#study date

↳ nerd! armin, who is going absolutely insane inside because you basically asked to hang out with just him.

"no, no! it's totally fine! i-i'd love to!" he quickly responds, shaking his head in reassurance.

↳ nerd! armin, who quickly fell for you, and kept falling harder the more you stuck around.

↳ nerd! armin, who is extremely fond of you, but too shy to say it out loud.

unlike you and your hilariously cute obliviousness, eren and mikasa immediately clocked armin's interest in you.

"oh, and in art, i swear those doodles looked like armin--"

"l-like me??!" he whipped his head around to mikasa, ds suddenly unimportant as you doodling him was mentioned.

while mikasa stifled a laugh at his reaction to the staged mention, eren burst into laughter, falling over as his amusement continued.

flushed pink and red, armin understood the prank, huffing as he turned back to his pokemon platinum run.

↳ nerd! armin, who along with mikasa and eren, is unaware that you do draw him in the margins of your math homework.

↳ nerd! armin, who despite his heart beating blisteringly fast at your proximity, patiently shows you the difference between questions in radians and degrees after school.

↳ nerd! armin, who watches as you adorably interrupt his lessons by pointing out the posters, comics and funko pops littered around his room.

↳ nerd! armin, who steps outside of his room while you work on more questions to take a fucking breather because oh my god you're sitting on his bed right now.

adjusting his inhales and exhales to the imaginary square in front of him, armin fixed his glasses, took another deep breath, and forced himself to reenter his room.

your attention flew to his entry, eyes like stars as you shot up with your notes in hand.

"look, look, look! i got it!!" you essentially pinned him against his own doorframe, a perfectly solved general solution with proper restrictions presented to him.

armin could hardly comprehend it, far too focused on whatever shampoo you used as its delicious vanilla scent flooded his senses.

"you're the best tutor ever, i can't believe i never came to you for help before." you flip your notes closed, stuffing it into your backpack as you spring yourself back onto his bed. "what should we do now, 'min?"

↳ nerd! armin, whose heart skips a beat as you gift him a nickname.

↳ nerd! armin, who quietly freaks out about the little doodles he caught a glimpse of when you flipped your notes closed.

↳ nerd! armin, who pretends to lose in smash bros. until you actually beat him like ten times, and then ten times more once you quickly learn the button inputs.

↳ nerd! armin, who can't wait to tutor you again.

↳ ❝ 𝙙𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙨 ❞

The sweet nickname tugs at something deep in your memory. Sun-drenched afternoons in the park with slushies that painted your tongues red and blue. The sound of giggles as he chased you down at the beach holding a washed up seaweed. A boy with impossibly white, messy hair and eyes with the whole sky behind them who would insist you were too quiet and insecure to have such a bright smile. He'd call you ‘Sunshine’ whenever he'd see you pout just to make you smile as he patched up your scraped knees and wiped away your tears.

It's been years. Maybe four or five, but the sound of that nickname with his voice wrapped around it, albeit a lot deeper now, pulls at every precious memory you kept safe in your mind.

You turn, your gaze finding the same boy with the same hair and the same eyes staring right back at you.

“Gojo?”

His lips twitch into a grin, slow and disbelieving, like he's not sure if you're just a figment of his imagination.

“Well, I'll be damned.” He says, leaning closer. “Didn't think I'd ever see you again, Sunshine.”

“You-” You blink, still half-stunned. “You remember me?”

Because to be quite frank, you didn't think he would after all these years. After years of never interacting since the day you left the beach town you grew up in.

“I could never forget you.” He laughs, still the same easy, careless sound you remember from your childhood, when he would win every game you'd play with him. “Who else drowns themselves in strawberry perfume?”

You still stare at him in disbelief, your hands itching to poke his cheek to see if he would poof away or stay.

“Or have the same deer in the headlights expression like that one time when she had to give a presentation for English class and almost peed herself in fear.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “You promised to never bring that up again.”

You can't stop staring, it's ridiculous really. Out of all the people who could walk into this lecture hall and sit in the seat next to yours, it had to be him. The Satoru Gojo.

“What?” Gojo grins wider, clearly enjoying the disbelief written all over your face. “You're looking at me like I'm a ghost.”

“You kinda are,” you murmur. “Last time I saw you was in the review mirror and you never spoke to me since.”

“Okay, ouch.” He winces, rubbing the back of his neck. The same nervous tick he always had. “You didn't have a phone so I couldn't message or call you. And I did try to send a letter a couple of times.”

“A couple?”

“Well-” He starts, all sheepish. “They got sent back to me, I think I wrote your address down wrong when you told me.”

“Gojo, you could've searched it up!” You shake your head. Though to be fair, the same kept happening to you for some reason. “You haven't changed.”

“Sure I have!” He says easily, leaning back in his chair. “I'm taller and my balls have dropped-”

“Okay let's not get too explicit now.” You cut in.

“-and I'm cooler and I've found my way back to you.”

You're about to come up with something witty, something to deflect the way your heart flutters when the door of the hall swings open and the hall quiets down. A tall man carrying a folder and a mug walks in.

Gojo straightens in his seat, whispering. “Guess that's our cue to be quiet.”

You shoot him a look. “You? Quiet?”

The lecturer sets his things down and surveys the room with a smile. “Good morning everyone,” he begins. “Welcome to Cognitive Psychology.”

You peek at Gojo, a smirk playing in his lips as he pulls up his notetaking program on his iPad and you still can't quite believe he's here.

The moment the professor dismisses class, Gojo stretches his arms high above his head and lets out an exaggerated groan. “God, I forgot how long fifty minutes feels like when you're not the one talking.”

You slide your laptop back into your tote, snorting. “You talk way too much anyways. This is a great exercise for you.”

He grins unbothered. “You say that like it's a bad thing. Little you loved how much I talk.”

You roll your eyes, but you can help yourself from smiling. Because he's right. You always loved how much he talked. How easy it was for him to start and carry the conversation without stumbling over words. Something you struggled in.

The hall fills with the sound of shuffling feet and murmurs of ‘see you around’. But, it feels like there's still a little bubble of quiet between you two.

When you finally start making your way out of the hall, Gojo naturally falls into step besides you.

“So, what's next on your schedule?”

You check your timetable on your phone. “Nothing until one. Thought I'd maybe… study. Or something.” That's a lie. You were actually considering heading back to your student accommodation to get a few more hours of sleep before your next class.

“Study,” he repeats incredulously, exiting the hall. “It's your first day. There's nothing to study. You're supposed to celebrate surviving your first class.”

You glance up at him, lips twitching. “And what do you suggest?”

He flashes you that all-too-familiar grin, steering you into a different direction.

“Coffee. My treat.” He says simply.

You hesitate for a second before giving in. “Fine. I hope you're paying for me. I still remember that one time you knocked my slushy out of my hand.”

“If I remember correctly, I bought you a new one.” He replies. “In fact I always paid for your drinks and snacks.”

The café Gojo drags you to is just outside of campus. Small and tucked between two bookstores, a place that smells like roasted coffee beans and sweet pastries.

Gojo pushes the door open dramatically. “After you.”

You roll your eyes but step in. The air is warm from the sun flooding in through the window and the sound of coffee machines fills the space. You find a small table by the front windows while he goes to order for the both of you. He still moves the same way he used to when he was little. Loose-limbed, confident, like everything revolves around him. He animatedly chats to the girl taking the order, making her laugh at some joke he says.

When he finally comes back, he balances two cups and two plates of pastries.

“One Vanilla Latte for you,“ he says, sliding the cup towards you, “and a strawberry turnover, your favourite.”

You smile at him, about to say your gratitude when you blink at the monstrosity that is in the other cup. A mountain of whipped cream and caramel drizzled on top.

“I thought _we_ were getting coffee.”

He grins, settling down into the booth opposite you. “There's coffee somewhere in there.”

You peer over the rim of his cup, the cream already melting and dripping over the edge of his cup. “That's not coffee. That's a whole dessert.”

“Semantics, there's caffeine.”

The first sip of your latte was smooth and hot, maybe a little too bitter, but it's exactly what you needed to shake off the early morning fog.

Gojo bites into his pastry before pushing his plate towards you. “Try it. You'll like it.”

You hesitate. “You already bitten it.”

“Like that stopped you before.” He blinks innocently, recounting all the times he'd share his food with you.

You give him a look but reach for the sweet treat anyways. He was right, of course. The pastry was buttery and flaking and the berry filling wasn't too sweet. You hum in delight, licking your bottom as you put the pastry down.

“I told you you'd like it.”

There's something familiar in the way he looks at you, like he's memorising every expression.

“So,” he says, taking a sip from his drink. “What's life been like without me? Still collecting those pink, hello kitty, sheep things?”

“My Sweet Piano? Yes, she's still my obsession.”

“I remember you having a whole collection of her stuff. Toys, plushies, bags, socks, _blankets_. You were obsessed.”

“And I still have them.” You nod, “though most of them are back at home.”

“Weird as hell. Imagine sleeping with a massive pink sheep blanket.”

You kick his shin lightly under the table, “You cannot speak. You drew on a shirt saying “Girls love Gojo” and walked around with it on.”

“Come on, I was like ten.” He remarks. “And it wasn't even that bad.”

“No, that was a whole war crime. There was not one girl that even liked you”

He bursts out laughing, tipping his head back and for a second you just watch him. The sunlight catches in his hair and makes him all glowy, the way his eyes crinkle when he really laughs. It hits you all at once how much you missed this.

How much you missed him.

Then, as if he feels your gaze, he opens his eyes and looks at you.

His smile softens. “You still do that thing.”

You blink. “What thing?”

“Smile like you’re trying not to,” he murmurs, and you can tell he doesn’t mean it as a joke this time. “You used to do it when you were shy, remember? I’d say something stupid, and you’d try not to laugh.”

“Maybe I've gotten better at hiding it.”

“I don't think so,” he says, his tone lighter now, but there's warmth beneath it. “I think you just forgot how it feels to be around someone who makes you laugh.”

You glance up at him, a bit stunned at how sincere he sounds. He watches you, chin propped on his right hand, eyes the same bright shade you always loved.

You clear your throat. “You're still dramatic.”

“And you still don't know how to take a compliment.” He says easily, his grin returning.

You smile, grateful for the shift back onto something more playful than you. To fill the silence, you reach for the sugar jar on the table to sweeten your coffee a little bit. And promptly spill a little across the table surface.

Gojo laughs immediately. “Some things never change.”

“Shut up.”

The conversation shifts after that. To music, shows, all the random bits you both missed out on in each other's lives. He tells you about the house he lives in off campus with all his friends from high school. One of his family houses that they own. He tells you about a camping trip where he breaks his tent and ends up sharing it with one of his friends named Suguru. You tell him about how you already locked yourself out of your dorm past midnight and had to wake up your roommate to let you back in again. By the time you realise how long you've been talking, the café’s nearly full and both your cups are empty.

When you start getting ready to head out, Gojo stretches and glances at you. “I'm glad it's you.”

“Huh?”

“To be the first familiar face I'd see today.”

“Yeah… me too.”

You only notice how much time has passed when your phone buzzes with a reminder for your next class. “Oh! I should really start heading out.”

Gojo nods, then perks up as if remembering something important. “Right! Before you escape.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Your number, Sunshine. I'm not letting the universe separate us again.”

You raise a brow. “You could've just asked normally.”

“I am asking normally. This is my normal.”

You sigh, but you’re already reaching for his phone. When you hand it back, he looks at the screen and grins. “Not even a heart emoji?”

“Don't push your luck.”

He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “Cold. My Sunshine's gone cold on me.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder, fighting a smile. “Don't know what you're on about.”

As you step out of the café, the air hits warm against your skin, and Gojo falls into step beside you again. He doesn’t say anything this time, just walks close enough that your shoulders occasionally bump against each other.

At the corner, your paths split. You turn to him, smile small but genuine. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Anytime,” he says, and you know he means it.

You wave once before you turn down your path. But then you hear him say, “I'll message you. I won't leave you waiting for me again.”

Even as the crowd swallows you up, you can feel his eyes on your back and you feel your heart aglow.

The house is alive in the way it is after the first day of university. Someone's music is leaking faintly from upstairs, the smell of microwave food hanging heavy in the air and the clicking of laptop keys from the living room.

“Your favourite roommate has returned!”

Satoru Gojo kicks off his shoes and tosses his bag on the couch before sprawling out next to Suguru, who seems to be organising his notes from today.

“Bold of you to assume you're anyone's favourite.”

Shoko sits curled up on an armchair, balancing a tray of microwave macaroni and cheese on her lap and a cigarette between her fingers. “You've been gone for a few hours. That's not enough time for us to start missing you.”

Satoru dramatically presses his hand to his chest. “Such hostility! I come bearing joy and friendship.”

“You come bearing noise.” Suguru corrects, typing something into his laptop. Then he finally looks up and pauses. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Smiling like what?”

“Like you either won the lottery or committed a felony.” Shoko says between puffs. “Which is it?”

Satoru grins even wider. “Neither. I saw someone today.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow. “A girl?”

“A special girl.” He says, “My childhood best friend. I sat next to her in my nine a.m. lecture. Totally random. It's fate. Kismet even.”

That makes both of them look up.

“Really?”

“Did she recognise you?”

“Not at first,” Satoru admits, stretching his legs out. “But then she couldn't stop staring at me.”

He peaks a look between the two of his housemates, both staring at him with interest.

“Her name's-” he stops, smiling faintly, “-well, Sunshine. I used to call her that.”

Shoko snorts. “Sunshine? That's disgustingly cute.”

“She was disgustingly cute,” Satoru corrects. “Still is. She looks the same, just-” he waves his hand vaguely, “older. Prettier. And she still smells of strawberries.”

“Is this the same girl you told me about? The one you used to play with all the time when you were a kid.”

Satoru nods eagerly. “She was my favourite person. We spent every day together. At the beach, the arcade, bike rides. She'd fall asleep on my shoulder while we watched movies. We even shared a lot of classes in school together. And then one day she was just gone.”

“Her family moved, right?” Shoko asks.

“Yeah,” his voice grew quiet. “I tried sending her letters but they always got returned back to me.”

For a moment the living area grows quiet, except for the distant hum of a video game from Haibara's room. Even Shoko looks at him with something that resembles fondness.

“She looks the same,” Satoru repeats. “Same eyes. Same smile. Same voice that now makes me want to-”

“Don't finish that sentence.” Shoko interrupts, cringing.

“Anyways, I got her number so it only goes up from here.” Satoru says, sitting up.

Suguru’s expression turns warm. “I'm happy for you.”

“Thanks,” Satoru says quietly, sincerity peeking through his usual theatrics.

Shoko flicks her cigarette into an ashtray, smirking. “Just don’t scare her off with your whole… you.”

“My you is charming,” he insists.

“It’s loud.”

“It’s dramatic.”

“It's part of my charm!” He argues, flopping dramatically across Suguru's lap. He nudges him until Satoru rolls onto the floor with a thud.

The rest of the night settles into easy conversations. Shoko complains about her lab schedule and Nanami comes downstairs only to leave again when Gojo starts rambling to him. When the house goes quiet and everyone has returned to their rooms, Satoru's lying on his bed, phone glowing dimly in the dark. Your contact sits there, no emoji, no hearts, not even ‘Sunshine’. In fact it's your whole government name.

He winces. That feels wrong now.

He hovers for a moment, typing out:

Satoru: Don't forget to set an alarm for tomorrow's tutorial

He stares at it.

No, that's stupid.

He deletes it.

He types out and deletes a few more messages, too formal, too friendly, too much.

He sighs, staring at your contact again before changing it to the nickname that has been sitting on the back of his tongue since he saw you this morning.

“Not losing you again.” He murmurs, before finally sending a message.

Satoru: still can't believe it's you

He tosses the phone to the side as he blindly reaches for the old tin of lip balm he keeps on his bedside table, picking it up to play and twist the lid.

His phone buzzes and he scrambles for it.

sunshine: me neither.

There's a pause, the typing bubble blinking.

sunshine: today made me realise how easy it was

Another typing bubble. Longer this time.

sunshine: i really missed that version of us

He laughs softly in his quiet room, a little too happy for his own good before typing out a message before he falls asleep

Satoru: then maybe we should fix that

The first time you met Satoru Gojo, you were playing at the beach, your parents somewhere behind you as you attempted to build a castle. Just you and your pink sheep plushie.

The sand's everywhere. In your sandals, in your pockets, in your hair even though you promise you didn't roll around it. The sun is big and warm on your back as you try your very best to smooth out your tumbling castle.

You're concentrating very hard, brows furrowed and your tongue poking out, patting the side of a wonky tower. Suddenly a shadow falls in front of you and you see a boy with the fluffiest white hair you've ever seen and the biggest, blue eyes that look like the sky.

“Are you building a house for crabs?”He asks, dead serious.

You blink at him, “no? It's a castle.”

He squints at it. “Looks like a potato.”

“You're a potato.”

He gasps like no one has ever called him that in his life before plopping down next to you with the biggest grin. “I'm Satoru Gojo and I'm not a potato. I'm, like, the king of this beach.”

You didn't know if beaches could have kings, but he said it so confidently that maybe they did.

Without asking for permission, he grabs a handful of damp sand and dump it on your half done castle. Not smashing it, just adding a messy lump of sand on top.

“There!” He says, confidently. “Now it's cooler.”

“It looks worse.”

“Well,” he says, grabbing a spade, “that means we have to start over. With me helping because I'm really good at building sand stuff. I once built a sand dragon but my mum said it didn't look like one but she doesn't get art.”

You giggled and he looked very pleased with himself.

Then quieter, like a secret for only you and the sea are meant to hear he asks, “do you want to be my friend?”

You smile brightly, perking up at the question. “Yes!”

And just like that, he starts digging beside you, humming some song, talking way too much, getting sand everywhere, and somehow you felt a little less like you were alone at the edge of the world.

By mid-September, you’ve somehow slipped back into Gojo's daily orbit without even meaning to. It’s nothing serious really. Just shared notes, shared tables, shared space, though he always ends up choosing the seat beside you instead of across.

At first it was casual, him finding you at the campus library during your free time, sitting at a round table with two chairs before taking the seat opposite you to rewrite his notes on his iPad.

“Hello Sunshine!” He'd say, loud enough for the librarian to glare at him.

You'd shush him, knocking a foot against his and he'd grin like he'd accomplished something huge.

It's like that for a few days. Him popping in and taking the seat and spreading his belongings out opposite you like he owned the table. Half of the time, you don't think he's seen studying, he scrolls on his phone, doodles little caricatures of what you assume are his friends or whisper comments about the people around the two of you. You've started to catch yourself waiting for the moment his shadow falls over your table.

One afternoon, he tosses his bag on the seat opposite you, pauses, then drags it around next to you before sitting. Close enough your elbows would bump into each other if you're not careful.

He doesn't seem to notice, but you definitely do.

“Hope you don't mind,” he says, spinning a pen between his fingers and you notice how much bigger his hands have gotten.

You shake your head. “It's fine.”

“Great, because my friend Nanami kicked me out of our usual studying spot.” He says, unlocking his iPad, like that explains why he decided to sit right next to you. “He also said I was too distracting.”

Well he isn't wrong about that.

“You have another studying spot?” You ask, tilting your head at him.

He shrugs, twirling his pen once, twice, and then letting it tap against the table. “Mhm, a couple actually. One by the window on the second floor of the library, I study with Nanami there. Another on the floor next to the vending machine in the psych building- don't laugh, it has great snacks.”

“I didn't laugh.”

“You were going to,” he accuses lightly, leaning closer, all playful grins and bright eyes. “I see your hand.”

He looks pointedly at your right hand, frozen above your mouth like you were going to cover it to laugh. You drop it, rolling your eyes but you really can't help the small smile tugging at your lips. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

For a second it's quiet. Not library quiet but something a lot warmer. Like the sun slipping through the blinds and landing across your collarbone. A small moment that hangs between the two of you.

But then Gojo clears his throat, exaggerated and dramatic. “Anyways! Nanami kicked me out. Said I act like ’a newborn discovering object permanence’ whenever I study with him.

You snort. “Honestly? I can see it.”

“Well,” he said, sitting up straight and bumping his knees against yours, “now you can suffer instead.”

He doesn't say he could've gone somewhere else, or gone to his vending machine. He doesn’t say why he sat right next to you on purpose. He just plops in his airpods and focuses on rewriting his notes.

He just stays. Watching you rewrite the same theories and case studies over and over again on your little whiteboard, quietly whispering them as you try to get them to stick into your head.

But the more you study, the more your brain turns to static.

You reread the same page again, tracing the same bullet points and rereading all the key terms but the moment you look away to focus on the next piece of information, it's like someone wiped your mental whiteboard clean.

You know the theories, it's easy to understand. But asking your brain to hold onto them? That's asking for too much apparently.

Your right leg bounces relentlessly. Tapping your pen against the table and your jaw tightens in the way it usually does when you feel the frustration seeping in with heat rising on the back of your neck.

Gojo knee knocks yours.

“You okay?” He asks, pulling out an Airpod.

You didn't even realise he's been watching you this whole time in those little in-between moments, his screen still open but his attention drifting.

“I swear,” you huff, “my brain has a leak. Like information goes in and then drips right out the other side.”

“Overflow, huh?”

“Underflow.” You correct woefully. “Absolutely nothing is overflowing.”

“It's like-” You drop your head to your hands. massaging your forehead. “I get it when I read it. But I just can't seem to keep it in. I understand everything individually, but when I try to recall it I just go blank.”

Gojo studies you for a second. Not teasing. Not smug. Just soft.

You look away and whisper, “It's embarrassing.”

He shakes his head, “no it's not. You just learn differently.”

“Yeah,” you fiddle with your marker. “Well, my ‘different' isn't working very well right now.”

You glance at the time on your phone and you decide that you had enough with studying for today. You quickly gather your things, Gojo watching from beside you, chewing down on his bottom lip in thought.

“You okay?” You ask now.

He shifts a little. “Hmm, yeah. Totally. I'm great.”

You quirk a brow. “You're being weird.”

He groans quietly. “I know.”

There's a long awkward beat where he fiddles with his pen. Spinning it between his pale, slender fingers. Dropping it. Picking it up again. You've never seen him so antsy before. Restless? Dramatic? Annoying? Sure. But antsy and nervous?

It's starting to stress you out.

Finally, he clears his throat.

“Hey…” he says, “would you- um, you've been working really hard.”

You blink. “... Thank you. I kinda suck at retaining-”

“You don't suck.” He says immediately, his ears turning a tiny bit pink. “Maybe you're just not studying in a way that works for you.”

“You think so?”

He nods.

You don't really know what to say to that, so you just stare at him. He keeps fidgeting, tapping his fingers against the table.

Then in a rush, he blurts, “do you maybe want to study at my place?”

You blink at him again.

“This afternoon?”

“Um…”

He sits up straighter, eyes wide and bright like he's afraid that he made you uncomfortable. “Not like- not in a weird way. I mean, my notes are cleaner and I understand this module quite well, and I thought, I don't know, it might be easier if we go over it together.”

He swallows.

“Oh, and my place is empty tonight. Well, except for Nanami but he ignores me most of the time so he doesn't count.”

You stare at him, stunned at how earnest he suddenly is. It's so unlike the carefree, loud Gojo you remember from when you were little that your heart does a small, inconvenient flutter.

“I also miss you a lot.”

“Miss me?”

Gojo's cheeks flushes pink now, looking away from me. “Yeah, I've been missing you since you moved away.”

Heat rushes up your neck so fast it’s almost dizzying, the kind of fluster that makes your fingers clumsy and your brain foggy. You focus way too intently on your stationary, your throat feels tight and your pulse embarrassingly loud in your ears. You can’t look at him. Not when he’s sitting there all pink-cheeked and earnest and saying he missed you.

“Oh,” you mumble softly, barely louder than a breath.

You gather all your markers, your hands fumbling over themselves and how completely, inconveniently warm you feel. For someone who just spent an hour studying dual-processing theories, your brain seems to have shut off both systems entirely.

“I would love to come over.” You say finally.

His head snaps up, eyes sparkling. “Yeah?”

The grin that spreads across his face is blinding, blubbering out, “okay, cool! Cool, cool, cool.”

And then soon after you're walking out of the library, your phone pinging with a message from him with his address telling you to come later in the afternoon.

Back in your student accommodation, your room feels too small for all the thoughts ricocheting around your head. You stand in front of your mirror for what's probably the fourth time, tugging at your shirt before swapping it out that looks almost exactly the same but with lace trim.

Comfortable. Cute. Not doing too much. Not doing… anything, really.

Your room looks like a clothing explosion. A couple of jumpers on the bed, a cardigan slung over your desk chair, a pile of shirts you rejected for reasons you can no longer articulate.

Utahime, your roommate, watches you from her desk, chin propped on her palm and eyes tracking your every move. “You know,” she says slowly, “you're acting like you're getting ready for a date.”

“It's not a date,” you correct immediately, nearly tripping over a haphazard boot in the middle of the floor as you pull a shirt over your head. “We're just studying. At his place. Completely normal. Totally-” you pause, staring bleakly at your reflection. “-totally normal.”

She raises an eyebrow at you. “Uh-huh, all totally normal. Not a big deal at all.”

“It's not a big deal.” you reiterate, switching tops again and grimacing at the mirror. “It's just studying.”

“Yeah, with Gojo.” She adds pointedly, like his name alone explains everything.

You open your mouth, close it and then sigh. Coincidentally, Utahime and Gojo went to the same high school. Unsuperisingly really, since the university is only one town away from your hometown where you grew up. It makes a lot of sense that most of Gojo's friends are also here too.

Well, you wouldn't consider Utahime and Gojo to be friends.

Maybe you should book a day trip down for a visit. Wander around on the beach you used to play all afternoon and evening.

Maybe you could invite Gojo to join you.

“I don't know why I'm so nervous. Gojo was my best friend since we were in nursery school. We used to share a bed during sleepovers. This shouldn't feel weird.”

Utahime snorts. “Okay, ignoring the bed thing for a moment, five years is a long time. People change. Some get taller. Some get insufferable,” she pauses. “... Though in his case, he was already insufferable.”

You almost laugh, pressing your hands to your burning face. “I liked it better when this felt normal. When he was just… him.”

“He is still him,” she says, gentler now, coming to perch herself at the edge of your bed. “Annoying. Way too loud. Obnoxious. But he clearly likes being around you.” She nudges your knee. “And you clearly like that.”

Your stomach flips unpleasantly at how true that is.

“Even though you call him ‘Gojo’ and not his first name.”

“It just feels strange to call him Satoru after all this time.”

Utahime eyes the heap of clothes. “Wear the blue one. It suits you.”

You pull it on, and it does look nice.

“Good.” She nods, satisfied, and walks back to her desk. “Now breathe. You're going to study, not enter a lion's den.”

You manage a small smile, checking your outfit in the mirror for another hundredth time.

“Now, back to the bed thing.”

You groan, hiding your face behind your hands as Utahime unleashes an onslaught of questions.

You leave not long after, still feeling Utahime's amused burning into your back as you grab your bag and coat and head out of your building. The walk to Gojo's house is short, only just a twenty minute walk from the main campus, but it feels longer. Probably because your heart insists on performing an embarrassing drum solo the entire way.

When you reach his house, you double check the address he messaged you and knock on the door.

The door swings open almost immediately.

Gojo fills the doorway, starry-eyed and practically buzzing. “You've made it!”

You blink at how fast warmth rushes up your neck. “Hi, Gojo.”

He steps aside and gestures to you to come in. “I'm so glad you're here. I thought you wouldn't turn up.”

You step in, slipping off your shoes as Gojo beans at you like you're sunlight in human form. The space is tidy in a way where at least a few people living here are responsible, and it's definitely not Gojo.

A blond man sits at the dining table with a textbook open and glasses low on his nose. He glances up when you enter.

“Hello,” he greets politely, offering a small nod. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Gojo leans in, stage-whispering. “Don't worry, Nanami's only intimidating during exam season.”

Nanami looks up at him. “I'm not intimidating. I'm responsible, something you clearly lack in.”

Gojo grins, planting a hand on your shoulder as he leads you up the stairs. “C'mon, my room is this way.”

“Don't you have more roommates?” You ask casually.

“Yeah, I do. Suguru, Shoko and Haibara.” He answers, turning down the corridor. “They all went out to go to some party.”

His bedroom door is slightly ajar, and he nudges it with his foot. The room is almost exactly like his bedroom you remember from when you were both little, just at a bigger scale and a different house. Bright, lived in, comfortable. A whiteboard propped against his blue walls, hoodies tossed over his desk chair and water bottles and energy drink cans littering most of the surfaces.

“Make yourself at home!” He says, dropping his hand only once you're fully inside. “I'm gonna grab some snacks from downstairs. Don't move. Or do move. But don't fall. Actually just-” He scrunches his face. “I'll be right back.”

Before you could tease him, he's gone, the door clicking shut as he escapes his room.

You exhale slowly into the quiet.

Then you look around.

It's impossible not to smile. Every corner feels like the little pieces of the boy you once knew. Silly, ugly doodles of his friends, the tiny collection of sea shells - even a few ugly ones you've picked out for him from all the way back then, a ridiculously big, white cat plushie that you won for him at a carnival when you were eleven.

You brush your fingertips along a photo frame. half tucked behind his lamp. His arms are thrown around Nanami and a few other people you don't recognise.

Your chest warms.

You step back, suddenly hyper-aware that you're standing in his space. His personal space. Waiting for him.

Your eyes drift over to his desk, where two chairs sit side by side, an over-spun swivel chair and a plain, wooden dining chair clearly dragged in for tonight. You pull out the dining chair and take a seat, your eyes wandering over his desk. Scattered notes, uncapped pens, empty cans forming a tiny skyline.

Gojo bursts in through the door, balancing a plate and a bunch of snacks.

“Okay!” He kicks the door shut with his foot, “I bought everything! Nanamin said I was bringing up too much food but I think he's wrong.”

He sets the food down, but his attention snags on you almost instantly. His smile falters into something more puzzled.

“Hey… wait,” he squints, stepping closer. “Stand up for me.”

You blink, confused, but you rise anyways. Gojo gently takes your shoulders, palms warm and steady and careful as he nudges you away from the dining chair and straight towards his swivel one.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just guides you down with that uncharacteristically soft focus he gets randomly, as if he's thinking too hard for his own good.

The seat cushions under you, far comfier than the other chair.

“There,” he says quietly, taking the other seat. “Better.”

You don't really know what to say, your face feeling warm. You glance at the food he bought and you still.

“Is that-”

Toast. A thick slice, still warm, with something golden and glossy and syrupy spread across the top.

Gojo brightens, almost proud of himself. “Toast with honey,” he confirms. “Yeah, I remember you loved it when we were younger.”

“You remembered?” You beam, reaching over to grab the plate.

“Of course I remembered.” He says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like forgetting was never an option.

You take a bite, your chest warming in a way that has nothing to do with the honey. Gojo watches you for a second too long before abruptly clearing his throat and grabbing his textbook.

“Anyways!” He flips open the book. “We should probably study before Nanami senses fun and comes over to distinguish it.”

“You say that like you even listen to the lectures.”

Ever since the first day of university, Gojo had made it a personal mission to always sit next to you. Coming early enough to save you a seat to his left.

And whenever you glance over at him, he's always playing around on his phone on some pizzeria game.

“That's slander, I actually record all my lessons and listen to them in my free time.”

You roll your eyes, leaning in to read the chapter heading. Gojo leans in too, so close the edge of his shoulder gently brushes yours. Neither of you pull back. “Right, and when do you have this free time?”

He shrugs. “Between classes, eating, whenever everyone else is busy and doesn't want to talk to me. Sometimes late at night if I can't sleep.”

You consider it for a moment. “That actually kinda makes sense for you.”

“Of course it does,” he says, flipping open to the Memory unit. “I'm a genius.”

You hum, grabbing your whiteboard and markers from your bag as you start writing down passages about encoding and retrieval clues in the way you always do, rewriting information you think you know.

This method is draining for you. Sure it worked when you were younger, but slowly but surely, information is starting to take longer to process for you. But it's the method you've always done, and you don't really want to explore a new way and disrupt your studying schedule you've always had.

Gojo watches you occasionally, glancing up, from whatever he's writing on his iPad.

Then, casually, he taps the end of his pen to your arm. “Sunshine.”

You hum in response.

“Lay it easy on your marker.”

You pause. Your black marker now completely mushroomed and stubbed at the tip.

He twirls his pen between his fingers, leaning back into his chair like he's two seconds from tipping over.

“You know what's weird?” He says, forgetting his own notes. “Memory stuff. Like how your brain saves things for later without asking.”

You give him a look, “Gojo focus.”

“I am focusing,” he insists, waving a hand vaguely at the textbook between the two of you. “Encoding, retrieval cues, all that stuff. We're doing that right now.”

Then without warning, he tilts his head, looking alarmingly young and boyish. Eyes going a little distant in the way he's going to take a left turn out of the main conversation.

“This unit actually reminds me of something.” He says, moving his wooden chair to face you, and you instinctively turn to fully face him. “Remember when you were chasing me with a water gun and you scraped your knees so badly it bled.”

You hum in thought. “Vaguely, though to be fair I fell a lot when I was younger.”

“Yeah, you were really clumsy,” Gojo says fondly, “I remember wiping your tears, because you cried so much your cheeks would be red and soaked. And then you insisted on me carrying you back home because it hurt too much to walk.”

“I didn't cry that much.” You argued.

Gojo scoffs. “You cried like I personally kicked you down a hill.”

“I was eight!”

“Exactly, peak dramatic age.” He says, teasingly. “Anyways, whenever you cried, you'd scrunch your face and furrow your eyebrows.” His finger gently taps the space between your brows. “You do that then you're focused too.”

You feel your face warm beneath his touch, his finger smoothing out the crease between your eyebrows. You swat his hand away, your heart feeling warm and embarrassingly fluttery.

“So, seeing you frowning when you were aggressively writing on your whiteboard reminded me of that.” He explains, turning back to the textbook. “That's how retrieval cues work. One little thing,” he pokes your cheek this time, “and your brain instantly remembers certain memories. They're external cues.”

It all makes sense now. The way Gojo explains it. Light and casual, like he's just talking and explaining it to you and not a textbook makes everything fall right into place.

There's a moment where you both just look at each other, sitting in the cozy atmosphere you both created. You don't quite want to leave it yet and go back to studying.

You quickly blurt out, “what else do you remember?”

“Hm?”

“Like from when we were kids, what other memories do you still remember?”

He leans back in thought, scratching the back of his head.

“Remember those rock pools? Behind your old street?”

You pause. “The one with loads of shells and sea glass?”

“Yeah,” he says softly, “we used to go there almost every day. More than the actual beach.”

“Because you like how much warmer the water was there than the beach.”

“No,” he corrects, giving you a look like you missed something so obvious. “It was because you loved it.”

He nudges your knee beneath his desk. “You'd climb over the rocks to find the best and warmest pool and you'd make me hold your hand cause’ you were scared you'd slip, which you did - a lot.”

You smile, not realising how much your heart aches for these moments.

“And you'd sit there,” he continues, “feet in the water, hair sticking to your cheeks and poking into the rock pools forever looking for shells and sea glass and making me take away all the little crabs.”

“The crabs pinches, Gojo. They hurt!”

He waves you off. “You always gave me the ones you didn't want, like, ‘Here you go, Satoru, this one is ugly. You can have it.’”

You snort, “No I didn't, you're lying.”

“No I'm not! You once gave me a piece of broken tile and said it reminded you of me. And you were so serious about it too!”

Your cheeks burn from smiling so much. “I was a menace.”

“No,” he says, smiling. “You were cute.”

The textbook between you sits forgotten, pushed somewhere near the edge of the desk, long abandoned in favour of stories you hadn’t realised you still remembered. Sweet, blissful fragment of being small together. Every time one of you finishes a memory, the other lights up with another, like you’re passing a spark back and forth.

You don't realise how much time has past, until the sky turns inky and the lamp posts outside the house started to lit up

Until Gojo's other roommates have finally come home from their night out.

Muffled voices and laughter floats up from the stairwell, heavy footsteps echoing through the corridor.

Gojo's door swings open.

A girl. A very beautiful girl with shoulder length hair and a drift of smoke curling from a cigarette between her lips.

“We're back Sato- woah.” She pauses, eyes widening between the two of you. “Sorry, didn't know you had a girl in here.”

“We're studying!” You explain quickly, hoping she wouldn't get any wrong ideas.

Behind, two guys fumble around, tripling over nothing as they walk past.

“Uh-huh…” she mumbles, glancing at her phone. “Perfectly normal time to be studying, past midnight. Nice to finally meet you, by the way.”

Oh dear, is that really the time?

You glance at the time on your phone, “Gojo! Why didn't you say anything!”

He shrugs, smiling like it's the simplest of things. “I was just so wrapped up with our stories.”

She chuckles around her cigarette, all raspy and pretty. “Right. Well, I'm showering. If Sunshine is staying over, I can lend her a spare change of clothes.” And then she disappears out the doorway before you could protest.

Gojo turns to you. “You can crash here, you know? If you want. You always used to. And it's late, it feels weird to let you walk back to campus in the dark.” He explains, before quickly adding on, “I would walk you back, but it's also really cold.”

It isn't weird with what he's asking. It should be, but it isn't. Not with him.

“Okay.”

A few minutes later, the girl, whose name you figured is Shoko, tosses you a toothbrush with a folded t-shirt and shorts with a lazy wave and leads you to the bathroom. You quickly send your roommate a text to not wait up for you as you quickly brush your teeth.

When you step back into Gojo's room, you already find him in bed, the blanket pulled to his chest with a pillow barrier for politeness.

You settle into the other side, the mattress dipping as you settle in. Strangely, even his bedding smells the same way you remember it.

“Thank you, Gojo.” You whisper, quietly. “For letting me stay over.”

For a while, only the hum of A.C fills the dark.

Then quietly, “Hey… why do you call me Gojo? And not Satoru?”

Your breath catches. “Because, well, I don't really know. It feels weird to go back to your first name after all this time. I wasn't sure if we were still close like that.”

He's silent for a few heartbeats. Not hurt, just thoughtful.

“Mm, makes sense,” he hums. “We'll figure it out.”

The warmth in his voice spreads through the dark, slow and smooth.

“Goodnight.” You whisper.

“Night,” he whispers back, “sleep well.”

And you do, slowly falling into a slumber of being eight and glowy.

The sun is starting to set as you're running so fast across the park, your sandals slapping the hard ground beneath you as you chase Satoru, giggles bouncing around in your chest as you clutch the water gun. Satoru is stupidly fast, it's not fair.

The ground is all bumpy and uneven with rocks, and you're not looking down. You don't think about falling, you just aim the gun at him to spray him with water.

“Bet you can't catch me!” He teases from ahead of you.

“I can too!” You shout back as you try to run faster, except your foot catches on something and suddenly you're flying forward and straight to the ground.

"Ow!"

Your knees hit the ground hard. It burns. It really, really burns. When you look down, there's red everywhere. A big gash, all red and angry with blood spilling all over.

Satoru skidded to a stop. “Sunshine?”

His voice sounded weird, like he swallowed a bubble.

Then he's right in front of you, dropped onto his knees so fast he almost falls too. “Woah! Don't cry, don't cry!”

“I'm not crying!” Your voice wobbles, as fat tears fall down your cheeks.

“You totally are,” he says, but it's all soft.

“It hurts! It hurts ‘Toru! This is all your fault!” You accuse between sobs. “If you weren't just sooo fast.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry.” He wipes your tears with his fingers, like he's done hundreds of times before before reaching into his pocket to take out some tissue and a small plaster he keeps in there for you and all your trips. “But you're okay! It's just blood. You have loads of it.”

That doesn't really help, but you watch him dab the blood up and quickly press the plaster on before more blood spills out. It's a bit too small, but it does the trick for now.

The sun is behind him as he patches you, making his fluffy white hair all golden and glowy like a halo. Like your own angel.

“You'll have to carry me home,” you say between tears when he finishes patching you up. “It hurts too much.”

He stands up and turns around. “That's fine, get on.” He waves his arms behind him, “you'll cry the whole time if you walk, and you cry super loud.”

“I do not!”

“You do.” He says, like he's telling you the sky is blue.

You climb on, arms around his neck as he grabs your legs and stands straight. He doesn't even struggle anymore, already so used to carrying you around.

You nuzzle your face into his shoulder, your hair tickling his neck as you dampen his shirt with hot tears.

“Stop crying, Sunshine. I got you.” He says, squeezing your legs as he starts walking towards the park's exit. “When we get home, I'm picking out a better plaster to put on you. A space one. Not a boring pink one.”

“But I like pink.”

“Okay,” he smiles, “I'll give you a pink one.”

Even though you're sniffly and hurting, it still feels better. Because Satoru got you. Smelling like summer and talking about how he was going to patch you up and tell you how tough you are later.

It's all okay. Because Satoru got you.

When Satoru wakes, his room is dim and still, the curtains faintly glowing from the early morning sun. For a moment he doesn't move, just blinks up at the ceiling, his brain's slow, like the kind of half awake fog when the world is still waking up.

Then he turns towards the other side of the bed, peeking above the pillow barrier.

Empty.

The duvet is slightly rumpled from where you slept, the pillow dipped in the middle in the shape of your head.

Oh.

Satoru pushes himself up on his elbows, hair sticking in every wrong direction, squinting like a confused cat.

“…Huh?”

His heart drops.

He rubs his eyes, trying to piece together last night.

The studying that turned into talking.

The way you laughed at all his jokes.

How you said, “Goodnight,” all soft and sweet, and how he wanted to say something about it but didn’t know how without sounding weird.

He glances over to his desk and notices your stuff is still there.

He lies back on the bed again, staring at the ceiling and feeling the ghost of your presence on the mattress beside him.

He lies there for another beat. Maybe you're in the bathroom, maybe you forgot your stuff and went home before he woke up, or maybe you're just getting water.

A very distinct laugh floats up from downstairs.

Not your laugh. Haibara's.

And then yours follows after.

Satoru bolts upright.

He swings his legs out of the bed, narrowly avoiding a hoodie he pulled off last night and shoves his door open with a bit too much force for someone who was basically unconscious a few minutes ago.

As he pads downstairs, the smell of something toasting drifts through the corridor. Butter or maybe strawberry jam. Maybe both, Haibara always goes a bit overboard.

He rounds the corner into the kitchen.

You're sitting at the counter, still in Shoko's shirt, hair a little messy from sleep, hands cupping a blue mug of tea Haibara must've made for you. Haibara stands across from you, leaning on the counter and talking animatedly, voice joyous and loud.

You're smiling.

“-And then Nanami said I'm not allowed to use the coffee machine anymore,” he spreads some jam across a piece of toast. “But he technically didn't say anything about using the toaster- oh! Morning Gojo!”

Haibara's face brightens up, waving the butter knife at him like a greeting flag.

You turn at the sound of his name, eyes lighting up.

“Morning, Gojo!”

You're here. Smiling at him. And Haibara hasn't poisoned you with his terrible cooking.

“Morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

Haibara beams. “We didn't wake you, did we? I told her,” he gestures to you, “that your ears are freakishly sensitive, but she said you sleep like the dead.”

“I do not sleep like the dead.”

“You didn't hear when I accidentally dropped the knife on the floor?”

“That was you?” Satoru mumbled, passing behind you and reached for a glass. “I thought it was a ghost.”

“Why would a ghost be using jam?”

“I dunno, a hungry ghost?”

You hide your smile behind your mug.

Satoru pretends not to notice. He fills his glass with water, pretending this is normal, that it doesn’t feel weirdly intimate seeing you in the morning like this. Barefoot, sleepy-faced, wearing Shoko’s shirt that somehow still feels too casual, like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t but also can’t look away from.

He takes the stool beside you, close enough to feel the warmth of your shoulder but not close enough to be obvious.

“Did we wake you?” You ask quietly.

“No,” he says, rubbing that back of his neck. “I just, uh, noticed you weren't there.”

Haibara wiggles his eyebrows. “Oooh. There, huh?”

Saforu gives him a look sharp enough to slice toast.

Haibara wisely turns back to spreading jam.

You tilt your head slightly, corners of your mouth tugging upwards. “I woke up early. I didn't want to disturb you.”

Haibara places a plate in front of you dramatically. “Special breakfast, courtesy of me. Don’t listen to Nanami, I am responsible.”

“Didn't you just say he banned you from the coffee machine?”

Haibara wanders off somewhere in the house after that, leaving the two of you alone.

Gojo nudges your elbows lightly.

“Morning.” He repeats, quietly.

“Morning.”

keep reading on part two