"love is the strongest thing in the world"

6:55 AM.

Five minutes til the practice session is over and ice will be resurfaced by the Zamboni, which you can already hear roaring to life behind the boards. You have just enough time to complete a full run of your program.

“Can you get the music for me, Shoko?” you call over to your teammate, Shoko Ieiri, who sends you a thumbs up before skating over to the music box. The rest of your teammates move to stand near the boards to give you ample space, which makes you groan in mock frustration.

“Guys, I don’t need an audience,” you joke as you make your way to your starting spot.

“Just making sure we don’t get in your way, Miss President,” Utahime Iori, another one of your teammates and Shoko’s girlfriend, giggles. You roll your eyes playfully, raising your arms above your head into your beginning pose.

As soon as your music, a medley from The Nutcracker, starts playing, you immediately empty your brain of all distractions to concentrate solely on getting through your program. The team is traveling to a competition in just two weeks, so you know there’s no room for losing focus now.

Thanks to the past few weeks of the highest intensity training you could muster in tandem with your university classes, your runthrough goes as smoothly as it possibly could. Six jumps and three spins later, you’ve still somehow got energy in your body as you set up your final jump of the program—a single axel. You’re smiling as you prepare to step up into the jump, proud of your efforts and thinking about the junk food you’ll definitely be treating yourself to after such a successful practice—

Then it hits you.

The pungent, terrible downright disgusting stench of sweat, feet, and dirt. Loud, obnoxious, male voices suddenly echo through the arena, followed by the loud thumping and clanging of sticks and gear. Fuck. The hockey players are here.

That split second of distraction makes you completely pop your axel, instead only managing a mere half rotation to stay on your feet. You hear one of your teammates groan in sympathetic frustration. You feel similarly—dammit, you were so close to a perfect program.

Annoyed, you hit your ending pose with a sour look on your face. Then a whole round of applause and shouts from the bleachers fills your ears, causing you to snap your gaze to where the entirety of the Tokyo University D1 hockey team has decided to park their smelly asses.

“Fuckers,” you curse under your breath as you skate back towards your teammates waiting at the boards, who look equally peeved.

“What is their damn problem? It’s too early for this,” Utahime complains.

“Shouldn’t they be warming up or getting their skates on? They’ve only got ten minutes til it’s their turn on the ice,” Shoko gripes.

You just sigh, looking down at the time on your phone. 7:00 AM on the dot. “Time to clear out, girls. Let’s go before we get poisoned by the fumes of their stench.” One of the freshmen and new members of the team, Miwa, pats you on the shoulder.

“You’ll get it next time, Miss President.”

“Thanks.” You smile, stepping off the ice and putting on your protective guards over your blades. “Honestly, I shouldn’t get thrown off like that, even if they smell and sound like shit.” All of your teammates laugh.

The Tokyo University Collegiate Figure Skating Club has three main rules. One, don’t be late to practice. Two, always show support to your teammates. Three, school is a priority over skating—this is just a club, after all. But there’s a fourth rule, unspoken, though either way some would struggle to follow it—do not be romantically or sexually involved with anyone on the D1 hockey team. No dating, hooking up, hell, even makeouts were banned. Hey, you didn’t make the rules, you’re just enforcing them as part of your job as president of the club. It’s a duty passed onto you and following nearly ten years of tradition.

And although the figure skating club has been around for ten years, the hockey team has been around for infinitely longer. Everyone knows this, and you all feel it too. Being D1 means school funding, public support, and general privileges that the figure skating club could only dream of having. While the hockey team doesn’t have to pay a single cent out of their pockets for competition travel, coaching fees, or even ice time, you and your teammates are stuck organizing monthly fundraisers in valiant efforts to scrounge enough money for all the club activities. And in the end, you often still have tol shell out tons of money for limited practice time, no coach, and three whole competitions each year.

Worst of all, the hockey team is absolutely well aware of how much better they have it, and don’t hesitate to be absolute assholes about it. They’ve been purposely coming in to mock figure skating practices for as long as you’ve been in the club. You’ve really thought about doing something about it, especially since you’re now president, but you can’t exactly stand up to the prized jewel of Tokyo University’s ice sports. You’re pretty sure 99% of the student body is wholly unaware that Tokyo University even has a figure skating club.

As unglamorous as the life of a club-tier athlete is, you’re determined to make your final year in university as calm and enjoyable as possible. You’re not going to let your disgust (and envy) of the hockey team get in the way of anything. Inner peace. Inner peace. Inner peace—

“Hey, Prez.” Fuck. You stiffen and still in place, watching as your teammates, who you were trailing behind, disappear into the locker room ahead. Slowly, you turn to meet the sapphire gaze of your literal worst nightmare.

Satoru Gojo, captain of Tokyo University’s D1 hockey team. Star player, prodigy, the Golden Boy, the best thing since sliced bread. You’ve heard it all, truly.

With fluffy white hair, a charming grin, and piercing blue eyes, he’s the very vision of beauty. Unfortunately, his utterly insufferable personality cancels out everything that you might find appealing about him. Absolutely arrogant to a fault, but at least he has the skills to back it up—if he didn’t you’d probably dislike him just a bit more.

“Gojo,” you say curtly, looking up with distaste. You would’ve loved to ignore him, but you recently got scolded—scolded—for being rude to the hockey players by some rink staff, so you know you have to at least try and be cordial, lest you somehow lose even more practice time. There’s a reason why you’re finishing practice at 7 AM this morning; all the reasonably timed sessions are thoroughly booked for hockey or the public.

You note, idly and involuntarily, that he does not, in fact, stink like shit. He never has.

“We were all cheering for ya, didn’t you hear?” he cocks his head to the side with an irritatingly attractive grin. “And also, why not ‘Satoru’?”

“No,” you grit out, ignoring his second question. You’d recently made the mistake of calling him by his first name; old habits die hard, you suppose.

“Aw.” He snickers. “Come on, I’ve seen you do that last jump a million times. You’ve had it since we were like te—” You hush him with a sharp glare, eyes darting around to make sure no one’s listening.

“Four whole years into university,” you hiss. “And you still don’t know how to act subtle—”

“Whoops,” Satoru says breezily. “My bad.” he lowers his voice. “Still don’t get it though, why—”

“It doesn’t matter why.” You feel your cheeks heating up in embarrassment; it’s true, you’ve never told him why. Why you have to act like you don’t know each other, like you’ve never met. To Satoru’s minimum credit, at least he’s humored you all this time. He doesn’t know about rule four, nor does he need to.

And honestly, he probably couldn’t care less, for Satoru just shrugs and takes a few steps away. “Don’t miss me too much, I’ll be at your little bake sale later!” Your jaw clenches, and you don’t respond verbally. But when he turns his back to you, you flip him off with intense vigor.

You don’t know why he won’t just leave you alone. Sure, you’ve known each other for well over a decade, having grown up skating at the same rink. But you thought you’ve made it crystal clear that you have no intentions to reignite the same friendship you once had, not at all. Getting any closer to him again would be entirely unwise, for many reasons.

Especially since deep down, you know he’s always going to be your first love.

-

You were five years old when you fell for your true first love — a freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, smooth and shiny and sparkling under the bright lights hanging overhead.

Though you hadn’t tried figure skating before, after you’d watched the most recent Winter Olympics, you’d begged your mother let you try it out. After weeks of pestering, you finally convinced her to drive you two hours to the nearest ice rink. You were determined to show her that she wouldn’t regret this, that you were here to follow your destiny, that you’d be a champion in no time—

With excitement racing through your veins, you’d run to the entrance of the ice with your clunky blue plastic rental skates, blowing right past a skate guard that barely had time to notice you and react, only to take two giant, clumsy steps on the surface before promptly faceplanting.

As any reasonable five year old would do, you immediately burst into tears.

“Oh my f — kid, you can’t just — don’t just — ugh!” The skate guard, a tall, built teenager with pink hair and far too many tattoos racing along his arms, slapped an irritated hand against his forehead, groaning. He had pushed out onto the ice, stopping in front of you to offer you help. “Hey. You okay? You gotta get up.”

“I — I don’t — “ you had blubbered pathetically, barely even able to make out the skate guard’s presence thanks to the tears blurring your vision.

Then a small figure, not much bigger than your own, whizzed by at breakneck speed. The skate guard groaned again, crossing his arms. “Yo! Gojo! Slow the hell down!”

The unknown kid stopped abruptly, spraying you and the skate guard with snow.

“Hey!” you exclaimed, while the skate guard’s face simply darkened. He cracked his knuckles menacingly, seeming to forget all about you.

“Gojo,” he had gritted out.

“Nah nah! Boo boo!” White hair. Sapphire blue eyes. Shit-eating grin. You barely registered his face before he took off again. “Catch me if you can, old man Kuna!”

“I’m sixteen!” ‘Kuna’ yelled, chasing right after him in an angry flurry. You had sat on the ice in a daze, watching the two boys fly around the rink.

“Woah,” you had muttered to yourself. “I wanna go that fast.”

-

You swipe some sweat off your forehead as you arrange the homemade pastries prepared by you and your teammates into neat rows. Five folding tables full of baked goods are now strategically placed along the edge of the student plaza, hopefully enticing enough that people would stop by on their way to and from class.

Two hours and fifty minutes into the three hour bake sale, you’re doing your best to not have a public meltdown. For some odd reason, the student body was being incredibly health conscious today. There’s only so many more glares and dismissive waves from calling out to passing students that you can take before you go crazy.

There’s still a solid half of pastries that hadn’t been claimed, and you’re already envisioning the utter lack of weight your pockets would hold after they’ve been completely emptied for club activities.

“Nice buns, prez.”

You immediately tense up upon hearing the awfully familiar, terribly smug drawl of the person you’d least like to see in this moment.

Whirling around abruptly with a toss of your perfectly tied ponytail, you nail the offender right in the face with the sharp swish of your hair, smiling inwardly at the surprised noise that cuts through the air.

“Oh, Gojo!” your lips stretch into the widest, fakest smile you can muster. “How kind of you to drop by!” You cock your head, glancing at the band of buffoons suddenly crowding around the tables of freshly baked goods. “And you brought your whole team too. Lovely.”

“Least I could do for ya, Prez.” Satoru’s smirk resurfaces, leaning down to look you right in the face with his piercing blue gaze. “Gotta help the needy.” Your smile turns faker, if possible.

“Aren’t you sweet to empathize with the less fortunate.” You tap the sign listing all of the available baked goods, along with their prices, a little too aggressively. “Please, tell me, what can I get for you?” Before Satoru can respond, someone gently takes your arm and moves you out of the way.

“Jeez, you guys are like oil and water, it’s insane,” Shoko mutters, before acknowledging Satoru. “You gonna buy something or are you just here to bother our president?”

“He’s never here for anything else,” you scoff under your breath, kicking up your nose and stalking away.

“You really do have nice buns here!” Satoru calls after you, causing every last hair on your arm to stand on edge out of pure irritation.

-

Anyone and everyone that trains at the Jujutsu Ice Center knows of Gojo Satoru. A true talent, already in skates by the time he was one, and playing in the little leagues at two. After he’d just finished elementary school, he already had high schools looking to scout him for their varsity teams.

You’ve known from the day you saw him that no one can be Gojo Satoru, no matter how hard they try. The way he moved on the ice was as if he was born on skates, hell, maybe he’d been in the womb with blades already strapped to the soles of his feet. Months and years passed of watching him play around with his friends on public sessions while you continued to struggle with solidifying your basic skating skills.

About five years into coming to the rink once a week to fall till your behind was sore, your mother, against your father’s wishes, started paying for private lessons with a coach. Your progress finally started picking up, and quickly.

Then on the day you landed your single axel—the first major hurdle in every young skater’s journey—Gojo Satoru finally noticed you.

“Hey!” You had jumped at the sound of his rambunctious voice right at your ear. You slowly turned around, your heart rate suddenly quickening. “You don’t suck as much now!”

“U-Uh—“ you stammered.

“Who are you?” Satoru demanded. You had stuttered out your name. “What, you don’t like talking?” You took a deep breath, straightening up.

“I never said that,” you replied solemnly. “And yeah, I don’t suck anymore. Soon I’ll be better than you even.” At this, Satoru paused, blue eyes widening just a fraction.

Then, he threw his head back and laughed long and hard.

“Sure,” he had sneered. “I’d like to see you try.”

-

“He just—ugh, he pisses me off so badly,” you lament to Shoko over lunch. “Nice buns—let’s see how he’d like two buns with a knuckle between them—I don’t think he’s organized a fundraiser in his damn life—“

“Chill, girl. He just wants your attention.” Shoko rolls her eyes as she takes a bite of her rice bowl. “He’s an asshole, but at least he bought three dozen of the cinnamon rolls you made.”

“What?” your eyes nearly bug out of your head. “Three dozen? That’s half of what I brought!” Shoko sends you an exasperated look.

“Yeah. And he was encouraging all his teammates to pick something up too.” At this, you frown, suspicion all over your face.

“What the hell is he playing at… he’s definitely trying to psych me out, that jerk, and after taking another two hours of our ice time too— “

“They’re the D1 athletes,” Shoko says plainly.

“Well, we’re really left with nothing at this point!” you retort hotly. “Practice hours cut, absolutely no funding—“

“What’s new?” Shoko muses. You sigh, leaning back in your seat.

“God, what are we gonna do about the competition coming up?” you grumble. “I already had to take Aya and Mari off the roster because Utahime heard they hooked up with hockey guys at a party last week.”

“Ew,” Shoko supplies.

“Didn’t anyone tell them?” you exhale deeply through your nose. “I’m just trying to have peace in our club this year. The last thing we need is for anyone else to be shimmying out of their panties for those—those—”

“Imbeciles?”

“Yes, thank you.” You aggressively stab a piece of chicken with your fork. “We can’t let them have any other sort of power or connection over us. It’s already hard enough as it is.”

“Have you thought about anything besides skating since the school year began a month ago?” At her question, you pause, pondering her words for a moment.

“...No.”

“Well, you should damn well start.” Shoko crosses her arms. “Didn’t you get asked out last week?” You straighten up, cheeks heating.

“Right, yeah, that guy in my Chemistry class, Kaito. I did say yes…”

-

You’d considered Satoru Gojo a friend at some point. Maybe even your best friend, by the time you were both finishing middle school, after you’d spent several summer training camps at the rink practically joined at the hip in spite of your separate sports. By now, he’d been recruited by the top high school in the prefecture to join their varsity team and you’d qualified for your first National Championships.

Your and Satoru’s names were now tied together in the conversation of prodigies, two young teens with the potential to do amazing things in figure skating and hockey respectively. And although no one had yet dared to comment, anyone who looked at the two of you could tell there was a special connection brewing. Light brushes of hands, reddened ears, shy glances, nervous laughs — all the makings of the first stages of teenage love.

On your fifteenth birthday, Satoru Gojo asked you to be his girlfriend.

Bouquet of fresh pink roses in one hand, a white teddy bear in the other, and a box of your favorite cupcakes already set up on a picnic blanket.

Satoru had asked you to come to the park with him after practice, and you’d gladly obliged, not thinking much of what he might have had in mind. Him standing before you with all his gifts in tow with a nervous, shy, yet hopeful look on his face was definitely not on your bingo card.

“‘Toru, I—” you had paused mid-sentence to hold back an elated giggle, because heaven knows you’d been waiting so patiently for this moment. You’ve had what you thought was a one-sided crush on this boy since you discovered what it even meant to have a crush. “I would—I would love to be your girlfriend.”

The next year was pure bliss. You were able to see him every day, despite not going to the same school, thanks to the figure skating and hockey practices being scheduled relatively close to one another. On weekends, you’d go and do everything that an innocent first love entailed—shared milkshakes, walks on the beach, picnics in the park.

At a moment in time, you had thought to yourself that you were absolutely sure that you could never be happier with anyone else.

-

Satoru weaves through the crowd in the dining hall with his tray of food in hand, looking for a place to sit. He opts for a quieter corner; damn he is exhausted after practice. The coach had pushed the team extra hard today thanks to their next tournament being only a short while away.

As any college student does when they don’t want to be bothered, he shoves his headphones over his ears, listening idly to the most recent professional hockey league news as he works on housing down a burger.

“Right, yeah, that guy in my Chemistry class, Kaito. I did say yes…” A familiar voice somehow filters into his hearing within the few seconds of silence between segments. Satoru could recognize your voice anywhere, in all its various forms, though it’s been a while since he’d heard such fondness in your tone. Frowning to himself, he removes his headphones. You and a friend are sitting a few tables away with your backs to him, but still within his earshot.

“And? When’s the date?” Shoko—he thinks that’s her name—presses you for details. Date? Satoru’s blood runs cold.

“We agreed to meet after the competition, since I don’t want any distractions. So two Saturdays from now.”

“Seriously? Can’t you take your mind off skating for just one second and just go on a date?”

“Absolutely not.” You laugh, the sound making Satoru’s chest constrict strangely. “I’m not that desperate, Sho. I don’t mind waiting for another two weeks.” Satoru stares down at his half-eaten meal, suddenly losing his appetite.

Seven years since he asked you to be his girlfriend. Six since you broke up with him. Yet he still finds himself lying awake at night, sometimes even beside another woman, your face always haunting his every thought.

Satoru knows why you’re not the biggest fan of his; he deserves your distaste. But Satoru still can’t help but be selfish, and miss when you looked at him with wide eyes and shy smiles, rather than narrowed glares and curled lips. Even though you’ve shown that you no longer want anything to do with him and never will again, he still can’t help but try, just try for a bit of your attention every time he sees you. How can he not, when you’re so damn adorable even when you’re fuming mad?

Some days, he has half a mind to kiss the scowl right off your face, but he has a strong feeling that it won't end too well.

But the way you look right now, starry-eyed and excited as you tell your friend about the man who’d asked you out, Satoru almost can’t understand the feeling that wells up in him. Knowing that you’re talking about someone else, and that you’re moving on—

“Fuck.” Satoru sits back in his chair, unable to take his eyes off of you. He’s tried, tried so damn hard to give you space, to respect that you’d never want to be his again, to accept that it’s truly over. But as you giggle nervously, sharing more about your date, he can only think about one thing.

I need to get her back.

-

Shortly after you turn sixteen, disaster strikes.

Your coach had been pushing you to train the incredibly difficult triple axel, putting immense strain on your entire body that you never had much time to recover from. Eventually, your injuries culminate in a disastrous fall that sent you straight to the hospital. You had fractured your spine and hip, and needed a minimum of a year off the ice to recover. But everyone in figure skating knows that there’s always someone younger, wealthier, and more talented. A year off the ice means your career is essentially over.

Satoru was always by your side the best he could be. He visited you in the hospital while you were recovering, sneaking in your favorite treats and doing his very best to cheer you up. Though despite his best efforts, not much can heal a teenager whose dreams had just been brutally crushed.

Your father had never approved of you dedicating your life to skating. He’d only allowed you to use copious amounts of family money on ice time and coaching because of your mother’s convincing. Your family had even picked up and moved closer to the rink so a two hour commute was no longer necessary. But now that you’re injured, all of it had been for nothing, and your father had no intention of wasting any more time or resources.

Your parents told you only a week in advance about the plan to move back to your home prefecture. You’d just gotten out of the hospital and were on crutches, and the news nearly made you collapse against the nearest wall. Because suddenly, everything felt too real—your body is broken, your skating career is over, and… and, you’re going to have to say goodbye to Satoru.

You’re almost grateful that the breakup was ugly. That way, you’d had an easier time holding him at arm’s length and forgetting what you used to feel for him. Satoru did not react well to the news of the move at all, especially when you told him you don’t plan on staying in your relationship once you move away.

“Why not?” he’d asked, voice a wounded whisper. “You don’t want to see me again?”

“That’s not it. We just won’t work—”

“I don’t understand.” Satoru’s voice started rising in panic. “Even if we see each other less, I wouldn’t mind. I’ll just—I’ll just take the train to see you on the weekends.”

“No…” you trailed off, not even sure how to properly express your thoughts. The truth is, the thought of being so close to Satoru Gojo, a hockey superstar in the making, beloved by all, and watching him achieve everything he’s worked for, everything he deserves, somehow outweighs the love you have for him. You know it’s terrible and abhorrent, but you just can’t. You don’t want to even be reminded of the ice rink for a long, long time.

“I expected more from you,” Satoru had said rather bitterly. And that was the wrong thing to say in the moment, because you’d expected more from yourself too. You felt your heart splintering into pieces, but all you could do was stiffen your lip.

“Well, you shouldn’t have.”

A few more hurtful words were exchanged, til the point of no return. The two of you parted ways that evening with anger burning in your hearts. But after getting back to the safety of your own bedrooms, all either of you could do was cry, tears streaming freely down your cheeks.

-

“Shoko, Utahime, you both fucking owe me one,” you mutter angrily under your breath as you storm down frat row to the infamous Alpha Phi Alpha. You know it’s the fraternity that most of the hockey team, including your dreaded ex, is associated with, but you give Shoko and Utahime a pass because one, they’re dating each other, and two, they’re high school friends with the Vice Captain, Suguru Geto. Should you catch any other member of the figure skating club in that godforsaken frat house, they’d immediately be off the competition roster.

Both girls had gotten pretty plastered and Utahime had called you slurring your name, so you decided to be the amazing friend you are and walk them back from the party. You didn’t even bother to change out of your pajamas, wearing an oversized sweatshirt with the university’s logo on it, some basketball shorts, and slides—you were just going to collect your friends and get the hell out of there. You couldn’t give two shits about what some smelly ass hockey players thought about how you look at 2 AM on a Friday night.

As you march into the frat house, your ears are immediately assaulted by the loud bass of music and the vibrations from people chatting, singing, and yelling. You groan, covering your ears and turning each direction to try and locate your friends.

You spot Suguru on one of the couches, and approach him with a grim look on your face. “Where are they?” You have to practically yell to be heard over the noise. Suguru shrugs unhelpfully.

“Maybe upstairs? They were taking shots in the bathroom.”

“Who’s this?” a feminine voice speaks up, and you suddenly notice there’s a girl on Suguru’s lap. You arch a brow at her.

“No one you need to worry about,” you reassure her with an eyeroll, before hurrying off to find your friends.

You rush upstairs, knocking on the first closed door you see—a bathroom? You can’t even tell anymore, with the lights all dim and the noise nearly completely clouding your senses.

You immediately regret your choice when you hear a groan—a male groan—from behind the door. Oh, fuck. You immediately try to hurry away, but the door swings open, stopping you in your tracks.

“What?” Satoru Gojo stands there, only in his boxers, which are hanging haphazardly off his hop bone, bite marks littered across his chest, annoyed scowl etched across his face—you wish the Earth would swallow you whole. You’d managed to knock on his bedroom door, and worse, you’d clearly interrupted something.

“S-Sorry,” you stammer, humiliated. “I—” Satoru’s eyes widen, then… soften? He says your name like a question, brows furrowing a little.

“What are you doing here?” He sounds almost concerned. You squint at him, trying to decide if he’s drunk.

“I’m looking for Shoko and Utahime. Have you seen them?”

“Oh, they’re on the couch right over there. They fell asleep.” He gestures vaguely to his right. Before you can say anything, a pair of manicured hands snake around Satoru’s waist, pulling him back into the bedroom.

“‘Toru, who’s there?” an unknown woman purrs, peeking at you from behind his shoulder. ‘Toru. Your chest suddenly feels as if it’s been stabbed.

“I told you not to call me that,” Satoru addresses her, sounding frustrated. “Get back in the bed and wait.”

“Oh? You’re so bossy. How cute.” The girl giggles poking at his chest before disappearing back into the room. Satoru glances back at you.

“Sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

An awkward beat.

For some reason, you feel like Satoru’s gaze is even more piercing than usual, as his eyes sweep over your frame.

“Forgot you still had them.”

“...What?”

“Your shorts.” Satoru pauses, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, my shorts.” Startled, you look down at your shorts—and shit, he’s right, you’d borrowed these from him years ago and never returned them. You’d honestly completely forgotten they were even his…

“Well, want them back?” You don’t know why your words come out defensive.

“Not at all.” Satoru crosses his arms, still smirking, and leans against the doorframe. You try not to admire the lean muscles that line every inch of his chest and torso, instead clearing your throat and choosing to focus on the chipping plaster on the wall behind him.

“Don’t you have something to get back to?” You hate how your voice comes out a little more agitated than you’d like.

“Nothing more important than what I’ve got in front of me right now.”

“Are you—are you drunk?”

“Nope.” He suddenly leans down, only a few inches away from your face. “Perfectly sound of mind.” You can feel your heart roaring in your ears, for some cursed, unknown reason. You feel crazy; you have a date with someone else coming up, the first person that you’ve taken a chance on in six whole years, something that you’re looking forward to, but you have this horrifying ache in your chest.

You know that Satoru has no problem sleeping with whoever he wants, whenever he wants. How could he ever? Girls throw themselves at him, and he’s more than happy to entertain them. In the time you were dating him, the two of you had sex only a few times, both unsure and confused with what you were doing. The times were quick, clumsy, under the sheets and with lights off, hardly anything to write home about. But at the time, it was more than enough for you, because you desperately wanted to feel closer to him.

Looking at him now, nearly bare, evidence of his sexual escapades marred along his body, you want nothing more than to just—

“You’re so full of shit, Satoru Gojo.” You don’t even know what you mean by that. You’re just angry, so angry with the fact that all you can think about is how you’d never been the one to leave marks on him—hell, you didn’t even know how at the time—and you never will be.

You don’t give him a chance to answer you before you rush off to find your friends, ignoring the call of your name after you.

Somehow, facing the truth of something you’ve already known feels like torture. You knew for a fact that he’s been sleeping around, even if you yourself haven’t so much as gone on a date in six years. What Satoru chooses to do is truly none of your business, and you shouldn’t hold any expectations of him. It’s no longer your right, after all.

But you’ve taken measures, conscious or otherwise, to keep yourself away from the parties or bars you know he frequents, not wanting to know how you’d feel if you actually saw him with another woman.

Now you know, and you hate yourself for the way your eyes burn with unshed tears.

-

A full recovery from your injuries was slow and painful, but you finally felt normal again a year after the incident. Since then, you’d moved back to your hometown and reunited with your childhood friends, and shifted your focus purely to academics. Your new dream is to get into a good university, and that means working on your grades.

Despite doing your best to distract yourself with schoolwork, two topics consistently plagued your mind: figure skating and Satoru Gojo. The past decade of your life had shattered into a million tiny pieces and you couldn’t even properly fathom a life without either.

Many nights were spent curled up in bed crying, wishing for what you had a lifetime ago.

When you received the news that you’d been admitted to Tokyo University, you were relieved that you finally might be able to start anew. During your first week of school, you decided to attend the Club Fair to hopefully pick up a new hobby. You were looking over flyers for the Archery, Water Polo, and Golf, when something familiar catches your eye. A pair of figure skates sitting atop one of the tables, with the banner “Figure Skating Club” hung up in front. Your heart leaps at even seeing the skates.

That’s how you ended up at the on-campus rink just a few hours later, lacing up your old, beat-up skates that hadn’t seen the light of day in six whole years. You didn’t even know why you’d decided to bring them along with you to college, but you suppose you’re grateful that you have them, or else you’d need to wear plastic rentals for the first time since you were five.

The first step on the ice almost sends you flying.

The feeling of gliding across fresh ice, once so familiar, now felt strangely terrifying.

“Careful, newbie!” Yuki, the president of the club at the time, called. “Have you done much skating before?” You laughed, wobbling a little in place before skating over to where she stands by the boards.

“...Yeah. I’m just rusty,” you confessed.

For the next hour, you wipe out a few times, fail at the easy skills you used to do without blinking an eye, chat with your new teammates—you hadn’t felt so carefree on the ice in a long, long time. Years of grueling training with tough coaches and competitive fellow students had molded you into someone who couldn’t walk into an ice rink without feeling their pulse quicken with stress.

Yuki had explained to you how figure skating at Tokyo University is purely a recreational sport, and that the friendly competitions occasionally held at other schools were not anything stressful. The idea of skating “just for fun” had boggled your mind, but everyone in the club seemed to be perfectly content, so you thought to yourself that perhaps, you’d give this a try too.

After the session is over, you’re walking towards the bathroom alone when you suddenly hear someone call your name, shaky and uncertain.

“Is that really you?” You don’t even need to look to know who it is.

“‘...Toru,” you murmur, more to yourself, as you turn to face the voice, gaze downcast. You haven’t even fully looked at him yet, but you can tell that Satoru’s gotten taller, and that his frame is broader. The outline of his jaw in the corner of your vision is sharp and defined; his baby fat is all but gone.

You feel like you should say something to him, but you’re not sure what. You’ve had so many dreams of meeting him again, and in all of them, you’d reconnected so sweetly and naturally, like no time had been spent apart. But now that you’re face-to-face with him, you can hardly muster a thought.

You truly thought you’d never see him again. You didn’t plan on ever returning to Jujutsu Ice Center, or even trying to skate. That was the only true mutual space you shared with him, so it hadn’t even crossed your mind that you’d end up in the same university. Even so, Tokyo University had thousands of students—truly, the only reason why you’d even have a sliver of a chance the see him, is if you’d decided to go to an ice rink. And that’s exactly what you had done.

You feel his eyes trail down to where you’re still wearing the skates on your feet, and you hear his breath hitch. Perhaps he remembers that night when you’d screamed at him that you would never step foot on ice ever again.

“...Welcome back.”

-

A/N