#nanago

Satoru feels a thrum course through his entire body—excitement at being the one who could draw out such a light-hearted sound from someone as grumpy as Nanami—but it’s offset by the warmth that explodes from his innermost self to the very tips of his fingers. It’s something he’s felt before plenty of times, so he’s accustomed to the way it heats his body to a near boiling point and pumps his heart so thoroughly that he feels faint; but the difference is where he is. He isn’t lording over a curse or standing before the higher-ups, pride flowing through his veins because he won something hard-fought, something that the cursed spirit made difficult, something that the higher-ups wanted to make impossible. But impossibilities don’t mean much to him—never have, never will.

But he wonders if pride is what he truly felt in those moments because as he tries to think back to the rush of his blood and the pounding in his ears, none of those memories truly match what he feels now.

There is something distinct, a swell in his chest that sets his back straight and pushes into his ribcage. It doesn’t hurt, though. No, there is a tenderness in this ache, like a reminder that as infalleable as he may be to a curse or the higher-ups, he is still a man susceptible to the sound of a soft laugh.

Or maybe susceptible to Nanami.

Satoru is at a dangerous tipping point—to allow the notion of someone becoming so significant to him—but he’s always been akin to even the most obvious of pitfalls, so he dives straight in, because if he thought whatever feeling rushed through his blood when he defeated a cursed spirit or gained the upperhand with the higher-ups was addicting, then he has no idea what he will do for a modicum of the same intensity of knowing he was the cause for Nanami’s laughter.

This is why he decides what he felt before this moment wasn’t pride. Not even close. Satisfaction, maybe—perhaps even gratification—but the fullness of his heart is something he will chase again and again, just for the briefest possibility to know Nanami is happy, even if just for a moment.

It’s an insurmountable pride to know for a fact that the reason for the soft, barely-there—but still present, nonetheless—laugh was because of him.

“Let’s go to the bakery you like!” Satoru proposes, though it’s not much of a suggestion as it is a statement. He stands up, pushes the chair into the table, and looks over expectantly at Nanami. He wants to sustain this feeling forever, imprint it to his memories so he knows just how little anything that comes after it will be.

Nanami is unimpressed, but his face doesn’t drop—it doesn’t even budge into something neutral. “You shouldn’t have sweets before dinner,” he chastizes, but he’s already out of his seat. He falls into step with Satoru, walking closer than he usually does. “We should get a meal first.”

“Oh, so you’d like to treat me to dinner, Nanamin?” Satoru teases, pressing into Nanami’s space. In the past, he would have been told to back away—and on a worse day shoved away—but now, Nanami only rolls his eyes and huffs.

In the years Kento has known Gojo, there haven’t been many moments of sincerity, at least not when he’s present. Gojo functions as a man with an ulterior motive, whether or not he actually possesses one in the moment; but there is special cause when it concerns his students. He is protective of his students in a way that is different from the usual care of a mentor to his pupil. There is something personal Gojo has built with each of his students that he doesn’t want to lose, and he showcases that in the ways he ensures not only their safety but their well-beings.

It’s an unfortunate weak spot left wide open, like a gaping wound, because now, from all the lengths Gojo will go for his students, he is unconscious—not much of a sleep when it’s unintentional.

Kento only notices because a weight drops onto his shoulder. He turns his chin and drops his gaze, but he’s only met with strands of white, drooping hair. He listens carefully to Gojo’s breathing, and it’s steady, even, like he’s asleep.

He can’t remember a time Gojo willingly dropped Infinity around him, and he knows that it is with no intentionality that Gojo’s naked cheek press into his chest, right against his heart.

Kento will not call Gojo careless or distrusting, but he is something close to both—as is common with strong men. He straightens his shoulders, ready to speak out loud to the ache in his back when Gojo stirs awake.

“Hold still,” Gojo grumbles, much like the petulant boy he pretends to be most days. Though, tonight, it seems he’s sincere.

Kento sighs. “There is a wall right behind us you can rest your head on.”

“Your heart is pretty steady,” Gojo hums, pressing deeper against Kento’s chest. “I’d think a salaryman like you would still be out of breath from all that moving around!”

Kento shoves Gojo’s head off his shoulder, except his hand doesn’t get close to Gojo, but not from Infinity. No, Gojo is just faster than him as he grabs his wrist and wrestles it down onto his lap.

“The kids like to argue with Shoko,” Gojo says airily, keeping Kento’s hand secure in his grasp, “I think they get it from me. They’ll be in there for a while. We can just rest. Sleep can do wonders for getting beat up by a curse!”

“Gojo-san—”

He’s interrupted by a particularly obnoxious exhale. He refuses to believe a person can fall asleep so fast, but he listens for the steadfast breaths; and now that their bodies are pressed even closer against each other, he can feel the even thump of Gojo’s heart, slow yet consistent.

It’s been a long while since Kento has seen Gojo rested, in the way he was more inclined to be when they were still young, but he thinks if he allows Gojo a moment of silence and safety—no matter how precarious it is to let Infinity down, leaving Kento the first line of defense—perhaps Gojo will awaken with the same, soft smile he puts on when he talks about his students; but this time, it won’t be fleeting. It will be more of a permanent fixture, now that he knows he is not the sole protector of those children.