A one night stand with Nanami Kento was supposed to be simple.
A stranger in a bar. A handsome man with honeyed words. A guy who could make you cum and cry and still clean you up afterwards.
Forgetting his hands, his mouth, the marks he left on your skin and the memory of his body moving on top of yours, that was more difficult. To watch him walk out the morning after and know you'd never see him again? You thought it would be the hardest part.
But no, that came when you bumped into him four months later and he asked what your name was. When you brought him back home anyway two drinks later and you discovered he really didn't remember you at all.
The best night of your life was barely a blip on his.
And still, every few months, you'd find him waiting at the last stool at the same bar, drinking a whiskey and waiting for something you tried to convince yourself could be you.
He always acted like you were a stranger. Smiled politely until you slid into the seat next to him, offered his name and a small nod. Told you he wasn't exactly in the position for a real relationship and still climbed into the cab after you when last call came.
Sure, you had your theories. Halfway convinced it was some stupid game or kink he came up with. That it was fun to play along. A game for two. Although, you supposed it might've been memory problems, or a drinking one.
It didn't matter much to you.
His body knew. Reacted on reflexes, kissed you a little harder, stayed a little longer each night you spent together. Held you like you weren't just a hopeless idiot pining over a man that slipped away from you after the sun rose, like you meant something to him.
Until one morning he didn't just disappear.
Rolled over in bed and traced over your shoulder, pressed a small kiss there and said something completely foreign. "I have the weekend off. We could spend it together."
He stayed. And for a second, you got to hold him in your hand. Each moment was another grain of sand down the hourglass. You knew it was temporary. That this, whatever fucked-up thing the two of you were doing, it couldn't last.
But he felt right. Made you breakfast. Took you out to a quiet spot in the park, held your hand and went window shopping. Showed you his place, putting on movies and making popcorn. Treated you like his girlfriend instead of the fuck buddy you were starting to feel like. And it was there, on his couch and under a blanket, that he confessed.
"I had fun," he murmured, running his fingers through your hair. "I hate that I won't remember this."
"What?" You blinked. It had been unspoken. Something you never said outright. Although, the past few times you'd started to tease, to hint that this game was getting old.
"My job, it's, ah, confidential," he explained, low and soft and leaving a sick fucking feeling in your stomach. He was about to continue, but the panic kept rising in your chest, sitting up as you turned to glance back at him.
"Ken," you started, bile building in the back of your throat.
"I do projects for them and they wipe my memory afterwards," he shrugged, like all that time, all those experiences were just disposable. Like you were. "It pays well, but-"
"So, if we met before this, you really wouldn't have remembered?" You asked, even though you knew the answer.
He squinted at you, brows scrunched together as his fingers instinctively tightened around your waist.
"Have we?"
Forgetting Nanami Kento was a hell of a lot harder when you knew remembering you had never been an option for him.
a/n: just watched paycheck lol and had to write a little drabble :p divider by @/strangergraphics
summary: you think gojoâs forgotten about you, after all heâs the guitarist of the most famous band - six strings - the same band you pushed him to pursue with his best friends shoko and geto. he got it all, the band, the fame but lost you in the midst of pursuing this passion. however, with the release of their new song has gojo really forgotten about you?
| wc: 5.3k | art credits - clemenlush | listen to the playlist attached for the best reading experience| rock star gojo au, angst.
ââ âą ă»âžâž
satoru gojo had always been described as someone built for the cosmos, as if his entire existence had been engineered for equations, telescopes, and the kind of research that made academics salivate. his parents certainly believed it -- theyâd mapped out his future with the precision of a launch trajectory, leaving no room for deviation, let alone rebellion. to them, he was a prodigy destined to expand humanityâs understanding of the universe.
but you, youâd never met anyone who looked more suffocated by praise.
the universityâs astrophysics building loomed over the courtyard like a monument to ambition, it was all sharp lines and reflective panels that caught the afternoon light in a way that made the whole place feel like whoever you were...you were going places with your life. you stood beside satoru on the steps, both of you pretending you werenât waiting for the results of the latest exam to drop. the two of you had been rivals since first year, constantly pushing each other, constantly pretending it was all casual.
it wasnât casual. not even close. is it ever?
there was a current between you that neither of you acknowledged outright, an unspoken awareness that every argument, every lateânight study session, every shared glance carried a charge that didnât belong to simple rivalry. it was apparent in the way he leaned a little too close and in the way you never quite pulled back, both of you pretending not to notice the gravity drawing you in. and somewhere in that unspoken space, the pattern revealed itself .
six eyes seeing too much, six strings waiting to be played, and saturn circling as the sixth planet.
all of them orbiting the same truth that the two of you kept avoiding, as if the universe itself had been quietly arranging your trajectories long before either of you realised.
satoru nudged your shoulder, âif the professor doesnât adjust the marking again, half the cohortâs going to riot,â he said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of arrogance and theatrical despair.
âyou mean youâll riot,â you replied, adjusting your bag. âyou looked like you were about to combust halfway through question three.â
he scoffed, flicking his platnium hair out of from his glazes, revealing his bright blue eyes. âi donât 'combust'. i merely reassess my priorities.â
you rolled your eyes, but the truth was youâd noticed the way his leg bounced under the desk, the way his pen tapped out restless patterns, how he stared at the page like he was somewhere else entirely. satoru gojo was brilliant, but brilliance didnât always mean contentment.
youâd known him long enough to see the tension beneath the surface, he would stiffen whenever his parentsâ names came up, he always avoided talking about the future, and his fingers drummed on tabletops with a flow that didnât match any academic habit youâd ever seen.
you didnât understand it fully until that afternoon.
instead of heading to the study session youâd both agreed to attend, satoru veered off the main path without warning, hands shoved deep in his pockets. âcome on,â he said, not bothering to check if you were following.
you did, because you always did.
he led you across campus, past the observatory and the labs, past the places where he was meant to thrive. eventually he stopped in front of the old music building -- a relic from a time when the university pretended to care equally about the arts. the paint was peeling, and the windows rattled in the breeze, but there was something strangely inviting about it.
satoru pushed open a side door, and the scent of aged timber and dust drifted out.
inside, the room was cluttered with forgotten instruments and abandoned sheet music. he walked straight to a battered guitar case propped against the wall, hesitated for a moment, then opened it with a care youâd never seen him show to anything academic.
the electric guitar inside was sleek and dark, it was an instrument that demanded attention and fit his cocky personality perfectly. it didnât match the version of satoru the world expected. but it matched the version of him youâd glimpsed in fleeting moments, the one who seemed desperate for something he couldnât name.
âsince when do you play?â you asked.
âsince before i knew what astrophysics even was,â he said, his tone stripped of its usual bravado.
he lifted the guitar with a familiarity that made your chest tighten. his fingers slid along the strings, not producing sound, but tracing something like memory.
âthis is what i actually want,â he said, eyes fixed on the instrument. ânot the research, not the expectations, not the future everyone keeps planning for me.â
you stepped closer, studying the tension in his shoulders. âthen why arenât you doing it?â
he let out a breath that seemed to carry years of pressure. âbecause wanting something doesnât mean itâs possible.â
you didnât even think before responding. âthatâs rubbish.â
he finally looked at you, and for the first time, his expression wasnât smug or amused or performative. it was uncertain, almost vulnerable, like he was waiting for you to confirm that he wasnât being ridiculous.
âyeah?â he said quietly. âand what do you reckon i should do?â
you nodded toward the guitar. âstart there.â
ââ six strings: the rise âą ă»âžâž
fame meant freedom to satoru gojo -- and he's chased that for years, the kind he only reached because you were the one who told him his music wasnât a distraction but a direction.
you were the first person who treated his playing like something worth taking seriously. you listened to every rough demo, every lateânight recording, every halfâfinished idea he sent you with a mix of nerves and hope. you told him he had something rare, something that deserved a stage, and your belief became the foundation he built the rest of his life on.
the band formed around him with a sense of inevitability. suguru geto stepped in as their vocalist, his voice carrying a raspy, seductive sensitivity that cut through any room and held attention without effort. ieiri shoko joined on drums, grounding their sound with a steady, deliberate rhythm that shaped every track. satoruâs guitar threaded through it all, distinct and controlled, the element that gave their music its identity.
they called themselves the six strings, a name that stuck quickly and spread even faster. their first major release, robbers, hit the scene with a unsettling, restless energy that caught listeners off guard. the intro sending chills down listeners spines and it climbed charts with surprising speed, appearing on radio rotations, festival lineups, and playlists across the country. people connected with the intensity of geto's vocals and the precision in satoruâs guitar, and the bandâs following grew almost overnight.
fallingforyou pushed them further. the track carried a silent tension, and audiences latched onto it instantly. it became the song people played on repeat, the one fans recorded covers of, the one that turned the six strings from rising artists into a band everyone recognised.
then heartout arrived, and everything accelerated. the song exploded across social media, festival crowds screamed the lyrics back at them, and ticket sales for their tour vanished within minutes. journalists compared them to the biggest acts of the decade. critics praised their cohesion, their sound, their presence. the bandâs name appeared everywhere -- billboards, magazines, lateânight shows, international festival posters.
concerts became events. fans queued overnight, traded bootleg recordings, and filled venues with an energy that felt electric. shoko commanded the stage with ease, geto drove the rhythm with precision, and satoru played with a focus that drew every eye in the room. he became the face of a new generation of guitarists because he wasn't someone who didnât just perform but shaped the entire atmosphere of a song.
the six strings were a listers, they were the band everyone talked about, the band shaping the sound of the moment, the band that seemed to rise out of nowhere and take over everything. and at the centre of it all stood satoru gojo, living the life you once told him he deserved.
ââ six strings: about you âą ă»âžâž
on february 14th, six strings dropped a song called âabout youâ with an album announcement following later that may. if six strings were popular before, then the release of âabout youâ lead them straight to music royalty status. it was everywhere yet never got over played, even after a month of constant media attention to the song the hype never died down. it was a timeless piece, slowly becoming a classic. everyone wanted to know what the song was about, more so who?
ê° ïœ„ a clip from an interview ïœĄïŸ ê±
interviewer: why are you called âsixâ strings when there are only three of you?
geto: the extra three came from when i f#cked your mum last night-
[camera cuts]
shoko: it just sounded cool, can we not sound cool? why does everything have to have this deep meaningâŠweâre six strings because it sounds cool!
gojo: saturn is the sixth the planetâŠwhen i was younger someone special to me loved saturn and space the way i loved music and guitar. the guitar has six stringsâŠwhen i came to that revelation it only made sense to call us the six strings. an ode to the instrument and the person who- uh- six strings because of the instrument.
geto rolls his eyes and sighs, just then a group of girls cheer in the audience just at his mere existence. shoko is sitting there unbothered, fidgeting with the cigarette pack in her lap which sheâs been restrained from opening. gojo however bites the inside of his cheek, shocked at himself for stuttering when answering such a clear question with an even clearer answer.
ê° ïœ„ end clip ïœĄïŸ ê±
youâre back in your room and the only light comes from your desk lamp, warm and soft, pooling over your physics notes and the halfâfinished assignment thatâs been draining your soul since dinner. the equations stretch across the page like theyâre mocking you, each line a reminder that your life now revolves around deadlines and problem sets instead of guitar strings and halfâbaked dreams in someoneâs mumâs garage.
itâs almost comical when you think about it. a few years ago, you and gojo were sitting on the floor arguing over which formula applied to a projectile motion question, both of you waving pencils like weapons and insisting the other was catastrophically wrong. now youâre not even sure what he talks about anymore.
maybe heâs debating which toner keeps his hair from going brassy under stage lights?
maybe heâs deciding which part of the chorus is the optimal moment to stick his tongue out for maximum crowd hysteria?
the hater in you cringes at the theatrics, at the glitter, at the persona heâs built like a second skin.
but beneath all that, thereâs an admiration you canât quite shake. because you know, better than anyone, that this version of him isnât fake. itâs loud and messy and dramatic, sure, but itâs also the truest heâs ever been. the same ambition that used to spill out of him in that cramped garage. the same dorky enthusiasm that made him bounce on his toes when he figured out a new chord. the same spark, the same damn thing that made your heart surrender long before you were ready to admit it.
you finally close your laptop, the click shut sounding like victory after hours of mental warfare. you stretch your arms above your head, feeling every muscle complain, and wander into the bathroom to start getting unready. the mirror greets you with tired eyes and smudged mascara, a reminder that youâve lived several lifetimes in one day. you tie your hair back, reach for your cleanser, and let the warm water run over your hands.
just as youâre about to wash your face, your phone buzzes sharply against the counter, one of those vibrations that feels urgent, like the device itself is panicking.
you freeze, water dripping from your fingers.
another buzz, louder this time, rattling against the porcelain.
you grab it, thumb swiping across the screen, and your best friendâs name flashes at you, followed by a message typed with the kind of ominous energy only she possesses:
âanswer your phone. iâm calling.â
before you can even process it, the screen lights up again-- this time with an incoming call. you sigh, wipe your wet hands on your pyjama pants, and pick up.
âwhat,â you say, not even trying to hide the exhaustion.
your friend doesnât bother with hello. âokay, donât freak out, but i just scored glastonbury tickets.â
you blink. âyou what.â
âfrom that guy iâm hooking up with,â she continues breezily, like this is the most normal sentence in the world. âhe had extras. like, actual passes. not the fake ones that get you arrested.â
you stare at your reflection, cleanser still foaming in your hand. âyouâre joking.â
âi never joke about free festival tickets,â she says, dead serious. âpack a bag. weâre going.â
you let out a breath thatâs halfâlaugh, halfâgroan, the absurdity of it all settling over you. glastonbury. the band. the boy youâve spent years trying not to think about. the world you left behind.
and now itâs knocking on your door again, loud and impossible to ignore.
âyou in?â she asks, voice buzzing with excitement.
your heart thuds once, hard.
you donât answer and cut the call. mainly because your friend knows you all too well and that your answer is yes.
ââ first live perfromance of 'about you'âą ă»âžâž
the crowd forms, six strings are headlining glastonbury, an even higher career high from everything they achieved with their first EP. this was massive, performing the most popular song of the moment in one of the most renowned festivals. this is what dreams are made of, baby!
ê° ïœ„ back stage: 3 hours before going on stage ïœĄïŸ ê±
shoko: you don't think your hair gel is a bit excessive, suguru?
geto: i think you're a bit jealous i'm on girls pinterest boards for hair inspiration and not you. and for the record, i don't use gel...i use kerastase hair serum.
shoko elbows him, geto whincing even before her elbow reaches his crotch.
shoko: for the record i don't give a f#ck about being on anyones pinterest board, i myself am the pinterest board. and i think you're forgetting there was only one memeber in our band not invited to paris fashion week and it wasn't me or toru.
gojo is fidgeting with his guitar strings and let's out a deep chuckle.
geto: why am i even arguing with you? i am supposed to be saving my voice for our performance in a bit.
shoko: funny way to accept defeat.
gojo walks up to the both of them. doing little excited jumps and shaking his hands to get rid of his nerves.
shoko: eww, i don't want to ever see a 6'5, grown man ever do something like that...
gojo tilts his head, going up to shoko to condescendingly squish her cheeks.
gojo: whatever you say...and i'm not in the mood to argue so say whatever you want...we have the number one song in the world, we're young, we're talented, and we're headlining f#cking glastonbury! we're on top of the worlddddd
this gets geto and shoko to smile, both shaking their heads at gojo's cheerful antics.
shoko: excited to finally tell people who 'about you' is about?
gojo sitffens, usually youthful blue eyes turning dull, perssing his lips together.
gojo: it's not about anyone...it's just a concept i came up with in the middle of the night.
gojo looks to geto for support, but he throws his hands up and points to the fact he can't speak because he's saving his voice. shoko places a friendly hand on gojo.
shoko: the only way we're going to make this performance iconic is if we give the people what they want, and what they want is answers to what this ethereal yearning anthem is actually about.
gojo: i told you it's not about anyone.
shoko sighs and goes to put on her jewellery, leaving gojo to his own devices. it wasnât rocket science for them two to figure out all these lyrics from fallingforyou to now about you are all about the same girl who used to accompany them all when they would practice.
ââ âą glastonbury, 30 minutes before setă»âžâž
thirty minutes to glastonbury and the festival feels like itâs conspiring against you, every path you take folding back into the same heaving artery of bodies moving toward the main stage, as if the entire place has decided you need to confront the one thing youâve spent years pretending youâd outgrown. the air is thick with unpleasant beer breath and the sweet burn of incense, and the sky is doing that smug lateâafternoon shimmer where everything looks dipped in gold, which would be lovely if it didnât make every memory of him feel more brighter, harder to ignore.
your friend is halfâdragging you, halfâfloating through the crowd, her wristbands clacking together like sheâs wearing festivalâissued handcuffs, and you keep trying to slow her down with increasingly desperate distractions. you linger at a stall selling ethically questionable henna, you pretend to be fascinated by a man balancing on a slackline, you even stop to examine a pair of sunglasses shaped like fried eggs, but sheâs immune to every tactic, buzzing with the kind of excitement that makes her impossible to deter. she keeps talking about how this is a onceâinâaâlifetime moment, how six strings are about to rewrite history, how youâll regret it forever if you miss even a second of their set, and you nod along even though your stomach is twisting itself into a sailorâs knot.
the bass from the previous act rolls across the field in slow, heavy waves, vibrating through the soles of your shoes and up your spine, and you canât help thinking about the nights you spent sitting crossâlegged on the floor of gojoâs mumâs garage, watching him fiddle with pedals and strings like he was trying to coax the universe into tune. you remember the way heâd grin at you-- wide, reckless, too bright for the dim little room, and how youâd pretend you werenât melting under it. you remember geto humming halfâfinished melodies, shoko tapping out rhythms on empty paint cans, all of them dreaming out loud about stages like this one while you tried not to imagine what would happen when those dreams carried them somewhere you couldnât follow.
you try to shake it off, but the universe is committed to the bit. the crowd shifts, and suddenly youâre staring straight at a massive screen looping behindâtheâscenes clips of the band: geto adjusting his mic with that lazy confidence, shoko spinning a drumstick between her fingers, and gojo...god, gojo laughing at something offâcamera, head thrown back, hair a mess of whiteâblond chaos that somehow still looks intentional. the sight hits you like a punch, devastating, and you look away so quickly you nearly collide with a girl wearing angel wings made of tinsel.
your friend squeezes your hand, oblivious to the way your pulse jumps.
âweâre close,â she says, weaving you deeper into the crowd until youâre swallowed by a sea of glitter, sweat, and anticipation. the stage looms ahead, enormous and electric, framed by towers of lights that flicker like theyâre warming up to blind you. the countdown clock is projected across the screens, each second slipping away with the smug inevitability of fate.
you tell yourself youâre fine, that youâre just another face in the crowd, that he wonât see you, wonât think of you, wonât feel that old gravity tugging at the edges of his composure. but then the lights dim, the field of people finally goes silent, and the first soft hum of the opening synth drifts across the air like a ghost brushing past your shoulder. the crowd erupts, a tidal wave of sound that rattles your ribs, and you lift your head despite every instinct screaming at you to look anywhere else.
the stage blooms in blue light.
the silhouette of his guitar is unmistakable.
and in that suspended moment, caught between the past you ran from and the present youâve stumbled into -- you realise youâve spent years avoiding a story that was always going to find you again.
ââ âą flashback: university first yeară»âžâž
you step inside just in time to see geto pacing like a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here, his hair tied back messily, his jaw tight. shoko is slouched over her drum kit, tapping the rim with a stick in a way that feels less like rhythm and more like a threat. gojo stands in the middle of the room, guitar hanging off him like itâs personally offended him, shoulders hunched in a way youâve never seen before.
you lift the bag in your hand, the plastic rustling with the weight of your peace offering-- pocky, umaibo, kinoko no yama, those weirdly addictive calbee prawn chips, a couple of ramune bottles clinking together like theyâre cheering you on. the smell of strawberry and seaweed hits the air, and shokoâs head snaps up like sheâs been summoned by a deity.
âoh thank god,â she mutters, abandoning her sticks to rummage through the bag before youâve even set it down properly. âi was about five minutes away from committing a crime.â
geto stops pacing long enough to take a ramune, popping the marble with a sigh that sounds like relief and despair at the same time. âhe keeps missing the timing,â he says, gesturing at gojo like heâs presenting evidence in court. âand then he says heâs not missing the timing, which is somehow worse.â
gojo bristles, cheeks pink, fingers tightening around the guitar neck. âiâm not missing it, youâre just counting weird.â
âiâm counting in four-four,â geto deadpans. âthe most normal, simple, time signature known to man.â
shoko snorts, mouth full of pocky. âtoru, babe, youâre playing like youâre trying to summon a demon.â
gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face, and for a moment the room feels too small for his frustration, too small for the dream heâs trying to force into shape. geto and shoko exchange a look and then theyâre grabbing their things, muttering something about vending machines and fresh air as they slip out the door.
the room is just know you two, the leftover unspoken tension settling like dust that geto and shoko left behind. gojo stands there, staring at the floor, shoulders still tight, breath shallow. you walk over slowly, the crinkle of snack wrappers the only sound between you. when you reach him, you lift your hands and cup his face, palms warm against his flushed cheeks.
he startles a little, eyes flicking up to yours -- blue, bright, uncertain in a way that makes your chest ache.
âhey,â you say, voice low, steady, threading through the room like a melody meant only for him. âyouâre fine. youâre more than fine. you just need to breathe.â
his lashes flutter, the tension in his jaw easing under your thumbs. he leans into your touch without meaning to, like gravityâs doing the work for him.
âiâm trying,â he murmurs, the words small, he is so embarrassed. âi just⊠i donât want to hold them back.â
you shake your head, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. âyouâre not holding anyone back. youâre going to be the biggest star in the world, toru. you just have to keep going.â
the words land softly but deeply, sinking into him like theyâve been waiting for a place to root. his breath catches, something bright flickering behind his eyes. hope, belief, the beginning of something enormous.
he smiles then, slow and crooked, the kind of smile that could light up a stage long before he ever steps onto one.
âyou really think so?â he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
âi know so,â you answer, and for a moment you can feel his heartbeat and yours sync up.
ââ âą glatsonburyă»âžâž
gojo steps up to the mic, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, eyes flicking between the crowd and his bandmates as if either one might save him. getoâs staring at him with a confused halfâfrown, one hand hovering near his own mic like heâs ready to yank it back. shokoâs frozen midâlean over her drums, her expression somewhere between what is he doing and this better not ruin my eyeliner.
the crowd screams anyway, loud and wild, because they think this is part of the show. because they donât know heâs improvising. because they donât know heâs seconds away from saying something heâs avoided for years.
he grips the mic with both hands, knuckles white, and clears his throat. the sound echoes across the field, sharp and awkward. he winces. shoko winces. geto winces harder.
but he doesnât step back.
he takes a breath. slow, shaky, a metaphor for it dragging his whole past up with it, and then he starts talking.
âpeople change you,â he says, voice rough but steady enough to carry. ânot in some big dramatic way like in those sappy movies. sometimes itâs just⊠one moment. one sentence. one person who looks at you like youâre capable of more than you think.â
the crowd quiets, leaning in.
âand when someone believes in you like that,â he continues, eyes fixed somewhere far past the lights, âit sticks. even when life moves on. even when you do. even when youâre trying really hard to pretend it doesnât matter anymore.â
getoâs eyebrows shoot up. shokoâs mouth falls open a little. neither of them expected this.
gojo swallows, thumb brushing the mic like heâs grounding himself. âi wouldnât be here without that. without⊠someone who told me to keep going when i was ready to quit. someone who said i could be something. someone who meant it.â
the crowd murmurs, everyone have their phones pulled out and recording by now.
he lets out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound. âso before we play this next song⊠i just wanted to say that. that sometimes the right person shows up at the right time, and it changes everything.â
he pauses, chest rising and falling, the truth sitting heavy in the air.
âand this song is for them.â
the field erupts.
and gojo stands there, heart pounding, knowing heâs just crossed a line he canât uncross.
shokoâs sticks hover above the snare, her whole body coiled with the clean, sharp focus she only gets right before a song starts. she gives the band a quick look, geto steady, gojo wired like a live wire, and then she counts them in, her voice cutting through the roar of the crowd.
âone, two--â
the lights shift, the synth swells, and the opening chords of about you are seconds from breaking open across glastonbury. geto steps forward, ready to sing the first line, breath already drawn, posture relaxed because of all the hours he spent practising.
but gojo moves before the sound even hits the air.
itâs quick. messy, instinctive, almost clumsy. he reaches out and grabs the mic stand with one hand, dragging it toward himself so abruptly that geto actually stumbles a halfâstep, eyes wide with shock. shokoâs sticks freeze midâair, her mouth parting in disbelief. not again.
the crowd screams, thinking itâs part of the show, but the band knows better. gojoâs chest is rising too fast. his fingers are shaking. his eyes are locked on the crowd like heâs searching for one face in a sea of thousands.
the backing track still playing, but the entire field goes still.
gojo leans into the mic, breath catching once in his throat before he forces the words out-- loud, clear, and so direct it slices through the night like a blade.
âthis is about you.â
the crowd erupts into confused cheers, but he doesnât blink, doesnât smile, doesnât play it off. he tightens his grip on the mic, knuckles white, and says it again. slower this time, like he wants to make sure the right person hears it.
âyou know who you are.â
getoâs jaw drops. shoko actually nearly drops a stick, the clatter swallowed by the noise of fifty thousand people losing their minds.
and then gojo says the thing heâs been holding in his chest for years, the thing he swore heâd never say out loud, the thing that feels too big for a stage and too raw for a crowd this size.
âi love you.â
the field explodes-- screams, gasps, hands thrown into the air-- but gojo doesnât move. he stands there in the middle of the chaos he just created, breathing hard, eyes shining under the stage lights, looking like a man whoâs finally stopped running.
but itâs nothing compared to the way your chest caves in when gojoâs voice cuts through it. the words hit clean and direct, no metaphor, no shield, just truth thrown into the night like heâs daring the world to catch it.
this is about you. you know who you are. i love you.
your best friendâs head snaps toward you so fast her earrings nearly fly off. her eyes are huge, glitter catching the stage lights, and she looks at you like sheâs watching a plot twist sheâs been waiting seven years for. her mouth opens, closes, opens again--no sound, just pure shock .
you donât look back at her. you canât. your eyes are glued to the stage, to the tall figure standing under the lights like heâs been carved out of them, shoulders tight, chest rising too fast, fingers still wrapped around the mic stand like heâs holding onto something that might slip away.
your heart drops. it plummets-- heavy, sudden, like itâs falling through every version of your life where you and him were still in the same orbit.
the crowd is losing its mind, people grabbing each other, screaming, filming, crying, but all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears and the faint echo of a rehearsal room years ago, when he could barely look you in the eye without turning pink.
your friend grabs your arm, nails digging in. âthat-- thatâs--â she tries to shout over the noise, but the words dissolve before they reach you.
because youâre staring at him, and heâs staring at nothing.
heâs not scanning the crowd.
heâs not searching for a face.
heâs not looking for you.
he doesnât know youâre here.
youâre one person in a sea of thousands, swallowed by lights and smoke and the sheer scale of the world heâs built for himself. heâs on a stage that belongs to legends, and youâre standing in the mud with a plastic cup of cheap cider, heart in your throat, listening to a confession meant for a ghost version of you heâs been carrying around.
the band launches into the opening chords of about you, the sound swelling, bright and aching. geto steps in, voice steady, shokoâs drums hit like thunder, and gojo bows his head over his guitar, fingers moving with a confidence he didnât have back then.
you watch him, this man who used to trip over his own amp cables, who used to ask you if his hair looked stupid, who used to grin at you like you were the only person in the room. and you realise how far away he is now. how far youâve drifted. how far heâs climbed.
youâre still supporting him, still cheering for him, still loving him in that quiet, private way that doesnât ask for anything back.
but youâre not part of his world anymore, youâre part of the crowd.
and heâs part of the sky.
the song ends, the lights flare, and the distance between you stretches out.
bittersweet doesnât even begin to cover it.
ââ âą the endă»âžâž
an: formal apology for a) making t@kumi as geto, b) for not having a happy ending, because this was originally an angsty headcanon but then this storyy came to me. i love the 1975 sm, i just hope there is someone out there who loves jjk and 75â and is the perfect target audience for this. oki, baiiii
wc: ~17.4k | cw: smut, fluff and more fluff, formula 1 au! f1 gojo/racer gojo x f1/racer reader! use of alcohol, oral sex (female receiving), slight overstimulation, fingering, explicit language, unprotected sex, suggestive themes, rivals to lovers, slow burn.
summary: gojoâs gift reaches you and you read the note.
ËË°âą*ââ·
GOJOâS HEART RATE hasnât slowed from the moment he woke up.
Well, if you could even call it waking up.
Heâs hardly slept at all.
He pretended he didâstretched out on the bed, one arm over his face like rest might miraculously take him, but every time he closed his eyes the only thing he could see were those words he scribbled.
He wrote that note knowing it was reckless, knowing he was asking for more than he has any right to, and did it anyway.
And, here he is now, the man who everyone thinks is untouchable, some chosen prodigious driver, Satoru Gojo is pacing barefoot in his kitchen at 6:38 AM, panicking over a girl like a clueless teenage boy.
Though, not just any girl.
You.
His phone sits face-down on the kitchen island, he hasnât touched it in over an hour, he simply canât bear to. Every time he thinks about checking it, something in him resists. Superstition maybe, or fear.
Heâs not sure what heâs waiting for exactly.
A yes? A no? A thank you? A question? Silence?
He hates that silence could mean anything.
The coffee he had brewing clicks off automatically, the sound sharp in the quiet. He doesnât move to pour it into his cup, far too distracted with his own thoughts to do anything of use.
âGoddamnit,â He spits, âCalm down, you fucking loser.â
He breathes once, then twice, finally feeling like heâs regained control over himself again, but of course the universe has other plans. His phone starts to ring, the noise startling him enough that he actually flinches. He stares at it for a moment before flipping it over.
Itâs a number he doesnât have saved. He answers anyway, âHello?â
âGood morning, Mr. Gojo,â A womanâs voice, polite and professional. English, with a light Japanese accent, âThis is the front desk at the Suzuka Grand Hotel.â
His spine straightens instantly, âYes,â He blurts, already tense, âIsâIs everything okay?â
âYes, sir,â She reassures quickly, âIâm only calling to inform you that the gift you arranged has been successfully delivered to the guest in room 802.â
His breath leaves him in a slow, controlled exhale, âThank you.â
âThere were no issues,â She continues, âThe guest accepted it personally.â
Accepted it.
His fingers curl against the edge of the counter,, âThank you for letting me know,â He repeats, âI appreciate it.â
âCongratulations again on your win, Mr. Gojo,â She adds kindly before hanging up, âIf there is anything else we can do for you, feel free to let us know.â
The call ends and the house is silent again. He stays exactly where he is, phone still pressed to his ear long after the line cuts.
You have itâthe dress, the note, the things he told himself weren't a mistake. Relief washes through him first, followed by that damned feeling again.
Panic.
He lowers the phone down slowly, setting it down like it might explode if heâs careless.
Okay. You got it. Thatâs good.
ThatâsâŠgood.
He told himself he wouldnât expect anything so early. No immediate response or assurance, he didnât do it for a reaction after all. He did it because he was done pretending restraint meant distance.
Still, this is stressful as fuck.
His gaze drifts back to the phone against his willânothing.
âOf course thereâs nothing, Satoru,â He sighs, dragging a hand down his face.
Itâs only 7 AM. You have debriefs, Luca to deal with, media obligationsâyour own life to figure out.
Youâre doing too much, a voice in his head mutters, one that sounds suspiciously like him.
He ignores it and decides to spring into action. He pours the coffee into his mug, takes a sip, grimaces. Itâs gone cold, obviously, itâs been sitting there for the past twenty minutes. He sets the mug aside and grabs his keys instead.
If he stays here, in this massive house, held ransom to his thoughts, heâs going to spiral completely.
Outside, Tokyo is already awake. He pulls a black cap low over his hair, throws sunglasses on out of habit more than necessity, and steps into the street. The recognition he receives is almost instantaneous.
Not overwhelming, not yet, but itâs enough to notice. A double take, his name whispered like itâs something sacred, someone lifting a phone. By the time heâs halfway down the block, people are calling out to him, excited and breathless, and he forces a smile that feels automatic.
If you were here, if you walked together side by side anywhere but the paddock, it wouldnât just look like a date. It would be a fucking headline.
If he canât take you out, heâll still find a way to make it special. He has to.
He changes direction mid-step, already running through it in his head. Tomorrow, if you come, when you comeâno, donât assume that yet.
Okay. Think. I need a plan.
Iâll need flowers, real ones, not the sad bouquets from a convenience store. Dinner. I need to cook. Not order in or call someone. Cook. Something good, preferably Japanese, close to home that sheâll love.
Groceries. My fridge is basically empty. If sheâs staying a night or two, weâll need actual foodâthings she likes. Iâll have to remember those. I do remember those. Of course I do.
Candles? That feels pretentious. Iâm not trying to seduce her, Iâve done that already. Accidentally. Purposely. Repeatedly. Maybe itâs forâŠambience. Yeah. That.
Jesus. I need sleep. Anywaysâclean the house, thatâs a given.
Fix the guest roomâŠWait, guest room? Noâno, not the guest room, dumbass. Sheâll be sleeping with you. Hopefully.
And miles away, youâre on the phone with Maya, lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, âI need to tell you something. And youâre not allowed to freak out.â
She immediately freaks out, âUmânow Iâm freaking out. What do you mean?â
âNo, seriously, donât,â You warn, squeezing your eyes shut, âJustâŠlisten.â
âOkayâŠGo on.â
You inhale, long and shaky, âSoâŠGojo and I have beenââ
Maya leans in so close to the mic you hear her exhale, âYes? Youâve beenâŠ?â
ââsleeping together.â
Thereâs absolute silence on the other end. Until there isnât.
âI knew it!â She screeches, âI knew it, I knew it, I knew it! We all knew it! The way he looks at you? The way you pretend not to look at him? Bitch, are you kidding me?â
âI hate this,â You groan, âI hate everything.â
âOh my God,â She continues, unraveling, âSo youâre saying youâve been flying around the world having secret enemies to lovers sex with the hottest man alive and you didnât tell me? Fuck you, honestly.â
âIt wasnât supposed to be anything!â You snap, sitting up, âIt was supposed to be stupid and impulsive and a mistake we werenât supposed to talk aboutââ
âAnd then?â
âAnd then it stopped being that,â You admit, voice thinning, âAnd now I donât know what it is.â
Mayaâs tone drops, âExplain.â
âHeâs beenâŠdifferent. Pulling back sometimes, then coming close again, then not at all. And this weekendââ Your throat tightens, ââI saw him with a woman.â
âWhat woman?â She practically yells.
âI donât know. Someone he knew. They lookedâŠâ You swallow, ââŠComfortable.â
âDescribe her to me. Iâm gonna check his Instagram following.â
âMaya.â
âCâmon, please! I just need a face.â
âMaya.â
âFine,â She sighs dramatically, âBut Iâm filing her as an enemy until proven otherwise.â
You laugh despite yourself, small and tired. Then she asks softly, âDo you have feelings for him?â
Your chest constricts, ââŠYeah.â
âAnd does it scare you?â
âGod, it terrifies me.â
âOkay. Then youâre not crazy. Youâre just in deep.â
You open your mouth to reply and a knock cuts you off. You freeze, âSomeoneâs at my door.â
âDo not open it!â Maya orders, âWhat if itâs that womanââ
âFuck off, Maya.â
You get up, pulse quickening for reasons you donât have the energy to unpack, and crack the door open.
A hotel staff member stands there, perfectly polite, holding a white box tied with ribbon, âGood morning, Ms. (L/N), my apologies for disturbing you this early, but a gift was requested to be delivered before breakfast.â
Your stomach flips, âAâŠgift?â
âYes,â She answers brightly, âFrom the gentleman who stayed in room 819. Mr. Gojo Satoru.â
Your heart stutters so violently you nearly drop the box as she hands it over. You thank her in a haze and shut the door with your hip.
Maya is screaming over speaker, âWhat is happening? What is that? What did he send you? Show me! Show me right now!â
You place the box on the bed, untie the ribbon, and the lid lifts. Maya goes dead silent.
Inside the box is the dress.
Short, red silk, the one from Vegas he tore off your body like a man possessed. Replaced and restored.
You touch it with quivering hands as if it might evaporate.
âOh,â Maya whispers, âGirl, heâs down bad for you. He remembered the dress he destroyed?â
Something slips from the beneath the fabric, a small envelopeâyour name is his pristine handwriting.
You donât open it. You canât yet.
You sit down instead, dress pooling across your lap, breath uneven, âMaya,â You say gently, âI think he might want me in Tokyo with him.â
A heartbeat passes, then Maya screams so loudly your cat, Clementine, yowls from under her bed, âOh my God! Tokyo?â
You squeeze your eyes shut, heart slamming against your ribs, âWhat do I even do?â
âThe fuck do you mean âwhat do I even do?â,â She shrieks, âYou go! You go to Tokyo right nowâno, tomorrow! Tomorrow, you go to that beautiful manâs house and youâyouââ
She breaks into unintelligible sounds of excitement. You bury your face in your hands, âIâm scared.â
âOf what? Being loved?â
You stay quiet, the silence stretching long enough that she stops joking entirely, âHey. Talk to me.â
You swallow thickly, âIâm scared ofâŠgetting hurt.â
Maya exhales like sheâs been expecting that response, âYeah. I know.â
You blink at the ceiling, waiting, âBut youâve been hurting anyway. Every time he gets close. Every time he pulls away.â
âI donât want to misread him.â
âYou arenât,â She says quickly, âAnd even if you do? Youâre strong enough to survive it.â
Mayaâs voice gentles even further, âBut you know what you wonât survive? Not knowing.â
Something in your chest twists, âYouâre already halfway in. The only difference is now heâs meeting you there.â
You press the heel of your hand to your forehead, overwhelmed, âListen to me. Youâre going to Tokyo.â
âMayaââ
âNo. You are going,â Her tone sharpens, âIâm your best friend. I know you and I know when something is real. And this?â She scoffs, âThis is so real itâs disgusting and Iâm insanely jealous.â
You laugh weakly, Maya softening again, âYou want him. He wants you, clearly, and he finally did something about it. Please donât be the one who fucks it up.â
You stare down at the dress, then at the envelopeâyour name in his writing. Thereâs only one way this ends and itâs with him.
âIâm scared,â You repeat, âButâŠIâll go.â
The call ends not long after that and the room feels too quiet in its absence.
You fold the dress carefully, placing it back into the box, set the envelope on top still unopened, and force yourself to stand. Your hands are still shaking as you grab your credentials, slip your phone into your pocket, and head out.
Whatever is waiting for you in Tokyo, will have to continue to do so, because Monday isnât over.
The paddock is already buzzing by the time you show up, too many people moving with purpose while you feel half a step behind everything. You canât seem to settleâadjusting your lanyard, tugging at the hem of your polo, shifting your weight from foot to foot like youâre trying to outrun your own thoughts.
You donât even notice youâre doing it until you hear, âRagazza.â
You look up, Luca is watching you with that familiar mix of patience and concern, âYouâre pacing.â
âI am?â You still, forcing your feet to stay planted. It lasts maybe three seconds before you fidget again.
He lifts a brow, âYouâve fixed that badge five times already. Whatâs going on?â
You open your mouth to brush it off, then close it. The hesitation gives you away, âIâmâŠheading back to Tokyo.â
Luca blinks, âAgain?â
âTomorrow. I think.â
Thatâs all he needs to know, the recognition hitting him subtly. His posture morphs, the pieces sliding into place without you needing to say another word.
âFor him?â He asks quietly.
ââŠYeah.â
âOkay,â Thatâs all. No judgment.
âJust make sure,â He adds after a beat, âThat youâre going because you want to. Not because youâre nervous.â
âI want toâŠI really do.â
Luca smiles faintly, âThen Iâm glad.â
A voice cuts in from just behind you, âHuh. Interesting.â
You both turn. Dan is standing a few steps away, tablet in hand, eyes flicking between the two of you with casual curiosity.
âDidnât expect you back in Tokyo so soon,â He deduces, âGojoâs there now too.â
Your stomach tightens, Lucaâs expression doesnât change, but you catch the brief glance he gives youâquick, assessing, âOh, is he?â Luca says lightly.
Dan hums, âYeah. Busy city this week for Ferrari, apparently.â
His gaze lingers on you for half a second too long before dropping back to his screen, âAnyway. Debriefâs in ten.â
He walks off like he hasnât said anything loaded at all, âOh, he so knows.â
Luca nods, âNot much.â
âBut enough.â
He shoots you a look, âOnly enough to be curious, not interfere.â
The noise of the paddock swells around you again; radios crackling, engines firing somewhere in the distance, someone calling your name.
You peer down at your hands. Theyâre still trembling.
The waiting game has officially begun and damn, is it unbearable. Monday stretches itself thin like itâs doing it on purpose, taunting and teasing, every hour dragging as if itâs aware youâre counting each one.
You move through the rest of the day solely on instinctâdebriefs, media, nodding when spoken to, smiling when cameras turn your way. Your body performs the motions itâs been trained for, but your mind, well thatâs somewhere else entirely.
Tokyo. Him. The unopened envelope sitting back in your hotel room like a dare.
You donât want to check your phone, petrified youâll see something thatâll send you over the edge.
By the time evening falls upon Suzuka, the adrenaline coursing within your veins has burned itself out, leaving you restless and exhausted; your room feels too quiet when you step back in.
The box is right where you left it.
You sit on the end of the bed and stare at it for a long moment, fingers flexing in your lap. The dress is folded neatly inside, red silk catching low lamplight even through tissue paper.
The envelope rests on top, your name written in that familiar precision, decisive strokes with no hesitation.
âOkay,â You murmur, mostly to yourself.
You slide a finger beneath the flap before you can overthink it, unfolding the paper with care.
There isnât much written. But sometimes, less is more.
Come home with me.
Tokyo. Tomorrow.
You read it once, then again. Itâs exactly what you thought it would be. An invitation, both honest and terrifying in its simplicity.
Your chest tightens, but not in fear this time, âGuess Iâve tortured you enough, huhâŠSatoru.â
You pick up your phone, the weight of it suddenly far too heavy in your hands, and tap call on his contact.
It rings and on the third one, he answers, âHello?â
He sounds breathless, like heâs been moving around the room or pacing.
âI got your gift.â
âYeah?â Then a pause, âAnd?â
âI read your note.â
Another pause settles, longer this time. You can almost picture him holding his phone a little tighter.
âAnd?â He repeats, softer now.
âIâm coming,â You say, âTomorrow. Iâm coming.â
He lets out a breath that sounds like itâs been trapped in his chest all day.
âOkay,â He says, then like he needs to say it again to believe it, âOkay.â
âSoâŠdo you wanna send me an address, or should I just, like, aimlessly wander Tokyo until I find you?â
Thereâs a huff of a laugh, âPlease donât do that,â He murmurs, ââŠIâd worry.â
Your heart lurches as he clears his throat, the warmth in his voice returning, âBesidesâŠYouâre far too pretty to get lost on your own.â
You giggle at that, âNice. Real smooth.â
âHey,â He jives defensively, âI panicked. Donât hold it against me.â
You shift on the bed, glancing at the dress folded beside you, the note resting back on top of it, âSo. What happens now?â
He pauses again, this one deliberate, âIâll send a car. From the hotel, straight to me,â He says, âYou donât need to worry about anything else.â
âThatâs it?â
âThatâs it.â
ââŠHypothetical question.â
He hums, already weary, âMm?â
âShould IâŠâ You hesitate, then commit, ââŠwear the dress?â
âYes,â He answers a little too quickly, catching himself ââyeah. Yeah, please wear it.â
Then he adds, quieter, almost embarrassed, âI promise I wonâtâŠtear it off you this time.â
Warmth coils low in your stomach, âWhat ifâŠI wanted you to?â
His laugh comes out breathy, helpless, gone as soon as it appears, âThatâs,â He says carefully, âA dangerous thing to ask.â
He stops before starting again, âBut if you didâŠthen Iâd do whatever you want.â
You smile to yourself, âGood.â
ââŠGood.â
âIâll see you tomorrow, Satoru.â
âIâll be waiting.â
You hang up before either of you can say anything else. On the other end, heâs still grinning when the line goes dead.
And for the first time all day, the waiting doesnât feel so unbearable anymore.
You set your phone down slowly, stare at longer than needed, as if he may say something else or the line may reopen on its own. It doesnât.
Leaning back against the headboard, your eyes drift to the box beside you and the dress thatâs folded neatly. You donât touch it again, not tonight.
Instead, you change into something that lets you pretend, even for a sliver of a second, that this is still a normal Monday evening after a race weekend and your heart isnât doing laps around your ribs.
You order room service you barely eat, scroll through your phone without really seeing anything, every so often your thoughts betray you and drift back to his voice, and you fall asleep, eventuallyâbut not deeply.
And in Tokyo, Gojo doesnât sleep at all. Again.
He stands in the doorway of his bedroom, phone still in hand, staring at literally nothing.
Sheâs coming.
The thought feels unreal every time he circles back to it.
He moves through the house restlessly, turning lights on, lights off, then on and off again. Opens the fridge, yes everything is thereâthe things she likes, closes it. He checks the stove even though dinner wonât be until tomorrow, straightens something that was already straight.
At one point he stops in the living room, imagining you thereâlaughing, maybe making fun of him for whatever reason, touching things like you belong.
That makes his chest ache. In a way that feelsâŠstrangely good.
He sinks onto the couch, leather creaking under his weight, elbows bracing on his knees, phone resting loosely in his hands. He doesnât text or call, he already has what he needsâyour answer. The knowledge that tomorrow, youâll be here, with him.
He exhales and tilts his head back until it rests against the couch, eyes tracing the high ceiling above.
Heâs not panicked over tomorrow anymore. What scares him now is how much of himself heâs going to lose the moment youâre close enough to touch.
And before either of you are ready for it, tomorrow is finally today.
You wake with your heart already too high in your chest and sit up slowly. Your legs feel unsteady when your feet hit the carpeted floor.
The dress sits draped over a chair and you touch it once, fingertips grazing red silk. You shower, the water hotter than usual, taking extra time with everything, moisturizing after, minimal makeup, perfume at every pulse pointâthe neck, inner wrists, behind the knees, and ankles, just in caseâŠother things transpire. All in the same delicate vanilla scent.
You tell yourself youâre doing it on purpose, but really itâs because preparing is the only part of this day you can control.
Your phone buzzes as you finish packing the rest of your things.
One message.
gojo: carâs downstairs
Nothing more.
You donât bother with a reply. Instead you grab your bag, check the room one last time, see the empty box on the desk like evidence of a crime and leave before you can create reasons to stay.
Your hands are trembling when you press the elevator button and you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel, barely recognizing your own expression. Itâs calm, focused, serene even, but your eyes? Well, those never lie. They give you away, burning with an emotion you havenât let yourself name.
Outside, the driver is waiting beside a black sedan, opening the door before you can even speak. You slide in, greeted by cold leather, and the second the car pulls out of Suzuka something in your chest tightensâanticipation.
The highway unspools beneath you, the scenery shifting; suburbs, then open stretches, then the looming outskirts of a city thatâs far too large. You watch everything and nothing at once, rehearse what youâll say and forget it just as quickly. At one point you rest your head against the window, an attempt to let the rhythm of the road quiet your mind.
It doesnât work in the slightest. Every time you close your eyes, you just hear his voice in the way it sounded when he said âIâll be waiting.â
Come afternoon, Gojo hasnât managed to sit down, not one time.
The house is spotless, immaculate actually, though he hardly remembers cleaning it. The kitchen smells vaguely of ginger and dashi, dinner prep started hours too early. Flowers, real onesâexpensive ones, sit on the counter, arranged and rearranged until he finally convinces himself to stop touching them altogether.
He keeps checking his watch.
12:47.
1:13.
1:40.
2:05.
2:18.
Itâs modern day, medieval adjacent torture.
He walks through the house again, restless and wired, looks at the dinner heâs merely begun cooking, the hallway mirror he wiped down twice.
Finally, his phone buzzesâthe driver.
Ten minutes out.
Gojo goes completely still before forcing himself to cross the living room. He steps onto the sunlit stretch where the floorboards always warm this time of day, and stops in front of the large window overlooking the quiet street.
A long, shaky exhale escapes him and then he sees it.
The car turns into the neighborhood, slowing, gliding into the driveway like itâs delivering fate itself. His hand grips the window frame tight.
You donât get out at first. The tinted door stays shut, engine clicking softly as it idles; Tokyoâs late-afternoon light washes everything in gold.
Gojoâs pulse slams, bullseye perfect behind his ribs as the car door opens. Your heel touches the pavement before the rest of you emerges and he swears under his breath in his native tongueâquiet, reverent, because nothing prepared him for how youâd look standing in front of his house in that dress.
His dress.
The one you wore for him in Vegas, the one he destroyed, the one he replaced, the one you chose to wear for him again.
You pause, just for half a second, he sees it.
And that half-second nearly undoes him.
You straighten your posture, lift your chin, and close the door behind you gently. The driver drives away, leaving only silence between you and the front door.
Gojo doesnât move. His hands stay braced on the window frame, heart pounding with a force thatâs borderline painful.
You look up at the house. It isnât ostentatious, despite being so large; softened by wood and greenery, glass reflecting the sky, itâs a place built to keep one man alone.
Then you look at the door. Then, slowly, as if your body already knows where he is, your gaze lifts to the window.
Your eyes meet his piercing blues through the glass.
And everything stops.
The races, the noise, the city, the fear, the carefulness, the waiting.
All of it.
You inhale softly, whereas he doesnât breathe at all.
For one suspended, wicked moment, it feels like both of you are standing on the edge of something neither of you can step back from ever again.
You look down firstâat the steps, at your own hands, at anything other than him, and take one quiet breath that doesnât do nearly enough to calm you. Then you walk.
Inside, Gojo forces himself to move with controlled urgency, and reaches the entryway. His hand hesitates on the door handle, only for a heartbeat, before he finally opens it.
Warm late-afternoon air spills in and so do you. You stand at the foot of the steps, just beyond the threshold, the red silk of your dress reflecting sunlight like it remembers exactly why he sent it.
Gojo leans one shoulder against the doorframe, only to stop himself from stepping toward you too soon. His eyes drag over you once, languid, with the kind of restraint that only barely holds.
âHi.â
His answering inhale is almost a laugh, almost a curse, âHi.â
Itâs ridiculous how much heat one syllable can hold.
You shift your weight, suddenly aware of the bag at your sideâhe notices instantly.
âGive me that,â He says softly, not a command exactly but not a request either.
Before you can protest, his hand reaches for the strap. His fingers brush yours and thatâs all it takes for the ground to tilt under you.
He takes the bag from you easily, slinging it over his shoulder with one fluid movement. It looks wrong on himâtoo domestic, absurdly intimate, like a man already living a life that includes you.
He steps back into the house, opening the door wider, âCome in.â
Two words, low and utterly devastating.
You step forward and the threshold feels like a line you cross with your whole body. Gojo closes the door behind you, almost as if to seal the moment in place, and you turn to face him.
Heâs much closer now, so close you can see the tension in his jaw along with the way his eyes hold yours like heâs memorizing everything.
Then he murmurs, so quiet that it barely counts as a sound, âYou came.â
âI came.â
His throat works around whatever he wants to say next, grip tightening on your bag before he finally steps past you, giving you space but never truly pulling away.
âLet me take this,â He says, though he already has. The straps creak as he adjusts it, âIâll put it in my room.â
My room.
He hears it at the same time you do. A heartbeat of silence hangs there, charged and thick.
He clears his throat, eyes flicking away for a second, âUnlessâyou want the guest room. I didnât think toââ
You interrupt softly, biting down a chuckle, âYour room is fine.â
He goes still again. Entirely. Then he nods once, something dangerous funnels into his countenanceâwant, tension, excitement, all bound tightly behind good intentions that most likely will not stand a damn chance later.
âOkay,â He lifts your bag more securely on his shoulder, turns, and starts down the hallway.
âYou canâŠlook around,â He says without looking back, like the thought of you wandering through his house is something he both equally craves and fears, âMake yourself at home.â
You stand alone in the foyer for a moment, trying to breathe normally. Unfortunately, you canât.
His footsteps fade down the hall, your heart thundering for one too many reasons, and then you take your first step deeper into his houseâinto him.
The entryway opens into a wide, soft-lit living space, sunlight pooling across pale wood and dark furniture. Everything is warm and deceptively calm, which doesnât match the man youâre here with.
You find the kitchen by scent before sight. Savory, rich, a quiet simmer of soy and something citrusy beneath it. Dinnerânot finished yet, but started, tended to, fussed over. It shouldnât make your pulse jump, but it does.
Your gaze drifts from the stove to the cutting board, knife still out, vegetables sliced with the same precision he drives with; his footsteps approach from behind and he rounds the corner, trying very hard to look like he isnât watching your reaction even though he absolutely is.
You blink, stunned, and look over at him, both his sleeves rolled haphazardly to his veiny forearms, ââŠDidnât know the golden boy could cook.â
He freezes for half a second, his mouth curving, subtle and dangerous, âDidnât know you were into domestic men.â
You cross your arms loosely, âI didnât say I was into it.â
âNo?â He steps closer to the stove, but his eyes flick toward you with unmistakable smugness, âYour face says otherwise.â
You scoff, turning slightly, warmth spreading up your neck, âPlease. Iâm just surprised. Thought you lived off takeout and bullshit sugar coffee-milk and desserts.â
He lets out a soft laugh, âI cook,â He says, stirring the pot once, âWhen I care about the person Iâm feeding.â
The wooden spoon pauses. Your heartbeat does too.
You open your mouth, to tease him or maybe deflect, but nothing comes out. He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes dipping briefly to the red silk youâre wearing.
âThat dressâŠâ His voice drops, âIâd almost forgotten how good it looks on you.â
He sets the spoon down, wipes his palms on a dish towel, and fully turns to you, âIâm glad you wore it,â He adds, with a sincerity that hits harder than any flirtation
ââŠMe too.â
Gojo clears his throat once, looks back toward the stove as if remembering it still exists, then ticks the heat lower.
âDinner needs another hour,â He notes, wiping his hands again even though theyâre already clean, âCome on. IâŠshould probably give you a tour before I burn something trying to pretend Iâm not nervous.â
You smile, slow and knowing, âYouâre nervous?â
He shoots you a look, half indignation, half confession, âOnly a little. Youâre in my house. ThatâsâŠdifferent,â He gestures for you to follow, you do.
The hallway opens into a wide space bathed in late-afternoon gold. Everything feels curated, but lived inâsoft colors, touches of personality that catch your eye even when you try not to look too hard. He pauses by the first door and pushes it open.
âSimulator room,â He says, almost sheepishly.
You step in and nearly laugh, not at him, but at how perfectly the setup fits him. Multiple screens, wraparound monitors, a full-motion rig, branded gloves on the desk, telemetry notes scattered everywhere.
âYouâre insane,â You mutter, running your fingers lightly along the carbon-fiber seat.
âI know.â
Your gaze shifts to the wallsâvarious helmets on shelves, framed photos, mostly racing. A few of him on podiums, mid-overtake shots, a candid where heâs laughing with Dan.
Then one catches your attention.
A photo of him at eighteen. White hair cut shorter, wearing a formal hakama and haori, traditional clothing crisp against the backdrop of a garden. Heâs not smiling, the expression he bears is cold, distant, resigned. As if heâs physically there in that moment, but mentally elsewhere. Nobody else is in frame, the edges of the picture clipped, like someone was cut out.
You feel something twist in your chest, âYou look different here.â
He stands next to you, posture tightening ever so slightly, âYeah. Birthdays wereâŠfestive. For everyone but me.â
You donât push and he doesnât elaborate. Instead, your eyes drift to the opposite shelf, where you freeze.
ââŠAre those Digimon figurines?â
âNo,â He lies. Badly.
You pick one up, a tiny Agumon, âOh my fucking God. They are.â
âThis shelf is off-limits,â He seethes, reaching to take it from you, but you dodge him, giggling.
âSatoru, you have a shrine. Thatâs like the nerdiest, most geeked out shit Iâve ever seen.â
âItâs not a shrine,â He counters, mortified, grabbing the figurine with tragic dignity, âItâsânostalgia.â
âUh-huh. Right.â
Gojo places the rescued Agumon back onto the shelf with too much ceremony for a grown man, muttering something in Japanese that youâre certain is a threat toward ever showing you anything personal again.
You canât help but continue laughing, and something in his shoulders uncoils a little.
âLetâs go,â He says, âOne more room before the best one.â
You follow, steps soft on polished wood until he slows in front of a wide sliding doorâhesistation so slight you wouldnât notice if you didnât already pick up on how he masks vulnerability.
He pushes it open to reveal warm light, floor-to-ceiling shelves, lamps, a sunlit window seat, and books. Hundreds of them.
You donât gasp because itâs surprising, but because itâs so completely him.
He watches your reaction, attempting for nonchalance. It doesnât fool you for a second.
âNerdjoâŠâ You coo, stepping inside.
He groans like heâs being murdered, âSo weâre really making that name stick?â
âDuh,â You reply, running your fingers lightly across a row of novels heâs definitely read more than once, âYou thought you were escaping that? Especially after your little toys?â
His jaw drops in offense, âTheyâre not toys.â
You tap a book spine, worn, smile softening, âAnd this? This is definitely a Nerdjo habitat.â
He crosses his arms, half defensive, half flustered, âIâll have you know that this is a very normal library for a very normal man.â
You hum a chuckle, stepping toward the table where an annotated Murakami sits open beside a dense engineering text, one with most the pages flagged.
âI knew you read,â You say quietly, then almost to yourself, âI just didnât know you read likeâŠthis.â
His eyes flick to yours, something tightening in that charged space between you, âLike what?â
âLike you breathe better in here.â
His throat moves, he doesnât deny it. Not this time.
And because the air suddenly feels too intimate and revealing, he clears his throat and gestures toward the door again, âBefore you psychoanalyze me to death,â He says, âWe should keep going.â
You grin, âAfraid of what Iâll find next?â
âOh, horrified,â He deadpans, âWhich is why the best room is last.â
You narrow your gaze playfully, âLet me guessâthe bedroom?â
He laughs at that, warm, startled, all earnest, âIâm ninety-five percent sure that if I show you the bedroom right now, youâll hit me.â
âNinety-eight percent, actually.â
He smirks, steps back, and nods toward the opposite hallway, âThen good thing the best room isnât the bedroom.â
You raise a brow, intrigued, âOh? Then what is it?â
Then that slow, devastating grin spreads across his faceâthe one that got you into this mess in the first place.
âThe garage.â
And just like that, your pulse is back in your throat. He leads you down another hallway, past a minimalist bathroom and a closed laundry room door, until flooring shiftsâwood to polished marble. The air cools, hum of the house fading.
He stops at a black metal door with a keypad, âThis,â He announces, typing the code with ease, âIs the best room in the house.â
You scoff, âReally bold claim for a man who owns a library and Digimon shrine.â
He huffs, the corner of his mouth twitching, âHa, hilarious. Prepare to apologize.â
The lock clicks, the door swings open, and your breath stops.
For a moment, thereâs nothing but light. Soft overhead strips illuminating lacquered curves, aerodynamic lines, metal and carbon laid out like art.
ââŠHoly shit.â
You step inside without waiting for permission. You donât need it. He built this place for worship.
Four cars sit in immaculate formation, each spaced like they equally deserve their reverence. You go silent, enchanted, and Gojo watches your reaction.
You move first toward the Porsche 911 GT3 RS, pristine carrara white gleaming under the lights, â992 generation,â You note, âThatâs the 4.0 L flat-six, right? Naturally aspirated?â
His eyebrows shoot up, âYeah.â
You circle the rear end, eyes narrowing, âSwan-neck wing. Stock. Not aftermarket.â
ââŠYeah,â He blinks, âHow did youâ?â
âThe mounting points,â You say, crouching slightly, âTheyâre too clean for aftermarket.â
Gojo looks personally attacked by your words, in the best way.
You straighten, grin tugging at your lips, âWhat? You thought I only knew how to race cars, not build them?â
âI never doubted you,â He answers, too quick, âBut this isâŠhot.â
Heat prickles your cheeks, you turn away before he can see you react. Your attention snags on the Ferrari 812 Competizione, dark red that shines viciously in the light.
âThis one,â You point, stepping closer, âFeels like a trophy.â
ââŠFerrari gave it to me after my first WDC,â He admits, âItâs beautiful but itâsâŠnot really mine.â
You run a hand along the fender, âThat makes sense,â You look at him, âItâs gorgeous. But itâs notâŠyou.â
His eyes soften and you move on. The Nissan GT-R R35 draws you over next, deep pearl blue, subtle but clearly very loved.
âThis one,â You say immediately, âIs the fun car.â
Gojo beams radiantly, âThank you. Dan says it looks like a midlife crisis.â
âDan is an idiot. This isâwaitâŠâ You crouch again, âOhlins coilovers?â
âYes.â
âAnd the exhaustâHKS?â
âYes.â
âAnd you tuned the ECUââ
ââYour brain should not be allowed to be this sexy.â
You freeze, startled laughter breaking out of you, âSatoru.â
âWhat? Iâm sorry. I canât help it.â
You push his arm lightly, shaking your head as you stand again. Then something else catches your eye. You move toward the Nissan Fairlady Z, its off-white paint glowing warmly, patina and all.
ââŠYou restored this.â
He stills, âI did. Over a few years. Engine first, suspension, brakes. I kept the interior original on purpose.â
Something unspoken sparks between you, heat sliding under your ribs. This time, youâre the one clearing your throat.
âSo,â You say, âThatâs four. Whatâs next? You strike me as the kind of guy who already knows exactly what he wants to buy.â
He chuckles onceâshort and nervous, like he didnât expect you to ask. Then his whole face lights up, âOkay,â He says, rubbing his palms together, âThis is gonna sound insane.â
âIâm listening.â
âAn air-cooled Porsche. Late â80s. Probably a 964.â
Your eyes widen, âThatâs your next project?â
âYes. Andââ He gestures with both hands, animated, completely losing composure in the cutest way, âI found this forum thread about engine rebuilds and thereâs this one guy who documents everything, like, everything. Wiring, gaskets, leak testingâevery single step. Itâs crazy. Itâs perfect.â
You stare at him and he doesnât notice at firstâheâs in flow state, talking with his hands, blue eyes impossibly bright, voice warm with enthusiasm. Then he finally looks at you and stops.
ââŠWhat?â
You shake your head slowly, a smile pulling at your lips, âNothing. I justâlike seeing you like this.â
âLike what?â
You step closer, close enough he feels it, âExcited,â You answer, âNerdy. Happy.â
He swallows hard, dangerously so. The air shifts yet again, slow. Sure. Inevitable.
And then, because he canât help himself, he says it, âAfter dinnerâŠif you wantâŠyou can drive one.â
Your head snaps toward him so fast he laughs, âSeriously?â
âYeah,â He replies softly, âWhichever one you want.â
You just look at him like heâs given you something precious, which in a way, he has, âSatoru,â You breathe, âThatâsâkind of intimate.â
He steps closer, the distance between you collapsing into something warm and electric, âSo is letting you into my house.â
Your pulse skips, he takes another step closer, âAnd my kitchen.â
âMy library,â Another step.
âMy garage,â Heâs right in front of you now.
âAnd soon,â He adds, voice dipping low, âMy driverâs seat. If you want it.â
You glance up at him, heart pounding so fiercely it hurts, âI want it.â
His breath leaves him shakily, quietly undone, âGood.â
Then the kitchen timer goes off in the distance, shrill and divinely timed. You both blink, he coughs a weak chuckle, âDinner.â
âDinner.â
But neither of you move. Not for several seconds. Because suddenly, everything feels different. Everything feels like the beginning.
The timer keeps screaming from the kitchen, you both stay frozen like neither of you wants to be the first to step back into reality.
Finally, Gojo forces himself to move, âCome on,â He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that isnât trembling, âBefore something actually burns.â
You follow him out of the garage and into the warmth of the house again, the smell hitting you instantly. Gojo grabs oven mitts, kills the timer, lifts the lid from the simmering pot on the stove, and exhales like heâs been holding that breath for a decade.
âStill alive,â He says in mock relief, âBarely.â
You lean against the counter, âDo you want me to pretend Iâm not impressed, or should we skip straight to praising you?â
He side-eyes you over his shoulder, smirk tugging, âYou can praise me later.â
Heat crawls up your neck at the way he says it.
He opens the oven next, steam rolling out into the kitchen, and slides out a tray of flawlessly crisped chicken katsu. The breading golden, the edges bubbling.
You blink, âYou really made that?â
âYeah.â
âFrom scratch?â
âYeah.â
You just stare and for the first time all day he looks almost afraid with a flash of uncertainty, ââŠIs that bad? Do you not likeââ
âNo, no. Itâs great,â You cut him off quickly, âItâsâwow.â
He looks down and bites back a smile like he canât stand how good it feels to impress you. Then, he plates everything with quiet focus, like cooking is something he does to steady himself. Rice steamed to perfection, miso soup ladled with care, pickled vegetables arranged neatly, the katsu sliced at exact angles.
âYou didnât have to do all this,â You mention softly.
âI know,â He replies, âBut I wanted to.â
He doesnât look at you when he says it, probably because he knows if he does, itâll mean too much.
The dining area is small compared to the rest of the houseâwarm light, a table set for two. He moves around you to pull out your chair and your heart nearly stops.
He doesnât touch you, but he almost does. His hand brushes the back of the chair where your spine had been a second ago. A ghost contact.
You sit, he takes his seat across from you, and now youâre acutely aware of everything. The clink of cutlery, the faint simmer thatâs still happening in the kitchen, the low hum of the refrigerator, the uneven rhythm of your breathing.
He pushes your plate gently toward you, âTell me if itâs bad,â He warns, âLie if you have to.â
You take one bite and your eyes widen, ââŠSatoru.â
His entire posture straightens, tense.
âItâs amazing,â You laugh, genuinely surprised, âLike better than a restaurant.â
He slumps back in his chair, relief crashing over him, âThank fuck.â
You take another bite, âWhy donât you ever talk about cooking? This is absurd.â
He shrugs one shoulder lightly, âNo one in my life has ever really cared.â
You still, his eyes flick up. Blue, clear, and vulnerable in the way he hates being.
âUntil now,â You murmur.
He holds your gaze a beat too long, then looks down and picks up his chopsticks as if he didnât show you a piece of his heart on accident.
The conversation turns easy after that, like how it always does when youâre both pretending nothing monumental is occurring.
You ask about the recipe, he downplays it.
He asks about your fatherâs cooking, you tell him stories about burnt vegetables, but perfectly grilled steaks.
He tells you about the first time he tried to cook rice alone and learn that he accidentally destroyed the pot.
You snort so loudly he threatens to revoke your dinner privileges.
Halfway through the meal, he watches you eat, elbow braced on the table, chopsticks paused between his fingers.
âWhat?â You ask, swallowing.
âYouâŠYou look good in my house.â
Your pulse trips, âDonât say things like that.â
âWhy not? Itâs true.â
You break eye contact first, because you know that if you donât, you may melt through the floor.
And dinner finishes in a slower silence, soft tension humming beneath every movement.
When you stand to help clear the dishes, he moves too fast, âNo,â He says, âSit.â
âYou cooked,â You protest, âI can helpââ
He steps in close, âSit,â He repeats, voice gentle but unwilling to bend.
So you sit and watch as he clears the table, washes the dishes, and moves through the kitchen like someone who has never let another person into this space and isnât sure how to act now that he has.
When he finally turns back to you, drying his hands on a towel, something shifts once more.
The house is quiet.
Dinner is done.
And he looks at you like the next part of the night is a precipice heâs about to willingly step off.
âReady for the last part of the tour?â
You stand slowly, âYeah. Iâm ready.â
Gojo leads you back to the foyer, the evening settling into the windowsâTokyo shifted from gold to deep blue without either of you noticing. Streetlights blink on the outside, soft halos on wet pavement.
He grabs a jacket from the hook by the front door and slides it on one arm at a time, looking at you from the corner of his eye like he canât not.
âYou cold?â He asks.
You shake your head, he nods once, then tips his chin toward the hallway that leads back down the garage, âThis way.â
His hand doesnât touch you, it doesnât even graze you, but he walks so close that you feel the heat radiate off him.
The garage lights flick on automatically when he opens the door and even though youâve seen it already, it still hits you.
He moves in front of you, hands in pockets, almost shy but trying very hard not to show it.
âSo,â He says lightly, âWhich one do you want to drive?â
âIâwhat?â
He smirks, tilting his head, âAfter dinner, remember? I said you could drive one if you wanted.â
âYou werenât serious.â
âOh, I was,â He replies, stepping closer to stand near the Porsche GT3 RSâyour gaze flicks to it instinctively and he notices, âPick one.â
You laugh under your breath, âYouâre crazy.â
âAnd you like it.â
True.
Your eyes sweep the lineup, taking your time, the car-lover in you fighting with the rational human who knows these machines cost more than a house. He crosses his arms, observing you, saying nothingâletting you choose in peace.
Your gaze lands on the GT3 RS again. The carrara white gleaming under the overhead lights, satin-black wheels, red brake calipers like a beating heart.
He sees it and grins, âYou want the Porsche.â
âCan I?â
âYou can drive anything in this garage,â He says simply, âI trust you.â
Your stomach drops as you walk toward it, fingertips grazing the curve of the hood, âIt really is gorgeous.â
âItâs a beast,â He corrects, stepping beside you, âAnd sheâll eat you alive if youâre not ready.â
âGood thing I am.â
He laughs and walks around to the driverâs side door, tapping the handle, âGet in.â
You slide into the bucket seat, the bolstering hugging you tightly, the smell of alcantara and fuel and something distinctly Gojo lingering around you. He leans in over you, reaching across to check the seat positioning.
âMove up a little,â He murmurs, eyes flicking to your legs, âYouâre way too far back.â
âRight,â You chuckle, adjusting, âForgot about your freakishly long limbs.â
His mouth lifts and he stays right there for longer than necessary. You feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek, heart seizing when you realize that heâd only have to tilt his head an inch to kiss you.
âBetter,â He mutters, gaze dropping to your hands on the wheel.
He reaches for the seatbelt next, fingers brushing the fabric first, then your hip as he draws it across your bodyâthe touch steals your breath for a second.
He clicks it into place without looking at you, his jaw flexing once, betraying a thought he wonât say aloud, âSafety first.â
You almost laugh.
You also almost remind him that heâs the least safe thing in this garage.
But the joke dies on your tongue when he finally pulls back, closing your door before walking around to the passenger side.
The cabin shifts when he sinks into the seat, everything smaller, warmer, oddly too intimate in a way that feels like crossing yet another line you canât uncross.
He turns his head toward you, profile cut by the soft overhead light, âYouâve driven fast cars,â He says quietly, âBut this oneâŠsheâs temperamental. She bites.â
The faintest curl of a smirk forms on his face, ââŠKinda reminds me of you.â
You lift your chin, matching his tone, âOh? Should I be offended?â
His eyes flick to yours before dipping once to your mouth, âNo,â He murmurs, âYou should be worried what I mean by it.â
Your fingers rest on the steering wheel to keep your hands busy before you do something reckless. His words hang there between you, thickening the space like rising heat before he shifts his weight.
One hand braces gently on the roof of the car as he leans in, the scent of his cologne wafting over your shoulder.
âAnyways,â He says, tapping the carbon-fiber door frame with the side of his knuckle, âSheâs yours for the night.â
A heartbeat passesâa breath he lets himself take.
âJust,â He adds, âDonât make me regret trusting you.â
âRelax. Iâll behave.â
His laugh is soft, disbelieving, almost fond, âNo,â He says, eyes dragging over you with slow, devastating certainty, âYou wonât.â
And God, the way he says it, like itâs a promise, a hope, like heâs already imagining which version of you heâs going to meet tonightâit knocks the air out of your lungs.
He nudges his head forward, âGo on, (Y/N),â He urges, âShow me.â
Your breath steadies, barely, and you reach toward the ignition. Gojo watches your hand more than he watches the dashboard, the way your fingers hover, the way you settle into his seat like youâve already decided you belong there.
You press it and the Porsche snarls awake. A clean, violent sound that blooms through the garage and vibrates through the bucket seat into your ribcage. The headlights flare against the polished floor, a sweep of white across glossy car bodies.
âGood,â He praises, barely audible over the idle rumble, âFeel her.â
You grip the wheel a little tighter out of anticipation. He moves in his seat, one arm resting on the central bolster, the other lifting to adjust the vents like heâs pretending to not study your every micro-movement.
âYouâre already sitting like a driver.â
You smirk, fingers brushing the paddle shifters once, familiarizing yourself, âI am a driver.â
âMm,â His eyes drag over your body again, slower this time, âNot like this.â
You donât ask what he means. The air answers for him.
Pressing the brake gently, the engine note changes. Lowers, sharpens, reacting to you.
âPut her in manual,â He says slowly, like heâs savoring the moment, âFirst gear.â
You tap the paddle, the gearbox clicks into place.
âGood,â He murmurs again, âEasy out of the garage.â
You release the brake and the Porsche creeps forwardâcontrolled, smooth, obedient to every small adjustment of your foot. Gojo leans back, watching the world shift through the windshield.
More so, watching you in his car.
When the Porsche noses into the cool night, the temperature change sweeps across your skin, waking every nerve ending. The engineâs echo dies into the open space of the driveway, a deeper, cleaner resonance.
Gojo mumbles something in Japanese, too soft for you to catch fully, but the tone gives him away.
Awe, restraint, something scarily close to admiration.
You stop at the end of the driveway, foot on the brake, engine purring beneath you. He turns his head toward you again, eyes unbearably blue in the partial darkness.
âHow does it feel?â
âLike she wants to run.â
A slow grin tugs at his mouth, pleased, âI knew youâd understand her.â
You roll your shoulders once, settling deeper into the seat. Everything in you feels awake, sharpened, humming in sync with the machine in the same way it always does once you get behind a wheel.
He watches that too.
He watches everything.
âYou ready?â You ask.
His tongue grazes the inside of his cheek, just once, a tell he doesnât hide fast enough or maybe didnât want to hide at all.
âFor you?â He murmurs, âAlways.â
Heat pools low in your stomach and you check the road. Itâs all clear.
Your foot eases onto the accelerator, the Porsche responds immediately, a fluid surge forward as the revs climb. Gojoâs breath leaves him in a quiet involuntary sound, not shock, noâwant.
You shift into second, the engine snaps brighter, night air rushes across the windshield, and he looks at you, not the road.
Not even once.
âYou really are dangerous,â He whispers.
You smirk, eyes forward, âYou let me drive your GT3. Thatâs on you.â
âOh, I know,â He says, rougher, âBut watching you like this might actually kill me.â
You shift again, smooth enough that he lets out a soft laugh that really isnât one, more a release of something pent-up. City lights streak by, the road opening wider, inviting speed you donât take yet.
Gojo notices that too, âYouâre teasing her.â
âMaybe.â
His knee bounces once, then stops, like heâs resisting the urge to reach over and touch you. Or the wheel. Or both.
âYou drive likeâŠâ He stops himself, searching for the right words, ââŠlike youâre tasting something before you decide whether to crave it.â
Your throat tightens as he leans the slightest bit closer, but still of course, not touching.
âAnd God,â He adds, voice low, âI love watching you crave.â
A sharp breath escapes you, Tokyo flickers past in silver and shadow, and somewhere in the quiet between gear changes and everything the two of you have been dancing around, something in him softens and something in you opens.
âLeft up here,â He directs.
You take the turn cleanly.
âPerfect,â He says, barely a whisper.
The next bit of silence hangs, delicate as glass, before he adds so quietly you almost miss it.
âI could get used to this.â
You swallow, âDriving?â
He shakes his head once, eyes still on you, âNoâŠYou. Here. Next to me.â
Your heart plummets into your stomach, unable to form the words to respond to that. Instead, a slow smile works its way onto your face, which for him is answer enough.
The road ahead opens wider, the city thinning into quieter residential stretches. The Porsche feels impatient under your hands; coiled, ready, alive.
âLet her breathe a little,â Gojo mutters, elbow resting on the door, âNot too much yetâŠjust enough.â
You ease onto the accelerator and the car responds, a smooth, eager pull tightens the harness across your chest. The engine note lifts, bright and clean, a sound that vibrates through the steering column and directly into your pulse.
Gojo inhales softly, trying to mask it, but fails, âYou feel that?â
âOf course I do.â
He watches you again, the way your shoulders settle, your grip changing once you trust the weight shift, your expression sliding from careful to hungry.
âStraightaway up ahead,â He points with two fingers, âIf you wantâŠyou can open her up a bit.â
You really fucking want to.
But you donât floor it, not yet. You let the revs rise little by little, teasing the power curve, learning the car breath by breath.
âYouâre being gentle,â He notes, voice dipping, as if heâs unraveling something in real time, âDidnât think you would be.â
You slide into the next gear, âShe hasnât earned rough yet.â
He exhales a helpless laugh, tipping his head back like he needs the ceiling to cool him down, âOh yeahâŠyouâre going to kill me.â
The city lights thin further, the straightaway opens in front of you like an invitation; Gojoâs knee bounces once.
âYou can go now,â He murmurs, eyes flicking from the road back to you, âIf you want.â
And right then, his phone connects to the car. A quiet click through the speakers, a split second pause.
Then the opening notes of Whoâs Crying Now spill into the cabin. You freeze. Gojo freezes.
You let out a soft chuckle, âOh my God. You listen to Journey?â
He goes rigid in the passenger seat, staring ahead as if the dashboard suddenly became fascinating.
âIt was on a playlist,â He defends weakly.
âYou made this playlist.â
Heâs silent, but you can hear him scrambling internally. You grin despite yourself and reach for the volume dial, he watches your hand.
âDonât youââ
Too late.
You turn it up, loud. All the way.
His head falls back against the seat with a groan, âOh no.â
But heâs smiling already like he canât stop it.
And when the chorus hits, you press the accelerator. Not all the way, but enough that the Porsche lunges forward with a razor-sharp pull that pushes both of you deeper into the seats.
Gojoâs breath catches and you shift, revs spiking. He grips the edge of the bolster with one hand, jaw tightening, every muscle in his body strung tight, but he doesnât tell you to slow down. He doesnât want you to.
âJesus,â He whispers, watching the way your eyes narrow with focus, âOkay. Okay. Yeah. Youâreââ
Another gear shift, this time the engine opens ferociously, the road rushes under you in a blur of silver and shadow. Gojoâs voice cuts off as he looks at you like heâs witnessing something private. Something he shouldnât be allowed to see, but something he canât turn away from.
You feel the exact moment he breaks, the exact second something inside him gives out. He breathes your name once, so quietly you mightâve imagined it.
Then the chorus kicks again.
âTwo hearts born to run,â You belt out, exhilarated and bright, head tipping back. Streetlights flash across your skin, the breeze whipping you through the open windows, and GojoâŠ
Gojo forgets the universe exists.
He watches you sing, full volume, the wheel steady in your hands even as you completely surrender yourself to the moment.
You look free.
You look alive.
You look like every reason he ever fell in love with racing and every reason he might be falling in love with something far more treacherous.
His hand slides from the bolster to his knee, gripping it, âYouâre incredible,â He mutters to himself.
You donât hear it. Youâre too busy laughing, the song drifting around you, hair catching in the draft you caused, the whole car vibrating with the force of your joy.
He hears thatâfeels it too.
It ruins him.
The straightaway stretches ahead, clear and begging. He leans closer, giving you the goddamn world with two quiet words that change the entire night.
âGo on.â
You inhale, shift gears once more, and then, you floor it. The Porsche roars, fierce and grateful; Gojoâs hand flies to the door, not out of fear, but because he canât contain the way his body reacts to the acceleration.
âHoly shitââ He breathes, blue eyes blown, then narrowing, then widening again, âYes, yes, just like thatââ
Heâs gone.
Utterly gone.
For you.
You fly down the straightaway, the car slicing through the darkness in a long, clean arc, the engine screaming in approval. Journey hits the emotional peak, chorus engulfing you.
You yell it like youâre exorcising something holy.
And Gojoâhis chest rises and falls too fast, his throat works around a sound he canât let out, his gaze stays glued to you instead of the road.
Then you ease off, smoothly decelerating, guiding the Porsche back to a sane speed, letting her cool down from the rush rather than dropping her cold.
âYouâre unreal,â He says finally, voice hoarse, âTotally unreal.â
You bite back a smile, âYou were quiet there for a second. Are you scared?â
He looks at you for a long minute. He knows what you mean by thatâscared of the speed, scared of the way you just manhandled his most prized possession without blinking. But that isnât how he hears the question.
He hears, âAre you scared of this?â
And thinks back to that Singapore shower in which he whispered things in a language you donât understand, claiming to be scared of love.
But now?
All that fear has dwindled into nothingness.
ââŠNo,â He answers softly, âNot anymore.â
A slow breath escapes you and the song fades, but the moment doesnât.
The road ahead softens into curves, the lights growing sparser, the city dipping behind a ridge as the air cools noticeably. Gojo fidgets in his seat, running a hand through snowy strands like heâs trying to get the oxygen back into his lungs.
âThat wasâŠâ He trails off, exhaling through his nose, ââŠfuck.â
You laugh quietly, easing the Porsche around another bend, âGood fuck or bad fuck?â
He turns his head towards you, eyes heavy, voice low, âGood. Obscenely good.â
You shake your head, but the smile wonât leave your face. Up ahead, the road widens into an overlook pulling off the main stretchâa small rise in the hill offering a panoramic spill of Tokyoâs skyline below.
Gojo nods toward it, âPull in there.â
You guide the Porsche into the overlook, gravel crunching under the tires. The city sprawls beneath you, glittering, endless, a beautiful living thing breathing in and out.
You shift into park, the engine ticks softly as it cools. He unbuckles first, pushing his door open. A rush of cold air sweeps in immediately, cutting right through the silk of your dress. You inhale at the shock of it.
Gojo freezes with recognition, catching the way your shoulders tense and your arms fold to hold warmth that isnât there.
He rounds the front of the Porsche with a purpose you feel more than see and opens the door for youâthe wind hits harder out here.
It passes through your hair, slips up your calves, rolls across your bare arms until a shiver crawls up your spine. Gojo is stopped in front of you, the city lighting half his face in gold, the rest shadowed and unreadable.
âYouâre cold.â
âIâm fiââ
He doesnât let you finish, he just shrugs out of his jacket in one smooth motion, unhurried, and steps much, much closer.
âArms up.â
Your breath catches in your throat, âSatoru, Iâmââ
He gives you a look, soft, unyielding, one that says let me take care of you.
So you let him and lift your arms slightly, he slips the jacket around your shoulders from behind. He doesnât rush it, he drapes it gently, like youâre something precious.
The fabric settles over your arms, your chest, your waistâheavy and warm, carrying his heat, his cologne, and the quiet intimacy of someone doing something they didnât plan to but wanted to.
His hands smooth the collar into place, fingertips brushing the base of your neck, and you feel him everywhere.
He stands behind you so close that his breath warms the shell of your ear and that the absence of touch becomes its own kind of touch.
âBetter?â
You swallow, voice small, âYeah. Better.â
When he steps around to face you again, the jacket nearly swallowing you whole, something happens in his expression. Something he tries to hide for exactly one second, then loses to it fully.
âWhat?â
âYouâŠâ He says softly, ââŠAre going to be the fucking end of me.â
The words hit harder surrounded by an open, starlit sky and frigid air, with his warmth wrapped around you. You feel the heat bloom low and deep in the pit of your stomach.
Your fingers close around the lapels of the jacket without meaning to. He sees that, too, and then, âI donât think you understand what you just did to me back there.â
You open your mouth, yet nothing comes out. Because heâs stepping closer, wind catching his hair, voice dropping like heâs confessing his sins.
âWatching you drive my car like thatâŠWatching you laugh like thatâŠListening to you sing like thatâŠâ
His jaw flexes and his gaze drops to your mouth, then up again.
âYeah,â He sighs, âIâm done for.â
That sits between you for a beat too longâdelicate, stunned, the kind of confession that seeps into your bones instead of the atmosphere. You inhale before you lose yourself completely and here of all places, nodding toward the passenger door.
âYou drive us back,â You murmur, feigning steady, âI wanna see how you handle her.â
His eyes flick over your face and he bows his head silently, obedient. You switch seats and the cabin feels different instantly. Tighter, warmer, something charged buzzing between the leather and the dark glass.
Gojo settles into the driverâs seat like he was born there, but doesnât start the car right away. He glances at you once, swift and sharp, like heâs checking if youâre certain about whatever this is becoming.
You meet his eyes.
Thatâs enough.
The engine comes alive underneath you, a low, throaty purr that vibrates through the bucket seats. He eases the Porsche out of the overlook, smooth like the silk youâre wearing, the city lights appearing and disappearing through the trees as you descend the ridge.
Neither of you speaks, but the silence isnât empty. Itâs crowded, thick, full of everything that almost happened out there and everything thatâs about to.
His left hand rests idly on the wheel, his right drifts to the center console and just rests there.
You pretend youâre looking out at the city, he pretends heâs focused on the road, but every inch of you is aware of that handâyour pulse keeps stumbling toward it like gravity.
The car careens into a long, gentle curve. Gojoâs fingers tap once against the console, a small, unconscious tell.
You donât move, not yet.
Night air pours through the cracked window, fanning over your skin even beneath his jacket. You pull the fabric in a little tighter around your shoulders.
He sees that, doesnât say anything, but his hand shifts. Just barely. Closer to the point it makes your throat swell.
The tires hum over smooth asphalt, the headlights carving out a tunnel of gold ahead. The rhythm of the road is hypnotic and for one moment, you almost forget to breathe.
Then Gojo glances at you, not fully, only a flick of his eyes, there and gone just as fast.
And your left hand moves, slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if drawn toward him instead of chosen.
Your fingers drift onto the console and thatâs when the air changesâyou feel it, he feels it.
The Porsche keeps driving forward, perfectly graceful, like the car knows better than to interrupt.
His fingers twitch once.
Thatâs all it takes.
Your pinky grazes his knuckles, accidentally, not accidentally in the slightest. A breath leaves him, too soft to count as a noise, too blatant to ignore.
He doesnât look away from the road, but he turns his hand palm-up.
An invitation.
Your heart stutters.
You give him your hand anyways.
Your palm slides into hisâwarm, smaller against his calloused grip, and the moment your fingers interlace, something inside both of you snaps taut.
The shock of it is immediate. Electric. A pulse that travels straight through your spine. He inhales sharply like you punched the air out of him.
And then his thumb moves, only once, a slow stroke across the back of your hand that feels more intimate than anything thatâs ever happened between you.
Still, neither of you say a word.
He drives one-handed, steady as a heartbeat, his other hand wrapped around yours like heâs afraid you might disappear if he loosens even slightly.
Your chest feels too full and the road straightens out, long and empty. He lifts your joined hands reverently, without looking away from the windshield.
Your body tenses as he brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles with the kind of care that makes every neuron in your brain fire.
A delicate press of his lips, hot, lingering, almost trembling. Something deeper and dangerous than lust or teasing.
Something that feels like the beginning of the fall heâs been fighting since Austria.
When he lowers your hand, he doesnât let go. His voice finally breaks the silence, so quiet it could thread the space between your fingers.
âHold on,â He murmurs, gaze still fixed ahead, âIâm not done showing you.â
âShowing me what?â
âHow I handle things I shouldnât want this much.â
Your heart plummets straight through your ribs and Gojo refuses to let go of your hand for the rest of the drive back.
He holds it lightly at first, careful, but as the roads narrow and the familiarity of his neighborhood grows, his grip changes. An attempt to ground himself with you or anchor you with him, maybe both.
The Porsche hums softer now, the engine shifting into a civilized purr as he navigates the backstreets toward home. Houses drift past in muted silhouettes, warm windows glowing in the blue hour.
Itâs silent again, both of you afraid that saying anything might break whatever fragile thing has formed between your joined hands.
Several times he glances at you. Small, quick looks, but loaded with meaning. Like heâs memorizing this exact version of you next to him.
The version he doesnât get on track or in the paddock.
The version who isnât fighting him.
The version whoâs letting him hold her hand like heâs allowed to.
Your thumb brushes his when the road dips, a tiny, involuntary motion. Neither of you acknowledges it.
The turn into his driveway is gentle, smooth, reluctant. As if the car itself doesnât want this moment to end.
He shifts into park, the engine finally relaxing, the silence growing ever so louder. But he still doesnât let go of your hand.
It takes a full five seconds before he releases, slowly, like peeling away from you pains him. You feel the ghost of his touch long after he withdraws the contact, a sear that burns into your skin.
Gojo inhales once, a useless try to regain control and gather himself before he opens the door.
The night air hits you first, crisp and cool, scented faintly with pine. Gojo steps around the front of the car toward you, jacket still slung over your shoulders, eyes flicking over you in the lowlight like heâs checking if youâre still real and still here.
He doesnât touch you. He almost does. God does he want to.
His hand brushes the small of your back instead, not landing of course, guiding without pressure. The walk to the front door is short, although it feels like infinity.
You hear your own footsteps, you hear his, and you also hear the sound of his breathâa little uneven from more than just the drive.
When he unlocks the door, he looks at you over his shoulder. In warning, anticipation, something that borders surrender, âCome in.â
Those two words feel much heavier now than they did hours ago.
The door shuts behind you and the house exhales, warm, dim, scented with ginger and leftover heat from dinner. You donât realize how quiet it is until the sound of your heartbeat fills the emptiness.
Gojo steps out of his shoes and then reaches for the jacket youâre still wearing, his fingertips grazing your shoulders as he slides it off you.
A shiver ripples down your spine and he notices, his hands stilling for a fraction. Then, he clears his throat and hangs the jacket back near the door.
âYouâŠuh,â He says, âWant something to drink?â
You nod because you donât trust yourself to speak.
He gestures toward the living room, âSit. Iâll bring it.â
You lower yourself onto the floor beside his coffee tableâsoft wood, throw pillows scattered. The vibe is intimate by accident or maybe by design. Your knees fold beneath you, your palms press lightly to the rug, and he returns with a bottle of sake and two small ceramic cups; pale ivory, slightly chipped.
He sets them down and takes a seat right beside you, thigh brushing yours when he finally settles. Just a whisper of contact, one that reminds you both that earlier he held your hand like it was holy.
He pours for you first, then himself, âKanpai,â He murmurs, softer than anything heâs said tonight.
The rims of your cups touch and the first sip warms your chest. The second loosens your shoulders and the third unhooks the part of you thatâs been braced for too long.
Your leg touches his, neither of you create distance. Gojo swirls the sake once, eyes on the ceramic instead of you, like heâs mentally preparing for honesty he never gives easily.
âSo,â You say gently, âTell me something real.â
His mouth twitches like you caught him off guard, âSomething real?â
âYes.â
âOkay,â He sighs, pondering, âReal.â
He shifts to face you fully, arm draped loosely over his knee, fingers absently tracing the grain of the table.
âI didnât think youâd come.â
You blink, he keeps going, âI wanted you to,â He says, âGod, I wanted you to. But wanting things hasâŠnever gone well for me.â
You study him, the slight tightness around his mouth, the flicker of uncertainty he tries to bury. It hits you that no one has ever asked him for truth without expecting something back.
âWhat made you do it? The note. The dress. Tonight.â
His eyes lift to yours, âI was tired,â He murmurs, âOf being careful.â
Your chest constricts, âAnd,â He continues, exhaling shakily, âI was afraid if I waited any longerâŠIâd miss the moment entirely.â
Afraid. The Satoru Gojo was afraid.
âWhat moment?â
He wets his lips, a nervous gestureârare and disarming, âThe one where you look at meâŠand Iâm allowed to look back.â
The room falls silent, frighteningly so, and the sake bottle is already half-empty.
Your pulse is skittering, the room feels small, in a way that makes you want it to be smaller. You let your knee lean into his, purposely this time. His breath hitches.
After another sip, you ask the question thatâs been weighing on your conscience since Suzuka, âSatoruâŠthe woman at the paddock?â
He closes his eyes briefly, he expected this at some point, surprised it didnât come sooner, âShoko,â He reveals, âItâs not like what you may have thought, I promise. SheâsâŠfamily.â
âFamily?â
âThe one you choose,â He clarifies, âNot the one you inherit.â
You wait for more, âSheâs known me since I was a kid. SheâsâŠprotective. And sheâs one of the only people who can call me out on my bullshit and live.â
That earns a small laugh from you, relief flashes across his face.
âDoes she know about us?â Part of you fearing to be kept a secret.
âSomewhat,â He swallows, âBut Iâll tell her everything soon.â
Your chest loosens just a fraction. You pour him another cup and he lets you. The conversation slows, deepening.
âWhy did you start driving?â You ask, âIâve heard all the stories before in your bullshit interviews, but I want to hear it from you.â
He huffs a breath that isnât quite a laugh, âBecause I wasnât allowed to quit.â
He keeps his gaze forward, but you can hear how much weight those words carry, âMy familyâŠâ He rolls the cup between his palms, âThey cared about winning, legacy, maintaining whatever image they wanted. Not me. Not how I felt. JustâŠresults.â
Your throat tightens, âI got good at driving because I didnât have a choice,â He explains, âThen I stayed good because it was the only place I ever felt I belonged.â
His fingers tap the ceramic cup, head tilting, âAnd you? Iâve heard the stories too, but I want to hear it again.â
You roll your eyes because you need the deflection, âThen you know how silly it is.â
He shakes his head, faint smirk tugging, âNo. I know how you tell it. I want how you feel it.â
You avoid his eyes, which is how you miss the way he already knows the answer.
âYou were six, right?â He mutters, voice precariously gentle, âYour dad took you to one of those county fairs with the janky go-kart track.â
You look up sharply and heâs watching you, really watching, âAnd you begged him to let you drive,â He continues, bright blues softening, âAnd he thought youâd get scared. Only you didnât. You were flat-out in the first straight, tiny helmet almost too big for you.â
Your heart leaps.
He remembers that?
Youâve told that story a handful of times in interviews and TV specialsâthe miracle, the American girl who fought her way into F1, but never with this much detail.
âAnd afterwardâŠâ Gojo murmurs, leaning back slightly, shoulders loosening, âYou wouldnât stop babbling about the engine noise the whole car ride home. Your dad said he knew right then and there he was screwed.â
A giggle escapes you, small, disbelieving, but touched, âYou really remember all that?â
His eyes drag over your face, slow enough to feel like hands, âI remember everything about you.â
You swallow around a lump that wasnât there a second ago.
âAnd after that fair,â He adds, softer still, âHe built your first kart with you in your garage?â
You nod, âHe wanted me to have every chance to chase my dreams.â
Gojoâs jaw tightens, because he didnât have anyone who wanted that for him.
You feel that truth between the two of youâheavy, real, shared.
âAnd you never looked back,â He finishes for you.
âNoâŠI never did.â
The silence that follows isnât empty, itâs full of everything neither of you has said yet.
The childhoods you survived.
The reasons you run.
The invisible bruises racing gifted you both.
Gojo lifts his sake cup again, but doesnât drink. He just looks at you, like the pieces of your story explain parts of him too.
His voice is barely a murmur when he speaks next, âThatâs why tonightâwhy I wanted you here. Because youâre the only person who knows what it feels like when the engine drowns out everything else.â
Your pulse jumps, âAnd maybeâŠâ He adds, eyes dropping to the table for a breath before returning to you, painfully earnest, ââŠThe only person who ever looked at me and didnât see just a winner.â
You inhale sharply like his words sucked the oxygen from your lungs. He doesnât take them back either, he canât.
The sake is finished. Your hearts are half open.
He reaches for the bottle, turning it slightly, noticing itâs empty, âIâll get another.â
And as he walks away, sleeves rolled, shoulders broad, hair mussed, you stand and drift toward the crate of vinyls sitting beside the record player.
Your fingers ghost along the spines.
A few Japanese artists you donât recognize.
Some classic rock your dad would absolutely approve of.
A row of classical composers.
Alternative bands youâve seen a hundred times on moody F1 playlists.
But then your gaze lands on it.
The Cure. 1989âs Disintegration.
Their album.
Your parents didnât agree on much, but they agreed on this record. Sunday mornings and long drives, this album was one of the soundtracks of your childhood. You grew up believing love was something that sounded like this.
Your fingertips rest on the sleeve, tracing the worn cardboard.
Behind you, you hear Gojo open a cabinet, the faint clink of glass as he searches for another bottle, and you slide the record out. Gojo turns just in time to see the cover in your hands.
He freezes. Because this albumâitâs his.
Getoâs album.
The one they played on the crappy turntable in Getoâs room as wannabe edgy teenagers, lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling like nothing else mattered. The album they knew by heart. The one that played during summers and stupid conversations and long silences.
And the one he hasnât listened to sinceâŠnot since a room full of strangers used words like condolences and tragedy, and nobody said Getoâs name like it meant something.
He hasnât touched this vinyl in years, doesnât even know why he left it on the shelf. His chest tightens as his breath goes shallow.
Not here. Not in front of her. Hold it together.
You kneel beside the record player, smiling sweetly, âMy parents used to play this all the time. Itâs kind of their thing. I always thought it sounded like what love was supposed to feel like.â
The words hit him like a truck.
Parents, love, belonging.
Everything he never had, everything he lost, everything he was scared to want.
His voice comes out thin, frayed at the edges, âYeah? ThatâsâŠnice.â
But it isnât nice at all. It hurts.
Because youâre holding something sacred without realizing it and he doesnât know how to stop this slow, involuntary unspooling inside him.
You lower the vinyl onto the turntable with careful hands, Gojo shuts his eyes for half a heartbeat. The needle drops and soft static fills the room, he feels it like a bruise being pressed.
The the opening track playsâbeautiful and haunting. Gojo doesnât smile like you do. He canât.
He takes a seat across from you and tries to swallow down everything rising to the surface. The memories, the phantom laughter he can still hear, the version of himself he buried alongside a person with too many dreams.
âGood choice?â You tease lightly, unknowing.
He meets your eyes, something raw flickering behind his, ââŠYeah. Itâs perfect.â
You pat the empty space beside you on the floor, âCome listen with me.â
He obeys without thinking. Now, the two of you sit shoulder to shoulder, the room dim, the music low and expansive. The notes seep into the silence between you, thickening it, making everything feel like too much.
He watches you instead of the spinning vinyl and in the opening swell of the album, he feels it.
The past bleeding into the present.
The old ache meeting the new one.
The terrifying realization that heâs letting someone close again and wants to.
He tries to breathe steadily, but the music, your presence, the gentle weight of memoryâit all blends into something unbearably tender.
You take another sip of sake and so does he, âI used to fall asleep to this album,â You admit quietly, eyes elsewhere, âBack home. Sundays. My dad would put it on while he cooked.â
Gojo clenches his jaw tight. He doesnât tell you that he and his best friend used to lie on a cheap carpeted floor, swearing that the world would be different when they got older.
That they both believed it. That they both were wrong.
Instead, he says, âI always listened to it at night.â
âBecause you liked it?â
No. Because it was the only time I didnât feel like I had to be someone else.
ââŠYeah,â He murmurs, âSomething like that.â
Another track fades into the next, the static soft between transitions. You shift, leaning back on your palms, your knee brushing his. He stills for the smallest fraction of a second from the impact.
But he doesnât move away. Actually, he shifts closer. Slightly. A soft, hypnotic gravitational pull.
Your voice is gentle when you ask, âYou ever play this for someone before?â
God, no. Never. He played it with someone, a liftetime ago.
But for someone? For someone he wanted? Never.
He turns his head just a little, eyes scanning you, lingering on the curve of your cheek in the dim light.
ââŠNo,â He breathes, hardly audible, âYouâre the first.â
Something inside you folds; tight, hot, impossible to ignore.
Your fingers drift closer to his on the floor, not touching, but he feels that humming between your knuckles like a fuse.
And maybe itâs the sake, maybe itâs the music, or maybe itâs him falling ever so helplessly further into whatever he feels for you.
He canât pinpoint the reason, but he drops his hand, palm landing beside yours. A silent, deliberate offering of proximity.
âDo you always get this sentimental after dinner?â
He bites back a laugh, eyes lowering, âOnly with you.â
Your pulse flutters as the next track begins, darker, deeper, dreamlike.
âDamnâŠâ You mumble, leaning your head back on the couch, âI forgot how this album makes everything feel.â
âHow?â
You close your eyes when you answer because you fear that looking may shatter the fragile thing youâre holding between your hands.
âLike the world gets quiet. Like all the noise stops for a minute.â
He watches the line of your throat as you speak, the rise of your chest, the way your fingers curl unconsciously toward his.
âThatâs what racing feels like,â He says finally, âRight before the lights go out.â
âYeah. Exactly.â
And then he shifts, not much, but enough to notice. His thigh presses lightly against yours, shoulder grazing, a warm deliberate contact that he pretends is casual. Yet it is everything but.
You open your eyes.
Heâs already looking at you.
The moment stretches, charged, and his gaze falls to your mouth.
âListening to this albumâŠitâs hard to remember why I ever tried keeping things distant.â
The air tilts and then, Lovesong bleeds through. His hand inches closer to your until your fingers brush, feather-light, barely there contact that ignites something inescapable.
He doesnât pull away and neither do you.
His voice drops to a whisper, cracked open, and horrifyingly honest, âThis oneâŠis my favorite.â
ââŠMine too.â
And then finally, he lets his fingers slip between yoursâcareful, like a promise heâs terrified to make but even more terrified not to.
The world doesn't just go quiet anymore.
It comes to a full stop.
And you donât know if itâs the song or the alcohol or the hours of agonizing emotional unraveling between you, but you lean ever so closer, arms touching.
Gojo leans into it, the heat of him finding you through the sliver of space left between your bodies. His breath skims your cheek, lips inches from your skin.
Your voice drops, weak and wanting, âSatoruâŠâ
He looks at you like the sound of his own name falling from your mouth might genuinely kill him. His hand tightens around yours, then releases only so he can reach for you with tottering fingers, swiping a stray hair from your cheek.
A simple gesture, but its impact is devastating.
âYou donât know what you do to me, (Y/N).â
Your face tilts toward his fingers before you even think to stop and his thumb grazes your lower lip as if heâs been dying to do so the moment you walked in.
âGodâŠâ He breathes, not meaning to say it aloud.
You donât know who bridges the gap first. You only know that the space between you disappears.
He kisses you softly to startâimpossibly soft, like heâs testing the feel of you again and remembering the shape of your mouth before giving in fully.
You make a small sound you didnât mean to and thatâs it.
Thatâs the undoing.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, warm fingers sinking into your hair, guiding you deeper into him and the kiss and the heat that has been festering between you since the rivalry first started.
The kiss turns hungry in a single breath. Slow breaks into starved, soft switches to desperate. Your hands slip up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his button up as you pull yourself closer.
He groans against your mouth, like he wasnât prepared for the way youâd kiss him back.
Your body angles toward him without hesitation or thought; your knee nudges his thigh, hips titling in a way that makes something within him fracture.
Gojo reaches for your waist, one large hand guiding, âCome here,â He whispers over your lips, almost pleading, âPleaseââ
You climb into his laps before he finishes the word and straddle him. Your thighs bracket his, the hem of your dress riding scandalously high as you press into him. His breath stuttersâhot, harsh, and helpless as his hands find your hips, pulling you down onto him like heâs been envisioning this for longer than heâs willing to admit.
The kiss turns frantic; lips parting, tongues tangling, mouths chasing each other as if youâve been craving this exact moment.
He kisses you like heâs losing the ability to breathe without you.
Your fingers knot in his hair, tugging enough to make him gasp into your mouth. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss with a low, desperate sound thatâs been waiting to escape him for far too long.
His hands travelâyour waist, your lower back, the curve of your hip, needing to feel everywhere.
âFuckâŠâ He curses when you grind against him without meaning to.
The kiss turns even more fevered. He breaks from your lips only to kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the line of your jaw, your neck, your ears, as if he canât stand the thought of stopping, even for air.
âSatoruââ
He groans and his hands slide higher up your spine, pulling you tighter against his body, chest to chest, nothing between you but thin layers and every unspoken thing youâve been circling around.
âYou have to stop saying my name like that,â He whispers, forehead pressed to yours, âIt makes me lose my fucking mind.â
Your lips crash onto his again, greedy, messy. He kisses you back harder, one hand in your hair, the other guiding your hips in slow movements that make your head fall back with a quiet moan.
And when you do, he follows your mouth instantly, chasing you, kissing down the column of your throat.
Itâs frantic and unrestrained and everything both of you have been holding back.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, heartbeats wild against each otherâs chests, and he pulls you closer like he doesnât know where you end and he begins, the kiss the only thing keeping him anchored to earth.
And under it all, the music continues.
âWhenever Iâm alone with youâŠâ
You kiss him with intense desire.
âYou make me feel like I am whole againâŠâ
And he kisses you back tenfold, as if the lyrics said what he never could.
Your hips rock into his lap again, firmer and he grunts into your mouth before breaking the kiss once more, just barely, âCome here,â He murmurs again.
Before you can ask what he means, his hands slide down the backs of your thighs, and he lifts you with a strength that makes your heart pound.
He carries you those few feet, effortless and determined, and sets you down on the couch. You blink up at him, lips bitten raw, chest heaving, legs still open as red silk rides high across your hips.
Gojo shifts onto his knees, right there between your thighs, and says not a word. He just looks at you, pupils dilated, hands trembling as they smooth along the outsides of your legs.
Then he leans forward, pressing a kiss to each knee, and then higher. Another kiss, right above them. His lips brush the inside of your thigh and he mouths gently at your skin, trailing soft open kisses up the path to where you need him most. When he reaches the edge of your lace panties, he exhales like heâs finally come home.
You can feel his breath there, warm, teasing, and when his thumbs hook into the waistband, sliding the fabric down your legs, you donât stop him. You couldnât stop him if you tried.
Gojo kisses the inside of your thigh again, closer this time, so close, and then his mouth opens against your core. Just a slow, wet kiss to start. Your hand grips the leather cushion immediately, hips twitching, but itâs only the beginning.
Because heâs ravenous.
His tongue licks a slow stripe up your folds and you gasp, jerking uncontrollably. You clutch his hair, a breathless cry crooning from your throat, âShitâSatoruââ
He doesnât stop, doesnât even waver. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he works his tongue in ruinous circles. You writhe under his mouth, the pleasure spreading outward.
He groans again, longer this time, like the taste of you is everything heâs ever wanted, âFuck, you taste so goodâŠâ He mutters into your skin, ââŠso, so good.â
You throw your head back, hand fisted in his hair, thighs quaking from how amazing it feels.
He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks harder, your whole body jolts, âOh my Godââ
And he doesnât let up. The next song plays in the background, but you canât hear any of it. Youâre too lost in the moment, hips rolling into his mouth now, seeking friction, chasing release, and he gives it to you. Over and over.
His hands pin you in place as you start to squirm, legs quivering relentlessly from the pressure, the pleasure, the overwhelming intimacy of him on his knees for you like this.
You whimper, trying to pull back, âItâsâtoo muchââ
But he growls, the sound guttural, almost unrecognizable, and he drags you closer.
âNoâŠno,â Gojo pants between licks, tongue never easing, âNo, not enoughânever enough. I need all of you. Every fucking soundâevery tremor. Donât hold back.â
His appetite is insatiable and his mouth is persistent. Youâre sobbing nowânot from pain or overstimulation yet, but from the intensity and the way heâs worshipping you like heâll die if he stops.
So he doesnât stop. Not when your thighs clamp around his head or your back arches off the couch. Not even when you cum, a loud sob, gasping his name like itâs the only word you remember how to say.
He keeps devouring you through it, drinking it in, like your climax is a sacred thing heâs been praying for and has been blessed with. And then, only after your body collapses against the couch, leather creaking in protest, convulsing and stunned, does he lift his mouth from you.
His face is slick, his breathing labored, and his eyes, when he looks into yours, glisten with something that scares you in the best possible way. Desire. Devotion. Maybe even love.
And without saying a word, he leans in and kisses your thigh as if to apologize for what he put you through, but you know the night is far from over.
He rises, kneeeling between your legs, he cups your jaw and kisses you. All teeth and tongue, greedy and unashamedâyou taste yourself on him and mewl low into his mouth.
His palm slides down to your neck, thumb brushing your throat, mapping every inch of you by feel alone. His body is tense, coiled, but his touch is delicate.
Itâs the kiss that gives him away, however. Open-mouthed and panting, a little fringed at the edges. He bites your lip once, then kisses the sting away, pushing himself forward until you feel the hard ridge of him through his pants.
âIâm not done,â He murmurs, grabbing you by the waist, âNot even close.â
Then he lifts you up again like you weigh nothing. You cling to his shoulders, laughing breathlessly against his jawline, high off oxytocin and him.
Gojo carries you through the hallway, kissing you with every step, bumping into a wall midway down where he pins you hard enough that the plaster rattlesâyour back hits the wall, his mouth latches onto your neck.
He drags his canines along your pulse point, then sucks a bruising mark into your skin, groaning when your hips jerk against him in response. You fist his hair, tugging him closer and he bites down just to hear your breath catch for him.
You moan as he grinds into you deliberately, letting you feel exactly how hard he is. The friction knocks your head back against the wall. Then, his hand slips between your thighs. Two digits glide inside you easily, the lewd sound echoing in the hallway, and he hisses through his teeth.
âStill dripping,â He mutters, âGod, youâreââ
He canât finish the thought, instead he just moans, deep in the back of his throat and fucks you with his fingers until youâre whimpering againânails clawing, back bending.
âSatoru, waitââ
âNo,â He snarls softly, increasing the pace, âTake meâjust like that, yeah.â
Your whines vibrate off the walls, helpless little sounds you donât even recognize as yours. Youâre shaking, too close already, hips rocking against his palm as he works you open, âIâŠwant you.â
He stops at that, something dangerous crosses his faceâheat, hunger, possession. He pulls his fingers from your core, drenched by you, and without looking away, he sucks them into his mouth.
Slowly, obscenely. Eyes fluttering shut as if youâre the sweetest thing heâs ever tasted, âThatâs it,â He snaps, âI canât fucking wait.â
Gojo turns sharply carrying you the rest of the way. He kicks the bedroom door and it flies open under the force.
Youâre tossed onto the mattress, back hitting the sheets, legs still locked around his waist, dragging him down with you. The music still hums in the living room, echoing down the hall; soft, haunting, bassline vibrating through floorboards and bones.
He unbuttons his shirt with one hand, impatient, gaze never leaving you, and you do the same; tugging off red silk that clung to your body like a second skin.
When he drops his trousers, his cock springs freeâthick, flushed, heavy, already leaking at the tip. You stare openly and he watches you stare. Then he strokes himself once, twice.
Crawling up the bed, he kisses a path up your stomach, your breasts, your collarbone. You pull him in, arms wrapping around his neck, desperate for more, and he pushes into you. An agonizing stretch.
You gasp as he goes slow at first, studying every twitch of your expression as he sinks deeper and deeper, until he bottoms out and your entire body gives.
âF-Fuck,â He groans, face buried into the hollow of your throat, âYouâreâŠyouâre perfect. Youâre fucking perfect.â
He pulls back and thrusts again, long strokes that make your breath hitch on every exhale. He grinds into you at the end of each one, hitting the spot that makes your vision spark.
âYou feel that?â Repeating his question from earlier, filthier in meaning now, âFeel what you do to me?â
You answer with a frenzied kiss, your hand sliding up the line of his jaw to tug him closer. He grunts into your mouth and ruts into your harder, faster, hips snapping forward in a rhythm that melts your thoughts.
Then Gojo shifts, grabbing one of your thighs, he lifts it and throws your leg over his shoulder. The angle is electrifying; he kisses your inner thigh, pale face twinged pink, blue eyes blown.
You scream, whole body jerking with each of his movements; the sound of skin against skin makes your head spin and makes him curse under his breath as he pistons into you.
âSatoruââ
He chokes on a sob and bends forward, forehead touching yours, âFuckâI love it when you say it like that.â
His hips stutter, losing rhythm for a moment before he grabs your wrists suddenly, pinning your hands above your head, fingers lacing through yours.
The gesture is tender, but his thrusts arenât.
âYou feel likeâfuckâyou feel like mine,â He growls, the words breaking out of him, âAre you?â
And for reasons unknown, you nod, âYesâyes. Yours.â
He kisses you again, like your response rearranged his entire world.
Gojo doesnât last much longer. You know by the way his thrusts start to lose precision, how his grip tightens around your hands, how his breath goes ragged.
âIâmâŠIâm gonna, (Y/N)ââ
You clench around him, back arching as your own orgasm crashes over you, sharp and overwhelming, shattering every thought except his own name.
He collapses into you with a broken moan, spilling deep inside you, thrusting through it, desperate to feel every second of your climax around him.
Gojo stays buried in you, stays holding your hands over your head, stays pressed to your chest like heâs afraid youâll vanish.
The music from the living room continues to hum as another track plays, mournful and daunting. The Same Deep Water As You.
The irony of the title is almost laughable.
You exhale shakily, your body too numb to move yet, and he rests his head against yours, catching his breath like he raced another fifty laps. Neither of you break the silence yet, the world too quiet to not feel everything.
His hands loosen around yours, letting your fingers tangle lightly, palms still pressed together. He swallows hard, you feel it against your throat, and his breath warms the side of your jaw as he shifts slightly; hips following yours. A tiny, helpless movement that reminds you he hasnât pulled out, that your bodies are still joined in the most intimate way.
You inhale sharply, his eyes fly to yours at the noise, and you canât help but notice how wrecked he looks, âHey.â
He closes his eyes like the sound of your voice is too much. When he opens them again, his expression is differentâsofter.
âYouâre stillâŠâ He murmurs, voice breaking as he feels you tighten around him from the slightest shift, ââŠGod, youâre still holding on.â
âSo are you.â
His mouth parts, emotion flickering across his face in a way youâve never seen. Not on track, not in victory, not even in loss. Something perilous in its honesty.
He presses a shaky kiss to your cheek, then another to your jaw. Then, gently, to the corner of your mouth. Not hungry or frantic this time.
The song outside deepens, hypnotic notes pulling like ocean water around ankles.
You feel itâthat slow, inevitable sinking youâve been avoiding to name. He feels it too.
Gojoâs hands slide from your fingers to your waist, keeping you flush against him, his thumbs stroking thoughtless patterns into your skin.
â(Y/N)âŠâ He whispers, âI donât know how toâŠâ He stops, breath faltering, âI wasnât supposed to feel like this with you.â
Your heart skips violently, his fingers tighten once around your waist as if the truth physically hurts him to say.
âBut I do,â He admits, reluctantly.
The room sways around you, not because of the sake or the sex, but from the unmistakable sincerity in his voice. Your hands come up to his face, cupping his jaw, your thumb grazing just below his cheekbone where heâs flushed and warm.
âSatoruâŠâ
You donât know what else to say.
He nuzzles into your palm, like heâs starved for the contact and has been waiting to be touched gently his whole life. You kiss him again, a kiss that says everything youâre too afraid to say aloud, and he melts into it.
When he pulls back, he still stays insideâhips locked to yours, foreheads touching, breaths syncing. The music outside keeps playing, echoing into the room.
You hear it faintly and almost laugh at the ache.
Because this is exactly what the song feels like. Two people knee-deep in something vast and dark and beautiful, realizing too late that they canât swim alone.
He grabs your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip, eyes flicking down as if recalling every time heâs stared at your mouth and forced himself not to act.
âLook at us,â He whispers in wonder and disbelief, âSame deep water.â
Your chest constricts, the weight of everything hitting you at once.
Youâre in this now. Completely submerged.
With him.
With no way back to the surface you knew before.
His hands slide to your back and he pulls you into a full-body embrace, limbs tangled, hearts pressed together.
Devastating closeness. The kind that destroys people.
He tucks his face into your neck, âI donât want to come up for air.â
The day we, as a society, recognise that the Olympics Opening Ceremony is really a fashion show, and the team uniform designers begin to act accordingly, is the day I can finally rest.
thank you ao3 for being an archive and not an algorithm. thank you for letting me like things without consequences, thank you for being free with no ads, thank you for having lawyers to defend our freedom of speech. thank you tag wranglers. thank you to all authors and thank you ao3
summary: two years had passed since you first met gojo satoru, and it was two years of having an agonizingly one-sided crush on the white-haired genius. for the most part, you were okay with keeping it down and acting like the nights you spent fantasizing about what it would be like to be his were normal. you were fine keeping it hidden until something between the two of you shifts, and you're left wondering if this crush you have on him is truly as delirious as you think.
genre: 18+, nerdjo, slow burn, angst + happy ending (duh), fluff, eventual smut (nerdjo being a munch), some mention of insecurities but nothing major
word count: 33k (oops)
note: nerdjo bu set in oxford! art credit! @to00fu
jjk masterlist
It began at one of the English department get-togethers.Â
Two years ago, when you felt like you had to come to every single event in the hopes of striking expeditious luck at one of them. And itâs not that you particularly disliked these events, but they werenât the first thing youâd think of when it came to how youâd prefer to spend your free time.Â
The weather was just getting chilly enough where youâd rather stay in your dorm and wrap yourself in three blankets and a sweater, and the year had been dragging on long enough where youâd rather just talk about the wonders of Shakespeare and his sonnets in the confines of your next research paper and not with academics who made you feel inferior.Â
You had been invited weeks in advance, and yet you still found yourself dreading being here, the more it led to it, and even more when you were in the thick of it. Awkward small-talk with students youâve seen around briefly and stiff handshakes with male professors who think that they have better places to be were just mentally taxing, and you counted the seconds until it was all over.Â
Thankfully, it was busy enough that you could slip into the background without many people even noticing you were there, but not so crowded that you could just slip away entirely without somebody asking where the great Dr. Howardâs research assistant had gone. And anyways, it wasnât too horrible. You had taken to silently recounting Othello in your mind moments before everything changed.Â
There was a small tap on your shoulder. It startled you at first, and you looked around in your small corner to see a man waiting patiently behind you, a sheepish look on his face as you tried to gather yourself up.Â
âIâm sorry,â he stammered, and you blinked out of your stupor as you tried to recall in your brain if you had met him before to save yourself from the embarrassment of him having to re-introduce himself, âI didnât mean to surprise you.âÂ
He looked familiar. His eyes were a deep amethyst, his smile was soft and kind. His dark and shaggy hair was tied behind his head in a small bun, and his ears were adorned with multiple piercings. Although many at Oxford, especially the men, tried to appear as blank as usual, he seemed apt and content with going against the stuffy and old notions.Â
You must have seemed confused because the man stuttered as he introduced himself.Â
âIâm Suguru,â he restarted, his hand leaving his side as he extended it to shake yours, âI think we had the same English survey course last semester.âÂ
Your confusion melted away into a wide smile as you shook his hand, his own eyes crinkling around the edges as he grinned back, letting out a breath of relief as you nodded insistently, shaking your head at your own self.Â
âRight, right, Suguru! I remember you!â You exclaimed, setting your cup down to the side as you watched him tuck a strand of loose hair behind his ear, âYou sat a little bit in front of me, right?âÂ
His head ducked down momentarily as he chukked, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he nodded.Â
âI did,â he chuckled slightly, âRight in the line of fire for when Howard needed to pick on someone.âÂ
Your lips quirk up slightly as you nod, remembering how the professor you work for now used to terrorize your class and quiz random students on particular syllables and grammatical imperfections in the reading they were supposed to have done.Â
The class was small, as were most major-specific courses you were taking. Although you didnât have many of your friends in the class, you had gotten a good sense of who was in there and who Dr. Howard preferred to pick on. Suguru, for the most part, did the reading and did his work, so he came out unscathed compared to some of the other students. He sat near the front with some of his own friends, and you had talked to him in passing a couple of times when the class as a whole would band together to compare comments on assignments. He was kind, from what you remembered, which is probably why you felt your shoulders growing less tense the more you two talked.Â
âThatâs her style,â you say, shrugging as you fiddle with your fingers. âIt took a while to get used to it,â you admit. Suguru rolls his eyes at your humility, remembering clearly just how much Dr. Howard favored you, but he doesnât say anything as he lets you continue, âI donât know if youâve had Creemer yet, but heâs worse with his cold calls and isnât half as nice.âÂ
âI have him right now for rhetoric and grammar,â he said with a sigh, shaking his head in dismay, âHeâsâŠsadistic, I think.â
You giggle, nodding feverishly at the statement as you recall your past couple of classes with the hellish professor, an infamous name for many English majors and someone that you try to avoid at all costs if possible.Â
The party, or gathering, as it said on the invitation, drones on in the background as you look around to see if anybody is looking in your direction. Most of the time, you can do what you want, but seeing that Dr. Howard had warned you before tonight that somebody from the department might want to swarm you to ask questions that you most likely didnât have answers to, had put you on edge.Â
âAre you enjoying yourself?â He asked, motioning to the rest of the people with a knowing glint as you politely smile, shrugging your shoulders as your lips press tightly together. Whether it be your shy nature or how you preferred smaller crowds, it mustâve been evident on your face that you werenât necessarily having the most amount of fun.Â
âI am,â you answer, wincing at the way your voice sounded warbled, âIâm trying to make the most of these opportunities, I guess.âÂ
Suguruâs head dipped in understanding, taking a sip of his drink as he bit the inside of his cheek, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice.Â
âThese things drag on for a bit, though, yeah? Iâm feeling my fingers prune from how long Iâve held this glass.âÂ
You let out a sigh of relief, sharing the same sentiment as the two of you share a knowing look.Â
âIâŠI, um, I heard that Howard chose you to research with her, though, right? Thatâs gotta be pretty cool,â Suguru asked after a beat, bringing you back to the conversation as his head tilted slightly, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you swallowed. He seemed kind, not asking the question bitterly as some other people have.Â
You nodded again, trying to contain your smile as you leaned against the stone pillar next to you. Letting out a small hum, you swallow again, trying to scope out what sort of place he was coming from.Â
âIt is,â you answered, biting on the inside of your cheek as you were still reeling from being selected from such a wide pool of applicants and such a rigorous interview process to work on her next paper analyzing Moreâs work through a modern lens, âItâsâŠstrenous, sometimes, but Iâm having a lot of fun working with her,â you fidgeted with your fingers, âSo yeah, itâs pretty cool.â You say sheepishly.Â
Suguru smiled at your hidden enthusiasm, the tip of his boot nudging something on the ground. He went to usher you to continue before his eye caught something behind your shoulder, his eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise as his smile grew even wider, his hand raising in a wave.Â
âSorry,â he apologetically muttered, and you craned your neck around to see what it was, or rather who it was that Suguru had seen, âI think my friend just arrived.âÂ
Thatâs when you felt your breathing stop.Â
The bustling group of students and faculty members almost seemed to part theatrically for the man walking towards the two of you, but you couldnât even blame them.Â
He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his icy white hair and strikingly beautiful eyes. His lengthy frame made him nearly a head taller than even the tallest man in the room, and his wide shoulders helped him wade through the bodies as he navigated to his friend. His face seemed stoic, bordering on bored, but you couldnât help but widen your eyes in shock at seeing the most devastatingly gorgeous man to ever exist. He adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, his lips moving in quiet apologies as he tried to move through the people without bumping into them.Â
You suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that it had been days since you had last had a good night's sleep and that the bags under your eyes were most likely even more evident in the dim lighting of the old hall, and how your sweater was lumpy from being shoved in the back of your closet for so long. You swallow thickly as Suguru quickly excused himself as he stepped away and walked a bit away to hug the stranger, exchanging some words with each other as you stood awkwardly to the side.Â
You watched them silently as they talked for a little bit more before Suguru stepped away, his hand on his friend's back as he, for some horrifying reason, seemed to guide him towards where you were stiffly standing as the two of you made eye contact before you became aware of the way your eyeballs felt in your socket and how heavy your tongue was in your mouth.Â
When Suguru finally pulled away from the modern-day Adonis, you felt like a creeper and a loner as you wondered whether or not to leave or stand in the corner while they talked, but ever the kind person that he was, Suguru led the man by the back to where the two of you were with a wide smile on his face.Â
âSorry about that,â Suguru abashedly apologized, chuckling deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck, âBut this is my friend, Satoru,â he said brightly, pushing the man a little harshly towards you as you stared at him silently.
The man, Satoru, gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding once in your direction as he looks around, looking uncomfortable and shifty. Suguru rolled his eyes, sighing deeply as he patted his friend's back.Â
You grinned back, swallowing the spit in your mouth as you felt him stare at you once he was done looking at the room, your cheeks heating up. You felt his eyes drift over your outfit, at your posture, and the way your hands were clasped tightly together. This stranger assessed the way you swayed slightly, awkwardly, not knowing how to fill the silence as you tapped the tip of your battered shoes on the ground. When he was done, his chin lifted again, his stare lingering on your blinking face as you glanced between him and Suguru, waiting for somebody to say something before you imploded and left with the lingering scent of your vanilla body spray.Â
Seeing that he was fine with checking you out, you took the time to do the same. He seemed like one of the generational students of the school, the ones whose parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings all came and went and made something important with their lives. They werenât hard to detect, especially him, with his steamed jumper and his creased pants. His leather shoes were shining back at you, and though his hair was somewhat messy, it seemed to be classily messy, unlike what you and some other students would call freely messy.
âI force him to come to these things with me,â Suguru explained, but you could barely hear him over the rhythm of heartbeats in your ear as you tried to fly, appreciate the man a few feet in front of you, âOur friend Shoko sometimes comes, but she had things to do tonight.â
The manâs nose wrinkled ever so slightly, his brows drawing tightly together as he glanced at his friend with a look.Â
âI had things to do too,â he muttered, his voice deep as you felt your heart stupidly tumble at the sounds.Â
Suguru snorted, shaking his head as he shrugged indifferently.Â
âSure,â Suguru replied sarcastically and glanced at you, his brow slightly raised at the way you had gone silent, his lips quirking slightly when he noticed the way you couldnât stop staring at his friend, not voicing anything as his hand on Satoruâs shoulder loosened, âJust act like you want to be here for twenty minutes, yeah?â
You bit your teeth into your cheek, a finger raising slightly as you pointed to the newcomer's face.Â
âI like your glasses,â you said brightly, your smile gentle as you fidget with your own, watching the way his striking eyes moved over to you again, squinting slightly as his hand raised upwards, as if he had forgotten that his glasses were even there, âThey frame your face really well.â Your head tilts a little as you try to place something, âWhereâd you get them? If, if you donât mind me asking. Mine is so old and dingy, and the rims are basically glued on, and Iâve only had them for a few years.âÂ
âErm, well, thank you,â Satoru says stiffly, not used to the direct attention and compliments, his cheeks slightly dusted with pink as Suguru watches his friend struggle for words, taking the glasses off as he turns them to the side, trying to read the logo, âThese are, erm, from Cartier. But I usually wear contacts, anyway.â
You let out a startled laugh, not a stranger to hearing students at this place don expensive items, but this being the first time youâve seen one of them bashful about it.Â
You nod, your smile still there, softer as you take in his slightly awkward nature and let him put the glasses back on before you continue.Â
âContacts are more practical,â you agree, even though youâve always had a phobia of things touching your eyes and would never wear contacts unless somebody forced you, shrugging as you say, âBut Iâve always appreciated the look of glasses.âÂ
Satoru gnaws on his lips, nodding quietly as Suguru starts talking about his friend's major (biochemistry, you came to find out), and how long theyâve known each other, but you could only feel your stupid feelings when Suguru stayed, his friend included, and talked with you for the rest of the evening.Â
That was your sophomore year.Â
Nearly two years passed after befriending Suguru alongside his small group. He introduced you to Shoko after that night, swearing up and down that the two of you were destined to be near each other. And we werenât wrong, not in the slightest. You two girls bonded strangely fast, as if you were twin flames that were being fanned out. Suguru and Satoru seemed to mirror the two of you, but the group functioned as a whole, for the most part. You spent so many nights over at their dorms that you could walk around blindfolded and still find your way to the others with no issue. It was fun, it was what you had dreamt of for so long. It was something that you were fine with, more than content with, ending your university career in a couple of months.Â
Well, everything for the most part, you could consider it as such if it wasnât for your debilitating and soul-crushing feelings for the stranger you met that night.Â
Itâs been four semesters, and you still donât think Gojo Satoru has a clue. Which, in all honesty, is for the better.Â
Although his stoic nature spares nobody, it feels as though you're always on the worst end of it. With his lingering stares that seem to border on questioning why you were even there whenever he sees you, to the way he grows dim and quiet around you, it feels like youâre actively attempting to hurt yourself the more you fall in love with the little things you hadnât noticed the day prior.
Even worse, you know deep down that such feelings are most likely, under this sun and every other universe, with most certainty and heavy grief, unrequited.Â
But youâre fine keeping it down.Â
You were fine until recently.
â
âIâm debating switching majors.âÂ
Shoko declared from the couch, her legs hanging off the side, knocking occasionally on your shoulders as you crane your neck back on the cushion form where you were seated on the ground to look at her upside down.Â
âTo what?âÂ
She shrugged, rubbing at her eyes as she held her neuroanatomy textbook in one hand, her phone in the other as she scrolled through the different majors Oxford offered, as if she wasnât a semester away from graduating.Â
âFilm?â She read out, and you snorted, rolling your eyes at the prospect of Shoko going into film, âHmâŠmaybe art history?âÂ
âGave up on the med school dream?â Suguru quips from the other side of the couch, knowing fully that Shoko was just going on another one of her tangents as she shifted slightly to shove him harshly with her socked foot.Â
âIâm sure your counselor wouldnât mind,â you reply, looking at her as she glares, her eyes falling back to her phone as she peers at the screen. She looked boredly a little bit before her eyes flitted upwards slightly, squinting as she read the new notification.Â
âSatoru said heâs going to be here in a few minutes,â she muttered, reading the next message, âAnd that he wants you,â she nudged Suguru with her foot again to motion that it was him that Satoru was referencing in the text, âTo move to your bed so that he can do his work on his side of the couch.âÂ
Suguru peeked up from his doom scrolling to look at Shoko, his eyes narrowed in a glare as he let out a huff of annoyance.Â
âHis side?âÂ
Shoko shrugged, her knee knocking on the side of your head as you knock it back, the book you were reading resting in your hands as you listened to Suguru mutter distastefully about how this was his dorm and that Satoru had no right claiming his couch, but you heard him shuffle to his feet nonetheless.Â
You tried not to show any peek of interest when the infamous name was called out, but it was hard not to. It had been two grueling years of mulling over your childish crush, yet the sound of his name could still send pulses to your veins that you were sure were minor heart attacks.Â
Because it was Gojo Satoru. You wanted to bang your head against the coffee table just hearing it.Â
Truth be told, you werenât a stranger to having crushes. It was normal, it was human. Or at least, thatâs what you convinced yourself when you were sprawled out on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried not to think about the way his fingers ever so slightly grazed your wrist when he handed you some chopsticks earlier at the restaurant.Â
But your crushes came few and far between, and you preferred keeping it that way. Seeing that you were too terrified to ever admit them, and the few, very few times you have, theyâve backfired horrifically, you try not to catch feelings as much as possible. But there was something about Gojo, something beyond reason, that pulled you to him.Â
At first, you bargained. You tried convincing yourself that it was just his appearance that was drawing you in, his suave looks that made peopleâs heads turn whenever he entered a room. But you have seen him at four in the morning with his old band tees (a sight that still made you swoon), with his hair crusted with glitter and his eyes pink with eyeshadow as Shoko attempted to put him in drag. Even then, he was insanely gorgeous, so you knew it had to be beyond that.Â
When you had finally accepted that it was a mind-numbing and life-ending crush that you were feeling towards him, you finally gave in and decided to admire the tall brute from afar. It helped that the two of you had gotten somewhat closer over the past two years, but out of everyone in the group, he was the one you talked to the least. In your defense, he didnât have much to say to anybody, and that was just his nature. He spent most of his time studying and researching, and the other time watching, observant as other people gossiped. It wasnât his forte, and nobody pushed him.Â
So you took in his quietness and his stoicism, appreciated his god-like looks and his overwhelming presence. That was fine.Â
What made it even worse was that he was so unattainably perfect in other ways that your crush festered into something that made you scream into your pillows and throw your balls of clothes at the wall as you wallowed in self-pity.Â
Everyone at this damned university was intelligent, and you had made amends with them early on. But you loved men who were smart, guys who could actually hold a page down and dissect it and make the most of it. And worst of all, Gojo Satoru was probably the most intellectual person you have ever met, and will ever meet. It seemed like his memory was photographic, his mind working twenty thousand times faster than the regular brain as he computed formulas and equations at speeds that you couldnât fathom. He made biochemistry seem easy, something that you sometimes felt guilty for not pursuing. And sure, it didnât help that you were on the other side with your texts about Russian classics and books diving deep into the restoration period, but even Shoko, who could rival Gojo at times, would begrudgingly admit under her breath just how stupidly genius he was.Â
Therefore, when you put those things together, his charming looks, his bookish self, his brooding structure, and just everything else, it made him unattainably perfect.
And thatâs when you get the man youâve been hopelessly in love with since the moment you saw him at that wretched party that wasnât a party.Â
So, when Shoko read off his texts, there was good reason why she looked at the top of your head, a knowing look in her eyes as she playfully nudges you again, watching as you threw her a dark glare to just keep it down seeing that she was the only other soul who knew, despite you trying your best to hide it, about your feelings towards her other friend.Â
âDid you hear that Toji is graduating a semester late?â Suguru asked, leaning back against his pillows, his long legs strewn along his bed as he chewed on some gum.Â
You and Shoko both hummed, not looking up from your respective tasks, having found this information out weeks in advance.Â
Suguru groaned in annoyance, his chest vibrating with the noise as you snorted, rolling your eyes as he threw a small pillow at your head. It bounced off the side of your face, but you didnât look up from the page you were on, too engrossed to hear the door behind you click open and heavy footsteps suddenly thudding through the dorm.Â
You shuffled against the couch, your back feeling stiff as you tried to get comfortable, not knowing that the man of your dreams was moving around somewhere behind you as he hung his coat up (vintage leather, something you found out as he grumbled about getting it wet when Shoko and Suguru insisted on walking in the rain once), kicked off his shoes, and slung his bag around as Shoko craned her neck to see what he was doing.Â
âHey,â Shoko called out, and your eyes widened slightly when you heard a familiar voice grunt back a tired greeting, trying not to look as your ears suddenly sharpened to pick up on the sound of him pulling on his sweatshirt as he rounded the couch, standing at the opposite end as he plopped his backpack on the cushions.Â
You finally allowed yourself to peek over, your eyes following his figure upwards until they landed on his face, and your fists balled in frustration at how pretty he was even when he was simply existing.Â
Gojo sent you a small, tight-lipped and courteous nod, polite and curt as he looked between you and Shoko, glancing back at the bed where Suguru was lying, his fingers barely lifting from his phone as he gave his childhood best friend a lazy three-fingered wave.Â
âWhyâre you here?â His blunt question was directed at Shoko, something that held no bite but mere wondering as he situated himself on the soft cushions, his large hands feeling around his bag as he opened up the zipper to get his laptop.Â
âI thought that it was allowed,â Shoko replied dryly, âApologies.âÂ
You chuckle softly, flipping the page, trying not to let his signature cologne distract you from the words in front of you.Â
âHow was your lab?â Suguru asked, sounding monotone as his thumb swiped on the screen.Â
You watched as Gojo gave him a glare, his nose wrinkling, something he often did when he was frustrated but didn't want to ruin his outward appearance, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hair was messy with goggle indents lining the upper half of his face.Â
âAn offense to my intelligence,â Gojo grumbled, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop as he clicked around a little bit, âI canât believe some people have made it this far.âÂ
You flipped another page, not fully having read the contents of the last one, but in an attempt to seem indifferent, tried to keep up with your regular reading pace as if anybody was keeping track.Â
Watching as he riffles through his bag again, you know, almost like clockwork, what heâs going to pull out. His routine is one that youâve familiarized yourself with despite your best judgment, and you know that what comes next are his glasses.Â
Glasses are normal. You have your own pair that you only wear for lectures and outings, but forgo them for times like this because they sit a little too heavy on your nose. But his glasses are something else.Â
They elevate his face ever so slightly, but so much so that it makes you want to keel over and scream. They accentuate his perfect nose with the perfect crook and his freckles that sometimes sit just beneath the frames. He looks even more dashing, if that was even possible, with the way he looks up sometimes, and the lenses make his eyes seem even more blue.Â
He took them off for labs and put them somewhere safe. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how truly stunning this man really was.Â
Gojo unfolded the two prongs, holding them up to a source of light as his nose wrinkled again.Â
Smudges.Â
You watch silently as he dives back into the bag, his long fingers searching through his pockets for something you knew you always kept on hand for yourself and deep down, for him.Â
After a few seconds of not finding the microfiber cloth that you both silently cherished, you gave in, pulling your own bag towards you as you unzipped the smaller pocket, pulling it out stealthily and motioning for Shoko to hand it to Gojo.Â
He took it, his face going so far to relax momentarily as he went to clean the lenses, his head nodding once in quiet appreciation in your direction as you allowed yourself a nod in return.Â
Shoko looked at you with a raised brow, and you chose to hide behind your book.
âWas it Lainey?â Suguru asked, looking over at his friend, the name piquing your interest as you cast a quizzical look at Shoko, but she shrugged, watching Gojo as his expression soured. He handed you back your little cloth, muttering a thanks under his breath as his bitter gaze found Suguru, as if he was cursing him silently for bringing up the sensitive subject.Â
âWhat do you think?â He grumbled out, his right eye almost twitching as his fingers stretched out, typing something quickly as Suguru huffed out a laugh, noting how you and Shoko were both confused, and his smile only grew.Â
âYou didnât tell them?â Suguru asked, a gleam in his eyes as he shuffled to sit upwards, his back resting on the headboard, âOh, this is class. Do you two know Lainey? Lainey Andrews?âÂ
You cast a look at Shoko, your lips pursing as your eyes squinted, trying to recall the familiar name.Â
âThe ginger?â Shoko asked, her head tilting to the side, her hair falling around her shoulder, âPixie cut?âÂ
Suguru nodded, his shoulders raising as your brows furrowed before your mouth slightly fell open when your head bobbed quickly, snapping as you matched the face to the name.Â
âOh, Lainey!â You exclaimed, âSheâs really pretty,â you added, remembering her bright green eyes and the spattered freckles that made her look like a painting, âSheâs also crazy smart - sheâs double majoring in bio and poli sci."
Shoko laughed softly under her breath, giving you a small look because this was somewhat typical of you to know random people, with nearly everyone on campus having had a conversation with you at some point during your four years here.Â
Suguru raised a brow, clicking his tongue as he pointed his phone at Gojo, seeming like he was already anticipating one of his sly comments. Â
âSheâs also just crazy,â Gojo muttered, looking above his laptop, above his wispy lashes at you and then to Shoko, âShe spent half of the lab playing with my hair.âÂ
Your book almost fell out of your hands as Shoko sat up with a barking out a stunned laugh, your hands mirroring each other as they flew to cover your mouths in shock, and Suguru nodded again, his eyes wide as he clicked his tongue.Â
Another thing about Gojo? He hated being touched. Despised hugs, only suffered through quick handshakes, and shuddered at the thought of someone touching his face. Youâve seen the way he pulls back whenever someone approaches him with open arms, seen the way he tries to brush people off of him. He can tolerate Suguru and his insistent bear-hugs from time to time, can sometimes allow Shoko to swat a fly away from his face, and for some reason, doesnât grumble whenever you try to fix his ties before events, but whenever a stranger or someone he isnât close to attempts to touch him, he grows reclusive for the rest of the day.
âI told her to stop, too,â he adds, his big frame seeming to grow in frustration as he thinks back to it, âIt was only after I had to shove her off that she got the hint. I forgot my disinfectant too, so I was justâŠâ he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched him let out a restrained exhale as he dropped it and went back to work.
But, after studying him for as long as you have, you know that he probably washed his hands and his face a couple of times after that. You know that he also wouldnât feel complete without some sanitizing wipes and a good shower, so you do the closest thing to that and fish out a hand sanitizer from your bag, an item that you refused to move around without due to your own cleanly nature, which was ironically something else that you and Gojo silently shared, and passed it to him, knowing that he was probably itching till he was able to shower again.
Your friends sometimes joked that you had a Mary Poppins bag, but it came in handy for times like this.Â
Gojoâs ears perked up at the sound of your rumaging, his eyes almost brightening at the sight of the hand sanitizer, and you pinched it between two fingers before throwing it his way, watching as he effortlessly caught it and began spraying his large palms with the lavender scent.Â
âThank you,â he mumbled again, his voice slightly losing the edge it had from before as he passed it back to you, and you smiled, nodding once before you zipped it back up.Â
You tried to ignore the way Shoko was staring at you.
âLucky us that we donât have labs, huh?â Suguru called out, throwing another tiny pillow in your direction, but this time you dodged it, moving your head down slightly so that it would miss. You huff a bit, looking over at Suguru as he shrugged, winking as he went back to his phone.Â
Suguru was another English major, the reason the two of you got familiar in the first place. He liked to say that the two of you balanced out Gojo and Shoko, but you just thought that it pushed you even further down the list of potential people your pathetic crush could be interested in.Â
There were a couple of things that you had come to terms with if you were going to crush on him. One was that you had to know in full certainty that nothing was going to come from it. You werenât going to risk the friendship, no matter how small, by going and confessing and having everything be messy. Two, was that you werenât going to feel, or at least try not to feel, jealous if he entertained the idea of pursuing something with someone else. And three, was that Gojo Satoru was so incredibly picky when it came to potential partners, that it might be impossible for even the most amazing people to snag a chance.Â
âI donât know,â you mumbled, eyes squinting as you tried to make out what one of the characters was saying, âYou didnât have to do that project with Armie.âÂ
Suguru hummed, his brow raising as he thought back to your shared class and the project that paired you up with people you didnât know, Suguru getting the better end of the stick while you were stuck with someone who insisted on plugging the project prompt into a generator.Â
âDidnât you report him?â Satoru asked, his eyes still trained on his work, but the question was now directed to you given the fact that he had sat in on a couple of your tirades in which you would drone on about how the boy was nearly about to graduate and still couldnât cite sources when he, in one of his brief moments of providing comments, would reiterate to report it to the professor.Â
You sank into your spot, giving him a suppressed look, one where your eyes met before you shared a glimpse with Suguru. Your friend rolled his eyes from across the room, shaking his head in annoyance as Satoru looked between the two of you.Â
âShe said that she didnât want to âbe a bitchâ,â Suguru said, restating the words as his fingers move up and down in the air, quoting the statement you had said to him moments before you had to present the assignment in front of the class, shushing him as you pushed him away, insisting that even though you had done the entire project on your own, that it wasnât worth the hassle to make a report with the professor and potentially have someone out for you, âI said otherwise, but she,â Suguru gave you a pointed look, âSaid sheâd cut my hair if I made it a âbig dealâ.â
Satoruâs eyes lingered on the side of your face, and you purposefully kept your head ducked and the book closer, so close that it was nearly touching your nose, as you tried to shield away their judging eyes in embarrassment.Â
âYou need to stop caring about what other people think,â Shoko said as she shoved you with her knee, this time just a little bit harder because she knows you and knows what you hide in the fear of making others think something of you that wasnât good, âI really think your professor wouldâve heard your case if you made it.â
You groaned, swatting at her leg with your book as you shuffled away, backing into another corner as you tried to readjust to the new position.Â
âYeah,â Suguru added, resting his phone momentarily on his chest, âI think it would help if you were more selfish.âÂ
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at the prospect.Â
âI just hate confrontation,â you murmur defensively, gnawing on your bottom lip as you flip a page, âAnd, plusâŠyou have to give me some credit - at least I told him that he was being frustrating,â you say, pretending to ignore them, your eyes re-reading the same word over and over again until you were confident that they were going to drop this subject, this horse that theyâve beaten multiple times, one that ended with you assuring them that you were going to speak up more until it all looped back again to times like this.
âSpeaking of confrontation, did you ever get a refund for that ticket?âÂ
There was a beat of silence before you let out a frustrated groan when Shoko reminded you of the one task you had forgotten to do in the past couple of days, your head falling to your knees as your palms jammed into your eyes.Â
âNo, oh my god, youâre so right,â your voice is muffled as you bookmark your page, your fists clenching at your own mistake as your eyes crack open, âOh my god, I canât believe I forgot to follow up on that!âÂ
Shoko chuckled, rolling her eyes as Suguru and Satoru shared a look, them now sharing confusion as you writhe on the floor at the thought of knowing you couldâve saved a couple of bucks had you not forgotten to call up the school of drama help center for accidentally buying an extra ticket to the showing of The Beggarâs Opera. And, seeing that it was Tuesday and just days before the theatre program, one that needed funds, was about to perform, the deadline for your refund was most likely up.
âSo does that mean you need me to come with you next Saturday?â Shoko offered, her lips quirking up slightly as your head shot up, nodding quickly as your hands flew to hers, shaking them feverishly.Â
âWould you? Would you really?â You ask, and her laughter grows, shoving you off playfully by pushing your forehead back to where you were sitting.Â
âIâll see what I can do,â she says with a sigh, winking at you before she goes back to her phone, and you settle back in your seat as you gnaw on your lips, thinking back to how on earth you could have possibly messed up so bad when you so usually only buy one ticket for yourself, but you push it aside, thankful that your dearest friend was at least going to make use of it.Â
You, Suguru, and Shoko shared a small laugh and went on with the conversation, but you heard a low, deep noise, something only you could hear, as Suguru and Shoko returned to bickering about which major Shoko was best suited for.Â
The sound made you glance up briefly, looking over the pages to see Gojo still staring at you, his lashes fluttering before he snapped back to it and went back to doing his work.Â
Minutes turned into a few hours, and the room was filled with the occasional story and laughter, but mostly the four of you worked together on different assignments, sometimes looking up as you would recall something from the past couple of days that you were saving to tell them in person.Â
It seemed like everything was going smoothly until Suguru got a notification on his phone, his face lighting up as he swiveled out of his bed, jumping onto the floor as he tugged his shoes on, not explaining anything as the three of you glanced up, waiting.Â
âMy foodâs here,â he said over his shoulder, practically gleaming as he cocked his head in Shokoâs direction, âCome down with me, will you? I need some help.âÂ
You scoff, smiling to yourself as you try to imagine just how much food he had ordered, but careful not to be too loud because you knew he would be sharing it with you all after some choice complaints were heard.Â
Shoko grumbles, but obliged, lifting up from the couch as she stretches, nudging you playing with the tip of her foot as she throws a pillow your way, walking towards Suguru as he holds the door open for her, the two of them calling out some brief goodbye as they head down to the lobby.
When the door clicks behind them, youâre suddenly aware of the fact that itâs only you and Satoru left, and you let your stare linger on the wall for a bit before you look away, suddenly sheepish when you catch his glance from his seat on the couch.
He clears his throat, eyes flickering from his screen to the book in your lap, the highlighters strewn around you, sticky notes sticking out from between the pages, and he points a finger at it.Â
âWhatâre you reading?âÂ
Your brows raise slightly, and your chin ducks down to the book, and you sit up a little straighter as you place a bookmark in the middle of your page you lifting the cover, letting him read the cover as he adjusts his glasses over his eyes.Â
âOh,â he says, his voice holding a lithe of acknowledgement as he slowly sets his laptop to the side, shifting slightly closer, âIâve read this, I think.âÂ
Your head tilts a little, lips quirking a little bit at the sides with a small smile as you look back at the cover.
âYouâve read The Norton Anthology, Volume C before?â
His mouth parts, closing it before he gapes at you, and your grin turns into a big smile, waving it away as you shake your head, shrugging at his stammering expression. Heâs so cute when caught in a lie.Â
âIâm only kidding,â you swear, setting your book down, your knees pulled towards your chest, arms wrapping around your legs, âIâm sure youâve had to read something like this for one of your previous classes.âÂ
âYouâre bothersome,â he murmurs, but his voice holds no bite as you let out another barking laugh, rolling your eyes as he tries not to smile, âIâm only trying to be polite.âÂ
You purse your lips together, giving him a questioning look as he shoots you one back.Â
âI didnât know politeness was in your artillery,â you quip, and he scoffs, moving his glasses upwards as he rubs at his tired eyes, resting backwards into the cushions as his legs part, and you try not to let your eyes linger on his thighs.Â
âI have a reserve for choice people,â he says, opening his eyes back as he looks back at you, yawning as he moves on, âHow was your presentation?âÂ
Your smile falters for a second as your stare turns questioning, chewing on your lips as it turns into something sweeter, something smitten because heâs asking about the presentation you had mentioned once in passing the last weekend you had hung out, stressing over your slides and sources, and trying to seem nonchalant as you finger traces little patterns on the floor.Â
âIt was good,â you tell him, trying not to seem too prideful as you murmur, âMy professor said it was exactly what he was looking for.âÂ
His face shifts, no longer annoyed as you try not to appear bashful, but his teeth shine as his rosy cheeks pull upwards as he gives you one of those smiles that makes you feel warm and happy and giddy.Â
âYeah?â He asks, shifting a little bit as he waved his teasingness off, rolling your eyes as you groan, nodding exaggeratedly as you go back to organizing your highlighters and pens, but he seems intent on pushing this: âDidnât you say it was the hardest assignment of the class?â
You look up at him from above your lashes, trying not to smile again as you shrug indifferently, done with arranging your stationery based on colors as your knees knock together, throwing a pillow his way that he effortlessly catches.
âI mean, everyone told me that it was really, really hard, so-â But youâre cut off by the door swinging open, and the two of you crane your necks around to see Shoko and Suguru arguing over something irrelevant, food nestled in their hands as they close the door behind them with a slam.Â
They start telling you two about the delivery fee and the outrageousness that one of the containers had tipped over, but youâre still busy thinking about how Satoru remembered something so trivial, giving them quiet hums as they spread out the food on the small coffee table, and trying to act normal.Â
Like you have for the past two years.
â
The week passed as it usually does, with papers, readings, and assignments that needed to be completed at an unmanageable rate.Â
You had expected the usual and mundane things, and for the most part, thatâs what came your way. Nights spent in each other's rooms as you finish up your work, spliced with moments where you would all talk, days filled with going to lectures and walking around campus till you found a quiet study spot. Things that you could predict and plan for.Â
For the most part.
Another thing that your little group would occasionally do was meet up at the end of the week at one of the pubs around campus, most of them serving mediocre food and somewhat better drinks, and offer you all a time to reconvene after a usually stressful couple of days.Â
The pub was small and quaint, but you enjoyed the warmth and laughter that muddled together to make the ambiance somewhat private. Either Suguru or Shoko would arrive there early and try to secure the usual spot at the booth near the end of the establishment, seeing that either of them didnât have classes on Fridays, while the other three would meet up outside of Satoruâs biophysical chemistry class and walk there together.  Â
Which is why you found yourself back on that Friday, sitting next to Shoko, settling into your seat as she clambered in after you. Suguru almost pushes Satoru in, impatient to sit down and get back to talking, and you watch as the white-haired man sits in front of you, his hands clasped together as he stares at the wood-grain of the table.Â
âHow were classes?â Shoko finally asks, looking between you and Satoru as she takes a sip from her drink.Â
You sigh, shrugging as your fingers play with the bottom of your cup, the condensation slipping down as you rub at your tired eyes.Â
âFine, I guess,â you say, drinking some water as you wipe at the corner of your lips, âMy professor couldâve ended the class, like, twenty minutes earlier than he did.âÂ
She nods solemnly, patting your thigh in solidarity as she passes the bowl of crisps towards you, nudging you to take one to help settle your stomach after having back-to-back classes, knowing how hangry it made you. Â
âIs this the professor who needs you to see a classical play?â Suguru asked, taking some of the snack as his arms crossed on top of the table, leaning in slightly as you licked some of the salt from your lips, nodding.Â
âYeah,â you heave another sigh, elbowing Shoko as you continue, âWhich is why Iâm seeing Beggarâs Opera next week. I mean, the theatre program did a couple of Shakespeare ones earlier this semester, butâŠugh, I just canât watch another performance of Romeo and Juliet.â You murmur with a groan, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as Suguru hums in agreement.Â
âYou donât like Shakespeare?â
Your eyes shift over to the man in front of you who asked the question.Â
Your brows furrow slightly in the middle, lips pulling into a small pout as you shake your head, playing with the ring of water your drink had left as you itch your nose, trying not to focus too hard on the pretty pink color on Gojoâs cheeks because of the slightly toasty feel of the room.Â
âI do,â you say slugishly, âItâs just that when the only work of his that tends to be popular isnât The Tempest, I get a little annoyed.âÂ
Suguru snorts, shaking his head as his fingers wag at you.Â
âThatâs not even nearly his best stuff,â he argues, and you roll your eyes, your head tilting badly in annoyance after knowing what this was going to lead to, âI canât believe you still think that it outweighs Richard II.âÂ
Satoru and Shokoâs eyes bounce between you and your ink-haired friend.Â
âIâd rather die on the hill of petty magic versus royal family drama,â You quip back, your brow slightly raised.Â
Suguru huffed, shaking his head in dismay as he lightly shoved your foot underneath the table, a small smile on both your faces.Â
âIs Tempest the one with the shipwreck?â Gojo asks, his head tilting slightly as his glasses lean on his nose bridge. You nod, grinning at the fact that someone in the group was able to identify such a classic piece of literary work.Â
You open your mouth to agree, but Suguru beats you to it.Â
âHow do you know that?â He glances sideways at his friend, his brow raised in slight shock as Shoko snorts.Â
Gojo shrugs, his elbows resting on the table as the fabric of his sweater tightens around his arms, making him look delectable and otherworldly. You have to tear your eyes away from it before it becomes too noticeable.Â
âWe went to the same secondary school,â Gojo argues, saying it as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, âI paid attentionâŠclearly more than others,â he adds under his breath, causing you to drop your hand to your mouth to hide the satisfied grin from when Suguru deflated in slight embarrassment.Â
âOh, speaking of blast from the past,â Shoko shuffles, looking at her phone screen as if suddenly remembering something, âViâs coming back for break.âÂ
You watch as Gojo and Suguru stop their silent bickering by messing with each other's stuff as they look up to Shoko. Suguruâs thin brow shoots upwards, his mouth turning into a surprised line as Gojo stares blankly, an unreadable expression on his face as you poke Shokoâs thigh, shaking your head in confusion.Â
âWho?â You murmur, your eyes squinting as Shoko looks at you, her mouth slightly dropping as she also remembers that you didnât grow up with them.Â
âVivienne March,â Suguru explains, beating someone once again to explain something because he could never hold onto a piece of information for longer than three seconds if he knows that somebody in his vicinity doesnât know it, âShe went to school with us for, what? Five, six years?â He looks between Gojo and Shoko, and they both nod, Shoko unlocking her phone as she goes to pull up the girl's instagram to show you what she looks like, âSheâs his ex,â he murmurs as if secretly, pointing at his friend next to him as you feel something in your gut shift, but he clearly doesnât tell because he leaves that point entirely.Â
âBut I thought she preferred to stay in America till her spring semester was over?â He asks, confused, waiting for you to be done looking, as he waits for Shoko to explain it.Â
You take her phone gingerly, looking at the girl's account as you carefully click through her posts. Youâre greeted with an aesthetic array of photos, some of her friends, some of her cat, and pretty pictures of old brick buildings and fall trees. But your eyebrows slowly move up your face when you see her.Â
Your thumb swipes through each post as you see her stunning hair framing her face in freshly done curls, her eyes striking and delicate as she wanders around a bookstore. Her outfits are always perfectly curated, and her makeup delicately done to accentuate her already natural beauty in a way that makes a part of you, something you tried to bury and starve, twist with envy at the effortlessness of her perfection.Â
âGuess she had a change of heart this year,â Shoko says, taking her phone back from your outstretched hand, turning it off as she placed it face down on the table, âShe texted me this morning saying that she was âgonna be here for December and some of January and that she wanted to catch up.âÂ
âYou would like her,â Suguru directs his attention back at you, his words matching the genuine smile on his face, âSheâs super bright and bubbly. And sheâs so funny. Oh, and she's, like, insanely smart. She graduated from Cambridge when she was nineteen, and sheâs doing grad school at Harvard.âÂ
âHmm, yeah,â Shoko hums, âI mean, she almost came here if she didnât get the call from Harvard,â she nudges you with her shoulder, âBut I donât know how much he,â she points her eyes to Satoru, watching the way his mouth slightly parts at being called out, âWouldâve appreciated that, though.âÂ
He scoffs, his tongue poking at his cheek as he leans in slightly, his arms crossing the table as Suguru snickers.Â
âI have no issue with Vivienne,â he argues, his brows pulling into a cute little frown, âShe was justâŠâ
âWhat?â Suguru juts in, Shoko scoffing a laugh next to you as Gojo only peers at him from the side of his eyes, âMadly in love with you? Was going to pick Oxford to be with you? And you wereâŠwhat, days away from breaking up with her when she came sobbing to us that you have the emotional intelligence of a rock?â
Your eyes widen slightly, looking over at Shoko for confirmation, one she returns with a faint grin. Despite the sunken feeling in your heart, one that you often get whenever you are reminded of the fact that, unfortunately, literally everyone is also in love with Gojo Satoru, you have to control your face not to giggle at the statement.Â
Gojo makes a noise deep in his throat, the tips of his ears slightly pink from the added attention.Â
You swallow as you try to grapple with all this information. But, as always, the conversation moves on and you push everything back as you find yourself smiling once again, listening to how Suguru animatedly tells the story of how he bombed one of his essays because he forgot which citation format to use, and you try to not make it obvious how youâd peek over at Shoko now and then and see who it was that she was stalking, probably some girl from her class that she was plotting on.Â
The music lolls on in the background, the pub getting more packed with students and tired workers, and you find yourself content with listening to your friends tell you about their week, taking small sips from your straw as you grin and laugh as poke Shokoâs thigh whenever a cute guy, devastatingly never as cute as Gojo, walks by the table, and she, gripping your knee whenever a girl her type flashes her a look from over their shoulders.Â
âI think Iâm wanted somewhere else at the moment,â she whispers, leaning closer to your ear as you follow her line of sight to a girl sitting at the bar, her long blonde hair thrown over her shoulder as she steals the occasional glance at your friend, âIâll be back.âÂ
You giggle, pushing at her to go as she swats your hand away playfully, sending you a wink as you send one back, watching her go as Suguru and Gojo watch silently, sending each other knowing looks before Shoko disappears behind the other booths.Â
âWell, if sheâs going, might as well take this time to piss,â Suguru states, putting his hands on the wood as he hoists himself up, sending a cheeky little smile as he imitates Shokoâs sashay, âDonât wait up.âÂ
You roll your eyes, trying not to watch him leave as if to draw out the silence that will inevitably follow, seeing that itâs just you and Gojo remaining. Your fingers play with your empty glass as you glance back to him, sending him a small smile as you feel chagrin already seeping into your veins.
He clears his throat, his eyes darting from your face to your arms, his tongue poking his cheek as he swallows. You wonder how much heâs dreading the awkward silence that has the possibility of ensuing.
âWater?âÂ
Your eyes squint at the sudden question, looking down to the long finger he has pointed at your glass, and you look back up at him, wondering if he was stating the obvious or if your feelings for him had made you delirious and unable to compute anything that comes out of his mouth.Â
âDo you want some more water?â He explains, and you feel your cheeks heat again at your blunder, âIâm going up there to get a refill anyway.â
You nod gratefully, swallowing your feelings down as you glance up at him, handing him your empty glass with ice sloshing around as your smile wobbles.Â
âIâd appreciate it, thank you,â your voice dips slightly as you grin stupidly the longer you look at his long lashes and his pink lips, somewhat glad that he was getting away so you could less opportunities to screw up, and you watch as his beautifully large hand wraps around the glass like it was nothing, sending you a small nod as he crouches slightly so that the overhanging light wouldnât hit his head on the way out.Â
Leaving you alone, you pull out your phone, also thankful to have a little moment to yourself as you quickly try to catch up on the notifications you had gotten in the past couple of hours, as the noise around you mixes, adding a comforting ambience as you lean against the old walls, your head leaning against your fist.Â
You were so engrossed in your own little bubble that you didnât notice the figure hovering near the other end of the table, only noticing the man when you looked to the side, thinking that either Suguru or Gojo was back, only for your eyes to widen in shock and surprise to be greeted with an unfamiliar face.Â
Letting out a small noise, adjacent to an audible gulp, you sit up straighter, looking bashfully at him as you turn your phone off, taking in his slender frame and the rectangular-framed glasses that sit wonkily on his nose as he fidgets nervously with the hem of his lumpy sweater. Ironically, having everything that Gojo has but wearing it so drastically differently that you have to snap yourself out of the comparison.Â
The boy's hair is slightly parted, light blonde, and his eyes framed with what seemed like brown lashes. His cheeks are dusted with light freckles, and his smile is lopsided as he scratches the back of his neck.Â
Cute in a schoolish way, you think.
âH-hi,â his voice is high, squeaking and wobbly as he leans on the booth, not knowing what to do with his arms as he uses the back of his hand to push his glasses upwards, âHi, I justâŠâÂ
Your head tilts slightly, curiosity filling your eyes as you give him a gentle smile, waiting patiently for him to find his words.Â
âIâm Kento,â he stammers after a second, scratching behind his ears as a red flush settles over his high cheeks, âIâm sitting over there,â he points to a table behind him, and your neck cranes to see a group of boys his age all staring at his back, âAnd I just thought-âÂ
He opens his mouth to say something else, but pauses, his gaze drifting to something, or rather someone, coming his way, and youâre too focused on the way sweat dots at his hairline or the way he fidgets with the hem of his sweater to even notice the full glass of water sliding in front of you from the other side of the booth.Â
Your back straightens as your head whips to the side, eyes widening when you realize that Satoru had returned, his one drink nestled in his hand as his stare bounces between you and, who you evidently had just discovered, Kento.Â
Blue eyes flicker over your face, a moment's decision faltering in his mind as he slithers into not his original seat in front of you, but next to you, his large frame taking up half of your side of the both as your brows furrow in confusion, lips pulling into a tote as your eyes squint at the way he hunkers in like it was normal.Â
Is he okay? You try not to have your heart burst out of your chest and flip flop around on the table like a fish out of water at being in such proximity to Satoru, but you donât even have time to think about that as the rest of your mind falters, trying to make sense of this behavior.Â
One of his beefy arms unravels from his side as it stretches above your head, resting atop the cushioned seats as he sighs deeply through his nose, taking a sip of his drink as if he hadnât interrupted anything, and his chin turns over to the boy, waiting.Â
Kento stammers, even worse than before, as he pushes back his spiky hair with a hand, looking between you and Satoru as you blink slowly, not really knowing what to do, awkwardly lingering in your seat as you wonder if anybodyâs going to talk.
âEverything alright?â Satoru asks finally, his voice slightly lower than usual, somewhat taunting but hard to tell, seeing that his face was blank, thick as it almost bounces off Kentoâs skull, his cheeks turning into a bright pink as you lets out a small exhale of air, something resembling a shocked laugh at the strange and sudden shift in his behavior.Â
âI, uh, I,â Kentoâs voice wobbles as he seizes up Satoruâs size and his overall presence, a strange look of shock and even awe as you gnaw on the inside of your cheek, not fully knowing what was going on as Kentoâs head dips in embarrassment, âIâm sorryâŠI didnât know, uh, that you, you wereâŠyeahâŠsorryâŠâ
His arm raises in a small wave, quickly turning on his heels, the back of his neck almost red as you blink rapidly, letting out a small huff of air as your neck almost snaps towards the man next to you, stammering as you try to find your words.Â
Satoru looks at you, taking another sip.Â
âWhat?âÂ
You scoff, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you stumble over a slew of words.Â
âWhat? W-what do you mean what?â You let out a bewildered laugh, looking across the pub at the boy and his group of friends that almost seem to be comforting him, their hands on his shoulders as he profusely shakes his head, âWhat the hell was that for?â
His white brows pinch in the middle, as if he doesn't understand your startlement, as if you were the one being crazy.
But you werenât being crazy. Not in the slightest.Â
You brushed it off the first time Satoru scared off a guy who was talking to you. You thought it was strange, sure, how in the middle of your lively conversation of John Milton and Paradise Lost that he wandered from the other side of the room, suddenly attached to your side, his height towering over the other guy as he quieted down and scurried away. You just chalked it up to him being bored, despite how annoyed you were.Â
The second time, a guy was seconds away from putting his phone in your number when Satoruâs voice rang in your ears, and you watched, horrified, as he peered down at the guy's cracked phone screen, scoffing at the fact that he was listening to some stupid band he disapproved of.Â
Then there was the time when you were at this same pub, getting some drinks for Shoko, waiting at the counter, flirting with the guy next to you when Satoru found his way back to you, as if pulled by a magnet, and asked the guy if he always chose to talk to girls he didnât know with a fresh hickey on his neck. (That one you werenât mad at, more so embarrassed).
But itâs happened countless times. At the pub, at gatherings, at galas heâs invited you to as his plus one because he said nobody else could make it, at the library when he came a little too early and a guy from your class was sitting next to you, at the cafe, and at the small party he threw last year.
And if you werenât so in love with him, youâd be madder than you were. You knew he was just being a protective and caring friend, not wanting you to get hurt, but you knew youâd have to start moving on from this debilitating crush, and he wasnât making it any easier.
âI just asked him if everything was alright,â he explained, his tone bordering on bored as he pulls out his phone, checking the time as he angles his body slightly to look at you better, and you're somewhat aware of the fact that his arm is still somewhere above your head, âHeâs the one that scurried away.âÂ
Your mouth drops open, your palms jamming into your eye sockets as your head hits the table, banging it a couple times as you try to pull away from him, slightly angered, slightly, and very, ever so slightly, internally flustered at something you definitely should be flustered over.
âYouâŠyou scared him away!â Your voice is muffled as you groan, not caring much as you shoot him an angry and bitter look.
Satoruâs lashes flutter slightly, his pink lips pulling into a confused line as you shove his knee with your own, realizing that you were, in fact, not joking and were seriously considering the idea of giving that blubbering mess a chance.
âAre you - are you serious?â His thumb jabs in the general direction of where he had gone, âHim?â
You roll your eyes, chest heaving with a sigh as your forehead continues to rest on the cool tabletop, the tip of your nose rubbing against the varnish as you groan.
Deep down, you know that this crush of yours is fruitless and useless. Itâs never going to get anywhere, and the only thing it can offer you is more hurt and rejection. You know that you are so far from his type and out of your league that heâd never see you as more than a friend, if that, but you continued to have it because it lit a fire inside of you that you sadistically enjoyed.Â
That being said, you would prefer, at some point, to have a romantic moment, even if fleeting, and having the man youâve been in love with for two years chase away the only guy whoâs had the balls to come up to you made you irrationally annoyed for some reason that you didnât fully understand.Â
âHeâŠhe seemed nice,â you argue, your eyes closing shut as your hand shifts, and you rest your cheek on the back of it, your back bent at an angle as you look up at him from your position on the table, âAnd he was cute-âÂ
Gojo cuts you off with a startled laugh, a disbelieving one as his eyebrows shoot upwards, showing more than the five emotions you usually see him with as genuine shock laces his features, and it only spurs on that angry fire inside of you as you press.Â
âWhat? What? He was cute!â Your head lifts quickly from its spot on the table as your body shifts to look at him even better than before, trying not to notice the cute wrinkle of his nose or the frosty irises of his eyes that are looking so intently at you that it could knock the air out of your lungs if you stare long enough, âAnd IâŠI donât know, I think he wanted to talk to me!âÂ
Gojo snorts, his arm tightening around the cushion behind you, his hand dangling off the end, his fingers dangerously close to the side of your ear as you swallow thickly.Â
âWell, of course, he wanted to talk to you,â his other hand pushes his glasses upwards, the veins on the back of his hand evident, â I just canât believe that heâs someone youâd want to entertain.â
You stutter, hurt flashing across your face as it pulls into sour bewilderment.
Youâve barely talked to Satoru for more than a couple of minutes at a time about classes or projects or annoying classmates, and you canât believe your luck that the first conversation between the two of you that stemmed outside of those points is about this.
âWhat, whatâs that supposed to mean?â Your voice dips slightly, embarrassed, as his own expression slightly shifts at your tone.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly not expecting this to blow up in his face as it did, and he sighs, retreating to his old, composed self as he explains himself.Â
âLook, I have him in a couple of my classes,â he starts again, lips pulling into a thin line as he looks over his shoulder to Kento and then glances back to you, âHe shows up late and never does his work and always asks to most ridiculous questions,â Satoru adds and you try not to have your lips quirk at the sudden revelation, not wanting to give in and let your foolish feeling stake the wheel and guide you to forgiving him, but itâs not use as he continues, âI just figured thatâŠsomeone like that isnât someone good for you. Even if he did just want to talk.âÂ
Your mouth dries up, and you try not to let your head burst and remind yourself that heâs thinking about this from a friend's perspective, something kind and caring and companionly, but not in the way you would want from your crush, but Satoru is still waiting on your response so instead you swallow everything down and your lips tote, avoiding eye contact as you attempt to seem indifferent despite your outburst.Â
âHow ridiculous are his questions?â You finally ask, peeking over at him from where your gaze had been training on the ice in your water, and you swear you see a flicker of surprise take over his gorgeous features, as though you were going crazy with the way his blankness faded momentarily and gave way to a little smile.Â
He sighs, this time lighter, his hand behind you shifting ever so slightly to push at the back of your head, gingerly but in a teasing way as you try not to smile a giddy smile, one that doesnât reflect the fact that you couldnât really care about the guy who had come up to talk to you when Satoru cared enough because he didnât think he was good enough for you to talk to.Â
âEven more ridiculous than asking if adding ice to rice would help it steam up more than if you used water,â he says, picking up his drink as he nurses it over his mouth, fighting back a smug grin at the way you sputter, pushing him roughly as your cheeks heat up again for bringing up one of your late-night queries.Â
âFine, fine, fine, Iâll give you this one!â You rub at your eyes, shoulders hunched, âBut you have to stop scaring off every single guy that tries to talk to me! He could be a normal guy whoâs going to come up, and youâre going to disapprove of him just because he wears mismatched socks or only writes in pen!âÂ
Satoru snorted indifferently, proving your point that he didnât seem to care.Â
âWriting solely in pen is psychotic behavior,â he grumbled to himself, recalling the time one of his classmates had the gall to ask you for your number before he quickly shut it down, inserting himself in the middle of the conversation until the guy gave up and left.Â
You groan, head dropping back onto the table as you tap it lightly, a quiet thud reverberating in your tiny corner of the room.Â
âOne of these days youâre going to have to come to terms with the fact that the reason you shut people down is different from the reasons I shut people down.â You say, moving your arms upward so that you could set your cheek on it, looking at the empty seats in front of you instead of the man youâve had a crush on, sputters.Â
âWhat do you mean?â His voice drops a little bit, and you angle your head to look up at him, brows pinching in the middle as you let out a little laugh, something sardonic as you shake your head to yourself.Â
âYouâŠâ you pause, stopping, sighing to yourself as you try to control your words before you say something youâll regret, âYou have likeâŠperfect people coming up to you. And if you choose to reject them, thatâs up to you, I get it. But last week you turned a girl down because she said that Star Wars was a waste of money,â the two of you share small laugh because you can recall just how red he got, embarrassed but peeved when somebody just offended his entire lifeline, but you continue, âItâŠitâs just,â you press your lips together as something in your chest clenched, âI donât really have that luxury. I donât have perfect guys coming up to me with little quirks, you know? Thereâs always something wrong with them, even if I donât see it then. Like they donât show up to dates or they make fun of my major, or justâŠonly want to sleep with me, and then when they find out I donât want that, they leave. And any of the sane ones that have small issues, youâre always there to shoot them down!âÂ
You stop, taking in a deep breath as you try to regulate your emotions, refusing to look at him right now as you let some pent-up feelings loose, just grateful that he hasnât left and decided to let you figure this out on your own.Â
âLook,â you glance at him, giving him a small smile, âIâm thankful that you care. Really, I am. ButâŠbut I just want to experience somethingâŠwith someone, yâknow? At least once when Iâm still in university. Iâm almost twenty-one, and I havenât even had my first kiss!â Despite how embarrassing it is, it slips out, and your chees heat up as you hurry on with your ramble, âAnd if it has to be with something who asks stupid questions or says my name wrong on the first attempt or doesnât know what my favorite color is, I guess Iâm just gonna have to bite the bullet and take that risk. I,â you look away, back to focusing on the leather cushions in front of you as you gnaw on your lip, âI donât really have any other option.â
Giving it a moment, you let your shoulders sink, going back to playing with the straw wrapper in front of you as you debate whether it would be better to just throw yourself out the window or risk saying something else that youâd stay awake the next couple of nights pinching yourself over.
You heard him inhale exaggeratingly, the arm behind you moving a little downwards in order to hook one of his fingers around the collar of your sweater, trying to grab your attention. You tilt your chin sideways, lips pursed, and attempt not to let his overwhelming presences budge how bitter you were feeling for some reason.Â
âI think,â he sighed again, gnawing on his bottom lip as he tried to formulate his thoughts, the overhead lamp casting a soft orange light over his face and it made your pitiful stomach churn with desperate want, âI think that if youâre too pessimistic.âÂ
That getâs a dry laugh from you, and you roll your eyes at his statement. Before heâs able to say anything, he gets interrupted by Suguru rounding the corner, sliding into his seat with a wide grin, one that falls when he sees his friend has changed the seating arrangement.Â
âWhyâd you move?âÂ
Satoru paused, tearing his eyes away from the side of your face as he glanced at his friend, his fingers moving upwards as you tried not to look at him and make anything obvious. You hope he doesnât bring up Kento and your little meltdown, but he seems to read your mind.Â
âYou were bothering me too much,â he mutters, and Suguru lets out a startled scoff, throwing the hair tie around his wrist at him as Sator just flings it to the side. Suguru doesnât push, though, and starts telling the two of you that he was held up at the bathroom entrances because a couple was having a âlover's spatâ, his words not yours, and he just had to hear it before he left.
The rest of the night continued as it usually does.Â
If you could consider the uneven rhythm of your heart as normal.Â
â
Another week had passed, another seven days of agonizingly slow school work and duties.Â
It seemed like the days would flicker away at a snail-like pace until it got you to the one day of the week that you actually wished wouldnât arrive, and would force you to stalk around the limited space of your dorm room as you think about what to wear to the theatre production thatâs taking place in thirty minutes.Â
Your hand was on your hip, feet tapping against the floor as you looked at the two outfits you had hung on your dresser, lips pursed as your eyes moved back and forth between the one that would go better with those pair of kitten heels you thrifted with Shoko, or the dres that you rarely get to wear.Â
It took a couple more seconds of deciding, but you ultimately picked the more comfortable option, knowing that the university theater was always freezing, especially in October, and that a cute sweater was probably the better choice.
Thankfully, this gave you some more time to fix your hair and touch up your makeup, humming along to the music as your eye kept wandering down to your phone and then to your door, squinting as you turned it over, confused as to what was taking Shoko so long.Â
Instantly, your eyes widen at the plethora of messages you have from Shoko, a telltale sign that something was seriously wrong, given the fact that she never sent more than two messages at once.Â
shoko: pick up
shoko: girl ur literally always on ur phone wya
shoko: pls pls pls pick upÂ
shoko: ur making me beg rn pls can u call me backÂ
shoko: plsÂ
You donât have time to send her one of your stupid stickers, your fingers fumbling around as you look at the five missed calls you have from her, shaking your head in dismay at how it was possible to leave your phone alone for twenty minutes and come back to this.Â
It doesnât take more than a ring before she answers on the other line.Â
âAre you okay?â Your voice cuts through immediately, rushed and worried, your legs bouncing as you hear some people talking in the background, and you can hear the way Shoko snaps at them to hush so that she can hear you better.Â
âHi, yeah, no, no Iâm fine - hey can you guys just,â she calls out again, hey annoyance dripping form her tone, some shuffling happening over the line as she moves somewhere where the noise is less, âHey, hi, sorry for the noise,â she starts again and you just hum, eyebrows still pinches together in worry as you wait for her to continue, âIâm really sorry for spamming you, but I have some news.âÂ
The worry on your face melts as you lean back in your seat.Â
âYeahâŠ?â you ask, but already predicting what it was that she was stressing out over telling you, but she lets out another exhale, and you could imagine her nodding wherever it was that she was at.Â
âIâm so sorry but Iâm at work right now and,â some clattering happens in the background, the kitchen in great hustle for the Saturday evening rush it usually has at the restaurant she waitresses for, âGod, Tommy just screwed everything up with our shifts and I thought he had written me as off for tonight but he wrote me as off for next Saturday and I wasnât able to fine somebody to-âÂ
You laugh softly, cutting off her rambling.Â
ââKo, babe, itâs fine, donât worry about it,â you stress, leaning in slightly as you hear some silverware being unloaded, âItâs so okay, your job is so much more important than-âÂ
âNo, youâre more important than this - believe me,â she cuts you off this time, and you can see her standing hunched in the corner, gnawing on her fingernails in stress, âAnd I promised you Iâd come with you and I canât, and now IâŠI feel horrible.âÂ
A smile creeps onto your lips, and you shake your head.Â
âItâs fine,â you stress, chuckling at her incoherent rambles, âI promise. The playâs going to be lengthy anyway, might as well take the time to make some money while youâre at it.âÂ
You hear nothing except the kitchen roaring in the background for a few seconds before she sighs, clicking her tongue as she hums softly.Â
âYou sure?âÂ
âIâm sure,â you tell her, hearing her chuckle softly over the phone, the disappointment evident in her voice, and you didnât want to push her over the edge despite the small flicker of disappointment of having to go alone, âI promise youâre not gonna be missing anything.âÂ
âLook, I know itâs not the same, but I was with Suguru when I found out, and heâs said that he could-âÂ
This time, sheâs cut off, but not by you.Â
A knock sounds over your door.Â
You sigh, smiling at your friend as you slowly rise, âYou guys are so sweet, but you shouldâve told him Iâd be fine. Really, I usually do these things by myself anyway.âÂ
She groans at your antics, somebody calling her name from the back as she tells them that sheâs almost done.Â
âShit, I have to go, but promise me youâll tell me about how tonight goes, yeah?â She sounds hurried, and you make a few steps towards your door as you snort, rolling your eyes as you unlock the brass knob, shaking your head at the thought.Â
âTell you about what? Oh, like how Suguru has a horrific attention span and canâtâŠâ You swing the door wide open, but you trail off as your mouth hangs slightly, not greeted by your black-haired and eyebrow-pierced friend,Â
But Satoru.Â
Shoko seems to have picked up on your silence as meaning that you finally understood what she was talking about, and you can barely register her sing-songy bye as she leaves, the phone in your hand lying limp as Satoruâs brow raises skeptically at your dumbfounded expression.
Damn you, Shoko Ieiri.Â
âHi,â you say breathlessly, almost stupidly, as your hand falls from behind the door to your side, tilting your head a bit as Satoru just stares, hands in his pockets, and you shake back to reality, laughing apologetically as your neck prickles, âSorry, IâŠI was just expecting someone else.â
His brow arches even more, and you huff out a laugh.Â
âShoko just said that Suguru was coming,â you explain, stepping back from the entranceway as his mouth parts slightly.Â
âRight,â he nods, his hair falling gracefully in his face as you churn in your spit at the magnificent sight of him in his denim jeans and the navy sweater he was in, âI hope itâs okay that I came. Suguru couldnât make it.â
You blink, wanting to say that you were so okay with him, but you swallow that done as you shake your head, waving his statement away.Â
âThis isâŠthis is fine,â You stammer to say, your smile wobbly. You hope that he canât pick up on the way that your eyes are roaming over the way his button-up sits comfortably on his broad chest, or the way his glasses look on the bridge of his nose, âI, uh, I just have to do my mascara, so give me like,â you look at the clock behind you. Your eyes bulge at the fact that you have only five minutes left, âTwo seconds and Iâll be done.â
He nods, his head tilting slightly to the side as he looks at your face and his eyes travel down your outfit. His hand raises, a finger pointed at your sweater.Â
âNice sweater,â he says, something teetering on teasing, and you look down, suddenly realizing that itâs the sweater he had given you last year for your birthday, the one that you had seen months prior after walking past a vintage store and exclaimed how much you liked it, only to be stumped by the price.Â
Your confusion melts into a wide smile, your head still poking out from outside your door as you survey the material, not noticing the way his eyes soften just a smidge at your flighty reaction.Â
âOh - right, thank you again for getting it!â You say cheerfully, an entire evening or perfection and romance already forming in your head as you try not to appear too excited, pointing back to your room as you duck away, âIâll, uh, Iâll be back, then!â
Satoru nods, giving you a small smile as you shut the door behind you, your back hitting it as you give yourself a moment to reciprocate, curse Shoko and her blasted antics, and calm your heartbeat down long enough.Â
This was so fine, you tried to tell yourself,Â
Everything was going to be fine.Â
â-
The lobby of the Oxford theater was unusually packed, and you even voiced your surprise when Satoru led you in, your eyes wide as you took in all the students, some looking at the programs, others waiting in line for the bathroom.Â
âDamn,â you mutter, squeezing past someone as Satoru follows behind you, âI didnât think it was going to be this busy.âÂ
The walk here had beenâŠfine. You had talked for most of it, which you had predicted, and with the few times Satoru would interject and give some comments on the stories you told him about your week, you feel like you told five times that amount of embarrassing and lame jokes, shutting yourself up once after wincing at how terrible it was. Satoru cracked a small smile, though, a pitiful one, most likely to keep you from shutting up the entire night.Â
Itâs strange, just how different you act around him. In attempts to make yourself seem cooler and interesting, you wind up embarrassing yourself even more. You could have sworn that you never acted like this with Shoko or Suguru, or literally anybody else, even your old crushes, but when it came to Satoru, you seemed to lose the sense of normalcy you had come to know.Â
But you donât have time to worry about that, now trying to put your attention on wondering how many of the students here are from that stupid class youâre taking right now, and even looking in the sea of bodies confirms that answer when you see some familiar faces. The concession stand in the corner, the one run by the theater department to raise some extra funds, seems to be swarmed, and your stomach grumbles instantly at the smell of buttered popcorn that wafts through the air.Â
âWhereâre our seats?â Heâs standing by you now, and you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him. You sift through your tote, pulling out your wallet and opening it to reveal the tickets tucked inside, and hand one to him while keeping the other for yourself.Â
âRow H,â you read out loud, âYouâre seat 18, and Iâm 19.âÂ
He nods, pocketing it before he looks back out into the lobby, his eyes focusing on the wide double doors that led you into the theater, watching the ticket taker check the peopleâs tickets before looking back at the concessions, remembering how much you were raving on your walk here about how good the snacks were.Â
âDo you still want someâŠ?â He juts his chin towards the hand-made sign that reads Beggars Snacks!Â
âHm?â You look back at the table, and you let out a small laugh, âOh, yeah, right,â you look through your wallet again, putting your ticket there for safekeeping as you glance back up at his gorgeous face, âYeah, Iâll be back. You can go find your seat, if you want.âÂ
Satoru opens his mouth and then shuts it, glancing at you and then the doors, and his shoulder straightens slightly.Â
âRight, wellâŠ.right,â he murmurs, looking a little torn, his voice drowning out by the roar of sound around you two, but youâre able to make out the low grumble of his after being near him for so long, âIâllâŠIâll see you in a few.âÂ
You smile again, giving him two thumbs up as you turn on your heel, your hands clenching in frustration at how utterly inhuman you seem to act around him, somehow making it seem like it was your first day on this planet.Â
Peeking over your shoulder, you watch as he leaves towards the entrance of the theater, and you duck your head down as you find your way to the large line leading up to the snacks. Coming here for the past four years has taught you to go for the popcorn, pass on the homemade cookies, and snatch up the little boxes of candy if they have them.Â
Checking your phone as you wait idly, you text Shoko a slew of messages cursing her and her entire bloodline for blindsiding you like this, hoping she sees them after her grueling shift and only feels worse about leaving you like this.Â
Keep a tab of the line as it slowly moves, you eye the clock, knowing that the show was going to start soon. It seems to dwindle a bit, as some people in front of you and behind you give and leave, deciding it wasnât worth it, and after scrolling through your feed a little bit more, you find yourself next in line.Â
Glancing through the snacks, your stomach protests louder, ravenous after a day fueled on granola bars, a pathetic excuse of a yogurt bowl, and some crisps you had lying around, until you feel your hopes and dreams plummet when you see a small sign at the edge of the table that says only cash.Â
Fucking bullshit, you think angrily, whipping your wallet out again as you rifle through the confines, who still uses only cash? What medieval system was this? They accepted cards last time, this is entirely-
And you could complain petulantly in your head as much as you want, but your face falls as you search through for the third time, coming to the consensus that you didnât have a lick of cash on you. The person in front of you is almost done, but your shoulders sag as you begrudgingly step away, shaking your head in dismay as you make your way to the theater entrance, flashing your ticket to the ticket taker as he lets you in with a wide smile.Â
The ushers point you towards aisle H, and you patiently dispute the hate still inside of you, burning. Waiting as those in front of you find their seats, and it doesnât take long before youâre able to see a pop of hair standing high amongst the rest of the people in the audience.Â
You move past a couple of people talking as you move closer, almost skidding when you stop instantly, realizing that Satoru was, in fact, not alone.Â
From this angle, you could see the girl standing in front of him, a wide grin on her face as she laughs at something he says. Your eyes go to his face, your posture falling even more when you see the little quirk of his lips, a sign that he wasnât necessarily hating the conversation, and the loss of the popcorn feels pointless now as your stomach churns for another reason.Â
It was selfish to think that you were the only person who liked Satoru, but it didnât hurt any less when you were confronted with this fact at least once a week. You knew you couldnât expect anything from this stupid crush, a theorem forming inside your head that you continued to fall for Gojo Satoru just because you liked the sting of knowing you had no shot with him, and seeing other girls and their gleeful smiles at the fact that you probably had a chance is what maybe hurt the most.Â
You werenât ever angry at these girls, understanding them completely, even admiring the way they could flirt so effortlessly, and treated you kindly whenever you were near, but it singed a part inside of you that liked to act that you were in this small fictional bubble that you dreamt of whenever he looked your way.Â
Like he was right now.Â
Standing awkwardly to the side, at the end of the row, you sway idly in your spot, looking at the two of them and then around, wondering when the lights were going to start dimming and notify you of when the show was about to start.Â
You hear your name being called, a familiar cluster of syllables from his throat, and you look away from the painting on the wall to the side as you see Satoru throwing up a hand, trying to grab your attention.Â
When he sees you finally looking his way, he turns back to the girl, saying a few more words as she nods, her smile still soft as she glances at you, a strange look on her face as she sends you another smile, and you canât help but return it despite the sinking feeling in your gut.Â
She leaves through the other end, and you mutter a few apologies as you finally make your way down to where he was standing, ducking your head down sheepishly as you fidget with the strap of your tote.Â
âHey,â you say meekly, your cheeks heating as you finally get to him, âI didnât mean to interrupt anything.âÂ
One of his hands waved, shaking his head as he looked back to where the girl had retreated with her friends.Â
âYou werenât interrupting,â he tells you, and your brows furrow slightly because that was a white lie if youâve ver heard one, âI knew her from my lab,â he he says, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes trace of your face, falling to your empty arms as they squint, the conversation with the girl suddenly feeling his head as he points, âWhereâs your popcorn?â
The past couple of moments seem to flee too as you wring your hands awkwardly together, shooting him a tight smile as you try to appear indifferent.Â
âOh, they didnât take card,â you mumble bitterly, âAnd I forgot my wads of cash back in my dorm, so,â you shrug, laughing it off as you point to the seats, âBut itâs fine, IâŠerm, wasnât really feeling it anyway,â a lie, since that was all you could talk about, but you push past him as you sit down, setting your tote on your lap as you look at him, waiting for him to do the same.
Satoru peeks at you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he swallows, not doing anything to sit down as one of your brows moves upwards, confused about the mental turmoil that he was going through, which made him reluctant to sit.Â
âEverything okay?â You ask slowly, shifting your legs, wondering if he was tight for room, but he just nods, tongue poking through his rosy lips as he glances back towards the double doors as he briefly nods.Â
âI need to use the bathroom,â he mutters, and you nod, lips pursing in understanding as you look over your shoulders, watching as more people start taking their seats.
âOkay,â you sit back a little bit, your finger pointing behind you to where the bathrooms were, âWell, you, you should probably go, like, now. I think the shows going to start,â you say with a light chuckle and check your phone, realizing that there were only five minutes left till the lights turned off, âIn a little bit.â
Satoru just nods again, saying spoke few words before he turns to leave, murmuring apologies to the people sitting down as his long legs knock their knees, and you watch him leave the aisle and go before you turn your attention back to the stage, taking the time to admire the props and the set design, trying to think back to the original story and see if it lines up with how you remembering it starting.Â
When the overhead lights start flickering, and Satoru isnât back yet, you churn in your seat, looking over your shoulder every couple of seconds, hoping that he doesnât have to navigate back in the dark.Â
You send him a small text saying that it was almost going to be lights out when you see his figure in the corner of your eye, watch as he nears your row with his arms full, and you squint, trying to see through the dimness to see what it was that he was holding.Â
The closer he gets, the more youâre able to see, and itâs only until heâs lowering himself to sit down that you make out the popcorn bag in one hand, and some boxes of sweets in the other.Â
He says nothing as he shoves the popcorn into your hand, settling in as he looks around the seat, trying to move the armrests up only to see that theyâre stuck in place, completely oblivious to your wide-eyed stare as he lets out a big sigh, resting back as his legs spread out a little bit. He opens a box of Maltesers, adjusting his glasses as he looks at the stage.Â
âWant some?â He finally says, his voice low as he pushes the red box towards you, and your cheeks are almost on fire as you glance at the paper bag of popcorn in his outstretched hand.Â
âIâŠâ you blink, holding onto the popcorn so that it doesnât spill, âHere.â You dumbly give him the bag back, assuming that he had only given it to you so that he could sit down more comfortably.Â
Only now does he tear his eyes away from the stage, tuning out the voice over the announcements, the regular message of turning off your phones and staying quiet, as his elbow pushes your arm back to your seat.Â
âCanât have corn,â he says bluntly, looking over at your startled expression, âItâs yours.âÂ
Itâs yours.
Hereâs another moment you're going to mull over before another minuscule thing he does happens again, and you spend the next months thinking about that. Â
âAre you sure?â You whisper, already pulling your phone out to Venmo him for it, but Satoru can already tell what you're about to do as he flicks it away, as if it was repulsive to him, and you donât have any time to argue because the curtains pull outwards and reveal the actors.
You drag a hand over your face, trying not to look over at him anymore as you begrudgingly accept the kind token, trying to relax in your seat as the show begins, a tentative finger plucking out a popcorn as you bring it to your mouth, hoping that the only person who can what the blood roaring in your ears is you.Â
â
Nearly a quarter in, and you start to realize just how bad an idea this was.Â
The play itself was great. The actors were delivering their performance in a manner that felt reminiscent ot the campy nature of the original text, and some people in the audience were keeling over with laughter in certain parts.Â
You found yourself with a wide smile throughout most of it, recalling some of the bits and others jogging your memory, but you were thoroughly enjoying it nonetheless. The issue was, the person next to you seemed to be despising it.Â
The rare couple of times you peeked over to see his reaction to a couple of things, you noticed his jaw clenched, sitting straight and uptight as his eyes never left the stage. He barely mustered up a smile during the funny portions, looking utterly depleted during the serious bits, and his hands were clasped together, fingers interwoven as he sighed, unamused.Â
Every time somebody would do something weird, youâd glance his way and would still see the same stone-cold expression on his face. You were aware that the play itself was over exaggerated and strange at times, but that was the whole appeal of it in the first place. But at times, you tried to view it through the lens of someone who didnât go in-depth into literature and read the nuances of somebody like Satoru, who would rather spend their free time studying and working on their mountain of assignments, not something like this, and you felt your chest getting heavier and heavier with each second.Â
When it neared intermission, you couldâve sworn you had nearly melted in your seat, your popcorn done as you glanced over at Satoru when the lights finally turned back on, people around you standing up to leave or stretch.Â
A beat of silence passes before you clear your throat, mustering up a wobbly grin as you jab a thumb to the curtains.Â
âFunny, huh?âÂ
Satoru blinks, as if coming back to, and you debate if he had been half asleep. The thought makes you sink even deeper in embarrassment.Â
âItâs, uh,â he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he swallowed thickly, âItâsâŠinteresting. I havenât really seen anything like it before.âÂ
You pause, chew on the side of your lip, rubbing at your eyes as you try to think of anything else to say. Youâve spent time with him alone, sure, but never in a situation where it felt like you had to defend yourself, your background, the whole reason why you were here in the first place, like you are now.Â
People bustle around the two of you, and he sits up a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back as his neck cracks a bit.Â
âItâs raunchy and⊠theatrical,â you try to explain, attempting to seem unconcerned as you fold the paper bag up and set it neatly on the ground, making a mental note to pick it up before you leave. âBut I think itâs really interesting given the period it was written and how vulgar, everything is, and the characters are all super unlikable, which you donât really see in these kinds of productions, and, well, itâs supposed to be funny andâŠfun, I guess,â your voice dies down, your lips almost chewed raw as you wait for a reaction, a facade of interest, a pitiful acknowledgement to what felt like your livelihood, but he just nods.Â
You suck in a deep breath, gaze darting around the theater as you try to look at anything else.
Noticing your sudden silence, his eyes leave the stage for a moment as they rake over your expression, see the way your lips pull into a small, worried line, the crease between your brows, something that appeared whenever you were stressed or confused. His face seemed to melt to mirror yours.Â
âIs there a reason why they keep calling the daughter a slut?â He finally asks, and your eyes dart back to him, and your cheeks puff, blinking slowly as you nod, embarrassed for some reason as you stammer to find words.Â
âItâs, erm, well, itâs in the original material, but,â your words mesh together as you try to call back on the research paper you did for this piece, your mind blanking as your cheeks heat, âBut I think they keep it in because itâs supposed to be a demonstration of the degradation of women and the differentiation between men who also exhibit premarital interest in the sexâŠand itâs not supposed to be funny but they repeat it a lot, so you kind of become numb to the meaning of the word...â Your rambling quiets near the end as you shoot him another tense smile, wringing your hands together as your lips tremble, looking away as a last resort to save your dignity.Â
After spending two years with him, youâve become familiar with his routine and what he expects from his day-to-day life. What some describe as the prodigal son, Gojo Satoru, if not with friends, is usually found in the back of the library, in his dorm, or somewhere quiet with papers strewn in front of him, with his laptop out, typing away. He sometimes goes to benefits and galas, some to attend because of his parents, others because of his biochemistry path, but his time isnât usually spent at the theater watching vulgar plays.Â
Thatâs what you did.
And of course, you didnât come here weekly. You had to be here for that godforsaken Literature in English class. But this was a part of you, this play, this environment, these exaggerated dialogues are what you spent your time obsessing over. The history and the meaning, and the importance of English literature and writings are your life, and having someone next to you, watching a personification of it live, felt like inviting them into a piece of your mind, even if they wouldnât view it as such.Â
But to you, you who liked to overcomplicate and read into things, saw it as such, and your heart was thumping erratically when you realized that Satoru probably saw this, you, as equally insane for enjoying something like this.Â
And you hated how much the thought made you spiral, made you think of yourself less than when there was a possibility that this wasnât what Satoru was thinking at all, but the slight chance, the small probability, is what stirred the trepidation in you.Â
âAre you enjoying it?âÂ
His question brings you out of your mental fever, and you bite your cheek, wondering what the right answer would be. Heâs watching you, waiting, and you exhale shakily, smiling poorly as you swallow back some bile.
âI, I am,â you say finally, âItâs justâŠI did this huge essay on this last year, and Iâve been looking for a rendition of it, but thereâs only this old movie thatâs so far been made, soâŠseeing this live is pretty cool.âÂ
He nods, looking at your stalled expression as you keep your eyes trained on the curtains, not wanting to show your internal thoughts on your ever-so expressive face, and he tries to keep his slight confusion at bay for your suddenly reserved self.Â
As you try to feign indifference by going on your phone, you can watch him from the corner of your eyes, look around, and uncharacteristically fidget in his seat as he debates doing the same as you or talking some more, which, at the moment, you donât appear content to do. But the more you try to ignore him, the more it seems like your body has a physical reaction to it, protesting your desire to keep to yourself.Â
âDid you do anything fun today?â You ask, putting your phone down as you scratch at the inside of your wrist. He blinks, looking a little quizzically at you before he clears his throat.Â
âWell, Suguru had set me up for a double date,â he explains, and you feel your chest tighten a little bit, âButâŠeh,â he shrugs, âI wasnât really feeling it,â he drags a hand over his face, âIf only he knew where Iâd end up instead, huh?â He nudges your elbow with his, a teasing grin on his face, but blood roars in your ears upon hearing his words.Â
Gods, the man who despised dates and unaccounted occasions and strange meetings would rather take that over this.
You let out a little puff of air, trying to give him a smile as you feel sweat dot on the back of your neck, your palms clammy as you wring your hands together, looking down at your shoes as you try to bite back the lump in your throat.
Heâd rather be anywhere else than here, your mind blares, the unspoken words ringing in the small expanse of your heart.
Thereâs a strange gurgle in your stomach, one that shifts sharply, and you wince. This is definitely not a part of your internal trade, and you hope that when you shift to place a hand on it to try and calm it down. You turn your phone off, pocketing it in your tote, and the sudden movement makes you jerk in pain. You sit back up, hoping that he won't notice.Â
But, of course, he does.Â
He angles his body towards you, brows cinched as your eyes twitch barely.Â
âAre you okay?â His voice his deep, tinged with worry, his head leaning towards you just a bit so that you can feel his minty breath fan across your warm cheek.Â
You wave him off, shooting him a horrifically terrible smile as you shift, your head tilting to the side as your stomach makes another alien noise.Â
âYeah,â you mutter, almost like a question because even you donât know if youâre alright, âYeah, I just think itâs the popcorn on an empty stomach.â But even that explanation made no sense. It seems like your stomach is churning even more with each passing second, and you really wish that he couldnât tell that every moment is a testament to your battle for control of your own body.
âDo you want some water?â He asks, looking over his shoulder to the doors, remembering that the concession stand was also selling bottled drinks, âIâll get some-âÂ
But your hand shoots out, gripping the fabric of his sleeve as you tug on it, shaking your head as you attempt to situate yourself back in your seat, your act going well besides the slight crack in your face at a particularly painful jab.Â
âNo, no, itâs fine, Iâm fine,â the lights flicker again above you, and youâre somewhat grateful for them, grateful hat you canât see the obvious fear on his face at the prospect of you being sick near his very hygienic self, âThe shows starting, anyway, so just,â your voice dips a little as you try to contain a groan, âJust stay.âÂ
He goes to protest, but your hold on him is strangely tight for someone so riddled with pain, and his mouth parts to say something, but the glare you shoot him nearly shuts him up.Â
âPlease,â you mutter, the embarrassment from several things thick in your voice as you wince, your eyes melting into something pleading as the applause begins, and his face falls for a second, but you look away, weakly clapping along with everybody else.Â
You feel tears prickly in your eyes.Â
And you hope he canât see the shining gloss when you try to blink them back.Â
â
When the show ends, youâre nearly debilitated with the pain in your abdomen, and the mortification from having watched Macheathâs other wife battle it out with Polly alongside Satoru. They mix into a terrible combination, one that forces you to come back into consciousness in the middle of the theater, the bright overhead lights nearly sending you into a psychosis.Â
There must have been something horrifically wrong with either the popcorn or the butter they put on it, because, despite your blurry view, you can see a few people in the audience huddled up in their seats the same way as you, despite the play ending.Â
Satoru cleans up next to you, taking his boxes of candy and your strewn popcorn bag, and sits back up to look at you nervously.
âAreâŠare you sure youâre okay?â His gentle tone is one that you barely register as your hands grip onto the armrest. You can barely even muster up a hum, giving him a shaky thumbs up as your stomach gurgles again, this time, audibly.Â
You try to stand, but your knees wobble, and you grip onto the back of the seat as your head sways. You can feel his grip on your elbow, nearly knocking over some people's bottles beside him from how fast he stands up, and your clammy face looks upward at him, swearing that he looks like an angel with the light framing his hair.
âI,â you clamp your mouth shut, swallowing thickly as you wince, taking a few seconds before you start again, âI have to use the loo.â The declaration comes out as a whisper, an ashamed one, and you canât look him in the face, even if his nods insistently, an arm of his wrapping around the expanse of your back as he tries to steady you
âThereâs one near the concessions,â he tells you, his voice strangely considerate and temperate, head leaning down to get closer to your ear so that you could hear him better, âDo you think you can make it?â
You feel like a child, but you only nod, neck and face flaring up in embarrassment as you allow him to guide you through the aisle of people, not looking anybody in the eyes as you make it out, your legs shaking slightly. If it werenât for him, youâre sure you wouldâve toppled down in pain by now.
The walk out of the theater becomes a blur, letting him guide you towards the bathrooms with one of your hands wrapped tightly around your stomach, as if it would ease the pain, and you feel the two of you come to a stop as you stand next to the ladies' door.Â
His arm around you falls, and you miss its warmth. He looks crossed with different emotions as you use the wall to hold yourself up, wobbling towards the bathroom as you shoot a look over your shoulder.Â
âThanks,â you whisper, your eyes widening and then shutting instantly at how much it hurts your head, âIâllâŠIâll be back.â The words slur in your mouth, and you donât give him any time to react before you leave through the wooden door and book it to a stall.Â
The moments that follow afterwards are what youâd expect from a case of bad butter.Â
You kneel on the floor, heaving everything up, trying to be as quiet as possible so the girls in the stalls around you canât hear, but itâs not a process that youâre particularly fond of and can feel your will to continue weakening as you leave back on the wall, your head in yours hands as you hear the toilet automatically flush.Â
At least getting it out of your system seems to have made the painful throbs dull down to an annoying little jab, but you feel like the bulk of the damage has already been done. Satoru was sweet enough that heâd try to never bring this up again, but you knew youâd have to live with the humiliation of this evening for a couple of months before you did something else that would top it.Â
You let your head tilt back and heave a gulp of air, palms jamming into your eyes as you attempt to swallow, your mouth too dry to produce any saliva. If Shoko were here, sheâd at least try to make you laugh about the ridiculousness of it all. But itâs just you and Satoru, and you donât know if you can even look at him for the next week after tonight.
Giving yourself a little more time to calm down, you heave yourself up from your position on the floor, careful not to touch the ground, and pluck your bag off the hook, miraculously throwing it on before you hunched, so as it wouldnât touch anything too icky.Â
You wash and scrub your hands, feeling dirty and still a little sick as you splash some water on your face, hoping the cool water will help snap you back. The girls around you talk, some drying their hands, others touching up their makeup in the mirror. One of the girls next to you watches you through your reflection, her face pale and strands of hair wet as she splashes some water onto her face.Â
âPopcorn?â She asks, and your eyes find hers through the mirror, blinking slowly as your hands grip the counter.Â
âYeah,â you take a deep inhale of air, sharing a small smile with her as you turn off the faucet, âDo you want some hand sanitizer?â You offer, going to reach into your tote, but she waves it off, giving you a kind smile as she continues to wash her hands, probably feeling just as bad as you were.Â
Giving her a small nod as you go to the paper towel dispenser, you reach around for your phone, opening it up as you quickly send a text to Shoko to update her on where you were, nothing too long, just to be safe, and tap the tip of your shoe on the ground, debating what to do next.Â
You could go see Satoru, probably waiting outside, and awkwardly explain that you should probably walk back, seeing how his germaphobic personality might not mesh with the fact that you had basically deposited your entire day in the theater washroom. You could also try to sneak away and hope that he was standing somewhere that granted you the option of stealth, but you quickly shook that off, quickly understanding how pathetic and childish it was.
After another moment of thought, you ball up the towel and throw it away, pushing the door open with your shoulder as you enter back into the lobby, the business having died down just a bit, and look around bravely for the man.Â
Spotting the pop of white near the end of the room, you take a few steps forward before you halt, stopping near a wall that offered you a little bit of insight as to what he was doing as you peeked around the corner.Â
2 - 0, you think sunkenly, watching the way Satoru talks to another girl, his broad shoulders shielding her from where you originally were, and that familiar ache enters your chest as you play with the hem of your sweater.
You could be sadistic when it came to your unrequited feelings; that much you had made peace with. But the universe was horrifically masochistic for the situations it thrust you into.Â
His face is a little more stiff than before, but still polite and kind as he cranes his neck to look at the girl. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun, one that you always envied with how clean and precise some girls were able to make theirs, and watched how her hand lingered on his arm, something you could never get away with without his face falling into contained disgust.Â
Itâs unfair to think this way of this stranger, you remind yourself, after all, if you had the guts, youâd try to make a move on him too.Â
So, in another moment of decision-making, you get your phone out again, trying to contain the little tremble in your lips as you start drafting a message to him. Itâs for the best, you try to reason, telling him that you were too sick and didnât want to give him what you had. You send another message, saying that you were going to make your way back to your dorm and that you hope he had fun, thanking him as much as you could without sounding pathetic for how much he did this evening and for coming.Â
You also sent him the venmo transfer for the popcorn you were going to make earlier for good measure.Â
Where you were presented you an easy way to slip out of the building, one of the exits a little bit behind you, as you rubbed at your tired eyes, wrapping your arms around your torso as you prepared for the cold gusts of wind that were going to hit you the moment you stepped out.Â
People around you were talking in muted voices, laughter ringing around your ears as you ducked your head down, hoping that this time by yourself could give you some moments of peace, even though you knew that being alone with your onslaught of thoughts was going to do the exact opposite.
This campus was always bustling on a Saturday night, so you never felt too alone as you made your way away from the theater, pulling out your headphones as you geared up your phone to listen to some music before you heard a muffled shout from behind you.Â
Brows furrowing and your eyes slightly shifted in confusion, you, along with some other students around you, looked to see what the sound was.Â
To your utter horror and stupefaction, you watch as Satoru whips his head around, as if he were looking for something, or rather someone.Â
You stand like a deer in headlights, hands raised mid-way to your ears to put your headphones in them as you see him check his phone and then look up again, not caring that other people were looking at him strangely as he runs a worried hand down his face, typing something furiously fast as he looks around again.Â
Finally, it seems like he found what he was looking for when your eyes lock, and he sends you an ice-cold, deathly glare, one that made you glance around as if it were someone behind you more deserving of such a look, but before you can do anything, heâs jogging over to where you were frozen in place.Â
The closer he gets, the more you can see the agitation and vexation in his microexpressions, things youâve taken pride in before in reading, now not so much because you were on the receiving end of them.Â
When he comes to a halt, phone still in hand, his chest rises and falls a little fast, as if he were out of breath, and he runs another frustrated hand through his white locks as he pushes them back.
Your mouth gapes, and you suddenly remember that you were supposed to be âdeathly illâ according to the text you had sent him, and try to make your breathing seem more labored, your posture more haggard, but that doesn't work as he eyes you like he knows.
âWhere the hell are you going?â He snaps, and you wince slightly at his tone, and he reels, shooting you an apologetic look despite the fire burning inside of him from the way youâve been acting this night.
âBackâŠback to my place,â you whisper, voice hoarse, and he hears it instantly, expression melting as he takes the time to really dissect the way your eyes are slightly bloodshot, your lips chapped, your lashes clumped with tears, and he takes a small step back, taking in a deep breath.
âNo, I, shit,â he stammers, restarting, âAre youâŠâ His voice comes out as thick and low, and you almost feel it in your bones as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves as he gives you a tilted look, âAre you okay?âÂ
This time, heâs not asking because you were exhibiting signs of ailment, but because you had been acting like you were strangers since the moment you saw him tonight. Because your behavior was so off and unlike you, he was struggling to understand if there was something beneath the surface, something that had happened that he wasnât aware of, that was fueling this shift.Â
Your eyes seem to waver as you try not to look at him, attempting a nonchalant shrug that is anything but, as you think of how to lower your voice to a deeper register to appear more sick than you really are.
âI feel sick,â you mutter, coughing feigningly as you pull on the straps of your tote upwards, as you clear your throat, trying not to feel the weight of the looks other people were giving the two of you.
A single brow of his raises, one that you know is detecting bullshit as you rub at your nose.
âIâm sure,â he finally murmurs, rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, âI think the entire lobby heard you throwing up your small intestine.â That statement alone almost makes you keel over in shame, humiliation, embarrassment, and disgrace, but he continues, âButâŠare youâŠokay? Youâve beenâŠoffâŠthe entire night.âÂ
And you know you canât sidestep this landmine because you know how weird youâve been acting this evening, knowing that your attempts to make things better have only backfired, and the past couple of hours come screaming back at you, and for some stupid, depressing reason, cause a sting of tears to prick behind your eyes.Â
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as your head falls slightly, your stomach still aching, your pride and confidence bruised, and you can still smell the lingering perfume of the girl he had been talking to, another reminder that you probably didnât smell like that perfume you had spritzed on so long ago.
âIâm okay,â you murmur, looking at the cracks on the ground, your voice shaking and wobbling and so clearly not true that you tilt your head back up to see his reaction, your face crumpling into a little wet laugh when he seems completely unmoved. Upon hearing your little giggle, his anger fades a bit, but is quickly replaced with another emotion when he hears you sniffle.Â
âLook, you-â he looks down at his phone to reread the text you had sent him, and his confusion seems to grow even more when he reads another notification, âDid you Venmo me?âÂ
You nod again, weakly, and when you look up at him, you see him fighting back a startled laugh, the quiver on his face making your lips pull up into a wobbly smile, your own emotions turning into something strange as you watch him shake his head in dismay, running a stressed hand through his hair.Â
âDid something happen today?â He asks, not taunting, never taunting, but something you canât place as you weakly not, a sheen over your eyes as you tug at your sleeves.Â
ââŠno,â you whisper, but the two of you know itâs far from the truth because even you canât hide the way your lips tremble and your hands shake slightly.Â
He presses his lips together tightly, his jaw ticking as he takes in your sunken form, something heâs never seen before, and chews on his cheek, thinking.Â
Sighing deeply, he pockets his phone, not able to look at your texts anymore because they made him too nauseous, and moves to be closer to you.Â
âCome on,â he says after a moment's silence, âLetâs go.â
You peek over at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you huff out a breath of air, trying to contain your tears as you sniffle again. Your bottom lip trembles slightly, and your stomach still has a lingering ache, but thereâs something else thatâs causing you to be like this, and you donât like whatever it is.Â
Heâs waiting, his elbow budging yours, and so you heave a sigh, rubbing at your cheeks as you nudge him back slowly.Â
âThank you, âToru,â you murmur, and he pauses, his tongue caught between his teeth because you rarely call him by that nickname, rarely use it unless you really mean it, âFor everything. And Iâm sorry,â you peek over at him from above your lashes, looking back at the ground at your shoe so you couldnât see his reaction, âI didnât mean to spoil your evening like this-â But before you can say anything more he raises a hurried hand, cutting you off.Â
âYou didnât spoil my evening, love,â he says quickly, his tone soft and teetering on worried, the little title slipping out of his mouth like it was natural, and if you werenât feeling like a pile of shit, you might have fixated on it more, his eyes roaming your anxious face.
But you insistently nod, your lips pressed together as if you were trying your hardest not to let out a pitiful cry in front of him.
âI-I did,â you voice cracks, and you rub at your eyes as some treacherous tears escape, and if only you could truly see the way he looks like he was breaking seeing you like this, âWith you getting the popcorn and then me getting sick and then the s-stupid show,â and he winces because he knows you were enjoying the play, could hear your twinkling laugh and he hates it whenever you feel the need to shut down the things you like because youâre worried other people will judge you for doing so, âAndâŠand I wish you had told Shoko o-or me about your date, I would have totally understood,â you try for a smile, your words choked and wobbly and if only you knew what you were doing as you ramble, âIâm justâŠIâm really sorry for everything." You finish with a quivering chuckle, your heart shaking like a leaf as you finally meet his eyes, hoping he canât see the little shake in your breathing when you finally do.
He breathes in deeply, and you can hear the gears in his head turning. But you nudge his side again, wanting to leave it at that. You can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you donât want to look.Â
And youâre grateful that to some extent, he understands that, even if not fully. He murmurs a gentle come on, his hand gingerly wrapping around your arm as he tugs to next to him, his warmth enveloping you as he leads the way.
â
As much as you insist, the one thing he doesnât seem to budge on is taking you back to your dorm.Â
You pleaded with him, begged him not to get him sick, but he wouldnât listen. Itâs almost as if he steered you towards his building, a hand hovering over your back as he led you inside and up the elevator and to his room before you could even have the ability to ditch and run away.Â
âIf youâre going to talk, fine, but donât think Iâm insane enough to leave you alone right now.âÂ
That alone could have sent you into a psychosis if you werenât so worried about puking all over his bed.Â
With the way his germophobic and clean tendencies forbade him from going to public restrooms, youâre stunned that heâs even standing near you with everything that has happened this night. He even lent you his old band shirt and trousers from when he was going through a phase.Â
It was a blur as you spun around his room, rifling through his drawers for towels and soap and things he thought you might want to use in the shower. You stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, not sitting down on the mattress because you knew how he felt about outside clothes on his sheets, and you said nothing as he handed everything to you, shooting you a shaky smile, one that was tense because you figured he was most likely worried about you staining or ruining one of his clean things. You donât say anything as he suddenly ducks, his knees hitting the floor as he starts undoing the laces to your shoes, mumbling something about how you bending over might not be the best for your stomach.
He was lucky enough to be in one of the newer buildings, meaning that he had a personal washroom, so he just led you to it and let you know to use the shower and to call out to him if you needed anything. He even had an extra pack of toothbrushes and boxers that he hadnât touched that he set aside for you.Â
You watched as he shut the door, the water roaring behind you as it began to heat up, and you silently stripped, neatly folding your clothes as you set them to the side. You took a tentative step inside his very clean shower, letting the steaming water hit you as you stood there for a couple of minutes, reflecting.Â
Washing your face, scrubbing roughly at the makeup and the evening away, you feel some salty tears bite at your cheek, and you donât even know why youâre crying right now. Well, in all honesty, you do, and thatâs probably what hurts the most.
Youâve never cried over Gojo Satoru before. Youâve never felt like it was so depressingly lost where youâd need to use these muscles and these feelings that you reserve for truly important things, but it felt like tonight was a confirmation and closure all in one. It felt like you slowly came to your senses, realized that despite your wishes, it was fruitless. You just werenât the kind of girl that he could cherish, at least, not in the way you wanted him to, and you knew it would be selfish of you to ruin any chance another girl could have of him being hers.Â
It took you a little longer than expected, but you feel like you were slowly gaining consciousness, the reality at hand as you turned the water off, patting yourself dry with the soft towel he had provided you.Â
You move carefully, brushing your teeth, pulling on the clothes he left you, as you assess yourself in the fogged-up mirror. Your eyes are a little puffy, but you can just tell him from earlier. Your voice is croaky, but youâll just bite your words back tonight until you can go back to your place in the morning and start distancing yourself from him until your feelings are choked out. Itâs time you began moving on, anyway.Â
Braving the other side, you take a deep breath before you carefully open the door, peeking around the corner until you see him sitting on the corner of his bed, furiously typing away until he hears the creak, looking up from across the room as you sheepishly smile.Â
He quickly puts his phone away, standing to his feet as he rubs his hands, not knowing what to do as he buffers.Â
âWas, erm, was everything good?â He motions to the bathroom, and you quickly nod, walking away as the steam from behind wraps around you, your body adjusting to the shift in temperature as your eyes stray to the couch in the corner, pillows and blankets set up in a makeshift bed.Â
âIt was great, thank you,â you say gently, âIâm sorry, again-â But he holds a hand up, cutting you off as he insistently shakes his head.Â
âReally, it was nothing,â he stresses, his cheeks dusted pink, his glasses discarded on his desk.Â
You nod again, embarrassed, and smile stiffly, pointing to the couch as you make your way over.Â
âThanks for this, too,â you say, but he seems to awkwardly shuffle, his hands behind his back, looking like he wants to say something, and your brow slightly quirks at his odd reaction.Â
âThatâsâŠthatâs for me,â he explains, moving away from his lofted bed as he shows you the changed sheets and the new pillow case covers, what he must have been doing in the time it took for you to shower, âYou can sleep here.â He pats the mattress, and you let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head as you move closer to the couch, feeling like the worst person in the world.Â
âI couldnât,â you stress, but heâs already moving closer to you, looking like he wants to move you away from the cushions, âIâve already imposed enough. Iâll sleep here. Itâs fine, really, I like couches.â
He opens his mouth and closes it, lips pressed into a thin line.Â
âYou havenât imposed,â he finally says, as if thatâs all he took away from your rambles, and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you wave aside his polite nature and hold your hands up.Â
âIf I sleep on your bed after everything, Iâm never going to be able to look you in the eyes again, okay?â You put it bluntly, âSo Iâll take the couch, and youâll take your bed, and itâll be fine. Okay?âÂ
His tongue darts out, blinking rapidly as if heâs assessing his different options, and he looks at you, to the couch, and then to the bed. He seems like heâs torn, but he figures that the next best thing is to ignore this completely, shaking his head to himself as he moves around you to the cupboards behind your body, shuffling around until he finds what he needs.
âIâm going to wash up,â he mutters, glancing briefly at you as he pulls in his towel to his chest, his new pair of clothes, and you feel your chest tighten at the sudden dismissiveness in his tone, ad if heâs given up with you, and he makes his way to the separate room, âMake yourself comfortable.â He calls over his shoulder before he shuts the door behind him, and you give it a few seconds before you wince, falling back down onto the couch as you pull a pillow to your chest and allow yourself some time to relax before he comes back.Â
You allow yourself some time to look around, appreciating his tidy room and the mess-free atmosphere. You can smell the lingering scent of bergamot, and you see the warmer on his desk, a candle right under it. The wall that his desk is parallel to is littered with postcards and retro movie posters (mostly Star Wars and Star Trek). There are some polaroids he has pinned up, some with Suguru and Shoko from their years in secondary school, some photos he had taken himself with his camera. His bookshelf, which is nearly leaning over with how heavy it is, is at the end of the couch, and you shift to get a better look at the books he has on his shelf.Â
Youâre so rarely in here, especially by yourself, so you peek around, hearing the water still running, and lift from the cushions, your eyes squinting as you move closer, trying to make out the names on the spines, your curiosity getting the better of you.Â
Most of the shelves are full of textbooks from previous courses he had taken; therefore, most of them are science-related. Your eyes shift across the spines, seeing some books about botany and a couple about astronomy and astrophysics, a specific interest of his despite specializing in biochemistry. Notes are jammed into the empty spaces, and you make out his cursive on some of them, smiling despite yourself when you pull some of them out, making out his quick scribble from when he was either in class or studying.Â
The bookshelf itself is insanely tall for no reason, tall enough that youâre sure Suguru or even Satoru, in his sprawling height, would struggle reaching to top, so you have to go onto your toes, stretching your calves as you tilt your head upwards to look at some of the higher shelves, pulling some books out by placing a finger on the top of the spine, careful not to disrupt anything as you let yourself get lost in the names.Â
Suddenly, in the midst of all the chemistry and biology and Latin names, something familiar catches your eye, a book that was resting on its side on the highest shelf, and you struggle but can wedge yourself up on the edge of the couch to reach it.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Your eyes widen in spite of your heavy emotions riddling your mind, and you turn it around, reading which edition and publisher it was as you scour through the pages, seeing his little citations in blue ink in the margins. You flip through the pages, each one highlighted and marked for different reasons, similar to the way you read through a book, and you close it shut, feeling like you were somehow intruding on something private as you set it back down in its initial place on the shelf until something else caught your attention.Â
Familiar titles and authors all paint the top level of his bookshelf, books that have nothing to do with his major or classes or even remotely with something you think he might enjoy reading, and you almost fall as you try to get closer.Â
A small box at the edge of the shelf piques your interest, and your lips catch between your teeth as you put all of your focus on this task, your nimble fingers moving closer, plucking it from its spot as you hold it gingerly in the palm of your hand, looking back to the bathroom as you hear the pipes groan as he turns the water off, an alarming sound, one that meant that you didn't have a lot of time left.
The box itself is also familiar, this one for more reasons than most, because you remember this box; you gave it to him for his previous birthday. amongst other little trinkets, finding it at a flea market, and thinking he could make some use of it. The wooden grain and the carvings on it were delicate, and your hold is even more careful as you unlock the little latch, the top lifting open as you peer inside.Â
Your eyes adjust to the sight, something you werenât necessarily expecting, as what you can only describe as junk littered the inside of it. A ticket stub from a movie he had seen, a dried leaf, candy wrappers, spare coins. You huff a little in disappointment, your nosey nature quelled by the contents within as you rifle around a little more, knowing you should stop and sit down and act like you saw nothing when you feel a glossy texture beneath your fingertips.Â
Gently, you pinch it between your pointer finger and thumb, pulling it out from beneath all rubble as you hold it closer to your face, your breath catching in your throat.Â
Itâs a polaroid of the two of you.
You remember the night well, a couple of months ago, during the summer. The four of you and a couple of mutual friends had rented a car and had gone up to a cabin, one of the many properties Satoruâs family owned, and had spent the weekend there. Suguru had insisted on setting up a fire and eating around it, and you had huddled up next to Shoko as the night got colder. You remember the voices and the laughs and the squeals as some of the friends, people you didnât know that well, began chasing each other, and you and Shoko watched, amused. You remember how one of the boys had been carrying a jug of water, one meant for inside, when somebody bumped into him, and he tripped, and the water came falling on you. You remember letting out a small laugh, shocked and forgiving as you assured the stranger that it was okay, shivering, nonetheless, as Shoko laughed uncontrollably.Â
But above all, you remember how Satoru hurried over from wherever he was, his stare worried that you were hurt, everything shifting when he saw the playful glint in your eyes, the fireplace illuminating your features in red, yellow and orange hues as you shrugged his worries off, his hands on your elbows, steadying you as Suguru took a photo of the moment, of your head thrown back in a laugh and his eyebrows pulled into an anxious line while his lips pulled into a gentle smile, the stars twinkling in the background as he steadied you to your feet.Â
You distantly recall hearing the click and asking Suguru about the photo, but hearing him say something along the lines of the lighting being too dark, but clearly that was a lie because you were holding the small photo in your hand, staring at it with no problem.
Before you can spend more time thinking about his junk box and what the hell this photo was doing in it, you heard some shuffling on the other side of the bathroom, the door clicking open as you scramble to put the box back, nearly tripping as you jump down, going back to where you were seated on the couch in a flash, appearing to look nonchalant as he stepped out.Â
You donât let your eyes linger too long on the way his shirt stretched tightly across his chest, or the way that the water has caused the fabric to slightly stick to his arms. He shakes his hair into a towel, ringlets of water falling as he pushes his hair back. You also try not to fawn too much over his mismatched pajamas, or how his trousers have prints of lightsabers in different colors all over them.Â
âHey,â he calls out gruffly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he tosses his towel into the hamper, his feet padding over to his desk as he checks the clock and then his phone for any notifications. He sighs, and your throat is dry, heart hammering in your chest as you realize a grave mistake.Â
In your haste to put everything back, the careful clutch you had on the photo had appeared nonexistent, and you had, for some reason, made the blunder of still holding the photograph of the two of you resting in the palm of your hand.Â
His back is still to you, and you swallow thickly, shuffling across the couch as you try to deposit it onto one of the nearer shelfs, hoping that if he were to see it he would think it had mistakenly fallen out or something less drastic, but his ears turn towards your movement, looking over his broad shoulders at the way you scramble to dispose of the film.Â
âWhat areâŠ?â His eyes pierce yours, and you sheepishly snap around to look at him, your hand going behind you as you shake your head, acting confused as his head tilts to the side, jumping from your seat at the edge of the cushion to your leg, angled towards his bookshelf.Â
âI was just looking at your books,â you quickly state, trying to cover your ass as lips purse together to give you a knowing look, a white brow rising so high that it disappears in his hairline, one calling you out on your obvious bullshit.Â
âHm,â he hums, taking a step closer to you, his skin still glowing from the shower as he makes his way to where you were sitting, towering over you as his arms cross deliciously across his chest, âThen what do you have behind you?âÂ
You feign innocence, blinking as you shake your head, acting dumb as you shrug.Â
âI,â you scoff, leaning back into one of the pillows as you shrug, âI donât have anything behind me.â
âRight,â he drawls out, his voice slightly deeper, intimidatingly so as he crouches down a little until his face is to face with you, his fingers moving to poke at your arms, twisting at an odd angle to hide behind your back, âThen you wouldnât mind if I gave you some medicine, yeah? Something that requires both hands?âÂ
Damn him.Â
You shake your head, swallowing as you shoot him a shaking smile.Â
âNot at all,â you stress, shifting uncomfortable as he nods, his eyes raking over your face one last time as he moves to his desk, pulling a drawer out, his medicine drawer, you deduce, and watch as he pulls out a bottle that seems to promise helping with stomach aches, and he turns it over, reading the label until he seems satisfied.Â
He strolls back to where youâre seated, holding the medicine bottle out towards you as he patiently waits.Â
You shoot him a fake smile, biting back annoyance as you shift awkwardly, wringing out a hand from underneath your body, the one thatâs not holding onto the photograph, as you take the bottle from his outstretched hands. You stare at it, realizing that heâs waiting for you to open it, and if it wasnât for the unimpressed look on his face, youâd almost wager that he was amused.
âSomething wrong?â He asks, fully knowing the answer, and you shoot him a glare.Â
âNo,â you bite back, your other hand moving slowly, careful not to crumble or tear the film as you place it under your thigh, showing him both of your hands as you twist the cap of the medicine bottle off, âSee?â
He nods, still unbelieving of your little tactic, as he takes the bottle away from you. You watch as he moves to set it down on the table, assessing the situation as he moves down in one swift motion, not giving you any time to understand what was going on as he loops one hands under your knees, another across your back as he lifts you up and over his shoulders like you genuinely weighed nothing more than a sack of flour and you screamed in horror at the rudeness of everything.Â
âFreak!â You shout, your face looking at his muscular back as he chuckles, not seeing anything yet as you try to kick his face, âThis is so degrading, put me down!â You scream, horrified and mortified as he pinches your calf that was near his chest.Â
âStop squirming,â he chides, but his voice is anything but chiding as he swivels around, your body jerking sideways as your head drops, motion sickness from already feeling a little off from earlier tonight, and you weakly punch his back, groaning.
âIâm going to puke all over you,â you threaten, but he just chuckles, shaking his head as he pretends to drop you, only to catch you last minute, his chest shaking with the sound, and you go to snap at him again,
 But you feel it, hear it the moment he sees the polaroid you had taken.Â
He goes tense, his grip on you tightening a little bit out of shock, and heâs suddenly silent. You wince, turning around, hoping he could take the hint and set you down, and he finally does, carefully setting you on the ground as he bends, picking up the photograph from where it had fallen onto the floor, and staring blankly at it.Â
Your hands clench, chest tightening as his eyes flicker from it to you, his face unreadable as his jaw clenches slightly.Â
Nobody speaks for a moment, the room suddenly as tense as it was when you first entered, and you watch as he puts the photograph face down on a random shelf, turning back to you as he sighs deeply.Â
âWere youâŠWere you going through my things?âÂ
The question shakes you, and your mouth parts as you clamp it shut.Â
âN-no,â you finally say, âWell, no, not really, but I guessâŠI donâtâŠI was,â your head drops to your hands in mortification as you motion weakly to the bookshelf, âI was only looking at your books.â You mutter weakly, not even able to look at him as you keep your stare trained on the books and their titles.Â
âI didnât mean to see it, butâŠâ You trail off, thousands of emotions racing through you as you try to deny it in your mind, sadness from before, anger with yourself, and suddenly feel vexation towards him for no particular reason as your eyes snap to his, âGod, why do you care? Itâs just a photo! I didnâtâŠI didnât mean to look, but I saw that thing I gave you, and I had thought you wouldâve tossed it away by now, and I just wanted to see what youâd keep in there andâŠyeah, fuck, okay, I looked! Iâm sorry, okay? ButâŠI mean, you keep it as a junk box anyway, itâs not like itâsâŠlike itâs an heirloom!â Youâre trying to ration and reason and trying to justify your clearly immoral actions as you ramble again, a terrible trait of yours, as he just takes it, takes your anger and your slew of words and your hurt as you feel your eyes water for no reason again as you hug your arms to yourself.Â
He says nothing for another moment, his eyes dark and piercing.Â
And then he moves.Â
His arm reaches upwards, up to the shelf, up behind your head to where the box was resting on the top shelf, and he slowly brings his hand down, your heart in your throat as he nearly throws the lid open, beginning to pull everything out one by one.
âThis,â heâs holding the ticket stub, âThis is from tonight.â
Your hands instantly drop to your sides as the anger fades and utter confusion floods your senses.Â
âŠhuh?
You had just looked at the box; how did you not notice? But you look closer at it, the date and the row and seat number nearly the same as the ticket stub you had thrown away after leaving the theater in a hurry, and your eyes flee up towards him, his chest heaving as he continues.Â
âThis is from when we went to the beach,â he pulls out a chipped seashell, and you recognize the pattern instantly, remembering the one time the four of you had gone to the shoreline, a seashell you had picked up and thought was interesting, showing it to him before Shoko called you away, but you donât have any time to compute that as he pulls out the next time.Â
âThis is from the candy you gave me during a study session we had,â he pulls out a wrinkled wrapper, âThis is the hair tie you left at my place and forgot,â he has a simple black elastic band sitting in the palm of his hand, but he could very much so be holding your pittering pattering heart the more he continues, his voice quivering slightly, and youâve never heard him ramble like this, ramble like you.
âThis is the leaf that was stuck in my hair that you pulled out,â he admits quietly, holding up the dried leaf from the time you had been walking next to him in the fall, the trees shaking in the wind, giggling at his white hair littered with the colorful leaves, âThese are the coins you gave me because I didnât have any change,â heâs holding up the spare sterlings you had lent him when he wanted some ice cream but forgot his card at home, and your eyes move up and down, a strange thumping sound in your ears because you feel like youâre about to faint, and he slows to a stop, his cheeks flushed and his hands shaking as his hand fills with all of the things you have given him over the past two years, things that a normal person would have thrown away or used or given back.Â
âThisâŠâ his lips tremble as he shuts them for a second, looking unlike the person youâve begun to know so deeply as his fingers wrap around something, pulling out a neatly folded white napkin, unused, as he takes in a steadying breath, âThis is the, erm, the napkin you lent me. From the night we first met.â
The box is empty now, but the room fills with moments in time, moments that you would cherish in the deepest parts of your mind before you went to bed, and pretended like they were fleeting and didn't matter so that you could face him bravely the next time you saw him. Moments that you thought he treated like normal moments in time that would pass and would never be remembered again, moments that you didnât think he wouldâŠhold onto.
Not the way you did.
âItâs notâŠjunk,â he admits thickly, âFor me itâs not.â
He stops, taking in a deep breath as he pushes his hair away from his face, carefully putting everything back in the box, including the photograph, as he sets it down, turning back to face your stunned expression.Â
âLook, have you ever seen me without my glasses?âÂ
You blink. Realizing that heâs waiting on you to answer, you blank before shaking your head slowly, and he nods.Â
âRight, right, well, I used to wear contacts. All the time. Ask Suguru o-or Shoko butâŠever since you said that you like the way glasses look, IâŠI donât know, I kept wearing them, hoping youâdâŠâ he trails off, his cheeks completely red, the tips of his ears a bright pink as he ducks his head down, scratching his nape sheepishly, whispering, âHoping youâd maybe say it again.â
Your eyes go wide, and you blink owlishly, swearing you look fish-adjacent with the way you can only give him this look on repeat as he takes your silence as an okay for him to go on a rare nervous tangent of his own.
âWhen I was little, my grandfather taught me how to tie his tie. He said that I should learn how to do it by myself so that I wouldn't need any help when I grow up.â
You donât say anything, and he doesnât get angry at your silence, but simply offers you a small, worried smile.Â
âIâve gotten pretty good at it,â he confesses with a farce laugh, something empty and shaky, "But you always ask to tie them, andâŠI always let you. Youâre the only person I feel comfortable with; the only person who it doesnât feel like,â he shivered, wincing slightly as if his skin was prickling at the thought of other people touching him the way you do, âThe only person who can touch me and I feelâŠokay.â
âI have a shelf of all the books youâve talked about,â he persists, motioning upwards, and you slowly look around to where The Count of Monte Cristo was sitting, along with all the other books youâve raved about in the past, thinking heâd only listen and give you kind comments, not knowing that he had gone home and sat down and read them all afterwards, âI stopped drinking whenever we go out together because you said you donât really like the smell of alcohol on peopleâs breaths. IâŠâ he rakes his hand through his hair again, a nervous fidget of his as he looks pleadingly at you, âI have my spot on Suguruâs couch because your spot is right next to it.â
âAnd our friends tell me that Iâm not crazy, thatâŠthat I might have a chance,â he motions a shaking hand between the two of you, and you allow yourself this time to blink again, âBut, I donât know,â his head ducks as he chokes back some tears, and your eyes widen even more, your eyebrows up in your hair at this point because youâve been rendered speechless, âItâs like any time I try to get closer to you, you leave or immediately want to be anywhere else or seem uncomfortable and I donât want you to feel that way, especially because of me.âÂ
When he looks up, his eyes are glassy, looking like a stormy ocean, and you feel tears prickle at yours, your breath lodged in your throat as you try to pinch yourself, swearing that you were in some vision, but this is real, and heâs not stopping, saying the words youâve only dreamt of.Â
âI know Iâm not reallyâŠthe kind of person that youâd usually go for,â he explains, his voice dim, âIâm not good with literary nuances or dissecting medieval texts. I canât read the way you read, and Iâm not good with understanding people the way you do, butâŠI want to be. I want to be that, I want to be good for you.â
Your mouth is wide open as you gape at him, trying to make sense of the words that you could only imagine as you stared silently at him saying to you, saying them to you here. The two of you donât say much for a second, your eyes blinking rapidly as your mind travels faster than the speed of sound, and you realize that heâs not lying or trying to make you laugh. Heâs not confessing his love for another girl, but instead clutching his chest because it felt like your silence was leading up to a personal rejection, and you can barely muster up any actual words as you surge towards him, stopping his rambling as your arms wrap around his neck, knees knocking against his as your lips slam against his.Â
Your heart plummets as you feel him still, his arms still at his sides as his eyes widen in shock, and you feel like youâve completely screwed things up, going to step away before his hands shoot upwards, wrapping around your waist and legs as he hoists you up, his lips moving against yours hungrily.Â
âYouâre soâŠso stupid,â you mutter in between breaths, his lips parting yours, soft and gentle and fast and desperate as they chase the way you taste, wanting to savor the plushness of yours as you mewl at the way his fingers dig into your soft skin, moving you effortlessly towards his bed as the two of you smile against each other, laughing in the air as your back hits the mattress. He fidgets with his glasses, pushing them up with his middle finger, coming a little loose after everything.Â
âYeah?â He murmurs, happy, giddy, his eyes bright and alive and electric as he nips at your bottom lip, his own shining with spit as he ducks down again, pressing kisses to your face, and you feel lightheaded, âTell me how Iâm stupid, baby.âÂ
You groan, lightly hitting his chest as he chuckles lightly, his kisses moving to your cheek, across your nose, as your smile turns bright enough to power the sun for the rest of eternity if it were to die in this very moment.
âI,â you huff, your chest burning and your hands tangled in his hair, fisting his shirt as you bring him in impossibly closer, âIâve had thisâŠdebilitating crush on you ever since I saw you,â you admit quietly, and he pauses, his sunset dusted cheeks turning into a wide grin as he huffs out a laugh and push his face away from your as you turn away in discomfiture, âAnd Iâve done everything to get you to notice me. Iâve embarrassed myself like, twenty times a day, hoping youâd look my way.âÂ
Satoru raises a slender brow, and you have the urge to pull him down by the collar, pressing your lips to his as he happily obliges, his tongue poking out to tease yours as he turns to an even bigger taunting menace as he pulls away.Â
âI canât stop looking at you,â he mumbles shyly, ducking down as he kisses your throat, and you shift slightly to give him more access, your breath catching in your lungs as his kisses turn into him sucking in a patch of skin, licking it over when heâs satisfied itâs going to mark. âI could barely focus on the play tonight because I kept looking over.âÂ
You let out a giggle, curling his soft strands of hair around your finger as he glances up to see your smile, pressing a chaste kiss as if he wanted to taste the way your unabashed happiness felt.
âAnd I try to sound smarter whenever youâre around,â you admit, and he snorts against the skin of your cheek again, enjoying how plush and soft it was, biting it as you squeal, but it was never hard enough to hurt, just experimental, and he laughs, âAnd you never even acknowledged the number of times Iâd bring up a science-y article I had spent the entire night analyzing just for you to ask me about my stupid book report.â You pout, and he attempts to kiss it off of you, his hands roaming the exposed skin of your waist and stomach, hot against your cold self, and he rolls his eyes.Â
âThatâs only because I was having tiny aneurysms whenever youâd do that,â he reasons, his face morphing into something sweet and gentle and something so entirely new andâŠyours that you wish you could take a picture of it, âAnd I wanted you to know that I remembered the things you told me.âÂ
You throw a hand over your face, not wanting him to see the gleefulness on your face, but he just wrings your hands away, slotting his long legs in between yours as he lets out another joyous laugh.
âCome on,â he insists, nudging his nose against your jaw, âHow else am I stupid?â
You let out an exaggerated groan, biting your lip as you try to think through your muddled thoughts.Â
âYouâŠyouâŠyou kept only the ridiculous things I gave you!â You argue, and he moves upwards slightly, giving you a pointed look, as if you were offending his lifeline or treasures, âIâve given so many things andâŠâ But you trail off, feeling his large hand gently wrap around your face, turning it to the side so you could see his room from his point of view.Â
âLook closely,â he softly urges, and your eyes trail across the walls, the shelves, the tabletops, âThis room is full of you.â
And heâs right.Â
The postcards he has up are the ones you gave the three of them from the time you had gone to Paris with your family over the summer, picking out individual ones you thought each of them would like. Vintage telescopes and microscopes you imagined him enjoying, but never enough to actually put them up. The music box that plays the theme of A New Hope, a simple melody from his favorite movie that you had also gotten for his birthday, sits on his bedside table. The books you had found on sale about plant biology, a little thing you thought he might like, rest on top of his bookshelf.Â
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, and he chuckles at your quiet reaction, dipping down to kiss you again, wanting to nudge those sounds from you, even if he has to take them like this.
âIs this why youâd scare off any guy who came up to me?â You ask, but you already know the answer, just wanting to see the look on his face as he groaned, pinching your side as you giggle at his antics.Â
âI thought I was being so obvious,â he murmured against your lips, his tongue roaming through your mouth as you part it slightly for him, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, a string of spit connecting the two of you as he pulls away, âEveryone could see how badly I wanted you.âÂ
You shrug, feeling sluggish from his movements.Â
âI didnât,â you argue faintly, and he looks up, white lashes fluttering as he grins, kissing the tip of your nose as he smiles.Â
âGuess I didnât either,â he whispers teasingly, âGuess weâre both stupid for that.âÂ
You go to fight back, but you let out an embarrassing moan at the way his hands travel across your stomach, pushing your shirt upwards slightly as your back arches upwards to chase the feeling. His hands are large and travel expertly across your body, as if heâs mapped out the small things that make you squirm and the things you itch for, as if heâs spent the past two years studying you instead of his dusty textbooks, and the thought alone makes you shake with anticipation.Â
âCanât believe I waited this long,â he murmurs against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plain of it as you shake with an uncontrollable giggle, âWhy didnât you say anything, hm? Did you like tormenting me like this?â
The question makes you stop.
Suddenly, everything from before comes rushing back.Â
It seems like it sets off alarm bells in your head, as if you had been functioning through a rose-tinted fog for the past couple of minutes, and suddenly reality hits you becauseâŠyou havenât told him for a reason. The months and months of pining after him werenât just because you liked torturing yourself, but because of your frankly very real fears of rejection for more reasons than one.Â
After a second, you huff, hands clenching by your sides as you feel a surge of feelings, deep ones that youâve choked on and tried to hide, and he notices the instant way you tense up, stopping his movements as he glances upwards at you.Â
âDo you want to stop?â He asks gently, tugging the hem of your (his) shirt back down to cover your stomach, and you let out a delicate laugh, a pensive look on your face as you chew worriedly on your face.Â
Sighing, you rub a hand down your face, sitting upright with your back resting on his headboard, and turn to look back at his desk, feeling the weight of his stare more than before as heat licks at your cheeks.Â
âWhat aboutâŠwhat about the others?â
The question rings through the room, bouncing off the walls, and his brows furrow in slight confusion as you still refuse to tear your eyes away from his desk, your hands resting in your lap, and he moves slowly, his large hands encompassing yours, unraveling your fingers, alleviating the tension you didnât know was building.Â
âWhat others?â Satoru asks after a moment, unjudgmentally, tenderly, and caring, patient as you huff out another shaky laugh, shrugging your shoulders as they fall in a heavy drop, your chest rattling with the emotions you had been trying to kill off from the past two years.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, feel his fingers against yours, and your gaze flickers to his before going back to focusing on something to the side.Â
âThis is gonna sound stupid,â you preface, but his thumb presses into the palm of your hand, a small sign that he wasnât going to judge anything that came out of your mouth because he just showed you that he kept the first napkin you had ever given him.Â
âButâŠâ you drop your head into your hands, your voice muffled as you continue, âI see the girls that come up to you. O-or your ex. ViâŠright?â You peek up, and his eyes are slightly squinted, nodding slowly, as if he wants you to make your point before he says something, âAnd theyâre just soâŠugh, I donât knowâŠperfect? Like, they seem perfect for you. Either theyâre stunning, or theyâre in your major, or theyâre both, or justâŠso different, and I feel like IâmâŠnotâŠthat.âÂ
He blinks slowly, piecing this together with the fact that he asked you why you hadnât spoken up sooner, and his lips tug upwards in a little grin, one that makes you want to roll your eyes if not for the storm brewing inside of you, and he tugs you closer, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as he drops his head onto your chest.Â
âI think youâve got it backwards,â he says against you, his voice vibrating off of you, and you feel it shake you to your core, his hand moving up and down the expanse of your back as you hand unconsciously move upwards, back to his soft white locks, âBecause none of those girls could measure up to my perfect girl.â
You stop, glad he canât see the large smile on your face as you head falls backwards, thumping against the wood as your chest swells with joy, and when he looks up, his goofy grin could match yours, and you push him away by the cheek, but he just moves, kissing the palm of your hand as you laugh softly.
âYouâre so stupid,â you repeat, but he knows youâre only masking the giddiness you feel as he nods against your hand, his eyes shimmering and bright as he sits up a little straighter, nearly encompassing you with his body as he leans closer, his nose nudging yours as the two of you smile against each other's lips.Â
âYouâve got that right,â he whispers in the small space of air between you, âIâm such a fool for you.âÂ
You decide then that you donât give him any more time to talk or say something else that could turn your insides to mush, so you tug him down by his neck, his lips curling upwards as they press against yours.Â
He seems like heâs experimenting with kissing you, as if he knows youâre learning in real time, and has no qualms taking it slow. He lets you take the lead when you want, lets you dart your tongue out slightly, and opens his mouth to welcome you in. When you get a little shyer, he takes the initiative, hands roaming around your hips, pulling you into his lap as you mewl him again. When he could tell you needed some air, heâd pull away, kissing the corners of your lips, your cheeks that he loved so much, the edge of your brows that would pull into the cutest furrows whenever you were confused, and cherished you the way heâd been aching for ever since he saw you at that stupid English department banquet.Â
You chase the feeling of his skin on yours, the way his fingers feel when they trace your features, the way his hands run up your arms, the way his palm cups your jaw. Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, his as well, as they drop down to the drawstring of his trousers, running up the smooth and hard skin of his abs, feeling greedy as you run a finger down his delicious v-line. You feel him shuddering beneath you, and you grin evilly, your mouth water as you untie his pants, your fingers running over the white tufts of hair of his happy trail, and your shuffle around a little bit to help him as he tugs up the hem of his old band shirt that you donned, and you almost let out a whine when they suddenly stop, lashes fluttering open to see what he was going to do next.Â
His forehead drops onto yours, one of his arms pulling you closer to his chest, the other still cradling your face, and you see the way his face has gone pink, a light hue that you rarely see him in.Â
âJust so you know, this, em, this isnât how I wanted things to go.âÂ
You let out a stark laugh, your hands pressing against his as your fingers curl around his hair, tilting your head slightly to the side.Â
âYeah? How were things supposed to go?â You ask, trying not to sound too selfishly drunk on him as he shrugs, his lips pressing together as he divulges you in his own fantasies, things heâd only think about when it was the two of you together and heâd be wanting to confess his undying love for you while youâd be rambling on about John Milton or another one of your other favorite authors.
He looks shy, and you want to bite him, watching him gather up some of the courage you had kissed away as he takes one of your hands away from his arms, playing with your fingers as he pushes some of his tousled hair away from his face.
âWell, I was planning on telling you how crazy I am about you after this whole day I had planned out,â he starts, scratching the back of his neck as he turns a little red, âI had, erm, bought tickets to the museum youâve been wanting to go to,â he says, his eyes flickering from your face to the side as his head drops, and you nudge it back up as he chuckles, âThe one displaying the original copies of those old books you like so much.âÂ
He swallows, taking a deep breath, and then continues.Â
âAnd I wanted it to just be us, nobody else. I would have obviously read up on all the authors on exhibit, so I wouldnât look like a total idiot when, or if, you had come, and Iâd spend the entire time sweating and hoping you couldnât see.â You giggle, and he squeezes your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of it in a soothing gesture. Your eyes drop, urging him gently to continue because you feel like youâre in a dream, and if he stops, youâre going to wake up from it.Â
âAfterwards, Iâd take you to this restaurant Iâve heard is good,â he grins boyishly, tongue poking in between his lips, âAnd when we were done, Iâd walk you back to your place andâŠtell you that I liked you then.âÂ
You canât stop smiling, and he canât stop either.Â
âJustâŠjust that you liked me?â you tease, humming as he shifts a little, his arms wrapping around your waist, âNot to beâŠselfish, or anything, but I feel like this way was so much more romantic with your little box of trinkets and your rambling.â He groans, pinching you lightly as you snicker, but he ultimately shakes his head, smoothing over the place he pinched with his soothing touch.
âNo, no,â he mutters, his face determined, as if he was recounting everything he had planned to say, âIâd tell you how much I liked the way you look when you start talking about your day,â his thumb brushes across your cheek, running across the soft hair of your brows, âAnd how much I like the way you care about everything you do and everybody around you. Iâd tell you that I really like it when you tell me about the book you just finished, and how much I admire your kind heart. Iâd tell you that IâŠI like how wonderfully weird you are, and how I wish I could be half as interesting as you are on a regular day. I would have told you how youâre always the first person I look for when I enter a room. AndâŠâ his shoulders rise and drop as he pulls you impossibly closer, âI would have really hoped that Suguru and Shoko were right about this because Iâd beâŠa little embarrassed if not.â
You hum, pretending to think as you twirl his white strands around your pointer finger even though you feel like youâre on fire and you canât breathe and everything feels like itâs burning in the best way possible, try not to freak out because the guy youâve been in love with basically just admitted the most amazing things to you, so you take a steadying breath, your head tilting as you smile.
âAnd what if I didnât want you to stop?â You feel heat blossom across your lungs when you hear his breathing hitch, âAfterâŠafter youâd do all of that?âÂ
He nods, surveying his different options as his blue eyes turn into a slightly different shade, as if they were dependent upon his emotions, and his hands turn a little heavier as they roam across your stomach, up across the skin of your ribcage, and they stop right under your bra.Â
âHmm, well, I wouldâve have asked you what you wanted to happen next,â his smile is wicked as his face drops down to your neck, leaving wet kisses until he ends up at your collarbone, right at the neck of your shirt as you nearly whine, feeling his teeth scrape just barely over the soft skin, âWhat is it you want, baby? What else would you want me to do?â
Your breathing stutters, and you arch your back a little, letting his nimble fingers fiddle with the clasp of your bra, giving you enough time to turn him down, but you donât; you want, no, need, for him to continue.Â
âI,â your breath lodges in your throat when he opens the clasps, helping you tug the straps down until your old ratty bra, the comfortable one that you were sure wouldnât matter being worn tonight because you never imagined something like this happening, but he doesnât care, setting it to the side as he wait patiently, menacingly, for you to find your words, âIâd probably ask you toâŠto come up.âÂ
He groans lightly, a mix between a guttural moan and a laugh.Â
âYeah?â Itâs not so much a question, but a confirmation as you nod, shivering when his hands move back upwards, your chest heaving as you feel his nimble and long fingers cup your tits, his fingers running over your nipples as your head falls to his shoulders, âThen what? What would I have done after I came up?âÂ
You go down, you want to say tauntingly, but donât have the willpower as his thumb flicks over a nipple, and you whine.Â
âEh, youâd, uh, Iâd, we, would probably end up onâŠon my bed and Iâd probably be wearing something cuter than this,â you try to say indifferently, and he rolls his eyes because you could be wearing faux feathers glued to the entirety of your body and heâd still think you were the most beautiful woman to ever exist, âAnd Iâd probably be a little more confident telling you what I,â you gulp audibly, your cheeks heating up, âWhat I want, seeing that you wouldnât have just seen me at my virtual lowest hours earlier.â And he chuckles, and it feels right, feels like this was meant to happen as his hands fall from your breasts, trailing down your stomach as you shuffle a little, moving to lie back on his pillow as he shuffles to, situating his body in between your thighs, waiting for your next command.Â
Satoruâs grin turns soft, like he knows what it is you want, but needs to hear you say it for him to feel okay doing the thing thatâs setting him alight. His hand moves, taking yours into his again and intertwining his fingers between yours.
â⊠what do you want, love?â His voice is thick, and it settles deep in your bones as your head falls, squeezing his fingers as you sheepishly mutter something, and he barely hears you, nudging you to say it a little louder as you groan in embarrassment, an arm flying over your face as your head falls back, not able to look him in the eyes as you timidly whisper;
âFor you, likeâŠto do stuff,â you murmur so quietly you think that your lips barely even moved, âToâŠto eat me out orâŠ.or whatever.âÂ
When he says nothing for a moment, you peek between your fingers and see his cheeks flushed, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets his chin down on your stomach, his glasses crooked as his brow arched. He moves, gingerly tugs your arm away from your face, and sits down by your side as he presses a chaste kiss to your stomach.Â
âYeahâŠ.yeah, I think I can âeat you out or whateverâ,â he says, and you groan ever louder, flicking his forehead as he chuckles, taking your words as the sign to go, go, go, his fingers moving excruciatingly slow as they start to tug the waistband of your pants and boxers (his, again), down, looking up at you for a little assistance, and you lift your hips, allowing him to slide them down fully.Â
You blink, relaxing that youâre completely bare right now, but he doesn't give you any time to be self-conscious as his pupils seem to blow up with lust, hungrily eating up the way your pussy is glistening with want and need, his cheeks a fiery red as his chest moves in a large exhale, like the air had been knocked from him.Â
His hand raises upwards to take his glasses off, but you make a sudden movement, as if your body was functioning on autopilot, when your hands wrap around his wrist, stopping him from doing anything else.Â
âDonât,â your voice is barely above a whisper, âK-keep them on.âÂ
His white lashes flutter slightly, and he gives you one of his boyish smiles that you love so much, his teeth shining as he presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, nodding slowly as he pushes his glasses back on.Â
âIf I knew that waiting so long for you to tell me that you liked my glasses would have been when Iâm about to do this, I think I could have waited another couple of years more.â He says honestly, dropping himself down between your thighs, and your eyes flutter shut, head falling back on the pillow as you feel his warm hands slowly move up and up and up, parting you ever so slightly so he could situate himself better between them.Â
Your mouth parts when you feel his fingers move on the outside of your lips, collecting the slick, and you hold back a wanton moan, your hands flying up to his hair, tugging him closer. You watch as he pushes his glasses up by using his shoulder to move the frames up, and when his lips suddenly latch onto your clit you actually think youâve gone insane.
His tongue darts out, moaning like a whore when he finally gets to taste your saccharine taste, his eyes rolling back as he parts your lips, the sound greedy as he moves a thumb to circle your clit, moving down to run his tongue selfishly up and down your pussy for his own pleasure, needing to feel you or else he was going to go mad.Â
âYou taste,â his voice is muffled as he pants against your cunt, using a finger to move up and down the slit, âYou taste sweet,â he said it like he was startled, like he had spent hours and hours studying female anatomy and how to pleasure a girl and what to do, but never could have expected this unexpected turn, to taste you and realize that you were sweeter and more delicious than any candy heâs ever eaten before, âWhy do you taste soâŠso sweet?âÂ
You would laugh if you werenât so turned on, saying some jumbled-up words as he ducks down again, your fingers digging into his scalp as his thumb goes a little faster on your swollen nub, his long pointer finger rubbing at the outside of your pussy, getting ready to push it in.Â
When he finally does, your walls instantly clamp down on it, and you moan, not expecting the stretch, and he gives you some time to adjust. Itâs not like youâre a prude, youâve at least attempted this before, but your fingers arenât like Gojo Satoruâs, and you feel like you could come just from this.Â
âFeeling good, baby?â He questions, and you hurriedly nod, hearing him chuckle.
âYeah,â you stutter out, your teeth clenched as you feel his finger start to move out, and then your mouth falls open as he starts to slowly pump it in and out of you, a mind-bending pace that has you clenching around him, âFeels good.âÂ
He nods, taking it as confirmation to keep going, and he switches between a finger and his tongue, darting them inside of you. He keeps his pressure on your clit, and you grow impossibly wetter when he leans down to lay a cute little kiss on it, his glasses slowly fogging up.
Gojo Satoru eats you out like youâre his last meal, like heâs been living like Tantalus for his twenty years alive, and finally, the fruit tree doesnât move from his grasp, and heâs able to divulge like the greedy and sinful man he always has been.
Sometimes the hand thatâs occupying your clit moves upwards, pulling his old shirt up and over the expanse of your torso to see your supple skin shake beneath his large palms, and he cups your tits, groaning like a slut when he feels your nipples pebble, and he pinches them between his pointer finger and thumb, twisting a little to feel you squeal, and he grins, softening his touch as he smooths it over, moving back down to your nub as if nothing happened.Â
You watch from hooded eyes, watch the way his eyes close, like heâs savoring your taste. You see the way he slowly ruts into the mattress, like he was getting off to this, and the thought itself makes you gush even more.Â
When heâs satisfied that youâve adjusted to his one finger, he decides to slip another one in, and the size alone makes you whine, the stretch something that causes tears to dart in the corner of your eyes in delicious pain.Â
âHmm,â you moan, one of your hands fisting the sheets, the other tangled in his white hair as you guide him up and down, and you can swear you feel him smiling against you, as if your reactions were a symphony to his ears, âItâs not like I really have a metric butâŠyouâre good at this.âÂ
Satoru chuckles, looking up at you, and the sight knocks the air out of your lungs. His cheeks are flushed, wet in the dim lighting of the room, his glasses crooked, and his hair a mess, but he looks positively radiant as his smile flashes bright.Â
âI hope I am,â his voice is lower than youâve ever heard it, and it vibrates against your pussy, âIâve been studying.â
Despite feeling lightheaded, his statement chased you to come to your senses a bit, sitting up on your elbows as you looked at him through furrowed brows.Â
âStudying?â You parrot, and he nods eagerly, his thumb putting pressure on your sensitive and swollen clit as your mouth falls open in a silent moan, barely able to keep your eyes open as he explains.Â
âMhm,â he hums, his nose, the beautiful nose that you want to kiss all over, rubs expertly on the hood of your clit as he presses chaste, sloppy kisses to your cunt, âI read all these posts and books and papers about what the best way to eat a girl out,â his voice is hoarse, licking up and down your syrupy inner walls, his two fingers never stopping their relentless pace as something deep in your stomach begins to build up, âBrushed up on someâŠ.anatomy and the sorts.â
You let out a breathless laugh.Â
Because of course he had.Â
âYou,â your mouth clamps shut when he hits the spongy part deep inside of you that makes your toes curl, your lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks, and you canât talk correctly but make the attempt to, barely above a whisper as you mutter, âY-youâre insane.âÂ
He rolls his eyes, but doesnât deny it as his thumb swirls in figure eight patterns on your clit, his pointer and middle fingers curling upwards, and you canât really find it in yourself to chide him when heâs making you feel heavenly.Â
You feel like youâre unraveling at his skillful hands, and it definitely doesnât help that whenever you have the guts to open your eyes youâre met with the view of Satoru loosing himself in your cunt, as with each second that passed, he was going just as crazy as you were, and it felt like that familiar feeling of an orgasm building, but unlike anything youâve ever felt before.
Itâs almost like he knows, because he seems to go faster, switching between licking and his fingers, and your grip on him tightens, and he moans, welcoming the sting.
âCome on,â he presses, urging, needing you to finish around him, to taste your relief on his tongue, âCome on, baby, I know you wanna come.â
You nod, sweat dotting your forehead, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths, that knot inside of you tightening as your thighs clamp down around his head, your walls pulsing around his fingers.
It gradually builds, but that feeling suddenly snaps, and you jolt, your back arching, moving into him, his fingers never stopping, his thumb and lips on your clit, suctioning in a perfect way that sends you over the edge. You clench tightly around him, creaming, spasming as you gush, your eyes rolling back in your head as you let out the quietest but sweetest moan, and when you feel your orgasms slow to a dull pulse, you fall back onto his mattress, limp as he doesnât stop instantly.Â
Instead, he lets his fingers slow down carefully, as if youâd get immediate withdrawal from the feeling of having him inside of you. He kisses your clit once, then twice, and pulls away, connected by a string of spit, slick and your cum, and when you finally have the energy to wring your eyes open, the sight of him wrecked form eating you out makes you even more wet.
You take a few moments to catch your breath, your chest heaving up and down, your hand falling away from his soft locks as it sprawls across your stomach, and you stare helplessly at the ceiling.Â
Blinking owlishly, you awkwardly scootch upwards until youâre resting on the back of the headboard, and you watch as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, grinning coyly as he moans at the taste of you, and if you could, youâd pinch him, but you just weakly push him with your foot, looking away abashedly.Â
âNasty,â you whisper hoarsely, your voice gone, and he coos, crawling towards you, bringing his face towards yours as he nudges his nose with yours, and youâre weak, giving in as he hungrily presses his wet lips to yours.Â
You can taste yourself on him, and you mewl, feeling his tongue in your mouth, licking inside of you, wanting you to enjoy what he just enjoyed, and your shaking hands grip around his neck. He pulls away a little bit, biting your bottom lip before kissing it, and he rubs a loving thumb across your cheek, his eyes turning gentle as he peers at you through those ocean eyes through those stunning glasses you adore so much.
You donât trust your voice, so instead you let your hands unravel from his nape, moving upwards towards the expensive frames, straightening them on his nose, making sure they rest correctly on his pink ears, and he watches silently, reverently, as you push him back gently by the chin, making sure that they looked right on the bridge of his nose.
âHmm, looks better,â you whisper affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose like youâve always wanted, and that seems to push him over the edge, quickly wrapping his arms around your midsection as he pulls you closer to him, falling back on the bed as he tugs you into his chest, his head resting in the crook of your neck.Â
At that moment, you feel it, and your eyes blink rapidly from their hazy state as his hard-on pressed against your thigh.
âHey,â you murmur, poking his side, but he doesnât seem like budging, his overwhelming heat and size covering you, his thick arms not moving from caging you to him, and you canât even wrangle free, ââToru, what about you?âÂ
He doesnât even lift his head, just hums against the skin of your neck, his lips busy leaving hickeys all over it, ones youâre going to deeply regret in the morning but canât seem to care right now except for the boner youâre sure is deeply uncomfortable.Â
âWhat about me?â He dreamily replies, his voice barely audible, and you roll your eyes. From this angle, you can see the way his shirt is riding up, his abs on display, the veins leading downward prominent, and his trail of white hair is calling your name.Â
You wedge your hand in between your bodies as you press against his cock, the movement causing him to yelp and shudder, whimpering against you as you snicker, sure that now heâs going to give you some more undivided attention.
He sits up a little bit, resting his head on his fist, his elbow on his pillow as he peers down at you, his brow slightly cocked, not looking impressed with being tormented like this after treating you so kindly by giving you the best orgasm of your life.
âNot nice,â he reprimands warmly, poking your side as you yelp, his finger much more sturdy than yours, âYouâre not really supposed to grab dicks like that, yâknow?â
Your cheeks heat at his choice words, and you shrug, feigning innocence as you bring his hand to yours, admiring the large size a syou play with his fingers, feeling more touchy than usual, and youâre ever so glad that he lets you.
âIâm just saying,â you mumble, flashing him a look that sends a nonexistent punch to his gut, the blood rushing south because you look ethereal like this, âDonât you want me toâŠreturn to favor? Tit for tat?âÂ
He chuckles, his thumb moving across your eyebrow, soothing the furrow as it moves down to rub against your cheek.Â
âWe can do tat later,â he uses your terminology and you giggle, your lips pulling into a bright smile because youâre sitting in a post-orgasm afterglow with your crush, and that stupid theorem you had stressed over doesnât even matter anymore because the impossible outcome is happening right now and you donât bother with looking normal because youâre feeling anything but, âI still have a date I need to take you out on.âÂ
You try not to gush like an idiot, your head falling into his sturdy chest, and his hand moves up and down your back, tracing stars and circles and hearts and writing his name, as if he wanted everyone to see the invisible ink thatâs bleeding from his fingertips into you.
His finger hooks around your jaw, tilting your head upwards so he can see you better.Â
âYou wanna date me?â You ask breathlessly with dizzingly joy, the question holding no weight because the two of you already know the answer, but he indulges you, his head falling to yours, forehead against yours, glasses sitting perfectly on his perfect face thatâs pressing against your perfect one.Â
âI want to be yours,â he murmurs, vulnerability thick in his voice as your lashes flutter, âSo, yeah, I want to date you.âÂ
You giggle again, and you lift your head a little to slot your lips against his plush ones.Â
âI want to be yours too, Satoru,â you say, and he groans, his eyes rolling back like those were the only words heâs been dying to hear, and he lets out a victorious laugh, something happy and sickeningly sweet because the girl heâs been in love with for the past two years just so happens to love him back.Â
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