Chapter Text
January, 2021
Satoru threw one last look over the interior of what was becoming his new home. The emblazoned characters and logo on the windows gleamed, lustrously reflecting the sun. It was hardly two in the afternoon and there he was, finally done putting the final touches on his shop.
“Was that the last of the boxes?” Shoko asked, wiping the sweat from under her hair.
He pulled at a strand that fell across her cheek. She swatted his hand away. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Look at that. Your flower shop, at last,” said Utahime, spotless in her pinafore, belly barely showing, even in her sixth month.
He swept his gloved hand across the glass, careful not to smudge it. He couldn’t even feel the chill creeping under his collar, his blood so warm in his veins. “Yeah.”
“Look at that, a rare sighting of a speechless Gojo,” Shoko joked, poking his side.
He didn’t bother flinching away, welcoming her teasing. “Yeah,” he said, all words fleeing his mind.
“Are you sure you don’t need us to stay and help out during opening week?” Utahime asked for what was probably her fifth time that day alone.
“And ruin your last honeymoon before my darling god-daughter shows up?”
“Presumptions, presumptions. It could be a boy, you know.”
He shook his head. “Nah. I know it’ll be a gorgeous girl.”
Utahime interrupted before he and Shoko began arguing like they were wont to do these days. “Either way, this baby will enjoy the privileges of having gorgeous flower arrangements at every birthday.”
He laughed, then wrapped his arms around Utahime’s shoulder, tugging Shoko with his other, and looked at his store. His pride and joy second only to his children.
“My new baby,” he breathed. “Do you think Megumi would want to inherit? Tsumiki kills every plant she touches.”
Shoko shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“Nah. Too much responsibility and he’s just starting his second year in high school. Maybe when he’s older.”
Utahime’s eyes bore into the side of his face. “It’s a bit premature for you to think of inheritance at all. You’re not dying on us, right?”
He laughed. “Hell no. Nothing can part me from my favorite lesbians.” He squeezed them tight once before letting go.
After a quick run-through of Utahime’s to-do list, which—Satoru had to admit—assisted tremendously, he helped them get into Shoko’s car.
“What about you?” Utahime asked as Shoko put on her seatbelt.
“I think I’d like to stay and get acquainted with my new child.”
She nodded. “Take care. Don’t stay there for too long. We’ll send you postcards.”
“Do one better and just enjoy yourselves,” he said, pinching her cheek.
She swatted his hand, then grabbed it in hers. Squeezing, she said, “Don’t do anything dumb while we’re gone, okay?”
Satoru couldn’t make any promises, but seriously, how much trouble could he get into with a flower shop?
His footsteps echoed in the empty shop. Shipments were due tomorrow. For now, he had the shelves and fridges installed. The walls were bare and clean. He couldn’t wait to fill them with blooms of every shade and shape the human mind could imagine.
At first, he was only going to rearrange the ribbons, place the softer hues by the vibrant ones, then he was shifting the entire order of pots and boxes. By the time Satoru deemed the interior fitting of his taste, the moon was waxing, brilliant, like a wheel of Gruyere, and his stomach was gurgling. His phone alerted him that he’d missed Megumi’s text from half an hour ago.
9:24 PM Megumi: are you coming home for dinner?
10:01 PM Gojo: Yes! Will pick up something from the store.
He made a circle round the shop, turning off lights. He activated the security locks and made sure the camera feed was accessible through the app on his phone before tucking it in the inner pocket of his jacket. He tapped his heart once, twice. Just checking.
His future was unfurling in front of his eyes. A reality he’d have thought impossible to grasp a year ago was now within his reach. He stood outside Forever Flowers, admiring the full moon.
Just as he was about to turn around and walk to where he’d parked a couple of blocks away—at least a parking lot was available to the customers not too far—a scent wafted through the air.
First citrus tickled the inside of his nostrils. Then, he heard the click of footsteps walking by. Pale hair floated into his view and an expression severe enough to chastise an unruly child accompanied the luminescent face. A little haggard for Satoru’s taste, the man walking by wore tiredness like second skin, and his shoulders drooped under the weight of his coat—an exquisite grey coat. At least the man had taste.
Satoru inspected the rest of the man’s appearance. Eyes too dark for their shade to be perceived, jaw sharp and cheekbones hollowed by exhaustion rather than structure. Satoru wondered what a good meal and sleep might do to this man.
Then he stopped, and Satoru gulped, the sound loud to his own ears. Did he hear me? he thought.
The man’s face turned up, not to Satoru, but to the moon above, and, illuminated by its shine, his eyes were revealed.
Seafoam green, encircled in a dark ring of black that knocked the breath out of Satoru’s lungs.
He inhaled sharply, and drew those eyes to him.
A heartbeat or two, that was how long their eyes met.
Satoru felt a lifetime pass between them.
“Remind me again why we need enough peaches to feed a small army?”
Satoru’s mouth curls but he makes no move of putting back the box of produce. “Megumi likes peaches. Maybe we can make jam?”
Kento shakes his head but thinking of it, he wouldn’t mind some jam. “Fine,” he relents. “But make sure we’re not exceeding the budget.”
It’s his only line of defense against Satoru’s tendency to overspend and shop as if he’s preparing for a natural disaster.
“Fine,” Satoru says, then proceeds to fill their trolley with two pints of mint chocolate ice-cream (“Yuuji’s favorite.”) and three bushels of onions (“Shoko likes soup!”) before Kento decides to take Satoru’s hand in his own and tell him very sternly and lovingly that no amount of conjuring beloved family and friends would allow him to purchase sixteen kilos of beef “because Utahime needs the protein.”
“But—”
He covers Satoru’s mouth with his free hand. “Please. We’ve been here for two hours, Satoru. My feet hurt.”
Expression sobering, Satoru nods. He speaks against the palm pressed to his face, “Okay.” His breath is warm.
Pleased, Kento lowers his hand, but doesn’t let go. They walk hand in hand through the aisles, combing through cleaning products for the wipes Kento prefers.
In the heart of pets’ supply, Kento searches for the supplements Sukuna needs while Satoru inspects the collars. He somehow finds one studded with purple rhinestones. “What do you think?” he says, presenting it to Kento.
“Ugly.” He smiles. “Let’s get it.”
Satoru happily plops it into the trolley, then chuckles when Kento bends over and finds a proper place where it won’t be squished under the cartons of almond milk (the only kind he can drink without upsetting his frail, annoying bowels).
“Have you heard anything from him?” Satoru murmurs, tugging Kento over to the aisle of spices. They’re supposed to make their own dip, but Kento allows one jar of spicy salsa to land in the trolley when Satoru deals him that specific look—the ‘Can I please have it?’ look—that Kento knows not even the most daring of people can resist.
He knows to whom the ‘him’ in question refers.
“No.”
The topic of Minato’s ghosting him smarts still. Kento’s plans to bridge some of the distance between them were predictably thwarted by Minato’s stubbornness. Since their failed dinner last month, Kento had tried texts and calls; all was futile. Even emails went unanswered. (“Rude,” Yu had scoffed. “Does this bastard—sorry, Kento—even know how desperate someone—sorry!—might be to reach out via e-mail?”)
Kento had shrugged.
Some part of him is relieved Minato is rejecting him so resolutely. A bigger part laments the futility of his efforts. How powerless he feels.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Satoru murmurs, pulling him further along to check out the brands of popcorn. They are hosting Movie Night, a newly established evening where the shop closes early, and Kento nestles into the cushions with Yuuji by his knee and Satoru on his left, fixing a pointy chin on his shoulder.
He watches the sway of Satoru’s hair, his head listed sideways to inspect the sides of boxes with the same care an artist might select a color palette. They don’t talk about Minato much, though Satoru slips a question of his updates between normal conversation, easing Kento into the topic with the same delicacy he handles the stems of frail flowers.
“What if I hire a private investigator to find him?” he wonders just for the sake of seeing Satoru’s reaction.
And what a reaction Satoru feeds him. His head turns so fast Kento wonders if he gets whiplash. His sunglasses—an essential accessory when they go shopping in hypermarkets renowned for their horrifying fluorescent lighting—slide down his nose and his mouth drops open. “Hire a what?”
He pretends to be more intrigued by the ingredient list in chunky peanut butter than he is in Satoru’s opinion. “People do that, don’t they?”
“Yeah, in dire situations.”
“Isn’t this one?” comes out before Kento can catch it.
Satoru abandons his mission of finding the most bizarre popcorn flavor, and slinks over, his grey trousers shiny against his strong thighs. Kento remembers their fortitude, and his cheeks warm up considerably. God, he’s about to get banned from the only store that sells his favorite coffee beans because he’s pondering Satoru’s thighs. Deprived.
“Look, you know I’ll happily follow you to the ends of the earth, baby, but are you sure you want to track down your brother like that?” Satoru offers him a hand, palm up. Kento sighs.
“I guess it would alarm him.”
“For a start, yeah. Besides, distance might help.”
Except the more Kento spends trapped in his head, the more he turns and mulls over the void in his chest where his brother should be. Minato could be out there, doing God knows what, and not even bothering to check in with him. At least before, Minato had demanded funds; that alerted Kento that he was alive and eating or whatever he did with that much money.
Now he has to run tracks in the living room carpet, like a caged tiger, thinking of what kind of mess into which Minato has gotten himself without his financial aid.
“But waiting isn’t what you want, is it?” Satoru asks, dragging Kento out of his head with the tip of his finger on his temple. Kento sighs again, deep.
Satoru’s breath is warm when he presses a kiss to the side of his face, whispering, “We’ll find him, don’t worry.”
In the end, they don’t need to hire a PI. Minato’s location is revealed through a phone call which Kento receives on a Wednesday night, as he’s about to take off his coat and hang it inside Satoru’s closet.
“Hello?”
“Good evening. May I speak to Nanami Kento?” The person on the other end is soft-spoken, but formality lingers underneath every syllable, icing Kento’s veins.
“This is he.”
He registers two or three more words before his briefcase falls from his grip, and his knees crumble. Megumi finds him sitting on the floor, mostly because Sukuna is yapping ceaselessly, thinking Kento is about to take him out for a walk.
“Nanami-san!” Megumi rushes to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Satoru—Gojo, where’s Gojo?” he asks weakly.
Megumi frowns. “He’s on a delivery—shit—”
“Megumi,” he reprimands, because though the world feels like it’s gone topsy-turvy, he still doesn’t like the sound of cussing coming out of Megumi’s mouth. “Can you call me a cab?” He can’t drive in his current state. He can’t feel the bottom of his feet.
“Where did you— Nanamin!” Yuuji hurriedly joins their huddle in the entrance, concern drawn on his features. Through the embarrassment mingling with love in his heart, Kento assures them he’s fine. Just feeling a little weak in the knees.
“All that sitting in a chair, you know.” It sounds like utter crap to him, so it’s no wonder Megumi’s eyebrows fly to his hairline, and Yuuji tilts his head like he’s questioning Kento’s sanity.
“Come on, Nanamin.” He’s helped to his legs then to the couch, and told to wait for “Gojo to come back.” Gratitude washes over him in ripples, licking up the sides of his face as his skin heats.
He doesn’t know how long it takes between the end of that phone call to the sound of a car door slamming shut. Satoru sprints to him, then falls to his knees by Kento’s legs. His hands clutch Kento’s face.
“What happened?” he asks, eyes boring into him.
Kento falls into Satoru’s arms, heart weakened by troubles far too large for him to handle on his own. Easier to be laid and dealt with at Satoru’s feet. He is held, without question, strength lent to him from the arms encircling him, anxiety is unbound through whispers of “You’ll be okay,” and “I’m here.” He nods, and holds Satoru tight, breaking his heart wide open and settling this emotion in its depth.
“Minato—” he begins. “He needs me but I can’t… I can’t go alone.”
Satoru nods, his sharp chin pushing into Kento’s shoulder. Comfort is here. His hands fist in leather, and his breathing restores its equilibrium.
They get inside the car and it isn’t until the GPS informs Satoru that they’re five minutes away that Kento recalls their brief conversation in front of the popcorn.
“I know Minato’s not your favorite person, but can you please come in with me?” He has Satoru’s wrist in his hand, clutched tight.
Satoru’s mouth purses as he nods. “Yes. Of course. Anything for you, Kento.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll try to control myself.”
The emergency room is rife with noise and light, Kento turns immediately to Satoru, and demands he “puts on his sunglasses.”
Satoru tries to wave off his concern. “It’s okay, Kento—”
“Do it. Or you’ll get a headache,” he insists. Having witnessed before how sensitively his eyes reacted in such circumstances, his heart squeezes at the possibility of another migraine. Satoru nods and dutifully dons his sunglasses. Kento gratefully squeezes his hand, and moves towards the information desk.
He’s given numbers and letters he can hardly understand, but Satoru nods and directs to the correct room and bed. He follows blindly.
Minato’s bed is in the far right corner of the room, and he’s lying down when they peel away the curtain and spot him. Kento’s eyes fall on the bruises on Minato’s chin and cheek, and blanches. “Minato,” he says softly, moving towards his head.
He doesn’t try to touch him, wary of how his brother came to his injuries. According to the nurse, he has three bruised ribs and a broken arm.
The thin webbing of Minato’s eyelid twitches then flutters open. Kento watches him open his eyes and look around. He wonders what Minato is thinking of as he’s seeing him by his bedside. The seven-year-old child part of him thinks, do you want me here, aniki?
“Kento,” is all Minato says, his voice sounding weak and scratchy. He attempts to lift his left hand but winces, groaning. “What the fuck?”
“It’s broken. Best not to move it yet,” he tells him.
Resting his head back against the thin pillow, Minato closes his eyes. His chest rises slowly.
A hand touches his briefly, and Kento turns to see Satoru hovering nearby. “I’ll go get you some tea.”
He nods, knowing this is Satoru’s way of giving them privacy, but he still finds difficulty in letting go of his hand. It’s like relinquishing his safety net. He manages it in the end, but his breathing turns shallow, and he begins counting down from a thousand.
“How did you know I’d be here?” He’s startled by Minato’s question but tries to disguise it by fretfully tucking the sheet around his chest.
“Stop that, Kento,” Minato rebukes.
His hands fall to his side. He tries, in vain, to fight the oppressive feeling in his throat. “Apparently, I’m your emergency contact?” he replies, still a little unsure how it’d come to be. He’s thought Minato would never want him to witness such a sight. Of his brother looking so weak and broken.
Minato squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling slowly. “Fuck. I forgot about that.”
For the lack of a proper chair, Kento sits on the edge of the bed, making sure not to bump into Minato’s leg. “What happened?”
Evading his eyes, Minato looks overhead, and the shadows stamped into his skin are highlighted by the fluorescents, yellows and greens accentuated by exhaustion and maybe more. A thread of concern grows thicker inside Kento, twisting around his organs and squeezing tight. He struggles to breathe. Where’s Satoru? Forget tea. He needs him.
When Minato looks at him, it’s with the weight of decades, of history left untold, of graves best undug. But he nudges him. Nothing grows where the earth hasn’t been turned.
“I can handle it,” he lies.
Minato tries to laugh but is caught by the ache, and he winces, clutching at his chest with his uninjured hand—though uninjured is an overestimation since at least three of his fingers look discolored. Twisted at the knuckle. Kento bites the inside his cheek to keep from repeating his question.
Before the tale can be told, Kento’s phone buzzes. He apologizes softly, and checks it.
8:12 PM Yuuji: Are you okay? 😟😓
8:12 PM Megumi: i know dad said to stay home but we’re right outside if you need us
8:12 PM Yuuji: We got your back, Nanamin. 👊
He's a little miffed that the boys hadn’t heeded Satoru’s concern, but is grateful he has not one but three people onto whom he may fall back. Though it’d be a cold day in hell before he purposefully puts any weight on these kids.
He puts his phone aside, nerves alighted. “You were saying?”
Minato’s eyes fall on the sheets. “Why are you here?”
“I told you, I’m your emergency contact. I was contacted—”
“And you still came? Why? I thought our disastrous dinner made it abundantly clear that nothing but bad blood stretches between us, Kento.” Minato talks as if with finality. As if effort can never be rewarded.
He frowns. “Because I care.”
His expression is mirrored back at him. “Why?”
“You’re my brother,” comes too easy to his tongue. And it’s the truth. Bad or not, Minato is blood. He’s the first person to know Kento; and while he’s been trying—through Ijichi’s sessions and efforts of his own—to divorce his heart from the desire to gain Minato's approval, he’s gained a new perspective.
“I’m not here to forgive you or seek your pardon. I’m here because it’s what right. It’s where I want to be.” More conviction than Kento knows how to handle spills out of his mouth, and it’s thanks to the serenity blanketing him that he knows it’s true.
It takes a long minute for Minato respond with anything, and although the movements of his head falling back and the corners of his lips quirking into a smile aren't much, Kento takes them.
“How did this happen?” Minato murmurs.
“This?”
“How we ended up like this.” He covers his eyes with his forearm.
Kento wipes the back of his neck with his palm. He’s sweating under the collar. “A lot of bad.”
Minato’s eyes are cool when they meet his. “Doesn’t seem that way for you.”
He has half a mind to laugh at that, but abstains. What he presents to Minato is the perfect disguise, fabricated painstakingly to elude everyone’s notice. Not Satoru, though. That man had thwarted every attempt Kento made at being unknown and unrecognizable. Instead, he saw, and continues to see, right to the heart of him, as if he might carry an amulet that reveals Kento’s truth in digestible details.
What he tells Minato, however, is an abridged version. “I found a family.” It’s the inherent belief in their support that steels his back, and fortifies his resolve.
The curve of Minato’s mouth is a mixture of envy Kento recognizes and something softer. Like fondness. “How did you do that?”
Rather than spend their limited visitation time divulging the cause of his hospitalization, Minato listens as Kento tells him the first part of his tale, starting on a very grumpy morning and the absence of nearby parking spaces. Minato seems amused, even lets out a coughed chuckle or two. By the time he’s finished with the backstory of the orchids, footsteps can be heard walking towards their section of the room.
It’s Satoru with a piping hot paper cup. “I got you chamomile,” he explains the aroma wafting from the top of the cup.
Minato’s eyebrow flies to his hairline. “When did you start drinking tea?”
Kento smiles. It’s his first genuine attempt since he received that dreadful call. “I’m a changed man.”
Satoru’s eyes fly from him to Minato and back to him. (Hello, lover.) Then, purposefully, he slides next to Kento and makes it his spot. It’s clear as day that he’s on Kento's side, there to rescue him at the smallest hint of trouble. Kento is equally comforted and enamored by the gesture. He grips Satoru’s hand just to assert that he has that much love for Satoru in turn. Minato and he will have their rematch. Later.
Minato stays in the hospital for two days, to be kept under observation on account of his head injuries, but is discharged. Kento opens his mouth to suggest he stay in the apartment with him, but is shot down by three sources: first, his own reasoning, then Ijichi’s frown—a first since he's met the man—and shake of head, and Satoru’s “putting his foot down and shooting this decision down.”
“You’re right,” he admits.
“Believe me, had this been any other situation, I’d be gloating so bad,” Satoru mutters, burying his face in Kento’s neck.
“I know, I know. Kind of glad you’re too decent to attempt it.”
Satoru sighs. “Sometimes, I hate being so marvelous.”
“And he’s back.” He covers up the gratitude of having Satoru as his sounding board with a precise kiss placed on Satoru’s forehead. Thank you, he thinks. Satoru’s eyes sparkle as if they might read his mind, and gladly accept.
At least, Minato opens up the line of communication and even replies to one out of the four texts Kento sends on a daily basis.
12:11 PM Minato: The arm’s fine. It’s my left so I can handle most things. No, I still refuse to tell you how it happened.
12:45 PM Kento: Fine. Would you like to have dinner with me and Satoru soon?
1:00 PM Minato: Your boyfriend is kind of terrifying. That’s a no from me.
Kento stares at his phone for a long time, unable to decide on disappointment or amusement.
1:02 PM Minato: That’s not to say he terrifies me. I’m just allergic to all that Good Man Who’ll Fix You energy he exudes. Thanks for the offer though.
1:06 PM Kento: “Good” is highly debatable. Consider it open for as long as you need.
Kento is standing in the middle of Yu’s apartment, overseeing (or attempting to) the moving of furniture since Yu, again, doesn’t like the way the place feels, when a reminder blinks to the forefront of Candy Crush, which he is definitely not playing.
“Hey, how come Nanami-san gets to sit out?” is Getou’s not-so-quiet whisper.
“You!” Yu turns to him. “Enough chitchat and more move-around.” Then he pivots to where Kento stands by the threshold of the kitchen, the only place safe from Yu’s plans. “Will you please help out?”
“One second,” he promises, dialing the number for his car agency. The receptionist is kind enough to inform him of the amount of money he’ll be spending on yet another routine check which shouldn’t cost him an arm and a leg on such a regular basis. He hangs up feeling dejected and more than a little annoyed with the state of the world.
“What’s going on?” Satoru murmurs, sounding a little breathless. Not even he was spared aiding Yu in his weekend plans. He peeks at Kento’s hand. “Was that…” he trails off. As is the custom whenever he sees Kento with his phone.
“It’s not Minato,” he assures him. Despite his attempts at coming to peace with Kento’s revived relationship (young as it feels) with his brother, Satoru still looks as apprehensive at the thought of Minato.
“Oh, then who do I need to fistfight?” he asks, and Kento isn’t entirely sure that’s a joke. He squints at him until Satoru shrugs. Not denying it either. Interesting.
“It was my car agency. I need to take it on a routine checkup next week.”
Satoru’s eyebrows fly to his hairline. He’s pushed back his fringe with a dark green hair band Kento forced him to use (“All that hair in your eyes, no wonder you complain of headaches all the time.”) and his face is devastatingly handsome this close. Kento presses his finger to his cheek, just to test out the flexibility of that thirty-year-old skin. Supple. Intriguing.
“When’s even the last time you used your car, Kento?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest—his broad, clad in nothing but a thin, sweaty shirt, which is turning translucent with every passing minute. (Good job, Yu.)
Kento needs a second just to recall when he’d last been inside his car; Satoru has taken care of his commute to and fro work and his house so efficiently, he hadn’t needed to take out the car from the parking lot across his building.
“Huh.”
Satoru smiles. “So?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you need it anymore?” Satoru asks slowly, as if he’s trying to hammer a point in as gently as possible. Kento isn’t sure he enjoys the hint of condescension.
“Are you doing your I Am Your Hero So I Know Better act?” Kento asks him, mimicking Satoru’s pose.
Eyes drop down to his arms then back to his face. Satoru’s grin falls off his face. “No way. No. What the fuck? I wasn’t.”
He quirks an eyebrow. Challenging. Then what are you doing using that tone on me? Satoru hadn’t been lying when he’d said Kento can command a room—he can command him just fine.
Satoru explains, stuttering and growing pinker in the face, “It’s just—well—since it’s kind of pointless, not that I’m saying your car is pointless, by the way, just the act of owning it—well, I thought, maybe you’d like to not have that issue anymore.” He ends his fumbling with a hesitant smile.
Kento regards just for the simple fact that he enjoys it. Likes seeing the faint pink in Satoru’s cheek deepen into a rose shade, the way his mouth parts and shuts, like the flap of a door, unsure of which direction to go, and his eyes—expressive—confusing Kento’s silent inspection for reprimand.
He touches his hand to Satoru’s cheek and asks him, “Are you asking whether I should sell my car and let you be my personal chauffeur?”
The clouds over Satoru’s head clear, and his pursed lips spread into a smile equivalent to the sun, if not brighter. “Yes!” He grabs Kento’s hands in his sweaty hold. Kento should be alarmed at how endearing the move is, but he has long established that nothing about how he feels for Gojo Satoru makes sense anymore.
“I’ll consider it.”
“Come on, you two. I didn’t bring you here to watch you neck in my bloody kitchen,” Yu shouts from across the chaotic apartment.
Kento pushes Satoru by the shoulder. “Come along, darling, your grown child is on edge today.”
He finds a buyer a week later and he makes sure Satoru joins him through the process because “This is your suggestion, so see it through.” He tries not to look too much into the relieved way Satoru kisses his mouth afterwards. “Is this all because I rid myself of an environmentally poisonous car?” Satoru always raves about the fumes and whatnot.
“No. This is for taking a step for us.”
Kento squints. “I thought this was to save me the trouble of maintaining a car I don’t use that often.”
“And letting me be your personal driver, don’t forget that. That’s a crucial piece of information,” Satoru says seriously.
“Keep those charming wiles to yourself, please. I don’t need you convincing me to uproot my entire life next, thanks.”
But he isn’t sure he means it. He quite enjoys the way he’s giving Satoru an inch and then a mile; giving up the car does mean spending a lot more time with Satoru—morning commute just got a whole lot interesting, and a lot hotter, too (not that he’s complaining). Some days, he ends up sitting at his desk for hours on end, going through the motions of proofing and typing and gazing, but his mind would be lost in a field of blue Forget-Me-Nots, mouth whisked away under the slide of a heated tongue, his body singing hymns to a religion in which he’d like to be deeply indoctrinated.
“Say, Kento, how about that trip we’ve talked about once?” Satoru asks, attention seemingly split between unboxing the recently delivered vases (“From Germany!”) he’s ordered and pulling Kento’s stool across the floor.
He helps him out by standing up—nearly sending Satoru flying with the sudden movement—and stepping up to him. “All you had to do was tell me to come closer.”
“Kento, darling, will you please come here?” Satoru says because he never wastes an opportunity to burn through Kento’s inhabitations. He feels his chest growing warmer under his shirt. He’s taken to coming over after work, waiting out Satoru’s shift before one of the part-timers fills in, and it’s led to many breathless encounters in the supply closet. (And one too many near-misses of being exposed by said part-timers that sends Kento’s heart into overdrive.)
“What trip? We never discussed a trip.”
Satoru smiles sheepishly. “Fine. I’m bringing it up now. I know you said you don’t want to do anything for your birthday but—”
He interrupts, “It’s not for two months.”
“I know, I know. Hear me out, okay? It won’t be a big deal. It’ll just be a two-days trip to Okinawa or maybe a hot spring in Hokkaido.”
Kento presses his palm to the small of Satoru’s back, pulls him closer by the softness of his shirt. “Oh, really? Getting on an airplane and spending a lot of money isn’t a big deal?” He makes sure to hiss the question right into the delicate skin under Satoru’s ear.
Predictably, his boyfriend shudders but doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans closer, thick lashes fluttering. “I mean, yeah. I won’t even get you a cake.”
“How dare you?” he asks, deadpanned. “I’ll have my trip and my cake, or else.”
Satoru’s eyes blink down at him. “Are you just messing around with me or is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes. Only if you make sure everything will be covered, of course.”
He nods earnestly, his eagerness like an arrow shooting right through Kento’s chest. “Oh, Nanamin, it’ll be so organized you’ll have no choice but to fall deeply, madly in love with me.”
“Well, then, too bad I already have fallen,” he replies, kissing the words right into Satoru’s mouth, deepening the kiss further to stop him from mouthing off. He just has to have the last word sometimes. Well, Kento knows just the right remedy as to how efficiently silence Gojo Satoru.
It’s a little boring and predictable how the chain of events goes from Kento applying for a couple of days off to getting it so decidedly rejected that he dares to feel dejected.
“I mean, I don’t know what I expected,” he mutters, fluffing his pillow then plopping it down on his side of Satoru’s bed.
Satoru watches him from the open bathroom door, dressed in threadbare pajama bottoms that hang loosely around his hips. Kento’s hands itch to get under that waistband and yank.
“Do you think we should get another weekend, then?”
But the dates Satoru had chosen are perfect for Yuuji and Megumi’s week off, too. Which means they could all go—Satoru hadn’t even been too bothered about what he’d deemed a romantic gesture turning Family-Friendly.
Kento slides under the sheets and waits for Satoru to finish getting ready. He swipes some cream over his hands—it’s that intoxicating coconut smell into which he wants to bury his nose, then walks over to the edge of the bed.
“It’s about to get busy for graduation season, but we can do mid-June, hopefully before Utahime’s due.”
Kento frowns. “No.”
Satoru freezes. “What do you mean no? No to the trip?”
“No to rescheduling.”
Satoru leans in, fitting his chin over Kento’s chest, looking up at him through those mystical lashes. “What about work?”
He shakes his head, wrapping Satoru’s waist in his arms, shifting so he’s got Satoru pressed to the mattress under his weight. Satoru’s breathing goes fast and yet deep. “Fuck work,” Kento murmurs.
A snowball effect, Yu calls it later, but to Kento, the resignation letter is akin to his last straw, finally broken.
His freedom.
His youth.
He’s reclaiming all.
The actual thing is anti-climactic. He refuses the manager’s demand that he put in his two-week’s notice, and decides he has had enough. “Thank you, but I’d like to leave now,” he says, clearly. He does it calmly, out of his need to keep the rest of the floor from discovering. But somehow, a hush falls over the department.
Ino is the first person to go up to him and ask, “Nanami-san, have you forsaken us?”
Kento’s smile is wide and easy. It’s about time he’s felt some sort of joy in this horrible building. “You’re far from forsaken, Ino-san.” He goes on to wish Ino a long, happy life and then immediately calls up Yu.
“I’m ready to take you up on your offer to get daytime drunk,” he informs him. Yu had been the only person aware of Kento’s plans and the sound of his hooting fills the receiver.
Whilst Yu gets silly drunk on fruity mocktails, Kento sits by his side and wonders if he’s done the best he can.
“What do you mean, babe? You’ve worked harder than any person in that office and everyone knows it,” Yu says, making sure everyone can hear them in the classy lounge. Though how much class can a place possess when it’s open at 2 o’clock is highly debatable.
He shrugs. “You aren’t wrong.”
Yu cheers. “Hell yes I’m not!” He gulps down the remainder of his second (already?!) cocktail. Kento is still working on his first, wincing with every gulp of the syrupy taste sliding down his throat. Maybe he should have gone for something more subtle. Maybe he should never let Yu choose their drinks.
“So, what will you do now?” Yu asks, listing sideways and dropping his head onto Kento’s shoulder, blinking up at him with those doe-eyes.
He shrugs. “I’ve no idea. But I do know I’ll go on a trip with my boyfriend.” This prompts another round of drinks and plenty of hooting from Yu, which results in him growing grossly drunk in record’s time. Which is just perfect since Getou is there to show up and sweep him off his feet.
“Suguru!” Yu greets him, happily wrapping his arms around Getou’s neck and pressing sloppy kisses to his cheek.
Kento shakes his head, but he can’t entirely begrudge Yu his enthusiasm. He, too, would like to shower his boyfriend with kisses, self-respect be damned. Besides, it’s endearing that Yu is so entirely uninhibited around Getou. Nothing’s sweeter to observe than love that silly.
“Sorry, Nanami-san, I’ll take him home,” Getou says, voice laced with remorse.
Kento shrugs. “Don’t. I wanted to celebrate, and Yu was just fulfilling his role.”
“I heard. Hell, everyone’s heard. I think it’s a wise decision, though it’ll make for less interesting lunch breaks from now on.” Getou smiles.
His cheeks color with warmth—probably due to the alcohol, however small amounts of it, going to his head. “Thank you. It’s been fun.”
The next step is as clear to him as his reflection in the mirrored top. He goes to see Satoru, who pouts and complains as to “why he wasn’t invited to day-drinking.”
“You were on the clock,” Kento points out.
“So? I want to day-drink with you,” he whines, but he’s moving to hug Kento. He allows it because one, for as long as Satoru wants, he may do whatever he wishes with Kento and two, true comfort exists only in his arms. Kento never had a chance besides.
Back home, much later, once Kento’s mind takes a break from thinking through such a big decision, he asks, “So, if I said I wanted to enroll in some classes come Fall, what would you say?”
“I’d say sign me up, too,” Satoru replies, his voice muffled on account of him burying his face in the couch cushion. He still hasn’t recovered from the accidental exclusion.
“Really?” He pokes Satoru’s side. He’d like to see his face if they’re to have a conversation this serious.
Satoru huffs. “No.” He unburies his face and smiles at Kento. “I hated college. But I loved making every meal in a microwave.” He sits up and eyes Kento curiously. “Do you regret it?”
He shakes his head. “Not one bit.”
“What’s next?”
“Well, someone promised me a trip to Hokkaido.”
Satoru grins, all his pouting eaten up by unbridled joy. “Does this mean we can make it a week-long?”
He nods, then accepts the full force of Satoru jumping into his arms and bestowing him with a million and one kisses. If it’s to be his punishment, then he’ll take it all.
Over dinner, Kento breaks the news to Megumi and Yuuji, who at first look a little concerned. “Are you okay, Nanamin?” Yuuji asks.
“Not really but I will be.” Their eyes share a long look in which Kento hopes Yuuji remembers their very same conversation in this kitchen on his birthday.
Megumi shrugs, taking Kento’s word for it, probably, and says, “Does this mean you’ll be moving into the dorms?”
Satoru scoffs, loud. “As if!”
Kento shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Nanamin!”
“Nanamin!”
Satoru and Yuuji exchange two looks, one of bewilderment (Satoru), and another of delight (Yuuji, always).
Kento disregards them both and wraps two pieces of meat in his piece of celery, then dipping it in sauce and stuffing it into his face.
“Eat, Satoru,” he tells him when he feels blue, blue eyes staring at the side of his face. Satoru makes a small sound of surprise and digs into his food. But he’s still slower than usual; his eyes darting in contemplation to Kento every few minutes while Kento pretends to listen to the boys’ conversation about some skating contest they’re thinking of joining.
All throughout dinner, Kento feels the presence of a buzz under his skin, and it’s not to say it’s entirely Satoru’s fault. Some of it is due mostly to this state in which he finds himself. An in-between. The future is there, rolled up and unknowable. All he has to do is make a first step and peel some of it back, read its scrolling hand and find out.
He’s absently washing dishes, scrubbing the utensils clean of sauce and bits of meat, when a strong pair of arms wrap around him, heavy and comforting. He stops breathing, then takes a long inhale, brings in the scent of oil and agarwood, soil and bloom, he allows Gojo Satoru into his lungs. Mingling with his blood.
“Nanamin,” Satoru whispers into his hair. Kento leans back and tilts his head up.
“Yes?”
“Promise to not fall for hotter, cuter college students?”
Bubbles float overhead as Kento reaches back and cups the back of Satoru’s neck. He pulls him closer, eyes meeting in brief contact before lashes flutter and lids fall heavy. Their mouths open on a sigh (Satoru) and a huffed chuckle (Kento). Their tongues taste of dinner and possibility.
“I promise,” Kento speaks against the seam of Satoru’s mouth, “to love you and only you.”
A sound of joy spills from Satoru’s mouth, his arms squeezing Kento’s hips tight. He’s turned and pressed to the sink behind him, his mouth ravaged with kisses of adoration and relief. “Do you—” kiss “—really—” kiss, kiss “mean it?” kiss. A question punctuated with kisses.
“I do.”
From Gojo Satoru’s drafts:
From: Gojo
Sent: Tues, 02/02/2021 11:24 PM
Subject: Love
Nanami Kento,
Do you believe in love at first threat?
Love at first piggy-back ride, then?
Love at first time my stupid heart thumped for another human, and drew up plans too pretty to ignore?
Nanamin, Bananmin (!), I lied. I don’t just want to spend time with you. I want to spend eternity with you.
Faithfully yours,
Gojo.
Status: sent
July, 2021
From: Nanami Kento
Sent: Sat, 03/07/2021 11:49 PM
Subject: Re: Love
Dearest,
My infuriating man.
I do.
Yours,
Kento