How about dark obsessive geto who constantly worries his partner will leave him due to his own insecurities stemming from his poor mental health and the constant comparison to his best friend who he knows is stronger than him. (Ps. i love you blog so much you work is seriously so high quality🥹)
— my ribs are tired of holding your name, s. geto
feat. geto suguru
sum. “you keep building walls,” you continue, “and every time i climb one, you build another. and i climb that one. and then you build another. and i keep climbing, suguru. i keep trying. and every time i get to the top, you accuse me of trying to jump.”
warning. emotionally damaged geto, insecure!geto, chronic self-sabotage, possessive behavior, deep-seated inferiority complex (re: gojo), verbal conflict, loud affectionate partner vs emotionally repressed boyfriend, angst-heavy argument, crying during reconciliation, emotional vulnerability, self-worth issues, emotional dependency, frank conversation about trust and insecurity, teasing / pet names (crybaby, slut-o-sugu), emotional neglect (unintentional), unhealthy communication habits (being worked on), mutual emotional damage, explicit swearing.
the day starts off dumb, hot, and yellow.
you’re standing out in the training field at jujutsu tech, where the grass is dead in weird uneven stripes, the sky is the color of melted mochi, and the cicadas scream like the apocalypse is five minutes late. it's too hot to be outside and yet here you are, all of you, the entire absurdly overpowered gang of borderline feral twenty-somethings in uniforms that technically qualify as professional wear but mostly just cling to every patch of sweat like a personal vendetta.
your shirt is halfway unbuttoned because you’re dramatic and it’s hot and also because shoko said “you look hot like that” and that was the validation you needed to sin against standard dress code. your skirt is a little crooked, your socks mismatched, and you’re not wearing the school shoes because they gave you blisters and you threw them on the roof last week in protest. your whole vibe is “half put together, half lost a fight with a ceiling fan,” but somehow you still manage to look stupidly pretty, in that obnoxiously radiant way that makes half the people here contemplate violence and the other half contemplate poetry.
shoko’s beside you, dragging on a cigarette like she’s trying to summon a demon with her lungs. nanami is standing suspiciously far from everyone like he’s afraid of catching whatever contagious idiocy gojo and haibara are sharing today. haibara’s talking so fast he’s tripping over his own sentences, grinning in that full-body way that makes you feel like maybe god does exist, and he might be a blonde kid who smiles at frogs. gojo’s doing that thing again—showing off his infinity by making a pencil hover in front of haibara’s face and daring him to touch it.
“it’s like. right there,” haibara says, squinting with his nose scrunched and tongue sticking out. “why can’t i grab it?”
“you can’t because,” gojo hums, swaying on his heels, sunglasses reflecting nothing but the sharp arc of your dumbfounded expression, “i’m better than you. also because of physics.”
“physics is fake,” you say, point-blank, and gojo looks delighted. he spins the pencil in the air like a magician on meth.
you’re watching him with your mouth open just a little. you don’t mean to be impressed—okay maybe a little, but mostly it’s just kind of hot when someone can break the laws of space-time with their fingers and still be this stupid. he’s grinning like a child with a new toy and you can’t help it—you laugh, leaning forward, squinting to try and see how the hell the pencil isn’t being touched. it’s magic. it's annoying. it’s impressive.
you don’t see geto until you feel him.
his presence hits you like humidity and worry, like soft shadows pooling under the eyes of someone who hasn’t been sleeping right, like jealousy masked as detachment, leaning against the edge of the courtyard with his arms crossed and his mouth twisted into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. he’s in the shade of the old torii gate, hair tied up messily like he did it with one hand, long sleeves despite the heat like he's punishing himself. his eyes are on you.
not on gojo. on you.
and you don’t notice him noticing until he speaks, voice lower than usual, something coiled in his throat. “he loves showing off,” geto mutters, almost to himself, as if he’s just pointing out the weather, as if he’s not watching you stare at gojo’s infinity like it’s a mirror and you’re searching for something you lost.
you turn—blink, slow like syrup—and when your gaze meets his, you smile so fast and full it almost knocks the wind out of him.
“babyyyy,” you chirp, and you’re already moving, already walking—no, beelining—towards him with arms wide and that dangerous look on your face like you’re going to climb him like a tree and make it everyone’s problem. you reach him and throw your arms around his waist without asking, without warning, pressing your cheek into his chest like you’re trying to apologize for something you haven’t done yet.
his hand’s in your hair immediately. almost instinctual. desperate.
“you’re warm,” you murmur.
“you’re staring at satoru like he’s god,” he replies, and then blinks, and then tries to backpedal. “not that i care. i mean, obviously. he’s flashy. and stupid. like a glitter bomb in a trash can.”
you laugh into his shirt, nose wrinkling. “you’re such a hater.”
“i’m not a hater,” he says, lying directly to your face. “i’m just acutely aware that he’s the strongest.”
“so?” you tilt your head back to look up at him, eyes soft now, voice warm, sugar-slow. “you’re mine.” his throat bobs. you watch it. he doesn’t say anything. you shift against him, tugging him closer, and he lets you. he always lets you.
behind you, gojo yells something about “visual proof of my superiority” and haibara laughs so loud it echoes off the walls. shoko sighs like she regrets every choice that led her to this moment. nanami mutters something like “i’m going to fake my death.”
geto just looks down at you, lashes casting long shadows over his cheeks, fingers tightening in your hair like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops touching you. “you love him,” he says eventually, in that voice he uses when he wants you to lie to him.
you blink, and then furrow your brow. “i love you.”
he doesn’t believe it. not fully. not when he’s spent so long being second-best. not when the brightest star in the sky wears sunglasses and can make a whole room laugh just by breathing weird. not when geto knows—knows—he will never be enough.
but he lets you hold him. lets you bury your hands in his hair. lets you kiss the side of his jaw and say stupid sweet things like “my pretty boy,” like “you’re all i want,” like “even if you turned into a worm i’d still kiss your weird worm face.”
“that’s disgusting,” he whispers.
“you love it.”
he does. god, he does. he’s just scared. terrified, actually. of not being enough. of being a footnote in your story. of waking up and realizing you’ve finally noticed the way satoru shines brighter.
but right now you’re here, clinging to him, laughing like an idiot and calling him baby, and he thinks maybe he can breathe. maybe he can survive this. maybe, if he just holds you tighter, the fear will go quiet for a while.
“don’t look at him like that,” he mutters, nose pressed to your temple.
“like what?”
“like he’s everything.”
“he’s not,” you whisper back. “you are.”
and for a second—for just one stupid, aching, precious second—he lets himself believe it.
and still, despite all of your sweet words, it was genuine, he can feel it—god, he knows it, because your voice doesn't tremble when you speak to him like that, when you call him baby like it's a title only he deserves, because your arms wrap around him without hesitation, without a shred of self-consciousness, like you were born to press your cheek against his chest and claim his heartbeat like a possession—but it’s exactly that very genuineness that breaks him open like overripe fruit, leaking sweetness and rot in equal measure, because if you're not saying these things to make him feel better, if you're not performing affection like a duty to his instability, if you’re not twisting your tongue into kind things for the sake of the pitiful man with shaking hands, then that means you truly don’t know.
you don’t see.
you don’t see the writhing, twitching grotesquerie beneath his skin, the deep-rooted, festering neurosis blooming like mold in the attic of his mind, where every echo of your laugh that isn't for him becomes a curse, every side-glance to satoru becomes a betrayal etched in neon across his heart, every accidental praise becomes another stone in the cathedral of doubt he's building inside his ribs. the worst part—the unspeakable horror—is that you’re not doing it on purpose.
you’re not cruel. you’re not manipulative. you’re not twisting knives for the pleasure of watching him bleed. no, you’re just yourself—bright and unaware and devastatingly honest—and that makes it all the worse. it means you say things because you mean them. it means you laugh at gojo’s idiotic jokes because they are, somehow, tragically, funny. it means you stare at infinity like a child at fireworks because it really is incredible.
you didn’t see how his fingers curled into his sleeves when your eyes lit up at gojo’s trick, the slow glow of awe blooming across your face like a sunrise that didn’t belong to him. you didn’t see the moment he stopped breathing—not because he was angry, but because he felt small, like a ghost watching his own funeral, invisible and pathetic, haunting the edges of a life he so desperately wanted to be enough for.
he thinks—he knows, or thinks he knows, which is worse—that you don’t even realize what you’re doing to him. that you water the doubt in his chest like a houseplant you forgot was dying, just by being lovely, just by laughing with gojo like he’s gravity, just by letting your eyes shine when you turn to talk to the man who never had to earn his greatness, who never had to wonder if he was enough. and geto—geto knows he is not gojo. geto is the shadow beside him, the hand on the leash of monsters, the quiet one, the tragic one, the one with too many teeth in his head and too many thoughts he can't kill.
but you—oh, you—you love him like he’s sacred. you touch him like he’s fragile. you kiss him like you’re starving, and maybe that’s what hurts the most. because what if all of that tenderness is wasted on something ugly? what if he’s just tricking you by existing, by being held together with string and superiority complexes and the gnawing fear that he was never first choice?
and you don’t even know.
you don’t know that when you say “you’re my pretty boy” with your hands in his hair, you’re also reminding him he is not the strongest. you don’t know that every time you tell gojo “shut up you idiot, i love him more” and laugh afterward like it’s just a joke, geto has to convince himself that maybe it’s not a prophecy.
you don’t know that you are unknowingly breaking him apart in slow, slow motion.
and he—well, he doesn’t know how to tell you without sounding insane.
because what is he supposed to say? “hey, every time you smile at satoru i imagine dying?”
“every time you laugh with him i feel like a stand-in until you wake up to the fact that you could have had something better?”
“sometimes i think about leaving before you realize you should have chosen him?”
and it’s stupid. god, it’s so stupid.
because the truth is this: your eyes twinkle more when you see geto, but he’s so wrapped in his own gloom he doesn't see it. you smile the biggest when he’s near, but he thinks you're just being nice. if you could drool when he walks into a room, you would—but he assumes you're just affectionate by nature. he's so busy comparing himself to a man who commands the cosmos that he doesn't notice the way your whole body sighs when he touches your waist. he doesn’t notice the way your voice gets softer when you say his name. he doesn't hear how different it sounds when you call him “baby.”
he’s handsome, heartbreakingly so, in that melancholic, slow-burning way that makes people write books and ruin marriages. his voice calms you. his hands—gentle, always gentle, even when they tremble—make you feel safe in a world full of curses and blood. he doesn’t get it. he doesn’t see it.
and you—you have no idea what you’re growing inside him. no idea that your joy with others becomes a mirror in which he sees every flaw of his soul, stretched and swollen. no idea that your kindness is interpreted by his demons as deceit. no idea that he loves you like a disease, and that he’s terrified you’ll find a cure.
because no one ever tells you that the person who holds you the softest might be doing so out of fear, not confidence.
and geto—sweet, obsessive, silently-unraveling geto—is falling apart inside, smiling when you kiss him, nodding when you tease gojo, trying not to think about how loudly the silence screams when he’s alone with his thoughts after.
it’s the kind of afternoon that feels like it’s not real—like it slipped through the cracks of the calendar, wedged itself in the teeth of time, and declared itself holy by virtue of its stillness. the dorm is quiet. the kind of quiet that rings. outside, the breeze hisses softly through the leaves of the massive tree leaning against geto’s window like an old friend who overstayed their welcome but knows no one will ever ask them to leave. the sunlight is filtered green, dappled and half-hearted, lazily laying itself across the floor in long bands that look like something out of a forgotten summer. the air smells faintly of dust, tree bark, and the faint residue of incense someone burned yesterday—sandalwood and melancholy.
you’re in his bed, half-tangled in his sheets, half-tangled in him, like some poor feral animal who crawled into his room and decided to live in the softest place it could find. your face is pressed against his chest, his skin warm and bare and stupidly smooth, like he’s never known the sin of shirt fabric. he’s only wearing black boxers and a distant expression. you, in your wrinkled tank top and panties you don’t even remember picking out, look like an afterthought in the most divine way. like you fell into the scene by accident and made it whole.
the fan is broken. the tree is not. it blocks the sun with slow, moving shadows that breathe across the bedsheets like lazy ghosts.
you’re quiet. your fingers are not.
they move slow, ritualistic, circling his abs like you’re trying to draw a curse or break one. not even looking. just tracing. like his body is braille and you’re trying to read a language older than speech. and then, because your mind works like that—full of thorns and flowers and nothing in between—you say it. plain. soft. not even whispering. “i love you.”
not because you expect anything. not because the moment calls for it. but because it’s true and the truth sometimes leaks out of you when you’re not careful. like blood from a paper cut you didn’t feel until it stained the sheets.
geto, who had been staring out the window with the quiet, vacant air of a man trying to convince himself he could think his way out of his body, blinks. turns. slowly. as if surprised to remember you’re real. as if he didn’t realize until now that the heat against his ribs was you and not some hallucination.
and when he looks at you—really looks—you see it. the earthquake in his chest. the panic, the disbelief, the yearning so sharp it could cut glass. it’s not that he doesn’t believe you. it’s that believing you might destroy him. but he smiles anyway. a tiny one. reverent. crooked at the corner like it’s broken under the weight of everything he doesn’t say.
he leans in.
kisses your forehead like an apology he’ll never give.
“i love you more,” he says, and it sounds like a dare. like a curse. like he’s saying, don’t test me, i will ruin myself for you. you don’t answer. not because you don’t have a response, but because you’re too busy memorizing the way his breath hitched, just a little, like he didn’t expect the words to leave his mouth.
and beneath all of that, under the hush and heat and softness of this moment, something awful stirs. because here’s the truth: this is the kind of intimacy that unravels people. not the naked skin, not the shared bed—this. this total, wordless trust. this stupid, reckless vulnerability. this belief that the person beside you is home.
and geto—poor, slow-burning, obsessive geto—can’t stop thinking about how fragile it all is. how easy it would be for you to wake up tomorrow and decide gojo makes you laugh harder. how simple it would be for someone else to trace those circles on someone else’s chest, and mean it.
he thinks: i will die if they ever stop loving me.
he thinks: i am already dying, slowly, because part of me doesn’t believe they ever could.
and you—sweet, oblivious you—have no idea. you’re just happy. just here. just in love with a man who doesn’t know how to let love rest inside him without turning it into a monster. so you hum, quietly. press your hand flat against his chest like you’re trying to anchor him to this moment. like you can feel the sea of doubt under his ribs, trying to pull him under.
and you say nothing else.
because you don’t have to.
because you’re in his bed, in his arms, in his life.
and for now—for now—that is enough. even if tomorrow he convinces himself it’s not. you’re talking to him.
god, you’re talking about nothing—something dumb, barely stitched together from fragments of mid-day delirium and your frankly impressive talent for word-vomit, maybe something about the bird outside the window that looked like it was considering tax evasion, or your growing theory that shoko is a lich who sustains herself with stress naps and nicotine, or how maybe, just maybe, nanami is an ancient spirit bound to human form by a tragic contract involving ties and capitalism. it doesn’t even matter what you’re saying. the words are nonsense. stupid little scraps of joy thrown into the air like confetti, and you’re laughing at your own joke before you finish the sentence and geto watches you like you’re a sunbeam trying to teach itself how to talk.
you’re mid-monologue again, some long-winded, winding-uphill nonsense about how if you were born a curse, you’d probably be one of those stupid little weak ones with googly eyes and wet noises, the kind that follow sorcerers around like lost puppies until someone squashes them accidentally with their heel.
“—but i’d be like, you know, cute disgusting. not like scary disgusting,” you say, dragging a finger across geto’s chest as if drawing diagrams helps your argument. “like a... squishy blob with little teeth, and a weird scream that sounds like a microwave breaking. a cursed spirit with anxiety. do you think you’d exorcise me, or would you keep me as a pet?”
he hums, eyes half-closed, smile lazy. “depends. would you still wake me up at two in the morning to talk about whether or not you think nanami has ever tasted bubblegum?”
you gasp. “rude. i’m intellectually curious.”
“you’re an unsupervised existential crisis in a tank top.”
“flattery will get you everywhere, baby.”
you say it with that ridiculous lilt you use when you’re being an absolute problem, and he laughs, actually laughs—soft and deep and achy, like something unsticking from his ribs—and it hits him all at once, how much he missed this: the noise, the closeness, the way you turn everything into a theater of warmth and chaos, like the world is a toy and you’re just here to wind it up until it sings something stupid.
he had forgotten. he had forgotten this feeling. how it feels to be close to you like this. how it feels to see you soft and stupid and warm, sprawled over him like you were poured there from a jar labeled beloved—how it feels to see you laugh with your whole face, lips curled and eyes half-shut, how the sound of your voice becomes something holy when you’re not trying to be profound, when you’re just being you.
and then you shift—slipping forward, sliding over his bare stomach with all the grace of a cat made of molten affection, your thighs warm as they bracket his hips, your tank top askew and collar slightly off-center in a way that makes his chest ache—and you lean down, slow, lazy, like gravity only partially applies to you, pressing your lips to the curve of his neck. soft. reverent. like he’s not a person but a prayer whispered into flesh.
he hums, stupidly. soft and low. like something in him uncoiled and exhaled all at once.
and then he opens his fucking mouth.
because unfortunately, tragically, horrifically—he’s been spending too much goddamn time with gojo.
and that means his brain has become infested with whatever glittering, narcissistic virus satoru carries like a crown of thorns made of LED lights and cocaine. that means geto, in a moment of unprecedented peace, of sacred affection, of genuine happiness, chooses to ruin his life like a man determined to leap off the bridge of emotional stability into the sea of self-sabotage.
he says, too casual, too joking, too Gojo™, “unless, of course, you were just wishing it was him you were kissing.” he even says it with a grin. like it’s funny. like it’s not the ugliest thing he’s ever said.
and the silence after? oh, god.
it’s the kind of silence that makes the air feel like it’s holding its breath. the kind of silence that tastes like iron. the kind of silence that feels heavy, like the room itself is judging him. you pull back. instantly. not dramatically, not cruelly, just quietly. your legs still around his waist, but your upper body lifts, and you look at him.
not wide-eyed. not offended. no. worse.
you frown.
not the cute frown you wear when he refuses to buy you boba because it’s midnight and you’ve already had three. not the fake pouty frown you use when you want to manipulate him into giving you his hoodie.
no.
it’s the you-hurt-me frown. the what-the-fuck, why-would-you-say-that, do-you-actually-think-that-of-me frown. the one that lands on your face like a crack across porcelain, small and shattering.
and geto’s soul evacuates his body.
he goes still. absolutely still. like an animal that realizes it's stepped into a trap too late. his breath stops in his throat. his heart curls in on itself. he wants to go back in time exactly seven seconds and beat the shit out of himself with a shovel.
your eyebrows draw in. that frown. the wrong frown. not your usual weaponized brattiness. not your theatrical “buy me bobba or i’ll become feral” frown. this one’s quieter. realer. like a line drawn in the sand.
“what the fuck, suguru?”
his stomach drops.
“wait—shit, wait, I didn’t—” he sits up, too, but you shift back slightly, still on him, but no longer touching like before. “i was joking.”
“joking?” your voice is sharp, incredulous, but still wounded under the surface like a cracked glass holding water. “do you think that’s funny?”
“no! no, it was stupid, okay? it just came out—satoru’s been—he gets in my head and—”
“so now he’s in your mouth, too?”
“babe—”
“no, seriously,” you cut him off, arms folding over your chest in a way that’s defensive, not playful. “do you really think i’m with you just because i can’t have him?”
he flinches.
you laugh, but it’s not really a laugh, it’s that bitter exhale of someone trying not to cry out of sheer insult. “fucking hell. you really think i’d do that.” he grips your thigh. gently. desperately. “no. i don’t. i know you love me. i know that. it’s just—fuck. i have so many voices in my head and none of them sound like you.”
you blink. slowly. jaw tight. “so whose do they sound like?”
he hesitates. then, quieter: “mine.”
you look down at him, eyes suddenly tired. not angry. not harsh. just sad in a way that makes him want to die and rewind time at once. “you think so low of yourself that even my love starts to feel like a lie.”
“yes,” he says, before he can stop himself. “yes. all the time. every day.”
your mouth opens, then closes again. your fingers twitch. you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time in a light he never let you turn on. then—voice so soft it could kill a man: “i love you so loudly. and you still don’t hear it.”
he closes his eyes.
“...wait—fuck. wait, wait,” he says, hands rising as if to physically pull the words back out of the air. “i didn’t mean it like that.”
you don’t say anything. not yet. just looking at him, eyes dark and serious in a way he hates, in a way that reminds him you’re not a dream, you’re not a doll, you’re not a fantasy built to nurse his broken self-esteem. you’re a real person, with real feelings, and he just stepped on them.
“it was a joke—i was being—i thought—” he stammers, then groans, covering his face with one hand. “fuck. fuck. i’m sorry.”
you slide off his lap slowly, knees on either side of him, sitting back on your heels like you're retreating into yourself. not angry. just… wounded. confused. like something fragile just snapped and you’re trying to figure out if it can be repaired.
and geto—geto—wants to scream.
because it was a joke. a stupid, god-awful, shitty joke pulled from the tangled, moldy corners of his insecurities, and it wasn’t fair to you, not even a little, and the second it left his lips he realized that. because all of his rotting self-doubt, all of his warped mirrors and festering fears, none of that is your responsibility, and the way your smile faded is now permanently etched into the surface of his heart.
“you think i’d want to kiss gojo?” you say, quiet, and you’re not crying but there’s something in your voice that makes him wish you were, because crying he could fix. crying he could hold. crying would mean you still want comfort. this tone—this smallness—it means you’re folding away from him, and that’s the worst thing.
“no,” he breathes. “no. i don’t. i don’t, baby, i know you love me, i know—i just—”
he wants to explain. he wants to take a scalpel to his skull and show you the thoughts that never leave him, the way he measures himself against gojo and always comes up short, the way your laugh—even when it’s his—echoes in his head next to the idea that someone better could make you laugh harder. he wants to scream i’m sorry i’m so fucked up that i don’t believe i’m lovable even when you love me so loudly it fills rooms.
but he just kneels there, mouth open, heart bleeding, staring at the person who holds his soul like glass.
and he prays—god, he prays—that this isn’t the moment he loses you. not over something this stupid. not over a joke that wasn’t a joke. not when you’re the only thing that makes him feel real. “i didn’t mean it,” he says quickly, reaching for you, but you’re already sliding back.
you swing a leg off him and stand, bare feet hitting the cold floor with a thud. your tank top is twisted and your panties are riding up but you don’t care. your hands are already reaching for your clothes—your crumpled skirt, the stupid hoodie you stole from him, the bra you only wore for two hours before declaring it a torture device.
“babe, wait—wait, please,” he says, sitting up, guilt crawling across his face like rot. “i wasn’t serious. it was just a joke.”
you laugh. sharp and humorless.
“that’s your joke?” you snap, pulling your shirt down over your head. “what, implying i want to fuck your best friend instead of you? hilarious. really. top-tier comedy.”
“i just—i don’t know,” he runs his hand through his hair, frustrated. “i say stupid shit when i feel… small.”
“so i’m supposed to be your punching bag now?” you shoot back. “every time your insecurity flares up, i’m the one who has to swallow it?”
“no,” he says, but it’s useless. he knows he fucked up. he always knows, but not until it’s too late. not until your face is twisted with that specific kind of hurt that’s worse than tears. worse than yelling. the kind where you look like you’re doubting not just him, but yourself.
“you think so little of me?” your voice is quieter now, trembling. “you really think i’d do that to you?” he stands. walks toward you. not fast. like he knows he doesn’t deserve to close the distance too quickly.
“i don’t,” he says. “i just think—i think so little of me.”
you stare at him for a long, long moment. long enough that the wind slips through the open window again, brushing past you like an apology neither of you know how to give. “you should figure that out,” you say finally, voice flat, eyes empty in that dangerous way, “before you start accusing the people who love you of being liars.”
he opens his mouth. closes it. swallows the scream in his throat.
you pull your shoes on, tying them too tightly, too fast.
“you’re leaving?” he asks, because of course he asks. because he can’t stop himself from twisting the knife even further. “what do you want me to do, suguru?” you look at him, eyes burning. “stay? act like that didn’t hurt? laugh and say it’s fine? i’m not gojo. i don’t think everything’s a fucking joke.”
you don’t slam the door when you leave.
you don’t have to.
the silence left behind is louder than anything else.
the days after the fight bleed together like oversteeped tea—everything too warm, too bitter, too slow. you and geto orbit each other like dying stars, held in place by gravity and shared history, but no longer touching, no longer colliding, just spinning in silent misery. you see him in the halls, in class, at meals, and he always looks like he’s about to say something and then doesn’t. like he’s swallowed his tongue and learned to live with the taste of regret.
you’ve slept in your own dorm for three nights straight, and it feels wrong. your bed feels too wide. too cold. your dreams feel half-finished, because his arms aren’t there to wrap around you like a promise or a trap. and the worst part is that you miss him—desperately—but your pride is a wild, wounded thing, and it won’t let you crawl back without some kind of apology. some kind of offering. and he hasn’t come. not yet.
so when gojo and shoko find you sulking under the big willow tree on the edge of the training grounds, back against the bark and face hidden beneath your hoodie like a grumpy swamp cryptid, you know they’re going to say something. you just didn’t think it would be a tag-team intervention.
“you look like a haunted garden gnome,” gojo says, flopping down beside you with his usual lack of respect for personal space or the gravity of emotional suffering. “like if despair was sold in a vending machine.”
“you look like a toe,” you mutter.
“thank you, i work hard on my appearance.”
shoko slides down beside you on the other side, moving slower, more cigarette-exhausted than usual. her eyes are unreadable, but you know she knows. they both know. you told them. or—well—you unloaded on them. cried into shoko’s lap like a feral child and screamed into gojo’s hoodie while he patted your head like you were a shaken can of soda he didn’t know how to open without getting emotional residue all over his sleeves.
gojo wanted to go knock on geto’s door immediately, fists clenched, hair a mess, sunglasses slightly askew like he was gearing up for a final boss fight. “i’m gonna fucking kill him,” he announced. “i’m gonna punch him right in the feelings.”
you had to physically restrain him with a sandwich.
and now they’re here. in the shade. sitting with you while the wind threads through the branches like lazy fingers. the air smells like grass and resentment. “so,” shoko says, flicking her lighter open, then closed, then open again. she doesn’t light a cigarette. she just clicks. “you gonna keep sulking until you grow moss, or are you gonna go fix it?”
“he hasn’t even tried,” you snap. “why should i?”
“because you love him?” gojo says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the goddamn world. “and you’re both idiots, and I’m stuck watching this romcom spiral into tragedy with no popcorn.”
you glare at him. “he implied i wanted to fuck you.”
gojo blinks. then his whole face contorts. “ew,” he says, recoiling. “ew ew ew ew—”
“you asshole,” you snarl, smacking him on the side of the head so hard his sunglasses fly off. “what the fuck does ew mean?”
“not like that! i just—ugh,” he rubs his temple, making the most disgusted face known to man. “you’re like—i don’t know—you’re like a weird little sister who grew up too fast and discovered eyeliner and sarcasm and now threatens me with violence every day.”
“you deserve violence,” you hiss.
“you’re missing the point,” shoko cuts in, voice dry but patient. “you’re both clearly miserable. and he’s probably rotting in his dorm, crying into your pillow or whatever tragic goth shit he does when he fucks up.”
“he thinks i’m secretly in love with gojo,” you say, voice bitter.
“so?” shoko shrugs. “you think he’s secretly in love with his own self-hatred. neither of you are wrong.”
gojo makes a sound of betrayal. “what the hell, shoko.”
“i’m just saying,” she says, calmly, lighting the cigarette this time. “he’s fucked up. and he loves you. and he thinks he’s not good enough for you, so his brain makes it true. because if you did leave him, at least he wouldn’t be surprised. that’s how he protects himself. by hurting first.”
you go quiet.
the wind picks up again. the willow leaves sway above you, casting dancing shadows across your knees.
“…you think he misses me?”
“oh my god,” gojo groans, flopping backwards into the grass like he’s been shot. “he’s dying. i walked past his dorm last night and i could feel the heartbreak seeping out of the walls like mold. he’s probably been listening to sad music and wearing your socks.”
you blink. “he stole my socks?”
“focus,” shoko says flatly.
“he loves you,” gojo adds, suddenly serious, one hand over his eyes. “he’s just bad at showing it when his brain tells him you’d be better off with someone shinier.” you sigh. long and slow. your hands curl in your lap. your pride still screams wait. but your heart aches in a voice that’s softer. more tired.
“…should i talk to him?”
“yes,” both of them say in perfect unison.
you look at the ground. then the tree. then the sky. then your hands. and finally, with the weight of something blooming and dangerous and inevitable—
“…fine.”
gojo cheers like you just proposed to someone.
shoko takes a drag and exhales smoke shaped like the word finally.
and somewhere across campus, in a dim dorm room that smells like you, suguru geto sits on the floor with your sock in his hand, thinking he’s already lost you.
and by “fine,” what you actually meant was not that you were going to go marching off like a romcom heroine into geto’s dorm with a heart in your hands and forgiveness on your tongue, no—fine meant sitting under the willow tree like a bitter little gremlin wedged between shoko and gojo, bruised ego still bleeding and brain racing through forty-three different emotionally catastrophic speeches you might unleash on him later, maybe, if the stars aligned and your pride didn't stab you on the way there.
you were fine, in the same way a nuclear reactor is fine ten seconds before meltdown. you were chewing on a blade of grass like it owed you money, pouting so hard your face hurt, glaring at nothing while shoko offered you her cigarette and gojo kept throwing pebbles at a tree trunk like he was trying to invent a new form of passive-aggressive communication.
"you should open with, ‘hey, remember when you accused me of wanting to fuck your best friend? yeah, that was cute,’" gojo offered brightly.
“you should open with a taser,” shoko said, more thoughtfully.
“i should open his ribs and see if his brain lives there,” you muttered, deadpan, still chewing the grass like it was gum made of hatred and embarrassment. “or you could talk to him like a normal person,” shoko added, eyeing you. “but no. emotional maturity is out. vengeance is in.”
“he’s not even gonna apologize, watch,” you snapped. “he’s gonna sit there and sulk like a kicked dog and expect me to heal him.”
“sick,” gojo said. “love that for you. toxic codependent shit. ten out of ten.”
“you two are insufferable,” you sighed.
“and you love us.”
unfortunately, yes.
you didn’t even notice gojo stiffen at first, just vaguely caught the movement of his head turning sharply. then—without warning—he kicked shoko directly in the shin. “fuck,” she hissed, whipping her hand out and smacking him upside the head with the practiced brutality of someone who’s done this a hundred times and will do it a hundred more. “why—”
“he’s coming,” gojo hissed through his teeth.
and then: “don’t turn, don’t be weird. act normal. act cool. god, you’re both failing this already.”
your spine snapped straight as a board. your mouth dried up. your heart started pounding in your throat like it was trying to escape through your ears. “fix it,” shoko muttered, standing and dusting off her pants. “i’m so fucking done with this tension. it’s killing the vibe. gojo hasn’t stopped singing breakup songs in falsetto for three days.”
“and none of you will respect my artistic journey,” he added, deeply offended. “i was working through grief.” as they passed you—shoko silent and annoyed, gojo loud and annoying—they both deliberately did not look at geto.
gojo, however, couldn’t help himself.
as he passed his oldest friend, he fake-coughed the word, "slut," with the kind of deadpan theatricality only gojo could manage.
geto, who by now had mastered the art of long-suffering, didn’t even pause—just rolled his eyes so hard it looked like a muscle spasm. but his lips twitched, barely, like he was suppressing the kind of smile you reserve for siblings and long-time war allies. gojo was going to harass him about this later. obviously.
and then it was quiet again.
just you. and him.
he stood there for a moment. above you. his shadow cutting a line across your lap.
“hey,” he said, voice soft. soft in a way that made your stomach do something unfortunate. careful, almost reverent, like if he said it too loudly it would shatter the whole world into a million sharp edges.
you didn’t respond.
you didn’t look at him. didn’t acknowledge him. you turned your face just a fraction to the side, still chewing the same doomed grass blade like it was your last shred of dignity. you pouted. you sulked. you glared at a nearby squirrel like it had personally betrayed you.
he smiled.
a real one. crooked and a little sad, but real. something in his chest loosening at the sight of you, even if your mouth was all twisted up in that furious little snarl you wore like armor.
he didn’t say anything else, didn’t press. he just sat down beside you slowly, knees drawn up, hands folded in his lap like he knew he was in the presence of something dangerous and sacred. and you sat there in silence, shoulder to shoulder, heat simmering between you like a story waiting to be told.
he sits beside you like he’s not sure he’s allowed to exist in the same space as you anymore, like the air between your shoulders might be mined or cursed or laced with invisible tripwires, and for a while, he doesn’t say anything at all—which would be fine, good, even, if he didn’t then ruin it, like always, with that nervous, twitchy brand of humor he inherited from spending too much time under gojo’s blinding light.
“so,” he starts, voice light, falsely casual, “gojo called me slut, which, first of all, rude, but also—i’m assuming you told him about the comment. the one where i accidentally implied you wanted to climb his weirdly long legs like a tree.”
you exhale through your nose so hard it could be classified as an act of war. you don’t look at him. you stare ahead like the wind is more interesting, or the squirrel that has returned to judge you both from a nearby branch. still chewing that same miserable blade of grass because you’re too proud to spit it out now, because it’s your only weapon, your shield, your protest sign.
“you’re lucky i didn’t let him punch you in the dick,” you mutter, dry, sharp, practically spitting the words. “he was ready to do violence for my honor.”
“oh, i could tell. he looked like he was about to write poetry on my grave,” geto says, grinning crookedly, trying to test the waters, to see if he can make you laugh, because that would mean he’s not drowning anymore. “you know, i used to be the poetic one, but lately it’s all been gojo writing haikus about heartbreak and chewing drywall.”
you glance at him, a little. just enough for your eyes to flicker in his direction, not enough to be kind. “why are you here,” you say, voice flat. “what do you want, suguru?”
he blinks.
you turn your whole head this time, eyes sharp and tired, mouth pressed into that grim, bitter curve he knows is a prelude to disaster. your face is flushed, not from heat but from all the things you’ve been choking on since he opened his mouth in that dorm room and poured doubt into your lap like it was a gift.
“if you came here to just joke about it,” you say, low, quiet, angry in a way that’s sad, “you can leave. seriously. just go. i’m not gonna play the cute forgiving girlfriend who laughs because oh no he has trauma, poor boy, let’s excuse everything he says, okay? i’m not doing that.”
he’s silent for a second.
the tree above you rustles. the grass doesn’t move. time hangs crooked.
you’re breathing too fast. your hands are clenched in your lap. you’re wearing one of his old sweaters, sleeves rolled past your elbows, and he can’t tell if that means you miss him or if you just ran out of clean laundry.
“i’m mad at you,” you say finally, voice cracking like tired glass. “i’m so mad i want to scream. and it’s worse because i miss you, too, and that makes me feel stupid.” geto doesn’t smile now. doesn’t laugh. just looks down at his hands, nodding like he’s being scolded by god and knows he deserves it.
“i know,” he says, and it’s not an apology, but it’s close.
you don’t answer. not yet. not until he stops trying to make you laugh and starts trying to make it right.
he sits there with the weight of the world sagging his shoulders like an old coat soaked through, the silence between you stretched tight like the gut of an animal ready to snap open, and he doesn’t say anything for a moment too long—just watches your face with that ruined expression, like he’s preparing himself to be gutted by your next breath, which, fair enough, because you are winding up like a storm with nowhere to go but him.
you stare at him like the sight hurts, because it does, because loving someone shouldn’t feel like you’re screaming underwater and being asked to repeat yourself because they can’t quite make out the syllables through the flood.
and then you say it, voice low and shaking, hands trembling in your lap not because you’re weak but because your body physically cannot hold all the acid burning behind your ribs anymore.
“do you know how exhausting it is to love you this loud?” you laugh, but it’s broken. it sounds like something dying in the back of your throat. “how many times i’ve said i love you like a shield, like a spell, like a reminder so you wouldn’t forget it the second you looked at someone shinier, stronger, someone who doesn’t flinch when you pull away—”
“i don’t want anyone else—”
“then why do you keep acting like you do!?”
he freezes.
“why do you keep putting those words in my mouth like you want them there?” you hiss, eyes glassy, voice sharp and wet and crumbling all at once. “why is every good thing i say to you met with silence or suspicion or some fucking joke about how i must be lying?”
he doesn’t answer. he’s staring at his knees now. you hate that. you hate when he looks away like that. like he can’t even be bothered to meet your eyes in the moment he’s being dissected. you shove your palms into the dirt beneath you, sitting up straighter, angrier.
“i get it,” you say, biting the words out like they’re meat you’re sick of chewing. “i get it. you’ve got that rotting brain stew of trauma and abandonment and trust issues and whatever the fuck else that makes you think love is something you have to doubt or test until it breaks—but i’m not here to prove myself to you every time you feel insecure, suguru.”
his name sounds heavy when you say it. like something sacred dragged through blood.
“i loved you loud,” you go on, quieter now, more dangerous, “i made it obvious. i held your hand in front of people. i stayed when you were insufferable. i kissed you when you couldn’t look me in the eye. i made you laugh when you were trying to hate yourself. and you—what? accuse me? say some dumb shit like i want your best friend just because i laugh at his stupid jokes? just because he doesn’t spend every second trying to figure out how to sabotage the one good thing he has?”
“i didn’t mean to—” he says, but it’s too late.
“no, fuck that,” you say, mouth trembling. “i know you didn’t mean to. but it still hurts. it still fucking sucks. and it’s unfair—it’s so fucking unfair. because i never made you feel small, but you make me feel like i’m one wrong word away from being cast as the villain in your tragic little fantasy.”
he’s breathing shallow now, fingers twitching against his thighs. he looks like he’s been slapped, which is good, because you want it to land. you need it to land. you need him to hear it.
you lower your voice, the last words slipping out like blood from a cut you didn’t know you made until it soaked through your shirt.
“and you know what?” you blink, jaw tight. “love isn’t gonna be enough. not if all you’ve got for me in return is doubt.” you pause. “because no love survives being treated like a lie.”
he doesn’t say anything.
and this time, you look away. because if you look at him now, you’ll cry. and you’re not ready to cry in front of the man who keeps tearing you open and then wondering why you bleed.
he still doesn’t say anything.
and that silence—god, that silence—hits harder than any scream could have. it lands in your chest like a fist made of fog, slow and suffocating, and you almost laugh, because of course he won’t speak now. not when it matters. not when your voice is already fraying at the edges from the weight of all the things you’ve been carrying for him, all the words you’ve said like prayers, all the “i love you”s you’ve hurled into the hollow of his chest hoping they’d echo back as belief.
but they didn’t. they never did. and now here you are, trying not to cry under a fucking willow tree like you’re in some pretentious indie film where the girl realizes her boyfriend isn’t broken in the cute way, but in the slow, silent, corrosive way.
so you speak again, because if you don’t, you’ll explode or evaporate or maybe just fold inward and disappear completely.
“say something,” you murmur, not even angry anymore—just tired. “just say something, suguru. anything. lie to me, tell me i’m overreacting, tell me you’re sorry, tell me to go fuck myself—but something. because i’m sitting here bleeding, and you’re just watching.”
he moves then—barely—but it’s enough. a twitch. a shift. he lifts his hand like he might reach for you, but he stops halfway, lets it drop, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low and full of static, like a signal that’s been trying to break through but can’t find a clear frequency. “i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, like it’s a confession and a curse. “i didn’t mean for you to feel like this.”
you stare at him, dry-eyed and numb.
“you didn’t mean to,” you echo. “right.”
he flinches. a little.
“you never mean to,” you say. “that’s the whole thing, isn’t it? you never mean it. but it still happens. and i’m the one stuck piecing myself back together after every little crack you make.” he looks away, shame blooming slow on his face like a bruise. you almost hate how soft he looks. how sad. it makes it so much worse. because you love him. even now. even when he’s being like this.
and that’s the problem.
because love should not have to survive the person who’s supposed to give it back.
“you keep building walls,” you continue, “and every time i climb one, you build another. and i climb that one. and then you build another. and i keep climbing, suguru. i keep trying. and every time i get to the top, you accuse me of trying to jump.”
his head drops into his hands.
you bite your lip, hard, trying not to shake.
“you act like loving you is some impossible thing,” you say, voice thinner now, more fragile. “like i’m doing it out of pity. or boredom. or because i don’t know better. and that’s—insulting, you know? it’s fucking insulting. i’m here. i chose you. again and again and again. i could have run. i could have left. but i didn’t.”
you laugh once. short and sharp.
“and you still think i want him.”
geto’s voice breaks when it finally comes.
“i don’t,” he says. “i don’t think that.”
you shake your head. “you do. somewhere in that cursed head of yours, you do. and i’m tired, suguru. i’m so fucking tired of being the one trying to prove it’s real.”
and then you go quiet. because that’s it. that’s all of it. everything’s out now. there’s nothing left but the ache, and the wind, and the long, slow realization that this might be where the road splits for real. he breathes in. tries to steady himself. and then— “…i don’t know how to be loved like that.”
your head snaps toward him.
he’s still looking down. his voice is barely a whisper. “i’ve never had it. not like that. not the kind that stays. not the kind that fights. so i keep waiting for the part where you realize i’m not worth it and leave. and i say stupid shit so when you do go, i can tell myself i was right.”
you close your eyes.
“that’s not love,” you say. “that’s fear dressed up in all your worst habits.”
he doesn’t argue.
and maybe that’s something.
maybe that’s the beginning of something that doesn’t end in ruin. maybe. but not yet. you’re still sitting inches apart, and the world’s still tilted. you’re not ready to reach across the gap yet.
and neither is he.
so you both sit there, broken in ways the other can’t fix—yet.
but maybe. maybe. if he stops being a hater. and if you stop letting your heart bleed out for nothing.
he breathes in like he’s about to dive into something cold, unforgiving, filled with sharp rocks and worse things—truths, mostly—and when he speaks, it’s not slick or clever or rehearsed like it usually is, but raw and cracked and clumsy, like someone dragging words up from the floor of their own stomach with their bare hands.
“i didn’t think you’d stay this long,” he says, eyes still on the dirt, voice hoarse like it’s being rung from him like blood from a shirt, “so i started preparing for you to leave. way before any of this even happened. i just—i kept thinking, she’ll get tired, or she’ll see through me, or she’ll realize what she’s dealing with.”
you don’t speak. you want to. your mouth is a loaded gun of feelings. but you let him keep going. because if he stops now, you don’t think he’ll find his way back.
“and every time you loved me,” he says, “i felt grateful, yeah, but also… sick. like it wasn’t mine to keep. like it was rented time. borrowed air. and i knew i was gonna lose it, so i started building the fire before the house even burned. made myself the villain. made you the exit plan.”
he looks at you then. finally. and his eyes are the worst part—glassy, too open, like the door of a church that’s been broken into. they’re not trying to manipulate you, they’re not begging for forgiveness with pretty tricks or soft phrases—he just looks ruined. and aware of it. the worst kind of self-awareness.
“i’m sorry,” he says, and it doesn’t fix anything, but it lands heavy in the air, sincere and sour and real. “for what i said. for how i said it. for letting the fear drive the car again.”
he swallows. hard.
“i know you’re tired,” he says, voice quiet now, like he’s confessing to god in the smallest chapel in the world. “i know you’ve been carrying the whole weight of us on your back, trying to be enough for two people, because i kept shrinking and hiding and being a fucking coward who couldn’t just admit that being loved felt like holding fire in my bare hands.”
you look at him. you’re still not sure if you’ll forgive him yet. your heart wants to. your spine doesn’t.
he shifts closer, just barely, like a slow tide.
“but i’m not asking you to carry me anymore,” he says, softly, “i’m asking you to stay. and let me learn how to carry my share. even if it’s slow. even if i fuck up. even if i don’t always know how. just—”
he breaks off, exhales like he’s coughing out something rotten.
“just don’t go. i’ll get better. i’ll be better. if you stay.”
and it’s not dramatic. he doesn’t fall to his knees or cry or make a scene. he just sits there, cracked wide open beside you, offering you the ugliest parts of himself like a peace offering built out of trash and thorns and trembling hands.
and you feel it then, that impossible ache, because fuck, he means it. he really does. he’s terrified and fucked-up and still halfway wrapped in all his bad wiring, but he’s finally doing what you begged for—he’s talking. not joking. not blaming. just talking.
but still.
you let the silence stretch. you let him sweat in it. because love is not mercy, and forgiveness isn’t free. and maybe this time he needs to feel that.
your voice, when it comes, is soft but not sweet.
“i’m not staying because you beg,” you say. “i’ll stay if you start showing up. for me. for yourself. for the love we’re trying to keep alive before it starves.”
he nods. quickly. like the words are water and he’s parched.
you don’t smile.
but you don’t walk away either.
and that’s the beginning of something.
he’s already moving when you don’t walk away. he doesn’t wait for another breath, doesn’t second-guess the one moment of green light he’s been begging for with his whole, ruined body—he just shifts, turns, wraps his arms around you like he’s stitching himself back into reality. and for once, he does it right. not desperate, not rushed, not like he’s trying to trap you—but like he’s coming home.
“i missed you,” he says against your hair, and it’s not a whisper, it’s not some trembling poetic ache—it’s solid. it’s true. it lands in your chest with all the weight of a war ending.
and this time—this time—he doesn’t miss it. he feels the sigh leave you, that soft little surrender in your spine when his arms go around your body, like you’ve been clenching for days and only now let yourself breathe. it’s the sound of a truth exhaling. it’s the soft collapse of someone who’s been carrying more than they ever said.
“fuck,” he says, so quietly. “i really missed you.”
and then, because you don’t pull away—because your arms slowly, slowly come up to hold him back—he shifts again, pulls you fully onto his lap, your legs thrown across his thighs like they’ve always belonged there, his hands on your lower back like he’s scared to let go in case this was all a trick, in case he opens his eyes and you’re not real anymore.
and that’s when you start crying.
just a little.
just a hitch of breath, a tremble of your shoulders, your face tucked into the curve of his neck and chest like you’re trying to hide the way your whole soul just cracked open. “you fucker,” you say, voice thick, muffled. “you stupid, beautiful, emotionally constipated fucker.”
he laughs, startled, holding you tighter. “accurate.”
“if you ever break my heart again—ever—i’m gonna make gojo scream ‘slut’ at you every single day for the rest of your life.” he snorts, one of those ugly, chest-deep laughs he never lets out around anyone but you.
“he already does,” he wheezes.
“well, louder,” you say, sniffling like a dramatic feral princess. “he’ll scream it like a fucking curse. he’ll make it your new name.”
“‘slut-o-sugu,’” he murmurs thoughtfully, stroking your hair like he’s imagining it embroidered on a shirt. “has a ring to it.”
you punch his shoulder, but it’s weak. you’re still crying. he wipes your cheek with his thumb and smirks like an asshole. like the boy who first stole your snacks and called it love. “you’re such a crybaby,” he says gently, and kisses your temple. “always crying when i apologize. it’s kinda hot. should i fuck up more often?”
you punch him again, harder.
“okay, okay,” he laughs, catching your hand, kissing your knuckles. “i take it back. no more fucking up. just. you and me. alright?” you look at him—finally, fully—and even with your puffy eyes and wet lashes and tragic little pout, you still manage to glare like a queen preparing to outlaw every bad habit he’s ever had.
“i love you,” he says, and this time, he says it like it means something. not like it’s armor. not like it’s a desperate tether to stop you from floating away. but like it’s a quiet, impossible truth he’s finally brave enough to hold without bleeding.
“i love you even when you’re angry. i love you when you yell. i love you when you look at me like i’m the world’s biggest idiot. i love you when you’re snotty and terrifying and telling gojo to maul me in the quad.”
“good,” you say. “because i love you even when you say dumb shit that makes me want to fight you in public.”
you wipe your face on his shirt. deliberately.
“and also,” you add, “you’re paying for my next four bobbas. minimum. for emotional damages.”
he laughs again, the kind that shakes his whole body. and you feel it. you feel him. back. suguru, your suguru, the one who kisses your wrist just because it’s there, who lets himself be loved even when he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve it, who holds you like maybe he finally gets it—what you’ve been trying to show him all along.
“done,” he says, voice warm against your skin. “but only if you let me drink half of them.”
you bite his shoulder.
he doesn’t let go.
