you like gojo, the best friend of your childhood friend, geto.
warning: pica, selective mutism.
late september afternoon light filtered through the ginkgo trees in the schoolyard, casting fractured gold across the concrete. the air carried particles of chalk and overripe persimmons from the tree that leaned over the eastern fence. you were pressed into the corner where the library wall met the equipment shed, your cotton uniform skirt bunched against your knees, your red loafers scuffing faint patterns into the dirt.
from here, you could see the others –shrieking clusters of second-graders playing oni-tag, the boys kicking a soccer ball that sent up puffs of ochre dust each time it struck the packed earth.
you were counting ants marching across the crack in the pavement when a little shadow fell over you.
the voice was soft, curious, without malice. you didn't look up. you'd learned that if you stayed still enough, if you breathed shallowly, they would lose interest and wander away.
but this shadow didn't shift. instead, it settled –fabric rustling, the scuff of knees against gravel– and suddenly there was a boy sitting beside you, his black hair catching the sunlight in a way that made it look blue at the edges. he wore the same navy uniform as the others, but his collar was crooked, and there was a grass stain on his elbow. his eyes were heavy-lidded, ancient-looking for a seven-year-old's face, studying you with an intensity that didn't match the gentle slope of his shoulders.
"i'm geto suguru." he said. "you're in class 2-b, right? i see you through the window during lunch."
you said nothing, but your fingers tightened around your knees.
"everyone's playing." he continued, tilting his head. the motion made his hair swing, glossy and straight. "don't you like running? my legs get tired too. but the teacher says we have to move our bodies or we'll get sick."
an incalificable silence stretched between you, thick as honey. you could smell a hint of soap and the school fountain water, and underneath that, the faint green scent of the leaves he'd probably been climbing during the last break.
"you don't have to talk," he said finally, and his voice was so quiet it almost disappeared into the breeze rustling the leaves overhead. "i can just sit here. is that okay?"
you didn't nod, but you didn't pull away when his shoulder brushed yours, light as a moth's wing.
the next day, he found you in the same corner.
you'd been watching the clouds migrate across the narrow strip of sky visible between the buildings, cataloging their shapes –whale, ship, a hand with too many fingers– when you heard the plastic scrape of something being dragged across concrete.
geto suguru was pulling a yellow plastic sandbox behind him, the kind with a red lid and wheels that squeaked. it bumped over the cracks in the pavement, leaving faint tracks in the dust. he stopped when he reached your corner, positioned the box between you like an offering, and sat down cross-legged on the warm ground.
"i brought this." he said, as if explaining something obvious. he lifted the lid. inside, the sand was unspoiled, honey-colored, glinting with flecks of mica that caught the noon light like trapped stars. "it's from my house. my sister and i used to play with it, but she's in middle school now. she says it's babyish."
he plunged his hands into the sand. the grains sifted between his fingers, making a sound like rainfall. you watched, mesmerized by the way the light played across his knuckles, the way the sand coated his skin in a fine golden dust.
"sand is interesting," he said, his voice dropping to a contemplative murmur. "it's just rocks, but tiny. millions of years of being worn down by water until they're soft." he cupped his hands, brought them to his face, and inhaled. "it smells like the beach. even though we're inland."
then, without ceremony, he opened his mouth and poured the sand in.
you watched in horror as he swallowed it, his throat making that atrocious movement, like when someone tries to keep from choking. but he didn't cough, nor did he show any signs of fighting for his life. he just chewed.
there was a crunching sound, subtle but distinct –the grinding of silica against enamel. his cheeks were slightly bulged, like a chipmunk's. his expression remained placid, as if he were tasting fine chocolate rather than playground aggregate.
"don’t tell anyone, but i like sand." he paused, swallowing. "it tastes like the color grey. and thunder. far away thunder."
you had so many questions you weren't going to ask. what did the color gray and thunder taste like? did sand not get between his teeth or stuck in his molars? did it taste better than a plum muffin? your mouth opened, and a sound came out. it was rusty, unused, wheezer, but it was unmistakable: you were laughing.
geto turned to look at you, sand still dusting his lower lip, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. not a grin –his mouth barely moved–, but the warmth was devastating in its gentleness.
"see?" he said. "not so scary."
you reached into the box. the sand was warm from sitting in the sun, granular and flowing, slipping through your fingers like liquid time. you didn't eat it –you weren't that strange–, but you cupped it, let it fill your palms, and when geto began building a lopsided castle, you helped pat the towers.
wednesday smelled of rain that never fell: of iron and ozone, the humidity wrapped around the school like a wet wool blanket.
geto found you by the flowerpots.
you'd migrated from the corner to the narrow strip of garden that ran along the southern wall, where the school kept potted hydrangeas and a wilting tomato plant that the science teacher was attempting to resurrect. you were poking at the soil in one of the empty pots –dark, loamy earth that crumbled into rich chocolate-brown chunks when disturbed.
"that's better than sand." geto said, appearing beside you like he'd materialized from the humidity itself. he wore short sleeves today, and you could see the delicate bones of his wrists, the way his veins showed blue beneath translucent skin. "my sand is dead. this dirt is alive."
he knelt, his knees sinking into the mulch that surrounded the pots. without hesitation, he scooped a handful of soil from the tomato pot, threaded with white roots and the pale curl of a discarded earthworm. he brought it to his nose first, inhaling deeply, his chest expanding with the breath of decay and growth.
"it smells like..." he looked at you, those heavy eyes searching your face. "like sleeping. like things growing where you can't see them."
then, he ate it. you could hear the grit between his teeth, see the way his tongue pushed against his cheek to work the texture. it was a scene too bizarre to witness, enough to make your stomach churn instantly.
"that's gross." you said, your voice surprising you. it rang in your own ears too loud.
geto didn't flinch. he swallowed, his throat working, and used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, leaving a smear of brown across his cheek like warpaint.
"that's mean." he whispered.
you looked at the dirt in the pot and then at geto –his untucked shirt, his grass-stained knees, the serene expression. he didn't judge you for not speaking, for avoiding everyone; he just remained existing in your periphery, performing the acts that traumatized you and, simultaneously, entertained you. letting you be whatever shape you needed to be. he didn't demand answers, he didn't get frustrated. so, perhaps it was a bit cruel to judge him.
you reached into the pot. the soil was cool, damp, teeming with invisible life. it packed under your fingernails, black and rich. you didn't eat it, but you held it, let it sit in your palm like a living thing, and when geto began separating the earthworms from the roots with infinite, gentle care not to crush them, you helped.
geto would find you every day –by the equipment shed, under the ginkgo tree, in the narrow space behind the gymnasium. he never asked why you hid or why you didn't speak. instead, he brought his treasures:
a collection of pebbles that he chewed slowly, methodically, describing the taste as 'like the moon, if the moon was salty'.
a handful of grass blades, which he ate while lying on his back, staring at the sky, claiming they tasted 'green, but the green of deep water, not leaves'.
a piece of bark from the persimmon tree, which he gnawed on like a beaver, his jaw working with quiet determination while you drew patterns in the dust with a stick.
you began to anticipate his presence –the particular rhythm of his footsteps, softer than the other children's thundering chaos. you learned the topography of his face: the small scar above his eyebrow from a fall he'd taken in first grade, the way his ears were slightly too large for his head (promising the sharp elegance they would grow into), the particular shade of his eyes –brown, like the dirt he loved to consume.
you never asked him why he ate things that weren't food. it seemed as natural to him as breathing, as your own silence. while other children screamed and tumbled and demanded attention with the desperate violence of fireworks, geto was a candle –steady, warm, consuming himself quietly to give off light.
"i like you." he said one day in late autumn. the leaves had turned, carpeting the ground in gold that crunched like geto's sand when you walked. you were sitting on the low wall that separated the school from the neighbor's persimmon grove, your legs swinging, not quite touching the ground. geto was eating a piece of dried leaf, brittle and brown.
"everyone else is so loud. you're not." he simply said, offering you a piece of the leaf. you took it paper and tucked it into your pocket. a smile tried to bloom at the corners of your mouth. "can i eat a little of your hair?"
the question startled you. was he going to rip your hair out with all his might? would he pull out some poultry shears and trim you like grass until you were bald? by instinct, you backed away, but he raised both hands to reassure you.
"i won't do anything to you. you can give me whatever you want."
a few seconds passed before your hand moved to one of your braids, specifically the tip of the hair that was left over. you nodded, and by the time classes were over, geto was already devouring the strands with special relish.
march arrived with winds that cut through the wool of your coat, carrying petals from the early cherry blossoms that confused the season. the graduation ceremony was approaching –you could feel it in the way the teachers spoke, the way the older students walked the halls with a new heaviness, the way the light changed from winter's pale clarity to spring's tentative gold.
you found geto behind the gymnasium, where the snow had melted into muddy puddles that reflected the grey sky like shattered mirrors. he was kneeling in the dirt, his winter coat unbuttoned, his breath coming in white clouds. before him lay a patch of snowdrops that had pushed through the frozen earth.
"i was waiting for you." he said, without turning around. he knew your footsteps now.
you sat beside him. the ground was cold, seeping through your skirt, but you didn't care. you watched him reach out, touch one of the snowdrops with a gentleness that made your chest ache.
"they eat the winter." he said. "the bulbs store everything –cold, dark, waiting– and then they turn it into this." he gestured to the flowers. "white. like hope."
he plucked one. you expected him to eat it –he'd eaten stranger things– but instead he turned to you, extending the flower on his palm.
you looked at it, at geto's hand, at the way his fingers trembled slightly in the cold. your fingers brushed his as you took the snowdrop.
behind you, the school bell rang, calling the children back to their classrooms, to their noise, to their lives. but in the narrow space between the gymnasium wall and the frozen flowerbed, in the mud and the melting snow, you sat with geto suguru and held more than a flower: you took a hand. his hand.
somewhere in the distance, spring was coming.
geto suguru had been taken to the hospital in the last semester for swallowing a handful of nails that damaged his stomach. or so that was what parents said, what your mother repeated to your father, and what no other child knew. you never saw him after that.
middle school passed without a fuss, but you met shoko, a short-haired girl with a beauty mark near her eye who was cynical and flirtatious. she would trade backpacks with you and defend or protect you from anyone who was too insensitive to you, because she saw you as a younger sister. shoko was the only one who knew your voice –geto by then would have already forgotten.
while your classmates underwent the violent metamorphosis of puberty –voices cracking, bodies elongating, social hierarchies crystallizing–, you remained the girl who sat by windows rather than desks when permitted, who ate lunch on the roof or behind the gym, who answered roll call with silence until teachers learned to simply nod at your raised hand. you’d learned to speak when necessary, but the words felt foreign in your mouth, and you spat them out only when absolutely required.
you didn't hide because you were afraid. you hid because the world was loud, and you’d discovered you could simply opt out. the social reunions –birthday parties, karaoke outings, the desperate clustering in fast-food restaurants after school– held no appeal. you would rather sit in the empty classroom during club recruitment, feeling the afternoon sun warm the wood of your desk, listening to the distant shouts of the soccer team as if they were broadcasts from another planet.
you were fifteen when you saw him again.
the first time you saw geto suguru in four years, he was standing beneath the cherry blossoms in the courtyard.
he was taller, of course –everyone was taller–, but the growth had refined rather than awkwardized him. his hair was still black and straight, now touching his collar, and he wore it tied back in a way that showed the elegant architecture of his skull and his sharp jaw. he was speaking to someone, his head tilted in that same contemplative angle you remembered from childhood, his hands gesturing in slow, measured arcs.
but it was the boy beside him who stopped your breath.
where geto was still water, this other boy was lightning trapped in glass. gorgeous white hair like your snowdrop stood in defiant spikes around a face that seemed carved by something violent and divine. he wore the same uniform, but he wore it collar popped, sleeves rolled to the elbows revealing hairless forearms.
he was laughing at something geto said, with his head thrown back, throat exposed. watching him felt like a deaf person hearing for the very first time.
"–don't see why i have to attend the stupid meeting." the white-haired boy was saying, his voice carrying that particular adolescent timbre –cracking slightly at the edges but powerful, arrogant. "the old geezers just want to yell at me just for hitting the guy who was messing with haibara. okay, maybe haibara didn't get him an A, but the poor kid is way too positive to see when they're being scumbags with him."
"there's diplomacy, satoru," geto said, and hearing his voice again after four years was devastating. "you could try using your words before you use your fists."
"where's the fun in that?" the boy –satoru– bumped his shoulder against geto's. "you're my conscience, suguru. you attend the meeting. i'll nap."
geto sighed, and the sound was exactly as you remembered: soft, accepting, the exhalation of someone who carried weight without complaint. his eyes lifted then, scanning the courtyard, and you realized with a jolt that you were standing in the open, no wall to hide behind.
his gaze locked onto yours.
you saw the recognition flash across his face –a widening of those heavy-lidded eyes, a parting of lips, the slight forward tilt of his body as if pulled by an invisible thread. he said something to satoru and then he was moving, crossing the yard with long strides that ate the distance between you, and your heart was hammering against your ribs in a rhythm that felt resembled pure panic.
"look who's here." he said when he reached you. "you grew."
it was such an absurd thing to say –such a childish observation from someone who now towered over you, whose shoulders spanned the width of the doorway behind him– that you almost laughed. almost.
"don't worry. i don't eat anything that isn't strictly food anymore after those nails. if you ask me, teachers overreacted." he winked, surrendering a beautiful, heartwrenching smile. "i'm glad you found your way here."
"who's the wallflower, suguru?"
the voice crashed into the conversation like a wave against rock –gojo satoru had approached, moving with a loose-limbed grace that shouldn't have been possible for someone so tall. he stood beside geto, and the contrast was staggering: black and white, shadow and light, silence and noise. you could feel the judgment of his gaze behind the sunglasses.
"don't be rude." geto said, but there was no heat in it. "this is an old friend. from elementary school."
"elementary school?" gojo leaned forward, invading your space with such casual entitlement you knew immediately he'd never been told no. up close, he was overwhelming. the width of his shoulders blocked the sun, creating an eclipse that made you dizzy. you could see the texture of his skin –pale, poreless, unfairly perfect– and the way his mouth quirked in amusement. "what's your name, wallflower?"
"she doesn't talk much." geto explained, and his hand came up, resting briefly on gojo's shoulder, restraint. "to anyone."
"i see." gojo huffed, tilting his head. "is she a snob or just shy?"
"just... careful." geto said, and you loved him for that, for understanding your silence even now. "leave her be, satoru. you'll frighten her."
"me?" gojo placed a hand on his chest in mock offense, and the gesture was so theatrical, so deliberately exaggerated, that you felt that strange pressure in your chest again, the one that had started when he approached. "i'm a delight. i'm the most delightful person you'll ever meet, right, suguru?"
"you're exhausting." geto said, but he was smiling.
"same thing." gojo turned back to you, and even through the round shades, you felt the intensity of his focus. "well, wallflower, since suguru vouches for you, you're automatically interesting. i'll allow you to exist in my presence."
"come on," geto said, intervening with that gentle firmness that was so uniquely him. "we're going to be late. it was good to see you." he added to you, and his eyes held volumes. "we should talk. properly. soon."
they walked away; geto with his calculated steps, gojo with a bounce in his stride that suggested he was constantly fighting the urge to run, to jump, to explode into motion.
it hurt. the feeling in your chest –a tightness, a heat, a restless fluttering– was treacherous. it was wanting to follow and being rooted to the spot.
you had fallen for this satoru guy in a hummingbird heartbeat.
a week later, you found yourself in the second-floor hallway during the lunch break, having escaped the cacophony of the cafeteria for the relative silence of the north wing. you were leaning against the bank of lockers, waiting for shoko and eating a konbini onigiri when the air suddenly changed.
you knew it was him before he spoke. the bittersweet fragrance, the shift in pressure, the way the fluorescent lights seemed to hum louder in his presence.
"wallflower." gojo satoru saluted, appearing beside you as if he'd stepped out of the air itself. his eyes were for everyone to see, an endlessly, shakingly blue, like the heart of a glacier, like electricity made visible. they were looking at you with an intensity that made you want to simultaneously step closer and run away.
you said nothing. you took another bite of your onigiri, chewing slowly, deliberately, staring at the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall across from you.
"silent treatment, huh?" he leaned against the locker beside yours, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. he was too close. "that's fine. i'm good at monologues. it's a skill i developed when i was a kid and didn't have anyone to talk to."
you chewed. swallowed. the rice stuck in your throat.
"geto told me about you." he continued, his voice dropping into a conversational spectrum that was surprisingly gentle, at odds with his chaotic energy. "said you were the first person who ever looked at him and didn't want anything. just sat with him and ate dirt together or something weird like that."
your fingers tightened around the onigiri, rice grains crumbling against your palm.
"he said you were his first real friend," gojo said, and there was something defenseless in his tone now. "before me. before he found me in that empty classroom, eating my lunch alone because i held too much grudge against the world, just as the world held it against me. everyone happy, growing up, having no idea that growing up was the worst of all curses."
you turned your head and looked at the blue eyes that caught the fluorescent light and seemed to glow, unearthly, terrifying.
"so i guess we have something in common, wallflower." he said, a small smile playing at his lips. "we're both geto's rescue projects."
"i'm not a project." you replied.
the words came out before thinking. you hadn't planned to speak. you never planned to speak. but he was standing there, so sure of himself, so casually claiming kinship with you based on shared trauma and geto's kindness, and something in you rebelled.
gojo's eyebrows shot up. he pushed off from the locker, turning to fully face you, and you saw his chest rise with a quick intake of breath. "oh," he said, and the word was delighted. "so suguru's girlfriend can talk. i was beginning to think he imagined the whole thing."
"i'm not his girlfriend, either."
gojo blinked. then, he bursted out laughing, a sound that echoed off the metal lockers. "oh, man." he gasped, wiping his eyes. "okay, good to know, i guess. establishing boundaries early. i respect it."
you felt heat crawl up your neck, embarrassment making your ears burn. you looked down at your onigiri, now half-crumpled in your grip.
"hey," gojo said, and his voice had softened, losing the theatrical edge. he crouched down, bringing himself to your eye level, and you were startled by the proximity of him, close enough to see the individual lashes that were white as spider silk. "relax. i was teasing. i do that. it's my thing."
you rolled your eyes. gojo satoru didn't seem so fun and charming anymore. his appearance was like a dream, but listening to him for more than two minutes straight was a nightmare.
"suguru talks about you a lot." gojo continued, standing up again, giving you space to breathe. "more than he talks about anyone. i was jealous, actually. when i found out you were here. thought maybe i'd be replaced."
he raised an eyebrow. "how are you so sure?"
you shrugged, the answer too obvious. "because you’re his opposite, which makes you his complement. he needs you. he needs that balance."
geto and you were too similar, or so it seemed. he was the first thing that felt certain outside of your home, but he didn't need you.
your chest ached. you pressed your hand against it, feeling the flutter of your heart, the constriction of your lungs. gojo reached out, and before you could flinch away, his hand was hovering over your heart, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his palm.
"your heart's beating fast," he observed, his head tilting in that predatory curiosity. "are you scared of me?"
"the only thing that scares me is you getting too comfortable and overstepping with me."
his grin turned wicked. "good," he said. "fear keeps you sharp."
"get your huge, stuck-up hand off my friend, you idiot." shoko appeared like a victorian warrior, her fist raised in a threat. he dropped his hand immediately, stepping back, and the loss of his warmth felt like a physical ache.
"and you are...?" gojo asked, mocking. the smile vanished abruptly when shoko snatched the glasses hanging from his shirt and shoved them up into her hairline, crossing her arms.
"i’ll be the one kicking your ass if you don't get lost in the next ten seconds."
you thought gojo would respond with his classic impudence, but to your shock, he turned slightly flushed and just shoved his hands into his pockets.
"see ya ’round, wallflower."
he disappeared around the corner, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway, leaving behind only the lingering pressure of his almost-touch against your chest.
the onigiri had gone cold in your hand, but you didn't notice. you were too busy listening to the new silence in your head –the one that was full of blue eyes and sharp grins and the exhilarating sound of your own voice saying words.
"who's that clown?" shoko muttered, but when she turned to look at you, she noticed you were grinning from ear to ear. not even you realized that.
the day melted into liquid gold by the time you stepped through the school gates, the sun hanging low over the skyline like a bruised peach, bleeding amber and rose across the scattered clouds.
shoko had been detained for smoking behind the gym; you waited for her outside the disciplinary office for twenty five minutes until the secretary shooed you away, telling you she wouldn't be released until after six.
the streets were different at this hour –emptier, the elementary school children already home, the salarymen not yet released from their glass towers. your footsteps echoed against the concrete, each scuff of your loafers a lonely percussion in the swelling silence. you carried your bag in both hands, the strap digging into your shoulder blades, and you watched your shadow stretch long and thin across the pavement, distorted by the position of the dying sun.
the familiar voice came from behind you. you didn't turn immediately. you let the sound wash over you, feeling it in your teeth, in the marrow of your bones. geto suguru fell into step beside you, his shoulder hovering two inches from yours, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his uniform jacket.
"satoru's in detention too." geto explained, his voice pitched low. "he filled the math teacher's car with bees just to get out of the test. it took fifty five minutes on the clock for him to admit it. i had to bribe him to get him to crack."
you almost smiled. you didn't, but you felt the tug at the corner of your mouth. geto saw it –he always saw everything– and his own lips curved in response. you didn't know what was stopping you from answering; it wasn't as if you wanted to leave him talking to himself... but you couldn't. the sound simply wouldn't climb to travel through the air.
"he's exhausting." geto continued. "but he's... better, now. than he was when i found him."
you nodded. you remembered the hallway, the teasing, the confession, the words. you remembered the way gojo shook your ground with zero effort.
"he talks too much." geto said, and his hand brushed yours for a second. "but he's kind, in his way. fiercely protective. he'd destroy the world for someone he loved, and build a better one from the ashes."
you listened to the rhythm of his speech, the cadence that had deepened since childhood but retained that same composed quality, as if he were tasting each word before releasing it. you watched his profile as you walked –the line of his nose, the way his hair had come loose from its tie, strands brushing against his cheekbone, the elegant column of his throat where his collar was unbuttoned against the evening heat.
you'd always known geto was attractive –the way girls in your class whispered about him, the way even upperclassmen paused to watch him pass–, but seeing it now, in the chamomile light of the setting sun, was different. the symmetry of his face had refined into something almost cruel in its perfection, but his eyes remained soft, heavy-lidded. the angelic features paired with that depth of sorrow. his whole face was a mosaic of religious art, of martyrs and saints.
"i thought about you," he said suddenly, the confession dropping into the space between you like a stone into a pool. "after i left."
you stopped walking. he took two more steps before realizing, then turned back to face you. the sun was behind him now, outlining him in fire, making his edges blur and glow. you had to squint to see his expression, but you could feel the fervor radiating off him.
"i worried," he proceeded, his voice dropping even rougher. "i worried that you were alone. no one should be alone." his hand rose, hesitated, then settled on your shoulder. "i wished so many times that i could find you again, just to know you were okay. just to sit with you, even in silence."
he took a step closer. you could see the individual fibers of his uniform, the way the black absorbed the sunset and turned it to rust. your throat was tight. you wanted to speak, but the words were tangled, caught on the barbed wire of your own vacillation.
his thumb moved in a small, soothing circle against your shoulder. you could smell the shampoo he used –something herbal, like the traditional remedies your grandmother used to brew. you could see the fine texture of his skin, the barely-there stubble along his jaw that suggested he shaved in the mornings but his hair grew fast, the small scar above his eyebrow that you'd noticed before, white against the tan.
why is it always like this? you thought so loud you were sure he could hear your mind. you wanted to tell him. you wanted to say i really like your hair or even just hey… i missed you.
but your tongue felt heavy, useless. you’d replayed a thousand conversations in your head, practiced them in the mirror, whispered them alone in your room where your voice worked perfectly. yet here, in front of him, you were mute again. did he know? did he think you were weird? boring? that you never cared? the thought made your stomach twist. you cared so much that your silence felt like betrayal after all these years. why wasn't there a problem with shoko? god, why was it even easier with gojo?
just say something. one word. his name. anything. but you stayed quiet, nodding when he spoke to you, hoping your eyes said everything your voice won’t. hoping he could read the storm behind them. hoping he waited just a little longer.
"there's an occultism club," he said, his hand falling away from your shoulder, the loss of contact leaving you cold. "at school. it's just me and satoru right now. we need three members minimum, or they'll disband us."
he started walking again, slower now, and you fell into step beside him, your arms brushing with each stride, sending small shocks up your nerves.
"you could join," you could see the tension in his jaw, the careful neutrality of his expression. "bring your friend. shoko, was it? the one in detention. she's... she's interesting. smart. satoru thinks so too."
your stomach dropped. the sensation was physical, visceral –a sudden hollowness behind your navel, a coldness spreading through your veins. you kept walking, kept your face neutral, but you felt the blood drain from your cheeks, felt your fingers go numb where they gripped your bag strap.
"he likes her." geto’s voice changed, taking on a wondering trait, almost bemused. "i've never seen him like this. he gets nervous around her. stupid, even. he asked me three times today if i thought she'd like the new manga he bought, as if i would know. as if anyone would know. he just... he looks at her, and he forgets how to be... him."
each word was a needle sliding between your ribs to pierce something vital. you felt your chest contract, making it difficult to breathe. the sunset suddenly seemed too bright, too orange, burning your retinas.
"he's never been nervous before." geto chuckled, an incredulous sound that scraped against your guts. "never. not when facing spirits at the club, not when fighting upperclassmen, not when dealing with teachers. but ieiri shoko walks into a room, and he forgets how to speak. it's... remarkable. like, bring my best friend back!"
you stopped again. this time, you couldn't hide the way your shoulders curled inward, nor the way your breath hitched. geto noticed. of course he noticed. he turned to you, his expression shifting from affection to concern. his eyebrows drew together as his hand reached out again.
"are you alright?" he asked. "you look pale. is it the heat? we can stop somewhere, get some water–"
you shook your head, playing it down. but you weren't fine. you were shattering, silently, invisibly. he was the only one. the only person besides her who ever made the words flow. one word from him and the lock in your throat would loosen. and now? of course he’d fall for her. how could he not?
more than jealousy, you felt an immense worry, because you’d lost a key. yes, perhaps you were being selfish to some degree, but it was a key. your key to someone who might even like you back. what if he was my only chance? what if i can never speak to anyone i actually like again?
everything belonged to a torn-away future, back when the present hadn't even taken off yet. this time you were angrier because you knew what it felt like to be heard by the person you liked… and you knew you might never feel that again.
you started walking again, faster now, wanting only to reach the intersection where your paths would diverge, where you could escape to the bathroom of your apartment and vomit up the grief that was rising in your throat like bile.
"hey," geto said, catching up with his longer strides. "did i say something wrong? you seem... different. did i upset you?"
you shook your head again. he didn't believe you. you could see it in the set of his mouth, the way his hand hovered near your elbow as if ready to catch you if you fell. but he was too kind to push, too respectful of the boundaries you'd spent years building around yourself like walls.
you walked in silence the rest of the way –geto casting worried glances at you, you staring straight ahead. at the corner where you would turn toward your apartment building, geto stopped you with a gentle hand on your elbow. his touch was warm, careful, and it broke something inside you. you felt tears prick at your eyes, hot and humiliating, and you blinked rapidly to keep them from falling.
"thank you." he muttered, intimate. "for walking with me. for listening. i missed you."
you looked up at him –at his beautiful, sorrowful face, at the eyes that held four years of longing and the mouth that spoke such kind words while unknowedly delivering such cruel truths.
"i'll see you tomorrow." geto said, his hand falling away. "at the club room? third floor, east wing. after school."
you nodded fast before turning and walking away. behind you, geto stood watching until you disappeared into your building.
the occult club room was located on the third floor's eastern wing, a forgotten corner where the sunlight filtered through grimy windows in beams thick with dancing dust motes. the walls were lined with sagging shelves holding books with titles in languages dead and living: the lesser key of solomon, the book of enoch, gojo's personal notes scrawled in messy kanji on loose-leaf paper.
you came because geto asked, and you stayed because the alternative was the empty walk home alone.
shoko joined on the third day. her and the boys got along with the ease of parallel lines running toward the same horizon. you watched it happen in increments too small to name but too large to deny. the way shoko would lean over geto's shoulder to examine a pentacle, her chin nearly brushing his collarbone, her finger tracing the paper while he held his breath to avoid disturbing her concentration. the way he began bringing her tea without asking –hojicha, she'd mentioned once, offhand, and the next day there was a thermos waiting on her desk. the way their silences became comfortable while yours remained constructed.
and it wasn't much different with gojo, either. geto maintained a certain distance, but gojo couldn't care less. you developed a sudden, intense interest in the stitching of your uniform skirt whenever they sat too close on the club room's moth-eaten sofa, thighs nearly touching, heads bent together over a single book. in the way your jaw ached from clenching when gojo reached out to brush a stray hair from shoko's face, his fingers lingering a fraction too long.
but the worst part was, when geto was present, you retreated into your silence like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. you became furniture, a ghost haunting the edges of their interactions. you answered questions with nods, with shrugs, with the minimum movement required to acknowledge that you were still technically corporeal. but when he left –when geto excused himself to use the restroom or to speak with a teacher or to check out an incident that had been reported in the neighborhood–, you transformed.
"pass me that chalk." you'd say to gojo, your voice emerging fully formed. "no, the white one, not the ceremonial crap. i'm drawing a containment circle, not summoning your ego."
gojo would blink at you, those blue eyes widening with surprise, as if you were a book he'd assumed was blank suddenly revealing elaborate illustrations.
"wallflower has teeth." he'd say, that insufferable grin cutting across his face.
you'd roll your eyes, tossing the chalk at his head with a precision born from years of practiced isolation –plenty of time to develop aim when you spent recesses throwing rocks at fences. "my name isn't wallflower, you overgrown albino. it's–"
"yeah, yeah, i know your name." he'd catch the chalk effortlessly, spinning it between his fingers. "i just like watching you get annoyed when i don't use it. you make this face–" he'd mimic you, scrunching his features into an exaggerated scowl. "–like you're calculating the exact velocity required to make my head explode."
"not exact velocity." you'd correct, turning back to the circle you were drawing on the floor. "exact angle. there's a difference."
he'd laugh then, loud and genuine, and you'd feel that dangerous warmth in your chest, the one you were trying to cauterize. you'd talk with him –spar, really, verbal fencing matches where he tested your reflexes and you learned to parry his arrogance with your own. you spoke less with him than you did when alone with shoko, still guarded around the source of your affliction, but you spoke. complete sentences. jokes, even.
but geto never saw it. he returned to find you silent again, and gojo never exposed you. he never dared to make you look bad in front of him. that was one of the few things that truly made gojo exceptional: he didn't butt in where he wasn't wanted.
two months of this. sixty days of watching the boy you loved fall in love with your best friend while your childhood friend... fell in love with your best friend too?
shoko's apartment was on the sixth floor of a concrete building in nakano. you arrived at seven, bag slung over your shoulder containing pajamas and toothbrush and the mask you were preparing to remove.
the transformation began the moment shoko locked the door behind you.
"finally!" she shouted, kicking off her loafers with aggressive satisfaction. "i thought i'd have to perform the perfect daughter routine for another hour. my mother's been on a rampage since i got that detention –apparently smoking will ruin my marriage prospects, as if i want to marry some uptight who cares about virgin lungs."
you dropped your bag. you toed off your shoes. you straightened, rolled your shoulders, and when you looked at her, you were someone else entirely.
"your mother has the emotional range of a dial tone. i mean, seriously, shoko, the woman thinks 'rebellion' is using the wrong fork for salad. did she actually cry when she found the cigarettes?" you said, your voice coming fast, gesturing with your hands as you spoke.
"wailed," shoko confirmed, leading you toward her bedroom. "like a professional mourner at a yakuza funeral. you should have seen it. oscar-worthy performance."
"please, i've seen better acting from gojo when he pretends to be injured to get out of training." you followed her, already undoing your hair from its tight braid, shaking it out so it fell wild around your shoulders. "last week he claimed he pulled a muscle in his 'everything' and lay on the floor for thirty minutes until geto kicked him. the drama. the sheer commitment to the bit."
shoko's bedroom was small, cluttered with medical textbooks and fashion magazines in equal measure, the walls plastered with anatomical charts and a single poster of a rock band you'd never heard of. the futon was already laid out, a nest of blankets and pillows that looked like a cloud had collapsed onto the tatami.
you flopped onto it face-first, groaning into the fabric. "god, this feels good. my spine has been compressed into a pretzel by that damn uniform."
"you're different." shoko observed, not unkindly, as she changed into pajamas –oversized t-shirt and shorts, her hair falling loose down her back. "when it's just us. you're like..."
"like what?" you rolled onto your back, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling.
"like gojo." she grimaced. "but smarter. less likely to accidentally destroy the building."
you threw a pillow at her. she caught it, laughing, and suddenly you were both twelve again. it wasn't as if much time had passed since then, but shoko was forcing herself to grow up very fast, and now there were boys too.
"so," shoko started, settling cross-legged on the futon beside you, opening a bag of chips that smelled of seaweed and vinegar. "speak of the devil. or devils. plural."
"which devil? we know several. there's the pretty one who eats dirt, the albino one who is dirt–"
"the pretty one asked me out." shoko interrupted, and the chip in your hand crumbled to dust between your fingers.
you kept your face neutral. you'd had practice. "geto?"
"no, you absolute disaster." she rolled her eyes. "gojo. satoru. the one with the sunglasses?"
"yeah, i heard about him somewhere." your stomach performed a complex gymnastics routine-sinking, twisting, rising to lodge in your throat, but your voice was steady, detached. "when?"
"tuesday. after the club meeting. he cornered me by the lockers –literally, trapped me until i agreed to hear him out." she popped a chip into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "said he'd been trying to ask for weeks but kept 'failing spectacularly', his words. said i made him nervous. said i was the most terrifying thing he'd ever encountered, including demons and spirits, and he needed to know if i'd let him take me to a movie or if he should prepare his will."
your fingernails were digging into your palm, but you forced them to relax. "what did you say?"
"i said i'd think about it." she looked at you, her dark eyes seeing through the architecture beneath. "i like him. he's... he's a lot. but he's genuine. under all that arrogance, he's just a kid who wants someone to see him. like you do, actually."
"don't play dumb. you're exactly alike– you and gojo. all sharp edges and defensive posturing and pretending you don't care while you care so much it might kill you." she leaned forward. "so? what's your opinion? should i say yes?"
"do you like him?" you asked, and the words came out cautiously.
"i think..." you sat up, suddenly unable to lie still, your hands moving again, tracing patterns in the air, running through your hair, gesturing toward nothing. "i think he'd destroy the world for you. i think he'd burn it down and build you a palace from the ashes. i think he'd be loyal until the end of everything, and i think he'd make you laugh until you couldn't breathe, and i think–" your voice cracked, just slightly, just enough. "i think you'd be an idiot to say no."
shoko was quiet for a long moment. the city hummed outside, trains passing, lives continuing in their orbits. then she said, soft and dangerous as a scalpel: "you didn't answer my question."
"i asked for your opinion on me dating him. you gave me a character analysis. you told me what he'd do for me, how he'd love me." she leaned even closer, her eyes narrowing. "you didn't tell me if you wanted me to say yes or no."
your hands stilled. you felt caught, pinned like a specimen under glass. "it doesn't matter what i want."
"because i think you're in love with him." oh, no. "i think you sit in that club room and you watch him with your heart in your throat. i think you practice speaking when he's not there because you want to be loud enough for him to hear. i think you crumble chips into dust when i mention his name because you're trying not to scream."
you couldn't breathe. the room had shrunk to just her face, her eyes, the truth she'd excavated from your ribs.
"but here's what i can't figure out," she continued, her voice gentling now, becoming something almost sympathetic. "because you look at geto too. and geto looks at you, but he does it in a way– like you're the only solid thing on a planet of liquids. so which is it? the yin or the yang?"
you opened your mouth just to close it. you wanted to laugh it off, to throw another pillow, to retreat into sarcasm and deflection. but the silence had hold of you now, the real silence, the one that lived in your core, and you couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stare at her with eyes that had gone too wide.
"oh, my god. you want both?!" shoko took swiftly your trembling hands in hers.
"shut up. you've got it wrong." you blushed.
"okay, i’m joking, but i think you’re confused. geto was there for you when you were a child and had no friends, and gojo is the one you can truly be yourself with." she squeezed your hands. "but i feel like that's because you haven't given geto the chance to truly know you, that’s why he treats you like a shortbread cookie. just as those two are friends because they’re polar opposites, you’re geto’s complement, too. and geto doesn't even look at me the way you think he does. he brings me tea because gojo told him so, but with you– i think the poor guy stops breathing every time you're in the same room, for fear of hurting you. he’s very considerate and mature for his age."
you shook your head, denial automatic, but she pressed on.
"right now, geto's in love with a memory of you. right now, you’re gojo’s match."
"but gojo doesn't like me. he likes you." you reminded her with bitterness.
shoko sighed. "but he talks about you a lot, and i know he has more fun in your presence. if you’d just make up your mind, you’d have a chance." she asked, releasing your hands, settling back on her heels. "are you gonna keep letting gojo chase me while he should be chasing you?"
you were sitting on the floor, back against the radiator that knocked and hissed with trapped steam, your knees drawn up beneath your skirt. geto was cross-legged near the window, supposedly reading a text on yokai, but his eyes kept drifting to the outside. gojo lay sprawled on the sofa, one arm thrown over his face, his chest rising and falling with the slow pace of near-sleep, his white hair catching the grey light. shoko sat beside him, also reading with her bare feet –she'd kicked off her loafers an hour ago– tucked beneath her thighs.
no one was speaking. you could hear the click of geto's throat when he swallowed, the rustle of his pages, the distant thunder that rolled across tokyo. then, shoko closed her book with a decisive snap that made gojo twitch.
"i'm hungry." she announced. "geto, come with me to the cafeteria. i want to check if they have those melon buns left, but i don't want to walk through the rain alone."
geto looked up, his expression softening into that gentle attentiveness he reserved for her. "now?"
"yes, now. before they sell out." she stood, stretching, her joints popping. "come on. i’ll buy you anything you want."
"i’m not hungry." geto complained, but he was already closing his book, already standing, already reaching for his jacket. "satoru, watch the room. we'll be back in ten minutes."
"mmhmm." gojo mumbled, not moving his arm from his face. "bring me something. something with sugar. i'm dying."
"you ate three pudding cups at lunch." geto observed with fond exasperation. he followed shoko to the door, pausing only to look back at you –a glance that lasted a decimal forever. "you'll be alright?"
the door clicked shut behind them, and the room changed. gojo removed his arm from his face and sat up in one fluid motion, no longer languid but alert. his blue eyes sparked with the vigor of a predator who’d been pretending to rest.
"she's not subtle." he said, his voice cutting through the rain-noise like a blade. "shoko. she thinks she's being subtle, but she might as well have lit a neon sign saying 'confront each other'."
you pulled your knees tighter to your chest. "i don't know what you mean."
"bullshit." he swung his legs off the sofa, planting his feet on the floor, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. the movement brought him near your space, close enough that you could smell him. "you asked her to arrange this. or she asked you. either way, we're alone, and we need to talk."
you looked at the window. the rain was coming harder now, a deluge that turned the courtyard into a lake, the trees into weeping figures. "about what?"
"about shoko," he said. "about why you look like you're stepping on knives every time i mention her name. about why you don’t want suguru to walk you home but you wait for me."
your head snapped toward him. "i don’t– you–"
"and she rejects me because of you." gojo's eyes were too bright.
you felt your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, everywhere. "so do you love her?"
the words came out rushed, unplanned. gojo blinked. he sat back, looking at his hands –large, scarred at the knuckles from fighting. "no," he said finally. "i don't think so."
"yeah, i like her, obviously." he laughed, but it was self-deprecating. "and i saw the way suguru looks at you, and i wanted that. i wanted to feel that." he looked up, and for the first time since you'd known him, he looked his age. "he stares at you like he'd swallow the ocean if you asked him to. like–" he stopped, ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in wild spikes. "i want that. i want to feel that way about someone. i thought maybe shoko... she's smart. she's beautiful. she doesn't take my shit. i thought if i tried, if i practiced, maybe i'd learn how to feel it."
your chest ached. you pressed your hand against it, feeling your heartbeat against your palm. "that's not how it works."
"tell me about it." he said bitterly, but more determined. "but here's the thing, wallflower. you're so busy watching me watch shoko, that you're missing the entire fucking picture."
"suguru." he said, and his voice became serious in a way that made you go petrified. "you think you know him. childhood friends, sandbox and dirt, blah-blah." he leaned forward again, invading your space this time. "but you don't see him."
"i– i don’t get it." you whispered.
"of course you don’t." gojo's hands moved, gesturing with frustrated energy. "i share a dorm with him. i see him at three in the morning when he thinks i'm asleep. and let me tell you something: he never stopped eating weird shit."
your heart hammered until you felt it stop completely.
"he does it when he's anxious," gojo continued, his eyes never leaving yours. "when he's upset. when he's feeling things he can't name. i've watched him eat paper –notebook paper, loose-leaf, the corners of his textbooks. i've found erasers in his mouth, matches, chalk, the plastic caps off pens. last week i caught him chewing on a shirt button until it cracked."
your stomach twisted. why hadn't geto told you? he used to eat all that in front of you, didn't he? what had changed? you thought about his hands, his kind and welcoming smile, so inviting that it intimidated you.
"he does it more now." gojo said softer, despite the harshness of his words. "since you came back. since you started talking."
"i don't talk when he's–"
"exactly." gojo pointed at you, his finger accusatory. "you don't talk when he's around. you go silent. you become that girl from his memories again. but when he leaves, you change. he’d heard you. he’d stood in the hallway and listened to you talking with shoko, with me, laughing with us. he’d heard you argue with me when i come back early, before i announce myself. you're a different person."
you couldn't breathe. you started to feel dizzy, feeling as though the room was too small for claustrophobia hitting you. was it guilt? it couldn't be; you knew you didn't do it with the intention of hurting anyone, but gojo was hurting you.
"and he knows." gojo didn’t notice. "he doesn't say anything, he's too fucking noble for that, but he knows. he leaves the room on purpose sometimes. did you know that? he'll make excuses: 'i need to check something', 'i'll be right back', so you'll be comfortable. so you'll talk. so you'll be yourself."
"he sacrifices his own presence for your happiness." gojo couldn't stop. "and then he goes somewhere alone and he eats paper. he chews on erasers. he puts things in his mouth that aren't food because he can't swallow his frustration to be the person you talk to."
you were shaking. you didn't realize you were shaking until you tried to stand and your legs wouldn't support you, sliding you back down the radiator, the heat of it burning through your uniform jacket.
"i bought him iron supplements." gojo said, his voice breaking slightly. "did you know that? i went to the pharmacy and i bought him iron pills because i thought– maybe it's anemia. maybe it's from some deficiency. i left them on his desk with a note that said 'eat these instead of the furniture, you freak'. he laughed it off. said he was fine. but he's not fine."
the image was devastating: gojo, loud and chaotic and apparently caring, buying medicine for his friend, trying to solve a problem he didn't understand, while you stood in the center of it all, oblivious, wrapped in your own pain.
"why don't you want to talk to him?" he asked, calmer now.
"it's not that i don't want to." you exploded, kicking an empty can of sprite, geto's favorite drink. "it's that i can't. i freeze up. it's not– it's not like i don't feel comfortable with him, but... i don't know. it's not my fault. don't put this on me." the lump in your throat kept you from carrying on.
gojo didn’t push. instead, he crouched down so that you were forced to meet his eyes. "he doesn’t know you anymore. i know we’re young, but you need to decide if you're going to keep letting him care about someone who doesn't exist, watching him destroy himself with anxiety."
you were crying. you hadn't realized you were crying until gojo's thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away wetness, his expression softening into something like pity.
the door opened then –shoko's laughter preceding her, geto's soft response following, the smell of melon buns and wet wool filling the room. she shook rain from her hair, geto holding a paper bag with grease stains blooming through like flowers, his eyes finding yours immediately, concerned.
"everything okay?" he asked, setting the bag down, moving toward you with that instinctive gentleness.
"i told her a horror story." gojo intervened when he saw you didn't even nod. "i told her all about my childhood."
the months between gojo's revelation and the closing ceremony passed like water through cupped hands –inevitably lost.
you practiced. god, you practiced. in front of mirrors, you spoke to your reflection until your throat was raw, constructing sentences like stadiums, building bridges of words that could span the chasm between who you were with others and who you were with him. you practiced with shoko, with gojo, trading barbs and confessions in equal measure until he almost smiled when you entered a room.
but when geto appeared –when his shadow fell across the doorway, when his scent of woody watermelon entered your atmosphere– you became stone again. your tongue turned to lead. the words retreated behind your teeth like hermit crabs into shells, and you were seven again, made of silence and corners.
gojo watched it happen. every day, he watched you transform from fire to ash the moment geto entered the room. he watched you mouth words that wouldn't emerge, watched your hands go still at your sides, watched you enter that closet of glass. and every day, his expression grew heavier –not with rage, but with a disappointment so profound it looked like grief.
you hated yourself for it. but the fear was stronger than hate.
and between the indecision and the worry, the ceremony arrived at the gym, which had been transformed into a cathedral of endings, rows of folding chairs arranged, banners hanging from the rafters in the school colors, the stage draped in cloth that smelled of storage. you sat between shoko and an empty seat –gojo had been called away for some disciplinary matter as usual– and you tried to make yourself small, tried to disappear into the crease of your program.
the principal droned on about achievement and growth. the vice-principal read names –honor roll, perfect attendance, students who had distinguished themselves. you weren't among them. you'd distinguished yourself only in your ability to remain unseen, to be a live-action ghost from your club.
then: "and now, a representative from class 1-b will say a few words about the year's end."
you didn't react. you were safe in your anonymity, safe in your silence.
and then, your name came next.
your blood turned to ice. your vision narrowed to a tunnel. you felt shoko's hand on your arm, felt her whisper ‘you don't have to’, but the teacher was already there, already taking your elbow (‘cause you didn’t react), already guiding you toward the aisle with a smile that didn't see your panic, didn't see the way your legs had stopped working, didn't see the way your throat had closed like a fist.
the walk to the stage was a thousand miles. the microphone waited like a weapon. the faces below –hundreds of them, a sea of eyes, all watching, all waiting– blurred into a wash of color and sound. you reached the center of the stage. you opened your mouth.
not a whisper. not a breath. your vocal cords had locked, paralyzed by the weight of expectation, by the sudden violence of exposure. you stood there, frozen, your hands trembling at your sides, your vision spotting at the edges, and you knew –you knew with absolute certainty– that this was how you would be remembered. the girl who couldn't speak.
the silence stretched. it grew teeth. it became something alive and hungry, consuming the air in the space. you heard shifting, heard whispers, heard someone laugh. and finally, a commotion.
you turned, still shocked, and saw geto suguru standing in the aisle. he was wearing his uniform, perfectly pressed as always, his hair tied back, his face that mask of winsome composure. but his hands were moving. his hands were at his mouth.
he was eating the decorative flowers from the aisle arrangements.
white chrysanthemums, the ones arranged in foam blocks along the center aisle –he was pulling them free, one by one, and putting them in his mouth. chewing. the sound was audible through the silence, that familiar crunch from childhood, the grinding of petals against enamel. he swallowed, reaching for another, his expression beatific, as if he were alone in a garden rather than standing in the center of three hundred staring students.
"geto-kun?" the principal's voice crackled through the microphone, confused, horrified. "what are you–"
"they taste like white funerals." geto said, his voice absolutely unhinged. he pulled another flower free, a long-stemmed lily, and bit the head from it with a sound like tearing paper. "like snow that knows it's the last snow. like–" he chewed thoughtfully, his eyes closing, his throat working. "like her embrace when the sun hits it just before sunset."
every eye in the room was on him now. the principal was sputtering. teachers were moving toward him, but he was already walking, already moving toward the stage, eating flowers as he went, leaving a trail of stems and petals behind him like breadcrumbs.
"geto." you whispered, but the microphone caught it, amplified it.
he reached the stage, walking past you, close enough that you could smell the flowers on his breath, and he stood at the microphone, his mouth stained with pollen, and he said: "i think i've had enough of ceremonies. who's with me?"
the silence held for one heartbeat. two.
then gojo –gojo who had appeared from somewhere, who was standing in the back doors with his arms crossed– laughed. loud and delighted and absolutely inappropriate, and it broke something. the room erupted in maniacal laughter, without letting their guard down in case geto suguru decided to go cannibal and devour everyone present.
the teachers were overwhelmed, trying to restore order, and in the confusion, geto turned to you, locking his eyes on yours.
softly, his hand found yours, his fingers threading through your trembling digits, and he squeezed once, and then he was leading you off the stage, through the chaos, out the side door into the blinding sunlight, and you were running, both of you running.
it was the most ridiculous and cringe-worthy scene shoko had ever witnessed.
it was the end of the day, turning the world to saffron and rust. the year was over. the summer yawned before you, vast and empty, and if you didn't speak now–
geto stopped at the corner. he turned to face the three of you, his hands in his pockets, his hair coming loose from its tie. "well," he said. "i suppose this is goodbye for now."
"see you in september, i guess." gojo said, though his eyes were on you, questioning, hoping.
"take care of yourself." shoko added, squeezing your hand briefly before stepping back and holding her boyfriend’s –gojo’s.
geto nodded and looked at you, smiling. you could see the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw worked, the way his hand twitched toward his pocket where you knew he kept ‘emergency’ erasers and paper clips. he was preparing to let you go. again. always.
"wait!" you heard yourself say.
the word came out loud, louder than ever before. geto stopped. his shoulders went rigid. gojo and shoko paused for a moment, but they continued walking, hand in hand, disappearing around the corner, leaving you alone with him on the street corner as the sun bled out into the horizon.
geto turned slowly. his face was open now, vulnerable, and he waited. he always waited.
just breathe. one word at a time. you can do this.
your hands were trembling inside your pockets, remembering how he used to hide crayons so you wouldn’t eat them by mistake, how he was always by your side since he met you. he’d always been like that: protective, patient, the kind of person who stays.
there’s nothing to be afraid of. he’ll be gentle with me.
your throat was dry, but today you decided you’ll push back harder than you ever have. because this was him. geto suguru, the most understanding and tender person in the world. the boy who went around picking up and adopting kids his own age so they wouldn't have to be left with no one, so they would feel supported, so they would always have an alternative and a safe place. and he, he was a home.
you swallowed. once, twice.
say something. anything. his name. tell him you like listening to him talk. tell him his kindness makes you feel safe.
the words were right there –buzzing, frantic, alive– but your tongue won’t move. what if nothing comes out again? what if he finally gets tired of carrying the conversation? what if he thinks you don’t care when the truth is you care so much it hurts to breathe?
you glanced at him. he was looking at you, but he wasn’t rushing you. he never did. he never will.
he deserves to hear your voice. not just nods and smiles. he deserves to know you like him. that watching him care about people makes you like him even more.
your lips parted. a tiny sound escaped, half breath, half attempt. come on. for once, let the words win. tell him he’s important. tell him you’re trying. tell him… anything.
"i practiced." you said finally. there was your voice: real, sincere and yours. he nodded, so you could keep going. "every day. i practiced what i was going to say to you. with everyone i can talk to." you tried not to trip over your own words, so you just closed your eyes. not seeing him would make it easier. "it's not that i don't want to talk to you, it's that– it's that i feel so much for you that i didn't know what it was."
your heartbeat kept you from breathing steadily, but you ignored it. "you mean so much to me. you represent so much to me that– i don't know, you're so noble and mature and i was afraid of seeming childish or saying something and disappointing you, because my silence told you so much."
the tears were hot on your cheeks, salt in your mouth, but you didn't care anymore.
"i'm not sick. nothing catastrophic happened to me. i didn't face death. it was just easy for me to talk to those people to whom i owed nothing."
you took another step. you were close enough to touch him now. tears that were now gathering in his own eyes –eyes that watched you for years without demanding anything in return.
"you are the most significant person in my world. you have always been the axis around which i rotate. you’ve taught me so much since the first day."
you reached out. your hand trembled as you touched his face –his cheekbone, the skin warm and slightly damp, the texture of him present and alive.
"i want you to hear me. to ask you something, to tell you everything. i'm asking you to wait a little longer, maybe, but this time it’s a promise."
the silence that followed was different from all the others. geto reached up. his hand covered yours where it rested against his cheek, his fingers threading through your fingers, pressing your palm against his as if branding himself with your touch. his eyes were closed now, droplets trapped in between his lashes. it was the first time he heard you speaking directly to him. when he opened his eyes, they were infinite and dark, reflecting the streetlight and the stars that were beginning to pierce the twilight.
"your hair…" he whispered, his lips brushing your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth, each touch feather-light and devastating. "your hair tastes like a kiss from a tuberose bloomed in mercury."
@kirievie @renrenrenren17 @nightmarenyxx ♡
