Archive of Our Own

the library is typically a safe space.

or, at least, safe enough.

it's always crowded--even three months into the school year when most students have given up on formally studying and, you know, showing up to class. there's more parking spots, fewer flooded bathroom stalls, and a million wary faculty members, crossing off each day that brings everyone closer to summer break.

but crowds aren't really the issue. at least in the library, people attempt to get work done. there's the occasional group of close-to-drop-out-inconsiderate-assholes that linger in the back, yelling at each other and playing music too loud like they've forgotten that some person stowed a speaker in the pocket of their backpack. like that speaker has somehow eluded them, and even if--even if--someone were to ask them to turn the music down, wait, what music are you even talking about?

there are the students who've forgotten to bring extra deodorant, those who mutter under their breath incessantly. the ones who drop things entirely too loudly, and the ones who loiter for hours on end, taking up the last available computer while playing candy crush on their phone.

but it's still safe. if people are all that you have to deal with, you'll be okay. probably.

there are obvious countermeasures, even. you have noise-canceling earbuds with you at all times, several different chargers that cover any possible battery shortages you might run into, snacks in case you get bored, a water bottle, and even mints--because god forbid you buy a black tea and the last overpriced sleeve of crackers from the vending machine that leave your breath smelling like stale melancholy for the rest of the day.

you're prepared for any scenario in the library. your backpack is doomsday-level, your studying is meticulous, and you've only resorted to spending time in the library because it's cold outside and the concrete buildings aren't exactly conducive to cellular service. it's a last resort--if it felt worth it to trek home for the hour and a half between classes, you'd be doing that.

but instead, you're here. trying to pretend like the textbook in front of you is actually interesting, instead of just deadening and possibly detrimental to the last couple of brain cells you've reserved for just this.

and the library is safe because you know what's inside. even if it takes five extra minutes of walking around to find somewhere to sit--even if you have to battle the other people by the door for a spot next to an outlet--you're willing and ready. you just have to pretend like you don't really care, and then it all works out.

what you can't prepare yourself for, though, is the bright blue eyes that meet yours from the table over.

usually, you'd find a table with no view. the grey of the walls is much preferred to the group of boys passing twitter memes back and forth and using their tongues like unpleasant hand gestures. today, there are just more ants than usual. bread crumbs littered all around, like the students on staff are actually looking for people without the ability to read.

so you're sitting at a desk in the middle of the abyss. for the past hour, you've been trying to ignore the people walking by with purple leather shoes and backpacks with cartoon characters on them, but it gets increasingly more difficult every time you see the word variant and have to remind yourself what it means again.

and this time, when you make the mistake of looking up, someone is looking back.

a boy, sitting at the desk two meters from yours, books spread haphazardly across the tiny table, computer resting on top of them--a newer model, apparently, with no risk of burning through the ink of a ridiculously expensive textbook.

he's looking back at you. bright hair, easy, line-free face, and eyes brighter than any one of these fluorescent walls.

you look away immediately. eye-contact is fine because what college student is actually dedicated to completing any assignments amidst the cacophony of groans? what student is paying attention when they know that just one missing assignment won't cost them a degree? you can look around and observe your peers; you just have to make sure to look away right after.

or usually. usually, all you have to do is look away as soon as you're caught, and it's bygones. there's no rule posted that says you can't use your eyes.

when your eyes flick up again, checking to see if you've maintained the standard, he's still looking back.

you refrain from wincing and stare down at the textbook. maybe this boy is new--almost halfway through the semester, sure, but anything is possible--because instead of ignoring this like any other person would do, instead of pretending that there's not a strange camaraderie between the two of you even without introductions, or words, he clears his throat.

you look up again.

he's smiling this time.

"is the wifi working for you?" he asks, glancing down at your computer.

your computer, which has blacked out, much like a drunk person lacking attention. you click the space bar, waiting a moment.

"um, yeah, it's fine," you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear you. and then, a second too late, you say back, "...is it not for you?"

he almost huffs. it's the kind of huff that someone makes when they've noticed a withdrawal from their bank account--because they obviously didn't know that they actually had to pay for that thing they bought. then he looks over to you, lip quirking. "well, it says that it is."

"the free network isn’t very good. did you sign in with your student id?"

"sign in?"

you blink. "to the library connection."

"connection?"

you swallow. "if you open your wifi login, it'll take you to the captive portal. all you have to do is type in your id and agree to the terms and conditions, and then you should connect automatically."

this boy, who has continued to look at you, nods. "oh, cool."

you nod, just once, and look back down. you're not going to get anything else done now, but no one ever said that pretending wasn't worth something. you're a good samaritan, you can speak to people and have it be completely normal.

"thanks," he adds, like it's imperative.

you nod again. when you look over again, he's staring down at the computer, tongue slightly sticking out, eyes contemplative as he types something.

try as you might, you can’t prepare for everything

*

you don't see him again for another two weeks. and it's not like you've been actively looking for this boy. it's true enough that on a campus with thousands of people moving in and out every day, you could never see him again and never have to think about that.

you're not looking for him, but it's hard not to notice when he shows up. because he does show up. in some methodical synchronicity that should warn you of the possibility of your hand running through your computer, atoms aligned, he shows up in the same spot that he did two weeks ago.

it's less crowded than it was that day, but you woke up too early and didn't want to venture into the further depths of the library, in fear that you might fall asleep in some dark corner with only a mute conversation happening from the other side of the wall.

so you're sitting in the middle of the abyss, typing.

and this time, when you look up, he's not looking back. you're not sure what you notice first, exactly. the white hair? the shining blue eyes? the dark glasses he's wearing inside? the pout on his lips that looks so forced, you worry it might be about to fall off?

you blink at him, stare down at the paper you're supposed to be writing, and sigh. you're supposed to be explaining how primate behavior has adapted you completely to the current society of screens and booze, but you can't even remember how to spell adaptation. besides, if you can't even adapt to waking up two hours earlier, do you have any room to talk?

you're debating the ethics of buying another energy drink--or maybe a latte, if you want to venture outside the box you’ve been placed in--when the boy clears his throat, and your head snaps up.

again.

"oh, hey," he says, just as your eyes reach his. he says it slightly too loud--which should probably be a sign that talking to someone who is a table over from you is a terrible idea, even if your voice doesn't carry. "i figured out the wifi. i signed the papers and everything. the loading icon has officially moved on."

"that's good."

he grins, like your two-word sentence is enough to thrust in an era of world peace. "yeah, it is. it's still really slow, though. i've been waiting for this website to load for five minutes."

"it is pretty laggy. i just refresh until it works. sometimes it takes a while."

he shrugs. "worth a shot."

and you get the feeling that he would say something else, but you look down at your computer, begging for integration techniques and an alphabetized bibliography to save you from whatever this is. at this point, he could say anything, and you would shove your face into your computer screen to take a bite.

you haven't had the time to work through a conversation, let alone have one with someone who has officially become frequent.

does a couple of conversations require a new title? or can you pretend that you've never seen him before? maybe you should've taken the chance and found a cubicle with no outside view.

the boy has already looked away when you peek back up. he's humming now, though, because you're both in a library, and why wouldn't he be?

*

the boy shows up again, because that's just how it works here.

boy is a pretty apt word for him, you think now, watching him sit at the very same table--you're a couple of desks over today, closer to the heater and further from the collection of people in the middle of the room. he's digging through his bag for something, and you get the brief vision of a kid sitting at a diner booth, armed with three crayons, being doted on by a middle-aged woman who's worked there for twenty years and knows everyone's secrets. then you blink and you're back in the library.

if you're going to keep seeing him like this--in the middle of your day, in the middle of this concrete building--you should probably come up with a better nickname. college campuses are ripe with little boys, and yours isn't an exception. but 'freaky blue eyes' seems a little too literal. it lacks the charm that you feel every time you watch him knock the pen off his desk, pick it up, and do it again three minutes later.

it lacks the complete awkwardness you feel every time the boy looks up, and for some reason, you're always looking back. it's like he knows when your brain is desperate for an escape, when your eyes drift off and inevitably betray you by looking his way. he’s a beacon in the middle of the desert, the watering hole after three long weeks.

today, though, you're not sitting right in front of the boy. he has no eye contact privileges from across the room.

today, anyway, you're watching him. it's a bit different now, since you can actually stare without looking judgmental or feeling crazy. you watch as he boots up his computer, tapping his feet against the floor like he's ready to run away. it's relatable, honestly, and the boy, flagrant and bright as he comes, is much better than the mind-numbing graph you're supposed to be filling out.

he taps his foot against the floor, desk jostling with the movement, and he looks around for a moment like he's missing something. you look around, too, but you didn't notice him drop anything when he came in.

when you look back at the boy, he's looking at you again, this time like he's found something.

he smiles at you. his hand comes up in an almost-wave. he stops, though, and maybe he's just remembered that you've only shared two conversations, and maybe he's actually aware that though there is no natural order to this library, there is to social experiences. still, he closes his fist, and you look away.

you'll have to find a better hiding spot next time.

*

"psst," you hear, and look up--there is no other response to being called to attention, so you have no ground to ignore this. the boy is sitting in front of you. "hey."

you tilt your head. "hey?"

"do you have a pen i could borrow? i need to write down these problems, and i lost mine. probably. or it ran away."

"...sure."

he's sitting at the desk too far away for you to just pass it over, so instead, the boy gets up, coming to stand right in front of you and the mess you've created while studying.

you dig in your pencil bag for a pen--you only have pink ones now, after a self-proclaimed protest against pens with blue ink (and their malicious smear tactics), so hopefully he doesn't mind. when you find the darkest one (almost red, but not quite), you hold it out towards him, needing a whole second to tilt your head back and meet his eyes.

wow. he's a lot taller than you thought. not that you have a good reference for his height, considering that you've only seen him sitting at a desk, usually slouching, and never all that close, but still. he looks a bit more threatening like this, actually, towering over you. for a second, you're worried that he's going to tilt a bit too far forward, collapse against you, and the computer you've sworn to keep for at least two more years.

he doesn't, though. he just takes the pen, grinning at you. "thanks, library buddy."

you blink. library buddy? "no problem."

"are you leaving soon? i wouldn't want to indirectly steal it."

"my next class is at noon, so... but you can just give it back another day, or keep it. it's fine."

"are you offering to share custody?"

"what?"

the boy flips the pen in his hand, switching it to the other, and then holds his vacant hand out to you. "i'm gojo satoru, by the way."

"y/n," you respond, shaking his hand as if you're expecting him to grab it and pull you across the desk.

"y/n, the library buddy."

you blink.

"i'll keep this safe," gojo says, gesturing towards the pen. you just nod.

have you just agreed to share guardianship of the pen you bought?

*

he comes back, though. not like you were expecting him to--in fact, you figured he'd forget your face, and subsequently your pen in its entirety, and maybe you'd catch a glimpse of him again, but never that close, never that tall.

but gojo satoru, as you've learned, does show. he's there four days later, the same time you are, and you happen to be looking up when he walks in, so you get to see the way his face lights up when he notices you, not at your usual desk, but further back, hiding.

damn, it didn't work. it didn't really work last time either, but it at least took a minute or two for him to spot you. this time, it's as if he expected it, as if he was calculating your exact position and spent the time walking over planning which direction to look towards.

either way, he is unbothered by your new spot. he strides over to you in five steps.

"library buddy," he says, as soon as he's in front of you. "i have our pen."

he sets his bag down on the seat in front of you, digging to the bottom. once he finds the pen, he passes it over to you, tilting his head like you're an equation he's never seen before.

"thanks," you say, taking it back. "you sure you don't need it?"

he grins, doesn't answer, but continues looking at you for a moment. and another moment.

you're wondering if you've met him before, if maybe he's a secret agent and you've been evading taxes for twelve years, hiding from the government, and are about to be escorted gently to jail.

gojo is just grinning though. "can i sit here?"

you blink, brows furrowing for a moment before you realize, and then nod in response. it's rude to say no, isn't it? but there are definitely other tables, and there are definitely other people with better, fresher pens.

maybe gojo satoru doesn't know about this.

“what are you studying?" he asks, when he's tucked into the chair across you, legs spilling from the sides of the table.

"physical anthropology."

"is it fun?"

“fun?”

“exciting.”

"it's…a lot of old artifacts."

“how old?”

“hundreds of years, at least. sometimes more.”

“yeah? was your professor there when they were made?”

“probably.”

he laughs. he’s looking at you like you’ve said something amusing. like you’re some adolescent test subject, too young and naive to understand what could possibly be funny about this. it makes you feel small, for just a second, but when he tilts his head at you, you get the sense that he’s thinking the opposite.

“is that your major? physical anthropology?”

“no.”

you can see his canine teeth when he opens his mouth. you can feel the brush of a tongue over the ridges. “can i study here?”

you pause for a moment. you have no reason to say no--there's space for two, and you already agreed to let him sit here, so what's some studying? you nod eventually, feeling like it might be the only thing you remember how to do.

“cool,” gojo says.

you leave shortly after that, it’s hard to get any work done around him, but that’s not why. your class is only around an hour after he usually shows up—when you think this, you realize that you’ve been timing it, that you’ve noticed more than you meant to. so you begin packing your stuff up while he's staring down at a textbook like it’s invigorating, scribbling something you wouldn’t be able to read even if it was right side up. he’s writing so fast that it’s almost impressive—and worrying, for the sanctity of his wrist.

“i’ve got class,” you murmur, despite yourself. you don’t know why you’re telling gojo this. it’s not like he really cares—he shouldn’t. he’s probably just amused by your uniquely colored pens and the fact that every time he looks up, you’re already looking at him. he probably thinks he’s doing you a favor, sitting here. giving you a closer view so you don’t have to strain your eyes, or something.  

and surely he would notice if you've just disappeared, right? you don't need to announce it.

"at noon, right?"

you nod.

"okay. have fun."

you nod again, pushing in your chair, trying to keep your face cool when it scrapes against the floor, an apt representation of how your brain sounds at this very second.

gojo is looking up at you and gives you a little nod when you begin to walk away. “see ya.”

you're staring down at your feet, contemplating getting new shoes--one's with better laces and a smaller tendency to drag across the floor, leaving a trail of rubber marks in your wake--and thinking about finding a new spot in the library, preferably one that's partially in the ground, hidden from the rest of the students so you don't have to deal with watchful eyes or enigmatic grins.

and then someone calls your name. your head jerks up. it should be gojo, telling you that you left something behind, or giving you a heads up that this was just a one-time fluke, and he was recording the whole time so he could finish his research paper on socially awkward, unfriendly girls that hang out in libraries.

it's not. instead, you look to find a girl from one of your classes--something about statistics, something about meeting all your credit requirements--she waves you over, so you go. you'd be a very obedient dog, probably. the shelter would have a hard time keeping you.

"what did gojo satoru want?"

you frown. you're tempted to look behind you, where gojo is probably still sitting, scribbling incessantly, shades falling down the side of his face, nose bridge too abrupt to keep them there. you don't, though. you already know what he looks like. "a place to sit?"

"with you?"

"i guess."

"do you know him from somewhere?"

"i know him from... the desk over there."

she laughs. "so he wasn't inviting you to go hang out at some meet-up with his friends?" 

"no? does he do that?"

"he's just friendly," she says, like it's obvious. "gojo knows everyone, everyone knows gojo."

"i don't."

"you sure?"

"yeah."

she laughs again. "anyway. he's friends with the some of the guys on the mma team, the ones who always throw those parties everyone has to recover from weeks after. you know, in case you're looking to see him again."

you don't look back. "i've got class in ten minutes. i'll see you next week."

you walk away. how you've managed to learn so much about your library boy in thirty minutes, who knows?

*

you really shouldn't be surprised that gojo satoru keeps showing up, but you are. only, it comes in whispers now. the boy whose name you didn't even know twelve days ago is now infused into every conversation you're having. suddenly, you see him in discussions of something posted online, in class when people are murmuring about their weekends, on the school social media--somehow in the background, somehow noticeable enough for you to realize.

apparently, everyone does know gojo satoru. which only begs the question--why hadn't you before last week?

friendly, you think, watching a squirrel run from it's own shadow. it's warmer outside today, after a week of storms and lightning flashes, so you're outside.

if anyone asks--and no one will, mind you--you're not really avoiding the library, or strange boys with a penchant for small talk, you're just more comfortable here. you like it where it's quiet and you can pretend that no one is really looking at you, even if they are. there is peace in the idea that people will only look down at your feet, wonder why you're still wearing tennis shoes in this weather, and then forget all about it.

there is no peace with boys who think pens are free rein and libraries are for conversation.

friendly, you think again, and wonder what that even means. maybe gojo satoru is the leader of an underground--or widely known?--cult and realized immediately that your naivety was just what he wanted in a recruit. someone secluded from everyone else, vulnerable to the workings of indoctrination.

and maybe if you think of every possible scenario, it lessens the odds of any of it truly happening. there's something to be said about crazy people. probably.

you're thinking about skipping the rest of your day altogether, avoiding the two classes you have left and maybe joining a cult--not gojo satoru's--so you have somewhere to call home that isn't an ensnaring career with fake smiles and far too much work.

you're thinking about going home and looking up the prospects of traveling universes and landing in one where talking is non-compulsory and people just sit and think all day, and right when you have this thought, he shows up again. but it's the real thing this time.

"y/n," you hear, and look up just to be blinded by not only fluorescent hair, but also the sun. you wince and look away--for multiple reasons, of course, none of them having to do with your lack of sunglasses.

you swallow, then say, "gojo?"

"so you remember me."

"kinda hard not to," you respond, accidentally. you're too tired for this today, clearly, too jaded after your eight hours of sleep. you could use a nap.

he laughs as though you've told him a joke. he does that far too often. "what're you doing here?"

"waiting around until my next class," you tell him, tapping your foot against the pavement. your fingers are numb at the tips, and you would tuck them under your legs if that didn't feel too obvious.

"i meant," he hums, "what are you doing here during library time?"

"what is 'library time'?"

"the time you spend at the library," he says, easily enough. he doesn't have a bag on him today, just his glasses and a dream. "you're there at this time on tuesday and thursdays."

you frown. "are you tracking my schedule?"

"on a spreadsheet."

for some reason, your lip quirks. it's probably a side effect of how fast you've fallen into this conversation without the chance to pull out. you're still not looking at him because he's being haloed by the sun, but you know that he can tell, just like you can tell that he's smiling.

"can i sit?" he gestures towards your bench.

you nod. if only you had any willpower at all. you could just say that you're busy, or you could just not be here in the first place.

"do you have a quota of people you need to chat with each day or something?" you ask involuntarily and completely out of the blue, just as he's sat down. you say it like if you don't get the answer to this question, you'll die without knowing.

"a quota?" he repeats, looking at you curiously. you're half-facing him now, his eyes hidden from your view, but his lips and teeth out in the open for all to see.

"apparently, everyone knows you."

gojo grins at this. his eyebrows raise like he's giddy about it. he gestures to himself, "are you asking around about me?" he's almost teasing, but not quite. "you could just ask me, you know."

"i am," you tell him, dryly, "right now."

he snorts. "i talk to people every day, yes."

"how many?"

"am i supposed to count?" he wonders, shaking a strand of ivory from his eyes. everything about him is loose, today, casual. it's windy enough that the sweater he's wearing sways back and forth, light shifting with every gust.

"an estimate is fine."

he crosses his arms, looking over to you like an indignant child. like what you've just asked of him is preposterous. which it isn't, by the way, it's a normal, completely fair question.

"mmm..." he licks his lips, thinking, fingers tapping against his jeans. "it depends on what day. what am i doing?"

"going to class," you answer immediately.

"probably around twenty-five then. ish.”

your mouth opens, and you blink, and then you close it. you must look confused--or taken aback--because gojo blinks back at you, rapidly, like he's analyzing something.

"what?"

"every day?" you repeat.

"i mean, yeah," he shrugs. he moves his hand once a second, every word emphasized by another gesture. you look away from his hands.

"so this is just like... habit for you?"

gojo's brows raise. his grin is baffled and amused all at once. "a habit? like playing on your phone?"

you give him a strange look.

"what?"

you lean back on the bench, looking forward towards some trees, blooms barely there. and then you shrug, "i'm just trying to figure out why you're talking to me."

"have i been banned or something?" he looks forward with you. "cause i don't think i got that memo."

"no," you answer, flatly. "it's just weird."

"why is it weird?"

"cause we don't know anything about each other. we've never had a class together. we didn't meet organically."

"the library is pretty organic," he reasons, looking towards you once again.

"well," you start, not bothering to argue, "there's probably a hundred people in the library right now. you could go talk to them."

"i could, yeah. i'm talking to you right now, though. you're from the library."

"i'm a stranger."

he laughs. "how many people do you talk to every day?"

"what day?" you look towards him with a hint of a smile on your face. if there's only one thing you've learned about gojo satoru in the past week, it's that he'll always play along.

"school. class."

"like... three. and usually i'm just thanking someone for holding a door, or something."

his foot nudges yours. "what about me?"

"okay. four. maybe."

he grins. "well, at least i'm part of that statistic," and he says it like he's really satisfied. like he's been trying to make this list for years and finally reached the top of the waiting list.

"why are you here?" you ask, again, almost bewildered. you blink as you realize that this conversation has been going on for several minutes. that you've been sitting here just chatting with him. you've never chatted with anyone. you're practically allergic to chatting and everything that comes with it.

"i saw you. i wanted to see what you were doing."

"well, you saw. you've seen. you're free to go now, i'm not going to stop you."

he tilts his head, ignoring this. "you still haven't told me why you're out here."

"because the weather is nice today."

he looks up at the sky, gray and dreary. it's been sprinkling on and off all day--there's only a hint of the sun, a peephole in the sky. okay, so maybe it's not all that nice outside. or even all that warm…but you like the rain--and you like the way that it destroys the worksheets you have in your bag. and that ten-page paper you're supposed to get peer reviewed. the wrinkled edges give it character or something.

gojo narrows his eyes at you. he stares for a second, calculating whatever tells must be on your face, then asks: "are you out here because you thought i wouldn't find you?"

"what?" you respond, surprised and almost laughing. the last thing you've ever thought about gojo satoru is that he would try to find you. "you haven't found me before. the library is a public space. you're as likely to find someone in there as you are a book."

"is that a peer-reviewed statistic?” he asks, lithely, tilting his head. he looks encouraged by the smile on your face, more energetic all of the sudden. “i've found you. i had to give you our pen back."

"is that why you're talking to me? because i lent you a pen?”

"first of all," he holds out his hand, counting off with his fingers, "you willingly yielded your responsibility of the pen to me--which you still need to pass back, by the way, because it’s my turn again. and second of all, i'm talking to you because i want to. is that so wrong?"

you shake your head, looking up. "like i said, it's weird."

"maybe i'm weird then," gojo shrugs, then points at you. "you're weird, too. you're sitting in the cold outside just so you don't have to give me the pen. you're gatekeeping."

"that's not why."

he sighs, looking up like he's exasperated. "and yet you keep deflecting."

"i bought that pen, you know," you tell him, looking at the curve of his jaw, and the fake disappointment on his face. "i own it. what have you contributed?"

he looks over again, turning towards you. "love and affection. i used that pen for three days straight."

"oh, great. you wasted all my ink."

"it wasn't a waste, i promise. the scientific strides made with that pen are going to advance us several decades alone. plus i like that shade of red. it speaks to the heart."

"it’s pink,” then tilt your head. “science? what are you studying?"

"theoretical physics."

you wince, making a show to move away from him. suddenly, his gravitational pull is making you very uncomfortable.

"what?" he says, indignant.

"really?"

gojo tilts his head, his eyebrows raise like he's wondering why you think he's lying--as if he hasn't been playing a part this entire time. as if he hasn't made anything up.

"that sounds gross," you tell him, choosing to believe it. "you used my pen for math?"

he laughs, slowly moving toward you again so he can lessen the distance. "it's not that hard."

"i think i'm supposed to take a physics class next semester," you say, ignoring this.

"intro?"

"yeah. apparently, it's required or something. i'll probably fail."

"i can help, if you want," gojo shrugs while saying it, because he probably offers his expertise to people all of the time. "it's really not hard."

you give him a weary look, narrowing your eyes. "i'm not giving you my pen again."

"but we have an arrangement--"

*

this time, you're actually expecting it. gojo satoru isn't going to go away, you've accepted this now. his eyes and strange hair and even stranger demeanor are a part of your world--he's entered your ecosystem and infected every inch of it. he's like an invasive species, taking up whatever space is available—and killing off anything in the space that isn’t.

and now, when you walk into the library--it's colder again, today, actually raining and thereby ruining every carefully pressed inch of your outfit--you're readying yourself for another conversation.

it's a bit strange, actually. you're overtly cautious, yes, but you've never had to plan for nonsensical conversations, anything outside of typical small talk. and even with the normal conversations you have with peers, teachers, and any on-campus worker that you've bumped into at least three times, you struggle to keep up. there's always something better you could say, always a thing that you're missing, even when you do predict exactly what's going to happen.

and for some reason, after the three conversations you've had with gojo satoru--and the hundred made-up conversations you've been planning--you feel like he knows that. it's like he's waiting for you to get the right option. he's the hint in every rpg game, a second chance to get the most points possible.

and he's here before you today. which you hadn't planned.

based on what you've observed, his supposed class should get out later than yours, which is why he always shows up at least half an hour after you, and why you always leave before he does. his class starts later, or lasts longer, and for that reason, you end up in the same place, but for a shorter period of time.

maybe you're wrong, though, because he's sitting at one of the desks in the middle of the room, surrounded by groups of other people, all of them chattering away. gojo is on his phone, though his textbooks are laid out in front of him, notebook open and empty like he decided to take a break after he'd unpacked his bag.

and this stops you in your tracks. if gojo shows up after you, then it's up to him to start a conversation--he gets to decide if he's going to encroach on your space and ask you questions for no reason, or if he's going to sit a desk away and wave when you finally look up. if you show up after him, then you have to decide for the both of you.

this wouldn't have mattered six days ago, but now, after that last conversation, after he’s found you again, you don't know which choice--sitting with him or turning around and abandoning all library thoughts--would bother him more. he's not going to find you again, is he? he knows that you're supposed to be here right now, that you usually are, and it's colder outside than it was a few days ago, too cold to even type up half assed discussion responses on your phone without your fingers going completely numb.

you can't sit outside, and you can't turn around now for fear that everyone will know what you're doing.

it's a hard choice, ultimately, but your legs are walking forward before you've actually decided. if you wanted to go find somewhere else to sit, alone, you would have to walk past him anyway, because every desk in here is full. so you head for his table, ready for him to point and laugh in your face, or smile politely like you're a goofy solicitor that just showed up at his door.

instead, when gojo looks up as you approach, timid as a mouse, he tilts his head. "hey," he greets, kicking out the chair across him. "did you bring the pen?"

"i... yes?"

"can i use it? i've been waiting for you."  

this statement sends a surge of heat to your hands--which is unfortunate, considering that you're going to have to pass said pen to him and spread this incoming sweat even further than usual.

you look down at his spread of materials, and he really doesn't have a pen or a pencil, which probably explains the doom scrolling. it's strange, though. who brings three textbooks and a notepad but forgets their pen?

"you don't have a class right now?" you set your bag down on the floor and sit down. gojo sits up at the same time, taking a moment to properly look at you.

maybe he didn't realize who you were at first and just remembered. maybe you're enough of a side character that he needs a moment to recall. experience points deducted for his lack of a plan.

"my professor canceled," he answers, pocketing his phone and shaking his head testily. "only two minutes before it was supposed to start, too. i could be in slumber heaven right now."

"that sucks," you say, refraining a laugh. he sounds very serious, so it’s not your fault. you track the half-pout on his face, noticing the worn lines under his eyes, little wrinkles on the usually smooth surface. maybe you've been noticing too much about gojo satoru. "late night?"

"yup. i got coerced into a strenuous game of connect four. and then another."

you raise a brow. "coerced?"

"no one thought i could win."

"did you?"

"wow," he taps his fingers on the table. "do you seriously doubt my connect four skills? we barely know each other, and you're already making these assumptions."

you stare at him.

gojo purses his lips. "i almost won."

you stifle a laugh, resuming the digging through your bag, hand seeking your pencil bag. "well, connect four is notoriously hard. it's not like there are several ways to win, or anything." you fish out the pen and hand it out to him. he takes it from you almost indignantly, running his hand across it like it’s an animal.  

"are you using that snarky tone around our pen? i don't want it to pick up on anything."

"snarky tone?"

"your sarcasm is not endearing."

at this, you actually laugh for the first time. it's so strange. why does gojo satoru only need to get one laugh out of you to make this easier? he's practically conditioning you to relax with every stupid comment.

"okay, noted," you tell him, taking out your laptop. then you look up. "is it okay if i sit here? i... didn't really ask."

gojo waves a hand. "easier to swap the pen this way."

you shake your head, not sure what to say next, so you say nothing instead.

maybe gojo doesn't really mind this. based on what you know about him, you doubt that he's the type to find conversation strenuous, but maybe it's nice to have a break anyway. maybe he's tired enough that he'll keep his check-ins short, only rack up a good fifteen conversations instead of twenty.

you look up a minute or two later, and he's scribbling away once again. this close, though, you can see his tongue dart out the tiniest bit, watch his eyes glaze over words in his textbook like he's a satellite, scanning every bit of information instantly. you can't read anything he's writing--mostly because his handwriting is messy, but also because still he's doing it so fast--but you doubt that you really want to anyway.

it's not as bad as the last time, at least. you're not worried about him saying something suddenly, not irritated at every breath, every intrusion into your note-taking. you wonder if this is how gojo gets into everything. if he just introduces himself and waits for you to get used to it like a bad smell. an acquired taste.

it doesn't matter, you suppose, because it's working either way.

it isn't until forty-five minutes later--or maybe longer, time blurs when you're lost in similes and words like propitious and milieu--that gojo says anything, though there have been several times when you've looked up and he's already looking at you, just like before. he never questions it, never makes some snide comment, only smiles and then looks back down to his notes, like he just wanted to check that you were still there.

"i'm going to get a drink from the cafe," he tells you, stretching as he says it. the sweater he's wearing pools at his wrists and reveals five centimeters of his forearm, a sneak peek into his brilliantly smooth skin. "do you want something?"

you frown at him, then check your phone. when your eyes dart back up to him, he's already smiling at you. "what? are you caffeine averse?"

"oh, uh, no. a caffeine apologist, actually. i just have to get going, so..."

gojo checks his phone, then, too. "oh, yeah. it's late for you."

"yeah."

you stand at the same time he does, making a point not to make eye contact with him. maybe that's why he's so interested in you--he just wants to understand your awkward and frankly perplexing demeanor. which won't happen, by the way, because you don't understand it yourself.

"i'll walk you out," gojo slugs his backpack over his shoulder. "i'm too tired to study, anyway."

"it's cold."

he only shrugs, gesturing for you to go ahead.

you do, suddenly weary of having him stand behind you. should you be guarding your back at all times? gojo is far too trustworthy for this, isn't he?

but he's at your side in a mere two strides, far too tall, and too fast. "oh, hey," he nudges you gently, and it makes you realize just how close he really is. if you look up towards him, his face would be zoomed in, each pore--or lack thereof--visible. you might be able to look past the lenses at this angle.

so you don't look at him at all. why would you want to see that?

"there's a party going on at the end of the week," he says, simply, "friday, on block six. you should come. it’ll be hard to miss.”

"a party?"

he hums. "yeah, but not a ton of people, though. it's select invite only."

"...okay," is what you say, in lack of an answer. you've been to a party--probably, at some point--but you've never been invited out of the blue.

"it'll be fun. i'll be there, so."

"okay," you repeat.

there’s a beat, and then, “do you have an umbrella?”

you look outside. puddles are gathering at the edge of the stairs, wind strong enough to be noticeable to the people walking by. “i—“ you remember two days ago when you were sorting through your bag, placed your umbrella on the table to pack again later, and then forgot. “no.”

gojo looks outside with you, making a noise in the back of his throat. “me neither.”

you snort, your eyes finding him as he smiles sheepishly at you.

“i would offer you it if i did,” he promises. “just like you would offer me yours, obviously.”

“sure,” you murmur, mouth curled as you zip up your jacket. “it’s okay, they have disposable ones in the history building. it’s not far.”

he nods, opening the door for you. "have fun at class."

you nod back, once, and then twice, and then when you're far enough away that you don't have to look at him anymore, you say "i'll try," over your shoulder.

and when you walk past the doors his laughter echos behind you.

*

“you didn’t show,” he says, instead of hello.

gojo isn't back until a week later. you didn't see him at all on tuesday, but you thought about parties and canceled classes, and figured that gojo satoru probably had better things to do, other conversations to tally, and it didn't really matter if he was there or not. you studied just the same, got through classes like always.

if you spent the entire weekend replaying conversations and trying to guess what he might say next time--whenever that may be--then no one needs to know. if you thought about your pen, and how it was his turn to hand it over, now, then that was just an accident. you're not entertaining these thoughts, really.

instead, you're studying. focusing on school and a degree, just like any person should. and you’re looking down at your textbook, eyes half lidded, watching a highlighter bleed through the cheap ink on the paper, when he turns up in front of you. he's not there, and then he is, simply appearing out of thin air.

gojo is wearing a darker sweatshirt today, bundled up, glasses high on his head like he forgot to push them back down.

“what?” you say, accidentally smearing your hand across the wet ink. you try and cover it up immediately after, lest he notices that he startled you. it shouldn't be scary, but his voice carries, and you're just noticing this now. plus, you thought he was done with... this.

“to the party," gojo says, almost slowly but with emphasis, so you have a moment to comprehend it. "you didn’t show.”

you look back down, covering up the stain on your arm with a sleeve. “oh.”

“or did you?” when you look up again, gojo is still staring at you. he looks a bit squinty, as if all of his limbs are being controlled by different strings, and his puppeteer has only been doing this for a day. “did we just miss each other?”

“oh—uh, no. i—i didn’t go," for some reason, you say this softly, like a worthwhile apology. you're dimmer today, sure, tired after a long week of assignments, but you're not really sorry.

you're sure lots of people went to gojo satoru's party. you're certain that he invited every person he saw passing in the hallway, and there was no shortage of people he could talk to there.

unless he only invited you because he was trying to lure you to his house and keep you locked up down in the basement, a willing lab rat for his experiments… but if that's the case, you're just fine being out in the open, free to move of your own volition, thanks.

gojo pouts, and he doesn't look at all like a mad scientist with nefarious thoughts. “why?”

“um,” you avert your eyes, considering it. there's not a good excuse, honestly, only a lot of them. “it’s just not really my area.”

“your area?” gojo repeats, voice dry and face almost blank. you can still see the pin-prick of curiosity in his eyes--it's always there, it's the reason you think he's studying you every time you talk, the reason that there has to be an ulterior motive to all of this.

still, you wince. “i lack… experience?”

“this was entry level," he says this seriously, like it actually matters.

you laugh despite yourself. “okay, then, i lack motivation. i don’t really like parties, and i don’t know anyone, so…”

“you know me.”

“not really.”

“yes, really," he looks almost affronted, blinking multiple times. "we’re library buddies. we share penmanship.”

well, you’re certainly not friendly enough to correct that, though it sends that same pinch of heat down your hands. “um, okay… noted.”

“i invited you," he reiterates, sitting down. he doesn't ask, and you suppose he doesn't need to--what he needs to do is give you back the pen, get his own, and then... study.

you sigh, closing your textbook completely. your highlighter is probably somewhere on the floor, and the notes you've been taking are only half legible. you feel almost bad for gojo with his pathetic pouting and insistence. but he just can't be serious.

“i thought that was a pity invitation or something.”

“what?”

“you invite everyone to your parties,” you tell him, confused and justifying. besides being friendly, this is what gojo satoru is known for. “i didn’t realize you actually wanted me to go.”

“i invited you," he says, for the sixth time, at least. he reaches a hand across the desk, almost pleading. "and it wasn’t even my party.”

you tilt your head. “it wasn’t?”

“no," he leans back again, crossing his arms. "you were going to be my plus one.”

you laugh again. maybe it’s because he looks so disgruntled. it's as if no one else has ever not come to his party before. as if this was his only chance, and you blew it for him. it doesn't matter, because it's amusing to you, either way.

it's strange the way things have reversed. maybe now you're the one studying him, calculating his next move, and predicting it before it happens.

“what? you could at least reject me to my face, you know.”

or maybe not.

"really?" you ask him, resting your chin in your hand. "was i really the only person you invited?"

"yes," gojo huffs. then he looks away for a second, his pout growing with every inch of silence that flows between you. "okay, technically--" he starts.

you shake your head immediately, a snort building.

"technically," he repeats, pointing at you like you need to pay attention. "i was asked to spread the word about it by some friends, but you're the only person i invited."

"uh-huh."

"you didn't even say no. i waited the whole time."

"really?" you murmur, blinking at him.  

"well--" he huffs again, leaning forward once more. "okay, not really. i waited for an hour or two, though. and then i left--"

you giggle, reaching for your notes once more, coming to the conclusion that gojo satoru will say anything, honestly, as long as he can play it off in some way. you were probably right not to go and have to listen to a version of his drunk rambling.

"but someone would've told me if you showed up at the last minute," he continues, entirely too defensive, "and i could have come back. but you didn't show."

"again, i didn't actually know you wanted me to."

"i told you about it. i told you it would be fun."

"did you tell everyone else that it would be really boring?"

"...no."

"see?" you look at him again, giving him a real smile, now. you're not confused--this is typical behavior, and you've just caught on to that. "and i told you, i'm not a fan of parties in the first place."

he pauses for a second, and he's just staring at you. not like before--not just monitoring your condition, but realizing something now. his eyes go wide and mute, for just a moment. you might ask, but before you can, he's shaking it off, looking away, and muttering: "you could've told me that the other day. said 'no.'"

you roll your eyes. "I doubt you would ever take no for an answer."

gojo perks up then, immediately, and for the first time today, you get a grin. he leans forward, looking at you teasingly, his eyes in clear view just like the first day he spoke to you. they are a frightening color, really. "you're right. so, you have to come next time."

"um... no?"

"it's like you said. i'll keep asking."

you shake your head. "i need to study now, if that's all."

"without your pen?"

"i have multiple pens, gojo."

"and i bet you think of me every time you grab one."

"do you want to play the quiet game with me?" you ask, and quickly learn that gojo is both terrible at being quiet and a sore loser.

lucky you.

*

“hi, gojo,” you murmur. your voice is muffled by your sleeve because you no longer have the capacity to move your head from where it rests on the table, or the mental bandwidth to feel even the slightest bit concerned about that. 

his presence leaks, which is how you know that he's there before you can see him. it's a sixth sense in a way. you can hear the self-esteem and grandeur from down the hall.

“woah,” gojo answers, his cloying voice just a bit lower than usual, and all you can only see are his legs as he sits down. “don’t everyone jump up all at once.” 

“ha.”

he leans his head down, coming into view--same face, same smile--hair basically detached from his head as it dangles idly. “you alright?” 

you take note of him, for a moment, every inch of confidence and apathy. he never looks any different, and yet it's shocking every time.

“i’m...yeah--i'm fine.”

“you sure? cause you look…” he hums. “like you just tried to defeat beelzemon, or something. don’t worry, it gets a lot easier.”

you frown, moving your head just slightly so you can meet him eye to eye. “what?”

“so uncultured,” he teases, mimicking your posture. “is studying all you do? you're always around. how long have you been here?”

“like an hour.”

“in this position?”

“yes.”

he tilts his head, tapping a finger on the table. “it’s not very comfortable.”

“it was better before you showed up.” 

it was a lot of things before he showed up. all of your classes have begun to reach their end stages, and with every passing day, the library gets a little bit louder, people more agitated or occupied, and the time spent in it is a little bit longer. you linger here now, like you're waiting for something great to show up, even though you know exactly when it will. there was a choice before that you're not sure you still have.

gojo snorts. “so you’re cranky and you have jokes.”

“i’m not—i’m not cranky.”

he lifts his head only slightly, peeling the sunglasses from his face, so you get to watch the goofy way he raises a brow. “where’s your book?” 

“which one?”

he squints like he’s thinking deeply about it. the two of you aren't on equal ground. for all you know about him, he gets a tenth of an answer from you. you're purposefully evasive, purposefully difficult, and he really shouldn't know what you're studying at all. “…the history one?”

this time, you snicker, then close your eyes, murmuring: “i, uh, probably lost it in the pond or something.”

it's that, or you buried it beneath numerous outfits, all of them just slightly ill-looking at best, and completely ridiculous at worst. gojo doesn't need to know that, though, even though he would probably be delighted to hear it.

“the pond? the one pond?”

“a pond, shut up, gojo. i’m tired.”

“yeah, i can tell,” he must be smiling. “do you frolic around ponds frequently? with a literal block of text in your hand?” 

you ignore him, feigning a snore. every minute that you spend talking with gojo is one you have to make up when you get home. you don't tend to ignore responsibilities very often, but he must be a bad influence, because the call to the void grows louder with every passing day. and it's not like you can avoid him, now. not like this--not when you're beginning to see things, notice what you wouldn't have before.

he doesn’t seem to mind your dismissal, because he continues. “i’ve never seen you without your textbook, it’s… creepy.”

“thanks.”

“disorienting, you know? its like you lost a limb. like you forgot a limb. how am i supposed to recognize you without it?”

“you’re not. have a good rest of your day.”

he laughs, and you can hear him sit up. he hasn't gotten anything out, hasn't asked you if he's even allowed to sit here--which hes not. today, specifically, you would have had the willpower to say no--if you had any will or any power left at all. not that gojo is going to ask. with every conversation, he gets less elusive, he breaks precedent and forgets politeness, and every conversation, you become even less sure that you mind.

"oh, c'mon," he says, "there's a lot of day left. and i won't even ask why you're in a mood, as a courtesy."

"a gentleman, truly."

"lets go get coffee, or something," he offers, "instead of laying here, getting frowned upon by the catalog clerks, and possibly dying from the monotony."

"i haven't stopped you from doing anything. you can leave me here to deteriorate."

"it's painful to look at you like this," he groans. "my neck already hurts."

"you must have terrible posture," you say, in a deliberate attempt to change the subject. this is going too far, you can feel it. gojo won't like you outside of your academic prowess. he'll realize that your flighty tendencies aren't just a result of a clouded mind, but a true and certain flaw, as clear as day.

he'll get bored, or run out of ways to mess with you, reach the end of his wits, and then you'll just be standing there, wondering what to say next.

he's not worried about that, though, or anything, because he doesn't fall for the trick. "i'll show you if you sit up," gojo says, "and i'll even buy your coffee."

you contemplate it for a minute. and then try again: "are you trying to drag me down a dark alley so you can cut me open and steal my vital organs?"

"not currently, no."

"did you plan a flash mob that you really want me to see?"

"mmm, still working out the details on that one. i think it'd give you a headache in this state, anyway."

"too late," you deadpan. "are you making me come get coffee so when we get there you can shockingly announce that you forgot your wallet and that it's on me this time?"

"well, you see--"

"—but really, you're transferring schools so there isn't going to be a next time, and you're just a broke asshole?"

"damn," he's grinning. he has to be grinning. your eyes are still closed, but it's like you can feel it. gojo satoru radiates heat, his smiles send out more and more infrared radiation with every centimeter of tooth he reveals. "how'd you know?"

"lucky guess," you answer, feeling your own wits dwindle. this is the worst day for this to happen, when you're already fed up with your schedule, already done trying to fight back. you've given in before you've even given it any thought.

"you got the broke part wrong, though. you might need to charge up your psychic energy some more.”

you snort. "oh, yeah, definitely. you're as well off as every other college student in this building."

"sure, i am. and i'm also not actively plotting your demise, by the way. i don't know what types of people you're hanging out with, but you don't need to worry about my dark side. yet."

"what do you mean yet--"

"and you're obviously having a bad day," gojo says, almost softly, "and obviously need a drink to aid whatever bad things have happened to you because i wasn't around."

you open one eye and peer at him through it. "you keep stealing my pens, and that only happens when you're around. you're a thief."

"i have obtained exactly one pen from you," he corrects, "and i traded it back two days ago."

"you're a liar and a thief."

"i'm also thirsty."

you sigh, lowering your voice just enough to be noticeable. "gojo, i'm really not good company. especially right now, but usually. i hate talking."

"you hate it?" he repeats, just slightly amused. he thinks that everything you say is a joke, takes everything beyond face value--to some land where the sky is made of cotton candy and every doorbell sounds like a clown's nose.

"i'm allergic," you answer, firmly, too quickly. "i get hives. my throat swells, and i start crying."

"oh, lucky for us, i always keep some spare epinephrine on me."

you sigh again, resting your temple on your arm. you feel hot and cold at the same time, every emotion you've felt swirling in your stomach. the weather might have smoothed out, but you haven't. "when you say things like that, i lose a whole ten percent of trust i had in you. and it's never been a lot."

"i have proven myself to be trustworthy. i haven't lost our pen once."

"yet."

"yet," he's smiling at you, luring you in with every hint of a dimple, "and anyway, i have a pre-med friend. so, you don't need to worry about any alleged allergies. we have an on-call doctor at our disposal.”

"pre-med is not a doctor."

"close enough. and you made that up, so just be happy that i'm not calling you on it."

"gojo."

"c'mon, you look thirsty, too. i can hear the dehydration in your voice. i get headaches--i know, even the mighty fall--and sitting around isn't going to help. lunch is soon anyway, so it's only going to get louder in here."

gojo's voice is overwhelmingly smooth. if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was trying to sell you something. trying to get you somewhere just to pull the rug out from under you.

but gojo is a scientist, and he'd prefer a double-blind study anyway.

so you ignore that feeling. the temperature in this room, and every other hint of intuition, telling you that you're nothing exceptional enough for this.

"i'm not talking," you tell him, finally sitting up.

"that's okay," he stands up, reaching for your hand. "i've been told i talk enough for two."

gojo buys you a tea that day--decaffeinated because he's apparently god and maintains an omnipotence you can’t understand--and you sip it until there are only drops left, mouth warm and throat soothed. you don't have to talk at all, like he said, but you probably do.

*

“you see what i’m saying?”

you're back in the library again. you should really be employed at this point--both as the key victim of gojo satoru's chatting, and as a library loyalist. today it's quieter, though. it's beginning to heat up outside, so you figure there are probably terrible games of hackey sack or volleyball happening somewhere, and someone is probably slipping on the still-slick grass, breaking their jaw, and ruining the game altogether.

“uh… no?” you're chewing on the end of a pen, trying to read the abstract of an article you marginally care about, and gojo satoru is sitting in front of you.

he's relaxed as ever, long-sleeved shirt pushed up to his elbows, glasses hanging off the end of his nose.

“millions of micro-crystal structures bond and then under immense pressure,” he makes a fist and slams it against his palm. “they shift super slowly and the bonds are weak at that point, and act like… sand, or pebbles! and they move like that.”

you click on a new tab, wondering if you should just go ahead and buy that candle warmer for your room. sure, sometimes things catch on fire, but isn't three extra hours of a sugary geranium candle worth it? “…yeah.”

“there’s a whole set of rules just for those bonds. they’re unlike anything else.”

“right.”

“isn’t that cool?”

“sure.”

“are you listening?”

you look up, giving him a bemused sort of look. “you sort of lost me at micro-crystals."

it's been like this for at least three weeks now. he doesn't ask to sit down, you don't tell him to leave. gojo never runs out of anything to say, and he's never bothered when you don't respond. slowly, he's melting away your hesitation. now it's a lot easier to tell him that he's strange, that his eyes are alien-like, and he's got some chocolate on the corner of his lip.

gojo hangs his head. “no one gets it.” 

you laugh. “didn’t you just go over this in your lecture? there’s a whole class of people who get it. several classes, probably.”

he sighs, so pitiful. 

“you should talk to them about it. not me," you throw the pen at him, and he catches it, like he could sense it a mile away. "my neurons aren’t fired that way.”

he lays his head on his arms, tucking the pen away, grinning. “i know. i’m trying to convert you.”

“well,” you snort, “you’re not doing a very good job. in fact, you might be turning me away from physics forever. my brain deflates whenever you mention vectors.”

“don’t worry, there are lots of fields. we’ll find a good one.”

“are you a physics dealer or something?" you ask him, scrolling mindlessly on your laptop. "looking for more clientele?”

“nope. i only need you.” 

you laugh again, raising a brow. “good luck with that."

"thanks. what time is your first class next semester?" he wonders, idly. he's taken to spinning the pen on the table, probably scratching millions of microplastics into the air and killing you both, "you said you were taking intro to physics, right?"

"uh, yeah," you watch for a moment, then look away. "i don't think that's my first class though... i can't really remember. i registered like three months ago."

he makes a noise. "i still need one more credit."

you glance at him, frowning. "next semester is... like, less than two months away."

"yup."

"gojo," you say, laconic.

"hmm?"

"register. right now." you shake your head, leaning back in your seat. if the look on your face reeks of disappointment, it's of no concern to you. "why haven't you done it yet? there probably aren't any classes left."

he sighs, hanging his head. "no one wants to take a class with me," he pouts, like a child. "i just need an elective credit. it doesn't even have to be hard."

"are you serious?"

his lip twitches like he knows that he's irritating you. because he is. "why wouldn't i be?"

"are you genuinely terrified of being alone?"

he snorts.

"sign up," you tell him, harshly, pushing your computer towards him. gojo satoru has one job to distract you from studying, and he's really quite good at it. "you can do it right now. while i'm watching."

"i haven't even decided on a class."

you stare at him, blank-faced.

"hey, i was going to take a photography class with suguru, but he said that he's already tired of looking at my selfies." his cheek twitches, and he's staring right at you. "which is ridiculous, because for one, i'm beautiful, and also i have invented poses that will be in use for generations to come. each one is perfectly unique."

unfortunately, you laugh. and even more unfortunately, every time you do laugh--every time gojo says something accidentally funny or a little bit too shocking--gojo lights up like he's just gotten the offer of a lifetime. his face always breaks open.

and gojo isn't always open. you might've thought that, four weeks ago, when he was just saying things, just talking to talk, but now you realize that he picks and chooses what emotions to display, and when. he sorts through dialogue options in his mind, and sometimes, if you look close enough, you can see him doing it before he responds. his face stills for a second or two, and then he's back in full force.

it would seem manipulative, sure, if it didn't feel like he was doing it to encourage you, keep you engaged and waiting.

so he's not usually open, but when you laugh, he suddenly is. it goes away quickly, but it's there all the same. and most of the time, like right now, you just pretend that you haven't noticed a thing.

"so, yes," you say eventually, once your diaphragm is even enough to continue. "you have a phobia."

he laughs right back. "no, i don't."

"then register. here."

he pushes the computer back towards you, hand covering yours as he does so. "not yet," he's smirking. "i need to analyze all of my choices."

"you're scared."

"i'm really not."

"okay, gojo."

"seriously," he tilts his head. "i don't think i'm scared of anything, actually."

you frown, blinking. "i'm pretty sure that's impossible."

"not for me."

"nothing?"

"nope."

"spiders?"

"no, are people scared of those?"

"heights?"

"i can fly, so... and i'm never high up."

"death?"

"i'll be dead. what's there to be scared of?"

you just stare at him.

"what?" gojo grins, leaning back again. "you don't need to worry about it. i'm sure it will work itself out, and i'll be fine."

you shake your head, letting it go. "you're going to have to take ballroom dancing, or something. there won't be anything left."

"i already took that, so."

"really?"

"no."

you roll your eyes.

he laughs. "what other classes are you taking?"

"uh, besides physics, i think ethics studies, art--" you pause. "why are you asking?"

he blinks innocently. he's grabbed the pen once again, this time twirling it between his fingers. "can't i be curious?"

"not with that look on your face."

"i think suguru is taking ethics studies, too. he was on the waitlist back in april."

"...okay," you respond, suspiciously.

"you know," gojo starts, after a single moment, and you sigh automatically. "i could see if there are any spots left. i might still need a humanities credit. what time are you taking, again?"

*

"no, gojo."

"but come on," he repeats, for probably the fourth time. his voice is just short of a whine. "is a test worth rotting your brain away? is it more valuable than the dopamine hit after an exorbitantly sweet beverage?"

"yes."

"is it really, though?" he asks again, leaning down to purposefully interrupt you.

he's sitting next to you today, because you managed to get one of those booths near the back of the library and figured that the space would be valuable around gojo--mainly because space always seems to vanish when he's around (even though he would probably say that space isn't malleable).

it's not any more valuable, though, as it turns out, because gojo just took this opportunity to get even closer to you--quite literally. suffocating you seems to be preferable to him, even though there's a whole other side of the table he could sit at, and currently, there's maybe a four-centimeter gap between the two of you. not to mention that somehow, every five minutes, gojo seems closer than he was before. he's presumably breaking some new physics law with every second that passes.

you're pretty sure he's just doing it so he can snoop on what you're working on, and that at this point, twenty minutes into your usual hour with gojo satoru, he's realized that you actually just study during this hour, and that it's incredibly boring to him.

well, they say that eavesdroppers are always disappointed, anyway.

"yes, gojo, and you're the only one who's getting a drink equivalent to dessert every day."

he hums, considering it for a moment. "then why do they have all of those fun syrups?"

"you probably broke in and put them there, or something."

"i would just send them in the mail," he claims, head getting even closer to your keyboard, "it's too much work to break in. besides, they need a return address so they know who to thank."

you roll your eyes, purposefully typing as fast as possible.

it does nothing to deter gojo. in the span of twenty seconds, he has neared closer and closer, until right now, when he rests his head on your hands, twisting his neck at the worst angle just to do it.

and his head is ridiculously heavy. like abnormally heavy. there's enough weight on your hands for you to wonder just how much air he's storing up there, and what the possible long-term consequences are to lugging it around every day.

"can't we take a break?" he asks, so desperately. you shake your hands, trying to get him off of you, but he doesn't budge.

"you haven't even done anything," you tell him, wanting nothing more than to poke the orchestrated frown from his face. your hands are all tied up, though. "you just got your computer out--it's not even open."

"my class was so hard. i'm exhausted."

"the other day you told me you could take over for your professor."

"i said that i should," he corrects, "and that's because she talks at a rate of ten words per minute and obviously has chronic laryngitis."

you give him a look, completely unamused. and do you really have something to be doing right now? yes.

“i’m serious. on tuesday she played a pre-recorded lecture where she coughed so loudly into the microphone that this girl flinched. and then she said, ‘sorry if anyone heard that,'" he looks up at you, bemused, you can see the flutter of his eyelashes behind the lens of his glasses. "everyone on planet earth heard that. do you remember that earthquake a couple months ago?”

you snort, attempting to shake him off again.

"just a little break. you could use one too, you always work so hard."

"stop trying to maneuver me."

"no, it's working."

you laugh and finally push his head away completely. gojo goes, albeit slowly, but he makes sure to keep his eyes on yours, blue and a burning ray of pleading. you sigh.

"i'm not--"

"satoru."

you startle, and gojo turns, moving slightly so you can see the girl standing beside him in the aisle, arms crossed. she has a bland look on her face, a single brow raised, and every possible warning sign a person would need to know that they should simply comply.

gojo, though, just smiles, completely oblivious to this. "what're you doing here?" he asks, turning completely towards her. "i thought you couldn't be seen with me."

"you promised you would be my lab rat before my exam."

"hmm... did i say that?"

"i still have the pictures from karaoke during last february's break if you forgot--"

"oh, that exam."

she rolls her eyes. "it's tomorrow. we have to get it done before my next class, and suguru said you had that dinner later with..." she pauses. leans forward a bit so she can see past gojo, to you. "hi. i'm shoko."

you raise a hand, waving meekly. you attempt to put on gojo's carefree and inviting smile, but your face isn't all that capable. a feeling runs through your chest, just briefly, the same feeling that you got when gojo first started waving at you, when he swore that you knew each other.

gojo looks between the two of you, nodding. "oh, this is y/n, my--"

"yeah, i already know. sorry to steal him," she says to you, completely bypassing gojo and the pout he sends her way.

"that's okay."

gojo's brows furrow, glasses slipping and slipping. "what? you're just going to accept this? you don't even care that--"

"satoru."

the look that shoko has in her eyes is so scathing that you want to push gojo out of the booth just so you're not a part of any collateral damage.

"okay, okay," he turns towards you again, lowering his voice. "i'm about to be subjected to physical torture. you owe me a drink with at least four different syrups."

"sure, gojo."

he grabs his computer and bag swiftly, just barely budging when shoko shoves him as he stands up. "i'll see you next week," he promises, giving you that brilliant smile that you could never possibly replicate, even if you spent weeks practicing.

"okay," and you wave at him too, as he leaves, just as meekly.

*

gojo talks to a lot of people. this isn't news, exactly--it's not news at all. he's told you, explicitly, exactly how many people, exactly why he's doing it.

and, despite every other opinion you have about gojo satoru, you can admit that he's good at it. beneath even his bravado, his scheming and bad jokes, or even his obvious intelligence, gojo can just talk.

he talks to everyone. he talks to the people at the front desk, the group of kids crammed around a tiny table, a classmate from a class over a year ago, a random girl he knows nothing about. he rambles about classes, a video he saw last year, a movie he watched when he was a kid. there's a seemingly endless flow of conversation, like he's pulling topics out of a magic hat.

you're watching this happen now, realizing that you hadn't really understood what he meant, exactly, by talking when he told you about it. or maybe you had, but just not the extent of it.

gojo doesn't just stop and make small talk; he asks genuine questions, makes outrageous jokes, tries to get anyone and everyone in on any ploy as long as it's entertaining.

and watching this now, you truly see it. four different people have stopped to have a conversation with gojo today. first, it was two minutes, then three, and now you're sitting at your usual table in the library, observing him as he chats with someone, and it has to have been over ten minutes. maybe it's a friend, maybe it's not. you can't really tell with gojo, can you? he grins at everyone, he intrudes into their space, he opens his mouth and a million different things come out, and somehow he makes even the mundane seem captivating.

the person he's talking to now could very well be a younger kid on a tour of the school, or an arsonist armed with tiny bottles of acetone. he could be anyone, honestly, but he's going to stop and talk to gojo satoru.

everyone does. he's friendly with everyone, and you're sitting in the middle of the library.

you knew this.

of course you did. there wasn't one week where suddenly everyone was talking about gojo, and you happened to notice, that's just every week. but you were only able to tune into this after you'd met him and experienced gojo in his totality.

every party, every half-assed social media post, practically every sighting in public allows for another whisper, another mention of his name somewhere around campus.

it's been eleven minutes, now.

eventually you're going to have to assume that the guy gojo is talking to really is a friend, but then that begs the question, who, exactly, isn't friends with gojo?

seemingly no one, you assume, considering that you're actively trying not to stare even more with every new person that passes gojo--and obviously stops--but it's a bit impossible now. soon, you're going to set a stopwatch on your phone. next week, you're going to do this again, of course, and you're going to track the length of his conversations and then probably post it on a website where people track his every movement, every inch up in society.

and you're going to go crazy if the next thirty minutes go by and you have to pass gojo on your way out of the library to your next class. he'll probably stop you, too, and he'll probably have a new story about someone in his class or an acquaintance on the opposite side of the world that he converses with daily.

twelve minutes now.

this is dumb. this wasn't concerning until a day or two ago; you never bothered to look up before. the fact that gojo has regularly sat with you two times a week has no impact on your reason for being here.

which is why you're scribbling on your open notebook, ignoring him. he needs to give you the pen back today because he's had it for over a week, and on thursday you're not coming back to the library. you'll find another building, one without irritating boys who are nothing but distractions, one where you don't have to share your time or your space, or your brain, and can just work like you mean to.

that's why you're here, isn't it? because this is a more convenient place to study than your apartment--with all of it's soft blankets and the sunken-in spots on the couch where you retreat to every time you even attempt to open a textbook. you're here because you'd only have twenty minutes at home if you dared to go back after your first two classes, and because there's too much temptation in other places. you're here to focus, to find some productivity amidst the chaos of everyone else.

and you really don't have time to be mentally tracking every decision you've ever made. the semester is almost over, and you need to be focusing on your exams, need to be planning out things for after the break, need to get that on-campus job you've been looking for, and probably block the word gojo from your head for at least another year.

this train of thought--the time spent thinking, even--is stupid. and jealousy is stupid, and is this even jealousy? is it not envy, with the anger pricking down your spine, the needle making a hole in the fibers of your skin, poking and poking, getting bigger with each second, and reminding you that you're not really special.

and why do you want to be?

why should you--

"y/n," gojo drawls, sitting down. he slides in like it's nothing. "right where i left you."

your eyes widen, momentarily. it's funny that after twenty minutes of purely observing him, you're shocked now when he finally shows up. "hey."

"what are we working on today?" he asks, maybe genuinely curious, or maybe just trying to draw you away from working entirely. who can really tell with him?

"um..." you look towards a table a couple of meters away, full of faces that gojo probably knows. "being quiet?"

"aw, but i'm pretty sure we did that last time. and the time before that."

you just barely glance at him. "you should be improving at it then."

"i'm not," he's grinning. he's always grinning. "i'm actually getting worse every time. you should probably give up. think it's a lost cause."

"i thought there wasn't anything you couldn't do."

"well, every hero has an achilles heel," he shrugs. "it's unfair otherwise, if there's nothing to overcome. what are you doing?" he sits on the edge of his seat, peering over you.

"...writing a paper," you say, entirely too slow.

gojo tilts his head at you, purposefully looking down, then back up. he's far too close, far too loud. "in your notebook?"

"i--i'm outlining."

he squints. "okay."

"i need to focus," you tell him, except with resolve this time. "this is due next week."

gojo makes a face. "ouch. when's your last exam?"

"next thursday."

"are you worried?"

"no..."

"good. you shouldn't be," gojo puts one finger on your notebook, leaning back in his seat and slowly pulling it away from you. "you're always working. following in my wake, as you should."

"gojo."

"hmm?" he tilts his head again, smiling so softly you have to clutch at your notebook--and not just to get it back.

"i, uh," you swallow, looking down. "really need to work."

for a moment, he's silent, and you can practically feel him observing you--making his calculations and forming a hypothesis before he starts the testing. he's eyes are warm as they peer, or maybe that's just your face. "you're cranky again."

you clear your throat, glancing up for one second, then looking away. "i'm just busy."

"same thing."

"it's really not. i have a lot i need to get done, is all."

"we barely got to talk last week," he says, almost soft, but still whining. he does this thing every time he's trying to convince you, lowering his voice and smoothing it out. "we have to make up for it."

"no, we don't."

he grins like you're funny. "lets get that drink. it'll make you feel better."

"i'll feel better during summer break when i get full marks," you tell him, reaffirming your grip on the notebook and looking down intently--even though there's nothing there but nonsense. it's the thought that counts.

"what if you got full marks and a drink with me?" gojo prods, "wouldn't that be the best of both worlds?"

"no, because if i go get a drink with you, then i'm not studying, and then i'll fail and have to get a job making your drinks just to survive."

he half-laughs, readjusting in his seat. "i'm very nice to the people who make my drinks, you know."

you roll your eyes, giving him an unimpressed look. "you're very nice to everyone."

"true. aren't i a dream?"

"gojo, i'm serious. i have to get started on this before i forget. don't you have exams to study for?"

"already did," he claims.

you stare at him.

"what?" he grins. "i did. i'm years ahead of everyone in my class."

you sigh. "please don't go into another rant about your professor and her lack of accolades."

he frowns, and if you didn't know any better--which you do, by the way--you'd think he was worried, and not just slightly offended. "are you tired, again? another headache?"

"not yet."

gojo narrows his eyes, cheek twitching. "was that a jibe at me?"

"not... an intentional one?"

he grins, and something in his eyes, on his face, settles. he seems a bit resigned, like he was planning to give up this whole time. maybe he's worn out from asking every person in the library what they were studying for, and if they like extra sugar on the rim of their tea. "okay, okay. work. but you're going to owe me two drinks."

"my temples are throbbing," you deadpan, looking away from him.

"i won't forget, you know," he tells you. but he doesn't say anything else, and you watch from the corner of your eyes as he pulls out his own notebook and your pen. you almost can't look away, so you watch gojo as he opens one of his textbooks, focusing in on a page he's already scribbled all over.

if gojo won't forget, hopefully you will.

*

it's quiet again, for a while. you weren't wrong when you told gojo that you'd need to get a job somewhere after your exams, but not for the reason you told him. you ended last semester with plenty of time to study, good enough grades, and an interview for one of the shops just outside of campus.

so here you are, now, three weeks after break has ended, scanning items at the konbini and mourning the loss of hours spent at home, lying in bed and thinking about nothing.

here you are, three weeks later, and you haven't seen gojo once.

you recall, wiping down counters and picking up trash, that he only asked the one time when your classes would be, and remember that you hadn't bothered to ask him back, or even bring up the topic of his missing credit, and if he found a spot to fill it.

you hear about gojo, like you did before, but it's not the same. it’s almost a taunt now; he is around, just not near you.

you shouldn't feel like a fool every time you walk through the library. three days into september, you shouldn't have to realize that you'd been just waiting for him to show up. you'd been hoping, returning to the library like the walls would relay a message to gojo, send him a map with an x stamped across your desk, or spit at him that he stole your pen and needed to give it back.

and you shouldn't be here, turning the corner of an aisle, and running straight into gojo satoru.

your shoulder hits his first, and you trip over your feet, tilting his way and nudging his jaw with the top of your head.

gojo grabs you quickly enough so you don't fall any further, hands warm against your shoulders. you're about to apologize, to grovel, to offer a discount on something that's already underpriced, but then you look up.

if you didn't know gojo satoru at least a little bit, you would have to assume he's stalking you. he's always around, always stumbling into you like fate is whispering in his ear, promising things if he just allows you to stumble into him once more.

if you believed in anything other than pure coincidence, it would have to be like that. though, you see no valid reason for gojo satoru to be stalking you other than potential blackmail.

"y/n," he says, quickly, like it's a revelation, like you've just blessed him with something, as soon as his eyes meet yours. he doesn't have his glasses on, isn't wearing one of his thicker sweatshirts or lightweight dress shirts. he's barely even smiling as he takes a step back, eventually letting you go.

but you blink and it's there. as bright as ever. and he's focusing down on you, hands reaching out like he's going to grab you again, like he might just need to.

maybe he needs to keep you from running, or something.

"what are you doing here?" he asks, a bit shocked, but amused again. he looks just the same, but you haven't seen the incandescent reflection of those eyes in more than a month.

you swallow. "i, um... work here?"

"you didn't tell me that."

"i just started. almost a week ago, now," you take another step back, for safe measure. "something like that."

"you haven't been in the library," gojo is staring down at you, and he has no qualms with bringing this up, no hesitance in anything he does. "i looked for you."

you frown, inspecting his face for a laugh, a pointing finger, even a tomato. "you did?"

"yeah," he answers, like it's obvious. "where'd you go? i looked around the courtyard too, other buildings..."

"i... what time's your first class?"

"ten-thirty."

"oh, mine isn't until eleven. and then i have, uh, physics twenty minutes after."

his mouth twitches, he crosses his arms, all too satisfied with you. "physics? haven't dropped it yet, then?"

"i'm still considering.”

he laughs. he looks down then, at his clothes, or maybe at your shoes, and then hums. "we never exchanged numbers," he finally says, and it's so soft you almost want to shake him. maybe hit him across the smooth skin of his face. "you were always somewhere i could find you, before. predictable."  

"you never find me," you tell him, again, a bit dubious. "i'm just around."

"well, not in the past three weeks," he says, almost pointedly, "and i do find you. i found you again just now. here."

this should count towards his stalker points, but it only manages to make you more perplexed.

"you--you stumbled upon me, at most."

"finders, keepers. i've always been pretty lucky in that way."

you blink. it's different now. you've been weaned off of gojo, his mannerisms, his sneaky way of talking. you'd have to get used to it again--if that's even a possibility.

"how's it going?" he asks, leaning in just a bit. "with your new classes? and how was your break?"

"it's... fine. it was fine. busy."

"even busier than before?"

"yeah, i guess. with... here, and all," you wince. "you?"

"it's good. i got to switch professors for electromagnetic theory, so my ears should heal."

"that's good."

he nods. "yeah, it is."

"and," you clear your throat, looking around to see if anyone might be watching this, cringing at your uncertainty. "um, your break?"

gojo only shrugs. "i went home for a bit. didn't do much."

"oh, was that..." you furrow your brows. you would've gotten a story, a rant about something that happened, a bid for you to help him in some way. maybe it's just been too long. "nice? or boring?"

"it was," gojo just smiles, looking up briefly. "it was something."

your brows furrow, and you watch his face, looking for the hints of reality you'd seen last semester. there's nothing there, though, just the friendly, easygoing version of him.

you try not to frown, but it's almost impossible.

"hey," gojo says, when the silence drags on. "give me your phone."

"why?"

he sighs and tuts at you, eyes unfathomably amused. "c'mon. we're friends, and friends have each other's numbers. besides, if you don't have time to study in the library, we'll just do something else."

"...like what?"

"something," he raises a brow, "something more fun than studying, anyway. friends also hang out."

you pause for a moment, look down at his black sneakers, then hum. "is this the 101 course?"

gojo waves a hand, obviously a genius in all respects. "we're starting you off easier than that. elementary. next, i'm going to define different types of relationships and why they matter."

you smile, finally.

"there we go," gojo is grinning, and he looks pleased, like always does. the two of you are just standing there, two lines on a plane. "phone."

you reluctantly take it out of your pocket, unlocking it and handing it over to him. it's weird to see your bright green case in his hand.

gojo hums as he enters something in, obviously scheming if the look on his face is anything to go by. it takes way longer than it should, but when he hands it back, you just pocket it again. you're technically on the clock, and this is technically very awkward. you'll have time to feel irritated with him later.

gojo takes a step back, like he's going to let you go, but he pauses and stares at you for a moment.

you frown, skin tingling with every second that passes, and he says nothing. gojo always has something to say. eventually you blurt out: “what?”

gojo tilts his head. “you’re kinda… closed off, huh? guarded.” 

you open your mouth to say something, but close it almost immediately after. the words sink in, and you realize that the only thing you can do is laugh. so you do, shaking your head.

“what?”

“so are you.”

gojo frowns. “what? no, i'm not.”

“you pretend to be the dumbest person in a room full of idiots,” you tell him, slowly, trying to remember what this is, who you’re speaking to.

“i don’t—”

you look at gojo, think about the brief glimpses you got into his thought process in two months--the brief glimpses, mind you, just barely visible--and the look on his face when you first looked up to him. the look that seems lost, the look reminiscent of your confusion every time he sat down next to you.

but you continue, blowing out a breath. “i can never tell if you mean what you’re saying. that’s closed off,” you lick your lips, shaking your head again. “i don’t say much, but i never try to misdirect people when i do.”

it’s like a flip switch, and normal gojo, guarded gojo, is back. he grins at you. “so what you’re saying is, i'm a genius?” 

“see?” you say, raising your brows at him, and then you sigh. there’s not a point to this—gojo isn’t going to fess up. he wouldn’t even if you got on your knees and pleaded or offered him a blood sacrifice. “compared to the idiots, sure.”

“and funny?” he goads, taking a step toward you.

you roll your eyes. 

“and handsome? a total catch?”

you snort and shove him away. he goes, but only a little this time.

*

"hey," you hear from behind you, just quiet enough to make you jump. goosebumps form on your skin, tiny little ghosts running away from the monster that has just appeared.

gojo is far too close, really, almost doubling over you so he can whisper in your ear. his breath is warm, and his voice is noticeably lower, because you know that he wants to scare you, or maybe trick you into socking him in the face.

you shake him off, not willing to be duped into anything of the sort. "gojo," your voice is monotone, and you are entirely unimpressed. you haven't seen him since that night at the konbini, but his affect has remained the same. then you think about it for a moment, and turn around. "gojo," you repeat, but more accusatively.

you should feel shocked that he's here, given that you haven't seen him in this building in weeks. but this is your shared domain--gojo is less shocking here, even; he's real, slightly crazy, and entirely too carefree. it was harder to see him out in the wild, with zero preparation.

"hey," he's grinning at you, still bent down so his face is barely six centimeters away. "you are way too absorbed in that. you look like a ghoul."

"what are you doing here? your class doesn't get out for..." you check your phone, slapping his hand away when it goes to reach for your pen. not the pen--because he still hasn't given it back--but another one he probably wants to steal. "another hour."

"are you keeping track of my schedule?"

"gojo. what are you doing here?"

"i got let out early," he says, raising his brows just a bit too high, looking around for a single moment too long. "there was nothing left for me to do."

"you..." you swallow, "you got let out early," you repeat, squinting. he doesn't meet your eyes--behind his shades, of course, the bastard.

"yup."

"...are you lying?"

he smirks at you, sitting down in the seat right next to yours. he's not much further away, but at least it's a start. for some reason, you prickle every time he's closer than a table's length away. you're not used to a gojo of that proximity--though, for every second you spend with gojo, he becomes increasingly more comfortable with that proximity of you.

"we had a pop quiz," he says, "i'm very fast."

"an hour faster than everyone else?"

"probably."

you sigh, resuming your skim-reading of your textbook. it's remarkably uninteresting, with far too much information, and not enough consideration for your weak mind, or the tantalizing possibility of burning every single one of the pages.

gojo pokes your arm. "hey."

"hey, what?"

"lets go do something."

you sigh again. "gojo."

his name is beginning to become an adjective all on it's own. you've given it a new meaning entirely--though each time you say it, the description changes, tweaked in the slightest increments. and you've been saying it pretty often recently, even if only in your head.  

"c'mon," he attempts to push your hand from the textbook, taking the edge so he can close it, but you grab his hand before that can happen. he only grins. "we haven't done anything in two weeks. and five weeks before that. and like... ten years before that. you're very committed to rejecting me."

"you text me literally every day. that's the only reason i know you're supposed to be in class right now."

"but you're so bland over text," he groans. "i can't communicate like that. there's no enthusiasm, no pep. and you don't even use any emoticons."

"pep?" you repeat, bemused. "and emoticons are not necessary for communication," you shake your head. "besides, you use enough for the two of us. for the entire student body, actually."

and gojo has been texting you a lot. somehow, at least once a day, he finds an image to send you, a video he wants you to see, a random story about his day that you desperately need to hear. he's almost as chatty over the phone, and arguably even harder to read. he only exudes confidence--you can't see the world in his eyes over the phone, can't scan his face for hints of deceit.

gojo satoru has introduced you to kaomojis you wouldn't have known were possible. with all the time he must spend downloading keyboards, you wonder how he stays on top of his classes.

"yes, they are," he insists. "how do you think international communication works?"

you turn your head, staring at him for far too long, a bit baffled. gojo smiles even wider. you're sure if you could see his eyes completely, they would be gleaming.

"are you working today?" he asks, when it becomes clear that you have no response.

you turn away, scratching your head. "...no?"

"great! me neither."

"you don't have a job."

"hey, providing entertainment and charm to the general public is basically a full-time position."

you sigh, and your hand is still on his. you try to push it away, but he doesn't budge. in fact, at this point, it's more like he's got a hold of you. "don't close my book. i'll lose the chapter."

gojo uses his other hand to slide the book closer to him, smiling at you completely innocently. "how about i just keep this with me for a while? not too long, just a couple...hours."

"why do you like taking my things hostage?"

"they exude your aura," he answers, easily enough. "it's nice to have around."

"do they also exude the annoyance i'm feeling currently?"

"nope!" he tells you, incrementally pushing your hand away from the open pages. "the aura comes from you but is admittedly more pleasant."

"then i'll give you my pencil bag and the two of you can hang out," you resort to using your other hand, too, grabbing his so you can keep him from effectively stealing from you. his skin is warm and soft--like every other aspect of him.

"no, i like your irritation. it gives me adrenaline."

"you're so weird. did you skip class just so you could come and bother me?"

he grins again, but doesn't answer. "so what are we gonna do?"

"you're the one who asked me."

"you usually don't like my suggestions," gojo says, almost pouting. he's a child in every way, soft and warm, and probably sticky, and far too tactile. the gojo in your imagination is blurred, less extravagant, and so much easier to be around.

"you've suggested two things," you tell him, "a party, and getting coffee. that’s not enough variation to tell if your suggestions are actually bad, or if those are flukes."

gojo laughs. "have you had lunch yet?"

"no."

"so, let's get something to eat," he looks at you inquisitively, leaning in with feigned concern on his face. "you're practically withering, sitting here. the wind is going to blow you away."

you look at him, not even considering it. it's so strange--sure, you've gotten your fill of gojo satoru over the past two weeks, being that he texts you every hour like you might forget that he exists--but you do want to go. that's why you can't consider it.

you're not falling victim to this. at least, not once again.

"do you want me to fail out of school, or something? is one of your schemes dependent on my absence? why are you always dragging me away from here?"

"you never even fight back," gojo points out. "you come along willingly every time."

"after thirty minutes straight of your brainwashing."

"it's only been five," he says, removing one of his hands from the textbook so he can lean on his elbow, "and you've already given in."

"are you agreeing that you always brainwash me into things?"

gojo quirks a brow, tilting his head. "i'm just saying that you're pretty weak."

"maybe you're just--" you stop, looking away from him. you try to shake your wrist away from the grip he's got on it, but it doesn't work. "never mind."

"no, what were you going to say?" gojo asks, smirking. "hmm? something about me--"

"--nothing, obviously--"

"--being strong? was that it?" he runs one of his fingertips against the skin of your wrist. "it's okay to admit, you know."

you refrain from shivering and huff. "i wasn't going to say that."

"i'm pretty sure you were."

"you're not that strong," you say, as he actively retains his grip on your wrist. he's not strong, just slippery.

"well, you're the one getting lunch with me."

"i have agreed to nothing."

he grins. "so, what are you in the mood for? kakigori sounds good, doesn't it?"

"we are not getting dessert for lunch--"

*

“hey, are you listening?” 

“uh, no.”

gojo nods, tapping on your notebook for the eighth time today. one of his later classes got canceled, so he's taken this time to graciously help you out. he's a genius--according to no one but him--and has a wealth of knowledge he wants to bestow upon you.

so here you are, now, in a secluded corner of the library (at the insistence of gojo, who believes that his tutelage is going to be leaked somewhere on the internet, for waiting eyes to see). you've been studying for less than fifteen minutes, reviewing different sets of fundamental physics so you're prepared for a test next week, and at this point, your fingernails are going to create indents in the wooden table as you claw your way to freedom.

“great. so an object's ability to resist—“

“this stuff is unfair.”

“the... laws of motion?” gojo asks, tilting his head.

“yeah, and all discoveries," you say, leaning back mostly to annoy him. he's different like this, dutiful and incredibly intelligent. if there was any perfect time to mess with gojo satoru, it would be this moment.

"now, if you want to figure something out, you have to read centuries' worth of information. you can’t just start.” you huff, rolling the pen towards gojo. “if i were like the twelfth person in existence, i would’ve come up with it too.”

“and yet you keep forgetting about inertia," he shakes his head at you, glasses slipping down his nose. your finger itches to push them back up. you don't, though, obviously.

“if something moves, it moves. if something doesn’t move, it doesn’t move. science. who needs to know more than that? we could just stop all research," you shrug, yawning, "it's pointless.”

gojo, for all of his saccharine-mannerisms and glowing nature, looks disgusted. a hand goes to his mouth like he has to refrain from gagging.

you purse your lips, trying to keep from laughing. but his eyes are so frightened that you can't help it. you laugh, leaning over your notes so you don't have to look at him anymore.

"i..." gojo sounds dumbfounded. "i've never been so repulsed by another person."

"oh, come on," you say, reaching across the table to where he's sitting, so you can pull at his sleeve and move his hand from his face. "why are you turning green?"

"i'm in shock."

"i thought you liked adrenaline," you push his arm down to the table, and gojo allows this, looking completely limp. you laugh again. "do we need to call your doctor friend?"

"i don't want shoko anywhere near you," he answers, almost monotone--if that was possible for gojo satoru, which it's not. "she might faint."

you roll your eyes. "i was just kidding. i read the textbook, i know what inertia is."

"maybe you shouldn't. you're ruining my reputation."

"your reputation?"

"i shouldn't be seen with someone so ignorant. you'll probably dumb me down."

you pinch his hand, and gojo snaps it back immediately, hissing, "you need to read a hundred more books," he mutters, almost aggrieved. "just to recover from what you said."

"you're so dramatic."

"we've only been reviewing for ten minutes," gojo's mouth is turned down, nose scrunched. "you’ve spent hours and hours in here and you can't even handle this?"

"wow. this is a sensitive topic, huh?"

"our friendship might be over. even suguru doesn't say anything that uncultured, and he thinks physics is just a cheap excuse to piss my parents off."

"he's into ethics, isn't he?" you ask, sitting back. you grab your pen again, mindlessly doodling on the corner of a page. "maybe you should introduce us. he'll probably be my friend in your absence."

"you don't deserve that."

you snort. out of the corner of your eye, you can see gojo slouch in his seat, arms crossed. he's got a haughty look on his face, entirely pretentious and even a little bit...

you shake your head, sighing. "will it make you feel better if i say that i've read three chapters ahead of the class? i get most of it, honestly."

"most of it?"

"besides angular motion, or whatever."

"or whatever?" he repeats, even more discontented now.

you laugh. "okay. will it make you feel better if i let you tell me all about that, no complaints, and buy you something from the vending machine?"

he huffs, and his eyes trace over your face, searching for an answer. "i want something actually good. from the corner store."

"sure," you tell him, pushing the pen his way. "i'll pay you in snacks."

*

you look up, and he's already there.

gojo is a constant in your world now, whether it be a notification from your phone, a whisper in the hallway, a half-assed attempt to get you to flinch at his arrival--he's there, he's typically smiling, and you always feel that he was just waiting for you to show up. as if he'd been expecting it, hoping for it, and finally rewarded for his patience.

"gojo," you say, automatically. it's a calling card, some gamble that you no longer have to make with yourself.

"y/n," he says back, and he is grinning, but you already knew that.

it's dark right now, a bit too late to still be on campus. you're not sure why gojo's here at this time, when you know that his last class gets out much earlier, or why he's right outside the humanities building, leaning against a wall as if someone told him to wait there.

you'd been loitering in a classroom, trying to spread the time until you had to walk to work. you're already exhausted from today, but gojo doesn't even seem to notice. he falls into stride right beside you, and every centimeter of him reflects off the streetlights, burning into your eyes. maybe he wasn't waiting for anything after all.

"where are you headed?" he asks, pocketing his phone. "it's late for you, isn't it?"

"i've been studying until i have to walk to work, most days. it's better than taking the train twice."

"ah," he nods, looking up at the sky. the sun has almost disappeared, clouds covering the whisper of the moon you should be able to see, everything just a bit dimmer than usual. "let's go, then. i'll walk you there."

"what? no," you shake your head, slowing so you can look at him. "you should get home. it's not that far, just a block or two away. ten minutes, at most."

"exactly."

"exactly, you should go home. i'll be fine, and i don't need you hovering over me all of the time."

"how is walking you there 'hovering'?" gojo asks, shaking his head at you. "besides, i'm not going just for fun. i need things at the konbini."

you squint at him, only half trusting that. "then i'm making someone else check you out."

"good idea. you can look at the imported goods with me."

you shake your head, but continue walking. gojo satoru has never learned the word no, and probably never will. "how was your class?" you ask him, after it's been quiet for a minute.

"so boring," gojo drawls, tilting his head back. "the class had to review electromagnetic induction and practical applications again. i should've taken the course earlier in the morning, so the dense people wouldn't be lounging around and asking the same question four times."

you snort, looking up at him. "so what'd you do instead of the review?"

"played grimvalor on my phone. i'm level 43 now."

you shake your head, stifling a laugh.

gojo tilts into you, his equilibrium entirely unfunctional, apparently. "how was your class?"

"same thing, pretty much. i just read a couple of articles and made a dull comment every five minutes for participation."

"we're the standard for academic role models, huh?"

"pretty much."

gojo exhales, looking down. his hair is messier than usual today, like maybe he hasn't washed it since last week. you don't see him as often, and the repercussions of that are being blindsided by every little change. he got a haircut two weeks ago, and you spent five days simply recovering from that shock.

gojo clears his throat. "how late do you work?"

"until ten or eleven," you answer, kicking at a rock. "it depends on how the shifts ended up. one of my coworkers was sick."

"that's pretty late."

you shake your head. "it's not too bad. besides, i don't have class tomorrow."

"right."

you look over to him. it's still pretty warm outside, so he's in a half-wrinkled t-shirt, hands shoved into his pockets. you've never seen him at this time. usually, he'll find you in the library for the fifteen minutes he has in between classes, or you'll get coffee after your ethics class, but when the sun begins to dwindle, the image of gojo is purely fiction to you.

you'd think that there would be some version of withdrawal at this point--or last semester you would--with the approximate hour you see gojo every week, instead of the two or three added up across only two days. but you haven't noticed any symptoms yet. most likely because he texts you like you're his diary, tells you every thought that pops up in his head, and goads you into doing the same (which, so far, has a 65% success rate, but he's getting better).

so this version of him is new. but not bad--the only bad thing about gojo satoru is how often he pops into your head.

"you're tired, huh?" you ask him, lip turning up. "you're… less jumpy than usual. i didn't think i'd live to see the day."

"my brain needs enrichment. i didn't even get to take a nap in analytical chemistry because there was a lab," he leans on your shoulder, almost whining as he pretends to trip. "i'm wilting away."

you relax into his hold, a bit pleased by how warm his arm is as it wraps around you. "maybe you should go to bed earlier than four in the morning."

"no," gojo groans, voice low, "i have too many things to do."

"you sent me pictures of digimon world at two-thirty, yesterday."

"you were still awake." you can see him watching you from the corner of your eye, his eyes so very woeful.

"not the point."

gojo grins, his energy seeming to pick up a bit. he's a classic extrovert in that way, livened with every extra ounce of attention you pay him. "aw, are you worried about me?" he says, honeyed eyes, honeyed voice, "it's okay, i'll go home and tuck myself in."

"really? you don't have someone else to do it for you?"

"suguru is working on a paper tonight."

you snort.

gojo doesn't move back, even when he goes quiet once again. he keeps his arm wrapped around his shoulder, and with every step you take, his fingers tap against your bicep like a taunt. you can't tell if he's doing that on purpose, or if he's just that close. you can almost hear him breathe, could focus and feel his ribs shift with every beat of his heart.

you shouldn't be focusing at all.

"oh, hey," you add, after a moment. "can you help me with this exam coming up? i know we just went over some stuff, and it's not for another week, but the section on dark matter, or whatever, is... basically incomprehensible."

"to you," gojo murmurs, voice light, hunched over so you can hear him clearly. "but sure, anything to help a friend. i'm very charitable like that. what day?"

"thursday? after class?"

he grimaces, and his steps slow just slightly. it's pure luck that you left early enough to contend with his sluggish pace. "i've got dinner with my parents thursday night."

"oh, really?" you tilt your head at him. "do they live close by?"

"no, in kyoto. they're just coming to be nosy."

"about...?"

"my classes, mostly. and to check my kitchen for bugs, make sure i'm not spreading rumors about the empire, that kind of stuff."

you blink. "do they--"

"how about tomorrow?" gojo interrupts. "are you working?"

"yeah, but not till four."

"okay. want to get lunch again? i know you liked that spot i showed you."

"you liked that spot, and just dragged me along--"

"so, that's a yes."

you roll your eyes. "okay. noon."

"it's a date," gojo says, "oh, you've got--"

and he points to your shoulder, where a rare, minute, incredibly inconspicuous spider resides.

you squeak and jump away from gojo, even though that's not going to do anything. you would shake it off or rub at your shoulder, but you'd rather die, really.

"okay," gojo laughs. "just hang on." he brushes a hand against your shoulder and then peeks around your back. "it's gone. such a little guy, too."

you shiver, closing your eyes.

"are you really afraid of bugs?"

"only the ones that can crawl up my face and into my eye sockets."

"so all of them?” gojo asks, hand still on your shoulder. “does that happen to you often?"

you open your eyes and scowl at him. "it's a perfectly normal fear."

"uh-huh."

"i'm serious. one time, when i was a kid," you shake your head, grimacing, "i woke up to one crawling in my ear. i heard it moving. it could've laid it's eggs in my brain."

you open your eyes to see gojo pursing his lips, clearly trying not to laugh.

"hey," you say, pointedly, "lots of people are afraid of spiders."

"including you, apparently," he says, entirely teasing, entirely too amused.

you huff, taking a step away from him as you resume walking.

"no, honestly," gojo murmurs. "i get it. that's really scary. no need to defend yourself, being afraid is perfectly normal."

but he says it like he really doesn't get it, because he can't. you remember that day in the library, months ago now, when he said the same thing.

but this time, you actually believe it. before, you thought he was being boisterous, arrogant, even. like maybe he was trying to impress you.

now you can see, though, that maybe he just truly doesn't understand.

you have to ask anyway, so you look towards him, eyes light. he's still illuminated by the light, and you can see every shape that makes up the slope of his side profile. “aren’t you scared of anything, gojo?” 

gojo looks up, thinking about it for a moment. he doesn't seem to care that you've asked him this before, or that you want him to tell you that he is scared of something.

and it’s not like usual. usually, he’d make a joke. tell you he’s too perfect, too practiced to be scared. but now he considers it, legs pushing against the ground. he must be more tired than you thought.

“no… i don’t think so. not really.” 

“how come?” 

gojo looks over, tilting his head. “what do you mean?” 

“how come? if you told me something you were scared of, i would ask the same thing. so how come you’re not?”

“hmm…” his hair rustles in the wind, falling behind his glasses. it must be so dark to him. “nothing seems scary, i guess. there are lots of irritating things about life, but all problems have a solution. i like problems because of that. i like finding the way out.” 

“is that why you like math so much?”

his cheek twitches. “maybe.”

“but you’re not scared of, like, losing something? or that something might be missing? there are tons of problems that can’t be solved.”

“there are tons of problems that don’t have solutions yet. doesn’t mean it’ll always be like that.”

"that's a closed-minded way to look at it. lots of things can happen--"

"are you trying to convince me to start being afraid? that's a cruel thing to do--"

"i'm just saying--"

“—and it's pointless. why not just pretend that things can be better? nothing bad can come from that.”

“pretending doesn’t make things true, you know? if you’re always pretending, then nothing real ever happens. isn’t that the bad?”

he turns towards you, and you hadn't thought of it before, but he doesn't have his glasses on. it must be too dark to see.

his eyes should be dimmer without the sun to reflect off of them, but they’re not, really. you wonder how far he can see, if he knows more than you just because of that.

"is it?" he asks, and he's almost joking, but you can see it--a real question on his face, as rare as him not having an answer.

"i think so. i'd rather know what's real and have nothing, then have something pretend that i always need to worry about."

"you don't need to worry about anything."

you smile.

*

it's late one night, and your phone rings.

you're standing in your kitchen, suddenly hungry even though you have class early in the morning and probably shouldn't be standing here, calculating how fast you can make a snack and then brush your teeth, and if you should just give up on going to sleep at all.

when your phone begins to buzz against the counter, you flinch.

you're not technically phone-adverse, just phone... ambivalent. just unfamiliar with the ringtone that you set a couple of years ago, and why anyone would be calling you at eleven, or in general. anyone who matters would just text, wouldn't they? you get spam calls every couple of weeks, but never this late, and never this loud. and when did you turn your ringer on?

you grab your phone, abandoning the pot you were getting, and look at the caller id.

who could it be other than gojo satoru?

it's strange, though, gojo has no qualms with texting you--no boundaries, no care for how late or how frequent--but he's never tried calling before. you figured he was always too busy, talking with someone else while mindlessly typing something out to you, or maybe he found your voice annoying and didn't want to risk the integrity of his hearing by introducing static to that mix.

maybe this is a butt dial.

you answer either way, already knowing that something will come out of this--even if it's just the knowledge that gojo fell asleep with his phone in his hand, and has a tendency to call people in his sleep.  

"y/n," he says, just as you click answer, no room for hello or why are you calling me? "i'm dying."

you swallow. "gojo?"

"who else?"

"you're dying?" you repeat, warily, leaning against your kitchen island. it's a bit cold right now, too late to speak too loudly.

"yes," he coughs into the receiver. "will you say something nice at my funeral? tell everyone that they were wrong about those kajyu killing me? every gram of sugar added a day to my life span."

gojo's voice is just slightly different through the receiver. it's almost blurred--enough that you feel slightly grateful. his normal voice is too much, too close. at least, like this, you can turn the volume down or pull the phone away from your ear.

you almost laugh, then consider that he might be serious. "and why, exactly, are you dying?"

"i got t-virus."

"t... what?"

he huffs through the phone, just slightly out of breath. "do you have any hobbies?"

"did you need something, gojo?" you ask. "need me to call someone else?"

"who would you call?"

"a medium, or something. to get rid of the evil spirit inside of you," you step away from the counter, leaving the kitchen to go sit on the couch. gojo could fill hours of dead air with his rambling, and you doubt he's going to let you go anytime soon.

"you know a medium?"

"not yet."

he almost laughs. then hacks again. there's a brief pause where he must be drinking water, or coughing into a pillow, before he returns. "i sound like my professor."

"i really think you need to get over that," you tell him, turning up the volume and resting your head back. you look up at the ceiling and trace the different shapes of dust on the ceiling.

"no, she probably gave me this disease."

"have you even seen her since last semester?"

"maybe it's--" he coughs again, "maybe it's dormant. just waiting for me to feel safe so it can attack."

you laugh. "do you have any medicine? water?"

"yes," he moans, pathetically. "suguru has locked me in my room. i'm quarantined. it's so cold, and he wouldn't even let me take the blanket from the couch, and we only have the cough drops that taste like bad lemons."

you bite your cheek, shaking your head even though he can't see you. "poor baby. is this why you were acting so weird on thursday?"

"you kept making eye contact with me," he whines.

"so... yes? you're delirious?"

"i'm bored," he clears his throat. twice. "and dying."

"i'm not sure how to help you with that."

"entertain me."

"we've talked about this," you say, "i'm terrible at entertainment. and talking. and helping dying people. though... that last one is probably pretty common. what about your doctor friend? shoko?"

"you're not terrible," gojo sniffs, ignoring everything else you said. "you talk to me every day."

"you talk. i just respond. i'm kind of exploiting you… or maybe it's the other way around."

"i like when you talk," he says, quickly, just a slight rasp to his voice.

you pause. "yeah?"

"yes. keep doing it."

you lick your lips, forgetting completely about what else you were going to do before bed. you slouch further into your couch, glancing at your phone like gojo might've hung up in the last five seconds. he hasn't. "you don't find my voice annoying?"

"...what?"

"you've never called me before now. i thought maybe my voice was really annoying to you. nails on a chalkboard, or something."

"i never called you because..." gojo doesn't continue, but you can hear him move, something muffled into the receiver. "i--i like your voice. it's nice."

"you sure? you're not calling me just so you die of a migraine more quickly?"

"yes. it's soothing."

you laugh.

"so soothe me," gojo says. "i'm in distress here."

"i'm honestly surprised you haven't gotten sick sooner. you get way too close to strangers. most people don't even wash their hands, you know. including you."

"i wash my hands," gojo claims, though too weakly to be genuine. "and it was my professor. she cursed me."

"i'm looking up that medium now."

"no," gojo coughs. "just talk to me. call a medium after i die."

"the spirits will probably be released by then."

"y/n," he whines, so soft.

"okay. okay..." but then you can't think of anything to say. you wonder if he's recording this somehow, waiting for you to flumble the conversation. you wonder if he'll hang up eventually, through the dead quiet, or if he'd wait. "i don't have anything to say."

gojo groans. you feel almost bad--his voice sounds so terrible, and you should probably be taking pity on him, should probably just start saying nonsense so he doesn't have to strain himself any further.

"you could call someone else, you know. you should. you have lots of friends. i'm sure they have things to talk about."

"i don't want to call other people."

"well, if you want to be entertained, i'm probably not the best option. what about--"

"tell me about your day."

"i... why?"

"because i want to listen to you," his voice breaks, and he clears his throat. "before i die, i mean."

you laugh.

"i don't want to talk to anyone else," gojo says again, but he sounds more serious this time--like he almost never is. then he coughs.

you wince and think for a moment. "one of your other friends--"

"you're my friend."

“yeah but--you… you have lots of friends. you are friends with everyone, gojo. it's not—“

“i’m your friend,” he says, like he’s said it before, like it’s different. “you’re not friends with everyone.”

“i—“

“i like being your friend. i like it the best. you’re… it’s not the same with everyone else, you know? don’t you know that?”

"do i?"

"just talk to me," gojo murmurs. "suguru's not going to let me out anytime soon."

"then, i'll lose my voice, too.”

"i'll talk to you, then. we can trade."

the muscles in your face relax, then, eyes softening, and you know that if gojo were right in front of you, he would be grinning. he would have his victorious face on, proud to have made you pause. "yeah?"

and you can hear it, too, when he actually smiles. it's louder than your ringtone was. "yeah."

so you talk to gojo satoru for an hour or two, telling him things that he doesn't need to know, thoughts about the squirrel you saw on campus the other day, the kid in your class who tripped down the aisle when he was going to sit down, the rotten mandarin you found in the back of your fridge.

gojo listens the whole time, answering in rasps and whines from the back of his throat, and eventually, you listen as he drifts off to sleep, snoring through his stuffy nose.

*

it's too late for this. that's the only thought that's running through your mind currently, as you wait in the train station, a much too large presence right next to you.

it's dark enough for there to be a slight chill in the air. that's the only reason you're standing this close to him in the first place. he radiates heat, and heat can only flow from a hot object to a cooler one, as gojo would probably tell you.

it's happened again, for whatever reason. gojo just shows up--he appears out of nowhere, like there are copies of him lingering around, just in case someone he knows also passes by. and he must be stalking you at this point, or have some weird sixth sense that lets him know where you're going to be, and exactly when.

you were walking right out of class when you spotted him, leaning against another wall, unconcerned with every other person moving around him. he didn't even attempt to stop seven different people this time, just gave sincere waves and a pat on the back when a friend passed him by.

but he never stopped, never tried to strike up a conversation, just kept his eyes on you, and then grinned.

it's not weird that you notice him first, out of everyone else. gojo satoru is unique in that way, his hair is exuberant, his eyes are ridiculous, and who else wears sunglasses inside? he's noticeable--with his serene stance and clear face--and that's obviously the only reason you notice him.

and when your feet shift, headed towards him in less than a split second, it has to do with the laws of attraction or something, and not actual attraction. gojo is your friend. you like that about him.

he grins the whole time you make your way over to him. he keeps his eyes focused on yours and only gives you a once-over when you're close enough to touch, checking to make sure that you're all there. and when you tell him that you're heading home, he says that he's going too.

"what?" you tilt your head at him, ignoring how you can smell him when he pushes off the wall, getting even closer for just a second. he smells like an entire forest, fresh and icy, mixed with all of the sugar he consumes every day. "no. you live on campus."

he shrugs, bending his knees just a bit, and tilting his ear towards you, like he wants you to know that he's listening. even though he isn't. "i need to make a trip anyway. i'll just go with you."

"i'm going to the station."

"nice. that's the first stop on my trip."

"what--" and you try to complain, but he swipes your bag from your shoulder before you can, and he walks away looking absolutely ridiculous with two backpacks, his stride unfairly quick.

and you chase after him because he's just taken your backpack hostage, and he'll probably pretend you've had an agreement to trade this whole time, pull out some ochrestrated document that you apparently signed.

so here you are. gojo satoru to your left, still carrying your bag--no strain, even though you brought every textbook you own today--tapping his foot on the ground like the rattling of the train tracks has a consistent rhythm that he can follow. you've been here, standing like this, for at least ten minutes now.

you tried to push him away when he began to walk down the steps with you, taking them two at a time, but he swore that he needed to stay until the train arrived, just to see something.

so you're standing there with your arms crossed, huffing every minute or two just so he knows that you're irritated by his very presence. but gojo just keeps looking over at you, raising his eyebrows gently, and then looking forward again with a satisfied smile on his face. he's undoubtedly winning this game, despite the fact that you never agreed to play in the first place.

even through his glasses, you can see the way his eyes trail down your face, jumping from your eyes to elsewhere, before he finally looks away. you can feel it when his arm brushes against yours every time he shifts; your nerve endings jump with every slight movement.

it's unnerving. it's incredibly frustrating, and you still don't understand what he's doing here--and that's what he likes about it. there's nothing that gojo loves more than getting a rise out of you.

you can only handle so much of this, though, so eventually you turn towards him, looking at him with a straight face.

and you wait for a moment, making sure to keep every muscle around your mouth still, keep your eyes focused on the bridge of his nose without faltering.

"what?" gojo asks when you've been staring at him pointedly for a whole minute.

“it’s weird," you tell him, eventually, because the words just come out.

you were really planning to stay silent this entire time. you wanted to unnerve him back, play the game with some new rules. gojo is the one who tricked you into following him, and then decided to stay, so if he wants conversation, he's going to have to be the one to make it.

but every second that gojo doesn't say something is another second where he has a thought that you're not privvy to. another second where he could be thinking anything, and you'd never know.

and somehow that's even more infuriating than having him follow you around for seemingly no reason. and it's harder when you're looking at him like this--when you can see the curiosity on his face, untethered by whatever act he wants to put on. you shouldn't have turned.

you shouldn't have gone to class today. that's where your line of mistakes really started.

“what?” he repeats, already smirking as he looks at you. he knows exactly what he's doing, and maybe that's the worst part.

“i just…" you pause, swallowing. if only you could think as quickly as him, have some brilliantly constructed thought to draw him in. you don't have anything to say except what you've been thinking about for the past week, some alternate thought you would never share with gojo except for in this circumstance. "people--people always say there’s someone out there who you’ll just click with. instantly. like that exists.”

gojo raises a brow. he looks confused for a second, unsure why you're bringing this up, but then he answers: “who says?”

“i don’t know. socrates or something," you mutter, almost absentmindedly. you look away from him, because that's too distracting. that's how you got here in the first place. "there’s someone in the world who will know what you’re saying, who you are, just automatically. like they can see right through you.”

gojo taps your foot with his. “that’s nice.”

“yeah… well, no. because if that’s what you are to me, then i must be pretty easy to understand.”

gojo leans over to catch your eye, ready to be offended.

you peek at him through your brow, a tiny smile building. “cause you’re so simple-minded.”

“hey.”

you grin. “just kidding. a little, at least.”

“and i thought you were saying something nice for once," he shakes his head, settling back in against the wall and sighing.

“nice…” you stop, looking the opposite direction. “nice. it’s nice, i guess. i find it so hard to be around other people. it takes weeks to finally relax and just… be around. but i’ve never felt that way with you. i was... confused, but never very nervous. it was automatic, the way i got you.” 

gojo turns, leaning in just slightly. your eyes dart to him, and the look on his face is contemplative. but he doesn't say anything--like he knows that there's more, or maybe he just wants to bask in it.

you stare forward, wondering if he's ever felt the same about you. probably not--but that doesn't really matter. gojo is incredibly impatient, reckless, and too fast for everyone else around him. he chats with anyone and takes any conversation. and yet, with you, he's slower. he waits, as if he knows that something good will come from it. and you know that he would keep on waiting, even if nothing ever did come. he's hopeful, in that way, but still hesitant.

“i bet you’ve never felt like that, huh?" you say, finally. another train passes, blowing gojo's hair out of his eyes. his cheeks look a bit flushed, maybe from the breeze. "you get along with everyone. even when they don’t get along with you.”

“pretty much…" he murmurs, "but i like you best,” satoru says, like it helps. 

“yeah?”

“yeah.” 

"is that why you're following me around?"

satoru scoffs. "i told you," he insists, "i have a trip to go on."

"and it requires you to tail me to the train station?" you ask him, just as your train arrives.

"it does, actually," and he's amused, again. almost poking at you--there's something about this that you don't understand, but he's not going to just say it. that's far too easy.

you raise a brow, then reach out to take your bag from him. his hand brushes yours as he does, though reluctantly, tingles running down your spine.

"lets never do this again," you say to him, taking a step forward.

"i'll see you next week."

"i'm serious."

"text me when you get home, or call," satoru calls to you as you walk away. he's still grinning, standing there so he can watch you go. "i just got pikmin four, so i'll be up till dawn… i could use some company."

"goodnight, gojo."

"night."

*

you're sitting on your bed, a textbook in your lap, your notes drifting somewhere beneath some covers near you. studying has been harder recently, mostly due to a certain white-haired man and his penchant for opening his mouth every two minutes. as much as you admire satoru's ability to never stop talking, your grades don't quite agree.

but you've got an extra day off this week, all of your classes canceled, so there's plenty of time to study between work and sleep. and satoru is supposed to be busy, anyway, planning some sort of celebration for some probably made-up holiday--national desk chair day or something--with every other person on campus.

you weren't exactly listening when he told you about it, which is likely a good thing--the more information you know, the worse. you can't think of satoru every minute of every day, and even if you could, you'd probably go insane.

still, every ten minutes or so, your eyes will drift over to your notebook, lingering on the margins where satoru started doodling when he thought you were too distracted to notice. there's mini versions of him and you, drawn with shaky lines and text bubbles written in the worst handwriting you've ever seen (unfortunately, that doesn't make you want to rip them out and laminate them any less).

so you're re-reading something, trying to calculate how much longer you need to write notes on this chapter before it's acceptable to get a snack. probably only... five more minutes, right? that seems reasonable.

and it's right then that your phone rings.

satoru has his own ringtone now, at his insistence, so you know who it is immediately. he calls you frequently ever since that initial night, claiming that he needs entertainment or company, and sweetening you with every mention that he likes your voice, every half-assed and flustering sentence that leaves his mouth with no regard for your feelings. he's easier over the phone, where you can't see every expression he makes, every whisper of fondness that crosses his face. but he's harder, too, smoother than usual, with more variation in what he says.

but it's sunday, and it's late, and satoru is supposed to be at a party. actually, you're pretty sure he's supposed to be hosting it, if the bits of conversation you picked up on are to be believed.

you pick it up anyway. he's so hard to ignore. "gojo?"

"y/n," he drawls, almost whispering. "did you call me?"

you lean against your headboard, sighing. "you called me."

"hmm..." you hear something in the background, maybe a phone drop, then satoru's back. "i miss you."

"are you... drunk?"

"nah," he murmurs something, sounding like he's grinning. "couldn't be."

"so... yes," you shake your head. you should've known better than to answer him. "i saw you two days ago," you add, like it makes a difference.

"that's too long. you didn't text me all day. and i thought you were going to come."

"i told you i wasn't," you whisper, kind of smiling. "i rejected you explicitly this time, like you asked."

satoru must drop something, because there's another pause. and then it gets much quieter, and you can suddenly hear every curve of his mouth, every shift of his throat as he talks. "i thought you were kidding."

"i don't lie all of the time, gojo. i'm--i'm not you."

"but i miss you," he's pouting, for sure. and he's still whispering, like he thinks that this is some secret he's not supposed to be sharing with you. and he probably shouldn't be--gojo is good at saying just enough to keep your delusions to a minimum. but he's drunk. "you should come."

"it's..." you move your phone from your ear, checking the time. "one in the morning." 

"you can stay with me," he suggests. "i want to see you."

"the train is a half an hour, and i don't want to walk around this late. besides, i bet you're going to fall asleep soon. you seem like a drowsy drunk."

"that's mean," he murmurs, and you hear a door shut. "i could come get you, or stay over. whatever you want."

you pause, taking a deep breath. he's drunk, that's why his voice sounds so warm and so soft, even over the phone. he's drunk, which is why he's offering, even though you've never been in the same vicinity this late, never been to his house, or his room...

"i want you to drink some water," you tell him, eventually. you say it gently, hoping that he can't hear the hesitance in your voice. it shouldn't matter. he's drunk. "and then go to bed. okay? i'll call you tomorrow, if you want."

satoru hums. he's liquid now, free-moving and restless. "you will?"

"sure," you answer, easily enough. like he wouldn't call you anyway, even if you weren't having this conversation. " i had a question about this heat capacity equation, anyway."

"do you promise?"

"are you a clingy drunk, too?"

"i'm always clingy," he answers, evenly. you can hear it when he swallows. "now promise."

"i promise, gojo."

"swear on our pen," he adds, stubbornly.

you laugh. "you have it, so i don't think it would count even if i did."

"i should come over and give it to you then."

you breathe in again. "did you get some water?" you ask, ignoring him. it's not worth it to entertain that.

"yes. i have a..." there's a loud sound, and then satoru laughs at something. "bottle... somewhere."

you wince and choose to pretend that you didn't hear that. if he's hurt, surely someone there could help him, right? "okay. drink some and then go to bed," you murmur, a bit softer. then, as an afterthought, you add, "don't choke on your spit."

"i miss you," he says, again, more reckless this time, more sincere.

you can hear it now, when satoru is serious about something. you can tell when he's lying just for fun, making a joke just so he can hide something else, interrupting you so you can't ask him a question he doesn't want to hear.

so you know, right now, that he's not teasing. he's not just drunk--he's drunk and completely genuine.

you chew on your cheek, humming. "i miss you, too," you answer, fast enough that the words are blurred. "i'll call you tomorrow."

satoru says something, but you hang up so you don't have to hear it.

*

"i'm only allowing this," you tell satoru, hand still on the doorknob, pointing a finger at him so he knows that you're serious, even though he's looking at you completely unseriously. "because the library is closed. and that's hard for me."

"--for us."

"so, you can come in, but you can't say anything. don't comment on my cat pot, don't look through my photo albums, and don't touch the books on the mantle."

satoru raises a brow. "are they cursed?"

"yes. say 'okay' and then you can come in."

"okay," he drawls, leaning down just a bit, tilting his head at you as if he really likes the view from right there.

you narrow your eyes at him, but open the door anyway. you get barely a second to take off your shoes--and watch him do the same--before he's coming in, full-force, his presence taking up every corner of your admittedly small living room.

gojo satoru is in your apartment, for the very first time, and now he's actually everywhere. he's at school, in the library, at work, and in your house, looking around and touching the things on your shelves, even though you just told him not to. and for some reason, you don't even want to bicker at him about it.

it's interesting watching him gravitate over by the windows, which you haven't dusted in weeks. he picks up the books you told him not to look at, pulls out a photo album, and glances back at you, as if daring you to say something about it. you don't, only roll your eyes and set your bag down.

"it's so warm in here," satoru says, almost laughing. "why do you have seventeen different candles?"

"did you actually count?"

he turns on his heel, tilting his head at you. he looks more like a kid than you've seen in a while, his eyes crinkling even through the glasses, his smile boyant and proud. someone just told him he could have a treat, someone just offered him a brand new toy--he'll covet this moment for the next few hours and then forget all about it.

"they smell nice," you tell him, sitting on the couch. "c'mon, you said we would study."

and that's why he's actually here. the library is closed--for a reason neither of you know, even though satoru texted every contact in his phone to see if someone had an answer, to no avail--so you need someplace else to study. you would've gone to satoru's house, had suggested, actually, but he said it was easier to just come here.

you're not sure if he's just being nosy, or if that's actually true for some reason. he lives on campus with his best friend, in a two-bedroom that's closer, and probably bigger, and for some reason, unbeknownst to you, off-limits.

maybe he's got a harem living there. maybe that's where the demons on campus meet up every night to reflect on all of the souls they've stolen that day. maybe he's a hoarder and collects every piece of trash you've thrown away these past few months, making a sculpture out of every wrapper and water bottle. either way, it's led to this--him, walking around and looking at every wall like they might offer him a unique perspective into your core (which they won't, because you paid them off).

still, you clear your throat. "gojo," you say, sing-song, "remember what we came here to do, buddy?"

he gives you a look, picking up a handthrown mug you got at a market, half off. "there's so many things," he replies, almost bewildered. "i thought you would have one poster and a knitted blanket."

maybe he thinks you're the hoarder. maybe he finds you entirely too sentimental.

"really?"

he grins. "no. i haven't thought about it. but this is... fitting."

"okay, well, if you're done psychoanalyzing me based on my decorations, can you sit down?"

"you haven't offered me something to drink yet."

you raise a brow. "do you want something to drink?"

"yes," he answers earnestly, "do you have juice?"

"are you serious?"

he puts the mug down, walking towards, giving you a look that says are you actually asking me that?

so you sigh. "i can make tea, but i don't have any of the syrups that make it edible to you."

satoru sits down, frowning. "why not? weren't you expecting me?"

"no. it's kinda strange to see you here, actually," you stand up and take a step back, looking at the full picture. it's obvious how well he fits against everything else, sitting in the sunken part of your couch. maybe you'd accidentally created that spot just for him, widdled away during all of the times he crossed your mind while you were watching tv. instead of saying this, you just add: "it's weird."

"i think you should get used to it."

you snort, walking towards the kitchen with your back to him. "i'm gonna make tea," you tell him, "i'll put 100 grams of sugar in yours."

"150." satoru calls back, and you just shake your head and turn on the kettle.

when you return, mugs in your hand, satoru is staring down at his phone, pouting at the screen like it personally attacked him. he looks completely comfortable, despite this. he's thrown your blanket over his lap and tucked his feet under his knees, so deep into your couch he might be touching the springs.

"you okay, there?" you ask, setting the mug down in front of him. he's gotten a single notebook out, and your pen, you note. "what's wrong?"

"no one wants to play the new sorcerer mmo with me," satoru says solemnly.

you give him a look, grabbing your notes. "were you planning on ignoring me the whole time you're here?"

"i mean, later, tomorrow," satoru says, setting his phone down and lying back against the couch with his arms crossed. he's taken off his glasses too, hair still ruffled from the wind outside. "i just bought it. the reviews were really good."

you sit down next to him, patting his head as consolation. his hair is too soft. he probably strung each strand through a loom.

he side eyes you, licking his lips, though his head pushes up, like he enjoys your hand being there. "will you play with me?"

"what type of game is it?"

"it's a multiplayer game. magic-based."

"oh," you say, nodding. "then no."

he whines, slouching even further on the couch. you pull your hand back and drag a corner of the blanket over to your lap. you ignore the way he moves closer to you, knee touching yours. "but why?"

"i don't play video games, and i don't want to hear you bragging when you inevitably win. besides, where would we play it? all i have is a tv, and a shitty computer."

"you can't win, exactly," satoru argues. "you can complete individual goals. and i don't brag."

"you went on a twenty-minute rant about a mario game the other day."

"okay, well, that was a very impressive win, and i wasn't even--"

"we have to study, gojo," you say, shoving his notebook towards him. "that's why you're here."

he remains fixed in his spot, arms still crossed. “nobody understands me.”

you laugh. he's close enough that he can probably feel your ribs shaking, and could notice if you took a deep breath in.

his eyes tilt up, grin a slight thing. “what?”

“does anybody understand anybody?" you ask him, almost teasing. "isn’t that a fundamental of life? we spend every day analyzing other people in the hopes that we’ll just get it, eventually. but you can’t get it."

you pick up your mug, taking a sip, and you can feel satoru watching you the whole time, so curious. but you ignore that--you've gotten pretty used to the feeling of his eyes on you.

he waits, though, because he knows there's something more you have to say. he can tell--maybe you spend too much time together, get far too close. he shouldn't be able to read your face with a single glance, but he can, and he does.

"you can never see the way i think," you continue, shrugging. "and i can never see the way you do. that’s like… the only given thing. we can’t understand each other. it’s impossible.”

“i understand you," satoru murmurs, and he doesn't look so upset anymore. he's been smiling the whole time, only watching.

when he says that, though, you can't help but smile back, shaking your head in only slight disagreement. “you can’t.”

“i can. and you understand me, too. even though you don’t want to,” he’s teasing. you know, because his eyebrows are relaxed. his face is so sweet, the icing sugar practically drips with every fluctuation of muscle.

so, you whisper back, “i want to.”

“yeah?” gojo leans closer, like it’s a secret.

“yeah.”

you can see his canine teeth as he grins, and you can watch the way his eyes follow the different points of your face, moving until they've done a complete circuit over every inch of skin. he leans a little bit closer.

you follow, swallowing and feeling that warmth in your throat--not from the tea, but a different warmth, one that builds with every second that passes, the kind that could keep you thawed for several frigid winters.

satoru always looks at you like he knows a secret, and he wants to wait until the perfect moment to finally tell you. every week that passes--every text, every conversation, every stilled moment after you laugh--you get even more desperate to know.

tell me, you want to say to him, and you want to say nothing at all because that would probably ruin this. because you've never been very good at talking, and so you should leave that to satoru. because you just want him to say it, without having to ask.

his eyes flicker down, just one more time, and he's closer than he's been in a while. he's pulling, tilted towards the earth, always, and towards you too. he's got a field that pulls you in, a net force that keeps you like this, stuck until he says so., until you decide it's strong enough.

you clear your throat, and eventually shake your head. you didn't want him to come to your house for a reason, you're realizing, because you knew that he would get this close, and it would be so much harder to ignore within the sanctity of these walls.

so you move away first, the knee that was pressed against him shifts, and you lean forward towards the coffee table and grab the pen, handing it over to him. "lets study. you can show me that game on your phone later."

satoru's smile doesn't waver, though it's less childish now. he leans in closer once more. "okay."

*

"gojo?"

he doesn't say anything, but you can hear him grunt from the end of the line.

"are you being held captive?" you ask him, just slightly serious. "cough if you're in danger."

"i'm fine," gojo answers, his voice muffled like he's holding the phone up against his pillow, the sheets buffering every movement.

you wait for a second. gojo always has something to say, so this is your usual strategy. you answer, he talks, and then you listen to him until one of you is too tired to keep your eyes open and hangs up, or stay on the phone until you wake up in the morning and realize he's stayed on the phone this whole time.

gojo doesn't say anything.

"you okay?" you ask him, after it's been far too quiet. it's strange, and you're beginning to wonder if he even meant to call you in the first place. maybe he's sleepwalking--talking?--or maybe he's drunk again, several bottles in.

"fine," he mutters again.

"are you sure?"

"i have a headache."

you frown and sit up. it's late enough that he could be asleep now, in his bed with the curtains drawn instead of calling you, prolonging this. you remember that day in the library, i get headaches, too.

"oh," you whisper. "did you take some medicine?"

"yes."

"drink some water?"

he grunts again.

"do you... maybe you should go to sleep. we're supposed to meet tomorrow for lunch, anyway."

you can hear gojo swallow. he's so soft like this, his voice dimmer when it's past ten. it's silly, honestly, that this entire time you've been waiting for him to call. that you wait for him every night, like a kid standing by the door.

you feel bad. maybe he feels obligated to do this, instead of going to bed like he should definitely do.

"will you..." gojo starts. he sighs, and it makes your spine twitch. "will you stay on the phone with me?"

"while you sleep?"

"yeah."

you blink. gojo is a closed door, a wall between the rest of the world, and you know that he has trouble being vulnerable, even with you. that one drunk phone call spoke louder than he ever would, his expressions full of entire worlds that you could explore. you've had to chip away at him this whole time, had to listen close enough to hear the waiver in his voice, to see the pleasure in his eyes--beyond the amusement, past the curiosity. you wonder how long he's been lying there, with his eyes closed, trying to fall asleep so he could avoid the pain altogether. how long it took him to finally press on your contact?

maybe this is what true co-dependency is. maybe you don't even mind it. you know, in the smallest voice in the back of your mind, that if gojo asked you to come over right now, if he sent you his address and asked if you would stay the night, you would say yes--without hesitation.

maybe you'd do a lot more than that if he just asked.

but this one is easy. "yeah," you answer. "sure. just close your eyes, i'll try to be quiet."

"don't," gojo chokes out. "just.."

"okay. i'll make a lot of noise then," you murmur, slight taunt. "you'll have nightmares."

"just stay."

"okay," you answer. "i will."

*

you're just sitting on your bed, flipping through an old book and trying not to watch satoru from out of the corner of your eye. he's been here a lot more recently, swearing that he just wants to see you home, and then walking through the door before you can even think of saying no.

he's through the door like he lives here, like he just belongs here, with you, and if he said that out loud, you're not even sure how you could argue, if you would want to.

satoru always settles in with no hesitation, never questioning whether he'll be able to get his stuff for class tomorrow, or if he might need to change out of the same rumpled blue shirt he's been wearing for two days. he doesn't bring stuff like that up because he knows that you would only begin to voice the reasons he shouldn't be here, not like this, and certainly not right now.

you're sort of glad he never says it, so you never have to either.

instead, you've been letting him do whatever. offering your phone charger up, letting him go through the cupboards even though you already know there isn't anything that he might like.

and you like this. if earlier in the semester you had to get used to the sudden lack of satoru, to his chattiness and constant laughter, now you don't have to get used to anything. there's no adjustment period, no time spent in your bathroom breathing, trying to reconcile with your lack of privacy.

from that very first night, you could tell. he just fits here. he makes himself at home, and you like that. you told him before--you feel comfortable with him, speaking to him and getting closer, and so it makes sense that you'd only grow more and more comfortable, get used to him as time passes.

gojo satoru is your friend, sure, but you've never had quite a friend like him. and you've never felt like this, sitting here, heart pounding harshly even though you're not afraid of anything.

satoru isn't trying to trick you into anything, now. he's not investigating you, not looking for something you thought that he wouldn't be able to find.

he's just sitting at the end of your bed, scribbling equations down and humming absent-mindedly.

he's quieter now, too. he lets the silence go on, and it's nice. some part of you truly thought you would get tired of him, of being around him, but you haven't.

not yet.

"what?" satoru asks, after you've accidentally glanced up a few too many times. just like... seven. that's an average, right? you're allowed to look at your friend and admire his face.

"hmm?" you answer, pretending to focus on your book. even though the words are blurry and you couldn't give a synopsis of the last few chapters if you tried.

"do you need something?"

"nope. this is really well written."

satoru snorts. he sets down the pen, and when you glance up again, he's looking back. he's been waiting--you can tell, you can see it on his face, in the tension of his jaw.

you say it without meaning to: "this is just like the library."

he tilts his head, already smiling. "what is?"

"this. you keep looking at me. why do you keep looking at me?"

"you're looking at me, too, you know," satoru points out, softly.

"because you're looking--" you shake your head. "you did that before we even spoke. kept looking."

"did i?"

"yes. i thought you were pranking me, or something."

satoru scoffs, leaning towards you. he turns so he's almost on his stomach, staring at you stupidly. staring at you and making you stupid. "pranking you?"

"i don't know," you answer, shaking your head. "why else would you be looking at me?"

satoru does it again, then. stares for a moment too long, surveying you like there's something he could've possibly missed. at this point, he's probably seen every inch of your skin. he could give a detailed description, if someone ever asked. he might be the only person on earth that's looked at you this long, this hard.

he licks his lip and exhales, almost like it's painful to do so. "maybe i just thought you were pretty."

your finger catches on the edge of the book, not quite deep enough to cut you. "you did?"

he moves closer, nodding almost hesitantly. "yeah," he answers, easily enough. "i do."

"that's why you were staring?"

his smile is crooked. "mostly."

"what else, then?" you ask him, and don't fail to notice how close he is now. your hands let go of your book completely, and it could fall to the floor, and you'd barely notice. your fire alarm could start blaring, your hand could fall through every layer of your bed. it wouldn't matter at all.

you look away for one moment. for just a second more, you need a world without blue eyes, without irridescent smiles, without the constant need for more.

but then he speaks again. “y/n,” satoru whispers softly, like he’s about to say something no one else can hear. he does that a lot. gojo satoru is loud and imposing, but he’s not here.

not like this.

“yeah?” you ask, turning your head towards him. he's sat right next to you, years away from his place only five minutes ago, his homework completely irrelevant, and his eyes are lidded as he looks down on you, so close that they’re barely open.

“can i kiss you?”

you don’t move for just a second. suddenly aware of the feeling of the bed sheets against your hand. the up and down motions of your chest, every ache and pain in every molecule that makes you whole. satoru would tell you that it's bouncing, molecules going back and forth and spreading between the two of you. he would tell you that you've shared every atom, that there's never been a moment where he hasn't known you in that way.

you breathe in, then nod.

“yeah?” satoru asks, leaning towards you, his head tilting ever so slightly. you close your eyes so you don’t have to see anymore, worried that you’ll back away once it feels too real. worried that he's not real, but you want him to be so badly.

“yeah,” you try to whisper back, but it’s swallowed by the feeling of his mouth on yours.

you've only imagined kissing satoru sparsely. trying to reserve that for something else, trying to keep that thought from building in your head. but even in those moments, you never thought it would feel like this.

satoru is warm, almost burning hot, and as soon as you respond to his kiss, exhaling just so you can stay upright, he's moving even closer. impossibly closer. you can feel it when he takes a breath, like gulping for air, taking more, putting a hand on your neck and the other on your face, pulling you in, even if it means you can't breathe. why would you even want to, in this moment?

and he forces you to keep up with him, pleads without words for you to keep going, tell me more.

he could hold the entirety of you in his hands, could talk to you for years without his throat getting sore, could kiss you for hours without ever needing to pause or slow down. and you get it, in that way, because you could do just the same.

his lips are soft and smooth, and you've never done this with him before, but it doesn't feel like that. it feels like you've been doing this for hours. like every glance down to his lips, every eye brushes across his chin has prepared you.

but satoru doesn't push that far, not right now. he pulls back, keeping his hands on you, and whispers, "you want to know something?"

your hands are shaking, sweaty, and overwhelmed. your eyes open, and you attempt to focus back in on satoru, but it's impossible when he's this close. you can only see the pink to his skin, your sense of sight replaced completely with the feel of him. still, you nod against him, your nose brushing his. you make a noise, confirming.

"i'm scared."

you pull back a little bit more, blinking. "you're... scared."

satoru leans in, nodding. his breath is ticklish on your cupid's bow, and he tilts his head, teasing. you want him to kiss you again, you want to kiss him again, but you want him to keep talking. it seems almost impossible, but you want him to talk and never stop. he would, if you asked.

"of what?"

"you," he whispers, and pulls you closer again with the hand on your jaw.

"what?" you swipe it away, taking his hand in your own so you can look at him without satoru trying to stop you, and you look up, staring contemplatively at his eyes. "you're scared of me?" you ask, softly. your mouth is tired already, and you don't care. "you're not scared of anything, though."

he smiles, and it's dimmer than any satoru smile you've seen before. it's a smile that tells you he's being serious, genuine, allowing you a moment into his head, to get what he gets, see what he sees. you keep seeing new things, keep learning more and more about him, and you wonder if that will ever stop.

he wants you to understand, just this once. so you blink rapidly, telling yourself to pay closer attention, don't forget this.

"no, i'm not," he confirms, less confident, less boisterous than he always is. "but i don't want to mess this up."

"i..." you're still dazed, still shaking the littlest bit. "what?"

"i've wanted to kiss you for months, you know?"

your brows furrow. "you have?"

"yeah. yes. i--i kept..." he shakes his head. "i just wanted you closer, every day, and i didn't--i wasn't sure how--" he stops again, looks away, mouth still open like the right words might come out any second.

they don't, though, satoru looks between you and the wall, and he doesn't say anything.

for once, he's completely silent. you can hear the absence of his voice, that ringing in the air. he doesn't have the right option, and can't decide which words will gain him the most points.

so you just wait for a moment. he always waits for you, listens closer when you stumble over your words, ducks his head down so he doesn't miss a single stutter. he waits for you all of the time, so you can wait for him just the same.

but he only snorts, shaking his head. he's smiling almost sheepishly now, looking like he's lost everything. like maybe he's gained everything too. satoru swallows. "i'm not... i don't know how--" he tries to pull his hand from yours, but you don't let him.

"satoru," you murmur, leaning forward on your knees so you're closer to him again.

satoru looks at you, eyes wide and bare, entirely too big for his face, and as alien as ever. he's beautiful like this, lost as he is. he's beautiful in every moment, but it's different this close, this quietly. he tilts his head just slightly, in answer. i'm listening.

"if there's a problem, you’ll figure it out, remember? we will.”

his lip quirks, and he's staring down at your lips again. "yeah?" he answers, voice dry. "i like finding the way out."

"yeah, i know. me too."

“sometimes there isn’t one, though,” he adds, so hesitantly you want to catch the rhythm of his heart in a microphone and play it on repeat every time the world goes dark, want to take a net to trap all the butterfly flaps of his eyelashes so you can watch when things are quiet.

you want to share everything with him, want him to share everything with you.

he leans in again, nose brushing yours, head tilting just enough.

"it's okay to be scared," you tell him, just to make sure, and then kiss him again.