Archive of Our Own

To say that Utahime Iori had lost all patience for Satoru Gojo sometime in the three days that they had been stranded was not altogether accurate. 

It implied that she had, at one point, had some semblance of patience for him. 

She hadn’t. 

In some ways, she should have taken his presence as an omen. Just like a bird hitting the windscreen of a car or all the dogs in the vicinity suddenly barking at the air — there was Satoru Gojo. There had to have been a warning that their shared flight from Tokyo, Japan to New York City, New York was doomed to crash. Right? That was what preceded major disasters. Omens. A faulty engine ignored by an underpaid engineer, turbulence brushed off by the flight attendants, the uncharacteristic quiet as they had all boarded the doomed plane? Later, in the news reports, people would thank god that there hadn’t been any child under eighteen aboard, that it hadn’t been a full flight. Was that not an omen of some kind? 

Gojo was the omen. He had to be. 

Maybe it was in the way his voice had grated on her nerves as he complained about being at the back of the line with the economy class passengers regardless of the fact that he had shown up fifteen minutes late for first-class boarding. There had certainly been a warning in the way his too blue eyes dragged over her skin, making her feel unnaturally exposed in her long-sleeved shirt and ankle-length skirt.  

But the Utahime back in that too long line had thought that omen to be ‘watch out pompous pervert!’ rather than ‘warning! warning! plane crash imminent!” 

Utahime smothered her makeshift fire with the heel of her now well-worn sneakers. They had been almost brand new when she boarded the plane. 

And white. 

Now they were stained brown and held so much sand that she could feel the beach between her toes with every step. 

She shuddered at the feeling. She’d pour out the sand before she went to sleep, and tomorrow there’d be more. 

Old Utahime was an idiot. 

An idiot with big dreams of moving away from her little town in Japan to a big city like New York where, yes, she may not be the most impressive or successful person in the city but she could at least be the most impressive person she knew. Because there was no way to know every impressive person in a city like New York. The city was a behemoth that swallowed up everyone regardless of who they were and what they had to offer. New York was a sea of strangers, fluctuating and changing in turbulent waves that promised an endless stream of more and better. For every impressive person she’d meet there would be ten more who were more impressive, over and over again, in an endless cycle until, ultimately, none of them could ever hope to really be all that impressive. 

Not like Ine where everyone was the same thing and even then, somehow, Utahime, who had tried her best to be more than what she saw around her, managed to be particularly unextraordinary and disappointing all her life.

At least, if her mother was to be believed. 

“Utahimeeee!” There was that voice again. Much too whiny, she still thought, to belong to the broad silver-haired man running towards her. “Utahimeee! The fire!” She stuck with the thought. Satoru was very broad, with big shoulders and a narrow waist, while also remaining rather trim. His shoulders were almost mismatched on his frame. He seemed too broad sometimes. Unused to the width of his own body – his shoulders had nudged against hers a couple of times when he’d been throwing a fit next to her in line, his bag had bumped into her several times and he hadn’t noticed. Or didn’t care. Utahime wasn’t sure which would be worse. “I told you to warn me before you turned it off.” 

“Turned it off?” It had been just under 72 hours since the plane crash. And she had felt every single minute of it because Satoru was determined to complain about every little thing for the foreseen duration of their isolation. “It’s a fire.” 

“Turned it off, extinguished, took away my only comfort in these long dark nights - whatever.” He stomped closer to her. Close enough that, thanks to the silvery-white moon, the same silvery-white as his hair, his disembodied voice finally synced up with the man in front of her. “I told you that I don’t like the dark.”  

Old Utahime had, indeed, been an idiot. 

She never should have boarded that plane. Satoru Gojo had most definitely been an omen. “You’re a grown man.” 

“So? Is there an age limit to nyctophobia?” 

“Nyctophobia?” 

He looked at her like he usually did. Like she was small and insignificant. Like he’d never have looked at her twice if there had been anything else on this island to look at other than her and the bunker that had washed up on shore with them. “Didn’t you say you were a professor?” 

A professor.

Some sad part of her didn’t want to correct him. “I’m a school teacher.” 

“Whatever.” His eyes were so unnaturally bright - an iridescent blue that shone even in the absence of light - that she could see him roll his eyes when she couldn’t even make out the color of her own shoes anymore in the dark. “Shouldn’t you know things then? Simple things?” 

“Simple things like nyctophobia?” 

“Yes. Nyctophobia.” He said, slowly. Because Satoru Gojo thought she was stupid. “Fear of the dark.” 

She would be angrier if she felt any compulsion to impress him. “Is that so?”  But she was stranded on a desert island somewhere in the Atlantic ocean. One of the wings of their plane was still smoking at the far end of the beach. The only respite from the entire situation was that, one, the island they had ended up on was uninhabited – so she didn’t have to worry about running into some cannibalistic tribe – and, two, the only other part of the plane that had washed up on the island with them had several suitcases filled with clothing that just about fit, medicine in case they got sick, and supplies that would make survival just a little easier. So, no. She didn’t need to impress anyone. Not here. “So you’re telling me you’re afraid of the dark.” 

“Yes.” 

“You seem fine right now.” 

Gojo stomped his foot like a child. “We’re stranded.”

Utahime didn’t even have the energy to roll her eyes. “And yet the dark is your most pressing concern.”

“Every man is an island, Utahime.” 

He said it like it meant something but it didn’t, especially since he was misquoting.  But then again he said everything like it meant something and she was learning that it rarely did. It was a wonder she was even still listening.  

But then again there wasn’t much else to listen to on the island. 

So she just hummed, noncommittal, like she did with her students when she didn’t have the energy to correct them. “Hmm.”

“You really are a teacher,” he said and she imagined him in the dark with his hands on his hips and the beginning of a tantrum on his face. 

Instead of justifying his behavior with a response, Utahime implied a tactic that was very effective with her more troublesome students: she ignored him. He’d tire himself out soon enough and Utahime was ready for bed.

She stood up without another word and made her way to the makeshift tent that they’d set up the first day. The days on the island, they had learned quickly, were warm. Almost unbearably. But the nights? If they weren’t actually baltic, they felt it when compared with the day. Which meant, however uncomfortable it was, it was safer for the both of them to sleep together under the tarp they’d hung over a thick tree branch and pinned to the floor with long nails pulled from the smoking wing. Stray luggage – backpacks, t-shirts, sheets – were used as pillows and blankets but they were still no substitute for body heat. 

So as much as Utahime would have loved to head to the tent and fall asleep – she couldn’t really find sleep without Gojo. 

She still refused to break though so she waited there, underneath an oversized Hawaii print button-up and a khaki trenchcoat waiting for him. His fear of the dark may have been genuine after all because she didn’t have to wait for long. 

“You could have called me to bed,” Gojo grumbled as he crawled into their bed. For some reason she couldn’t comprehend, Gojo insisted on taking his shirt off for bed. It was stupid. He must have been colder with the wind picking up at night and his spot closer to the opening of their tent – but Utahime had given up fighting with him about it after the first night when he’d sulked about it for a full hour. If he wanted to die of pneumonia then so be it. 

She supposed the island was a lovely place to be buried and it was his funeral.  

“Utahime?” Gojo shimmied closer to her and she had to stop herself from shuffling away. Body heat, she reminded herself, sharing body heat is essential for survival. She hummed her response and he continued, “Good night, Utahime.” 

She hummed again, sleep calling with earnest now that she was sufficiently warm. Until Gojo called her back to consciousness with another whine, “Utahimeeee. C’mon.” He whined at her ear. She’d smacked him the first night when he tried to wrap his arms around her so he kept them against his side now. “You could say it back, Utahime.” 

72 fucking hours. 

“Gojo.” 

“Satoru.” He corrected. That was another thing – he apparently wanted her to call him by his given name. Seems only fair, he had said, since we’re trapped together I think we’ve met the intimacy prerequisite, don’t you? He started calling her Utahime almost immediately after finding her passport buried in the sand. She refused to call him Gojo on the principle that she wasn’t interested in giving him more than she had to.   

“Gojo.” She insisted. “I feel it's my responsibility as an educator to correct you.” 

He shifted even closer to her. She could feel the warmth of his body at her back, not quite pressed against her but close enough that she knew he was there, a breath away, closer than she would normally allow anyone else. “Correct me?” Like you could, his laugh said. Because he thought she was silly and small and stupid. He shuffled closer. She could feel his breath on her neck. “About?” 

“Nyctophobia.” She made sure to enunciate every part of the word as she spoke it to the darkness. In the distance, she could see the spark of the still-burning fire from the plane wing. Up close the flame was large and imposing but from this distance, it was little more than the flame from a candle, than the streetlights from a nearby neighborhood. “Nyctophobia isn’t fear of the dark.” She exhaled. “At least not exactly. People are supposed to outgrow that.” She turned slightly, not enough to face him but enough for him to know he had her full attention. The fullness of her scrutiny. Just like she had his. “Nyctophobia is an age-inappropriate fear of the dark.” 

She turned her head back towards him. 

He said nothing. 

Just exhaled and warmed up the back of her neck. 

“That is to say,” she shuffled a little bit away from him, welcoming the cold air at her back, “grow the fuck up.” 

There are no men like Satoru Gojo in her hometown. 

Every man in Ine is formed from the same mold - little boys with gap teeth that grow into unimpressive teenage boys who may or may not become teenage fathers but will all, undoubtedly, become fishermen once the realities of life settle in and they realize that Ine may be part of Kyoto but they have never been. These are the men that she grew up with. The men who made up her family. The type of whom had, at certain points, warmed her bed. The men that her mother expected her to marry and bear children for, the type to come home to a gaggle of Ine children and a barefoot wife for whom the opening of a door was the highlight of her day. 

It was no wonder Utahime was a disappointment. 

She was a woman from Ine who never realized that she wasn’t from Kyoto - that she wasn’t more. And nothing was quite as disappointing as a wayward dream in the face of a safe and well-tested tradition. 

That, and she had a scar. Sometimes she wasn’t sure which disappointed her mother more. Which would be hilarious if it wasn’t devastatingly depressing. 

But that is beside the point. 

The point being: she was on a deserted island alone with a strange man. 

A man wearing shoes made of real leather - special leather from Italy – who had once been waiting in a too long line for his seat in first class and looked at her with eyes that had very obviously seen more than she could ever hope to if she had lived one hundred years in Ine.  She had never heard of Satoru Gojo before meeting him in that line but from the way everyone else had bent and broken themselves to appease him at the airport she suspected that she was the only one. But that was not surprising. After all, she was from Ine. He was clearly born and raised in Tokyo - something that was grander and demanded more attention, even, than Kyoto. 

But honestly, she suspects, there are no men like Satoru Gojo anywhere. 

“We’re running out of food.” 

They aren’t. Luckily a few bags and boxes had wound up on the shore with them, most containing useless nicknacks and maintenance parts, but three boxes were packed with precooked rice and cans of food set to expire far into the future. More than two people — two smart, thrifty people —could eat in four months. And the island had trees. Coconut trees, one that she suspected would grow avocados in the coming weeks, and another that bore bitterly sour apples. “No, we aren’t.” But Gojo knew that. And after spending a week with him, she knew what he actually meant. “Beer is not food.” 

“Do you expect me to do desert island life sober?” 

“I expect you to help me keep us both alive.” 

“Sober?” 

She dropped the twigs she’d spent the early morning gathering by the remnants of last night's fire. “Preferably, Gojo.” 

“Satoru.” 

She ignored him. “Stop sulking and come gather more material for the fire with me.” She’d gathered twigs but they still needed to find dry leaves. Which would be difficult seeing as they’d woken to wet sand and damp grass today. He didn’t answer. “Gojo.” 

“Call me Satoru.”

“No.”

“You know,” he rolled over from his spot on the damp beach to face her, “I don’t think I’ve ever had to ask this many times for anything  in my whole life.” 

Unsurprising. “Really?” She eyed the green bush, wondering if the shade of the apple tree may have left the pile of leaves they’d gathered from a few days earlier dry or if that was baseless optimism. “And how’s that feel?” 

Silence blossomed between them for a long moment. Longer than any they’d shared before. So long that Utahime turned back towards Gojo, almost startled by the intensity with which he was staring at her. He cocked his head and smiled. “It’s intriguing.” 

“Intriguing.” He thinks you’re small, she reminded herself, and insignificant and stupid. There are no men like him in Ine. And for good reason. “ I would have thought you’d be annoyed.” 

“I don’t get annoyed.” 

“You don’t?” 

He leaned back, hands coming up to brace the back of his head like a makeshift pillow. “Nope.” The way he popped his ‘p’ reminded her of childhood. Not her own, of course. It wasn’t the kind of lightheartedness that one could find in the streets of Ine where there was a pier but no playground — but one that she could recognize from old television shows she’d watch where the children were bright and shining and both parents were actually present. “But then again, I don’t think I’ve ever really felt much of anything.” 

That stopped her. “What is that supposed to mean?” What was that supposed to mean? Because she had been stranded with Satoru Gojo for a week, nine hours and approximately thirty-four mins and she didn’t believe that for a second. Not with the way he’s been whining and whinging and complaining since he realized she wasn’t another corpse and she was going to be stuck on the island as well. He didn’t answer again. The teacher in her abhorred the silence in response to her question. “Well?” 

“You remind me of my old tutor.” He said instead. “I had one with the same long black hair when I was younger. Mind you, she didn’t have that scar. My mother would have never allowed it.” He turns back towards her. She can feel his gaze stroking the darkened skin of her face, where her scar is prominent, like a physical touch. She had to stop herself from covering it with her hand, an old habit from her high school days. “Or… actually, maybe she did? My mother fired her after all. There must have been a reason.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

“You asked.” 

“No, I didn’t. I asked you what you meant when you said you didn’t feel anything? That’s ridiculous.” She rolled her eyes. “And obviously untrue. You have the temperament of a child. You’ve thrown a tantrum every day since we’ve been stuck here.”

Instead of looking offended, like she had intended him to in return for him highlighting her biggest insecurity to the emptiness of the beach, he seemed curious. “Do I?” His face was contemplative for a moment. Brow pursed, eyes focused on the sky but in that distant way that she would see in her students sometimes, and his bottom lip caught between white teeth. But as fast as it arrived, it left and he was staring at her again. At her scar. “Did you know, in the past, that kings weren’t allowed to marry women with scars?” 

She did. She was a teacher. 

It was her turn, however, not to answer. Instead, she turned her mind and her eyes back to searching for dried leaves. Maybe if she traveled to the other side of the island she would find land untouched by the rain? 

Gojo didn’t seem to mind her silence as much as she minded his. “I don’t remember which dynasty it was… I don’t think it was an explicit rule in Japan. Maybe the Joseon dynasty? Silla? Tonga? Western Han, Eastern Han? Or maybe it was the English? Who knows.” He said. “Either way… somewhere there was once a law that a King could not wed a woman with a scar. Do you know why, Teach?” 

Maybe the sun would come out, Utahime thought, and they could just dry some of the leaves from the plants near the beach? Those had burned well enough the first night. 

“No?” He continued. She would think him cruel if she thought he cared enough to be cruel. “Neither do I. None of my tutors ever explained it. I think they only told me because they thought it was some kind of fun fact. As if fun facts are ever actually fun.” He paused for a moment. The sound of the waves sounded between the two of them. “You know what I think?” 

“No.” She answered despite herself. Her tone was bitter. And she hated that it was. “I have no idea what you think.” 

“Well, lucky for you,’ he’s smiling, she can hear it in his voice, “I’ve given it a lot of thought. You see… Being a King back then… it was like being on top of the fucking world, right? Right?” She wouldn’t answer. “Right. People thought these dudes were gods. Divinely appointed and all that. So it makes sense that their subjects wanted to offer them the best, right? The best homes, the best food, the best booze - the best women. The perfect woman. Right? Because, well, it's about worship, isn’t it? It’s why Cain offered God the finest fruit of his harvest. Because that was what he thought was the best that his human hands could offer regardless of if that’s what God asked for, right?” Gojo said. “And with these other Kings - the human ones - they accepted these things because they had to know they weren’t gods. They knew they weren’t specially appointed. I mean, these guys had to have the worst self-esteem possible, right, because they knew they were just normal guys who ate and shit and fucked like everyone else.” 

“Or they were egomaniacs.” 

As soon as the words left her lips she regretted them because now Gojo was beaming at her. “Exactly.” He said. “They were ego maniacs or cripplingly insecure. But either way, they took these things because they weren’t just offerings from mortals but their acceptance was an acknowledgment that they deserved it. That they were gods, that they deserved their status, that these offerings were rightfully given.” Utahime wondered how long he'd thought about this. “But you know what I think? I think these poor bastards were possibly the most miserable people on earth. Because nothing is duller, more inane, more boring, more… empty than perfection. It’s monotonous. It’s soulless.” He said. “At least… at least imperfect means you’re unique. At least failing means  there’s more to discover, room to grow.” His eyes were back on her scar again. “At least it means you’ve lived a life worth asking about.” 

There was something in his eyes this time. Something new. Something that didn’t tell her that she was small and stupid and nothing but the girl who had been next to him in the too long line that he didn’t belong in… or maybe there wasn’t. Maybe she was making up the intensity of his gaze - after all, he was a good couple of feet away from her. Maybe her brain was just holding on to anything, anything at all, because the reality of her situation was finally settling in and it was easier to distract oneself with an annoying man with ocean eyes and clearly too much time on his hands, than it was to accept that no one had come looking for them for a week. 

Maybe there were leaves under the coconut tree that would burn. 

“So,” he started, sitting up. “How did you get your sc–” 

“God cursed Cain, you know.” She met his gaze head-on. There were storms in her eyes, strong enough to drown the island they were standing on if she just had the power, but the anger she feels was also weighed down with a pathetic sadness. She’d made the mistake of trusting a boy who seemed to have the world in his eyes once before. Never again. “Cain gave him the best of what he had and his God rejected him because it wasn’t perfect. And then Cain killed his brother and was cursed. All because he didn’t do what was asked of him, what was demanded.” 

Gojo looked back at her, unflinching. Her eyes were storms… but she knew they were also begging – Don’t ask me that, they say. You aren’t a boy from Ine, you’re from Tokyo. People know your name. You’re important. I’m not from Tokyo, I’m not from Kyoto. I’m not even really a girl from Ine. Don’t ask me about this, please. – and he could probably see it even from his spot in the sand. How pathetic she was. That his initial observation was correct. She was small. And once upon a time, she had been stupid. 

He can probably read all of it on her face. 

God, she doesn’t think she’s ever hated herself more. 

Leaves. She needs to gather leaves. They’ll be cold tonight if she doesn’t. Gojo will try and glue himself to her side all evening if she doesn’t. 

And he’s afraid of the dark. 

She needs to find leaves. 

She turns on her heel and starts to trudge through the damp, muddy sand to the grassy section of the island. All she can hear are the ocean waves as she walks away. Louder than her breathing, louder than the sound of her heart thumping. 

Almost louder than her memories. 

But not louder than Gojo’s voice just before she disappears into the bush. 

“God exiled Cain. Forced him to wander the earth but he also protected him in the end, didn’t he?” The waves and the wind seemed to carry his voice even as she stepped into the jungle. “No one could harm him. He found a wife, had a child and that child founded a city. He lived a life.” The wind whispered in her ear. “That must mean something, right?” 

Two weeks. 

They’d been trapped on the island for two weeks. 

Utahime has finally changed out of her dirty skirt and blouse. The other day she’d spent the morning rummaging through the suitcases and pulled out a white button-down and thankfully found some blue striped cotton shorts that were about her size. They were boy's shorts, they may have even been for children, so they fell at a strange length on her thighs, too long to really be called short, and were tighter than she would have liked at the thighs while also being loose at the waist. Luckily, they had a drawstring so that was fixed with a double knot. 

It felt symbolic. 

Shedding her clothes for new ones. She was supposed to start her new life in New York in these clothes. 

Now they were soiled, practically unsalvageable from the hard living of island life. She walked out to the little waterfall they’d discovered the first week, stripped out of her old clothes, and washed as best as she could in the surprisingly fresh water. Gojo had been sleeping soundly when she’d woken so she wasn’t worried about him happening upon her – not that it mattered much since they’d been stuck together for two weeks but she’d prefer he kept to his side of the island as she bathed. The water was nice. Clean and an almost tranquil blue. She tried her hardest to ignore the way the part where the waterfall hit the solid pool, the darkest part of the water, reminded her of Gojo’s eyes in the night. The body of the pool, bright translucent blue, were his eyes during the day. 

It was maddening. How he was suddenly her frame of reference. Sickening, even. 

Gojo has been changing his clothes daily since the first day. Somehow, though she could barely remember the moment when the plane had hit turbulence and all but split in the air, Gojo had managed to find the time to strap his oversized carry-on to his front. The bag had apparently held his laptop (now ruined), his cell phone (unusable), and an almost obscene amount of designer clothing stuffed into one of those vacuum seal bags that shrink things to a third of their size. 

He was honestly the most obnoxious person she had ever met. 

Utahime breathed in deep before submerging herself under the water. She stayed there for a few seconds, reveling in the feeling of water all around her and the dulling of her senses. She’d always loved the water. It was one of the only things she had in common with the rest of her family – they all loved being at the coast, loved the sea. The water had always soothed Utahime. It demanded stillness and calmness. No matter what form it was in – the sea, a lake, a pool – there was no forcing the water to do anything it didn’t want to do for long. It always came back to this – a pooling, an undisturbed surface, a peace that it controlled. No matter what. 

Utahime broke the surface with a controlled inhale and just floated for a moment on her back, letting the water settle around her again. Letting it reform into its stillness around her body and pull her with it. 

Until she heard him approach. 

“Utahime!” He called out. 

And with that, the calm was broken. She swiped through the pool with well-practiced strokes and pulled herself onto the grass. Her new clothes were folded on a bolder that thankfully was just tall enough to obscure her from view as Gojo wandered over to the bathing pool. 

“Stop.” She called out. Gojo halted like a dog commanded and Utahime would be lying if she didn’t feel something warm in her at that. Maybe he did know when not to test her after all. “What are you doing here?” 

Gojo held up his next outfit. “Bathing. What else?” 

“Well, I’m just finishing up.” She pulled the shorts on, adjusting the drawstring and the crotch until both were comfortable. “Give me a minute.” 

“Why?” She was about to berate him again when he stripped out of her Gucci crewneck shirt. That, admittedly, stopped her in her tracks. “I don’t mind if you see me naked, Utahime.” 

Shameless. Satoru Gojo was shameless. 

“I mind,” Utahime pulled the white shirt on, cursing herself for not wearing a bra on the flight. “Just give me a minute.” Something flew over the top of the boulder and landed at her feet. Trousers. He hadn’t. “Gojo–” 

Her answer came in the form of a stray wave of water rewetting her feet. Utahime scowled at the epicenter of the waves, watching with barely contained irritation as Gojo popped up. He was smiling. 

“You’re staring pretty hard for someone who doesn’t want to see me naked.” 

Utahime looked away immediately, buttoning up her shirt with almost inhuman speed. Once she was finished she picked up her old clothes – they’d probably burn well for tonight’s fire – and turned to leave. 

“Utahimeeeee!” 

Despite herself, she stopped. “What?” She wasn’t facing him. She refused to look over at him again. He was bad enough when he was dry. He was intolerable surrounded by water that matched his eyes. Utterly intolerable. 

“Stay.” 

“No.” She took a step forward. 

“Utahimeeeeeeee!” 

He made her want to change her fucking name. “WHAT?!” 

“Just keep me company?” 

She would have ignored him – she was ready to –but it had been two weeks. It was obvious that as carefree as Gojo acted he was starting to feel it too. Two weeks was a long time. There had been no sign of the rest of the plane or even any other survivors. There was no one else on this island. It was just them. 

It made sense that he’d start getting clingy. 

She just wished he’d learn to suppress it like she had. 

But regardless she didn’t leave. She dropped her old clothes on the ground where she stood and sat down on them, back still facing the pool. “Happy now?” She had to speak louder now that she was some distance away, the roar of the waterfall competing with her voice. 

“Very!” Gojo all but screamed. 

Silence falls over the two of them and, with her eyes closed, Utahime can almost pretend that Gojo isn’t there. That she isn’t on this island. But she pictures nowhere else. The only other place she knew well enough to imagine was Ine, and she certainly didn’t want to be there. So she just sees darkness. It’s the reddish sort of darkness of her eyelids that offers her comfort. Stillness. Peace. 

Until Gojo plunges his way through that just as he had the surface of the pool. 

“Hey, Utahime?” Gojo said. He sounded closer. Was he at the edge of the pool, peering at her as he floated? Utahime refused to open her eyes and look. And she tried not to let her mind conjure up the image. It would have been easy though – they’d spent so much time together, she could probably paint his likeness in the sand with her finger if she wanted to. “What do you think the moral was?” 

The sun was unyielding. She could feel its heat like a hand, heavy on her shoulders. 

“Moral of what?” 

“Cain and Abel.” 

They hadn’t talked about that conversation since it happened. 

Utahime had returned with some leaves from the far side of the island and they’d added some of the smaller clothes that didn’t fit either of them and couldn’t be used for covering or tent patching to bulk it up. Then they’d gone to sleep and the next day had carried on as normal – Gojo being insufferable and Utahime dealing with him. 

But with an island of just two, it was bound to come up again. 

“Isn’t the moral obvious?” She almost wanted to look at him. But she settled on a humorless chuckle instead. “Murder is bad.”

“I mean, yeah, sure,” Gojo said, the water around him rippling at his waist. “ But doesn't that get a little confusing when God gives a woman the strength to drive a nail through a man's temple just a few books later?”  

Utahime wasn’t that well versed in the bible if she was being honest. Religion had never appealed to her the way it had her mother and father. Not that that counted for much. Religion hadn’t made her mother anymore accepting or loving. And religion hadn’t given her father a reason to stay. 

“I wouldn’t know.” She said. “I’m not a religious education teacher, Gojo.” 

“Satoru.” He persisted even though, at this point, he knew she wouldn’t budge. “I think the usual lesson is something about how pride is man’s downfall. But I don’t really care about that,” he said. “I wanna know what you get from the story.” 

“Me?” 

With her eyes shut like this and Gojo’s voice providing the soundtrack to darkness, she can’t stop herself from conjuring him in her mind's eyes. Silver hair, marble chiseled features, and those fucking eyes. The color of a water pool.  

She opened her eyes. 

“There's no one else on this island is there?” Gojo chuckled.  

It was midday. 

The sun was high in the sky and the bulk of its heat seemed like it was spotlighted right on her. She could feel herself starting to sweat which wasn’t ideal seeing as she’d just taken a shower. “Other than the obvious?” She brought a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, her other moving slightly behind her as she leaned. “It’s about the importance of obedience. About not rocking the boat. Listening to your superiors. Falling in line, blah, blah, blah.” 

About not trying to do more than is asked of you, not being more than you’re expected to be. 

Utahime frowned. Ine had one small nondenominational church that the majority of families – Christian or not – went to every Sunday. Whenever they’d read this story, she’d hear it for the next month, the Pastor’s message having found a home on her mother’s lips. It felt like she could never escape it. 

“Okay,” he was further away now. Floating near the middle of the pool? “There’s clearly a story there.” He said. “Feel like sharing?” 

She didn’t. “What’s your moral?” 

“Mine?” Gojo paused for a moment, musing with the faintest hum escaping him. She could barely hear it over the waterfall. “I suppose it's the same for me. Although instead of a warning against standing out, I’d say it was warning against conforming.” 

What? “How do you figure that?” 

“Well, look at Abel. For all his obedience all he really got was a rock to the back of the head.” 

“Cain was exiled.” 

“There are worse things.” There it was. That smile in his voice again. “Imagine doing everything right, being perfect, and then all you get for it is death. Sounds like the true curse to me. At least Cain took a risk. Lived a life.” The waterfall drowned Gojo out the closer he got to it so Utahime found herself leaning further back, straining to hear him. “I told you – he was protected, found himself a wife, and had a child. If you ask me he got the better ending. I mean, other than the crime itself, do we even really care about what happened to Abel?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean everyone remembers Cain,” Gojo said. “Cain was disobedient. Cain killed his brother. Cain was exiled. Don’t get me wrong – murder is definitely wrong but irrelevance seems like the bigger curse to me.” 

Irrelevance. 

It was a curse. And a warning. 

That’s how it had felt growing up in Ine. Looking at all those people in front of her who lived the same life over and over and over again because that was safer than trying anything else. Then going anywhere else. Then wanting something different. It was a comfort to them – knowing ten, thirty, one hundred people who were living the very same life that they were. 

Look at Miss Yoko, she’s taught at the school house for thirty years and she’s happy. She has a husband and five kids. What else could you want? 

I told you to leave that Zenin boy alone, Utahime! Now, look at you! That scar isn’t going to heal well. You know that right? You’ll always have it now! 

You should go out with that Tanaka boy. His dad owns a big fishing boat – the blue and red one, what was it called again? Nevermind. He’s the oldest son. You know he’s going to inherit that. Wouldn’t that be nice? 

New York? Utahime. You really need to start taking your life seriously. You’re twenty-seven now. And what have you accomplished? What have you done? 

She didn’t want to live that life. She didn’t need to be great. She didn’t need to be extraordinary. But she needed to be herself, she needed to be different from the clones she’d grown up around. Giving in, being them, would have killed her. It would have hurt more than this scar. 

But why would someone like Gojo be afraid of irrelevance? 

She’d only known him for a little while but she didn’t think Satoru Gojo could ever in this life be irrelevant. He was too big, too flashy, too much to fade into obscurity. She didn’t think even New York City was big enough to swallow him. 

If anything he’d swallow the city. 

Instead of saying any of that though, Utahime allowed herself to drop against the grass, facing the sun directly with grass in her hair, and said, “That’s pretty fucked up.” 

“Is it?” 

Was it?

She wasn’t really sure. 

The longer she thought about it, the more it was starting to make sense. Which was rather concerning. Because Gojo barely ever made sense. 

Clearly, they had been together too long. 

“What about you, Utahime?” He asked. “You can’t tell me you want to lead some boring perfect little life, do you?” 

The way he said it should have upset her but for whatever reason, it didn’t. She didn’t want to lead a boring life. She wanted to lead her life. The one she could choose. That was what New York was about really – having the freedom to be whoever she wanted. “I survived a plane crash and ended up stranded on a desert island.” She said. “I think boring is a pipe dream for me now.” 

Gojo laughed. “Yeah.” She heard the telltale signs of him pulling himself from the water. The wet slaps as his feet hit the smooth rock on his way over to his clothes. Good thing too. This heat was starting to get unbearable. “I suppose it is.” 

It was the fourth week. It had been a whole month. 

“Humor me, Utahime.” They were both lying in the sand. Normally, Utahime would have preoccupied her time with looking through their food supply, gathering firewood, or reinforcing their tent – anything really to avoid talking to Gojo, but it had been four weeks. They had enough food to last a while still. Their tent wasn’t budging. And they had systems in place now to survive. She couldn’t come up with a reason good enough to avoid him anymore. What was the point? All they had, it seemed, was each other.  “Just a few questions.” 

“A few questions?” 

“Twenty.” 

“A few is two or three.” 

“It's not as if we don’t have the time.” 

Time. Yeah, she supposed they had nothing but time. Until they were rescued that was. 

If anyone was coming at all. 

“Aren’t you worried,” she asked him. Specks of sand hit against her cheek as he sat up, looking down at her with those reflective sunglasses he loved so much. They were by some Japanese brand that she’d never heard of. “We’ve been here for a month.” 

“What will worrying do?” 

She should have expected that. For someone who seemed to have a lot going for him in the real world, Gojo was lackadaisical about being here. Sure, it wasn’t ideal for him but he also wasn’t overly stressed about it. Part of it, she assumed, was because someone was bound to realize that Satoru Gojo was missing eventually. The other part… Well, she didn’t actually know. 

“What will twenty questions do?” She countered. 

“It’ll let us get to know each other better.” 

“I know you.” If it took ten thousand hours to become an expert at a topic then she was an expert in Satoru Gojo at least five times over. She knew more about him than she wanted to and what she didn’t know… wasn’t really  that important in the long run. When they were finally rescued – when some assistant or director or something realized that Gojo was missing – they’d each be going their separate ways. Her to carve out her own life under the inertia of New York City and him to conquer it. 

“Utahime….” He looked at her over the top of his glasses, the intense gaze prompting her to sit up as well. The wind was picking up anyway. She didn’t need to get more sand in her mouth. “You can’t really believe that.” 

“I know enough.” 

“Yeah?” He asked. She nodded, leaning back and closing her eyes. “Well, maybe I’ll suprise you.” 

“I doubt it.” 

“Humor me, Utahime.” 

Hadn’t she been doing that this whole time? “Fine.” Wasn’t much point in arguing. There wasn’t much point in anything right now. It had been a month. “Go first.” 

Gojo didn’t miss a beat. 

“Why did you become a teacher?” 

Why had she become a teacher? The question brought images of arguments with her mother to mind, both of them nearly red in the face as they shouted. Neither yielding. What had been the point? “It seemed like the thing to do.” She said, simply. 

“That can’t be it.” 

She opened her eyes to find him still looking at her. He almost looked disappointed, like he expected more. It was a strange look. “I guess, I wanted to set an example. For the kids in my community. Most of my teachers growing up were from out of town. They had teaching degrees. No one I knew had a degree in anything.” 

Gojo hummed. “Better.” Utahime scoffed. Did he approve? Great. “Now, you.”   

“Me?” 

“Ask me a question, Utahime. It’s really not that complicated.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Okay fine.” She said. “What’s your favorite color?” 

Gojo gave her a look.

“What?” She said, defensively. “They're my questions. I can ask what I want.” 

“You could have just said you weren’t good at this.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Well, there’s an idea…” Gojo looked at her, something unmistakable twinkling in his eyes. Utahime looked away. “White.” 

“White?” 

“I like how… full and empty it is all at the same time.” He said. “If infinity had a color I think it would be white.” 

Infinity? 

She blinked. “That doesn’t count as my second question.” 

“See! You do want to play!” She didn’t respond to that. “Okay, let me see…” Gojo paused, contemplating, then just as suddenly he let out an excited ‘oooh!’ “How old were you when you had your first kiss.” 

“Twelve.” 

“Awwww,” It sounded condescending. “Who was it? Do you remember?” 

Shoko Ieiri. “Is that your third question?” 

“Sure!” 

“An old  friend. Shoko.” Utahime shared. “She moved away a few weeks after that.” 

Gojo nodded as if that made sense to him. “Tragic.” He recovered quickly. “Do you want to know who my first kiss was?” 

“Is that your fourth question?” 

“Oh, course not!” 

“Then no.” She answered. “What do you do? Out there in the real world.” 

Gojo blinked at her, eyes searching for something on her face. What? She didn’t know. He didn’t seem to find it though because he turned away, looking at the waves crashing onto the shore. The damp sand dried up almost instantly in the heat. “I’m just some rich guy’s kid.” He said. “Officially? I’m next in line to inherit a conglomerate. Nothing interesting.” 

That was uninteresting?

Utahime had assumed he was wealthy – his wardrobe had proved as much – but she hadn’t realized he was inheritance rich. “How is that uninteresting?” 

“Ah, ah, ah. Third question.” Gojo smiled at her. The mirth back in his eyes. “It’s uninteresting because it has nothing to do with me. It’s not something I choose. It’s just something that I was born into.” He said. “Honestly, I don’t think there is anything as dull as nepotism.” 

Utahime couldn’t help the scoff that left her. “What you wouldn’t give your kids everything if they wanted it?”

“I’d hope I would have the kind of kids that wouldn’t want it.” His gaze was too much. She’d thought his eyes were too intense since the moment she’d met him – icy blue that somehow warmed her from the inside out when he looked at her for too long – but now, with their faces inches apart and their shoulders touching it was almost unbearable. Utahime looked away and Gojo, that bastard, chuckled. “Question four.” 

“Go ahead.” She said, attention focused on the waves. “Ask.” 

“Why were you going to New York?” 

“I wanted to disappear.” 

“Disappear?” 

“I wanted to be able to make decisions about my life without feeling everyone’s disapproval all the time.” She admitted. “I wanted to go somewhere where I could, I don’t know, be swallowed up by the city. Where no one really cared how different I was or how I was living or would even spare the time to think twice about me.” The waves were calming now, barely reaching the shore. Lapping at the sand instead of covering it like they had been this whole time. The surface was calming. “I wanted freedom. I wanted peace.” 

“And you thought you’d find that in the City That Never Sleeps?”

“I’d hoped so.” She said. “That was six by the way.” 

“Why do I feel like you’re cheating me?” 

“Because you think everything is about you.” She answered. “Seven.” Gojo cussed. “Where did you grow up?”

“Tokyo. Aoyama.” 

Of course, he did. 

“Did you do a lot of traveling?” 

“A bit. I’ve been to most of Asia. The majority of Europe. The important parts of America. Brazil, Mexico, Guatemala.” Yeah, he was worlds away from the people in Ine. Utahime couldn’t even really remember traveling further than Kyoto before getting the bus to Tokyo for her flight. “I’ve been around.” He said. “That was six for you.” 

The next eight of Gojo’s questions ranged from mundane – “What are your friends like? You do have friends, don’t you, Utahime?” – to inappropriate – ‘What would you say your cup size is?” – until suddenly, at his fifteenth question, he paused. The sound of the ocean and the birds of the island filled the space between her eleventh question and his fifteenth. The melodic cawing was almost somber, complimented beautifully the slow pull and push of the water on the shore. It was like a carefully curated soundtrack, like nature had decided on this very song for this very moment. 

And from the look on Gojo’s face, Utahime knew exactly why. 

“Just ask it.” She said. It had been a month after all. She couldn’t blame him for wondering. “That's what all this was for right?”  That much was obvious from the beginning. “That question.” 

For his credit, Gojo didn’t back down. “How did you get your scar?”

Neither did Utahime. 

“By being young.” Utahime sighed, hands clenching at the sand by her side and letting it fall from her fingers. “And being – or thinking I was – in love. Thinking that being in love could make me interesting.” They were her mother's words but, Utahime hated to admit it, it was true. She had never been happy in Ine. Since she was young she’d known she would never be happy there so when something grand had finally happened when she’d finally felt something, she’d latched onto it with both hands. Being in love had been something wholly hers. Something that she’d rarely seen – not in her own home, not in her town, nowhere but the television. And she’d finally had it.  “I come from a small town – so small I doubt you’ve even heard of it – and it's filled with small people all living the same lives. All the men are fishermen and all the women are homemakers. That’s all there is to really be in Ine.” She said. “It is suffocating.” 

“Suffocating?” Gojo aked.  

Sixteen

“Like having your life mapped out and not having a say in how it happens.” It was funny how they were parallels in that way – his life dictated by the luck of his birth and hers by her hometown. “Everyone I met was like a blueprint of how I was meant to live. I could see it. I could see my life in all of their faces and it made me sick. When I was a child it was because I had delusions of being different and special. As I got older I realized I just really wanted to be me.” She said. “But what’s that saying? The tallest nail gets knocked down the hardest? Something like that.” 

Gojo nodded. And for once, Utahime felt like he really did understand. “So your scar…” 

“When I was fifteen, the church roof collapsed.” It had been the most interesting thing to happen in Ine that year. A bad rain storm had finally torn the rickety roof off the church and it had landed, useless, on some farm miles away. The pastor and parishioners had been beside themselves. A town meeting was called and everything. “Since we’re a town of fishermen, we had to outsource the job to a construction company. Zenin Construction. They sent out a team of workers and had one of the director’s sons come and manage the build. His name was Naoya.” She could still see the shiny logo on those big, big trucks. They’d unloaded equipment and supplies and turned the entire churchyard into a workspace. It had been a real spectacle for the sleepy town. “He was the first guy I’d ever met who seemed to really have some say in his life. I mean, all of the workers listened to him. If something went wrong they’d look to him to fix it. And he was good at the job but he wanted more. He wanted to expand his family's business and the way he talked about it – I believed that he would. Because at the time he was twenty and I was fifteen and I thought I was in love.” 

“What does a fifteen-year-old know about love?”

Seventeen.

The wind was picking up. Utahime pulled the oversized cardigan she was wearing as close to her body as possible. 

“Nothing.” She said. Fifteen was much too young. “Everything,” She had to admit as well because that was the truth. That was the contradiction. “I might have been in love but he wasn’t. He wasn’t…. He just wasn’t what I thought he was.” She continued.  “He was in town for four months and we started hooking up around the third week in. Of course, I thought it was so dangerous and thrilling and sexy sneaking out to meet him. I was fifteen. I can forgive myself for being stupid.” She could. She had to. “Naoya had so much. But in reality, he had less than I thought he did. I thought he had freedom. But he didn’t – not really.” He had been a complicated person. A bastard in the end but no less complicated. “It turns out he wasn’t the first pick to inherit the company. His uncle was looking at one of his other cousins for the job and he made that clear about two months into the church build.” 

Gojo shuffled closer, his shoulder falling behind hers until her left side was essentially pressed against his chest. She would have moved, and shuffled away, but it was getting cold and body heat was vital. Survival was vital. 

So she shuffled a little closer. 

“It’s a cliche but Naoya changed after that. He got rough and mean. And…. “ She stopped. She was getting ahead of herself. “Or maybe he didn’t change. Maybe he’d always been that way but I’d never really noticed. But anyway… he hit me one day and I didn’t really react much. Women sometimes got hit in Ine. It happened. And he hadn’t hit me very hard. I didn’t think it mattered.” 

“You were fifteen.” His voice was sincere. Damn near apologetic. 

Ha. It was funny. He had more compassion for her fifteen-year-old self than her mother had. 

“I was fifteen.” Utahime nodded. “Long story short: one day he just exploded about something I’d said or something I’d done. I can’t even remember now. But we were at the construction site and I’d finally had enough so I was screaming back at him. The next thing I know he picks up a screwdriver or a box cutter or something and I’m on the floor, stunned, holding my face. And he… he was on the phone with his dad.”  She couldn’t remember the specifics of the attack – thank goodness – but that was something she’d never forgotten. How Naoya had looked as he stood there, her blood on his hand, dripping onto his loafers, and a look of disgust pointed at her as he explained to his father how she had provoked him. She’d never felt smaller. “Asshole didn’t even respect me enough to try and bride me. He just had his dad threaten me a little and was gone the next morning.” Utahime chuckled, humorlessly. “And the real kicker? My mom refused to take me to the hospital. She wanted it to scar.” 

“Why would she want that?” 

Eighteen 

“To teach me a lesson.” She and her mother had never had the best relationship but that had settled things between them. There was no repair to be done after that. And not that any apologies were made, had ever been made, but there was no forgiveness to be given either. “To teach me that the only reason I was any different from anyone in town was because of something ugly. Because of this scar.” 

Neither of them spoke as Gojo took off his sunglasses and shifted until he was staring right into her face. Utahime felt herself hold in her breath — not consciously, her body was just reacting to Gojo all on its own. He lifted his hand slowly, shaking off the sand at his palm, and touched her scar. 

“I don’t think it’s ugly.” He said. 

He traced his fingers along the edge of it as if he was drawing it onto her skin. 

“I didn’t ask you what you thought.” She found the strength to say.

“I know.” He caressed the silken skin, the edges still ever so slightly raised. It was soft. Softer than he had expected and a lighter pink this close up. Utahime didn’t breathe – she couldn’t. If she did she’d be inhaling him. If she did she might not ever stop. “I just wanted you to know that.” He whispered against the skin of her cheek and she inhaled. “You’re really quite beautiful, Utahime. Do you know that?” 

Nineteen

And she exhaled. 

And that was it, wasn’t it? She was being stupid again. 

“Utahime?” 

Twenty

Utahime turned quicker than her mind could follow and the next thing she knew was how it felt to kiss Satoru Gojo. 

And she had been right this whole time. 

There really were no men like him in Ine.  

In some ways, she and Gojo felt inevitable. 

Not just because they were the only two on the island but because it comes so naturally. The way Gojo’s arms wrapped around her, the way he pulled her into his lap as the sun slowly set, felt predestined in some way. They fit together. They were fucked up in the same way, they wanted the same things, and she could feel that all in his kiss. It was messy and desperate despite the fact that they had all the time in the world. He nipped at her bottom lip, demanding her attention. For her to give him relevance. For her reaction. He was persistent, just like his kiss, and once again she doesn't think Satoru Gojo could ever be irrelevant in his life. Or to her. Not when he kisses like this, not when he makes her feel like this. 

At some point, he lifted both of them. Her legs wrapped around his waist and his hand dropped down to grip her ass. Their lips never separated. They moved together, fluidly, like they’ve been doing nothing but this for fifty thousand hours. Like they were experts at this like they could devote their entire lives to this and this alone. 

God, she was so stupid. How the hell was she supposed to pull herself out of this. How was she supposed to disappear into the inertia, the stillness, of New York City when she’d have the knowledge that Satoru Gojo was in the same city. Somewhere she could probably get to along the subway map? How was she supposed to be okay with having her life, directing her life, and not having him in it like this?

As if he could hear the thoughts running through her mind, he laid her down on their bed, and pulled back and looked at her. “Stop,” he told her and for once she listened. What was the use in fighting? This had been building for a month. A wave that she’d tried to subdue. Why, though? She knew better than that. The ocean could never be controlled for long, could never be forced to do anything that wasn’t natural, and neither could this. Neither could Gojo. And, apparently, neither could she. “Stop thinking. Just…” He stroked at her jaw, eyes tracing her face. “Just be here with me, Utahime.” 

And she was. 

She was more present than she’s ever been before. More awake. Everything was so vivid. The snag of her shirt as he stripped it off her body, the feeling of the buttons of the Hawaiian shirt Gojo was wearing in her quick fingers. His hands on her body. His hands. Nothing in the world existed at that moment but his hands on her hips, her back, her breasts, gripping her ass. There was nothing else in the entire world. There couldn’t be. There was no room to feel or think about anything else but where he would put his hands next. Where her hands would fall next. The next stroke, the next snap of his hips against hers, the feeling of wholeness that nearly brought her to tears. 

She was present. 

She was here. 

And she never wanted to leave. 

The two of them fell back against the bedding sweaty despite the chilled air, satisfied, and sated. Neither said anything for a moment, deep breathing the only sound as both chests lifted and fell as their hearts tried to settle into this new rhythm. The song had changed. The chirping of day birds had given way to the deeper sound of the night birds, and the waves once again crashing against the shore with more vigor. Circardas added their ring to the night. 

The silence felt hollow somehow, in the aftermath of what they’ve just done, so Utahime broke it first. 

“Why,” she started, breathlessly. “Why don’t you want to be an heir?” 

Gojo looked over at her. Utahime kept her eyes to the tarp that served at their tent, she could just about make out the thick branch that held it up. They’re both bare, no clothes or sheets covering them as the sweat dries on their bodies, but something about the aftermath was uncomfortable for her. Something had shifted and it felt like it should be filled with words. 

“I didn’t choose it.” He moved closer to her. He’s nowhere near as close as he just was but she feels him more somehow. She feels the tickle of the hairs on his arms against her own as he pulled her close. She can hear his heart beating as he rests it on his chest. Body heat is important. It is getting cold after all. “If anything it feels like some kind of punishment.” 

“A punishment?” She whispered into his skin. “Like Cain?”

“No. Not quite.” He said. “More like Abel.” 

The talking soothes the anxiety that has settled now that they aren’t joined. So she asked, “How so?” 

“Well, first of all, I didn’t really do anything of note for it. Being born isn’t really a skill. But I doubt my parents would see running the company as a punishment.” He toyed with her hair, wrapping a couple of strands around her finger like a ring with his right hand. “Not that I think they think about me often,” he confessed. It wasn’t special that he and his parents weren’t close – she had her own fraught relationship with her mother – but she couldn’t help but think it again: they were fucked up the same way. “There’s a weird sense of dismissal attached to money and gifts and fancy houses when they're the only reason you know your parents are alive. When the growing number in the family account is the closest you’ll ever get to check in with them. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like money.” There’s a slight tug where she’s pulling but she doesn’t really mind. The pressure is welcome because oftentimes, after sex, she feels so removed from her body. Tense and guarded by the afterglow of intimacy - because intimacy hasn’t always been safe. Intimacy has scarred her. “I like the gifts and the houses and the… comfort. Part of me probably also likes not having to put effort into finding a career but even when I think I’m happy… when I think that it makes me happy… there’s always that damn distance. Which is stupid, right?” But the tug of her hair keeps her here, in her body, with him, listening to his ramblings. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am too old to be afraid of the dark?”

He dropped the strands of her hair and instead began drawing strange swirling patterns into the skin of her back. “Maybe.” She’s never had to worry about the distance associated with money. She’s never had enough too. Probably never will, what with her teachers salary and all. But she understood that distance from a parent. She understood that distance with yourself too. “Or maybe not? Maybe your parents are supposed to help you grow out of it? Instead of just buying you nightlights.”

“My parents never bought me nightlights,” Gojo drew a star on her hip, “my nanny did.”

It’s wholly inappropriate, especially when he’s all but baring his soul to her, but a laugh bubbled out of her. “That’s really fucking sad, Gojo.”

“We literally just had sex,” he was pouting now. “Can you call me Satoru?”

“Nope.” She pops her ‘p’ just like she’d heard him do a few weeks back when this would have been impossible. “I won’t.”

“Do you know how fucking weird it was hearing you moaning “Gojo! Gojo! Oh, Gojo!” in my ear?” She laughs harder. “Gojo is my family name. I don’t know if you were focused on fucking me or imagining what it would be like to fuck my father.” 

He’s ridiculous. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know! Just call me by my name!”

That was enough for tonight. She could sleep now. 

“Go to bed, Gojo.”

He scoffed. “You’re lucky you’ve got a nice ass.”

“You’re lucky you’re the only man on this island.”

A beat passed. “I am, aren’t I?” He was smiling again. 

“Go to bed.” She pulled the stray sheet over the both of them then settled back into his side and closed her eyes. She waited until he was asleep to say, “Goodnight, Satoru.”

Another two weeks passed by like that. 

The two of them are just the same as before and worlds away from who they once were. They gather firewood and find coconuts to eat when their supplies start running low. Gojo tries to go hunting one day and only manages to scrap his knee on a tree trunk. Utahime tracks the time that passes and Gojo asks incessant questions, most of which she doesn’t answer. He continues to annoy her and she continues to ignore him when it suits her. He doesn’t mind. She’s present with him now and that’s all he really wants. 

Besides, they always come back together at night. It is cold after all. Body heat is critical for survival and it was Gojo’s personal mission to ensure that Utahime would never be cold. 

Rescue comes on the third day of the sixth week. 

At first, neither of them was sure what that rapid sound of fluttering was or why the leaves they’ve gathered begin blowing away but then they look up and see a helicopter. The side door was decorated with a silver ‘G’ and the thin dark-haired man who stepped out looked over at Gojo with barely concealed annoyance. Gojo grabbed her hand then, pulling her close, and laughing like this had all been one wild adventure. He laughed harder when he realized that Utahime was crying. 

Fat, ugly, snotty tears of relief. 

She smacked him then and his assistant pretended not to notice. 

Six hours later they found themselves in a hospital near the coast of Barbados. 

He stayed by her side the whole time. Arguing with the hospital staff when they try to give them separate rooms or take one of them away without the other for various tests. It’s a wonder he has the energy. Utahime felt shattered, the near two-month experience finally settling heavily on her shoulders. She feels like she could sleep for two years.

 But he does. 

He refused to leave her side. He laid there, on another hospital bed pushed up as close as possible to hers, fussed over by various doctors and nursed with an IV drip at his left arm – holding her hand through it all. 

Six weeks and five days later Satoru Gojo and Utahime Ieri finally arrived at the JFK airport.

The place was packed. People rushing to catch planes, running to meet up with loved ones. Others at the check-out desks with heavy bags. Some families redistributing their stuff off to the side. The announcements – read by some midwestern woman with a television accent – rang through every few minutes.  

They had learned from Kiyotaka Ijichi, one of the Gojo family’s handlers, that a pressure issue had been the cause of the plane crash. Part of the cabin – the section in business class where Gojo had been seated and where Utahime had been right underneath, in economy class – had been the first casualty of the incident but the remainder of the plane and the passengers had actually crash-landed several thousand kilometers north into a rice field. There were a few casualties but the majority of people had survived. After a week of hospital attention, they had all continued on to New York. 

All except Gojo and Utahime. 

But none of that mattered now. 

They were finally here. 

They had finally made it. 

This was it. 

“I suppose this is goodbye.” Utahime gripped her suitcase. It was filled to the brim with the clothes that Ijichi had bought her from the town center – the sum of her possessions now. The payout from the airline and the sizeable gift from the Gojo family would have to go towards replacing the rest of her things. Not that any of that stuff meant anything to her anymore. All of it belonged to someone else. Some other version of her she didn’t know anymore. 

Gojo smirked at her side. He wasn’t holding her hand now, his own were filled by two suitcases of his own, but he stayed close. Close enough that she could smell the expensive cologne he’d purchased at the duty-free shop. “Last time,” he said, “I checked this is New York.” 

He was going to be insufferable till the end, huh? 

She could smile at that at least. “Gojo.” 

“Satoru.” 

There it was, huh? Nothing had changed and it seemed like everything had. 

Now she’d go into the world knowing that someone where in the city she lived, Satoru Gojo was somewhere being his usual insufferable. The thought gave her a bit of comfort. 

So she supposed she could relent. Just this once. “Satoru.” This would be the last time they would see each other after all. New York was big. Big enough to swallow up the extraordinary, the average, and the disappointments. Big enough that two people being stranded on a deserted island for two months would hardly make the evening news. She’d probably hear his name every now and then but he’d find it easy to forget about her she was sure. “I-” What was she supposed to say? “Thank you.” 

Satoru chuckled, cocking a brow. “For?” 

“For…” There was that feeling again. A feeling too big for even New York to swallow up. One that she might just have to carry around with her for years and years. Something that wouldn’t give way to comparison. Something stupid. “For everything?” 

“Is that a question?” 

It was a question because he had never really given her all of her twenty answers. He owed her. But …maybe not answering was for the best. Maybe she shouldn’t question anything that happened on that island. It would be foolish to try and bring it back with her. It didn’t belong here. It wasn’t sustainable in the real world, was it? Stop it, Utahime. Stop questioning it. Stop wondering. Stop wanting his answers. Leave it be. Because an unanswered question was just that - unanswered. It would be asked and ring and hang in the air for as long as it remained unanswered. It would mark the one asked for as long as they held it. For as long as they didn’t answer it belonged to the two of them, them and them alone. And maybe that was the only way that she - small and insignificant and nothing more than the scarred girl that a king had found momentary comfort in - would ever be able to mark him. 

It was a shallow mark. 

It certainly wasn’t indelible but it was there for now. Maybe it’d be there for days or weeks or maybe for the rest of his life but she could find comfort, however sad that was, in the fact that for a time she had marked him. 

“It is.” She said, “Being stranded on an island isn’t ideal. But it would have been significantly worse if I had been stranded alone.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“I’m not asking you to believe me.” 

“Good.” He leaned down to face her directly, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Because I think you’re full of shit. You wanted to kill me at least six times while we were on the island.” 

“You can’t be prosecuted for your thoughts.” 

“You have an  answer for everything, Utahime.”  

She didn’t. But she was glad he thought she did. Maybe that meant she could find some, somewhere out there. 

With that she stepped forward, ready to start the life she’d chosen two months ago when his hand grabbed her wrist. His suitcase, the new gaudy brand name one that he loved, toppled over and fell to the floor. But he wasn’t looking at it like she was. He was looking at her. 

“Where are you going?” He asked. 

She looked at him then and blinked. “To find an apartment.” 

“Let’s go together.” 

“To the realtor?”

“Yes.” He said, as though it was obvious. “We have a lot to discuss.” 

“A lot,” she was confused, “to discuss.” What was he on about? "About what?" 

“Actually,” he looked down at his suitcase. “We should probably just head to my apartment. No offense but the luggage you choose is giving me overly-priced, one-bedroom studio and that just won’t do.” What? What was going on? “We’ll take care of your stuff later. Let’s just go home.” Her heart skipped. Home? He let go of her then, reluctantly, and bent down to grab his suitcase. “Fuck. I can’t wait to sleep in a bed.” 

He started walking, forcing her to follow after him. 

“Gojo!” He gave her an exasperated look. “Satoru.” She corrected. “What is going on?” 

It seemed he still refused to answer her questions — at least not directly. 

“You said it yourself, Utahime. God banished Cain.” He slipped on a pair of rounded sunglasses, the same pair he would sometimes wear on the island, shuffled his suitcases to one hand, and slipped his hand into hers. “And like I told you — he was exiled, found a woman, and had a family. He lived a life.” He pulled her along beside him. The sound of the busy airport drowned out her thoughts, her worries, and her past until all she could focus on was keeping one foot in front of the other, moving forward. And the sound of his voice. “Well, I hardly think my exile is up yet, do you?” 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Maybe they had been together for too long. Because Satoru Gojo had never made as much sense as he did at that moment. At that moment, in New York, he made perfect sense. 

“No,” she smiled to herself, hidden under her new scarf, “I don’t suppose it is.” 

And on they went.