SYNOPSIS: Online, he’s loud, chaotic, and everyone’s favorite–but with you, the act starts to slip. Somewhere between private calls and lingering attention, you realize you’re the only one seeing the real him.
WORD COUNT: 14.4k
The notification pinged at exactly 8:47 PM like it always did. It was sharp, familiar, a little too comforting. GojoSatoru is live! Title: “chaos hours + ranked grind (pls carry me i’m washed)”
You were already in bed, laptop balanced on your knees, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands because your AC was set to arctic. The stream loaded in 4K, and there he was: Satoru Gojo, six-foot-three of pure gremlin energy, white hair shoved under a backward cap, black compression shirt stretched across his shoulders like it was personally offended by how broad they were. His signature blue eyes–those ridiculous, glowing eyes–were hidden behind the thin black blindfold he wore for “aesthetic purposes” during face-cam streams. Chat was already exploding.
gojosimp69: TORU MARRY ME
infinitevoidfan: first
sugarbearrr: he’s so loud today i’m in love
kaisenqueen: drop the fit check king
Gojo leaned into the camera, grin feral, voice booming through your headphones like he was in the room with you. “Yo! What’s good, my favorite people? It’s your favorite strongest streamer, back at it again, carrying these noobs in ranked while y’all sit there simping in chat. Don’t worry, I see you. I see all of you.” He winked directly at the lens, slow and exaggerated, and the donation alerts started raining in immediately.
You didn’t type anything yet. You never rushed it. That was the game.
You’d been watching him for four months now. Not because you were one of the thousands who sent him heart emojis and marriage proposals every stream–no. You were the one who typed shit like “your aim is criminal today, do the devs hate you or is it personal?” while everyone else was busy thirsting. You called him out. You roasted his overpowered plays. You told him when his “cool guy” act was mid. And for some reason, he started noticing.
The match loaded. Gojo was playing some new battle royale everyone was obsessed with. The kind that was fast-paced, flashy ults, the kind of game that let him show off. He dropped hot, of course, because chaos was his brand. Gunfire erupted on screen. His laughter cracked through the mic, loud and unhinged.
“HA! Got ‘em! That’s what you get for camping like a little–” He cut himself off with a dramatic gasp as another squad pushed him. “Okay, okay, they’re trying me today. Chat, spam F in the chat for your boy. F. F. F.”
The chat flooded with Fs. You typed instead:
yourusername: you’re holding the wrong angle genius. they’re flanking from the ridge.
His character on screen froze for half a second. Then his head tilted, that signature smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth even though the blindfold hid most of his expression.
“Wait, hold up.” Gojo’s voice dropped just a fraction, still loud for the stream but edged with something sharper. “Is that… you again? Persistent little menace in the chat. Yo, chat, y’all see this? Same username every stream, always got something to say. You’re kinda persistent, huh?”
The chat lost its collective mind.
gojosimp69: WHO IS THAT
sugarbearrr: wait he knows her???
infinitevoidfan: TORU HAS A FAVORITE CHATTER CONFIRMED
kaisenqueen: drop the @ i need to investigate
You felt heat creep up your neck but typed back coolly:
yourusername: someone has to keep you humble when you’re busy flexing for donos. that ridge flank was textbook. you walked right into it.
Gojo barked a laugh, the kind that made his shoulders shake. He clutched his chest like you’d shot him. “Humble? Me? Baby, I invented humble. I’m the strongest at being humble.” He wiped out the flanking squad in one smooth ult, the screen flashing victory. “See? Still won. You’re welcome. But real talk–” He leaned closer to the camera, voice dropping into that teasing register he used when he was locking onto someone. “You’ve been in my chat every single night this week. You got a crush or you just here to bully me? Be honest, the people want to know.”
You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see you. Your fingers flew across the keys.
yourusername: neither. i’m here for the content. your ego’s the real final boss tho.
The chat exploded again. A chorus of emotes, copium, people begging for more. Gojo’s grin widened, teeth flashing. He read your message out loud, voice dripping with mock offense. “My ego’s the final boss? Damn. You wound me. Right in the feels.” He clutched his heart dramatically, then pointed straight at the camera like he was pointing at you through the screen. “Alright, new rule. Every time you pop off in chat tonight, I’m reading it live. No more hiding in the crowd. You’re on blast now, persistent one.”
He didn’t wait for your reply. The next match started and he kept playing, but every few minutes his eyes. As hidden as they were, they kept flicking toward the chat overlay. When you typed “your positioning is still trash, move left” he actually adjusted mid-fight and laughed harder than the play warranted.
“See? She’s got me trained already. Chat, I think I’m in trouble.”
By the third match, the entire stream was invested. People were clipping the moments he read your messages. Someone made a sound alert for your username. Gojo leaned back in his gaming chair, long legs stretched out, and ran a hand through his hair, knocking the cap askew.
“Real quick, before we queue again. Shoutout to the one chatter who actually makes this stream interesting instead of just spamming hearts. You know who you are.” He smirked. “Don’t get too cocky though. I still carry this whole lobby.”
You typed:
yourusername: carry? you died twice last game and blamed ping.
He read it instantly. “I did NOT blame ping! That was… tactical repositioning!” His laugh filled your room again, bright and chaotic and impossible to ignore. But for a split second–just a heartbeat–his head tilted, like he was actually studying the chat more carefully than usual. Like he was looking for your next line before it even appeared.
The stream ran for four and a half hours. He ended it the way he always did: dramatic goodbyes, fake crying over lost ranks, promising he’d be back tomorrow “even more unhinged.” But right before he hit the end-stream button, he glanced at chat one last time.
“Yo, persistent one. Same time tomorrow? Don’t leave me hanging. I might actually miss the bullying.”
He winked. The screen went dark.
You sat there in the sudden quiet of your room, laptop still warm on your lap, heart doing something stupid and unwelcome in your chest. It was just a bit. Just streamer banter. He did this with everyone, right? Flirty, loud, magnetic chaos for the camera.
But he’d read your messages first. Every single time.
And that last line… it didn't sound like the usual Gojo Satoru performance.
You closed the laptop, stared at the ceiling, and told yourself it was nothing.
Across town, in a dimly lit apartment that smelled faintly of energy drinks and expensive cologne, Satoru Gojo leaned back in his chair long after the stream ended. The monitor was off. The room was silent except for the low hum of his PC cooling down. He pulled the blindfold off completely, letting it hang around his neck, and ran both hands through his messy white hair.
His usual grin was gone. Just a small, quiet curve at the corner of his mouth as he stared at the now-blank screen.
“Persistent one, huh…” he murmured to the empty room, voice low and stripped of every ounce of the loud persona he’d worn for the last five hours. “You really don’t flirt back like the rest of them.”
He opened the stream analytics tab out of habit. Your username was already pinned at the top of the most active chatters list. He hovered over it for a second, thumb brushing the trackpad.
Then he chuckled–soft, almost private–and closed the tab.
“See you tomorrow."
The next night, the notification hit at 8:45 PM again–almost on the dot. GojoSatoru is live! Title: “ranked climb or riot (i’m actually trying today… maybe)”
You told yourself you weren’t waiting for it. You were just… already on your laptop, scrolling through nothing important, hoodie sleeves still tugged over your hands like armor. The stream loaded, and the familiar chaos flooded your screen.
Gojo was in full gremlin mode from the second the camera turned on. White hair messy under a black beanie this time, blindfold pushed up onto his forehead like a headband so his piercing blue eyes could stare directly into the lens. He was wearing an oversized black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, revealing the veins on his forearms as he gestured wildly.
“WHAT’S UP, MY BEAUTIFUL CHAOS!” His voice boomed, bright and loud enough to make your headphones vibrate. “Your favorite six-foot-something disaster is back, and tonight we’re actually climbing ranks instead of feeding. Or at least pretending to. Don’t hold me to that.”
Chat erupted instantly.
gojosimp69: daddy’s home
infinitevoidfan: TORU I MISSED YOU
sugarbearrr: eyes eyes eyes
kaisenqueen: marry me right now
Gojo laughed that signature unhinged laugh, leaning forward so his face filled most of the frame. “I see the usual suspects already simping hard. Love the energy, keep it coming because I thrive on it.” He winked, slow and theatrical, then queued up for a match while reading a few donation messages out loud, voice dripping with exaggerated gratitude.
You waited. You always waited a little. Let the stream settle into its rhythm first.
The first game started. Gojo dropped into the map with his usual cocky confidence, trash-talking the enemy team before they even appeared on screen. He wiped a small squad in under thirty seconds, ult flashing across the monitor in a burst of blue light that matched his eyes.
“Too easy! These noobs didn’t stand a chance against the strongest–” He paused mid-sentence, eyes flicking to the chat overlay. A slow, dangerous grin spread across his face. “Oh? Look who decided to grace us with their presence again.”
Your message had just appeared, simple and dry:
yourusername: strongest at dying in the first circle last night, maybe.
The chat went feral.
gojosimp69: IT’S HER AGAIN
sugarbearrr: he’s smiling bigger wtf
infinitevoidfan: favorite chatter confirmed??
kaisenqueen: someone clip this energy
Gojo threw his head back and laughed, the sound warm and far too delighted for a simple roast. “There she is! Persistent menace strikes again. Yo, chat, y’all remember her from yesterday? The one who thinks she can bully me in my own stream?” He pointed directly at the camera, eyes sparkling with something sharper than his usual playfulness. “You’re early tonight. Waiting for me or what?”
Your fingers hovered, then typed:
yourusername: waiting for decent gameplay. your last stream was 60% ego, 40% accidental wins.
He read it aloud immediately, voice pitching into that teasing lilt he reserved for when he was locking in on a target. “60% ego? Damn, you really don’t hold back, huh? Most people just send hearts and tell me I’m pretty.” He clutched his chest dramatically while his character on screen moved with practiced precision. “Alright, new plan. Every time you type something, I’m adjusting my play based on your ‘expert’ advice. Let’s see if you can actually carry me from the sidelines.”
The shift was subtle at first, but the regulars in chat started picking up on it fast.
He won that game cleanly. When another squad pushed from the exact ridge you’d mentioned in passing the night before, he pivoted without hesitation, calling out, “See? Listening to my favorite critic tonight. Thanks for the heads-up, persistent one.”
You typed back:
yourusername: don’t call me that. it sounds like a stalker title.
Gojo’s grin widened as he read it. “Too late. It’s stuck now. Persistent One has a nice ring to it. Like a superhero name. Or a villain. Depends on how hard you roast me.” He leaned closer to the mic, voice dropping just a touch. Not enough for most viewers to notice, but enough that it felt… directed. “Keep talking. I like it when you get mouthy.”
The stream chat exploded with theories. People were spamming your username, asking if you two knew each other offline, begging for a “collab.” Someone even started a poll: Is Gojo flirting with @yourusername or is this just content?
He played three more games, and every single time your message popped up, his attention snapped to it first. He read yours before the donation alerts sometimes. When you typed “your reload animation is leaving you open, stop dancing and shoot,” he actually adjusted mid-fight, laughing louder than the victory screen warranted.
“Chat, she’s got me trained already. I’m moving how she tells me to. This is dangerous. I might actually hit Diamond tonight because of one savage in the chat.”
But it wasn’t just the reading anymore.
He started baiting you.
Mid-game, after clutching a 1v3, he leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out, and smirked at the camera. “Yo, Persistent One. If you’re so good at calling my mistakes, rate my play that round. 1-10. Be honest. I can take it.”
You answered:
yourusername: 7.5. the 1v3 was clean but you wasted your ult too early like an idiot.
Gojo whistled low, impressed. “Brutal. Most people would just say ‘10/10 king.’ I respect it.” He paused, then added with a sly tilt of his head, “Tell you what, if you stick around till the end tonight, I’ll do a special segment. ‘Roast Gojo Live’ starring you. Sound good?”
The chat lost it. Donations spiked. People were chanting your username in all caps.
You stayed. Of course you did.
By hour three, the dynamic had crystallized into something the entire stream was invested in. Gojo was still loud, still chaotic, still flirting shamelessly with the chat at large. Calling random viewers “baby” and “cutie” when they donated big. But every time he addressed you, the energy shifted. His teasing felt more focused. More intentional. Like the performance cracked just enough for something real to peek through.
During a short break between games, he sipped from an energy drink, eyes scanning chat lazily. “Real talk for a second. Most of y’all just spam the same shit every night. Hearts, simps, ‘I love you Toru.’ It’s cute, don’t get me wrong.” He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach the same wild intensity. “But then there’s this one who actually watches the gameplay and calls me on my bullshit. Kinda refreshing.”
He didn’t say your username that time. He didn’t have to. Everyone knew.
You typed carefully:
yourusername: careful. people are gonna think you have a favorite.
Gojo read it, and for a split second his expression softened–just a fraction–before the loud persona slammed back into place. “Maybe I do. What are you gonna do about it?” He winked again, but his voice had that quieter edge when he added, almost under his breath, “Stick around and find out.”
The stream ran long–almost six hours this time. He ended it with his usual dramatic flair: fake tears over a lost match, promises of “even better chaos tomorrow,” and a mountain of thank-yous to those who kept donating to the stream.
But right before ending, he looked straight into the camera one last time.
“Persistent One… you still there?” A small, private smirk. “Good. Don’t disappear on me. I might actually start waiting for your messages like a loser.”
He laughed it off as a joke. The stream cut to the ending screen.
You sat in the quiet of your room, heart beating a little too fast. It was still just banter. Just a bit for content. He did this kind of thing with chat all the time–picked favorites for a stream or two, milked the dynamic for engagement.
But the way he’d lingered on your messages tonight… the way his voice had dipped when no one else was really paying attention…
Across the city, in his dimly lit streaming room, Satoru Gojo didn’t immediately shut everything down.
He stared at the analytics page longer than usual. Your username sat at the very top again. Most messages sent, highest engagement when he responded. He scrolled through the VOD timestamps where he’d read your lines, replaying a couple in his head.
The loud, chaotic mask was gone now. Just him, slouched in his chair, fingers tapping idly on the desk. His voice, when he spoke to the empty room, was noticeably lower. Calmer. More observant.
“She doesn’t even flirt back,” he muttered, a soft chuckle escaping. “Everyone else throws themselves at the screen and she just… roasts me. Calls me out like I’m some regular guy.”
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, messing it up further. The usual blinding smile was replaced by something quieter–something almost thoughtful.
“Interesting.”
He closed the tab, but not before pinning your username in a private note he kept for stream ideas.
Tomorrow, he’d push it a little further. See how far you’d bite back.
See if that grounded, unimpressed wit of yours would crack open something he hadn’t shown anyone in a long time.
The notification came at 8:42 PM the following night, but you almost didn’t open the stream right away.
You were in the middle of making instant ramen, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from the shower, when your phone buzzed with the usual alert. GojoSatoru is live! Title: “late night ranked + whatever y’all want (i’m bored, entertain me)”
Something felt different tonight. The chat from yesterday was still replaying in your head. His targeted teasing, the way he’d lingered on your messages, that quiet “Don’t disappear on me” right before ending stream. You told yourself it was nothing. Streamers did this. They built bits, milked dynamics for engagement, then moved on when the numbers dipped.
Still, you carried your bowl back to the desk and clicked in.
Gojo was already mid-rant when the stream loaded, voice loud and bright as ever. He had ditched the blindfold completely tonight, those striking blue eyes on full display, hair pushed back messily like he’d run his hands through it too many times. Black tank top clinging to his frame, gaming chair creaking as he leaned forward with exaggerated energy.
“And that’s why none of you should ever trust me with your sisters! I’m a menace!” He laughed, the sound cracking through your headphones like fireworks. Chat was flooding with laughing emotes and thirsty comments. “But real talk, where’s my favorite critic tonight? Persistent One, you better not be ghosting me after I carried that last stream because of your savage advice.”
Your spoon paused halfway to your mouth.
He was looking for you already. Not even ten minutes in.
Gojo’s eyes snapped to the chat overlay the second your message appeared. His grin widened, genuine amusement flickering across his face. “There she is! Eating ramen like a normal human while I’m out here dying for content. Priorities, I respect it.” He read your line aloud, voice dipping into that playful lilt again. “Ramen first? Damn, you’re cold. Most people would drop everything for me.”
The chat immediately started speculating again. More clips being made, people tagging your username, asking if this was scripted or if Gojo actually had a soft spot.
He played it up perfectly for the camera: loud laughs, dramatic gestures, flirting shamelessly with the rest of the chat. A big donation came in from a regular simp, and he blew a kiss to the screen. “Love you too, baby. Keep spoiling me.” But every few minutes, his attention kept circling back.
When you typed:
yourusername: your rotations are still predictable. they’re camping the same spot every game, and you keep walking into it like it’s a trap you ordered on Amazon.
He actually paused the game queue, leaning closer to the mic with a mock-offended gasp. “Predictable? Me? I’m the definition of unpredictable!” Then, quieter, almost like he was talking only to you despite thousands watching: “Alright, smartass. Tell me exactly what I should do next round. I’ll do it live on stream. Put your money where your mouth is.”
You did. And he followed it. Adjusting his positioning exactly as you suggested, clutching a messy fight, and crediting you loudly when he won.
“See that? That was all Persistent One. Chat, she’s my good luck charm tonight. Or my unpaid coach. Either way, I’m keeping her.”
By hour two, the bit had evolved. He started baiting harder.
During a slow match, he stretched in his chair, arms flexing, and smirked at the camera. “Yo, Persistent One. If I win this next game without dying once, you have to tell chat one nice thing about me. No roasts. Actual compliment. Deal?”
The chat chanted for you to accept. You typed back dryly:
yourusername: if you die even once, you have to admit on stream that your hair looks like a sad cloud on humid days.
Gojo barked a laugh so loud it made his mic peak. “Sad cloud? Brutal. You’re on.”
He won. Barely. And when the victory screen flashed, he leaned in with sparkling eyes. “Alright, pay up. One nice thing. Go.”
You hesitated, then typed:
yourusername: … your aim is actually insane when you’re not showing off. happy?
He read it slowly, voice softening just enough that the loud persona cracked for a heartbeat. “Insane aim, huh? Coming from you, that’s basically a love letter.” He grinned, but there was something warmer underneath. “I’ll take it. Thanks, Persistent One.”
The stream continued like that for hours. Loud chaos for everyone else, but these small, threaded moments with you that felt increasingly private even in public. He still flirted with the crowd, still played up the magnetic idiot persona, but his responses to you carried a different weight. Slower. More focused. Like he was actually listening.
Then, at 1:17 AM, when the stream was winding down and most casual viewers had dropped off, your phone vibrated with a notification that had nothing to do with Twitch.
It was from an unknown Discord account: SixEyesGojo has sent you a friend request.
The message attached was short:
“Hey. It’s Gojo. The real one, not the loud streamer version. Saw your username in chat and figured I’d shoot my shot. You down to talk off-stream sometime? No pressure. Just… curious about the girl who actually roasts me instead of simping.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. This was it. The boundary crossing. Streamers didn’t usually DM regulars like this unless they wanted something. Clout? Content? Or…?
You accepted the request after a long minute.
Almost immediately, another message popped up.
SixEyesGojo: Finally. Thought you might leave me on read like I deserve. Still eating ramen?
You typed back, fingers slightly unsteady:
yourusername: finished it. you’re still live, idiot. finish your stream first.
SixEyesGojo: Bossy even in DMs. I like it. Give me 10 mins. Don’t disappear.
True to his word, he ended the stream shortly after with his usual dramatic flair, but his goodbye felt a little distracted. “Alright, degenerates, your boy is tapping out. Go touch grass or whatever. See you tomorrow… maybe.”
The moment the “Stream Ended” screen appeared, your Discord lit up with an incoming voice call from SixEyesGojo.
You stared at it for three full rings before answering.
The voice that came through was… different.
Not the booming, chaotic energy of the stream. This was lower. Calmer. A little rough around the edges from hours of talking loudly, but intentional. Slower. Like he wasn’t performing for an audience anymore.
“Hey,” he said simply. No theatrics. Just a quiet greeting that somehow filled the silence of your room more effectively than all his shouting ever had. “You actually picked up. Didn’t think you would.”
You swallowed, trying to keep your tone as grounded and unimpressed as always. “You’re different like this.”
A soft chuckle came through the line. Nothing like the loud barks from the stream. This one was private, almost warm. “Yeah… figured you’d notice right away. Most people don’t. They just hear the loud guy and assume that’s all there is.”
There was a pause. You could hear him shifting in his chair, the faint creak of leather, the distant hum of his PC fans winding down.
“So… Persistent One,” he continued, voice dropping even lower, “what’s your actual name? Or do I have to keep calling you that forever? It’s growing on me, but I feel like a creep.”
You told him your name. First name only, cautious but honest.
He repeated it slowly, like he was tasting it. “Nice. Fits you. I’m Satoru. Just Satoru when the camera’s off.”
Another beat of silence. Not awkward, exactly. Heavy.
“You’re not what I expected,” you said finally, honest. “On stream you’re this… whirlwind. Here you sound like you actually think before you speak.”
He laughed again. It was quiet, self-deprecating. “Guilty. The loud version pays the bills and keeps things fun. People show up for the chaos. But with you…” He trailed off, then continued more carefully. “You don’t throw yourself at the persona. You talk to me like I’m a regular dude who happens to be good at games. It’s… refreshing. Been a while since someone did that.”
You leaned back in your chair, ramen bowl long forgotten. “So what is this? You DMing me because the bit’s working for views, or…?”
“No bit,” he said simply. No deflection, no joke. “I’ve been watching for your messages the last few nights. Waiting for them, even. That’s not content. That’s just… me being annoying and curious.” His voice dipped. “You free to talk a bit longer? Or am I keeping you from more important things like sleep and not dealing with streamers who slide into DMs at 1 AM?”
You should have said no. Set a boundary. But the contrast was addictive–the loud, flirtatious Gojo everyone knew versus this quieter, more observant version who seemed to actually listen.
“I’ve got time,” you said instead.
“Good.” You could hear the small smile in his voice. “Tell me something real then. Not the chat version of you. Why do you watch? And why don’t you flirt like everyone else? Be honest, I can take it.”
The call lasted another hour and a half.
He asked real questions. Listened when you answered. Told you small things about himself. How streaming started as a joke with friends, how the loud persona became armor after a while, how sometimes the constant attention felt exhausting even when he craved it. His voice stayed low and steady the whole time, no shouting, no over-the-top laughs. Just Satoru.
When you finally said you needed to sleep, he didn’t push.
“Alright. Go rest, Persistent One.” A pause. “Same time tomorrow on stream? And… maybe another call after? If you want.”
You hesitated, then. “Maybe.”
He chuckled softly. “I’ll take the maybe. Night.”
The call ended.
You sat there in the dark, heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with the chaotic streamer everyone else saw.
He was different like this. Dangerously different.
And you were already wondering which version was the real one.
Across the city, Satoru Gojo pulled off his headset and stared at the Discord call log, thumb brushing over your username.
He didn’t grin like he did on stream. Just a small, quiet curve of his lips as he murmured to the empty room:
“Yeah… she’s trouble.”
The pattern solidified over the next week like a slow, addictive rhythm neither of you acknowledged out loud.
Every night at roughly the same time, the notification would hit: GojoSatoru is live. And every night, you found yourself clicking in, bowl of snacks or cup of tea in hand, pretending this was still just casual viewing.
On stream, Gojo remained the same magnetic chaos everyone loved.
Tonight was no exception.
He’d started the stream in full force. His white hair tousled under a loose black beanie, black compression shirt hugging his shoulders and chest, blindfold resting around his neck like jewelry instead of a prop. The moment the camera went live, his energy exploded.
“YO, WHAT’S GOOD MY FAVORITE DEGENERATES!” His voice boomed through your headphones, bright and unfiltered. “Your boy is back, caffeinated, and ready to carry some ranked games while y’all simp in the chat like it’s your full-time job. Let’s gooo!”
Chat flooded instantly.
gojosimp69: TORU I LOVE YOU
sugarbearrr: eyes on full display tonight holy
infinitevoidfan: marry me pls
kaisenqueen: the arms tho 😩
Gojo laughed that loud, theatrical laugh, leaning into the camera with a feral grin. “I see you, I see all of you. Keep the love coming, I’m running on it.” He blew a dramatic kiss toward the lens, then queued a match while reading a few superchats, voice dripping with exaggerated charm. “Thanks for the dono, baby. You’re too good to me.”
The game started. Gunfire and ult flashes filled the screen. He played with his usual flashy style. The over-the-top movements, cocky callouts, trash-talking enemies like they could hear him.
Then your message appeared, calm and dry as always:
yourusername: you’re peaking too aggressively again. tone it down or you’re gonna get third-partied.
His eyes snapped to the chat overlay the second it popped up. The grin that spread across his face was immediate and sharper than the one he gave the simps. “There she is! Persistent One in the building. Yo, chat, my unpaid coach is back. Everyone say hi.”
He read your message aloud, voice still loud for the audience but laced with that focused amusement he only seemed to direct at you. “Peaking too aggressively? Damn, straight for the throat tonight. Most people just tell me I look hot when I’m aggressive.” He adjusted his positioning anyway, pivoting smoothly to avoid the exact third-party you’d predicted. When he clutched the fight, he pointed at the camera. “See that? All because of her. She’s got me whipped already.”
The chat went wild. More theories, more clips, people spamming your username with heart emotes mixed with jealous ones.
gojosimp69: why does he light up when she types
sugarbearrr: this bit is lasting longer than usual…
kaisenqueen: she doesn’t even flirt back wtf is the appeal
Gojo kept the loud persona rolling perfectly. When a big donation came in from someone else, he flirted shamelessly: “You’re spoiling me tonight, cutie. Might have to shout you out every stream at this rate.” He winked, laughed, kept the energy high and chaotic for the thousands watching.
But every time your messages appeared, the attention shifted.
He started waiting for them.
During a slow moment between fights, he leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched, and smirked at the camera. “Persistent One, rate my last play. Be brutal. I know you want to.”
You typed:
yourusername: 6/10. flashy but reckless. you’re gonna tilt your team if you keep that up.
He read it with a dramatic groan, clutching his chest. “Six out of ten? You’re killing me. The people in chat are giving me elevens and you hit me with a six?” His laugh was loud, but his eyes–those vivid blue eyes–softened just a fraction when he added, “Still, I’ll take the honesty. Keep it coming. I like when you’re mean to me.”
The duality was becoming impossible to ignore.
Because off-stream, in the private Discord calls that had become almost nightly now, he was someone else entirely.
Last night’s call had lasted until 3 AM.
The voice that greeted you when you answered wasn’t the booming streamer. It was lower, quieter, slower. The kind of voice that made the dark room feel smaller and warmer at the same time.
“Hey… you’re late tonight,” he’d said, no theatrics, just a soft rumble. “Thought you might skip me.”
You’d settled into bed, laptop closed, phone pressed to your ear. “Had work stuff. You’re not the center of the universe, Satoru.”
A quiet chuckle. “Ouch. Straight to the heart. I like that you don’t sugarcoat it.” Then, more seriously. “Tell me about your day. Real stuff. Not the ‘I roasted Gojo again’ version.”
He listened. Really listened. Asked follow-up questions about your job, your stupid coworkers, the book you were reading. He told you small things in return. How the constant streaming schedule was starting to blur days together, how sometimes the loud energy felt like a mask he couldn’t take off in public anymore, how your messages in chat had become the one part of the stream he actually looked forward to because they felt real.
“You don’t treat me like the ‘strongest streamer,’” he’d said one night, voice barely above a murmur. “You treat me like… me. It’s weird. Nice weird.”
On stream tonight, that contrast hit harder than ever.
He was mid-game, still loud and chaotic, flirting with a donor who sent a massive sub bomb: “You’re too sweet, babe. Might have to dedicate a whole game to you.” The chat cheered.
Then your message appeared:
yourusername: dedicating games to simps now? your standards are dropping.
Gojo read it instantly, head tilting with a grin that looked a little too genuine. “Standards dropping? Damn, jealous much?” He laughed it off for the audience, but his next line carried a private edge only you seemed to catch. “Don’t worry, Persistent One. My attention’s still mostly on you tonight. The rest is just noise.”
The chat exploded with speculation.
gojosimp69: he’s never this consistent with anyone
infinitevoidfan: this feels different…
sugarbearrr: someone check if they’re dating irl
You started wondering the same thing in the quiet moments after the stream.
Which version was real?
The loud, flirtatious, attention-thirsty Gojo who thrived on thousands of eyes and hearts?
Or the quieter Satoru who called you after every stream, voice low and focused, asking about your life like he actually cared to know the answers? The one who remembered you mentioned hating rainy days and sent a silly meme about it the next morning. The one who admitted, in that stripped-down voice, “I don’t show this side to chat. Too many people would twist it.”
The tension built every single night.
On stream: loud chaos, public flirting, performative energy.
Private calls: slower conversations, real questions, long comfortable silences where he seemed to drop every ounce of the persona.
One night, during a particularly long call, you finally voiced it.
“Satoru… which one is the real you? The loud guy everyone sees, or the one I’m talking to right now?”
There was a long pause on his end. You could hear him breathing, the faint sound of him shifting in his chair.
“Both,” he said eventually, voice quieter than usual. “The loud one… that’s easy. It’s what people want. What keeps the lights on and the chat happy. But this?” Another pause. “This is what I don’t give anyone else. You make it easy to drop the act.”
Your chest tightened. “That sounds dangerous.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, a soft laugh escaping. “It kinda is.”
On stream the next night, he was back to full volume. With teasing the crowd, reading donation messages with flair, calling random chatters “baby” and “cutie.”
But when your message popped up.
yourusername: you’re extra loud tonight. compensating for something?
He read it with a bright laugh, but his eyes lingered on the chat longer than necessary. “Compensating? You wound me, Persistent One. Maybe I’m just happy you’re here again.”
The duality was cracking you open.
You liked the real him. The quiet, observant Satoru who listened and remembered details and spoke like every word mattered when it was just the two of you.
But the public version kept reminding you that this was still content for thousands of people. That your dynamic was partly on display. That he still performed for them.
And you were starting to wonder how long you could keep liking only the private side before the public one started to hurt.
Across the city, after ending the stream and hopping on a late-night call with you, Satoru leaned back in his dark room, phone to his ear, voice stripped of every loud layer.
“You still there?” he asked softly.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” A small, private smile you couldn’t see. “Don’t overthink it too much tonight. Just… talk to me a little longer. The real version. I like this one better anyway.”
You did.
But the question kept echoing in the back of your mind:
Which version of him was the one falling for you?
And which version were you actually falling for in return?
The shift happened so gradually that at first you didn’t notice it for what it was.
It started small. With tiny fractures in the carefully balanced duality you’d grown used to over the past two weeks.
Streams were still loud, chaotic, and packed with thousands of viewers. Gojo still played the magnetic, flirtatious gremlin everyone tuned in for. But now, whenever your username appeared, his reactions carried an undercurrent that felt heavier. Sharper. Less like playful banter and more like something territorial.
Tonight’s stream title read: “ranked grind + chat roasts me (send your best shots)”
He opened with his usual explosive energy. The usual white hair messy, black hoodie unzipped just enough to show the black tank underneath, blue eyes bright and wild without the blindfold tonight.
“ALRIGHT, your favorite strongest streamer is live and ready to get absolutely roasted by chat tonight. Bring the heat, I can take it!” He grinned wide, leaning into the camera. “Especially from my favorite persistent menace. Where you at tonight?”
Your first message came twenty minutes in, after he’d already flirted with three different donors and called a regular chatter “baby” twice.
yourusername: you’re extra performative tonight. trying to impress someone new?
Gojo’s eyes flicked to the chat instantly. The grin that spread across his face was bright for the camera, but there was a glint in those blue eyes that felt different. “Performative? Me? Never.” He laughed loudly, but read your message with exaggerated offense. “You’re really coming for my throat early. I like it. Keep going, Persistent One. Make it hurt.”
He still followed your advice when you gave it. May it be adjusting angles, holding positions, but now he commented on it differently.
When you typed.
yourusername: stop pushing mid when your team is rotating left. you’re going to get flanked again.
He adjusted immediately, clutched the fight cleanly, then leaned back with a low whistle. “See that, chat? She calls me out and I actually listen. Most of you just spam hearts and tell me I’m hot. She’s got standards.” His voice dropped just enough for the mic to catch the edge. “Kinda makes me wonder what else she’d make me do if she really tried.”
The chat erupted.
But later in the stream, something new happened.
You’d been distracted for a few minutes. Replying to a message from another regular viewer who’d asked you a question about the game meta in chat. Nothing flirty. Just normal conversation. Your reply was quick and helpful.
Gojo noticed.
His character on screen hesitated mid-fight for a split second. Long enough for him to die in a stupid way. He groaned dramatically for the audience, but when he read the kill feed, his tone shifted.
“Damn, got cooked because I was distracted watching someone in chat get real chatty with other people tonight.” He laughed it off, but his eyes scanned the overlay longer than usual. “Persistent One, you’re awfully talkative with everyone else all of a sudden. What happened to bullying only me?”
You typed back lightly:
yourusername: i can multitask. you’re not the only person in chat.
He read it aloud, smirk pulling at his lips, but the laugh didn’t reach quite as bright as before. “Multitask, huh? Bold. Real bold.” He queued the next game, but added under his breath, just loud enough for the stream, “Don’t get too comfortable talking to the others. I might get jealous.”
The chat lost its mind. Mountains of emotes exploding, people clipping the moment, theories flooding the Discord. Your screen flooded with all kinds of messages and reactions.
gojosimp69: jealous??? TORU SAID JEALOUS
sugarbearrr: this is not a bit anymore
infinitevoidfan: he’s actually possessive over her wtf
You felt the shift in your chest. It wasn’t loud enough to be obvious to casual viewers, but it was there. A subtle claim.
The possessiveness grew as the stream continued.
When you disappeared from chat for fifteen minutes to grab water and stretch, he noticed immediately.
Mid-game, after clutching a tough fight, he leaned toward the camera with a dramatic sigh. “Yo, where’d my favorite critic go? Persistent One ghosted me mid-stream. Chat, spam her username and drag her back. I need the bullying to stay sharp or I’m gonna tilt.”
When you finally typed again.
yourusername: went to get water, calm down drama king.
He read it with a bright laugh, but there was relief in his voice that felt too real. “Water? Excuses. Next time you disappear I’m starting a timer and calling you out harder. Can’t have you abandoning me for hydration.”
It was still framed as a joke. The loud persona made sure of that. But the frequency was increasing. The way his attention zeroed in whenever you interacted with anyone else. The way he baited your reactions more aggressively, like he needed to pull your focus back to him.
After the stream ended. Six and a half hours later, voice slightly hoarse from the constant loud energy, he didn’t wait the usual ten minutes before calling.
Your phone lit up with the Discord voice call. You answered on the second ring.
The voice on the other end was the private one again. Lower. Quieter. Stripped of every performative layer. But tonight there was an edge to it.
“Hey,” he said, softer than usual. You could hear him settling into his chair, the faint sound of ice clinking in a glass. “You were extra chatty with other people tonight.”
You blinked, setting your phone on speaker as you changed into comfier clothes. “It was just game talk. Someone asked about rotations. Why?”
A pause. Longer than his usual comfortable silences.
“I noticed.” His voice stayed low, but there was something heavier underneath. Not angry. Not quite. Just… intense. “You reply to them faster sometimes. Laugh at their jokes in chat. Then when I call you out, you hit me with the dry roasts like I’m the only one who deserves them.”
You sat on the edge of your bed, heart picking up pace. “Satoru… are you actually jealous of random chatters?”
Another beat of silence. When he spoke again, the words came slower, more intentional. “Maybe. A little.” He let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “It’s stupid. I know. I’m the one flirting with half the chat for content. But when it’s you… it feels different. You’re not supposed to be giving that attention to anyone else.”
The admission hung in the air between you.
You swallowed. “You’re still the loud, flirty streamer on camera. Everyone sees that version. Why does it bother you if I talk to other people?”
“Because they get the surface you,” he said quietly. No deflection this time. No joke to hide behind. “The witty, grounded girl who doesn’t fall for the persona. I get the real version in these calls. The one who tells me about her shitty day and makes me laugh without trying. I don’t want to share that. Not even the small pieces.”
Your breath caught. This was new. The possessiveness wasn’t just subtle callouts on stream anymore. It was slipping into the private space, raw and unfiltered.
“Satoru…”
“I know,” he cut in gently, voice dropping even lower. “I know it’s not fair. I’m the one who built the loud idiot act. But you… you see through it. And now that you do, I don’t like the idea of anyone else getting even a fraction of your attention.” A soft exhale. “You’re pretty talkative with everyone else on stream. Not gonna lie… it bugs me.”
It wasn’t a joke. The tone made that clear.
You didn’t know how to respond immediately. Part of you felt warm at the intensity. The idea that the strongest, most attention-thirsty streamer was quietly possessive over your small, grounded presence. Another part felt the tension of the duality sharpening like a blade.
On stream he could still flirt with the crowd, keep the chaotic energy alive for the views and the donation.
But off-stream, in these quiet calls, he was starting to claim pieces of you that no one else got to see.
And he was no longer pretending it was just content.
The next few nights followed the same pattern, only the possessiveness threaded deeper.
On stream: loud laughs, public flirting, but every time you replied to another chatter or took too long to respond to him, he’d make a subtle callout–framed as teasing, but edged with something real.
“Persistent One ignoring me for other people again? Bold move. I might have to start charging for my attention.”
When you disappeared briefly: “Where’d she go? Chat, someone find my critic before I start pouting on stream.”
In private calls: the questions grew more direct.
“You still talking to that one guy who keeps asking you meta questions?”
“You disappeared for twenty minutes tonight. Everything okay, or were you just busy with someone else?”
He never demanded. Never raised his voice. But the quiet intensity was there–observant, intentional, and growing.
One late-night call, after a particularly long stream where he’d flirted heavily with the chat for content, he asked the question that cracked the tension wider.
“You like the real me, right?” His voice was barely above a murmur, stripped and honest. “Not just the loud version for the camera. The one right now. The one who actually listens when you talk.”
“Yeah,” you answered softly. “I do.”
“Good.” A long, heavy pause. “Because I’m starting to not want to share any version of you with them. Not even the parts that happen in chat.”
The possessiveness had fully emerged.
And neither of you knew yet how far it would push the delicate line between public performance and private truth.
Tonight felt different. Thicker. Like the tension had finally stretched too thin and was about to snap.
You took a slow breath. “Satoru… can I ask you something?”
“Anything.” No deflection. No joke. Just that calm, observant tone he only used with you.
You stared at the ceiling, heart hammering despite how grounded you tried to keep your voice. “Am I just content for you?”
The question landed heavy in the silence.
On the other end of the line, Satoru went completely still. You could almost picture him. White hair messy from running his hands through it all stream, blue eyes no longer hidden, expression stripped of every performative layer. No blinding grin. No theatrical gasp.
Just quiet.
For once, there was no immediate laugh, no witty comeback, no smooth redirection to keep the mood light. The pause stretched, filled only by the faint sound of his breathing.
“… No.”
The single word came out rough, honest, and far quieter than you expected. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t the loud Gojo everyone else knew. This was the version that only existed in these private moments. The one who listened, who remembered small details about your day, who admitted things he never showed on camera.
But he didn’t elaborate right away.
You waited, fingers tightening around your phone. “Then what is this? Because from the outside it looks like a really good bit. You flirt with the whole chat, keep the chaos going for views, and then in private you get… intense. Possessive. Like I’m something you don’t want anyone else touching. I like the real you, Satoru. The quieter one who actually talks to me like a person. But I keep wondering if I’m just another way to keep the stream interesting. If the second the numbers dip or a new shiny chatter comes along, this–” you gestured vaguely in the dark room, even though he couldn’t see “disappears.”
Another long silence.
You heard him exhale slowly, like he was gathering words he rarely let himself say out loud.
“You’re not content,” he said finally. His voice was lower now, almost rough with the effort of being honest. “Not even close. The loud stuff… that’s easy. It’s what people expect. What keeps the lights on and the chat hyped. I give them the chaotic idiot because that’s what they came for. But with you?”
He paused again, and you could hear the faint sound of him shifting, probably running a hand through his hair the way he did when he was thinking too hard.
“With you, I don’t have to perform. You called me out from the very first night. The dry roasts, no simping, no hearts. You talk to me like I’m just some guy who happens to be good at games and bad at shutting up. That’s rare. Really rare. And the more you did it, the more I started waiting for your messages. Not for the engagement numbers. For the way it felt real.”
His tone softened further, almost vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache.
“I didn’t plan on getting possessive. Didn’t plan on noticing when you reply to other people or disappear for a bit. But it happened. Because for the first time in a long time, someone sees the version of me that isn’t just ‘Gojo Satoru the streamer.’ They see Satoru. And I don’t want to share that. Not the private calls. Not the way you make me drop the act without even trying. It’s selfish, yeah. I know it is. I’m still loud and flirty on stream because that’s the brand. But when it’s just us… that’s not for them. That’s mine.”
He let out a soft, tired laugh. Nothing like the bright barks from stream. This one was private, self-aware, and a little unsteady.
“I’m not good at this part. The real part. Usually I just joke my way out of anything serious. But you asked straight, so… no. You’re not content. You’re the one thing in all this noise that feels like it’s actually for me. And that scares me a little, because I don’t usually let people get close enough to matter.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything he’d just laid bare–no jokes, no deflection, no loud persona to hide behind.
You swallowed, throat tight. “Then why keep the public flirting? Why let the chat think this dynamic is just another bit for entertainment?”
“Because it’s easier,” he admitted quietly. “If I suddenly stop, people notice. They dig. They make up stories. And right now… I don’t know how to balance showing them the chaos without losing the only part that feels real. But I’m trying. For you. Because the version you like, the quieter one, that’s the one I want to be when it’s just us.”
He paused, voice dropping to almost a whisper.
“So no. You’re not just content. You’re the reason I look forward to ending stream every night. The reason I sit here in the dark after everyone else logs off, waiting to hear your voice without the mask on.”
Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it through the phone.
“Satoru…”
“I know it’s messy,” he continued, softer still. “The loud guy everyone sees versus the one who gets quiet for you. But the quiet one? That’s real. And it’s only for you. If you’ll have it.”
There were no grand declarations. No dramatic confessions under moonlight. Just the raw honesty of a man who spent hours performing for thousands finally cracking open in the dark with the one person who made the performance feel exhausting.
You let the silence sit for a moment, processing the weight of his words.
“I believe you,” you said finally, voice gentle but steady. “But it still hurts sometimes. Watching the public version flirt and perform like none of this exists. I like the real you. A lot. I just… need to know it’s not going to disappear when the stream lights turn off for good one day.”
“It won’t,” he promised, the words simple and sincere. “Not if you don’t want it to.”
The call stretched on after that. Longer than usual, quieter, more intimate. He didn’t try to joke his way out. He asked about your day again, listened when you talked about the little stresses that had nothing to do with streaming or games. And when you finally said you needed sleep, his goodbye was soft.
“Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow… both versions. But the real one will be waiting after the stream. Always.”
When the call ended, you lay in the dark for a long time, staring at the ceiling.
The emotional crack had happened.
No more hiding behind the loud persona in these private moments. He’d shown you the intentional, observant Satoru without the armor.
And now the real question wasn’t whether he was real with you.
It was whether you could handle the full duality–loving the quiet version while watching the loud one perform for the world.
Across the city, Satoru Gojo sat in his dimly lit streaming room long after the call ended, phone still warm in his hand.
He didn’t grin like he did on stream. Just a small, quiet curve of his mouth as he murmured to the empty room, voice low and stripped bare:
“Yeah… she’s really got me.”
For the first time in years, the strongest streamer didn’t feel like performing anymore.
Not when it came to you.
The second the stream cut, the Discord call came through.
You answered immediately.
The voice on the other end was nothing like the one that had just entertained thousands.
It was lower. Quieter. Stripped completely of the loud, performative layer. Just Satoru–tired, honest, and far more focused than the man who had been shouting and laughing for the last six hours.
“Hey…” he murmured, the single word soft and rough at the edges. You could hear him settling into his chair, the faint rustle of fabric as he pulled off his headset completely, the low hum of his PC fans slowly winding down. “You there?”
“I’m here,” you said, voice gentle in the darkness of your room. “You sounded extra loud tonight.”
A soft exhale. Almost a chuckle, but quieter. “Had to keep the show going. Numbers were good.” There was a long pause. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted even further. Slower. More intentional. “But I’m done performing now.”
The words carried weight. This wasn’t the usual gradual drop from loud to private. This was abrupt. Deliberate.
You sat up a little straighter in bed, sensing the change. “Satoru… what’s going on?”
Another beat of silence. You could picture him clearly. Leaning forward, elbows on his desk, white hair falling messily over his forehead, blue eyes no longer sparkling for the camera but steady and serious in the dim glow of his monitor.
“Come here,” he said suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
“Not literally. Voice is fine for now, but… I need you to really listen. No chat. No stream. No audience.” His voice dropped lower, almost intimate. “Turn your lights off if they’re on. Just you and me in the dark.”
You did as he asked, plunging your room into complete darkness except for the faint glow of your phone. The silence felt thicker now. More real.
“Okay,” you whispered. “I’m listening.”
Satoru took a slow, measured breath. When he spoke, every trace of the loud streamer was gone. His voice was calm, steady, and achingly sincere.
“You think I act like that with everyone?”
The question hung in the air between you, simple and devastating.
You didn’t answer right away. The words from last night’s emotional crack still echoed–his admission that you weren’t just content, that the quiet version was real, that he didn’t want to share you. But hearing it like this, in this completely stripped-down state, hit differently.
He continued before you could respond, voice low and unwavering.
“Because I don’t. The loud flirting, the chaotic energy, the ‘baby’ and ‘cutie’ for every dono, that’s performance. It’s what they pay for. What keeps the stream alive. I give them the strongest, the gremlin, the guy who never takes anything seriously. But with you?”
He paused, and you heard the faint sound of him running a hand through his hair, the chair creaking as he leaned back.
“With you, I don’t have to be any of that. From the first night you roasted me instead of simping, something shifted. I started reading your messages first. Waiting for them. Baiting you because I wanted your real reactions, not the fake laughs or hearts everyone else gives. And now… the private calls, the way I get quiet when it’s just us… that’s not an act. That’s me. The version I don’t show anyone else because it’s too real. Too easy to get hurt with.”
His tone grew even softer, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard.
“You see the real me. The one who listens when you talk about your day. The one who remembers you hate rainy mornings and sends stupid memes anyway. The one who gets possessive because the thought of you giving even a little attention to some random chatter feels wrong. I tried to keep it light. Tried to joke it off. But after last night… after you asked if you were just content… I can’t do the half-measures anymore.”
He let out a slow breath, the sound intimate in the darkness.
“So no. I don’t act like that with everyone. The loud version is for the stream. The quiet one. The observant one who actually cares what you think, who drops everything the second the stream ends just to hear your voice, that’s only for you. And it’s affecting me more than I planned. A lot more.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came when masks finally came off completely.
You felt your chest tighten, warmth and uncertainty mixing in equal measure. “Satoru… that’s a lot to put on someone.”
“I know,” he admitted quietly. No defensiveness. Just honesty. “I’m not asking you to fix me or balance my two lives. I’m just… telling you the truth. You make the persona exhausting because the real version feels better when it’s with you. And I don’t want to keep pretending the public stuff doesn’t bother me when it comes to you. You’re not for them. Not really. Not anymore.”
His voice dipped even lower, almost a murmur.
“You think I’d sit here in the dark after every stream, heart still racing from performing, just to call some random chatter? No. Only you. Only this.”
You lay back against your pillows, phone pressed close, letting his words sink in. The contrast was stark and undeniable now. The loud, flirtatious Gojo Satoru who entertained thousands versus this quieter, more intentional man who had just laid himself bare in the dark with no audience, no jokes, no escape routes.
It was terrifying. And addictive.
“I believe you,” you said finally, voice soft but steady. “The real you… I like him. A lot. But the public version still exists. And it still hurts sometimes, watching you perform like none of this is real.”
“I know it does,” he replied, sincere. “And I’m not saying I’ll stop streaming or change overnight. But for you… I want to try making the private parts louder. More important. Because this…” he gestured vaguely, even though you couldn’t see “the way we are right now… this is what I want more of.”
The call continued deep into the night, the conversation flowing slower and deeper than ever before. No loud laughs. No performative energy. Just two people talking–really talking–in the quiet after the storm of the stream.
He asked about the small things again. You told him more than you usually did. And when exhaustion finally started pulling at both of you, his goodbye was gentle.
“Get some sleep. Tomorrow… stream will be the same on the outside. But after? This is what we do. The real version. No more hiding it from each other.”
When the call ended, you stared at the dark ceiling for a long time, heart full and racing.
The persona had broken.
Not on stream. Not for the audience.
But here, in the private space between you, Satoru Gojo had finally dropped everything. No performance. No mask. Just him–quieter, observant, intentional–and the admission that you were the one making the loud version feel like a burden.
It was the turning point.
The question now wasn’t whether the real him existed.
It was what you were both going to do with the truth now that it was out in the open.
The days after the big emotional crack began to feel less like a secret double life and more like something quietly weaving itself into the fabric of both your worlds.
Gojo didn’t suddenly stop streaming. The loud, chaotic persona was still very much alive–because it was his job, his brand, and a part of him he wasn’t ready to abandon completely. But the private space between you two had grown deeper, steadier, and undeniably more important.
It started with small integrations.
The morning after that raw late-night call, your phone buzzed with a Discord message while you were still half-asleep, coffee barely brewing.
SixEyesGojo: Morning. Didn’t sleep much after we hung up. Kept thinking about what you said.
SixEyesGojo: Also sent you something dumb. Check the link.
It was a five-second voice note: just him, voice still sleep-rough and quiet (no stream energy at all), mumbling, “You were right. The loud version is getting exhausting. But hearing you say you like the real one… made it easier to wake up today. Don’t tell chat I said that.”
You smiled into your coffee, the warmth in your chest spreading slowly.
That night’s stream was the same on the surface–loud laughs, dramatic plays, flirtatious shoutouts to donors. But when your messages appeared, his responses carried a new layer of softness hidden beneath the chaos.
yourusername: your positioning is still reckless. you’re going to get punished for it.
Gojo read it aloud with his usual bright laugh, but his eyes lingered on the camera a second longer, the grin turning a little gentler at the edges. “Reckless again? Damn, Persistent One knows me too well already. Chat, she’s basically my conscience at this point.” He adjusted immediately, playing safer, and after the clutch he added quietly, almost like an inside note, “Thanks for looking out for me. For real.”
Only you caught the subtle difference. The rest of the chat saw the fun bit. You felt the real gratitude underneath.
After the stream, the calls became routine, it was not just late-night wind-downs, but woven into your actual days.
One afternoon, while you were on a break from work, he called unannounced. His voice was the private one from the start: calm, a little lazy, like he’d just woken up from a nap.
“Hey… you busy?”
“Not really. Lunch break.”
“Good. Tell me what you’re eating. And don’t say ‘nothing,’ I know you skip meals when you’re stressed.”
He remembered details like that now. The small things. He’d ask about your commute, your annoying coworker who always left the printer jammed, the playlist you’d been building. In return, he started sharing pieces of his own real life.
“I hate doing groceries,” he admitted one evening during a call while you could hear the faint sound of him moving around his kitchen. “Too many people recognize me now. I end up signing stuff in the cereal aisle. Pain in the ass.” A soft chuckle. “But I just bought those matcha cookies you mentioned last week. Tried them. They’re actually good. You were right again.”
Little by little, the integration deepened.
He began sending voice notes during the day. Never the loud streamer voice, always the quieter Satoru. Sometimes just humming a song he thought you’d like. Sometimes complaining about how his editor butchered the last VOD. Sometimes simply: “Thinking about you. The real version. Not the one chat sees.”
You started replying in kind. Photos of your lunch. A quick audio of you laughing at a dumb meme. A screenshot of a song lyric that reminded you of his chaotic energy versus his calm private self.
One weekend, the boundary softened further.
It was a rare off-stream Saturday for him. No scheduled grind, just “maintenance day” as he called it. He called you in the late afternoon, voice warm and unhurried.
“I’m not streaming tonight. First time in weeks. Feels weirdly quiet.” A pause. “You wanna stay on call while I cook? Or… we could do a video call. If you’re comfortable.”
Your stomach flipped. Video was new territory. So far it had been voice only–safer, easier to hide the way your face heated when he got soft.
But you said yes.
When the video connected, the contrast hit you again, softer this time.
On screen was Satoru in his natural habitat: oversized black hoodie, hair messy and unstyled, no blindfold, no dramatic lighting. Just him in a softly lit apartment, kitchen counter visible behind him. Those vivid blue eyes looked gentler without the stream overlay and thousands of eyes watching.
He smiled. Small, real, not the feral grin for chat. “Hey. There you are.”
“There you are,” you echoed, suddenly shy. “No loud energy today?”
“None.” He leaned closer to the camera, propping his phone against a bottle of sauce. “Just me. Cooking terribly. Want to watch me burn something?”
You laughed, and the conversation flowed easily for hours. He showed you the ingredients, asked for your advice on seasoning like it was the most important thing in the world. You talked about everything and nothing. Books, bad movies, dreams you had as a kid. He told you about the first time he ever streamed, how it started as a joke with friends and snowballed into this massive thing that sometimes felt like it owned him.
“I like this,” he said quietly at one point, chopping vegetables with surprising focus. “Talking to you without worrying about chat reactions or donation alerts. Feels… normal. I haven’t had normal in a while.”
By the end of the call, he was eating the finished dish on camera, making exaggerated faces at how mediocre it tasted, making you laugh until your sides hurt.
“Next time,” he said as the call wound down, eyes soft, “maybe we do this in the same room. If you want. No pressure. Just… real life stuff. Takeout. Bad movies. No stream persona.”
Your heart skipped. “Maybe.”
The integration continued like that, slow, gentle, intentional.
On stream, he still kept the public dynamic alive, but toned it down just enough that it felt layered rather than performative. He still called you “Persistent One” with that bright laugh, still baited your roasts for content, but the flirting with the rest of the chat became lighter, more habitual than intentional. And when he read your messages now, there was an unmistakable warmth that longtime viewers started noticing and commenting on in the Discord.
“He’s softer with her lately…”
Off-stream, the real life pieces kept slotting together.
He learned your schedule. Started timing his calls around your breaks. Sent you clips of funny moments from his solo practice sessions, always with the quiet commentary: “This part made me think of what you’d say if you were watching live. ‘Reckless again, Satoru.’”
One night, after a particularly draining stream, he called earlier than usual.
“I’m tired,” he admitted, voice low and honest the second you picked up. No loud bravado left. “Not just physically. The constant performing… it’s a lot. But knowing I get to talk to you after makes it bearable. You’re becoming my favorite part of the day. Not the stream. Not the numbers. Just this.”
You talked until he sounded calmer, sleepier. Before hanging up, he murmured, “Thank you for liking the real me. I’m trying to show him more. To you. Only you.”
Weeks blurred together in the softest way.
The possessiveness was still there–quiet now, less sharp. He’d still notice if you chatted with others on stream, but instead of subtle callouts, he’d simply send a private message afterward: “Saw you helping that guy with rotations. Cute. But come bully me next time instead. I miss it.”
You became a quiet constant in his real life.
He started sharing more unfiltered pieces: screenshots of his analytics when he was stressed about numbers, voice notes ranting about toxic teammates in solo queue, even the occasional photo of his messy desk or the view from his window at golden hour.
And you let him in too. Sending him photos of your workspace, complaining about deadlines, sharing the songs that made you think of the duality you’d fallen for: the loud chaos and the quiet heart underneath.
One quiet evening, during a long video call where he was sprawled on his couch and you were curled up in bed, he looked at the camera with that steady, observant gaze and said:
“I think I want you to be part of my real life. Not just the after-stream calls. Not just the secret version. I want to introduce you to my friends as the girl who keeps me honest. The one who doesn’t care about the ‘strongest streamer’ title. Just… you and me. Doing normal stuff. Slowly. No rush.”
Your breath caught at the gentleness in his voice.
“I’d like that,” you whispered.
He smiled, small, warm, entirely real.
“Good. Because I’m done keeping the best parts of me hidden. You deserve all of them. The loud ones for the world… and the quiet ones just for you.”
The soft integration had begun.
Not a dramatic takeover. Not an overnight change.
Just two people slowly letting their worlds overlap. Stream life and real life blending in the gentlest, most intentional way.
The loud Gojo Satoru still existed for the audience.
But the real Satoru–the quieter, observant, caring one–was no longer hidden away.
He was yours.
And for the first time, he wasn’t afraid to let that be enough.
The integration had been going beautifully for weeks. Soft, steady, and full of quiet moments that felt like they belonged only to the two of you.
Gojo still streamed almost every night, loud and chaotic as ever, but the private version of him had become your safe place. Voice calls turned into video calls. Video calls turned into shared playlists and late-night stories about nothing important. He talked about wanting you in his real life more and more, dropping hints about “one day you’ll see the apartment in person” or “my friends keep asking who keeps me sane these days.”
You loved it. You loved him, the loud gremlin for the world and the quiet, observant man who remembered how you took your coffee and sent voice notes just to say he missed your roasts.
But life has a way of testing soft things.
It started with one bad week.
Work had piled up mercilessly. Deadlines, overtime, a project that kept falling apart no matter how many hours you threw at it. You barely had time to eat, let alone sit through a full stream. Your replies in chat became shorter, sporadic. Some nights you didn’t show up at all.
Gojo noticed immediately.
On stream, he played it off with his usual bright energy, but the cracks were visible if you knew where to look.
“Persistent One’s been quiet lately…” he’d say mid-game, voice still loud for the audience but carrying an undercurrent only you would recognize. “Hope she’s okay. Chat, someone tell her I need my daily bullying or I’m gonna start playing like a noob on purpose.”
He kept searching the chat. Every single stream. Eyes flicking to the overlay more often than usual, grin faltering for half-seconds when your username didn’t appear.
Privately, the calls became one-sided.
He’d call after every stream–voice soft, tired, stripped of the loud persona.
“Hey… you there tonight?”
No answer.
“I know you’re busy. Just… let me know you’re okay when you can. Miss hearing your voice. The real one.”
You saw the missed calls. You saw the gentle voice notes he left: “Work sounds brutal. Don’t push too hard, okay? I’m here when you’re free. Even if it’s just five minutes.”
But exhaustion won every time. You’d fall asleep with your phone in hand, promising yourself you’d reply in the morning. The messages piled up, each one softer than the last.
Then came the night he stopped calling.
It was the sixth night without you in chat. Gojo streamed like usual–loud laughs, chaotic plays, flirtatious shoutouts–but his energy felt forced. He searched for your username openly now, no longer hiding it behind jokes.
“Still no Persistent One…” he murmured during a break, voice quieter than the stream warranted. “If you’re watching, just type something. Anything. Even if it’s ‘you suck.’ I’ll take it.”
He ended the stream earlier than usual, looking drained.
No call came that night.
The silence felt louder than any of his shouting ever had.
You woke up the next morning with a hollow ache in your chest. You’d finally finished the nightmare project at 4 AM, but the guilt had kept you awake longer. You’d missed him. Missed the quiet Satoru who made everything feel lighter. Missed the way he looked at you through the screen like you were the only real thing in his loud world.
You couldn’t wait anymore.
You texted one of his close friends–the one he’d introduced you to during a group call weeks ago, a fellow streamer who knew the private side of Gojo better than most. After some gentle coaxing and explaining the situation, they sent you the address with a simple message: “He’s been off lately. Go fix our strongest idiot.”
You took the train across the city in the late afternoon, heart hammering the entire way. The apartment building was nicer than you expected, it was modern, secure, but not flashy. Exactly the kind of place someone who performed chaos for a living would choose for peace.
You stood outside his door for a full minute, nerves twisting, before finally knocking.
Soft. Hesitant. But real.
Inside, you heard movement. Footsteps, a muffled curse, then the door swung open.
Satoru stood there in a simple black hoodie and sweatpants, white hair messy like he hadn’t bothered styling it all day. No blindfold. No camera smile. Just him, eyes widening the second they landed on you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then his voice came out low, rough, and entirely the private version you’d fallen for.
“… You’re here.”
You nodded, throat tight. “I’m sorry. Work was hell. I kept seeing your calls and messages and I just… crashed every night. I didn’t want to show up half-dead on call. But I missed you. So much.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped forward and pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like he’d been waiting days for exactly this. His heartbeat was steady against your ear, faster than usual. He smelled like fresh laundry and that faint cologne he wore when he wasn’t streaming–clean, warm, unmistakably him.
“I thought I scared you off,” he murmured into your hair, voice barely above a whisper. “Kept looking for you every night. The chat felt empty without your roasts. The apartment felt empty after streams. I stopped calling last night because I didn’t want to keep bothering you if you needed space.”
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, hands resting on his chest. “You could never bother me. I like the real you too much for that.”
His blue eyes softened, the kind of look he never gave the camera. Gentle, vulnerable, full of quiet wonder. “You came all the way here… just to tell me that?”
“Yeah.” You smiled, small and honest. “Because the loud version is fun for everyone else. But the quiet one? The one who waits for my messages and remembers stupid details about my day? That one’s mine. And I didn’t want him thinking he was alone.”
Satoru let out a soft breath that sounded suspiciously like relief mixed with something warmer. He cupped your face with one large hand, thumb brushing gently over your cheek.
“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” he whispered. Then, quieter still, “Stay tonight? No stream. No performance. Just us. I’ll order whatever you want. We can watch that dumb movie you mentioned last week. I just… want the real version with you. In the same room.”
You nodded, leaning into his touch. “I’d like that.”
The night was soft and slow and perfect.
He cooked terribly (again), but you helped, laughing when he burned the edges of the toast. You ate on his couch, shoulders touching, his arm eventually draping around you like it belonged there. He told you stories about his early streaming days–the awkward ones, the failures, the moments he almost quit. You told him about the nightmare project and how thinking about his stupid voice notes had kept you going.
When you grew sleepy, he pulled you closer, voice low and warm against your hair.
“I don’t want to hide this anymore. Not the important parts. You’re not just my after-stream secret. You’re the best part of my real life.”
The next evening, Gojo streamed like usual.
But something was different from the start.
He was still loud, still chaotic, still the magnetic strongest streamer everyone loved. White hair pushed back, blue eyes bright, that signature grin in full force.
“YO! What’s good, my beautiful degenerates? Your boy is back and ready to cause problems on purpose tonight!”
Chat flooded in. He played the first few games with his usual flair, flirting lightly with donors, hyping the energy.
But his eyes kept drifting to the chat overlay.
Every few minutes.
“Still no Persistent One…” he said during a break, trying to keep it light but failing. The grin didn’t reach his eyes the same way. “If you’re out there… I missed you last night. Like, actually missed you. Chat’s not the same without your savage takes.”
He searched again. And again.
Viewers started noticing. Speculation filled the side chat.
Then, twenty minutes later, there was a soft knock on his apartment door–barely audible on stream, but his mic picked it up.
Gojo paused mid-sentence, head tilting. “Wait… hold on, chat. Someone’s at my door. This better not be a delivery I didn’t order.”
He muted for a second, stood up, and walked off-camera.
The chat exploded with curiosity.
When he returned less than a minute later, he wasn’t alone.
You stepped into frame behind him, a little shy but smiling, wearing one of his oversized hoodies that he’d given you the night before. Gojo’s arm was loosely around your shoulders, protective and warm, his usual loud energy tempered by something undeniably soft.
Chat lost its collective mind.
gojosimp69: WAIT WHO IS THAT
sugarbearrr: IS THAT HER??? PERSISTENT ONE???
infinitevoidfan: TORU HAS A GIRL ON STREAM WTF
Gojo laughed, bright and genuine this time, as he sat back down, gently pulling you onto his lap so you were both visible. His free hand found yours under the desk, squeezing once.
“Alright, degenerates, calm down before you break Twitch,” he said, voice still carrying that streamer charm but layered with quiet happiness. “Some of you have been wondering about Persistent One for weeks. Well… here she is. In real life. Not just chat. Not just after-stream calls.”
He turned his head to look at you, blue eyes soft and full of open affection–no performance, no mask. Just Satoru looking at the person who made the loud world feel bearable.
“She’s the one who keeps me honest. The one who roasts me when I get reckless. The one who likes the quiet version better than all this chaos.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “And last night she showed up at my door because I was being an idiot and overthinking. Turns out… she missed me too.”
You leaned into him, voice calm and grounded even with thousands watching. “He’s still loud on stream. Still a menace. But off-stream? He’s the best part of my days.”
Gojo’s grin widened, but it was warmer now–real. He pressed a quick, soft kiss to your temple right there on camera, unbothered by the exploding emotes and donation alerts.
“See? She gets it.” He looked back at the chat, eyes sparkling with something lighter, freer. “So yeah… the bit’s not just a bit anymore. She’s part of the real life now. My favorite part. And if any of you try to flirt with her in chat, I’m banning you. She’s not for the public. She’s for me.”
The stream continued with you there. Sometimes quiet in his lap, sometimes chiming in with your signature dry roasts that made him laugh harder than any donation ever could. He still played the chaotic games, still entertained the crowd, but every glance he sent your way was soft, intentional, and full of the quiet love he’d only shown you in the dark before.
Later, after the stream ended and the camera was off, he pulled you close again, forehead resting against yours in the gentle quiet of his apartment.
“Thank you for showing up,” he whispered, voice low and only for you. “Not just today. For all of it. For seeing the real me when everyone else only wanted the loud one.”
You smiled, fingers threading through his white hair. “I always liked the real one best.”
He kissed you then–slow, deep, and full of everything he’d been holding back during all those public performances. When he pulled back, his eyes were warm and certain.
“No more hiding the important parts,” he murmured. “You’re in my real life now. Streams, quiet nights, grocery runs where people recognize me, all of it. As long as you’re with me… the loud version can stay for the world. But this–” he gestured between the two of you “this is ours. Always.”
You stayed there in his arms, the city lights glowing softly through the window, the distant hum of his PC finally silent.
The strongest streamer had found something stronger than any audience or persona.
He’d found you.
And in the soft integration of two worlds, loud chaos and quiet truth, you had both found exactly where you belonged.
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader - modern AU (see part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here, part 5 here, part 6 here, part 7 here, part 8 here, part 9 here)
Kiera had been sprawled across your bed, scrolling aimlessly through listings while you sat cross-legged on the floor with your laptop balanced on a stack of textbooks.
“Look at this one,” she’d said, turning the screen toward you. “It’s small, but it’s five minutes from campus.”
You leaned closer. The photos showed a narrow galley kitchen and a window that faced brick. “It’s still too much,” you murmured. “Even split. And I don’t have anyone to split it with.”
“Ask around?”
“I have. Everyone either renewed their leases in May or already paired off.” You shut your laptop with a soft click. “I don’t want to be forty minutes out again. I wasted half my life on trams last semester.”
Kiera propped her chin in her hand. “You could always...”
“No,” you cut in gently, knowing exactly what she was about to say. “I’m not moving into his father’s townhouse indefinitely. That’s not a plan.”
Kiera studied you for a moment, then nodded once. “Fair.”
You hadn’t realized the door to the corridor had been ajar. Aerion had. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t slam doors or demand explanations the way he might have a year ago. He waited until Kiera left, then he appeared in your doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame like he’d been there all along.
“You’re apartment hunting,” he said.
It wasn’t accusatory. It was too even for that.
You closed the wardrobe you’d been rummaging through. “I’ve been looking.”
“For somewhere closer to the university.”
“Yes.”
“And it didn’t occur to you,” he went on, very carefully, “to discuss that with me before discussing it with Kiera.”
There it was, the sting, thinly concealed.
You sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. “I wasn’t hiding it from you. It’s just logistics.”
“Logistics,” he repeated, as though the word offended him personally. He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. “You want to move because the commute is exhausting and the rent is unsustainable. That’s not logistics. That’s a problem. And I am, apparently, not part of the solution.”
You looked up at him. “I don’t want to live here forever.”
He blinked. “Neither do I.”
“That’s not what I mean.” You rubbed your temple. “I don’t want to be the girl who drifts from her parents’ house into her boyfriend’s family home and never actually stands on her own two feet. Your father is generous. Your house is enormous. But it isn’t mine.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you remain in my father’s house,” he said. “Gods forbid I remain in it.”
You frowned faintly. “Then what are you suggesting?”
“That I move out.” He said it as though it were obvious. “I’m graduating this year. I was planning to anyway.”
You stilled.
“My father has finally conceded,” Aerion continued, tone dry, “that I am not, in fact, an ornamental disaster. He’s offering me a position in one of the companies. Nothing ceremonial. Actual responsibility. He also believes...” his mouth twisted, “...that I should learn to function without three people anticipating my breakfast preferences.”
“That will be a shock,” you said lightly.
“It will be a liberation.” His gaze sharpened. “And I intended to ask you to come with me.”
“You…what?”
“I was waiting until I had something concrete,” he said. “An address. A lease. Something that didn’t sound like I’d improvised it five minutes prior. But apparently I’ve misjudged the timeline.”
You searched his face for flippancy and found none.
“Aerion,” you began carefully, “the kind of place you would choose and the kind of place I can afford are not the same.”
“I’m aware.”
“You would want space. Light. Something central.”
“And?” he asked.
“And I cannot contribute equally to something like that,” you said, more firmly now. “Not to the kind of apartment you’d consider livable. I don’t want to be carried.”
He stared at you for a long moment, and when he spoke again his voice had dropped, steadier, stripped of theatrics.
“I don’t want a roommate,” he said. “I don’t want a financial arrangement. I want to live with you.”
“That doesn’t negate the financial reality.”
“It does for me.”
You shook your head. “That’s easy to say when you’re the one with the salary.”
“It won’t be an allowance,” he said, irritation flickering through. “It will be my income. Earned. And I would be paying for an apartment whether you lived in it or not.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is entirely the point,” he countered. “If I choose a larger place because I prefer space, that’s my preference. You are not obligated to subsidize my taste.”
“And if we argue one day?” you pressed. “If you get angry? I don’t ever want to wonder whether I owe you for the roof over my head.”
He looked hurt. “Do you think I would weaponize that against you?”
“No,” you said immediately. “But I don’t want the imbalance to exist in the first place.”
He exhaled slowly, as though recalibrating.
“You would contribute,” he said at last. “Just not in the way you’re measuring.”
“That’s vague.”
“You would bring your books and your half-finished essays and your impossible tea rituals and your tendency to occupy the center of my bed as though it’s a throne. You would bring yourself.” His jaw tightened faintly. “And I would bring the lease.”
You tried not to smile. “That’s not a financial plan.”
“It is my plan.”
You studied him, the set of his shoulders, the stubborn lift of his chin that had softened over the summer but not disappeared.
“And you refuse to let me split rent?”
“Yes.”
“Or utilities?”
“Yes.”
“At all?”
“At all.”
You leaned back on your hands, staring at the ceiling. “You’re infuriating.”
“I’ve been told.”
“You’re certain?” you asked finally.
“I am.”
“This isn’t just you being reactive because you overheard me complaining?”
He gave you a look. “If I were being reactive, we would be having a very different conversation.”
You believed him.
Your resistance wasn’t gone, but it had shifted, less about pride now, more about fear of stepping into something that felt very adult, very permanent.
“You’ll let me pay for groceries,” you said after a moment.
He considered it as though you’d proposed a treaty.
“You may,” he conceded, “occasionally.”
“And I choose the mugs.”
“That seems excessive.”
“I’m serious.”
He huffed a faint laugh. “Fine. You may curate the mugs.”
You held his gaze a second longer, then nodded once.
“All right,” you said.
The apartment was exactly what you had both pretended it wouldn’t be.
Too spacious. Too central. Too expensive.
It stood a fairly short walk from the university and even closer to the company offices where Aerion would begin working after graduation. High ceilings. Tall windows that let the city spill in through pale afternoon light. The kind of place estate agents described as tasteful in a voice that implied generational wealth.
You had to admit, it was quite elegant. The dining area held a long polished table neither of you truly needed. Aerion claimed it was for hosting. You suspected he liked the way it made him feel like a man who hosted.
One of the spare bedrooms disappeared almost immediately under garment racks and mirrored wardrobes.
“I refuse to compete with your dresses for space,” he’d declared, measuring the walls with the intensity of a military campaign. “It’s inefficient.”
“You’re turning an entire room into a closet.”
“Yes.”
“For both of us?”
“Obviously,” he threw over his shoulder, already directing movers where to place a full-length mirror. “I’m not a barbarian.”
The result was obscene. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Shoes aligned with near-maniacal precision. His suits arranged by shade; your skirts and blouses hung with space to breathe. It felt less like a closet and more like a private boutique no one else was allowed to enter.
The rest of the apartment remained restrained: muted tones, polished surfaces, curated art.
And then there was the bedroom.
The bed itself was enormous, the bedside tables were dark oak, minimal. The lamps, warm and understated.
But at the head of the bed, arranged with suspicious neatness, sat a small army of plushies. A small bear he’d brought back from a business trip because it had reminded him, inexplicably, of you. Then a rabbit from a boutique you’d paused in front of for too long. Then a ridiculous velvet cat. They accumulated.
At the very center sat the build-a-dragon you’d given him at the beginning of your relationship, its wings slightly crooked from being hugged too often.
The rest of the apartment could have belonged to a restrained, dignified couple in a design magazine.
The bed belonged to you.
Aerion tolerated the plushies with a kind of long-suffering indulgence, right up until the moment he intended to touch you.
You were watching with open amusement as he gathered them briskly.
“Are you serious?”
“They’re observing,” he muttered, sweeping them into the top drawer of the dresser.
“They are stuffed.”
“They have eyes.”
He worked from home more often than he needed to.
Officially, it was because the company allowed flexibility. Unofficially, it was because he’d memorized your timetable and knew precisely which days you had only one afternoon lecture and would be home by noon.
On those mornings, he’d be seated at the dining table with his laptop open, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
You’d pass behind him on your way to make tea, fingers brushing the back of his neck. He would not look up immediately, but his hand would catch your wrist and press a brief, absent kiss to your knuckles before releasing you.
Sometimes he forgot you were there and spoke under his breath at spreadsheets. Sometimes he noticed you watching him and leaned back in his chair, eyeing you with lazy appraisal until you felt warm under it.
When he returned from the office, though, there was nothing subtle about it.
The front door would open with a decisive click, the sound of shoes being set aside with far less care than the rest of the apartment received.
“Darling, I’m home!” he would call, voice carrying through the rooms with theatrical flourish.
You would appear from wherever you’d been, sofa, kitchen, bedroom, and he would stop in the entryway as though he had just returned from war.
“There’s my beautiful girl,” he’d say every single time, as though it were a revelation.
Even if you were in old leggings. Even if your hair was half-dried and frizzing around your shoulders.
He never crossed the room without expectation.
“Come here,” he’d demand softly.
“For what?”
“A kiss. Obviously.”
“As payment?”
“As tribute.”
You’d pretend reluctance for exactly three seconds before he cupped your jaw and kissed you properly, slow when he’d had a long day, impatient when he hadn’t. He tasted faintly of coffee and city air and something unmistakably him. Only after that did he relax.
You only cooked when time allowed it. On rare evenings when neither of you had deadlines or early meetings, you’d stand side by side in the kitchen attempting recipes neither of you had perfected. He approached cooking the way he approached negotiations: overconfident, meticulous, faintly disdainful of instruction manuals.
“You’re reading it wrong,” he’d say, peering over your shoulder at the recipe.
“I’m not.”
“You skipped a step.”
“I did not.”
He would reach around you to adjust the stove, breath warm against your temple, and you’d both forget what you were arguing about.
Half the time you ended up ordering food anyway, eating cross-legged on the living room floor carpet despite owning a perfectly respectable dining table.
At night, Aerion slept on his back at first, one arm thrown loosely over your waist. As the hours passed, he gravitated closer, until you were half tucked against him, his breath steady at your crown.
He talked sometimes. Not clearly. Not in coherent sentences. Low mumbles, fragments of words shaped against your hair. Once, when you’d been half-awake, you thought you heard your name threaded through the haze. Another time, something that sounded suspiciously like a reprimand delivered to an invisible colleague.
If you shifted or made a small sound, he would quiet instantly, as though sensing he’d been overheard.
In the mornings, he remembered none of it.
“You were arguing in your sleep,” you told him once.
“With whom?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
He frowned faintly. “Did I win?”
“Unclear.”
He accepted that with a nod, as though it were an acceptable outcome.
The city beyond your windows glowed in amber and glass, but your bedroom was warm and dim, the lamps turned low. The plushies still sat at the head of the bed, temporarily spared, because Aerion had been in an unusually gentle mood from the moment he’d come home.
He hadn’t made his usual theatrical entrance. He’d simply found you already in bed with a book, shed his jacket, and climbed in beside you with the quiet determination of someone seeking comfort.
Now he was half draped over you, pressing idle kisses along your shoulder, your collarbone, the underside of your jaw. His fingers traced slow paths over your waist as though memorizing terrain he already knew by heart.
“You’re clingy,” you murmured, eyes still on your book.
“I’m reflective,” he corrected against your skin, brushing his mouth over your throat.
He shifted, propping himself slightly on one elbow so he could look at you properly. His expression wasn’t sharp or mischievous tonight. It was thoughtful in a way that made you close the book and set it aside.
“I wish I’d met you sooner,” he said quietly.
You studied him. “You hated most people sooner.”
“Exactly.” His mouth curved faintly. “That’s the problem.”
He leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple, as though punctuating his own thoughts.
“If we’d met when I was seventeen,” he continued, “it would have been a catastrophe. I was intolerable.”
“You’re still intolerable.”
“Yes, but now it’s curated.”
You laughed softly, and he smiled at the sound before his gaze drifted somewhere more distant.
“You would have liked parts of it,” he went on. “The circles I grew up in. The events. The absurdity of it all. There’s a certain…theater to high society.”
“I can’t imagine you in theater.”
“Oh, it’s exactly that,” he said. “Everyone pretending not to be watching each other while watching obsessively. The dresses alone would have delighted you. Designers flown in, custom fittings, jewels that looked like they belonged in museums.”
You raised a brow. “Are you attempting to sell me on your adolescence?”
“I’m giving you the brochure,” he replied smoothly. “You would have enjoyed the music. The orchestras. The ridiculous string quartets tucked into corners of ballrooms.”
“And what would I have hated?”
He didn’t hesitate. “The scrutiny. The way conversations are layered with implication. The mothers evaluating you like a stock investment. The sons who believe charm is a personality.”
You grimaced faintly. “That does sound exhausting.”
“It was.”
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, one hand still resting lazily at your hip.
“My first time was at a debutante ball,” he said, as though commenting on the weather.
You turned your head slowly. “Of course it was.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
“They present us like show horses,” he continued. “All polished and trained. It was dreadfully boring. Speeches. Toasts. Fathers congratulating each other for producing viable heirs.”
“And you,” you prompted.
“I was seventeen. Arrogant. Restless.” His lips twitched faintly. “She was from the south. Daughter of some titled relic who’d reinvented himself as a CEO. Three years older. She looked at me like she was bored out of her mind.”
“That must have wounded you deeply.”
“It intrigued me,” he corrected. “We slipped away when our fathers were distracted. There was a guest wing no one was using.”
He said it plainly, without embellishment.
“It wasn’t romantic,” he added after a moment. “It was…opportunistic. We were curious. We were unsupervised.”
“How did it go?”
“She didn’t speak to me again that night.” His tone remained even. “Which I respected. Years later, when people began paying more attention to me for reasons unrelated to teenage novelty, she took great pleasure in informing certain circles that she’d had me first.”
You snorted. “How dignified.”
“Very.”
He turned his head toward you then, studying your expression carefully.
“Does that bother you?”
“No,” you said honestly. “It sounds like you.”
He smiled at that, unexpectedly grateful.
“You wouldn’t have liked her,” he mused.
“Is that your diplomatic way of calling me inexperienced?”
“It’s my way of saying you don’t perform for an audience.”
His thumb brushed your waist absently.
“Daeron vomited on the dance floor at that same ball,” he added, the corner of his mouth lifting.
You blinked. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. Too much champagne, not enough food. It was catastrophic.”
You laughed, imagining it.
“And Egg,” Aerion continued, warming to his nostalgia, “decided the day before his first debutante event that he hated his hair. He found Maekar’s electronic beard shaver and shaved his head.”
“No.”
“Yes. Father considered pulling him from the presentation entirely.”
“What happened?”
“They slapped a beret on him and pretended it was avant-garde.”
You were fully laughing now, and Aerion watched you like he’d orchestrated the story solely for that outcome.
“It was ridiculous,” he said more softly. “All of it. The rules. The expectations. Who you’re seen with, how long you dance with them, what it implies.”
His hand drifted higher, brushing a slow path along your ribs.
“You would have hated that part,” he murmured. “The implication that proximity equals possession.”
You shifted closer to him instinctively.
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“I was worse then,” he admitted. “More careless. I liked the attention. I liked knowing I could walk away and someone would still be waiting. It matters little now. I have you.”
Aerion disliked complete silence. But he liked a low, comfortable hum of existence, the faint clicking of keys beneath his fingers, the distant clatter of someone in the street outside, the soft rustle of pages when you turned them.
He sat at the table with his laptop, half-reclined in his chair like a bored king forced to do paperwork. One sleeve pushed up, the lamplight catching along the silver of the rings on his fingers. Every so often he spun one idly as he read something on the screen.
You watched him from the couch. At first without thinking about it. Then with a slow, creeping realization. You wanted him.
Not vaguely. Not later. Not the usual awareness that he might decide to pull you into his arms at some point that evening.
You wanted him now. Which was…a problem.
Because it occurred to you, with growing irritation, that you had absolutely no idea how to start something like that.
Before you had moved in together, intimacy with Aerion had always happened in one of two ways.
Either it was stolen: quick, reckless moments when no one was supposed to notice. Or you were somewhere completely alone and Aerion behaved like a man who had been starving for days.
He had never exactly waited for an invitation. After you moved in together, things had only escalated. The kitchen counter. The couch. Once, scandalously, the washing machine while it was still running. Aerion had approached it all with the enthusiasm of someone determined to test every available surface. You, meanwhile, had simply been…swept along.
Which meant that now: watching him sit there, sleeves rolled up, completely absorbed in his work, you realized you had never once actually initiated anything yourself.
You stared at him. Aerion scrolled through something on the screen, brow faintly furrowed. The ring on his index finger spun lazily. You shifted on the couch. He didn’t look up. You stood. Still nothing. You crossed the room slowly. Aerion noticed when your shadow fell over the keyboard.
He looked up immediately.
“Yes?” he asked.
You froze.
He tilted his head slightly, studying you.
“Did you need something?”
Your brain, which had been very determined two seconds ago, suddenly provided nothing helpful.
“…No.”
Aerion’s brow creased faintly. “No?”
You hovered awkwardly beside him.
His expression sharpened. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You look like something’s wrong.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it again.
Aerion leaned back in his chair, attention fully off the laptop now. “Did something happen today?”
“No.”
“Did someone say something to you?”
“No.”
“Then...”
You made a small, frustrated sound.
Aerion blinked. This was not the response he had expected.
“You’re hovering,” he said slowly. “Which you only do when you either want something or are trying not to tell me something.”
You stared at him. He waited. You looked at the laptop. Then at him. Then, very slowly, you closed the screen.
Aerion’s eyebrows lifted.
Your face was warm. This was already going terribly.
“Are you done working?” you asked.
“I was just about to be,” he said mildly, “until someone assaulted my computer.”
You hesitated again. Aerion’s gaze softened slightly. He reached for your wrist.
“Come here,” he said. “What is it?”
That did it. The frustration that had been building for the past five minutes snapped. You climbed straight into his lap. Aerion blinked. Once. Twice.
“Well,” he said after a beat. “That’s new.”
You ignored the heat crawling up your neck and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Aerion went very still. Then another, a little lower along his jaw. His hands automatically moved to your waist, steadying you.
“Sweetling,” he murmured slowly, “if you needed attention you could have simply...”
You kissed the corner of his mouth. Aerion stopped talking. Your lips brushed down to his neck. And very carefully, trying to be subtle about it, you shifted your hips against him.
There was a pause. A very long pause. Aerion looked down at you. Then back up again. His mouth slowly curved.
“Oh,” he said softly.
You wished the floor would swallow you. But Aerion’s hands tightened around your waist, drawing you a little closer.
“Is that what this is?” he murmured.
You did not answer. Instead you hid your face against his shoulder.
Aerion huffed out a quiet laugh. “Darling girl.”
One hand slid up your back, fingers warm through the fabric. “You could have said something.”
You mumbled something incoherent into his collar. He tilted your chin up with two fingers. Your expression was somewhere between determined and mortified. Aerion’s smile widened.
“You’re asking me,” he said slowly, “in the most roundabout way imaginable.”
“I’m not asking,” you muttered.
“Oh?”
You shifted slightly again in his lap. Aerion inhaled sharply. His thumb brushed under your chin, amused warmth in his gaze.
“Well,” he murmured. “This is certainly effective.”
You glared at him weakly. He leaned closer, voice dropping. “And here I thought you only came over because you had a question.”
Your hands grabbed his collar. “I did have a question.”
He raised a brow. “Yes?”
You leaned closer, nose brushing his. “Are you done working?”
Aerion laughed under his breath. “Yes,” he said.
His arms tightened around you, lifting you slightly so you settled more comfortably in his lap. “Very done.”
Then he pressed a slow kiss to your temple, voice low and teasing. “Next time, though…” His thumb traced lazily along your waist. “…you can simply ask.”
You gave him a look. Aerion grinned.
“Or,” he added, clearly delighted, “you can continue climbing into my lap like this. I certainly won’t complain.”
Aerion did not move to stand. Which, in hindsight, should have been your first warning.
Instead, he leaned back further in the chair, adjusting his grip on your waist as if settling in for something he intended to enjoy thoroughly.
You were still straddling him, embarrassed, stubbornly refusing to retreat now that you had started this.
Aerion watched you with open amusement. The expression slowly spreading across his face was absolutely insufferable.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “this is fascinating.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Oh?”
“Yes.” His thumbs traced small circles along your hips. “You’ve lived with me for months now.”
You shifted slightly. Aerion’s hands tightened, steadying you as he lazily rocked his hips upward once.
Your breath hitched.
“And yet,” he continued calmly, “you still seem to believe communication is optional.”
“Aerion...”
He rocked his hips again, just enough to interrupt the rest of the sentence.
That grin spread wider. There it was. The biggest, most self-satisfied expression imaginable.
“My girl,” he murmured, “climbs into my lap looking like she’s about to faint from embarrassment instead of simply asking for what she wants.”
“I did ask,” you muttered.
“That,” he said, “was not asking.”
Another slow upward roll of his hips. “You looked like you were attempting a burglary.”
You shoved lightly at his shoulder. “I am not burglarising you.”
Aerion laughed quietly. “You shut my laptop, climbed onto me, and started kissing my neck without explanation.”
“That was the explanation.”
“No,” he said patiently, “that was a hint.”
“And hints,” he added, rocking his hips again in a slow, unhurried rhythm, “are inefficient.”
You glared at him. Aerion looked completely delighted.
“So,” he continued conversationally, “we’re going to fix this.”
“We are not.”
“We are.”
“You’ve been with me long enough,” he said lazily, “that you should know how to express yourself properly.”
You tried to keep your expression neutral. It was not working.
Aerion leaned closer, voice dropping slightly. “So.” “How would you like to communicate from now on?”
“I was communicating.”
“No.” He shook his head, still smiling. “You were improvising.”
You opened your mouth to argue. He rocked his hips again. The words disappeared entirely.
“See?” he murmured. “You lose your train of thought immediately.”
“You’re distracting me on purpose.”
“Yes.”
No shame whatsoever. He settled deeper in the chair, clearly in no hurry. “So let’s try again.”
His tone was calm. Almost instructional. “How,” he asked lightly, “would you like to ask me?”
You stared at him. Aerion waited. His fingers tapped idly along your side. Then he nudged his hips upward once more.
“Use your words,” he said sweetly.
You buried your face briefly in his shoulder.
“Oh, no,” he murmured. “You started this. You don’t get to hide now.”
You stared at him. Aerion raised one expectant eyebrow.
“Go on,” he coaxed. “I’m listening.”
You exhaled slowly. “…Aerion.”
“Yes?”
Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “…can you stop being a smug prick for five seconds.”
Aerion burst into laughter. “Absolutely not.”
Aerion’s laughter took a moment to subside. You glared at him the entire time. When he finally caught his breath, he leaned back in the chair again, still holding your waist so you couldn’t escape.
“Well,” he said lightly, “that was certainly one attempt.”
“It was not an attempt.”
“Oh, it was,” he assured you. “Just not a successful one.”
You shifted on his lap, partly because you were annoyed and partly because the position was becoming increasingly distracting.
His hands tightened slightly as he helped guide the motion without even looking down, his attention fixed on your face.
“See?” he said with smug satisfaction. “You already know what you want.”
Aerion watched the entire internal battle unfold across your face like a man enjoying a theatre performance.
“Take your time,” he said pleasantly.
You leaned forward slightly, lowering your voice. “…Aerion.”
“Yes?”
“…can we go to bed?”
“Technically polite,” he admitted.
“But.” There was always a but.
“That’s still vague.”
You groaned. “How specific do you want me to be?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “if you’re asking me for something, it’s only fair that you actually ask.”
You finally muttered under your breath, “…Aerion, I want you.”
The words were quiet enough that someone standing two feet away probably wouldn’t have heard them.
Aerion heard them perfectly.
“That,” he said softly, “was much better.”
You immediately looked like you regretted everything. Aerion leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.
“See?” he murmured. “Not so difficult.”
You shoved lightly at his shoulder again. “Stop being pleased with yourself.”
“I can’t,” he said. “You’ve just made my entire evening. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You’ll get better at asking.” His grin turned wicked again. “I’m a very dedicated teacher.”
The soft click of the front door was the first sound to break the silence of the evening, a familiar, comforting noise that told you Aerion was finally home. You didn’t get up to go greet him, which was the indication that you could not look up from the book you were reading on the couch, a chunky fantasy novel you’d been trying to finish for weeks.
You simply called out, your voice carrying into the hallway, “You’re late. Daeron called, by the way. He wanted to know if we’d seen his spare set of cufflinks from the wedding.”
There was a pause, longer than usual for a simple question about cufflinks. You heard the jingle of keys being placed in the ceramic dish on the console table, the soft thud of his leather messenger bag hitting the floor, and then his footsteps on the hardwood.
“And what did you tell him?” Aerion’s voice was a smooth tenor, but there was a strange, tightly-wound quality to it.
“I told him the truth,” you said, still scanning the page, “that you probably stole them out of spite because he beat you at the groom’s pre-wedding go-kart race.”
Aerion appeared in the archway that led from the hall into the living room. He’d shed his suit jacket, leaving him in a crisp white shirt with the top button undone and his sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the sinewy forearms of a former championship fencer. His silver-gold hair, usually immaculately styled, was slightly disheveled, and his violet eyes, the most startling legacy of his ancient Valyrian bloodline, were fixed on you with an intensity that made you finally lower your book.
“That,” he said, a ghost of his characteristically sharp smile playing on his lips, “is a vicious and entirely accurate accusation.”
You laughed. After three years of dating and one year of sharing this sun-drenched apartment with its high ceilings and a view of the city’s bay, you knew his rhythms as well as your own. The past weekend had been a whirlwind: Kiera’s wedding to Valarr. As her best friend, you’d been a bridesmaid, a mediator, a last-minute seamstress, and a human shield against Kiera’s wonderfully overbearing mother. Aerion, as a cousin of the groom, had been swept up in the Targaryen family machine.
It was a grand, beautiful, and profoundly public affair, a union of two old families that had dominated local news and social media feeds for a solid week. You were both still recovering.
He walked over to the couch, but instead of collapsing next to you as he normally would, he stood there, looking down. His hands were in his pockets. This pensive stillness was unnerving.
“Are you going to just stand there and loom?” you asked, marking your page and setting the book aside. “It’s very off-brand. You’re an ‘immediately horizontal after work’ kind of guy. You’re being a ‘standing up’ guy. It’s weird.”
His smile flickered again, more genuine this time, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which were still searching your face. He was looking at you as if he was trying to memorize a piece of art, and he saw something everyone else had missed.
“I was just thinking,” he began, “about the wedding. About all of it.”
You pulled your legs up, making room for him. “It was a lot. Beautiful, but a lot. I think your father smiled exactly once, when he was checking the security detail’s perimeter sweep.” Maekar Targaryen, the former and famously formidable minister of defense, treated family weddings with the same strategic solemnity he’d once applied to national security briefings.
Aerion nodded. “He and Baelor have already started the debriefing process. A full post-mortem on the media coverage. They were on a call with the family’s PR firm for two hours today, analyzing the official photos. The reactions were ‘appropriately muted and respectful.’”
He recited the phrases with a mixture of dry amusement and genuine relief. Baelor, former mayor, was a master of public image. With him and Maekar running interference, the story of Kiera and Valarr’s wedding had been one of timeless romance, not a circus. There had been no social climbers selling stories to gossip sites, no shit-stirring distant cousins leaking unflattering anecdotes to the press. It was a fortress of good publicity.
“Well, mission accomplished,” you said. “It was a perfect day for them. And the most important part is that I’ve finally retired my chief bridesmaid hat. Now, come here. You’re hovering, and it’s making me anxious.”
Aerion didn’t move. He took a deep, centering breath, and his right hand shifted in his trouser pocket. The motion was subtle, but you saw it. He’d been doing this for weeks, a secretive, almost compulsive checking of his pocket, as if reassuring himself something was still there. You’d put it down to a new phone or a nervous habit related to a complicated case at work.
“I made a promise,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “To myself. And to my father.” He let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Gods, the number of times he’s caught me in his study this month…just staring at his desk drawer. He said I was like a dog waiting for a bone I wasn’t allowed to have yet. He locked it, eventually. To put me out of my misery.”
Your heart gave a sudden, hard kick against your ribs. Your mind raced back to a conversation from months ago, a careful, hypothetical-sounding inquiry he’d made one lazy Sunday morning. 'What do you think of big, splashy proposals versus something just for the two of us?' You’d scoffed, kissing his shoulder. 'A public spectacle is my literal nightmare. Anyone who needs an audience to ask the most important question of their life is asking for the wrong reasons.' You’d been half-asleep. You barely remembered saying it. But he had heard you. He had filed it away and built his plan around it.
“Aerion,” you whispered.
“I had to wait,” he continued, his voice gaining a desperate, confessional momentum. “I’ve been carrying this…this thing around for months. But you love Kiera. And I couldn’t, because you would never let your own happiness cast a single shadow on her day. You wouldn’t have wanted it, and it would have killed you to keep a secret like this from her. So I had to wait for the wedding to pass. And I gave it to my father because I knew, with every fibre of my being, that I’d ruin my own plan. I’d get impatient on a Tuesday morning over breakfast, or after a perfect dinner, and I’d just blurt it out. I couldn’t trust myself with it.”
He slowly pulled his hand from his pocket. It was a clenched fist. He knelt, right there, on the old Persian rug you’d bought together at a flea market. The silence was deafening, filled only with the distant sound of the city and the pounding of your own blood in your ears.
He opened his fist. A ring box, a deep red velvet, sat in his palm. It wasn't new. It was an heirloom, you could tell. His hands, usually so steady, trembled as he opened the lid.
Inside was a ring that stole your breath. A central, perfectly oval sapphire, the same deep, violet-blue as his eyes, was set in a delicate halo of diamonds on a band of what looked like platinum. It wasn't ostentatious. It was elegant and powerful and deeply, profoundly personal. It was a piece of his history, chosen for you.
“I had a whole speech prepared weeks ago,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “It was brilliant. About patience, and family legacy, and how you, impossibly, saw a man worth loving when the world saw a headline for trouble. But it’s gone. All of it. It’s just…gone.”
He looked up at you, his violet eyes, the eyes of the dragon, were brimming with a vulnerability you’d only ever seen in your most private moments. “I don’t remember a single word of it. All I know is that I can’t wait another second. This morning, I walked to my father’s house at six a.m. and demanded he unlock the drawer. I couldn’t leave it there for one more day. It belongs here, with you.”
He took a ragged breath, his gaze never leaving yours.
“I don’t want the press. I don’t want the cameras. The announcement will be nothing but two lines from the family office, ‘Aerion is engaged. He’s happy. That’s all.’ I don’t speak for the man I was. I speak for the man I am, who loves you more than his own life, and who wants nothing more than to come home to you, just like this, every single day for the rest of forever. So…” He took the ring from the box and held it, a tiny, glittering promise. “This is it. This is my random, ordinary, perfect moment. Will you marry me?”
You moved to him, tears blurring the image of his beautiful, anxious face, And you reached for it, your thumb brushing the sharp line of his cheekbone.
"You're shaking," you whispered.
"I'm not," he lied, his voice a rasp. "It's just… cold in here."
"It's June," you said, a wet, choked laugh bubbling up from your chest.
"Well, then it's clearly a medical condition," he retorted, a flash of his old, prickly defensiveness appearing for a moment before dissolving again into raw, open hope. "You haven't answered. You're just sitting there, holding my face, and you haven't actually said..."
"Yes," you said.
It was a breath, a gift handed directly from your heart to his. It was the only word that had ever existed in this singular, suspended moment.
He blinked. "What?"
"Yes, Aerion. Yes, I will marry you."
The air in his lungs rushed out of him. His head dropped forward for just a second, his forehead pressing against your knees as he collected himself. When he looked up again, the fear was gone, replaced by a luminous, almost disbelieving joy.
"Okay," he said, as if affirming it to himself. "Okay. Good. Excellent decision."
The ring fit perfectly. He likely had it resized. The sapphire gleamed in the soft lamplight, catching hues of deep violet and ocean blue. It was heavy, a solid, tangible weight that felt instantly, inexplicably right, as if it had always belonged there. It had belonged to a Targaryen ancestor, a princess from a forgotten time, given to her by a dragonlord husband who had crossed the narrow sea. It was a piece of history you were now a part of.
Aerion held your hand in both of his, staring at the ring on your finger. Then he lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a long, fervent kiss to your knuckles, just above the band.
"I love you," he said against your skin. "I don't say it enough. I say it, but not enough. I should have a skywriter announce it. I should..."
"Absolutely not," you interrupted, laughing. "No skywriters. No press releases with eight paragraphs of florid prose. You promised me. Two lines."
He lifted his head, a mischievous glint entering his eyes, the smirk you knew and loved returning to its rightful place. "Three lines. 'Aerion is engaged. He's happy. He is, frankly, insufferable about it.'"
"That's the truth, at least," you conceded.
He surged upward then, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was deep and desperate and tender all at once. He tasted of the spearmint gum he was always chewing to curb the old, lingering urge for a cigarette, a habit he'd kicked years ago. His hands slid from your face, one hand pressing flat against the small of your back, pulling you to the edge of the couch to be as close to him as possible. You were still perched on the cushion, he was still kneeling on the rug, and the position was awkward and his knees would probably ache later, but it was perfect. It was stunningly perfect.
"I love you," he repeated when you broke apart, the initial frantic energy settling into a deep, resonant calm. "I've loved you since the day you told me, after that disastrous family dinner my father made you attend, that I was a 'preening peacock with the intellect to back it up but absolutely no sense of self-preservation.' Do you remember that?"
"You insulted my sweater," you recalled. "You said the color made me look like an under-ripe orange."
"It was a terrible color," he said, unrepentant. "But you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I just didn't know how to say it then. I didn't know how to say anything then."
He finally stood, wincing slightly as he straightened his knees, and pulled you up with him. He didn't let go of your hand. He looked down at the ring on your finger once more, as if to reassure himself it was really there, then he looked around the apartment. The last of the sunset had faded, leaving the room in the soft, intimate glow of the single reading lamp you'd turned on. Your book was still splayed open on the couch cushion, your mug of tea had gone cold. It was, by any objective measure, an ordinary Friday night.
"I should tell my father," he said, but he made no move to get his phone. "And Baelor. They'll need to draft that statement. The concise one. The one that gives the press nothing but the truth they absolutely do not deserve to know." He paused, a thought striking him. "And Kiera. You'll want to tell Kiera yourself. Before the announcement. I know you will."
"Thank you," you said, squeezing his hand. "For waiting. For all of it. For making this ours before it becomes anyone else's."
He pulled you into his arms, wrapping you in a tight embrace. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest, still racing, still processing. He buried his face in the crook of your neck.
"I would have waited forever," he mumbled into your skin. "But I'm profoundly glad I didn't have to. My father's study was starting to feel like a second home."
You laughed, the sound muffled by his shoulder, and held him tighter.
a/n: Okay, we've reached the end, hope you enjoyed the series! I had to stop because I kept putting this modern AU Aerion into random situations and this fic series could go on to have 80 parts. This could come off a little choppy I fear because once again, I kept putting him in random situations.
You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
summary: two years had passed since you first met gojo satoru, and it was two years of having an agonizingly one-sided crush on the white-haired genius. for the most part, you were okay with keeping it down and acting like the nights you spent fantasizing about what it would be like to be his were normal. you were fine keeping it hidden until something between the two of you shifts, and you're left wondering if this crush you have on him is truly as delirious as you think.
genre: 18+, nerdjo, slow burn, angst + happy ending (duh), fluff, eventual smut (nerdjo being a munch), some mention of insecurities but nothing major
word count: 33k (oops)
note: nerdjo bu set in oxford! art credit! @to00fu
jjk masterlist
It began at one of the English department get-togethers.
Two years ago, when you felt like you had to come to every single event in the hopes of striking expeditious luck at one of them. And it’s not that you particularly disliked these events, but they weren’t the first thing you’d think of when it came to how you’d prefer to spend your free time.
The weather was just getting chilly enough where you’d rather stay in your dorm and wrap yourself in three blankets and a sweater, and the year had been dragging on long enough where you’d rather just talk about the wonders of Shakespeare and his sonnets in the confines of your next research paper and not with academics who made you feel inferior.
You had been invited weeks in advance, and yet you still found yourself dreading being here, the more it led to it, and even more when you were in the thick of it. Awkward small-talk with students you’ve seen around briefly and stiff handshakes with male professors who think that they have better places to be were just mentally taxing, and you counted the seconds until it was all over.
Thankfully, it was busy enough that you could slip into the background without many people even noticing you were there, but not so crowded that you could just slip away entirely without somebody asking where the great Dr. Howard’s research assistant had gone. And anyways, it wasn’t too horrible. You had taken to silently recounting Othello in your mind moments before everything changed.
There was a small tap on your shoulder. It startled you at first, and you looked around in your small corner to see a man waiting patiently behind you, a sheepish look on his face as you tried to gather yourself up.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, and you blinked out of your stupor as you tried to recall in your brain if you had met him before to save yourself from the embarrassment of him having to re-introduce himself, “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
He looked familiar. His eyes were a deep amethyst, his smile was soft and kind. His dark and shaggy hair was tied behind his head in a small bun, and his ears were adorned with multiple piercings. Although many at Oxford, especially the men, tried to appear as blank as usual, he seemed apt and content with going against the stuffy and old notions.
You must have seemed confused because the man stuttered as he introduced himself.
“I’m Suguru,” he restarted, his hand leaving his side as he extended it to shake yours, “I think we had the same English survey course last semester.”
Your confusion melted away into a wide smile as you shook his hand, his own eyes crinkling around the edges as he grinned back, letting out a breath of relief as you nodded insistently, shaking your head at your own self.
“Right, right, Suguru! I remember you!” You exclaimed, setting your cup down to the side as you watched him tuck a strand of loose hair behind his ear, “You sat a little bit in front of me, right?”
His head ducked down momentarily as he chukked, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he nodded.
“I did,” he chuckled slightly, “Right in the line of fire for when Howard needed to pick on someone.”
Your lips quirk up slightly as you nod, remembering how the professor you work for now used to terrorize your class and quiz random students on particular syllables and grammatical imperfections in the reading they were supposed to have done.
The class was small, as were most major-specific courses you were taking. Although you didn’t have many of your friends in the class, you had gotten a good sense of who was in there and who Dr. Howard preferred to pick on. Suguru, for the most part, did the reading and did his work, so he came out unscathed compared to some of the other students. He sat near the front with some of his own friends, and you had talked to him in passing a couple of times when the class as a whole would band together to compare comments on assignments. He was kind, from what you remembered, which is probably why you felt your shoulders growing less tense the more you two talked.
“That’s her style,” you say, shrugging as you fiddle with your fingers. “It took a while to get used to it,” you admit. Suguru rolls his eyes at your humility, remembering clearly just how much Dr. Howard favored you, but he doesn’t say anything as he lets you continue, “I don’t know if you’ve had Creemer yet, but he’s worse with his cold calls and isn’t half as nice.”
“I have him right now for rhetoric and grammar,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head in dismay, “He’s…sadistic, I think.”
You giggle, nodding feverishly at the statement as you recall your past couple of classes with the hellish professor, an infamous name for many English majors and someone that you try to avoid at all costs if possible.
The party, or gathering, as it said on the invitation, drones on in the background as you look around to see if anybody is looking in your direction. Most of the time, you can do what you want, but seeing that Dr. Howard had warned you before tonight that somebody from the department might want to swarm you to ask questions that you most likely didn’t have answers to, had put you on edge.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, motioning to the rest of the people with a knowing glint as you politely smile, shrugging your shoulders as your lips press tightly together. Whether it be your shy nature or how you preferred smaller crowds, it must’ve been evident on your face that you weren’t necessarily having the most amount of fun.
“I am,” you answer, wincing at the way your voice sounded warbled, “I’m trying to make the most of these opportunities, I guess.”
Suguru’s head dipped in understanding, taking a sip of his drink as he bit the inside of his cheek, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice.
“These things drag on for a bit, though, yeah? I’m feeling my fingers prune from how long I’ve held this glass.”
You let out a sigh of relief, sharing the same sentiment as the two of you share a knowing look.
“I…I, um, I heard that Howard chose you to research with her, though, right? That’s gotta be pretty cool,” Suguru asked after a beat, bringing you back to the conversation as his head tilted slightly, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you swallowed. He seemed kind, not asking the question bitterly as some other people have.
You nodded again, trying to contain your smile as you leaned against the stone pillar next to you. Letting out a small hum, you swallow again, trying to scope out what sort of place he was coming from.
“It is,” you answered, biting on the inside of your cheek as you were still reeling from being selected from such a wide pool of applicants and such a rigorous interview process to work on her next paper analyzing More’s work through a modern lens, “It’s…strenous, sometimes, but I’m having a lot of fun working with her,” you fidgeted with your fingers, “So yeah, it’s pretty cool.” You say sheepishly.
Suguru smiled at your hidden enthusiasm, the tip of his boot nudging something on the ground. He went to usher you to continue before his eye caught something behind your shoulder, his eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise as his smile grew even wider, his hand raising in a wave.
“Sorry,” he apologetically muttered, and you craned your neck around to see what it was, or rather who it was that Suguru had seen, “I think my friend just arrived.”
That’s when you felt your breathing stop.
The bustling group of students and faculty members almost seemed to part theatrically for the man walking towards the two of you, but you couldn’t even blame them.
He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his icy white hair and strikingly beautiful eyes. His lengthy frame made him nearly a head taller than even the tallest man in the room, and his wide shoulders helped him wade through the bodies as he navigated to his friend. His face seemed stoic, bordering on bored, but you couldn’t help but widen your eyes in shock at seeing the most devastatingly gorgeous man to ever exist. He adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, his lips moving in quiet apologies as he tried to move through the people without bumping into them.
You suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that it had been days since you had last had a good night's sleep and that the bags under your eyes were most likely even more evident in the dim lighting of the old hall, and how your sweater was lumpy from being shoved in the back of your closet for so long. You swallow thickly as Suguru quickly excused himself as he stepped away and walked a bit away to hug the stranger, exchanging some words with each other as you stood awkwardly to the side.
You watched them silently as they talked for a little bit more before Suguru stepped away, his hand on his friend's back as he, for some horrifying reason, seemed to guide him towards where you were stiffly standing as the two of you made eye contact before you became aware of the way your eyeballs felt in your socket and how heavy your tongue was in your mouth.
When Suguru finally pulled away from the modern-day Adonis, you felt like a creeper and a loner as you wondered whether or not to leave or stand in the corner while they talked, but ever the kind person that he was, Suguru led the man by the back to where the two of you were with a wide smile on his face.
“Sorry about that,” Suguru abashedly apologized, chuckling deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck, “But this is my friend, Satoru,” he said brightly, pushing the man a little harshly towards you as you stared at him silently.
The man, Satoru, gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding once in your direction as he looks around, looking uncomfortable and shifty. Suguru rolled his eyes, sighing deeply as he patted his friend's back.
You grinned back, swallowing the spit in your mouth as you felt him stare at you once he was done looking at the room, your cheeks heating up. You felt his eyes drift over your outfit, at your posture, and the way your hands were clasped tightly together. This stranger assessed the way you swayed slightly, awkwardly, not knowing how to fill the silence as you tapped the tip of your battered shoes on the ground. When he was done, his chin lifted again, his stare lingering on your blinking face as you glanced between him and Suguru, waiting for somebody to say something before you imploded and left with the lingering scent of your vanilla body spray.
Seeing that he was fine with checking you out, you took the time to do the same. He seemed like one of the generational students of the school, the ones whose parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings all came and went and made something important with their lives. They weren’t hard to detect, especially him, with his steamed jumper and his creased pants. His leather shoes were shining back at you, and though his hair was somewhat messy, it seemed to be classily messy, unlike what you and some other students would call freely messy.
“I force him to come to these things with me,” Suguru explained, but you could barely hear him over the rhythm of heartbeats in your ear as you tried to fly, appreciate the man a few feet in front of you, “Our friend Shoko sometimes comes, but she had things to do tonight.”
The man’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, his brows drawing tightly together as he glanced at his friend with a look.
“I had things to do too,” he muttered, his voice deep as you felt your heart stupidly tumble at the sounds.
Suguru snorted, shaking his head as he shrugged indifferently.
“Sure,” Suguru replied sarcastically and glanced at you, his brow slightly raised at the way you had gone silent, his lips quirking slightly when he noticed the way you couldn’t stop staring at his friend, not voicing anything as his hand on Satoru’s shoulder loosened, “Just act like you want to be here for twenty minutes, yeah?”
You bit your teeth into your cheek, a finger raising slightly as you pointed to the newcomer's face.
“I like your glasses,” you said brightly, your smile gentle as you fidget with your own, watching the way his striking eyes moved over to you again, squinting slightly as his hand raised upwards, as if he had forgotten that his glasses were even there, “They frame your face really well.” Your head tilts a little as you try to place something, “Where’d you get them? If, if you don’t mind me asking. Mine is so old and dingy, and the rims are basically glued on, and I’ve only had them for a few years.”
“Erm, well, thank you,” Satoru says stiffly, not used to the direct attention and compliments, his cheeks slightly dusted with pink as Suguru watches his friend struggle for words, taking the glasses off as he turns them to the side, trying to read the logo, “These are, erm, from Cartier. But I usually wear contacts, anyway.”
You let out a startled laugh, not a stranger to hearing students at this place don expensive items, but this being the first time you’ve seen one of them bashful about it.
You nod, your smile still there, softer as you take in his slightly awkward nature and let him put the glasses back on before you continue.
“Contacts are more practical,” you agree, even though you’ve always had a phobia of things touching your eyes and would never wear contacts unless somebody forced you, shrugging as you say, “But I’ve always appreciated the look of glasses.”
Satoru gnaws on his lips, nodding quietly as Suguru starts talking about his friend's major (biochemistry, you came to find out), and how long they’ve known each other, but you could only feel your stupid feelings when Suguru stayed, his friend included, and talked with you for the rest of the evening.
That was your sophomore year.
Nearly two years passed after befriending Suguru alongside his small group. He introduced you to Shoko after that night, swearing up and down that the two of you were destined to be near each other. And we weren’t wrong, not in the slightest. You two girls bonded strangely fast, as if you were twin flames that were being fanned out. Suguru and Satoru seemed to mirror the two of you, but the group functioned as a whole, for the most part. You spent so many nights over at their dorms that you could walk around blindfolded and still find your way to the others with no issue. It was fun, it was what you had dreamt of for so long. It was something that you were fine with, more than content with, ending your university career in a couple of months.
Well, everything for the most part, you could consider it as such if it wasn’t for your debilitating and soul-crushing feelings for the stranger you met that night.
It’s been four semesters, and you still don’t think Gojo Satoru has a clue. Which, in all honesty, is for the better.
Although his stoic nature spares nobody, it feels as though you're always on the worst end of it. With his lingering stares that seem to border on questioning why you were even there whenever he sees you, to the way he grows dim and quiet around you, it feels like you’re actively attempting to hurt yourself the more you fall in love with the little things you hadn’t noticed the day prior.
Even worse, you know deep down that such feelings are most likely, under this sun and every other universe, with most certainty and heavy grief, unrequited.
But you’re fine keeping it down.
You were fine until recently.
—
“I’m debating switching majors.”
Shoko declared from the couch, her legs hanging off the side, knocking occasionally on your shoulders as you crane your neck back on the cushion form where you were seated on the ground to look at her upside down.
“To what?”
She shrugged, rubbing at her eyes as she held her neuroanatomy textbook in one hand, her phone in the other as she scrolled through the different majors Oxford offered, as if she wasn’t a semester away from graduating.
“Film?” She read out, and you snorted, rolling your eyes at the prospect of Shoko going into film, “Hm…maybe art history?”
“Gave up on the med school dream?” Suguru quips from the other side of the couch, knowing fully that Shoko was just going on another one of her tangents as she shifted slightly to shove him harshly with her socked foot.
“I’m sure your counselor wouldn’t mind,” you reply, looking at her as she glares, her eyes falling back to her phone as she peers at the screen. She looked boredly a little bit before her eyes flitted upwards slightly, squinting as she read the new notification.
“Satoru said he’s going to be here in a few minutes,” she muttered, reading the next message, “And that he wants you,” she nudged Suguru with her foot again to motion that it was him that Satoru was referencing in the text, “To move to your bed so that he can do his work on his side of the couch.”
Suguru peeked up from his doom scrolling to look at Shoko, his eyes narrowed in a glare as he let out a huff of annoyance.
“His side?”
Shoko shrugged, her knee knocking on the side of your head as you knock it back, the book you were reading resting in your hands as you listened to Suguru mutter distastefully about how this was his dorm and that Satoru had no right claiming his couch, but you heard him shuffle to his feet nonetheless.
You tried not to show any peek of interest when the infamous name was called out, but it was hard not to. It had been two grueling years of mulling over your childish crush, yet the sound of his name could still send pulses to your veins that you were sure were minor heart attacks.
Because it was Gojo Satoru. You wanted to bang your head against the coffee table just hearing it.
Truth be told, you weren’t a stranger to having crushes. It was normal, it was human. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself when you were sprawled out on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried not to think about the way his fingers ever so slightly grazed your wrist when he handed you some chopsticks earlier at the restaurant.
But your crushes came few and far between, and you preferred keeping it that way. Seeing that you were too terrified to ever admit them, and the few, very few times you have, they’ve backfired horrifically, you try not to catch feelings as much as possible. But there was something about Gojo, something beyond reason, that pulled you to him.
At first, you bargained. You tried convincing yourself that it was just his appearance that was drawing you in, his suave looks that made people’s heads turn whenever he entered a room. But you have seen him at four in the morning with his old band tees (a sight that still made you swoon), with his hair crusted with glitter and his eyes pink with eyeshadow as Shoko attempted to put him in drag. Even then, he was insanely gorgeous, so you knew it had to be beyond that.
When you had finally accepted that it was a mind-numbing and life-ending crush that you were feeling towards him, you finally gave in and decided to admire the tall brute from afar. It helped that the two of you had gotten somewhat closer over the past two years, but out of everyone in the group, he was the one you talked to the least. In your defense, he didn’t have much to say to anybody, and that was just his nature. He spent most of his time studying and researching, and the other time watching, observant as other people gossiped. It wasn’t his forte, and nobody pushed him.
So you took in his quietness and his stoicism, appreciated his god-like looks and his overwhelming presence. That was fine.
What made it even worse was that he was so unattainably perfect in other ways that your crush festered into something that made you scream into your pillows and throw your balls of clothes at the wall as you wallowed in self-pity.
Everyone at this damned university was intelligent, and you had made amends with them early on. But you loved men who were smart, guys who could actually hold a page down and dissect it and make the most of it. And worst of all, Gojo Satoru was probably the most intellectual person you have ever met, and will ever meet. It seemed like his memory was photographic, his mind working twenty thousand times faster than the regular brain as he computed formulas and equations at speeds that you couldn’t fathom. He made biochemistry seem easy, something that you sometimes felt guilty for not pursuing. And sure, it didn’t help that you were on the other side with your texts about Russian classics and books diving deep into the restoration period, but even Shoko, who could rival Gojo at times, would begrudgingly admit under her breath just how stupidly genius he was.
Therefore, when you put those things together, his charming looks, his bookish self, his brooding structure, and just everything else, it made him unattainably perfect.
And that’s when you get the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with since the moment you saw him at that wretched party that wasn’t a party.
So, when Shoko read off his texts, there was good reason why she looked at the top of your head, a knowing look in her eyes as she playfully nudges you again, watching as you threw her a dark glare to just keep it down seeing that she was the only other soul who knew, despite you trying your best to hide it, about your feelings towards her other friend.
“Did you hear that Toji is graduating a semester late?” Suguru asked, leaning back against his pillows, his long legs strewn along his bed as he chewed on some gum.
You and Shoko both hummed, not looking up from your respective tasks, having found this information out weeks in advance.
Suguru groaned in annoyance, his chest vibrating with the noise as you snorted, rolling your eyes as he threw a small pillow at your head. It bounced off the side of your face, but you didn’t look up from the page you were on, too engrossed to hear the door behind you click open and heavy footsteps suddenly thudding through the dorm.
You shuffled against the couch, your back feeling stiff as you tried to get comfortable, not knowing that the man of your dreams was moving around somewhere behind you as he hung his coat up (vintage leather, something you found out as he grumbled about getting it wet when Shoko and Suguru insisted on walking in the rain once), kicked off his shoes, and slung his bag around as Shoko craned her neck to see what he was doing.
“Hey,” Shoko called out, and your eyes widened slightly when you heard a familiar voice grunt back a tired greeting, trying not to look as your ears suddenly sharpened to pick up on the sound of him pulling on his sweatshirt as he rounded the couch, standing at the opposite end as he plopped his backpack on the cushions.
You finally allowed yourself to peek over, your eyes following his figure upwards until they landed on his face, and your fists balled in frustration at how pretty he was even when he was simply existing.
Gojo sent you a small, tight-lipped and courteous nod, polite and curt as he looked between you and Shoko, glancing back at the bed where Suguru was lying, his fingers barely lifting from his phone as he gave his childhood best friend a lazy three-fingered wave.
“Why’re you here?” His blunt question was directed at Shoko, something that held no bite but mere wondering as he situated himself on the soft cushions, his large hands feeling around his bag as he opened up the zipper to get his laptop.
“I thought that it was allowed,” Shoko replied dryly, “Apologies.”
You chuckle softly, flipping the page, trying not to let his signature cologne distract you from the words in front of you.
“How was your lab?” Suguru asked, sounding monotone as his thumb swiped on the screen.
You watched as Gojo gave him a glare, his nose wrinkling, something he often did when he was frustrated but didn't want to ruin his outward appearance, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hair was messy with goggle indents lining the upper half of his face.
“An offense to my intelligence,” Gojo grumbled, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop as he clicked around a little bit, “I can’t believe some people have made it this far.”
You flipped another page, not fully having read the contents of the last one, but in an attempt to seem indifferent, tried to keep up with your regular reading pace as if anybody was keeping track.
Watching as he riffles through his bag again, you know, almost like clockwork, what he’s going to pull out. His routine is one that you’ve familiarized yourself with despite your best judgment, and you know that what comes next are his glasses.
Glasses are normal. You have your own pair that you only wear for lectures and outings, but forgo them for times like this because they sit a little too heavy on your nose. But his glasses are something else.
They elevate his face ever so slightly, but so much so that it makes you want to keel over and scream. They accentuate his perfect nose with the perfect crook and his freckles that sometimes sit just beneath the frames. He looks even more dashing, if that was even possible, with the way he looks up sometimes, and the lenses make his eyes seem even more blue.
He took them off for labs and put them somewhere safe. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how truly stunning this man really was.
Gojo unfolded the two prongs, holding them up to a source of light as his nose wrinkled again.
Smudges.
You watch silently as he dives back into the bag, his long fingers searching through his pockets for something you knew you always kept on hand for yourself and deep down, for him.
After a few seconds of not finding the microfiber cloth that you both silently cherished, you gave in, pulling your own bag towards you as you unzipped the smaller pocket, pulling it out stealthily and motioning for Shoko to hand it to Gojo.
He took it, his face going so far to relax momentarily as he went to clean the lenses, his head nodding once in quiet appreciation in your direction as you allowed yourself a nod in return.
Shoko looked at you with a raised brow, and you chose to hide behind your book.
“Was it Lainey?” Suguru asked, looking over at his friend, the name piquing your interest as you cast a quizzical look at Shoko, but she shrugged, watching Gojo as his expression soured. He handed you back your little cloth, muttering a thanks under his breath as his bitter gaze found Suguru, as if he was cursing him silently for bringing up the sensitive subject.
“What do you think?” He grumbled out, his right eye almost twitching as his fingers stretched out, typing something quickly as Suguru huffed out a laugh, noting how you and Shoko were both confused, and his smile only grew.
“You didn’t tell them?” Suguru asked, a gleam in his eyes as he shuffled to sit upwards, his back resting on the headboard, “Oh, this is class. Do you two know Lainey? Lainey Andrews?”
You cast a look at Shoko, your lips pursing as your eyes squinted, trying to recall the familiar name.
“The ginger?” Shoko asked, her head tilting to the side, her hair falling around her shoulder, “Pixie cut?”
Suguru nodded, his shoulders raising as your brows furrowed before your mouth slightly fell open when your head bobbed quickly, snapping as you matched the face to the name.
“Oh, Lainey!” You exclaimed, “She’s really pretty,” you added, remembering her bright green eyes and the spattered freckles that made her look like a painting, “She’s also crazy smart - she’s double majoring in bio and poli sci."
Shoko laughed softly under her breath, giving you a small look because this was somewhat typical of you to know random people, with nearly everyone on campus having had a conversation with you at some point during your four years here.
Suguru raised a brow, clicking his tongue as he pointed his phone at Gojo, seeming like he was already anticipating one of his sly comments.
“She’s also just crazy,” Gojo muttered, looking above his laptop, above his wispy lashes at you and then to Shoko, “She spent half of the lab playing with my hair.”
Your book almost fell out of your hands as Shoko sat up with a barking out a stunned laugh, your hands mirroring each other as they flew to cover your mouths in shock, and Suguru nodded again, his eyes wide as he clicked his tongue.
Another thing about Gojo? He hated being touched. Despised hugs, only suffered through quick handshakes, and shuddered at the thought of someone touching his face. You’ve seen the way he pulls back whenever someone approaches him with open arms, seen the way he tries to brush people off of him. He can tolerate Suguru and his insistent bear-hugs from time to time, can sometimes allow Shoko to swat a fly away from his face, and for some reason, doesn’t grumble whenever you try to fix his ties before events, but whenever a stranger or someone he isn’t close to attempts to touch him, he grows reclusive for the rest of the day.
“I told her to stop, too,” he adds, his big frame seeming to grow in frustration as he thinks back to it, “It was only after I had to shove her off that she got the hint. I forgot my disinfectant too, so I was just…” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched him let out a restrained exhale as he dropped it and went back to work.
But, after studying him for as long as you have, you know that he probably washed his hands and his face a couple of times after that. You know that he also wouldn’t feel complete without some sanitizing wipes and a good shower, so you do the closest thing to that and fish out a hand sanitizer from your bag, an item that you refused to move around without due to your own cleanly nature, which was ironically something else that you and Gojo silently shared, and passed it to him, knowing that he was probably itching till he was able to shower again.
Your friends sometimes joked that you had a Mary Poppins bag, but it came in handy for times like this.
Gojo’s ears perked up at the sound of your rumaging, his eyes almost brightening at the sight of the hand sanitizer, and you pinched it between two fingers before throwing it his way, watching as he effortlessly caught it and began spraying his large palms with the lavender scent.
“Thank you,” he mumbled again, his voice slightly losing the edge it had from before as he passed it back to you, and you smiled, nodding once before you zipped it back up.
You tried to ignore the way Shoko was staring at you.
“Lucky us that we don’t have labs, huh?” Suguru called out, throwing another tiny pillow in your direction, but this time you dodged it, moving your head down slightly so that it would miss. You huff a bit, looking over at Suguru as he shrugged, winking as he went back to his phone.
Suguru was another English major, the reason the two of you got familiar in the first place. He liked to say that the two of you balanced out Gojo and Shoko, but you just thought that it pushed you even further down the list of potential people your pathetic crush could be interested in.
There were a couple of things that you had come to terms with if you were going to crush on him. One was that you had to know in full certainty that nothing was going to come from it. You weren’t going to risk the friendship, no matter how small, by going and confessing and having everything be messy. Two, was that you weren’t going to feel, or at least try not to feel, jealous if he entertained the idea of pursuing something with someone else. And three, was that Gojo Satoru was so incredibly picky when it came to potential partners, that it might be impossible for even the most amazing people to snag a chance.
“I don’t know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting as you tried to make out what one of the characters was saying, “You didn’t have to do that project with Armie.”
Suguru hummed, his brow raising as he thought back to your shared class and the project that paired you up with people you didn’t know, Suguru getting the better end of the stick while you were stuck with someone who insisted on plugging the project prompt into a generator.
“Didn’t you report him?” Satoru asked, his eyes still trained on his work, but the question was now directed to you given the fact that he had sat in on a couple of your tirades in which you would drone on about how the boy was nearly about to graduate and still couldn’t cite sources when he, in one of his brief moments of providing comments, would reiterate to report it to the professor.
You sank into your spot, giving him a suppressed look, one where your eyes met before you shared a glimpse with Suguru. Your friend rolled his eyes from across the room, shaking his head in annoyance as Satoru looked between the two of you.
“She said that she didn’t want to ‘be a bitch’,” Suguru said, restating the words as his fingers move up and down in the air, quoting the statement you had said to him moments before you had to present the assignment in front of the class, shushing him as you pushed him away, insisting that even though you had done the entire project on your own, that it wasn’t worth the hassle to make a report with the professor and potentially have someone out for you, “I said otherwise, but she,” Suguru gave you a pointed look, “Said she’d cut my hair if I made it a ‘big deal’.”
Satoru’s eyes lingered on the side of your face, and you purposefully kept your head ducked and the book closer, so close that it was nearly touching your nose, as you tried to shield away their judging eyes in embarrassment.
“You need to stop caring about what other people think,” Shoko said as she shoved you with her knee, this time just a little bit harder because she knows you and knows what you hide in the fear of making others think something of you that wasn’t good, “I really think your professor would’ve heard your case if you made it.”
You groaned, swatting at her leg with your book as you shuffled away, backing into another corner as you tried to readjust to the new position.
“Yeah,” Suguru added, resting his phone momentarily on his chest, “I think it would help if you were more selfish.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at the prospect.
“I just hate confrontation,” you murmur defensively, gnawing on your bottom lip as you flip a page, “And, plus…you have to give me some credit - at least I told him that he was being frustrating,” you say, pretending to ignore them, your eyes re-reading the same word over and over again until you were confident that they were going to drop this subject, this horse that they’ve beaten multiple times, one that ended with you assuring them that you were going to speak up more until it all looped back again to times like this.
“Speaking of confrontation, did you ever get a refund for that ticket?”
There was a beat of silence before you let out a frustrated groan when Shoko reminded you of the one task you had forgotten to do in the past couple of days, your head falling to your knees as your palms jammed into your eyes.
“No, oh my god, you’re so right,” your voice is muffled as you bookmark your page, your fists clenching at your own mistake as your eyes crack open, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to follow up on that!”
Shoko chuckled, rolling her eyes as Suguru and Satoru shared a look, them now sharing confusion as you writhe on the floor at the thought of knowing you could’ve saved a couple of bucks had you not forgotten to call up the school of drama help center for accidentally buying an extra ticket to the showing of The Beggar’s Opera. And, seeing that it was Tuesday and just days before the theatre program, one that needed funds, was about to perform, the deadline for your refund was most likely up.
“So does that mean you need me to come with you next Saturday?” Shoko offered, her lips quirking up slightly as your head shot up, nodding quickly as your hands flew to hers, shaking them feverishly.
“Would you? Would you really?” You ask, and her laughter grows, shoving you off playfully by pushing your forehead back to where you were sitting.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a sigh, winking at you before she goes back to her phone, and you settle back in your seat as you gnaw on your lips, thinking back to how on earth you could have possibly messed up so bad when you so usually only buy one ticket for yourself, but you push it aside, thankful that your dearest friend was at least going to make use of it.
You, Suguru, and Shoko shared a small laugh and went on with the conversation, but you heard a low, deep noise, something only you could hear, as Suguru and Shoko returned to bickering about which major Shoko was best suited for.
The sound made you glance up briefly, looking over the pages to see Gojo still staring at you, his lashes fluttering before he snapped back to it and went back to doing his work.
Minutes turned into a few hours, and the room was filled with the occasional story and laughter, but mostly the four of you worked together on different assignments, sometimes looking up as you would recall something from the past couple of days that you were saving to tell them in person.
It seemed like everything was going smoothly until Suguru got a notification on his phone, his face lighting up as he swiveled out of his bed, jumping onto the floor as he tugged his shoes on, not explaining anything as the three of you glanced up, waiting.
“My food’s here,” he said over his shoulder, practically gleaming as he cocked his head in Shoko’s direction, “Come down with me, will you? I need some help.”
You scoff, smiling to yourself as you try to imagine just how much food he had ordered, but careful not to be too loud because you knew he would be sharing it with you all after some choice complaints were heard.
Shoko grumbles, but obliged, lifting up from the couch as she stretches, nudging you playing with the tip of her foot as she throws a pillow your way, walking towards Suguru as he holds the door open for her, the two of them calling out some brief goodbye as they head down to the lobby.
When the door clicks behind them, you’re suddenly aware of the fact that it’s only you and Satoru left, and you let your stare linger on the wall for a bit before you look away, suddenly sheepish when you catch his glance from his seat on the couch.
He clears his throat, eyes flickering from his screen to the book in your lap, the highlighters strewn around you, sticky notes sticking out from between the pages, and he points a finger at it.
“What’re you reading?”
Your brows raise slightly, and your chin ducks down to the book, and you sit up a little straighter as you place a bookmark in the middle of your page you lifting the cover, letting him read the cover as he adjusts his glasses over his eyes.
“Oh,” he says, his voice holding a lithe of acknowledgement as he slowly sets his laptop to the side, shifting slightly closer, “I’ve read this, I think.”
Your head tilts a little, lips quirking a little bit at the sides with a small smile as you look back at the cover.
“You’ve read The Norton Anthology, Volume C before?”
His mouth parts, closing it before he gapes at you, and your grin turns into a big smile, waving it away as you shake your head, shrugging at his stammering expression. He’s so cute when caught in a lie.
“I’m only kidding,” you swear, setting your book down, your knees pulled towards your chest, arms wrapping around your legs, “I’m sure you’ve had to read something like this for one of your previous classes.”
“You’re bothersome,” he murmurs, but his voice holds no bite as you let out another barking laugh, rolling your eyes as he tries not to smile, “I’m only trying to be polite.”
You purse your lips together, giving him a questioning look as he shoots you one back.
“I didn’t know politeness was in your artillery,” you quip, and he scoffs, moving his glasses upwards as he rubs at his tired eyes, resting backwards into the cushions as his legs part, and you try not to let your eyes linger on his thighs.
“I have a reserve for choice people,” he says, opening his eyes back as he looks back at you, yawning as he moves on, “How was your presentation?”
Your smile falters for a second as your stare turns questioning, chewing on your lips as it turns into something sweeter, something smitten because he’s asking about the presentation you had mentioned once in passing the last weekend you had hung out, stressing over your slides and sources, and trying to seem nonchalant as you finger traces little patterns on the floor.
“It was good,” you tell him, trying not to seem too prideful as you murmur, “My professor said it was exactly what he was looking for.”
His face shifts, no longer annoyed as you try not to appear bashful, but his teeth shine as his rosy cheeks pull upwards as he gives you one of those smiles that makes you feel warm and happy and giddy.
“Yeah?” He asks, shifting a little bit as he waved his teasingness off, rolling your eyes as you groan, nodding exaggeratedly as you go back to organizing your highlighters and pens, but he seems intent on pushing this: “Didn’t you say it was the hardest assignment of the class?”
You look up at him from above your lashes, trying not to smile again as you shrug indifferently, done with arranging your stationery based on colors as your knees knock together, throwing a pillow his way that he effortlessly catches.
“I mean, everyone told me that it was really, really hard, so-” But you’re cut off by the door swinging open, and the two of you crane your necks around to see Shoko and Suguru arguing over something irrelevant, food nestled in their hands as they close the door behind them with a slam.
They start telling you two about the delivery fee and the outrageousness that one of the containers had tipped over, but you’re still busy thinking about how Satoru remembered something so trivial, giving them quiet hums as they spread out the food on the small coffee table, and trying to act normal.
Like you have for the past two years.
—
The week passed as it usually does, with papers, readings, and assignments that needed to be completed at an unmanageable rate.
You had expected the usual and mundane things, and for the most part, that’s what came your way. Nights spent in each other's rooms as you finish up your work, spliced with moments where you would all talk, days filled with going to lectures and walking around campus till you found a quiet study spot. Things that you could predict and plan for.
For the most part.
Another thing that your little group would occasionally do was meet up at the end of the week at one of the pubs around campus, most of them serving mediocre food and somewhat better drinks, and offer you all a time to reconvene after a usually stressful couple of days.
The pub was small and quaint, but you enjoyed the warmth and laughter that muddled together to make the ambiance somewhat private. Either Suguru or Shoko would arrive there early and try to secure the usual spot at the booth near the end of the establishment, seeing that either of them didn’t have classes on Fridays, while the other three would meet up outside of Satoru’s biophysical chemistry class and walk there together.
Which is why you found yourself back on that Friday, sitting next to Shoko, settling into your seat as she clambered in after you. Suguru almost pushes Satoru in, impatient to sit down and get back to talking, and you watch as the white-haired man sits in front of you, his hands clasped together as he stares at the wood-grain of the table.
“How were classes?” Shoko finally asks, looking between you and Satoru as she takes a sip from her drink.
You sigh, shrugging as your fingers play with the bottom of your cup, the condensation slipping down as you rub at your tired eyes.
“Fine, I guess,” you say, drinking some water as you wipe at the corner of your lips, “My professor could’ve ended the class, like, twenty minutes earlier than he did.”
She nods solemnly, patting your thigh in solidarity as she passes the bowl of crisps towards you, nudging you to take one to help settle your stomach after having back-to-back classes, knowing how hangry it made you.
“Is this the professor who needs you to see a classical play?” Suguru asked, taking some of the snack as his arms crossed on top of the table, leaning in slightly as you licked some of the salt from your lips, nodding.
“Yeah,” you heave another sigh, elbowing Shoko as you continue, “Which is why I’m seeing Beggar’s Opera next week. I mean, the theatre program did a couple of Shakespeare ones earlier this semester, but…ugh, I just can’t watch another performance of Romeo and Juliet.” You murmur with a groan, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as Suguru hums in agreement.
“You don’t like Shakespeare?”
Your eyes shift over to the man in front of you who asked the question.
Your brows furrow slightly in the middle, lips pulling into a small pout as you shake your head, playing with the ring of water your drink had left as you itch your nose, trying not to focus too hard on the pretty pink color on Gojo’s cheeks because of the slightly toasty feel of the room.
“I do,” you say slugishly, “It’s just that when the only work of his that tends to be popular isn’t The Tempest, I get a little annoyed.”
Suguru snorts, shaking his head as his fingers wag at you.
“That’s not even nearly his best stuff,” he argues, and you roll your eyes, your head tilting badly in annoyance after knowing what this was going to lead to, “I can’t believe you still think that it outweighs Richard II.”
Satoru and Shoko’s eyes bounce between you and your ink-haired friend.
“I’d rather die on the hill of petty magic versus royal family drama,” You quip back, your brow slightly raised.
Suguru huffed, shaking his head in dismay as he lightly shoved your foot underneath the table, a small smile on both your faces.
“Is Tempest the one with the shipwreck?” Gojo asks, his head tilting slightly as his glasses lean on his nose bridge. You nod, grinning at the fact that someone in the group was able to identify such a classic piece of literary work.
You open your mouth to agree, but Suguru beats you to it.
“How do you know that?” He glances sideways at his friend, his brow raised in slight shock as Shoko snorts.
Gojo shrugs, his elbows resting on the table as the fabric of his sweater tightens around his arms, making him look delectable and otherworldly. You have to tear your eyes away from it before it becomes too noticeable.
“We went to the same secondary school,” Gojo argues, saying it as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, “I paid attention…clearly more than others,” he adds under his breath, causing you to drop your hand to your mouth to hide the satisfied grin from when Suguru deflated in slight embarrassment.
“Oh, speaking of blast from the past,” Shoko shuffles, looking at her phone screen as if suddenly remembering something, “Vi’s coming back for break.”
You watch as Gojo and Suguru stop their silent bickering by messing with each other's stuff as they look up to Shoko. Suguru’s thin brow shoots upwards, his mouth turning into a surprised line as Gojo stares blankly, an unreadable expression on his face as you poke Shoko’s thigh, shaking your head in confusion.
“Who?” You murmur, your eyes squinting as Shoko looks at you, her mouth slightly dropping as she also remembers that you didn’t grow up with them.
“Vivienne March,” Suguru explains, beating someone once again to explain something because he could never hold onto a piece of information for longer than three seconds if he knows that somebody in his vicinity doesn’t know it, “She went to school with us for, what? Five, six years?” He looks between Gojo and Shoko, and they both nod, Shoko unlocking her phone as she goes to pull up the girl's instagram to show you what she looks like, “She’s his ex,” he murmurs as if secretly, pointing at his friend next to him as you feel something in your gut shift, but he clearly doesn’t tell because he leaves that point entirely.
“But I thought she preferred to stay in America till her spring semester was over?” He asks, confused, waiting for you to be done looking, as he waits for Shoko to explain it.
You take her phone gingerly, looking at the girl's account as you carefully click through her posts. You’re greeted with an aesthetic array of photos, some of her friends, some of her cat, and pretty pictures of old brick buildings and fall trees. But your eyebrows slowly move up your face when you see her.
Your thumb swipes through each post as you see her stunning hair framing her face in freshly done curls, her eyes striking and delicate as she wanders around a bookstore. Her outfits are always perfectly curated, and her makeup delicately done to accentuate her already natural beauty in a way that makes a part of you, something you tried to bury and starve, twist with envy at the effortlessness of her perfection.
“Guess she had a change of heart this year,” Shoko says, taking her phone back from your outstretched hand, turning it off as she placed it face down on the table, “She texted me this morning saying that she was ‘gonna be here for December and some of January and that she wanted to catch up.”
“You would like her,” Suguru directs his attention back at you, his words matching the genuine smile on his face, “She’s super bright and bubbly. And she’s so funny. Oh, and she's, like, insanely smart. She graduated from Cambridge when she was nineteen, and she’s doing grad school at Harvard.”
“Hmm, yeah,” Shoko hums, “I mean, she almost came here if she didn’t get the call from Harvard,” she nudges you with her shoulder, “But I don’t know how much he,” she points her eyes to Satoru, watching the way his mouth slightly parts at being called out, “Would’ve appreciated that, though.”
He scoffs, his tongue poking at his cheek as he leans in slightly, his arms crossing the table as Suguru snickers.
“I have no issue with Vivienne,” he argues, his brows pulling into a cute little frown, “She was just…”
“What?” Suguru juts in, Shoko scoffing a laugh next to you as Gojo only peers at him from the side of his eyes, “Madly in love with you? Was going to pick Oxford to be with you? And you were…what, days away from breaking up with her when she came sobbing to us that you have the emotional intelligence of a rock?”
Your eyes widen slightly, looking over at Shoko for confirmation, one she returns with a faint grin. Despite the sunken feeling in your heart, one that you often get whenever you are reminded of the fact that, unfortunately, literally everyone is also in love with Gojo Satoru, you have to control your face not to giggle at the statement.
Gojo makes a noise deep in his throat, the tips of his ears slightly pink from the added attention.
You swallow as you try to grapple with all this information. But, as always, the conversation moves on and you push everything back as you find yourself smiling once again, listening to how Suguru animatedly tells the story of how he bombed one of his essays because he forgot which citation format to use, and you try to not make it obvious how you’d peek over at Shoko now and then and see who it was that she was stalking, probably some girl from her class that she was plotting on.
The music lolls on in the background, the pub getting more packed with students and tired workers, and you find yourself content with listening to your friends tell you about their week, taking small sips from your straw as you grin and laugh as poke Shoko’s thigh whenever a cute guy, devastatingly never as cute as Gojo, walks by the table, and she, gripping your knee whenever a girl her type flashes her a look from over their shoulders.
“I think I’m wanted somewhere else at the moment,” she whispers, leaning closer to your ear as you follow her line of sight to a girl sitting at the bar, her long blonde hair thrown over her shoulder as she steals the occasional glance at your friend, “I’ll be back.”
You giggle, pushing at her to go as she swats your hand away playfully, sending you a wink as you send one back, watching her go as Suguru and Gojo watch silently, sending each other knowing looks before Shoko disappears behind the other booths.
“Well, if she’s going, might as well take this time to piss,” Suguru states, putting his hands on the wood as he hoists himself up, sending a cheeky little smile as he imitates Shoko’s sashay, “Don’t wait up.”
You roll your eyes, trying not to watch him leave as if to draw out the silence that will inevitably follow, seeing that it’s just you and Gojo remaining. Your fingers play with your empty glass as you glance back to him, sending him a small smile as you feel chagrin already seeping into your veins.
He clears his throat, his eyes darting from your face to your arms, his tongue poking his cheek as he swallows. You wonder how much he’s dreading the awkward silence that has the possibility of ensuing.
“Water?”
Your eyes squint at the sudden question, looking down to the long finger he has pointed at your glass, and you look back up at him, wondering if he was stating the obvious or if your feelings for him had made you delirious and unable to compute anything that comes out of his mouth.
“Do you want some more water?” He explains, and you feel your cheeks heat again at your blunder, “I’m going up there to get a refill anyway.”
You nod gratefully, swallowing your feelings down as you glance up at him, handing him your empty glass with ice sloshing around as your smile wobbles.
“I’d appreciate it, thank you,” your voice dips slightly as you grin stupidly the longer you look at his long lashes and his pink lips, somewhat glad that he was getting away so you could less opportunities to screw up, and you watch as his beautifully large hand wraps around the glass like it was nothing, sending you a small nod as he crouches slightly so that the overhanging light wouldn’t hit his head on the way out.
Leaving you alone, you pull out your phone, also thankful to have a little moment to yourself as you quickly try to catch up on the notifications you had gotten in the past couple of hours, as the noise around you mixes, adding a comforting ambience as you lean against the old walls, your head leaning against your fist.
You were so engrossed in your own little bubble that you didn’t notice the figure hovering near the other end of the table, only noticing the man when you looked to the side, thinking that either Suguru or Gojo was back, only for your eyes to widen in shock and surprise to be greeted with an unfamiliar face.
Letting out a small noise, adjacent to an audible gulp, you sit up straighter, looking bashfully at him as you turn your phone off, taking in his slender frame and the rectangular-framed glasses that sit wonkily on his nose as he fidgets nervously with the hem of his lumpy sweater. Ironically, having everything that Gojo has but wearing it so drastically differently that you have to snap yourself out of the comparison.
The boy's hair is slightly parted, light blonde, and his eyes framed with what seemed like brown lashes. His cheeks are dusted with light freckles, and his smile is lopsided as he scratches the back of his neck.
Cute in a schoolish way, you think.
“H-hi,” his voice is high, squeaking and wobbly as he leans on the booth, not knowing what to do with his arms as he uses the back of his hand to push his glasses upwards, “Hi, I just…”
Your head tilts slightly, curiosity filling your eyes as you give him a gentle smile, waiting patiently for him to find his words.
“I’m Kento,” he stammers after a second, scratching behind his ears as a red flush settles over his high cheeks, “I’m sitting over there,” he points to a table behind him, and your neck cranes to see a group of boys his age all staring at his back, “And I just thought-”
He opens his mouth to say something else, but pauses, his gaze drifting to something, or rather someone, coming his way, and you’re too focused on the way sweat dots at his hairline or the way he fidgets with the hem of his sweater to even notice the full glass of water sliding in front of you from the other side of the booth.
Your back straightens as your head whips to the side, eyes widening when you realize that Satoru had returned, his one drink nestled in his hand as his stare bounces between you and, who you evidently had just discovered, Kento.
Blue eyes flicker over your face, a moment's decision faltering in his mind as he slithers into not his original seat in front of you, but next to you, his large frame taking up half of your side of the both as your brows furrow in confusion, lips pulling into a tote as your eyes squint at the way he hunkers in like it was normal.
Is he okay? You try not to have your heart burst out of your chest and flip flop around on the table like a fish out of water at being in such proximity to Satoru, but you don’t even have time to think about that as the rest of your mind falters, trying to make sense of this behavior.
One of his beefy arms unravels from his side as it stretches above your head, resting atop the cushioned seats as he sighs deeply through his nose, taking a sip of his drink as if he hadn’t interrupted anything, and his chin turns over to the boy, waiting.
Kento stammers, even worse than before, as he pushes back his spiky hair with a hand, looking between you and Satoru as you blink slowly, not really knowing what to do, awkwardly lingering in your seat as you wonder if anybody’s going to talk.
“Everything alright?” Satoru asks finally, his voice slightly lower than usual, somewhat taunting but hard to tell, seeing that his face was blank, thick as it almost bounces off Kento’s skull, his cheeks turning into a bright pink as you lets out a small exhale of air, something resembling a shocked laugh at the strange and sudden shift in his behavior.
“I, uh, I,” Kento’s voice wobbles as he seizes up Satoru’s size and his overall presence, a strange look of shock and even awe as you gnaw on the inside of your cheek, not fully knowing what was going on as Kento’s head dips in embarrassment, “I’m sorry…I didn’t know, uh, that you, you were…yeah…sorry…”
His arm raises in a small wave, quickly turning on his heels, the back of his neck almost red as you blink rapidly, letting out a small huff of air as your neck almost snaps towards the man next to you, stammering as you try to find your words.
Satoru looks at you, taking another sip.
“What?”
You scoff, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you stumble over a slew of words.
“What? W-what do you mean what?” You let out a bewildered laugh, looking across the pub at the boy and his group of friends that almost seem to be comforting him, their hands on his shoulders as he profusely shakes his head, “What the hell was that for?”
His white brows pinch in the middle, as if he doesn't understand your startlement, as if you were the one being crazy.
But you weren’t being crazy. Not in the slightest.
You brushed it off the first time Satoru scared off a guy who was talking to you. You thought it was strange, sure, how in the middle of your lively conversation of John Milton and Paradise Lost that he wandered from the other side of the room, suddenly attached to your side, his height towering over the other guy as he quieted down and scurried away. You just chalked it up to him being bored, despite how annoyed you were.
The second time, a guy was seconds away from putting his phone in your number when Satoru’s voice rang in your ears, and you watched, horrified, as he peered down at the guy's cracked phone screen, scoffing at the fact that he was listening to some stupid band he disapproved of.
Then there was the time when you were at this same pub, getting some drinks for Shoko, waiting at the counter, flirting with the guy next to you when Satoru found his way back to you, as if pulled by a magnet, and asked the guy if he always chose to talk to girls he didn’t know with a fresh hickey on his neck. (That one you weren’t mad at, more so embarrassed).
But it’s happened countless times. At the pub, at gatherings, at galas he’s invited you to as his plus one because he said nobody else could make it, at the library when he came a little too early and a guy from your class was sitting next to you, at the cafe, and at the small party he threw last year.
And if you weren’t so in love with him, you’d be madder than you were. You knew he was just being a protective and caring friend, not wanting you to get hurt, but you knew you’d have to start moving on from this debilitating crush, and he wasn’t making it any easier.
“I just asked him if everything was alright,” he explained, his tone bordering on bored as he pulls out his phone, checking the time as he angles his body slightly to look at you better, and you're somewhat aware of the fact that his arm is still somewhere above your head, “He’s the one that scurried away.”
Your mouth drops open, your palms jamming into your eye sockets as your head hits the table, banging it a couple times as you try to pull away from him, slightly angered, slightly, and very, ever so slightly, internally flustered at something you definitely should be flustered over.
“You…you scared him away!” Your voice is muffled as you groan, not caring much as you shoot him an angry and bitter look.
Satoru’s lashes flutter slightly, his pink lips pulling into a confused line as you shove his knee with your own, realizing that you were, in fact, not joking and were seriously considering the idea of giving that blubbering mess a chance.
“Are you - are you serious?” His thumb jabs in the general direction of where he had gone, “Him?”
You roll your eyes, chest heaving with a sigh as your forehead continues to rest on the cool tabletop, the tip of your nose rubbing against the varnish as you groan.
Deep down, you know that this crush of yours is fruitless and useless. It’s never going to get anywhere, and the only thing it can offer you is more hurt and rejection. You know that you are so far from his type and out of your league that he’d never see you as more than a friend, if that, but you continued to have it because it lit a fire inside of you that you sadistically enjoyed.
That being said, you would prefer, at some point, to have a romantic moment, even if fleeting, and having the man you’ve been in love with for two years chase away the only guy who’s had the balls to come up to you made you irrationally annoyed for some reason that you didn’t fully understand.
“He…he seemed nice,” you argue, your eyes closing shut as your hand shifts, and you rest your cheek on the back of it, your back bent at an angle as you look up at him from your position on the table, “And he was cute-”
Gojo cuts you off with a startled laugh, a disbelieving one as his eyebrows shoot upwards, showing more than the five emotions you usually see him with as genuine shock laces his features, and it only spurs on that angry fire inside of you as you press.
“What? What? He was cute!” Your head lifts quickly from its spot on the table as your body shifts to look at him even better than before, trying not to notice the cute wrinkle of his nose or the frosty irises of his eyes that are looking so intently at you that it could knock the air out of your lungs if you stare long enough, “And I…I don’t know, I think he wanted to talk to me!”
Gojo snorts, his arm tightening around the cushion behind you, his hand dangling off the end, his fingers dangerously close to the side of your ear as you swallow thickly.
“Well, of course, he wanted to talk to you,” his other hand pushes his glasses upwards, the veins on the back of his hand evident, “ I just can’t believe that he’s someone you’d want to entertain.”
You stutter, hurt flashing across your face as it pulls into sour bewilderment.
You’ve barely talked to Satoru for more than a couple of minutes at a time about classes or projects or annoying classmates, and you can’t believe your luck that the first conversation between the two of you that stemmed outside of those points is about this.
“What, what’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dips slightly, embarrassed, as his own expression slightly shifts at your tone.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly not expecting this to blow up in his face as it did, and he sighs, retreating to his old, composed self as he explains himself.
“Look, I have him in a couple of my classes,” he starts again, lips pulling into a thin line as he looks over his shoulder to Kento and then glances back to you, “He shows up late and never does his work and always asks to most ridiculous questions,” Satoru adds and you try not to have your lips quirk at the sudden revelation, not wanting to give in and let your foolish feeling stake the wheel and guide you to forgiving him, but it’s not use as he continues, “I just figured that…someone like that isn’t someone good for you. Even if he did just want to talk.”
Your mouth dries up, and you try not to let your head burst and remind yourself that he’s thinking about this from a friend's perspective, something kind and caring and companionly, but not in the way you would want from your crush, but Satoru is still waiting on your response so instead you swallow everything down and your lips tote, avoiding eye contact as you attempt to seem indifferent despite your outburst.
“How ridiculous are his questions?” You finally ask, peeking over at him from where your gaze had been training on the ice in your water, and you swear you see a flicker of surprise take over his gorgeous features, as though you were going crazy with the way his blankness faded momentarily and gave way to a little smile.
He sighs, this time lighter, his hand behind you shifting ever so slightly to push at the back of your head, gingerly but in a teasing way as you try not to smile a giddy smile, one that doesn’t reflect the fact that you couldn’t really care about the guy who had come up to talk to you when Satoru cared enough because he didn’t think he was good enough for you to talk to.
“Even more ridiculous than asking if adding ice to rice would help it steam up more than if you used water,” he says, picking up his drink as he nurses it over his mouth, fighting back a smug grin at the way you sputter, pushing him roughly as your cheeks heat up again for bringing up one of your late-night queries.
“Fine, fine, fine, I’ll give you this one!” You rub at your eyes, shoulders hunched, “But you have to stop scaring off every single guy that tries to talk to me! He could be a normal guy who’s going to come up, and you’re going to disapprove of him just because he wears mismatched socks or only writes in pen!”
Satoru snorted indifferently, proving your point that he didn’t seem to care.
“Writing solely in pen is psychotic behavior,” he grumbled to himself, recalling the time one of his classmates had the gall to ask you for your number before he quickly shut it down, inserting himself in the middle of the conversation until the guy gave up and left.
You groan, head dropping back onto the table as you tap it lightly, a quiet thud reverberating in your tiny corner of the room.
“One of these days you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that the reason you shut people down is different from the reasons I shut people down.” You say, moving your arms upward so that you could set your cheek on it, looking at the empty seats in front of you instead of the man you’ve had a crush on, sputters.
“What do you mean?” His voice drops a little bit, and you angle your head to look up at him, brows pinching in the middle as you let out a little laugh, something sardonic as you shake your head to yourself.
“You…” you pause, stopping, sighing to yourself as you try to control your words before you say something you’ll regret, “You have like…perfect people coming up to you. And if you choose to reject them, that’s up to you, I get it. But last week you turned a girl down because she said that Star Wars was a waste of money,” the two of you share small laugh because you can recall just how red he got, embarrassed but peeved when somebody just offended his entire lifeline, but you continue, “It…it’s just,” you press your lips together as something in your chest clenched, “I don’t really have that luxury. I don’t have perfect guys coming up to me with little quirks, you know? There’s always something wrong with them, even if I don’t see it then. Like they don’t show up to dates or they make fun of my major, or just…only want to sleep with me, and then when they find out I don’t want that, they leave. And any of the sane ones that have small issues, you’re always there to shoot them down!”
You stop, taking in a deep breath as you try to regulate your emotions, refusing to look at him right now as you let some pent-up feelings loose, just grateful that he hasn’t left and decided to let you figure this out on your own.
“Look,” you glance at him, giving him a small smile, “I’m thankful that you care. Really, I am. But…but I just want to experience something…with someone, y’know? At least once when I’m still in university. I’m almost twenty-one, and I haven’t even had my first kiss!” Despite how embarrassing it is, it slips out, and your chees heat up as you hurry on with your ramble, “And if it has to be with something who asks stupid questions or says my name wrong on the first attempt or doesn’t know what my favorite color is, I guess I’m just gonna have to bite the bullet and take that risk. I,” you look away, back to focusing on the leather cushions in front of you as you gnaw on your lip, “I don’t really have any other option.”
Giving it a moment, you let your shoulders sink, going back to playing with the straw wrapper in front of you as you debate whether it would be better to just throw yourself out the window or risk saying something else that you’d stay awake the next couple of nights pinching yourself over.
You heard him inhale exaggeratingly, the arm behind you moving a little downwards in order to hook one of his fingers around the collar of your sweater, trying to grab your attention. You tilt your chin sideways, lips pursed, and attempt not to let his overwhelming presences budge how bitter you were feeling for some reason.
“I think,” he sighed again, gnawing on his bottom lip as he tried to formulate his thoughts, the overhead lamp casting a soft orange light over his face and it made your pitiful stomach churn with desperate want, “I think that if you’re too pessimistic.”
That get’s a dry laugh from you, and you roll your eyes at his statement. Before he’s able to say anything, he gets interrupted by Suguru rounding the corner, sliding into his seat with a wide grin, one that falls when he sees his friend has changed the seating arrangement.
“Why’d you move?”
Satoru paused, tearing his eyes away from the side of your face as he glanced at his friend, his fingers moving upwards as you tried not to look at him and make anything obvious. You hope he doesn’t bring up Kento and your little meltdown, but he seems to read your mind.
“You were bothering me too much,” he mutters, and Suguru lets out a startled scoff, throwing the hair tie around his wrist at him as Sator just flings it to the side. Suguru doesn’t push, though, and starts telling the two of you that he was held up at the bathroom entrances because a couple was having a ‘lover's spat’, his words not yours, and he just had to hear it before he left.
The rest of the night continued as it usually does.
If you could consider the uneven rhythm of your heart as normal.
—
Another week had passed, another seven days of agonizingly slow school work and duties.
It seemed like the days would flicker away at a snail-like pace until it got you to the one day of the week that you actually wished wouldn’t arrive, and would force you to stalk around the limited space of your dorm room as you think about what to wear to the theatre production that’s taking place in thirty minutes.
Your hand was on your hip, feet tapping against the floor as you looked at the two outfits you had hung on your dresser, lips pursed as your eyes moved back and forth between the one that would go better with those pair of kitten heels you thrifted with Shoko, or the dres that you rarely get to wear.
It took a couple more seconds of deciding, but you ultimately picked the more comfortable option, knowing that the university theater was always freezing, especially in October, and that a cute sweater was probably the better choice.
Thankfully, this gave you some more time to fix your hair and touch up your makeup, humming along to the music as your eye kept wandering down to your phone and then to your door, squinting as you turned it over, confused as to what was taking Shoko so long.
Instantly, your eyes widen at the plethora of messages you have from Shoko, a telltale sign that something was seriously wrong, given the fact that she never sent more than two messages at once.
shoko: pick up
shoko: girl ur literally always on ur phone wya
shoko: pls pls pls pick up
shoko: ur making me beg rn pls can u call me back
shoko: pls
You don’t have time to send her one of your stupid stickers, your fingers fumbling around as you look at the five missed calls you have from her, shaking your head in dismay at how it was possible to leave your phone alone for twenty minutes and come back to this.
It doesn’t take more than a ring before she answers on the other line.
“Are you okay?” Your voice cuts through immediately, rushed and worried, your legs bouncing as you hear some people talking in the background, and you can hear the way Shoko snaps at them to hush so that she can hear you better.
“Hi, yeah, no, no I’m fine - hey can you guys just,” she calls out again, hey annoyance dripping form her tone, some shuffling happening over the line as she moves somewhere where the noise is less, “Hey, hi, sorry for the noise,” she starts again and you just hum, eyebrows still pinches together in worry as you wait for her to continue, “I’m really sorry for spamming you, but I have some news.”
The worry on your face melts as you lean back in your seat.
“Yeah…?” you ask, but already predicting what it was that she was stressing out over telling you, but she lets out another exhale, and you could imagine her nodding wherever it was that she was at.
“I’m so sorry but I’m at work right now and,” some clattering happens in the background, the kitchen in great hustle for the Saturday evening rush it usually has at the restaurant she waitresses for, “God, Tommy just screwed everything up with our shifts and I thought he had written me as off for tonight but he wrote me as off for next Saturday and I wasn’t able to fine somebody to-”
You laugh softly, cutting off her rambling.
“‘Ko, babe, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” you stress, leaning in slightly as you hear some silverware being unloaded, “It’s so okay, your job is so much more important than-”
“No, you’re more important than this - believe me,” she cuts you off this time, and you can see her standing hunched in the corner, gnawing on her fingernails in stress, “And I promised you I’d come with you and I can’t, and now I…I feel horrible.”
A smile creeps onto your lips, and you shake your head.
“It’s fine,” you stress, chuckling at her incoherent rambles, “I promise. The play’s going to be lengthy anyway, might as well take the time to make some money while you’re at it.”
You hear nothing except the kitchen roaring in the background for a few seconds before she sighs, clicking her tongue as she hums softly.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” you tell her, hearing her chuckle softly over the phone, the disappointment evident in her voice, and you didn’t want to push her over the edge despite the small flicker of disappointment of having to go alone, “I promise you’re not gonna be missing anything.”
“Look, I know it’s not the same, but I was with Suguru when I found out, and he’s said that he could-”
This time, she’s cut off, but not by you.
A knock sounds over your door.
You sigh, smiling at your friend as you slowly rise, “You guys are so sweet, but you should’ve told him I’d be fine. Really, I usually do these things by myself anyway.”
She groans at your antics, somebody calling her name from the back as she tells them that she’s almost done.
“Shit, I have to go, but promise me you’ll tell me about how tonight goes, yeah?” She sounds hurried, and you make a few steps towards your door as you snort, rolling your eyes as you unlock the brass knob, shaking your head at the thought.
“Tell you about what? Oh, like how Suguru has a horrific attention span and can’t…” You swing the door wide open, but you trail off as your mouth hangs slightly, not greeted by your black-haired and eyebrow-pierced friend,
But Satoru.
Shoko seems to have picked up on your silence as meaning that you finally understood what she was talking about, and you can barely register her sing-songy bye as she leaves, the phone in your hand lying limp as Satoru’s brow raises skeptically at your dumbfounded expression.
Damn you, Shoko Ieiri.
“Hi,” you say breathlessly, almost stupidly, as your hand falls from behind the door to your side, tilting your head a bit as Satoru just stares, hands in his pockets, and you shake back to reality, laughing apologetically as your neck prickles, “Sorry, I…I was just expecting someone else.”
His brow arches even more, and you huff out a laugh.
“Shoko just said that Suguru was coming,” you explain, stepping back from the entranceway as his mouth parts slightly.
“Right,” he nods, his hair falling gracefully in his face as you churn in your spit at the magnificent sight of him in his denim jeans and the navy sweater he was in, “I hope it’s okay that I came. Suguru couldn’t make it.”
You blink, wanting to say that you were so okay with him, but you swallow that done as you shake your head, waving his statement away.
“This is…this is fine,” You stammer to say, your smile wobbly. You hope that he can’t pick up on the way that your eyes are roaming over the way his button-up sits comfortably on his broad chest, or the way his glasses look on the bridge of his nose, “I, uh, I just have to do my mascara, so give me like,” you look at the clock behind you. Your eyes bulge at the fact that you have only five minutes left, “Two seconds and I’ll be done.”
He nods, his head tilting slightly to the side as he looks at your face and his eyes travel down your outfit. His hand raises, a finger pointed at your sweater.
“Nice sweater,” he says, something teetering on teasing, and you look down, suddenly realizing that it’s the sweater he had given you last year for your birthday, the one that you had seen months prior after walking past a vintage store and exclaimed how much you liked it, only to be stumped by the price.
Your confusion melts into a wide smile, your head still poking out from outside your door as you survey the material, not noticing the way his eyes soften just a smidge at your flighty reaction.
“Oh - right, thank you again for getting it!” You say cheerfully, an entire evening or perfection and romance already forming in your head as you try not to appear too excited, pointing back to your room as you duck away, “I’ll, uh, I’ll be back, then!”
Satoru nods, giving you a small smile as you shut the door behind you, your back hitting it as you give yourself a moment to reciprocate, curse Shoko and her blasted antics, and calm your heartbeat down long enough.
This was so fine, you tried to tell yourself,
Everything was going to be fine.
—-
The lobby of the Oxford theater was unusually packed, and you even voiced your surprise when Satoru led you in, your eyes wide as you took in all the students, some looking at the programs, others waiting in line for the bathroom.
“Damn,” you mutter, squeezing past someone as Satoru follows behind you, “I didn’t think it was going to be this busy.”
The walk here had been…fine. You had talked for most of it, which you had predicted, and with the few times Satoru would interject and give some comments on the stories you told him about your week, you feel like you told five times that amount of embarrassing and lame jokes, shutting yourself up once after wincing at how terrible it was. Satoru cracked a small smile, though, a pitiful one, most likely to keep you from shutting up the entire night.
It’s strange, just how different you act around him. In attempts to make yourself seem cooler and interesting, you wind up embarrassing yourself even more. You could have sworn that you never acted like this with Shoko or Suguru, or literally anybody else, even your old crushes, but when it came to Satoru, you seemed to lose the sense of normalcy you had come to know.
But you don’t have time to worry about that, now trying to put your attention on wondering how many of the students here are from that stupid class you’re taking right now, and even looking in the sea of bodies confirms that answer when you see some familiar faces. The concession stand in the corner, the one run by the theater department to raise some extra funds, seems to be swarmed, and your stomach grumbles instantly at the smell of buttered popcorn that wafts through the air.
“Where’re our seats?” He’s standing by you now, and you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him. You sift through your tote, pulling out your wallet and opening it to reveal the tickets tucked inside, and hand one to him while keeping the other for yourself.
“Row H,” you read out loud, “You’re seat 18, and I’m 19.”
He nods, pocketing it before he looks back out into the lobby, his eyes focusing on the wide double doors that led you into the theater, watching the ticket taker check the people’s tickets before looking back at the concessions, remembering how much you were raving on your walk here about how good the snacks were.
“Do you still want some…?” He juts his chin towards the hand-made sign that reads Beggars Snacks!
“Hm?” You look back at the table, and you let out a small laugh, “Oh, yeah, right,” you look through your wallet again, putting your ticket there for safekeeping as you glance back up at his gorgeous face, “Yeah, I’ll be back. You can go find your seat, if you want.”
Satoru opens his mouth and then shuts it, glancing at you and then the doors, and his shoulder straightens slightly.
“Right, well….right,” he murmurs, looking a little torn, his voice drowning out by the roar of sound around you two, but you’re able to make out the low grumble of his after being near him for so long, “I’ll…I’ll see you in a few.”
You smile again, giving him two thumbs up as you turn on your heel, your hands clenching in frustration at how utterly inhuman you seem to act around him, somehow making it seem like it was your first day on this planet.
Peeking over your shoulder, you watch as he leaves towards the entrance of the theater, and you duck your head down as you find your way to the large line leading up to the snacks. Coming here for the past four years has taught you to go for the popcorn, pass on the homemade cookies, and snatch up the little boxes of candy if they have them.
Checking your phone as you wait idly, you text Shoko a slew of messages cursing her and her entire bloodline for blindsiding you like this, hoping she sees them after her grueling shift and only feels worse about leaving you like this.
Keep a tab of the line as it slowly moves, you eye the clock, knowing that the show was going to start soon. It seems to dwindle a bit, as some people in front of you and behind you give and leave, deciding it wasn’t worth it, and after scrolling through your feed a little bit more, you find yourself next in line.
Glancing through the snacks, your stomach protests louder, ravenous after a day fueled on granola bars, a pathetic excuse of a yogurt bowl, and some crisps you had lying around, until you feel your hopes and dreams plummet when you see a small sign at the edge of the table that says only cash.
Fucking bullshit, you think angrily, whipping your wallet out again as you rifle through the confines, who still uses only cash? What medieval system was this? They accepted cards last time, this is entirely-
And you could complain petulantly in your head as much as you want, but your face falls as you search through for the third time, coming to the consensus that you didn’t have a lick of cash on you. The person in front of you is almost done, but your shoulders sag as you begrudgingly step away, shaking your head in dismay as you make your way to the theater entrance, flashing your ticket to the ticket taker as he lets you in with a wide smile.
The ushers point you towards aisle H, and you patiently dispute the hate still inside of you, burning. Waiting as those in front of you find their seats, and it doesn’t take long before you’re able to see a pop of hair standing high amongst the rest of the people in the audience.
You move past a couple of people talking as you move closer, almost skidding when you stop instantly, realizing that Satoru was, in fact, not alone.
From this angle, you could see the girl standing in front of him, a wide grin on her face as she laughs at something he says. Your eyes go to his face, your posture falling even more when you see the little quirk of his lips, a sign that he wasn’t necessarily hating the conversation, and the loss of the popcorn feels pointless now as your stomach churns for another reason.
It was selfish to think that you were the only person who liked Satoru, but it didn’t hurt any less when you were confronted with this fact at least once a week. You knew you couldn’t expect anything from this stupid crush, a theorem forming inside your head that you continued to fall for Gojo Satoru just because you liked the sting of knowing you had no shot with him, and seeing other girls and their gleeful smiles at the fact that you probably had a chance is what maybe hurt the most.
You weren’t ever angry at these girls, understanding them completely, even admiring the way they could flirt so effortlessly, and treated you kindly whenever you were near, but it singed a part inside of you that liked to act that you were in this small fictional bubble that you dreamt of whenever he looked your way.
Like he was right now.
Standing awkwardly to the side, at the end of the row, you sway idly in your spot, looking at the two of them and then around, wondering when the lights were going to start dimming and notify you of when the show was about to start.
You hear your name being called, a familiar cluster of syllables from his throat, and you look away from the painting on the wall to the side as you see Satoru throwing up a hand, trying to grab your attention.
When he sees you finally looking his way, he turns back to the girl, saying a few more words as she nods, her smile still soft as she glances at you, a strange look on her face as she sends you another smile, and you can’t help but return it despite the sinking feeling in your gut.
She leaves through the other end, and you mutter a few apologies as you finally make your way down to where he was standing, ducking your head down sheepishly as you fidget with the strap of your tote.
“Hey,” you say meekly, your cheeks heating as you finally get to him, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
One of his hands waved, shaking his head as he looked back to where the girl had retreated with her friends.
“You weren’t interrupting,” he tells you, and your brows furrow slightly because that was a white lie if you’ve ver heard one, “I knew her from my lab,” he he says, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes trace of your face, falling to your empty arms as they squint, the conversation with the girl suddenly feeling his head as he points, “Where’s your popcorn?”
The past couple of moments seem to flee too as you wring your hands awkwardly together, shooting him a tight smile as you try to appear indifferent.
“Oh, they didn’t take card,” you mumble bitterly, “And I forgot my wads of cash back in my dorm, so,” you shrug, laughing it off as you point to the seats, “But it’s fine, I…erm, wasn’t really feeling it anyway,” a lie, since that was all you could talk about, but you push past him as you sit down, setting your tote on your lap as you look at him, waiting for him to do the same.
Satoru peeks at you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he swallows, not doing anything to sit down as one of your brows moves upwards, confused about the mental turmoil that he was going through, which made him reluctant to sit.
“Everything okay?” You ask slowly, shifting your legs, wondering if he was tight for room, but he just nods, tongue poking through his rosy lips as he glances back towards the double doors as he briefly nods.
“I need to use the bathroom,” he mutters, and you nod, lips pursing in understanding as you look over your shoulders, watching as more people start taking their seats.
“Okay,” you sit back a little bit, your finger pointing behind you to where the bathrooms were, “Well, you, you should probably go, like, now. I think the shows going to start,” you say with a light chuckle and check your phone, realizing that there were only five minutes left till the lights turned off, “In a little bit.”
Satoru just nods again, saying spoke few words before he turns to leave, murmuring apologies to the people sitting down as his long legs knock their knees, and you watch him leave the aisle and go before you turn your attention back to the stage, taking the time to admire the props and the set design, trying to think back to the original story and see if it lines up with how you remembering it starting.
When the overhead lights start flickering, and Satoru isn’t back yet, you churn in your seat, looking over your shoulder every couple of seconds, hoping that he doesn’t have to navigate back in the dark.
You send him a small text saying that it was almost going to be lights out when you see his figure in the corner of your eye, watch as he nears your row with his arms full, and you squint, trying to see through the dimness to see what it was that he was holding.
The closer he gets, the more you’re able to see, and it’s only until he’s lowering himself to sit down that you make out the popcorn bag in one hand, and some boxes of sweets in the other.
He says nothing as he shoves the popcorn into your hand, settling in as he looks around the seat, trying to move the armrests up only to see that they’re stuck in place, completely oblivious to your wide-eyed stare as he lets out a big sigh, resting back as his legs spread out a little bit. He opens a box of Maltesers, adjusting his glasses as he looks at the stage.
“Want some?” He finally says, his voice low as he pushes the red box towards you, and your cheeks are almost on fire as you glance at the paper bag of popcorn in his outstretched hand.
“I…” you blink, holding onto the popcorn so that it doesn’t spill, “Here.” You dumbly give him the bag back, assuming that he had only given it to you so that he could sit down more comfortably.
Only now does he tear his eyes away from the stage, tuning out the voice over the announcements, the regular message of turning off your phones and staying quiet, as his elbow pushes your arm back to your seat.
“Can’t have corn,” he says bluntly, looking over at your startled expression, “It’s yours.”
It’s yours.
Here’s another moment you're going to mull over before another minuscule thing he does happens again, and you spend the next months thinking about that.
“Are you sure?” You whisper, already pulling your phone out to Venmo him for it, but Satoru can already tell what you're about to do as he flicks it away, as if it was repulsive to him, and you don’t have any time to argue because the curtains pull outwards and reveal the actors.
You drag a hand over your face, trying not to look over at him anymore as you begrudgingly accept the kind token, trying to relax in your seat as the show begins, a tentative finger plucking out a popcorn as you bring it to your mouth, hoping that the only person who can what the blood roaring in your ears is you.
—
Nearly a quarter in, and you start to realize just how bad an idea this was.
The play itself was great. The actors were delivering their performance in a manner that felt reminiscent ot the campy nature of the original text, and some people in the audience were keeling over with laughter in certain parts.
You found yourself with a wide smile throughout most of it, recalling some of the bits and others jogging your memory, but you were thoroughly enjoying it nonetheless. The issue was, the person next to you seemed to be despising it.
The rare couple of times you peeked over to see his reaction to a couple of things, you noticed his jaw clenched, sitting straight and uptight as his eyes never left the stage. He barely mustered up a smile during the funny portions, looking utterly depleted during the serious bits, and his hands were clasped together, fingers interwoven as he sighed, unamused.
Every time somebody would do something weird, you’d glance his way and would still see the same stone-cold expression on his face. You were aware that the play itself was over exaggerated and strange at times, but that was the whole appeal of it in the first place. But at times, you tried to view it through the lens of someone who didn’t go in-depth into literature and read the nuances of somebody like Satoru, who would rather spend their free time studying and working on their mountain of assignments, not something like this, and you felt your chest getting heavier and heavier with each second.
When it neared intermission, you could’ve sworn you had nearly melted in your seat, your popcorn done as you glanced over at Satoru when the lights finally turned back on, people around you standing up to leave or stretch.
A beat of silence passes before you clear your throat, mustering up a wobbly grin as you jab a thumb to the curtains.
“Funny, huh?”
Satoru blinks, as if coming back to, and you debate if he had been half asleep. The thought makes you sink even deeper in embarrassment.
“It’s, uh,” he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he swallowed thickly, “It’s…interesting. I haven’t really seen anything like it before.”
You pause, chew on the side of your lip, rubbing at your eyes as you try to think of anything else to say. You’ve spent time with him alone, sure, but never in a situation where it felt like you had to defend yourself, your background, the whole reason why you were here in the first place, like you are now.
People bustle around the two of you, and he sits up a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back as his neck cracks a bit.
“It’s raunchy and… theatrical,” you try to explain, attempting to seem unconcerned as you fold the paper bag up and set it neatly on the ground, making a mental note to pick it up before you leave. “But I think it’s really interesting given the period it was written and how vulgar, everything is, and the characters are all super unlikable, which you don’t really see in these kinds of productions, and, well, it’s supposed to be funny and…fun, I guess,” your voice dies down, your lips almost chewed raw as you wait for a reaction, a facade of interest, a pitiful acknowledgement to what felt like your livelihood, but he just nods.
You suck in a deep breath, gaze darting around the theater as you try to look at anything else.
Noticing your sudden silence, his eyes leave the stage for a moment as they rake over your expression, see the way your lips pull into a small, worried line, the crease between your brows, something that appeared whenever you were stressed or confused. His face seemed to melt to mirror yours.
“Is there a reason why they keep calling the daughter a slut?” He finally asks, and your eyes dart back to him, and your cheeks puff, blinking slowly as you nod, embarrassed for some reason as you stammer to find words.
“It’s, erm, well, it’s in the original material, but,” your words mesh together as you try to call back on the research paper you did for this piece, your mind blanking as your cheeks heat, “But I think they keep it in because it’s supposed to be a demonstration of the degradation of women and the differentiation between men who also exhibit premarital interest in the sex…and it’s not supposed to be funny but they repeat it a lot, so you kind of become numb to the meaning of the word...” Your rambling quiets near the end as you shoot him another tense smile, wringing your hands together as your lips tremble, looking away as a last resort to save your dignity.
After spending two years with him, you’ve become familiar with his routine and what he expects from his day-to-day life. What some describe as the prodigal son, Gojo Satoru, if not with friends, is usually found in the back of the library, in his dorm, or somewhere quiet with papers strewn in front of him, with his laptop out, typing away. He sometimes goes to benefits and galas, some to attend because of his parents, others because of his biochemistry path, but his time isn’t usually spent at the theater watching vulgar plays.
That’s what you did.
And of course, you didn’t come here weekly. You had to be here for that godforsaken Literature in English class. But this was a part of you, this play, this environment, these exaggerated dialogues are what you spent your time obsessing over. The history and the meaning, and the importance of English literature and writings are your life, and having someone next to you, watching a personification of it live, felt like inviting them into a piece of your mind, even if they wouldn’t view it as such.
But to you, you who liked to overcomplicate and read into things, saw it as such, and your heart was thumping erratically when you realized that Satoru probably saw this, you, as equally insane for enjoying something like this.
And you hated how much the thought made you spiral, made you think of yourself less than when there was a possibility that this wasn’t what Satoru was thinking at all, but the slight chance, the small probability, is what stirred the trepidation in you.
“Are you enjoying it?”
His question brings you out of your mental fever, and you bite your cheek, wondering what the right answer would be. He’s watching you, waiting, and you exhale shakily, smiling poorly as you swallow back some bile.
“I, I am,” you say finally, “It’s just…I did this huge essay on this last year, and I’ve been looking for a rendition of it, but there’s only this old movie that’s so far been made, so…seeing this live is pretty cool.”
He nods, looking at your stalled expression as you keep your eyes trained on the curtains, not wanting to show your internal thoughts on your ever-so expressive face, and he tries to keep his slight confusion at bay for your suddenly reserved self.
As you try to feign indifference by going on your phone, you can watch him from the corner of your eyes, look around, and uncharacteristically fidget in his seat as he debates doing the same as you or talking some more, which, at the moment, you don’t appear content to do. But the more you try to ignore him, the more it seems like your body has a physical reaction to it, protesting your desire to keep to yourself.
“Did you do anything fun today?” You ask, putting your phone down as you scratch at the inside of your wrist. He blinks, looking a little quizzically at you before he clears his throat.
“Well, Suguru had set me up for a double date,” he explains, and you feel your chest tighten a little bit, “But…eh,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t really feeling it,” he drags a hand over his face, “If only he knew where I’d end up instead, huh?” He nudges your elbow with his, a teasing grin on his face, but blood roars in your ears upon hearing his words.
Gods, the man who despised dates and unaccounted occasions and strange meetings would rather take that over this.
You let out a little puff of air, trying to give him a smile as you feel sweat dot on the back of your neck, your palms clammy as you wring your hands together, looking down at your shoes as you try to bite back the lump in your throat.
He’d rather be anywhere else than here, your mind blares, the unspoken words ringing in the small expanse of your heart.
There’s a strange gurgle in your stomach, one that shifts sharply, and you wince. This is definitely not a part of your internal trade, and you hope that when you shift to place a hand on it to try and calm it down. You turn your phone off, pocketing it in your tote, and the sudden movement makes you jerk in pain. You sit back up, hoping that he won't notice.
But, of course, he does.
He angles his body towards you, brows cinched as your eyes twitch barely.
“Are you okay?” His voice his deep, tinged with worry, his head leaning towards you just a bit so that you can feel his minty breath fan across your warm cheek.
You wave him off, shooting him a horrifically terrible smile as you shift, your head tilting to the side as your stomach makes another alien noise.
“Yeah,” you mutter, almost like a question because even you don’t know if you’re alright, “Yeah, I just think it’s the popcorn on an empty stomach.” But even that explanation made no sense. It seems like your stomach is churning even more with each passing second, and you really wish that he couldn’t tell that every moment is a testament to your battle for control of your own body.
“Do you want some water?” He asks, looking over his shoulder to the doors, remembering that the concession stand was also selling bottled drinks, “I’ll get some-”
But your hand shoots out, gripping the fabric of his sleeve as you tug on it, shaking your head as you attempt to situate yourself back in your seat, your act going well besides the slight crack in your face at a particularly painful jab.
“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” the lights flicker again above you, and you’re somewhat grateful for them, grateful hat you can’t see the obvious fear on his face at the prospect of you being sick near his very hygienic self, “The shows starting, anyway, so just,” your voice dips a little as you try to contain a groan, “Just stay.”
He goes to protest, but your hold on him is strangely tight for someone so riddled with pain, and his mouth parts to say something, but the glare you shoot him nearly shuts him up.
“Please,” you mutter, the embarrassment from several things thick in your voice as you wince, your eyes melting into something pleading as the applause begins, and his face falls for a second, but you look away, weakly clapping along with everybody else.
You feel tears prickly in your eyes.
And you hope he can’t see the shining gloss when you try to blink them back.
—
When the show ends, you’re nearly debilitated with the pain in your abdomen, and the mortification from having watched Macheath’s other wife battle it out with Polly alongside Satoru. They mix into a terrible combination, one that forces you to come back into consciousness in the middle of the theater, the bright overhead lights nearly sending you into a psychosis.
There must have been something horrifically wrong with either the popcorn or the butter they put on it, because, despite your blurry view, you can see a few people in the audience huddled up in their seats the same way as you, despite the play ending.
Satoru cleans up next to you, taking his boxes of candy and your strewn popcorn bag, and sits back up to look at you nervously.
“Are…are you sure you’re okay?” His gentle tone is one that you barely register as your hands grip onto the armrest. You can barely even muster up a hum, giving him a shaky thumbs up as your stomach gurgles again, this time, audibly.
You try to stand, but your knees wobble, and you grip onto the back of the seat as your head sways. You can feel his grip on your elbow, nearly knocking over some people's bottles beside him from how fast he stands up, and your clammy face looks upward at him, swearing that he looks like an angel with the light framing his hair.
“I,” you clamp your mouth shut, swallowing thickly as you wince, taking a few seconds before you start again, “I have to use the loo.” The declaration comes out as a whisper, an ashamed one, and you can’t look him in the face, even if his nods insistently, an arm of his wrapping around the expanse of your back as he tries to steady you
“There’s one near the concessions,” he tells you, his voice strangely considerate and temperate, head leaning down to get closer to your ear so that you could hear him better, “Do you think you can make it?”
You feel like a child, but you only nod, neck and face flaring up in embarrassment as you allow him to guide you through the aisle of people, not looking anybody in the eyes as you make it out, your legs shaking slightly. If it weren’t for him, you’re sure you would’ve toppled down in pain by now.
The walk out of the theater becomes a blur, letting him guide you towards the bathrooms with one of your hands wrapped tightly around your stomach, as if it would ease the pain, and you feel the two of you come to a stop as you stand next to the ladies' door.
His arm around you falls, and you miss its warmth. He looks crossed with different emotions as you use the wall to hold yourself up, wobbling towards the bathroom as you shoot a look over your shoulder.
“Thanks,” you whisper, your eyes widening and then shutting instantly at how much it hurts your head, “I’ll…I’ll be back.” The words slur in your mouth, and you don’t give him any time to react before you leave through the wooden door and book it to a stall.
The moments that follow afterwards are what you’d expect from a case of bad butter.
You kneel on the floor, heaving everything up, trying to be as quiet as possible so the girls in the stalls around you can’t hear, but it’s not a process that you’re particularly fond of and can feel your will to continue weakening as you leave back on the wall, your head in yours hands as you hear the toilet automatically flush.
At least getting it out of your system seems to have made the painful throbs dull down to an annoying little jab, but you feel like the bulk of the damage has already been done. Satoru was sweet enough that he’d try to never bring this up again, but you knew you’d have to live with the humiliation of this evening for a couple of months before you did something else that would top it.
You let your head tilt back and heave a gulp of air, palms jamming into your eyes as you attempt to swallow, your mouth too dry to produce any saliva. If Shoko were here, she’d at least try to make you laugh about the ridiculousness of it all. But it’s just you and Satoru, and you don’t know if you can even look at him for the next week after tonight.
Giving yourself a little more time to calm down, you heave yourself up from your position on the floor, careful not to touch the ground, and pluck your bag off the hook, miraculously throwing it on before you hunched, so as it wouldn’t touch anything too icky.
You wash and scrub your hands, feeling dirty and still a little sick as you splash some water on your face, hoping the cool water will help snap you back. The girls around you talk, some drying their hands, others touching up their makeup in the mirror. One of the girls next to you watches you through your reflection, her face pale and strands of hair wet as she splashes some water onto her face.
“Popcorn?” She asks, and your eyes find hers through the mirror, blinking slowly as your hands grip the counter.
“Yeah,” you take a deep inhale of air, sharing a small smile with her as you turn off the faucet, “Do you want some hand sanitizer?” You offer, going to reach into your tote, but she waves it off, giving you a kind smile as she continues to wash her hands, probably feeling just as bad as you were.
Giving her a small nod as you go to the paper towel dispenser, you reach around for your phone, opening it up as you quickly send a text to Shoko to update her on where you were, nothing too long, just to be safe, and tap the tip of your shoe on the ground, debating what to do next.
You could go see Satoru, probably waiting outside, and awkwardly explain that you should probably walk back, seeing how his germaphobic personality might not mesh with the fact that you had basically deposited your entire day in the theater washroom. You could also try to sneak away and hope that he was standing somewhere that granted you the option of stealth, but you quickly shook that off, quickly understanding how pathetic and childish it was.
After another moment of thought, you ball up the towel and throw it away, pushing the door open with your shoulder as you enter back into the lobby, the business having died down just a bit, and look around bravely for the man.
Spotting the pop of white near the end of the room, you take a few steps forward before you halt, stopping near a wall that offered you a little bit of insight as to what he was doing as you peeked around the corner.
2 - 0, you think sunkenly, watching the way Satoru talks to another girl, his broad shoulders shielding her from where you originally were, and that familiar ache enters your chest as you play with the hem of your sweater.
You could be sadistic when it came to your unrequited feelings; that much you had made peace with. But the universe was horrifically masochistic for the situations it thrust you into.
His face is a little more stiff than before, but still polite and kind as he cranes his neck to look at the girl. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun, one that you always envied with how clean and precise some girls were able to make theirs, and watched how her hand lingered on his arm, something you could never get away with without his face falling into contained disgust.
It’s unfair to think this way of this stranger, you remind yourself, after all, if you had the guts, you’d try to make a move on him too.
So, in another moment of decision-making, you get your phone out again, trying to contain the little tremble in your lips as you start drafting a message to him. It’s for the best, you try to reason, telling him that you were too sick and didn’t want to give him what you had. You send another message, saying that you were going to make your way back to your dorm and that you hope he had fun, thanking him as much as you could without sounding pathetic for how much he did this evening and for coming.
You also sent him the venmo transfer for the popcorn you were going to make earlier for good measure.
Where you were presented you an easy way to slip out of the building, one of the exits a little bit behind you, as you rubbed at your tired eyes, wrapping your arms around your torso as you prepared for the cold gusts of wind that were going to hit you the moment you stepped out.
People around you were talking in muted voices, laughter ringing around your ears as you ducked your head down, hoping that this time by yourself could give you some moments of peace, even though you knew that being alone with your onslaught of thoughts was going to do the exact opposite.
This campus was always bustling on a Saturday night, so you never felt too alone as you made your way away from the theater, pulling out your headphones as you geared up your phone to listen to some music before you heard a muffled shout from behind you.
Brows furrowing and your eyes slightly shifted in confusion, you, along with some other students around you, looked to see what the sound was.
To your utter horror and stupefaction, you watch as Satoru whips his head around, as if he were looking for something, or rather someone.
You stand like a deer in headlights, hands raised mid-way to your ears to put your headphones in them as you see him check his phone and then look up again, not caring that other people were looking at him strangely as he runs a worried hand down his face, typing something furiously fast as he looks around again.
Finally, it seems like he found what he was looking for when your eyes lock, and he sends you an ice-cold, deathly glare, one that made you glance around as if it were someone behind you more deserving of such a look, but before you can do anything, he’s jogging over to where you were frozen in place.
The closer he gets, the more you can see the agitation and vexation in his microexpressions, things you’ve taken pride in before in reading, now not so much because you were on the receiving end of them.
When he comes to a halt, phone still in hand, his chest rises and falls a little fast, as if he were out of breath, and he runs another frustrated hand through his white locks as he pushes them back.
Your mouth gapes, and you suddenly remember that you were supposed to be “deathly ill” according to the text you had sent him, and try to make your breathing seem more labored, your posture more haggard, but that doesn't work as he eyes you like he knows.
“Where the hell are you going?” He snaps, and you wince slightly at his tone, and he reels, shooting you an apologetic look despite the fire burning inside of him from the way you’ve been acting this night.
“Back…back to my place,” you whisper, voice hoarse, and he hears it instantly, expression melting as he takes the time to really dissect the way your eyes are slightly bloodshot, your lips chapped, your lashes clumped with tears, and he takes a small step back, taking in a deep breath.
“No, I, shit,” he stammers, restarting, “Are you…” His voice comes out as thick and low, and you almost feel it in your bones as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves as he gives you a tilted look, “Are you okay?”
This time, he’s not asking because you were exhibiting signs of ailment, but because you had been acting like you were strangers since the moment you saw him tonight. Because your behavior was so off and unlike you, he was struggling to understand if there was something beneath the surface, something that had happened that he wasn’t aware of, that was fueling this shift.
Your eyes seem to waver as you try not to look at him, attempting a nonchalant shrug that is anything but, as you think of how to lower your voice to a deeper register to appear more sick than you really are.
“I feel sick,” you mutter, coughing feigningly as you pull on the straps of your tote upwards, as you clear your throat, trying not to feel the weight of the looks other people were giving the two of you.
A single brow of his raises, one that you know is detecting bullshit as you rub at your nose.
“I’m sure,” he finally murmurs, rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, “I think the entire lobby heard you throwing up your small intestine.” That statement alone almost makes you keel over in shame, humiliation, embarrassment, and disgrace, but he continues, “But…are you…okay? You’ve been…off…the entire night.”
And you know you can’t sidestep this landmine because you know how weird you’ve been acting this evening, knowing that your attempts to make things better have only backfired, and the past couple of hours come screaming back at you, and for some stupid, depressing reason, cause a sting of tears to prick behind your eyes.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as your head falls slightly, your stomach still aching, your pride and confidence bruised, and you can still smell the lingering perfume of the girl he had been talking to, another reminder that you probably didn’t smell like that perfume you had spritzed on so long ago.
“I’m okay,” you murmur, looking at the cracks on the ground, your voice shaking and wobbling and so clearly not true that you tilt your head back up to see his reaction, your face crumpling into a little wet laugh when he seems completely unmoved. Upon hearing your little giggle, his anger fades a bit, but is quickly replaced with another emotion when he hears you sniffle.
“Look, you-” he looks down at his phone to reread the text you had sent him, and his confusion seems to grow even more when he reads another notification, “Did you Venmo me?”
You nod again, weakly, and when you look up at him, you see him fighting back a startled laugh, the quiver on his face making your lips pull up into a wobbly smile, your own emotions turning into something strange as you watch him shake his head in dismay, running a stressed hand through his hair.
“Did something happen today?” He asks, not taunting, never taunting, but something you can’t place as you weakly not, a sheen over your eyes as you tug at your sleeves.
“…no,” you whisper, but the two of you know it’s far from the truth because even you can’t hide the way your lips tremble and your hands shake slightly.
He presses his lips together tightly, his jaw ticking as he takes in your sunken form, something he’s never seen before, and chews on his cheek, thinking.
Sighing deeply, he pockets his phone, not able to look at your texts anymore because they made him too nauseous, and moves to be closer to you.
“Come on,” he says after a moment's silence, “Let’s go.”
You peek over at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you huff out a breath of air, trying to contain your tears as you sniffle again. Your bottom lip trembles slightly, and your stomach still has a lingering ache, but there’s something else that’s causing you to be like this, and you don’t like whatever it is.
He’s waiting, his elbow budging yours, and so you heave a sigh, rubbing at your cheeks as you nudge him back slowly.
“Thank you, ‘Toru,” you murmur, and he pauses, his tongue caught between his teeth because you rarely call him by that nickname, rarely use it unless you really mean it, “For everything. And I’m sorry,” you peek over at him from above your lashes, looking back at the ground at your shoe so you couldn’t see his reaction, “I didn’t mean to spoil your evening like this-” But before you can say anything more he raises a hurried hand, cutting you off.
“You didn’t spoil my evening, love,” he says quickly, his tone soft and teetering on worried, the little title slipping out of his mouth like it was natural, and if you weren’t feeling like a pile of shit, you might have fixated on it more, his eyes roaming your anxious face.
But you insistently nod, your lips pressed together as if you were trying your hardest not to let out a pitiful cry in front of him.
“I-I did,” you voice cracks, and you rub at your eyes as some treacherous tears escape, and if only you could truly see the way he looks like he was breaking seeing you like this, “With you getting the popcorn and then me getting sick and then the s-stupid show,” and he winces because he knows you were enjoying the play, could hear your twinkling laugh and he hates it whenever you feel the need to shut down the things you like because you’re worried other people will judge you for doing so, “And…and I wish you had told Shoko o-or me about your date, I would have totally understood,” you try for a smile, your words choked and wobbly and if only you knew what you were doing as you ramble, “I’m just…I’m really sorry for everything." You finish with a quivering chuckle, your heart shaking like a leaf as you finally meet his eyes, hoping he can’t see the little shake in your breathing when you finally do.
He breathes in deeply, and you can hear the gears in his head turning. But you nudge his side again, wanting to leave it at that. You can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you don’t want to look.
And you’re grateful that to some extent, he understands that, even if not fully. He murmurs a gentle come on, his hand gingerly wrapping around your arm as he tugs to next to him, his warmth enveloping you as he leads the way.
—
As much as you insist, the one thing he doesn’t seem to budge on is taking you back to your dorm.
You pleaded with him, begged him not to get him sick, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s almost as if he steered you towards his building, a hand hovering over your back as he led you inside and up the elevator and to his room before you could even have the ability to ditch and run away.
“If you’re going to talk, fine, but don’t think I’m insane enough to leave you alone right now.”
That alone could have sent you into a psychosis if you weren’t so worried about puking all over his bed.
With the way his germophobic and clean tendencies forbade him from going to public restrooms, you’re stunned that he’s even standing near you with everything that has happened this night. He even lent you his old band shirt and trousers from when he was going through a phase.
It was a blur as you spun around his room, rifling through his drawers for towels and soap and things he thought you might want to use in the shower. You stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, not sitting down on the mattress because you knew how he felt about outside clothes on his sheets, and you said nothing as he handed everything to you, shooting you a shaky smile, one that was tense because you figured he was most likely worried about you staining or ruining one of his clean things. You don’t say anything as he suddenly ducks, his knees hitting the floor as he starts undoing the laces to your shoes, mumbling something about how you bending over might not be the best for your stomach.
He was lucky enough to be in one of the newer buildings, meaning that he had a personal washroom, so he just led you to it and let you know to use the shower and to call out to him if you needed anything. He even had an extra pack of toothbrushes and boxers that he hadn’t touched that he set aside for you.
You watched as he shut the door, the water roaring behind you as it began to heat up, and you silently stripped, neatly folding your clothes as you set them to the side. You took a tentative step inside his very clean shower, letting the steaming water hit you as you stood there for a couple of minutes, reflecting.
Washing your face, scrubbing roughly at the makeup and the evening away, you feel some salty tears bite at your cheek, and you don’t even know why you’re crying right now. Well, in all honesty, you do, and that’s probably what hurts the most.
You’ve never cried over Gojo Satoru before. You’ve never felt like it was so depressingly lost where you’d need to use these muscles and these feelings that you reserve for truly important things, but it felt like tonight was a confirmation and closure all in one. It felt like you slowly came to your senses, realized that despite your wishes, it was fruitless. You just weren’t the kind of girl that he could cherish, at least, not in the way you wanted him to, and you knew it would be selfish of you to ruin any chance another girl could have of him being hers.
It took you a little longer than expected, but you feel like you were slowly gaining consciousness, the reality at hand as you turned the water off, patting yourself dry with the soft towel he had provided you.
You move carefully, brushing your teeth, pulling on the clothes he left you, as you assess yourself in the fogged-up mirror. Your eyes are a little puffy, but you can just tell him from earlier. Your voice is croaky, but you’ll just bite your words back tonight until you can go back to your place in the morning and start distancing yourself from him until your feelings are choked out. It’s time you began moving on, anyway.
Braving the other side, you take a deep breath before you carefully open the door, peeking around the corner until you see him sitting on the corner of his bed, furiously typing away until he hears the creak, looking up from across the room as you sheepishly smile.
He quickly puts his phone away, standing to his feet as he rubs his hands, not knowing what to do as he buffers.
“Was, erm, was everything good?” He motions to the bathroom, and you quickly nod, walking away as the steam from behind wraps around you, your body adjusting to the shift in temperature as your eyes stray to the couch in the corner, pillows and blankets set up in a makeshift bed.
“It was great, thank you,” you say gently, “I’m sorry, again-” But he holds a hand up, cutting you off as he insistently shakes his head.
“Really, it was nothing,” he stresses, his cheeks dusted pink, his glasses discarded on his desk.
You nod again, embarrassed, and smile stiffly, pointing to the couch as you make your way over.
“Thanks for this, too,” you say, but he seems to awkwardly shuffle, his hands behind his back, looking like he wants to say something, and your brow slightly quirks at his odd reaction.
“That’s…that’s for me,” he explains, moving away from his lofted bed as he shows you the changed sheets and the new pillow case covers, what he must have been doing in the time it took for you to shower, “You can sleep here.” He pats the mattress, and you let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head as you move closer to the couch, feeling like the worst person in the world.
“I couldn’t,” you stress, but he’s already moving closer to you, looking like he wants to move you away from the cushions, “I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll sleep here. It’s fine, really, I like couches.”
He opens his mouth and closes it, lips pressed into a thin line.
“You haven’t imposed,” he finally says, as if that’s all he took away from your rambles, and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you wave aside his polite nature and hold your hands up.
“If I sleep on your bed after everything, I’m never going to be able to look you in the eyes again, okay?” You put it bluntly, “So I’ll take the couch, and you’ll take your bed, and it’ll be fine. Okay?”
His tongue darts out, blinking rapidly as if he’s assessing his different options, and he looks at you, to the couch, and then to the bed. He seems like he’s torn, but he figures that the next best thing is to ignore this completely, shaking his head to himself as he moves around you to the cupboards behind your body, shuffling around until he finds what he needs.
“I’m going to wash up,” he mutters, glancing briefly at you as he pulls in his towel to his chest, his new pair of clothes, and you feel your chest tighten at the sudden dismissiveness in his tone, ad if he’s given up with you, and he makes his way to the separate room, “Make yourself comfortable.” He calls over his shoulder before he shuts the door behind him, and you give it a few seconds before you wince, falling back down onto the couch as you pull a pillow to your chest and allow yourself some time to relax before he comes back.
You allow yourself some time to look around, appreciating his tidy room and the mess-free atmosphere. You can smell the lingering scent of bergamot, and you see the warmer on his desk, a candle right under it. The wall that his desk is parallel to is littered with postcards and retro movie posters (mostly Star Wars and Star Trek). There are some polaroids he has pinned up, some with Suguru and Shoko from their years in secondary school, some photos he had taken himself with his camera. His bookshelf, which is nearly leaning over with how heavy it is, is at the end of the couch, and you shift to get a better look at the books he has on his shelf.
You’re so rarely in here, especially by yourself, so you peek around, hearing the water still running, and lift from the cushions, your eyes squinting as you move closer, trying to make out the names on the spines, your curiosity getting the better of you.
Most of the shelves are full of textbooks from previous courses he had taken; therefore, most of them are science-related. Your eyes shift across the spines, seeing some books about botany and a couple about astronomy and astrophysics, a specific interest of his despite specializing in biochemistry. Notes are jammed into the empty spaces, and you make out his cursive on some of them, smiling despite yourself when you pull some of them out, making out his quick scribble from when he was either in class or studying.
The bookshelf itself is insanely tall for no reason, tall enough that you’re sure Suguru or even Satoru, in his sprawling height, would struggle reaching to top, so you have to go onto your toes, stretching your calves as you tilt your head upwards to look at some of the higher shelves, pulling some books out by placing a finger on the top of the spine, careful not to disrupt anything as you let yourself get lost in the names.
Suddenly, in the midst of all the chemistry and biology and Latin names, something familiar catches your eye, a book that was resting on its side on the highest shelf, and you struggle but can wedge yourself up on the edge of the couch to reach it.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Your eyes widen in spite of your heavy emotions riddling your mind, and you turn it around, reading which edition and publisher it was as you scour through the pages, seeing his little citations in blue ink in the margins. You flip through the pages, each one highlighted and marked for different reasons, similar to the way you read through a book, and you close it shut, feeling like you were somehow intruding on something private as you set it back down in its initial place on the shelf until something else caught your attention.
Familiar titles and authors all paint the top level of his bookshelf, books that have nothing to do with his major or classes or even remotely with something you think he might enjoy reading, and you almost fall as you try to get closer.
A small box at the edge of the shelf piques your interest, and your lips catch between your teeth as you put all of your focus on this task, your nimble fingers moving closer, plucking it from its spot as you hold it gingerly in the palm of your hand, looking back to the bathroom as you hear the pipes groan as he turns the water off, an alarming sound, one that meant that you didn't have a lot of time left.
The box itself is also familiar, this one for more reasons than most, because you remember this box; you gave it to him for his previous birthday. amongst other little trinkets, finding it at a flea market, and thinking he could make some use of it. The wooden grain and the carvings on it were delicate, and your hold is even more careful as you unlock the little latch, the top lifting open as you peer inside.
Your eyes adjust to the sight, something you weren’t necessarily expecting, as what you can only describe as junk littered the inside of it. A ticket stub from a movie he had seen, a dried leaf, candy wrappers, spare coins. You huff a little in disappointment, your nosey nature quelled by the contents within as you rifle around a little more, knowing you should stop and sit down and act like you saw nothing when you feel a glossy texture beneath your fingertips.
Gently, you pinch it between your pointer finger and thumb, pulling it out from beneath all rubble as you hold it closer to your face, your breath catching in your throat.
It’s a polaroid of the two of you.
You remember the night well, a couple of months ago, during the summer. The four of you and a couple of mutual friends had rented a car and had gone up to a cabin, one of the many properties Satoru’s family owned, and had spent the weekend there. Suguru had insisted on setting up a fire and eating around it, and you had huddled up next to Shoko as the night got colder. You remember the voices and the laughs and the squeals as some of the friends, people you didn’t know that well, began chasing each other, and you and Shoko watched, amused. You remember how one of the boys had been carrying a jug of water, one meant for inside, when somebody bumped into him, and he tripped, and the water came falling on you. You remember letting out a small laugh, shocked and forgiving as you assured the stranger that it was okay, shivering, nonetheless, as Shoko laughed uncontrollably.
But above all, you remember how Satoru hurried over from wherever he was, his stare worried that you were hurt, everything shifting when he saw the playful glint in your eyes, the fireplace illuminating your features in red, yellow and orange hues as you shrugged his worries off, his hands on your elbows, steadying you as Suguru took a photo of the moment, of your head thrown back in a laugh and his eyebrows pulled into an anxious line while his lips pulled into a gentle smile, the stars twinkling in the background as he steadied you to your feet.
You distantly recall hearing the click and asking Suguru about the photo, but hearing him say something along the lines of the lighting being too dark, but clearly that was a lie because you were holding the small photo in your hand, staring at it with no problem.
Before you can spend more time thinking about his junk box and what the hell this photo was doing in it, you heard some shuffling on the other side of the bathroom, the door clicking open as you scramble to put the box back, nearly tripping as you jump down, going back to where you were seated on the couch in a flash, appearing to look nonchalant as he stepped out.
You don’t let your eyes linger too long on the way his shirt stretched tightly across his chest, or the way that the water has caused the fabric to slightly stick to his arms. He shakes his hair into a towel, ringlets of water falling as he pushes his hair back. You also try not to fawn too much over his mismatched pajamas, or how his trousers have prints of lightsabers in different colors all over them.
“Hey,” he calls out gruffly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he tosses his towel into the hamper, his feet padding over to his desk as he checks the clock and then his phone for any notifications. He sighs, and your throat is dry, heart hammering in your chest as you realize a grave mistake.
In your haste to put everything back, the careful clutch you had on the photo had appeared nonexistent, and you had, for some reason, made the blunder of still holding the photograph of the two of you resting in the palm of your hand.
His back is still to you, and you swallow thickly, shuffling across the couch as you try to deposit it onto one of the nearer shelfs, hoping that if he were to see it he would think it had mistakenly fallen out or something less drastic, but his ears turn towards your movement, looking over his broad shoulders at the way you scramble to dispose of the film.
“What are…?” His eyes pierce yours, and you sheepishly snap around to look at him, your hand going behind you as you shake your head, acting confused as his head tilts to the side, jumping from your seat at the edge of the cushion to your leg, angled towards his bookshelf.
“I was just looking at your books,” you quickly state, trying to cover your ass as lips purse together to give you a knowing look, a white brow rising so high that it disappears in his hairline, one calling you out on your obvious bullshit.
“Hm,” he hums, taking a step closer to you, his skin still glowing from the shower as he makes his way to where you were sitting, towering over you as his arms cross deliciously across his chest, “Then what do you have behind you?”
You feign innocence, blinking as you shake your head, acting dumb as you shrug.
“I,” you scoff, leaning back into one of the pillows as you shrug, “I don’t have anything behind me.”
“Right,” he drawls out, his voice slightly deeper, intimidatingly so as he crouches down a little until his face is to face with you, his fingers moving to poke at your arms, twisting at an odd angle to hide behind your back, “Then you wouldn’t mind if I gave you some medicine, yeah? Something that requires both hands?”
Damn him.
You shake your head, swallowing as you shoot him a shaking smile.
“Not at all,” you stress, shifting uncomfortable as he nods, his eyes raking over your face one last time as he moves to his desk, pulling a drawer out, his medicine drawer, you deduce, and watch as he pulls out a bottle that seems to promise helping with stomach aches, and he turns it over, reading the label until he seems satisfied.
He strolls back to where you’re seated, holding the medicine bottle out towards you as he patiently waits.
You shoot him a fake smile, biting back annoyance as you shift awkwardly, wringing out a hand from underneath your body, the one that’s not holding onto the photograph, as you take the bottle from his outstretched hands. You stare at it, realizing that he’s waiting for you to open it, and if it wasn’t for the unimpressed look on his face, you’d almost wager that he was amused.
“Something wrong?” He asks, fully knowing the answer, and you shoot him a glare.
“No,” you bite back, your other hand moving slowly, careful not to crumble or tear the film as you place it under your thigh, showing him both of your hands as you twist the cap of the medicine bottle off, “See?”
He nods, still unbelieving of your little tactic, as he takes the bottle away from you. You watch as he moves to set it down on the table, assessing the situation as he moves down in one swift motion, not giving you any time to understand what was going on as he loops one hands under your knees, another across your back as he lifts you up and over his shoulders like you genuinely weighed nothing more than a sack of flour and you screamed in horror at the rudeness of everything.
“Freak!” You shout, your face looking at his muscular back as he chuckles, not seeing anything yet as you try to kick his face, “This is so degrading, put me down!” You scream, horrified and mortified as he pinches your calf that was near his chest.
“Stop squirming,” he chides, but his voice is anything but chiding as he swivels around, your body jerking sideways as your head drops, motion sickness from already feeling a little off from earlier tonight, and you weakly punch his back, groaning.
“I’m going to puke all over you,” you threaten, but he just chuckles, shaking his head as he pretends to drop you, only to catch you last minute, his chest shaking with the sound, and you go to snap at him again,
But you feel it, hear it the moment he sees the polaroid you had taken.
He goes tense, his grip on you tightening a little bit out of shock, and he’s suddenly silent. You wince, turning around, hoping he could take the hint and set you down, and he finally does, carefully setting you on the ground as he bends, picking up the photograph from where it had fallen onto the floor, and staring blankly at it.
Your hands clench, chest tightening as his eyes flicker from it to you, his face unreadable as his jaw clenches slightly.
Nobody speaks for a moment, the room suddenly as tense as it was when you first entered, and you watch as he puts the photograph face down on a random shelf, turning back to you as he sighs deeply.
“Were you…Were you going through my things?”
The question shakes you, and your mouth parts as you clamp it shut.
“N-no,” you finally say, “Well, no, not really, but I guess…I don’t…I was,” your head drops to your hands in mortification as you motion weakly to the bookshelf, “I was only looking at your books.” You mutter weakly, not even able to look at him as you keep your stare trained on the books and their titles.
“I didn’t mean to see it, but…” You trail off, thousands of emotions racing through you as you try to deny it in your mind, sadness from before, anger with yourself, and suddenly feel vexation towards him for no particular reason as your eyes snap to his, “God, why do you care? It’s just a photo! I didn’t…I didn’t mean to look, but I saw that thing I gave you, and I had thought you would’ve tossed it away by now, and I just wanted to see what you’d keep in there and…yeah, fuck, okay, I looked! I’m sorry, okay? But…I mean, you keep it as a junk box anyway, it’s not like it’s…like it’s an heirloom!” You’re trying to ration and reason and trying to justify your clearly immoral actions as you ramble again, a terrible trait of yours, as he just takes it, takes your anger and your slew of words and your hurt as you feel your eyes water for no reason again as you hug your arms to yourself.
He says nothing for another moment, his eyes dark and piercing.
And then he moves.
His arm reaches upwards, up to the shelf, up behind your head to where the box was resting on the top shelf, and he slowly brings his hand down, your heart in your throat as he nearly throws the lid open, beginning to pull everything out one by one.
“This,” he’s holding the ticket stub, “This is from tonight.”
Your hands instantly drop to your sides as the anger fades and utter confusion floods your senses.
…huh?
You had just looked at the box; how did you not notice? But you look closer at it, the date and the row and seat number nearly the same as the ticket stub you had thrown away after leaving the theater in a hurry, and your eyes flee up towards him, his chest heaving as he continues.
“This is from when we went to the beach,” he pulls out a chipped seashell, and you recognize the pattern instantly, remembering the one time the four of you had gone to the shoreline, a seashell you had picked up and thought was interesting, showing it to him before Shoko called you away, but you don’t have any time to compute that as he pulls out the next time.
“This is from the candy you gave me during a study session we had,” he pulls out a wrinkled wrapper, “This is the hair tie you left at my place and forgot,” he has a simple black elastic band sitting in the palm of his hand, but he could very much so be holding your pittering pattering heart the more he continues, his voice quivering slightly, and you’ve never heard him ramble like this, ramble like you.
“This is the leaf that was stuck in my hair that you pulled out,” he admits quietly, holding up the dried leaf from the time you had been walking next to him in the fall, the trees shaking in the wind, giggling at his white hair littered with the colorful leaves, “These are the coins you gave me because I didn’t have any change,” he’s holding up the spare sterlings you had lent him when he wanted some ice cream but forgot his card at home, and your eyes move up and down, a strange thumping sound in your ears because you feel like you’re about to faint, and he slows to a stop, his cheeks flushed and his hands shaking as his hand fills with all of the things you have given him over the past two years, things that a normal person would have thrown away or used or given back.
“This…” his lips tremble as he shuts them for a second, looking unlike the person you’ve begun to know so deeply as his fingers wrap around something, pulling out a neatly folded white napkin, unused, as he takes in a steadying breath, “This is the, erm, the napkin you lent me. From the night we first met.”
The box is empty now, but the room fills with moments in time, moments that you would cherish in the deepest parts of your mind before you went to bed, and pretended like they were fleeting and didn't matter so that you could face him bravely the next time you saw him. Moments that you thought he treated like normal moments in time that would pass and would never be remembered again, moments that you didn’t think he would…hold onto.
Not the way you did.
“It’s not…junk,” he admits thickly, “For me it’s not.”
He stops, taking in a deep breath as he pushes his hair away from his face, carefully putting everything back in the box, including the photograph, as he sets it down, turning back to face your stunned expression.
“Look, have you ever seen me without my glasses?”
You blink. Realizing that he’s waiting on you to answer, you blank before shaking your head slowly, and he nods.
“Right, right, well, I used to wear contacts. All the time. Ask Suguru o-or Shoko but…ever since you said that you like the way glasses look, I…I don’t know, I kept wearing them, hoping you’d…” he trails off, his cheeks completely red, the tips of his ears a bright pink as he ducks his head down, scratching his nape sheepishly, whispering, “Hoping you’d maybe say it again.”
Your eyes go wide, and you blink owlishly, swearing you look fish-adjacent with the way you can only give him this look on repeat as he takes your silence as an okay for him to go on a rare nervous tangent of his own.
“When I was little, my grandfather taught me how to tie his tie. He said that I should learn how to do it by myself so that I wouldn't need any help when I grow up.”
You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t get angry at your silence, but simply offers you a small, worried smile.
“I’ve gotten pretty good at it,” he confesses with a farce laugh, something empty and shaky, "But you always ask to tie them, and…I always let you. You’re the only person I feel comfortable with; the only person who it doesn’t feel like,” he shivered, wincing slightly as if his skin was prickling at the thought of other people touching him the way you do, “The only person who can touch me and I feel…okay.”
“I have a shelf of all the books you’ve talked about,” he persists, motioning upwards, and you slowly look around to where The Count of Monte Cristo was sitting, along with all the other books you’ve raved about in the past, thinking he’d only listen and give you kind comments, not knowing that he had gone home and sat down and read them all afterwards, “I stopped drinking whenever we go out together because you said you don’t really like the smell of alcohol on people’s breaths. I…” he rakes his hand through his hair again, a nervous fidget of his as he looks pleadingly at you, “I have my spot on Suguru’s couch because your spot is right next to it.”
“And our friends tell me that I’m not crazy, that…that I might have a chance,” he motions a shaking hand between the two of you, and you allow yourself this time to blink again, “But, I don’t know,” his head ducks as he chokes back some tears, and your eyes widen even more, your eyebrows up in your hair at this point because you’ve been rendered speechless, “It’s like any time I try to get closer to you, you leave or immediately want to be anywhere else or seem uncomfortable and I don’t want you to feel that way, especially because of me.”
When he looks up, his eyes are glassy, looking like a stormy ocean, and you feel tears prickle at yours, your breath lodged in your throat as you try to pinch yourself, swearing that you were in some vision, but this is real, and he’s not stopping, saying the words you’ve only dreamt of.
“I know I’m not really…the kind of person that you’d usually go for,” he explains, his voice dim, “I’m not good with literary nuances or dissecting medieval texts. I can’t read the way you read, and I’m not good with understanding people the way you do, but…I want to be. I want to be that, I want to be good for you.”
Your mouth is wide open as you gape at him, trying to make sense of the words that you could only imagine as you stared silently at him saying to you, saying them to you here. The two of you don’t say much for a second, your eyes blinking rapidly as your mind travels faster than the speed of sound, and you realize that he’s not lying or trying to make you laugh. He’s not confessing his love for another girl, but instead clutching his chest because it felt like your silence was leading up to a personal rejection, and you can barely muster up any actual words as you surge towards him, stopping his rambling as your arms wrap around his neck, knees knocking against his as your lips slam against his.
Your heart plummets as you feel him still, his arms still at his sides as his eyes widen in shock, and you feel like you’ve completely screwed things up, going to step away before his hands shoot upwards, wrapping around your waist and legs as he hoists you up, his lips moving against yours hungrily.
“You’re so…so stupid,” you mutter in between breaths, his lips parting yours, soft and gentle and fast and desperate as they chase the way you taste, wanting to savor the plushness of yours as you mewl at the way his fingers dig into your soft skin, moving you effortlessly towards his bed as the two of you smile against each other, laughing in the air as your back hits the mattress. He fidgets with his glasses, pushing them up with his middle finger, coming a little loose after everything.
“Yeah?” He murmurs, happy, giddy, his eyes bright and alive and electric as he nips at your bottom lip, his own shining with spit as he ducks down again, pressing kisses to your face, and you feel lightheaded, “Tell me how I’m stupid, baby.”
You groan, lightly hitting his chest as he chuckles lightly, his kisses moving to your cheek, across your nose, as your smile turns bright enough to power the sun for the rest of eternity if it were to die in this very moment.
“I,” you huff, your chest burning and your hands tangled in his hair, fisting his shirt as you bring him in impossibly closer, “I’ve had this…debilitating crush on you ever since I saw you,” you admit quietly, and he pauses, his sunset dusted cheeks turning into a wide grin as he huffs out a laugh and push his face away from your as you turn away in discomfiture, “And I’ve done everything to get you to notice me. I’ve embarrassed myself like, twenty times a day, hoping you’d look my way.”
Satoru raises a slender brow, and you have the urge to pull him down by the collar, pressing your lips to his as he happily obliges, his tongue poking out to tease yours as he turns to an even bigger taunting menace as he pulls away.
“I can’t stop looking at you,” he mumbles shyly, ducking down as he kisses your throat, and you shift slightly to give him more access, your breath catching in your lungs as his kisses turn into him sucking in a patch of skin, licking it over when he’s satisfied it’s going to mark. “I could barely focus on the play tonight because I kept looking over.”
You let out a giggle, curling his soft strands of hair around your finger as he glances up to see your smile, pressing a chaste kiss as if he wanted to taste the way your unabashed happiness felt.
“And I try to sound smarter whenever you’re around,” you admit, and he snorts against the skin of your cheek again, enjoying how plush and soft it was, biting it as you squeal, but it was never hard enough to hurt, just experimental, and he laughs, “And you never even acknowledged the number of times I’d bring up a science-y article I had spent the entire night analyzing just for you to ask me about my stupid book report.” You pout, and he attempts to kiss it off of you, his hands roaming the exposed skin of your waist and stomach, hot against your cold self, and he rolls his eyes.
“That’s only because I was having tiny aneurysms whenever you’d do that,” he reasons, his face morphing into something sweet and gentle and something so entirely new and…yours that you wish you could take a picture of it, “And I wanted you to know that I remembered the things you told me.”
You throw a hand over your face, not wanting him to see the gleefulness on your face, but he just wrings your hands away, slotting his long legs in between yours as he lets out another joyous laugh.
“Come on,” he insists, nudging his nose against your jaw, “How else am I stupid?”
You let out an exaggerated groan, biting your lip as you try to think through your muddled thoughts.
“You…you…you kept only the ridiculous things I gave you!” You argue, and he moves upwards slightly, giving you a pointed look, as if you were offending his lifeline or treasures, “I’ve given so many things and…” But you trail off, feeling his large hand gently wrap around your face, turning it to the side so you could see his room from his point of view.
“Look closely,” he softly urges, and your eyes trail across the walls, the shelves, the tabletops, “This room is full of you.”
And he’s right.
The postcards he has up are the ones you gave the three of them from the time you had gone to Paris with your family over the summer, picking out individual ones you thought each of them would like. Vintage telescopes and microscopes you imagined him enjoying, but never enough to actually put them up. The music box that plays the theme of A New Hope, a simple melody from his favorite movie that you had also gotten for his birthday, sits on his bedside table. The books you had found on sale about plant biology, a little thing you thought he might like, rest on top of his bookshelf.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, and he chuckles at your quiet reaction, dipping down to kiss you again, wanting to nudge those sounds from you, even if he has to take them like this.
“Is this why you’d scare off any guy who came up to me?” You ask, but you already know the answer, just wanting to see the look on his face as he groaned, pinching your side as you giggle at his antics.
“I thought I was being so obvious,” he murmured against your lips, his tongue roaming through your mouth as you part it slightly for him, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, a string of spit connecting the two of you as he pulls away, “Everyone could see how badly I wanted you.”
You shrug, feeling sluggish from his movements.
“I didn’t,” you argue faintly, and he looks up, white lashes fluttering as he grins, kissing the tip of your nose as he smiles.
“Guess I didn’t either,” he whispers teasingly, “Guess we’re both stupid for that.”
You go to fight back, but you let out an embarrassing moan at the way his hands travel across your stomach, pushing your shirt upwards slightly as your back arches upwards to chase the feeling. His hands are large and travel expertly across your body, as if he’s mapped out the small things that make you squirm and the things you itch for, as if he’s spent the past two years studying you instead of his dusty textbooks, and the thought alone makes you shake with anticipation.
“Can’t believe I waited this long,” he murmurs against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plain of it as you shake with an uncontrollable giggle, “Why didn’t you say anything, hm? Did you like tormenting me like this?”
The question makes you stop.
Suddenly, everything from before comes rushing back.
It seems like it sets off alarm bells in your head, as if you had been functioning through a rose-tinted fog for the past couple of minutes, and suddenly reality hits you because…you haven’t told him for a reason. The months and months of pining after him weren’t just because you liked torturing yourself, but because of your frankly very real fears of rejection for more reasons than one.
After a second, you huff, hands clenching by your sides as you feel a surge of feelings, deep ones that you’ve choked on and tried to hide, and he notices the instant way you tense up, stopping his movements as he glances upwards at you.
“Do you want to stop?” He asks gently, tugging the hem of your (his) shirt back down to cover your stomach, and you let out a delicate laugh, a pensive look on your face as you chew worriedly on your face.
Sighing, you rub a hand down your face, sitting upright with your back resting on his headboard, and turn to look back at his desk, feeling the weight of his stare more than before as heat licks at your cheeks.
“What about…what about the others?”
The question rings through the room, bouncing off the walls, and his brows furrow in slight confusion as you still refuse to tear your eyes away from his desk, your hands resting in your lap, and he moves slowly, his large hands encompassing yours, unraveling your fingers, alleviating the tension you didn’t know was building.
“What others?” Satoru asks after a moment, unjudgmentally, tenderly, and caring, patient as you huff out another shaky laugh, shrugging your shoulders as they fall in a heavy drop, your chest rattling with the emotions you had been trying to kill off from the past two years.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, feel his fingers against yours, and your gaze flickers to his before going back to focusing on something to the side.
“This is gonna sound stupid,” you preface, but his thumb presses into the palm of your hand, a small sign that he wasn’t going to judge anything that came out of your mouth because he just showed you that he kept the first napkin you had ever given him.
“But…” you drop your head into your hands, your voice muffled as you continue, “I see the girls that come up to you. O-or your ex. Vi…right?” You peek up, and his eyes are slightly squinted, nodding slowly, as if he wants you to make your point before he says something, “And they’re just so…ugh, I don’t know…perfect? Like, they seem perfect for you. Either they’re stunning, or they’re in your major, or they’re both, or just…so different, and I feel like I’m…not…that.”
He blinks slowly, piecing this together with the fact that he asked you why you hadn’t spoken up sooner, and his lips tug upwards in a little grin, one that makes you want to roll your eyes if not for the storm brewing inside of you, and he tugs you closer, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as he drops his head onto your chest.
“I think you’ve got it backwards,” he says against you, his voice vibrating off of you, and you feel it shake you to your core, his hand moving up and down the expanse of your back as you hand unconsciously move upwards, back to his soft white locks, “Because none of those girls could measure up to my perfect girl.”
You stop, glad he can’t see the large smile on your face as you head falls backwards, thumping against the wood as your chest swells with joy, and when he looks up, his goofy grin could match yours, and you push him away by the cheek, but he just moves, kissing the palm of your hand as you laugh softly.
“You’re so stupid,” you repeat, but he knows you’re only masking the giddiness you feel as he nods against your hand, his eyes shimmering and bright as he sits up a little straighter, nearly encompassing you with his body as he leans closer, his nose nudging yours as the two of you smile against each other's lips.
“You’ve got that right,” he whispers in the small space of air between you, “I’m such a fool for you.”
You decide then that you don’t give him any more time to talk or say something else that could turn your insides to mush, so you tug him down by his neck, his lips curling upwards as they press against yours.
He seems like he’s experimenting with kissing you, as if he knows you’re learning in real time, and has no qualms taking it slow. He lets you take the lead when you want, lets you dart your tongue out slightly, and opens his mouth to welcome you in. When you get a little shyer, he takes the initiative, hands roaming around your hips, pulling you into his lap as you mewl him again. When he could tell you needed some air, he’d pull away, kissing the corners of your lips, your cheeks that he loved so much, the edge of your brows that would pull into the cutest furrows whenever you were confused, and cherished you the way he’d been aching for ever since he saw you at that stupid English department banquet.
You chase the feeling of his skin on yours, the way his fingers feel when they trace your features, the way his hands run up your arms, the way his palm cups your jaw. Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, his as well, as they drop down to the drawstring of his trousers, running up the smooth and hard skin of his abs, feeling greedy as you run a finger down his delicious v-line. You feel him shuddering beneath you, and you grin evilly, your mouth water as you untie his pants, your fingers running over the white tufts of hair of his happy trail, and your shuffle around a little bit to help him as he tugs up the hem of his old band shirt that you donned, and you almost let out a whine when they suddenly stop, lashes fluttering open to see what he was going to do next.
His forehead drops onto yours, one of his arms pulling you closer to his chest, the other still cradling your face, and you see the way his face has gone pink, a light hue that you rarely see him in.
“Just so you know, this, em, this isn’t how I wanted things to go.”
You let out a stark laugh, your hands pressing against his as your fingers curl around his hair, tilting your head slightly to the side.
“Yeah? How were things supposed to go?” You ask, trying not to sound too selfishly drunk on him as he shrugs, his lips pressing together as he divulges you in his own fantasies, things he’d only think about when it was the two of you together and he’d be wanting to confess his undying love for you while you’d be rambling on about John Milton or another one of your other favorite authors.
He looks shy, and you want to bite him, watching him gather up some of the courage you had kissed away as he takes one of your hands away from his arms, playing with your fingers as he pushes some of his tousled hair away from his face.
“Well, I was planning on telling you how crazy I am about you after this whole day I had planned out,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck as he turns a little red, “I had, erm, bought tickets to the museum you’ve been wanting to go to,” he says, his eyes flickering from your face to the side as his head drops, and you nudge it back up as he chuckles, “The one displaying the original copies of those old books you like so much.”
He swallows, taking a deep breath, and then continues.
“And I wanted it to just be us, nobody else. I would have obviously read up on all the authors on exhibit, so I wouldn’t look like a total idiot when, or if, you had come, and I’d spend the entire time sweating and hoping you couldn’t see.” You giggle, and he squeezes your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of it in a soothing gesture. Your eyes drop, urging him gently to continue because you feel like you’re in a dream, and if he stops, you’re going to wake up from it.
“Afterwards, I’d take you to this restaurant I’ve heard is good,” he grins boyishly, tongue poking in between his lips, “And when we were done, I’d walk you back to your place and…tell you that I liked you then.”
You can’t stop smiling, and he can’t stop either.
“Just…just that you liked me?” you tease, humming as he shifts a little, his arms wrapping around your waist, “Not to be…selfish, or anything, but I feel like this way was so much more romantic with your little box of trinkets and your rambling.” He groans, pinching you lightly as you snicker, but he ultimately shakes his head, smoothing over the place he pinched with his soothing touch.
“No, no,” he mutters, his face determined, as if he was recounting everything he had planned to say, “I’d tell you how much I liked the way you look when you start talking about your day,” his thumb brushes across your cheek, running across the soft hair of your brows, “And how much I like the way you care about everything you do and everybody around you. I’d tell you that I really like it when you tell me about the book you just finished, and how much I admire your kind heart. I’d tell you that I…I like how wonderfully weird you are, and how I wish I could be half as interesting as you are on a regular day. I would have told you how you’re always the first person I look for when I enter a room. And…” his shoulders rise and drop as he pulls you impossibly closer, “I would have really hoped that Suguru and Shoko were right about this because I’d be…a little embarrassed if not.”
You hum, pretending to think as you twirl his white strands around your pointer finger even though you feel like you’re on fire and you can’t breathe and everything feels like it’s burning in the best way possible, try not to freak out because the guy you’ve been in love with basically just admitted the most amazing things to you, so you take a steadying breath, your head tilting as you smile.
“And what if I didn’t want you to stop?” You feel heat blossom across your lungs when you hear his breathing hitch, “After…after you’d do all of that?”
He nods, surveying his different options as his blue eyes turn into a slightly different shade, as if they were dependent upon his emotions, and his hands turn a little heavier as they roam across your stomach, up across the skin of your ribcage, and they stop right under your bra.
“Hmm, well, I would’ve have asked you what you wanted to happen next,” his smile is wicked as his face drops down to your neck, leaving wet kisses until he ends up at your collarbone, right at the neck of your shirt as you nearly whine, feeling his teeth scrape just barely over the soft skin, “What is it you want, baby? What else would you want me to do?”
Your breathing stutters, and you arch your back a little, letting his nimble fingers fiddle with the clasp of your bra, giving you enough time to turn him down, but you don’t; you want, no, need, for him to continue.
“I,” your breath lodges in your throat when he opens the clasps, helping you tug the straps down until your old ratty bra, the comfortable one that you were sure wouldn’t matter being worn tonight because you never imagined something like this happening, but he doesn’t care, setting it to the side as he wait patiently, menacingly, for you to find your words, “I’d probably ask you to…to come up.”
He groans lightly, a mix between a guttural moan and a laugh.
“Yeah?” It’s not so much a question, but a confirmation as you nod, shivering when his hands move back upwards, your chest heaving as you feel his nimble and long fingers cup your tits, his fingers running over your nipples as your head falls to his shoulders, “Then what? What would I have done after I came up?”
You go down, you want to say tauntingly, but don’t have the willpower as his thumb flicks over a nipple, and you whine.
“Eh, you’d, uh, I’d, we, would probably end up on…on my bed and I’d probably be wearing something cuter than this,” you try to say indifferently, and he rolls his eyes because you could be wearing faux feathers glued to the entirety of your body and he’d still think you were the most beautiful woman to ever exist, “And I’d probably be a little more confident telling you what I,” you gulp audibly, your cheeks heating up, “What I want, seeing that you wouldn’t have just seen me at my virtual lowest hours earlier.” And he chuckles, and it feels right, feels like this was meant to happen as his hands fall from your breasts, trailing down your stomach as you shuffle a little, moving to lie back on his pillow as he shuffles to, situating his body in between your thighs, waiting for your next command.
Satoru’s grin turns soft, like he knows what it is you want, but needs to hear you say it for him to feel okay doing the thing that’s setting him alight. His hand moves, taking yours into his again and intertwining his fingers between yours.
“… what do you want, love?” His voice is thick, and it settles deep in your bones as your head falls, squeezing his fingers as you sheepishly mutter something, and he barely hears you, nudging you to say it a little louder as you groan in embarrassment, an arm flying over your face as your head falls back, not able to look him in the eyes as you timidly whisper;
“For you, like…to do stuff,” you murmur so quietly you think that your lips barely even moved, “To…to eat me out or….or whatever.”
When he says nothing for a moment, you peek between your fingers and see his cheeks flushed, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets his chin down on your stomach, his glasses crooked as his brow arched. He moves, gingerly tugs your arm away from your face, and sits down by your side as he presses a chaste kiss to your stomach.
“Yeah….yeah, I think I can ‘eat you out or whatever’,” he says, and you groan ever louder, flicking his forehead as he chuckles, taking your words as the sign to go, go, go, his fingers moving excruciatingly slow as they start to tug the waistband of your pants and boxers (his, again), down, looking up at you for a little assistance, and you lift your hips, allowing him to slide them down fully.
You blink, relaxing that you’re completely bare right now, but he doesn't give you any time to be self-conscious as his pupils seem to blow up with lust, hungrily eating up the way your pussy is glistening with want and need, his cheeks a fiery red as his chest moves in a large exhale, like the air had been knocked from him.
His hand raises upwards to take his glasses off, but you make a sudden movement, as if your body was functioning on autopilot, when your hands wrap around his wrist, stopping him from doing anything else.
“Don’t,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “K-keep them on.”
His white lashes flutter slightly, and he gives you one of his boyish smiles that you love so much, his teeth shining as he presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, nodding slowly as he pushes his glasses back on.
“If I knew that waiting so long for you to tell me that you liked my glasses would have been when I’m about to do this, I think I could have waited another couple of years more.” He says honestly, dropping himself down between your thighs, and your eyes flutter shut, head falling back on the pillow as you feel his warm hands slowly move up and up and up, parting you ever so slightly so he could situate himself better between them.
Your mouth parts when you feel his fingers move on the outside of your lips, collecting the slick, and you hold back a wanton moan, your hands flying up to his hair, tugging him closer. You watch as he pushes his glasses up by using his shoulder to move the frames up, and when his lips suddenly latch onto your clit you actually think you’ve gone insane.
His tongue darts out, moaning like a whore when he finally gets to taste your saccharine taste, his eyes rolling back as he parts your lips, the sound greedy as he moves a thumb to circle your clit, moving down to run his tongue selfishly up and down your pussy for his own pleasure, needing to feel you or else he was going to go mad.
“You taste,” his voice is muffled as he pants against your cunt, using a finger to move up and down the slit, “You taste sweet,” he said it like he was startled, like he had spent hours and hours studying female anatomy and how to pleasure a girl and what to do, but never could have expected this unexpected turn, to taste you and realize that you were sweeter and more delicious than any candy he’s ever eaten before, “Why do you taste so…so sweet?”
You would laugh if you weren’t so turned on, saying some jumbled-up words as he ducks down again, your fingers digging into his scalp as his thumb goes a little faster on your swollen nub, his long pointer finger rubbing at the outside of your pussy, getting ready to push it in.
When he finally does, your walls instantly clamp down on it, and you moan, not expecting the stretch, and he gives you some time to adjust. It’s not like you’re a prude, you’ve at least attempted this before, but your fingers aren’t like Gojo Satoru’s, and you feel like you could come just from this.
“Feeling good, baby?” He questions, and you hurriedly nod, hearing him chuckle.
“Yeah,” you stutter out, your teeth clenched as you feel his finger start to move out, and then your mouth falls open as he starts to slowly pump it in and out of you, a mind-bending pace that has you clenching around him, “Feels good.”
He nods, taking it as confirmation to keep going, and he switches between a finger and his tongue, darting them inside of you. He keeps his pressure on your clit, and you grow impossibly wetter when he leans down to lay a cute little kiss on it, his glasses slowly fogging up.
Gojo Satoru eats you out like you’re his last meal, like he’s been living like Tantalus for his twenty years alive, and finally, the fruit tree doesn’t move from his grasp, and he’s able to divulge like the greedy and sinful man he always has been.
Sometimes the hand that’s occupying your clit moves upwards, pulling his old shirt up and over the expanse of your torso to see your supple skin shake beneath his large palms, and he cups your tits, groaning like a slut when he feels your nipples pebble, and he pinches them between his pointer finger and thumb, twisting a little to feel you squeal, and he grins, softening his touch as he smooths it over, moving back down to your nub as if nothing happened.
You watch from hooded eyes, watch the way his eyes close, like he’s savoring your taste. You see the way he slowly ruts into the mattress, like he was getting off to this, and the thought itself makes you gush even more.
When he’s satisfied that you’ve adjusted to his one finger, he decides to slip another one in, and the size alone makes you whine, the stretch something that causes tears to dart in the corner of your eyes in delicious pain.
“Hmm,” you moan, one of your hands fisting the sheets, the other tangled in his white hair as you guide him up and down, and you can swear you feel him smiling against you, as if your reactions were a symphony to his ears, “It’s not like I really have a metric but…you’re good at this.”
Satoru chuckles, looking up at you, and the sight knocks the air out of your lungs. His cheeks are flushed, wet in the dim lighting of the room, his glasses crooked, and his hair a mess, but he looks positively radiant as his smile flashes bright.
“I hope I am,” his voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it, and it vibrates against your pussy, “I’ve been studying.”
Despite feeling lightheaded, his statement chased you to come to your senses a bit, sitting up on your elbows as you looked at him through furrowed brows.
“Studying?” You parrot, and he nods eagerly, his thumb putting pressure on your sensitive and swollen clit as your mouth falls open in a silent moan, barely able to keep your eyes open as he explains.
“Mhm,” he hums, his nose, the beautiful nose that you want to kiss all over, rubs expertly on the hood of your clit as he presses chaste, sloppy kisses to your cunt, “I read all these posts and books and papers about what the best way to eat a girl out,” his voice is hoarse, licking up and down your syrupy inner walls, his two fingers never stopping their relentless pace as something deep in your stomach begins to build up, “Brushed up on some….anatomy and the sorts.”
You let out a breathless laugh.
Because of course he had.
“You,” your mouth clamps shut when he hits the spongy part deep inside of you that makes your toes curl, your lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks, and you can’t talk correctly but make the attempt to, barely above a whisper as you mutter, “Y-you’re insane.”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it as his thumb swirls in figure eight patterns on your clit, his pointer and middle fingers curling upwards, and you can’t really find it in yourself to chide him when he’s making you feel heavenly.
You feel like you’re unraveling at his skillful hands, and it definitely doesn’t help that whenever you have the guts to open your eyes you’re met with the view of Satoru loosing himself in your cunt, as with each second that passed, he was going just as crazy as you were, and it felt like that familiar feeling of an orgasm building, but unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
It’s almost like he knows, because he seems to go faster, switching between licking and his fingers, and your grip on him tightens, and he moans, welcoming the sting.
“Come on,” he presses, urging, needing you to finish around him, to taste your relief on his tongue, “Come on, baby, I know you wanna come.”
You nod, sweat dotting your forehead, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths, that knot inside of you tightening as your thighs clamp down around his head, your walls pulsing around his fingers.
It gradually builds, but that feeling suddenly snaps, and you jolt, your back arching, moving into him, his fingers never stopping, his thumb and lips on your clit, suctioning in a perfect way that sends you over the edge. You clench tightly around him, creaming, spasming as you gush, your eyes rolling back in your head as you let out the quietest but sweetest moan, and when you feel your orgasms slow to a dull pulse, you fall back onto his mattress, limp as he doesn’t stop instantly.
Instead, he lets his fingers slow down carefully, as if you’d get immediate withdrawal from the feeling of having him inside of you. He kisses your clit once, then twice, and pulls away, connected by a string of spit, slick and your cum, and when you finally have the energy to wring your eyes open, the sight of him wrecked form eating you out makes you even more wet.
You take a few moments to catch your breath, your chest heaving up and down, your hand falling away from his soft locks as it sprawls across your stomach, and you stare helplessly at the ceiling.
Blinking owlishly, you awkwardly scootch upwards until you’re resting on the back of the headboard, and you watch as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, grinning coyly as he moans at the taste of you, and if you could, you’d pinch him, but you just weakly push him with your foot, looking away abashedly.
“Nasty,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice gone, and he coos, crawling towards you, bringing his face towards yours as he nudges his nose with yours, and you’re weak, giving in as he hungrily presses his wet lips to yours.
You can taste yourself on him, and you mewl, feeling his tongue in your mouth, licking inside of you, wanting you to enjoy what he just enjoyed, and your shaking hands grip around his neck. He pulls away a little bit, biting your bottom lip before kissing it, and he rubs a loving thumb across your cheek, his eyes turning gentle as he peers at you through those ocean eyes through those stunning glasses you adore so much.
You don’t trust your voice, so instead you let your hands unravel from his nape, moving upwards towards the expensive frames, straightening them on his nose, making sure they rest correctly on his pink ears, and he watches silently, reverently, as you push him back gently by the chin, making sure that they looked right on the bridge of his nose.
“Hmm, looks better,” you whisper affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose like you’ve always wanted, and that seems to push him over the edge, quickly wrapping his arms around your midsection as he pulls you closer to him, falling back on the bed as he tugs you into his chest, his head resting in the crook of your neck.
At that moment, you feel it, and your eyes blink rapidly from their hazy state as his hard-on pressed against your thigh.
“Hey,” you murmur, poking his side, but he doesn’t seem like budging, his overwhelming heat and size covering you, his thick arms not moving from caging you to him, and you can’t even wrangle free, “‘Toru, what about you?”
He doesn’t even lift his head, just hums against the skin of your neck, his lips busy leaving hickeys all over it, ones you’re going to deeply regret in the morning but can’t seem to care right now except for the boner you’re sure is deeply uncomfortable.
“What about me?” He dreamily replies, his voice barely audible, and you roll your eyes. From this angle, you can see the way his shirt is riding up, his abs on display, the veins leading downward prominent, and his trail of white hair is calling your name.
You wedge your hand in between your bodies as you press against his cock, the movement causing him to yelp and shudder, whimpering against you as you snicker, sure that now he’s going to give you some more undivided attention.
He sits up a little bit, resting his head on his fist, his elbow on his pillow as he peers down at you, his brow slightly cocked, not looking impressed with being tormented like this after treating you so kindly by giving you the best orgasm of your life.
“Not nice,” he reprimands warmly, poking your side as you yelp, his finger much more sturdy than yours, “You’re not really supposed to grab dicks like that, y’know?”
Your cheeks heat at his choice words, and you shrug, feigning innocence as you bring his hand to yours, admiring the large size a syou play with his fingers, feeling more touchy than usual, and you’re ever so glad that he lets you.
“I’m just saying,” you mumble, flashing him a look that sends a nonexistent punch to his gut, the blood rushing south because you look ethereal like this, “Don’t you want me to…return to favor? Tit for tat?”
He chuckles, his thumb moving across your eyebrow, soothing the furrow as it moves down to rub against your cheek.
“We can do tat later,” he uses your terminology and you giggle, your lips pulling into a bright smile because you’re sitting in a post-orgasm afterglow with your crush, and that stupid theorem you had stressed over doesn’t even matter anymore because the impossible outcome is happening right now and you don’t bother with looking normal because you’re feeling anything but, “I still have a date I need to take you out on.”
You try not to gush like an idiot, your head falling into his sturdy chest, and his hand moves up and down your back, tracing stars and circles and hearts and writing his name, as if he wanted everyone to see the invisible ink that’s bleeding from his fingertips into you.
His finger hooks around your jaw, tilting your head upwards so he can see you better.
“You wanna date me?” You ask breathlessly with dizzingly joy, the question holding no weight because the two of you already know the answer, but he indulges you, his head falling to yours, forehead against yours, glasses sitting perfectly on his perfect face that’s pressing against your perfect one.
“I want to be yours,” he murmurs, vulnerability thick in his voice as your lashes flutter, “So, yeah, I want to date you.”
You giggle again, and you lift your head a little to slot your lips against his plush ones.
“I want to be yours too, Satoru,” you say, and he groans, his eyes rolling back like those were the only words he’s been dying to hear, and he lets out a victorious laugh, something happy and sickeningly sweet because the girl he’s been in love with for the past two years just so happens to love him back.
"this fic uses em dashes, so it must be ai-generated" real humans use em dashes.
"this fic has long paragraphs with overly described details and scenes, so it must be ai-generated" real humans can write like this.
"this fic has inconsistencies, so it must be ai-generated" real humans make errors and mistakes. that's why we have this thing called plot holes. sometimes writers are tired and they don't remember what they wrote in the last sentences or paragraphs, let alone chapters.
"this fic sounds robotic and unnatural, so it must be ai-generated" not every writer writes in their native language. sometimes they can sound 'robotic and unnatural' if they wrote in their second or third or fourth language (and kudos to them).
"this fic has a prompt left in it that the author forgot to delete, so it must be ai-generated" the 'prompt' the author accidentally left in their fic could actually be a part of an outline that was meant only for them, so they could keep track of what they would write.
"this author posts too often, no human writes this fast, so they must use ai" 1.) you don't know how fast someone can or can't write, how much time a person has in a day or how motivated/skilled they are. 2.) the frequent updates you see could be something that has already been finished and sitting in the author's drafts for god knows how long. just because it's recently posted doesn't always mean it's recently written.
my point? no, you can never know if a fanfic is 'ai-generated'. unless the author says they use ai, you're just assuming, suspecting and witch hunting. chances are that you're not going to 'stop ai fics from being created', you're just going to wrongly accuse genuine writers of using ai and ruin their day at best, make them want to quit writing or sharing their works at worst.
The days have passed heavily — filled with fear, destruction, and loss. We lost almost everything: our home, our memories, and even the simple feeling of safety we once had.
But despite everything, hope still lives within us. We believe we can start over — rebuild a life worthy of those who endured so much pain. 💔
The war is over, yet its echoes remain inside us. Today, we live among the ruins that were once our home, trying to rebuild not only the walls but the spirit that held us together.
We need your support to bring back a sense of normal life, to rebuild our home, and to return the smiles to our children’s faces.
We want to turn this rubble into a new beginning. To tell the world that we are still here — still dreaming, still working, still hoping.
Help us build a better future. Help us restore what the war has taken away. Help us start again with dignity and hope.
🙏 Donate now and help us rebuild our life:
My name is Abedmajed Elderawi, and I live in Gaza with what remains of my once large and loving family.
💌 From the bottom of our hearts, thank you to everyone who stands with us.
Every bit of support, no matter how small, means a new start for us.
You are bringing light into the darkest moments of our lives.
We will never forget your kindness and solidarity. ❤️
Synopsis: in which Toji is visited by the ghost of his dead wife, the one he had let go in the first place
Warnings: angst angst angst, can be read as a standalone but there's a part 1, major character death, f!reader, lots of swearing, themes of grief, alcoholism, reference to suicide, some description of bodily injury but nothing graphic, not proofread
Word Count: 4.6k
What Am I Now?
“You look homeless, Toj. Can you shave, please?”
“Fuck off.”
You sigh. “Hey, now. That’s rude.”
If someone had told Toji that his wife would hang around after her death, he’d have shot them right between their eyes. Dying was not on the cards for you, it was what he kept telling himself. Somehow, the thought of you ever being cold and unresponsive never crossed his mind. You and death just didn’t go hand in hand. It was one of those things that didn’t even sound right. Tragedy wouldn’t find him again, right?
Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, right?
He wouldn’t lose his wife again. Right?
Ah, but of course, all of that was just wishful thinking, not logic. After all, Toji Fushiguro never had the best luck, and he certainly was never favoured by the universe, maybe by the Heavens, but everyone knows who’s really calling the shots round here.
The argument, the drinks, the flashing lights, the turned-over car — he tried to forget it all. To move on like he had before. One would think a man like Toji, permanently shrouded in death and grief, would’ve been used to it by then, but it hit the same, maybe even worse, because that time…that time was his fault. So he buried himself in even more alcohol, attempted to follow you wherever you skipped off to, shut his one and only friend out when he stopped him, and continued living as he did before you, albeit reluctantly and complaining the whole way.
It wasn’t easy, but then again, nothing about his life had ever been.
Eventually, he got into a rhythm, a routine: wake up, clock in, kill a bastard or two, bag the cash, drink, eat, drink and drink again, then pass out somewhere in his apartment or on the streets. Simple.
Until it wasn’t.
“Toji, can you eat something other than ramen?” you ask, pestering him from across the dining table. “Eat something green once in a while. Seriously, you’re going to be made of instant noodles at this point.”
Yeah, you came back.
As an annoying, nagging ghost on your first death anniversary. You just popped up, making a face of disgust at the state he’d left his apartment in. He damn near had a heart attack. At first he thought he was hallucinating — that happens after a drink too many — though when your voice reached his ears, he knew it was something else entirely. Naturally, he lunged straight for you, arms reaching out to cradle your body, to lay kisses upon your lips and inhale your scent.
None of that happened.
Because you aren’t back, not really.
Since then, he’s been pretending you don’t exist. You’re just a figment of his imagination, or some cruel joke by the universe. Well, he won’t play into it. Not when that same universe took you from him in the first place.
“Oh, okay, sure, keep acting like I’m not here, asshole. While you’re at it, go take a shower, you reek of beer.”
Toji slurps on his noodles extra loud.
His days continue like that — you yap and yap, and he ignores every single word. It’s easy considering all you ever say are complaints: he drinks too much, sleeps too often, doesn’t go out enough, doesn’t eat healthily or regularly, and whatever else. Constant and incessant, you drive him mad with your nagging and the exasperating fact that you follow him everywhere — to the bedroom, kitchen, living room, bathroom, and to the damn liquor store.
There’s nowhere on this planet he could go to get away from you, and he’s tried.
“When was the last time you saw Shiu?” you wonder. “You never go anywhere or get any texts.”
No way in hell is he answering that question. He can’t get into it. How can he explain that the bastard meddled in his plans? That somehow he wasn’t quick enough to do something about your accident but was right on time when he grabbed a gun and aimed it at his own head?
After that, all he could recall from that night were the landing of fists, the trickling of blood, and something about how you’d never want that, ‘not like this,’ or some equally bullshit thing.
Groaning, you wave a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Come on, hon. Go see him. Don’t you miss your best buddy?”
Who the hell told you that was his best buddy?
Sure, he didn’t have others, but he could, if he wanted to. That hardly makes that bastard deserving of the title of ‘the best.’ Regardless, he’s not going anywhere near him. Who even knows where the son of a bitch is?
But he should have known you wouldn’t give up.
Once again, you follow him everywhere, this time with a mission — standing by as he pisses, hovering when he sleeps, yammering when he’s on the job, ranting whilst he smokes or chugs a beer, and pleading even when he’s trying to take a shit.
“Please, Toji? This isn’t healthy,” you moan. “You’re cooped up here. And you don’t talk to anyone. This is just like how I met you. Go out there. Say hi to Shiu. Get something to eat. Please? Please, baby?”
His eye twitches.
Hesitantly, he opens his mouth. The voice that comes out is unfamiliar, raspy and gravelly. He winces. “I-if, ahem, if I go, will you get the fuck out of the bathroom?”
You squeal in glee. “Yes! Yes, I promise. Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”
He hides the microsecond quirk of his scarred lips with a hand rubbing down his face and kicks the door shut as soon as you leave.
.
.
.
Being outside is weird.
Things have stayed the same in a lot of ways, but changed in so many others. The tables at the restaurant down the road are new, but the chairs are the same. They’ve swapped a few pictures on the walls, got a new bartender, but the manager’s still here. The speakers have moved, but the playlist’s still the same — shitty and cheesy.
Wearing the least stained clothes he could find, Toji shifts uncomfortably, the scratchy material of his sweater bothering him. He even brushed his hair, which had grown longer than he’d realised. His scraggly beard, though, remains untouched.
Everything irritates him — the noise, the increase in vegan items on the menu, the PDA of couples, the bright lights, and worst of all, the sight of that same suit worn by the man he’d once cried in the arms of like some fucking baby.
“How you been doing, Fushiguro?”
He grunts. “Fine. You?”
Shiu nods, drawing idle shapes into the condensation on his glass. “Good. Was surprised you called. Thought you disappeared or died…” He clears his throat. “Or something.”
The man looks mostly the same — slicked-back hair, tailored suit, polished oxfords, sly smile. He hadn’t changed his number. That surprised Toji, although not as much as the fact that he’d answered on the first ring.
Despite Toji’s attempt to hide the call from you, you still noticed the pink on his ears and the awkward clearing of his throat when he asked if Shiu wanted to hang out. Good thing the bastard didn’t push or crack a joke about it; Toji would’ve hung up the second some wise-ass comment came out of his mouth.
“God, you look like shit.”
With a huff, he responds, “Still better looking than you, that’s for sure.”
Shiu chuckles, eyes trailing the passing girls. “Lemme know when you’re ready to stop cosplaying Gandalf and I’ll hook you up with my barber. Free of charge.”
“Take him up on it, Toji! Pleaseeee.”
At the restaurant, you sit beside Shiu, opposite Toji, making silly faces to grab his attention, and he has to fight the urge to roll his eyes or drown himself in more alcohol. Instead, he steers the conversation away from anything that might lead back to you.
Picking at his fries, feeling no real hunger, Toji asks, “How’s the market looking these days?”
That sparks something in Shiu. “You looking to do some work for me? I’ll find you the highest-paying bounties. You know I’m the best handler in town.”
Soon the heavy tension dissolves, the drinks flow, and the banter follows. They talk about sports and cars and new guys on the job — empty things, small talk they can hide behind. Meanwhile, you’re quiet, just watching.
It doesn’t hit him until later, how easy it feels to be okay, to let himself get carried away. Catching up is good. Talking is good. Food that isn’t microwaved is good. Really good. He scarfs his plate down, and another order after that, shrugging off Shiu’s impressed whistle.
Like this, it’s almost too easy to pretend nothing went wrong a year ago, that there isn’t still a permanent fracture in his life, and in Shiu’s. Every so often, when the suited man glances at a certain corner or when a familiar song plays, he grimaces, remembering too. Toji takes a swig of beer, and so does Shiu — two men, same scene, different stories.
“Hey,” you speak up once Shiu excuses himself to the toilet. Toji doesn’t look up, but he’s listening. That’s all he can do anyway. “Why’s he ignoring me? Did I do something?”
Toji stills.
Briefly, he thinks he heard you wrong or that you misspoke. You don’t correct yourself.
When he finally dares to look, his eyes fixes on you, unmoving. You’re smiling, confused but waiting, head tilted slightly. A large lump lodges itself in his throat. You look just as beautiful as the day he lost you, and just as broken and beat up.
You didn’t come back from wherever you were. You never left. You’re frozen in time.
“You…” His pint trembles under his grip. “You don’t know, do you?”
Laughing nervously, you ask, “Know what?”
“What happened to you.”
The words strike something inside. Mouth opening and closing, you struggle for something to say. The plates and glass shake, rattling against the wood only for a second. You go quiet, gaze drifting to the distance, a frown softening your face. His hand habitually twitch forward.
Before he can press, Shiu returns, smirking and offering him a smoke. “Let’s get outta here.”
Toji leaves you there — a lone figure, unseen and overlooked. The picture looks all kinds of wrong, but he can’t do a damn thing about it.
You don’t follow him home that night.
.
.
.
“Wake up, already. God, are you just gonna sleep the day away?”
Toji grumbles, forcing his bleary eyes open. “Quit yammering.”
You roll your eyes. “I will when you get up and clean up around here. It’s a pigsty.”
Not even he can deny that. The place had gone to shit — empty bottles and takeaway wrappers everywhere. Dirty socks lying around, not paying rent. Trash piled high. Even fruit flies for company. Curtains drawn shut, pictures faced down, TV always buzzing with something grim on the news. You point it all out: the dust on every surface, the mould growing in mugs, the stale stench punching the senses.
Neither of you glance at the corner where your clothes still hang neatly beside his, untouched.
“Leave me alone,” he grouches.
“Oh, come on! I thought you’d be in better spirits after seeing Shiu. Why don’t you ask him about that barber? Maybe see him again in a few days? Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Toji throws an arm over his eyes. “I’m not a child. I don’t need you setting me up on playdates.”
“You always say that,” you hum. “Every time I tell you to hang out with him. God, you used to drag your feet, but you’d have a great time. And don’t deny it.”
It’s true. He used to prefer your company over anyone else’s. When did that change? When did he start being so eager to leave you, to hang out at some dingy bar instead of curling up with a blanket and you beside him?
Why hadn’t he realised that every time the door closed behind him, he was pushing you further and further away, until you ended up somewhere he couldn’t follow?
A headache starts to build at his temples.
With a laugh, you say, “If you don’t get up soon, I’ll start singing…” That gets him up fast. A heavy sigh leaves his lips. He pushes his hair back, mutters something under his breath, and stretches, shirt riding up his torso. You whistle. “Hot damn.”
He snorts. “It’s too early to be flirting with me, wo—”
He cuts himself off. Fuck. He’d gotten carried away.
You waking him up, teasing him, riling him up — it’s all a taste of the normalcy he used to have, that domestic bliss he woke up thankful for every day except on the one that mattered. For a second, it’s easy to get lost in it. Dangerous, even. It threatens to undo everything he’s tried to bury.
Tense, jaw flexing, he throws out, “What will it take for you to go, huh? When will it be enough?”
“Go? Where would I go? Toji, what’s going on with you? You know I’d never leave you.”
His scoff cuts through the air, sharp and hollow. “Is this some Hallmark bullshit? Something about needing to see me do better? Clean myself up or some shit?” He doesn’t wait for your response before he’s moving, snatching clothes off the bed, throwing them into the basket, bottles clanging as he gathers them. “Is this what you want?”
“Toji, I— what are you doing? Be careful.”
Eyes closed, he rips open the curtains, cursing at the sudden heat and sunbeams that touch his skin. In the light, his destruction becomes glaringly mocking.
How far he’d fallen.
When did your home become his rotting hole?
Drawers slam open, trash shoved into bins. It’s chaos. A comical sight — a hulking man sweeping the floor aggressively in just his boxers and measuring detergent with expert precision. Just like before, your nagging goes ignored.
For a man, there’s no greater motivation than spite. He’s punishing himself, punishing you by cleaning up. It’s so stupid, so ridiculous, so utterly him that you can do nothing but watch, stepping out of the way when he nears you to pick something up.
Stomping around, the whole day is spent cleaning up — the empty takeaway boxes and plastic are swept away, dust wiped clean, plates washed and clothes fresh and folded.
A whole year of shit left untouched had piled up. He hadn’t realised how bad it’d gotten. Every time he picked something up, there’d be another thing to throw and then another and another. It never seemed to end.
And his back and knees were paying for his sloven sins.
Groaning and moaning, he got into a rhythm of being a homemaker, all while he continued to pretend you weren’t there.
When he’s done, well past midnight and way too sore, he falls onto the sofa with a heavy grunt, no bottles clinking around with his shuffles.
In truth, he expected to feel a wave of satisfaction, a sense of clarity, a lightness in his chest. In lieu of any of that bullshit, he feels nothing but emptiness. It takes form in a cavernous hole right where his heart used to beat. One second of self-reflection is all it takes for his regret, that bitter old companion of his, to materialise.
Why the fuck did he do that?
Why did he fall for your shit?
Why, fucking why, did he wash the clothes that kept your scent, cups that had your lipstick stain, tissues you used, and everything that was proof you lived here with him?
“Doesn’t that feel better?” Your sickly sweet voice breaches the hushed air.
How could he forget you aren’t the woman he held close every night? The woman he has on his phone screen? The one that patched his wounds up, that told him off for getting hurt, that’d kiss them to heal faster?
You’re not his girl. You’re a fragment that won’t let go. A fragment that’s missing your whole, wherever you are.
“Just fuck off,” he huffs, chest puffing.
Suddenly his long-forgotten splitting headache returns, a sharp ringing paired with it. He’d gotten carried away; the sting of the bleach he’d been so generous with left an irritating tang on his tongue. All the washing had rendered his fingers pruny and dry, and the cleanliness of his apartment was creating an itch on his skin. “Fuck.”
And where the hell is his ring?
“Jeez, can you stop being so rude to your wife?”
Jaw clenching, he snaps, “My wife’s dead.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wishes he could take them back. Silence, all too familiar to you both now, falls across the room. It’s thick, suffocating, and unforgiving.
Moments pass, the tick, tick, tick of the clock whirring in the air. Even before he married you, he vowed never to use his past like a weapon — and yet he just did. Dug it deep and twisted, as if it wasn’t enough that you’re already long gone, because of him. Still, he can’t rein back the deep anger festering in his chest, the one that pleads to be unleashed, to be confronted.
Misting in front of him, you stand with an expression of complete and utter devastation. He looks away. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“I,” he begins, then stops. “Fuck. Forget it. I’ve done what you wanted, you can go.”
“Where the fuck am I going?”
On his feet, he quickly scans the nice, polished living room. Where the hell is his damn ring?
There’s nothing on the coffee table except a remote and a lavender incense he’d dusted off from the pantry. Not a hint of anything metallic on the TV stand or the window sill. Maybe it dropped between the cracks of the sofa. He checks each crevice once, twice, and a third time for good luck. Not there either.
Impatiently, you snap, “I asked a question!”
In the back of his mind, deep in that darkness, he’s acutely aware that the panic coursing through his body and rendering his vision blurry is a symptom of something else entirely. Perhaps guilt or shame, both of which he’s long been acquainted with — but not quite like this, not when he’s being forced to face the ghost of his past, and not figuratively.
“For fuck’s sakes, why won’t you look at me?”
Toji breathes through his nose. Rolling his shoulders back, he fights the urge to wave you away, to smother himself in alcohol and forget he’d ever tried to be something he wasn’t, something he hadn’t been in a long time. But your voice…it’s grating…demanding…
His headache throbs.
“I’m trying to help, Toji.”
The words hit wrong in his ears.
“Help? You want to fucking help?” He scoffs, shaky hand combing through his hair, shoving the overgrown locks away from his face. The cause of his downfall, the root of all his misery, serving itself up to right the wrongs it caused. How laughable. Utterly laughable. “Then fuck off back into the afterlife or wherever the fuck you went. You have no damn business lingering here, trying to fix things, fix me like I’m some toy.”
Sighing, you reach for him out of instinct. “Stop talking nonsense.”
He jerks away. “Don’t. Don’t fucking touch me.”
“Why?” You ask, hand reaching again, insistent despite the steps he’s taking further and further from you. “Why won’t you look at me? Why won’t you let me touch you? Why do you avoid me?”
“Because you’re not here!” Toji bellows.
Vein popping, he shoves a hand forward. It shoots right through you, yet you stumble back as though it made contact nonetheless. That only urges him on, eyes darkening, a madness consuming the green of his irises.
“You’re dead. I can’t fucking touch you because you’re not real. What’s fucking hard to get, huh? Have you even looked in the mirror? Can you fucking do that? Well, let me spell it out for you — there are cuts all over your face, blood dripping down your clothes, shit, ma,” he exhales, “I barely recognised you.”
He’s not screaming now, but it’s all the same, like he’s yelling daggers at you. Each syllable cuts deep, burrowing inside and festering. “No one but me can even see you. Didn’t you figure that out at the restaurant? You fucking died in a car crash, chasing after me.” He laughs. “I’m a worthless piece of shit bastard, and you never had the smarts to work that out. And ‘cause of that, you’re dead. Have been a long time now, doll. Is that not clear? Are you gonna keep pretending? Keep lying to yourself? Acting like you’re not a fucking ghost?”
Step by step, he gets closer, jabbing you with his words until you’re cowering beneath his wrathful gaze. “Toji, y-you’re scaring me.”
Your own words are deflected by the sheer torment restraining his muscles. This entire farce is driving him insane. It’s like he’s talking to a brick wall, desperate to be heard, to be left alone. He’s tired of being a joke to the universe. It’s tortured him enough. It’s wrung him through too much. It took and took until there’s nothing left to take. No more hope to wake, no piece of his heart left to shatter. You took it all with you.
“Well, don’t,” he whispers, breath blowing right through you. Not a single hair is rustled. “You ain’t that good of an actress.”
Disbelieving, you shake your head. “Toji, this again? I t-told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Just look at me, baby. You’ll see I’m your wife. Always. See?”
“You don’t look nothing like my girl,” he scoffs. “You’re just her walking corpse.”
You gasp, stumbling back.
The mirror on the wall catches your attention, and when you look — really look — you see it. The glass shards embedded in your skin, the gaping wounds refusing to close, the bloodshot eyes, and the ripped-up clothes. You see it.
The truth.
You really are dead and have been for a long time now.
Stuttering and stammering, you grasp for a lie to hold onto, reaching for him with wide, panicked eyes. You’re hyperventilating, shivering and shuddering, whimpering.
Things in the apartment begin to shake — picture frames, the TV, tables, cups, and plates. A quake runs through the rooms, vibrating through the floors and threatening to swipe his legs from under him.
A scream tears through your body. It’s haunting, deafening, and silencing. He flinches. The tremors intensify, growing more violent and volatile with every harrowing note that pierces the air. He falls back onto a wall.
In the middle of the chaos, you stand, blood-soaked and crying.
Toji steps forward, hand outstretched out of instinct. “Baby, shit. I’m sorry. I—”
“I’m dead,” you mutter, face crumpling. When your knees meet the wooden floor, the apartment falls into a stifling void, everything returning to its place and remaining so still he thinks, for a second, he dreamt it all. “I’m dead. Oh, god. I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.”
His chest caves in, hands quivering. “No, forget what I said. Come here. I’m sorry. Alright? I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t right, Toji. This isn’t right.”
The truth is inescapable, undeniable, all-consuming: you were never meant to be here. Your presence on this plane is unnatural. It’s an abomination. Your selfish desire to cling onto something — someone — who had been desperate to move on warrants punishment, and you can’t outrun it. Not your fate, not the way that night was always supposed to end, and certainly not the last trickling of sand, that last stubborn granule.
Just one look at him and it’s all so clear — in your subconscious attempt to ease his suffering, you’ve only made it so much worse.
Tears trail down your cheeks, stained pink, and when your eyes meet his for the first time in forever, your features soften. For the briefest moment, he’s struck by how peaceful you look now — clean, whole, as precious as he’d always leave you in the mornings before work. Attempting a shaky smile, you murmur, voice tender, “You really should shave, Toj. I like you clean-shaven.”
He roars, body lurching forward to grab onto you, to sink his claws in the way he should have all those months ago.
But it’s too late.
You’re gone.
Leaving Toji collapsing to his knees, digging into the wood for the last remnants of you he can hold onto. Wetness coats his cheeks. It blurs his vision.
“I never learn,” he laughs, pulling at his hair. “I never fucking learn.”
The apartment is as you left it a year ago — clean, homely, and just as suffocatingly empty. Current running through the rooms, the air howls as if mocking, or maybe it’s gasping with him.
Toji doesn’t know how much time passes, only that it surely marches on, his only proof the drying of his tears and the fading of the scent of bleach.
There, as he lies on the floor, cheek pressed to the cold surface, he spots his ring, hidden under the sofa. It was there all along. Of course it was. When he slides it onto his finger, his eyes fall shut and stay like that. His body feels like lead, sinking lower and lower, and he fights not to stay afloat. He wouldn’t even know what to do at the surface.
Maybe he fell asleep there. Maybe he dragged himself to bed. Whatever the case, he wakes the next day with the curtains wide open, sunlight tickling his skin, and a picture of you facing up, angled perfectly so it’s the first thing he sees.
For the first time since, Toji feels an urge to visit your grave.
He should shower, put on that expensive shirt you bought him two Christmases ago, and stop by the flower shop on the way.
.
.
.
“Happy birthday, ma,” he says.
Your stone had some dried-up leaves on it, but a single swipe clears them away. Toji replaces the rotten bouquet with a fresh one — bright, colourful, made up of your favourite flowers. Along with it, he places a clumsily wrapped box on the grass. Only you and he knows what’s inside.
Sat beside your stone, your name engraved in a font he didn’t choose but doesn’t hate, he watches the trees rustle and people pass. The scene is soothing. “Great view, huh? Lucky you.”
Someday he’ll join you. If possible, he’ll ask to be placed beside you or better yet, with you. If not, he’ll pull some strings, dig up his own grave if he has to. You’d probably like that; you always did ask him to be more romantic.
“Not been doing great without you, doll.” Scarred lips quirking up, he speaks, “Sorry I took so long. You know me, always gotta be fashionably late.” He chuckles. “Ah, but I’m here now. Hope you don’t mind my company. Just be glad I actually showered for you. Even shaved so you can quit nagging. Was thinking of going to the barber’s. Got any recommendations for a haircut, gorgeous? No, I remember — no buzz cuts, right? Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about that. I know you like me pretty.”
It’s easy talking to you, always has been. You were patient, attentive, generous with your time and attention. Never judging, never interrupting, always just happy to hear his voice. He was like that too, though only with you. So he sits there, leaning against your stone, waiting until sunset to begin the story he’s eager to share.
tsukishima kei as your work bestie/corporate rival
pairing: tsukishima kei x reader
cw: tried to use gn pronouns but implied afab reader, english narrations & dialogue, canon divergent bc tsukki didn't go pro, office worker!tsukki, timeskip!tsukki, sexual tension lmao, not really fluffy not really spicy smth in between, some descriptions of hairstyle and clothing (swimsuits), friends to lovers, getting together, also unbetaed hehe so i prob missed some typos
yes, this is the sequel of study buddy-academic rivals but can be read as standalone. bro when i say that i was lost on how to do this at first :"))
if study buddy-academic rival kei was a boon and a bane, work bestie-corporate rival kei got a lot worse. and i'm not just talking about the escalating animosity in outpissing each other.
the unspoken tension fucking broke back in karasuno and yall just kept on breaking and breaking the tension, increasing it anew and further every time it was broken
kei was bullheaded enough to admit to himself about his feelings for you but was pussy enough to simply just revel in whatever you guys have
kei would mostly be your number 1 hater (affectionate) and the first to actually stand up for you in the company
conflicted, endeared, and frustrated, you reply in turn with playful animosity
god save yumata electrics from whatever mating ritual you guys were doing
unspoken competitions between you two (like tobio and shoyo) fueled further by the other returning the same insanity either confuse your office mates or amuse your division mates for their daily dose of your mating ritual
kei waits for you at the door of your division, judgy eyebrow raised and hips cocked to one side as he tapped his foot impatiently. he's holding a blessed iced sea salt caramel latte and piping hot red bean taiyaki inside a cutesy pink paper bag from that cafe you guys go to that opens during random hours and random days
"i'm gonna use your head as a door stopper with how stubborn you are. did you sleep at all?" "whatever kei, you were on call with me earlier. you were watching v-league matches again. so fuck off, gimme that."
you used to startle whenever he did this at first, but he never stopped. so it was a normal sight for you and him, it was the eighth wonder for your seniors and juniors
grumpy scowling beansprout holding a princess takeout bag for his unlabeled and unconfirmed gf, unprovoked
you guys aren't even in the same division! everytime you guys meet it's either kei scolding you for not double checking the expenditure sheet for this week's manufacturing or you're storming along the halls of the finance's division to rip kei's ass a new one for greenlighting low-priced yet in inefficient materials without consulting operations.
and then they'll see kei waiting for you on mornings, dropping you off at your cubicle, sometimes giving you his spare sweaters bc your bony ass is shivering from the AC
and then they'll see kei texting someone moments before lunchbreak and sure enough, just as lunch was announced, you were already grinning at kei from the window of their door and ready to rain hell in the office cafeteria
and then they'll see the two of you bickering at the entrance of the building watching the downpour because why did neither of you bring umbrellas? you guys were supposed to meet his highschool team for dinner, that night of all nights!
those were the mildly friendly encounters the general public were exposed to. the sheer chaos between the operations and finance are further exacerbated because you two like to stir shit up
the management try to avoid scheduling meetings subsequently with finance and operations because they made that mistake once already
you guys almost got fired for speaking over your division chiefs because of cost issues again, it was just lucky that your chiefs like you both enough. (they can't let the both of you go, you guys make work fun aside from being really good at your jobs)
they started consulting the divisions seperately and just releasing minutes of the meetings in the company's system but you guys are shameless
yall still manage to piss each other off as you guys pass each other on the way in or on the way out
kei comes out of the meeting room with a bland face but the moment he sees you, mischief colors his face and he leans down as you pass by to pull at your ear, "better open these tiny ass ears, l/n-san. you might not hear everything if you don't"
you come out of the meeting room chatting animatedly with your division mates but the moment you get a moment's notice that finance is the next one using the meeting room, you wait by the nearby hallway just to be able to yank kei down, "hey tsukishima, heard you accidentally rebooted your PC while saving your logs. stop making it easy for me to get more quotas than you!"
the electric zing in the air, comically dubbed as sexual tension by everyone with eyes that can see, whenever operations and finance work together at the end of the month for accounting purposes probably fries not only your coworkers’ neural connections but yours and kei’s as well
yall cannot fucking differentiate between flirting, playfighting, or plain animosity anymore. to be fair, neither does your work mates
pulling you close by the belt loops of your slacks or by the belt looped around your skirt, reasoning with a wan smile that you were blocking the damn way, airhead.
pulling him by his tie and straightening out the lapels of his polo with a smile for others to see but threatening to choke him in reality as you gripped at his work shirt harshly with gritted teeth for trying to drop a shit ton of papers to file in operations again
taking off his glasses mid-argument and putting it on with the cheekiest grin with your tongue bitten between your teeth and a fuming kei taking it back as he drags you to sit down by pushing on your shoulders as you obediently sit down on a swivel chair, his foot stopping the wheels from skidding as he glowers down at you
him suddenly snatching whatever it is you’re reading and raising it way above you as he squinted at it, holding you by the waist as you tried getting it and ultimately giving up and waiting for him to return it, “hang on, this shit is illegible. did you print this like this?”
getting sandwiched in the elevator with him is a nightmare. you guys were surrounded by your coworkers and kei was trying to shield you from the barrage of bodies but he ended up squishing your files and stepping on your shoes and almost dropping his own files so you just had to hold on his waist as you whisper-yelled at him to stop fucking moving around, you fucking lamp post
you were sitting down and scowling at your computer screen because the spreadsheet was confusing and you called finance in a fury at how migraine-inducing their files are; they sent kei over as usual who was equally irritated at the added workload
you were dishevelled, you hair in a high ponytail away from your neck. he was also dishevelled, top two buttons of his work shirt popped open and neck tie a bit loose. the sleeves were rolled up to his forearms as he leaned down to your desk from behind you and he squinted at your screen.
“why are you calling the main finance trunkline, you menace? call my work phone you idiot, muji-san wouldn’t stop running his mouth before i got here.” he brushed off your hands hovering over the keyboard and typed for you, listening to you mutter values and materials.
clicking his tongue and getting increasingly irritated, he leaned down more and caged you further against the desk with the heat of his chest radiating over your back and his breath flowing across the heated skin of your neck
you and kei were rattling off against each other heatedly again because of some caffeine-less miscommunication about the fees for the needed manual and machine labor, completely ignorant to the disbelief coloring the faces of your division mates with how oblivious you two are at the lack of distance between you two
you were busy frowning up at him and even jabbing at your work screen while pulling kei’s neck tie closer so he could see the screen as well, kei was busy getting pissed at how seemingly technologically inept you are to even notice that you guys are so close to switching faces as he points out the spreadsheet interface to you and going as far as gripping your jaw to point your vision to the right direction when you can’t see what he’s pointing out
"tsukishima-san, this is the eighth fucking time i'm seeing the paper tray in the copier machine empty before i use it. oh is that white polo of yours newly ironed? want me to wipe the fucking ink tray with it?"
"tsukishima-san, did you fucked your head too much from playing volleyball in highschool? no? what does "to be approved till further notice" means then, huh? the manufacturer is asking us for shit the day after tomorrow!"
"l/n-san, it hurts me that we spent all those time in the seminar and you still can't organize the spreadsheet for your target expenses. why exactly am i looking at a pie graph when the memo we sent said to table it? yes, birdie-san, we can't exactly apply the formula if we're looking at a dissected circle."
"oh my, l/n-san, did you even try? i got two weeks ahead of my workload this fiscal year. oh yeah? not my problem operations got held back three days."
you like to send notices to the finance division with special mention to kei because hey beanshit, yamaguchi asked for your archives last month in finance whatever the fuck that is
kei likes to drop by the operations office unannounced and just unceremoniously dump documents where you guys have to file shit for accounting and finance before leaving without another word. you have to pester him in the company system to instruct you on what to do.
the floor manager is on their third ibuprofen. the division chief of finance and operation are both torn between encouraging or berating you two. your mentor is giving you proud slaps on the back and kei's mentor is always having the time of their life offering kei as the sacrificial lamb for operations' wrath
it's a wonder how HR still hasn't put both of you under probation
you guys were driving yamaguchi nuts, he picked the unfortunate short end of the stick of getting stuck with similar deskjobs in a small electronics company in sendai.
you guys are in different divisions but word gets around abt the latest antics of the spitfire rookie of the operations and the condescending rookie of finance. the gentle rookie of accounting keep his shit out of projectile range, he is not playing vip seat of this weird dance you and kei have.
somebody get yamaguchi out of there
the absolute clashing chaos that yamaguchi has to patiently sit through every down time as you and kei exchanged scathing statements on how to speed up the production phase of your products is a workout in itself. saint yamaguchi amen.
yamaguchi had to watch you guys bicker over who enters first in the employee doors, kei sometimes yanking your id and taking it with him inside the office and you're left outside asking yamaguchi to let you in.
yamaguchi had to watch you guys push each other out of congested elevators (he ended up pulling both of you towards stairways) and still try to yank each other by the stairwells. he went ahead and figured he’d just visit in the office clinic whoever falls down
(he didn’t have to. by the time you guys were at your floor you were clutching at kei’s arm in exhaustion as kei fans you with whatever folder he was holding, equally exhausted and irritated from climbing fucking eight flights of stairs)
yamaguchi has to sit through lunch as you guys talk shit about your department to each other while simultaneously insulting each other when trash talking the other’s department
”no, kei, we don’t just “fuck with machines” like you stereotype us to be. i leave the kinky shit to you, man.”
”y/n-san, contrary to your shit for brains thinking, we actually do other things than chase your asses for expenditures. we actually do keep the damn company from falling to ruins because of stupidity from every department. why, for example, do we need to buy ,,, 800 unicorn floaters? for what?”
yamaguchi, patiently once again, let you two wreak havoc during coffee breaks by subjecting your floor to a display of you and kei fighting over the last ginger tea packet while he busies himself with fixing his cup of pure black in the pantry of your floor
out of sight, out of mind. you guys will eventually figure out this years long courtship you guys have going on.
but what makes your pairing infamous throughout the company is that despite being on each other’s ass all the time, it’s that you two are the only one exclusively allowed to be an asshole to the other. everyone else? nah, jail for them
kei keeps on telling you to stop picking fights in bars. he knows that your temper is limited, he’s subjected to it every day
your hotheadedness and foul mouth is something he likes dealing with, you make his life interesting. but he’s sure that’s not the same for others
he has no qualms about you putting assholes in place for being shitty when you go out drinking but it becomes a problem when the next day, you’re pulling him in front of you as a nasty man or a raging woman comes marching in the lobby demanding for a y/n l/n from the operations division of yumata electrics
like, you’re fucking insane. who in their right mind states their full name and where they work at IN A BAR FIGHT?
pissed and irritated as he may be, he doesn’t take to it kindly when other people has the audacity to call you names
it only takes him standing up to his full height and using his athletic build to his advantage as he scowls at them to stop disrupting a professional workplace with childish bullshit or he’ll call for security to drag their ass out for threatening to harm a company employee in broad daylight
he chides you in return once your rival of the day leaves the premises, you shrink in embarrassment as he pinches your nose in exasperation. kei gets hooting and hollering in the finance division on days like those because strawberry cake and strawberry shake are always waiting on his desk during his breaks
you keep on telling kei to please for the love of god stop stringing along his admirers, the firm is small and they’re riddled with seniors, juniors, and colleagues alike pining after the resident prick of finance
kei was indignant bc homie never had eyes for other people aside from you (not that he has the balls to confess). he keeps on saying that he flat out rejects everyone and he’s not even entertaining their advances
you don’t buy any of his shit because no way in hell kei has all the assets and he’s not using them to his advantage (you never said you were blind, you were painfully aware of how attractive kei has gotten over the years. you just. don’t linger on that thought for long periods of time)
regretfully and miserably, you were the one people often go to for anything kei-related since you’re the one who interacts with him the most
you don’t know what goes on inside his fuckass head, the dickwad relegating the second-final rejection as you watch the admittedly amusing crestfallen faces when you say that kei isn’t really interested, he’s just really fucking mean and he’s not really flirting
you cannot believe that kei has the audacity to play innocent after sending you out alone to the sharks to be teared apart by demanding admirers who doesn’t know the word “no”
mf keeps on saying it’s not his fault that they like his charming wit and visuals. you made him pay for your coffee and lunch on those days and he’s not allowed to complain or you threaten to fill his emails with redirected spam mails. (not like it’s anything new to him, buying you shit with no complaints)
you were known to be extremely straightforward, as shown in your tendency to barge in finance and your verbal back-and-forths with even the higher ups during conferences. one time kei overheard some of the junior interns talking smack behind your back.
”y/n-san. they seem kind of a bitch, no?” “right? last week they made me redo the entire phase three of the recoating. isn’t she also a rookie? the nerve, actually.” “you’re right, you’re right! they’re acting high and mighty when we’re all on the same level!”
”you guys have some actual nerve to compare yourself to her. shouldn’t you be ashamed? while you two are here, wasting your breath, l/n-san is probably halfway with her work for the day. my, i didn’t know operations had slackers.”
you really should feel special, kei only ever gets really furious on your behalf since people love discrediting others who are thriving. he wasn’t scowling but venom was thick on his tongue as he continue mocking your coworkers coldly, watching with sick satisfaction as he disdainfully looks down on them while they shrink away in embarrassment
you don’t mind if others don’t like how you do things, you still get it done at the end of the day. leave it to kei to report them to HR instead lmao he’s more than willing to file dozen of complaints while terrorizing your coworkers in the pantry every time.
you didnt know it at first, you just accidentally ran into him in HR since your dept head sent you down to meet the new interns
“what? they were being assholes.” “kei, my god, that’s so dramatic. i’m fine.” “i did it for myself, they were too nosy and noisy. operations probably run behind the deadlines most of the time because you get distracted by their big mouths.” “hey—”
contrary to popular belief, kei wasn’t an asshole. he’s just emotionally challenged and that’s why he says stupid shit. your colleagues like it, your colleagues despise it. it pisses you off that they just like kei when it’s convenient.
”oh, you mean tsukishima? he’s always frowning whenever i ask him out for lunch.” “but you gotta admit, him being mean is kinda …” “his pretty face is his only saving grace.” “aww, if he’s only less mean.”
is it workplace harassment if you always cut them off in team meetings afterwards? are you being mean when you bear down heavily on their proposals at how fucking impractical and inefficient their proposed funds is for an extremely important client’s request?
”the next time you have a minute to sit down and gossip about your coworkers, consider using that energy for these. we’re making appliances for the summer line, not a science fair project.”
”who pissed the devil this early, y/n-san? that was brutal.” “tsukishima-san, do me a favor and shut up.”
kei knows. kei loves it when you get protective like this lmao mans so down bad that he feels swelling pride at the annoyance that you’re not even trying to hide. he knows you being no-nonsense despite being a rookie is what earned your seniors’ favor and your colleagues’ ire but damn, you’re so attractive when you’re like this
it’s always a cold, frozen day in hell when you two are actually upfront about standing up for each other. they’re very rare in between since you guys prefer being subtle about your friendship (everybody knows, yall aint fooling anyone). your mentors are skilled in playing devil’s advocate when they need to use either of your affections for the other in their favor. your colleagues actively avoid you two when you guys aren’t even trying to hide how furious you are whenever the other is being fired at by the higher ups.
“of course tsukishima-san has the fastest rate in the year-end inventory crunch. fucker’s annoying like that, i have to do my work faster too since he’ll dump a new one.” “language, y/n-chan.” “senpai, he’s so fucking good at those, fucking nerd he is.”
”y/n-san’s such an arrogant bastard ” his mentor choked on their coffee. “sorry? i thought you guys are friends.” “oh, we are. she’s still an arrogant bastard. i mean, what kind of psychopath handles a project as a team lead while still being able to go to bars?” “... you make me wonder what’s wrong with your head too, tsukishima.”
one time, kei forgot to double the copies for a meeting and he got his ass berated for everyone in the conference room to hear. he stood there and took it like a champ (you’re aware he lets it go in one ear and out the other) but it’s unfair to you since you knew kei clocked in early to help prepare for the meeting that day.
crazy fool that you are, you volunteered the info that kei clocked in early with you and you’re apologizing for distracting him while doing his errands at butt fuck morning. kei was pinching you so you’d stop but you barreled on and met the entitled yapping from the higher ups.
he can’t really blame you since he did get into the same shit when he covered for you being late to an assembly that you two were shadowing your mentors with. in your defence you were studying the materials and only got to sleep for an hour and a half before blitzing awake towards the venue.
you wouldn’t be caught dead cowering behind him, the next best thing he could do was do something stupid (purposely fucking up the coffee order of his mentor who knows better) so that you wouldn’t be the only one in your self-imposed time out corner.
kei watches you silently lose your shit and wordlessly offers you the plastic bag containing the shit he bought you from the konbini (snickerdoodle ice cream, pineapple bread, and rootbeer float)
the familiarity between you and kei runs deep and it shows. it shows in the way you make space for each other, it shows in how second nature it is to cater to each other. girl, even blind people could see that you value each other so much.
kei came to operations once and unceremoniously slapped a kool fever patch on your forehead hard enough that you feared you got concussion, “kei, ow, fuck! are you crazy!? that hurts!”
”good. you’re so difficult, i told you to call in sick. you could barely crawl out of your bed when i checked on you earlier.” “will you pipe down? noriko-senpai will hear yo— what are you doi— kei, no!” mf told your mentor that you still insisted on clocking in for the day despite feeling like death.
kei watched you like a hawk as you packed your shit for the day, he even escorted you and booked you a taxi. he threatened to visit after work hours and said that he better find you resting
fortunately, kei isn’t as stubborn as you. he doesn’t even think about work the moment he feels under the weather. but he tends to shut himself in when he’s not feeling well so you have to force your way inside his unit and do shit for him.
”needing your extra house key is justified. i don’t want to find another contact person in finance since you wouldn’t answer me or tadashi. no, lay back down, i got you. don’t be stupid, you could barely hurt a fly right now.”
kei doesn’t live in a pigsty per se, even when he’s sick he’s insistent on keeping his space clean. but mf is too focused on trying to keep his room clean, he sometimes forgets to take care of himself. that’s where you come in, armed with stubborness and groceries
in the electronics firm where you guys are working, everyone has cubicles with their own desks and devices. it’s a bit cramped but no one, absolutely no one, protested at the fluffy, fur lined, pink nordic chair kei planted in his cubicle (you got hooting and hollering when you placed a swivel chair in yours similar to the one kei has at home)
there is an unspoken rule that no one but kei or you is allowed in the designated vacant chair in your cubicles
in extension to the designated chairs, kei has a drawer in his desk for when you extend your welcome in finance. surprisingly, kei has pineapple bread stocked there. like who asked him and why does it seem like it never goes empty? you’re not complaining, you only ever pulled it open to get one while yelling at him about the spreadsheets again
you’re the only one he allows to open that specific drawer (not that you’re aware at first) because his mentor tried once and kei almost tendered a resignation letter on the spot
similar to this, since kei is also in the firm’s sports club, you have his liniments and ointments stacked on the topmost drawer of your desk. if recently used, they’re on display on your desk since kei uses those for his migraines as well. mf has the nerve to come over and claim your drawer as his since he also puts his kneepads and change of clothes there
under no circumstances, even under the threat of torture, were you ever going to admit to using his liniments when you’re having migraines as well bc you once claimed that they were old-man smelly (kei bought you one with a milder scent when your mentor tattled on you with photographic evidence)
speaking of the history between you and kei going way back till karasuno, your families are highly likely aware of each other. like the type that go-christmas-eve-and-new-year’s-together type of aware.
i think i mentioned this in the study buddy/academic rival post, but kei has your families contact and was prone to making you do shit by teasing you that he will call them
you didn’t have akiteru’s number at first but the older tsukishima damn near begged to get your number since you updated him about kei.
mama tsukishima gave you her number way back, since the first time you came over to kei’s with your first partner project in karasuno (you guys were still beefing with each other by then and you only ever accepted out of politeness)
your parents first mistaken kei as a burglar bc mf accompanied you all the way home when research ran late and the karasuno mvt told him to make sure you get home safe, they saw him giving you back your bag and thought he was taking it (your dad came out with a broom and your mom has 911 on speed dial already)
the relief settling on their face when they realized that kei was a friend was almost offensive. they asked for his number and EVER SINCE it’s like they have eyes on you at school. homie’s like a STALKER, updating your parents on your sched for the day, if and when he can accompany you, if you guys are coming home late, if you’re eating or if you’re having beef with someone.
hes so chatty with them in texts, you wouldve thought he doesnt give a fuck during video calls
you text mama tsukishima on what to cook for kei when he’s sick and what he likes to eat on his birthdays for when he can’t go home due to work. sometimes, she’s the one who calls just to check in on you. most days of the week, you’re shooting her messages of screenshots of a shopping app and asking her which one she likes bc you’ll bring some the next time you visit.
you text akiteru whenever kei’s icing you out or he’s being stubborn as hell bc one chat from his older brother got him paying attention to you again.
your go-to call person besides your mom, tadashi, and kei was akiteru bc mans can become scary on command for when you need to put him on speaker phone when kei can’t walk you home.
kei fucking abuses the shit out of the contact number privilege he has. he dials your parents all the time, it’s like he’s the son. one time, you visited kei for dinner bc you guys were on the year-end party committee and mf is on the phone with your mom. cooking! you and your mom only see each other during holidays!
your mom and dad didnt even recognized you at first when you peeked at his camera lmao, you had to go on a seperate call with mama tsukishima to sulk (kei ended up creating a gc for the two families so that you guys can vc together)
kei is suffering the most since you like to chat with his mom and your mom at the randomest of times. homie is having his break peacefully and then you and the moms are on the 1-hour mark of your afternoon gossip. yall are on mute during lunch.
kei goes on vc with your dad when you guys are going out. mf is asking for directions and how and where to get the discount coupons. your dad is telling him off for not including you in the vid so kei bends backwards just to include you in the screen (it’s fun watching him walk with his knees folded a bit, you’re not getting that phone from him)
akiteru drops by unannounced sometimes and scolds the both of you when he comes over and it’s not yet cleaning day in both of your units. he ends up cleaning with saeko sometimes.
the electronics company may be small but you guys allow yourselves to indulge in corporate outings from time to time. it’s what makes yumata electrics like a little community in itself.
personally, fuck commuting. it’s practical and cheaper but god does it steal my sanity and my soul all the time. SO obviously, you’re gonna be kei’s passenger princess right? bitch nah, that’s tadashi.
but tadashi ends up feeling bad leaving you to suffer so he ends up dragging you along against kei’s better wishes (not really, he’s happy tadashi dragged you in his car)
charming really, he says that you should be grateful he still has space in his car but he’s also the one who lets you have the aux cord. he also stops in gas stations whenever you say so.
to no one’s surprise, he has your dad on vc with akiteru chiming in sometimes bc he doesn’t need maps when he has your dad and his brother.
the one time you actually refused on carpooling with kei and tadashi bc the voices in your head won that day (you were embarrassed bc he keeps on allowing you to ride in his car every time), kei had to knock your door down and haul your luggages himself just so you’d get the message
”h-hey. kei, it’s fine really. i think i can commute or get a car service past hiyoriyama to the beach.” “and get your ass lost? get inside the car, that’s what i'm here for. your mom and dad will beat my ass if you get lost.”
unsurprisingly, the drives are so quiet that you actually end up sleeping all throughout (kei has the eyes of death whenever tadashi snorts or opens chips too loud)
when you’re lucid or awake enough to play the aux though, kei’s fucking complaining with your song choices but also asking you what was the previous song.
the team building is usually at the beach bc it’s more cost efficient lmao, you guys can either pitch tents or rent cabins.
lesser costs also for the activities as swimming and beach volleyball is free and bbq grills are cheap to rent with about fifty to a hundred people in the firm pitching in
you’re pretty sure kei is the one who proposed that the venue is always somewhere he could drive to
beach trips mean swimming and sunbathing. it’s time to finally get out of the stuffy office clothes and into your swimsuit. while you like showing off your figure, getting scorched isn’t really your thing. so, a cropped long-sleeved rashguard and highwaist bikini bottoms it is.
someone’s distracted as fuck. kei looks as if he couldn’t be bothered aside from frowning at the possibility of you getting sunburnt, he promptly tells you that you will look like a lobster much like back in karasuno (he’s yelling inside because you’re SO).
his eyes are flitting between all the skin he’s seeing up to your neck out for everyone to see as your hair is pulled up in a high ponytail. as if he isn’t pissed enough that the other guys who don’t pay attention to you are suddenly all eyes on you.
he knows you can handle yourself but well, you have him and tadashi if push comes to shove which is why you feel safe and comfy enough to wear swimsuits like these
beach volleyball is a company-favorite, with kei also being in the company’s sports club. you pointedly look away from all the dreamy gazes your colleagues shoot towards kei.
i mean who wouldn’t when kei’s decked out in an unzipped hoodie, shirtless, and his board shorts. kei might’ve not gone pro in volleyball but mans still religious with the gym and playing in local tourneys.
you play too, recreationally and not as good as kei. you play for a couple of matches in the sun, 2v2s. kei’s having a hard time looking away.
you, volleyball, swimsuits? nah, mans can take his eyes off you since it’s 2 of his favorite things together.
god bless, kei is so attractive whenever he’s on court. kei left his hoodie with you by the scoreboard, you’re the scorekeeper after playing for a few rounds.
kei is standing near your area whenever he’s not serving or during timeouts, he complaining about the sun right beside you while simultaneously shielding you from it.
numerous times you had to remind yourself that kei’s eyes are up there, the ball is over there, the net is up there, the foul is over here bc girl, your eyes always gravitate to kei’s well toned torso and arms. they’re fucking criminal.
when beach vb is over, you guys are allowed to roam around the beach a bit while the executives prepare the next tournament (inter department pingpong)
”i think you should cover up.” “you know, i also use my head but i don’t say it out loud. leave me be, kei.” “there’s too much skin, i’m going to be hearing you whining about it stinging so bad on the trip back.” “so? it’s just skin damn.” “do you want my hoodie? here.” “no, the fuck, you cover your scrawny ass self.” “excuse me—”
you guys immediately fold your lips shut bc you might’ve caught the chief executive officer giving both of you warning eyes. lmao, your mentors are once again having the time of their lives.
the first time you saw kei’s department head yelled out in joy was when it was time to draw lots of the dept reps and kei was chosen. because surprise, you are operations’ rep. and it was a 2v2 match again.
despite the famed rivalry between operations and finance, you guys have a common enemy (sales and marketing)
you and kei were a scary tandem when you’re not at each other’s throats, ever since back in karasuno really; you love hitting first because you’re prone to doing feints like weak service, weak hits bc the opposing teams hit it back hard thinking you guys will miss, kei smashes it out of the field. and there’s no verbal indication whenever you guys switch roles too.
it could be you smashing the return balls, it could be kei doing feints, it could be both of you doing either at the same time.
the other team often loses to the mind games and kei’s unnecessary comments (“look at that, y/n-san. they don’t know where to look.” “my, my. that was already a weak hit.” “is this even really a match? feels like y/n-san and i are the only ones playing.”)
as much as you want to play along with kei’s taunting, you can’t help but cackle at his antics instead. “kei, that’s mean. you’re so dramatic.”
this doesn’t have the intended effect of keeping the game lighthearted, sales and marketing felt even more pressure at how carefree you were playing and still managing getting hits off them
tadashi definitely started a betting pool within the company on how long it will take for you guys to see that you were good together
after the festivities in the day were done with, the barbeque and the boodle in the night followed. it was chaos and good food, the perfect time to unwind. except well, your coworkers are fucking giants and you can’t really butt in line.
you were the yachi in the sea of your colleagues’ tokyo training camp
it wasn’t that you were scared to get crushed, you probably could elbow your way thru.
but you really didn’t want to squish between the beach-saturated body heat of your coworkers, an entire morning of tournaments also sapped the life out of you.
you resolved to get your portion of whatever is gonna be left later and was about to go look for a seat among the beach chairs when you were yanked back by the arm, unprovoked. you were met with a frowning kei yet again at the lack of food in your hands
”the hell are you going, idiot? were you planning to eat sand? where’s your plate?” “uh, maybe later? the line is long and i really don’t wanna … it’s fine kei, i’ll get one later promise. don’t you go snitch on me to maㅡ hey! kei! where are you going!?” “getting us food, go look for a chair or something.”
took you a few minutes to load as you watch kei use his physique to grab you guys shit from the grill and other food trays.
you guys ended up settling a bit off aways from the noise of your coworkers. close still but far enough to hear more of the ocean.
”you’ve got to stop being such a pushover, y/n-san. i’ll end up fishing your ass out of trouble all the time.” he was peeling grilled shrimps for you and himself, you were munching on a grilled chicken leg as you petulantly looked at him
“i am not! when am i ever?” you were laughing and kei was smiling as he assures you that even if your picky ass is still too lazy, he’ll just get one for you every time.
”ohoho, so generous tsukishima-san.” “i’ll drown you if you don’t shut up.”
tadashi snapped a couple of pics of both of your backs facing the campfire. it’s kei’s homescreen behind a heavily guarded, heavily plain lockscreen
when the company is on crisis mode, all departments are on lockdown as everyone is high strung and more prone to getting in arguments. you and kei decidedly don’t meet often around times like this bc surprise, your arguments tend to get explosive as no one is willingly backing down due to stress. well, that is until somebody fucks up in manufacturing.
you and kei have an amicable agreement to pointedly ignore each other bc yall accidentally trashed tadashi’s lunch the last time your stress and kei’s stress met with tadashi’s stress. both of you didn’t want to deal with tadashi’s cold shoulder ever again.
you tend to get very quiet yet snappy once disturbed, like a ticking time bomb. kei tend to get meaner with every attempt to talk with him, like the thinnest center of a frozen pond about to crack.
you and kei arguing is a common sight but you and kei avoiding arguing means shit is that bad.
so when someone in manufacturing made the honest mistake of misreading the print sent over by the main office and producing different variants of the intended product, you and kei almost clocked out when your respective department heads put both of you on overtime to create an incident report with the respective necessary documents.
it was stressful. you guys were high on caffeine and low on sleep. it was only an hour in since overtime started.
you’ve already let your hair down because the ponytail was giving you a headache. kei has already taken off his eyeglasses more times than you can count.
you weren’t even hiding anymore that you were using kei’s stash of liniments, you’re gonna be complaining tomorrow from the infernal smell that clings for days. kei has already gone through half of the pineapple breads in his drawers. he hates it.
you don’t know how but you find yourself doing kei’s numbers on the spreadsheet because you were about to go crazy looking for the transactions in operations (which has been delegated to kei since he needed the mindless task)
you were about to cry from exhaustion and frustration but you snatched one of the blankets conveniently stashed in kei’s office for his own use and you can suddenly power through the last hours before daybreak
no one is mentioning it even if you know it, kei know it, both your departments know it. they found you guys in the morning, sleeping in one of the couches in the meeting room; huddled together and sharing one blanket, kei’s arm pillowing your head, both of you were snoring
halloween was equal parts amusing and mortifying. aside from the heavier grind during the busy hours, the after hours are where you get to dress up and kei gets to watch his coworkers make a fool of themselves for free. but everything came to a head at your office's halloween party.
of course you have to go as morticia addams. you’re a gomez short though. good thing, you have tadashi and kei.
tadashi apologized as he already bought an amongus costume but offered that tsukishima still doesn’t have one; you hurried over to disturb kei’s peaceful hallow’s eve
kei wants to strangle tadashi bc he was planning on 70% staying home and 30% going in his ravenclaw robes but he begrudgingly agreed to being your gomez for the night.
he relented because he owes you one for saving his ass during your early intern days, he doesn’t want you ugly crying the entire night if nobody comes with you to the party.
he looks goofy (as kei put it) in his pinstriped suit, fake dismembered hand perched on his shoulder, candy tobacco between his lips, and haphazard black hair chalk on his hair.
you couldn’t convince him on the mustache lmao but you were able to beg your way through for the contact lens though (god he’s so pretty, you don’t know how you’re gonna keep your hands off him for the rest of the night)
tadashi was the one who put the eyeliner on him since kei said he didn’t trust you to not skewer his eyeballs off, which was honestly fine with you bc you get to stare at his face without him knowing. tadashi saw all of this ofc and said nothing.
”look tsukki, it’s you and the bad bitch you pulled by having trust issues.” “shut up, yamaguchi.” “sorry tsukki, you’re staring hard though.” “i said, shut up.”
tadashi was right. black floor-length dress that hugs your figure with billowy sleeves and a long-running slit down one thigh; kei was a goner. the terrific theme of your all black makeup wasn’t supposed to awaken something within kei. mans was whipped the moment he and tadashi knocked on your door so you three could go to the company together and you came out looking like goddess divine.
kei was scowling by the time you guys reached the company though. you guys were greeted with cheers and teasing yet again due to the couple-y nature of your costumes. but he’s okay with it, as he looks at you twirling around and showing off your dress and your cut-off roses to your coworkers. as long as you're enjoying, he guesses.
complaining and rolling his eyes throughout it, kei agreed to posing in some pics with you. kei was giving your knuckles a kiss, kei was giving the crown of your head a kiss from the side, kei offering you the cut off roses while kneeling on one knee, and the most infamous, you were holding your hand out and kei was giving your forearm a kiss from behind. (kei had a blast don’t believe him otherwise)
he watches over you as you drink your heart out, mans was ready for a ponytail, a fan, your makeup, a hanky, a glass of water. he watches as you have your fun in the evening while simultaneously berating you for drinking like a horse despite having the body of a rat.
he feels a bit more in love with you every time he sees you having fun
best believe you’re in safe hands when you go out drinking with kei, he lets you have your fan without letting you stray too far. no worries about the creeps, his height and scowl is enough to scare them away but should ever someone is stupid enough, he can fight.
”walk straight, damn it. how are you falling all over the place, the car is just right there!” kei threatens to leave your ass if you don’t carry your own weight. he doesn’t let you fall, his arm is around your waist while his other hand is supporting your arm around his shoulders
he eventually switched to carrying you in his arms, princess-like. but not before removing your heels for you and dangling it between his fingers bc you were going to complain about blisters in the morning.
kei was going to drive you back to your unit but it took you several minutes of incoherent mumbling before he realised that you left your keys in your locked office drawer when you guys stopped by earlier. the office is already locked for the night.
kei brought you back to his unit, a few buildings away from yours. he made sure to strap you in your seat properly, with few difficulties bc you were falling all over the place.
he brought out the extra pillow from his backseat and fitted it between your head, neck, and the car seat. he’s already trying to remember if he still have those tiny bottles of your night skincare and make up remover.
your smudged make up after a sweaty night of mingling with your coworkers wasn’t supposed to soften your features, it should’ve been distracting. yes it was, but kei was kind of trying to stop himself from kissing you.
turns out he didn’t have to. you reached up and pulled his face down to yours to plant tiny black-red kisses all over his face as he was opening his front door. if he hasn’t slotted in his room keys yet, he would’ve dropped them.
”why? why won’t you see it?” your lips were trembling minutely against his cheeks as you whisper to him, both your hands were holding his face as if afraid.
“you’re drunk, y/n.” he’s lost as he watches your eyes mist over with unshed tears. his heart was pounding at what he was hearing.
“i’m not! you are! you’re the one who can’t see! i’m right here, right here!” you were pouting angrily up at him already, a few tears already slipping down your face and kei’s heart squeezes because you still look pretty with your liner and mascara faintly running down. he leans in to kiss both of your eyelids, fuck getting eyeshadow on his lips. your arms came down to hug him by the waist as his hands came up to cup your face tenderly in his palms.
“okay, my lovely. okay, what is it i don’t see?” kei lost. how the fuck can he fight his feelings for you when you’re being like this to him, heart so raw and face so open. how can he ever endure seeing you look so heartbroken?
“me! you! i like … like your stupid!”
“my stupid?” kei chuckles as he thinks of how fond he is of you, he wants to pinch your face so bad. you were frowning up at him, annoyed, and here he was, fighting for his life to not suddenly bite you. his thumb was rubbing softly at the apples of your cheeks, eyes staring intently in your hazy ones.
“yes, your stupid. you can’t see i like you because of your stupid, it … it fucks your brain and you can’t see me.” kei can’t stop the grin spreading on his lips despite his better judgement, you were so precious hitting his shoulders in frustration
“okay, my lovely, i’m sorry for my stupid. it’s being mean to you isn’t it?”
“very much.”
“tell me again tomorrow, okay? we’ll do it together.” you were looking down, even your shoulders fell as if dejected. kei can’t have that. he fully wrapped his arms around your shoulders and gently rocked you guys from side to side, he kissed your forehead multiple times with a relieved smile before herding you inside.
how you guys got together the next day was something kei had a blast regaling the story of to anyone that listens for years to come. you almost always punch him in the gut if you weren’t busy being flustered.
the moment you came to, you almost shot out of bed because of the unfamiliar downy soft pillow under your head and the sandalwood scent from the warm comforter enveloping you.
you didn’t expect someone nosing at your cheek and for an arm around your midsection to catch you from getting a concussion first thing in the morning. someone’s blocking the offensive sun for you thank god.
kei softly grins down at you (oh god), smile expectant and knowing, as he faintly raises an eyebrow. it’s either a migraine or a hangover because holy fuck he looks angelic with how the early rays of the sun filters in like a halo behind him as he props himself beside you on his elbow.
shit came rushing back to you a mile a minute as kei leans down to continue nosing down your temple, down your cheek, down your jaw, and down to your neck while he whispers in the quietness of dawn
“are you sober enough now, you brat? or do you just want to hear me say i like you again?”
you’re too fucking frozen to register kei starting to hum against the crook of your neck, his lips skimming against your flushed skin. dear fucking— what were you thinking last night!? you couldn’t even comprehend jackshit right now because all five of your senses are on overdrive trying to make sense why kei is—
“take your time birdie, i waited for your dumb ass for years. a few more minutes is nothing.”
timeskip!tsukki smells like santal 33 to me yall cant change my mind. wood notes with coconut undertones YES SUFFOCATE ME
the way i fucking vanished for a month hsfghsdf psych rotation was no joke damn. anwww, this really was supposed to be tsukki's bday gift but yk ,, life happened so this is a really, really late bday gift slash softcore halloween fic (bc yall idt im ready for kinktober yet)
next up is the second installment in sining sa museo (older museum bf! tsukki)
copyright 2024 cirquedelooney — all rights reserved.
dividers from saradika
ms paint format from pinterest
tsukishima kei as your study buddy-cum-academic rival
pairing: tsukishima kei x reader
cw: tried to use gn pronouns, english narrations & dialogue, fluff, brief mentions of suicide bc of dazai and akutagawa, mentions of insecurities, also unbetaed hehe so i prob missed some typos
bc im just about ready to evaporate and have my tsukki yell at me with worry and motivate me to just push a little more
sequel updated!
and i meant this not in the cotton candy way where you two just yell insults at each other and be mean to each other for no reason other than repressed emotions like what . where’s the flavor . the umami of proving that you’re better to yourself and to him then being vulnerable to another in the process,.,,
i think i mistyped trauma response but i got the messaged relayed ,,, well ,,,
as a disintegrating college student myself, i get that studying takes light years of my lifespan. but i love my subjects, it’s just the pressure that comes with affixing a numerical value to my worth and knowledge. and i know that i can do it, it just gets exhausting at times so we need the added spice of having someone fucking up your day while simultaneously making you feel lighter ,,,
that fizzy feeling in popping candy, you’re aware that you can eat the candy as is and still enjoy it bc it tastes the same but like ,,, where’s the fun in that, right?
with that being said, having kei as an academic rival is equal parts infuriating and motivating. and i will fucking drop a detailed essay on why bc why else am i a tsukki girlie if not bc i yap to irritate ppl??? this applies to another blonde asshole in hq as well but he’s a post for another time
so the infuriating part of having kei as an academic rival is that you know he’ll antagonize you in every way he can. he’ll always be in the opposite group as you, always looking for chances to disagree with your recitations.
always asking if you’re sure with your answer or if you could provide citations or just making you double-check everything in general bc he's a piece of shit like that
it blows up into arguments that the teachers sometimes let it go farther in amusement or disbelief while other teachers berate both of you for acting like you don’t know any better
while you feel indignant for having been dragged into kei’s fuckery, he’s pleased as a punch and grinning like a cheshire cat. yes, he may have been sent to the faculty for a light reprimand but you know what, you too.
he gets the absolute joy in seeing you turn red in irritation
adding to the infuriating part is the scores. he’s in class 4 and iirc japanese high school systems are grouped according to how smart the students are?? so like based on their grades ig and the classes 4 and up are college prep classes so like megamind kinda smart. and well, you’re in class 4 too and you can hold yourself up there in the ranks
but you don’t know what voodoo shit he’s doing and he always, always, get to gloat his scores to you. you guys get the same score in a quiz, he smirks down at you. you get a +1 for your essay and he gets +5, he flashes the paper at you airily. you answered the teacher’s recitation correctly and got additional credits for it and he expounded your answer like a motherfucker and got double credits, all while eyeing you smugly.
you want to yank his scalp atp
your conversations usually go with you trying to not pop a vein in the head and with him trying to pop that vein in your head.
“tsukishima-san, a third year is looking for you outside.” mf looks around a couple of times before going back to his notes.
“tsukishima-san.” homeboy removes his earphones for a bit and looked around again before placing it back and reading his notes.
“would it kill you to actually act as if you’re not fucked in the head?” you sat down at the seat in front of his desk and try your best to get in his line of sight
“that depends. it’s fun seeing you try your best for once, even if it’s in getting my attention.” ooohhh you wanna clap his headphones hard on either side of his head so badddd
“tsukishima-san, sugawara-senpai is looking for you outside.” you grin as he almost fell out of his seat as he looks quickly at the door of the room to see the third-year setter of karasuno smiling at him and waving him over.
“you couldn’t have led with that? what the hell is wrong with you?” the satisfaction of putting the absolute fear of god in him is lovely.
“what is wrong with you? i’m trying to help you not get smoked by your senpai.”
“you could’ve just told me. you know, like a normal person.”
“kinda hard when you’re busy looking stupid looking around.”
he squints down at you as he heads over to the door and you get this very bad feeling of foreboding, “i’m telling ichika-sensei that you’re helping me on garden duty until next week. the oh so gracious, ever considerate, y/n-san.”
“DON’T YOU DARE! TSUKISHIMA— TSUKI— KEI, DON’T BE STUPID I HATE BEING IN THE SUN! I TURN LOBSTER RED!”
“oh my, suga-senpai needs me.”
“TSUKISHIMA.”
the entire class watches daily almost religiously
the class always looks forward to biology class and literature class because they get to see you and kei demolish each other in your respective expertise.
"ha? of course, mosquitoes feed. both male and female, yes. what? only the females feed? where the hell did your bird-brain get that, y/n-san? shut up, you're a bird brain because your attention span is shorter than you. females feed on blood to reproduce while the males feed on the flowers, and recently an amber fossil has been found of a blood-engorged male mosquito. yes birdie y/n-san, the males feed too. the hell did you think they do so they don't die? you'd know if you actually watch the nat geo episode i sent you last week."
"y/n-san, why do you keep on getting the geological time scale wrong? the triassic period comes before the jurassic and before the cretaceous. you'd think someone who knows how to titrate sodium hydroxide and potassium hydrogen phthalate can differentiate the periods between the first mass extinction, the breaking of pangea, and the second mass extinction. no, you get your head out of your ass and actually read the transes i send you. "
“how many times do i have to drill in your noodle head that dazai osamu idolized ryuunosuke akutagawa, not the other way around? i get that it’s reversed in bungou stray dogs and that’s called fiction in case it escaped your head, but no— no, listen to me, idiot. they both commited suicide, okay? akutagawa went first. and since dazai was largely influenced by akutagawa in his writings and maybe in his lifestyle, dazai started his attempts shortly after akutagawa went. yes, tsukishima, bungou’s dazai’s ability is one of his most famous work, no longer human and it actually works much like how the plot unfolded. it goes like this, you peasant ….”
“you fucking idiot, you always piss me off don’t you? the brontë sisters all wrote jane eyre, wuthering heights, and tenant of wildfell hall. charlotte wrote jane eyre, emily wrote wuthering heights, and anne wrote tenant of wildfell hall. i will hammer your forehead in if you don’t stop snickering like a baboon, shut up. yes, i will tell you in great detail how the brontës specialized in angsty and tragic shit as opposed to jane austen’s slowburn schticks. because they are different, i wouldn’t expect your blind ass to actually see shit.”
by demolish, i meant insulting the other and then proceeding to teach each other
is tadashi the only one who notices that kei gives you special attention? no. the entire class sees it but only yama is the only one brave enough to actually ask kei about it.
“say, tsukki. about y/n-san.”
“please do not ask me about them if it does not concern the upcoming group report next subject.”
“no. so, you guys have been really close lately.”
“you mean close to strangling each other?”
“as in close friends. did you really watch land before time with them in the library the other day?”
“fuck off, yamaguchi. it was our study break, and the moron had to be educated.”
“library dates huh?”
the chokehold was worth it, yama took one for the entire class
but this infuriating part almost always blends in with the motivating part of having him as your study partner because as much as he’s such an annoying rival, when the two of you actually sit down and work together, it’s like seeing waves in the deep sea. seamless and a force to be reckoned with.
i think tsukki is kind of like a lazy genius?? like he’s actually smart but couldn't be bothered to actually exert effort, like hes unironically doing his best without even trying. which is why i think he gets pissed by effortless dumbassery or impulsive shitfuckery (ahaha hinata kageyama), like look at him hes not even doing shit and hes not that bad so why the fuck are they so shit?
you guys are either deskmates depending on your surnames or just get paired a lot in the random groupings by some miracle. which, funnily enough, how most of your initial interaction started before it devolved into whatever current mayhem you two have that is teenage feelings.
he’ll go out of his way in looking for you for groupings because he “wanted someone who actually uses their brain for its intended purpose and someone who gives a shit about the outcome of their studies.”
the class roster is composed of fairly smart students but almost all of them crumble when faced with kei’s taunts and hard facts plus your terrifying insistence and casual firmness when it comes to defending your outputs. A scary blend of relaxed confidence and blunt force.
he doesn’t want you falling that much behind on your lessons either because he wants to test out your skills against each other at 100%. so he’ll help you when you’re having difficulties in some topics.
“you have to transpose x to the other side of the equal sign and change the negative sign to positive sign.”
“but why?”
“because i said so. you have to temporarily treat the equal sign as zero in the number line, the opposite sides of a number line have different signs right? come on, y/n-san, i know you’re not a dumbass.”
“i’m not! it’s just difficult to connect the dots, my eyes are swimming. just because you have two sets of eyes, doesn’t mean i do too.”
“i’ll let that comment pass, brat. it’s okay if you’re still not getting the hang of it, i’ll just hit you with the module until you get it.”
kei is actually a great study partner because whenever you study together, as much as he demands absolute silence for “a conducive work environment”, he always leans over and teaches you shit step by step. sometimes he gives you shortcuts different from the way the teachers taught it.
this actually works for you too because you get in deep shit whenever you start studying. like no man nor flying kick nor rampaging students in a lunch rush can take you out from your studying haze because you tune out your surroundings except for the close bubble that you and tsukishima have.
when it’s time for study breaks and snack breaks, he’s careful to not suddenly startle you. he gently taps your head or forehead with the tip of his pencil to get your attention when your reading handouts, taps a finger on the table within your line of sight if you’re solving to not break your train of thought, and pulls your earlobe softly from the back as he’s walking by if he’s heading to get snacks from the vending machine to ask if you want any.
he reminds you to take rests in between and asks you to breathe for a while. he scowls down at you if you insist on just a few more minutes.
“if your dumbass gets sick bc you keep on running yourself to the ground, i’d laugh at your idiot face because your dumbassery got yourself sick.”
“y/n-san, i’ll text l/n-san that you’re not eating your greens. oh yeah? try me motherfucker, i can even tell your nee-san later. then eat your damn lunch.”
of course your family knows about kei, your new friend. you guys spend most of your time together studying it’s a wonder you guys haven’t exchanged faces at this point. it’s scary how your parents and siblings put their faith on him on snitching whenever you fuck yourself over
there are times where you let the demons in your head win bc kei gets random bouts of lucky streak, a couple of days in a row where everything suddenly doesn't feel right for you and jackshit is going your way.
if you tend to pull away, feeling the need to be alone for a few, he’ll let you. he’ll cover for you and send you what you missed.
if you try to power through and pretend everything is fine, he’ll frown but he’ll also let you be. if you start self-destructing, that’s when he’ll step in
the moment you start second-guessing yourself, he’ll snap at you.
“oy. the hell were you doing earlier?”
“uh. new way of reporting?”
“you just read the powerpoint. like a fucking teleprompt reader.”
“i didn’t want to fuck up my explanations like last time.”
“if i could just dislodge your head and shake it around till it pops, i would.”
the sad smile you gave him did it for him. he grabbed both of your shoulders and looked you in the eye with faintly reddened cheeks, “ those idiots won’t understand what i’m saying without you. you understand it best whatever shit i say, don’t you?”
when it comes to how the karasuno volleyball team views whatever the hell you guys have, all of them vary between relief and disbelief
the first years are rightfully concerned, sans tadashi. yamaguchi is always torn between fueling the fire and refereeing whenever you and tsukki piss each other off. the rest of the three are either worried whether kei is still kei and what have you done to him or in concern because is kei still kei and what have you done to him.
the second years think it’s a riot how kei somehow resemble chris pratt now from jurassic world, leashing three (four tbh bc we have tadashi) menaces and trying to keep them in control (you, hinata, kageyama). tanaka almost fainted when he heard you calling kei by his first name as if it’s second nature (“tsukishima is a mouthful, and yama is the only one allowed to call you tsukki. besides, i like how you get pissed enough by me using your first name that you actually pay attention to whatever the hell im saying”). noya tried to hit on you but you were promptly barricaded by the great wall that is kei, he asked his senpai if he could be less explosive.
the third years are thankful that they have someone aside from daichi, yamaguchi, and sugawara who strikes the fear of god in him now. it makes it easier to convince him to go to practice if only to appease your taunts that he can’t balance his extracurriculars and academics.
kei made the mistake (is it really?) of inviting you to watch a practice game between nekoma and karasuno. he didn’t have a choice because he really rather not bring his academics with his extracurriculars but you both didn’t have enough time to prepare for four lab reports due the next day. you told him you’d get a headstart and that he can just catch up with you after his game. and it’s not like you’re a stranger to the karasuno team since they often look for you when they’re looking for kei
the karasuno team made the usual bawling sounds, courtesy to the karasuno seniors (tanaka and noya) which called the attention of nekoma’s captain and setter
kuroo incessantly teased him during the game, about his “little darling cheerleader in the bleachers”
kenma made it a point to distract him by saying that you’re looking at kei whenever he’s rotated at the front
“you were wicked on court, tsukishima-san. if only you finished the methodology with a flourish like that too.”
“watch me leave your ass in the air with the entire narrative paper.”
“no, don’t you dareㅡ keiㅡ kei, i was jokingㅡ i need your help in the paper, hey!”
mrs. tsukishima welcomed you in their home when kei told her that you guys were cramming school outputs for tomorrow, you guys just about dodged akiteru’s surprised questions (it was the first time kei brought someone home that isn’t tadashi) because kei was pushing you towards the living room already as his older brother was just leaving.
surprise, surprise. bokuto and akaashi were asking about his alleged partner in the training camp gc hours later. he kicked hinata from the gc temporarily before turning on dnd and laid his phone down on the table, screen down, and returned to his laptop to help an increasingly stressed out you on your lab reps.
the hellspawn lab reports were finished with a few minutes till deadline to spare and maybe both of you were running low on sleep and high on coffee milk because somehow you ended up sleeping on a grouchy kei’s shoulder, mrs. tsukishima throwing a blanket on top of both of you
nobody has proof but tsukki shushed both his mom and his brother when they came in conversing, reverting into shocked whispers because their youngest is frowning at them while pointing at your dozing form
it’ll never see the light of day but mrs. tsukishima also snapped a photo of kei looking uncomfy in his sleep, with his head lolling back on a pillow placed on the couch but refusing to let go of you in his slumber as you cling to his torso loosely
proceeds to vanish for half a year, yeets this shit to you, and bolts to disappear again
copyright 2024 cirquedelooney — all rights reserved.
dividers from saradika
ms paint format from pinterest
My name is Saja. I’m a wife, a mother, and a woman who once believed her story would be simple. I thought my days would be filled with watching my daughter grow — from her first smile to her first steps — surrounded by the small joys of everyday life.
But life had other plans.
64.media.tumblr.com
War has returned to our home. Again. And once again, we find ourselves living under skies that never seem to rest.
There was a moment — a fragile, breathless moment — when the bombs paused and the world seemed to remember us. It gave us hope. We thought maybe, just maybe, we could start to rebuild. But now, we are back in the dark — hiding, holding on, praying.
I’m writing this not as someone seeking pity, but as a mother who has no other choice but to speak.
Imagine holding your baby in the middle of the night, not because she cried, but because the world outside roared too loud for either of you to sleep. Imagine whispering bedtime stories not to lull her into dreams, but to keep the fear from settling into her tiny bones.
This is my life.
This is my daughter’s life.
And even now — especially now — I believe in softness. I believe in kindness. Because when everything else is taken from you, hope becomes the most valuable thing you have.
Why I’m Reaching Out Our home has been damaged. Our lives changed. But through it all, my daughter wakes up every morning with a smile. She reaches for me with trust, with love, with faith that I will keep her safe.
That’s why I keep going.
I’ve launched a campaign to ask for help — not because it’s easy, but because silence is no longer an option. I am asking for support not just for me, but for my baby, and for the quiet strength of so many mothers like me who are fighting, every single day, to hold their families together.
How You Can Help: 🤍 Help us restore parts of our home so we can live with dignity 🤍 Support women and mothers in Gaza with access to care and resources 🤍 Keep the light of hope alive for a generation born in the shadows of war
💛 If you can, please support our journey here:
My name is Saja. I am a mother, a wife, and just one of many women in Gaza trying to hold on — to hope, to my family, and to a life that no
If you can’t give, please consider sharing. Your voice might be the reason someone else hears ours.
From My Heart to Yours Maybe our lives are worlds apart. Maybe you’ve never lived through war. But if you’ve ever held a child and wished the world could be better for them — then you understand more than you know.
I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking the world turned away.
Please, if you’ve read this far — thank you. Thank you for seeing us. Thank you for caring. We are still here. Still hoping. Still holding on to every kind act like it’s a lifeline.
summary. after two decades of war and wandering, kento returns home to find a kingdom fraying and a wife who has learned to live without him. you waited—faithfully, desperately—but the man who walks through the doors of your once-shared home is not the same as the one who left. a retelling of odysseus and penelope’s story, when the king comes back to ithaca.
contains. romance, angst, historical!au, greek mythology-inspired, post-war reunion, character study, hurt/comfort. historical inaccuracies, violence, blood, implied sexual content. inspired by and based off of the odyssey and epic: the musical’s ithaca saga. art taken from pinterest.
word count. 11.8k
a/n. this was a birthday gift for my best friend who has since left tumblr, and for good reason. happy birthday, wen! 💖 also thank you to @admiringlove for beta reading.
song rec. would you fall in love with me again by jorge rivera-herrans, anna lea
There are eight-and-hundred men vying for your hand. You despise each and every one of them.
They reek of alcohol and arrogance, their voices overlapping in a constant tide of flattery and entitlement. Every smile is sharpened with expectation. Every compliment is a transaction. You are not a woman to them—you are a prize. A throne. A way to crown themselves king of a place they do not love and a people they do not serve.
They lounge in your halls like they built them. Their boots scuff the mosaic tiles your husband had laid. Their laughter fills the chambers where your son once slept. They eat more than the kitchen can replenish and boast about battles they’ve never fought. They drink your wine as if it was made for their indulgence.
You know their names. You know their fathers’ names. You keep a tally in the back of your mind—not out of interest, but because you must. A queen who forgets is a queen who falls.
At dusk, you sit among them, still and quiet, the embroidery in your lap forgotten. Your needle lies idle, and no one notices. They’re too busy toasting to their own futures, all of which end with your hand in theirs and a sword at your son’s back.
You endure. That is all you can do.
The worst of them, you have found, is Antinous.
He sits at the center of them all, draped over your husband’s seat; he is a man who has never earned power but has always expected it. His voice is the loudest, always the first to speak and the last to fall silent. He speaks of strategy and succession as though he is already king, and when he speaks to you, it is with the inflection of someone already convinced of victory.
Tonight, he is drinking the red wine that was made using straw mats and raisins. It is your favourite, and he knows this. That is the point.
When your gaze flickers to the goblet in his hand, he smirks like he’s caught you admiring him. “Come now, my lady,” he drawls, loud enough for the others to hear. “Do we please you yet? Or must we slay a lion and bring its pelt to your feet for your favour?”
Laughter rings out around the room, coarse and raucous. One of the younger men raises his cup in toast. Another whistles. Eurymachus mutters something under his breath that earns him a shove and a snicker.
You do not respond. You haven’t in months. That, too, they find amusing.
Antinous leans forward, elbow propped on the armrest that does not belong to him. “You will have to choose, my lady,” he says, lower now. “For the boy’s sake, if nothing else. Ithaca needs a king. And you need a man.”
Your jaw tightens, just slightly. That is all the reaction they will get from you.
You rise from your chair with the same quiet grace you’ve perfected over the years, ignoring the way his eyes follow your every movement. Your hands are steady, your spine straight. Your dignity is the only armour you have left.
As you step out the hall, past the tapestry of ships and storm gods, past the murmurs and the clinking of goblets, your mind, inevitably, wanders to your husband.
You remember him as he was: quiet, precise, impossibly steady. A man who spoke little but whose presence never had to beg to be known. He was not soft, not always kind, but he was good. Good in the way a harbour is—safe and constant, even when the storms rage. You remember his hands most of all. Not the way they touched you, though you have not forgotten that either, but the way they held the kingdom upright. Steady hands. Sure hands. A warrior’s hands that still knew how to cradle a child.
Your son remembers less. He was too young. But you see the fragments of Kento in him—flashes of that same quiet rage, that same sharpness, that same refusal to bow. He is no king, not yet, but he is his father’s son.
You reach the end of the corridor where the light begins to fade. You pause by the window, breath fogging faintly against the cool stone frame, and you stare out at the dark horizon. Somewhere, the sea still churns. Somehow, you once believed he would return.
But hope has a half-life, and yours has been decaying for years.
You close your eyes, just for a moment, and whisper a name you haven’t said aloud in longer than you can bear: “Kento.”
You hear a creak behind you, followed by the distant thud of the great doors opening. You don’t turn this time. You don’t need to. It’s just another suitor arriving late, another voice to add to the chorus of greed. But your hands clench into the folds of your robe, and your thoughts—sharp, honed like flint over years of silence—snap into focus. This cannot continue. You cannot continue.
The law binds your hands, but your wit has never needed permission to move.
You breathe in—and then you think of his bow: taller than you, carved from ash wood. No one but Kento could ever string it. Not even your most arrogant suitor has dared to try. It hangs still, untouched, in the weapons room behind the hearth, more symbol than tool. A relic of a man half the room no longer believes in.
You turn and begin walking back to your bedchambers. Purpose blooms in your chest like spring after a long, bitter winter.
Let them mock. Let them boast. Let them believe your grief has made you weak and your patience has made you docile.
You will give them a game. A challenge only one man can win—and when they lose, they will have no one but themselves to blame for what comes after.
Let them line up like fools. When they fail—when they all fail—you will be free.
At night, you are plagued with thoughts of your husband.
Sleep slips through your fingers like water, no matter how tightly you try to hold it. The sheets are cool beside you—always cool, always empty. The dark makes it worse. When the torches go out and the halls fall quiet, when even the suitors sleep in their wine-stained stupor, it is just you and memory. And memory is never kind.
So, you lie awake beneath the canopy of your marriage bed, the one no man has touched since he left. It was built by his own hands, carved from the roots of an olive tree that still grows through the floor. It cannot be moved. Neither can you.
You remember how you met. He had come to court your cousin, sharp-tongued and always the brightest in the room, while you were only there to pour wine and not to be seen. But Kento noticed you, quiet and watchful, and when he asked your cousin about war tactics, you answered instead—too quick, too bold. His eyes met yours, then, curious.
The next day, he returned with flowers—your cousin’s favourites. But he handed them to you.
Kento never asked for permission; not from your family, not from the gods. He simply looked at you one morning in the orchard and said, “If I’m to fight for something, let it be you.”
You married in the spring. Your hands smelled of fig and lemon blossom. He laughed, a rare sound, when you nearly tripped walking towards him because you were so focused on his face.
He was always so careful with you, always so patient. You remember long walks by the cliff, fingers brushing until he finally had the courage to take your hand. You remember lazy mornings with bread and honey, and the way he’d rest his chin on your shoulder while you read, just to be near.
You remember the first time he laid beside you—nervous and reverent, as if you might vanish if he moved too quickly. He hadn’t said much, but his hands had trembled, and his mouth had found yours like it had always belonged there. That night had been slow, sweet, full of promises he only whispered against your skin. Kento was careful. And then he wasn’t.
By morning, you could barely walk. He’d only laughed when you hit him with a pillow, his voice still hoarse from the things he’d begged for the night before.
You found out you were carrying a child only a few weeks later. He was still there then—busy, yes, pulled in ten different directions by the court and the kingdom—but he never missed a night in your bed. You waited to tell him, wanting to find the perfect moment. He found out before you could.
He had come back late, with dust on his sandals and his hair messy. You were asleep, or pretending to be. Kento pressed his lips to your forehead, then to your belly. “I know,” he’d murmured. “I know, my love.”
You’d blinked up at him, startled. “How?”
“I overheard Eurycleia and the others in the kitchens. They aren’t being very subtle about it.”
You both laughed, then. He’d gathered you close, hands spreading over your stomach. “Thank you,” he whispered, like a prayer.
For a while, it was good. The best it had ever been. Kento carved toys from olivewood with the same hands that had once carved your wedding bed. He kissed your growing belly each night. He spoke to the child before it was born and promised them the sea and the stars, and a world that would greet them with open arms.
When your son came into the world, Kento cried—quietly, of course. He always cried quietly. You saw the way his shoulders shook as he cradled the boy in his arms for the first time. The baby had your eyes and his father’s brow. His father’s frown, too, when he slept.
“He’s perfect,” Kento said, over and over. “He’s perfect, he’s perfect, he’s perfect.”
Then the war came; a war for someone else’s pride, someone else’s honour. Kento didn’t want to go. You knew it in the way he held you that night, tighter than ever, like he was already grieving what he’d lose. He went because honour is a god that does not take no for an answer, and the Trojan War was its altar.
“I’ll be back before the baby walks,” he promised, voice low in the crook of your neck.
Your son had learnt to run before you received his first letter.
You remember watching other men return. You remember standing by the docks until your knees gave out. You remember the pity in their eyes.
Years passed. Your son forgot the sound of his father’s voice, babe as he was when he left. You had to teach him what Kento looked like from paintings and stories. You forgot the feeling of being held.
You hate it. Not Kento—never Kento—but the war, and the state it has left you in. You hate the war for stretching one year into ten; for stealing your husband from your bed, from your son, from your arms. You hate the gods for not letting him come home to you for ten more, and now, you do not know if he ever will.
Now—now, you’re expected to smile politely at men who spit in the name of the house he built. Men who whisper that you should move on; that you’re selfish; that Ithaca needs a king, not a memory. They never saw the way he knelt to speak to children, or how he never raised his voice unless he was scared. They didn’t see the man who kissed you like it was a vow, who brushed his lips across the back of your knuckles and pinched your side to see you giggle. The man who chose you, again and again, even when everyone else expected otherwise.
You press a hand to your chest, as if that can soothe the ache. It doesn’t.
Your son is not in Ithaca when you announce the contest. Perhaps, you think, it’s better that way, because he would not approve.
He is his father’s son—sharp-eyed and proud, always quick to speak when he senses injustice—but still too young to understand the quiet violence of strategy. He does not yet know that survival sometimes demands cruelty; that a queen must trade dignity for time, over and over again, and pray she can reclaim it in the end.
You stand at the head of the hall with the bow placed beside you, the same bow Kento carried to war, the one he strung with ease before riding out to defend a kingdom that now forgets his name. It looks heavier than you remember.
A hush spreads, then breaks. Laughter first—low and dismissive. Then a chorus of jeers.
“The widow’s gone mad,” one says.
“At this rate, she might as well ask the gods to descend and marry her,” Eurymachus crows.
“She’s stalling,” Antinous calls out, grinning wolfishly. “She is afraid to choose, so she hides behind toys and tales.”
“This bow,” you say, “belongs to my husband.”
Husband. Not dead king. Not memory. Husband.
“No man but him has ever strung it,” you continue. “Not in battle. Not in sport. Not in ceremony.”
A few of the men shift, uneasily now. The laughter falters.
You rest your hand on the bow—not to provoke, but to remember. Your fingers trace the smooth curve of it, worn by time and use and love. He had carried it across the Aegean. He had strung it by firelight while your son slept beside him. He had left it behind only because you asked him to.
“Twelve axes will be placed in this hall, in a line.” You lift your chin. “Whosoever can string this bow, and shoot clean through all twelve, may take my hand.”
Silence, this time. Not out of respect, but disbelief.
“String it?” a voice says, incredulous. “That bow’s half stone!”
“Do you want a king or a circus act?” another cries out.
“She means to humiliate us,” Eurymachus spits, rising. “A trick. A delay. While her brat of a prince runs to Sparta to gather allies.”
Your eyes flick to him. “You are welcome to leave.”
He sneers but says no more.
Antinous steps forward instead, not angry but amused. “Very well,” he says. “Let us dance for her. Let us parade like fools in a hall that no longer belongs to us.” He bows mockingly. “Though it’s hardly fair, my lady, to mourn a man and dangle his ghost before us.”
You say nothing, only signal to the servants. The axes are brought in, iron mouths agape. One by one, they’re planted down the hall. You watch them with the stillness of a woman who has waited twenty years, and will wait twenty more if she must.
You take your seat again, and fold your hands, waiting for the first man to try. Not a single one of them moves.
A beggar enters your hall at twilight.
Dust clings to his shoulders like ash from some distant pyre, and his beard is streaked grey with age or travel—you cannot tell which. He leans heavily on a staff, feet dragging, and still the guards do not stop him. Perhaps they think him harmless. Perhaps they are tired of keeping count of the men who come and go.
Only one creature sees him for what he is.
Argos—your husband’s old hound—lifts his head from where he lies slumped in the shadow of the threshold. No one tends to him now. He is too old to be useful, too loyal to be loved by anyone but you. But at the sight of the beggar, his ears twitch. Then his whole body trembles.
The beggar stops. He looks down, and kneels, slowly, painfully.
Argos, who has not stood in days, tries to rise.
His limbs fail him, but still he whines—high and soft and aching, the sound of twenty years in a single breath. The beggar’s hand moves to the dog’s neck, just below the ear. Argos goes still. His chest does not rise again. The beggar lowers his head and says nothing.
Then the laughter begins.
“Look at him!” Antinous sneers from his seat, wine dripping from his lip. “Dragging fleas into our court like gifts! Shall we feed him, my lady? Or toss him back into the sea?”
Another suitor—a lean man with too many rings—adds, “I say we test his spine. Perhaps he’ll dance if we strike him hard enough.”
The beggar does not speak. He does not even flinch.
Eurymachus tosses a crust of bread at his feet. “Come, old man! Tell us a tale worth hearing. Or did you lose your tongue along the road?”
Still, the beggar remains silent.
Your voice cuts through the hall: “Bring him to me. Prepare some bread and water for this man, and give him a place to rest if he so desires.”
The beggar inclines his head, eyes low, and only then, speaks. “Thank you, my queen.”
You lead him to the side chamber—the one where you used to spin wool at night, when your boy was smaller and the house quieter. Now it serves as nothing but a place of hiding. When you are alone, you speak first.
“Who are you?”
The beggar bows. “No one of import, my queen. A man who has seen many harbours and lost more years than he can count.”
“Yet you have found your way to my hall,” you say. “To Ithaca.”
He does not deny it. “I met your husband once,” he says. “Long ago, in Crete.”
You inhale sharply. “Crete?”
“Aye.” He nods, eyes distant. “He came with spoils from Troy. Wounded, but still boasting. We shared a fire for one night only. He ate little, and drank less.”
“And what did he say?” you ask, throat tightening. “Of Ithaca? Of… me?”
The beggar’s mouth twitches—somewhere between a smile and a wound. “He spoke of home like it was a person, not a place.”
You don’t dare blink.
“He spoke of a woman with eyes like storms,” the beggar says, voice threading towards something gentle. “Who ruled her house with both hands. Who wove lies as well as she wove thread. Who could outwait the gods themselves if it meant saving what she loved. He said that no one would believe him when he spoke of your mind. That beauty they could imagine, but not your sharpness. He said you could gut a man with your silence.
“He told me about your garden, and your love for oranges. He told me that you preferred thyme over roses; that you once caught him stealing figs before dinner and made him eat them all before the sun went down. He said you made him laugh until he was sick.
“He said your son had your eyes but his stubbornness, that he liked to sleep curled up beside the hearth while you sang to him, and your husband held both of you in his arms. He missed the boy most at night.”
You swallow hard. Something in your chest splinters.
“He said,” the man continues, eyes downcast, “that he dreamed of your bed. He did not say why, but he worried that if he returned and it had been moved, he would know the gods had lied and you were gone.”
“And where did he go, then?” you whisper. “Where is he now?”
“I do not know. But I was in Thesprotia recently. There, I heard word of him again.”
“What word?”
“That he is alive. He has wandered long, but not without purpose. He comes home, slowly.”
You close your eyes. The ache that floods your chest is old and familiar—but tonight, it stings sharper than it has in years. You want to believe. You want to fall to your feet and ask this stranger if he’s seen the scar on your husband’s thigh, or the streak of gold in his hair that only shows in summer, or the way his voice goes rough when he says your name. You want to ask if he still dreams of you.
But you’ve lived too long on hope. It is not a kind thing. It gnaws at the soul. It leaves you hollow.
So you open your eyes and steady your voice. “Thank you, traveler, for your stories.”
He bows, slow. You rise to leave, your hand hovering near the door. Then you turn, just enough to glance back. “Your eyes,” you say, “remind me of him.”
The beggar does not answer.
Often, you have dreamt of what your life would have looked like if Kento had not left for war.
Tonight, after the beggar has been granted a bed and rest in your home, you stand by the window and let the sea wind carry you into that life where Kento never sails.
He wakes beside you every morning, body solid and warm beneath the sheets of your shared bed. You would grumble when he takes the covers, and he’d kiss your shoulder in apology, already half-laughing. You’d eat breakfast together at the sun-warmed table by the window—simple things: bread, still warm from the oven, figs and olives from the orchards he helped plant. Your son would run into the room with scraped knees and stories of birds and battles, and Kento would scoop him up with ease, toss him into the air just to hear his laughter ring like a bell.
You’d watch him be a father. You’d watch him teach your son how to hold a bow—gently at first, guiding his small hands, whispering patient praise. You’d watch them argue, in the way children and their fathers do, about where the stars go when the sun rises. Kento would lose on purpose, feigning deep consideration before letting your son convince him that the stars must sleep behind the moon.
You’d sit in the garden while your husband reads out loud, his voice low, your son half-asleep on your lap while the olive branches murmur above your heads. Some days you’d fight, but it would never be over war. It would be about fruits left out too long; mud tracked on clean floors; your son’s cat left loose to steal fish from the kitchens once again.
At night, when the house is quiet and the wine is sweet, Kento would press kisses along your jaw, your neck, your fingers, as if to count the years he got to stay.
Your son would grow in front of both of you. You would argue about whether to cut his hair, and whether he should learn the sword before numbers. Kento would lift him high on his shoulders during the harvest festival, and you’d catch both of them stealing honey cakes from the tray.
You imagine watching him age; the way his shoulders would broaden, the lines by his eyes deepen with laughter and not grief and bloodshed. You’d grow old with him, and sit beside him on the same bench every dusk, tracing his palm, not searching for calluses left by war, but the ones left by work in the orchard, in the stone of your shared home.
Maybe—maybe—you would have had more children.
Maybe your halls would ring with more voices and more tiny feet. Maybe he would have taught your daughters to string a bow, just as gently as he taught your son. Maybe he’d have read to them, holding them in his lap, one hand still tangled in your own. Maybe on stormy nights, when the winds howled like gods against your windows, all of you would sleep in a tangle—limbs and breath and heartbeat; Kento curled beside you, one hand wrapped around your waist, another resting on your daughter’s foot.
Maybe.
But dreams are dreams, and dawn comes cruel.
You stand at the window until the stars blur through tears you refuse to wipe away. You press a hand to your belly, as if to call back that life. It isn’t real. You know this. Yet, when you finally turn from the window, crawl into the empty half of the bed carved from the olive tree, and curl around the hollow he once filled, you think:
I miss you. Come back to me.
The fire in your chamber is burning low, little more than a memory of warmth now. Its light flickers across the tiled floor, casting long, shapeless shadows against the stone walls. You sit at the edge of the bed, robes drawn tight around your frame, though the night is not very cold. Your fingers are idle, twisted in your lap.
The shawl you’ve pulled over your shoulders is soft but not warm, but it is dyed Kento’s favourite colour, and so, you plucked it out of your closet and draped it over yourself. Beneath the hush of the night and the distant echo of laughter from the great hall, you can hear the ocean.
The door creaks open. You do not have to look up to know it’s Kento’s nurse from the time he was a young boy. Eurycleia’s steps are familiar—uneven, a little heavier on the left, her sandals dragging ever-so slightly with each step. She has always walked like that, ever since she took a blade to the leg in some scuffle you do not know of.
She carries a basin in her hands, steam rising gently from it. The scent of crushed myrtle and olive oil follows her into the room.
“Leave it by the stand,” you say listlessly, eyes still on the fire.
But she doesn’t set it down.
“My queen,” she says, and her voice is not the voice she uses when she brings you wine or folds your linens. It is strained and urgent.
You turn slightly towards her. “What is it?”
Eurycleia moves closer, the basin shaking in her hands. A droplet of water splashes over the edge and lands on the stone with a soft pat.
“I saw it,” the old lady breathes. “I saw the scar.”
Your brow furrows.
“The scar,” she repeats, quieter now. “Just above his knee. The one from his boar hunt. The only one he carries.”
You freeze. For a moment, you cannot speak. You see it in your mind’s eye: the pale ridge of old flesh from years past, the way it curved slightly, a mark carved into him when he was still just a boy, too proud to stay down, too stubborn to yield.
“Eurycleia,” you whisper, but she is already moving forward, her voice trembling with emotion.
“It is him. I knew it the moment I touched him. I was washing his feet—just as I’ve done a thousand times before, for a thousand other guests—but when my hands reached that scar, I knew.” Her voice cracks. “My fingers remembered before my mind did.”
You swallow hard.
“He said nothing,” she goes on, “but his shoulders were the same, as were the weight of his hands, though worn. I wept, child—I fell to my knees and kissed his knuckles.”
“Don’t,” you say suddenly, too sharply. “Don’t say that.”
Eurycleia stops short.
You rise from the bed slowly, the shawl slipping down your arms. Your heart beats too loudly in your ears. You remember the beggar’s voice; the way he spoke of your marriage bed; the way he looked at you like he had seen your face before time had turned it older. You almost—almost—believed.
“He asked me not to tell you,” Eurycleia says, her voice catching on unshed tears. “But how could I keep it? Not when you’ve waited so long. Not when he is finally here—”
“I did not hear you.”
Eurycleia stares at you. You blink. A strange fog has descended behind your eyes. You can see her lips move, her mouth forming the words again. But they don’t reach you.
“Say it again,” you demand.
She tries. You see her throat work. You see the desperation rise in her eyes, the way her hands shake as she grips the basin tighter. Her lips part, but the sound dies before it reaches your ears.
You frown. “Eurycleia?”
The old maid gasps softly, as if something invisible has brushed against her throat. Her mouth opens again, but she cannot speak—or if she does, you cannot hear it. Only the fire crackles now. Only the sea murmurs beyond the walls.
“I… I must’ve been mistaken,” she whispers finally, though her eyes are wet. “Forgive me, my queen.”
You stare at her. Something is wrong. Something curls at the edge of your senses like mist. It presses against your skin, prickling like gooseflesh. But you cannot name it, or hold it.
Eurycleia bows her head. Her hands are trembling so hard she nearly spills the basin. She sets it down by the stand as you originally asked, but her eyes do not once leave your face.
“I’ll return come morning,” she murmurs.
You nod slowly, unsettled, your arms folded across your chest. The door closes behind her. You don’t know that a goddess stands silent in the shadows near the hearth, her hands still warm from weaving silence over your ears. Athena watches you with something like sorrow and something like pride. She does not smile. She does not move, either.
She knows your husband requires just one day more, and so, she must make you wait.
One by one, the suitors try.
First is Leiodes—the youngest, the most eager, his face still untouched by war or wear. He steps forward with forced confidence, brushing back his hair and muttering something about strength inherited. He kneels beside the bow and lifts it with reverence, though it’s clear he’s underestimated its weight. His arms tremble as he fits the string against the horn, teeth bared. He pulls—once, twice—but the string does not yield. The bow doesn’t even bend.
By the third attempt, his knuckles are white and the sweat on his brow betrays him. He looks towards you, perhaps hoping for mercy, perhaps hoping your gaze will soften. It does not. He drops the bow with a heavy thud and steps back, his pride folded beneath him like a damp cloth.
Next comes Eurymachus, chest puffed up with wine and mockery. He swaggered through the morning, but now, his laugh rings hollow. “She must have tricked the bow,” he says with a wink to the others. “Soaked it in oil, or warped the wood. Anything to keep from marrying any of us.”
The hall chuckles obligingly, but when he crouches down to try, the jest leaves his eyes.
Eurymachus is broad in the shoulders, used to wrestling, to hunting, to boasting—but not to being humbled. The bow creaks under his grip, but the string doesn’t budge. He braces it against his knee, then against the arch of his foot, hissing under his breath. His face flushes red. He snarls and digs in again, now angry, now reckless. The bow groans. The string twitches. But it does not yield.
He lets out a curse, harsh and guttural, and throws the bow down so hard, the sound echoes through the stone.
“It is cursed,” he mutters viciously. “Rotten with her dead husband’s shadow.”
Then Antinous approaches. The hall quiets at once.
He says nothing. Sharp-featured and sallow-eyed, he walks like a man already wronged. His jaw is clenched, the muscles in his neck drawn taut like bow strings themselves. He does not bow; he does not ask. He grips the bow with both hands, as if it had insulted him just by existing. His knuckles bleach to white. His fingers find the grooves carved by your husband’s hands—the marks left by years of war and duty. You think you see hesitation cross Antinous’ face, but pride burns hotter than sense.
He plants his feet, straightens his back, breathes out through flared nostrils. The wood groans. The string resists.
The tendons in his arms strain and quiver. Veins bloom down his forearms like vines under his skin. His shoulders lift, tense with effort, and still the bow refuses him. Antinous bites down hard—hard enough that blood beads at the edge of his lip. His face is blotched with rage now, mottled red and pink. The sweat on his brow trickles past his temple and into the collar of his tunic, soaking it dark.
The string moves, but only a breath.
You wonder briefly if he will break it, not out of anger, but out of fear. You wonder if he will destroy the thing that will not obey him, rather than admit his hands are not worthy. But in the end, he does not. With a growl low in his throat, like a cornered animal, he hurls the bow away. It strikes the stone floor with a sickening sound—a crack and rattle like bone hitting marble, brittle but final. Several of the suitors flinch.
Antinous turns away from the bow as if it has burned him. His hands are shaking. His mouth works soundlessly, and then he spits at your feet, full of fury, like the failure is yours to carry, like the bow was made to humiliate him and you were the one who strung it. It is an insult, yes, but when you look at him, you see not a man, but a child dressed in silk and silver, furious that the world does not bend at his command.
None of them—not Leiodes with his trembling hands, not Eurymachus with his curse-tainted tongue, not Antinous with his flame-fed fury—can meet your eyes, for the bow has bested them all.
Still—quiet, still, and watching—stands the beggar. You did not see him enter the hall; he slipped in quick as a minnow and twice as quiet. He has said nothing, and moved not an inch.
You watch him. Your hands are clasped too tightly before you, but you do not loosen them. Your heart, traitor as it is, pounds against your ribs.
He steps forward.
A hush falls, sharp and sudden—then breaks just as quickly as a wave against rock. Gasps flutter through the hall like startled birds, chased swiftly with laughter—loud, cruel, and incredulous.
Antinous barks it first, loudest, the sound brittle from the strain of failure still clinging to his limbs. His face, red from exertion and shame, twists into something venomous. “You, old man?” he jeers, spit flying out of his mouth. “You think you can do what princes cannot?”
More laughter follows, mocking and disbelieving. Eurymachus leans back, a goblet in hand, wine sloshing over the rim. “Let him try,” he drawls. “Maybe the gods will pity him and give him strength to match that stench.”
Leiodes winces as if in apology, but says nothing. Others lean forward, eager now, hoping for the final humiliation of the evening: a beggar trembling beneath a weapon meant for kings. But the beggar does not flinch.
“I ask only to try,” he says. There is no boast in his voice; only request. He steps fully into the light and bows low.
Your eyes meet his. You do not speak. You do not smile. You feel every gaze in the hall prickling your skin, waiting to see if you will laugh too, if you will dismiss him like the rest.
You nod.
They laugh harder when he lifts the bow, like hounds yipping at a wounded stag. You see it clearly in their faces, the slight upward curl of Eurymachus’ lip as he drinks in what he thinks will be a humiliation, the smug glint in Leiodes’ eyes as he leans forward like a spectator at some stageplay, and Antinous—Antinous, still bristling from his own failure, his hands bruised and red from trying to force the bow into obedience—stands with a sneer stretched tight across his face, certain that this will end in a joke.
It doesn’t.
The beggar turns the bow in his hands, slowly, reverently, and there is something in the motion—not practiced, but remembered—as though his fingers have not forgotten the shape of it, the weight of it, the grain of wood carved by a man who loved you. He lifts it to his knee, not rushing, not fumbling, and with a strength honed in absence, war, and silence, he strings it one smooth, effortless motion.
The sound it makes is sharp and sudden, a clean, taut hum that slices through the noise of the hall like a blade through silk.
Just like that, the laughter dies.
It dies in the back of their throats, in their chests, where the mockery was swelling and ready to burst. Eurymachus lowers his cup. Antinous blinks. Leiodes stiffens. All the noise in the hall collapses into silence, thick and stunned. Still they watch—thinking maybe, maybe, it was luck. Maybe he cannot draw it.
But he reaches for an arrow with a steady hand and fits it to the string like he was born to do it. He does not boast. He simply raises the bow and draws, arms steady, posture perfect, his breath shallow and even.
Then, he releases.
The arrow sings—a high, keening whistle—and you do not breathe as it sails through the hall, so fast and clean that the air seems to part around it. It hits its mark, perfectly. It slices through the twelve axe heads in a single breath, threading the impossible path with such elegance that it is almost unreal.
The silence that follows is absolute. It is the kind of silence that weighs on your shoulders, that hollows out your ribs, that makes the hair on your neck stand on end. Someone drops a goblet. It rolls against the floor and clinks softly against the stone.
He reaches for another arrow. He does not lower the bow, and when he speaks, his voice is steel and storm and grief.
“You thought I was gone,” he says, voice cutting like the winter wind. “You thought you could bleed my house dry. You courted my wife and slept in my halls. You dishonoured my name.”
Antinous opens his mouth, his face pale and drawn, some protest or insult already on the tip of his tongue—but he will never get to finish it.
The arrow finds his throat before the words can escape.
It drives straight through, sinking deep into the soft hollow above his collarbone. His eyes bulge with shock, blood blooming from his mouth like some vile flower. He stumbles back, choking, grabbing at the shaft with trembling hands before he collapses in a wet heap of limbs and cloth, twitching once before falling still.
The beggar—no, not the beggar, not anymore—shrugs off his rags.
He stands tall now, no longer stooped, no longer disguised by age or ash or dust. His shoulders are broad, his chest scarred, his hands steady. The torchlight catches on the jagged lines that mar his skin—scars you once kissed, and new ones that streak across his skin—and his eyes, when they meet yours from across the hall, are unmistakably his.
Kento.
You whisper the name, but no sound leaves your lips.
The hall erupts into chaos.
Chairs scrape across stone. Men leap to their feet, some cursing, some crying out in terror. A few rush for the door but none make it far. Kento is already moving, already shooting another arrow, this one through Eurymachus’ eye. Another man falls, screaming. A third tries to wrest a weapon from a pillar, but Kento is faster.
Your son bursts through the archway, breathless and wild-eyed, sword drawn but not yet stained. His voice is young and sharp, panic laced beneath the edge of command. “Mother!” he cries, cutting through the screams and the sobs and the clamour of war reborn in a dining hall.
You turn to him. He looks so much like Kento once did, and you can see the fear in his face—not for himself, but for you.
“You have to go!” he shouts, reaching for your arm. “Please—back to your chambers, now! It isn’t safe—he’ll protect us, but you have to move—go!”
Your feet feel rooted, your gaze still locked on the man with the bow—your husband, your fury, your grief—but then another arrow flies past, so close you feel the wind of it against your cheek, and instinct finally seizes you. You let your son pull you, let one of the guards posted outside the doors guide you away.
The sounds of vengeance rise behind you, as your husband’s war cry echoes off the walls like thunder, and all the men who dared defile his home begin to fall like wheat before the blade.
“I do not wish to see him.”
The shroud lies folded at the foot of your bed. You haven’t touched it since the day they scrubbed the blood from the dining hall. Three years it took you to weave, and now it lies finished—useless. Pale linen, soft as mist, with silver thread glinting faintly in the low morning light. Each stitch was a stall, a prayer, a plea for one more day. A ruse to delay the suitors, yes, but more than that: a map of grief, of waiting, of memory. You had woven your sorrow into the weft, hidden your hope in the thread. Every night, you unwove what you had crafted in daylight, as if the act could rewind time itself.
Your chambers are quiet. There is only the crackle of the hearth, and your son standing just past the threshold, shadowed by torchlight.
He does not speak at first. His hair is mussed, his tunic stained—not with blood, thank the gods, but ash, soot, dust. His sword is gone. His voice, when it comes, is too steady for someone so young.
“He asked for you,” he says, and then, hesitant: “I do not understand.”
You do not look at him. You trace a knot in the wood grain with your thumb.
“I do not wish to see him,” you say once more, as if saying it twice might make it true.
“You don’t mean that, mother.”
You turn then, just enough to catch his expression. His jaw is set—not in defiance, but in hurt and confusion.
“My father is alive,” your son says, as though you might have forgotten. “He is alive, and he came back, and he fought for us—for you—and you haven’t said a single word to him.”
You close your eyes. The crackle of the hearth, the soft whisper of linen shifting as you curl your fingers into the hem of your robe—these are the only sounds you let yourself hear. Your son waits patiently for you to speak.
“I know he’s alive,” you say, voice barely more than a breath. “I know he fought. I know he won. I know he stood in that hall and killed the men who made a mockery of this house, of our name, of me. I know all of it.”
Your son crosses the room slowly, crouching beside you like he did as a child, when storms shook the windows and he wanted only to be near your warmth. He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. You open your eyes and study his face—your boy’s face, a striking image of his father’s, only unlined and unwrinkled.
“And yet I cannot—” You swallow hard. “I cannot make my feet move toward him.”
“Why?” you son asks, his voice cracking now, no matter how hard he tries to steel it. “Why, mother? He is your husband returned after twenty years, and yet, last night, he slept on the cold, hard stone outside your door.”
You flinch.
“I saw him,” your son adds. “I went to find him. He hadn’t moved. He just sat there with his back against the wall, as if that was all he deserved.”
You press your lips together. “He left me,” you say. “He left us. And when he came back… he didn’t even say my name.”
Your son looks stricken, but he doesn’t argue. You go on. “He was kind and patient. But he spoke to me like I was a queen, not a wife. And I—I don’t know what to say to a man who carries so many ghosts in his silence.”
“He is trying,” your son says quietly. “He came back to find you. He sat in his own house like a beggar and bore every insult. He saw your face and did not cry out, did not ask for your love—he only waited.”
“I have been patient.” Your breath is slow and shallow. “He has changed.”
“Then so have you,” the prince says, and his face solemn when he says it. “You waited all these years. I saw you every night by the loom. I saw you unpick all the stitches of that wretched shroud by firelight, as if time could be rewritten with thread. You did not forget him, mother.”
Your hands twitch in his hold.
“And now he is here. And you are afraid.”
“I do not know what to say to him,” you whisper.
Your son smiles. “Say anything. Say nothing. Just look at him—I think that will be enough.”
You look toward the folded shroud, the linen pale against the bedcovers. Three years of weaving and unweaving; it was your lie, your shield, and your promise. Slowly, you rise.
“Have him brought to me,” you say. “And tell him he may sleep in warmth tonight.”
The king of Ithaca looks out-of-place in his own home.
He stands just past the threshold of your chambers, shoulders stiff, hands empty at his sides. In the firelight, he looks both older and younger than you remembered: lined with grief yet carved with something terribly familiar. His tunic is clean, but the scars along his arms, his throat, his cheekbones—those are worn like old jewellery, too many to hide. His hair is longer, and his eyes are dimmer but no less sharp. He looks at you like a man drowning.
You do not move from where you stand near the hearth. You do not rush to him. You watch him as you might watch a stranger, hands twisted into the folds of your robes.
At last, he speaks.
“I have no right to ask it,” he says, voice low and hoarse, “but I will fall to my knees here if I must. I have wronged you beyond measure. I left you to fend off wolves with no promise I would ever return. I broke every vow I made the day we were wed and I became your husband.”
You stay silent.
Kento’s mouth twists into something pained. “If you can find it in your heart… after all the wars I fought, the years I spent trying to escape the will of the gods, the blood that stains my hands—” He swallows thickly. “If there is even a sliver of love left in you for the man I once was, or the man I am now… I beg you, let me earn it again.”
The fire crackles between you, filling the room with an uneven, wavering glow. You lift your chin, your throat tight.
“Move our bed from this room,” you say.
For a moment, he only stares at you, his expression blank—then confused. His mouth opens, then closes again; and then his face crumples, not with sorrow, but with a sudden, furious kind of grief. He steps forward, one hand trembling at his side. His voice is rough, shaking with force when he speaks.
“You may curse my name,” he says. “Lock me out of my house. Disown me as your husband, deny me as father to our son. You can ask anything of me—anything—and I will give it to you without protest.”
His hands clench into fists.
“But please, my love,” he chokes out, “do not ask me to move our bed, for that would mean cutting it from the very roots of the olive tree where we first met.”
The silence that falls afterwards is a living thing, pulsing in the hollow spaces between your ribs. You are afraid to breathe.
Because you had not told a soul about the secret of your bed—how it was carved into the very roots of your house, how it could never be moved without tearing the room apart stone by stone. Only the two of you had known. Only the two of you would ever know.
Now you know it is truly him. Your hands fall to your sides. Your knees weaken. Your lips part before the sound comes. It escapes you like something long-buried, torn from the chest, raw with disbelief and aching and everything you have swallowed down for the last twenty years.
“...Kento,” you whisper. Then again, as your chest caves and your knees begin to give, the sob breaking loose from somewhere deep, “Kento.”
He’s at your side before you fall.
Strong arms catch you mid-collapse, wrapping around you with the kind of ferocity only born from long, painful absence. You feel the tremble in his limbs, the way his breath stutters against your temple. He holds you like something precious and already half-lost; his grip is sure and his embrace is unwavering. And you—gods, you cannot stop shaking. He doesn’t speak. He only pulls you closer.
You bury your face into Kento’s shoulder, into the torn fabric of the cloak he hasn’t removed, into the scent of dust and salt and smoke that clings to him. Your fingers twist into the fabric at his back, knuckles tightening from the force of it, as though you’re terrified he might disappear if you don’t hold him tightly enough.
Still, Kento tries.
Even as his own tears fall, as they track silently down his war-worn cheeks and drop into your hair, he tries to wipe yours first, with the heel of his palm and the trembling sweep of his thumb. It is foolish and futile. He can’t keep up. You’re both crying too hard, and still he tries—frantic and tender all at once, like he’s trying to undo the years with nothing but the press of his fingers to your skin. He kisses the salt from your cheeks and calls you by the name only he ever used: soft, low, sacred.
His hands are not the same. They are rough now, harder than they once were, palms callused and weathered from bowstring and blade. Faint scars web the skin—new ones, ones you do not know, gathered in battles far from home. They smell of blood and brine, of war.
But they are his hands, and they are still gentle.
So gentle as they cradle your face, as though the thought of hurting you is unthinkable. So warm that, for a moment, you forget the winters you endured without him. So familiar that your soul sings with the reminder that they had once held your son, your waist, your heart.
He leans down, forehead pressing to yours, your tears mixing now on skin that’s been too long apart. “I came home,” he breathes shakily. “I came home to you.”
When he kisses you, you let the years collapse around you. You let the time shrink to nothing between the press of your lips and his, and the memories of what’s passed pour into the space where his mouth meets yours.
His lips taste like longing, like salt and breath and yearning. The kiss tastes like two decades of grief—then joy, and disbelief. His mouth parts against yours and you breathe each other in like lifelines. Your hands move without thought, up his chest, over his shoulders, into the gold of his hair now dulled by dust and time.
Kento lifts you in one smooth motion, arms firm beneath your thighs, and you gasp—not from surprise, but from the sheer, crushing rightness of it. Of him. The world narrows to the span of his chest, the warmth of his body, the echo of his heart against his ribs.
He lays you on the bed like you are sacred. You still his hands, not because you want him to stop but because you want to look at him. His brow is furrowed, his eyes red. There’s blood beneath his nails, soot still clinging to his skin. But when your eyes meet his, there is nothing but tenderness there.
You reach for the hem of his tunic. He lets you strip him slowly, lovingly. He does the same for you.
It is not the rush of youthful hands anymore. He touches you like he’s learning a language he once knew but forgot. He kisses your shoulder, your ribs, the dip of your hip. You trace your fingers down the planes of his back. He trembles when you touch the scar on his side, and you lean forward to kiss it, too.
When you are both bare, Kento studies you, as though making sure you are real and not another trick played upon him by the gods. You kiss him again, and pull him down with you onto the bed you once swore you’d never share again.
The room is quiet, but for your breath; the creak of wood beneath you; and the soft, gasping litany of his name from your lips.
Kento is careful. Then he is not. Then he is careful again.
After, when the fire has burned low and the residual light spills across the sheets, you lie tangled in each other’s limbs, spent but warm. His arms are around your waist. Your leg is hooked over his hip. His chest rises and falls, steady beneath your cheek.
You touch his body like a scripture, relearning him through fingertips and memory. His breath hitches when your palm brushes over his ribs. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer. He turns towards you, eyes open now, lashes still damp with the tears you both shed, and he watches you as if you’re something made of starlight and all he has ever known is shadow.
You trail your fingers along his chest, over old wounds and new ones, mapping out every change like cartography; like if you trace every inch, you’ll understand what the years have done to him. His skin tells stories now: the long scar across his side, the faded one behind his shoulder, the cuts on his knuckles that weren’t there before. Each mark feels like a sentence in a book you never got to read until now.
“Here?” you whisper, brushing your thumb over a rough patch beneath his collarbone. Kento nods once.
“A blade, from the seventh year of the Trojan War.”
You kiss it. “And here?” You drag your finger down a line along his forearm.
“A javelin. It didn’t take, thank the gods.”
You hum, soft and sad, and keep going.
He touches you too—slowly, worshipfully—as though he is afraid you might shatter under his hands. His palms drift over your stomach, your arms, the curve of your breasts. He murmurs something about your hair being longer, about your voice sounding the same. About your heart still beating the same against his.
“It’s still you,” Kento says, and he kisses your throat like it might prove it.
In return, you run your hand through his hair—softer at the crown, streaked with silver at the temples now—and say, “I thought I had forgotten what your voice sounded like. But I hadn’t. It was always there, in the back of my mind.”
He presses his forehead to yours, and you lie like that for a long time, breathing each other in. You curl closer, your legs tangled with his, your hands pressed to the pulse at his throat. For the first time in twenty years, you both sleep without fear.
When morning comes, light spills pale and golden across the stone floors, soft and unthreatening, a blessing. You are still sleeping, a faint furrow between your brows, curled close to Kento’s side, one hand resting over his heart.
He does not wake you. Instead, he rises silently, wraps a cloak around his bare shoulders, and steps into the hall where Eurycleia waits with a basin of fresh water and a careful, tearful smile.
“My lord,” she whispers, bowing low.
Kento’s voice is quiet but steady. “Come,” he says. “Walk with me. There is much I must know.”
They walk slowly through the palace corridors, past the scattered wreckage of the battle that has not yet been fully cleaned away—the broken tables, the bloodstained curtains, the gouges in the marble where swords clashed and humans fell. The air still smells faintly of blood and iron.
Kento listens as Eurycleia tells him everything: how long you waited, how fiercely you fought to preserve your home and your honour. How you stalled the suitors with cleverness and grace. How you sat weaving that cursed shroud by day and unraveling it by night, a thousand little acts of defiance stitched into linen.
But when she speaks of the maids, her voice lowers, thick with shame.
“There were… some,” Eurycleia says carefully, her hands wringing into her robes, “who did not remain faithful to your lady, my lord.”
Kento’s mouth tightens but he says nothing yet.
“They—” Eurycleia swallows, as if the words taste bitter. “They aligned themselves with the suitors. Openly, and secretly, both. They mocked your house and betrayed their duties. They slept in the suitors’ beds and carried messages and plotted against your son and your wife.”
“How many?”
“Twelve, my lord. Twelve who forgot themselves. Twelve who forgot the kindness and shelter you and yours once gave them.”
They walk a few more paces before Kento stops, turning his face slightly towards the east windows where the sun is beginning to climb.
“And the rest?” he asks. “The ones who stayed loyal?”
Eurycleia’s eyes shine with tears. “Most did, my lord. Most remained true. They wept for your absence and prayed every night for your return.”
Kento nods slowly. His hands curl into fists at his sides—not out of anger alone, but out of something deeper: betrayal, yes, but also grief. Grief for the loss of innocence in a home he had worked so hard to reclaim.
“They will be spared,” he says. His voice brooks no argument. “The loyal ones shall be honoured for what they endured.”
“And the others?” the old maid asks quietly.
Kento does not answer right away. He looks back down the hall, toward the heavy doors of your chamber where you still sleep, exhausted after years of waiting and grieving. He thinks of the scars you bear—not just on your skin, but deeper, hidden in the quiet places of your heart.
“They will answer for what they have done,” he says finally, as cold and steady as the sea. “But not today, and not—”
There is a thud of quick footsteps—the half-clumsy, half-careful sound of youth—and his son rounds the corner, his hair mussed from sleep, his tunic crooked. His eyes are the same colour as yours, and that was how Kento had identified him in the first place, and hatched the plan to get rid of all the suitors plaguing his home. His face is bright with something that is almost wonder.
Kento straightens instinctively, and the boy—no, not a boy, a man now, taller even than Kento—halts awkwardly before him. He shifts his weight from foot to foot like a child caught sneaking sweets from the kitchens.
He stares, not at Kento’s sword or his scars or his face, but at him, drinking him in like a man starved for memory.
“My lord,” your son says at last.
Then, without waiting for permission, he steps forward and clasps Kento’s arm in both of his, in a grip that is too tight and too eager to be anything but a son’s love. Kento lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding and clasps him back, their foreheads almost brushing as they stand there, caught between strangers and family.
“I dreamed,” your son says in a rush, the words tripping over each other, “of what you would be like. When I was small, mother would tell me stories—of how you carved, and sailed, and were cleverer than the gods themselves—but she never said your hands would be so big—” he laughs a little, boyish despite his years—“or your voice so quiet.”
Kento smiles faintly, something wry and aching tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You grew taller than I ever expected,” he says.
“And you came home,” your son says, breathless. “You came back.”
Kento lays a hand on the back of his son’s head, fingers threading through golden, sleep-ruffled hair. It is a touch both unfamiliar and natural, as though some old instinct, long-buried, has risen back to the surface without thought.
Behind them, Eurycleia dabs at her eyes, sniffling quietly.
“Come, mother must hear this,” your son says, tugging at Kento’s hand like he is still a boy of five and not a man grown and blooded in battle.
Before Kento can refuse, he is already being pulled down the hall, back to your chamber door, which he gazes upon with something like dread and longing all at once. The door creaks open under your son’s hand. Inside, you still sleep, curled in the tangled sheets. The hearth fire has burned low, embers breathing faint orange against the stone. Outside, doves coo softly from high eaves.
“Mother,” your son calls gently, stepping inside and dragging his father in with him. “Wake up. There is someone here who owes us a great many stories.”
You stir at the sound of their voices, slow and reluctant, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. You shift beneath the linen, the cool air whispering across your bare shoulders, and then you blink up at the sight of them—your son’s bright face, and behind him, Kento, standing stiffly, as though he fears he will frighten you.
It is almost too much, the sight of them together—the boy you raised and the man you mourned—and for a moment, you simply lie there, drinking in the sight of them.
“Stories?” you rasp, your voice rough with sleep.
Your son grins. “He must tell us of his journeys. Of how he outwitted monsters and gods. I won’t let him leave this room until he does.
Kento lets out soft, breathless chuckle, something rusty with disuse, as if he has forgotten the sound of his own laughter.
“If your mother wishes it,” he says, “then I will tell you everything.”
You sit up slowly, gathering the sheets to your chest, your heart pounding strangely in your ribs. Your husband’s eyes find yours, and there is a hesitation there: a silent asking. You nod, and he comes forward at last, sinking to sit beside you at the edge of the bed.
“Start from the beginning,” your son insists eagerly, flinging himself onto a nearby stool like a boy half his age.
Kento glances at you once more, seeking permission. And you, who have waited a lifetime, who have unraveled your days into threadbare hope, reach out and rest your fingers against his knee.
It is enough.
He draws in a breath, long and steady. He speaks slowly at first, as if the words are heavy on his tongue after so many years of silence.
“I left,” Kento says, his hand resting lightly over yours where it rests on his knee, “with little more than my sword, a handful of men, and the blessing of the gods—though I am not sure, now, if it was a blessing at all.
“The war dragged on longer than we ever dreamed. Ten years of siege. Ten years of watching good men fall. Friends… brothers-in-arms… And then there was the journey home. Worse, in some ways. The gods are not kind to men who outlive their victories.”
He speaks of lotus-eaters and Cyclopes; of cannibals and sun-cattle; of shipwrecks and sirens; of men turned into beasts by the whims of witches, and of endless, hungry seas that swallowed the unwary whole. He speaks of betrayals and broken oaths; of false harbours and cruel storms; and of besting the sea god with his own trident.
At times, he falters. His voice catches on certain words, and though your son urges him on with eager questions, Kento’s gaze always returns to you, as if anchoring himself with the sight of you, alive and breathing.
At last, he whispers, “There were nights when I thought… perhaps it would be easier not to return. Perhaps it would be a mercy to let the sea claim me, as it claimed so many others.”
You reach for him then, instinctive and sure, your fingers brushing the back of his knuckles. His hand turns at once, catching yours, threading his rough fingers between yours with a gentleness that breaks your heart all over again.
“But then, I would remember the stories I had promised to tell. The ones you would be waiting to hear. And here I am,” Kento finishes, a little hoarsely, “with nothing but scars and memories to offer.”
There is a long silence. The morning light has grown brighter, casting warm bars across the stone floor. Your son shifts, glancing between you both with a frown of sudden seriousness.
“You are wrong,” he says, surprising you. His voice has changed—no longer the eager boy but the man he has become. “You brought yourself back to us. That is enough.”
Kento turns to look at him fully, and something flickers in his eyes—something you think might be pride, sharp and swift and fierce.
“And you are more than enough to make the years worth it,” he says.
Your son flushes, ducking his head, embarrassed. But you catch the smile he tries to hide, and give him one of your own. Kento turns back to you. His hand still cradles yours carefully, as if he fears you might slip away if he lets go. You search his face—the new lines, the quiet grief carved into them—and find only the man you never stopped waiting for.
“I have more stories,” he says, a little shyly.
You smile, the first true smile you have allowed yourself in years. “Then you must tell them all.”
So he does.
Kento stays, sitting at the edge of your wedding bed, your son sprawled on the floor like a boy again, and you curled among the tangled sheets, listening as your husband speaks the years back into existence—until the sun climbs high and the day outside the palace walls is no longer new.
Later, when the sun hangs high and the world beyond your chamber calls for duty and rebuilding, you stay hidden away in the quiet.
Kento sits behind you, his knees bracketing your hips, a simple wooden comb in his hand. Slowly, carefully, he works through the tangles of your hair. The comb drags gently from crown to end. His hand follows after, smoothing the strands, his touch so light it barely stirs the air.
Your robe slips lower with each movement, baring your shoulders to the firelight. The hearth crackles quietly, the smoke sweet with cedar.
“I should have come sooner,” Kento says, after a long while. His voice is low, close to your ear. “I tried. Gods know I tried.”
You say nothing, only tilt your head forward, offering more of yourself to his hands.
“There is one story I did not tell you, because I was ashamed to say it in front of our son,” he says, and the comb stills for a moment against your scalp. He drags in a slow breath before continuing. “There was a goddess on an island far from here.”
You hum, noncommittal.
“She found me after the shipwreck. I had nothing.” He huffs a bitter, humourless breath against your temple. “No crew, no ship, no hope left in me. She said she would save me, and she did.” His hands return to your hair, combing through steadily now.
“She gave me food and a bed. She healed my wounds. And when I could stand again, she told me I would stay. That I was hers.” He pauses, slowing as the comb catches on a stubborn knot. Gently, carefully, he works it loose with his fingers.
You say nothing, your breath shallow in your chest.
“She offered me immortality; a life without pain or fear. She said she would make me forget everything. Forget Ithaca. Forget you.” Kento’s voice cracks slightly, like a blade drawn too tightly across a whetstone. “I refused her. I told her no. Again, and again—but it did not matter.”
The fire pops in the hearth, unnervingly loud in the silence.
“She… she did not need my permission.” His hand trembles against your hair. “I fought her. For years, I fought her. I counted every sunset, every turn of the seasons. Seven years. Seven years of dreaming of your face and waking up to hers.”
You turn your head slightly, enough to catch the sight of his face over your shoulder. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears, his mouth drawn tight with sorrow.
“If I had found a way to escape sooner,” he whispers, “our son would have been only three-and-ten. Still young enough to need a father. Still soft enough not to know how to raise a sword.”
He drops the comb, letting it fall with a soft thud to the furs beside you. His hands find your shoulders, pulling you back against his chest. He wraps himself around you like armour, burying his face into the curve of your neck.
“I am sorry. For every year I was not here; for every tear you wept while I was lying in a false paradise,” he says, breath hot against your skin. “If you ask me to atone for it until my dying day, I will.”
His voice drops lower still, thick and desperate. “I only beg you—do not doubt that I was yours, even then. Every breath I took belonged to you. Every one.”
You turn in his arms. His hair is tousled, coarse between your fingers. He is trembling—this strong, steady man you have loved since youth—and he looks so, so tired.
You kiss him once, soft and chaste.
And again, your hand cradling the side of his face, feeling the stubble scrape against your palm. And again, more fiercely, pouring into him all the words you cannot yet speak aloud.
You kiss him until he shudders and breaks, a low, desperate sound escaping from deep within his chest. You kiss him until the sadness spills from him like a wound finally allowed to bleed clean. You kiss him until he believes you are real beneath his hands, until the guilt begins to crumble from his shoulders.
they killed aljazeera journalists and they're starving babies and bombing hospitals and refugee camps, they're carrying out atrocities i cant even name, there is no name or limit to the evil that is being committed. and it's one thing not to speak on it because i don't expect even that much from rich celebs. but to actually fucking vacation there? when a short distance away there are people being starved to death? fuck lance stroll fuck his girlfriend fuck his sorry excuse of a career i wish nothing but misery on him. there is no fucking excuse. none.
the key to surviving in the curses estate was being undetectable.
most servants and maids flowed around the walls as if they were smoke; silent, quick and untraceable. you learned this skill quick, knowing that it was something whispered and talked about behind the shadows.
sukuna was picky with how things were done around the place. he didn’t like loud noises, hated when he could pick up on other people’s conversations. he liked his rooms clean, his food cooked timely.
although the curse had a…persona growing alongside his violent tendencies, it seemed that most his servants seemed content with working her as long as nothing came their way. save for the occasional lost limb from dropping hot broth on his body, most people stayed quiet and happy.
you had been lucky enough to scrounge your way here, so you did everything in your power to keep your head down and stick to your daily tasks. most times, the curse was away doing one of his rampages or conferences with higher ups so running into him was never your main concern.
no, for you, your daily tasks were composed of mainly looking after his concubines, which tended to be the biggest cause for your headaches.
most the girls were shy and kept quiet when need be, but the ones who had been here longer had grown brash and uncaring. tending to their hair and clothes often meant being on the end of their trades of what you and the other maids were doing wrong and just how displeased sukuna was going to be when he saw.
you often looked to the others when they whined this way, rolling your eyes and hissing your snickers behind your hands.
until one night, when one of the girls was being more loud and demanding than usual, you found yourself attempting to calm her down despite her moving around more than necessary.
one particular aggressive shove caused your wrist to falter, the grip on the mirror you were holding up for her, and intricate design that the girl boasted sukuna brought all the way from some remote town just for her, fell and clattered on the floor.
your eyes widened in shock, heart palpating loudly in your chest as you instantly ducked, apolgizing and scrambling to get the pieces. but it was no use, the concubine, sukuna’s favorite girl you later found out, began screaming. her body was shaking with fury, her yells so loud you swore the walls were about to crumble.
through your choppy breaths and refusing to look up from the mess you missed the heavy footsteps that came nearer and nearer, the dim in energy whenever the certain curse entered the room.
the girl was blabbering on to sukuna with a point finger to your direction, hanging off of one of his arms as he took in your crouched appearance.
you stood up after a few second, holding the pieces in your shaky hands when all of a sudden your look up, making eye contact with him as you feel the breath lodge in your throat.
the curse was huge. bigger than what you had seen from afar, more daunting than you ever imagined. he’s tall and strong, his four arms and multiple eyes not helping with his intimidating look. his red and piercing glare falls on yours when you finally have the chance to see, and it nearly makes you wish you were dead.
sukuna’s eyes rake over your appearance, take in your new face and trembling hands. he notes the way your lips are slightly quivering and how you see to be losing the ability to stand properly.
his stare lingered on a nasty cut on the palm of your hands, one you got from collecting the shattered glass, and glances back to the girl besides him.
you expected him to do it quickly, slice your head off or slit your throat with a swish of his nails. that’s what the girl expected, with the smug smile she seemed to be trying horribly to hold back.
the two of you seem to look at each other for another second as he lets out an annoyed puff of air, shrugging the girl away as he waves his hand, vexed.
“don’t bother,” he murmurs, his voice baritone and final, leading her into his private chambers that connect to hers as she stirs up another storm
you look at their backs in shock, letting out a sigh of surprised relief when you think they finally left.
but you catch his red eyes one more time before he rounds the corner, something akin to…curiosity flickering behind them.
summary: the hunger games have begun, and now, survival is the only thing you care about. you have not only your life, but the young tribute from your district as well to worry about. a strange alliance with the capitol darling, gojo satoru, however, might come in handy. though you can't forget why you're in this arena, and what ultimately must happen in the end. out of twenty-four tributes, only one can win.
warnings: death, descriptions of violence, lots angst, some steamy moments but nothing too drastic, eventual happy ending (just be patient) and president snow
word count: 33k+
note: comments and reblogs are appreciated! art credit: _3aem
jjk masterlist + series masterlist
You wake up in a tube.
You’re standing upright, surrounded by a curved glass panel that leads upwards to the ceiling.
Clammy hands press against it, stumbling as you try to control yourself from falling. The room around you is empty. The clothes you were initially wearing are gone, and have now been replaced by a lightweight breathable cotton shirt, jacket, and loose pants that somehow fit you perfectly.
Your hands pat against your chest, feeling for the small keepsake they were supposed to allow you to bring. Things like necklaces and rings were tricky, seeing how a girl a couple of years ago had a ring that could turn into a small switchblade, but your father's old packet of handkerchiefs was allowed. You felt a small bulge against your right breast pocket, hoping that Drumesia had somehow been able to sneak it in.
“Yuuji!” You call out, but your voice just bounces off the glass. Your chest heaves, looking wildly around for any sign of the boy, but to no avail. You yell his name again and again until your throat is scratched raw, your throat closing up in fear as you pound on the glass.
“Yuuji! Yuuji-”
No longer could you yell, hearing a sudden loud hiss, and the ground beneath you starts to move up.
The ceiling opened up mechanically, twirling to reveal a bright blue sky. You crouched a little bit as you were moved upwards, your eyes squinting to adjust to the brightness of the arena slowly.
At first, all you could see was white.
The sun was blaring in a strange artificial way as your podium finally came to a stop. There was a peculiar humming buzz in your ears as you shielded your eyes with your hand, trying to regain your vision.
Gradually, you’re able to see different things.
At first, the large Cornucopia is in front of you. It was gigantic, sleek in shape, angular, and metal. There were backpacks, satchels, swords, bows and arrows, axes, and spears gathered in the opening of its mouth. Your head swivels around, blinking slowly as you look to your right and left, and the faces of familiar tributes suddenly start forming.
The boy from five, Maxmus, is trying to look around the Cornocupia, surely for his sister. You feel your stomach sink when you realize Yuuji is nowhere to be found, most likely hidden somewhere behind the large structure.
But you’re able to see the familiar flash of white in front of you, Gojo standing straight with his shoulders squared, ready to pounce. His eyes are focused on the other tributes, darting back to the Cornocupia and then back to the large hologram of a clock above it as it starts ticking down each second until one is left.
He finally sees you, his chin dipping down as the two of you lock eyes. His lips part for a second, spotting Lizzie to your left. He shakes his head, barely, but you catch it. A warning, a sign not to engage. Not like you were planning to, anyway.
For some reason, he looks away briefly, his gaze settling on something behind the Cornocupia. It lingers for a second before looking back at you.
Yuuji.
You have a good sense of where he is now, nodding in acknowledgment. You let your body angle towards where he had motioned you. You don’t have the time to understand why he’s so keen on helping you out, as a tribute and as a person whom you don’t know, but you remember to tuck this appreciation away in case you meet him somewhere later in the arena.
Twenty seconds remaining.
You take in the arena for a brief moment.
Home, you think so briefly, it looks like home.
Sprawling wheat fields with a line of trees and hills a little bit away. The sky is a perfect blue with clouds dotting the corners. It seems perfect, and when you take in a deep breath, you smell home. You feel a little bit of ease before the clock hits ten seconds and a loud mechanical voice starts counting down.
Ten. You hope Yuuji remembers to go towards the trees and not towards you. Nine. The tributes start getting ready to run, and you bend down a little, your legs positioned with one in front of the other. Eight. You can’t feel your heart beating anymore. Seven. Remember what they took from you. What they’re going to take away from you. Don’t give them what they want. Six. Gojo peeks over at you one last time. He shakes his head. You don’t know what it means. Five. Please, Yuuji, go towards the trees. Four. The sunsets from home. Three. Go home. Two. Home.
One.
The shot is fired, and all the tributes jump off their pedestals, each making a beeline for the middle of the Cornucopia. You have a brief moment where you forget what to do before you regain your senses, running blindly to where you thought Yuuji was.
The smell of blood instantly takes over the smell of agriculture and dirt, thick and overpowering. You try not to stumble over your feet when you watch the tribute from three slashes of a sword through the kid from ten, or the way the screams are loud enough to be the only thing you hear.
You were somehow able to duck quickly to dodge a spear that the tribute from two throws your way, letting out a grunt as you tumble to the ground, looking over your shoulder quickly to see it resting in the stomach of somebody behind you.
Go, go, go.
You cover your head as you shove past the boy, rounding the corner of the Cornacopia as you find a little bag nestled up on the side. You had told yourself not to get anything, but the fight was happening behind you, so you quickly grabbed it, hauling it over your shoulder as you ran behind the structure, finding all the pedestals empty.
“Yuuji!” You scream, squinting as you look through the large strands of wheat and into the tree line, “Yuuji!”
Something whizzes past your ear, and you instantly feel something warm trickle down your neck. Your hand flies up, fingers reeling back to find blood. You glance behind you to see Lizzie looking at you with a crazed look in her eyes, her arm reeling back to throw another knife your way, when something behind her, something you can’t see, catches her attention.
A familiar-sounding voice calls her name, telling her to come back, and she looks at you and then to the voice, and decides it’s not worth it, running back to who you guess was Gojo, telling her to help him finish off someone else.
You decide not to waste your opportunity, quickly grabbing the knife in front of you and sprinting past the ring of podiums and into the bushes and rows of trees as the large branches immediately block off the sun, rubbing at your face as you try to adjust to the dimness.
“Yuuji!” You call his name, looking around anywhere and everywhere you think he could be hiding. You feel out of breath, lungs burning, but you keep running into the thickness of the forest.
In the distance, you can see the outlines of some other tributes running, not towards you but away from the bloodbath, and you can only hope that none of them bump into Yuuji and choose not to spare him.
“Yuuji, please!” you beg, a little hushed, frantic in your search, not noticing the large tree root that sprouted up from the ground and plunged harshly into the ground, your ankle pulsing in pain as you let out a pitiful whine.
“Shit,” you mutter, wincing as you stumble trying to stand up, wobbling as you fall back down again. You look around, trying to hide yourself away from plain sight as you rest against the trunk of the tree, holding your ankle as you will it back to work.
You were a bit into the forest where people running by wouldn’t see you, thankfully, and the leaves and trees could hide your body, but none of this mattered if you couldn’t find Yuuji. Time was running out, and you felt your chest heaving with each breath, panic filling your nerves as you looked around.
“Yuuji!” You whisper again helplessly, your eyes wringing shut in pain, head falling back as you clench your fists, “Where-”
A hand lands on your shoulder from somewhere behind, and you can’t control the little yelp that escapes your lips, scrambling away despite the pain flaring throughout your body as you try to shield yourself. But your shoulder fell, your face melting as you see his face come into view from the darkness.
“Oh, oh,” you thank whoever that was watching over you with the most amount of gratitude as you limply crawl towards Yuuji, and he runs into your chest, his tears wetting your shirt as your hands shake when you hug him as tightly as possible.
“You’re okay?” Your voice is muffled against his shoulder, “You hurt? Are you alright?” He nods feverishly against you, his fingers clenching into your jacket with such tightness that you don’t think he’d let go.
“How’d you run so fast?” You ask worthlessly with a wet chuckle, your hand gripping the back of his head, the question non-existent because you were just happy to have found him safe and unharmed.
“You told me to,” he murmurs back, and you give another soft chuckle, nodding, patting his back as you slowly pull away from him, wiping your eyes, and you smile wobbly at him, gently swiping at his red cheeks.
You go to tell him something, but are interrupted by a cannon blasting.
The sound that signals a tribute's death.
It’s normally supposed to come right after somebody dies, but they wait until the bloodbath is over to blast their cannons so that it doesn’t get confusing for those in the games and those watching.
You count, looking up at the sky as you mouth the number of tributes after each boom.
It blasts twelve times. Twelve tribute’s dead. Twelve remaining.
Tonight, they will put up the images of those fallen, and you wonder if you’re going to see the face of the boy you can’t seem to remember. A strange part of you hopes you don’t.
“We should go deeper into the woods,” you tell him after a beat of silence, chewing on your bottom lip, “Find someplace to camp for the night.”
Yuuji nods, using the tree for balance as he rises to his feet. His limp makes it difficult for him to walk, run, or move too quickly, but you can see the way he’s trying his best not to let it hinder him.
You take a deep breath, readying yourself for the shooting pain you’re going to feel as you slowly mirror his movements, hissing through your teeth as your ankle throbs. It’s not broken, you asses, but it’s bruised.
“Did somebody do that?” Yuuji asks quietly, pointing to your slightly angled foot that you’re trying not to put any weight on.
You snort, shaking your head as your eyes shut for a second, fingers digging into the bark.
“Just me,” you say through clenched teeth, letting out a small laugh as you point to your ear, “Lizzie nicked me though,” and Yuuji shuffles around to look at the dried blood on your neck, wincing on your behalf as you wave it aside, your ankle hurting more than the cut.
Yuuji offers himself at your side, letting you use his arms for support, and you ruffle his hair, muttering a quiet thank you as you limp a little bit, your jaw ticking in pain as you see white. You wanted to lie down, wanted to stay there, but these games were not games, and you had to move. For both your sakes.
The two of you carefully move into the forest a little more, and you take the time to study the terrain. District 11 had small forests, nothing this big, but they still shared a resemblance, ranging from the tall and sprawling trees to the rich soil. Birds were chirping around you, the familiar caw of mockingjays chirping around the leaves and singing their rattling song. Sunlight peeked in through yellow rays, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like you were fated to die in a couple of days, but as if you were back home. As if your dying wish had somehow been granted by the head game-maker.
Yuuji stayed silent by your side, his head tilted upwards, mouth gaping in awe as he too tried to take it all in. The two of
“Gojo helped me.”
Your head snaps down to Yuuji’s sudden words, startled, your brows scrunched up in confusion.
“What?”
Yuuji looked embarrassed, his cheek flushing pink as he looked away from your narrowed eyes.
“The girl from seven had run after me when I went into the forest,” Yuuji explained, pointing to the scratch marks on the back of his neck, marks that you thought came from the twigs and leaves but now realize resemble nail marks, “And someone pulled her off of me, Gojo pulled her off of me,” he stammers, “He killed her, but…but he let me go,” Yuuji says bashfully, a look in his eyes, something that’s empty if he wasn’t explaining something horrific no twelve-year-old should have seen, “I thought said didn’t have any allies?”
Your mouth opens, but words struggle to come out.
What did he gain from sparing Yuuji?
“Yeah,” you mutter, dazed, “I thought so too.”
Labeling Gojo an ally is putting too much trust and safety in him, but you wonder if his words from that day in the training center actually carried some weight.
I want to help you.
You don’t have the stomach to say anything after that, the two of you walking quietly next to each other as leaves crunch under your boots and rustle above with the wind.
When you’re satisfied that you’re far away from any other tribe, you look around, trying to look for a tree that has stable branches that would not only withstand you climbing them, but be strong enough so that you two could sleep on.
“There,” you point to a particularly big tree with even bigger-looking branches, “Can you climb up that one?”
Yuuji stared at it, chewing on his cheek as he gave a slow, unsure nod.
“I think so,” he lifted his right leg slightly as if you forgot, “I’ll try.”
You smile, walking over to it as Yuuji helps you lean against its thick trunk. Your ankle was a little better, still sore to the touch, but you knew it should be better tomorrow.
“Did you climb a lot back home?” You ask him, and Yuuji gives a little grin as he thinks back to fond memories, ones with his brothers after a long day of work.
“Yeah,” his eyes twinkle, “But Sukuna was always faster than me. So was Choso.” His smile falters as he thinks about his family, ducking down so you wouldn’t see it.
“Well, good thing I’m not racing you then,” you say teasingly, hands perched on your hips as you look up to one of the branches.
“I’ll help you up, okay? Try to make it to that branch over there,” you point to the one you deemed the strongest, and Yuuji hummed in agreement, letting you kneel so you could cup your hands together so that he could place his right foot in it.
You heave him up, trembling with the added weight on your injured ankle, and grunt as you push him above your head. He grips onto the trunk, slowly using his better leg to haul himself up and up and up until he gradually disappears into the leaves.
You wait for a moment before he calls out, all good and take a deep breath before you do the same.
Back in 11, you used to climb trees to pick apples and oranges if you weren’t working in the fields. You were used to doing this, but not with an injury and not without somebody below to spot you in case something happened.
But you take your time, placing your feet meticulously and carefully as you haul yourself upwards, your head peeking through the branches as you find Yuuji squeezed to the side to make room for you as he rests his back up against the trunk.
When you finally can get to where he is, you plop down on your chest, heaving as your chest exhales with each laborious breath.
“I won,” he said cheekily, and you snorted, pushing at his foot as you crawled next to him, moving your hurt leg so that it could rest in front of you.
After a minute of cooling down, you suddenly remember the pack you had snatched, eyes widening when you feel around your shoulders, pulling it off by the straps and placing it down between your bodies.
“How’d you get that?” He asks, shocked, voice tinged with a little excitement as the two of you scramble to open all the pockets.
“Uh,” you think back to the moment, “It was on the side of the Cornucopia before Lizzie hit me. And then…”
Gojo. He helped you again.
Yuuji’s waiting for you to finish, but you shake it off, not wanting to admit to the tribute from one who has helped you twice, and it hasn’t even been a full day yet.
The bag has a few packs of dried nuts and berries and some jerky. There’s an empty canister for water, some tape, wire for snares and traps, and some rope. There’s no weapon in the bag, but you remember Lizzie’s knife from earlier that you pocketed.
Yuuji pulls out a roll of gauze and matches, holding them triumphantly.
“We’ll ration the nuts,” you tell him, “I don’t hear any streams, but if they gave us a bottle, there should be a source of water somewhere. I’ll go looking tomorrow, okay?”
Despite your throat being parched, and his most likely too, you knew you had to rest. If you put too much stress on that ankle, it was going to get worse before it got better.
“Okay,” Yuuji repeated, tearing into the open bag you offered him as he took a small handful, mindful to take just enough, and began eating.
You did the same, placing each piece in your mouth as you tried to savor the taste and eat as slowly as possible.
In this artificial biome, you let Yuuji rest his head on your shoulder, the two of you looking upwards at the sky as you wait for night to fall.
—-
The anthem began playing, startling you out of your sleep. Yuuji said he’d take a watch for a little bit, and you know you should’ve done it, but exhaustion had settled deep in your bones, and you wouldn’t be of much help if you were this tired.
You sit up, craning your neck to look at the top of the star-ridden sky as the faces of tributes begin flashing, girls first, then boys.
A part of you eases when you don’t see Gojo, as it jumps straight to the girl from District 3, but you instantly feel tense, realizing that it means the rest of the Careers were still alive.
You smile as neither Evelyn nor her brother makes it on the screen, having evaded death for the first day in the games. You continue to watch as the rest of the fallen tributes are shown before the screen flashes, the artificial night sky being all that remains.
Swallowing thickly, you nudge Yuuji with your elbows, hoping that he wouldn’t be too shaken up.
“Hey, how ‘bout you sleep a little?” You smile softly, and he yawns, rubbing at his eyes as he nods sluggishly, curling up into your side as you make some room for him.
Crickets chirp and leaves rustle, a strange and gentle ambiance that reminds you of nights back home listening to nature out on the back porch. It was oddly calming, and you tilted your head back, Yuuji’s quiet snores resonating through your chest.
You tightened the rope around your bodies, wrapped in case you moved and got close to falling off, and did your best to fight off sleep.
You almost gave in before you heard a snap, the sound echoing through the woods as your body shot straight up.
Looking underneath you, the sounds became more frequent, as was the unforgettable sound of human voices.
You gently shook Yuuji up, his head poking from where it was on your shoulder as you held a finger up to your mouth, warning him to stay silent.
With your other finger, you motioned down to the ground, and you both looked on opposite sides of the branch as the voice grew nearer.
“…it was so stupid! Like yeah, come at me with a knife!” A girl's voice said loudly with a laugh, the others around her laughing along, “Didn’t he get a three, four, for his evaluation? I swear, some of them were just asking for it.“
Lizzie.
“That big oaf from five, what’s his name? Maximum? Maxmus? Did you see how he survived my hit? Probably went crying to his sister somewhere.” This voice, you know, it’s the boy from 2, Tiberian.
They’re almost right beneath you and Yuuji, and the two of you are barely breathing, not even blinking, so that neither of you makes a sound.
Just your luck that they’d choose here to set up camp for the night.
“Hey,” Lizzie calls out to someone, and you watch as she bends down a little to look at the ground, her red hair falling into her face as she roughly pushes it back, “Do these look like footprints to you?”
You swear you feel your heart stop.
You motioned for Yuuji to sit up and stop looking over the edge, hoping that it was dark enough and enough leaves surrounded you so that even if they were to look up, you’d both still be covered.
“Maybe? It’s probably somebody who went ahead.”
Gojo.
Yuuji snaps his head over to you, eyes wide as you press your fingers back to your lips, begging for him to stay silent.
Lizzie hums, as if she doesn’t believe him, but stands back upright as she looks around, seeming to think the area good enough.
“You’re still mad at him?” A voice says with a slight giggle. It’s the girl from 2, Arvina, and Lizzie groans, throwing her packs of food and weapons on the ground as she rests up against the tree.
“I almost had her!” Lizzie whines, “That bastard didn’t need my help!”
Arvina and Tiberian chuckle, helping Lizzie and Gojo unpack, talking casually with each other as they each go over who screamed the loudest or who was harder to kill, as if they weren’t discussing the end of someone’s life.
“You ever‘gonna tell us about that Capitol girl?” Tiberian asked who you assumed was Gojo, but he just grunted in response, shaking his head as he piled up some shrubbery and dried leaves into a pile for burning.
“Come on!” Lizzie pressed, pulling her hair up as she tied it with some spare string, “We should know, right?”
The others made noises of agreement, but you watched as Gojo waved them off, working quietly as he began striking some matches up against the side of a coarse rock he had found.
When one of the sparks lands, the pile catches fire, and red and orange flames suddenly illuminate their faces. They all huddle around it, not worried about the smoke that can surely be seen for miles to come, because they could easily take care of anybody who came their way.
“You shouldn’t worry about the girl from 11,” Gojo says gruffly, evading the subject as he goes back to Lizzie's first complaint, and your breath hitches slightly, angling your head ever so slightly to hear him better, “She’s all bark.”
Your brows furrow, nose wrinkling as Yuuji tenses next to you.
“Doesn’t explain why she got a ten,” Lizzie mumbles bitterly, sitting up against the tree as she stretches her legs out, “You can’t exactly bark at sponsors, can you?”
Arvina snorts, sitting down next to Lizzie as she starts unraveling her two braids, her long brown hair falling in waves around her back. Lizzie is the youngest of the Careers, coming in at sixteen while the others are all eighteen, yet she tries her best to act the oldest and most mature.
“No, no, not yet,” Tiberian snaps his fingers at Arvina, and she lets out a dramatic groan, heaving herself back up as she smacks him on the chest, “Still need your help setting up some snares around here.”
The tributes from 2 take some wire and bait from their packs, bidding their momentary goodbyes to Gojo and Lizzie as they set back out into the darkness, leaving them alone.
Gojo sits against a larger rock, one knee pulled up to his chest as he rests his arm on it, the flames flickering around his features, making his eyes seem an even brighter blue. You watch him as he blinks slowly, jaw slightly clenched as if he were deep in thought. His white brows cinch together, his muscular frame casting a shadow up until where the fire was crackling away.
His hand that rests on the ground traces something on the dirt, and your fingers dig into the branch as you watch him study you and Yuuji’s footsteps.
“I’m hungry,” Lizzie comments offhandedly, digging into their stash of dried fruits and jerky as she rips one of the bags open with her teeth, “Want some?”
She offers the bag to Gojo, but he shakes his head. She shrugs, leaning back up against the trunk as they sit in silence. Instead of eating, Gojo tilts his head slightly as he looks at the trial of marking, noting mentally how they stop just at where Lizzie was sitting. Slowly yet surely, his chin tilts towards the sky.
You watch as Gojo’s eyes flicker up the tree, and how they widen when they meet yours.
He stays quiet, not saying anything as the two of you lock gazes with each other, waiting with bated breath, neither of your chests moving for a second.
His face is blank, void of emotion. The blood is roaring in your ears, hands gripping onto Yuuji’s tight as you hold your stare with his. Gojo stays like that for a little more before moving back to poke at the fire with the tip of his sword, as if nothing had happened.
You see the way his lips tilt a little bit,
As if he were containing a smile.
—
You couldn’t sleep that night.
Yuuji whispered to take over the watch, but you shook your head, letting him go back to sleep as he shuffled next to you.
Even when those beneath you put the fire out and laid their heads down, you didn’t let your eyes close. You couldn’t, didn’t trust Gojo enough to believe that he would give you away if he had the right opportunity.
When morning comes and the sun peeks through the trees, you fight back a groan, rubbing at your eyes as you squirm around uncomfortably, the rough groove of the trees digging into your back.
Somebody beneath you lets out an unnecessarily loud yawn, one that wakes Yuuji up as his head tilts to look down, annoyance in his features as you give him a shared smile, rolling your eyes.
Hungry? Your mouth and Yuuji’s hand fly down to his stomach comically, as if trying to contain the instant rumble that it gave.
You laugh softly, carefully moving your bag to your lap as you gently pull out some nuts and berries you had rationed throughout the night, giving a handful over to Yuuji.
He stares at it, accepting it, but pauses as he points to his throat sheepishly.
Thirsty. He mouths back, and you feel guilt shoot through your veins. You’d promised to go looking for water today.
You look down again, watch as Lizzie twitches in her sleep, curling deeper into a ball on the forest floor. Gojo is slumped against the rock, a knife in his hand, always prepared. Tiberian and Arvina are seated next to each other, mouths open with little snores escaping.
You had no idea if they planned to stay here for the day, but you knew that this thirst wasn’t going to be quenched unless you did something about it.
Knowing Yuuji and his limp, he’d make a lot of noise coming down the tree. Your ankle was a little swollen but significantly better than last night, so you knew you’d have to make the journey alone if it were even possible.
Can you wait a little longer? You ask, and Yuuji bobs slowly, his lips chapped, but knowing that leaving your haven now could potentially mean death.
You smile apologetically, squeezing his hand once.
Finding your eyes fleeting back downwards, you watch as Gojo stirs a little bit, his face serene and calm in sleep.
As if sensing your gaze, Gojo blinks an eye open, sitting up against the stone as he stretches his strong arms above his head, looking around to make sure everyone is still there.
He tsks in annoyance when he sees Tiberian fast asleep, most likely supposed to be the last round of watch, but had given in to exhaustion.
Gojo pushes himself off the ground, joints cracking as he stretches slightly.
And then, carefully ,as if not wanting the others to sense what he was doing, he looked up.
Up to you.
Gojo looks as if he wants to make sure you’re still there. His shoulder moves down as he swallows, blue eyes squinting as you sit still. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back as a sigh rumbles out of his chest.
His hand falls to the side of his head, fingers pointing at the blood on the side of your face, something you haven’t had the opportunity to clean off yet.
You okay? His mouth formed the shape of the words.
Was…was he talking to you?
You blink, startled and dazed.
He’s still looking, as if expecting a response.
Your hand flies up to your ear, wincing at the cut. Dried blood flakes off, and you rub at the side of your face where it mainly is, scratching it raw until nothing remains. Yuuji watches as you twist your head to see if Gojo is still there.
One of his brows raised slightly, as if he were pressed for an answer.
Your shoulders rise and fall in a sort of shrug, pointing down to Lizzie’s sleeping body.
His stare follows your movements, lingering on her for a moment, and then flickers back to you as if understanding, but your attention was momentarily drawn away as Yuuji hastily tugs on the sleeve of your jacket.
“Is Gojo talking to you?” Yuuji asks, bewildered, whispering harshly in your ear as he observes from the other side, and you shush him. He goes pink, and you want to apologize, but you are cut off when something small hits the side of your body.
Baffled, you look down to see a small rock next to you.
Your neck swivels to where Gojo was still standing, his arm reeling back to throw another pebble to catch your attention. He sheepishly puts it down when he sees your seething glare. He mouths a sorry.
What do you want? You hope he can pick up the urgency in your tone, how much he’s messing with your psyche by acting like he was merely playing around instead of acting like he should be.
Hungry? You watch his mouth form the words intently, and shake your head as you gingerly hold up the bag you had gotten from the Cornacopia. But then you pause, gnawing on your lip as you set the pack back down between your lap, carefully and quietly bring the empty metal canister out.
Should you tell him? Tell him about the thing that’s hindering you and Yuuji from escaping?
By your calculations, he’s reached out to help you a couple of times, has helped you and Yuuji out already during the games, and hasn’t given away your hiding spot to the other Careers. You had spent the entire night waiting to see if he’d whisper something about your whereabouts, but his mouth never opened. You know that trusting him is still something difficult to ask yourself to do, but you wonder if, for some reason, he struggles to hurt you just as much as you struggle to hurt him.
Need water, your mouth after a minute of debating, opening the lid of the bottle, and holding it upside down to show that it was bone dry.
His eyes flash, an unreadable expression taking over his features.
Gojo glances somewhere back in the forest, hands crossing across his chest as his jaw ticks, mulling something over. The sun has set in the sky, and birds are stirring awake with their loud and incessant chirps. It won’t be long until the others wake up, too.
He suddenly points to somewhere down the trail, and you look behind the tree as if you could see what it was that he was ushering to.
River, he voices wordlessly, water back there.
Your brows raise slightly in surprise.
The leaves around you rustle, the breeze kissing your cheeks as your mouth opens and shuts, as you contemplate something. Even if he was telling the truth, how could you even begin to try an leave without the others noticing? How could you trust that there wouldn’t be an ambush when you got back? What’s it to say that he’s just trying to coax you to come down so he could kill you himself?
As if understanding your hesitancy, Gojo offers you a small smile, one that seems almost genuine, as his head ducks and he looks down at the sleeping tributes surrounding him.
He walks over to Lizzie, nudging her with the tip of his boots as she flinches, raising upwards as she yawns again, rubbing at her eyes as she cranes her neck up to look at him.
“What?” Lizzie snaps groggily, yawning again as she pushes his boot away. You watch as Arvina and Tiberian slowly start waking up after the noise. Arvina lifts her head from where it was resting on Tiberian’s shoulder, cracking her neck as she presses her palms into the sockets of her eyes to help her come back to her senses.
“Wake up,” Gojo tells her gruffly, his voice rough and hardened, a drastic difference from how you remembered him speaking to you. “Keep watch. I’m going to get some water.”
Yuuji pokes your thigh, a bright and excited grin on his face as he actively listens in on what Gojo is saying. You gave him a wobbly smile in return, still not liking what was happening but trying your best not to worry him.
“Mhh, fine,” Lizzie says, sleep still laced in her tone as she lazily puts her hair up, standing up as she ventures around to find one of her packs. She tosses Arvina some jerky, and she tears it open and holds it next to Tiberian so that they can share breakfast.
Gojo takes his weapons with him, giving you a brief look that would’ve just seemed like he was scoping the area out to the others before he set off with a slight jog in the direction he claimed the stream was located.
Lizzie watches him disappear into the trees, glancing over to where the other two were sitting and eating, moving a strand of hair away from her face as she exhales a big puff of air, her foot tapping quickly.
“Do you want to do it now?” She whispers after a few seconds, and Arvina looks up from her packet of jerky, mouth full as she slowly chews, swallowing tickly as she peeks over at Tiberian, waiting to see what he was planning to say.
Tiberian’s fingers curl around the spear he kept right next to him, nodding.
“Yeah,” he mutters, his finger poking at the tip, his finger pulling back, pricked with blood, “When he comes back.”
Your eyes squint as you try to pick up their whispered words, confused at their sudden change in conversation, one that they didn’t want Gojo to overhear in case he was still around.
“I’m still going for his head, right?” Arvina asked, looking between the two tributes as she flipped the knife around in her hand, catching it repeatedly by the handle, “Or do you want to switch with me?” She points the weapon at Lizzie as she gets to her feet, dusting the twigs and dirt from her pants.
“No,” Tiberian shakes his head, accepting Arvina’s extended hand as he stands, “Lizzie’s shorter than him, it wouldn’t work.”
Arvina snorted, pulling her hair from over her shoulder as his deft fingers started to quickly put it into a long, glossy braid.
“True. Plus,” she throws the braid over her shoulder as she shrugs, “She couldn’t even kill that girl from 11. She’d probably freeze if-”
“Hey!” Lizzie snapped, her freckled face turning red with both embarrassment and anger, “I had her, okay? Gojo just-”
“What?” Tiberian cut her off, his shoulder knocking hers as he picked up the other spear near her foot, “He called for you? And you went over like a puppy to its bitch,” He twirled the spear around, testing its weight as he pulled his shoulder back, acting like he was going to throw it in the direction Gojo had gone, “Still got that little crush on him?”
Lizzie blushes even more, if possible, and swats at his shoulder harshly, grumbling curses under her breath.
“Arvina goes for his head, I go from the left, and Lizzie…” Tiberian goes through their premeditated plan as he snaps his fingers at her, and she waves him off.
“I go right, yeah, I know.”
They all discuss quietly how they’d try to take Gojo down, where to hide to take him by surprise. They discuss these plans as if it were second nature to them, as if it’s been in the works for a while.
Yuuji tugs on your hand, eyes filled with worry, as he starts putting together what’s going on.
They’re planning to kill Gojo.
—-
You couldn’t out-power them.
The measly knife you stole from yesterday could do some damage, but you’ve never had experience using one to fight before, and you doubt that the three of them would fall to your mercy with it. Not only that, but you had Yuuji, too. If you left, they might come after him, and that was something you weren't going to risk.
Besides, you were still on the fence about risking your life for someone you barely knew.
But somewhere deep down in you felt compelled to at least try. He spared your life once; you owed him that much.
Then you’d be even, and maybe he’d stop coming after you.
You studied the trees surrounding you. If you tried, you might be able to travel from branch to branch, be able to move above ground, and notify Gojo that way. But you didn’t know how fast you’d be able to move with a bruised ankle, nor how quietly. Although it was your best option. When you were little, you always used to fly through the branches back home, competing with the other kids to see who could make it to the edge of the District fastest.
It had been nearly twenty minutes, and Gojo wasn’t back yet, but you knew he’d have to return sooner or later. This was your only chance at giving him a heads-up.
You knew you’d be leaving Yuuji alone, but he was the one who offered the idea.
“He helped me,” Yuuji whispered hastily, untying the rope around your waist, wanting you to get a move on things, “And you. We owe him.”
Curse his kind heart.
“I,” you look worriedly at the ground. If you fell, you knew you wouldn’t survive, “I’m not sure, Yuuji…” but you knew that deep down your mind was already made.
He gave you a pointed look, grabbing the knife from your hands as he shoved you a little bit.
“I’ll have this, you go.”
After another moment of mulling it over, your fists clenched, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all.
You were really doing this.
“Fine, fine,” you shuffle, easing your way to stand up, using the trunk to stabilize yourself as a surge of pain flashes through you, but you push it down, giving Yuuji one last chance to go back.
But you’ve never seen him so determined.
“Stay safe,” you whisper, “You yell, yell as loud as you can if something happens, okay?”
“Okay,” he says hurriedly, hands pushing at your legs to get you moving, “Just go!”
You nod, turning around as you look over at the trees to see which branches are more stable-looking than the others, which ones would provide a clearer path to where you wanted to go.
And with one careful foot after the other, with one deep breath to calm your nerves, you turn around the trunk to the branch on the other side and just start flying.
You don’t remember the last time you jumped between branches. The first jump you take, you almost slip, some bark flaking off as it falls to the ground. The tributes look up, confused, but thankfully, you’re covered by the leaves, and they wave it off as an animal.
You move again, leaping more carefully, the movements something that comes back slowly like muscle memory, as your hands are outstretched to help you keep balance. Your feet don’t make any noise when you land, the wind whipping past your face as you channel every bit of adrenaline into making sure to just keep running.
With eyes both in front of you and beneath you, you try not to run into any trunks, but are still trying to see that flash of white that you could recognize from miles away.
You grow more tired as you keep running, no sight of Gojo even as you get closer and closer to the forest edge.
Pausing on a particularly thick branch, you stop to catch your breath, your body lined with sweat and chest heaving as you look everywhere, anxiousness filling your nerves. This was a terrible idea. What if they found Yuuji? What if Gojo had already arrived, what if…
That’s when you see him.
He’s cutting through the thicker bushes, sword clinging as he treks through the forest with his pack strapped on his back. Gojo looks calmer, his face not so bunched up as it was before.
You brace yourself as you start jumping, not caring if your cheeks and hands are getting torn up by the sharp thorns and twigs.
There was only a little bit left when you suddenly slipped, your bad ankle rolling under the weight, and you fell off the branch, letting out a yelp as you fell through the air.
Your hands scramble to grab onto anything, your body hitting against the green leaves and other branches as you fall helplessly to the forest ground.
Luckily, your left hand grabs onto a thinner branch, your body jolting as you let out a whimper of pain, eyes screwed shut as you dangle helplessly.
“11?”
It’s him.
“11, is that you?”
Your mouth is open in a quiet whimper, your hand barely holding on as you oddly angle your head to look at who’s standing underneath you.
Gojo’s waiting at the base of the tree, chin tilted upwards as he looks at your dangling body.
You give him a humorless chuckle, clipped as you hiss at the rough texture digging into your skin.
“How’d you know?” You call down sarcastically, your other arm swinging upwards as you try to grab on. The branch creaks, and you frantically look at where it was sprouting from the trunk as it was slowly yet surely cracking.
“Seems like you’re the one doing the stalking now,” Gojo says with some mirth in his voice, “Can’t stay away from me?”
Your lips pressed tightly together as you try to grab onto the branch again, but the branch bends even more, and the smile on his face falls when he realizes what’s going on.
More splinters go flying, and your arm that’s holding on is slipping, your fingers doing their best to dig harder into the wood.
Gojo runs down beneath you, throwing the sword on the ground.
“Let go,” He cups his hands around his mouth, “I’ll catch you!”
The branch creaks again, splinters flying as you wince, surveying your odds of dying, splattering on the ground, or at the hands of the most skilled tribute here. When the branch gave a notably loud snap and your body was shoved down even more, you gave up, hand unfurling as you let yourself fall.
The winds whip around you, your legs and arms flailing around your body, twisting and turning, teeth clenching in pain as different thorns and leaves keep cutting your cheeks, the back of your hands, anything that they can latch onto as you get closer and closer to the ground.
Your eyes squeeze shut, waiting for the impact, but it never comes.
Peeking one open, you see Gojo’s face looking down at you, one arm around your waist, the other hooked under your knees as he observes you worryingly.
You give yourself a second to catch your breath before you scramble out of his hold, heart pounding rapidly, trying to ignore the heat underneath your cheeks.
He watches you, confused, but your hands rest on your knees as you heave up and down, wiping away at the sweat on your forehead. You balance up at him, the first time you’ve seen him since the interviews, and offer him a twisted look.
Gojo swivels his bag around, unzipping the first pocket as he takes something out of it, offering it to you.
A bottle of water.
You look at it, your brow slightly raised at his outstretched hand. Gojo waits, understanding your reluctance as he unscrews the top, drinking some of it to show that it wasn’t tampered with.
When he hands it back, you take it instantly, chugging half of its contents, saving the other half for Yuuji.
“Thanks,” you say after wiping the water droplets from your chin, giving him the bottle back as he pockets it, nodding silently.
He gives you a second to recuperate before you’re able to gather your thoughts.
“They’re,” You heave, coughing at the strenuous way you’re still breathing, “They’re planning,” you take in another steadying breath, “They’re planning to kill you. Lizzie, Arvina, Tiberian. I overheard them.”
Gojo’s smile doesn't waver, as if he doesn’t believe you.
Scoffing, you motion to the trees you just ran through, showing him the cuts on your hands and arms, traces of blood lining your face as well.
“You think I would’ve gone through all,” you wave wildly around to the trees, “This just to lie?” You roll your eyes at the audacity of him, muttering just how unbelievable he was and regretting overdoing this as you put your hands up in disbelief, “Unbelievable. Fuck, fine, don’t believe me. But we’re even now, okay?”
You look around while trying to block the sun out, wondering just how you’d be making your way back when Gojo speaks up.
“Even?”
You look at him from the corner of your eye.
“Yeah,” you say slowly, looking at him through furrowed brows, “You saved Yuuji and…me, I guess, so…even.”
He pushed some of his stray hair away from his face, biceps bulging, and you tried not to look too long at the sight.
“Do you think-”
But he gets cut off by a distant scream. One that sounds like your name.
Your necks snap back to the forest where everyone was gathered, your eyes widening with fear as you whisper, “Yuuji,”
Gojo glances back at you, and you stutter, trying to move but almost falling back on your foot as you yelp at your ankle you had just busted again.
“Yuuji, he’s there,” you’re stammering, slurring your words with fear and anxiety as you shuffle closer to him, your hand gripping his arm in a pleading way, “Please, I-I can’t-”
You know you’re asking things from him that he shouldn’t grant you. That there should be no normal place where a tribute from District 1 would ever want to help anybody besides their allies, why he shouldn’t killl you as you stood in front of him, but Gojo had this sort of determined look in his eyes that mirrored yours.
“Get on my back,” he says, rushing, packing everything up, throwing his bag off so you could climb on, but you just look even more startled.
“Hurry!” Gojo snaps, and you don’t have time to wonder how in the world he’s going to be able to carry you and this pack at once but he just moves around, letting you slowly grab around his shoulders, your arms tightening around his neck, and legs wrapping around his back as you shrug the pack over yourself.
Shockingly enough, Gojo started running as if nothing was weighing him down. You assumed that all the added muscles and training helped with this, but you were shocked at how well he was able to maneuver around the trees and shrubbery while still maintaining his speed.
This has now been the third time he’s helped you out, and at this point, you wonder if it would benefit you to start making a list of how many times you’re indebted to him.
You blink back tears, a dark thought spotting, hoping that they didn’t get to him first.
Eventually, Gojo comes to a halt, your chest pushing into his back with the momentum, and you groan, the wind getting knocked from your lungs.
The two of you are hidden by some large bushes and can hear the Careers a short distance away, shouting and laughing at something.
You climb off of him, carefully not to make a sound as you peek in between the leaves to see them huddled around the tree you had been pointing to…Yuuji.
Lizzie is smiling gleefully, laughing maniacally as Yuuji tries to climb higher, but his right leg hinders him. Tiberian is off his spear with a rock, trying to get it even sharper.
You watch with your mouth falling open, eyes watering as Yuuji screams for you again, gripping onto the tree trunk for dear life.
Gojo winces, looking over at your stricken face, and his hand comes to hold your wrist. You flinch, shaking your head helplessly, your bottom lip trembling.
“I’ll take care of them,” he whispered once again sternly, a steady promise, “Don’t worry.”
“But you just have the one sword, it’s three of them, I-I can’t help with-”
He snorts, squeezing your wrist gently before dropping it, twisting the handle around in his hand as he tests its weight.
“Just wait till it’s safe to come out,” Gojo murmurs, his eyes holding a peculiar weight, as if he could already see the scene playing out in front of him, “Okay?”
You nod limply, your face morphing into something cold and fierce when you hear Yuuji scream again. Gojo does one last take of you before disappearing somewhere into the blend of trees.
Waiting with baited breath, watching the opening as Arvina steps in next to Lizzie, yielding her arm back, the knife catching the sun as it shines. She throws it up, and you can almost hear it whizz.
Yuuji narrowly swerves it, his cheeks pink with tears as he trembles in fear.
Tiberian moves so he’s crowing the tree, two sharp spears in his hands as he throws them up and down, catching them with a metallic clink in his hands.
With their backs now to the woods, you visualize what attack plan Gojo must be formulating in his head. You crouch, looking from another opening as he emerges, silent as a mouse, from behind.
His steps are methodical and calculated, making sure not to make any noise as he creeps up on them. You hold your breath, hoping that they couldn’t hear him over the ruckus they were stirring up.
Yuuji lets out a particularly gut-wrenching cry, one that strikes deep into your heart. You silence the little sob that escapes your lips, covering your mouth.
Gojo moves with a precision that only a skilled craftsman has, lunging forward towards Tiberian as his sword glints like gold in the yellow light filtering through the thousands of leaves from above.
Arvina turns her head at the slight noise, but it’s too late.
Gojo’s blade cuts clean through his neck, and you flinch, turning quickly away to not see the gruesome sight. Lizzie lets out a scream when Tiberian’s body hits the ground with a harsh thud.
Arvina reels back, ready to swing, but realizes that the knife that was once in her hand is now lost up in the trees, and falls as Gojo’s second victim, his sword searing her chest.
She looks up at him, dark brown eyes reading something of betrayal as if she wasn’t planning to do that same moment ago. Blood pools around her uniform, and when Gojo shifts, his sword moving with him, her knees buckle, and she falls somewhere near Tiberian.
Lizzie was the last one remaining, and you watched as she scrambled to find one of her knives she had pocketed. You hear her beg for mercy, pleading and crying, but Gojo grants her nothing but.
When you hear the three canons finally blast, you nearly run out from your hiding spot, over to where Gojo was standing, his chest moving up and down with each laborious breath.
So much for the Career pack, you think mordaciously.
You share a look, but you don’t have time to worry about that as you glance up to Yuuji, relief flooding through you when you see him relatively unharmed.
“I’m coming, Yuuji!” You scream, and he lets out something incoherent, watching as you plan how to climb back up to him.
Gojo wipes his sword with some leaves, the blood coming off with a chilling, slick sound, splattering on the ground.
“You can’t climb with that ankle,” he wryly comments, and you huff in irritation, scrambling to come up with a solution.
“Have him fall,” Gojo continues, “I can catch him.”
You look torn, looking between Yuuji and Gojo as you think about what could happen if things went south.
“I…I don’t know,” you mutter, “He has his leg and…” you trail off, but Gojo is quick to understand the underlying resistance in your words.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tilted his head up at the sky, trying to make sense of the strange way your mind works.
“Look, I just killed three tributes,” Gojo says with a cocked brow, pointing to the three bodies behind you with the tip of his sword, as if not believing why you still weren’t trusting him, “I could’ve killed either one of you multiple times. Don’t you think that maybe I want to help you?”
But why are you questioning what you want to yell?
“I think I’d rather he catch me!” Yuuji calls from above, having heard the little quarrel, and the two of you watch as he shuffles around on the branch.
You think for a few more seconds before nodding, motioning for Gojo to go and do his thing. He gives you a tight-lipped smile, moving past you to the base of the tree with his arms outstretched.
Trying not to look at the bodies around you, you keep your gaze focused on Yuuji, telling him which direction to go so that he could land the safest way and with the least amount of impact.
“There! Right there!” You call out, chewing all of your nails off as Yuuji looks at you and then to Gojo one last time before he closes his eyes and jumps.
He whizzes downwards, and Gojo catches him with a thump, his legs dangling off his strong arms as a smile graces his face.
You let out the breath you had been clinging to, running over to him as Gojo carefully sets him on his feet, throwing your arms around his shoulders as you murmur apology after apology.
Yuuji pats your back, comforting you for some reason as his ears twinge red. As if you were one of his siblings, he tries to pull away, now suddenly feeling self-conscious of having the strongest men he’s ever seen be witness to your meltdown.
“I’m okay,” Yuuji mumbles, embarrassed, wiping off the kiss you pressed to his cheek, eyes darting to Gojo’s before he quickly looks away.
You laugh wetly, pushing his hair away from his face as you wipe at your cheeks.
Chewing on your bottom lip, still crouched on the ground as Gojo towers above you, your eyes soften for the first time since you’ve been in these games.
“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely, the words genuine and sincere, gentle as they pass across your three bodies and get swept with the wind, “Truly.”
Gojo swallows, his cheeks dusting pink at your praise, and waves it all off like it was nothing.
You stand, trying to shield Yuuji from the chaos behind you as you rub a hand up and down his back, a soothing gesture to remind you that he’s alright.
“You need water?” Gojo asks Yuuji, changing the topic suddenly, and it causes you to smile to yourself, hoping he doesn’t catch it.
Yuuji nods feverishly, nearly knocking the bottle out of Gojo’s hands as he twists the cap off and chugs it off, done in seconds. He sips his chin, looking sheepishly at you, but you assure him you already had some to drink.
“Thanks,” he says with a burp, giving him the now-empty bottle as Gojo’s lips tilt upwards, a grin on his face as he puts it back in his pack.
A silence follows, leaving only the rustling branches and mockingjays' call to be heard. You wait for Gojo to say something, but he seems to be struggling just as much.
Now what was the question that seemed to loom in the air?
“Do you want to join us?” Yuuji asked simply, seeing that nobody else was going to talk, his voice mellow as if he were asking Gojo what the time was.
“Yuuji!” You hiss, aghast, brows raised into your hairline at his bold statement, your eyes wide as he looks at you with a shrug, glancing back over to Gojo like nothing was wrong.
Gojo, also evidently taken aback by the request, says nothing for a second before chuckling to himself, the sound deep and reverberating through his chest as he eyes Yuuji, clearly not expecting him to be so bold given what he had seen from him so far.
A scene flashes before you, back to that day in the training center when Gojo first approached you.
You know he won’t make it long, he had said.
Your nose wrinkles in vexation at the memory, tugging Yuuji by the hand as you shake your head, giving Gojo a curt but formal smile as you take the bag Yuuji had managed to bring down from the tree, shrugging it over your shoulders, getting ready to leave.
“No, no,” you answer on Gojo’s behalf, giving Yuuji a pointed look, “I appreciate the help, but I’m sure that he’d like to go-”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Gojo says, a little fast, cutting you off as he winks at Yuuji, watching the way your face suddenly hardened up, “I wouldn’t mind joining you guys. That is,” he then looks to you, his face twisting into something teasing, his lips quivering as if he knew smiling would anger you even more, “If you don’t mind.”
Yuuji squeezes your hand a little tighter.
You have to control yourself from not looking over your shoulder at the bloody scene behind you, his previous allies lying in a heap of blood, not even being taken out in over five minutes despite having trained their entire lives for it.
There was no way you could protect yourself and Yuuji against him if it came down to it.
“How many times am I going to have to prove that I’m not going to kill you?” Gojo asked exasperatedly, and Yuuji seemed apologetic for his behavior, opting to look at the ground and move some of the scattered leaves with the tip of his boots.
You rubbed at your nose, apprehension written all over your features. As dangerous as he was, you couldn’t deny the layer of protection he’d offer you and Yuuji if he stayed by your sides. Even if he didn’t plan to stay till the end, you could use the extra help he’d provide until he chose to part ways.
But all that aside, what you wanted to know most was why? Why was he so keen on helping you? What did he gain from it?
You pointed to his sword after a minute of thinking.
“You give me your weapons,” you tell him firmly.
Gojo handed the sword over without any hesitancy, as if your condition didn’t matter in the slightest to him.
“And you walk in front of us.” You added quickly, and he raised his hands, his pink lips drawn into a smile, his blue eyes shimmering with a hint of childish excitement at how you eventually succumbed to his and Yuuji’s requests.
“Shouldn’t be too difficult with your ankle and his leg,” Gojo responds, and Yuuji snickers to himself, causing you to pinch the skin of his neck, and he yelps.
“And…and you help us get food,” you stammer, repentant at having given in, “Not just nuts or berries.”
Gojo smiles smugly, nodding.
“Is that all?” He asks after you don’t add anything else, and you don’t look him in the eyes, mumbling to yourself as you get ready to go.
You close your eyes and think this through all over again before you give up.
“For now,” you mutter under your breath, still in disbelief as you lead the way back into the first.
—-
You didn’t know where to go, but it was nearing the end of the second day of the games, and there were only nine tributes left, three of them being your weird and soon improvised ragtag team.
Gojo claimed that he had passed by another river when he had been scavenging yesterday, somewhere near the outskirts of the forest, but on the other side of where the Cornacopia was. He seemed confident in where he was taking you and Yuuji, but you remained as skeptical as possible, taking everything he told you with a grain of salt.
“There’s no way you don’t think I’d lose in a fight to them,” Gojo gasped, appalled as Yuuji laughed, walking with a little skip in his step. Yuuji seemed to have lightened up, glad to have this extra bit of protection from the most capable tribute in the arena. Not only that, but shocking enough to you, Gojo had been entertaining all of his crazy ideas, questions, and stories the entire day.
“You definitely would,” Yuuji assured him, “My brothers are huge.” Despite your telling him to walk a little bit ahead, Gojo had quickly forgotten this rule as he slowed down his long strides to match up with Yuuji. At first, you snapped at him to hurry up, but seeing how happy it made Yuuji to talk to him, you held yourself back.
Yuuji pauses after saying something, looking up at you with a raised brow, waiting for your response. You hadn’t been fully listening to their banter, trying to keep your eyes and ears peeled because nobody else was, so you blinked back, confused.
“What?” You asked, stripping your gaze away from the forest as you look over at Yuuji and Gojo.
“Don’t you think Sukuna could be him in a fight? Fist to fist?” Yuuji repeats, and Gojo scoffs, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the statement.
You glance over at the other tribute, eyeing him from head to toe as you pretend to think about Yuuji’s question. The fact that you even had to think about it seemed to annoy Gojo even more.
“Come on,” Gojo muttered in a peeved tone, “Are you seriously agreeing with him?”
You give him an impish look, scratching your head.
“I don’t know,” you confess, holding back your satisfied grin at the way Gojo looked shaken, “The twins are really strong.”
“Yeah!” Yuuji expciams excitedly, always happy to brag about his brothers, “Choso’s arms are like,” he tried to gauge with his small hands how big his brothers muscles were as he showed the size up to Gojo, “This big. Yours are…” he looked around, assessing Gojo’s muscles as he shrugged, looking over to you as he shook his head dejectedly. It seemed that Gojo’s arms were, in fact, as big as his brother's.
You giggled softly, hiding your smile behind your hand as you looked at the leaves littering the ground. Unbeknownst to you, the sound nearly made Gojo trip over his own two feet, his heart pounding erratically as you shoved at Yuuji playfully.
“I can’t believe I wanted to help you two,” Gojo muttered, rolling his eyes as Yuuji smiled brightly, skipping around Gojo as he always seemed to do.
Despite your initial hesitation towards allowing Gojo to tag along, mainly for the comments he had made previously about Yuuji, it seemed that the young boy had quickly grown on the tribute.
You had forced yourself to stay awake the first few nights, refusing to let Gojo take watch out of fear of him turning on you while asleep. After some protests, he gave up, shrugging indifferently as he let you watch in exhaustion.
Sometimes Yuuji would shift unconsciously in his sleep, whimpering as nightmares got to him. Gojo woke up, assessed his face, and pushed against his shoulder, not in an annoyed way, but to ground him, as if he understood. When his hand first stretched, your hands curled against the hilt of his sword, but you watched curiously as Yuuji grumbled something underneath his breath and went back to sleep soundlessly.
It had been three days since Gojo had been with you two, and in those three days, no other tributes had died. You suspected that the gamemakers weren’t too antsy yet, seeing how thirteen tributes had died so far and it hadn’t even been a full week, but you knew that if that canon stayed silent for any longer, they’d be introducing more gruesome ways for you all to meet your end.
You had also wondered what those watching had made from your strange alliance. Were the people in the districts intrigued? Angered? What did sponsors and game makers think of it? It was practically unheard of for somebody from a district as high as Gojo’s to team up with such a lower district, but it was hard ot predict what the reaction would be to it.
“How’s your ankle?”
Your head perked up from where you had been focusing on the roots scattering around the forest floor, glancing sideways at Gojo as he had slowed down his pace to match up with yours. Yuuji was a little bit ahead, knowing not to stray too far away from where you and Gojo could no longer be able to see him.
Your shoulders fell into a dismissive shrug, the dull ache still pulsing, but Gojo had fashioned a makeshift bandage that had wrapped around your foot, keeping it effectively in place. It was slightly awkward having this virtual stranger kneeling in front of you with your foot in your hand, but you hoped it was putting on a good show nonetheless.
“It’s better,” you mutter, rolling it around gently, no longer feeling a sharp sting at a sudden movement, “It hurts, but…better.”
He smiles smugly, not saying anything, as you just roll your eyes.
Gojo had suggested trying to put as much distance between the other tributes, which warranted walking around the edge of the forest during the day and staying somewhere hidden during the night. You had done the mental math and deduced that besides the three of you, the male tribute from three, Evelyn and her brother, Maxmus, from five, the girl and boy tributes from six, and the boy from ten were all that was left. Usually, this early into the games, more of the upper-level districts would still be alive, but Gojo took care of that issue.
“And your ear?”
Your hand absentmindedly reached upwards, the wound from Lizzie’s knife healing slowly, and it no longer hurts whenever you accidentally brush against it. Dried blood flakes off, and you give him a tight-lipped smile.
“It’s fine,” you say curtly, looking away from him to focus more on Yuuji, who was still a little bit ahead of you.
Gojo sighs, nodding to himself after your brief answer. In his defense, he has tried his best to show you that he’s not a threat. From the times when you’d wake up, terrified of having gone to sleep during a watch, you’d find him pointing at the fire, sitting just enough distance away to show that he didn’t mean any harm. He talked a lot, trying to fill the awkward and tense stretches of silence with something of substance.
He was trying to make himself seem like a friend more than an ally, and that scared you.
“We should set up camp somewhere near here,” Gojo murmured, and you squinted at the sun, watching as the color was getting a more fiery orange, a signal that it was planning to set within the next two hours.
You hummed, a silent agreement, and fidelity with your fingers. You wanted to talk to him about things that sponsors and Capitol citizens shouldn’t hear. You wanted to ask questions that were subjected to an audience of spectators dissecting what they truly meant. You wanted to know why it felt like you knew him, before all this chaos, and why he remembered you. Where he remembered you.
Don’t you remember me? His words still echoed in your head.
“Is this what 11 looks like?” His voice brought you back from your endless thoughts, and you glanced over at Gojo as his head swiveled around to look at the tree line, not even looking at you as his eyes squinted from the rays of sunlight.
“The outskirts,” you mutter softly, thinking back to home, “But it’s mostly just fields and factories.”
He was like Yuuji in some ways. He always asked questions, picked and prodded, wanting to know more. You were reclusive, not knowing how much to say or how much you wanted him to know, but he was relentless. Gojo didn’t care much that you didn’t reciprocate, didn’t mind that you kept your answers short and curt, just glad to hear your voice.
But in some sense, it was strange how easy a conversation with him was. Your reluctance to answer his questions was more for your own sake, which he didn’t mind, but not because it was difficult to talk to him. In some sense, it felt like you had known him for far longer than you did. In some sense, it felt like you had known him all along.
And it’s not as though you don’t want to ask him things. But your questions are more deep-cutting than his simple surface-level ones.
“1 is just buildings and factories,” Gojo says, unprovoked, “A lot more industrial. I think the first time I saw a tree was back at the training center.”
You nodded, not knowing what to say as the leaves crunched under your boots.
The two of you walk in silence, watching Yuuji as he scavenges around for fruits and nuts, and you give it another minute before you say something to make it less unbearable.
“It looks like home sometimes,” you add, solemnly taking in the way the shadows of the branches move as if they’re alive, “Honestly, sometimes I have trouble telling what’s real and what’s not.”
Gojo glances at you, a white brow slightly raised.
“What do you mean?” His voice dips slightly, as if he’s a little surprised that you spoke in your own accord and didn’t want to scare you away.
You shrug, chewing on your lip as you motion to the carefully constructed arena surrounding you. At the synthetic bird chirps and crickets, the way the leaves rustle and twigs scratch up against each other. To the untrained ear, maybe to him, it seems natural, like its nature. But when you listen, really listen, the cadence of the bird song is too robotic. The leaves are an unnatural shade of orange, and the bark flakes strangely.
“This isn’t real,” you explain hurriedly, as if you don’t want him to think you were insane, “But I feel like if I let myself believe it and forget where I am, I’ll…I’ll think that I’m back at 11, you know? Back home where everything was normal,” you say with a heavy chuckle, looking ahead over to where Yuuji was bent over looking at a flower patch.
“Like you forget you’re in the games?” He asks, pushing, and you glance over at him through the side of your eyes, nodding.
“Yeah,” you swallow thickly, “Like I forget we’re in the games.”
Gojo nods, tongue in cheek, as he digests your words. He lumbers in height next to you, his strength almost overwhelming as you two walk in a strangely methodical rhythm.
Yuuji stands up from where he was crouched, showing you a bushel of berries he had plucked from the bush, and you wave him over with a smile, opening your sack for him to put them in.
“These look good, right?” Yuuji asks, holding them up to the light. You take them from his smaller hands, twisting and turning them around to make sure they didn’t resemble anything poisonous that you were familiar with. After you were sure they were safe, you nodded, ruffling his strawberry blonde mess of hair as he blushed pink, his cheeks that had been slightly burnt by the sun now looking even redder.
Seeing this, you tsk, lips pressing together tightly as you try to think of something to do for the sunburn. You had no salve, and sponsors wouldn’t send any for something so minuscule. Yuuji was probably the palest kid in eleven, and the ladies back home always helped him out whenever he’d come back from the fields all red and splotchy.
“You need some of Miss Maggie’s cream,” you tell him wistfully, squeezing his cheeks slightly to turn his head from side to side as he groans even louder, “You’re all burnt.”
Yuuji rolls his eyes, but a small look of longing flashes across his face. Miss Maggie was an older lady who ran the apothecary store near the district square. Her dark brown eyes were the kindest you had ever seen, her voice soothing and calm. She had no children but often took care of the kids as if they were her own. Yuuji missed her. You did too.
Gojo watched the interaction quietly, just like he did with most of your interactions with Yuuji, and only decided to speak up once you had slung the pack back over your shoulders. He goes to open his mouth but a sudden scream cuts him off.
The birds flap and fly away from the trees, their wings fluttering with each other in a cacophony of noise and screeching and yelling. You duck, and Gojo throws himself over you, shielding your body as the two of you look wildly around to where the noise came from.
It was from somewhere deeper into the woods, the sound sharp but not close enough.
“Yuuji!” You whisper harshly, motioning for him to run back quietly towards you. He abides wordlessly, and he situates himself into your open arms as Gojo wields his sword by the hilt, one arm thrown over your back protectively.
Seconds later, a cannon blasts, and you flinch, your grip on Yuuji tightening.
“We should move,” Gojo says in a hushed tone, his voice barely audible, “Go back-”
Another scream. Another cannon.
This time, he flinches with you. This isn’t normal. Nor was the way the ground was slightly shaking beneath you.
Your brows furrowed in confusion, looking helplessly past the treeline to see if you could make out anything. The leaves were quivering, and the trunks were vibrating. You didn’t know if the arena itself was moving or if it was something worse, something that came in numbers.
“We have to leave,” you say, your voice slightly wavering, but you try to keep it steady for Yuuji’s sake, “Take Yuuji, we’ll go closer to the Cornacupia, there has to be…” but you trail off, your words dying down as something in the distance caught your attention.
It wasn’t a scream, at least, not a human one. A strangled cry, akin to an animal wailing, bounced off the trees, piercing your ears as the three of you almost fell to your knees at the grating noise.
What in the world was that?
“Are those…are those animals?” Gojo asks, startled, his grip on your waist growing impossibly tighter.
Animals? You shake your head slightly, deep in thought. Animals wouldn’t make sense. It couldn’t be just any animal; the game makers were creative, above normality, and the bounds of nature. And with it still being early in the games, they must be part of the arena, something never seen before, waiting to be discovered by misfortune tributes.
Your breath hitches when you figure it out.
“Mutts.”
There was an instantaneous unspoken understanding between you and Gojo, one that transcended words. You don’t remember pushing Yuuji towards him, but Gojo made haste with pulling him over his back, and you tightened the straps of your bag as you two sprinted backwards to the direction you had come from.
You tried to push past the pain and throbbing that came from your ankle, knowing that it was protesting for you to stop, but you couldn’t, not now. The ground was shaking, and the branches were rustling with the movement of whatever mutt it was that the gamekaers had decided to release.
Wind whipped past you, tigs cutting your face, and you pushed past the low-hanging branches as you tried not to look over your shoulder to where the snarls and wails of the mutts were getting louder and more prominent.
Survival was the only thing on your mind; everything else, ranging from the blaring pain and the loud ig of your heart, came later. Gojo was running a little bit in front of you, carrying Yuuji on his back, seemingly doing little to slow him down.
You knew looking behind your shoulder would hinder you, but one quick glance made your stomach churn and your blood run cold.
Back home, there used to be wild pigs near the woods, one you’d see sometimes during the day. These mutts, around five from what you counted briefly, looked similar, but their hide was a coarse brown color, their eyes wide and black. But the worst part? Theirrazor-sharpp tusks gleamed in the sunlight, as if they were made of metal.
You let out a strangled noise, shaking your head as you stumbled slightly, running as fast as you possibly could, trying to reach the outskirts of the forest and into the wheat fields that surrounded the Cornucopia.
Gojo called your name amid this chaos, glancing over Yuuji to make sure you were alright. When he caught sight of the manmade beasts, creations of the sadistic gamemakers, he picked up his pace.
The trees began thinning out and the field was coming into view. You had no idea how you were able to run so far and so fast with your busted ankle, but the adrenaline was taking over, and survival was the only thing you could think of at that moment.
Loud squealing from the mutts echoed in your ears, and you pushed past the blades of grass that came around your hips as you and Gojo tried putting as much distance between you and the mutts as possible.
Just when you thought you were getting further away, your foot, the same one with the injured ankle, caught on something jutting up from the ground, causing you to go flying too the ground.
You let out a sharp noise, one of pain, fear, anguish, and clutch your foot in pain, tears dotting your eyes as you try to scramble away on your hands and knees.
The mutts were getting closer, the grass was shuffling to accommodate their bodies, and you closed your eyes, accepting your fate.
But that fate never came.
You felt a gust of wind from over your head, and you peeked your eyes open to see Gojo jumping in front of you, weapons drawn, shielding your body with his as the boars continued to circle him.
Your mind was reeling. Where was Yuuji, where was Yuuji, where was Yuuji?
You wanted to scream at him, at where he put Yuuji, but you couldn’t make a sound, paralyzed in fear as you watched Gojo brandish his sword to one of the boars that got close, swatting at them to get them to fear him. He made guttural noises, one to make them afraid, and you watched as the mutts slowly backed away, not looking for a fight, which was strange, and you watched Gojo’s back never relax until he was sure they had gone back to wherever they were hiding in the forest.
He turned after a few beats of silence, the wind rippling around you, the sun blazing, and the sky artificially blue. Blades of grass tickled your cheek, and Gojo put the weapon back in his holster, running a hand through his hair as he finally took a deep breath.
“You okay?” He asked simply, his voice heavy as you nodded, eyes shutting as you allowed yourself a moment to calm down.
Gojo took it silently, knowing what you had just been through , and didn't push for an answer, and crouched down to where you had fallen, wrapping one arm around your shoulder as he gradually and carefully lifted you.
You whimpered and didn’t catch the way Gojo winced at the sound, but you hopped a little bit to find the right footing, leaning on his chest as your eyes welled with tears of pain again.
“Thanks,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice wavering, “Again.”
Gojo’s smile was heavy, but he tried his best to wave it off, opening his mouth to give you one of his witty remarks when his eyes fell on something behind you.
His face fell, and he pushed you away roughly, your body swaying slightly at the sudden movement.
Everything happened so quickly, you barely registered it.
Gojo throws Lizzie’s old weapon,
A boy holding a knife to Yuuji’s chest.
Lizzie’s knife pierces the boy's skull,
But not before his knife plunged into Yuuji’s stomach.
One canon fired as the boy from ten hit the ground with a harsh thud, but it didn’t even hold a torch to the sound, the nearly inhuman scream that clawed its way out of your lungs.
You pushed past Gojo, who was standing still, unmoving, pushed past the boy with the cracked open skull, and found Yuuji fallen, a few feet away from him.
Yuuji, oh, Yuuji.
He was shivering, his face clammy and pale. He was looking down at his stomach, his hands grasping the hilt of the knife that was sticking out of his stomach, looking up at you with big, watery eyes.
Blood was pooling around his midsection, and the mandated jacket he was wearing was soaking with red. The flowers beneath his body were losing their white color and taking a new shade of something gruesome. He couldn’t speak, but was looking at you, terrified.
Your lips trembled, hands shaking violently as you struggled to find words to say, tears falling uncontrollably from your eyes and splattering on his chest as you tried to think of something to do.
“I-I, I don’t know what to…to do,” you gasp, struggling to breathe, “Don’t t-touch it, okay? I’ll get some - some help. I’ll get help,” you’re words at slurring together, your breathing blocking up as Yuuji’s chest began to move faster up and down with each labored breath, his chestnut eyes watching you with fear but still with trust trust, hoping you knew how to save him.
Because you did. You were supposed to. You were supposed to save him.
“I have some gauze,” you stammer, moving to get your pack but finding it to be missing, most likely having gotten lost somewhere you had fallen. “Let me g-get you the gauze.” You go to crawl back, but a sudden hand on your shoulder stops you.
You look up, with tear-ridden cheeks, to see Gojo standing above you, blocking the sun with his tall frame, his eyes sullen and his hand slightly shaking.
“Hurts,” Yuuji muttered, sending daggers through your heart, “It hurts.”
You choke back a sob, nodding quickly as you try to calm him down.
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” you wipe your elbows across your face, blinking the tears away to help focus your vision, “Just…”
“Go get my bag,” you tell Gojo, pointing with a trembling hand to where it was, but he doesn’t move, seemingly stuck in place.
“G-go, please,” you plead, shoving weakly at his legs as you let out a shaky whimper, looking back to Yuuji and the blood pouring out of him.
But he didn’t move.
There was so much blood. It was pooling around his stomach, it was stuck between the flowers that sprouted from the ground, and caking under your nails. Your hands trembled, trying to put pressure on the wound, but Yuuji whimpered, and your hands shot away.
“Damn it, Gojo, go!” You screamed, your voice cracking as your chest rattled with another sob, “Go! Fucking move!”
Deep down, you knew it was useless.
Your voice is escaping you as you push even harder at Gojo’s legs, trying to get him to move, but he stands firm, shuffling after a second to sit down next to you to hold your wrists in his hand, to stop your hitting and punching at his chest.
Because he knew it was useless, too.
You go to scream at him, to yell, but Yuuji’s voice, soft and choked, stops you.
“Did,” he stops, taking a big gulp of air as blood trickles out of his chapped lips, “D’you see? I punched him so hard I b-broke his nose,” Yuuji tries to smile, by his lips are wavering, and a small sound of pain escapes them, his eyes wringing shut as he holds onto his stomach tighter.
You let out a wet laugh, shuffling closer to him as you take his small, blood-stained hands in your own. You press them to your trembling lips, giving them a long, warm kiss as you nod.
Gojo saw you struggling to speak, so he placed a hand on Yuuji’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.
“Yeah, kid, we saw,” Gojo’s voice dipped, heavy with emotion as his eyes wavered, “You’re gonna have to teach how you did that later, okay?” Gojo gives him a kind and caring smile, his eyes slightly glossy, looking like a moving river.
Yuuji grinned slightly, still feeling sheepish yet honored to be praised by Gojo. You chuckled softly at that, pushing strands of hair away that were stuck to his forehead as you brushed his eyebrow hairs into place, just as his mother would have done.
Yuuji chews on his lip, trying to keep you from hearing his pain, but the sight alone makes you nauseous.
“I,” he stops again, his chest heaving, his voice quiet and escaping him, so you lower yourself down to his lips, pushing the hair out of his face like you always down. Yuuji stops and lets out another whimper.
“I never had a s-sister,” Yuuji says with a strained whisper, little tears escaping his eyes and rolling down the side of his face, “But…but I think that you’re the best sister I ever could’ve had,” he murmurs weakly, and upon hearing his words, you can’t control the sob that escapes you, holding onto his hands tighter as you nod silently.
“Oh…sweetheart,” you let out a muffled cry, snot running from your nose as you grip his hand impossibly tighter, “You have no idea just how much…just how much,” you hiccup, laughing weakly as tears collect and fall from your chin, “Just how much you mean to me. ” You tell him sternly through all the tears, and the corners of his lips tilt slightly. His eyelids were fluttering, his grip on your hands loosening.
He was choking on his blood now, and your hands were staining red from trying to put pressure on the wound. It was all happening so fast yet so slow that you couldn’t wrap your head around what was reality and what was not.
Yuuji takes a ragged breath, his lips parting ever so slightly as he musters up the last bit of his strength to lean in closer to your ear, whispering ever so slightly,
“You have to win,” he struggles to say through the thick blood in his mouth, and your eyes shoot to his, and one last look of fight and strength flashes across his as he says, “Please.”
Before Yuuji’s hand grows limp in yours, before his body slumps onto the ground,
Before the canon blasts.
—
It was night, and yet you hadn’t moved.
You stared blankly at the dead body, never blinking, barely breathing.
What if he got cold? What if he were hungry? What if he needed something to drink?
You knew he was dead and that those things didn’t matter. But what if you left, and the game makers did something to him? To little Yuuji, to the boy who was terrified of spiders but would put one in a cup if you asked him to.
Fried tears stained your cheek, and blood caked on your hands and nails. It was gruesome and gory; it was death, it was the Hunger Games, and this is what viewers wanted to see.
They wanted to see you spiral, they wanted to see you go insane and blood thirsty. But no matter how much you wanted to kill everyone in that arena, you know that Yuuji would’ve never let you do that. Especially in his name.
So after some more time had passed, after the anthem played and they put his picture in the sky, you allowed yourself one spare glance up at it.
You saw his picture and his cheerful smile staring back at you, his freckles, and the small mole next to his right eye. You saw Yuuji, not the Yuuji in front of you, but the one you remembered, and decided not to let the Games, the gamemakers, and the sponsors take him away the way they wanted to.
Silently, you shifted, going towards the bag that Gojo had eventually brought, and unzipped the top.
You scavenged around a bit, looking for something, and pulled it out after a few moments of digging. The metal flask, Yuuji’s flask, is still full of water from this morning.
You went to unscrew the top, but your hands were shaking, fingers not able to pull and twist correctly. You struggled, slipping and sliding, when a sudden movement stopped you.
Gojo.
You thought he would have left hours ago, but he stayed. He didn’t say anything, and you were glad he didn’t. He let you mourn, he let you grieve the way you wanted.
He moves slowly, as if not to startle you.
You watch as he grips the base of the flask, his eyes silently asking if it is okay to take it. Your grip loosens, and he curls his fingers around the top, twisting off the plastic cap gingerly and places the bottle back into your hands.
You turn to Yuuji’s body, slowly tilting the bottle as water flows from its rim and onto his bloodstained clothes. You take his hands and wash the red off, cleaning his face and jacket of any remnants of the carnage.
You try not to think about how cold he was, or how limp he felt in your hold. You just cleaned all the sweat and grime away, needing him to look as normal as possible.
Combining your fingers through his soft hair, you make sure all the leaves and twigs are out of it as you style it the way you remember his mother doing it. You then moved onto the jacket, shakingly zipping it up to hide his wound.
You sit back on your haunches, scavenging the bag as things clunk around. Silent tears stream down your face, and you feel a hand on your wrist, pausing you.
You glance to the side at Gojo, your glossy eyes shining in the pale light of the moon. His face is sullen and slack, as if he’s barely doing any better processing what happened.
He waits for a second, and then;
“How can I help?” He asks simply.
It’s not a difficult question, but it causes your breathing to hitch, tears streaming as your lip trembles.
You swallow your bile thickly, raising a hand to wipe at your cheeks as you clear your throat, voice raw and scratched.
“Flowers,” you tell Gojo finally, “He needs flowers.”
He nods and gives your wrist one last gentle squeeze before he rises to his feet, looking around the field for big enough flowers to pick.
You watch him leave, taking a deep and steadying breath as you look back to Yuuji and get back to work.
Back in eleven, when somebody died, it was important to respect their death just as much as you’d respect them living. There were stories, ancient stories that the Capitol had tried to get rid of, of what happens after you die. Older inhabitants of eleven held on to those traditions, passed them down from generation to generation.
You clean the body, first off. Make sure that when they pass on to their new life, wherever that may be, they are as clean as possible. You gently wet the handkerchief, your father's handkerchief, the small token you were allowed to bring into the games, and wipe off Yuuji's cheeks and in between his knuckles.
Food is important for the dead to have. Their journey elsewhere is long, and they might be peckish on the way there. You look in your bag and find some dried berries and nuts, alongside the fresh berries that Yuuji had picked today, and place some in his hands, making his fingers close around them like a fist as you guide his hands down to rest on his stomach.
You hear some grass rustling, and look to see Gojo walking back with bushels of flowers he had picked. Though it was dark and you had to squint, bright colors like white, yellow, and purple filled the bouquet.
Gojo doesn’t say anything, but there’s no need to. His small action has already spoken beyond a thousand other words.
Nodding in approval, you take the flowers from him and wrap the stems together with some wire, placing them under his closed fists and watching as the colors bring some life back to his pale face.
Finally, some words are spoken over the body before they lay them to rest.
You had closed Yuuji’s eyes just as his cannon had blasted, so you lean down and hover your lips on his forehead, giving him a small and gentle kiss as you murmur an apology, grieving and choked words that you barely say as you mutter the words you had heard the elders in eleven murmur a thousand times before.
You were familiar with death, but that didn’t mean that it was a familiarity you welcomed.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” you whispered against his cold skin, “I’ll see you in a bit,” you tell him gently, slowly coming back up on your ankles as you stare at his little body.
In the moonlight, with no trace of blood, holding those flowers and with his eyes shut, made it look like he was sleeping. It wasn’t real, but a part of you so wished it was.
You think of his family watching. You think back to your younger self, having to watch as they placed your family in their graves, back to when you became alone. This wasn’t a game, as much as they lied to call it one, but a cruel reminder of the brief mortality of those deemed inferior.
Somewhere around, perhaps on one of the trees in the distance or even up in the sky, was a hidden camera catching all of this. You didn’t let them see you cry, stared straight at it as if you were staring directly at those back home, and gave one small, acknowledging nod.
You don’t look at Yuuji’s body again when you silently trail back into the forest. Gojo says nothing as he walks by your side.
He takes your hand in his, a grounding hold, one that means nothing except for the fact that he was there beside you,
And you let him.
—
You two wandered around, lifeless, until you stumbled upon a small alcove, a place hidden by trees and not easily seen by the untrained eye, for the two of you to stay in.
The moment you collapsed on the ground, bones riddled with exhaustion, did you finally let yourself cry.
You cradled your knees to your chest, letting ugly and raw sobs rake through your body as your head tilted back against the trunk of the tree behind you, hands running down your face as you shook violently.
It hurt, you ached. You couldn’t stop seeing the blood, his face, the boy with the knife through his head. Everything hurts.
You felt something shift, a body sitting down next to yours, and without thinking about it, you let your head fall limply on his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut with silent sobs.
Gojo doesn’t move.
Clawing at your chest, at your pitiful excuse of a heart, you tremble, wishing that this was all some nightmare that you’d wake up from and never have to see again.
“Cry tonight, but come tomorrow, don’t let them see any more of your tears.”
You scoff, nose wrinkling as you move to push yourself off of him, but he shifts, turning so that you two would be face to face.
“Nothing you can take is worth keeping…right? That’s what you told Caesar - that’s what you told them,” he mirrors your words back at you with a raised brow, face stern and unreadable, “Right?”
Your expression slackens, and your lips part slightly in both surprise and shock.
“Don’t let them take Yuuji from you,” Gojo says, “He’s worth more than that.”
His eyes search yours, search through the glossy reflection and redness in the whites, and a moment of silence passes between you two.
After another beat, you nod, something small, but understanding.
When the sun came up, you wiped at your cheeks, your chin, your nose. You wipe the blood from your hands with the remaining water, and let Gojo clean the blood from your face with his careful touch.
As the leaves rustle with the early morning winds and the rays of sunlight begin peeking in from the tree tops, you hear a small twinkling noise, a mechanical yet sweet sound coming from above.
You and Gojo look up, watching as a small metal tin with a parachute on it starts drifting down from the sky, and waits as it lands in front of a small thump. A gift from sponsors, you think.
But when you inch forward, taking it with shaking hands and ginger crack it open, you see two rolls of bread, the sweet bread from back home, the same kind you’d usually eat after a funeral.
A small note lay on top of it, and you took it out between two pinched fingers, reading, you felt a wobbly smile make its way onto your face.
Thank you for looking after Yuuji - The Itadori Family and the People of District 11.
You two eat the bread in silence, savoring the sweet and nostalgic flavors resting on your tongue before you two rise from your spots and start getting ready to leave.
—-
Gojo found a small cave where the two of you could stay the night, someplace that was hidden from any peering eyes and would allow you two to make a fire and sleep without having to take turns keeping watch.
You were beginning to talk a little more, but still preferred to listen. Gojo didn’t mind and filled the silence with stories from his district and childhood. Sometimes, you found yourself containing little grins when he made a terrible joke, and often had to duck your head so that he wouldn’t see. But it wasn’t so much that you didn’t want him knowing, but rather it felt strange, a somewhat normal way of being that you didn’t want to accustom yourself to after everything that had happened and everything waiting to happen.
Gojo told you about his father and his games, and he talked about training and what that looked like. Sometimes you’d interject and tell him a similarity that your district shared with him, and he'd listen with a soft look on his face, something easy and relaxed, his lips pulling into a genuine smile when he heard you talk about blips from your past.
It helps distract you, makes you forget about Yuuji and the games.
“…I swear, that’s what most people said,” Gojo told you with a small laugh, shaking his head as he recalls old memories, “They said I was too scrawny to ever be in the games.”
You let out a small huff, your knees pulled up against your chest as you watch the red and yellow flames from the fire dance off of his face, making his blue eyes shine even more.
No matter how much you wanted to deny it, the two of you had seen each other in your most vulnerable times, and there was no shaking the strange bond it was creating between the two of you.
“Is that why you volunteered?” You ask wryly, your head resting on your crossed arms.
Gojo shakes his head, one of his knees propped up with his other lanky leg spread in front of him. You wonder how much of this conversation is being shown.
“By the time I volunteered people had stopped calling me scrawny,” he replies, and had it been anybody else it might’ve seem like he was just boasting, but after getting to know Gojo you could tell he was just being honest, “I just…” he shrugged, thinking thoughtfully, “I figured I’d make people proud if I went.”
Your lips press into a thin line, eyes squinting. You also had gotten to know the tribute well enough to know just how much pressure he’s faced, even if he didn’t voice it, to continue his father's legacy. Not pushing it further, you nod slowly, biting your cheek as you think.
“I bet they’re really proud seeing you with me,” you said after a beat, voice dry with sarcasm as you offered him a lazy smile that didn’t match your eyes. You were far from when you were when you entered the games without trusting him, but you doubted the people from the higher districts were necessarily happy seeing their shining tribute form an alliance with somebody from an outlying district.
But instead, Gojo smiles, something genuine, and his eyes wrinkle around the edges. It’s a far cry from the cold-hearted and jagged fighter you first saw, and it was jarring sometimes to be looked at the way he looks at you.
“You have no idea,” he replies after a moment, sincerely.
You fought to control a small smile.
Running your finger across the cave floor, tracing small shapes in the dust, you think back to things you miss from home. Things that you’d blink and see again, maybe even in the dark pits of your dreams before they turned horrifying.
Picking up a small leaf, you twist it around by the stem, watching it twirl quickly in the air.
“Do you miss it?”
His brows pinched together, not understanding your broad question.
“Home,” you specify, “Do you miss it?”
Gojo’s bottom lip catches between his teeth, and he slightly shifts where he was seated. The fire crackles, some of the wood moving as it continues to burn. The crickets outside were chirping away, and from the opening of the cave, you could see the silver wash of the moon begging to be let in. If not for the cruel reminder of the anthem that had played not even an hour earlier, with no dead tributes to honor in the sky, you could close your eyes and pretend that you were back in eleven.
His eyes flash with something unreadable, most likely thinking back to soft recollections of his district, ones that mirror yours. His lips quirk slightly at the ends, something he can’t control as better memories flood his senses.
“I do,” he mutters after thinking, his voice honest but dropping in volume, as if he didn’t want the microphones to pick up what he was saying, even though they could pick up a twig snapping, let alone voices, “Don’t you?”
Your eyes widen slightly, your breath hitching.
Yuuji.
Home.
Your mouth dries up suddenly, and you feel a wave of nausea roll over you. Your head feels lighter than usual, and you blink, trying to push back the unwelcome sting of tears, but every time you do so, you see he’s lifeless body in front of you, the blood staining his pale skin as he tries to gasp for air.
Gojo instantly notices a change in your demeanor, and before you even try to wobbly stand up, he’s already there, offering support as you try to push him off. One of your hands is grasping at your stomach, feeling the dinner you had just eaten churn around as you use the other hand to steady yourself on the cave walls.
“Hey, hey, what happened?” He asks hurriedly, his eyes searching your face, noting the way sweat dotted your hairline and the way you looked like you were fighting back some war with your food, “Did I say something?”
You shake him off, shaking your head as you use your hand on the wall for guidance, trying to leave, but Gojo doesn’t let go of his grip on your elbow. Unfortunately, as stubborn as you were, you learned that Gojo was just as, if not more, stubborn than you.
Struggling for air, you try to take in ga ulp of it, but it doesn’t seem to work. You see flashes of Yuuji, Yuuji and his family, his brothers, your family, and it causes your mind to reel, your chest heaving as you struggle to breathe.
All of a sudden, the heat from the fire was overwhelming. You felt sweat rolling down the side of your face and neck, dotting your back and arms. It was intense and overbearing. You couldn’t remember what it even was that set you off.
“I need,” you gasp, your fingers clawing at your throat, coughing, “I need to get out.”
Gojo’s white brows cinch together in the middle with worry, leaning down to see if you were alright, but you push him off with the last bits of force you had.
“But-”
“Go away,” you snap, harsher than you intended, and he doesn’t fight back this time when you wrangle your arm away from his hold, tumbling away and towards the cave opening as tears finally escape your eyes and you let the cool sting of the night breeze welcome you.
You know you shouldn’t let them see you cry, shouldn’t let them hold this power over you, one that proves that their strength and capabilities outmatch yours. Because they don’t, they have nothing on the experiences you’ve gone through, the ache you’ve endured, the resilience it took to survive, but as heartless and cold as they were, they’d never understand the pain of loss, the hurt and grievances that come with it.
So instead, you yell, you scream until blood lines the inside of your throat and suffocates you through your nose. That way, your pain might seem loud and overbearing, something they could never understand. The sound is choked and raw; it exceeds human capacity and borders on animalistic, but it’s the last way you can connect to the people before and the people who come after you. The tributes who have died for the sadistic ways of the Capitol and President Snow, the only way you can reach beyond the living and make a promise.
Those who sit in their pompous outfits and fluttering lashes might not understand, might laugh and point, and cause you to lose your sponsors, but somewhere, someone in some district would understand. And maybe when you eventually die, they might mourn everyone just a little more.
“I’m sorry.”
Your head snaps around to the opening of the cave, and you almost trip when you see Gojo.
You don’t know how long you’ve been out here, but by the look of utter pain and suffering on his face, you wonder how long he’s been in there, not being able to do anything but listen to your cries of woe. Your chest is moving with each laborious breath, your cheeks are heated, and your eyes are burning.
For the first time since you’ve been in the games, you see tears staining his cheeks, illuminated like the arms and legs of a river by the moonlight.
It’s startling, but it makes you pause.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, choking it out, wiping at his tears with his arms as he takes another step closer to you, his lip trembling, and no longer does he look like the hardened warrior he’s been made to be, but a boy who’s lost in a world that had long abandoned him, “I’m sorry, I should have been faster, I shouldn’t have left him, I’m s-sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry…”
It takes a minute for his words to sink in, but when his lips part and let out another muted sob, you understand what he’s saying, what he’s apologizing for. You see the redness of his face and the way his lips look like they’ve been chewed raw.
“If only I were faster, if I took him, if only I was fast enough, this wouldn’t be happening,” Gojo rambles, the tears streaming down his face even faster as he shakes his head, stuttering on his words, “I never thought that tribute would b-be there, I just saw you fall and - and everything else blacked out, and I’m sorry, I know you hate me, I hate me even more, but-”
You stagger towards him, your feet twisting and turning as the dirt crunches underneath your shoes, the wind rustling, and the animals howling in the distance. Gojo doesn’t move, but when you fall into his chest, your hands close around his back as your face hides in his broad chest, you feel his trembling hands come up from behind to hold you closer to him. One of his larger hands goes up to cradle the back of your head while the other one holds you tightly by the waist, and his face rests on your hair.
“It’s not your fault,” you whisper, shaking your head weakly, still smushed against his chest as you hiccup, “It’s not your fault, and I don’t hate you,” you say sturdier, for emphasis as your fingers dig into his jacket and he groans, clearly going to disagree with you but you cut him off, continuing, “I just - I just miss him s-so much,”
His hold on you tightens.
“For the first time in years, it felt like I had a family,” you cry out, your tears and snot getting on his jacket, but Gojo couldn't care less, hugging you closer, “And I lost that, I lost h-him, I was supposed to protect him-”
Gojo shushes you, shaking his head, cradling your head upwards, his hands moving on to hold both sides of your face as your lips wobble with barely contained sobs.
“You did everything right,” he whispers, but your face breaks down as your nose scrunches upwards and your mouth parts.
“Then why isn’t…why isn’t he here?” You beg, and he lets out a puff of air that seems to be kicked out of his chest, his own salty tears collecting and falling from his chin as his arms fall, and he uses the back of his hands to wipe them away.
“I,” Gojo stammers, biting his lip as he looks away from your heavy and piercing gaze, the same one that rips his heart out and forces him to rely on his barely-there sanity, “I don’t know,”
You nod briefly, using your palms to push your tears away from your cheeks, tugging at them harshly as you sniffle.
Instead of arguing with him, you nod again, taking another step forward as you mutter a barely audible okay.
“Come here,” he whispers, his hands extended, and you take the last step to fall back into his warm and sturdy chest, letting him hug you tightly as you press your ear up against his ribcage, hearing the steady thump, thump, thump, of his heart.
It’s human to feel hurt; it's unusual not to.
In the darkness of the night, at the opening of the cave, the two of you stand there in silence, holding onto each other as the crickets sing their songs and the leaves keep the steady beat. Perhaps the cameras have cut away, maybe they’re still watching. It doesn’t matter.
In that moment, the two of you process the brutality of the games together, sharing it so that it doesn’t become unbearable. Gojo presses his lips to your forehead, nothing forceful, but lingering, as if a promise that he would be by you, forever, even if that forever was going to end soon.
You two were a strange pair, but it made sense, in some strange way. To you, to him, to the game makers, to the Capitol citizens, and those in the districts who were watching with bated breath.
And maybe, just maybe, it sparks a little fear in those who created these games, those who place the tributes in here to be pitted against each other and fight to the death. Because nobody expected love to bloom between two improbable tributes, but it happened, and it proved the one thing that they wanted to prove wrong.
That those in the districts have more in common than they’re led to believe from life to death, more in common than even the prancing citizens of the Capitol, and surely more in common than the game makers and those who sit on their pedestals, watching.
You and Gojo were never meant to be allies, but in the games, in such unlikely circumstances, everything that wasn’t supposed to be became, and everybody realized who the winner of the 66th annual Hunger Games was going to be, even if neither of you did.
—
That cave became a haven for the two of you.
It was tucked away where nobody would pass, it had a small lake next to it with clean water for drinking and washing, and enough animals ventured around that you two wouldn’t starve.
Sure, the game makers would eventually have to lure you out, but not now; they were too invested in seeing how this strange pair was going to evolve.
It was nearing the two-week mark, and still, five tributes remained. The boy from three, Maxmus, Evelyn, you, and Gojo. You wondered why the game makers weren’t rushing anything like they usually do when it starts to drag, but maybe something was happening behind the scenes that usually doesn’t happen.
In the mornings, you would check the traps you had set the night before. Usually, a small animal or bird would be caught, and you’d skin and gut them while Gojo prepared the fire. Back in eleven, you had to learn how to be tactful and resourceful with the outskirts, as Tesarea often didn’t supply you long enough for the next year, and the hunger would quickly grow. You had long put emotions aside when dealing with animals, and now, you often had to chide Gojo for leaving the cave whenever he became queasy watching you prep them.
What he lacked in hunting, he made up for in other things, however.
Gojo tended to your ankle well, knowing how to let it heal on its own with little tricks that he had picked up throughout the years. He made a splint that kept it in place, and hour by hour, day by day, the bruising seemed to be going down. He would cut down smaller trees into logs, tend to the fire, and help cook the meat you had prepped earlier. Best of all, he talked about anything and everything, sometimes so much that you could barely even hear your thoughts, but you enjoyed it.
Other times, like now, the two of you would sit side by side on the edge of the lake, your pants rolled up to your thighs as your legs dangled in the water. The air near here was cooler, the wind was more soothing, and you closed your eyes and let the sun kiss your skin as you leaned back on your arms.
Pointing your toes, you flick your foot up and down, splashing delicate drops of water across the surface as you watch it ripple.
“If you lived in the Capitol, what would your pet's name be?”
You let the question sink in before a little giggle escapes your lips, tumbling out and falling through the air as Gojo smiles in response at the sound. He loved it, even if he rarely heard it.
“Come on,” he nudged your shoulder with his, not looking at you but at the shimmering water, trying to contain his features to be serious, although they contorted into something more playful when you nudged your shoulder in response, “I heard a lady call her dog Tootsie.”
That caused you to laugh, tipping your head back as you couldn’t contain it anymore, eyes screwed shut as you slapped his arm.
“Hmm,” you hum after a few seconds, your feet moving up and down in the water, “It’s hard to beat Tootsie, but maybe…Drumesia?”
Gojo’s head turns slightly to look at you, slightly confused at hearing the familiar name but not being able to place it.
“Wasn’t she…wasn’t she your Capitol escort?” He asked, his voice breaking as if he were containing a burst of laughter.
You smiled.
“Yeah,” you said softly, hearing him rumble with laughter as you laughed along with him, “She was a real bitch.”
In the distance, you hear a mockingjay crow, imitating your laughter as the other ones start mimicking it, too. Back at home, people often used mockingjays to communicate with each other, especially when up in the trees, and it’s harder to get those beneath you to understand what you were saying.
“What are those?” Gojo mutters, his tone miffed, looking around as if he could see the birds that were nestled in between the branches.
You snort softly, tilting your chin upwards as you whistle, three random notes, and wait for the mockingjays to pick up on the sound. When one echoes, others join in, creating a cacophony from what was once your simple tune.
“Mockingjays,” you answer, looking upwards at the trees and the sun filtering like rays through the leaves, “We have a lot of them back in eleven.”
Gojo nods slowly in understanding, lips pressed into a thin line, annoyed, but he knew there wasn’t much he could do about it. He looks up, mirroring your previous movements, taking in the mockingjays as they flap around, joining each other and then leaving again to find someplace new to sit and sing. You wonder how grating it must be for someone like him who hasn’t grown up around them, but for you, the mockingjays are another reminder of home.
After a bit, when the singing died down, he decided to speak again.
“Do you…Do you, uh, have a guy back there? In eleven?”
You glance at him from the side of your eyes, lips parted in shock at the blatant question, but your expression falls into something even more comical when you notice how hard he was avoiding your gaze, the way his ears were turning pink, and how he was playing with some of the weeds sprouting around the lake bed.
A part of you wants to tease him, but you see the way he shifts awkwardly, as if he had summoned up the courage to ask the question and was quickly regretting it. Instead, you decide to answer honestly, shrugging as you look back at the water.
“I never had the time,” you murmur thoughtfully, thinking back to when you lived day by day, working endlessly at the factory and coming back to the Capitol-sanctioned home for orphans under the age of nineteen, leaving little to no time to be messing with pesky feelings and relationships, “I’ve had a couple guys who’ve asked me to dance but…” you shrug, closing your eyes slightly as you angle your head slightly to look at him, finding him already looking back, “It’s never lasted more than that.”
Gojo’s brow quirked slightly.
“You can dance?” He questioned, as if that was the only thing he took away from your words.
Flicking some water towards his lanky legs, you scoff, not annoyed, just perplexed, and shrug again.
“I doubt it’s any of the fancy dances you’ve learned back in one,” you chide, but Gojo shakes his head, going to disagree, but you beat him to it, “But I can stomp my feet if you ask.”
His lips curl into a smile, a blush dusting his cheeks as he ducks his head down and looks away. Never would you have guessed that such a hulking and menacing person could be so shy.
“Do you want me to ask?” He responds, his head looking down at the water, causing some of his white strands of hair to fall in his face, but you can see the smile still lingering, the way his neck flushes.
“I don’t think your Capitol sweetheart would mind that much,” you say, your voice laced with slight tease, flicking some water at him again, “Having a district girl like me steal her dashing tribute and all.”
Gojo’s shoulders tense slightly, and he slowly leans back onto his outstretched hands behind him as he flicks water towards your legs. You try not to stare at him, at the way the muscles in his arms ripple with each movement, or the way the sharpness of his jaw only brings more attention to his even more attractive face.
“She’s not jealous,” Gojo says, and you try not to hide the flash of disappointment on your face from having heard him confirm that this mystery girl he talked about during his interview existed and wasn’t some ruse to gain more favor, “I don’t think she’d mind at all.”
You can only nod briefly in return, not trusting your voice not to give away your turn in emotions as you twist a blade of grass around, watching the green color twirl, making it seem yellow and then something darker when it catches the light.
“And besides,” Gojo continues, slowly lowering his back down as he crosses his hands behind his head, resting on the soft plushness below him as he stares at your back, waiting, wondering, “I promised her I’d find her after the games. Told her I’d be like the sailor boy she’s always dreamed of.”
Your fingers stop. Something in you shifts.
Sailor boy.
Where have you heard that?
You turn around slightly, slowly, carefully, to look at him resting behind you.
“What did you say?” You ask slowly, your brows furrowed and your lips parted in stupor.
He blinks back, surprised at your reaction.
“U-uh,” he stammers, sitting up gradually, causing you to lean back to accommodate for his looming presence, pushing his hair back, “Sailor…Sailor boy? It’s just some name, from an old story,” his eyes search yours, something deep and swirling behind them, “Why? Do you, do you…know it?”
Your nose wrinkles. Yes, yes, you know it, somewhere deep inside, but why does he know it?
“Y-yeah,” you murmur, perplexed, lashes of memories from your childhood crossing your mind, sitting behind the old wooden desks that seats three other students, watching the teacher in the makeshift classroom point to a board, reading out from memory something her old teachers, and those teachers before, passed down, “I do, but…?”
Eyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy. He could not swim but loved the sea, our little sailor boy.
It was an old poem, one that your teacher spun into some extravagant and adventurous story about a boy who traveled across something called a sea, like a river but bigger, and did amazing things until he traveled back home. It wasn’t in the curriculum the Capitol had made, and she made all the children promise not to talk about it when they went back home, but you…you told a young boy that story, one of the kids that wasn’t in your class.
You gasp, hand flying to your mouth as you look at him in shock.
The boy in the infirmary.
It had been weeks after the fire in the factory had broken out, one that took the lives of multiple men, women, and children, the same fire that took your parents and siblings, bearing only one survivor: you.
Escaping with burns to your arms and legs, you spent nearly two months in the infirmary that was near the edge of the district square. The nurses had told you that the burns would heal after some time. You were nearly nine, not understanding any of their big words and just wanting to know when your parents and brothers and sisters would heal from the fire, not understanding when they said that your family was gone.
The day you saw him in the infirmary was the day of the Victory Tour, when the victor of the previous Hunger Games toured across all twelve districts until they stopped at the Capitol for the celebration. The mentors would also come, who were older victors of the games, but they usually stayed somewhere else so that the newest victor could give their speech.
The room you were in was empty, save for you, as everybody else was forced to gather around the district square, the same place where they held the reaping, to watch the victor from District 1, as they usually are, give some long-winded speech about tradition and honor. You were excused, given the fact that you were bandaged from head to toe and couldn’t move, and were waiting for the nurses to come back in so that they could feed you your lunch.
From the hallway, you could hear a door slam and a booming voice say something before a smaller, barely audible whimper followed. You winced in your bed when you heard skin slapping skin, the second voice choking back another whine when the door slammed shut, and you were left sitting there, immobile, in confusion.
After a minute passed, you heard some shuffling, and you assumed that a kid was put in the infirmary for acting out, most likely one of the upper-echelon kids from the district who were allowed to fool around.
But when the white-haired boy with bright blue eyes peeked his head inside the room you were staying in, you were sure that this was somebody you had never met before.
“Who are you?” You had asked him, and watched with embarrassment as he took in your battered state, his eyes wide with curiosity as he took in your bandages and elevated arms and legs.
The boy just blinked, not saying anything.
You noticed the stinging handprint on his cheek, glowing red, and he held it in his hand, trying to soothe it. He looked to be around your age, and you wondered if it had been his father who had shut him inside this small building. It was strange, however, that he was able to escape the duties of sitting through the Victory Tour. Even the mayor's children had to attend.
“Does your daddy hit’chu?” You pressed again, watching as the boy blushed, evading eye contact as he looked at the empty line of beds.
“Was that your daddy over there?” Your chin juts to where the hallway was, “Is he comin’ back?”
The boy snaps his head over to the hallway, almost fearful. And then, murmurs;
“Your voice sounds funny.”
And you looked at him and his red cheek and then at his bright white hair, and started laughing. It was the first time you had laughed in weeks, but the sound was so loud and powerful that it caused your chest to shake and your arms and legs to hurt, and so your laughter died down, but you tried to keep the smile on your face because you forgot just how good it felt to have one.
“That - that day,” you stammer, sitting up straighter as your eyes dart frantically around from side to side before they snap up to Gojo, rambling quickly as you try to get the memory out, “The Victory Tour. Nine years ago. This boy, um,” you snap your fingers, trying to remember, “He came into the infirmary. His dad left him in there for a bit. He kept me company. I gave him…” you tsk in annoyance, trying to think back, “I gave him…”
You trail off, thinking, but a soft voice brings you back to the present.
“A lemon drop,” Gojo finishes for you, with a gentle smile on his face, “Well, you couldn’t really give it to me because you were all bandaged up, but you told me I could have your last lemon drop.”
You forget how to think.
“And, to make me feel better, you told me I reminded you of this one character, the sailor boy, except for-”
“Your hair,” you say breathlessly, the memory all finally piecing together.
You remember him telling you how he had snuck onto the train, hiding until they were so far from the station that he was sure his father was going to be alright with him joining the team for the newest victory tour.
His father, a previous tribute turned mentor, clearly didn’t appreciate the idea, scolding him whenever he got the chance, that faithful day being one of them.
You remember him sitting next to you, telling you how he got here. You remember the glassy look in his eyes, telling him he could have your candy even though you knew it was probably the last piece you’d see for a while.
You remember now, all the old memories from one of your darkest times that you had blocked out were slowly yet surely coming back.
The sailor boy and his bright blue eyes, who stayed with you until the nurses arrived. Somebody who you figured you’d never see again, but with the odds being in your favor, or some ways, against it, here he was, sitting in front of you, patiently waiting.
Words escape you, but you find your hand traveling up his arm, tugging him harshly by the fabric on his shoulder as you throw yourself into his lap, shaking as you press your face into his neck, as you give him the tightest, most bone-crushing hug ever.
His hands fly up, trying to steady both you and him, and when he’s sure you won’t fall, one hand wraps tightly around your waist and the other higher up on your back. He lets out a low chuckle, his lips pressing into the side of your head as he holds what may perhaps be the oldest and only friend he’s ever had.
Gojo breathes, his first real breath in over nine years, and welcomes the bite of tears he feels because here, with you in his arms as it was meant to be, even if it was during the Hunger Games, these tears were happy ones.
And yes, it would be his luck that would put him in the same battle to the death with the only girl he’s never stopped thinking about, but maybe it was meant to be this short-lived and this sweet. Some people search their whole lives for somebody from their past, and if it meant that he only had to wait nine years to see you, even if it took this long for you to remember him, he’d gladly take it.
After all, he could never be mad at the girl who gave him his first lemon drop, and could never, ever see harm come to the only girl he’s ever had a crush on, even if you didn’t feel the same way about him. In this arena, in this moment, you were his, and he’d cherish it for as long as he could.
There was no Capitol girl. It’s always been you.
Ever since he saw you looking through that window on the train, he knew what the games were finally for, and perhaps, in some twisted and cruel way, the odds were in his favor.
“I remember you,” you whisper into the skin of his neck, “I remember you, Satoru, I remember you,” you say it over and over, and he wants you to because you remember him.
Your fingers dig into his jacket, and you smile despite the wobbliness in your lips, and you laugh loudly as you hug him again.
“Took you long enough,” he reprimands, but holds no weight, not with the way he’s beaming and smiling so bright that the cameras were sure to get every single bit of his true emotions. Gojo doesn’t care about what his father or mother or the people in his district think. He couldn't care less about sponsors and game makers and arrogant President Snow, who’s surely never felt a sliver of the emotions he’s feeling now. Even if it didn’t make sense for a boy from District 1 and a girl from District 11 to find their way back to each other after all this time, it made sense to him and you, and that’s all that mattered.
“I thought that-”
A canon blasts.
The two of you pull away, scrambling up to your feet so quickly as if nothing had happened, and that you had suddenly come back to where you were. The mockingjays all flapped their wings from the loud sound, cawing and screeching as you winced.
Your eyes squeeze shut, holding in your breath.
The two of you waited another minute, waiting to see if another cannon would fire, but it stayed silent, not even the mockingjays were singing. The wind had stopped, and the air had gone strangely cold.
Four tributes remained.
“We should…we should go back,” Gojo whispers, tugging you gingerly by the wrist towards the safety of the cave.
You look back to where the forest wound down a path, somewhere back there would be the Cornucopia, and a new dead body.
Nodding silently, you let him lead you back to the cave.
That night, you see little Evelyn’s face in the sky.
—-
Instead of sleeping, you stirred, plagued with thoughts.
Gojo hadn’t talked much about your past, seemingly just content enough for now that you remembered him, but with the weight of another tribute gone, you felt it difficult to think of anything positive right now.
But, a part of you now realized just how more difficult these games had become.
Save for the fact that only three people, besides you, remained, you wondered to what lengths you and Gojo would unconsciously go to save the other. For you, when you first met Gojo all those years ago, you cherished the moment for as long as you could, but ultimately knew you had to tuck it away to make room for more pressing issues. You remembered his softness and the way he treated you with kindness, something you desperately needed. After spending weeks in that infirmary with no contact from the outside world, having somebody to listen to you ramble and talk was something you forgot you liked doing, and he helped take your mind off the loss of your family, even if for just a bit.
And you wondered just how much it must’ve meant to him if he still remembered you after all these years. You never imagined that the boy whom you just gave a lemon drop to would consider that to be one of the most thoughtful acts of kindness he had been shown, but perhaps the differences in your respective districts came into play in that aspect.
This care, this initial desire to help you in the arena then must’ve come from a place of genuine worry, one that now has begun to bleed onto you. He wasn’t just somebody you had met some random day nine years ago, nor was he a tribute-turned-ally that was forged under the strange circumstances of the arena. Gojo was, in all senses of the word, a friend. Someone who cared for you, somebody who you cared about. Someone who, had you not been bright close to because of the Hunger Games, might’ve become a closer companion than the one you know now. And that was something you hadn’t had ever since you had sacrificed your freedom, your chance for happiness, for survival when you were nine, and you’d be damned if you had to give that up for the satisfaction of the Capitol.
And deep down, you knew you could never hurt somebody like him, not when you just found out you had something else to live for, not when you realized you might just have somebody else who cares for you besides yourself.
With Yuuji, you promised yourself that if the situation came, you’d put yourself first so that he’d be spared. And no matter how hard you tried, you weren’t able to keep that promise. So now, with somebody else to fight and help, you began to realize that Gojo meant much more to you than even you found him capable of.
You also knew you couldn’t beat others when it came to combat skills, and that ultimately, if need be, there wasn’t much you could do to save him if he had to save you. Getting away now, putting him in a position in which he only had to care for himself and vice versa, was perhaps the only way you could guarantee his survival.
Despite having promised him that when it came down to three tributes you would seperate, knowing what you know now, it seemed like your last option for keeping Gojo safe would be if you left now, putting as much distance between you two so that Gojo would have to start focusing on himself, and leaving you to focus on yourself.
So that night, when the fire ultimately died down and the sun was just starting to peek its head over the horizon, you took a deep breath and began putting your makeshift plan together as quickly as possible before Gojo woke up.
Your eyes drifted over to his sleeping figure, peaceful and serene. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks with every dream, his lips rosy and slightly parted as puffs of air escaped them. The show he had put up with having some darling in the Capitol was a ruse, something you realized yesterday, and a part of you wonders how much of it was true, with it now being revealed that it was just some ploy to try and get you to remember him.
If he had been someone you had seen back in eleven, you think you would’ve agreed to a dance with him, and maybe even a second one, but you push that hopeful thought deep down and remind yourself that a fantasy wasn’t something that boded well in the Hunger Games.
You smiled gently, pushing some hair away from his face as your fingers hovered over his forehead, and ultimately retracted your hand away as you quietly moved, trying to get the knife he had tucked away in the pocket of his jacket.
He shifted slightly in his sleep, mumbling out some random words, and you fought back a strange wave of emotions as you gingerly slipped the knife out the pocket, making sure that his sword was nearby in case he needed it, but knowing about how hidden the cave was, weren’t worried about his safety even with you gone.
Crawling over to where you kept the two bottles, one for you and one for him, you carefully picked yours up, trying not to make any noise, and winced when the metal scratched across the stone floor.
Turning around, you were greeted with Gojo’s wide eyes, startled out of his sleep, blinking his exhaustion away as he tried to make sense of what it was you were doing in his groggy state.
Fighting back a yawn, Gojo went to sit up, but you shook your head, hiding the knife behind your back as you pointed your wattle bottle up, mustering up a convincing-enough smile as you moved a little closer to him.
“I’m just getting some water,” you whispered, watching as his cheeks were slightly dusted with pink as you rubbed some dried leaves away from his hair, blinking his cerulean eyes again when he looked out the opening of the cave to see it slightly lit.
“Let me,” he yawned, rubbing at his face, “Let me come with you.”
You smiled at his kindness, shaking your head again as you gently pushed at his shoulders, trying to get him to lie back down.
“It won’t take long,” you reasoned, “And it’s almost daytime.”
Gojo searched your expression again, trying to read anything you couldn’t hide, and when you realized he might be able to tell something was hidden behind your intentions, you surged forward, planting a kiss on his cheek to redirect him and jumble his thoughts together.
Your heart pounded against the tight and limited space of your ribcage, your lips lingering on the skin near his jaw, and you pulled away slightly. Neither of you breathed, and you looked nervously up at him through your lashes, only to see him fighting back another grin, ducking his head down as he shyly blushed.
He gnawed on his cheek, eyes fluttering towards you as he pushed you away, hoping you wouldn’t tease him anymore, and let you go without argument, still in his head from where your lips had lightly grazed his skin.
It almost makes you stay.
“Go,” he murmurs sheepishly, tilting his head towards the cave opening with a boyish smile, one that makes your heart break, “I’ll…um, I’ll get started with breakfast.”
“Okay,” you say breathlessly, your stomach churning as you put the knife in your back pocket, looking over his face, the slope of his nose, his eyes, the way his lips turned upwards at the end, his jaw, everything that made him him for what was possibly the last time, and swallow a little cry as you nod again, “Okay.”
Standing up, you make sure he doesn’t see an outline of the knife as you walk out towards the light, pausing slightly as you look over your shoulder, seeing him already busy with making another fire, and are grateful he can’t see the glossiness in your eyes as your head falls slightly, glancing at the forest as you take one step out of the cave, and don’t look back.
—
You knew you had around five minutes before Gojo got suspicious. Seven until he started looking for you.
When you were sure he couldn’t hear your footsteps, you decided to run, knowing the general direction and placement of where you were in the arena, to know that if it was going to be like other years, the final fights took place near the Cornacopia.
The low-hanging branches rustle around you, dried bark and leaves crunching under you as you pant, not looking over your shoulder to see if anybody is following you, knowing it would only slow you down.
When you had first made the trek from the field where Yuuji lay to where the cave was, it nearly took a day of wandering around to find it, but the game makers were growing impatient, and though you estimated it had just turned into morning an hour ago, the sun had quickly risen to make it seem like it were the afternoon.
Your ankle had healed enough so that it wouldn’t hinder you, and you had hoped that not hearing any cannons would lead Gojo to believe that you had run away and weren’t killed, and would give up after some time and focus on his own chances of winning.
Without being able to know what you were thinking, you wondered how the game makers were portraying you. A traitor? A coward? How did the people in your district view you? The people in Gojo’s district? The Capitol citizens? Could any of them understand your motives without being able to put themselves in your position?
Your heart was nearly pumping out of your chest, adrenaline pumping in your veins, and sweat lining every pore, but you pushed on, knowing that if anybody were behind you or lurking nearby, they’d be able to what your footsteps and attack you from any angle. Getting to the Cornacopia, to where the fight would be, would be your best chance at ending this once and for all, without any worries of what could potentially happen to Gojo.
The only two tributes left, Borna from three and Maxmus from five, were both younger than you, but they had capabilities you didn’t. Borna, whom you had seen in the first blood-bath, took note of the way he wielded an axe as if it were an extension of his arm. Maxmus was strong, had brutish strength from lugging around generators for half of his life. You didn’t exactly have a plan for if, or when, you encountered either of them, but just hoped that it would somehow work out the way you intended in the end.
In some strange way, it almost seemed like the arena was shifting with your thoughts as well. The path you had taken to get to the cave was a long, winding one, but now, it seemed like the trees were shifting away to make room for you. In the distance, after running for what seemed like forever, you could squint and make out the break of trees, and the bright sunlight that bounced off the field of wheat and flowers illuminated the way.
And if you could look far enough, just at the right angle, the bright reflection of metal from the Cornacupia.
Your legs stopped, and you nearly collapsed if not for catching yourself on your knees. Your chest was heaving at an uncontrollable rate, your mouth dry and in need of water, but you tried to take a deep breath, a flash of hope, something you hadn’t felt in a while, filling your senses. In that moment of clarity and relatively, after you night of thinking up a plan, you had realized that if you were able to draw the remaining tributes away, making it so that you three could die while Gojo remained back near the cave, then maybe, just maybe, you could be able to manipulate the games in a way that would let Gojo win.
Something whizzed past the side of your head, and you felt the instantaneous trickle of blood pour from where the weapon had cut your forehead.
You let out a startled yell, the pain not hitting you but the shock, and look in the direction from which the weapon came, only to be met with Borna, his arm reeling back to send another axe flying in your direction.
Having no other second to spare, your legs worked in tandem to send you flying, scrambling to get away from the tree line as the large field quickly came into view. The blood was pouring into your eyes, and you blinked it away, wiping at the thick liquid so that you could see better, and when the sparkle of the large structure was getting clearer, you looked over your shoulder to see where Borna was.
An axe came barreling your way, but you barely dodged it, almost tripping but regaining your balance, and continued running in the direction of the Cornacopia.
The fresh wound was stinging, your legs were burning, and it seemed like the sun was already beginning to set, but you knew you had to push forward, just a little more, when a force from your right barreled into your side.
It sent you flying, skidding across the ground as you groaned, your eyes squeezing shut as your arms wrapped around your head to try and protect it. You rapidly blinked, watching as Maxmus got up from where he, too, had fallen and glanced over at his hiding spot from the side of the Cornacopia as he looked between you and Borna, who had finally caught up.
Labored breaths were escaping your mouth, and your hand fumbled to grab at the knife you had tucked away, brandishing it at the two boys who were beginning to corner you. Seeing them up close showed you the true extent of the damage they had received from the arena. Borna, whose skin was littered with deep cuts and bruises, matched the rough exterior of Maxmus, whose left eye was black and swollen shut, his arms sliced and diced from what must have been Borna’s blades.
You scrambled to your feet, swaying slightly, and pointed your blade to each of them, backing away slowly, pointing the tip of the knife to any one of them who was beginning to inch forward.
Maxmus’s gaze was set on Borna’s face, and Borna was looking at you, who was looking at Maxmus. You were the oldest of the three tributes, but here, everybody seemed like children waiting for permission to fight.
“Not so much a sweetheart anymore?” Borna quipped, his face pulled into a cruel grin that didn’t match his face, something he had been forced to become, and your eyes quiver. This boy shouldn’t be forced to survive like this.
But it seemed like the question, perhaps the word sweetheart, the same nickname you had called his sister Evelyn, sparked something in Maxmus.
He lunged for Borna, kicking the weapon out of his hand as he used his fists to hit him on either side of his face. Borna scratched at his cheeks with his nails, blood pricking at wherever they dug in, but Maxmus could only let out brutal and guttural noises as he wrapped one thick hand around Borna’s thin throat, trying to choke the life out of him.
Borna screamed, something weak and child-like as he cried, begging for Maxmus to get off of him as he continued to kick and flail, but to no avail.
You could only watch, horrified, backing away slowly, watching the way all the humanity left Maxmu’s body as all that replaced it was pure anaimalistic rage, caging his fingers around Borna’s head as he lifted him once, slamming him down on the ground until Borna’s screams quieted, and he lay limp on the bed of flowers.
A canon fired.
Maxmus heaved, slowly standing up, wiped his bloody hands on his pants, and turned around to see where you had gone.
His face is streaked with Borna’s blood, his eyes red and crazed. His blonde hair is riddled with dirt, and he snarls, his nose wrinkled as he looks at you, takes one step forward as you take one back.
Your hand trembles, your knife still pointing at him as your head snaps slightly, the memory of Yuuji flashing before your eyes.
Opening your mouth to say something, a little explanation, some final bits of humanity he might spare you, but are cut off when something, someone, a voice, catches both of your attention.
Somebody shouts from the woods, and in the distance, you can see the familiar shape of Gojo, his face red, drenched with sweat, as he looks around wildly. When the two of you lock eyes, it feels like everything you had led yourself to believe these last few hours tumbling down. The look of betrayal, anger, somewhat relief, and shock fills his expression, and you can’t say anything, the words necessary leaving your vocabulary.
Your heart drops, a small sound escaping your lips as your hand falls slightly.
No, no, no, no, he found you, why…why? Why didn’t he stay back in the cave? Why did he come back? Doesn’t he know he’s about to win? Why is he running towards you?
Maxmus looks between Gojo’s running body, at the way he’s not slowing down, and in his last act of hopelessness, leaps for you, his fist connecting with your jaw as you both tumble into the large blade of grass, a gasp punching out of your chest as you instantly taste blood on your tongue.
Gojo yells your name again, full of desperation and wrath, emotions that you can’t place in this moment, and your eyes come back into focus as Maxmus raises his left arm again, his face shaking with tremors as his other hand raises to your neck, choking the air out of you.
You gasp, one of your hands reaching for the hand around your throat, the other blindly grabbing around for the knife he had knocked out of your grasp, eyes bulging out of your sockets as you begin to suffocate.
Gojo is somewhere nearby, but the field is large, and he can only run so fast, considering that he ran through the entirety of the forest just moments before in hopes of trying to find you. Maxmus slams your head down on the floor, and blood trickles out of your mouth. One of his knees pins your wrist to your ground, kicking the knife away from you as he bares his teeth like a dog.
“I’m s-sorry,” you stutter, spasming for air and spitting some blood that was filing your mouth out, careful not to hit him, “I’m sorry….sorry a-about Evelyn,” your voice is raw and wheezing, and your legs are helplessly kicking, not at him, but as you struggle to keep conscious.
Maxmus pauses, the crazed expression on his face flickering away, the look of a brother replacing it, a brother who misses his sister, and his eyes brim with tears, his lips trembling as his fingers loosen around your throat.
Gojo’s shouts for you are nearing, and Maxmus glances over his shoulder, fear riddling his eyes as he snaps his head back to you, stammering as he lets out a small cry, and his fist tightens again, your eyes spotting around the edges with black dots as air becomes less and less accessible.
“She was t-twelve,” he whispers, shaking, “Twelve.”
You try to nod, but barely have the strength to, and just stare at him through your bloodshot eyes, mouth open as you see him raise his fist again, putting you out of your misery, when a hand, one much larger, curls around his, throwing Maxmus away from your body.
You choke when his hand leaves your throat, turning to the side as you gag, gasping in air as you feel lightheaded, your vision tilting and twirling, watching as Gojo throws a violent to the side of Maxmus’s head, his face contorting with rage as Maxmus stays silent, taking each hit.
You can’t speak, losing your voice in your bruised throat, and your fingers scratch at the skin, shuffling on your side, trying to get to Gojo.
Gojo unsheathes his sword from his belt, his strong arm reeling as he points the tip to Maxmus’s heart, but something else catches your attention.
Maxmus, his hand is reaching for something.
Lizzie’s knife.
Gojo doesn’t see it, blinded by inhuman anger and survival, and you try to communicate wordlessly with him, smacking the ground, crawling towards the two on hands and knees, but it seems to slow down as Maxmus’s fingers can wrap around the hilt.
You gasp, heaving, and Maxmus turns his head slightly to the side, watching as you try to take the knife away, and something in him shifts, fingers inching across the blade, away from your grasp, and when he finally has a sturdy enough hold on it, he angles his hand up, slashing the side of your face with the blade, and then another slash that catches the skin around your already damaged neck.
The action finally catches Gojo’s attention, and his face falls as he hears your muted whines of pain, your hands grabbing at your face as you collapse on your back, blood pouring from your face, a gruesome sight.
He hesitates, and that seems to be all Maxmus needed to surge upwards, shoving the knife into Gojo’s ribcage.
Maxmus digs Lizzie’s knife in, pulling his hand back as he stabs him somewhere lower down, pulling the knife out, blood seeping quickly through the fabric of Gojo’s jacket.
Clenching his teeth through the pain, Gojo’s arm slips, and his sword lodges into Maxmus’s chest, near his heart, and Maxmus slowly goes still.
A canon blasts.
Your head is turned to the side, watching this happen, unable to move as pain and exhaustion take over your bones, and you feel your blood pool beneath your head.
Your vision is blurry, but you watch as Gojo staggers away from Maxmus’s lifeless body, looking down to the side, looking at the damage done, and goes to stand up, but falls with a heavy thud.
Gojo coughs, blood staining his chin, and the only thing you can do is look, look at his blood-stained clothes, hands, the mud-caked white hair, and finally his eyes. The thing that first caught your attention when you were nine, the thing that you noticed first when you saw him through that train window, and finally, here, as the last two tributes, barely clinging to life.
You expect them to be hard with anger, unnerving, cruel, and with a coldness he could be capable of.
But they look at you with the same softness you had become accosted to. He can’t talk, coughs on his own blood, but there’s no need to.
You feel tears roll down the side of your face, and all you can do is try and outstretched your hand, trying to hold his, but Gojo is riddled and weak with pain, only able to slightly flex his fingers towards yours.
After a second, a warmth floods your fingertips, and you feel his skin against yours, the same skin you felt when you were nine and he helped tighten some of your bandages, the same fingers that wiped Yuuji’s blood away from your cheeks, the same hands that held you just last night.
Mustering up a weak smile, you blink, and he slowly blinks back.
Black dots around your vision, your lids growing heavy, your breathing slowing down as your fingers hover over his.
You feel like you’re drifting off to sleep, your eyes shutting, your body relaxing on the flowers beneath you, the same flowers resting with Yuuji, and you let go.
One second passes, another one, and then,
A cannon blasts.
—-
“Do you need anything?”
The steady hum of the room rattles the bed, the windows overlooking the Capitol as their vehicles honk and screech. Lights from the buildings flicker with different colors, all signs of life, but to you, it feels as though you’ve died and are watching this all through somebody else’s eyes.
Martin sits next to your hospital bed, a knowing look etched onto his face. Drumesia is off somewhere, partying and getting drunk after having her first victim, but Martin hasn’t left your side.
Because he knows.
“President Snow wants to see you,” Martin says gently, his hand enclosing yours, but you stare blankly at the wall. “He wants to congratulate you for on win without the fuss of the cameras.”
You blink slowly, quietly.
Martin sighs, his brown skin carved with years of wrinkles and sorrows, alcohol that numbed the pain but never erased it, making him look older than he was, and you glance over to your side as his head ducks, his hold on yours tightening.
You see the way he looks at your face, a mix of pity and understanding, the way his stare lingers on the scars carved into your face, ones that doctors say will probably be there for a while. You don’t care about your appearance, only caring about the physical reminder of the games that you are now forced to carry.
“You should count yourself lucky, sweetheart,” he murmurs, careful to lower his voice in case there were any microphones planted in the room, “Not many victors can sit where you sit without having killed anyone.”
The whites of your eyes are still veined with red, a cone supporting your neck from the damage that Maxmus had caused, but you shake slightly with anger at his words.
Lucky?
Martin sees the shift in your demeanor and swallows thickly, looking up at you, his brown eyes glossy with tears as he smiles sadly, nodding.
“I know,” he whispers, squeezing your hand, and you feel your breathing hitch, nose wrinkling as you try to fight back tears, “I know.”
The two of you sit in that hospital room in silence, the only victors that District 11 has ever bared, and your fingers twitch, holding onto his hand too.
—-
When it’s the crowning ceremony, you’re standing in front of the same place where the tribute parade ended, a large stage that was surrounded by the largest stadiums and crowds you had ever seen.
You feel like you’re in a haze as you watch the back of President Snow,and feel like you’re underwater with the way your ears sound muffled. He talks about tradition and duty, about the necessity of the games and the importance of a victor.
When he finishes, the crowd erupts into cheers and screams, applause echoing so loudly that the ground beneath you rattles.
Somebody presents him with the crown, and President Snow takes it carefully between his gloved hands.
You are told to rise and stare at his weathering face, his wispy mustache, and his graying eyes.
He smiles, but it looks strange.
Your head ducks a little bit, and he places the crown atop, and you crane upwards as he gingerly pats your shoulders, noting the wrinkled handkerchief sticking out of the ruffle of the top of your bodice, something Drumesia and Martin fought to keep for you ever after the games ended.
“Am I wrong in assuming this was your father's?” President Snow asks, pinching the fabric of the handkerchief between his fingers. His voice was soft and gentle, lowered as if this was a private conversation between the two of you.
“It was passed down by members of my family,” your voice answers mechanically, your eyes lacking emotion as you stare at the man responsible for every single death you had witnessed.
President Snow nods briefly, smiling as he pats it down.
“I’m sure that your District is proud,” he responds, and steps away slightly.
You nod.
“My District is,” you say, “And any remaining family I have left.”
President Snow’s bushy brows furrow.
“My parents and siblings are buried in eleven,” you explain, your voice bitter and heavy, “But I have family everywhere. My ancestors are Covey.”
President Snow's smile falters, and his eyes narrow. He straightens the crown on your head as his lips pull into a thin, wavery line.
“Yes,” he muttered, his voice echoing around the small space, “Yes, I’ve heard of their kind.”
You watch as he retreats into the room behind the curtains, and everyone claps as you continue to stand, waving limply to the crowd.
You can’t smile, no matter how hard you try, finding it difficult to do so under the burden of twenty-three tributes lying upon your head.
—-
It’s the night before you leave for home, and sleep seems to evade you.
You toss and turn, groaning at every unsatisfactory angle you lay down, and ultimately give up, walking around the spacious room to look out the large window.
You rest your burning forehead on the cool glass, taking a deep breath as you close your eyes, trying to calm your racing mind and heart.
Every light reminds you of the brightness of Gojo’s smile, every laughter you hear dims in comparison to Yuuj’s.
Sometimes, you see their shadows in the corner of the room, even with the lights on. You could see their faces, before they were touched by the cruelty of the games, and sometimes close your eyes to savor the sight just a little bit more.
Sighing, you bite your lip, trying not to cry again for the tenth night in a row, and sniffle, breathing stuttering.
A knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts.
It must be Martin coming back to check on you. You don’t look over your shoulder when it clicks open, getting ready to push him away, just as you’ve done each night, and let out an exhausted sigh when his footsteps patter in.
“I’m packed,” you murmur, looking at the card below, looking at the strangely dressed citizens, “And you can tell Drumesia that I won’t need a separate suitcase for the dresses, I’m not taking any of them home.”
A silence follows, and you push your forehead on the glass even harder, your breath fogging it up as you let out a sigh, looking over your shoulder to tell him in an even harsher tone, but your brows pinch together at the unfamiliar face.
A tall middle-aged man with blue eyes and sandy blonde hair, swept to the side, smiles at you.
You scramble away from the window in shock, stammering as you look at the door and then back at him. He looks somewhat like somebody you’ve seen around the Capitol, as if you had seen him around at the ceremonies and gatherings, but placed him aside as inconsequential.
“Hello,” the man greets, not coming any closer as if he understands the threat he poses, “It’s an honor to meet you.”
“I wish I could say the same,” you reply coldly, and his head dips slightly, abashed, and places a hand across his chest, a symbol of apology.
“I realize it’s your first time seeing me, but I’m one of the game makers,” he explains, and your face hardens even more, your fists clenching, “My name is Plutarch Heavensbee.”
Your nose flares, and don’t trust yourself to say anything that won’t get you in trouble.
“I’m filming something for this documentary piece I’m doing on the Hunger Games. If you could please join me while I get some last shots of you, I would greatly appreciate it.”
He says it in a way that encourages disagreement, as if you could.
You bite so hard on the inside of your cheek that you taste blood. You don’t move for a bit, a fire in your eyes that he notices and makes his smile grow a little.
“Please,” he motions towards the door, turning his back, expecting you to follow, “It won’t take long.”
—-
You follow him down some winding hallways, places you haven’t had access to, and go down multiple flights of stairs, wondering if you're going to get killed for something foolish they caught on the microphone in the games.
The man, Plutarch, tries to distract you by chattering away, explaining the importance of what this documentary is and how he’s hoping to become head gamemaker in a couple of years, but you try to phase it out in order not to choke the life out of him.
The walls around you become less decorated, and the lights begin to flicker the further downstairs you go. Cement seems to be the new support, as everywhere around you is a dark gray color, and he does nothing to explain where it is he’s taking you.
After what seemed like almost twenty minutes, he turns right at some random hallways, looking over his shoulder, not at you, but something above you, gives it a quick nod, and before you can see what it is he was looking at he ushers you to a line of doors.
You stand outside a random one as he fiddles with the lock, twisting and turning the key in a carnage of ways before it clicks, opening.
He walks in, looking at you expectantly as you begrudgingly follow after him.
The room he takes you to is barely a room and rather a wash of complete darkness. He shuts the door behind you, and you squint, trying to vocal your eyes without the help of the flimsy lights from outside.
He shifts beside you, and you jump when you feel his lips suddenly next to your ears.
“This is the only place that isn’t reinforced with their new series of microphones,” he whispers, and goosebumps prick at the back of your neck, going to interject, but he continues quickly, “You have five minutes before the cameras come back on. I’ll be waiting outside.”
“What?” Your voice shakes slightly with fear, not understanding what it was he was telling you.
Where were the cameras he was telling you about? The film crew? How was he to take any clips of you in such a dark room?
You can’t see his face, but you would bet that the same smile that hadn’t left his face ever since he saw you was still there, and he doesn’t answer your question as he reaches back for the handle, opening the door slightly as the light creeps in a little bit.
The side of his face illuminates, and his eyes look at something behind you before he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him as you’re left alone in the room, confused and terrified.
Was this some cruel joke? Were they poking at you one last time, hiding a camera somewhere in the room to see how long it takes for the mind of a recent victor to collapse?
You run, going towards where the outline of the door was, fiddling with the handle as you pound on it, hoping somebody outside could hear you. But from what you remembered about the halls, they were utterly desolate, leaving you completely by yourself and perhaps the game maker standing outside, enjoying this.
“Bastard!” You shout, fist hitting metal as you kick it, “Let me out! They’ll notice I’m gone! You can’t--”
“You might want to lower your voice.”
You stop, head whipping around to the voice that came from somewhere behind you.
“Who’s there?” You snap, backing into the door, “Who are you?” Your heart is hammering away, but you try to fight the fear in your voice.
The voice chuckles lowly, and you hear quiet footsteps, ones that seem to be coming closer and closer to you.
“You forgot my voice after a couple of days already?”
Why did it sound like…no. No, no, it can’t be.
You laugh to yourself, shaking your head as you laugh at the manic idea. There’s no way, they’re just fucking with you.
Mockingjays, you think, trying to make sense of why, why, why, it sounded like Gojo’s voice, they must’ve gotten his voice and turned it into something sinister and teasing, something to taunt you with.
“You’re sick,” you spit out, lips curling into a sneer as you push back against the door, rattling the doorknob, but it doesn’t open, “You’re a-all fucked in the head.”
The footsteps halt, and your breath lodges in your throat.
Martin never warned you about any of this.
“We don’t have a lot of time-”
“Fuck off!” You yell, hands clamping around your ears as your legs wobble and give way to the ground beneath you. You shake, rocking your body to the front and left, your eyes watering with those pesky tears as your fingers dig into your ears and the sides of your head, shaking it side to side as you try to get his voice away from you.
Strong and sturdy arms cage around your convulsing body, murmur gentle words into your hair as their hands run up and down your back, trying their best to calm you down, trying to calm you down like…like he would have.
“Go away!” You scream, but your voice is muffled by the person's body, and you try to punch him away, but he’s just too firm to even move, “Please, please, please, just-just leave me alone!”
The hands that are holding you to their body pause, stilling as they contemplate something, and you hope that they’re going to let you go, let you be on your own the way you wanted, but instead they move to where your hands were still covering your ears. They tug and tug and tug some more until you give up, tears wetting your cheeks as you tremble beneath them.
The person takes a deep breath, thumb rubbing across the pulse beneath their wrist before they speak.
“Eyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy,” the man recounts, his voice low but loud enough so that it could be heard over your moans, quiet so that anybody outside, if anybody ever were to pass by, couldn’t hear, and the words instantly cause you to stop.
“Remember?” he asks gently, carefully, patiently, a smile in his tone even if you couldn’t see it, and you craned your head upwards to where you guessed his face was, your breathing stuttering as you felt some strange emotion flood your veins, “Eyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy. He could not swim but loved the sea, our little sailor boy.”
And Gojo continues, as if it wasn’t enough.
“He rowed and rowed and rowed some more, that stubborn sailor boy,”
Your fingers dig into his chest, scrambling and positioning yourself so that you are seated atop his strong thighs, his hands holding onto your waist as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
“And when he reached the long-lost land…he had nowhere else to go.” You finish the poem for him, your eyes wide and mouth gaping as you shake your head over and over, refusing to believe the truth that was laid out in front of you.
Because somehow, someway, right here, right now, only breaths away from you, Gojo was…
Alive.
The two of you don’t say anything for a second. You stay quiet, listening to the sounds of his breaths, matching them to the same patterns you heard countless nights in the cave when he was asleep. You lower your head down, hands patting around his chest to see where his heart is. It was thumping, alive, under your palm. You place your ear against it, counting its beats, the rhythm you had forced yourself to memorize.
It’s the same, you accept, it’s his.
Gojo doesn’t say anything either, but lets his hands roam across your arms, tracing your skin from your wrist to your elbows, calloused fingers gliding across the hairs on your neck and the soft fuzz on your cheeks. They falter slightly when they catch against the divet of the scar from Maxmus’s knife, but decide not to linger too much on the past. His hands move from your neck down, down to your chest, where your own heart was pittering and pattering away, and he sprawls out his hand to feel its steady beat. It’s yours, your unique heartbeat that he could recite like poetry if you asked him to.
“...Satoru?”
Your voice quivers, wavering and teetering with disbelief and something like hope.
“Sailor boy,” he corrects, and you let out a sound that was a cross between a screech and wail, barriling into his chest as you press your hands across every part of his body you could, kissing his cheeks and the backs of his hands, kissing his forhead and his hairline, his soft sounds of laughter making you cry and laugh in return, kissing the slope of his nose and the corners of his eyes, feeling out his features with your fingers, making sure everything was the way you remembered. He tried to steady you, but his smile was blinding, even if the darkness of the room hid it. Your toothy grin could illuminate the universe and then some, and you were sure you were crying out the last reserve of tears you had as you slurred questions and words together, only able to choke out a pathetic-
“How?”
Your voice cracks, your head falling onto his, your noses touching as your chest shakes with sobs. His hands reach upwards, cupping your cheeks on either side as his thumbs try to wipe your tears away, but he’s no match for how quickly they come. His lips press small kisses to the tip of your nose, your forehead, and your chin. After a few seconds, he settles his forehead back on yours, fingers moving slightly out to hold the back of your head as he simply shrugs.
“Plutarch won’t tell me everything, but,” he sighs, his thumb moving across the small hairs of your eyebrows, flattening them down as he smiles to nobody but himself, “I guess the tracker they put in me was special, something my father bribed them into switching. Plutarch says it could control my heartbeat, slow it down enough to where…to where it seemed like I was…”
Dead.
“I-I don’t,” you stutter, lips quivering as you choke, choke on a thousand emotions that you don’t know how to deal with, trying to remember him a week ago, lying lifeless in front of you, to the shadow you see now, trying to rationalize every possible scenario, but nothing makes sense, “I don’t understand. I saw you, you…you’re heart stopped, you weren’t breathing, Satoru, you weren’t breathing-” you ramble, a new wave of tears rolling over you as he hushes them, trying to calm you down but nothing seems to work.
“I know,” he murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down your arms, pulling you impossibly closer to him, “I know, I’m sorry I didn’t show you earlier but-”
“You’re sorry?” You exclaim, pulling away slightly to scoff through the tears, hitting him across the chest with weak blows, shoving him with anger at yourself, at stupid him for ruining your stupid plan, “You’re sorry? I,” you sob again, laughing humorlessly as you jam your palms into your eyes, “You were supposed to win, not me! That’s why I left! I…I wanted them to follow me, I wanted you to win, Satoru!” your voice cracks, using the backs of your hands to wipe at your cheeks. Gojo lets out a small puff of air, akin to a chuckle, but it doesn’t match the heavy feeling that settles in his heart.
He pulls you back into his chest, as if he doesn’t like being away for you even for seconds at a time if he can avoid it, and runs his lanky fingers across your back, a soothing gesture, but it doesn’t help the hiccups that escape your lips nor the way you wet his shoulder with your tears and spit.
“Why do you think I ran after you?” He murmured against the side of your head, his own salty tears splattering on the ground as he choked on his words, “Did you really think,” he takes a deep breath, hiccuping as he cradles you head, “Did you really think I’d let go of the girl I’ve been in love with since I was nine?”
You laugh wetly, pulling away from his chest, wishing so desperately you could see his face, even a glimmer of it, but you could settle for this now, settle for the blurriness of his outline if it meant hearing those words again.
You move blindly, tilting your head upwards slightly, and catch his lips against yours. It's a breathless sigh that escapes you, your fingers moving from his neck to tangle in his hair, only to find his head buzzed, void of the soft locks you remembered, but you’re too dizzy to comment on it.
Gojo kisses you back with the fervor of a man starved, groaning when your teeth accidentally catch on his bottom lip, his nose pressing against yours as one of his large hands sprawls across your back, pushing you closer to him as he ravishes you. His tongue darts out, running across your, moving with experience that you lacked, but he didn’t seem to mind, not at all.
His fingers trailed upwards to cup your jaw, tilting your head slightly to make room for his, and you whine when he pulls you with the strength of somebody who’s ben training their whole life to situate better on his lap, and you feel the wetness of your tears mix with his own, becoming a mess of spit, salt and skin as Gojo pulls away slightly to catch some air.
A loud thud, something like a hand hitting metal, comes from the other side of the door, and you’re sure that if you could, you’d see that familiar blush painting Gojo’s face. You feel your cheeks heat up, and the two of you laugh, embarrassed and giddy, a feeling you never thought you’d feel again, and Gojo murmurs a quiet apology against your skin.
“They buzzed my hair,” he explains, as if reading your thoughts, and your hands move across his head, nails raking his scalp as he shudders, “And they dyed it black. They said that I have to look unrecognizable, hell, they’re even making me put some contacts in to hide my eye color.”
“They?” You ask breathlessly, brows furrowed, and Gojo nods, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip as you feel a fire burn across your face at the slight touch.
“I can’t tell you, it’s not safe, not even here,” he explains quickly, noting how little time left there was, “But I’m being sent out to District 10 to be a peacekeeper. Plutarch won’t tell me anything else, but he says that in…in a couple of years, I might be able to see you.”
Your chest heaves again, stammering, you thought that this was permanent, a naive wish, and Gojo picks up on it, kissing your nose again as he leans his forehead on yours, hugging you by the waist as he kisses the side of your mouth, then a slight peck to your lips as you sniffle.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he whispers, a statement that you have a hard time believing. “If I waited nine years and was able to have you for this long, I think I can wait a little more if it means having you forever.”
You laugh wetly, shaking your head as you shudder with fear and trepidation.
“I love you, too,” you say quietly but firmly, arms circling his neck as you feel him smile against your lips, “I have…for a while, even if I didn’t know it.”
Plutarch hits the door again, signalling for you to wrap it up.
You feel anxiety roll over you, stammering to say everything you wanted to, but stop, knowing that in these last seconds, you had to be meticulous.
“Wait for me?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and your chest stutters with a particularly sharp sob that you try to push down, “I-I’ll be home, you’ll know where to find me.”
He laughs softly, thumb rubbing across your cheek as he pulls you down for one last kiss, one that lingers and you can still taste, years later.
“I will,” Gojo promises without missing a beat, “Promise.”
---
Years pass, and the games continue.
There’s no way to hide the pain that comes each year when the games start again, can’t forget the look of Yuuji, or the other tributes. Most days, whether you want to or not, you pass by the Itadori household. They welcome you inside with minimal words, pour you some tea in silence while the brothers stare at a wall, not saying anything. They don’t blame you, never show anger, and always kiss you on the forehead when it’s your time to leave. Their mother and father shortly passed after your games, so you always try to give them food and money, anything you could offer, though they never take any of it.
There’s a small plot of dirt in their yard, where their parents lie, and eventually where they buried Yuuji. You visit it during the day, place purple and yellow flowers by the patch, and update him on your life, even if it takes a while to find the words. It would take even more time to allow yourself the forgiveness you deserved, but for now, you read Yuuji the stories from your childhood and pretend like he was there. You clean his headstone every Friday, making sure it is always shining, and kiss the edge of it when you get ready to leave. Sometimes, you leave a handful of berries and nuts at the foot, knowing that he’d be proud of the ones you foraged, even if they weren’t ever as sweet as his.
The victor's village is empty, but you always visit Martin during the nights, when you know he drinks the most and it’s hardest to sleep. The two of you don’t have much to say, and you prefer the silence, but he drinks less when you’re around, or at least attempts to hide the bottles when he hears your knocks.
When the time comes, just like Gojo said, it takes nobody by surprise that there’s a disturbance of what was once a normality, a shift in the system of violence and chaos. A power keg of a machine tumbling by each District that slowly pulls away from their duties, people from all over banding together as they find the resilience needed to rebel and get rid of the system that took everything from them. It’s a bloody war, one that takes and takes and takes and seems to have no end until it finally gives out, cries from all over when it’s released that President Snow is killed and a new leader has been elected, fairly and democratically.
There isn’t much left of 11 afterward, after the bombs stopped and the planes left. But gradually, the people emerged from hiding and from beneath the rubble, one by one, until a small community, something that resembled the one you once knew, formed. It’s lost a lot of its members, the Itadori plot now joined by Sukuna and Choso as they rest by their brother and parents, and you always visit them when the sun comes up, drinking tea on the grass as you tell them stories from the war and your days rebuilding.
The victor’s village was untouched, and you and Martin opened the doors to anybody who didn’t have a home left. Some people came, others preferred to start new and without reminders of what once was.
After a while, when the dust settled and the bone began to become one with the dirt, you heard a gentle rasp at your door.
He stood there, aged, slightly shaken, but still him. He held a small bouquet, white and yellows and purples mixing as he shuffled slightly, pushing his long white locks back with his fingers as he tried to let go of the hardness that had taken over his features.
Gojo smiled when you emerged from behind the door, your own eyes slightly sunken in with exhaustion and the soils of war, but still the gentle ones that welcomed him to you when you were both children with nothing to lose.
He had found you, just as he promised, and this time, he wasn’t going to let you go.
Besides, Gojo was long overdue for taking his girl out for a dance.
boarders by @cursed-carmine & @saradika-graphics 🧊💋🦴
~ reblogs, comments, and likes are so appreciated ~
It’s been almost exactly a year since the split. Clark left with a resounding slam of your door. You got the papers a week later, tears streaking down your cheeks, but if it was what he wanted, you’d sign. So you did, you gave him his share and made do with yours. The argument regarding your safety due to Clark being Superman had strained your relationship to the breaking point. And like so many other unlucky couples, you just couldn’t work it out.
When you get a random call around 2:30am the day after Thanksgiving from Ma, your heart drops. The connection is weak; all you can make out is, “Clark… Hurt… Please come as soon… He asked… you.”
It’s enough for you to throw clothes into a duffel and book the next flight. You still loved him, even after everything. And he needed you.
You laughed at the irony of your vows. You would still keep them. You hoped Clark wouldn’t send you away when he came to.
Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Clark has Kryptonite Poisoning, Clark is Whiny, Husband Clark Kent, Hurt/Comfort, Very Slight Reference to Sexual Content, Guilt, Fear, Reuniting with your Ex-Husband Superman, Unsolved Tension, Lots of Angst, Slight Mentions of Near-Death Experiences, Pain, Reader is Down Bad, Clark is also Down Bad, This is Angst City, and I am the Mayor
You glance over at the clock, and it reads 2:15am. Great, another sleepless night, alone. The bed feels cold and empty beside you, hollow from days past. You roll over, trying desperately to get into a comfortable enough position to sleep. You know it’s hopeless, but you try anyway.
The wind whips against your window pane, reminding you of the harsh reality of the time of year it was. Late November, Thanksgiving had just passed, and it was your first Thanksgiving without Clark. You’d spent the day binge drinking and watching horrible Hallmark movies about city girls and country boys.
You sigh in defeat. It would only be a couple more weeks until he’d been gone for a year.
The sadness sank deep into your chest, aching and beating slowly in your sorrowful heart. The tears had all but vanished, causing you to lie there, eyes dry. You quit feeling sorry for yourself a long time ago, but the holidays reminded you so much of Clark, hopefulness lingering in everyone’s attitude that you passed on the street.
The difference was that each of your friends had someone to come home to. Lois had Jimmy, and you could sadly tell that they pitied you, often offering to take you to dinner, letting you third wheel their events, and pretending that everything was okay.
Lois had cussed out Clark when he’d made the decision to leave you. Calling him a “selfish asshole," and stating that his resignation to The Planet was "Total, utter bullshit!" Jimmy tried to stay out of it as long as he could, but he ultimately sided with Lois every time. You’d been really thankful to have someone on your side. Because once the media caught wind of Superman’s secret love affair, they’d immediately taken it way too far.
Rumors of cheating, emotional abuse, etc., lingered in the magazines for a few months. You barely left your house, afraid to be assigned a lead on 'the mysterious wife of Superman.' Clark spent many weeks as his alter ego fighting to have every false allegation taken down. He loved you so much it hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to put you in constant danger, not after your accident. That was his sorry excuse for walking out on you.
You blamed it on his fear that too many people were uncovering the possibility of Clark Kent being Superman.
You ponder the thought of calling him, and glance at your phone, thrown lopsidedly to the pillow next to you. After all the pain and abandonment, you had only called Clark twice. The first time was on your birthday. Lois had taken you out for drinks, and well... you got wasted.
You had called him, just for the phone to ring twice before going to voicemail. You cussed him out for not calling and singing to you, sobbed into the phone as your friends tried to calm you, and puked onto the floor when Lois finally ripped your phone from your hands. She muttered something crossly towards Clark in the message, stating that it was "just like you to not call her on her birthday. No contact doesn't mean forgetting everything she means to you."
The no-contact rule was torture for both you and Clark; he told you it was the best way to keep you safe. But he was unwilling to hear just how desperate you were to keep him in your life. You longed to know how he felt. You wanted to know the truth: that he missed every inch of your skin, just like you missed his. You were sure that he truly just hated you, and it pained you so bad that you spent many nights on the roof of your apartment building, pondering the fall.
You wondered if Clark would catch you halfway down.
You doubted it, the longer he'd been gone.
Abandoning those thoughts, you roll in the opposite direction of your phone, mentally cursing yourself for the pure audacity to think of calling Clark right now. He was probably out saving some damsel in distress anyway. You sigh, gazing into the clock that now reads 2:24am.
This was going to be a long night. The kind of night that promised nothing but silence.
You close your eyes, huffing into the stillness of your bedroom, and try to count sheep.
You’re about four sheep in when your phone rings, the song “You Are My Sunshine” echoes into your ears, and you sit up. That was Ma’s ringtone.
Your heart drops to your stomach. Clark.
Picking up the phone without a second thought, you raise a shaky hand to your mouth, biting your nail in anxiety, “Ma?”
The line cracks, muffled and broken between what you’re sure is Ma crying, and she speaks, “Y/n! Sweetheart, is that… we need you… Clark’s hurt… please… as soon as possible… he asked for you.”
The line goes dead.
You brush some of your bed head off your forehead and inhale with an open mouth. Your head spins and you stand on two wobbly legs. Clark was hurt. Superman, hurt. Your Clark. The cheeky man that had stolen your heart with his messy black hair and rigid dimples. The same Clark, who used to kiss your stomach unhurriedly and stare at you too long with those ocean blue eyes. You prayed for him to be alive within the cold air of the night.
Tears somehow found their way to your cheeks again, running like rain on a car window, recklessly. You pulled out a bag and quickly stuffed a charger, some clothes, and god knows what else inside. You didn’t pay it much mind, thinking only of Clark, and the quickest way to get to him.
You would catch the next flight, no matter what it took to see him again. Ignorant of the price, even though you had very little. You cared only to see Clark, to brush his hair between your fingers and whisper sweet nothings into his temple, breath brushing his ear. That was what you used to do when a fight went South, when a civilian died. You were the only one who could console him. He went at ease when you were near. Maybe that's why he needed you.
Ma used to call you his ‘emotional kryptonite.’ God, you missed him.
As you pass your kitchen on the way out, you glance at the fridge. No, you were still far too full from Thanksgiving dinner at Jimmy’s to eat anything. But you hesitated. Clark loved your peanut butter brownies. They’d go bad otherwise. Maybe that’s what he needed.
You sigh, rip a Tupperware container from its place in the dishwasher, hands shaking from stress and worry, and dump the remainder of your brownies in. Every little thing in this apartment still screamed his name, his presence. The candle by the couch, one he’d bought you after saying it reminded him of your shampoo. Each dent in the drywall, where he’d slammed you into the wall after a long day when he just needed release, nipping at your neck with want. The robe that used to be his, hanging on a hook, which now acted as your oversized towel after a bath.
It all became a way of coping. Every first aid kit you had on hand for the cuts on his knuckles, every pocket protector you’d stuffed away into a drawer with no need for them anymore. You slowly forgot the meaning of living with him, the meaning of living. But he was still in every sentence you wrote at The Planet. He lingered in every breath you drew in, alone.
Your life had faded into a concept of surviving. And you did everything you could to stifle any hope of him returning.
He’d made it very clear that he wouldn’t.
You zip up your duffel, brownies inside. Your heart still beats wild and uncomfortably in your chest. Every second you wait, you’re not there for Clark. He asked for you. Your lip tilts up, it’s not a smile, but it’s something.
The gate is quiet, the crowd small but steady. People shuffle between TSA checking and cuss at a small volume when they get flagged for the fluid bottles in their bags. You pass through, keeping to yourself, too hurried to worry about the way a woman shoulder checks you. You brush it off, rushing for your 4:30am flight to Kansas City. Pa would meet you there in his dusty red Chevy, probably halfway squeeze the life out of you, and cry like the old sap he was.
You loved it, you missed the family you lost because of those damn papers.
You take a sip from the four-dollar water bottle you bought in the small gift shop by your gate. The water tastes like metal and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. When they call for boarding, you spring up, wiry and light on your feet, clutching the strap of your duffel like it was rope and you’re hanging off a cliff.
You take the aisle seat on the fourth row, eager to be one of the first people off the plane. You had no luggage to pick up, no rental car to wait for, only the promise of your quick feet and small frame to shift through the crowd. You willed the plane to arrive before schedule, and sat back, headphones playing “The Mighty Crabjoys.” You chuckle, strained, and raise a head to your forehead, rubbing away the memories like smudged lead on paper.
The flight was four hours; that meant you had four hours to try and sleep. You crack your neck in restlessness, recoiling in the thought of how Clark must feel. Hurt, alone. A feeling you’d become far too familiar with. Still, it left a heavy sting of guilt deep in your stomach, causing it to churn with unease.
Every second you’d had with Clark was magical; you felt like you were in heaven in the moment. He was the dream, the perfect gentleman. He memorized your heart and made it his. Promised you a life full of adventure, risk, and happiness. You never expected him to stomp on it all with his custom Kryptonian boots. You didn’t think he meant to, truly. But now you looked back over the years like a sad nostalgic dream, crushed by the weight of every harsh truth and splintered trust.
It must be nice to never feel like this. You cursed every delusional happy couple; they all had what you still hoped for with every moment alone in the shower, someone to love. To hold.
Where you two had left things, it didn’t promise much to look forward to. The argument, which caused Clark Kent of all people to slam your door, snapping several hinges, explained his reason for never calling you, never sending a card. The way he’d spoken to you, the way you’d spoken to him, it was lethal. It destroyed years' worth of admiration, every morning naked in bed, giggling, every night dripping in sex and sweat. You both had crushed the walls you once built with hammering words, shattering the mirror of truly seeing one another.
Your heart died that day, with every word he’d uttered, fists drawn tight and rigid to his sides. And god, when you’d slapped him, he raised one of his fists. You both stared at it like it had betrayed you each in its own way. His eyes widened, and he gulped so hard you heard it. Your breath sucked in with a sharp gasp, and you flinched away. He crumbled, tears spilling down his cheeks, “baby, no, no… You know I would never. Oh god, Y/n, sweetheart, you have to believe me.”
“Get out, Clark.” You’d whispered, eyes screwing shut, your own sorrowful tears spilling all the way to your collarbones. He flinched like your words had slashed his middle. “Y/n, not until I know you’re okay—” but you’d cut him off, hands slapping to your cheeks and angrily swiping at your hot tears. You stared into his eyes, yours cold with hatred. “G-get the fuck out, Clark.” A breath, “Please, don’t make me ask again.”
He hesitated, watching your chest rise and fall quickly. He gave you one long and suffering look, his face screaming anguish. His mouth hung open, angry words dangerously hanging on the tip of his tongue. Hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, right foot beginning its anxious habit of tapping against your floor.
Then without warning, he’d turned sharply, grabbed his coat from the rack he’d hung only weeks prior, and left. No more backward glances, no more second chances. Clark read your mind in that last look, and had seen just how much he needed to go. So he did. The man was painfully true to his word.
You wish you could take back every word. Every cutting touch and angle you’d pushed. He only wanted to protect you, and you’d freaked. It wasn’t entirely your fault; you knew what you were getting yourself into from the start. Clark was never satisfied, knowing you were always unsafe.
Every encounter you’d made with villains, most of them run-of-the-mill losers who had figured out Clark's identity, had chalked up to another point towards an at-home fight. You were certain that you could handle it. Clark was never so sure, always so afraid of you breaking, of losing you. He didn’t know that he eventually would lose you in an even greater fashion. You weren’t glass, you weren’t a damsel in need of saving. You knew the cost of loving Superman; it laid heavy in your chest like a stack of bricks.
But the difference was you knew that it was worth it for Clark, and he didn't.
But then, the accident happened. You were never supposed to be there, if you’d just listened. He wouldn’t have almost lost you. Clark had been too late.
You could confidently confirm that when you’re about to die, your life does indeed flash before your eyes. It had, in a burst of darkness and dust. Then, you were gone.
You jolt awake at the force of the plane landing. Ah, you had fallen asleep. Clark. You were almost home. Please hold on.
When the airplane clears to exit, you shoot up. Offering a quick apology to those ahead of you, and shuffling between the rows, practically running down the loading gate. You sprint through the crowd, avoiding a businessman and his steaming latte. Your eyes scan the pickup lane, finally landing on Pa.
He’s waiting, cardboard sign in hand, with your name scribbled messily. You smile softly, and your heart aches with pure and utter homesickness. You run up to him, taking him by surprise as you wrap your arms around him. He chuckles in shock and returns the hug, squeezing you tightly like an overprotective parent when their child returns from war. You don’t realize the tears until they’ve already fallen, and he’s whispering, “I missed you, buttercup,” into your ear.
“Please tell me he’s alive, Pa.” You murmur, voice breaking, desperate and raw. Pa nods firmly, pulling back from the hug. “He’ll be okay. I think this fight woke’m up from the horrible, ugl’ah nightmare of losin’ you.” He confirms, patting your shoulder in comfort.
“He doesn’t miss me. I just wanted to see him. I-I had to know… had to know he was okay.” You cry, burying your head into his neck. Pa sighs, rubbing at your shoulder blade with his worn hands, “Sweetheart, he doesn’t know just how much he needs you.”
You bite back the words “I still love him” and instead nod, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Pa smiles, flashing you a true American farmer grin, and opens the door of the truck for you. You climb in, breathing in the scent of the Kent household and relax back into your seat. A feeling of anticipation begins to thrum quietly in the hollow of your heart.
The drive feels shorter than you remember, Billy Joel and Diamond Rio streaming out of the radio in their regular fashion. You watch the corn fields pass, remembering the first time Clark had brought you home with him. You’d been so nervous, even though you had no reason to be worried. Ma and Pa were the parents you never had.
When the split happened, they didn’t know who to call first. They’d called Clark, obviously. But you were the one they visited. That meant something real to you. You weren’t sure Clark knew, so you’d stowed it away with every flannel he hadn’t bothered to pick up.
You see the sign for Smallville, and your heart leaps in your chest, with a sudden burst of anxiety.
You pull up to the driveway, and with every yard closer, your chest grows increasingly tight. The house looks the same as you’d seen it. Crooked shingles and white siding frame the childhood home that Clark grew up in. The fields outside whistle in the wind, drifting with memory and nostalgia. You grip the handles of your duffel and pinch your wrist. This was truly real.
When the tires screech to a stop, you sit still against the leather, waiting a minute before hopping out. Ma meets you at the screen door, pulling you straight into her arms and brushing your hair with a soothing hand. You meet her with a sigh, “Ma…” She shushes you, just breathing into your shoulder with a shuddering inhale, holding you. Your face twists into something deeply uncomfortable, scrunching up like wrinkled laundry. You hold back the tears, and break apart, holding each of her shoulders, “I need to see him.”
She nods in understanding, stepping out of your way. “You know where to find him, babygirl.”
You move down the hall in a silent tradition, without a second thought. You pass the endless frames, which hold everything sweet and innocent about Clark beneath their glass. The hallway moves around you as your feet hit carpet, slow, sure, and familiar. Everything comes to a slow rhythm of instinct. The door to Clark’s bedroom is ajar, allowing you to see his posters, trophies, and baby blue wallpaper from the outside.
Your feet come to a rest at the threshold. Blinking in slow motion, your eyes well up once more. You’re not sure if it’s from fear or excitement. Maybe it’s just the overwhelming sensation of knowing that the love of your life waits inside. You haven’t seen him since he slammed that oak door back in the city.
You weren’t sure about this.
But nothing stops you from stepping inside, a vow kept in the hushed corners of the Kansas house. You were here in sickness, in health. Through the fall from grace and the cold, bitter reality of hurt.
When you behold Clark lying on his full-sized bed, completely crushing it beneath his massive frame, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He’s not asleep, but he hasn’t noticed you yet; that or he’s pretending you aren’t there.
His eyes flicker to yours, and he draws in a quick, faltering breath. “You came,” he cracks, with a pitiful and wretched timbre of disbelief. His eyes pinch together with a raw and painful flinch.
You drop the duffel and stride to his side in three short steps, collapsing to your knees.
“You called.”
He breaks, the waterworks instant. His chin quivers in a way that tells you everything you needed to know. That he regretted those words too, that he missed you every. damn. day. That he tried so hard to stay away that it had utterly destroyed him on the inside.
You drop your head onto his shoulder and sob, “I thought– I thought, oh god, Clark. I– I thought you were gone.” Your tears wet the flannel on his chest, and you bring a hand up to feel at his face. He struggles, weeping openly and watching you cry too, clutching your body with one strong but weary arm.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, painful and pure with every shake.
His voice is muffled in your hair, strands spread across his chest. He holds you like something scared, secret. It’s a moment that you both know you’ll store away somewhere safe. The air around you shifts in a tense click.
You lift your head, meeting his red-rimmed eyes, bluer than ever through his crying, with yours. They hide away a hideous guilt, masked by his determination to make the right decisions. All the while, Clark knew he hadn’t.
He’d stormed out that day, only to collapse into the brick outside the building, tearing at his shirt and sobbing unashamedly.
Every day he’d spent without you had been true hell, and even now, Kryptonite poisoning and all, his chest felt lighter at the graze of your touch. It was all the pain medicine Clark needed.
“I’m glad you’re here.” He admits, not quite meeting your eyes this time. His chest rises in a steady thrum, and he rests his head back against the plush pillow. He doesn’t dare to lie, to fake some sorry excuse due to the no-contact rule. It was a dumb, fucking stupid rule that he had used to cower from his problems.
The truth was, Clark hadn’t felt like Superman since he’d left.
He felt like a traitor to the name of Justice and Hope.
You were his hope, you were his peace. It was all because of you that he could wake up every morning and promise the people of Metropolis his best self.
He hadn't promised anything in a real long time.
Clark stares at the ceiling as you shift off your knees, rising again to your feet and searching for the chair by his desk. You pull it to the bed, sitting down slowly.
“I came as quick as I could, t-took the next flight out.” You tell him, searching his eyes with yours, reminding him of just how much you cared. He looks at you again, and for a moment you both sit there, silent. The intensity leaves a pit in each of your stomachs. Clark clears his throat, coughing slightly in strained air, “Thank you, Y/n.”
You nod without restraint, your neck cracking at the sudden movement. You both huff out a laugh. It feels like everything.
You’re not sure how this moment feels so reverent, so private. But it does. You feel miles away and nearby all in the same twitch of your fingers. Clark stares at you like you might disappear into the light of the lamp beside you if he blinks. His hair is a mess, swamped around his bloody forehead.
“You need some serious sun, golden boy,” you laugh, calm and slow this time. Clark breathes out a sigh of relief at the domestic tease. “Wow, teasing me already, sweetheart? It’s true, nothing’s changed, has it?” He eases, but the words are more than a tease; he really is asking. The words hold the weight of the truth, the ugly and bitter loss of time together you’d each given up. Clark didn’t know just how much you had changed. All the ways you tried to survive.
You meet his eyes again and hold your breath. His face still screams apology, so you let it slide, allowing an instant quip to smooth out on your tongue. You wouldn’t start anything; not now.
He still realizes what he’s said, and mutters another stream of haphazard ‘I’m sorry’s.’ You just stroke at his collarbone with your thumb and shake your head, dismissing his fears.
You speak again after a moment of peace, the only sound being his clock ticking and the rustle of the covers from him shifting around, soft groans accompanying his change. "What hurts?"
He laughs, a deep tenor you had once heard in the shell of your ear and between your legs, and coughs, "The question really is: What doesn't?" It makes you furrow your brows and give him a pitiful look. He hated it, he always had. The look you gave him when he'd come home from a fight. You looked like you'd taken every single hit with him, and your eyes reflected the pain of every punch.
You always felt guilty, as if you'd held him a little longer, massaged his muscles a little harder, it wouldn't have hurt him so badly. Your empathy was your greatness weakness.
"'m so sorry, Clark," you breathe, voice laced with desperation. He shakes his head, "No. No, sweetheart. This ain't about that." It makes you immediately hush, nodding and trying to swallow down the pain you still long to express. He notices your retreat, and reaches out a hand, catching yours. "What I mean is... I wish I hadn't. I-" he pauses, flashing you a quick look of hesitation, and his Adam's apple bobs up and down.
"I never should've walked out of that door. I never should've pushed you away. I thought I-I was protecting you." He mumbles, words shattering the fragile veil of certainty, head tilted down in shame. Everything was up for question now. You gasp sharply and your face scrunches again, tears coming close to erupting.
He watches with a sick look on his face, swallowing down his own sorrow. You reach for his jaw with your palm, fingers spreading across the familiar dimple on his cheek. You dip the tip of your thumb into it on instinct. "I should've fought more for you." You whisper quietly.
His chest quivers, and his hand curls up around yours, grounding you.
"I can't keep pretending like I'm half the man I was when I had you."
You both let the words sink in, and you just stare. His face looks tired, lonely. The apologies promise more hope than either of you had been able to manifest. But there was still hurt, so, so much hurt.
But now... You each let it hurt. You take the first step towards acceptance. As a team.
You stand, and paddle over to your bag, reaching for the one thing you'd brought to lighten the mood. Clark breathes in an awkward laugh, "You didn't."
You smile at him, and for a second he remembers just how truly beautiful your smile is. You look perfect like this, messy hair and sore eyes. You had never needed to be anything but yourself for him to fall on his knees for you.
"I did. Always for you, Clark."
He frowns, and a tear spills over his cheek.
"I don't deserve it."
You sigh, and rub at your eye. "You don't decide that, Clark."
You sit back down, this time on the edge of the bed. The springs creak in protest, almost as if to say, "Really? You too?" But you pay them no mind.
In the silence of the dusty childhood bedroom. You raise a brownie to Clark's lips. As always, he takes a timid first bite, letting the flavor hit his tongue with a groan. You smile, he smiles back.
The pair of you still, and finally enjoy each other's presence. The moment is nothing solid; it flows like water, unsure and without balance. But it flows all the more, running over into every harsh moment alone, and flooding them into oblivion.
There is no promise of something future, no guarantee of something grand and romantic, no sign that leads to a full recovery. But for now, you're just happy to be with him again.
Your Clark.
Your love.
Your husband.
In sickness, in health.
In hurt, in heartbreak.
"I missed this," one of you whispers, the other nodding.
"Me too."
THANK YOU FOR READING!!!! This is my baby. I hope you enjoyed.
summary: every year, to make them pay for their uprising, a male and female tribute are selected from each district to fight to the death in the hunger games. this year, you have been chosen as the female tribute from district 11. you never expected to make an alliance with someone, much less with the capitol's newest darling, gojo satoru. but it happens, making this year's games even more interesting. not only for the unlikely alliance, but for the fact that nobody could've predicted love to bloom between such unlikely tributes.
warnings: general hunger games related dark themes, nothing too serious yet
word count: 20k
note: reblogs and comments are always appreciated! hope part one is interesting enough for the eventual part two that's in the works!
jjk masterlist + series masterlist
From the Treaty of Treason:
In penance for their uprisings, each district shall offer up a male and female between the ages of 12 and 18 at a public “Reaping”.
These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol.
And then transferred to a public arena where they will fight to the Death, until a lone victor remains.
—-
When your name was called at the Reaping, you didn’t feel fear.
You thought you would’ve. All those years dreading the moment where your name could be called, herded into a show of glitz and glam, all to be brutally slaughtered at the end. It’s frightening, violent, gruesome. It’s death.
But when you heard your name resonate through that microphone and bounce off the walls of the courtyard, you felt a strange sense of relief.
Your shoulders relaxed, head dropping down as you nod slightly to yourself. After nearly surviving seventeen years of escaping the Hunger Games, what odd irony it was that at your last eligible year, you’d be chosen? But you knew deep down, your odds of being picked were greater than most. You had entered your name so many times in exchange for extra rations that it was almost comical how empty that glass bowl would be without your help.
Looking around, as if to make sure you hadn’t misheard it, you see your rampaging thoughts quickly answered by the way you could see yourself on the big screens, the Capitol cameras focusing in on your face to see your reaction. They normally love a show, adore it when people cry or protest. But you couldn’t cry even if you wanted to, felt no need to show others pain that you reserved for those you loved most.
The girls around you mutter things quickly, their eyes darting around to gauge your emotions. Last year, the girl tribute from your district tried to run away. She had made it close to the fence before one of the peacekeepers thumped her on the head and dragged her back towards the stage.
But you wouldn’t be running. You wouldn’t be giving them a show. They had taken your mother and father, your sister and brother. They had taken your youth and now your adulthood, but you swore in that moment that you wouldn’t give them what they wanted most.
Your body moved on its own out of the crowd, the girls around you giving you room to part from them. Some of them whispered thanks under their breaths, others let their hands linger on your arms and back. Maybe they felt sorry, as if they were already mourning you.
The Capitol lady they send every year for the annual reaping of the Hunger Games watches you with hawk-like eyes as you slowly make your way down the aisle and towards the makeshift stage. Brumesia, a woman with a strange name and even stranger choice of attire and makeup, gives you an oily, manufactured smile as you slowly make your way up the steps and towards her outstretched hand.
You look at it briefly in questioning. It was covered with a suede, plum-colored glove, and you wondered how much a glove like that would cost at the market. It could surely cover a family's meals for over a month. She looked at you and then at your hands, the crowd of people watching as they waited for you to shake it.
Most people tend to dress in their best clothes for the reaping ceremony. They wear what they would usually save for the new year or gatherings. They clean up and try to look presentable for the respectable Capitol people watching. But you, you who could barely afford a tattered dress or soap, looked exactly like you did leaving the fields, grimy. So when you shook Brumesia’s hand, you made sure to get all your dirt and sweat on her brand-new gloves.
Brumesia gave a slightly winced look, giving you a tightly pressed smile as she walked back to her microphone, gripping the stand.
“Thank you for this year's female tribute,” she glanced over your way, most likely already having forgotten your name, “And now, the male tribute…”
You stood limply and lifeless as she read the male tribute's name, a boy who had just become old enough for the games, and someone who you would see frequently working around the production line. You had never had so many eyes on you, and you felt open and raw. You distracted yourself by naming all the colors of the clothes people were wearing, but it was an overwhelming wash of greys and blacks.
You watched as the boy, Itadori Yuuji, made his way up to the stage. In the distance, his mother could be heard muffling her cries, and the cameras made sure to capture her crumpled-up face. From what you knew, Yuuji had two brothers, but they were too old to volunteer for the games. You looked around to find them, their faces pale and drained of blood as they tried to hold their screaming mother back.
When you see his small body trudge out of the crowd, that's when you feel the first wave of nausea roll over you. Yuuji, with his round face and slight limp from an accident during his youth, was coming up the stage, furiously wiping at his face.
He was young, far too young.
For a second, it all feels surreal. You pinch yourself, hard, just to make sure you haven’t fallen asleep in the fields again, waking up to the gentle breeze and sway of wheat as you make your way back to the town.
That fear that you know you should’ve had almost creeps back up when Yuuji has his hand shaken and Brumesia reads the last of her card. The delayed reaction almost chokes you out, your hands trembling when you look over at her, then back to the crowd, and finally at the big screen televising your face.
When she reads the ceremonial statement, “may the odds be ever in your favor”, your mind stops itself from spiraling. You had to control yourself; you’ve mastered control before. The Capitol wasn’t going to take it from you, not like they did everything else.
Drumesia orders you to shake Yuuji's hand. You note how he trembles more than you.
—
This year would be the 66th annual Hunger Games.
The Capitol was still reeling from the games last year, when the new victor from District 4, the youngest ever, took out all his opponents with his various choice of weapons. When the train taking you and Yuuji from District 11 to the Capitol ended its journey, the buzz with all the Capitol citizens was still surrounding last year’s victor. The ladies were giggling in their masses, craning their necks to see the train from District 4, wanting to get a shot of him boarding off as a new mentor, paying no mind to the other trains. You expected this, being from District 11, but found yourself a little surprised to see the citizens even ignoring the trains from Districts 1 and 2, their neighboring brothers and sisters (although they'd recoil in disgust if they had to admit it).
It simply meant that the careers and tributes from these higher districts would be angered by the overshadowing of the young victor, meaning that this year's games would have to surpass the last.
Meaning that this year was going to be exceptionally brutal.
“Don’t they want to see us too?” Yuuji asked from beside you, peering out the window at the large crowd of people crowding the train car up ahead.
You blink out of your stupor, glancing over at him as you take in his bloodshot eyes and wet nose. He had spent the week-long journey crying, holding onto you as if you could be of much protection. You tried to wrench him away from you at first, not wanting to get attached, but it was inevit in able. You knew his brothers well after having worked alongside them for nearly six years and had a deep fondness for him mother. You can still remember the stir that woke the town when he was born, everyone scrambling to the Itadori household to pinch his chubby cheeks. A part of you couldn’t abandon him, a sense of guilt infiltrating your body the moment you even entertained the idea.
So you gave in, letting him crawl into your side. Besides, before you worked in the fields, you used to take care of the children of the mayor and the wealthier members of your district, so soothing Yuuji and his tremors wasn’t too difficult.
“They just can’t see us because of those big fluttery lashes they have,” you say with a teasing tone, winking at him in an exaggerated way that makes him giggle slightly. It’s not much, but the perpetual look of fear he has in his eyes leaves momentarily.
It was true, to some degree. The Capitol citizens wore inoperable, extravagant outfits that seemed to come in every array of colors and shapes. You had spent your entire life thinking that Brumesia was as over-the-top as it could be, but you were sorely mistaken. The Capitol, even this tiny train station, was beyond any word you could think of. At least, not any good ones.
This whole experience so far has only morbidly reminded you of your dark and impending fate. The train was littered with food or sweets you could imagine. You had never felt so full in your life, often trudging back to your room in a comatose state as you lay bonelessly on your bed. The mattresses are made with cotton, and the bedsheets are satin. Despite it all, however, it’s a blaring reminder that when this show is over, it’s up to you and the twenty-three other tributes to put on a new one.
And when you remember that the food no longer tastes as good.
“My mom would hate that lady's outfit,” Yuuji murmurs, pointing to a girl outside with a large hoop skirt decorated with red feathers, her bodice ending dangerously close underneath her chest. “She would say it’s too impractical.”
Although he’s trying to sound optimistic, you can still hear the quiver in his voice. He missed his mom, his whole family. You were waiting alone in the room next to him back home, waiting to be carded off onto the trains, when you heard them come in. You could still hear her cries in her sleep, hear his brothers beg for forgiveness for not being able to take his place.
It was torture. All of this was torture.
But you smile despite yourself, teeth flashing as you nudge his side a little bit, failing at chastizing him. Drumesia was off somewhere blotting her face, but her ears were always perked. The mentor they had given you, an old victor from way back when, was snoozing off in his room, unable to hear your remarks even if he had his face up close to your mouth.
“I don’t see how she’d be able to climb any trees with that skirt,” you tease, but feel a certain ache curl up in your chest. There were no trees to climb at the Capitol, and you doubted you’d ever feel the rush of adrenaline climbing one for yourself.
The trains from the other districts were slowly unloading, one by one, and Drumesia was waking up a storm trying to get everyone ready to leave. Martin, your mentor, clambered out of his room with his shirt crumbled up and a bit of pastry bits stuck to his mouth, making Drumesia fret over him more than you and Yuuji.
At this time, the two of you shifted down the train cart, near the edge, and tried to look out the small window that faced the tribute center, where they were filing them all in one by one.
“Look at him!” Yuuji pointed in excitement, his finger bending on the glass as he pressed his nose up, fogging it with his breath, “Look at him! Look at his hair!”
You crammed next to him to find what he was excited about, squinting your eyes to see in the distance, and felt your heart drop at the sight.
District 1, known for the production of luxury items, often bears the most tributes that win the games. Often coming after the Capitol in terms of wealth, they’re able to send their children to special academies to train for the games and volunteer up until it’s no longer possible. The tributes from this district almost always won, and if they didn’t, it’s only because the tributes from 2 or 4, in charge of stone production and fishing industries respectively, followed second. They often form alliance pacts at the start of the games before the friendships fizzle out and they kill each other, earning the nickname of Careers.
The person Yuuji was pointing to had a 1 written on the back of his shirt, his muscles rippling through the fabric as he moved. His arms were the size of trunks, his body strong like a tree. Tributes weren’t allowed to see the Reaping footage ceremony from the other districts during the train ride, most likely to keep with the air of mystery, but you had prepared yourself to be met with tributes who could kill you with their bare hands.
He looked like he could kill you with his bare hands.
“I would advise you two to step away from the windows. We wouldn’t want sponsors seeing you as you are…now,” Brumesia’s sing-songy voice filled your ears, making both you and Yuuji turn around quickly as if caught doing something wrong. She was looking the two of you up and down, and no matter how much you cleaned yourself in the showers, it felt like a layer of dirt was still clinging to you.
Your face fell into a slight scowl, something that often happened when you had to interact with her.
“We’re just looking,” you explain through your teeth, your hand protectively falling on Yuuji’s elbow. You feel him come closer to your side, cowering under her yellow, horrifyingly modified eyes.
Her brow perks at your tone. It was obvious the two of you weren’t going to get along, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Even if she had liked you and decided to put in more effort to show you off, even the most appealing District 11 tributes barely got any attention from Capitol citizens. You and Yuuji were doomed from the start.
You roll your eyes in annoyance, glancing over your shoulder to see the mob of people still crowding around the District 4 train, yelling and laughing in excitement as they try to see young Finnick Odair.
But the mob wasn’t what caught your attention. Nor was it the way Yuuji was tugging on your shirt sleeve to get you to start getting ready to leave.
Your breath hitched at the blue pair of eyes staring back across the platform, white brows furrowed as the two of you locked stares with each other. It wasn’t a mistake, as if he had been looking at someone near your direction. No, he was looking at the window, through it, as if into you.
The male tribute from District 1 watched you for a little more before his mentors ushered him away, into the tribute center, where you could no longer see him.
Your heart was pounding rapidly against your ribs, mouth dry as you swallowed thickly at a daunting thought,
He looked oddly…familiar.
—
Preparations for the opening ceremony took far longer than you expected.
You had been hosed down three times, had strangers mess around and poke at your arms and legs. They scrubbed your skin until it was raw, plucking and tweazing at your brows, waxing your legs, and making sure you looked somewhat presentable to everyone watching. Yuuji had been separated from you when they began dividing the tributes into the male and female categories, but you promised him through his tearful eyes that it would only take a bit.
How naively wrong you were.
The Capitol people were all chattering quietly, not wanting you to what anything as they worked meticulously on each twelve of the girl tributes. But you could hear in the distance some loud, pitched laughter, a woman squealing in excitement, and roars of laughter in slew.
Although you were all separated by curtains, you craned your neck a little to the side to peer at the sound, seeing a little bit from the gap. The girl tribute from District 1 was chattering away with her team, her smile glossy and sweet as they all talked together as if they were close friends.
This is how they get sponsors, you thought bitterly to yourself. Making friends wasn’t something you were used to, did not need it back in your district. Niceties didn’t help you survive, but it seemed that that was the only way to get ahead here.
“Don’t feel bad,” a soft voice said from above you, and you jumped in surprise, looking around to see one of the girl who was scrubbing your back give you a small grin, “They’re laughing extra loud because we have a bet going on to see which tribute is the biggest suck-up.”
She’s had fewer surgeries compared to the other people you’ve seen so far. She seems young, perhaps a little older than you, but she doesn’t have the artificial Capitol feel yet, as if she’s still clinging onto her last bits of humanity.
You try to hide the surprise on your face, but don’t do a very good job, seeing how the girl giggles at your reaction. She’s the first to speak to you, besides the others who barked orders at you like you were cattle, and despite the tension and rampant thoughts that are coursing through your mind, you feel your lips quirk up a little.
The other helpers had gone off to find some creams and lotions or…something, you don’t exactly remember, as they kept quickly saying things under their breath in a frantic way, leaving the two of you alone.
“You must be losing then,” you tell her, your voice lowered so that nobody could hear if they were passing by.
She snorts, fingers work deftly as they pluck some hairs off your neck.
“I’m actually winning,” she says matter-of-factly, “Girls from one always act above everyone. I’m treating my friends to drinks tonight.” You laugh lightly at her cheeky words, your cheeks bunching up under your smile.
Until it falters with a thought, your back tensing a little bit as she tweezes a particularly rebellious stray. What else do they think about us? About people from the districts? You swallow some bile, shutting your eyes to act indifferent.
“Do you also bet on who you think would win?”
Her hands pause, and you feel the air in the room shift slightly.
She coughs uncomfortably, and a part of you revels in making her feel uneasy. Like she was human. Like she was you.
“We’re not allowed to, um, bet, on…that,” she mutters quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, furiously trying to pluck at anything and everything as if that would make your initial question disappear.
Not us, you think, even if she could bet, she’d never bet on us.
“Although,” her voice squeaks out, and your ears twitch to hear the small sound, and she continues working like nothing is happening behind closed doors, and you wonder if the cameras in the corner could also pick up things this quiet. “There’s the male tribute. From one. His dad won the game years ago. He volunteered this year. If I could…”
Your blood freezes, your breathing hitching as you think back to those startling blue eyes. He’s the son of a past victor? He volunteered?
“But you’re really pretty!” The girl quickly scrambles to say, as if the damage hadn’t already been done, “I’m sure you’ll get a lot of sponsors!”
You nodded weakly, smiling a little bit to get her focused on her work as the other Capitol helpers started filing in with different assortments of perfumes and creams.
The two of you stay in silence after that, and you let the rhythmic beating of your heart drown out the rest of the noise around you. You wonder how much longer it would be until you couldn’t hear it.
—
The Chariot Parade is a time-honored tradition of the days leading up to the games.
Tributes are dressed up in elaborate costumes that reflect their respective districts and are drawn out on a chariot for all the Capitol and those watching to see. It helps sponsors get a better understanding of who they’ll be paying, and helps people decide who their favorites are going to be.
That meant for you and Yuuji, the tributes from 11 would be dressed in scratchy overalls and red flannels, a terribly executed version of what field workers wore back home.
The costumes were old and worn, barely fitting you as you climbed into them. The tributes from 12 don’t look any better in their coal mining uniforms, but you feel a surge of jealousy seeing how the 1 and 2 tributes are decked in sparkling dresses and suits.
“Well, you two look…” Drumesia, who had been trying to get your mentor away from the bar, looked peeved at your outfits, her eyes raking over the baggy costumes in distaste, “Better. Although they told me the stylists were giving us new outfits this year…” she muttered sourly, looking over your shoulder in search of someone to yell at.
But you couldn’t care too much as you looked around, getting your first good look at the other tributes.
Every boy and girl from each district was huddled with their teams, fretting over their bows and silks. However, many of them, like you, would take stealing glances every other second, their eyes darting around and then quickly fleeting back as if not wanting to be caught. But you couldn’t care much about people seeing you staring, but you did feel uncomfortable when you found them holding your stare longer than a beat.
Just like on that train. Just like now.
The boy from 1 was standing near one of the horses, his hands holding sugar cubes for it to eat, but his gaze wasn’t lingering on its face, but rather yours.
You feel a flicker of fear, knowing that he must’ve been ticked off from how you kept staring at him earlier, but he shouldn’t care that much, right? Especially not when the attention was coming from someone in a much lower district.
His eyes were a striking color, a sickeningly bright blue that shone even more as his costume caught the light and twinkled. His face was blank, void of any emotion, as he looked across the way.
You looked back at the ground after a second, shoving some pebbles with the tip of your boot.
“I don’t like these clothes,” you glance back down at Yuuji, who was tugging uncomfortably at his arms, his voice cracking as he tries not to cry from all the overwhelming things he’s feeling, “They feel weird - I want my old clothes back.”
His glassy chestnut eyes look into yours, his lips pulling into a frown as you shake your head, a smile on your face as you drop to his height and begin fiddling with the straps of his overalls.
Yuuji had a small and thin frame, even for someone as young as him. He was relatively short, reaching just above your hipbone and it didn’t help that his right leg was messed up badly from an accident he had when he was a kid, a common injury around your district. He limped whenever he walked and was often drowned out in a sea of bodies. But you did whatever you could to protect him now, not knowing how long you’d be able to.
“Then you’ll get new and better ones when you get back home, yeah?” You playfully tug a little on his chest and ruffle his strawberry blonde hair, watching his smile quirk up a bit as you fasten the laces of his boots.
Throughout your time since the Reaping, you’ve tried not to mention the arrival of the games as much as you could to him or anyone else. Your brain seemed to act as though forgetting them would make them disappear altogether.
“You look different,” he muttered quietly, a little bit of dejection in his voice, “You don’t look like you did before.”
You settled back in your haunches, lips pressed tightly together as you looked around all the strangely dressed mentors, Capitol escorts, and curiously rich citizens, and felt something twist in your stomach. They had stripped away the things that you held onto that resembled the parts of your family you had slowly forgotten, had ripped the hair off your legs and arms, and plucked your face so that you could look more modified like them.
But you knew the worst thing was that you no longer looked like you did a few weeks ago, like a girl from home. You looked like a tribute now, fully ready for the show.
“I know,” you tell him with a small pout, leading his fingers towards your face so he could run his hand across your eyebrows, “No longer bushy, huh?”
You wiggle them a bit, and he laughs, his cheeks filling with mirth as you try to make him forget about everything. He looked like he did back home now, his eyes for a second losing that sullenness he had gained during this last week.
“Get up!” Drumesia snapped from above you, her hand tugging you harshly to your feet by your shoulder, “Don’t let the sponsors see you sitting like…like some animal on the ground!”
Drumesia looks even more frightening than usual, with her hair dyed a bright blue and her outfit having a strange geometric look to it. Her iconic gloves, which she was never seen without, matched the blue color scheme she had going on. Even her lashes, which were so long that they fluttered against her cheek when she blinked, were blue.
“It was only for a second,” you say bitterly, your hand on Yuuji’s back as if to shield him from her wrath.
“And not a second-” But whatever lecture she was going to berate you with with cut short when a loud smack echoed around the high walls of the holding room.
Everyone seemed startled as they looked around at the noise, seeming to fall on the corner where the tributes from District 5 were. The girl, looking to be Yuuji’s age, had let out an especially loud whimper, her hand jumping up to cup her cheek. Her pale face was red and blotchy with tears, her mouth remembering, and her nose runny with snot. Her Capitol escort was standing with a distraught look on her face as she reeled her hand back in embarrassment.
The girl clutched her swollen cheek, the male tribute next to her trying to calm her down, but to no avail. You watched as the lady gripped her shoulder harshly, begging and scolding her to stop.
Before you could stop yourself, or better, Drumesia could, you felt your legs working on autopilot as you began taking steps closer to her. You could hear Drumesia’s voice urging you to come back, but you couldn’t, walking even faster towards the other group, ignoring the whispers that began filing around you like gnats.
The girl still had her eyes screwed shut, refusing to open them, but her escort and the male tribute perked up in surprise when they saw you coming their way, a sour look twisting on her face as you neared them.
“Tributes aren’t supposed to interact-”
You ignored her sneer as you pushed your way past her, getting closer to the girl as you fell back onto your knees, your hands resting on your lap.
The Capitol lady scoffed, looking around aghast to see where your escort was, but you fully pretended not to hear her protests.
“Hey,” you started gently, your tone soothing, the same way it was when you used to put the kids back home to sleep, “What's your name?” Your voice whispers so that only the girl can hear. She suddenly stopped, eyes wide open as she stared at your face, looking up at the male tribute and then back down to you in confusion and surprise.
She gapes a bit, licking her dry lips as one of her hands clutches onto the boy. She looks behind you at her escort before looking back at you.
“E-Evelyn,” she mumbles, whipping her nose with her elbow, using her small palms to rid the tears off her round cheeks.
You smile softly at that, repeating her name to yourself as you nod.
“You know, Evelyn,” your hands reach upwards to tuck a strand of her bright blonde curls behind her ears, leaning in closer as if you were sharing a secret, “My mom always said, the more curls, the prettier the girl.”
Evelyn blinks owlishly, her green eyes dotted with red in the whites, slowly piecing together what you meant. It must’ve been a bit since somebody had spoken to her kindly, treated her like she was a kid instead of a prop.
And slowly, you see her lips quiver into a wobbly little grin, her nose scrunching up as she bashfully looks away.
“Thank you,” she whispers, wiping at her eyes again as you laugh gently, grabbing the wrinkled handkerchief you took from home out of your pocket and hand it to her.
“She, uh,” the boy next to her suddenly says, pointing to her frilly outfit, “She said the pins were poking her. I tried to find them but one pricked her and she started…” crying, you finished in your head, nodding slowly in understanding, your mouth forming into a small o.
“Let’s see where the problem is,” you keep your voice low and accept the handkerchief that she gives back, “Would you mind showing me where the pins are?” You ask, coaxing her to carefully move at her own pace.
Evelyn nods, her hand slipping out of the boy's as she carefully turns around, a small hand hovering over where her skirt is bunched up tightly around her waist.
Your eyes squint, fingers gingerly going towards it as you walk around the area. Back when you took care of the mayor's children, you were often tasked with dressing them for the day and dealing with a wide array of pins and hooks. So this case wasn’t much different, and it didn’t take too long until you found the stray pin that wasn’t hooked properly, unraveling it from her skirt as you properly stuck it back where it should’ve been.
The girl physically relaxes, the tension from her shoulder melting as she quickly turns back around, her eyes bright and creased.
“Thank you!” She chirps, her hand slipping back into the boy's as she looks up at him and then back to you.
You laugh slightly, shaking your head as if it didn’t matter, and slowly stand back up, dusting the dirt from your knees.
The boy extended his free hand out for you to shake, and unlike with Drumesia, you took it with no thought, shaking it softly as he offered you a grateful smile.
“Thank you, really,” his voice was slightly choked as he glanced back down at Evelyn, “Our mom always did her clothes, this…this is all new to me.”
The smile on your face dropped.
She’s his sister?
Your mouth dries up, throat closing as you look at the two of them, their eerily similar stances and faces staring back at you, waiting for a response.
Thankfully, though, you suddenly feel a tight hand wrap around your elbow and tug you back, forcing you to leave without saying anything else. For the first time since you’ve been acquainted with her, you’re grateful for Drumesia as she starts a loud tirade about the sponsors and how you’ve just ruined her image.
But this time, you look around and see that all eyes are on you. Every tribute was standing tall, watching as Drumesia took you back to the carriage, sponsors whispering quickly to one another.
You glanced up and found the boy from 1 staring at you again. But this time, you could’ve sworn his lips were slightly quirked.
—-
Training for the games was perhaps even more torturous than waiting for the games themself.
The games will be in two weeks. Training allowed for everyone to have an even playing field, but everyone knew how useless it really was when some people had been training to win ever since they could pick up a knife.
There were four compulsory exercises that all twenty-four tributes would have to do, but the rest would be up to the individual.
Twenty-four tributes gathered together in a room, some already itching for blood, handed weapons and targets as if that could satiate their thirst. Of course, fighting with each other was prohibited, but that didn’t stop the other tributes thinking about it.
The training room itself was huge, with sprawling areas for hand-to-hand combat, bow and arrow ranges, dummies for practice, and weights to lift with. Some nets sprawled upwards towards the ceiling, helping with climbing, and areas that imitated forest floors where people could practice their traps and make fire.
At the center top of the main wall was a large dugout room with a mirror, letting sponsors and game makers watch as the tributes trained. It felt like you were in a pig pen, having thirsty men drool over which was the fattest to eat. Many of the tributes took quick note of this, showing off their skills early on as if to catch their eyes. You shook your head when Yuuji begged you to show off your skill with one of the scythes they had, most likely knowing how much you’d spend time in the fields back home.
Not now, you told him, we can’t have them knowing our talents. We save that for the arena.
Capitol mentors were everywhere, assisting and keeping people from jumping at each other's throats, but you tried to avoid the masses as much as possible.
Your district mentor, Martin, wasn’t much help. He was often drunk and rarely left his room, much to Drumesia’s dismay. But you knew that this was the case for lower districts, having had a glance at District 12’s mentor Haymitch, who seemed, if not as much, more drunk than Martin. Former victors never revel in their success, you’ve noticed, and if anything, try to leave the land of the living as much as possible throughout the day.
Yuuji insisted on using a Capitol issued mentor, and you didn’t see any harm in it as long as the two of you would be with them alone. You weren’t looking to make allies, just looking to survive for as long as humanly possible.
You had been warned early on not to focus too much on grandiose fighting methods, seeing how most people die either from infection, dehydration, or general exposure. Besides, you doubt you’d be able to defend both of you if put up against a Career, so the best you could do would be knowing how to survive in the wild with whatever you could find.
Both you and Yuuji had some previous knowledge from back home, knowing how to make little fires for when the fields got cold during the winters and where to find wild berries, but you began learning how to set out traps for smaller animals in case your arena had them.
Throughout your time here, you made sure ot keep your ears and eyes peeled, even if you didn’t act like it. Although Yuuji seemed to be massively enjoying himself with the wire and flint, you acted indifferent, making sure to see who was looking where.
Slowly, from what you could observe thus far, the alliances that were forming were small and expected. The Careers were a given, and some tribute from seven and ten had begun leaving with each other. Yuuji kept asking to join in with a group, but you kept saying no.
You saw Evelyn and her brother, Maxmus, learning how to make snares a day ago. When he saw you, he gave a small nod in acknowledgement and went back to work, clearly thinking the same thing you were.
Protect one thing. No allies, no loss.
Besides that, the boy from 1, who you learned was named Gojo Satoru, didn’t look as much as you thought he would. Thankfully. But it was almost impossible to ignore his presence when it nearly choked out the entire room.
He was adept with a bow and sword, and could easily take down a mentor with just a few swings. He was agile and strong, and didn't need to move too fast because he was already three steps ahead. The girl tribute from his district, Lizzie, you had come to learn, often trailed behind him with the tributes from 2 and 4, their pack already forming. But the boy, Gojo, didn’t really seem to care all that much about the attention.
And sometimes you could’ve sworn he disliked it.
But when he would look up and glance around the room to see you already looking, you’d find somewhere to point your gaze at, not wanting him to confuse your interest with admiration.
Although you couldn’t lie, his face was far too pretty for his own good.
“I think you have a little crush.”
Your head swiveled around to see Yuuji looking at you with a gleaming look in his eyes, snorting as you smacked him across the shoulder, shushing him as he giggled and went back to his pile of shrubbery he was supposed to be turning into fire.
“I’m being meticulous,” you scold him, your cheeks burning up in embarrassment despite your words, “Look,” you pointed to someone behind your shoulder, “Have you noticed how the girl from 6 never uses her right hand to hold a sword even though she holds her spoon with it?”
Yuuji gapes up at you in confusion, his young face crumpled with confusion as he shakes his head. You snort, pushing his head back down lightly to look at the fire instead of looking at the girl behind your back.
“It’s because it’s injured, or too injured to fight,” you peek over at Yuuji, “Meaning that she won’t be able to protect herself if the left one is injured. Which should be pretty easy because it’s not her dominant one.”
Yuuji gnaws on his bottom lip, fingers stalling on the rock as his hand stops trying to make sparks with the rock he had scavenged, a look of apprehension taking over his face.
“I don’t know how to see things like that,” he mumbles nervously, “I don’t know how I’m going to survive-”
“We’re going to survive together,” you say instantly, cutting him off, “I see these things, and you keep us warm. Deal?”
And although this would usually get him to cheer up again, he can only muster up a weak grin as he nods, going back to his rocks as if to keep his mind busy from reeling. You can’t stop looking at his head, at the way his hands shake slightly. He’s scared.
You all are.
You place a hand over his, trying to still the tremors, and give him a strong and confident smile.
“I’ll go get some more wood, okay?”
He gives you a thankful nod, looking back at his pile that was slowly running out, and goes back to work.
The wood was kept near the back of the station, in different sizes ranging from little twigs to actual logs that had been chopped up. Back in your district, you had spent many nights hunched over trying to make a fire, so you weren’t worried about your ability to do so. But Yuuji was always in the production line, away from all the ruggedness of the outdoors, and desperately needed the practice.
Your finger twitches over some smaller pieces, things that he could work with more easily, seeing how there’s no need for a larger fire when you feel your neck start to prickle.
Looking around the space, you swallow your bile, chapped lips bitten raw as you shake your head as though you were going crazy.
“That wood’s rotten.”
Your breath catches in your throat, head snapping upwards at the voice, somewhat relieved to know that the feeling of being watched you experienced wasn’t something you thought up.
It’s that boy—the tribute from one.
Gojo Satoru.
This is the first time you’ve heard him speak, at least from up close. He seems even larger facing you, his thick arms crossed over his broad chest, biceps nearly bulging out of the simple black shirt everyone was issued. His browbone is slightly dotted with sweat, his cheeks flushed a bright pink from working out so heavily.
Besides the glaringly obvious strength he possesses, he looks genetically perfect, even without any help from the Capitol. He’s beautiful and looks like he’d fit right in without having to modify anything. Back home, you didn’t have much time to appreciate the boys around your district with just how busy you were, but even then, none of them had time to look at you for the same reason. It’s daunting standing up so close to him, without the protection of distance to shield you from his stare.
But there was something else about him that made your nerves tingle. It was strange, as if looking at a broken mirror. His hair, those eyes, the slope of his nose. You kept trying to shake off the feeling that you had seen him somewhere, but that was impossible.
…right?
Yet that feeling kept coming back like it did now, and you had to blink out of your stupor so he wouldn’t think you were just staring at him.
You open your mouth and close it, fingers curling in the air as you back away a little. The place you’re at right now is hidden away from most people’s line of sight. Yuuji would even have to squint through some of the artificial trees and bushes just to be able to make out your figure.
Meaning that you were virtually alone with this stranger. Along with someone who would be in an arena with you in two weeks, his main goal is to have you and everyone else dead.
“I know,” you say slowly, eyes darting over to the wood briefly and then back to him.
He looks over your face, as if doing the same thing you had just been doing. His eyes trail over your cheekbones and nose, the scrunch of your lips, and the way your chest falls up and down with each controlled breath. He runs a hand through his white hair, pushing it back as he takes a tentative step closer to you.
You take one back.
“You’ve been watching me.” His voice isn’t low, nothing threatening like the boy from 2, but it does carry a sense of command, something that makes the hair on your neck stand up.
You offer him a tight-lipped smile, polite and respectful as you shake your head.
“I’m watching everyone,” you correct him gingerly, as if you were correcting one of the mayor’s kids when they made a mistake with their schoolwork.
He stares at you silently for a bit, not coming closer as if he realized what that could imply.
“I’m Gojo,” he introduces himself as if you’re not already aware, his hand extended out for you to shake. You stare at his fingers, your brow twitching upwards as he gets the hint and lets this hand fall back to his side.
“Yeah,” you murmur, “I know who you are.”
You look back down at the pile of twigs, missing the way the tips of his ears go pink.
After a pause, you sigh, realizing that he wasn’t going to give up and leave, and say your name back. He doesn’t look surprised, most likely knowing more about yourself than even you do.
There’s an uncomfortable pause of silence, one that you feel wrap around your throat and lodge into your airways. He’s not saying anything, just looking at you, and you don’t know what to tell him so that he can quickly leave.
“I, um,” you fidget absentmindedly with your fingers, scolding yourself for blundering in front of him, “I’m sorry, but is there something I can do? For you?”
Gojo’s blue eyes linger on your lips for a second before shooting back up to yours, brows furrowed as if he just heard your question.
He scratched his neck, arms littered with veins, as he sighed deeply through his nose. He looked over briefly around the trees and leaves to where the other tributes from 1 and 2 were training, and then looked to the boxes of wood.
“I want you to join me.”
That you didn’t expect.
You sputter in surprise, losing your demeanor as your eyes widen in shock before you let out a startled laugh. You never thought this serious-looking tribute would be one for jokes, and to be fair, he doesn’t look like he’s joking much right now, but your brain can’t come up with any rapid and precise response to his statement.
“W-what?” You laugh again, curt and confused, rubbing at your face as you look at where Yuuji was, still furiously working away at making a fire.
“I want you to join me,” he repeats, this time slowly as if you didn’t understand him the first time, “For the games.” Gojo throws in, as if it wasn’t obvious.
You shake your head, pinching the bridge of your nose as you chew on the side of your cheek, not knowing what to say after being stunned into silence.
When he sees that you’re not going to say anything intelligible, he continues as if it’s the most normal thing he could be asking of you.
“We hear things, especially with how much our mentors and escorts talk,” Gojo explains, “And you’re getting a…surprising amount of,” he pauses, trying to find the right word, “Attention from the sponsors.”
You blink.
“Me?” You shake your head furiously, diving back into the pile of wood as if to busy yourself and distance yourself from the conversation, “It’s probably just Capitol rumors. I,” you laugh curtly again, “I haven’t even done anything to warrant attention-”
“That thing you did back there with that girl from 5?” Gojo interjects, and you look up at him, finding him a little closer than before, “They like that. They see the way you’re helping that boy from your district. They love a sweetheart over here.”
You wince, nose wrinkling in disgust at the choice word.
So he needs sponsors, you think, just as much as everyone else. He needs you with him in case he gets stuck in the arena, needing something that only sponsors can give.
But…even if his ploy is just to use you for sponsor purposes, which you still had difficulty believing, it would take an idiot not to see the worth of having someone like him around. You and Yuuji would fail miserably if put up against people for combat, and the added layer of protection you’d be getting from Gojo could help you guys stay long enough so that when the time came, you could escape on your own.
Which is why you push, wanting to see just how far he would go for an alliance with somebody from a lower district. It wasn’t necessarily unheard of, but you couldn’t remember the last time you saw somebody from 1 joining forces with somebody from 11, let alone somebody like you who had virtually no experience or expertise to offer besides how to use agricultural tools.
“You could use the help,” it’s like he had read your mind, “I know that your mentor and escort aren’t exactly the best, and you’d have a better chance with us if you took up the offer,” Gojo explains hurriedly, looking over his shoulder to ensure that nobody was watching or coming near.
It was obvious he had sought you out of his own accord. Did the girl tribute from his district know? Were any of the careers aware he was even planning to talk to you?
“Did your mentors send you here?” You ask, eyes squinting together, arms crossing tightly over chest protectively, “Do they think I’d seriously be better at getting sponsors than you? Then any of the other people in your group?”
Gojo shook his head quickly, glancing over to where the pack was training. His tongue ran over his bottom lip. He looked strangely stressed.
“No. But I think that you have a chance at securing more deals than all of us combined if you play the part correctly.”
Your chest heaves as your tongue almost swells up in your throat. As much as a lame excuse of a mentor Martin was, he had mentioned that you really only had three chances to stand out to sponsors. During training, during training evaluations where gamemakers and sponsors watch you display your best skill or talent, or during the interview, where the renowned Caesar Flcikerman would dig into your life and show the people watching who these tributes were.
“You think I’m someone like…like Finnick?” The name comes out as a scoff because from what you’ve seen of the young victor, he’s excellent at wooing people even if his face gives his true feelings away, “I can’t do what you think I can,” you say sternly, picking up some wood and examining it before setting it back down on the pile, “I won’t charm sponsors like he could. I just…” you trail off, lips pursing as you think, “I just wanted to help.”
“You think they know the difference?” His voice is low, so low that you could barely hear it, but it still takes you by surprise.
Of all people, you didn’t think he would be one to criticize the hypocrisy within the Capitol.
Your back straightened, but for the first time since you’ve been whirled into this whole mess of the Hunger Games and the theatrics that came along with it, you felt a little at ease.
“What,” You swallow, thinking carefully, “What sponsors think is out of my control. I just want to survive.”
“I can help with that,” Gojo leans in, his arm supporting him up on the counter as he leans down so that even if the cameras were around, they couldn’t pick up his words, wanting to keep what he was going to say next solely between the two of you, “I can help you. Look, if you get enough sponsors, we wouldn’t even need the rest of them.”
You pull away, you face hot as you put a hand to your cheek to cool it down. His overall demeanor was so intense that it was causing you to burn up under your clothes.
Help you?
“Do you trust people this easily?” You retort, your voice questioning as you look him over, “Help me? You…you don’t even know me. How do you know I wouldn’t turn on you the second things go wrong?”
Gojo blinks slowly, but you continue.
“I don’t care about the rest of them,” you continue, finding yourself looking back at Yuuji, “I know they’dl kill me if they have the chance. But I’m not leaving him behind. If you want me, you’d have to take him on too.”
Gojo looks over his way, studying his movements before a deep exhale rattles throughout his chest, running another hand through his hair as it keeps falling in his face.
“You know he won’t make it long. He’s small, he’s got a limp-”
“So what?” You snap suddenly, your brows furrowed as you smack his hand away from the wood, your stomach churning as the small breakfast you could barely eat threatened to shoot back up, his words making the blood drain out of your face as you sputtered, “You want me to just let him go on his own?”
“The others will come for him first, you have to know that, but…but if it’s just you-”
“No!” You yell, furiously pushing him by the chest out of the way as your hands tremble with anger, “No, no that’s not…you’re…you can’t…” You can’t even think, nausea rolling over you in waves as your palms grow clammy. He’s every bit a fighter as you thought he was.
A killer, a Capitol pawn.
You grab a pile of wood, not caring what it looks like or how well it would burn, as you begin walking quickly away, your heart pounding in the small expanse of your ribcage.
A hand wraps around your elbow, not tight, but to keep you in place.
“Think about it. This isn’t some game where we all win,” his lips are by your ears, breath fanning across your skin as you involuntarily shiver, “One victor. I won’t spare you if it comes down to us, but I’ll help you get there. Just,” he breathes through his nose, “Be rational.”
You wince as you wrangle your arm out of his grasp with little resistance from him, ignoring his words altogether.
“You’re disgusting,” you spit, nose flared as you shove away, “I told you already, I’m not here to win,” the words come out bitterly, a harsh truth you’ve had to swallow, “I know I won’t. And I’m not a killer. I’m not like you.”
In that moment, you didn’t care if you were putting a target on your back by making an enemy out of the most capable tribute. You couldn’t care less if you were angering or offending him, but couldn’t control your emotions as they bubbled over, your eyes glossing over at his admission, something you’ve silently been dreading ever since they read Yuuji’s name.
You find your way back Yuuji, ears ringing as you try to talk, not knowing what you were telling him, just wanting to rid yourself of the words that kept echoing around your head. Yuuji was excitedly showing you the sparks he had made, and you gave him a shaky smile, not trusting yourself not to slur your words together as you crouched down near the fire.
Think about it.
You scoff, hoping that whoever dies first will be him.
—-
The training evaluation went better than you expected.
Tributes are scored on a range of numbers zero to twelve, lowest the highest. Most people usually score around a five or six, careers averaging a seven to nine.
You had scored a ten.
It wasn’t impossible, but you were shocked when the scores were read.
Gojo Satoru got a whopping eleven, which anybody could have predicted he’d be passing with flying colors. The tributes from two and four got around the same scores, eights, and the boy from ten had managed to score a seven, which was high for a lower district.
Which made it stand out even more when you got the first ten.
“Oh!” Drumesia stood up from her seat in an instant, one hand over her heart as the other held her wig on, “Oh my! A ten!”
Yuuji was gleaming, hugging you from the side as he kept yelling over and over things you couldn’t make out. Martin was somewhere in the corner, the drink he had been nursing raised halfway in the air, eyes stuck on the television in shock.
“This is great!” Drumesia twirls around, the first bright smile you’ve seen on her face, so bright it nearly blinded you because of how white her teeth were, “None of my tributes have ever gotten a ten before!”
You can’t speak, feeling numb with surprise, shock, everything in between as Caesar Flickerbman continues reading off the last two scores from 12, neither of them any good.
“What did you do?” Yuuji asked, his voice laced with childlike wonderment as his eyes twinkled, looking like you were a savior instead of someone who wholly had no idea what they were doing.
Your mouth opened and closed, scratching the back of your neck as you felt it heat up with all the extra attention.
“Nothing,” you stammered, confusion laced in your tone, “I did nothing.”
Drumesia laughed, waving you off as she fluttered around the expanse of the room, saying something about champagne and strawberries, but you didn’t have the appetite for anything.
You truly had done nothing.
You had planned with Yuuji to show off your knowledge with some tools you recognized from back home and let him make the fire, but when it was your name they called from the training room, you froze, forgetting everything you had practiced.
When you walked across the now-empty room, staring directly at the game makers and sponsors, Gojo’s words rang in your head.
They love a sweetheart over here.
So instead, you decided to do nothing. If they love a sweetheart so much, you want them to see you for as long as humanly possible. You wanted them to stare into your eyes for the entirety of the ten minutes, to see the way your bones made up your face, bones of your parents that lay six feet under. You wanted them to see the synchronized way you breathed, how you looked under the light. It was an act of defiance, something they probably wouldn’t even understand, but the rage and pain you were feeling boiled down to this very moment.
For ten minutes, you stood there silently, your neck craning upwards as you stared directly into their eyes. The crowd slowly grew bigger and bigger behind that window, curious sponsors muttering to each other in anticipation of what you were planning to do.
But the longer you did nothing, the more people came.
When your time was up, you gave them one final look before you turned on your heels and left. With Yuuji and Drumesia waiting outside in the sitting area, Yuuji looking excited while Drumesia looking particularly worrisome, you didn’t have the heart to tell them what you had done. Didn’t want them to stress about the low score you’d be receiving. So you lied, saying you put on a mediocre performance with the weapons they had lying around.
You could’ve just told them the truth as you reflect on it now.
A ten? For doing nothing? What were they up to? What were they thinking?
You tallied the other scores in your head and felt your stomach drop. Besides you, the only other person with the highest score was…
Gojo.
This score not only put a target on your back, making all the other tributes wonder just what it was that you were hiding, but also made you higher on their priority list to get rid of. And what’s worse is that you weren’t hiding anything, and had no means to truly defend yourself or Yuuji. The careers would surely be after the two of you know if they weren’t before, but so would the other tributes.
This score wasn’t a gift. It was a death sentence.
“Here we are,” Drumesia restored with her clacking heels and a tray balancing four glasses and a bowl of strawberries, the bottle in her other hand, “A toast to my future victor!”
Your stomach churned even more. Victor. Singular.
She was just being woefully optimistic, you knew that. Her hopes were raised seeing how tributes from outlying districts rarely score above a six, and that there would be more attention on her this year, but it didn’t stop the bitter taste from costing your mouth.
Yuuji didn’t even notice because of how excited he was bouncing up and down in his seat, almost snatching the glass from her hand when she offered it to him.
“Yuuji!” You seethed under your breath, going to grab the glass from him, but he maneuvered it quickly away, sticking his tongue out as he stood up in front of Drumesia with it ready to be filled.
“Oh, it’s just a little bit,” she chided, filling up his glass a little bit.”He should have some of it while he’s still here!”
Your eyes flit up to hers.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dipped. Yuuji, who was now holding the glass in both his hands, slowly walked away as he and Martin eyed the two of you.
Drumesia shrugs indifferently, pouring Martin his own, even though he wasn’t even finished with the first drink he had started on, and then one for herself. Finally, she fills the last one to the brim, yours, and outstretched her gloved hand towards your body.
You don’t take it.
She tsks, annoyed, setting it down on the table as she raises hers in the air, clinking it with Yuuji’s and Martin’s as she takes a sip, clearly not caring enough to wait for you.
“There’s no champagne in the games, you know,” she finally says, one hand resting on her hip as her glass hovers above her lips. “The two of you should make the most of what the Capitol has to offer. Right, Yuuji?” She looked down at him, and he glanced at you, as if asking for permission whether he should agree with her or not.
“Stop!” You shout, your hands fisting in your hair in frustration as you shove past her, ignoring her yelp as the drink spills a little on the floor, grabbing the light coat that you had been issued from the stand near the elevator.
“Where are you going?” She calls out, her feet trying to catch up to you, but her heels slow her down.
“Away!” You snap, glancing over your shoulder with a snarl, punching the buttons of the elevator, hoping one of them would open, “Don’t follow me!”
“But!-” Drumesia’s voice is cut off as you quickly step inside, pressing the button that would shut the door automatically, and you let out a small sigh of relief to find yourself alone.
You feel guilty for leaving Yuuji, but you know you’d have taken your anger out on everyone, maybe even him, if you had stayed for any longer.
The elevator hums quietly as the numbers at the top start ticking down. You had pushed whatever button was nearest, which was apparently the ground floor. You didn’t mind too much, revealing a small rose garden hidden near the exit that seemed pretty secluded the last time you walked past it.
After a few minutes, the tribute center was very tall, the doors hissed as they opened, and the smell of car exhaust and flowers infiltrated your senses as you tentatively took a step outside.
You were told that tributes were allowed to go wherever they wanted so long as it was on the grounds, and you hoped that this extended to the open lobby because when you looked around, you felt a strange sense of home.
In 11, trucks and cars were rare, but tractors were used a lot out on the fields. The smell of the gasoline was something you grew up on. The flowers, a wide array, reminded you of the little garden the mayor's wife had. Whenever you’d walk past it, you could smell hints of gardenias and sweet peas.
You looked around, the bright lights of the skyscrapers and Capitol buildings shining extra bright with the veil of the night, and you wrapped your coat around you even tighter as you kept your head down, walking back towards where the rose bushes were kept.
You could smell them before you saw them, although they’d be impossible to miss. Large white roses bloomed from the ground, their existing sense filling the night air as you walked closer.
There was a small bench facing them, overlooking the rest of the city, and you looked around to make sure that nobody else was there. When you were satisfied that Drumeisa hadn't followed you down, you sat down, shutting your eyes as you let the noises from below drown out all your other senses.
You were about to let out a small yawn when you heard the unmistakable thump of footsteps from behind you, your body snapping upwards as you looked wildly around.
You couldn’t help the groan that escaped your lips when you saw him.
Gojo looks just as surprised to see you, cerulean eyes shooting open as his mouth parts, looking around to see if anybody else is there.
You push yourself off the seat, about to walk the other way, when he speaks.
“Don’t go,” his voice is quiet, his hands raised upwards as if he was surrendering, “I promise I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Your lips purse together in annoyance, staying silent as you peer him up and down. He’s wearing a simple black shirt and loose pants, the number 1 printed on his sleeves. He looked like he was about to go to sleep before he made his way here.
You exhale deeply, shaking your head at yourself as you give up, slowly falling back where you were sitting in silence. As much as you’d rather not see the other tributes, especially him, anywhere would be better than hearing Drumesia drone on about the wonders of the Capitol and the inevitability of your impending deaths.
Gojo takes your silence as a good sign, carefully making his way past you to the other side of the bench as he sits down, his face trained forward.
You bring a knee up to your chest, wrapping your arms around it as your jaw ticks. There’s a little breeze ruffling through the air, goosebumps erupting across your arms despite them being covered.
“I saw your score,” he started, still not looking over at you as he interlocks his fingers together, blinking as he takes in the astonishing view of the Capitol skyline, “It really pissed Lizzie off.”
You find a little chuckle escape in spite of yourself, the sound causing Gojo to look over, brows raised in stupefaction.
Lizzie, the girl tribute from 1, had gotten a measly score of six, despite having shown off her talents with a sword for the past two weeks.
“Well, tell her not to get her hopes up. I’m pissed off too.” You tell him, biting your tongue as a car beeps and people shout muffled in the distance.
“You wanted higher than a ten?” He stammers confused, “I nearly…” but he trails off when you give him a displeased look, shutting up as you roll your eyes in annoyance, muttering things under your breath.
“I wish they’d given me a one,” you say, “That would’ve made more sense. They made me out to be some sort of…” but you stop, not knowing why you were even telling this stranger the truth.
Then your brows scrunch up together as you think, head whipping around to him as you scoff, nose wrinkling in pure rage as you quickly shoot to your feet, working out his plan, gripping your face for your stupidity.
Of course, he, of all people, would try to track you down after they read the scores. Of course, he’d want to see what his biggest competition had done, to see what you were capable of. He had mastered fighting in that academy, but he must’ve mastered the art of deception because he was eerily good at making it feel like he was just being friendly.
You make it almost ten steps before that similar hold falls on your elbow. Not tight, not harsh, but there.
“Get off!” You yell hoarsely, your eyes glassy for some reason, as you turn around and push roughly at his chest, “What? You’re stalking me now? You came down here to find out my secrets?” You don’t know why tears are welling up in your eyes, wiping furiously at your cheeks as you sniffle.
You were tired of these games that had started before you arrived. You would’ve preferred it if they had just lined twenty-four people up from the districts and shot at them until one remainder. Because you could handle the mind games, the insincerity, the morbid curiosity of it all. It was nearly drowning you alive, and you didn’t know what to do.
You wanted to go home. You missed the wheat fields and the nights filled with laughter and music. You missed the dancing and the meals scraped together by whatever people could find. You missed the smell of dirt and wood, missed feeling like you belonged. Even if you were alone, you were always surrounded by people who cared.
Here in the Capitol, you were alone. Everyone had a goal in mind and didn't know what it cost to reach it. You had spent so much time trying to take care of Yuuji and ward off Drumesia and the rest of the gnat-like citizens that only when you took a step back did you realize how utterly alone you were.
So a part of you took that frustration out on this stranger, somebody you’ve been eyeing since you got here. You let your hands hit his sturdy chest, surprised to see that he doesn’t move or try to push you back. Your hits are weak, your voice hoarse and raw as you push at him harder, not understanding or comprehending why he wasn’t leaving, why he had come up to you all those days ago trying to make an ally out of you.
Or why, for some reason, it seemed like out of everyone here, he seemed to actually care. Even if it was just an act.
But Gojo stays where he is, a crease in between his brows as he takes the hits, jaw clenched tight as they gradually die down. You feel weak, open, and raw in front of this tribute who, days from now, would be hunting you down. But for some reason, he doesn’t push you away.
There’s a heavy silence before he speaks up.
“Why did you help that girl from 5?”
You look up at him, bewildered. You take a small step away, scoffing at the ridiculous question, but he takes a step forward as if he’s scared you’re going to run away again.
“Why did you shake her brother's hand?” Gojo continues, some strands of his hair falling into his face, but he doesn’t bother pushing them away.
Your mouth parts as you shrug, giving him a weird look as you give a curt and uncomfortable laugh.
“I-I don’t know,” you stammer, “I thought she needed help, so I went over.”
Gojo nods, his jaw ticking as he looks over at the Capitol. The diamond-like lights and the ruby shadows that emanated from the city reminded him of the jewels he saw back home.
“Would you have helped them today? Tomorrow? Would you help them during the games if you had to?”
“What are you trying to say?” You snap, frustrated at his urgent tone and the fact that it seemed like he knew more than you, “That I should’ve just killed them there?”
Gojo snorts mirthlessly, shaking his head as it falls for a bit, looking at the intricate patterns on the brick beneath him as he takes a deep breath.
“In three days, we’re all going to be standing around each other with a clock counting down how long we have before one of us is left. I’ve spent these last weeks trying to figure out what it is that everyone plans to do, and for the most part, I have a pretty good fucking idea of what that is. If you want to die like a martyr, that’s fine. If you want to make a statement, I don’t care. Just,” he chuckles, but it sounds empty, “What is it you want to do?” Gojo doesn’t sound like he’s trying to get you to tell him your secret to scoring a ten, nor does it look like he’s reached his wits about strategies of getting an upper hand on all of his opponents.
If anything, it almost looks like he’s…worried for you.
There’s a stretch of silence, one that you shut your eyes and have to imagine it’s just you and nothing else before you respond.
You know you don’t owe him an answer. You know this person who couldn't care less about how you died should hear the why, but you answer because you don’t know what else there is to do in the madness of it all.
“I want to go home,” you admit finally, quietly, you voice frayed and cheeks glistening in the lights of the city, looking away as you speak as if that could spare you the embarrassment of letting your emotions go in front of this person you’ve barely spoken to, “I know it’s stupid. I don’t have anyone waiting for me back there anyways. But,” you shrug limply, chewing on your cheek, “But it was still home, you know? If I died there, people would know I did. They’d eat dinner before they put me in the dirt, they’d sing a song or two. But if,” but you stop yourself, correcting your choice of words, “When I die out there, I know I’m going to die with nobody I know near me. And…and I’m so scared. I,” your breathing hitched, your bottom lip quivering, “I don’t want to die alone.”
You don’t hear him say anything, but you’re not looking for a response. You feel a little lighter saying this, even if it was to someone who couldn’t care less, but it was something that you’d been simmering in for the past three weeks and couldn’t keep it in anymore.
“Why are you so sure you’re not going to win?”
His question startles you.
You can’t help but laugh, rubbing a hand across your face as you step back from him, not knowing why it is that whenever he’s around you suddenly feel more open than usual.
“Because I won’t!” You burst, a maniacal smile on your face as your hands fly upwards. “Besides the fact that I’ll be up against twenty-two other people - some way more skilled than me - what reasons would I have to even try? I have nothing to win and nothing to lose.” You pinch the bridge of your nose in exhaustion, gnawing on your chapped lips as you huff out a meaningless laugh, “You know, I did nothing for the evaluation.”
Gojo’s eyes flash a bright blue, lips quirked up slightly.
“Well, it surely couldn’t have been nothing-”
“I did nothing,” you repeat, “I was supposed to have a demonstration with some old tools like we had back in 11 but I choked up. I couldn’t think of anything to make that would make my time worth it. So I just,” you let out a humorless laugh, “I just stood there. I looked at them for those ten minutes. I wanted them to remember my face. I wanted them to see what I looked like before they killed me. That seemed more important than anything else we had planned.”
Gojo observes your expression, trying to see if you are lying or not. But unbeknownst to him, you were a terrible liar; you couldn’t tell a good lie even if your life depended on it. After another second of trying to assess you, he let out a little laugh, something boyish and almost…sweet, when he realized you were being completely honest with him.
Your face falls for a second, not knowing what to do as another laugh bubbles out of his chest. He’s been so poised and controlled these last few weeks that it doesn’t even register in your brain that it’s him who’s laughing in front of you.
“If only Lizzie knew,” Gojo sighed out after a minute, his eyes filled with mirth, “That she’d be training her whole life for this and still be bested by someone who did nothing.”
You can’t stop yourself from smiling a little bit, trying to suppress it to the best of your abilities. You look to the ground as a small giggle escapes your lips, but Gojo still stares at the crown of your head, not knowing why his cheeks were heating up when it looked like you were trying your hardest not to laugh in front of him after having a breakdown.
He felt his throat dry up, palms sweating as he quickly looked the other way, his head ducking down so that you wouldn’t see the blush painting his face.
“I saw that Yuuji got a five,” he says after another moment, and you glance up at him, your face hardening up in seconds as if you remember your previous conversation. “That’s good,” he adds softly, and you nod shortly, gnawing on your bottom lip, deep in thought.
The tears you thought had gone away sting again, and you laugh them away, looking at the sparkling lights of the city as you let yourself believe for a second that you belonged here.
“His brothers and I worked together. His mom made me food for a month after my parents died, even when they were barely surviving on their own. Yuuji,” you let out a deep breath. “Yuuji is a good kid. He’s so, so sweet. He cares about people. He just turned twelve a month ago,” and you suffocate on a sob, your head falling into your hands. “He was so excited to celebrate it, too. His dad had taken time off so they could be with each other, but…that was a week ago, and Yuuji was here.”
You give him a sad smile, teeth catching on your lips as you blink slowly.
“I know you don’t understand why I don’t want to win, but I think that if I even entertain the idea, I’d lose a part of myself that makes me me. I don’t want them,” You look around the open venue, let the sound of the traffic and parties float around you for a second, “I don’t want them to change me. When I die, I want to die the person I would’ve back home.”
The boy in front of you watches the way you move, studies you like he’s studying a book. But it’s more careful than that, it is as if he’s trying to memorize every little detail of you so he could tuck it away and use it for later.
Eventually, he lets out a small heave, his lips pursing as his hands perch on his hips.
“Can I ask you another question?” his voice drops to a whisper, stepping closer to you.
This time, you don’t step back.
Your brows furrow, thinking. When you don’t shut him down instantly, he takes the silence as his go-ahead to continue.
“Don’t you remember me?”
You feel the blood roar into your ears.
Gojo opens his mouth to say something else, but what that was, you’ll never know. A shrill and loud voice comes from behind you. The two of you flinch, looking over your shoulder to see Drumesia stalking towards you, her face twisted together as if she had just eaten a lemon.
“It’s past your hours!” She shouts, having her gloved hands around manically as she nears you, not controlling the shock on her face to see the new and rising Capitol darling standing just a few feet away from you. But you’ll give her credit, she recovers wonderfully.
“And you! You should be in your quarters!” She snakes a hand around your arm, tugging harshly as she pulls you nearer and nearer to the elevator. You can hear the insistent and rapacious questions she’s asking you; how do you know this tribute, what were you discussing, are you allying with him? And so on, but you couldn’t answer any of them; your attention was somewhere else.
You look back to see Gojo still standing there, looking at you with a strange look in his eyes. He lifts his hand, in a small wave, and gives you an even smaller, barely visible smile. You don’t know what to do, but you’re not able to return his gesture as the elevator door shuts and whirs the two of you up back to the District 11 quarters.
You think with trepidation that the next time you will see Gojo would be tomorrow night.
At the tribute interviews.
—-
“Cameras on in three, two…!”
The interviews were hectic.
Besides the fact that tomorrow morning would mark the beginning of this year's Hunger Games, the tribute interviews were like a pre-show for what everybody watching should expect.
Caesar Flickerman, the eccentric host, kept the show alive and energetic. It was his job. You couldn’t imagine what they would do to him if he failed at doing so.
Every year, he comes out with a new hair color, and this year his hair was ironically a bright white, his brows matching. However, unlike Gojo, it was obvious that his hair had been dyed extensively.
“Just remember to stand tall and smile!” Drumesia was tittering about like a canary, moving between you and Yuuji as she straightened his bow tie and fixed the creases of your dress.
Your outfits had slightly upgraded since the chariot ceremony, but were still miles behind some of the other clothes the tributes were wearing.
Word of your kind and loving character had spread around, and the stylist who gave up for the first round seemed excited to make you something new this year.
The dress was long and pale blue, the sleeves cutting off at your shoulders as the satin bodice sat heavily on your chest like a shield. It was supposed to make you look open, but you couldn’t help but notice the uncanny resemblance it had to some of the housemaid uniforms the Capitol women had that you had seen around.
A small and slides into yours, and you blink out of your thoughts, looking down to see Yuuji tugging at his neck.
“Can you help? She tied it too tight,” he says quietly so that Drumesia wouldn’t overhear. You kiss your teeth in mock annoyance, shooting him a grin as you sink onto your knees, brows furrowing in concentration as you mess around with the fabric.
“You look very handsome tonight,” you tell him as you wrap around the ends together, trying to mimic the actions you studied Drumesia doing moments ago, “They’re going to love you out there.”
You ruffle his hair, making sure not to mess it up too much as you straighten it back. Yuuji smiles shyly, standing still to let you work.
“Do you think,” Yuuji starts, then stops, his cheeks flushed, “Do you think my family’s watching?”
Your hands stopped, looking at him with a reproachful expression as you smiled softly, nodding your head.
“Yeah, of course they are,” you loop the tie around, wiggling it so that it would sit straight, “Why wouldn’t they?”
Yuuji shrugged, looking away as he pouted slightly, rubbing at his eyes.
“My brothers were just so angry before I left,” he mutters, and your hands go up on his elbows. “Do you think they’re mad that I’m not going to win?”
Your face and heart crack at the same time, your lips wobbling as you drag him close to your chest, hands sprawled out on his back as you squeeze him as hard as you possibly can.
“Oh, they’re not mad at you, Yuuji,” you say hushed, one hand cradling his head as you tuck your chin on his pile of hair, “They could never be mad at you.”
You hear him sniffle, his arms hugging you back as you try to hide him from the wandering eyes of the other tributes.
But, as always, you catch the eye of one in particular.
Gojo watches the two of you, not critically, just watching. He’s observing, looking at the way you don’t mind your dress getting dirty or Yuuji’s tear marks on the fabric.
Don’t you remember me?
You look away, as if his stare had somehow burned you, and push gently at Yuuji’s shoulders so that he would be facing you.
“Your brothers are so proud of you,” you tell him firmly, “So proud, okay?”
Yuuji wipes at his red cheeks, nodding at your words.
“When you go on that show tonight, you look into that camera like you’re looking right at them, yeah? Talk to it like you’re talking to them. Forget about the crowd, forget about the game. Just,” You sigh, your smile shaky as your hands tremble. “Just imagine you’re back home and you’ve been pulled into the dancing circle. Remember how scary those were?” You push a strand of his hair away, smoothing it down as he sniffles softly, nodding again.
“But do you remember that feeling when the music was loud and everybody was clapping? Remember how at the end everyone was so sweaty and tired and it didn’t matter how bad you were dancing because everyone was just having fun?” He nods again, hanging on to every word you are saying.
“Imagine that feeling when you talk to Caesar, okay? Make them feel like they know you. Make it feel like they’re your family.”
You don’t tell him why. Don’t want to explain how sympathy and empathy can play a big role in how sponsors view you during the games.
“Okay?” You ask him once, stern but kind, a fire in your eyes that he tries to match.
“Okay,” he repeats, a smile making its way back onto his round face as you bump your fist lightly against his shoulder, standing back up just in time before Drumesia and Martin arrive.
She eyes you suspiciously, hands furiously working on your chest and stomach area to smooth out any wrinkles. You look at Yuuji, and he gives you the toothless grin.
“You’re awfully happy,” Drumesia commented dryly, looking your makeup over until she was satisfied that it was alright. “Anything you care to tell me?”
“Nothing you’d like to know.”
She scoffs, but doesn’t push it any further, seeing how there wasn’t much else she could fight with you on. She began looking around for the other escorts, killing the time by talking to them until it was time for the first tribute to go. Lizzie, from 1, would be the first interviewee of the night.
Yuuji tugs at your hand again, and this time, when you look down at him, you see him pointing somewhere in front of you two.
Cameramen and crew workers were ushering people to stand up against the wall, people organized by girls first, followed by the male tribute, going all the way from 1 to 12 near the back.
You and Yuuji shuffle awkwardly, and your shoulders press against the male tribute from 10, somebody whom you had only seen in passing.
There’s a quiet hush that falls around everyone, nerves alight as Capitol escorts and mentors are taken to the viewing room somewhere in the back.
You all watch on the screen in front of you as the lights in the main room dim, Capitol citizens buzzing with excitement as the music starts, the lights flashing where Caesar is sitting.
You take in a deep and soothing breath.
Let the show begin.
—-
Lizzie’s interview was good.
She knows how to work a crowd, and Caesar loved just how sparky and energetic she was. Everyone in the audience laughed along with her jokes and swooned when she talked about her sisters back home, whom she would be winning these games for.
But she wasn’t the tribute that you were focused on. Nor what everyone else was clamoring for, either, it seemed.
When Gojo walked out on the stage, you could see people in the audience already roaring and jumping to their feet. He had garnered quite a bit of attention already because of his pure strength, his looks, and the fact that his dad was already a victor.
Even you could admit, as much as you wanted to dislike him, just how much he radiated this sort of energy that attracted attention.
The suit he was wearing was tailored to perfectly match his already impeccable proportions. The dark blue coat and bottoms complemented the stark contrast with his eyes and hair, and the dazzling smile he had plastered onto his face almost made it look like he was twinkling.
Caesar was giving his signature debonair smile when Gojo walked towards him, his laughter contagious and manufactured as he whistled as Gojo shook his hand, his grip tighter than Caesar expected.
The two of them talk for a short second before Caesar invites him to sit down, and Gojo complies with a wink to the audience.
He knew how to play them as well as he could play the games.
“So!” Caesar clapped his hands as if he wasn’t getting started, “Mr. Gojo, the dashing tribute from 1, how are you doing this evening?”
Gojo kissed his teeth, looking into the audience as he gave an easy shrug and an even easier smile. The camera panned out to catch some of the women quickly fanning themselves, others swooning in their seats.
You looked at Yuuji, rolling your eyes at the theatrics, and he giggled.
“I’m doing great Caesar,” he finally said after a moment, letting the crowd die down as he nodded to himself, “I’m surrounded by all these amazing people, not including you, of course,” he says with a teasing tone and Caesar eats it up, slapping his lightly on the knees, “And the games are tomorrow. I can’t speak for the rest of the tributes, but I feel more than ready.”
Everyone breaks into shouts and hollers, clapping as Gojo claps along with them.
Caesar lets them go quite far as he chuckles along, swallowing as he looks over at Gojo with a serious expression.
“You look more than ready!” He exclaims, motioning towards his lean and muscular body, to which Gojo just waves away, “Now, I’m sure that most of these citizens recognize you because of your father, is that right, folks?” He looks back at the crowd as they scream and shout in agreement, surely having loved his dad if this was the reaction they were giving, “But am I wrong to assume that you would like to be known for something other than that?”
Gojo laughs concisely, nodding as he thinks about the question. You can only imagine the meticulous work and effort he’s put into making this interview seem flawlessly imperfect.
“You know, Caesar, before I left, my father told me to make these games my own.”
Caesar leaned in before Gojo could finish, as if they were sharing a secret.
“And what do you think that means? How do you plan on making these games your own?”
Gojo chuckled softly, his lips quirked as he looked back at the audience and then to the cameras.
“I think we’ll save that for when the time comes,” he says before the audience groans dramatically, Caesar giving a big sigh as if he was torn, but Gojo continued, “But I will say, I think these games are going to be special.”
Caesar worked his brow, looking at someone in the audience as he mouthed, really?, and everyone laughed.
“Special? Special how?”
“We’re an interesting batch of tributes. I don’t think that we’re going to go the usual route. I think…you’ll all see different alliances and enemies form, different strategies and different ways to win.”
The crowd ooo’s, but Gojo waves it off as if that was all he was going to say. Caesar smiles brightly, satisfied with the answer, as he quickly moves on to the last remaining minutes with the burning question everyone wanted to know.
“Satoru,” Caesar has quickly moved on to calling him by his first name, dropping the formalities as if they had bonded in these past five minutes, “Before our time is up, I’m sure everyone here is wondering, if you were to win these games, would you like to dedicate it to special someone?” The connotations behind what he’s saying are almost impossible to miss.
It seems like all the tributes are listening in, wanting to know both game and gossip talk.
Gojo’s chuckle rumbles out of his chest, and you wince, not recalling the last time you’ve seen the all serious tribute so lively.
He snaps his fingers at Caesar as if chastising him, pushing his hair back as a light pink dusts the apples of his cheeks.
“Are they wondering or are you wondering?” Gojo remarks, and Caesar gives a loud laugh, pretending to look shocked as the audience roars into laughter.
Gojo apologizes half-heartedly, waving down the room as he tries to use up all of his time accordingly.
“I’m just messing with you, Caesar,” he says finally, laughing along with Caesar as his eyes twinkle a bright blue under the stage lights, “But to answer truthfully, I’d be winning for myself.”
Caesar rolls his eyes dramatically, pointing to Gojo as he looks to the crowd for support.
“I don’t believe that for a second! With a face like that, how could you not have a girl waiting for you?”
Gojo smiles, his teeth bright as he ducks his head bashfully.
“I’m honored, Caesar, but I think that if I had a girl back home, I wouldn’t be fighting as well as I could,” Gojo admits, “I wouldn’t want her to see what I’d have to become to survive, and then not recognize me when I get home. And besides…” But Gojo trails off, shaking his head as if he had remembered halfway to stop himself from saying too much.
But oh, how Caesar loved it.
“No, no young man, you can’t stop there! Besides what? Besides what?” Caesar pushes the entire audience sitting on the edge of their seat as Gojo gives a practiced nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as if he didn’t plan for this to happen.
“Well,” Gojo gave a slight shrug, looking straight into the camera, “If I were to win these games, it’s not a girl back home I’d be winning for. She’s a little…closer than 1.”
The crowd lost their minds.
“My! I wonder who it is!” Drumesia said curtly under her breath, looking around as if the mystery girl would reveal herself. Other tributes began muttering under their breaths, some angry at how well Gojo was working the crowd, others curious to see if it was outlawed for somebody from a District to fall for a Capitol girl.
Nonetheless, Gojo was able to wrap everyone around his finger with just a sentence.
Caesar tries to calm them down, but it’s no use. Now, everyone is shouting and demanding to know who this mystery Capitol girl is that has won the esteemed Gojo Satoru’s heart over. It’s no use, Caesar has lost control of them, and his time with Gojo is up.
He’s playing these games well, you think, and not the way most people would.
Caesar nods slowly, giving his usual bright smile as he and Gojo stand up, their hands clasped together as the others wave to the bustling and energetic crowd.
“Give it up for the dashing Tribute from District 1, everyone! Gojo Satoru!”
You can no longer tell who’s still screaming from the past news and who is trying to wish Gojo goodbye, but regardless, the enthusiasm from this crowd dwarfs whatever it was that Lizzie got.
But the more you let his words simmer, the more you realize that Gojo wasn’t only doing this to stir gossip or gain empathy. If the citizens (and sponsors) of the Capitol believed that there was a chance he could win these games and come back for one of them, then…
Then he just garnered a whole lot more support than any score from those evaluations could have gotten him.
When he finally left, his mentors and escorts quickly ushered him somewhere backstage, so you weren’t able to get a good glimpse of him before he left. But the relaxed stance he had once had was now bunched up, tense in his shoulders. He looked around the other tributes, eyes falling last on you and Yuuji before he was whisked away.
Yuuji tugged at the fabric of your dress, glancing up at you with a worry in his eyes.
“I have to go after him?”
—
All the other interviews seem to go by in a blur.
The closer it gets to 11, the more you feel like throwing up. Your heart beats in erratic rhythms, and your mouth and ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. At some point, you stop looking at the screen because of how much your head is spinning.
Your hand grips your stomach, balancing on the wall, the closer and closer you get to being called up on stage.
Martin and Drumesia are both standing near you and Yuuji, exchanging worried glances at your worsening state.
“You’ll be alright,” Yuuji whispers, tugging on your arm, with a bright smile even though he looked horrifically pale and nervous, “If I can do this, you definitely can.”
You chuckle softly, whispering a thank you as you watch the male tribute from District 10 stand up and shake Caesar’s hand, the audience applauding as he exits.
It’s your turn.
“Smile!” Drumesia repeats, doing the motions on her own face as you give her a shaky one in return, “Be their sweetheart!”
Be their sweetheart.
One of the people moved in between you and Yuuji, your hand falling from his as they ushered you through the holding area and onto the stage. You take one deep breath before you duck your head down and go.
You instantly wince at the bright lights, your ears roaring as if you were being held underwater, and sweat dots on your forehead. You feel your stomach plummet, but your feet move as if they’re the only part of your body working.
The crowd is clapping as Caesar introduces you, and you inch towards him as you try to discreetly wipe your palm on the side of your dress so he wouldn’t notice how clammy it was.
You look into the audience, people in the front row dressed as wildly and strangely as they seem to do in the Capitol, and then look over to Caesar, who seems to be mourning something, but you can’t hear what it is he’s saying.
“W-what?” You say, cursing at yourself for this being your first words, but Caesar just laughs it off, patting you affectionately on the shoulders.
“Someone’s nervous!” Caesar says with a smile, leading you to sit down as you shakily sit down on the seat facing him. When he’s sure that you're situated, he moves to his own, legs crossing as he leans back slightly.
“What I had said was, ‘How are you doing?’”
You look at him and then at the cameras, swallowing to wet your throat.
“Good,” you say hoarsely, “Just nervous, like you said.” You give a shaky laugh, and Caesar, along with the entire audience, aww at, as if you were a wounded animal.
Caesar waits until the crowd dies down before he starts again, shuffling a little closer so that it wouldn’t feel like you were strangers.
“Well, I never want you to feel that way around me,” he pats your knee before he gives a gentle smile before it turns impish, “That’s what the audience is for!”
Everyone laughs, and you give a weak chuckle. He gives the cameras a small pout, and your nose wrinkles slightly before he starts again.
“Let me first say that I am intrigued to see you nervous because from what I’ve heard, you are great with people. Is this true, or did my little songbird lie to me?”
You blink away from the crowd, eyes darting towards the cameras as you give him a growing smile and let a simple giggle roll through your chest, one thought ringing through your head:
Be their sweetheart.
“I wouldn’t say great,” you emphasize with a smile, remembering that this crowd was full of sponsors that could help you and Yuuji, “But I used to take care of kids before I worked in the fields back home, so I’ve learned a lot of things about people from that.”
Caesar clicks his tongue, as if understanding.
“Well, disagree as much as you want, but we’ve had some witnesses in the crowd who have seen firsthand just how well you’re able to make new friends, is that right?” He calls out, and some people in the audience cheer extra loudly.
Those must’ve been the people who saw you before the chariot parade.
“Do you think this will help you in the arena?” Caesar adds, and you rip your eyes away from those in the audience to look at his face.
“U-um,” you stammer, your cheeks heating up as you think about it thoughtfully, “I don’t think so, Caesar.” You admitted truthfully, debating whether to lie or not, but it seemed like your decision was the correct choice, as it seemed like people in the audience perked up at your honesty.
Even Caesar seemed a bit surprised as his brows furrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side.
“No? Why? Why not?” His voice dipped slightly, mimicking concern. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he would care, as if he wouldn’t narrate your death in just a few days.
You ring your fingers together, chewing on your cheek as you try to look docile. Like a sweetheart.
“I don’t like seeing people hurt,” you tell him, and everyone watching, frankly, “Even if the kids I used to watch were being…difficult,” you say with a slight emphasis and the crowd laughs, shocking you a little bit, “I would never say anything too harsh to reprimand them. So I think that if I were to befriend other tributes, I’d stir crazy in the games.”
Caesar nods once more, his eyes shutting as he takes in your words. People in the audience seem to tilt their heads dramatically as if you had softened them into a puddle of faux compassion and stone-hearted emotions.
“So empathy is both your strength and witness?” Caesar confirms, and you give him a timid grin, nodding.
“One that can be exploited very well during something like the Hunger Games, yes,” you say a little sarcastically and with a knowing grin, and Caesar lets out a chuckle, nodding along with your statement as people in the audience laugh.
“While we’re on more temperate topics, here’s another question for you,” Caesar’s voice has dipped a little bit, losing his energetic spark as he got serious, “I have been asking many of the tributes tonight who they would win for. If you were to win, who would you dedicate it to?”
You feel your stomach churn painfully, tongue darting out to wet your chapped bottom lip, and you grab the sides of your chair tightly.
Gojo’s words from the night before repeat themselves in your head. What is it you want to do?
“I,” you stop yourself from what you were going to say, almost looking backstage to where Yuuji was standing with Drumesia, but control the urge and continue holding your stare with Caesar, “I have no family left in 11,” you’re sure that the camera is zeroing in on your face now and the way Caesar holds your hand supportingly as if he was there when you mourned the loss of everyone you loved, “I think….I think I would win these games so that I could see the sunsets back home.”
“The sunsets?” He asks instantly as if he’s never thought about that, he looks into the crowd to see if they’re just as intrigued, “I have to admit, I’ve never seen the sunsets at District 11 before. How are they?”
You gave him a knowing smile, blinking your tears back as the fire inside your chest burned.
“Caesar, they are simply to die for.”
The tension in the room seemed to snap as everyone laughed, Caesar throwing his head back with a comical hoot as one hand sprawled out across his chest. The cameramen swiveled to catch everyone’s reactions, and you feel some heat prickle at the back of your neck.
“Funny! She’s funny!” He animated as if they hadn’t already heard you, wiping at his eyes as his wide smile twinkled, “One last thing! Before we run out of time! I’m sure everybody here, along with me, is wondering one thing. Does anybody know what that is?”
Caesar looked out into the audience with a raised brow. You turn limply, mirroring his actions, as somebody with a large pink wig and even larger cheekbones cups their manicured hands around their mouth as they yell out;
“Her score!”
Caesar winked at that person, snapping when they got it right. His chair swiveled back to face yours, your fingers digging into the plush texture of the cushions as your heart beats rapidly against your chest.
“Yes, yes, her score! Now, don’t worry, I won’t have you revealing your secret,” Caesar assured and your shoulders eased just a little bit, Caesar waving the audience’s disappointment down with a playful scold, “But I do want you to tell the people what they should take away from a score like yours.”
The clock was ticking down. You only had a few seconds left to make it all count.
“Hm,” you hum thoughtfully, a glint in your eyes as your head tilts a little, “It’s funny you ask. We have this song back in 11, one older than me. Some say it’s from this ancient traveling band, from way before. But we always tell ourselves that nothing you can take was ever worth keeping. So,” you pause for a brief moment, your lips quirked, “During the games, I think you should…expect nothing from me and I’ll give you all everything in return.”
Caesar’s smile falters a second as he digests your words, looking at you, but you’re looking back at the crowd as you wave to them.
He helps you stand up, his hand outstretched to take yours, and you give him a firm squeeze as you shake it. The crowd claps loudly, some calling your name like they did for the other tributes.
“Everyone give it up for the witty sweetheart from 11!” Caesar shouts, and people clap even louder, your smile growing despite yourself.
Maybe, just maybe, you did something right.
—
One deep breath in. One deep breath out.
The helicraft they were using to transport all your tributes was huge, but somehow you still felt insanely claustrophobic. It felt like the walls were closing in, the whirring and the gentle hum of the machine were somewhat soothing, but it did nothing to distract you from the fact that you were being transported to the arena.
For the Hunger Games.
You could barely sleep after the interviews. Yuuji had done great, everybody loved him, just as you suspected. But it wasn’t the high of doing well that kept you up. It was the fear, the trepidation of knowing that there were merely hours left before only one of you was fated to come out.
Breakfast was horrible. You couldn’t keep anything down, so you opted for some tea and bits of a biscuit. Martin seemed particularly drunk, barely meeting your eyes as Drumesia kept snapping at him to tidy up. But you didn’t have the heart to judge him, couldn’t imagine what it was like to see countless tributes over the years, only for none of them to survive.
It must be maddening.
Yuuji didn’t look any better, but he was trying his best to appear as steady-headed as possible. When Martin led the two of you to the hovercraft, he gave you both one final look, his eyes glossy and his face solemn as he put one hand on your shoulder and the other on Yuuji’s.
“Look after each other,” he said gruffly, his voice choked and hoarse, “These games bring out the worst in people.”
You wondered just how bad it could get.
After one of the guards had injected the tracker into you, they strapped you in, and you felt your back press tightly against the seat as it began to take off. The other tributes were rubbing their arms, wincing at the soreness of where the injector was once. Some were looking around, curious and afraid; others were talking to themselves.
Gojo was one of those who was looking around, eyes darting everywhere until they found you. Again.
He gives barley there nod, one you don’t understand the meaning of, before he peeks back to Lizzie, his head dipping down as he attentively listens to her as she whispers something in his ear. You shake yourself away from looking at them, trailing down to where Yuuji was bundled next to you, his fingers pushing at the skin of his forearm.
“Yuuji,” your voice is a hint of whisper, and you’re glad for the steady hum of the craft as it drowns out your voice for everyone else around you, “Yuuji.” You say a little harsher, this time grabbing his attention.
His head snaps up, brown eyes wide as if he had been caught doing something wrong. You almost apologized, but remembered that right now you had to be harsh. It was your only means of survival.
“Do you remember what you’re going to do?” Your head ducks down so that you’re closer to his ear, and he nods quickly, determination and trepidation on his face as you sit back upright, giving him a stern look.
For the last couple of days, you’ve been watching old runs from previous games. How they started, what it looked like towards the middle, and how they ended. You’ve gathered that the beginning of the games is the most brutal part, seeing how everyone is still gathered around each other.
The Cornucopia, a big-looking structure that resembles its namesake, is where all weapons, sacks of food and water, sleepgear, and anything else needed for survival are held. It’s tempting, sure, but that’s where the bloodbath takes place. When everyone hoards something surrounded by deadly tools, it’s expected that something barbaric will take place.
From what you could tell, tributes are all arranged in a circle around the structure on pedestals. A clock counts down from a minute until they can move. If Yuuji was situated somewhere where the Cornucopia was blocking him from your vision, there was not much you could do than order him to turn around and run as fast as he could. You promised you’d find him.
“Mhm,” he quickly nods, closing his eyes as he recites the orders you’ve drilled into his head, “If I see you, run towards you when the clock finishes up. If not, run away and hide,” he cracks open an eye as he winces, “Right?”
You realize your face is harder than usual, your frown lines more apparent. You swallow, trying to soften yourself up as you pat his hand, looking at the walls facing you to steady your mind.
“Right.”
You feel Yuuji’s eyes bore into the side of your face, and his fingers move so that they can grasp onto yours.
“Did you try making any allies?” He whispers, shuffling closer to you because of how cold the air is.
You shake your head, not looking down but instead finding your stare to travel back over to where Gojo was sitting.
Don’t you remember me?
It’s one of the only things you’ve been able to think of these past two days.
The thing is, you know you remember him. You remember that hair and those eyes. You remember the way he carries himself. It’s a brief memory, one hidden in the back of your mind and refusing to show itself. But perhaps what’s even stranger is that he does. It couldn’t be from the first day on the trains. This memory is deep, it’s old.
And yet you don’t have any idea where it came from.
So you shake your head at Yuuji’s question, thinking back to your interview with Caesar as your foot taps erratically on the floor.
“We’re each other's allies,” you murmur, still not looking away from Gojo as if prolonged staring would help jog your memory, “Remember what Martin told us?”
Yuuji doesn’t seem happy, clearly thinking that more people mean better odds of surviving, but he can’t argue with you. He slumps a little bit, looking around.
You go to tell him something else, but your eyelids suddenly feel heavy. You wince, your head dipping, but not on your own accord.
You can barely open your mouth before everything goes back, and you slump against your restraints.
---
a/n: there will be a part two! it's in the works, and it'll definitely have more romance in it (and angst)! I also don't use taglists, so I'm sorry to anyone who was asked to be on this one!
synopsis — after reading about a book series that mirrored everything you’d loved about a past favourite, you were thrilled to find it in your college library. the copies were old—worn enough to still have checkout cards—but what caught your attention was the same set of initials, G.S., scrawled across nearly every one. the same G.S. who had filled the margins with sharp, thoughtful annotations. you couldn’t stop yourself from thoroughly enjoying the silly little comments written in the margins, leaving your own notes alongside theirs. it wasn’t until much later that you realised G.S. wasn’t some long-gone bookworm. it was none other than the man you had sworn to hate. gojo satoru.
pairing — nerd! satoru x reader
genre — academic rivals to lovers
word count— 32k (oops)
warnings — sexual content (unprotected sex), swearing, mentions of not eating, slight angst.
small playlist i listened to while writing
"You all can come and grab the papers now—do not ask me for any re-evaluations, the mark presented on the paper is your final mark—"
You barely listen. The professor could be reading a grocery list for all you care. Your focus is already on the stack of midterms in his hands, your heart pounding like a drum against your ribs.
The exam had been brutal—200 marks, covering classical mechanics and electromagnetism, some of the toughest material in your Physics II course. Past students had called it a horror show, a midterm designed to crush dreams and expose weaknesses. It was weighted heavily in your final grade, which meant every single mark mattered. The room is filled with a tense hum, a mixture of eager whispers and anxious murmurs. Some students hesitate in their seats, mentally preparing themselves before facing their doom. But you? You don't wait. You weave through the aisles, manoeuvring past people, determined to be one of the first to grab your paper.
And, of course, Gojo is right behind you.
"Jeez, you could at least pretend to be patient," he muses, his tone dripping with amusement as he strolls lazily down the steps, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. You roll your eyes. "Not all of us have the luxury of cruising through exams without trying."
"I do try," he says, flashing you a grin. "I try just enough." Before you can shoot back a response, you reach the professor’s desk. Professor Takeda raises an unimpressed brow as he sorts through the papers.
"You two again," he sighs. "Half my life as a professor has been spent watching you bicker."
"Don't be dramatic, sir," Gojo says smoothly, resting an elbow on the desk. "It's only been three years." Takeda shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about headaches before handing you your paper. You grab it without waiting, fingers slightly shaking as you flip it over.
98.
The relief rushes through you instantly, so strong you can’t help the triumphant burst of excitement. "Ninety-eight!" you blurt out, beaming as you hug the paper to your chest. It’s a damn near perfect score, and after all those sleepless nights, all those hours of grinding through problem sets—you earned this. Gojo, still waiting for his turn, glances at you with an expression you can’t quite place. His usual smirk is still there, but there’s something else—something quieter, almost thoughtful, before he smooths it over with his usual easy confidence.
Takeda hands him his paper. Gojo flips it over, barely reacting as he reads the number at the top.
"Ninety-five." Your grin widens.
"You mean I beat you?" You practically bounce on your heels. "Me? The one you said was ‘too uptight’ and needed to ‘relax and accept second place’? Me?"
Gojo exhales through his nose, shaking his head, as he folds his paper out of your sight. "Don't get too cocky," he drawls, shoving the paper under his arm. "It’s just three points."
"Three points above you."
"For now," he corrects smoothly, nudging your shoulder as he moves past you.
It’s been this way since freshman year. You and Gojo had ended up in the same introductory physics course, and from the very first midterm, it was clear: you were the only two truly competing at the top of the class. But while you poured everything into studying—late nights, flashcards, equations scribbled on napkins—Gojo seemed to barely put in the effort. He’d show up late to lectures, half-asleep in sweatpants, glasses slightly skewed, yet somehow still aced every exam. He never took notes, never stressed, never seemed to break a sweat. It drove you insane. Because no matter how hard you tried, how much effort you put in—he was always right there with you. Sometimes ahead, sometimes just behind, but never far enough to ignore.
And worst of all? He made it look easy. By now, the entire physics department knew about your rivalry. Professors expected you to fight over test scores. Study groups would take bets on who would score higher. Even during practical lab sessions, it was always a silent battle—who could get through the calculations faster, who could figure out the trick questions first. You hated him. And now, after years of this, you finally had something over him. A small, almost imperceptible shift in the universe.
You beat Gojo Satoru. As soon as class ends, you’re practically floating out of the lecture hall, midterm still clutched in your hands. The second you step into the cafeteria, your eyes scan the room for your friend, and when you finally spot her at your usual table, you don’t even bother with a greeting. “I got a ninety-eight,” you announce, sliding into the seat across from her with an undeniably smug grin. “And I beat Gojo.”
Her head snaps up from her laptop. “Wait— Gojo Gojo?”
You roll your eyes. “As opposed to what? Some other Gojo in our department?”
“Oh my God, you actually did it?” she gasps, setting her drink down as she stares at you in something close to awe. “I thought that man was unstoppable.”
“Well, turns out he’s not.” You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head. “Guess he finally met his match.” Your friend is still blinking at you in disbelief when a voice cuts in from behind you, slow and amused.
“One good score, and you think you’re the shit.” You freeze. Then, before you can even turn around, Gojo is already there, stepping up behind you like a shadow that refuses to be ignored. You feel the presence of him—tall, lazy, entirely too smug—before you even lift your head to meet his gaze. He’s leaning in just slightly, close enough to loom, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. That familiar, insufferable smirk is plastered on his face, condescending and infuriatingly amused.
You huff. “Can’t a girl enjoy her victory in peace?”
He tilts his head, that same damned smirk never wavering. “Victory?” he echoes, voice dripping with mockery. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you? One midterm doesn’t erase three years of domination.” You scoff, crossing your arms. “Oh, please. Like you’ve actually dominated me.”
“Oh, you want me to bring out the stats?” Gojo hums, slipping into the seat beside you like he owns the place. He props his elbow on the table, resting his cheek on his palm as he begins, “Physics I final—97 to your 96. Thermodynamics midterm? 95 to your 91. Electromagnetic Fields exam—”
You groan. “Jesus Christ, you memorized all of them?”
“You think I don’t keep track?” He arches a brow, eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s not my fault I have a consistent history of kicking your ass.”
Your friend snorts into her drink. “He kinda has a point—”
You shoot her a glare. Gojo, meanwhile, is clearly having the time of his life. He leans in, that imposing height of his making his presence impossible to ignore, his voice dropping just slightly, almost teasing. “But sure,” he drawls, chin resting in his hand. “Enjoy your one win, (name). I’ll let you have it.”
You grip your cup so tightly the plastic crinkles. “Let me have it?”
“Mmm.” He tilts his head, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Wouldn’t want you to cry when I obliterate you on the final.” Your friend nudges you under the table, mouthing he’s so full of shit, but you barely register it—because the air between you and Gojo is charged in a way that makes your stomach twist. You won’t admit it out loud, but part of you wonders— is this how he always talks to you?
So close, so taunting, like he enjoys watching you bristle. You hate how natural it feels, how effortless the rhythm of your bickering has become. But more than anything, you hate the way your heart stutters when he pushes himself out of his chair, hands still stuffed in his pockets, and grins down at you like he already knows how the next round of this fight is going to end.
“You should really start studying,” he hums, walking backward toward the exit. “You’ll need it.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving you fuming at the table. Your friend watches him go, eyebrows raised. “So, uh,” she says slowly. “Are we sure you guys aren’t flirting?” You glare at her.
“I hate him.” She smirks. “Mhm.” You seethe a little, realising—with a stab of annoyance—that yes, that motherfucker is actually leading right now in terms of grades and rankings. It’s not even about the marks. Okay, maybe it’s a little about the marks. But you’ve always been the smart woman in your course. The one who professors hold up as an example. The one whose name has been printed on merit lists and whose email is always flooded with internship offers and research opportunities. You’ve spent years perfecting your academic standing, earning every achievement through sheer effort and discipline. But for some odd reason, none of it ever seems to matter until you’ve compared it with Gojo Satoru. You glare at his name on the leaderboard, one place ahead of yours. A single midterm shouldn’t be enough to infuriate you, and yet—
Your eye twitches. How the hell did you even get here?
Well.
Actually.
You know how. You just try not to think about it because, frankly, it’s one of the most mortifying moments of your entire academic career.
—
It was the very first week of freshman year, and you were, for lack of a better term, an insufferable know-it-all. Not in a bad way—okay, maybe in a slightly bad way. But it wasn’t your fault that you took your education seriously, or that you actually read ahead in your courses, or that you genuinely cared about learning. If anything, you were doing everyone a service by answering questions when no one else raised their hands. So, on that particular day, when your physics professor asked the class a question about vector components, you barely hesitated before speaking up.
“The perpendicular components of a vector are independent of each other,” you’d answered smoothly, sitting up a little straighter as you prepared to elaborate. “That’s why we can analyse them separately using—”
“Ohhh, wow,” someone cut in, voice dripping with mock wonder. “Look at that. We got a genius in the house.” The interruption had been so unexpected—so audacious—that it completely derailed your train of thought.
And when you turned around, irritated beyond belief, there he was. White hair, round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, an undeniably punchable smirk tugging at his lips. You had no idea who he was at the time. Just some tall, obnoxious guy slouched lazily in his seat, all limbs and arrogance, tapping a pen idly against his notebook as he stared at you with barely concealed amusement.
Your brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” he shrugged, “you must be so fun at parties.” The class chuckled. Your jaw clenched. “Well, someone has to answer when no one else even tries.”
“Right, because we’re all just too stupid to understand vectors,” he drawled, stretching lazily in his seat.
“I didn’t say that,” you shot back.
“Didn’t have to,” he grinned, tapping his temple. “I could feel the superiority radiating from you.” You exhaled sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to turn back around before you said something that would get you in trouble on the first week of class.
“Okay, okay,” your professor cut in, looking thoroughly unbothered by the exchange. “Let’s keep the debating to actual physics concepts.” That should have been the end of it. But then you heard a low tsk from behind you.
“I bet she memorized the textbook cover to cover before the semester even started,” the white-haired menace mused under his breath to his friend with the long, black haired locks, who seemed disinterested in what his friend had to say.
You whipped around. “I did not—”
“Don’t lie, nerd.”
“Excuse me?!” The class chuckled again. And when you shot a glare toward your professor, expecting some kind of reprimand, he just sighed and muttered, “God, I already know you two are going to be a pain in my ass.” From that moment on, it had been war.
Your first set of midterms was when you realized he wasn’t just talk. You walked into class with a 97 on your physics exam, feeling confident—only to glance over and see Gojo slouched in his seat, grinning as he casually flipped his test paper over to show a 99. He made eye contact with you as he tapped his fingers against the big red number. You nearly broke your pen in half.
And so it began.
Every exam, every assignment, every single class discussion became a battleground. You would argue over formulas, nitpick each other’s solutions, and constantly try to one-up the other. You worked your ass off to close the gap, pouring hours into perfecting your work. And Gojo? Gojo barely looked like he was trying. That was what infuriated you the most. He never seemed stressed, never looked exhausted, never talked about pulling all-nighters. He just showed up, half the time looking like he hadn’t even studied, and still somehow stayed ahead. Until now. Until your 98 finally beat his 95. A single win isn’t enough. But damn, does it feel good.
—
You step into the lecture hall, already bracing yourself for the inevitable. Sure enough, Gojo Satoru is exactly where you expect him to be—sprawled out in his usual seat, legs stretched obnoxiously far like he has no concept of personal space. His sunglasses rest on top of his head, keeping his messy white hair from falling into his annoyingly pretty eyes, and the second he spots you, that familiar smirk tugs at his lips. You’re already exhausted.
“You’re early,” you mutter, slipping into your seat and pulling out your laptop.
“And you’re predictable,” he shoots back. “What, do you set an alarm just to make sure you get here before me?”
“You wish.”
“Nah, you wish.”
You pause, narrowing your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
He shrugs, propping his chin on his hand. “Still got under your skin, though, didn’t it?”
You make a sound of irritation in the back of your throat, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his smug attitude, but your friend plops into the seat next to you, completely unaware of the storm brewing between you and Gojo. You exhale sharply, forcing yourself to shift gears—there’s something more important than your ongoing war with him. Something much, much more important.
“Okay, so, I found this book series last night,” you begin, your fingers twitching excitedly as you pull out your phone. “I was going through one of those book recommendation guides—you know, the niche ones that aren’t full of the same ten bestsellers—and this one just caught my eye.” Your friend hums in interest, booting up their laptop. “What’s it about?”
You practically buzz with excitement. “So it’s kind of like—ugh, how do I explain it—it’s this really well-written like narrative, mystery, suspense, romance, but with, like, existential themes? And this insane world building? And apparently, no one talks about it because the publisher went under before it got the recognition it deserved, so it’s kind of a hidden gem.” As you speak, Gojo, who had been staring blankly at the front of the room, blinks. That sounds familiar.
“You’re really selling it,” your friend teases.
“Right?! And apparently, it’s super hard to find, but I checked, and our library actually has a few copies.” You tuck your phone away, already feeling a rush of excitement. “I’m gonna borrow the first book after class.” Gojo leans back in his seat, eyes flickering with something unreadable.
Yeah, he thinks. I’ve definitely read that.
He doesn’t say anything, though. Just rests his chin in his palm and listens as you keep gushing. Because now that he thinks about it, he really liked that series too. It had been one of those random books he picked up between classes, half expecting to get bored, but then something about it hooked him. The way it wove together philosophy and adventure, the quiet melancholy lingering in the prose—it was the kind of book that stuck with you. But he never finished it. Midterms had hit, and between exams, research papers, and group projects that made him want to rip his hair out, he just… forgot. He never went back to check out the last few books. He had meant to, but by the time he had free time again, his brain had moved on. And now here you are, unknowingly digging it back up.
His fingers drum idly against the desk, and for some reason, he can’t shake the thought: She’s gonna love it. He steals another glance at you. You’re still talking, eyes bright with excitement, flipping through your phone as you read off little details from the guide you found. The enthusiasm is contagious—he can’t remember the last time he saw you this animated about something that wasn’t academics. Usually, all your energy goes into perfecting equations, arguing with him over points lost on exams, and trying to one-up him in every possible way. This is… different.
And weirdly, he finds himself kind of liking it. Not that he’d ever admit it.
–
So after class finally finishes—thankfully, your professor had been going through a hard topic that he kept droning on and on about, emphasising how likely it was to appear in the final exam—it was enough to sate even Gojo, who, for once, shut up and took notes diligently. You head out at lightning speed, managing a small “see you later” to your friend before disappearing into the hallway. Honestly, ever since the new year of college had started, you’d barely had time to indulge in activities you actually enjoyed.
Sure, you squeezed in a few books here and there when you had the chance, but it was difficult finding ones that hit just the right way—ones with the same kind of engaging plot, the same writing style that kept you hooked. You’d tried, but nothing had stuck with you the way your favorite books used to. It had been frustrating, going through these long periods without anything to read. But this time, you had a feeling it would be different.
Turning a corner, you step into the vast college library, its sheer size never failing to impress you. The high, arched ceilings, the rows upon rows of bookshelves, and the dozens of students scattered across large wooden tables, heads buried in textbooks—it’s an environment that should feel welcoming, yet all it does is remind you how much work you still have waiting for you. You shake that thought away.
Right now, you’re here for one thing.
You glance at your phone, rereading the author’s name one last time before slipping it into your pocket and heading straight for the fiction section. It’s tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the library, past the heavier academic texts, and while it’s not as large as the science or philosophy sections, it still has an impressive selection. The shelves here are a little dustier, the books a little more worn—proof that they don’t get checked out as often as the physics or chemistry textbooks. You trace your fingers lightly along the spines, scanning for the title. When you finally spot it, you feel a flicker of excitement. There it is.
The first book in the series. The cover is simple yet striking, the title embossed in slightly faded silver lettering. You pull it off the shelf carefully, glancing around to see if the rest of the series is there. To your delight, every single book is lined up neatly in order. Some of them look well-loved, the edges softened from use, some even slightly bent, as if they’d been carried around in bags, read and reread countless times.
You flip the book over and read the blurb. Even though you already know the gist of the story from your research, there’s something about reading the official summary that makes your excitement spike. It’s exactly what you’ve been looking for—an underrated but brilliant story, the kind that feels like a hidden gem. Unable to resist, you take the book with you and settle down at one of the smaller, tucked-away tables. You’re a slow reader, someone who likes to absorb every word, letting the imagery settle in your mind before moving on. But the moment you turn to the first page and begin reading, you’re immediately pulled in.
The writing is crisp and immersive, the kind that hooks you effortlessly. Within moments, you’re completely lost in the world of the book, eyes darting across the pages, flipping to the next before you even realize it. The characters are compelling, the descriptions vivid, and the dialogue sharp. You can already tell this is going to be one of those stories that sticks—the kind that lingers in the back of your mind long after you’ve finished. Just as you reach a particularly interesting part, your phone buzzes.
You blink, momentarily disoriented before glancing at the screen. It’s a reminder you set for yourself. Right. You still need to study. A sigh escapes you. As much as you want to keep reading, you know you can’t afford to waste too much time. With some reluctance, you close the book and stand up, making your way toward the borrowing counter. You check it out quickly, securing it in your bag, already planning when you’ll carve out time to read it between your study sessions. It’s something to look forward to, at least. And if you had known just who had been the last person to check it out before you, maybe you wouldn’t be so eager.
–
The ringer from your Pomodoro timer goes off, its sharp chime cutting through the quiet of your dorm room. With a sigh, you drop your pencil onto your open notebook, rolling your shoulders back as you stretch in your seat, feeling the slight stiffness from hours of hunching over your desk. Lazily glancing at the glowing numbers on your laptop screen, a small grin tugs at the corners of your lips.
Four hours of focused work.
Good. You’ve finally finished studying for the night, trudging through a mountain of tricky concepts and endless equations—just enough to ensure you’ll keep up with the next few lectures before the actual final exam looms over you. The weight of the work you’ve put in settles in a satisfying way, a quiet reassurance that you’re keeping up. Yawning, you grab your phone, thumbing through a few unopened texts, sending half-hearted replies where needed.
Your mind is already half-tuned out, already drifting toward what you actually want to do now that your responsibilities are out of the way for the night. Pushing yourself up from your chair, you shuffle toward your bed, sinking into the softness of your mattress with a pleased sigh. And then, with an eager flicker of excitement, you reach for the borrowed library book resting on your side table, fingers running over the slightly worn edges of the cover.
Finally.
Opening it to the page you had left off, you settle deeper into the blankets, eyes scanning the words slowly, absorbing every detail. The prose is effortless, pulling you into the world woven between the lines. The atmosphere is rich, each description vivid and carefully placed, the characters full of depth. There’s a certain feeling you get when a book is just right—something that clicks into place, the rare kind of story that makes the outside world blur at the edges. You don’t rush through it.
You savor every word, taking in the dialogue, the intricate details of the setting, the careful unraveling of the plot. Then, just as you shift slightly, readjusting your grip, a small slip of paper flutters from between the pages. You blink, momentarily pulled from the trance of the story, watching as it lands lightly on your blanket.
Frowning, you reach for it, fingers brushing against the slightly yellowed, aged texture of the paper. It’s rectangular, not quite as thick as a regular bookmark, with neat printed lines running across it in faded ink.
A borrowing card.
You stare at it for a second, a vague memory surfacing. Back during your university orientation in first year, you remember a librarian offhandedly mentioning that some of the older books in the collection still had checkout cards inside them, relics from a time before everything became digitized. But since you’d only ever borrowed course-related books—ones that were constantly replaced with new editions—you’d never actually come across one. Huh.
Your fingers trace the faded lines as you sit up slightly, eyes scanning the list of names scrawled across it—
Except… there are no names. Just one. Or rather, just a set of initials, written neatly in blue ink
G.S.
The date beside it is from a while ago, though not too long. But the strange thing is, it’s the only entry on the entire card. You blink, flipping it over, checking the back. Nothing. So… no one else has borrowed this book? You hesitate, gripping the card a little tighter. You’re supposed to write your name down now, right? That’s how these things work. It’s a log of borrowers. But then—why had this person only written their initials?
A weird feeling stirs in your chest. Not unease, exactly—just something you can’t put a name to. It’s probably nothing. Maybe this book just wasn’t that popular. The only reason you found it was because of some obscure online guide, after all. Maybe no one really checked it out over the years, and the one person who did just didn’t feel like writing their full name.
Shaking your head, you push the thought aside, grabbing a pen from your nightstand. Without thinking too much about it, you write your own name neatly beneath G.S., along with today’s date. Then, you tuck the card back into its place and return to your book, letting yourself sink back into the story. A few more pages in, about a quarter of the way through the book, your eyes catch something that makes your brow furrow.
Are those… scribbles?
Your annoyance flares up immediately. Who the hell desecrates a library book? It’s practically sacrilegious. Your fingers tighten slightly around the spine as you bring the book closer to inspect the crime against literature, fully prepared to be enraged—
Wait.
They’re not just random scribbles. They’re annotations.
Your irritation dims slightly, curiosity piqued as you squint to make out the neat, slightly slanted cursive handwriting running along the margins. Some words are underlined, a few sentences circled, and in a crisp blue ink, a note is scrawled beside a particularly tense conversation between two characters:
“I can just tell he’s gonna be the one dead first. He’s overreacting to everything.”
You blink. Then, despite yourself, a small giggle escapes. Because—okay—whoever wrote this isn’t wrong. You literally thought the same thing just a few moments ago. As much as you love a good, well-written novel, you’ve read enough books in your life to recognise the telltale signs of an early death flag. And this character? He’s practically begging to be taken out of the story. Your amusement lingers as you scan the page again, eyes flitting to more scribbles running alongside the printed words.
"God, she sounds so insufferable."
You smirk a little at that, suppressing a chuckle.
"I like this line—the quote kinda speaks to me."
Your gaze follows the arrow pointing toward a particularly well-crafted piece of dialogue. Huh. You actually like that line too.
"I take the previous statement back—no way did he say that entire motivational monologue just for him to throw his morals aside..."
A small, surprised laugh escapes you. You love when characters do this kind of thing—spend pages waxing poetic about their grand principles, only to completely toss them out the window at the first sign of trouble. It’s frustrating, but also wildly entertaining, and you find yourself nodding unconsciously in agreement.
You shift slightly, adjusting your grip on the book as your initial annoyance starts to morph into something else—something you don’t want to admit is enjoyment. Because as much as you usually hate unnecessary markings in books, these annotations don’t feel disruptive.
They feel… engaging. Like you’re reading with someone. It’s a strange feeling—an unexpected, quiet kind of companionship in the margins of the book. You scan ahead, flipping a few pages forward, wondering if this mystery annotator—G.S., you assume—has left their thoughts scattered throughout the entire book.
Oh. They have. Almost every page has at least something scribbled in the margins. Some annotations are sarcastic, others incredulous. A few are simple observations or predictions about the plot, and some are just random, dramatic reactions that make you snort.
"Oh my GOD, just kiss already!"
You huff out an amused breath, shaking your head.
"He is so painfully oblivious it’s almost impressive."
Honestly, you were thinking the same thing. Before you realize it, you’ve started reading out loud—not the annotations, but the actual book. It’s something you do sometimes when you’re alone, when a scene is particularly well-written or emotional. And now, with G.S.’s thoughts scattered alongside the text, it almost feels like you’re having a conversation with them. Like they’re some ghostly presence in the book, reacting alongside you in real time.
You catch yourself before you say something back to one of the notes.
Which is insane. Because this is just a random person’s handwriting in a library book. And yet—
You exhale through your nose, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the page. You kind of… want to know who they are. Who is G.S.? Because if their annotations are anything to go by, they have the exact same thoughts as you while reading. The same exasperation, the same eye-roll-worthy observations, the same appreciation for the well-crafted lines. And you can’t help but wonder—just who was sitting with this same book in their hands, reading the same words, thinking the same things? It’s an odd, fleeting curiosity, but you push it aside for now, shaking your head as you turn the page.
You settle deeper into your blankets, the book resting comfortably in your hands as you turn the page. The words on the paper blur slightly in the dim light of your bedside lamp, but you don’t mind—you’re too immersed now, drawn into both the story and the unexpected presence of G.S. in the margins. The next chapter begins, and you take a slow breath before diving in, eyes flicking between the printed text and the handwritten notes.
"Oh, I just know this is going to go terribly."
You glance at the line it’s referencing—a scene where the protagonist makes a bold, arguably reckless decision. Yeah, G.S. is probably right. A few more pages pass. The tension in the book rises, and you’re so absorbed that you nearly miss the next annotation.
"There it is. The classic ‘staring at the moon in emotional turmoil’ scene. Authors love this one."
You snort. Okay, but they’re right. You tilt your head, momentarily pausing your reading to stare at the note. It’s a little strange, this dynamic you’ve somehow fallen into with a complete stranger. You feel like you know them, or at least, their reading habits. Their humor. The way they react to the exact same things that pull at your attention. It's unsettling in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. You flip forward, skimming ahead to see if the notes continue—and they do.
"I KNEW IT. I CALLED IT. HE’S A TRAITOR."
You blink, pausing mid-sentence. Your gaze darts back to the text, where a major plot twist has just been revealed. Your mouth parts slightly, rereading the words to make sure you’re seeing them correctly. Damn. You did not see that coming.
You exhale, a small smirk tugging at your lips. Fine. Point to you, G.S. You keep reading, now almost waiting for the next annotation, like it’s a second voice in your head providing commentary as you go. And when the protagonist makes another questionable decision—
"Why are men in fiction like this?"
—you laugh, shaking your head. It continues like that for pages. Every now and then, G.S. 's notes make you chuckle, or nod in agreement, or roll your eyes because come on, that was an obvious metaphor. And as much as you want to be annoyed by the interruptions, you find yourself… enjoying it. Maybe even liking it. At some point, you shift your position, getting more comfortable against your pillows, completely absorbed. The words feel alive, and not just the printed ones, but the ones scribbled in blue ink alongside them. It’s a conversation you never expected to have—one separated by time, by anonymity, by the unlikelihood of ever knowing who G.S. is. Your fingers brush over the ink of the annotations, slightly faded but still legible. Thinking back to the date listed on the library card from quite a while ago, you wonder if G.S. has even thought about this book since then. Or if they’ve forgotten about it entirely. You stare at the letters for a moment longer before shaking your head, pushing away the odd sensation curling at the back of your mind.
It’s just a book. Just some random person’s annotations. It doesn’t mean anything.
A reminder notification pops up on your phone—one you’d set earlier to keep your study schedule in check. You sigh. Right. You should get some sleep soon. Reluctantly, you close the book, running your fingers over the cover one last time before placing it on your nightstand. You’ll finish it later—between classes, between assignments, between all the little gaps in your schedule where you can steal a moment to read. And maybe, you’ll keep an eye out. Because now, you kind of want to know if G.S. ever came back for this book.
–
By the time your next Physics lecture rolls around, you’ve already finished the first book in the series. It had consumed your nights, pulling you in with its immersive world-building and gripping storyline—but, if you were being honest, the experience had been made infinitely more enjoyable because of the annotations left behind in the margins. The presence of another reader, someone who had walked the same narrative path as you and left breadcrumbs of their thoughts along the way, had made the book feel less like a solitary escape and more like a shared secret. So, naturally, when you stride into class that morning, you’re already prepared to discuss it at length with your friend.
What you aren’t prepared for is Gojo Satoru.
Not that you ever are, really. He has a habit of making his presence known, like some self-appointed force of nature existing solely to get under your skin. And today is no different—he walks past you with an easy, sauntering gait, the kind that’s deliberately slow enough to be obnoxious. There’s a telltale smirk tugging at his lips, the glint of mischief in his strikingly bright eyes as he leans in, as if he’s about to say something insufferable just to throw off your morning. You pretend not to see him.
Your willful ignorance must be obvious because you hear him scoff under his breath as he passes by, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of looking.
Instead, you beeline toward the row where your friend is already seated, setting your bag down with an eager bounce in your step.
“Dude,” you start, flipping open your laptop with a flourish, “remember that book I told you about a few weeks back?” Your friend raises a brow. “The one from that super niche book guide you were raving about?”
“The very same one,” you confirm, barely able to contain your excitement. “I finally finished it, and oh my god, it was so good. The plot? Phenomenal. The pacing? Perfect. But you know what actually made it even better?”
You don’t notice the way Gojo hesitates just as he’s about to settle into the seat behind you. He freezes, fingers hovering above the keyboard of his laptop as his ears zero in on your conversation.
“You found another book to obsess over?” Your friend teases, but you shake your head fervently.
“No, no, listen,” you insist, your voice lowering slightly as you lean in, “someone left annotations in it.”
Satoru’s fingers twitch.
“You mean like, study notes?”
“No! Like, actual thoughts—comments, reactions, opinions. And not just boring analytical stuff, either. They were funny. Snarky. They made fun of the characters at the exact moments I wanted to. It was like reading the book with someone, you know?”
A very distinct, yet invisible, sense of dread creeps into Gojo’s chest.
Oh. Oh, shit. The annotations. He had completely forgotten about those. He had scrawled them in the margins ages ago—mostly on a whim, partly out of boredom, and entirely because he physically could not read a book in silence. If there was one thing Gojo Satoru was incapable of, it was shutting the fuck up, even when he was the only audience for his own commentary. So, naturally, when he had found himself enjoying the book way more than expected, he had started treating it like a private conversation with himself, writing down whatever thoughts came to mind.
He never expected anyone to see them. And now, sitting barely a foot away, he’s listening to you—of all people—excitedly gush about his stupid little scribbles, completely oblivious to the fact that the person you were praising, the one whose humor you found entertaining and whose insights you had agreed with, was him. He schools his expression, keeping his head tilted just enough to appear disinterested. But his ears are wide open.
“Whoever wrote those notes,” you continue, flipping your pen between your fingers, “had some serious opinions. And honestly? I kind of love them. Like, I think we have the same brain.”
Satoru presses his lips together, biting back a grin.
You? Agreeing with him? That was new.
Your friend hums. “So you’re basically having a book club with some anonymous person who read it before you?” You chuckle. “I mean… kinda? It’s weird, but it’s nice in a way. Like, usually when I read, it’s just me and the book. But with the annotations, it’s like there’s this extra layer of interaction. I get to see how someone else processed the story, how they reacted to the same moments I did.”
Satoru knows he should stop listening. He should. But he doesn’t.
Because something about this whole situation—the fact that you, of all people, had unknowingly connected with him through a book—has him equal parts amused and intrigued. You, who always huffed when he teased you. You, who rolled your eyes at his antics, who made a point to ignore him even though he knew you were hyper-aware of his presence.
You had spent nights poring over words he had written in passing. And you had liked them. God, if you knew, you’d probably strangle him on the spot.
“I actually wanna see if this person has read the rest of the series,” you muse, mostly to yourself. “Like, maybe they annotated other books too.”
Satoru exhales through his nose, staring at his laptop screen but not actually registering anything on it. Well. This was going to be interesting.
–
You make your way to the library once again, the first book of the series clutched in your hands, ready to be returned. It feels weird, parting with it. As if you’re saying goodbye to something that had, for the past week, been a quiet companion during your late-night reading sessions. But not to worry, there’s still like five more books in the series. Your steps slow slightly as you approach the return counter, fingers absently reaching into your bag’s open pocket for a pen. Without much thought, you flip open the book and scrawl the date of return onto the inside of the back cover, where the borrowing card is located. Your thumb absentmindedly drags across the faded blue ink of the initials scrawled in the row above where you’ve signed your name.
G.S.
Whoever they were, they had made your reading experience infinitely better with their wry, sarcastic observations and strangely thoughtful insights. It was like reading alongside a particularly sharp-witted friend—one who, frustratingly, was just out of reach. You’re lost in thought, mulling over the mystery of G.S., when you abruptly walk straight into something firm and unmoving. And warm.
Something that smells like sandalwood and fresh linen and something inexplicably, irritatingly familiar.
You barely have time to stagger back before a voice—deep, lazy, and dripping with its usual brand of smugness—drawls, “My, my, pretending to walk around with your nose in a book so people think you’re more studious than you actually are?”
Your stomach sinks. You do not have the patience for this right now.
“Fuck off, Satoru,” you mutter, not even looking at him as you try to sidestep. Predictably, he moves right in front of you again, blocking your path with that insufferable ease of his. Hands in the pockets of his impeccably tailored slacks, sleeves of a stupidly expensive cashmere sweater pushed up to reveal the sharp line of his wrists and veiny forearms, and his ever-present glasses glinting under the dim library lights—he looks as if he owns the place.
His head tilts, white hair falling slightly over his frames as he glances down at the book in your hands. That smile—all teeth and smugness—spreads across his face like he’s caught you in something scandalous.
“Oh? Reading a book that isn’t course-related? Scandalous. What happened, got bored of being a try-hard? Or are you just begging to score lower than me on the final?” He exhales dramatically, shaking his head. “Tsk, tsk. Not that I’d expect you to actually be on my level, but it’s cute that you try—”
You stop listening after that. Normally, you’d throw something equally sharp-tongued back at him, tell him to go get hit by a bus or something equally creative, but you’re too drained to bother. The exhaustion from back-to-back lectures, plus the fact that you haven’t eaten anything substantial today, has dulled the sharp edges of your patience. A dull ache pounds at the base of your skull, and every word out of his mouth makes it throb even harder. Your expression must give away more than you intend because, for a split second, Gojo falters.
It’s quick—barely there. But you see it.
A flicker of something almost resembling concern flashes behind his glasses, like he’s actually noticed how drained you look. The moment is gone before you can process it. His usual smug expression slides right back into place, and you don’t have the energy to care.
“I need to return this,” you say flatly. “Get out of my way.”
Instead of stepping aside like a normal person, he falls into step beside you, hands still lazily stuffed in his pockets. “Oh? So now you acknowledge my presence,” he muses, voice light. “What, you didn’t miss me in class today? I even waited for you to roll your eyes at me like you do every morning. Felt almost lonely without it.”
“I genuinely do not care,” you reply without looking at him. He presses a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Ouch. Someone’s moody today. Low blood sugar? On your period? Brain finally given up trying to keep up with mine?”
You don’t dignify that with a response, instead sliding the book into the return pile with a little more force than necessary. Gojo watches, his gaze flickering between you and the book.
“What book were you returning, anyway?” The question is so casual, so offhanded, that you almost don’t clock it as strange. Almost. You narrow your eyes at him. “Didn’t take you for someone interested in my life.”
His lips curl into something unbearably smug. “Oh, I’m not.” He rocks back on his heels, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I just like knowing what my rival is up to outside of class. You know, studying your weaknesses. Gathering intel. The usual.”
You stare at him. “You are so full of shit.”
“I really am,” he agrees cheerfully. You exhale through your nose, patience wearing thinner by the second. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere being a general public nuisance?”
“This is me being a general public nuisance.” He grins. “And you’re the lucky victim of the day.”
“God, I hate you.”
“Aww, that’s cute. But you should be honest with yourself,” he says, following you as you make your way toward the exit. “I think you’d miss me if I suddenly disappeared.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You so would.”
“I would thrive in your absence.”
Gojo makes an exaggerated show of wiping away an imaginary tear. “How cruel. And here I was, thinking we had something special.”
You push open the library doors, stepping out into the crisp afternoon air. Finally, freedom. But, of course, Gojo keeps following you.
“…Why are you still here?” you ask, tiredly. He hums. “Dunno. Walking this way.”
“You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “A mystery. How exciting.” You consider throwing your bag at him. You settle for walking faster. You quicken your pace, hoping Gojo will get bored and wander off. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He easily keeps up with you, long legs making it effortless, his stupid grin never fading.
“Walking faster won’t shake me, you know,” he muses, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you enjoy my company.” You don’t bother responding, gripping the strap of your bag tighter and staring straight ahead. He walks backward in front of you, head tilted, watching you with an almost lazy amusement. “So, where are you going? Café? Student lounge? Maybe a secret nerd meeting where you all discuss the best highlighters for maximum efficiency?”
You give him a deadpan look. “Yes, Satoru. That’s exactly what I’m doing. We’re all going to sit in a circle and ritually sharpen our pencils while whispering incantations about final exams.” He gasps dramatically. “I knew it. I bet you have a shrine dedicated to good grades too. And, like, a little altar where you sacrifice people who get higher scores than you—”
“I don’t need to sacrifice anyone,” you cut in, dryly. “Because I get the highest scores.” His grin widens. “Not all of them.”
You bristle, and he knows it. You both know that you and Gojo have been locked in a constant academic battle since the semester started. It’s maddening how often you end up in the top two spots. Even more maddening that he acts like he doesn’t even try. You exhale slowly, trying to focus on literally anything else. “I’m going to get food. Why don’t you go fuck off somewhere, like, I don’t know, ruin someone else’s day?”
“You wound me with such crass language,” he says, clutching his chest like you physically struck him. “I’m just being a good friend.”
“You’re not my friend.”
“Wow.” He sighs dramatically, as if genuinely offended. “All this time we’ve spent together, and you still call us enemies? I’d like to think of us more as… frenemies.”
“I would like to think of us as strangers.”
“And yet,” he says, smirking, “you still talk to me.”
You roll your eyes. “Only because you won’t shut up.”
Gojo shrugs. “Details.”
By now, you’ve reached the campus café. The smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries drifts through the air, making your stomach growl embarrassingly loud. You knew skipping lunch was a bad idea. Gojo hears it, of course.
“Oh?” His eyebrows lift, delighted. “Was that your stomach? Should I be worried? Are you dying of starvation? Is this how our rivalry ends?” You ignore him and step inside. The café is buzzing with students, some hunched over laptops, others chatting over coffee. You head straight for the counter, scanning the menu, debating if you should just get something quick and easy or actually sit down for a meal. Gojo, uninvited, leans casually against the counter beside you.
“Getting a drink too?” he asks, peering over your shoulder.
“Why do you care?”
“Maybe I wanna know what fuels my biggest competition,” he says, tone exaggeratedly thoughtful. “What’s the secret? Triple shot espresso? Pure willpower? The tears of your academic rivals?” You give him a look. “You’re projecting. You probably run on the suffering of others.”
“Obviously,” he says easily. “But I like to mix in a little sugar sometimes. Keeps me balanced and shit.” You’re about to tell him to go bother someone else when the barista glances up. “Next?” You quickly place your order. Just as you’re about to pull out your wallet, Gojo’s voice rings out:
“I’ve got it.”
Your head snaps toward him. “What.”
“I’m paying.” You stare at him, genuinely baffled. “Why?”
He grins. “Because I’m so generous, obviously.” You narrow your eyes. “No, really. What’s the catch?”
He puts a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You think I’d trick you? I’m hurt.”
“Yes.”
Gojo just laughs and hands his card to the barista before you can argue further. You glare at him. “This better not be some elaborate scheme to hold this over my head later.”
“Oh, it definitely is,” he says cheerfully. “I plan to bring it up all the time.”
“Of course you do.” Your drink– tea to be specific– is ready a moment later. Begrudgingly, you take it, mumbling, “Thanks.” Gojo gasps, eyes wide. “Did you just thank me?” You exhale. “Never mind. I take it back.”
“No, no, it’s too late, you already said it.” He grins. “You like me.”
“I hate you.”
“You adore me.”
“I tolerate you at best.” Gojo sips his drink, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “That’s basically the same thing.” You groan and turn to leave.
Thankfully he doesn’t make the move to follow you this time.
–
Your… somewhat friendly interaction with Sa—No, Gojo—was forgotten by the time the next week rolled around. Not deliberately, of course. But between your physics assignments, math problem sets, and an unrelenting pile of lecture notes to review, your brain had simply discarded the memory. College had a way of pushing everything that wasn’t directly necessary for survival to the furthest corners of your mind. Currently, you were in the library, hunched over a thick textbook, your fingers curled into your hair as you skimmed the same paragraph for what felt like the tenth time. Nothing was sticking.
You groaned, tilting your head back against the chair and letting your gaze drift to the high ceilings of the study space. It was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages and the rhythmic clicking of laptop keys. Your physics notes sat in front of you, covered in a desperate sprawl of formulas and diagrams, but the more you stared, the more meaningless the symbols became. You needed a break. Your eyes flickered toward the fiction section.
It wouldn’t hurt to get another book.
A moment later, you were standing in front of the shelves, fingers tracing the spines as you searched for the second book in the series. It didn’t take long to find—it was positioned neatly with the rest of the series, the cover slightly fading due to how long it had probably been there. As you turned to leave, your thumb brushed against the inside cover, where the borrowing card was located.
And there, scrawled in the same faded blue ink as before, were the initials:
G.S.
You paused. Your mystery commentator had been here before you. Again. You traced the letters absentmindedly, your mind flickering back to the first book. Their annotations had been witty, sometimes mocking, but always sharp. You had enjoyed them—more than you expected.
You flipped to the borrowing card. G.S. had checked out this book multiple times. At least three dates next to their initials. A strange feeling settled in your chest. Who were they? You shook your head, pushing the thought aside as you made your way to the borrowing counter. It doesn’t matter. It’s just some random person. Still, as you returned to your study space, setting the book beside your untouched notes, your fingers itched to open it.
You tried—really tried—to focus on physics. For maybe ten minutes. Then, with a sigh, you slid your textbook aside and cracked open the novel. This one picked up right where the last had left off—the protagonist, an ambitious scholar, now forced into an uneasy alliance with a rogue historian, both of them hunting for a long-lost manuscript said to contain the secrets of the universe. Their journey took them through ancient libraries, shadowy alleyways, and grand halls of academia filled with intrigue and suspense that you thoroughly enjoyed.
It wasn’t long before you noticed the annotations.
"What an idiot. Why would you trust someone who literally betrayed you three chapters ago?" You huffed a quiet laugh. It was scrawled in the margins of a tense conversation between the protagonist and the historian, who had indeed been suspiciously untrustworthy.
Another note, a few pages later: "This argument is painfully dumb. If they just communicated, we wouldn’t need three more chapters of tension." You found yourself smiling. Whoever this was, they were blunt, maybe a bit cynical, but entertaining.
Then, another annotation caught your attention—this one different. It was scribbled beside a passage where the protagonist was deciphering an ancient mathematical equation, trying to understand the patterns behind the manuscript’s code. The handwriting was just as casual, but the content—
"This is basically just Fourier analysis but dressed up in fancy old-world academia. If the author actually wanted to be accurate, they’d at least mention waveforms. But nooo, we get poetic nonsense instead."
You blinked. That was… oddly specific. And not the kind of thing your average literature enthusiast would comment on. For a fleeting second, you wondered—
Does G.S. study physics?
The thought was strange, lingering in the back of your mind even as you continued reading. Minutes turned into hours. Slowly, students trickled out of the library. The rustling of papers faded, the soft murmur of whispered conversations disappearing into the silence of the near-empty study space. You didn’t notice.
Not until the overhead lights dimmed slightly, signaling that the library was closing soon. With a sigh, you shut the book, stretching your stiff limbs. Physics could wait a little longer.
–
A few days later, you found yourself in yet another grueling lecture. The classroom was buzzing with low chatter as students filtered in, some sleep-deprived, some over-caffeinated, and most looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. You were somewhere in the middle—tired but functional, flipping through your notes with half-hearted interest as you tried to prepare yourself for another two-hour session of mathematical physics. You adjusted your laptop screen, took a sip of your tea, and just as you settled in, you felt a presence.
A familiar, irritating presence.
“Morning, rival,” Gojo Satoru said cheerfully, dropping into the seat next to you with all the grace of an avalanche. You didn’t even look up. “Go away.”
He tsked. “Is that any way to greet your favorite classmate?”
“You’re not my favorite classmate.” He grinned, propping his chin on one hand.
“Don’t lie. You’d miss me if I wasn’t here to make class interesting.”
You ignored him, resolutely staring at your notes. The professor arrived a moment later, quickly settling into the day’s topic—wave equations and their applications. The discussion meandered through standard examples, Fourier transforms, and the different methods used to break down complex waveforms.
You barely registered the name of the theory—just a fleeting recognition of something familiar—before you were back to jotting down notes. At first, you were focused, diligently taking notes and absorbing the information. For the first thirty minutes, you managed to avoid paying him any attention. You scribbled down notes, underlined important formulas, and even managed to listen without feeling the urge to slam your head into the desk.
But then—of course—Gojo had to open his mouth.
“So, hypothetically,” he mused, voice carrying just enough to be heard by the surrounding students, “if we were to apply this to a broader model, say… nonlinear oscillations, wouldn’t that mean—”
You immediately frowned. He was already trying to sound smarter than he was.
“That’s not how that works,” you cut in before the professor could even acknowledge him. Gojo turned to you, looking far too entertained. “Yeah, it is.”
“No, it isn’t.” You shifted in your seat, twisting to face him fully. “You can’t just apply Fourier analysis wherever you want and expect the results to be useful. Nonlinear oscillations don’t break down the same way because of the introduction of chaotic behavior—”
“Oh, come on,” Gojo scoffed, waving a hand. “It’s not that deep. Sure, chaotic elements make things messier, but that doesn’t mean the framework is useless.”
You let out a sharp breath. “It means the entire assumption of the analysis changes. You can’t approximate a nonlinear system with linear components and expect the results to hold up—”
“You can if you use a perturbative approach,” he countered smoothly.
You almost growled. “A perturbative approach only works when the nonlinear term is small relative to the linear system. If the nonlinearities dominate, your entire model collapses.”
“Not always,” Gojo shot back, shifting in his seat with that insufferable smirk. “It depends on how well you construct the higher-order terms—”
You threw your hands up. “At that point, you might as well scrap Fourier analysis entirely and just use a different decomposition method!” A few students had stopped taking notes. Some were watching out of curiosity; others, out of sheer amusement.
Gojo, completely unbothered, shrugged. “But that wasn’t the question, was it? The point is that Fourier methods can still be useful, even if the system isn’t perfectly linear—”
You gritted your teeth. “Useful doesn’t mean accurate, dumbass.” Gojo gasped dramatically. “Did you just call me a dumbass? Right here? In front of our professor?”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you stopped saying objectively incorrect things—”
“Oh, please,” he drawled, leaning back in his seat. “You’re just mad because I’m right.”
Your jaw clenched. “You’re not right.”
“I am right.”
“No, you’re—”
A loud cough. You both froze. Slowly, you turned toward the front of the room, where the professor was staring at you both, unamused.
"Would you two care to bring your literary debate outside of my physics class?" You swallowed. Gojo scratched the back of his neck, looking entirely unbothered.
"...No, sir."
"Good," the professor said flatly. "Then kindly stop interrupting the lesson." You resisted the urge to sink into your chair. Gojo, of course, had the audacity to look amused. As the lecture resumed, you shot him a glare.
"This is your fault."
He winked. You swore you were going to strangle him one day. As soon as class ended, you were out of your seat, shoving your laptop into your bag with slightly more force than necessary. Behind you, Gojo was taking his sweet time, stretching like he hadn’t just spent the past two hours actively making your life worse. “Man,” he sighed dramatically. “That was a great discussion, don’t you think? Nothing like a little intellectual sparring to keep the brain sharp—”
You spun around so fast he almost bumped into you. “Discussion?” you repeated incredulously. “That wasn’t a discussion, that was you talking out of your ass like usual.”
Gojo placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Wow. You wound me. You know, I feel like I say that phrase a lot. Would you prefer it if I said thee painfully wrench mine own heart with such careless words–”
You rolled your eyes and stormed out of the lecture hall, weaving through the crowd of students. Of course he followed, long strides easily keeping pace with yours. “I’m just saying,” he continued, completely ignoring your clear irritation, “it’s kind of funny how you always shoot me down but never actually prove me wrong—”
Your jaw clenched. “I do prove you wrong. Every time.”
He smirked. “Do you, though?”
“Yes!” You turned on your heel, walking backward so you could glare at him properly. “Just because you talk like you know everything doesn’t mean you actually do—”
Gojo’s smirk widened. “So you do think I sound smart.” Your eye twitched.
“That’s not what I said.”
“Sounds like that’s what you said.”
“Go kill yourself.”
“Only if you join me, sweets.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Why, you don’t like being called sweets?–”
You groaned, turning back around and quickening your pace. You weren’t going to stand here and let him twist your words into whatever self-indulgent nonsense was brewing in his head. Gojo, naturally, kept up with ease. “You know, it’s weird how you always get so mad at me. Maybe you should work on that anger problem of yours.”
“Oh, I have an anger problem?” You spun around again, narrowing your eyes. “You’re literally the most aggravating person I’ve ever met.”
“Really?” He tilted his head in mock thought. “I dunno, you seem to get pretty riled up over nothing—”
“You are nothing.”
Gojo laughed, the sound bright and infuriatingly genuine. “Damn, that was actually kinda good. You been practicing comebacks in the mirror?”
“Leave me alone, for the love of god, before I strangle you, bastard–”
“Oooh, kinky–.”
Before you could actually commit violence, someone stepped between you. “Alright, enough,” a smooth, tired voice interrupted. You looked up to see Suguru Geto, Gojo’s ever-patient best friend, standing between you with the exasperation of a man who had dealt with this before.
“Satoru,” he said, dragging a hand down his face, “leave her alone.”
Gojo pouted. “But we were bonding.”
“We were not bonding,” you snapped. Suguru gave you a knowing look. “And you,” he sighed, “stop encouraging him.”
You scoffed. “Encouraging him? I—”
A hand suddenly clamped down on your shoulder. You glanced up to see your own friend standing beside you, looking just as exasperated as Suguru. “Come on,” she muttered, tugging you away. “We’re going to lunch before you actually try to kill him.” You didn’t resist, only because the temptation was strong. But as you turned to leave, you caught a glimpse of Gojo flashing that stupid, insufferable grin at you.
You stuck your tongue out at him. Gojo only winked again in response. Why did he keep winking at you? It made you wanna puke. You definitely needed lunch. Maybe something very, very spicy.
–
You're sitting in your dorm again, cross-legged on your bed, laptop open in front of you, but your mind is elsewhere. The textbooks and notes are pushed to the side of your desk, proof that at some point you had every intention of being productive tonight. A third empty cup of tea is perched precariously on your nightstand, and the finished second and third books of the series stacked besides your laptop.
It had been a slow burn, working your way through them between lectures and study sessions, but now, the empty feeling of finishing a book you enjoyed is settling in. Worse yet, it's late at night, which means you can't borrow the fourth book until tomorrow. The thought alone makes you sigh as you shut your laptop and flop back against the pillows.
You flipped open the third book, fingers brushing over the slightly worn borrowing card tucked inside. The neat, slanted initials ‘G.S.’ were there again, written in blue ink. And just like before, the pages had been marked with the same sharp, and sometimes frustratingly perceptive annotations that had made you laugh, scoff, and even—on some particularly well-argued points—begrudgingly nod along. Your mind drifts, replaying some of your favorite annotations from the books.
There was the one where G.S. had written, "Oh, he's totally gonna betray them," followed by a later note that read, "I CALLED IT. WHERE’S MY PRIZE?" That one had made you laugh out loud in the middle of the library, earning a few disapproving stares. Another one of your other favorites from the third book had been an annotation scrawled in the margins of a pivotal scene:
“The irony of this moment is almost painful. She sees herself as the heroine, but the real tragedy is that she’s just another character in someone else’s story.”
You had reread that line about five times before closing the book and staring at the ceiling, feeling somewhat existential. Another annotation had been pure sarcasm:
“Yes, because when faced with adversity, the best solution is always to run directly into danger. Genius.” That one had also made you laugh out loud in one of the study halls located in some part of your university, earning a weird look from the girl across the hall. But the annotation that had really stuck with you—really made you pause—was in the third book, written in response to a section that delved into the intricacies of time and choice:
“If you think about it, this entire dilemma can be broken down into a fundamental question of physics. If time is just another dimension, then isn’t every choice we make just another coordinate on an already-existing map? So is it really ‘free will’ if we’re just tracing a path that’s already there?”
That one had thrown you for a loop. It was the kind of thought that lingered, weaving its way into quiet moments when you least expected it. And, you hated to admit, it made you think—whoever this person was, they were kind of brilliant.You sighed, snapping the book shut. You needed to get the fourth one. Now. But a quick glance at your phone reminded you that it was almost midnight, and the library had closed hours ago. You groaned, letting your head submerge deeper into the pillows. You grabbed your phone, scrolling mindlessly, until your eyes flicked to the messages her friend had sent earlier—recommendations for movies she’d been meaning to watch. You scrolled absentmindedly, not really expecting to find anything interesting, until your thumb hovered over one title:
Whisper of the Heart.
Something about the name tugged at your memory. Wasn’t this the one with the girl who loved books and a mysterious boy who shared them? On a whim, you pressed play. The soft hum of the opening scene filled the quiet of her dorm, and soon, you were drawn in. The gentle storytelling, the warmth of the animation, the way the main character, Shizuku, slowly became obsessed with the name written in all the books she borrowed—
Oh. Oh, shit.
Your face grew hot as you sat up straighter, eyes darting to the books stacked beside you. You weren't doing that. Right?
…Were you? Because if you really thought about it—if you really thought about it—weren’t you kind of doing the same thing? You buried your face in your hands. This is so embarrassing. And yet, as you peeked between her fingers at the screen, you couldn’t help but draw the comparison between Seiji Amasawa and your mysterious, faceless G.S. Seiji had been intriguing, a presence felt long before he actually appeared. Just a name scribbled in books, a person she hadn’t met yet but somehow felt connected to. And wasn’t that exactly what G.S. was?
You groaned, flopping back onto your bed, kicking your feet against the mattress. “I need to stop,” you mumbled into your pillow, but your shoulders shook with barely contained laughter. It was stupid. This whole thing was stupid. You didn’t even know this person. For all you knew, G.S. could be some forty-year-old professor or a girl who just happened to find the same series as you on the niche book guide you were on. And yet, there was this tiny, ridiculous, completely unserious part of you that wanted to believe—
What if it was some guy? A guy with sharp wit, someone who thought deeply about things most people glossed over, someone who liked this series enough to leave behind thoughts for others to find. A guy who— No. Nope. Nope. You were not about to mentally script herself into some shoujo romance anime over marginalia.
But the damage was done. Because now, your brain had latched onto the idea, spinning daydreams faster than you could stop them. Some dramatic, cinematic first meeting. Some passing moment where you’d reach for a book, and a hand—slender fingers, ink-stained maybe—would brush against yours, and you’d look up and—
You shot up again, shaking your head violently. God, this is pathetic. But even as you scolded herself, you couldn’t wipe the stupid little smile off your face. You were allowed to have a little fun, right? Just a tiny bit of harmless romanticising? You collapsed back into the pillows, eyes drifting back to the ceiling as the movie played on. And as Shizuku’s voice echoed through the room, musing about stories, destiny, and the people we stumble upon by chance, you thought—just for a second—Maybe, maybe, you kind of liked this. The idea of it all. The way life sometimes felt like a story waiting to unfold. Maybe it’s silly, maybe it’s unrealistic—but right now, in the quiet of your dorm, with the soft glow of your laptop screen and the remnants of Whisper of the Heart playing in the background, you don’t really care.
–
Satoru Gojo had always been considered a prodigy. A genius. Someone born with an innate brilliance that set him apart from others. It had been that way since he was a child—where other kids had to struggle and study, he breezed through school without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t just academics, either. He was quick-witted, sharp, and effortlessly charming in a way that made people gravitate toward him. But when you grow up with everyone expecting greatness from you, it becomes suffocating.
So he learned to play the fool.
It started as a mask—being overly cheery, always teasing, never taking things too seriously. It was easier that way. No one could see the weight of expectations if he always had a grin on his face. And at some point, the mask became second nature. Satoru Gojo, the carefree, insufferable genius. The only person he could ever drop it around was Suguru. His best friend, the one person who could keep up with him, who understood what it meant to carry something too heavy to put into words. Then, freshman year of university, he saw you.
He had noticed you before—how could he not? You were diligent, meticulous in a way that fascinated him. You always sat at the front of the class, always had color-coded notes, always took everything so seriously. And maybe that was what caught his attention first. You were everything he wasn’t. Where he coasted through life, you worked hard for it. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t quite know how to communicate with someone. So he did what he always did. He teased.
“The perpendicular components of a vector are independent of each other,” you’d answered smoothly, sitting up a little straighter as you prepared to elaborate. “That’s why we can analyse them separately using—”
“Ohhh, wow,” he cut in, voice dripping with mock wonder. “Look at that. We got a genius in the house.” He had meant it playfully. A joke. But the way your expression hardened, the way your eyes flickered with irritation, made something click in his brain. You didn’t like him. And yet, he couldn’t stop teasing you. Even when he knew it annoyed you, even when he knew you hated him. Maybe it was because you challenged him. Maybe it was because, for once, someone didn’t look at him like he was untouchable. Or maybe it was because he liked you.
Not just because you were pretty—though you were, infuriatingly so—but because you were determined. Because you cared about things deeply. Because you fascinated him in a way nothing else did. He found himself watching you more often than he cared to admit. The way you bit your lip when you were concentrating, the way your eyes lit up when you finally understood something, the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you were nervous when results came out. It was all so... endearing.
And maybe that’s why he finds himself watching you sometimes—when you’re scribbling furiously in your notebook, when you’re biting the end of your pen in deep thought, when you’re rolling your eyes at something he says but still, still responding. He watches, because for the first time, someone makes him want to understand more than just equations and theories. And if the only way to keep your attention was by being your rival, then so be it.
–
The next morning, you had a practical class, a hands-on session designed to reinforce the theory you’d been learning. Since it was held in a laboratory, students were sorted into small groups to share lab tables. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it—you weren’t grouped with Satoru, but by some cruel twist of fate, his group was at the same table as yours. The setup was simple: four students per group, two groups per table.
A long, clean expanse of black lab benches stretched across the room, each one covered with neatly arranged equipment: a set of metal ramps, photogates, a timer, and a set of small carts. Today’s experiment was a classic: measuring acceleration using a motion sensor. Each group was supposed to release a cart down a ramp and use the photogates to measure velocity changes over time. Simple, right? Satoru, of course, had already started causing trouble before the experiment even began.
“You know, it’s kinda unfair that I wasn’t put in your group,” he mused, leaning against the lab bench with a smirk. “Would’ve been fun watching you pretend to know more than me.” You didn’t even look up as you adjusted the height of the ramp, focusing on making sure it was aligned properly. “Oh please, Gojo, you would’ve just copied all my calculations and then taken credit for my hard work.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, feigning offense. “I’d let you take, like, fifty percent of the credit.” Your lab partner snorted beside you, shaking their head as they double-checked the photogate placement. Satoru, undeterred, watched as you bent over to place the cart at the starting position. His group was still setting up, which meant he had time to bother you before he actually had to do any work.
“I bet my group’s results will be more accurate than yours,” he declared. You rolled your eyes, finally sparing him a glance. “You do know accuracy depends on precision and minimising errors, right? Which means—” you motioned to his group, where one of them was currently struggling with the timer, “—your chances of that happening are slim to none.”
Before he could retort, your professor called for everyone’s attention, signalling the start of the experiment. Both of you fell into your respective tasks, measuring, calculating, and recording values with practiced ease. You got so caught up in fine-tuning your results that Satoru didn’t get the chance to throw more taunts your way. That was until, while waiting for your next trial to begin, you turned to your friend beside you, excitement bubbling over.
“Oh my god, I finally watched Whisper of the Heart last night,” you gushed, voice dropping into that high-pitched, dreamy tone reserved for things you were completely obsessed with. Your friend gasped, clutching your arm. “Stop. You did not.”
“I did.”
“DID YOU CRY?”
“OBVIOUSLY.”
Satoru, who had been focused on adjusting his group’s ramp, stilled slightly. He knew that movie. More than that, he could predict exactly why you were talking about it. Casually, he glanced over, pretending to check his photogate readings while shamelessly eavesdropping. Your friend squeezed your arm excitedly. “I told you it was perfect. The vibes, the music, the slow-burn romance. Tell me you loved Seiji.”
“Oh, I loved Seiji,” you sighed, eyes sparkling. “Like, the way he was so ambitious but still so soft? And the way he believed in her? And the fact that he left little signs for her without even realizing how much they’d mean?” You could feel yourself getting lost in the emotions of it, and your friend was right there with you, nodding along enthusiastically. “It was so romantic,” she said dreamily. “The idea of someone quietly believing in you and pushing you forward. It’s just—”
“SO good,” you finished for her, and the two of you squealed quietly before catching yourselves and trying to focus again. Then, almost absentmindedly, you added, “Honestly, I feel like I’m in Whisper of the Heart right now.” Your friend perked up. “How so?”
You nudged her lightly. “Because of G.S.”
Satoru, who had been handling the cart for his next trial, fumbled slightly. Your friend’s eyes widened knowingly. “No way. You mean your G.S.?”
You groaned. “Don’t call him that. But yeah. The whole leaving-annotations-in-the-books thing? And how I keep borrowing them? It’s totally giving Seiji and Shizuku. Like yeah I kinda sound corny right now–”
“Not really honestly, I get it–”
“Exactly! See? I knew I wasn’t crazy. Imagine G.S is like Seiji– scratch that, imagine he’s better, like some sweet, studious, hot book nerd–”
Satoru swallowed, suddenly feeling warm despite the sterile chill of the lab. You thought he was like Seiji? More than that, you thought G.S could perhaps even be better than Seiji? That was—that was something.
“And next week,” you continued, stretching your arms over your head, “after I finish studying, I’m going to borrow the next book.”
Satoru barely heard the rest of the conversation after that. His brain had latched onto one horrifying realisation—
The last four books weren’t annotated. Oh, shit. He hadn’t really expected you to grow this attached to his stupid thoughts scribbled on the edges of the frayed pages, hadn’t expected you to burn through the series so fast. He completely forgot that he didn’t bother annotating the last few books because he had gotten so busy with work. But you had just sat there, eyes sparkling, gushing about his notes like they were some grand romantic mystery. You liked them. You liked his words. Not just the books themselves but the tiny, scribbled thoughts he had left behind. Satoru’s stomach did a weird little flip. It seemed to be doing that a lot every time his nosy ass overheard you talking about his writing.
You really liked his writing. The writing you’d been gushing for about two weeks now. You really found it special. You liked it so much that the thought of continuing the series without it made his chest ache. Because what if you borrowed the next one and found nothing? What if you flipped through the pages, searching for his voice, only to be disappointed? No. No way. That wasn’t happening. Initially he had done it as a way to, y’know, simply yap, maybe desecrate the pages of a book from a library with his oh so superior commentary. But now? He was going to do this for you. Because the way you had talked about Whisper of the Heart—the way your face had gone soft and dreamy, the way your voice had gotten all excited—he wanted that. He wanted to hear you talk about how much you enjoyed the little quips that made their way into his head every time he read something. He wanted to be the reason you spoke like that again. Maybe it was pathetic, but he wanted– really wanted to once again be the reason why your cheeks slightly went pink when your friend called him yours. Even if they were his initials, they were his, and it insinuated he belonged to you, right?
The second class ended, Satoru bolted. There was no time to waste. He had four books to annotate, and he didn’t care if it took him all night. If you wanted G.S., then G.S. was going to be there.
–
Satoru burst into his dorm, heart pounding as he dumped his bag onto the floor. His fingers fumbled with the zipper as he yanked it open, pulling out the four books you were inevitably going to borrow next. He stacked them on his desk, staring at them like they were some kind of urgent mission—because they were. You liked his notes. You liked his notes. That thought alone sent a weird, warm feeling blooming in his chest. He flopped into his chair, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled sharply. This wasn’t just about keeping up the act anymore. It wasn’t about maintaining the mystery of G.S. or feeding into some casual curiosity you had. No, this was about you. About the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the books. The way you had called him—unknowingly, of course—your own Seiji. The way you were so excited to continue the series, fully expecting to find more of his little thoughts nestled between the pages. He wasn’t going to let you down.
Satoru grabbed the first book off the stack and flipped it open, his pen poised over the margins. He scribbled his initials in the borrowing card in the same blue ink that he always used– he always thought the blueness of the ink was much better than any other pen colour out there. Before he started reading, he did this in all the library cards, and made sure that the date corresponded to the previous dates– so you wouldn’t think it was suspicious that the last remaining books were all borrowed on the same day. He then started reading—not just skimming, but really reading, more carefully than he ever had before. Thankfully he did remember the plot of the first three books, so catching up with what was going on wasn’t too hard. Every sentence was weighed, every line considered. What would make you pause? What would make you smile?
When he hit a particularly poetic passage, he underlined it and wrote in the margin: Bet whoever is reading this– I just know this made your heart do that stupid fluttery thing.
He smirked to himself. If only you knew.
A few pages later, he found a scene with the protagonist staring out a train window, deep in thought. The description was vivid, full of melancholic longing. He tapped the pen against his lips before jotting down: Ever feel like this? Just existing, watching life happen? He could already imagine you reading it, tilting your head slightly, considering his words. Would you reply in your head? Would you wonder what kind of person wrote something like that? The thought of it sent a thrill through him, and he leaned in closer, more invested than ever. Hours passed, but he barely noticed. The desk lamp cast a warm glow over the pages as he worked, annotating with a mix of teasing, sincerity, and the occasional cryptic remark just to mess with you. In the fifth book of the series, there was a passage about finding comfort in routine—about how little, familiar things could feel like home. He thought back to all the times during your early morning classes, how you’d bring a steaming thermos filled with a tea of some kind, something to sip on while you reviewed the lecture slides before the professor started the lecture. The half cold tea in that same thermos, he’d seen you nursing it outside the exam hall before a midterm while your eyes furiously scanned your meticulous, colour coded notes. Satoru probably guessed that it was a habit of yours– to have a warm comforting drink while you read– lecture notes, physics textbooks, or fiction.
He hesitated for a second before writing: Hope anyone who ever reads this is reading this with a warm drink. Tea, in my opinion, is the best kind of beverage to drink while reading a book series like this.
Would you pause when you read that? Would you glance around, suddenly hyper-aware that maybe G.S knew you? That someone had been paying attention? Or maybe you’d think he’s just like you? The thought sent a rush of satisfaction through him. By the time he reached the second last book, his hand was cramping, but he didn’t care. He stretched briefly before diving back in. This one had more banter between the characters, something he knew you loved. He played into it, adding sarcastic commentary in the margins. When the heroine had a particularly dramatic internal monologue, he scribbled: Relax, you’re not in a soap opera.
And a few pages later: Actually, never mind, maybe you are.
He could already hear your reaction. The annoyed little huff, the way you’d roll your eyes but secretly love it. You always did have a tendency to refute things first, only to realise you enjoyed them later. He’d sometimes see it in the way when you’d roll your eyes or let out a disapproving noise at Satoru plainly criticising one of the professors under his breath during a lecture– but Satoru’s eyes were sharp, he never missed the smallest twitch of your lips as soon as you’d finished your melodramatics. The last book was the longest, and by then, the city outside his window had gone quiet. His dorm was dim except for the glow of his lamp, and his body was buzzing with a mix of exhaustion and excitement. He was too far in now, too absorbed in the thought of you reading all of this soon. This book had a recurring theme about missed chances—about words left unsaid and moments that could have changed everything if only someone had spoken up. It hit a little too close to home, but he didn’t let himself dwell on that. Instead, he carefully underlined a sentence: Sometimes, we don’t realise what we mean to someone until it’s too late.
Beneath it, he wrote: I hope this never applies to y̶o̶u̶ whoever is reading this.
And then– and then he wrote another little thing, but it felt a bit too intimate, a bit too revealing so he neatly crossed it out. His pen hovered over the page for a moment. That was the most honest thing he had written all night. Satoru exhaled, rubbing his eyes before sitting back, staring at the stack of books now filled with his thoughts. He had done it. You wouldn’t get a single blank page. You’d find him in every single one.
–
Satoru strolled across campus with a tote bag slung over his shoulder, weighed down by four thick novels. The books—now thoroughly marked up, pages lined with his messy scrawl—felt heavier than they should have, but maybe that was just him. He’d spent the entire night annotating them, barely stopping to eat, sleep, or think about anything that wasn’t you reading his words. Now, all he had to do was return them before you got to the library. He wasn’t about to let you see him checking them in like some lovesick idiot. He carefully managed to place them back on the shelf after scanning them as ‘unborrowed’. He was a few steps from the library doors when someone rounded the corner, and before he could react—
Bam. The collision wasn’t hard, just enough to jostle him off balance, and he barely had time to reach out and steady you before you could stumble back. “Damn, could at least pretend to watch where you’re going,” he drawled, glancing down at you with a smirk. “Or do you just like running into me?”
You scoffed, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. “Yeah, I totally planned that. Just desperate to bump into you of all people.”
“Oh, come on,” he teased, stepping aside so you could walk past him. “If you wanted an excuse to see me, you could’ve just said so.” You rolled your eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Please. I’m actually on my way to the library, unlike some people who just loiter around.”
His grip on his tote bag tightened for half a second, but he kept his expression easy, unreadable. “Library, huh?”
“Yeah,” you said, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I finished this book from a series I’m actually enjoying, so I figured I’d borrow the next one today.” You didn’t even know why you told him that, but you figured it was an improvement from the usual bickering you two always had going on. He hummed, nodding slowly. “Oh, okay. Well…” He took a step back, flashing a lazy grin. “Have fun with that.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why do you sound weird?”
“I always sound weird.”
“Yeah, but more than usual.”
Satoru shrugged. “Dunno what you’re talking about.” You stared at him suspiciously for another second before shaking your head. “Whatever.” And with that, you pushed past him, making your way toward the library doors. Satoru watched you go, fighting the smug grin threatening to take over his face. He could already picture it—the way you’d flip through the pages, expecting plain text, only to find the familiar, scrawled handwriting in the margins. He wondered if you’d smile. If you’d talk about it again the way you had in class. He shook his head to himself, finally turning away. Yeah. He was so in trouble.
–
You settled into your usual spot at the campus café, tucking yourself into the corner by the window with the newly borrowed books. Yes, books. Not a book. You figured that if there were just four more books left in the series, you’d just borrow them now, instead of continuing the annoying walk from your dorm or lecture rooms to the library. The familiar scent of aged paper and coffee beans wrapped around you, grounding you in your routine.
With your drink beside you and your phone silenced, you flipped the fourth book open, eager to dive in. You didn’t even bother to check the borrowing card this time, neither had you written your own name in it yet, heart beating a little faster as you childishly hoped that the familiar cursive scrawls were still present in the weathered pages. You had barely made it past the first few pages when your eyes caught something in the margins next to one of the more romantic lines.
Bet whoever is reading this– I just know this made your heart do that stupid fluttery thing. You blinked. Your stomach did an odd little flip, completely unprovoked. Honestly speaking, your heart did that little flip more in regards to the familiar blue handwriting rather than the line on the page. You knew exactly whose handwriting that was.
G.S. had struck again. A slow smile pulled at your lips as you traced the ink with your fingertip. You had gotten so used to these notes, the little jokes, the occasional deep thoughts, that it almost felt like a conversation now. Like you weren’t reading alone, but with someone who understood exactly what you’d linger on, what you’d pause to appreciate. And yet… something about this one felt slightly different. You glanced at the ink again. It looked a little… darker? Not as faded as some of the earlier notes in the series.
You frowned slightly but shook the thought away. Maybe it was just your imagination. You kept reading. A few pages later, the protagonist stared out of a train window, lost in thought. The description was melancholic, vivid, and all too relatable.
Ever feel like this? Just existing, watching life happen? You exhaled sharply through your nose. Yeah, you thought. All the damn time. You tapped your fingers against the table, feeling that same strange connection as before. Whoever G.S. was, they had a way of making their presence known—not just through the words they chose to underline, but in the little thoughts they left behind, the questions they posed, the moments they chose to comment on. It was like they could hear your thoughts before you even formed them, like they knew exactly where your mind would linger on the page.
The sun dipped lower outside the arched windows of the campus café, casting long shadows across the floor as golden light pooled over the tables. The afternoon crowd had begun to thin, students trickling out one by one, their conversations fading into the hum of the espresso machine and the occasional clatter of cups behind the counter. The once-busy space was quieter now, more intimate, like the world had momentarily shrunk down to just you and the book in your hands. You traced the ink of the latest annotation with your thumb, barely skimming the words but feeling them all the same. It was a strange thing—to be so affected by someone you had never even met. Had you met them? The question pressed at the edges of your mind, unspoken yet persistent. The specificity of some of these notes, the way they seemed to know you—it made your stomach flip in a way you weren’t quite sure how to name.
You glanced at the café entrance, as if expecting to see someone standing there, watching you, waiting to see your reaction. But no one lingered. Just the usual stragglers—people buried in their own work, in their own stories. Still, the feeling remained. With a quiet exhale, you pulled your focus back to the page and turned it, sinking further into the book. The story continued, but now, each annotation felt like something more. Like a conversation waiting to happen. And by the time you could hear the cicadas chirping outside, you had successfully finished the fourth book.
–
Your luck today had been astoundingly awful. The first sign was your hair—a complete disaster from the moment you woke up. Brushing it down did nothing. Water made it worse. Mousse? A grave mistake. You finally resorted to tying it up, accepting defeat. Then came the sharp pain on your forehead, a telltale sign of a forming pimple, because of course your skin had decided to betray you too. But the true betrayal came from your kettle, which, after years of faithful service, had chosen this morning to stop working. No tea. No caffeine. No hope. And now? Now, as if the universe hadn’t already tested you enough, you were seated next to Gojo Satoru, his chair pushed obnoxiously close, his long legs stretching out under the desk like he owned the place. His expression was insufferably smug, like he had personally orchestrated all of this just to get under your skin.
Have you ever mentioned that you shared more than one class with Gojo? Sure, you were both in the same physics course, but once again, your luck with picking extra subjects was nothing short of terrible. That’s how you ended up in psychology—a field that couldn’t be further from the world of physics you were so deeply immersed in. You had figured it would be a nice change, to explore a different kind of science.
Unfortunately, a certain white haired freak seemed to share the same thought process.
You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. “We’re not choosing your dumb topic.” Gojo gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Excuse you, my brilliant topic.”
“You want to write about the psychology of humor.”
“Exactly! It’s fascinating.” He grinned. “What makes something funny? Why do people laugh? Why am I so naturally hilarious?” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We’re in a psychology class, Gojo, not a stand-up workshop.”
“And yet, humor is deeply psychological.” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe if you had a better sense of humor, you’d agree with me.” You scowled. “I have a perfectly fine sense of humor.”
“Sure you do,” he teased, “in the same way a brick has mobility.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not doing a research paper on why people laugh.”
“And I’m not doing one on cognitive dissonance,” he shot back, drumming his fingers against the desk. “It’s been done to death.”
“It’s interesting,” you argued. “It actually ties into real-world behavior.”
“So does humor.” You stared him down. He stared right back, his lips curving just slightly, like he was having the time of his life getting you riled up.
A muscle in your jaw twitched. “Rock, paper, scissors?”
Gojo snorted. “What are we, five?” You held out a fist. He sighed, then did the same.
Rock, paper, scissors, shoot. Your scissors to his rock. Your eye twitched. His grin was downright gleeful. “Looks like we’re writing about humor.”
“You are insufferable.”
“I’m a visionary,” he corrected, stretching his arms behind his head. “You’ll thank me when we get a great grade.” You grumbled something under your breath, flipping open your notebook to at least try and plan the assignment. You weren’t about to let him ruin your GPA over jokes. But Gojo wasn’t looking at the notebook. He wasn’t even thinking about the project anymore. His gaze lingered on the way a few wisps of hair had escaped your ponytail, framing your face. He wasn’t used to seeing your hair tied back—it made your features more striking, somehow. It made him notice the little things, like the way your brow creased when you were annoyed, or the way your lips pursed slightly when you were trying really hard not to snap at him. And it was funny. All morning, you’d been looking at him like he was a headache, while he… well. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t kind of enjoying himself. He propped his chin in his palm, watching you jot something down in your notebook.
“You know,” he mused, “for someone who’s so against my topic, you sure do make me laugh a lot.” You shot him a suspicious look. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Gojo smirked. “Just an observation.” You scoffed. “An annoyance is not the same thing as amusement.”
“Tell that to your cognitive dissonance.” You rolled your eyes, but before you could fire back, something distracted you. A shift in the air, a fleeting scent—something clean and warm, like cedar and the lingering spice of cologne. You blinked. You didn’t know why you noticed it now, of all times, but the way he smelled was… oddly pleasant. You shook it off, focusing on your notes again. Only, now you were very aware of other things, too—like the fact that his hand, resting casually on the desk, was a lot bigger than yours. His fingers were long, his knuckles prominent, and his nails were annoyingly well-groomed for someone who clearly put zero effort into most things. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to refocus. It’s just Gojo, you told yourself. He’s just being annoying. As usual. I’m probably ovulating or something. Gojo, meanwhile, had caught the way your eyes flickered over to him, how you quickly looked away after.
He tilted his head. “Something on your mind?”
“Yeah,” you muttered, deadpan. “How fast I can finish this project so I don’t have to deal with you.” Gojo chuckled, and despite yourself, you felt the sound of it—low and amused, like he found you far too entertaining. “Oh, sweets,” Gojo drawled, his voice lilting with amusement, “no way in hell am I gonna let you finish this project fast enough to escape me. C’mon, in our three beautiful years of rivalry, you’ve never once tried to get to know me—”
“Let’s just start the project,” you cut him off, already pulling out your stationery and notebook, flipping to a fresh page with more force than necessary. You barely resisted the urge to groan at the topic glaring back at you. Humour. Ugh.
Gojo, of course, noticed immediately. He didn’t even have to try—he just always noticed things. The way your lips pressed into a thin line, how your fingers fidgeted with the cap of your pen, how your shoulders tensed slightly, like you were already resigning yourself to suffering through an assignment you hated. His smirk faded—just a little. And then, before he could think about it too hard, he sighed.
“You know what?” he said, nudging his notebook aside. “Screw it. Let’s do your topic.”
You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said, waving a hand. “Cognitive dissonance, weird little psychology experiments, all that jazz. It’s fine.”
Your eyes narrowed. “This feels like a trick.”
“Wow, you think that low of me?,” he said, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. “I am capable of compromise, you know.”
You gave him a flat look. “Since when?”
Gojo rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows propped on the desk, watching you with a lazy kind of curiosity.
“Seriously, though. If you hate my topic that much, let’s just do yours. No big deal.”
You stared at him, suspicious. Gojo Satoru? Giving up? It felt wrong.
“Wait,” you said suddenly, narrowing your eyes further. “What’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch,” he insisted, but the way he said it, all breezy and casual, made you even more suspicious.
“… You want me to owe you a favor, don’t you?”
He gasped, scandalised. “Sweets, I would never manipulate you like that.”
You scoffed. “You absolutely would.”
“Okay, yeah, I would,” he admitted easily, grinning. “But this isn’t that.”
You hesitated, drumming your fingers against the notebook. Then, you exhaled, shaking your head. “No. We’ll do humor.”
Now he was the one taken aback. “Huh?”
“I don’t want to hear you complain about how boring cognitive dissonance is for the next two weeks,” you said, scribbling down a rough outline. “And you’re actually interested in humor, so we’ll get it done faster.”
Gojo just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
“Hold on. You’re giving in?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Oh, I’m definitely making it weird.” His grin was slow, teasing, like he had just won something. “This is, like, a historic moment. I should get it framed.”
“Gojo.”
“I mean, imagine if people knew—”
“Gojo.”
“—that you actually care about my interests? That you—gasp—want to make me happy?” You kicked him under the desk.
“Ow!” He laughed, rubbing his shin. “That was uncalled for.”
“You deserved it.”
“But really,” he said, still grinning, “this is kinda nice.”
You quirked a brow. “What is?”
He shrugged, tilting his head. “Usually, we’re arguing for ourselves. This is the first time we’ve argued over, like, what’s better for the other person.” Your lips parted slightly. You hadn’t thought about it like that. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, absurdly, a little laugh slipped out of you. Just a small one, but it was enough to make Gojo’s eyes flicker with amusement. And before you knew it, he was laughing, too. It wasn’t even that funny, but somehow, the realisation of how ridiculous this entire thing had been—bickering for fifteen minutes over who should get their way only to insist on the opposite—had you both quietly shaking with laughter in the middle of the library.
“Okay, okay,” you finally said, breathless. “Let’s get this outline done before we completely fail this class.”
“I’d never fail,” Gojo said, flipping open his notebook. “I’m naturally brilliant.”
“You would if I weren’t here keeping you on track.”
He grinned. “See? You like being my partner.” You rolled your eyes, but as you both started drafting the project together, something about this—about working with him, actually working—felt… nice. And even though he was still Gojo, still distracting, still annoying, still insufferably smug, for once, he didn’t feel like an opponent. He just felt like Satoru. Not Gojo, but Satoru. Of course, the moment things got too productive, he ruined it.
“Y’know,” he mused, leaning back in his chair, “I am gonna make sure our humor project includes at least one joke at your expense.”
You deadpanned. “Then I’m making sure our references include an article on the psychological effects of annoying classmates.”
Gojo gasped. “I would love to read that.”
You smacked his arm with your notebook. And, as usual, he just laughed. You two managed to get a lot of the work done– not just a solid outline of your project, but the finer details too. Gojo suddenly shoved his chair back, standing up so abruptly that you startled. “I need to do something,” he announced, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes. You frowned, confused. “What? Where are you going?”
“Just wait here,” he said, already turning on his heel. Your brows furrowed. “Wait—what? Gojo—”
“Just wait!” he called over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway. You stared at the empty space where he had been, utterly bewildered. What the hell was that about? For a moment, you debated packing up your stuff and leaving just to be petty, but curiosity got the better of you. Huffing, you tapped your pen against your notebook, drumming your fingers impatiently. Three minutes passed. Then five. Then—
Gojo reappeared, striding back toward your table with an obnoxiously triumphant grin. In one hand, he held two drinks, in the other, a small paper bag. He set them down in front of you like he was presenting some kind of grand prize.
You stared. “... What is this?”
“Snacks,” he said, like it was obvious. “I see that,” you said, eyeing the drinks. One was clearly milk tea—yours, probably—but the other was some sugary monstrosity topped with whipped cream, which was obviously his. “But why?”
“Well, we’ve been working,” he said easily, plopping back into his seat. “Figured we deserved a break.” You blinked, then looked down at the tea again. It smelled… exactly how you usually ordered it.
Suspicion prickled at you. “Did you—did you get this on purpose?”
Gojo took a sip of his own drink, unbothered. “Yeah?”
Your eyes narrowed. “How do you even know what I drink?”
Gojo shrugged. “Dunno. Guess I just noticed that one time when I ended up paying for it.”
You paused. The thought of Gojo Satoru noticing anything about you—remembering how you liked your tea, going out of his way to get it without even asking—made your brain short-circuit for a second. You weren’t sure what to do with that information, so you just focused on unrolling the top of the pastry bag, peering inside. There were two croissants—one chocolate, one plain.
“… Okay, but the pastries?”
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I got both.” You squinted at him. “That doesn’t make any sense.” He smirked. “Sure it does. If you like chocolate, I got it right. If you don’t, more for me.” You stared at him, then at the pastries, then back at him.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head.
“Unbelievably thoughtful?” he supplied.
“Unbelievably annoying.”
Gojo grinned. “That too.” Rolling your eyes, you took the chocolate croissant anyway, breaking off a piece. The tea was still warm when you took a sip, and you hated that it was perfect—hated that Gojo Satoru of all people had somehow memorized exactly how you liked it. He propped his elbow on the table, chin resting in his hand as he watched you. “Y’know, for someone who’s been roasting me for the last five minutes, you seem to be enjoying that a lot.”
You shot him a look. “Don’t push it.” He only laughed, reaching for his own pastry. “No promises.”
–
Over the next week, you and Gojo fell into an oddly stable rhythm. It wasn’t immediate—nothing with Gojo ever was—but slowly, the sharp edges of your interactions dulled. The bickering still happened, but it felt different, less like clashing swords and more like an inside joke neither of you wanted to drop. Your study sessions were always in the same corner of the library, where Gojo insisted on pushing the limits of how far back he could tilt his chair before it inevitably crashed to the floor.
(“Gojo, if you fall and crack your head open, I’m not calling an ambulance.”
“Nah, you totally would.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Yes, you would, sweets. You like me too much to let me die like that.”)
You’d grumble and go back to your notes, but a traitorous part of you was starting to find his antics almost… endearing. Your actual progress on the project was steady. It surprised you—Gojo might’ve been infuriating, but when he actually focused, he was sharp. He had a way of cutting through useless information, pinpointing the most interesting angle on a subject, making connections you hadn’t considered. Begrudgingly, you kind of understood why he was always neck to neck with you in grades.
(“So, humor as a psychological coping mechanism?”
“Mhm.”
“And you want to include self-deprecating humor as a subsection?”
“Well, yeah,” he said, twirling a pen between his fingers. “It’s like, prime material.”
“You literally never make fun of yourself.”
“I make fun of myself all the time.”
You scoffed. “Oh, really?”
He smirked. “Yeah. I mean, look at me—six-foot-three, gorgeous, built like a god—my life is so hard, y’know?”
You stared at him. “That was not self-deprecating.”
“No?” He shrugged, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach do something weird. “Maybe I just want you to compliment me.”
You threw a balled-up piece of paper at his head.)
There were… moments. Small, fleeting things you didn’t know what to do with. Like the time your pen rolled off the table and he picked it up, spinning it between his fingers before handing it back to you, and you noticed—really noticed—how big his hands were. Or how, sometimes, when he was reading something on your laptop, he’d lean in too close, and you’d catch the faint scent of his cologne—fresh, clean, but with something warm underneath. You ignored these things. Obviously.
But then came the gym. You were only there because you needed to de-stress. The project had been long, your classes demanding, and you just wanted to move your body and clear your head. You weren’t expecting to see him there. At first, you didn’t even realize it was Gojo. You were just filling your water bottle, minding your business, when your gaze flickered to the squat rack and landed on a very tall, very shirtless figure. And then your brain short-circuited. Because it was Gojo.
And Gojo was—
Built.
Like, really built. You had known he was tall. You had known he was in shape. But knowing and seeing were two different things. His usual oversized hoodies and button-ups had hidden the fact that his entire torso was carved like a damn statue. Broad shoulders, lean muscle, a defined chest, abs for days and—
Your gaze dropped lower.
—Happy trail. Something inside you malfunctioned. Because, okay, fine, sure—objectively speaking, Gojo Satoru was attractive. You had always known that. But this? This was different. This was some kind of cruel joke. This was the universe personally handing you a vision of a half-naked Gojo and saying, Hey, enjoy struggling with this one! You were staring. Oh, god, you were staring. You needed to leave. You were about to spin on your heel and get the hell out of there, but that was when he noticed you. His gaze locked onto yours in the mirror, and something slow and amused curled across his lips.
“Yo,” he called, turning around fully now, like he knew exactly what he was doing. You were so close to pretending you hadn’t heard him, but there were only so many places to run. You forced yourself to walk over, as if this was normal, as if your brain hadn’t just imploded from seeing Gojo Satoru shirtless. “You work out?” he asked, wiping sweat off his forehead with a towel, and you hated that even that was distracting.
“Yes, Gojo, I work out,” you said flatly, crossing your arms. He grinned. “Huh. Never would’ve guessed.” You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He just shrugged, all easy confidence and knowing smirks. “You don’t exactly look like the gym type, sweets.”
“Because I don’t look like I can deadlift a hundred kilos?” you shot back.
He tilted his head. “Can you?”
“… No.”
He laughed, tossing the towel over his shoulder. “Then I rest my case.” You scowled. “You’re annoying.”
“And you’re staring,” he quipped, and your breath caught in your throat. Your face heated. “I—I am not.” His smirk deepened. “Sure you aren’t.”
You clenched your jaw, trying to school your expression into something neutral. You refused to let him know he was right. But as you turned on your heel and all but stomped to another part of the gym, you could still feel his gaze on you. And the worst part? You didn’t hate it.
The next day, you almost considered canceling your study session. Not because you were avoiding Gojo. Obviously. You were just busy. Lots of work. Essays. Big academic responsibilities. But you weren’t a coward. (And okay, fine, maybe a tiny part of you was curious to see if things would be normal again. Not that things were weird, but—well. Whatever.) When you arrived at the library, Gojo was already there, feet kicked up on the chair across from him, lazily flipping through his notes.
“Look who decided to show up,” he said without looking up. You dropped your bag onto the table with a little more force than necessary. “Shut up.” He smirked. “Feisty today, huh?” You ignored him, pulling out your laptop. “Did you actually get any work done?”
He held up a single, crumpled page.
You groaned. “Gojo.”
“Hey, hey,” he said, leaning forward, “in my defense, I was busy yesterday.” You knew exactly what he was referencing. You refused to react. Instead, you snatched the page from his hands. “We’re never finishing this at this rate.”
Gojo leaned on his hand, watching you with a lazy smile. “Maybe I just like dragging this out so I can keep seeing you.”
Your fingers twitched around your pen.
He was messing with you. Obviously. That was what he did. But it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered sometimes. Or the way your stomach dipped when he said things like that. You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to focus. “We’re getting this done today, whether you like it or not.”
“Bossy,” he murmured, still watching you. You gave him a look. And then you got to work. And as much as you hated to admit it, your study sessions with Gojo had started to feel… comfortable. It was weird. In some ways, nothing had changed—you still bickered, still teased, still rolled your eyes at each other every five minutes. But there was something different underneath it now, something you couldn’t quite name. And you weren’t sure you wanted to. Not yet.
–
The lecture hall was packed, the dull hum of students settling in filling the air as you pulled out your notes. Today’s topic was something about fluid dynamics—not that you were paying too much attention. Mostly because you were tired. And, maybe, because there was a certain someone sitting behind you. You don’t know when or why it had started– maybe it was the fact that you’d, well, always been deprived of male attention (since you were hyper focused on academics instead. Those men won’t bring you scholarships, but your GPA will!), or the fact that you had seen him multiple times in the past weeks without feeling the urge to rip his head off, or maybe you actually were ovulating, you hadn’t checked your cycle on your period tracking app yet but it was likely—
You had been doing your best to ignore it, to ignore him, but Gojo had a way of making his presence known. Even when he wasn’t doing anything, you were now even more hyper aware of him—the occasional shift of his chair, the absentminded tapping of his pen against the desk, the quiet sighs of boredom that you knew were dramatic. And then, just as you were finally starting to concentrate, you felt it. A presence leaning in behind you, the faintest brush of breath against your ear.
“Sweets,” Gojo whispered, his voice low, teasing.
Your whole body went rigid. “What,” you hissed, barely moving your lips, keeping your eyes trained on the professor at the front of the room.
“There’s a fatal flaw in this lecture,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. You refused to turn around. “Gojo, I swear—”
“I mean, really,” he continued, like you hadn’t spoken, “how can they expect us to focus on physics when you’re sitting right in front of me?” Your grip on your pen tightened. Your face was definitely heating up. Slowly, finally, you turned your head just enough to glare at him. “Are you seriously flirting with me in the middle of a lecture on fluid dynamics?”
Gojo grinned, chin resting on his palm, looking utterly unrepentant. “I’m not flirting. I’m just… y’know… testing like behaviourism, or whatever.”
You inhaled sharply, willing yourself not to react. Noticing your silence, his smirk grew.
“Or,” he whispered, tilting his head, “is the idea of me flirting with you not so bad?” Your brain short-circuited for half a second. Then you turned back around, focusing very hard on your notes, pretending you hadn’t heard him, pretending your heart wasn’t doing something very annoying in your chest. Behind you, Gojo chuckled softly, and you could feel his smirk.
You hated him. You hated him. Nah, you didn’t. You just… now mildly disliked him.
–
By the time the physics final rolled around, your life had been reduced to a frantic cycle of cramming formulas, flipping through notes, and barely surviving on caffeine. The psychology project with Gojo had taken up way more time than you expected—not just because of the work itself, but because of him. His constant presence, his insufferable teasing, the way he somehow made long study sessions more bearable with his antics. It was irritatingly easy to fall into a rhythm with him, and by the time you’d turned in your joint paper, you were too mentally exhausted to even think about anything else. Which was probably why you forgot about book five. When you finally let yourself have a break, that you found it tucked away in your bag.
The sight of it sent a flicker of guilt through your chest—you’d been so eager to read it, and then you just… hadn’t. You curled up by the window, the campus café bustling quietly in the background, warm drink in hand as you flipped open the book. This one was slightly smaller than the other ones in terms of length– you’d be able to finish it in an hour or so. The familiarity of the prose was comforting, like stepping back into a world you knew well. And then, right beside a passage about finding comfort in the little things—the warmth of a cup of tea, the quiet joy of returning to a familiar book—was an annotation.
Hope anyone who ever reads this is reading this with a warm drink. Tea, in my opinion, is the best kind of beverage to drink while reading a book series like this.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Okay. That was… oddly specific.
A chill—not unpleasant, but strange—crept up your spine. It wasn’t just the words themselves, but the fact that G.S. knew this about you. It was as if they’d noticed your habit of your love of tea. But it was probably a coincidence. I mean, tea is enjoyed by millions of people in the world, right? You exhaled slowly, shaking the feeling off as you flipped a few more pages. The wittiness of the quips grew, and you eagerly read through each one with heightened interest. In about forty five minutes, you had managed to finish the fifth book with ease. Since you had some free time to spare, you started on the second last book.
The first note you came across was pure sarcasm, scrawled beside a particularly dramatic inner monologue from the protagonist.
Relax, you’re not in a soap opera.
And a few pages later: Actually, never mind, maybe you are.
You huffed a quiet laugh, rolling your eyes. The teasing was familiar, familiar enough to imbue a sense of relaxation in you. The annotations drew you in, the ink curling across the margins like whispered thoughts meant just for you. It was easy to imagine G.S. sitting beside you, their presence warm and familiar, flipping through the pages with quiet amusement. Someone who knew exactly which passages would make you pause, who understood the way certain lines lingered in your mind long after you’d read them.
Your fingers traced over the words they had left behind, and for a moment, you let yourself daydream. You imagined meeting them—G.S., whoever they were. The two of you sitting in some hidden corner of a library, books stacked high around you, the world outside fading away. Maybe their voice was soft, thoughtful, the kind that made you want to lean in a little closer. Maybe they smiled when you argued about a particular passage, when you pointed out something they’d written in the margins.
Maybe they would look at you like you were something worth understanding.
The thought sent a strange warmth curling through your chest. It was silly, this little fantasy, but you let yourself indulge in it anyway. And that was when your brain betrayed you.
For a brief, horrifying moment, the faceless idea of G.S. wasn’t faceless anymore. The image of Gojo flashed into your mind, unbidden and unwanted. But it wasn’t just him reading beside you, wasn’t just him scrawling out these notes with his long, annoyingly pretty fingers.
It was him kissing you.
Gojo’s lips brushing against yours, lazy and confident, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand sliding up your spine, the heat of him pressing against you, that teasing voice of his murmuring something you wouldn’t quite catch—
Your entire body froze.
No.
No, no, no.
You tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the book in front of you, but the words blurred together, unreadable. Your mind was stuck, caught on the vividness of the thought that had just invaded it.
Gojo.
Not just Gojo sitting across from you, running his mouth like he always did. Not just Gojo tossing a wadded-up paper at your head or poking at the end of your pen when you were trying to write. No—your brain had conjured up something else entirely. Gojo leaning in too close, his breath warm against your lips. The weight of his hand pressing into the small of your back, fingertips splayed across your lower back, your waist, your sides. The slow, unhurried way he would kiss you—because of course he’d be like that, because he was always so damn self-assured. Because he never did anything halfway.
And worse—worse—you could almost hear him. That stupid teasing voice, low and amused, murmuring something between kisses, something only meant for you. Your fingers twitched, and you slammed the book shut.
No. Nope. Not happening.
Your pulse was erratic, your skin burning like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t. You blinked rapidly, as if that alone could erase the thought from existence, but the sensation lingered, the imagined heat of him refusing to dissipate. It was just stress. That’s all it was. You were exhausted, overworked, and had spent way too much time in Gojo’s orbit lately. Of course your brain was short-circuiting. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to reopen the book. Back to reality. Back to G.S.
Back to anything that wasn’t Gojo Satoru and the absurd, fleeting idea of what kissing him might feel like.
–
Gojo’s deep voice cut through your thoughts, pulling you back into the present as he tapped the end of his pen against the open physics textbook in front of you both.
“And then—are you even listening to me?” You blinked, realizing you’d been zoning out. “Yeah—yeah,” you mumbled, scrambling for something relevant to say. “Professor Takeda can be an ass sometimes, even if he’s awesome at teaching.” Gojo grinned, apparently satisfied with your response, and continued yapping as he absentmindedly worked through some small equations on the paper in front of you both. His handwriting was quick and fluid, annoyingly neat for someone who acted like he never took anything seriously.
You didn’t quite know how it had happened, but after the two of you had finally submitted the psychology project, something between you shifted. It wasn’t spoken aloud, wasn’t even acknowledged outright, but it was there—an unspoken understanding. You still bickered, still argued over trivial things, but there was something else now too. A companionship. A quiet, reluctant camaraderie that neither of you had actively sought out but somehow settled into with surprising ease. And now, you were in the library with him, ironically revising for the upcoming physics final, less than a week away. You weren’t sure when he had become your unofficial study partner, but here he was, scribbling down formulas as he complained about Takeda’s obsession with fluid dynamics.
“You’re still struggling with Bernoulli’s principle?” you teased, shifting your chair slightly to get a better look at his notes.
“Struggling is a strong word,” he said, twirling his pen between his fingers. “I prefer ‘strategically choosing to ignore it until I absolutely have to care.’”
You scoffed, but before you could argue, your eyes landed on the book beside your bag—the sixth book in the series you’d been slowly working through, the second-to-last one before the finale. You had completely forgotten about it. You were pretty sure you had hit the maximum borrowing period, and at this rate, you were lucky the library hadn’t sent you an overdue notice.
“I need to go return this,” you muttered, grabbing the book and standing up.
Gojo glanced at it, tilting his head slightly. “That again?”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“That series,” he clarified, nodding towards the book in your hand. “You’ve been reading it forever. What’s the deal?” You hesitated for a moment, not really sure why you felt the sudden urge to explain, but then the words slipped out before you could stop them.
“I… I don’t know. It’s comforting, I guess,” you admitted. “It’s one of those series that just sticks with you, you know? And it’s not just the story—it’s the annotations.”
Gojo raised an eyebrow. “Annotations?”
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. Someone else read these books before me, and they wrote all these little notes in the margins. Some of them are funny, some are insightful, some are just straight-up teasing—but they make the whole experience feel… shared, I guess.” For once, Gojo didn’t say anything. He just listened, head tilted, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher.
You coughed, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Anyway, I should go return this.” You turned before he could say anything else and made your way to the library’s return section—only to find the drop-off shelves completely blocked off with construction tape. A small sign informed students that book returns had to be made manually at the front desk. With a sigh, you made your way to the librarian’s desk. She smiled at you as you set the book down.
“Returning this?” she asked, flipping open the cover to check the borrowing card.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding. She hummed, scanning the barcode. “You know, someone else borrowed this whole series a while back.”
No way.
No way, no way, no way.
Is this how you were going to finally find out who the faceless stranger you had grown attached to was? Your heart skipped a beat. You forced yourself to keep your voice casual.
“Oh? Can you recall who?”
She paused, tapping her chin as if trying to recall. “Give me a moment dear. He’s a male…about the same age as you, actually. Well I think he might be the same age as you. Hmm, he was tall, quite tall, had this head of brilliant white hair, and glasses. His eyes were startlingly blue too. I can’t remember his name but you two’d get along, he seemed very interested in these series too!” She chuckled, taking the book from you to store it under one of the accompanying shelves.
Your blood ran cold.
She continued, oblivious to your internal panic. “Had this little keychain on his bag too. It tinkled a lot when he came in to borrow the books.” Your mind flashed back to the small jingling sound of Gojo’s keychain— a digimon one. The one that always made a tiny noise whenever he slung his bag over his shoulder. Oh my god.
Your grip tightened on the desk. “Right. Thanks.”
Somehow, miraculously, you managed to return the book without your hands shaking. But the moment you turned away, the weight of the realization slammed into you like a tidal wave. Your breath hitched, your vision tunneled slightly, and for a second, you weren’t sure if your legs would carry you back to the table.
Gojo.
Gojo was G.S.
The knowledge settled in your bones with a dizzying clarity, making the library around you feel unreal, like you were wading through a dream you couldn’t wake up from. The notes, the teasing comments, the underlined passages—it had all been him. The same Gojo Satoru who drove you insane with his arrogance, who somehow wormed his way into your study sessions, who made physics revision bearable with his endless chatter. And he had never said a word about it. By the time you reached the table, your emotions were tangled beyond recognition—embarrassment, frustration, something dangerously close to hurt. You dropped into your seat, a little too forcefully, the noise drawing his attention.
Gojo barely glanced up from his notes. “You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
You swallowed, pulse thrumming against your ribs. Your fingers curled into fists against your lap. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something sharp, something that could cut you open if you weren’t careful.
“It’s you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
He finally met your gaze, his pen stilling against the page. For a second—just a second—there was nothing but blankness in his expression, as if he truly didn’t understand what you meant. But then, recognition flickered in those bright, unreadable eyes. And slowly, like he had been waiting for this exact moment, he grinned.
“Took you long enough.”
A sharp breath escaped you, like the wind had been knocked from your lungs. Something twisted in your chest. He knew. He had known. You exhaled shakily, trying to hold onto your composure, but your voice wavered when you spoke again. “You—” You swallowed hard. “You knew it was me reading those books, and you just—”
He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try. You hated the way he was looking at you, like this was funny, like this was just some game he had been playing all along. Like he had been waiting for you to connect the dots, to put the pieces together while he sat back and watched. Something inside you cracked.
“You were just messing with me.” The words came out quiet, but there was something raw beneath them, something unsteady. “That’s what this was, right? Just another one of your games?”
For the first time, his smirk faltered.
“That’s not—”
But you didn’t let him finish.
You stood up too fast, your chair scraping loudly against the floor. A few heads turned, students shooting you mildly annoyed glances, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You felt like the library was closing in around you, like you needed to get out before you drowned under the weight of it all.
“Forget it,” you muttered, voice tight. You grabbed your bag, barely able to look at him. “I’ll see you in class.” And before he could stop you—before he could say something that might make you stay—you turned on your heel and walked out of the library. Your pulse roared in your ears, your face burned with humiliation, and your heart—God, your heart was a tangled, aching mess you weren’t ready to unravel yet.
–
You didn’t talk to Gojo for three days. Not once. Not in class, not in the library, not even in passing. If he was in a group conversation, you found an excuse to leave. If he tried to sit next to you, you conveniently needed to be somewhere else. And if you caught even a glimpse of him from across campus, you turned in the opposite direction before he could call your name. It wasn’t out of pettiness. At least, you didn’t think so.
You were hurt.
The weight of it had settled deep in your chest, a slow, heavy ache that didn’t fade no matter how much you tried to distract yourself. You felt stupid, looking back at all those late nights spent tracing the loops of G.S.’s handwriting, at the way you had let yourself get caught up in the fantasy of someone—someone you thought understood you. Someone who had felt just as deeply about those books as you had. And the whole time, it had been him.
Had he just been laughing at you? Watching you get wrapped up in his words, in him, while he sat back and waited for you to figure it out? Had it all just been some kind of joke? You didn’t know what answer would hurt more. Gojo, however, wasn’t making your avoidance easy.
He noticed, of course. The first day, he seemed ashamed. You saw it in the way he frowned when you brushed past him after class, in the way his gaze lingered when you sat on the opposite end of the library instead of your usual table.
The second day, he got annoyed.
“Are you serious right now?” he had muttered when you blatantly ignored him outside the lecture hall, your fingers tightening around your books as you sped up. By the third day, his frustration had given way to something else—something quieter, something bordering on concern.
He caught your wrist as you passed him in the hallway that morning, his grip loose enough for you to pull away if you wanted.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Are we—?” He hesitated. “Did I—?”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time in years, you saw it—uncertainty.
Gojo Satoru was scared. But you weren’t ready to talk. Not yet. So you shook him off and kept walking.
He let you go. For the rest of the day, you tried to pretend like it didn’t feel like a mistake. That night, unable to sleep, you reached for the last book in the series—the one you had borrowed before you found out. You had been meaning to return it. The thought of flipping through those pages again felt wrong after everything that had happened. But something about the weight of it in your hands made you pause. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you curled up in bed and opened to the first page.
And read.
At first, it was mechanical. You skimmed. Skipped paragraphs. Let your eyes pass over the words without really taking them in. But then—somewhere along the way—you found yourself slowing down. The story was familiar, but it felt different now. The annotations were there, just like before. The same small, thoughtful notes in the margins. The same underlined passages, the same occasional sarcastic remark scribbled beside overly dramatic monologues.
And it still felt intimate.
Your chest ached. Gojo’s handwriting had always been a little messy, but now, you could hear his voice in it. The playful quips, the teasing corrections, the occasional rambling thoughts that trailed off mid-sentence. He hadn’t just read these books. He had shared them. With you. But it wasn’t until you reached the end of the book that you froze.
A note, scrawled beneath a passage about missed chances. About how sometimes, you don’t realise what someone means to you until it’s too late.
To whoever is reading this, I… really hope that this never applies to you.
And then, right underneath it, you spot a small sentence. Your eyes narrow as you lean in, catching the faint blue ink beneath the initials G.S., nearly lost beneath the hurried strike-through. It’s messy, almost like he had written it in a rush, then panicked and scratched it out before anyone could see. The ink is slightly smudged, the letters not quite as crisp as they should be. But you can still read it.
Your breath catches. The frustration twisting in your chest falters, cracking under the weight of what you’re seeing. This wasn’t just about G.S. This wasn’t just about some stupid rivalry, some elaborate, long-running inside joke only he was in on. He had liked you.
All along.
The truth of it presses against your ribs, turning your anger into something else—something hot and unbearable and aching. Because of course Gojo Satoru wouldn’t have just let you take that book without noticing. Of course he wouldn’t have just been some faceless mystery behind the initials. He had been right there, all this time. Watching. Waiting. Never saying a damn thing. You press your lips together, gripping the book tighter, torn between wanting to shove it in his stupidly smug face and the overwhelming realization that this—this whole thing—had never been a game to him.
Not really. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the page, heart pounding. You should be mad. You are mad.
But now? Now you don’t know what to do with the way your chest is clenching, your stomach twisting, the words replaying in your head over and over again. He really, really liked you. And he had been too much of an idiot to say it.
It wasn’t just a game. It never had been. Your fingers curled around the edge of the page, heart hammering against your ribs. And in that moment, without a second thought—
You didn’t hesitate.
You barely registered slipping on your shoes, grabbing your jacket, heading across campus toward the dormitories. Your pulse roared in your ears as you climbed the stairs, the weight of the book heavy in your bag. You remembered the way he’d joked about it once—how it was almost too easy to find his dorm because the boys’ rooms were stacked directly above the girls’.
("It’s like fate, babe," he’d drawled, slinging an arm over your shoulders. "You’re literally sleeping right below me."
"Don’t say it like that," you’d deadpanned, shoving him off.
He’d only grinned, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "What? It’s true. If you ever get lonely, just know I’m right there—" he pointed up dramatically "—in room sixty-nine."
You’d groaned at that. "Of course it’s sixty-nine."
"Oh, absolutely." His smirk had been positively insufferable. "The universe practically insisted on it.”)
And now, here you were. Standing in front of his stupid door, his stupid room number glaring at you, mocking you, reminding you of how easily he had wormed his way into your life. You knocked. There was a pause. Then—footsteps. The door cracked open, and Gojo blinked down at you, disheveled, his glasses slightly askew. He was in a hoodie and sweatpants, and for once, he looked genuinely caught off guard.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered sharply. “What if the dean catches you? It’s past curfew.”
You ignored him. “Explain.”
Gojo stared at you. Then, with a sigh, he opened the door wider and let you in. His dorm was surprisingly neat, save for a few open textbooks on his desk. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling before leaning against the edge of his bed.
“You want an explanation?” Gojo muttered, rubbing his temple as if trying to collect his thoughts. His voice was uncharacteristically hoarse, lacking its usual teasing lilt. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before meeting your gaze.
“Fine.”
And then—something shifted in his expression. That raw, unguarded look returned, cracking through the facade of the cocky, untouchable Gojo Satoru.
“I liked you this entire time.”
Your breath caught. His words were quiet, but they landed like a stone in your chest, sending ripples through every assumption you had made about the past few months. No—longer than that. Yes, you had gathered from that scribbled annotation that he had liked you, but hearing it was different from reading it. The weight of what he was saying pressed down on you, curling around your ribs, making it hard to breathe. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His gaze flickered away for a second, like he was considering taking it back, like he was still terrified of saying it out loud. But then, with a short breath, he pressed forward.
“I—” He licked his lips, shaking his head slightly. “When I overheard you talking about the books, about G.S., I thought… I don’t know. At first, it was funny.” He let out a weak laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You, of all people, getting caught up in my annotations.”
A pang of hurt flared in your chest at that, but Gojo’s face twisted almost immediately, like he regretted saying it that way.
“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmured. “I just mean—” He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You always had this way of looking at me, like you had me all figured out. Like you already knew what kind of person I was. And I guess… part of me thought it was funny that I got to be something different in your head for once.”
Your fingers curled at your sides. You weren’t sure how to respond to that, but Gojo wasn’t done. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His eyes darted back to you, searching, waiting for you to interrupt, to tell him he was ridiculous. When you didn’t, he exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was bracing himself.
“But it wasn’t just the books,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “It wasn’t just some joke to me.” His lips pressed together for a moment before he continued. “Because the truth is, I—” He hesitated, then finally met your eyes again, his own brimming with something raw and unguarded. “I’ve liked you since freshman year.”
The air between you shifted. Your fingers curled at your sides as his confession settled in. You wanted to say something—anything—but all you could do was stare at him, pulse pounding in your ears.
He let out a breathy chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Long time, huh?” His voice was softer now, tinged with something almost self-conscious. “It sounds stupid when I say it out loud. But I did. I do.”
Your mouth felt dry. “Since freshman year?”
His lips twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he should smile. “Yeah.”
Your mind reeled. Freshman year. That meant before the rivalry, before the teasing had turned sharp, before you had convinced yourself that he was just some cocky, insufferable show-off who loved to push your buttons. Before you had started believing he only saw you as an opponent to one-up. Gojo sighed, dropping his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at you. “You remember that first day of class?”
You blinked. “Where we had to introduce each other to the class?”
He nodded. “You were wearing that stupid oversized sweater that practically swallowed you, and you kept tugging at the sleeves like you wanted to disappear. I just– at first I thought you were just so cute” His lips quirked slightly at the memory. “And then you opened your mouth when we argued for the first time in class– remember? When you answered that question on vector components and I poked fun at you or something, and when you responded back to me, you had this… fire in you. You wouldn’t let me get a single word in edgewise, like you had something to prove.”
His expression softened, something unbearably fond flickering in his gaze. “And I just remember thinking—shit.”
Your breath hitched.
“I wasn’t supposed to like you,” he murmured, like it was a confession he had never meant to say out loud. “But I did. And when we started arguing all the time, when it turned into this whole thing between us, I thought—fine. If I couldn’t have you the way I wanted, then I’d settle for getting under your skin.” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “And trust me, I tried to stop thinking about it. About you. But I couldn’t. And then you started borrowing those books, and it was like—” He exhaled sharply, like he didn’t even know how to put it into words. You swallowed hard, heart hammering.
All this time.
Every argument, every smug grin, every lingering glance across the room—he had liked you this entire time.
“But then you kept reading them.” His voice had softened, like he was talking to himself now as much as to you. “You kept flipping through those pages, talking about how much you liked G.S– and god, who am I to deny you when you speak like that? When you speak like that about my thoughts, my feelings, spilled onto the pages of those stupid books? And suddenly, I was waiting for you to borrow the next book. Waiting to see which parts you’d pause on, which annotations you’d react to. Waiting to hear what you’d say about G.S. So I–”
He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the fabric of his hoodie.
“– I borrowed the remaining four books or so. I annotated every last one of them, annotated them so maybe, maybe I’d get to hear that gorgeous voice of yours talking about it in class again. I’d get to see that giddy smile when you’d refer to me as your Seiji Amasawa again. As your G.S. And honestly, it was worth the entirety of the long night I spent, just so I’d see you fucking smile throughout the day and snap less at me because G.S. wrote something that made you think he was similar to you– because in reality, with the way you viewed me– entirely my fault by the way– it would never be possible.” He took a deep breath after saying that.
“And I realised—” He paused, just for a second, like he needed to steady himself. “I liked it. I liked you. Not that I didn’t already like you, but— but I was falling. Like really deep.”
Something inside you twisted painfully. Your lips parted, but you couldn’t force out a response. You had spent the past three days agonizing over the idea that he had been toying with you, that this had all been some elaborate joke, but this—this was different. This was Gojo Satoru, stripped of his usual bravado, laying his feelings bare in a way that felt like it might physically hurt him.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
Gojo let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He looked away, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Because I’m an idiot?” he said dryly. Then, quieter, “Because I’m Gojo Satoru, and I figured you’d never take me seriously?”
Your chest tightened at that.
Before you could process that, he spoke again.
“I know I was arrogant. I know I still am arrogant,” he muttered, his lips curling bitterly. “I push too hard. I’m too much. I act like I know everything, and maybe I do most of the time, but—” He swallowed thickly. “Those annotations… they were the only time you ever saw me.” His voice had dropped lower now, almost vulnerable, and something about it made your pulse stutter.
“Not the dumbass you argue with in class. Not the rich kid with the perfect grades. Not the guy who has to prove he’s the smartest person in the room.” He let out a slow breath. “Just… me.”
The silence between you stretched, thick and charged.
Gojo’s hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles going white. He looked like he was bracing for impact, like he had just thrown every last piece of himself at your feet and was waiting to see if you’d step on them. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for him.
Then—
You stepped forward. Gojo stilled the moment your fingers brushed against his hoodie, his breath catching in his throat. He stood up, towering over you, an unfamiliar glint in his cerulean eyes. You hesitated, your fingertips barely grazing the fabric before curling into it, fisting it lightly like you needed something solid to hold onto. His whole body went tense under your touch, his usual easy confidence absent now, replaced with something far more uncertain—far more vulnerable.
“You really are an idiot,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath against the space between you. His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk, wanted to tease, wanted to be Gojo—but he didn’t. Instead, he just let out a shaky breath. “Yeah?”
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening against his hoodie. “Yeah.”
The word hung in the air between you, weighty and full of something neither of you had the strength to name. And then—before you could second-guess yourself, before doubt could creep in—you surged up onto your toes and kissed him. Gojo made a startled sound against your lips, his whole body going rigid for half a second, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. But then—slowly, desperately—he melted into it. His hands found your face, cupping it with a tenderness that made your heart twist. His palms were warm, his grip firm, like he was terrified you’d slip away, like he needed you to know this wasn’t a joke to him. That it had never been. He kissed you like a man making up for lost time—deep, searching, like he had been waiting for this moment far longer than even you had realized. When he tilted his head, his lips pressing more firmly against yours, you felt it—all of it.
Every unspoken word. Every missed chance. Every moment that had teetered on the edge of this but never quite fallen. His fingers slid into your hair, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek, like he was memorising the way you felt beneath him. Your heart was a wild, unsteady thing in your chest, thundering against your ribs as you pressed yourself closer, your hands sliding up from his hoodie to clutch at his shoulders. Gojo let out a quiet, almost desperate sigh against your lips, like he had been holding back for so long that finally getting to kiss you was unraveling him.
And maybe it was.
Because as much as you had spent the past few days convincing yourself that this had all been a game to him, this—the way he was holding you, the way his fingers trembled just slightly against your skin—told a different story. Gojo Satoru didn’t play games with things that mattered. And you—somehow, impossibly—mattered. When you pulled back, slightly breathless, Gojo just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
Then, slowly, he grinned. “So,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your cheek. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t step away. “Don’t push it.” Gojo laughed, bright and real, before pulling you back into his arms.
“God, do you know how beautiful you fuckin’ are? It drives me insane,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His breath is warm against your lips before he swoops down, capturing your mouth with his own again, his large hands grounding themselves against your waist as if he’s afraid you might slip away.
You giggle against his lips, trying to push him off, but he refuses to budge. “S-Satoru—wait!” Your protest is muffled, barely audible between the kisses he keeps stealing, his lips soft but insistent against yours.
He lets out a quiet, needy sound, almost a whimper, his grip tightening on your hips. “Shut up,” he murmurs breathlessly, squeezing lightly at your waist as if that alone will silence you. “Been waiting to kiss this pretty mouth for sooo fuckin’ long… Let me get my fill, yeah?” You barely have time to respond before his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips, coaxing them open. The second you allow him in, he kisses you deeply—desperately—his tongue sliding against yours, tasting, claiming. The soft little noises you make against him seem to spur him on, his fingers pressing firmly into your sides as he tugs you even closer. His legs bump against the edge of the bed, steadying you between his parted thighs, and the world around you fades, leaving only the two of you tangled up in each other.
A surprised squeak leaves your lips when his thumbs slip just beneath your shirt, brushing against your bare skin. His hands are cold, the contrast against your warmth sending a jolt of electricity through you. He laughs—a quiet, smug chuckle—and then the bastard has the audacity to bite your bottom lip in amusement. “Shh,” he teases, lips brushing against yours. “Don’t wanna get caught sneakin’ into my dorm after hours, do you?”
Before you can even process a response, his hands move to the backs of your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifts you off the ground with ease. A gasp leaves your lips, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he manoeuvres you to the bed. He turns smoothly, lowering you down onto the mattress before climbing over you, his movements slow, deliberate, eager. And this time, you don’t hesitate. Your hands fist the front of his hoodie, yanking him down in a clumsy rush to kiss him again, your breath mingling with his as your noses bump. His glasses shift slightly from the movement, and with an annoyed huff, he pulls them off, setting them aside carefully before his gaze returns to you—hungry. His mouth is back on yours in an instant, moving with a mixture of urgency and something softer, something deeper. His lips trail from yours to your jaw, to the delicate skin of your neck, to the dip of your collarbone—his hands following the path his lips leave behind, fingers toying with the fabric of your open jacket. He pushes it off your shoulders tentatively, almost testing, waiting for you to stop him.
You don’t.
A pleased hum vibrates against your throat as his confidence grows, his hands sliding over your arms, your waist, memorizing the shape of you beneath him. Your arms wrap around his neck, tugging him impossibly closer, like you could mold yourself against him if you just tried hard enough. The kiss is more than just the heat of the moment. It’s more than just the weeks—months—of built-up tension. It’s the culmination of years of frustration, of stolen glances, of biting words laced with something deeper neither of you had wanted to acknowledge until now.
And maybe, maybe, it’s also the weight of finally realising—fully understanding—that the only person who had ever been able to keep up with you, to challenge you, to drive you absolutely insane, yet make you feel like this… was him. Satoru groans against your skin, nipping at your neck as his hands slip beneath your shirt, his fingers splaying across your waist. But even in the heat of the moment, he’s calculated. His lips map out a path of possessive little marks just below your collarbone—places that can be covered easily. Even now, he’s thinking things through. Your breath hitches when his fingertips skim the skin of your hips again, this time firmer, testing. Your cheeks burn, and the words slip out before you can stop them.
“You can—you can take it off.”
Satoru goes very, very still. You swear you can feel the exact moment he processes what you’ve just said, the exact moment he realizes that you mean it. His hands tighten slightly against you, his breath coming out a little shakier than before. And for once, for once—he doesn’t have some cocky remark ready to go. Because this? This is real. And for the first time, Gojo Satoru doesn’t want to ruin it with a joke. He gently tugs your shirt up and over your head, eyes eyeing the new expanse of skin that has just been made available to him.
“My gorgeous girl…”
He whispers out, before he’s back to lavishing your skin with attention, paying close attention to your breasts, lips lovingly, reverently moving across your skin with gentleness you hadn’t thought possible by him. You don’t know what possesses you, but something suddenly clicks and shyly, you unclasp your bra, leaving your entire upper half bare, making Satoru’s breath hitch. And then, in a moment that takes you completely by surprise, he does something that makes your heart both melt and swell—if that was even possible.
Because instead of his usual teasing, instead of his cocky grin or some flirtatious remark that would make you roll your eyes, Satoru simply looks at you. Really looks at you. His intense blue eyes don’t dart downward like you half-expected, don’t darken with some unchecked hunger. Instead, they stay locked onto yours, unwavering, all traces of playfulness and impulsive need fading away. What replaces them is something quieter—something gentler. A tenderness that makes your breath catch, your chest tighten.
Satoru, who always had a joke ready. Satoru, who always teased and never took anything too seriously. Satoru, who could have had anyone but had spent years bothering you instead—staring at you now like you were something fragile, something precious, something he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch. His throat bobs as he swallows, and then, carefully, softly, he speaks.
“Are you sure you wanna… do this?” His voice is quieter now, laced with something that sounds an awful lot like uncertainty. Like he’s terrified of ruining whatever this is. “I’m not—pressuring you or anything, am I?” His fingers twitch slightly at his sides before he hesitantly lifts a hand, reaching out toward you—not to pull you in, not to take what you’ve offered, but to tuck a few strands of your hair away from your face. His touch is featherlight, barely there, but it sends warmth spreading across your skin.
“I just—” He exhales, gaze flickering between your eyes, searching, as if trying to read your thoughts. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to. If me kissing you made you think you needed to… y’know, do anything more—then I’m sorry.” The words leave his lips like a confession, like the idea of you feeling obligated to be with him hurts him. And that—that simple fact—makes something inside you ache. Because Gojo Satoru, for all his arrogance, for all his relentless teasing and larger-than-life presence, was standing before you now with uncertainty in his eyes. Not because he didn’t want this—God, did he want this—but because he needed to be sure that you did too. For a moment, you just stare at him, your heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your fingertips.
Because this isn’t how you thought this moment would go. Not with him—not with Gojo Satoru. You had braced yourself for teasing, for him to say something infuriatingly smug, to grin like he had won some long-fought battle. But instead, he was looking at you with quiet hesitation, with care. With something that felt like love. Your throat tightens.
“Satoru.” His name– his first name, not Gojo– leaves your lips in a breath, barely above a whisper. His hands—so sure and confident only moments ago—remain frozen where they rest against your sides, like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll change your mind.
“I want this,” you say, and you make sure there is no room for doubt in your voice. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his hoodie, grounding yourself in the feel of him. “I’m not saying it just because you kissed me, or because I think I have to. I want this.” His lips part slightly, but no words come out. His grip on you tightens just a fraction, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real.
You take a breath, steadying yourself, because you need him to understand—really understand.
“I’ve wanted this for longer than I want to admit,” you confess, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat. Your fingers flex where they rest against his chest, feeling the steady thud-thud-thud of his heart beneath your palm. He’s warm, impossibly so, like he’s radiating heat just for you. “And it scares me, Satoru. You scare me.” His brows furrow, the corners of his mouth dipping slightly downward. “Scare you?”
You nod. “Because you make me feel things I don’t know how to deal with. You drive me crazy. You make me want to strangle you half the time, and the other half I—” Your voice catches, and you swallow thickly before continuing. “I want to be near you. I want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.” His hands slowly slide up your sides, not rushing, not pushing—just holding. His thumbs brush against your ribs, barely ghosting under the underside of your chest, but even that light touch sends a shiver up your spine.
“You have to know this isn’t just some impulsive decision for me,” you tell him, voice softer now, filled with something you can’t quite name. “I don’t do things just because they’re convenient, or easy, or expected. I do them because I choose to.” You reach up, cupping his face between your hands, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. His breath stutters when you stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks completely lost. “I’m choosing you,” you whisper, staring straight into those brilliant blue eyes. “Not because you kissed me. Not because of some annotations in a book. But because I want you, Satoru. I want this.”
A shaky exhale leaves his lips, and for a second, you swear he stops breathing altogether. His grip on you tightens just enough for you to feel it, his fingers pressing into your waist like he’s holding himself back. Then, slowly, so slowly, he leans in, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm against your lips when he speaks.
“You can’t take that back now, y’know,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost reverent.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
In a flurry of kissing and movement, his hands roamed over your breasts, fingers pressing and kneading with a slow, deliberate touch that sent shivers down your spine. Every brush of his palm left a burning trail in its wake, making you arch into him, craving more—needing more. His lips never left yours for long, only breaking away to breathe, to murmur your name against your mouth like a prayer, before diving back in, desperate to claim every inch of you. Your own hands found their way under his hoodie, fingertips exploring the firm ridges and planes of muscle beneath. He was all taut sinew and warmth, his body solid beneath your touch, the faintest tremble betraying just how much he wanted this too. Heat pooled in your lower belly, a slow and delicious ache, as you pressed your palms flat against his stomach, feeling the way his muscles flexed under your touch.
And then you felt it—the thin trail of hair below his navel, soft against your fingers, leading downward. Your breath hitched at the realisation, a flush creeping up your face as your hands lingered there, tracing along his happy trail. The sensation made him shudder, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he let out a low, breathy chuckle. “You’re teasing,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rougher now, his grip tightening slightly where he held you.
You shook your head, though your fingers betrayed you, still trailing feather-light touches just above the waistband of his sweats. “Just exploring,” you whispered, emboldened by the way he reacted to your touch, the way his muscles tensed as if he was barely holding himself back. His entire body felt heavier now, weighted with desire as he sucked in a slow breath. His fingers twitched against your sides, like he was restraining himself, before he finally gave in.
With one fluid motion, he pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it aside, leaving his torso bare. The sight of him knocked the air from your lungs. He was beautiful—lean but strong, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, skin warm and golden in the dim light. The definition of his abs trailed down to his happy trail, disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats. There was something intoxicating about seeing him like this, vulnerable yet utterly self-assured, the usual cocky glint in his eyes replaced with something softer, something just for you. You traced your fingers lightly over his stomach, watching the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. His breath came a little heavier, his hands gripping your waist like he was holding onto the last thread of his restraint.
"You're staring," he teased, though his voice was lower now, rough around the edges.
"Maybe," you admitted, dragging your fingertips just a little lower, reveling in the way his breath hitched. His lips curled into a smirk, but there was a heat in his gaze now, something dark and wanting. “Careful,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I might start thinking you like what you see.”
Your pulse thrummed wildly, heat licking at your skin as you met his eyes.
“I do.”
He gave you a full-blown grin, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, his canines glinting in the dim light of his dorm room. It was a look you had seen a hundred times before—mischievous, teasing, effortlessly confident—but now, there was something else underneath it. Something softer. Something real. His hands, warm and slightly rough, hesitated at the waistband of your sweats, fingers grazing the fabric as if waiting for permission. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. But despite the heat in his gaze, despite the way his breath was uneven and his chest rose and fell just a little too fast, he didn’t move forward. Not yet.
“Are you sure?” His voice was lower now, quieter, cutting through the thick silence that had settled between you. His usual bravado was nowhere to be seen—no teasing remark, no cocky smirk. Just Satoru, looking at you like you were something delicate, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have. Like he was terrified of doing something wrong, of ruining this moment before it could fully begin. You could feel his hesitation in the way his fingers flexed against your waist, could hear it in the way his voice wavered just slightly, as if he was bracing himself for you to change your mind.
It made your heart ache. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your thumb brushing over his cheek. His skin was warm under your touch, and he leaned into it instinctively, like he couldn’t help himself. His breath hitched, just slightly, and you saw the way his lips parted, the way his lashes fluttered when your fingers traced along his jaw.
“Satoru,” you murmured, voice steady despite the way your heart was hammering against your ribs. His eyes flickered to yours—deep, cerulean, searching.
“I’m sure,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you.” For a moment, he didn’t move, like he was letting the words settle, like he needed to make sure he heard you right. And then—
He exhaled, something tight and heavy leaving his chest, and his hands finally gripped your waist properly, fingers digging in just a little, grounding himself in the reality of the moment.
“God,” he muttered, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice almost shaky. “You have no idea how much I fucking love hearing you say that.”
He gently coaxed you out of your sweatpants, hand finding itself atop your underwear, breath hitching at the dampness that was present. Seems like this fueled his ego a little bit too much, because the next thing you knew, the Satoru you knew was back.
“Dang you’re wet as fuck.”
You gave him a pointed look and he faltered, the smirk on his lips morphing into a grin as he ushered out apologies. Your hands clutched the sheets when his fingers began to gently touch you, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you eyed his hand with need. You couldn’t stay mad with him for long the way his fingers tugged the flimsy material down and began to work his hand between your legs. He grinned, experimentally probing around, ocean eyes half lidded.
“This is where you’re weak, right?” He murmured sensually, fingers finding your sensitive nub, eyes flickering up to watch your reactions, his pretty pink lips parted open in pleasure as he watched you come apart under him. He was precise with his fingers, circling you, teasing, pinching and rubbing, before thrusting in all the right spots, reaching places your own hand was unable to take you. Before long you had to let out muffled whimpers into his big palm that he had slapped gently across your lips; it covered almost the entirety of the lower half of your face– you were a bit loud.
Unable to take it anymore, you finally reached your breaking point, squirming underneath him as you came all over his fingers. Your chest was heaving, rising and falling in rapid succession, your breath coming in short, uneven pants as the aftershocks of pleasure rippled through you. Every nerve in your body felt like it had been set alight, over sensitised and trembling in the lingering warmth of his touch. Your skin was flushed, heat radiating from every inch of you, and the room felt impossibly small, like it was holding the weight of everything that had just passed between you.
Hungry for more, you made quick work of his sweats, sliding them and his boxers down (pokemon boxers but you were too needy to make fun of him for it). Satoru loomed above you, shakily guiding himself to your entrance, pale lashes fluttering as he looked down at you. He was hard– had been hard the moment you two had started kissing, pressing up against you in a needy manner.
“Su–Sure you can take it? Don’t need a break?” He breathed out, referring to the fact that you had practically jumped at the opportunity to take things further right after having an earth shattering orgasm thanks to his lanky fingers.
“So fucking sure– please, Satoru.” You flutter your eyelashes up at him, and he swears he almost comes from the sight. He nods, leaning down to kiss your lips gently, all the while he ushers himself inside you slowly.
Now you knew he had meant you not being able to take it because you might have been tired after your first orgasm, but now it felt more like he was warning you, because he was long, pressing inside of you deliciously. Once he had buried himself to the hilt, he halted in his tracks, giving you time to adjust. His face was screwed in pleasure, likely trying not to give in the urge to move. After a few minutes, when you deemed the feeling of him inside you as highly pleasurable and not the slight uncomfortableness that you initially felt while being split open in two, you murmured out a small “I’m ready,” and that was all it took for Satoru to start moving.
He kept up a slow, steady yet deep pace, his muscular form looming over yours, and for a moment, all you could do was look at him. The dim light of his dorm cast shadows along the sharp lines of his body, emphasizing the taut muscles in his arms, the sculpted contours of his chest, and the way his abdomen flexed with each controlled movement. His skin was flushed, a faint sheen of sweat glistening over his toned physique, catching the light in a way that made your breath hitch. His broad shoulders framed his lean build perfectly, his biceps taut as he braced himself above you, his fingers curling into the sheets as though restraining himself from losing control entirely.
And then there was his face. Messy white hair fell into his eyes, strands sticking to his damp forehead, and his lips—God, his lips—were parted, slightly swollen from kissing you breathless. His sharp jaw clenched subtly, his throat bobbing with a swallow, and when his gaze flickered down to meet yours, you felt like all the air had been sucked from the room.
His usual cocky grin was nowhere to be found. Instead, his expression was intense—raw, focused entirely on you, like nothing else in the world mattered. His impossibly blue eyes, darkened with something deep and consuming, dragged over your face, your body, drinking you in like you were something precious, something his. “Satoru—” you breathed, voice barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to make him groan, his grip on your waist tightening as he dipped down, pressing his forehead against yours.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, strained. “You have no idea how good you look right now. How good you feel right now.” He moved his hands from your waist, his fingers trailing over your skin as he shifted, bracing his forearms on either side of your head. The new position brought him even closer, his body pressing against yours, heat radiating between you as he continued to move within you. His breath was heavy, mingling with yours, and for a moment, it was all-consuming—the feeling of him, the weight of him, the slow, deep rhythm that sent shivers down your spine. When you had imagined being with Satoru like this, you’d thought it would be… different. You had expected teasing, cockiness, maybe even some ridiculous commentary, because that was just who he was. You thought he’d smirk down at you with that usual self-assured gleam in his eyes, crack some joke between kisses, whisper something infuriating just to make you blush. You had even braced yourself for the possibility of him being downright kinky, because he was Gojo Satoru, and he loved pushing limits.
But this? This was something else entirely.
This wasn’t just cocky flirtation or the result of years of pent-up rivalry and tension—this was intimate. It was raw, real, and so incredibly him, stripped of bravado and playfulness, leaving behind only the man in front of you. The one who had been waiting, wanting. The one who had loved you quietly, even when you didn’t know. His movements were deliberate, his touch reverent, his normally mischievous eyes dark with something softer—something deeper. When he leaned down, his lips ghosting over your cheek before pressing to the corner of your mouth, it wasn’t just a kiss—it was a silent confession. A plea. A promise. His fingers threaded through your hair, brushing over your temple, before trailing down to cup your jaw with aching gentleness. “You okay?” he murmured, voice hushed, almost breathless. You swallowed, overwhelmed by the warmth in his voice, the concern laced into every syllable, and you nodded, reaching up to lace your fingers through the soft strands of his hair. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t expect this.”
A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head slightly, pressing another lingering kiss just beneath your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. “Didn’t expect what?”
“For it to feel like this,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “For you to be like this.”
Satoru stilled for half a second before exhaling softly, lowering himself further so his chest was flush against yours. His nose brushed against yours, lips hovering just out of reach, and when he spoke, his voice was almost fragile. “I don’t think you realise how long I’ve wanted you,” he murmured. “It was never just some passing thing, y’know? It was always you.” Your chest tightened, your fingers gripping his hair just a little harder as his words settled deep within you. The air between you felt electric, charged, as if the weight of every unspoken feeling had finally caught up with you both. He kissed you again—slow, deep, purposeful—and you melted into him, your hands roaming over his bare back, nails lightly dragging along his spine. He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing against yours as he moved, his body fitting against yours so perfectly that it made your heart ache. There was no rush, no urgency—only the quiet, lingering touches, the shared breaths, the whispered words against flushed skin. It wasn’t just about desire or need anymore. It was about something much more.
And before long, you were coming again, whispered cries of his name leaving your mouth as you tightened around him– and if he had indulged in the feeling a second longer, he would have finished inside. He splattered on your stomach, hissing at the feeling, pale eyes fluttering shut. After a few seconds of basking in the afterglow, he quickly went into his bathroom, grabbing a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach down. Your breath came in quick, unsteady gasps, each inhale failing to steady the trembling in your limbs. A slow burn lingered beneath your skin, every nerve alight with the remnants of his touch. The air felt thick, pressing in around you, charged with everything that had just transpired. Heat clung to you, pooling in the spaces where his hands had been, leaving you adrift in the aftermath.
Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you, gripping them like an anchor, like you needed something to steady yourself against the dizzying sensation still coursing through your veins. A shuddering breath escaped your lips, and you swore you could still feel the phantom imprint of his hands on your skin, the way they had mapped out every inch of you with a reverence that made your chest ache. Satoru was watching you.
You could feel his gaze—heavy, intense, something unreadable flickering behind those endless blue eyes. His hands hadn’t left your body entirely, his fingertips still resting against your hips, warm and grounding. There was something in his expression that made your breath catch—a mixture of awe and something softer, something tender. Like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened, like he was committing every second of this moment to memory. He swallowed, his own breathing uneven, before he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder—slow, lingering, like he just needed to feel you. His lips brushed over your skin again, trailing up toward your jaw, soft and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.
–
The room was bathed in the dim glow of his bedside lamp, casting long shadows across tangled sheets and discarded clothes. Your body still hummed from the aftermath, warmth pooling in your limbs as you lay half-draped over Satoru, your cheek pressed against his bare chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. For a while, neither of you spoke. His fingers idly traced shapes along your spine, the touch featherlight and absentminded, while his other hand rested lazily on your hip, holding you close. You could still feel the heat radiating from his skin, the aftershocks of everything you had just done settling between you in the form of comfortable silence.
It was intimate, more than anything. More than the way he had touched you, more than the way he had moved inside you—this moment, the stillness, the way he exhaled softly like he was content, was what made your chest tighten.
Then, of course, he ruined it.
“So,” he drawled, breaking the peaceful quiet. “Would it be weird if I rated that experience a solid twelve out of ten?” You groaned, weakly smacking his chest, but he only laughed, the vibrations rumbling beneath your palm. “Oh my God, Satoru—”
“I mean, I am the strongest,” he continued, completely undeterred, stretching one arm lazily above his head. “So it makes sense that I’d be great in every department.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
He grinned, tilting his head to peer down at you. His hair was a mess, white strands sticking out in different directions, and his lips were still kiss-bitten, smugness radiating off of him in waves. “Oh, don’t worry, sweets, I’d never joke about my performance in bed—”
You smacked him again, this time harder, and he let out a dramatic oof, clutching his chest like you’d wounded him.
“You were being so sweet just a second ago,” you muttered, pouting as you nestled closer against him. “Why do you have to ruin it?” Satoru chuckled, his arms wrapping securely around you as he pulled the blanket over both of you. “C’mon, you wouldn’t want me any other way.”
You sighed, exasperated, but deep down, you knew he was right. He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side so he could face you properly, one long leg tangling with yours. His hand came up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch softer than you expected after all his teasing.
“…Was it really okay?” he asked, voice quieter this time. Almost hesitant. Your heart ached at the sincerity laced in his words, the way he was still Satoru, even after everything. Still checking in. Still making sure. You smiled, cupping his face in your hands as you pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “It was perfect.”
A slow, almost shy smile spread across his face, and for a moment, the cockiness was gone, replaced by something softer. Something real.
Then, of course—
“Perfect, huh? So you are saying I’m the best you’ve ever had—”
“GOJO SATORU, I SWEAR TO—”
His laughter rang out through the dorm, loud and unfiltered, and despite yourself, you couldn’t help but laugh too, the warmth of it curling around your heart. The warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the lazy way his fingers traced along your spine—it was all lulling you into the kind of peace you hadn’t felt in a long time. The teasing had settled into something softer, something quieter, and as sleep tugged at the edges of your consciousness, you thought that maybe, just maybe, you could stay like this forever. Satoru shifted beneath you, his hand sliding from your hip to your waist, pulling you just a little closer. His lips brushed your temple, his breath warm as he murmured, “Hey.”
You hummed in response, not quite opening your eyes. His fingers tapped against your skin, hesitant. “Be my girlfriend.”
That woke you up. Your eyes fluttered open, your head lifting slightly to look at him. “Huh?”
He huffed out a soft laugh, like he couldn’t believe he had actually said it. The Satoru everyone else knew was loud, arrogant, untouchable. But right now, he was just a boy with messy white hair and sleep-heavy eyes, holding you close like he was afraid you might slip away.
“I mean,” he continued, clearing his throat, “we’re already doing all this. And I like you. A lot. So…” He exhaled sharply, his thumb brushing over your waist. “Be my girlfriend.” Your heart clenched at the quiet sincerity in his voice, at the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t just another one of his playful remarks. This was real. A slow smile spread across your lips. “Wow. That was kind of romantic.”
He groaned, tipping his head back against the pillow. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, sweets.” You giggled, shifting to prop yourself up on one elbow, fingers threading through his hair. “You really like me?”
He turned his head back toward you, his eyes—those striking, endless blues—soft in the dim light. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I really do.” Your chest felt too full, your heart racing faster than it should have been after everything you’d already done tonight. But it wasn’t nerves or fear—it was excitement, warmth, the dizzying rush of knowing Satoru Gojo, of all people, wanted you in a way that wasn’t fleeting.
“Okay,” you whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be your girlfriend.” He grinned instantly, arms wrapping around you as he rolled you onto your back, settling half on top of you with a triumphant look. “Took you long enough to say yes,” he teased, but the relief in his voice gave him away.
You laughed, shaking your head. “I hate you.”
“Liar,” he murmured, kissing you again, slow and deep, like he was trying to seal the moment in time. And maybe he was. Maybe you both were.
—
Getting into a relationship with Gojo Satoru was like being swept into a whirlwind—one that was loud, chaotic, and entirely consuming. Everyone around you had the same reaction when they found out: About time.
Shoko had rolled her eyes, exhaling smoke from her cigarette as she smirked. “Honestly, I thought you guys were already dating. You’re both just that disgusting.” Nanami had simply given Gojo a long, knowing look before shaking his head, muttering something under his breath about finally. Even Geto—before everything—had grinned, clapping Satoru on the back and saying, “I was starting to think you’d never get your head out of your ass.”
Satoru, naturally, took it all in stride, tossing an arm around your shoulders and grinning like he’d won the lottery. “What can I say? She couldn’t resist me forever.”
Your life since then had been… a lot. In the best way possible. Because being with Satoru meant being at the center of his world, whether you liked it or not. And he was obsessed with you. Absolutely obsessed. It was the way he always had to be touching you—his hand warm on the small of your back, his fingers playing with yours, his arm slung around your shoulders. It was how he looked at you, like you were the most fascinating thing in existence, eyes always following you, filled with nothing but admiration. It was the teasing—“I get it, babe. I’m super hot, but please let me study for five seconds without you getting distracted by me.”
It was the sweetness—bringing you your favorite snacks when you were stressed, pressing kisses to your temple when he thought you weren’t looking. Intertwining his large hand with yours and placing it in his coat pocket And, well, it was also the other things—
“Satoru, we have a lecture in twenty minutes—”
“Plenty of time, sweetheart. What, you don’t want to study with me?”
“This isn’t studying. You’ve been making out with me for the past ten minutes. And you really do need to stop. What if someone catches you in my dorm?”
“C’mon, I can’t resist you–”
“Sure you can, ‘Toru.”
“But you love me.”
You did. God, you did. And he loved you. He never let you forget it. You’d studied together for your physics final, working hard side by side. Even though Satoru acted like everything came easy to him, he did work for it. And so did you. You spent countless nights pouring over equations, bouncing theories off each other, fighting over who got to use the good highlighters.
And when results day came—
“Oh my God,” you whispered, staring at your score.
100%. Your hands trembled slightly as you clutched the paper, the weight of all those late-night study sessions, the stress, the endless debates with Satoru over formulas and theories—everything culminating in this moment. Pure, unfiltered pride swelled in your chest. Before you could fully process it, a loud whoop filled the air.
“YES! I knew it!”
Suddenly, you were lifted off your feet, spinning in a dizzying circle as Satoru’s wild laughter bubbled over. His strong arms wrapped around you, keeping you pressed to him as he twirled you around the hallway like an overexcited kid.
“My baby’s the smartest person in the world!” he crowed, not caring about the amused stares from your classmates. “Geniuses bow to you! The world kneels before you! Einstein weeps in his grave—”
You were laughing breathlessly by the time he finally set you down, his hands still firm on your waist as he grinned down at you. Your heart swelled at his excitement. “You did well too, right?”
“Pfft, of course.” He flipped his own paper up dramatically, flashing his score.
99%.
“I mean,” he sighed, shaking his head with mock sorrow, “you totally obliterated me, absolutely wrecked my pride, but it’s fine. Matter of fact, I think it was the fact I didn’t revise Bernoulli’s principle enough that resulted in me getting only 99%-”
In another world where he wasn’t your boyfriend, you would've smirked and gloated about beating him, and he would’ve snapped back with something equally smug. But instead, all you felt was pride—pure, unrestrained pride for him. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you.” Satoru melted into you, his arms encircling your waist as he hummed into your shoulder. “Mmm, say it again. I like hearing that.” You chuckled, pulling back slightly—just enough to see the sheepish grin creeping onto his face.
“Actually…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes glinting with something suspicious. You frowned. “What?” He exhaled dramatically. “You’re probably gonna kill me when you hear this.” Your eyes narrowed. “Satoru.”
“Okay, okay—” He raised his hands in surrender, before leaning in like he was telling you a juicy secret. “Technically, I got a 99 on the midterm.” You blinked. “…What?” He grinned. That smug, trouble-making, up-to-no-good grin. “Buuuut you looked so beautiful when you were all happy about your score, so I lied and said I got 95 last minute.”
Your mouth dropped open. “You—WHAT?!”
Gojo Satoru—the cockiest, most competitive man you knew, the one who never let anyone forget how brilliant he was—had lied about an exam score for you? He burst out laughing at your expression, reaching out to ruffle your hair. “Don’t go feeling all bad about it, sweets. This final weighed more than the midterm, so technically—” he booped your nose, “—you’re better than me.”
You were still reeling, warmth spreading through you as you realised he had lied to see you happy. “You changed your answer for me—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved off your shock, smirking. “I’m the best boyfriend in the world. You can say it out loud, babe.” You rolled your eyes, exasperated, before tugging him down into a kiss.
He instantly responded, his grip on your waist tightening, his lips warm and eager against yours. The teasing faded for just a second, replaced by something softer—something real. When you finally pulled back, he looked way too smug.
“…Still smarter than you, though,” you teased, just to knock him down a peg. Satoru gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Oh, you absolutely crushed my heart and then ate it—”
Before you could react, he suddenly straightened, towering over you with a wicked glint in his eye. His large hands slid around your waist, ushering you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. His voice dropped, suddenly deep and velvety, amusement laced with something more sensual. “Guess you’ll just have to make it up to me in bed, huh?”
You groaned, immediately shoving at his chest. “You’re the worst.”
“Your worst.” He waggled his eyebrows, entirely unashamed. You shoved his face away, laughing as he grinned, easily catching one of your wrists in his hand. Instead of saying anything else, he simply lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to your wrist, his lips warm against your skin.
–
Later that night, you were curled up in his dorm, forcing him to watch Whisper of the Heart. He had grumbled and groaned, saying he’d already watched it way back in high school and that he "totally got the whole love and dreams thing," but you still made him sit through it. He spent the first twenty minutes sulking, arms wrapped around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder like a spoiled cat.
“I’m way better than Seiji,” he huffed after a particularly sweet scene. “Like, a million times better.” You snorted. “Jealous of an anime boy, Satoru?”
“I’m just saying,” he drawled, tightening his arms around you. “If I was in this movie, she wouldn’t even look at him.”
“Uh-huh.” You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the warmth. “Sure, babe.” His fingers absentmindedly toyed with the hem of your sleeve, and for a while, you both watched in silence, the glow of the laptop screen painting soft shadows over the room. Halfway through the movie, you reached into your bag to grab your laptop, but something tumbled out and hit the floor with a soft thud. You blinked at the familiar cover of the last book.
“Oh crap,” you muttered, picking it up. “I forgot to return this.”
Satoru turned his head, eyes narrowing. “Wait…” He plucked the book from your grasp, flipping through the pages with an expression that immediately made you suspicious. “You didn’t return this yet?” You nodded, smiling sheepishly. “Guess I kinda forgot.” His fingers slowed as he reached the back cover, eyes landing on the borrowing log where the name “G.S.” had been scrawled in blue ink.
For a moment, he just stared. His thumb ran over the initials like he was absorbing the weight of them, of what they had meant to you before you knew the truth. His usual teasing expression softened, something almost nostalgic flickering in his eyes. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he grabbed a pen from his desk, twirled it between his fingers, and, without saying a word, carefully crossed out “G.S.”
You watched as he replaced it with something else—his full name, written neatly, in the same familiar shade of blue ink in the column beneath the crossed out G.S. He paused, then handed you the pen. Understanding settled between you like an unspoken promise. Without hesitation, you leaned down, pressing the tip to the page to the column under his name, adding your own in smooth, looping letters.
The same date. The same ink. Together.
Satoru stared at it for a long moment, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his lips, something softer, something fonder. He looked at you with that unreadable, almost reverent gaze—the one that always made your breath catch. And then, with absolutely no warning, he grinned and yanked you straight into his lap.
“Sooo,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear as his arms locked around you. “How does it feel to know you’ve been fantasising about me this whole time?” You groaned, swatting at his arm. “Satoru—”
He just laughed, effortlessly dodging your weak attempts at smacking him. “Nah, nah, don’t try to deny it! I knew you had a crush on me.”
“I did not—”
“G.S.,” he sing-songed, his breath warm against your skin as he nuzzled into your shoulder. “You thought I was some mysterious, tortured genius. Bet you used to daydream about me in class, d’you think I showed up as some mysterious faceless guy in your wet dreams?—” You grabbed a pillow and shoved it into his face. His muffled laughter rang through the room, and when he pulled the pillow away, he was still grinning. He kissed your shoulder, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary.
And this time, you let him gloat.
a/n: summary of this entire fic basically (art creds to su2kuna on 𝕏)
sorry if there are error/grammar mistakes or slight plot issues uni is lowkey gnawing at the folds of my brain and a girl gets sick of reading 32k words over and over again.. but i hope you all enjoyed reading this because i really enjoyed writing it :) huhuhuhu much love
