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warnings: mainly fluff. soulmate type shit. no smut. satoru being a wing-man (wing-fish?). mating rituals. i love the ocean and this is my baby. (this is cross-posted on ao3)
It was the summer between your final year of college, one last hoorah before you got your degree and were forced to adult. You decided to spend the summer at your grandmotherâs beach house on the coastâyour mom encouraged you to take a breather, a break from the pressures of the looming world and hang out with your grandmother.Â
Youâve spent the first few days settling in, driving your grandmother into town for her doctor's appointments, lunch with her friends, or simply grocery shopping. She was happily using you to her advantage, having you drive her around like her personal chauffeur. You didnât mind; if anything, it made you laugh, and you got the chance to explore the little beach town.Â
One evening, after you had eaten dinner and your grandma was sitting on the porch with her cup of tea, you ventured down to the beach, something you hadnât gotten the chance to do yet.Â
The beach is quiet, the sun dipping low behind the horizon as the tide gently laps at the sand. You stretch your legs and let your fingers sift through the cool, damp sand, just existing.
Once the sun disappears into the ocean, the purple skies grow dark as the moon rises, and you head back inside.Â
Unseen by you, something watches from behind the cluster of rocks just offshore. Dark hair tangled with seaweed drifts with the current. Purple eyes track your every movement.Â
The next evening, you sit at your normal spot, a cup of caffeine-free tea in your hands as you watch the waves once again. The tea was lightly floral with hints of citrus, a little sweet and something your grandmother had hand-blended for herself. The scent of salt and something faintly briny danced on the breeze.
There was something grounding about the way the sand shifted beneath your feet, like the ocean was holding you in place. Like she wanted you to stay. Like she was waiting for you to listen.Â
You wiggle your toes in the sand, hitting something buried. You blink in confusion, holding your cup of tea in one hand as you dig into the grains, finding a gorgeous seashell.Â
You smiled softly, analyzing the off-white shell. It was pristinely perfect; if you hadnât found it in the sand, you wouldâve thought it was from a craft store.Â
âPretty,â you murmured to yourself, gently rubbing the ridges with your thumb as you held it close. You continued the movement of your finger until the sun set, holding the shell tight as you made your way back to the house, planning to show your grandmother what you had found.Â
Purple eyes watched intently, his lips quirking under the rippling waves as you walked away, clutching his gift. A low hum vibrated in his chestâcurious, pleased, maybe even proud.
The next evening was chillier, the breeze cold and less forgiving. There was a storm that afternoon, with branches down, trash cans knocked over, and the waves more agitated than normal. You bundled yourself up in a hoodie and sweatpants, your hair being thrashed around with the wind.Â
You were determined, though, the sunset was pretty from the earlier storm, and you wanted some peace and quiet for a bit. (Maybe you wanted to see if the ocean left you a gift again, but you didnât want to admit it.)
The sand was still damp from the rain, but you didnât mind, sitting down on a towel a bit farther from the crashing waves. Oddly enough, something glints in the fading sunlight. You quirk an eyebrow, reaching down to find an oyster shell, seemingly like it had already been cracked open.Â
Now suspicious, you slowly open the shell, revealing a glistening pearl nestled inside. You audibly gasp, almost dropping the shell in shock, but quickly catch the pearl.Â
In the back of your mind, you register a splash in the water. You glance up for a moment before your gaze returns back to the pearl on your palm.Â
âWow,â you breathed out, holding your hand up closer to your eyes to see the pearl better. âItâs soâŠsmall. So delicate.â
It was cold in your hand, a little heavy on your palm and felt gritty when you gently rubbed your pointer finger over it. It wasnât perfectâand you loved it.Â
âThank you,â you murmured softly, glancing out towards the ocean. It was getting dark now, more storm clouds rolling in from the horizon. âThank you,â you said again, a bit louder this time as your voice carried across the wind as you gathered your towel, the pearl clutched safely in your hand as you went back to the house before you got caught in the next storm.Â
You kept it. He watched you hold it to your chest like something sacred. Strange. Humans had soft hands, strange eyes, and strange little smiles. And yet, he wanted to see you smile again. Because of him.Â
Tomorrow, maybe, he would be braver.
You showed your grandmother your pearl when you arrived back at the house. She was tucked in on the couch, a worn book in her lap and a patch quilt over her legs.Â
âWhen I was a girl, we used to say the sea gives gifts to those it loves. But the sea doesnât give away pearlsânot without a reason,â She said, holding your eyes for a moment before returning back to her book. âMake sure your window is closed tight, we are supposed to get another bad storm.â
You were sure that this was a stupid ideaâmaybe not just stupid, but incredibly dumb and something that might get you killed. ButâŠeven as the sky was covered in dark clouds, the next wave of storms on the horizon, you were on the beach.Â
The waves were loud, crashing against the wet sand in a sound that almost rivaled the thunder in the distance. It had been storming all day and night, the cold front clashing with the warm summer air to create violent winds and pounding rain.Â
Your headscarf was fluttering with the wind, each pull of it threatening to take it off your head. You held it down with a hand, eyes on the sea.Â
You werenât truly sure why you were out here in this weather; it went against every bit of logic in your head, but alas, you were weak to the tug on your heart.Â
You were a creature of routine, even when thunder boomed and lightning flashed overhead, you wanted to hear the waves and feel the sand in your toes.Â
A strong gust of wind took your scarf right off your head, nearly taking your balance with it. You tried to reach for it, but the brightly colored fabric was already halfway across the sand and over the water.Â
That was your sign to go back inside.Â
You trudged back into the house, your shoulders slouched as if you had been scolded by the sea herself for going outside in this weather, and now youâve lost your favorite scarf.Â
You sighed, heading into the kitchen to make a cup of tea for yourself and your grandmother. She was watching the storm roll in from the living room window.Â
âShe claimed your scarf, huh?â she said as the rain began to patter against the windows.Â
âA consequence for going outside, I guess,â you murmured, handing her a cup of that tea she loves so much. Your grandmother hums, taking a sip of the warm liquid.Â
âMustâve wanted something in exchange for the pearl.â The pearl sat on your windowsill, tucked in the opened shell, glinting faintly in the dim light of the storm.
âFair enough,â you sighed, tucking your feet under you as you took a seat on the couch, cupping the warm ceramic mug in your hands, watching the lightning jump from cloud to cloud over the dark sea.
You thought you saw something dark cut through the waves, just past the break. But it vanished just as lightning flashed. Maybe a lone dolphin stuck in a bad spot. Â
A part of you wondered if you would find your scarf tomorrow.Â
He found the scarf, caught between two rocks. He takes it, brings it to his nose, and inhales deeply. Salt. Orange. Lavender. It made his head spin. He holds it closer to his chest. Heâll be brave tomorrow, maybe.Â
Tomorrow.Â
You make your way down to the beach, a little earlier than normal, the golden sunlight making everything look like it was touched by Midas. You stopped in your tracks.Â
Where you normally sat in the sand, your colorful headscarf lay neatly on the white grains. It was folded into a tidy little square, the edges still damp from the lingering humidity of the storms, weighted by a smooth riverstone.Â
You crouch down, fingers brushing over the soft silk of your scarf, then the smooth, cool stone. You decided to sit down, scattering sand with your movement and you held the two objects in your hands.Â
âWhat the hellâŠâ You breathed out, lips parted in awe. You hear a splash. Your head snaps up.Â
A black tail just barely slips under the waves, but you catch it, along with bright purple eyes.Â
âHello?â you called out, wrapping your scarf around your head to brush your hair back from your forehead. âThank you for bringing back my scarf. Itâs my favorite.âÂ
The waves are still; no sign of the black tail or purple eyes.Â
But you were a stubborn one, so you kept talking.Â
âI really liked the pearl too. It was so beautiful, Iâve never seen anything like that before. Only human-made pearls. They are nothing like the real things,â you said, leaning back on your arms as you talk to the seaâand whoever was listening.Â
âI loved the seashell, though. Itâs perfect. I have it sitting next to my bed when I sleep,â you smiled softly, absent-mindedly rubbing your thumb over the smooth riverstone.Â
A head peeks out of the water, long, black hair dancing behind him as his purple eyes stare intently at you.Â
Your lips part. âHi,â you breathed out, frozen as you kept your eyes on him. From what little you could see, he was gorgeous.Â
He had pale, almost milky-white, opalescent skin, black webbed fins by his ears that twitched and moved at the sound of my voice, his bright purple eyes, and long black hair. His fins fluttered as he swam closerâslowly. Very slowly.Â
He didnât speak, just watched you intentlyâlike he was going to bolt or afraid that you would.Â
âHave you been leaving me gifts?â you asked, tilting your head curiously at him. His eyes blinked, a low hum vibrating from his mouth and causing the water to ripple outward.Â
âI was quite surprisedâin a good way, I promise,â you shot him a soft smile. He swam a little closer. You caught a flash of his tail.Â
It was as dark as his hair, his scales glittering like obsidian in the golden light. He had the tail of a crowntail betta fishâsimilar to the ones you used to have when you were growing up.Â
âYou understand me,â you murmurâmore a statement than a question. His fins twitched.Â
You donât move. Neither does he.
Slowly, you extend the hand holding the riverstone and place it gently down on the sand in front of you. An offering.
His head tilts, fins flicking as he watches. Then, like a whisper across the water, you hear another hum, not threatening, just⊠curious.
He reaches a hand from the water, long, clawed fingers webbed and shimmering, and sets something small beside the stone. A seaglass. The same color as your eyes.Â
Your breath catches.
And with a flick of his black tail, heâs gone beneath the waves.Â
That night, you dream of violet eyes and the flick of a black bettaâs tail in the dark blue water.Â
As Suguru swims away, he can feel his heart pounding in his chest. He did it. He did it. He saw herâactually saw you. And you saw him. You didnât run.Â
His fins flared in excitement as he swam to his cave, his tail giving a little flourish.Â
Maybe heâll talk to you tomorrow. Or heâll listen to you talk more. He likes listening to the sound of your voice.Â
He wonders what he should bring you next.Â
It was a clear, sunny dayâthe first in several days. You had spent the day helping your grandmother trim back her hydrangea bushes, mulch her flower beds, and harvest the vegetable garden.Â
Your skin was salty from sweating in the sun, the edges of your hair curling from the humidity in the air, and dirt caked under your nails. You were tired from being out in the sun all day, your skin tinted red from a light sunburn.Â
After a well-deserved dinner and a long, hot shower, you padded barefoot down to the beach, tugging an old hoodie over your shoulders as the evening breeze cooled. The sand still held a trace of warmth from the sun, and you let it sift between your toes as you walked to your usual spot.
You stopped.
Right where you always sat, nestled in the sand like it had been waiting for you, was a shark tooth.
A real oneânot one of those dull gray castoffs you could find in tourist shops. This one was large, triangular, and slightly serrated, its edges worn smooth by the ocean.
Your eyes widened as you picked it up, turning it over in your fingers with a grin.
âNo way,â you breathed. âThis is a bull shark tooth. You can tell by the width of the root and the serrationsâtheyâre shorter than a tiger sharkâs, but thicker. Did you know bull sharks can survive in freshwater? Theyâve been found in rivers, even hundreds of miles inland.â
You kept talking, excitement bubbling out of you before you even realized it, slipping easily into that familiar rhythm of sharing facts with someone who might care. You didnât even notice the way the water shifted in the shallows, not at first.
But thenâmovement. Something pale and glinting, just beneath the surface. Your breath caught.
A shadow drifted closer, slowly, carefully.
And then you saw him. Really saw him.
A graceful shape in the water, his arms resting on the sand as he half-floated, half-lay in the shallows, purple eyes locked on you.
He was silent, still, almost reverent in the way he watched you. His dark hair floated around his face in the gentle tide, the gills at his neck pulsing softly as he breathed, fins twitching as he listened to you.
You blinked. He didnât vanish this time.
âIâhi,â you said, blinking, heart pounding.
He blinked slowlyâlike he was thinking about responding. Then he spoke, he finally spoke, his voice a little rough from disuse, like waves over gravel.
âYou like sharks,â he said.
You let out a startled laugh. âI do.â
âI found that after a storm,â he said, nodding to the tooth in your hand. âThought youâd like it.â
You sat down without thinking, still cradling the tooth like it was something sacred. âThank you,â you whispered.
He shifted forward just a little, the fine sand drifting around him like stirred fog. âTell me more.â
And so you did.
You told him that your favorite sharks were hammerhead sharks because your grandfather gave you a stuffed animal when you were a little girl. Told him how you didnât know what you wanted to do with your life after college. Told him about your love of the ocean.Â
He didnât speak much. But he listened. And he didnât leave.Â
His fins fluttered when he heard you talk about your grandmother, when you talked about the ocean, and when you mentioned that your favorite animal is a jellyfish. Â
âJellyfish?â He repeated, tilting his head thoughtfully.Â
You nodded eagerly, âYes, jellyfish. They are super old and are really cool.â
He hummed. âThey suit you,â he murmured. Your heart jumped in your chest. You wouldâve thought that he just said he was giving you a million dollars.Â
âYou mean that?â you asked softly, a smile tugging on your lips. He simply hummed again, the water rippling from the vibrations.Â
You leaned forward slightly, shifting your weight onto your elbows as you sat cross-legged in the sand. âDo you have a name?â you asked, voice low, like asking too loudly might scare the moment away.
He paused.
Really paused.
His eyesâthose impossible, violet eyesâheld yours in a way that made your breath catch. The water lapped gently at your ankles, and you could see the subtle movement of his gills flaring. His fins twitched once, twice, like he was considering something. Then:
Silence.
He blinked slowly, tilted his head again like a curious animal, and for a heartbeat, you thought he might answer.
But then, with a flick of his tail, he was goneâjust a shimmer in the shallows, and the soft ripple left in his wake.
You let out a quiet breath you hadnât realized you were holding, watching the fading sunlight dance on the disturbed water. "Okay," you whispered, smiling just a little. "Maybe next time."
When you go to bed that night, your shark tooth sits on the windowsill, right next to the pearl and seashell, glinting under the full moon as you dream of violet eyes and sharp teeth.Â
Suguru was going to tell you his name. He swears he was going to, butâŠhe got scared. You made him nervous, especially when you got that look in your eye and that stupidly cute smile when you talked about something you were passionate about. It made his heart pound a little louder in his chest.Â
Satoru was making fun of him for being such a coward with you, but he just couldnât help it. He was just happy that he was able to speak. Even if it wasnât much.Â
He thinks heâll try to bring a jellyfish next time. He doesnât know how heâll manage it, but he wants to see your face light up.Â
Satoru was going to laugh at him again.Â
He was excited to see you. Not that he wasnât excited to see you normally, but this time was special. Suguru hoped you liked it.Â
When you went down to the beach, there wasnât any gift waiting for you, but he was. He was already there, black hair dancing in the rippling waves as his tail floated behind him.Â
âHi,â you smiled, taking a seat on the sun-warmed sand. Your skin was still pink from yesterdayâs sun, his shark tooth resting on your chest. Your grandmother helped you drill a small enough hole into the bone to slip a piece of yarn through it. It was now your new favorite necklace.Â
His purple eyes linger on the shark tooth. âYouâre wearing it,â he said, sitting up slightly more in the shallows, like he was puffing out his chest in pride. You could see the water rivulets dripping down his neck before disappearing back into the water, the muscles of his neck and chest strong and cordedâyou looked away before your eyes could wander more.Â
âI am,â you smiled, stretching your feet out in front of you, leaning back on your arms.Â
He hums, dipping back into the water. He paused for a moment, his fins fluttering as he thought intently before nodding to himself.Â
âHere,â he murmured, lifting his arm out of the water, holding something in webbed, clawed fingers.Â
You lean forward, your fingers brushing against his wet skin as you take it from him. It was a piece of shale, a smooth, thin stone, with a carving.Â
Your lips part in surprise as you look closer. It was a carving of a jellyfish. You smiled, running your finger over the indentation in the rock. It looked like a moon jellyfish, one of the most plentiful types of jellyfish in the ocean.Â
âDid you do this?â you asked softly, your face soft from the thoughtfulness of the gesture. Maybe he did really listen to you when you talked to him.Â
He hummed in agreement, watching your face intently, taking note of each change of your facial expressionsâthe way your eyebrows furrowed slightly, the glint of excitement in your eyes, your lips quirked up in an unconscious smile.Â
âItâs amazing, I love it. Thank you,â You finally caught his gaze, your lips pressed in a happy, slightly shy smile as your cheeks warmed.Â
He blinked a couple of times at your expression, feeling his heart pound faster in his chest as his blood rushed in his ears. He liked that look on your face. He really liked it.Â
And he wanted to see it again.Â
âSuguru.â
You blinked. âHm?â
âThatâs my name.â
He didnât look at you when he said itâhe was watching the waves. But his fins were fluttering, and his cheeks were pinker than the sunset.
He disappeared after that, but not without taking one final glance at you, a small smile on his lips as he swam under the waves.Â
You hadnât told your grandmother about himânot that you needed to anyway. She knew, just like how she always did.Â
âDid the sea leave that for you?â she asked, her eyes lingering on the stone as you gently set it on the table.Â
âSomething like that,â you hummed, gently feeling the smooth rock before turning to help her prepare tea, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet.Â
She turned her gaze from it, taking a mug and pouring hot water into it. âBring her a gift next time,â she said after a long moment, her worn hands pausing. âBut a thoughtful one. Choose wisely.â
You nodded, putting a tea bag in her cup. Your eyes glance out the window, watching a black tail splash under a wave.Â
That night, you spend the rest of the evening braiding a bracelet. It was threads of black, white, and the same purple as his eyes. You felt nervous, your eyes kept glancing over the moonlit waves as you weaved pieces of shells you had collected from the beach, and even a piece of purple sea glass.Â
The ocean was calm, like she was trying to calm your nerves.Â
You dreamed of moon jellyfish and webbed fingers.Â
Suguru was resting on his moss bed, Satoru snoring in the corner of their shared cave. He looked up to the surface, the ocean dark with the light of the moon barely filtering in.Â
Your face was tattooed into his eyes, a small, proud smile on his lips. He gave you the carving. You liked it. He told you his name.Â
He curled up on the soft moss, his long hair fanning out as he closed his eyes to sleep.Â
He wondered what you were doing.Â
As you walked down to the beach, you were buzzing with nervous energy. You crouched just before the waves, heart pounding as the tide kissed the sand around your toes.
âI have something for you,â you murmured, holding out your hand.
The bracelet sat there, cradled in your palmâwoven with thread and tiny shells, knotted where your fingers had hesitated.
He tilted his head, fins fluttering with curiosity, but didnât move. Not at first.
Then, he moves. He blinks as he gently takes the bracelet, his claws brushing against your skin and brings it close to his face.Â
You said your name in a soft murmur, your eyes watching his facial expression intentlyâthe same way he often observed you.Â
He doesnât say anything, just cups it in his hands like itâs fragile, and then slips it onto his wrist and keeps it there like armor. His fins flutter wildly and his gills flareâlike heâs surprised. And he hesitates.
ThenâŠheâs gone with a quiet splash. You blink, a water droplet landing on your cheek as you wipe it away. You sit on the sand with a soft sigh, feeling your shoulders slouch in disappointment.Â
Maybe you messed up? You didnât mean to, if you did. You just wanted to return the gifts, to give him something thoughtful and meaningful.Â
You donât linger on the beach; you head back to the house with your shoulders curled in and dragging your feet. You touch the damp spot on your palm where his claw had brushed against your skin.Â
You wonder if youâll see him tomorrow.Â
Suguru was freaking out, spiraling beyond recognition. He immediately swam for his cave, searching for Satoru.Â
He almost runs into the white merman.Â
âWhoa, Sugu. Whatâs wrong? You look like you just saw a giant squid,â Satoru teased, his blue eyes boring into Suguruâs.Â
âShe gave me something, a gift. And told me her name,â Suguru stumbled over his words, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart.Â
Satoru furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. âYes? And? You have been leaving her gifts for ages. I was wondering when she was going to pick up that you were courting her.â
Suguru stilled. âCourtingâŠcourting her?â He blinked in confusion. âWasâŠwas that what I was doing?âÂ
Satoru gave him a deadpan look. âYes? Do you have krill in your brain right now? What else were you doing?â
âIâŠI donât know. I just wasâŠdoing something,â Suguru mumbled, his eyes downcast.Â
Satoru groans, âYouâre hopeless. My best friend has turned into a mindless jellyfish.â
Suguru shoots him a look, âI donât know, man! I was just listening to that pull.âÂ
âYeah, mating instincts, fish-brain,â Satoru rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. âShe gave you a gift and you ran away like an idiot. She probably feels like shit right now.âÂ
Suguru groans in frustration, hiding his face behind clawed hands. âFuck. Youâre right. I ran away like a frightened fish. Iâm such an asshole.â
âYou can say that again,â Satoru huffs. âYou have instinctsâyouâre half fish and mating season is during the next full moon, which is next week. You were courting her, Suguru.âÂ
âFuck,â Suguru sighs out, running a hand through his long hair. âOkay, but sheâs human. I donât think humans have courting behavior.â
Satoru makes a face, âWhat do you mean? Why wouldnât they? She gave you a gift back, thatâs what mermaids do when they accept your courting!âÂ
âSheâs a human, not a mermaid, shrimp-head,â Suguru retorted, fiddling with the bracelet on his wrist.Â
âSame thing,â Satoru rolled his eyes, turning to head back into his cave. âTalk to her, at the very least. She might not want to see you tomorrow.â Then, he slips into the shadows, his white tail gone in a ripple of water.Â
Suguru slumps against the wall of his own cave, feeling like a complete idiot.Â
He hoped he didnât scare her off. For good.Â
It was raining all day, like a torrential downpour, to the point you were worried about flash floods. You couldnât go outside, even if you wanted to.Â
You sat curled up on the corner of the couch, your grandmaâs favorite blanket over your lap as you tried to read the book in your lap. You were distracted, your hand coming up to touch the shark necklace now and then, glancing out towards the angry waves.Â
Your grandmother hummed as she prepared soup for dinner in the kitchen, her gray hair brushed back with a headscarf.Â
âWhatâs wrong, dear?â she asked softly, stirring the pot of chicken stock on the stove. âYou keep glancing out at the water.âÂ
You sighed, closing the book that you werenât really reading anyway. âThe ocean kept giving me gifts,â you began, not wanting to give everything awayânot that it mattered, your grandmother knew.Â
âYes,â she said, pausing to adjust the scarf on her head. âYou were making a bracelet last night to give, right?â
You nodded, which she couldnât see but knew just the same. âIâŠI gave it, butâŠâ
Your grandmother paused, lifting her head up, her back still turned to you. âDid they not want it?â
You didnât comment on the change of pronouns. âI think I scared them off,â
Her back relaxed, âSweetheart, I think you took them by surprise, thatâs all,âÂ
âReally?â you breathed out, feeling the tension relaxing from your shoulders.Â
She nods, back to stirring the broth. âThey were courting you,â she murmured after a long moment.Â
You freeze. âCourtingâŠme?âÂ
Your grandmother finally turns to you, wiping her hands off on a dish towel as she leans against the counter. âYes, courting you. The summer equinox is next week and the ocean can getâŠrowdy. Very strong. Prime time for marine life to breed and find mates.âÂ
You blinked. You shouldâve known this. The ocean and everything in it were heavily tied to the lunar cycle and the equinoxes. With the next full moon, next week and combine that with the summer equinox, everything makes sense.Â
âOh,â you breathed out, feeling the blood rush to your cheeks.Â
âIt seems like you mustâve caught someoneâs attention,â your grandmother, shooting you a wink before turning around. âJust be careful, dear. Most mate for life.â
Your blush deepens as you nod, feeling a bit dazed and shy.Â
You dream of violet eyes and clawed hands holding your hips gently, reverently, with a certain bracelet on one wrist.
The waves crashed against the nearby rocks, almost thrashing Suguru against the strong waves. He shouldnât be out here; hell, he hoped you wouldnât come out here in this storm, but he couldnât help it. He should be in his cave, Satoru annoying him while Suguru pretends to sleep on his moss bed.Â
If there was a chance to see you, he was going to take it.Â
His eyes squint against the onslaught of rain, barely able to see the beach, even with his increased vision. He waited for a while, banging up against the rocks now and then while the water continued to rage around him.Â
He gave up, wincing as his pale skin was split open by a sharp rock. Through gritted teeth, he swims back down to the cave, holding the cut with his hand as he prepares to be lectured by his white-haired roommate.Â
Suguru hopes the storm will let up tomorrow.
You were already at the beach. The sand was damp, the sun just peaking over the calm waves as you walked through the cold sand.Â
The beach was quiet, almost like the air was hanging, waiting for the ball to drop. It was littered with remnants of the storm, pieces of seaweed, crab claws, and even beached jellies. You gently cup the bell in your hands and slip it back into the ocean.Â
Normally, you werenât at the beach this early, let alone up to watch the sun rise. But, you just had to. You had to see him.
And you did. Almost like he knew, or rather, he needed to see you too.
You saw his head peek out of the water before it reappeared in the shallows. You could see the fins by his ears fluttering nervously, his tail fin swaying behind him with anxious energy.Â
âYouâre here early,â you murmured softly, continuing to help the jellyfish. Suguru watched you with intense eyes, flicking his tail to follow you as you walked down the beach.
âI wanted to see you,â he said, swallowing thickly. âIâmâŠIâm sorry about the other day. I didnât mean to run off on you.âÂ
You smiled, âI think a better term would be âswimâ.â That makes Suguru return your smile.Â
He pauses, fins twitching, âThank you for the bracelet. IâŠI really like it.â He shows you his wrist, where it was wrapped around his pale skin.Â
âYouâre welcome,â you nodded, stopping with your back to him. âCanâŠcan I swim with you?âÂ
Suguruâs breath hitches, but he nods. âYes,â
You turned to him and took off your clothes, now in your swimsuit, as you wade into the cold waters. A shiver runs up your spine, goosebumps erupting on your skin from the freezing temperature. Purple eyes watch you intently, swimming backward as you come closer to him.Â
This was the closest you had ever been to him. You could see his sharp teeth, a scar crossing over his chest, and just how big he was.Â
His tail was massive, at least 6 feet long, and incredibly powerful, made to be an apex predator that could rival the Tiger sharks that ruled in these waters. His chest subconsciously puffs out in pride as you observe him closely.Â
He knew he was attractiveâat least in merpeopleâs standardsâ but feeling your eyes on him made him feel like a preening cat.
His gills flared as he observed youâ the way your curves looked in the water, the way the edges of your hair curled, and the freckles that dot your skin from the sun.Â
You were even more stunning up close.Â
Purple eyes land on the shark tooth resting in the dip of your collarbone. Without thinking, he reaches up with his webbed, clawed fingers to touch the bone. Your heart stutters in your chest, not of fear, but with anticipation.Â
He lets out a soft hum, his chest vibrating with the sound and making the water ripple.Â
âYour tail is so pretty,â you murmured, watching the way the black scales glitter under the water. It was almost hypnotizing. He smirks, just slightly.Â
âThank you,â he said, letting go of your necklace and letting his fingers brush against your skin.Â
You were both content to just watch each other, fascinated by everything about one another.Â
At some point, you reach out. Very slowly, giving him every chance to pull away as you reach for his hand.Â
He lets you. Lets you touch his webbed fingers, feeling the membrane against your fingertips, touch his sharp claws before trailing your hand up his muscular forearms. His cut from yesterday was still healing, and you linger on it before continuing up his bicep to rest your hand on his shoulder.Â
His eyes felt like they were boring into you, watching your every move like a predator and you were his prey. But you didnât feel scared. Not one bit.Â
He does the same, touching your skin, starting at your wrist, following the path of your muscles, tracing the lines of your tattoos.Â
It felt like the waves seemed to stop, like the ocean was holding its breath.Â
He rests his hand over your heart, feeling it flutter under your skin, his claws brushing against the shark tooth. You smile softly, tucking your chin like you were shy of the intimate touch.Â
You were glowing under the rising sun, Suguru felt his breath hitch as you were bathed in gold.Â
âBeautiful,â he murmured, the word slipping from his lips. Your heart stutters in your chest. He feels it.
You meet his gaze, searching his violet eyes intently, like you could read the lines of his soul. And he would let you. Â
You head back to the house, your hair wet from your swim and your heart still fluttering beneath your chest.Â
Suguru watches as you leave, staying until he sees you disappear into the comfort of your home. He swims back to his den, vibrating in excitement. He canât wait to tell Satoru.Â
You both canât wait to see each other tomorrow.Â
The sun was warm on your back, the waves gentle and quiet for once. The storm had passed days ago, and the ocean seemed to be resting, content and sighing under a soft breeze.
You were floating in the shallows, arms stretched wide as your body drifted, half-suspended in the salt and sun. Your eyes were closed, the sounds of the waves your lullaby.
Then something brushed your ankle.
You cracked one eye open. âSuguru?â
A splash answered you. Not a threatening one, just⊠mischievous.
You turned just in time to see a flash of black tail disappear into the deeper water.
âOh, so thatâs how weâre playing today?â you laughed.
He surfaced only a few feet away, grinning boyishly, hair slicked back and violet eyes full of mischief. âYou looked too peaceful,â he teased.
âI was peaceful!â
âYou looked like you were going to float off to sleep,â he said, swimming in slow, lazy circles around you. âCanât have that. You might drift away and never come back.â
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. âYou worry too much.â
âI do,â he agreed easily, inching closer. âBut only about you.â
His tail swished just beneath the surface, and the ripple nudged you playfully. He was so⊠different now. Softer around you. Open. Comfortable. His usual caution had melted into something brighter.
âYouâre in a good mood today,â you murmured, turning to float on your stomach and tread beside him. âAlmost like a puppy.â
He barked a laugh, startled by the comparison. âA very large, very dangerous puppy.â
âStill a puppy.â
He nudged your side with the edge of his tail again, earning a splash from you. He blinked in surprise at the water droplets hitting his face.
âOh, youâre brave today,â he murmured, eyes narrowing with mock danger.
âIâm always brave.â
A full-on splash war began. He had the upper hand, clearly, with that powerful tail, but you were determinedâand creative. The sound of your laughter echoed off the waves.
Eventually, both of you were tired. You ended up back near the rocks, half-submerged with your arms resting on a smooth boulder, your legs floating behind you in the current.
Suguru was beside you, perched in the water with his arms folded on the same rock, his hair clinging to his cheeks, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.
You were close. Closer than before. Your shoulders nearly touched.
And for a while, neither of you said anything.
Then, softly, he said, âThis is what it feels like.â
You glanced at him. âWhat does?â
âTo be happy.â
Your breath caught.
He didnât look at you when he said it, like the words were too fragile to survive direct eye contact. But you saw the truth in his face. The ease in his body. The way his fins fluttered gently in the water.
You reached out and took his hand under the water, your fingers sliding between his. The webbing was soft. His claws didnât scare you.
He squeezed once, just enough for you to know he felt the same.
âI want to know everything about you,â you said after a moment.
His smile deepened, slow and full of meaning. âThen Iâll tell you.â
He tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear, his claws careful not to scratch your skin. The sun caught in his eyes.
âTomorrow,â he said, voice a low murmur, âIâll take you somewhere. Somewhere important to me.â
You nodded. âOkay.â
The water lapped quietly around you, and the bracelet on his wrist gleamed in the sunlight and your shark tooth necklace glistened.
The next day, he took you out to sea, where the water was colder, darker, more ominous.
Suguru had guided you farther than youâd ever swamânever too fast, never beyond your reach, always doubling back if you hesitated. His fingers laced with yours most of the way, his tail moving with powerful ease beneath the surface. Every time you paused to take in the blue around you, he just smiled and waited.
Now, you were here.
It was a cove hidden behind a jut of jagged rocks and draped in thick kelp like a curtain. You wouldâve never found it without him.
The water was clearer here. The sun pierced through from above in glittering shafts, casting everything in shifting gold. Rock walls rose on every side, soft moss growing between cracks, dotted with sea anemones and tiny swaying creatures.
And everywhereâeverywhereâthere were carvings. Marks etched into the stone walls. Spirals. Lines. Swirls. Some were ancient and worn smooth by time. Others were crisp and new.
You turned in a slow circle, breath catching in your throat. âWhat⊠is this place?â
Suguru hovered beside you in the water, his long tail brushing the sand below. âItâs⊠like a memory vault,â he murmured. âOur kind doesnât write things down the way humans do. We remember through the ocean. Through these.â
He gestured to the carvings. âEvery family, every pod⊠we leave something behind. Names. Stories. Marks of love. Of loss. This is one of the oldest ones still intact.â
You reached out to brush a curling swirl carved into a mossy stone. âItâs beautiful.â
âI used to come here with my parents,â he said quietly. âTheyâre gone now. This⊠is where I talk to them.â
Your heart ached, but he didnât sound sad. He sounded reverent. Like the weight of them still lingered in this place.
âDo you have a mark here?â you asked.
He nodded and guided you to the far wall, where the rock jutted out in a jagged edge. There, nestled between two older markings, was a familiar shape: a jellyfish carved carefully into the stone, its tendrils curling downward.
It was the same carving he had given to you.Â
Your lips parted. âThatâsâŠâ
He gave a small smile. âThe first carving I ever made for someone else.â
You felt warmth bloom in your chest. âItâs perfect.â
âI wasnât sure Iâd ever bring you here,â he admitted, swimming a little closer. âItâs⊠sacred. To my kind. But I wanted you to know where I come from. What I remember. What I want to remember.â
You looked up at him, watching the way the sun painted his pale skin in gold and blue. âYouâre telling me Iâm a part of your story now.â
Suguru didnât hesitate. âYouâve always been part of it. I think⊠I was just waiting to catch up to it.â
You stared at him for a long moment, your fingers brushing over the jellyfish again.
Then a faint splash echoed from the edge of the cove.
âAh, there you are,â came a familiar, amused voice.
Suguru groaned, turning to the entrance. âSatoru.â
A flash of white, a swirl of movementâand there he was. A sleek white-tailed merman with gleaming blue eyes and the most obnoxiously smug grin youâd ever seen.
âI knew it. You brought her to the spot,â he said, clearly delighted. âDid you confess your eternal love yet, or are you still fumbling around like a shrimp with a concussion?â
Suguru scowled. âGo away, Satoru.â
âI live here.â
âNot here-here.â
Satoru just floated upside-down with his arms crossed, grinning at you. âHi, human. Thanks for not running away screaming. Heâs soft for you, you know. He gets all pink in the face and weird when he talks about you.â
âDo you mind?â Suguru said through gritted teeth, visibly flustered as his fins flared.
You just laughed, hand over your mouth. âItâs okay. I think itâs sweet.â
Satoru turned to his best friend. âMate-claiming ritualâs next week, yeah? You should probably tell her.â
âSatoruââ
âOh, relax, sheâs already halfway mated to you. Look at her. She swam all the way out here.â
Suguru looked at you then, really looked, and whatever snarky comeback he had died on his tongue.
Because it was true.
You were here. With him. In a place sacred to his heart. You had touched his world, and you had stayed.
And Suguru suddenly wanted nothing more than to ask you the one question that had been echoing in his chest since he first heard your voice. Since he first saw you looking out at the ocean like it was the most perfect thing in the world. Like it was the only thing in the world.Â
But not yet.
But soon.Â
The night of the full moon arrives quietly.
No storm, no crashing waves. Just soft currents, a silver-bright sky, and the gentle hush of the ocean breathing against the shore.
You wait for him on the sand, a delicate piece of driftwood in your hands that you carved with your grandmotherâs help. Itâs not perfect, but itâs yoursâa shape resembling a jellyfish, etched with swirling lines, wrapped in a thin strip of purple fabric from your old scarf. Your offering. Your answer.
The moon is high when he comes.
Suguru rises from the water in silence, his black tail glinting like obsidian, his eyes glowing violet in the moonlight. He looks nervous, which makes your heart swell.
In his hands, cupped like heâs holding something sacred, is a string of woven kelp and coral. In the center rests a curved pearlâlarger than the one he gave you before. It glimmers with pale purple and opal blue.
When he reaches you, he doesnât speak right away. He just looks at you. Takes you in.
âYou came,â he murmurs.
You smile softly. âOf course I did.â
Thereâs a beat of quiet before Suguru inhales deeply.
âIn my culture,â he says, voice steady but warm, âwhen we want to claim a mate, we bring them to sacred water. We offer them something we madeâsomething born of the sea and our own hands. We show them who we are. We ask them to choose us back.â
You hold your carving out to him. His lips part in quiet surprise.
âI carved it myself,â you say softly. âItâs not as good as yours. But I wanted you to have it.â
He accepts it reverently, holding it like he might hold your heart.
âI choose you,â you say.
His eyes shimmer.
Then he offers you the pearl necklace. âAnd I choose you.â
You let him fasten it around your neck, the pearl resting above the shark tooth you always wear. His fingers brush your skin.
âIs that⊠is that it?â you whisper.
He laughs, low and tender. âNot quite.â
Then he slips beneath the waterâand in a blink, circles you in a blur of motion, his tail sweeping through the shallows like liquid shadow. You spin, laughing as his movement stirs up silver-tipped waves.
Heâs showing off. You realize that.
This is part of the ritual tooâdisplaying himself, his strength, his power, his joy. He swims in fast, graceful loops, fins spread wide, glowing beneath the moon. Heâs so beautiful, it makes your heart pound and your smile widen.Â
Heâs radiant. Wild. Yours.
He breaches the surface, sending up a burst of spray, and when he dives again, he doesnât go far. He comes to rest just in front of you, his chest rising and falling.
You step into the water without fear, letting the waves reach your hips, and reach for him.
Your hands meet. Then your foreheads.
You stand there, touchingâhuman and merman, woman and sea, two hearts tied together by tide and time.
And the ocean wraps around you both like sheâs giving you her blessing.Â
âThank you for choosing me,â he murmurs, his clawed fingers resting on the dip of your waist.Â
You smile, âAlways,â
Your grandmother knew, just like how she always did.Â
âYouâre glowing, sweetheart,â she said, giving you a knowing smile. âIs that a new necklace?â
You laugh softly, a pink blush dusting your cheeks. âYou like it?âÂ
She stares at you for a long moment and nods. âItâs beautiful.âÂ
You hum in agreement, your fingers brushing against the pearl. You glance outside, watching as a certain black tail dives under the waves and you donât notice the smile on your lips.Â
Satoru was grinning like an idiot, whooping and hollaring once Suguru finally swam back into their shared den. âLook what the tide dragged in. Youâre a mated man now, Sugu!â He wraps an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in.Â
Suguru groans but lets the white-tailed man do as he wishes, knowing it was better to not struggle. âYeah, yeah, yeah. Iâm a mated man now.â
Satoru leans in, a mischievous smile on his lips, âSo, when are you two having pups?âÂ
Suguru blushes immediately, spluttering like a brainless squid as he tries to come up with an answer. As Satoru continues to make out-of-pocket comments, Suguru couldnât help the urge to smile.Â
He wouldnât trade anything for the world; between you and his best friend, he had everything he needed.Â
Suguru was home.Â
âSo, what about pups?â
âSuguru!â
âI was kiddingâŠOnly a little bit, anyway.â
âYouâre half fish.â
âAnd? Weâll figure it out.âÂ
â...Iâm speechless.â
âWe have time.â
âSuguru!â
a/n: i love the ocean. so much. i think i was a mermaid or something in my past life. anyways, i feel like suguru would be a mermaid/siren if he was a mythical creature. i loved writing this. this is my first piece for suguru, my love AND first jjk fic. my baby.
âââââââââââââââââââââââââ the hand that feeds - nine inch nails
ââ .⊠do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI
⊠. Summary: Creating life is no easy feat, but sustaining it is a whole different realm. Youâre a widowed scientist calling on the power of the heavenâs themselves to bring your love back to you. But the townspeople only see you as a witch, a monsterâand it only worsens when a very large shadow begins to follow you around, especially when he begins to eat the livestock.
⊠. Characters: Frankenstein!Eyeless Jack x Female Reader
⊠. Warning: Gore, blood, body mutilation, murder, lots of religious symbolism, medical horror, body horror, saliva, scratching, biting, animalistic tendencies, cannibalism, graphic depictions of violence, fluff and smut, morally bad reader, unreliable narrator, needles, knives, rough sex, monster fucker, monster x human, tongue fucking, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, belly bulge, squirting, creampies, multiple positions and orgasms, creation x creator
⊠. Words: 15.6k out of 34.1k
⊠. Note: HAD TO SPLIT INTO TWO PARTS DUE TO TUMBLR BLOCK LIMIT!!!!! Long note here, stick with me. If there are any inconsistencies throughout this fic, I apologize, but this is mainly due to the fact that I have been working on this fic for 4 solid months and may have lost the plot a couple of times. If youâre coming to this fic looking for lore-accurate Frankensteinâs Creature, this is not for you. Imagine moreso The Shape of Waterâs fish man. This fic is very morally gray, and you (the reader) make a lot of dumb choices, so keep that in mind. And finally, yes, Jack is naked for half this fic because I feel like if I was a freshly made creation forced to wear pants, Iâd be pissed, so I gave him freedom. Anyway, ENJOY!!!
âIt is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.â â Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
The wind claws at the leaded windows of your manor like a living beast, howling through the cracks in the stonework, carrying the smell of wet earth and thick woodsmoke from the village below.Â
You stand in the gaping foyer, the once-grand space now a graveyard of your ambitions. Dust motes dance in the feeble light filtering through grimy panes, illuminating cobwebs on the chandelier above. The air is thick, heavy with the grime of chemicals and the stout, underlying rot that no amount of incense can mask.Â
Your home, perched on the jagged cliffs overlooking the sleepy village below, was built in the 18th century by some long-forgotten baron, its gothic spires and gargoyle-guarded eaves a testament to grandeur now faded into neglect.
Down in the village, they whisper about you. The reclusive scientist of this manor, the mad inventor who vanished from society years ago. You hear their tales on the rare occasions you venture out under the cover of night, cloaked in shadow, to collect supplies from the apothecary or the butcher.Â
âWitch,â they mutter behind gloved hands as you pass, their eyes averted from your face and the wild tangle of hair that escapes your hood. Children scatter like leaves in the wind, and the priest crosses himself at the sight of you passing back up the winding, fog-shrouded path. This village is a place of simple folkâfarmers tilling stubborn soil, blacksmiths hammering iron into plows, women gossiping over tea in parlors warmed by crackling hearths. They fear what they do not understand, like the lightning rods jutting from your roof like accusing fingers, the strange glow that emanates from your windows at unholy hours, the screams that sometimes echo down the valley, mistaken for the wail of banshees.
But you are no witch.Â
You are a scientist, an inventor, a seeker of truths buried in the marrow of existence. Obsessed with lifeâthe spark that animates flesh, the lust that drives the heart to beat faster, the binding twists of the human mind that birth genius and monstrosity in equal measure. Your manor is your laboratory, your sanctuary⊠your prison.Â
The drawing rooms have been gutted, transformed into chambers of your craft. In the east wing, shelves groan under the weight of leather-bound tomes: inventions on electricity, forbidden notes smuggled from foreign continents, texts illustrated with grotesque anatomies. Jars line the walls, filled with preservatives that cloud the glass, failed experiments staring back with milky eyes. A rabbit with too many limbs, a human torso stitched from animal parts, too many teeth and fingers too keep up with.
Itâs a mess.
You pace the cold marble floors of your study, boots echoing in the vast emptiness. The fire in the hearth sputters, casting elongated shadows that writhe across the stone covered in parchment drawings. Your hands, stained with ink and blood, tremble as you pore over your latest journal. Page after page of frantic scrawls, filled with diagrams of circulatory systems intertwined with arcane symbols, equations balancing spirituality against the heavenly forces you swear must exist.
Creation of life is your greatest feat. To create it, to animate it, to become God itself. Youâve tried everything.Â
Animals first.Â
Cats electrified until their charred fur, dogs infused with elixirs distilled from rare herbs and your own blood, rats and rabbits sewn together until it was hard to tell which parts came from what.
Then humans, God forgive you.
Vagrants lured with promises of coin if they would kill another for your studies, corpses dug up from the village graveyard, even your last lover when he left you. All of them stitched, shocked, injected with serums that promise rebirth. But they all fail. They rot. They crumble. The spark eludes you, slipping through your fingers again and again.
Madness stirs at the edges of your vision, a constant companion these days. You havenât slept in⊠how long? Days blur into nights, marked only by the tolling of the village bell far below. Your reflection in the cracked mirror above the mantel shows someone unhinged with eyes sunken and fever-bright, lips chapped from muttering incantations to yourself, cheeks hollowed by meals forgotten amid the frenzy. Lust coils in your bellyânot for flesh, but for the ultimate unionâcreator and creation, mind and body fused in perfect, pulsating life.Â
You crave it like a drug, this power over death. The human mind, so fragile, so ripe for dissection. Whispers in the dark corners of the manor tell you youâre close. So close. One more attempt. One more body, fresh and vital, to mold into something eternal.
You yearn for the day you get to look your creation in the eye and feel its heartbeat against yours.
Tonight, the storm gathers. Thunder rumbles like the laughter of gods, and lightning illuminates the chaos of your workspace with tables strewn with scalpels, coils of wire, batteries humming. The village sleeps, oblivious, unaware of what truly happens behind these walls. You light another candle, its flame guttering in the draft, and turn back to your notes.Â
The quill scratches across parchment, ink bleeding into frantic loops and slashes. The words blur, your eyes burn, but you force them open. One more line, one more variable. The storm outside answers with a crack of thunder that rattles the very bones of your manor, rattling the chains and metal behind you.
You turn, and there he is.
Strapped to the iron-framed table at the roomâs center, Jackâyour masterpiece, your abominationâlies in wait. Leather restraints bite into mismatched wrists and ankles, creaking with every shallow rumble of the storm or settling of the manor. The table is tilted upright now, a grotesque easel, so you can look him in the face when the moment comes.Â
And what a face. Skin the color of gray oceans stretches over a skull too broad for any single man, sutured along the hairline in a jagged crown of black stitching. His jaw juts wrong, borrowed from a mastiff you drowned in the river last spring. Teeth gleam behind parted lips, human incisors beside yellowed coyote fangs held frozen in a snarl. His ears twitch even in stillness, leathery bat wings pinned flat by more stitches, veined and translucent, quivering with the memory of flight.
But your favorite bit has to be his choppy hair, a mess of different shades of brown strands you kept in a nap sack. Theyâve all come from different heads, but you decorated his scalp nicely so you could run your fingers through the course strands.
He doesnât have eyes. Optic nerves are too finicky, and your hands have lost their steadiness long ago, but youâve made sure to give him the satisfaction of eyelids. He wonât be able to see you (though, with the state youâve been in, maybe itâs for the better), but he will be able to smell you, and taste you, and hear your hearts beat in time.
His body is a butcherâs fever dream, though. A farmerâs thick arms end in broad hands with taloned crowâs claws, blackened and curved, clicking against the metal as residual nerves fire. Below the waist, the legs are mismatched, one from a thief who tried to ransack your garbage, another from some body you dug up (you made sure to try and make them as similar as possible, muscles and all). He staggers, every inch of him a bit bigger than the last, muscles building upon muscles until youâve been left with a mountain of a man.
But that was only half the story.
Lower, beneath the crude belt of scar tissue where human hips met mismatched haunches, you had not spared your craft.Â
And who could blame you? Years of silence, of nights spent with only the creak of floorboards and the wet thud of your own pulse for company, how could you deny yourself this one indulgence? You stitched him a manhood worthy of the name, pieced from the best of what the graveyards and the gallows offered. It was difficult to seam it together, threading silver wire beneath the skin so every vein would stand proud when blood finally rushed south.
You told yourself it was scienceâproportion, symmetry, the full anatomy of life. But your fingers had lingered, tracing the ridge youâd sculpted, the soft give youâd coaxed into being. Itâs crude, and perverted. But youâve lost your sense of shame ages ago.
The torso is the worst. You pieced it from sixâno, sevenâcadavers, skin tones clashing like a quilt sewn by someone blind and drunk all at once. Scars rope across him in raised, angry welts, some still weeping clear fluid. Thereâs stitching everywhere, crude and thick, holding him together the way prayer holds a sinner to grace. A flap of skin over his sternum hangs open, revealing the hollow cavity where his heart should beat.
But it will. Soon.
Your gaze drifts to the jar on the desk. Inside, suspended in amber fluid, floats the heart of the man who once shared your bed. Jack. The real one. The one who laughed at your theories, kissed the ink from your fingers, promised to stay even as parasites ate him hollow. You kept him alive longer than medicine allowed with tubes and tinctures and desperate, whispered prayers until the night he begged you to let him go. You did. Then you took what he left behind.
The heart is smaller than you remember, shriveled slightly, but perfect. You lift the jar, cradling it against your chest. The glass is cold, and the organ inside pulses faintly⊠or is that your own heartbeat echoing through your ribs? You canât tell anymore.
âAlmost, my love,â you murmur to the thing on the table.Â
You set the jar beside the open chest. The cavity yawns, ribs pried apart and pinned with iron clamps. Inside, lungs harvested from a drowned sailor inflate and deflate with the bellows youâve rigged to a waterwheel in the cellar. Tubes snake from his throat to a bubbling flask of oxygenated serum. Everything is ready. Everything must work.
Because this time, youâve woven love into the stitches. This time, the heart remembers your name.
You smile, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on your cheeks as you tie on your dirtied apron, stained with years of work.
âWake up, Jack,â you whisper, unscrewing the lid of the jar. âItâs time to come home.â
Rain lashes the windows in sheets, each drop a hammer blow against glass. Thunder rolls in waves, shaking the floorboards beneath your feet. The candles gutter, then flare, then gutter again, as if the air itself is taking deep breathes. You stand over the table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, arms slick to the wrist with amber fluid and old blood as you fish the heart out.
You reach into the cavity with both hands.
The heart is heavier than you remember when you stole it from your loverâs dead body, warm from the preservative bath, slick as a fish. It slides between your fingers like it wants to be placed, so you guide it home, nestling it among the mismatched lungs, a liver you stole, the spleen of a deer, bull arteries thick as garden hoses. You work as steady as your frantic brain will allow, guiding the needle and thread. In, loop, pull. The heartâs aorta slots to the bullâs artery, and you sew them together in tiny, perfect stitches, humming under your breath.
The veins are next. You splice, tie, and knot them tightly together. Pigâs blood, thick and dark, is warmed in a copper basin over the fire, waiting in a glass reservoir rigged to a hand-crank pump. Tubing snakes from the reservoir to the table, rubber fittings you scavenged from old fishing gear. You thread the largest tube into the heartâs pulmonary artery, seal it with wax and a prayer while smaller lines burrow into the vena cava and the jugular you borrowed from a poacherâs corpse. Itâs difficult, but youâve had so many trial and errors that it feels like childâs play now.
When the last stitch is tied, you pause. The heart sits centered now, a dark ruby in a cage of bone and tissue. You lean in, letting your lips brush the slick muscle, a final promise pressed through a kiss.Â
Then you fold the pinned back flaps of skin back over the cavity like closing a book, finding your needle again. You sew in long, looping pulls, the thread biting deep. The skin puckers, pulling taught, irritation blooming fresh and pink. When you knot the final stitch, the chest is whole.Â
Almost. It still needs to rise and fall.
The screws jut from either side of his neck like iron welts, threaded deep into the vertebrae, wired to copper plates beneath the skin. You drag the cables across the floor, trying your best not to snag them on anything. One end clips to the left screw with a spark that singes your knuckle. The other to the right.Â
The pigâs blood reservoir sits ready. You prime the pumpâthump, thumpâand crimson floods the tubes. It gurgles into his veins, dark and viscous, chasing out the last of the preservative. His skin flushes, mottled purple to sickly rose and deep blue.Â
The heartâyour heartâgives a single, wet lurch inside its new cage.
You step back. The storm is directly overhead now as lightning strobes white across the windows. In that flash, you see him: the monster, the lover, the bridge between death and your will. The cables hum, thick with current stolen from the sky. You grip the switchâa brass lever salvaged from a church organ, connected from copper wiring up to the lighting poles on your roof.
You take a deep breath.
You throw the lever.
The sky splits open and lightning answers.
A single, white-hot lance of lightning spears the tallest rod on your roof. The impact is a thunderclap inside your skull as metal screams, glass shatters in the upper windows, and the air turns staticy. The bolt rides the braided copper downspouts you braided yourself, down the gutters, down the walls, a river of blue-white fire racing for the laboratory.
It finds the cables.
They swell, and glow, and sing. The sheath blisters and peels away in smoking ribbons. Inside the room, every hair on your body lifts, and the candles extinguish in a puff of smoke. The cables buck like living serpents, then go rigid. A heartbeat of silence, then the current slams the iron screws in Jackâs neck.
The first spark is like a sun.
It erupts from the left bolt in a flash of violet fire, arcs across the gap to the right, and showers your face in sparks. You feel each one, a thousand stinging kisses, but your eyes stay open. Unblinking. You watch.
The electricity pours into him.
Jackâs body leaps. The leather straps groan, then snap like kindling. His spine bows so violently the table legs screech across the stone floor. Every muscle locks, then spasms, then locks again. The bat ears flatten against his skull, the crow claws rake furrow in the iron. His jaw unhinges in a silent howl, fangs catching the strobing light like ivory lightning rods of their own. Veins beneath the stitched skin bulge black as the current hunts for ground.
Another bolt. Another. The storm is a machine now, feeding him.
The pigâs blood boils in the tubes, frothing crimson foam that spatters the floor. The heart, your loverâs heart, slams against its new ribs once, twice, a frantic drum trying to match the thunder. His scars split open in places, fresh blood, dark red, spraying in rhythmic arcs that paint your apron, your cheeks, the walls.
You do not move.
You stand in the eye of the chaos, hair whipping loose, eyes wide and dry despite the sparks that sear your lashes. The room is a forge with the copper smell of ozone, the horrid reek of burning blood, the sweet rot of old flesh cooking from the inside. Jackâs body is a puppet with its strings on fire. His one leg kicks, jarring the table further. His arm flails, fingers splayed, and his clawed fingers grip and tense around nothing.
A third bolt, thicker than the last, slams home.
The lights in the manor explode in a chain of pops. Darkness swallows everything but the afterimage burned into your retinas: Jack suspended mid-convulsion, every stitch glowing white-hot, the heart visible as a pulsing beacon behind his ribs. Then the current peaks, a roar that drowns the storm itself, and the cables melt. Copper drips in glowing rivulets, hissing where it meets the blood on the floor.
Silence.
The storm exhales and moves on, grumbling like a beast overhead. A few, lingering candles stay lit from residual heat, and in the flickering gold, Jack hangs half-off the table, straps in tatters, body jerking and writhing with electricity.
You finally blink.
A single tear cuts through the soot on your cheek, but you are smiling.
You wait.
Three feet back, boots rooted in the cooling blood, you wait with the patience of a bride at an altar that never opens. Your smile is small, but your heart thumps wildly in your chest.
Come on, love. Come back to me.
Nothing.
âJack,â you whisper. The name tastes like rust and honey and every dream youâve ever conjured.
Nothing.
The smile falters. One corner of your mouth twitches downward, then the other. You take a step, the floor squelching beneath you.
âJack.â
Closer now, you reach out. Your palm hovers over the stitched chest, trembling. The heat radiates like a smithâs forge, but you press anyway.
The flesh is searing. Skin blisters your fingertips on contact. You yelp and jerk back, cradling the burned hand to your chest. Tears spring unbidden, hot and furious, carving clean lines down your cheeks.
âNo,â you breathe. âNo, no, no.â
You slam both palms against his chest this time, ignoring the pain. The heart sits in his ribs, the blood in his veins, but the limbs hang slack. You smear blood across the scars, painting yourself in failure. Your voice cracks open.
âJACK!â
The scream ricochets off stone and glass, and you kick the table. Iron rings, the whole frame shudders, but he does not wake. You kick again, harder, boot toe denting the metal. Pain blooms up your leg; you welcome it.
You stumble backward, apron soaked crimson, hands slick and shaking. The tears come in earnest nowâugly, wrenching sobs that fold you in half. You sink to your knees in the puddle of blood and melted wax, arms wrapped around your head as if you could hold the madness in.
âThis one was perfect,â you sob into the crook of your elbow. âYou were supposed to be perfect.â
You curl tighter, forehead pressed to the cold floor, and cry until the storm outside sounds gentle by comparison.
âGod,â you spit, the word foreign and bitter on your tongue. âIf youâre there, if you ever were, end this. Take the madness. Take me. Strike me down right here, you coward, or give me back myââ
Your voice cracks. The prayer dissolves into a hiccupping whisper. You havenât prayed since childhood, finding that people who pray to a cruel God are nothing but sheep. Now the words tumble out anyway, stout with venom.
âLet it be finished. Let me be finished.â
The storm has passed. The manor is wrong in its silenceâno wind, no thunder, only the soft drip of blood from the tableâs lip.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
You bow lower, pressing your forehead to the stone, arms wrapping around your skull as if you could crush the thoughts inside. The silence swells, thick and so obscene you can hear your own pulse in your ears.
Then, as if nothing more than air on your skinâ
The scrape of a talon on your scalp.
It begins at the crown of your head, parting your tangled hair. One claw, then two, then the whole splayed hand threading through the strands like a lover waking you from a nightmare. The touch is slow, exploratory, dragging downward to the nape of your neck. A low, wet rumble vibrates above youânot thunder, not the pump, but a sound from a throat that has never spoken.
You freeze.
The claws pause, curling gently, possessively, against your skin.
Your heart slams against your ribs, but you donât dare breathe. The claw in your hair moves again, combing through the knots, talons grazing your scalp with a tenderness that makes your skin prickle.
Your hand rises, trembling, and closes around it.
The claw is warm. Not the searing heat of lightning, but the steady, pulsing warmth of life. Blood thrums beneath the scarred skin, pumping through veins. The hand is monstrous, a slight mistake on your part, but your two hands barely encircle it. You grip tighter, afraid it will vanish if you let go.
You kneel upward slowly, as if moving too quickly will wake you up from this dream. Your gaze follows the arm through corded muscle under mottled skin, scars glowing in the candlelight, up to the shoulder where human flesh meets thick stitching. Then higher to the face.
The eyeless sockets stare back.
Where eyes should be, only smooth, stitched skin, until you look closer. Thick, viscous black liquid wells from the seams, pooling, spilling over in slow, tar-like tears. It drips from his chin, pattering onto his chest. The bat ears twitch. The canine jaw works, fangs clicking softly, as if tasting the air.
You swallow. Your voice is a thread, so soft even you barely hear it.
âJack?â
The creature sniffs, the nostrils you carved flaring as he takes deep inhales. The grip on your hand tightens, a low rumble vibrating through the talons into your bones. The head tilts, black tears streaking the stitched cheeks, and the grip shifts, tugging you closer, jerking your arm.
You stumble forward on numb knees, boots slipping in the congealing blood. He doesnât know his own strength, the table lurching with a metallic screech, one remaining strap creaking in protest. Youâre half-dragged to your feet, palms slapping against the warm, scarred chest to steady yourself.
The heartâhis heart, your Jackâs heartâslams beneath your fingers. Not the mechanical thud of the pump, but a living, frantic rhythm. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Faster than it should be, as if itâs trying to outrun the body it now powers. You press both hands flat, feeling the heat seep into your burned skin, the tremor of muscle beneath stitches.
Tears come again, hot and thick as they spill over your lashes and drip onto the fresh-sewn chest, mixing with the black ooze still weeping from his sockets. You lean in, cheek to the ridged sternum, ear pressed to the cavity you closed with your own trembling hands. The heartbeat fills your skull, loud and real and impossible.
âJack,â you sob, laughing through it. âYouâre here.â
A low, confused rumble answers from his throat, an animalistic growl that tickles your skin. The free claw rises, hesitant, then settles on the back of your head. Talons comb through your hair again, careful, as if heâs learning the shape of you by touch alone. The other arm strains against the last leather strap, iron buckle groaning, but he doesnât fight it. Not yet. Heâs too busy sniffing, taking deep, wet inhalations that flutter the hair at your temple. The bat ears swivel, tracking the sound of your breath, your tears, the frantic thumping of your own heart.
You cling to him, arms sliding around the mismatched waist, fingers digging into the warm skin. He smells like copper and mildew and the unmistakable scent of a man. His chest rises and falls against your cheek, shallow but steady. The restrained arm jerks once, twice, then stills, the claw flexing open and closed like a child reaching for a toy just out of grasp.
He doesnât know your name. Doesnât even know his. Doesnât know the storm, the manor, the graveyards you robbed. He only knows the warmth pressed against him, the salt of your tears, the heartbeat that matches his own.Â
And thatâs enough.
âŠ
Until it isnât.
A tremor runs through the massive frame, first a shiver, then a shudder. His ears pin flat. The sniffing stops. The claw on your head tightens, talons pricking your scalp, and the rumble in his chest pitches higher, a frustrated sound.
He jerks.
The table rocks, and the last leg strap groans. You feel the shift in his body, the sudden, animal surge of panic. You step back, palms raised.
âJack, easyââ
Too late.
He thrashes. The remaining strap on his left ankle snaps like thread, leather shredding. The table tilts, crashes onto its side with a clang that rattles your teeth. You stumble, boots skidding backwards, arms windmilling for balance. He howls, a sound torn between man and beast, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The black ooze pours faster from his sockets, streaking the floor in glossy ribbons.
âJack, stopâlook at meââ
He canât. He canât see. The world is scent and sound and terror. He lunges upright, mismatched legs scrambling for purchase. The right leg strap holds, the cuff biting deep into flesh. He snarls, fangs flashing, and rips. The second strap explodes, and he staggers to his feet, swaying, a titan drunk on new life.
The final restraint: the thick leather around his left wrist, bolted to the overturned tableâs frame. He yanks hard, the buckle screeching.
âJack! Noââ
You see it happen in slow, sickening detail. The stitches along his shoulder stretch, dark thread going taut, then pink as skin parts. Blood rivulets begin to pool from the tears being made, streaming down his thick arm. He doesnât feel it because you didnât include half the pain receptors you should have. The joint pops, a wet, grinding dislocation. Flesh tears in a ragged sheet from collarbone to bicep, revealing raw muscle and glinting bone. The cuff still holds. He plants his feet, and throws his weight back. The leather snaps with a crack like a musket shot.
He falls.
His palms slap the stone hard enough to make you wince, the dislocated arm dangling at his side. His chest heaves, taking gulping breaths that have him shaking. His head sways from side to side on his shoulders, still disoriented but grunting and whining like a lost dog.
You stand frozen, hands pressed to your mouth, trying to hold the screams inside. The creature you made, your lover reborn, crouches in the ruin of your laboratory, alive.
You smile so wide your cheeks hurt.Â
You sink to your knees, careful not to startle him. Youâre a few feet away, just enough space to not let Jack feel overwhelmed even more.
He sways, head low, ears swiveling like radar dishes. The dislocated arm drags, useless, leaving a wet smear across the stone. Every breath he takes whistles through his nostrils, every exhale steams in the cooling air. He sniffs, cataloging the world in scents you can only guess at: rust, blood, melted wax, your own salt-sweat skin.
You watch, rapt.Â
This is genesis all over again. The first clumsy steps of a soul stitched from scraps. This must be what God felt, you think, watching Adam and Eve, both of them naked and terrified and perfect.
You lift your fist and strike the floor. Thump.
His head snaps toward the sound, ears pricked high. The black tears have slowed to a trickle, the sockets gaping like wells. He shifts his weight, one leg bending, knee scraping the ground. He shifts towards the sound, leaning towards it as he sniffs.
You strike again. Thump.
He shifts again, closer. The talons of his good hand click against stone. He lifts his head, sniffing the air between you, and you see the moment recognition flickers, not memory, but something. Like heâs understanding the same person who was pressed against him moments ago is the same person who sits here now.
You crawl.
Knees in blood, apron dragging, you move toward him on all fours. The distance shrinks until youâre barely a foot from him. You extend both hands, palms up, fingers trembling. The burns on your skin throb, but you ignore them.
He leans in.
His face hovers inches from your fingertips as hot breath washes over your wrists. He sniffs once, twice, deep and shuddering. Then the claw rises, settling over your offered hands, talons curling gently around your wrists.Â
You hold your breath.
He holds his.
You guide his hand to your cheek. The rough pads of his fingers, stitched from calloused laborers and farmers, brush your skin like weathered parchment. He pauses, then explores, tracing the ridge of your cheekbone, the damp trail of tears, the wild tangle of your hair. You tilt your head into the touch, letting him map you. His claws comb gently, parting strands, learning the texture of you.
You move him lower. You draw his palm to the hollow of your throat. His nostrils flare as he feels the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath thin skin. A low, wondering rumble vibrates in his chest. You press harder, making him feel the life you gave him mirrored in your own veins.
Then lower still. You guide him to your sternum, flattening his hand over your heart. It races beneath your ribs, thumping against your chest. You cover his hand with both of yours, pinning it there. Feel me. Know me. The moment stretches, candlelight flickering across your joined shadows on the grime-slick floor.
He moves first.
His claw curls, slides to the nape of your neck, and pulls. Itâs not rough, more like impatience. You rise onto your knees as he drags you forward, until your chest collides with his. The impact jars a sob from your throat, joy quickly replacing the anger you felt only minutes ago. His good arm locks around your waist, talons splayed across your back, careful even in instinct. He buries his face in your hair.
He smells you.
Deep, dragging inhalations taking in the salt of your scalp, the copper of blood on your hair, the soap you havenât used in days. His muzzle drags down, nosing along your neck, breath hot against your pulse. You cry openly now, tears soaking into the skin at his shoulder. He follows them.
His tongue unfurls.
The lightning did more than spark life, it split him. The muscle divides into three thick, serpentine strandsâeach moving independently. They sweep across your cheek in wet, curious stripes, lapping at the salt of your tears, the sweat beading at your temple. One coils gently under your jaw, tasting the hollow there, then another traces the seam of your lips, while the third licks a slow path from collarbone to ear, savoring the tremor in your skin.
You laugh through the sobs, a broken, wondrous sound, and bury your face against his chest. His heart thuds beneath your ear.
âWelcome home, JackâŠâ
ââ .âŠ
Monsters are hard to keep up with, youâve learned.
You havenât slept (not truly) since the night the sky gave him back to you. Snatches of rest come only when exhaustion folds you over your desk, face pressed into the hard wood. The manor is quiet now, save for the creak of floorboards under his uncertain steps and the low, constant rumble in his chest when heâs near you.
On his first full day of life, you reset his shoulder. He whimpered as you eased the dislocated joint back into place with a wet pop. Black ooze wept from the torn stitches, although youâre unsure of its origin. It still leaks from his eyes, but you canât seem to find the source. You cleaned, re-stitched, and wrapped the limb in linen. He fought at first, clawing at you, but your voice pinned him still. When you tied the final knot, he nosed your hair in gratitude, split tongue flicking across your temple.
But when you turned back to your desk to scribble notes, he found the window.
Youâd cracked it open to let the charnel stink of pigâs blood and copper drift out. Jack padded over, drawn by the brush of cold air. He planted his claws on the sill, leaned out until his messy hair caught the wind, and sniffed. His split tongue flicked out, tasting the smell of rain-wet stone and pine from the cliffs.
You watched from your chair, lazily scratching notes into your observation book. He stayed there for hours, head tilted, blind sockets aimed at the valley. When the bakerâs chimney in the village below puffed plumes of yeast and golden crust baking, he huffed, a pleased, rumbling sound, and licked the air again, chasing the warm, bready scent on the wind.
You couldnât help it. You smiled, setting your quill down. âSmell that, Jack? Fresh bread. Iâll bring you a loaf next time Iâm down.â
He turned toward your voice and chuffed, almost like he was agreeing. Then he settled back on his haunches, content to let the village bake its gifts and send them up on the breeze, while he guarded the window and waited for you.
You wondered if the townspeople were staring up at your manor and wondering who this new shadow must be.Â
Let them wonder, you think.
On the second day, he learns you are the axis of his world. You sit at your desk, scribbling notes on motor function and how to improve his stumbling, and suddenly the chair is gone as youâre lifted from it. He cradles you to his chest like a child with a doll, rumbling confusion when you squirm.Â
âDown, Jack. Down.â You tap his arm firmly, trying your best not to upset him. He obeys, setting you on the floor with the reverence of someone handling glass. Ten minutes later, he does it again.
That has to be the most jarring thingâhis strength.
The first night you tried to dress him, you brought out one of your late fatherâs old nightshirts, one of his baggier ones. Jack sniffed it, ears twitching, then shredded it in one distracted swipe while you tried to pull it over his ears.Â
You tried again the next night with an old tunic from one of the bodies youâd dug up months ago. He wriggled, whining as his claws weaved until the whole thing hung in tatters around his hips. The sound he made was pure misery, a low, keening growl that only stopped when you peeled the remnants away and let him curl naked against the hearth.
You gave up on modesty after that.
WellâŠ
The horse-cloak was an accident. Youâd bought it from the village tanner to use as a tarp for hauling meat, the fabric a heavy oiled wool, brass clasps the size of your fists. You draped it over his shoulders as a last stitch effort, and he let it stay. The hem pooled around his ankles, the hood swallowed his sharp ears and eyeless sockets, and the clasps met neatly across his broad chest, but it was the only item of clothing he would tolerate. The rest of the time it lay discarded in a heap, and he padded through the manor bare as the day you resurrected him, scars and stitches and mismatched limbs on full display.
You never minded. The sight of him, all raw power and clumsy grace, was a testament to living unrestricted. Let the village clutch their pearls. You could stare at your masterpiece all day.
And you think heâd do the same to you, if you had given him the pleasure of eyes. But even without seeing, heâs learned so much in so little time.
He communicates in fragments, a low groan for hunger, a sharp huff for discomfort, a soft grumble when you stroke his ears. You teach him how to be gentle. You press his talons to your cheek, guide them in slow circles, and he mirrors it. When you flinch at a too-tight grip, he whines and loosens immediately. Itâs hard, but itâs progress.
Nights are the worst. He paces the laboratory, restless, sniffing corners, pawing at the overturned table, exploring with his hands. You have to coax him to the nest of blankets youâve made near the hearth, too afraid to bring him to your bedroom yet, or out of the laboratory for that matter. He curls around you, massive, protective, split tongue tasting the air above your head. You fall asleep to the steady thump-thump of the heart you gave him, his claws combing through your hair in endless, soothing loops.
He learns in the way a storm learns the shape of a valleyâslowly, violently, then all at once, until the entire thing has been desecrated.
The cuff.
The first time you loop the iron manacle around his thick wrist and snap it to the rusted drain pipe, he panics. The chain rattles like a death knell. He yanks, his claws gouging the stone, shoulder stitches popping with wet little sighs. Youâre already at the door, cloak half-on, when you hear the crack of bone and tendon. You turn to find his hand gone, severed clean at the wrist by his own strength, dark blood spraying in rhythmic arcs. He feels at the stump, head tilted, then turns at you, a low, betrayed whine rising in his throat.
You donât scold, even as you groan and shuffle your cloak back off. You kneel, pressing the severed hand to the bleeding wrist, connecting muscle and stitching while he trembles.Â
The whole time you murmur, âIâll only be gone a minute, love. Itâs just to get food. Youâll see.â
The next time you cuff him, he whines, pacing the length of the chain, but doesnât fight. When you return with a paper-wrapped bundle of red meat, heâs sitting, ears pricked, leaning against the wall. You unhook him, and he bolts to you, muzzle buried in the package before you can unwrap it.
The word.
âNo.â
You say it softly the first time he tries to follow you up the stairs, hands reaching for you eagerly. He freezes, head cocking to the side. You say it again, firmer this time. He backs down one step, then two, a frustrated huff fogging the air. By the fourth time hearing it, the word alone stops him mid-motion no matter what heâs doing, even when heâs mid-lift, your nightgown bunched in his fist, ready to carry you to bed like a bride. He sets you down with a sheepish grunt, claws flexing, waiting for praise. You give it, scratching behind his ear, murmuring good job, and his chest rumbles in response.
But you learn him, too.
He likes your laugh. The first time you snort at his clumsy attempt to hold a jar, his ears swivel toward the sound. He butts his head against your ribs until you laugh again, then licks the joy from your cheek with all three tongues.
He is obsessed with your hair. When you sit at your desk, he drapes himself behind you, muzzle buried in the strands, inhaling until his lungs must ache. When you finally take a bath days after the first night of his arrival, he nearly breaks your neck with how quickly he grabs your head, nose taking in the sweet soapy scent.
And meat. God, the meat. Your cold cellar is a carnage of lamb shanks, loins, rib bones cracked open for marrow and sucked clean. You haul back haunches from the village butcher until your arms ache, and still he devours it in minutes, blood smeared across his muzzle like war paint. You start buying whole lambs, dragging them up the cliff path yourself. He sits eagerly chained to the drain pipe, and you reward him handsomely for his good behavior.
Some nights, like tonight, you sit together on the laboratory floor, his head in your lap, your fingers tracing the seams of his face. He chews contentedly on a raw lambchop, bones crunching like kindling. You talk to him about the weather, about the village gossip, about how the butcherâs boy now pales when he sees you coming. Jack listens, ears flicking, occasionally licking a stray drop of blood from your wrist, but he doesnât understand what youâre telling him, he just likes the sound of your voice.
The hearth crackles low, embers glowing against the dark stone of the laboratory. You sit cross-legged on the wool rug, back against the warm stone, Jackâs massive head heavy on your thighs. His ears twitch with every pop of the fire. Your fingers trace the thick black thread along his brow, following the seam where different tones of skin converge. The stitches are neat now, healed to raised purple ridges.Â
You speak softly to him, mumbling on about some story from days ago.
ââŠAnd the bay mare, you shouldâve seen her. She kicked the stall gate clean off its hinges of the corral. Galloped straight through the fishmongerâs crates and knocked rotted fish everywhere. The blacksmithâs boy tried to catch her with a ropeâŠâ
Jackâs jaws work slow on the last of the lambchop. When the marrow is gone, he flicks the bone aside with a lazy claw. It clatters into the shadows, and his hand rises. One talon brushes your lower lip, feather-light, silencing you mid-sentence.
The room stills.
âJack,â you whisper.
A low grunt rumbles in his chest, curious, listening.
You take his hand in both of yours, guide the broad pad of his finger to your lips again.
âJack.â Slower this time, letting the shape of it settle on your tongue. You press his palm flat to your mouth so he can feel the vibration. âJaaaack.â
He sits up. The movement is fluid despite his size, the firelight sliding over his mismatched shoulders. His blind sockets tilt toward you, black tears long dried. Another grunt escapes his throat.
You slide your hand to his chest, over the steady thump-thump of the heart you placed there.
âThis is you.â You tap once. âJack.â You tap again, firmer. âSay it with me. Jââ
His lips part. The split tongue flicks over his meat-soaked lips, before retracting back into his mouth. Air hisses through his fangs.
âJuhâŠâ
Itâs barely a sound, but itâs there. His ears flatten in frustration, but he tries again, throat working, the muscles you stitched from three different creatures learning a shape theyâve never made. It must hurt, you think.
âJuh⊠Jââ
You cup his face, thumbs stroking the seams at his cheeks. âJack,â you breathe, encouraging. âYouâre Jack.â
He leans into your palms, eyesockets creased with effort. âJaaâŠkhh.â
The k clicks wrong, catching on his canine tooth, but itâs close. So close your own heart stumbles. You laugh and press your forehead to his, cupping his jaw that still tries to work around the word.
âYes, love. Jack. Thatâs you.â
His claw clamps around your jaw, feeling the way your jaw moves when you speak. The growl starts low in his chest, vibrating up through his throat, and forces its way out between fangs.
âJaaaack.â Itâs rough, a half-snarl cut through shredded vocal chords. The k snaps like a breaking bone, but your eyes flood instantly.
âYesâyes, thatâs itââ
He doesnât stop. The sound hooks in his throat, drags him forward. He tries the next word heâs heard you breathe a hundred times to him.
âLll⊠luhâŠâ Itâs almost funny how his mouth moves around the syllables, like heâs trying to throw the word up rather than say it. âLuh⊠vhâŠâ
âLove,â you supply, voice trembling. âL-ove. Slow. Llllove.â
He growls in frustration, ears flattening, but you pull him closer, forehead to forehead, and try again.
âLuhââ you start.
âLuhââ he echoes, clumsy.
ââove.â
ââvh.â
You both laugh, yours a sob, his a huffing bark. Itâs messy, spit and tears and frustration flowing between every word. You press your cheek to his, arms around his thick neck, and keep going.
Minutes stretch. The fire pops. You sound it out like a lullaby: love, love, love. He growls, whines, tries to shape his mouth around it.Â
Then, finallyâ
âJack.â
Itâs hoarse and shaky. But itâs perfect.
You shriek, throwing your arms around him. âYES! Jack, you said itââ
He startles hard, stumbling back on his haunches, ears pinned. The outburst frightens him as his claws scrabble for balance, but youâre already giggling, crawling after him, hands gentle on his chest.
âShh, shh, itâs okay, itâs goodââ You stroke his cheek, kissing the seam of his brow. âYou said your name. You clever thingââ
His lips twitch. The corners pull upward in a crooked, lopsided smile, fangs peeking through his wobbly lips, and the expression is so painfully new it steals your breath. The first smile heâs ever worn.
You trace it with a trembling finger. âThere you are,â you whisper. âThereâs my Jack.â
ââ .âŠ
The laboratory has become a cage with velvet bars.
Jack knows every inch now. The exact number of steps from the hearth to the metal table, the creak of the floorboards by the window, the way the draft whistles through the cracked pane when the wind shifts. He moves like a shadow stitched to your heels, following you absolutely everywhere he can get to. But the moment the iron cuff snaps around his wrist and the chain rattles home, the calm fractures.
Today is the worst.
You leave him only long enough to fetch water from the scullery. The chain is long (you lengthened it after the hand incident), but not long enough. You hear the frustration before you see it, his low, rising whine, the scrape of talons on the stone, the thud of his shoulder against the wall as he strains. When you press through the heavy door to your laboratory, heâs pacing tight circles, ears flat against his head, black tears flecking the floor. The pipe groans in its bolts. His blind gaze finds you the instant you cross the threshold, and the whine pitches into a desperate, âLuhâve.â
You set the bucket down, wiping your hands on your apron. âJack.â
He freezes. The name still startles him, only recently learning that this specific word means youâre talking directly to him.
You cross the room, unhooking the cuff from his wrist and watching as it clatters to the floor. Jack stands rigid, waiting.
âI think youâre just as tired of this room as I am,â you say. âCome on.â
You take his hand and lead him to the laboratory door. He hesitates on the threshold, nostrils flaring at the scent of the hallway beyond, dust and old wood flaring his senses. You tug gently and he follows.
You guide him left, past the staircase whose banister he brushes with his free claw, feeling the worn mahogany warmed by generations. The wood is smooth, almost silken, and he pauses to drag a talon along a carved detailing in the wood. A low, wondering grunt rumbles in his chest.
âThis is the sitting room,â you murmur, pushing open the tall double doors.
The room unfolds like a sigh. High ceilings arch overhead, ribbed with dark oak beams that disappear into grand banisters. Hazy sunlight spills through tall windows, painting silver rectangles across your threadbare rug, its once-vivid roses now faded to dull circles. A cavernous fireplace sits black and cold, its marble mantel carved with intricate patterns. Above it hangs a gilt-framed portrait of a family member you never really knew, but Jackâs head tilts toward the hearth itself, nostrils flaring at the faint char of cold ash.
You release his hand, but he doesnât stray far.
He pads forward, cloak whispering over the rug, and stops at the first piece of furniture, a velvet settee. His claws sink into the cushion and he rubs at the soft bedding, before pressing his nose to the cushion and inhaling.Â
It definitely smells like dust. You canât remember the last time you cleaned this room, let alone step foot in it.
âSettee,â you say, stepping close. âItâs for sitting. Soft, isnât it?â You take his hand again, guide it along the rolled arm, the carved walnut frame cool and satiny. He traces the shape, learning curves and edges.
You move to the window seat, its cushions plump with down. âHere.â You pat the brocade and he rises, following the sound, and you press his palm to the fabric. His talons catch on a thread, but he stills until you laugh and smooth the snag.Â
âItâs all right. Keep going.â You let him explore the windowpane next, the glass icy under his touch.
He finds the piano by scent first, the thick ivory keys drawing him closer. His claws skitter over the keys, and an abrupt chord clangs out, startling him. He snorts, ears flattening, but youâre already there, covering his hand with yours.Â
âItâs music,â you whisper, pressing the middle C. The single note rings pure, and he tries it for himself. He keeps tapping it until you clutch his hand, halting the jarring ringing.
You lead him last to the tapestry hanging opposite the mantel. Itâs a hunting scene, stags and hounds, the colors long muted with dust, but you still want him to feel it.Â
âThis is a painting.â You guide his hand along the textures and roughness of the painting. He sniffs, then tastes it, his split tongue flicking out to sample the dust and oils. You cringe, but you donât stop him, letting him figure out that it doesnât taste as good as he thinks it will.
Throughout, he never lets you drift more than an armâs length away. When you pause to light a branch of candles on the mantel, his claw finds the hem of your sleeve and tugs on it. The flames leap, gilding the room in amber, and it looks more alive than you can ever remember it being.
Jack turns his blind face toward the warmth, ears relaxing, and exhales a long, contented rumble. You smile, but you donât let him settle, pulling him back into the corridor.
You reach the grand staircase, its sweep a graceful arc of polished oak that desperately needs a polishing. The banister is carved with vines and roses, worn smooth by centuries of hands, and you press his palm to it as you ascend. âThese are the stairs,â you smile. âBe careful, take small steps.âÂ
He tests each step like a toddler, the wood creaking under his weight. His free claw grazes the banister, tracing the floral shapes all the way up.
At the landing, you lead him left, down a narrower hall where portraits of forgotten ancestors glare from wooden frames, their eyes long faded to milky smears. The air grows warmer, heavier with the scent of a space being lived in. You push open the heavy door to your bedroom, and you sigh at the grand bed you havenât had the luxury of sleeping in the last week.
The four-poster bed dominates the center, its mahogany frame carved with twining ivy and curtains of deep maroon tied back with gold cords. The bed is unmade, sheets twisted from the last night you slept hereâbefore the laboratory floor became your new bed.Â
A Persian rug, crimson and indigo, muffles your steps as you enter the room further, its intricate patterns worn thin at the edges. Your vanity stands against one wall, cluttered with perfumes, hairpins, and a dirty mirror reflecting your tired face back at you.Â
Books teeter in stacks on your chaise longue, their leather spines cracked from reading them enough times to go crazy, and thereâs enough candle holders with wax dried around them to be just as annoying.
Jack freezes in the doorway, his nostrils flaring as he drinks in the air. Then, abruptly, he lets go of your hand.
âJack?â you call, startled. Heâs never released you during this little tour, but now he moves with purpose, crossing the rug in three long strides. The cloak slips from his shoulders, pooling forgotten on the floor as he reaches the bed and pauses, sniffing the air above the comforter. The satin sheets are a nice cream color, and his greyed skin looks sharp in comparison as he buries his face into the ruffled fabric.
You stand rooted, watching as he climbs onto the bed with a grace that belies his size. The mattress dips under his weight, the springs groaning as he nuzzles the pillows, the sheets, the thick down comforter, his ears fluttering in bliss. His claws knead the fabric, pulling it toward him in great, greedy fistfuls. He ruts, hips rolling instinctively, dragging the satin across his scarred chest, his thighs, as if trying to coat himself in your scent. The sheets twist around his mismatched limbs, the comforter bunching under his chin too. A low, rumbling moan vibrates in his throat as he buries his muzzle deeper, inhaling until his lungs must ache.
âJack,â you say again, softer, stepping closer. He ignores you, lost in the bedâs embrace.Â
You havenât slept here in days, but your scent lingers in every thread, every crease. He rolls onto his back, claws raking the air, then flips again, nuzzling into your favorite pillow. His hips grind again, rutting into your smell.
Your face must be several shades of red from how hot you feel watching him.
You climb onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress. âJack, love, itâs just a bed.â Your voice is fond as you reach out, fingers brushing his broad back exposed by the tangled sheets. He stills at your touch, ears twitching, then rolls toward you, dragging the comforter with him. His blind sockets find you, and he chuffs, a sound of pure contentment, before nosing at your wrist, then your shoulder, urging you to join him.
You laugh, kicking your shoes off, and let him pull you down. The bed is vast, but he makes it feel small as he curls around you, clawing gently at you. His nose rests against your throat, matching the scent of your skin to the scent in the mattress below.Â
Your arms slide around his broad neck, fingers threading into the coarse hair at his nape. You pull him close, chest to chest, until the steady thump-thump of the heart you gave him beats against your ribs in perfect counterpoint to your own.
For a long moment you only look. Soft sunlight spills across his stitched face through the thick curtains on the windows, silvering the raised scars, catching on the black seams that ladder his brow, and his ears twitch with every breath you take.Â
You have imagined this in dreams between experimentsâa loverâs weight in your bed again, the safety of arms that know your shape. You never dared believe the dream would wear claws and smell of lamb, but now, you donât want it any other way.
âI waited for so long, you know,â you whisper, brushing his neck. âI thought Iâd die alone in that laboratory, probably start talking to the walls. But youââ Your fingers tighten in his hair. âYou came back to me.â
Jack rumbles, his muzzle nudging your throat. His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your skin. He tries to answer, the sounds clumsy in his throat, âLll⊠luhhhâŠâ A frustrated huff is all he manages, though.
You smooth the hair at his temples, thumbs circling the thick ridges of a scar on his forehead.Â
âShh. Slow.â You press your lips to the seam between his brows. âLove. Say love.â
He grunts at the sound of you saying it, gritting his teeth. âL-Love.â Itâs barely a breath, but he says it again, surer, nuzzling into your palm. âLove.â
You kiss his forehead, smiling against his skin. âYes. Love.â
The pillows cradle you both as you sink back. Jackâs claw curves over your waist, talons gripping onto your clothes. You tuck your head beneath his chin, ear to the steady drum of his heart, and the exhaustion youâve staved off for days finally claims you. Your eyes flutter shut mid-breath, fingers still tangled in his hair.Â
ââ .âŠ
The mattress is too soft, too comfortable, and thatâs what jolts you awake.Â
Your body remembers this bed, and it betrays you by sinking you into it like a stone in water. You surface with a gasp, heart already racing before your eyes open.
Moonlight slices through the gap in the curtains, silvering the rumpled sheets. The space beside you is warm, but empty. Jackâs weight, his heat, the low rumble of his breathingâgone.
âJack?â Your voice cracks, thin and sharp in the dark.
There's no answer, just the hush of the manor and the distant, mournful moan of wind around the eaves.
You scramble upright, sheets tangling around your legs. The candelabra on the nightstand clatters as your fingers fumble in the drawer for the matchbox. You grab a match, striking it twice before it catches, and you light the tapers one by one, the sudden bloom of flame making the room lurch. Shadows leap across the walls, across the bed where the comforter is dragged half to the floor, across the discarded horse-cloak in a heap by the footboard.
Heâs not here.
Your mind immediately runs to the worst, imagining heâs lost in the village down the mountain, pawing at someoneâs wooden door, moments away from being met with a pitchfork or a drunkard ready to hurt what they donât understand.
âJack!â Louder now, panic threading his name. You swing your legs over the side, bare feet hitting the cold rug, and sweep the candelabra in a wide arc. The vanity, the chaise, the wardrobeânothing. Only the lingering warmth of his body on the sheets and the crushed indentation where his head had lain.
Youâre moving before you can think twice, candle flames guttering as you move. The door creaks as you wrench it open and step into the hall.
The corridor is a tunnel of black, the moonlight from the stairwell window a pale, distant light. Your shadow stretches long and wavering ahead of you, the candelabra trembling as you sweep it back and forth along the walls.
âJack, where are you?â Your voice echoes, swallowed by the high ceiling. Somewhere below, a floorboard groans and your breath catches.
You follow the sound, bare feet silent on the runner as you patter towards the stairs. The portraits watch you pass, their painted eyes staring like they know something you donât.Â
At the top of the grand staircase, you pause. The darkness below is absolute, your eyes straining to see past the fifth step. You usually light all the candles in your manor before the sun falls, but the day slipped from you fast, leaving the manner a yawning black hole. You lift the candelabra higher, the flames trembling with your pulse.
âJack?â you call again, softer, pleading.
The clatter ricochets again from somewhere below, and you fly down the grand staircase. The sound pulls you left, then right, through corridors you havenât walked in weeks, past locked doors and moth-eaten tapestries, until the air turns damp and cool and the flagstones slope underfoot.
The cellar door gapes wide, exhaling dust and rot into the air upstairs. Moonlight doesnât reach here, only your candles push trembling lights into the gloom. You hesitate on the threshold, the steps descending into nothing, each one dilapidated and near-rotted.Â
âJack?â Your voice is small, swallowed by the dark.
No answer.
You descend. The wood groans, cobwebs brushing your face like little fingers. The cellarâs air is stale around you, thick with the smell of dust and flea-bitten fabrics. Crates tower in leaning stacks, their lids pried open, straw spilling like entrails. A shattered mirror leans against a chair missing its seat, your reflection fractured into a dozen frightened eyes. You move deeper, candelabra raised, calling his name in a whisper that feels too loud.
Then a crack, almost like twigs breaking, sounds from behind you.
You turn.
Heâs there, in the far corner where the shadows pool deepest, back to you, massive shoulders hunched. His claws flex against the stone, scraping it, and the sound that follows is his rough chewing, like heâs gnawing on something. The candles tremble in your grip, throwing his silhouette huge and terrifying across the vaulted ceiling.
âJack,â you breathe, but he doesnât turn.
The crunch comes again, like knuckles popping. You flinch, the candelabra clinking as you set it atop a crate beside you. Your bare feet pad forward over gritty stone, drawn to the hulking shape in the corner.
His back is a map of your making, decorated with thick black stitches marching down the spine like railroad tracks, each knot a memory of your trembling fingers and midnight oil. You remember the hours, the fragile cord of nerves you had to coax into place, the way you cursed so loud your throat hurt when the thread slipped and you had to begin again.
You reach out, your palm settling between his shoulder blades as you feel him take one deep breath after another.
âJack.â
He stiffens, every muscle locking. A low growl vibrates under your hand, more warning than recognition. You slide your touch to his arm, gripping his thick forearm, and gently turn him.
There isnât much left of the poor thing.
The rat is already dead, itâs head gone, body limp in his claws. Blood runs in glossy rivulets down his wrist, pooling between the talons, dripping to the floor in revolting, rhythmic pats. His chin is slick with it too, dribbling down his maw and onto his throat. The last crunch you hear is the skull giving way between his molars before he swallows.
Your breath catches. His blind sockets tilt toward you, ears half-cocked, blood-flecked tongue sweeping across his lips to catch the stray drops as you stare at what lays before you.
Your hand jerks back as if it burned you, clutching your chest in horror. The air feels thick, suddenly too small for the cellar, for you, for what youâre seeing. Your stomach flips, the taste of sour bile rising in your throat.
Jack sniffs, ears flicking toward the motion of your retreat, then lowers his muzzle again toward the mangled rat, his jaws parting.
âNo.â The word cracks out of you, sharper than you meant.
He freezes, the rat dangling from his claws as it drips into his knuckles. He remembers the word no, and his arm stills in response, but he doesnât let go. He simply waits.
You press your fist to your mouth, pacing two steps back. âWhat the fuck,â you whisper, voice trembling. âWhat the fuck is happening?â
Youâve watched him tear into raw lamb, yes, watched him crack bones between his teeth like biscuits and lick the marrow clean. You knew he preferred raw meat when you tried to cook some for him, only for his face to grimace at the taste. You told yourself it was natural, that he was built for it, that he was obviously man and animal alike. But this, this small, warm thing that had been scurrying a moment ago, now headless and half devoured with its skin and all⊠You swallow hard, fighting the heave in your gut.
Jack killed it with his own claws and teeth. Killed it.
He shifts his weight, uncertain, the rat still pinched between his sharp claws. A soft, questioning whine vibrates in his throat.
You force your eyes to his face, to the blood smeared across his fangs, the threads of saliva stretching as he breathes.
âDrop it,â you say, quieter now, but stern. âPlease, Jack. Drop it.â
He hesitates one heartbeat longer, then opens his claws. The corpse hits the stone with a wet slap, and you nearly throw up what little food youâve had in recent days.
You seize his arm above the blood, fingers careful not to slip on the slick warmth lower down. He lets you, more docile now, the fight gone out of him the moment you touched him again. You grab the candelabra in your other hand as you pull him away from the corner, away from the rat on the floor. You donât look back at itâyou canât.
Jack pads behind you, his head held low, soft whines threading the silence, but you donât know if itâs out of embarrassment that heâd been caught, or his lingering hunger. The stairs creak under his weight, the corridors swallow the candlelight, and still he follows, breath hitching every time you tighten your grip. You donât speak, mind still running a thousand miles a second.
Back in your bedroom you donât pause. You tow him straight through to the adjoining bathroom, the one extravagance you kept when the rest of the house fell to ruin. Moonlight spills through the high, frosted window and glints off the claw-footed tub, porcelain gleaming like ivory. You set the candelabra on the marble counter, leave Jack in the doorway, and twist the brass taps. Water thunders into the tub, steam curling up towards the tiled ceiling.
Jackâs ears snap forward at the roar of water. He kneels to all fours and crawls after the sound, talons scraping over the tiles until he reaches you. You kneel beside the rising water, and he settles at your side, blood still tacky on his chin and chest. His claw darts toward the rising water, talons spread like a child reaching for candy.
âNo.â
A pitiful whine rolls out of him, ears pinning back. He leans in instead, muzzle seeking the familiar comfort of your neck, tongue already flicking out for a taste. The iron reek of rat blood hits you full force, and you press your palm to his forehead and push him back, nose wrinkling.
âJack, stop. Iâm sorry, love, but youâre disgusting right now. Sit still.â
He huffs, wounded, but folds his arms across his lap and stays put, ears drooping. âNoâŠâ he huffs out.
You rise, taking one wick from the candelabra to light the oil lamps that ring the room. Flame by flame, the bathroom awakens, creamy marble veined with gold, the tall mirror blooming with warm light, steam curling around the spouted faucets. The water thunders on, almost half-full.
Then thereâs a sudden splash behind you.
You whip around. Jack has plunged his entire right arm in up to the elbow, stirring the bathwater lazily. The water is already clouding, threads of pink swirling outward from his skin.
You groan, long and defeated, and stride back. âDear God, help meâŠâ
He looks up at the sound of your voice, water dripping from his forearm in rosy rivulets. You reach past him and twist the taps shut. The sudden silence is thick, broken only by the soft plink plink of droplets falling onto the surface.
You roll your sleeves past the elbow, and Jackâs ears track the rustle of linen. You set a hand on his forearm, tugging gently for him to stand.
âUp, love. On your feet.â
He rises awkwardly, joints popping, the bathroom suddenly so much smaller with him standing over you.Â
Heâs never done this. The only water heâs ever really met was cold raindrops on the opened window sill or the glass pitcher he accidentally knocked over days ago, both of you startled by the shatter and sudden flood across the laboratory floor.
But heâll be alright if you show him itâs alright. One hand cups his elbow, the other guides his knee. âLift,â (youâve turned to speaking plainly these days, finding that Jack responds better to easy commands than sentences.) His leg rises, foot scraping porcelain as he swings it over the tubâs rim. The instant his toes touch the water he hisses, claws scrabbling for purchase on the smooth edge..
âShh, easy.â Your voice is steady, the same tone you used when you reset his shoulder. âItâs warm. It wonât hurt you. Iâm right here.â
You slide your arm around his waist, taking some of his weight. âOther leg, slow.â He obeys, other foot following, and the water closes over his calves with a soft, rosy sigh. He stands rigid, ears pinned flat, breath coming in quick huffs through his nostrils. The heat is foreign, invasive, but your hand stays firm on his weight, tracing small circles between the stitches.
âGood,â you whisper. âThatâs perfect, Jack. Just a little more.â You settle your palms on his shoulders, pressing gently downward. âSit. Slowy.â
He bends, knees folding, the tub creaking as his weight shifts. He braces his claws on the sides of the tub, then his hips sink. Water surges, lapping at the porcelain rim, sloshing over the edge in warm splashes that patter onto the tiles. When he finally settles, the surface reaches the center of his chest, ratâs blood soaking off of his skin and into the water.
You kneel beside the tub, tucking your legs under you, and watch the stains lift away like old sins. There's a wash rag hanging on the edge of the tub, and you grab it.
You dip the rag, let it soak until itâs heavy, then wring it out with a twist. Water streams back into the bath, and Jackâs head immediately cocks to the noise. Heâs always so curious, so you satisfy his curiosity by holding it out to him, letting him smell the fabric before bringing it to his skin.
You start at his shoulders. The rag glides over scarred skin, tracing the thick black thread that ladders across his width. Jack sighs, a long, rolling sound that ends in a pleased rumble. His head tips back, muscles relaxing, and he leans into your touch like a dog getting its neck scratched.
âDoes it feel good?â you ask softly, dragging the rag in slow circles over his chest. The water beads and rolls down the ridges of scar tissue, carrying away weeks of dust and grime. Jack rumbles, a deep, rolling mmrrph that vibrates through the tub and into your knees. His ears flick forward, then relax again.
You dip the rag and wring it out, but the water that spills back is the color of weak tea. You groan under your breath. âLook at this. Youâre filthy, Jack. Absolutely filthy.â
He huffs, almost amused, you think.
You laugh despite yourself, scrubbing at the seam where neck meets shoulder. âI know, I know. I kept you in that nasty laboratory like a dirty secret. No wonder you went hunting rats.â
Another low grunt, softer this time. He leans into the rag, eyesockets half-lidded, the tension bleeding out of him with every pass of warm cloth.
You pause, looking at the murky water, then at your own hands, cringing at the ink under your nails, calluses from needles and scalpels, your skin dry and cracked. Come to think of it, you canât remember the last time you sank into this tub yourself. Days blurred into nights, nights into focusing and coaxing life from death. Your night clothes have been slept in more than washed, and your hair hasnât seen a proper brush in a week.
You probably look just as deheaveled as the creature before you.
âGod, weâre both a mess,â you mutter. âWhen youâre clean, Iâm getting in after you. I smell like a morgue.â
Jack chuffs, a short, decisive sound. He lifts one massive claw, letting it hover over the tubâs edge, then pointedly pats the surface beside him. Water slops over the edge, his claw gripping onto your arm and tugging you toward him.
You roll your eyes fondly. âYouâre too big, you ridiculous creature. Youâd drown me.â
He grumbles stubbornly, and scoots back an inch, making a hollow in the water that immediately refills. The invitation is clear, and he tugs your arm again.
You shake your head, smiling despite the grime and horrors of tonight. âLater,â you promise, wringing the rag again. âFirst we finish getting the filth off you.â
Jack sighs through his nose, a long, dramatic exhale.
âI said laterââ
The protest dies as Jackâs massive claws close around your forearms. Before you can do more than gasp, he pulls you toward him, the tubâs porcelain lip scrapes your stomach, and then youâre tumbling over it with a startled yelp.
Water closes over you, warm and murky, soaking your clothes in an instant. You come up sputtering, hair plastered to your face, legs still hooked over the edge. âJack!â
He rumbles unrepentantly, and drags you the rest of the way in. One arm loops your waist, settling you squarely in his lap. The water rises dangerously close to the rim, filthy swirls blooming around your thighs. You cringe, wrinkling your nose at the cloudy bath, but Jackâs chest is a solid wall at your back, his breath warm against your wet temple.
âDisgusting,â you grumble, trying to be stern and failing when his claws pluck the soaked rag from your limp fingers.
He makes a soft huff and dips the rag again, just the way you had been. Then, he begins washing you.
Slow, methodical strokes down your arms, scrubbing at the stains on your skin, the chemical burns on your knuckles, the places youâve forgotten to care for. His touch is impossibly gentle for claws that could shred oak in a moment, easily dragging the rag along the curve of your neck, albeit soaking your clothes further in the process.
Something warm and fierce swells in your chest. âYouâre too clever for your own good,â you whisper.
Jack chuffs, and you let your head fall back against his shoulder, letting him cocoon around you.
He lets the rag slip from his claws and sink to the bottom of the tub. Jackâs arms fold around you instead, pulling you deeper into the cradle of his body until your back is flush against his chest. His claws begin to wander, slowly exploring paths across your sternum, the hollow of your throat, the line of your jaw. You let your eyes flutter shut at the gentleness of it.
Then the memory flashes, sharp and sourâthe rat, the crunch, the blood on his chin.
Your breath catches. The thought slides in cold and unbidden. Would he ever⊠If his hunger sharpened enough, if instinct overrode the careful lessons on being gentle youâve drilled into him, would he ever turn those teeth on something bigger? On you?
Jackâs muzzle dips, split tongue sweeping across your cheek in a warm, affectionate lick. The smell hits you, the iron and raw meat still clinging to his breath. You cringe, turning your face away.
âShoo, Jack, your mouthââ
He huffs, a soft, wounded sound, but doesnât pull back. Instead he nips, just a nip of his sharp teeth on the apple of your cheek, not hard enough to break skin but enough to make you shiver.
The dread blooms low in your belly, small but undeniable. The bathroom is suddenly too warm, the water too still. His arms are a cage you asked for, and his teeth are right there, inches from your throat.
He would never hurt a human. He would never hurt you.
Right?
ââ .âŠ
âJust hold still.â
Jack perches on a wooden stool in front of you, one massive arm resting across your lap, veins thick and dark beneath the patchwork skin. Rain taps the cracked laboratory window, a gentle percussion that fills the room with the scent of wet cobblestone and distant chimney smoke.
You tie the rubber tourniquet just above his elbow, securing it tight enough to make his veins bulge more than they already do. The stitches there are healing clean, raised purple ladders that flex when he curls his claws. âThere we go,â you nod.
He hates this room now. You can see it in the way his ears flick back, the way his nostrils flare at the ghosts of formaldehyde and old blood. Especially since he now has the luxury of wandering around the rest of the manor, having more comfortable spaces to lounge. But he stays, only because you asked.
You swab the crook of his arm with alcohol, the sharp smell making him grunt as you reach for the syringe on your desk.Â
âEasy,â you murmur, thumb stroking the inside of his wrist. âJust a prick. Then weâre done.â
He tenses as you grip his arm tighter, holding it steady, before sliding the needle home.
The vein gives with a pop, dark blood wells into the syringe, thicker than human, almost syrupy. The first vial fills quickly, then youâre replacing it with a second one, then a third. When the last vial is full, you ease the needle out, press a square of gauze to the puncture, and tape it down.
âThere.â You pat his arm. âAll done. Good boy.â
He huffs, ears perking at the praise, and the tension leaks from his shoulders like it was never even there. You gather the vials and carry them to your desk beside the window. The rain is louder here, a steady drum against the glass. You uncork the first tube, tip a drop onto a glass slide, and slide it under the brass microscope. Behind you, Jackâs feet tap softly as he stands.
The laboratory feels smaller to him now, after the vastness of the manorâs halls and the endless sky beyond the windows, so he walks in circles, trying his best to occupy himself.
You adjust the microscopeâs focus, the blood cells swimming into view. Rain drums harder, a sudden gust pushing the window open another inch. Cool, wet air rushes in, carrying the green smell of the cliffs. Jackâs head snaps toward it, and he lumbers to the sill, resting his forearms on the stone ledge. His ears swivel, drinking in the sounds outside. Water beads on his lashes and drips from his chin, and he inhales until his ribs creak before exhaling a long, contented sigh that fogs the glass.
You lean over the microscope, and narrow on the blood cells drifting like dark planets in a murky cosmos. You adjust the focus, and the color deepens to a viscous, near-black plum, thick as melted tar.
That canât be right.
You set the first vial aside, then uncap the second, tip another drop, and the same obsidian stain spreads across the slide. You knew the pigâs blood you used would lingerâit had to, to prime the veins before his heart took overâbut this is more than residue. This is change. On the night you brought him to life, the blood that spilled from his body was red, but this has⊠mutated? The cells carry pigment like ink, like the black tears that weeped from his sockets. You reach for your journal, scratching notes quickly.
Pig hemoglobin dominant, yet oxidized beyond expected parameters. Possible metabolic sequestration of iron?
You pause, glancing at Jack. Heâs still at the window, nose lifted to the rain, water beading on his forehead as heâs begun to lean out into the air.
âŠinstinctive adaptation to predation?
The thought sours your stomach. You flip back a page to your notes on mastication pressure, and to the page before on auditory range. Youâve been watching for slippage, for the moment the animal parts outweigh the man. The rat was the first crack in the veneer, but now the blood itself seems to confirm it.
You shiver at the thought of the rat again, remembering how you had to feed him a whole sack of mint leaves from the garden to rid of the smell after his bath.
You uncap the third vial, draw a thicker sample into a pipette, and let it fall into a porcelain dish. It pools, slow and syrupy, spilling like oil. You swirl it gently, and watch as it clings to the sides, reluctant to move. A metallic scent rises from it, richer than iron, almost gamey. You write again, hand steadier than your pulse.
Color is near-ebony. Suspect high concentration of myoglobin and unidentified proteins. Will need a centrifuge. Will needâŠ
You stop. The rain drums harder, a sudden gust rattling the windowpane. Jack turns his head toward the sound of your pen, and he takes a step back into the room, drawn by the scratch of pencil on paper. You donât look up, youâre afraid to see the question in the tilt of his blind face. But thereâs no doubt he can smell how stressed you are.
âŠwill need to determine if hunger is driving cellular mutation, or if mutation is driving hunger.
You set the pen down. The blood in the dish stares back, dark as the cellar corner where he crouched last night. You cap the vials, line them up like soldiers, and try not to think too much on it.
You swivel in the chair, expecting to find him still at the window, but the space is empty, only rain-streaked glass and the dry imprint of his claws on the sill. Before the absence can settle into worry, warmth presses against your thighs. You look down.
Jack is folded at your feet, knees splayed wide on the cold stone, broad shoulders hunched so his head can rest heavy in your lap. One hand curls loosely around your ankle, and the other wraps around your calf.
You let your fingers sink into the coarse hair at the crown of his head. He leans into it, a low, rolling sound vibrating against your legs.
You look at him for a long time, eyeing the slope of his shoulders, the slow rise and fall of his back, the way he leans into your touch like itâs the only true thing heâs ever known.
This is your creation.
Even when Cain killed his brother Abel, God still called his name, God still loved him.
Even when the ratâs skull cracked between these jaws, you still called his name, you still love him.
âJackâŠâ you whisper.
His ears twitch. The purring sound heâs making shifts, becoming the familiar, hollow grunt that means heâs hungry. He lifts his head just enough to nudge your stomach with his forehead.
âHungry again?â
He grunts again.
You smile despite the ache behind your ribs. âAll right, love. Come on.â
You stand. He rises with you, fluid and immediate as he falls into step at your side. You leave the vials cooling on the desk, deciding that youâre rather hungry yourself. The rain follows you down the corridor, a steady heartbeat against the manorâs old bones, as you lead your creation toward the kitchen.
The pantry door swings open.
Empty shelves stare back at you, and not a scrap of meat is even left. No haunches, no ribs, not even the bones he likes to crack open like nutshells. Just dusty jars of jam, a tin of stale crackers, and a forgotten sack of flour turning soft in the corner.
Jackâs nostrils flare. He smells the emptiness, and a low whine builds in his throat, vibrating against your arm.
You drag a hand through your hair. âI went to the market yesterday. No⊠the day beforeâŠâ The words trail off as the truth hits. That was a week ago. Seven days gone in a haze of teaching and blood and his endless hunger and your just as endless madness. You groan. âHas it really been a week?â
Jack noses closer, his ears pinning back. He sniffs the empty air again, hopeful, then whines louder.
You scan the shelves one more time. Jam wonât do. Crackers wonât fill that pit in him. Hell, heâd be better off if you just sent him back down to the cellar again.Â
You sigh, turning back to him. âAlright. I have to go down to the village.â
His ears perk at the word village. He leans into you, one massive claw curling around your wrist. You feel the shift, the eager tilt of his body.
âNo, Jack. You stay.â You press your hands against his chest, pushing him as firmly as you can manage. âStay here. Iâll be back with food.â
He cocks his head, and the blind sockets tilt toward your voice. Then he simply steps forward when you turn for the door.
You try again, palm flat on his chest. âJack, no. Stay. Itâs not safe out there.â
He pushes past you with a stubborn huff.Â
You yank your cloak off the hook by the door, the heavy wool promising to keep the wet off of you. Rain drums harder outside, a low growl of thunder chasing it. You pull the hood up, fingers fumbling with the clasp.
Jackâs claw closes around your wrist before you can even twist the knob.
âNoââ you start, tugging halfheartedly. He doesnât budge. Just stands there, naked as the day you stitched him, ears pinned back like a kid who knows heâs about to be left behind. You sometimes forget that he doesnât wear clothes the majority of the time, your eyes more focused on his muscles or his interests.
You slip free, dart out onto the slick gravel. The door thuds shut behind you, and you turn away, beginning to walk.
Click.
The lock turns.
You whip around. The handle rattles, then the door swings wide again. Jack shoulders through, bare feet slapping wet stone, completely unbothered by the rain on his skin.
You groan so loud it echoes off the cliff face. âYou can open locks now. Wonderful. Fucking great.â
Chaining him isnât even an option anymore, not if you want him to trust you moreso than he does now. You either drag him with you, or you leave him loose in the manor and pray he doesnât decide to follow⊠but he will. You know he will.
You storm back inside, water dripping off your cloak, and yank his massive horse-cloak off its peg. Jackâs already trying to push past you again, rain streaming down his chest.
âHold still, pleaseââ
He lets you wrestle the cloak over his shoulders, the brass clasps barely meeting across that barrel of a chest. The hem drags on the floor, swallowing his abnormally large feet, and itâs good enough for the torso.
Pants are a whole different war.
You dig through the wardrobe upstairs, tossing out every oversized thing you own. An ancient pair of your late husbandâs work trousers are too short, but the waist ties, so theyâre good enough. He grumbles the entire time, ears flicking, claws catching in the fabric. When you finally shove a wide leather belt through the loops and cinch it, the trousers hang comically low on his hips, the cuffs barely past his knees.
You step back, flustered, panting, hands on your hips.
He looks ridiculous.
He looks⊠less like something that crawled out of a grave.
Close enough.
You grab his claw. âCome on. Stay close. And for the love of God, keep the hood up.â
Jack rumbles and follows you out into the rain, his cloak dragging in the wet. The village is waiting, and so is the butcher, and you have no idea how youâre going to explain the seven-foot shadow trailing behind you in clothes that clearly donât fit.
But heâs coming. And somehow that feels right?
The path down the cliff is a mess of slick stone and stubborn foliage. Rain needles sideways, soaking through your cloak in seconds, but still not heavy enough to deter you. Jack keeps stopping every three steps, it feels like. Bless him, heâs so curious, touching every tree and kicking at every rock, trying to discover more. You tug his sleeve, and he follows two more steps before something else catches him, and youâre repeating the process over again.
By the time the village roofs appear, your boots are caked and your nerves are frayed thin.
The market square is alive with noise, merchants shouting about vegetables and oils, dogs yapping under carts, kids darting between legs and chasing one-another. The smell of fresh bread and wet wool and horse shit abuses your senses, so thereâs no doubt itâs triple-fold for Jack. He freezes at the edge of it all, his shoulders hunched high, his claw tightening around your hand.
You yank the hood farther down until only the tip of his nose shows. âHead down,â you mutter, heart already jackhammering against your ribs. âDonât look at anyone. Please donât sniff anyone.â
He rumbles but lets you pull him forward.
People notice. Of course they notice.
Women stop and whisper to each other, children point and get yanked away, drunkards gawk and take another gulp of their ale. Their stares are like knives, but you've felt worse.
You keep moving, boots splashing through puddles, eyes locked on the butcherâs stall at the far end of the market lineup. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, and Jackâs grip is crushing now, every shout from a vendor making him uneasy. He presses closer, a wall of heat at your side, and you feel the tremor running through him.
Ten more steps. Five.
You can already hear the butcherâs cleaver thunking into wood, smell blood and sawdust and raw meat. Just get there. Pay. Leave.
You tug Jack one last time, ducking under the awning, and pray no one looks too close at the thing hiding in your shadow.
The butcherâs stall smells like heaven and hell at onceâthick, coppery blood and cold fat. Sides of lamb and pork hang from iron hooks, swaying in the damp breeze, and the butcher looks up from his block and grins when he sees you.
âWell, if it ainât the witch come down from yer tower.â
The witch jokes never get old in this village, apparently.
You don't laugh. âLamb, please. Whateverâs freshest.â
He wipes his hands on a rag that gave up being clean years ago. âAye.â
Jackâs practically vibrating behind you. The cloak hood is low, but his nose keeps pushing forward, nostrils flaring at the raw meat smell. One claw sneaks past your hip, reaching for a string of sausages hanging on the side post.
You slap it down, whispering, âNo.â
The butcherâs eyes flick up, polite-curiosity doing a bad job of hiding itself. He keeps chopping, but you feel the stare crawling over Jackâs too-big frame, the way the cloak stretches across shoulders that no human owns.
Then the curtain behind the counter flaps open and his boy barrels in with a bucket of scraps. He skids to a halt the second he sees Jack, and you mentally kick yourself. The kidâs mouth drops, and he backs up until his shoulder bumps his fatherâs leg and just⊠stares.
The butcher clears his throat. âGo on inside, lad. Help your mother.â
The boy doesnât move, just keeps staring like heâs seen the devil.
You step half in front of Jack, heart hammering so loud youâre sure the whole square can hear it. âIf you could wrap the meat, too, please.â
He nods and wraps the cleaved meat in brown paper and twine, lumping two hunks on top of each other. âThatâll beââ
Youâre already dropping too many coins in front of him and grabbing the packages before he can finish. You tug your hood lower, turn on your heel, and haul Jack with everything you have. âCome on.â
You can hear them whispering before youâre even out of the stall.
You step back out from under the awning and into the market street. The rain has eased to a drizzle, but the airâs still thick and cold, and youâre in even more of an anxious hurry to get back to your home now. You shift the meat in your arms, trying to free one hand for Jackâs sleeve.
Heâs already gone.
âJack, stayââ
An older man with a crate full of onions jostles your arm hard, and when you spin back, the space beside you is empty, leaving only the market and its many staring faces.
Your stomach drops.
âJack!â You hiss.
You spot him ten feet away, drifting toward the alley behind the bakerâs stall like heâs being pulled by a string you canât see. His hoodâs slipped back just enough for someone to notice his eyes if they looked too close.
âShitââ
You clutch the meat tighter and shove through the crowd. People murmur and give you odd stares, but you donât care. You round the corner into the narrow lane behind the shops, boots skidding on wet stone.
Jackâs standing in front of the little open stable there, one massive claw stretched out toward a bay gelding tied to a post. The old horse sniffs his fingers, its body nearly the same height as Jackâs, but just barely. Jackâs whole body is still except for his nose, sniffing in the new smells of the animal and the leather of its halter.
You freeze, breath stuck in your throat.
Donât bite. Donât grab it. Donât spook it. Please.
The very tips of his claws brush the velvet muzzle, and the horse huffs, unbothered as his large hand begins to rub across its face. To the horse, Jack is just another animal.
Relief hits so hard your knees almost buckle.
You shift the parcels higher against your hip and step closer, voice low. âHey. We gotta go home, love.â
He doesnât turn, just keeps petting the horse until the rain begins to bead on his cloak.
You swallow the lump in your throat and reach for his free hand.Â
âCome on. Meatâs getting cold.â
And drag him all the way back to the safety of your home.
Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!
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You arrive at Camp Half-Blood the same day Satoru does.
Your satyr had escorted you safely to the top of the hill with little to no fanfare.
Satoru arrived a few hours later, being chased by a pride of chimeras and a flock of harpies.
His clothes were singed from the flames of the chimeras, his shirt in tatters from the claws of the harpies.
He was a sight to beholdâhis arrival came with a powerful storm, lighting striking along the border of the magical barrier around the camp, thunder claps booming in the distance.
His hair was blown in all directions by the wind, creating a halo of white around his head. He wouldâve looked almost angelicâif he werenât running for his life.
The lightning from the storm somehow avoided his path, like it was trying to help him get to the camp, like it wanted him to live.
You watched as a harpy dived towards himâclaws spread, talons sharp and deadlyâready to grab him. He let out a last burst of speedâbolting within the barrier of the camp.
He subsequently collapsed, the break for the camp draining all the energy out of him. He was quickly transported away by a group of counselors and you were taken to the Hermes cabin, to await claiming.
You heard a few whispers that he was being fed ambrosiaâthe food of the Godsâto heal him from his injuries. You felt a twinge of jealousy twisting in your gut, why did he have to get all the glory?
The next day at lunch you see Satoru again. You were both sitting at the Hermes tableâas you hadnât gotten claimed yet.
Youâre impatient to know who your godly parent is. The Hermes cabin is way too crowded. And itâs clear that Satoru is tooâhe had ripped off all his bandages and dumped his whole plate of food into the fireâin hopes of pleasing his patron.
After lunch the Hermes cabin was going to train sword fighting. You and Satoru went along with themâstill being unclaimed.
The training arena is a flat pit of packed sand and dirt. Thereâs a rack of various wooden weapons and shields on the side.
You hold a wooden sword up, itâs a little heavy and youâd never used a sword before.
You stand in front of a dummyâyour arms shaking as you try to hit its midsectionâyour swings unsteady at best, downright quivering at worst.
You look to your right and see Satoru striking smoothly and efficiently at his target, like a damn cobra.
Of course heâs a natural. He distributes his weight perfectly, chopping off the straw head of a scarecrow.
Youâre pissed, this kid who had arrived the same time as you was already showing you up. Even his entrance was more dramatic than yoursâthe sound of thunder as his back track.
The head counselor of the Hermes cabin yells at everyone to get into pairs for sparring.
Being the two newest, you have to pair up with him. You dread it, he is going to demolish you. Youâd seen the way he lopped off the head of the dummy.
You plant your feet into the ground, holding your sword directly in front of you, like it would do anything to protect you against Satoruâs hits.
He strikes first, advancing forward on his toes. You immediately back up, deciding to stay defense and run from all his blows.
âStop running and fight me,â he taunts. âOr are you too scared?â
âThereâs an obvious gap in skill here, what am I supposed to do?â You whine, your arm narrowly avoiding a jab from his sword.
âMaybe youâre not trying hard enough.â
âEat dirt.â
And surprisingly he doesâabruptly stopping to bend down and grab a handful of dirt. He shoves it into his mouth and you swear you see the tail end of a worm squirming as he swallows it down.
After swallowing a mouthful he gags and spits whateverâs left of the dirt onto the ground. âWhat the fuck, whyâd I just do that!?â
At that moment, youâre enveloped in a pink hazeâhiding you from view for a few moments.
When it clears, everyone had stopped their sparring and turned to stare at you.
You look down at yourself and gasp. You were wearing a delicate pink gown with sheer sleeves that hung past your wrists. You touch your hair, it was longer than before and braided with pink and white flowers. Your feet which were once in ratty old sneakers are now covered in ornate gold sandals.
One of the other unclaimed kids scoffs, âCharmspeak, daughter of Aphrodite.â
Finally, you succeeded at somethingâgetting claimed. And youâd done it before Satoru.
Youâre triumphant, who knows when he would be claimed, if he even is claimed.
The counselor sends you off to be with the rest of the Aphrodite Cabin. They arenât susceptible to your currently uncontrollable abilities.
Their current activity: Tending to the strawberry field.
Youâre glad to leave behind the sand and dirt of the sparring arena and join your half siblings in the beautiful fields of fruit.
ââââ
Satoru is claimed the next week during a game of capture the flag.
Thereâs another thunderstorm hovering over the campâreminiscent of the one when he had arrived.
The air is thick with the static of electricity, he can practically feel the tips of his fingers tinglingâlike theyâre expecting something.
A demigod from the Ares cabin is currently pursuing him, thirsty for blood and victory.
Theyâre isolated in the forest, with only the sky and the birds to bear witness, circling each other like sharks around a fresh kill.
The other kid lunges, aiming to knock the shield out of Satoruâs hands. Satoru dodges, aiming a well timed kick at his opponents bare leg.
But the Ares kid is faster and he side steps, swinging his metal spear at Satoruâs neckâforgetting his own strength.
Satoruâs breath hitches, his hands coming up, expecting pain and maybe death.
A flash of light.
Suddenly both Satoru and his opponent are knocked away from each other by a powerful blast. The spear goes flying into the air, embedding itself into the thick trunk of a tree.
Satoru had been saved by a strike of lighting.
He sits up slowly, rubbing his head. The other camper is wide eyed, looking at something above Satoruâs head.
Satoru looks up and sees a hologram of a lightning bolt floating above him.
Just then a group of campers rush out of the trees and see him, thereâs a collective gasp and hushed whispers.
âSon of Zeus.â
A/N: Prolly gonna turn this into a full, fleshed out fic
á ášłàŹ Ő gym rat bakugou who.. has you as his wallpaper so he knows what heâs training for. he unlocks his phone between sets and pauses a bit too long, pretending heâs just swapping spotify playlists. his eyes stay on the screen like heâs gathering strength from it, even though heâd never admit that out loud. if you catch him staring, he mutters âdonât look at me like that,â but he still keeps your photo right there every day.
á ášłàŹ Ő gym rat bakugou who.. asks you what meals you want when heâs doing his meal prep. he stands in the kitchen with containers lined up and says âtell me what you want this week, iâm not letting you skip meals again.â he gives you a whole lecture about nutrition while chopping veggies, acting like youâre the one who needs discipline. even then, he always makes your favourite dish first and packs it neatly so youâll actually eat it.
á ášłàŹ Ő gym rat bakugou who.. buys personal weights for home and gets your name engraved into the metal. you only notice it one day when youâre cleaning and see the letters shining on the side. when you ask him why, he shrugs and says âbecause i want to hold you even when youâre not close to me.â he says it nonchalantly, but his ears go red and he avoids your eyes for the rest of the day.
á ášłàŹ Ő gym rat bakugou who.. serves as the best human pillow when cuddling. he pulls you onto him like itâs the most natural thing in the world, letting you settle against his chest. his steady breathing and solid frame make it easy for you to drift off without even trying. if you mumble that heâs comfy, he grumbles âyeah, i know,â but his arm tightens around you every single time.
á ášłàŹ Őgym rat bakugou who.. carries your bag even when you insist you can do it yourself. he grabs it before you can argue and slings it over his shoulder because it weighs like nothing for him. if you complain, he just says âstop whining, iâm helping.â he always walks a little closer to you after that, like itâs his job to look after you.
gym rat bakugou who.. kisses your forehead before leaving for early morning training. he leans over you while youâre half asleep and whispers âiâll be back soon.â he tucks the blanket around you before heading out, making sure youâre comfortable. when he returns, he checks on you first thing, brushing your hair back with a croaky âtold you i wouldnât be long.â
gym rat bakugou who.. sends you progress photos even though he pretends he doesnât care about them. he stands in front of the mirror after a workout and snaps a quick pic, acting like itâs only for tracking. then he sends it to you with a message along the lines of âlook at this, iâm getting better.â if you reply with praise, he gets flustered and says âwhatever, just tell me if you like it.â
gym rat bakugou who.. drags you to the sports store because he wants you to pick matching water bottles. he pretends itâs practical, saying âyou need a decent one anyway,â but he keeps holding up colours and asking which one suits you. when you choose matching ones, he nods, playing off as if itâs no big deal even though heâs clearly pleased. later he fills yours for you before every workout without saying a word.
synopsis: A chance encounter at a high-end grocery store leaves you unable to forget the strange, guarded man you metâuntil you discover heâs actually a famous singer. When photos of your brief meeting spark rumors online, youâre suddenly pulled into a world you never meant to be part of.
You thought Gojo Satoru was unobtainable. He was a star in the night skyâshining, constant, beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel. Close enough to see, close enough to admire, yet impossibly far. A beacon you could only ever grasp at, fingers curling around nothing but empty air.
Youâd see him on social media sometimes. Scrolling late at night, your screen dimmed, your room quiet except for the in-and-out of your breaths. He always looked the sameâbright, effortless, unfairly handsome. He existed in a world untouched by anything ordinary.
But you never thoughtânever even entertained the ideaâthat youâd actually have a chance.
But that would change.
It started with an accidental encounter, long before you knew who he was.
ââââ
Youâre in Erewhon, browsing like you actually had money to spend.
The place doesnât even feel real. Everything too clean and curated, shelves lined with glass jars and pastel packaging that looked more decorative than edible. The lighting whiteâyet soft, like it was trying to convince you that spending $30 on juice was a life-changing experience.
You pick up a jar, turning it over in your hands. Blue sea moss. $90.
You stare at it for a second longer than necessary. The color was almost aggressiveâa bright azure blue, borderline radioactive. No way something that looked like that was meant to be eaten.
You set it back down carefully, it looked like something that might explode if you didnât.
After a while of aimlessly walking aroundâpretending to browse, pretending you belongedâyou make your way toward the smoothie bar. It was the only thing that felt remotely justifiable.
You want to try the Hailey Beiber smoothie, the thing all those girls raved about. You want to know if it really makes your skin glow.
$21.
You hesitate, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Part of you wants to try it, just once. So you can know what it feels like to casually spend money like that, to not think twice about something so absurd.
You were still debatingâwhen you bumped into somethingâor someone.
âShit! Iâm so sorry!â The apology leaves you instantly, your hands coming up as if you could physically undo the collision. You look upâ
The stranger in front of you is dressed simply. A black hoodie, slightly oversized, and grey sweats. He looks out of place.
Even you had put in some effort before coming hereâjeans that fit just right, a light pink cardigan layered neatly, a coat of mascara brushed on thicker than usual. Not too much, just enough to feel like you wouldnât be judged.
But he looks like he doesnât care, almost like he doesnât need to.
âItâs alright,â he says easily. âI wasnât looking where I was going. Iâm sorry.â
And then you notice his eyesâan enchanting kind of blue. The kind of blue that doesnât seem to end, framed by lashes so pale theyâre almost white. His gaze is steady, but thereâs something behind itâsomething vast, something you canât quite place.
A frozen lake you could stare into for hours and never fully understand. And his hairâresembling freshly fallen snowâblindingly white. There was no way that was real.
You stare a second too long. He tilts his head slightly, expecting some kind of response.
You snap out of your trance. âNoâItâs my fault,â you rush, words tripping over themselves. âI was just.. distracted. Everything in here is just so- luxurious. UhâI usually shop at Walmart.â
The honesty slips out before you can filter it.
For a split second, you think maybe youâve said too much. But he laughs, soft and real. âSo youâre not supposed to be here then?â
You huff quietly, shrugging. âWell, Iâm definitely not rich enough to shop here.â
He nods, like he understands you completely.
âIâm not supposed to be here either,â he admits. âIâm just visiting. Iâm used to more⊠simpler things.â
Thereâs something in the way he says it. Casual, but careful, like heâs choosing his words just enough to avoid saying too much.
You glance back at the menu above the counter.
âI was thinking of treating myself,â you say, half to him, half to yourself. âJust once. Seeing what itâs like to be rich. But a $21 smoothie is kinda insane.â
Thereâs a beat.
âIâll buy it for you.â The words come out quickly, almost as if he didnât mean to say them out loud. He straightens slightly, looking as if heâs trying to recover. âI meanâonly if you want.â
You blink.
âReally?â A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. âIâd love that. Thank you.â
Inside, youâre ecstatic. A free smoothie from a ridiculously handsome stranger? This had to be some kind of cosmic compensation for all your bad luck.
He orders without hesitation, and you wonder if he even though about the price. The two of you move outside, settling at a small table tucked along the edge of the store.
The air is warmer out here, the late afternoon sun dipping lower, casting everything in a soft glow.
Now youâre glad you made an effort in your appearance today. This was practically becoming a real date.
âSo,â he says, sliding the drink toward you, condensation already gathering along the sides of the cup. âWhatâs your name?â
You tell him.
He repeats it slowly, carefully, like heâs testing itârolling each syllable over his tongue with an ease that makes it sound prettier than it actually is.
âAnd you?â you ask, leaning forward slightly. âWhat should I call you?â
He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second.
âYou can just call me Satoru.â
He says it quieter than before, itâs something meant only for youâsomething he doesnât want anyone passing by to hear.
You nod. âWell, Satoru⊠you said youâre just visiting. What are you here for?â
âIâm attending some⊠events,â he says. âThings like that.â
âLike concerts?â you guess. âL.A. has a lot of those.â
He glances at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
âYeah,â he says. âBasically.â
You take a sip of your drink, the cold sweetness hitting your tongue as water droplets slips down the cup, dampening your fingers.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
You just sit there, looking at each other.
Time shiftsâit slows and stretches. The world around you fades into something distant, blurred at the edges. Cars honk, people chatter, doors slam shutâbut none of it matters. Itâs all in the background.
Right now, you and Satoru are the only two people in the galaxy. And Time itself seems to notice, pausing, lingering, zooming in on the smallest thingsâthe way his gaze softens, the way your fingers tighten slightly around your cup, the barely-there glances exchanged like secrets.
And for onceâTime waits for you.
RING!
The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and jarring.
Reality snaps back into place. Time resumes, relentless as ever.
âSorry,â you mumble quickly, already standing. âI have to take this.â
You step a few feet away, pressing your phone to your ear. Itâs your best friend, Shoko.
âHello?â
âThis better be important,â you say immediately, lowering your voice. âYou interrupted something.â
âYeah, whateverâlike you have anything important to do.â
You roll your eyes, even though she canât see you. âShoko-â
âYou know how I applied to that medical school?â she cuts in.
You pause. âYeah⊠what about it?â
âWell, I got in!â Her voice spikes, bright and unfiltered, and it catches you off guard. Youâve never heard her sound so genuinely excited about anything.
âOh my god,â you breathe, a smile breaking across your face. âIâm so happy for youâseriously. Iâm proud of you. Youâre going to be the best doctor in the world.â
âI know,â she laughs, not even pretending to be humble. âSo get ready, Iâm taking us out. Iâm already on my way to your apartment.â
âWait- what?â
The line goes dead. You stare at your phone for a second, exhaling sharply.
You didnât even get to tell her you werenât home. You have to leave.
Now.
You hurry back to the table, your steps quicker, your beating fast.
âIâm really sorry,â you say to him, breathless. âBut I have to go. Itâs- an emergency.â
The lie comes out smoother than you expect. You donât have the heart to tell him the truthâthat youâre leaving to go celebrate with your friend. That this moment, whatever it is, is already slipping away.
You grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, already half-turned toward the street.
âIâm really sorry,â you repeat, casting one last glance at him. Taking in his face, his eyes, his open mouthâlike he was about to say something.
You wave down a taxi, directing it to go to your apartment.
ââââ
You make it home just before Shoko arrives.
The moment you manage to slip into a tiny black dress, one that was probably a size too small, the door swings open.
Of course she lets herself in. She always does.
âThis night is going to be all about me,â she proclaims, striding in like she owns the place. Her dress catches the light with every movement, sequins scattering reflectionsâand actual glitterâacross your floor. âIâm going to get so wasted Iâll forget that I can never party again.â
You blink, ignoring the glitter. âNever party again? Isnât that a little far? Iâm sure medical school wonât take up that much time.â
She stops, staring at you like youâve just said something deeply naive.
âYou donât know the horrors,â she says flatly, then shudders. âIâve heard stories.â
You laugh, grabbing your bag, and your keys.
âWell,â you say, forcing the energy back into your voice, âletâs make this a night you wonât forget.â
You hook your arm through hers, pulling her toward the door.
And just like thatâyou run out into the night.
ââââ
You get home at 3am and drag your dress down your body, fingers clumsy, impatient. The fabric catches at your hips and you tug harder than you should, nearly tearing it in the process. For a second you donât even careâyou just need it off.
It slips free and pools at your feet, a crumpled reminder of the night.
You step out of it and leave it there.
The bathroom light is too bright when you flick it on, harsh against your tired eyes. You donât bother adjusting it. You turn the shower knob all the way to hotâtoo hotâand step in before you can register the pain.
You stand there, unmoving, letting it run over your shoulders, down your back, washing away the smell of sweat and perfume and alcohol. The night clings to you, stubborn, but the heat slowly starts to pull it away.
And for the first time all night, you let your mind drift back to Satoru. You wonder if he was hurt that you left so quickly. It didnât matter anyways. He probably bought women drinks regularly. You werenât specialâyou were just at the right place at the right time. Just another girl he happened to run into.
The water runs down your face, and you close your eyes.
You arenât anything special.
Youâre prettyâbut an average kind of pretty. The girl-next-door kind. The kind that has to have a real personality for people to fall in love with. You arenât particularly well endowed eitherâyour body lacks curves. You have barely any extra plush to grip onto.
Sometimes you stare at your naked body and wonder how anyone could ever love itâlove you. In a society where big breasts and a fat ass gets you everything, you have nothing to give.
You arenât someone people remember. Not the kind someone like him would go out of his way to find.
You probably shouldâve told Shoko. She wouldâve lost her mindâgenuinely, completely thrilled to hear you actually talked to a man who wasnât an asshole for once. She wouldâve demanded every detail, replayed every word, made it into something bigger than it was.
But you didnât want to make the night about you. So you kept your mouth shut. Now youâre wondering if that was a mistake.
Because thereâs so much you want to say now. So many questions that keep circling back, refusing to settle.
Would he even remember you? Would he try to find you?
You let out a quiet breath, leaning your forehead against the cool tile.
You could just tell Shoko tomorrow. Or later. Over FaceTime, like you always do. You could say everything then.
That thought settles something in you, just enough.
Eventually, you step out of the shower, skin warm and flushed. You wrap yourself in your fluffy pink towel, the fabric soft against your damp skin, and pad barefoot over to your bed.
You grab your phone from your purse and collapse onto the mattress, scrolling absentmindedly while you wait for your hair to dry.
The first video that pops up is a clip of an idol performing in L.A. You barely register it.
You donât care much for famous people, so you scroll away.
A flash of white brings you back. Your thumb pauses mid-motion. You scroll back up and watch the videoâthe whole thing.
A figure steps forward on stage, lights flashing, the crowd screaming so loud it distorts the audio. At first, itâs hard to tellâitâs out of focus, chaotic.
But something about the singer feels familiar.
Your stomach twists. Itâs Satoru, but he looks different.
His hair is styled now, not soft and slightly messy like before. His clothes are nothing like the hoodie and sweats from beforeâtheyâre sharp, intentional, expensive. Thereâs makeup, subtle but there. Stage lights catch on his skin, highlighting angles you hadnât noticed earlier.
And his presenceâitâs stronger, more confident.
Itâs clear he knows exactly how every eye in that arena is on him. He knows he belongs.
This is version of him you didnât see. Or maybe you just werenât paying attention.
âWhat the fuck?â you whisper, barely audible.
The camera zooms in. And itâs him.
Thereâs no mistaking it now. The crowd screams his name. GOJO.
Gojo Satoru. Thatâs his full name.
You pause the video, your finger hovering for a second before tapping into the comments.
They flood the screen instantly.
@gojossixthsenseye: I NEED HIM SO BAD
@gojosatorusmicstand: The mic is ON
@ineedwaterrrr: I would die for him ngl
Your mouth parts, your eyes flicker away from your screenâtrying to forget to focus on anything else, anything but your phone.
Girls thirsting, screaming, and jumpingâall of it was for him.
The same guy who bought you a smoothie like it didnât matter. Who sat across from you like it was normal. Who looked at youâreally looked at youâlike you werenât just another face passing by.
This version of himâwould never do that. Would never talk to a strangerânever talk to you. Someone whoâs never even brushed against fame, let alone existed inside it.
You turn your phone off abruptly and toss it somewhere into the mess of blankets and pillows on your bed.
You stare at the ceiling. You felt something when you talked to him. A connectionâa spark of something real.
But maybe that was just himâcharming. So much so that it disarmedyou. The kind of person who could make anyone feel seen if he wanted to.
Maybe he just wanted to feel normal for a little while. And you were convenient. You didnât recognize him. Not even when he gave you his name.
That mustâve been perfect for him. No expectations, screaming fansâno pressure.
Just a normal conversation. Maybe thatâs why he stayed as long as he did.
The thought sits heavy on your chest. And you know that by morning he wonât even remember you.
You were just a moment for him. A tool to step outside of his life for a little while.
You reach blindly into your blankets and fish your phone back out.
Your fingers move almost on autopilot, opening Instagram, searching his name.
His account pops up instantlyâverified, with tens of millions of followers.
You tap on his latest postâitâs from the concert. A photo of him on stage, lights exploding behind him, the crowd barely visible beyond the glare.
You stare at it for a second.
Then you comment.
@starrygirI: he sounds way better than i thought
Itâs stupidly casual. Like youâre just another fan.
But now, that is all you are.
He didnât seem the singing type when you first met him. Not the idol type either. You were wrong about a lot of things.
He probably wouldnât recognize you. And why would he? Youâre just another comment in a sea of thousands.
You check the time: 5am. Two hours gone. And somehow, you feel like youâve learned more in those two hours than you had in college.
Reality settles in, heavy and immovable. Youâll never get a chance to speak to him again. At least not casually.
You turn your phone offâthis time for realâand pull on a loose t-shirt, the fabric soft and familiar.
Sleep comes quickly.
And when it doesâyour dreams are filled with a vast land of snow and endless blue.
ââââ
You wake up lateâwhen the sun is at its highest point in the sky. Light spills through your half-closed blinds, painting your room in a muted golden haze.
The first thing you do is reach for your phone.
Notifications.
But not the one you want. He hasnât responded. Heâs famous, you didnât expect him too.
It still hurts.
You push yourself out of bed, limbs sluggish, and trudge over to your small kitchenette. You open a box of cheap Costco croissants and pull one out, eating it cold because you donât have the energy to heat it up.
You lean against the counter, chewing slowly, and unlock your phone again.
This time, you go straight to his profile and open direct messages.
Your fingers hover for a second before you start typing.
idk if u remember me but i was the girl at erewhon
âI donât know if you remember me?â you mutter, âwho the fuck would say that?â
Itâs only been a day, heâd probably remember you. Considering the fact he spent the better part of his afternoon with you.
You delete it and start again.
u didnât tell me u were famous
Now it sounds worse. Like you care about that. Like it changes something. Like youâre about to latch onto him now that you know who he is.
Maybe thatâs dramatic, but it sounds desperate. You send it anyways.
He probably wonât even see it.
You move to your living room, collapsing onto your ratty little couch, the cushions sinking under your weight. Your laptop sits on the coffee table, and you pull it toward you, flipping it open.
You type his name into Google, and instantly your screen floods with images, articles, and interviews.
You click on one. Itâs a magazine cover from the recent issue of Man About Town.
Satoru sits on the floor, head tilted slightly upward, eyes locked with the camera like heâs looking straight through itâthrough you. Itâs mesmerizing, almost as magical as seeing him in person.
But no camera can capture the exact blue of his eyes. Not the way they looked in real life. Not the way they held yours so effortlessly.
Your gaze drifts lowerâto his clothes. Black pants, sleek, perfectly tailoredâinterrupted only by the unmistakable red and green Gucci stripe running down the side.
Itâs obvious now. At the store, you thought he was like you: Broke and out of place.
Now itâs clear, he just snuck away from his hotel. From his schedule. From everything that comes with being him.
And for a momentâyou were his normal.
You close the tab and go back to your search.
Absorbing more than you probably should. Turns out he had another concert next week.
You click on it immediately, already knowing what youâll find: Sold out.
You check resale sites next. Sketchy onesâlinks you barely trust.
The prices make your stomach twist, knowing you could never afford them.
$800
$1000
$1200
Youâd really fucked up this time.
Thereâs nothing you can do except wait.
ââââ
Itâs the day of Satoruâs concert.
You told yourself you wouldnât go.
You would get in trouble. Youâd regret it. Thereâs no pointâyou donât even have a ticket.
The thought flickers in your mind anyway. You shut it down before it can take root, digging into the pliable soil of your mind and settling.
You donât have a ticket. Thereâs nothing for you there.
ââââ
Itâs dark by the time you step out of your Uber. The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, swallowed almost instantly by the distant roar of a crowd.
For a second, you just stand there on the curb, unsure how you got here. You donât remember making the decision. Your body had moved on its own, there was something inside you that refused to stay away.
Now youâre hereâstanding in front of the arena.
It towers over you, steel and glass and blinding lights. Massive screens flash Satoruâs name in looping graphics, his face appearing for seconds at a time before dissolving into color and motion. People rush past you in clusters, buzzing with excitement, their voices overlapping into a constant hum of anticipation.
You let yourself drift with them. No resistance, no directionâjust letting the current of bodies carry you forward. Their energy brushes against you, warm and electric, but it never quite reaches inside. You feel like a ghost slipping through something you canât touch.
Inside, the air changes immediatelyâcool, artificial, humming faintly with the buildingâs ventilation. Bright lights reflect off polished floors. Thereâs a long line snaking around metal barricades. People waiting for wristbands, tickets clutched tightly in their hands.
You slow, watching them for a moment. You wouldnât need to wait, you donât have a ticket.
The realization doesnât sting like you expected, it just settles, deep in your gut.
You walk around the line. Past the security ropes. Toward somewhere quieterâsomewhere you know you probably shouldnât be.
A dark corridor opens along the side of the building, half-hidden from the main flow of people. A small sign hangs above it, almost overlooked.
Staff Only. You donât stop.
The lights dim as you step inside, the noise of the crowd muffling into the distance, like waves behind a wall. The corridor stretches ahead, narrow and shadowed, leading to a thin gap between the arena wall and an outer barricade.
Itâs empty. Occasionally, someone passes at the far endâstaff members with headsets, security guards moving with purposeâbut none of them spare you more than a glance. They look through you, past you.
Youâve always been good at that: being invisible.
You step closer to the wall, the bass faint but steady beneath your feet, like a heartbeat you canât quite sync with. For a moment, you close your eyes.
And just for a moment. You let yourself pretend.
Pretend youâre out there, pressed up against the barricade, shoulder to shoulder with the crowd. Pretend the lights are blinding instead of distant. Pretend that when you look up-
A roar erupts. Your eyes snap open.
Reality crashes back in all at once. The music surges, louder now, vibrating through the concrete, through your bones. The crowd screams in wavesârising, falling, rising againâreacting to something you canât see.
A few beats pass. Then his voice appears.
It cuts through everything, even from here. He starts with his most popular songâyou knew he would. Youâd looked it up, you memorized the setlist.
The crowd explodes. Itâs deafening, overwhelming, almost violent in its intensity. They scream the lyrics back at him, thousands of voices merging into one. From where you stand, itâs hard to even hear him over them.
But then certain parts come. The ones no one bothered to memorize.
His voice is deeper than the recordings ever captured, richerâlike itâs pulled straight from somewhere deep inside his chest. It fills the space in a way that feels too intimate for something so far away.
And the crowd feels it too. Their screams sharpen, higher, almost desperate, bouncing off the walls and folding back in on themselves.
You hum along softly, barely audible over the clamoring in the pit. Trying to imagine that youâre out there.
That somehow, he sees you.
For a second, it almost works. But the illusion shatters as quickly as it formed, leaving you standing in the pieces of your broken dream. Youâre still in the hallway, separated by concrete bricks.
A wall between you and him. Literally and figuratively.
The song ends. Thereâs a pause, brief but heavyâthe entire arena is holding its breath at once.
Then he speaks. The crowd erupts again, louder somehow, like theyâd been waiting just to hear him talk. His voice filters through the wall in fragments, broken and uneven.
ââŠtonightâŠâ
ââŠthank youâŠâ
ââŠmeans a lotâŠâ
You strain to catch more, but the rest dissolves into noise. He sounds so close. Close enough that, if the wall disappeared, you could reach out and touch him.
And yetâheâs impossibly far. Once, you were right there. Closer to him than any of these people will ever be.
And now there are thousands between you. Thousands screaming his name. And even if you screamedâhe wouldnât hear you.
Time keeps moving. Like it always has. Steady, unrelenting, dragging everything forward whether youâre ready or not. Even when you wish it would rewind. Even when youâd give anything to relive the moments you let slip awayâlike the drifting tides of the ocean.
Another song starts. Then another.
You tell yourself youâll leave after this one.
Time blurs, slipping through your fingers, measured only by the rise and fall of music and the constant pulse of the crowd. At some point, your legs give out and you sink to the floor, back pressed against the cold wall, arms wrapped around your bare knees.
You let the sound wash over you. Let it carry something awayâsome piece of the weight youâve been holding onto. Your anguish.
By the time the concert nears its end, you can feel the difference. The crowdâs energy is thinning, stretched tight and fraying at the edges. Still loud, still aliveâbut itâs tired.
Then the music shifts.
It turns slow, soft. Itâs a different kind of song.
A love song.
His voice returns, quieter now, stripped of the heavy production. No distortion, no layering. Raw and unguarded, resonating through the space.
For a moment, itâs easy to pretend that this is just for you. A private concert in your mind, tucked away in the dark.
But itâs not for you, none of this is. Youâre just another face in a crowd youâre not even part of.
The final note fades, and the arena erupts.
Every single person screaming, cheering, pouring everything they have left into the moment. Itâs louder than before, louder than anything, it hurts to listen too.
He says a few words, the crowd cheers again, the lights dim. His presence is gone.
You sit there for a moment longer, unmoving, the silence in your space feeling heavier now that the music is gone. Then you push yourself up, legs stiff, and make your way back down the corridor.
The closer you get to the exit, the louder it becomes againânot music this time, but people.
The crowd spills out into the halls and onto the streets, buzzing with excitement. Laughter, chatter, voices overlapping in a chaotic song.
You let yourself be pulled along again. You try to join the crowd, but you donât fit. Youâre not laughing, not smiling.
If anything, the concert didnât bring you closer to Satoruâit reminded you of how far away he isâof everything youâll never have.
You wish, not for the first time, that Satoru was normal. Because maybe then, this wouldnât feel so impossible. Maybe then, youâd have a chance.
A long sigh escapes you as you pick up your pace, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Every part of you achesânot physically, but in that quiet, persistent way you canât shake.
You just want to go home.
Outside, the night air hits you, cool and grounding. The moon hangs overhead, plump and inviting, casting a pale glow over the sea of people and cars below.
Pickup lines stretch endlessly, headlights blending into one continuous stream of white and red. Drivers call out names, passengers weave through traffic, tires screech.
You stand there for a second, scanning the crowd. Youâre unsure if youâll even be able to find your ride.
Suddenly, the window of a Toyota rolls down and a man with a scarred lip peers out at you.
He calls your name, âUber for you?â
âUh yeah,â You open the door to the backseat and slide in. âYouâre Fushiguro right?â
He tries to catch your eye in the rear-view mirror, âYeah, but you can just call me Toji.â
âRight. Just take me to the address I put in the app.â You purposely avoid his gaze, opting to look out the window instead.
You hear him hum and type something out on his touchscreen
He pulls away, speeding off. Leaving everything behind you in the dust.
ââââ
That night, Shoko calls you.
Your phone buzzes against your mattress, the sound louder than it should be in the quiet of your room. You stare at the screen for a second before picking it up, already knowing itâs her.
You answer in bed, still half-buried under your blankets. You put her on speaker and drop the phone beside you, turning onto your side.
âHey Shoko, howâs med school so far?â
âWellââ she starts, dragging the word out, âthis guy I met at the bar had free tickets to a meet and greet with some famous singer, itâs in a week, you wanna go?â
You blink, that wasnât what you expected.
Shokoâs been so busy with med school lately, buried in textbooks and stressâyouâll take any excuse to see her. Even if it means standing in a crowded room with a bunch of screaming fans.
âOf course,â you say, pushing yourself up slightly. âWho is it?â
âGo-go Sakura, I think?â she says, completely unsure. âI donât remember his name. Heâs super famous though.â
You pause, wondering if you heard it right.
She completely butchered his name, but you know exactly who sheâs talking about.
Your chest tightens just a little. This is your chance.
âYeah,â you say casually, pretending that his name doesnât stir something inside you. âLet me search him up.â
You grab your laptop from beside your bed and sit up properly, leaning back against your pile of pillows. The screen lights your face blue as you open it, fingers moving slower than usual.
You donât want her to know that you know himâthat you met him.
âOhââ you say after a second, forcing a bit of surprise into your voice. âHe is super famous. Heâs got likeâ100 million listeners on Spotify.â
âHoly shit,â Shoko gasps, âthe guy didnât tell me he was that famous.â
You huff out a quiet laugh.
Of course he didnât.
âDo you think if I post a photo with him on my Insta Iâll go viral?â she adds, suddenly more awake.
âShoko,â you say flatly, âyour Insta is private.â
Thereâs a pause.
âOh yeah,â she says. âIâll make it public then.â
You actually laugh at that, shaking your head a little.
Then it hits youâshe canât see you.
âHey,â you add quickly, adjusting your position, âyou wanna FaceTime? I miss your face girl.â
âDuh,â she says immediately. âI miss you too.â
You prop your phone up against your laptop, adjusting it a couple times until it stops slipping. Your camera turns on, and a second later hers does too.
Her face fills the screen.
You notice it right awayâher dark circles.
âYou look tired,â you say, leaning in a little, your brows pulling together. âWe can talk tomorrow if you want.â
âThe semester just started,â she sighs, rubbing at her eyes. âThe work isnât that difficult yet. I just need to fix my sleep schedule.â
You nod slowly.
âI know,â you say. âAt least youâre doing something productive with your life. I sit on my couch watching movies all day.â
The words come out lighter than they feel.
âI really need a job.â
âNo luck with liberal arts?â she asks.
You let out a dry laugh.
âFuck no,â you say. âMy only hope is to marry a rich man.â
You drop your face into your hands dramatically, muffling your voice.
âYouâll have men lining up for you,â she says without hesitation. âTrust me.â
âI wish,â you groan, dragging your hands down your face. âUgh. I was so dumbâI shouldâve gotten a degree in biology or something.â
You glance back at your phone, at her.
âI think Iâm the one whoâs tired,â you add. âIâm gonna sleep. Text me the meet and greet stuff.â
âIâll send the ticket to you,â she says. âIt has all the info.â
You nod. âOkay.â
She ends the call.
You let out a deep sigh and fall back against your pillows, one arm coming up to cover your eyes.
You were boring, jobless, and loveless.
The thoughts bury deep inside your mind, heavy, hard to ignore.
How were you supposed to attract a rich man like this?
You werenât anything flashy. You werenât the kind of girl who walked into a room and had people turning their heads.
You were certainly no peacock. If anything, the smallest things made you flush with embarrassmentâa wrong word, a lingering stare, even thinking too hard about something you said hours ago.
You exhale slowly. You were going to have to pick up a shit ton of jobs again.
Just like in college. The thought almost feels nostalgic. But back then, it meant something. You were working towards your future, now this is your future.
Your eyes shift toward your laptop, still open beside you. The screen glows softly in the dim room, pulling your attention back.
You sigh and sit up again, dragging the laptop into your lap.
A Michelin star restaurant. The kind that serves tiny plates of food that barely fill your stomach. One of your old boyfriends took you there onceâsaid it was ânothing special.â That kind of place was normal for him. You remember feeling out of place the entire time.
Men dressed in perfectly tailored suits. Women in beautiful floor length dresses, slits cut into the sidesâhigh enough to show a sliver of thigh.
You swear the waitress eyed you up and down, as if she knew you didnât belong among them.
And nowâyouâre considering working there.
You tilt your head slightly, thinking.
Itâs not like youâre completely inexperienced. Youâve worked as a waitress before. Plenty of times. You know how to carry trays, deal with customers, smile even with it hurts.
It wonât harm you to try.
You click on the link. The application page loads, clean and simple. You skim it quickly before uploading your resume, the same one youâve sent out a dozen times before.
You hesitate for half a second, then hit submit. You lean back slightly, staring at the screen.
Hopefully they find you a perfect applicant, and call you in for an interview. You just want something to do besides lying on your couch all day.
Your phone buzzes loudly, making you jump, scaring you out of your thoughts. You pick it up lethargicallyâit continues to buzz in your hand.
Youâre being bombarded with messages.
All from Shoko.
Shoko đ: Omg look at this
Shoko đ: Itâs abt the singer i was showing u
Shoko đ: Wait
Shoko đ: Isnât this u???
She sends a link in the chat. You open it slowlyâyour fingers hovering over it hesitantly.
It leads you to a post filled with pictures of Satoru andâ
You.
The photos are blurry, taken from far away. Only the side of your face is visibleâcovered by strands of hair. Not enough to identify you, but you recognize yourselfâyour outfit, the shape of your nose.
You glance down at the caption.
Gojo Satoru spotted in the wild with a girl???
Your stomach drops, people had noticed himâhad noticed you.
The comments are filled with people wondering who you are, maybe a secret girlfriend, a fan.
No, youâre too close to be just a fan. He looks too relaxed, his smile easy, his hand frozen in timeâpushing your drink towards you.
You scroll, just to find more videos of people making theories, defending you, or picking out every little thingâthe curve of your nose, the cardigan youâre wearing, the pattern of your hairâtalking about it like itâs the hottest gossip of the year.
And maybe it is.
When you he offered to buy your drink and you agreed, you didnât expect anything big to come out of it. You didnât even know who he was.
Now, youâre somehow apart of all this.
A/N: First fic iâve posted on tumblr đ donât flop pls
You arrive at Camp Half-Blood the same day Satoru does.
Your satyr had escorted you safely to the top of the hill with little to no fanfare.
Satoru arrived a few hours later, being chased by a pride of chimeras and a flock of harpies.
His clothes were singed from the flames of the chimeras, his shirt in tatters from the claws of the harpies.
He was a sight to beholdâhis arrival came with a powerful storm, lighting striking along the border of the magical barrier around the camp, thunder claps booming in the distance.
His hair was blown in all directions by the wind, creating a halo of white around his head. He wouldâve looked almost angelicâif he werenât running for his life.
The lightning from the storm somehow avoided his path, like it was trying to help him get to the camp, like it wanted him to live.
You watched as a harpy dived towards himâclaws spread, talons sharp and deadlyâready to grab him. He let out a last burst of speedâbolting within the barrier of the camp.
He subsequently collapsed, the break for the camp draining all the energy out of him. He was quickly transported away by a group of counselors and you were taken to the Hermes cabin, to await claiming.
You heard a few whispers that he was being fed ambrosiaâthe food of the Godsâto heal him from his injuries. You felt a twinge of jealousy twisting in your gut, why did he have to get all the glory?
The next day at lunch you see Satoru again. You were both sitting at the Hermes tableâas you hadnât gotten claimed yet.
Youâre impatient to know who your godly parent is. The Hermes cabin is way too crowded. And itâs clear that Satoru is tooâhe had ripped off all his bandages and dumped his whole plate of food into the fireâin hopes of pleasing his patron.
After lunch the Hermes cabin was going to train sword fighting. You and Satoru went along with themâstill being unclaimed.
The training arena is a flat pit of packed sand and dirt. Thereâs a rack of various wooden weapons and shields on the side.
You hold a wooden sword up, itâs a little heavy and youâd never used a sword before.
You stand in front of a dummyâyour arms shaking as you try to hit its midsectionâyour swings unsteady at best, downright quivering at worst.
You look to your right and see Satoru striking smoothly and efficiently at his target, like a damn cobra.
Of course heâs a natural. He distributes his weight perfectly, chopping off the straw head of a scarecrow.
Youâre pissed, this kid who had arrived the same time as you was already showing you up. Even his entrance was more dramatic than yoursâthe sound of thunder as his back track.
The head counselor of the Hermes cabin yells at everyone to get into pairs for sparring.
Being the two newest, you have to pair up with him. You dread it, he is going to demolish you. Youâd seen the way he lopped off the head of the dummy.
You plant your feet into the ground, holding your sword directly in front of you, like it would do anything to protect you against Satoruâs hits.
He strikes first, advancing forward on his toes. You immediately back up, deciding to stay defense and run from all his blows.
âStop running and fight me,â he taunts. âOr are you too scared?â
âThereâs an obvious gap in skill here, what am I supposed to do?â You whine, your arm narrowly avoiding a jab from his sword.
âMaybe youâre not trying hard enough.â
âEat dirt.â
And surprisingly he doesâabruptly stopping to bend down and grab a handful of dirt. He shoves it into his mouth and you swear you see the tail end of a worm squirming as he swallows it down.
After swallowing a mouthful he gags and spits whateverâs left of the dirt onto the ground. âWhat the fuck, whyâd I just do that!?â
At that moment, youâre enveloped in a pink hazeâhiding you from view for a few moments.
When it clears, everyone had stopped their sparring and turned to stare at you.
You look down at yourself and gasp. You were wearing a delicate pink gown with sheer sleeves that hung past your wrists. You touch your hair, it was longer than before and braided with pink and white flowers. Your feet which were once in ratty old sneakers are now covered in ornate gold sandals.
One of the other unclaimed kids scoffs, âCharmspeak, daughter of Aphrodite.â
Finally, you succeeded at somethingâgetting claimed. And youâd done it before Satoru.
Youâre triumphant, who knows when he would be claimed, if he even is claimed.
The counselor sends you off to be with the rest of the Aphrodite Cabin. They arenât susceptible to your currently uncontrollable abilities.
Their current activity: Tending to the strawberry field.
Youâre glad to leave behind the sand and dirt of the sparring arena and join your half siblings in the beautiful fields of fruit.
ââââ
Satoru is claimed the next week during a game of capture the flag.
Thereâs another thunderstorm hovering over the campâreminiscent of the one when he had arrived.
The air is thick with the static of electricity, he can practically feel the tips of his fingers tinglingâlike theyâre expecting something.
A demigod from the Ares cabin is currently pursuing him, thirsty for blood and victory.
Theyâre isolated in the forest, with only the sky and the birds to bear witness, circling each other like sharks around a fresh kill.
The other kid lunges, aiming to knock the shield out of Satoruâs hands. Satoru dodges, aiming a well timed kick at his opponents bare leg.
But the Ares kid is faster and he side steps, swinging his metal spear at Satoruâs neckâforgetting his own strength.
Satoruâs breath hitches, his hands coming up, expecting pain and maybe death.
A flash of light.
Suddenly both Satoru and his opponent are knocked away from each other by a powerful blast. The spear goes flying into the air, embedding itself into the thick trunk of a tree.
Satoru had been saved by a strike of lighting.
He sits up slowly, rubbing his head. The other camper is wide eyed, looking at something above Satoruâs head.
Satoru looks up and sees a hologram of a lightning bolt floating above him.
Just then a group of campers rush out of the trees and see him, thereâs a collective gasp and hushed whispers.
âSon of Zeus.â
A/N: Prolly gonna turn this into a full, fleshed out fic
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synopsis: A chance encounter at a high-end grocery store leaves you unable to forget the strange, guarded man you metâuntil you discover heâs actually a famous singer. When photos of your brief meeting spark rumors online, youâre suddenly pulled into a world you never meant to be part of.
You thought Gojo Satoru was unobtainable. He was a star in the night skyâshining, constant, beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel. Close enough to see, close enough to admire, yet impossibly far. A beacon you could only ever grasp at, fingers curling around nothing but empty air.
Youâd see him on social media sometimes. Scrolling late at night, your screen dimmed, your room quiet except for the in-and-out of your breaths. He always looked the sameâbright, effortless, unfairly handsome. He existed in a world untouched by anything ordinary.
But you never thoughtânever even entertained the ideaâthat youâd actually have a chance.
But that would change.
It started with an accidental encounter, long before you knew who he was.
ââââ
Youâre in Erewhon, browsing like you actually had money to spend.
The place doesnât even feel real. Everything too clean and curated, shelves lined with glass jars and pastel packaging that looked more decorative than edible. The lighting whiteâyet soft, like it was trying to convince you that spending $30 on juice was a life-changing experience.
You pick up a jar, turning it over in your hands. Blue sea moss. $90.
You stare at it for a second longer than necessary. The color was almost aggressiveâa bright azure blue, borderline radioactive. No way something that looked like that was meant to be eaten.
You set it back down carefully, it looked like something that might explode if you didnât.
After a while of aimlessly walking aroundâpretending to browse, pretending you belongedâyou make your way toward the smoothie bar. It was the only thing that felt remotely justifiable.
You want to try the Hailey Beiber smoothie, the thing all those girls raved about. You want to know if it really makes your skin glow.
$21.
You hesitate, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Part of you wants to try it, just once. So you can know what it feels like to casually spend money like that, to not think twice about something so absurd.
You were still debatingâwhen you bumped into somethingâor someone.
âShit! Iâm so sorry!â The apology leaves you instantly, your hands coming up as if you could physically undo the collision. You look upâ
The stranger in front of you is dressed simply. A black hoodie, slightly oversized, and grey sweats. He looks out of place.
Even you had put in some effort before coming hereâjeans that fit just right, a light pink cardigan layered neatly, a coat of mascara brushed on thicker than usual. Not too much, just enough to feel like you wouldnât be judged.
But he looks like he doesnât care, almost like he doesnât need to.
âItâs alright,â he says easily. âI wasnât looking where I was going. Iâm sorry.â
And then you notice his eyesâan enchanting kind of blue. The kind of blue that doesnât seem to end, framed by lashes so pale theyâre almost white. His gaze is steady, but thereâs something behind itâsomething vast, something you canât quite place.
A frozen lake you could stare into for hours and never fully understand. And his hairâresembling freshly fallen snowâblindingly white. There was no way that was real.
You stare a second too long. He tilts his head slightly, expecting some kind of response.
You snap out of your trance. âNoâItâs my fault,â you rush, words tripping over themselves. âI was just.. distracted. Everything in here is just so- luxurious. UhâI usually shop at Walmart.â
The honesty slips out before you can filter it.
For a split second, you think maybe youâve said too much. But he laughs, soft and real. âSo youâre not supposed to be here then?â
You huff quietly, shrugging. âWell, Iâm definitely not rich enough to shop here.â
He nods, like he understands you completely.
âIâm not supposed to be here either,â he admits. âIâm just visiting. Iâm used to more⊠simpler things.â
Thereâs something in the way he says it. Casual, but careful, like heâs choosing his words just enough to avoid saying too much.
You glance back at the menu above the counter.
âI was thinking of treating myself,â you say, half to him, half to yourself. âJust once. Seeing what itâs like to be rich. But a $21 smoothie is kinda insane.â
Thereâs a beat.
âIâll buy it for you.â The words come out quickly, almost as if he didnât mean to say them out loud. He straightens slightly, looking as if heâs trying to recover. âI meanâonly if you want.â
You blink.
âReally?â A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. âIâd love that. Thank you.â
Inside, youâre ecstatic. A free smoothie from a ridiculously handsome stranger? This had to be some kind of cosmic compensation for all your bad luck.
He orders without hesitation, and you wonder if he even though about the price. The two of you move outside, settling at a small table tucked along the edge of the store.
The air is warmer out here, the late afternoon sun dipping lower, casting everything in a soft glow.
Now youâre glad you made an effort in your appearance today. This was practically becoming a real date.
âSo,â he says, sliding the drink toward you, condensation already gathering along the sides of the cup. âWhatâs your name?â
You tell him.
He repeats it slowly, carefully, like heâs testing itârolling each syllable over his tongue with an ease that makes it sound prettier than it actually is.
âAnd you?â you ask, leaning forward slightly. âWhat should I call you?â
He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second.
âYou can just call me Satoru.â
He says it quieter than before, itâs something meant only for youâsomething he doesnât want anyone passing by to hear.
You nod. âWell, Satoru⊠you said youâre just visiting. What are you here for?â
âIâm attending some⊠events,â he says. âThings like that.â
âLike concerts?â you guess. âL.A. has a lot of those.â
He glances at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
âYeah,â he says. âBasically.â
You take a sip of your drink, the cold sweetness hitting your tongue as water droplets slips down the cup, dampening your fingers.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
You just sit there, looking at each other.
Time shiftsâit slows and stretches. The world around you fades into something distant, blurred at the edges. Cars honk, people chatter, doors slam shutâbut none of it matters. Itâs all in the background.
Right now, you and Satoru are the only two people in the galaxy. And Time itself seems to notice, pausing, lingering, zooming in on the smallest thingsâthe way his gaze softens, the way your fingers tighten slightly around your cup, the barely-there glances exchanged like secrets.
And for onceâTime waits for you.
RING!
The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and jarring.
Reality snaps back into place. Time resumes, relentless as ever.
âSorry,â you mumble quickly, already standing. âI have to take this.â
You step a few feet away, pressing your phone to your ear. Itâs your best friend, Shoko.
âHello?â
âThis better be important,â you say immediately, lowering your voice. âYou interrupted something.â
âYeah, whateverâlike you have anything important to do.â
You roll your eyes, even though she canât see you. âShoko-â
âYou know how I applied to that medical school?â she cuts in.
You pause. âYeah⊠what about it?â
âWell, I got in!â Her voice spikes, bright and unfiltered, and it catches you off guard. Youâve never heard her sound so genuinely excited about anything.
âOh my god,â you breathe, a smile breaking across your face. âIâm so happy for youâseriously. Iâm proud of you. Youâre going to be the best doctor in the world.â
âI know,â she laughs, not even pretending to be humble. âSo get ready, Iâm taking us out. Iâm already on my way to your apartment.â
âWait- what?â
The line goes dead. You stare at your phone for a second, exhaling sharply.
You didnât even get to tell her you werenât home. You have to leave.
Now.
You hurry back to the table, your steps quicker, your beating fast.
âIâm really sorry,â you say to him, breathless. âBut I have to go. Itâs- an emergency.â
The lie comes out smoother than you expect. You donât have the heart to tell him the truthâthat youâre leaving to go celebrate with your friend. That this moment, whatever it is, is already slipping away.
You grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, already half-turned toward the street.
âIâm really sorry,â you repeat, casting one last glance at him. Taking in his face, his eyes, his open mouthâlike he was about to say something.
You wave down a taxi, directing it to go to your apartment.
ââââ
You make it home just before Shoko arrives.
The moment you manage to slip into a tiny black dress, one that was probably a size too small, the door swings open.
Of course she lets herself in. She always does.
âThis night is going to be all about me,â she proclaims, striding in like she owns the place. Her dress catches the light with every movement, sequins scattering reflectionsâand actual glitterâacross your floor. âIâm going to get so wasted Iâll forget that I can never party again.â
You blink, ignoring the glitter. âNever party again? Isnât that a little far? Iâm sure medical school wonât take up that much time.â
She stops, staring at you like youâve just said something deeply naive.
âYou donât know the horrors,â she says flatly, then shudders. âIâve heard stories.â
You laugh, grabbing your bag, and your keys.
âWell,â you say, forcing the energy back into your voice, âletâs make this a night you wonât forget.â
You hook your arm through hers, pulling her toward the door.
And just like thatâyou run out into the night.
ââââ
You get home at 3am and drag your dress down your body, fingers clumsy, impatient. The fabric catches at your hips and you tug harder than you should, nearly tearing it in the process. For a second you donât even careâyou just need it off.
It slips free and pools at your feet, a crumpled reminder of the night.
You step out of it and leave it there.
The bathroom light is too bright when you flick it on, harsh against your tired eyes. You donât bother adjusting it. You turn the shower knob all the way to hotâtoo hotâand step in before you can register the pain.
You stand there, unmoving, letting it run over your shoulders, down your back, washing away the smell of sweat and perfume and alcohol. The night clings to you, stubborn, but the heat slowly starts to pull it away.
And for the first time all night, you let your mind drift back to Satoru. You wonder if he was hurt that you left so quickly. It didnât matter anyways. He probably bought women drinks regularly. You werenât specialâyou were just at the right place at the right time. Just another girl he happened to run into.
The water runs down your face, and you close your eyes.
You arenât anything special.
Youâre prettyâbut an average kind of pretty. The girl-next-door kind. The kind that has to have a real personality for people to fall in love with. You arenât particularly well endowed eitherâyour body lacks curves. You have barely any extra plush to grip onto.
Sometimes you stare at your naked body and wonder how anyone could ever love itâlove you. In a society where big breasts and a fat ass gets you everything, you have nothing to give.
You arenât someone people remember. Not the kind someone like him would go out of his way to find.
You probably shouldâve told Shoko. She wouldâve lost her mindâgenuinely, completely thrilled to hear you actually talked to a man who wasnât an asshole for once. She wouldâve demanded every detail, replayed every word, made it into something bigger than it was.
But you didnât want to make the night about you. So you kept your mouth shut. Now youâre wondering if that was a mistake.
Because thereâs so much you want to say now. So many questions that keep circling back, refusing to settle.
Would he even remember you? Would he try to find you?
You let out a quiet breath, leaning your forehead against the cool tile.
You could just tell Shoko tomorrow. Or later. Over FaceTime, like you always do. You could say everything then.
That thought settles something in you, just enough.
Eventually, you step out of the shower, skin warm and flushed. You wrap yourself in your fluffy pink towel, the fabric soft against your damp skin, and pad barefoot over to your bed.
You grab your phone from your purse and collapse onto the mattress, scrolling absentmindedly while you wait for your hair to dry.
The first video that pops up is a clip of an idol performing in L.A. You barely register it.
You donât care much for famous people, so you scroll away.
A flash of white brings you back. Your thumb pauses mid-motion. You scroll back up and watch the videoâthe whole thing.
A figure steps forward on stage, lights flashing, the crowd screaming so loud it distorts the audio. At first, itâs hard to tellâitâs out of focus, chaotic.
But something about the singer feels familiar.
Your stomach twists. Itâs Satoru, but he looks different.
His hair is styled now, not soft and slightly messy like before. His clothes are nothing like the hoodie and sweats from beforeâtheyâre sharp, intentional, expensive. Thereâs makeup, subtle but there. Stage lights catch on his skin, highlighting angles you hadnât noticed earlier.
And his presenceâitâs stronger, more confident.
Itâs clear he knows exactly how every eye in that arena is on him. He knows he belongs.
This is version of him you didnât see. Or maybe you just werenât paying attention.
âWhat the fuck?â you whisper, barely audible.
The camera zooms in. And itâs him.
Thereâs no mistaking it now. The crowd screams his name. GOJO.
Gojo Satoru. Thatâs his full name.
You pause the video, your finger hovering for a second before tapping into the comments.
They flood the screen instantly.
@gojossixthsenseye: I NEED HIM SO BAD
@gojosatorusmicstand: The mic is ON
@ineedwaterrrr: I would die for him ngl
Your mouth parts, your eyes flicker away from your screenâtrying to forget to focus on anything else, anything but your phone.
Girls thirsting, screaming, and jumpingâall of it was for him.
The same guy who bought you a smoothie like it didnât matter. Who sat across from you like it was normal. Who looked at youâreally looked at youâlike you werenât just another face passing by.
This version of himâwould never do that. Would never talk to a strangerânever talk to you. Someone whoâs never even brushed against fame, let alone existed inside it.
You turn your phone off abruptly and toss it somewhere into the mess of blankets and pillows on your bed.
You stare at the ceiling. You felt something when you talked to him. A connectionâa spark of something real.
But maybe that was just himâcharming. So much so that it disarmedyou. The kind of person who could make anyone feel seen if he wanted to.
Maybe he just wanted to feel normal for a little while. And you were convenient. You didnât recognize him. Not even when he gave you his name.
That mustâve been perfect for him. No expectations, screaming fansâno pressure.
Just a normal conversation. Maybe thatâs why he stayed as long as he did.
The thought sits heavy on your chest. And you know that by morning he wonât even remember you.
You were just a moment for him. A tool to step outside of his life for a little while.
You reach blindly into your blankets and fish your phone back out.
Your fingers move almost on autopilot, opening Instagram, searching his name.
His account pops up instantlyâverified, with tens of millions of followers.
You tap on his latest postâitâs from the concert. A photo of him on stage, lights exploding behind him, the crowd barely visible beyond the glare.
You stare at it for a second.
Then you comment.
@starrygirI: he sounds way better than i thought
Itâs stupidly casual. Like youâre just another fan.
But now, that is all you are.
He didnât seem the singing type when you first met him. Not the idol type either. You were wrong about a lot of things.
He probably wouldnât recognize you. And why would he? Youâre just another comment in a sea of thousands.
You check the time: 5am. Two hours gone. And somehow, you feel like youâve learned more in those two hours than you had in college.
Reality settles in, heavy and immovable. Youâll never get a chance to speak to him again. At least not casually.
You turn your phone offâthis time for realâand pull on a loose t-shirt, the fabric soft and familiar.
Sleep comes quickly.
And when it doesâyour dreams are filled with a vast land of snow and endless blue.
ââââ
You wake up lateâwhen the sun is at its highest point in the sky. Light spills through your half-closed blinds, painting your room in a muted golden haze.
The first thing you do is reach for your phone.
Notifications.
But not the one you want. He hasnât responded. Heâs famous, you didnât expect him too.
It still hurts.
You push yourself out of bed, limbs sluggish, and trudge over to your small kitchenette. You open a box of cheap Costco croissants and pull one out, eating it cold because you donât have the energy to heat it up.
You lean against the counter, chewing slowly, and unlock your phone again.
This time, you go straight to his profile and open direct messages.
Your fingers hover for a second before you start typing.
idk if u remember me but i was the girl at erewhon
âI donât know if you remember me?â you mutter, âwho the fuck would say that?â
Itâs only been a day, heâd probably remember you. Considering the fact he spent the better part of his afternoon with you.
You delete it and start again.
u didnât tell me u were famous
Now it sounds worse. Like you care about that. Like it changes something. Like youâre about to latch onto him now that you know who he is.
Maybe thatâs dramatic, but it sounds desperate. You send it anyways.
He probably wonât even see it.
You move to your living room, collapsing onto your ratty little couch, the cushions sinking under your weight. Your laptop sits on the coffee table, and you pull it toward you, flipping it open.
You type his name into Google, and instantly your screen floods with images, articles, and interviews.
You click on one. Itâs a magazine cover from the recent issue of Man About Town.
Satoru sits on the floor, head tilted slightly upward, eyes locked with the camera like heâs looking straight through itâthrough you. Itâs mesmerizing, almost as magical as seeing him in person.
But no camera can capture the exact blue of his eyes. Not the way they looked in real life. Not the way they held yours so effortlessly.
Your gaze drifts lowerâto his clothes. Black pants, sleek, perfectly tailoredâinterrupted only by the unmistakable red and green Gucci stripe running down the side.
Itâs obvious now. At the store, you thought he was like you: Broke and out of place.
Now itâs clear, he just snuck away from his hotel. From his schedule. From everything that comes with being him.
And for a momentâyou were his normal.
You close the tab and go back to your search.
Absorbing more than you probably should. Turns out he had another concert next week.
You click on it immediately, already knowing what youâll find: Sold out.
You check resale sites next. Sketchy onesâlinks you barely trust.
The prices make your stomach twist, knowing you could never afford them.
$800
$1000
$1200
Youâd really fucked up this time.
Thereâs nothing you can do except wait.
ââââ
Itâs the day of Satoruâs concert.
You told yourself you wouldnât go.
You would get in trouble. Youâd regret it. Thereâs no pointâyou donât even have a ticket.
The thought flickers in your mind anyway. You shut it down before it can take root, digging into the pliable soil of your mind and settling.
You donât have a ticket. Thereâs nothing for you there.
ââââ
Itâs dark by the time you step out of your Uber. The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, swallowed almost instantly by the distant roar of a crowd.
For a second, you just stand there on the curb, unsure how you got here. You donât remember making the decision. Your body had moved on its own, there was something inside you that refused to stay away.
Now youâre hereâstanding in front of the arena.
It towers over you, steel and glass and blinding lights. Massive screens flash Satoruâs name in looping graphics, his face appearing for seconds at a time before dissolving into color and motion. People rush past you in clusters, buzzing with excitement, their voices overlapping into a constant hum of anticipation.
You let yourself drift with them. No resistance, no directionâjust letting the current of bodies carry you forward. Their energy brushes against you, warm and electric, but it never quite reaches inside. You feel like a ghost slipping through something you canât touch.
Inside, the air changes immediatelyâcool, artificial, humming faintly with the buildingâs ventilation. Bright lights reflect off polished floors. Thereâs a long line snaking around metal barricades. People waiting for wristbands, tickets clutched tightly in their hands.
You slow, watching them for a moment. You wouldnât need to wait, you donât have a ticket.
The realization doesnât sting like you expected, it just settles, deep in your gut.
You walk around the line. Past the security ropes. Toward somewhere quieterâsomewhere you know you probably shouldnât be.
A dark corridor opens along the side of the building, half-hidden from the main flow of people. A small sign hangs above it, almost overlooked.
Staff Only. You donât stop.
The lights dim as you step inside, the noise of the crowd muffling into the distance, like waves behind a wall. The corridor stretches ahead, narrow and shadowed, leading to a thin gap between the arena wall and an outer barricade.
Itâs empty. Occasionally, someone passes at the far endâstaff members with headsets, security guards moving with purposeâbut none of them spare you more than a glance. They look through you, past you.
Youâve always been good at that: being invisible.
You step closer to the wall, the bass faint but steady beneath your feet, like a heartbeat you canât quite sync with. For a moment, you close your eyes.
And just for a moment. You let yourself pretend.
Pretend youâre out there, pressed up against the barricade, shoulder to shoulder with the crowd. Pretend the lights are blinding instead of distant. Pretend that when you look up-
A roar erupts. Your eyes snap open.
Reality crashes back in all at once. The music surges, louder now, vibrating through the concrete, through your bones. The crowd screams in wavesârising, falling, rising againâreacting to something you canât see.
A few beats pass. Then his voice appears.
It cuts through everything, even from here. He starts with his most popular songâyou knew he would. Youâd looked it up, you memorized the setlist.
The crowd explodes. Itâs deafening, overwhelming, almost violent in its intensity. They scream the lyrics back at him, thousands of voices merging into one. From where you stand, itâs hard to even hear him over them.
But then certain parts come. The ones no one bothered to memorize.
His voice is deeper than the recordings ever captured, richerâlike itâs pulled straight from somewhere deep inside his chest. It fills the space in a way that feels too intimate for something so far away.
And the crowd feels it too. Their screams sharpen, higher, almost desperate, bouncing off the walls and folding back in on themselves.
You hum along softly, barely audible over the clamoring in the pit. Trying to imagine that youâre out there.
That somehow, he sees you.
For a second, it almost works. But the illusion shatters as quickly as it formed, leaving you standing in the pieces of your broken dream. Youâre still in the hallway, separated by concrete bricks.
A wall between you and him. Literally and figuratively.
The song ends. Thereâs a pause, brief but heavyâthe entire arena is holding its breath at once.
Then he speaks. The crowd erupts again, louder somehow, like theyâd been waiting just to hear him talk. His voice filters through the wall in fragments, broken and uneven.
ââŠtonightâŠâ
ââŠthank youâŠâ
ââŠmeans a lotâŠâ
You strain to catch more, but the rest dissolves into noise. He sounds so close. Close enough that, if the wall disappeared, you could reach out and touch him.
And yetâheâs impossibly far. Once, you were right there. Closer to him than any of these people will ever be.
And now there are thousands between you. Thousands screaming his name. And even if you screamedâhe wouldnât hear you.
Time keeps moving. Like it always has. Steady, unrelenting, dragging everything forward whether youâre ready or not. Even when you wish it would rewind. Even when youâd give anything to relive the moments you let slip awayâlike the drifting tides of the ocean.
Another song starts. Then another.
You tell yourself youâll leave after this one.
Time blurs, slipping through your fingers, measured only by the rise and fall of music and the constant pulse of the crowd. At some point, your legs give out and you sink to the floor, back pressed against the cold wall, arms wrapped around your bare knees.
You let the sound wash over you. Let it carry something awayâsome piece of the weight youâve been holding onto. Your anguish.
By the time the concert nears its end, you can feel the difference. The crowdâs energy is thinning, stretched tight and fraying at the edges. Still loud, still aliveâbut itâs tired.
Then the music shifts.
It turns slow, soft. Itâs a different kind of song.
A love song.
His voice returns, quieter now, stripped of the heavy production. No distortion, no layering. Raw and unguarded, resonating through the space.
For a moment, itâs easy to pretend that this is just for you. A private concert in your mind, tucked away in the dark.
But itâs not for you, none of this is. Youâre just another face in a crowd youâre not even part of.
The final note fades, and the arena erupts.
Every single person screaming, cheering, pouring everything they have left into the moment. Itâs louder than before, louder than anything, it hurts to listen too.
He says a few words, the crowd cheers again, the lights dim. His presence is gone.
You sit there for a moment longer, unmoving, the silence in your space feeling heavier now that the music is gone. Then you push yourself up, legs stiff, and make your way back down the corridor.
The closer you get to the exit, the louder it becomes againânot music this time, but people.
The crowd spills out into the halls and onto the streets, buzzing with excitement. Laughter, chatter, voices overlapping in a chaotic song.
You let yourself be pulled along again. You try to join the crowd, but you donât fit. Youâre not laughing, not smiling.
If anything, the concert didnât bring you closer to Satoruâit reminded you of how far away he isâof everything youâll never have.
You wish, not for the first time, that Satoru was normal. Because maybe then, this wouldnât feel so impossible. Maybe then, youâd have a chance.
A long sigh escapes you as you pick up your pace, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Every part of you achesânot physically, but in that quiet, persistent way you canât shake.
You just want to go home.
Outside, the night air hits you, cool and grounding. The moon hangs overhead, plump and inviting, casting a pale glow over the sea of people and cars below.
Pickup lines stretch endlessly, headlights blending into one continuous stream of white and red. Drivers call out names, passengers weave through traffic, tires screech.
You stand there for a second, scanning the crowd. Youâre unsure if youâll even be able to find your ride.
Suddenly, the window of a Toyota rolls down and a man with a scarred lip peers out at you.
He calls your name, âUber for you?â
âUh yeah,â You open the door to the backseat and slide in. âYouâre Fushiguro right?â
He tries to catch your eye in the rear-view mirror, âYeah, but you can just call me Toji.â
âRight. Just take me to the address I put in the app.â You purposely avoid his gaze, opting to look out the window instead.
You hear him hum and type something out on his touchscreen
He pulls away, speeding off. Leaving everything behind you in the dust.
ââââ
That night, Shoko calls you.
Your phone buzzes against your mattress, the sound louder than it should be in the quiet of your room. You stare at the screen for a second before picking it up, already knowing itâs her.
You answer in bed, still half-buried under your blankets. You put her on speaker and drop the phone beside you, turning onto your side.
âHey Shoko, howâs med school so far?â
âWellââ she starts, dragging the word out, âthis guy I met at the bar had free tickets to a meet and greet with some famous singer, itâs in a week, you wanna go?â
You blink, that wasnât what you expected.
Shokoâs been so busy with med school lately, buried in textbooks and stressâyouâll take any excuse to see her. Even if it means standing in a crowded room with a bunch of screaming fans.
âOf course,â you say, pushing yourself up slightly. âWho is it?â
âGo-go Sakura, I think?â she says, completely unsure. âI donât remember his name. Heâs super famous though.â
You pause, wondering if you heard it right.
She completely butchered his name, but you know exactly who sheâs talking about.
Your chest tightens just a little. This is your chance.
âYeah,â you say casually, pretending that his name doesnât stir something inside you. âLet me search him up.â
You grab your laptop from beside your bed and sit up properly, leaning back against your pile of pillows. The screen lights your face blue as you open it, fingers moving slower than usual.
You donât want her to know that you know himâthat you met him.
âOhââ you say after a second, forcing a bit of surprise into your voice. âHe is super famous. Heâs got likeâ100 million listeners on Spotify.â
âHoly shit,â Shoko gasps, âthe guy didnât tell me he was that famous.â
You huff out a quiet laugh.
Of course he didnât.
âDo you think if I post a photo with him on my Insta Iâll go viral?â she adds, suddenly more awake.
âShoko,â you say flatly, âyour Insta is private.â
Thereâs a pause.
âOh yeah,â she says. âIâll make it public then.â
You actually laugh at that, shaking your head a little.
Then it hits youâshe canât see you.
âHey,â you add quickly, adjusting your position, âyou wanna FaceTime? I miss your face girl.â
âDuh,â she says immediately. âI miss you too.â
You prop your phone up against your laptop, adjusting it a couple times until it stops slipping. Your camera turns on, and a second later hers does too.
Her face fills the screen.
You notice it right awayâher dark circles.
âYou look tired,â you say, leaning in a little, your brows pulling together. âWe can talk tomorrow if you want.â
âThe semester just started,â she sighs, rubbing at her eyes. âThe work isnât that difficult yet. I just need to fix my sleep schedule.â
You nod slowly.
âI know,â you say. âAt least youâre doing something productive with your life. I sit on my couch watching movies all day.â
The words come out lighter than they feel.
âI really need a job.â
âNo luck with liberal arts?â she asks.
You let out a dry laugh.
âFuck no,â you say. âMy only hope is to marry a rich man.â
You drop your face into your hands dramatically, muffling your voice.
âYouâll have men lining up for you,â she says without hesitation. âTrust me.â
âI wish,â you groan, dragging your hands down your face. âUgh. I was so dumbâI shouldâve gotten a degree in biology or something.â
You glance back at your phone, at her.
âI think Iâm the one whoâs tired,â you add. âIâm gonna sleep. Text me the meet and greet stuff.â
âIâll send the ticket to you,â she says. âIt has all the info.â
You nod. âOkay.â
She ends the call.
You let out a deep sigh and fall back against your pillows, one arm coming up to cover your eyes.
You were boring, jobless, and loveless.
The thoughts bury deep inside your mind, heavy, hard to ignore.
How were you supposed to attract a rich man like this?
You werenât anything flashy. You werenât the kind of girl who walked into a room and had people turning their heads.
You were certainly no peacock. If anything, the smallest things made you flush with embarrassmentâa wrong word, a lingering stare, even thinking too hard about something you said hours ago.
You exhale slowly. You were going to have to pick up a shit ton of jobs again.
Just like in college. The thought almost feels nostalgic. But back then, it meant something. You were working towards your future, now this is your future.
Your eyes shift toward your laptop, still open beside you. The screen glows softly in the dim room, pulling your attention back.
You sigh and sit up again, dragging the laptop into your lap.
A Michelin star restaurant. The kind that serves tiny plates of food that barely fill your stomach. One of your old boyfriends took you there onceâsaid it was ânothing special.â That kind of place was normal for him. You remember feeling out of place the entire time.
Men dressed in perfectly tailored suits. Women in beautiful floor length dresses, slits cut into the sidesâhigh enough to show a sliver of thigh.
You swear the waitress eyed you up and down, as if she knew you didnât belong among them.
And nowâyouâre considering working there.
You tilt your head slightly, thinking.
Itâs not like youâre completely inexperienced. Youâve worked as a waitress before. Plenty of times. You know how to carry trays, deal with customers, smile even with it hurts.
It wonât harm you to try.
You click on the link. The application page loads, clean and simple. You skim it quickly before uploading your resume, the same one youâve sent out a dozen times before.
You hesitate for half a second, then hit submit. You lean back slightly, staring at the screen.
Hopefully they find you a perfect applicant, and call you in for an interview. You just want something to do besides lying on your couch all day.
Your phone buzzes loudly, making you jump, scaring you out of your thoughts. You pick it up lethargicallyâit continues to buzz in your hand.
Youâre being bombarded with messages.
All from Shoko.
Shoko đ: Omg look at this
Shoko đ: Itâs abt the singer i was showing u
Shoko đ: Wait
Shoko đ: Isnât this u???
She sends a link in the chat. You open it slowlyâyour fingers hovering over it hesitantly.
It leads you to a post filled with pictures of Satoru andâ
You.
The photos are blurry, taken from far away. Only the side of your face is visibleâcovered by strands of hair. Not enough to identify you, but you recognize yourselfâyour outfit, the shape of your nose.
You glance down at the caption.
Gojo Satoru spotted in the wild with a girl???
Your stomach drops, people had noticed himâhad noticed you.
The comments are filled with people wondering who you are, maybe a secret girlfriend, a fan.
No, youâre too close to be just a fan. He looks too relaxed, his smile easy, his hand frozen in timeâpushing your drink towards you.
You scroll, just to find more videos of people making theories, defending you, or picking out every little thingâthe curve of your nose, the cardigan youâre wearing, the pattern of your hairâtalking about it like itâs the hottest gossip of the year.
And maybe it is.
When you he offered to buy your drink and you agreed, you didnât expect anything big to come out of it. You didnât even know who he was.
Now, youâre somehow apart of all this.
A/N: First fic iâve posted on tumblr đ donât flop pls
You arrive at Camp Half-Blood the same day Satoru does.
Your satyr had escorted you safely to the top of the hill with little to no fanfare.
Satoru arrived a few hours later, being chased by a pride of chimeras and a flock of harpies.
His clothes were singed from the flames of the chimeras, his shirt in tatters from the claws of the harpies.
He was a sight to beholdâhis arrival came with a powerful storm, lighting striking along the border of the magical barrier around the camp, thunder claps booming in the distance.
His hair was blown in all directions by the wind, creating a halo of white around his head. He wouldâve looked almost angelicâif he werenât running for his life.
The lightning from the storm somehow avoided his path, like it was trying to help him get to the camp, like it wanted him to live.
You watched as a harpy dived towards himâclaws spread, talons sharp and deadlyâready to grab him. He let out a last burst of speedâbolting within the barrier of the camp.
He subsequently collapsed, the break for the camp draining all the energy out of him. He was quickly transported away by a group of counselors and you were taken to the Hermes cabin, to await claiming.
You heard a few whispers that he was being fed ambrosiaâthe food of the Gods. You felt a twinge of jealousy twisting in your gut, why did he have to get all the glory?
The next day at lunch you see Satoru again. You were both sitting at the Hermes tableâas you hadnât gotten claimed yet.
Youâre impatient to know who your godly parent is. The Hermes cabin is way too crowded. And itâs clear that Satoru is tooâhe had ripped off all his bandages and dumped his whole plate of food into the fireâin hopes of pleasing his patron.
After lunch the Hermes cabin was going to train sword fighting. You and Satoru went along with themâstill being unclaimed.
The training arena is a flat pit of packed sand and dirt. Thereâs a rack of various wooden weapons and shields on the side.
You hold a wooden sword up, itâs a little heavy and youâd never used a sword before.
You stand in front of a dummyâyour arms shaking as you try to hit its midsectionâyour swings unsteady at best, downright quivering at worst.
You look to your right and see Satoru striking smoothly and efficiently at his target, like a damn cobra.
Of course heâs a natural. He distributes his weight perfectly, chopping off the straw head of a scarecrow.
Youâre pissed, this kid who had arrived the same time as you was already showing you up. Even his entrance was more dramatic than yoursâthe sound of thunder as his back track.
The head counselor of the Hermes cabin yells at everyone to get into pairs for sparring.
Being the two newest, you have to pair up with him. You dread it, he is going to demolish you. Youâd seen the way he lopped off the head of the dummy.
You plant your feet into the ground, holding your sword directly in front of you, like it would do anything to protect you against Satoruâs hits.
He strikes first, advancing forward on his toes. You immediately back up, deciding to stay defense and run from all his blows.
âStop running and fight me,â he taunts. âOr are you too scared?â
âThereâs an obvious gap in skill here, what am I supposed to do?â You whine, your arm narrowly avoiding a jab from his sword.
âMaybe youâre not trying hard enough.â
âEat dirt.â
And surprisingly he doesâabruptly stopping to bend down and grab a handful of dirt. He shoves it into his mouth and you swear you see the tail end of a worm squirming as he swallows it down.
After swallowing a mouthful he gags and spits whateverâs left of the dirt onto the ground. âWhat the fuck, whyâd I just do that!?â
At that moment, youâre enveloped in a pink hazeâhiding you from view for a few moments.
When it clears, everyone had stopped their sparring and turned to stare at you.
You look down at yourself and gasp. You were wearing a delicate pink gown with sheer sleeves that hung past your wrists. You touch your hair, it was longer than before and braided with pink and white flowers. Your feet which were once in ratty old sneakers are now covered in ornate gold sandals.
One of the other unclaimed kids scoffs, âCharmspeak, daughter of Aphrodite.â
Finally, you succeeded at somethingâgetting claimed. And youâd done it before Satoru.
Youâre triumphant, who knows when he would be claimed, if he even is claimed.
The counselor sends you off to be with the rest of the Aphrodite Cabin. They arenât susceptible to your currently uncontrollable abilities.
Their current activity: Tending to the strawberry field.
Youâre glad to leave behind the sand and dirt of the sparring arena and join your half siblings in the beautiful fields of fruit.
ââââ
Satoru is claimed the next week during a game of capture the flag.
Thereâs another thunderstorm hovering over the campâreminiscent of the one when he had arrived.
The air is thick with the static of electricity, he can practically feel the tips of his fingers tinglingâlike theyâre expecting something.
A demigod from the Ares cabin is currently pursuing him, thirsty for blood and victory.
Theyâre isolated in the forest, with only the sky and the birds to bear witness, circling each other like sharks around a fresh kill.
The other kid lunges, aiming to knock the shield out of Satoruâs hands. Satoru dodges, aiming a well timed kick at his opponents bare leg.
But the Ares kid is faster and he side steps, swinging his metal spear at Satoruâs neckâforgetting his own strength.
Satoruâs breath hitches, his hands coming up, expecting pain and maybe death.
A flash of light.
Suddenly both Satoru and his opponent are knocked away from each other by a powerful blast. The spear goes flying into the air, embedding itself into the thick trunk of a tree.
Satoru had been saved by a strike of lighting.
He sits up slowly, rubbing his head. The other camper is wide eyed, looking at something above Satoruâs head.
Satoru looks up and sees a hologram of a lightning bolt floating above him.
Just then a group of campers rush out of the trees and see him, thereâs a collective gasp and hushed whispers.
âSon of Zeus.â
A/N: Prolly gonna turn this into a full, fleshed out fic
Youâre 12 the day you arrive at Camp Half-Bloodâthe same day as Satoru.
Your satyr had escorted you safely to the top of the hill with little to no fanfare.
Satoru arrived a few hours later, being chased by a pride of chimeras and a flock of harpies.
His clothes were singed from the flames of the chimeras, his shirt in tatters from the claws of the harpies.
He was a sight to beholdâhis arrival came with a powerful storm, lighting striking along the border of the magical barrier around the camp, thunder claps booming in the distance.
His hair was blown in all directions by the wind, creating a halo of white around his head. He wouldâve looked almost angelicâif he werenât running for his life.
The lightning from the storm somehow avoided his path, like it was trying to help him get to the camp, like it wanted him to live.
You watched as a harpy dived towards himâclaws spread, talons sharp and deadlyâready to grab him. He let out a last burst of speedâbolting within the barrier of the camp.
He subsequently collapsed, the break for the camp draining all the energy out of him. He was quickly transported away by a group of counselors and you were taken to the Hermes cabin, to await claiming.
You heard a few whispers that he was being fed ambrosiaâthe food of the Godsâto heal him from his injuries. You felt a twinge of jealousy twisting in your gut, why did he have to get all the glory?
The next day at lunch you see Satoru again. You were both sitting at the Hermes tableâas you hadnât gotten claimed yet.
Youâre impatient to know who your godly parent is. The Hermes cabin is way too crowded. And itâs clear that Satoru is tooâhe had ripped off all his bandages and dumped his whole plate of food into the fireâin hopes of pleasing his patron.
After lunch the Hermes cabin was going to train sword fighting. You and Satoru went along with themâstill being unclaimed.
The training arena is a flat pit of packed sand and dirt. Thereâs a rack of various wooden weapons and shields on the side.
You hold a wooden sword up, itâs a little heavy and youâd never used a sword before.
You stand in front of a dummyâyour arms shaking as you try to hit its midsectionâyour swings unsteady at best, downright quivering at worst.
You look to your right and see Satoru striking smoothly and efficiently at his target, like a damn cobra.
Of course heâs a natural. He distributes his weight perfectly, chopping off the straw head of a scarecrow.
Youâre pissed, this kid who had arrived the same time as you was already showing you up. Even his entrance was more dramatic than yoursâthe sound of thunder as his back track.
The head counselor of the Hermes cabin yells at everyone to get into pairs for sparring.
Being the two newest, you have to pair up with him. You dread it, he is going to demolish you. Youâd seen the way he lopped off the head of the dummy.
You plant your feet into the ground, holding your sword directly in front of you, like it would do anything to protect you against Satoruâs hits.
He strikes first, advancing forward on his toes. You immediately back up, deciding to stay defense and run from all his blows.
âStop running and fight me,â he taunts. âOr are you too scared?â
âThereâs an obvious gap in skill here, what am I supposed to do?â You whine, your arm narrowly avoiding a jab from his sword.
âMaybe youâre not trying hard enough.â
âEat dirt.â
And surprisingly he doesâabruptly stopping to bend down and grab a handful of dirt. He shoves it into his mouth and you swear you see the tail end of a worm squirming as he swallows it down.
After swallowing a mouthful he gags and spits whateverâs left of the dirt onto the ground. âWhat the fuck, whyâd I just do that!?â
At that moment, youâre enveloped in a pink hazeâhiding you from view for a few moments.
When it clears, everyone had stopped their sparring and turned to stare at you.
You look down at yourself and gasp. You were wearing a delicate pink gown with sheer sleeves that hung past your wrists. You touch your hair, it was longer than before and braided with pink and white flowers. Your feet which were once in ratty old sneakers are now covered in ornate gold sandals.
One of the other unclaimed kids scoffs, âCharmspeak, daughter of Aphrodite.â
Finally, you succeeded at somethingâgetting claimed. And youâd done it before Satoru.
Youâre triumphant, who knows when he would be claimed, if he even is claimed.
The counselor sends you off to be with the rest of the Aphrodite Cabin. They arenât susceptible to your currently uncontrollable abilities.
Their current activity: Tending to the strawberry field.
Youâre glad to leave behind the sand and dirt of the sparring arena and join your half siblings in the beautiful fields of fruit.
ââââ
Satoru is claimed the next week during a game of capture the flag.
Thereâs another thunderstorm hovering over the campâreminiscent of the one when he had arrived.
The air is thick with the static of electricity, he can practically feel the tips of his fingers tinglingâlike theyâre expecting something.
A demigod from the Ares cabin is currently pursuing him, thirsty for blood and victory.
Theyâre isolated in the forest, with only the sky and the birds to bear witness, circling each other like sharks around a fresh kill.
The other kid lunges, aiming to knock the shield out of Satoruâs hands. Satoru dodges, aiming a well timed kick at his opponents bare leg.
But the Ares kid is faster and he side steps, swinging his metal spear at Satoruâs neckâforgetting his own strength.
Satoruâs breath hitches, his hands coming up, expecting pain and maybe death.
A flash of light.
Suddenly both Satoru and his opponent are knocked away from each other by a powerful blast. The spear goes flying into the air, embedding itself into the thick trunk of a tree.
Satoru had been saved by a strike of lighting.
He sits up slowly, rubbing his head. The other camper is wide eyed, looking at something above Satoruâs head.
Satoru looks up and sees a hologram of a lightning bolt floating above him.
Just then a group of campers rush out of the trees and see him, thereâs a collective gasp and hushed whispers.
âSon of Zeus.â
A/N: Prolly gonna turn this into a full, fleshed out fic
synopsis: A chance encounter at a high-end grocery store leaves you unable to forget the strange, guarded man you metâuntil you discover heâs actually a famous singer. When photos of your brief meeting spark rumors online, youâre suddenly pulled into a world you never meant to be part of.
You thought Gojo Satoru was unobtainable. He was a star in the night skyâshining, constant, beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel. Close enough to see, close enough to admire, yet impossibly far. A beacon you could only ever grasp at, fingers curling around nothing but empty air.
Youâd see him on social media sometimes. Scrolling late at night, your screen dimmed, your room quiet except for the in-and-out of your breaths. He always looked the sameâbright, effortless, unfairly handsome. He existed in a world untouched by anything ordinary.
But you never thoughtânever even entertained the ideaâthat youâd actually have a chance.
But that would change.
It started with an accidental encounter, long before you knew who he was.
ââââ
Youâre in Erewhon, browsing like you actually had money to spend.
The place doesnât even feel real. Everything too clean and curated, shelves lined with glass jars and pastel packaging that looked more decorative than edible. The lighting whiteâyet soft, like it was trying to convince you that spending $30 on juice was a life-changing experience.
You pick up a jar, turning it over in your hands. Blue sea moss. $90.
You stare at it for a second longer than necessary. The color was almost aggressiveâa bright azure blue, borderline radioactive. No way something that looked like that was meant to be eaten.
You set it back down carefully, it looked like something that might explode if you didnât.
After a while of aimlessly walking aroundâpretending to browse, pretending you belongedâyou make your way toward the smoothie bar. It was the only thing that felt remotely justifiable.
You want to try the Hailey Beiber smoothie, the thing all those girls raved about. You want to know if it really makes your skin glow.
$21.
You hesitate, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Part of you wants to try it, just once. So you can know what it feels like to casually spend money like that, to not think twice about something so absurd.
You were still debatingâwhen you bumped into somethingâor someone.
âShit! Iâm so sorry!â The apology leaves you instantly, your hands coming up as if you could physically undo the collision. You look upâ
The stranger in front of you is dressed simply. A black hoodie, slightly oversized, and grey sweats. He looks out of place.
Even you had put in some effort before coming hereâjeans that fit just right, a light pink cardigan layered neatly, a coat of mascara brushed on thicker than usual. Not too much, just enough to feel like you wouldnât be judged.
But he looks like he doesnât care, almost like he doesnât need to.
âItâs alright,â he says easily. âI wasnât looking where I was going. Iâm sorry.â
And then you notice his eyesâan enchanting kind of blue. The kind of blue that doesnât seem to end, framed by lashes so pale theyâre almost white. His gaze is steady, but thereâs something behind itâsomething vast, something you canât quite place.
A frozen lake you could stare into for hours and never fully understand. And his hairâresembling freshly fallen snowâblindingly white. There was no way that was real.
You stare a second too long. He tilts his head slightly, expecting some kind of response.
You snap out of your trance. âNoâItâs my fault,â you rush, words tripping over themselves. âI was just.. distracted. Everything in here is just so- luxurious. UhâI usually shop at Walmart.â
The honesty slips out before you can filter it.
For a split second, you think maybe youâve said too much. But he laughs, soft and real. âSo youâre not supposed to be here then?â
You huff quietly, shrugging. âWell, Iâm definitely not rich enough to shop here.â
He nods, like he understands you completely.
âIâm not supposed to be here either,â he admits. âIâm just visiting. Iâm used to more⊠simpler things.â
Thereâs something in the way he says it. Casual, but careful, like heâs choosing his words just enough to avoid saying too much.
You glance back at the menu above the counter.
âI was thinking of treating myself,â you say, half to him, half to yourself. âJust once. Seeing what itâs like to be rich. But a $21 smoothie is kinda insane.â
Thereâs a beat.
âIâll buy it for you.â The words come out quickly, almost as if he didnât mean to say them out loud. He straightens slightly, looking as if heâs trying to recover. âI meanâonly if you want.â
You blink.
âReally?â A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. âIâd love that. Thank you.â
Inside, youâre ecstatic. A free smoothie from a ridiculously handsome stranger? This had to be some kind of cosmic compensation for all your bad luck.
He orders without hesitation, and you wonder if he even though about the price. The two of you move outside, settling at a small table tucked along the edge of the store.
The air is warmer out here, the late afternoon sun dipping lower, casting everything in a soft glow.
Now youâre glad you made an effort in your appearance today. This was practically becoming a real date.
âSo,â he says, sliding the drink toward you, condensation already gathering along the sides of the cup. âWhatâs your name?â
You tell him.
He repeats it slowly, carefully, like heâs testing itârolling each syllable over his tongue with an ease that makes it sound prettier than it actually is.
âAnd you?â you ask, leaning forward slightly. âWhat should I call you?â
He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second.
âYou can just call me Satoru.â
He says it quieter than before, itâs something meant only for youâsomething he doesnât want anyone passing by to hear.
You nod. âWell, Satoru⊠you said youâre just visiting. What are you here for?â
âIâm attending some⊠events,â he says. âThings like that.â
âLike concerts?â you guess. âL.A. has a lot of those.â
He glances at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
âYeah,â he says. âBasically.â
You take a sip of your drink, the cold sweetness hitting your tongue as water droplets slips down the cup, dampening your fingers.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
You just sit there, looking at each other.
Time shiftsâit slows and stretches. The world around you fades into something distant, blurred at the edges. Cars honk, people chatter, doors slam shutâbut none of it matters. Itâs all in the background.
Right now, you and Satoru are the only two people in the galaxy. And Time itself seems to notice, pausing, lingering, zooming in on the smallest thingsâthe way his gaze softens, the way your fingers tighten slightly around your cup, the barely-there glances exchanged like secrets.
And for onceâTime waits for you.
RING!
The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and jarring.
Reality snaps back into place. Time resumes, relentless as ever.
âSorry,â you mumble quickly, already standing. âI have to take this.â
You step a few feet away, pressing your phone to your ear. Itâs your best friend, Shoko.
âHello?â
âThis better be important,â you say immediately, lowering your voice. âYou interrupted something.â
âYeah, whateverâlike you have anything important to do.â
You roll your eyes, even though she canât see you. âShoko-â
âYou know how I applied to that medical school?â she cuts in.
You pause. âYeah⊠what about it?â
âWell, I got in!â Her voice spikes, bright and unfiltered, and it catches you off guard. Youâve never heard her sound so genuinely excited about anything.
âOh my god,â you breathe, a smile breaking across your face. âIâm so happy for youâseriously. Iâm proud of you. Youâre going to be the best doctor in the world.â
âI know,â she laughs, not even pretending to be humble. âSo get ready, Iâm taking us out. Iâm already on my way to your apartment.â
âWait- what?â
The line goes dead. You stare at your phone for a second, exhaling sharply.
You didnât even get to tell her you werenât home. You have to leave.
Now.
You hurry back to the table, your steps quicker, your beating fast.
âIâm really sorry,â you say to him, breathless. âBut I have to go. Itâs- an emergency.â
The lie comes out smoother than you expect. You donât have the heart to tell him the truthâthat youâre leaving to go celebrate with your friend. That this moment, whatever it is, is already slipping away.
You grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, already half-turned toward the street.
âIâm really sorry,â you repeat, casting one last glance at him. Taking in his face, his eyes, his open mouthâlike he was about to say something.
You wave down a taxi, directing it to go to your apartment.
ââââ
You make it home just before Shoko arrives.
The moment you manage to slip into a tiny black dress, one that was probably a size too small, the door swings open.
Of course she lets herself in. She always does.
âThis night is going to be all about me,â she proclaims, striding in like she owns the place. Her dress catches the light with every movement, sequins scattering reflectionsâand actual glitterâacross your floor. âIâm going to get so wasted Iâll forget that I can never party again.â
You blink, ignoring the glitter. âNever party again? Isnât that a little far? Iâm sure medical school wonât take up that much time.â
She stops, staring at you like youâve just said something deeply naive.
âYou donât know the horrors,â she says flatly, then shudders. âIâve heard stories.â
You laugh, grabbing your bag, and your keys.
âWell,â you say, forcing the energy back into your voice, âletâs make this a night you wonât forget.â
You hook your arm through hers, pulling her toward the door.
And just like thatâyou run out into the night.
ââââ
You get home at 3am and drag your dress down your body, fingers clumsy, impatient. The fabric catches at your hips and you tug harder than you should, nearly tearing it in the process. For a second you donât even careâyou just need it off.
It slips free and pools at your feet, a crumpled reminder of the night.
You step out of it and leave it there.
The bathroom light is too bright when you flick it on, harsh against your tired eyes. You donât bother adjusting it. You turn the shower knob all the way to hotâtoo hotâand step in before you can register the pain.
You stand there, unmoving, letting it run over your shoulders, down your back, washing away the smell of sweat and perfume and alcohol. The night clings to you, stubborn, but the heat slowly starts to pull it away.
And for the first time all night, you let your mind drift back to Satoru. You wonder if he was hurt that you left so quickly. It didnât matter anyways. He probably bought women drinks regularly. You werenât specialâyou were just at the right place at the right time. Just another girl he happened to run into.
The water runs down your face, and you close your eyes.
You arenât anything special.
Youâre prettyâbut an average kind of pretty. The girl-next-door kind. The kind that has to have a real personality for people to fall in love with. You arenât particularly well endowed eitherâyour body lacks curves. You have barely any extra plush to grip onto.
Sometimes you stare at your naked body and wonder how anyone could ever love itâlove you. In a society where big breasts and a fat ass gets you everything, you have nothing to give.
You arenât someone people remember. Not the kind someone like him would go out of his way to find.
You probably shouldâve told Shoko. She wouldâve lost her mindâgenuinely, completely thrilled to hear you actually talked to a man who wasnât an asshole for once. She wouldâve demanded every detail, replayed every word, made it into something bigger than it was.
But you didnât want to make the night about you. So you kept your mouth shut. Now youâre wondering if that was a mistake.
Because thereâs so much you want to say now. So many questions that keep circling back, refusing to settle.
Would he even remember you? Would he try to find you?
You let out a quiet breath, leaning your forehead against the cool tile.
You could just tell Shoko tomorrow. Or later. Over FaceTime, like you always do. You could say everything then.
That thought settles something in you, just enough.
Eventually, you step out of the shower, skin warm and flushed. You wrap yourself in your fluffy pink towel, the fabric soft against your damp skin, and pad barefoot over to your bed.
You grab your phone from your purse and collapse onto the mattress, scrolling absentmindedly while you wait for your hair to dry.
The first video that pops up is a clip of an idol performing in L.A. You barely register it.
You donât care much for famous people, so you scroll away.
A flash of white brings you back. Your thumb pauses mid-motion. You scroll back up and watch the videoâthe whole thing.
A figure steps forward on stage, lights flashing, the crowd screaming so loud it distorts the audio. At first, itâs hard to tellâitâs out of focus, chaotic.
But something about the singer feels familiar.
Your stomach twists. Itâs Satoru, but he looks different.
His hair is styled now, not soft and slightly messy like before. His clothes are nothing like the hoodie and sweats from beforeâtheyâre sharp, intentional, expensive. Thereâs makeup, subtle but there. Stage lights catch on his skin, highlighting angles you hadnât noticed earlier.
And his presenceâitâs stronger, more confident.
Itâs clear he knows exactly how every eye in that arena is on him. He knows he belongs.
This is version of him you didnât see. Or maybe you just werenât paying attention.
âWhat the fuck?â you whisper, barely audible.
The camera zooms in. And itâs him.
Thereâs no mistaking it now. The crowd screams his name. GOJO.
Gojo Satoru. Thatâs his full name.
You pause the video, your finger hovering for a second before tapping into the comments.
They flood the screen instantly.
@gojossixthsenseye: I NEED HIM SO BAD
@gojosatorusmicstand: The mic is ON
@ineedwaterrrr: I would die for him ngl
Your mouth parts, your eyes flicker away from your screenâtrying to forget to focus on anything else, anything but your phone.
Girls thirsting, screaming, and jumpingâall of it was for him.
The same guy who bought you a smoothie like it didnât matter. Who sat across from you like it was normal. Who looked at youâreally looked at youâlike you werenât just another face passing by.
This version of himâwould never do that. Would never talk to a strangerânever talk to you. Someone whoâs never even brushed against fame, let alone existed inside it.
You turn your phone off abruptly and toss it somewhere into the mess of blankets and pillows on your bed.
You stare at the ceiling. You felt something when you talked to him. A connectionâa spark of something real.
But maybe that was just himâcharming. So much so that it disarmedyou. The kind of person who could make anyone feel seen if he wanted to.
Maybe he just wanted to feel normal for a little while. And you were convenient. You didnât recognize him. Not even when he gave you his name.
That mustâve been perfect for him. No expectations, screaming fansâno pressure.
Just a normal conversation. Maybe thatâs why he stayed as long as he did.
The thought sits heavy on your chest. And you know that by morning he wonât even remember you.
You were just a moment for him. A tool to step outside of his life for a little while.
You reach blindly into your blankets and fish your phone back out.
Your fingers move almost on autopilot, opening Instagram, searching his name.
His account pops up instantlyâverified, with tens of millions of followers.
You tap on his latest postâitâs from the concert. A photo of him on stage, lights exploding behind him, the crowd barely visible beyond the glare.
You stare at it for a second.
Then you comment.
@starrygirI: he sounds way better than i thought
Itâs stupidly casual. Like youâre just another fan.
But now, that is all you are.
He didnât seem the singing type when you first met him. Not the idol type either. You were wrong about a lot of things.
He probably wouldnât recognize you. And why would he? Youâre just another comment in a sea of thousands.
You check the time: 5am. Two hours gone. And somehow, you feel like youâve learned more in those two hours than you had in college.
Reality settles in, heavy and immovable. Youâll never get a chance to speak to him again. At least not casually.
You turn your phone offâthis time for realâand pull on a loose t-shirt, the fabric soft and familiar.
Sleep comes quickly.
And when it doesâyour dreams are filled with a vast land of snow and endless blue.
ââââ
You wake up lateâwhen the sun is at its highest point in the sky. Light spills through your half-closed blinds, painting your room in a muted golden haze.
The first thing you do is reach for your phone.
Notifications.
But not the one you want. He hasnât responded. Heâs famous, you didnât expect him too.
It still hurts.
You push yourself out of bed, limbs sluggish, and trudge over to your small kitchenette. You open a box of cheap Costco croissants and pull one out, eating it cold because you donât have the energy to heat it up.
You lean against the counter, chewing slowly, and unlock your phone again.
This time, you go straight to his profile and open direct messages.
Your fingers hover for a second before you start typing.
idk if u remember me but i was the girl at erewhon
âI donât know if you remember me?â you mutter, âwho the fuck would say that?â
Itâs only been a day, heâd probably remember you. Considering the fact he spent the better part of his afternoon with you.
You delete it and start again.
u didnât tell me u were famous
Now it sounds worse. Like you care about that. Like it changes something. Like youâre about to latch onto him now that you know who he is.
Maybe thatâs dramatic, but it sounds desperate. You send it anyways.
He probably wonât even see it.
You move to your living room, collapsing onto your ratty little couch, the cushions sinking under your weight. Your laptop sits on the coffee table, and you pull it toward you, flipping it open.
You type his name into Google, and instantly your screen floods with images, articles, and interviews.
You click on one. Itâs a magazine cover from the recent issue of Man About Town.
Satoru sits on the floor, head tilted slightly upward, eyes locked with the camera like heâs looking straight through itâthrough you. Itâs mesmerizing, almost as magical as seeing him in person.
But no camera can capture the exact blue of his eyes. Not the way they looked in real life. Not the way they held yours so effortlessly.
Your gaze drifts lowerâto his clothes. Black pants, sleek, perfectly tailoredâinterrupted only by the unmistakable red and green Gucci stripe running down the side.
Itâs obvious now. At the store, you thought he was like you: Broke and out of place.
Now itâs clear, he just snuck away from his hotel. From his schedule. From everything that comes with being him.
And for a momentâyou were his normal.
You close the tab and go back to your search.
Absorbing more than you probably should. Turns out he had another concert next week.
You click on it immediately, already knowing what youâll find: Sold out.
You check resale sites next. Sketchy onesâlinks you barely trust.
The prices make your stomach twist, knowing you could never afford them.
$800
$1000
$1200
Youâd really fucked up this time.
Thereâs nothing you can do except wait.
ââââ
Itâs the day of Satoruâs concert.
You told yourself you wouldnât go.
You would get in trouble. Youâd regret it. Thereâs no pointâyou donât even have a ticket.
The thought flickers in your mind anyway. You shut it down before it can take root, digging into the pliable soil of your mind and settling.
You donât have a ticket. Thereâs nothing for you there.
ââââ
Itâs dark by the time you step out of your Uber. The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, swallowed almost instantly by the distant roar of a crowd.
For a second, you just stand there on the curb, unsure how you got here. You donât remember making the decision. Your body had moved on its own, there was something inside you that refused to stay away.
Now youâre hereâstanding in front of the arena.
It towers over you, steel and glass and blinding lights. Massive screens flash Satoruâs name in looping graphics, his face appearing for seconds at a time before dissolving into color and motion. People rush past you in clusters, buzzing with excitement, their voices overlapping into a constant hum of anticipation.
You let yourself drift with them. No resistance, no directionâjust letting the current of bodies carry you forward. Their energy brushes against you, warm and electric, but it never quite reaches inside. You feel like a ghost slipping through something you canât touch.
Inside, the air changes immediatelyâcool, artificial, humming faintly with the buildingâs ventilation. Bright lights reflect off polished floors. Thereâs a long line snaking around metal barricades. People waiting for wristbands, tickets clutched tightly in their hands.
You slow, watching them for a moment. You wouldnât need to wait, you donât have a ticket.
The realization doesnât sting like you expected, it just settles, deep in your gut.
You walk around the line. Past the security ropes. Toward somewhere quieterâsomewhere you know you probably shouldnât be.
A dark corridor opens along the side of the building, half-hidden from the main flow of people. A small sign hangs above it, almost overlooked.
Staff Only. You donât stop.
The lights dim as you step inside, the noise of the crowd muffling into the distance, like waves behind a wall. The corridor stretches ahead, narrow and shadowed, leading to a thin gap between the arena wall and an outer barricade.
Itâs empty. Occasionally, someone passes at the far endâstaff members with headsets, security guards moving with purposeâbut none of them spare you more than a glance. They look through you, past you.
Youâve always been good at that: being invisible.
You step closer to the wall, the bass faint but steady beneath your feet, like a heartbeat you canât quite sync with. For a moment, you close your eyes.
And just for a moment. You let yourself pretend.
Pretend youâre out there, pressed up against the barricade, shoulder to shoulder with the crowd. Pretend the lights are blinding instead of distant. Pretend that when you look up-
A roar erupts. Your eyes snap open.
Reality crashes back in all at once. The music surges, louder now, vibrating through the concrete, through your bones. The crowd screams in wavesârising, falling, rising againâreacting to something you canât see.
A few beats pass. Then his voice appears.
It cuts through everything, even from here. He starts with his most popular songâyou knew he would. Youâd looked it up, you memorized the setlist.
The crowd explodes. Itâs deafening, overwhelming, almost violent in its intensity. They scream the lyrics back at him, thousands of voices merging into one. From where you stand, itâs hard to even hear him over them.
But then certain parts come. The ones no one bothered to memorize.
His voice is deeper than the recordings ever captured, richerâlike itâs pulled straight from somewhere deep inside his chest. It fills the space in a way that feels too intimate for something so far away.
And the crowd feels it too. Their screams sharpen, higher, almost desperate, bouncing off the walls and folding back in on themselves.
You hum along softly, barely audible over the clamoring in the pit. Trying to imagine that youâre out there.
That somehow, he sees you.
For a second, it almost works. But the illusion shatters as quickly as it formed, leaving you standing in the pieces of your broken dream. Youâre still in the hallway, separated by concrete bricks.
A wall between you and him. Literally and figuratively.
The song ends. Thereâs a pause, brief but heavyâthe entire arena is holding its breath at once.
Then he speaks. The crowd erupts again, louder somehow, like theyâd been waiting just to hear him talk. His voice filters through the wall in fragments, broken and uneven.
ââŠtonightâŠâ
ââŠthank youâŠâ
ââŠmeans a lotâŠâ
You strain to catch more, but the rest dissolves into noise. He sounds so close. Close enough that, if the wall disappeared, you could reach out and touch him.
And yetâheâs impossibly far. Once, you were right there. Closer to him than any of these people will ever be.
And now there are thousands between you. Thousands screaming his name. And even if you screamedâhe wouldnât hear you.
Time keeps moving. Like it always has. Steady, unrelenting, dragging everything forward whether youâre ready or not. Even when you wish it would rewind. Even when youâd give anything to relive the moments you let slip awayâlike the drifting tides of the ocean.
Another song starts. Then another.
You tell yourself youâll leave after this one.
Time blurs, slipping through your fingers, measured only by the rise and fall of music and the constant pulse of the crowd. At some point, your legs give out and you sink to the floor, back pressed against the cold wall, arms wrapped around your bare knees.
You let the sound wash over you. Let it carry something awayâsome piece of the weight youâve been holding onto. Your anguish.
By the time the concert nears its end, you can feel the difference. The crowdâs energy is thinning, stretched tight and fraying at the edges. Still loud, still aliveâbut itâs tired.
Then the music shifts.
It turns slow, soft. Itâs a different kind of song.
A love song.
His voice returns, quieter now, stripped of the heavy production. No distortion, no layering. Raw and unguarded, resonating through the space.
For a moment, itâs easy to pretend that this is just for you. A private concert in your mind, tucked away in the dark.
But itâs not for you, none of this is. Youâre just another face in a crowd youâre not even part of.
The final note fades, and the arena erupts.
Every single person screaming, cheering, pouring everything they have left into the moment. Itâs louder than before, louder than anything, it hurts to listen too.
He says a few words, the crowd cheers again, the lights dim. His presence is gone.
You sit there for a moment longer, unmoving, the silence in your space feeling heavier now that the music is gone. Then you push yourself up, legs stiff, and make your way back down the corridor.
The closer you get to the exit, the louder it becomes againânot music this time, but people.
The crowd spills out into the halls and onto the streets, buzzing with excitement. Laughter, chatter, voices overlapping in a chaotic song.
You let yourself be pulled along again. You try to join the crowd, but you donât fit. Youâre not laughing, not smiling.
If anything, the concert didnât bring you closer to Satoruâit reminded you of how far away he isâof everything youâll never have.
You wish, not for the first time, that Satoru was normal. Because maybe then, this wouldnât feel so impossible. Maybe then, youâd have a chance.
A long sigh escapes you as you pick up your pace, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Every part of you achesânot physically, but in that quiet, persistent way you canât shake.
You just want to go home.
Outside, the night air hits you, cool and grounding. The moon hangs overhead, plump and inviting, casting a pale glow over the sea of people and cars below.
Pickup lines stretch endlessly, headlights blending into one continuous stream of white and red. Drivers call out names, passengers weave through traffic, tires screech.
You stand there for a second, scanning the crowd. Youâre unsure if youâll even be able to find your ride.
Suddenly, the window of a Toyota rolls down and a man with a scarred lip peers out at you.
He calls your name, âUber for you?â
âUh yeah,â You open the door to the backseat and slide in. âYouâre Fushiguro right?â
He tries to catch your eye in the rear-view mirror, âYeah, but you can just call me Toji.â
âRight. Just take me to the address I put in the app.â You purposely avoid his gaze, opting to look out the window instead.
You hear him hum and type something out on his touchscreen
He pulls away, speeding off. Leaving everything behind you in the dust.
ââââ
That night, Shoko calls you.
Your phone buzzes against your mattress, the sound louder than it should be in the quiet of your room. You stare at the screen for a second before picking it up, already knowing itâs her.
You answer in bed, still half-buried under your blankets. You put her on speaker and drop the phone beside you, turning onto your side.
âHey Shoko, howâs med school so far?â
âWellââ she starts, dragging the word out, âthis guy I met at the bar had free tickets to a meet and greet with some famous singer, itâs in a week, you wanna go?â
You blink, that wasnât what you expected.
Shokoâs been so busy with med school lately, buried in textbooks and stressâyouâll take any excuse to see her. Even if it means standing in a crowded room with a bunch of screaming fans.
âOf course,â you say, pushing yourself up slightly. âWho is it?â
âGo-go Sakura, I think?â she says, completely unsure. âI donât remember his name. Heâs super famous though.â
You pause, wondering if you heard it right.
She completely butchered his name, but you know exactly who sheâs talking about.
Your chest tightens just a little. This is your chance.
âYeah,â you say casually, pretending that his name doesnât stir something inside you. âLet me search him up.â
You grab your laptop from beside your bed and sit up properly, leaning back against your pile of pillows. The screen lights your face blue as you open it, fingers moving slower than usual.
You donât want her to know that you know himâthat you met him.
âOhââ you say after a second, forcing a bit of surprise into your voice. âHe is super famous. Heâs got likeâ100 million listeners on Spotify.â
âHoly shit,â Shoko gasps, âthe guy didnât tell me he was that famous.â
You huff out a quiet laugh.
Of course he didnât.
âDo you think if I post a photo with him on my Insta Iâll go viral?â she adds, suddenly more awake.
âShoko,â you say flatly, âyour Insta is private.â
Thereâs a pause.
âOh yeah,â she says. âIâll make it public then.â
You actually laugh at that, shaking your head a little.
Then it hits youâshe canât see you.
âHey,â you add quickly, adjusting your position, âyou wanna FaceTime? I miss your face girl.â
âDuh,â she says immediately. âI miss you too.â
You prop your phone up against your laptop, adjusting it a couple times until it stops slipping. Your camera turns on, and a second later hers does too.
Her face fills the screen.
You notice it right awayâher dark circles.
âYou look tired,â you say, leaning in a little, your brows pulling together. âWe can talk tomorrow if you want.â
âThe semester just started,â she sighs, rubbing at her eyes. âThe work isnât that difficult yet. I just need to fix my sleep schedule.â
You nod slowly.
âI know,â you say. âAt least youâre doing something productive with your life. I sit on my couch watching movies all day.â
The words come out lighter than they feel.
âI really need a job.â
âNo luck with liberal arts?â she asks.
You let out a dry laugh.
âFuck no,â you say. âMy only hope is to marry a rich man.â
You drop your face into your hands dramatically, muffling your voice.
âYouâll have men lining up for you,â she says without hesitation. âTrust me.â
âI wish,â you groan, dragging your hands down your face. âUgh. I was so dumbâI shouldâve gotten a degree in biology or something.â
You glance back at your phone, at her.
âI think Iâm the one whoâs tired,â you add. âIâm gonna sleep. Text me the meet and greet stuff.â
âIâll send the ticket to you,â she says. âIt has all the info.â
You nod. âOkay.â
She ends the call.
You let out a deep sigh and fall back against your pillows, one arm coming up to cover your eyes.
You were boring, jobless, and loveless.
The thoughts bury deep inside your mind, heavy, hard to ignore.
How were you supposed to attract a rich man like this?
You werenât anything flashy. You werenât the kind of girl who walked into a room and had people turning their heads.
You were certainly no peacock. If anything, the smallest things made you flush with embarrassmentâa wrong word, a lingering stare, even thinking too hard about something you said hours ago.
You exhale slowly. You were going to have to pick up a shit ton of jobs again.
Just like in college. The thought almost feels nostalgic. But back then, it meant something. You were working towards your future, now this is your future.
Your eyes shift toward your laptop, still open beside you. The screen glows softly in the dim room, pulling your attention back.
You sigh and sit up again, dragging the laptop into your lap.
A Michelin star restaurant. The kind that serves tiny plates of food that barely fill your stomach. One of your old boyfriends took you there onceâsaid it was ânothing special.â That kind of place was normal for him. You remember feeling out of place the entire time.
Men dressed in perfectly tailored suits. Women in beautiful floor length dresses, slits cut into the sidesâhigh enough to show a sliver of thigh.
You swear the waitress eyed you up and down, as if she knew you didnât belong among them.
And nowâyouâre considering working there.
You tilt your head slightly, thinking.
Itâs not like youâre completely inexperienced. Youâve worked as a waitress before. Plenty of times. You know how to carry trays, deal with customers, smile even with it hurts.
It wonât harm you to try.
You click on the link. The application page loads, clean and simple. You skim it quickly before uploading your resume, the same one youâve sent out a dozen times before.
You hesitate for half a second, then hit submit. You lean back slightly, staring at the screen.
Hopefully they find you a perfect applicant, and call you in for an interview. You just want something to do besides lying on your couch all day.
Your phone buzzes loudly, making you jump, scaring you out of your thoughts. You pick it up lethargicallyâit continues to buzz in your hand.
Youâre being bombarded with messages.
All from Shoko.
Shoko đ: Omg look at this
Shoko đ: Itâs abt the singer i was showing u
Shoko đ: Wait
Shoko đ: Isnât this u???
She sends a link in the chat. You open it slowlyâyour fingers hovering over it hesitantly.
It leads you to a post filled with pictures of Satoru andâ
You.
The photos are blurry, taken from far away. Only the side of your face is visibleâcovered by strands of hair. Not enough to identify you, but you recognize yourselfâyour outfit, the shape of your nose.
You glance down at the caption.
Gojo Satoru spotted in the wild with a girl???
Your stomach drops, people had noticed himâhad noticed you.
The comments are filled with people wondering who you are, maybe a secret girlfriend, a fan.
No, youâre too close to be just a fan. He looks too relaxed, his smile easy, his hand frozen in timeâpushing your drink towards you.
You scroll, just to find more videos of people making theories, defending you, or picking out every little thingâthe curve of your nose, the cardigan youâre wearing, the pattern of your hairâtalking about it like itâs the hottest gossip of the year.
And maybe it is.
When you he offered to buy your drink and you agreed, you didnât expect anything big to come out of it. You didnât even know who he was.
Now, youâre somehow apart of all this.
A/N: First fic iâve posted on tumblr đ donât flop pls
synopsis: A chance encounter at a high-end grocery store leaves you unable to forget the strange, guarded man you metâuntil you discover heâs actually a famous singer. When photos of your brief meeting spark rumors online, youâre suddenly pulled into a world you never meant to be part of.
You thought Gojo Satoru was unobtainable. He was a star in the night skyâshining, constant, beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel. Close enough to see, close enough to admire, yet impossibly far. A beacon you could only ever grasp at, fingers curling around nothing but empty air.
Youâd see him on social media sometimes. Scrolling late at night, your screen dimmed, your room quiet except for the in-and-out of your breaths. He always looked the sameâbright, effortless, unfairly handsome. He existed in a world untouched by anything ordinary.
But you never thoughtânever even entertained the ideaâthat youâd actually have a chance.
But that would change.
It started with an accidental encounter, long before you knew who he was.
ââââ
Youâre in Erewhon, browsing like you actually had money to spend.
The place doesnât even feel real. Everything too clean and curated, shelves lined with glass jars and pastel packaging that looked more decorative than edible. The lighting whiteâyet soft, like it was trying to convince you that spending $30 on juice was a life-changing experience.
You pick up a jar, turning it over in your hands. Blue sea moss. $90.
You stare at it for a second longer than necessary. The color was almost aggressiveâa bright azure blue, borderline radioactive. No way something that looked like that was meant to be eaten.
You set it back down carefully, it looked like something that might explode if you didnât.
After a while of aimlessly walking aroundâpretending to browse, pretending you belongedâyou make your way toward the smoothie bar. It was the only thing that felt remotely justifiable.
You want to try the Hailey Beiber smoothie, the thing all those girls raved about. You want to know if it really makes your skin glow.
$21.
You hesitate, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Part of you wants to try it, just once. So you can know what it feels like to casually spend money like that, to not think twice about something so absurd.
You were still debatingâwhen you bumped into somethingâor someone.
âShit! Iâm so sorry!â The apology leaves you instantly, your hands coming up as if you could physically undo the collision. You look upâ
The stranger in front of you is dressed simply. A black hoodie, slightly oversized, and grey sweats. He looks out of place.
Even you had put in some effort before coming hereâjeans that fit just right, a light pink cardigan layered neatly, a coat of mascara brushed on thicker than usual. Not too much, just enough to feel like you wouldnât be judged.
But he looks like he doesnât care, almost like he doesnât need to.
âItâs alright,â he says easily. âI wasnât looking where I was going. Iâm sorry.â
And then you notice his eyesâan enchanting kind of blue. The kind of blue that doesnât seem to end, framed by lashes so pale theyâre almost white. His gaze is steady, but thereâs something behind itâsomething vast, something you canât quite place.
A frozen lake you could stare into for hours and never fully understand. And his hairâresembling freshly fallen snowâblindingly white. There was no way that was real.
You stare a second too long. He tilts his head slightly, expecting some kind of response.
You snap out of your trance. âNoâItâs my fault,â you rush, words tripping over themselves. âI was just.. distracted. Everything in here is just so- luxurious. UhâI usually shop at Walmart.â
The honesty slips out before you can filter it.
For a split second, you think maybe youâve said too much. But he laughs, soft and real. âSo youâre not supposed to be here then?â
You huff quietly, shrugging. âWell, Iâm definitely not rich enough to shop here.â
He nods, like he understands you completely.
âIâm not supposed to be here either,â he admits. âIâm just visiting. Iâm used to more⊠simpler things.â
Thereâs something in the way he says it. Casual, but careful, like heâs choosing his words just enough to avoid saying too much.
You glance back at the menu above the counter.
âI was thinking of treating myself,â you say, half to him, half to yourself. âJust once. Seeing what itâs like to be rich. But a $21 smoothie is kinda insane.â
Thereâs a beat.
âIâll buy it for you.â The words come out quickly, almost as if he didnât mean to say them out loud. He straightens slightly, looking as if heâs trying to recover. âI meanâonly if you want.â
You blink.
âReally?â A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. âIâd love that. Thank you.â
Inside, youâre ecstatic. A free smoothie from a ridiculously handsome stranger? This had to be some kind of cosmic compensation for all your bad luck.
He orders without hesitation, and you wonder if he even though about the price. The two of you move outside, settling at a small table tucked along the edge of the store.
The air is warmer out here, the late afternoon sun dipping lower, casting everything in a soft glow.
Now youâre glad you made an effort in your appearance today. This was practically becoming a real date.
âSo,â he says, sliding the drink toward you, condensation already gathering along the sides of the cup. âWhatâs your name?â
You tell him.
He repeats it slowly, carefully, like heâs testing itârolling each syllable over his tongue with an ease that makes it sound prettier than it actually is.
âAnd you?â you ask, leaning forward slightly. âWhat should I call you?â
He hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second.
âYou can just call me Satoru.â
He says it quieter than before, itâs something meant only for youâsomething he doesnât want anyone passing by to hear.
You nod. âWell, Satoru⊠you said youâre just visiting. What are you here for?â
âIâm attending some⊠events,â he says. âThings like that.â
âLike concerts?â you guess. âL.A. has a lot of those.â
He glances at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
âYeah,â he says. âBasically.â
You take a sip of your drink, the cold sweetness hitting your tongue as water droplets slips down the cup, dampening your fingers.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
You just sit there, looking at each other.
Time shiftsâit slows and stretches. The world around you fades into something distant, blurred at the edges. Cars honk, people chatter, doors slam shutâbut none of it matters. Itâs all in the background.
Right now, you and Satoru are the only two people in the galaxy. And Time itself seems to notice, pausing, lingering, zooming in on the smallest thingsâthe way his gaze softens, the way your fingers tighten slightly around your cup, the barely-there glances exchanged like secrets.
And for onceâTime waits for you.
RING!
The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and jarring.
Reality snaps back into place. Time resumes, relentless as ever.
âSorry,â you mumble quickly, already standing. âI have to take this.â
You step a few feet away, pressing your phone to your ear. Itâs your best friend, Shoko.
âHello?â
âThis better be important,â you say immediately, lowering your voice. âYou interrupted something.â
âYeah, whateverâlike you have anything important to do.â
You roll your eyes, even though she canât see you. âShoko-â
âYou know how I applied to that medical school?â she cuts in.
You pause. âYeah⊠what about it?â
âWell, I got in!â Her voice spikes, bright and unfiltered, and it catches you off guard. Youâve never heard her sound so genuinely excited about anything.
âOh my god,â you breathe, a smile breaking across your face. âIâm so happy for youâseriously. Iâm proud of you. Youâre going to be the best doctor in the world.â
âI know,â she laughs, not even pretending to be humble. âSo get ready, Iâm taking us out. Iâm already on my way to your apartment.â
âWait- what?â
The line goes dead. You stare at your phone for a second, exhaling sharply.
You didnât even get to tell her you werenât home. You have to leave.
Now.
You hurry back to the table, your steps quicker, your beating fast.
âIâm really sorry,â you say to him, breathless. âBut I have to go. Itâs- an emergency.â
The lie comes out smoother than you expect. You donât have the heart to tell him the truthâthat youâre leaving to go celebrate with your friend. That this moment, whatever it is, is already slipping away.
You grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, already half-turned toward the street.
âIâm really sorry,â you repeat, casting one last glance at him. Taking in his face, his eyes, his open mouthâlike he was about to say something.
You wave down a taxi, directing it to go to your apartment.
ââââ
You make it home just before Shoko arrives.
The moment you manage to slip into a tiny black dress, one that was probably a size too small, the door swings open.
Of course she lets herself in. She always does.
âThis night is going to be all about me,â she proclaims, striding in like she owns the place. Her dress catches the light with every movement, sequins scattering reflectionsâand actual glitterâacross your floor. âIâm going to get so wasted Iâll forget that I can never party again.â
You blink, ignoring the glitter. âNever party again? Isnât that a little far? Iâm sure medical school wonât take up that much time.â
She stops, staring at you like youâve just said something deeply naive.
âYou donât know the horrors,â she says flatly, then shudders. âIâve heard stories.â
You laugh, grabbing your bag, and your keys.
âWell,â you say, forcing the energy back into your voice, âletâs make this a night you wonât forget.â
You hook your arm through hers, pulling her toward the door.
And just like thatâyou run out into the night.
ââââ
You get home at 3am and drag your dress down your body, fingers clumsy, impatient. The fabric catches at your hips and you tug harder than you should, nearly tearing it in the process. For a second you donât even careâyou just need it off.
It slips free and pools at your feet, a crumpled reminder of the night.
You step out of it and leave it there.
The bathroom light is too bright when you flick it on, harsh against your tired eyes. You donât bother adjusting it. You turn the shower knob all the way to hotâtoo hotâand step in before you can register the pain.
You stand there, unmoving, letting it run over your shoulders, down your back, washing away the smell of sweat and perfume and alcohol. The night clings to you, stubborn, but the heat slowly starts to pull it away.
And for the first time all night, you let your mind drift back to Satoru. You wonder if he was hurt that you left so quickly. It didnât matter anyways. He probably bought women drinks regularly. You werenât specialâyou were just at the right place at the right time. Just another girl he happened to run into.
The water runs down your face, and you close your eyes.
You arenât anything special.
Youâre prettyâbut an average kind of pretty. The girl-next-door kind. The kind that has to have a real personality for people to fall in love with. You arenât particularly well endowed eitherâyour body lacks curves. You have barely any extra plush to grip onto.
Sometimes you stare at your naked body and wonder how anyone could ever love itâlove you. In a society where big breasts and a fat ass gets you everything, you have nothing to give.
You arenât someone people remember. Not the kind someone like him would go out of his way to find.
You probably shouldâve told Shoko. She wouldâve lost her mindâgenuinely, completely thrilled to hear you actually talked to a man who wasnât an asshole for once. She wouldâve demanded every detail, replayed every word, made it into something bigger than it was.
But you didnât want to make the night about you. So you kept your mouth shut. Now youâre wondering if that was a mistake.
Because thereâs so much you want to say now. So many questions that keep circling back, refusing to settle.
Would he even remember you? Would he try to find you?
You let out a quiet breath, leaning your forehead against the cool tile.
You could just tell Shoko tomorrow. Or later. Over FaceTime, like you always do. You could say everything then.
That thought settles something in you, just enough.
Eventually, you step out of the shower, skin warm and flushed. You wrap yourself in your fluffy pink towel, the fabric soft against your damp skin, and pad barefoot over to your bed.
You grab your phone from your purse and collapse onto the mattress, scrolling absentmindedly while you wait for your hair to dry.
The first video that pops up is a clip of an idol performing in L.A. You barely register it.
You donât care much for famous people, so you scroll away.
A flash of white brings you back. Your thumb pauses mid-motion. You scroll back up and watch the videoâthe whole thing.
A figure steps forward on stage, lights flashing, the crowd screaming so loud it distorts the audio. At first, itâs hard to tellâitâs out of focus, chaotic.
But something about the singer feels familiar.
Your stomach twists. Itâs Satoru, but he looks different.
His hair is styled now, not soft and slightly messy like before. His clothes are nothing like the hoodie and sweats from beforeâtheyâre sharp, intentional, expensive. Thereâs makeup, subtle but there. Stage lights catch on his skin, highlighting angles you hadnât noticed earlier.
And his presenceâitâs stronger, more confident.
Itâs clear he knows exactly how every eye in that arena is on him. He knows he belongs.
This is version of him you didnât see. Or maybe you just werenât paying attention.
âWhat the fuck?â you whisper, barely audible.
The camera zooms in. And itâs him.
Thereâs no mistaking it now. The crowd screams his name. GOJO.
Gojo Satoru. Thatâs his full name.
You pause the video, your finger hovering for a second before tapping into the comments.
They flood the screen instantly.
@gojossixthsenseye: I NEED HIM SO BAD
@gojosatorusmicstand: The mic is ON
@ineedwaterrrr: I would die for him ngl
Your mouth parts, your eyes flicker away from your screenâtrying to forget to focus on anything else, anything but your phone.
Girls thirsting, screaming, and jumpingâall of it was for him.
The same guy who bought you a smoothie like it didnât matter. Who sat across from you like it was normal. Who looked at youâreally looked at youâlike you werenât just another face passing by.
This version of himâwould never do that. Would never talk to a strangerânever talk to you. Someone whoâs never even brushed against fame, let alone existed inside it.
You turn your phone off abruptly and toss it somewhere into the mess of blankets and pillows on your bed.
You stare at the ceiling. You felt something when you talked to him. A connectionâa spark of something real.
But maybe that was just himâcharming. So much so that it disarmedyou. The kind of person who could make anyone feel seen if he wanted to.
Maybe he just wanted to feel normal for a little while. And you were convenient. You didnât recognize him. Not even when he gave you his name.
That mustâve been perfect for him. No expectations, screaming fansâno pressure.
Just a normal conversation. Maybe thatâs why he stayed as long as he did.
The thought sits heavy on your chest. And you know that by morning he wonât even remember you.
You were just a moment for him. A tool to step outside of his life for a little while.
You reach blindly into your blankets and fish your phone back out.
Your fingers move almost on autopilot, opening Instagram, searching his name.
His account pops up instantlyâverified, with tens of millions of followers.
You tap on his latest postâitâs from the concert. A photo of him on stage, lights exploding behind him, the crowd barely visible beyond the glare.
You stare at it for a second.
Then you comment.
@starrygirI: he sounds way better than i thought
Itâs stupidly casual. Like youâre just another fan.
But now, that is all you are.
He didnât seem the singing type when you first met him. Not the idol type either. You were wrong about a lot of things.
He probably wouldnât recognize you. And why would he? Youâre just another comment in a sea of thousands.
You check the time: 5am. Two hours gone. And somehow, you feel like youâve learned more in those two hours than you had in college.
Reality settles in, heavy and immovable. Youâll never get a chance to speak to him again. At least not casually.
You turn your phone offâthis time for realâand pull on a loose t-shirt, the fabric soft and familiar.
Sleep comes quickly.
And when it doesâyour dreams are filled with a vast land of snow and endless blue.
ââââ
You wake up lateâwhen the sun is at its highest point in the sky. Light spills through your half-closed blinds, painting your room in a muted golden haze.
The first thing you do is reach for your phone.
Notifications.
But not the one you want. He hasnât responded. Heâs famous, you didnât expect him too.
It still hurts.
You push yourself out of bed, limbs sluggish, and trudge over to your small kitchenette. You open a box of cheap Costco croissants and pull one out, eating it cold because you donât have the energy to heat it up.
You lean against the counter, chewing slowly, and unlock your phone again.
This time, you go straight to his profile and open direct messages.
Your fingers hover for a second before you start typing.
idk if u remember me but i was the girl at erewhon
âI donât know if you remember me?â you mutter, âwho the fuck would say that?â
Itâs only been a day, heâd probably remember you. Considering the fact he spent the better part of his afternoon with you.
You delete it and start again.
u didnât tell me u were famous
Now it sounds worse. Like you care about that. Like it changes something. Like youâre about to latch onto him now that you know who he is.
Maybe thatâs dramatic, but it sounds desperate. You send it anyways.
He probably wonât even see it.
You move to your living room, collapsing onto your ratty little couch, the cushions sinking under your weight. Your laptop sits on the coffee table, and you pull it toward you, flipping it open.
You type his name into Google, and instantly your screen floods with images, articles, and interviews.
You click on one. Itâs a magazine cover from the recent issue of Man About Town.
Satoru sits on the floor, head tilted slightly upward, eyes locked with the camera like heâs looking straight through itâthrough you. Itâs mesmerizing, almost as magical as seeing him in person.
But no camera can capture the exact blue of his eyes. Not the way they looked in real life. Not the way they held yours so effortlessly.
Your gaze drifts lowerâto his clothes. Black pants, sleek, perfectly tailoredâinterrupted only by the unmistakable red and green Gucci stripe running down the side.
Itâs obvious now. At the store, you thought he was like you: Broke and out of place.
Now itâs clear, he just snuck away from his hotel. From his schedule. From everything that comes with being him.
And for a momentâyou were his normal.
You close the tab and go back to your search.
Absorbing more than you probably should. Turns out he had another concert next week.
You click on it immediately, already knowing what youâll find: Sold out.
You check resale sites next. Sketchy onesâlinks you barely trust.
The prices make your stomach twist, knowing you could never afford them.
$800
$1000
$1200
Youâd really fucked up this time.
Thereâs nothing you can do except wait.
ââââ
Itâs the day of Satoruâs concert.
You told yourself you wouldnât go.
You would get in trouble. Youâd regret it. Thereâs no pointâyou donât even have a ticket.
The thought flickers in your mind anyway. You shut it down before it can take root, digging into the pliable soil of your mind and settling.
You donât have a ticket. Thereâs nothing for you there.
ââââ
Itâs dark by the time you step out of your Uber. The door shuts behind you with a dull thud, swallowed almost instantly by the distant roar of a crowd.
For a second, you just stand there on the curb, unsure how you got here. You donât remember making the decision. Your body had moved on its own, there was something inside you that refused to stay away.
Now youâre hereâstanding in front of the arena.
It towers over you, steel and glass and blinding lights. Massive screens flash Satoruâs name in looping graphics, his face appearing for seconds at a time before dissolving into color and motion. People rush past you in clusters, buzzing with excitement, their voices overlapping into a constant hum of anticipation.
You let yourself drift with them. No resistance, no directionâjust letting the current of bodies carry you forward. Their energy brushes against you, warm and electric, but it never quite reaches inside. You feel like a ghost slipping through something you canât touch.
Inside, the air changes immediatelyâcool, artificial, humming faintly with the buildingâs ventilation. Bright lights reflect off polished floors. Thereâs a long line snaking around metal barricades. People waiting for wristbands, tickets clutched tightly in their hands.
You slow, watching them for a moment. You wouldnât need to wait, you donât have a ticket.
The realization doesnât sting like you expected, it just settles, deep in your gut.
You walk around the line. Past the security ropes. Toward somewhere quieterâsomewhere you know you probably shouldnât be.
A dark corridor opens along the side of the building, half-hidden from the main flow of people. A small sign hangs above it, almost overlooked.
Staff Only. You donât stop.
The lights dim as you step inside, the noise of the crowd muffling into the distance, like waves behind a wall. The corridor stretches ahead, narrow and shadowed, leading to a thin gap between the arena wall and an outer barricade.
Itâs empty. Occasionally, someone passes at the far endâstaff members with headsets, security guards moving with purposeâbut none of them spare you more than a glance. They look through you, past you.
Youâve always been good at that: being invisible.
You step closer to the wall, the bass faint but steady beneath your feet, like a heartbeat you canât quite sync with. For a moment, you close your eyes.
And just for a moment. You let yourself pretend.
Pretend youâre out there, pressed up against the barricade, shoulder to shoulder with the crowd. Pretend the lights are blinding instead of distant. Pretend that when you look up-
A roar erupts. Your eyes snap open.
Reality crashes back in all at once. The music surges, louder now, vibrating through the concrete, through your bones. The crowd screams in wavesârising, falling, rising againâreacting to something you canât see.
A few beats pass. Then his voice appears.
It cuts through everything, even from here. He starts with his most popular songâyou knew he would. Youâd looked it up, you memorized the setlist.
The crowd explodes. Itâs deafening, overwhelming, almost violent in its intensity. They scream the lyrics back at him, thousands of voices merging into one. From where you stand, itâs hard to even hear him over them.
But then certain parts come. The ones no one bothered to memorize.
His voice is deeper than the recordings ever captured, richerâlike itâs pulled straight from somewhere deep inside his chest. It fills the space in a way that feels too intimate for something so far away.
And the crowd feels it too. Their screams sharpen, higher, almost desperate, bouncing off the walls and folding back in on themselves.
You hum along softly, barely audible over the clamoring in the pit. Trying to imagine that youâre out there.
That somehow, he sees you.
For a second, it almost works. But the illusion shatters as quickly as it formed, leaving you standing in the pieces of your broken dream. Youâre still in the hallway, separated by concrete bricks.
A wall between you and him. Literally and figuratively.
The song ends. Thereâs a pause, brief but heavyâthe entire arena is holding its breath at once.
Then he speaks. The crowd erupts again, louder somehow, like theyâd been waiting just to hear him talk. His voice filters through the wall in fragments, broken and uneven.
ââŠtonightâŠâ
ââŠthank youâŠâ
ââŠmeans a lotâŠâ
You strain to catch more, but the rest dissolves into noise. He sounds so close. Close enough that, if the wall disappeared, you could reach out and touch him.
And yetâheâs impossibly far. Once, you were right there. Closer to him than any of these people will ever be.
And now there are thousands between you. Thousands screaming his name. And even if you screamedâhe wouldnât hear you.
Time keeps moving. Like it always has. Steady, unrelenting, dragging everything forward whether youâre ready or not. Even when you wish it would rewind. Even when youâd give anything to relive the moments you let slip awayâlike the drifting tides of the ocean.
Another song starts. Then another.
You tell yourself youâll leave after this one.
Time blurs, slipping through your fingers, measured only by the rise and fall of music and the constant pulse of the crowd. At some point, your legs give out and you sink to the floor, back pressed against the cold wall, arms wrapped around your bare knees.
You let the sound wash over you. Let it carry something awayâsome piece of the weight youâve been holding onto. Your anguish.
By the time the concert nears its end, you can feel the difference. The crowdâs energy is thinning, stretched tight and fraying at the edges. Still loud, still aliveâbut itâs tired.
Then the music shifts.
It turns slow, soft. Itâs a different kind of song.
A love song.
His voice returns, quieter now, stripped of the heavy production. No distortion, no layering. Raw and unguarded, resonating through the space.
For a moment, itâs easy to pretend that this is just for you. A private concert in your mind, tucked away in the dark.
But itâs not for you, none of this is. Youâre just another face in a crowd youâre not even part of.
The final note fades, and the arena erupts.
Every single person screaming, cheering, pouring everything they have left into the moment. Itâs louder than before, louder than anything, it hurts to listen too.
He says a few words, the crowd cheers again, the lights dim. His presence is gone.
You sit there for a moment longer, unmoving, the silence in your space feeling heavier now that the music is gone. Then you push yourself up, legs stiff, and make your way back down the corridor.
The closer you get to the exit, the louder it becomes againânot music this time, but people.
The crowd spills out into the halls and onto the streets, buzzing with excitement. Laughter, chatter, voices overlapping in a chaotic song.
You let yourself be pulled along again. You try to join the crowd, but you donât fit. Youâre not laughing, not smiling.
If anything, the concert didnât bring you closer to Satoruâit reminded you of how far away he isâof everything youâll never have.
You wish, not for the first time, that Satoru was normal. Because maybe then, this wouldnât feel so impossible. Maybe then, youâd have a chance.
A long sigh escapes you as you pick up your pace, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Every part of you achesânot physically, but in that quiet, persistent way you canât shake.
You just want to go home.
Outside, the night air hits you, cool and grounding. The moon hangs overhead, plump and inviting, casting a pale glow over the sea of people and cars below.
Pickup lines stretch endlessly, headlights blending into one continuous stream of white and red. Drivers call out names, passengers weave through traffic, tires screech.
You stand there for a second, scanning the crowd. Youâre unsure if youâll even be able to find your ride.
Suddenly, the window of a Toyota rolls down and a man with a scarred lip peers out at you.
He calls your name, âUber for you?â
âUh yeah,â You open the door to the backseat and slide in. âYouâre Fushiguro right?â
He tries to catch your eye in the rear-view mirror, âYeah, but you can just call me Toji.â
âRight. Just take me to the address I put in the app.â You purposely avoid his gaze, opting to look out the window instead.
You hear him hum and type something out on his touchscreen
He pulls away, speeding off. Leaving everything behind you in the dust.
ââââ
That night, Shoko calls you.
Your phone buzzes against your mattress, the sound louder than it should be in the quiet of your room. You stare at the screen for a second before picking it up, already knowing itâs her.
You answer in bed, still half-buried under your blankets. You put her on speaker and drop the phone beside you, turning onto your side.
âHey Shoko, howâs med school so far?â
âWellââ she starts, dragging the word out, âthis guy I met at the bar had free tickets to a meet and greet with some famous singer, itâs in a week, you wanna go?â
You blink, that wasnât what you expected.
Shokoâs been so busy with med school lately, buried in textbooks and stressâyouâll take any excuse to see her. Even if it means standing in a crowded room with a bunch of screaming fans.
âOf course,â you say, pushing yourself up slightly. âWho is it?â
âGo-go Sakura, I think?â she says, completely unsure. âI donât remember his name. Heâs super famous though.â
You pause, wondering if you heard it right.
She completely butchered his name, but you know exactly who sheâs talking about.
Your chest tightens just a little. This is your chance.
âYeah,â you say casually, pretending that his name doesnât stir something inside you. âLet me search him up.â
You grab your laptop from beside your bed and sit up properly, leaning back against your pile of pillows. The screen lights your face blue as you open it, fingers moving slower than usual.
You donât want her to know that you know himâthat you met him.
âOhââ you say after a second, forcing a bit of surprise into your voice. âHe is super famous. Heâs got likeâ100 million listeners on Spotify.â
âHoly shit,â Shoko gasps, âthe guy didnât tell me he was that famous.â
You huff out a quiet laugh.
Of course he didnât.
âDo you think if I post a photo with him on my Insta Iâll go viral?â she adds, suddenly more awake.
âShoko,â you say flatly, âyour Insta is private.â
Thereâs a pause.
âOh yeah,â she says. âIâll make it public then.â
You actually laugh at that, shaking your head a little.
Then it hits youâshe canât see you.
âHey,â you add quickly, adjusting your position, âyou wanna FaceTime? I miss your face girl.â
âDuh,â she says immediately. âI miss you too.â
You prop your phone up against your laptop, adjusting it a couple times until it stops slipping. Your camera turns on, and a second later hers does too.
Her face fills the screen.
You notice it right awayâher dark circles.
âYou look tired,â you say, leaning in a little, your brows pulling together. âWe can talk tomorrow if you want.â
âThe semester just started,â she sighs, rubbing at her eyes. âThe work isnât that difficult yet. I just need to fix my sleep schedule.â
You nod slowly.
âI know,â you say. âAt least youâre doing something productive with your life. I sit on my couch watching movies all day.â
The words come out lighter than they feel.
âI really need a job.â
âNo luck with liberal arts?â she asks.
You let out a dry laugh.
âFuck no,â you say. âMy only hope is to marry a rich man.â
You drop your face into your hands dramatically, muffling your voice.
âYouâll have men lining up for you,â she says without hesitation. âTrust me.â
âI wish,â you groan, dragging your hands down your face. âUgh. I was so dumbâI shouldâve gotten a degree in biology or something.â
You glance back at your phone, at her.
âI think Iâm the one whoâs tired,â you add. âIâm gonna sleep. Text me the meet and greet stuff.â
âIâll send the ticket to you,â she says. âIt has all the info.â
You nod. âOkay.â
She ends the call.
You let out a deep sigh and fall back against your pillows, one arm coming up to cover your eyes.
You were boring, jobless, and loveless.
The thoughts bury deep inside your mind, heavy, hard to ignore.
How were you supposed to attract a rich man like this?
You werenât anything flashy. You werenât the kind of girl who walked into a room and had people turning their heads.
You were certainly no peacock. If anything, the smallest things made you flush with embarrassmentâa wrong word, a lingering stare, even thinking too hard about something you said hours ago.
You exhale slowly. You were going to have to pick up a shit ton of jobs again.
Just like in college. The thought almost feels nostalgic. But back then, it meant something. You were working towards your future, now this is your future.
Your eyes shift toward your laptop, still open beside you. The screen glows softly in the dim room, pulling your attention back.
You sigh and sit up again, dragging the laptop into your lap.
A Michelin star restaurant. The kind that serves tiny plates of food that barely fill your stomach. One of your old boyfriends took you there onceâsaid it was ânothing special.â That kind of place was normal for him. You remember feeling out of place the entire time.
Men dressed in perfectly tailored suits. Women in beautiful floor length dresses, slits cut into the sidesâhigh enough to show a sliver of thigh.
You swear the waitress eyed you up and down, as if she knew you didnât belong among them.
And nowâyouâre considering working there.
You tilt your head slightly, thinking.
Itâs not like youâre completely inexperienced. Youâve worked as a waitress before. Plenty of times. You know how to carry trays, deal with customers, smile even with it hurts.
It wonât harm you to try.
You click on the link. The application page loads, clean and simple. You skim it quickly before uploading your resume, the same one youâve sent out a dozen times before.
You hesitate for half a second, then hit submit. You lean back slightly, staring at the screen.
Hopefully they find you a perfect applicant, and call you in for an interview. You just want something to do besides lying on your couch all day.
Your phone buzzes loudly, making you jump, scaring you out of your thoughts. You pick it up lethargicallyâit continues to buzz in your hand.
Youâre being bombarded with messages.
All from Shoko.
Shoko đ: Omg look at this
Shoko đ: Itâs abt the singer i was showing u
Shoko đ: Wait
Shoko đ: Isnât this u???
She sends a link in the chat. You open it slowlyâyour fingers hovering over it hesitantly.
It leads you to a post filled with pictures of Satoru andâ
You.
The photos are blurry, taken from far away. Only the side of your face is visibleâcovered by strands of hair. Not enough to identify you, but you recognize yourselfâyour outfit, the shape of your nose.
You glance down at the caption.
Gojo Satoru spotted in the wild with a girl???
Your stomach drops, people had noticed himâhad noticed you.
The comments are filled with people wondering who you are, maybe a secret girlfriend, a fan.
No, youâre too close to be just a fan. He looks too relaxed, his smile easy, his hand frozen in timeâpushing your drink towards you.
You scroll, just to find more videos of people making theories, defending you, or picking out every little thingâthe curve of your nose, the cardigan youâre wearing, the pattern of your hairâtalking about it like itâs the hottest gossip of the year.
And maybe it is.
When you he offered to buy your drink and you agreed, you didnât expect anything big to come out of it. You didnât even know who he was.
Now, youâre somehow apart of all this.
A/N: First fic iâve posted on tumblr đ donât flop pls
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You didn't know what you were expecting when you agreed to marry Dr. Zayne, but it surely wasn't love.
A man still haunted by the voice of his late first love, you knew you'd never be able to replace her. Yet, knowing can't always result in acceptance. And when your heart begins to yearn for more than just to be a responsibility to your cold husbandâwhat are you supposed to do with these unwanted feelings?
Warnings: Expressions of grief, heavy angst, non canon compliant, cold!Zayne, mentions of death, mentions of humiliation, emotional trauma, canonnical inaccuracies, implied toxic family dynamics, no usage of Y/N.
A/N: I lost Zayne's myth card and decided to torture myself by writing angst lmao (smiling through the pain ;'))
Divider Credits - @saradika-graphics
<Series Masterlist> | Chapter 2
âZayne Li, do you take this woman to be your wife? To have and to hold her in sickness or in health, in richer or in poorer, for better or for worse; To love and honour her for the rest of your days and forevermore?â
You had seen this before.
Plenty of sappy, romantic movies ending with the man and woman tying the knot at the church. If not for the climatic music, melodious chirping of birds or the lustrous sun peeking amidst the clouds just to shine on themâas if nature itself had twisted it's course for the couple to feast on their union. Bouts of joy would trail down their eyes as they promised devotion to one another and share a chaste kiss whilst memories of all their beautiful and tragic momentsâin which they held onto each otherâwould dance before their eyes.Â
Zayne and you shared anything but that.
Therefore, when he said I do you didn't mind the lack of cadence to his tone.Â
You didn't mind the chill pricking your skin when he held your hand. You didn't mind the scarcity of desire or warmth in the kiss that he pressed on your lips.Â
You didn't mind that this marriage was only a farce; a union made in order to appease the public rather than join two hearts into one.Â
After all, when you agreed to marry Zayne, you knewâwishing for love would only end in shambles.
Several Hours Earlier
Zayne's shoes scraped on the pavement, echoing the soft, rhythmic beat of his steps amidst the stale morning air. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the giant oak trees, gleaming in his eyes once in a while. Although December had sauntered in with its chilling wisps of wind, snow hadn't begun pouring in Linkon city and for a winter mornâ, he'd consider today to be pretty warm.
Maybe some of the last days of mellow ambling over Linkon city before the thick blanket of white covered it all.Â
It was on these days that families planned all their picnics and get-togethers of this year. Days on which departmental stores stayed open an extra hour because Christmas would follow in three weeks.
Something about winters always bothered Zayne. He couldn't pinpoint it but maybe it was the contradiction of it all. He never understood how the bleak and empty season could ever stir a mood of festivity in anyone.Â
The central park was a common spot for Zayne. He'd find himself strolling the grounds every time heâd need an escape. The pond glittered with the golden light falling over it, gusts of wind swirling the leaves and the pink camellia blooming on the shrubs just made the scenery all the more beautiful.
Zayne didn't want to find it beautiful.
Because beautiful meant he was alive and if he were alive then it meant he had memories, and in those memories lived a woman. A woman whose beauty transcended heavens; a woman, for whom heâd sacrifice forever just for a chance to hold her once. And if he thinks about holding her then heâd remember he can't hold her.
He can't hold her.
He does not have her.
He does not have his life.
Then how could he be alive?
Because beauty was in her eyes when she held his gaze, beauty was in her voice when she called his name, beauty was in her mien when he watched her bath under the moonlight and he had silently thanked fate for sending this woman to him.Â
She was beautiful but she wasnât here anymore. And when she left, she took all the colours, all the birds and all the sunlightâleaving this desolate world to plunge into a grayscale crest.Â
That's why he can't find it beautiful. He can't find anything beautiful.Â
It was suffocating.Â
Two hours had passed since the wedding and now, you are sitting in your bridal suite with a woman touching on your make-up. You had changed into a particularly lighter gownâmeant for your reception and you'd had taken a second to admire the dress, if not for the turmoil brewing in your mind.
Honestly, it was easier at first.Â
The only reason you said yes to this marriage was because you wanted to escape from your family. You wouldn't essentially speak bad about them; after all, they never swayed from paying for your education and lifestyleâsomething you'd eternally be grateful for. But it was the unnamed things that stirred the tension in you.
It was your wedding today; a day you are supposed to cherish for the rest of your lives but you had just spent the last two hours sitting ideally in your bridal suite as the walls taunted you for your doomed marriage.Â
Zayne had said that he needed to answer an urgent call and that he'd return soon. But as you saw, the soon transcended seconds into minutes and minutes into hours. So much so that your makeup artist had arrived but not him.
But you weren't complaining. You stepped into this arrangement with your own will and you could understand why Zayne would behave the way he did. Any man would.Â
You were a taint on your family's name. Tarnished and ruined beyond repair; if only you werenât so stupid, none of this would have happened. In spite of your family drowning the scandals, some rumours never truly die and this was one of them.Â
Therefore, it was more than enough that someone had agreed to marry you. And you shouldnât be greedy when the tides are against you.
âMy, my, you look so beautiful!âÂ
As if plunged out of a dream, you look up to see your makeup artist grinning down at you. God, you had forgotten she was still in the room. Deflecting your gaze towards the mirror, you beheld your expression.Â
âWow,â you gasp, completely fazed out with the work she had done on your features. Nothing heavy, and it'd be a lie if you say you say you weren't impressed by her craft. âI look⊠good.â
âYou look beautiful,â she exclaimed, âI bet your husband wouldn't be able to take his eyes off you.â
Only if he looked at meâŠ
You decided to keep the unwarranted thought to yourself and plaster a half smile on your lips to show your content. âThank you. You are very skilled.â
The corner of her lips curl up, eyes narrowing into half moon, âAll the credits belong to my model.â
Before you could reply, you heard the click of the lock to the suite and soon enough, a man emerged insideâdecked in a crisp navy blue suit with white floral patterns stitched on the fabricâher husband. Looking every ounce of handsome and unbothered yet when his eyes fell on you, you averted your gaze as soon as possible.
Because what were you supposed to say to a man you had married only hours ago?Â
Thankfully, your makeup artist didn't wait around to bombard your husband with her questions; seems to have been picked up on the uncharacteristic dynamic shared amid the couple. Whatever the reason may be, she passed a soft smile to you before bidding her farewell.
You heard some rustling; probably Zayne going though his belongings. From the corner of your eyes, you caught him fixing his cufflinks, his back turned to you. You hadn't noticed but the suit he donned currently was starkly different to the charcoal suit he had worn to the wedding.Â
When did he change?
Although curious, you refrained from asking any idiotic question and worsen the awkward heat swirling in the room. Lifting your phone from the dresser, you swiped it back to lifeânot upset by the lack of messages to pop up on your screen. You had one unread text message from your motherâtimed to have been sent just after the ceremony.Â
Why do you have to be soâŠÂ You didn't need to read the entirety of the message to know its contents. Besides, there was enough evidence of plight as the seconds ticked by, you didn't need her to remind you of everything.Â
âDid you order room service?â
Caught off guard, you whirled your neck to see your husband staring back at you. âHuh?â
âDid you order room service?â He repeated.
âI, uhââ Stretching your gaze across the vast expanse of the room, you tried to pinpoint what caused him to ask that, ânoâŠ?â
Great way to make an impression.
You shut down the devil in your head, masking the quiver in your voice with a cough, âI didn'tâŠâ
âYou should have,â he said, picking his watch from the nightstand and wrapping the silver belt on his wrist, âIt's been long since the ceremony ended.â
âYeah but I just⊠I thoughtâ the receptionâŠâÂ
âI understand.âÂ
With that, your first conversation ended with your husband.
What was wrong with you? You were acting like a nubile school girl dousing in dopamine whilst she talked to her crush. However, unlike the dopamine or butterflies in reference, what settled in the pit of your stomach was a gnawing nausea on the verge of climbing up your throat. You resisted the urge by downing a tumbler full of lukewarm water.
âOh, before I forget,â Zayne spoke, walking up ahead, âyour mother said she will come to meet you.â
âWhy?â The squeak in your voice wasn't expected but Zayne didn't seem to catch on it. Clearing your throat, âI mean⊠why? Why would she want to meet me?â
âIf you don't want to then it can be arranged as well,â He replied with the same diplomacy.
It's not everyday that you are being asked for your wishes but you ignored all the Sparks that alighted your mind. He is just being decent.
âI don't mind,â you said, twisting a strand of your hair, âas your wife, I'd meet anyone you want.â
âNo, you wouldn't,â He snapped and you immediately bowed your head like a child on being caught for their miscreants, âAnd you are not my wife. If you have forgotten, then let me remind you that this marriage means nothing to us.â
Were you stupid?Â
Can't you just get one thing straight into your thick skull?
They had told you Zayne was cold and aloof most of the time but with the knives he threw at you, you pondered on the possibility that whether he was a capricious man.
No. What were you thinking?
Zayne's stance wasn't venomous. No, he was entirely right in his place, only you had to go on and utter such rubbish. Still⊠why did his words send beads of anguish through you? Pain bubbled up to your eyes, throat clogging with hundreds of apologiesânone spoken aloud and if you heart were a living which you could clasp in your fist, you could feel the blood leaking out the crevices of your fingers.
You had dug your own grave by your own stupidity, the least you could do was sit and writhe on it like you were meant to. Expecting love from Zayne would be equal to a dream come true; unfortunately, you had been shrouded by nightmares your entire life.
âI don't like to repeat myself,â he continues, turning his back to youâoblivious to the throes his utterance did to you, âBut please, refrain from associating such titles with yourself.â
Zayne didn't know when it became a ritual but sooner than he could comprehend, he found himself retracing the steps he took with her five years ago.
He had always enjoyed his own company and with her goneâhe didn't find any meaning in filling the gap with anyone else. He doubted anyone else ever could.Â
âHere you go, sir,â the old lady in the flower shop said as he handed him a bouquet of fresh purple hyacinths. âLovely choice of flowers sir, I assume they are for your wife.â
âMy⊠Love,â because what else could he possibly call the woman to whom he had lost his heart ages ago; and now, lost her altogether. âI need to apologize to her.â
The lady tilts her head, clasping her hand back with a soft beam gracing her lips. She mutters something about young love which he couldn't hear before adding, âWell, I hope she forgives you and next time, I hope you get her red rosesâ she hums, âa young man like you must know what they mean.â
He did.
But he didn't think he'd ever have to buy roses. She never had any interest in them in the first place. However, he kept the words to himself.
When Zayne retraced The steps to the Graveyard, he was glad. This was that one place where he didn't have to pretend; didn't have to explain the tightness in his chest or The reason his hands trembled as the leaves crunched beneath his boots.Â
Grief was a funny thing.Â
At one moment, heâd be perfectâfine even. The next second, his breath would escape in short bursts of white, his shoulders would tremble with the weight of the world and again, he'd find himself wandering in this soulless world. Grief didn't arrive dressed in black, never with wailing in the cornersâit came quietly; sitting beside him, as he'd meet his patients in the chamber, or when he'd hear someone laugh and remember there was one he hadn't heard since long.
And even now, five years laterâgrief would twist him in its chains, take him hostage to the home he once had shared with her and upon asked, why can't he leave that home, he couldn't give an exact answer. Therefore, he laid on the bed, looking for the fragrance she had left behind, looking for the visage which haunted him everywhere.
Zayne lowered himself in front of the headstone; vines had grown deep, clambering to the apex with the dirty green leaving it's marks on her name inscribed on it.
He placed the bouquet of purple hyacinths near the base, clasping his hands to utter a solemn prayer.Â
Purple hyacinths. A florist would say they were a symbol of sorrow and deep regret. A flora advised to gift someone when one would like to request forgiveness.Â
But when Zayne offered those flowers to the only woman he loved, his intent wasn't to ask for forgiveness.
âI hope you never forgive me for marrying her.â
You didn't mean to snoop around. Honestly, you didn't.
But what were you supposed to do in this huge family home with no one else to keep you company.
4th April
I dreamt about you today. You were standing in the meadows, you had your favourite lilies in your hand and you were smiling. God's, you were smiling and I didn't just how much I missed it. Yet, you asked me to bring you roses. I don't understand; you never liked roses. Do you like them now? I suppose, this is your way of telling me to bring you roses the next time I visit. But you hadn't mentioned the colour, I guess I'll just have to bring you each of one colour now.
Five years since you have left me and I can't fathom how am I still alive? Days bleed into nights, the seasons change and yet, I try to find bits and pieces of you in every face. And every time, I drown in disappointment because a semblance of you resides in neither. I carry your voice in my heart like a melody, playing the soft lilt that I have grown to love.Â
Would you like to know a secret, my love? If I could trade my life for yours, I would.
summary: the hunger games have begun, and now, survival is the only thing you care about. you have not only your life, but the young tribute from your district as well to worry about. a strange alliance with the capitol darling, gojo satoru, however, might come in handy. though you can't forget why you're in this arena, and what ultimately must happen in the end. out of twenty-four tributes, only one can win.
warnings: death, descriptions of violence, lots angst, some steamy moments but nothing too drastic, eventual happy ending (just be patient) and president snow
word count: 33k+
note: comments and reblogs are appreciated! art credit: _3aem
jjk masterlist + series masterlist
You wake up in a tube.Â
Youâre standing upright, surrounded by a curved glass panel that leads upwards to the ceiling.Â
Clammy hands press against it, stumbling as you try to control yourself from falling. The room around you is empty. The clothes you were initially wearing are gone, and have now been replaced by a lightweight breathable cotton shirt, jacket, and loose pants that somehow fit you perfectly.Â
Your hands pat against your chest, feeling for the small keepsake they were supposed to allow you to bring. Things like necklaces and rings were tricky, seeing how a girl a couple of years ago had a ring that could turn into a small switchblade, but your father's old packet of handkerchiefs was allowed. You felt a small bulge against your right breast pocket, hoping that Drumesia had somehow been able to sneak it in.Â
âYuuji!â You call out, but your voice just bounces off the glass. Your chest heaves, looking wildly around for any sign of the boy, but to no avail. You yell his name again and again until your throat is scratched raw, your throat closing up in fear as you pound on the glass.Â
âYuuji! Yuuji-âÂ
No longer could you yell, hearing a sudden loud hiss, and the ground beneath you starts to move up.Â
The ceiling opened up mechanically, twirling to reveal a bright blue sky. You crouched a little bit as you were moved upwards, your eyes squinting to adjust to the brightness of the arena slowly.Â
At first, all you could see was white.Â
The sun was blaring in a strange artificial way as your podium finally came to a stop. There was a peculiar humming buzz in your ears as you shielded your eyes with your hand, trying to regain your vision.Â
Gradually, youâre able to see different things.Â
At first, the large Cornucopia is in front of you. It was gigantic, sleek in shape, angular, and metal. There were backpacks, satchels, swords, bows and arrows, axes, and spears gathered in the opening of its mouth. Your head swivels around, blinking slowly as you look to your right and left, and the faces of familiar tributes suddenly start forming.Â
The boy from five, Maxmus, is trying to look around the Cornocupia, surely for his sister. You feel your stomach sink when you realize Yuuji is nowhere to be found, most likely hidden somewhere behind the large structure.Â
But youâre able to see the familiar flash of white in front of you, Gojo standing straight with his shoulders squared, ready to pounce. His eyes are focused on the other tributes, darting back to the Cornocupia and then back to the large hologram of a clock above it as it starts ticking down each second until one is left.Â
He finally sees you, his chin dipping down as the two of you lock eyes. His lips part for a second, spotting Lizzie to your left. He shakes his head, barely, but you catch it. A warning, a sign not to engage. Not like you were planning to, anyway.
For some reason, he looks away briefly, his gaze settling on something behind the Cornocupia. It lingers for a second before looking back at you.Â
Yuuji.Â
You have a good sense of where he is now, nodding in acknowledgment. You let your body angle towards where he had motioned you. You donât have the time to understand why heâs so keen on helping you out, as a tribute and as a person whom you donât know, but you remember to tuck this appreciation away in case you meet him somewhere later in the arena.Â
Twenty seconds remaining.Â
You take in the arena for a brief moment.Â
Home, you think so briefly, it looks like home.Â
Sprawling wheat fields with a line of trees and hills a little bit away. The sky is a perfect blue with clouds dotting the corners. It seems perfect, and when you take in a deep breath, you smell home. You feel a little bit of ease before the clock hits ten seconds and a loud mechanical voice starts counting down.Â
Ten. You hope Yuuji remembers to go towards the trees and not towards you. Nine. The tributes start getting ready to run, and you bend down a little, your legs positioned with one in front of the other. Eight. You canât feel your heart beating anymore. Seven. Remember what they took from you. What theyâre going to take away from you. Donât give them what they want. Six. Gojo peeks over at you one last time. He shakes his head. You donât know what it means. Five. Please, Yuuji, go towards the trees. Four. The sunsets from home. Three. Go home. Two. Home.Â
One.
The shot is fired, and all the tributes jump off their pedestals, each making a beeline for the middle of the Cornucopia. You have a brief moment where you forget what to do before you regain your senses, running blindly to where you thought Yuuji was.Â
The smell of blood instantly takes over the smell of agriculture and dirt, thick and overpowering. You try not to stumble over your feet when you watch the tribute from three slashes of a sword through the kid from ten, or the way the screams are loud enough to be the only thing you hear.Â
You were somehow able to duck quickly to dodge a spear that the tribute from two throws your way, letting out a grunt as you tumble to the ground, looking over your shoulder quickly to see it resting in the stomach of somebody behind you.Â
Go, go, go.Â
You cover your head as you shove past the boy, rounding the corner of the Cornacopia as you find a little bag nestled up on the side. You had told yourself not to get anything, but the fight was happening behind you, so you quickly grabbed it, hauling it over your shoulder as you ran behind the structure, finding all the pedestals empty.Â
âYuuji!â You scream, squinting as you look through the large strands of wheat and into the tree line, âYuuji!âÂ
Something whizzes past your ear, and you instantly feel something warm trickle down your neck. Your hand flies up, fingers reeling back to find blood. You glance behind you to see Lizzie looking at you with a crazed look in her eyes, her arm reeling back to throw another knife your way, when something behind her, something you canât see, catches her attention.Â
A familiar-sounding voice calls her name, telling her to come back, and she looks at you and then to the voice, and decides itâs not worth it, running back to who you guess was Gojo, telling her to help him finish off someone else.
You decide not to waste your opportunity, quickly grabbing the knife in front of you and sprinting past the ring of podiums and into the bushes and rows of trees as the large branches immediately block off the sun, rubbing at your face as you try to adjust to the dimness.Â
âYuuji!â You call his name, looking around anywhere and everywhere you think he could be hiding. You feel out of breath, lungs burning, but you keep running into the thickness of the forest.Â
In the distance, you can see the outlines of some other tributes running, not towards you but away from the bloodbath, and you can only hope that none of them bump into Yuuji and choose not to spare him.Â
âYuuji, please!â you beg, a little hushed, frantic in your search, not noticing the large tree root that sprouted up from the ground and plunged harshly into the ground, your ankle pulsing in pain as you let out a pitiful whine.Â
âShit,â you mutter, wincing as you stumble trying to stand up, wobbling as you fall back down again. You look around, trying to hide yourself away from plain sight as you rest against the trunk of the tree, holding your ankle as you will it back to work.Â
You were a bit into the forest where people running by wouldnât see you, thankfully, and the leaves and trees could hide your body, but none of this mattered if you couldnât find Yuuji. Time was running out, and you felt your chest heaving with each breath, panic filling your nerves as you looked around.Â
âYuuji!â You whisper again helplessly, your eyes wringing shut in pain, head falling back as you clench your fists, âWhere-â
A hand lands on your shoulder from somewhere behind, and you canât control the little yelp that escapes your lips, scrambling away despite the pain flaring throughout your body as you try to shield yourself. But your shoulder fell, your face melting as you see his face come into view from the darkness.Â
âOh, oh,â you thank whoever that was watching over you with the most amount of gratitude as you limply crawl towards Yuuji, and he runs into your chest, his tears wetting your shirt as your hands shake when you hug him as tightly as possible.Â
âYouâre okay?â Your voice is muffled against his shoulder, âYou hurt? Are you alright?â He nods feverishly against you, his fingers clenching into your jacket with such tightness that you donât think heâd let go.Â
âHowâd you run so fast?â You ask worthlessly with a wet chuckle, your hand gripping the back of his head, the question non-existent because you were just happy to have found him safe and unharmed.Â
âYou told me to,â he murmurs back, and you give another soft chuckle, nodding, patting his back as you slowly pull away from him, wiping your eyes, and you smile wobbly at him, gently swiping at his red cheeks.Â
You go to tell him something, but are interrupted by a cannon blasting.Â
The sound that signals a tribute's death.
Itâs normally supposed to come right after somebody dies, but they wait until the bloodbath is over to blast their cannons so that it doesnât get confusing for those in the games and those watching.Â
You count, looking up at the sky as you mouth the number of tributes after each boom.
It blasts twelve times. Twelve tributeâs dead. Twelve remaining.Â
Tonight, they will put up the images of those fallen, and you wonder if youâre going to see the face of the boy you canât seem to remember. A strange part of you hopes you donât.
âWe should go deeper into the woods,â you tell him after a beat of silence, chewing on your bottom lip, âFind someplace to camp for the night.âÂ
Yuuji nods, using the tree for balance as he rises to his feet. His limp makes it difficult for him to walk, run, or move too quickly, but you can see the way heâs trying his best not to let it hinder him.
You take a deep breath, readying yourself for the shooting pain youâre going to feel as you slowly mirror his movements, hissing through your teeth as your ankle throbs. Itâs not broken, you asses, but itâs bruised.Â
âDid somebody do that?â Yuuji asks quietly, pointing to your slightly angled foot that youâre trying not to put any weight on.Â
You snort, shaking your head as your eyes shut for a second, fingers digging into the bark.Â
âJust me,â you say through clenched teeth, letting out a small laugh as you point to your ear, âLizzie nicked me though,â and Yuuji shuffles around to look at the dried blood on your neck, wincing on your behalf as you wave it aside, your ankle hurting more than the cut.Â
Yuuji offers himself at your side, letting you use his arms for support, and you ruffle his hair, muttering a quiet thank you as you limp a little bit, your jaw ticking in pain as you see white. You wanted to lie down, wanted to stay there, but these games were not games, and you had to move. For both your sakes.
The two of you carefully move into the forest a little more, and you take the time to study the terrain. District 11 had small forests, nothing this big, but they still shared a resemblance, ranging from the tall and sprawling trees to the rich soil. Birds were chirping around you, the familiar caw of mockingjays chirping around the leaves and singing their rattling song. Sunlight peeked in through yellow rays, and for a moment, it didnât feel like you were fated to die in a couple of days, but as if you were back home. As if your dying wish had somehow been granted by the head game-maker.Â
Yuuji stayed silent by your side, his head tilted upwards, mouth gaping in awe as he too tried to take it all in. The two ofÂ
âGojo helped me.âÂ
Your head snaps down to Yuujiâs sudden words, startled, your brows scrunched up in confusion.Â
âWhat?â
Yuuji looked embarrassed, his cheek flushing pink as he looked away from your narrowed eyes.Â
âThe girl from seven had run after me when I went into the forest,â Yuuji explained, pointing to the scratch marks on the back of his neck, marks that you thought came from the twigs and leaves but now realize resemble nail marks, âAnd someone pulled her off of me, Gojo pulled her off of me,â he stammers, âHe killed her, butâŠbut he let me go,â Yuuji says bashfully, a look in his eyes, something thatâs empty if he wasnât explaining something horrific no twelve-year-old should have seen, âI thought said didnât have any allies?â
Your mouth opens, but words struggle to come out.Â
What did he gain from sparing Yuuji?
âYeah,â you mutter, dazed, âI thought so too.â
Labeling Gojo an ally is putting too much trust and safety in him, but you wonder if his words from that day in the training center actually carried some weight.Â
I want to help you.Â
You donât have the stomach to say anything after that, the two of you walking quietly next to each other as leaves crunch under your boots and rustle above with the wind.Â
When youâre satisfied that youâre far away from any other tribe, you look around, trying to look for a tree that has stable branches that would not only withstand you climbing them, but be strong enough so that you two could sleep on.Â
âThere,â you point to a particularly big tree with even bigger-looking branches, âCan you climb up that one?â
Yuuji stared at it, chewing on his cheek as he gave a slow, unsure nod.Â
âI think so,â he lifted his right leg slightly as if you forgot, âIâll try.â
You smile, walking over to it as Yuuji helps you lean against its thick trunk. Your ankle was a little better, still sore to the touch, but you knew it should be better tomorrow.Â
âDid you climb a lot back home?â You ask him, and Yuuji gives a little grin as he thinks back to fond memories, ones with his brothers after a long day of work.Â
âYeah,â his eyes twinkle, âBut Sukuna was always faster than me. So was Choso.â His smile falters as he thinks about his family, ducking down so you wouldnât see it.Â
âWell, good thing Iâm not racing you then,â you say teasingly, hands perched on your hips as you look up to one of the branches.Â
âIâll help you up, okay? Try to make it to that branch over there,â you point to the one you deemed the strongest, and Yuuji hummed in agreement, letting you kneel so you could cup your hands together so that he could place his right foot in it.Â
You heave him up, trembling with the added weight on your injured ankle, and grunt as you push him above your head. He grips onto the trunk, slowly using his better leg to haul himself up and up and up until he gradually disappears into the leaves.Â
You wait for a moment before he calls out, all good and take a deep breath before you do the same.Â
Back in 11, you used to climb trees to pick apples and oranges if you werenât working in the fields. You were used to doing this, but not with an injury and not without somebody below to spot you in case something happened.Â
But you take your time, placing your feet meticulously and carefully as you haul yourself upwards, your head peeking through the branches as you find Yuuji squeezed to the side to make room for you as he rests his back up against the trunk.Â
When you finally can get to where he is, you plop down on your chest, heaving as your chest exhales with each laborious breath.Â
âI won,â he said cheekily, and you snorted, pushing at his foot as you crawled next to him, moving your hurt leg so that it could rest in front of you.Â
After a minute of cooling down, you suddenly remember the pack you had snatched, eyes widening when you feel around your shoulders, pulling it off by the straps and placing it down between your bodies.Â
âHowâd you get that?â He asks, shocked, voice tinged with a little excitement as the two of you scramble to open all the pockets.Â
âUh,â you think back to the moment, âIt was on the side of the Cornucopia before Lizzie hit me. And thenâŠâ
Gojo. He helped you again.Â
Yuujiâs waiting for you to finish, but you shake it off, not wanting to admit to the tribute from one who has helped you twice, and it hasnât even been a full day yet.Â
The bag has a few packs of dried nuts and berries and some jerky. Thereâs an empty canister for water, some tape, wire for snares and traps, and some rope. Thereâs no weapon in the bag, but you remember Lizzieâs knife from earlier that you pocketed.Â
Yuuji pulls out a roll of gauze and matches, holding them triumphantly.
âWeâll ration the nuts,â you tell him, âI donât hear any streams, but if they gave us a bottle, there should be a source of water somewhere. Iâll go looking tomorrow, okay?â
Despite your throat being parched, and his most likely too, you knew you had to rest. If you put too much stress on that ankle, it was going to get worse before it got better.Â
âOkay,â Yuuji repeated, tearing into the open bag you offered him as he took a small handful, mindful to take just enough, and began eating.Â
You did the same, placing each piece in your mouth as you tried to savor the taste and eat as slowly as possible.Â
In this artificial biome, you let Yuuji rest his head on your shoulder, the two of you looking upwards at the sky as you wait for night to fall.Â
â-
The anthem began playing, startling you out of your sleep. Yuuji said heâd take a watch for a little bit, and you know you shouldâve done it, but exhaustion had settled deep in your bones, and you wouldnât be of much help if you were this tired.Â
You sit up, craning your neck to look at the top of the star-ridden sky as the faces of tributes begin flashing, girls first, then boys.Â
A part of you eases when you donât see Gojo, as it jumps straight to the girl from District 3, but you instantly feel tense, realizing that it means the rest of the Careers were still alive.Â
You smile as neither Evelyn nor her brother makes it on the screen, having evaded death for the first day in the games. You continue to watch as the rest of the fallen tributes are shown before the screen flashes, the artificial night sky being all that remains.Â
Swallowing thickly, you nudge Yuuji with your elbows, hoping that he wouldnât be too shaken up.Â
âHey, how âbout you sleep a little?â You smile softly, and he yawns, rubbing at his eyes as he nods sluggishly, curling up into your side as you make some room for him.Â
Crickets chirp and leaves rustle, a strange and gentle ambiance that reminds you of nights back home listening to nature out on the back porch. It was oddly calming, and you tilted your head back, Yuujiâs quiet snores resonating through your chest.Â
You tightened the rope around your bodies, wrapped in case you moved and got close to falling off, and did your best to fight off sleep.Â
You almost gave in before you heard a snap, the sound echoing through the woods as your body shot straight up.Â
Looking underneath you, the sounds became more frequent, as was the unforgettable sound of human voices.Â
You gently shook Yuuji up, his head poking from where it was on your shoulder as you held a finger up to your mouth, warning him to stay silent.Â
With your other finger, you motioned down to the ground, and you both looked on opposite sides of the branch as the voice grew nearer.Â
ââŠit was so stupid! Like yeah, come at me with a knife!â A girl's voice said loudly with a laugh, the others around her laughing along, âDidnât he get a three, four, for his evaluation? I swear, some of them were just asking for it.â
Lizzie.Â
âThat big oaf from five, whatâs his name? Maximum? Maxmus? Did you see how he survived my hit? Probably went crying to his sister somewhere.â This voice, you know, itâs the boy from 2, Tiberian.Â
Theyâre almost right beneath you and Yuuji, and the two of you are barely breathing, not even blinking, so that neither of you makes a sound.
Just your luck that theyâd choose here to set up camp for the night.Â
âHey,â Lizzie calls out to someone, and you watch as she bends down a little to look at the ground, her red hair falling into her face as she roughly pushes it back, âDo these look like footprints to you?â
You swear you feel your heart stop.Â
You motioned for Yuuji to sit up and stop looking over the edge, hoping that it was dark enough and enough leaves surrounded you so that even if they were to look up, youâd both still be covered.  Â
âMaybe? Itâs probably somebody who went ahead.â
Gojo.Â
Yuuji snaps his head over to you, eyes wide as you press your fingers back to your lips, begging for him to stay silent.Â
Lizzie hums, as if she doesnât believe him, but stands back upright as she looks around, seeming to think the area good enough.Â
âYouâre still mad at him?â A voice says with a slight giggle. Itâs the girl from 2, Arvina, and Lizzie groans, throwing her packs of food and weapons on the ground as she rests up against the tree.Â
âI almost had her!â Lizzie whines, âThat bastard didnât need my help!â
Arvina and Tiberian chuckle, helping Lizzie and Gojo unpack, talking casually with each other as they each go over who screamed the loudest or who was harder to kill, as if they werenât discussing the end of someoneâs life.Â
âYou everâgonna tell us about that Capitol girl?â Tiberian asked who you assumed was Gojo, but he just grunted in response, shaking his head as he piled up some shrubbery and dried leaves into a pile for burning.Â
âCome on!â Lizzie pressed, pulling her hair up as she tied it with some spare string, âWe should know, right?âÂ
The others made noises of agreement, but you watched as Gojo waved them off, working quietly as he began striking some matches up against the side of a coarse rock he had found.Â
When one of the sparks lands, the pile catches fire, and red and orange flames suddenly illuminate their faces. They all huddle around it, not worried about the smoke that can surely be seen for miles to come, because they could easily take care of anybody who came their way.
âYou shouldnât worry about the girl from 11,â Gojo says gruffly, evading the subject as he goes back to Lizzie's first complaint, and your breath hitches slightly, angling your head ever so slightly to hear him better, âSheâs all bark.â
Your brows furrow, nose wrinkling as Yuuji tenses next to you.Â
âDoesnât explain why she got a ten,â Lizzie mumbles bitterly, sitting up against the tree as she stretches her legs out, âYou canât exactly bark at sponsors, can you?â
Arvina snorts, sitting down next to Lizzie as she starts unraveling her two braids, her long brown hair falling in waves around her back. Lizzie is the youngest of the Careers, coming in at sixteen while the others are all eighteen, yet she tries her best to act the oldest and most mature.Â
âNo, no, not yet,â Tiberian snaps his fingers at Arvina, and she lets out a dramatic groan, heaving herself back up as she smacks him on the chest, âStill need your help setting up some snares around here.âÂ
The tributes from 2 take some wire and bait from their packs, bidding their momentary goodbyes to Gojo and Lizzie as they set back out into the darkness, leaving them alone.Â
Gojo sits against a larger rock, one knee pulled up to his chest as he rests his arm on it, the flames flickering around his features, making his eyes seem an even brighter blue. You watch him as he blinks slowly, jaw slightly clenched as if he were deep in thought. His white brows cinch together, his muscular frame casting a shadow up until where the fire was crackling away.Â
His hand that rests on the ground traces something on the dirt, and your fingers dig into the branch as you watch him study you and Yuujiâs footsteps.Â
âIâm hungry,â Lizzie comments offhandedly, digging into their stash of dried fruits and jerky as she rips one of the bags open with her teeth, âWant some?âÂ
She offers the bag to Gojo, but he shakes his head. She shrugs, leaning back up against the trunk as they sit in silence. Instead of eating, Gojo tilts his head slightly as he looks at the trial of marking, noting mentally how they stop just at where Lizzie was sitting. Slowly yet surely, his chin tilts towards the sky.
You watch as Gojoâs eyes flicker up the tree, and how they widen when they meet yours.Â
He stays quiet, not saying anything as the two of you lock gazes with each other, waiting with bated breath, neither of your chests moving for a second.Â
His face is blank, void of emotion. The blood is roaring in your ears, hands gripping onto Yuujiâs tight as you hold your stare with his. Gojo stays like that for a little more before moving back to poke at the fire with the tip of his sword, as if nothing had happened.Â
You see the way his lips tilt a little bit,Â
As if he were containing a smile.Â
â
You couldnât sleep that night.Â
Yuuji whispered to take over the watch, but you shook your head, letting him go back to sleep as he shuffled next to you.Â
Even when those beneath you put the fire out and laid their heads down, you didnât let your eyes close. You couldnât, didnât trust Gojo enough to believe that he would give you away if he had the right opportunity.Â
When morning comes and the sun peeks through the trees, you fight back a groan, rubbing at your eyes as you squirm around uncomfortably, the rough groove of the trees digging into your back.Â
Somebody beneath you lets out an unnecessarily loud yawn, one that wakes Yuuji up as his head tilts to look down, annoyance in his features as you give him a shared smile, rolling your eyes.Â
Hungry? Your mouth and Yuujiâs hand fly down to his stomach comically, as if trying to contain the instant rumble that it gave.Â
You laugh softly, carefully moving your bag to your lap as you gently pull out some nuts and berries you had rationed throughout the night, giving a handful over to Yuuji.Â
He stares at it, accepting it, but pauses as he points to his throat sheepishly.Â
Thirsty. He mouths back, and you feel guilt shoot through your veins. Youâd promised to go looking for water today.Â
You look down again, watch as Lizzie twitches in her sleep, curling deeper into a ball on the forest floor. Gojo is slumped against the rock, a knife in his hand, always prepared. Tiberian and Arvina are seated next to each other, mouths open with little snores escaping.Â
You had no idea if they planned to stay here for the day, but you knew that this thirst wasnât going to be quenched unless you did something about it.Â
Knowing Yuuji and his limp, heâd make a lot of noise coming down the tree. Your ankle was a little swollen but significantly better than last night, so you knew youâd have to make the journey alone if it were even possible.Â
Can you wait a little longer? You ask, and Yuuji bobs slowly, his lips chapped, but knowing that leaving your haven now could potentially mean death.Â
You smile apologetically, squeezing his hand once.Â
Finding your eyes fleeting back downwards, you watch as Gojo stirs a little bit, his face serene and calm in sleep.Â
As if sensing your gaze, Gojo blinks an eye open, sitting up against the stone as he stretches his strong arms above his head, looking around to make sure everyone is still there.Â
He tsks in annoyance when he sees Tiberian fast asleep, most likely supposed to be the last round of watch, but had given in to exhaustion.Â
Gojo pushes himself off the ground, joints cracking as he stretches slightly.Â
And then, carefully ,as if not wanting the others to sense what he was doing, he looked up.Â
Up to you.Â
Gojo looks as if he wants to make sure youâre still there. His shoulder moves down as he swallows, blue eyes squinting as you sit still. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back as a sigh rumbles out of his chest.Â
His hand falls to the side of his head, fingers pointing at the blood on the side of your face, something you havenât had the opportunity to clean off yet.Â
You okay? His mouth formed the shape of the words.
WasâŠwas he talking to you?
You blink, startled and dazed.Â
Heâs still looking, as if expecting a response.Â
Your hand flies up to your ear, wincing at the cut. Dried blood flakes off, and you rub at the side of your face where it mainly is, scratching it raw until nothing remains. Yuuji watches as you twist your head to see if Gojo is still there.Â
One of his brows raised slightly, as if he were pressed for an answer.Â
Your shoulders rise and fall in a sort of shrug, pointing down to Lizzieâs sleeping body.Â
His stare follows your movements, lingering on her for a moment, and then flickers back to you as if understanding, but your attention was momentarily drawn away as Yuuji hastily tugs on the sleeve of your jacket.Â
âIs Gojo talking to you?â Yuuji asks, bewildered, whispering harshly in your ear as he observes from the other side, and you shush him. He goes pink, and you want to apologize, but you are cut off when something small hits the side of your body.Â
Baffled, you look down to see a small rock next to you.Â
Your neck swivels to where Gojo was still standing, his arm reeling back to throw another pebble to catch your attention. He sheepishly puts it down when he sees your seething glare. He mouths a sorry.Â
What do you want? You hope he can pick up the urgency in your tone, how much heâs messing with your psyche by acting like he was merely playing around instead of acting like he should be.Â
Hungry? You watch his mouth form the words intently, and shake your head as you gingerly hold up the bag you had gotten from the Cornacopia. But then you pause, gnawing on your lip as you set the pack back down between your lap, carefully and quietly bring the empty metal canister out.Â
Should you tell him? Tell him about the thing thatâs hindering you and Yuuji from escaping?
By your calculations, heâs reached out to help you a couple of times, has helped you and Yuuji out already during the games, and hasnât given away your hiding spot to the other Careers. You had spent the entire night waiting to see if heâd whisper something about your whereabouts, but his mouth never opened. You know that trusting him is still something difficult to ask yourself to do, but you wonder if, for some reason, he struggles to hurt you just as much as you struggle to hurt him.Â
Need water, your mouth after a minute of debating, opening the lid of the bottle, and holding it upside down to show that it was bone dry.Â
His eyes flash, an unreadable expression taking over his features.Â
Gojo glances somewhere back in the forest, hands crossing across his chest as his jaw ticks, mulling something over. The sun has set in the sky, and birds are stirring awake with their loud and incessant chirps. It wonât be long until the others wake up, too.Â
He suddenly points to somewhere down the trail, and you look behind the tree as if you could see what it was that he was ushering to.Â
River, he voices wordlessly, water back there.Â
Your brows raise slightly in surprise.Â
The leaves around you rustle, the breeze kissing your cheeks as your mouth opens and shuts, as you contemplate something. Even if he was telling the truth, how could you even begin to try an leave without the others noticing? How could you trust that there wouldnât be an ambush when you got back? Whatâs it to say that heâs just trying to coax you to come down so he could kill you himself?Â
As if understanding your hesitancy, Gojo offers you a small smile, one that seems almost genuine, as his head ducks and he looks down at the sleeping tributes surrounding him.Â
He walks over to Lizzie, nudging her with the tip of his boots as she flinches, raising upwards as she yawns again, rubbing at her eyes as she cranes her neck up to look at him.Â
âWhat?â Lizzie snaps groggily, yawning again as she pushes his boot away. You watch as Arvina and Tiberian slowly start waking up after the noise. Arvina lifts her head from where it was resting on Tiberianâs shoulder, cracking her neck as she presses her palms into the sockets of her eyes to help her come back to her senses.
âWake up,â Gojo tells her gruffly, his voice rough and hardened, a drastic difference from how you remembered him speaking to you. âKeep watch. Iâm going to get some water.â
Yuuji pokes your thigh, a bright and excited grin on his face as he actively listens in on what Gojo is saying. You gave him a wobbly smile in return, still not liking what was happening but trying your best not to worry him.Â
âMhh, fine,â Lizzie says, sleep still laced in her tone as she lazily puts her hair up, standing up as she ventures around to find one of her packs. She tosses Arvina some jerky, and she tears it open and holds it next to Tiberian so that they can share breakfast.Â
Gojo takes his weapons with him, giving you a brief look that wouldâve just seemed like he was scoping the area out to the others before he set off with a slight jog in the direction he claimed the stream was located.Â
Lizzie watches him disappear into the trees, glancing over to where the other two were sitting and eating, moving a strand of hair away from her face as she exhales a big puff of air, her foot tapping quickly.Â
âDo you want to do it now?â She whispers after a few seconds, and Arvina looks up from her packet of jerky, mouth full as she slowly chews, swallowing tickly as she peeks over at Tiberian, waiting to see what he was planning to say.Â
Tiberianâs fingers curl around the spear he kept right next to him, nodding.Â
âYeah,â he mutters, his finger poking at the tip, his finger pulling back, pricked with blood, âWhen he comes back.âÂ
Your eyes squint as you try to pick up their whispered words, confused at their sudden change in conversation, one that they didnât want Gojo to overhear in case he was still around.Â
âIâm still going for his head, right?â Arvina asked, looking between the two tributes as she flipped the knife around in her hand, catching it repeatedly by the handle, âOr do you want to switch with me?â She points the weapon at Lizzie as she gets to her feet, dusting the twigs and dirt from her pants.Â
âNo,â Tiberian shakes his head, accepting Arvinaâs extended hand as he stands, âLizzieâs shorter than him, it wouldnât work.âÂ
Arvina snorted, pulling her hair from over her shoulder as his deft fingers started to quickly put it into a long, glossy braid.Â
âTrue. Plus,â she throws the braid over her shoulder as she shrugs, âShe couldnât even kill that girl from 11. Sheâd probably freeze if-â
âHey!â Lizzie snapped, her freckled face turning red with both embarrassment and anger, âI had her, okay? Gojo just-âÂ
âWhat?â Tiberian cut her off, his shoulder knocking hers as he picked up the other spear near her foot, âHe called for you? And you went over like a puppy to its bitch,â He twirled the spear around, testing its weight as he pulled his shoulder back, acting like he was going to throw it in the direction Gojo had gone, âStill got that little crush on him?â
Lizzie blushes even more, if possible, and swats at his shoulder harshly, grumbling curses under her breath.Â
âArvina goes for his head, I go from the left, and LizzieâŠâ Tiberian goes through their premeditated plan as he snaps his fingers at her, and she waves him off.Â
âI go right, yeah, I know.â
They all discuss quietly how theyâd try to take Gojo down, where to hide to take him by surprise. They discuss these plans as if it were second nature to them, as if itâs been in the works for a while.Â
Yuuji tugs on your hand, eyes filled with worry, as he starts putting together whatâs going on.Â
Theyâre planning to kill Gojo.
â-
You couldnât out-power them.Â
The measly knife you stole from yesterday could do some damage, but youâve never had experience using one to fight before, and you doubt that the three of them would fall to your mercy with it. Not only that, but you had Yuuji, too. If you left, they might come after him, and that was something you weren't going to risk.Â
Besides, you were still on the fence about risking your life for someone you barely knew.Â
But somewhere deep down in you felt compelled to at least try. He spared your life once; you owed him that much.Â
Then youâd be even, and maybe heâd stop coming after you.Â
You studied the trees surrounding you. If you tried, you might be able to travel from branch to branch, be able to move above ground, and notify Gojo that way. But you didnât know how fast youâd be able to move with a bruised ankle, nor how quietly. Although it was your best option. When you were little, you always used to fly through the branches back home, competing with the other kids to see who could make it to the edge of the District fastest.Â
It had been nearly twenty minutes, and Gojo wasnât back yet, but you knew heâd have to return sooner or later. This was your only chance at giving him a heads-up.Â
You knew youâd be leaving Yuuji alone, but he was the one who offered the idea.Â
âHe helped me,â Yuuji whispered hastily, untying the rope around your waist, wanting you to get a move on things, âAnd you. We owe him.â
Curse his kind heart.Â
âI,â you look worriedly at the ground. If you fell, you knew you wouldnât survive, âIâm not sure, YuujiâŠâ but you knew that deep down your mind was already made.Â
He gave you a pointed look, grabbing the knife from your hands as he shoved you a little bit.Â
âIâll have this, you go.â
After another moment of mulling it over, your fists clenched, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all.Â
You were really doing this.Â
âFine, fine,â you shuffle, easing your way to stand up, using the trunk to stabilize yourself as a surge of pain flashes through you, but you push it down, giving Yuuji one last chance to go back.Â
But youâve never seen him so determined.Â
âStay safe,â you whisper, âYou yell, yell as loud as you can if something happens, okay?â
âOkay,â he says hurriedly, hands pushing at your legs to get you moving, âJust go!â
You nod, turning around as you look over at the trees to see which branches are more stable-looking than the others, which ones would provide a clearer path to where you wanted to go.Â
And with one careful foot after the other, with one deep breath to calm your nerves, you turn around the trunk to the branch on the other side and just start flying.Â
You donât remember the last time you jumped between branches. The first jump you take, you almost slip, some bark flaking off as it falls to the ground. The tributes look up, confused, but thankfully, youâre covered by the leaves, and they wave it off as an animal.Â
You move again, leaping more carefully, the movements something that comes back slowly like muscle memory, as your hands are outstretched to help you keep balance. Your feet donât make any noise when you land, the wind whipping past your face as you channel every bit of adrenaline into making sure to just keep running.Â
With eyes both in front of you and beneath you, you try not to run into any trunks, but are still trying to see that flash of white that you could recognize from miles away.Â
You grow more tired as you keep running, no sight of Gojo even as you get closer and closer to the forest edge.Â
Pausing on a particularly thick branch, you stop to catch your breath, your body lined with sweat and chest heaving as you look everywhere, anxiousness filling your nerves. This was a terrible idea. What if they found Yuuji? What if Gojo had already arrived, what ifâŠ
Thatâs when you see him.Â
Heâs cutting through the thicker bushes, sword clinging as he treks through the forest with his pack strapped on his back. Gojo looks calmer, his face not so bunched up as it was before.Â
You brace yourself as you start jumping, not caring if your cheeks and hands are getting torn up by the sharp thorns and twigs.Â
There was only a little bit left when you suddenly slipped, your bad ankle rolling under the weight, and you fell off the branch, letting out a yelp as you fell through the air.Â
Your hands scramble to grab onto anything, your body hitting against the green leaves and other branches as you fall helplessly to the forest ground.Â
Luckily, your left hand grabs onto a thinner branch, your body jolting as you let out a whimper of pain, eyes screwed shut as you dangle helplessly.Â
â11?â
Itâs him.Â
â11, is that you?â
Your mouth is open in a quiet whimper, your hand barely holding on as you oddly angle your head to look at whoâs standing underneath you.Â
Gojoâs waiting at the base of the tree, chin tilted upwards as he looks at your dangling body.Â
You give him a humorless chuckle, clipped as you hiss at the rough texture digging into your skin.Â
âHowâd you know?â You call down sarcastically, your other arm swinging upwards as you try to grab on. The branch creaks, and you frantically look at where it was sprouting from the trunk as it was slowly yet surely cracking.Â
âSeems like youâre the one doing the stalking now,â Gojo says with some mirth in his voice, âCanât stay away from me?â
Your lips pressed tightly together as you try to grab onto the branch again, but the branch bends even more, and the smile on his face falls when he realizes whatâs going on.Â
More splinters go flying, and your arm thatâs holding on is slipping, your fingers doing their best to dig harder into the wood.Â
Gojo runs down beneath you, throwing the sword on the ground.Â
âLet go,â He cups his hands around his mouth, âIâll catch you!â
The branch creaks again, splinters flying as you wince, surveying your odds of dying, splattering on the ground, or at the hands of the most skilled tribute here. When the branch gave a notably loud snap and your body was shoved down even more, you gave up, hand unfurling as you let yourself fall.Â
The winds whip around you, your legs and arms flailing around your body, twisting and turning, teeth clenching in pain as different thorns and leaves keep cutting your cheeks, the back of your hands, anything that they can latch onto as you get closer and closer to the ground.
Your eyes squeeze shut, waiting for the impact, but it never comes.Â
Peeking one open, you see Gojoâs face looking down at you, one arm around your waist, the other hooked under your knees as he observes you worryingly.Â
You give yourself a second to catch your breath before you scramble out of his hold, heart pounding rapidly, trying to ignore the heat underneath your cheeks.Â
He watches you, confused, but your hands rest on your knees as you heave up and down, wiping away at the sweat on your forehead. You balance up at him, the first time youâve seen him since the interviews, and offer him a twisted look.Â
Gojo swivels his bag around, unzipping the first pocket as he takes something out of it, offering it to you.Â
A bottle of water.Â
You look at it, your brow slightly raised at his outstretched hand. Gojo waits, understanding your reluctance as he unscrews the top, drinking some of it to show that it wasnât tampered with.Â
When he hands it back, you take it instantly, chugging half of its contents, saving the other half for Yuuji.Â
âThanks,â you say after wiping the water droplets from your chin, giving him the bottle back as he pockets it, nodding silently.Â
He gives you a second to recuperate before youâre able to gather your thoughts.Â
âTheyâre,â You heave, coughing at the strenuous way youâre still breathing, âTheyâre planning,â you take in another steadying breath, âTheyâre planning to kill you. Lizzie, Arvina, Tiberian. I overheard them.â
Gojoâs smile doesn't waver, as if he doesnât believe you.Â
Scoffing, you motion to the trees you just ran through, showing him the cuts on your hands and arms, traces of blood lining your face as well.Â
âYou think I wouldâve gone through all,â you wave wildly around to the trees, âThis just to lie?â You roll your eyes at the audacity of him, muttering just how unbelievable he was and regretting overdoing this as you put your hands up in disbelief, âUnbelievable. Fuck, fine, donât believe me. But weâre even now, okay?â
You look around while trying to block the sun out, wondering just how youâd be making your way back when Gojo speaks up.Â
âEven?âÂ
You look at him from the corner of your eye.Â
âYeah,â you say slowly, looking at him through furrowed brows, âYou saved Yuuji andâŠme, I guess, soâŠeven.â
He pushed some of his stray hair away from his face, biceps bulging, and you tried not to look too long at the sight.Â
âDo you think-â
But he gets cut off by a distant scream. One that sounds like your name.Â
Your necks snap back to the forest where everyone was gathered, your eyes widening with fear as you whisper, âYuuji,â
Gojo glances back at you, and you stutter, trying to move but almost falling back on your foot as you yelp at your ankle you had just busted again.Â
âYuuji, heâs there,â youâre stammering, slurring your words with fear and anxiety as you shuffle closer to him, your hand gripping his arm in a pleading way, âPlease, I-I canât-â
You know youâre asking things from him that he shouldnât grant you. That there should be no normal place where a tribute from District 1 would ever want to help anybody besides their allies, why he shouldnât killl you as you stood in front of him, but Gojo had this sort of determined look in his eyes that mirrored yours.
âGet on my back,â he says, rushing, packing everything up, throwing his bag off so you could climb on, but you just look even more startled.Â
âHurry!â Gojo snaps, and you donât have time to wonder how in the world heâs going to be able to carry you and this pack at once but he just moves around, letting you slowly grab around his shoulders, your arms tightening around his neck, and legs wrapping around his back as you shrug the pack over yourself.Â
Shockingly enough, Gojo started running as if nothing was weighing him down. You assumed that all the added muscles and training helped with this, but you were shocked at how well he was able to maneuver around the trees and shrubbery while still maintaining his speed.Â
This has now been the third time heâs helped you out, and at this point, you wonder if it would benefit you to start making a list of how many times youâre indebted to him.Â
You blink back tears, a dark thought spotting, hoping that they didnât get to him first.Â
Eventually, Gojo comes to a halt, your chest pushing into his back with the momentum, and you groan, the wind getting knocked from your lungs.Â
The two of you are hidden by some large bushes and can hear the Careers a short distance away, shouting and laughing at something.Â
You climb off of him, carefully not to make a sound as you peek in between the leaves to see them huddled around the tree you had been pointing toâŠYuuji.Â
Lizzie is smiling gleefully, laughing maniacally as Yuuji tries to climb higher, but his right leg hinders him. Tiberian is off his spear with a rock, trying to get it even sharper.Â
You watch with your mouth falling open, eyes watering as Yuuji screams for you again, gripping onto the tree trunk for dear life.Â
Gojo winces, looking over at your stricken face, and his hand comes to hold your wrist. You flinch, shaking your head helplessly, your bottom lip trembling.Â
âIâll take care of them,â he whispered once again sternly, a steady promise, âDonât worry.â
âBut you just have the one sword, itâs three of them, I-I canât help with-â
He snorts, squeezing your wrist gently before dropping it, twisting the handle around in his hand as he tests its weight.Â
âJust wait till itâs safe to come out,â Gojo murmurs, his eyes holding a peculiar weight, as if he could already see the scene playing out in front of him, âOkay?â
You nod limply, your face morphing into something cold and fierce when you hear Yuuji scream again. Gojo does one last take of you before disappearing somewhere into the blend of trees.Â
Waiting with baited breath, watching the opening as Arvina steps in next to Lizzie, yielding her arm back, the knife catching the sun as it shines. She throws it up, and you can almost hear it whizz.Â
Yuuji narrowly swerves it, his cheeks pink with tears as he trembles in fear.Â
Tiberian moves so heâs crowing the tree, two sharp spears in his hands as he throws them up and down, catching them with a metallic clink in his hands.Â
With their backs now to the woods, you visualize what attack plan Gojo must be formulating in his head. You crouch, looking from another opening as he emerges, silent as a mouse, from behind.Â
His steps are methodical and calculated, making sure not to make any noise as he creeps up on them. You hold your breath, hoping that they couldnât hear him over the ruckus they were stirring up.Â
Yuuji lets out a particularly gut-wrenching cry, one that strikes deep into your heart. You silence the little sob that escapes your lips, covering your mouth.
Gojo moves with a precision that only a skilled craftsman has, lunging forward towards Tiberian as his sword glints like gold in the yellow light filtering through the thousands of leaves from above.Â
Arvina turns her head at the slight noise, but itâs too late.
Gojoâs blade cuts clean through his neck, and you flinch, turning quickly away to not see the gruesome sight. Lizzie lets out a scream when Tiberianâs body hits the ground with a harsh thud.Â
Arvina reels back, ready to swing, but realizes that the knife that was once in her hand is now lost up in the trees, and falls as Gojoâs second victim, his sword searing her chest.Â
She looks up at him, dark brown eyes reading something of betrayal as if she wasnât planning to do that same moment ago. Blood pools around her uniform, and when Gojo shifts, his sword moving with him, her knees buckle, and she falls somewhere near Tiberian.Â
Lizzie was the last one remaining, and you watched as she scrambled to find one of her knives she had pocketed. You hear her beg for mercy, pleading and crying, but Gojo grants her nothing but.Â
When you hear the three canons finally blast, you nearly run out from your hiding spot, over to where Gojo was standing, his chest moving up and down with each laborious breath.Â
So much for the Career pack, you think mordaciously.
You share a look, but you donât have time to worry about that as you glance up to Yuuji, relief flooding through you when you see him relatively unharmed.Â
âIâm coming, Yuuji!â You scream, and he lets out something incoherent, watching as you plan how to climb back up to him.Â
Gojo wipes his sword with some leaves, the blood coming off with a chilling, slick sound, splattering on the ground.Â
âYou canât climb with that ankle,â he wryly comments, and you huff in irritation, scrambling to come up with a solution.Â
âHave him fall,â Gojo continues, âI can catch him.â
You look torn, looking between Yuuji and Gojo as you think about what could happen if things went south.Â
âIâŠI donât know,â you mutter, âHe has his leg andâŠâ you trail off, but Gojo is quick to understand the underlying resistance in your words.Â
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tilted his head up at the sky, trying to make sense of the strange way your mind works.Â
âLook, I just killed three tributes,â Gojo says with a cocked brow, pointing to the three bodies behind you with the tip of his sword, as if not believing why you still werenât trusting him, âI couldâve killed either one of you multiple times. Donât you think that maybe I want to help you?â
But why are you questioning what you want to yell?Â
âI think Iâd rather he catch me!â Yuuji calls from above, having heard the little quarrel, and the two of you watch as he shuffles around on the branch.Â
You think for a few more seconds before nodding, motioning for Gojo to go and do his thing. He gives you a tight-lipped smile, moving past you to the base of the tree with his arms outstretched.Â
Trying not to look at the bodies around you, you keep your gaze focused on Yuuji, telling him which direction to go so that he could land the safest way and with the least amount of impact.Â
âThere! Right there!â You call out, chewing all of your nails off as Yuuji looks at you and then to Gojo one last time before he closes his eyes and jumps.Â
He whizzes downwards, and Gojo catches him with a thump, his legs dangling off his strong arms as a smile graces his face.Â
You let out the breath you had been clinging to, running over to him as Gojo carefully sets him on his feet, throwing your arms around his shoulders as you murmur apology after apology.Â
Yuuji pats your back, comforting you for some reason as his ears twinge red. As if you were one of his siblings, he tries to pull away, now suddenly feeling self-conscious of having the strongest men heâs ever seen be witness to your meltdown.
âIâm okay,â Yuuji mumbles, embarrassed, wiping off the kiss you pressed to his cheek, eyes darting to Gojoâs before he quickly looks away.Â
You laugh wetly, pushing his hair away from his face as you wipe at your cheeks.Â
Chewing on your bottom lip, still crouched on the ground as Gojo towers above you, your eyes soften for the first time since youâve been in these games. Â
âThank you,â you whisper hoarsely, the words genuine and sincere, gentle as they pass across your three bodies and get swept with the wind, âTruly.â
Gojo swallows, his cheeks dusting pink at your praise, and waves it all off like it was nothing.Â
You stand, trying to shield Yuuji from the chaos behind you as you rub a hand up and down his back, a soothing gesture to remind you that heâs alright.Â
âYou need water?â Gojo asks Yuuji, changing the topic suddenly, and it causes you to smile to yourself, hoping he doesnât catch it.Â
Yuuji nods feverishly, nearly knocking the bottle out of Gojoâs hands as he twists the cap off and chugs it off, done in seconds. He sips his chin, looking sheepishly at you, but you assure him you already had some to drink.Â
âThanks,â he says with a burp, giving him the now-empty bottle as Gojoâs lips tilt upwards, a grin on his face as he puts it back in his pack.Â
A silence follows, leaving only the rustling branches and mockingjays' call to be heard. You wait for Gojo to say something, but he seems to be struggling just as much.Â
Now what was the question that seemed to loom in the air?
âDo you want to join us?â Yuuji asked simply, seeing that nobody else was going to talk, his voice mellow as if he were asking Gojo what the time was.Â
âYuuji!â You hiss, aghast, brows raised into your hairline at his bold statement, your eyes wide as he looks at you with a shrug, glancing back over to Gojo like nothing was wrong.Â
Gojo, also evidently taken aback by the request, says nothing for a second before chuckling to himself, the sound deep and reverberating through his chest as he eyes Yuuji, clearly not expecting him to be so bold given what he had seen from him so far. Â
A scene flashes before you, back to that day in the training center when Gojo first approached you.Â
You know he wonât make it long, he had said.
Your nose wrinkles in vexation at the memory, tugging Yuuji by the hand as you shake your head, giving Gojo a curt but formal smile as you take the bag Yuuji had managed to bring down from the tree, shrugging it over your shoulders, getting ready to leave.Â
âNo, no,â you answer on Gojoâs behalf, giving Yuuji a pointed look, âI appreciate the help, but Iâm sure that heâd like to go-âÂ
âI wouldnât mind,â Gojo says, a little fast, cutting you off as he winks at Yuuji, watching the way your face suddenly hardened up, âI wouldnât mind joining you guys. That is,â he then looks to you, his face twisting into something teasing, his lips quivering as if he knew smiling would anger you even more, âIf you donât mind.â
Yuuji squeezes your hand a little tighter.Â
You have to control yourself from not looking over your shoulder at the bloody scene behind you, his previous allies lying in a heap of blood, not even being taken out in over five minutes despite having trained their entire lives for it.
There was no way you could protect yourself and Yuuji against him if it came down to it.Â
âHow many times am I going to have to prove that Iâm not going to kill you?â Gojo asked exasperatedly, and Yuuji seemed apologetic for his behavior, opting to look at the ground and move some of the scattered leaves with the tip of his boots.Â
You rubbed at your nose, apprehension written all over your features. As dangerous as he was, you couldnât deny the layer of protection heâd offer you and Yuuji if he stayed by your sides. Even if he didnât plan to stay till the end, you could use the extra help heâd provide until he chose to part ways.Â
But all that aside, what you wanted to know most was why? Why was he so keen on helping you? What did he gain from it?
You pointed to his sword after a minute of thinking.
âYou give me your weapons,â you tell him firmly.Â
Gojo handed the sword over without any hesitancy, as if your condition didnât matter in the slightest to him.Â
âAnd you walk in front of us.â You added quickly, and he raised his hands, his pink lips drawn into a smile, his blue eyes shimmering with a hint of childish excitement at how you eventually succumbed to his and Yuujiâs requests.
âShouldnât be too difficult with your ankle and his leg,â Gojo responds, and Yuuji snickers to himself, causing you to pinch the skin of his neck, and he yelps.Â
âAndâŠand you help us get food,â you stammer, repentant at having given in, âNot just nuts or berries.â
Gojo smiles smugly, nodding.Â
âIs that all?â He asks after you donât add anything else, and you donât look him in the eyes, mumbling to yourself as you get ready to go.Â
You close your eyes and think this through all over again before you give up.Â
âFor now,â you mutter under your breath, still in disbelief as you lead the way back into the first.
â-
You didnât know where to go, but it was nearing the end of the second day of the games, and there were only nine tributes left, three of them being your weird and soon improvised ragtag team.
Gojo claimed that he had passed by another river when he had been scavenging yesterday, somewhere near the outskirts of the forest, but on the other side of where the Cornacopia was. He seemed confident in where he was taking you and Yuuji, but you remained as skeptical as possible, taking everything he told you with a grain of salt.Â
âThereâs no way you donât think Iâd lose in a fight to them,â Gojo gasped, appalled as Yuuji laughed, walking with a little skip in his step. Yuuji seemed to have lightened up, glad to have this extra bit of protection from the most capable tribute in the arena. Not only that, but shocking enough to you, Gojo had been entertaining all of his crazy ideas, questions, and stories the entire day.Â
âYou definitely would,â Yuuji assured him, âMy brothers are huge.â Despite your telling him to walk a little bit ahead, Gojo had quickly forgotten this rule as he slowed down his long strides to match up with Yuuji. At first, you snapped at him to hurry up, but seeing how happy it made Yuuji to talk to him, you held yourself back.Â
Yuuji pauses after saying something, looking up at you with a raised brow, waiting for your response. You hadnât been fully listening to their banter, trying to keep your eyes and ears peeled because nobody else was, so you blinked back, confused.Â
âWhat?â You asked, stripping your gaze away from the forest as you look over at Yuuji and Gojo.Â
âDonât you think Sukuna could be him in a fight? Fist to fist?â Yuuji repeats, and Gojo scoffs, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the statement.Â
You glance over at the other tribute, eyeing him from head to toe as you pretend to think about Yuujiâs question. The fact that you even had to think about it seemed to annoy Gojo even more.Â
âCome on,â Gojo muttered in a peeved tone, âAre you seriously agreeing with him?âÂ
You give him an impish look, scratching your head.Â
âI donât know,â you confess, holding back your satisfied grin at the way Gojo looked shaken, âThe twins are really strong.â
âYeah!â Yuuji expciams excitedly, always happy to brag about his brothers, âChosoâs arms are like,â he tried to gauge with his small hands how big his brothers muscles were as he showed the size up to Gojo, âThis big. Yours areâŠâ he looked around, assessing Gojoâs muscles as he shrugged, looking over to you as he shook his head dejectedly. It seemed that Gojoâs arms were, in fact, as big as his brother's.Â
You giggled softly, hiding your smile behind your hand as you looked at the leaves littering the ground. Unbeknownst to you, the sound nearly made Gojo trip over his own two feet, his heart pounding erratically as you shoved at Yuuji playfully. Â
âI canât believe I wanted to help you two,â Gojo muttered, rolling his eyes as Yuuji smiled brightly, skipping around Gojo as he always seemed to do.Â
Despite your initial hesitation towards allowing Gojo to tag along, mainly for the comments he had made previously about Yuuji, it seemed that the young boy had quickly grown on the tribute.Â
You had forced yourself to stay awake the first few nights, refusing to let Gojo take watch out of fear of him turning on you while asleep. After some protests, he gave up, shrugging indifferently as he let you watch in exhaustion.Â
Sometimes Yuuji would shift unconsciously in his sleep, whimpering as nightmares got to him. Gojo woke up, assessed his face, and pushed against his shoulder, not in an annoyed way, but to ground him, as if he understood. When his hand first stretched, your hands curled against the hilt of his sword, but you watched curiously as Yuuji grumbled something underneath his breath and went back to sleep soundlessly.Â
It had been three days since Gojo had been with you two, and in those three days, no other tributes had died. You suspected that the gamemakers werenât too antsy yet, seeing how thirteen tributes had died so far and it hadnât even been a full week, but you knew that if that canon stayed silent for any longer, theyâd be introducing more gruesome ways for you all to meet your end.Â
You had also wondered what those watching had made from your strange alliance. Were the people in the districts intrigued? Angered? What did sponsors and game makers think of it? It was practically unheard of for somebody from a district as high as Gojoâs to team up with such a lower district, but it was hard ot predict what the reaction would be to it.Â
âHowâs your ankle?âÂ
Your head perked up from where you had been focusing on the roots scattering around the forest floor, glancing sideways at Gojo as he had slowed down his pace to match up with yours. Yuuji was a little bit ahead, knowing not to stray too far away from where you and Gojo could no longer be able to see him.
Your shoulders fell into a dismissive shrug, the dull ache still pulsing, but Gojo had fashioned a makeshift bandage that had wrapped around your foot, keeping it effectively in place. It was slightly awkward having this virtual stranger kneeling in front of you with your foot in your hand, but you hoped it was putting on a good show nonetheless.Â
âItâs better,â you mutter, rolling it around gently, no longer feeling a sharp sting at a sudden movement, âIt hurts, butâŠbetter.âÂ
He smiles smugly, not saying anything, as you just roll your eyes.
Gojo had suggested trying to put as much distance between the other tributes, which warranted walking around the edge of the forest during the day and staying somewhere hidden during the night. You had done the mental math and deduced that besides the three of you, the male tribute from three, Evelyn and her brother, Maxmus, from five, the girl and boy tributes from six, and the boy from ten were all that was left. Usually, this early into the games, more of the upper-level districts would still be alive, but Gojo took care of that issue.Â
âAnd your ear?âÂ
Your hand absentmindedly reached upwards, the wound from Lizzieâs knife healing slowly, and it no longer hurts whenever you accidentally brush against it. Dried blood flakes off, and you give him a tight-lipped smile.Â
âItâs fine,â you say curtly, looking away from him to focus more on Yuuji, who was still a little bit ahead of you.Â
Gojo sighs, nodding to himself after your brief answer. In his defense, he has tried his best to show you that heâs not a threat. From the times when youâd wake up, terrified of having gone to sleep during a watch, youâd find him pointing at the fire, sitting just enough distance away to show that he didnât mean any harm. He talked a lot, trying to fill the awkward and tense stretches of silence with something of substance.Â
He was trying to make himself seem like a friend more than an ally, and that scared you.Â
âWe should set up camp somewhere near here,â Gojo murmured, and you squinted at the sun, watching as the color was getting a more fiery orange, a signal that it was planning to set within the next two hours.Â
You hummed, a silent agreement, and fidelity with your fingers. You wanted to talk to him about things that sponsors and Capitol citizens shouldnât hear. You wanted to ask questions that were subjected to an audience of spectators dissecting what they truly meant. You wanted to know why it felt like you knew him, before all this chaos, and why he remembered you. Where he remembered you.Â
Donât you remember me? His words still echoed in your head.Â
âIs this what 11 looks like?â His voice brought you back from your endless thoughts, and you glanced over at Gojo as his head swiveled around to look at the tree line, not even looking at you as his eyes squinted from the rays of sunlight.Â
âThe outskirts,â you mutter softly, thinking back to home, âBut itâs mostly just fields and factories.âÂ
He was like Yuuji in some ways. He always asked questions, picked and prodded, wanting to know more. You were reclusive, not knowing how much to say or how much you wanted him to know, but he was relentless. Gojo didnât care much that you didnât reciprocate, didnât mind that you kept your answers short and curt, just glad to hear your voice.Â
But in some sense, it was strange how easy a conversation with him was. Your reluctance to answer his questions was more for your own sake, which he didnât mind, but not because it was difficult to talk to him. In some sense, it felt like you had known him for far longer than you did. In some sense, it felt like you had known him all along.Â
And itâs not as though you donât want to ask him things. But your questions are more deep-cutting than his simple surface-level ones.Â
â1 is just buildings and factories,â Gojo says, unprovoked, âA lot more industrial. I think the first time I saw a tree was back at the training center.âÂ
You nodded, not knowing what to say as the leaves crunched under your boots.
The two of you walk in silence, watching Yuuji as he scavenges around for fruits and nuts, and you give it another minute before you say something to make it less unbearable.Â
âIt looks like home sometimes,â you add, solemnly taking in the way the shadows of the branches move as if theyâre alive, âHonestly, sometimes I have trouble telling whatâs real and whatâs not.â
Gojo glances at you, a white brow slightly raised.Â
âWhat do you mean?â His voice dips slightly, as if heâs a little surprised that you spoke in your own accord and didnât want to scare you away.Â
You shrug, chewing on your lip as you motion to the carefully constructed arena surrounding you. At the synthetic bird chirps and crickets, the way the leaves rustle and twigs scratch up against each other. To the untrained ear, maybe to him, it seems natural, like its nature. But when you listen, really listen, the cadence of the bird song is too robotic. The leaves are an unnatural shade of orange, and the bark flakes strangely.Â
âThis isnât real,â you explain hurriedly, as if you donât want him to think you were insane, âBut I feel like if I let myself believe it and forget where I am, IâllâŠIâll think that Iâm back at 11, you know? Back home where everything was normal,â you say with a heavy chuckle, looking ahead over to where Yuuji was bent over looking at a flower patch.Â
âLike you forget youâre in the games?â He asks, pushing, and you glance over at him through the side of your eyes, nodding.Â
âYeah,â you swallow thickly, âLike I forget weâre in the games.â
Gojo nods, tongue in cheek, as he digests your words. He lumbers in height next to you, his strength almost overwhelming as you two walk in a strangely methodical rhythm.Â
Yuuji stands up from where he was crouched, showing you a bushel of berries he had plucked from the bush, and you wave him over with a smile, opening your sack for him to put them in. Â
âThese look good, right?â Yuuji asks, holding them up to the light. You take them from his smaller hands, twisting and turning them around to make sure they didnât resemble anything poisonous that you were familiar with. After you were sure they were safe, you nodded, ruffling his strawberry blonde mess of hair as he blushed pink, his cheeks that had been slightly burnt by the sun now looking even redder.Â
Seeing this, you tsk, lips pressing together tightly as you try to think of something to do for the sunburn. You had no salve, and sponsors wouldnât send any for something so minuscule. Yuuji was probably the palest kid in eleven, and the ladies back home always helped him out whenever heâd come back from the fields all red and splotchy.Â
âYou need some of Miss Maggieâs cream,â you tell him wistfully, squeezing his cheeks slightly to turn his head from side to side as he groans even louder, âYouâre all burnt.â
Yuuji rolls his eyes, but a small look of longing flashes across his face. Miss Maggie was an older lady who ran the apothecary store near the district square. Her dark brown eyes were the kindest you had ever seen, her voice soothing and calm. She had no children but often took care of the kids as if they were her own. Yuuji missed her. You did too.Â
Gojo watched the interaction quietly, just like he did with most of your interactions with Yuuji, and only decided to speak up once you had slung the pack back over your shoulders. He goes to open his mouth but a sudden scream cuts him off.
The birds flap and fly away from the trees, their wings fluttering with each other in a cacophony of noise and screeching and yelling. You duck, and Gojo throws himself over you, shielding your body as the two of you look wildly around to where the noise came from.Â
It was from somewhere deeper into the woods, the sound sharp but not close enough.Â
âYuuji!â You whisper harshly, motioning for him to run back quietly towards you. He abides wordlessly, and he situates himself into your open arms as Gojo wields his sword by the hilt, one arm thrown over your back protectively.Â
Seconds later, a cannon blasts, and you flinch, your grip on Yuuji tightening.Â
âWe should move,â Gojo says in a hushed tone, his voice barely audible, âGo back-âÂ
Another scream. Another cannon.Â
This time, he flinches with you. This isnât normal. Nor was the way the ground was slightly shaking beneath you.Â
Your brows furrowed in confusion, looking helplessly past the treeline to see if you could make out anything. The leaves were quivering, and the trunks were vibrating. You didnât know if the arena itself was moving or if it was something worse, something that came in numbers.Â
âWe have to leave,â you say, your voice slightly wavering, but you try to keep it steady for Yuujiâs sake, âTake Yuuji, weâll go closer to the Cornacupia, there has to beâŠâ but you trail off, your words dying down as something in the distance caught your attention.Â
It wasnât a scream, at least, not a human one. A strangled cry, akin to an animal wailing, bounced off the trees, piercing your ears as the three of you almost fell to your knees at the grating noise.Â
What in the world was that?Â
âAre thoseâŠare those animals?â Gojo asks, startled, his grip on your waist growing impossibly tighter.Â
Animals? You shake your head slightly, deep in thought. Animals wouldnât make sense. It couldnât be just any animal; the game makers were creative, above normality, and the bounds of nature. And with it still being early in the games, they must be part of the arena, something never seen before, waiting to be discovered by misfortune tributes.Â
Your breath hitches when you figure it out.Â
âMutts.âÂ
There was an instantaneous unspoken understanding between you and Gojo, one that transcended words. You donât remember pushing Yuuji towards him, but Gojo made haste with pulling him over his back, and you tightened the straps of your bag as you two sprinted backwards to the direction you had come from.Â
You tried to push past the pain and throbbing that came from your ankle, knowing that it was protesting for you to stop, but you couldnât, not now. The ground was shaking, and the branches were rustling with the movement of whatever mutt it was that the gamekaers had decided to release.Â
Wind whipped past you, tigs cutting your face, and you pushed past the low-hanging branches as you tried not to look over your shoulder to where the snarls and wails of the mutts were getting louder and more prominent.Â
Survival was the only thing on your mind; everything else, ranging from the blaring pain and the loud ig of your heart, came later. Gojo was running a little bit in front of you, carrying Yuuji on his back, seemingly doing little to slow him down.Â
You knew looking behind your shoulder would hinder you, but one quick glance made your stomach churn and your blood run cold.Â
Back home, there used to be wild pigs near the woods, one youâd see sometimes during the day. These mutts, around five from what you counted briefly, looked similar, but their hide was a coarse brown color, their eyes wide and black. But the worst part? Theirrazor-sharpp tusks gleamed in the sunlight, as if they were made of metal.Â
You let out a strangled noise, shaking your head as you stumbled slightly, running as fast as you possibly could, trying to reach the outskirts of the forest and into the wheat fields that surrounded the Cornucopia.Â
Gojo called your name amid this chaos, glancing over Yuuji to make sure you were alright. When he caught sight of the manmade beasts, creations of the sadistic gamemakers, he picked up his pace.Â
The trees began thinning out and the field was coming into view. You had no idea how you were able to run so far and so fast with your busted ankle, but the adrenaline was taking over, and survival was the only thing you could think of at that moment.Â
Loud squealing from the mutts echoed in your ears, and you pushed past the blades of grass that came around your hips as you and Gojo tried putting as much distance between you and the mutts as possible.Â
Just when you thought you were getting further away, your foot, the same one with the injured ankle, caught on something jutting up from the ground, causing you to go flying too the ground.Â
You let out a sharp noise, one of pain, fear, anguish, and clutch your foot in pain, tears dotting your eyes as you try to scramble away on your hands and knees.Â
The mutts were getting closer, the grass was shuffling to accommodate their bodies, and you closed your eyes, accepting your fate.Â
But that fate never came.Â
You felt a gust of wind from over your head, and you peeked your eyes open to see Gojo jumping in front of you, weapons drawn, shielding your body with his as the boars continued to circle him.Â
Your mind was reeling. Where was Yuuji, where was Yuuji, where was Yuuji?
You wanted to scream at him, at where he put Yuuji, but you couldnât make a sound, paralyzed in fear as you watched Gojo brandish his sword to one of the boars that got close, swatting at them to get them to fear him. He made guttural noises, one to make them afraid, and you watched as the mutts slowly backed away, not looking for a fight, which was strange, and you watched Gojoâs back never relax until he was sure they had gone back to wherever they were hiding in the forest.Â
He turned after a few beats of silence, the wind rippling around you, the sun blazing, and the sky artificially blue. Blades of grass tickled your cheek, and Gojo put the weapon back in his holster, running a hand through his hair as he finally took a deep breath.Â
âYou okay?â He asked simply, his voice heavy as you nodded, eyes shutting as you allowed yourself a moment to calm down.Â
Gojo took it silently, knowing what you had just been through , and didn't push for an answer, and crouched down to where you had fallen, wrapping one arm around your shoulder as he gradually and carefully lifted you.
You whimpered and didnât catch the way Gojo winced at the sound, but you hopped a little bit to find the right footing, leaning on his chest as your eyes welled with tears of pain again.Â
âThanks,â you whisper hoarsely, your voice wavering, âAgain.â
Gojoâs smile was heavy, but he tried his best to wave it off, opening his mouth to give you one of his witty remarks when his eyes fell on something behind you.Â
His face fell, and he pushed you away roughly, your body swaying slightly at the sudden movement.Â
Everything happened so quickly, you barely registered it.Â
Gojo throws Lizzieâs old weapon,Â
A boy holding a knife to Yuujiâs chest.Â
Lizzieâs knife pierces the boy's skull,
But not before his knife plunged into Yuujiâs stomach.Â
One canon fired as the boy from ten hit the ground with a harsh thud, but it didnât even hold a torch to the sound, the nearly inhuman scream that clawed its way out of your lungs.Â
You pushed past Gojo, who was standing still, unmoving, pushed past the boy with the cracked open skull, and found Yuuji fallen, a few feet away from him.Â
Yuuji, oh, Yuuji.Â
He was shivering, his face clammy and pale. He was looking down at his stomach, his hands grasping the hilt of the knife that was sticking out of his stomach, looking up at you with big, watery eyes.Â
Blood was pooling around his midsection, and the mandated jacket he was wearing was soaking with red. The flowers beneath his body were losing their white color and taking a new shade of something gruesome. He couldnât speak, but was looking at you, terrified.Â
Your lips trembled, hands shaking violently as you struggled to find words to say, tears falling uncontrollably from your eyes and splattering on his chest as you tried to think of something to do.Â
âI-I, I donât know what toâŠto do,â you gasp, struggling to breathe, âDonât t-touch it, okay? Iâll get some - some help. Iâll get help,â youâre words at slurring together, your breathing blocking up as Yuujiâs chest began to move faster up and down with each labored breath, his chestnut eyes watching you with fear but still with trust trust, hoping you knew how to save him.Â
Because you did. You were supposed to. You were supposed to save him.Â
âI have some gauze,â you stammer, moving to get your pack but finding it to be missing, most likely having gotten lost somewhere you had fallen. âLet me g-get you the gauze.â You go to crawl back, but a sudden hand on your shoulder stops you.Â
You look up, with tear-ridden cheeks, to see Gojo standing above you, blocking the sun with his tall frame, his eyes sullen and his hand slightly shaking.Â
âHurts,â Yuuji muttered, sending daggers through your heart, âIt hurts.â
You choke back a sob, nodding quickly as you try to calm him down.Â
âI know, sweetheart, I know,â you wipe your elbows across your face, blinking the tears away to help focus your vision, âJustâŠâ
âGo get my bag,â you tell Gojo, pointing with a trembling hand to where it was, but he doesnât move, seemingly stuck in place.Â
âG-go, please,â you plead, shoving weakly at his legs as you let out a shaky whimper, looking back to Yuuji and the blood pouring out of him.Â
But he didnât move.Â
There was so much blood. It was pooling around his stomach, it was stuck between the flowers that sprouted from the ground, and caking under your nails. Your hands trembled, trying to put pressure on the wound, but Yuuji whimpered, and your hands shot away.Â
âDamn it, Gojo, go!â You screamed, your voice cracking as your chest rattled with another sob, âGo! Fucking move!â
Deep down, you knew it was useless.Â
Your voice is escaping you as you push even harder at Gojoâs legs, trying to get him to move, but he stands firm, shuffling after a second to sit down next to you to hold your wrists in his hand, to stop your hitting and punching at his chest.Â
Because he knew it was useless, too.Â
You go to scream at him, to yell, but Yuujiâs voice, soft and choked, stops you.Â
âDid,â he stops, taking a big gulp of air as blood trickles out of his chapped lips, âDâyou see? I punched him so hard I b-broke his nose,â Yuuji tries to smile, by his lips are wavering, and a small sound of pain escapes them, his eyes wringing shut as he holds onto his stomach tighter.Â
You let out a wet laugh, shuffling closer to him as you take his small, blood-stained hands in your own. You press them to your trembling lips, giving them a long, warm kiss as you nod.Â
Gojo saw you struggling to speak, so he placed a hand on Yuujiâs shoulder, squeezing it gently.Â
âYeah, kid, we saw,â Gojoâs voice dipped, heavy with emotion as his eyes wavered, âYouâre gonna have to teach how you did that later, okay?â Gojo gives him a kind and caring smile, his eyes slightly glossy, looking like a moving river.Â
Yuuji grinned slightly, still feeling sheepish yet honored to be praised by Gojo. You chuckled softly at that, pushing strands of hair away that were stuck to his forehead as you brushed his eyebrow hairs into place, just as his mother would have done.Â
Yuuji chews on his lip, trying to keep you from hearing his pain, but the sight alone makes you nauseous.Â
âI,â he stops again, his chest heaving, his voice quiet and escaping him, so you lower yourself down to his lips, pushing the hair out of his face like you always down. Yuuji stops and lets out another whimper.Â
âI never had a s-sister,â Yuuji says with a strained whisper, little tears escaping his eyes and rolling down the side of his face, âButâŠbut I think that youâre the best sister I ever couldâve had,â he murmurs weakly, and upon hearing his words, you canât control the sob that escapes you, holding onto his hands tighter as you nod silently.Â
âOhâŠsweetheart,â you let out a muffled cry, snot running from your nose as you grip his hand impossibly tighter, âYou have no idea just how muchâŠjust how much,â you hiccup, laughing weakly as tears collect and fall from your chin, âJust how much you mean to me. â You tell him sternly through all the tears, and the corners of his lips tilt slightly. His eyelids were fluttering, his grip on your hands loosening.Â
He was choking on his blood now, and your hands were staining red from trying to put pressure on the wound. It was all happening so fast yet so slow that you couldnât wrap your head around what was reality and what was not.Â
Yuuji takes a ragged breath, his lips parting ever so slightly as he musters up the last bit of his strength to lean in closer to your ear, whispering ever so slightly,
âYou have to win,â he struggles to say through the thick blood in his mouth, and your eyes shoot to his, and one last look of fight and strength flashes across his as he says, âPlease.â
Before Yuujiâs hand grows limp in yours, before his body slumps onto the ground,
Before the canon blasts.Â
â
It was night, and yet you hadnât moved.Â
You stared blankly at the dead body, never blinking, barely breathing.Â
What if he got cold? What if he were hungry? What if he needed something to drink?
You knew he was dead and that those things didnât matter. But what if you left, and the game makers did something to him? To little Yuuji, to the boy who was terrified of spiders but would put one in a cup if you asked him to.Â
Fried tears stained your cheek, and blood caked on your hands and nails. It was gruesome and gory; it was death, it was the Hunger Games, and this is what viewers wanted to see.Â
They wanted to see you spiral, they wanted to see you go insane and blood thirsty. But no matter how much you wanted to kill everyone in that arena, you know that Yuuji wouldâve never let you do that. Especially in his name.Â
So after some more time had passed, after the anthem played and they put his picture in the sky, you allowed yourself one spare glance up at it.Â
You saw his picture and his cheerful smile staring back at you, his freckles, and the small mole next to his right eye. You saw Yuuji, not the Yuuji in front of you, but the one you remembered, and decided not to let the Games, the gamemakers, and the sponsors take him away the way they wanted to.Â
Silently, you shifted, going towards the bag that Gojo had eventually brought, and unzipped the top.Â
You scavenged around a bit, looking for something, and pulled it out after a few moments of digging. The metal flask, Yuujiâs flask, is still full of water from this morning.Â
You went to unscrew the top, but your hands were shaking, fingers not able to pull and twist correctly. You struggled, slipping and sliding, when a sudden movement stopped you.Â
Gojo.Â
You thought he would have left hours ago, but he stayed. He didnât say anything, and you were glad he didnât. He let you mourn, he let you grieve the way you wanted.
He moves slowly, as if not to startle you.Â
You watch as he grips the base of the flask, his eyes silently asking if it is okay to take it. Your grip loosens, and he curls his fingers around the top, twisting off the plastic cap gingerly and places the bottle back into your hands.Â
You turn to Yuujiâs body, slowly tilting the bottle as water flows from its rim and onto his bloodstained clothes. You take his hands and wash the red off, cleaning his face and jacket of any remnants of the carnage.Â
You try not to think about how cold he was, or how limp he felt in your hold. You just cleaned all the sweat and grime away, needing him to look as normal as possible.Â
Combining your fingers through his soft hair, you make sure all the leaves and twigs are out of it as you style it the way you remember his mother doing it. You then moved onto the jacket, shakingly zipping it up to hide his wound.Â
You sit back on your haunches, scavenging the bag as things clunk around. Silent tears stream down your face, and you feel a hand on your wrist, pausing you.Â
You glance to the side at Gojo, your glossy eyes shining in the pale light of the moon. His face is sullen and slack, as if heâs barely doing any better processing what happened.Â
He waits for a second, and then;
âHow can I help?â He asks simply.Â
Itâs not a difficult question, but it causes your breathing to hitch, tears streaming as your lip trembles.
You swallow your bile thickly, raising a hand to wipe at your cheeks as you clear your throat, voice raw and scratched.Â
âFlowers,â you tell Gojo finally, âHe needs flowers.â
He nods and gives your wrist one last gentle squeeze before he rises to his feet, looking around the field for big enough flowers to pick.Â
You watch him leave, taking a deep and steadying breath as you look back to Yuuji and get back to work.Â
Back in eleven, when somebody died, it was important to respect their death just as much as youâd respect them living. There were stories, ancient stories that the Capitol had tried to get rid of, of what happens after you die. Older inhabitants of eleven held on to those traditions, passed them down from generation to generation.Â
You clean the body, first off. Make sure that when they pass on to their new life, wherever that may be, they are as clean as possible. You gently wet the handkerchief, your father's handkerchief, the small token you were allowed to bring into the games, and wipe off Yuuji's cheeks and in between his knuckles.Â
Food is important for the dead to have. Their journey elsewhere is long, and they might be peckish on the way there. You look in your bag and find some dried berries and nuts, alongside the fresh berries that Yuuji had picked today, and place some in his hands, making his fingers close around them like a fist as you guide his hands down to rest on his stomach.Â
You hear some grass rustling, and look to see Gojo walking back with bushels of flowers he had picked. Though it was dark and you had to squint, bright colors like white, yellow, and purple filled the bouquet.Â
Gojo doesnât say anything, but thereâs no need to. His small action has already spoken beyond a thousand other words.Â
Nodding in approval, you take the flowers from him and wrap the stems together with some wire, placing them under his closed fists and watching as the colors bring some life back to his pale face.Â
Finally, some words are spoken over the body before they lay them to rest.Â
You had closed Yuujiâs eyes just as his cannon had blasted, so you lean down and hover your lips on his forehead, giving him a small and gentle kiss as you murmur an apology, grieving and choked words that you barely say as you mutter the words you had heard the elders in eleven murmur a thousand times before.Â
You were familiar with death, but that didnât mean that it was a familiarity you welcomed.Â
âIâm sorry, sweetheart,â you whispered against his cold skin, âIâll see you in a bit,â you tell him gently, slowly coming back up on your ankles as you stare at his little body.Â
In the moonlight, with no trace of blood, holding those flowers and with his eyes shut, made it look like he was sleeping. It wasnât real, but a part of you so wished it was.Â
You think of his family watching. You think back to your younger self, having to watch as they placed your family in their graves, back to when you became alone. This wasnât a game, as much as they lied to call it one, but a cruel reminder of the brief mortality of those deemed inferior.Â
Somewhere around, perhaps on one of the trees in the distance or even up in the sky, was a hidden camera catching all of this. You didnât let them see you cry, stared straight at it as if you were staring directly at those back home, and gave one small, acknowledging nod.Â
You donât look at Yuujiâs body again when you silently trail back into the forest. Gojo says nothing as he walks by your side.Â
He takes your hand in his, a grounding hold, one that means nothing except for the fact that he was there beside you,
And you let him.Â
â
You two wandered around, lifeless, until you stumbled upon a small alcove, a place hidden by trees and not easily seen by the untrained eye, for the two of you to stay in.Â
The moment you collapsed on the ground, bones riddled with exhaustion, did you finally let yourself cry.Â
You cradled your knees to your chest, letting ugly and raw sobs rake through your body as your head tilted back against the trunk of the tree behind you, hands running down your face as you shook violently.Â
It hurt, you ached. You couldnât stop seeing the blood, his face, the boy with the knife through his head. Everything hurts.Â
You felt something shift, a body sitting down next to yours, and without thinking about it, you let your head fall limply on his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut with silent sobs.Â
Gojo doesnât move.Â
Clawing at your chest, at your pitiful excuse of a heart, you tremble, wishing that this was all some nightmare that youâd wake up from and never have to see again.Â
âCry tonight, but come tomorrow, donât let them see any more of your tears.â
You scoff, nose wrinkling as you move to push yourself off of him, but he shifts, turning so that you two would be face to face.Â
âNothing you can take is worth keepingâŠright? Thatâs what you told Caesar - thatâs what you told them,â he mirrors your words back at you with a raised brow, face stern and unreadable, âRight?â
Your expression slackens, and your lips part slightly in both surprise and shock.
âDonât let them take Yuuji from you,â Gojo says, âHeâs worth more than that.â
His eyes search yours, search through the glossy reflection and redness in the whites, and a moment of silence passes between you two.Â
After another beat, you nod, something small, but understanding.Â
When the sun came up, you wiped at your cheeks, your chin, your nose. You wipe the blood from your hands with the remaining water, and let Gojo clean the blood from your face with his careful touch.Â
As the leaves rustle with the early morning winds and the rays of sunlight begin peeking in from the tree tops, you hear a small twinkling noise, a mechanical yet sweet sound coming from above.Â
You and Gojo look up, watching as a small metal tin with a parachute on it starts drifting down from the sky, and waits as it lands in front of a small thump. A gift from sponsors, you think. Â
But when you inch forward, taking it with shaking hands and ginger crack it open, you see two rolls of bread, the sweet bread from back home, the same kind youâd usually eat after a funeral.Â
A small note lay on top of it, and you took it out between two pinched fingers, reading, you felt a wobbly smile make its way onto your face.Â
Thank you for looking after Yuuji - The Itadori Family and the People of District 11.
You two eat the bread in silence, savoring the sweet and nostalgic flavors resting on your tongue before you two rise from your spots and start getting ready to leave.Â
â-
Gojo found a small cave where the two of you could stay the night, someplace that was hidden from any peering eyes and would allow you two to make a fire and sleep without having to take turns keeping watch.Â
You were beginning to talk a little more, but still preferred to listen. Gojo didnât mind and filled the silence with stories from his district and childhood. Sometimes, you found yourself containing little grins when he made a terrible joke, and often had to duck your head so that he wouldnât see. But it wasnât so much that you didnât want him knowing, but rather it felt strange, a somewhat normal way of being that you didnât want to accustom yourself to after everything that had happened and everything waiting to happen.Â
Gojo told you about his father and his games, and he talked about training and what that looked like. Sometimes youâd interject and tell him a similarity that your district shared with him, and he'd listen with a soft look on his face, something easy and relaxed, his lips pulling into a genuine smile when he heard you talk about blips from your past.
It helps distract you, makes you forget about Yuuji and the games.Â
ââŠI swear, thatâs what most people said,â Gojo told you with a small laugh, shaking his head as he recalls old memories, âThey said I was too scrawny to ever be in the games.â
You let out a small huff, your knees pulled up against your chest as you watch the red and yellow flames from the fire dance off of his face, making his blue eyes shine even more.Â
No matter how much you wanted to deny it, the two of you had seen each other in your most vulnerable times, and there was no shaking the strange bond it was creating between the two of you.Â
âIs that why you volunteered?â You ask wryly, your head resting on your crossed arms.Â
Gojo shakes his head, one of his knees propped up with his other lanky leg spread in front of him. You wonder how much of this conversation is being shown.Â
âBy the time I volunteered people had stopped calling me scrawny,â he replies, and had it been anybody else it mightâve seem like he was just boasting, but after getting to know Gojo you could tell he was just being honest, âI justâŠâ he shrugged, thinking thoughtfully, âI figured Iâd make people proud if I went.â
Your lips press into a thin line, eyes squinting. You also had gotten to know the tribute well enough to know just how much pressure heâs faced, even if he didnât voice it, to continue his father's legacy. Not pushing it further, you nod slowly, biting your cheek as you think.Â
âI bet theyâre really proud seeing you with me,â you said after a beat, voice dry with sarcasm as you offered him a lazy smile that didnât match your eyes. You were far from when you were when you entered the games without trusting him, but you doubted the people from the higher districts were necessarily happy seeing their shining tribute form an alliance with somebody from an outlying district.
But instead, Gojo smiles, something genuine, and his eyes wrinkle around the edges. Itâs a far cry from the cold-hearted and jagged fighter you first saw, and it was jarring sometimes to be looked at the way he looks at you.Â
âYou have no idea,â he replies after a moment, sincerely.Â
You fought to control a small smile.Â
Running your finger across the cave floor, tracing small shapes in the dust, you think back to things you miss from home. Things that youâd blink and see again, maybe even in the dark pits of your dreams before they turned horrifying.Â
Picking up a small leaf, you twist it around by the stem, watching it twirl quickly in the air.Â
âDo you miss it?âÂ
His brows pinched together, not understanding your broad question.
âHome,â you specify, âDo you miss it?â
Gojoâs bottom lip catches between his teeth, and he slightly shifts where he was seated. The fire crackles, some of the wood moving as it continues to burn. The crickets outside were chirping away, and from the opening of the cave, you could see the silver wash of the moon begging to be let in. If not for the cruel reminder of the anthem that had played not even an hour earlier, with no dead tributes to honor in the sky, you could close your eyes and pretend that you were back in eleven.
His eyes flash with something unreadable, most likely thinking back to soft recollections of his district, ones that mirror yours. His lips quirk slightly at the ends, something he canât control as better memories flood his senses.
âI do,â he mutters after thinking, his voice honest but dropping in volume, as if he didnât want the microphones to pick up what he was saying, even though they could pick up a twig snapping, let alone voices, âDonât you?â
Your eyes widen slightly, your breath hitching.Â
Yuuji.Â
Home.Â
Your mouth dries up suddenly, and you feel a wave of nausea roll over you. Your head feels lighter than usual, and you blink, trying to push back the unwelcome sting of tears, but every time you do so, you see heâs lifeless body in front of you, the blood staining his pale skin as he tries to gasp for air.Â
Gojo instantly notices a change in your demeanor, and before you even try to wobbly stand up, heâs already there, offering support as you try to push him off. One of your hands is grasping at your stomach, feeling the dinner you had just eaten churn around as you use the other hand to steady yourself on the cave walls.
âHey, hey, what happened?â He asks hurriedly, his eyes searching your face, noting the way sweat dotted your hairline and the way you looked like you were fighting back some war with your food, âDid I say something?â
You shake him off, shaking your head as you use your hand on the wall for guidance, trying to leave, but Gojo doesnât let go of his grip on your elbow. Unfortunately, as stubborn as you were, you learned that Gojo was just as, if not more, stubborn than you.
Struggling for air, you try to take in ga ulp of it, but it doesnât seem to work. You see flashes of Yuuji, Yuuji and his family, his brothers, your family, and it causes your mind to reel, your chest heaving as you struggle to breathe.Â
All of a sudden, the heat from the fire was overwhelming. You felt sweat rolling down the side of your face and neck, dotting your back and arms. It was intense and overbearing. You couldnât remember what it even was that set you off.
âI need,â you gasp, your fingers clawing at your throat, coughing, âI need to get out.âÂ
Gojoâs white brows cinch together in the middle with worry, leaning down to see if you were alright, but you push him off with the last bits of force you had.Â
âBut-â
âGo away,â you snap, harsher than you intended, and he doesnât fight back this time when you wrangle your arm away from his hold, tumbling away and towards the cave opening as tears finally escape your eyes and you let the cool sting of the night breeze welcome you.
You know you shouldnât let them see you cry, shouldnât let them hold this power over you, one that proves that their strength and capabilities outmatch yours. Because they donât, they have nothing on the experiences youâve gone through, the ache youâve endured, the resilience it took to survive, but as heartless and cold as they were, theyâd never understand the pain of loss, the hurt and grievances that come with it.Â
So instead, you yell, you scream until blood lines the inside of your throat and suffocates you through your nose. That way, your pain might seem loud and overbearing, something they could never understand. The sound is choked and raw; it exceeds human capacity and borders on animalistic, but itâs the last way you can connect to the people before and the people who come after you. The tributes who have died for the sadistic ways of the Capitol and President Snow, the only way you can reach beyond the living and make a promise.Â
Those who sit in their pompous outfits and fluttering lashes might not understand, might laugh and point, and cause you to lose your sponsors, but somewhere, someone in some district would understand. And maybe when you eventually die, they might mourn everyone just a little more.
âIâm sorry.âÂ
Your head snaps around to the opening of the cave, and you almost trip when you see Gojo.Â
You donât know how long youâve been out here, but by the look of utter pain and suffering on his face, you wonder how long heâs been in there, not being able to do anything but listen to your cries of woe. Your chest is moving with each laborious breath, your cheeks are heated, and your eyes are burning.
For the first time since youâve been in the games, you see tears staining his cheeks, illuminated like the arms and legs of a river by the moonlight.Â
Itâs startling, but it makes you pause.
âIâm sorry,â he repeats, choking it out, wiping at his tears with his arms as he takes another step closer to you, his lip trembling, and no longer does he look like the hardened warrior heâs been made to be, but a boy whoâs lost in a world that had long abandoned him, âIâm sorry, I should have been faster, I shouldnât have left him, Iâm s-sorry, Iâm so sorry, Iâm sorryâŠâÂ
It takes a minute for his words to sink in, but when his lips part and let out another muted sob, you understand what heâs saying, what heâs apologizing for. You see the redness of his face and the way his lips look like theyâve been chewed raw.
âIf only I were faster, if I took him, if only I was fast enough, this wouldnât be happening,â Gojo rambles, the tears streaming down his face even faster as he shakes his head, stuttering on his words, âI never thought that tribute would b-be there, I just saw you fall and - and everything else blacked out, and Iâm sorry, I know you hate me, I hate me even more, but-â
You stagger towards him, your feet twisting and turning as the dirt crunches underneath your shoes, the wind rustling, and the animals howling in the distance. Gojo doesnât move, but when you fall into his chest, your hands close around his back as your face hides in his broad chest, you feel his trembling hands come up from behind to hold you closer to him. One of his larger hands goes up to cradle the back of your head while the other one holds you tightly by the waist, and his face rests on your hair.Â
âItâs not your fault,â you whisper, shaking your head weakly, still smushed against his chest as you hiccup, âItâs not your fault, and I donât hate you,â you say sturdier, for emphasis as your fingers dig into his jacket and he groans, clearly going to disagree with you but you cut him off, continuing, âI just - I just miss him s-so much,âÂ
His hold on you tightens.
âFor the first time in years, it felt like I had a family,â you cry out, your tears and snot getting on his jacket, but Gojo couldn't care less, hugging you closer, âAnd I lost that, I lost h-him, I was supposed to protect him-â
Gojo shushes you, shaking his head, cradling your head upwards, his hands moving on to hold both sides of your face as your lips wobble with barely contained sobs.Â
âYou did everything right,â he whispers, but your face breaks down as your nose scrunches upwards and your mouth parts.Â
âThen why isnâtâŠwhy isnât he here?â You beg, and he lets out a puff of air that seems to be kicked out of his chest, his own salty tears collecting and falling from his chin as his arms fall, and he uses the back of his hands to wipe them away.Â
âI,â Gojo stammers, biting his lip as he looks away from your heavy and piercing gaze, the same one that rips his heart out and forces him to rely on his barely-there sanity, âI donât know,â
You nod briefly, using your palms to push your tears away from your cheeks, tugging at them harshly as you sniffle.Â
Instead of arguing with him, you nod again, taking another step forward as you mutter a barely audible okay.Â
âCome here,â he whispers, his hands extended, and you take the last step to fall back into his warm and sturdy chest, letting him hug you tightly as you press your ear up against his ribcage, hearing the steady thump, thump, thump, of his heart.Â
Itâs human to feel hurt; it's unusual not to.Â
In the darkness of the night, at the opening of the cave, the two of you stand there in silence, holding onto each other as the crickets sing their songs and the leaves keep the steady beat. Perhaps the cameras have cut away, maybe theyâre still watching. It doesnât matter.Â
In that moment, the two of you process the brutality of the games together, sharing it so that it doesnât become unbearable. Gojo presses his lips to your forehead, nothing forceful, but lingering, as if a promise that he would be by you, forever, even if that forever was going to end soon.
You two were a strange pair, but it made sense, in some strange way. To you, to him, to the game makers, to the Capitol citizens, and those in the districts who were watching with bated breath.Â
And maybe, just maybe, it sparks a little fear in those who created these games, those who place the tributes in here to be pitted against each other and fight to the death. Because nobody expected love to bloom between two improbable tributes, but it happened, and it proved the one thing that they wanted to prove wrong.
That those in the districts have more in common than theyâre led to believe from life to death, more in common than even the prancing citizens of the Capitol, and surely more in common than the game makers and those who sit on their pedestals, watching.Â
You and Gojo were never meant to be allies, but in the games, in such unlikely circumstances, everything that wasnât supposed to be became, and everybody realized who the winner of the 66th annual Hunger Games was going to be, even if neither of you did.
â
That cave became a haven for the two of you.Â
It was tucked away where nobody would pass, it had a small lake next to it with clean water for drinking and washing, and enough animals ventured around that you two wouldnât starve.Â
Sure, the game makers would eventually have to lure you out, but not now; they were too invested in seeing how this strange pair was going to evolve.Â
It was nearing the two-week mark, and still, five tributes remained. The boy from three, Maxmus, Evelyn, you, and Gojo. You wondered why the game makers werenât rushing anything like they usually do when it starts to drag, but maybe something was happening behind the scenes that usually doesnât happen.Â
In the mornings, you would check the traps you had set the night before. Usually, a small animal or bird would be caught, and youâd skin and gut them while Gojo prepared the fire. Back in eleven, you had to learn how to be tactful and resourceful with the outskirts, as Tesarea often didnât supply you long enough for the next year, and the hunger would quickly grow. You had long put emotions aside when dealing with animals, and now, you often had to chide Gojo for leaving the cave whenever he became queasy watching you prep them.
What he lacked in hunting, he made up for in other things, however.Â
Gojo tended to your ankle well, knowing how to let it heal on its own with little tricks that he had picked up throughout the years. He made a splint that kept it in place, and hour by hour, day by day, the bruising seemed to be going down. He would cut down smaller trees into logs, tend to the fire, and help cook the meat you had prepped earlier. Best of all, he talked about anything and everything, sometimes so much that you could barely even hear your thoughts, but you enjoyed it.Â
Other times, like now, the two of you would sit side by side on the edge of the lake, your pants rolled up to your thighs as your legs dangled in the water. The air near here was cooler, the wind was more soothing, and you closed your eyes and let the sun kiss your skin as you leaned back on your arms.
Pointing your toes, you flick your foot up and down, splashing delicate drops of water across the surface as you watch it ripple.Â
âIf you lived in the Capitol, what would your pet's name be?âÂ
You let the question sink in before a little giggle escapes your lips, tumbling out and falling through the air as Gojo smiles in response at the sound. He loved it, even if he rarely heard it.Â
âCome on,â he nudged your shoulder with his, not looking at you but at the shimmering water, trying to contain his features to be serious, although they contorted into something more playful when you nudged your shoulder in response, âI heard a lady call her dog Tootsie.âÂ
That caused you to laugh, tipping your head back as you couldnât contain it anymore, eyes screwed shut as you slapped his arm.Â
âHmm,â you hum after a few seconds, your feet moving up and down in the water, âItâs hard to beat Tootsie, but maybeâŠDrumesia?âÂ
Gojoâs head turns slightly to look at you, slightly confused at hearing the familiar name but not being able to place it.Â
âWasnât sheâŠwasnât she your Capitol escort?â He asked, his voice breaking as if he were containing a burst of laughter.Â
You smiled.
âYeah,â you said softly, hearing him rumble with laughter as you laughed along with him, âShe was a real bitch.â
In the distance, you hear a mockingjay crow, imitating your laughter as the other ones start mimicking it, too. Back at home, people often used mockingjays to communicate with each other, especially when up in the trees, and itâs harder to get those beneath you to understand what you were saying.
âWhat are those?â Gojo mutters, his tone miffed, looking around as if he could see the birds that were nestled in between the branches.Â
You snort softly, tilting your chin upwards as you whistle, three random notes, and wait for the mockingjays to pick up on the sound. When one echoes, others join in, creating a cacophony from what was once your simple tune.Â
âMockingjays,â you answer, looking upwards at the trees and the sun filtering like rays through the leaves, âWe have a lot of them back in eleven.âÂ
Gojo nods slowly in understanding, lips pressed into a thin line, annoyed, but he knew there wasnât much he could do about it. He looks up, mirroring your previous movements, taking in the mockingjays as they flap around, joining each other and then leaving again to find someplace new to sit and sing. You wonder how grating it must be for someone like him who hasnât grown up around them, but for you, the mockingjays are another reminder of home.
 After a bit, when the singing died down, he decided to speak again.
âDo youâŠDo you, uh, have a guy back there? In eleven?â
You glance at him from the side of your eyes, lips parted in shock at the blatant question, but your expression falls into something even more comical when you notice how hard he was avoiding your gaze, the way his ears were turning pink, and how he was playing with some of the weeds sprouting around the lake bed.Â
A part of you wants to tease him, but you see the way he shifts awkwardly, as if he had summoned up the courage to ask the question and was quickly regretting it. Instead, you decide to answer honestly, shrugging as you look back at the water.
âI never had the time,â you murmur thoughtfully, thinking back to when you lived day by day, working endlessly at the factory and coming back to the Capitol-sanctioned home for orphans under the age of nineteen, leaving little to no time to be messing with pesky feelings and relationships, âIâve had a couple guys whoâve asked me to dance butâŠâ you shrug, closing your eyes slightly as you angle your head slightly to look at him, finding him already looking back, âItâs never lasted more than that.â
Gojoâs brow quirked slightly.Â
âYou can dance?â He questioned, as if that was the only thing he took away from your words.Â
Flicking some water towards his lanky legs, you scoff, not annoyed, just perplexed, and shrug again.Â
âI doubt itâs any of the fancy dances youâve learned back in one,â you chide, but Gojo shakes his head, going to disagree, but you beat him to it, âBut I can stomp my feet if you ask.âÂ
His lips curl into a smile, a blush dusting his cheeks as he ducks his head down and looks away. Never would you have guessed that such a hulking and menacing person could be so shy.Â
âDo you want me to ask?â He responds, his head looking down at the water, causing some of his white strands of hair to fall in his face, but you can see the smile still lingering, the way his neck flushes.Â
âI donât think your Capitol sweetheart would mind that much,â you say, your voice laced with slight tease, flicking some water at him again, âHaving a district girl like me steal her dashing tribute and all.â
Gojoâs shoulders tense slightly, and he slowly leans back onto his outstretched hands behind him as he flicks water towards your legs. You try not to stare at him, at the way the muscles in his arms ripple with each movement, or the way the sharpness of his jaw only brings more attention to his even more attractive face.
âSheâs not jealous,â Gojo says, and you try not to hide the flash of disappointment on your face from having heard him confirm that this mystery girl he talked about during his interview existed and wasnât some ruse to gain more favor, âI donât think sheâd mind at all.â
You can only nod briefly in return, not trusting your voice not to give away your turn in emotions as you twist a blade of grass around, watching the green color twirl, making it seem yellow and then something darker when it catches the light.Â
âAnd besides,â Gojo continues, slowly lowering his back down as he crosses his hands behind his head, resting on the soft plushness below him as he stares at your back, waiting, wondering, âI promised her Iâd find her after the games. Told her Iâd be like the sailor boy sheâs always dreamed of.âÂ
Your fingers stop. Something in you shifts.Â
Sailor boy.Â
Where have you heard that?
You turn around slightly, slowly, carefully, to look at him resting behind you.Â
âWhat did you say?â You ask slowly, your brows furrowed and your lips parted in stupor.Â
He blinks back, surprised at your reaction.
âU-uh,â he stammers, sitting up gradually, causing you to lean back to accommodate for his looming presence, pushing his hair back, âSailorâŠSailor boy? Itâs just some name, from an old story,â his eyes search yours, something deep and swirling behind them, âWhy? Do you, do youâŠknow it?âÂ
Your nose wrinkles. Yes, yes, you know it, somewhere deep inside, but why does he know it?
âY-yeah,â you murmur, perplexed, lashes of memories from your childhood crossing your mind, sitting behind the old wooden desks that seats three other students, watching the teacher in the makeshift classroom point to a board, reading out from memory something her old teachers, and those teachers before, passed down, âI do, butâŠ?â
Eyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy. He could not swim but loved the sea, our little sailor boy.
It was an old poem, one that your teacher spun into some extravagant and adventurous story about a boy who traveled across something called a sea, like a river but bigger, and did amazing things until he traveled back home. It wasnât in the curriculum the Capitol had made, and she made all the children promise not to talk about it when they went back home, but youâŠyou told a young boy that story, one of the kids that wasnât in your class.Â
You gasp, hand flying to your mouth as you look at him in shock.Â
The boy in the infirmary.Â
It had been weeks after the fire in the factory had broken out, one that took the lives of multiple men, women, and children, the same fire that took your parents and siblings, bearing only one survivor: you.Â
Escaping with burns to your arms and legs, you spent nearly two months in the infirmary that was near the edge of the district square. The nurses had told you that the burns would heal after some time. You were nearly nine, not understanding any of their big words and just wanting to know when your parents and brothers and sisters would heal from the fire, not understanding when they said that your family was gone.
The day you saw him in the infirmary was the day of the Victory Tour, when the victor of the previous Hunger Games toured across all twelve districts until they stopped at the Capitol for the celebration. The mentors would also come, who were older victors of the games, but they usually stayed somewhere else so that the newest victor could give their speech.Â
The room you were in was empty, save for you, as everybody else was forced to gather around the district square, the same place where they held the reaping, to watch the victor from District 1, as they usually are, give some long-winded speech about tradition and honor. You were excused, given the fact that you were bandaged from head to toe and couldnât move, and were waiting for the nurses to come back in so that they could feed you your lunch.Â
From the hallway, you could hear a door slam and a booming voice say something before a smaller, barely audible whimper followed. You winced in your bed when you heard skin slapping skin, the second voice choking back another whine when the door slammed shut, and you were left sitting there, immobile, in confusion.Â
After a minute passed, you heard some shuffling, and you assumed that a kid was put in the infirmary for acting out, most likely one of the upper-echelon kids from the district who were allowed to fool around.Â
But when the white-haired boy with bright blue eyes peeked his head inside the room you were staying in, you were sure that this was somebody you had never met before.Â
âWho are you?â You had asked him, and watched with embarrassment as he took in your battered state, his eyes wide with curiosity as he took in your bandages and elevated arms and legs.Â
The boy just blinked, not saying anything.Â
You noticed the stinging handprint on his cheek, glowing red, and he held it in his hand, trying to soothe it. He looked to be around your age, and you wondered if it had been his father who had shut him inside this small building. It was strange, however, that he was able to escape the duties of sitting through the Victory Tour. Even the mayor's children had to attend.
âDoes your daddy hitâchu?â You pressed again, watching as the boy blushed, evading eye contact as he looked at the empty line of beds.Â
âWas that your daddy over there?â Your chin juts to where the hallway was, âIs he cominâ back?â
The boy snaps his head over to the hallway, almost fearful. And then, murmurs;
âYour voice sounds funny.â
And you looked at him and his red cheek and then at his bright white hair, and started laughing. It was the first time you had laughed in weeks, but the sound was so loud and powerful that it caused your chest to shake and your arms and legs to hurt, and so your laughter died down, but you tried to keep the smile on your face because you forgot just how good it felt to have one.Â
âThat - that day,â you stammer, sitting up straighter as your eyes dart frantically around from side to side before they snap up to Gojo, rambling quickly as you try to get the memory out, âThe Victory Tour. Nine years ago. This boy, um,â you snap your fingers, trying to remember, âHe came into the infirmary. His dad left him in there for a bit. He kept me company. I gave himâŠâ you tsk in annoyance, trying to think back, âI gave himâŠâ
You trail off, thinking, but a soft voice brings you back to the present.Â
âA lemon drop,â Gojo finishes for you, with a gentle smile on his face, âWell, you couldnât really give it to me because you were all bandaged up, but you told me I could have your last lemon drop.â
You forget how to think.Â
âAnd, to make me feel better, you told me I reminded you of this one character, the sailor boy, except for-â
âYour hair,â you say breathlessly, the memory all finally piecing together.Â
You remember him telling you how he had snuck onto the train, hiding until they were so far from the station that he was sure his father was going to be alright with him joining the team for the newest victory tour.Â
His father, a previous tribute turned mentor, clearly didnât appreciate the idea, scolding him whenever he got the chance, that faithful day being one of them.Â
You remember him sitting next to you, telling you how he got here. You remember the glassy look in his eyes, telling him he could have your candy even though you knew it was probably the last piece youâd see for a while.Â
You remember now, all the old memories from one of your darkest times that you had blocked out were slowly yet surely coming back.Â
The sailor boy and his bright blue eyes, who stayed with you until the nurses arrived. Somebody who you figured youâd never see again, but with the odds being in your favor, or some ways, against it, here he was, sitting in front of you, patiently waiting.Â
Words escape you, but you find your hand traveling up his arm, tugging him harshly by the fabric on his shoulder as you throw yourself into his lap, shaking as you press your face into his neck, as you give him the tightest, most bone-crushing hug ever.Â
His hands fly up, trying to steady both you and him, and when heâs sure you wonât fall, one hand wraps tightly around your waist and the other higher up on your back. He lets out a low chuckle, his lips pressing into the side of your head as he holds what may perhaps be the oldest and only friend heâs ever had.
Gojo breathes, his first real breath in over nine years, and welcomes the bite of tears he feels because here, with you in his arms as it was meant to be, even if it was during the Hunger Games, these tears were happy ones.Â
And yes, it would be his luck that would put him in the same battle to the death with the only girl heâs never stopped thinking about, but maybe it was meant to be this short-lived and this sweet. Some people search their whole lives for somebody from their past, and if it meant that he only had to wait nine years to see you, even if it took this long for you to remember him, heâd gladly take it.Â
After all, he could never be mad at the girl who gave him his first lemon drop, and could never, ever see harm come to the only girl heâs ever had a crush on, even if you didnât feel the same way about him. In this arena, in this moment, you were his, and heâd cherish it for as long as he could.
There was no Capitol girl. Itâs always been you.Â
Ever since he saw you looking through that window on the train, he knew what the games were finally for, and perhaps, in some twisted and cruel way, the odds were in his favor.
âI remember you,â you whisper into the skin of his neck, âI remember you, Satoru, I remember you,â you say it over and over, and he wants you to because you remember him.Â
Your fingers dig into his jacket, and you smile despite the wobbliness in your lips, and you laugh loudly as you hug him again.Â
âTook you long enough,â he reprimands, but holds no weight, not with the way heâs beaming and smiling so bright that the cameras were sure to get every single bit of his true emotions. Gojo doesnât care about what his father or mother or the people in his district think. He couldn't care less about sponsors and game makers and arrogant President Snow, whoâs surely never felt a sliver of the emotions heâs feeling now. Even if it didnât make sense for a boy from District 1 and a girl from District 11 to find their way back to each other after all this time, it made sense to him and you, and thatâs all that mattered.
âI thought that-â
A canon blasts.Â
The two of you pull away, scrambling up to your feet so quickly as if nothing had happened, and that you had suddenly come back to where you were. The mockingjays all flapped their wings from the loud sound, cawing and screeching as you winced.Â
Your eyes squeeze shut, holding in your breath.Â
The two of you waited another minute, waiting to see if another cannon would fire, but it stayed silent, not even the mockingjays were singing. The wind had stopped, and the air had gone strangely cold.
Four tributes remained.
âWe shouldâŠwe should go back,â Gojo whispers, tugging you gingerly by the wrist towards the safety of the cave.Â
You look back to where the forest wound down a path, somewhere back there would be the Cornucopia, and a new dead body.Â
Nodding silently, you let him lead you back to the cave.Â
That night, you see little Evelynâs face in the sky.Â
â-
Instead of sleeping, you stirred, plagued with thoughts.
Gojo hadnât talked much about your past, seemingly just content enough for now that you remembered him, but with the weight of another tribute gone, you felt it difficult to think of anything positive right now.Â
But, a part of you now realized just how more difficult these games had become.Â
Save for the fact that only three people, besides you, remained, you wondered to what lengths you and Gojo would unconsciously go to save the other. For you, when you first met Gojo all those years ago, you cherished the moment for as long as you could, but ultimately knew you had to tuck it away to make room for more pressing issues. You remembered his softness and the way he treated you with kindness, something you desperately needed. After spending weeks in that infirmary with no contact from the outside world, having somebody to listen to you ramble and talk was something you forgot you liked doing, and he helped take your mind off the loss of your family, even if for just a bit.
And you wondered just how much it mustâve meant to him if he still remembered you after all these years. You never imagined that the boy whom you just gave a lemon drop to would consider that to be one of the most thoughtful acts of kindness he had been shown, but perhaps the differences in your respective districts came into play in that aspect.Â
This care, this initial desire to help you in the arena then mustâve come from a place of genuine worry, one that now has begun to bleed onto you. He wasnât just somebody you had met some random day nine years ago, nor was he a tribute-turned-ally that was forged under the strange circumstances of the arena. Gojo was, in all senses of the word, a friend. Someone who cared for you, somebody who you cared about. Someone who, had you not been bright close to because of the Hunger Games, mightâve become a closer companion than the one you know now. And that was something you hadnât had ever since you had sacrificed your freedom, your chance for happiness, for survival when you were nine, and youâd be damned if you had to give that up for the satisfaction of the Capitol.
And deep down, you knew you could never hurt somebody like him, not when you just found out you had something else to live for, not when you realized you might just have somebody else who cares for you besides yourself.
With Yuuji, you promised yourself that if the situation came, youâd put yourself first so that heâd be spared. And no matter how hard you tried, you werenât able to keep that promise. So now, with somebody else to fight and help, you began to realize that Gojo meant much more to you than even you found him capable of.
You also knew you couldnât beat others when it came to combat skills, and that ultimately, if need be, there wasnât much you could do to save him if he had to save you. Getting away now, putting him in a position in which he only had to care for himself and vice versa, was perhaps the only way you could guarantee his survival.Â
Despite having promised him that when it came down to three tributes you would seperate, knowing what you know now, it seemed like your last option for keeping Gojo safe would be if you left now, putting as much distance between you two so that Gojo would have to start focusing on himself, and leaving you to focus on yourself.Â
So that night, when the fire ultimately died down and the sun was just starting to peek its head over the horizon, you took a deep breath and began putting your makeshift plan together as quickly as possible before Gojo woke up.
Your eyes drifted over to his sleeping figure, peaceful and serene. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks with every dream, his lips rosy and slightly parted as puffs of air escaped them. The show he had put up with having some darling in the Capitol was a ruse, something you realized yesterday, and a part of you wonders how much of it was true, with it now being revealed that it was just some ploy to try and get you to remember him.Â
If he had been someone you had seen back in eleven, you think you wouldâve agreed to a dance with him, and maybe even a second one, but you push that hopeful thought deep down and remind yourself that a fantasy wasnât something that boded well in the Hunger Games.Â
You smiled gently, pushing some hair away from his face as your fingers hovered over his forehead, and ultimately retracted your hand away as you quietly moved, trying to get the knife he had tucked away in the pocket of his jacket.Â
He shifted slightly in his sleep, mumbling out some random words, and you fought back a strange wave of emotions as you gingerly slipped the knife out the pocket, making sure that his sword was nearby in case he needed it, but knowing about how hidden the cave was, werenât worried about his safety even with you gone.Â
Crawling over to where you kept the two bottles, one for you and one for him, you carefully picked yours up, trying not to make any noise, and winced when the metal scratched across the stone floor.Â
Turning around, you were greeted with Gojoâs wide eyes, startled out of his sleep, blinking his exhaustion away as he tried to make sense of what it was you were doing in his groggy state.
Fighting back a yawn, Gojo went to sit up, but you shook your head, hiding the knife behind your back as you pointed your wattle bottle up, mustering up a convincing-enough smile as you moved a little closer to him.Â
âIâm just getting some water,â you whispered, watching as his cheeks were slightly dusted with pink as you rubbed some dried leaves away from his hair, blinking his cerulean eyes again when he looked out the opening of the cave to see it slightly lit.Â
âLet me,â he yawned, rubbing at his face, âLet me come with you.â
You smiled at his kindness, shaking your head again as you gently pushed at his shoulders, trying to get him to lie back down.Â
âIt wonât take long,â you reasoned, âAnd itâs almost daytime.âÂ
Gojo searched your expression again, trying to read anything you couldnât hide, and when you realized he might be able to tell something was hidden behind your intentions, you surged forward, planting a kiss on his cheek to redirect him and jumble his thoughts together.
Your heart pounded against the tight and limited space of your ribcage, your lips lingering on the skin near his jaw, and you pulled away slightly. Neither of you breathed, and you looked nervously up at him through your lashes, only to see him fighting back another grin, ducking his head down as he shyly blushed.Â
He gnawed on his cheek, eyes fluttering towards you as he pushed you away, hoping you wouldnât tease him anymore, and let you go without argument, still in his head from where your lips had lightly grazed his skin.Â
It almost makes you stay.Â
âGo,â he murmurs sheepishly, tilting his head towards the cave opening with a boyish smile, one that makes your heart break, âIâllâŠum, Iâll get started with breakfast.â
âOkay,â you say breathlessly, your stomach churning as you put the knife in your back pocket, looking over his face, the slope of his nose, his eyes, the way his lips turned upwards at the end, his jaw, everything that made him him for what was possibly the last time, and swallow a little cry as you nod again, âOkay.âÂ
Standing up, you make sure he doesnât see an outline of the knife as you walk out towards the light, pausing slightly as you look over your shoulder, seeing him already busy with making another fire, and are grateful he canât see the glossiness in your eyes as your head falls slightly, glancing at the forest as you take one step out of the cave, and donât look back.
â
You knew you had around five minutes before Gojo got suspicious. Seven until he started looking for you.Â
When you were sure he couldnât hear your footsteps, you decided to run, knowing the general direction and placement of where you were in the arena, to know that if it was going to be like other years, the final fights took place near the Cornacopia.Â
The low-hanging branches rustle around you, dried bark and leaves crunching under you as you pant, not looking over your shoulder to see if anybody is following you, knowing it would only slow you down.Â
When you had first made the trek from the field where Yuuji lay to where the cave was, it nearly took a day of wandering around to find it, but the game makers were growing impatient, and though you estimated it had just turned into morning an hour ago, the sun had quickly risen to make it seem like it were the afternoon.Â
Your ankle had healed enough so that it wouldnât hinder you, and you had hoped that not hearing any cannons would lead Gojo to believe that you had run away and werenât killed, and would give up after some time and focus on his own chances of winning.Â
Without being able to know what you were thinking, you wondered how the game makers were portraying you. A traitor? A coward? How did the people in your district view you? The people in Gojoâs district? The Capitol citizens? Could any of them understand your motives without being able to put themselves in your position?
Your heart was nearly pumping out of your chest, adrenaline pumping in your veins, and sweat lining every pore, but you pushed on, knowing that if anybody were behind you or lurking nearby, theyâd be able to what your footsteps and attack you from any angle. Getting to the Cornacopia, to where the fight would be, would be your best chance at ending this once and for all, without any worries of what could potentially happen to Gojo.
The only two tributes left, Borna from three and Maxmus from five, were both younger than you, but they had capabilities you didnât. Borna, whom you had seen in the first blood-bath, took note of the way he wielded an axe as if it were an extension of his arm. Maxmus was strong, had brutish strength from lugging around generators for half of his life. You didnât exactly have a plan for if, or when, you encountered either of them, but just hoped that it would somehow work out the way you intended in the end.Â
In some strange way, it almost seemed like the arena was shifting with your thoughts as well. The path you had taken to get to the cave was a long, winding one, but now, it seemed like the trees were shifting away to make room for you. In the distance, after running for what seemed like forever, you could squint and make out the break of trees, and the bright sunlight that bounced off the field of wheat and flowers illuminated the way.Â
And if you could look far enough, just at the right angle, the bright reflection of metal from the Cornacupia.Â
Your legs stopped, and you nearly collapsed if not for catching yourself on your knees. Your chest was heaving at an uncontrollable rate, your mouth dry and in need of water, but you tried to take a deep breath, a flash of hope, something you hadnât felt in a while, filling your senses. In that moment of clarity and relatively, after you night of thinking up a plan, you had realized that if you were able to draw the remaining tributes away, making it so that you three could die while Gojo remained back near the cave, then maybe, just maybe, you could be able to manipulate the games in a way that would let Gojo win.Â
Something whizzed past the side of your head, and you felt the instantaneous trickle of blood pour from where the weapon had cut your forehead.Â
You let out a startled yell, the pain not hitting you but the shock, and look in the direction from which the weapon came, only to be met with Borna, his arm reeling back to send another axe flying in your direction.Â
Having no other second to spare, your legs worked in tandem to send you flying, scrambling to get away from the tree line as the large field quickly came into view. The blood was pouring into your eyes, and you blinked it away, wiping at the thick liquid so that you could see better, and when the sparkle of the large structure was getting clearer, you looked over your shoulder to see where Borna was.Â
An axe came barreling your way, but you barely dodged it, almost tripping but regaining your balance, and continued running in the direction of the Cornacopia.Â
The fresh wound was stinging, your legs were burning, and it seemed like the sun was already beginning to set, but you knew you had to push forward, just a little more, when a force from your right barreled into your side.Â
It sent you flying, skidding across the ground as you groaned, your eyes squeezing shut as your arms wrapped around your head to try and protect it. You rapidly blinked, watching as Maxmus got up from where he, too, had fallen and glanced over at his hiding spot from the side of the Cornacopia as he looked between you and Borna, who had finally caught up.Â
Labored breaths were escaping your mouth, and your hand fumbled to grab at the knife you had tucked away, brandishing it at the two boys who were beginning to corner you. Seeing them up close showed you the true extent of the damage they had received from the arena. Borna, whose skin was littered with deep cuts and bruises, matched the rough exterior of Maxmus, whose left eye was black and swollen shut, his arms sliced and diced from what must have been Bornaâs blades.Â
You scrambled to your feet, swaying slightly, and pointed your blade to each of them, backing away slowly, pointing the tip of the knife to any one of them who was beginning to inch forward.
Maxmusâs gaze was set on Bornaâs face, and Borna was looking at you, who was looking at Maxmus. You were the oldest of the three tributes, but here, everybody seemed like children waiting for permission to fight.Â
âNot so much a sweetheart anymore?â Borna quipped, his face pulled into a cruel grin that didnât match his face, something he had been forced to become, and your eyes quiver. This boy shouldnât be forced to survive like this.Â
But it seemed like the question, perhaps the word sweetheart, the same nickname you had called his sister Evelyn, sparked something in Maxmus.Â
He lunged for Borna, kicking the weapon out of his hand as he used his fists to hit him on either side of his face. Borna scratched at his cheeks with his nails, blood pricking at wherever they dug in, but Maxmus could only let out brutal and guttural noises as he wrapped one thick hand around Bornaâs thin throat, trying to choke the life out of him.Â
Borna screamed, something weak and child-like as he cried, begging for Maxmus to get off of him as he continued to kick and flail, but to no avail.
You could only watch, horrified, backing away slowly, watching the way all the humanity left Maxmuâs body as all that replaced it was pure anaimalistic rage, caging his fingers around Bornaâs head as he lifted him once, slamming him down on the ground until Bornaâs screams quieted, and he lay limp on the bed of flowers.Â
A canon fired.
Maxmus heaved, slowly standing up, wiped his bloody hands on his pants, and turned around to see where you had gone.Â
His face is streaked with Bornaâs blood, his eyes red and crazed. His blonde hair is riddled with dirt, and he snarls, his nose wrinkled as he looks at you, takes one step forward as you take one back.Â
Your hand trembles, your knife still pointing at him as your head snaps slightly, the memory of Yuuji flashing before your eyes.Â
Opening your mouth to say something, a little explanation, some final bits of humanity he might spare you, but are cut off when something, someone, a voice, catches both of your attention.Â
Somebody shouts from the woods, and in the distance, you can see the familiar shape of Gojo, his face red, drenched with sweat, as he looks around wildly. When the two of you lock eyes, it feels like everything you had led yourself to believe these last few hours tumbling down. The look of betrayal, anger, somewhat relief, and shock fills his expression, and you canât say anything, the words necessary leaving your vocabulary.Â
Your heart drops, a small sound escaping your lips as your hand falls slightly.
No, no, no, no, he found you, whyâŠwhy? Why didnât he stay back in the cave? Why did he come back? Doesnât he know heâs about to win? Why is he running towards you?
Maxmus looks between Gojoâs running body, at the way heâs not slowing down, and in his last act of hopelessness, leaps for you, his fist connecting with your jaw as you both tumble into the large blade of grass, a gasp punching out of your chest as you instantly taste blood on your tongue.Â
Gojo yells your name again, full of desperation and wrath, emotions that you canât place in this moment, and your eyes come back into focus as Maxmus raises his left arm again, his face shaking with tremors as his other hand raises to your neck, choking the air out of you.Â
You gasp, one of your hands reaching for the hand around your throat, the other blindly grabbing around for the knife he had knocked out of your grasp, eyes bulging out of your sockets as you begin to suffocate.Â
Gojo is somewhere nearby, but the field is large, and he can only run so fast, considering that he ran through the entirety of the forest just moments before in hopes of trying to find you. Maxmus slams your head down on the floor, and blood trickles out of your mouth. One of his knees pins your wrist to your ground, kicking the knife away from you as he bares his teeth like a dog.Â
âIâm s-sorry,â you stutter, spasming for air and spitting some blood that was filing your mouth out, careful not to hit him, âIâm sorryâŠ.sorry a-about Evelyn,â your voice is raw and wheezing, and your legs are helplessly kicking, not at him, but as you struggle to keep conscious.Â
Maxmus pauses, the crazed expression on his face flickering away, the look of a brother replacing it, a brother who misses his sister, and his eyes brim with tears, his lips trembling as his fingers loosen around your throat.Â
Gojoâs shouts for you are nearing, and Maxmus glances over his shoulder, fear riddling his eyes as he snaps his head back to you, stammering as he lets out a small cry, and his fist tightens again, your eyes spotting around the edges with black dots as air becomes less and less accessible.Â
âShe was t-twelve,â he whispers, shaking, âTwelve.âÂ
You try to nod, but barely have the strength to, and just stare at him through your bloodshot eyes, mouth open as you see him raise his fist again, putting you out of your misery, when a hand, one much larger, curls around his, throwing Maxmus away from your body.Â
You choke when his hand leaves your throat, turning to the side as you gag, gasping in air as you feel lightheaded, your vision tilting and twirling, watching as Gojo throws a violent to the side of Maxmusâs head, his face contorting with rage as Maxmus stays silent, taking each hit.Â
You canât speak, losing your voice in your bruised throat, and your fingers scratch at the skin, shuffling on your side, trying to get to Gojo.Â
Gojo unsheathes his sword from his belt, his strong arm reeling as he points the tip to Maxmusâs heart, but something else catches your attention.Â
Maxmus, his hand is reaching for something.Â
Lizzieâs knife.Â
Gojo doesnât see it, blinded by inhuman anger and survival, and you try to communicate wordlessly with him, smacking the ground, crawling towards the two on hands and knees, but it seems to slow down as Maxmusâs fingers can wrap around the hilt.Â
You gasp, heaving, and Maxmus turns his head slightly to the side, watching as you try to take the knife away, and something in him shifts, fingers inching across the blade, away from your grasp, and when he finally has a sturdy enough hold on it, he angles his hand up, slashing the side of your face with the blade, and then another slash that catches the skin around your already damaged neck.Â
The action finally catches Gojoâs attention, and his face falls as he hears your muted whines of pain, your hands grabbing at your face as you collapse on your back, blood pouring from your face, a gruesome sight.Â
He hesitates, and that seems to be all Maxmus needed to surge upwards, shoving the knife into Gojoâs ribcage.Â
Maxmus digs Lizzieâs knife in, pulling his hand back as he stabs him somewhere lower down, pulling the knife out, blood seeping quickly through the fabric of Gojoâs jacket.Â
Clenching his teeth through the pain, Gojoâs arm slips, and his sword lodges into Maxmusâs chest, near his heart, and Maxmus slowly goes still.Â
A canon blasts.Â
Your head is turned to the side, watching this happen, unable to move as pain and exhaustion take over your bones, and you feel your blood pool beneath your head.Â
Your vision is blurry, but you watch as Gojo staggers away from Maxmusâs lifeless body, looking down to the side, looking at the damage done, and goes to stand up, but falls with a heavy thud.Â
Gojo coughs, blood staining his chin, and the only thing you can do is look, look at his blood-stained clothes, hands, the mud-caked white hair, and finally his eyes. The thing that first caught your attention when you were nine, the thing that you noticed first when you saw him through that train window, and finally, here, as the last two tributes, barely clinging to life.Â
You expect them to be hard with anger, unnerving, cruel, and with a coldness he could be capable of.Â
But they look at you with the same softness you had become accosted to. He canât talk, coughs on his own blood, but thereâs no need to.Â
You feel tears roll down the side of your face, and all you can do is try and outstretched your hand, trying to hold his, but Gojo is riddled and weak with pain, only able to slightly flex his fingers towards yours.Â
After a second, a warmth floods your fingertips, and you feel his skin against yours, the same skin you felt when you were nine and he helped tighten some of your bandages, the same fingers that wiped Yuujiâs blood away from your cheeks, the same hands that held you just last night.Â
Mustering up a weak smile, you blink, and he slowly blinks back.Â
Black dots around your vision, your lids growing heavy, your breathing slowing down as your fingers hover over his.Â
You feel like youâre drifting off to sleep, your eyes shutting, your body relaxing on the flowers beneath you, the same flowers resting with Yuuji, and you let go.Â
One second passes, another one, and then,
A cannon blasts.Â
â-
âDo you need anything?â
The steady hum of the room rattles the bed, the windows overlooking the Capitol as their vehicles honk and screech. Lights from the buildings flicker with different colors, all signs of life, but to you, it feels as though youâve died and are watching this all through somebody elseâs eyes.Â
Martin sits next to your hospital bed, a knowing look etched onto his face. Drumesia is off somewhere, partying and getting drunk after having her first victim, but Martin hasnât left your side.Â
Because he knows.Â
âPresident Snow wants to see you,â Martin says gently, his hand enclosing yours, but you stare blankly at the wall. âHe wants to congratulate you for on win without the fuss of the cameras.â
You blink slowly, quietly.Â
Martin sighs, his brown skin carved with years of wrinkles and sorrows, alcohol that numbed the pain but never erased it, making him look older than he was, and you glance over to your side as his head ducks, his hold on yours tightening.Â
You see the way he looks at your face, a mix of pity and understanding, the way his stare lingers on the scars carved into your face, ones that doctors say will probably be there for a while. You donât care about your appearance, only caring about the physical reminder of the games that you are now forced to carry.
âYou should count yourself lucky, sweetheart,â he murmurs, careful to lower his voice in case there were any microphones planted in the room, âNot many victors can sit where you sit without having killed anyone.â
The whites of your eyes are still veined with red, a cone supporting your neck from the damage that Maxmus had caused, but you shake slightly with anger at his words.Â
Lucky?
Martin sees the shift in your demeanor and swallows thickly, looking up at you, his brown eyes glossy with tears as he smiles sadly, nodding.Â
âI know,â he whispers, squeezing your hand, and you feel your breathing hitch, nose wrinkling as you try to fight back tears, âI know.â
The two of you sit in that hospital room in silence, the only victors that District 11 has ever bared, and your fingers twitch, holding onto his hand too.Â
â-
When itâs the crowning ceremony, youâre standing in front of the same place where the tribute parade ended, a large stage that was surrounded by the largest stadiums and crowds you had ever seen.Â
You feel like youâre in a haze as you watch the back of President Snow,and feel like youâre underwater with the way your ears sound muffled. He talks about tradition and duty, about the necessity of the games and the importance of a victor.Â
When he finishes, the crowd erupts into cheers and screams, applause echoing so loudly that the ground beneath you rattles.Â
Somebody presents him with the crown, and President Snow takes it carefully between his gloved hands.Â
You are told to rise and stare at his weathering face, his wispy mustache, and his graying eyes.Â
He smiles, but it looks strange.Â
Your head ducks a little bit, and he places the crown atop, and you crane upwards as he gingerly pats your shoulders, noting the wrinkled handkerchief sticking out of the ruffle of the top of your bodice, something Drumesia and Martin fought to keep for you ever after the games ended.Â
âAm I wrong in assuming this was your father's?â President Snow asks, pinching the fabric of the handkerchief between his fingers. His voice was soft and gentle, lowered as if this was a private conversation between the two of you.Â
âIt was passed down by members of my family,â your voice answers mechanically, your eyes lacking emotion as you stare at the man responsible for every single death you had witnessed.Â
President Snow nods briefly, smiling as he pats it down.Â
âIâm sure that your District is proud,â he responds, and steps away slightly.Â
You nod.Â
âMy District is,â you say, âAnd any remaining family I have left.â
President Snowâs bushy brows furrow.
âMy parents and siblings are buried in eleven,â you explain, your voice bitter and heavy, âBut I have family everywhere. My ancestors are Covey.â
President Snow's smile falters, and his eyes narrow. He straightens the crown on your head as his lips pull into a thin, wavery line.Â
âYes,â he muttered, his voice echoing around the small space, âYes, Iâve heard of their kind.â
You watch as he retreats into the room behind the curtains, and everyone claps as you continue to stand, waving limply to the crowd.Â
You canât smile, no matter how hard you try, finding it difficult to do so under the burden of twenty-three tributes lying upon your head.Â
â-
Itâs the night before you leave for home, and sleep seems to evade you.Â
You toss and turn, groaning at every unsatisfactory angle you lay down, and ultimately give up, walking around the spacious room to look out the large window.Â
You rest your burning forehead on the cool glass, taking a deep breath as you close your eyes, trying to calm your racing mind and heart.Â
Every light reminds you of the brightness of Gojoâs smile, every laughter you hear dims in comparison to Yuujâs.Â
Sometimes, you see their shadows in the corner of the room, even with the lights on. You could see their faces, before they were touched by the cruelty of the games, and sometimes close your eyes to savor the sight just a little bit more.Â
Sighing, you bite your lip, trying not to cry again for the tenth night in a row, and sniffle, breathing stuttering.Â
A knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts.Â
It must be Martin coming back to check on you. You donât look over your shoulder when it clicks open, getting ready to push him away, just as youâve done each night, and let out an exhausted sigh when his footsteps patter in.Â
âIâm packed,â you murmur, looking at the card below, looking at the strangely dressed citizens, âAnd you can tell Drumesia that I wonât need a separate suitcase for the dresses, Iâm not taking any of them home.â
A silence follows, and you push your forehead on the glass even harder, your breath fogging it up as you let out a sigh, looking over your shoulder to tell him in an even harsher tone, but your brows pinch together at the unfamiliar face.Â
A tall middle-aged man with blue eyes and sandy blonde hair, swept to the side, smiles at you.Â
You scramble away from the window in shock, stammering as you look at the door and then back at him. He looks somewhat like somebody youâve seen around the Capitol, as if you had seen him around at the ceremonies and gatherings, but placed him aside as inconsequential.Â
âHello,â the man greets, not coming any closer as if he understands the threat he poses, âItâs an honor to meet you.â
âI wish I could say the same,â you reply coldly, and his head dips slightly, abashed, and places a hand across his chest, a symbol of apology.Â
âI realize itâs your first time seeing me, but Iâm one of the game makers,â he explains, and your face hardens even more, your fists clenching, âMy name is Plutarch Heavensbee.â
Your nose flares, and donât trust yourself to say anything that wonât get you in trouble.Â
âIâm filming something for this documentary piece Iâm doing on the Hunger Games. If you could please join me while I get some last shots of you, I would greatly appreciate it.â
He says it in a way that encourages disagreement, as if you could.Â
You bite so hard on the inside of your cheek that you taste blood. You donât move for a bit, a fire in your eyes that he notices and makes his smile grow a little.Â
âPlease,â he motions towards the door, turning his back, expecting you to follow, âIt wonât take long.â
â-
You follow him down some winding hallways, places you havenât had access to, and go down multiple flights of stairs, wondering if you're going to get killed for something foolish they caught on the microphone in the games.Â
The man, Plutarch, tries to distract you by chattering away, explaining the importance of what this documentary is and how heâs hoping to become head gamemaker in a couple of years, but you try to phase it out in order not to choke the life out of him.
The walls around you become less decorated, and the lights begin to flicker the further downstairs you go. Cement seems to be the new support, as everywhere around you is a dark gray color, and he does nothing to explain where it is heâs taking you.Â
After what seemed like almost twenty minutes, he turns right at some random hallways, looking over his shoulder, not at you, but something above you, gives it a quick nod, and before you can see what it is he was looking at he ushers you to a line of doors.Â
You stand outside a random one as he fiddles with the lock, twisting and turning the key in a carnage of ways before it clicks, opening.Â
He walks in, looking at you expectantly as you begrudgingly follow after him.Â
The room he takes you to is barely a room and rather a wash of complete darkness. He shuts the door behind you, and you squint, trying to vocal your eyes without the help of the flimsy lights from outside.Â
He shifts beside you, and you jump when you feel his lips suddenly next to your ears.Â
âThis is the only place that isnât reinforced with their new series of microphones,â he whispers, and goosebumps prick at the back of your neck, going to interject, but he continues quickly, âYou have five minutes before the cameras come back on. Iâll be waiting outside.â
âWhat?â Your voice shakes slightly with fear, not understanding what it was he was telling you.Â
Where were the cameras he was telling you about? The film crew? How was he to take any clips of you in such a dark room?Â
You canât see his face, but you would bet that the same smile that hadnât left his face ever since he saw you was still there, and he doesnât answer your question as he reaches back for the handle, opening the door slightly as the light creeps in a little bit.Â
The side of his face illuminates, and his eyes look at something behind you before he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him as youâre left alone in the room, confused and terrified.Â
Was this some cruel joke? Were they poking at you one last time, hiding a camera somewhere in the room to see how long it takes for the mind of a recent victor to collapse?
You run, going towards where the outline of the door was, fiddling with the handle as you pound on it, hoping somebody outside could hear you. But from what you remembered about the halls, they were utterly desolate, leaving you completely by yourself and perhaps the game maker standing outside, enjoying this. Â
âBastard!â You shout, fist hitting metal as you kick it, âLet me out! Theyâll notice Iâm gone! You canât--â
âYou might want to lower your voice.â
You stop, head whipping around to the voice that came from somewhere behind you.Â
âWhoâs there?â You snap, backing into the door, âWho are you?â Your heart is hammering away, but you try to fight the fear in your voice.Â
The voice chuckles lowly, and you hear quiet footsteps, ones that seem to be coming closer and closer to you.Â
âYou forgot my voice after a couple of days already?â
Why did it sound likeâŠno. No, no, it canât be.Â
You laugh to yourself, shaking your head as you laugh at the manic idea. Thereâs no way, theyâre just fucking with you.Â
âMockingjays, you think, trying to make sense of why, why, why, it sounded like Gojoâs voice, they mustâve gotten his voice and turned it into something sinister and teasing, something to taunt you with.
âYouâre sick,â you spit out, lips curling into a sneer as you push back against the door, rattling the doorknob, but it doesnât open, âYouâre a-all fucked in the head.â
The footsteps halt, and your breath lodges in your throat.Â
Martin never warned you about any of this.Â
âWe donât have a lot of time-â
âFuck off!â You yell, hands clamping around your ears as your legs wobble and give way to the ground beneath you. You shake, rocking your body to the front and left, your eyes watering with those pesky tears as your fingers dig into your ears and the sides of your head, shaking it side to side as you try to get his voice away from you.
Strong and sturdy arms cage around your convulsing body, murmur gentle words into your hair as their hands run up and down your back, trying their best to calm you down, trying to calm you down likeâŠlike he would have.
âGo away!â You scream, but your voice is muffled by the person's body, and you try to punch him away, but heâs just too firm to even move, âPlease, please, please, just-just leave me alone!â
The hands that are holding you to their body pause, stilling as they contemplate something, and you hope that theyâre going to let you go, let you be on your own the way you wanted, but instead they move to where your hands were still covering your ears. They tug and tug and tug some more until you give up, tears wetting your cheeks as you tremble beneath them.Â
The person takes a deep breath, thumb rubbing across the pulse beneath their wrist before they speak.
âEyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy,â the man recounts, his voice low but loud enough so that it could be heard over your moans, quiet so that anybody outside, if anybody ever were to pass by, couldnât hear, and the words instantly cause you to stop.Â
âRemember?â he asks gently, carefully, patiently, a smile in his tone even if you couldnât see it, and you craned your head upwards to where you guessed his face was, your breathing stuttering as you felt some strange emotion flood your veins, âEyes so blue and hair so black, they called him sailor boy. He could not swim but loved the sea, our little sailor boy.â
And Gojo continues, as if it wasnât enough.Â
âHe rowed and rowed and rowed some more, that stubborn sailor boy,â
Your fingers dig into his chest, scrambling and positioning yourself so that you are seated atop his strong thighs, his hands holding onto your waist as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.Â
âAnd when he reached the long-lost landâŠhe had nowhere else to go.â You finish the poem for him, your eyes wide and mouth gaping as you shake your head over and over, refusing to believe the truth that was laid out in front of you.Â
Because somehow, someway, right here, right now, only breaths away from you, Gojo wasâŠ
Alive.Â
The two of you donât say anything for a second. You stay quiet, listening to the sounds of his breaths, matching them to the same patterns you heard countless nights in the cave when he was asleep. You lower your head down, hands patting around his chest to see where his heart is. It was thumping, alive, under your palm. You place your ear against it, counting its beats, the rhythm you had forced yourself to memorize.Â
Itâs the same, you accept, itâs his.
Gojo doesnât say anything either, but lets his hands roam across your arms, tracing your skin from your wrist to your elbows, calloused fingers gliding across the hairs on your neck and the soft fuzz on your cheeks. They falter slightly when they catch against the divet of the scar from Maxmusâs knife, but decide not to linger too much on the past. His hands move from your neck down, down to your chest, where your own heart was pittering and pattering away, and he sprawls out his hand to feel its steady beat. Itâs yours, your unique heartbeat that he could recite like poetry if you asked him to.Â
â...Satoru?â
Your voice quivers, wavering and teetering with disbelief and something like hope.
âSailor boy,â he corrects, and you let out a sound that was a cross between a screech and wail, barriling into his chest as you press your hands across every part of his body you could, kissing his cheeks and the backs of his hands, kissing his forhead and his hairline, his soft sounds of laughter making you cry and laugh in return, kissing the slope of his nose and the corners of his eyes, feeling out his features with your fingers, making sure everything was the way you remembered. He tried to steady you, but his smile was blinding, even if the darkness of the room hid it. Your toothy grin could illuminate the universe and then some, and you were sure you were crying out the last reserve of tears you had as you slurred questions and words together, only able to choke out a pathetic-
âHow?â
Your voice cracks, your head falling onto his, your noses touching as your chest shakes with sobs. His hands reach upwards, cupping your cheeks on either side as his thumbs try to wipe your tears away, but heâs no match for how quickly they come. His lips press small kisses to the tip of your nose, your forehead, and your chin. After a few seconds, he settles his forehead back on yours, fingers moving slightly out to hold the back of your head as he simply shrugs.
âPlutarch wonât tell me everything, but,â he sighs, his thumb moving across the small hairs of your eyebrows, flattening them down as he smiles to nobody but himself, âI guess the tracker they put in me was special, something my father bribed them into switching. Plutarch says it could control my heartbeat, slow it down enough to whereâŠto where it seemed like I wasâŠâ
Dead.
âI-I donât,â you stutter, lips quivering as you choke, choke on a thousand emotions that you donât know how to deal with, trying to remember him a week ago, lying lifeless in front of you, to the shadow you see now, trying to rationalize every possible scenario, but nothing makes sense, âI donât understand. I saw you, youâŠyouâre heart stopped, you werenât breathing, Satoru, you werenât breathing-â you ramble, a new wave of tears rolling over you as he hushes them, trying to calm you down but nothing seems to work.Â
âI know,â he murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down your arms, pulling you impossibly closer to him, âI know, Iâm sorry I didnât show you earlier but-âÂ
âYouâre sorry?â You exclaim, pulling away slightly to scoff through the tears, hitting him across the chest with weak blows, shoving him with anger at yourself, at stupid him for ruining your stupid plan, âYouâre sorry? I,â you sob again, laughing humorlessly as you jam your palms into your eyes, âYou were supposed to win, not me! Thatâs why I left! IâŠI wanted them to follow me, I wanted you to win, Satoru!â your voice cracks, using the backs of your hands to wipe at your cheeks. Gojo lets out a small puff of air, akin to a chuckle, but it doesnât match the heavy feeling that settles in his heart.Â
He pulls you back into his chest, as if he doesnât like being away for you even for seconds at a time if he can avoid it, and runs his lanky fingers across your back, a soothing gesture, but it doesnât help the hiccups that escape your lips nor the way you wet his shoulder with your tears and spit.Â
âWhy do you think I ran after you?â He murmured against the side of your head, his own salty tears splattering on the ground as he choked on his words, âDid you really think,â he takes a deep breath, hiccuping as he cradles you head, âDid you really think Iâd let go of the girl Iâve been in love with since I was nine?âÂ
You laugh wetly, pulling away from his chest, wishing so desperately you could see his face, even a glimmer of it, but you could settle for this now, settle for the blurriness of his outline if it meant hearing those words again.Â
You move blindly, tilting your head upwards slightly, and catch his lips against yours. It's a breathless sigh that escapes you, your fingers moving from his neck to tangle in his hair, only to find his head buzzed, void of the soft locks you remembered, but youâre too dizzy to comment on it.Â
Gojo kisses you back with the fervor of a man starved, groaning when your teeth accidentally catch on his bottom lip, his nose pressing against yours as one of his large hands sprawls across your back, pushing you closer to him as he ravishes you. His tongue darts out, running across your, moving with experience that you lacked, but he didnât seem to mind, not at all.Â
His fingers trailed upwards to cup your jaw, tilting your head slightly to make room for his, and you whine when he pulls you with the strength of somebody whoâs ben training their whole life to situate better on his lap, and you feel the wetness of your tears mix with his own, becoming a mess of spit, salt and skin as Gojo pulls away slightly to catch some air.Â
A loud thud, something like a hand hitting metal, comes from the other side of the door, and youâre sure that if you could, youâd see that familiar blush painting Gojoâs face. You feel your cheeks heat up, and the two of you laugh, embarrassed and giddy, a feeling you never thought youâd feel again, and Gojo murmurs a quiet apology against your skin.
âThey buzzed my hair,â he explains, as if reading your thoughts, and your hands move across his head, nails raking his scalp as he shudders, âAnd they dyed it black. They said that I have to look unrecognizable, hell, theyâre even making me put some contacts in to hide my eye color.â
âThey?â You ask breathlessly, brows furrowed, and Gojo nods, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip as you feel a fire burn across your face at the slight touch.
âI canât tell you, itâs not safe, not even here,â he explains quickly, noting how little time left there was, âBut Iâm being sent out to District 10 to be a peacekeeper. Plutarch wonât tell me anything else, but he says that inâŠin a couple of years, I might be able to see you.â
Your chest heaves again, stammering, you thought that this was permanent, a naive wish, and Gojo picks up on it, kissing your nose again as he leans his forehead on yours, hugging you by the waist as he kisses the side of your mouth, then a slight peck to your lips as you sniffle.Â
âHey, hey, itâs okay,â he whispers, a statement that you have a hard time believing. âIf I waited nine years and was able to have you for this long, I think I can wait a little more if it means having you forever.âÂ
You laugh wetly, shaking your head as you shudder with fear and trepidation.Â
âI love you, too,â you say quietly but firmly, arms circling his neck as you feel him smile against your lips, âI haveâŠfor a while, even if I didnât know it.â
Plutarch hits the door again, signalling for you to wrap it up.Â
You feel anxiety roll over you, stammering to say everything you wanted to, but stop, knowing that in these last seconds, you had to be meticulous.Â
âWait for me?â Your voice is barely above a whisper, and your chest stutters with a particularly sharp sob that you try to push down, âI-Iâll be home, youâll know where to find me.â
He laughs softly, thumb rubbing across your cheek as he pulls you down for one last kiss, one that lingers and you can still taste, years later.Â
âI will,â Gojo promises without missing a beat, âPromise.â
---
Years pass, and the games continue.Â
Thereâs no way to hide the pain that comes each year when the games start again, canât forget the look of Yuuji, or the other tributes. Most days, whether you want to or not, you pass by the Itadori household. They welcome you inside with minimal words, pour you some tea in silence while the brothers stare at a wall, not saying anything. They donât blame you, never show anger, and always kiss you on the forehead when itâs your time to leave. Their mother and father shortly passed after your games, so you always try to give them food and money, anything you could offer, though they never take any of it.
Thereâs a small plot of dirt in their yard, where their parents lie, and eventually where they buried Yuuji. You visit it during the day, place purple and yellow flowers by the patch, and update him on your life, even if it takes a while to find the words. It would take even more time to allow yourself the forgiveness you deserved, but for now, you read Yuuji the stories from your childhood and pretend like he was there. You clean his headstone every Friday, making sure it is always shining, and kiss the edge of it when you get ready to leave. Sometimes, you leave a handful of berries and nuts at the foot, knowing that heâd be proud of the ones you foraged, even if they werenât ever as sweet as his.
The victor's village is empty, but you always visit Martin during the nights, when you know he drinks the most and itâs hardest to sleep. The two of you donât have much to say, and you prefer the silence, but he drinks less when youâre around, or at least attempts to hide the bottles when he hears your knocks.
When the time comes, just like Gojo said, it takes nobody by surprise that thereâs a disturbance of what was once a normality, a shift in the system of violence and chaos. A power keg of a machine tumbling by each District that slowly pulls away from their duties, people from all over banding together as they find the resilience needed to rebel and get rid of the system that took everything from them. Itâs a bloody war, one that takes and takes and takes and seems to have no end until it finally gives out, cries from all over when itâs released that President Snow is killed and a new leader has been elected, fairly and democratically.Â
There isnât much left of 11 afterward, after the bombs stopped and the planes left. But gradually, the people emerged from hiding and from beneath the rubble, one by one, until a small community, something that resembled the one you once knew, formed. Itâs lost a lot of its members, the Itadori plot now joined by Sukuna and Choso as they rest by their brother and parents, and you always visit them when the sun comes up, drinking tea on the grass as you tell them stories from the war and your days rebuilding.Â
The victorâs village was untouched, and you and Martin opened the doors to anybody who didnât have a home left. Some people came, others preferred to start new and without reminders of what once was.Â
After a while, when the dust settled and the bone began to become one with the dirt, you heard a gentle rasp at your door.Â
He stood there, aged, slightly shaken, but still him. He held a small bouquet, white and yellows and purples mixing as he shuffled slightly, pushing his long white locks back with his fingers as he tried to let go of the hardness that had taken over his features.Â
Gojo smiled when you emerged from behind the door, your own eyes slightly sunken in with exhaustion and the soils of war, but still the gentle ones that welcomed him to you when you were both children with nothing to lose.Â
He had found you, just as he promised, and this time, he wasnât going to let you go.Â
Besides, Gojo was long overdue for taking his girl out for a dance.