you seem to notice his reaction too—because if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t soften your face like that, or cup his cheeks like this right now, leaning down to press gentle kiss after the other across his face. it’s like you’re making up for years worth of moments that have been brushed aside, like you’re making up for the hurt parts of him that yearn for just one time that someone really looks at him. you press a kiss to the tip of his nose, across his forehead, along the angle of his cheekbone until one final press of your lips meets his own.

“‘m very proud of you,” you hum, rubbing a thumb over the soft flesh of his cheek, “always am. even if it was just luck this time,” you add teasingly, pinching his nose.

he grins, let’s the feeling bubble up his chest and spread until they reach his fingertips, let’s the warmth tuck itself under his skin and knit into his muscles as he relaxes against your hold. because here, when it’s just you, when the world’s not looking for gojo and he gets to just be satoru, you appreciate the small things no matter how trivial they seem to be.

even just doing well on a quiz.

“hey,” he defends, “it was a hard quiz.”

“it was over the first chapter. the easiest one, satoru.”

“but you’re still proud,” he winks, but you know it’s just to hear you say again, just to grant him one more opportunity to listen to the foreign words so he can really engrave them in his brain.

and maybe he thinks it’s the last time he’ll hear them, that it was just an accident and you’ll never repeat them again—because why would you be proud of him? why be proud of things that are expected?

but it doesn’t stop you from whispering them against his forehead once more. “yes, i’m very proud,” you murmur before pecking the skin.

“lots to be proud of when you’re dating me, sweetheart,” he says smugly—but if his voice is a bit strained and his lips are a little wobbly, you don’t mention it, and he’s grateful. “i’m a real catch, huh?”

“oh yes, i’ve won the lottery,” you nod, playfully flicking his forehead. and then your eyes turn tender, and your smile is sweeter, and the way you hold his face is as delicate as the love on your expression. “i love you, toru.”

“love you too, you sap,” he teases, but the look on his face is content, hopeful even, that maybe he has something to be proud of besides himself for once.

© hanmas do not plagiarize, repost, translate to other sites, or recommend on platforms outside tumblr such as tik tok

He hesitates, a single inhale answering you instead of words and now you can’t help but close your eyes in frustration. The descent from your high is slow, agonizingly so, as you bend at the knee to slide down to the floor before hitting rock bottom.

“You could have—” just the sound of your morose tone makes you choke. The disappointment should be familiar. After signing the divorce papers, you made a new promise to yourself which was to stop expecting anything from him. Yet here you are, committed only to the same mistakes of relying on someone you shouldn’t.

Falling into Rintaro is obsessive, a swallow into the deep. He makes it easy when the candid words people keep like secrets slip smoothly through his lips.

Maybe if you’d loved him a little older, when you’d learned falling in love is an ideal but being in love is the process, maybe then it wouldn’t have taken a couple of mistakes to whittle away from the foundation of your relationship. Disappointments were tallied like grudges and eventually, you two separated not even a year into marriage.

It took years of estranged meetings, secluded conversations when somehow the two of you were left alone in a room, and a couple of awkward phone calls when neither of you knew of anyone else to be vulnerable to to be where you are now and find that balance again.

Here you are once more, with the scales tipped away from your favor.

“You could have just said that.”

“The accounting manager invited me to this company event. I didn’t plan on going, but she asked and—”

“Ayame?”

He pauses, “yeah.”

“You could have said her name. I’ve met Ayame.” She never worried you but the fact that Suna decided to hide that detail does now even when it shouldn’t.

“Yeah.”

“So you’re going with her?”

“Is that okay?”

The instinctual answer falls flat behind gritted teeth. You want to say of course as if you even have a right. Maybe your friends should suffix your name as a reminder too with ‘ex-wife.’

“Why are you asking me? You know it doesn’t matter what I say.”

He hums a displeased sound. It makes you wince because you’re not quite sure you have enough restraint in you if he decides to push any further.

Gratefully, he simply changes the subject. “I still want to celebrate with you. You should have your day. Let me take you out to that one place we always talk about but never go.”

“No, I’m—”

“You said you deserve it,” Suna reminds, “and I agree.”

“No, it’s okay. I—“

“Quit being weird. Say, ‘Rin?’” he over exaggerates in pitch to imitate you, possibly clutching imaginary pearls. “‘Did you just agree with me? Who is on the phone right now because you’re not my ex-husband.’ And then I’ll tell you I ate him like Kirby. Then you ask me who’s Kirby—“

“I know who Kirby is.”

Suna disagrees almost a little too quickly, “nah, you don’t know who Kirby is. You know who Kirby is?”

“Yes! I know who Kirby is.”

“Well I’ll tell you about him anyways and educate you on 1990s Nintendo lore for the next fifteen minutes.”

You force a chuckle for his sake only. It convinces him because one more time, he says, “let me take you out.”

Relenting is the only option because Suna knows how to pick and choose his battles.

You can finally hear the smile in his voice, another surge of ache filling your chest when he asks, “next week?”

Next week comes but you’ve already made the necessary steps to isolate yourself from a repeated mistake. The gaps between texts gradually grow longer until you’re confident to leave him on read. Sometimes you’d call him after work just to update him about your day, but instead you change out that piece of your routine for a compelling new podcast.

He allows you to let go in grace, a clean rip versus the tattered remains of your past marriage and it’s rewarding to witness the growth.

Suna doesn’t even argue when your response to him asking what time he should set the reservations is think i have a fever. can’t make it

You think you’ve outdone yourself, unexpectedly content on your quiet weekend. The floor feels smooth as you glide your toes along it, swept and polished from earlier. Your new candle is burning and your blanket’s delicately soft and warm from the dryer.

These are the hobbies of an ex-spouse, independently involved from their ex-lover. Suna is only a passing thought when you imagine his face when he receives your message but you carefully tuck him away. Somewhere special. Somewhere far.

Unfortunately, your phone, though, is in your palm. It rings with a call from Suna. His name erupts a mess in your chest that you thought you’d cleaned. You throw your phone to the side, shove it into the cracks of your sofa so that it may muffle the sound. He calls again, followed by a flurry of texts, and then another phone call. Then eventually, silence.

You exhale a breath of relief. It’s clear now, that you have to move on. It’s a peace you’ve come to terms with.

Peace that is shattered by someone banging on your door. It’s only ominous for a second, heart racing, until it is accompanied by your phone ringing once more.

Apprehension tremors into your fingers as they clumsily reach for the device.

“Thanks for answering the phone,” Suna grits, “now the door.”

“I’m sick!” you throw in a dry cough for good measure.

“August 16, 2015. We used that same excuse to bail on Atsumu when we woke up too late from a nap.” He pauses for your reply but you don’t even know what to say. “January 3, 2016 we did the same thing to Komori. We told him you had a fever, sent him a picture of you with a rag over your head–”

“You did not tell me that!”

“–and everything. And then you actually got sick two days later and you said you’d never do it again because of karma. I sent you the pics if you actually read my text messages. I’ve got the receipts. That’s our excuse so tell me why you are trying to use it on me.”

“I’m not using anything on you!” You sniffle exaggeratedly over the phone, “I’m sick. Stop yelling at a sick person.”

“Prove it.”

Your face twists at the incredulous request, “how am I supposed to do that? Do you want me to slide my used tissue under the door?”

Suna chuckles. He sounds less mad, “no. Send me a picture of your outfit.”

“What?”

“You have a sick fit.”

“A sick fit?” There’s deliberate pauses between each word, enunciating them so Suna can hear exactly how ridiculous he sounds.

“You wear that dumb hoodie you got from a souvenir shop in Harajuku because they have the thumb holes on the sleeve and always a pair of fuzzy socks.”

It’s impossible not to huff, “you don’t know me.”

“Of course I know you,” he whispers, “you’re my ex-wife, you poop. So open the door for your ex-husband.”

“Poopy ex-husband,” you say, finally softening.

Suna laughs, “sure. Poopy ex-husband.”

Breathing feels easier now, as if without your even knowing, Suna’s resolved everything. There’s comfort in the fear, companionship maybe. So you take steps back towards him and open the door.

His typical, sharp eyes dart up to you when you do, analyzing your expression with a rigid jaw then dropping to check your attire. He smirks slightly while pushing his way in.

“Called it,” he says, celebratory. “I knew you weren’t sick.”

You can’t help but point out the bag of takeout in his hands, “is that soup?”

He’s nonchalant when he says, “contingency planning. What if you were actually sick? I’d be a dick if I barged in here and I was wrong.”

“You’re a dick anyways.”

“Maybe,” Suna sets the food down on your small dining table. You take a step forward, planning to continue the banter but there’s an intensity when he turns around that stills you where you stand. You shift your weight to the heels of your feet to escape the brunt of his stare.

“But you’re a liar.” He articulates the final word with accusation but cracks at the end. If he weren’t your ex-husband, if you didn’t know what he looked like at the altar and in front of a notary public, then you would have overlooked it. He’s hurt, clear in the crumbled edges near his lips, and you’re the reason why.

His pain swallows you to him. You pull him into an embrace that crashes the both of you onto the ground. He knocks his head against your chair but he ignores it to pull you in. His palm presses to the back of your head, pushing you into his chest.

“You should have just told me,” Suna rushes to speak, as if this moment could be swept from him at any moment. “I would have never gone with Ayame if it bothered you.”

You shake your head. Doing so, you dip deeper into his neck, “that’s not it.”

“Then what was it?” Honesty ladens his statement. Accompanied by the rocking motion he’s got the both of you in, it seems like he really wants to know.

“I got scared.”

“Scared?”

“We haven’t been acting very divorcey lately and I guess it scared me.”

He hums as he sways you for a little while longer. You situate yourself against him by tucking your legs to your chest. He presses you closer.

“I can send you divorce memes in the morning,” Suna offers. “We can threeway a phone call with our lawyer for the hell of it.”

You giggle, “you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Good,” he says. Suna leans down to press against the top of your head. It feels too close to a kiss, a whisper of it. “I like what we have now.”

You concur with a nod into his chest, burrowing your face closer to him.

“I get to love you in a way I’ve never loved you,” your heart suspends in both anticipation and dread because he loves you. They’re words that you’d both thrown away into the ocean long before you even divorced and not even this slow kindling of your relationship, whatever this may be, has ever given either of you the confidence to say it again. He just has and the sound of it makes you tingle between your shoulders. There’s excitement but also fear because just as he’s said, it’s not the same.

You yearn for more, unsatisfied with the faded edges of affection. It’s easier now to admit to yourself that you love him too. Though you’re not sure you’re the same as him. You love him.  You love him the way you promised you always would.

“What,” you shuffle against his hold and perch your chin against his collar bone. Your nose lands near his pulse. He smells of memories – of Monday mornings and midday meltdowns. He smells of everything in the in between that you can’t quite wrap around where he begins and ends. You swallow before finishing your words carefully, “do you mean?”

Suna tilts his head toward you. Bangs frame sharp lines in front of his eyes but aren’t enough to mask the intensity in his gaze.

-

Two nights ago

Atsumu was nervous. After five years of dating you, he had bought an engagement ring that’s been tucked in the highest corner of your shared closet for a week now. It was an impulsive decision, really. Of course, he had vaguely envisioned getting married to you someday, but it was not something he had foreseen happening so soon. He’s still not sure what he had been thinking when he bought it. You two had never truly talked about taking your relationship to the next level. Was this just the next expected step in your relationship, now that you’ve been together for so long? Was this what you expected from him? He could think of nothing but the anxiety growing in his chest, the small piece of jewelry sitting at the crux of his worries and rendering him unable to focus on anything else. 

He kept this bottled up and to himself. No one knew. Not his teammates, not his brother, not you. For the first time ever, he found himself unable to completely immerse himself in the match that day. He knew that you knew something was wrong, but this was a problem he had to handle on his own, so he decided to go to a Black Jackals celebration that night instead of going straight home to you. And perhaps against his better judgment, he got drunk. 

At the end of the night, he’s almost incoherent and Meian had to call you to take him home. Upon your arrival, you gently took hold of his arm and threw it over your shoulder to take him to the car. Why were you so good to him now? Did you not know the havoc you’ve been wreaking on him for the past week? He felt a surge of irrational annoyance and pushed away from you. “Why are ya here? I can do things on my own.” 

You don’t understand the double meaning behind his words. 

You had laughed, thinking it’s drunken antics “Okay, ‘Tsumu. But I already came all the way out here, so won’t you please let me take care of my silly boyfriend?” 

The annoyance grew. It felt like a hot flash in his sternum. “No. Don’t need yer help. Can ya leave me alone?” 

You were taken aback. In a quiet voice, you responded. “Okay. Fine, but can you at least tell me what’s wrong? You’ve been weird all week and I don’t want to do this in front of your team, but you can’t speak to me that way.” 

“We should break up.” 

At the resurgence of that memory, Atsumu turns to lay on his side, curling up and clutching at his chest. He almost wants to pass out, both in pain and to avoid remembering what comes next. 

“What?” 

“I’m done with us, with us being together.” 

You stumbled back, tears beginning to well up in your eyes, but continue as calmly as you can. “Atsumu, can we talk in the morning? I’ll take you home or to Osamu’s if you don’t want to be with me right now. But I want us to talk this out so I can understand where this is coming from.” 

He didn’t understand how you could be so calm, so composed while he’s over here going crazy thinking about issues that center around you. Something in him snapped.

“No! Can ya just back off? I wanna be done with this, so we’re done.”

You’re crying now, but you persisted. You closed the distance between the two of you and cupped his face in your hands. Your hands were cool to the touch and the way you had tenderly taken his warm cheeks into your palms overwhelmed him. You tried one last time. 

“‘Tsumu, can we please talk about this later? Let me take you home now.” 

“No. I don’t wanna be with ya anymore. I’m going back with Bokuto.”

After that night, he had been wasting away on Bokuto’s couch for the past 2 days. After having all his teammates witness the scene that night, they pried the truth out of Atsumu. It felt liberating to let out his repressed feelings and there was a stark realization that you had been the unfortunate outlet of his immaturity. After a good scolding from Sakusa, Meian assured him that it’s natural to feel anxious at the thought of spending forever with one person. Marriage was a big deal, after all. 

At that, he bristled. He never once imagined being without you. It wasn't the thought of being with you forever at which he balked. It was then that he realized that he had been so caught up in putting an official title on your relationship, that he completely overlooked the very simple fact that he loves you and wants to be with you forever. He can’t imagine being with someone else and worse yet, the thought of you being with someone else was potent enough to kill. 

So Atsumu returns to your shared apartment, where he should have gone that night, with you. He knocks on the door, like he's giving you a warning that he would be intruding in your space by coming home. The feeling is foreign and he hates it. After a couple seconds of silence, he unlocks the door. Instantly, he knew something was wrong. 

The apartment feels too spacious, almost empty. The windows are closed and the air is stale. You always slept with the windows open. He calls your name, louder each time. Every room he checks is empty. The last place he looks is your shared bedroom, where he finds half the closet empty. The bathroom is devoid of your toothbrush and your little bottles of skincare. It isn't hard to understand that you had left. Just like what he had asked for. 

Atsumu sits on the mattress, bed made and pillows fluffed like it’s from a furniture store showroom. He calls and they go to voicemail. He texts but they don’t send. None of your friends pick up. 

As he lays in bed alone, he thinks of all his regrets. How could it be that less than a week ago, you were laying next to him, safe in his arms, his and only his. Now, he doesn’t know where to start looking for you. If he even has the right to. You had tried so hard that night to talk things out with him so why didn’t he just talk to you? Why didn’t he cherish every second he got to spend with you? Why is it only now that he realizes how unbearable it is to not be with you? What was he doing, wallowing in his regrets at Bokuto’s house all weekend? He could have come home immediately and maybe stopped you from leaving. For what seems like the longest night, Atsumu agonizes over his thoughts before finally giving in to a restless sleep close to dawn. 

– 

In the morning, he calls Osamu. Osamu does know where you are. He gives his idiotic brother a piece of his mind but offers up the address to your friend’s house. 

You open the door when Atsumu knocks and you do your best to school your expression to one of indifference. During the couple of days in absence of Atsumu, you’ve done some thinking on your own. You still love Atsumu, but he has made it clear he no longer wants you in his life. And while you could respect that even if it hurts, it was wrong for him to embarrass you in front of all his teammates and dismiss your pleas to talk. 

His eyes flick down to your body and you realize you’re wearing one of his old hoodies. You cross your arms over your chest.

“Atsumu.” 

“Hi. Can we please talk?”

“I think it would be best if we didn’t. If I left anything at your place, I can come pick it up another time.” You pick at the hoodie. “I’ll return this after washing it,” 

Atsumu reels back at this and closes his eyes at that. “No, I don’t- Baby, I-” 

“Please don’t call me that. You said you wanted us to be done and I am respecting that.” 

Atsumu takes a deep breath and presses on. “Ya said ya wanted to talk that night when I’m sober. I want to do that.” 

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “That’s not fair,” you whisper. “This isn’t fair of you. You know what you did was not okay. You can’t just say things like that and come back and expect me to do what you want to do, when you want to do it.” 

He hates that he's the one causing you all this pain. He wants nothing more than to promise he’ll never do it again, apologize until you understand that you’re worth the world. 

“I love ya. I’ve been thinking about marrying ya. But I’m an idiot and got scared about it all by myself. So I spun myself in circles thinking about marrying ya and let out all my anxieties and frustrations out on ya that night. But I know for absolute certain that I want to be with ya forever. And longer, if you’ll let me. I know I should have dealt with this better and I promise I’ll always talk to ya about my thoughts, instead of keeping it all to myself. I guess I felt ashamed that I even had second thoughts about marrying ya. I know I don’t deserve yer forgiveness and I’m being crazy selfish, but I’ll always have regrets if I don’t do everything I can to win ya back. I’ll do whatever it takes because I know I’ll never leave ya again. Won’t ya give me one last chance to show ya?”

You know you shouldn’t forgive him. You know he doesn’t deserve it no matter how he apologizes and promises you worlds. But the fact remains that you’re still in love with Atsumu. And it is the truth that he’s filled you with so much happiness in the five years you’ve shared with him. And it stands that these past few days were relentlessly miserable without him. 

“You-” you choke on a sob. “You really won’t get any chances after this, okay?” 

“wait! sweetheart, why don’t you go freshen up,” he tries to yank you by the arm, “i’ll order us something, don’t want my baby to have to cook right after a long, exhausting, gruesomely draining mission, now do i—”

“satoru what happened to my kitchen?” you cut him off and ask sharply, making him stiffen. 

gojo satoru is sure that if there is one thing in this world he’s most scared of, it’s your wrath. and right now, something tells him he is about to feel a whole lot of your wrath. 

“i…i was attacked.”

“in the kitchen?” you raise a brow, arms crossing. your hips do a little slant as you glare at him, and if he wasn’t so woeful that this might just mean a one way trip to the couch tonight, he might just grin at how adorable you look. 

“yes,” he nods seriously, “i was just minding my business—as one does in their kitchen—and suddenly, i was attacked! baby, i defended our kitchen with all i had.”

“oh, i see,” you nod slowly, making him gulp as you narrow your eyes. “and the strongest sorcerer was not only snuck up on in our kitchen, but he had to give it his ‘all’ to keep safe.” you look him dead in the eye, and he’s sure if looks alone could kill, his whole lineage would have died three times over by now. “some sorcerer,” you say dryly. 

“now that’s just mean,” he whines, wrapping his arms around you as he buries his nose into the crook of your neck. and even though you want nothing more than to desperately wrap your own arms around him, you stand painfully still—you can’t let him win everything with a sickeningly cute pout and sweet words all the time. “i was blinded by the pain of missing you so bad. it threw me off my game.”

you can’t help but cave, can’t help but let the small grin on your face turn into a large beam, can’t help what starts as a giggle bubbling up your throat turn into soft laughter that rings through your home. and sometimes, when gojo remembers growing up with bare walls and a lonely room and silent dinners, he thinks this is all he needs. pictures hung on every inch of the walls and your clothes strewn his side of the bed and dinners with your laughter in between every bite. 

and when your arms snake around his waist and bring him just a little closer against your body, when your lips find the side of his head and plant a small kiss through a smile, when the sound of your voice meets his ear in a soft hum, the old memories fade just a little more with every new moment you gift him. 

so he hugs you tighter, grins when your hand threads through his hair as he presses a little kiss to your neck. because the kitchen is messy and you’re tired and he’s not got dinner started yet, but your heart is full and his arms are safe and the apartment isn’t cold. 

and that’s enough. 

“you better clean my kitchen as valiantly as you defended it,” you warn, poking his shoulder. he huffs, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck deeper. he can smell the faint smell of your soap, and it’s the same scent he’s used to, it never changes and he hopes it never does.

“don’t you wanna help?” he pokes your hip, “i was all alone when i fought for our kitchen.”

“nope,” you grin, “i’ll let you take care of it. and while you’re at it, go ahead and order out like you said—you’re paying.” and after a kiss to his temple, you pull away with a cheeky little grin and leave him there in the hallway. and he smiles, stares at the pictures on the walls and the shoes at the doorway, and sighs happily at the way the apartment is never lonely. not with you. 

“looks like i’m not sleeping on the couch,” he mumbles to himself in victory. 

“i wouldn’t be so sure,” you call from the bedroom, and almost like you know he’s pouting once more, the sound of your giggle rings through your home.

for my “after you’ve read angst” collab with @sanoinc !! here is the link to the masterlist to check out the other works <3