div’s library.

It’s a young woman, her mousy brown hair up in a braid. She adjusts her glasses. “Hi.” The way  she speaks is soft, a stark contrast to the deafening sounds outside the room. She gives you a small smile. “Um, I’m Dr. King. What’s brought you here today?”

“I, uh, I fell and hit my head,” you point to the left side of your temple. “It’s been hurting a lot. 

“Okay,” she nods and slips on a pair of blue gloves, approaching the side of your bed. She feels along your temple, feeling the bump that has formed there. She sits down on a rolling stool. “How long has it been hurting?”

“Like nine hours? A little more, I think.”

Dr. King hums. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I was a bit dizzy at first, but then it went away.”

“Did you lose consciousness when you fell?”

You open your mouth to answer. Before you can even make a sound there’s a knock on the door that is more a formality than asking for permission and the curtain is drawn just so that a head and half of a torso can poke in and say, “Mel, our patient from North 4 is back from his MRI, he’s–”

Frank freezes when his eyes finally stray away from Mel and he realises that her patient is not a random person. The change is barely noticeable– his back straightens, shoulders rolling back and gaze sharp as he analyses every inch of your body in a matter of seconds. He checks you for any obvious life-threatening injuries from head to toe, stares a moment too long at the ugly bruise that peeks out from the waistband of your low-rise shorts, and then his eyes finally go up to your sheepish smile. 

“Hi, Frankie,” you say quietly. Frank’s jaw relaxes the tiniest bit.

Mel looks uncomfortably between the two of you, eyes going back and forth between her coworker and patient. “Oh, um, do you have the results?” she asks. Frank hands her the tablet he was holding without sparing her a glance. “Right…” she mumbles.

She taps and looks at the screen for a few seconds before looking between the two of you again. “Um, I’ll just…” she makes a weird gesture to the door and gives you an awkward smile. “I’ll be right back,” she tells you, though you both know she won’t be coming back now that Frank is here.

She cradles the tablet against her chest and fumbles with the curtain in her hasty getaway. She practically scampers away, closes the door behind her with a tight smile and then it’s silent. 

Frank stays rooted to where he’s standing for a long, tense minute. You gnaw at the inside of your lower lip and watch him near the hospital bed you’re sitting on. His fingers brush along your exposed thigh on his way to grab your hand. In a hushed voice, he asks, “What happened?”

“I…” You look everywhere but his face– the ceiling, the floor, the rolling stool Mel had been sitting on. You settle on the wall, but Frank moves his head so that you have no choice but to look at him. “I fell. In the shower,” you mumble, embarrassed.

His hold on your hand tightens. “Baby,” he sighs. “I told you to get a shower mat,” he scolds lightly. 

“I haven’t found one in the shade I want,” you explain for the fight time with a whine. The high-pitch of your own voice makes your head throb and you wince. 

Frank catches onto your grimace immediately. His hand cradles the right side of your head and you lean into his touch. “D’you hit your head?”

You nod. “It’s been hurting since I fell.”

“Okay,” he sighs. “You might have a concussion. I’m gonna do some tests, all right?”

He lets go of your hand and head and you already miss the warmth of his touch. He takes out a small flashlight from the pocket of his scrub and turns it on. He points the light tight at your left eye and then switches to the other side. “Okay,” he says and turns the flashlight off. “Follow my finger.” 

You follow it dutifully. He moves his finger up and down on one side, slides it along the other side and repeats the same motion. “Good, now stand up, honey.” You get up from the bed, but the small jump to the floor makes the bruise on your hip flare up and you grimace. Frank’s eyes are already on your side, calculating. “We’re gonna do an x-ray,” he concludes. 

He then moves to the other side of the room and stands against the wall. “Walk towards me in a straight line.” You do as he says. Every step makes you wince a little, but you’re 98% sure it’s only because of the bruising and not because a concussion has altered your facial nerves. 

Once you reach him, you smile at Frank. “How did I do?” 

“Too slow. We might have to open up your skull to fix it,” the corners of his mouth twitch. Knowing you’ll worry too much until he confesses he was only joking he assures you, “Everything looks normal. I’m still ordering an MRI to make sure there’s no damage inside, though.”

His hand gently goes to the back of your head and he uses his hold on you to bring you closer to him, his lips brushing against your forehead. You sigh. “Is it gonna take long?” Frank raises an eyebrow questioningly. “It’s just– I have my ceramics class in an hour,” you explain.

“It’ll be at least an hour, maybe two. We’re a little backed up today.” And then, because he can’t help himself, he adds with a pointed look, “If you had come in earlier you wouldn’t miss your class.”

You have the decency to look ashamed. 

“I didn’t want to be a bother,” you whisper with a small shrug. What you really mean is ‘I didn’t want to be a bother again’. You’ve been to the ER twice this week. Four times already this month, and you don’t even want to think about how many times you’ve ended up in the hospital the past year. 

It’s no secret you are a clumsy person. When you were younger, it was endearing. Now, it’s embarrassing. Annoying. You try your best to avoid potential accidents: you wear flip flops instead of slippers so you don’t slide along the floor and use oven mittens every time you bake to avoid burning your hands– just to name a few adjustments you’ve made to your everyday life. But no matter how hard you try, you still trip over your own shoes and cut yourself while cooking and bump into tables and doorways and hit your head when kneeling down to reach something under the dinner table. 

You hate it. But Frank, oh sweet caring Frank who understands and tries his best to help. He’s switched most of the glass bottles and tuppers and glasses for plastic or aluminium so that when you inevitably drop something while cooking or setting the table you don’t cut yourself. He’s added padding to the legs of the couch and bed to protect your toes. When you go out, he pays close attention to you and your surroundings: he steers you away from a light pole you would’ve hit and stops you from crossing the street with a red light on. 

He’s done all that and much more. Without you even asking. And he’s never once complained about your penchant for unfortunate mishaps. He never got mad at you. How could he, when it’s your own clumsiness that brought you to him in the first place? 

He knows you don’t do it on purpose, that it’s not something you do because you think it’s cute and fun, nor an elaborate plan to sneak into his workplace. He doesn’t enjoy the fact that you get hurt so often, of course he doesn’t, but he understands that it’s not something you can control. And what is he to do but take care of you when you need him?

Frank exhales sharply. “You’re not a bother.” You try to say something but he cuts you off before you can make a sound, “You’re not. Not to me.”

“Frank, it’s the second time this week I’ve come here,” you deadpan.

He blinks, baffled. “What do you mean second?” Shit. His face turns serious, really serious, and you know he’s angry now. “When the hell were you here?”

You scrunch your face at your accidental confession. “Tuesday,” you mutter.

“Tuesday,” Frank parrots. “And why am I finding out 3 days later, exactly?”

“Because I didn’t want to bother you!” you exclaim, but your loud voice makes your head throb once more. You clutch your temple and close your eyes, the fluorescent light suddenly too bright. 

Frank combs his fingers through his hair in frustration and pulls at the roots. His nostrils flare as he exhales. “Come here,” he mumbles. With a hand on the small of your back he leads you back to the bed and, once you’re sat, he turns the light off and sits down on the stool. “Better?” 

You nod. He stares at you, elbows on his knees, and licks his lips. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” He’s talking about your Tuesday visit to the ER, but he also means why didn’t he know you were there today.

You shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you repeat. You play with your fingers as you speak. “You are so busy and I don’t want to annoy you with my silly stuff when you have patients that really need your help. Like, right now, you are here with me and there’s somebody out there probably dying that needs you.”

“You need help too, you might have a concussion.”

“Yeah, because I fell in the fucking shower like an idiot,” you scoff. “It’s always something stupid that happens to me and those people out there are actually sick and I take up your time because I’m too stupid to even shower by myself.”

Frank sighs and gets up, hands reaching for your face. He cradles your cheeks in his palms, heart twisting at the angry tears gathering in your waterline. “You are not stupid,” he says firmly. “You just have a… particular proclivity for accidents involving stationary objects.”

You snort. The corners of his mouth tick upwards, satisfied that his comment managed to cut through the tension. 

His thumb brushes along your cheekbone. Softly, he tilts your chin up and leans down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss that makes the pain in your head subside. When you part, you rest your forehead against his chest. He rests his chin on top of your head, one of his hands gently massaging your scalp while the other rubs your back up and down. It’s the first time since your fall this morning that you feel any sort of relief. 

“I’m serious,” his voice rumbles beneath his sternum. “I don’t think you’re stupid. And I want to take care of you when you need me. You could never bother me when you’re in pain.”

He’s been your doctor for almost a year, even before you started dating. He’s not planning on stopping taking care of you, especially not when it’s one of the things he knows how to do best.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Next time you get hurt, come find me, okay?”

Because ever since the world has ended and you’ve matched the elusive name to face, Gojo has managed to worm his way into your life. He’s there, slinging his arm over Shoko’s shoulder as if you both aren’t glaring into the side of his head for it, dragging his friend Geto over too, the long haired boy at least having the decency to smile apologetically though not enough decency to leave.

Shoko never tells him off, which you originally assumed was her one and only tragic personality flaw until you eventually learned they’d been childhood best friends for almost twenty years. After that, it became easier to file her reactions away as a chronic, lifelong exasperation, the kind that slowly builds over decades until the only move left is to sigh and let the idiot sit down.

But did that idiot have to be Gojo? 

Ever since he entered your orbit that horrible day in March, you can’t seem to ignore his existence. You see those irritating thick-framed glasses around every corner on campus, his messy white hair sometimes tucked beneath the hood of his university jumper sometimes not, but always ruffled like he has just rolled out of bed. His laugh follows you around, a persistent soundtrack bleeding into every conversation you try to have with your actual friends. He’s always there, hands in pockets, bulky backpack slung over both shoulders, slippers padding lazily against the pavement like he’s just walked straight out of his apartment and into your line of sight. “Relax.” Shoko tells you one afternoon as you aggressively wiped down a table, the cafe quieter now the day was slipping into that evening quiet. “You won’t have to see him ever again now that the semester is over. You can unclench.” Her advice only makes you snort, giving the table one last swipe before straightening to look at her busied behind the counter. “Not true if you don’t stop inviting him to everything. What made you even think of bringing him with us to the club last Friday?” Your best friend opens her mouth as if to defend him and that alone is enough for you to gag. “Shoko, he showed up in a dress shirt. And a messenger bag. To the fucking club!” “Not too much on him, he was coming straight from night classes.” Like that helps his case. Like being top of the cohort, effortlessly breezing through the same exams that require endless all-nighters from you, isn’t enough to satiate his greedy appetite. Like the universe hasn’t already gift-wrapped him with endless talent, now he has to go above and beyond and take night classes too. “Yeah, well. You need to separate your personal life from your work life. Work-life balance.” “I don’t see how that makes sense,” Shoko retorts drily, speaking more to the sink than you as she washes up the last of the cups. “Clubbing and Gojo are both my personal life. If anything, you’re the one bringing him into our work life right now.” “You’re the one that said being his friend is a full-time job.” She sighs. “Minimal wage, too.” You weave through the tables and duck behind the counter, tossing the rag into a discarded pile for the night staff to deal with, and squeeze Shoko’s shoulders as you pass behind her in the cramped space. “Hey,” you start, voice sweet. “Let’s cut him off.” She shoves you off good-mannerly, pushing you again in the direction of the apron rack to help you with the knot. “Cut him some slack, won’t you? Or don’t. Just forget about him. Like I said, now that the semester is over, you won’t have any reason to see him ever again.” “That’s honestly up to you. Sure, I won’t see him in classes anymore but are you going to spontaneously invite him to lunch again? He’s not coming to our Saturday cheese tasting plans, is he? What about that aquarium we wanted to check out?” Her hands pause before she loosens the knot and turns so you can untie her apron in return. “I’ll tell him no to both.” “Oh, so he asked?” “You have no idea.” As if sensing the rant already bubbling up your throat, Shoko quickly hands you your phone from under the counter. “By the way, your phone’s been buzzing the entire shift. You’re not still talking to that guy, are you?”

You take it, dragging the screen down to scroll through missed notifications. “Who?” “The double texter.” There’s the typical ones you’d expect, some Outlook emails about irrelevant study tips, some random Twitter notifications from the many inactive accounts you’ve abandoned but never bothered logging out of, and miscellaneous app alerts you swipe away without reading. Buried beneath them though, is the familiar little red icon from that forum app you absolutely should have deleted months ago, a fresh reply sitting under the thread that’s been irritating you all week. Your mouth tightens and you swipe it away before you can be sucked away into the ragebait. “Y/N?” “Hm?” You look up, realising Shoko is still waiting for a response. “Oh, no. This is… a guy from Hinge.” The hesitation isn’t lost on her but she gives you grace and doesn’t press for the truth. “Right. Just be careful, alright? I don’t know what is going on in this city anymore but there’s been way too many incidents on the news about people going missing. You know it’s bad when all the news channels are all suddenly interviewing men in tight spandex suits.” You snort, tucking your phone away to finish clocking out of your shift. “‘Men’ like there’s multiple. You mean that one spider guy, right? His superhero name is uncreative as hell.” “He shoots webs from his wrists and climbs walls, what else would he call himself?” “Anything but the first thing a five year old could come up with. That’s like pointing to a man who can fly and calling him Flying Man.” Shoko locks the cafe doors behind, the metal click satisfying after a long shift. She gives the handle two firm tugs just to be sure because the city is a mess apparently, then steps back so she can flip the sign to CLOSED, the glass catching a smear of gold from the streetlights outside. “Superhero names are hardly creative these days.” “We’re losing the ancient texts.” By now, evening has settled in properly, the campus washed in that dusky blue-orange light that makes everything look prettier than it is. You stop to take a few photos of the sunset, then slip your phone away and breathe in the cool breeze as Shoko falls into step beside you, the two of you cutting across campus out toward the busier street. “What ancient texts? There’s literally someone called Superman because he’s super.” You roll your eyes. “That is so not helping your case.” “It is helping my case because it proves people like straightforward names. Also, it helps with making merch.” “How can you be so confident and be so wrong?” Shoko bumps your shoulder lightly as you walk, enough to make you sway half a step before you right yourself and return the gesture. Cars hiss past at the intersection ahead, headlights briefly washing over the footpath. Somewhere behind you, someone shouts a name across the road and is followed by a burst of noisy laughter. There’s a kind of peace at this twilight, a sense of calm that feels despairing. “Are you sure you don’t want a lift?” Shoko asks as you both slow to a step, effectively dragging you out of a potential spiral. “I can’t imagine the bus being your favourite form of transport.” You blink at her before shaking your head, reorganising your thoughts. “It’s fine. Besides, I know you have that thing with Utahime later.” “It’s not a thing. We’re just going to a jazz bar.” “Sure, okay. But just the two of you.” “We did invite you,” Shoko reminds you with an unimpressed look. “You’re the one that declined.” “I wasn’t going to third wheel again.”

“Utahime would kill you for saying that.” “I’d be more worried that she’d kill herself if she found out you’re not labelling it as a date.” Shoko kicks a loose rock on the pavement, avoiding your eyes. “That’s because it’s not a date. It’s a jazz bar outing.” “Jazz is like, inherently romantic. Haven’t you heard ‘Careless Whispers’?” “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day. ‘Careless Whispers’ is about a man cheating,” “Wait, are you serious?” You shake your head to dispel the song from playing in your mind, reining in the conversation before she can successfully deflect. “And I doubt that’s the dumbest thing I’ve said all day. I think I’ve had some better bangers.” “True, the dumbest thing that left your mouth was probably Gojo. You know, for someone who claims to hate him, you sure do talk about Gojo a lot. Don’t groan at me, I’m just saying.” “I’m complaining about him. That has to be different.” Shoko tilts her head, studying you up and down as she considers your words. She ends her evaluation with a hum. “I don’t know, people usually don’t spend that much time thinking about someone they actually don’t care about.” The implications are so frankly absurd the only thing you can do is wish her well. “I’m going to kill you.” She raises her hands in surrender, already backing away in the direction of the parking lot.“Anyway! There’s no reason to complain about him anymore. Live a little!” “Please,” you scoff. “Like I’d ever willingly think about Gojo ever again. You don’t need to tell me that.” She laughs softly, catching the words just before they disappear with the wind. You watch her back for a few seconds longer before blinking out of your thoughts. For some reason, the sound follows you all the way to the bus stop. Realistically, Shoko’s words have some truth to them. It is rather easy to forget all about Gojo and his crimes against humanity (you) when you don’t see him over the two-week break. Instead, you go to concerts with Utahime, visit art museums with Nanami and gossip and giggle over brunch with Shoko. There's a peaceful monotony as days blend into each other, until one morning when your alarm rings at an hour once familiar to you and you get up to start another semester. Checking your timetable one more time, you sigh at your misfortune. It was inevitable that your courses wouldn’t always align with the rest of your friends. In fact, it was a miracle that you even had classes with Shoko last semester considering she wasn’t even doing the same degree. You shouldn’t be too disappointed after all, when you posted a story asking if anyone else was taking this course, a few people you vaguely recognised had swiped up. They're mostly acquaintances, people you’ve met once from parties and events, but it’s miles better than being alone. You double-check the lecture hall number one last time outside the building, hoping the extra second will magically give you the cure to the brewing headache at your temples, before you finally push open the door. The buzz of conversation hits you immediately. Rows of students fill the lecture hall, voices overlapping as people reunite after the break, bags dropping onto chairs and laptops snapping open performatively. A few heads turn when you walk in, not unusual unfortunately, but you pretend not to notice, adjusting the strap of your tote as you scan the room. You spot some familiar faces sitting toward the back, relief loosening the tight knot in your chest as you begin to climb the steps. The smile on your face drops the moment your eyes drift—those traitorous things—to the front row.

Gojo slouches in his seat, the tiny fold-out table already pulled out in front of him, bag resting on top. He’s the only one sitting front row and centre, and considering how immersed he is with his phone, you doubt he has any plans to share the space with anyone else. He causally lifts his glasses with his finger in a way you thought perfectly suits his pretentious personality. His hood is thrown over his head, feet stretching out in front of him. One of his hoodie strings is kept between his lips as he absentmindedly chews at it, so relaxed, so casual, so oblivious to the world ending around you. You freeze. Someone tries to enter the hall and almost bumps into you, and it’s this near collision that finally jolts you into motion. Your instincts kick in and you hastily duck your head, climbing up the stairs where your friends are waiting. Nobara waves you closer, tucking her feet closer to her chest to let you into the row. “Hey, Y/N! It's been a while.” “Hey,” you say, hoping it comes off casual and not dripped in fear. “Yeah, I didn’t think you were doing this course too. What a coincidence. Hey, can you give me a second?" When you sink into your chair, you whip out your phone and frantically type away. you: no fucking way im going to kill myself shoko: ik u have some crazy attachment issues but u’ll get over it i promise utahime: aww i think its cute u miss us so much if not a little pathetic you: i dont give a gaf about that anymore u wouldnt believe who else is taking this course shoko: we’re not the fucking akinator guy y/n utahime: i could be if u gave me more hints guy or girl? are they a youtuber? you: it’s gojo utahime: wtf spoilers?? wait gojo oh my god LMAOO shoko: oh ure definitely gonna tweak Your eyes only tear away from Gojo when the lecturer enters the room and when the door closes behind him, you feel the sudden, irrational urge to bolt for the exit. Because was it just your imagination or was there a sense of finality to that door slam? Gojo was meant to be a nightmare for one semester, a pain in the ass for one chapter of your life and yet here he is, the back of his head just as infuriating as the front. “Welcome to neuropharmacology3211.” When the lecturer begins the lesson, you watch as Gojo barely sits up to listen. “I’ll pass along the attendance sheet now. Just for everyone’s sanity I need to let you know that these lectures aren’t compulsory, however we do encourage you to attend.” You panic. An attendance sheet. With your name on it. For all to see. You watch in despair as it begins its slow journey across your side of the lecture hall. Mournfully, you tick off your name with Nobara’s pen and pass the paper along, trying not to imagine the inevitable moment it reaches the front row.

Around and around it goes until it stops at the last person, the only person sitting in the front row on the left side of the hall. Gojo absentmindedly spins his pen, flipping the paper to the other side when he can’t find his name. He runs a finger down the list as the lecturer drones though you doubt either you or Gojo are actually paying attention. From this distance you can’t make out his subtle movements but at one point, he stops spinning his pen and looks up, glancing briefly around the room. You immediately duck down, finding something immensely interesting about your laptop. You don’t look up until Nobara elbows you gently and asks if you need any ibuprofen. You shake your head, daring to cautiously peek over the edge of your laptop. Gojo continues to face the front and you let out a small sigh of relief, straightening just enough to give off your best impression of someone who has been paying attention the entire time. It's the usual mandatory assessment outline, a rundown on everything that actually mattered in the course: midterms, finals, biweekly quizzes. You mindlessly add the dates to your calendar until the professor highlights the missing 20% of the final grade. “And finally, there is a pair presentation due in week 7.” Your eyes twitch and you cast your gaze back to the front. “The details of the assessment will be explained during this week’s lab so ask your questions then.” A group project. Even worse, in pairs. Your eyes slide instinctively toward Gojo and the dread in your stomach collapses in on itself, condensing into something dense and horrible. “Your pair and topic will be emailed to you later today.” The professor continues and when groans echo across the room, they only chuckle, undeterred. “Diversity is good for group work. Your colleagues won’t always be your friend.” You glance around the room. How many people were in this class? Many, so many. What are the chances you get paired with Gojo? Slim, at least you hope so. The moment the lecture ends, you shove your laptop into your bag, and flash Nobara an apologetic smile as you book it for the door. You keep your head down, both hands clutching your tote as it digs into your shoulder while you weave through the crowd spilling into the aisle. Freedom appears as a bright light before you, and you almost think you’re safe when— “No way.” Your pace stutters and against every instinct in your body screaming at you to keep walking, you freeze. “Y/N?” Someone knocks into your shoulder on the way out and before you can use the momentum to slip out with the rest of the crowd, a hand grabs your arm and pulls you to the side. You glare up at Gojo’s stupid face. He peers down at you, all ego and cocky exterior, like he’s discovered something entertaining. He sniffles, rubs his nose and pushes up his glasses all in one making you grimace at his apparent lack of hygiene. “God, why did it have to be you?” you grumble, more to yourself than him. You shake off his hold, pressing your arm to your side to prevent any further contact. “Don’t touch me.” “I knew I saw your name on the attendance sheet.” He smirks down at you, taking in the familiar sight of your frown. “Come on, smile a little. You’re making it look like I'm extorting you.” “Don't talk to me like we’re familiar, Gojo.” “Aren’t we?” “We aren't.” “We talk though.” “You talk, I try my best to ignore you.” “We have mutual friends.” He points out next as if this hasn’t been the sole reason for your pain and suffering. God bless Shoko’s kind, patient heart for putting up with him, but if you had to see his face at another outing you might decide to wrap your fingers around your neck and squeeze instead of staying.

“Unfortunately.” His lips only curl into that irritating and carefree smile, worse when you decide begrudgingly that it could also pass as charming. Any potential compliment dies immediately when he speaks again. “What crawled up your ass and died?” “Don’t talk about my ass.” “Come on, are you still being a sore loser over finals? You had two whole weeks to get over that.” That gets you. You exhale sharply, eyes narrowing dangerously as you lean forward to poke at his chest. “First of all,” you begin, “I am not being a sore loser over finals. The one making a big deal of things is you so if you’re trying to get my attention, there are far less tedious ways.” His eyebrows shoot up. “You think I'm trying to get your attention?” “Is there another reason why you won’t leave me alone, Gojo?” You sigh like it’s the most obvious thing. “Look, you’re not my type and that’s okay. Not everyone can be. But seriously, sticking to me like an annoying bug isn’t going to fix that. If anything, it worsens your chances, not that you had any to begin with.” He waits and when you only seethe, he prompts you, “And?” You blink, temporarily off guard. “That’s it.” “Then why did you start with‘first of all’?” Your eyes narrow. “It’s like talking to a genie with some of you people.” His grin is too easy, too casual as if you weren’t fighting for your life to restrain from murdering him, as if he isn’t standing between you and your only exit from this hell. “Hey, I just wanted to clarify,” he says, raising his hands up in a gesture of surrender that only grinds your gears further. “No need to get so pissy. It’s not a good look on you.” You grit your teeth. “No defense for the allegations though, I see.” Gojo looks around with a hum, eyes doing a lazy sweep of the emptying lecture hall, hands lowering slightly. “You’d think after all this time, you’d finally get the hint.” He casts his gaze back to you expectantly, failing to elaborate on his cryptic message and you take a moment to think. There were many things he isn’t exactly subtle about: 

flaunting his academic prowess

how much he seems to thrive off your annoyance

You pick the second. “What, that you get off to a pretty woman telling you to kill yourself?”

He presses his lips together, as if giving it serious thought. Your face immediately twists into something that can only be described as a grimace, and he laughs.

“Do you usually spend a lot of time thinking about what gets me off?”

“Do you always have to ask me stupid questions?”

“Only because you always find a way to make the answers fun.”

“I'm telling you this now, Gojo. You’ve outgrown the age where teasing the girl you like works,” you shoot back with a snarl, unable to hide your frustration.

For a moment, something in his expression shifts.

Gojo’s eyes drop and you feel his gaze burn down your neck and drag from your top to your shoes. You can’t help but shiver at the intensity of his stare and maybe he notices because he scoffs, looking away. “That hurts my reputation. You’re not my type.”

Your eye twitches. “Bat for the other team, do you?”

“How egotistical. You think just because a guy doesn’t like you he must be gay?”

“Well, there’s definitely a higher likelihood."

“You must have tested that with a small sample size because that doesn’t sound statistically significant.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your weight to edge closer to the door. “Of course you can’t help but be a fucking nerd about everything."

“Whining doesn’t exactly help your side of the argument."

“No, but it might stop me from reaching over and punting your head in.”

Gojo whistles low, the noise sharper now that most students have left. “Are you purposefully testing me? I thought we established that I liked girls who keep me on my toes.”

You wrinkle your nose. “There’s a difference between keeping someone on their toes and wanting to throttle them.” “You better be careful because it's a thinner line than most for me.” “You are disgusting.” “That doesn’t explain why you keep talking to me, though.” “Like I have a choice. You’re the one who grabbed my arm. If I miss my bus because of you doing whatever this is with me, I will put you in the ground.” “You’re still here though.” You sigh, exasperated. “Because you’re standing in the fucking doorway, you idiot.” “Oh,” he says,  but makes absolutely no move to step aside. You inhale slowly through your nose, channeling a calm you most certainly do not feel. “Move.” “Say please.” Your smile turns dangerously sweet. “I said move.” “Still not hearing the magic word.” You give up, sensing you’ll only continue to lose. Before you can suck it up and brush past him, dreading even the brief contact of his shoulder against yours, he steps closer. His gaze flutters down for a moment, something foreign passing over his face as he clears his throat. It makes your heart seize at how unfamiliar he looks, though that fades quickly when his eyes snap back up, that irritating grin firmly in place. “Actually, I was thinking. Are you free this—” Before he can finish, a loud tune sounds from his pocket and he groans, abandoning his words to pull out his phone. The smile that had been on his face scrunches up, and he absentmindedly types a response with one hand before looking back up at you. “My bad. I was going say if you’re—” But in the few seconds his attention is elsewhere, you’ve already bolted. “Hey, wait!” His voice chases after you and you press on, echoing faintly against the tiled floors as you round the corner at a pace that’s just shy of running. “I’m going to count this as my win if you run away from me!” You jam your airpods into your ears with unnecessary force, scrolling blindly until music floods your head and drowns him out completely. If the world was going to convince you it wasn’t about to end, it better start looking up for you soon.

Unfortunately, the world really doesn’t give a shit about what you think because your karmic debt piles high. Shoko had abandoned you in your time of need, leaving you to tackle the shift alone. You close the cafe door behind you, turning the key so that the handle doesn’t rattle under your palm, and sniff when the cold air immediately bites at your face. Your scarf comes up instinctively, burying your nose and mouth as a harsh wind cuts through the street now that you’re no longer protected by the warmth of the cafe. What a long day. You clutch your scarf as it flutters wildly until the wind settles, the evening air growing still enough that it stops stinging your cheeks. Nothing particularly bad had even happened today. It wasn’t overly busy though it was far from quiet. You even managed to pass the long hours when some old friends showed up, though the conversation had only lasted as long as it took to make their coffee. But when it’s still or in the moments when you wait for a customer’s order, you feel something unpleasant settle in. The air feels too stale, time clicking by too slowly and the sensation of the ground moving beneath is unnerving. Your eyes refuse to move at times and you find yourself zoning out at nothing, hands moving in autopilot as you make drink after drink after drink, the repetition slowly pulling you apart one seam at a time. Your feet find their way to the bus stop and you breathe out slowly, mist curling into the cold evening air as you look up to watch it dissipate. How freeing would it be to be up there? The wind in your hair, biting cold against your nose and the tips of your ears, the rush of air in your lungs, and that terrifying exhilaration that comes from rising and falling and rising again. You imagine being weightless, being untouchable, being above it all and finally free. You shake that nonsense thought away. It’s just one of those bad days. The bus pulls up, blowing exhaust and humid air, and you’ve only just placed a foot onto the bus when a loud crash sounds to your left. You look over just as something flies past and slams into the bus stop, the metal denting under the immense weight. It’s not your finest moment but you duck, covering your head, and let out a scream as the loud noise deafens you. The bus drives off in the chaos, certainly breaking several traffic laws, and you curse the driver when you realise you’ve been abandoned.

Peeking an eye open as the dust settles, you lower your arms and come face to face with the heavy object that had slammed against the stand.

Slowly, you ask, “...Spiderman?”

The blue and white figure coughs, hitting his chest with his fist. “You called?”

Spiderman looks up and freezes. It might be your imagination but he looks even more winded when his eyes lock on yours. Actually, you’re certain it’s your imagination because his mask completely obscures his facial expressions, save for the slight widening of the white parts indicating his eyes.

You crawl forward a little. “Shit, you went down hard. Do you have a concussion?”

The superhero runs a battered hand down his face, stopping only when it slides down to cover his mouth,  and lets out a muffled groan. “You have got to be fucking kidding.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Before he can say anything else, a wet, splintering crack sounds from across the street.

You look over your shoulder as he tilts to look around you. A man staggers out of gate five beside the university-run pharmacy, though stagger might be too human a word for it. Something black and shining writhes over his body, swallowing him from the neck down like spilled tar, except tar doesn’t pulse. It stretches over his arms in twitching strands and thickens into jagged unnatural muscle, back hunching with a sickening pop as he lurches forward.

You rub your eyes and stare again. “I know the feeling,” Spiderman says, pushing himself upright with a wince. “That’s my exact review too.” The thing’s head jerks in your direction. Spiderman notices before you do, wringing out his hands and doing some jumping jacks on the spot. “And that’s my cue to ask you very calmly to start running.” When the thing charges at you, there’s no time to pretend to be composed. You let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a shriek and fling yourself backward as the thing barrels forward. A web shoots from behind you and lands on the bus stop-frame, yanking Spiderman into its path just in time to take the hit instead. He gets absolutely bodied. “Jesus Christ,” you blurt as he falls back further down the road. Spiderman slings to grab onto a nearby, and luckily deserted car, and slams it into the side of the villain, picking himself up in the few seconds he has to breathe when the figure crashes into a nearby building. “I know,” he wheezes, dusting off his suit. “Everyone says that when they see me. I’m basically the second coming of that guy.” “Are you okay? Do you need… backup?” You look around at the site. Cars have started swerving and backing away to avoid the scene and bystanders are ducked somewhere safe. You alone remain inside the heavily damaged bus stop a few metres from where the figure is now pulling itself onto his feet. Realistically, you should do the smart thing and hide, too. But one feeble attempt to get on your feet tells you what you already know; that you’ve managed to fuck up your ankle in your panic. Spiderman has his hands thrown up. “Why are you not running? I told you to run.” “Why are you losing?” “I’m not losing,” he snaps, affronted. “Are you always this difficult? Listen to the city’s superhero and get out of here.” “If this is my superhero, then I’m already cooked.” The creature roars and charges again, much alike a bull seeing red and you’re the unfortunate sole on the ground in its path. Spiderman seems to have enough sense to conclude there’s something wrong with your body and not your head as he swears, shooting two webs in quick succession, one to a traffic light pole and the other to the creature’s arm, trying to stabilise himself to swing the heavy villain sideways. It works for maybe half a second before the pole lifts off the ground and Spiderman sighs before being the one flung away. You watch as Spiderman hits the ground hard, again. Thankfully, it’s enough distraction for the figure to leave you alone but you can only grimace especially when he picks himself up. Spiderman pushes up on one knee, clearly trying to buy time, and calls, “Hey, big guy, quick question before you maul me. Is this like, a skincare thing? Because I think whatever routine you’re on is clogging your pores. There’s a pharmacy right over there. Want me to get you some pimple patches?”

The figure ignores his provocation by charging forward again and it’s you that looks back over your shoulder at the pharmacy. Frankly put, your trust in the masked vigilante is at an all time low and if there’s any chance of living beyond this encounter, you need to do something. Despite the throbbing pain in your ankle, you pull yourself up against the dented wall of the bus stop and edge closer to the campus. Then, you break into a valiant attempt at a sprint. “That’s it, get out of here!” he calls out after you. You grit your teeth both from the pain and general annoyance. “I’m not running!” “What the hell are you doing then?” “Something useful, unlike you!” Spiderman finally looks up from wrangling with the figure. “Huh?” You manage to limp to the pharmacy and wrench its fire extinguisher free from its bracket, using more effort than expected especially as you’re already winded and nearly fumble with the weight of it. You spin back around just as the creature grabs Spiderman by the throat and slams him into the side of the bus stop again. You hobble back to the scene with a sympathetic wince. My God, the thing is already gone, leave it alone. The figure looms over the fallen superhero, the goo oozing off solidifying into a slimy tendril that sharpens. It slides along Spiderman’s jaw and tilts his head up, cutting right through the fabric of his mask before stopping at his throat. The figure opens its mouth as if to say something but is cut off when you yank the pin with shaking hands. For a moment, nothing happens and you’re all about ready to apologise and excuse yourself from the scene when the extinguisher goes off in a violent burst of white foam that manages to encapsulate the figure despite the distance.

The black mass recoils with a horrible screech, the sound sharp and inhuman, like nails scratching against metal. It peels back in frantic, rippling waves, twitching and writhing away from the spray. The man underneath the goo drops to one knee, gasping as his eyes roll back down from the back of his head, and shudders before collapsing on the ground. What remains of the gunk ripples along the pavement before slithering down a gutter and leaving nothing behind, almost as if nothing had ever happened. If not for the battered bus stop and the hole in the wall. You lower the extinguisher slowly, breathless. “Maybe I should give this superhero thing a shot.” “Nah, I don’t think you have the guts for it.” Before you can even turn properly to defend your case, strong arms hook around you and the ground disappears. The sound that leaves you is less scream and more pure, humiliated terror as gravity tilts sideways. You catch a flash of white, the sharp snap of a web latching somewhere high above, and then he’s hauling you up with it, body lifting clean off the pavement. “Wait—” The city drops out beneath you in dizzying blurs of orange streetlights and rooftops, your stomach left somewhere back by the ruined bus stop. Spiderman carries you like you weigh nothing, one arm locked securely around your waist whilst the other shoots webs with impossible precision, each swing smooth despite the fact that he had been getting his ass kicked mere seconds ago. Wind tears at your scarf and shoves tears from your eyes. You clutch at him with both hands “Hold on, we need to go back and help that guy!” “I’m a superhero, not a paramedic!” Spiderman calls back, voice steady despite the speed. “He’ll be fine, help is already on the way. But there’s an unconscious guy on the ground, a destroyed bus stop, at least six insurance claims, and I’m pretty sure your bus abandoned you ages ago. You cannot stay there.” “And that’s the reason why I’m up here?” “Superhero, my ass,” he might have said but your attention is pulled in far too many directions to be sure. You make the fatal mistake of looking down. The road below is a smear of headlights and moving colour, terrifyingly far away. “Oh my God,” you gasp, squeezing your eyes shut again. “This is how I die. I’m going to become roadkill. I’m going to go splat.” “That is so hurtful after I literally just rescued you.” “I would still be grateful if you had left it there.”

His laugh is snatched by the wind, warm and infuriating and entirely too amused for someone who had looked so pathetic sprawled out on the ground. He adjusts his grip slightly when your fingers knot tighter in the front of his suit, and if he notices how hard you’re shaking, he has the decency to not make anymore comments, swinging you both up in a smooth arc. “Okay,” he relents. “Deep breaths, I’m not actually going to drop you.” You give your most valiant attempt of a snort. “Telling me to breathe deeply as I’m not already trying.” “Would you prefer shallow, panicked ones then?” “I would prefer to be on the ground!” “Your wish is my command.” After another swing and a sharp turn that nearly rips your soul from your body, Spiderman descends toward the quieter edge of campus and lands in a narrow pedestrian lane beside the university security office. It’s bright here, washed in fluorescent light, and close enough to the main road that you can already hear the traffic and voices navigating the post-chaos.

The second your shoes touch concrete, your knees threaten to fold. You grab his arm on instinct, digging your fingers in as you glance at him. “You do that every day?” You can almost hear the smugness in his voice, and something else. “It’s basically my 9-5.” It’s most definitely just your imagination but you feel as though his gaze softens, looking at you trembling like a newborn bird. He watches as you regain sensation in your legs though your hand remains on his arm. He doesn’t make any move to remove it. A baffled laugh escapes you, more air than sound. “I can’t believe I’m still alive.” “Do you need to sit down?” You shake your head softly. “I’m fine… thank you for saving me, Spiderman.” “I should be thanking you. I was getting my ass kicked out there.” “I know, I saw.” He tilts his head. “I thought you were thankful?” “Both those things can be true at the same time.” Then, you go on your tippy toes and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “But I’m definitely very thankful.” 

You feel the superhero stiffen under your touch and the white fabric of his mask widens before he jerks slightly backward, free hand flying up to hover over where you kissed. “Did you just—” There’s something about the tone of his voice, pitched higher now in surprise, that has you blinking. “You sound…” If you weren’t sure about his tension before, he most definitely freezes now, his hand pulling back down to rest over your hand on his arm and pull it off. “Oh, uh—you should head back, injured and stupid civilian. I know the people in the office. They should be able to get you home.” “No wait, hold on.” You narrow your eyes, taking a step forward that he immediately responds to by stepping back. “Do I know you?” He points at himself, backing away slowly. “Me? You might have seen me on the news or seen one of my promotional posters.” “No, because you were weird the second you saw me.” “I was bleeding out and on the verge of death,” he says. “Let’s not pathologise me.” “You looked right at me and said something like, ‘you have got to be fucking kidding’.”

He tilts his head and takes another step back. “Did I say that? Hm, no, not ringing any bells. Your ankle is injured, maybe stop walking towards me. You’re freaking me out and I don’t do well with girls.” You open your mouth to say more when he suddenly points at something over your shoulder. “Oh shit, is that a bird? A plane?” You turn instinctively. There is no one there, of course, but it’s a realisation seconds too late. Because by the time you whip back around, he’s already two steps away, web fired high above, body coiled to launch. “Oh, you asshole—” “Get home safe!” he calls, voice cheerful in a way that irks you. “Wait—” He shoots upward before the word can properly leave your mouth. You hobble forward, outrage momentarily stronger than the pain in your ankle. “You can’t just dump me here and leave!” you yell after him. “I’m literally injured! Jerk!” “Ma’am, can we help you?” You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart.

You freeze and your shoulder slump even as you turn around. The staff inside the office have stepped out hearing all the commotion and you realised Spiderman can definitely leave an injured civilian here. Curse his fast thinking and kind heart. It’s only when the sun has lowered into a splash of pink and orange in the sky that you finish tolerating the endless questioning from both the security office staff and the police. Thankfully, they’re kind enough to drive you back to your apartment though you’re slightly annoyed the rest of the day had been wasted on telling them ‘I don’t know’ over and over again. The moment you step back into your room, your phone buzzes with multiple notifications. There’s an Outlook email from your neuropharmacology course and three texts from an unknown number. unknown: looks like you lucked out and we’re partners it’s gojo btw lets meet tomorrow @ uni library And because you genuinely cannot feel even worse than you already do, you turn your face to bury into your pillow and groan. 

You don’t end up confirming Gojo’s plans until halfway through your morning tutorial the next day when he double texts.

DO NOT ANSWER: ? don’t leave me on read you can hate me all u want but the project is worth 20% yk!!!!!!

you: ok time?

DO NOT ANSWER: ohhh so now u respond huh id hate to think im forgettable

you: time

DO NOT ANSWER: (╥﹏╥) i’ll get on campus at 12 ish so like in ten minutes

you: done

DO NOT ANSWER:  >⩊<

You push the thought that as a grown man, he really shouldn’t be texting like that away, and flip your phone back down on the table just as the class ends.

“Want to check out this new bingsu place near the station?” Utahime chatters as she shoves her iPad into her tote and picks up her coffee, watching you follow behind albeit slower with dread. “They have this new Thai tea bingsu and it looks crazy good. Shoko swears by it but—and you can’t tell her I said this—it’s crazy that she went out for lunch without us. Does she not fuck with us anymore? Who did she even go with?”

You smile wistfully at her. “I wish I could, Utahime, but I already have plans after this.”

“What the fuck, et tu?” She processes your words with a frown. “Did you take on a shift today? I thought you only had this one class today.”

“No, it’s even worse. I need to lock in for my neuropharmacology assessment.”

She pauses, cup halfway to her mouth before her lips split into a wide grin. “Oh my God. With Gojo?”

You groan, zipping your bag with more force than necessary. You sling it over your shoulder and try to hurry away from her, but it’s too late and she follows quickly after.

“Don’t remind me.”

“You’re choosing to hang out with Gojo over me?” Her voice peaks at the end, and you hate how happy she looks at the thought of you ditching her.

“This isn’t a choice I want to make at all so don’t say it like that. And don’t look so happy, freak.”

“Oh, this is rich. You were bitching about him all of last semester and now you’re choosing him over me?” Utahime giggles, pulling out her phone with her free hand. “Shoko is going to love this.”

You raise an eyebrow, catching the opening. “I thought you were mad at her for getting lunch without you? You’re so fickle.”

She hums absentmindedly, already outing your situation to the group chat, no doubt. “Our friendship runs deeper than one betrayal.”

You grin as you approach the library stairs, looking back over your shoulder. “Friendship, huh?”

She whips her head up at you, eyes flickering down to her cup where the red words written across the side spells out a cute reminder to have a good day. A flush creeps up her face. “What? Don’t say that like it’s something to point out! We are friends!”

“I didn’t even say anything!” “You’re giving me that look again. I’m not a blind masochist, Y/N. I can tell when you have something to say, and I’m not taking it lying down.” “You’re just lucky I haven’t said a word to Shoko yet.” Utahime grumbles, crossing her arms. “If you do, I’ll kill myself.” You laugh, glad to get the last word. “I’ll see you later, Utahime. Go say hi to Shoko for me!” “I will see Shoko, but only to tell her that.” “Sure,” you say, and enter the building. The library is busy, bustling with students as they lean over textbooks and clack away at their laptops. It’s not quite midterm season yet, so the fact that the library is so full should be concerning. With so many heads bent down, there is little chance you’ll find Gojo. You swallow your pride and pull out your phone. you: i’m here where are you? DO NOT ANSWER: not her eyet wa it wait smth came up You frown. He’s the one who set the time and has the audacity to be late? Typical for someone as inconsiderate as him, you decide, and choose a table near the back of the library just so he can struggle to find you when he finally arrives. You take out your laptop and start a new document, opening the tab for the marking rubric, the assessment notification, and some articles you found doing a quick search on PubMed. You even get around to dot-pointing one of them when someone dumps their bag on the table next to you. You jump. “Fuck.” “Did I scare you?” The voice alone is enough to make you freeze though you quickly snap out of it to glare up at the culprit. Gojo stands beside you, panting slightly, running a hand through his messy hair like it’ll fix his disheveled appearance. The buttons of his shirt are mismatched and one side of his collar is tucked inward. “Hey,” he greets with a lopsided smile. “How are you late when you’re the one who said to meet at twelve?” Gojo shrugs as if it isn’t a big deal and flops into the seat next to you. You had intended for him to sit across the table but you didn’t have the time to slip the words into the conversation before he starts talking. “Didn’t I tell you? I had something to do. Did you read my texts with your eyes closed or something?” “If you think I could have deciphered that from what you said, then you’re dumber than I thought. Did you run into an electric fence or something?” He smiles at you like your words had been an inside joke. “I told you after that part.” “Do you ever take anything seriously? This is worth twenty percent of our grade. You can’t just mess around and expect to still do well.” “Can’t I? It’s always worked before.” And because you don’t doubt that, it only serves to piss you off even more. He catches onto your scowl, smirk widening.

“Relax, you’ll pop a blood vessel. We still have weeks to get this done so who cares?” You roll your eyes and force yourself to be satisfied with just that, turning back to to your laptop in an effort to calm down. “Me, obviously. Look, I’m only staying on campus until two, so let’s just get this done quickly so we can both leave. I’m sure you don’t want to be here either so let’s just be adults and get this over and done with.” You take a deep breath and prepare yourself to look back at him and point out what you’ve already planned on the document but stop short when you find him already watching you. You grimace and edge away slightly. “What?” “Nothing.” He shifts to pull out his laptop and then a wired mouse. You eye the chunky device with disbelief, wondering if perhaps his bag is bigger on the inside than the outside and then at its corded pet. It’s only when he pulls out yet another accessory, a mouse pad, that you blurt, “Do you seriously carry a whole gaming laptop setup with you every day for class?” Gojo holds down the power button for a couple of seconds, the fans whirring to life and filling the library with insistent static. “Yeah, I love this thing. It can handle all my programs and I can play League on it too so what’s not to like? It can run Sims 4 and all my CC’s without any lag, it’s literally my baby.  It’s only right that I give it everything it needs in return.” You scrunch your nose. “You play into the stereotype way too much.” “What stereotype?” “What else? The nerd stereotype.” He huffs, apparently offended. “I’m not a nerd.” “Aren’t you?” You eye him up and down. “You tick off all the boxes. The glasses, the smartass attitude, the gaming laptop—” “You wear glasses.” He starts listing, holding out his hand to count. “I wear contacts.” “But you wear your glasses in the morning. For morning tutorials and lectures and stuff,” he continues, undeterred. “You carry yourself like you’re better than everyone else—” “I do not—” “Though you’re probably too broke to buy a gaming laptop so I guess it’s better to be a nerd than whatever you are.” He finishes with a smug grin that makes you want to curl your fingers into a fist and throw that right into his pretty face. “I don’t carry myself like I’m better than anyone,” you decide to clear up.

He makes an unconvinced sound. “You do.” “I don’t.” You press your lips together and sigh, breaking the eye contact though not without effort. “Stop trying to waste my time.” “You found me out. “Through the whirring of his laptop, you can make out his slight chuckle. He leans onto the table with his elbows, voice almost a childish whine. “Let’s talk. Why do you hate me so much?” Your fingers stutter on your keyboard. Sucking in a deep breath, you turn your head and face him on. “”I don’t hate you. Obviously. “Obviously,” he repeats, the curl of his lips an obvious indicator that he doesn’t believe you. “But you’re always frowning when we talk.” “We don’t talk,” you emphasise again and against your attempt at nonchalance, your brows pinch together. “And I don’t hate you.” “Right? I haven’t even done anything to you.” Your eye twitches at that. You rein it in, rein in that explosive feeling in your chest as if another word from his mouth will send you spiralling. You know it will, as inevitable as the crash-out you’ll be having to Shoko later at the cafe. “Gojo,” you start calmly. “We have four weeks to do this assessment and frankly, I still have a life to live outside this so let’s just get this over and done with, okay?” He looks at you a little longer and you would have asked what exactly he was searching for on your face, but something tells you that opening this can of worms will only confuse you more so you only stare back. “Alright,” he says finally. “Add me to the document.” You hit share and tilt your laptop towards him, watching as his long fingers dwarf your keyboard. He slides it back over and you nod, satisfied. “I already looked at some sources so you can just start off one of those.” Gojo glances back at his gaming laptop, clicking on the document. You watch as a new anonymous user hops onto the page: Anonymous Snow Leopard. He’s already typing away and when you click on the animal to find his cursor, he’s finishing off a second sentence notably not under one of those articles you had found. You frown as you read. “Hold on.” He sighs, fingers pausing. “What now?” You point to your screen at where he’s stopped typing. “You can’t just say things like this without a source.” “I’ll cite it later.” “That’s now how you research. You’re meant to find an article first and then write your own interpretation afterwards based on it.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Potato, potahto.” “Okay, no. We are not doing this.” “See, this is where your pretentiousness kicks in.” “What, because I know how to research properly?” “Because you’re trying to control every little thing.”

“I’m not being controlling, This counts to my grade too so I have a say.” “And where’s my say?” “You’re thinking too far, maybe focus on actually saying something useful first.” “See? Pretentious.” “Pot calling the kettle black.” “So you admit it?” “Maybe, do you?” He leans in, sneering. “I’ve gotten top marks doing it my way and I’m not going to change it now just because you have some inferiority complex over me.” You flush, leaning back. “Well, I’ve gotten high marks doing it my way! And I don’t have an inferiority complex, much less to you.” “Then you can use your method and I’ll use mine. We don’t have to collaborate any more than we need to.” You hate to admit that he might be right. Outwardly however, you grit your teeth and summon an inner peace. “Gojo. Find an article before you start talking out of your ass.” He groans as if deeply inconvenienced and though the sound makes you tense as if he might spit out another remark, he only turns back to his laptop and clicks open a new tab with exaggeration. “Fine, fine. Geez. You’re really annoying, you know that?” he grumbles, slouching in his seat. You’re about to drop another snarky response when something on his screen catches your eye, a tab peeking out in a red tab folder titled self indulgent. You lean forward slightly, catching the title when his cursor flicks by. It seems like an impossible task to read the words in the split second when the pop-up shows, if you hadn’t been stunlocked on that tab yourself earlier that week. hoping there’s a modification of kumamon’s line, r/digimon. “Wait,” you blurt, placing your hand on his arm. He freezes under your touch, though you pay no attention to the sensation. “What?” “Was that a Digimon Reddit thread?” Gojo doesn’t say anything for a while, and you have to look over at him to check if he was paying attention. His shoulders seem visibly tense, eyes flickering to the tab and then over at you. “…No?” You don’t wait for permission, sliding your own laptop to the side to take a hold of his. He makes a brief noise of protest, hands coming up as if to stop you, but they pause right before touching. The hesitation gives you the chance to click on the tab. The screen that loads confirms your suspicions. Your eyes widen, taking in the familiar Digimon forum, open to the exact post you’ve spent the last week arguing in the comments. “You’re in the Digimon subreddit?” “Don’t do this. You already give me enough shit about carrying a gaming laptop. Don’t ruin this nostalgia for me,” he mutters, looking away, and you finally realise that his tense shoulders might be because he’s bracing for an impact that isn’t coming. You find yourself, somewhat absently, marvelling at the sudden quietness of him. Maybe this is what people see when they talk about Gojo like he’s the second coming of Jesus.

You laugh in disbelief. He only stiffens more until you exclaim, “Gojoverrated?” “Look, I made that username when I was twelve and it just stuck, alright? I’m sure your usernames at twelve were much worse—” “So it was you that wrote that stupid rant about Kumamon’s evolution! It was like, a thousand words!” Gojo whips around to face you immediately. His eyes take you in, sweeping up and down your appearance as if trying to associate you with your words. “You pronounced Kumamon right. You know about the post? You read it?” “Are you questioning my reading comprehension skills now?” “No, I—” he stutters, actually tripping over his words in front of you which only makes your smile widen. He clears his throat and tries again. “I just meant—you read this?” “Read it? I responded to it, smartass.” There’s a long pause, and you wait for recognition to dawn. He straightens slowly, eyes opening wide. “There’s no way. You’re not—” You beam. “I’m Digimonlvr3000!”“Surprise aside, you should not be saying that username with so much pride.” But then he stares at you like the ground beneath him has just fallen through. “But shut up, there’s no fucking way.”

“You seriously hate the transition from Grizzmon to GrapLeomon?” you start, elbows resting on the table as you lean in. The same banter falls from your lips, but you refuse to acknowledge how it lacks venom.

“You can’t just go from a bear cub to a bear, and then to some mechanical lion-man, and then a unicorn-panther-headed half-nude dude.” He blinks at you even as he talks, eyes still wide as he struggles to comprehend saying these words to someone other than Suguru, considering his best friend is the only person who would at least pretend to listen.

“I mean, this is Digimon, not Pokémon. You know, digital monsters? They’re allowed to be crazy.”

“Yeah? Well, I want bears.”

“Then Pokémon might be the franchise for you.”

Gojo flinches like you’ve insulted him personally, more than any of your actually hurtful insults have ever managed to make him flinch. “Don’t even joke, Y/N. It’s not a crime to like coherent evolution lines.”

You shrug. “The randomness makes it fun. It’s Digimon’s whole brand.”

“And yet, the most iconic Digimon evolution lines come from coherent ones. You know, ones that make sense and have a consistent visual theme from Rookie to Mega. There is nothing that ties Grizzmon to GrapLeomon.” His lips quiver as he talks, eyes still wide, shock lingering. He can’t help letting his gaze sweep over you again and again. He thinks then that maybe the person who said never to judge a book by its cover had actually been onto something.

You raise a finger, drawing him out of his daze. “Um, actually, there is, though. The whole theme of grappling and fist-fighting? Does that ring a bell?” “That’s the same argument you used in your comments.” “The same comment you have yet to respond to.” You pause, thinking. “Just like right now, actually.” “Yeah?” he starts, and you know you’ve got him again. He presses on regardless. “Well, you’re the one who made that post about disliking Rhinokabuterimon more than Daipenmon.” “And I stand by that.” “Oh my god,” he says slowly, taking you in. “You’re worse in person.” “Your Kumamon rant got locked by a mod,” you remind him. “Somehow that makes sense. You’re as annoying online as you are in person.” “It was locked for too many off-topic replies, which is partially your fault.” “I wasn’t going to let you have the last word.” “Last word, huh. Great segue to—” “No, don’t bring that up, stop—” “—to your Digimon fanfiction account that you have linked in your bio.” You groan, long and low, covering your face with your hands. Warmth creeps up your neck, burning against your cheeks when you hear him laugh at your expense. You try to gather your dignity, peeking between your fingers to accuse him as you say, “How would you know? Did you read them?” “Of course I did,” he says without shame, and any thought of turning the tables back on him dissipates. He watches you suffer from embarrassment for only a second longer before resting his chin on his palm, leaning away as if to act casual. “So. Do you play the TCG?” he asks, despite the fact that he knows he’s seen your username floating around in the Digimon TCG subreddit. You pull your hands away with a start. “Do I play? Is the sky blue?” Gojo’s lips quiver upward. “Duel me.” “Okay,” you say quickly, too quickly, and you clear your throat in an effort to reset yourself. He doesn’t seem to notice, already digging through his bag for something. “Oh, you meant right now.” He pauses, looking up. “Yeah. Do you not have your deck?” “I don’t carry it on me, no.” For some reason, the thought that he does brings a small smile to your face. He visibly deflates, and a thought tries to enter your mind, though you’re not quite there just yet. Instead, you laugh softly. “Next time then,” you say, enjoying the way his smile returns to his face. “What colour do you play, anyway?” “Purple, obviously.” You roll your eyes. “Of course you’re a purple player. You saw the post about how purple wins just about every big event in EX7, didn’t you? Let me guess. Leviamon?” “Actually, I play DexDorugoramon. You?” You hum as if that makes complete sense. “I play yellow. Not for any particular reason, I just like the Digimon in the decks.” “Yellow, huh? So you’re a feelscrafter.” He bites back a goofy smile, but it shows.

“Don’t say that word like it’s a slur.” “Do you even play the meta?” You scoff. “Of course I do. But playing good isn’t even fun anymore.” Gojo laughs, and from behind him, you catch a few students looking over with narrowed eyes. He pays them no mind, leaning in. “See? Pretentious.” You lean forward too, reply on the ready, the only thing missing is the exact wording you want to use to shoot him down, when his phone goes off. Is this the second time now? Just how popular is this guy? His gaze falters before he pulls back to wrestle his phone out of his pocket. You’re left facing him, and you draw back too, clearing your throat as you turn to your laptop. What the fuck was that? Your fingers type gibberish into the document, then drag your finger across your trackpad to erase it only to type another string of incoherent letters and symbols. Your mind races through the conversation, noting the genuine joy in your voice, the amusement when Gojo responded just as enthusiastically. There’s a warmth in your stomach that’s hard to get rid of. What the fuck. You’re not eavesdropping. That’s simply not what you’re doing. Though it isn’t your fault if you happen to hear Gojo as he talks into his phone, his voice low out of respect for the library but not so low that you can’t make out the conversation. “Alright, yeah, I got it. I’m not, so don’t even start. God, shut the fuck up, Suguru. I’ll be over, give me ten minutes. Ten minutes. Yeah, probably, but you’re pissing me off, so I’ll be there in ten. I’m already doing you a favour, man, so quit it before I change my mind.” You catch him rolling his eyes, his freakishly long eyelashes lifting and falling. “You owe me.” Gojo hangs up and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Hey, sorry about that. I have to go.” You look up at him with a start. “Go? You just got here! We’ve only been working for…” You glance down at the bottom right of your laptop screen. “An hour and a half?” He grins, though it’s small. “Time flies when you’re having fun.” “Neuropharmacology is hardly fun.” “No, but the company is,” he says, unplugging his mouse and rolling up his mouse pad. As he stuffs his enormous gaming laptop into whatever space remains in his bag, he continues, “I’ll text you when I’m free next.” “We hardly got anything done today,” you find yourself saying. “No thanks to your distraction.” “Mine? You continued it. If you really cared, you would have told me to shut up.” “As if you ever listen.” It’s far too easy to fall into a rhythm with him, you think begrudgingly. He’s grinning lazily, lifting his glasses with his knuckle and otherwise unmoving beside your table. You huff, turning back to your laptop. This feeling, at least, is familiar and comforting. “Whatever, Gojo. I’ll do my part as long as you do yours.” He watches you for a second longer before taking a step back. “I’ll text you.” You give him a half-hearted wave. Only when you’re positive enough time has elapsed for him to have cleared the building and maybe half the courtyard do you exhale, slumping in your chair. Your eyes flick to the library doors. No sign of white hair. You tell yourself you’re pissed, that that’s what is currently sitting in your chest and the reason for your sudden restlessness. I mean, really, who arrives late to a meeting they scheduled and then leaves early?

It’s a Friday afternoon, and he has you losing your mind over reports and Digimon, of all things. You should be at a bar. Or at home, in pajamas, catching up on backlog episodes of that new trash reality TV you’ve been binging, or having that bingsu Utahime mentioned earlier. What you should not find yourself doing is thinking about Gojo and how pretty his genuine smile is, especially when it’s directed at you. You scoff at your screen, type out a line, and then delete it. What a joke.

academic freak: jumping on !! let me know if u can work on our project now :3 you: sorry I'm out rn i can hop on at eight tonight though if you’re still free then? academic freak: no worries let’s do a video call then >< (6:43pm) You stare at his last text, have been staring at his last text ever since you left your friends, hovering your thumb over the screen, unsure. And now it was almost eight pm and you were still staring. It's not like this is the first time you’ve ever video called someone, and it’s not like he matters, but something akin to nervousness settles in your stomach. He's just your annoyingly good-looking, annoyingly smart project partner. Shoko’s childhood best friend. The guy that embarrassed you last semester. Nothing more. Still, you keep blinking at the message, at the double exclamation marks and all his stupid emoticons. academic freak: can i call u now? You flinch when the typing bubble pops up but you fail to swipe out before the message is sent, and the read receipt lights up immediately. academic freak: ? waiting for me? You groan aloud, running a hand down your face. There’s no dignified way out of this, so with a sigh, you hit call. The screen rings once, twice, and you suddenly jump up, nerves—or whatever the hell you want to call it—causing you to sweat. You should change, brush your hair maybe, fuck, you took out your contacts already. One time in third grade, someone said you looked different with glasses compared to without. What did that mean? Was the difference that extreme? Why couldn’t you see it? Would Gojo be able to tell? Before you can answer any of those questions, your phone flickers to life. “Hey,” Gojo says, grinning as his camera turns on. He’s a little too close at first, but after seeing your surprised face, he leans back and settles into view. His hair is slightly tousled, glasses perched low on his nose, the logo of the university peeking just into view on his jumper. “Hi.” You clear your throat, adjusting your phone so it sits upright on your table. “I wasn’t waiting for your text, by the way. You just messaged me just as I was about to message you. That’s all.” He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile on his face. Thankfully, he doesn’t push. “Sorry for ditching you earlier, but I’m here now.” You nod, opening your laptop on the table. As it hums to life, your eyes flick back over to your phone and trace what you can see inside his room. He has a lamp on, warm light washing over his face as he leans back into view, a lollipop in his hand, and there’s an assortment of plushies on his bed behind him. You narrow your eyes. “Is that Agumon?”

Gojo glances back, then shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “He guards my bed.” You stifle a laugh. “Still getting nightmares at your big age?” “Don’t tell me you’re too cool for plushies.” He rolls his eyes, though his face quickly splits into a grin when you pull out your own plushie, placing it comfortably on your lap, its head peeking into frame. “There we go. That’s more like it.” His praise does things to you that you don’t dare put into words. You squeeze your plushie tight. You busy yourself with opening the document, taking extra long to fiddle around with opening and closing random tabs. It’s hard to focus on one thing, you see, not when Gojo is staring at you unabashedly, cheek smushed against his hand like he has nowhere else to be. You don’t look up right away, clicking through your email, Spotify, the university site, waiting for him to get bored and finally free you from his gaze, but he doesn’t. Clearing your throat, you finally drag your gaze up to his face. “We should—” you start, but cut yourself off. “What?” “Hm?” He blinks when your eyes meet. “Why’re you staring at me like that?” Gojo lets the silence drag on for a little longer until he chuckles, dropping his head to look down at his own laptop screen. “Who said I was looking at you?” You arch a brow, glancing over your shoulder, then around your room. “Is there someone else in the room with me now?” “Ask that question again when we have a Ouija board.” He types something, and you watch the words pop up on your screen. “I was just thinking how different you are when you’re not on campus. You’re quieter, for one. Less teeth-baring.” “If you want me to insult you, you only have to ask.” He grins, eyes lazy with amusement. “See? Even that lacks any bite.” “Says you. I’m surprised you haven’t made a comment on my glasses or something,” you say, unwilling to be outdone. “And what, your messy desk?” You shove your textbooks out of frame. “I knew it.” He shrugs offhandedly, returning his attention to his laptop. You follow his lead, blinking in surprise when he doesn’t continue with another snarky comment. It’s silent again for a while. “It suits you. You look nice with your hair tied back.” Your hands fly to the back of your head and close around your claw clip, mouth hanging open as you stare at him. Gojo keeps typing like he didn’t just casually compliment you, as if he hadn’t just thrown a curveball into your carefully built defences. You swallow hard, blinking as heat creeps into your cheeks. “I… you look nice too?” You wince as soon as the words leave your mouth, though you can’t completely regret them, because they’re what finally cause him to look up at you, his hands frozen over his keyboard. Then he’s laughing, and you take back that last thought just as quickly.

“Alright, alright, let’s just work on our project,” you mumble, ducking your head. He’s still laughing, and you grit your teeth with effort. “If you keep laughing, I’m going to hang up on you.” Gojo’s laughter lingers, soft and amused, as he savours the heat on your face for a second longer before nodding. “I’ll stop, I swear.” His fingers return to the keyboard, but you catch the flicker of something like warmth—or maybe surprise—in his eyes before he lowers his head too. You take a breath and refocus on your document, with only the sounds of shuffling and keys clacking disturbing the space between the two of you. Every now and then, he asks a question about a point you’ve made, or corrects something you’ve written. His criticisms lack any heat, and you find yourself accepting his words without the usual spike in blood pressure. Every now and then, his attention slips and he starts scrolling on Twitter in another tab, his snickering making you lift your head. Gojo immediately catches the movement and flips his laptop around to show you, letting you share a laugh with him. He tells you about the Discord server he runs for hosting Digimon TCG games. You listen, asking for an invite when his voice quietens near the end, and the smile he beams at you makes your stomach flip. You tell him about your hobbies, how you’ve had to let go of piano because of your academic pursuits. He tells you he wants to hear a piece, your favourite piece to play, and you think for a moment that you might want to pick it up again. At one point, light floods across the screen and you watch as he grumbles, lifting an arm to block the sudden brightness. A voice sounds through your phone speaker distantly, and you recognise it as Geto. You hadn’t realised they were roommates. “You free tonight, Satoru? Haibara’s having a get-together in a few hours. He asked me if you wanted to come along since you ditched halfway through the—oh.” Geto’s voice trails off, as if he’s only just noticed Gojo’s pinched expression. “You’re on the phone to someone. Who? Let me see.” “It’s none of your business!” He throws you a frantic glance and you shrug. “And knock first!” “You never knock.” You hear the shuffle of someone entering the room. “And you have three friends, and I’m one of them. Is it Nanami? Shoko?” You hear Gojo’s protests as something hits the phone and it swirls, landing face-up toward his ceiling. You notice he has light-up neon stars stuck haphazardly across it. Your heart squeezes. Cute. Then a hand covers the screen and it’s a blur of black and red. “Back off, Suguru, I’m not going to Haibara’s party—” “Is that a girl?” “Hey!” There’s a whirl, and then you blink, biting your cheeks at the face suddenly staring back at you. Hesitantly, you raise a hand. “Hey, Geto.” Geto stares at you for a second before laughing, a low melody that has you shifting nervously in your seat. “Y/N? I didn’t know you and Satoru were so close. I always thought you two had this rivals thing going on—” He doesn’t finish his sentence because Gojo snatches his phone back, and you watch a tilted view of the interaction. “Tell Haibara I won’t be showing up.” “Something more important to do, Satoru?” The world shifts again as Gojo flops back onto his bed, placing you upright on his table once more. He glances sideways at his roommate, directing his words at him even as his hands work to steady his phone. “It’s not what you think. We’re working on our group project. It can’t just evolve past Rookie stage on its own.” You watch as he shoots a quick glance at you, eyes searching as if to ask, Did you catch that? You can’t help but grin a little, biting back a laugh. “Sure, that’s all. I’ll go tell Haibara you’ll come to the next one.” The light dims slightly and you assume Geto is closing the door. “You owe me.”

When the light finally fades, Gojo turns back to you with an apologetic smile. You’re thrilled to see him glance at you, then away, his hands coming up to run through his hair, an uncharacteristic shyness that makes your heart squeeze again. “Sorry about that.” “No, it’s okay. You guys seem close.” You absentmindedly rub at your chest, wondering if this is a sign of cardiovascular disease. “You two dorm together?” “We moved out together at the beginning of second year. He lived, like, three hours from campus and needed a roommate. He asked me and I said yes.” You rest your cheek on your palm, watching him through the small screen of your phone. “I never knew you two had so much history. I guess that makes sense, considering I never see you two apart.” “Hey, it’s not that bad.” “Isn’t it? Gojo and Geto, Geto and Gojo. There’s even a name for you two. Goge, though I prefer Gego.” He frowns, brows pulled together. “There’s a difference?” “Yeah,” you say, and leave it at that, unwilling to explain the difference. Reading over his last few words, you highlight them with your cursor. “Gojo, this doesn’t make sense. The rebuttal team will definitely have something to say about this.” Gojo huffs, and you watch as he backspaces the sentence. “You know, I almost miss the days when you were comfortably mediocre. Now it’s like I’m back to being ten years old and getting taught long division by my dad.” You snort, reaching for something to snap back with. Instead, you feel that sticky ball of unease in your stomach. Clearing your throat, you settle for, “What a universal experience.” He looks up at that. “What, not going to tell me to kill myself for comparing you to my dad?” “Was that an insult? You’re losing your touch.” “Says you. You don’t even seem mad.” He squints at you, and you wish your Wi-Fi would give out so he could count the pixels on his screen instead of the thoughts threatening to burst free. “You okay?” You pause, bracing for the usual deflection to leap off your tongue. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, something about the warmth wrapping around your shoulders, something about the brief glimpse into his private world that has you fidgeting to say something else. You let out a thin laugh, eyes fixed on the words on your laptop screen. “Guess I didn’t really care for grades back then.” He snorts. “Seriously? And you still beat me on that quiz that one time? You make fun of me for being a prodigy, but I fear the call is coming from inside the house.” You don’t move. “It was just luck.” “And all your nineties since then? That all luck too?” You shrug, but your mind screams the answer. Gojo frowns, as if sensing that this goes deeper. “What is this really about, Y/N?” For once, you’re thankful for his directness. When he says it like that, you find that you can’t as easily hide behind an excuse. A part of you aches to be seen, to tell someone else something that might otherwise follow you to the grave. “It’s nothing serious. I guess I’m just a little worried that I’m too late to be good at this for real.” His head tilts on-screen. “Huh?”

Heat creeps up your neck. “You know, neuroscience. I never cared about my classes until last semester because I never cared for science. But then I realised how much I liked neuroanatomy and I started trying, and it paid off. But we’re in our last year. I feel like I’ve wasted too much time.” When he doesn’t immediately say anything, you barrel on. “You’ve always been…” You gesture vaguely at him, still not meeting his eyes. “Good. Effortless. And I’m just now cramming to keep up. Like, what’s the point, you know? Maybe I’ll never catch up. Even if I do, it’s too late for it to matter. Maybe that’s why I was always annoyed at you. I wish I started caring like you did way back in first year or whenever it was that you decided you knew what to do.” You try to laugh it off, but it comes out small and brittle. Gojo doesn’t answer right away. His usual smirk is gone, replaced with something more thoughtful. Finally, he leans forward, chin resting on his palm. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You really think you’re behind me?” “Well, aren’t I?” He snorts softly, but there’s no bite to it. “You’re the one who wrote the outline to this report. You’re the one reading through and correcting everything. Half of this project looks as good as it does because of you.” Your stomach flips. “You’re exaggerating—” “I’m not.” His tone sharpens just enough to make you stop fidgeting and look up at him. His mouth is curved as if to soften the words, but his gaze is sincere, coaxing you to take in every one. “Look. Who cares when you started? You’re here now. And you’re good at it, like ridiculously good. Not because you lucked into it, but because you put in the effort. You work hard because you want this, and it shows. That’s more than most people ever figure out, even if they’ve been trying since day one.” “You don’t know that for sure.” “Don’t I?” “It’s easy for you to say. You’ve got it all figured out.” His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re serious about catching up to me?” The heat creeps back up your neck, hot flushes spreading across your back. “Forget it. Just forget everything.” “No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that.” He runs a hand through his hair, forcing the surprise back. “I thought you knew the feeling was mutual, that I’m making sure to catch up to you. If anything, you’ve been making me work harder than I ever have. If this is you ‘too late,’ then I’d say you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.” Your stomach knots at that, a mix of disbelief and something warmer curling under your ribs. You force your gaze back to the words on your screen, blinking against the sting building at the corners of your eyes. “…You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, more to your laptop than to him. Across the screen, his grin slips back into place, lazy and self-assured, but not mocking. “Ridiculously right, you mean, since you know I always am.” You shake your head, biting back the urge to argue—and to smile. This time, the silence stretches comfortably, neither of you rushing to fill it. Your cursor blinks steadily on the half-finished paragraph, but your focus is caught on the strange buoyancy in your chest, the faint echo of his words playing on repeat. When Gojo finally speaks, it’s in his usual drawl. “So, am I supposed to fix the discussion section, or are you going to keep having an existential crisis about being secretly smart?” You let out a shaky laugh, the tension finally breaking. “Shut up and start writing, Gojo.” “Yes, ma’am,” he says, already clicking away, but the small smile tugging at his mouth lingers longer than his usual jokes. You pretend not to notice how your chest feels lighter than it did a minute ago.

The weekend has slipped through your fingers quickly, leaving much to be desired, and before you know it, you’re waking before the ass crack of dawn to shuffle to the university café. The streets are empty this early out, with only the hush of the wind and the distant hiss of a bus pulling away filling the campus. Not for the first time, you regret picking up the opening shifts, and you haven’t even clocked in yet. When you look up to behold the café in all its glory, you freeze. There’s someone standing just outside, leaning against the brick wall and absentmindedly kicking a pebble along the footpath. At first, the figure is just a silhouette. But then you walk close, and the picture clarifies. Spiderman kicks another loose stone, both hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie that hides the bright blue and white design of his tight-fitted suit. He’s leaning against the wall of the cafe and you hope you’re not misunderstanding that he’s waiting for it to open. “It’s you!” you exclaim, walking faster. “You jerk, you ditched me!” Spiderman pushes off the wall in a heartbeat, body snapping upright with practised reflexes even before he lifts his head. He looks at you in silence and you take the chance to close the gap. Before he can make the smart move and leave, you’re already grabbing his hand. “You left me to talk to the police for hours after that day! Do you know how many questions I answered with ‘I don’t know’?” “Oh, great,” he mumbles, voice low and muffled by his mask. “Just what I needed. What are you doing here?” “That’s my question. I didn’t think our cafe was famous enough to be visited by a superhero. Are you checking out the student discount or something? Are you a student here too—” He cuts you off. “Guessing my identity kind of defeats the purpose of the whole masked hero thing.” You squint at him. “Can you even breathe in that?” “I’m still standing here, aren’t I?” You raise your hands in surrender. “So, what, you’re here to sightsee?” “Do you think I have the luxury for that?” When you only raise your eyebrows pointedly and shrug, he continues. “I was supposed to meet someone here.” There’s only one other person who works morning shifts. “Shoko?” Spiderman seems to pause. “The answer isn’t no.” “Shoko’s doing closing shifts now so I’ll be taking over the morning shifts. Also, you know Shoko? And she didn’t tell me?” “Secret identities will do that to you,” he groans. “I can’t believe you tortured that information out of me.” “If anything, you confirmed it out of your own volition.” He shrugs, taking a step forward as if to leave. You look over at the cafe door beside him. “You’re here for a drink, right? Give me a couple minutes to open and I’ll get started on your order for you.” He shifts, almost imperceptibly shrugging. “Forget it. You really shouldn’t be involving yourself with me.” Before he can take another step, you reach out and grab his wrist. The movement is firm enough to make him pause, though if you thought he couldn’t pull away, you’d be sorely mistaken. “Don’t be shy. Come on, get in here. I’m not letting you leave that easily again.”

He lets out a small, embarrassed noise, half sigh and half grunt, as if caught somewhere between annoyance and resignation. You tug him gently towards the door again, though the look in your eyes is nothing if not fierce. Finally, the steadiness of his stance gives way into a reluctant step and you’re able to pull him inside. The warmth of the cafe hits you immediately, a stark contrast to the brittle cold outside. Your breath stops leaving your lips as mist, the windows already dewy from the lack of ventilation inside, and the air smells like yesterday’s coffee grounds. Spiderman hovers awkwardly by the door where you’ve abandoned him, rocking on his feet. You pretend not to notice how he’s poised to bolt the moment you turn your back and for that reason, you never do. “You can sit, you know,” you say lightly, switching on the espresso machine. “You’re allowed to touch the furniture.” “I’m good here,” he mutters. “Where did all your spark go, Spiderman?” He shifts at that, his weight rocking between his feet. “You make me sound like a rescue dog.” “You’re acting like one,” you note with amusement. “You’re all twitchy and skittish. Should I put out a bowl of water? Or, better yet, you can tell me your order and I’ll get started on that for you.” He pauses. “Iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup. And a caramel rim. That’s the best part.” Your mouth hangs open, ink bleeding into the side of the cup as you try to process his words. “Are you kidding? That’s literally just pure sugar. Are you insane?” “Someone has to protect the city, sweetheart.” As if emboldened by your surprise, Spiderman walks up to the counter and leans against it, watching you reluctantly write the shorthand for his order on the cup. “And whoever is doing it needs something to keep the sleep away.” You shoot him a look as you cap the pen and get started. “When was the last time you slept?” “Two nights ago. For, like, four hours.” “You know, you should be sleeping seven to eight hours every night otherwise your brain isn’t able to clear proteins. When those accumulate they turn into the amyloid plaques and tau tangles they talk about in neurodegenerative disease.” “Oh my God,” he groans, waving your clinical concern away. “Does this cafe only hire worrywarts? Shoko never shuts up about that.” You look up sharply. “So you do know her.” His hands come up in a placating gesture. “I thought you already came to that conclusion.” “No, because you dodged it. How the fuck do you know Shoko? And why the hell has she never told me?” You let out a thoughtful hum as you create his disgusting drink. “Maybe she was embarrassed to know you.” His hands come down slightly as if baffled. “I saved your life and the only thing leaving your mouth is criticism. The public loves the suit, I’ve gotten no complaints until now.” You narrow your eyes as you reach for the syrup bottle. “So you are dodging.”

“I’m protecting the innocent. I hope you know that you also need to keep a tight lip about me.” “Spare me, Spiderman. You’re really not all that.” “You’ll be surprised.” He makes a show of stretching and flexing his muscles in the tight suit. “I’m irresistible.” You bark a short laugh despite yourself, setting the cup down harder than necessary. “One of these days you’re going to look at yourself in the mirror and reconsider why exactly you chose tight spandex as the go to material for your suit. You know what people are doing on the streets these days? Catching print.” “What’s that?” You swirl whipped cream on the top of his drink and drizzle it in caramel before forcing a dome lid on top. Plucking a straw from the dispenser, you slide that and the drink over to him. He catches it easily enough, eyes not yet looking away from you. “Here’s your drink. Next time, just get more hours of sleep instead of torturing your local barista.” He lifts his mask just enough to sip, bunching it up under his nose, and you catch the barest flash of his grin before it’s covered again. His shoulders relax, like he’s settling in despite himself. “Still good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, louder: “At least you didn’t mess it up.” “That’s the thanks I get?” You rest your elbows on the counter and lean in, your eyes narrowing at him. “This is your job, isn’t it? Why should I thank you?” “I thought since you did unpaid labour for the city, you’d know just how good a thanks feels.” He chuckles, reaching into his pockets to pay. His fingers close around his phone before freezing, the faint weight of realisation settling in. He doesn’t carry cash, and he can’t pay contactless like he usually does with Shoko, because then you’d recognise his phone case. You notice his hesitation. “Unpaid labour indeed.” “Caught me,” Spider-Man admits easily, leaning against the counter. “So, what are the chances you put this on my tab?” You laugh under your breath. “Just make sure to bring cash next time.” There’s a beat of quiet before he tips his head, considering. “Next time, huh?” You shrug, busying yourself with a rag on the counter. “Didn’t you say you needed that sugar bomb to stay awake?” “Touché,” he says, lifting the cup to take another long sip. The room falls into a quieter rhythm, the hum of the machines filling the silence. You watch as he lingers by the counter, fingers drumming against the cup as he enjoys his drink. It’s surreal seeing him so close, joking like he’s just any other person and not some masked figure who swings through the city on webs. You speak up again when the silence drags on a little longer and you begin to worry that the moment might get interrupted by another customer. “You gonna stand there all day or actually do some superheroing?” He makes a thoughtful noise. “Depends. Doesn’t seem like there are any damsels in distress right now.” “Oh, really? Well, I still need some floors mopped and napkins restocked, so—hey!” Before you can blink, he’s already tugging his hood back up and slipping towards the door, the same restless energy in his shoulders that he came in with. “And that’s my cue to leave.” “Don’t forget,” you call after him. “Cash next time!” He lifts a hand without turning, a half-wave, half-promise, before opening the door. He flicks his wrist towards the nearest streetlight and, with a tug, shoots forward with a burst of speed that leaves you blinking, impressed. “Show-off,” you mumble fondly, a small smile tugging at your lips as the door swings closed behind him. His presence is quickly forced to the back of your mind as another customer walks in, and you fall back into the familiar rhythm of your work.

The opening shift quickly becomes the bane of your existence. The grumpy customers clicking in for their own early mornings, the rush of orders that arrives before you’ve even fully woken, the relentless beep of the espresso machine—it all feels like a punishment for having the audacity to leave your warm bed before the sun has even risen. And yet, despite the predictable chaos and your own bleary-eyed resentment, you can’t stop the small smile that tugs at your lips as you hop off the bus. The front of the cafe is quiet when you step up and shove the keys in, though you know that calm won’t last long. A sudden movement behind you makes your stomach tighten, and a voice murmurs close to your ear. “I thought the cafe opens at six.” You turn to see Spiderman hanging upside down, both hands holding onto his web, feet pressed together to keep balance. “It does,” you say in lieu of greeting. “Really? So why did you only get here at 6:13am?” You roll your eyes and turn back around to let you both in. The masked vigilante lets go of his web and smoothly drops down, sauntering in behind and catching the door when you let go. “I could report you for tardiness, you know. And being mean to your customers.” “I didn’t know you were a snitch,” you tease back. “What can I say? I care about the university’s upkeep,” he says as he leans against the counter to watch you start up the shop. Ignoring his gaze on your back, you begin to multitask, one hand grabbing a cup to get started on his drink while the other flicks on switches. The whir of grinders hum to life, filling the space between you. “Another deathly sweet drink for you I’m assuming?” “Someone has to keep this city up and running.” There’s a brief silence as the espresso machine whirs and you do your job. You recall the first few times this unexpected customer had dropped by, the tension between the two of you neither friends nor strangers, and how his face had seemingly dropped when you slid his drink across the counter the moment he walked in. “Oh,” Spiderman had started, the whites of his mask flicking from you to the cup. “You already made this for me?” “Yeah. Unless you’re planning to grab something new today.” His fingers had curled around the cup, mumbling something that sounded like, “No, that’s fine. This is fine.” He had hesitated by the counter until you urged him to pay. He did, albeit slowly, and when he even stalled after the money had passed into your hands, you giggled. “I’m not going to kick you out just because you have your drink now. You can stay. I like talking to you when I open.” His face had immediately brightened, or at least you assume so from the way his head shot up and the grip on his cup tightened almost imperceptibly.

Since then, Spiderman has taken it upon himself to stay throughout the duration of making his drink, and thirty minutes after that too. “You know,” he muses now, conversational and casual. “I feel like you know more about me than I know about you. You know how I like my drinks, my work, my name. Which is terrible because I’m the one with the secret hidden identity.” You roll your eyes, lifting the steamer to pour into a cup with his superhero name on it, something he had insisted you do when you once poured his drink into an empty, unmarked cup, saying the true cafe experience included a named cup. So, in order to give him said full experience, you spell his name wrong every time. Today, it’s ‘Spy x Derman’. “You also know where I work,” you say, topping his disgusting drink with cream and another drizzle of sweet sticky syrup. “And my name. But honestly, it’s your fault for being so naive and open.” “I’m trying to say I want to know more about you.” “And I’m trying to tastefully deflect the conversation elsewhere.” He chuckles. “What harm is there if you tell me something? It doesn’t have to be anything crazy. This isn’t a first date.” “Hey, that’s my line.” You stick a paper straw into the lid and slide his drink over the counter. He catches it with ease, not breaking eye contact to take a sip. “Fine, I’ll bite. What do you want to know? He shrugs, looking around the place. “Surprise me. I wouldn’t even know where to start. “Well, first of all, I’m a normal person. Which means my coffee order isn’t diabetes in a cup. “Tell me your order, then.” You’re surprised to see him so interested in something so mundane and useless. “I guess I usually get a vanilla soy latte. Oh, but if they have matcha or something, I’d get that instead.” He hums. “Personally, I usually get an iced matcha chai with vanilla cold foam and brown sugar syrup with a caramel rim.” You laugh, wiping up the counter after yourself as you’ve been trained to do. “I never asked, and yes, Spiderman, I know. Trust me, it hurts my pure barista hands to make your drink every time.” He chuckles softly with you, eyeing you, toying with the paper straw in his mouth. You know that in about ten minutes, if he stays that long, he’ll start complaining about how the paper has already begun to deteriorate in his mouth, and you will be his unwilling recipient for the venting. When he opens his mouth to speak next, you brace yourself for an onslaught of surprisingly childish whining.“So, any plans this week?” he asks, leaning over the counter. You wonder if it would be a workplace hazard to invite him to the other side.

You catch onto his words after a few blinks. “Not really? I guess I have an assessment due next week so I’ll be grinding for that.” You pause, assuming the silence that follows after is because he’s waiting for more. “You?”

“The usual. Saving cats from trees, escorting senior citizens across pedestrian crossing, the typical.”

“Does that actually happen? Cats getting stuck in trees?”

He shrugs. “Not really. If anything, it’s usually street poles they find themselves in. Anyway, so you’re otherwise free this week? Say, super random day that means absolutely nothing—Tuesday?”

You pause, taking in his faux innocence. He even makes a show of looking at his nails as if he could see them through the fabric of his white gloves. “I mean, I guess I am, for the most part. Why?”

He straightens a little, looking over at the dessert display. “No reason.”

You narrow your eyes at him, a little wary. “Are you sure? I feel like you wouldn’t ask that question unless there was something going on.” “No, I’m just wondering what the average citizen’s schedule looks like.” “Oh, really?” You clean off the steamer with an unimpressed look. “Verdict?” “Boring!” He stretches out the word, loud in the acoustics of the near empty cafe. “Do you even know how to have fun?” You scoff, wiping your hands on a nearby towel before leaning against the counter to talk to him. Somewhere along the way, the distance between the two of you has shrunk and you find yourself gravitating towards him. He stays on the other side, lifting up his mask as he usually does to take a sip. “It’s not my fault the exam period is coming up,” you say, trying to subtly memorise the bottom of his face without seeming weird. “And I definitely do know how to have fun. “Right, sure you do. What do you do for fun, then?” You bite the inside of your cheeks. “You first.” “Need time to think?” “This is so unfair, you can literally fly! Obviously what I do for fun isn’t going to be as fun as leaping through the air and shooting webs from your wrists!” “Not with that attitude you won’t. But come on, humour me a little. Tell me what you usually do in your free time.” “Are we on a bad first date right now? What’s happening?” “Deflect all you want but I’m immune to it by now. Come on, just tell me,” he coaxes you with a grin, straw between his teeth. “Do you, again super random and means nothing at all, go to anime related events?” You narrow your eyes at him slightly. “I guess I do.” “Okay.” He looks around as if inspecting the interior design. “Have you heard about that thing that’s happening at the main city library?” You, in fact, have. “Sure. I saw the post on their Insta.” “Was that something you wanted to check out?” “With… you?” Spiderman laughs like you’ve said something particularly funny. “You’re joking right? Obviously not with me. Spiderman doesn’t do outings, sweets.” “Forgive me for assuming that when you literally asked me when I would be free mere minutes ago.” “I told you, I’m just curious about what normal people get up to.” You eye him, noting how relaxed he now seems and how there’s a silence that drags out after his last words. “Were there any more questions you wanted to ask, or just the one about when I’m free and if I wanted to check out the shounen showcase at the library?” “No, that was it.” You nod, slowly. “Right.” The quiet stretches, just the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft drumming of his fingers against the counter as he muses over your previous words. You roll your eyes and straighten, turning to fiddle around and move forward with the transition of shooing him away.

Just as you’re about to tell him to go do his job or something, the doorbell chimes and you look up instinctively like an activated sleeper agent, plastering a smile on your face to greet the customer. It hasn’t been long since you started morning shifts but it was rare for anyone to show up within the ten minutes you open. You spare Spiderman a glance as if to tell him to leave, but he’s not looking at you. A man stumbles in, unsteady on his feet, eyes darting around like there’s someone watching him from the corners. At first, you assume he’s simply clumsy or perhaps nursing a killer hangover so you steel yourself for a tricky conversation. “Good morning, what can I get started for you today?” you start, looking him up and down subtly to see if he’s a member of the university staff or a stranger who has somehow wandered onto campus. The man slams his hand down on the counter and you jump, heart skipping. Up close, you can make out the sweat beading on his pale forehead and the way his lips move like he’s saying something, though no sound leaves his dry lips. You try again. “Sir?” “Coffee,” he rasps. You force another polite smile because of course you want a coffee from a cafe, don’t waste my time, and reach for a cup. “Of course. Would that be a cappuccino or latte or something else?” Instead of answering you, his head jerks to the side as if hearing a conversation you can’t. In doing so, his eyes meet Spiderman’s and they widen almost comically, his body jerking away. Spiderman stiffens, shoulders tensing as he shoots the customer an incredulous look. “Woah, chill. It’s just me.” The man staggers back another step, chest heaving, breath rattling like something is crawling up his throat. You frown. “Sir, you’re looking a little pale. Maybe you should sit down and—” His head snaps toward you so sharply you swear you hear the crack of his vertebrae. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, fix onto you with a sudden intensity that makes you pause. His lips peel back from his teeth into a nasty snarl, and you realise with a cold shiver that he is talking to himself. You quickly correct yourself. He wasn’t talking to himself, but to something else. The man’s head jerks to the side again, harder this time. “Won’t stop… won’t stop talking…” You swallow. “I mean, it’s kind of my job to ask you.” His answer comes out distorted, two voices overlapping. “We said leave him alone!” His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws.

His hand suddenly shoots out, slamming into the counter so hard the marble cracks. A slick, black sheen ripples up his arm, coating his fingers like tar before forming claws. You stumble back, dropping the cup in your hands and making a sharp noise that has the man turning to you, eyes pitch-black. “Um, Spiderman?” you whisper, hands clutching the side of the counter as you back away from the man. “Want to do your job or…?” Before you can even process what’s happening, the man lunges across the counter at you, knocking over your carefully stacked paper cups. You make an embarrassing sound, half-surprise, half-protest as you instinctively attempt to back away though it’s not enough considering the feral determination the man has in reaching you. In a blur, Spiderman leaps and lands on his hands and feet on the ceiling, flinging his arm toward you to latch a web around your torso. He yanks you to him, the world tilting for a fraction of a second as the web wraps around your arms and pins them to your side. The momentum spins you round and round until you finally settle, slowly rotating. Blood rushes to your head and a nearby crash makes you jolt, eyes widening to pinpoint the danger. Turns out, Spiderman has wrapped you in a cocoon of web and left to dangle like a pinata from the ceiling. “Hey!” you protest, struggling against the web. The movement only causes you to spin around and you hastily jerk your body to the side to watch the scene. “Let me down!” Spiderman drops to the floor, one hand splayed across the ground, the other tense and alert in the air. He momentarily breaks his focus to give you a double take. “What the—I’m keeping you safe. Stop wiggling!” You can hear it then, the sound the man’s making. Not quite a growl, at least not a human one, but a low, guttural rasp that vibrates through his chest. Panic and fear only grow within you, and you struggle with a little more determination to get down and run for the hills, when the man emerges from behind the counter. He lunges again, this time faster, propelled by a strength that is definitely not human. Black tendrils burst from his back, flinging chairs aside like toys. Spiderman dodges easily, flipping over a table and ducking behind it, firing a web that snaps against the man’s shoulder. It doesn’t hold. The black substance simply absorbs it, melting it away like cotton candy in a river. “Okay,” Spiderman mutters, kicking the table into the man too and watching as he easily smacks it away. “That’s new.” The creature lets out a distorted laugh. “Spiderman,” it sneers. “That’s me. Have we met before?” Spiderman doesn’t wait for an answer, slinging a web at the man’s wrist and yanking him hard into the counter. The espresso machine crumbles under the intense weight and puffs out a powerful blast of steam as it malfunctions. The figure avoids the steam with a sharp hiss, black tendrils catching from the bulk of the fall and throwing himself back up, grabbing onto the mini fridge display and hurling it back at the superhero. You gasp when you rotate to face the chaos. “You’re wrecking my cafe!” “Seriously? That’s what you’re focusing on right now?”  Spiderman shoots back, ducking. “File an insurance claim or something!” He swings a chair into the side of the figure and you watch mournfully. “My chairs…”

“Again, there might be bigger things to worry about!” A giant fist surges forward from the black gunk oozing down his chest and knocks Spiderman back. The superhero lets out a punched-out gasp, slamming into the wall of the cafe and knocking down some purely-for-interior-design-aesthetic fake coffee bean bags. Spiderman tries to sling himself onto the arm and swing around, but the substance only consumes the webbing, swallowing it before it can take hold. “Spiderman!”  You twist uselessly in your cocoon, the web binding your arms tight to your sides. Your brain scrambles for something, anything that could possibly help. Your eyes lock onto the man as its gooey limbs swell and stretch, pulsing with inhuman strength. Another fist forms, held back in the air as if winding up, clearly aimed at the gasping Spiderman on the cafe floor. “Is this another tactic of yours? I think you fight better on both feet!” Spiderman spits blood through the cuts of his mask. “Yeah,” he wheezes, “That’s the plan.” The fist hands there for one awful second, huge and glistening and very much about to redecorate the floor with Spiderman’s internal organs. Your gaze snaps wildly around the cafe, desperate for anything useful beyond the humiliating fact that you are currently trussed up. You make a mental note of everything, the counter, syrup bottles, cups, broken glass, ruined pastries, the espresso machine wheezing its last breath in the corner, split open and spitting angry jets of steam every few seconds. “Spiderman!” you blurt. Spiderman, still flat on his back and one near-death experience away from becoming part of the floor plan, tilts his head weakly. “Can this wait? I’m in the middle of something.” “The espresso machine!” “What about it? Do you want a latte before I die?” “The steam, you idiot!” The creature finally slams its fist down, cracking the granite flooring and thankfully not squishing a spider. The superhero rolls onto his side with a pained hiss, flicking his wrist to wrap web around the nuzzle of the steamer. “Okay,” he starts. “And how do I use this exactly?” The man quickly regains its bearings and starts for Spiderman again as the superhero uselessly fiddles with the steam wand. You jerk in your cocoon. “The knob! Turn the silver knob on the side!” Spiderman slaps the wrong thing and a burst of frothy milk sprays across the counter and onto the floor. “Is that it?” “The other one!” He twists the correct knob just as the creature lunges. The machine screams as it blasts a vicious plume of steam straight forward. You watch as he yanks the steamer around at the last second, aiming it right into the thing’s chest and face. The black mass recoils with a horrible, scraping cry that makes you wince, and begins to peel back from the man’s skin in a movement not unfamiliar to you. The tendrils make one last feral swish, slamming into shelves and sending coffee beans, ceramic mugs, and one very expensive grinder crashing to the ground.

Spiderman cranks the wand harder, and the machine gives one final screech before coughing out another blast of steam. The goo convulses, writhing up the man’s neck and shoulders almost as if hesitating. The man underneath drops to his knees gasping, his face finally visible beneath the slick black sheen. Spiderman doesn’t hesitate and fires a web at the industrial kettle behind the counter, yanking it straight off the shelf and hurls it at the goo. The kettle smashes into only the creature and bursts with boiling water, prompting the symbiote to let out another inhuman sound before tearing free and sliding away. For a few seconds, all you hear is your own pulse in your ears. Spiderman staggers to his feet, a faux-casualness to his posture that is betrayed entirely by the way his eyes never leave the man. “Okay,” he pants. “Crisis averted.” You glare down at him from your cocoon, still swaying gently. “Did you have to take out half the café to do so?” “It was a necessary evil.” When the man doesn’t move, Spiderman finally relaxes and places his hands on his hips, letting out a slow exhale. “Jesus, that really sucked. The worst part is, even after all of that, the real enemy still managed to escape. But no casualties, no broken bones this time, and I saved a citizen. I’d call that a job well done.” He grins up at you. You pull your lips into a smile. “Great. I’m so happy for you. Can you please get me down now?” Spiderman tilts his head thoughtfully. “True. This isn’t your best angle.” “Spiderman.” “Alright, alright.” He fires a quick web and you drop. Before you can scream, he catches you in his arms and starts cutting through the web with a small knife. “You okay?” he asks softly, his mouth ghosting the shell of your ear. You nod, your heartbeat still racing from it all. When he pulls away, the webs falling off you like they had never clung to you at all, the two of you survey the café. Distantly, you hear the cry of multiple sirens. “What is that thing, seriously?” you whisper. If you had a penny for every time you had come face to face with an ooey, gooey monster, you’d have two pennies—which wasn’t a lot, but it was strange that this had happened twice. You turn to Spiderman for answers, but he looks just as blank.

“I think it’s something like a symbiote. Takes over a human host and all that, like a parasite.” Catching your frightened look, Spiderman straightens. “Hey, don’t look so glum. You handled that better than most.” “I’d rather never be in the position to find that out in the first place.” He reaches over and ruffles your hair playfully, ignoring both the involuntary wince that escapes him as he raises his arm and your feeble protests. “You did great. The steam idea saved us.” “The steam… the espresso machine!” You hastily pull away to look around the café again, this time properly taking in the damage. “You broke everything!” “I saved your life?” he offers, edging away subtly. “My manager is going to have my head!” As if on cue, you feel a vibration against your thigh. Reaching down into your pocket for your phone, you read through the notifications with a growing sense of dread. manager: ?? what’s going on why am i seeing a news reporter outside my cafe why am i seeing it on the news right now why is the door off its hinges is that a hole in my window? y/n pick up You wince. “Spiderman, mind explaining to my manager what happened—Spiderman?” When you turn around, you’re met with nothing, just the sight of tables and chairs on their side and the glass of the window shattered. The sirens get closer and something like deja vu creeps in. “You fucking jerk!”

you: hey!! so ik ure oh so busy but i think we should meet up to rehearse our speech before we present r u free 12pm today?

toru: woahhh u texted first ?!

you: and probably meet at the library oh what the hell u replied so fast

toru: maybe i was waiting for ur text all day

you: wait why did i grimace anyway are u down?

toru: sure i’ll try! meet u at our usual table ><

You climb the stairs up to the library, chuckling softly at the memory of Gojo’s texts. Surprisingly, Gojo is already sitting in his seat when you arrive. He pauses his typing and pulls down one side of his headphones, looking over his shoulder at you. His eyes light up and you offer him a small wave, watching as he responds enthusiastically.

“You didn’t stand me up.”

You chuckle drily, pulling out your seat beside him and sitting down. “What is this, some bad first date?”

Gojo grins like you’ve said something particularly funny. “Is that your go-to line or something?”

“What?”

“Oh, uh. Nothing.” He looks away, swiping his finger across the trackpad.

When he doesn’t say anything else, you take it as your cue to take out your things, still eyeing him. “Didn’t bring your mouse today?”

“You remembered?”

You make a face at his sudden hopeful expression. “You’re being weird.”

He slumps back into his chair. “Yeah, I gave myself the ick. I’m just nervous.”

“About?”

He hums, looking away at the rest of the library. “Stuff.”

You let that sit for a moment, then try to steer things back toward the reason you’re both here. For a while, you make a decent attempt at studying. You open your laptop, pull up your notes, ask him a question about the assessment that he answers after a beat too long. But it quickly becomes obvious that whatever is making him weird hasn’t gone away. He keeps glancing down at his notes only to stare straight through them, then out the window, then back at his laptop. Every few seconds he finds a new way to fidget: tapping his pen, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting in his chair, bouncing his leg under the table.

By the time he starts clicking his pen open and shut, you give up pretending not to notice. You lean back slightly and raise an eyebrow at him. “Something else you’d rather be doing?”

He stills at once, like he’s been caught. “Maybe,” he admits after a second. “Kind of.”

You narrow your eyes. “Kind of?”

Gojo huffs out a breath and glances at you, then away again. “Okay, don’t laugh, but there’s this shounen manga pop-up showcase at the central library right now. And I thought—since we’ve talked about Digimon and all that stuff—maybe you’d want to go check it out with me.”

You blink. “Go together?”

He scratches the back of his head, suddenly finding the edge of his laptop intensely interesting. “I mean, yeah. Not like a date or anything. Just as friends. Or whatever. We’ve both been staring at the same five pages for the last twenty minutes, so I thought maybe we could take a break before coming back. I heard they’ve got themed pastries at the ground floor café too, and I’m pretty sure there’s a huge stand of that one character you like.”

You can’t help but laugh softly. “Friends, huh? Alright, sure. Sounds like fun.” The relief that flashes across his face is immediate and almost embarrassingly obvious. He leans back in his chair, grinning so widely it’s hard not to laugh again. “Really? Alright, cool. Cool. Friends. Totally casual.” He slams his lid close and starts shoving it into his case. You blink before mirroring his gesture with your own belongings. “Oh, you meant right now?” He looks up, already halfway done packing.“Is there any better time than the present?” There probably is, considering you had both technically come here to study, but the fond exasperation that thought should bring never fully arrives. Instead, you find yourself closing your laptop too, slipping your charger back into your bag as he waits with barely restrained excitement. If you told the version of yourself from a few months ago that you’d willingly abandon studying to follow Gojo somewhere, you would’ve laughed in your own face. But the walk turns out to be fun. More than fun, actually. He talks the whole way, hands moving animatedly as he jumps between topics and drags you along with him, and by the time the central library comes into view, you’re almost disappointed the walk was so short. Gojo’s eyes are bright as the automatic doors slide open. He looks almost boyish like this, all open excitement and easy chatter, and you’re still watching him when that expression falters. You follow his gaze around the corner and toward the signs for the display, your own smile quickly dropping. It’s underwhelming, to put it lightly. A small corner of the library has been cordoned off, just a few tables with stacked manga, a sparse display of badges pinned to a board against the wall, and a few posters of famous shounen series plastered against the nearby walls. Gojo slows, his shoulders slumping as the excitement drains from him. “Oh. Uh.” He takes in the scene though, it doesn’t take long due to the size of the exhibit. “It’s… smaller than I thought.” “That’s what she said.” You glance at him, trying to mask your own surprise at the tiny setup. “Hey, it’s okay. Maybe there’s more elsewhere!” He follows you like a lost puppy as you explore the nearby areas, though it quickly becomes clear there’s nothing more than the original display. Even the café at the entrance is lacking. It only has one themed dessert, and it’s a poorly designed cake pop of Happy from Fairy Tail, his tiny round chocolate eyes seemingly staring off to the side where a normal chocolate chip cookie sits. Gojo winces at the cake pop and you offer to buy it for him. He shakes his head, hesitant to separate it from the cookie since it seems like it wants it so badly. When your feet circle back to the pathetic tables, even you struggle to stay upbeat. He shakes his head, a small, defeated grin forming. “Man, that sucks. I guess I just imagined it being a little more… epic. You know, life-sized statues, endless merch, chaos everywhere, not”—he gestures to the badges—“badges.”

“Badges can be cool,” you try, tracing the edge of one. “There are only badges of all the mainstream anime,” he mumbles, coming up to stand beside you. Due to the tiny display, you’re shoulder to shoulder, your arm brushing his. “God, this fucking sucks. My bad, Y/N. I was hoping we could look at all the manga together, but all I managed to do was waste your time. We can just go back to the library and continue studying.” You frown at his dejected tone, and when you look over, he’s pouting. His shoulders are slumped, his hands absentmindedly fidgeting with a badge, spinning it back and forth with no real interest, and his lips are jutted out in an almost cartoonish pout. When his eyes shift at your attention, you quickly look away and hope he didn’t catch the slight quiver of your lips. Then, before you can think better of it, you grab a badge off the display and pin it to his chest. When he starts to look down, you lift his chin with your finger instead. He blinks at you, owlish, and you can’t help but smile at the clueless look in his eyes. “Ask me a yes-or-no question,” you say. “To try and guess what character’s badge I just pinned on you. C’mon, I bet you won’t get it.” For a moment, you think your forced enthusiasm has put him off and that he won’t play along. But then he suddenly scoffs, his lips tugging up. “Are they a girl?” “No.” It’s contagious and you find yourself smiling back. He purses his lips, and you recognise the signature glint in his eyes when he’s concentrating. He hums, thinking a little more seriously. “Is the series he’s from released before 2020?” “Yes.” “Is he part of a trio?” “Seriously? We’re talking about shounen right now. Almost every shounen series has a trio.” You giggle. “But no, he isn’t.” He rolls his eyes. “Is the character the main character of the series?” “No, but I’d say a lot more people like this character over the actual main character.” “Is he from a sports anime?” “No.” “Could he be in a sports anime?” That catches you off guard and you scrunch your face up in thought. “I honestly can’t imagine him doing any sport. He might be a perma-benched player that’s only there for strategy.” “Is he, like, a mentor character?” You pout a little at how on-the-nose his question is. “Yes.” “Does he have powers?” “Yes.” He clicks his fingers. “Ah. Does he have a signature weapon?” “Well, he uses a gun often, but his powers aren’t related to his weapon of choice.”

“So his powers aren’t offensive?” “Exactly.” He hums, a smile growing on his face. “Is the manga based in the modern era?” “Yes.” “Is he dead?” “No, but there was a moment when everyone was freaking out because it almost seemed like he was dead.” “Brown hair?” “Yes.” Gojo clicks his fingers in realisation. “Okay, I’ve got it. Is it Dazai?” He might as well have shouted eureka. His face brightens, hanging on your next words to confirm or deny his victory. You giggle, nodding, and the smile he gives you is full of childlike wonder. “Close your eyes. It’s your turn.” You do so. “I bet I can guess it with fewer questions than you.” He snorts. “You’re on.” A few customers shoot you dirty looks when they walk past, clearly not appreciating your giggles as you and Gojo take turns playing your own chopped version of celebrity heads. Time seems to pass quickly over laughter and jokes until you finally reach up to unpin the latest badge to place it back. He stops you, hands covering yours. “Let me buy that for you,” he says with a lingering smile. You raise an eyebrow but let him take it off your hands. “Who said I even want this?” “Come on, it’ll be like we’re matching.” “They’re not even from the same series.” “Not to anyone else,” he muses, thumb stroking the front of the badge like it’s something precious. “But we'll know they’re connected and that’s good enough to call them matching.” You turn away, suddenly far too aware of the warmth rising to your face. Clearing your throat, you gesture toward the manga shelves down the aisle. “Let’s go see what else they’ve got. Sure, we came for the pop-up, but we’re still in a library.” He follows after you, noticeably lighter on his feet than before, and you let out a small sigh of relief. Then, almost immediately, you berate yourself for the tiny flutter in your chest. Why does that even matter? you scold yourself, brushing the feeling aside. Before you can dwell on it for too long, he pinches your sleeve and tugs you gently toward him when your pace slows. “Have you read this?” “Not yet,” you admit, though a small smile creeps onto your face at the sight of his enthusiasm. Without missing a beat, he launches into an animated explanation of the series, waving his hands as he talks. Sometimes it feels like he’s speaking more with his fingers than with actual words, sketching out invisible diagrams in the air as he links characters and plot points together. His sentences tumble over each other as he rambles about character motivations, why one of them is a complete fraud, and why the plot veers dangerously close to deus ex machina territory, only cutting himself off with an apologetic smile right before he spoils something major.

“And I swear the author gave up halfway through the series. The manga finished in 2023, by the way, but I think by the end he’d already landed a deal for a spin-off and started putting all his effort into that instead. You know what I saw on Twitter recently? People were hyping up this one line like it was amazing foreshadowing, but it’s not even good foreshadowing because, come on, the final fight was so cheap. Like when—” He stops himself abruptly. “Oh, wait. You can’t know that yet.” You nod along, trying to keep up with the flood of names, locations, and arc points that mean absolutely nothing to you, but the sheer energy in his voice is contagious. Somehow, it’s impossible to be annoyed or bored when he’s like this, completely in his element. Eventually, you stop trying to follow every detail. Instead, your attention drifts to him. The way his hair keeps falling into his eyes, forcing him to run a hand through his bangs only for them to slip right back into place seconds later. The way his brows knit together when he rants, only to lift again the moment he gets to a part he genuinely loves. Despite the noise of the busy library, his voice rises above everything else, clear and captivating, demanding your attention without even trying. It’s almost impressive how quickly his mouth keeps up with his thoughts. You squint slightly, watching the shape of his lips around each word just to confirm that yes, it really is him speaking that fast and not some video playing in the background. You realise a second too late that he’s stopped talking. You blink and look up at him. His brows are furrowed, though not in the same way as before, and you hate that you now know the difference. “Uh, you still with me?” You blink a few more times, then shake your head slightly as if to clear the haze. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” Gojo tilts his head, clearly amused. “Really? Because you look a little dazed.” Heat rushes to your face and you quickly drop your gaze to the manga in his hands, as if that had always been the focus of your attention. “Yeah, of course I was listening. Something about deus ex machina, right?” He snorts softly. “I finished talking about the ending minutes ago. You don’t have to pretend if you weren’t paying attention.” You roll your eyes, hoping your embarrassment isn’t as obvious as it feels. “Fine. Maybe I got a little distracted.” His grin widens at that, though it softens around the edges as he steps a little closer. “Distracted, huh? By what?” You hesitate, heart doing something strange at the way he’s looking at you. “Nothing.” “Really?” “Really,” you shoot back. “Alright then,” he concedes, though the glint in his eyes never fades. “I guess I’ll just have to step up my explanations next time so you don’t get distracted again.” He slides the manga carefully back onto the shelf, nudging the surrounding volumes aside to make room and making sure none of the pages bend as he slots it into place. There has to be something wrong with you, because even that small gesture makes warmth bloom in your chest. You make a mental note to check the series out when you get home. Gojo turns back to you and gestures for you to lead the way. “Your turn.” He listens as you tell him about one of your favourite manga series, and the embarrassment of getting caught fades quickly as you explain exactly why it’s a masterpiece. When it’s his turn again, you make a conscious effort to pay attention and not drift off into another daydream. So when he asks if you were actually listening this time, you huff and answer every one of his questions with ease.

He grins at you like you’ve handed him the world. Eventually, the two of you leave the library with less merch than you’d expected walking in, but with two badges that mean more than you’d ever dare admit. He doesn’t fasten his onto the front of his bag with the rest of his pins and accessories, mumbling something about wanting to keep it safe, so you keep yours in your pocket instead, your thumb brushing over its smooth surface as you walk. You expect him to call it a day after that, maybe peel off with some excuse about having things to do, but instead he tugs lightly on your sleeve. “C’mon.” “Where?” “Cafe run. My treat.” You raise a brow. “Since when do you buy me coffee?” “Since you saved this disaster of a day,” he says matter-of-factly, already steering you toward the street with a hand at your shoulder. “Besides, it’d be cruel not to feed you after I made you listen to my manga rants for hours.” You snort, but you don’t fight him on it. The truth is, coffee does sound nice, even if you remain slightly mystified by the idea of going with Gojo of all people. You frown a little when the thought doesn’t leave you disgusted. You’re still mulling over the drink options when Gojo steps up to the counter to order. “Can I get an iced matcha latte—” He cuts himself off awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just an iced matcha latte, thanks. Oh, and a vanilla soy latte.” You eye him as he thanks the cashier, pays, and nods toward the waiting area. Seeing no reason not to follow, you move to stand beside him again. “Are you drinking two drinks?” “Stupid.” He pokes your forehead in a way that, annoyingly, you can’t bring yourself to hate. “One of them is for you.” “The… vanilla latte?” “Yeah.”You dip your head, trying to catch his eye. “Why aren’t you looking at me all of a sudden?”

He shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the blank wall behind the counter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You study him for a second before letting out a small laugh. “Well, you got lucky. That’s kind of my go-to order. How did you know?”

“I guess you just look like you’d want something like that.”

You stare at him. “Oh yeah? I just have the look of someone who likes vanilla lattes?”

He only hums in response.

You frown a little as you take him in properly: the way he rocks back and forth on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets, trying very hard to look unaffected. All he needs is a whistle to sell the act. Thankfully, one of the cashiers calls out his number, and he eagerly slips away to collect the drinks.

When he comes back, he hands you the vanilla latte. You take it with a small thanks, then pause as something occurs to you. “Oh. Send me your bank details. I’ll transfer you for the merch and the coffee,” you say, already reaching for your phone. When he doesn’t mirror the gesture, you look up. “It’s fine. I got it.” “What? No way. I don’t want to owe you anything.” “You don’t owe me anything,” he says. “I got it for you because I wanted to.” Slowly, you take your hand back out of your bag. “You did? That doesn’t sound like you.” “I would’ve thought you’d know me a little better after today,” Gojo says, finally looking at you with a smile. Then he gestures toward the door. “Come on. You’ll miss the bus back to the dorms.” “You’re being very weird, you know.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says with the kind of smile that only proves your point. He brushes past you, not unkindly, and takes the lead toward the bus stop. You stare at his back for a moment before letting out an amused huff and hurrying after him. “So you’re a matcha person, huh? How performative.” “Please. I liked matcha before it was cool.” “So you’re claiming to be an OG, then? Quick, name every matcha brand.” “That would take forever. I can tell you where this one came from, though.” Gojo takes a sip of his drink and hums in exaggerated thought. “This matcha was ground from the soils of Shizuoka Prefecture. I can even give you the row and column of the specific tea leaves used to make this drink.” You snort. “What is it then?” “32C, 82G.” “Are we playing Battleships?” The two of you share a short laugh at the bit, and the thought hits you strangely hard: you never imagined one day you’d be joking around like this with Gojo of all people. By the time you reach the station, the two of you stop beneath the shelter. “What number are you catching?” you ask, pulling out your phone to check the bus times. “Oh, I’m not catching the bus. I take the train.” You look up at him, incredulous. “What? Then why are you here?” He tilts his head, straw slipping from his mouth as he looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “To make sure you get on the bus safe, obviously. It’s fine, I’m already here anyway. I’ll just wait with you until it comes.” “That’s… actually really nice of you.” Gojo shrugs. “I guess I just really care about the wellbeing of others.” “Wow. Your compassion for helping citizens would go crazy on a superhero résumé.” He laughs, though the sound comes out slightly off somehow, enough that you notice even if you can’t place why. “What? That’s insane. You think I’d make a good superhero? Me? That’s ridiculous. I’m a clutz and a nerd and hardly cut out for the whole saving-the-world thing.” You think back to the cricket incident and giggle softly. “Don’t count yourself short. I think you’re a lot more capable than you give yourself credit for, Gojo.” At that, he turns his head quickly and takes a sharp sip of his drink. “Satoru.”

“Hm?” You look up at him, wondering if the slight flush at the tips of his ears has anything to do with the late afternoon sun. “Everyone calls me Satoru but you,” he says, still not looking at you. “You might as well just call me Satoru too. It’s weird if you don’t.” It takes a few seconds for the words to fully sink in. By then, he only seems to shrink further into himself, taking long, noisy pulls from his straw. By the time you recover enough to smirk, his cup is almost entirely ice. You lean in slightly, trying to catch his eye. “What a cheesy thing to say. Don’t tell me you’re—” The rest dies on your tongue when he finally glances down at you. The same pink tint at his ears has spread across his cheeks. He frowns despite it, brows drawing together. “Forget it. I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.” He pulls the straw from his mouth and shakes the cup for more drink, only for the ice to rattle uselessly. With visible annoyance, he takes the shot and tosses the empty cup into the bin. “Sorry for dragging you all the way out here today. Your bus is probably coming soon, so I’ll head off—” You gape at him. “Wait!” He freezes and turns back slightly. “Going to tease me? Save it for tomorrow.” “No,” you say quickly. “I was just surprised you wanted me to call you by your first name. I thought you hated me.” “Me?” he scoffs, turning around fully now. “You have to be joking.” “I’m serious,” you insist. “You were awful to me. I mean, you literally went out of your way to embarrass me when we barely knew each other.” He runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “Yeah, I know. I was… bad at that. I never hated you, Y/N. I just didn’t know what to do with you.” “The moment you start making sense, the world is going to end. I’m sure of it.” He laughs quietly, then looks at you again. “I’m trying to say that when you showed up and started showing me up, beating me and everything, I got a little intimidated. And maybe you were right all along, but I wanted you to notice me the way I’d started noticing you. So yeah, maybe I did start tugging on your pigtails just to get your attention. You were just so—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Never mind.” “Hold on,” you say, stepping closer. “You can’t do that. Finish it.” “Sorry. Free trial’s over. If you want me to keep going, that’ll be 200 diamonds—” “Satoru.” He closes his mouth immediately, eyes widening a fraction before he sighs. “Damn. I should’ve never asked you to say that.” You tilt your head, catching his gaze. “Please?” Something strained flashes across his face, like the word is lodged somewhere painful in his chest. “You were just so…” He exhales through his nose, defeated. “So bright that it was annoying. I couldn’t ignore you, even if I tried. Every time you laughed, my head would already be turning, and I hated it because you weren’t smiling at me.” You laugh awkwardly. “We weren’t exactly friends.”

“No,” he says softly. “That was the issue. But even then, I wouldn’t have been satisfied.” For a moment, neither of you says anything. The confession settles between you, large and impossible to ignore. You’ve given up trying to look at him because there’s a strange tightness in your chest making it hard to breathe, and Satoru looks like he’s doing everything in his power not to bolt. “Does that bother you?” he asks. Unable to speak, you shake your head. “Okay.” He exhales slowly. “Then can I try something?” You look up just as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His hand hovers there for a moment, giving you an out. You don’t take it. Mostly because your feet feel rooted to the pavement beneath you. “Satoru,” you whisper, and he seems to find whatever answer he was searching for in your eyes. He leans in slowly, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too quickly. Your breath mingles. He hesitates, and you give him the smallest encouragement by leaning in too. Your noses brush with a ticklish little bump, and the whole world narrows to the space between your mouths— Then a sharp buzz cuts through the quiet. It doesn’t register properly in your mind at first. You only know it sounds ugly against the stillness. But Satoru knows immediately. He freezes. So do you.bThen comes the second vibration. His shoulders sag. His forehead drops forward and bumps lightly into yours. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters. “Everything okay?” you ask, though you already know the answer. He pulls back just enough to take his phone out and glance at the screen. Whatever he sees drains all the softness from his face, replacing it with that familiar unreadable tension. “Yeah,” he says, forcing a crooked smile. “I, uh, have to go. Family emergency. Again.” You smile back. “I hope everyone’s okay.” “Right. Yeah.” “You should probably go.” “Right.” He lingers for another beat, phone held uselessly in his hand, before clearing his throat and stepping back. “I’ll call you tonight?” “Yeah. Tonight.” “Cool,” he says. “Cool, cool, cool, cool. Get home safe, yeah?” “Yeah.” You keep smiling even as he starts to walk away. “Thanks for today.” You watch him go for far longer than you should, long enough that his figure starts to blur into the movement of the street beyond the bus stop. Only when he disappears properly do you let your smile falter, your hand tightening slightly around the paper cup. It hits you then, all at once and without mercy, how badly you are in trouble. You stare down at your coffee like it might offer guidance and find none. Oh, you are so doomed.

Spiderman’s muscle strain against the cold sticky goo binding his wrists behind his back, the sharp bite of them digging into his skin as he knelt on the rough warehouse floor. His suit clings to him like a second skin, torn across his chest and down his thigh from the brutal fight. There’s a gash above his eyebrow that’s dripping blood into his eyes, but for some reason his vision is clear. The amazing Spiderman makes it his purpose to never stay down for long. This time, however, he wonders if he even wants to get back up. Venom looms over him with a maw of jagged teeth and eyes like void fixed down on him with predatory amusement. “Spiderman down on his knees. What a sight.” Gojo smirks under his mask even as his knees ache and cold air brushes the exposed skin around his mouth. “I hate to break it to you but I’m not into oversized ink blots,” he spits. “And don’t get so cocky too soon. Haven’t you played Darkest Dungeon? Overconfidence is a slow and insidious killer.” “There’s always a response rearing to go from that tongue of yours, isn’t there?” Venom hisses. “Always so self-assured, always so prepared. I wonder how long that peace you know will last.” “If I wanted my fortune read I would have gone to a tarot card reader.” Venom laughs and the sound is suddenly so achingly familiar that Gojo freezes, something primal overturning into his stomach telling him to run. But there’s nowhere to run, not when his wrists are tied behind his back, not when he’s kneeled at the feet of his archnemesis, and especially not when the tendrils of the villain slowly pull back to reveal a humanoid form Satoru knows far too well. The black mass ebbs back from Venom’s face, appendages retracting with a wet slurp, revealing— Her. You. The girl from the 5th floor of the campus library that he kept seeing that one finals season a whole year ago, the one he once told Geto about until he saw you again with his childhood friend and decided you were firmly off-limits. The same girl he suddenly couldn’t miss in the crowd when 5pm hits and the tired students pour out seeking night outs or cozy night ins, the same girl who when he finally had a class with, had quickly cut him down with a glare that sent a jolt right through his body. The face he thinks about when he’s alone in the dark of his room, one hand down his pants and the other holding his phone. Your pretty lips now curl into a smirk as your piercing eyes that he just loves to pretend to hate, locks onto his, full of mocking triumph. The symbiote suit hugs your curves like liquid, accentuating every sway of your hips as you step even closer. Wait, what the fuck? Gojo opens his mouth to say something but his breath hitches and the quip dies on his tongue.

“What the—Y/N? What are you—” He cuts himself off when you laugh, soft and familiar, a sound far too beautiful for a grungy place like this. “What’s wrong, Spidey?” you purr, voice lilting with mock innocence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe—” He’s almost certain he stops breathing altogether as you roughly tilt his chin up with one long tendril, staring at your face because there’s nothing else to do. “You see something you like?” He splutters. “This is bullshit. You’re not Venom, you can’t be. This has to be some kind of symbiote mind-fuck trick.” “What’s wrong? You’ve lost your composure all of a sudden.” Gojo growls, a feral sound dragging up his throat. “Don’t fucking look into my mind. Stop looking like her!” You coo, lips pretty and downturned. “Stop? How can I? Spiderman, I am her.” Your words make him shudder and you press on. “Ah, so it’s about that, is it? Poor, little Spiderman, torn in so many little directions. You can’t decide whether to be Satoru or this silly attempt at being a superhero.” He flinches when his name slips from your lips, remembering how soft it had sounded when you first said it, cheeks pink and eyes fluttering down. Seeing you standing over him now, eyes harsh and unforgiving, he feels a stirring in his gut that only pushes him closer to the edge. “No snarky response this time?” “You can’t be her.” “Why not? I could be anyone.” You lift a foot and press it against his thigh, pushing it outwards casually. “Why don’t we be truthful for once, hm? And stop hiding behind all these secrets? It’s not that I can’t be her, it’s that you don’t want me to be. You’ve always vented to Suguru about how nice it would be to have it both but this is the one thing you don’t want to share with Spiderman. Me. And yet, you go against yourself and seek me out as both. Why?” Gojo grits his teeth. “I don’t have to explain anything to you. You know nothing about me.” “Oh, but I promise you I don’t miss much.” Your foot trails higher, nudging now against his inner thigh and despite the situation, he flinches, that unfamiliar feeling spilling into something scarily recognisable.

“Hold on—” “Looks like you’re still not being completely truthful, Satoru,” you purr and he hisses. Your foot presses against the bulge straining his suit, the pressure firm and deliberate. Gojo’s hips jerk involuntarily, a sharp exhale escaping him as you drag your sole along his length. “Get off me,” he growls, but it sounds more like a plea, his voice husky and ragged. He tries to shift away, wrists twisting futilely in the bindings, but his body betrays him and he leans into the friction instead. Your boot works him slowly, the leather cool against the heat building under his suit. “Make me,” you taunt, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. You don’t let up, your foot dragging slowly now, tracing the outline of his cock with teasing precision and his hips respond but bucking up involuntarily, pleasure sparking hot and fierce. He clamps his jaw, trying to stifle the sound, but it rumbles out anyway. “This…” His eyes flutter as you press down particularly hard, forcing a smirk even as his breaths come out ragged. “This is your master plan? You’re more of a—ngh—pervert than I thought.” You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Master plan? Do I need a reason to do any of this? Maybe I’ve finally decided to do something about all that eye-fucking you’ve been giving me in class. Thought I wouldn’t notice?” Your boot grinds down harder, the ridged sole catching on the zipper of his suit, right over where his cock throbs insistently. He bites back a moan but it slips out anyway, loud and guttural, his thighs quivering under the pressure. His face flushes deeper, those blue eyes narrowing in a mix of defiance and desperation. “You’re… not her. Can’t be. She'd never—” His words cut off as you twist your ankle, dragging the boot’s toe along his balls through the tight fabric, making them tighten and draw up. “Never what? Touch you like this? Make you beg with just a foot?” You lean in closer, whispering in his ear so soft he almost can’t hear over his pounding heartbeat. “Admit it, web-head. You've jerked off thinking about me pinning you down, haven’t you? All those stolen glances in the hallway, pretending you didn’t pop a boner every time I called you out.” Gojo’s breath hitches, his cock leaking pre-cum that soaks through the suit, darkening the material. He shakes his head but it’s weak, his hips rolling up to chase the friction despite himself. “Shut up. Just—hah—fuck off.” The growl lacks bite, cracking into a whine when you lift your foot slightly, denying him the pressure for a torturous second before pressing back down, slower this time, stroking from base to tip with deliberate drags. You chuckle. “Such a pretty liar. Look at you, kneeling there, dick pathetically hard. Bet you’ve never even been touched like this before, huh? Who knew Spiderman was all talk and no action.” Your boot circles the head of his cock, smearing the wet spot wider. He groans, loud and unrestrained now, his head tipping back as pleasure coils tight in his gut. “N-not… your business.” But his body’s honest, thighs spreading wider on their own and inviting more. Sweat beads on his forehead, trickling down his temple, and he forces his eyes open to glare at you, trying for a smirk. "If this is your idea of a fight, you’re losing. I could…fuck, I could break out anytime.”

You grin, a tendril slashing his suit to free his cock. it springs free, hard and leaking, tip flushed and begging to be touched. Gojo’s eyes flutter again when you touch him bare, a soft whine escaping despite his efforts. He rolls them back slightly, fighting the wave crashing through him, but his hips roll forward, chasing the pressure. “Admit it feels good. Or are you going to keep pretending you’re not leaking over my boot right now?" He bites his lip hard. “Feels like…feels like nothing. Barely notice it.” Total bullshit. Every drag sends sparks up his spine, his cock throbbing insistently, begging for more. He can't even seem to focus on what you’re saying anymore, not when you’re twisting your ankle like so, rubbing his sensitive tip and he can’t hold back a throaty moan, his body arching into it. “Nothing? Your dick’s twitching like it’s got a mind of its own.” “I could break these cuffs anytime,” he mumbles again as if convincing himself as if his hips aren’t thrusting up greedily, fucking into the rhythm. “Break them then. Or don’t. We both know you won’t.” The friction builds up relentlessly, up, down, the ball of your foot grinding against his mushroom head on every pass, sweat beading under his mask, eyes rolling back fully now as the coil winds tighter, pleasure bordering on overload. “Oh, fuck—” Gojo rasps, voice a wrecked mess of gasps and moans. “Too much? Gonna cum for me?” He shakes his head frantically, but the denial crumbles into a choked sob when you drag your heel along the underside, pressing firmly over the vein that throbs with every heartbeat. His cock jumps, tip flaring red, and a spurt of pre-cum leaks out, coating your shoe in glossy trails. “Come on, pretty boy. You're so close,” you coo. “No… shit, I—fuck!” His words fracture as you speed up, pumping his length in firm, unyielding strokes, up to smear over the sensitive ridge, down to crush against his balls, rolling them gently before lifting to repeat. His balls draw tight, heavy and full, aching for release, and he grinds his teeth in an effort to hold back but the pressure mounts, a white-hot knot twisting in his core.

You curl your fingers in his mask and yank it off, his white hair spilling down to reveal his wrecked expression, eyes rolling back and drool dripping from the corner of his lips. you grin, pure evil and glee before you tug his hair to make him look up at you. “Come on, Satoru,” you purr. “Show me how much you hate this, how much you need it.” The command shatters him. His entire body seizes, back arching off the cold floor as the orgasm rips through and his cock erupts in thick, forceful jets that splatter across your boot, your calf, even arcing up to hit his own abdomen. He cries out, voice breaking into a raw, uninhibited moan that echoes off the warehouse walls. “Fuck, yes—oh God, Y/N!” His hips jerk helplessly as you keep stroking him through it, dragging every last shudder from his body until he’s wrung completely dry. He’s whimpering by the end of it, oversensitive and trembling, head fallen back against the pillow, chest rising and falling in ragged pants. Cum spills down the front of his suit in sticky, obscene streaks, and still you don’t let him hide from it, your hand only slowing once he’s been pushed so far past pleasure it borders on cruelty. “Not bad for a virgin,” you murmur, voice sweet in that way that makes humiliation burn twice as hot. “Bet you’ve never made yourself cum that hard, huh? All those lonely nights jerking off to thoughts of me, and this is the best you could do?” Gojo’s face burns crimson, shame and bliss tangling together until he can’t tell one from the other. “Shut up,” he breathes, though it comes out broken and weak. “That didn’t mean anything.” “Really?” you ask, and the smile you give him is devastating. “Then why are you hard again? His gaze drops before he can stop it. Sure enough, his cock is already thickening back to life, flushed and twitching against his stomach as if his body has decided to betray him completely. When he looks up again, you’re licking your lips slowly, deliberately, and his mouth goes dry enough to hurt “Want me to show you what you’ve been missing?” you ask. “Or are you still going to pretend?” Gojo isn’t a weak man, he really isn’t. But with your foot still by his thigh, body so close and promises of warmth and softness beyond his filthies fantasies, and that look in your eyes like you already know exactly how this ends, he can feel himself caving. The word is already there, already rising up his throat, yes, yes, please— And then his eyes snap open. The darkness of his room hits him like cold water. For a second he can’t move. He just lies there, disoriented, heart hammering against his ribs hard enough to hurt, the last traces of the dream still clinging to him in flashes too vivid to shake. Your voice, your mouth, the heat of your body. The sight of you above him, cruel and beautiful and impossibly close. Then reality settles in, humiliating in its clarity. He’s alone. Flat on his back in a bed that’s too warm now, sheets tangled around his legs, boxers sticking damply to his skin. His cock throbs untouched, leaking embarrassingly through the fabric, still hard enough that the loss of the dream feels almost physically painful. He drags in a breath and it catches somewhere in his chest, shaky and shallow. He groans, burying his face in his pillow, cheeks burning even though no one is there to see it, and lies there in the aftermath of his own disgrace, hard and aching and still haunted by the sound of your voice. 

Gojo is unfair. He knows he’s unfair. It’s hard not to when the reminder comes as easily as catching his own reflection in the dark screen of his laptop, or running a hand through his hair in frustration and knowing that, at the very least, having silky, soft, gorgeous white hair isn’t on his list of worries. It’s as easy as checking his grades at the end of every semester, his eyes drifting from an episode of Frieren on his laptop to the screen of his phone. When his gaze skims over his marks and settles on his final grade, Gojo knows he’s unfair. A crash in the street, someone yelling for help, and he’s already pulling on the blue-and-white mask and swinging out the window, because apparently good looks and a big brain weren’t enough. The universe had to make him Spiderman too. He knows what he is: smart, strong, and kindhearted (that last one might be a sneak). That robbery he stopped two weeks ago before his cardiovascular final? Yeah, no biggie. Did he just save a hijacked bus the morning of this very neuropharmacology tutorial? Yeah, but no sweat, he’ll still pass top of his class like always— “97%?” He watches you freeze and immediately slam the lid of your laptop down. You whip around to face the culprit who aired out your grade, temporarily stunned when it’s someone you don’t recognise. Gojo narrows his eyes. “How did someone like you get a 97?” His words come out too harsh to be surprise and lacking any warmth to come off as a congratulations. Because you don’t look like the kind of person who’d flash their grades around or fish for praise. If anything, you look horrified to have been noticed at all, eyes wide and shoulders tense like you’d been caught doing something embarrassing rather than scoring nearly full marks on a quiz the class had been stressing over ten minutes before it began. “What the fuck does that mean?” you hiss back. “Do you mind? Don’t look over my shoulder like a creep.” He smirks warily but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a 97. That’s something to gloat about. Didn’t think it would come from someone like you though.” “So you’ve been saying. What does that even mean? I don’t look like the type of person to get a 97?” “Yeah,” he says bluntly, an answer seemingly as obvious as asking if grass was green or if the sky was blue. You press your lips together to avoid cussing him out in the chatty classroom. “Do I even know you?” “It would be hard to miss me,” he shoots back. “I’m the one that's been topping these quizzes since the semester started.” “Fell off, did you?” “Please, this was a fluke, princess.” You practically hum with irritation at the nickname. “And what did you get?” He puts up a firewall immediately. “That's nunya.” “What?” “None of your business.” He grins. You grimace at his evidently childish nature. “I don't think you can say that after shoving your ugly face into my business.”

You decide to take things into your own hands, standing up from your chair to reach back and snatch his laptop. He blinks at the sudden movement, momentarily distracted at your choice of words before it registers. And Gojo is Spiderman. He could easily grab your wrist and stop you before you get too close but there's something making him hesitate. You smell nice, he notes faintly, like vanilla and something artificial but sweet. It's your perfume no doubt, he just can't wrap his head around why it smelt so good. Your fingers successfully reach close around his laptop and lifts it off the table, placing it onto your thighs as your finger slides across the trackpad. You let out a victorious, “Hah!” which has him blinking out of his daze to follow your gesture and observe the damage, seconds too late from preventing it. His mark stares back at him. 92%. Gojo notices you then, which is embarrassing because he doesn’t even know your name. All he knows is that ever since the finals season began, you’ve taken his spot on the fifth floor of the library, head down, brows furrowed in that cute way indicating your immense concentration as you try to visualise what you’re learning by tracing words and formulas in the air. He doesn’t stay for long but the next day you’re still there in his spot, and then the next, and then the day after. He stopped caring about getting his spot back on the fifth day. He finds you everywhere else, chatting with friends on the lawn outside the north biological science building, giggling over brunch in the cafeteria, the smile you flash to your friends far kinder than the one you swung at him like a weapon that day in the tutorial room. You’re unfair. Gorgeous, always put together, nails adorned with charms and chrome, the confident click of your heels against the pavement introducing your entrance into every building with no shame. His ears always tune him into your conversations, and on the day that he discovered you had a sense of humour—a good one too, God forbid—he only seemed to hate you more. Because he is unfair, yes, he knows that. But there’s something restless in his chest and you’re unfair in a similar way, but finding a fault in you would be an impossible task. And that doesn’t swing with him. Because sometimes, Gojo feels like a stick adrift a river. Sometimes the currents are fierce and he sways here and there, a puppet to its frivolous nature, and sometimes the waters are calm though he is no less at its mercy than before. He’ll duck his head when people talk to him, do their part in the assessment because it’ll be as easy as opening his laptop and writing the first thing that comes to mind. He doesn’t care what anyone says about him, doesn’t care that they think he’s quiet when truthfully, his mind is always whirring to talk to someone.

He has his friends, he has Geto, he has Shoko. And recently, it seems he has you too. Bright, sweet, funny. You're beautiful and you don’t even know it. He leans in to the sound of your laughter, wants to feel your palm against his cheek, feel your soft pink lips against his eyelids and on his cheeks. He wants to lose himself in your voice, whether it’s to scold him or praise him he doesn’t care, just wants to be close again. “Satoru?” Gojo flinches, jolting up right, his hand slipping from under his chin to push up his headphones and knocking them clean off his head. They're connected by wire so he catches it easily enough, but they fall down to knock against his hand awkwardly. He looks up, meeting your bemused eyes as you stare down at him, the sun behind you, your hair tumbling down your shoulders. “Hey,” he says, breathlessly. “Oh, uh, want to sit? I mean—what are you doing here? I thought you were going for lunch with… Shoko.” His words trail off uselessly when you take him up on his offer, sliding a hand to smoothen your skirt as you sit, thighs brushing his. “I’ve been trying to get Shoko and Utahime together for ages so I thought this might be a good time. Besides, I saw you from up there.” You point up at one of the taller buildings and he mentally cheers for remembering your timetable right, fist bumping his past self for picking this spot to sun bathe. “Stalking me?” he teases softly, eyes searching your face. You bump your shoulder against his. “As if. This is a chance meeting.” He chuckles, unable to take his eyes off you. “So you're free for the rest of the day, then?” “Should be.” “Okay.” You look up at him and he whips his gaze forward. “Are you?” “Sorry?” “Are you free right now, Satoru?” “Uh—yeah! Yes, I am. Free, that is. I’m free right now.” He clears his throat when his voice comes out a little gravelly, ears burning as his own words come back to him. “Sorry, I’m just…” Thankfully, you laugh, eyes curving into cute little crescents and he thinks that even though you’re always pretty, this might be the best look on you.  “Just what?” you ask, tilting your head. There's something unbearably fond in your expression, so unlike the start of the semester when you’d barely give him the time of day. “Nothing,” he lies instantly. Your brows lift and he caves under the weight of that look almost at once. “Not nothing. I mean—” He drags a hand down his face, groaning under his breath. “I’m sorry, I’m just being weird today.” “Please, you’re always weird.” He turns to you, scandalised. “You always say such nice things.” You smile. “You know what I mean.” He does, and that’s the problem. He knows what you mean when you call him weird, knows the exact shape of your affection when you look at him like this, all soft around the edges, voice gone warm enough to sink into. He’d call himself weird if he was in your position, perhaps crueler words, but you don’t say them even if he’s deserving. It makes his chest feel too full, like there’s something alive in there clawing to get out.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. the campus hums around you in the distance, voices drift past, the rustle of leaves overhead, the low grind of a bus somewhere beyond the gates. But here, tucked away on the bench half drowned in sunlight, it feels strangely private. You glance down at his hands. “You okay? You’re fidgeting.” He looks too. His fingers are indeed twisting the headphone wire around and around, enough that it’ll probably knot if he keeps going. He stills them immediately. “Am not.” You give him a look. “Nervous?” He lets out a laugh at that, because it’s either that or admit the truth and simply die on the spot. “What would I be nervous for?” Your shoulder brushes his again when you shift, and it is such a small thing, so accidental it may as well be nothing, and yet he stops breathing for a second anyway. “I don’t know,” you murmur. “You tell me.” Gojo stares at you. There are moments in life, he thinks, that split everything into before and after. Like how there’s before he got bit and after he got bit, those grandiose moments that define his life. This might be one of them. Maybe there will always be the version of him that sat on this bench with his heart halfway up his throat, and the version after, whatever that may look like. He hopes that version of him is smiling by the end of it. He swallows. “Actually, I've been trying to.” Your expression changes, playfulness softening. “Trying to tell me something?” “Yeah.” His voice comes out rougher than he means for it to. “Yeah, I—” He stops. should he really start this off with ‘yeah’? "I’ve kind of been meaning to say—no, that sounds equally as stupid.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “Not stupid, just—I had this whole thing in my head, and it sounded way better in there, so now I’m trying to find it again and it’s just—” You’re staring at him like he’s hung the moon which makes things infinitely worse. Maybe that’s your default look. You do always look so pretty. You open your mouth to say something but he beats you to it. “No, wait, I can do this.” He sits up a little straighter, like the posture alone will save him. "I just need one second because I know what I want to say, I do, it’s just every time I look at you, I forget how words work. Which is honestly humiliating and I probably shouldn’t have said that, so if you could stop being—stop looking at me like…” “Like?” You have to be messing with him at this point. “Just—can I say something mean?” You huff, pulling back a little. “What the fuck?”

“I just—I feel like I could fight with you for hours over stupid lab questions, and I always know exactly what to say then, but now—” He shakes his head, cheeks hot. “Now I can’t even get through one sentence. So maybe if I just say something mean like I always do, I'll—” You place a hand on his arm. “Don't ruin this. I’m not rushing you. You can take your time.” His body stiffens under your touch, fingers tightening around the wire in his lap. He loosens them forcefully only to tighten them again. “I think,” he starts, then winces. “No, I know that when I’m with you, everything just feels different. Like, way better. I like being around you, I like hearing you talk even when you’re telling me I’m annoying, which you do a lot, by the way. I like when you laugh at me and when you give me that look on your face right before you say something mean because you look like you want to kill me and that’s—something I probably deserve.” His mouth twitches despite himself. "I like walking you home. and I like when you ask me things you could’ve easily googled just because you know I'll know the answer.” There’s a small smile on your face as you lean in again, hanging off his every word. “And I—” he stumbles over the word, heart pounding in his chest. "I th-think, maybe, what I’m trying to say is that I—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Jesus Christ." A laugh slips out of you and he blushes. “Don't laugh,” he says, mortified. “I’m not laughing at you.” “You're definitely laughing at me.” “Okay, but only a little.” You smile wide. “But didn’t you say you like that about me?” He groans, covering his face with his hands. “That wasn’t originally in the script.” “Satoru.” There’s something in the way you say his name that makes him look up again at once. You’re close now, pretty face taking up his field of vision, and he hadn’t even realised you’d moved closer. Or maybe he’s the one who did, unable to resist your gravity. Your gaze drops to his mouth and then lifts again, and the world seems to narrow until it is only this bench, this sunlit patch of afternoon, the space between you shrinking into something fragile and unbearable. He tries once more, because he has to, because if he doesn’t say it now he never will. "I want to kiss you,” he blurts, the words tumbling out, crooked and breathless. "I really, really want to kiss you, and i’ve been trying not to notice for a while now because I wasn’t sure if I can and I wasn’t sure if you—if you maybe—and I know this is probably not the smoothest way to say this but I just—”

Wait a minute, did he end up saying ‘I like you’ or did he just out that he’s been staring at your lips for the past five minutes now? It doesn’t seem to matter because you lean forward and kiss him. There's no great sweep of music, no fireworks, no impossible cinematic pan out encapsulating the sun. Just you, leaning in as if it is the most natural thing in the world, one hand coming up to cup the side of his face, your lips soft against his. Gojo stops thinking immediately. His whole body goes rigid for one stunned second before every thought in his buzzing head simply dissipates. Heat floods him all at once, sharp and dizzying, all the way up to the tips of his ears. He's only vaguely aware that he’s stopped breathing and that his eyes are open, and that he has absolutely no clue what to do with his hands. When you pull back, only just, your thumb brushes over his cheekbone. He stares at you. You stare back, mouth curving into a shy smile that nearly kills him where he sits. “Sure,” you say. “You can kiss me.” He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His face must be bright red by now because your smile grows, softer and softer, and God, if he could bottle this moment and live inside it forever, he would. “You kissed me,” he says at last, intelligent as always. "I did.” “On purpose?” You laugh, and he thinks he might pass out. Oh yeah, he really does like it when you laugh at him. “No Satoru, by accident.” He makes a strangled noise somewhere between disbelief and delight. He can feel the heat of his face, knows he probably looks ridiculous, but for once he cannot bring himself to care, not even a little. All he can do is look at you with his heart in his throat and try, with limited success, to remember how these things should go. “Oh,” he says. Your brows pinch together in a fond little crease. “Oh?” “Sorry, I’m still stuck on the part where you kissed me.” “Do you need me to do it again?” you offer, smiling. “Though first, I think there’s something you still need to tell me. Want to give it another try?” Before he can answer, before he can even begin to think of an answer that wouldn’t make him sound completely insane, his phone vibrates sharply in his pocket. The sound cuts through the moment like a blade. He freezes, recognising the sound from one of two phones he always carries with him. It continues to vibrate, and there’s only one thing he can think of as his stomach drops.

No. Not now. You glance down toward the noise. “You should probably get that. It sounds urgent.” He nearly says no, nearly ignores it completely. But the device buzzes again, more insistently this time, and cold dread starts threading through the remains of his daze. He fumbles for it with clumsy fingers still not entirely his own, and glances down at the screen. suguru: venom sighing @ west park or one of his goons get over there All the colour drains and for one awful second, he just stares until the phone turns black and reflects his distraught expression back at him. You’re watching him now, the softness in your expression touched through with concern. “Everything okay, Satoru?” He forces a laugh that sounds thin even to his own ears. “Everything's fine, I just…” his mind scrambles wildly for something plausible, something ordinary, something that won’t make you look at him any closer than you already are and find the gaps in his lies. "It’s Suguru. He needs me.” That at least is believable. Suguru has needed him for stupider reasons. “Right now?” Guilt crashes through him so hard it almost makes him dizzy. Because your lips are still pink from kissing him, because he hasn’t even had a chance to kiss you back properly, because this is the moment he’s wanted for so long and now it’s slipping through his fingers before he can hold onto it. But people will get hurt if he doesn’t go. “Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “I’m sorry.” “Hey.” Your hand finds him again. “It’s okay.” It is absolutely not okay. Still, he nods. “I just—” He swallows. “Can I…can we…” You smile, though he wonders if it’s truly genuine. “Yes, idiot. We can talk later. Only if you promise to call me tonight.” “I will,” he’s quick to say. “I promise.” He stands too quickly and nearly tangles himself in his own headphone wire. You hide your laugh behind your hand and he feels a fresh wave of heat climb up his neck. “Smooth,” you quip. “Be nice to me,” he mutters, trying and failing to sound offended. You stand too, close enough that he can smell your perfume, can see the tiny details of your face that he’s spent far too much time pretending not to memorise. Now that he’s up, now that he’s about to leave, it feels close to impossible, almost absurd like every part of him is pulled to you. “Go,” you say softly. “Before Suguru gets himself in a mess.” He huffs out a breath. Then, because he’s greedy and because you’ve ruined him since a few minutes ago, he leans down and presses the quickest, clumsiest kiss to your cheek. It's barely there, gone almost as soon as it lands, but the look on your face after makes his heart stutter all over again. “I’ll definitely call you tonight. Please wait for me.” Gojo backs away before he can embarrass himself further or worse, before he changes his mind and decides the rest of the world can burn for ten more minutes. He wants to do something stupid like run back and kiss you properly this time like all the good movies do, but his phone feels heavy in his pocket, dragging him back to the version of himself you still don’t know. But even as urgency takes over, even as the river current catches him by the ribs and yanks, there is one bright impossible thing lodged firmly in his chest. You kissed him. You kissed him. And for the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks maybe he doesn’t mind being swept away at all.

Like a girl experiencing the lows of a situationship, your phone remains mercilessly silent the entire night. It’s the first thing you check the moment your eyes open to a new day, reaching over to check your notifications. Outlook emails, reddit notifications, and nothing from the only person you want to hear from. That’s fine, maybe the issue with Geto ended up being more serious than you initially assumed. Maybe he got caught up with a family emergency and passed out the second he got home. Maybe his phone died, or maybe he’d been too busy to send anything more than a mental apology into the universe and hope it reached you by divine. That is to say, you hear nothing from him all night. None of these excuses stop the ugly little feeling from settling in your chest. Your hand closes over your phone, open to your messages with him and embarrassingly showcases or last text to him left on delivered. For a moment, you wonder if the situation is appropriate enough to double triple text considering he’s already ignored your other texts, but eventually settle on nothing because no, actually, he can make the first move for once in his life. He had been the one stammering through half a confession, the one looking at you like you all devote and in awe while you only stared back mildly concerned he was going to burst a blood vessel, the one to kiss your cheek and promised to call all sweet-like. If he wants to disappear after that, then he can deal with the consequences without your help. The presentation goes just as well as you thought it would considering you’re running on an accumulated two hours of sleep and you’re missing a partner. Considering the assessment is a pair presentation, that seems pretty bad. You do your section first, voice steadier than you feel, though when you reach the point where he’s supposed to take over, there is a split second where your whole mind goes blank. Humiliation flashes through you hot and clean because this was meant to be the two of you and everyone can see it is not. Because beneath the frustration and embarrassment, there is something much worse curling inside you now. When you finish, the tutor thanks you with a sympathy that makes your skin crawl. As you hurry out of the lab, every sensation is suddenly all too much. the feeling of your tote under your arm, the clacking of your shoes against the floor, the bustle of students all around and you groan when you see just how many other people are leaving the building. Your pace slows against your wishes as you attempt to weave the crowd. He didn’t show up. You bite your lip, hard. He didn’t show up. You glance down at your phone and swipe. No new notifications. He didn’t show up. All that talk had been nothing. He never took you seriously at all. Something akin to betrayal fills your chest and you wonder if you’re really going to start crying over a boy who has a digimon keychain on his bag. Said it gave him personality, said it was something like a photo of loved ones glanced at during a war. It's stupid, you’re stupid, you think, because how could you seriously think something new was budding there, that something was actually happening? A hand catches your wrist in the crowd and tugs you hard to the side. You gasp as your shoulder brushes someone on the way past, the ground shifting under you before you’re pulled into the narrow strip of wall between two noticeboards and a vending machine.

“Wait!” You wrench your arm back on instinct, breath already halfway to a sharp insult, only for it to die the second you look up. Gojo stands in front of you, chest rising and falling too fast like he ran all the way here. His hair is a mess, his glasses slightly crooked, and there’s a stiffness to his movements. not that you care, not after this. “Am I—” “You’re late,” you blurt, all venom and wounded pride. “Actually, you’re absent because late implies you cared to show at all.” His expression crumbles. “I know.” “Do you?” “Yes,” he swallows, voice rough. “I know.” “Then what are we doing here?” People move around you on both sides, students flowing past in little groups, too absorbed in their own conversations to notice how your whole world has narrowed down to this one stupidly tall boy standing in front of you like he hasn’t just ripped out your heart and stomped all over it. “Something came up,” he says. “I couldn’t help it.” You laugh, ugly and tired. “That’s crazy because something came up for me too. Does the presentation ring any bells?” His jaw tightens. “I’m serious, something did come up otherwise I would have been here. Look, I know how this looks but my phone broke.” The excuse lands heavy in the silence that follows. You stare at him incredulously. Was he really giving you that excuse right now? You start to turn around from his bullshit, not trusting yourself to speak, but he reaches out and holds you there by the wrist. “I know how it sounds, trust me, I wouldn’t believe you either If I were you—” “You’re right, I don’t believe you.” “That's not fair,” he says, desperate. You take a step back, but the wall is there and the crowd is there and he is still there, looking at you with that same helpless expression from yesterday like he can plead his way back into your good graces. “You dropped your phone? What else did you drop, your common sense? Your sense of responsibility?” “Come on, that’s not fair. You’re not even letting me apologise.” “You don’t have a choice,” you snap back. You take a deep breath to reset your thoughts, exhaling out any emotion leaving your voice empty. “Look, I get it. We didn't start off on the same side and maybe you never really stopped feeling that way, even when I thought we were friends. “Y/N—”

“Maybe it was my mistake for ever thinking that. So I’m sorry I’m so gullible.” Once you start, you find the words rushing out without much thought. Briefly, a small voice wonders if you’re really going to crash out like this in the middle of the busy science building, but oh well. There’s a twisted kind of satisfaction when you watch his face crumble. “I almost believed you really cared about whatever the fuck was happening between us, friendship or—whatever the hell it was. If this was revenge for everything that’s happened before, then you’re a real piece of shit, Satoru.” “I said I was sorry.” “And I’m supposed to do what with that exactly?” “Believe me.” You scoff. “Why should I?” His eyes widen a fraction and you press on. “Seriously, why? You say things and you disappear and every time something important is about to happen, you leave. You act like I matter and then the second I start to believe it, you’re gone again. So why should I believe you now?” “Because I’m here now,” he says, sharper than before. You laugh. “Now. You’re here now.” “I came as fast as I could.” “And I was supposed to know that how?” His nostrils flare. “What do you want me to say?” “Well, what am I supposed to think?” you demand. “Because right now it kind of looks like you freaked out after yesterday and decided avoiding me was easier. So it's fine. I see now that you don’t care about anything that was happening between us so, whatever. I don’t care either.” “That's not true.” Gojo forces out through clenched teeth. his face tightens and for a second, he looks angry too, and the sight of it sends a mean little thrill through your chest because good. Good. Let him feel bad. “I do care.” “But not enough to show up to the day of the presentation?” You make noise of disbelief. “Not showing up doesn’t even have anything to do with us, it’s just common sense if you care about your grades like I know you do!” “Exactly, so do you really think I wanted to miss out? Obviously I didn’t want to miss out on 20% too!” You can’t help it, you feel petty and latch onto his words. “Oh, so that’s your biggest concern after all, huh?” “Don't twist my words, you brought it up first.” He runs his free hand through his hair. “What are we even… look, I didn’t want to make you present by yourself. Something just  genuinely came up.”

You find a small part of yourself believing him. “What came up? a family emergency?” He doesn't say anything. You laugh. Nothing about this is funny. You feel like you’re losing your mind. “Okay. Sure. Something came up. You definitely didn’t do this to piss me off.” He groans. “Not everything is about you.” The silence after is immediate and total. His eyes widen almost at once, horror flashing across his face like he can hear himself only after the words are already out in the world. He takes half a step forward. “Wait—” “Okay, great.” “I didn’t mean to say that.” “No?” Your laugh comes out thin and shaky. “Because it sounded pretty clear to me.” “Y/N.” “I’m not making this about me, Satoru. You made it about me the second you promised something and then disappeared.” Your voice catches, but you force it steady again. “All I did was believe you.” He steps forward again, hand circling your wrist. You move to pull away but when you look up, you freeze. He looks awful up close. Paler than usual, lips chapped, a faint shadow purpling the skin just above the collar of his shirt where fabric has shifted just enough to expose it. His hand on your wrist is warm, too warm, and his fingers are shaking. A smarter, calmer version of you would ask why. This version however, only notices that he still won’t answer. “What?” you ask, because your voice has to be empty or you will break. “What exactly do you want from me?” He stares at you like the answer should be obvious. “Time,” he says at last. “Just give me more time.” For one beat, two, you can’t even process his words. Then something hot and sharp tears through your chest. “You cannot be serious. more time?” you repeat disbelief making the words go thin. “You say you care, you say you were trying, and then when I ask for one actual answer you tell me to wait. Again. Gonna tell me you’ll tell me later again too?” “Just listen to me for a second.” “No.” You take a shaky breath and it does nothing to steady you. “No, I am so tired, Satoru. I am tired of feeling stupid around you, I always have. I’m tired of guessing and I’m tired of every conversation with you ending like this, with me standing here waiting for you to stop looking at me like there’s something you’re dying to say but you won’t say it.” “That's not what this is.” “Then tell me what it is!” “I can’t!” The outburst turns heads this time and people slow as they pass. He notices a second too late and drags a hand over his face, breathing hard. When he speaks again, his voice drops, but it is no less intense for it. “I can’t,” he repeats. “Not here. Not like this.”

You press your lips together. “Then maybe whatever this is isn’t worth it.” The words shatter the conversation. You don’t mean them and you know you don’t mean them the second they leave your mouth. But you’re too proud, too hurt, to take them back and Gojo has gone still. You watch the moment it lands, watch him stop moving altogether, even to breathe. His mouth parts then closes, and he looks at you like he doesn’t recognise you for half a second, the sight making regret flash hot and immediate through your body. “Satoru—” A ringtone cuts through the air and you both freeze. The sound of the ringtone is so familiar by now, a haunting melody that signals the end of almost every conversation you’ve had with him. Your eyes follow the sound to his pocket. He told you his phone broke. Something in you just gives. You scoff at first, then laughter quickly follows. His face falls and he knows he’s lost you even before you shake his hold off, stepping back and looking away. His hand moves toward his pocket and stops. “Okay, I know this is really bad but please just wait.”“Enough, Satoru. I don’t know why you’re even making this that big of a deal,” you choke out, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll succeed in placing something stronger than your self-restraint between the two of you. “The project is over whether you cared to show up or not.”

He flinches and you can practically see him split in two, body angled toward you while something else keeps him from moving. His jaw is tight, hand flexing uselessly at his side, eyes on yours like he’s trying to hold the moment together through sheer force.

“Listen to me—”

“I need to get home,” you say.

He steps forward. “I’ll walk you to the station.”

You actually laugh and when you speak, you hate how tired you sound, how flat. “Why would you do that? I said the project is over, Gojo. And so is any reason for us to talk.

Gojo stiffens, arm falling slack to his side.

For a second, you think he might stop you or say something more. Instead, he just stands there, the phone finally gone silent in his pocket, his face stricken and too pale beneath the fluorescent lights.

You make it out of the building with your hands clenched and your mouth pressed into a thin line. The walk to the bus stop feels unreal, like moving through water. By the time you get there, your phone buzzes once and your heart lurches so hard it hurts.

shoko: u okay???

That bastard probably texted her about the situation. Of course he did. Somehow he could make time for that, but not for you. Something bitter and awful curls in your stomach.

You type back: “of course!!!!!!” because lying is contagious apparently, and add enough exclamation marks to make it look convincing before shoving your phone into your bag and sitting down when the bus pulls up to the curb.

The doors fold close and still, stupidly, some part of you looks up expecting him to be there.

Gojo should have known the two of you wouldn’t talk after the argument. There are no late-night calls anymore, no accidental lingering in the same space, no easy back-and-forth that used to slip so naturally between you, no watching you from the corner of his eye when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The silence that settles in the space left behind is slow and heavy and Gojo feels like he’s drowning. He tells himself it’s for the best. Maybe he flew too close to the sun and now he’s melting and falling and nothing, not his spider instincts nor his web, can catch him. You’re simply too radiant and too civilian for someone of his status quo. But then if that was true, why does it get under his skin every time he sees you with Suguru, laughing together somewhere on campus? Why does something in him still ache whenever he comes across a tweet he knows would make you laugh, only to remember you’ve blocked him? And why can’t he stop thinking about how easy it used to be between you, back when you looked at him like he was someone worth knowing, before everything got so complicated? And if he truly believed having you is as impossible as it seemed, then why was he following you back home? Spiderman shakes his head, wishing he didn’t have this restrictive masks on so he could run a hand through his hair and shake out his thoughts. Because he doesn’t have any ulterior motives as he follows close behind, rooftop to rooftop, as you make your way back from campus, no matter how sinister it sounds. No, he’s simply making sure a kind, helpless civilian gets home safe now that the sun has set and night creeps in. After all, you’re walking alone with your hands buried deep in your pockets and your shoulders curled in against the cold. He catches the slight shiver that runs through you, the quiet sneeze you try to stifle, the irritated little kick you give a loose rock after it nearly sent you stumbling. You look tired, closed off in a way he isn’t used to, and it hurts him to believe it might be his fault. “This is stupid,” he reasons. “I look like a creep.”

Despite the truth of his words, he lingers above you anyway, haunted by the contrast of it all, the way you once smiled at him so easily, the way your face fell when he disappointed you, the softness of your voice when you left him. You look at Spiderman with a warmth and openness you no longer spare Gojo, and he hates how selfishly relieved he is to get even that much. Fine. If you won’t have him as Gojo, he’ll take being Spiderman. 

Spiderman drops down in front of you in one smooth motion, feet hitting the pavement with a soft thud. “Hey—”

You move instantly, lunging forward to grab the back of his neck, other hand on his tricep, and hook your leg behind one of his. He blinks, standing upright one moment, before you pull his leg out from under him and he’s flipped onto his back on the ground. 

Your face softens as you look down at your perpetrator. “What the—Spiderman?”

You quickly let go and step back before realising you should at least help him up. He takes your hand, standing up and rubbing his shoulder. 

Kind and helpless civilian, my ass. 

“Are you okay?” you fuss, hands hovering uncertainly. “I mean, that was kind of your fault for scaring me though. But are you okay? Seriously, don’t do that ever again you could get hurt. But are you hurt?”

He winces, rolling his shoulder once more before chuckling. “There goes any worries I might have had about you.”

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a city to save?”

Spiderman drops his hands to his side. “It’s strange because it sounds like you don’t want me to be here.”

“It took you this long to realise?” you tease with a smile. 

“Actually,” he says, quieter now, “I wanted to thank you.”

That catches you off guard enough to still. “For what?” 

“For all the help recently.” He lifts one shoulder in a careless half-shrug, but there’s something more deliberate under it, something oddly sincere. “I don’t usually do sidekicks. They steal all my thunder, and everybody knows the side characters end up more popular than the lead anyway. Bad for morale. But you came pretty close.”

“That was…” You blink. “Almost nice. Thanks?” 

“Don’t get used to it. I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Is that what this is?” you ask. “A gratitude tour?”

“God, no. I do enough free labour as it is.” He watches you laugh for a moment, eyes softening behind his mask before he says, “So. Are you free right now?”

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Is this another deeply scientific survey on how normal civilians spend their evenings? Because your sample size is getting weirdly specific.”

He huffs a laugh and rocks back on his heels. “Not exactly. Although for the record, your data has been invaluable. Very compelling stuff. Lots of sarcasm. Mild threat level. Surprisingly strong upper body.”

“Flattery is not going to save you here.” You study him for a second. “What do you mean, then?”

He gestures vaguely down the street, then up at the skyline like he hasn’t fully committed to the idea himself. “I mean… you look like you’ve had a rough week, and I’ve had a rough week, and I thought maybe we could do something that doesn’t involve property damage or mutual yelling.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Geez, that narrows it down a little, doesn’t it?”

“I’m being serious.”

The joking edge in his voice softens into something a little more fragile and when you look at him more carefully, at the mask, at the battered suit, at the way he’s trying to sound casual about something he clearly thought through before showing up, you feel something warm blossom in your chest. 

“And what,” you ask slowly, “does Spiderman do when he’s not concussed?”

He spreads his hands. “Tonight? He was hoping to take a very pretty girl on a low-budget date.” 

You stare at him stunned before laughing softly, looking away before flickering your gaze back. “I bet you only say stuff like that behind the mask.”

“That was smooth, you can be honest.” He grins behind the mask, you can hear it in the shape of his voice. “But that complaint doesn’t exactly sound like a no.” 

You look away again, toward the empty stretch of pavement ahead, the city washed in evening light and the first hints of neon waking up around you. You think of the hollow room waiting at the end of this street, your cold sheets and tear-stained pillow, and then of how light you suddenly feel standing here with him. It is not enough to erase everything, but it is enough to loosen something in your chest that has been wound painfully tight for days.

When you look back at him, you’re smiling despite yourself. “I’m free.”

“Great,” he says immediately, a little too fast, then reins himself back in. “Great. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. You said yes. That’s good, that’s great, even.” 

You snort. “So where are we going?”

He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to let you in on a secret. “That depends. Are you going to scream if I say I had something less walkable in mind?”

It takes a second for the meaning to land, and when it does you gesture sharply upward. “Please don’t tell me you’re slinging me up there again. That’s happened to me twice now and neither of those experiences were fun.”

“I wouldn’t sling you,” he says, offended. “That sounds so careless and crass. I’d hold you very, very securely. In my arms, even.” 

“Can you even hold me? I just flipped you onto your back.” 

He laughs, then offers you his hand, gloved palm open between you. “Come on, just one swing. I’ll take it slow this time.”

You eye his hand, then his mask, then back to his hand. “You didn’t take it slow last time.”

“In my defence, we were under attack by sentient goo both times. Be gentle with me.” 

You hesitate before gently placing your hand in his. “Fine. But if I die, I’ll come back as a supervillain and haunt you specifically.” 

His fingers curl around yours, warm even through the suit. 

“No promises.”

Before you can second-guess yourself, he steps in, one arm sliding around your waist with practiced ease. The closeness knocks the breath from your lungs more effectively than the sudden lift when his feet leave the ground. You make a sharp noise and grab at his shoulders. 

“There it is,” he says, voice bright with delight and close to your ear. “That’s the exact reaction I was hoping for. My masculinity is doing just great, by the way.”

“Do not make this about you,” you snap, though the words come out thinner than intended.

“Bit hard not to,” he says lightly. “You are, technically, in my arms.”

His web catches somewhere high above with a sharp thwip and you only have a moment to gasp out the beginnings of a final protest before the pavement drops away beneath you. 

The city opens under you in one dizzying rush, all glowing traffic and dark rooftops and windows lit gold against the deepening blue of the evening. Your stomach lurches so violently you’re certain it gets left behind somewhere around the second floor of the nearest building, and your grip on his shoulders tightens with enough force to probably leave bruises through his suit. 

“Oh my God,” you choke out, voice snatched by the wind. “Oh my God, I’m flying. Oh my God, this is how I die.” 

He laughs, shameless and much too pleased with himself for someone who is holding your life in his hands. “That’s a little grim. If you’d only open your eyes, you’d see how beautiful it is.” 

“Open my eyes?” you repeat, incredulously. “Spiderman, my eyes will dry out and roll out of my head!”

His hold shifts just slightly, firmer at your waist as he catches another web and swings you both into a smoother arc. “Trust me,” he says, quieter this time, the teasing still there but softened around the edges. “Just for a second. Look.”

You crack your eyes open in narrow slits, and for one disorienting beat all you can really see is him—mask blurred at the edges, the line of his jaw beneath it, the hood rippling back with the force of the wind. Then your gaze drifts past him, out and down and everywhere at once.

Below, the harbour stretches out, black-blue and endless, broken only by the ribbons of reflected light from the bridge and the waterfront. Boasts sit like small, blinking stars, bobbing in the gentle waves, and the skyline curves around the edge of the bay, glittering and frankly unreal. 

“There,” he says, gentler now. “That’s better. I told you I’d take it easy this time.”

“You said a lot of things,” you mutter, though some of the panic has begun to leak out of your voice replaced by quiet awe. “Most of them were stupid.”

“Yeah, but were they charming stupid or just regular stupid?”

That manages to pull a short, unwilling laugh out of you, the gesture tipping your head back to look at the sky. The first stars are visible now, faint but there, and above them the clouds are smeared thin and silver. Then you look down at the water again, at how impossibly far below it is, and somehow that distance no longer terrifies you quite as much.

The water below catches the lights in broken gold, and he swings you through another perfect arc, close enough now that you can hear the faint slap of waves against the pylons. The city around you glitters as the sky deepens. His arm around your waist stays firm and sure, and with every swing your fear ebbs a little more, making room for something warm and foreign. 

He must feel the change in you because after a moment, he turns his head just enough for his voice to reach you clearly. 

“Okay,” he says. “Now that you trust me a little more, let me take you somewhere.” 

You lift your head to look at him. “Somewhere? I thought this was the date.” 

“This is the foreplay.” 

You grimace, wishing you weren’t being held hostage miles above deep water to pull back. “And just like that, I’m dry.” 

He laughs, the sound warm and easy. “But your complaining has finally stopped so I’d take that as a win. And for the record, I meant there’s more I still want to show you. I’m not blowing my entire budget on just one dramatic entrance.”

The next arc carries you around the edge of a low building, and then the shape of it begins to emerge properly. The amusement park stretches out in front of you, lights flickering on as dusk settles fully. The ferris wheel looms overhead, its metal frame catching the last of the sunset, and with most of the rides closed, the whole place feels strangely eerie in its emptiness. But then the water catches the light in soft ripples, the sky deepens into indigo, the first stars begin to blink into view, and it becomes something quietly beautiful. 

Spiderman watches you from the side, the light from the nearest streetlights in your eyes. His body is uncharacteristically still, mask tilted toward you. 

“Woah,” you breathe out at last. 

His shoulders relax just a fraction. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Thought you might like it. And look, I reserved the entire place out for you. It’s all yours for the entire night.”

“That’s because it’s closed.” 

He grins and holds out his hand. “Come on. I know a way for you to get a view of the city high up and without your eyeballs drying out on you. I’m trying to be accommodating now that I know you’re apparently very fragile about flying.”

“As any normal person would, I fear.” 

You eye his outstretched hand and then at the pier around you. The place feels suspended in time, the shuttered stalls, the way the lights glow without the usual crowds to dull them. 

“You’re very confident for someone who almost got flipped onto concrete five minutes ago,” you say, but take his hand anyway. 

“What can I say?” he shrugs, fingers warm as he interlaces them. “I trust you not to do it again. We’re close like that, right? But seriously, can we stop bringing that up? It’s a sensitive topic for me.” 

He leads you past a locked gate, showing off his lockpicking skills which prompts a raised brow and not the fawning he had initially expected, then to another gate to which you just had to look away from while he broke in. You walk beside him until he’s standing beneath the ferris wheel, metal bones creaking softly. 

Spiderman glances up then looks back down at you, holding out his hand in a flourish. 

“My lady,” he says, dipping his head. “Would you care to have a go?” 

“Real original,” you say but don’t protest when he guides you into one of the empty carriages. 

It sways slightly as you settle in, the door closing with a soft sound. Then the wheel jerks once, twice, then starts moving ever so slowly. Your breath catches as the ground drifts away, the pier shrinking beneath, lights blurring into a soft constellation of their own. There’s no rush like when you were swinging, just a gentle, steady climb lifting you above the city skyline.

You lean forward, hands gripping the edge of the carriage as the city opens up before you. It stretches out endlessly, lights scattered like spilled glitter, the dark water reflecting everything through a dreamy haze. 

“Is this what you see everyday?” you ask. 

Spiderman hums, relaxing into the seat opposite you “Maybe something close adjacent.”

“Well it’s gorgeous. I can’t believe I forgot how freeing it feels to go to amusement parks. There’s just something about being so high up, you know? But I guess I don’t need to be telling you that.” 

“Enamoured already? We haven’t even reached the top yet.” He stares at you for a moment. “Okay, pop quiz. Which do you like better, the ferris wheel or the swinging?” 

“Definitely the ferris wheel.”

“That hurts.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder to shoot him a cheeky grin. “Why are you sitting on the other side? Is the view better over there?”

He tilts his head and looks at you for a beat too long. “Yeah,” he says at last. “It’s pretty.”

He doesn’t pull his gaze away from you and it takes a second for the words to land properly, and another second for the warmth in your face to catch up with them. You laugh softly, more because you need somewhere to put the sudden nervousness than because it’s especially funny.

“You’re really pulling out all the stops today, aren’t you?” Your gaze flicker from the view back to him. “Is this something you do with all the civilians you save? I’d hate to embarrass myself by thinking I’m special.” 

“Would you compliment me back if I said it was just you?” 

“Maybe. Are you telling the truth?” 

“Yes.” He turns his body slightly so he can rest his elbow on the back of the seat, unabashedly staring right at you. “It’s just you.”

The carriage creaks softly. The wheel keeps turning and somewhere below, music too faint to make out drifts from some unseen speaker, somewhat staticky and distant. 

With nothing else to do, you laugh again, buying you some much needed time to figure out what to say next. “If you needed a boost to your ego, you could have just said so. You didn’t have to bring me to a half-abandoned amusement park and make me stare at the harbour to get it.”

“And the compliment?”

“I guess you’re not as annoying as I initially assumed you were.” 

“My ego definitely does not need the help,” he says easily. “And what kind of compliment is that? Give me something a little more impersonal.”

“You’re humble,” you observe with a good mannered snort. 

“It comes with the whole superhero thing.” He continues to watch you until he realises that this prolonged eye contact should come with some form of conversation.

Spiderman sits up a little, crossing one leg over the other. HIs ankle dangles and bumps into yours, a mere accident that makes you freeze so your body doesn’t move away.

“How have you been doing?” he asks, and the question comes out with an almost awkward plainness to it, stripped of the usual easy swagger. A second later he seems to hear himself and tries to recover, lifting one shoulder. “You seem a little quieter than usual. Not that I’ve been paying attention or anything. I just have, you know, a lot of care for the citizens of this city.”

The ferris wheel creaks as it carries you both a little higher, the lights of the pier shifting below in soft, sleepy colours. He watches you for a beat too long, and you know the joke gave him cover, but not much. The question is still sitting there between you, small and strangely careful.

You glance at him. “That was subtle. Really invisible work there.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I pride myself on my restraint. I could’ve been much creepier about it.”

“I’m sure that was difficult for you.”

“It was,” he says with a sigh. “You have no idea how hard I’m working right now to seem normal.”

You look back out over the water, the lights trembling across the surface. “I’ve been fine. That’s the official answer.”

“I think I’ve earned myself the unofficial answer,” he says quietly. 

You fold your arms loosely over your middle. “It’s ridiculously stupid. Like, who hangs out with a superhero and starts ranting about their situationship?”

He makes a little choked sound which makes you look over in concern. He quickly covers his mouth and waves you on. “Situationship? I didn’t know it would have counted as a situationship.”

You frown because what exactly does he know about what ‘it’ is? “It’s 2026, everyone’s idea of love is warped. If it doesn’t have a label then people will just slap the word ‘situationship’ over it and pray for the best.”

“Right, right. Please continue.” 

“Well, there was someone. Obviously.” You stop and let out a sigh, slumping. “Or maybe there wasn’t and I just made him into someone in my head. I can’t really tell anymore, it’s all just so messy. I thought maybe there was something there, I thought that was what everything was building up towards and then… we had this argument and it was honestly embarrassing looking back at it and now we don’t talk. So.” 

“Did you want there to be something?” 

Ignoring the fact that you’re having a love life talk with Spiderman, of all people, you answer honestly. “Of course. I wouldn’t be this annoyed if I didn’t.”

Spiderman lets his head knock against the window as he groans. “Okay. That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. Of course you wanted something, of course.”

You glance sideways at him. “Why do you sound like that?” 

“Second-hand sorrow.”

“I think they call that empathy.”

“I just think,” he says, his voice a little rougher now, “it would’ve been easier if you’d said no. I’m only saying that because I’m looking out for you, obviously. As a public servant.”

You snort despite yourself but the heaviness settles back in quickly enough. “It would have been easier if he just kept being an asshole like when it all started. If he’d just kept being a dick, then fine, whatever, I could have lived with that if I never found out the kind of guy he is. But he wasn't, he ended up being kind. And funny. And actually decent and that really pisses me off. He made me hopeful and I think that might be the worst part.”

Spiderman goes very still across from you, shoulders pulling tighter and chin dipping just slightly so he’s staring a hole through the floor of the carriage. When he finally speaks, his voice has gone quieter. “Yeah,” he says. “That does sound pretty bad. Especially if he knew what he was doing.” You frown. “I don’t even know if he did. I can’t tell if he was just oblivious, or if he really did mean something by it but then freaked himself over nothing.” “That’s not better,” Spiderman retorts. “That makes him sound very pathetic.” You look at him properly now, the dim lights from below catching on the higher points of his face. “You’re taking this really personally for someone who doesn’t know him.” He lets out a short laugh. “Maybe I just have strong opinions about men disappointing women. Somebody has to, the bar is in hell.” You exhale a laugh through your nose. “Exactly.” The carriage gives a small creak as it keeps moving and for a few creaky moments, neither of you say anything. The quiet isn’t awkward, and he hasn’t said enough to put you in your thoughts, but it’s quiet anyway. Then Spiderman clears his throat and leans forward, elbow braced on his knees. “Okay, I’m going to say one more thing about it and then I’m going to stop being so emotionally available. It feels a little off brand to what we have going on.” You snort. “Sure, go for it.” “I think,” he starts carefully, “that if someone made you feel seen and hopeful for more and then disappeared, you’re allowed to think he’s a jerk. You don’t have to make excuses just because he also had some good qualities. Because being kind in some moments doesn’t cancel out making you feel abandoned in others. But maybe…” He takes a breath. “Don’t give up on him. Please.” For some reason, the sincerity in his voice makes you pause. Damn, so even superheroes experience situationships? Because he sounded really invested just then in a way that can only be explained as first-hand experience. You wonder what kind of person could break Spiderman’s heart like that. “Thanks for the love advice, Spiderman.” He nods solemnly. “No problem.” And because the entire situation is simply too ridiculous to keep a straight face, you laugh. He smiles too, watching you for a moment before letting out his own laugh. “There you are,” he says. “I was wondering what other crimes I’d have to commit tonight to fix the mood.” “We’re going to have to circle back and talk about the lockpicking eventually.” “As long as it isn’t today.” The carriage gives a gentler, longer groan as it continues descending. You let your head tip back against the seat and, almost absentmindedly, your eyes drift out toward the skyline again. You frown. “Oh.” He looks out too. “That sounded like a bad oh. What kind of oh was that?”

You look past him, past the window, toward the stretch of harbour and the city beyond. “I think we missed the top.” He blinks. “What?” “The peak,” you say, sitting forward. “The very top of the ferris wheel? We were talking and I didn’t even notice we’d already gone over it.” “Oh wow, that guy is the worst. He stole your ferris wheel climax too.” “Is it also part of your superhero job description to ruin every moment with some sexual innuendo?” He lifts both hands. “Okay, fair, I’m having a bad wording night. But this is hard on me okay? I arrange a beautiful nighttime ferris wheel, I listen supportively while you talk about another man, and still somehow I’m the bad guy.” “Right? How do you do it?” The carriage is nearly at the bottom now. Below, the pier glows in soft strings of light and you feel a strange sense of finality when it shudders to a stop. Before you can maneuver around a ‘thanks for tonight, see you first thing in the morning!’, Spiderman leans forward. “Don’t look so ready to go just yet, there’s still the aftercare part.” You sigh but don’t berate him. “There’s still more? Someone save me.” The carriage door clicks open with a soft metallic sound. He stands first and offers you his hand again, less theatrical this time, and more sincere. “Come on,” he says, voice soft in the wind. “Don’t go home yet. Stay with me a little longer, that’s all I’m asking. Let me be the part of tonight you remember better.” You look at the hand he’s still holding half between you. Then, before you can overthink it, you slip your hand into his. “But only because I’m curious what exactly counts as better.” He turns his hand, catching yours properly, and something in your stomach flips at the gesture. “Good,” he says, low and warm. “Because I’ve been trying very hard all night not to ask too obviously.”

You lied before. Swinging is leaps and bounds better than sitting stationary in a small carriage inching along at a snail’s pace. It’s exhilarating and freeing, and yes, your eyes still hurt when you open them too wide, but you’ve figured out the perfect amount of squinting to keep them from tearing up. Instead, you whoop and cheer as he swings you in high arcs and dramatic drops, skimming close enough to the ground that you might believe the end of your life is waiting there, if not for your growing trust that Spiderman will always pull you back up. Half your screams are still terror, though. Spiderman isn’t silent either. He laughs right into your ear when you cling to him tighter, praises you when you throw your head back and cheer, and points out his favourite places to sit and watch the sunrise. He complains that the city’s architecture doesn’t cater nearly enough to his swinging needs, as though that should have been a priority in urban planning. He carries you over a football stadium and you marvel at its size, the bright field below looking almost unreal from up here. “Think you can handle a little more?” he murmurs against your ear. High on adrenaline, you nod against his neck. Then he drops you. His arms slide out from under your knees and he quickly unwinds your hands from around his neck. One moment you are safe in his hold, and the next you are falling, a heavy body surrendered to gravity as the ground rushes up to meet you. Your scream could wake the whole city if it were not already awake. You look up. The sky above is vast, endless, strewn with stars so beautiful they almost make you forget the terror roaring through you. The wind screams in your ears, your clothes snapping against your body, and somewhere inside the panic there is a strange, suspended calm that feels almost like freedom. Just before the ground can meet your back, Spiderman swoops in from the side and catches you cleanly in his arms. The force of it steals another cry from you, but then he is already pulling you upward again, the momentum sweeping you into another great arc before gravity draws you back, over and over until the motion finally begins to slow. For one suspended moment, the two of you dangle in the air, saved from certain death by nothing but the web shot from his wrists. Metres above the ground, your life held so easily in someone else’s hands, you find that you feel no fear at all. In fact, you are laughing. It starts as a breathless, disbelieving sound, then spills into something uncontrollable, and he chuckles at first before his own laughter joins yours. You laugh until your lungs ache, until your face hurts, until all you can feel is the warmth of his breath against your cheek and the solid certainty of his arms around your back. He makes no move to set you down or sling you back to safety. Instead, he only keeps you there, held against his chest, his masked face angled down toward yours. You want to believe he is looking at you the way you are looking at him, full of wonder and something even softer than that, but it is hard to be certain when his face is hidden. Your laughter dwindles into one last helpless giggle as you peer up at him. “Nice catch.”

Your gaze drops from the white of his eyes to the shape of the mask stretched over the bridge of his nose, the faint outline of his mouth beneath the fabric. There has not been a single moment in your strange, ridiculous friendship with Spiderman when you have been so curious about who he is under that mask. “Thanks,” he says, his voice warm and low. “I kind of do this for a living.” You laugh softly, and he shivers when your breath mists against the fabric over his lips. “Do you remember when you first saved me?” you ask. “Yes, I slammed into a bus stop and ruined it forever. I also remember telling you to never mention that again,” he says immediately. You nod, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “We were so different back then. I almost thought you were shy the amount of times you ran away.” He is quiet for just long enough to make your chest tighten. Then, softly, “Pretty girls fluster me.” You snort, but there’s no hiding the warmth that spreads across your face, and for once you make no move to cover it. Let him see it. Let him know the effect he has on you, just how fiercely this thing burns within you, this aching desire to hold him close, to whisper his name and feel him shiver beneath your touch. Slowly, as if afraid to snap the fragile thread of tension between you, you pull your hand away from your chest and trail it up the side of his neck, your touch feather-light. You hear his breath catch. Feel it, too. Your fingers drift higher until your palm cups his cheek through the mask. “I want to know who you are,” you say softly. He flinches. “You can’t.” “Why not?” you ask, voice gentle. “You don’t trust me?” “That’s not it.” “Really?” Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. “Because I would’ve accepted that as an answer.” He goes oddly still. “What?” Spiderman’s stunned silence makes you smile, and a quiet laugh slips out of you at how easy he is to read despite the mask. “What’s wrong? I’ve read the comics. I’ve seen the movies. I know what happens when the superhero reveals his identity.” You tip your head, eyes never leaving him. “Something bad always follows. It’s like punishment for their hubris. The main companion dies, or the hero has to choose between their lover and the world. It always ends in tragedy.” He recovers quickly enough, his arms tightening around your waist as if instinctively holding you closer. “You think I couldn’t save both you and the world?” You ignore the implications of his words, biting back a smile. “And that would be the hubris part.” He scoffs, though the sound comes out a touch too strained to be convincing. “That’s not why I can’t tell you my identity, princess.” “Then tell me why.” Your voice drops lower, soft as breath. “Because right now it feels like you’re making up rules as you go.” He hesitates. It is brief, but not brief enough. “You wouldn’t…” He swallows. “You wouldn’t feel the same. It would change things. It would change whatever this is.” You go quiet at that, mulling the words over. Then your hands drift from his neck to rest lightly against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath the suit. Looking up at him, you hum. “Do I know you?” Spiderman flinches again. “No.” You laugh softly at how bad he is at lying. “Alright. Are we friends?” He doesn’t react quite as strongly to that, which tells you enough to keep going. “Do we not get along?” “Hold on—” You immediately compose a mental list of all those who had once wronged you in some way. Some were easy to recall, their offences more recent like the cyclist that had rode past you one morning and knocked your coffee out of your hands leaving you confused and uncaffeinated for class, or your neighbour who is always throwing parties. Maybe it’s someone closer to you than that, like Naoya, or Toji, or Mei Mei, or that old lady that always comes in at 8am on a Thursday and routinely complains about her coffee not being hot enough. You frown at that last thought and Spiderman catches it, opening his mouth to stop you. “Are you a student, or—”

He hisses loud enough to cut you off. “Don’t guess. Don’t you dare. If you have to know, it’ll be because I told you, not because you stumbled into it by accident.” He pauses, then adds, more mutinously, “And I definitely don’t need to hear who you think I am. I’m sure you can imagine how terrible that might be for my ego.” You tilt your head, amused. “I get that, but I was only going to ask if—” “No.” “But I—” “I said no.” “Spiderman.” Your tone sharpens just enough to shut him up. “I was going to ask if you’re that old lady who always demands her coffee be molten before I hand it over. You know, the one who acts like I personally invented workplace safety regulations.” Spiderman doesn’t say anything for a long while. “What?” You laugh under your breath. “I definitely told you about her before. Or—” you pause, smiling to yourself, “told you about you, maybe. The one who always comes through drive-thru.” “Princess,” he says dryly, “I am not sixty years old.” “Perfect,” you reply. “Then I’m sure I wouldn’t otherwise care who you are.” And then he’s laughing. It bursts out of him bright and helpless, so sudden and genuine that it makes something in your chest go warm and dizzy. His head tips back, the white lenses of the mask curving with the shape of his smile, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your own grin from widening too much. If he laughed in your face every day for the rest of your life, you think you might let him, if only to know that this—him, here, now—is real. He’s talking again, you realise belatedly, his mask shifting with the movement of his mouth, but the words barely register. You’re too busy watching the fabric stretch and crease, too aware of how close he is, how little separates you now. Your fingers trail back up the side of his neck, and that silences him instantly. Despite all his earlier objections, he stills completely when your hand settles there. Your thumb grazes the seam where mask meets suit, and you stop, glancing up at him. “Can I?” “You can’t,” he whispers, just as softly, though he doesn’t move away. If anything, his hand only tightens on your waist. “I won’t look, I promise.” Your thumb traces small circles against his neck, your gaze locked on his. “I just want to touch you.” He shivers. You feel it run through him, sharp and involuntary. He says your name in a low rumble, the sound almost enough to undo you on its own. “This is a bad idea.” “If you tell me to stop, I will.” Looking down, you slip the tip of your finger beneath the narrow break between his bodysuit and the edge of his mask. “My arm is going to cramp,” he mutters weakly, and the attempt at humour only makes your smile deepen. You begin to peel the mask back. Just a little at first, just enough to reveal the bare line of his neck and feel the tense muscle there. Your fingertips glide over the exposed skin, and his breath catches again, but he still doesn’t stop you. You wonder how far he’ll let you go. You lift the mask higher, over the line of his jaw, and your eyes snag there before they can help it. Then over his mouth, where you pause for the briefest second, struck silent by the sight of him, before leaving the fabric gathered just beneath his nose. He tries for a smirk and you watch it form. “Was that all you wanted to see?” You lean in slowly, stopping just short of him to gauge his reaction. When he doesn’t move away, you close the distance until your nose brushes his. “For now,” you whisper. His eyes search yours through the mask, and whatever he finds there makes his mouth flatten into something almost pained.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” you murmur, and though you mean it, there is a terrible hollow ache opening in your chest now. Gojo’s face flashes uninvited through your mind and you shove it back, determined to bury it, though it’s clear enough from the way Spiderman goes tense that you haven’t done nearly as good a job as you’d hoped. You don’t want to use him like this. Over the past few months, Spiderman has become something steady in your life, a source of comfort in ways you never expected. Maybe it is because he has no face, no fixed place in your world, no history to complicate things. Maybe that’s why you have been able to tell him things you can’t even bring yourself to say to your friends. And now you are asking him for something you cannot take back. Still, your fingers curl into the fabric of his suit. “Please.” He moves before you can prepare for it, leaning in so suddenly your breath catches, your startled yelp cut off by the harsh press of his lips against yours. For one disorienting second, all thought disappears. Then he kisses you again, harder this time, and your hand flies up to hold him there, fingers tangling against his neck as though you can keep the moment from slipping away. His mouth is warm and real and a little clumsy with restraint, like he wants more and is trying very hard not to take it. The hand at your waist tightens, enough to make your pulse jump. And then he groans into the kiss, fierce and guttural before pulling away. The break leaves you both panting. You don’t speak at first but neither does he. You just stare at one another, lips swollen, breath unsteady, the last minute catching up all at once in a rush so overwhelming it feels almost unreal.You are already leaning in again before you fully register it, drawn by instinct more than thought, wanting to close the distance and do it all over— When suddenly gravity shifts. You let out a startled scream as the ground drops from under you and you pitch forward into him. His arms close around you automatically, holding you flush against his chest as the city begins to move beneath you. “What are you—” “I’m taking you back,” he says, voice rough. “What?” You twist, trying to look up at him, but he keeps you tucked in tight against him. “Wait a minute!” “I’m dropping you back at your dorm.” “Hold on a second!” “I can’t.” The words come out strained, almost frayed at the edges, and because his voice sounds like that—because the kiss is still there between you, lingering like heat—you let your protests falter.

The flight back is too quick. When he finally sets you down outside your dorm, your legs feel unsteady for more reasons than one. The second your feet hit the ground, your hands shoot to his arms, keeping hold so he can’t just disappear again. “You didn’t want it?” He doesn’t answer immediately, but with the mask still pushed halfway up, you see the way his jaw clenches. The truth hits you all at once, sharp and humiliating and you find your lips, once pressed against him, now forming the sound of an apology. “I’m sorry it was bad.” He makes a vague movement, like he wants to run a hand through his hair and has only just remembered the mask. “That’s not it.” “Then what is it?” The desperation in your voice makes you cringe the moment you hear it, but it’s too late to take back. He looks at you for a long, silent moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is unbearably soft. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? Revealing my identity would only hurt you.” Your grip on his arms tightens. “I’m fine with that. I don’t need to know who you are. It doesn’t matter.” The words rush out now, tripping over each other. “The one I—” You falter, heart hammering. “The one I care about is you.” Spiderman watches you wordlessly as you trip over your own tongue. Then, after a beat that feels much longer than it is, he says, “I never said it was your mistake.” You inhale sharply and, before you can think better of it, lean in and steal a kiss from his lips. There isn’t enough time to consider what the hell you’re doing because he answers immediately. Whatever hesitation he’d been clinging to burns away the second your mouth meets his, seared off by heat and want and the unmistakable fact that this is really happening. This kiss is nothing like the last. It is harder, hungrier, and when his hand catches your wrist to pull you closer, it still doesn’t feel like enough. A low groan tears from him into your mouth, impatient and wrecked, and then he’s biting lightly at your bottom lip as though restraint is already slipping through his fingers. You gasp, and he takes the invitation immediately. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, coaxing every breathless sound from you until your whimpers are swallowed down by him. Still, it isn’t enough. How could it be? Not when he finally has you in his arms like this after wanting you for so long, after all the distance and hurt and wrong timing. His body urges you back a step, then another, until your shoulders brush the wall and he follows, crowding you there.

His hands slide up your waist and back down again, settling hard at your hips, while the other cups your jaw to hold you steady for the fierce, dizzying press of his mouth. You cling to him like he is the only solid thing in the world, and maybe right now he is. Your knees have gone weak enough that you don’t trust them to hold you without him. A crash sounds somewhere in the alley below. You jolt, teeth catching accidentally against his lip. He groans at the sting but pulls back, shooting the darkness beyond the window a withering glare like he could kill whatever interrupted him. You follow his line of sight, but nothing else happens. The alley settles back into stillness. After a second, he exhales and leans down until his forehead rests against yours. “You should probably check that out,” you murmur, more to break the thick, dizzy silence than out of any real conviction. He hums, the sound warm against your skin. “Then why aren’t you letting me go?” Only then do you realise your fingers have curled tight into the front of his suit. They only tighten further, pathetic and needy in a way you’d usually hate, but his answering chuckle is filthy and starved enough to make warmth bloom through you. “Stay,” you whisper. “Okay,” he says softly. “I won’t go.” You shake your head and lift it just enough to meet the white gaze of his mask, your own eyes dropping to his mouth for the briefest second. “No. Stay.” He doesn’t need to be told twice. His hand slips from your cheek and a second later a web shoots from his wrist and catches on the frame of your third-floor window. His other arm locks around you and suddenly he’s lifting you with him. Getting through the window is clumsy and breathless and far less graceful than the way he moves through the city. One of your shoes catches on the ledge, his shoulder bumps the frame, and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing too loudly. It feels absurdly scandalous, sneaking through your own window like this, and the absurdity only makes it worse. He climbs in first, then turns immediately and offers you his hand. You take it with less hesitation than before, and he guides you through carefully, steadying you the moment your feet touch the floor, and for a second he doesn’t let go. He just keeps hold of you, standing close in the dimness of your room, eyes fixed on your face. “Are you sure?” he asks. You don’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t.” Something in him softens at that, though his voice stays low. “I still can’t let you see me.” You shake your head and close your eyes before your nerve can fail you. Your hands rise to the seam of his mask. “Trust me.” And because he does, he lets you pull it away. Truthfully, there’s a moment where temptation almost gets the better of you. He's right there, close enough to touch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his skin and the shape of his mouth. You’re touching him, your tongue has been inside his mouth and now you know his taste intimately. All it would take is a moment of weakness and the opening of your eyes to finally know who has been under the mask this entire time. Just one peek, one action to end the curiosity. Still, you hold yourself back. Don’t ruin the moment.

A soft chuckle brushes your lips, his bare breath warm against them now that the mask is out of the way. You steady your hands against his chest and feel the frantic pound of his heart beneath your palms. He shivers at the contact. He tries to be patient, he really does. Tries to make this moment careful, almost reverent, like you deserve. But Gojo is greedy. He’s greedy for your attention, for the spark in your eyes to flare up the moment his eyes lock on yours, he’s greedy for your touch, the brushing of fingers when you pass him his coffee in the morning, for that smile that you only ever seem to give him when he’s Spiderman. He is greedy for this version of you, soft and wanting and close enough to ruin him. His brow twitches, something cruel twisting in his stomach and he traces the seam of your lips with his tongue, pushing in even before you open your mouth to him. His tongue finds yours again before he can stop himself, the kiss turning deeper, hungrier. He presses you back against the window, one hand bracing against the sill behind you so the edge doesn’t dig into your spine while the other settles hard at your waist. He devours you completely, nothing tentative about him now. He kisses you like he’s starving as all his late night fantasies, your name on his tongue and his hand wrapped around his cock, become finally realised when he tastes you. You lightly tap his arm, and he pulls back to let you breathe but his lips don’t leave you for long. “God, I've wanted you for so long.” he nuzzles your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. His hardness presses against your thigh, leaving you with no doubts about his words. "I can’t stop thinking about you, every time I close my eyes, you’re there. You're haunting me.” He continues to confess between heated kisses along your jawline. The utter longing in his voice, the depraved desperation as he presses impossibly closer, hands wanting to trace up your side but to also push you up into him, the heat of his mouth against your pulse point, it’s all too much and you let out a whimper. He groans softly against your skin, his restraint fraying even further at the noise. “Stop teasing me,” you gasp, tilting your head to give him more room and hating how needy you sound. His answer is rough and low. "I can’t help it.” Deciding you’ve had enough of him making you melt where you stand, you push at him instead. He lets himself be moved, following your blind guidance as you walk him backwards toward where you think your bed is. When the backs of his legs hit the mattress, he sits, and his fingers curl around your wrist to tug you closer between his knees. Your hands find his face again, fumbling slightly as they trace bare skin for the first time. The line of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the shape of a face you still refuse to see. He lets you explore him in silence, stilling beneath your touch in a way that feels almost unbearably intimate, pressing a kiss to your palm when your hand drifts closer to his mouth. Your fingers linger on the warmth of his skin, tracing the soft curve of his lips before dipping lower, brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. He's so still under your touch, like he's afraid one wrong move will shatter this fragile moment, and it sends a thrill through you—the power you hold, even blinded. With your eyes closed, it blocks out everything but sensation, heightening every graze of your fingertips, every hitch in his breath. You can feel the rapid thump of his pulse beneath your palm, matching the frantic beat of your own heart.

He tilts his head slightly, nuzzling into your hand like a dog seeking affection, and the vulnerability in that small gesture makes your chest tighten. This masked hero, the one who swings through the city saving lives, is reduced to this—panting softly, body tense with barely contained need. It's intoxicating, knowing you can unravel him like this. “You're killing me,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, laced with that desperate edge that makes your core clench. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just below the hem of your skirt, not pushing further but holding you there, grounding himself. “Please don’t stop here, touch me more.” Your finger grazes his boner through the tight fabric of his suit and he hisses, bowing inward. “Shit!” You pause. “A thought has occurred.” He lets out a long suffering sigh. “Please don’t ruin the mood.” You laugh softly, dragging your nails over his erection over and over, drinking in every flinch you feel from where you’re pressed against him. “I can’t help you if you’re still in this… spandex.” Spiderman huffs again but you feel him pull back and unzip his suit, wherever that zipper might be. “I’m so glad you can’t see me right now. There was no way I could get out of this suit in a hot way.” “Trust me, my imagination isn’t doing you any favours either.” You pause. “Do you have to wear a thong under your suit?” “The mood was really good five seconds ago. Don't ruin it because you’re curious about what I’m wearing underneath.” You giggle and your nerves evaporate. Sure, you’re about to have sex with the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman and that might forever change the trajectory of your relationship with him, but at least it’s still him. When he sits back on the bed and guides you forward, you follow him without a second thought and kneel between his legs. “What are you—oh fuck.” He inhales sharply, hands never leaving you for long as they find purchase in your hair. “Fuck, you look so pretty.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, feeling it give way under his touch. He curses again. “I need your mouth on me, pretty girl.” You laugh at his eagerness and reward his honesty with your hands down his chest, breath quickening when he lets out a small sigh as your fingers graze his lower stomach. You allow yourself the time to trail a finger down his bare chest now that he is free from his spandex, marveling at the muscle you find tensing under your touch. Eventually, you find the waistband of his boxers. “So you do wear boxers?” “Y/N, please. The mood.” You tug his boxers down, slightly upset you can’t see the way his cock swings up, finally free from its restraints. The sounds he makes compensates and you find it hard to stay disappointed as he groans, the hand in your hair closing around to tug you impatiently towards his dick.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes heavy-lidded as he watches you. Despite his apology, he doesn’t make an effort to loosen his hold that much.  You drag your hands up his thighs to find where they converge. You wrap your fingers around him, feeling out his shape. If he asked in that narcissistic way of his, you’d tell him he’s average size. Truthfully, he’s thicker and longer than you’d dare to admit, the slight curve a feature that has you pressing your thighs together. He bucks involuntarily, a whine escaping his lips that sounds so damn needy it makes you wetter. “Take your time,” he manages to grit out though it’s breathless. “I’m not going anywhere.” You wonder who he’s talking to because you’re sure as hell not going to take your time. Instead, you lean in closer, your breath ghosting his length and smell him—musky and hot after being trapped in that suit for so long. “You’re shaking already,” you whisper. “Haven’t you ever had a girl on her knees for you?” He doesn't answer, just lets out a shaky exhale, his hands fisting the sheets beside him. The silence is answer enough, and it makes you laugh, hard enough to be distracted by the pathetic twitch his cock gives at his own humiliation. “No way? The amazing Spiderman gets no game? My god, I almost feel sorry for you,” you coo mockingly, tongue flicking out to lap at the bead of pre-cum on his tip. He jolts, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat, you smile against his flushed skin. “All that heroic web-slinging but no one’s ever taken care of this?” Before he can respond, you take him into your mouth, lips sealing around the head as you suck gently. He tastes salty and slightly bitter, but the way he gasps all high and desperate makes you hum in approval, the vibration drawing another shiver from him. Your hands brace on his thighs, nails digging in as you bob your head, taking him deeper inch by inch. He’s not huge but he’s certainly responsive, hips twitching like he can’t help it, fucking shallowly into your mouth. “Shit—oh God, your mouth!” His words dissolve into a groan, his hand tightening in your messy strands. You hollow your cheeks, tongue swirling around the underside, tracing the vein that pulses against it. With your eyes closed, every sensation is amplified, the wet sounds of your sucking, the salty drip down your throat, the way his cock twitches on your tongue. You pull back slightly, letting spit string from your lips to his tip, and pump him with your hand, remembering to twist a little at the top. “There’s no way you’re going to cum already, are you?” Once again, you desperately wish to see him, to see him writhing under your touch, flushed with his eyes rolling back. “Don’t stop,” he begs, voice cracking. You oblige, leaning back down to swallow around him, nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. He smells like sweat and arousal, and you gag a little when he thrusts too eagerly, but you don't pull away. Instead, you moan, letting him feel how much you want this, how his desperation turns you on.

His free hand claws at the bed, knuckles white, and you can feel the tension coiling in his body, the way he's fighting not to come too soon. You speed up, slurping obscenely, one hand slipping down to cup his balls, rolling them gently. He cries out—actually cries out—head thrown back, and you feel powerful, desired, even as the mean streak in you wants to edge him until he breaks. But you’re aching too, pussy throbbing with neglect and its slickness soaks your thighs. You pop off him with a wet sound to which he whines in protest, hips jerking forward seeking more. “Not yet,” you say breathlessly and rise to your feet to push him back fully onto your bed. He goes willingly, sprawling out with the audible sounds of his pants. You climb over him, straddling his waist, and grind your soaked panties against his thick length. The friction makes you both moan, his hands flying to your hips to hold you there. “Please,” he pants. “Let me touch you. I need to—” You cut him off with a kiss, letting him taste himself from where your mouth met his cock. It’s messy and you rock against him harder, chasing that pressure on your clit. But it’s not enough. You need more. Pulling back, you guide one of his hands between your legs, pressing his fingers against your clothed pussy. “Feel how wet I am? It’s all for you. Now do something about it.” His fingers tremble as they slip under the fabric and brush against your folds, making you hiss at the contact. He’s clumsy at first, virgin nerves showing in the hesitant circles he rubs over your clit, but the sensation burns with your eyes closed, turning every awkward stroke into fire. You grind down to guide his rhythm and he learns fast, thumb pressing firmer, two fingers finding your entrance. “Like this?” he asks, voice small and eager, and you nod, biting your lip to stifle a moan as he pushes inside. He’s not skilled, all bumping knuckles, but God does the stretch feel good. You clench around him, riding his hand, the wet squelch filling the room. “Faster,” you demand, and he obeys, curling them experimentally, hitting that spot that makes your thighs quake. Sensory deprivation turns it overwhelming, leaving you drowning in the slide of his fingers, the heat of his palm grinding against your clit. You whimper as the pleasure builds and he drinks in every sound, pumping harder, thumb flicking relentlessly. “You’re so tight,” he murmurs in awe, free hand roaming your body, squeezing your breast through your shirt, pinching the nipple until you arch. “So wet for me. Fuck, I could do this all night.” But you can’t wait anymore. You shove his hand away, panting, and fumble with your clothes, stripping off your top and skirt, panties last. He helps, clumsy but enthusiastic, suit peeled down to his hips. Naked now, you feel exposed and vulnerable, but his hands are everywhere—stroking your sides, cupping your ass, pulling you down. He positions himself between your legs, leaning down to kiss you deeply while his hands memorise your curves, gliding them over your soft skin. It’s not enough. You roll your hips against him, trying to press him in, seeking that friction you desperately need. Spiderman lets out a low groan against your ear, his control slipping at your eager movements. He pulls back to watch, to drink in the sight of you writhing under him, at your hands fumbling desperately at his arms to draw him back in. “Give me a second,” he mumbles. “I want to take my time with you.” “Please don’t,” you whine. It’s infuriating, having him so close you can feel his heat against your skin and yet, it only emphasises the emptiness inside you. “Please just touch me.”

“I’ve got you, baby.” Unable to resist your needy sounds any longer, he finally gives in. He readjusts his position, guiding himself to your entrance. He thrusts up slightly, his dick gathering your slick at his tip, the both of you moaning at the friction. “Tell me what you want, Y/N. I need to hear how badly you need me.” He all but pleads, repeating the action over and over, eyes closed shut at every nudge against your clit. You whimper, fingers finding purchase on his biceps. “I’m not going to beg you, jerk.” He ruts up, the tip catching on your entrance and you almost believe it’s in until it slides right past. “Beg me,” he pleads again, mouth planting desperate kisses at your neck. The teasing drags on, his cockhead slipping through your folds, bumping your clit with every shallow thrust, but never filling you. It's torture, the heat of him so close, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room. You buck up, trying to impale yourself, but he holds your hips down, chuckling breathlessly against your throat. “Come on,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. “Just say it. Tell me you want my cock inside you.” Your pride wars with the ache until it’s finally too much. “Fine,” you gasp, nails raking his back. “Fuck me. Please, just—put it in. I need it.” The words break him. With a guttural moan, he lines up and thrusts in, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. You're stretched full, walls fluttering around his thickness, and you cry out, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. “Oh God, yes,” he groans, stilling for a moment to adjust, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re perfect. So fucking tight.” You clench around him deliberately, and he whines, that puppy-like desperation surfacing again. “Move,” you plead as you rock up, and he does, pulling out halfway before slamming back in. The pace starts slow, experimental as his inexperience shows in the uneven rhythm. But it builds, thrusts deepening, the bed creaking under you. Each snap of his hips grinds his pubic bone against your clit, and with your eyes closed, it’s all you can focus on: the slap of skin, the wet glide of his cock, the way he fills you completely. He buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking marks into your skin, hands gripping your thighs to spread you wider. “Feels so good,” he mumbles between thrusts. "Like you were made for me. Can’t believe—fuck—” The tension coils tight in your belly, pleasure spiking with every plunge. He’s hitting deep now, tip kissing your cervix, and you arch sharply. But he’s greedy, wanting more, always more. One hand slips between you to find your clit again, rubbing in tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyelids. “Cum for me,” he pleads, voice hoarse. “Wanna feel you squeeze my dick. Please, Y/N.” The command, laced with desperation, tips you over. You shatter, pussy convulsing around him, milking his cock as waves crash through you. He follows seconds later, thrusting erratically before spilling inside, hot spurts painting your walls. He doesn’t even stop then, instead opting to slowly grind against your ass to push it all in. Finally, he collapses onto you as you both pant, bodies slick with sweat.

For a moment, there’s only the aftershocks and his softening cock still twitching inside you. Then he lifts his head and kisses you softly, reverently. “That was incredible,” he whispers. You smile lazily, fingers tracing his jaw once more. “Yeah?” He doesn’t pull out right away, staying buried deep as his breathing evens out, like he can't bear to leave your warmth. His hands roam lazily now, no longer frantic but exploratory as he maps out the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You must possess some kind of iron will because you keep your eyes closed even then such that you can feel every callus on his palms, every tremble in his touch. It’s intimate, this post-climax haze, and it stirs something softer in you despite the teasing edge you cling to. “You're still hard,” you murmur, shifting your hips experimentally and feel him twitch inside you. He groans, low and needy, burying his face in your shoulder. “Can’t help it,” he admits, voice muffled. “You feel too good. Like... I don’t want to stop. Ever.” The confession hangs there, vulnerable and raw, and you can’t resist poking at it. “Aw, puppy,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair. He nips at your collarbone in retaliation, but there’s no bite to it. “You like it,” he says, confidence peeking through the desperation. “The way I beg. Admit it.” You huff, but your body betrays you, clenching around him again. He takes it as an invitation and starts to rock slowly, shallow thrusts that keep him seated deep. It’s lazy and sensual and builds up friction without urgency. “Maybe,” you concede breathlessly, hands guiding his head. “But don’t think it makes you special.” “Liar.” He chuckles against your skin, the vibration sending tingles down your spine. His pace picks up slightly, one hand sliding down to where you’re joined, thumb circling your oversensitive clit. You gasp, the pleasure sharp after your orgasm, but he doesn’t stop, drawing out whimpers you can’t suppress. The room fills with the soft sounds of your shared breaths, the wet slide of him moving inside you, the occasional creak of the bed. He kisses up your neck, lips brushing the edge of the blindfold. “Is this okay?” he asks. “Yeah,” you whisper, turning your head to capture his mouth. The kiss is slower this time as you focus on simply exploring and memorising his taste. He pulls back eventually to sit up and change the angle, hooking your legs over his shoulders. The stretch is deeper like this, his cock hitting new spots that make you moan. “God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes. “I always thought you were but when you’re like this… fuck.” The praise warms you and you reach for him blindly, fingers finding his chest. “Shut up and fuck me harder.” He laughs, but obeys, snapping his hips with renewed vigor. The position lets him grind deep, balls slapping against your ass, and you feel another climax building. His hand returns to your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts, and you shatter again, crying out, though not with his superhero name because that feels a little impersonal. He follows and spills with a whine, collapsing beside you this time. Now, when the darkness creeps in from the edges, it’s not because you’re making the conscious decision to keep your eyes closed. The afterglow lures you to sleep and he holds you throughout it all.

But Spiderman—no, Gojo—lies there with his heart still refusing to slow, greed silent for only a moment but never truly gone. His fingers trace absent patterns over your back as if committing every inch of you to memory like the repetition might somehow make this enough. As if this version of the night, this version of you, can be folded up and hidden somewhere safe for later. Because he knows, even now, that this is the only way he gets to have you. Not in daylight, not with your eyes open and knowing. Not as the boy who sits two rows away and grins when he beats everyone to the answer. Not as Gojo, all sharp edges and arrogance and every stupid mistake he’s made with you piling up behind him like a wall. He presses a kiss to your hair before he can stop himself. It is a stupid thing to do, indulgent and dangerous, but there is no one here to catch him at it, no one but the sleeping girl in his arms who doesn’t know the shape of his face and trusts him anyway. That makes it worse, makes his heart hurt so badly he has to take in a shuddering gasp to calm it, if only slightly. As Spiderman, you had pulled him inside your room by hand. As Spiderman, you had touched his face with your eyes closed and trusted what you found there. As Spiderman, you had kissed him like you meant it, let him close enough to hear the soft wrecked sounds you make when you say his name. It should feel like a victory. Some ugly, secret part of him has wanted this for too long not to recognise the shape of triumph when it finally arrives. And yet it settles strangely in his chest, tangled up with something meaner and sadder. He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today. His throat tightens. You shift against him again, this time with a sleepy little sigh, and his eyes close at once. If he were better, he thinks, he would leave now before the night can twist this into something cruel, before staying turns this into something impossible to explain later. Before morning puts light on all the parts of him that he intentionally leaves in the shadows away from your gaze.

He tips his head back against your pillow and stares up at the dark ceiling, one arm still curved protectively around you. Outside your window the city hums low and distant, all traffic and wind and sirens dulled by height and glass. Somewhere out there, the rest of his life is still moving along with deadlines, classes, the version of himself you will face tomorrow and maybe hate a little more than you did today. But Gojo is a weak man so he stays. Long enough for your breathing to deepen fully and for your body to grow loose and heavy with sleep beside him. Long enough that he starts to imagine, against all reason, what it would be like if he didn’t have to move at all. If he could still be here when your eyes opened. if he could watch you wake and let himself be seen, just once, just enough to catch the flicker of emotion across your face. Would you be happy? Mad? Disappointed? But the universe is rarely this forgiving and patient, and he eventually pulls himself up on his elbows. You’re still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow now, hair spilled across the sheets, mouth parted slightly on a soft exhale. The sight of you unguarded in such a way makes something ache low and hopeless inside him. There’s a mark near your collarbone he has to drag his gaze away from before he becomes truly pathetic. “Don't do this to me,” he whispers, though whether he means you or fate or himself, he isn’t sure. Obviously, no one answers him. It would be easier if you weren’t like this. If you were messy or careless or cruel in your sleep. If you took up too much space, kicked him in that old wound that still refuses to heal. If you snored. If you drooled on the pillow. If there were anything in the world that made leaving you here feel less like carving something out of himself with his own hands and leaving it on the pillow next to your head. But there isn’t. So Gojo leans down and presses one last kiss to your temple. Before he goes, he stands beside the bed for one suspended moment, looking down at you with all the wretched fondness he never manages to contain well enough. “I'm sorry,” he whispers softly. Then he’s gone, slipping back through the window into the thinning dark before dawn. Morning comes gently. You wake slowly, feeling the ache of too little sleep and something duller lower down, soothed by the warmth trapped under your blanket. It’s a gloomy day outside and faint grey light slips in through the curtains. For one sweet, stupid second, the memory of the night before reaches you before your eyes properly open, and your mouth almost curves with it. You reach out to touch him and find nothing. Your eyes snap open. “Spiderman?” The name sounds ridiculous in the morning quiet. The space beside you is empty, no lingering body heat, no weight in the mattress, no messy shape of someone else, just rumpled sheets and a half-opened window blowing a chill into your room. It all looks so unbearably ordinary for a place where your life had felt, only hours ago, like it was tilting into something secret and miraculous. Something strange moves through you then, too tangled to name cleanly. The first is an easy one to decipher, disappointment, sharp and immediate. Then embarrassment, because some soft foolish part of you had expected to wake up and find him still there. Perhaps not unmasked, maybe not staying forever, but at the very least there to share the same sense of sheepishness you feel. Enough to prove last night hadn’t been a beautiful, selfish thing borrowed from the dark. You reach out and smooth your hand over the cold sheet once, as if you might find traces of your common sense there and regain some rational thought. It doesn’t, to no surprise. All it does is confirm what you already know. Your bed is empty.

Has the sun always felt so good on his skin? 

Gojo swings through the city as he does every morning. It’s a habit that comes from the obligation, something Geto had said in passing about the responsibilities of being a superhero—or something. Satoru never really listens when Geto scolds him and he certainly doesn’t care enough now to pull those words to the surface. 

His morning patrols are little more than a guilty pleasure anyway. To be above the city made everyone else seem like ants, feeble things that needed saving every minute of every day. But it’s fine. 

Because speaking of guilt, that’s what he should be feeling right now. But he doesn’t. In fact, Satoru is having a rather fine and dandy day. 

He high fives the police chief when they start scolding him on the mess of webs he left behind during the car chase. He tips the convenient store cashier when he pays for his energy drink, forgoing the whole ‘leave the store and then web cash to the worker’s chest’ bit that he always does. He smiles at the senior citizens when they eye him even though he knows the gesture won’t show through the mask. 

He finger guns the kids as they ride by in scooters and bulky, too-big helmets. He graciously rescues a balloon from a tree. He pets a dog on the way to class. 

His phone buzzes in the pocket of his jacket that he wears to keep away the winter chill, the new personal phone that he got, not his work phone, and that does a really good job of extinguishing his mood. 

Gojo settles down on the ground and ducks into a thin alleyway, pulling out his phone to check. 

It’s a calendar notification reminding him that today was the big outing, some aquarium outing he had to beg Shoko to be invited to. Once, he had looked forward to it but now, all he can think of is the hurt in your eyes, the way your mouth falls open in soft pleasure, the slight flutter in your eyes as you arch against his—

He shoves his phone back into his pocket and hurries back to his dorm. 

Ignoring Geto's casual greetings, Gojo opts to instead ceremoniously flop into his top bunk the moment he slings in through the open window. 

“How was patrol?”

“Don’t ask me stupid questions.”

“Okay.” Geto looks up from his book, turning in his chair to look up at the blue and white lump. “What’s wrong with you?” 

Gojo tugs off his mask, ruffling his hair as it falls messy before faceplanting back into his unmade bed. “Nothing.”

“You left the dorm beaming like everyday is just sunshine and rainbows to you, and now you’re back sulking. I wouldn’t call that nothing.” He pauses when he receives no response, before sighing. “Just make sure to ditch the attitude before we meet up with Shoko. And don’t take it out on Y/N.”

Gojo can’t help it, he chokes on his own breath. Geto , of course, notices. 

“What was that sound?” 

“That’s just how I breathe.” 

“You don’t always sound like a kicked puppy when you’re breathing.” His roommate stands to peek over the frame of the bunk bed, raising an eyebrow when he’s met with Gojo's devastated state. “Is this about your tragic loss to Venom? Look, he’ll come back and you’ll get another shot at being a good superhero, I promise.”

“It’s not that.”

“Is it Y/N then?”

Gojo lifts his head just enough to give him an incredulous look. “How did you…?”

“I saw what you were reposting on Tiktok.”

Gojo flops onto his back, hands over his face, feet kicking about in frustration. “God, even when she’s not around she drives me crazy!”

“Not that I’m not super sympathetic about your situation, but maybe it’s not the best idea to freak out about your normal civilian life when you’re Spiderman-ing. It’s better to keep those things separate, you know?” 

Gojo grabs his pillow and shoves it over his face. 

“Was that an agreement or an act of rebellion? Satoru, I’m serious. You can’t mix your personal life and your superhero activities together.” 

He stays quiet, or maybe he’s suffocated himself. Gojo kind of hopes it’s the latter if it’ll save him from telling the truth. 

Geto shakes his shoulder. “Dude, stop moping. We have that thing to go to and Shoko won’t be happy if you flake.”

Gojo remains limp and after a few more shakes, Geto frowns with the tiniest hint of worry. 

“Okay, out with it. What did you do?” 

At this, Gojo finally turns his head to look at his roommate mournfully. A slow, sinking sensation of dread drops in Geto's stomach as he searches this thin glimpse of his roommate’s face. 

“Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“How bad? Does she know?”

Gojo lets out a long, suffering sigh. “Worse.”

“You kissed her.” 

“Worse.” 

Geto's mouth drops open. “You fucked her? Satoru, what the fuck?”

“I don’t know, okay, it just happened!” 

Geto pulled his hand back as if burnt. “Just happened? These things don’t just happen! Sex doesn’t just happen!”

Gojo groans into his pillow. “We were both consenting adults in this, Suguru, it’s not a big deal!”

“That’s not the issue! She doesn’t know who you are, Satoru!”

“I know that!”

“Do you? Because if you did I don’t think you would have done that!” He runs a hand through his hair. “How does she not know?”

“She kept her eyes closed,” Gojo says.

“You kinky bitch.”

“It was the only way she wouldn’t see!”

“Really? Because I can think of other ways. Have you considered the tactic of just not fucking her in the first place?”

Gojo frowns as if in genuine thought before shaking his head. 

“Hell. This is my superhero. We’re all fucked.”

“Suguru, you have to help me.” Gojo sits up, head ducked slightly so as to not hit his head on the ceiling above. “I fucked up okay, I know I did. But it’s complicated, alright? Y/N and I aren’t… good right now. I thought we were and then I dropped my phone and then we fought and now she’s blocked me on everything. Even Linkedin. And Spotify!”

“Satoru, I help you with Spiderman stuff. I help you with last minute homework deadlines because you were too busy saving the world. I help you with lying to our friends about why you disappeared during a bathroom break for an hour that doesn’t involve emptying your guts into a toilet. I’m not helping you when you fumble a girl.”

“But what if I fumbled her because I’m Spiderman. I feel like that counts, right?” 

Geto turns and drops himself into his chair, the seat turning slightly at the momentum until he plants his feet down. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You still haven’t told me what happened.”

“Y/N and I broke up.”

“You weren’t dating.”

“A friendship break up then. A situationship break up.”

“Fine, whatever you want to call it. What even happened? Because every time we talked about her before that it sounded like things were going well.” 

“Things were going well. I almost kissed her like, five times. The sixth time would have definitely been the charm.”

Geto makes a face.”I feel like that’s an indication that things aren’t going well, but okay.”

“Anyway, remember when venom showed up a few days ago and I broke my phone?”

“And how you were knocked out for a night? I remember.”

“Right well,” Gojo takes in a deep breath that indicates he’s about to ramble, “because I broke my phone I wasn’t able to tell her something came up and I wouldn’t be able to make the presentation. I only woke up after we had to present, meaning she had to do it herself and now she hates me because she thinks I don’t take her seriously. and I can’t clarify that I do take her seriously because, again, she blocked me on everything. She also unadded me on every Google Doc she shared to me.”

“Damn, she’s serious.” For a moment, Geto seems genuinely apologetic. “That sucks man, I’m sorry you were cockblocked by Venom.”

“Well, it comes with the powers and responsibility and all that.” Gojo falls back onto his bed, starfished as far as his limbs can go before they hit the sides of his bunk bed. “You always have a solution to everything. Can’t you fix my love life too?”

“I can’t perform miracles, dumbass.”

“That's not your line. You’re meant to be sympathetic and helpful. Do you even care about me?” 

“No,” Geto says mournfully. “Unfortunately you’re the only one saving our city these days so I kind of have to stick around to make sure you don’t mess that up.” 

Gojo grabs his Agumon plushie and throws it down over the side of the railing. He doesn’t have to look over the edge to know it hit its target. “I’m serious, Suguru.”

Geto catches the plushie with ease and gives it a pat on its head, placing it gently on his lap. “I’m serious too. Maybe this is a good thing. I keep telling you that you have to keep your superhero life and your boring, normal person life separate. This just shows you what happens when you don’t do that.”

“Woah, thank you, Mr sunshine and rainbows.”

“Life isn’t sunshine and rainbows.”

“It is when you have the eyes to see it,” he sighs dramatically. “Is it too much to ask that I can just be Satoru and Spiderman without losing anything?” 

There’s something in Gojo's voice that makes Geto pause. Maybe it’s the lack of that whiny tilt to his cadence, maybe it’s the fact that he’s shoved his face into another plushie on his bed, voice muffled and hiding the desperate sound. 

Geto wants to tell him the truth, that if the world was good and just he could be every side of him, that he shouldn’t have to pick between being a weapon for the city’s safety and an actual person with hopes and dreams and wants. Geto wants to tell him that he shouldn’t have to pick being a superhero over being a person, but he can’t tell him that. Because as the world stands right now, Gojo simply can’t have both. 

“There's still that outing,” Geto finds himself saying. “Look, it sounds like you really hurt Y/N but she’s not unreasonable, you know that. I’m sure if you talk to her you can clear things up. Or just apologise now that time has settled.”

Gojo shuffles a little and sits up to look down at his roommate. "Weren't you just telling me I shouldn’t mix personal and work life?”

“You see Spider-Man as work?”

“Answer my question, man.”

Geto sighs. “The part of me that just wants to make sure you’re not hurt doing this whole superhero thing wants to tell you that. But the part of me that’s your friend doesn’t. It sucks that in this world no one can be their genuine self. But I mean it when I say that I want to see you happy and if you’re happy with Y/N then I hope things work out between the both of you.”

No one says anything for a while. Geto looks up. 

“Dude, what did you eat today to make you sprout all that feelings bullshit?” Gojo mimes throwing up. 

Geto rolls his eyes, grabbing the plushie on his lap to throw it back up at him. Gojo catches it, his Spiderman instincts never letting him down, and when he puts it down on his bed, he’s smiling. 

“So, any tips?”

“Just be yourself.” 

“I was and look how everything turned out.”

Geto hums. “Then maybe let’s start with your wardrobe. If you’re going to win Y/N back, you can’t show up to the function wearing the same one shirt.”

The aquarium is a shitty place to take someone you’re no longer on speaking terms with. 

It seems even the fish have figured out how to move around without touching. Silver fish turn as one body and never collide. Stingrays glide past each other like silk dragged through water. Even sharks know how to circle without making contact, all smooth instinct and measured distance, and that would be deeply meaningful if you weren’t currently trapped in a dark blue tunnel feeling like shit. 

It is, Shoko had said in the groupchat three days ago, supposed to be a fun, normal outing. You should have known then that something demonic had possessed her. 

The tunnel curves overhead in a long arc of glass, seawater casting wavering patterns of light over the floor and over the faces of people passing through. Children press their sticky palms to the glass, and a baby somewhere up ahead lets out a delighted shriek at the sight of some broad, ghostly thing drifting above. Couples walk slowly enough to be irritating, stopping every two steps to point things out to each other in soft voices. 

The entire place is built for wonder and you are having a terrible time. 

“Look,” you say from beside Shoko, pointing upward with none of the enthusiasm the gesture should probably contain, “a fish.” 

“I think that’s obviously a shark,” Utahime says, squinting upward. 

Geto hums, a telltale sign that he’s about to launch into his typical ragebaiting. “I’m pretty sure sharks are fish though, so what do you mean by that?”

“Oh come on, Geto. You know what I mean. There’s fish, and then there’s shark. If I say fish, no one is picturing that. They’re thinking of, like, a normal fish. Small, swimmy, not that giant thing above our heads.” 

“So now we’re racially profiling fish and sharks?” Geto pauses as if in deep thought. “So then by your logic, is a stingray fish-looking fish or shark-looking fish.” 

“A stingray is its own thing,” Utahime snaps. “Don’t piss me off in public.” 

“Seems complicated. Not very obvious then, is it?” 

On any other day, there’d be nothing more joyous than joining in and annoying Utahime. Today, however, you’re still figuring out how to move around without being touched. 

“At least give yourself the chance to have a good time,” Shoko remarks from beside you, none too impressed with your sulky mood. 

You know it isn’t fair to her but to say you’re in a bad mood is an understatement. Every voice only serves to grind your gears and the way people shove past you here and there makes you want to rip off your skin. 

Maybe because you got approximately no sleep. Maybe because your body still feels the phantom touch of another, the roughness in his voice as he utters your name all deprived and pleading. Maybe because Gojo is still six inches to your left, all long limbs and damp shadows under his eyes, and every time the crowd bottlenecks in the tunnel, you catch the faint clean scent of his soap like he took a shower earlier this morning. 

The tunnel narrows as it curves, forcing all of you into an untidy line. Shoko and Utahime end up leading, Geto just behind them, pointing out silly little things that pisses her Utahime and makes Shoko laugh. You had slowed down for all of three seconds to let a family with two children pass and made the tactical error of allowing Gojo to fall into step beside you. Now the two of you are trapped by the flow of bodies moving through the tunnel at exactly the kind of sluggish, reverent pace that grates against your frayed nerves.

Above, something glides over the glass. The baby up ahead screams again, only louder, such that it echoes down the winding tunnel.

“See, that wouldn't be a fish,” Geto is saying from up ahead.

You can hear utahime through the murmur of the crowd. “I figured.”

“Can’t be too sure.”

There's another shuffle of people from up ahead as if the presence of the stingray is a thing to fawn over, a stop-start of prams and schoolbags and a father trying to explain in a stage whisper why no, his child cannot touch the stingray, and the whole line compresses.

Gojo’s shoulder brushes yours.

You stiffen before you can even try to pretend it had no effect on you and he shifts back, creating what little space he can in a tunnel full of tourists and toddlers. You can feel his hesitation without even looking at him, that careful slouching in on himself he's been doing all day.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. 

You don’t bother with a response, looking in the opposite direction as if you had suddenly gained a deep appreciation for marine life. 

Shoko glances back over her shoulder to make sure she hasn’t lost either of you, and catches the way the two of you repel from each other. Her eyes flick from your face to Gojo’s, and narrow. 

Great, so not only are you miserable, but now you’re probably going to get grilled. 

“You two are weirdly quiet,” she cleverly deduces. 

“We’re in an aquarium,” you reply. “The whole point is to be quiet and to look at the fish. Or the sharks or—whatever.” 

“Are you at least having fun?” she tries again, though judging from her look, it’s clear she already has an answer in mind. 

“Definitely,” you mumble at the same time Gojo says, “So much fun.” 

You keep your mouth shut, refusing to look over at him. And Shoko, bless her patient heart, only tries again. 

“We’re about to reach the actual shark section. You love sharks, don’t you, Y/N?”

“Partial at best.”

“Or we could divert to look at the rock pools and touch some starfish. Doesn’t that sound like fun, Gojo?” 

“I guess.” He kicks at the ground, stubbornly glaring at the path. 

Shoko rolls her eyes, dropping her gentle parenting act just as the tunnel begins to open up again. The two of you separate like magnets of the same charge when there’s space to move, only heightening her annoyance. 

“You both are impossible! You’re acting like kids! Let’s age check real quick, how long are you two going to keep up this silent treatment act for?”

Gojo sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just drop it, Shoko? It’s really none of your business.”

“Woah,” Shoko says. “Gojo’s arrived.” 

“I’m serious.” He grits his teeth. “Leave it.”

Shoko looks over at you for your input but you keep quiet, hiding your own guilt by looking away. You’re acting like a kid, you know you are, but it’s hard not to when you have this man child walking beside you. 

And because Gojo has never won an argument against with Shoko, never has in the many, many years they’ve known each other, she grabs your hand and his arm and pulls you both together, positive versus positive charge be damned. You visibly flinch when his skin brushes yours, but her hands keep you together. 

“I don’t know what happened between you two,” she says, “but you’re going to sort it out right here right now, you hear me? The shark section is up ahead. I don’t care what happens in there, but when you walk out of it, you’re both going to get along. Understood?”

Gojo looks up from where he’s staring at the point of contact where your bodies touch. 

“I said, understood?” Shoko presses, drawing you both closer. 

You grimace and relent. “Fine, fine. Just let go, won’t you?”

She doesn’t, turning her fierce gaze to Gojo. “Your turn.”

“Shoko,” he starts, but his eyes are fixed over her shoulder. “Let go.” 

“I won’t until you tell me the two of you are going to start behaving like adults again." 

“Shoko, seriously—”

“Gojo, I’m not letting go until—”

You let out a frustrated exhale. “Just get it over with and say that you will.” 

“That’s not it.” 

His voice sharpens so suddenly that the three of you freeze. His hand closes around your arm, knocking Shoko’s grip off him in one abrupt movement, and you almost wince at how tight his fingers are. 

“Duck!” 

Considering you’re at an aquarium and not a zoo, his words confuse you. But the word barely leaves his mouth before the world ends, or at least the tunnel does. 

One moment you’re upright and irritated, and the next you’re on the slick aquarium floor with Gojo half over you, his hand clamped around the back of your head as glass bursts somewhere overhead in a noise so violent it seems to deafen you. Water follows half a second later, a freezing, roaring wall of it that slams into your legs and floods the corridor in one breathless rush. 

You gasp, inhaling panic with it. For one awful second, all you can see is dark water and something silver whipping past your face so quickly you can’t process whether it’s debris or fish or some secret third option. Gojo’s arms tighten around you just before the current hits full force, shielding you from the bulk of it. 

When the initial wave passes, he pushes himself up first, still braced over you, blinking the water from his eyes. “Are you okay? Actually, don’t answer straight away because then you’re probably lying. Are you hurt?”

You stare at him for half a second with your chest heaving, before snapping back into your body. “I think so. Was that enough time to seem genuine?”

“Yeah,” he says, then grabs your hand and hauls you upright with startling efficiency. 

A jagged hole has been torn through the glass overhead and water is still pouring through in punishing sheets, waves upon waves lapping at your feet. You ignore it all. 

“Shoko!” you shout immediately. “Utahime? Guys?”

“We’re here!” Shoko’s voice comes from somewhere to your right, thin through the alarms and the water. “We’re all okay!”

Through the flashing red light and beyond a rush of water you can’t imagine brushing past, you spot them.

Shoko has one arm around Utahime’s waist and the other braced against the wall, her hair plastered to her face by spray. Utahime is upright, but only just, one hand pressed over her calf where blood is already mixing into the water in thin red ribbons. Suguru is beside them, shoving a fallen display sign out of the way so a knot of panicked visitors can force themselves toward the nearest exit.

“We’re fine!” Geto yells. “Utahime got cut by the glass, but she can walk. We’re heading for the side stairs.”

Shoko twists back, catches sight of you and Gojo still standing there, and immediately cups her hands around her mouth. “What are you two doing? Move! I paid money for this outing and frankly I’d like at least four of us to live!”

Before either of you can answer, something booms deeper in the aquarium hard enough to rattle the glass beneath your feet. All around you, people are still trying to push toward the exits in a mess of uncoordinated panic. One aquarium staff member is shouting for everyone to stay calm in a voice already fraying at the edges and there’s a child sobbing somewhere to your right. Another tank further down the hall has cracked into a spiderweb of fractures that spread wider with every violent thud from beyond.

Gojo tenses, sensing something you can’t before he turns to you, hands on your shoulders. “Get to the exit.”

“Right, okay,” you say automatically, already reaching for his hand to drag him with you. Your fingers slide around his wrist and tug. “Come on.”

He doesn’t move.

You look back at him. “What are you doing?”

“You go with them,” he says, already looking past you toward the ruined hall. “I’ll follow after you.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Um, no?”

Your voice comes out louder than you mean it to, sharpened by the cold and the adrenaline and the immediate, furious certainty that no, absolutely not, you are not doing this with him again. Not here, not now, not when the floor is flooding and the walls are breaking and he still thinks he can look you in the face and say I’ll follow after like you were born yesterday.

“Do you have a death wish?” you demand. “Come on, the water is rising!”

“Look, I can handle myself.” His fingers tighten once against your shoulder, almost pleading. “I know what I’m doing so just wait outside. Don't worry about me and go.”

It is such a stupid thing to say that for a second you can only look at him.

Don’t worry about me.

As if that has ever worked. As if you haven’t spent weeks trying to ignore him and failing every single time. As if he hasn’t somehow made himself your problem since the moment he had called your grade out in the middle of that irrelevant tutorial room.

You glare at him, at his stupid fluffy white hair gone damp at the edges, at the thick-framed glasses he always pushes up his nose when he starts rambling about something ridiculous, at the stupid blue eyes that seem to shift colour with his mood and are now fixed on the corridor behind you instead of properly on you.

“I can’t,” you say.

His head snaps back to yours. “What?”

“I can’t just ignore you.” The words come out thinner than you want them to, but there’s no taking them back now. “I’ve tried and I just can’t.”

“This isn’t the time for that,” he says, brows furrowed in that way he gets when he’s annoyed.“Don’t be ridiculous, you could get hurt.”

“You could get hurt.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” you scoff before looking back at him. “You know what your problem is?”

He rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Oh, here we go. Tell me, tell me what my problem is—”

“Oh, I will. I’ll tell you what your fucking problem is—”

“Oh yeah, you’ll tell me? Cause you know me better than I know myself?” 

“Someone has to,” you snap, stepping toward him, daring him to take a step back. “Because clearly you’ve got no clue what you’re doing. Not with this, not with women, certainly not with me.”

He exhales. “Yeah? Well, you’re stuck up and impossible to control and you piss me off.”

“Are you a kid? You sound so dumb right now—”

A crash tears through the corridor hard enough to shake the ground beneath your feet and whatever insult you’ve both had gearing up immediately dies. You both look toward the corridor then to each other. 

“Probably not the best time for this,” you say. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s shelf this for later.”

“I’m still not going to ditch you so get that through your thick skull and whatever vast air bubble hugs your brain.” 

For one ridiculous second, despite the alarms and the flooding and the horrifying sounds of public infrastructure being turned inside out, Gojo actually looks like he wants to laugh. 

“Did you just call me an air head?” he asks, the words breathless and almost fond. “You’re never going to make things easy for me, are you?” 

You shoot him an incredulous look. “People are dying, Satoru. Lock in. What’s the plan?” 

He shakes his head like a dog. 

“Okay,” he says, back in motion now, words quick and sharp and all business because he clearly doesn’t trust himself to stay in the other mode any longer. “New plan. We get everyone we can to the exit, and then if you still want to tell me what my problem is, I’ll stand there and let you monologue. But don’t leave my sight and don’t try to be self-sacrificing.” 

“You’re telling me?” You snort. “Says the guy who was just about to run off and do exactly that.”

You brush past him, heading towards the tunnel where the sound originated. 

Despite every instinct telling him to grab you and pull you out, Gojo finds himself just standing there. He’s always been weak to you, this revelation is not one that comes with any surprise. All you’ve ever really had to do was look at him—properly look at him, with that sharp little glare that says he’s annoyed you again—and some pathetic part of him was already halfway to heel, tail practically wagging. It’s degrading almost, the Spiderman, reduced to nothing but a desperate man in love, but for some reason Gojo can’t find himself hating it completely. That was just how far he had fallen. He drags a hand through his hair and exhales sharply through his nose as he catches up behind you. The mask in his pocket feels impossibly heavy, like it knows better than he does, like it’s already calling him toward the moment he’s been putting off for too long. But he doesn't yet, and settles instead for following behind, every muscle bracing for the second this goes wrong. 

You are having much less sophisticated thoughts. You wonder to yourself as you trudge through the ankle deep water, what the fuck are you doing?

Your shoes are full of cold, disgusting salt water and what is, realistically, probably fish shit, when the safe outside had been right there within reach moments ago. You could have left. You could have gone with Shoko and Utahime and Geto and let the staff and the police and whoever else handles aquarium disasters deal with the rest. Instead, you had willingly walked back into where disaster struck. And for what? A boy?

Well, you think. At least you have the experience of fighting off two villains now. One and a half. Okay, more like two halves. That made one. So you’ve had one (1) moment of experience. That was enough, right? 

“Don’t worry,” you tell Gojo, noticing his uncharacteristic silence. “If anything happens, I’ll protect you.” He opens his mouth to reply, but whatever smart thing he had lined up dies the second the tunnel widens into the main shark gallery.

A man in a torn aquarium polo staggers through the burst corridor with black slick crawling up one arm and along the side of his throat, jerking in wet, ugly pulses under the emergency lights. A member of staff, who looks maybe nineteen and one bad shift away from quitting forever, is trying to wave people toward the side exit while very obviously trying not to cry.

Gojo is already moving, ignoring the way the room shudders when the symbiote host slams his fist into a pillar.

“I’m going to distract it so the people have time to get out of here. Stay here or go help them but do not get in the way.” 

He doesn’t check to see if you’ll agree before grabbing the nearest floating wet floor sign and hurling it at the man’s face with a pitcher’s accuracy. It smacks the figure’s shoulder and bounces away harmlessly, but it does the important thing. 

The ex-aquarium staff turns toward him and subsequently, you. 

“Okay,” you mutter, already moving. “Looks like you’ve got it from here!”

The host makes a low, distorted sound, half growl and half wet static, and barrels toward Gojo with one blackened arm swelling grotesquely around the elbow. Gojo ducks the first swing, grabs the edge of an overturned brochure stand, and yanks it into the path of the next. It shatters immediately, but the delay buys the nearest cluster of trapped visitors just enough time to break into motion.

You hurry to the sobbing staff member, a girl with her short black hair tied to one side, two hair clips holding her bangs away from her eyes. “Hey, hey, it’s okay! Just think of all the hazard pay you’ll get after this. For now, grab those two and head to the side exit.” 

She blinks at you, tears still flowing freely down her cheeks, but eventually nods. “What about you?” 

You jab a thumb behind you. “I’m kind of stuck here with this idiot. Now hurry.” 

Behind you, there’s a huge crash followed by Gojo saying, “You know, this is why no one likes staff team building exercises. There’s always one guy who takes it too far.”

The villain seems to not enjoy Gojo’s commentary because it roars. You turn in time to see Gojo skid sideways through the floodwater, one hand catching the low railing to keep from going down entirely. The black slick lashes for him again and misses, carving a line of ugly cracks through the decorative panel behind him instead. 

It’s not hard to tell that Gojo is losing and in fact, you’d be severely deluded if your nerd situationship sort-of close friend would win against a seemingly inhuman sentient black goo. At least he isn’t losing without dignity. He makes valiant attempts to shove the thing back a step, ducking under a swing only for the next to catch him high in the shoulder and throw him sideways into the viewing rail. 

Your heart drops to your ass quick, watching as Gojo drives himself back upright with a wince and a desperate glare for you to stay there. 

The symbiote host lurches toward him again, blackened arm distending with a wet, horrific ripple. 

Your brain finally catches up. 

Okay. Okay, think. 

You have seen this stupid black goo twice before now, which feels like two times too many. The first time, you used a fire extinguisher. The second, the steam wand from the cafe had done enough to make the goo retreat. So this thing clearly does not enjoy pressure or heat. 

You spin in place, eyes skittering wildly over the wrecked shark gallery. 

There’s debris everywhere, broken signage, upside down benches and a cardboard cutout of some mascot shark swims past you in ankle deep water. There’s a staff-only closet near the back, more brochure stands, maps on the wall, when your eyes finally see it. There, near the entrance of the tunnel, is a thick industrial hose line feeding into one of the side filtration systems, its pressure valve mounted low on the wall, bright red against the blue gloom. 

One of the sanitation steam lines that run along the upper maintenance track has ruptured where debris struck, hissing softly in the rumble of the crumbling aquarium. White vapour coughs out in fitful bursts, weak now but still there. 

“Satoru!”

He glances your way at the exact second the host slams him in the chest, sending him skidding through the water on his back. You wince. “Oh, sorry. Whenever you have the time.”

“I’m fine,” he chokes out, rolling out of the way in time to avoid a second blow. “Thanks for asking.”

You splash toward the pressure valve, shoes slipping against the tiles. “Shut up and use the environment! There’s a pressurised line here and steam up there. You’re just going to have to trust me on this one but I think I have an idea!”

The host, as if sensing your plan, turns towards you. Gojo curses, any sarcasm vanishing in an instant. 

“No! Don’t get closer!”

“Too late!” you yell back, already grabbing the valve wheel. “You’re getting your ass beat, Satoru, I’m not going to stand here and just let your ego handle it!” 

He rises to his feet, running to you though in the water, it’s only a pathetic sloshing that almost gives you the ick. “My ego? And you think your pride will handle it any better?”

No. 

“Yes!” 

You wrench at the valve and, because your life has always been full of miracles and good fortune, nothing happens. 

The host lunges in your direction again. Gojo catches him from the side, arm hooking around his neck for one desperate second before the black slick ripples up and flings him off. He crashes shoulder-first into the low barrier by the shark viewing glass.

He gasps and coughs, eyes blearily finding yours. “Get—get out of here. Now, Y/N.”

“I’m not giving up.” You brace one foot against the wall. “No pressure, literally.”

You yank at the wheel again but nothing still happens. There’s got to be a safety catch, a pin or latch or something. Your eyes dart over the assembly frantically even as the figure draws itself back on its legs. 

“Y/N!” Gojo calls out again, water sloshing around his body as he tries to follow. 

Your eyes skim frantically over the valve housing, over rusted bolts and warped metal and a tangle of pipes slick with spray, until they finally catch on a metal locking pin bent half-flat against the side.

Without another thought, you lunge for it and wrap both hands around the pin. 

Behind you, there’s a sharp, ugly sound—Gojo sucking in a breath through his teeth—followed by the violent splash of him slamming back into the host. You risk a glance over your shoulder just in time to see him catch the thing by the arm, twist with the momentum, and drive a punch into its face hard enough to make black slick spray across the floodwater.

Pulse spiking, you put your whole weight into the pin. And finally, it gives all at once, slipping free so suddenly you nearly fall backward into the floorwater. 

“Got you!” you hiss at the valve before throwing yourself against the wheel. 

This time, it turns. The line shudders to life with a deep, violent thump and water pressure surges through the pipes hard enough to rattle the wall. 

“Satoru!” you shout, looking up wildly. “To your left! Bring him here!” 

He turns his head fast, sees the line, sees you, and somehow understands immediately despite looking one bad hit away from passing out. You suppose he isn’t a genius for nothing.

Gojo stands with more purpose, moving in a tight arc through the floodwater, letting the thing follow. His movements are messier than they should be, attributed to the wounds he’s sustained. You can see it every time he favours his right side, every time his mouth tightens with every dodge. 

But he still keeps moving, still keeping the thin on him, keeping it away from you. Trusting your ridiculous plan that was concocted in under a minute. 

“Come on,” he calls, breathless and taunting all at once. “Come on and get me, you big ugly thing. I’ve had worse nights.”

The host lunges under the broken steam line. 

“Now!” you shout, a command for just yourself really, and crank the pressure line open fully. 

A brutal blast of high-pressure water erupts across the gallery and catches the host broadside, slamming into its blackened shoulder and neck with enough force to wrench it half off its feet. At the same time, a fresh burst of steam hisses from overhead where the damaged line gives way under the renewed vibration. And just as you’d hoped, the black slick convulses.

It peels back in twitching bands from the host’s throat and shoulder, recoiling from the steam with an ugly, wet shiver. It starts to back away on unsteady feet. 

“There!” you yell, voice cracking with triumph and panic all at once. “Again, use it again!”

Gojo doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the dangling steam pipe with both hands and yanks hard enough to shear the remaining bracket loose. The line drops lower, shrieking vapour across the host’s side.

The thing—not the man, but the thing—lets out a shrill cry, a sound so wrong it feels like it goes through your bones instead of your ears.

Gojo uses the opening immediately, slamming his shoulder into the host’s chest and driving him back into the support beam beside the shark viewing glass. The whole gallery shudders under the impact, but this time the host goes down hard, knees buckling under him as the black slick writhes and spasms under the steam.

You don’t realise you’ve moved until you’re already splashing toward him, relief making you stupid and light all at once. In your head, it should have been graceful, some dramatic run into his arms after shared survival and mutual competence. In reality, the water turns it into a pathetic, uneven waddle that Gojo, in an act of true mercy, only pretends not to notice.

“We did it!” you say, breathless and bright with adrenaline. “That was insane, but we did it. And I’m taking at least seventy percent of the credit, by the way, because without me you were just getting beaten up in a public aquarium—”

He smiles, just barely, and turns to look at you.

“Yeah,” he says, chest heaving. “I guess we—”

Something moves in the corner of his eye.

It isn’t the frantic, wild sort of movement from before, but something uglier for how deliberate it feels. A last-ditch effort. The host drags one arm free of the steam and the floodwater just enough for the black slick to surge violently down its length and gather into one long, brutal lash of muscle and tar.

It comes not for Gojo, but for you.

Gojo sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, his whole face changing before you can even register why. His mouth opens around the start of your name, warning already there, panic rising faster than the sound can leave him.

You are still a few crucial seconds behind.

By the time you catch the movement in your peripheral vision and start to turn, Gojo is already lunging forward. But the thing is too fast, the distance too wrong, and you can see the exact instant he realises he won’t make it to you in time as himself.

You turn just enough to see it.

Ah.

So this is how stupid people die.

Something white snaps through the air.

The strike jerks violently sideways before it can hit you, yanked off course so hard it slams into the side wall instead, cracking the tile with a wet, horrible impact. A scream tears from your throat, loud and sharp in the aftermath, but the thing barely registers to you now, not even when the goo gives one last shudder and forms something like a trembling fist aimed in your direction.

You don’t care about that anymore.

Instead, your eyes track the white line stretched taut across the gallery.

You follow it all the way back.

All the way to Gojo.

He stands there with his arm still half outstretched. His face is stricken with lingering panic, but there is something else there too, something like resignation, like he knows whatever happens next might end his world right here in a crumbling aquarium.

You look from his face to his wrist and then back again.

“What,” you say, finding no other words that fit the moment. “What the fuck.”

Gojo lowers his arm very slowly. Water drips from his sleeve, from his fingers, from the impossible thin connecting him to the wall beside you. 

“This is not how I wanted to tell you,” he says, his voice suddenly rough in a way you recognise far too well.

The host roars, and it’s that sound that snaps both of you back into motion.

Gojo’s hand goes to his pocket and comes back with the mask—of course it’s the mask. Blue and white, worn at the edges, and, hell, maybe you’re hallucinating now, but is that still the little tear you left in the fabric that night?

He hesitates just before pulling it over his head, eyes darting back to you as he says, “Please wait for me. Just this once, please wait.”

There is no time to process the fact that his eyes look almost frightened. No time to process the fact that the voice you’ve heard in your ear and the voice that has said your name in two different ways now belong to the same infuriating man. There is really no time to process anything at all.

So, shockingly, you do the mature thing.

You nod.

“Okay,” you say, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears. “Okay. Go.”

You watch as Gojo stares at you, hopeless and pleading all at once, the mask slipping over his face. But now that you’ve seen him—seen him bare and vulnerable and desperately hoping—the blue and white can no longer hide it.

Spider-Man keeps looking at you even as he slings onto the adjacent wall, the sticky material catching with a faint smack.

“I’m going to explain everything,” he says. “I promise. Just—please. Please still be here when I come back.”

He doesn’t wait for your response, not properly. Maybe because he’s worried whatever words leave your gaping mouth will be a rejection. Maybe because if he waits another second, he’ll stay here looking at you until the whole room caves in around you. 

Spiderman slings out onto the adjacent wall, the web catching with a faint, sticky smack, and for one absurd second all you can think is that even upside down and half-bleeding he’s still showy. 

Then he launches and whatever restraint Gojo had been fighting with until now is gone. 

The host lunges towards you but you don’t flinch. There’s simply no fight in your body anymore. Not that it matters because Spiderman meets him in the centre of the gallery. 

What had looked clumsy and desperate when Gojo was still trying to pass for your average citizen becomes something else entirely now that he’s abandoned his facade. His body understands the room in ways you never could, every rail, every shattered edge, every unstable surface becomes a part of him when the web attaches to it, part of the fight. He lips under the host’s first strike and plants a hand against the flood tile, driving both feet into its chest hard enough to send it skidding backward through the water. 

He flicks his wrists out before the host can recover, pinning one arm to a fractured support beam, another line catching its ankle. 

The black slick surges and peels away from the first web, but it's too slow. Spiderman is already gone from where he was, slinging upward into the steam and dropping back down from above with enough force to slam the hose into the floor. 

The black mass writhes and lashes and tries to reform over the host’s body, but now there is no hesitation in the man fighting it, no room left for restraint. Spiderman moves with frightening precision, using every opening, every recoil, every half-second where the thing peels back under heat and sound. He webs one wrist, then the throat, then the opposite shoulder, dragging the host back into the pressure line each time he tears free. The slick recoils violently, shrieking, trying and failing to hold together.

Was it just you but did it look like Gojo was taking his frustration out on this thing? 

Your mind keeps trying and failing to fit the pieces together. It all comes together anyway, the way Gojo had always disappeared at the wrong times, the way Spiderman’s voice had felt familiar even when you told yourself that was ridiculous and known things about you he couldn’t have. The way he touched you, the way the other never quite did, not completely, as if afraid of what would happen if he started. 

All of it was him. Every humiliating, infuriating, impossible piece of it. 

The host tears free one last time, black goo surging over his chest in a final desperate wave. But by now, it should learn that doing something over and over again is a sign of insanity because Spiderman is already there. 

A webline catches high overhead and with a yank, the hanging steam pipe drops lower. Another shot takes the alarm cable and rips it loose in a shower of sparks. He drives forward, one hand wrapped around his web, the other braced against the host’s chest, and hurls him back into the flooded floor beneath the full force of the steam. 

The black mass writhes and shrieks then tears free all at once. It peels from the man’s body in one final, violent shudder and streaks away through the fractured wall paneling, vanishing into the dark beyond the gallery even as Spiderman attempts to stop it. 

Then the host collapses, dead. 

Then nothing. Of course, not complete silence as the alarms still ring and water still drips. But between the two of you, across the room now suddenly empty of the thing that had stood there, there is a different kind of stillness. 

Spiderman straightens slowly. He stands in front of the steam and the ruin and the broken shark glass, chest heaving, mask still over the face you now know too well, and even from here you can see the way his body sags just slightly under the cost of what he’s just done.

You stare at each other, the gap between endlessly vast until you decide to close it. 

Your shoes drag through the floodwater, sending up ugly little splashes with every step, and by the time you reach him, any dignity you might have salvaged from the reveal is long dead and buried beneath three inches of fish water. He stands there waiting, one hand hanging at his side while the other presses hard against his ribs. 

Your hands fist the front of his hoodie and he lets you.

“You are the biggest liar I have ever met in my entire life,” you say, voice trembling with the weight of everything. 

Spiderman—Gojo—lets out a weak laugh. “That sounds about right.”

You yank the mask up without another word. 

It catches for half a second on his nose before sliding free, damp and warm in your hand, and there he is. Just Satoru now. He’s pale, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted around the hard pull of his breathing. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth and more blooming darkly beneath his hoodie where he’d been hit, but his eyes are on you and only you with that same awful, naked openness they had before he put the mask on.

“Satoru,” you say, and his name comes out rough, almost wounded.

His eyes lift to yours at once, terrified of what he might find there. 

You slap him. And honestly, compared to everything he went through less than a minute ago, compared to what he deals with everyday, you’d call the slap a puny, pathetic hit. Still, the hand from his side flies up to cup his cheek, looking more startled than in pain. 

“That,” you start,” is for lying to me.”

He gapes at you wordlessly. 

Then all at once, the rest of it rises inside you—the fear, the relief, the horrible rush of seeing that black strike coming at you and knowing, with perfect clarity, that Gojo would throw it all away to save you, even if it meant revealing his identity. 

You lift your hand again but this time not to strike. Instead, your fingers brush his jaw, trembling against the damp skin there, tracing the shape of him you thought you knew so well. You feel his pulse leap, hear his breath catch. 

“This,” you whisper, steadier now that you know this is what you want, “is for saving me.” 

You go up on your tippy toes, lean forward, and kiss him. 

Gojo freezes, arms held out in the air as he pieces together the scene. You’re not mad, well maybe you’re mad, but you’re over that now because you’re kissing him. Wait, you’re kissing him? Then what is he doing just standing there? 

A soft, startled sound escapes him, swallowed immediately by your mouth, before he’s drowning in it. The kiss turns desperate, all relief and fear and weeks of restrained feeling collapsing into one reckless, aching moment. 

One wraps around your waist and the other catches at your back, hauling you flush against him with desperation. You feel the wound in his ribs in the way his body tightens, the way his breath catches sharply through his nose, but he ignores it completely, pressing you closer like he needs the proof of you there, solid and real and choosing him.

When you finally pull back, it’s only because breathing becomes a necessity again. 

His forehead knocks against yours, his eyes fluttering close as he rests there, panting. 

The alarms are still going off somewhere beyond the ruined gallery. Water still laps around your ankles, cold and foul and full of things you would rather not identify. Security is shouting in the distance, voices getting closer, but here, in this stupid little pocket of aftermath, the world has narrowed down to the heat of his hands on you and the shape of his breath fanning over your mouth.

When he finally opens his eyes again, he looks a little dazed. Not concussed, though probably that too.

“You kissed me,” he says, and his voice comes out low and rough and almost disbelieving. “After everything?”

You stare at him. “Do you want me to take it back?”

His hands tighten instinctively at your waist. “No!” The answer leaves him quickly before he swallows, eyes flickering over your face to gauge your response. “No, please don’t do that.” 

“I’m still angry at you, you know.” 

“I know.”

“You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“You kept lying to me.” You stop. “You also knew. This entire time you knew and you just played me twice over.” 

He winces a little at that. “Yeah. That one’s harder to defend.”

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before climbing back to your eyes, slower this time, more careful.

“I kept thinking there’d be a better time to tell you,” he says. “A version of this where I could do it right. Then every time I almost said something, it got harder because the longer I waited, the worse it got, and I knew that. I knew I was making it worse, I just—I was scared. It was easier for me that way but I also know it was cowardly and I’m sorry.”

You nod once. “And?” 

“And?” he repeats before he catches the disapproving look in your eyes and starts scrambling for more. “And… I’m sorry for—well. Actually I’m not sorry about that part.”

You hit him lightly on the arm. “Say you’re sorry for deceiving me.”

“Right, right. Sorry for deceiving you.” 

“And that you won’t do it again.” 

“And I won’t have sex with you in the Spiderman suit again.”

You hit him again but your mouth twitches before you can stop it, the familiarity of the banter easing the uncertainty. He catches it, of course, that tiny almost-smile, and his expression softens.

“I really am sorry,” he says again. “For all of it. The disappearing. The missed presentation. The lies. Being me, I guess.”

“Being you is, unfortunately, one of your biggest issues.” You pause, eyes flickering down to his lips. “But I think I’m willing to work around that one.” 

You watch his eyes drop to your mouth in turn, watch the decision happen in him, quiet and unmistakable. He leans in first this time, just enough for his breath to warm your lips, just enough to make your pulse trip over itself—

“They’re in here somewhere!”

The shout tears through the gallery from the corridor behind you, followed immediately by the unmistakable chaos of multiple people splashing through floodwater at once.

“Please save them!”

“Utahime,” Suguru’s voice says, strained and much closer now, “if you scream at the police one more time, they’re going to leave us here—”

You jerk back so fast you nearly headbutt him and then his maybe concussion would have been a definite one.

Gojo blinks at you, dazed and breathing hard, his mouth still parted from the kiss you almost had before he too regains his senses and pulls back just enough to stop sharing the same air. Then, the both of you turn to that tunnel.

Utahime barrels into the gallery first, wild-eyed and soaked,hands cupping around her mouth as she calls your names, the wound on her leg now wrapped up. Shoko walks in right behind her with a tight expression that immediately crumbles at the scene. Geto is just behind them followed by two officers and what appears to be the entire remaining aquarium emergency staff.

You shove the mask still in your hand into your pocket, fingers fumbling once against the wet fabric, but don’t do much more to break away from the incriminating position. His hand is still on your waist, your own fingers are still hooked into the front of his hoodie, and your chest is pressed flush against his. 

Shoko is the first to say something. “Well. I guess you guys did make up after all.” 

“Did this happen before or after you took the crazy madman down?” Utahime says, deciding that is the most important detail to clarify. 

“Are you two not done yet or should we come back in a bit?” 

It’s Geto’s words that finally has you pulling apart, blushing madly and eyes looking frantically away from each other.

And when the police finally reach the two of you, shouting over one another and very tactfully ignoring your swollen lips, you feel something brush against your hand. Gojo’s fingers curl carefully around yours, warm and tentative despite everything, and, more importantly, despite the very audible snickering coming from your right where your friends have been herded aside to let the officers work, you lace your fingers through his without hesitation.

Because with Gojo’s thumb brushing against the side of your hand while an officer asks if either of you can walk unassisted, it’s hard to feel like the world is ending anymore. You had spent so long acting like meeting Gojo Satoru on March 15th at 10:12am was the beginning of your personal apocalypse. Granted, he is still infuriating and he is still a liar. But standing there in a flooded aquarium with his hand in yours and his blood on his shirt and a superhero mask hidden in your pocket, you can’t help thinking maybe you’d been a little dramatic.

Or maybe not. Maybe the world really had ended when you met Gojo Satoru. It’s just that, now that you’ve survived the aftermath, you’re starting to think the next one might be better.

a/n: PHEWW thank u for making it to the end! this has been the unwanted child in my drafts for three whole years and rewriting it was a pain considering how unfunny i was but if there’s one less lonely girl in the world then it’s worth it <3 this was a lot longer but i had to cut down for tumblr’s character limit ☹️ rip to all the shoko + utahime silly scenes and the injured spiderman scene and the lab satoru scene and the—[GUNSHOT] regardless !! shoutout to flatline as always and to all the national days we missed the deadlines to <3 see you guys on the 28th for national burger day on this fine burger month 🍔

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He proposed to you the day he got back from his last mission. Maybe he should make it a tradition and marry you the day he returned this time. 

Skip the whole big wedding he talked you into the past few months in favor of a courthouse ceremony. Maybe drag Suguru back after the landing to be the witness. 

You made a face, nose scrunching up and lips parting like there was something you wanted to say, but you stopped yourself. 

“This is my last mission,” he reminded you, a weak attempt at reassurance as his thick cock rubbed against your clit. Your breath hitched, getting caught in your throat as he dragged it over the sensitive bud. 

“You said that about the last one,” you reminded him, and he didn’t have an argument to counter it. 

“Well, I mean it this time,” he muttered softly. He wasn’t particularly good at being soothing. Spectacularly bad, sometimes, actually. But you still stayed. 

Still smiled at him when he sucked at being what you needed. 

The moon hung heavy outside the window, a thick crack running across the glass pane as the night sky filtered through it and bathed the room in soft light. The apartment you shared wasn’t much, pretty shitty honestly, but it was just a stepping stone. A way to save money for when you’d really need it. 

Soon, you’d have the best. 

“Besides, I can’t leave again once you start having my babies,” he teased, moving a hand down to your stomach, feeling your soft skin. Dreaming of a future where you’d be waddling around his kitchen pregnant, trying to decide if he’d prefer a boy or a girl – only to land on wanting both. 

“So you’ll be here for them and not for me?” You huffed. 

“I just want to make sure I make a good life for all of you,” he replied, struggling to sound confident when you were looking at him with a faint hint of hurt shining in your eyes. 

You wanted to believe him. 

“Uh-huh,” you exhaled. 

He supposed he’d just have to remind you another way that you had his heart. That even if he left the planet for a few months, he’d always have to return back to you. 

His home. 

Your thighs opened up for him, letting him shut up all those awful thoughts with a kiss as he pushed the first few inches inside your pretty pussy. Felt you sucking him in, losing himself in your warmth as he pushed past that first ring of resistance. Filling you up until you were stuffed full, your head tilting back, lips parting in his favorite moan — his name falling from them in broken little gasps.

“Satoru,” you whined, wiggling under his weight as he leaned down to start trailing kisses across your jaw. Down the delicate skin of your throat, sucking greedily just to see what other sounds he could draw from you. 

“Mhm, sweetheart?” He hummed, pausing to drag his tongue over all the sore spots he’d left, tempted to sink his teeth back over them, to leave little bruises just so you’d have to keep thinking about him even when he was planets away.

“I don’t want you to go,” you huffed, forcing the words out between little whimpers, your body shivering as his cock slowly thrusted in and out, deliberately taking his time to stretch you out. He hesitated mid-pump, lips still pressed just above your collarbone as he tried to come up with something that would make it better.

“I don’t want to either,” Gojo softly admitted, kissing you again as if it would cure the ache in his heart or the one in yours. 

There was a moment of silence, seconds slipping by with tension that wouldn’t dissolve, and he wasn’t sure if he should keep thrusting or pull out.

But then your hips shifted, and his cock twitched, and he was already readjusting, palms moving to push your soft thighs against your chest with his cock still keeping you plugged up. 

And really, you couldn’t blame him for how pretty you looked in a mating press. 

Fucking you faster, the wooden bed frame creaking and bumping into the wall with every rough thrust, each harsh snap of his hips against your skin as he plunged his cock in and out, in and out.

Watching your face screw up in pleasure, lashes fluttering and nails scrambling for purchase in the sheets as his thumbs dug into your thighs. Holding onto you, keeping you firmly pinned between him and the bed, like he could imprint every ridge and vein inside you, supposing he’d just have to be satisfied with leaving the shape of both of you on the mattress. 

“I love you so goddamn much,” he murmured, chest constricting, heart racing as the pressure built and mounted in the pit of his stomach. Some invisible thread being pulled tighter, or maybe it was just himself, wrapped around your finger without you even realizing it. 

Ready to break just thinking about not getting to hear your voice every day, not getting to touch your skin, like he wasn’t still buried inside you.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice quivering as you looked up at him with glossy eyes. 

He kissed you hard, teeth nearly bumping into each other as his tongue slipped past your lips. Tracing over your canines, tasting the hint of toothpaste on your tongue. The remnants of the candy-flavored lip gloss you’d been wearing earlier too. 

You were returning his fervor, squeezing down on his cock like you were trying to suck him dry like he wasn’t already struggling not to cum. 

He had to hurry to shift his hand, fingers rushing to find your clit, rubbing rough circles over it just to swallow every cute moan of yours that tried to escape. Cock twitching and aching for relief that he refused to give it, keeping an iron grip on his restraint as he waited for that familiar tremble, for you to really clamp down on him as shudders wracked through your body. 

Until you were crying his name in his mouth, whimpers muffled as he soothed you through your climax, rolling that sensitive bud between his thick fingers, only breaking the kiss to purr in your ears that it was all going to be okay. 

“That’s it, baby. Just cum for me, okay? It’s gonna be fine,” he promised, his voice cracking on the final word as he came with you. Finishing with warm spurts of cum filling you up, each thrust pumping more into you as he groaned your name, head collapsing into the crook of your collarbone. 

Sweat making your skin stick to his, your breathing mixing together as you both came back down to earth from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmured, trying to shift underneath him, roll out from his heavy body. 

But he refused to budge, burying his face deeper into your neck just to smell your soap and shampoo, nuzzling his nose against your neck. 

He didn’t want to let go. 

And for a second, part of him considered cancelling. Backing out of the mission, coming up with an excuse or calling out sick. They had back up astronauts. 

They had a few people, perhaps not as qualified as him, but still acceptable, on standby that could take his spot. 

He might get fired. Shoved back to some bottom-tier desk position. 

But he’d get to stay with you. 

Would get to spend the next six months sleeping like this instead of alone in a spaceship compartment. 

“Satoru,” you softly said his name, shifting as he finally released your thighs, letting you lay them back down more comfortably – but still kept you caged in. 

“Can’t I just lay here for a while longer?” He groaned, jaw tightening at the idea that this was the last night he’d get this. You.

Cock still twitching as the last of his cum leaked out, some of it starting to spill down your thighs as he refused to take it out. 

You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching a spot behind his ears, sifting through the silky strands with a long sigh. “Sure.” 

That was just who you were. 

What you’d do. 

You gave him what he wanted. 

Even when you didn’t like what he asked for. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be sorry,” you replied gently. “Just be sure you’re coming home.” 

“The stars can’t keep me from you,” he promised, moving to leave another kiss on the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes at him. 

But you giggled, and that was good enough.

“Let’s get married when I get back,” he suggested. 

“We already-” 

“Like, the same day, sweetheart,” he insisted, lips curling up in a smile as he snagged your left hand, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss to your engagement ring. The big diamond glittering in the moonlight, accented with small gemstones that same shade as his eyes set in a white-gold band. One you picked out with him once upon a time. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head like you weren’t grinning at the idea too. “Didn’t you want, like, the whole huge wedding?” 

“I just want you.” 

Gojo could make it six months if it meant you’d be waiting there for him when he got back.  

He just didn’t think everything would go to fucking shit in sixteen weeks.

Clinging to the same dream of you, the same memory his brain had chosen for comfort as he opened his eyes for another difficult day in a long line of them. 

Waking up to a window that only overlooked the cold, dark expanse of space instead of the familiar city. Missing your warmth in bed – trading it for a sleeping bag and a stiff compartment that they somehow still hadn’t figured out a better alternative for despite how advanced their rocketships had become. 

Sure, they could figure out how to simulate gravity inside the living areas now. But no, getting a good night’s rest was still impossible. 

They were only supposed to be running a supply drop off. Sending equipment to a planet a few other astronauts were previously sent to, one they’d recently started establishing a settlement on. Shoko was planning on staying behind there to be their medic – but he was supposed to return with Suguru.

It wasn’t the only habitable planet that had been discovered. There were a few, all being explored, data being collected and catalogued by various astronauts like themselves, sent back periodically and retrieved by relief missions like the one they were on. 

All just a galaxy away. 

It meant going through a wormhole to get to them, but according to all the calculations and the previous voyages, it was safe. 

Risky, sure, but it’d been done before. 

And to be fair, getting through it hadn’t been the problem. 

The problem was they were just outside the orbit of the wrong fucking planet. 

Whether one of them had bumped into the navigation system, inputted the wrong thing at the wrong time, or maybe some internal error was to blame, it didn’t matter. 

No, a more pressing issue had presented itself. 

A distress signal was being sent up. 

Someone was below – and begging to be rescued. 

“I have a bad feeling about it,” Suguru murmured, scowling at the screen as if he could make the message go away just by glaring at it. 

“You always have a bad feeling,” Shoko hummed, dark circles under his eyes as she scanned the data on her screen. 

“I think we should just continue to the correct planet. It’ll be a waste of fuel and time,” Suguru scoffed, ignoring her as his fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting either calculations or coordinates.

Satoru reclined back in his seat, fiddling with a pencil as his friend glanced up at him like he was looking for support here.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who wants to save people?” He asked, cocking his head to the side just to get a scoff. He’d known Suguru most of his life. Went to school together, graduated from the same program just to end up colleagues too. Between both of them, Suguru was always the altruistic one. The guy who thought of everyone else before himself – even if he was looking down at them from his moral high ground half the time. 

“Not if it means putting our mission at risk,” he argued, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Or us.”

“The last reported conditions there seem fine,” Shoko shrugged as she directed their attention back to what little data had been collected so far. 

Most of the planet was made of water, a massive sea dotted with a handful of islands, some mountain ranges that rivaled the highest peaks back on Earth. Two fellow astronauts were supposed to have been there for the last nine months. 

“Yeah, that’s why they’re sending a distress signal,” Suguru sarcastically grimaced. 

“You really want to just leave them?” Gojo asked, not sure how exactly to feel about it himself. Not wanting to totally throw away Suguru’s hesitation – but reluctant to just leave another astronaut stranded. 

“There are other people counting on us,” Suguru insisted, and Satoru knew he was right. Knew that you were counting on him to come back in one piece. “We can just send a message back to Earth and let them decide.”

Suguru knew as well as he did that doing that would most likely mean death to whoever was sending the distress signal.

It would probably be months before they sent another ship up.

And given that they didn’t have the data to know how fast or slow time passed below. No way to know when the signal they were receiving had started.

There was a heavy pause, all three of them weighing whether or not to take the gamble — and imagining what it’d feel like to be the one stuck on the planet praying for someone to come save them.

“I think we should check it out,” Satoru eventually spoke up, although he wasn’t exactly excited about it. 

He just wasn’t sure he could stomach the alternative. If he could handle coming back home to you and telling you the truth.

Risk you leaving him like they were about to leave the stranded astronauts.

“The extra data they have would be useful,” Shoko pointed out, tilting her head appraisingly. “If we needed to, we could bring them back to the other settlement.” 

“Two minutes,” Suguru begrudgingly gave in, irritation pricking in his voice as he stood up, rubbing his temple. “We shouldn’t spend more than ten on the surface when we don’t know how much time we could lose. Get there, see what’s salvage, get the fuck out.” 

Whether it was data or people, they’d just take what they could and leave. 

There was a chance that the relative time on the planet was off. That even just an hour on the planet could be the equivalent to a year back on Earth. 

“Yeah, agreed,” Satoru waved him off, watching him walk off, probably to start preparations for landing. 

He told himself it was the right thing to do. 

That it was what you would expect from him. 

He stood up too, walking around to one of the communication terminals they set up – where they could send and receive messages. 

You’d sent a couple videos, unofficial ones, of course, something he arranged in advance when he agreed to join the mission – that he’d be able to contact you and you’d be able to do the same. They were short, just a few minutes of you updating him on life back on Earth. How you were doing, how wedding planning was going, murmuring that you missed him in a soft voice before leaning in to kiss the camera. 

But a new one was waiting for him as he popped his headphones in to listen, leg bouncing nervously as it loaded, automatically smiling when your face popped up. 

“Hi, Satoru,” you greeted, but then you awkwardly looked down, fiddling with your fingers out of frame like you were shy all of a sudden. Biting your bottom lip, the skin there already broken like you’d been busy chewing it. 

He wanted to touch the screen. 

Caress your cheek and ask you what was wrong. 

“I, um, was gonna wait until you came back. But, uh, I don’t think I can keep it a secret that long,” you breathed, eyes glancing up at the camera like you were imagining him on the other side of it. 

And then you were picking something up, holding it out in front of you as the camera refocused and- 

Holy shit. 

“Surprise,” you excitedly called out from behind the tiny onesie in your hand. “You’re going to be a father.” 

A baby. 

He was going to be a father.

His brain stopped working. Shock freezing him in place as you peeked out from behind the onesie like you could see his reaction. Pride glimmered in your eyes as you grinned, his entire world sitting in front of him a galaxy away. His future wife and child just waiting for him to return.

“I wanted it to be a surprise, but it’s been so hard holding it in,” you continued, and he craved you even more than he had in the past few months combined. Dying to pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your lips, your cheeks, your stomach.

Aching to wrap his arms around you and start talking about baby names and nurseries, to take you out shopping for baby furniture and be there for your appointments. 

“There’s something else,” you said, reluctance creeping in. Glancing down at your lap again before pulling up a second onesie. 

No. You surely didn’t mean…? 

“I’m having twins,” you announced, a little awkward like you started second guessing how he’d take it. “Are you surprised?” 

It didn’t take his brain long to calculate the fucking odds of that, but his mind had a hard time accepting it, discomfort coiling in and mixing with the exhilaration in his stomach at the idea of you back in bed, carrying his babies, while he was up in fucking space. 

Unable to be there for you. To rub the lotion on your stomach, to sing terrible impressions of lullabies to them, to drive you to the doctor and hold your hand throughout all of it. 

You didn’t seem too bothered, or maybe just too excited to show it, holding up the ultrasounds next, proudly showing him baby A and baby B, talking about how you should find out their genders in just a couple weeks. 

“You better be back before I have these two,” you murmured into the camera, fixing him in a serious stare, your eyes shining in the fading daylight drifting in through your window. “Don’t make me go to the hospital alone.” 

Never. 

He’d fucking be there. 

“I love you, Toru,” you spoke softer, hesitating over actually hitting the button to stop recording. “Please don’t do anything stupid.” 

He’d already done something stupid by saying yes to coming here, hadn’t he? 

Still, he plastered on his best smile, sitting awkwardly in front of his own camera, recording you a message back. Making you a million promises, telling you how proud he was of you, how thrilled he was to be a dad. Selling you dreams of a life he was desperately trying to buy for your future family of four. 

“We’re, uh, about to go down to a planet to check out a distress signal, but, it’ll be fine, baby,” he informed you, hearing how stiff the words came out as he forced his palm to press down on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing. “It’ll just be a quick pitstop before the supply drop, promise.” 

He paused, having to clear his throat, his tongue suddenly dry as he made himself look directly into the camera. 

“I’ll come back for you.” 

Gojo didn’t want to admit Suguru might be right when he had to sit with the heavy feeling in his stomach after he shut the camera off and sent the message back – knowing it would probably be a couple days before you saw it.

But it would be fine, wouldn’t it?

In a year, he’d be waking up in bed with you, laughing about how worried he’d been while you each held one of your babies. This would just be a memory. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Staring at the screen long after it shut off, replaying your voice in his head, itching to really hear it, to feel it on his skin, to touch you instead of just clinging to a digital copy of you.

“You ready?” Suguru’s voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his daze. 

Found his mouth opening, about to say no.

Tell him he changed his mind. Say he was wrong and that they should just save their fuel. 

But if you knew, if they knew, that he’d left someone to die just to come home to them sooner, would they look at him the same way? 

Would he be able to look his children in the eyes? 

He swallowed hard as he glanced towards the doorframe Suguru was standing in, slowly nodding instead of saying what he really wanted to. “Yeah.” 

Gojo wanted to believe that between their three-person crew, they’d be able to handle it. 

He just hadn’t realized that only two of them would make it back to the ship. 

𖥔 ݁ ˖

“You should move on.”

It didn’t matter how many people said it. How many times your therapist pleaded with you to put the past behind you.

You couldn’t let go of him.

Six months turned into six years without Satoru.

The one thing you were terrified of had come true.

You lost him.

Didn’t even have the fucking confirmation of his death. Just a gravestone with an empty casket, a plot picked out for you next to it — even if you’d never get to be buried by him. 

Wasn’t that the funny thing about taking risks? 

You always know what could happen. You just never think it will happen to you. 

It’s always someone else. 

Until it’s not. 

Until you’re the one waiting for a phone call you’ll never get or a knock on the door that will never come. 

“It’s not exactly like men are lining up to date me,” you muttered into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you frowned at your reflection in the mirror, reaching up to fix a stray hair just for your still-shiny engagement ring to shimmer in the sunlight. Swallowing the lump in your throat before you turned away, nearly tripping on a toy. “With the twins-” 

“Guys like MILFs,” your friend teased in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you bent over to pick up the stuffed bunny and toss it in an overflowing toy basket. 

You doubted they’d like one still in love with their babies’ father. 

Still holding out hope he’d show up with that stupid smile and wrap you in a crushing hug. 

Even if the rest of the world thought he was dead. 

When the government had declared his ship missing and him deceased. Cut you a check for it even though you weren’t technically Satoru’s spouse yet since you had his babies. A little boy that could be his clone and a girl that looked a little too much like you.  

Their check had been enough to get you out of your crummy apartment, to move the three of you in a small house in a quiet neighborhood. 

Suguru’s mother had ended up moving next door, offering to babysit and watch them during the day so you didn’t have to send them to daycare. Helping you raise your children while her child was still out there in space somewhere. 

She didn’t talk about Suguru with you. And you never spoke of Satoru. 

But you knew she understood anyway. Coped with it the same way you did. Skirting around their existence like it would lessen the hurt. 

“I know a guy who-” Your friend started, and your stomach lurched at the thought of being set up with someone who couldn’t come close to the man you were supposed to marry. 

“Look, I’ve, uh, gotta go get the kids. Their teacher wanted to discuss Apollo’s behavior. I guess he bit someone,” you muttered, heels clicking as you slung your purse over your shoulder and snagged your keys. 

She was disappointed, mumbling a goodbye that you tuned out, hitting end and dropping your phone in your bag with a sigh. 

You wondered what Satoru would’ve thought of it. 

If he would’ve laughed at his son picking fights at school or if there was a stern side to him buried somewhere beneath his goofy grins and cheesy jokes. 

You tried to pick out names he’d like. Even if sometimes it stung a little to think about. 

Apollo and Artemis. 

After the space missions. He’d think it was cute. Probably dress them up like little astronauts and kiss their foreheads, promising that he loved them way more than just to the moon and back. Paint stars on their ceiling and hang planets up on strings in their nursery. 

To be fair, you had done it in his place. 

Worn one of his old t-shirts as you bit your lip and bent over your swollen belly to get all the corners, carefully standing on a ladder to hang everything on the ceiling, standing in a nursery full of furniture you built yourself a month after his return date came and went. 

The last thing you heard from him was a video message where he promised he’d come back. If you shut your eyes, you could still see that look on his face, the flicker of nervousness that flashed across it as his mouth curled down into a frown before he admitted that they were about to go check out a distress call. 

And then nothing. 

NASA never told you if they had any additional information on it. But the conclusion they came to was obvious. 

Their mission was a failure. And your husband was forever missing. 

Somewhere you’d never be able to reach. 

You snapped on the twins' first birthday. You hadn’t even managed to bring yourself to throw them a party when Satoru wasn’t there to take the photos, to pick them up and blow out the candles for them. 

Carrying them next door to Suguru’s mom’s place, asking for her to watch them for a few hours just to come back home and rip down every stupid space-themed piece of decor you’d once painstakingly picked out. Throwing them all in a big, black trash bag before running out to the store to grab tarps and more paint. 

You didn’t stop until the entire room was drenched in shades of blue and green, alien toys traded in for sea animals.

At least the ocean was on Earth. 

It wasn’t like they were old enough to understand. 

But you couldn’t fucking stand the idea of losing them too. 

You had kept both their convertible cribs in your room since the day you brought them home from the hospital, unable to sleep without them in the same room. The crippling fear that you’d some intruder would sneak in and snatch them if you weren’t right there to stop it didn’t actually go away until they were big enough to toddle and talk. 

Now they were old enough to be in school, no longer babies, no longer toddlers, big enough to ramble on about what they learned every day, bicker over their toys and pick them back up before they went to bed. 

And Satoru had missed all of it. 

Every first they experienced tainted by the never-ending reminder that he wasn’t fucking here to see a single one. 

And like an idiot, you just kept recording message after message, setting up a camera and trying not to cry as you recorded yourself talking about the twins, showing them off to someone who should’ve been by your side every step of the way. You still had a few contacts with his old colleague, one who promised he’d send them all up anyway. 

Just in case Satoru was still out there in space. Still trying to come home to you.  

There wasn’t a single day that passed yet where you didn’t think about it. 

Him. 

But it appeared your attempts to keep him alive, to teach your kids about their dad, weren’t going so well when you replayed the voicemail you’d been left an hour earlier requesting you come in for a meeting after school was over when you picked up the kids. 

The soft voice on the other end apologetically explaining that Apollo had gotten in an argument with another kid to defend his sister, that no action was being taken, but that he’d still like to speak with you in person over it. 

You stared at the brick building of the elementary school, readjusting your purse as you swiped away another message from your friend sending you contact details of a man you certainly were not going to contact, steeling yourself for an uncomfortable conversation as you walked through the door and went into the office to get a visitor’s pass before you started navigating through the halls to look for the twins’ class. 

Suguru’s mom handled most of the pick ups for you, kept them at her place until you got back home from work in the evenings. 

Your boss had been annoyed that you’d taken off early, but you had to put them first. You were the only parent they had. 

You heard Artemis first. Her soft giggle twinkling as your steps picked up, her brother’s grumpy voice scolding her as you stopped just outside an open classroom door, pausing as you looked inside and saw sitting cross-legged on the floor with another boy who looked a couple years older, a bunch of toys dumped out between them on a carpet with the alphabet on it. 

“Are you their sister? I thought their mom-” A low voice spoke up, your head snapping over to see a dark-haired man stepping out from behind a desk. Warm brown eyes scanning your face as you stiffly shook your head.   

“I’m their mom,” you interrupted him, swallowing hard as you pushed your sunglasses back up in your hair before holding your hand out to shake. 

His hand was surprisingly soft when he took it, gently shaking it a few seconds too long before awkwardly letting go. 

“I’m Choso, their teacher,” he said, and you forced a small smile.

“I, uh, know,” you muttered, averting your stare back to where they were playing. 

“Yuji’s my little brother,” he added, pointing out the boy playing with yours, plucking out a toy from the pile and handing it over. 

You wondered if it would be awful to just ask him to go ahead and skip all the polite niceties, that you didn’t need them. 

“Sorry for making assumptions,” he awkwardly apologized, his dark eyes dragging over you again. “You just looked like you’re around my age, and I guess I forget sometimes that it’s normal for us to have kids of our own now.”

You blinked at him, trying to decide what to make of his slightly nervous rambling just for his mouth to open again.

“I wasn’t trying to comment on your appearance or anything, I mean, you’re beautiful-” His lips abruptly shut, cheek flushing pink in a painfully familiar way.

Your chest hurt.

Ached at the thought that Satoru was no longer the last person to call you beautiful.

“Um, thanks,” you murmured, looking at your outfit a little self-consciously. Wondering if he was just saying that to make you feel better or if he really meant it. You didn’t think you looked terrible. But without Satoru around, you’d sorta forgotten what it felt like to look in the mirror and see something pretty when you were struggling to survive most days. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, glancing down to the ring on your finger. Your throat started to close, palms getting clammy as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realize you were married.” 

“I’m not,” you answered, a little too quickly as you folded your arms across your chest. Putting your left hand underneath your other arm as if it would make you stop thinking about it. Him. 

“Oh, um-” 

“I was engaged to the twins’ dad,” you explained, watching them giggle and pretend to eat the plastic food with their new pink-haired friend. “But, uh, he passed before they were born.” 

People usually asked too many questions if you told them the whole story. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he apologized, face falling the way everyone else’s always did. Regret etched into the soft lines of his face, nose scrunching up as the tattoo across his nose crinkled. “I had no-”

“It’s fine,” you lied, waving it off like Satoru didn’t still cast shadows across your thoughts. “So, um, what happened with Apollo? Is he in trouble?”

“No, no, one of the other kids tried to take a toy from Artemis, and he stepped in to stop it. I actually wanted to speak to you about him having a hard time making friends outside of her,” Choso spoke softly, obviously trying hard to pick his words carefully. “I was thinking of recommending they get put in different classes next year to help them socialize.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Torn between immediately shutting the idea down and trying to argue against it before second guessing whether or not your parenting was actually just fostering codependence. 

Satoru would know what to do.

But he wasn’t here.

And all the decisions were yours to make.

Artemis was the outgoing one, inherited her father’s personality even if she pretty much got your face. Bright and brilliant, easy charisma that shined even at her small size. Apollo was reserved. Serious.

Scowling if he wasn’t with his sister, grumbling at the world like he already realized how it screwed them over.

“They’re just five,” you muttered, glancing over at where they were still distracted with his brother.

“Well, I guess we can see if there are any changes throughout the rest of the school year. I, uh, coach a boys soccer team on the weekends. He’s welcome to join, if you’re interested,” he said, running his fingers through the ends of his hair. 

You guessed if it meant your twins wouldn’t be split up in school, you’d sit on the sidelines to watch little kids try and fail to kick a ball across a field. 

Not that he was that happy about it when you told him he’d have to spend his Saturday morning in a soccer uniform with kids he barely spoke to before instead of playing with his toys at home. 

Choso grinned when you first showed up, one of those crooked ones that gave away his surprise when he saw you setting up fold-out chairs for you and Artemis. Even jogging over to tell you he was happy you came, squatting down to get on Apollo’s level to ask him if he knew how to play. 

He didn’t.

To be fair, after watching a single game, it was clear none of the other kids did either. 

Still, you left it with a schedule of practices and games stuffed in your purse, a couple of them circled and marked for your days to bring snacks and juice boxes for the team.

You told yourself that you were being an active parent. 

Showing up to every single school event. Refusing to miss a single soccer game even when Apollo spent half of it plucking weeds from the field to give to you afterwards. 

Taking him to play dates with his new soccer friends before taking Artemis to sleepover with her school friends, juggling their new social lives with your own work. 

And somewhere along the way, you supposed you’d made a new friend in their teacher too.

He went out of his way to talk to you at every game, greeting you at their school stuff with a shy smile and considerate questions while he updated you on how they were doing. 

The kids loved him, coming home chattering about what he planned and taught them during the day, complaining whenever he was out sick and they got stuck with a substitute. 

Wasn’t it normal to like someone if they made your children happy? 

Smile back when they spoke to you? 

Find your thoughts lingering a little on their dark-haired teacher when your son excitedly exclaimed that Choso promised to be his soccer coach next year too, your stupid heart stalling for a second when Artemis casually dropped that he helped her make a mother’s day card for you as she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet. 

You definitely didn’t pick them up from school yourself more often, swearing to Suguru’s mother that you were just trying to spend more time with them. 

But eventually, the school year wrapped up. 

You couldn’t really comprehend why some sliver of you was disappointed by that. 

Still, you suspected that it wasn’t just because Satoru wasn’t here to see it. 

A strange flutter in your stomach stirring watching Choso pass out printed graduation certificates to the class, plastering on a bright smile as Artemis proudly bounded over to show you hers. Toothily grinning as you sat and clapped for her in a cramped chair, a paper plate with a tiny slice of pizza in front of you as the other parents tried wrangling their own kids. 

Apollo was half-sitting on your lap, sneakily stealing your pizza after he polished off his own plate, enjoying their classroom party just to start bickering over which mini cupcakes they each wanted, eyeing the boxes Choso hadn’t given out. “Are you excited for next year?” You asked, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their arguing. 

“No,” Artemis smiled immediately flipped into a frown as she flopped in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “We’ll have to get a new teacher.” 

“Don’t be a baby,” Apollo huffed at her. 

“S’not fair, he’s still your coach,” she whined back, right in time for him to show up, holding out a plastic container with cupcakes to let them choose. 

They were quick to snatch them, thank yous muffled when they stuffed their mouths the next second, but to your surprise, he held out the box for you to pick too. 

“I, um, got enough for the parents too,” he awkwardly said, eyes hesitantly flicking up to meet yours as you chewed the inside of your cheek before accepting. 

“Thanks,” you murmured softly, selecting one with purple frosting as he smiled softly at you. 

It was nice of him. 

This was nice, actually. 

A classroom of sugar-fueled kids and hastily strung up party streamers wasn’t exactly where you pictured you’d be spending your afternoon a decade ago. Being a single mom had never been a part of your plans. 

But it wasn’t terrible. 

You loved your children. Loved being their mom. 

Maybe you could learn to love your life too. 

You stayed behind once the party wrapped up to help clean the classroom with a few of the other parents, stuffing greasy and frosting splattered plates into trash bags while the twins excitedly caught up with Yuji after his teacher dropped him off after the bell rang. 

“Hey,” a quiet voice startled you, your head snapping back to see Choso stiffly standing next to you, nervously raking his fingers through his hair. 

“Hi,” you breathed back, just as awkward. “The party was great. I think the twins will miss you next year.” 

You didn’t want to consider if you would. 

“They’re great kids. I know they’re gonna succeed some day,” he earnestly said, your mouth curling up as you nodded. 

You didn’t really mind if they succeeded or not. Wouldn’t hold them to the same standards their dad once held himself to. 

All you really wanted was for them to be happy. 

“Thanks, um, seriously,” you swallowed hard, throat constricting as you thought about how much Apollo had started to come out of his shell thanks to him. 

Choso’s intense stare swept over your face, scanning over your features like he was searching for something there.

His eyes were dark. 

Not blue. They didn’t shimmer, didn’t sparkle when the sun hit them. 

But they were deep. Warm. 

“I’m glad I got to meet you,” he started, speaking slowly like he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “Getting to know you, um, it’s been great.” 

“Yeah, it has,” you agreed, actually meaning it too. 

He stepped a little closer, taking a deep breath as his gaze settled on your face. “You can like, slap me if I’m out of line here-”

“I’m not going to slap you,” you intercut, biting back a laugh as his brows knitted together seriously. 

“Would it be totally inappropriate to ask you on a date?” 

𖥔 ݁ ˖

Their mission was fucked. 

Suguru was dead. 

Body stuck on a planet of water and waves, left behind with the other astronauts that had died long before they even received their distress call. 

Swept under a fucking tsunami, unable to make it back on the ship on time in an attempt to save a stupid fucking data recorder. 

Now they had neither. 

The ship had been damaged in the process too, fuel wasted and plans derailed as they barely managed to get it off the planet before all three of them ended up as corpses. Water corrupting important systems as Gojo slammed his fists against the hard metal frame of a door, throwing off his helmet as Shoko said something his brain refused to process. 

Grabbing his arm to pull it back before he could fuck up his suit. Telling him to just take it off and cool down before he damned both of them too. 

Like his best friend wasn’t gone. 

He’d never get him back. 

No one would. 

Gojo just had to leave his body there for the tides to take. What the hell was he even going to say to his mom? How was he supposed to tell her that her son wasn’t coming home? 

He barely managed to get his suit off, stripping down and throwing it on the ground without giving a shit about proper protocol, storming off to his private compartment to stop himself from losing it in front of the only other person up here now. Shoko said something about getting everything back on course, but he wasn’t listening as he turned his back from her.

God, he felt like he was going to fucking hurl. 

The edges of his vision kept blurring, going in-and-out of darkness as he forced himself to change clothes, sitting hunched over the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands, replaying the look on Suguru’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to make it. 

Rewinding and searching for some other way to change the past as he screwed his eyes shut. 

But he couldn’t save him then and there was no way to save him now. 

He wished you were here. 

Wished you’d wrap your arms around him and run your fingers through his hair and promise him that it would still be okay. That Suguru wouldn’t blame him. 

That his best friend was somewhere better. 

Even if everything scientific in his body swore that there was no better place waiting for him. 

Gojo pushed himself back up to his feet, jaw locked tight as he walked back over to the one piece of you he still had access too, tapping away at the controls to see if you sent any videos while he was out there making the worse fucking mistake of his life. 

Foot impatiently tapping against the floor as he reclined his head back against the floor, wishing that he’d never even come on this mission in the first place – if he hadn’t, Suguru wouldn’t have even answered the distress call, would he? 

He’d still be alive, and Gojo would be with-

The computer let out a beep, interrupting his thoughts as the screen came to life, loading everything up as he sighed with relief. 

Seeing your smile, hearing your soft words might not heal him, but it was the only thing he could think of to help the raw wound of loss ripping through his chest. 

Until the automated computer voice made an announcement right as he popped his headphones in.   

Loading messages from the past eleven years. 

No. No no no no no.

It was wrong.

It had to be fucking wrong. 

The computer had to be fried. Some water must have somehow gotten in it and fucked with the wiring and-

Before he could even hit a single button, try to troubleshoot, there you were in front of him, your hand on your swollen stomach, scowling in the camera as you asked where the hell he was. Fear creeping in your pretty voice that no one had heard anything from any of them – reminding him that he promised to come back. 

He did. He would. 

The small lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as the video auto-played into the next one, where you were obviously about to pop, filming in a space-themed nursery, your anger twisted into worry, telling him that you didn’t want to do this alone. 

Begging him to not make you. 

Gojo froze. 

Shoulders stiff as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks, stunned as his own brain short-circuited, the guilt swimming in his stomach threatening to drown him as you ended the message. 

Part of him wanted to hit stop. 

Like if he paused it now, he would be able to freeze time and somehow make it back to Earth in time to not miss any more of it. 

But his fingers weren’t fast enough. 

And the next frame came with the audio of a baby crying. 

Two babies. One swaddled in blue and the other in pink. Their names on knitted hats he already knew Suguru’s mom must’ve made, a strangled sob escaping him before he even realized he was crying. 

The twins. His twins. 

Sleepily yawning and opening their eyes just a peek, enough for him to see his son had the misfortune of inheriting his looks while his daughter came out like a miniature you. Someone else was recording you in the hospital bed, but you were talking to the camera like it was him, face soft as you giggled that he would probably bawling harder than the babies when he realized he missed this. 

Suguru’s mom laughed behind the camera. 

He was. 

Tears falling freely as the videos just kept playing. One after another. 

His children were growing up without him. 

From tiny and fragile bundles to bumbling toddlers to fuck, full-sized little kids. 

In what? Fifty minutes? 

Five entire years of their life, condensed down to a handful of clips. The first steps he missed, the birthdays and holidays and father’s day he’d never get back. 

They didn’t even look at the camera half the time. Too busy playing and giggling and laughing while you did your best not to cry in front of them. They didn’t know him. 

Their father was barely more than a fucking video camera being pointed at them. 

And you, god, his pretty, perfect you. 

Still sending him these even when you had to think he was fucking dead. 

Dark circles under your eyes and a hollowness to your face that only got worse over the years. Exhaustion in your expressions as you spoke to him like you didn’t think he was listening. 

You mostly updated them on the kids' life. Skimmed over the details of a job you obviously didn’t like. Told him how Suguru’s mom had basically become their grandma. Sometimes Artemis would be on your lap, squinting at a book or playing with a toy while you talked. 

His girls a wormhole away. 

Gojo wanted to scream. Shout at the world to stop fucking spinning for a while so he could make it back to you. 

But five years turned into six, and six turned into seven, and he watched in horror as it started to set in that he was losing you too.

What if it was too late? 

What if you moved on? What if your life had no room left in it for him by the time he made it back to Earth? 

The twins were already in school and playing sports and clearly didn’t miss the man they’d never met. 

Would you stop missing him too? 

He didn’t know how many videos he watched. Guessing the time jump between each one based on how much the twins had grown in the background. 

You looked more mature now too. More put together, hair styled differently, no longer bare-faced when you turned the camera on, in a different room that obviously belonged to a house that wasn’t his home. 

Toys weren’t scattered around everywhere in the background anymore. But sometimes the twins would run through with one of their friends, some pink-haired kid that seemed to come over often judging by the way you barely blinked when they passed behind you. 

Gojo felt like a stranger. 

Some creep looking in the window of a happy family and thinking it should be his. 

“Mom,” Apollo whined, trying to tug on your sleeve as his shaggy white hair hung around his shoulders, attempting to drag you away while you were in mid-sentence. “Me and Cho made a cake. Come try it.” 

“Sure, honey,” you softly said, cringing a little before glancing back at the camera apologetically before signing off. 

Was Cho one of his friends? One of yours? 

He didn’t actually want an answer. 

But the next video seemed to clue him in on one anyway. 

You were wearing a shirt that was too big for you. The collar of it stretched out, your hair mused and down as you softly spoke, like you were trying not to wake someone up. 

It wasn’t Gojo’s shirt. 

An awful feeling settled in his bones. One that etched deeper with every little off detail he noticed. 

A pair of men’s shoes in the background. A watch left on your desk, barely in frame. The Cho the twins occasionally chattered about affectionately. 

Who apparently was taking them to soccer games and science museums like he should be doing right now if he heard them correctly.

Gojo didn’t want to believe that you were dating again. Even if he knew that it would be the normal thing to do. 

Completely reasonable for you to move on after not hearing a word from him in nearly a decade. 

But the idea of you loving another man, letting him into your life, letting him take his space-

He puked. 

Head between his knees as he got sick on the floor, throwing up a mixture of salt water he swallowed earlier and the freeze dried breakfast he had this morning. Funny, wasn’t it? He’d lost over ten years with you and his best friends in just a day.

An hour on that horrible planet had cost him a decade. 

Body wracking with shudders as he coughed and spit, wiping the back of his mouth just in time to look up at you while those pretty lips of yours pressed in a thin line. Sadness shining in your eyes, frustration and disappointment you rarely let show evident in your trembling frame. 

“It’s hard to keep hoping for you,” you admitted, reaching out to shut off the camera, and he desperately wanted to scream for you to not give up, to just fucking wait. 

But then the computer chimed in that there was one video left the second the screen went black after you ended it. 

His hand reached out, desperate to touch you, desperate to stop you, but your world was spinning faster than his was. 

And your face was back on screen, something inside him wilting and withering at the realization that another year had probably passed for you, maybe even two, more that he would never be able to get back. 

A few more faint lines were etched by your eyes, subtle creases left as a sign of all the time he missed with you. But you looked healthier. Happier. 

His beautiful girl sitting there and smiling at him instead of screaming like you should’ve been. Cursing his name for not coming home sooner, scolding him for being a piece of shit that should’ve stayed on Earth.  

“Hi, Satoru,” you spoke softly, fiddling with your hands. “Been a while since I’ve made one of these.” 

He was terrified to know how long.

“The twins are good. They’re gonna be ten next month,” you continued, not looking directly at the camera as you talked. “They’re both smart, like you. Apollo’s been more into soccer than school these days though.” 

He wanted to see him. See both of them. 

Hold them too, know his children outside of the information you would tell some distant relative, even if that was all he felt like right now. 

“Artemis wants to be a scientist when she grows up. She sits on the sidelines of his games with her nose buried in books,” you told him, a little smile reflexively curling up on your lips just from talking about them. “I wish you could see them. Wish you were here.” 

His chest hurt. 

Gojo didn’t know he stopped breathing until his body forced him to suck in a breath, lungs screaming for air as he stared at the woman he was supposed to marry. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. 

The mission should’ve been routine. Simple. 

Suguru should be setting up the navigation. He should be begrudgingly agreeing to being his best man and coming to the courthouse to witness the rushed ceremony. 

“Sometimes,” you started, swallowing hard as your gorgeous eyes welled up with tears that threatened to spill out. “I dream of you. Us. Back in our old apartment in the creaky bed and the broken window. I wake up thinking I’m still there.” 

The hard lump lodged in his throat was threatening to choke him entirely, the taste of bile still on his tongue as his nails digging crescent moons into his palms as he watched your mouth quiver. 

“The government declared you dead a few years ago. One of your old colleagues came by one day, said that no one really knew for sure what happened, just that you missed the supply drop. Used a bunch of big words like I was too stupid to understand that the bottom line was that you weren’t coming home. Tried to make me feel better about it too,” you bitterly scoffed at the memory, resting your chin on your knees as you exhaled. On the brink of crumbling just recalling it, “Told me that you might’ve settled on a colony on a different planet or got stuck in some fucked-up time dilation. That you might still be alive out there somewhere.” 

If his throat wasn’t already raw, he would’ve screamed at the screen that he was. 

Wanted to beg you not to fucking believe whatever bullshit everyone else was feeding you and believe in him. 

“You don’t feel dead,” you added. Sniffling a little, using the back of your hand to rub underneath your eyes. “Maybe it’d be easier to move on if you did.”

Even his relief was tainted by guilt, ruined with his own worry that he was ruining your future by wishing you’d be stuck on him forever. 

“My therapist thinks I’m wasting my life waiting on someone who’s never coming back,” you murmured, speaking to him more like you were talking to your diary than truly believing he was going to hear any of it. “But how am I supposed to tell her I’m scared that some day you will, and I won’t be here?” 

Everything hurt.

His body, his heart, his soul. 

Aching for everything he’d lost. Everything you lost because of him. His own kids growing up without a fucking father because he was an idiot who put a career before his family. 

The life he’d spent years carefully building towards lost because he miscalculated. 

“I know it’s not fair, but fuck, thinking about you moving on with another girl, or fucking starting some colony up in space and having kids with someone else, makes me wanna throw up,” you admitted, clueless that he had just puked at the idea of someone else being the stepfather to his twins. 

You hadn’t even confirmed-

“I’m being a hypocrite,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands to hide the fact you were crying — and that’s when it hit him.

The engagement ring on your finger wasn’t his.

Smaller. More subtle. A different cut and style. 

No. You couldn’t-

“I’ve, um, been dating a guy for a few years. He’s sweet. Everyone loves to tell me how much you would’ve liked him,” you admitted, twisting the ring around your finger anxiously like you were confessing a sin. He didn’t like him. Already hated whatever bastard had snuck in and swept you off your feet. “They keep saying that you’d want me to move on.” 

What a load of fucking shit.

The last goddamn thing he wanted was for you to move on. The idea of you marrying another man was enough for him to gag again, bile rising from his stomach as he struggled to stop it. 

“I still love you,” you shrugged a little, guilt of your own etched in your face as his eyes stung with more tears. “I just love him too.”

Gojo would take getting stabbed over hearing those words from your lips again.

“Choso said maybe it’d make me feel better to make another video for you, y’know, get everything off my chest,” you exhaled. “I’m just so tired, Satoru.” 

Okay, well, that kind of felt like being stabbed. 

Knowing that this was all his fault and you were the one bearing so much of the burden. 

“I know you’re probably never going to see this, but you’d want me to be happy, wouldn’t you?” You asked, eyes big and wavering as you struggled not to sob, reaching up to play with the silver chain of your necklace tucked under your shirt. “Would you hate me for choosing someone who cares about me and our kids?” 

He could never hate you.

Even if you married ten other men while he was gone.

He would just always hate the man who got to call you their wife. Jealous of whichever one got to take family photos with you and take you on vacation and sleep next to you every night. 

Gojo wanted to be that guy. Wanted to get down on his knees next to you now and dry your cheeks, kiss your mouth and murmur anything you wanted to hear just to make you feel better.

“I’m getting married in four months,” you murmured, wiping the tears away from underneath your eyes, mascara smearing on the back of your hand as you sniffled. “At that chapel we picked out. The one with the pretty hydrangeas out front.”

No no no. 

He could still make it. 

Couldn’t he? 

If they skipped the supply drop entirely and went straight back through the wormhole? 

Hadn’t he lost enough? 

Gojo refused to let you slip through his fingers a second time. No matter how fast the hourglass was running out of sand. 

You stood up, walking out of frame for a few seconds as he heard the sound of something unzipping. And then you came back, holding out something white and-

A wedding dress. 

“You never got to see me in one, so I thought-” You didn’t finish your sentence, just swallowing hard as you draped it back down on furniture just out of sight. 

The camera barely focused on your body as you peeled your clothes off, his breath hitching at the intimate sight of you slipping the dress on, struggling to zip the back by yourself before walking closer. 

You looked like an angel.

And Gojo sorta wished he was dead. 

Stuck in the stunned shell of his body as he watched the way the dress clung to your chest and flowed to the ground, his heart thrumming loud enough he was sure it was about to break through his ribcage. 

And then a noise in the background startled you. 

The thud of a door shutting. The excited clamoring of children, a girl giggling as a man said something he couldn’t quite make out. 

Your face scrunched up, a million different emotions flashing across it as you both heard it at the same time. “We’re back, baby.” 

Another man was calling you baby. 

Footsteps echoing down a hallway he’d never gotten to walk down, your own body rushing over to block the door before it could open. 

“I’m trying my wedding dress on, Cho,” you called out, lips pressing together in a pretty pout. “It’s bad luck if you see.” 

“Yeah? We brought back your favorite takeout, want me to put it in the fridge or-” he started asking, his voice deep, gravelly. 

“You can leave it out,” you replied, your voice softening as you spoke to him. “I’ll be out in a minute.” 

You glanced back at the camera, guilt returning the second your stare hovered over at it. 

And before Gojo could even really appreciate what a beautiful bride you made, you were rushing to get out of it, biting your lips before stuffing it back into a garment bag, putting your clothes back and returning to your seat. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, fingers trembling as your hand reflexively reached for your necklace again. “I wish things were different.” 

It could be.

It would be. 

Even if a little voice in the back of his head suggested that you might not leave your current fiancé for him if he made it back in time. 

That you might choose the man that had actually been there for you all this time. 

Behind you, there was a knock on the door. 

“Can I come in now?” 

No. 

This was supposed to be private, a one-sided conversation that was for his ears only, but you were glancing back over your shoulder. 

“Yeah,” you quietly answered. 

Gojo almost wished your fiancé was ugly. That it would make it easy for you to pick him instead.

But of course, he had to be annoyingly attractive, dark hair hanging around his shoulders and bangs that reminded him of the best friend he just damned as he casually walked over to you, concern etched into his sharp face as he leaned in to press a kiss on the top of your forehead. 

“Everything okay?” He asked, but then his eyes shifted and he noticed what you were filming. “Oh, baby.” 

The sound of someone who knew you were hurting. Who cared. 

“I’m okay, really, I’m just saying goodbye,” you murmured, like they both couldn’t tell how close you were to breaking down. 

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” he spoke gently, his touch lingering on your skin like it really was his now. “Apollo and Yuji want to go spend the night with one of their friends.” 

Gojo wanted to strangle him. 

Fly through the space and stars just to give him a black eye for just how casually he spoke about his son. 

Although some sliver of him was well fucking aware that Choso had probably been more of a dad to Apollo than he’d ever gotten to be. 

“That’s fine,” you shrugged, nodding a little as your body relaxed, tension lifting from your shoulders the longer you looked at him. 

Gojo hated that he could see that you really did love him in your eyes. 

See that familiar glimmer shining in them as you looked up at a stranger instead of him. 

Choso left the room, but his presence didn’t. 

You stared at the door for a few moments after it shut, but you didn’t say whatever you were thinking. Kept it bottled up before you eventually looked back at Satoru. 

Not that you could even see him. 

You thought you were talking to a ghost. 

That’s all he’d become to you. To his children. A phantom haunting rooms he’d never entered. Lingering in empty spaces he should’ve been. A spectre living in the shadows of your heads. 

“I miss you,” you murmured, reaching for the button one last time to shut it off. “I don’t think that will change. But I can’t keep believing you’re coming home.” 

No. Please no. 

He was.

“I love you, Satoru,” you half-whispered, choking the words out. “Goodbye.” 

The screen went dark. 

His reflection staring back at him. Cheeks wet with tears that wouldn’t stop, breaking down as he fell apart, nausea swirling as he forced himself to stand and step around where he’d thrown up, pacing the floor as his brain struggled to work through a problem he didn’t know how to solve. 

He went back to the console, frowning when he tried to start recording to send a message back out to you, to beg you to just give him a little more time, but nothing happened. 

Body and brain barely working together to frantically tap buttons, staring at what data was available to see if he could find when the transmission was received. 

A faint flicker of hope stirring when he realized it had only been two days ago. 

You weren’t married yet. 

Maybe there was time.

And even if there wasn’t, he’d do his damndest to get there and wreck your marriage if it meant winning you back. 

He was a wreck, stumbling out of the room to rush to find Shoko, nearly tripping on his own feet as he found her by the controls, her neat brunette brows scrunching together in disgust when she saw the state he was in. 

“What the hell-” 

Gojo wasn’t sure he was even speaking in full sentences when he started rambling about time dilation, about how they already missed a goddamn decade, her mouth curling down into a tight frown as he got into the details of how they needed to go home now. 

“We don’t have the fuel,” she deadpanned, drawing his attention to the data on screen. “We can make it to our supply drop, but unless they have some there, we’ll probably be stuck on their settlement until another crew comes along.” 

That wasn’t a fucking option. 

They had to make it.

But even when he spent the next forty-eight hours crunching the numbers and calculating different ways to return, he still came to the same conclusion – Shoko was right. 

And still said ‘I told you so’ when he said fine to going to the planet for the supply drop, figuring that at least if the load was lighter, he might be able to make what they had left stretch. 

He was barely showering. 

Barely eating. 

Manic energy getting him through the long days and longer nights to avoid the dreams that would only mock him for all his failures. 

They were just filled with your face, with Suguru’s, of children that called another man dad. 

Filling his notebooks with different calculations he was desperate to get right this time. 

Skin crawling with the fear that he’d fuck this up and lose you forever. 

He didn’t get to mourn Suguru. Couldn’t mourn the years he missed. 

Not if he didn’t want to miss the rest of them. 

By the time they made it to the next planet, he was a wreck. Practically shoved in the shower by Shoko to get cleaned up before they landed, feeling ill when he was forced to get his suit back on, praying to whatever higher power might be out there to let there be fuel. Let him go home to his family. 

This planet wasn’t full of water. Wasn’t one big ocean. 

Landing in a lush green field, not far from real buildings, actual structures erected, fellow scientists rushing out to greet them as Shoko worked fast to unload the supplies with their help.

Gojo knew he probably sounded like a lunatic rushing to get his request for fuel out as soon as possible, counting the seconds in his head as he hoped that they weren’t months passing for you back home. 

“I need to get back to my fiancée, my kids, please," he begged, pleading without caring how pathetic it came out when everyone here had given up their lives on Earth in the name of science and research. 

“I’m sorry,” their de facto leader apologized, an astronaut he once grew up looking up to frowning at him as he glanced around at their simple setup to search for anything that could help him. “We don’t have any. There’s going to be another supply drop in a month, more people coming to live here. You could probably go back with them if-” 

“No,” he accidentally interrupted, the word ripped from the back of his chest as he recoiled. 

It couldn’t end like this. 

He’d be too late if he stayed.

“Satoru,” Shoko hissed, pulling him back as his breathing got ragged, on the verge of a panic attack. 

“Shoko, they don’t-” 

“I know,” she cut him off, swallowing hard as she fixed him with her steady stare. “Look, I’ll stay here. You take the lander back. Without me and all this stuff, the fuel should last.” 

“You want me to leave you?” He asked, automatically shaking his head no at the absurd suggestion. 

“I don’t have anyone waiting for me back on Earth anyway,” she shrugged.

He didn’t have the seconds to debate it. 

“Are you sure?” He asked, his chest already aching at the idea of being alone on the ship. 

“Go get your wife back,” she huffed. “Name one of your next kids after me.” 

“Deal,” he breathed, throwing her arms around her in a rushed hug before he had to sprint back to the lander. 

Both his best friends left behind on planets he knew he’d never get back to. 

And still, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to make it back to the one they came from. 

He wasn’t even meant to be the navigator. 

Wasn’t supposed to be the one frantically typing in coordinates and rushing through checklists to get back home. 

Struggling and squinting at the consoles, breathing heavy when everything was inputted, running the numbers again and again.

He should make it.

Although, his current path put him at landing in some random field in the middle of nowhere, NASA would probably be rushing to get there once they realized it was one of their landers. 

If only he could send out a fucking transmission. 

He tried to figure out why it wouldn’t work, fiddling with it almost every day in failed attempts to fix it and rewatching your videos when his energy threatened to run out. 

Gojo hadn’t cut his hair in months. That was something Suguru usually helped him with. It was nearly touching his shoulders, looking like a stranger in his reflection in the fogged-up mirror on the occasions he’d make himself shower and scrub his skin until it was practically red.

But maybe you liked men with longer hair now. Wouldn’t mind the fact that he changed too. 

When he slept, he made it to the chapel just in time, rushing through the double doors right when the officiant asked if anyone objected. 

He would whisk you away, dip you down and kiss you, fingers sinking into the silk of your wedding dress as he begged you to still be his. 

Some part of him felt like it was all light years away. 

Up until Earth was outside his window, his heart thrumming at the thought of you down there, sharing a bed with someone else while he was fighting so hard to come back to you. Did he fuck you as good?

Make sure you finished every single time? Dot your face with kisses and carry you into the bathroom? Make all your favorite foods and worship the ground you walked on every day? 

Gojo didn’t know if he’d be able to handle knowing.

But fuck, if it meant he’d still get to have you, he’d share you with that asshole. 

Gojo still couldn’t send a transmission, had no way of actually notifying anyone when he got in the lander, flipping switches and changing settings as he got behind the controls. 

Shutting his eyes for a few seconds as he set the coordinates, palms sweating as he clutched the controls. If his math was right, today would be the day you were supposed to be standing at the altar. 

He could do this. 

Failing wasn’t an option.

Not after everything that had brought him here. 

“I’m coming home, sweetheart,” he murmured, a little aware that he had probably lost it if he was talking to himself up here. 

But he hoped you could feel him. 

That even if you were wearing your wedding dress right now, you would be able to sense him somehow. Clinging to the hope that yours hadn’t completely faded yet. 

The landing fucking sucked. 

Hitting the ground too hard, his head snapping forward fast enough he was pretty sure he had a concussion or whiplash, body bracing for the impact as it skidded to a stop in a corn field an hour from that chapel he just toured with you last year. Even if it’d been more like twelve to you. 

It still didn’t stop him from rushing to get out, nearly kissing the ground as he stumbled out. Sucking in the fresh air as he glanced around, his legs trembling as he forced himself to keep moving, well aware he definitely looked like shit even if he tried to clean himself up before his, ah, crash landing. 

“Are you okay? What the fuck is-” 

Gojo grimaced as he glanced up to find someone who pulled over on the side of the road, a stranger squinting at him and the wrecked lander in disbelief. 

“Uh, could you give me a ride?” 

Maybe the universe had decided to cut him some slack. Give him a helping hand as he sat in the passenger seat of a beat-up truck, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as he noticed the new phone in the cupholder. 

“Do, uh, you mind if I make a couple calls?” He asked, the distant sound of sirens echoing as they put mile after mile away from the lander – and inched closer and closer to you. 

“Sure,” his new friend shrugged, using his face to unlock his phone at the next stoplight and passing it over. 

Gojo still had your number memorized. 

Even if you didn’t pick up the phone for him. 

No voicemail box set up either, just the generic ‘please leave a message at the beep’ he didn’t have it in him to oblige. He hurried to dial one of his old contacts from NASA he remembered, not sure if Ijichi would pick up either. 

But they did. 

“Hello?” Ijichi croaked, almost sounding like he just woke up, or maybe was sick. 

“Hey, it’s, uh, me,” he said, tapping his fingers on the side of the window. “I sorta crash landed. You guys are gonna want to send someone out to take care of clean up.” 

“Satoru?” 

“Yeah, it’s, um, been a bit, hasn’t it?” He awkwardly chuckled, rambling off the coordinates twice, sure that Ijichi was scrambling to get them down before he exhaled. “Look, I’ve got a wedding to crash. I’ll check in later.” 

Gojo hung up before he could get caught up in any more stupid space bullshit. 

He was finished. 

Ready to spend the rest of his years devoted solely to you and his twins. 

Would you be happy to see him? 

Let him pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your mouth and promise that you missed him? 

He’d spent so long daydreaming about it that he didn’t really know what to do when the truck pulled into the very much empty parking lot of the chapel. 

Was he too early? 

Too late? 

Walking up to the double doors and pulling them open to find barren pews illuminated by stained glass windows. He walked around like an idiot, something pricking at the back of his brain that he wouldn’t listen to as he looked outside at the cemetery next to it. 

He didn’t have a real reason for going back out there. 

Just some invisible string tugging him there as he held his breath, searching for proof in the last place he wanted to find it. 

And there it was. 

Sitting underneath a willow tree waiting for him. 

He stared at the gravestone. Your name etched into the stone – with another man’s last name attached to it. 

His knees gave out. Collapsed underneath him as a broken sob racked through his body, hitting the hard ground as his body surrendered to the pain. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, sucking in shallow breaths as he cried for the life you had. 

The one he hadn’t been there to give you. 

You couldn’t be- 

Someone tapped on his back. 

He turned fast, shaking as his eyes landed on your face. His pretty girl, probably a good twenty years older than him, aged like a fine wine as your mouth fell open in a surprised gasp. He reached out, fingers trembling as he nearly touched your cheek from his position on the ground, but you froze.

“Dad?” 

It wasn’t you. 

Artemis tried helping him up, tears springing up in her eyes as she immediately hugged him, his brain fractured as he realized that his daughter was here. His daughter was older than him. How much time had passed? How fucking off was he? 

“Oh my god, it’s actually you, when I got the call, I didn’t think-” 

“Artemis?” He breathed her name, wishing he’d gotten the opportunity to say it to her a million more times. “You’re-” 

“Holy shit, I have to call everyone,” she grinned, her smile hurting his chest when it looked so much like yours. “Apollo isn’t gonna believe it. You know, you’re already, like, a great grandpa thanks to him, by the way.” 

Every word was a fresh punch to the gut. 

A great grandfather. 

He never even got to be a father. 

Missed his kids growing up, getting married, having kids of their own, and even them having kids. 

“How long has it been?” He asked, his voice raw, broken chords of disbelief as Artemis' face twisted up, looking behind him as it struck her that he hadn’t known any of it.  

“Since you left?” She awkwardly spoke, tilting her head as she scratched the back of her neck. There was a wedding band on her finger. Did your husband walk her down the aisle? “Um, about fifty years?” 

Four months had been forty years. 

Gojo couldn’t stop himself from crying again, wiping away his cheeks faster, ashamed of what he’d done. 

A fool masquerading as a man. 

Artemis awkwardly wrapped an arm around him, trying to soothe him as she used her free hand to send texts like he couldn’t see through the tears. Sobs wracking through him as the dam inside him broke, reduced to rubble as he fell apart. Painfully aware that he was only inches away from you, and still no closer at all. 

He’d never hold you again. Never touch you again. 

Wouldn’t get to see your smile or hear your laugh, feel the warmth of your affection. 

His children wouldn’t need him. 

For a while, his daughter just sat there with him. Let him cry until he managed to halfway collect himself, his eyes swollen and sore as he struggled to breathe, body aching and stomach starving despite how sick he felt every time he looked up and saw your grave. 

“She passed away last year,” Artemis muttered. “She’d been sick for a while.” 

God, he felt like he was going to die right now. 

Figured it would hurt less than hearing about everything he missed. 

“She talked about you a lot. Made you out to be a big hero,” his daughter smiled softly, obviously trying to make him feel better. You should’ve turned him into the bad guy. “I actually work at NASA. God, she was pretty pissed at me when she found out I even applied, but I promised that I wouldn’t go to space so, uh-” 

It seemed like she inherited his ability to shove his foot in his mouth, her lips clamping shut as she realized that maybe this wasn’t the time. 

“Apollo’s a teacher now,” she abruptly changed the subject, and he didn’t know what to say.

Just staring at her in shock, unable to form proper sentences when he thought he was coming home to a preteen – not a fully grown woman who looked so much like you it hurt to breathe. “Oh, there he is.” 

He looked over to see his son was walking down the path with an old man, talking between each other with furrowed expressions. 

Watched the shock register on their faces when they saw Gojo there. 

He didn’t know what to say when they finally approached, the thick silence and tension simmering in the air as he stared at Apollo. 

Strands of silver in his white hair, blue eyes burning with emotions he didn’t blame him for. Resentment. Reproach. 

“You’re-” 

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he heard himself say, voice cracking painfully. 

“Yeah,” his son huffed, arms folding across his broad chest. “Us too.”

“Apollo,” the older man next to him scolded, giving him a fatherly look that seemed so natural on his face before throwing Gojo a look that was almost like ‘kids, right?’ “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Choso.” 

And despite the fact he had to be in his seventies now, Gojo still sort of wanted to hit him.

Rip the golden band off his finger and start a fight over the fact he’d gotten to spend decades with the love of his life. 

“Was she happy?” He asked instead, hollowed out, no strength left in him to stand. 

“She was,” Artemis softly confirmed, patting his shoulder like he was a child. And he wondered if she had kids too, or if even his son’s children were older than him now. 

“She missed you,” Choso added, more mature than Gojo suspected he would ever be.

Because right now, he was filled with hate.

Anger and rage boiling and burning under the surface at the injustice of all of it. At everything he missed. Everything that should’ve been his that ended up in the hands of someone else because he was too stupid to hold onto you tight enough.

He hated Choso. Hated space. Hated the universe. 

Mostly though, he hated himself.

“We should go get some food,” Artemis artfully pivoted away, trying to tug him upright. “You’re probably starving, right?”

Gojo thought he nodded, not that he was totally in tune with his body, dazed as he tried to sort through the thousand thoughts flooding through his mind.

Numbness creeping in now that he knew it had all been for nothing.

“Before I forget,” she murmured, taking off a necklace he hadn’t noticed her wearing. The thin silver chain weighed down by two rings dangling at the end. The engagement ring he once gave you – and a plain band of white-gold. “Mom always wore it. She told me she bought the band for you before you were supposed to come back and could never bring herself to put either of them away.” 

She dropped it in his palm, his pulse pounding in his ears at the proof you never fully gave up on him. One last thread of you in his hands as he automatically unlocked the clasp and put it on himself, the weight of it sitting over his chest and tethering him back to reality.

To the two children he made with you standing in front of him now he was still lucky enough to meet. 

Artemis interlocked her arm with her brother, laughing at something he said before immediately beginning to bicker about where to eat at, who to call next.

Giggling about their sister, his throat closing at the confirmation you had another baby after him. That you lived a full life he’d only get to see second-hand. Through photos and stories instead of in person. 

Apollo grumbled something under his breath, throwing a glare back at Gojo, still protective over you after you passed. Artemis just elbowed her brother though, tossing the hair back over her other shoulder that reminded him of you.

And some depressing part of him wondered if that’s what you and him would’ve looked like together one day if he stayed. 

He would never get to know. 

His eyes drifted back to your grave. And then the one next to it. 

His name etched next to yours. A plot you must have purchased for him back when you thought you’d never get his body back. 

A loving fiancé and father. 

Gojo was grateful he would at least get to be buried next to you one day. 

You spent your life missing and mourning him.

He supposed it was just his turn. 

You couldn’t look at him, not at first. You couldn’t see anything but the shine of his patient leather shoes, so polished and pristine you could almost see your reflection in them. He was framed in the door of your windowless room by a sharp square of artificial light, burning your weak eyes. You rarely saw the sun, and light always made them hurt.

You could see the shoes of your aunt (heels, a nice three inches, bright red, meant for company) and uncle (loafers, black, simple and stately, meant to impress) just a few inches away from that man. Because you were always looking down, it was a habit to judge the moods and desires of your family by the shoes they wore, and it let you know what sort of company was around.

“I’m sorry, is it hard to see?” His voice was still that low, smooth timber, the same sort of voice one would use with a startled animal.

You only had a few seconds before he nudged your chin up with two fingers, slipping his own sunglasses onto your face. You blinked, the world tinted in a pleasant brown, looking right into the eyes of the man who had stepped into your room. 

His eyes were beautiful, the most beautiful eyes you had ever seen. A swirl of luxurious purple and blue, a bright pop of color that you had been starved of all your life. And you felt starved, mouth dry, as you stared into his eyes. These weren’t the sort of beautiful eyes someone like you was meant to behold.

“There,” the man said. He was smiling at you. “Is that better?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice a hoarse, desiccated husk next to this man’s indulgent tones. You cleared your throat, but it hardly helped. You weren’t used to speaking with anyone for long.

“I’m Aventurine, and I’m investing in you, all right?” he said. His fingers were still on your chin, preventing you from looking anywhere but up into his gorgeous eyes. They were gorgeous and also cold, appraising you from every angle, like a jeweler and the uncut gem he’d found. “Consider these glasses a little present. Something you’ll pay me back in the future for.”

“Sir,” your uncle began, somewhere over Aventurine’s shoulder, but Aventurine shushed him, shaking his head.

“Okay,” you whispered, putting as much emphasis into your brittle voice as you were capable of. You had no attachment to your life, no interest in either staying or escaping, but you wanted to follow this man, trap or not. You couldn’t look away from him. “You won’t regret it.”

“Really? I’m looking forward to it,” Aventurine said.

When he held out his free hand to you, you took it. You had little choice either way, you suspected, but it was kind of him to offer the illusion that what you wanted mattered.

—

Your family liked to say that they were born to follow HooH, to serve as THEIR vessel and spread their message until the universe crumbled into dust. They had done so for as long as history had been recorded, and would do so long after.

Since the beginning of the galaxy, when no other god answered their call, they turned to the Equilibrium for comfort and answers in the cold, uncaring cosmos. They established traditions in the name of worship that they carried out for century after century, following HooH with unflinching, unwavering faith. THEIR name was said with reverence and more affection than yours had ever been called. Everything your family did was to maintain Equilibrium, to dedicate themselves to its pursuit.

HooH, in all THEIR glory, had blessed your family. Cursed, you would have said instead. But maybe gods didn’t care about what humans called their actions, and they were all born out of the same indifferent whim. 

In every generation of your family, a pair of twins would be born. One would bring about great prosperity, a blessing in every sense of the word. Fecund soil produced bounty after bounty, rivers never ran dry, and the world was flush with feast and fortune, opportunities knocking on every door. In simpler cases, anyone around them would be blessed with luck, even for the most minor gambles.

The other twin was cursed, a receptacle for pure, unadulterated disaster. Deaths followed in their wake. Lost fortunes, unfulfilled love, unimaginable catastrophes. Tragedies, on scales both global and local. They were the cause of wars, in the worst cases. Minor inconveniences in the better ones, bug infestations and a string of bad luck that made people shun them.

The twins were kept apart from each other, another one of the traditions your family upheld. The blessed twin was honored like a god in their own right, paraded during festivals and ceremonies. The opportunistic and wealthy traveled far and wide just for the chance to kneel at their feet, to partake in some of the blessing HooH imparted.

The cursed one was kept locked up, much like all the ills of the world must be contained. You’ve never met your blessed twin, the luckier of you two, but you’ve always envied them whenever your thoughts did turn to your other half. 

Your destiny was to stay in your small room, trapped in the same place, day after day. But your family wasn’t unnecessarily cruel. Your room was comfortably furnished, and you never wanted for anything that you requested. Food arrived on trays, contained in plain packages. Electronics stuffed full of movies and a glimpse into the outside world, which always broke after a few months, and could never be fixed again, no matter how you tried. 

In some ways, you understood. No one willingly chased bad luck.

If you were lucky, you might, on occasion, be let out for a particular purpose, dressed in black robes and hooded. Conversations died when you were around, people shuffling away as fast as they could. In much the same way people paid for the blessing of your twin, others paid for your curses.

You were sent out like an executioner for political enemies, jealous lovers, grievances both minor and small. It didn’t matter what, as long as they had the money for it. You didn’t know how your bad luck worked, just that it did. Sometimes it had taken days before anything bad happened. Sometimes, only hours. Sometimes, it happened due to your touch, or gaze, or even just close proximity. But eventually, they would fall prey to the worst fate, their destinies twisted by your hand.

No one who stayed with you had ever been happy. The one servant who tried to befriend you, taking pitying on your condition, fell ill and passed away. Your father insisted on you living a normal life and died not long after, murdered on the street. Your mother never visited and you were not to even think of your twin, and so your uncle and aunt had undertaken your care instead. 

You would only leave that room upon your death, and then the next pair of twins would be born, one of them taking your place.

That was what you understood your fate to be until Aventurine showed up. After escorting you from your room, he shuffled you into a luxurious car as sleek and smooth as silk, smiling as you sat ramrod straight, unable to lean back into the plush interior. It was too comfortable, and you didn’t like that.

He was closer than he necessarily needed to be in the car, but only just so. No parts of your body touched.

“Your family was in debt,” he explained. “They took out enormous amounts of money, did you know that? And one of the corporations they borrowed from was the IPC. I was sent to collect their debt, and they had a few choices to mitigate the damage. You were simply collateral damage from a deal they struck, an asset they traded away, and you’re going to make the money back for them.”

You stared out the window, a bevy of greenery and life you’d only seen in pictures until now blurring around you. There were people out there, smiling families, playful children. Animals, too. Dogs with their tongues lolling and cats with tails wrapped around their paws. You pressed your hand to the cold glass, watching as it all receded pass, the world you’ve never been a part of.

“I’ll bring you bad luck,” you said simply. If he was trying to scare you, then it wouldn’t work; fear meant you had something to lose, something that you valued. But you had nothing. Like he said, you were simply an asset, and a change in ownership didn’t change that.

“That’s what I’m hoping for.” You glimpsed Aventurine’s smile in the window, his ghost wavering in the reflection. When you closed your eyes, the mirage of his smile still shimmered in your mind. His smile was perfectly pleasant, but it still felt wrong to you somehow, twisted and a little shallow.

Nothing good could flourish with you, and fortune died in your hands. Only time would tell what sort of curse Aventurine really was.

—

You were shuffled into the Strategic Investment Department as Aventurine’s assistant as soon as you signed your signature on a bunch of forms, eyes skimming over the terms and conditions. It was all a formality, anyways; it wasn’t as if you actually had a choice in what happened to you.

It wasn’t unheard of for people to join the IPC like this, coerced by debt, misfortune, or agents knocking on their door. Your story wasn’t unique, but your position, perhaps, was. Instead of starting at the lowest levels, Aventurine kept you close to his side, gave you a plain, black uniform, a room of your own, and a few other toiletries that you lacked. But these weren’t kindnesses; these were things you were sure he would make you pay him back for, one way or another.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” he said, knocking lightly on your door. 

You never kept your door open or unlocked, not if you could help it. But it was hardly as if you could turn your boss away, so you reluctantly let Aventurine in.

It had only been a few days since you had been traded away from your old life, and your room was as bare and spartan as it had been since you came here, your bed corners tucked neatly in. But it wasn’t as if there was anything you wanted to buy, even if you had any credits for the company store.

In fact, you spent most of your time sitting in your room, staring out the window, waiting for Aventurine to call on you or to give you something to do. Were you allowed to roam the halls of whatever IPC company housing you’d been assigned? Even if you were, there was nowhere for you to go, and the risk you’d run into another person.

“It’s not a promotion if I didn’t earn it,” you said. You still wore the sunglasses he gave you because the bright fluorescent lighting of the IPC burned your eyes.

“Well, you could consider yourself lucky enough to skip having to work your way up the ranks,” he said brightly. “And to earn a position right by my side, too.”

“Did you need anything from me, sir?” you said instead. 

“I wanted to give you a welcoming gift,” he said. Aventurine unveiled a gift from behind his back, a glitzy box wrapped in emerald paper and garnished with a pale silk bow.

He handed it to you, and you methodically tore through it. Inside, there was a bracelet made of green stones, interspersed with concentric circles, rings of light and dark green. It was simple but luxurious, and you rolled each cool bead under your fingers.

“It’s nice,” you said. What did he want from you: subservience, gratitude, obedience? You could play any role, if only he would give you something to go off of.

“It’s malachite,” he said. “Stones that symbolize transformation. People say they provide protection by absorbing negative energy, but it can absorb positive energy, too. So it really depends on what you put into it.”

“That’s fascinating, sir.”

“Please, call me Aventurine. There’s no need for that. We’re friends, you know. You don’t need to be so polite.” He smiled at you.

“All right, Aventurine,” you said. It felt wrong to call him by his first name when he was your boss, but if he wanted you to do that, who were you to refuse?

“And I have another gift for you, too, if you want to accept it.” You hold out your hand, but Aventurine shakes his head. “No, no. It’s not a physical one. It’s a name.”

“A name?”

“Yes. I was given one, you know, when I joined the Stonehearts. I was thinking it was only fitting to celebrate your new beginning.”

“I’m not a Stoneheart. I don’t know if that’s appropriate for me to try to act like I’m one of them.”

“But you’re not. It’s simply one of my gifts to my new assistant,” he said. 

“What name do you have in mind, Aventurine?”

“Malachite,” he said.

You clenched the bracelet tighter in your hands, stones digging into your palm. “Malachite,” you repeated.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. It’s lovely,” you said. As if you really had a choice. But what did it matter what he called you? You had no sentimental attachment to your name. Whatever he wanted to call you, whatever he wanted to do, however he wanted to use you: none of it mattered.

“Then I’ll see you in the morning, Malachite. You’ll start your duties tomorrow. I’ll come get you, hm? I don’t think you’re too familiar with the building layout yet.”

“I could learn it.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Let me show you around. I’ll see you then.” With a wave of his hand, Aventurine pushed himself off your doorframe and disappeared.

As promised, he did arrive to fetch you in the morning, but even as he walked you through the geometric design of the building, introduced you to the members of his team and your various administrative duties, which included scheduling, event planning. and arranging transportation, you still weren’t sure why he chose you for such a role.

You had no head for numbers, and could barely keep up with the mental games the IPC favored and played amongst themselves. You knew how to keep quiet, read others and their moods, and when to keep your head down, but those were hardly unique qualities in an IPC employee. You weren’t ambitious or cutthroat, either.

There was also the matter of your curse. Aventurine never made mention of it, but you were an asset that had been traded away. There was only one reason he’d ever bother to take you on, only one reason that made sense. But there was no mention of sending you out into the field, of tormenting reluctant debtors or bringing his enemies crashing down. What did he want from you? The question lingered in your mind, a constant pressure like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. 

He didn’t say anything during the first day. Not the day after. And on the third day of juggling documents and picking up coffee for Aventurine, you finally broke your silence.

“It might be better if you had a different assistant,” you said, sleeve riding up as you handed him another sheaf of papers. “I’m not sure why you put me in this position, but I think you should know that it’s not going to work.”

“You wore it,” he said. He was glancing at the bracelet that you usually kept hidden under the sleeve of your uniform. 

“Yes, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about,” you said. “I don’t think I’m suited for this role, Aventurine.”

“Why not? You’re doing perfectly well, working through the debt your family owes.”

“I can pay the debt off in other ways.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Oh? Is that so?” 

“Not like that,” you snapped, cheeks warming at the insinuation. “You know what I mean. I’m bad luck. Things are going to go wrong if you spend enough time with me. Deals will fall through. You’ll lose your position and wealth. Gambles won’t pan off. Deaths, at worst.”

“Bad luck isn’t something I worry about. In fact, I’d welcome it,” Aventurine said. “It’d be interesting to see whose blessing is stronger, don’t you think? Your bad luck or my good luck.”

“What?” Reacting was what he must have wanted, but you still couldn’t stop yourself from flinching, eyebrows knitting together, confusion apparent in your face and voice.

“I’m like your twin,” Aventurine clarified. “Maybe your luck will win out over mine. Or mine over yours. Or maybe nothing will happen, and we’ll live perfectly normal lives. It’d be a balance, don’t you think? A form of equilibrium.”

Your breathing was shallow, and you tried to school your face back into its neutral expression, digging your fingers into your palm hard enough to leave a mark. It made sense that in the vast universe, there would be others like you and your twin, but you had never expected to meet anyone like that. “That’s not possible. You’re taking a risk. I’m dangerous, and you’re going to get hurt.”

“A good gamble isn’t worth anything if I don’t put something on the line. Who knows? Maybe my good luck brought you to me.”

“But what if my bad luck brought you to me?”

Aventurine laughed, a charming, mellow sound. “Then we’ll only know at the end of our partnership who was right. I’m looking forward to seeing where the chips will fall.”

—

Over the weeks, you established your own routine. You regularly reported to Aventurine, and studied in your free time, cramming your head with financial planning and organizational software. You were cordial with your coworkers but avoided them as much as you could, so Aventurine was the only person you truly talked to. You were his assistant, after all, which put you in close proximity to him often.

He was nice to you, and someone else might have been content with that. But you were always waiting for the twist, the moment when things soured, a glimpse into why he was so eager to keep you by his side. He gave you gifts, he looked after you, but he never got any closer than necessary, even if he toed the boundaries of professionalism. You were like a pet project, perhaps. Or some experiment he was awaiting the results for. There was a line he drew between the two of you, and you knew better than to cross it.

Despite your best efforts, inevitably things started to go wrong. Coworkers who chatted with you for a little too long suffered injuries, poor deals, an increase to their debt to the IPC. Machines broke when you were around, coffee machines sputtering death keels and spouting hot water into the air, laptops frying, even spaceships experiencing technical problems that left mechanics scratching their heads. Former business associates turned cold and unfavorable, and Aventurine’s department suffered in its performance.

You could only be thankful that things weren’t worse. These things were minor, containable.

The rumors started after that, and in Aventurine’s small department, it wasn’t hard for news to spread. He kept so few people around him, and had the smallest cohort of all the other Stonehearts. And even if you weren’t forthcoming about the details of your acquisition, any employee of the IPC worth their salt knew how to ferret out hidden information.

You were cursed, bad luck, a source of misfortune. People started to avoid you, and you were grateful. You had known from the start you weren’t meant for the life that other people had, not love, not connection, not even mundane happiness. 

The only person who never seemed affected, though, was Aventurine. In fact, if he joined a deal that your presence soured, he always managed to turn it around. Machines that went on the fritz purred smoothly to life in his presence. Old business partners were swayed into renewing contracts with the IPC again. Everything that went wrong around you went right with him.

And you? You were braced for the worst to happen still.

—

A few months after you joined the IPC, Aventurine requested your presence for a business deal outside of company headquarters. During your conversation, he lounged in his chair, the ankle of one leg casually crossed over his other knee. He was the picture of easy grace and casual power, your boss with his glittering jewelry and his beautiful eyes that served as a spotlight, placing you in the center of a stage with nowhere to hide.

“You won’t have to do much,” he says. “Just stay by my side, help handle some of my reports. You’re my assistant. It’s good for you to see how deals are run. You might have to manage some of your own in the future.”  

You stood in front of him, arms crossed behind your back, fingers clasped together to keep them from trembling. “Aventurine, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Your bad luck again? Don’t worry about that. With me around, nothing will happen.”

“It’s not just that. You have people in this department who would suit the task better than me. I’m still learning the fundamentals of business. I’m not ready for negotiations yet. I’m not even that good with numbers. I wouldn’t be much of an asset.”

“It’ll help with your family’s debt too, you know. The more work, the more you pay it off.”

You shook your head. “My family will be fine. They’ve faced worse, and they’ve always come out the other side.”

“You have such faith in them.”

“It’s not faith. It’s the truth. Everything will always come to a balance in the end. Both misfortunes and fortune never last for them.”

“Can’t you think of it this way? You’re my lovely assistant, and I want you to be by my side. It’ll calm my nerves,” he said. “And you owe me that much, don’t you, Malachite?”

You twisted the bracelet around and around your wrist. You never took it off, even though it felt like a collar, a reminder of your infinite debt to Aventurine and the IPC, a debt which accumulated more and more interest everyday. “...All right,” you said, finally.

If only he would let you work off the debt in the way you thought you would., your bad luck honed as a tool against others. Or perhaps you could have been stuck doing grunt work, sent to the outer reaches of the galaxy to manage small planets and tedious projects with little risk or value. Instead, he kept you close and gave you preferential treatment that you didn’t deserve.

The deal was to take place in a neutral meeting ground, a small waystation that hovered as a transit point for interstellar travelers on their ways to several different planets. It was perfect for a discreet meeting, with people always coming and going. There was an inn, a bathhouse, a general store,  and several small restaurants scattered around.

These were all things you researched and relayed to Aventurine, though it wouldn’t surprise you if he knew the facts already. Still, it made you less nervous as you fed him the information in a low voice on the flight over.

“The client is the leader of a small band of wanderers, who took out a loan from the IPC with 8.2% interest, and has yet to pay it back. The debt has accumulated for nine years now, so it’s now valued at 1,532,145.86 credits…” 

“And what did you find out about the client?”

You shifted through the papers in your lap, briefcase resting at your feet. Aventurine was right next to you, but he was idly flicking a pair of dice through his fingers, but you didn’t believe for a second that he was actually distracted. “Her followers call her Cassandra, and they believe she has unique prophetic abilities, capable of telling the future. I couldn’t confirm if those were true or not, but her followers certainly believe so. And they’ve been evading the IPC for years, so I wonder if it’s true.”

“Well, stranger things have happened, haven’t they, Malachite? But if she could tell the future, then she should have foreseen that ripping off the IPC wasn’t going to end well for her.” He flicked a glance at you. “Ah, but we’re here to ensure it goes off without a hitch, aren’t we? Whatever happens today, don’t disappoint me. I’m counting on you to play your part well.”

The ship juddered to a halt, and without waiting for you, Aventurine leapt out the door, dusting off his clothes with a certain imperious air that you weren’t used to. Now, he wasn’t Aventurine, the man who saved you, but Aventurine, one of the Ten Stonehearts, someone who clawed his way up the corporate ladder and whose very presence demanded respect.

“Don’t wait for me,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll stretch my legs before I head to the meeting point, so make sure you check in for us and meet me there, hm?”

“Aventurine—”

And then he was gone. Aventurine had been capricious before, but he’d never been cruel. And you couldn’t read this as anything other than a little malicious. But who were you to question him? You could do nothing more than pack your papers, pick up your briefcase, and check in at the front desk of the inn, glumly getting your keys and the other logistics in order.

It took a bit of time to drag all your bags through the front door and into your room on the second floor, two beds and tidy but worn furniture greeting you. Aventurine’s luggage was a designer brand without much wear compared to your plain, cheap work-issued bags, but even having something of your own, as disposable as it was, was better than how you were living before. 

It was several minutes later, lost in your musings, when you paused. Your surroundings were unfamiliar, and you had just been letting your feet guide you across the nubby carpet. But where were you? And where was the meeting hall? You had never been the best with directions or open spaces, not when you had been cocooned in a room so small it only took a few paces to reach the other side.

Aventurine had made so many allowances for you already, but not even he could be happy if you were late to a business deal, especially considering how he left you earlier. It would make the IPC look sloppy.

Before panic could fully set in, a gentle hand settled on your shoulder, and a clear, melodious voice chimed, “Oh, my. Are you lost?”

You whirled around, startled, and the woman behind you held up her hands. Vibrant red curls fell around her shoulders like a plume of lava, and she was dressed in a simple pantsuit, with a sleek obsidian sheen.

“No, I’m just… looking for the conference room,” you said, straightening. There was no point in revealing any hint of insecurity or weakness to a stranger.

“I see. I’m also looking for the conference room,” she said, smiling. “I suppose we’re here for the same reason?” 

You tried to keep your face set in a neutral, passive expression. This was just getting worse and worse. “Perhaps so. I’m here on behalf of the IPC for private business.”

“Ah, how funny. I’m here to meet the IPC for private business. You might have heard of me? I’m Cassandra.” 

The woman was watching your reaction, head tilted, smile enigmatic as a prophet’s should have been. “I’m familiar with the name,” you said.

“Why don’t we head to the conference room together? Since we’re here for the same reason.”

Cassandra didn’t give you a single moment to relax before she strided away, as if expecting you’d follow. And what choice did you have? You took off after her, always staying just a step behind. 

“You look awfully young to be a Stoneheart. I’m guessing you’re an assistant?”

“I’m just here for support, ma’am. And I’d rather not say too much before negotiations begin,” you said.

“And clever, too. It’s rude of your boss to leave such a cute employee by their lonesome. But I’ve heard the IPC is tough on their employees, regardless of how skilled they are. It’s a shame how little people are allowed to flourish.”

It was a clear provocation, but for what end? You simply kept your mouth shut and Cassandra didn’t say anything after that. After traversing a flight of stairs and turning down another corner, you reached the room.

The conference room itself was a room the inn rented out for various purposes, and it was nothing more than a few lowset lamps with discolored glass shades and cracked leather couches, a rich, matted purple rug underfoot. This was a room far less luxurious than Aventurine could have chosen for a business deal, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was on purpose to take it in such a shoddy room.

Aventurine was already lounging on the couch, an open bottle of wine in front of him. The stem of a wine glass was caught between two fingers of his fingers, and he tilted it at the two of you.

“Ah, there you two are. I was worried neither of you would show up.”

“Please, Aventurine,” Cassandra said, smiling. “I would never miss a meeting with a Stoneheart such as yourself, not after the charming little messages you’ve been leaving. It’s my pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Aventurine said.

He beckoned with a finger, and you meekly took your place next to his side, Cassandra’s eyes following you all the while. 

There was no need to join the conversation between the two, and so you kept your eyes to the ground and your ears open. All the two did was exchange pleasantries, veiled threats behind sweet words, dancing around what they were really after. Subterfuge after subterfuge: didn’t the two of them get tired of it? Aventurine made no move to include you in the negotiations, and you couldn’t help but wonder what your place here really was. 

There was only a brief respite when a knock sounded on the door, an inn employee poking their head in to say, “Aventurine, sir? There’s a message for you. I hate to interrupt, but it’s urgent.”

Aventurine rose from the couch. “It’s a shame, but I have to respond to this. I’ll be back. Play nice while I’m gone, hm?”

You tried to catch his eyes, your shaking hands clenched tight in your lap, but he didn’t look at you once before he left. 

It was just you and Cassandra now. At some point, she had poured herself a glass of wine, which she sipped until there was nothing but a bloody smear at the bottom. When she picked up the bottle to refill her glass, she tilted it at you in question, but you shook your head vehemently.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“What?” you said, your voice squeaking.

“That was quite cruel of your boss to leave you alone with me.”

“I wouldn’t question his decision like that. He has his reasons.”

“He’s testing you. Does he do it often?”

Her questions were blunt, pointed. More direct than she had been with Aventurine, and you didn’t how you felt. Were you not worth the effort? Or was there something she was trying to needle out of you? She kept such a good poker face you couldn’t tell at all.

“I’m an asset for the IPC,” you said at last. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You could be more than an asset, dear,” Cassandra said. “I think it’s cruel to treat someone so cute so poorly. And unfortunately, I have a fondness for strays.”

“Ma’am—”

“I’m proposing a deal with you,” she said, tilting the glass in your direction, the wine a hypnotic swirl. “He left the room on purpose, you know?”

“This isn’t appropriate.”

“Neither is leaving a rookie alone in the middle of a private deal,” she countered. “But why don’t you think about it? The IPC is going to chew you up and spit you out. Your boss in particular is notorious for his risky dealings, the little gambles he likes to play. And he’s such a perfect lapdog, too, obedient to a fault to the IPC. And it seems like he’s trying to turn you into the same thing. I could offer you a way out, if you chose it. I won’t treat you like a pawn; this is a deal between equals. I’ll help you, and you’ll help me.”

Aventurine saved you, but only to shuffle you from a worse situation to a bad one. Everything you had—from the clothes you wore to the room waiting for you back at company housing—was borrowed. He could take it away from you as easily as he gave it, shove you back to your family as soon as he deemed you useless.

He’d be treating you particularly poorly today, too. For what reasons, you couldn’t fathom, but it had never been your place to question his decisions. 

But why should you be so arrogant as to think you deserved to know what he was thinking? You were nothing more than a tool, an investment and acquisition, so it only made sense for him to treat you as such. Cruelty and indifference was familiar. Kindness was unknown, something that could be taken away at any time. 

At least with Aventurine, you knew where you stood, and he made no illusions about the nature of your relationship. Each transaction was a comfort, and let you know where, exactly, you stood. If that was twisted, then the two of you were twisted together, the rotten roots of a decaying tree.

“It’s kind of you to offer, but I have to refuse,” you said. “I can’t betray Aventurine. I hope you can understand. I still haven’t paid off my debt to him.”

“That’s a shame,” Cassandra said slowly. “I was hoping you’d say yes, and make it easier for all of us involved. But you see, I have no interest in being hounded by the IPC again.”

Two things happened after that, almost simultaneously: flames roared to life around Cassandra, sweat trickling down your face as the room blazed like a sudden inferno, fire trapping you on the couch, and second, a shot ran out, clear as a bell, striking the wall next to Cassandra’s head, flying so close to your face you could feel the heat of it brush by your head, the door kicked open with a sudden force.

“Are you bothering my assistant?” Aventurine said pleasantly, gun cocked in his hand, aimed right at Cassandra’s face, heedless of the flames flickering around him. “I thought I told you to play nice.”

“Well, they were so cute. I couldn’t resist,” Cassandra said. “Were you listening to our conversation? That wasn’t very gentlemanly of you.”

“Ah, what can I say? I was just taking a gamble that seemed to have paid off,” he said, pleasantly. 

“It seems we’re at an impasse, then.” Without taking her eyes off of Aventurine, she spoke to you. “And it seems you, dear, don’t realize what being involved with this man entails for you.”

“Malachite, you should leave now,” Aventurine said. “You’ve already done a great job. I need to discuss things with Ms. Cassandra in private, so if you would be so kind…”

You shook your head, sweat trickling down your spine. “No. I’ll stay.” 

He sighed, and you couldn’t tell if the sound was more regretful or pleased. “All right. If you insist.”

“Oh, Aventurine,” Cassandra said. “And you, Malachite. There’s nothing but tragedy awaiting you two in the future. I can’t see any way this relationship will end happily.”

You didn’t close your eyes, not even as Aventurine’s gun went off one last time and the flames vanished, Cassandra’s body slumping to the floor, a spray of brilliant blood on the wall.

Hands covered your eyes, the soft brush of velvet gloves enveloping your eyelids. Aventurine’s breath was soft and low in your ear. “Don’t look at it for too long,” he murmured. “But you did an excellent job. You’re truly the best assistant I could have asked for.”

“Was this a test, Aventurine?” you said.

He paused, fingers still restraining your vision, a cocoon of luxurious black that felt stiflingly warm. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then it doesn’t. Don’t think about it, Malachite. You played your part well, so you don’t need to worry about anything else.”

Aventurine arranged his post-clean up affairs, IPC workers on standby who swiftly came into the room while Aventurine bribed the innkeeper, flashing a thick stack of credits in his hands. You sat on the edge of your bed in your room, Cassandra’s words ringing in your ears. When you closed your eyes, you could still see the arc of bright blood sinking into the wallpaper, her life extinguished in an instant.

Whose luck was that? Yours, or his?

It haunted you long after her body was disposed of and her group of vagabonds were scattered. Aventurine received glowing praise and commendations. The IPC had collected its debt. A happy ending, for everyone involved.

—

Something in your relationship with Aventurine changed after that fateful business meeting. If it was a test of your loyalty, then you passed with flying colors, because you were greeted with a circus of presents outside your door a week later: a riot of jewelry, brand clothing from labels that even you had heard of, decadent pastries from bakeries with a minimum two hour queue to enter. 

Even Aventurine himself was a touch kinder than you were used to, as if he’d relaxed around your presence. Perhaps he was trying to soothe you after what happened with Cassandra, or he was trying to make up for the slight cruelties from the trip. Or he’d donned a new mask, meant to keep you unsettled and your guard lowered. He praised you for your work ethic, teased you as if you were close friends, and always, always brought you along for his future business deals. 

“My good luck charm,” he said, and you would twist the bracelet on your wrist so tightly it burned your skin.

It was stifling, but it wasn’t as if you hated him. That was the worst part, that there was only one time of the day that you truly enjoyed with Aventurine. Before each workday started, he requested you go into the office early so the two of you could go over the day’s agenda. Steaming mugs of coffee were placed between you, and you would have a moment of quiet before the workrush really began. 

Sometimes, he would say nothing at all. Other times, you would engage in idle chatter. The silence was the most genuine piece of Aventurine you would get. You could flick a glance at him and see all his ease melted into something quiet and serious, a frown marring his face as he thumbed through reports. He looked exhausted, ordinary, and entirely within your reach.

You accepted all his gifts and flattery otherwise, because there was no reason not to. You still wore his sunglasses and his bracelet. Debt piled on debt, his keen eyes watching you with a fervor that felt feverish and strange. What was he thinking?

The one time you refused his gifts, you were overwhelmed by the constant barrage, lacking room to place everything. Aventurine was outside your door with another white gift bag dangling from his fingertips, a souvenir from whatever planet he just visited, when you told him you didn’t want it. Aventurine’s smile dropped, like a curtain sweeping across his face, cutting off a stage spotlight from the audience.

He chucked the sunglasses on your nose, and you tried not to flinch at his touch. “You don’t want this?”

“I’m okay,” you said meekly. “This is enough, Aventurine. I already have so much from you.”

“Is that so? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was overwhelming you. You don’t have to accept this, then.” His gloved hands, velvet and soft as lamb’s skin, cupped your face. “But isn’t there anything else I can do for you? You’ve been such an excellent assistant, and I would hate to see that go unrewarded.”

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “I’m only doing the bare minimum of what’s required of me.”

A thumb stroked slow circles on your cheek, and you tried not to shiver. Aventurine tilted his face closer towards you, his breath a warm puff against your own lips. “Really? You’re okay? There’s nothing else you want from me?”

Your glance was skittish, eyes darting all over before you finally had the courage to rest on his own eyes. His beautiful purple eyes, the first burst of color you had seen in your life, were glassy and unfocused. Sweat beaded along the angle of his cheek, dampening his neck. He wasn’t focused on you, but on something beyond you, some space and time you couldn’t access, that he would never let you in to.

You jerked away from Aventurine, shoving backwards with so much force you almost stumbled. “I’m fine. I really am, Aventurine! This is enough. Thank you, truly.”

Aventurine swiped a thumb along his bottom lip. “No, I’m sorry, Malachite. I pushed you too far. This isn’t what you wanted out of our relationship, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He vanished before you could say another word. The only thing you could do in that moment was wrap your arms around yourself. You were never destined for relationships with others, so could you know what you wanted, what was right or not? Everything tangled within you, and you didn’t know which end was what.

This was more than you deserved, more than you ever thought you were going to get. How could you ever ask him for anything more? Would Aventurine use this as an excuse to leave you behind, or would he hold it against you, another debt? Aventurine would carve bloody hunks of flesh from his ribs to feed you, and you would have to smile and bear it, knowing he would shove the bill on you later.

For a few days after that, Aventurine was distant. You didn’t hold your early morning meetings. He didn’t contact you beyond the bare minimum and left on distant planet excursions. Just as you wondered if you had hurt him in some way, he came back with smiles and more gifts, as if your previous interaction had only been a bad dream.

“I’m back, Malachite. Missed me much?” he said. And you loathed to admit it, but you did.

There were also rumors about Aventurine, same as there were about you. Rumors about how he came into the IPC, about what he had done in the past, about the tattoo on his neck. But you tuned those out, walked out the room when he was brought up, changed the subject as soon as you could. Whatever Aventurine’s past was didn’t concern you.

He was a Stoneheart, above your reach and your purview. You’d interacted with his coworkers very little, less than a handful of times. Your most frequent contact was usually Topaz, who asked you about Aventurine’s schedule or location, pestering you to reach him when he wouldn’t respond to her calls. 

Once, it was Jade.

“Oh, you’re Aventurine’s little assistant.”

She was beautiful, but beautiful in the way poison could reflect brilliant colors before it was slipped into a wine glass, or the hypnotic gaze of a snake before its jaws shut around you.

“Yes, ma’am.”

A long manicured nail tapped on your desk. A Stoneheart, in person. You could only keep your gaze glued to your papers, your gaze lowered. Out of fear or respect, it didn’t matter. They were both the same thing at the end of the day. “How is he treating you?”

“Very well. I enjoy working with him.”

She still hadn’t moved. “I bet it’s hard to keep up with him. He never makes it easy for his assistants. If you’re ever curious about him, just let me know, hm? I could help you out.”

“For the right price,” you added. “Isn’t that how it works, ma’am?”

“Why, yes. A mutually beneficial transaction for the both of us. It’d give you enough leverage to do something in your relationship, if you wanted. You could be more than a simple assistant. Rise above the ranks. Become a Stoneheart yourself. But to do that, you need information. You’ve never been curious about Aventurine? His name? His past?”

“No. It’s okay, ma’am. I don’t need any of that,” you said firmly. You finally raised your head to meet her eyes, blue and piercing. “It’s not my place. I don’t need to be so close to him, nor do I have any desire to surpass him. Besides, I don’t think I could afford the price of your information.”

Jade only smiled. “I understand. But if you’re ever interested in switching departments, please give me a call. I could use someone as smart as you. I’m well familiar with the process of polishing rough gemstones into something beautiful. But you’re quite loyal to him, aren’t you? I hope that it isn’t misplaced.”

—

Fortune was fickle, a weathervane that flipped in the wind, pointing in whatever direction fate guided it to without rhyme or reason. It was something you understood better than most people, and so little surprised you. 

One morning, you showed up and Aventurine wasn’t there. 

Not a surprise in and of itself, but he never missed work. More than that, he was always on time. And if he was held up, he would let you know. None of your other coworkers knew where he was, simply shrugged and said he would turn up when he did.

It wasn’t your place to keep track of him, and if no one else was worried, you didn’t need to be. But as soon as work hours were over, you rushed to Aventurine’s room.

You knew where it was, of course, but you’d never have a reason to visit before now. You didn’t even know if it was his real room, or just a place he stopped by when he had to manage his in-person affairs at the IPC. He was always on the move, Aventurine, and hard to pin down. 

Everyone received company housing, but the Stonehearts had more luxurious places than the grunt workers, which was to be expected. Still, there was something solid and unassuming about his door. It was lonely, too, set so far apart from everyone and everything else.

“Aventurine?” you called softly, knocking once, the rap of your knuckles echoing down the empty hall. No response.

You knocked again, harder this time, knuckles slamming against unyielding metal to the point of pain.

You didn’t have to be here. No one else was worried about him. If he wanted you to know where he was, he would tell you. You shouldn’t step over any lines. You were always so, so good at that. And Aventurine was capricious, fickle, and pushed and pulled at you with equal force, letting you get just shy of close before backing away again, a chasm filled with glittering presents between the two of you. If you walked away now, no one would know.

You pushed the door open. It was unlocked, and swung open silently at your touch, as if it was waiting for you.

The room was dim. The blinds were drawn, and the lights were off. Your eyes were used to weak lighting, though, and you were comfortable in the darkness. There wasn’t much to make out; a few clothes tossed carelessly on the floor and draped across a chair, a plush rug that your feet sank into. There were no decorations, no sign that anyone lived here or stayed for longer than a few days at a time. It was much like your own room, save that his furnishings were more luxurious, but that somehow made the sparseness that much sadder.

You crept closer, towards the bed in the middle of the room, knees bumping against the frame. Aventurine was twisted within its silk sheets, slick with sweat, eyes closed.

“Aventurine?” you whispered.

He moaned, a low, pained sound, like that of a trapped animal.

You reached out to touch him, but he jerked back as if on instinct. Your hand hovered uselessly in the air before you let it drop. His movement had shifted the sheets, revealing bandages wrapped around his torso, blood seeping through, bright blooms that stood out even in the darkness. 

“What happened, Aventurine?” you asked.

He didn’t respond. It was a mission, of some kind, most likely. Private Stoneheart business, or a deal gone wrong. But what happened didn’t matter so much as the fact that he was hurt. He had no honeyed words or facade left, just a pale, vulnerable body curled up in the dark by himself, trusting no one and nothing to come save him. Was he just planning on laying here until he healed, brushing off his absence with excuses? This was the most honest he had been with you, and it wasn’t even by his own violation.

For the next few hours, you brought him water, fruit, and soup. Cold towels, painkillers, and new bandages. You waited on the edge of the bed until he stopped flinching when you approached, when he cracked open his eyes, feverish and unfocused, to see you. Stray, golden hairs damp with sweat curled around his forehead.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped. 

“I know.”

But now that he saw it was you, he let you coax warm soup into his mouth, catching whatever dribbled down his chin. You wiped away the sweat and pressed cold compresses to his forehead. You gave him painkillers and he shook his head, and so you placed them back on his bedside without a word.

It was thankless work, with supplies heedlessly bought from with your own money, credits that you would toil to earn once again. You passed time in this quiet, warm room with Aventurine, sleeves rolled up to your elbows as you changed his blood soaked bandages, revealing raw skin stitched and bleeding over a bullet wound, the wound low on his abdomen.

It was brutal work, what marred his skin, clearly meant to hurt, but you couldn’t look away. Nor could you stop from noticing that his back bore traces of old scars, silvery, tough flesh. More secrets, more things that you could ask about but would not. 

When his bandages were exchanged for a fresh pair and you had wiped away all the sweat again, Aventurine reached out a weak hand, tapping the bridge of the sunglasses on your face.

“You’re still wearing these.”

“They help my eyes.”

He laughed, a weak, dry sound, wind rustling through dead grass. “You could have bought better ones. What are you after, here? The Stoneheart position? Another promotion? A transfer, even? Jade says she likes her work.”

“No,” you said. “I won’t ask for more than what I have.”

“You can,” he pressed. “Are you afraid your luck will take it away? As long as I’m here, it won’t—”

“Maybe I did this to you,” you interrupted. “Have you considered that? Your luck has run out with me around.”

“So? What if it did?” Aventurine said. He propped himself up on his elbows, purple eyes intense as they bore into you. “That’s what I’ve been hoping for, Malachite. That your curse is stronger than mine.”

You sucked in a breath, then let it out. This was the heart of the matter, the truth of why he let you stay by his side, the answer you’ve been wondering all this time. He was after your curse after all, but not in a way that most people were. “You’d like my curse to affect you, wouldn’t it? That’s cruel of you, Aventurine. Maybe I was wrong, and I was the one cursed with you. You’re my bad luck.”

“Then isn’t that great? The universe’s most lucky and least lucky people are stuck together.”

“I changed my mind,” you said. You weren’t sure what emotions boiled in you. Anger? Happiness? Resentment? It pooled into one cavernous want, dark and bottomless, the same thing you felt when you first saw him. “I do want something from you. Tell me your name, Aventurine.”

“Who’s cruel now?” he murmured. Still, you didn’t pull away as he brought himself closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and fevered. “It’s Kakavasha.”

“Kakavasha,” you said, rolling the name around in your mouth like a pearl. “Kakavasha.”

“Are we even now? Don’t wear the name out, Malachite.”

“Not at all,” you said. “But this does balance the scales slightly.”

“Does it now? Being by my side won’t bring you much benefit, as you can see.”

“Neither does staying by mine, but you should know that I owe you a debt, so I’m stuck with you,” you said. 

“Oh?”

“And that means you’re stuck with me, too.”

Carefully, as if you were still approaching a cornered animal, you reached out a hand to Aventurine, twining your hands together. Your grip was loose, tenuous. His fingertips were cold, but the solid weight of it felt like a burning sun, his sweaty palm pressed against yours. He didn’t pull away, and that was enough.

There was nothing in the world you owned. You were cursed, and you could never have an ordinary life or a happy future. But you would grasp onto the things you wanted so tightly that nothing else could tear them away, no matter how selfish it was, no matter who got hurt. Because that was how people like you and him survived in this world.

“I’m taking a gamble on you,” you whispered. “So don’t disappoint me, Kakavasha.”

You’ve seen it yourself—the anxious buzz that surrounds campus whenever entrance exam season rolls around, the way the local hotels get all that more busy every January. The truth of the matter is that students from all over Miyagi flock to Shiratorizawa just for the chance to attend. 

Shiratorizawa is a prestigious school. It only takes the best of the best. 

All that to say, with the high school being so picky about who gets to wear its colors, you’d like to argue that everyone could be considered a bit of a local celebrity in their own right. After all, you’re always brushing shoulders with rich kids and geniuses and athletes who’ll probably go pro. Even the most boring kid at Shiratorizawa is excellent in some way. 

So, you think, seething silently, it would be really awesome if people could switch it up and stop confessing to the same guy!

“You’re killing your mochi,” Tendou observes, peering over your shoulder.

You blink and look down at your hand where you’ve crushed the snack—sticky, sweet red bean paste stuck between your fingers. “It was always like that.” 

Tendou just digs around in his bag and hands you a wet wipe. “Like the milk bread from last week? Or the onigiri from the week before?”

You shove the remains of the rice cake in your mouth and viciously scrub your hands clean, eyes flicking back up to glare at the two students standing at the other end of the hall. “The cafeteria had it on discount.” 

Tendou follows your gaze to where the last member of your little trio stands, patiently waiting for a blushing girl to hand over the chocolates she’s got behind her back and say her piece. You know her; she’s that cute soccer captain from Class 3-B. You’ve seen her around at tournaments, cheering loudly whenever Ushijima scores, and you rip the wet wipe apart in your hands because you also know exactly what she’s about to say. 

“I like you, Waka-kun! Please go out with me!”

Tendou exaggerates a wince at that and sneaks a glance back at you. Your eye twitches slightly at the nickname but you stay your hand. Your mochi will be the only casualty this afternoon. 

(A pity. He’d been hoping for something more drastic. He’s still got that bet going with Semi and Tendou’s been looking forward to cashing in that win for weeks now.) 

It’s a bit difficult to hear exactly what Ushijima says—between the three of you, he’s always been the quiet one—but that doesn’t stop you from craning your head to listen anyway. If you concentrate, you can just make out that familiar rumble of his voice as he bows his head politely to the poor girl. 

“I am sorry, but I cannot reciprocate your feelings.” 

It’s not like his response is anything new—it’s all part of the same script that he follows each time another confession comes up (“I appreciate your efforts… thank you for your support…” and so on and so forth), but that doesn’t stop the small sigh of relief that escapes you anyway. 

At least the worst part of this whole song and dance is over. All that’s left is for him to excuse himself from the heartbroken captain and make his way back to where the two of you are waiting. Then the three of you will walk back to your dorms together and yeah, it’ll be awkward for a second but Tendou will go and say something stupid and it’ll be shocking enough to distract you from the lingering jealousy that curls in your chest. 

What’s important is that the moment will pass and you’ll be able to put this all behind you. That’s how it’s always been, and so long as Ushijima keeps turning down confessions, how it will always be. In fact, you’re already turning back to Tendou, ready to change the subject in anticipation when he shakes his head and jabs his finger back where Ushijima is still standing at the end of the hall. 

“He’s still talking.”

You whirl around and watch in horror as for the first time ever, Ushijima deviates from that perfectly practiced script and says something new. 

“I cannot reciprocate your feelings because I have someone in mind already.”

For all intents and purposes, Ushijima might as well have just set off a bomb. Faintly, a part of you registers that he and the soccer captain are still talking, but they might as well be speaking a different language for all you care. You’re not listening anymore. All you can hear is the ringing in your ears as you turn those three words over and over again in your head.

‘Someone in mind.’ 

Ushijima has feelings for someone. He’s been turning down confessions, not just because he doesn’t reciprocate, but because his heart’s already taken. By someone else. Someone who isn’t you. 

You’re going to be sick. You might actually throw up. 

“Tendou,” you say slowly. “Does Ushijima have a girlfriend?”

Tendou stares at you for a long time, his sharp sweeping gaze studying you with such focus, you can’t help but suddenly remember that he’s known for his otherworldly intuition, the one that lets him predict a move before you make it. The one that makes him such a monstrous opponent on the court. 

It’s unnerving, seeing it turned on you all of a sudden. You’ve got half the mind to backtrack when he blinks and something clicks, some kind of understanding that dawns on him and leaves a strange sort of giddiness in his eyes when he realizes you’re serious. “Hmm. Dunnoooo. It would explain a lot, though, wouldn’t it? Some kinda secret girlfriend.”

“...I see.”

“...You’re making a really scary face right now,” Tendou says, poking at your side. “See, this is why Semi assigned us jail bail days.”

You shoot him a look, wriggling away from his relentless attack. “What? What the hell does that even mean?”

“Goshiki thinks you’re going to go to jail. He wouldn’t stop crying till Semi set up a schedule to make sure someone’s always gonna bail you out.” Tendou pauses and squints at you. “You weren’t supposed to know that part. Don’t tell him I said that.” 

You wrinkle your nose, briefly distracted by the admittedly hilarious vision of Goshiki wailing at poor Semi during practice, before you shake it off. “I’m not going to jail!”

“Never hurts to be prepared,” he chirps. 

You don’t bother dignifying that with a response, simply huffing when he laughs at you. Whatever. Your efforts are best spent elsewhere anyway, like in turning your attention down the hall to dig for whatever scraps of information you can get. 

You see, the thing that always shocks people the most about your unorthodox friendship is when you tell them that, between the two of you, Ushijima has always been the one to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

Of course, no one ever believes you. They’ll pause and their eyes will flick between the two of you standing side by side—the loud, eccentric manager and the taciturn statue beside her. But it makes perfect sense to you. Ushijima is blunt and never minces his words—it’s why you’ve had to come to his defense more than once on the playground back in primary school. Ushijima believes in saying what you mean and doing what you say. He sees no reason to pretend otherwise. Is it really that unbelievable that he would be this honest about his feelings too? 

Perhaps your insight is because of your proximity to him: having grown up side by side, you know him in the same way you know that the sun will rise and set, and that hayashi rice is delicious. You can see it even now, that imperceptible shift as the tension leaves him, the way his shoulders relax and drop ever so slightly when he looks up and sees that you’re still waiting. 

You’ve known Ushijima Wakatoshi since childhood. You can read him better than anyone else. This very skill that you take such pride in is how you know that, despite your wishful thinking, Ushijima has never suddenly fallen head over heels in love with you the way you have with him. You would’ve noticed the change otherwise. 

So how could you have missed this? This apparent secret girlfriend of his, these feelings that he’s kept to himself all this time. He’s always with you or Tendou—so when did he find the time to fall in love without you? 

Perhaps you just don’t know him as well as you thought. 

Tendou blows a raspberry at the sight of your sulking. “Eh? What’s wrong with you? Not like you to give up so easily.” He pokes at your side again, exaggerating a sigh. “I thought you liked to win?” 

You tense at that. While you might not have known Tendou since childhood like you have with Ushijima, the two of you have been friends long enough for you to realize when he’s up to something. It doesn’t take a genius to see through him, especially when he’s sporting that cheshire grin of his. 

He’s teasing you. Goading you. 

The worst part is that it’s working. Tendou’s right—you know it, and he knows you know it. You do like to win. It’s what makes you such a good manager, and it’s why Coach Washijo keeps you on the team even when your competitive nature has been a subject of debate between the two of you. 

(“When I said look for weaknesses in our opponents, I meant physical ones—volleyball related ones—not that their libero was bullied in middle school!”)

Hah…fine. You can admit that Tendou has a point, even if he’s making it up for his own hidden agenda. You can’t give up this easily, not when you have something worth fighting for, right? So maybe Ushijima has feelings for someone, some kind of secret girlfriend—that’s fine! Everything’s fine! You’ve got a plan.

Clearly, there’s only one reasonable thing left to do. You can’t spend the rest of your life burying your infatuation, hoping you won’t accidentally let it slip out some day. You need to be brave and rip off the bandaid, find out the truth so you can move on. You need to confront your feelings. You’ll do it— you’ll really make a move this time.

As it turns out, it’s much easier to break into Ushijima’s room than it is to confess that you’ve been in love with him for the past year. 

The door unlocks easily with a satisfying click! and you dart in, slamming the door behind you. The hallway was clear the last time you checked, but you don’t want to push your luck. For some reason, you have a feeling that the disciplinary committee won’t take “it’s not breaking-and-entering if I had a key” as a valid defense. 

You slip the spare key back in your blazer, tucking it safely in your pocket as you wander around, peering curiously at every nook and cranny.  

Ushijima’s room is just as neat as you remember it: textbooks organized alphabetically on his bookshelf, a few pictures on his desk, his volleyball tucked in the corner of his bed where it meets the wall. If you’re being honest, it’s always been a little too empty for your tastes: a little too minimalist, a little too boring. Though you suppose that this technically could be considered an improvement from when you were both children. At least there are pictures now. 

You still remember visiting his home for the first time, wide-eyed and eager to finally see what the inside of such a grand estate would look like: something like over a dozen places to hide in hide-and-seek, a bedroom the size of your living room back home, even a swimming pool. With how large the place was, surely there must’ve been a room dedicated to volleyball—no, an entire court in there somewhere!

You also remember being disappointed when you walked in and there was decidedly no secret indoor volleyball court that he’d been hiding. You’d been right about the size of his bedroom, but it just reminded you of one of those sample rooms in those fancy magazines your mom read from time to time. A little too pretty. A little too lonely. 

You’d never said anything about it, chalking the whole thing up as one of his quirks, something from his more traditional upbringing, but you did start bringing stuff over from your room to leave at his. Nothing huge—just some plushies you’d won in crane games, a few toys from gachapons, a couple drawings you’d doodled in class—but you’d sneak them in in a bulging bag and scatter them around his room when he wasn’t looking.

In hindsight, you probably weren’t very inconspicuous, being clumsy and loud and eight, but if Ushijima ever had a problem with you decorating his room, he never said anything. Every time you came back, all your baubles were still there, exactly where you left them. 

Some of them are here in his door room now. Your heart does a funny flip at the sight of those cheap gachapon figures sitting on his bookshelf. It’s been years since you first bought them, and yet none of them show any signs of standard wear and tear. It’s like they’ve been handled gently all their lives.   

You jump as your phone chimes loudly with your reminder that training’s about to start. 

Right. No more reminiscing. You need to focus on what you’re here for: the secret girlfriend. 

Realistically, you’ve only got an hour before someone’s bound to walk in. You’ve timed it perfectly—you know Ushijima’s just finished class and he’s got training next. As the manager, you don’t technically need to be there for that, so your absence shouldn’t be that suspicious. And since Tendou needs to be at training too, there’s no chance you’ll be interrupted by him either. It’s the perfect plan.  

You waste no time digging through the bookshelf, rifling through textbook after textbook, drawer after drawer. Embarrassingly enough, you’re a little uncertain what to look for since you’ve never really had any admirers yourself. For whatever reason, no one’s ever really confessed to you. 

It used to sting when you were younger but you’ve since learned to shrug it off. It’s not like you were an outcast during things like Valentine’s Day. Thoughtful as he is, Ushijima always bought you something. Plus, you’ve read plenty of shoujo manga before. Surely that’s pretty much the same thing.  

To no one's surprise, Ushijima isn’t hiding any love letters in his math textbook. You kick at the ground when your search through his drawers comes up empty too. There’s not that many places left to look. Even though Ushijima lucked out this year and got his own private room, the dorm rooms still aren’t anything luxurious. There’s really only the closet left (which ended up just being a collection of his uniforms—boring) and whatever he keeps in the storage units. 

You eye the tiny space under his desk and sigh. Well, you’re already here. No sense in doing half the job.

You shrug off your white blazer, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on Ushijima’s bed, and wriggle into that cramped spot underneath the desk. It’s tight and distinctly uncomfortable—you swear you can feel something digging into your shoulder and your leg—and you’re briefly granted a moment of clarity as you contemplate if any part of this, this whole adventure, is genuinely insane. 

You’re this close to giving up, to swallowing your pride and pretending like you didn’t just spend half an hour searching for something that apparently—doesn’t exist—until you catch sight of something in your periphery. 

There! Right there, under his desk, there’s an old box neatly tucked away in one of the dorm shelving units. At first glance, it doesn’t look like anything special, just one of those cheap plastic containers from Daiso. You and Tendou have one too—you know Tendou’s using his to keep all his Jump magazines in one place, while yours is home to a collection of your favorite guilty pleasure: romantasy manga. So unfortunately, it’s not the groundbreaking find you were looking for. You’re ready to move on, already squirming to move out of the uncomfortable position you’ve squashed yourself in except—

Except that worthless plastic container—it has Ushijima’s name on it. He’s written it down himself. You’d recognize that handwriting anywhere—you’ve seen it before, scattered around his home. His old volleyball. His first sketchbook. His father’s novels. You know better than anyone that he only does that with the things he treasures most. And if that's the case… what could possibly be in the box? 

It has to be the evidence you were looking for. Something incriminating, like trinkets that belong to his secret girlfriend. There can be no other explanation for why he would need an entire container to store something so special to him. 

You did it. You found what you were looking for. 

So why aren’t you satisfied? 

You heave a great sigh and reluctantly pull your gaze away from the familiar scrawl of Ushijima’s handwriting, crawling back out from under the desk. Should you really even be doing this? Using the spare key that Ushijima trusted you with to rummage through his stuff—is this really the right way to go about things? What would Tendou say?

He’d say to listen for anyone outside the door before you open the box, your brain supplies helpfully. 

You shake your head, absentmindedly swatting at the air as if batting the temptation away. If Tendou of all people would be encouraging you, that should be all the reason you need not to do it then. 

Besides, you know it's not right. You know it’s none of your business who Ushijima dates or who he has feelings for. You’re just his childhood best friend— no more, no less. In fact, what you should really do is just clean up the mess you’ve made before someone notices and pretend like you never even saw the box. 

You swallow and move to stand, to gather the papers you’d scattered all over his table in your frenzy, when your eyes catch the framed photo sitting by his lamp. It’s an old photo; one your mother snapped back from a time when the two of you were still the same height. 

You’d been coming home from your first summer festival together, dressed in your matching yukatas. The two of you had spent the night hand in hand as you eagerly dragged him from stall to stall, chattering away. By the time the festival came to a close, you were dead on your feet, sluggishly letting Ushijima guide you back home. 

You’d felt bad about it at the time, the kind of worry that comes with thinking you’re being a nuisance, the kind of nonsensical, childish guilt that you’d failed him as his (self-proclaimed) senior. You’d wanted to impress him, to show him something as cool as volleyball, but here you were hours later, so tired that you could barely muster another word, let alone figure out how to get home. 

Kids that age are fickle. You know without a doubt that he must’ve been exhausted too, running after you all night. It would’ve been all too easy for him to excuse himself and go home early. You would’ve understood if he did. There was certainly no expectation for him to walk you all the way back home, especially since his house was much closer to the festival than yours. 

But because he’s Ushijima—kind, gentle, dependable Ushijima—the thought of leaving you behind had never even crossed his mind. He’d just taken your hand and matched your snail’s pace, slowly maneuvering you through those crowded, winding streets. And then when you’d nearly tripped over your own two feet, he’d simply stopped and offered you his back. Your mother had opened the door to find him standing there with you wrapped around him, dozing off with your face tucked in the crook of his neck, and snapped the photo without hesitation. 

You pick up the picture and softly trace the borders of the frame. It’s an old photo and yet—it’s in perfect condition. There’s not even a smudge on the glass.

You don’t want to lose him.

The thought comes to you unbidden, that ache in your chest growing heavier as you gingerly set the picture back down where it used to be. That’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? You’re just his childhood friend—no more, no less, but god—you don't want to be. 

You don’t want to lose him, not to someone else— never to someone else—but the truth is half the jealousy you feel every week is just envy. Envy, because even though you might seethe quietly at the audacity some of these admirers have, using affectionate nicknames and professing their love when they don’t even know him, at least they can confess. Unlike you, they’ve got nothing to lose. Unlike you, they’re not bound by this invisible boundary that they can’t cross. 

The truth is you wouldn’t be able to bear it, even though you knew it was only a matter of time before your luck ran out. The only thing worse than someone else having his heart would be you taking the gamble and losing it all. 

You glance back at the photo, at the way Ushijima held you so easily even then, as if it was second nature to have you by his side. He wasn’t looking at the camera either, you realize. He was always looking at you. 

Your fingers twitch at your sides and then you’re looking back only once to check the door before you throw yourself back under the table, reaching in, twisting your arm in an awkward angle to snatch up the box and drag it back out to the center of the room. 

The white plastic stares at you accusingly as you trail your hand across the lid and huff out a laugh. There’s not even a layer of dust. Typical. You really shouldn’t be surprised—Ushijima has always been diligent about taking care of the things he loves. 

The things he loves. You curl your fingers around the corner, digging them into the space where the lid meets the container. It’s a bad idea. All of this. Even if you were successful in your impromptu investigation, what would be the point? It’s not like you could confront him about it—you can’t without explaining how you found out to begin with.

You should put it away. Once you open it, there really will be no more going back. 

But you would finally know the truth.

Your eyes flick back to that picture of the two of you and you pause only a moment before you give in and finally rip that damn lid off.

…

Oh. 

It’s you. 

It’s all you. 

You’d been bracing yourself for the worst—love letters, pictures, gifts too precious to keep out on display—but all that’s staring back at you in that stupid, worthless plastic tub is a lifetime of memories you’d almost forgotten about. 

There are the notes that you used to pass to him during lectures, back when the two of you were still lucky enough to be in the same class, safely tucked away in a plastic sheet and organized by year. Your little doodles are still there, ink smudged slightly on the paper but in otherwise pristine condition. Behind them are the messy, half finished polaroids you snapped of the two of you, with handwritten dates for each one. Bottles, wrappers from the late night konbini runs. 

And there, in the center of it all, is the flower you gave him at recess, the Japanese camellia you shoved into his hands when you made him promise to play with you forever. 

He kept it. He kept all of it, this collection of trinkets, and pieced it together into this haphazard mosaic of the story most precious to him: the story of the two of you. 

You carefully reach in and cup the camellia in your hand, tenderly running your thumb over the dried petals. It’s smaller than you remember. When you first snatched it from your neighbor’s garden, clambering over that fence while she hollered at you, you’d been giddy with your stolen prize. You didn’t have the words for it back then, didn’t understand the dizzying, overwhelming affection you felt for your best friend. But instinctively, some part of you recognized that with those pretty, pink petals that seemed to spill past your fingertips, your gift could do all the talking for you. 

You know better now. Perhaps even back then, that too, was love. 

You smile wistfully. You needed two hands to hold it back then. Where did the time go?

“Nice flower. What’re you doing in Wakatoshi’s room?” Tendou chirps as he leans over you. 

You yelp and shove the flower back in the box, slamming the lid back on top. “Tendou! God— nothing! I’m just waiting for him to be done with class!” 

Tendou squints his eyes, staring at you and the plastic box that you’re currently trying to discreetly kick back under Ushijima’s desk. 

“Eh? It’s already 5. Class was over an hour ago. You missed practice—you never miss practice. Washijo thought something happened to you. Goshiki wanted to search the nearest holding cell.”

The box makes an unhappy thud when you shove it again and it ends up wedged between the desk and the shelf. There’s a brief lull in conversation when you and Tendou pause to stare. You cough loudly and stand up, dusting yourself off. “You know how it is. I just lost track of time.”

“...This is about today’s confession, isn’t it,” he says slowly, inching closer. 

“No!” you blurt, throwing your hands in his face. “I mean— why would it be? Hah! Wakatoshi gets confessions all the time! It’s no big deal—” 

Tendou easily dodges your attempt to blind him and just gives you a satisfied, impish grin. “So you’re not trashing his room to find his secret girlfriend’s stuff?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” you sniff. Tendou just waggles his eyebrows and you narrow your eyes, annoyed. “Hang on. Don’t change the subject. What are you doing here? Don’t you guys still have training?”

Tendou yawns and throws his hands behind his head. “I left early cause I had a feeling you were gonna do something stupid.”

“And you wanted to help me?”

“And I wanted to be there to see it,” Tendou corrects.

You take a deep breath and bravely resist the urge to just grab him and stretch him like taffy. “Thanks.”

“Ehhh, don’t look so mad! You should be glad I’m here~”

“And why’s that?” You force out. 

Tendou gleefully waves his phone in front of your face. “How else would you know that Ushijima just sent me a text. He says he’s coming over to find us.”

Your head shoots up so fast you nearly smack Tendou in the face. “How much time do I have?”

Tendou checks his empty wrist. “Probably like ten minutes.”

You let out a particularly creative string of curses as you frantically sort through the mess, shoving books back on shelves and papers back in drawers. 

(Tendou plops himself down, gangly limbs draped over Ushijima’s chair, and rests his head in his hand as he watches you fuss over the pile of clothing you’d made when you tore through Ushijima’s wardrobe. 

He wonders if you can see it—you, in a room that only you have the spare key to; a room with the trinkets that you bought for Ushijima as a child; a room he decorated with your favorite colors. If you’ve noticed the way that Ushijima always brings his jacket to the gym, even when he’s going to be playing, because you get cold easily. If you’ve ever caught how, instinctively, whenever someone confesses to him, the first place he always looks is toward you. 

Though, given that you’re here in his room frantically trying to cover up the minor crime you’ve just committed, probably not. 

Ah well, he thinks, idly scrolling through all the other messages Ushijima’s sent about you. She’ll figure it out eventually. It’s only a matter of time.)

author's notes: so. this was in fact supposed to be a short 2k piece that would give me a break from working on Without Apology. as you can see it did not end up being 2k. anyways. I had a lot of fun working on this piece and even though it was supposed to be mostly comedy, I think I slipped and accidentally wrote something really earnest. I’m sure you will make fun of me for this later Liya.

I think ushijima really shines in these “dense x guy who’s been in love since he was six” tropes because he’s very much an “acts of service” kinda guy. In that sense, reader’s right—if he was in love, it would be really obvious because there would be special treatment. She just doesn’t realize she’s getting special treatment because it’s just how Ushijima has been for as long as she can remember.

I also think it’s really funny that this is supposed to be an ushijima fic and then I basically only had him appear in the beginning and say like 10 words. And then none of those words were directed at reader lol. It’s just like real Haikyuu.

Anyways. My beautiful wonderful beta readers. Thank you to @sun-snatcher for reading like 5k words about a guy you don’t even know and hyping me up anyway. And of course, a big thank you @yuechihua for being so thorough with your edits.I know you absolutely despise ushijima so it means a lot that you would sit down and read 4.9k words of fic dedicated to my beast. I love you hehe!

As always, if you enjoyed, let me know :3c

Tag list: @syynon, @takeyourhands

You stretch under his touch when your legs start getting sore, his hands still for a short moment, but they don’t leave. Once you’ve found a comfortable position again, he continues his caressing. 

“Does it hurt here too?” he asks, thumbs pressing into a different spot. 

The relief, along with the pain, draws a quick mewl out of you. “Gods, I think it hurts just about everywhere.” that earns you a look from him, not with any real bite behind it, but certainly firm. 

“You should stop pushing yourself so hard. It’s catching up to you.” 

It is true that today was… let’s say, busier than usual. You’ll manage though, because that’s what you always do, right? 

“And you should stop worrying so much.” you plant a soft peck to his cheek, “It won’t be long before your hair starts getting all white.” A quiet snicker leaves your lips before you can stop it. 

“Maybe I will once you stop overexhausting yourself.” He shoots a look at you again.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, “Let me enjoy this.”

Dan Heng brings one of his hands to your face, and even though the loss of warmth on your leg earns him a glare, the immediate affection he shows by caressing your cheek makes up for it.

He draws little circles on your face with his thumb while the rest of his fingers are tangled in your hair. 

“You don’t have to tire yourself out to get my attention,” his eyes meet yours, “You know that, right?”

You smile at him, because how can you not when he’s being so gentle with you?

“I know, Dan.” you hum, “I’ll try to take better care of myself.”

Then you scoot towards him from where you’re resting and lay your head on his shoulders carefully, your legs still draped over his. 

Ayumi tugs at your hand incessantly, fidgeting with the frills of her dress. “I’m hot,” she whines quietly. “How much longer do we have to stand here?”

Your father shoots you a concerned look all the way from where he’s seated with the rest of the guests in the front row. He’s hovering again, well—as best as he can given that he’s still at least six feet away, but you can tell he’s worried by the way his brow is furrowed and how his shoulders tense when Ayumi tugs at you harder. 

“Onee-chan!”

“Turn around,” you murmur gently, “I’ll braid your hair and put it up, okay?”

Ayumi lights up immediately, her clumsy hands grabbing ahold of your lilies so your hands are free to carefully weave her hair. “I want it to look like yours!”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips and acquiesce, running your fingers through her waves to sort through the knots near the nape of her neck. When Ayumi settles at your touch and finally holds still, you can practically feel your father’s relief from here. 

Your father frets. Often. Ayumi isn’t a baby, she’s only two years younger than you, but as overwhelming as his fussing can be, you understand it. After all, neither of you were really supposed to be up here. The patchwork dresses you and your sister are wearing are a reminder of that fact. The tailor had to improvise. There just wasn’t enough fabric from your mother’s bridesmaid dress for both of you.

(“At least it’s new. Unworn fabric is easier to work with.”)

You tuck the last strand of Ayumi’s hair into the bun, tying it in place, and carefully take a lily out of the bouquet, slipping it behind her ear. “Better?”

Ayumi beams at you and shoves the rest of the lilies back into your arms. “Better!” 

Crisis averted, you take Ayumi’s hand again and turn your attention back to the aisle. There’s a light breeze, shaking the sakura petals loose as they drift by on the wind. The harpist hums as he’s finally given the cue and plucks a gentle melody, a soft one that feels achingly familiar. 

The guests rise as the bride finally makes her grand entrance, clutching her own bouquet of white lilies, beaded dress trailing behind her. She’s ethereal, of course she is, but this isn’t the part you remember best. No—when you think back on this day you think about how the breeze brushed past you and how Ayumi’s lily nearly tumbled loose. 

You think about how you turned instinctively, following the movement, and turning far enough to lose sight of the bride and to find the groom. And though the rest of the wedding is a blur, details lost in the haze of your childhood memories, you remember this part clearly, what you saw on that day. 

You remember the honesty in his eyes— genuine, pure affection that made even your heart ache. The way he’d softened at the mere sight of her, like all the tension left him at once. It was beautiful. It was earnest. It was love.  

When you think back on this day, you think about how all of it fell into place by chance. 

Silk draped between the sakura trees, pink petals decorating the grass, family and friends crowded around the happy couple—all of it left you breathless. You wanted to take it all back. You were wrong. This place, the park—it’s not boring at all. 

You’re eight when you attend your first wedding and you fall in love with love.

“...And another thank you to the bridesmaid who made this all possible! I couldn’t have done it without her!” The bride—your friend, Hisako—cheers when she says your name, and raises her glass. You blink, momentarily blinded as the tech crew turns the spotlight towards you but recover quickly, smiling and bowing as the crowd turns to you in applause. 

Hisako beams at you, clapping the loudest, and hands the microphone to the next speaker—her grandfather, if you recall correctly. You’re listening—really, you are—but you can’t help the anxious jig of your leg, restless as you check your watch. 

You exhale sharply. Alright. You’re still making good time. If you’re quick, you’ll still be able to rush back across town and show your face one last time at Akari’s wedding before it’s time to go home. 

But first—the bouquet toss. You can’t miss that. Hisako’s grandfather has finally finished his speech which means she’s back up on stage, a collection of pink roses in her hands. Hisako’s scanning the crowd, squinting like she’s looking for something, and seems to find it when her eyes land on you. She tosses a wink at you before turning around. 

To you, you realize. She’s going to throw it to you. 

The bouquet sails through the air, and you swear time slows. You can see it—the pretty pink petals, the white ribbon tied along their stems—this is it. It’s headed right for your hands. You reach out, fingers practically grazing the roses when someone slams into your side, shrieking with glee as she snatches the bouquet out of the air seconds before you can, and you go down hard.  

Surprisingly enough, the fall isn’t that bad. Yeah, you’re going to be sore in some places, but all things considered, getting away with only a few bruises after being so viciously battered seems like a miracle on your end. It’s funny though. You could’ve sworn the floors were made of solid hardwood; so why aren’t you more injured? 

“Ya done? Can ya get off of me now?” a muffled voice comes from under you. 

You shoot up, nearly smacking your head against one of the worried bystanders leaning over you, and scramble to get off the stranger you’ve landed on top of. 

“Oh my god,” you stammer, “I am so sorry. So so sorry—please, let me help you up. Oh my god, is your head alright—should we call an ambulance? I’m going to call an ambulance, hang on—”

The man groans as he stands up, clutching at his head. “Can ya take a breath? Yer makin’ my head hurt worse. And don’t bother wastin’ yer time on an ambulance, I’m fine.” 

You ignore his protests, already pulling out your phone and frantically punching in the number for the ambulance. “How’s your vision? Are you feeling faint? What’s your name?” 

“Didn’t I just say I was fine? I can see ya and I’m still standin’ so it can’t be that bad.”

“And your name?” you press. “Do you know your name?”

“Well aren’t ya bold? There are better ways ta get my name than knockin’ me down on the ground ya know,” the stranger says with a sly smile. 

“Answer the question or I’m calling the ambulance,” you narrow your eyes, waving the phone in your hand threateningly. 

“Hah…” he bows his head in surrender. “Ya drive a hard bargain. I can’t argue with that,” he concedes, and holds out his hand. “Miya Atsumu.” 

You eye him for a moment, contemplating if your stranger would be the kind of man to lie just to get you off his back. Eventually, you decide that no one could possibly be that short-sighted, lying about their wellbeing at their own risk, and you tuck your phone back in your purse, satisfied that you didn’t accidentally give this Atsumu fellow catastrophic brain damage.

To give credit where credit is due, Atsumu handles your staring quite well—he merely waits patiently with a smile till you’re done. He tilts his head to the side, then looks pointedly at his outstretched hand. “...And yer name?”

“Me?” 

Atsumu huffs out a little laugh. “Shouldn’t I get ta know the name of the lady who swept me off my feet?” 

You flush red (from embarrassment and certainly not because his cheap flirting is working) and take his hand, muttering your name. He’s warm under your grip, fingertips rough with old callouses. Your stranger—Atsumu, listens carefully, then says your name again. Says it slow like he’s savoring something; tasting the way it sounds in his mouth. It’s unusually intimate. Perhaps he did hit his head after all. 

“I still think you should get checked out by a doctor,” you say, pulling away from him. “That was a hard fall.”

Atsumu’s charming facade falters slightly as he tsks, irritated. “I already answered all yer questions, that ain’t good enough for ya?”

“Sorry are you a doctor?” you snark.

“Are ya?” he parrots back. 

“You don’t need to be a doctor to know that hitting your head can’t mean anything good!”

“So yer not a doctor either,” he dismisses. 

Hah! Is that the only thing he heard? Your eye twitches as you stare up at this aggravating idiot. You have to reconsider your initial assessment. Perhaps there were no immediate signs of brain damage because there was nothing left to damage!

By this point, most of the small crowd initially surrounding the two of you has dispersed, tipsy guests flitting away—whatever it was that initially drew them to you; be it concern or curiosity, now that it’s evident that no one is injured or about to be, you’ve since lost their interest. There’s only an odd handful of people left, most of them being your fellow bridesmaids who were by your side when the bouquet was tossed. 

One of them watches, concerned, when Atsumu idly reaches up and runs his hand over the back of his head, wincing slightly when his fingers brush over some tender spot. 

“I know he said he was fine but maybe you should take him home anyway,” she murmurs to you. 

You furrow your brow, briefly considering the notion, and nod. Right—it would be the responsible thing to do; whether you like it or not, you do owe him for possibly giving him a concussion. Even if he is an odd, impudent man, you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if he collapsed on the side of the road because of you. And, you shudder, you hardly want to find yourself on the other end of a lawsuit. 

You assume that Atsumu comes to the same conclusion as you because as soon as the words ‘take him home’ are uttered, any objection he previously had dies on his tongue. He staggers towards you, throwing his arm over your shoulder as he leans on you. “Sorry,” he moans, “I think my head’s hurtin’ worse now. Ya must’ve been right—maybe I do need ta rest after all.”

You let out a small grunt at the sudden extra weight and instinctively reach around his waist to brace yourself. He’s solid under your grip, warmth bleeding through the layers of his fitted suit. 

Atsumu’s still going on and on about his head—saying something about it aching something awful—all while he quietly shepherds you closer to the ballroom exit. At one point your heel catches on the edge of a table cloth and the two of you stumble forward. For an awful moment you think you’re about to give him a second concussion but Atsumu recovers quickly, pulling you closer to him to steady the both of you; close enough for you to smell the heady scent of sea salt and cedarwood that clings to him. 

He smells of summer, this stranger of yours, and with how the two of you are draped over each other, you probably do too.

Against all odds, you both manage to weave your way through a crowd of tipsy guests with no casualties. In fact, you’re almost at the door when a familiar voice calls out your name. You think you hear Atsumu curse under his breath but you don’t have time to dwell on it before your friend, the bride herself, is there and fussing over you. “I saw the two of you limping, are you alright?!" 

“I’m okay, Hisako,” you reassure, “I’m just worried about this one.” You glance up at Atsumu who’s wincing in pain and staring longingly at the door. “I’m going to call him a taxi—or an ambulance. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Taxi,” Atsumu says loudly. 

“Ignore him,” you say louder. 

(Hisako generously decides to overlook both of your childish antics: Atsumu, who mysteriously loses much of his strength, forcing you to support even more of his weight, and you, digging your fingers into his side to compensate for the sudden change in your balance.)

“I saw a taxi stand outside the hotel,” she says helpfully. “It should be easy to get a car from there.”

Atsumu smiles at you, smug and satisfied and a little too pleased. “Is that so? Well sounds like we’re takin’ a taxi after all.”

“You could always take the taxi to the hospital,” Hisako tacks on, and now it’s your turn to smile as Atsumu’s smirk falters and he grumbles something to himself. 

“Thank you, Hisako,” you say as she moves to help you open the door. “Sorry for leaving so early.”

She brushes off your apology without blinking an eye. “Don’t worry about something like that. Just take care of yourself.” 

You exit the ballroom with a wave and just like that, you’re standing outside in the opulent hotel hallway, alone as the sole keeper of a dying(?) man you’d met only thirty minutes prior.

You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to drag him all the way to the taxi stand. Your shoulder’s already cramping; a stiffness you know you’ll pay for in the morning, and the dress is hardly making it any easier, but after all the effort and humiliation just to get to the door, you’ll be damned if you don’t see this fiasco through to the end. 

But, to your surprise, no sooner than when the doors to the ballroom shut, Atsumu’s pulling away from you and straightening up—dusting himself off like he wasn’t acting like he was seconds from death’s door only a few moments ago. “Thanks,” he sighs, already loosening his tie. “I owe ya one, for givin’ me an out like that.”

Your eyes widen as you watch him shrug off his blazer. “Your head—your concussion—you’re not injured? ”

Atsumu looks back at where you’re still lingering by the door and grins at you. “Isn’t that what I’ve been sayin’?”

It takes you a moment to realize what’s happened, if only because you would’ve never even considered the possibility that someone would have the audacity to-

“Wh–Lie?! Did you lie about your injuries to leave a wedding early?” 

Atsumu slaps his hand over your mouth, cutting off your tirade and muffling the offended yelp you let out, and hushes you as he drags you further away from the ballroom and toward the hotel’s exit. “Wasn’t lyin’-I told ya I was fine, didn’t I? Ya were the one goin’ on an’ on about takin’ me home.”

You yank his hand off and glare at him, “because I rightfully thought you were actually concussed when you collapsed on me seconds later, whining about the pain!” 

Atsumu, the brat, doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. “So it was believable? Might have ta use it again for the next weddin’ then.”

“Miya-san!” You gape at him, astounded. “I practically carried you through that ballroom—I thought I gave you a concussion! I was worried you were going to collapse on the side of the road!” 

“And ya were worried that I was gonna sue ya.”

“And I was worried you would sue me!”

Atsumu barks out a laugh at that, a sudden and honest sound that startles you. He tilts his head and grins at you, fox-like and pleased, eyes bright with a sort of mischief that makes you think of the statues you’ve seen outside of inari shrines. It’s almost dizzying, the way his attention remains squarely on you, even as he moves to hold the door open for you. 

It’s quieter outside, the faint chatter and music from the ballroom replaced instead with the sound of chirping cicadas and the occasional rumble of a passing car. The walk isn’t long—the taxi stand is just around the corner from the hotel after all— but Atsumu keeps pace with you the entire time, even when your heels slow you down. You look up at him, this obnoxious fool who nearly cracked his head open stumbling through a crowded ballroom with you, just to get out of a wedding reception early. The moonlight softens him, the silver lighting cradling him in a way that almost seems to make him glow. 

It’s annoying, you decide. He’s annoying.

The taxi stand is surprisingly empty when you arrive, no cars already waiting to pick you up. In hindsight, it makes some sense— it’s an awkward time for the two of you to go home. Too late at night to be a part of the dinner rush but not late enough to be part of the drunken crowd needing a ride home; which means you’re stuck with your idiot till the next car comes. 

“...you okay with sharing a taxi?” 

Atsumu leans against the taxi stand sign and shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be? Gotta repay the favor somehow, don’t I? Ya took such good care of me back there, ain’t it my turn now?”

You snort and raise an eyebrow, moving to rest against the sign as well. “‘Take care of me’, what—are you planning on paying for my taxi or something?” 

“If ya like,” Atsumu hums. 

“I’m going to ask the driver to take the longest route he can. As compensation.”

“Yer takin’ advantage of me!”

“You’re one to talk about ‘taking advantage’! You made me lug you around for half an hour,” you say, arms crossed, “just to leave a wedding early—who even does that?”

“Well we can’t all be like ya,” he sniffs. “I’ve never even heard of someone runnin’ to and from two different weddin’s on the same night.” 

You freeze. That must’ve been a slip of the tongue. He couldn’t possibly know. You’d been so meticulous, even keeping your second dress stored in a locker at the other venue. You could’ve sworn that no one had noticed your comings and goings, not even your fellow bridesmaids, who’d been seated right next to you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny. “You must’ve mistaken me for other guests.”

“No? So yer tellin’ me that it wasn’t ya that I saw runnin’ back and forth and slippin’ away during dinner?” 

Damn it. “How did you even catch that? I was only gone twice!”  

“Yer hard to miss,” he says, like it’s obvious. “And ya mixed up yer accessories at one point. The orange ribbon with yer purple dress gave it away.” He turns to you slightly, gently tugging at the ribbon you’d tied around your hair. “See?”

Damn it! You scowl when he hands back your bright orange ribbon, muttering curses as you shove it in your purse. How could you make such a rookie mistake? You must’ve been exhausted, running yourself ragged practically planning the two weddings. You’re just lucky that no one else noticed and that the only person who did also happens to be the one who allegedly suffered a concussion. 

“So,” Atsumu starts, snapping you out of your stupor. “How many have ya been to?” Seven? Twelve?” 

“What?” 

“Weddin’s,” he clarifies. “Personally my money’s on twelve.” 

“What makes you think I’ve been to so many?” you retort.

“Call it a hunch,” Atsumu says, leaning closer to you. “Ya look like ya’ve got a story.” 

He’s staring again, that fox-like smile on his face. Gone is the lazy, sleepy-eyed look he’d worn during the reception. He looks excited. He looks enthralled.     

(He looks… hungry.)  

“Do you two want a ride or not?”

You jolt like a startled cat, whirling around to find an old man staring at both of you, decidedly unamused, from the driver’s seat of a taxi—one that’s been waiting for two of you for god knows how long. 

You flush and bow apologetically, grabbing the back of Atsumu’s collar and forcing him down with you as well. “I’m so sorry—yes, if you’re still willing to take us—we didn’t mean to waste your time and—”

Your taxi driver closes his eyes in a long-suffering way and rolls up the window. “Please just get in the car.”

You bow again, lower this time, and practically shove Atsumu into the taxi. He tumbles in with an undignified yelp and you allow yourself a moment to savor the betrayed look on his face (serves him right for making you an unwilling accomplice in his childish games!) before throwing yourself in after him. 

The old man stares in his rearview mirror as the two of you swat at each other, hissing about “bein’ such a brute” and “hogging all the legroom”. It seems that now you know for certain that Atsumu is 1. uninjured and 2. not going to sue you, you’ve no reason to hide how he really makes you feel: irritated. 

“Address. Please.” 

You freeze at the poor man’s plea and duck your head sheepishly, something Atsumu takes advantage of (because only one of you is apparently still capable of shame), who claims the last bit of free space by dumping his blazer on the empty middle seat. You can see the triumphant shit-eating grin he sends you out of the corner of your eye and when you hand the paper with your address to the driver, it’s hardly legible from how hard you’ve crushed it. 

Mercifully, most of the ride back home is quiet, the dramatics of the night seemingly having exhausted you both. Atsumu’s eyes are closed as he leans back in his seat, head resting against the window. Osaka’s sodium lights paint every angle of him in shades of gold, casting him in a dull radiance—the city his own halo. 

He’s pretty, you realize. Distractingly so.  

“Yer starin’,” Atsumu says, cracking open an eye. “Somethin’ on my face?”

You dart your gaze away, back to your own window. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter. “I was just thinking.”

Atsumu yawns and stretches lazily. “About me?”

“About what kind of person fakes a concussion to get out of a wedding,” you snipe back at him. 

“So ya were thinkin’ about me.”

“Not the point!”

“I could ask ya the same thing. What kinda person goes to two weddin’s at once? The first one wasn’t enough for ya?” Atsumu drawls.

You gape at him. “I love weddings! That’s why I go to them in the first place. You really don’t feel anything, getting invited to celebrate someone’s special day?”

Atsumu makes a face. “There’s nothin’ special about spending half my day watchin’ two scrubs make googly eyes at each other while I pretend like it’s the happiest day of my life too.”

“Well with that attitude, it’s no wonder you were invited,” you snark. “Enlighten me—why even go at all if you hate happiness that much?”

“I’m a writer,” he says, like that answers your question. “Call it research. Maybe I’ll write a horror piece next—all these weddin’s are givin’ me plenty’a material.”

“How novel. A man who doesn’t believe in marriage.” 

“How sweet. A lady who does.”

You huff and eye him. “Mock me all you like, but at least I had a good time tonight.”

Atsumu just looks at you like you’ve said something stupid. “Who said I didn’t have a good time?”

The taxi slows to a stop, right in front of your apartment complex. Your driver looks at the taxi meter, looks back at the two of you, and doesn’t hesitate when he says a number higher than what the meter reads.

“Well as…lovely…as this was, this is me. Nice meeting you, Miya-san.” You thump Atsumu on the back once, hard, and open the door, moving to leave. 

Atsumu grabs your hand before you can go, tugging you back. “Where ya goin’?”

“...Home?”

“Hah? That’s not what I meant and ya know it, ya scrub!” 

“Didn’t you say you’d be paying for my taxi?” 

Atsumu blinks owlishly at you. “I mean I did but—”

“How generous of you. Thank you, Miya-san,” you call over your shoulder as you slip out of his grasp. You slam the door to the taxi shut, muffling whatever it is he says next. Is it a cheap and immature way to have the last word? Maybe so; but when you walk away, it’s with a pleased smile curling at your lips. 

Annoying, you think, ignoring the way that summer's day scent still clings to you. He really is annoying. 

authors notes: this was written as my entry to the it's cupid, stupid! event hosted by @the-memokeepers! thank you to div and jazz for organizing it and sorry again for being so late. even though this was supposed to be an event for one-shots, i kinda spiralled out of control and now the outline has like 12 acts and i realized i had probably bitten off more than i could chew after i was finishing a chapter and it was already approaching 3000 words. thus the decision was made to split it up into multiple chapters to make it more manageable (for you and me). im a bit of a slow writer so updates may be sporadic but they will come. im determined to see this through. please be patient with me as i basically have not written anything in six years. this is literally my comeback fic.

special shoutout to @sun-snatcher for being one of my beta readers and hyping me up even when i thought id never be able to get it done, @nvllette for cheering me on as well and being so patient with me as i took longer and longer, and ofc, @yuechihua. Liya, thank you for keeping me sane throughout this whole process and locking in with me and saving me with your editing skills. this fic literally would not have gotten done without you.

thank you all so much.

if you enjoyed, please leave a comment, reblog, like, whatever– just let me know <3 i will do my best to get chapter 2 out in a reasonable amount of time!