𝓢 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕

Gojo Satoru

You’re tucked into a cozy corner booth, fairy lights twinkling overhead, and Satoru has just pressed a kiss to your temple before sliding out of his seat with that grace of his.

“I saw a triple-chocolate ganache torte in the dessert case that’s calling my name,” he announces, slipping his sunglasses back on even though it’s dim inside. “I’m going to go get one. Save my spot, sweetheart.”

The moment he saunters off toward the dessert display, you scan the room and find your co-conspirator—a bubbly girl about your age sipping a cocktail near the bar. You rush over, explain the trend in a whisper, and she’s immediately on board. You hurry back to your seat and slide in right next to Satoru’s empty spot, phone propped against the sugar caddy, ready to record.

When Satoru returns, empty-handed because he definitely ate it all right there and then, he’s mid-sentence: “They had a little chiikawa on top, it was ado—”

That’s when the girl materializes at his side and throws her arms around his neck with convincing adoration.

Satoru freezes mid-stride, long arms held slightly out, and the silence that follows is so abrupt it feels like the entire restaurant holds its breath. Then, very slowly, he turns his head to look at her, then at you.

You drop your menu with a practiced gasp, one hand flying to your chest. “Excuse me?” you say, voice pitching into something between shock and indignation. “Satoru. Who. Is. This.” Your eyes narrow, and you even manage to make your bottom lip tremble a little.

The girl, bless her, tightens her hug and says, “I missed you so much, baby,” in a dreamy voice.

Satoru’s mouth opens, then closes. A normal man would panic. Satoru Gojo however, is anything but a normal man.

He points at her with one elegant finger, then at himself, then at you. “Okay, first of all, I’m flattered,” he says, and he genuinely sounds it, “but second of all, my partner is right there and I’ve literally never seen this woman in my life. Unless—wait.”

He gasps dramatically, grabbing the girl by the shoulders and holding her at arm’s length. “Are you a secret admirer? Is this about my eyes? It’s about my eyes, isn’t it.”

You make a strangled noise of outrage, snatching up your napkin and whacking him on the arm with it. “Satoru, I’m sitting right here and a woman is draped all over you and you’re asking if it’s about your eyes?!”

The girl cracks first, a snort escaping her, and Satoru’s entire face transforms with wicked glee. He saw the phone. He absolutely saw the phone.

He drapes himself across the booth, one arm slung over your shoulders, the other hand snatching the phone and holding it up to capture both your faces. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces to the camera, “my partner tried to prank me, but the joke is on them because I’m actually into it. Look at them. They're blushing. They really thought they could outsmart the strongest sorcerer alive. Adorable.”

You shove at his chest, face burning as you duck your head, unable to meet his gaze or the phone’s unblinking lens. “Satoru, stop,” you mumble, but there’s no real protest behind it—just flustered heat spreading down your neck.

He doesn’t stop. The phone stays trained on you, capturing the way you bite your lip and look away, utterly embarrassed. Then he leans in, and before you can brace yourself, he presses a loud, shameless kiss to your cheek—a wet, exaggerated mwah that makes you squeak.

"Don't worry baby! I would never hug another person back unless they're my kids or you in a wig and a costume! And I would still know it's you of course!"

Your face flames hotter. You open your mouth, shut it, then bury your face against his chest with a defeated whine.

Satoru laughs, the sound rumbling through him, and pulls you closer, dropping a gentler kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. You’re cute when you lose.”

Megumi Fushiguro

The ramen shop is warm and bustling, steam fogging the windows and the air thick with the smell of pork bone broth, and Megumi just muttered something about the napkin dispenser being empty before sliding out of the booth.

“I’ll grab some from the counter. Don’t steal my chashu while I’m gone.” He says it flatly, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and you know he’d let you steal it anyway.

As soon as his dark head disappears into the crowd near the front, you lock eyes with a girl standing near the condiment station. You beckon her over with urgent little waves, explain the trend in a rapid whisper— and focusing on how she needs to call him "gumi", and she grins, all in. You hustle back to the booth, slide in beside Megumi’s empty seat, and position your phone against the little jar of chili flakes, its camera just peeking out. You massage your face to stop the smiles from peeking out.

When Megumi returns, he’s holding a thick stack of napkins in one hand and a small dish of extra green onion in the other because he knows you like it but won’t ask for it. His brows are slightly drawn, he’s already scanning the table to make sure everything is still in order. He doesn’t see the girl until she’s right there.

She sidles up and wraps her arms around his torso from the side, pressing her cheek to his shoulder with a soft, familiar hum. “Gumi!” she says brightly, like she’s been waiting for him all day.

Megumi freezes. His spine snaps straight. His hands, full of napkins and green onion, stay exactly where they are, but his knuckles go white.

You slam your palms on the table. “Megumi.” Your voice is low, laced with icy disbelief. You lean forward, eyes narrowed. “Who is this. Why is she calling you Gumi. I’m sitting right here, Megumi. Right. Here.”

The girl snuggles closer. “Gumi, you didn’t tell me you had company.”

Megumi’s head turns toward her, then toward you, then back toward her. His face is doing something complicated — the tips of his ears are already bright pink, and a flush is creeping up the back of his neck.

“Please don’t call me that,” he says, and his voice is strained, tight with discomfort. “Literally no one calls me that except my partner.” He pauses, as if the weight of the situation is only now dawning on him, and then adds, almost accusatorily, “And they're sitting right there. So who are you.”

The girl opens her mouth to say something else, probably another line from the script you gave her, but Megumi has apparently reached his limit. He sets the napkins and the green onion down on the edge of the table with carefully, then places his hands gently on the girl’s shoulders and pushes her away — not hard, not rudely, but firm enough to prove a point.

“Okay. That’s enough. Personal space. Please.”

The girl breaks character with a snort, and Megumi’s hands drop as she steps back, already laughing and pointing at you. “They put me up to it, it’s a TikTok thing, I’m so sorry!”

Megumi’s eyes snap to you. You’re already dissolving, the appalled face you just had on shattering into helpless, wheezing laughter. “I’m sorry— your face— ‘so who are you’— oh my god, Megumi, you were so weirded out.”

He stares at you. The pink on his ears deepens into red. “You set that up.” It’s not a question. He drags a hand down his face, exhaling a long, slow breath through his nose. “I was genuinely concerned. I thought I was going to br mean to her. Why would you do that.”

You break into full laughter, reaching for his sleeve and tugging him down into his seat. He goes willingly, collapsing into the chair and immediately dropping his forehead onto your shoulder with a muffled groan, but not before grabbing the phone and flipping it face-down on the table with a decisive little clack.

“You’re the worst,” he mutters. “Absolutely the worst person I’ve ever dated.”

You run your fingers through his messy hair, still giggling, and he doesn’t lift his head for a solid minute, but you can feel the embarrassed smile pressed against your shoulder. When he finally sits up, his ears are still red, and he fixes you with a look of exhausted, adoring exasperation.

“I’m going to get you back for this,” he mutters, but the way his hand finds yours under the table and squeezes tells you he’s not even a little bit mad.

Geto Suguru

The restaurant is soft-lit and elegant, the kind of place that smells like sandalwood and fresh tea, and Suguru has just excused himself with a gentle hand brushing your shoulder.

“The chef is an acquaintance,” he murmurs, his dark eyes crinkling with that perpetual, serene warmth. “I want to thank him personally for the menu this evening. I’ll be two minutes. Try the pickled lotus root while I’m gone—it’s exceptional.”

He glides away through a beaded curtain toward the kitchen, his hair swaying behind him like ink spilled in slow motion. You wait half a breath, then lean over to the table beside you where a girl is sitting alone, nursing a ceramic cup of matcha. You whisper the plan, and she smiles, setting her cup down with quiet intrigue. You slide back into your seat, right beside Suguru’s empty cushion, phone positioned behind a little bamboo vase, and you school your features into loving smile.

When Suguru returns, parting the beaded curtain with one elegant hand, his expression is as tranquil as still water. He’s already smiling at you, and he’s two steps from the table when the girl rises and wraps her arms around his waist from the side. She presses her cheek to his chest and lets out a soft, contented sigh.

Suguru does not flinch. He does not stiffen. He simply stops walking and looks down at her with the mild, curious benevolence of a monk who has found a sparrow nesting in his sleeve. His hands remain clasped loosely behind his back, polite and unhurried.

You drop your chopsticks with a clatter. “Suguru.” Your voice is a blade wrapped in silk. You rise from your seat slowly, eyes wide with feigned betrayal. “I’m sitting here. Waiting for you. On our date. And you just… let this happen? Who is she?”

The girl, playing her part with remarkable commitment, tilts her head up and says, “You promised you’d leave them, Suguru. You said they didn’t understand you like I do.”

Your gasp is so sharp it nearly echoes, she is a genius.

Suguru’s eyes meet yours over the top of the girl’s head, and there it is—that flicker, that tiny, knowing gleam. He’s clocked the phone behind the vase. He’s clocked your too-perfect posture. He knows. And he decides, with the faintest uptick at the corner of his lips, to play along.

“Did I say that?” he asks the girl, his voice smooth as polished wood, tinged with gentle, theatrical regret. “How careless of me. I must have been possessed by a very inconvenient spirit.”

You make a strangled noise of fury, grabbing a napkin and hurling it at his chest. It flutters pathetically to the floor. “Inconvenient spirit?! Suguru, I will exorcise you myself!”

The girl’s shoulders start to shake with suppressed laughter, and Suguru, ever merciful, takes pity on her. He places two hands on her shoulders with the utmost delicacy, creating a small but definite distance. “Thank you for your assistance,” he tells her, and his voice is so warm and genuine it sounds like a blessing. “You executed that beautifully. Please enjoy the rest of your evening.”

She retreats with a giggle and a quick salute in your direction, and Suguru turns to face you fully. He doesn’t sit right away. Instead, he tilts his head, hands sliding into his sleeves, and regards you with a smile that is equal parts fondness and amusement.

“The napkin throw was a nice touch. Very spirited.”

You collapse back into your seat, burying your face in your hands. “How did you already know?”

“Darling,” he says, and the word is a soft, affectionate drawl, “you have many talents, but subterfuge is not among them. Your phone is currently peeking out from behind a vase.”

He slides into the seat beside you, graceful as ever, and reaches over to pluck the phone from its hiding spot, stopping the recording with a deliberate press of his thumb. Then he lifts your chin with one curled finger, his dark eyes alight with quiet laughter.

“If you wanted to see me flustered, you’ll have to try much harder than that. I’m afraid I’m rather difficult to rattle.”

You groan, but you’re smiling. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering just long enough to feel like an apology for winning the game you started.

“It was a valiant effort. Truly. But next time, perhaps don’t hide the evidence directly in my line of sight.”

He picks up a piece of pickled lotus root with his chopsticks and holds it to your lips, still smiling that serene, impossibly self-possessed smile. “Eat. You’ve earned it.”

Itadori Yuuji

The ramen shop is bustling, steam fogging up the windows, and Yuuji has just slurped the last of his broth with a satisfied groan before noticing your empty chili-flake dish.

“Oh no, you’re all out! That’s an emergency,” he declares, already bouncing to his feet with the energy of a puppy spotting a tennis ball. “I saw the waiter bring out a fresh jar, I’ll go grab some for you. Don’t move, I’ll be so fast!”

He jogs off toward the counter, hoodie bouncing. The instant he’s out of sight, you spot a girl around your age at the condiment station and rush over. You explain the prank, and she’s immediately delighted. You dart back to the booth, sliding in right next to Yuuji’s empty seat, phone perched against the napkin dispenser, expression smoothed into calm.

When Yuuji returns, he’s carrying the jar of chili flakes like a trophy, along with a handful of complimentary mints and a single spring roll he definitely charmed off the staff. He’s already talking before he’s fully back: “They gave me a spring roll, look how golden it is, I saved you half even though it was really hard—”

The girl intercepts him just as he’s about to drop his armload of treasures onto the table. She hugs him full-force, arms wrapping around his middle and squeezing. Yuuji lets out a startled “WHOOP—” and the mints go flying. The napkins flutter to the floor. The chili flakes bounce off the table. The spring roll, miraculously, he keeps aloft in one raised hand like a sacred torch.

“Uh,” he says, blinking rapidly. “Hello? Hi? I’m sorry, do we—are you okay?”

The girl tightens the hug. “I’ve just really needed to see you,” she says, voice thick with fake emotion. “It’s been so hard without you.”

You rise from your seat slowly, your chair scrapes the floor dramatically. “Yuuji.” Your voice is low, dangerous, entirely at odds with the way you're trying so hard not to laugh. “What is the meaning of this. I’m sitting here. Waiting for you. And you come back with a secret girlfriend?”

Yuuji’s head whips toward you. His eyes are so wide they’re practically circles, his mouth opens and closes several times without producing sound, and he shakes his head so fast the pink strands of his hair flop into his eyes.

“No, no, no, no,” he chants. “This is not—she’s not—I don’t—I’ve never seen her before in my entire life, I swear!” He turns to the girl, still holding the spring roll aloft like it might shield him. “I’m really really sorry, but I have a partner, they're right there, and they're amazing, and I really need you to let go because I think they're about to cry and if they cry I’m going to cry and then everything will be terrible.”

The girl, barely suppressing laughter, says, “But you told me what we have is special.”

Yuuji makes a sound that can only be described as a whimper. “I have literally never said that to anyone except my partner and also my best friend Megumi but that was an emergency.”

You let out a fake sob, burying your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking. Yuuji’s expression crumbles completely. He very carefully, very gently, sets the spring roll down on the table, then takes the girl by the shoulders with the utmost care and moves her aside.

“I’m sorry,” he says to her, “I don’t know why you’re doing this but I really need to go fix this right now.”

He then drops to his knees beside your chair, hands hovering nervously over your arms. “Baby, please, please look at me. I don’t know her. I don’t know what’s happening. I just went to get chili flakes. Do you want the spring roll? You can have the spring roll. I’ll give you my entire wallet. Please don’t be sad.”

You peek through your fingers and see his face, so genuinely distressed, so desperate, and you break. You drop your hands, and you’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you wheeze, grabbing his face between your hands. “It’s a prank, it’s a Tik tok trend, I set it up, I’m so sorry, you were so sweet.”

Yuuji blinks. Once. Twice. The terror on his face fades into confusion, then realization, and then his whole expression collapses into a pout.

“You pranked me,” he says, his voice cracking pitifully. “You made me think I was in trouble. I was so scared. My heart is beating so fast right now. Feel it.” He grabs your hand and presses it to his chest, and indeed, his heart is hammering like a drum.

You’re still laughing, but you pull him up into the seat and wrap your arms around him, pressing kisses to his cheek, his nose, his forehead. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you were just so cute".

“You can still have the spring roll,” he mumbles into your shoulder, hugging you back. “But you have to promise no more fake crying. That was horrible. I saw my whole life flash before my eyes.”

He pulls back, and despite the pout still lingering, there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That was kind of funny, though. The look on your face when you were acting all mad—you should do theater or something.”

He snatches the spring roll off the table and holds it up to your lips. “Bite. You owe me.”

Okkotsu Yuuta

The restaurant is a little fancier than usual, candlelight flickering in small glass jars, and Yuuta has just managed to knock over the soy sauce dish with his elbow, sending a dark puddle spreading across the tablecloth. His face goes pink immediately.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry—I’ll go get something to clean this up, I’ll be right back,” he stammers, already scrambling out of his chair and heading toward the restroom to grab paper towels.

The second he vanishes, you spot a gentle-looking girl at the next table and lean over with a hurried whisper. She smiles softly and agrees to help. You settle back into your seat right beside Yuuta’s empty chair, phone discreetly recording from behind the candle, your expression arranged into calm contentment.

When Yuuta returns, a thick wad of paper towels clutched in his nervous hands, he’s so focused on getting back to you that he doesn’t even notice the girl until she’s right there, slipping her arms around his middle with a soft, affectionate squeeze.

Yuuta’s entire body jolts like he’s been electrocuted. A small, startled noise escapes him, and his hands fly up into the air, paper towels fluttering to the floor, fingers spread wide as if to demonstrate to the entire restaurant that he is not reciprocating this embrace in any way.

“Wha—I—hello?” he stammers, his voice climbing several octaves.

You slam your palm flat on the table, making the plates jump, and you fix him with a glare so icy it could freeze a flame. “Yuuta Okkotsu.” You say his full name like it’s a curse. “I am sitting right here. Next to you. On a date. And you’re just letting some random girl hug you like that?”

The girl nuzzles closer. “I’ve missed you, Yuuta,” she says sweetly. “You never call anymore.”

Yuuta looks at her, then at you, then back at her, and the color that floods his face is so vivid it’s almost alarming—a deep, burning red that goes all the way to the tips of his ears and down his neck. He starts stammering, a jumbled rush of half-formed words.

“I—she—this isn’t—I’ve never—I don’t know—please don’t be mad—I’m so confused—she just—I was only gone for two minutes—I swear I don’t know her—I would never—you know I would never—”

His voice cracks on the last word, and he looks at you with such desperate, pleading eyes that you almost break character right there. Almost.

You cross your arms and turn your face away, letting out a dramatic huff. “I can’t even look at you right now, Yuuta. I thought you were different.”

The effect this sentence has on him is immediate and devastating. His hands drop to his sides. His shoulders slump. His eyes go glassy, and he looks for all the world like a kicked puppy.

“Please,” he whispers, and it’s so quiet and so heartbroken that the girl hugging him actually lets go out of guilt, stepping back with a hand over her mouth. “Please, you have to believe me. I don’t know her. I don’t know why this is happening. I love you. I only love you. Please look at me.”

The shiver in his voice is real. It’s so real.

You whip your head back around, and the sight of his devastated face shatters your resolve into a million pieces, the only thing you're thinking about is how you could be so so mean to your angel of a boyfriend. “Oh no, no, no, Yuuta, baby, it’s a prank, I’m so sorry,” you rush out, launching yourself out of your chair and grabbing his hands, pulling them toward you. “It’s a TikTok trend, I set it up, she’s in on it, it was all fake, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you actually sad.”

Yuuta stares at you, his brain visibly struggling to process the pivot from despair to confusion. “A… prank?” he repeats, voice small.

The girl gives him an apologetic wave. “Sorry, they asked me to, it was for a video.”

Yuuta blinks. His hands, still held in yours, are trembling slightly. “So you’re not… you don’t think I…”

You shake your head frantically. “No! No, I know you would never, I’m sorry, I thought you’d just get flustered, I didn’t think you’d get actually sad, I feel terrible.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, and then his face goes through multiple stages—a wobble of the lip, a crinkle of the eyes, and then a laugh bursts out of him, shaky and relieved and a little wet-sounding.

“Oh thank goodness,” he breathes, and then he pulls you into his arms so tightly you squeak. His face buries itself in your hair, and you feel his whole body shudder with the release of tension. “I thought I did something wrong. I thought I was in a nightmare. I was trying to figure out if I had amnesia or something. I was running through every possible scenario.”

His voice is muffled against your hair, but you can hear the laugh starting to overtake the distress.

You pull back just enough to cup his face, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “I’m so sorry, Yuuta. That was mean. I’m the worst.”

He shakes his head, a wobbly smile breaking through. “Please don’t say that about yourself, you’re not the worst. That was actually… I mean, now that my heart is starting again, it was kind of impressive. You were really convincing. You looked so angry. I was terrified.”

He lets out another breathless laugh and drops his forehead against yours. “Please never do it again though, I think I lost ten years of my life.”

You promise, peppering his face with kisses until the last traces of distress melt into a smile. He pulls you back down into your seat, keeping one arm firmly around your waist as if he’s afraid another mysterious hugger might appear, and by the end of the meal he’s even laughing about it.

It was the firmest voice you could muster against your father. Firm enough for the likes of you that it had others arching their brows and your mother shaking her head.

Dinner had become the epicentre of this dreaded topic. Of a god who fell and the Strongest that was no more.

"It's just an observation."

Your father said, picking away at his food as if he hadn't just insulted the man who saved all of you. Stubborn old men and their complacency to ignorance. That was why the world turned the way that it did.

Your family called you dramatic, feeling so deeply for a sorcerer you never met. A sorcerer who would glare you down under the weight of his mighty six eyes and call you weak.

You didn't have to know him to know he was probably scared. Didn't have to know him to know that every human feared the creep of death.

Perhaps it was your technique, sharpening your empathy into a blade that often left you gutted.

Maybe you, poor you, who shouldered with the heavy knowledge of what people felt right before death— knew that the look in Gojo Satoru's eyes was far from a man at peace. Even through the television static.

A stupid part of you led you to Shinjuku when it was clear. To feel the residuals of cursed energy. To understand, was the excuse you made for yourself.

But you knew in the ache of your heart that it was to feel for a sense of peace. A shred of content. Something, anything, in the snow other than blood spilt in vain.

What you found made you vomit once you staggered home.

You were silent in your mourning for a man you never knew. Let alone met.

Mourning because your eyes had long since opened to these rusty, bloodied cogs that turned. Big, and small. Strong, and weak.

But in the end, all the same. Cogs.

Twisting, and turning, and chugging along. In this endless, hopeless marathon that was jujutsu sorcerery.

If there was Nirvana at the end of this dreary tunnel, you were sure it was a wasteland. Barren.

Enlightenment was not a possibility in your world.

Only the snow. The frost. And the winter. The cold, unforgiving winter.

Cold.

So cold.

A cloudy breath wafted from your chapped lips. Your tongue eased as the warm, bland soup comforted your mouth. You had abandoned the spoon to cup the wooden bowl. Stealing more of its heat for your drying, trembling hands. The blizzard roared through the icy mountains again.

Gojo was nowhere to be seen.

If this were a few days ago, you would have been back to contemplating what he was. A man, a monster. A ghoul with thick enough skin to withstand the harsh bite of the frost.

But now you knew with absolute certainty, that he was a god. A fallen one. Gojo Satoru.

You were surprised that he was still around. More surprised that he hadn't caught you by the scruff of your neck and tossed you out to face the blizzard. Penance for your stunt.

A deeper part of you knew that someone like him wasn't capable of something like that. Or at least, his muscle memory wasn't.

You stopped talking. Stopped asking questions. Bowed your head and kept your eyes on the floor whenever he passed. It suited him well. After the incident, Gojo committed to his vow of silence.

He barely even looked at you.

The selfishly curious part of you wanted to peep in. Use your technique and understand what he was feeling.

The smart part of you knew better. Knew that the storm that raged in him was one that would consume you whole. More violent than the blizzard and twice as ice.

For now, you could busy yourself with the questions.

Why was here?

How long had he been here?

He was alive?

But most importantly. Most frightening.

How?

You debated the possibilities. That you had met your demise in the car crash and this was what waited on the other side. The cold felt befitting. A barren Nirvana. Or perhaps hell was ice rather than fire.

Maybe you were in a comma instead, and all of this was simply a long, agonising dream. You would awake to the faces of your family, and hate yourself again for your weakness.

Perhaps you had finally lost your mind. What if these past few weeks were a figment of your imagination? Why else would a fallen god stand before you?

Why else would you be able to touch him?

Why else would someone of his strength bother with a small, frail doe like you?

Finishing your soup, you cleared your throat. No dice. The lump in it hadn't left since that day. Since you stared him in his feral eyes as he burnt his past into nothing but ash in the fireplace.

Would it have been better not to know? That the man who saved you was one who saved many? One that many couldn't save?

The same you had cried into your pillows for, even though you only knew his name.

You tried your tea next. Hoping it was still warm enough to soothe the deep ache in your chest. When it caressed your tongue, a new kind of pain stabbed away at you.

He didn't speak. Didn't even look at you. But your breakfast was laid on the table when you came out, warm. Your tea was still brewed. The fire was still lit. Your comfort put above all else, even after you had disappointed him.

You wondered how much it costed him to care, even when he so desperately did not want to.

You still feared him. Feared that cold, controlled cursed energy that buzzed from him in lightning ready to strike. Feared his hands and the might that you now understood. Feared the crystals of his eyes that were all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful.

But it was a different kind of fear, now. Because you knew what he was. Back then, now. Knew what he could become.

And sadly, what he never did.

You sighed. Pinching the bridge of your nose to bring yourself back down to earth. At the end of the day, you did not know this man. You could feel what he felt. Sympathised with what he went through. But you did not know him

How could you? Someone as weak as you could not even dream to run in the same circles as him.

Knowing that he was Gojo Satoru did nothing to ease the pit in your gut. If anything, it only confirmed your uselessness.

Rising to your feet, you took the dishes and headed to the kitchen. Memorising the creaks under your feet and the sway of the lanterns overhead.

It was easier with your coat. Today you had woken up to it laid over your bed. Repaired with perfect stitches. Seamless.

What wasn't he capable of?

You almost punished yourself. Left it on your bed and braved the cold as penance for the tension you brought back into this humble shrine. But his care would not go wasted because of your own self-destructive tendencies.

After cleaning your dishes and drying your hands, you contemplated dinner. If you could compensate for anything, it would be food. You weren't sure when he would return, and a part of you even played with the idea that he might not. The thought didn't bother you as much as it should have. Abandonment was another lesson in this life that you had sadly learnt.

The wind bellowed. Knocking into the wood. A ravenous wolf seeking to blow your shelter down.

You cast a pained glance to the window. A flurry of grey and white smeared across the glass. A haze of nothingness. Of the unforgiving, treacherous heart of winter.

Why had he even gone out? You had enough meat to last a week and a half.

The thought of abandonment loomed heavier over you now. A second, cruel wolf that threatened to gnaw at your bones as the cold did.

Thunk.

The door opened at last.

Hefty boots shook the floors in slow thuds. Enough to rattle your heart. The grate of snow and ice sliding across the wooden floors made you flinch.

The wind tried to creep in. Tried to reach your stiff body in the kitchen. But it was dragged back and tossed out as the door slammed shut.

You contemplated between fire and ice. To stand in the kitchen and wait for him to inevitably freeze you with his presence, or to brave the fire of his stare and beat him to it.

You chose the latter.

Your feet weighed. Futile attempts to drag you back to the temporary safety of the kitchen. Your heart pulled at your limbs. Pumping dread through your veins. Dread that you would see him. That he would see you.

Fighting off every anxiety, you willed yourself to the living room. To the buzz of cursed energy that still rose nausea to the back of your throat. To the man, monster, ghost, god.

He stood tall at the centre of the living room. A mighty, tapered oak. With years carved into his flesh. Across his body. Beneath his eyes in dull circles. You noticed more about him now.

The scars on his face had a pattern you understood. The length of his hair, it was longer than the illustrations back home. Eyes duller. You hadn't seen a blindfold lying around. Did he have no need for it anymore?

Over his shoulder hung yet another poor, lifeless deer. Heavy. Twisted at the neck with a wretched gash across its throat. Its dead, black eyes still reminded you of home.

Worse, they reminded you of him.

A selfish part of you hoped to meet his gaze, and you did. But was it worth the biting ice?

Worth knowing that they once put the dazzle of sapphires to shame, but were now a frigid wasteland?

You swallowed your questions with the lump in your throat, remembering your promise. To stop asking. Stop bothering. Stop getting in his way.

The true blizzard ragged between your stares. Blue, and brittle, and banishment.

You broke first. Of course you did. Simply nature, for someone so weak. Dropping your gaze in a quiet surrender. To honour this distance he had wedged between you both.

That was when you caught the tears in his haori. Claw marks ripped across his arms. A deep red soaked into the white.

You remembered the snow.

Remembered the crimson.

Remembered the residuals.

"What happened?"

Already breaking your vow. How terribly, hopelessly weak you were. Weak enough that you did not care. Tossed out your promise in exchange for empathy as you dared to step closer.

His silent glare stabbed into you. A warning for you to stay where you were. Yet he did not move, and you had long since stopped fearing his threats.

You considered the possibilities of his wounds. A curse. Wolves. Himself.

"Let me help." You said.

Pleaded.

He scoffed, as expected. You had grown so used to it that you did not flinch anymore. It was his nature to be cold, and yours to be too weak against the chills. But stubborn enough to persist.

When he spoke, it was like the first taste of water in days.

"You know what I am and yet still think you can help me?"

Even if it was ever as frigid.

This should be the part where you scuttle away with your tail tucked between your legs. With your head hung low and your eyes glued to the floor.

You promised yourself that you would not be a bother.

You promised yourself that you wouldn't run, too.

"I can try." You said.

Even if your voice shook. Even if your heart trembled. Even if every instinct within you told you to hide.

Gojo stared at you.

You weren't sure why his silence bothered you more now that you knew his name. It pricked at your skin and burrowed into your pores. Twisted your nerves into an uncomfortable shiver.

Maybe it was the weight of knowing what he once was.

Who he once was.

That unnecessary urge to fill the silence tugged at your voice again. Even with the lump, the dryness and the dread.

But as you opened your mouth, he scoffed again. Pushing past you, he dragged the mushy snow on his boots through the shrine. Leaving you with two, frosty words.

"Don't bother."

You were not sure which was more biting.

As you watched the deer's limp body, you considered its eyes. Its familiarity.

The raging blizzard outside paled in comparison to the scathe of your mind. Whispering, blistering. Reminding you that you were a bother. That you were useless.

That you were weak.

Satoru was getting sick of his own weakness.

Every time he looked at you. Every time he spoke to you. He was reminded that his claws had been swapped for hooves. That his fierce canines now laid as shed antlers at his feet.

You were everything that he was. Useless. Weak. Something he couldn't recognise when he caught his reflection in the windows.

There was a reason he had no mirrors in the shrine.

Your bothersome stare pressed into the back of his shoulders as he lugged the deer through the kitchen. Out the back door. The force he used to shut it shook the shrine.

He was sure you would scuttle. Back to your room. Maybe the fire. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if your flight won over fight again and you dashed out into the ugly blizzard.

He vowed that he would not chase after you this time.

It was in vain, he knew.

Because no matter how many years he locked himself away in these icy mountains. No matter how much he swore off his name. Burned it to ash. In the end, he was still Gojo Satoru.

Still too strong for his own good. Too weak to let a frail soul freeze to death if he could help it. The worst part of it all? Now you knew that too.

As if you needed any more of a reason to be a thorn in his side.

Everyone knew that Gojo Satoru wouldn't leave an innocent to rot. Everyone knew that no matter the winter, or the blizzard, or the ice that he claimed to clutch his heart in a chokehold—

He was built to protect. Born a soldier. Sharpened into a weapon.

The biting truth had him tossing the deer over the log stump. Uncaring for the haphazard way that he handled the dead. No one cared about his body, back then. From what he heard, he was not even dignified a grave.

Roaring in his ears, the blizzard sought to consume him. Blurring his eyes and pelting into him in crystal shards. Cutting into the tears of his haori. It needled into his pores and locked his nerves in a blistering shiver.

Null. Null and numb. When compared to the maelstrom howling in his mind. Rattling his teeth. Spilling fire into his veins.

He snatched the axe lodged beside the log. Focused on the splinters that nipped into his dry, rough hands. His nerves no longer recognised pain. Dull weapons knew the taste of stings well.

Heaving the axe over his shoulder, Satoru stared at the deer. Its useless slump over the log. The nasty gash torn across its throat. Its deep, maroon blood soaking into the snow.

The snow.

Blood soaking into the snow.

His jaw set tight. So tight he threatened to shatter it with his teeth alone.

The dead deer's eyes reminded him of his own. As he laid there.

In the snow.

His blood, soaking the snow.

He sucked in a breath and shut his eyes. Counted to ten and reminded himself that he did not care. That he did not have the right to.

The deer's face took on a different shape when he looked at it again. Yours.

Those dull eyes you tried to hide with acts of kindness that meant nothing to him. The dejected expression you gave him whenever he scoffed at you. The uselessness. The weakness.

For a moment, he entertained the thought of how easy it would be. To lug you over one of these logs and butcher you the way he did tough meat. You wouldn't be able to put up a fight.

Correction, you wouldn't even try.

There was a resign that he recognised whenever you looked back at him. One that mirrored a deep ache in his soul that he tried to ignore. Tried to shove down to pits of his gut, where his stomach acid could eat away at it. Disintegrate it.

But there was no avoiding it.

By some miracle, or perhaps cosmic joke, Satoru saw himself in you.

Saw your weaknesses and recognised it as his own.

That was why, he had no mercy on the deer today.

The blizzard bellowed. All around him. Through him. But the only thing ringing through his ears was the wrenching, wretched howl of bones snapping and muscles meshing. Of iron tearing into flesh. Tissue squelching. Blood splattering.

With every swing.

Into the snow.

The snow.

Blood.

Blood soaked into the snow.

Speckled on his sleeves.

Staining his hands.

The fading warmth was what he clung to as he clamoured the axe through the deer's throat. Cracked through its spine. Tore through its jugular.

Its head rested peaceful in the snow.

Chest heaving. Hands scraped. Lungs burning and heart pounding. Satoru stood there with the axe hung from him. An extension of his arm. His soul. As he stared at the decapitated corpse and the blood it soaked into the pristine, frigid snow.

Was that what he looked like on that cold, December eve?

Bloodied.

And pitiful.

And weak. In the snow?

The axe slipped from his hold. Missed his foot and slumped into the frosted ground. He didn't bother wiping off his maroon-smeared hands into the snow. Instead he jerked out the knife that wedged into the corner of the log, and began skinning the corpse.

It was clockwork now, but he remembered how it felt the first time. The slimy warmth on his hands. The nausea that pooled in his throat. The stench that stuffed his nostrils for days after. His hands sharpened into weapons. Fashioned for death. But the first deer's stain itched at his palms in the middle of the night for weeks to come.

He knew that this was cruelty. There was no need to hunt, the rations would have lasted you both exactly twelve days. Fifteen, if you insisted on a few vegetarian meals.

Satoru killed the deer because he wanted to.

Because he was angry. Because he ached. Because there were no curses here for him to sink his teeth into and tear his rage out in that way.

He hunted the deer, picturing your face, your eyes, when you discovered who he was.

When you said his name. That damned.

Stupid.

Doomed. Name.

Even as he cut the dagger through chunks of thick meat, ridding fat and whatever was not edible, the image refused to leave his mind. Of your eyes. Your voice. The glimmer of useless, misplaced. . . hope.

He was done giving people hope. Done holding out for it. As far as he was concerned?

Hope died the day that he did.

Slumps of meat piled onto the log. The carcass no more. His hands cold with the stickiness of blood. He stood there to catch his breath and sink into the depths of what he had done. Eyes duller than the sky. Colder than the blizzard.

As he stared at the head staring back at him.

Aimless.

Useless.

Weak.

Its black eyes reminded him of you.

Reminded him of himself.

The room was a massacre.

Satoru hadn't tidied it since that day, where his name was unearthed from the snow and put on display to his soul that had long since cast it away.

Cupboard doors skewed open. Drawers tossed and shoved in a maze that beckoned bruises. Books littered the floors. Crumbled pages. Some ripped out and stuffed into his bedside drawer.

He scorched whatever memory he could find of the man that he once was. Gojo Satoru. The Strongest. The Honoured One.

Looking like a disgrace as he sat on the foot of his bed. Elbows digging into his knees. Posture be damned. Glazed eyes focused on an aimless spot that wasn't marred by the carnage. He had cleaned himself of all the blood and grime, but what difference did it make?

He was certain that he got everything. Everything in this blasted, cold room that dared to whisper his name. He planned on burning it all to ash as he did the newspaper.

Well. Almost everything. He could not bear to enter the room narrowed at the end of the hall. Locked for a reason. To keep it safe from his hands that sought nothing but destruction. Sacred from what he had become.

The sharp pull in his stomach complained. Reminding him that he had ignored your call for dinner. Even as the grilled meat pleased his nose and warmed a deep part within him.

You were spoiling him. He could bite his teeth and go weeks without food before you came along. But it seemed that you had a knack for re-awakening bad habits in him.

It's why he denied dinner in the first place. Your face was the last thing he wished to see.

Every time he imagined it, the deer paired with it. Followed by his own, scarred face.

Ridiculous, it was. To think that something as frail and as feeble as you could reflect even a shimmer of himself.

The blizzard grew more violent to mirror his mind. Endless, and ravenous. Killing every speck of warmth, and demeaning any weakness. It shook the walls of the shrine and poured through the gaps of this unfurnished room. Pulling at his bones. Needling into his nerves.

He rose to his feet with a deep, weary sigh. Perhaps in the heart of the blizzard, in the dead of this treacherous night, was his only path to peace.

Maybe he would find another deer. Wear his cruel mask and dig his teeth into it.

Maybe he could picture your face again. And hate himself for it.

Sliding the door open, he slumped into the hallway. Hands tucked into the sleeves of his yukata. It would stand no chance against the storm. Perhaps that was what he was counting on.

Freezing to death didn't sound too bad.

Quiet. Slow. Lonely.

Seemed befitting.

For a dangerous moment, he stopped at the door to your room. Listened. Felt. Were you asleep? Or lost in your thoughts too?

Why should he care?

The lanterns swayed above. At times he indulged the thought that it were the spirits of his students. As free and as bright as he remembered them.

He cut the thought short. Lest he wound himself up in memories he no longer deserved to cherish.

The faint crackle of fire caught his ears before the incessant hum of cursed energy did. Satoru had long since tuned out the broken flute that was your curse.

Sitting in front of the fireplace as you now had a habit of doing, you fixed your stare to flames. Unblinking. He might have thought you a pyromaniac if he didn't know any better.

Your hands weren't capable of atrocities. Couldn't hurt a fly on accident. Let alone commit arson.

Would you try to stop him if he left now? The thought bubbled a spur of irritation in his gut. He hoped not. He couldn't deal with you tonight.

He told himself that if you bothered him he would cast you out into the cruel blizzard.

His heart called him a liar.

And yet, he took a few seconds to watch you.

Watched the embers that glowed in your face. Your dull eyes barely lit, even with the warmth of gold and fire dancing in then. Were you as immune to the warmth as he was? Another shard to this damned mirror between you both?

If only he had left you in the snow. The first time was a moment of weakness. The second time was pure stupidity, but weakness nonetheless.

Guess frail things attracted frail things.

He watched as you reached for the fire poker. Mindless to the haphazard angle it sat at that allowed for heat to blister at the handle.

Clatter!

It resounded. Hitting the wooden floor in smudges of ash.

You did not scream. Not a grunt, not a whimper. Not a single, audible peep.

Soundless in your pain. With your brows pinched and your hand holding your wrist. You stared at your own burn mark. As if you were scrutinising it.

As if you saw the weakness that he saw in you. Saw in himself.

His fingers twitched.

Damn that muscle memory.

Against every nerve and cold thought, Satoru had crossed the room. He was at your side in seconds. Kneeling beside you. Lowering himself in ways that he shouldn't have to. Not to a helpless doe like you. A bothersome deer. Useless butterfly.

And yet, he scooped your hand up as if he was mindful of your fragile wings.

He watched the shock in your eyes melt into understanding, and then embarrassment. Your lips pressed together. A habit of yours, he had learnt.

He was surprised that you hadn't offered him your words. Another habit of yours he knew all too well was your hate for silence. But here you were, staring at him soundlessly while your fingers bloomed a faint burn.

The cold would make it worse. He should leave it. Leave you here. Punishment for your own weakness. How else were you to grow thicker skin if not through pain?

But Gojo Satoru wasn't capable of that.

And that's why he loathed him.

Disowned him.

Hovering a cold hand over your wound, Satoru focused. Ignored your questioning eyes and your voice that slipped into the quiet after all. A whisper he didn't care for, but still registered.

Cursed energy pulsed through his veins. Whirling to his fingertips. Glowing. Reversing.

If only Shoko could see him now. She'd scoff at him. Call him a showoff for learning what she had futily tried to teach him since the day she met him.

Probably tell him it was all for nought.

What was the point of knowing how to heal, when there was no one to save?

What was the point of learning how to heal, when he no longer wanted to save?

It was a feat not many in history had achieved. One he had unlocked on a whim after his death. He tested it on injured rabbits and deers that escaped wolves' canines.

He could tell from your gaping reaction that it was still a rarity.

The burn disappeared, skin and tissue replenishing itself. No scars. Lucky you.

Only then did he take the time to notice how small your hand was in his. A frail, pitiful thing. Smooth when against his callouses and the etches carved in his skin. His paleness still had yet to meet a match.

He dared to meet your eyes as he slowly released your hand. Watching the awe warm your stare. Awe that he remembered. Awe that he now hated.

Satoru almost regretted healing you in the first place. A begrudging call from the back of his mind told him that he would have done it no matter the reaction.

"Thank you." You said. Quiet and timid. It churned his gut.

He shook his head. He should stand. He should leave. He should call you stupid for your mindless behaviour. Hurl an insult that dimmed the light in your eyes, because it was better to destroy. Better to be hated, than to be loved.

All he could do was huff.

"You really are weak."

It was low, but hardly as stabbing as he would have intended. Every other time he had called you weak, his voice was thick with disdain.

But now, here, as he sat beside your hopeless form, looking into your hopeful eyes, and hating every second of it—

He called you weak with envy in his stare.

You flinched. You always did. Fragile butterfly whose wings fluttered at the smallest of flicks.

Raising to his feet, Satoru made his decision. Whether he pushed himself into the nightmarish blizzard or not, it did not matter. His mind would not rest tonight. He would not know peace.

Only you.

You, and the deer, the mirror that glared between you both.

You and your weaknesses.

And your hopelessness.

Uselessness.

And your hopeful eyes that he despised from the depths of his wretched soul.

Satoru did not want your hope. Hope kept people alive.

And he barely even wanted that for himself.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/zclhs. art cred: @/caramelsuguru ( twt )