the people behind you as you turned your back, walking up the street as you heard the snow crunch under your shoes, sniffing from the cold as you walked into the familiar pub.Â
â-
The Three Broomsticks was a Hogsmeade staple.Â
Inside the pub was a roomy place, a fire always lit in the corner, the flames crackling almost all the shouts and yells and drunk laughter. Up on the stone walls were photographs of famous witches and wizards who had visited the pub, paintings of people long past that used to frequent it, and family members of those who owned it. It smelled of ale and peppermint, the atmosphere warm and welcoming, something that you always enjoyed.Â
It was usually full, so you count yourself lucky to find a little empty booth near the back.Â
You got some water seeing how the last knut you needed to buy a butterbeer got lost somewhere in all the snow, and laid out all of your things on the table, including your mauled-up bag.Â
You wipe at your eyes, careful that nobody sees the stray tears, and allow yourself to sit against the wooden booth, shutting your eyes for a second.Â
You count to ten, allow yourself to calm your breathing down, and crack your neck, moving it around to your left and right side. The sun was nearly starting to set and it was already five, so it was going to be a bit before their usual jazz band came. Although youâd been looking forward to it since last week, at this point you just wanted to go back, have some soup, and then sleep.Â
When you open your eyes you find yourself staring at the ceiling, breathing deeply through your nose as you look back down, a surprised gasp escaping your lips to find somebody sitting in front of you. Â
âI-â Gojo starts but youâve already started collecting all of your things off the table, your heartbeat skyrocketing as you shove whatever you can in your pockets, sitting up as you try to leave. Â
But heâs fast, sitting up from his seat, blocking you with his tall body as you feel your heart in your throat, pounding away rapidly as you try to look away from him.Â
Heâs here, heâs here, heâs here.Â
His hand is holding your elbow, heâs holding you, and he seems desperate, his eyes searching yours, begging you to just listen to him.Â
Why is he here? Why is he holding you?
âCan we talk?â His white brows are furrowed, his lips parted as his thumb rubs up and down on your skin, âPlease?âÂ
What does he want?Â
Youâre looking at him, really looking at him for the first time in months, and despite not seeing him face to face for a while, you can still notice the little changes. There are bags under his eyes, he seems worn down. His eyes, the ones that you often dreamed about, were swirling with unspoken emotions. His lips looked like they were chewed raw, much like yours.Â
But he still looks like he did that one night in October, the way he spoke your name as if it were the only thing he could say, his hair tousled by the December winds, and his cheeks flushed a rosy pink.Â
âI n-need toâŚâ you swallow thickly, your mouth running dry as your eyes dart around to not look at him, âI need to go.âÂ
But you donât, and he knows that you donât.
âYour waterâŚmiss,â the waitress suddenly comes around with your mug full to the brim with water, looking curiously at you and Gojo as she sets it down on the table, giving you a small smile as she walks away.Â
âPlease,â he says one more time, and his voice is heavy, piercing through your chest and into your mind, working like a devilâs snare as it wraps itself around you until you are entrapped by everything that is him.Â
You look at the door of the pub, noting that none of his friends are either there or outside, and you look at him once more.
You lick at your gnawed lips, letting out a defeated sigh as you give him a single nod, watching as his face breaks into a smile, his shoulders sagging from the release of tension as he helps you back into your seat and climbs into his own, across from you, and you set all your stuff back on the table.Â
His eyes follow your movements, look at your bag and the contents that used to be in it and he whips out his wand, going to cast a spell before you cut him off.Â
âReparo didnât work,â you mutter, fidgeting with your fingers as you awkwardly sink into your seat, watching him intently as if he had been a painting youâd been studying that suddenly came to life.Â
His eyes flicker to yours and he puts his wand away sheepishly.Â
âI didnât know that they were going to do that,â he finally says, breaking the silence.Â
You nod curtly, looking at your hands resting in your lap as you try to think of what to say. Of which emotion you should call upon to do the talking for you, which thing you had been itching to say to him ever since that night.Â
âItâs nothing they havenât before,â you finally say, looking up at him with a sad smile, watching as his chest rattles with an inhale. His fingers are interlocked with each other as they rest on the table, his green sweater resting snuggly on his muscular frame as he leans in, as if he were scared you were going to disappear.Â
He goes to open his mouth to speak, but you cut him off again.Â
âWhy do you care?âÂ
His mouth shuts, his blue eyes shimmering brightly in the light of the fireplace. He doesnât seem angry or annoyed, just shocked.Â
âWhat?âÂ
You breathe roughly out your nose, looking away briefly as you click your tongue against your teeth, your fingers gliding across the mug, the little water droplets that slid onto the table creating a ring around the cup. You twist and turn it around by the handle, deep in thought.Â
âWhy do you care so much? Why do you care about what happens to me?â You press, your head tilting to the side. You try to look fierce, trying to channel the anger, the pain, the hurt that youâve been feeling not only since October but since you first stepped foot through that castle.Â
His lips parted as if he were going to say something, but his head dipped, his fingers playing with that gold ring on his finger, the one of his family crest.Â
âIâŚâ Gojo canât seem to finish, canât seem to find the words. But thatâs fine because youâre finding them for him.Â
âIâll find a new purse and Iâll move along with my day because Iâm used to this Gojo,â your voice is slowly growing, âIâm used to your friends, to you and your pureblood hierarchy. So stop acting like youâre this hero that should get rewarded with whatever it is you want from me by talking to me o-or pitying me,â you ramble, your voice dripping with venom, your eyes stinging as you try to control yourself, âJust please stop acting like you care.âÂ
He doesnât say anything, his lips pressed together tightly, his jaw ticking. His eyes reflect a storming sea right now, one a sailor would never return from.
âThat night, when you kissed me,â your voice was loud enough to be a whisper, but he hears you, his breathing hitching as he most likely thinks back to that night, âWere you able to cross off another check mark on your list? Did you finally fulfill all the crazy things you wanted to accomplish?âÂ
âStop,â he seethes out through clenched teeth, his eyes daring you to continue.Â
Youâre glad that the pub is so busy and so loud to cover the two of you.Â
âDid I taste different than the pureblood girls? Than Alicent? Than Eliana?â You pushing him, pushing at his buttons because this has to be it, this has to be when he finally tells you that you were some bet that he made with his friends, that kissing you was worth some extra galleons to fill his pockets as he came back gallivanting to the other Slytherin purebloods.Â
His eye twitches, his breathing heavy as he murmurs another stop but you just shake your head, hoping that he doesnât see the gloss covering your eyes, the way your lips are trembling thinking of all the possibilities.Â
âYouâre mean, Gojo,â the words fall from your lips, heavy, pointed straight at him, and you can feel a tear drop down your chin, splattering on the table, right next to all the water droplets from your mug, âA-and you donât even realize it. Or maybe you do, I donât know,â you shrug, âThose weeks when we were working on that essay I sent an owl to my mum and she sent one back saying how happy she was that I finally had a friend.âÂ
Thereâs a beat of silence.Â
You canât stand to look at his face.Â
You helplessly wipe at your cheeks, looking away as you heaved in a shaky breath, nodding confidently for your own sake as you stood up.
âI need to go,â you mutter, your water sat untouched as you made your way around the people standing and talking, made your way out the door, and let your tears loose.Â
â
The break couldnât come by any faster.Â
You occupied your time and mind by doing everything possible.Â
You found a broom closet that was big and comfortable enough for you to do your work, and most days you found yourself there. You ate your meals alone, as always, and made sure that wherever Gojo was, you werenât.
One of the only things you could look forward to was when the holidays came and when everybody left. It meant that only a handful of Slytherinâs stayed and that meant that you could finally have some moments of quiet to yourself.Â
Hogwarts was a different kind of magical during Christmas time, and you tried to take time to appreciate the dozen trees, the floating candles that had red ribbons tied around them, the little snow clouds that sometimes followed you around, and the mistletoes that some of the fifth years thought would be funny to hang up around the castle.Â
And when the breaks finally came around, you watched as people bid each other farewell, their bags packed sufficiently enough for the two-week break as they made their way out of the school and to the train, waving at each other until they departed.Â
You watched from the stairs, knowing that you too could go home, but seeing that your mom picked up more shifts around the holidays, youâd just be spending these two weeks alone rather than surrounded by strangers, which you still preferred.Â
The professors seemed to be in a better mood around this time as well, and it helped with distracting you from all the other thousand thoughts that were running through your mind.Â
The Slytherin common room was always empty around this time of year. Seeing that most of the kids went to their families, it gave you some time to actually enjoy the amenities you usually miss out on during other times of the year.Â
The room itself was decorated with a large Christmas tree near the large, arching window that looked out into the black lake, and stockings on the fireplace of those students that were staying.Â
Despite Slytherin and their hatred for the color red, the room was a nice mix between the two clashing colors.Â
After dinner, on the first night with everyone gone, you made your way down to the dungeons, muttering out the password as the large doors swept open, allowing you inside.Â
Your first thought was to sit in front of the fireplace on one of the couches and catch up on reading, but seeing that there was almost nobody here you decided to go change into something more comfortable.Â
Making your way up the stairs that led to the girl's dormitories you noted that most of those who were staying were relays from years before, some fourth and sixth years, a couple of first years, and rounded the corner that led to your room.Â
Well, that wouldâve led to your room had it not been blocked.Â
âSorry!â You cry out in surprise, a little shocked, and then your shock melts away as you feel like banging your head against the stone wall when you see that it is none other than Gojo.Â
âI need to tell you someth-â
âThe train left!â You cry out, feeling like dragging him out by his hair.Â
âIâm aware-â
âThen why arenât you on it?â You push past him as you go to open your door, feeling him right behind you.Â
Youâre glad that all of your other roommates are gone because Gojo doesnât seem to be giving it much thought as he comes in as well.Â
Your arms are crossed as you look around, looking for something, anything, that you could use to ward him away. Heâs standing awkwardly at the doorway, wringing his fingers in a way that he never does.Â
Heâs wearing a loose sweater, gray in color, and it seems to make his eyes even more striking. There are still bags under his eyes, but his face seems a little more flushed as if he was slowly coming back from the dead. His white hair is tousled, and you note that he hasnât styled it in a while.Â
âIâve been thinking ever since the three broomsticks,â heâs talking and youâre pacing around the room, trying to act like you donât care that heâs here, âAnd I have some things I need to tell you.âÂ
Youâre rummaging around in one of your cupboards, but he knows what youâre doing, and he steps a little closer to you, shutting the door behind him as you glance up at him briefly, raising a brow.Â
He swallows, running a hand through his white strands as you turn your back to him, looking through your jewelry box as you begin to take off your earrings.Â
âI saw you, this summer.â
You stop.Â
Gojo continues.Â
âMy parents had some ministry work to do, and we went to the city. I was walking around one day, trying to figure out where I was supposed to go when I saw you,â Gojo sounded nearer, his voice more desperate, âI saw you through a window. You were working⌠I think. You had this apron on and you were walking around this little restaurant.âÂ
You swear you could hear your heartbeat.Â
âAnd you were smiling at something this guy said, and you just looked soâŚhappy,â he pauses, âAnd prettyâŚyou looked so pretty and I didnât know what to do because Iâve never felt this strange feeling in my chest whereâŚâÂ
Where everything just stops, then starts moving in tandem as if there had been a loose screw the entire time until now.Â
âAnd I think Iâve always felt this way, you know?â Heâs not stopping, and youâre scared that if you look at him youâre going to believe him, believe that heâs telling the truth and that this isnât some sort of dream youâre forcing yourself to see, âIn our fifth year, when you were telling the class about your happiest memory, you had this smile on your face. Or last year, when we were in potions and Nanami said a joke, youâd laugh and I just felt soâŚlost.âÂ
Heâs lying.Â
âN-no, no, youâre lying,â you croak out, moving past him as you keep your head down, going over to your bed as you sit at the end of it, needing something to sit down on because otherwise youâd collapse.
âIâm not,â Gojo pleads, his voice behind you, âAnd for so long I thought I was lying to myself because I didnât know what I was feeling,â he takes a few steps closer, standing at your bedpost, âIâd never felt this way about anyone. A-and youâre right, you are different. Youâre so different from anybody else and I love it.â
Youâre shaking your head, your back to him as you sniffle.Â
âI donât believe you,â you mutter, your arms wrapped around your middle as your head dips down, lashes wet with tears.Â
He doesnât say anything for a few seconds and you realize itâs because heâs moving to where youâre sitting, and you see him clearly as he crouches down on the ground, his hands moving to hold yours as he forces you to look at him.Â
Itâs such a strange sight seeing the Gojo Satoru, the Prince of Slytherin, the most stoic and composed person youâve ever met soâŚvulnerable in front of you.
âI know-âÂ
Youâre shaking your head at him, lips pouting together as you blink slowly, your nose scrunched up in frustration.Â
âYouâre lying-âÂ
âIâm not, Iâm begging you, please-âÂ
âYouâre lying, Gojo,â You say, your voice cracking as you feel your tears rolling down your, collecting on your chin before they splatter crudely on your bed sheets, âYou donât feel this way about me. Youâre either lying to me o-or to yourself becauseâŚâ you struggle to find the words, âBecause in no world would you feel this way about me.âÂ
His hands are warm, his thumb gentle as it rubs over your knuckles. And you donât notice it until he pulls them away to wipe at your tears, his fingers soft and slow against your skin as you hiccup.
âBut I do,â he whispers, his thumb cradling your cheek, âI do. Y-youâre so smart, and kind, and witty, and caring, and youâre so wonderfully you.â
This is too much.Â
âYou donât know anything about me,â you plead, wondering when he was going to give up the act and leave so you could be alone.Â
âYou only eat your eggs if thereâs a little bit of syrup on them,â Gojo says immediately, and your eyes shoot up to his, âYou put an extra flick on the dots of your iâs, you like McGonagall most out of all your other professors, you never change your necklace, you-âÂ
You push him by the shoulders, frustrated knowing that heâd never stop, changing the subject.
âIf you cared about me you wouldâve done something,â your voice isn't yours and you canât recognize it as it escapes your windpipes, âI mean, you only had three years. Y-you called me a mudblood, your friends never stopped when they were doing, you - you,â deep inside, your breath is lodged inside your lungs and you choke on it.Â
Gojo cradles your head, pulling you into his chest, and for some reason you let him. You melt into his warmth, into the way he holds you as if you were the thinnest piece of glass, and you canât remember the last time somebody held you like this.
His hand rubs up and down your back, and you feel your tears and snot wet his sweater, but he doesnât seem to care.Â
âI did,â his own voice shakes, âI did, and IâŚâ he swallows his bile, âI wish I could go back and take it back, take all of it back. If I could trade everything I have to turn back time and change the past, I would. Iâll spend my life making it up if youâd let me. You have no idea what I would doâŚâ for you.
You pull away from him, and he lets you.Â
âYouâre all Iâve ever been able to think about this past year. And especially ever since that night, I couldnât get you out of my mind,â his hands go up to hold your face, tracing your features with the most delicate touch, âYour eyes, your nose,â his finger glides down the slope of it, âYour lips, your skin, your hands.âÂ
âBut,â your hands go up to his wrists, pulling them down and he lets you rest them on your lap, hanging off your every word as if you were religion, watching you preach as he remembers every word, every syllable, every tone and inflection you have as gospel, âIâm a muggle-born,â you laugh wetly and painfully, âAnd you hate muggle-borns.â
And for once you see him break into a small and melancholy smile that's full of years of longing, of confusion, of wanting, and his white strands fall on his face. Unconsciously you move them out of the way so that you could see his eyes.Â
âMy parents hate muggle-borns, and Iâm their only son,â your eyes drop to that gold ring, and he notices, âI believed them, and for so long I felt so confused because you werenât like anything they described,â his lips quivered, âI donât hate muggle-borns, and I donât hate you,â he raised your hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to them, âI could never hate you.â
You inhale shakily, your heart thumping in a strange, new rhythm.Â
âWhat about the others?â You ask shakily, âYour friends, your parents, everybody else?âÂ
He shrugs, looking indifferent as he plays with your fingers.Â
âIâll get new friends,â he shoots you a small smile, âAnd I can just buy new parents.âÂ
You snort, rolling your eyes at his antics, and he brightens up seeing your change in demeanor.Â
âYouâŚlikeâŚme?â You ask finally.Â
He lets out a little bit of air in a disbelieving chuckle.Â
âI like you more than the air I need to breathe,â he kisses your knuckles again and you snort, rolling your eyes as you wipe at the corners of them.Â
âThen how have you been breathing all this time without me?â You ask a bit teasingly, wondering how you never noticed that his eyes have little specks of green in them, or how the blush on his cheeks sometimes traveled up to his forehead.Â
âHorribly,â he says and you give him a small laugh, âBut it feels like I just took my first breath after eighteen years.âÂ
â
After that, Gojo could not be separated from your side.Â
He sat next to you during all of your meals, throwing nasty jinxes at anybody who looked at the two of you weirdly. Sure, people couldnât stop talking, but after the first three people who left with a red ink-looking stain on their face, they learned to keep their whispers low.Â
When the two of you were in the common rooms he laid next to you as you read, or vice versa, pulling you into his chest as he told you stories from his childhood.Â
And of course, it took you a while to warm up to him, but slowly and surely you felt at ease around him, feeling like you could be as true to yourself without any fear of repercussions because he loved you wholly, and he had no cares about anything else.Â
âWhatâs that youâre reading?â Heâd say sometimes, looking over your shoulders to scan whatever book it was that you were reading. Thankfully you still had a couple of days till Christmas, and another week of break after that, so the common room was empty, spare for a few stragglers.Â
The fireplace crackled in the background, the smell of cinnamon and cloves heavy in the air.Â
âVoyages with Vampire,â you reply, turning the page as you hear him groan next to you.Â
âLockhart? The fraud?â
You giggle, shoving him a little bit, eyes never leaving the page as you try not to lose your spot.Â
âYeah, but his books are interesting.âÂ
And Gojo didnât care too much, because as you got to read your book he got to be with you, which was all heâs ever wanted since he was fourteen.Â
Other days heâd take you to Hogsmeade, his hand holding onto yours, letting you steer him into the different shops you wanted to look at, a content smile on his face. He loved the way you looked, bundled up in your scarves and sweaters, and he loved that it was mainly just the two of you, seeing that Hogsmeade was unusually empty with everybody gone.Â
And sometimes heâd squeeze your hands a couple of times just to let you know that he was there, and youâd squeeze back twice, looking behind your shoulder so that you wouldnât miss his boyish grin.Â
He mentally noted all the things you picked up, asking if you wanted it, but when you saw that he was beginning to pull out his wallet you shook your head sheepishly, putting it back as you began looking at other things.Â
âLet me just get this-âÂ
âNo!â you cried out, embarrassed as you moved away from whatever shelf it was, hearing him let out a sigh of frustration, laughing at his childish antics.Â
âBut I can just-âÂ
âNo, Gojo,â youâd tell him, your voice a little sterner, âI donât like you because you have money. Too much of it, might I add.âÂ
And heâd pout, his arms circling your waist as he petulantly stays in place, resting his chin on your shoulder so that you canât move.Â
âBut I just so coincidentally seem to have it,â he pressed a kiss to the side of your head as you tried to look at something else, trying to act like you didnât turn to jelly in his hands, âWhy wonât you take it?â
You giggled, angling your head to look back at him.Â
âBecause I donât need a bursting raspberry delight,â you chided him and heâd groan, pulling you even closer to his chest as he outstretched one of his long arms, picking up something in front of you, inspecting it as he showed it to you, putting it back as you shook your head, âAnd I donât need cockroach clusters.âÂ
And you smiled, feeling happy, genuinely happy as you continued to look around the store with Gojo latched onto you. You felt normal for once, felt the way youâve been wanting to feel ever since you were eleven.
â
The days passed by and you found yourself back in the common rooms the night before Christmas, sitting on the couches, facing Gojo as you listened to him talk about all the things heâd been wanting to tell you.
The days passed by and you found yourself back in the common rooms with Gojo the night before Christmas, letting him play with your hair as you leaned up against him on the couch, reading another book.Â
âDid I ever tell you how Benny Thompson didnât know what an animagus was?â Gojo says randomly and you gasp, looking over your shoulder as he nods as you lay your book down on your chest.Â
âYouâre lying,â you say and he shakes his head, twisting and turning that ring on his hand the way he usually does when he likes to fidget.Â
âAnd he asked me if the books in the library had all been written in the actual library,â he continues and you let out a loud, shocked laugh, holding your hand over your mouth in disbelief.Â
You put your book on the table so that you could move up closer to him so that you wouldnât have to crane your neck so much.Â
âWell, to be fair, I think he was just a bit disgruntled to be moved away from his partner in crime,â you move some of the hair out of his face as helmets you sit on his lap, his hands resting comfortably on your waist as you lean in to whisper, âSeeing how I saw them hooking up in one of the broom closets.âÂ
Gojoâs lips part, eyes wide in shock as you nod slowly, a smug grin on your face.
âMakes sense,â he finally muttered and you snorted, thinking back to how the two boys literally couldnât be away from each other for too long before they made a fuss about it.Â
Most of the other students had gone up to their beds, excited for the early morning theyâd be having with presents and such, but you liked staying up this night, liked watching as the presents slowly appeared under the tree.
His mouth opened in a small yawn and you moved slightly, feeling guilty for keeping him up so long.Â
âDo you âwanna sleep?â You offered, twirling some of his white strands around your fingers as his eyes traced over your features.Â
His hands moved up and down your back, holding you close to his body.Â
âBut the presents?â Gojo started, looking at the big Christmas tree near the fireplace as you giggled, noting how he was trying his best to control the yawns that were threatening to spill from his lips.Â
âIâll just look at them tomorrow,â you promise with a giggle, swinging your legs off from him as you stand, stretching your arms above your head as you let out a tired yawn of your own, rubbing at your eyes as you bookmark the page you were at, watching as he stands up, doing a little stretch of his own.
He slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to him as he presses a kiss against your forehead, letting you lead the way back to the dormitories.Â
âPromise to wake up early tomorrow?â You say, looking at him with a raised brow, watching as he crosses his hands across his heart.Â
âSwear on it,â he assures you with a little cheeky grin, his shoulder playfully knocking yours as you snort.Â
The two of you walked in comfortable silence, your eyes taking in all the festive decorations, not noticing how he couldnât stop looking at you. The girl's dormitories were on the left, and down the hall, youâd find the boys, which meant that you were the first to depart as you neared the top of the stairs.Â
You move to stand in front of your door, your book in your hands as you stare up at him, noticing the pink flush that never seemed to leave, all over his cheeks. He looked so pretty like this.Â
âThis is me,â you say jokingly and he chuckles softly, his hands back on your waist as you feel him press a gentle kiss to your forehead. He never pressured you to kiss him back, always leaving small yet thoughtful pecks either on the crown of your head or on your face, wherever heâd find that you didnât squeal as he tried to kiss.
He says your name quietly, looking down at you as you meet him in the middle.Â
âMerry Christmas Satoru,â you whisper, and you see the wide, boyish smile that breaks across his face when you say his name, loving it only when he hears it from your lips.Â
âMerry Christmas sweetheart,â his voice quieter than usual, kinder, and in a lovesick way that not even amortentia could replicate.
You look up for a brief second when you sense something is off, and you giggle at the little green and white plant that is forming above your head.
âMistletoe,â you mutter.Â
âHm?â He sounds confused until he looks up when he sees it growing, itâs green leaves and little white flowering buds, looking back down at you.Â
And again, just like that night in October, you donât know which one of you it was that moved closer to bridge the gap, but either way, only seconds later did you feel him press his lips against yours, and you were gone.
He was gentler than the last time as if he was savoring your lips, your taste, the way you moved against him. Gojo wrapped an arm around you, tugging you to him, his other hand fumbling with the door handle as the two of you tumbled inside, his foot raising to kick it shut as you tangled your fingers in his hair.Â
âS-satoru,â you whine, needing more of him, needing him in a way youâve never felt, your eyes fluttering shot when he bites at your lips, his tongue prodding past your lips as you let him, your stomach fluttering delightfully, âMore, need more,â
His eyes flicked open for a second, ensuring you were okay, and he grinned.Â
His lips resumed their movements, sucking and yours, teeth nipping as your face became of a mess of spit, moaning slightly as he nudged your jaw up with his nose, your head tilting backward as you gave him more room on your neck.Â
Mindlessly you reach for your wand in your back pocket, waving it near the direction of your door as you lock it and cast a muffliato charm, something you would thank yourself for greatly later.
Gojo was relentless as he pressed kisses and sucked harshly on your skin, needing to mark up what was his, needing people to see that you were his, and you could only whine as he left dark marks on your skin, soothing them with little pecks as he moved down.Â
His scent was all-consuming, the way he held you made you go dizzy, and if only you knew that what you felt, he felt ten-fold more. Gojo was so crazy about you, that if you told him to jump from his broomstick heâd gladly do it.
âIs this,â he sighs, trying to catch some air, âThis okay? Do you want me to stop?âÂ
And you quickly shake your head, muttering out no, no, as he chuckled darkly, moving your (his) sweater away from your shoulders so he could kiss down there too.Â
Your hands, which had been wrapped around his neck, fell to his chest, pushing at his sweater as you wanted to paw at the skin, wanting to feel more of him, and you heard his breathing stutter, his lips pausing momentarily at the feeling of your hands on him.Â
He says your name like a mantra like heâs been waiting his entire life to say it, and you catch his eyes once again like heâs asking for permission to continue, and you nod, smiling up at him as you let him.
Your fingers grasp at the hem of his sweater, tugging it upwards so that you could see his skin beneath, the muscles sitting nicely, a glimpse you sometimes saw when he was moving around too much, and your heart stumbled.Â
He helped you, tugging it upwards and over his head as he discarded it somewhere on the floor, and for once you feel the air get knocked from your lungs.Â
Heâs built. Long, muscular shoulders, soft skin that shouldnât be as daunting as it looked right now, but he wasnât even focused on that, his nimble fingers running across your waist where your sweater had hitched upwards, and you just know that you need more of this.Â
Youâre not even thinking as you shed it off of you, joining him on the floor, and his eyes widen, swallowing thick as he sees what he only thought heâd be able to see in the back of his mind as he dreamed.Â
You were stunning, and suddenly he thought back to the statues he saw in Italy when he traveled there as a child. He thought back to how those ladies looked, and how the sculptors must be twisting and turning in their graves when they couldâve had you as their muse.Â
âStopp,â you whine, embarrassed, your hands going up to cover your naked skin, but he gently pushes them down, kissing your collarbone, the skin above your breasts which were still hidden with your bra as he shakes his head.Â
âYouâre beautiful,â he mutters, the words escaping him as if his mind is working faster than any other part of his body, âSo beautiful.âÂ
He dips his head back down to kiss you, and a surprised sound escapes your lips, but you welcome it nonetheless, feeling entranced by him, by the fervor in his movements, as if he wouldnât survive without this.
His hands worship you, slow and careful as they run against your naked skin walking you back so that your knees hit the back of your bed.Â
âYouâre pretty good-looking too,â you try for a joke but it falls short from your lips because itâs true. Youâd read stories of Aphrodite and Persephone fighting over Adonis just because he was the most gorgeous man they met, and you were worried that if the gods were real youâd have to hide him away forever.Â
He hums in the back of his throat, as if he didnât believe you, and gingerly laid you down on your bed, his massive body looming over you as you smile, a gleeful smile on your face as you try to make sense of what your life was.Â
âWhatâs so funny?â Gojo teased, pressing little butterfly kisses on your cheek, the tip of your nose, your chin, and you couldnât stop smiling, feeling ticklish when he kissed your neck again, a light giggle falling from your lips that made his ears turn pink.Â
âNothing,â you said breathlessly, squealing when he bit the skin in the middle of your tits, swatting at his head as he grinned, pressing a soothing kiss to the spot.Â
âNo, it has to be something,â he argues, kissing down the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, never breaking eye contact with you as you swallow thickly, no longer laughing as you feel a heat growing in your stomach, âIs it funny when I kiss here?â He presses a kiss above your navel, âOr here?â Heâs reaching the top of your jeans, pulling them down slightly to kiss your hip bone, âOr maybe here?âÂ
And you shake your head, want and desire in your eyes and he chuckles darkly, slowly unbuttoning your jeans as he slides them down your legs, his heart sputtering in his chest when he comes back up to see you all sprawled out for him.Â
You feel self-conscious about your choice of undergarments, both old and nearly falling apart at the seams, not matching in any sense of the word, but Gojo doesnât seem to care. He looks at you as if youâre a painting thatâs suddenly come to life, and he doesnât know how to handle that.Â
You reach behind yourself to work at the old clasp of your bra, sliding it down your arms as you lie back down, looking sheepishly at him as you realize youâre far more exposed at the moment than he is.Â
But Gojo seems to have gone to another world, not moving from where he was as his eyes donât leave from your chest.Â
âDonât look at me like that!â You shout, trying to cover up your bare chest with your hands but he gently tugs your wrists away, his blue eyes wavering as he groans, getting closer to you before he glances up.
âDonât hide from me then,â heâs pleading, beginning, âPlease.âÂ
And you canât, because the way he presses gentle kisses to your bare breasts is unlike anything youâve felt before. Youâre breathing hitches, and your head falls back to your pillows as his mouth closes over on your nipples, a moan ripping from your throat.Â
âOh,â you say, breathing shakily through your nose as his other hand goes to your other tit, his thumb flicking over your nipple as you feel yourself grow wetter down there, terrified that thereâs going to be a pool when he looks.Â
He sucks, bites, marking up this territory that only heâs going to see, his pink lips switching to your other one as you whine out loud, feeling lightheaded as he presses three kisses to your hard nipple, worshiping you like you were his deity.Â
âYouâre going to be the death of me,â he says with a mouthful of tit, pulling up from your chest as he kisses you briefly, kissing down your body one more time before he settles in between your legs, âAnd no man has been more willing to die than me.âÂ
You whine when his hot kisses trail up from your calf to your knees, wet as they glisten in the candlelight as if he was making his path visible up to where you were burning, needing for him to meet you.Â
âYou talk a l-lot,â youâre trying to sound steady but you canât when heâs looking at you like that, but he just kisses the inside of your thigh for a second long, his nose nudging at your clothed cunt as you whine.Â
Youâve only heard about the other girls talking about sex, feeling embarrassed as they acted out what the other guys did with them. They talked about how they threw them around on the bed or how they pushed their heads down into the pillows but they never mentioned anything about this.
âYouâre right,â he murmurs, âI should stop.âÂ
And he doesnât give you any warning as he presses a kiss to your clit through your underwear, your little gasp of surprise going straight to his dick. He hitches your legs on his shoulders, looping a finger around the waistband of your panties as he slides them down, a deep, guttural groan almost punched from his lungs at the sight of your glistening cunt.Â
Fuck, he thought to himself, you actually were going to be the death of him with the way he still canât properly breathe around you.Â
âPerfect,â Gojo whispers, his head dipping down, âYouâre perfect.âÂ
And before you can chide him again, he dives down, his tongue licking and sucking at your pussy lips, your back arching off of the bed as your fingers grasp onto his head for support, unknowingly pushing him even further into you.Â
Heâs fast, tasting you as he groans again, your saccharine essence bursting against his tongue, and he canât control himself. Itâs so messy and wet, and you can see your juice shining on his chin when you glance down briefly to look at him.Â
âO-oh,â you stutter when he pushes a slender finger inside your walls, clenching down on him as his lips find your clit, suctioning at it as you whine for him to go fast, âOh god,âÂ
He smiles against you, his finger slowly moving in and out, his lips kissing your clit, feeling the way you grew tight around him and didnât stop.Â
When he added his middle finger you felt like you were going to die, not knowing how youâd be able to handle all of him if this was just you losing yourself on his fingers, but you couldnât find it in yourself to care right now.Â
His fingers are long and reach deep within you, something youâve never felt before, but knowing that youâd surely die without it if he stopped.
âS-Satoru,â youâre mewling, and he thinks he could just cum with the way youâre saying his name, âDonât stop, please, f-faster.âÂ
And he kisses your cunt to tell you that he hears you, his fingers positioning in and out of you, his tongue alternating from where his fingers were to going back up to your little bud, your eyes screwed shut as you feel that rope grow tighter and tighter in your stomach.Â
His unoccupied hand travels up your stomach to toy with your breasts, flicking your nipples back and forth, the added sensation along with everything else causing you to nearly lose whatever sanity it was that you had left.Â
Your toes curled, your fingers gripping onto his white strands even tighter, feeling bad for how hard you were pulling at him, but he urged you, loving that sting.Â
âHow do you feel?â He takes a break, his voice a little muffled, his fingers not stopping as you whine helplessly, âEverything okay?âÂ
And you can tell heâs just teasing you because when you push his head back down he goes willingly, acting as if you were his last meal on this earth and he just couldnât wait for the sweet release of death.Â
âGood,â you moan, âS-so good,â and your voice is egging him on, making him go faster and faster, your toes curling as he switches between his fingers and his mouth, doing something heavenly that you never knew you could experience.Â
Youâre growing tighter around him, your chest heaving as you feel something strange, unlike anything youâve ever felt before, coming.Â
âW-wait, âToru, IâŚâ and you canât stop it, your eyes going white as he doesnât stop either, his fingers pistoning in and out of you with no remorse, âI donât knowâŚfuckâŚcoming, IâŚâ and youâre just babbling mindlessly now, your back almost off of the bed as something snaps and youâre gushing around his fingers.Â
Itâs euphoric, the feeling. You canât breathe but somehow you can breathe better than you have in your life, your walls clenched around him like a vice, your thighs shaking as you cum around his fingers.Â
You wailed out a hopeless moan, your hands covering your mouth as if that could silence you, fat tears dotting your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure you were feeling and you were trying to fill your lungs back up with air as his mouth never stopped sucking at your clit until he was sure your climax was over.
When you finally calmed down and sank back onto the bed, Gojo sat up from between your thighs, his hair messy, chin and lips soaked with his spit and your release, his eyes a bright cerulean blue.Â
You watched as he stuck his fingers in his mouth, cleaning you off of him, moaning like a whore at the sight. He dipped back down, kissing you feverishly, letting you kiss yourself on him as you whine, feeling like a different person entirely.Â
When he pulls away thereâs a line of spit connecting your lips, and heâs never looked happier.
âAre you feeling good?â Heâs rubbing soothing circles on your hips, âWant to stop?âÂ
You groan, swatting at his shoulders.Â
âYouâre too attentive,â you say, and he snorts, kissing in between your brows as he pecks your lips one last time, reaching down to unbutton his pants, and throw them somewhere along with the rest of your clothes.Â
You watch in a love-sick haze as he tugs at his boxers, his fingers quick as he discards them too, and suddenly, the two of you are bare before each other.Â
He is Adonis, you finally decide when you get to get a full look at him, thereâs no question.Â
His legs are just as toned as the rest of him, his thighs huge with pure muscle, something necessary to be quidditch captain as well as one of the best seekers Hogwarts has ever seen. The v-line that leads down to hisâŚoh god.Â
Heâs huge, and while you havenât been with any other guy, you can tell that heâs big. His dick sits hard and angry against his stomach, his pretty pink tip leaking with pre, curving slightly. Your mouth waters at the veins that start at his base, his white hairs trimmed, and go upwards.Â
How would he fit in you?Â
âDonât worry,â Gojo assures you, as if reading your mind, âIâll go slow. Tell me at any point if it hurts, okay?âÂ
And you nod, your mouth watering as he climbs atop of you, his hand near your head as he presses one final kiss to your hairline, wrapping your leg around his waist as his other hand goes down to finger his dick, plunging two fingers into your wet pussy, lubricating it in your wetness as he looks down at where the two of you met.Â
âReady?â He asks, and you can only whine, murmuring out a needy yes as he chuckles, your legs spreading open to accommodate him, and he lines his tip up with your entrance.Â
You feel like the air that you had so tirelessly gulped back seconds ago was punched out of you at the feeling, and he stays true to his words, going as slow as humanly possible so that you could get used to his length.Â
He pushes past you gently and carefully, your walls clenching around him, memorizing every vein he has, the curve of his dick, and you watch as his hips press into yours, the way his abs tense as he tries to go slow.Â
It stings, but in the most delicious way possible. Your eyes dot with tears, but you need him to move, not knowing why he was taking so long.
Gojo balances himself above you, and you grow wetter and wetter the more he sinks into your warmth, your legs circling his waist to pull him in even closer, your arms tangling around his shoulder, into the hairs at his nape.Â
âMore,â you whisper, needing him unlike anything youâve needed before, âM-more, âToru, please,âÂ
His eyes look at you with slight apprehension.Â
âAre you s-âÂ
âYes,â you cut him off, your legs tightening around him as he groans, his dick pressing more into you, sinking into you completely until all of him was sheathed inside your cunt.Â
You could feel him in your stomach with the way he was pressing up into you, feel the outline of his dick against your skin, and his head dipped down so that you couldnât see his face anymore, his breathing stuttering as he tried to regain his composure, trying his best to not pull out and slam back into you.Â
Gojo gives you a couple of seconds to grow used to him and tries to be as much of a gentleman as he can be, but with every other tick of that clock on the wall he thinks heâs going to go inside, not recognizing himself anymore.Â
Your chest heaves, and you nod.Â
ââM ready,â you say finally, and his head draws back up to you, his brows furrowed together, trying to make sure that you werenât just saying that for his sake, but you nod again, âIâm ready.âÂ
And god, he feels like heâs finally seen the light as he pulls out of you, nearly all of his dick from your snug cunt, your juices shining in the light, and he pushes himself back in, groaning out from deep inside his chest as you clench around him.Â
He does it again, and again, and again, and before you know it heâs slamming his hips into yours.Â
âShit,â he moans, his voice deeper and lower in pitch, âF-fuck, youâre so tight, you haveâta,â he lets out whine when you clench around him, âYou have to relax, please sweetheart, youâre killing me.â
His hands are leaving bruises on your hips from how hard heâs holding onto you, your moans mixing with his as your ankles dig deep into his back, your back arching so much that your tits were pressed up against his chest, gleaming with sweat.Â
âMhh, âToru, oh my g-god,â you canât even recognize your own voice, âS-so good, sâbig âToru,â
You watch as he drops a hand in between your two bodies, his fingers rubbing at your clit as your mouth opens in a silent scream, sweat dotting at your forehead as you bit your lip to keep in your debaucherous moans.Â
He bites down on your shoulder, leaving yet another mark, his nose inhaling at the last remnants of your perfume, making sure heâd never forget a single thing about tonight.Â
His fingers along with his dick are driving you to ruin, and you feel that same coil coming back, being pulled taunt deep within you far quicker than the first time. Heâs relentless against your clit, kissing your tits gently as you cry out.Â
âShit, IâŚâ you can barely breathe, his own groans and moans filling up the room, âI canât, I feel likeâŚ!âÂ
âI know, I know,â he says, knowing what youâre meaning, what youâre feeling, because heâs not too far from his own release either, âCome on, let go, Iâve got you,â he muttered against your glistening skin, edging you on even more.
Your fingers tangle in his white strands once again, pulling him closer to you as your lips lock with his, the kiss messy and not even coherent but you donât care because as his tongue mingles with yours, his hips never stopping and his fingers picking up pace, you moan out loud, lewd and wanting into his mouth as you come.Â
This time is even more intense than the last time, and you canât stop clenching around him, your cum coating his dick, making it even more wet as you spasm around him, your eyes seeing stars, feeling a loud thumping in your head and chest.Â
It doesnât help that he doesnât stop either, your orgasm lasting even longer as he chases his own high, his head thrown back in an instant as he pulls out to finish on you, white spurts coating your heaving chest, painting you like his own portrait.Â
âFuck,â he sighs out, his white lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he looks at you, underneath him, covered in his cum, and feels something primal surge in his chest at the sight, like youâre his god and heâs finally in heaven.
Even after he pulls out you feel yourself pulsing around nothing, already missing him as you whine absentmindedly at the loss.
When you finally calm down, you crack your eyes open to see him sitting on his haunches, pushing back his sweat soaked hair away from his face as he shoots you own of his wide grins, your own face breaking into a smile as you throw and arm across face.Â
You feel the bed dip, and peek out to see him walking away.Â
âWhereâŚ?â You croak out, your voice hoarse, and he throws you a wink from over his shoulders, finding a clean towel in your little bin that you keep at the end of the room for when you and the rest of the girls need to shower.
He brings it over to you, grabbing his wand, casting a small aguamenti charm on it, only to get it slightly wet, as he comes back to where you were lying.Â
You silently watch as he gingerly drags it across your body, cleaning you up between your legs, wincing at the way you inhaled sharply, still feeling raw, and kissing your stomach in an apologetic manner. He then dragged it across your chest, making sure he got everything, throwing the towel in the dirty bin as he climbed up to bed with you.Â
âThirsty?â He asks, and you nod meekly, graciously accepting the cup that he fills with the pitcher near your bed stand, gulping it all down as some of the water droplets fall on your chest, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you set it to the side, falling back in your bedÂ
The bed isnât really meant for two people, especially one with his size, so you have to cuddle close together, but you donât mind the way he pulls you closer to his chest, pulling the blanket above so that it rests on your naked body.Â
âGood?â He asks simply, and you nod again, craning your neck to look up at him as you smile gleefully.Â
âGood.âÂ
â
That morning, you were the first to wake.Â
You blink slowly, sitting up, wiping at your eyes as your mouth opens in a loud yawn.Â
You look over to Gojo next to you, his hands still strewn across your waist, his lips parting slightly as he sleeps gently.Â
You donât want to wake him up, not used to seeing him so at ease, but you remember that itâs Christmas morning, falling back down to your mattress as your fingers tap on his bicep, watching as he cracks one blue eye open.Â
âHmm?â He hums tiredly, annoyed that you had moved away from him, pulling you back to the furnace that was his chest.Â
âYou promised youâd wake up,â you say with a whine, giggling when his eyes snap open, never wanting to break a promise he makes to you, sitting up suddenly as he looks around the empty room.Â
âIâm kidding,â you tease, âI donât usually get much, come back to sleep.âÂ
Gojo yawns, rubbing his hands across his face, and gives you a knowing look. Your brows furrow together in confusion, tilting your head to the side.Â
âWhat?â You ask, sitting up next to him as his thumb traces against your knuckles.Â
âNothing,â he kisses your forehead, your nose, your cheeks and then finally your lips, âItâs just that I think that the majority of presents under that tree are for you,â Gojo says with a grin, watching with a smile as your face breaks into the cutest grin, your eyes bright as you tug on his fingers.Â
âReally?â youâre already getting out of bed, the smile on your face never ending as you tug on your jeans from the floor, âReally?âÂ
âReally,â he says, handing you your sweater as you pull that on mindlessly, your movements fast and hurried, excited for Christmas morning for the first time since you were a kid.Â
âOh, and,â he holds onto your wrist, stopping you momentarily as you try to pull on a sock over your feet, âI have something I wanted to give youâŚin private.âÂ
Your eyes squint together, trying to see if he was going to say a dirty joke or if he was actually serious.Â
When he releases your wrist, he unfolds your hands, taking your ring finger as he slides a ring across it, something that he mustâve had hidden in his hand for a good second because you never saw him get anything.Â
âWhatâŚ?â You turn your hand around, only to see his gold ring, embellished with his family crest, shining back at you.Â
ââToru, IâŚâ You were shaking your head, going to take it off, but he stops you, his blue eyes shimmering a light sky color, creasing upwards as he gives you one of the smiles that he only reserves for you.Â
âItâs yours,â he says, closing your fingers into a fist as he brings it up to his lips, kissing it softly, âAnd besides, itâs just a placeholder.âÂ
You let out a disbelieving chuckle, looking at the ring once again as you glance up at him.Â
âPlaceholder for what?âÂ
Gojo gives you another knowing look, as if you should know the answer to this question.Â
âYouâll see,â he promises, and you laugh, helping him put on his own clothes, messing with his hair, pushing it back so that it wouldnât be so messy.Â
âYou want to be my husband?â You say teasingly, walking to the door as you cast him a glance, âBecause you should know that I need to get a stable job and house and everything before I even think of marrying. Are you sure youâll want to wait that long? After all that time?âÂ
He pulls you in for a hug, kissing the crown of your head.Â
âEven after all that time,â he murmurs against your hair, âAlways.â
summary: six years ago, when they placed that sorting hat on your head, nobody expected for it to assign the muggleborn to the slytherin house, but it did. six years later, you find yourself as alone as the day you walked through those doors. little did you expect the prince of slytherin, the pureblood maniac himself, gojo satoru, to be the one to coincidentally fill your empty hours.
warnings: gojo is a pureblooded slytherin, slight angst, slight messy makeout
word count: 12.6k
note: part two is out now! comments and reblogs are always appreciated! thank you to @jadeisthirsting for beta reading as always!
part two
slytherin!gojo masterlist + jjk masterlist
When you were little, all the strange and peculiar things that happened to you, such as Ms. Bromsely, the awful maths teacher's desk going up in flames, or Patricia Gallaghers rings disintegrating after she teased your dress, were chalked up to chance or just something else.
Your mother was too busy covering extra shifts down at the pub to worry about it, so she rarely made an occurrence to the meetings your headmaster had scheduled, resulting in very awkward meetings with just you as you were explained how peculiar it was that you always seemed to be in the middle of all these weird occurrences.
So when that brown spotted owl almost crashed into your bedroom window at the ripe age of eleven, explaining that you were chosen to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you suspected that one of your classmates was playing a cruel joke on you, but alas, it turned out to be very real.Â
You were whisked away soon enough, stumbling your way in some sort of haze through Diagon Alley, and then in a blink of your eyes, you found yourself waving goodbye to your mother from that red train, on your way to a life you may have only imagined when you were younger, dreaming of a place far away from where you were.
And you loved it.
The feasts, the history-soken steps that you walked on every day to get to class, the little town that was within walking distance that you could go to every weekend.Â
While most of the students here had been introduced to this early on in their lives, you hadnât. Your mother was just as shocked and as bewildered as you were all those years ago, and given your special circumstances, sometimes you wondered if you were yet to see the thick of it, wondering if some things were hidden from you given your upbringing, given your blood.
But you blinked out of your stupor, being brought down from your daydream to the sound of quills scratching, the smell of faint smoke burning in the background, and the quiet sounds of different animals in their cages. All of these tall-tell signs of the transfiguration classroom.Â
After years of spending time in this classroom, it slowly became one that youâd look forward to, and despite most Slytherins having an aptitude for potions or defense against the dark arts, transfiguration was where you shined the best.
The light that carded through the high arching windows illuminated the desks, and you were glad seeing how the back of the classrooms was usually the most poorly lit place. Unfortunately, theyâre the only places you found yourself sitting throughout the years, which is just another reason why this specific classroom in itself brought you a slight sense of comfort.Â
â...cross-species and inter-species transfiguration is one of the most difficult, if not the most difficult, sort of transfiguration to achieve. Even the most accomplished witches and wizards find themselves struggling with it,â you watched as Professor McGonagall walked around the front of the classroom, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head, her emerald robes swaying behind her like green waves, âThe only way we were able to replicate this form of magic is through ancient runes.âÂ
Her eyes raked over all the students of the class, to make sure that everybody was understanding the weight of her words. As seventh years it was expected that you all would be ready to face the challenges of such a high-level class. But especially with Professor McGonagall, seeing just how difficult her classes usually were.Â
âOf course, this was all covered during your fourth years, so I hope that some of you,â she gave a knowing look over her glasses, âRemember your lessons.âÂ
You momentarily caught her eyes.
You squirmed in your seat, knowing that her displeased look was directed to the Gryffindorâs sitting next to you. The boy to your left had his mouth open in a large yawn, promptly shutting it when McGonagall looked at him, and the girl to your right was busily finicking with a piece of parchment, trying to figure out how to enchant it so that it could turn into a swan to send to her boyfriend who was sitting across the class.Â
You loved Hogwarts. Most of the time.Â
The reason why you usually found yourself at the back of class, sitting with people you barely knew, and the reason why you were yet to experience most of the core memories other witches and wizards your age experienced was because you werenât welcomed the way other would be by their assorted houses.Â
Nearly six years ago, when Professor McGonagall placed that sorting hat on your head, you didnât know what to expect.Â
You had heard from some of the people that you sat near on the train that Gryffindor was best. Of course, the boy who said it came from a family of Gryffindors, but his friends seemed to agree with him. Ravenclaw was only for the smart people, which you hoped you might be sorted into and Huffelpuffs were known for their loyalty, which, judging by your mother's statement about how you dared to leave home, you didnât have much of.Â
But the Slytherin house seemedâŚforbidden.Â
At least for you, anyways.Â
âAnd what about that girl we saw?â One of the boys pointed outside the carriage window into the little hall outside, pointing to a much older girl wearing green robes, walking with some other friends who wore adorning colors, âWhat house is she in?âÂ
The other boy, who seemed to have the most knowledge out of anyone, scoffed, shaking his head.Â
âNot for you, sorry,â he leaned in closer as if he were telling a secret. You tried to listen in, not making it obvious seeing how you werenât any of their friends and how this was the only cart available with space, âThatâs the Slytherin house.âÂ
âWhyâs it not for me?â The other boy argued, his face pulled into a scowl.
âWell, Slytherins are many things. Ambitious, cunning,â the other boy said but shook his head disapprovingly, âBut above all else, theyâre all purebloods. Some are half-bloods, but even thatâs rare. Youâre coming from a muggle family. My father works at the ministry, and he says that some of the people in his department who were Slytherin still despise muggle-borns and muggles even long after theyâve left.â
So you had a basic understanding of what to expect. Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor.
But when the hat cried out âSlytherin!â you almost jumped in your seat, looking behind you at the professor, your face of hesitancy surely mirroring hers.Â
And you soon found out that the boy on the train (who was sorted into Gryffindor, big shock), was right. Word spread quickly that a muggle-born was sorted into Slytherin, the first in centuries, and that it surely mustâve been a mistake.Â
But the sorting hat doesnât go back on its word, and what was said was done. So six and a bit years later you found yourself as the pariah of your own house and were forced to fade into the background to avoid any further trouble.Â
â...and this is the one project in which Iâm having you work with partners, picked by me, of course. The research that is needed to go into this is too much to be done alone.â Professor McGonagall continued, and you perked up in your seat a little bit, your brows furrowing at her words.Â
You felt a part of your heart race at the thought. Normally when professors assigned partners, it either left you with a fellow Slyhterin who hated your existence and forced you to do the project on your own, or somebody from another house who didnât know you and forced you to do the project on your own.Â
Your tongue felt heavy as she began reading off the paired names on her list, your hands becoming clammy.Â
âMiss Finnegan and Mister Belton. Miss OâShea and Miss Adan,â The girl next to you, who you quickly pieced together was Leila OâShea groaned, her face depleted as she realized she wasnât going to be paired with her boyfriend, and you watched as she sulkily went to the other girl's desk.Â
You listened in anticipation as she went down the list, your heart beating loudly and comically in your chest the closer it seemed that she was getting to the end.Â
âMister Reeve and Mister Thompson,â she paused momentarily as she watched the two boys clap each other on the back, her lips threatening to quirk up into a smile, just waiting to read what foolishness they were going to write, âMiss Ward and Mister Green,â you felt like you might be getting off the hook, that maybe she took pity on you but it all came crashing down when she looked at you, a knowing look in her eyes far worse than pity as she read your name along with perhaps the singular person you wouldâve paid all your money to not be paired with,Â
ââŚwill be with Mister Gojo,â you heard some of your housemates laugh out loud, some of them pushing at the boy and ruffling his hair as if he were the one that was going to face the brute of everything. He sat near the front, and you could see a flash of his white hair as he begrudgingly began to pack his things up, having no choice but to sit next to you seeing how the seats next to him were filled up.Â
You watched as she rolled the piece of parchment back up as if she hadnât just sentenced your public execution, and she raised a singular thin brow at the faces that were looking back at her, âWell? Get a move on. This essay is due in a month.â
You tried to take in a deep breath, your eyes trained on the blank piece of parchment in front of you as if you couldnât hear his footsteps getting closer and closer to you, as if you didnât just feel his robes brush up against your legs as he sunk into his seat.
This canât possibly be happening.
Anybody wouldâve been better than him. Even Marley Petterson and her constant poking and teasing about how your clothes were held together by scraps, and how you mustâve lived with mud people before you came to Hogwarts wouldâve been better than him. Being forced to be a partner with the Prince of Slytherin was torture, and you wonder if after all these years Professor McGonagall was just now starting to show her distaste towards you.Â
That day on the train was the first time you heard his name.Â
âYou see that boy? The one with the white hair?â The boy discreetly pointed out the window to one of the kids standing outside your cart. All the other boys hurriedly nodded, each craning their necks to get a better look at him, âHeâs a Gojo. He comes from a line of Slytherins, each one worse than the one before. Theyâre purebloods, obviously. You wouldnât find a speck of anything else in them. Theyâre rich too, filthy rich. They could buy this school if they wanted to.â All the other boys guffawed, but he seemed serious as if this stranger's family was nothing to be taken lightly.Â
âWhen it comes to Slytherins, there are four families to be wary of. Thereâs the Gaunts and the Malfoys. Thereâs the noble house of Black, but lastlyâŚthem. House Gojo is one that every other wizarding family steers away from.â
After the day you were sorted you also quickly realized why most wizarding families stayed away from them. His word seemed to be law, and all the other Slytherins, especially those in his inner circle, held him to it.Â
You peeked from the corner of your eye, watching as he unpacked all his supplies, his face contorted in obvious anger and disgust, and you thickly swallowed. You had done a good job in staying away from him these past couple of months, fortunate enough to only be called a mudblood and an offense to their ancient house a couple of times by him and his posse.Â
His left-hand ring finger almost caught your eye in the sun, the gold ring with his house emblem shining brightly, a clear reminder of your difference with him, and you tried to hide your old school bag, riddled with holes and stains, something you just couldnât replace.Â
When he was done unpacked, he sat there for a couple of seconds, the silence between the two of you thick and heavy. You felt like you could choke on it, your fingers twitching to do something, to leave.
â...this is insulatingâŚâ he was talking to himself, shaking his head in disbelief as you sat awkwardly, not knowing what to do.
Gojo Satoru wasnât one for many words. You had observed him from afar, long enough to see that aside from the occasional words heâd exchange with his closest friends or the few times heâd mutter traitor under his breath when the two of you locked eyes, he was a more brooding type of person.Â
When he was angry, he hid it well. His cheeks mightâve flushed a bit, his nose flaring, but he never made an outburst. Which is why, at this moment, you could tell that he wasnât in a particularly elated mood.Â
âIâŚâ you started, your mouth going dry at the way his eyes snapped to you, cold and cruel, âI can do the essay. Iâll get it done in timeâŚif you want.âÂ
Most times your partners would just tell you to do the work, expecting (and knowing), youâd just say yes and go along with your day. But here, you couldnât afford to let your guard down, rather having your pride be bitten at rather than your overall self.Â
You heard him snort, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he rolled his eyes.Â
âWhat? And have you do everything wrong?â His voice was hushed and clipped as if talking to you a second longer than needed would ruin him and everything he and his family stand for.Â
He unrolled his piece of parchment, opening up his book as he kept his head down.Â
âWell, Iâm fairly decent with transfiguration,â you spoke up, trying for a smile that quickly fell when you felt his eyes burn into yours. For most of your time at Hogwarts, the only times youâve ever really spoken to Gojo was when he was hurling insults at you, his words spurred on by his group of friends behind him.Â
Gojo Satoru knew his worth. He knew that his family name would last through centuries and that the gold his family owned could buy out the entire ministry if they wanted to. Those around him treated him as such; as if his word was law. It also didnât help that he was incredibly charming, growing into his looks over the years.Â
You watched as he grew taller, his lanky figure now filled out with muscles that you could sometimes see through the baggy uniform. His eyes were always a topic of conversation, the infamous Gojo blue. His arctic white hair grew a little longer, sometimes falling in his face when he wasnât aware. He was gorgeous, and you couldnât even lie to yourself that he wasnât.
Aside from his looks, he was also freakishly smart. If he hadnât been sorted into Slytherin you were sure that Ravenclaw wouldâve been fitting for him as well. He was always top of the class with Oâs on every exam.Â
Above all else, he knew his difference from everybody else. Even his closest (pureblooded) friends weren't even near his level. Even before he could walk, heâs been told of this. Not only that but heâs been told of the vileness of muggleborns. How their nature threatens the very fabric of wizarding society, and how muggles who have somehow been blessed with magical abilities are below humans, that they donât deserve the rights every other witch and wizard has.Â
Which means that you, the sole muggle-born in Slytherin, stood against everything Gojo Satoru believed. You were an abnormality, inhuman, somebody that he should resent for even existing.
âWell, we could always divide the workâŚ?â You offered, your feet anxiously bouncing on the ground as you waited for his response. One of the blessings of sitting so far away from everyone else is that sure, they looked over to see how this was going, but at least they couldnât listen in as you embarrassed yourself even further.Â
His eyes darted over to your paper, blinking once, deep in thought.Â
He sighed deeply through his nose, swallowing thickly as he gave you a singular, curt nod.Â
âHm,â he hummed, not even sparing you a glance as he began going to work, his pen scratching against the paper as his eyes began reading over the page, âBut Iâll read what you write,â he said quickly, âI refuse to have my rank tank just because you mudbloods canât do your work properly.âÂ
Mudblood Â
After six years of it, you know you shouldâve gotten used to it, but the stinging in your chest would argue otherwise.Â
Your shoulders sank, eyes falling to the ground as your fingers fidgeted. You murmured something inaudible as you opened your book to the page McGonagall instructed you to.Â
â
The days moved on and everything continued as it always did.Â
The essay you had to write with Gojo was a slight hindrance in your usual schedule, but the two of you worked in silence in class and never interacted outside of it. Sometimes when his elbow would accidentally bump into yours as the two of you were busy writing heâd make a sort of noise in the back of his throat, his hand snatching back quickly as if you had somehow burnt him, but that was the most of your interactions.Â
Sometimes when you were in the common rooms, late at night, you could hear him talking with his friends, talking about how heinous and ridiculous it was that McGonagall paired the two of you together, but you tried to ignore it.
That following week you found yourself back in the transfiguration classroom, working away quietly as you tried to understand the scriptures on the pages you had to read. You found yourself lucky that this subject was the one you might have some sort of talent in, seeing that this sort of ancient magic was just as difficult as McGonagall made it out to be.Â
You heard some mumbling next to you, your eyes discreetly looking over at your partner, only to find his head in his hands as his brows furrowed in both annoyance and confusion.Â
â...what does thisâŚ?â You heard him say to himself, watching as he flipped the page back and forth as if he was missing something.Â
You looked back at your work, the talking around the room drowning out whatever it was that Gojo was saying to himself.Â
Or at least you tried to drown out the noise, if not for the fact that your partner made some sort of sudden movement that managed to knock his ink bottle down, spilling ink all over the table. You moved your work to the side, watching as some of the ink soaked into your robes.
âFuck,â he snapped, moving suddenly from his chair so that the ink would drip onto his clothes, âdamn it,â he looked around almost helplessly, his hands clenching in anger after seeing all his hard work soaked up in black.Â
âWait,â you suddenly say, your arm outstretching over his body, watching as his head snaps over to you, âStop moving for a second.â
He didnât have much time to bite back at how dare you order him around because you had already begun to pull out your wand, flicking it on a quick movement as you murmured âtergeo,â watching as the ink slowly yet surely began clumping up in the middle of the table, going back with snake-like movements into its bottle.Â
There was a beat of silence.Â
Gojo sat still in his seat, his lips pursing as he finally let out a deep breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes.Â
âThanks,â he said, but it seemed like he had to bite the word out, choking on it as if thanking you was taking too much of his mental willpower to do.Â
You nodded briefly, still watching him as he settled back into his seat.Â
âUh,â you scratched at the back of your neck, knowing that youâd probably regret asking this in a matter of seconds, but somehow not able to stop yourself as you continue talking, âI donât mean to be rude, or intrude, but is everything alright?â
You hold your breath as you watch Gojo sigh, his eyes shutting briefly. You braced yourself to be snapped at, to be victim to yet another reminder of how much youâve tarnished the Slytherin name, but he just shakes his head.Â
âNo,â he seethes, but when he peeks over at you he licks his lips, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he grabs his papers, moving it over to the middle of you two as he motions to it, âEverything is not alright. Somethingâs wrong with the bookâŚand I have no idea what. Iâve read this page at least twenty times and it makes no bloody sense to me,âÂ
You try to hide your surprise.Â
Thatâs probably the most heâs ever spoken to you without any mention of your muggle heritage.Â
You move in a little closer to look at what heâs pointing to. You try not to heat up under his stare, squinting your eyes as you try to make sense of what it was he was writing, trying to hide your reactions when you realize that he was doing most of it wrong.Â
The point of this essay was to learn about the origins of cross-species transfiguration, and eventually an animagus transformation and how it even came to be.Â
You had to reference at least five other books and scrolls to piece together the correct herbs and spells needed to even begin the process. McGonagall honestly probably told everybody to reference the textbook because there was nothing in it. This essay was a testament to how many people went out of their way to learn about the true nature of transfiguration.Â
What Gojo had written was something you were sure almost everybody else was writing as well, a mistake you almost made. His research was simple and black and white, and he was getting everything wrong because he was missing at least ten different very important points.Â
âSo,â you swallowed nervously, chewing on your already chapped lips, âYou have the main ideas down,â which was a lie, âBut there are just some things-â Before you could even finish your sentence the bell tower chimed once, twice, and then a final time, telling everybody that their class was over.Â
All around you people began hurriedly packing up, surely excited for lunch, the chatter of conversations growing in volume, and you didnât have to look at Professor McGonagall to know that she was irked by her student's sudden enthusiasm to leave.Â
Gojo sat motionless, still looking over at you, waiting impatiently for you to finish.Â
âIâŚâ you scratched at your hands, âI canât go over everything right now, but tomorrow Iâll bring in the other-â He raised his hand, packing up his bag as he cut you off.Â
âNo, not tomorrow, Iâm already behind,â you watched as he shoved his papers into his leather bag, âJust explain it now.âÂ
You wanted to laugh, not knowing how long it might take to explain your twisted thinking process to him and you doubted he wanted to stay in this classroom with you for a minute longer.Â
âWell, thereâs quite a bit of things,â you searched for the right word, âMissing. I have to study for the potions exam right now, but Iâm going to be in the library tonight anyway. I could show you thenâŚ?âÂ
You stood at your chair, your eyes looking up into his, wavering.Â
What did you just do? Surely heâd laugh now in your face, roll his eyes at how absurd it was that you could even suggest such a thing, just as he usually does.
Instead, he looks at you, then at his paper, and then at yours, which is at least three pages long at this point. Heâd never admit it out loud, but you were understanding this assignment better than him and nobody in his group seemed to understand it as well as you were.Â
âFine,â he runs a hand through his hair, the white sticking out between his fingers like snow perched on grass.
Your brows furrow, your lips pursing together in sudden confusion.Â
âWhat, okay,â you fiddle with your fingers, tugging on them in that anxious way you always do, watching him tighten the straps on his bag, âBut wait, what timeâŚâ You try to call out but he has already left, his robes swaying behind him as you stand alone at your seat.
You slowly begin to pack up, your thoughts running at what you have just done.
â
The potions exam went well enough, but you couldnât stress out about it too much right now.Â
After dinner (which you ate earlier than most, too anxious to be late), you made your way to the library, found a table near the back, somewhere that didnât get a lot of foot traffic, and set up your workstation for the time being.Â
Amongst many of the amenities Hogwarts had, the library was one of them you loved dearly.Â
It wasnât usually too busy, but it filled up quickly the night before some exams. But you didnât mind it, you liked being surrounded by people. In the Slytherin common rooms, you usually had to wait until everybody had filtered out or had gone to bed before you could make your way down, not wanting to face their icy looks or the way theyâd talk behind their hands when you were near, so you opted to be in the library above anything else.Â
The muted sounds of pages turning, of people talking in hushed whispers, and the books that would sometimes rearrange themselves were calming. You liked the candles that were lit carefully around the large room, illuminating it deep into the night.Â
You made sure that the work you had already written was set out, your quill resting straightly adjacent to it, your ink pot above it. Your pile of books sat neatly to the left. You wanted to seem as organized and as composed as you could, this might be your one chance to show the prince of Slytherin that you werenât the slob he must imagine you as.Â
The clock on the wall ticks, and you note that itâs nearly ten minutes till five. You chew on your lips, cracking your fingers as you keep your eyes trained on the door, waiting for the familiar mop of white hair to appear.Â
After the first ten minutes, you begin fidgeting again, moving your papers centimeters above where they were as if they could appear any straighter. You werenât wearing the usual house robes, and you hoped that your decision didnât cause him to walk in, scan the area, and leave because he didnât see what he expected to see.Â
But you pushed those worries aside, just doing your best to watch the people who filed in and out of the large double doors.Â
After the clock struck six, you began to stop looking at the doors, instead choosing to just get some work done while you were here, and opened up one of the books. Of course, he probably just lied just because he wanted to. There might be some of his friends standing outside, snickering as they watched you wait stupidly.Â
You felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment, feeling like an idiot.
For the next half hour, you busied yourself with reading about the start of the animagus process, about the mandrake leaf, and the strenuous process of keeping it on your tongue for an entire month.Â
Around you, you could hear the scrapping of chairs on the floor, and how most of the people were beginning to leave seeing that it was getting pretty late. The library closes promptly at eight, and although it was an hour till that happened, most people left till then.Â
Your eyes flitted to the door, not seeing anybody, and deflated.Â
Stupid, you repeated in your head.Â
So you began shutting the books strewn out in front of you, packing them all up in your bag as you rubbed at your tired eyes. Madam Pince also made a deal if you left any ink splotches on the table, so you cast a quick tergeo charm to clean up any spots you mightâve missed.Â
âYouâre leaving?âÂ
You looked up from the table, eyes squinting to see his tall figure standing in front of you, his face flushed red, sweat dotting on his brow bone as a bit of his hair stuck to his face. Gojo was panting, his chest heaving up and down as if he had just run across the entire castle, and his brows were creasing in the middle, looking down at you as you seized your packing.Â
You note his green quidditch robes and muddy boots.Â
âI, um,â you looked at the nearly empty table in front of you, and you shook your head, giving him a small smile, âNo, no, I just got here.âÂ
He looked at your bag, as if not believing you, but not caring too much as he hummed in the back of throat, rounding the table, and plopped himself down in the seat in front of you.Â
Wordlessly, Gojo began taking out his supplies, and you figured you might as well, setting everything back up to where you initially had it. You watched as he slyly looked around the two of you, his shoulder becoming less tense when he realized it truly was just the two of you left in the library.Â
âPractice took up too much time,â he mindlessly explains, a clear explanation for why he looked so different from the put-together self he usually is. He pushed some of his hair out of his face, his breathing still a little erratic.Â
You nod, swallowing thickly as you pretend to understand the ins and outs of quidditch.Â
You were aware that amongst one of the many things Gojo could do, on his long lists of talents (which if there was a list would consist of his ability to speak five languages or his incredible ability to calm any creature down), was that he was an amazing seeker.Â
While you werenât very familiar with how quidditch worked, despite trying to best to follow along with others' conversations as you listened in, you could understand that his forte on a broomstick wasnât talked about just because he was Gojo Satoru.Â
He was fast on his broomstick, and thought it could be chalked up to the fact that every year he came to practice with the newest model, he could whize past anybody. He was nimble as well. With how large his hands were, larger than the other house seekers, he was able to secure a win for almost every single match ever since he got recruited. Last year he was named captain of the Slytherin quidditch team, so you were able to piece together that he got held up with the recent tryouts.
âThatâs um,â you scratch at your arm awkwardly, âThatâs alrightâŚokay so Iâll try to be as quick as I can, but thereâs a lot that McGonagall wants us to do,â you start slowly, letting his get situated as you push forward the first book that helped you out, âOh, that textbook doesnât helpâŚright now,â you quickly said as you saw him pull out the assigned reading, saw how he looked at you for a second, his face scrunching up in an unreadable emotion.Â
âThis one is good, though,â you motion to the one in front of you.Â
Gojoâs movements are slow as he takes it, eyes scanning over the title until he looks back at you.Â
He doesnât do much talking, you decide.Â
âThis book covers cross-species transfiguration, but it briefly mentions inter-species transfiguration. But the author referenced this one,â you pull out the other hefty textbook, sliding it over to him, âAnd this covers all things related to inter-species transfiguration and then goes into animagus transfigurations.âÂ
You pause, biting your cheek to stop you from rambling on. Transfiguration was something that you could talk about forever and ever, and youâd never really talked about out loud to anybody else up until now.Â
âMcGonagall said that the essay was on inter-species, she never mentioned animagus transfiguration,â Gojo said suddenly, pushing the two textbooks back, letting out a heavy sigh as if this was all a waste of his time.
You nod slowly, picking at some of the skin around your nails.
âR-right, and youâre right,â you quickly sputter, nodding, âBut because cross-species and inter-species transfiguration are so close together, I doubt that this was what she wanted our month-long essay to be about. Which is why,â you pull out some old essays you had done earlier in the year, âI referenced back to these animagus essayâs we had done. I mean, she wouldnât introduce us to the topic and then drop it for no particular reason, right? I suspect she wanted us to piece the two and two together.â
Gojo gently took the papers from your outstretched hand, his eyes raking over your words, and then back to the textbooks. He seemed to read it intently as if things were slowly starting to click for him.Â
âWhich is why the textbook she gave us isnât really helpful, because it resembles more of an herbology textbook rather than transfiguration. So I think that this textbook, if anything, should be referenced at the end of the essay, seeing how it mentions the mandrake leaf and the properties of the chrysalis of a Deathâs-head Hawk Moth. Itâs all instructions on how to become an animagus without saying it.â
His eyes, a different shade of blue in the candlelight, watched your every moment. He listened carefully as you eventually did end up rambling, watching the way your face, on its own accord, twisted into a proud smile at your clever handiwork.Â
You abruptly stop to catch a breath and glance up at him apologetically.Â
âIâm sorry, I went too fast,â you shake your head, rubbing your temple in your hands, tired from staring at textbooks for as long as youâve had.Â
âNoâŚit made sense,â Gojo murmurs suddenly, his lips pulled into a thin line as he quickly looks away from you, back down to his work which was now surely long after your in-depth analysis, twisting and turning that gold ring on his finger, the one he always wore, the symbol of his family crest as he looked through the books you had offered him.Â
You stay silent, not knowing what to do, resting back in your seat, picking your nails.Â
âWell, thatâs all of it,â you rub your hands against your pants, your dry eyes blinking a couple of times, yearning for sleep.
âYou couldâve said this during class,â he said, still reading, his attention preoccupied, as if this was a hindrance to him.Â
You wet your lips, trying not to clench your hand in anger, frustration, and years of pent-up emotions, as you slowly nod, pulling the leather strap of your bag over your shoulders as you begin to stand up.Â
âRight, sorry,â you apologize quietly, taken aback when he suddenly looks up at you, as if startled but you didnât feel like spending any more in the presence of someone who despised you anyways, âgoodnight,â you bid farewell, not noticing how he had opened his mouth to say something, scurrying out of the library as you make your way back to the common rooms before he could.
â
The next day at transfigurations, the two of you didnât speak to one another at the beginning of class, like normal.Â
You took out your books like normal, as did he, and began writing silently, like normal. Everything was going normally until he suddenly paused, his hand wavering above his essay as he set his quill down, turning his head over to you.
âCan I see what youâve written?âÂ
You stop writing, eyes darting to the side as if you had misheard him.
Gojo points to the papers youâve been working on as if you didnât understand his first command.Â
Wordlessly, you pass it over to him.Â
He reads it over a couple of times, flipping through your endless pages, muttering some words to himself now and then. You would wager that compared to other people you had made far more progress in terms of how much youâd compiled, so you werenât necessarily worried about the time restraint on this essay.Â
You couldnât say the same for him, however.Â
Youâve never seen him look so intense, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed in clear concentration. He almost seemed frustrated, and it was a strange thing to see from somebody so usually put together.Â
âOur work together is too divided, it looks like we havenât been working with each other,â Gojo says as if that wasnât purely what was the issue.Â
You didnât say anything, wanting to see what idea heâd propose.
âI need to finish the rest of these texts,â he jutted his chin to the textbooks you had given him last night, âWe can work on the essay after classes are over, in the common room.âÂ
A part of you wanted to laugh at him as if he had just joked.Â
But Gojo Satoru was not a joking sort of person. You rarely saw him smiling, even when with his friends, and it was even rarer for him to say something of any comedic value. Which could only mean that he was being serious and that he truly was proposing to work in the common rooms withâŚyou.
A little snort escapes your lips, looking at him as if he were crazy. He looked at you as if you were the crazy one.
âI donât go to the common rooms after class, itâs too busy,â you explained slowly to him, wondering if he was daft and even after all this time didnât take the time to understand your situation.Â
He blinked, eyes narrowing.Â
â...and?âÂ
Your head tilted to the side, confused.Â
âWellâŚthereâs people there,â you explain even further.Â
He scoffs, rolling his eyes as if you were stupid.Â
âIronically, that is the point of a common room.â Gojo looks back to his essay, picking up his quill as if he were done with this conversation, but you pushed.
âRight,â you say more curtly, nose flaring, âFor you, it might be. But people donât want me there.â You say, a truth that you had to stomach, something that you grew used to after too many unsavory encounters with other Slytherins when you tried to come down to the common rooms during social hours.Â
âSo during the hours of two to eight, you donât go to the common room?â He didnât even look up, his voice sarcastic, not believing such an insane thing.
âNo.â You reply as if it was obvious as if he should at least know that this is why you rarely ever make an occurrence unless itâs early in the morning or late at night.Â
That finally gets him to stop and look at you, confusion woven into his expression.Â
âWhat?â He set his pen down again, and you noted that his eyes seemed a different shade of blue when he was confused, a little bit lighter than usual, he seemed like he was the only one not in on some sort of joke, âSo from two to eight you just stay in your room?âÂ
You shake your head, playing with your fingers.Â
âIâm not always in my room,â ignominy clear in your tone, âMost days I either go outside and do my homework or go to the library.âÂ
You hate the attention this brings to you from him. Youâve never had such a long conversation with somebody in your own house, let alone Gojo. You hated the way he looked at you as if you were either lying your arse off or even worseâŚpity?
But you almost shook your head at that thought. The great Gojo Satoru pitying you?Â
âWhat if itâs raining?â He asked, pushing you to see if you were telling him the truth.Â
âThen I go to the library,â you said as if it was obvious, mainly because to you it was. This was the usual schedule that youâve become used to over the years, something youâve just forced yourself to become used to despite wanting everything in your soul to go to the common rooms like everybody else, to laugh at their stories, to talk about your lives, like you were supposed to.Â
âWhat if the libraries closed?âÂ
You squirm under his heavy gaze, wondering how the topic of transfiguration got turned around to him interrogating you.Â
âUm, well, right now, because of the weather, Iâd probably just go up to the astronomy tower if the library was closed. They donât have lessons during the day. Or Iâd probably just find a broom closet and do my work in there.âÂ
His head tilts just a bit, his lips quirking up into a disbelieving smile as if he just caught you in your lie.Â
âIn the dark?â Gojo presses, and you can hear the people around you already beginning to pack up their supplies, the class nearing its end. Had you spent this much time talking that you wasted nearly half an hour?
âIâd cast a lumos spell,â you argue, packing up your things as you break eye contact with him. You take your paper back, making sure the ink has dried before putting it in your bag.Â
âIâll be in the library,â you say finally, making sure that was the end of it, âSee you there.â
â
In some strange way, meeting up with Gojo in the library became part of your routine.Â
Every night at seven, after his quidditch practice would end, heâd run all across the entirety of campus to work on your transfigurations essay together.Â
The two of you still didnât talk much, but it was different nonetheless.Â
âIâm tired,â Gojo suddenly announced, the candlelight flickering on and off from his face.Â
You could visibly see the dark circles that were under his eyes, how he slouched (which was uncommon for him, seeing how he usually sat as straight as a ruler wherever he was), and how he couldnât go four minutes without letting out an exhausted sigh.Â
âYou should take a break,â you muttered, not paying attention, head still stuck in your book as you continued to read the rest of the paragraph you were reading.Â
Gojo snorted, rolling his eyes at the prospect.Â
âI canât take a break,â he dragged his hands across his face, âI need to finish this essay, the quidditch games in two days, and Snapes up my arse about that potion exam.âÂ
Your eyes flickered up to his, startled at how much he had spoken, but then tried to mask your surprise by looking back down to your book.
âPotions wasnât too bad,â you offer, âAnd I can finish the last bits you have,â you look back up, putting your hand out, a silent ask for him to give you whatever it was that he had written so far.Â
He clicked his tongue against his teeth, silently passing over his stack of parchment, and you scanned through it quietly, shrugging as you nodded once more.Â
To be honest, the two of you were far ahead of the other students in your class. He had eventually concluded on his own that youâd be wasting more time not working together, so you guessed that he just had to suck up a bit and bite back on his pride and work with a muggle-born.
His rush to finish the essay was spurred on by the plethora of other things he needed to do, a drawback of being the prime and perfect Slytherin prince everybody made him out to be.Â
âYou donât have much left,â you deduce, âI can just write about the Scalivier trials,â the trial in which a man refused to register with the ministry that he was an animagus, âIâll have it done by Saturday, Iâm nearly done with my bit.â
You slide his essay back to him, but stop when you see the perplexed look on his face.Â
âSaturdayâs the quidditch game?â.Â
Your eyes dart to the side, squinting a bit as you try for a laugh.Â
ââŚand?âÂ
He scratches at his temple, tilting his head to the side. After these past couple of days working with you, heâd be wrong to say that he became more and more increasingly perplexed with you. Six years he spent watching from afar, muttering words to his friends about the absurdity of your existence, but now that he was able to see you from up close, a part of him has to agree that youâre an enigma heâs never been able to crack.Â
You donât say much during class, you donât talk to many people, and if he was being honest, in that sense, you mirrored him. You were reserved, but the times he picked and prodded at you, you seemed to open up. You donât have any friends from what he could tell, often eating at the end of the table during the meals. He watched sometimes to see you during the common rooms during the times in which you said you never came, a part of him thinking heâd be able to catch you.Â
Gojo Satoru would never admit it, but in a way, he had become interested in you.
âWell,â Gojo didnât like to be the one confused, hating being perceived as if he didnât know everything, which is something he prided himself on most of the time, âAfter the game, thereâs the usualâŚparty,â he bit out, hating the word, because it was so unruly from the usual balls and galas he was forced attend, too many people sweaty and jumping, âIn the common room.âÂ
You blink owlishly at him, fidgeting with your quill, twisting and turning it around in your hand.Â
âRightâŚso Iâll be here.âÂ
Now it was his turn to blink slowly.Â
Was this really that hard to understand?
âComing to the library after a quidditch game seems a bit anticlimactic, donât you think?â He leaned back in his chair, playing with the green and silver tie around his neck. You wondered how he could bear to wear it even after classes were over, that even his most posh friend ditched their formal wear the moment they got back to their dormitories.Â
âThankfully I donât go to quidditch games, so for me, itâs just climatic,â you said, smiling at your little joke, covering your mouth as you yawned, tired and longing for your bed.Â
He sat up in his chair suddenly, looking even more shocked than before. This was the most emotion youâve ever seen him emmett before and you didnât know what to do with it.Â
âWhat? Why not?â He seemed so startled that you almost wanted to laugh. It was strange seeing somebody you had regarded as stoic look like he did now.Â
You shrug, rubbing your fingers across your eyes as you let out another yawn, resting your chin on your palm.Â
âI went once, during my first year, but everybody seemed rather annoyed that I was there, and they crowded in front of me so I couldnât see anything,â you recall back on the memory, one that you could remember vividly, âand I donât know,â youâre suddenly very thirsty, your cheeks heating up the more he stared at you, laughing uncomfortably, âI donât really understandâŚquidditch, so it works out in the end. And I also get to have some time to myself in the common room to do my homework, you know, unlike usual.âÂ
Gojo didnât say anything for a couple of seconds, and you tried to pretend that you had read something interesting to not embarrass yourself any further with your mindless babbling. Sure, he might be willing to work with you now, but that didnât mean that Gojo Satoru was up for a friendly conversation with you.
You looked at him briefly, feeling your stomach churn a bit to see that he hadnât stopped looking at you.
âEverything alright?â You asked.Â
He nodded, biting on the inside of his cheek as he picked up his quill, a wordless agreement that the conversation was over.
â
Transfiguration the next day went by oddly silent.Â
Gojo didnât talk to himself now and then, he didnât sigh his exasperated sigh, and he didnât peek up every once in a while to check how much youâd written since the last time he had looked over.Â
You didnât pay it much attention, keeping your head down, your eyes to yourself. Silence was better than being reminded of your muggle heritage, which even then, Gojo had yet to remind you these past weeks.
Briefly, you looked up from what you were doing to see if Professor McGonagall was walking around or sitting at her desk, but in doing so you felt Gojo shuffle a little in his seat as if he had felt your sudden movement.Â
âTonightâŚâ he started and you quickly nodded, waving off any of his worries. Of course, you chided yourself, heâs anxious about the quidditch match, nothing else.
âYes, yes, I know, you have quidditch tomorrow. Iâll finish up what I have left and then start reading about the Scalivier trials tonight,â you finished for him, tracing some of the wood grains of the table with your finger.Â
He shakes his head.Â
âNot that - and Iâll finish up the trials by Sunday,â heâs avoiding eye contact, and if you didnât know any better it seemed like he was trying to find his words, as if they had slipped from his tongue and were dangling in the air for him to grab, âTonightâŚtonight, donât go to the library.âÂ
You purse your lips, trying to smile to see if that was his goal, maybe he was trying to be funny.
âWould you like to meet in one of the broom closets then?â
You felt even more lost after it seemed like he was debating taking up your offer, but his eyes shone a bright shade of aquamarine, and his cheeks twinged a slight shade of pink.Â
Strange.Â
âNo,â he chewed on his lip, as if he were anxious, a preposterous thing to even think, âNo, come down to the common rooms around eight.âÂ
The cursed clock tower chimed, three loud rings, and it cut the two of you off once again.Â
âLook, I told you-â you go to say but he cuts you off.
âI know, just come down.â He was being so cryptic, and he looked so on edge that it was starting to freak you out. He was already beginning to pack up, his eyes snapping to his group of friends that were nearing the two of you, and he quickly looked back down at you, his head dipping down urgently.Â
âEight. Be there.âÂ
â-
You couldnât say you werenât at least a little apprehensive.Â
You were so nervous that you just stayed up in your room, not even coming downstairs for dinner as you waited for the clock on the wall to read eight.Â
Why were you so nervous? You first asked yourself, but then asked the more logical question, what did Gojo want with you?
The minutes on the clock seemed to take hours to pass, and the hours seemed to take days. It was such a slow process, and you knew it would be going faster if you were doing something more productive with your time until it was necessary, but you couldnât.Â
The other girls in your dorms could come in and out, sometimes exchanging glances with their friends when they saw that you hadnât moved from your spot, but they didnât ask any questions, opting to just leave you be.Â
You were picked at your fingers, cracking your knuckles, and finally, finally, the small hand pointed to the eight on that ancient clock.Â
Funnily enough, even though you had been mentally waiting for this to happen, you waited for a couple of seconds, trying to calm yourself down, nodding to yourself that this wasnât anything big and that you were just overreacting.Â
Slowly, you rose from your spot on your bed, a little dent in the mattress from just how long youâd been sitting there. You turn the handle of the door, taking in yet another deep as you take a tentative step outside the safe sanctity of your room.Â
The common rooms are usually more busy on Friday nights, and that mightâve been a blessing in disguise as youâre able to slip past most people, keeping your eyes peeled for a flash of white hair.Â
You scan the couch area, the sitting area, and the large window that looks into the black lake, but you donât see him. Itâs only until you look near the entrance to the common room, the large oak double doors, do you see him.Â
It seems like heâs scanning the area as well, blue eyes looking everywhere until they fall onto yours, and youâre able to sneak past some people watching as he cocks his head in the motion of the doors, and before you could do anything else, he leaves, and you take it as your sig to follow him.
Youâre glad that nobodyâs looking your way as you push the two doors open, looking to your right to see him waiting for you.Â
You go to open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it.Â
âFollow me, and be quick,â heâs already walking and you have to nearly jog to get to him, walking at a much faster pace seeing how his legs were abnormally long, âPut these on over your clothes.âÂ
Gojo throws you a pile of ratty-looking uniforms, but the more you open up the folded mess you come to realize that theyâre old quidditch uniforms. In fact, when youâre finally able to get a good look at him you realize heâs wearing adoring green robes.Â
You donât say anything, multitasking as you walk and shrug over the (huge, it was practically dragging on the floor) robes, buttoning them up as quickly as you could without tripping over your feet, the quidditch uniform, or over the stones.Â
He looks at you briefly, and heâs glad that youâre too busy trying to figure out how the robes are supposed to fit over you to notice the way his lips quirked up slightly at the look of you at the moment.Â
âPut this on too,â he says once you're finally done, handing you another huge helmet, and you take it silently, pulling it over your head.Â
The helmet is way too big for you, as it nearly hangs over your eyes, and you can barely see anything with it on, and you pause, a smile making its way onto your face as you push it up only for it to fall again.
You stop walking for a second, and when Gojo looks back he sees the helmet masking most of your face up until your nose, the only thing he can see is your large grin, the sleeves of the uniform enveloping your hands, reaching to your knees, and for the first time, he hears the softest sound,Â
Youâre giggling as you try to figure out how to tighten the straps on the helmet, not able to see where Gojo is because you have your head tilted down, struggling with the buckle until his boots come into your field of vision.Â
All of a sudden you feel a hand tip your helmet upwards, and your smile falters when you now see his face, the way his eyes are swirling with different hues of blues, something you notice that happened when he was battling multiple emotions at once. You can tell that thereâs a small, barely noticeable smile on his face, surely from how insane you look right now.Â
Youâve never seen him look so at ease. His shoulders seem more relaxed, his jaw not clenched. It helped that he looked like he was smiling for once.Â
But thereâs no time to think as you feel the brush of him on your skin, his slender and swift fingers working fast and expertly at tightening the strap under your chin. He looks focused, his white brows scrunched up the way he always does when heâs trying to figure out a transfiguration rune. You feel your breath lodge in your throat. When heâs satisfied with how it was resting on your face his hands drop to his side, and his eyes slightly widen, as if he just realized what he had just done.Â
He cleared his throat, looking around the hall to make sure that nobody was around, and he turned his back as he began his brisk pace out to wherever it was that he was taking you.
You walked, corrected, ran with him for a little more until he brought you to one of the openings of the castle, the one that led directly to the quidditch fields.Â
âWhere,â you were a little out of breath, noticing how the sun was nearly about to set, and also knowing that you sure as hell didnât have a pass to be out this late, âWhereâre we going?âÂ
âTo the field,â he said, which was the answer you were most dreading.Â
âRight, I can see that,â you feel hot under all these layers, despite the fact that it was late October and the weather was biting at best, âWhy are we going out to the fields.â The breeze that was hitting your cheeks was stinging, so you were at least glad in that aspect that the quidditch robe offered you some sort of warmth.Â
âRavenclaws practicing right now,â Gojo said, turning around to look at you for a fleeting second, âI need to see what Nanamiâs strategy is, and you need to learn quidditch.âÂ
You almost trip.Â
And you need to learn quidditch.
His words were ringing in your head, possibly even louder than the blood rushing to your ears. He had to be lying, or have some sort of cruel prank planned out. He must be waiting for his friends to run out from behind one of the stands so that they could tie you to a tree. Not that heâs ever done that, but also not the first time itâd be happening at the hands of other Slytherins.Â
Because sure, while you mightâve offended him in saying you didnât understand how quidditch worked, that wouldnât mean that he, Gojo Satoru, the Prince of Slytherin, hater of all muggle-borns alike, would be taking time out of his life to fix this wrong.
You shouldâve just run the other way, ditched the scratchy uniform somewhere, and ran back to your dormitory, somewhere where youâd at least be safe from experiencing any sort of humiliation.Â
But the closer that the two of you neared the stands, the more you felt confused. Because nowhere could you see any other Slytherins, and he was right, the Ravenclaw team was practicing right now, if the flashes of blue and white from above you meant anything.Â
Which could only mean thatâŚ?Â
Gojo finally stops at the stairs that lead you up the stands, his hand on the wooden railing.Â
âWeâre goingâŚup?âÂ
He snorts, nodding as he ushers you to move.Â
âObviously,â his voice now seems more amplified with his small and cramped winding staircase, âIâm not going to be observing them from the ground.âÂ
Youâre the one thatâs ahead, so you try to go even faster so that he wonât be held up behind you, but everything is moving too fast. Did he give you these robes so that youâd seem like another player? So that you wouldnât be marked up if you were seen out of your dormitory so late at night?
When you finally got to the opening, you were able to hear the yells that the Ravenclaw players were enhancing with one another. You hold the tarp that acted as the door above your head, heading over to one of the seats in the far back, feeling Gojo right on your tail.Â
It had been years since you were here since you looked out into the fields. The stands were high, and the winds were stronger up here. Gojo sat where you were, to your right, and you waited silently to see what he was going to do.Â
Nanami was the Ravenclaw seeker as well as the captain. You could see the flash of blonde hair as he flew by, the other team members either watching him or practicing with their respective posts.Â
Gojo rested his elbow on his thighs, leaning in as he observed intently.Â
Eventually, after a minute or two, he sat back up, leaning in closer to you. You could feel his hair ticking your temple, his nose inches away from your cheek as he began to talk.Â
âIn quidditch, you have seven players on each side. One seeker, one keeper, three chasers, and two beaters.âÂ
You nod, following along.Â
âYou see number seven?â He points to the guy flying around near the three tall hoops, and you nod again, âHeâs a keeper. He makes sure that the other team doesnât get any balls into the hoops.â Gojo is leaning even closer to you now, and you can feel half of his body pressing up against yours. You feel like you're heating up, and not because of the excessive quidditch uniform youâre wearing.Â
âThe beaters, number four and two,â he then points to the boy and the girl flying around, holding wooden bats, âtry to protect their team from the bludgers; which is this black ball that sort of follows around team members, trying to knock them off their brooms. Those bats ward off the bludgers.âÂ
You make a mental note of everything heâs saying, trying not to be distracted by the fact that youâre being given a quidditch lesson from Gojo Satoru.Â
âThe chasers, which are the rest of them, aside from Nanami, throw around the quaffle to each other. Every time they get it through the other team's hoop, they score ten pointsâŚdo you follow?â Gojo pauses, looking at you and you push your helmet up so that you can see him, giving him a confident nod.Â
âAll thatâs left is the seeker-âÂ
âWhich is you, right?â You cut him off, rubbing at your nose which was now freezing at this point.Â
Gojo pauses, eyes flickering to you as he raises a brow.Â
âI may not know quidditch but Iâm not daft,â you tell him.
For a second there, you swear you could see the start of a smile play on his lips.
âYeah,â he says, almost softly, âIâm the seeker.â Youâre too busy looking ahead to notice that heâs busy looking at you, so you continue to talk.Â
â...plus, Kento was telling me about it a while ago. He said you were really good.â
This time, his brow raised even further.Â
âYou know him?âÂ
You shrug, your eyes following the quick and hurried movements of all the players, too focused on their practice to notice the change in Gojoâs voice, or overall, the change in his entire demeanor. You mustâve missed how he slightly tensed up, or the way his eyes narrowed.Â
âWe had potions with Ravenclaw last year, remember?â You turn slightly to look over at Gojo before you go back to watching, âHe helped me with some of my brews, but we talked about other stuff!â You had to raise your voice, the wind was getting stronger, âAnd Quidditch came up!â
Gojoâs nose flared momentarily before he swallowed thickly, his jaw ticking as he tried to focus back on the practice as well.Â
âA-anyways,â he cleared his throat, not remembering that last time he choked on his words, âThe seeker catches the snitch. I canât see where it is now, but once the snitch is caught, the game is over.â He tried to push some of the hair out of his face, getting annoyed at how it kept getting stuck in his eyes.Â
âI need to get something, Iâll be back,â Gojo murmured in your ear, pushing himself off of the seat as he walked in front of you disappearing down the stairs within seconds.Â
You glanced at where he left but found yourself looking back to the players, your face breaking into another excited smile when you began to piece together what Gojo had just told you, finally able to understand quidditch after all these years.
The sun had set and the stars were peeking out through the sky, and you watched the players as they furiously rode around, each one tense and stressed for the match that would be happening tomorrow.Â
You tried to hide yourself in the background as much as you could, now feeling a little more out in the open with Gojo gone.
The minutes ticked by and yet Gojo didnât come back. Now and then you found yourself looking at the stairs, eyes darting back and forth from those on their broomsticks to where you had first entered from.Â
Slowly yet surely, you found yourself in that position the first night you saw him at that library.Â
When the Ravenclaw players slowly began dissenting from the air, running off the fields as they went in from shelter from the old, you felt a part of your stomach twist.Â
This was all part of his plan, you concluded, shivering to yourself as you tried not to feel let down, or even worse, like an idiot for thinking anything had changed, that you had maybe actually begun to have a friend after seven years.
You feel your eyes water, either from the wind or from everything, and you make your way for the stairs, your lips trembling as you suddenly start to feel claustrophobic under all the clothes you're wearing, your fingers slipping and sliding as you try to take that wretched helmet off of your head.
You feel like if you go any faster youâre going to trip and tumble down the stairs, and it doesn't help that youâre already too distracted with trying to take the helmet off. You sniffle, your eyes blurry as you feel your heart beat rapidly in your chest.Â
Stupid, stupid, stupid.Â
You couldnât even tell if you were thinking that in your head or saying it out loud as you neared the end of the never-ending stairs, unbuttoning the buttons of the scratchy uniform as you bundled everything up in your hands, wiping at your wet cheeks with your palm.
Amongst all the things people have done to you over the years, this wasnât the worst. Youâve had your room ransacked, your trunk thrown into the river, your shoes stolen on multiple occasions. Youâve been called a mudblood more times than youâve been called your own name, and none of these things were actually done by Gojo.Â
Perhaps you thought that deep down, maybe he could change. That maybe after all that time spent in the library, talking to you, controlling some of his laughs at your awful jokes, he saw that maybe muggle-borns werenât as bad as he thought they were.Â
And yet tonight you suffered your first prank, if thatâs what this could even be called, at his hands. It didnât hurt because of its nature, but because a naive part of you actually thought that he couldâve been your friend.Â
But none of that mattered now, not that you-
âWhere are you going?âÂ
You stop in your tracks, your head whipping around to the voice.Â
It was now fully dark outside, the moon and the spare candles that were lit around the castle and the stands were the only sources of light. You could see his figure standing a couple feet away from you, his white hair like a beacon in the night.Â
He takes a couple tentative steps closer to you, close enough so that you can see the furrow of his brows and the small pout on his lips. Damn it, you wanted to curse, you could hate him more if he didnât look so pretty.Â
âBack to the castle,â you snap, wiping at the corners of your eyes, throwing down the old uniform and the oversized helmet on the ground near his feet. You sniffle, looking to the side so that you wonât have to see his face.
âWhat?â He steps closer to you and you take a step back, your head still turned, eyes trained on the dewy grass, âWhy?â You try not to think too much about the two sets of brooms in his hands, or how for some strange reason, he actually sounded dejected that you were leaving.
Letting out a shaky breath you laugh curtly, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up to the sky, counting the stars, wondering if that could calm you down.Â
You hear the grass crunch under his feet, the warmth of his body as he comes in close to you.Â
Why does he care?Â
âI brought you a broom,â he holds it to you so you can see the outline of it, âHere,â he bends down to pick up the helmet you had thrown to the ground, âAt least put this on,â heâs already securing it on your head, not noticing the way your lips were trembling, his fingers brushing up against your chin once again but you donât him faster it, smacking his hand to the side as you rip the helmet off your head, throwing it with more force on the ground.Â
âS-stop,â you murmur harshly, wiping at your cheeks, âStop, stop whatever it is youâre doing-âÂ
âIâm not doing anything,â he snarls, his eyes a dark shade of navy blue, âSo stop crying, I donât know what it is you think I did.â
Heâs angry now, good, itâll be easier to yell at him if heâs just as amped up as you are.Â
But when you finally look at him and get to see his face, itâs not the kind of anger youâre feeling. His eyes are narrowed, his eyebrows pulling together down the middle the way they do when heâs confused, the way you often see him looking like when heâs frustrated at your cursed transfigurations essay. Heâs not angry at you because of you, heâs angry because he doesn't understand where your frustrations are coming from.Â
Heâs at least a head taller than you, looking down as his chest heaves slightly, waiting for you to say something, anything, so that he could explain himself for whatever it is heâs done wrong. His cheeks are a little pink, either from the cold orâŚsomething else, and his hair is messy, no longer kept the way it usually is.Â
Gojo looks different.
And you donât know who it was that moved in closer, whose rational mind slowly turned irrational as you two took another step towards the middle, but all you do know is that the two of you didnât care as you roughly grabbed him by his robes, tugging him in as you slammed your lips to his.Â
It happened in an instant, your lips moving against his soft one, your hands gripping onto that fabric for dear life. And for a second, you begin to pull away, your eyes opening in shock, but thereâs no use, because Gojo slams his lips down onto yours as he pulls you into his chest.Â
Itâs rushed and messy, your teeth clash against one another, your hands going up from his chest as they intertwine around his neck, your fingers tugging on his long white strands and you hear him groan into your mouth.Â
He moves fast, biting at your lips, one hand sprawled on the expanse of your back, the other one behind your neck, almost cradling the back of your head, tilting your head upwards to meet him. His tongue prods at your lips, and somehow, mindlessly, you part them a little more, moaning quietly at the way his tongue explores your mouth.Â
Gojo leads you a little back, so that youâre up against one of the wooden pillars of the quidditch stands, offering you more stability, a good thing, seeing how you feel like you're becoming lightheaded, soon about to faint.Â
âFuck,â he whispers, heavy on your lips as he dips down again to kiss down your chin tilting your head up to expose the column of your neck, âFuck,â he says once more, diving down as he sucks and bites at your skin, his movements growing faster and more erratic once he hears the soft and sweet mewls that escape your swollen lips.Â
âG-gojo,â you whine, feeling hot as his hands travel across your chest, cupping your tits through your thin sweater as he continues to kiss down your neck, tugging some of the material down so that he could leave even more marks across your collarbone, âG-god, oh my god,âÂ
His pants tighten at your voice, his pupils dilate at the way you're pawing at him, pulling at him, needing him.Â
âSatoru,â he says against your skin, âNot Gojo. Not you.âÂ
Heâs delirious, he kisses you like youâre the air heâs been missing his entire life, and holds you to him as if youâre the only furnace in a land barren with snow. He needs you.Â
Your fingers are lost in his hair, pulling and tugging, hearing the way his breathing stutters when you do so.Â
One of your hands drops down to his chest, feeling at the skin thatâs exposed from where his uniform was pulling up, and when your cold fingers make contact with the skin resting taunt on his stomach you swear you could hear him almost whine, his head momentarily dropping into the crook of your neck as he urges you to continue, holding your wrist tightly, pushing it up further.Â
Your eyes find his, your breathing coming out in short spurts, and he seems so far gone, so transfixed with how you look under him, that the two of you fail to hear the footsteps that come near where the two of you were.
âWhoâs there?âÂ
A voice calls out, and you see somebody behind him standing with a lantern.Â
You push Gojo off of you, but he stays put, looking over his shoulder, shielding your body with his.Â
âOh, fuck off Taylor,â Gojo calls out, anger and irritation laced into his voice.
The boy's eyes widen when he realizes how it is, the blue and white Ravenclaw robes dashing away into the distance, the lantern long gone in a matter of seconds, but itâs no use.Â
When Gojo looks down at you, youâve been given too much time to come back to your senses.Â
You push him away from you, and this time he moves.
You take a deep breath, not looking at him as you wipe at your spit-soaked lips, blinking rapidly as you try to make sense of what happened.Â
He didn't say anything, but you could hear the quiet pants that escaped his lips, trying to catch some air.Â
You open your mouth to say something but close it promptly, shaking your head in disbelief.Â
You donât think twice as you make your way back to the castle.
Everyone go and read everything nezu has ever wrote. Thatâs it period. Itâs all amazing. This fic in particular perfectly melds HP (but you donât need to know Harry Potter to appreciate it cuz itâs set up so beautifully) and JJK. I donât even watch JJK but that doesnât stop me from feeling all the emotions đ
Keiji is absolutely nothing if not an attentive, knowing husband.
Heâs good, heâs good at the whole marriage thing, knowing what makes you tic and what makes you purr, your anniversaries and outings and just being an absolute maniac when it comes to knowing all about you.
So imagine your complete, your total, your absolute horrific discovery to find out that today, heâs not home.
Thereâs no flowers, no note, no chaotic breakfast that Mei insisted on making you with Keiji- she claims today is her favorite holiday- and thereâs nothing.
Not one of those things, on this birthday of yours.
To be honest, you donât really mind, heâs one for⌠however many years youâve known him, he was bound to forget it at some point (you certainly know youâve had a few close calls), it just feels strange to have a birthday just with you and not your loving husband or eager daughter.
You stretch, yawn and slowly get out of bed, making your way to the kitchen to prepare for your day off, eager to spend some time alone and not have to worry about anything until you pick up your four year old.
Who is just as surprised as you at Keijiâs forgetting. Who takes a vendetta against Keiji for forgetting.
âYou mean daddy didnât take care of you today?â She says sadly. âThatâs not nice of himâŚâ
You giggle, âitâs okay, itâs just one day, yeah?â
âBut!â She whines. âI made you a card! âNd we should have a cake! And a birffday party!â
You shrug as you continue to strap her in, âwell, sometimes, things donât exactly pan out like weâd expect them to. And thatâs okay! Besides,â you take out your credit card and flash it to Mei, ânow we can have a girls day, yeah? Brag to daddy all about it.â
She beams up at you, and you finish buckling her into her seat.
Nails have been painted, delicious pastries for dessert have been picked, a cake to be baked and decorated has been prettied up, and now, all you can do is wait for Keiji to come home and witness all the fun heâd missed today.
Sure enough, 15:34 rolls around, and Keiji comes through the door, sleepy smile on his face and jacket shrugging off of his shoulders. âHey, my girls.â
âHey,â you hum, making your way over to him. You toss your arms around his neck and pucker your lips out for a kiss, which he tenderly returns. âHow was work?â
âExhausting,â he says with a small whine. âSo glad to be home with the two loves of my life.â He smiles and kisses you again, only to then make eye contact with his daughter, who eyes him in a scold. He crouches down and reaches out to pinch her cheeks, only for her to dodge him slightly.
âAnd howâs my favorite little-â
âHmph!â
Immediately, Keiji is cut off by the sound of your four year oldâs disapproval, and he watches with a displeased furrow as she stomps her foot with crossed arms and turns away from him. His jaw is slacked, at the mercy of Mei and your attempts to not cackle out loud.
His eyes, filled with incredulous confusion flick back up to you in search for your assistance in correcting her attitude, but you say nothing. Instead, you place your hands on your hips and look down your nose at him.
He straightened his back and took a deep inhale for patience, âexcuse me?â
âI said:â once again, Mei stomps her foot and crosses her arms tighter over her tiny chest, âhmph!â
âHave i upset you, Mei?â He asks, crouching lower to try and get her to open up to him. âIs there something you need to tell me?â
âYou should know,â she snips.
God sheâs so cute, you could just bite her.
Keiji, right now however, may disagree with that sentiment.
âI donât think I like this attitude, little miss-â
âNot my fault you didnât wish mommy happy birffday today!â Mei pouts, and instantly, Keijiâs brows shoot up, from anger to surprise. When he turns to look at you in confirmation, your expression turns from one of amusement, to faux anger to match Meiâs. His gaze softens, and he reaches his hands out to you for your affection.
âRâŚReally?â
âReally really,â you confirm. âI was super surprised our four year old and Koutarou remembered before you did.â
All the color drains from his face, and for a moment your expression softens as he looks like heâs about to faint right in front of you. âKouâŚKoutarou remembered?â
âHonestly all of the Jackals did- Kiyoomi even sent me a card thatâs due to come.â The detail, all though a little unnecessary, again makes him deflate, and even if your intentions are cruel, he looks so cute trying to grovel for forgiveness.
âBaby⌠my love⌠Iâm so, so sorry-â
âYou should be,â you huff, crossing your arms dramatically. âItâs a good thing I had Mei to keep me company all day, apparently sheâs the only Akaashi who loves me.â
âYeah!â Meiâs voice echos behind Keiji. It makes him snort and drop his head against your shoulder, palms smoothing up your hips and sides in an attempt to be affectionate, though the action only has you melting into his embrace.
âIâm so sorry,â he hums from your neck, peppering soft kisses along the length. Your breath hitches and your own hands come up to rest on his own shoulders. âIs there anything I can do to make up for it?â
âAbsolutely not,â you say, giggling softly when he tenses up, then looking up it you in betrayal. âI want ramen. I want ice cream and chips, and I want to watch classic Disney movies as a family, and I want to do those cute panda face masks Mei got us for our anniversary with Koutarou.â
âOkay⌠okay I can do that; what kind of chips?â
âAll of them.â
âYou got it.â With that, Keiji kisses your cheek and quickly turns on his heal to head back out to the corner store to stock up on everything you asked for.
âMommy?â Mei asks, tugging your pant leg.
âWhat baby?â
âAre you mad at daddy?â
You smile and ruffle her hair, bending down to pick her up and help you set up the rest of your birthday wishes.
âCouldnât be mad at daddy even if I wanted to be.â
in which he takes a moment to justify himself after never noticing your little crush for him
starring. akaashi keiji x fem!reader
genre(s): angst to fluff, (super, like-) long scenarioÂ
warning(s): none, i think so? except for clueless keiji and not proof-reading
authorâs note: akaashi is just a major green flag in this (every haikyu!! boy is đ) i feel too bad to write them red-flag-y.
choose your character: m. atsumu | k. akaashi
youâve known akaashi for quite some time, starting from your last year of fukurodani academy and then serendipity brought you both ended up being each otherâs classmate at a same college/university. bokuto kotaro was your best friend, the little owl introduced his favorite setter to you and the friendship of three gradually become established, and as if it can not be any more inevitably, you eventually developed a secret admiration for the pretty setter when you three have been closed enough. however, graduating separated ways, kotaro pursued his journey to become professional in volleyball while keiji, once said to you he wanted a place in the literature department.
truth be told, even if you promised each other you would still keep in touch and plan every weekend friend group meeting online or offline, youâve never expect you would share every class in higher education life with your crush, the akaashi keiji. the great thing is you both are paired up for an presentation assignment in the major you and him pursue, you do have plenty of time to stay close and grab his attention from making gestures that he usually failed to realizes.
here you are again, happily humming your favourite song while carrying a box wrapped with a small detailed towel, some big rolls of assignment paper stuck underneath your arm as you make your way back to where you both planned to finish the project - the library.Â
âkeiji, iâm back!â you set your things respectively on the table, and akaashi nods with a smile on his face in acknowledgement.
âoookay, so hereâs your todayâs snack, I hope youâll like itâ you grin, tapping on the box before pushing it to his side as he receives it and casually opens it while speaking.
âhmm? are those sketches of our poster? you can always edit them on the computer, why the effort?â he chuckled softly before completely unwrapping the bento box.
âIâm not good at designing and stuff. I may draw as I like and youâll be the one to edit it on the computer.â you puff your cheek out, hands resting on hips as you watch his reaction to your delicately decorated sweets in the box made for him.
âthis looks amazing.â he smiles upon seeing the pastries you made, decorated beautifully with different kinds of fruit as each pastry has different flavours, you probably did not stay up so late last night just to make all kinds of flavours for him to show how much you like him. yeah, probably not.
"oh, it's nothing, I just hope it doesn't taste bad" you chuckle nervously while scratching the back of your neck, letting his praise send you up to cloud nine.
your actions falter when you see akaashi put back the box's cap on, set it aside as he leans over to reach the posters you drew.
"now then, can we start working on the project?" he spreads out the piece of paper, glancing at you as you stand there awkwardly, prefer him taking a bite to look through all of your efforts than just shrugging it off and go straight to the main part of your study session.
"what...? oh- um..." you trail off, a bit embarrassed. "wouldn't you like to try one out? it won't hurt to just have a taste of it..."
"maybe later, y/n. we have other things need to be done right now." he merely states, eyes study the poster in front of him, unknowingly sinking your heart.
"yes, right." you shift slightly, taking the sit by the opposite of him, trying to catch up with him on the progress.
you let your mind wanders off how many times you've lost count already while akaashi quietly focused on scribbling something in his notebook, every thoughts you have are always about keiji, your feelings and the stare you give him thinking it's discreet. what's stopping him from trying my tarts out? and how does he feel being around me? or is that his way of rejecting something without making that person feel bad? flooded your mind.
"y/n?" you realize his faint voice ringing somewhere "y/n..." the voice becomes clearer. "earth to y/n, you're staring." awh, snap. right.
you blink, startled before clearing your throat, mumbling a small apology as you try to get yourself busy with the work underneath you once again.
but akaashi just chuckles, his voice calm and reassuring.
"hey, you seem off today. it's lunch break, please make yourself comfortable." you fumble at his words, it's noon already? as he collects his books and tidy it up at one corner of the table before speaking again.
"yuri satsuki is inviting me to have lunch with her. would you like to also join? i think she wouldn't mind." he kindly offers, probably not knowing the words struck you shocked.
you know satsuki-senpai, she's a year older than you and has been a social butterfly ever since you set foot in student life. she is a nice person, you conceived, but not until you found out that she has a huge crush on your akaashi keiji, her behaviour in your eyes became somewhat annoying. in return, she did realize she had a rival to win over him, you acknowledge that through the smug look she gave every time akaashi was around her instead of you, that is how the tension gradually builds up between you and your pain-in-the-ass rival.
and now she's even invited keiji for lunch? you feel an uncomfortable twist in your belly, screaming that if you do not take further actions, you lose akaashi to her. but his way of discarding your hard work, also known as an attempt to get his attention earlier discourages you hastily. this comes to a realization: ever since he start hanging out with satsuki-senpai, he has never touched one of your cooks once.
"no, i'm fine staying here. you go" you force a smile waving him goodbye. he hesitates upon seeing the downward trend of your mood as well as the strange attitude every time he brings up yuri.
"what are you waiting for?" you scoff, trying your best to make it sound not so bitterly. he nods quietly before ruffles your hair, thoughtfully remind you to get something to eat before start working again, and he'll be back with you soon.
you groan for the nth time in thirty minutes since his last leave, deciding not to eat anything at all after you laugh bitterly to yourself seeing the bento box laid cold by his stuffs which corrects your thoughts that he is not going to appreciate what you did for him.
the chair scraped the floor when you stand up, attempting to compose yourself when you feel your brain need a break from overthinking such situations.
on the way out of the library, your eyes meet yuri satsuki's, assuming that keiji is just somewhere around here as his lunch break partner is the person you least excited to bump into.
"well, well. isn't that the girl whose best friend choose to hang out with me instead of her?"
excuse me?
"don't get too ahead of yourself, satsuki-senpai. just a friendly reminder" your tone evidently irritated as you flash her an unamused smile, trying to avoid her as soon as possible.
but the radio scene of her voice replayed all over your head, your mind goes muddy despite the fresh air you're trying to take in, you let out a shaky breath, tears brimming out.
maybe, he doesn't quite noticed the things I did for him after all...
---
"you're back. where were you?" akaashi worried tone surprises you after a quite fine time of trying to find you because your study desk in the library was empty.
"i was... out for fresh air. why?" your voice is off and he noticed that. he always knew when something is bothering you, and right now he definitely know that something is wrong.
"after i finished my lunch i got yours, 'cause i know when i'm back you would still hadn't eaten anything." his brows slightly furrow seeing your avoiding attitude.
"thanks, keji." you said briefly, take the package from his hand and sit down on your seat, never forget to notice the pastry box still intact.
your strange attitude didn't just stop there, it confuses akaashi for a more couple of days of your avoidance, he dislike the way you put a small distance between you both in study sessions, you flinch and tense around him more often, your answers and conversations are brief and sometimes awkward as you seem to be more preoccupied and attentive rather than to communicate with him.
"good morning, y/n." he smiles, your state has been bothering him for days as he is paying attention to your fade grin and a small "hey" as a greet back.
then he fumbles. something is missing...
oh. but then, realization sets in him quite quickly: you didn't bring any homemade sweets today.
"y/n..." he hesitates, meeting your eyes as you lift your head up from the notebook you're scribbling on. "does your home perhaps... out of ingredients or something?"
you are stunned for a moment, knowing exactly what he was trying to imply, scared to look at him directly in the eye as you shift your gaze elsewhere, pretending to have forgotten.
"oh... you mean the pastries... I forgot to do it. I was busy yesterday"
lies. he see through it, you know that, but you can't just blurt it all out that you're heartbreaking because of his indirect rejection that never says he doesn't like you, but makes you feel like it did.
"hey... i know something is wrong, can you tell me what it is?"
there it is - the worried look on such handsome face that never fails to make your heart flutter. but you know, that is just his nature of being an attentive and thoughtful person, not just for only you, but for everyone in his orbit.
so his question remained unanswered.
akaashi has been extremely distracted due to the sudden lack of your affection on him. it's just doesn't feel the same. even if he refuses it but deep down, he misses your midday snacks, your bubbly laugh around him and that flushed cheeks you wear every time he caught you staring. it has been a whole week since, and the fact that you didn't join the friend group video call with bokuto last sunday was his last straw.
he misses you, dearly. and if he doesn't do anything now before your project is finished, he might find it difficult to approach you even when you are his best friend.
and then, on an another lovely morning in the college's campus, an emotion he thinks he's aware of stirring in his stomach at the scene of you handing out a bento box wrapped with the same detailed towel, a small smile tugs at the corner of your lips as the other boy laughs lightly, scratches his neck, sending regards with a polite bow before making his way back in the classroom, akaashi doesn't like what his eyes have witnessed, so when he met yours, the bitterful look sends shivers down your spine.
you turn away, begin to walk, you do not want to deal with your bothered heart right now, not if it has anything to do with him, with that thought, you choose to neglect it because it is just your one-sided feelings for him.
but you hear footsteps behind, next is a small "wait" escaped from his lips when he managed to catch up and hold gently on your arm. that stopped you midtrack.
"please. can we talk?" he pleads.
---
you find yourself trapped by his presence in a corner of the school's library. there's no point in avoiding now.
"i'm sorry." he states. "i like you, i should've known."
your eyes widen. why- all of a sudden?
akaashi glances at you, softly sighs before bring your hand up to his face and kiss your knuckles gently.
"i understand now, i was clueless, you have the very right to be mad at me." each sentences he speaks crack your heart, but at the same time, they give you hope.
you neither know how to react, nor what to say, you just stand there, completely speechless, it encourages him to continue his speech of pursuing you.
"the last time i went to have lunch with satsuki, she confessed to me." he stopped, watching your expression. "but i turned her down, then, she got angry and started to brag about you. i did not like what she said, so i got quite defensive and... that was when i realised."
"i didn't know when it started. i just knew that i didn't feel very comfortable seeing you bringing your pastries that was meant for me to someone else, and more it's because i didn't appreciate it."
he squeezes your hand, afraid if not, you'll slip from his grip and become somebody else's apple. he certainly dislikes the thought.
"i want your pastries back, i love them as much as i love you. please let me correct such a terrible mistake."
---
"yes, hello. i've received the box, thank you, my love."
akaashi spins his office chair slightly, softly speaking to the phone stuck between his cheek and shoulder with a smile while unwrapping a huge warm box of freshly baked tarts.
"keiji, bad news, i'm out of powdered sugar after that batch." your voice echoed on output, he chuckles.
"are you free after work? we can visit the supermarket to purchase some. i'll drive, consider this a date with me, 'mkay?"
considering your boyfriend made it pretty clear on several occasions that he hated valentines, you werenât surprised he made no move to even contact you during the day. you were slightly disappointed due to the fact that you loved the day, sure, but it wasnât fair to place your disappointment on him when you knew what you were getting yourself into due to the years of friendship before dating, so you didnât dwell much on it.
you had asked previously if you two would meet tonight and when he mumbled a response about how he would probably be practicing late, you took over your co-workers shift to save yourself the boredom of being home alone while consecutively giving her a chance to see her partner, earning multiple âthank you!âs and a promise that she will take your shift whenever as she rushed out, prompting you to smile.
you loved valentines.
you didnât have a solid reason on why you did, but you didnât need one. you loved being surrounded with red heart balloons and roses wherever you walked and you loved the glee on peopleâs faces as they celebrated the day with their beloveds. it made you feel warm every time despite your plans or status and you couldnât help but smile as you watched a boy blush furiously as his girlfriend handed him flowers, giggling quietly with a love-dazed face.
the obnoxious bell ringing against the glass door made you turn to the costumers walking in, your smile widening just slightly as you saw osamu and atsumu bickering as they approached the counter until their eyes landed on you and widened just the slightest, atsumu gasping. âyer working today?!â
âyeah,â you mused, placing your chin on your palm. âyouâre both spending valentines together?â
they both shot you a glare that only caused your grin to widen, placing their usual orders down on the system either way. osamu grunted. âhe finished his date early and went over to have a mental breakdown at my restaurant.â
atsumu gaped at him for a few seconds in pure betrayal as you let out a quiet snicker before he shot his twin a harsh glare. âat least i had plans!â
osamu gave him a glare back. âthey are out of town, you littleââ
âplease donât scare my costumers away,â you retorted, cutting them off. they both huffed, avoiding eye contact before their eyes landed back on you and atsumu raised an eyebrow.
âwhat about ya? plans ended early?â
âthere were no plans,â you shrugged casually, adding extra syrup into osamuâs drink while catching the discreet way his eyes lightened up at the action. âkiyoomi hates valentines.â
atsumu frowned. âbut ya love valentines!â
you hummed, sliding osamuâs drink over. âso? i donât have to spend it with him against his will to be happy.â
osamu stared at you with furrowed eyebrows and a frown that matched his twinâs. âyer too nice. so, where is he today?â
you shrugged. âtold me he was practicing.â
they both shared a look before looking at you and speaking in sync. âwhen do you get off? weâre taking you out.â
you smiled as you slid atsumuâs drink over, stating that the drinks were on the house when they attempted to pay before telling them that you only had a few minutes left. as you finished the last bit of your shift, you could hear them checking with their partners that it was okay and you couldnât help but silently melt at how cute their relationships were as you waited for the last costumer to leave and closed up, shrugging your jacket off before calling out for them.
the rest of the day was nice. the three of you bought over-priced cupcakes and ate them in a dark playground, half the time spent with you laughing in amusement while they argued while the other half was spent with the three of you gossiping about drama suna had shared. they even bought you a red heart-shaped balloon and you almost teared up as you gleefully accepted it, thanking them frantically as they walked you to the door of your apartment building.
âcan i do something before ya leave?â atsumu grinned mischievously and you snorted as you nodded, interested to see what his plan was. he simply got out his phone, making you stand between the twins before he snapped a selfie of the three of you, making sure to capture osamuâs small smirk, the balloon and his poked-out tongue before he beamed. âsent!â
you raised an amused eyebrows as osamu snickered. âyou sent that to kiyoomi?â
âyeah, told him we stole ya.â
you laughed as you bid them your goodbyes and made your way up to your joined apartment, humming your favorite song under your breath softly. you assumed your boyfriend was still practicing, so you were pleasantly surprised when you unlocked the door and the lights were all on, your boyfriendâs shoes in their usual spot.
âkiyoomi, iâm home!â you called out after a sleepy yawn, expecting to get a simple âin our room!â or anything back. instead, your boyfriend walked out of the hallway with furrowed eyebrows and a frown.
âyou were with the miyas?â
âhm? yeah.â you hummed, placing your stuff down on the coffee table, too sleepy to notice the way he was practically sulking. âthey came before my shift ended and decided to take me out. when did you arrive?â
he huffed as he dragged himself over, strong arms pulling you into a tight hug as he buried his face into your neck. you smiled softly, your hands moving to lock into his hair as you hugged him even tighter. he hummed softly. âi missed you, how was your day?â
âit was nice,â you murmured quietly, enjoying the warmth he provided. âi love valentineâs day.â
he froze. you obliviously continued.
âthe cafĂŠ was super busy, but it was nice seeing everyone on dates, you know? there were a lot of roses as well and itâs just so heartwarminââ
he pulled away quickly, eyebrows furrowed deeply. âyou⌠you love valentines?â
âhm?â you blinked. âyeah? itâs my favorite holiday.â
âyou love valentines?â
you let out a small laugh at how cute he looked when he was confused. âof course i do. everyone knows i do, kiyoomi, how did you never notice?â
he tugged his hands into his hair. âhow did i not noticeâ why didnât you tell me you loved valentines?â
you shrugged calmly, not seeing the issue, and your nonchalance only seemed to make him even more distressed. âyou hate valentines so i didnât see why i should mention it, you know? i didnât want you to force yourself to plan anything or do anything for me.â
he stared at you for a few seconds before he fell back on the couch, burying his face into his hands and mumbling muffled words before he let his hands fall down and frowned. âyouâre an awful human being.â
you were too amused to take offense as you shrugged a few of the thick layers you wore off. âwhy am i an awful human being, my love?â
âhow can you not tell me you love valentines? i would have taken a day off and i would bought you those stupid overpriced flowers and those overpriced chocolates you would hate and we could have spent the entire day together andââ
âyou donât like valentines.â
âyeah, but i love you.â he huffed. âi love you and i want to make you happy.â
âiâm always happy with you,â you assured, slightly entertained. âi promise. why do you seem more upset about us not spending this together than me?â
âbecause i was under the impression that you also hate valentines,â he muttered as exhaustion finally seemed to take over, his drooped shoulders and pout causing the almost 6â3 professional athlete to seem like a child. you took the seat beside him and he immediately laid his head down on your lap, huffing. âi didnât know you liked it. i would have planned the best day if i knew you did, i promise.â
âyou keep missing the point, my love.â
âwhatâs the point of anything if i ruined our first valentines together?â
âyouâre such a drama queen,â you snorted softly, running your hands through his soft hair as he blinked sleepily. âthe point is that i donât need to celebrate valentines with you to be happy, kiyoomi, and you not buying âoverpriced flowersâ wonât make me love you any less. i knew what i was getting myself into when i started dating you, i donât want you to change and i genuinely donât mind.â
his cheeks flushed, but he still sulked. âwhatever, iâm taking you out next year.â
âor⌠we can stay in and order takeout? howâs that?â
âiâll buy a stupid bouquet too.â
you grinned at his sleepily grumbles. âyou can buy me a stupid bouquet then. you can even buy me stupid chocolates too, howâs that?â
âi will,â he mumbled determinedly, eyes finally shutting. âi love you so much, iâm sorry.â
âi love you and you have nothing to be sorry about, my love.â you promised, leaning to kiss his forehead. you only got a soft snore in response, your grin widening.
you truely couldnât wish for a better valentines.
â
pouty sakusa supremacy :p anw valentine ended 22 minutes ago for me but yolo ! hope you enjoy this one :)
in which: rin doesn't realise what he has until it's gone. now that you're gone, he will do anything to get you back.
warnings: 5.2k wc, ANGST TO FLUFF, breakup, toxic relationship towards the beginning, rin is really mean to gn!reader, hopeful ending, rin is devastatingly in love and pathetic, reader and rin are adults + he's a soccer player, other characters make an appearance and are friends with reader, mentions of throwing up, mentions of food, both reader and rin cry, just listen to taylor swift's 'afterglow'.
a/n: FINALLY, THIS FIC THAT I STARTED ALL THE WAY BACK IN APRIL IS DONE. GOODNESS. i have mixed feelings towards this piece, but i cannot withhold it from the world any longer. i'm going to forget i ever wrote this and move on! this literally took three drafts to finish.
you donât know when your relationship with itoshi rin began to crumble since it isnât an event that can be pinpointed, not a date that can be marked in your calender, and most certainly not a reminder you can set in your phone.Â
your friends keep telling you that you need to think back on it, that although it hurts, it was a necessary step in healing and getting over him. the more you reflect on it, however, your heart would only shatter into more fragments, with each one piercing you with the memories of better times.Â
when did his expression turn sour? when did he begin looking at you with such disdain? when did he decide he didnât need you anymore?
when did rinâs chips of insecurity wedge themselves between you?
the only memory that serves as an answer occurred at 7:00 pm one regular night. if you think hard enough, you can remember how the plush couch cushions sank under your weight, the clicks of the clock that had a second hand minutely too fast, and the sinking feeling of premonition in your gut.Â
the latest rin ever comes back is 6:00, and if not, he would have let you known why he wasnât home.
so where was he? the takeout you bought for dinner is getting cold and your stomach is growing louder and more impatient by the second. you didnât want to eat without him though since itâs something you did daily; eating together as a way of debriefing and letting go of the stress that the day brought.
after an onslaught of unanswered phone calls from you, at 7:15, rin merely texts a âwonât be home for a while. eat without meâ, and although rin was naturally curt and straightforward, the text had a depravity of⌠him, somehow. either way, his message causes a swirl of emotions in your stomach; unpleasant ones that begin to grow a nauseous shade of green.
you put rinâs takeaway in the fridge regardless, sending him a quick text telling him to be safe and that youâll see him soon.Â
he probably got caught up with something. youâre sure itâll be fine.Â
you shouldnât have ignored that sinking feeling of premonition. shouldnât have pushed down the unease swirling in your stomach when shutting the door to the refrigerator before stalking over to the kitchen island with slow steps as you prepare to eat in silence. no one to keep you company except your own thoughts and the ghost of rinâs presence.
and when rin does come home almost two hours later, he stills calls your name as usual, you still go to him as usual, he greets you with a tired smile as usual, you hug him as usual, he doesnât kiss the top of your forehead, though. you ignore it, pushing your thoughts aside because he was home. he finally came back. youâll wake up tomorrow and this uneasy feeling will sort itself out.
except it doesnât. Â
from that night onwards, rin changes. slowly, but surely, the cracks of change manifest in your relationship and through it all, you choose to cast a blind eye, plastering over it with sightless belief in your love.Â
ââ ââ ââ â ââ
the queasy feeling in your gut never stills. it fades at times when your mind is busy with other things, but it inevitably gets drawn back into the whirlpool of concern regarding your lover- or, rather, rin.
you think youâre still in a relationship, but you donât really know anymore. you havenât seen him in a while. the only indication of his existence that you get are the stray bowls he leaves on the kitchen counter whenever heâs done eating, the lessening weight of his protein powder containers, and the decrease of various food items from the fridge that you restock here and there.
it feels like youâre living with a ghost.
some nights, when it gets the most lonely, your mind betrays you, completely eliminating any and all trust you had in rin.Â
you wonder if thereâs another person. another lover that he feels more passionately for. another lover that his heart had gravitated towards, abandoning yours in the process. perhaps that is the explanation behind his absence.Â
but no evidence points towards that conclusion. there has been no suspicious deduction of bills from his bank statement that would suggest infidelity, his location is constantly at the sports stadium whenever you check, and there are no traces of a lover on him- not even you.Â
it is not totally blasphemous to assume that itoshi rin wouldnât be engrossed in soccer to the point that heâd spend unhealthy and obsessive hours into honing his abilities, but it feels a little traitorous that he could forget about life outside of the sport. it isnât just you heâs neglecting. his mother and father have been constantly asking when heâll come over to spend some time together, his teammates have been asking you about rinâs whereabouts and when heâll be free and whatâs worse is that you never know how to answer every time.Â
itâs embarrassing to be seen as a lover that is forgettable enough for rin to dismiss, so you lie and lie and lie, telling everyone that youâll tell them later, that heâs fine and just busy, and you lie to yourself. you tell yourself that rin will be home soon so you two can talk about it, and then everything will return to normal.
(your reflection looks through your facade, disheartened and worried.)
ââ ââ ââ â ââ
âwhy are you late?âÂ
you jump at the voice that greets you when you step foot in the apartment and the sight before you causes you to wonder just how tired you feel, because rin is in your apartment, where heâs meant to be, for once. not only that, but heâs leaning against the couch, adorned in loungewear and slippers, and the sight is too foreignly domestic for your comprehension.Â
coming home to a house with someone there feels nice.Â
heâs lost a little bit of muscle and fat, but his frame is still as intimidating; shoulders broad and built, just the faintest indicator into the athletic body heâs developed over the years. his hair is a little longer too.Â
âoh, rin, hi.â you mutter, surprise evident in your tone.
âhello.â
âsince i got a promotion,â you respond simply. rin makes no move to approach you, no initiative to take your bag and put it on the couch for you. instead, he stays rooted in his position leaning against the couch, arms crossed.
the air around him feels hostile, and suddenly youâre almost afraid to speak. âand does that promotion change your work hours or something?â
(he doesnât congratulate or celebrate your achievement.)
âi work with flexible hours now but the office is further and the commute is so bothersome.â
rin uncrosses his arms with a thoughtful hum, gaze glued to the floor, mind occupied. you approach him slowly, pulling your bag off your shoulder and setting it in the entrance near the genkan with a thud, the sound sobering to him.
when he looks back up, you donât want to acknowledge the emptiness in his icy eyes, barren of the usual determination that defined itoshi rin. but if you knew that that day would be the beginning of the end, perhaps you would have done something about it.
when you opened your arms for him, perhaps you would have hugged him a little tighter, a little longer, strained all the stress out of his shoulders.
perhaps you would have protected him a little harder from the cruelties of his own mind; shown him that the world was not out to get him, and that there was a place for people like him in the world (people who canât see their own value and instead, berate themselves for their waning self-worth because they cannot see the light behind them).
ââ ââ ââ â ââ
âiâm going to shower,â rin declares once the moment both of you step in the safety of your shared home.
âno, youâre not! not before we talk,â you demand, hurriedly taking off your shoes so you can face him before he slips out of your grasp. the dark-haired turns to look at you with an unamused expression, the way tonight seemed to drag on obviously taking a toll on him.
âyouâre gonna stop me from taking a shower, really?â
âyes because what the fuck was going on with you tonight?â
he narrows his eyes into slits, the pure intimidation that rin naturally emanates almost threatening you into submission. however, for the humiliation youâve had to endure tonight, you wonât budge.
âi donât understand,â rin says monotonously. you roll your eyes.
âyou donât understand? whatâs that supposed to mean?â
âi donât know what youâre getting mad over.â
âthe fact that you didnât even try to talk to me- let alone look at me, once this entire night?â
your partner looks away, crossing his arms over his chest. âthatâs an exaggeration,â he huffs.
âno itâs not!â you recall the looks of pity sent your way when rin sat beside you unmoving and unresponsive to any conversation you tried to make. âwould it have killed to show you some sort of interest?â
âwould it kill you to not receive attention for one night?â he retaliates.Â
âitâs not about that-â
âreally? sure feels like it. i donât have time to shower you with all my attention, y/n, there are other things i have to do.âÂ
there are a million things you want to say to rin, a million emotions that you have felt whilst heâs been absent, a million examples of how heâs been leaving you behind and how youâre now fed up of keeping these millions to yourself. yet, not a word leaves you, too stunned by the stranger in front of you to voice it all out.Â
rin, however, takes your silence as defeat and turns to leave.
âyouâre being dramatic. iâm going to shower before i waste anymore time with this lukewarm conversation.âÂ
ââ ââ ââ â ââ
the night your relationship officially fell apart is one you still remember vividly, because it only happened a few days ago.
in your memory, the night was nearing 9pm, yet rin had still not come home.Â
your heart takes you to him because as much as your relationship with him has caused you nothing but pain recently, you know itoshi rin. you know him because youâre soulmates and where he goes, thereâs a fragment of your heart that follows.Â
the drive to the practice pitch is nothing but heavy. heavy with your anticipation and stress, you feel your chest constrict and tighten, especially when you pull up into the very empty parking lot.Â
ârin!â you shout for the fifth time and only then, does the dark-haired look up at you from where heâs doing dribbling drills. he almost trips over the ball from your interruption.Â
âwha- oh,â he turns away just before you can catch the roll of his eyes, the snarl of frustration (one that lovers should never bare at each other). âwhat do you want?â
you pause a few feet away from him, utterly gobsmacked with the attitude your partner was showing you. after driving all this way, the least youâd want is a little concern, but alas.
âitâs time to go,â you stand your ground. âiâm here to pick you up.â
âyeah, right, iâm not going home.â
âthatâs ridiculous! are you not tired?â
âno.â
ârin. câmon, thatâs enough, you need to rest.â
âwhat the fuck do you know about being enough?â he asks.
the silence is deafening and most hurtful.Â
you stammer out the only response you can, âwh-what?â
he doesnât give you anything. unrelenting, he is. rin has always been the embodiment of stubbornness served cold. not finding much productivity in his silence, you continue speaking with a wavering voice. âletâs go home. please, you shouldnât be working yourself like this-â
â-leave me the fuck alone!â he finally comes undone. âcanât you see that i donât have time to deal with headaches like you?â
the thread keeps unravelling.
âfucking lukewarm. i canât deal with this right now, i donât need you here.â
âfine,â you murmur. rin has his back turned against you and he prepares himself to kick another ball. âiâll leave then since you donât need me.â
when rin arrives home that night, he reasons the unease churning in his stomach on the physical exertion of practice as nothing is out of place. the apartment is as kept and tidy as it typically is, the lights are off because youâve gone to bed, and there is a meal on the kitchen counter sealed by plastic wrap.
he wonât eat it because heâll want to throw up otherwise, so rin tucks it neatly into the fridge, not thinking twice about the emptiness on the shelves, right where your favourite drinks are normally kept.Â
the athlete washes up quickly and efficiently, a good nightâs rest sounding too appealing for his battered body that felt as heavy as lead.Â
that night, sleep takes rin and lulls him into a temporary sanctuary, protecting him from the reality that he would wake up to. because when morning comes, he will turn and find that you are not beside him like he expects you to be. your side of the bed is untouched, devoid of any warmth or indicator that you were there.
he checks the bathroom- youâre not there. he calls your name in the hallway- you donât respond. he scans the kitchen, the study, the living room, and finds nothing but loneliness in each room. thereâs no text from you indicating that you were elsewhere.
youâll return, though. rinâs sure of it.
except you donât, the hours pass by with rin anticipating your return, and his confidence slowly dwindles with each minute. by the time itâs been 24 hours since he last saw you, his patience runs thin. finding your contact, rin presses the âcallâ button and is surprised that it does not go through, stopping him after only one ring when an automated voice says âthis caller is unavailableâ.Â
the dark-haired stares at your contact in contempt, furrowing his eyebrows when all of his following attempts receive the same treatment, but rin continues stubbornly because you couldnât have blocked him, right?
was it because of what he said? he didnât mean it, he didnât mean to blow up on you like that- how is he supposed to say sorry if he canât even reach you?
checking his private accounts on various social media, he sees that youâve blocked him there too. running in to the master bedroom and checking the closet, half of your clothes are missing, and the bag you keep on the shelf is missing too. the bathroom lacks some of your products, your laptop and various chargers are gone from your study space, and the heaviness of your absence hits itoshi rin like a train.
ââ ââ ââ â ââ
you never did come around to collect your stuff. rin finds a little bit of pain in that fact.
he feels like a ghost, haunted by the trinkets of you that remain littered around his apartment. he doesn't have the heart to throw them out, not when they're the closest thing to you he can get.
a few times rin sees you in his dreams. a few times he sees you in his nightmares, looking completely hurt and run-down by his recklessness and neglect, but most mornings he wakes up feeling emptier, no one to turn to on your side on the bed. not anymore. thereâs no body to hold when he needs it most, thereâs no one to keep him company whilst he eats dinner, thereâs no love. not since the day you left.
you, on the other hand, find it odd to live life without a second person in the periphery. you thought rin was the one for you, you never had any thoughts about what life could be without him because you were certain that it would be him that you spent the rest of your years with, so learning to accommodate without him is gnawing you away, the little bug of loneliness festing on your newfound independence.Â
youâre seated on the floor of your best friendâs living room when reo texts one day, interrupting your apartment hunt.
reo: Are you still coming to my party?
you scrunch your eyebrows at the text, unknowing of where it was coming from.
y/n: not anymore. whatâs up?
reo: Why not :(
reo: Please itâd be so fun
y/n: donât you know that rin and i broke up?
reo: Ok but heâs definitely not coming
reo: Itâs Rin, he doesnât have a life so youâre fine. Pls say youâll come
reo: Plus heâs been all mopey ever since so I donât think heâs in a party mood
you dutifully ignore the last part of reoâs statement. after a little more coaxing, he finally manages to get you to agree to come, but not without a feeling of apprehension settling in your gut. still, it would be a shame to miss out on an invitation from a friend because of it.Â
besides, reoâs bargain of offering to buy your outfit was too tempting to let go.Â
ââ ââ ââ â ââ
âpractice was rough,â bachira murmurs, flopping on the sides of the soccer field with a sigh. his sweat causes his hair and clothes to cling to his skin, and isagi takes a seat on the bench beside his best friend, tossing the dual-tone haired his water bottle.
wiping the sweat off his forehead, isagi agrees with a hum. âi know. i just want to go home.â
âi donât know how rin does this, staying overtime and all of that.â
âheâs insane. it only got worse after his breakup and everything.â
bachira frowns, looking over to where the dark-haired in question is standing. âi feel bad for rin-rin, seems like heâs not taking it well at all.â
a beat of silence passes before bachira speaks again. âyou know y/nâs coming to reoâs party this weekend?âÂ
the black-haired wipes his mouth before setting the water bottle down. âreally?â
âyeah. reo told me.â
âthatâs nice, itâs been a while since weâve seen y/n so itâd be nice to catch up.â
âi wonder if rin knows.â
âi doubt it,â isagi reassures, âhe hardly goes to parties like the one reoâs throwing.â
âmaybe thatâs why y/n agreed in the first place.â
âprobably.â
a cold voice suddenly cuts the two from their conversation ây/nâs going to reoâs party?âÂ
isagi feels his blood cool over before looking up. there, stands itoshi rin, who has a frazzled, yet equally determined look in his eyes, one that isagi has not seen in a while (not since you left). âwhat? no! where did you hear that from?âÂ
but they are soccer players, not actors or professional liars. âshut the fuck up, asshats. y/nâs going to reoâs party this weekend?â
the two exchange a look and their silence is the only answer rin needs.Â
âhold on, youâre not thinking of going, are you?â isagi asks, accepting defeat and now switching tactics.
âwhy wouldnât i? my partne-â he pauses. ây/n is gonna be there.â
âyes but-â
â-you canât stop me from going, so donât even think about it.â
without another word, rin is gone, stalking away with a scary determination that was previously dormant.Â
âwhat did we just do?â bachira mumbles. âshould we tell y/n?âÂ
ânah.â
âagreed.â
ââ ââ ââ â ââ
you should have never come to this party.
how stupid and foolish of you, but how utterly cruel of the universe to let you hurt like this, to let the same pain that has walked all over you for the past few months return; this time ramming into you with the ferocity of a bull, knocking the air out of your lungs
ây/n!â comes the dreaded call of your name. you walk a little faster, breaking into an-almost sprint.
ây/n!âÂ
âfor fucks sake- y/n!â this cry of your name is broken, rasped and pathetic, and your chests clenches from how pained it sounds. like a howl from an injured wolf, it is broken enough for you to pity it, luring you into a trap that will inevitably end in chunks being torn from your heart, but you donât have much left to spare, so you keep running, no matter how badly you want to give in.
except itâs not enough to deter rin, nothing ever be when thereâs a goal in sight, especially one so close that he can taste it.
ây/n, please, i need to talk to-â
â-go away, rin!â you cut him off, hugging yourself tighter to shield yourself against the cold and rinâs pleas from piercing you.Â
ânot until you listen to me!â
fury powers you, igniting you with the courage to turn around and finally face him. you donât look him in the eye, keeping your gaze elsewhere, but he shuts up nevertheless, awestruck by finally being able to see you face-to-face after being so long away from you. all words die on his throat, withering away to nothing as his eyes slightly widen in shock.
youâre just as beautiful as the day you left; perhaps even more so.
rin wonders if your radiancy was birthed by his absence, and if the answer is âyesâ, he might wither away on the spot.
âitâs always about you isnât it?â you shout. âalways about what you want and never about what others want. you said you wanted me to leave, so i did! what more could i possibly give?âÂ
he gulps, utterly entranced as his heart makes itself known in his chest, racing wildly and vividly; the first indication that it was alive and hadnât been replaced by a gaping hole in your absence. he hasnât felt this human since you left.Â
âi didnât mean for you to actually leave,â rin confesses shakily.Â
âwell, it didnât seem like you wanted me to stay either.â
âno, thatâs not-â he falters. âitâs⌠not the same without you.â
you hug yourself tighter. âi donât believe you, youâre just saying that now that thereâs nobody to warm your bed.â
âno, itâs not like that- i donât like living without you,â the athlete continues, admitting something so heavy with such airiness.
âyou canât just say that after so long. not when youâve been living without me months before we broke up.â
there are a million and one things that rin wants to say to you, but none of them break through the whirlwind that is his thoughts, rattling around in his brain on overdrive and overwhelming him with the intensity of them all. one thing he knows for sure is that you are the single muse behind all of them, the only thing that is keeping him sane amongst the flurry of disturbances.
then, you shiver from the chilly breeze of the night, and the whirlwind is silenced into oblivion to awaken a dormant instinct of his instead. one that commands him to fulfil a duty that heâs not inclined to do anymore.
quickly, rin takes off his jacket and holds it out to you, as if expecting you to take it.Â
he drops it when you donât, hope dwindling in his stomach.
swallowing weakly, he then asks âwould you ever give me a second chance?â
âyouâll hurt me again,â you glance away, the street lamps highlighting the melancholy in your profile as rin observes you closely. his eyes outline the curves of your face, each divet and slope that he used to trace with his hands now out of his reach. âyou take and you take, but you never give and iâm so tired of it.â
âdonât say that,â he pleads, voice barely louder than a whisper as the dark-haired takes a heavy step towards you. âyouâll break my heart.â
âi shouldnât love you anymore, youâre bad for me.â
âthen iâll be good- iâll become whatever you want me to be-â
â-we wonât work like that.â
âweâll work as long as iâm yours again, just, let me fix us, iâll do whatever it takes. iâm not giving up like this.âÂ
the first tear makes herself known and paths the way for your downfall like a tsunami, washing away whatever you had built up during your time away from itoshi rin; the good and the bad. the hurt and the healing, all undone by a singular, stray tear. in your vision, he becomes nothing but a blur, a kaleidoscope of colours that you once loved.
a kaleidoscope of colours that you still love, much to the chagrin of your broken heart.Â
a hand wraps around your wrist, a warm shackle that grounds you to rin like heâs your lifeline. no matter how bad you want to push him away, something in you will always bend to him.Â
âdonât cry,â he pleads, voice airy and breathy. âiâm sorry, please donât cry.â
please donât cry because of me.
âi donât want to be with you if it means i need to go through all of that again.â you whisper, slipping out of his grasp like sand and wiping away your own tears, rejecting his callous and prickly touch.Â
rinâs world dims as panic seizes his throat. âplease donât say that, you donât mean it.â
âi do though. you left me first, donât you know?âÂ
â-i do.â
âand now iâm not yours to care about anymore-â
âi know, i know,â words are merely spilling out of his mouth without much purpose at this point, because heâll do anything just to delay you leaving, to push back the possibility of you turning around and never seeing you again. why did he have to break who he loved so much?Â
still, he pleads for another chance, desperation shining in his eyes as pure longing fills him. you have always been too good to him, he knows, but like the tumultuous tides and their inability to stray too far from the shore, rin will come back to you with his undying devotion.Â
even if he thinks you should find someone better than him, that you should be adored by someone who could love you so much better, he canât let go. to let you go is to let go the one good thing that came to him in life,Â
you exhale shakily. âweâve loved each other for too long.âÂ
âwhat do you mean?â he stutters, eyes widening helplessly.Â
âi have loved you too much for too long, rin,â you choke, âthere has to be an end to us somewhere in sight- you need to accept that.â
âno,â his look of absolute devastation causes a physical recoil in your stomach. âno- not long enough, itâll never be enough, fuck- even forever wonât be long enough, i canât let you go like that.â
he crosses the distance between you in the blink of an eye. you canât see him clearly under the dim light of the night, but you can feel him, so close and so overwhelming, but so cold as his hands come to grasp yours. his grip is firm, not enough to hurt, but enough for you to feel his determination.Â
tears dance along his lashline.Â
âplease, tell me youâre still mine,â begs the dark-haired. rinâs tears are diamonds, in which they are precious, but they also crumble into a precious waterfall that rolls down his cheeks, tempting you towards his beautiful ruination.Â
words continue to tumble out of him, each one sharpened to pierce your defences. âtell me that weâll be fine, that iâm all you want, please. iâm so fucking sorry for hurting you, but please donât leave me.Â
iâll fix us, iâll become everything you need, iâll be good.â
the dark-hairedâs hands find their way to your face, cupping each side of your jaw with a scary gentleness; one that youâd never expect from someone as ragged as itoshi rin.Â
âi love you,â he declares, so raw, so full of passion that it makes you sick. the rin you know never lets his heart on his sleeve like this.Â
you cave. âhow will you fix us?âÂ
slowly. heâll rebuild everything that you have given him.
ââ ââ ââ â ââ
first, rin takes you out on dates again. calls you beautiful and really means it.
second, rin leaves practice at regular times, and listens when you tell him that he needs to take care of himself. because for you, he will.Â
third, rin picks you up from work. his practice ends a little earlier than your job, so he always goes the extra mile to be there for you at the end of the day. even if you tell him that he doesnât need to go out of his way to do so, heâd rather see you get home safe than only receiving a mere text of confirmation.Â
plus, it gives rin more time with you.
fourth, rin sends you regular gifts. from bouquets, to random items that he just knows youâd like, they all get left at your door at the best times.Â
fifth, rin lets you set the pace. you wanted things to go slow so that you two didnât have to force anything back in place. no point recreating something thatâs in the past, you reasoned, so might as well try again.
sixth, rin takes his time in welcoming you back into his space. itâs a few months after you two have reconciled, and majority of your items are back where they belong (you poked fun at him for not being able to throw away the stuff you did leave, and he just mumbled something indecipherable, all embarrassed, before moving on). the life has been restored in his apartment, now filled with more remnants of you loitering around his space: your various chargers and laptop, your products, your clothes, they all sit beside his things like thatâs where they are meant to be.
and you are back in his arms, because it is where you are meant to be (more for his sake than yours).
rin stirs awake one morning under the gentle light of the morning sun and youâre there beside him, occupying the space that he has left devastatingly empty. mattress still curved to your frame as he never dared infiltrate it, in hopes that you would return.
now that you have, you feel too warm, too familiar, too unreal that he wonders if youâre just another dream of his.Â
then, you stir, and press yourself closer against his chest, face to face with the heart that only beats for you.
a stray tear rolls down rinâs face; a salvation for the utter relief he feels, as well as the overwhelming amount of adoration that he stores for you. his âi love youâ is sweeter than the chirping of the birds outside, and certainly more meaningful as he wraps more of himself around your sleeping figure, hoping to attach all of him to all of you.Â
youâre home. he wonât let you leave again.
Š EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.
Normally, Kiyoomi is immune to it, if anything, he embraces your clingiest of affections and he takes them with ease, but today, for some reason, youâre nuzzling and nudging at him with every little thing, your eyes curved into a sad pout every time he looks down at you.
It seems like youâre insatiable, youâre on a craving for a fix you canât seem to get, and heâs fairly certain youâve almost cried at him a few times for that little bit of affection you canât seem to get enough of, and normally Kiyoomi can read you like a novel, front to back.
Today, itâs almost like youâre a different person- no longer able to voice their needs, but plead for him to figure it out. Someone who doesn't seem to trust him, but still eggs for assurance and validation.
And he doesn't know why, but he can't pinpoint it this time.
He's exhausted every avenue, he's does everything he can think of, every question he could ask has either given him no answer or another needy little choke in your answer. He doesn't know, okay, he's trying, but he doesn't want to just ask you point blank because there's a part of him that feels like he should know.
There's also a glimmer in your eyes that tells him that he should figure it out.
Finally, for whatever reason, you stop.
Now, you're creating distance, and he hates this even more than you trying to crawl into his skin.
At least then, you still wanted him.
"I'm going to shower."
Your voice cuts him out of his detecting, snapping him from his thoughts as he nods encouraging at you. If he didn't feel like it would end in a fight, he'd cheesily ask if you wanted him to join you, but the question dies when you spin on your heel to leave him in the bedroom, alone.
He needs to know. He has to figure it out.
There's a buzzing of his phone that snaps him out of his pity party, and enthusiastic text from Hinata about the new jersey designs. Something about how they need sizing and promo pictures, and they should all get together to plan.
At this point, Hinata couldv'e texted him about anything on the planet and he would've gone. In his head, he weighs his options of staying here and leaving the jersey talk for tomorrow.
Or leaving, and letting you both have some time apart to sort out your feelings.
He's barely able to think on it before his feet force him to get up and make his way to the bathroom, popping open the door to call to you.
He just hopes this works.
"Baby, I'll be back!" He calls, voice above the rushing water.
"Wait- what?" You call back.
"Hinata needs to steal me for a while to talk about our new jerseys, I should be back in a few hours."
"Kiyoomi-"
"I love you!" He says, interrupting you before closing the door and making his way out of the house. He hopes that some distance may calm whatever it is inside of you,
By the time he comes home, he's surprised to see the lights turned on.
Typically Kiyoomi can come home at any hour and find you in bed, asleep, clinging to his pillow, but tonight, it seems you either forgot to shut everything down, or you're still awake.
Maybe if you're awake, you'll be able to sort out whatever happened today before going to bed.
When he walks in, the house is quiet. Scarily quiet.
"Nice of you to show up."
Yeah. You're up. And you sound bored.
The house is still active, but rather than make a dash for him to leap into his arms for affection, you're instead on the couch, eyes heavy and face sad.
After a whole day of trying to cling to him and his every move, now you're willing to be sedate?
He sighs and walks to meet you in the living room, and whatever angry look you try to pull gets demolished by the wobbling of your lip. âWhatâre you still doing awake?â
You turn to look up at him sadly, tears swollen in your waterline as you blink at him expectantly. âI missed you.â
He smiles at your words before shrugging off his jacket and folding it over in his arms, âI missed you too, baby. How was your night?â
âQuiet.â Your lips twitch as if you want to say more, but no other words fall from your lips. He gives you a small chuckle and scratched the back of his head.
âThatâs⌠exciting,â he offers. You shrug. The tenseness in the room makes him want to throw up, heâs not used to this coldness from you- typically, youâre throwing yourself at him, especially with how you were acting earlier, but now you seem like you couldnât care less about him. "Did you do anything?"
"Nope."
"Oh..."
"Where did you go?"
He shrugs, "Hinata and Bokuto wanted to talk about the new jerseys and the plan for practice tomorrow; then we got dinner and had some drinks."
"And you didn't think to text me? Not once?"
Chills run up his spine as your question comes with an emotioned voice crack, "I... I guess it slipped my mind... I'm sorry."
"Mm."
He swallows thickly, but his pounding head desperately wants to call it a night. âWhy donât we go to bed, baby?â
âYou go ahead, im gonna get some water.â
He smiles and nods as he makes haste to the bedroom, happy facade dropping once his back is towards you. All he wants right now is to curl up next to you and knock the rest if the day away, praying that you're in a similar headspace.
He all but tears off the clothes on his back, dressing into far more comfortable wear as he goes to wash his face. Usually, you're right next to him, butting your head against him, nudging him to the side so you can join him, or youre sitting on the closed toilet seat just to watch him.
You seemingly have no interest in doing that tonight.
By the time Kiyoomi's done, his stomach churns as you're still not in bed, surely it hasn't taken you more than two minutes to get some water, and with an exhausted, and almost annoyed groan, he shuffles back down the hall to see you.
You... you haven't moved.
âHey,â he mumbles, rubbing his eye. âHow come youâre out here? I thought we were going to bed?â
âYou didnât kiss me today.â
He didnât?
âWhat do you mean?â He asks, stalking over to the couch. You shuffle over to make room for him, but your eyes never meet his. âI kissed you so many times today, baby.â
âNo,â you snip. âYou didnât. I know, because Iâm so used to you giving me kisses.â
âIâm... I'm sorry, I guess I just-â
âAnd you barely hugged me, either,â you sniffle. His brows furrow and instinctively, he tosses an arm around your shoulder to try and calm you down. âAny time Iâd reach for you, youâd look at me like I was some nuisance, and make me feel bad for needing the affection.â
âOf course youâre not a nuisance!â He says, rocking you both. âGod, fuck baby, Iâm sorry, I thought you just needed some more attention than usual and I just-â
âIâm not done.â
A wave of nervousness shudders down his spine, but he pulls back slightly to give you your room to piece together your thoughts. Had he really been that neglectful today?
âYou didnât even eat dinner with me; you went out with the boys. I was in the shower, I didnât even get a kiss goodbye- you called out a quick âlove you!â and went off doing whatever it was you did tonight. You didnât call, and you didnât text, and I was home alone, thinking that I did something wrong.â
"No wonder youâre upset- Iâm sorry, baby. Whatever I did today wasnât a reflection of how much I love you; I just got a little busy, and I didnât mean to hurt you. Iâll do better tomorrow.â
You completely deflate. God, what has he done?
âTomorrow?â
âYeah,â he says sweetly, planting a kiss to your temple. âI never, ever wanted to hurt your feelings, and Iâm sorry I did.â
Youâre quiet. Thereâs a strange feeling of dread in the air. The longer you pause, the more he feels the anxiety settling in the pit of his soul.
"You really don't know why I'm mad...?"
He chokes on his own breath, "I... I didn't know you were mad..."
You hiccup in sadness, and he feels like he can't breathe.
The clock on the tv changes to 23:59, and you sigh sadly.
âHappy anniversary.â
You stand up without a word, letting Kiyoomiâs head fall forward along with his jaw. He looks at you in absolute terror, all while you face away from him, hugging yourself in an attempt to comfort yourself.
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
The room is shrouded in suffocating silence, smothering anything Kiyoomi could say before he could even think of the words. Dark eyes dart over your frame. He feels sick, he could throw up on this rug right now, if he had anything to even puke up. Your shoulders heave, and heâd rather chew on broken glass covered alcohol before ever wanting him and his neglect to be the reason for your distress.
âI forgot,â he blurts.
No shit.
âI know you did.â
âHow⌠could I forget?â
âYou tell me.â
âI-I-I-I set so many reminders, how did IâŚâ
âIt doesnât matter,â you snip, turning on your heel to stalk back down the hallway to your bedroom. âYou forgot. And the day is over. It doesnât matter.â
It does, he wants to argue. It matters, because you matter to him, and he abandoned you on a night that is so sacred to him, the day you crashed into his life and made him realize that whatever he was doing that put you on the road to him, was exactly where he wants to be.
He looks down at the clock on his iPhone, as it creeps over the 45 second mark, and he darts down the hallway. He runs like heâs being chased, like heâs on fire, and you canât hide your noise of surprise when he bursts into your bedroom and tosses gangly arms around you and plants kisses all over your face.
He holds you so tight you could pop, and he sponges all the kisses he can over your neck and cheeks, and he hears you trying to fight back a giggle, and it only eggs him on to continue.
âI love you,â he pants. âI love you, I love you so much, every day Iâm grateful for whatever being is watching us for putting me on the road to you. I donât know who I worshipped right to be here, but Iâll be damned if I let my own stupidity sabotage that.â
âKiyoomi,â you say, voice delicate and trying to stop itself from breaking. âYou forgot. I just wanted... I wanted you to show up. You couldn't even give me that."
Now it's his turn for his lip to wobble.
You sniff sharply, "just forget about everything, I donât care anymore.â
âBut I care-â
âClearly, you donât,â you snap, trying to squeeze out of his grip. âI donât have the energy for this right now. Letâs just go to bed.
âIâm not about to let this go.â
âNeither am I, but my demons need to rest.â Your eyes dart at his alarm clock, âyours too, apparently. Tomorrow youâre getting sized for jerseys- hopefully you didnât forget that other important thing.â
Your words sting him sharply, even if he deserves every single one of them. He reels back slightly, gnawing at his lip as he tries to think of ways to fix this, fix the way youâre looking at him and feeling, fix the clear hole heâs singed into your heart.
You curl up into your side of the bed, pulling the blankets high, and he doesnât know how long he does it, but he just stares at you. Itâs like heâs waiting for you to scream at him, or cry, or do something that he should feel even more shitty for.
But it doesnât happen.
You sniffle a few times, shuffle once or twice, and he doesnât know just how long heâs been standing there until your breathing turns rhythmic and peaceful for the first time today. Your shoulders rise and fall, back facing away from him and god, he feels like such a loser about to lose the greatest thing that's ever happened to him.
Probably because he is.
You're going to leave him. You're going to see just how much he takes you for granted, how much more you're worthy of and how much more love anyone can give you- even if you still wanted to stay in the jackals, and he wouldn't blame you for shifting your love to someone like Hinata or Meian for a second.
A cold breeze smacks Kiyoomi in the face as, at some point in his spiraling, he ends up outside, keys jingling in hands and hoodie pulled messily on top of his head. His legs seem to know where he's going, even if he doesnt.
His legs take him everywhere that could possibly be open right now, there's no store with a three mile radius that he hasn't bought out between candy, chocolates, a few stuffed bears you'll adore, and three or four types of pizzas and sushi dishes each.
He doesn't care about the strange looks the cashiers and other patrons give him. He cares about trying to remember if you prefer sour or normal gummy bears. He cares about remembering if you like plain pizza or toppings.
He also cares about the way this pillow won't sit the hell up.
He cares immensely about the way the chairs from the island in the kitchen have no grip to them, and refuse to keep the blankets strewn across them up.
And fuck the knitted blanket draped over the lamp and top of the couch, because it refuses to stay the hell up and he's had to make at least four mad dashes to catch the falling object.
The fifth, naturally, crashes to the floor, and he can only sigh in defeat as he continues to fix the fort for the nth time.
"I'm armed," your voice yells from down the hall.
He chuckles, "no you're not."
You groan in annoyance before padding down the hall, and he turns his head to acknowledge your exhausted arrival.
âWhatâre you doing, Kiyoomi?â You ask, knuckling your eye. âItâs one in the morning.â
âItâs 12:23 pm on the east coast in America.â
You cock a brow, and he blinks simply before turning back to his blanket fort. He feels your eyes boring into his skull, but he ignores it. Heâs busy.
âUhm⌠thank you for the fun fact?â
âItâs 1:23 yesterday.â
ââŚand?â
âKomori is on the east coast,â he says easily, tongue poking out in focus. âSomewhere, I donât really know where, I donât know American geography. Which basically means a part of me is on the United States east coast. So, by the transitive property-â he stands up and presents the messily made fort. âWe still get to celebrate our anniversary.â
You smile sadly at his efforts but your bottom lip wobbles all the same, âkiyoomi, you forgot. Just drop it, okay?â
âNo.â
âKiyoomi, Iâm tired-â
âI bought us some pizza,â he interrupts, lifting the reusable bags positively stuffed to the brim with other treats. âAnd i got those sour candies you like for some reason, but I picked aside all the ones you hate so you can just eat them in confidence-â
Your eyes glimmer in slight excitement.
âAnd-And-And Iâve got our favorite movies queued up, ready to go, but thereâs a new playlist filled with love songs that I found-â
âKiyoomi-â
âAnd god we havenât danced around in months, do you remember the last time we danced? It was like⌠well, months.â
You giggle, and he brightens at the sound. He takes a soft sigh to calm down, âand I just⌠I know how bad I am at showing it.â He stands up and makes his way towards you, and when he cups your cheek in his hand and you mewl at him, he could cry from that alone. âBut you are the only thing that matters. My only exception to any rule I could make. And I couldnât give you the bare minimum, on the second most important day to do it.â
âSecond?â
âIf I forget your birthday, I need you to leave me,â he chuckles nervously. You slowly walk up to him as if timid and unsure, and when he opens an arm to ease you into a hug, he lets out a breath he didnât even know he was holding as he squeezes you close. âIâm so sorry, baby.â
âI know,â you assure. Thereâs a comforting silence between you both, your cheek nuzzled into the dip of his sternum before you hum.
âCan I go with you to size jerseys tomorrow?â
âIâm not going to get my jersey sized tomorrow,â he says without missing a beat. You tense up in his arms, and before you can protest, he shushes you and cups the back of your head to keep you close. âThey will live for one day without me. It takes four minutes tops. They will get over it.â
âBut-â
âNo buts,â he says, pulling back and looking down at you.
âBut-â
âNo.â He leans down to capture your lips in a kiss to shut you up, soft and familiar but just enough to keep you calm for him. You purr into the kiss and let your hands wander around his torso, fingers fisting the fabric of his night shirt tightly.
The fingers on your head gently fists the hair at the nape of your neck to keep you grounded for him, and the whimper you pant against him has him in euphoria.
âThank you,â you sigh against his teeth. He shakes his head before pulling back slightly.
âDonât thank me⌠not when I made you feel anything less than the love of my life.â
You chuckle and gently tug the waistband of his sweats. âI know youâre trying to make up for it, now.â
âYou do?â
âHow many men are gonna stay up, figure out the time zones in America and pick sour grape from my bag of candy just to try and fix a forgotten anniversary?â
He laughs and pulls you in for another hug, one tight and secure and as close as he can get you to snap any broken pieces together.
a/n : another angst post? who wouldâve thought? ahhh itâs been so long since iâve written anything iâve deemed as post worthy and iâm still not sure of this one because iâm worried the conclusion is too sudden lol. still it felt good to write again and i hope to do more now that school is lightening up.
edit: 1000+ notes later (oh my god???? thank you???) i realize that i lost some of my paragraphs in my copying pasting process from my notes app to here, somehow the story was still great and made sense but now itâs in its best form lmao
It was different. You werenât sure if it would ever be the same.
Technically speaking, you and Sakusa had been dating for three years. That is, if you didnât count the four months where you had thought that he was done with you for good.
It was still jarring really, it had been 2 months since you two got back together and the both of you were lounging on your couch in your apartment as if nothing ever happened.
You still remembered the day vividly. How could you not? You were so shocked you stood at your doorway speechless for more than a couple minutes. The possibility of a second chance was within reach just when you were about to lose hope and attempt to move on from the man you thought you would marry.
When Sakusa had called your name again you eventually broke from your shock and without thinking you took him back.
It was not as if you had regretted your decision. Far from it actually. However, after such a big event happening in your relationship it would be even more surprising if nothing had changed and the two of you went back to exactly how you were before.
Before you knew it, the episode of the show you two were watching ended and Sakusa flipped his phone to check the time. âAh itâs getting late I should get going.â
A couple months ago you would have pouted, whined about him having to leave and then try to convince him to stay. Eventually it would lead to him staying the night.
But now? You thought back to your last big argument. Where he yelled at you for being too needy, too clingy, too dependent on him and his presence when he had a busy life of his own.
That was the day he broke up with you, claiming that he couldnât put up with you anymore. If he had done it before there was nothing stoping him from doing it again at anytime.
So you were cautious around him, making sure to prevent anything he had a gripe with from happening. Whether that be speed cleaning your apartment before he came over, only texting him when he did first, not asking him to stay just a tad bit longer. It was nearly exhausting.
You sat up and stretched rubbing at the cheek that had been pressed against his toned chest. âAlright,â you replied quietly, getting off of him so that he could move.
You werenât looking at his face to notice, but a look of worry crossed Kiyoomiâs face.
He wasnât dense, he noticed the way you were walking on eggshells around him. He saw you were trying nearly too hard to make sure that he didnât get upset with you. It was quite heartbreaking in all honesty. He thought that he had made it well known that he still wanted you, and that he was wrong to look at your habits with disdain. He missed your quirks so much in those four months. He was slightly hoping that you would do you usual pout and instead of pulling away, you would hug him closer.
In hindsight, Sakusa genuinely couldnât think of any good reason as to why he decided to split things off with you that day. There were so many other options that would have gone better, such as actually talking to you.
Instead, he let his exhaustion acquired from his busy lifestyle as an athlete cloud his judgment, and dropped the bombshell one random day.
In the period where you two werenât together, Sakusa had learned what it truly meant to be lonely, and a month in, he was already thinking of way to ask you to take him back. Eventually not allowing his pride to get in the way and just forcing himself to do it, knowing he would only regret it for the rest of his life if he didnât at least try.
With worry still fresh in his mind, he got up and you followed him quietly to the front door of your apartment with your head down.
He slowly pulled open the closet but didnât reach for his jacket. âDo you want to go out for dinner after I finish practice tomorrow?â
He could see the way your body filled with excitement, but as quickly as it came, it left.
You shifted from one foot to the other âIf you would like⌠You wonât be too tired after?â
Sakusa winced as his words were unintentionally thrown back at him
âCanât you see how tired I am after practice? I canât go out with you all the time y/nâ
âI know Omi, I just thought since itâs been a while-â
âI really donât have the energy to deal with this right now y/n. I feel disgusting and need to shower. Maybe next time.â
ââŚOkay.â
That was the end that phone call. There was no next time.
âI miss you.â He had spoken without thinking.
You looked up at him and chuckled nervously, âBut lâm right-â
Kiyoomiâs frustrated sigh interrupted you, his eyebrows furrowed and he ran a hand through his hair âI worded that wrong. I miss⌠us.â
Your stunned silence filled the room. Sakusa sighed and reached down, gingerly grabbing one of you hands with both of his.
âDonât think I havenât noticed how different youâve been acting.â his grip tightened and his eyebrows furrowed. âItâs all my fault.â
You opened your mouth to object but he already started speaking
âThose 4 months without you was one of the worst periods of my life, and now that I have you back it still doesnât feel right. you donât have to be so careful around me. I was an idiot who didnât know how to deal with being loved so greatly by someone as amazing as you.â
Your breath hitched as you watched Sakusa glare down at your intertwined hands his hands trembling as he spoke.
âYou should never have to feel as if you have to be the perfect person around me. You should never have to change, to sacrifice your mental health, and exhaust yourself just because youâre afraid that Iâll leaveâŚagain. I see how you try so hard around me when I hardly deserve it after everything I put you and our relationship thoughâ Sakusaâs voice cracked and he abruptly stopped. Clearing his throat before attempting to speak.
âI⌠the way I talked down to you that day was completely unacceptable. I completely understand if you now realize that being in this relationship is too much to deal with and that you would just be better off without me-â
âPlease donât say that.â you whispered.
Sakusa tore his gaze away from your hands and was greeted with tears streaming down your face. His eyes softened.
âOh no, no Iâm sorry i didnât mean to make you-â
He was cut off by a sob and Sakusa immediately let your hand go and instead pulled you into his arms.
âI still love you.â You sobbed âI know that you should have never been so harsh to me. But I want us to work through this so badly. Iâm just scared because nothing is stopping you from breaking it off again, so I thought that if I worked on myselfâŚâ
Sakusa shook his head âDonât blame yourself, not to cut me some slack. I have some things that I need to work on, and I will because I promise you that we can figure this out. Weâll be able to be ourselves around each other again. My desire to make things right and to be with you for the rest of our lives, that is what is keeping me from ever uttering those words again.â
You hiccuped but hesitantly nodded as best you could in Sakusaâs embrace.
âWeâre both a mess arenât we?â you said through slowing sobs.
Sakusa sighed, âThis is the exact opposite of how I wanted this night to end.â he grumbled as he placed a kiss to the top of your head.
You couldnât help the teary giggle that escaped your lips and it was like music to Sakusaâs ears. You lifted your arms to wrap around his torso and buried your face into his chest. Covering his sweater in tears and snot but he couldnât find it in himself to care.
âYouâre not going anywhere.â you eventually grumbled pulling him closer ânot after what you said.â
Sakusa laughed and leaned his cheek on the top of your head allowing the both of you to sway back and forth.
