Chapter Text
Gojo Satoru has existed in your orbit — the unwitting star in the centre of your universe — for as long as you can remember. Or at least, since you first became conscious of the frosty haired boy with the even colder look in his eyes.
It’s not like you wanted to like him at first, no. Far from it.
You didn’t buy the tales that your parents, or other strange adults told you.
“If a boy picks on you, he likes you.” No? That didn’t make sense to you. Hurting someone that you liked seemed stupid, and you’d never do it. You wouldn’t want someone to like you if they did do that.
And Gojo Satoru just didn’t…seem to care. When he walked by, and accidentally knocked down the stack of blocks you’d built? He’d look down like it was your fault for being in the way.
On the playground, when you tripped in a game of tag? He’d look the other way. When you waved goodbye to your classmates at the end of the day, Gojo would just stare at you until your motions faltered, like you were the weird one.
So yeah. You didn’t like Gojo Satoru.
But then, one day in kindergarten — the strange little world where the heirs of big clans were shoved together (some nonsense about building connections young and early) — everything shifted.
You were bawling your eyes out because that Zen'in boy snatched your beloved lion plush. It was fuzzy with love, lumpy from being hugged to sleep every night, your most loyal confidant.
Gojo had stormed over without hesitation, demanding Naoya to return it immediately. When that didn’t work, he simply snatched it back himself.
The poor lion, already weary and threadbare, tore right in his hands. You broke into fresh sobs, louder than before, as scraps of stuffing floated to the floor like fallen snow — the colour of his hair.
Rescue attempt? Failed.
Naoya stared down at you with a look of a triumphant, young, general who’d successfully staged a coup, before scoffing and walking away, muttering something about girls being losers and crybabies.
The other children watched, wide-eyed, but Gojo didn’t flinch. Instead, he stared at the broken plush in his hands, his brows meeting for the first time, like he’d just accidentally tore apart the sky and not your feline friend.
Without a word, he gathered the torn pieces with a reverence unbefitting of a three year old, as if he was afraid they’d disintegrate in his tiny hands. Then, with a surprising gentleness, for someone raised to raze the strongest curses that had ever existed, he held out the lion to you.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.
You hiccupped through your tears, stunned. Gojo Satoru — the boy who sat alone in class, not because he was disliked, but because he was untouchable, too big, too him — apologising to you? For something that wasn’t even his fault?
He’d rummaged through his own cubby then, pulling out a pristine polar bear with soft, cropped fur — a silent contrast to your own battered lion. Was that one his favourite too? Gojo Satoru was spoiled rotten, the other kids whispered of the mountains of toys he had, and yet this was the one he chose to bring with him.
Your heart melted a little. Just a little.
“You can borrow it.” Matter-of-factly. Nonplussed. Though, his cheeks turned the pink of your favourite dress, and he wasn’t looking at you anymore.
And when you came back to preschool the next day, your scruffy lion was placed squarely in your pigeonhole — yellow, orange patches holding the torn fabric together.
You knew that it was from Gojo. You didn’t need a note, or anyone else to tell you, because the boy himself snuck not-so-discreet glances at you when you picked the toy up.
And when you plopped your patched up companion on the table, you knew that he hadn’t done it because he had to. He had done it because he wanted to fix the world he had broken, even if it was only your small, quiet world.
Yeah. You fell for him right then and there.