Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

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Oak trees are a symbol of strength, courage, and authority. Red oak trees are highly susceptible to diseases and pests, harboring aggressive root structures that often cause damage. Red oak trees are significantly more prone to rotting in comparison to other oaks.

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Satoru

Satoru’s peaceful slumber is rudely interrupted by the incessant jingle of his 5:40AM alarm. It blares through layers of defensive consciousness before finally reaching, and ruining, his perfectly curated dream. Satoru groans, before slowly propping up his torso onto practically limp elbows, aggressively rubbing his eyelids and stopping his alarm with a click.

It’s for basketball. He reminds himself. You’ll show off to the coach and kick all the senior’s asses. 

Satoru has recently transferred to a new university for basketball, because, although being the best player is fun, it’s kind of boring when everyone is really bad. This new school is supposed to be, like, the best university for basketball in Tokyo. It’s not like Satoru wants competition (like that exists anyways), but yeah, a bit more talent from his fellow teammates might embarrass him less. 

Although, at least his old school was far away from Tokyo—from home. From his parents. Satoru suspects he will be bombarded with ample responsibilities now that he lives closer to home. In-fact, Satoru is thankful that at least he doesn’t have to live with them, even here.

He hoists himself out of bed, scruffing the white hair that lies on the base of his neck. He’s allotted around 20 minutes to get ready, eat, clean his room, look up where the gym is… and oh—the gym is actually a 10 minute walk away. 

Satoru’s eyes widen at the sight, pressing a few extra buttons on Apple Maps to be sure he didn’t, like, click that he was going to commute by snail? Unfortunately, regardless of how many times he requests an adjusted route, the time is only shifted by a minute or two.

Okay. Satoru takes a deep breath. Priorities: get ready, eat—

Actually, he could probably skip breakfast, considering it’ll add four minutes to an already growing ETA. Priorities: get ready.

Priorities: get ready.

Get ready.

Satoru repeats the words in his head, and they bounce around the smooth walls before finally clicking. He hastily makes his way across the room—thankful he has his own apartment with no roommate to tell him to shut up. Last year he had a roommate. Satoru doesn’t think his freshman year roommate liked him very much, but also, it really wasn’t Satoru’s fault that he was a star athlete and his roommate wasn’t. Really, not his fault.

Thankfully, he locates the required practice shirt relatively quickly, slipping on a pair of plain, black, basketball shorts and prays that there’s no team shorts. There are definitely team shorts. Shit, where the fuck are the team shorts? Satoru sneaks a peak at the time, and verifies that, yes, there is absolutely no time to find the team shorts. 

He groans again, heartbeat rising rapidly as it always does whenever he’s stressed as shit and doesn’t have time to deal with his diagnosed anxiety. Frankly, he never has time to deal with it, or whatever other disorders he’s been diagnosed with, because he’s fucked, and all of this is so stupid, and he has three minutes before he has to be out that door.

Satoru practically jumps into the bathroom, taking care of his daily duties: he brushes his teeth for exactly two minutes, even though that’s definitely the biggest waste of time, but seriously, he will not sacrifice his oral hygiene even for something as serious as this. He takes a piss, scrubs his hands for a few seconds, slips on a pair of slides and, thankfully, remembers to grab his backpack.

He traverses at a pace median to a light jog and a swift speed walk, intermittently checking his phone and adjusting his pace to the time. He needs to be in the gym by 5:58—that’s non-negotiable. Currently, it’s 5:56 and by some miracle, his phone verifies that he has in-fact reached his destination. 

He keeps up a quick pace, venturing towards the locker room, his right hand reaching up to tug out a white eyelash and blow it off of his fingers as a sacrifice. He utters a mental thank you to whatever god blessed his mythical pace this morning and continues his journey. He rushes to the locker room, changes his shoes so fast, and makes it into the gym. As soon as the door loudly crashes closed behind him, he takes in his surroundings.

The gym is relatively quiet, empty, if you exclude the tightly knit circle of players that reside in the middle of it. Okay, maybe Satoru is a bit late.

“Gojo,” A deep voice hollers in his direction, and when he does, the entire team turns to look directly at Satoru. “Please, come join us.” He adds, sounding slightly frustrated. Slightly.

Satoru wastes no time, hustling directly towards the circle of players. He observes the heights of his peers. Satoru is tall—almost reaching 200cm. The other boys are a couple inches shorter than him, which is to be expected, but Satoru is a little surprised that one guy looks almost his height. 

Satoru is definitely taller though. The kid has a wide frame, a shit ton of muscle—that can’t be optimal for basketball—and long, silky, black hair that is neatly tied into a ponytail. With how big he is, Satoru gauges that he is likely slower than him, so he can’t be much of a threat. The same voice, the one belonging to coach Yaga (who he met during the transfer process) booms through the gym.

“Gojo, I’m not sure what the,” Yaga clears his throat. “Expectation was at your old program, but here, players are expected to arrive on time.”

So much for the fucking eyelash sacrifice.

“Right,” Satoru murmurs, slightly embarrassed, “I’ll be sure to arrive on time tomorrow.”

Satoru’s gaze drops to everyone’s attire—it appears that everyone is sporting the team shorts. Satoru tries not to dwell on it, facing Yaga with a pleased expression.

Yaga accepts his apology with a light nod, eyeing his shorts for a second and ignoring them as he continues. “It appears that some introductions are necessary.” 

He prompts the person to his left to speak by aiming a hand towards him. Gojo honestly zones out while half the team introduces themselves. He catches a couple of names—a beefy guy with short, black hair named Toji, a kid who must be 170cm or less with blonde hair and mean eyes named Naoya, and the guy who is almost as tall as Saturo: Geto. 

Following everyone’s bland, awkward introductions, practice finally starts.

First, they warm-up with basic drills: lay-ups, dribbling techniques, and passes. 

Easy. I’m doing well. I’m doing really well. Everyone else is doing… fine? Satoru doesn’t notice anyone fumbling easily—a stark contrast to the players at his old school. Still, Satoru’s shots and passes are tighter, cleaner, better than everyone else’s. 

Nobody seems particularly impressed by Satoru’s skills, but then again, it’s just a couple of drills, so he hasn’t exactly been able to smoke anyone yet. 

Practice lags on—coach Yaga making a stern point that the first practices will be very technique-focused since it’s only pre-season. It’s a bore. Luckily, Yaga does offer up a scrimmage for the last 20 minutes of practice—an opportunity that each member gladly accepts.

Yaga divides up the teams roughly—Satoru, Toji, and three others on one team, Naoya, Geto, and some randoms on the other.

The game commences and the hardwood floor is immediately stabbed by multiple pairs of quick feet. Precise footwork dashes across the polished material—the thump of the textured orange ball slapping against the surface periodically.

Satoru usually plays point guard, but for today, he’ll settle for center. A kid whose name Satoru forgot possesses the ball, artfully dodging Naoya’s flawed attempts at stealing it.

“Here!” Satoru yelps—he would’ve said the kid’s name if he knew it, but he thinks this will do. He locks eye contact with the rando, who communicates with a mere nod before pelting the ball towards Satoru. Satoru quickly forces his hands out to catch the ball, whose path is not set for him. He successfully gains possession off of the shit pass regardless. 

He doesn’t have time to complain, reacting with only a small frown before he quickly pivots on his left foot. He hikes his right leg up, placing his weight on his heel before adjusting his arms to shoot—he almost releases the ball before a heavy weight crashes into his arms, almost knocking him to the ground.

Did— Did somebody actually just block him?

Satoru barely has a moment to process the collision before the game is back in play, possession turned over to the other team. He sees wisps of long black hair and a large figure pass by him—Geto.

Geto actually blocked him.

Satoru shakes his head, snaps back into focus, and sprints after Geto. He’s quick, catching up to him, before it all comes crashing down. The satisfying sound of a swish through the hoop signifies the other team’s point. 

Satoru couldn’t catch him.

Satoru plays the rest of the game on autopilot. He shoots, scores, dodges, blocks, does all the things he’s meant to do and even earns a shoulder pat from Yaga at the end of practice. They break out together, sweaty bodies mingling in a circle before separating and heading towards the locker room. Toji starts to strike up a conversation with him, and Satoru tries—really tries to be interested.

It all feels like a failure.

It wasn’t even a competition—but still, Satoru Gojo lost.

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

“So, Gojo, you a party guy?” Toji asks the question pretty loud, basically inviting everyone to listen in. Lockers slam in the background as Satoru pushes his thoughts of failure and anxiety to the back of his mind.

Be cool. Make friends. Don’t make it worse.

Satoru cracks a mischievous smile. “You host a lot?” He asks, avoiding the question purposefully to gauge the reason Toji is asking. Satoru is almost positive that Toji is trying to recruit another member for his friend group, but Satoru has to be sure.

“Nah, not really. Though, my good friends—’Kuna and Choso host a shit ton. Are you down to come sometime?”

Perfect. At least he got something right today. 

Satoru pulls out another eyelash from his right eye as he forms a response, using an additional finger to wipe a bead of sweat off his brow to hide the habit. He lowers his hand to the level of his mouth, giving a nonchalant exhale and making a mental note of the sacrifice. He’s sure nobody saw him.

“Yeah man, I’m totally down—when's the next function?” Satoru replies, and they make small talk while exchanging dates and calendars through tired, sweaty hands. 

Satoru has good peripheral vision, and so he’s like, only slightly concerned that Geto seems to be staring at him… in an observant manner? Could it be considered judgemental? The way his eyes narrow each time Satoru flicks his hand a certain way, or says something funny, or like, does anything—does that mean anything?

Satoru is pretty pissed at Geto for the stunt he pulled during practice, so he tries not to entertain the idea any longer. Besides, Toji is distracting him enough.

“Gojo—you’re a sophomore, right?” Toji asks, gathering his stray items and stuffing them into his bag.

“Yeah, literally moved in, like, two weeks ago though. I feel like a freshman all over again.”

Toji chuckles a little at the response. “Yeah, my girlfriend is a sophomore too—she’s majoring in, uh, what is it—biology? She’s pre-med. What about you?”

“Oh, I’m a business major, but like—I’ll probably switch it. My parents want me to do business so it’s kind of like—you know?”

Toji, and some others who are somehow vaguely a part of the conversation nod at his words. “That’s tough man—switching sophomore year’s gotta suck, oh, Geto did it though.” Toji turns toward Geto, who looks mildly annoyed that he’s been sucked into this wildly unproductive conversation.

“Hm?” Geto asks, feigning innocence as if he hasn’t been silently eavesdropping the entire time.

Dick, Satoru thinks.

Toji restates his previous point. “You switched majors last year, didn’t you? What you were, like, a psychology major and now you’re… philosophy?”

“Other way around, idiot.” Geto responds, rolling his eyes. His voice is unexpectedly smooth for someone who looks so rough, his eyes dark and hair glistening with sweat.

Satoru can’t—shouldn’t stare at him for too long. He stares for a little bit though. He takes in Geto’s sharp jawline, straight nose, dark eyes, thick lashes, and his ears adorned with shimmers of silver jewelry. The guy’s good-looking, Satoru will give him that.

Geto shifts his gaze towards Satoru, forcing Satoru to look away from him. When he does, his head swivels back towards Toji—where is Toji? In-fact, where is everyone? He looks around the locker room, noticing that it’s empty save for him and Geto. Satoru swallows nothing and looks back at Geto, quickly realizing that he definitely said something to him.

“—Huh? S-Sorry, I was zoned out. What’d you say?”

Geto smirks. He fucking smirks. “Nothing, Nepo, you’re not bad, you did well today.”

Well. Satoru did well. That’s right, everything is fi— except the words come from Geto. Satoru shouldn’t value them so much, it’s not like they matter.

Satoru looks at him, astonished. “Nepo..?” He asks, confused when, where, how, and why the nickname came to be.

“Nepo.” Geto confirms, nodding his head with a devilish smile. “Can’t get away with anything Gojo” He adds, and Satoru then understands the nickname. Pretty rude, to be honest, but it’s not like anyone knows anything about his family other than their egregious wealth.

“I’m here for a reason, y’know, I’m the best player.” Satoru says to Geto, but the words are really for himself. “It’s not just because of money.” He adds, thinking it’s a relatively important detail.

He is the best. He is definitely, one hundred percent the best.

Geto scoffs, one of half-disbelief and half-humor. “You shouldn’t be so arrogant, especially after practice today.” His tone is abrasive.

“Arrogant? No, I’m just being truthful.”

“No, you’re just being an asshole.”

Gojo’s mouth parts slightly at the words, face twisting in anger. He steps closer to Geto, the air thick as he waves his hands in self-defense.

“How—how the fuck am I an asshole? What’d I do?”

Geto rolls his eyes, as if Satoru asked a stupid question.

“All practice you’re being, like, snarky or whatever, and you’ve got this—this inflated ego, walking in here claiming superiority over everyone. Now, you’re all salty because I called you out, grow up, man.” 

The words sting, truth searing against his skin. Satoru lifts his left hand to pull out an eyelash from his left eye, his brain too panicked to try and mask it as something else. Before he can reach his eye, his hand is swatted away by another. Confused, Satoru lifts his gaze towards the hand, which belongs to Geto.

“Quit doing that. That’s like, the second time I’ve seen you do it, shit’s bad for your eyes.”

Oh. What?

“Oh.” Satoru blinks twice, moving his hand back to a resting position, before fully processing the moment. Slightly flustered, Satoru fights to regain his composure, remembering that he is in the middle of an argument.

Anger. Right now, you’re angry. He reminds himself.

“Don’t act like you care, jealous freak.” Satoru snaps, grabbing his bag and tossing it over his shoulder before beginning his exit from the locker room. “Next time, fuck off, will you?” He adds, before swinging the door open and leaving with no additional parting words.

Once he’s out of Geto’s sight, the first thing Satoru does is pull out an eyelash from his left side, because, who does Geto think he is messing with Satoru’s coping mechanisms? That’s a new low. Satoru pulls out his phone, shoes slapping against the concrete as he subconsciously retraces his path from this morning back towards his apartment.

His finger slides across the screen, checking for notifications from anyone important. A few emails, a text from his mom proposing a company dinner later this month (immediately cleared), and a string of texts from his childhood best friend, Shoko, sent at three in the morning. 

After that practice, Satoru was very, very grateful that Shoko attended this school. He would not survive this stubbornly hostile environment without her. He checks the time, 8:47AM, and decides that Shoko is probably awake by now, getting ready for the day. He opens his phone, locates her contact, and presses the facetime button.

Shoko picks up after three rings, the screen of Satoru’s phone filling up with Shoko’s face as she sets down her phone in front of her, likely at her vanity. She appears to be applying some sort of product to her face—Satoru doesn’t know anything about makeup but he figures it’s like—blush? 

“Good morning sunshine,” he teases, face lighting up with a smile. He loves Shoko. He really, really loves Shoko. His shoulders relax as he relishes in the familiar feeling. “I haven’t read your texts yet—should I do that or can you just explain them?”

Shoko groans. “Ugh—I don’t feel like saying all that again, just read them and I’ll give you details.”

Satoru, begrudgingly, agrees and navigates through his phone to their messages.

“Actually, before we talk about all of that,” she adds, “how was practice? Anyone better than you?” She wiggles her eyebrows at the emphasized word.

Satoru freezes for a second, provoked by the question. Better? No, obviously not. Nobody was better than him. Sure, Geto slipped him up a couple times, but it’d be crazy to say that made him better than Satoru.

“No.” Satoru responds, the answer sounding much less confident than how he’d hoped it would.

Shoko raises an eyebrow, analyzing him closely. “Really? You admit inferiority? That’s a first.”

“I don’t—he’s not—It’s not like—” Satoru wants to say a million things to defend himself but every sentence comes out discombobulated and he can’t seem to form the right response.

Shoko raises her eyebrow even further, silently pressuring Satoru for an answer.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“There was—someone. Not better, but, yeah—he was, he was really good.” His voice is practically a whisper.

Shoko nods empathetically, as if Satoru had just dumped a traumatic story onto her and needed comfort.

Although, for Satoru, this is a first—admitting defeat.

“What was his name?”

Satoru racks his mind. Geto. What was his first name? Literally everyone introduced themselves with their first names.

“Fuck—it was like Su-something Geto, I forgot his first name.”

“Suguru Geto?” Shoko asks, and she seems surprised.

“Oh—yeah! Suguru Geto, do you know him?”

“He’s a big name around here, he’s like the star athlete of this school, but geez I didn’t think he’d be better than you.”

“I never said he was better,” Satoru responds angrily.

“Yeah, yeah.” Shoko brushes him off.

Better.

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

Shoko’s words play on loop for the rest of the day. Hot water streams down his face in the shower and all he can think of is Geto.

Better. 

Is—Is Suguru really better than him?

Is Satoru Gojo no longer the best? 

His head hits the pillow for less than a second before Satoru is upright again, heart pulsing, hands trembling, legs quickly carrying him towards the bathroom. He kneels in front of the ceramic, bile and vomit streaming out of his body into the toilet bowl. 

Satoru wonders why this is making him nauseous. Tears subconsciously stream down his face, and Satoru whimpers as he heaves over in waves of sickness.

Fuck—He’s, He’s lost again. 

The thought is enough to make him gag once more, his stomach is completely empty at this point. His forehead throbs, head weaving pain through his eyes like a spindle. 

Who is Satoru Gojo, if not the strongest?

Chapter Text

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Birch trees represent the arrival of spring—signifying renewal, purification, and the introduction of new beginnings. River birch in specific is more tolerant of wet climates, highly resistant to heat, and significantly less affected by pests.

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Satoru

Satoru’s first two weeks of basketball are a lot shittier than he had imagined, to be honest. 

Sure, he surpasses most of his team in talent, skill, athleticism, all the stuff. Honestly, he’d consider himself funnier and more attractive than them too. He’s better. He’s definitely better than them.

But—he’s not the best. Not with Geto around.

Satoru has not experienced a proper stretch of sleep for the past three nights, and he thinks that, maybe, he’ll go insane. 

His head sinks into the pillow—it’s not firm enough and partly suffocates him, which just adds to the incredulous state that his life is currently in. Satoru shrugs off his blanket, leaving his toes under it at first. Ultimately, he decides to allow them freedom, resting his feet directly above the hump of blanket that now sits at the foot of his bed.

He adjusts his blindfold—crinkling his nose in distaste when he accidentally pushes it up too far, light creeping into his eyes and sparking a migraine. Satoru places a palm flush to his forehead, applying pressure to the space between his eyebrows—begging for relief.

He’s unsure of what time it is—and he doesn’t dare to open his eyes to check. If he had to guess, he’d assume it’s, maybe, 4:00AM? 

His alarm is set for 5:30AM, an adjustment he made on the second day of basketball to accommodate for the long walk to practice. Exhausted, frustrated, and just so, so done, Satoru carelessly tosses his head face-down back onto his pillow, blocking his airways just to feel something.

He attempts to nuzzle further into the pillow, cotton swallowing his thoughts in addition to his respiratory functions. He reaches a state of emptiness—he’s not thinking too hard and the pain in his head has dulled—he’s nowhere near sleep but this is certainly a good start.

Unfortunately, Satoru has possibly the worst luck ever.

The awful sound of his alarm is enough to prick tears at the edges of his eyes—he swears he doesn’t usually cry, but these days it’s becoming more difficult to defend that statement. 

“Noo…” He exerts a whiny mumble into his pillow, the cry inaudible because of his position.

He rots for a few minutes, the discordant sound slowly (very slowly) lulling to background noise as Satoru organizes his thoughts.

Basketball.

Get up. Walk. Basketball. Go home. Sleep.

The plan grounds him, motivates him just enough to summon his willpower—the promise of a nap is his only driving factor.

Satoru musters every ounce of strength he has left, flips himself over, and turns off his alarm.

Basketball.

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

Suguru

The rhythmic pounding of the ball against the ground forces Suguru to concentrate. He makes sure to keep his distance from Gojo, attempting to surround himself with a less-skilled defender.

He’ll admit it—Gojo is really fucking good at basketball. Compared to everyone else on their team, Gojo is a light in the same way the moon strikes the dark blue abyss, illuminating the sky like a beacon. Gojo is a beacon. 

“Go man, go man!” Nanami’s commanding voice yells—an upperclassman with short, blonde hair—who leads the other team for the scrimmage. 

Shit, of course Nanami picked up on it. Geto thinks, realizing he might be doomed if Gojo gets close to him, considering he’s practically the only player whose skill is comparable to Suguru’s.

The players on Nanami’s team interpret his message, converting their defense so that Gojo can move up to guard Suguru. The loud squeaking of shoes bounces across the gym, and Suguru keeps the ball in the safety of a dribbling motion as they reposition. Quickly, his central vision is filled with the familiar white, mussed hair, a lanky figure, and sound of heavy breathing that belongs to none other than Satoru Gojo. 

Gojo wastes no time trying to steal the ball—pushing himself close to Suguru, forcing him to take a couple of stabilizing steps backwards. Suguru rises up a little—tries to make himself just a bit taller and more intimidating against Gojo’s ridiculous height. 

He notices a hand coming to swat the ball away, widening his stance and bounce-passing the ball underneath his legs in response. Gojo responds with a frustrated groan.

Suguru usually tries not to look at Gojo’s face, his eyes are so big and blue that Geto often gets lost in them, and in the process, loses possession of the ball. 

You can’t blame him though—for his eyes constantly gravitating towards Gojo’s face. 

Gojo is—objectively, like, just simply from an objective standpoint here, really fucking hot. Or, pretty? Pretty is likely a better term for it. He’s a distraction, yet Suguru still looks at him—he still wants to look at him.

Suguru can’t help but notice that Gojo is slightly off today—his footwork is less precise, ankles wobbling more than usual, and when he dares to look at his eyes, Suguru notices how tired they look.

He quickly snaps himself out of it, he needs to focus.

Gojo assumes his prior position, pushing close to Suguru in an attempt to make him fumble—their breaths mingle at the proximity and Suguru tries not to think about it. 

Gojo is aggressive—he pushes closer to Suguru, shoving him lightly enough to not be considered a foul, but hard enough to make Suguru almost drop the ball.

“Careful,” Suguru teases, a mischievous smirk crawling up his face.

“Shut up—” Gojo grunts, the words practically an exhale, breathing heavily as he fails to steal the ball from Suguru again. 

Geez. He’s really off today.

Suguru halts his rhythmic movements, catching Gojo off guard and forcing him to jerk forward as to not faceplant into the ground. Gojo huffs in frustration, but Suguru is already two steps away—arms in the air aimed for the hoop. He snaps his wrist, fingertips slipping off of the ball as he shoots a 3-pointer.

It cleanly floats through the net, signifying the success of the shot. Suguru smiles, turns his head to look towards Gojo—to taunt him. Suguru stops before any words come out, lips parted in a message that he refuses to send, because Gojo looks—

Disappointed.

Gojo looks so disappointed.

“Fuck.” Gojo murmurs—low enough to where only him and Suguru could possibly hear the sound. He drags a hand across his face, reaching towards his eye for a second—fingers hanging in the air—before he drops the hand and looks back towards the court.

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

Satoru

Satoru thinks that if someone ever taunts him again—he’ll break.

The fragility of his self-worth becomes increasingly apparent with each passing day, and he is unsure of how much more pressure he can take.

Satoru has never, literally never had an issue like this. It’s as if Geto has picked up Satoru’s life with a firm hand, flipped it upside-down, and shaken it to abandon the loose pieces. 

It has become apparent that there are too many loose pieces.

Satoru lifts his arm, using the stretch from his forearm to the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his forehead. He shuts his eyes, squeezing them as he winces in pain from the feeling of an oncoming migraine.

The gym is completely empty, the only sounds filling the space come from Satoru himself, angered exhales and whimpers of pain that almost render silent. Everyone has already left the space, likely gossiping in the locker room, packing up their stuff—all loud laughter and big smiles.

Satoru begins to make his way towards them—maybe if it will lift his spirits to hear the sound of laughter and see the joy of smiles. 

Maybe if science is right and happiness is contagious—Satoru will cease to feel this sense of dread and exhaustion as soon as he reconnects with them. Maybe if science is right and there is a possibility that with each step Satoru takes, his body could pass through the atoms of the floor—Satoru will cease to feel anything at all.

He hopes science is right, because at this moment, God certainly isn’t.

Satoru’s steps carry him across the floor, an extra boost of energy required when he is faced with the heavy gym doors—doors that are promised portals towards a better day, a better feeling. He pushes through them with a blunt shoulder, continuing his melancholy trek towards the locker room.

The locker room is divided by two doors—first, one that leads to a small in-between space, and the second to actually access the room itself.

The first door of the locker room is significantly lighter than the obstacle he had faced prior—swinging open with no more force than the push of his palm. A cacophony of voices erupt from the room, and Satoru can discern many of them.

Toji’s voice booms above the others—louder and more commanding. 

“Where the fuck is he? I didn’t even see him walk out of the gym.”

Satoru pushes open the second door, his eyes aimed straight ahead. When the door opens, half of the room turns to look at him—conversations drawn to a halt.

“Oh my god! There you are—Gojo, where the fuck have you been for the past ten minutes?!” 

The noise is loud, and it only intensifies the growing headache that settles behind Satoru’s eyes. Satoru takes another step forward, and then another, and then three more as he attempts to make it at least to his locker—to his phone. 

Shoko. Shoko will definitely be able to help him. 

For all they joked and teased, Shoko could be serious and actually comfort Satoru—she’d done it before. She’d comforted him when he’d opened up about his parents—like, actually opened up about them, an event that had only ever occurred once, even in the 12 year history of their friendship.

He thought up a response as he trudged towards his locker—maybe he’d just respond simply: ‘I was getting some extra reps.’ 

Yeah, that’d be something that Satoru Gojo would say.

Satoru takes too long to think up something, earning a gentle shove on his shoulder from a gentle hand. At the motion, his head snaps up, eyes meeting another pair—Yuji Itadori, one of the freshmen who Satoru thinks is actually pretty talented.

“Dude—you good? You’re, like, totally spaced out.”

Satoru blinks a couple of times, scrunching his face in a few ways before responding with an aggressive nod. He opens his locker, digging through his bag in an attempt to find his phone. Shoko. 

His hands brush smooth plastic, fingers wrapping around the shape and pulling the phone out of his bag. He unlocks the device, almost not bothering to respond to a singular notification as he mentally crafts a response for Itadori.

“Yeah, sorry I have to check something on my pho—“

[Dad]: 3 missed calls

Fuck. Fuck. “Fuck. Shit—sorry, I have to call my dad.”

Satoru’s heart picks up, eyes serving as a weathered dam against tumultuous waters as his feet quickly carry him out of the locker room. He pushes through the doors with ease, fingers racing across the screen with practiced precision as he calls his father. 

The phone rings only once before it stops, his father’s voice surging from the speaker, bouncing through the desolate hallway.

“Satoru—“

“Dad! I’m—I’m so sorry, I had practice and m-missed your calls, I promise that next ti—“

“There will be no next time.” His father’s irritated reply signals that his message is final. “Satoru. You’ve ignored your mother’s messages regarding the dinner we plan to host this month,” fuck. “And your attendance is mandatory.”

“Do not ignore your mother again, if you know what is good for you. Do you understand, Satoru?”

Satoru clears his throat, head flush against the hard wall—if he does not calm down his voice will break. His voice cannot break in front of his father. His voice cannot break in front of anyone.

“I understand.” Satoru keeps the reply short, the phantom feeling of a hand across his face enough to make him shiver.

“Good—this is unlike you Satoru. You don’t usually ignore us.” 

His voice is laced with concern, but Satoru knows it is completely manufactured—his father’s love has always, and will always, be conditional.

“S-sorry dad. I’ve been really tired—and… and basketball has just been making it tough.”

“Then I suppose it would be a smart decision to quit basketball, no?” His father’s voice is smug.

“No! No—I promise, I’m handling it.”

“Are you handling it, Satoru? You ignore your mother’s texts, my calls, family plans—you don’t seem to be handling it. You are too focused on basketball.”

I’m not even focused on basketball, I’m focused on hi—

“I promise, I’ll be okay—don’t… don’t take basketball away.” 

It is a plea.

“Try harder, Satoru.” His father responds, offering a curt goodbye alongside details of the dinner, and hangs up.

Satoru’s hand trembles, still clutching the phone with a grip tight enough to make his knuckles render white. His father always manages to rile him up—always manages to make him feel like a failure.

The pace of his heart quickens—his head pounds. He is a failure, according to his father. Satoru wishes that not a singular person would perceive him negatively.

Not a single one.

Satoru forgets what the original intent was behind grabbing his phone—he cannot think other than one-dimensional thoughts. He should grab his bag, change his shoes, walk home and take a shower, maybe eat something, but the latter is a stretch considering he has not kept down more than a few bites each day. 

Satoru drags his feet against the polished stone floors, swinging open the locker room doors—ones that he previously, and foolishly, had categorized as light. 

The doors are heavier than the words that lie on his tongue—essentially, Satoru must force the entirety of his bodyweight into a measly push for the hinges of the door to activate.

The air falls silent, tens of eyes set upon Satoru as he trudges into the room—head hung low, sweat beading off of his hands, his forehead, and a pale color painting his face.

Each step onto the smoothed level surface feels like a battle fought on a steep mountain, and Satoru feels as though he is quickly losing the battle, and alongside it—his balance.

His steps grow imbalanced, neck draping lower like a sick giraffe. One of his arms flops across his stomach to accommodate for the growing nausea pooling in his gut. The floor begins to shed colors—bare concrete that was once gray now bears streaks of purple, orbs of blue, and waves of brown. 

Satoru vaguely comprehends that his name is being called—a sturdy pair of hands has found a home on his shoulders and Satoru leans into the touch.

He cannot think of anything at all, nor does he want to. Satoru swims in a state of half-asleep, but really Satoru should be considered half dead.

Voices around him panic, they pick up in speed, intensity, the hands on his shoulders have grown into arms that envelop him entirely—like a stone pillar.

Spots of black now pollute Satoru’s vision, growing quickly and shrouding the headache that tainted his sight. The black spreads like an invasive vine, yet, Satoru doesn’t fight it.

He cannot fight anything at all, nor does he want to. 

He allows the black, the pain, the nausea, and the exhaustion to win.

He is no longer the best, so what is the point in victory, anyways?

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

Suguru

“Suguruuuuu!” A voice calls, teasing and lighthearted. Suguru whips his head towards the sound—nobody in this room is nearly close enough to use Suguru’s first name. 

“We are not on that basis, freshman.” Suguru responds sternly, ruffling the pink strands of hair that belong to the voice who called his name—Itadori.

“Sorrryyy!” He responds, clearly hyper on sugar, or crack, or alcohol, or another substance—but very clearly hyper. “Was trying to get your attention!” Itadori gleams, displaying his set of charming white teeth.

“What’s up?”

“Have you seen Gojo? Oh, wait, also, did you finish the pre-semester psychology essay? Oh, and also do you wanna go to lunch with us? It’ll be like Nanami, Toji, Megumi, and Gojo. Oh—but we can’t find Gojo, so do you kno—”

“Jesus Christ, slow down.”

“Sorry! Should I repeat the question—”

“No. No—hold on. I haven’t seen Gojo.” That's weird, though “Uhh, I didn’t finish that essay, but I’ve thought about it. Lunch? Maybe.” 

Suguru answers each question with the shortest answer possible, attempting to minimize the window of speech where he could slip up—embarrass himself. It’s small, subconscious calculations as such that run his life entirely.

Itadori opens his mouth to answer—the words never meeting the exit as each head in the room snaps towards the locker room door. The sound of a haste entrance clouds the room, Gojo’s figure suddenly appearing through the frame. 

“Oh my god! There you are—Gojo, where the fuck have you been for the past ten minutes?!” Toji’s voice is filled with frustration and confusion.

Gojo doesn’t answer. He walks forward, takes the direct path to his locker, clearly in a rush to obtain an item from inside. He fumbles with the lock, treating the entire room to a long, extended moment of silence. Itadori places a hand on his shoulder, to which Gojo flinches.

“Dude—you good? You’re, like, totally spaced out.”

Gojo’s face twists in response, as if there are too many words on his mind, and at the same time, he doesn’t have a singular thing to say. He ends up providing a curt nod, digging through his bag as he formulates an audible response.

Gojo’s hand movements are sporadic—pupils dilated as if he is a prey being hunted.

He looks like he’s about to faint. Suguru notes, but he remains silent.

“Yeah, sorry I have to check something on my pho—“

If Suguru had thought that it was impossible for Gojo’s skin to bear any less color—he was proven wrong at this moment.

“Fuck.” Gojo mutters, under his breath. He continues, louder—a message towards the entire room. “Shit—sorry, I have to call my dad.”

Gojo slides his fingers across the phone, motions that Suguru assumes add up to a call towards his father. When a grey color fills the screen, Gojo begins his descent—holding the phone to his ear with a tight grip.

Gojo swings the doors open as if they weigh nothing, a panicked voice surging from his lungs as he exits.

“Dad! I’m—I’m so sorry, I had practice and…”

His voice fades as the doors close behind him. For a moment, bodies remain frozen in silence, in confusion.

Someone clears their throat—walks towards the center of the room. 

“Is-Is he like—should we go check… on him?” Megumi Fushiguro—one of the freshmen, asks.

Most of the boys shrug. None of them really know Gojo all that well, not that they dislike him, it's just—he keeps to himself more. 

He’s a new transfer too, so the opportunity for bonding is relatively difficult, even without taking into account his evasive personality. 

Suguru decides to speak up. “No.. I’d just like, wait—he’ll come back. He left his bag here, so..”

Suguru’s simple words are like water to withering flowers—earning nods and sounds of agreement from the group. 

For the next few minutes, they attempt to fall back into a rhythm, striving for normalcy while they mask their anticipation. A few pace, a few engage in shallow conversations, and a few simply wait. 

Suguru uses this precious time to write down a grocery list on his notes app. He has found that meal planning is particularly effective, especially on days where the idea of a cooked meal appears as a miracle rather than a feasible task. 

He rests his head onto the cool metal of a locker that resides behind him—peeling off of the surface for a few seconds to remove his hair tie before resuming the position. He continues to write his list—fidgeting with the hair tie between his fingers as he conjures up the more niche items.

Around ten minutes after Satoru’s hurried exit—the hinges of the door creak again, signaling what the team assumes is his reappearance. Slowly, Suguru’s ears are filled with the sound of the first door slamming shut, as the second door peels open before him.

Usually, when seeing Gojo, his eyes serve as a landmark—blue spheres that hold treasure and promises. Suguru believes the secrets of the universe must be hidden inside of the aquamarine coves.

Yet, as Gojo returns to the room, Suguru is not graced with the presence of his eyes—only the head of disheveled, white hair and scalp. An arm is draped over his lower-half, as if he has been shot in the stomach like a wounded animal. His steps are sluggish—a sharp contrast to the confident demeanor that Suguru has noticed he protects with each conscious moment he lives.

It is clear, this is not Satoru Gojo, or more like, Satoru Gojo is not present in the body he controls.

“Yo—Gojo..? You good?” A voice calls.

Gojo has unevenly distributed his weight, and Suguru realizes that he will soon topple over if action is not taken. In a hasty set of steps, Suguru makes his way to Gojo, attempting to stabilize him with a hand on either of Gojo’s shoulders.

“Gojo. Can you hear me?” Suguru asks, his voice calm with an underlying sense of impending doom and guilt.

Gojo does not speak, just falls further into Suguru’s touch, so much so that they are now practically hugging—Suguru’s arms wrapped around Gojo for stability.

“Fuck—what do we do?” A panicked voice asks, as others pace around the room, devising a plan. Suguru briefly notices a guy slip out of the space, likely to grab Coach Yaga or a medic.

“Gojo. Can you hear me?” Suguru repeats, his voice only slightly more panicked as he realizes that Gojo has practically gone entirely limp in his arms. He shifts the weight of the body, holding him entirely with his left arm as he tilts his chin up with his right hand. 

Gojo’s eyes are closed, likely unconscious.

He definitely just fainted.

“Guys, he passed out…” Suguru searches for the other half of his sentence, wading dark waters and a heavy throat to creak the words. “Should… only last a few minutes.”

Suguru feels guilt pool low in his gut, twisting and invading his mind, as much as he tries to push the thought out.

You couldn’t have prevented it.

There was no moment you could’ve intervened.

It’s okay that you didn’t say something.

But,

Suguru should have said something.

The second that Satoru waltzed into the locker room—diamond eyes dulled and frantic, steps out of sync—Suguru should have intervened.

Was it out of spite? Suguru did not think he was the type to sacrifice an individual’s wellbeing over petty matters—but maybe Satoru has made more of an impact on Suguru than he thought.

Yaga bursts through the door, alongside another man who Suguru knows as the athletic trainer. Immediately, their eyes pin directly on Suguru, who harbors the limp man in his hands.

The trainer disperses a few instructions to some others who are in the room, while Yaga questions Toji and Nanami, their senior captains, off to the side. With Gojo removed from his arms, Suguru simply freezes in place—watching.

Unsurprisingly, after only two or three minutes, Gojo slowly tugs open his heavy eyelids. Suguru notices him flinch at the sensation, immediately crumpling his face in irritation, likely due to the influx of light. He opens his mouth—pink, soft lips slurring through a tied tongue. 

Suguru receives a tap on his shoulder—from Yaga—and a flick of the fingers signals for him to follow towards the door. Suguru responds with a slight nod, stealing a final glance at Gojo before turning his back and making for the door. 

When he arrives outside, Yaga waits a moment to speak—first staring at Suguru intently. Suguru feels slightly… violated? He doesn’t know, but it feels weird for someone to stare at him with so much wonder, as if Yaga’s mind is still producing the words he has yet to utter.

“Geto,” he starts, “As an upperclassman, and a candidate for captain next year, I have a request.” 

Candidate for captain? Not sure I’d say that.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Gojo—you’ve seen him these past few days, haven’t you? Less energetic, sloppy, and now, passing out. I’d hate to push a lecture onto him, but…” Yaga pauses. “It’s not acceptable.”

“Not… acceptable? You’re acting like it’s his fault—”

“I’m aware it’s not his fault, but the consequences for the team are more important than his intentions. Our first game is in two weeks—what happens when he’s fainting in the middle of a game, huh? I need him to be reliable, but he isn’t.”

Suguru is at a loss for words. Because, Yaga is almost right. So close, it makes Suguru wince, as if he’s being insulted himself.

“So, where do I come into this?”

“I need you to look after him.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow, searching for the hidden implication behind Yaga’s words. “How so? Hang out with him? Make sure he’s eating? Make sure he’s doing his work? What do you mean look after him?”

“Yes.”

Suguru sighs and shakes his head. “Those were options.”

Yaga flashes Suguru a smug smile. “I’m aware. I choose all of the options. Become his best friend, Suguru. Or don’t—I don’t care. Just act like his best friend, at least.”

Best friends?

That’s funny. 

“I’m serious, Suguru.” Yaga adds sternly.

“Okay.” Suguru responds, not entirely positive at all, but relatively neutral.

“I have a feeling you two will grow to be close, Suguru.”

Sure buddy. Sureeeee.

Chapter Text

· ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Eastern white pine trees, affiliated with purification and healing by many ancient civilizations, are fast-growing and long-living. According to many cultures, the aroma of pine is believed to cleanse the spirit and promote an inner sense of peace.

· ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Satoru

The fork mercilessly stabs at the thick stem, poking disorganized rows of holes into the leaf at each flick of Satoru’s wrist. Satoru impales one piece in a particularly violent manner, enough for it to latch onto the utensil. He shoves the lettuce into his mouth, swallowing without bothering to savor the taste—recently food has become more of a chore than an act of leisure.

A conversation flows in the background, a rhythmic white noise that makes a futile attempt to drown out Satoru’s thoughts. Details of future plans, practices, social events, and assignments flood the table.

Satoru lays low, head completely somewhere else—completely on purpose.

Satoru is so embarrassed.

Not only did he faint in front of his entire team—which is bad enough because he likely looked catastrophic—when he finally awoke, he almost went manic.

After his two drowsy eyes finally summoned the strength to lift themselves, he immediately winced from the harsh, bright light. Then, he began to babble—incoherent things, things that Satoru does not dare to remember. Satoru can only manage to recall the fear that completely engulfed his body, forcing his hands to tremble and thoughts to cascade out of his mouth like a gushing river.

A soft nudge placed on his right shoulder snaps him to the present, as five pairs of eyes intently gaze directly at Satoru. Satoru realizes that someone likely asked him a question, yet instead of asking them to repeat it, he freezes for a moment. 

He pauses—mouth slightly agape as he configures a socially acceptable response to the increasingly awkward situation.

“I asked…” Nanami begins to repeat, catching Satoru’s cue of confusion. “If you were feeling better… Gojo?” His eyes are adorned with concern, pity, maybe, a look that Satoru has learned to both despise and to treasure.

“Oh—yeah. Sorry, I was… thinking.” Satoru is an awful liar, and although the words are not completely a lie, each person can tell the words have been carefully selected.

“Can you, like, actually eat something, though? You’re stressing me out with this puny-ass salad.” Geto’s voice is silky smooth and oddly comforting. 

His voice is oddly comforting.

Hold on. Why is he being nice to me?

Satoru raises an eyebrow at Geto’s comment, suspicious of the attentive demeanor that has replaced his snarky, argumentative attitude—usually provided when he interacts with Satoru.

Geto ignores the concern, only lifting a heavy-looking bowl of ramen, which sits in a saturated, brown broth, and is decorated with a few slices of pork and other irrelevant garnishes. He sets down the bowl, sliding it slightly closer to Satoru before he adds a set of disposable wooden chopsticks next to it. 

“Please—eat. That’s probably why you passed out earlier, you have to take care of yourself.”

“I.. I eat..?”

“Okay, then eat right now.”

“Don’t patronize me, I get that we’re not the closest but you don’t have to be such an ass…”

“Gojo, I’m not patronizing you—I’m serious. We… We all care about you, so can you just eat so you don’t scare us again?” Geto says, as if he’s actually concerned.

Oh.

It’s not that Satoru feels guilty—because he definitely doesn’t feel bad for anyone else when he’s the one who passed out, but…

Geto makes him feel a little bad.

He supposes that the ramen is not actively interrupting anything. He’s out for lunch with Toji, his girlfriend, Nanami, Itadori, Fushiguro, and Geto. There is no task to be completed and no dreadful feeling for Satoru to wallow in, so a meal could be an appropriate action to fill the time.

Reluctantly, Satoru picks up the chopsticks, severing the connection between the two wooden poles before sticking them into the bowl. 

He doesn’t enjoy when people watch him eat—the watchful eyes of another can only cause discomfort or judgement in this situation. Unfortunately, Satoru does not have a choice, so he stomachs a brief bite under the oppressive stares before the attention dissipates.

Although gazes no longer lie on him—an awkward silence envelops the room. Luckily, Toji fills it.

“So, a couple of my friends are hosting Friday night—you guys down? It’ll probably be crazy because it’s the first of the school year.”

“Bro, tell ‘Kuna to actually supply alcohol this time or else I’m not coming, for real.” Nanami responds casually.

“Okay, okay, that was, like, one time. He usually brings stuff, and he actually has money this time, so I’m sure there will be stuff on Friday.”

Geto narrows his eyes at the wall, seemingly avoiding the conversation.

“Getoooo! Are you gonna join us for once? Loosen up a little, man. You don’t just have to smoke alone in the quiet—come smoke with all of us in the loud!” Itadori gleams, giving Geto a playful nudge on the shoulder, clearly trying to convince him.

Satoru sees Geto’s reluctance, but he doesn’t comment. 

He can deal with himself. 

Before Geto can actually respond, though, the hotseat has been turned to Satoru.

“Gojo, you in? It’ll be a good way to make friends too, for outside of basketball and stuff. Hell, you could probably find other business people there.” Toji adds. He loops a hand over the waist of a girl sitting to his right, who Toji had introduced as his girlfriend. “And hey, you never know, maybe you’ll find a girl,” Toji whistles. 

His girlfriend smiles softly, looking up at Toji with loving hazel eyes. 

Satoru doesn’t know how to feel about the look she gives him—whether he wants to feel the same eyes, or to be them. He pushes the thought down, instead regaining hold of the chopsticks to distract himself, to distract the others.

Satoru feels an urge to rip out an eyelash, to use it as a plea for thoughts free from pollution—a plea for God to get him out. God will not get him out.

But, maybe alcohol will free him from his mind.

“Yeah, why not? No harm in getting drunk on a Friday, right?” Satoru replies with a wide, fake smile.

There is definitely harm in getting drunk on a Friday night, but Satoru supposes that there is also harm in attempting to survive another Friday night while sober.

“Cool, cool, and oh—Gojo—I actually don’t have your number. You’re not even in the group chat, dumbass.” Toji says.

“Oh, yeah, gimme your phone I’ll put it in—” before Satoru can even finish his response, a hand from the right shoves a phone screen into his view, forcing him to pause. The screen is open to messages with an empty contact created. The blinking cursor signals that the phone is ready to accept whatever number is fed to it. 

Except, this phone is not Toji’s. Or Nanami’s, Fushiguro’s, or even Itadori’s.

It’s… Geto’s?

“Uhhh…” Satoru adds, looking at Geto with a puzzled stare. Geto simply flicks his wrist, as if he is growing impatient by Satoru’s frozen stature.

“Go, put your number in mine too.” 

Okay, very direct. And very weird. 

Satoru swears that, up until about five minutes ago, him and Geto were enemies. Yet, for some reason, Geto has made the conscious, cognitive switch to suddenly treat Satoru like a human being—no, worse—like a friend.

Satoru cautiously takes the phone, which, in a way he can’t really describe, looks kind of like Geto. He types his number into the phone before sliding it back towards its owner. Then, he receives Toji’s phone—going through the same motions with a slightly larger sum of confidence.

This whole situation is so weird.

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

Satoru’s classes are ridiculously easy.

Sure, it’s only the first couple of weeks, and so they’re bound to get a bit more difficult, but for a prestigious university—he expected more. Satoru has strategically calculated his required credits, ensuring that the absurd classes he loads his schedule with can actually count toward something.

Obviously, he hates his business major. And obviously, he’s not the one who chose it. His father demanded that Satoru major in business during their heated compromise, and without any bargain, Satoru had instantly dropped the conversation and taken the deal.

Technically, to take over the Gojo corporate empire, Satoru didn’t need a degree at all. His father could simply train him, and Satoru could work under him until his inevitable retirement, and by then, Satoru would certainly be ready. 

This had actually been the plan—the only plan, Satoru had thought, until his eighteenth birthday. 

Luckily, there was basketball. And, his academic talent, obviously. 

Satoru is still figuring out a way to discreetly change his major. In the time his classmates spend writing essays and completing assignments, Satoru researches ways to switch your major without the financial source being notified. Currently, he’s drawing a blank.

Luckily though, the clock has officially struck 2:35PM on Tuesday.

Translation: The highlight of Satoru’s week has arrived—a warm promise of eternal, unconditional affection and joy: Satoru’s computational physics class. 

Upon seeing the numbers gleaming across the screen of his bedside clock, Satoru immediately jumps out of bed, tossing off the heavy comforter and sauntering over to his shoe area, which is accompanied by a full-length mirror.

Satoru purposefully budgets his time to accommodate for this process, the daunting task he faces each time he steps out of the apartment—Satoru must choose which pair of shoes to wear. First, he analyzes his outfit in the mirror, taking note of the tones and palette he chose for the day.

He has on a pair of darker blue baggy jeans that he bought on a solo trip to Kyoto—they have a subtle embroidered patch on the back of Satoru’s favorite Digimon character, so obviously, they’re his favorite pair of pants. On top, he layered a dark red long sleeve underneath a white graphic T-shirt of a popular anime.

Come on, he has to at least hide the nerd a little bit. 

After analyzing the various colors that make up his outfit, he decides on a pair of dark red Adidas Sambas. He flashes a smile in the mirror, touching up his hair before slipping on the strap of his backpack and waltzing out of the apartment.

~

As Satoru begins his journey across campus towards his physics class, he decides that today, he’ll be finding the most efficient route to get there. Currently, it takes him approximately seven minutes to get from the edge of campus, through the arts building, across this giant random field, and into the science building, before he can finally take his seat in class.

That is way too long for Satoru to wait for his favorite class.

So, standing at the edge of campus, where he always starts his journey, he decides to not enter the arts building on the left. Instead, he takes a sharp right, straight into a large, common space. Satoru can’t actually tell if this giant building belongs to a particular department, nor does he actually care, so he just keeps walking while continuing to calculate the rest of his route.

He’ll keep walking straight for about 150 meters, and if he encounters a wall, then he’ll just adjust his route and take a right, and then, at some point, he shou—

Satoru immediately halts, which he probably shouldn’t because it draws attention directly to his location when the guy behind him loudly complains at Satoru’s lack of social awareness.

Because of the very loud noise emitted by the fella behind him, multiple pairs of eyes snap up towards Satoru. Including the ones that caused all of this.

Suguru Geto.

Why. Does. Satoru. See. Him. EVERYWHERE?

Of course, this is no exception, and Satoru swears that Geto must be following him because his presence has slowly become a shadow looming over the brightest parts of Satoru’s life. And now, Suguru’s presence is dimming the brightest one. 

Satoru looks away from Suguru quickly, merging back into the flow of foot traffic as his shoes click against the pale tiles, gaze pointed anywhere but at Geto, who (now that Satoru is looking), sits at a round table alongside two other boys, and a girl. 

Him and the girl look awfully close, seats situated in close proximity and shoulders grazing each time that laughter erupts across the conversation. 

Could it be Geto’s girlfriend? 

The thought makes Satoru uncomfortable, but he realizes that he is definitely staring, and that Geto is also definitely staring back.

Computational physics, Satoru reminds himself—words that rejuvenate his withering spirit.

Computational physics.

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

Satoru takes his time packing up—mind still entranced by sequences of equations and numerical data, completely enamored with today’s lesson. Mind on auto-pilot, he gently shuts his textbook, thin pages fluttering as the two sides come to a close. 

He slips the obnoxiously thick book into his backpack, tossing in his pencil bag and alongside it, a folder containing the review packet for this unit’s assessment. Satoru zips the bag with a sense of finality, slinging it over his right shoulder (it looks, and feels awkward to have his backpack on both) and sauntering out of the classroom.

The last, and he means the last face he expected to see, waiting outside of his computational physics class, was Suguru Geto’s.

But, obviously, he’s there.

Because when does Satoru’s life ever make sense?

Never, literally never.

He stands there, leaning so casually against the tan bricks of the wall, fiddling with a chunky, silver ring on one of his fingers, eyes scanning the sparse sea of students that flow out of the classroom.

Geto clocks Satoru’s presence immediately, and Satoru only has a quarter of a second to question ‘How the fuck did he know I was in this class?’ before Geto has stalked up to him and pulls him aside, towards the edge of the hallway.

At least this time Satoru is not an embarrassing obstruction in the walkway—he can thank Geto for that.

“Am… Am I in trouble?” Satoru questions, still wondering why Geto is even here. “Like, does Coach need something—did I miss an email?” 

Geto tilts his head in confusion, as if Satoru is an idiot. “No…? Why would this be about basketball? Gojo—I’m not even a captain…” Geto seems to be just as confused as Satoru. And now, it’s really awkward.

“Why wouldn’t you be here for basketball? That’s like—” Satoru takes a deep, stabilizing breath. “Geto, we’re not even friends.”

“Oh.” Geto replies, as if this all finally makes sense and the pieces have clicked into place for him. Meanwhile, Satoru’s brain has failed to even locate the corner pieces of the puzzle. “Oh, yeah—well like, I know we’re not that close, but, we… could be?” 

Why does the interaction sound like it hurts? 

This is so uncomfortable, oh my goddddd.

“Uhhh…” Satoru starts, still not completely sure whether there’s an offer on the table, prompting Geto to finish his request.

“Would you wanna come over to my place?”

“What?”

“Would you wanna come over to my place?” Geto repeats, a little louder.

Satoru rolls his eyes. “No, I heard you, just like, what? Why are you inviting me to hang out?”

“I wanna be friends. Come on, we can like…” Geto gestures between himself and Satoru, alluding to something, but Satoru might really be stupid because he still doesn’t get it.

“Like?”

Geto pauses, slapping on a ‘thinking face’ and seemingly racking his brain for ideas. “Do you like video games? We can play something like Fortnite, or GTA, or Mario Ka—”

“Yeah.”

Geto’s face lights up at the response, even despite the interruption. He actually perks up, like some dog, black hair swaying a little too much and falling in front of his eyes. Geto quickly scoops it up and tucks it behind his ear, eager to continue the conversation. “What? Really?”

“Yeah, Mario Kart. Let’s go to your place.” Satoru cannot possibly turn down the opportunity to play his favorite video game of all time—even if it’s with someone as evil as Geto.

“Yeah, okay.”

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

Suguru

Well, easier done than said.

Suguru’s eyes are laser-focused on the screen, because he’s genuinely lost the past three rounds of Mario Kart. Would he have suggested it if he knew that Gojo happens to be some sort of world champion at the game?

Probably not. But it’s fine, whatever, because as long as they’re ‘bonding,’ then Suguru is making progress.

Gojo’s hands clench the controller with serious determination, and upon seeing his efforts, Suguru decides that they are clearly on different wavelengths.

The familiar high-pitched countdown voice starts again, initiating the next round of the game. The next opportunity for Suguru to maybe not look like such an idiot next to Gojo.

It’s starting to feel like those noob vs. pro Minecraft videos that Suguru used to indulge in as a teenager—he is definitely the noob here.

Suguru sprawls his fingers over the intricate grooves of the controller, positioning his fingers as neon text of ‘3, 2…’ flashes across the screen. He tightens the grip of his fingers as the sound of a horn emanates from the TV, bracing himself for the next race.

It’s about halfway through the track when Suguru begins to fumble quite frequently. Lakitu, the small, yellow rescue koopa perched atop a cloud has managed to place Suguru back onto the course, like, six times. 

It’s getting a bit embarrassing, to be completely honest. 

But also, it’s during these moments where Suguru begins to realize that a smile has stretched across his face, and that for the first time, in a long time, he’s feeling happy.

Joyful, even.

The stupid race ends, and obviously Gojo wins because Suguru has noticed that Gojo seems to win at everything other than basketball. Don’t ask how he knows that, he just does.

Gojo squeaks—a celebratory noise, Suguru figures—and pushes his lanky body off of the couch they share, hopping around the room. “This is starting to seem like a skill issue on your part, Suguru. Are you even trying anymore?” He says teasingly, sticking his tongue out a little.

Suguru realizes, instantly, that Gojo just used his first name. Gojo should definitely not be using Suguru’s first name. 

Buuuttttt… friendship, right? Close friends use each other's first names, and Suguru is unable to tell if Gojo had meant the gesture as a tease or as a genuine slip. 

Suguru ignores it. “I am, I swear, I’m just not good at Mario Kart.” Suguru sighs, shaking his head, despite the smile on his face.

Gojo plops back onto the couch ceremoniously, pulling his phone out of his pocket in a swift motion, thumb sliding across the screen as he opens the Phone app and just calls someone. Like, right here, in the middle of their conversation.

A bit rude, Suguru thinks.

“Uh…Gojo? Why are you calling someo—” Suguru says, on the brink of bursting out in laughter at the stupidity of it. 

In response, Gojo literally just holds up a finger, signaling for Suguru to wait. His eyes brighten when the receiver picks up, a muffled voice that Suguru is unable to decipher pouring from the speaker.

“Sorry Shoko, I’m hanging out with someone, didn’t see your call. You good?” Gojo asks this girl, ‘Shoko.’

A muffled response. Gojo rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I have other friends… basketball.”

Gojo hesitates at the next reply, visibly uncomfortable, or unsure(?) of what to say next. His eyes flick towards Suguru a couple of times.

“Suguru Geto, remember him? Yeah, him.” He says, sounding slightly hesitant. “It’s a long story, we can talk about it tomorrow.”

He nods his head a couple of times, adds a few affirming noises in there because ‘Shoko’ clearly can’t see him, and Suguru wonders why he’s nodding anyways.

“Yeah, okay… Okay. Bye, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” With that, he peels the phone off of his ear, tapping the red button in the center to end the call, and just looks toward Suguru.

As if he has anything to say.

Actually, he does. Suguru clears his throat, still on the verge of laughter. “So… Who was that?”

“Huh? Oh, just my best friend, Shoko.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Oh! No, no, just a really close friend. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Suguru just kind of nods. “Cool.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

There it is.

Suguru is unable to say that he had not completely expected this… subject to arise at some point in their friendship, but… what is he supposed to say? He mentally rehearses a few options.

Nah, gay.

Nope, I’m single.

Yeah, she lives in America though.

Suguru is an idiot, however, so he accidentally merges a couple of the responses and what comes out is a mess.

“Nope… I’m all single. And—Gay.”

“Oh, cool. Happy for you man.” Suguru releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Gojo’s response is, sure, unconventional, but most importantly: it’s supportive. 

“Happy for me…?”

Gojo just nods, leaning his head onto the back of the couch and stretching his arms across the length. “Yeah, you’re confident enough to share your personal stuff with people, it’s admirable.”

Suguru pauses. Has Satoru Gojo suddenly become a vessel, abandoning his old soul that Suguru had assumed would’ve patronized him for being gay? Why has their perfectly, strategically and mechanically composed relationship suddenly become so… natural? Sentimental? Kind? 

Real?

And, why did Suguru tell him? He’s never told anyone from basketball, fuck, his parents don’t even know. Why did he tell Gojo this shit? Will he exploit it?

Based on his reaction, he wouldn’t, but Suguru trusted him so easily—What if he’s a masked homophobe?

Yet, Suguru can’t hold back the smile that escapes his lips at the praise. “Thanks… I appreciate it.” The words are quiet, but Gojo doesn’t push, just smiles back, big enough to where creases form around his mystically cerulean eyes.

“So, you coming to this party on Friday?"

Suguru sighs. 

No. 

I’m not. 

I really don’t wanna.

I don’t trust myself to be drunk around you.

Parties make me anxious.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

Chapter Text

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Numerous ancient civilizations depict a tale of fertile hazel trees growing around a sacred pool filled with salmon. Following the consumption of a hazelnut dropped by one of the trees to the pool, a salmon was said to have harbored glowing spots, denoting the abundant wisdom held by the tree. Hazel wood was traditionally worn or displayed in homes to ward off evil, serving as divine protection.

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Suguru

To be completely honest, Suguru hates parties.

He is unsure of which magnetic force could’ve possibly mustered the strength to pull him here, but regardless, he’s not having a great time. 

The erratic bass of the music floods all five of Suguru’s senses—he swears he can feel his fingertips thumping with each beat of the mind-numbing song. He wades through the sea of people, who densely crowd the area near the entrance. 

As he stumbles further into the house, people have formed physical social circles, creating natural pathways that Suguru is thankful for. On his journey, he notes many couples making out against walls, or in corners, hell—he even sees Toji and his girlfriend tucked away, kissing and humping a bit too passionately to just be categorized as a make-out session.

Get a room, guys.

Finally, Suguru sees a familiar face, one that is not actively engaged in intimate activities. He makes his way over to a recognizable area of the house, the “living room.” Or, at least, what would’ve been a living room if this place wasn’t used purely for parties.

The space is adorned with one medium-sized couch—probably the dirtiest thing of all time, by the way—and three other large chairs, huddled into the shape of a circle. Suguru finds an empty chair, the one located closest to the couch, and sits.

Immediately, he is greeted by Choso, who is half-laying against the side of the couch, one arm snaking around the waist of a girl, the other holding a half-finished joint. They’re not even engaged in conversation, both softly gazing into the distance, not a thought behind either of their eyes.

“Suguuuu,” Choso greets, cracking a lazy smile. “Where’ve you been? ‘Kuna thought you skipped.” Each syllable is drawn out and Suguru quickly realizes that Choso is already far gone. 

Suguru, Choso, and Sukuna were some sort of trio freshman year, back when Suguru was more heavily engaged in substances, and back when he wasn’t as depressed. It’s a bit of a shock when Choso uses Suguru’s first name, considering that his more recent relationships haven’t garnered enough respect to earn the privilege. 

But, whatever. It’s Choso, his old best buddy. 

“I couldn’t find anyone, I’ve only been here for like ten minutes though. Where is ‘Kuna?” 

“Dudeeee, you’re asking the wrong guy. He’s probably with a girl right now in his room.” Choso takes a hit, extending his hand towards Suguru after he finishes, gesturing for him to take it.

And, like, Suguru’s not gonna pass that up, so, yeah, he takes it.

Suguru brings the paper to his lips, inhaling the smoke carefully as his entire body relaxes. He blows it out—courteously, away from Choso—and hands it back, who eagerly takes another hit. Suguru’s mind feels a bit calmer now, less panicked and more level. 

It’s a feeling that Suguru forgot he used to treasure—one he used to guard.

Suguru takes a second to look at the girl who’s practically on Choso’s lap, and vaguely remembers that Choso’s girlfriend had long, straight, light blonde hair. The girl whose head rests on his chest possesses brown curls, which cascade down her back, falling in front of her face. 

“Choso, who’s she?” Suguru asks, and sort of just points to the girl beside him. “What happened to Yuki?”

Choso lights up with a grin, sliding his hand from her waist up to her back, rubbing gentle circles across the area. “We broke up a while ago, it just didn’t work out.” 

Suguru nods, keeping an awkwardly neutral expression across his face—the news isn’t exactly positive or negative, so what is he even supposed to do? Choso’s head turns towards her face, cupping her cheek with one hand as he leans in and—

Oh. Okay, they’re going at it now. Suguru should probably leave, right? It’s pretty uncomfortable, so he awkwardly stands up, loose limbs swaying in the waves emitted by the music, which Suguru swears are almost as strong as wind.

He wagers which location he should depart for, his brain mechanisms only half-functioning as he attempts to remember where his friends usually gravitate towards in these settings. Ultimately, he decides to go to the kitchen, for the following reasons:

1. His friends might be in the kitchen, getting very drunk.
2. If his friends are not in the kitchen getting drunk, Suguru, at least, can be in the kitchen getting drunk.
3. Once Suguru is drunk, finding and faking genuine connection with Gojo will be a lot easier.

After all, this party is essentially a publicity stunt, or moreso, a stepping stone for their relationship.

Yaga has been nagging Suguru recently, regarding his progress with Gojo, and he’s so eager to just expedite the process and get to the title of Satoru Gojo’s Best Friend. What he’ll do once he’s there, he has no idea.

Recently, he’s been regretting telling Gojo of his sexuality. He didn’t need to tell him that, and still doesn’t understand why he did. From now on, no more personal details.

He goes to the kitchen, heart soaring at the sight of almost everyone he knows at this party. They crowd the island, bodies winding tightly around the area as they meddle, a few actively taking shots.

“Satoru! Slow down!” One of them yells, the hypnotic sound of high-pitched laughter radiating from the group as Gojo chugs something from a solo cup. 

When he pulls the drink away from his lips, there’s a face of disgust that is quickly replaced with a confident smile.

A little bit of liquid dribbles from the corner of Gojo’s mouth down to his chin, and he wipes the remnants with the back of his hand. 

Suguru probably shouldn’t be staring, but Gojo’s face is so perfect in this lighting—pools of neon and fluorescent colors glow across his face, a few locks of his angelically platinum hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

Suguru can’t help but feel his stomach twist at the sight—maybe it’s the residual haze from the joint he smoked, or the buzzing stimulation from the party environment, but Suguru feels kinda bad for the manipulation he’s about to commit. Only a little, though. 

“Suguuuuruuuuu!” A voice slurs, snapping Suguru back to reality. A tall figure stalks over to him, albeit on wobbly legs, and stops only a few feet away. Gojo, and his perfect blue eyes, and annoyingly big muscles filling out his shirt, stands just a few feet away. His expression is uncharacteristically unreadable—Suguru thinks that his mind must be a desolate fuzz of incomplete sentences and emotions, as he struggles to display a uniform thought across his face. 

“Shit…” He continues, less confident and quieter than before. “I had like sevennn shots and I still didn’t forget about you, little fucker.” His lips curl into a droopy smile, clearly completely out of it.

Oh. Okay…

Part of Suguru’s brain is like: Shit, why were you thinking of me?

And then the other part is obviously going: Good, he’s thinking of me! I’m already at the front of his mind!

But then, the more logistical part of his brain kicks in and Gojo’s words start to settle in Suguru’s mind. Seven shots?

“Seven!? Gojo you should drink water—did you drink any? Fuck, why did you just chug that cup of shit, you’re gonna black out.”

Gojo places a hand on Suguru’s shoulder, leans a little closer and puts some of his weight on Suguru. 

“Call me Satoruuu, everyone calls me that now…” He adds, completely avoiding the main purpose of Suguru’s lecture. But also, Suguru won’t deny that the idea of calling Gojo by his given name makes him really happy. Another step closer to his goal.

“Okay—Satoru. Water. Did you drink water?” 

“Noopeeee.” Satoru stares directly into his eyes, and Suguru wants to shrink from the pressure. He sighs and slides a hand down his face, prepared to be angry at his friends for allowing Satoru to reach this level of intoxication. Although, upon examining their own situations, Suguru realizes that basically everyone in the kitchen is probably fucked. “Don’t want it though…”

“Okay, I don’t really care if you want it, you’ve already lost enough rational thought.” Suguru removes Satoru’s hand from his shoulder, instead loosely cuffing his forearm as he drags him further into the kitchen, using muscle memory to locate the stash of water bottles. 

He crouches down to access them, revoking the loose grip on Satoru’s wrist as he socializes and gestures drunkenly. Behind him, he recognizes a few faint voices passionately disputing something. Suguru ignores the rising commotion occurring in the kitchen, until, eventually, the yelling behind him becomes angrier and louder. So much so that Suguru stands up, an irritated fuzz as he watches an argument unfold.

“What the– What the actual fuck? Maki, I saw you guys!” A man yells, Yuta Okkotsu—a sophomore who got a bunch of shit for dating Toji’s cousin, Maki.

Well, maybe not anymore.

“Yuta, you were studying abroad in Africa, for fuck’s sake! You– You were gone for months, was I just supposed to be celibate?!” Maki screams back.

“Yes! Yes, you were supposed to be celibate, actually, that’s usually how a relationship works! Are you stupid or something?” Maki gasps at his accusation, turning to the others who stand around the island in shock, watching the catastrophe unfold. “I’m so tired of this, Maki…” Yuta adds, his voice in pain.

Suguru feels real bad for the guy, but then again, this is, like, the third time that they’ve gotten back together—back into this extremely toxic relationship that both of them seem to hate with a burning passion.

Is the sex really good enough to put up with this bullshit? Suguru wonders. Nah, no way.

“Are you… Are you breaking up with me?” Maki asks.

“Yeah, I am. I’m not doing it anymore, Maki.” Yuta says, a sense of finality attached to the words. Shit, they might actually be done for real. And just like that, Yuta turns on his heel and stomps out of the room, probably out of the house. Of course, it can’t end there, because now Maki is on an angry rampage.

First, she stands in shock, processing the situation, before she blows up in front of everyone. “Who told him that we were upstairs? I- I fucking swear you’re dead!”

“Okay—calm down Maki. Nobody told anyone anything, he walked in purely by chance.” Megumi Fushiguro, her cousin, says, immediately coming to her side to console her.

“No, someone told him, who the fuck was it? This is all their fault, I fucking swear!” She screams, piping hot anger bubbling and building—heat radiating throughout the room.

“It’s nobody’s fault but your own, Maki! Maybe don’t cheat on your boyfriend and none of this would’ve happened!” A voice emanates from the counter, and of course, it’s Satoru’s. He just always has to throw his two cents in, doesn’t he? His response triggers multiple groans and sighs, even one from Suguru at the realization that Satoru, in an attempt to end the situation quickly, has only made it so much worse. 

“Did you tell him?” Maki asks, her voice calmer than before, which is somehow scarier.

“Maybe,” he shrugs, “but what difference does it make? Natural consequences.” Satoru responds, a nonchalant tone attached to the statement, which is bound to just make Maki more furious. 

Maki shakes her head in disbelief and rage, walking away with no farewell other than her loud declaration: “Just wait ‘till my dad hears about this shit, Satoru. Remember what fucking family you’re from.”

After that, the room slowly returns to its former level of noise and chatter—some continue their previous conversations, and others engage in gossip about this whole Maki Thing. Everyone seems completely unphased by the interruption—everyone other than Satoru.

His eyes frantically search the counter, stumbling across the stretch before securing a large bottle of vodka in his hand. He cannot drink more, holy shit. Suguru acts fast, lurching forward and calmly attempting to rip the bottle from Satoru’s grasp. Somehow, even with his fatigued grip, Satoru refuses to budge, turning towards Suguru angrily.

“No.” Suguru says, flicking his gaze between the dual-gripped bottle and Satoru’s eyes, which are big, and blue, and filled with fear, or anger—Suguru is unsure but Satoru’s stare makes him uneasy. Of course, his assignment is to befriend/take care of/babysit the most complicated, conventionally attractive, stubborn person to ever walk the earth.

“Why?” Satoru snarks.

“Because you already had way too much. You need to drink water, idiot.”

“Fuck, thought… thought we were supposed to be friends nowwww, or something—why are you calling me an idiot?” Satoru slurs. He turns closer to Suguru now, the bottle suspended in the air between them, neither party willing to sacrifice their hold.

“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m just frustrated. Please, Satoru, no more alcohol tonight.”

“Fuck offfff, why are you so bossy?” 

“I’m trying to take care of you, but you won’t let me.”

Satoru kind of stands there, puzzled for a second, as if he doesn’t really understand the words that came out of Suguru’s mouth. They’re not a lie, either, and maybe Satoru can see that, despite his alcohol-impaired functions. 

“You care?”

Okay, Suguru didn’t say that, but he can roll with it.

“I do, so please, can you drink some water?”

Satoru stares at Suguru intently again, silence growing between them as he searches Suguru’s eyes, wading the dark waters and cruel lies with naivety. Finally, Satoru accepts the request with a timid nod, releasing his iron grip on the vodka bottle, shifting the entirety of its weight onto Suguru.

Suguru sighs in relief, hiding the alcohol on an open spot of the counter, behind a giant bag of chips that lays idly on the stone. He crouches down again, snatching a water quickly because he can’t even trust Satoru alone anymore. He’s literally going to be babysitting for the rest of the night. Not that he’d be better off doing something else, but, regardless, it’s annoying.

Suguru lifts up, twisting open the plastic bottle and holding the cap in his free hand, using his other hand to offer it towards Satoru. Despite their prior agreement, Satoru doesn’t take the water. No, that would be too simple, and Suguru’s life can never flow with the current, can it? 

No, Satoru is like this big, raging sea monster who changes the currents, forcing Suguru to submit to the path he’s created, a superior strength against him. 

Or more like a toddler, Suguru thinks.

“I’ll take the water if you take this.” Satoru says, offering Suguru a cup filled with some blue concoction, a few gummies scattered throughout the liquid.

“No. You said you’d drink the water.” Suguru replies sternly.

“Nooooo, it’s a tradeeee, why are you no—hic— funnn Suguruuu…” Satoru wails. Satoru has lost rational thought, and Suguru figures that the only way to console him, and possibly force him to stop fucking drinking, is to just go with it.

“How much alcohol is in that?” Suguru asks with a sigh, pointing down at the drink.

Satoru kind of just shimmies his head around, makes a thinking face as he tries to describe the content. “Not that much, you’ll be fineeee.”

Suguru sighs. Why is he doing this? Satoru probably won’t even remember this, but a voice in the back of Suguru’s head yells that Satoru will remember parts of it, and there are witnesses here too, and besides, Suguru has nothing else to do.

“You promise that you’ll drink the water? The whole thing, Satoru, not just a sip.”

Satoru grumbles.

“Please? I’m asking because I care about your health.” Suguru adds, knowing that the words will likely provide the final push towards success.

Satoru, eventually, ends up agreeing. “Fine, I promise.”

Suguru rolls his eyes, exchanges the drinks, and waits for Satoru to bring the bottle to his lips before he downs his own. 

As soon as the liquid meets his tongue– meets the back of his throat– a soft presence sets over Suguru. Satoru is such a liar, because there is an insane amount of alcohol in the drink, Suguru can tell even with all of the sugary soda that has clearly been added in an attempt to cover it up.

If Suguru was struggling to hold Satoru back earlier, then he is beyond help now. The alcohol has muted his focus, narrowed and intensified his qualms—so much so that Satoru’s incessant presence starts to feel less like an invasion and more like an opportunity. 

Maybe, for tonight at least, hanging around Satoru won’t be that bad.

Is it the alcohol talking, or Suguru?

Satoru unceremoniously empties the bottle into his stomach in one humongous sip, popping off of the rim with heavy breaths. He holds it up towards Suguru, showing it off with a wide smile. 

“I did ittt! Are you proud of me, Suguruu?”

“I am,” Suguru replies with a smile–one that doesn’t feel as fake as it should. His eyes are half-lidded as he swims through the motions, manufacturing the sentences that he knows Satoru yearns to hear. “Good job, Satoru, you feeling better?”

“Noo, I just feel fucking bloated, dude… it’s too bright and myyy eyes hurt.”

“What do you mean? How do your eyes hurt, it's honestly pretty dark in here…” Suguru questions, looking around the room in an attempt to find the source of Satoru’s complaint—it feels scarily natural; caring for Satoru.

“My eyes, they’re like, really sensitive or whatever—to light and stuff.”

“Oh… sorry, that’s gotta suck,” Suguru adds awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed, his confidence bolstered and rationality drowned by his drunken state. “I, uh—”

Suguru pauses when he feels the brush of long fingernails against his shoulder. He jumps, quickly turning to unleash his anger on the assailant, reeling back when he realizes that the aggressor is just one of his close friends, Utahime.

“Holy shit, Utahime—you scared the fuck out of me.” Suguru says, clutching his chest as his heart attempts to return to a regulated pace. 

“Sorry,” She giggles, pulling him in for a side hug. “I didn’t even think you’d be here, but I saw Gojo and knew you’d be trying… yeah, you know?” Utahime gradually tapers off the end of her sentence, realizing that Gojo is actually, like, right in front of them.

Obviously, Suguru had told a couple of his close friends of his and Satoru’s… arrangement. Utahime, Miguel, and a few others had fully disapproved of the idea, remarking that it was cruel and that, after, Suguru would have to continue the friendship he had been forced to create. They were right, like, definitely a lot smarter and thought it through better, but, then again, Suguru had a job to do. Yaga was on his ass for the past week about: “How are you and Gojo?” “Are you making progress?” “Is Gojo taking care of himself?” 

Suguru figures that if they’re close enough to where others notice, Yaga will simply gain the answers through observation rather than bothering Suguru.

“Yeah, I thought I might as well show up…” Suguru responds to Utahime. 

They continue a brief conversation, engaging in small talk as Satoru seems to grow increasingly impatient and irritated at the lack of attention, staring into the distance in distaste. Like a baby. Somehow an additional water bottle has spawned in his hand, taking frequent sips as he just stands.

Suguru looks at him, puzzled by his unspoken tantrum—he can tell that Satoru is definitely angry, but he won’t voice it. Suguru wonders if his eyes hurt, or if he’s actually just angry that the spotlight isn’t on him. There’s an empty pause in him and Utahime’s conversation, so Suguru decides to just ask. 

“Satoru?”

“Hm?” Satoru responds, looking up from the tile floor where his eyes were pinned down, zoned out in thought.

“You good? Do your eyes still hurt?” Suguru asks, voice steady and laced with fake concern.

“Oh—” Satoru starts, fixing his face from a tired expression to a more smiley one. “Yeah, they hurt, I’m…I’m good though.”

“You should go outside if they hurt, Satoru.”

“No, I don’t wanna leave you alone wi—I don’t wanna be alone right now…” He corrects, eyes aggressively shifting between Utahime and Suguru, who stand next to each other in confusion. Satoru’s face glows a warm red, cheeks painted in a feverish blush.

“Are you feeling okay?” Suguru starts, taking a step towards Satoru, placing the back of his hand flush to Satoru’s forehead to gauge his temperature. “You look sick.” Suguru pushes Satoru’s hairline back a little with his other hand, replacing the other back flush to the newly-cleared space.

“Uhh…I dunnooo—maybe a little. I don’t usually throw up thoughhh.” He replies, body swaying slightly after recoiling at the cool touch of Suguru’s hand against his face.

“Did you eat before?”

“Yeah.” Satoru replies quickly, as if he didn’t even need time to think. Suguru’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“What’d you eat?”

Satoru shrugs. “Forgot.”

“You didn’t eat.” Suguru accuses, knowing that he’ll reap honesty from Satoru at some point.

“I did.”

“No wonder you’re sick, you had so many shots and you didn’t even eat?” Suguru grows angrier, wondering why Satoru would even do this to himself.

“I did eat.” Satoru argues, still holding onto the final remnants of his denial before it inevitably falls through.

Unfortunately, Suguru’s interrogation is ruined when someone clears their throat—a shorter girl with a light brown bob, who eyes the two of them with a hearty level of suspicion. 

“Sorry,” she greets, eyes set upon Suguru. She points awkwardly towards Satoru as she continues, “I’m Shoko, Satoru’s close friend, who are you..?”

Shoko. The name feels oddly familiar, but Suguru’s brain is currently home to slow, sticky thoughts and a lot of static, so he doesn’t dwell on the thought for too long.

“I’m Suguru Geto—he’s, uh, a friend of mine too.” It’s only then that he realizes that the back of his palm still sits on Satoru’s forehead, quickly pulling it off in immediate embarrassment. 

He kept it there longer than he had intended to by accident.

“Shoko!” Satoru lights up, pulling Shoko into a tight hug, arms snaked tightly above her neck. Shoko’s eyes grow large in surprise, taking a small step back to accommodate his weight. 

Ohhhh. It’s Satoru’s best friend, the one he called the other day.

Suguru notices that the two seem very close, and despite Satoru’s immediate denial that they were currently dating, Suguru wonders if they had ever dated in the past.

Suguru will ask later, probably.

“How drunk are you, holy shit?” Shoko asks, looking towards Suguru kind of accusingly. 

“Mmmmm… I had a lot… But then Suguru made me drink waterrrrr so it’s fine…”

Shoko stares at them, eyes flitting between the two in a measured gaze. She cocks an eyebrow up, mouth agape as if she has many things to say, but she holds back. “Okay…”

“He’s gonna be sick… like really soon, probably.” Suguru informs. “I found him, like, half an hour ago, and he said he’d drank a lot, and h-he didn’t eat anything before, but I promise I’ve been trying to help, I- I didn’t give him anythi—”

“Geez, why do you sound so guilty?” Utahime steps in, placing a reassuring hand on Suguru’s shoulder. “I’m Utahime, one of Suguru’s friends. I think he was about to take Satoru to the bathroom, he’s just been trying to help.”

At this, Shoko cracks a smile, lifting Satoru out of their hug. “Yeah, I try not to let him get this drunk, he becomes insufferable.” She teases. Suguru smiles widely.

“Hey! Watch your mouth!” Satoru defends, giving her a light shove in retaliation, earning a few laughs from the others. “Suguru, c’monnn, I feel so… so sick… I need a bathroom.” He demands, not even making a real request.

Suguru finds it oddly charming, in fact, he’s finding that this whole night has been relatively enjoyable, laughter slipping from his lips as he observes Satoru’s shenanigans. 

With that, Satoru turns around and begins a solo journey through the sea of people.

Suguru is, obviously, right behind him.

Chapter Text

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Cherry blossoms mark the arrival of spring, and as a result of their short blooming season, they are often viewed as a reminder to cherish each moment of one’s life. In Japanese culture, the blooming of a cherry tree represents good fortune, new beginnings, beauty, and in some cases, love.

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Satoru

Satoru wakes up in someone else’s bed. 

The faint, lingering scent of cigarettes and floral perfume fills Satoru’s senses, and a familiar weight at his side provides all the information he needs to know: he’s in Shoko’s bed.

Slowly, his eyes flutter open, wincing at the sparse rays of sunlight that creep between the edges of the blinds, painting the room in a soft yellow glow. A glow far too bright for Satoru’s scrambled brain. 

“Bright…” Satoru mutters, squeezing his eyes shut, and then cursing himself when it only bolsters his raging headache. He hasn’t been to Shoko’s in a while—he usually only crashes here when he’s beyond drunk. 

Although, he can’t seem to remember anything from last night, so maybe he was, in fact, beyond drunk. At the thought, the shallow dip in the mattress deepens, Shoko rolling over and throwing a limp arm over Satoru’s chest, pressing her warm chest to his shoulder.

“D’you know the time..?” Shoko asks, the words a half-yawn as she scoots closer to Satoru’s body, resting her forehead against his shoulder. 

“No, I can’t open my eyes, they hurt so fucking bad.” Satoru responds, irritated—his eyes are already sensitive enough on their own, but now with the addition of the sun, his headache, and his hungover state, opening them seems like torture.

“Oh… Shit, sorry, I’ll check,” Shoko reaches over Satoru’s chest, shuffling around the night stand to grab her phone. “It’s 12:00.”

“No way, what time is it, actually?”

“12:04.” Shoko corrects, and Satoru knows that she’s rolling her eyes, even if he can’t see them.

“Then just say 12:04,” Satoru grumbles, “It stresses me out when you lie about the time, I need the minute so that—”

“Okay, okay, you’ll get the minutes next time… it’s too early to unleash your evil side.” Shoko says. Satoru sighs, attempting to recollect, and really, just remember what even happened last night. Sure, his plan at the beginning of the night had been to just forget everything, but now, he’s regretting his actions. 

It really stresses him out, not remembering what he did—what he said.

“Were you sober?” Satoru asks, before clarifying further, “Last night, I mean.”

“Mmmm… I had a little bit, only at the end though, really, when I was talking to Utahime.”

“Talking to who?” Satoru questions, hearing an unfamiliar name escape Shoko’s lips.

Shoko snickers at his confusion. “Geto’s friend, or should I say, Suguru’s friend, since you guys are apparently on a first name basis now.”

At this, Satoru sits up, propping a pillow behind his back, and (very slowly) opens his eyes. To stare at Shoko.

“Huh?”

“Do you remember anything from last night?” Shoko asks, cocking up an eyebrow and gazing at him skeptically.

“Uhhhh, I remember having a few shots—maybe four? And then, I remember feeling really sick… oh! I hugged you, and then I threw up…”

“Do you, perhaps, recall anything else?” Shoko sounds kind of annoyed. Did he forget a lot? What else could have even happened?

“Nah… oh, shit, I remember Maki screaming at everyone though…” Satoru sighs, rubbing his temples in defeat. “What else? Give me every detail.”

“The only issue is that I wasn’t with you most of the night… I was hoping that you’d remember and tell me what the fuck happened.” Shoko says, staring at Satoru, a little angrily.

“Huh? But I was with you, like, the whole night. Remember—” Satoru pauses to think of some evidence to back up his claim, eyebrows creasing in concentration. “Other than the hug… you gave me water, like forced me to have water, remember?”

Shoko sighs, a really, really, long sigh. “That was Geto.”

What?

“Geto? What do you mean?”

“He was with you, like, the entire night.” Shoko clarifies, scrubbing her face with her palm. 

Satoru sits up straighter, tilting his head as if it’ll improve or redefine the false memories, the false truths that currently inhabit his mind. “No way…”

“Yeah, and also, you called him Suguru and he said that you told him that you drank a lot.”

“I did?” Satoru asks, completely bewildered. That doesn’t sound like him at all. What’s more concerning, is that it doesn’t sound like Geto either. Taking care of him? Seriously, that’s a laughable claim. 

Him and Suguru aren’t even close.

Shoko nods. “You guys were, like, attached by the hip the whole night, that’s what Utahime said. She told me that he seemed very concerned about you. Honestly, I kind of believe it, at least with the situation I walked into…” Her last sentence is more of a mutter, likely an inside thought that slipped out accidentally.

“Should—should I text him? Like, ask him what happened?” Satoru asks, looking to Shoko with pleading eyes. Girls are always better at this stuff.

“I mean… are you guys close enough to be texting?” She replies skeptically.

Satoru shrugs. Kinda? Maybe? Probably? 

“Probably.” He settles on.

“Okayyyy… Then you could, I guess.” Shoko doesn’t seem super sure about this. But it’s fine, because Satoru is sure. As he slowly starts to regain fractions of his memories, he only becomes more confused, and the need for clarification grows stronger and stronger.

Besides, they seemed real buddy-buddy at the party. And, honestly, the whole week before it. They’d hung out at least three times the week before, which is insane, truly, considering he hated the guy, and thought that the guy hated him, a week ago.

Satoru quickly drafts out a message, and upon its completion, shoves the phone towards Shoko for approval.

“Satoru,” she starts, already with a negative tone. “You cannot send this. ‘yo wtf happened last night i was really drunk and i need to know.’ You sound desperate, and creepy, and—” Shoko cuts herself off, slapping a hand to her forehead. She types up a new message, sending it without even garnering Satoru’s own approval.

When she hands the phone back, Geto is already storming up a reply. Satoru still hasn’t even read his own message yet, eyes scanning the screen in a hurry.

satoru

hi srry about last night- i kinda blacked out and can’t remember anything 🥲

did anything important happen? 

suguru geto

You’re good. Nothing crazy happened, you were just super drunk and threw up at the end of the night. 

I made sure that you drank water though, hope it helped a little.

Oh, and you might wanna stay away from Maki for a while.

satoru

maki?

suguru geto

You got involved in her fight. She looked really angry at the end.

Satoru’s eyes widen. What the fuck did he do? Suguru starts typing again, Satoru’s grip on the phone tightening in anticipation.

suguru geto

If you want, we can go get coffee and I can explain everything.

satoru

sure

what time?

suguru geto

Are you free right now?

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

Condensation trickles down the edges of the glass coffee cup, which, because it belongs to Satoru, contains more milk and sugar than what could even be classified as coffee. But whatever, in Satoru’s eyes, the extremely subtle suggestion of a bitter flavor at the end of each sip means that it’s still coffee.

The muffled clatter of ceramic and glass dishes fills the background, as the sweet, familiar aroma of coffee and sugar associated with a cafe clouds Satoru’s senses. Satoru has never been to this place before, it’s one that Suguru chose and the shop is further away from campus than Satoru is accustomed to, but it’s nice.

Suguru sits in front of him, taking a languid sip of pure, black coffee from a white, rounded mug. Satoru wants to scrunch his nose in judgement.

“Well… that’s a lot.” Satoru says, a long sigh attached to the end of the sentence. He lowers his head slightly, nails scratching against the smooth surface on the sides of the cup, searching for a rough edge to cling to. 

Geto, or Suguru, had just finished telling him about all of the events from last night. Although Satoru really just wants to scramble away and hide in embarrassment from some of his actions last night (particularly when he had made Suguru’s life 100x harder by refusing water and throwing up), there’s one thing that’s stopping him.

One, slightly more serious issue. 

His family friend, Maki Zenin. Who, last night, he had apparently tattled on, and then proceeded to tell off in front of everyone. 

Was it the smartest decision? No. 

Is Satoru sorry for what he did, after hearing about it? No.

He’s mostly scared for the family dinner (which, unfortunately, includes every family friend the Gojos have ever made), which is set boldly on his calendar for only a few days from now. He’s sure that before, or after, or possibly even during the event, he’ll be wrapped into a long, aggressive lecture about family image and connections in wealth.

Satoru is quite scared of that.

“Yeah, but it’s nothing huge, I mean, most of the ‘embarassing’ stuff was only with me, and I don’t care, so.” Suguru says, and he puts some physical air quotes around ‘embarrassing’ and shrugs. He’s pretty nonchalant about this whole situation. “We’re friends, so it’s only natural that I have your back, you know?” He adds, making direct eye contact with Satoru.

“Are we friends?” Satoru asks, before really thinking it through. It sounds a little blunt, harsh maybe, but also, Satoru is genuinely curious, so he doesn’t have any regrets asking it.

Suguru shrugs again. “I dunno, I’d consider you one of my friends, and like, I’d like to get to know you more.” He pauses, as if he’s contemplating his next words. “Would you not consider me one of your friends?”

“I- no, like, I guess I would- now that you’re mentioning it and all, but, I mean—” Satoru stumbles over his response, trying to explain their lack of genuine connection in the nicest way possible. “I guess we just haven’t had any deep talks, really. Or, shallow conversations either. Like, I don’t even know your birthday, dude.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense. My birthday was February 3rd, by the way.”

“Oh, that was so recent. I should get you a belated gift or something.” Satoru says, already thinking of what random expensive item he could throw at Suguru to impress him. He doesn’t like to gloat about his wealth, he’s very humble so he usually gives it to others. Obviously.

“Nooo, that’s fine, really.” Suguru politely declines. “When’s your birthday?”

“December 7th.” 

“Nice…” Suguru starts, the growing silence between them becoming awkward. 

“Well, like, we’re already here and I finished telling you about last night, so why don’t we just talk—you know, have a bit of… friendship bonding?” Suguru asks, the last two words compromised by his confused tone. Satoru doesn’t think that Suguru really understands what ‘friendship bonding’ is, but neither does Satoru, so.

He’s up for it, he supposes.

“Okay…” Satoru replies skeptically. “I’ll start—where did you grow up?”

“Well, in a lot of places.” Suguru sighs. Okay, maybe not a great starter topic. But he continues, “In Osaka, and then, when I got a little older, Okayama.”

“Hm, why’d you move around?” Satoru asks, kind of picking up on the implication behind Suguru’s brevity. He probably doesn’t want to share. But Satoru asks anyway.

Suguru sucks in a sharp breath, flashing a slightly uncomfortable smile as he thinks of an answer. Satoru thinks, for a split second, that maybe he crossed a line. He shouldn’t expect an answer—he obviously made Suguru uncomfortable, and—

“Well… I had a familial incident,” Suguru starts, each word carefully picked in caution. “So my parents and I moved to Okayama, we wanted a fresh start.”

Satoru hums in acknowledgement, knowing that Suguru’s short response is a social cue that Satoru should’ve picked up on earlier. He should probably be more observant. “Did you get it?”

“Get what?”

“A fresh start.” Satoru clarifies. “Like, mentally.”

“Oh… yeah, I- I guess I did. I think it was a good decision—to move.” Suguru says, and he’s staring off to the side, not making eye contact with Satoru which is fine—but he has a small smile on his face, one that Satoru internally debates whether he is even aware of. “So, all-great Gojo heir, what was your childhood like?” Suguru teases.

Satoru clenches his jaw at the unexpected question—people usually don’t ask him about his childhood, and on the rare occasion they do, Satoru tends to offer a politely brief response alongside a tight-lipped smile. 

He’s not completely fond of the idea of lying to Suguru. He can’t understand why—maybe he still feels indebted to him, aggressive vines clinging to Satoru’s mind and reminding him of the trouble he caused, and who he forced to clean it up. Is that why?

Or, maybe, Satoru trusts Suguru. It flowers between them—like a cherry blossom tree in the height of spring, adorning the sidewalk beneath it in pink petals as the seasons shift. Satoru does not want to lie to Satoru—he does not want to break the careful connection that they’ve silently been weaving, maybe for longer than Satoru had thought.

A lie, to Satoru, is the worst form of betrayal.

“I mean, my childhood isn’t something I talk about a lot…” Satoru prefaces, continuing when Suguru’s eyes widen slightly at the comment. “Yeah, it was glamorous and wealthy, we had a private chef and neither I nor my parents ever lifted a finger when it came to house chores. But, I mean, it was strict.” Satoru says, feeling an anxious weight at the idea of telling Suguru much more. “It was a lot of pressure—it still is.”

“Why? Like, in grades, or when you had to talk to other adults? What were they so strict about?” Suguru asked, and his tone had shifted from his prior tease to genuine curiosity.

“Yeah, grades were important a lot—more when I was younger, though. They knew that I wouldn’t be able to keep my mouth shut as a kid, and like, if I had gotten a bad grade, they didn’t want anyone else to know. It was all about reputation.” Satoru sighs. “When I was older, I just had to keep it to myself—act smarter than I was and never let someone see through it.”

“Wow…” Suguru says, an expression of disbelief painted across his dark, thin features. “That sounds… rough.”

Satoru shrugs. “Wasn’t that bad.”

“It sounds like it was, though—that’s a lot of pressure to place on a little kid.”

“I guess, but, I dunno. It all turned out fine, though I do unfortunately have a big dinner next weekend. Those are pretty bad—I’ll probably get yelled at for the whole Maki thing.” Satoru exhales, tilting his head back and rubbing his palms against his eyes, which are still sore and irritated from last night.

“So you’re not free next weekend?” Suguru asks, and Satoru thinks that it’s kind of a random question.

“Nah, I’ll probably have to stay at my parent’s the whole weekend.” Satoru replies thoughtlessly, returning back to his upright position and taking a big sip of his “coffee.”

“That’s a shame… I wanted to hangout again soon…” Suguru says, the words at a quieter volume but not quite at a mutter. They seem honest, and Satoru feels like their friendship is moving oddly fast, but at the same time, it feels completely natural.

“Well, I only have one class on Tuesday, are you usually free after 5:00 on Tuesdays, or was last time an exception?” Satoru asks, a teasing tone attached to the words as he recalls their first hangout. They had proceeded to meet up that same week at Suguru’s apartment on Wednesday and Thursday too, for some reason.

Suguru chuckles. “Yeah, I don’t have any classes on Tuesday.”

“So… see you Tuesday?” Satoru asks, placing both of his elbows on the wooden table between them and leaning forward with a wide smile, waiting in anticipation for Suguru’s response.

Suguru shrugs, nonchalantly responding: “I guess so.” 

But, Satoru can see, he’s smiling too.

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

suguru geto

5:04PM

Hey, I have something that I wanna give you. 

Come over?

satoru

5:05PM

awww a treat for me?

did u buy me a wedding ring

it's a little early 🥺

suguru geto

5:05PM

You wish.

Can you get here by yourself or do you want me to come get you?

satoru

5:07PM

i can get there

thanks tho

i’ll be there in like

suguru geto

5:09PM

?

suguru geto

5:10PM

You okay?

satoru

5:10PM

sorry lol i almsot died

i tripped on the stairs

i’ll be there at 5:25 probably

After a good chunk of walking, Satoru finally arrives at Suguru’s apartment building, racking his knuckles against the ivory-painted wood of his front door. A few seconds later, the door opens with a soft click, Suguru stepping out of the way to allow Satoru inside.

“Why’d you get me a gift?” Satoru questions as he steps inside, slipping off his shoes and walking further into the apartment, plopping down onto the couch and spreading his limbs across the fabric.

Suguru snorts, vaguely pointing at Satoru. “Reallll comfy in my house, huh?” Suguru walks to the kitchen, returning to the living room holding a small, rectangular box. There’s a brand written and embossed in metallic gold on the lid, but Satoru can’t read it. 

Suguru saunters over to the couch, narrowing his eyes at Satoru’s feet, which currently lay on one side, while the rest of his body stretches across the entire length of the couch. Suguru sighs. “Move your feet.”

“Move ‘em yourself.” Satoru retorts with a smirk.

“They probably stink—I’m not moving them.” Suguru looks at Satoru, who continues to smile in refusal. “Fine,” Suguru sighs, “Guess you’re never gonna find out what the gift is.”

“Heyyyy, don’t play dirty!” Satoru whines, immediately bending his knees so that Suguru can take his feet’s place on the cushion. 

“It’s the only way that you listen,” Suguru responds, rolling his eyes. Satoru fully sits up, scooting around until he aligns himself right next to Suguru. Suguru places the box in Satoru’s hands, urging him to open it.

“What’d you get me?” Satoru asks eagerly as he begins to open the package, first removing the lid, before finding another, smaller semi-rectangular box inside of it. A box inside of a box. Veryyyy funny.

It’s obvious that the second one isn’t empty, though, and as Satoru pulls it out and reads the name of the brand, two things click.

One—the shape is a smaller rectangle, about eight inches in length (don’t ask him how he knows), and it’s pretty wide. The corners are rounded and Satoru has reason to believe that it’s a glasses case.

Two—when Satoru reads the brand name, emphasized in gold, his eyes nearly bulge out of his head, mouth agape in disbelief. The item inside belongs to a luxury fashion brand, and Satoru knows that stuff from this place is not cheap. 

Satoru opens the box, and his assumption is confirmed when he sees a pair of sunglasses—two dark, perfectly round circles settled on a thin, silver frame.

“Wow… Holy shit, I don’t even know what to say, Suguru…” Satoru says. “Why’d you get me these?”

“Well… you said that your eyes are sensitive to the light, so you know, I figured that if you had a pair of sunglasses, it might help.”

“Wow, you’re really observant.” Satoru remarks, carefully removing the sunglasses from their case and slipping them on, immediately feeling his eyes soften at the lack of light. “How do I look?” He asks, flashing Suguru a smile at the question.

Suguru doesn’t answer immediately. He pauses, mouth open as if he wants to speak, as if he has something to say but there is a force stopping him, and so instead, he just stares at Satoru. “Great.” He finally answers, sounding unsure.

“Awww you’re lying…” Satoru huffs.

“Huh? No I’m not?” Suguru defends, the answer question spilling out quickly. Satoru notices him fiddling with the jewelry on his fingers—on his ears.

“It’s fine, it was a joke.” Satoru adds with a small laugh.

“I wasn’t lying—you know you look good so stop compliment-fishing.” Suguru says with a grunt, letting his own laugh slip as he nudges Satoru’s shoulder. Satoru laughs too, a bit louder this time. 

You know you look good. Suguru had said. 

He knows I look good. He thinks I look good. He..?

Wait. Does Suguru..?

Satoru’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he restrains them, acting completely neutral as he sinks his back further into the couch cushions.

Suguru… is gay. That doesn’t automatically mean that he wants Satoru, but…

With how randomly they became friends, with Suguru being so eager to get Satoru’s number, with that night at the party, with the gift, with how thoughtful he’s always been, with all of it.

It would make a lot of sense.

Fuck.

It would make a lot of sense for Suguru to have a crush on him.

Chapter Text

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Biblical scriptures often characterize the “forbidden fruit” to have come from an apple tree. The Old Testament details that the first humans, living in the Garden of Eden, were enticed to eat the fruit by the devil. The forbidden fruit symbolizes temptation and desire for an unattainable object or person. 

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Suguru

Sure, originally, befriending Satoru was an assignment. 

A mission. 

A task. 

A chore.

But now, Suguru’s perspective has shifted.

Days spent with Satoru have started to feel less invasive, less like an irritant, and more like a breath of fresh, spring flowers. Suguru would describe his existence as a breath of fresh air, but he doesn’t believe that the term can fully encapsulate the sound of Satoru’s laughter, or the glow of his smile. His presence is no longer an oppressive force that tires Suguru, but rather an uplifting, invigorating codependence that Suguru has learned to lean on.

Considering they’ve hung out at least three or four times a week for the past couple of weeks, Suguru has genuinely considered the possibility of naming Satoru his ‘best friend.’ The title would only live in Suguru’s mind, of course. The internal bubble of thoughts that Suguru keeps close to himself and hides from others.

But, that doesn’t disregard any significance from the title. 

The thought has also sparked another mental debate for Suguru to solve: Is Suguru Satoru’s best friend?

He doesn’t really hang out with too many people, Suguru has observed. Besides the occasional, well, frequent weekend party invites, it seems that Satoru does not indulge in many casual affairs. He has Shoko, and not much else.

Would it be selfish for Suguru to say that he is thankful for Satoru’s lack of friends? For all of the free time he elicits from it, and the fact that Suguru can fill all of it up? 

Would it be weird to even consider that, maybe, the desire is fueled by something other than the craving to finish Yaga’s task?

A complicated dilemma, it is—Suguru figures.

Besides, the day that the two could officially call each other ‘best friends’ was supposed to be the end of it. That was, originally, the final milestone. 

But Suguru doesn’t want to stop here. For some reason, he’s begun to genuinely value Satoru’s presence, and unexpectedly, value him as a real friend. And that’s why, walking at a brisk pace down the sidewalk towards Satoru’s apartment, Suguru thinks that he probably shouldn’t be so nervous.

Usually, the pair tends to linger at Suguru’s apartment. ‘You have a better fridge! And Mario Kart! Why would we go to my place?’ Satoru often argued. Suguru didn’t mind, anyway.

Satoru existing in Suguru’s apartment often provided him with a mental image that he’d laugh about. Satoru had a funny way of going about things—the way he walked, sat, ate—it was all in a quirky way that could only be described as Satoru.

The late afternoon sun casts bright, obnoxiously hot light onto the sidewalk. It elicits dark, shady shadows that Suguru attempts to follow as he continues walking. He pinches an edge of the thin fabric of his shirt, wafting air into the space between the cotton and his skin. The motion fails to provide any relief from the strenuous heat of June. 

He pulls out his phone, skimming through the less significant notifications, before settling on an unopened one from Satoru.

[Satoru Gojo]

Attachment: 1 Image

Suguru rolls his eyes, knowing that whatever photo Satoru has sent is sure to be stupid, or, wildly inappropriate. He unlocks his phone, viewing the image with a smile as he gazes at the selfie Satoru has sent. Satoru is sprawled across his couch, limbs fully stretched, and his head rests softly on the back of it. 

The photo is taken from really high—Suguru assumes his arm must be fully stretched to acquire such an absurd angle, and he smiles at the thought. If he squints, Suguru can see the vague shape of a stack of take out containers and other miscellaneous items piled on the kitchen table behind him.

Satoru Gojo

Attachment: 1 image

suguboo 😍

are u ready for our date night??? ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Suguru

Omg NEVER call me that again.

Why aren’t you wearing the sunglasses I got you?

I’m so hurt.

Satoru Gojo

wait sorry i just took a nap

i’ll put them on later

when ur here

so u can see them as proof of my appreciation

do u rly hate suguboo that much? 😭

Suguru

Yes. Please, call me anything else.

Satoru Gojo

ok i changed ur name in my phone to “toe muncher”

is that better

Suguru

Satoru.

I’m going to hit you in the head with a basketball

 At practice tomorrow.

Satoru Gojo

u can definitely try that

Suguru shakes his head, laughing to himself as he stares at Satoru’s rebuttal. He’s definitely getting his ass kicked at practice on Monday. Suguru closes his messaging app, reopening Maps to confirm that he’s still going the right way. After a few more turns and long minutes of waiting for traffic lights to change colors in the obscene heat, Suguru finally arrives at the apartment complex. This might actually be the fanciest place he’s ever seen, like, in his entire life.

The building sticks out from the bleak, less lavish structures that fill the busy street surrounding it. It is mostly glass, save for the polished, black marble detailing in any space that is not filled with windows. Wind licks Suguru’s cheeks as he gawks at the sheer wealth and size of the building in front of him. The overly-extravagant display of wealth in Satoru’ apartment complex is… not surprising.

He is, literally, the Gojo heir. Yet, sometimes Suguru tends to forget that.

He forgets it when they’re out for sushi and Satoru accidentally drops his chopsticks on the floor, requesting a new set from the waiter, cheeks warm and blushed with embarrassment. He forgets it when he picks up his water bottle during practice, expecting it to be full of water, only for Satoru to have drunk it a few minutes ago—a sheepish smile emerging as Suguru chases him across the gym in anger. He forgets it when they’re watching a movie and Satoru falls asleep, head lolled to the side in a peaceful slumber. He forgets it when Satoru laughs, and the sound doesn’t feel bratty or condescending, it just sounds like pure happiness. 

He forgets it so often because he has grown to see Satoru as Satoru and not as a Gojo.

Suguru should remind himself of the fact that, despite their recent proximity, their origins, their roots, couldn’t be further from each other. Two completely parallel lines that refuse to intersect or ever even acknowledge each other’s existence—two sides of a coin that will never see or understand each other.

He shoves the sour thought to a darker corner of his mind, taking a deep breath and forcing his way closer to the entrance as he slips through the dark metal of the automatic doors. 

He checks over the information Satoru sent him, glancing over the words and directing himself to his apartment. Suguru sends him a text on the elevator letting him know that he’s here, and when he finally reaches Satoru’s floor, his door is already open. Satoru leans back against the edge of the doorframe, scrolling on his phone, visibly unbothered. He sports the sunglasses that Suguru had bought him recently, and the sight fills Suguru with warmth.

He really did remember to put them on.

When he hears Suguru’s footsteps, his head snaps up, a wide smile consuming his face as he tucks his phone into his pocket.

“Are you excited to see my place, toe muncher?” Satoru asks, eyes all wide under the glasses and eyebrows wiggling up and down in excitement.

“I wasn’t kidding, Satoru, you’ll pay for that.” Suguru says. The words themselves are harsh, but Suguru’s teasing tone triggers a fit of giggles between the two of them. He isn’t kidding though, he will actually hit Satoru with a basketball. Very soon.

“Is it as fancy as the rest of this place?” Suguru asks, stepping closer to the open door, trying to get a peek as Satoru’s long limbs frantically block the rest of the doorframe.

“Heyyyy, no peeking!” Satoru whines.

“I’m not allowed to see inside?” Suguru deadpans.

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Okay, whatever, god forbid I try to make this a nice thing.” He grumbles sarcastically, giving up the stubborn act with a quick pivot as he walks inside of the apartment.

Suguru follows, shutting the door behind him and removing his shoes as he takes in the sight of Satoru's home. Upon seeing it, Suguru is… kind of surprised. 

For how big of a personality Satoru possesses, Satoru’s house is kind of empty? Sure, there are Digimon posters on the walls and figurines neatly assembled on various shelves, but there’s an obvious lack of stuff. It’s very expensive looking, but it lacks any books, games, or gadgets. What does Satoru do all day? 

“Do you have anything planned for us to do, or…?”  Suguru asks, a little skeptically after observing the lack of activities in Satoru’s apartment. 

“I got like, gyoza and some sushi—figured we’d eat and drink a few beers and figure something out.” Satoru shrugs. He doesn’t have a plan, obviously. Suguru should’ve just made a plan, he shouldn’t have depended on Satoru for anything mildly serious.

“Beers? I don’t want to take care of you again.” Suguru teases, walking closer to the middle of the room, sock-sheathed feet sliding against the smooth, dark wood of the floor.

His eye catches on, like, an actual chandelier that hangs from the ceiling in one of the rooms. Suguru is feeling a little shamed by all of the extravagant displays of wealth.

“I can handle alcohol well, I’ll be fine.” Satoru huffs, pulling Suguru from his thoughts. “And besides, it’s a Saturday night, you really won’t drink?”

“You? Handle alcohol well?” Suguru taunts with a laugh. 

Satoru tilts his head, modifying his answer. “That night was an exception.”

“Was it?”

“It was.” Satoru replies sternly, insisting that Suguru believe the lie. Suguru doesn’t believe it, but he supposes that Satoru deserves to win every once in a while.

“As long as you don’t throw up on your fancy carpet, then I guess we’ll drink.” Suguru says, rubbing on the referenced carpet beneath him, fiddling with the blue and orange yarn.

“Hey! Don’t poke at it, it’s an antique!” 

Suguru rolls his eyes. “Of course it’s an antique…” He mumbles, removing his feet from the carpet with a grumble.

“You jealous?” Satoru asks teasingly, wiggling his eyebrows again with a radiant smile. He removes his sunglasses, folding them neatly and carefully placing them onto his kitchen counter. Suguru briefly realizes that the lighting in Satoru’s house is low and warm, and many of the blinds are drawn, encapsulating the room in a dark shade. 

“Jealous? Of your antique carpet?” Suguru clarifies. Satoru nods eagerly. “No, not at all.” Suguru replies, shaking his head with a sigh.

That earns him a pillow to the face. Deserved? Maybe.

“Is the pillow antique too?” Suguru jokes, and Satoru looks like he’s about to start a physical fight. Suguru is up for it, honestly.

Eventually, the fight dissolves and they settle into their regular rhythm. They sit on the floor, backs against the couch, food sprawled across the coffee table, a few beers situated beside them. Suguru’s had four cans, and he’s starting to feel the alcohol calm him, settling over his senses in a soft, hazy way. 

Satoru, on the other hand, has had two. Two. Suguru figures that Satoru doesn’t drink often at all, or that people have lied to him all of his life, because he is the biggest lightweight Suguru has ever seen. 

He already looks drowsy, babbling about random shit that doesn’t even make sense, and asking Suguru out-of-pocket questions like: ‘Do you think Itadori and Fushiguro are dating? Hear me out, genuinely.’ Suguru has fun teasing him in their alcohol-influenced states.

“Can I braid your hair?” Satoru randomly asks, and Suguru almost chokes on the piece of nigiri he just shoved into his mouth. No?

“No?” Suguru responds, mimicking his own thoughts. As if the answer ‘yes’ would ever be a possibility.

“No?” Satoru repeats. “Why not?” He pouts.

“Because… Why would I?” Suguru counters.

“Please? You never braid it—I just wanna see what it’d look like.” Satoru argues, going quiet for a few seconds. “Your hair is so silky…” Satoru says, hand reaching out to stroke a few locks of it. Suguru freezes. His hair is down today, which it’s usually not, but when he’s around Satoru, he tends to just let it be. 

Suguru, after a moment, leans away from the touch, much to Satoru’s dismay.

“Nooo, I wanna braid it…” Satoru whines, crawling closer to Suguru. Suguru is so flustered by his sudden behavior—so intimate and needy. It’s so weird, the way it makes Suguru feel. 

“Why?” Suguru asks again, mind spinning in so many directions, brain scrambling for an explanation—an answer.

“Please?”

“Why?” Suguru repeats.

“I just want to!” Satoru breaks, a voice more irritated and rougher around the edges than Suguru has heard from him. Why is he so upset about this? Why is he acting like a toddler again?

Suguru laughs at the pure stupidity of this. The anger bubbled over and unleashed over braiding hair. But these are the parts of Satoru that Suguru accepts—he can’t have all of the laughter, the joy, all of the amazing things that make Satoru, Satoru, without accepting these parts of him too.

“Okay, fine.” Suguru says, giving in. Satoru claps his hands in excitement, forcing Suguru to spin around and crawl over to Satoru’s spot on the floor. Satoru lays his back onto the edge of the couch, and urges Suguru to scoot closer and closer, until Satoru’s chest is almost touching Suguru’s back.

And, obviously, Satoru is a drunk idiot and can’t even braid hair. After all of that fuss.

“How you doing back there?” Suguru asks, a teasing tone attached to the question as he hears Satoru huff behind him.

“Fine.” Satoru responds curtly.

“How far along are you?” Suguru asks, knowing it’s been at least five minutes and he’s not feeling any significant progress.

“Uhhh…” Satoru starts, and eventually, he relents. “Okay, I’m done lying, I give up.” he says, laughing and letting his limp neck fall forward, forehead nuzzled into the length of Suguru’s hair. He stays there for a second, sitting back up and brushing his fingers through the raven strands. He occasionally scratches Suguru’s scalp, which, he’ll admit, feels quite nice. “I can’t braid, but it’s so pretty.”

“Why are you flirting with me, stupid?” Suguru asks, tilting his head back so he can see Satoru’s face, albeit upside-down. 

“Bro, ‘m literally not…”

“Calling me pretty isn’t flirting?” Suguru teases, repositioning himself to signify the end of the hair petting session. Satoru sits against the corner, while Suguru sits perpendicular to him on the other side of the couch, head tilted right to face Satoru.

Satoru blinks a few times, doesn’t answer immediately. “No, guys can be pretty.” Satoru finally responds.

Suguru is very confused by the response… What does that even mean? He wasn’t expecting such an out of character reply from Satoru. There was no bite, no defense to the words, just pure thoughts spilling out of his mind like honey.

“What does that even mean?”

“Like, I always thought it was just girls who were pretty… but you– you’re pretty too. So I guess guys can be pretty.” Satoru pauses. “But, I don’t like you or anything, so don’t think that… just like…” Satoru scrunches his face, as if he doesn’t understand the words that are coming out of his mouth. “I don’t know.”

Suguru doesn’t know what to say—what to do. It feels like his limbs are on fire, heart sprinting as he gazes into the oceans of Satoru’s eyes, attempting to understand. The entire conversation has flipped so quickly, and Suguru doesn’t understand what Satoru is saying, what he’s hinting at, or what he’s trying to hold back. But it feels familiar. The words Satoru utters feel painfully familiar.

“You’re good-looking too.” Suguru says, the words a little stuttered. “It’s not just girls who can be good-looking? What does that even mean?”

“Yeah.” Satoru says, ignoring Suguru’s questions. He remains nonchalant, as if the words that Suguru found so hard to say mean nothing to him. But why should they mean anything to Satoru?

And why…

Why do they mean so much to Suguru?

“You’ve said it before,” Satoru continues. “When you gave me the glasses, you said it.” His gaze is zoned out, fixed on a faraway object, and Suguru tries hard not to overthink it. His lack of focus—does it equate to his lack of care? 

Does he not care about Suguru? About this conversation?

“Oh.” Suguru responds. “Yeah, I guess I have.”

“You didn’t remember saying it?” Satoru asks, and the current of the waves has shifted, no longer serene and unfocused, they now rage against Suguru’s skin, judging him.

“I– I guess not.” Suguru admits. It’s quiet for a few moments. Suguru scratches at one of the scabs on his knee, eyes tilted down in fear of Satoru’s oppressive gaze.

“It’s weird though.” Satoru says, and Suguru remains silent, prompting him to move forward, but Satoru’s mouth stays stagnant.

“What do you mean?” Suguru eventually fills.

“When I look at you… you’re not good-looking, you’re pretty. ”

“Is the word really that important?” Suguru asks, smiling sheepishly under Satoru’s fixed stare. Satoru doesn’t smile, though, he just watches. “They’re all just compliments.” Suguru continues with a shrug.

“No,” Satoru violently shakes his head. “You don't get it.” He frantically tries to explain. “You’re– You’re not good-looking, or hot, or- or handsome—” 

“I’m pretty?” Suguru interrupts.

Satoru nods. “You’re pretty… Like–” Satoru pauses, swallowing hard as he looks at Suguru with so much passion and intention. “Like in the way a girl is pretty.” Satoru admits, and finally, Suguru gets it.

Those words, this moment of personal realization, and everything before now—it all fuels a raging fire that has ignited beneath Suguru’s skin. It’s a heat that cannot be described, one that engulfs Suguru’s skin in flames when he sees Satoru. 

It crackles and sparks when he remembers that he should not—cannot express anything to Satoru, lest he ruin everything. 

Satoru won’t remember this. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He didn’t remember anything last time. He won’t remember anything this time.

Suguru wants—

Suguru wants to tell him—

Suguru needs to say it. If not for Satoru, at least, for himself. If the words stay in his head any longer, he fears that he’ll never say or acknowledge them at all.

“In the way a girl is pretty… I think you’re pretty like that too.” Suguru chokes out, and the words are practically a whisper.

Chapter Text

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Lavender is a fragrant herb, one that represents tranquility, purification, and grace. Its Latin root denotes lavender’s historical use in bathing rituals, emphasizing its ability to cleanse the spirit. French Lavender specifically is known for its high-adaptability. They are quick-growing, and thrive in warm, sunny spots.

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Satoru

Satoru hates pictures.

He hates being in them—hates posing for the camera, a calculated smile sewn across his lips, hair caked in gel because his father believes it needs to look professional. He hates looking at them after, too. When he sees them pop up online, or when he sees them in a magazine, it’s difficult not to flinch and cringe at the sight of his own face. Maybe it’s because the face feels insincere—uncanny. 

Satoru knows exactly what lies beneath the mask of molten pride and responsibility, the raw, unrefined flesh that screams beneath his skin but never crosses any further. Satoru is like a bird in a cage—one who dreams of uninterrupted flight but refuses to knock his head against the bars, for he knows the repercussions that follow when he steps out of line.

For Satoru, there is only one thing worse than appearing in a photograph. 

Taking one.

It was a family vacation in August—a muggy summer heat hugged uncomfortably at Satoru’s skin. Hokkaido wasn’t usually as humid as it had been that day, but Satoru recalls the thunderstorm that had occurred the night before, blanketing the region in a dampened heat.

Satoru had only been about 7 years old at the time. Him and his family had just finished a multi-mile hike up a steep mountain, and Satoru was enamored with the view laid in front of him. Despite the uncomfortable sweat clinging to his skin and the aching pulse in his young ankles from hiking such a distance, Satoru stood entranced by the rolling hills and cerulean sky. 

His parents had scolded him just a few minutes prior. His mother’s eyes had widened, gaze growing enraged, when she had spotted the various mud stains adorning Satoru’s shirt. Satoru’s father had kneeled to his height, speaking softer than he usually did, and calmly told Satoru that they would ‘deal with this at home.’ 

Satoru would learn later, once he got home that day, that the calm demeanor his father possessed only seemed to exist around others.

Satoru thinks, now, that he was probably supposed to take a photo with them. A few streaks of mud on a seven-year old’s shirt was enough of a disgrace to the Gojo title for Satoru to be abandoned. 

His mother instructed him to stand in a small patch off to the side—the view wasn’t as good from there, but Satoru was grateful to have a view at all. His parents went off to take a photo, reminding Satoru to stay at least three-arm lengths away from the cliff’s edge at all times.

Satoru was secretly grateful to be excluded from the photo.

The blissful noises of nature filled Satoru’s senses, leaves rustling, wind blowing, and dim voices speaking in the background. Satoru would count the noises of people as nature, too. In fact, standing on the serene mountain top in Hokkaido, Satoru had wondered what wasn’t nature. 

Most people would argue that the bustling cities and crowded streets aren’t nature. How could they be? They’re almost entirely concrete and metal, no greenery or signs of forestation in the nearby vicinity. But, everything came from nature, didn’t it?

When animals build structures—habitats—people call it nature. It’s just the way the animals live. Isn’t this just the way humans live, too?

Satoru was excited to tell his parents about his thoughts. Maybe they’d be proud of him—tell him that most seven-year olds didn’t have such thoughts, and maybe they’d even allow him to have dessert tonight. 

His excitement is unable to last long, however, interrupted by a tap on the shoulder and a feminine voice.

“Excuse me, could you take a picture for us?” A woman had asked Satoru. She held a phone in her hand, extending the device towards Satoru. Her other hand signaled back towards a few others—an adult man and two kids, one maybe a little younger than Satoru. Satoru assumed the woman was a mother, and Satoru knew it was impolite to deny such a request.

His limbs were perfectly able to hold up a camera and click a button a few times—who would he be to decline? What would that do to his reputation? Satoru had thought.

The woman gazed at him expectantly, and Satoru, after a few seconds, obliged, offering a nod and a polite smile, taking the phone. He took a few pictures for them, trying his best to get the right angle, zooming in a little on their family, because Satoru figured that she had asked for a photo of them, not of the exquisite view behind them, hadn’t she?

Satoru handed the phone back, offering a few polite parting words before stalking back to his old viewing location. He attempted to regain his former state of peace, a little thrown off by the sudden social interaction, but pleased with his performance.

Until he felt another tap on his shoulder. He whipped his head around—maybe a little too fast, a little too abrupt and impolite maybe, but he was a young child, plagued by constant irritation. 

“I’m so sorry,” a voice started, and upon the sight, it didn’t take Satoru long to realize that it came from the same woman. She was closer this time, her phone angled towards Satoru, screen displaying the pictures he had just taken for them. “Could you take these again? They’re very zoomed in and not very good.” The woman asked.

Satoru was shocked, to say the least. He didn’t let it show, or at least, he tried his best to. Satoru shakily nodded, unable to conjure words to describe his guilt, his embarrassment, and most of all, his shame. The woman handed him the phone, and again, he took photos. He didn’t zoom in this time, left the background to take over half of the screen in most of the images, just as she had asked. 

Upon viewing the photographs again, instead of being praised with a smile or a positive reaction, Satoru was only met with her pouted-frown. 

“I’m so sorry, I’ll just go find someone else—thank you so much for helping.” The mother said, looking at Satoru apologetically as she walked off in search of another photographer.

He had failed. He—he’s a Gojo, he has a reputation to uphold and expectations to perform to. If the world knows he cannot take a photograph, what will come of his future? 

Worse, what if his father finds out? What if he names Satoru a failure and disowns him, leaving him all alone?

What would Satoru do?

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

“What’s up, nerd?” Shoko asks when she picks up Satoru’s facetime call. 

Satoru scoffs, plops down on the couch with an exhausted sigh. Upon leaning into the plush fabric, it becomes quickly apparent that his back is extremely sweaty. It’s a sensory nightmare. Satoru cannot, and will not, stand it.

He quickly sheds his shirt, placing Shoko (his phone) on a cushion, camera angled towards the ceiling as he lifts the soiled shirt over his head, throwing it on the floor somewhere.

“Ew, yuck, why are you shirtless?” Shoko continues, dramatically waving a hand in front of her face, as if she needs to cover her eyes at the sight.

“Shut uppp,” Satoru groans, a smile stretching across his face. “I just had lift and I have to go to dinner in, like, two hours.”

Shoko hums affirmatively. “You didn’t have practice? Don’t you always have it on Fridays?” She asks.

“No, no, we had practice, just like, a few hours ago.”

Shoko grimaces, wrinkling her nose in dissatisfaction. “Both in one day, yeesh…” she lets out a pointed sigh. “College athletics, man. Well, how was practice?”

“Well…” Satoru starts.

Practice was… different. For sure.

Suguru was unusually quiet—unfocused, even. Usually, he’s teasing Satoru, poking his side, tickling him, or pelting the ball at him enthusiastically. Usually, he’s always engaging and reciprocating Satoru’s antics. Yet, this morning, something seemed off.

“I mean, the actual practice was fine, we ran a lot because our game on Monday wasn’t as good as coach wanted it to be, so that was annoying.” Satoru sighs. “But, I mean, I don’t know…”

“What?”

“Well, Suguru was acting kinda weird, I guess. I don’t know, it’s kind of stupid. He just seemed off.”

“Off, how?”

“Not as enthusiastic, I guess? He wasn’t cold, by any means, just, like, a bit less rambunctious and spontaneous?” Satoru says, and the words sound kinda stupid when he says them. He runs a hand through the white locks of his hair, fussing with them a little. “And… And I guess he’s kind of been like this all week. I dunno, ever since, like, the weekend.”

“Did something happen with you two? Over the weekend?” Shoko questions. She’s sitting at her desk, hands folded into a chin rest as she leans forward.

Satoru tries to think. “Well, we hung out on Saturday, I think I got drunk, though, so I don’t really remember what happened.” Satoru admits with a sheepish smile.

“Why are you always getting drunk?” Shoko complains, rolling her eyes.

Satoru shrugs. “We didn’t have much else to do, and we only had a few beers, really.”

“Okay, well, can you remember anything that happened while you were drunk? Any feelings, words, etcetera?"

Satoru scrunches his face in concentration, racking his brain for any alcohol-blurred memories. “Oh! He let me braid his hair… though I’m not sure how helpful that is.”

“That’s not helpful.” Shoko says, dismissing his detail. “Anything else? C’mon Satoru, think.”

“I’m tryinggg,” Satoru whines. Satoru remembers braiding Suguru’s hair. The long, raven strands flowing between his fingers like freshly-woven silk. He thinks that Suguru’s hair is pretty—in fact, all of Suguru is pretty. Did Satoru tell him that? 

“I might’ve told him that he’s pretty,” Satoru says, kind of just throwing it out there as if that’s not a slightly crazy thing to say.

“You WHAT?” Shoko says, jaw hanging in shock. Eyes wide and filled with something that looks like fear. “Do you— What— Satoru. Satoru, are you gay?”

“What?” Satoru asks, genuinely shocked by her assumption. “No? Why would you say that, what?”

“Why’d you call him pretty?”

“Because he is…?” Satoru says, and Shoko looks at him disapprovingly through the screen.

“That’s not a straight thought.” Shoko tells him straight up. A little abruptly.

“Who says it isn’t? I don’t wanna, like, fuck him? I just think he’s pretty—I’m allowed to think that acknowledge that another guy is attractive without being attracted to him, you know?” Satoru defends.

“You’re right,” Shoko says, “Do you think he’s attractive, or are you attracted to him?”

“I’m not gay, Shoko,” Satoru replies, annoyed.

“That wasn’t the question.” Shoko counters.

Satoru groans, beginning to grow frustrated with Shoko’s antics.

“Think about it, like, not in a physical way.” Shoko says. “Do you think, based off of his personality, the way he makes you feel when you’re in his presence, do you think that you’re attracted to him?”

Satoru doesn’t say anything, kind of just stares off into the distance. Maybe he starts thinking about an answer to Shoko’s question. 

“Just think about it, seriously.” Shoko says, looking at Satoru through the camera. Satoru looks at her, still staring, not saying anything.

“I don’t understand, though…” He says, quietly.

“You don’t need to understand, Satoru. Just think about it, okay?” Shoko pleads.

“Okay,” Satoru practically whispers, nodding his head a little. “Okay.”

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

The venue is all glassy marble and white silk tablecloths. Golden chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and the buzz of chatter crowds Satoru’s ears. Satoru’s father has been jumping from person to person all night—he shakes their hands, plastering a welcoming smile across his face, and at times he even invites Satoru to their brief conversation. They’re celebrating a business deal of some sort—Satoru is definitely supposed to know what it is, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He couldn’t stand the dull, monotone sound of his father’s voice dragging on and on about the impact this will have on their family name.

Satoru’s fascination and commitment to the Gojo family is completely external. By now, after years of presenting perfection and respecting his family name, Satoru has learnt. Satoru has begun to understand that the consequences for not conforming to the family name are dire. Satoru will not allow his father to strip him of any more liberties than he has already taken.

The lights are painfully cold and bright here, and Satoru wishes he had Suguru’s sunglasses to dull the pain.

It’s been almost an hour, and everyone is still just walking around and talking. He’s had a glass of champagne in his hand for an uncomfortable amount of minutes, and the condensation has just dampened his hand. He can’t wipe off his hand on his clothes, not at a family event like this. His father, like, might actually slap him, if he did that. Satoru is so tired of this—when he’s the CEO of this stupid company, he’s not hosting any of this extravagant shit. They rented out a hotel, for christ’s sake.

Satoru locks eyes with his father, who leans against a small, circular table. It has no chairs and is about the height of Satoru’s elbow. It’s like a decorative piece, not even a fucking table. His father waves him over, urging him to come over, a look in his eye that says: ‘this is not an ask, get over here.’

When he arrives at the table, Satoru’s father has a stern look on his face. “What shit did you start with the Zenins?” He keeps his mouth tight, his words only a whisper.

“Huh? What do you mean?” Satoru asks. 

“I just heard you started a big fight and threatened one of the Zenin daughters. What the hell, Satoru?” 

Oh, Maki. Right. “I did not,” Satoru starts, because he didn’t, and the older man’s eyes narrow. “It was this small, trivial thing, and Maki got very upset about it. I even apologized to her, but I don’t believe she remembers,” because she was drunk “Likely because of her enraged state.”

“You apologized?” His father clarifies, and Satoru nods. His father lets out a sigh, shakes his head.

“Don’t try that again, Satoru. Remember the image that you have to upkeep.” He says, pointing a finger directly into Satoru’s sternum, poking him through the white fabric.

“I won’t, dad.” Satoru says, and they sit in silence for a while, his father periodically taking sips of his drink, gazing around the room. Satoru isn’t about to leave, or say anything, because his father’s presence is not bad company, and at this party, there is a lot of baddddd company.

“Your game last week,” Satoru’s father starts up after a while, softly circling his wrist, jostling the pale liquid that fills his cup, ice clinking against the edges.

“You watched it?” Satoru responds, raising his brows in surprise. Satoru’s father has never had an interest in basketball. He has, time after time, deemed it a waste of Satoru’s energy.

Satoru’s father shrugs at the comment. “I watched a little. I noticed, you were representing the Gojo name quite well. It was impressive—your shooting percentage was higher than your teammates.”

Satoru’s empty stomach jolts at the comment. This feels like a trap—it’s always a trap. Satoru wants to lean into the praise, to believe it and to feed off of it, but he won’t. He can’t. Not in the way he did when he was a child. It’s hard to stop the hopeful, expectant tone he has when he responds, though. “You thought I did good?

His father nods. “Yes, very good. I’m proud of you, Satoru. You were the best after all. But…”

Satoru’s heart drops at the upcoming contradiction—a bitter possibility polluting the sweet words. “But?”

“I mean, I much preferred your old university. You stood out more—there was so much less competition… I don’t like one of your teammates—this man with long hair, I don’t know his name.”

“Su—” Satoru starts, stopping himself before he accidentally lets his father know how close he and Suguru are. “Geto?” 

“Yes, that’s right. Geto—Suguru Geto. I looked it up after, and his statistics are very close to yours, Satoru. He’s ranked second, and he’s not far off from you.”

“You think he’ll pass me?” Satoru scoffs. “That won’t happen.” 

“Well if it does…” Satoru’s father stills. “Then maybe you’ll have to transfer again… or, I don’t know.” The older man places his fingers on his temples, rubbing. His eyebrows crease, nose scrunched in concentration, and maybe even distaste.

“Why?” Satoru asks, sounding a little bit more defeated than he wants to.

“Because…” His father sighs. “If, in the future, someone talks about the CEO of GojoTech, Satoru Gojo, and one man remembers that, once upon a time, for some ridiculous reason, he played basketball, and he wasn’t very good… What kind of effect will that have on your image?”

Satoru tilts his head in confusion, scrunches his brows and narrows his eyes. “What? Why would my skill in basketball have anything to do with the future of our company?”

“Satoru.” His father exhales, anger growing within the caverns of his voice. “You will listen to me.” He says.

Satoru knows that this is ridiculous, and unfair, and so incredibly stupid. But his father’s command sends a chill down his spine. It is a reminder of his power, a reminder of the control he holds. A reminder that Satoru’s life is not his own to delegate, a reminder that, in his father’s eyes, he is a tool.

Satoru tends to equate his father’s view of Satoru to how one views a shovel. A shovel was created for the purpose of digging, and no shovel will be a basketball player and no shovel will be a physicist. The shovel’s purpose is to dig, and therefore, it will dig, for it must fulfill the function it was created for. Satoru is a shovel—he has, and will, continue to spend his life digging. 

At one point, the shovel might break. A shovel rusts—the handle weathers and the tip dulls, and at that point, what use will the shovel have? 

What use is a broken shovel? Is there any use to a shovel that cannot even dig?

What if the shovel is functional still, yet it refuses to dig? What is any tool good for, if it refuses to fulfill its purpose?

What good is Satoru, even?

“I won’t let it happen, dad.” Satoru responds, submitting to his father’s demand. He excuses himself to the bathroom, puts his glass of champagne down on a random table, mind racing and head pounding.

He walks away, steps carrying him faster and faster, breath quickening and heart racing because he needs to go away. He needs to leave—he needs to leave the pressure and the responsibility. Today, though, he cannot go far, cannot break and refuse his fate.

Maybe that day will come eventually, or maybe, his soul will have to wait until he rusts and renders dysfunctional. Maybe he won’t have the courage to reject it, and instead, he’ll spend his life wasting away.

The thought pains Satoru’s stomach—he can feel an actual, physical weight on his chest as he breathes in, out, in out. He navigates himself through the luxurious hallways of the venue, following signs that say ‘EXIT’ and hoping that they’ll lead him away from here.

There are no signs that say ‘HOME,’ no signs that say ‘SCHOOL.’

No signs that say ‘SHOKO,’ and no signs that say ‘SUGURU.’

He’ll be forced to locate those places, those people himself. There is no glowing, red, neon sign that can direct him away from his own twisted fate. 

There is no obvious way to get out, no simple, easy answer.

When he finally gets outside, warm air blasts his face. It’s dark outside, so there is no sun to bask in, but Satoru is unsure if he’d welcome the sun at this moment. The air envelops him in a blanket of heat. Satoru wiggles his limbs around, tries to make sure he’s still in his body and that he’s not, like, dying? He feels like he’s dying.

He takes a shaky breath in, a shaky exhale following as tears bead on the rims of his eyes. His family has a way of working him up like no other thing can—his own expectations of himself, his own incessant desire to be the best stems from his parent’s strict rule. 

He is the best—he is the strongest, and he is like no other, simply because he is Satoru Gojo.

That is what he has believed, for the longest time. Maybe because his parents told him to believe that, or maybe because it’s true.

Satoru should be the best. He needs to be.

A tear trickles down his face, and then another, and then a few more. He chokes out a few sobs, his head laying back against the stone wall behind him. The wind stays stagnant, offering no aid to the warmth that uncomfortable smothers him.

With a trembling hand, Satoru pulls out his phone. He unlocks it, navigates to the contact, and calls. Shoko is usually the one who consoles him. In times like these, she has a calming aura that tends to reset Satoru’s body.

But, after however many rings, the call is sent to voicemail. 

“Fuck…” Satoru whispers, a hand sliding down his face, wet with tears and probably flushed from crying.

He needs someone.

He needs someone who will calm him in the same way—someone who forces a gleaming smile upon his face the second he sees them. He needs someone who feels safe, and kind, and someone who holds him together without explicit contact.

Shoko’s words ring in his ears, they play over and over, so much so that Satoru begins to get sick of them. 

"Think, based off of his personality, the way he makes you feel when you’re in his presence, do you think that you’re attracted to him?”

Satoru doesn’t need to answer the question to know that, at least, right now, Suguru is the right option.

He needs Suguru.

He won’t call him. He knows that Suguru hates calling people—it was a whole tangent he had gone off on, one time. A very funny one, too, and a fond memory of Satoru’s.

Maybe the sound of Suguru’s voice would provide better consolement, but Satoru will settle for his words. Satoru can read them in his voice, imagine the way he’d enunciate each syllable, draw out a few letters in this weird way that makes Satoru’s stomach turn. But, like, turn in a good way.

He finds Suguru’s contact, briefly chuckling when he sees the name ‘toe muncher,’ pop up, because even after a week, it still makes him laugh. He takes a deep breath, and hits the send button on a short message.

Satoru

hey

toe muncher

Hi, what’s up?

Satoru

are u busy

toe muncher

Not really, I’m just finishing up an essay.

Are you okay?

Satoru

yeah i’m fine

i’m just like

i’m at this family dinner

and it sucks

toe muncher

Do you wanna talk about it?

Satoru

eh

not really

Satoru’s fingers tremble over the letters, contemplating his response. He needs to be honest—both with himself, and with Suguru. Satoru bites his lip, hard. He nibbles on it a little, staring at Suguru’s typing bubble that keeps disappearing and reappearing. The pit in his chest beats alongside his heart, weighing down his body, feeding off of him. Satoru’s fingers tremble over the letters, and he types out his response.

Satoru

i just kinda wish u were here

to be honest

toe muncher

Really?

Satoru

yea

it’s way more fun to be with you

i wish i was at ur apartment

and we were playing something together

toe muncher

I wish you were here too.

Chapter Text

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Fir trees symbolize resilience, endurance, and eternal life. They maintain their foliage year-round, highlighting their persistent spirit and the significance of overcoming hardship. Additionally, ancient Druids viewed their upright nature as a sign of truth and honesty.

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Suguru

A blistering, white glow emanates from Suguru’s abandoned laptop. There is a word document open on the screen—a half-written essay draft filling the lines of the page. After a few minutes of neglect, the brightness dilutes, and a few minutes later, it has faded completely black.

But Suguru doesn’t focus on it. 

Instead, he focuses on the phone in front of him. He ignores the strings of text messages that have been exchanged between him and Satoru, only focusing on one text.

His cursor blinks at the edge of the line, urging him to continue. It blinks, and blinks, impatiently, almost. Like it’s trying to say: Keep going. Say something else. 

Suguru covers the incessant blinking line with his thumb, only hovering over the screen, as to not disturb the functions of the device. Satoru doesn’t have read-receipts on—neither does Suguru, obviously—so Suguru is forced to wait. To contemplate.

Satoru’s typing bubble doesn’t appear, and Suguru tries to push out the negative thoughts that cloud his mind at the lack of response. Did Satoru read it yet? Did he read it, and forget to respond? 

Or, worse—did he not want to respond? 

Sure, Satoru had initially brought up the conversation—said he missed Suguru or whatever. But Suguru had shifted the tone a little bit. Suguru runs a hand through his hair, aggravated when his fingers meet the taut bun perched atop his head. He removes the hair tie, shaking his hair free and scratching at his scalp, removing some of the tension from his head with a light tug. 

Suguru digs his palms into his eyes, taking a deep breath as his fingers press and mold against the loose skin of his scalp. He stays like that for a minute, debating his next steps. The air of his room has become thick with tension and impatience. 

It’s like trying to breathe on top of a mountain—the air slipping between the grasp of his lungs, the panic settling comfortably underneath his skin.

So, Suguru leaves. He stands up, legs practically boosting out of his chair, and despite its neglected state, Suguru still shuts his laptop before he leaves. It probably saves battery life, right? He sheds his jacket before he goes, only sporting a loose black T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. 

He tucks his phone into his pocket, traveling across the room in a few, quick steps, locking his door on the way out.

It’s warm outside, stray bugs biting at his skin, but for some reason, the sky provides more comfort than his solemn apartment. Maybe it's the vast expanse of air or the moonlit sky, but something about the outdoors tends to calm Suguru’s spirit.

He starts walking—a concrete sidewalk paves his journey, marking his path, highlighting where he must go. Suguru wishes that there was a path, as tangible and clear and precise as this one, that highlighted which decision he should make. Which response he should have, and which words he should say. But he supposes that maybe a walk will clarify his thoughts, if anything.

There’s nobody else out this late.

It’s about 10:00PM in the middle of summer, so most people are likely cuddled up in bed, air conditioners blasting against their fluffy blankets. Suguru keeps his hands in his pockets as he walks, and his right hand definitely isn’t glued to his phone just in case Satoru texts back. No, he would never do something so stupid.

Suguru keeps walking. What was the point of this walk, again? Suguru isn’t really thinking. In fact, he doesn’t really want to think. His mind feels pleasantly empty, save for the occasional reminder that Satoru still hasn’t texted him back. Not that he cares. 

They’re literally just friends, nothing more—so why is a singular text message screwing with Suguru’s head so much?

The gentle breeze hugs Suguru's body, enveloping the cold, numb feelings in a warm embrace. If he wasn’t so calm, the weather would probably feel terrifyingly suffocating. A startling vibration rips Suguru from his slow, calming thoughts. It sets his heart into an immediate pounding rhythm, and the phone practically slips from his fingers at the speed he whips it from his pocket.

Satoru Gojo

wyd rn

Suguru

I’m on a walk. 

Why? Do you need help?

Satoru Gojo

shoot are u busy

sorry

i’m just panicking lol

Suguru

I’m not busy. Are you okay? 

Do you want to call? I know that you didn’t want to talk about it, but maybe just talking to someone in general will help clear your head.

Hearing real voices helps.

Satoru Gojo

are u sure i’m not bothering u with this

sorry

like if ur rlly ok w it then we can call i just dont wanna

like

impede

Suguru

You’re not a bother.

I’m gonna call you.

The phone rings once, twice, before Satoru picks it up.

“Hey.” Satoru says, voice a little broken in the way it does when someone cries. Is Satoru crying? Was Satoru crying? 

“Hey,” Suguru starts. “Are you okay?”

“Not really.” Satoru says, a little laugh attached to the end of the words.

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better? Anything you wanna talk about?” Suguru asks. “You want a kiss?” Suguru jokes, a smirk appearing on his face.

“Ha-ha, very funny.” Satoru says, rolling his eyes. “Kiss my ass, maybe. Oh, or you could, like, lick the tears off of my face. Veryyyyy sexy.”

Suguru tries to ignore Satoru’s implications. Tries not to read too much into it. Tries not to think about whether that was a joke or not. It was definitely a joke. Like, definitely. Satoru’s vulnerable right now, Suguru needs to stop thinking about such insignificant things.

“Mmkay, don’t make it weird. I’m trying to make you feel better.” Suguru tuts. He takes a deep breath, a smile widening across his face. “Where are you right now?”

“Outside of this building… I just– I just couldn’t be in there. My head hurts so bad, because all of the lights are so bright and shit…” Satoru’s voice trails off.

Suguru hums. “Do you have to stay there?”

“Yeah.”

“Shame. I would’ve offered that you just leave and come over to my apartment… we could play something, or I dunno. I could make you food.”

Satoru laughs a little, and Suguru can imagine a small smile stretching across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Suguru exhales.

“I wish,” Satoru continues, “My dad had a driver come get me, though, so I really can’t leave. I would if I could. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have even come in the first place, if I had any choice.”

“What do you mean if you ‘had any choice?’ You have a choice, Satoru.” Suguru spots a bench nearby, walking towards it. He settles down on the wooden structure, parting his knees and laying his back against the slotted panels.

“I mean… Like, yeah, I do. Technically, free will exists in every context of the universe. You can choose to do anything, you know, just not without consequences.”

“Wow, what a little genius, going all existential on me. On the psychology student talking about psychological choices.” Suguru teases.

Satoru probably rolls his eyes, and Suguru can practically hear it in his answer. “Yeah, yeah, you don’t have to one up me. But seriously though, I know I have a choice—no shit.”

“So then why don’t you choose not to go?” 

“Because it’s not an option.”

“Is it not an option, or do you not want it to be? What are the consequences?” Suguru asks, raising an eyebrow. He sits up a little, adjusting his posture, hoisting one of his feet onto the bench and resting his head onto a clothed knee.

“Uh, I don’t know, maybe losing all of my inheritance, being disowned by my family, and being known as the Gojo failure?”

“How much do those things matter to you?” Suguru presses.

“What things?”

“Your family assets. Money, power, fame, legacy—what matters more? Those things or your own interests? What about all of the other parts of your life, Satoru?”

“The other parts of my life? Like what?”

“Like… Like basketball, and partying, and your interest in math, physics, and Digimon, and all of the fun, stupid stuff that I know you care about.”

“They’re more… temporary. My family—that’s the inevitable future, isn’t it? One day, all of my personal interests will render useless, and I’ll take over GojoTech.” Satoru says, and Suguru can feel the panic in his voice. It trembles over some of the letters, words spilling out in a violent surge.

“But what matters more?”

“Obviously the money, it’s all my responsibility.” Satoru says, stating it like an obvious fact. “It matters more because I have to pass down the company and take care of it—I have to keep up the Gojo image. The other stuff… Suguru, it’s not the same at all. None of that matters for my future.”

“Not to your future, or to your image. What matters more to you, Satoru? What about what you want?” Suguru pleads.

It’s silent for a few moments, so Suguru continues. “Stop predicting that you will live your life as a shell—as some sort of automated creature. Stop pretending that you’ll abandon your entire character for a company, or for some inheritance.”

“I’ve done it before…” Satoru whispers. “I’ve always done it.”

“But now that you’ve experienced freedom, are you really willing to lock yourself up again?” Suguru asks.

Only a soft hum of static fills the space between them.

“Can we stop talking about this?” Satoru pleads, voice shaking. 

Shit. Suguru definitely took it too far. He definitely put too much pressure on him. Satoru– Satoru was just crying for god’s sake and Suguru decided to question him about his life choices and his corrupt future?

Fuck, what kind of friend is he?

“Sorry…” Suguru adds, mind racing with a million thoughts. “Sorry.”

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

Satoru

“Give me head.” Suguru asks, making grabby motions with his hands towards Gojo’s figure.

They’re currently sitting on Suguru’s couch. Suguru is slotted into the corner with his legs extended, while Satoru sits closer to the edge, feet resting on the coffee table. Satoru has a book open and Suguru is on his phone. They’re sitting in silence, simply enjoying each other’s company, until Suguru shatters the air with that.

“What?” Satoru replies, eyes bulging in confusion and fear and, just like—what. 

Why did he just ask that? What the hell? Does Suguru— Why was he so direct? Does Suguru actually want to do—

“Give. Me. Your. Head.” Suguru repeats, enunciating each syllable to aid Satoru’s understanding. “I need to study.”

Suddenly, understanding dawns on him, and Satoru is, like, properly embarrassed.

“Ohhhh… Shit Suguru, you confused me so badly..” Satoru says, laughing as he shuts his book, haphazardly tossing it onto the coffee table. He shuffles over to Suguru, stopping at his feet. “Where do you want me?”

“Uhhh, lay your back on my chest, but scoot down a little so your head is closer to my stomach.” Suguru says, directing him with a few hand motions.

Satoru still doesn’t understand what the fuck is happening. At least, now, the sexual implication has dissipated, relieving Satoru from the bucket of stress that was suddenly dumped on him just a minute prior. “I don’t understand,” Satoru adds, positioning himself. “What do you need my head for?”

“I love how you didn’t ask questions, just genuinely hopped into my lap like I asked you to.” Suguru teases, ignoring Satoru’s question as he just makes fun of him. What an asshole to have as my best friend, Satoru thinks.

“Excuse me, I am not in your lap, I’m just using you as a pillow.” Satoru corrects.

“Yeah, yeah. Excuses, excuses.”

“Can you answer my question though? How the fuck is my head gonna help you study? You wanna take some data of my incredible intelligence or something?”

“Pffttt, lower your ego.” Suguru says with a chuckle. He cards through Satoru’s hair, and Satoru hums at the feeling of Suguru’s fingers on his scalp. They do this… often?

Well, not often. Just, like—touching hair. Regular thing for them. Why wouldn’t it be—everyone likes a head massage, no?

“I’m just testing myself on locations and I prefer to have a little 3D diagram.”

“Little? Who’s head you calling little?” Satoru defends, whipping his head around to face Suguru with a pout. Suguru uses his strong hands to snap his neck back forward, keeping it to his desired angle.

“You’re right, your head is big. It’s ginormous Satoru, fits your big, overly genius brain.” Suguru says, completely monotone. That earns him a slap. A very uncoordinated slap, albeit, delivered by Satoru whose neck is still aimed straight forward, but a slap nonetheless.

“You can read by the way,” Suguru continues, “I’m just gonna mutter the words, I won’t be that loud.”

“Nah, too much work.” Satoru points to his book, forgotten on the coffee table. “My book is all the way over there, and I’m all the way over here. It’ll never work.”

“Not into long distance relationships?” Suguru asks.

“Not with my book, no.” Satoru snorts.

Satoru can feel Suguru shrug behind him. “Fair.”

“Besides, I like to feel all of the tingles from when you touch my head.”

“I still don’t understand that…” Suguru mumbles.

“Okay, I’m so sorry that your ASMR experience is not nearly as incredible and indulgent as mine is—your brain is definitely supposed to tingle. In fact, what part of the brain is setting off the tingles? Can you tell me that, Mr. Psychology major? Satoru teases.

Suguru is silent for a moment, conjuring up an answer. “Probably… Uhh… Like, probably some part of your somatosensory cortex. It carries out a lot of functions regarding external stimuli and sensory.”

“Wow, that was lowkey impressive.” Satoru says, a little surprised. Suguru just thought of that on the spot—does he know every part of the brain?

“Yeah, the functions are easier to remember than the placement, though. I have a quiz for it tomorrow, and even though it’s not that big of a deal, I’m a little stressed.” Suguru sighs.

“Okay, well… place away!” Satoru says, a little cringed out by his own antics. They both laugh, Suguru’s hands delving into the white locks of Satoru’s hair. They travel across his scalp, giving a brief massage in a few places before settling above his eyebrows. 

His fingers graze against the edge of Satoru’s dark-rimmed sunglasses, which he promptly removes, seeing as his eyes are closed. They’re gonna get in the way if he wants to take a nap, duh.

“Okay, starting simple—the frontal lobe starts here,” Suguru says, sliding his fingers from Satoru’s eyebrows to the middle of his head. “And it ends here. It contains the prefrontal cortex, which is really important for complex decision making and problem solving. Over here,” Suguru starts, moving a hand to a point on the left side of Satoru’s skull. “Is the Broca’s area. Yours is probably on the left, but it might also be on the right side.” Suguru adds, sliding his other hand to the right side of Satoru’s skull, rubbing the same spot.

Satoru leans into the pressure, Suguru’s fingers massaging and soothing his head—it feels like he’s touching his brain. His hands stimulate the nerves, tingling beneath his fingertips, and Satoru’s eyes grow heavy, despite Suguru’s continuous babbling about the brontosaurus area. He’s good at falling asleep, anyways—he usually doesn’t need silence, especially in Suguru’s presence.

“Why do you think that stuff is at the front? Like, what’s different about the stuff done in the back versus the front?” Satoru asks, sleepily. “Sorry, can you even answer that?”

Suguru chuckles. “Yeah, I can answer that. So basically, the front is more action focused, is I guess how I would put it. All of the stuff in the front does things. It has all the decision-making parts, and has to control muscle movements, you know? But then the back is more for processing stuff. Like, the front produces output, and the back processes input. Does that make sense?”

“Wow,” Satoru says. “Yeah, that actually does make sense.”

Satoru enjoys seeing Suguru nerd out like this. When they hang out, they tend to keep the conversations off of school, considering that they’re both stressed enough with the amount of work they have to complete on their own. So, Satoru doesn’t usually see Suguru like this. It’s cool to get a glimpse into Suguru’s world, to hear the way his voice lifts whenever he talks about stuff like this.

Satoru can tell that he loves it, he really can.

“Why do you think that evolution put the brain together the way it did, though? Like, why isn’t the frontal lobe or whatever just in the back?” Satoru continues.

“It’s mostly because the stuff in the back connects to the rest of your organs. So, like, the brain stem, which is right here.” Suguru slides two fingers to Satoru’s upper neck, which almost makes him squirm. “That connects directly to your spine, and it has a lot of important parts—it has a gland that basically makes most of your most vital hormones.”

“You really know your stuff, buddy.” Satoru says, slurring a little bit because he’s actually really tired. While Suguru talks and explains, he also massages Satoru’s head, a blush creeping across his face at the sheer intimacy of the act.

“Yeah, well I better ace this stupid test, then.” Suguru counters, pressing into Satoru’s temples with a fair amount of pressure, rolling small circles with his thumbs. Satoru hums, allowing himself to be pampered. 

He’s not complaining, obviously.

“Thought it was a quiz, not a test.” Satoru teases, a lazy smile on his face.

“Tomato, tomahto.” Suguru groans. “You’re so quiet. It’s like a whole other Satoru Gojo as soon as you get some head pats. You’re like a dog.” Suguru laughs.

Satoru just smiles back. “Yeah… Feels good though, I need a nap.”

“You can take a nap.” Suguru says. There’s no teasing tone, just a genuine suggestion.

“I…” Satoru starts, letting his neck go limp against Suguru’s chest, head lolling to the side against his navy cotton hoodie. “I think I will.”

“Yeah, sleep well. You need it.”

Suguru continues to softly pet Satoru’s head. He keeps the pressure light—fingertips grazing across the planes of his skin, even creeping down to his neck periodically, traveling across his skull.

It feels so good to be with Suguru—to be laying against his chest, to be listening to his voice. It’s so comforting, warm, and soothing to be with him. 

Satoru never wants to leave Suguru’s grasp—not if he ever has to.

Right before Satoru’s consciousness is completely lost, drifting in the in between state of asleep and awake, he feels a kiss placed on top of his forehead.

He doesn’t have the energy to respond, surrendering to his sleepy state completely.

Chapter Text

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

In Norse mythology, the ash tree is viewed as a bridge between the heavens, earth, and underworld. Additionally, the Norse creation story depicts one of the first humans as carved from an ash tree. Historically the ash tree has been viewed as a guardian, used to protect civilizations from witchcraft and other evils.

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Suguru

Suguru Geto

11 September 2025

Poetry Submission

what does color mean?

it is painful to see color

when i have been conditioned

to live in the dark.

so, i continue to live

in a world without 

a single vivid spark.

but today,

i saw the color blue.

vibrant and exquisite,

arctic glaciers or

a pool of melted sea glass—

a cerulean, soaring sky

on the sunniest day.

there is not 

a cloud 

to shroud

the sheer beauty

of his color.

today,

i saw the color blue.

i saw it in his smile,

his voice,

his eyes that glitter

like a piece of crystal.

i saw a color today.

what does color mean?

why is he the first

and only

color i can see?

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

The cracked, shitty leather of the sideline chairs digs uncomfortably into Suguru’s thigh. His hips are hinged, elbows perched on his knees in engagement.

But Suguru doesn’t have the energy to focus on the irritant below his legs, no, he has much bigger things to worry about.

Such as the way Satoru is playing tonight.

Suguru just came off the bench, sweat sticking to his back and labored breaths punching through his lungs. He was, quite literally, sprinting up and down the court without touching the ball once. In an entire half.

Not once.

Now usually, if Satoru was being petty, he’d at least pass the ball to Suguru. They work as a pair—like two calloused hands clasped together, fingers threaded in the empty spaces. Usually, it enhances their gameplay—it’s why they’re so good. 

They’re both competitive, talented, and passionate, so naturally, they make a great team.

Yet.

Satoru’s been a ball hog all game, and honestly, Suguru is extremely confused why Yaga hasn’t just taken him out of the game yet. Instead, Coach just shields his face within his creasing palms, pacing around uselessly as Satoru practically sells the game before his eyes.

Naoya keeps babbling beside him ‘Coach! Take Gojo out, what the fuck is this?!’ and Suguru can’t stand it, even if he’s having similar thoughts. The ball is nabbed from Satoru’s possession again, and Suguru lets out a long sigh, languidly clapping his hands in an attempt at encouragement.

Satoru, and his big, stupid ego. Even now in September, he’s pulling the same shit he did in April. Sure, he might be the best player on the team—he’s Satoru Gojo after all—but that doesn’t excuse his egotistical tendencies. 

Satoru needs to pass the fucking ball and admit he’s having an off day. 

It kind of reminds Suguru of his younger self, though. Stubborn and convinced that he had to do everything alone. Convinced that nobody else knew what it felt like, that he couldn’t possibly share the feeling with anyone.

Sweat lazily rolls off of the edges of Satoru’s pale shoulders, chest heaving in exhaustion. He tries his best to defend the shooter, pale arms stretched out widely, feet matching the quick pace of the boy in front of him. 

But it’s to no avail, as the guy slips through his poor defense and easily scores a point. Satoru blinks a few times, hard, poking and prodding at his eye, and somewhat violently playing with his lashes. 

Suguru remembers that he used to do that—the first time that Suguru had met him, he’d ripped out at least three lashes in just a couple of hours. Suguru can’t stand it, seeing him so stressed out, so helpless.

There’s less than half a minute left in the fourth quarter of this game, and although Satoru’s been playing pretty shitty, they’re still up by a single point.

57 - 56

All they need to do is protect these last few seconds and defend well.

The referee blows the whistle, and the ball is back in play. Toji confidently dribbles it past a few stronger defenders, crossing the half court line in long strides. Satoru is to his right, feet situated by the arc of the three-point line. 

Suguru notices that the other team’s strongest defender is practically glued to Satoru, and, internally, he prays that Toji keeps the fucking ball to himself. Or that he passes it to anyone, literally anyone, other than Satoru.

Obviously his prayers go unanswered, and when Toji is too cornered to continue hogging, he passes the ball to Satoru. 

Who immediately tries to shoot the ball.

And misses.

Naoya practically jumps out of his seat, a sour amalgamation of curses and expletives directed at Satoru. His other teammates aren’t any better, though, many harboring the same energy, some even standing alongside Naoya.

A player from the other team sprints to the other side of the court, leaving his opponents in the dust as he slides into an easy, successful layup. The buzzer sounds just a second later, denoting their victory.

After exchanging a few high fives and hearing a whole lot of obnoxious cheers for a home game, their team treks back to the locker room, Yaga on their tail.

Everyone makes themselves comfortable, some opting to sit on the bench, others leaning against the wall. Satoru makes a beeline for the corner, shoulders trapped between two sets of intersecting lockers.

Suguru slowly walks towards him, resting his back against the cool maroon metal. Their shoulders lie in close proximity, heat mingling in the void between them. Suguru scoots a little closer—bumps Satoru’s shoulder—but Satoru remains frozen. 

His neck is tilted down, refusing to bless anything other than the concrete floor with his glacier-tined gaze. Suguru cannot tell whether the oceans are strikingly fearful or if they are welling with tears, threatening to spill over.

Because Satoru won’t even look at him.

And yeah, they’re definitely about to get chewed out. Yaga storms in, the door forced close behind him. 

“What the fuck was that? Huh?” Yaga spits. His voice blooms and simmers against the dark walls, against the harsh concrete floors. “That team,” he continues, “Was awful. Do you understand that? Answer me, boys, do you understand how fucking awful that team was?”

A collectively sheepish ‘yes sir’ radiates from the team, and Suguru notices that Satoru’s stare is still aimed to the floor. His hands are clasped together—pale and clammy—the edges of some fingers abused and bloody. His pointer finger scratches another wound, this time to his thumb, and it’s then that Suguru realizes that the state of his fingers is a result of his own attack.

Suguru wants to comfort him—wants to stop him—but how can he? What can he even do, especially in such a tense situation?

“I don’t understand. I really, really, don’t.” Yaga yells. “We are ranked first in this conference, first in our division, and you sell to a team that barely slipped in? I’m supposed to be able to depend on any of you, at any time, but somehow, all of you let me down today!”

“Coach, what are we supposed to do when you won’t play half of us?” Naoya chides. 

Oh boy, he’s certainly feeling confident.

“Elaborate, Naoya. Please, I want to hear what solution you have for the mockery we committed today.”

“Maybe if a player isn’t playing well and fucking everyone over, they should be subbed out. People didn’t leave the bench today, while some people,” Satoru “Played the whole fucking game.”

Yaga runs a tired hand over his face. “Naoya, I don’t fucking care about the subs. We all lost tonight, and therefore all of you will take the blame. Don’t bring your basketball shoes to practice tomorrow and meet me outside on the track.” He says with finality, and with nothing more, he opens the door and walks out.

For a few moments, the room is filled with a nauseating silence. Naoya continues to babble quietly, while others start to move—some towards the showers, some just packing up to leave.

Suguru shifts his gaze to Satoru, who has moved to scratching the skin of his perfectly milky and previously unblemished arms. Upon seeing the destruction, Suguru reaches out his hand towards Satoru’s forearm, securing his hand loosely around the skin—a warning.

Satoru whips his head upwards toward Suguru, flinching at the suddenly invasive contact. Suguru is only able to catch a glimpse of his tragically broken eyes before he snaps his head back to the ground, stare situated at the wall. 

Suguru’s heart sinks at the look in his eyes. 

The emptiness. 

Emptiness in eyes that hold ancient secrets and cerulean treasures. Eyes that map constellations and form silent promises with each blink. Emptiness in eyes that gleam with admiration and crinkle in joy at the mention of any sugary treat. Emptiness in eyes that stare at Suguru with a terrifying intimacy.

Emptiness in eyes that are Satoru’s.

“Satoru.” Suguru says.

Satoru shakes his head.

“Satoru.”

“Stop,” Satoru whispers, “Not right now.”

“Satoru, please.”

“Stop.”

Satoru shakes off the loose grip that Suguru had on his arm, grabbing his toiletry bag from his locker and silently stalking off. Suguru’s face twists and distorts in anger and sadness, and his heart violently drums with an incessant yearning for Satoru.

It hurts even more knowing that he can’t decipher Satoru’s feelings. Obviously he’s upset, but what else? His face was void of any emotion—there’s nothing for Suguru to fix. Not that Satoru needs fixing, but he has to do something, doesn't he? Isn’t it his responsibility, considering their relationship?

Who else could Satoru even lean on?

Chatter blooms in the background. Lockers clatter, showers run, and Suguru just runs a few fingers through his messy hair—freeing it from the tight bun.

He sets off for his locker, sliding through the chattering mess of sweaty, half naked bodies that decorate the room. Naoya, Fushiguro, and Nanami lean on the corner of some lockers, talking loudly and emoting with their hands.

Their speech is impossible for Suguru to ignore.

“I know! Isn’t it so fucking stupid?” Fushiguro says, rather loudly. “Coach is such a fucking suck-up to him, I’m so tired of it.”

“And blaming us? We didn’t even play this game because his ass was on the court the whole time!” Naoya adds. “He must be bribing the coaches or some bullshit..”

“Nah, I think Coach just likes him. I mean, usually he doesn’t play that fucking awful, maybe Coach just had some hope in him.” Nanami shrugs.

They’re talking about Satoru. There’s no way that they’re not, considering that he’s the only one who fits their malicious descriptions.

They’re talking about Satoru, so loud that Satoru can maybe hear them.

“Satoru won’t even pass the fucking ball, and even when he maintains possesion, he’s the worst shooter on the team!” Naoya teases, and laughter erupts among the group.

Suguru’s blood boils.

“Daddy’s money won’t save him here, will it? Not when he’s under any sort of pressure, and he’s not just living like a spoiled brat for once. I’ve been to their family dinners and shit, it’s fucking crazy.” Naoya continues.

“What, are they that wealthy?” Fushiguro asks.

Naoya clicks his tongue. “Ohhh yeahhh.” He drags out the syllables in the most irritating way. “It makes me sick, how spoiled and snobby Gojo is, I fucking hate him.”

“Don’t talk about him like that.” Suguru interjects, stalking over to the group.

“What? We’re not allowed to talk shit on the player who sold the whole game for us? Is it any fair that we have to submit to Mr. Satoru Gojo every chance we get, like he holds some sort of divinity?” Naoya retorts.

“At least not so loud! If you’re going to say these things, at least don’t say them within earshot. Do you have any respect for him at all?”

“Why should I have respect for him?” 

“Clearly you don’t have respect for anyone! Naoya, you’re such a dick! You’re probably the worst player on the team, whining about your lack of playing time, while you grumble on the bench all game and fuck around at practice! You’re not deserving of anything!” Suguru is angry now, finger digging against Naoya’s sternum.

“Did we forget what happened last year? When you shut down and turned your back on the whole fucking team—went to practice high, skipped games just to be found at some party? If anyone isn’t deserving, it’s you!”

Stop it.

“This isn’t about me!”

“Then why do you care, asshole? What’s in it for you? Do you get payouts from GojoTech for being his friend?”

Stop it.

“What’s your problem with Satoru, huh? You’re so fucking rude, Naoya.”

“You defending him because you’re in love with him or some shit? You’re so disgusting, preying on him like this. Does he know you’re so pathetic?”

Stop it. I’m not pathetic. You have no power over me.

“Don’t talk about me like that! You fucking dick, you’re the one saying this shit about Satoru, he doesn’t deserve this!”

“Ohhhh, I bet he just sticks his cock in you, that shuts you up real quick, doesn’t it?” Naoya continues. “You fucking gay sluts, I knew that you were some defective, but Gojo too? You’ll do anythi—”

Suguru doesn’t know what comes over him.

Suguru strikes Naoya square in the jaw with a girthy punch, hard enough to where a cracking sound radiates throughout the room. Anger boils, curdles within his veins—it seeps through the hot, labored breaths that he exhales.

Suguru’s knuckles hurt, fuck.

There’s a moment of silence that fills the room—cloying, tense silence. Naoya gingerly reaches a hand up to stroke his inflamed cheek, mouth split in disbelief. Suguru’s breathing heavily, rivulets of blood dribbling from his aching knuckles.

“What the fuck…” Naoya whispers. “You fucking psycho.”

Naoya pounces. He launches forward, crashing into Suguru and pressing him against a locker. Suguru squirms as a chunky lock digs into his shoulder blade, and Naoya takes that as an opportunity to land a punch directly across Suguru’s nose, and then another in the middle of his stomach.

Suguru’s like, lowkey, getting bitched. In a fight he started.

He uses his leg, kicking Naoya in the hinge of his hip, attempting to push off his back and get the advantage back. Naoya’s hand tangles between the locks of his hair, pulling and scratching as they push and punch each other around.

Blood trickles down his face, painting his lips in a metallic anger as he continues to fight Naoya. Their shirts are getting tugged and noises erupt around them.

“Suguru!” He hears.

At one point, he pins Naoya down, repeatedly smashing his face against the cold concrete floor, pure rage controlling his body.

“You– Mother– fucker—!” Suguru gasps in between punches. “Don’t ever– fucking– say his– name– again!”

“Suguru!” He hears.

Suguru ignores the insistent touches on his shoulders, his hips. They’re from the people who surround them, attempting to pull the two away from each other and mitigate the situation. His scalp aches as Naoya violently tugs at his hair, raven strands coated in blood from his throbbing nose.

Suguru doesn’t care.

How can he? How can he possibly offer any level of mercy to the guy who just insulted Satoru like that?

Naoya kicks him off, powerfully pushing him into a nearby bench. Suguru’s head hits the wooden structure hard and it throbs, his vision immediately growing dizzy. He slumps down against the floor, banging his head there too. 

The blaring sound of a whistle ruptures against Suguru’s eardrums, and suddenly, Naoya isn’t attacking him anymore.

There is so much noise—so much yelling. Suguru hears his name but he can’t do anything other than stare up at the cold ceiling lights. The lights above him begin to dance—a hallucination, maybe. The colors bleed together (not that there’s much color to a grey ceiling and a blinding light) and Suguru’s head feels like it’s about to burst.

His eyes threaten to close, but he tries his best to keep them open. His mind is full of what feels like blood-soaked cotton, pooling at the bottom and sponging up any rational thought.

“Suguru!” He hears.

It must be his head. People here don’t call him that.

“Suguru!” He hears.

He doesn’t belong here, and he never has.

Suguru’s head lolls to the side, a result of the numbingly paralyzing pain shooting through his neck, forcing him into a limp state. His eyes grow lazier, vision dull and full of static. But before his eyes can fully close, there’s one thing he sees.

The final thing he sees. Pale limbs, snow-white hair, and blue eyes the shade of sparkling sea glass.

Satoru.

His Satoru. Who’s screaming something—words, definitely. 

And this time, his eyes aren’t full of emptiness—they’re full of fear.

So much fear.

And it’s all Suguru’s fault, isn’t it?

Chapter Text

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

In European folklore, maple trees were first introduced as a prized commodity. When first discovered, it was very cold when the tree was struck, and as the weather grew warmer, the sweet sap flowed out. Additionally, maple trees, especially red maples, are adaptable to diverse habitats, but prefer locations with a relatively long cold period to get their seeds settled. In medicine, maple was often utilized to provide sustenance when people were very weak.

· · ─ ·✿· ─ · ·

Satoru

Boiling water streams down Satoru’s face, stinging against his skin and rendering his feet angry and red. Maybe if he stands here long enough, he’ll melt from the heat, liquid Satoru pooling on the floor below him. Maybe he will finally find his wicked fate down a rusty shower drain, far far away from these people.

The raging stream pummels his pale skin. It stings against his arms which have been self-decorated with long, bright red scratches—some deep enough to split skin and draw blood.

Satoru tilts his head upwards, drowning in the hot pressure.

A distant clatter emerges beyond the ceramic tile walls of the showers, but Satoru tries his best to ignore it. It’s a little louder than usual locker room racket tends to be, but he figures that they just lost a game, and people are probably just throwing shit around in anger.

Slowly, the voices rise. In number, in volume, and in passion. Satoru begins to grow skeptical of the chaos that seems to be blooming on the other side.

He ignores it though.

That is, until he hears Toji’s voice wrap tightly around the syllables of Suguru’s name—Toji doesn’t yell like that, not often.

Satoru’s eyes widen, and he immediately shakes off any residual soap and flicks off the shower, throwing on a pair of loose shorts in a hurry.

When he wraps around the corner, all he sees is a mass of people. It’s like every player from the team has suddenly decided to inhabit a small portion of the room, a wild commotion of noises erupting from the crowd.

“Holy fucking shit—Geto!” Satoru hears Toji yell again. His eyes glaze over the crowd, attempting to locate Toji, or Suguru even. 

What did Suguru do? Did he slip? Did he hurt himself?

Why did Satoru shake him off? What was he trying to tell him? Could it have prevented this?

A loud bang catches Satoru’s attention, and when his eyes follow the sound, he sees it.

Suguru is pushed up against a locker, eyes wild and limbs thrashing. Naoya’s hand is tightly secured in the fabric of Suguru’s shirt, and the other comes up to swiftly land a punch on his face.

What the fuck?

Suguru kicks him off, and they fight further, Satoru losing sight of them in the crowd. He immediately runs up to the group, shoving his way through the tight net of people watching them fight each other. 

A few people are tugging their shirts, trying to grab them and pull them away from each other, but it’s no use.

Neither of them seem to be letting up.

When Satoru gets closer, he freezes, the sight of Suguru’s enraged expression, his tangled hair, and body slamming against Naoya’s. 

And the blood.

Holy shit, there’s a lot of blood.

“Suguru!” Satoru screams, finally finding his voice. Suguru seems to hesitate for a moment, creating an opportunity for Naoya to land another hit on him, Suguru stumbling back.

Suguru gets Naoya on the ground, using the position to his advantage. Suguru smashes his fist against Naoya’s cheek repeatedly and mercilessly, shouting incomprehensible words against Naoya’s face as he does.

“Suguru!” Satoru screams again, voice growing raw and tears slipping down his face. “Suguru!” He repeats, Naoya’s foot winding up below him, kicking him back.

Suguru’s head hits a wooden bench and his body freezes—paralyzed limp. His head hits the polished concrete ground with a sharp, hollow, thud. The room goes silent for a brief moment before swelling up again in a flurry.

Satoru screams again but it's no use, his breaths growing labored and short and eyes glassy with tears and multitudes of fear.

“Suguru!”

A whistle cuts through the array of voices, silencing most, but Satoru can’t hold himself back.

“Suguru!” 

Yaga stalks in, angrily pushing through the wave of people and making his way to the fighters.

“Suguru!” He cries out. 

Suguru’s neck falls limp, facing towards Satoru, and Satoru swears that they made eye contact.

He swears that Suguru saw him, that Suguru knew he was here.

“Suguru!” He pleads.

Suguru’s eyes flutter closed, and Yaga yells at all of them, but Satoru can’t hear a word he’s saying.

Suguru! His head screams.

Tears flow down his face—the stream of a full river, constant and rushing. His head pounds, each throb forming another syllable of Suguru’s name, and Satoru winces at the pain. 

“Naoya! What the fuck happened?” Coach Yaga yells, another adult beside him fiddling around with Suguru’s head, pressing fingers to his neck and random shit. 

Satoru sobs. He doesn’t sob often—he especially doesn’t in front of others. The only other time he’s ever cried this hard was behind the dark, closed door of his childhood bedroom after his father—

Someone grabs Satoru’s arm and pulls him away, gives him a hug for some reason. Satoru doesn’t close his eyes, not immediately. He stares at the dark, almost black fabric that faces him, tears slipping down his cheeks and onto the mystery person’s shoulder. They must think he needs consoling, Satoru realizes, when he catches his reflection for a brief moment in the mirror, seeing how destroyed he looks.

He then realizes that it’s Itadori’s shoulder he’s crying on. Like, the freshman Itadori.

Okay, that’s pretty embarrassing.

He sobs more against Itadori’s shoulder, legs growing numb, lightning shooting through his limbs. He pulls away and walks towards a bench to stabilize himself. His back is rounded, elbows perched against his knees as his head sits limply in his hands. He cradles his face, the creases of his palms pooling with salty tears.

He has the urge to rip out every one of his eyelashes, all at once. It’d hurt more like that. It needs to hurt like that.

A hand lays on his upper back, rubbing small, comforting circles on it. It’s probably Itadori’s, but Satoru accepts the gesture, doesn't fight it. Satoru lifts his heavy head, eyes set on Naoya. He looks bewildered, back flush against a set of lockers. His face is red, bloody, and beaten, and his eyes are wide as he takes in Suguru’s body. The mess around them. The yelling. 

The air is thick, heavy, stabbing at the edges of Satoru’s lungs.

What happened?

What did Naoya do?

What did Suguru do?

Naoya stands up—a newborn deer on shaky legs, and steps away, Toji’s supportive hand on his back. They talk passionately about something, dirty looks thrown towards Suguru’s broken body splayed across the floor. Satoru follows the two with his eyes, watching as they snicker, Naoya showing off his bruised, scarlet knuckles as if they are a trophy. As if Suguru’s battered, beaten state is some sort of twisted achievement.

Satoru swallows, face stiff from dried tear tracks, blooming with the red blood that simmers beneath his skin. He bites at his lip, holding back words, tears—a smile at the insanity.

“Naoya.” Satoru says, tone slicing through the battling background voices. Naoya perks up at the mention of his name, turning towards Satoru. 

“Gojo.” He sneers. “What?”

“What the fuck happened?”

“What do you think happened, you moron? We got into a fight.”

“No shit you got into a fight, what started it? Why were you fighting?”

“Fucking hell, dude, you’ve got a lot of nerve starting shit.” Naoya sighs, leaning against the cheap marble-looking ceramic counter, staring Satoru in the eyes with some sort of evil glare. Satoru hates it. Satoru hates him. 

“I’m not starting anything,” Satoru seethes, speaking through walls of teeth. “I’d ask Suguru what bullshit you two got into, but you knocked him unconscious, so I can’t.”

“So sassy, Gojo.” Naoya tuts. “What happened is that Geto started some stupid argument, got violent, then lost his own sorry fight. He’s an idiot, that’s what happened.” Naoya flashes a vicious smile.

Satoru wants to punch him. He’s not as bulky and visibly muscular as Suguru—lankier, and more lean. But still, Satoru packs a nasty punch, and he is surely one of the strongest people in this room, if not the strongest.

“What the fuck did you say?” Satoru asks rhetorically. He stands up, hands trembling as he takes a couple steps closer to Naoya, who remains still. He knows what he’s doing. He’s fucking smirking, that asshole. I wanna fucking– I’m gonna fucking ki—

A hand on Satoru’s bicep stills him, thwarting his attempt at getting revenge on Naoya. Or maybe, Itadori, the guy who currently has his arm wrapped around Satoru with a tight grip, is just trying to save him from taking Naoya’s bait.

Maybe. He’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Geto was protecting your ass anyways, such an idiot. You guys are the same, I swear, some perfectly matched, fucked up, disgusting couple.” Naoya pipes up, and Toji, who stands next to him, widens his eyes.

“What?”

“You heard me. He started this whole argument, whole physical fight, trying to protect you. And just now, you almost murdered me for calling Geto an idiot. You two are the exact same, seriously.”

“What do you mean he was protecting me? What fucking happened, Naoya?” Satoru raises his voice, Itadori’s grip on his bicep a stabilizing force, keeping him behind the invisible bars of his cage. Every time Satoru lurches forward, or flinches even a little, Itadori simply shakes his head and keeps his arm frozen. If only Satoru could paw through the slats of his imprisonment and get a taste of revenge.

“Well, we were just talking about the game today. You did fuck it up for the whole team, after all.”

“And he started a fight because of that?”

Naoya shrugs. “Basically.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“How would you know?”

“Because, Suguru isn’t like that. No matter what you think, he isn’t that confrontational, and he doesn’t like physical altercations.” Satoru says, eyeing Naoya, judging him with a calculating stare.

Naoya puts both of his hands up in mock guilt. That sarcastic look of: ‘oh no, you caught me there’ shimmers behind his vicious, evil eyes. “Fine, that’s not the whole story. You’re overanalyzing this shit, Gojo.”

“What happened?”

“Gojo—”

“What. Happened.” Satoru repeats, slower—angrier.

Naoya rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll tell you if you’re so eager. You were being such an ass earlier, ignoring Coach, blowing us all off. We were just talking about it, and Geto went all crazy as soon as he heard it. He said it was your fault we lost the game, but we shouldn't be talking about you like that. That's what happened, idiot.”

“That’s not true.”

“Why would I lie?” Naoya sneers. “Can’t accept that it’s actually your fault? Can’t take accountability, Satoru Gojo?”

“Fuck off, Naoya. I know that’s not what happened.”

“It was your fault, Gojo… If you hadn’t fucked up so bad, hadn’t been so rude to everyone, blow us all off, everything would’ve been fine.” He cracks an evil smile, looking over at Suguru’s general direction. “You’re the reason that Geto has blood spilling out of his head and is probably fucking concussed right now. Don’t you realize what that does to the team?”

“It’s not my fault! Why the fuck did you fight him, huh? You’re the reason he’s hurt!”

“He wouldn’t be hurt if you hadn’t started it, Gojo.” Naoya’s voice remains level, calm. His words are calculated and strategic, and at the moment Satoru can’t catch onto the sinister lilt in his tone. No, his vision is blurred by rage—it’s impossible to be logical right now. 

Nothing is ever logical for him when it comes to Suguru.

“It’s your fault,” Naoya repeats, drilling it into Satoru’s skull. 

No it’s not.

“He probably hates you now too… Fuck, I would.” Toji murmurs—not quite under his breath, purposefully loud enough for Satoru to hear. Naoya laughs beside him.

“Why would he hate me?”

“Are you too stupid to get it, Gojo? Everything that just happened was your fault. The game we lost, the fight Geto lost, the injury Geto recieved—it’s all because of you. They’re all products of your failure, dumbass.”

Really?

Is it all my fault?

“It’s all your fault, don’t you get it?”

Is it really?

“No it’s not,” Itadori speaks up. “Stop fucking picking on him.”

Why are you defending me?

“The only reason Geto got hurt was because he was defending Gojo’s sorry ass! Think about the team—we just lost a core player to some bullshit, and it’s all because of Gojo!” Toji yells, maniacally waving his hands about.

They’re right.

It’s all my fault, isn’t it?

· · ─ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ─ · ·

The next, ugly, dark days blend together—a gloomy, somber shade of black pooling and encroaching onto the mundane events of each day that follows.

Like a set of invasive vines finding the weathered cracks of a fence, winding tightly into the weak points.

The days don’t blend together beautifully. Not like a gradient, where maybe, each day a small difference in shade could be apparent. No, not like a gradient at all. Each day is the same, no visible changes, no promises of the light ever returning.

Satoru doesn’t deserve the light, anyways.

He’s on his third day of hiding away in his apartment, laying and sleeping all day, every day. It’s the weekend, so he doesn’t have classes, and coach has delayed practices until he can sort out whatever the fuck is wrong with their team. Satoru is thankful for the break—at least in his misery he won’t fall behind, at least he won’t actually impact real parts of his life.

He hasn’t been eating well, but these days, when does he ever, really? It doesn’t help that some weird, messed-up part of him wants to feel worse, wants to dig a pit and live in the dark, loneliness of it. If he’s sad about something, he at least needs to be drowning. It makes eating harder, when he wants to be so sad, because he knows that eating will make him feel better—bring him some sort of reprieve. 

Satoru ignores his phone, which is constantly being blown up with notifications. His stomach is too sick to check them, whether they’re from Shoko, his parents, or the worst case scenario: Suguru.

Oh, Suguru.

His name, usually fresh, warm, and comforting, is now an unwelcome, sour thought.

Satoru takes a deep inhale of the cotton wall he’s surrounded himself with. He lays on his bed, blanket bunched in all of the wrong places, head face down on a pillow.

If suffocating himself was a quicker, easier process, maybe he’d do it right now. He hasn’t answered his phone in days, and nobody has come to check on him. The bitter implication that nobody has cared enough to check on him sits and festers in his chest.

They all know what he did, surely. That’s why they don’t care, that’s why they’re leaving him to rot.

Satoru hasn’t cried since the incident either. Maybe the traumatic event emptied all of his tears, like an abused towel being wrung out, stripped of any remaining water. Regardless, he’s too tired to cry, too tired to care.

Too tired to do anything.

His head has been hurting since yesterday—periodiacally it pounds, and sometimes (rarely), Satoru hears it, like actually hears it in his ears. Multiple times he’s gathered up both the physical energy and mental hope that maybe, someone is at his door to save him. Maybe he’s going crazy—hallucinating knocks at the door.

Every time he opened it, the door was empty. 

Right, because nobody cares. How could he forget? 

Nobody is coming to save him. Not now, not ever. He is completely alone in the sinking depths of his mind, battling against the current which threatens to take him deeper.

Satoru fiddles with the puffy edge of his sheet. Just a few months ago, he begged his parents to let him live in an apartment closer to campus, rather than his childhood home. They agreed, but refused to help him move in, so he had to put the sheet on himself. It’s a little loose around the edge, because, you know, it’s a little hard to put on a sheet all by yourself. He never had to do that before, always had someone else holding his hand, doing shit like this for him.

It’s some silly, trivial detail. But it’s one that sends him over the edge again. He’s all alone. He’s all alone with the product of his failures: the stupid loose sheet, the piercing feeling in his gut, the lack of food in his stomach—it’s all because of him.

It’s all been his fault lately.

His bottom lip wobbles, and he bites it in an attempt to hold it back. It’s futile, though, as it continues trembling, cheeks growing hot and eyes watering. Glassy tears slip down his face, and his mouth contorts into a frown.

What is the point of any of this, really?

He presses his palms to the heart of his eyes, applying pressure to the socket. He starts to see shapes and static appear in his vision, but the pain feels good so he doesn’t stop. Even when he starts to feel dizzy and the pounding in his head returns, he doesn’t stop. 

The “knocking” persists, though. 

The other times, it had only lasted about a minute, before it eventually dulled, oftentimes once Satoru had already laid back down, heartbroken at the absence of a savior at the door.

But it keeps going this time, for some reason. Satoru swears it keeps getting louder, more incessant, with every growing second. The sound itself is more dynamic, too. It doesn’t just sound like knocking, it sounds like kicking and shouting and a mixture of rambunctious noises clawing at the walls of his brain.

If Satoru didn’t know better, he’d jump up and open the door. If he didn’t know any better, there’d be someone waiting for him there. There would.

“Fuck…” Satoru murmurs, crunching up the edges of his pillow to cover his ears. The sound dulls, but it still persists—so loud. “Please, stop…” He pleads.

He pleads to his pillow. To the invisible door in his mind that seems to be making noise. To whatever spirit or god or entity cursed him. To whoever made him deserve this—to whatever he did to deserve this.

“Open the door!” He hears.

“Satoru! Fucking open this! Please!” It continues. It must be his mind, going fucking insane from the lack of human contact.

It’s so painful to hear it. To hear someone who sounds like they care.

To open the door and see no one, to be reminded that there is no one that would even think of coming to his door.

“Satoru! Please, please be here! Please… please!” The voice inside of his mind begs. It sounds vaguely like Suguru’s too—how cruel.

The knocking grows louder and more violent, internal pleas raging.

Satoru is so sick of it. This is the only time that he hasn’t opened the door upon hearing it—only time he hasn’t been a fool. Maybe that’s what will make it stop. Maybe ensuring the heartbreak and acknowledging the solitude will make his brain quiet. Maybe feeding the pain will somehow dull it.

He wipes the tears from his eyes, which continue to fall regardless. His steps are quiet as he trudges through the living room. He unlocks the door, wrapping his fingers around the doorknob and pulling the door open.

The light creeps in, and Satoru winces at the sudden intrusion, the contrast from his dark, sorry habitat. But as he opens the door, his heart drops. Because there’s not just a burning glow that sits at the door, waiting to come inside.

There’s Suguru.

Standing there.

Like an angel.

Suguru freezes upon seeing the door creak open, and then, in a flash, practically tackles Satoru to the ground. Satoru has to take multiple steps back to accommodate his weight, leaning himself against a wall.

Suguru nuzzles into his shoulder, breathes in.

“Holy fuck.” He says, shaking against him, arms tight around his frame. “Satoru.” He whispers. His voice trembles.

 Was he crying? Is he crying? 

“Why are you here?” Satoru asks. His voice is broken, shock pumping through his veins and tears welling in his eyes. Suguru is here. 

Suguru pulls back, placing his hands on Satoru’s shoulders. He stares at his face for a second. “Why didn’t you open the door?” He says—voice urgent and louder.

“I– I–” Satoru stumbles.

“I was so scared!” Suguru yells, and Satoru jolts a little at his volume. “Satoru, why did you take so long to open the door?! You won’t text me back anything, I– I called you, and then I come to your apartment and you don’t answer, and— and– Satoru, you can’t do that!”

“Don’t yell, you lunatic! Don’t you have a fucking concussion!?” Satoru yells back, and Suguru seems to wince as well.

“Satoru— Satoru I thought you were— I thought you—” Suguru chokes out. He can’t finish the sentence, but there’s a quiet understanding between them.

“Okay, let’s be quiet.” Satoru whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, I’m just happy that you’re okay.” Suguru admits, resting his forehead back onto Satoru’s shoulder. Now that Suguru’s head isn’t there to block the light, it hits Satoru’s eyes, stings them. Satoru maneuvers himself, closes the door, and reassumes his position.

His neighbors are going to kill him.

“No, I do need to apologize.” Satoru takes a deep breath. “It’s all my fault, Suguru.” He tries to say it without error, but his voice wobbles, the end of the sentence dry, and he begins to cry again.

“Hey, hey—” Suguru consoles. “What’s your fault?”

“Th– the fight.” Satoru says, voice cracking. “It was all because of me.”

Suguru frowns. “No it wasn’t?”

Satoru shakes his head, stares at Suguru, who is a little blurry from Satoru’s view. But from what he can see, Suguru seems to be crying too. “It was. Naoya told me what happened—why you fought. It’s all my fault, Suguru.”

“Satoru,” Satoru looks away. He can’t bear to see Suguru’s disappointed gaze. “Hey, look at me.” He says, placing two gentle fingers on his chin to reposition his stare. “I don’t know what Naoya told you. I don’t care, either. He’s a liar, anything he said was probably a lie. I know what happened. I know what started the fight, I know exactly what Naoya said, and I know exactly why I did what I did. That’s why I know it’s not your fault, Satoru.”

“How? How can you know?”

“I just told you—I know why we fought, and it wasn’t your fault at all.”

“But you fought because of me, didn’t you?”

Suguru sighs, voice pained as he responds. “Yes, but—”

“So it is my fault—” Satoru interjects. “It is, it is, Suguru.”

“It’s not, Satoru. I– I couldn’t stand what he was saying, okay? Naoya can say whatever he wants about me, but I won’t let him say those– those awful things about you.”

“Why? Was defending me that important? Was it worth the concussion, the bruises, all the bullshit you’ll have to put up with now?”

Suguru nods. “It was, ‘toru. You have to believe me, it was.”

“Why? Why is that worth it? Why am I worth that much to you?”

“Because…” Suguru sucks in a breath. He stares Satoru in the eyes, silver piercings dangling and catching the stray light. He looks angelic from this view—Satoru never wants to look away. 

Suguru is so beautiful.

“Because I like you, Satoru. And I won’t let anyone say bad things about the man I like, okay? Whether they fucked up, whether they’re completely innocent, I won’t.”

Satoru stays silent. The concept of the words aren’t a shock—or they shouldn’t be—Suguru has liked him for a while, hasn’t he?

But the circumstances are so different now. From that day a few months ago when he gave Satoru those sunglasses, sat on his couch and joked around with him. It’s so different now. 

Suguru has a charged look in his eyes, pupils dilated as his gaze flicks between Satoru’s eyes and his lips. Satoru doesn’t move backwards. He doesn’t think that he’s moving at all, but if he is, it’s certainly forwards.

Suguru moves slowly. His hands trail up to Satoru’s head—one rests on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing against the short hairs there, and the other sits on his jaw. Suguru leans in—not fully, but partially, as if he’s meeting Satoru halfway. Giving Satoru the chance to decline, to take it all back. Satoru inches closer too, edging closer to Suguru’s face, eyes pointed in every direction as he takes in his lips, his eyes, the perfect harmony of all of the features on Suguru’s face.

And then Suguru kisses him, closing the last of the distance. A soft, reassuring touch upon his plush lips. Their faces are both so wet, tears rendering the kiss salty. Satoru doesn’t have a chance to pull away once it starts, but he’s not sure that he would, even if he was given enough time to. 

“I like you. I like you so much.” Suguru repeats in whispers. “Nothing is your fault.” He places a careful kiss on the soft tip of Satoru’s nose, and Satoru’s heart sings at the warmth and comfort behind it. The affection, the intimacy, all of the things he’s barely experienced with real people.

Suguru grabs both of Satoru’s cheeks, swiping crystal tears away with his thumbs. Then, he kisses Satoru again.

Suguru does not love Satoru, but in this moment, Satoru feels loved. Loved in a new way. An unfamiliar way. The same way that Shoko seems to love him, but with an added buzz in his chest—a love that feels unconditional.

Suguru takes both of Satoru’s hands in his. He frowns upon seeing the scratches that adorn Satoru’s arms, but he doesn’t question, interrogate, or berate Satoru. He just brings them up to his lips and kisses the scabs. 

The act is so intimate, Satoru wants to cry.

“I lo–” Satoru clears his throat, corrects himself. “I like you too,” he whispers. “And.. I’m so tired of hiding it… I don’t want it to be a secret anymore, this– this feeling in my chest. I don’t want to pretend it doesn’t exist anymore.” He says, and meets Suguru for another kiss. 

In the dim, fancy doorway of Satoru’s apartment, huddled against each other, they stand. They watch each other—oceans clashing against dark violet flowers, and Satoru thinks that the eyes in front of him are the only pair he’d ever like to see. For eternity.

Satoru leans in again, like he can’t get over the fact that he can just do this now, and that it can feel so right despite being so foreign. He’s never kissed a man, but kissing Suguru is like breathing air.

“I don’t wanna confuse you, or I dunno—” Suguru starts up again when they pull away. “This is probably hard for you, so I don’t want us to be on shaky terms, so I guess I’ll just ask: will you be my boyfriend?”

“I don’t know how…”

“Just be yourself, Satoru.” Suguru reassures.

“You think it’s that simple? I’ve never— I’m not– what if you don’t like it?”

“Why wouldn’t I like it, ‘toru?” Suguru looks Satoru deep in the eyes, searching. “It’s you. I’ll like anything as long as it’s you.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Suguru whispers in confirmation. “Promise.”

“Okay,” Satoru nods, grasping the concept in his head before he says it out loud. Boyfriends. Boyfriends with Suguru. 

I’ll be Suguru’s boyfriend. 

I want to be Suguru’s boyfriend. 

“I wanna be your boyfriend.” Satoru gets out, looking to Suguru's dark, amethyst-bedazzled eyes for approval. “I want that a lot.”

“Yeah?” Suguru asks, a smile creeping along the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah.”