↬ f!reader, angst (bittersweet), death, alcohol, cigarettes, reader is non-human, reader and varka have a biological child, rosaria and razor included as their children, one innuendo joke, nicole and venti cameos, (2.5k wc)
my submission for @nitroheart's rei-dio frequencies collab! thank you for organizing and providing inspiration!
🟀—🟀—🟀
“Let me stay where the wind will whisper to me.
Where the raindrops as they’re falling tell a story.”
(series master list)
Varka stares you down, tall and broad as ever. His expression is serious; it would be better if he were laughing. His proud posture is unwavering as you approach. Both hands are clasped over the pommel of his greatsword in front of him, ready to make a declaration of great importance here in the hills surrounding the Thousand Winds Temple.
“I have returned,” you say.
He doesn't respond, still gazing at you with that unrelenting hard stare. It's quite unlike him. Usually, he only makes a face like that after sitting at his desk for too long.
You sigh and offer a small smile, which he doesn't reciprocate. Of course, he doesn't. It would be rather disturbing if a statue could smile back at you.
<<What do you think?>>
“You could have at least had him holding a stein instead of a sword,” you reply as you cross your arms over your chest. “He would have much rather preferred being immortalized with a drink in his hand.”
The angel mage appears at your side, emitting a comfortable warmth.
<<I only did as Grand Master Noelle instructed. She has many fond memories of sword training with him.>>
“And what about input from his wife?” you grumble.
<<She was, if I remember correctly, too drunk to consult.>>
Nicole smiles and leans her ethereal face close to yours. You scoff at her teasing and look back at Varka's stone visage. He's not quite what you remember.
“He looks too young and too slim. Must all heroes be remembered for their rippling youth? I always thought he looked more distinguished with the beard and moustache,” you ponder and then add with a sheepish smile, “and the weight he put on after retirement.”
<<Shall I make a custom statue just to your liking and have it delivered straight to your bedroom? I could do it in the ancient Remurian nude style.>>
“I didn't know angels could make such jokes,” you chuckle.
You look over the statue again. It looks like the Varka you first met—well, the third Varka you met, considering you were too drunk to remember meeting him the first two times—but the Varka you picture whenever you think of him is weathered and grizzled. Hard lines around his strikingly blue eyes. Gray and wiry hair. Hands rough and wrinkled. So utterly handsome and charming that not even old age could mask it.
How you wish you could have aged alongside him. Not like he ever complained about having a wife who barely changed from the day he met her. Still, it doesn't change the fact that you're nowhere near dying. You're further away from him than you've ever been, and every day of life you live has you drifting further.
You approach the statue to get an up-close look. He's wearing his old armor that you still hear klanking and jingling in your memory. However, he's not wearing his gauntlets or gloves. His hands rest on the pommel of his sword, bare, left over right, and a band carved on his ring finger.
You whip your head back to Nicole, but she's gone.
It's stupid. You know it's not him. It's just a rock made to look like him, yet you still reach out and place your left hand over his. Your own band glimmers in the sun.
It burns. It aches. It downpours.
—
The next time you visit the statue, for a moment, you see him standing there facing himself.
“You're looking more and more like him,” you say as you approach from the side.
“Mom!”
You're immediately swept up into a tight hug from your very large son. In truth, his size is the only thing he inherited from his father, but all of his other features are yours. Still, sometimes he smiles and stands just like him—especially now since he has fifty-some years on him, even if the years pass differently for a half-human.
“It’s good to see you, kiddo. Are you just visiting?” you ask as you ruffle his hair.
The kid has been traveling around Teyvat, following the same route Varka did in his younger years before you met him—though not for any valiant reasons. As far as you know, he has no ambitions of knighthood.
“Yup! Don't worry, I already visited the nieces and nephews in Wolvendom and big sis at the church, but I'm headed back to Natlan after I get a picture with Dad here. Can you believe it? None of the ladies believe I'm the son of a great hero! Once I show them a picture of Dad’s statue, they're gonna be so impressed!” he says with a big goofy grin and a thumbs up.
“Still chasing women?” you sigh.
“Only until I find that special one! Hahaha!” he laughs all too carefreely. “I won't give up until I find what you and Dad had!”
You can't help but smile lopsidedly. He's always been a romantic—even as a baby, he'd gurgle and clap his chubby little hands whenever Varka would give you a kiss. You’re pretty sure he keeps at least a few photos of the two of you with him at all times.
“What about Miss Klee? You were always chasing her around with flowers as a kid,” you say.
He visibly stiffens and shivers at the suggestion.
“No way! That woman terrifies me!”
You shrug it off. It's the least you can do as a parent to try to nudge him in the direction of happiness. Klee is half-human as well, meaning her lifespan will be similar to his. You don't want your son to spend decades, maybe even hundreds of years, alone after the loss of a partner. It's only been a few years for you, and every day since Varka's last has been another one too many.
The two of you spend some more time sitting and talking in front of the statue. You listen to the stories about fights he’s gotten into for flirting with taken women, and the waves of their angry boyfriends in his wake. You would say that he’s hopeless, but so were you at one point, just in the other direction.
The sun begins to set, and your son lies with his head in your lap as you stroke his hair away from his forehead.
“Mom, tell me the story of how you hated the moon so Dad put a new one in the sky for you.”
—
You visit him a year later. No signs of wear yet. The church is diligent with the upkeep.
“Lupical!”
You turn around at the rough voice and see a grizzled man standing with a small child in his arms. With wild grey hair and scars on his face and arms, Razor looks remarkably like the Varka you remember, despite there being no blood relation.
“Hey there, kid. Another child?” you question as you stare at the little one.
The human reproduction timeline is still unfamiliar to you, regardless of having your own half-human child. Even in his final years, Varka was convinced there was a possibility he could give you another. Still, Razor and his wife are both considered elderly in human years, and you believed the sixth child to be their last.
“This is my grandchild. June's firstborn. Her name is Liana,” Razor says. His language is still simple, but far more expansive than when you first met him in his teenage years.
“I brought her to meet her great-grandfather,” he says as he nods towards the statue. “She can meet her great-grandmother now, too.”
The little girl looks at you and then buries her face into Razor’s shoulder. You step closer so that Razor can put his other arm around you. He presses his nose to your hair and inhales, relaxing at your scent. The little one turns her face toward you and gives a quick sniff.
“Old auntie. Big uncle. Wine,” she says quietly.
You had drinks with Rosaria at Angel's Share earlier and indulged in one of her cigarettes. If only they could have the same effects on you as they do on humans.
“He smelled like wine, too,” Razor laughs and lets go of you to point her toward Varka's statue.
Grandchildren. Great-grandchildren. Varka would have been the one to keep up with them all. He should be the one here meeting little Liana. He should be the one to see and guide the generations of great-great-grandchildren and beyond. He was the one who told all the stories your son loved. He was the one who kept people together.
How awful and strange that you prefer a life of transience and yet here you are, stuck in this world. Varka was like an anchor, a man so heavily rooted in his home and the hearts of many, and now he's gone like the breeze.
“Why’s him not moving?” Liana asks as she points her tiny hand at the statue.
“This is to remember him. He will never die if he is remembered,” Razor says.
—
Moss has to be cleared off the statue every few months now. Annoying, but it brings you back more frequently to do the job.
Lately, you've been finding unopened bottles of dandelion wine at his feet. You always help yourself to it, figuring it's a reward from the folks in the city for keeping the old Grand Master clean.
One day, as you're crouched down cleaning, footsteps rustle the grass behind you. You turn and see a young woman standing there, clutching a glass bottle to her chest.
“Ah! Sorry! I'm just here to make an offering!” she squeaks.
“An offering?”
“To the legendary Grand Master! Apparently, if you leave a bottle of wine at the statue, his spirit drinks it and gives you a blessing to pass the Knights of Favonius exams in return,” she says and presents the bottle.
Oh.
You look to the side sheepishly.
“Come,” you beckon and hold out your hand. “He would have preferred you to drink and enjoy it.”
You take a seat in the grass and lean back against the pedestal. The girl joins you and gives you the bottle that you uncork with your teeth. You offer her the first sip.
“You speak as if you knew him. It's been 150 years since his time,” she says as she passes you the bottle.
“I spend a lot of time in the library,” you say and take a much longer swig.
“So do I. I've never seen you there.” She narrows her eyes and looks you up and down.
You huff out your nose and pass her the bottle again. It's not like being non-human is any sort of secretive thing in this world. You've learned it's a lot easier to try to pretend to be more human so as not to provoke too many questions about yourself.
“Then clearly you're not studying enough. Otherwise, you wouldn't feel so uncertain about passing your exams that you would rely on a statue to help you.”
The girl grumbles and takes several long sips of the wine. She releases herself with a gasp and leans her head back against the stone.
“Or maybe I'm just stupid! And weak! And timid!” she laments.
You snatch the bottle from her and down the remaining half. She goes to protest, but you stand up and set the empty bottle on the pedestal. You look up at Varka and sigh before going to rummage through the grass until you find two long and sturdy sticks.
“Get up. Show me your footwork,” you command.
“But I'm tipsy now!” she whines.
“And that man could swing two claymores around gracefully while ten bottles deep! Now, up!” you demand as you toss her one of the sticks.
She obliges and takes a stance against you.
The two of you train until dark—mostly you whacking her ankles into place with your stick. Only when she successfully blocks and counters your correction do you give her permission to rest.
When you return months later to clear the moss, the empty bottle still sits on the pedestal. It's half-full with rainwater, but the words, “I passed!” are written on the label.
—
It's one of those days. Despite the years being empty, they feel too heavy when stacked upon each other in the hundreds. The world is too different now. You could even go to another one now if you wanted to, by some kind of sky ship. But then, who would tend to him and the weathered edges of his stone?
Raindrops trickling down your cheek awaken you from your respite. Thunder rumbles dully, unthreatening like a gentle reminder of a greater presence. The actual storm is past the cliffs and over the ocean, merely brushing you with its fingertips.
“Beautiful lady, why are you alone in the rain?”
You blink and see a youthful figure sitting on the plinth.
“I'm not alone,” you say and straighten up. “It's been a while, bard.”
“Have we met before?” he asks.
Every fifty or so years. He's like you in that it's easier to pretend to be human as to not raise questions. You humor him, and he humors you in return.
“Play me a song and perhaps I'll recall,” you say.
“I'm actually collecting songs about the legendary hero here,” the bard says as he floats away from the statue and spins to look at it. “Not many about him are sung these days. Most of his songs are for the lyre, though it seems the people prefer electro music in these times.”
“That's sad,” you mumble as raindrops collect on your clothes.
“I think I shall try to compose a new one,” he muses. A lyre materializes in his hands.
“Even though songs on the lyre are not popular?”
“I believe there is no better medium to carry a song than the wind, and there is no better instrument than the lyre for the wind to pick up,” he says astutely. “The strings have the ability to stir the soul, no matter what age we live in.”
“I see. So what will the song be about? His bond with Boreas? His battle with the Bloodstained Knight? His astounding alcohol capacity?” you question.
“Nah, all of those topics have been covered over and over by many.”
“So what's left?”
“Why, the only thing that matters! The one thing everybody loves a song about: Love!” the bard declares with a grin that brightens the gloomy weather. “Will you help me?”
“I don't know anything about music…”
“That's alright,” he says and begins to strum on the lyre. “Just tell me what it's like to love and be loved. I will turn it into a song.”
You look at the statue. A halting smile torments your lips. You glance at the hands on the pommel. The carved ring has worn down with all the times you've run your hand over it.
It rains a little harder, but only beneath your eyes. You turn to look at the bard and steel yourself. He continues to strum, and you speak of a man who was never afraid to love before it was shown to him. A man who knew your heart before you met him. A man who never made a fool of the hopeful.
The storm moves further away from the cliffs. The sun reveals himself from behind the clouds. The raindrops evaporate into the air, lifting away the heaviness of the empty years. And the notes of the lyre really do carry like the wind.
a/n: i wrote this on a whim after seeing the prompt in the collab list. i consider this to be the unplanned epilogue of my varka series, but not the last that i'll write, of course. absolutely sick of me to write the end before i publish the prologue and of course the post story-quest climax and conclusions. don't worry, that's all coming too.
i can't stop thinking about lohen liking messy makeouts. like if you wanna be all cute about it and act like you're in a romance novel, he'll oblige, but it really gets him going if you don't worry about making it pretty or perfect. sometimes he'll kiss you and it's more teeth than anything else; other times you'll think he's trying to choke you with his tongue. it's less about being an easy way to show his affection and more about showing how deeply and desperately and animalistically he feels about you. he'll definitely bite you too, but not just your lips: your tongue, your cheeks, and even your chin are all fair game. he'll be nice most of the time and leave a trail of kisses when he's done, but you'll definitely have hickeys in the weirdest places. honestly, it's like he's not even trying to kiss you and is instead trying to crawl into your body through your mouth. which, like. incredibly unromantic. but at least you don't have to worry about being inexperienced...?
Ryland and you are just staring at one another after analyzing the Taumoeba sample from Adrian. There’s nothing but the hum of the ship around you as the predators on the screen attack the Astrophage. A heavy moment without Rocky, that’s where both your thoughts go first before it breaks. Ryland is almost scooping you into a tight hug, his long arms tucking around you, your arms snaking around his neck.
There’s the dull sensation of pain from injuries sustained from the Adrian event but you both push it aside for something deeper, something that hurts more but savors every feeling as a means to an end. Your heartbeats, the only two this far from home, heavy against one another. You just saved Earth and Erid.
You did what Rocky wanted, what his last message pleaded. But there was no way to celebrate with him so you and Ryland find each other holding on that much tighter, your ribs almost bursting with heated pain, knuckles turning white from over-exertion holding on around his neck. Ryland can feel the splitting nature of a headache behind his eyes from the minor concussion he figured he had from the force of impact to the console but none of that matters anymore.
Ryland begins crying into your neck, squeezing you that much tighter as you roll onto your tippy toes to accommodate his tall frame. But for now, as the two of you break down, joyous for the moment but solemn in worry of Rocky’s sacrifice and his healing body, it feels like the weight of the World has been lifted and you’re allowed to be Human about it. About everything. Things that weren’t on the table before but suddenly are because you have a future.
“W-we did it.” Ryland sobs against you, the action causing an entire shiver to rattle down his body and you take as much of it as you can, tucking your fingers into his blonde hair and squeezing your eyes shut as tears are pouring down your cheeks. “I-I w-wish Rocky were…” Ryland chokes up, squeezing you again as you nod your head against him in agreement.
“Shhh…” You murmur, brushing your hand through the hair at the nape of the scientist’s neck. “He’ll be awake soon…”
Ryland shuddered a bit at that. He needed to hear that after telling himself over and over again the same thing. Something about your voice vocalizing it, reassuring him… Made it feel better and less like a fresh wound waiting to be re-opened. “I-I don’t know how he did it… When hi-his crew were sick… Watching them day in and day out…”
“Ryland---”
“I can’t sleep. What if he…---”
He pulled away from you just enough for you to see the streaks of tears falling down his face and getting caught in his beard. And without hesitation, you reached a hand forward and trailed your fingertips against the coarse hair on his face. You knew how that felt, sleep wasn’t coming easy to you either in the last few days since the incident. What little sleep you got was commendeared by the fear of the unknown that clung so desperately to the air.
Ryland fluttered his eyelids shut and leaned into your touch, his mouth visibly shaking from lack of control of built up emotions that were laid aside in favor of scientific discovery and necessity to save two planets.
“You need to sleep, Ryland.” Your voice was soft, barely audible for a moment as the Molecular Biologist loosened his grip on you just slightly. “Rocky wouldn’t want you like this.”
I don’t want you like this, it was on the tip of your tongue but you shushed yourself from saying it and let your fingers expand against his face, tracing the side before cupping around his ear. He swallows softly, the muscles in his neck contracting with tension. He knows you’re right. Ryland knows, but it still scares him.
“C-... can you watch me sleep?” His voice was vulnerable and fragile, right on the cusp of emotional tautness from strain, Ryland tilting his head to the side just a small amount and letting his cool mouth slide across the skin of your hot palm. “Please…?”
You nod wordlessly at the man, so small despite his larger body, so… Afraid, like even his shadow would scare him, so utterly exhausted from trying to save the world and Erid as if your own body wasn’t on the verge of breaking down itself. “I’ve got you…” You whispered to him, Ryland’s jaw flexing in the ambient light of the lab as your fingers tucked into the hair around his ear.
You knew your time would come. Ryland would watch you sleep, let you bask in the dreams and notions of going home, but he needed it first. The way he looked at you with half-lidded eyes, his blue eyes almost bloodshot, the way his heavy form began leaning into yours. He needed it first. “Sleep as long as you need, I’ve got you…”
"You die soon, question?!"-Rocky learns about periods.
Ryland Grace x DFAB!reader
Would Rocky absolutely flip his pebbles learning what a period is?
Like, imagine this. You and Grace living in your beachside cottage on Erid, the weather is always perfect, the sound of the waves against the shore calms your every nerve, and you get to live peacefully with the man of your dreams.
However, of course, you are a woman. Which means nature must punish you.
Grace rolls over in your shared bed to hear you grumbling and groaning. The blue-eyed scientist didn't have to ask. Actually, he was scared to. He knew what those groans meant.
If he was honest with himself, he was ashamed to not have thought of this sooner. You had just arrived on Erid, and it wasn't a huge problem on the ship, because there were SOME supplies for this specific situation.
For a limited quantity, anyway.
Grace runs his hand through that mess of blonde sitting atop his head, grabbing his glasses and placing them lazily on the bridge of his nose.
"You okay, babe?" he asks in that absurdly attractive morning grumble of a voice. At the sound of his tone, you turn your head to him. And without you having to say a word, he presses a gentle kiss to your temple and pulls the covers off himself. "Don't worry. I'll figure something out."
You return to your cocoon of quilts, of which now you have abundance thanks to your partner leaving you lonely. However, your body was suffocating itself too much to be bothered. Ryland would be back, eventually.
Grace slips his shoes on, lazily throwing on something more acceptable to be seen in, despite his only potential audience being yourself and a pile of rocks. He steps out the door, breathing in the false wind, before making his way down the stairs to rummage through whatever supplies they may have had left for this particular situation. And, of course, there wasn't a pad or a tampon in sight. Not even a menstrual cup? These assholes could afford to launch a giant ship into space, costing millions, but they couldn't send a piece of silicone for the women on board? Come on.
It is then Ryland hears the clumsy, strides across the sand leading up to his home. He smiles, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Hey Rock," he greets, still slightly groggy.
"What Grace doing, question?" Rocky chirps, practically squeezing his way under Grace as the blonde lay his knees on the ground, rummaging through the supply boxes. "I'm looking for some stuff to help Y/N, bud," Grace states, now wide awake.
"What Grace mate need help with, question?" He inquires, curious. Before he began explaining, Grace realized that when he DID explain this to Rocky, it would not allow any room to protest the whole "leaky, squish-blob" thing he'd been on about. Oh well. Rocky would only keep pestering if Grace never told him what was going on.
"Well, uh... How do I explain this," Grace trails off for a moment. "On Earth, you can be born with this thing called a uterus. And it has this lining around it that kinda makes it like a nest, for an egg. Remember that from when I told you about human reproduction?" Rocky nods.
"Okay good," Grace continues. "Anyway, if the egg isn't fertilized, the 'nest' sheds and it... kind of just falls out, I guess is a good way to put that... all the blood and tissue that was used to make the lining isn't needed, because the egg isn't needed, since it never got fertilized with any sperm."
Rocky pauses for a moment, processing Grace's explanation. From what he had been previously informed, blood and tissue is like, most of what makes up a human. And.. you were LOSING it?
"...NO!" He was devastated. How could this be happening?! You were losing all your matter and Grace didn't even care! "Bad! Bad! Rocky help Y/N now?! Why Grace do nothing?!"
Grace was flabbergasted by the response of his igneous friend. "Wh- well, Rock, uh-" "It's normal for us, babe." Your voice chimes in, from the window above the two boys. You have messy, frazzled hair, and you kind of looked as if you were still fighting sleep.
Ryland Grace had literally been across the universe and had never seen something so beautiful.
You smile, albeit quite pained, and made your way opposite the window to shuffle yourself out the door and bring yourself around the cottage to grab hold of your nerdy man. "It happens all the time, it just has the potential to hurt like a bitch. And this time it does." "Which is why you should be in bed, love..." Ryland says softly, intimately. You cup his cheek with sentiment, kissing it gently. He knew you could handle it, but he didn't want you to have to. All things considered, some things should be easier on Erid. He just hadn't considered this small factor. Well, more like one, almost lifelong factor.
It wasn't the first time, and it would not be the last, but in this moment, Grace considered himself a fool. And in his defense, you hadn't really thought this over either. There were much more pressing matters at stake for a while.
As for you, you were okay with figuring something out a little later. You tug on the taller man's sleeve, signaling you wished to return to bed with him. Once careful glance at your eyes, and he knew that was just what you needed. At the moment, anyway. So, he scoops you up, pecking your jaw sheepishly, carrying you back inside without a care.
"We'll talk later, Rock."
—————————————————————————
A/N: obviously this is meant to be sweet and cute and all that but the thought of Rocky being one of those people that’s like “I HATE periods! LEAVE HER ALONE!” (6’5 btw) is hilarious to me.
Nanami Kento has never been the biggest fan of Satoru Gojo. While he knew the white-haired menace well, and they had been through hell together, he still couldn’t find it in his heart to… like him.
“Gojo,” the blonde asserted, obviously frenzied. “Be quiet.”
He had been working all day. He had to deal with his less than intelligent coworkers, stop by the store and purchase five things for about fifty whole dollars (seriously, how could anyone hope to survive in these conditions?), and then make his way back to Jujutsu Tech since his ever so hyperactive son student requested training. And while he knew Gojo was quite familiar with what being a sorcerer robbed from a man, Nanami doubted he ever bothered to familiarize himself with the excruciating pain of the working class. So, when he did announce his aversion to Gojo’s usual theatrics, he was unsurprised when the man in front of him did not even dare to give the command consideration.
“Come on Nanamin!” Gojo bellows. “We’re going out for drinks! You haven’t come out to do anything with us in forever, you know?”
Now, Gojo had his own reasons for pestering Nanami to the point of further exhaustion. He had, after a forcible amount of convincing from Shoko (who is more than weary of his unadulterated bullshit), been convinced it would be a good idea to ask Nanami out on a date. A date.
Contrary to popular belief, or perhaps popular assumption, Satoru Gojo gets no bitches. The man has zero game. Never had a girlfriend in his life. Which is definitely not for any particular reason, that’s for sure. It was almost certainly an active choice that he made. That being said, even the… romantically challenged had to throw themselves out there eventually, right? So he had decided on the most uncreative, overused tactic in the world. Pretending their date was a group hangout, only to pretend it was some heinous coincidence when no one else showed.
He knew it was bad! He knew it was unoriginal, and maybe a little nefarious, since Nanami didn’t know what he was really signing up for. Even though Gojo hadn’t considered fact that Nanami wasn’t going to sign up for shit.
“No.”
..oh. He hadn’t prepared for that.
Gojo deadpans like someone took him by the ankles and shook him until his brain fell out of his skull.
“..I’ll pa-“”While I do appreciate that.. offer,” Nanami interjects, “I’m exhausted, Gojo. I haven’t the slightest desire to go out and prolong my headache.”
What. An. Idiot! Of course! Nanami was a victim of the working class! He probably had to get up for work the next day. Capitalism, once again, cockblocks Gojo. Not that he was trying to get like, laid or anything. He was an idiot, not an asshole.
“Are you, uh- Sure? Like, reeeeallly sure?” The blue-eyed man begs, scolding himself that he was even endeavoring onward with this fiasco knowing Nanami was so beat. Nanami wasn’t surprised, this wasn’t the first time a less than thrilling conversation had been prolonged to the point of furthermost annoyance. However, where he could find it in his heart to give a little taste of the sassy man apocalypse to another, he was unable to do the same for Gojo. How could he? Even if the man was a dumb, thoughtless, arrogant, boastful, condescending, brain-dead—
Nanami halts his thoughts from running. Even if Satoru was all of those things—and he definitely was all of those things—the one thing he wasn’t was someone who didn’t care. He wasn’t a bad person. A pest? Surely. And he was pestering Nanami right now. But Nanami wouldn’t dare to tell him off. Although, Nanami couldn’t tell you why.
He’d admitted it (or supposedly now, he’d convinced himself of it) to himself before he didn’t like Gojo. For that overwhelming presence made his head throb. Hell, he could feel his hairline receding when the man opened his fat mouth to give another unwarranted opinion.
Kento Nanami was a liar. To his co-workers, his friends, and himself. Maybe it was because he knew Satoru bore not a single ounce of ill will every time he lingered around Nanami longer than necessary. Even when Nanami’s boundaries were pushed and poked, stretched and wrenched, he could never make the argument that it was because Satoru didn’t understand who he was, or what he needed. He did. And honestly? He might be the only one left alive who Nanami could honestly say that about, comfortably and unquestionably free of deceit.
So no, he didn’t like Gojo. His outward characteristics clustered into a big, extroverted kerfuffle of nonsense. Utter nonsense. But Gojo was all the man had, short of Shoko. And they never spoke. So, in a twisted sense, Gojo Satoru was the only one he could rely on.
Gojo felt his stomach twist. Since he did understand the other man's stubbornness so damn well, it didn't take much thinking to understand that Nanami's mind wouldn't be changed about the whole going out thing. But he really, really desired to be in Nanami's company. As a straight man would. So, in a moment of pathetic yearning, he speaks.
"You can come to my place. I've got some nice wine, we can just like.. order food? And drink? My house is uh- It's pretty quiet, and that way you won't have to worry about cooking and we can do that.. and drink.. together."
Nailed it.
Nanami's rigid demeanor falters at the awkward suggestion. It was more considerate of his clearly exhausted state, both physical and mental.
"By together, you mean.." "Just us."
Just them, huh?
Nanami considered the proposition. The thought of being alone with Gojo in a quiet room, drinking wine and eating dinner? That seemed like a date. "What about the others? Weren't they supposed to come with us?" He queried, unaware that the suggestion of his question made the blue-eyed sorcerer's heart beat quicker and quicker.
Gojo, at this revelation, begins to sputter, hand finding it's way to the back of his neck. "W-Well yeah, maybe, but... does it matter? That'd just annoy you, anyway, having everyone around."
They gaze at each other for a moment, eyes locked together. Over the rim of his square glasses, Nanami can swear he sees a bead of sweat daringly trickle down Satou's forehead. The gravity—or the tension, rather—of the situation weighs heavy on Nanami's shoulders, and begins to churn Gojo's stomach.
Nanami sighs. He removes the glasses from the bridge of his nose, beginning to clean the now foggy spectacles with the hem of his shirt. "What time?"
Oh, he was so in.
Gojo smiles like a kid that had just been let loose in a five-story candy store. "Uh- Seven?" He suggests.
Nanami rests his glasses back on the bridge of his rigid nose. He supposed it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he indulged his old friend, just this once.
“Seven, then.”
Gojo grins. He can’t help it. Nanami’s gentle, tired gaze on him makes his heart flutter the moment it weighs on his conscience that the blonde was willing to spend time with him. Not with a group of colleagues. Gojo couldn’t help but wonder if it was the promise of quiet, or the assurance that they would be alone together. Satoru wasn’t certain which managed to convince the hardworking gentleman to stay away from home after a long day at the office. However, he was sure of one thing:
My friend Mosab's daughter, Lama, has been injured in a bombing in Gaza and is in need of donations to help save her life.
His family doesn't have money for food or medicine and there is no cooling system to shield them from the scotching heat.
Please help this family meet their basic needs so they can escape this genocide. They have survived through hell the past nearly 2 years. Please don't let them die now just because of hunger.
My name is Musab Hamouda, and my wife is Aya Abu Al-Qambaz. W… Mosab Hammouda needs your support for "Help Us Start a New Life After Our Hom
Vetted by GazaVetters #520 and shared by @/90-ghost.
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