Dragonfang cannot speak in words, she just injects feelings and emotions directly into Adam's spine to communicate (This also means he's the only one who can "hear" her)
I thought of a way to represent that in comics is to have her speak with emojis :]
everyone talks about the [thing]shipping naming convention in this fandom, but I never see anyone talk about AAML/DAML/AAMayL/etc anymore, and that was somehow worse. It became utterly unusable relatively quickly and I love it tbh. it put up a good fight
Deciding to use my hobby of autistically crawling through AO3 tags for good. I'm prioritizing fics with less than 50 kudos. None of these are ship fics, most don't have any romance. All of these are completed one shots, most under 10k words.
Skies, Surfaces, and the Hero Chef That Can't Actually Cook by greatduwangs
Summary: Link's cooking sidequest in Skyward Sword, which goes about as well as you'd expect. Or, the missing ingredient was a home all along, or whatever.
Why I recommend it: 4.5k of Link eating things he shouldn't. Very funny and very cute!
Big Dark by phlyarologist
Summary: Character study of Mido as the events of Ocarina of Time change him, worldbuilding the Kokiri and examining what it means to grow up.
Why I recommend it: Contender for the best LOZ fic I've ever read. Brilliant worldbuilding and characterization, and a fantastic understanding of childhood and its nuances that you rarely see outside of fiction aimed at children.
loop - synonyms: coil, noose, ring, circle by MidnightBunnyy
Summary: Fi gets stuck in a timeloop and is very... well, Fi about it.
Why I recommend it: Excellent Fi characterization that leads to a very funny take on a time loop scenario while still being a serious story.
Notes: Restricted work, only available to AO3 users.
A Legacy Cast in Stone by sagittamoth
Summary: Pre-Skyward Sword Sheikah worldbuilding following an OC who works with the robots and timeshift stones in the last days before the war.
Why I recommend it: Does a great job with worldbuilding, creating a vibrant world that slots neatly into the greater Skyward Sword canon.
missing by fandomsandshit
Summary: Drabble exploring Zelda's time in the dungeon.
Why I recommend it: Does a brilliant job painting fear and an oppressive atmosphere, with stellar Zelda characterization.
Growth by herohelio
Summary: Two connected snippets of Malon in the adult timeline, meeting Link again.
Why I recommend it: Adorable Link and Malon friendship and great Malon characterization, with very effective hints at what living under Ingo had been like.
Because each time we live by grainjew
Summary: Follows Link through ALTTP, written through the lens of the reincarnation theory with a focus on connection to the wider LOZ series.
Why I recommend it: Author described it as a 'mood piece', which it absolutely is and is very good at. I like the surreal and blurry way reincarnation is portrayed in this fic, and it has a great take on the maidens.
Blind and the Bunny by justAPassingThought
Summary: A character study of Blind the Thief through his defeat in the Thieves’ Hideout Dungeon.
Why I recommend it: Excellent exploration of the Dark World and the way its transformations work, and I really like Blind's view on Link's Dark World form.
Litany of Betrayal by RawLiverAndCigarettes
Summary: A foreign warlord swears fielty to the king of Hyrule. Impa knows what the stranger truly wants. She has seen it before. She can still taste the ash.
Why I recommend it: Fantastic character study of Ganondorf and Impa in Ocarina of Time. Everyone is horrible and I'm thriving. Incorporates Hylia into the OOT canon in a way I find actually interesting. Fascinating worldbuilding in general.
Notes: Prequel to a novel-length fic I have not read (I'm terrible at reading long fics rip).
that gentle hubris by cassiopeian
Summary: Zelda bares her soul at the Spring of Wisdom, but the answers she seeks do not come from a goddess.
Why I recommend it: Mipha and Zelda friendship, a fun take on Zora mythology and I always love mortals forging their own paths in worlds where gods are objectively real.
Hunger by Anonymous
Summary: Sequel to Grace, where Zelda struggles to reckon with perceptions out of her control. Link is there to help point out what she's missed. Can be read as standalone.
Why I recommend it: Autistic Zelda, queerplatonic zelink, and a great portrayal of the hunger that comes with trauma.
Notes: Sequel to a fic that is also very good.
As Above, So Below by Mothlight_Witch
Summary: An exploration of the Depths and Hyrule's cosmology.
Why I recommend it: The other contender for 'best LOZ fic I've read'. Astounding atmosphere and worldbuilding, incredibly unique and all-around breathtaking. Lives in my head rent free.
What is your wish? by AdeptArcanist
Summary: Character study of Vaati connecting him to Link's Awakening and Majora's Mask.
Why I recommend it: Very weird and unique take on LOZ lore and I'm so incredibly here for that.
Linner (Link Dinner) by waterglider
Summary: An adaptation of one of Zelda's diary entries set after the "Blades of the Yiga" memory. After a very irritating person saves her life, Zelda has developed a theory-- one she plans to test.
Why I recommend it: Zelda is kinda mean and Link is a monarchist bootlicker. I adore this take on pre-Calamity Link, he's genuinely insufferable and I love that. If I ever end up writing pre-Calamity Link I'm so stealing this characterization.
Notes: Sequel to another stellar fic, prequel to an in progress novel-length fanfic that I have not read (again, terrible at reading longer fic).
I was planning to write something a little more seasonally-appropriate, but stumbled across a WIP that my brain decided to latch onto instead. So, uh… Happy Life Day?
@queen-scribbles gave me this prompt in a conversation we had well over a year ago, and I’ve finally finished it 😅 the specific request was something along the lines of “LET THEM SMOOCH ALREADY DAMMIT” for Qora/Arcann, and the prompts were:
“don’t leave, illusion, too loud, or harsh whisper”
I’m not sure where exactly this fits on the timeline, but definitely later on in-game. probably post-Echoes of Vengeance, but I… haven’t actually finished that questline yet, so there should be little to no spoilers 😆 ~2.5k words, trigger warning for abuse/violence against children, because this is Qora and Arcann we’re talking about
---
“Again.”
The overseer’s stern voice echoed through the chamber, seeming to come from everywhere at once.
The training room was dark beyond the platform Qora stood in the center of, giving her the illusion that she was alone. But she wasn’t. She knew she had an audience, but who they were or how many, she had no idea. The whole Academy could’ve been watching, and she wouldn’t know the difference.
The sweet-metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, along with the acrid odor of sweat and the ever-present ozone tang of lightning.
There was blood in her mouth, too. Her lip was bleeding sluggishly, split by a lucky blow… five fights ago? Six? She’d lost count.
Four acolytes stepped out of the shadows to join her on the platform. They were all older than her - most of the other acolytes were - and they were all armed.
Qora tightened the grip on her own practice blades, the handles digging into her palms. Her combat stance was steady, even if the rest of her didn’t feel it.
“Begin.”
The first acolyte lunged too quickly, too eager for the kill, and didn’t have the safety of numbers to protect him. One hard strike to the jaw, and he was on the floor before the others had even started moving.
The second and third were smart enough to attack together, both rushing her in tandem. Their swords were a blur of motion, almost too fast to follow, but she managed to keep them at bay. When the larger of the two raised his blade for what was meant to be an incapacitating blow, Qora reached out with the Force and dragged the smaller one between them. The blow took her opponent out instead. After that, the other one was dispatched easily.
The fourth snuck up behind her as soon as Two and Three were down. The pommel of his sword slammed into the back of her skull.
Her vision went white. She lashed out on instinct, swinging her blade in the direction the blow had come from.
She heard her opponent hit the mat, and followed right after him.
It was over almost as soon as it began.
“Again.”
The overseer’s voice sounded farther away, hard to hear over her own too loud heartbeat. Static hissed at the edges of Qora’s vision, and her eyes refused to focus. She could feel her consciousness slipping, and clung to it with everything she had.
“Again.”
The repeated order was a threat. A concussion would be the least of her worries if she didn’t stand up soon, but her legs refused to obey her orders.
A hand appeared in what remained of her field of vision, and Qora snapped her head up. Forcing herself to focus past the pain, she followed the arm up to… a boy.
A boy she knew--though she wasn’t sure how she knew him.
He looked to be around twelve or thirteen, the same age as her, with the same buzzed hair that she and all the other younger acolytes had, and gentle, pale blue eyes. The fine white robes he wore were much different than the grays and blacks the rest of them had, and contrasted so sharply against their dark surroundings that he almost seemed to glow.
“On your feet, Qora,” he said in a soft, raspy voice, his words firm but not demanding. “The next wave won’t wait for you to recover.”
“They never do,” she replied dryly. Her own voice sounded unfamiliar to her ears, a Corellian drawl instead of the crisp edges of Dromund Kaas. Like someone had filed all the corners off of her accent. She hadn't sounded like that in a long time.
She shook off the thought and took the offered hand, letting him help her to her feet. He didn’t flinch away from the cold metal of her prosthetic, or from the way she stumbled as her bruised and battered limbs protested the change in position. He just held on and let her take her time steadying herself.
He only let her go once he was sure she could stand on her own. “Are you alright?”
Part of her wanted to laugh at the question, no matter how sincere it was, but she bit it back. Instead, she said, “You shouldn’t have come here, Arcann. It’s not--not safe to be around me. Especially not here.”
“Just try and stop me.” Despite her warning and his challenge in response, Arcann carefully cupped the back of her head. The pain eased immediately in a warm yellow glow and a muted hum of the Force. “Unless you’d rather face them on your own?”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“...No.” Qora felt guilty as soon as the word was out. It was stupid and selfish and Arcann was going to get hurt because of her, but it was too late to take it back. “Please don’t leave me here alone.”
“Never.” His hand slid from the back of her head along her jaw, until his thumb brushed her bottom lip. Another whisper of Force healing, and there was no evidence of the split lip besides the blood in her mouth. “There is nowhere I would rather be than by your side.”
There was a sound of boots scuffing against stone as someone else approached, and Qora and Arcann turned in tandem, shifting until they stood back to back. Blindly, she reached back and pressed one of her swords into his hand.
He squeezed her hand before taking the offered weapon. “You know this is a dream, right?” he murmured, as six new acolytes stepped into the light with them.
“Yes.” She knew it the same way she knew Arcann’s name, knew the difference in her own accent. “Doesn’t make it less real.”
Further conversation was halted as the overseer’s voice snapped “Begin,” and the acolytes closed in.
Qora and Arcann moved as one, staying back to back in the center of the platform. When one of their assailants rushed toward Arcann’s left, Qora spun to intercept, knowing his vision was limited on that side--or would be, someday, in a future far from this place--and caught the oncoming vibrosword with her own before it could make contact. She took that one down with a sharp elbow strike to the jaw.
A second acolyte took advantage of her momentary distraction and threw their sword, sending it in a Force-aimed arc toward her now-unguarded side.
Arcann snatched it out of the air without even looking, still holding back another two opponents with his other hand. He presented Qora the hilt with a small, playful flourish. “Your weapon, my lord.”
She laughed, exultant and a touch manic, as she swept the sword out in front of her, sending another opponent scrambling backwards to avoid it. It was the first time the Academy walls had ever heard her laughter, even in dreams.
The remaining assailants didn’t stand a chance. They were on the floor before they had time to react.
“How many more are there?” Arcann asked, when they were alone again. He hadn’t even broken a sweat yet, that first round barely enough to make him breathe faster.
“However many it takes.”
“Again,” the overseer called out, but neither of them heeded the implied threat this time. Qora was no longer afraid, now that Arcann was by her side.
“Takes for what?”
“For me to learn my lesson.” She stepped away from him toward the edge of the platform. From there, she could just barely see past the heavy darkness to the dozens of faceless, nameless acolytes that still waited for their turn. Far more of them than there’d ever been while she was a student (a prisoner, a gladiator, a slave) at the Academy.
She felt when Arcann stepped up beside her, though his footsteps made no sound. “Is this training, or a punishment?”
She laughed again, empty, humorless, bitter. “You’d be surprised how often the two coincide.”
“No. I would not.” The anger in his voice was a distant thing, an echo of past rage rather than something fresh. His hand gently covered hers, easing the white-knuckled grip she still had on the vibroblade. “This isn’t your life anymore, Qora. You don’t have to keep fighting.”
The sword fell from her hand, and she reached out to cling to him instead. “This is who I am. What I was made for.”
“Not anymore.” He tugged on her hand, coaxing her to turn around. When she did, his other hand settled over her cheek, the warmth of his touch comforting in the chill of the training arena. “It’s time to wake up.”
Qora awoke with a gasp to find herself in the familiar confines of her quarters on Odessen. The blankets were hopelessly tangled around her legs. The cluttered shelves and tables nearest the bed were in disarray from the Force reacting to her emotions, some of their contents spilling onto the floor.
Arcann’s arm tightened around her waist, and just his presence was enough to clear her mind and slow the panicked flurry of her heart. Without a word, she rolled over and pressed her face into his shoulder.
His hand traveled up and down the length of her spine, gentle and soothing but firm enough to anchor her. With every caress, the Academy fell farther away.
Eventually, she felt calm enough to pull back, if only just far enough to see his face. The look she found there was patient and understanding, embers of anger shining in his eyes but very clearly not directed at her.
“Sometimes it feels like no matter how far I travel, part of me will always be twelve years old, alone in that pit,” she confessed quietly. Arcann’s anger flared a little brighter, but he didn’t interrupt. “It was supposed to break me. So they could reforge me into something more useful. I guess in some ways, it did.”
She certainly didn’t bear any resemblance to the child she’d been before the Sith took her, that little girl who crawled through Corellian junkyards for scraps she could turn into art. Sweet little Qora, who could fix anything you brought her, be it a speeder or a teddy bear or a broken arm. She liked to think that girl might have become a healer, if she’d been able to join the Jedi like she was meant to.
Qora let her hands wander, fingertips tracing the lines of scars on Arcann’s shoulder and chest, following the edge of where warm skin and firm muscle gave way to the cool metal of his cybernetics.
“This happened on Korriban, too, didn’t it? Not long before we met.” It wasn’t really a question, and she didn’t really expect an answer, but she got one anyway.
“Yes.” He caught her hand and stopped its further exploration, pressing it flat over his heart. “And they paid dearly for it. My brother and I made sure of that.”
“Good. I hope you burned it all down,” she said in a harsh whisper. She hoped Arcann and Thexan had reduced the entire planet to ash, every tomb, every temple, every overseer, every blasted k’lor’slug crushed under the might of the Eternal Empire. “Not even the memory of that place deserves to be left standing.”
Rage burned so hot in her chest that it hurt to breathe, and she shook with the effort to push it down. Tears blurred her vision and stung the corners of her eyes, but Qora refused to let them fall. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of her tears, even when they weren’t here to see it.
Arcann didn't reply, but instead rolled them over so that she was on her back, his body caging her in and pressing her down into the mattress. It grounded her, forcing her out of the past and back into her own body, driving away all thoughts of Korriban and the Academy and the shadows of the training room.
He kissed her then, slow and deep, demanding her attention to be on him and him alone. That was a command she was more than happy to follow. The fire in her chest receded, replaced by a much more pleasant warmth that built and spread through her under his skillful guidance, and the tremor in her hands abated when she cupped his face between them.
It was only when the mood started to shift from comfort to desire, kisses turning heated and hands starting to roam, that Arcann broke away. He was breathing harder just from kissing her than he had been at any point in the nightmare they’d just escaped.
“They will never touch you again. I swear it,” he vowed, deep voice solemn and utterly sincere.
“I believe you.” She exhaled a long breath, releasing the last lingering tension with it, and drew him back down enough for their foreheads to touch. “Thank you, Arcann. I needed to hear that.”
No matter what the Sith Council thought, or the machinations of whoever they’d decided to blindly follow this week, she was beyond their reach now. She had no doubt that if they tried to subjugate her again, they would learn their lesson the hard way. And Arcann would be among the first in line to teach it to them.
She was grateful that he was so willing to remind her of that, when she needed it.
Qora let out another sigh and slid her hands up to the back of his neck, playing idly with the hair at his nape. It was only barely long enough to run her fingers through, but she adored it. Both for what it represented for Arcann’s healing and growth and because it was just… pretty. His hair was silky soft to the touch, and the warm caramel color made his eyes appear an even brighter blue. It warmed her heart every time she looked at him, to see this visible proof of how far they’d come.
They should probably talk about what had just happened, she knew that, but she wasn’t in any hurry to broach the subject and reopen those wounds for the second time in one night. It’s not like this was their first time sharing dreams, anyway, even if none of the others had been quite so… authentic. Dwelling on it wouldn’t solve anything.
“Do you want to go back to sleep?” There wouldn’t be any more rest for her tonight, but that didn’t mean Arcann had to suffer on her account. “There are still a few hours until--”
“No.” How he could put so much intention into a single syllable, she’d never know, but when combined with the heated look he gave her, it was enough to make her shiver.
“Oh?” she said in feigned innocence, even as she lightly scraped her nails against his scalp. It earned her a low rumble that she felt more than heard, something between a warning growl and a contented purr. “Did you have something else in mind?”
His smile was soft, and so was the kiss that followed it; neither did anything to dim the desire burning in his eyes.
“The past will always haunt us, in one form or another.” He took one of her hands in his and slowly led it down from his neck and over his shoulder, his chest, his ribs, lingering on a scar there.
It was one Qora knew very well. And she should--after all, she’d put it there herself. During their last fight, when she’d “defeated” him. She brushed her thumb over the thin, raised line; such a small souvenir from something that had been so important.
Arcann only let her linger for a few seconds before moving on, guiding her deliberately lower. His lips grazed her cheek before finding firmer purchase on the sensitive spot under her ear. “There is no need for us to give it more power than it already has. I would rather… appreciate what’s right in front of me.”
“By all means. Appreciate away.” Her breath hitched when he kissed the hollow of her throat, ruining any attempt at keeping her tone light and teasing. She gave it up as a lost cause, and surrendered completely to him, and to whatever came next.
A transmasc posted about how transmascs and trans men are often invisible, how our issues are dismissed, and how resources, especially medical ones, are almost always written with non transmascs in mind. They posted this both to r/Trans and r/lgbt.
A moderator of r/Trans responded by telling them to “stop bitching.”
That’s the word they used. That’s the level of respect trans men get. Transandrophobic by the way, don't call trans men bitches.
The comment was deleted, quietly, after backlash. Then the entire post was removed. When asked why, a mod responded that the post was “playing oppression olympics,” and took the time to go through and dismiss each of the original poster’s points, including saying that trans men being sexually assaulted isn’t “unique to transmascs” and therefore not an issue, and claiming that access to testosterone isn’t any more restricted than access to estrogen, which is a straight-up lie, because T is a tightly controlled substance in most places and E is not.
The original poster was banned for three days.
Then a separate mod made a post saying, “nobody asked us our side of the story,” which is wild because people absolutely did, publicly and repeatedly. Users also started reporting that they’d had supportive comments removed or had been banned after disagreeing with the mods, some of those claims are still unconfirmed, but given the general behavior, it wouldn’t be surprising.
Then r/Trans locked down entirely. No new posts. The conversation was forcibly ended.
Some people posted about it on r/FTM, many of those posts were mass-reported, automatically removed by Reddit’s automod, or quietly buried. Meanwhile, r/lgbt also removed the original post, with no explanation.
One of the r/Trans mods eventually posted an “apology,” which was really just a soft-scrubbed PR post full of noncommittal language and distancing. They said they didn’t mean to call a trans man “a bitch,” they just used it synonymously with “complaining,” and they didn’t think about the implications until later even though the first post was about microaggressions just like the mod committed. They did not apologize for anything else, not for wrongfully banning people, not for accusing a transmasc venting like any other user of playing oppression olympics, nothing at all. They said they’re on break and can’t do anything about it. They said, and I quote, “please don’t be mad at the rest of the team.” even though the rest of the team are just as culpable for not stopping their behavior.
They also added that trans men are “a welcome part of the community” and tried to point at moderation history as proof. Because apparently we should be grateful that people occasionally get banned, every so often, for implying trans men aren't oppressed at all, wow, thanks, that is like below the bare minimum, cool.
The current state of things is: r/Trans has over 600,000 members, and trans men and transmascs were silenced, banned, and told to shut up for bringing up their own oppression. And the subreddit is locked down. There’s a mass exodus happening to the new sub, r/trans4every1, but let’s be real, the damage has already been done.
Now let’s talk about what this actually means.
This is not “just more Tumblr discourse.”
This isn’t some random blog saying they don’t like transmascs.
This isn’t a Twitter reply guy. This isn’t a niche zine or a spicy personal take.
This is a massive trans-focused subreddit with over half a million users. It's easily one of the largest public facing trans community online, maybe even the largest, I've certainly never found a bigger one myself.
And the moderation team made it crystal clear: they do not want transmascs to feel safe or welcome there.
This is what transandrophobia looks like on a slightly larger internet scale. When it’s in the hands of people who get to decide who gets heard and who gets deleted.
And for anyone who’s still stuck on “well they apologized” listen: trans men are told all the time that we’re being too loud, too angry, too entitled, too manly, too feminine, too confusing, too “binary,” too "Nonbinary", too much. We’re told that we’re “oppression olympics-ing” just for talking about our lives. And now we're getting banned and locked out of the spaces that claim to represent a huge portion of online trans people.
This isn't just online drama. This is a bellwether.
And if it isn’t setting off alarms in your head, it should be.
The way transandrophobia manifests in online spaces absolutely bleeds into real life, into medical gatekeeping, into poor data collection, into the erasure of sexual violence against transmascs, into advocacy groups that write us out of the picture, into educational materials that treat us like footnotes, if they include us at all.
And if you’re sitting there thinking, “well it’s not that deep,” you’re part of the problem.
We need to start being more honest about this:
Transandrophobia is real, it is widespread, and it is growing.
We need to stop giving people the benefit of the doubt when they’ve shown us they don’t want us in the room.
And frankly?
We need to start making TRFs [Trans Radfems & transmasc-exclusionary feminists alike] deeply uncomfortable being open about their beliefs. We need to make them afraid to be TRFs, the way they’re trying to make us afraid to exist.
The same way we don’t coddle fascists.
The same way we don’t tolerate TERFs.
We need to stop tiptoeing around transandrophobia.
Because this growing wave of transandrophobia is going to kill people. Full stop.
Protect trans men.
Protect transmascs.
Protect your siblings; all of them!
Edit because I forgot to add it:
Another thing worth noting is that not only was r/trans deleting and banning any users and posts talking about the situation, they were deleting any posts talking about transmasc issues or transmasc positivity full stop.
Even when those posts had nothing to do with the current issue. They were being silenced. They were being actively erased, in a trans space.
wc: ~13k | cw: fratjo! angst again ofc, possessive/obsessive tendencies, toxic relationship dynamics, substance abuse references, substance/alcohol use, drug relapse, frat culture, mentions of blood/bleeding, post-abortion grief, explicit sexual language, dark romance vibes, gojo highkey going thru it, music references, dual povs
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
IT’S BEEN DAYS since Thanksgiving break.
Boston had been a much needed pause despite being surrounded by those who are arguably even more suffocating than Gojo ever was, but at least it had muffled the pain for a week.
California, unfortunately, doesn’t do that.
However, you’ve gotten better at functioning through it, though. Or at least you’ve improved upon performing as functional, which is basically the same thing in college.
Thankfully, the bleeding has mostly subsided. It’s nowhere near as horrific as it was in Boston or the kind of blood that made you sit on a disgusting communal bathroom floor and stare at your own thighs like your body was separating from you. Now, it’s just spotting; manageable, insignificant enough to ignore if you change your underwear quickly and don’t look too closely. That sad fact alone almost makes you feel normal again.
So, you begrudgingly go to class, answer when professors call on you for the sake of being a nuisance, laugh when Blair says something she thinks is funny, eat enough that she stops looking at you like she may have to force feed you.
From the outside, you probably look okay, good even—nothing like the girl who had to end her pregnancy and relationship.
But on the inside? You still feel as broken as can be.
And then there’s Gojo. Or, more accurately, the absence of him.
At first, right after the breakup, he wouldn’t let you breathe. There were endless calls, texts, voicemails you refused to listen to, and apologies that came in waves so frantic they were borderline frightening.
i’m sorry
please answer
please
can we talk ?
i love you
i’m sorry
i’m sorry
i’m so fucking sorry
Then, eventually…He just stopped.
He had given up once you turned your phone off before you left. Well, not given up per se, but gave you the distance you wanted.
And though you wanted it, the silence hurts in a way you didn’t expect. It’s not that you wanted him to keep begging, that would be evil of you, but the fact that he understood what your silence meant and for once in his life, actually decided to listen.
That should be relieving, right? He’s starting to respect your wants and needs. Yet, it leaves you with this awful, hollow ache, like the world has gone too still in the wake of where he used to be. Then you make the terrible mistake of checking Instagram three nights after getting back; you had sworn off of it for a temporary period during break, but for some reason accidentally clicked on the app, possibly due to boredom, muscle memory, pure masochism, or some terrible blend of the three.
You go to your profile first—everything looks the same as you left it. 30K+ followers, a few aesthetic posts with pictures taken off a digital camera, a plethora of highlight reels of travels, food, yourself, friends and family and missing throughout all of it, is him. The one post, a single photo of the two of you is gone, though not fully. It’s tucked away safely in your archived posts just in case that maybe does ring true.
But then, you type in Gojo’s user and click on his profile too. Your breath catches in your throat when you realize that you’re also missing.
All his posts with you in them are gone. The little glimpses of you he made sure to include in photo dumps vanished. Even the highlight reel with your initials has disappeared. He cleaned it all out. Archived, hopefully. Deleted, hopefully not. You don’t know, but either way the effect is the same.
It hurts more than you thought it would and more than it should. You stare at his profile for far too long, chest tight, because seeing yourself erased from his feed feels strangely worse than removing him from yours ever did. You had to because you needed distance; you were trying to survive.
But him? The sight of it makes ugly thoughts whisper through you.
Oh…So he really let it go.
Which is irrational, hypocritical even.
You’re the one who ended it, who left, who wished for distance. Yet knowing that he looked at every trace of you and hid it anyway makes your throat burn. Fuck this. You don’t check his profile again after that, you can’t bear to…At least, not until tonight.
Tonight, you’re sitting cross-legged on your twin XL while Blair straightens her hair in the mirror, and your eyes drift toward your phone where the date glows at the top of the screen like a warning.
December 6th. Tomorrow is his birthday.
Then, against your own better judgment, your gaze slides to the small white box sitting on your desk; Blair, watching it all from the reflection, notices immediately, “Don’t start that shit.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked at the box.”
You exhale and lean back on your hands, “It’s not…that serious.”
“The fuck it isn’t,” She turns around, flat iron still in hand, eyebrows raised, “You bought that asshole birthday mochi.”
Your eyes flick back to it. Yeah, she’s right. You did.
Two days ago, without really planning to, you found yourself at that quaint Asian market off campus he once dragged you into because he swore the imported snacks there were better than anything Erewhon could ever pretend to sell. That was the first time he bought you kikufuku—the zunda and cream flavor because he was adamant about it being the best.
You remember rolling your eyes and saying there was no way cream and edamame could ever taste good together. Then you remember the way he looked at you after, unbearably smug, when you took a bite and reluctantly confessed it was actually really good.
So when you saw the same box in the refrigerated case a few days ago, you bought it. Zunda and cream flavor, of course, because some part of you, buried deep enough that you can still lie to yourself about it, has apparently been carrying the possibility all along.
Maybe you’ll see him on his birthday. Maybe he might ask. You might say yes if he does.
Blair sees your face do all of this reminiscing in real time and groans, “Oh my God. You do wanna see him.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Liar.”
You scowl, “I bought him mochi. That’s…harmless.”
“No,” She presses, “That’s fucking worse.”
You grab a pillow and throw it at her, she catches it one-handed, snorting, “You know what your problem is?”
“Enlighten me.”
“You keep acting like feelings don’t count if you don’t say them out loud.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s totally true,” She sets the flat iron down and points at the box, “That’s literally a dessert full of unresolved emotional bullshit.”
Despite yourself, a laugh almost escapes, but your eyes catch the time on your phone and it stops that from happening.
11:47 P.M.
Blair follows your line of sight and narrows her eyes, “Do not.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You reach for the phone anyway and tell yourself you won’t text him, you’re just looking; just holding it in your hand to stare at the date and time and let the heaviness of it settle in your palm. Somewhere on this campus Satoru Gojo is about to turn twenty-one and despite everything—the blood, grief, damage, and silence, you still know his favorite mochi flavor by heart and maybe want to see him more than you’re willing to admit.
Blair sits beside you on the bed, careful now, like any sudden movement might spook a decision out of you, “You don’t owe him a happy birthday.”
“I know.”
“You don’t owe him softness just because you still have some.”
You know that too, but it doesn’t stop you from hovering your thumb over the empty message bar, glaring at the blinking cursor that’s practically waiting for you to make a mistake. Maybe this is one. Definitely, actually.
Though the thing about grief is that it doesn’t always listen to dignity. Sometimes it’s shameful and weak and aggravatingly sentimental. Other times it makes you remember a boy standing in an Asian market aisle holding up a little box of zunda and cream mochi like it was something sacred, telling you with complete seriousness that if you didn’t like it, he’d have to reconsider everything.
You had laughed then.
God, you hate remembering yourself happy.
Blair’s knee presses against yours, “What are you gonna say?”
You swallow, eyes burning for no reason and every reason at once, “Nothing crazy.”
“Good.”
“Just happy birthday.”
“Good,” She repeats, yet she sounds like she knows there’s no such thing as just anything when it comes to him.
The clock changes.
11:58.
Your pulse starts to tick harder. You think of locking the phone, putting it facedown, and letting midnight pass without acknowledging him at all because that would be much smarter, healthier—whatever damn word people use when they’re pretending not to be haunted.
But then you think him alone somewhere, or maybe not alone; most likely surrounded by idiot frat brothers and music and girls, his whole curated college universe of bullshit. And somehow that image hurts too. Because even if he’s surrounded, you know him well enough now to understand that none of it means he isn’t lonely.
11:59.
Blair looks at the phone, then at you, and you type before you can talk yourself out of it.
happy birthday, satoru
Lowercase, simple. No I miss you tucked between the letters, though it’s there anyway; bleeding invisibly through the screen. Your thumb trembles once, Blair inhales, and then the clock flips.
12:00 A.M.
December 7th.
You hit send.
Nothing happens right away; the little blue text bubble sits there delivered, but your stomach drops, “Okay,” Blair says gently, as if she’s talking you down from a ledge, “Phone down.”
So naturally, you don’t put the phone down. You stare at the message until your eyes begin to blur, waiting for the typing bubble on his end, dreading it, wanting it, hating yourself for wanting it.
Then it appears, almost instantly. Blair sees it and mutters, “Oh, that man was deadass sitting on the text thread.”
You ignore her, unable to answer because after days of silence and utter absence, Satoru Gojo is typing back too fast.
Across campus, Sigma Chi is losing its fucking mind.
The clock hits midnight and the house erupts like the ball just dropped in Times Square instead of it being some rich frat boy douchebag’s twenty-first birthday. Music is blasting so loud the windows in the living room shake as beer cans lift into the air, liquor sloshing over knuckles and onto the floor that the pledges will be bitched at to clean come tomorrow.
“Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!” The chant starts somewhere near the kitchen and spreads fast, stupid, and affectionate in the way frat guys get when they’re drunk enough to mistake yelling for love.
Gojo stands in the center of it all with a red solo cup in his hand, wearing a loose black button-up half undone at the throat, silver chain glinting beneath the collar, but not the one he gave you, of course. No, that one is still sitting on his dresser after you took it off, waiting for the day you’ll wear it again.
He looks perfect, but then again, that’s his job, right?
Inside, though, he feels nothing. Actually, no, he feels too much. Which is arguably worse.
Every cheer hits his skin wrong, every clap on his back makes him want to step out of his own body. There are girls pressed too close, their perfume burns his nostrils because it’s not yours, voices pitched high as they wish him happy birthday like they’re offering themselves up with it.
One of his brothers shoves a shooter into his hand. Another tries to fix his collar. Someone yells something about a “two night bender” and “being twenty-one, baby.”
Baby.
The word makes his jaw flex. He downs the Fireball shooter because it gives his mouth something to do besides wanting to say your name.
“Birthday boy!” Ryan shouts, appearing through the chaos with conviction, “Center. Now.”
Gojo’s brows furrow, “Why?”
“Because we love you.”
“That sounds like a threat, not gonna lie.”
“It is,” He replies with a sly smile.
The room parts almost theatrically, which is typically how it does for him, and then he sees it. One of the pledges is on one knee in front of him like he’s about to propose, except instead of a ring box, he’s holding up a Smirnoff Ice, and the house explodes.
“Oh, fuck off,” Gojo says immediately, but there’s a laugh built into it because that’s what he’s supposed to do here. Laugh, play along, be the guy everyone wants him to be.
“Kneel!”
“Don’t be a fuckin’ pussy!”
Ryan claps him hard on the shoulder, “Tradition, bro. Everyone gets iced on their day.”
Gojo glares at the bottle; cold glass, sticky condensation dripping over the pledge’s fingers. The whole room is watching him, waiting for him to make it fun. Usually, he would. The Gojo they know would drop to one knee with some obscene joke, chug the whole thing, and come up grinning already asking for another. He’d make the moment appear effortless, because that’s what Gojo does. He takes whatever spectacle is handed to him and makes himself the greatest part of it.
But tonight his body feels slow, “Come on!” Someone yells.
He reaches for the bottle and right as he does, his phone buzzes. Once, small, barely anything beneath the roar of the room, yet it stops him in his tracks. Ryan notices first, “Bro?”
Gojo pulls his phone from his pocket, pissed at himself for checking because there are very few names in the world capable of making him look away from an entire room screaming for him. And, the name on his screen just so happens to be one of the very few. It’s yours.
The house disappears after that. The music, the cheers, the alcohol, the girls watching him from the stairs, Ryan’s hand on his shoulder; the whole stupid fucking birthday celebration evaporates.
There is only your name and your message.
happy birthday, satoru
Satoru. Not the name everyone is yelling like they own a piece of him. Just…Satoru. Always Satoru. Never Gojo.
Something moves through his chest so sharply it hurts; his fingers tighten around the phone, screen blurring for half a second and…fuck, no. Hell fucking no. He is not about to get emotional in the middle of Sig Chi with a Smirnoff Ice being held up to him like some cursed object.
Your message is the only thing that matters now anyway. Proof that at exactly midnight, you still thought of him. Ryan leans closer, trying to see, “Who is it?”
Gojo turns the screen away on instinct and that alone says enough. Yeah, everyone is aware of the breakup. It’s impossible to date a girl like you, lose her, and expect the whole university not to notice the crater she left behind. Especially when you’re you—football royalty, too pretty and too wanted for people not to keep tabs on. And especially when he’s him. Sig Chi’s golden boy who is suddenly meaner, quieter, harder to get drunk in a fun way, moping around like someone skinned him and sewn him back together wrong.
They know it was bad. Bad enough that you stopped showing up at the house and that you’ve both disappeared from each other’s Instagram profiles. So of course, people whisper rumors.
He cheated. You cheated. He got bored. Your dad forbade the relationship. He got too possessive and jealous. You were too smart to put up with him.
Yet, nobody knows the real story. They know nothing about the pregnancy and the abortion and the ultrasound folded behind his ID as a means to torture himself. They don’t know that you bled through the end of him, that he begged in an In-N-Out parking lot like a pathetic little boy and still watched you leave.
The only thing people do know is that the breakup was nasty, not that it was a death.
Ryan’s expression changes, “Oh.”
The chants start dying unevenly, “Gojo?”
The pledge is still kneeling, the ice is still waiting, yet Gojo sees none of it. He types back before he loses the moment.
thank you
No. Too simple. He adds more.
thank you. i didn’t think you’d text me
Ugh. No. That’s shit too. He deletes it entirely, and sends the only thing he actually wants to say.
can i see you?
His lungs feel tight as Ryan mumbles under his breath, “Oh, you’re cooked, bro.”
Gojo shoots him a look, but then the typing bubble appears and takes his attention away. Across the room, someone shouts, “Is he seriously texting right now?”
“Yo, chug the shit!”
Gojo doesn’t bother to peer up, your reply coming in.
idk if that’s a good idea
His chest aches so badly he huffs out a laugh. Of course you’d say that, still careful and keeping the knife between you and him where it belongs. He types back.
probably not
Then, after one, whole second.
but i still want to see you
He stares at the thread; the typing bubble appears, vanishes, appears again, and finally—
just for a little
Gojo’s eyes shut for half a second. Just for a little. God, he would take ten seconds if that was all you gave him.
He pockets his phone and steps back. Ryan grabs his arm, “Where the hell you going?”
“Out.”
A few brothers erupt on instinct, “No fucking way.”
“Dude, it’s your birthday.”
“What about the Ice?”
Gojo looks at the pledge still kneeling there, “Give it to Ryan.”
Ryan’s face drops, “The fuck?”
“You heard me.”
The room boos, a brother yells that he’s dead to the brotherhood, but truly, he doesn’t give a damn at this point. His body has already turned toward the front door. Ryan follows him a few steps, voice lower only for him to hear, “You sure about this?”
Gojo pauses with his hand near his keys. No. No, he’s not sure. This is absolutely a terrible idea. Seeing you might rip him open worse. It may give him just enough hope to ruin him all over again. It’ll probably end with him sitting in his Porsche alone afterward, tasting your name in his mouth like the blood that’s been spilled.
Still, he says, “Yeah.”
Ryan studies him for a second, then sighs like he knows there’s no point trying to stop a car already wrapped around a tree, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Gojo bites back a laugh, “Bit late for that,” Then he leaves.
Behind him, the house keeps yelling, music stays pounding, and the birthday nonsense rolls on without him. But for the first time in days, Satoru Gojo feels alive. All because you texted him, remembered, and are willing to give him just a little.
Although, you almost change your mind four separate times on the way downstairs. Once in the hallway, when the elevator takes too long and gives your brain too much space to start thinking rationally. Then in the lobby, when a group of girls stumble in from some party, maybe even Sig Chi, laughing loudly, the smell of perfume and vodka trailing after them, and all it does is make you feel bizarrely exposed. As if somehow everyone can look at you and know exactly where it is you’re going.
You almost change your mind when you push through the front doors of the dorm and the December air pinches your cheeks and lastly, when you spot the Porsche. Parked at the curb, sleek and glowing white in the darkness. The same car that has held various versions of you—angry you, drunk you, happy you, crying you. The you who let him touch and fuck you in ways that made your whole body feel owned and the worst you of all, the one who sat in the passenger seat with an ultrasound who told him it was done.
Your feet refuse to move for a second, the small paper bag in your hand crinkles when your fingers clench around it. Fuck, this is stupid. This is so fucking stupid.
You should go back upstairs, text him that you changed your mind, crawl into bed beside Blair and let his birthday pass by without his voice, without his blue eyes, and without whatever damage seeing him will do to the place inside you that has started learning how to scab over.
But then the driver’s side door opens and Gojo steps out.
Damn, he looks tired.
Not in that pretty, careless way he sometimes does after partying too hard with his hair mussed and eyes bright and mouth curved like the exhaustion is part of the image. No, this is different and you could think of a few reasons why. He’s solemn underneath the streetlight, white hair falling softer than usual over his forehead, black button-up slightly wrinkled, hands slotted in his pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.
He sees you and goes completely still, which is honestly worse than if he had smiled. Neither of you says a word as you stand there on the sidewalk with his gift in hand and he stands beside the car looking at you like he’s afraid if he moves, you’ll vanish. Eventually, he swallows the lump in his throat and walks around to open the passenger door. A tiny, stupid ache pulls at your heartstrings. You hate that even now he still does that and hate it more that you still notice.
“Thanks,” You murmur, slipping past him into the seat and the moment you’re inside, the scent of leather and his cologne engulfs you; familiar enough to make your stomach churn.
Armani, a hint of weed clings to the upholstery, and beneath it, just barely, there’s another smell; something sweet. Your perfume.
It’s faint, almost hidden under everything else, but it’s there, sticking to the air in a way that does not belong inside his car unless…unless—you don’t let yourself finish the thought.
Satoru shuts your door gently, acting as if loud noises are suddenly a threat, then walks back around and gets in. The Porsche dips narrowly with his weight and once he closes his door, the heavenly scent of Kilian Angels’ Share wafting off you hits him.
Warm on your skin and sweet at your neck; that boozy apple-cinnamon softness tucked into your pulse, real and moving in the seat beside him instead of the fabricated version he bought as a replacement for your absence. His hand tightens around the steering wheel and you catch it. A flex of his fingers followed by a bob of his throat. His gaze stays forward for a second too long because seeing you while smelling you might actually kill him.
Your heart gives one miserable, small kick, “Happy birthday.”
He turns his head then, eyes finding yours, until they drop automatically. He doesn’t mean for them to, or maybe he does. There may just be some sick, hopeful piece of him that still expects to see silver resting against your collarbone—his chain, his claim sitting pretty at the base of your neck like proof you were his. But it isn’t there of course. That chain is back in his lonely frat bedroom that reeks of a piss poor imitation of you.
Instead, a smaller necklace glints against your skin, delicate and simple, your own initial hanging where he used to be. Something in his chest folds in on itself. You didn’t let the hollow spot sit there like a wound he could pretend might still belong to him again someday. No, you filled it with yourself; you’ve reclaimed yourself again. He peers back up before you notice him staring. Too late, perhaps. You shift slightly in the passenger seat as you wait for him to say something—anything.
He can’t even find his voice, fixated on the sight of your initial catching in the night, but soon enough, he responds with, “Thank you.”
Your grip tightens around the bag in your lap and the paper crinkles. You can’t hold onto it anymore. The longer it stays there, the more obvious it becomes; the more it says, I thought of you without you even asking me to. So you raise it, refusing to look directly at him, “...I got you something.”
His gaze falls upon the bag and your face warms instantly, embarrassingly so, “It’s small,” You add, “...And don’t make it weird.”
That almost pulls a smile from him; you shove the bag toward him before you lose your nerve, “It just felt wrong getting you nothing.”
Satoru takes it from you slowly as if the paper hurts to touch. His fingers brush yours for less than a second, but the contact hits both of you hard enough that you pull back quickly. He looks down into the bag, reaches inside, and pulls out the box. Kikufuku mochi. His favorite flavor. Zunda and cream.
The exact one he had been passionate about in that little Asian market weeks ago, carrying the box like it was some national treasure while lecturing you about how most American mochi should be criminalized. His mouth parts, thumb shifting over the edge of the box. His eyes lower, then lift to you again, softer and more devastated than your heart can handle, “You…remembered?”
You look out the windshield rather than looking at him, “You were very dramatic about it.”
His breath leaves him shakily, something too broken to be a laugh, “I was not dramatic.”
“You said American mochi is shit.”
“Cause it is,” The reply comes so fast, so naturally, that for one brief moment the air between you loosens; a tiny flash of normal.
You almost smile. So does he. Then the almost-normalcy passes by just as quickly as it came, and the silence afterward is painful. A painful reminder of what it used to be.
Satoru peers down at the box once more, setting it carefully in the center console, adjusting it twice so it won’t slide when he drives, but as he does so, he can’t help but recall what sat there in that center console the last time you were here with him. Uneaten In-N-Out and an ultrasound picture that’s since been stuffed safely in his wallet.
He snaps himself out of it and puts the car in drive without asking where you want to go, not that you planned on asking anyway. The Porsche pulls away from the curb, smooth and rumbling, USC slipping past in fragments through the tinted glass. A pair of students walk close under one jacket, a guy bikes one-handed with a bag filled with food swinging from his wrist; the campus looks strange at night in December, emptier than usual, as if everyone who belongs somewhere has already gone there, unlike you and Satoru.
For a while, the only sound in the car is the low hum of the engine and the repeated click of the turn signal, neither of you speak once. That’s probably for the best. If either of you open your mouth too soon, the wrong thing will come out.
When the silence grows so thick it is palpable, he reaches for his phone and plugs it into the charger. Apple CarPlay connects and a song starts playing automatically. The opening notes are so faint you almost miss them, but then you hear the voice. It’s…The Neighbourhood?
Your head turns toward the dash, title glowing back at you.
Reflections.
Satoru doesn’t even react, which somehow makes it worse. He knows you love The Neighbourhood. So the question on your mind now is did he put this on because of me? Or has he been listening to it alone?
The second possibility unsettles you more. The idea of your music becoming part of his loneliness feels too intimate, like he took something of yours after you left in order to keep him company. You look out the window before he can clock your expression.
He drives to a quiet overlook tucked just far enough from campus to feel private without being romantic in any deliberate way. There’s no sweeping stars, especially not with this light pollution, and no city lights sparkling either. Just a half-empty lot with a row of dim streetlights, a few parked cars, and Los Angeles stretching dull and enormous beneath the night.
Putting the car in park, The Neighbourhood continues to play softly in the background, and then his eyes drop to the mochi, “Can I open it?”
You hate how cautious his voice is; if you hadn’t known better you would think he was asking for more than dessert. You nod, speaking feels too risky, and he reaches for the box. His fingers are gentle with it, absurdly so. Satoru Gojo, who has never handled anything in his life like it could break unless it was you.
He peels the packaging open and holds the tray between you. The mochi is still cold from sitting in the fridge for the past two days, pale and lightly dusted, “Have one with me?”
“Satoru…”
“Just one,” He presses quietly, “Please.”
Please used to sound different in his mouth—dirtier, needier, hot enough to make you stupid, but tonight it only sounds small. Like he knows that even asking you to have one piece of mochi with him may be asking for too much.
So you take just one and the two of you sit in his Porsche at some lonely little overlook, sharing cold zunda and cream mochi from a plastic tray at midnight on his twenty-first birthday. It would’ve been funny if anything about this still knew how to be funny without hurting afterward.
You take a bite and the soft chew of it, the sweet cream, the hint of nutty-earthiness, all of it makes the moment feel horribly normal. As if you could be any two people—he could be just a boy on his birthday and you could be just a girl who remembered something he loves. It feels nothing like the truth of what you are.
“You were right,” You say after a prolonged silence and he glances over, “This is way better than any American mochi.”
His mouth twitches, “Obviously.”
“Don’t be smug.”
“I’m being incredibly humble, actually.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m grieving and still correct. Let me have this.”
The line slips out too naturally, the air loosening in its wake. A tiny smile threatens your mouth, yet the moment he sees it, something in his face breaks. His half-grin disappears first, then yours does too.
There it is again. That awful glimpse of what this used to be. The two of you in his car, teasing over bullshit, your body remembering what happiness is before your brain kills it. The silence that follows after that is worse than the one in the beginning. Satoru looks down at the open box between you, thumb brushing along the plastic edge.
“The day didn’t feel real until you texted,” He says, eyes lowered, “Everyone was yelling and shoving drinks at me. Ryan was trying to make me chug some dumb shit. People kept saying happy birthday and I just…” His jaw works once, “I didn’t feel anything…but then your name showed up.”
Your heart knocks painfully against your ribs, “Satoru—”
“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad.”
“I know.”
“I mean it,” He swallows hard, hating the fact that he has to clarify at all because he’s given you every reason to doubt each soft thing rolling off his tongue, “I’m not trying to turn it into something,” You look at him then, though he still isn’t looking at you, “I just wanted you to know that it mattered.”
You fix your eyes on the mochi box instead before responding, looking at him is far too dangerous, “I didn’t text you because I wanted to start something.”
“I know.”
“It’s just that…it would’ve been wrong if I hadn’t.”
He nods, taking that in, not pouncing on the words or turning them into proof. Part of him wants to ask then what does that mean? Or you still care, don’t you? But he doesn’t. No, old him would’ve done this. The Gojo that made you scared and ruined what you had would have known exactly how to weaponize some shit to say. This new, heartbroken Gojo just accepts the little you give him without trying to steal the rest.
“Thank you.”
The two words gut you somehow anyway, and you take another bite of your mochi piece in order to keep your mouth occupied. Satoru watches the city through the windshield, one hand loose on his thigh, the other resting too close to the center console. Your hands are close enough that if either of you shifted, your fingers would touch. So neither of you do.
Instead, he awkwardly asks, “How was your break?”
You peek down at the mochi in your hand, thumb brushing over the soft powder on your fingertips, “It was okay.”
Carefully, he says, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Your eyes sting despite yourself, “Boston was cold as hell.”
His mouth almost moves into a smile, “Sounds right.”
“And Sam was annoying.”
“That also sounds right.”
“He called me a bitch at the airport.”
His brows lift faintly, “Nice.”
“Lovingly.”
“Of course.”
A tiny breath crawls up your throat, kind of a laugh but not really. Satoru’s whole face changes for a split second, the sound doing something terrible to him, “My family was…” You trail off, “My family.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, staring at the dash now instead of him, “They could tell something was off,” Satoru goes still, “They didn’t know,” You add quickly, the shift in him too immediate to go unnoticed, “Not everything…but they knew something.”
His fingers flex once against his thigh, the car feeling smaller after that. You keep going after a harsh swallow, “It’s hard being around people who love you when you’re trying to hide the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”
Satoru looks down, unable to speak right away. You don’t know what expression he makes because you refuse to even look, only hearing the faint scrape of his breath when he whispers, “I’m sorry.”
You close your eyes, “Don’t.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean it,” Your voice comes out softer than you wanted, “I didn’t say that so you’d apologize.”
“I know,” He says again, but this time it sounds worse, “I just am.”
You glare at the open mochi box. All you can think about is your old bedroom, Nick staying when everyone else left, the way you cried so hard your ribs ached. You keep that detail to yourself; that part is yours, or maybe Nick’s. Either way, Satoru doesn’t need to know.
“I wasn’t alone,” You say finally, his head lifting slightly, “Blair was there. And Nick was…” Your throat swells, so you stop before you reveal too much, “He was good.”
Satoru’s face changes in the corner of your vision; relief first, then grief right after it, “I’m glad.”
You glance at him, “Are you?”
“Yeah,” It lacks bitterness, that old possessive flare that used to live there, no wounded male pride over someone else getting to be near when he couldn’t, “I’m glad somebody was good to you.”
Your chest constricts as he drags his thumb over his knee, needing to do something with his hand because it might reach for you by mistake, “I hate that you needed it because of me.”
The car turns painfully quiet besides the faint music obliviously humming along, “Satoru…”
“Don’t comfort me,” He says, pleading almost, “Please. I’m not saying it for that,” He stares at his hands like there’s blood on them, “I’m glad Blair was there. I’m glad Nick was there. I’m glad you had people…”
A broken little breath leaves him, “...I just can’t stop thinking that you had to go home and be taken care of cause of what I did to you,” Your eyes burn immediately, he laughs once, but it’s wet and pitiful, “Happy fucking birthday, right?”
“It’s not funny.”
“No,” He agrees, eyes still lowered, “It’s not.”
Another silence settles, this one feeling different than the last. You look at the mochi once more, the sight of his face becoming too much to bear, “How was yours? Your break?”
His mouth twitches lightly. You think he might make up some stupid lie both of you could pretend to believe, but he opts for the ugly truth, “Bad.”
You nod slowly, “Because of me?”
He looks at you then, the answer in his face before he can even say it.
Yes.
Yes, of course.
Yes, every fucking second was terrible because of you.
But, the answer he says is much more honest, “Because of what I did,” Feeling ashamed, he turns away, “You were part of it. Obviously. But it wasn’t just missing you. It was missing you and knowing exactly why you were gone.”
Aware that this was the case, it doesn’t make your heart hurt any less. Unfortunately Satoru can’t stop speaking either. The floodgates have opened and he’s letting it all out, “I kept wanting to call you. Then I’d remember I already did. A fucking million times like some dumbass loser,” His mouth twists, “I kept wanting to apologize, and then I’d think…for what? What apology could you possibly give that can make up for this?”
Your fingers tangle in your lap as you remain silent. He glances at the mochi box, then the windshield, “My room felt wrong. The house felt wrong. Everything fucking smelled wrong.”
You remember the faint sweetness in his car when you got in—your perfume, hiding beneath leather, Armani cologne, and weed. Your body freezes and Satoru notices; his eyes flick to yours for half a second, then away, embarrassment cutting across his countenance so fast you mistake it for anger.
“I know…I know how pathetic that is,” He mutters and shakes his head once, disgusted with himself, “I missed you so fucking badly I started doing shit I can’t even say out loud.”
The confession lies there between you. He won’t specify, no, he’d rather die than admit he bought your exact perfume and sprayed it everywhere, then proceeded to jerk off to old videos of you. When that didn’t help he took it out on those around him and started drawing again, desperate to keep you alive in his room in any way, shape, or form.
Your voice wavers, “Satoru…”
“I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me…I don’t deserve that.”
“I know.”
He looks at you, the honesty in your words catching him off guard. You hold his gaze for a heartbeat, then force yourself to look elsewhere. He breathes out slowly, “Yeah…”
More unbearable silence ensues, but you ask another question, needing somewhere else to put all this hurt, “Are you going home for winter break?”
“Yeah.”
“Japan?”
“Tokyo.”
The reply comes easily, but his face tells a whole different story. You know he loves Tokyo, you know that. He talks about the food like it’s holy, whereas he complains about LA 7-Elevens as if they’re a disgrace to society. He has his best friend Geto there, twenty-one years of history overseas, a whole language that changes the shape of him when he speaks it. So why does he look like that?
“You don’t…seem excited.”
His mouth curves, small and tired, “I like Tokyo…” The curve fades as a few seconds pass, “...I don’t like being home. It’s—” He looks down at the steering wheel, “It’s different there.”
“With your family?” You ask, and he nods, “How?”
For a minute, he doesn't answer, “At USC, everybody wants me loud. At home, everybody wants me quiet,” His thumb grazes over his knee, “Same shit. Different volume.”
You realize it then. The performance of Satoru Gojo. The characters he portrays.
Gojo as noise. Satoru as silence. Both versions wanted for their usefulness, watched under a microscope. And neither of them are free.
“You make it sound like nobody wants you as you are.”
His face changes, barely. He looks into your eyes and in that moment, he appears so young it almost makes you angry. Angry at him, his family, yourself—at the fact that you can still want to reach for him after everything.
“Maybe they don’t know what that is,” His eyes flick away before the sentence can grow too vulnerable, “I didn’t either…not until you,” But he seems to regret it instantly, jaw clenching, “Fuck. I didn’t mean—”
“What did you mean?”
“I don’t know,” He admits, sighing deeply, and for some reason that hurts more than if he had given you some perfect response, “I just know it was different with you. And I handled it like shit.”
Not yet wise enough to understand himself, he sits here on his twenty-first birthday, trying to name a wound with tools he doesn’t have.
“I really fucking missed you,” He says suddenly, so sudden your heart stops, “I missed you all the time,” The words scrape out of him, humiliating but honest, “All the time. In class. At the gym. Driving. Standing in my room doing nothing. I’d hear something and think I had to tell you. But then I’d reach for my phone and remember—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, there’s no need to. You can fill in the blank. He’d remember that he couldn’t do that anymore.
“I kept thinking it would fade,” He says, “Like after a few days, my body would remember you were gone, but it never did,” He laughs once under his breath, “Do you know how fucking stupid that feels? To miss somebody and not even be able to miss them cleanly?”
“...What does that mean?”
“It means every time I want you, I remember what wanting you cost.”
Oh. That one stings.
His eyes flick toward you, wet and furious with himself, “And I still want you,” Then looks away immediately, like he has no right to look at you after saying it, “I still want you. I still love you. I still fucking miss you. And none of that makes me less guilty.”
Your eyes burn so sharply you have to blink rapidly. God, this is worse. This is so much worse than him begging. You could reject begging in all its pitifulness, but this? This just hangs in the air, true and useless. And you do the idiotic thing by saying it back, “I missed you too.”
His body draws taut, so you keep going before he can turn the words into hope, “But I’m still angry.”
“I know.”
“And I still don’t know what to do with you.”
“I know.”
“And I can’t let missing you make decisions for me.”
He flinches, a small one that he tries to bury too late, and nods, “Okay.”
For some reason, him sitting there and letting the boundary stay intact breaks you more. You half-expected him to be the version of himself you knew how to leave, the one you could shove back. Maybe you even wanted that, honestly. But no. He’s being the person you wished he was weeks ago.
You blink again, but this time the tears come anyway. Satoru sees them and looks away, feeling undeserving to witness it. A miserable chuckle catches in your throat, “This is so stupid.”
His mouth twists sadly, “Yeah.”
“It’s your birthday.”
“Yep.”
“And we’re sitting in your car eating mochi and crying.”
“You’re crying,” He corrects gently.
You shoot him a look through blurred vision, “Don’t start.”
“I’m not.”
“You looked like you were about to.”
“That’s…a lie.”
There it is again—a breath of something normal. So little, yet painful you could hate him for giving it to you. Your lip trembles, stuck somewhere between a laugh and another sob, and his face softens in a way that makes the whole car feel dangerous. Because throughout it all, he’s the boy who can still make you almost laugh while you’re crying in the passenger seat of the car where you broke each other’s hearts. He’s the boy you still love.
Fuck.
The boy you still love.
Which is exactly why you wipe your cheeks and turn away, “I should go back soon.”
His expression falters for a breath, but then he nods, “Yeah,” He says quietly, “Okay.”
Again, all he can answer with is okay and again, it hurts.
The drive back to your dorm is quieter than the drive there. Though, the silence has weight now, packed full of everything neither of you knows how to say without making the night worse. The Neighbourhood keeps playing low through the speakers, A Little Death. You shrink in your seat slightly, knowing that the song has nothing to do with dying.
Satoru keeps both hands on the wheel, it’s the only way he can keep himself from trying to reach for you. He knows better—if his hand moves even an inch, yours might move too, and then this whole fragile little near-peace will become something neither of you can survive.
The mochi box sits closed in the center console, safer now, and when Satoru pulls up outside your dorm, he doesn't kill the engine right away. The Porsche idles at the curb, streetlamp cutting across his face.
Right away, you know you should unbuckle; thank him for the drive, take this puny victory of leaving before either of you ruins this, and go back upstairs to Blair, who is absolutely awake and waiting to interrogate you.
But, like the foolish person you are, you sit there, and so does he. Neither of you looks at each other first, “Thank you for coming.”
You stare blankly at your hands, “Well, it’s your birthday…”
It sounds like an excuse more than an answer. Hell, it probably is one. A flimsy thing to hide behind because saying I wanted to see you would be too honest, and honesty has already done enough damage tonight.
Satoru turns his head, looking at you now, and you can feel it before you even see it. The weight of his gaze—softened, tired, and wanting in a way that doesn’t feel like the old hunger or maybe it does. That’s the problem, really. With him, tenderness and hunger have always come intertwined.
You finally look back and…big mistake. His eyes are too blue in the dark, glassy around the edges, pale lashes lowered like he’s trying to hold himself in place through sheer will alone. His mouth parts as if he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out.
Thank fucking God.
If he says one more sad thing, you might actually crawl out of your own skin.
“I should go,” You whisper.
“Yeah.”
But you still don’t move and that’s when his gaze drops to your lips, only for a second, maybe less, yet it’s long enough to ruin you, “Satoru,” You warn, though it lacks strength.
“I know,” He murmurs, eyes flicking back up to yours, “I’m not doing anything.”
Yeah. He isn’t. He’s just sitting there, hands glued to the wheel, letting you leave if you want to leave. Which, inexplicably, makes you want him more. You hate that so badly your chest aches with it.
Your seatbeat clicks before you remember deciding to unbuckle it. Satoru’s eyes drop to the belt, then back up to your face. This is when you know you really should open the door and go, but you still don’t. Your hand moves seemingly on its own, across the center console, and your fingers find the front of his shirt, curling lightly into the fabric near his chest. His breath catches so quietly you almost miss it.
Then, his hand leaves the steering wheel, slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. His fingers come up to your face, thumb brushing beneath your jaw with a gentleness so careful it makes your insides twist. You close your eyes before his mouth touches yours.
The kiss is soft at first, a wary press of his lips against yours, warm and trembling, like he’s afraid of scaring the moment away—one wrong move and you’ll disappear into your dorm and leave him with nothing but the mochi box and a mouth full of things he didn’t have the balls to say.
You make another big mistake. The mistake of kissing him back…really kissing him back.
Your fingers tighten in his shirt and that cracks the rest of his restraint. You feel his body shift, his breath leaves through his nose and his hand slides from beneath your jaw to the side of your neck. His thumb rests under your chin, tilting you just enough for the kiss to deepen, and God, the second it does, everything comes rushing back.
His mouth opens against yours and the sound he makes is barely there, broken and swallowed, but it sends heat straight through your core. Your free hand comes up without permission, fingers slipping into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and he shivers like the touch burned him.
The kiss turns ravenous for one precarious second. Deep, aching, familiar in a way that makes your blood run like fire in your veins. His lips move over yours like he remembers everything and is trying not to remember too much at the same time. His hand stays at your neck, thumb stroking once beneath your jaw and it’s so gentle it almost feels worse than if he had been reckless.
Reckless is what you know. You can survive reckless. This is so much harder. This is Satoru holding you like he knows he’s already lost the right to.
You hesitantly pull back first, forehead touching his; his breath is uneven against your mouth, though he follows you without even thinking. His lips chase yours, instinctive, starved for more, and your heart stutters because you know if he kisses you again, you’ll let him.
But he stops himself. His brilliant blue eyes open and he sees your face, noticing the line you’re trying to hold with both hands, and stops. The restraint is visible, painful even. His fingers flex once against your neck before he lets it fall away slowly, like it physically hurts him.
“I’m sorry,” He breathes.
You shake your head, still too close to him, “Don’t be.”
He swallows, now the car feels warmer, smaller. Your mouth is tingling and your hand is twisted in his shirt, so you force yourself to let go. The fabric slips from your fingers and rests back against his chest. That tiny loss hurts too.
You look away first, blinking hard, “They’re making you go out later, aren’t they?”
His mouth curves as he sighs, “Unfortunately.”
“Bars?”
“Pregame first,” He says, “Then a club. Apparently they reserved a few sections.”
Your stomach twists in an ugly way that makes your skin prickle beneath your clothes. Club. Sections. Of fucking course.
He’s going to be surrounded by bottle girls and frat brothers who are bad influences. Bottles of booze with stupid sparklers and cocaine in the dirty bathrooms. Music will be blaring so loud you can’t even think. Girls in tiny dresses leaning over him to say happy birthday, hands on his shoulder, lips too close to his ear because the bass gives them an excuse.
Girls who don’t know any of it. They don’t know that he was almost a father and that he keeps that grief folded behind his ID.
No, they will look at him and see exactly what everyone sees when they look at him. Pretty, rich, wanted Gojo.
The boy with the hair white like snow and the Porsche to match and the captivating cerulean colored eyes and the kind of mouth girls dream about before they know what it feels like.
Your mouth still knows. Yet tomorrow he’s going to walk into some club with your kiss still lingering on his lips while other girls orbit close enough to smell his cologne.
The thought makes you sick, which is ridiculous, hypocritical again too. You were the one who ended this. So why does some awful, possessive little part of you still want to put your hand over his chest and say no, don’t go?
You hate that the thought makes you sound so much like how he used to.
“Oh,” You say, barely a word.
Satoru glances over as you keep your eyes on your lap, afraid that your face has already betrayed you and that he can see the whole rottenness buried within your body—jealousy, concern, mourning, want, the miserable tiny claim you still carry like a bruise.
He exhales quietly, “I don’t even want to go.”
Hearing that makes you feel better, albeit slightly. But then it makes you feel like shit because relief has no business blooming inside you over that. You don’t get to be relieved that your ex-boyfriend doesn’t want to spend his twenty-first birthday surrounded by girls and liquor and people who aren’t you.
You don’t get to care, you know that, yet you do anyway, “Then don’t.”
The words slip out accidentally, or maybe not accidentally at all. Satoru’s gaze drops to your mouth again, briefly, almost like he can’t help himself, “You know I wouldn’t go if you asked me not to.”
Your heart thumps once, a frantic kick. The sad part is that you believe him. He would absolutely throw away the whole stupid night if you gave him the smallest reason to. He’d let the brothers call him whipped, pathetic, pussy or whatever insult they could conjure after six shots and a fuck ton of bumps. Gojo would sit in this car until sunrise if it meant one hour of you looking at him like this.
Which is exactly why you can’t ask. You already told him missing him can’t make decisions for you, “I’m not asking.”
He bows his head, “Okay.”
Again, that fucking word. Okay. You despise how much restraint sounds like loss when it comes from him.
He looks forward, jaw tight, “I’ll go for a bit. Show my face. Then leave.”
You almost laugh. Yeah, you’ve heard that one before. Plenty of times while you were up sick, pregnant, and scared, “You say that now.”
“I know.”
Well, at least he’s honest. The both of you are no stranger of what this world does to him. The drinks, the noise, the bathroom counters, the lines. Your jealousy folds into fear so quickly it makes you dizzy.
“Satoru,” He turns to you, “Be careful.”
Be careful means too many things. The girls. The drinking. And of course, the worst of them all, the drugs. Mainly you mean, be careful with the version of you that comes out when everyone wants Gojo and nobody cares what happens to Satoru afterward.
He understands every meaning. You can tell by the guilt that crosses his face, brief and unmistakable. And for one second, you think he might promise.
Old Gojo would have. He would have looked you dead in the eye and lied beautifully because he was good at that. He would have said I will, baby with enough conviction to make you want to believe him.
But this version of him gives the cowardly, truthful answer, “I’ll try.”
Your throat tightens and you force a grin like it doesn’t hurt, “Okay.”
And then you open the door before the possessive, grieving thing inside you can ask him to stay or before you forget, for one weak second, that you’re not his girlfriend anymore and he isn’t yours. Even if some ruined part of you still feels like he is.
Cool air rushes into the car as you step out, Satoru watches you from the driver’s seat, but doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t make this harder than it already is. You shut the door gently and stand on the curb, looking at him through the tinted window. You can’t see him clearly, only the pale shape of his hair and the outline of his face turned toward you.
You spin on your heel and walk to the dorm, every step feels like tearing open a scabbed wound. Behind you, Satoru doesn’t drive away until you’re safely inside, you know that without looking back.
Once you are, he breathes out a deep breath and reluctantly drives off. The drive back to Sig Chi takes less than five minutes, but it feels longer. Even with The Neighbourhood still playing low through the speakers, the car is too quiet. Your perfume lingers in the passenger seat, tangled with the ghost of your mouth on his. The mochi sits in the center console, yet the only thing he tastes is you.
Pulling up to the curb outside the house, he isn’t surprised to see that the party is still going. People are on the porch, two brothers pass around a bottle of whiskey back and forth like the entire world isn’t actively rotting. At least, for Gojo it is.
He sits in the driver seat for a few minutes, contemplating even going inside, though he knows he should. He should drink, smile, let Ryan shove another stupid beer can into his hand, have the night become loud enough to make him forget your mouth from his memory. Yeah right, like he ever could.
Eventually, he works up the courage to move, grabbing the mochi box as he does so. The second he steps inside, three different voices shout for him.
“There he is!”
“Birthday boy’s back!”
“Where the fuck did you go?”
Someone jeers from the living room, loud and stupid, “Nah, bro definitely went to see her.”
A few brothers erupt instantly, drunk off the idea of it before he even says anything.
“Ohh, he went to see the ex.”
“Birthday pussy, let’s fucking go.”
“Fuckin’ dog,” One of them laughs, clapping him too hard on the shoulder as he passes, “Left his own party and still got laid.”
Gojo bites his tongue; this is the only version of events that they can understand. He left for you, so he must have fucked you. You must have missed him so much and oh it’s his birthday so you let him talk his way back in between your legs. And now he’s returned, triumphant and smug, body loose with satisfaction, another dirty frat house story for the boys to cheer over.
And yeah, some selfish, greedy part of him would be lying if he pretended the thought didn’t make his body ache. Of course he wanted to fuck you. He always wants you. One kiss had been enough to remind him of that in the cruelest way possible. Your fingers tugging his hair, your mouth opening under his, the soft pull of your hand in his shirt like you still know where to hold him.
His body had reacted immediately, stupidly, like no time passed at all and nothing bad had happened.
But of course, wanting to fuck you isn’t as simple as it used to be. Now, you’re recovering from an abortion, from him, from the damage he had wrapped around you and called love.
So no, it’s nothing like what they think. He didn’t get to fuck you just because you missed him. He didn’t get to crawl back inside you like forgiveness lives there. Honestly, he barely even deserved a kiss at all.
That’s what makes the frat laughter feel so grotesque. They’re cheering for a conquest that never happened, for a version of him that would’ve taken the joke and worn it. Gojo would’ve normally smirked, let them believe it, maybe even add some filthy comment to make himself look better than what he is.
Instead, it makes him sick because nothing about seeing you tonight felt like a win.
Ryan appears from the living room, flushed and drunk, eyes narrowing when he clocks Gojo’s face, “You alright, bro?”
Gojo doesn’t stop walking, “Yeah.”
“That sounded fake as shit.”
“Then why ask?”
Someone behind him calls, “Don’t let him go upstairs, he might start writing love letters.”
Another voice yells, “Nah, let him rest. Man just put in work.”
More laughter ensues and Gojo keeps moving. The words follow him up the stairs, crude and wrong in every possible way. He stands in the middle of his room with the mochi in one hand, your kiss still burning on his mouth like an injury, and shuts his eyes.
Fuck.
He almost wishes you hadn’t kissed him at all.
Before tonight, missing you had become horrible in a way he could recognize. It had a routine, actually. Wake up. Think of you. Hate himself. Go to class. Think of you. Resist the urge to call and text. Hate himself some more. Survive another hour. Another day. Another night. Repeat. Sure, it hurt, but at least it had started to scab. Now, you have torn it open with your mouth.
When Gojo finally moves again, it's to set the mochi all the way back in his mini fridge, behind two bottles of water and a lonely, forgotten Red Bull. Hiding it because if one of his drunk frat brother fucks eats it later, he genuinely may kill them.
Then he sits on the edge of his bed and bows his head, alone on the first hour of his twenty-first birthday, glaring at the floor like it might miraculously split open and swallow him whole. Shit, I wish it would, he thinks.
And by the time he sleeps, it could barely be defined as such. He drifts in and out, caught in miserable scraps of memory. Rain taps against the window before he even opens his eyes, soft at first, then harder. A steady December downpour, rare for Los Angeles but fitting for what day it is.
Gojo lies there in his bed, listening to the soothing sound of rainfall, staring at the ceiling. His phone is already full of messages. Girls he hardly remembers, a couple of guys from class, frat brothers. He scrolls past all of them and opens yours.
happy birthday, satoru
That’s the only one that feels real. He rereads it until the words start to blur, then locks his phone and throws an arm over his eyes. He should probably get up. Shower. Go to class. Be normal in some capacity. Skipping class would feel too obviously pathetic and Gojo has always hated being pathetic in public more than he hates almost anything. So he goes.
Mentally though, he is nowhere near the USC campus. He sits in his Microeconomics lecture with his phone facedown on the desk, laptop untouched, rain ticking against the tall windows in the back of the room. Someone beside him wishes him happy birthday and he smiles automatically; beautiful, yet empty.
“Thanks.”
A girl two rows down turns around before the class starts, “Happy birthday, Gojo.”
“Appreciate it.”
The professor starts talking soon after and Gojo hears none of it. The only thing he can think about is your mouth and your necklace—your initial where his chain used to be. That should make him proud of you, there’s definitely a part of him that is, but another part of him feels like he’s choking on glass.
When he leaves class, the rain has gotten worse. Harsher, colder, bouncing off pavement and turning every walkway into a slick, ugly mirror. People speedwalk under jackets and umbrellas, shrieking as cars splash through puddles. LA students are dramatic about rain in a way that would’ve been funny if Gojo had any humor left in him.
Everywhere he goes, someone says happy birthday, and every single one feels hollow after yours.
At nine o’clock that same night, Sig Chi is alive again. The rain pounds against the windows while the house overheats from too many bodies packed inside. Music shakes the walls, bottles crowd every flat surface. Gojo dresses for his role, understanding the assignment. Black designer jeans, grey button-up open slightly at the throat, silver chain sitting on his collarbone.
His white hair is styled messily, he’s sprayed Tom Ford cologne on every pulse point instead of Armani, wears his AP watch with the diamond bezel that catches the light every time he moves his wrist. Everything loud, bright, and expensive enough to remind everyone who he is supposed to be.
He looks perfect, but he feels nowhere near it.
“Bro,” Ryan says when he sees him, already holding a bottle by the neck, “There he is.”
Someone whistles, “AP is mad tuff, bro.”
“Section’s about to go fucking crazy.”
“Hella bad bitches too,” Another brother adds, grinning as he throws an arm around Gojo’s shoulders, “You’re gonna be swimming in pussy tonight, birthday boy.”
The room laughs and Gojo flashes a faux smile, “Yeah.”
It’s convincing enough for drunk people, but Ryan’s eyes narrow anyway because for all of his flaws, he’s not completely stupid. He notices that the laugh doesn’t reach Gojo’s eyes, “You okay?”
“Fantastic.”
“Lie better.”
Gojo takes the vodka bottle from his hand, drinking straight from it, “That better?”
“No.”
But then a brother yells for both of them and the moment vanishes into the noise. They’re led upstairs into a room, where lines of coke are being cut on a glass coffee table. Gojo sees them before anyone even offers.
No, he thinks immediately, do not fucking do it.
His fingers tighten at his sides, reminiscing the moment he flushed all his shit down the toilet—pills and powder, feeling lonely and furious and half-sick with shame, staring back at the drugs like they could stare back, because he knew. He knew what that shit made him. What it cost him. And he told himself he’d sworn off of it.
“Birthday boy,” A brother drawls, already drunk and slurring. His smile is too wide as he holds a rolled bill toward him, “First line of the night is for you.”
The room turns to watch him now, which is always how it goes. He looks at the white line and thinks of your face when you told him to “be careful”. The taste of your mouth on his. Your initial where he used to be. The mochi you got him because you still thought of him when he didn’t deserve it.
Fuck, it makes him sick. Not the thing that helped you lose her.
He almost steps back when he recognizes it. Coke never did bring him any good. So, say no. Push the bill back. Laugh it off like you usually do. Drink more instead. Leave this goddamn room.
One night. It’s only been one night since you warned him to be careful. And he answered with a bullshit, I’ll try.
Yeah. Sure. Try.
His mouth goes dry, someone chuckles again and says, “Bro, don’t pussy out on us.”
And something ugly inside Gojo folds as if it’s tired of standing. He takes the bill and the rational part of him makes one last futile attempt—don’t.
He bends anyway, closes one nostril, and the line disappears. Nothing happens at first, but then the burn hits bitterly through his nose and down the back of his throat, familiar and shameful.
His eyes begin to water, his heart kicks quicker, the room around him snaps brighter at the edges. Every sound too close, his skin too tight over his bones underneath it.
And instantly, before the high can even pretend to be relief, the thought comes.
Really, Satoru? His hand braces on the table as he glares at the empty space where the cocaine used to be. You couldn’t listen to her?
The shame crashes so fast it almost knocks the breath out of him. Because for one stupid, humiliating second in the car, with your lips close and your voice telling him those words, he had wanted to be careful for you. Wanted it badly enough to believe that wanting might count, but of course it doesn’t. Wanting means shit if you have zero discipline.
And Gojo still stands there, in a room full of people who don't know what he lost, choosing the thing that helped make him lose it.
“Another?” His brother asks.
No. The voice in his head pleads. Stop.
You already did it. Don’t make it worse.
Don’t become this again.
He hates that voice, hates it because it sounds like you. The version of you he invented in his conscience. The one that used to look at him with disappointed eyes and never screamed because she was too tired. The girl who already knows he failed before he even tells her.
His throat swells as he heaves out a breath. Fuck that. I can’t listen to it all night.
“Yeah,” He murmurs, “Another.”
And he snorts a second line, then a third; they do nothing to help him feel better, but at least they get the voice in his head to shut the fuck up.
By eleven, he is drunk and high like everyone wants him to be; drunk and high enough to fake their idea of Gojo that no longer exists in reality.
They Uber to the club in West Hollywood and the ride is pure chaos that never fully registers to him. Rain hammers the roof, people chant his name; Ryan is half-laughing, half-yelling at a brother to not spill tequila in the car and fuck up his Uber rating.
Gojo just smiles out the window, his reflection staring back at him from the dark glass, handsome and vacant. He barely recognizes himself.
At the club entrance, the sidewalk is crowded with bodies and slick with rainwater. Music spills from inside every time the door opens, bass thudding into the wet street. Then the bouncer asks to see his ID.
Behind him, his brothers erupt like this is the pinnacle of human achievement. Ryan grabs both his shoulders and shakes him once, laughing too loudly. People start chanting again.
“Gojo! Gojo! Gojo!”
The name feels like it belongs to everyone except him, yet he laughs because that’s what Gojo is supposed to do. He opens his wallet and immediately freezes at what he sees.
The folded edge of the ultrasound tucked safely behind his ID. A small, thin sliver of gray and white. And the noise around him doesn’t fade, no, it grows louder.
Ryan laughing, cars hissing through rain, girls squealing, the bouncer saying something he misses, and in the middle of all that life, stuffed behind the proof that he is finally old enough to drink legally, is the closest thing he has to a grave.
His thumb stills against the leather. The ultrasound also brings up the memory of you. Your shaking hands, your face turned away in the passenger seat, your body carrying something both of you were too young and wrecked and terrified to love properly before it was gone.
Mine, he had thought then. Out of possession, but wonder too. Terror. A future nipping at his heels.
Maybe the baby would have had your eyes. The maybe hurts worse than certainty ever could.
Maybe your eyes. Maybe his hair. Maybe your smile. Maybe his nose. Maybe some tiny, impossible combination of both of you that never got to become a person.
No face. No laugh. No first birthday. No teeny hand wrapped around his finger. No you in his passenger seat, annoyed and beautiful, telling him to stop driving like a jackass because there’s a baby in the backseat. No appointment where he pretended not to cry. No anything.
Only this. A folded gray edge in his wallet. A dead future pressed behind his license while everyone screams for him to start living.
“Bro,” Ryan calls, snapping him out of it, “ID.”
Gojo blinks and the sidewalk comes back wrong. Bright, loud, too full of people who have no clue of what he’s holding. Carefully, so carefully, he pulls the license free.
Because touching the ultrasound feels dangerous; like if his finger grazes against the paper long enough, he might take it out right there. He might unfold it in front of the bouncer, under the neon, with all of Sigma Chi watching, and say—look.
Look at what I lost.
Look at what I fucking did.
Look at who should still be here.
But of course he doesn’t. He just hands over the ID; the bouncer checks it, glances at him, and gives it back, “Happy birthday, man.”
Satoru grins, but there is not an ounce of happiness in it, “Thanks.”
The guys cheer again as he steps inside; the night ruined before it even started. Seeing the ultrasound didn’t sober him up. Instead, it makes him want to be worse.
Unfortunately, or maybe mercifully, the section is perfect. Tons of bottles, tons of girls, sparklers with the dumbass signs, phones recording, brothers yelling. Someone shoves a drink into his hand before he even sits down. A girl touches his bicep and says, “Happy birthday, Gojo,” like she has any right to the name.
He drinks more since everyone is watching and he doesn’t want to feel any of it. The club swallows him whole because the alternative is standing still long enough to feel the full weight of the folded paper in his wallet.
But the ultrasound follows him anyway. So do you. So does the baby. So does the quiet, private thought that keeps surfacing beneath every beat of the music.
I’m sorry.
Not to one person, but to both.
To the baby who should still be here and the girl who should have been beside him tonight.
The life that was gone before he ever learned how to love anything gently.
A girl in a silver dress sits beside Gojo too close, her thigh touches his and her perfume disgusts him because it isn’t yours. He shifts away on instinct, she giggles like she thinks he’s teasing, but he’s not.
Another girl leans over him to pour champagne into his mouth while his brothers cheer. The bottle tips, gold liquor spilling cold over his tongue, down his chin, onto the open collar of his shirt. Club lights catch on his AP watch when he lifts a hand to wipe it away.
The whole section fucking loves it. Though, Gojo wants to crawl out of his fucking body.
Every hand feels wrong. Every girl feels wrong. Every yell makes him lonelier. The section isn’t a celebration. It’s a parody of a life he can’t get back into.
At some point in the night, he ends up in the bathroom or maybe a side hallway, he’s too fucked up to really know. All he processes is a brother holding a baggie between two fingers and saying something he can’t hear.
He does more coke. Bumps off keys. Then drinks again.
His heart starts racing too fast, frenzied thumps against his ribs. His skin feels scorching hot beneath the cotton of his shirt. The club tips slightly when he moves, not enough to scare him, no, he’d need a lot more than that, but just enough to make everything feel less real.
Good. Less real is the goal.
He doesn’t want to feel the birthday or your mouth or the baby folded behind his ID.
Yet, despite the drugs and alcohol, he fails at not feeling all three.
Sometime after 1 A.M., he steps outside for air, telling no one. Ryan is turned away, arguing with someone about the bill or fetching more bottles, and Gojo slips out like he has been waiting for this chance.
Outside the club, West Hollywood is still pouring. At first, he stands under the awning with the smokers and the girls waiting for Ubers, rain splashing against the curb hard enough to mist his sneakers.
He inhales once, but it isn’t enough. So he steps past the awning, letting the rain hit him. It soaks through his hair first, collapsing the careful styling until white strands cling to his forehead and lashes. Then his shirt, cotton sticking to his chest. His jeans become heavy, his sneakers darken after dampening. The AP watch on his wrist catches streetlight through rainwater, absurdly expensive and useless.
For the first time all night, he feels something real. Basking in it until he’s been standing there for too long. His phone buzzes.
ryan: where tf did yo go
ryan: brooo
ryan: dont be doing sum weird shit rn
Another text, another brother. More noise trying to follow him outside. Gojo ignores all of it and orders an Uber, waiting in the rain instead of going back in.
He’s completely drenched by the time the car arrives and the driver glances at him in the rearview mirror, wondering if he should cancel the ride, but Gojo slides into the backseat before he can even decide.
The drive is dead silent save for the rain and the squeaky windshield wipers. His clothes cling cold to his hot skin, wet hair dripping onto his collar. And in all of that, he feels the folded ultrasound in his wallet like a bruise. The performance is finally fucking over.
When he gets back to Sig Chi, the house is still partying downstairs, but Gojo avoids all of it. He heads straight upstairs, shuts his bedroom door, and stands there in soaked designer clothes, shivering once.
He should probably change. The shirt is stuck to his skin, his jeans are disgustingly heavy, his socks are drenched. Water drips from his hair onto the floor and his watch is still on, glittering faintly against his wrist like the most ridiculous proof in the world that money can’t save you from being miserable.
Shower, maybe. Sleep after. But no, what does he do?
He opens the mini fridge. The mochi is still there, hidden in the back where no drunk asshole could find it. Gojo takes the box out and sits on the edge of his bed. The dampness from his clothes sinks into the sheets, yet he doesn’t care. Discomfort feels appropriate—rightfully earned, even.
The mochi box opens with a soft plastic sound, zunda and cream, your gift; and eats one slowly. Then he thinks of how he imagined his twenty-first a month ago.
A month ago, he imagined ending the night with you in his bed. Under him and around him. His hands in your hair, your thighs locked around his waist, his mouth against your neck while he fucked you so deep you couldn’t think about anything else except his name.
He imagined getting greedy with it, too. Starting his birthday with you, ending his birthday with you. Keeping you on his cock until the sun came up because turning twenty-one meant nothing in comparison to you.
And maybe, if he’s being honest in the ugliest, most deranged part of his own mind, he imagined his hand spread across your belly too.
Right where the baby should’ve been.
Right where, a month ago, the baby was.
That horrible fact guts him so brutally he stops chewing.
God, he was so fucking stupid.
He had confused love with permanence. He wanted something that was his and real, reaching for it with both hands closed around its throat, only to lose it anyway.
His hand trembles as he reaches for his wallet. The ultrasound slides free and he holds it in one hand while the mochi sits open beside him.
Downstairs, a brother shouts his name again, muffled through the floor.
Gojo.
Gojo.
Gojo.
Upstairs, Satoru cries quietly in wet clothes.
Tears roll hot down his face while his heart beats too fast from the coke and the alcohol and everything he is too ruined to define. His phone lies open beside him, still on your thread.
happy birthday, satoru
He stares at it until the letters all jumble together. Then he types.
come over
Deletes it.
i need you
Deletes that too.
please
He deletes that one so fast his thumb almost slips, and looks back down at the mochi, then the ultrasound, then your message. His own reflection is faint in the black edge of the phone screen; wet hair, red eyes, shirt soaked by the rain, the world’s prettiest fucking disaster sitting alone on his bed while the party below celebrates a man who doesn’t exist.
Finally, he types the only thing he feels about this shitty night.
none of this meant anything without you
He sends it and is immediately regretful. For a second, he thinks he might genuinely be sick. He glances at the ultrasound shaking in his hand, tears flowing.
Satoru Gojo gets twenty-one birthdays.
The baby never even got one.
He presses the heel of his hand to his mouth, but the sound comes out anyway. Soft, broken, pathetic, and barely human.
semi inspired by your lost vision post: lohen carrying/also wearing your vision after you die. like kazuha with his friend
Would they carry your vision after death?
Man, this is sad. I brought the angst tonight, or shall I say morning since it’s 6am lol. So let’s say that you get revived eventually a time after these happen. It does happen, just off screen. Trust.
Bearing your death at first felt like hell to him. And it still is, but he’s grown to be numb to it. A world without you was one without color. He wasn’t strong enough to protect you. Too weak. Mortal. Absolutely worthless. During the crisis, he fantasized being able to go home with you. To rest together after a long day of stress and the heat of the battlefield. To take you to the Cat’s Tail. To Good Hunter. To take you out into the wilderness to just be. With you. And he had just finally saved up enough to buy an engagement ring. The dream shattered into pieces as Varka set the dulled vision into his hands. His mouth seemed to be moving, telling him what happened, but he heard none of it. All he could do was stare down at the vision and its ugly shade of gray, devoid of the vibrant glow it once held. He threw it harshly onto the ground and stormed off with thousands of emotions funneling through his head. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t face the failure. The grief. Pain. All he wanted was to be alone. Better yet, with you. But that was no longer possible. Hours by himself, the night fell. No one found him. When he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. It dawned on him. He really just lost you, didn’t he? How pathetic… he hasn’t cried since he was a child and here he was sobbing like a baby. Your vision. He tossed it away. No… no, he needs it. He doesn’t care how much it hurt to hold. He. Needs. It. Lohen ran back to the scene in a frantic panic, but no matter where he looked, he couldn’t find it. Where did it go?! The longer he couldn’t find it, the more hysterical he became. On the verge of a panic attack, a hand tapped him on the shoulder. He froze, turning back. Grandmaster Varka with a solemn expression, and in his hand, your vision. Without a word, Lohen took it and stood up, holding it close to his chest as he walked past Varka and made his trek home. He will never separate himself from it again. “You’re not really dead… You can’t be.”
Illuga
Your death was his failure. It should’ve been him who died, and yet he lived. He always did. He should’ve been used to it by now, but it only hurt worse every time. And this time your absence took everything of him with. Illuga still acted the same. Gave orders, nodded to jokes, spoke as if he were alive. The same motions. But he might as well be a walking corpse. He hardly fooled anyone. Not Nikita, not Flins, nor his subordinates. They had to make sure that he still ate and got the rest he needed or else he’d push himself to collapse. He mourned you every day. You were on his mind every second. Each step a reminder as to how he still breathed while you didn’t. He wished he had died. It would have been a mercy. A mercy to this misery haunting him. His parents. His brothers in arms. His friends. He couldn’t even protect the love of his life. How could he call himself a lightkeeper? Illuga knew he shouldn’t have made those decisions that day. Shouldn’t have let you. There were so many things he should have done differently. Illuga visited your grave every day. And he knew he should return your property back to you, but he just couldn’t. As he lay his eyes upon the vision the lightkeepers brought back, all he could do was take it without so much as a word. Once your body was recovered, they didn’t let him see it. And once Flins got involved, he quickly decided to quit trying. Or maybe that’s what he wanted to choose deep down. He once tried to return the vision to your grave, but he could barley bring himself to break contact with it. Illuga didn’t keep it on his person at all times, rather he kept it in a safe place. On the nightstand by his bed in Piramida is where it would sit. And on the days where he has to sleep without it, he is terrorized by nightmares. Illuga could only get proper rest with your presence by his side. “Would you be proud if I handled another day without you? Or lonely… without me?”
Nefer
You were a fool. That’s the only reason you were dead. You made a bad call and it ended in your demise. Something seemingly so insignificant with such dire consequences. It happened, she shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up that she would be able to have a future with you. Not the typical wedding and domestic bliss. Just a companion to feel at ease with. It was your fault you died, so why should she care? That’s what she wishes she could tell herself. She was angry, yes, but this was nothing like her father. She couldn’t hold onto that anger this time. But she couldn’t sit and wallow in self pity either. All she can tell herself is to move on. Detattach herself from those emotions and prevent them from opening up again. She was an idiot for opening to you in the first place. Maybe you’d still be here if she hadn’t. No, that was foolish thinking. It wasn’t her fault. It was an unavoidable tragedy. Those always seem to find their way back to her. The one who brought your lifeless vision to Nefer had been Jahoda and Lauma. Jahoda fearful for the pain it’d bring her dear boss and Lauma clearly covered in guilt from failing to save you. They had no right. Her face didn’t betray her inner turmoil as she took it with a hum. A shame, really. She didn’t really want this. She had no use for it. Nefer could’ve sold it, but ultimately she settled on locking it away in a box to be forgotten… if there’s ever a use your vision might have in the future, only then will she relinquish it. And she won’t hesitate. “This old thing? I have no use for it, so you can just take it.”
Columbina
“Oh,” was all she could say upon learning your death. In her 500 years, she had seen many ends. It might’ve been hard to believe given how she hardly ever left, but she had seen her fair share. Columbina knew it was bound to happen to you one day, regardless of if you aged as a human or immortal being. But she had hoped it wouldn’t be for a long while, or that the two of you could possibly go together. She wouldn’t want to leave you alone, and now she’s the one without you. Just a little bit longer with you would’ve made her happy. It hurt. Strange. She knew the possibility could always happen on any day, but she never expected it when it came. Nothing could’ve prepared her for the gaping hole she’d be left with. Was this the part where people usually cried? Columbina doesn’t recall having ever done so before, and the urge still doesn’t tug at her now. She simply doesn’t have the energy to. Just your loss was enough to drain her of all of it. Lauma left her with your vision and her sympathies, and all she could say was “thank you”. Columbina sat in Silvermoon Hall with your vision in your hands. She missed the color of it. She ran her fingers over the edges and traces the gray patterns with memories playing out in her mind. Eventually she fell asleep with it in her hands, the first night of many. Columbina plans to keep it on her person. She wishes you could be there, but she’ll just have to settle with your memory in the form of your vision. “Are you perhaps watching me from the moon’s light, I wonder? Or could you still be here… in the palm of my hand?”
Kinich
“Kinich… I—I’m so sorry.” That was all he needed to hear to know what happened. Another attack from the abyss, stronger than usual assaults. Suppose this one was just too difficult for you. Mualani held your vision out to him, treating it as the most valuable object in the world. But it really wasn’t. It was just an object. Ajaw hadn’t realized what it meant at first, staring at the object while processing her words, going on and on, and Kinich wanted him to do nothing else than to shut up. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it himself this time. He could tell the moment it hit him by the way Ajaw suddenly went completely silent. Kinich haphazardly took it, walking past Mualani and anyone else unfortunate enough to have witnessed the scene. No one followed him, at least he would’ve thought if it weren’t for Ajaw’s subtle flapping in the air beside him. When he tried to speak, Kinich cut him off with a short ‘not now’ and that was the end of it. Silence the whole way home. He went straight to his room, and this time Ajaw did not follow. He threw himself next to his bed, sitting on his floor with his head in one hand and your vision in the other. If only he had known where you were, maybe he could’ve saved you. Some hero he is. Fuck. He hated crying, but he really couldn’t stop. You were gone. He wouldn’t see you smile or hear you laugh. No more jokes or quiet moments of intimacy. Just him and an rock that used to belong to you. But it was you, despite everything. He’s not sure how long he cried, because by the time he was done he had fallen asleep. Kinich woke up the next morning to the vision on his chest and Ajaw curled up asleep in his lap. From there, Kinich wore your vision beside his own. Proof that you once lived and that he had known you. A reminder to fond memories. “You’re asking about this vision? Heh… The story doesn’t have a happy ending, so you’re better off not hearing it. But I’ll tell you if you really want to know.”
