#yukata

"I am not," Suguru said from somewhere behind him, but Satoru heard the click of a camera shutter and chose to ignore it.

He was not staring.

He was... anticipating.

There was a difference.

The three of them were waiting outside your apartment building, the summer air thick and warm. Lanterns glowed in the distance — the festival had already started, music and laughter drifting down the street. Satoru had been here before. He'd been to a hundred festivals. They were fine. Loud. Crowded. Nothing special.

But tonight was different.

Because tonight, you were going with them.

And you were wearing a yukata.

"Don't think about the yukata," he told himself. "You'll short-circuit. You'll say something stupid. You'll—"

The door opened.

Satoru forgot how to breathe.

You stepped out into the golden evening light, and you were wearing a yukata the color of summer peaches — soft pink with little white flowers scattered across the fabric. A pale yellow obi wrapped around your waist, tied in a perfect bow. Your hair was different too — pinned up, with a few strands falling loose around your face.

You looked like something out of a dream.

Like the main character of every summer festival episode he'd ever watched.

Like home.

"Sorry I took so long," you said, tugging at the sleeve self-consciously. "I've never worn one before. Does it look okay?"

Okay? She asked if it looked okay? He was going to pass away. Right here. On the sidewalk. Suguru would take another picture.

"You look," Satoru started, and his voice came out strangled. He cleared his throat. "You look beautiful."

Behind him, Shoko's eyebrows shot up.

"Beautiful?" his brain screamed. "That's better than "nice" but you're still—"

"Beautiful?" you repeated, a smile tugging at your lips.

"I mean—" His ears were burning. "You look. Good. Great. Fantastic. Beautiful was the first word. I'm going to stop talking now."

You laughed — that soft, wonderful laugh — and something in his chest cracked open.

"Thank you," you said. "You look beautiful too."

He was wearing a simple gray yukata. Nothing special. But the way you said it — like you meant it — made him feel like the luckiest person in the world.

"Okay, lovebirds," Shoko interrupted, already walking toward the festival. "The fireworks aren't going to watch themselves."

Suguru fell into step beside her, but not before shooting Satoru a look that said "you owe me for this".

Satoru ignored him.

Because you were walking next to him now, close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm, and he could smell your perfume — something floral, something soft — and he was never going to survive this night.

The festival was everything you'd hoped for.

Lanterns strung across the street like little golden stars. The smell of grilled corn and sweet soy sauce. Children running past with cotton candy clouds in their hands. Laughter and music and the warm glow of a thousand lights.

And Satoru.

Satoru, who kept looking at you when he thought you weren't watching.

Satoru, who bought you taiyaki without asking because he remembered you said you liked the red bean ones once, months ago.

Satoru, who was currently watching you try to win a goldfish with an expression of intense concentration, like he was the one holding the paper scoop.

"You're going to break it," he said.

"I am not."

"You're being too aggressive. You have to be gentle. Like this—" He reached over, his hand covering yours on the scoop. His palm was warm. His fingers were long and careful. "Slowly. See?"

You weren't looking at the goldfish.

You were looking at his profile — at the way the lantern light caught his white hair, at the soft focus in his eyes, at the small smile playing on his lips.

"Satoru."

"Mm?"

"You're not helping."

"I'm instructing."

"The goldfish is getting away."

He looked down. The goldfish had, in fact, swam off.

"...That wasn't my fault."

"It was entirely your fault."

"You distracted me."

"I didn't do anything."

"You exist. It's very distracting."

The words hung in the air between you.

Satoru's ears turned red. He pulled his hand back like he'd been burned.

"I mean—" he started.

"I know what you meant," you said softly.

And you smiled — a small, private smile that made his heart stutter — and turned back to the goldfish.

You didn't catch one.

But Satoru bought you a little plushie from the booth next door instead. A tiny white cat with blue eyes that looked suspiciously like someone he knew.

"This is stupid," you said, hugging it to your chest.

"It's sentimental."

"It's a cat."

"It's a very handsome cat."

You laughed, and Satoru decided that was his new favorite sound.

The four of you found a spot on a grassy hill overlooking the festival — close enough to see the stage, far enough to hear each other speak. The sky was darkening, the first stars just beginning to appear.

Shoko and Suguru had conveniently wandered off to "get food" ten minutes ago and hadn't come back.

Satoru knew exactly what they were doing.

He was going to kill them. Slowly. With Infinity. Maybe.

But for now — for now, he was alone with you. On a hill. Under the stars. And you were sitting so close that your shoulders touched every time you breathed.

"Your friends are very obvious," you said, not looking at him.

"They're not my friends. I don't know them."

"They literally live with you."

"Roommates. Acquaintances. People I tolerate."

You laughed. "Liar."

"I'm the strongest," he said, staring straight ahead. "I don't lie. It's beneath me."

"Mm."

"I don't."

"Okay."

"I'm serious."

You turned to look at him — really look at him — and his breath caught in his throat.

"Satoru," you said softly.

"What?"

"Thank you for tonight."

He swallowed. "For what?"

"For this." You gestured vaguely at the festival, the stars, the space between you. "For... everything. For always being here. For remembering I like red bean taiyaki. For the stupid cat."

"He's not stupid. His name is Gojo Satoru Jr."

"His name is what?"

"Too late. I've already decided. He's our son now."

Our son. He said our. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You were quiet for a moment.

Then — softly — you said, "You're different than I thought you'd be."

"Different how?"

"I don't know." You looked down at your hands. "I thought you were just... Gojo Satoru. The strongest. Untouchable. But you're not. You're just... Satoru. Who buys me taiyaki and loses at goldfish and names stuffed animals after himself."

"I didn't lose at goldfish. I was instructing."

"You distracted me."

"I exist. It's very distracting."

You looked up at him, and your eyes were soft, and your lips were parted, and the space between you had somehow gotten much smaller.

"Satoru," you whispered.

"Yeah?"

"I think—"

A firework exploded overhead.

Then another. And another.

The sky erupted in color — gold and red and blue — and the crowd around you cheered. Children clapped. Couples held hands.

And Satoru sat there, heart pounding, watching the fireworks reflect in your eyes.

You turned to him, smiling. "They started!"

"Yeah," he said. "They started."

But he wasn't looking at the fireworks.

He was looking at you.

And he thought — I love you. I love you. I love you.

The words were on the tip of his tongue.

But before he could say them, you moved.

You leaned in — so close that your nose brushed his, so close that he could feel your breath on his lips — and the world stopped.

"Satoru," you whispered again.

"Yeah?"

"Stop thinking."

And then you kissed him.

Right there. On the hill. Under the fireworks.

His brain short-circuited.

She's kissing you. She's KISSING you. DO SOMETHING—

His hand came up to cup your cheek, gentle, almost reverent. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his yukata, and you were smiling — he could feel it against his lips — and he was pretty sure he was dreaming.

When you finally pulled back, the fireworks were still exploding overhead, painting your face in gold and blue and red.

Your eyes were bright. Your lips were parted. Your cheeks were pink.

"Hi," you said softly.

"Hi," he said back, his voice barely a whisper.

"I've wanted to do that for a while."

"You—" He blinked. "You have?"

"Months, Satoru. Months."

He stared at you.

Then he laughed — breathless, disbelieving, so full of love it hurt — and pulled you into his chest.

"I love you," he said into your hair. "I love you. I've loved you for— I don't even know how long. Years. Maybe longer. Maybe since the beginning. I can't remember what it felt like not to."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your eyes were wet.

"I love you too," you said. "I've been waiting for you to say something."

"I was scared."

"I know."

"I'm the strongest. I'm not supposed to be scared."

You smiled — that soft, wonderful smile — and kissed him again, quick and warm.

"Everyone's scared," you said. "Even the strongest."

He looked at you — at your messy hair, your smudged eyeliner, your bright, beautiful smile — and felt his heart crack open in the best way.

"Stay," he said. "After the festival. Stay with me tonight."

"I was planning on it."

He grinned — that stupid, brilliant, heart-stopping grin — and kissed you one more time.

The fireworks exploded overhead.

Neither of you watched.

The festival ended.

The crowds thinned. The lanterns flickered. The music faded into the warm summer night.

Satoru walked you home.

His hand was in yours.

Neither of you had stopped smiling.

"Today was perfect," you said.

"Today was okay," he said, and you swatted his arm. "I'm kidding! It was perfect. You were perfect. The fireworks were—" He looked at you. "The fireworks were fine."

"The fireworks were beautiful."

"They had nothing on you."

You stopped walking. "That was so cheesy."

"I'm romantic."

"You're embarrassing."

"And yet you kissed me."

"And yet I kissed you," you agreed, and you reached up to cup his face. "I'd do it again, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You did.

And when you finally reached your door, and when you kissed him goodnight, and when he floated home on a cloud of disbelief —

He thought, "I should have done that months ago."

And then he thought, "Suguru owes me fifty bucks."

One year later, you stood in front of the same mirror.

But this time, the yukata was different.

White and blue.

His colors — or rather, both of your colors now.

You ran your fingers over the fabric — soft, elegant, with little silver threads that caught the light like stars. You'd bought it weeks ago, hidden it in the back of your closet, smiled every time you thought about his face when he'd see it.

What you didn't know was that Satoru had done the same thing.

In his bedroom — across town, in the apartment you'd practically moved into — he was standing in front of his own mirror, adjusting the collar of a new yukata.

White and blue.

Your colors.

He'd bought it the same week you'd bought yours. Great minds thought alike.

"You're going to make her cry," Shoko called from the couch, not looking up from her phone.

"I'm not going to make her cry. I'm going to make her happy."

"It's the same thing with you."

Suguru, sitting in the armchair with a book, smirked. "Remember our bet?"

Satoru's ears turned red. "Shut up."

"You owe me fifty bucks if you didn't confess by the summer festival."

"I did confess. At the festival. Last year. Remember? The fireworks? The kiss? The—"

"I remember. That's why you owe me fifty bucks."

Satoru glared at him. "That's not how the bet worked."

"That's exactly how the bet worked."

"Suguru."

"Satoru."

Shoko sighed. "Can you two save the domestic dispute for later? She's going to be here any minute."

Satoru's heart jumped.

She.

You.

You were coming over. Tonight. To go to the festival together. Just the two of you this time — no Suguru, no Shoko (they were "coincidentally" busy, which Satoru knew was a lie but appreciated anyway).

The doorbell rang.

Satoru's heart stopped.

"Go get it, Romeo," Shoko said.

He walked to the door on autopilot, his hands slightly sweaty, his heart pounding. Why was he nervous? He'd known you for years. You'd been dating for a year. You'd seen him cry. You'd seen him with bed hair. You'd—

He opened the door.

And forgot how to breathe.

You were wearing white and blue.

White fabric with blue flowers — hydrangeas, maybe, or little morning glories — scattered across the silk. A pale blue obi tied in a perfect bow. Silver pins in your hair that sparkled like the fireworks from a year ago.

And you were looking at him with wide eyes.

Because he was also wearing white and blue.

His yukata was the inverse of yours — blue fabric with white flowers, a white obi, his white hair falling softly around his face.

"You're—" you started.

"You're—" he started at the same time.

Both of you laughed.

"We're matching," you said.

"We're matching," he agreed, and his voice was so soft, so full of wonder, like he couldn't believe this was his life.

"I bought this weeks ago," you admitted. "I wanted to surprise you."

"I bought this weeks ago," he said. "I wanted to surprise you."

Behind him, Shoko called out, "You two are disgusting. I love it."

Geto added, "Take a picture. It'll last longer."

Satoru ignored both of them.

He reached for your hand — your fingers intertwined with his, warm and familiar — and pulled you inside.

"You look beautiful," he said.

"You look beautiful too."

"I'm handsome."

"You're something."

He grinned — that stupid, brilliant, heart-stopping grin — and kissed your forehead.

"The festival?"

"The festival," you agreed.

You walked out together, hand in hand, white and blue matching under the evening sky.

Behind you, Shoko took a picture.

Suguru added it to the group chat.

And Satoru — walking beside the person he loved most in the world, wearing matching yukatas like the universe had planned it — smiled.

"Best fifty bucks I ever won," he thought.

A/N. HES SO ADORABLE WSHHHDHW !!! this idea popped up into my mind since i was watching a shoujo anime, shh!! i js know satoru would EAT in a shoujo anime JUSTICE FOR SHOUJO ANIME MALE LEAD SATORU !!!!!!!!! （；´д｀）ゞ