Work Text:
Kento thinks he’s a good person.
Sure, he’d caved and worked at an investment bank for a few years, but he’s paid his dues; permanent ones in the form of deep undereye bags and loud cricks in his spine. And he tries to make up for whatever metaphysical damage he’s done to the universe: he doesn’t litter; he feeds the stray cat that stalks the alley behind his house; he donates to charities; he votes as progressively as Japan will let him.
It’s not like he does it for a chance at rebirth, or avoiding hell, or whatever the hell else religious people do it for. He’s a sorcerer, for crying out loud. The closest thing to a god he has are the founders of the three major houses, but he’s nowhere near incestuous nor old enough to care about that bullshit in the first place. At the end of it all, he’s just doing his bit to not weigh down the world with curses and thereby give himself even more work to finish – which is selfish, in a roundabout way, but Kento’s not Kantian enough to care much about the morality of bad intentions.
So, maybe, he’s not as good of a person as he thinks he is. Because it’s only bad, terrible people who deserve Gojo Satoru sauntering up to their desk barely five minutes after their first sweet, sweet sip of life-saving coffee, still a bit too sleep-weary to understand the words:
“Try not to bite my head off when I ask this, Nanamin, but – you’re single, right?”
Kento blinks blearily up at Gojo, the words slowly consolidating into meaning as the taller man grins down at him. If Kento had any shred of goodwill towards the other, the crooked angle of his lips could be seen as chagrin, or even shame — but he knows Gojo Satoru, which means knowing that neither of those words could ever be a part of the other man’s vocabulary. He sips at his drink, the caffeine deprivation already beginning to beat a steady drumbeat of pain into his temples. “I beg your pardon, Gojo-san. Single as in…how I choose to carry out missions?”
“Stupidity doesn’t suit you,” Gojo sighs as he leans his long form onto the creaky sides of Kento’s cubicle. “C’mon. You know what I mean. Be a good kouhai, and just say yes?”
“I’m afraid I really don’t understand, Gojo-san. If you need to check my availabilities for confirmation on a work assignment, I can send you a link to my Google Calendar.” Fucking karma . This is what he gets for not picking up that can on the street yesterday morning.
“You know, you’d be infuriating if you didn’t have that perfectly swooshy Obi Wan episode three hair,” Gojo frowns, making a show of peering over his sunglasses to squint judgmentally at Kento. “Please tell me you know who that is.”
Kento would rather die than acknowledge that he knows what Star Wars is, let alone admit that he has a green lightsaber stashed away somewhere in his childhood bedroom. “Who?”
“For fuck’s sakes–“ Gojo throws his arms up in the air. “Star Wars? Darth Vader? Seriously, was I the one raised in a bubble or you?”
Kento hides his grin behind the rim of his mug. “Is that the one with the spaceships and the man with the pointy ears? Oh, no, sorry. It’s the one with the red robot suit.”
“Ijichi, cover your ears, quick!” Gojo shouts across the room as the other man scurries into the break room. “How dare you spout such blasphemy in his presence. Anyways, enough about your pop-culture ignorance,” He hesitates, hand nervously carding through his artfully disheveled hair. “Look. I just need your help, alright? And that involves…acting.”
“I studied accounting in university, not drama,” Kento frowns, his gut roiling with trepidation at the obvious unease radiating off of the other man. “Just cut to the chase, Gojo-san. I can’t agree to something I don’t know the full details of.”
“Jeez, at least buy a man dinner before you start interrogating him,” Gojo plucks up a stray pen, idly unscrewing its compartments as he avoids Kento’s pointed gaze. “There’s someone after me, alright?”
“And you can’t flush them out alone?” Kento raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Surely one assassin can’t evade you for long.”
“See, that’s the problem. It’s not one person who’s after me. It’s multiple. They haven’t tried anything on me yet, but they’ve–“ his deft fingers tighten around the pen cap with a quiet crunch . “They’ve targeted the people around me for what I suppose is leverage. Three Grade Two sorcerers went after Maki and Panda the other night asking about my whereabouts. Snuck up on them when they were out on a mission in Ginza.”
“Jesus. They’re first years, right?”
“Yeah,” Gojo’s eyes narrow. “They’re fine, don’t worry. I guess that group’s intel was shitty — not many people expect someone with no cursed energy to absolutely decimate them, I guess — but Ijichi told me someone’s been following him after work for the past week. Shoko, too. And with Yuuta in Africa–“
“They’ll come after the children again, won’t they. With better intelligence, and more preparation,” Kento rubs at the nape of his neck, an uncomfortable familiar twinge beginning to cramp up the base of his skull. “Ieiri-sensei can fend for herself, of course, but Ijichi…”
“Well, he’s just a walking target, isn’t he? And, not that I’m sentimental about you lot or whatever, but it’d look pretty bad if my enemies could get to me just by kidnapping random coworkers I couldn’t care less about.” The bits of pen float up into the air and begin rotating above Gojo’s outstretched palm in a hypnotic dance.
“I understand that. What I don’t understand is how this problem of yours involves me, Gojo-san.”
“Look. I know I’m extremely charming–“
“A purely subjective and totally inaccurate judgment of yourself.”
“Rude! Everyone loves me, you just don’t want to admit it," Gojo glares halfheartedly as Kento stifles a chuckle, "but when everyone is an ardent lover of yours truly, it’s hard to predict who’s going to be on those bastards’ hit list, right?”
“I’m assuming that’s where I come in.”
“Right on the money!” Gojo claps, beaming. “If I can concentrate all of their attention onto one person, someone who I trust can fend for themselves, then that’d make the whole tracking situation much easier, and we can all be rid of another nuisance in our lives. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”
“I agree, but what–“ Kento sighs, rubbing frustratedly at the furrow between his brows. “What on earth has that got to do with whether or not I’m single?”
“Before you bite my head off, just know this wasn’t my idea, alright?” The bits of pen spin faster in the air, the blue and black blurring into one. “It was the higher ups who said it’d be more convincing to have me– have me date someone.”
“What?” Kento’s stomach twists uncomfortably. “What do you mean, date?”
“I want this as little as you do, alright?” Gojo sighs. “But they’ve got a point — having a best friend or a favorite colleague won’t do anything to protect the more vulnerable people around me. A romantic partner — that’s a much more logical hostage target, isn’t it?”
Kento nods, loathe to agree with Gojo’s thoroughly insane, yet somehow logical, argument.
“The higher ups wanted me to pair up with Mei Mei at first. Said she would make the most sense, was the best option–”
“Mei Mei?” Kento snorts. “That pairing would convince absolutely no one.”
“Everyone except those old fogies up top, right?” Gojo sneers. “I managed to convince them otherwise, at least. Said I’d find another choice that I found more trustworthy, and cheaper for them, too.” He looks over at Kento, bright blue eyes obfuscated by the dark black of his glasses, the weight of his gaze solemn as a gravestone. “I said it should be you, Nanami.”
Kento takes a sip of his coffee, partially to quench the uncomfortable dryness of his throat, partially to distract himself from the conversation at hand, “Me.”
“Well. They’ll target you sooner or later, judging by the way things are going. Besides, you’re good in the field. We have good rapport. Most importantly, out of everyone else, you…make the most sense.” The most hangs heavily in the tense air, a glimpse of black hair and pale skin flashing through Kento’s brain — a glimpse of the one who would have been chosen of Gojo’s own volition, rather than one forced upon him for his survival.
“You said two of the students were targeted, right?” Kento clenches his fist around the mug’s handle, knuckles whitening with the effort. “Anyone else?”
“Not yet. Megumi’s moving into the dorms soon, but Tsumiki’s still in a hospital on outside grounds, and he’s told me there are people hanging around there,” he sighs heavily. “Look, if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I can ask Kusakabe, or–”
“I’ll do it,” Kento grits out between clenched teeth. “For the children, of course.”
“Of course,” Gojo smiles. “Saint Nanamin to the rescue!”
“Alright,” Kento takes another sip of coffee, barely registering the bitterness of it as he swallows down the weight of his decisions. “I’ll wait for your instructions, then.”
“Missing me already, babe?” Gojo winks as he pushes himself up to stand. He clenches his fist, the blur of metal and plastic crumpling violently into itself and clattering onto the linoleum floor. “Guess I’ll be seeing you later, Kento-kun!”
Gojo saunters out of the room, whistling a tune that sounds oddly akin to You Belong With Me as he slams the doors open, the only evidence he’d ever been there being the jagged sphere of half-melted pen bits and the bone-deep knowledge that this , whatever it is, is probably what the universe intended as revenge all along. Kento stares unblinkingly at the mangled sphere of former pen bits as he hauls in lungfuls of muggy summer humidity, desperately struggling to keep his head above the furious ocean of unease that’s started to build within his chest.
He spends most of his workday in a quiet daze, the banality of bureaucracy carried out on autopilot as his mind’s eye roils with the morning’s events.
“You alright?” Ieiri asks as she slips a forensic report into his To Do pile. “You’ve been clicking on the same spreadsheet for the past hour.”
“Ah,” Kento promptly closes the window, chagrined. “Nothing to worry about, Ieiri-sensei.”
“Sure,” Ieiri deadpans, completely unconvinced. “Well, I’ll leave you to your…updated fire protocols, then, Nanami-san.”
Kento nods robotically at her departing form, a little voice in the back of his brain trilling, nothing, my ass!
Shut up. He bites back as he rakes a hand through his hair, groaning loudly.
It’s not that he hates the idea of helping Gojo out – after all, they’ve collaborated on a few missions here and there (if Gojo suddenly teleporting into the middle of a battle with a bag of popcorn and a megaphone counts as collaboration).
They even, to everyone’s surprise, work well together, Kento’s eye for detail and meticulousness meshing nicely with Gojo’s ability to, well, get shit done. And it’s not like faking a backstory is something new to them either — there was one time they had to pose as art dealers to get access to a Grade One cursed object that was about to be auctioned off to some notable Diet members, a memorable mission which consisted of Gojo strolling haughtily through a modern art exhibit, a rapt audience at his heels as he’d extolled the virtues of covering yourself in bird dung, yes my dear, it really does heighten your artistic senses! In fact, here’s my number, I’ll get you in contact with the most fabulous suppliers in all of Japan. He'd also pointed at a Caution! Wet Floor sign and called it true, humanistic art! and somehow convinced the staff to auction it off to a smartphone heiress for a whopping five hundred million yen, Kento slipping the cursed object into his bag as he nodded stoically and commented on her well-placed investment in such a solid, well performing asset.
It’s just that this — pretending to be in love, or at least dating Gojo — feels like a massive mistake; one that’s going to bite him in the ass sooner rather than later.
He sighs as he glances over at a picture on his desk – a picture of him and Yu from their first day of second year, the two of them glowing with youth and naivety under the shade of cherry blossom trees. Something in his chest squeezes uncomfortably at the sight as he hears a familiar voice ask, would being honest be that bad, Kento? Would trying hurt more than last time, you think? Break you into shimmering pieces, like I did, back then?
He slams his laptop shut, and slips out for a smoke break.
It’s funny how someone’s cursed techniques reflect their personalities. For example, Kento can’t stand crooked lines, or poster designs that aren’t ratioed correctly. In the case of Gojo Satoru, the ability to teleport anywhere instantaneously seems to have manifested itself in the form of debilitating impatience.
nanami
nanami
nnm
why is ur name so fkin long
NANFKLDSFJMIE
r u actually workingggggg
fkin narc
respONDDDDD
bla
bloo
cmonnnnnnn
Gojo Satoru, 11:30am
Yes?
Me, 12:00pm
y did u ignore me
i’m sad
Gojo Satoru, 12:00pm
I’m working, Gojo-san.
You should be, too.
Me, 12:01pm
kids were taking a quiz~
nyways since ur on ur lunch break
meet me 12:30 @ d café nxt 2 d subway
u know
the one w all those pastries
Gojo Satoru, 12:01pm
?
Me, 12:01pm
some1 was spotted this morning near the veil
p powerful curse signature according 2 ijichi
better safe than sorry
Gojo Satoru, 12:02pm
Ah.
Alright. See you there.
Me, 12:02pm
awwwwww do u miss meeeeee
Gojo Satoru, 12:02 pm
Eat shit and die.
Don’t be late.
Me, 12:03pm
Kento rubs at the headache growing in his left temple, and clicks his phone shut, the screen showing 12:45pm as it dims to black. Apparently, teleportation doesn’t seem to solve tardiness.
“Sorry! Class went a bit overtime,” the taller man slips into the chair opposite to Kento, teeth bared in a gleaming smile. “Did you not order yet?”
“I was waiting for you, Gojo-san.” Kento refuses to look up as he stares at the menu in his hands, too petty to give Gojo the satisfaction of attention.
“Aw. How polite,” Gojo simpers. “Are you always such a gentleman when you go on dates? Or is this all just for me?”
“I’m always polite,” Kento irritably snaps the menu shut. “Look, can we just get this over with?”
“C’mon, Nanamin, stop being mean to your boyfriend! So rude, no wonder you’re perpetually single.”
“This is lasting half an hour, maximum,” Kento grits out, already regretting all of his life choices, stupid crush on Gojo be damned.
“One, minimum,” Gojo shoots back. “And I get to feed you bits of cake.”
“Forty-five minutes, no public displays of affection, and you’re paying.”
“Fifty minutes, I get to hold your hand because we do need to convince a bunch of assassins we’re dating, and fine, I’ll pay,” Gojo sticks out his hand, a shit-eating grin growing on his face as Kento reluctantly reaches out to shake it.
“Great! Anyways, I’m starving, so let’s order,” Gojo winks flirtatiously at a passing waiter, the latter blushing and stuttering as he takes their orders, and Kento bites down on his tongue so hard he almost tastes blood to stop from reminding his senior that dates, surprisingly, don’t involve seducing other people.
Despite the rocky start to the meal, Kento finds himself enjoying his lunch hour with Gojo. They talk about Yuuta’s adventures in Nairobi; Kento’s new house plant; stock market fluctuations; the new cod roe sandwich that’s appeared in the cobini near work. If Kento weren’t such a stubborn man, he’d even admit the entire incident was — enjoyable.
It’s not like he and Gojo haven’t shared a meal or two before; but those were usually cold store-bought sandwiches grabbed in between missions, late night meals hunched in the corner of seedy izakayas, situations where the two of them found themselves far too exhausted to exchange words that weren’t you alright? and it’s just a scratch, Gojo-san. Ieiri-sensei will fix it; Kento's chest stuttering every time Gojo's fingers reached across his for more shichimi powder, something climbing up into his throat whenever Gojo stretched after draining the last dregs of soup from his bowl, all languid lines and smooth limbs as a strip of pale skin peeked out from between the darkness of his shirt and waistband. Those bits of silent comfort, or whatever shards of it they'd managed to scrape up from the remains of cursed energy clinging to their fingernails and clothes, had nonetheless been tinged with a sense of cold detachment. A filling, hard-fought meal, but one shared between two people who only cared about each other between the paid weekday hours of 9 to 5.
All, bar that one time, when Kento had stumbled back into the too-empty school dorms, too young to be reeking of cheap beer and a broken heart.
He’d staggered into the kitchens in search of some water — a desperate, last-ditch attempt at staving off his inevitable hangover — just to find a white haired boy, all newly sprouted limbs grown out of sheer determination and little else, sitting all alone at the center table as he stared unseeingly at an untouched bowl of cold ramen.
What are you doing here? Kento had blurted out.
I don’t sleep. I don’t drink, either. Body won’t let me anymore. The other mumbled back, electric blue eyes ringed with exhausted black-purple.
And they’d sat together in their grief, suffocating under the silence of their individual losses, up until weak rays of orange sunlight streamed through the window slats as the world continued to turn on its soulless axis.
Kento’s almost forgotten how that cold ramen tasted on his tongue, the bitter umami of it long since buried by the taste of shitty oyakodon, cheap onigiri, and superficial conversations that meant little, if not nothing at all. So it’s surprising to find out that he enjoys simply chatting with Gojo, that they have similar tastes in non-dessert foods and political parties, and that Gojo, despite his ego and predilection for drama, can be attentive and amusing when he wants to be.
Breaking news — Nanami Kento, despite himself, might actually find Gojo Satoru’s presence pleasant.
More than pleasant, maybe. His subconscious snarks, playfully.
Shut up. Kento shoves it back down where it came from.
“Why’d you leave your old job, anyways?” Gojo asks as he sips his drink, a frightening concoction of artificial candy blue and too much cream. “Paid well enough, didn’t it?”
“It’s none of your business, Gojo-san.” He deflects instinctively.
“Come on. We’re on a date, Nanamin. That’s the whole point of these stupid things, isn’t it? Getting to know one another?”
“We know each other plenty well enough, don’t you think?” Kento glares half-heartedly, fingers tightening protectively around his teacup. “What, do you think we’re being eavesdropped on, too?”
“Sheesh, someone’s tetchy today!” He exclaims. “Jesus, getting to know you feels like pulling teeth, y’know?”
“You’d make a horrible dentist then,” Kento replies drily. “Why do you want to know, anyways?”
“Well-” The taller man stretches exaggeratedly, his vertebrae popping loudly with the movement. “We both know why you left. And if nothing’s changed since then, why the fuck would you ever come back?”
And the taste of synthetic umami floods back into Kento’s mouth as piercing blue meets brown, almost forgotten, but never completely gone.
“You know-” He sets down his mug, staring out at the cherry blossom trees lining the river next to them. “We blame the higher ups for everything, and rightly so. But when I got out — instead of my friends dying, it was me. Outside of the sorcery world — they chew you up, bit by bit, before spitting out what little remains of you as soon as they’ve had their fill. Sound familiar?”
Gojo nods, finally quiet for once.
“At least here, as a sorcerer, I’m making a difference. Even if all my effort ends up being for nothing in the long run, at least I’ve helped a little with that effort, rather than harmed a lot. Besides, given the two shitty options I’ve been dealt, isn’t it better to choose the life that kills you quickly, rather than slowly?”
He pointedly keeps his eyes fixed on anywhere but Gojo, suddenly self-conscious in the silence hanging between them.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a flash of purple-red, the tell-tale signs of cursed energy flaring up. “Gojo-san,” he clears his throat, pasting a fake smile on his face and tilting his head flirtatiously towards the other man. “I think I see someone at your seven o’clock. I can’t make out their face, but they’re of medium build, around my height, with black hair.”
“Is that why you’re smiling at me, Nanamin?” Gojo simpers. “It’s a good look on you, babe. Is it only one person? What grade?”
“Seems to be about Grade Two, and I don’t see any other signatures around you,” Kento pretends to stretch his neck, swivelling his head to and fro. “Possibly one on my left, but I can’t tell if that’s a curse or their own cursed energy.”
“Hmm,” Gojo hums. “Guess we’ll have to give them a show, then.” He leans forwards, a warm smile plastered on his face as he presses an Infinity-distant kiss to the tendons of Kento’s fingers. “You might be boring as hell, but I am genuinely glad you’re back for good, Nanamin. Try not to get killed, before I text you more details, you depressing bastard.”
And he’s gone, the only things left in his wake being an empty plate, a half-drunk smoothie, and the frantic pounding in Kento’s chest.
They meet up every other day for a coffee or a lunch, an hour or two spent discussing tactics, lesson plans, or sometimes, just talking, the time flying by to the comforting tune of Gojo's song-like voice.
Kento learns that Gojo likes sweets because he can’t handle caffeine; that he’s traveled to every single country in the world except for Lithuania and the Democratic Republic of Congo; that he cares, a great deal, about his adopted son and daughter. Gojo brings him flowers, buys him dinner, even pulls out his seat for him at restaurants — but only after Kento whispers there’s two people behind you, or someone’s been following me for the past three days.
And Kento knows that this is all an act — that the smiles and the gentle caresses are as real as the shitty Rolex he’d bought off of a Thai street vendor to fit in at the hedge fund — but his traitorous heart, still too-soft despite the dense patchwork of scars and bruises it's collected over the years, doesn’t seem to get the memo. And there are so little joys he has left in life, and he's selfish in his selflessness as he lets himself smile in response to Gojo’s antics; lets himself laugh loudly at whatever shenanigans the students have gotten up to; lets himself lean into Gojo’s side when they’re sat side by side at a bar; lets himself tangle their fingers together and tug Gojo's hand into his lap as he whispers intel into Gojo’s ear.
Because he’s good at his job, and whatever Gojo asks for, Kento will willingly give.
“You’re pretty good at this acting thing, Nanamin,” Gojo remarks one day, the two of them throwing sunflower seeds at fat ducks under the shade of a weeping willow tree. “How many of them are on your tail now?”
“Two, last time I counted.”
“Damn,” Gojo whistles. “Ever thinking of ditching sorcery again, but for the silver screen? You’d make a killing, man.”
And Kento swallows down the uncomfortable lump in his throat in favor of a half-hearted glare and a please do shut up, Gojo-san.
It seems that Kento might be doing too good of a job of fake dating Gojo Satoru.
A hint?
One would be the overwhelming disorientation that hits him whilst he’s sipping at a coffee during a mission in the remote Okinawan countryside. Another would be the black bag that gets roughly shoved over his head as soon as he hits the ground. The last one would probably be the frantic hissing of his captors ordering each other to get him in the back and to watch the head! before his temple slams into the sharp metal side of a car door, knocking him out cold.
He comes to with the feeling of cotton clogging up his head, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth from the dryness. He stifles a groan at the pain lancing through the side of his head, suppressing the urge to tense up around the ropes binding his hands and feet to the metal chair below him.
“When’s Gojo getting here?” He hears off to his side, the voice smoker-hoarse. “I’m fucking hungry, man.”
“Shut up , you daft cunt,” a woman hisses. “He’s awake.”
The bag over Kento’s head is roughly pulled up and off of him, and he winces at the sudden brightness from the sunset rays streaming through the boarded up walls of the corrugated warehouse. He blinks groggily, and belatedly realizes that his blindness is partly due to the crusted dried up blood gluing his left eye shut. His two captors peer down at him, features hidden by matching back balaclavas. “Fucking Christ, man, did you have to close a car door on him?” The woman snaps.
“Oh, sorry, have you ever tried moving a two-hundred pound man by yourself? Motherfucker’s heavy.” The man snaps back.
“When Gojo sees him like this, he won’t hold back -”
“We’re capturing him anyways, we were always preparing for the worst-”
“Do you two imbeciles plan on telling a Grade One sorcerer our entire plan, or is there an actual reason behind why you’re yelling out our entire plan for the world to hear?” A third person shouts as they stride out of the shadows, the other two cowering as they approach. The third figure, even broader and taller than Kento himself, pulls harshly at Kento’s hair, forcing his face up and into the light. “Hmm. Not looking too hot, are we, Nanami Kento?”
Kento grimaces uncomfortably, consciousness cotton-fuzzy from the drugs. “Apologies for my rudeness, I don’t think we’ve met before. And you three are?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” the smoker sneers, his nasty grin audible behind the thick fabric. “Where’s your boyfriend, huh?”
“Who?” Kento deadpans, and he's not even lying, really, because he's been single as fuck for close to a decade now.
The woman rams a staff up into Kento’s ribs, the stab of pain forcing him to double over into hacking coughs even as the third figure keeps a solid grip on his hair. “Don’t play coy with me,” they hiss. “Gojo Satoru’s a freak of nature, but he’s not sociopathic enough to leave his newest boytoy out to dry. Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Kento spits out. “Do you think he keeps a tracker on me just because we’re coworkers? Or vice versa?” Also, boytoy? How old do they think he is?
“You two are fucking, aren’t you?” The smoker shouts impatiently. “You two've been fucking for weeks! We saw!” He stamps angrily, the question trailing into a childish whine.
Kento lets out a humorless laugh. “Fucking? Dear lord, now that’d be a major breach of proper office conduct, according to bylaw 4.5. Besides, Gojo-san doesn’t even let a person close enough to touch him, let alone within five feet of his own bed.”
“All I’m hearing, Nanami-san, is that you’re of no use to us,” the third person pulls even tighter at Kento’s hair, tears springing up as they force Kento’s neck even further back. “Is that right?”
“Look-” Kento gasps out, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes from the sharp pain shooting through his scalp, “Even if you do lure him here, what are you three going to do? He’s Gojo Satoru, not some random sorcerer on the street.”
“Well,” the woman sneers. “They don’t all have our employer, do they?”
A curse slithers over her shoulder, its mouth opening as a voice emanates from its gullet— a familiar voice, one that haunts Kento’s dreams, one that Kento hasn’t heard since he was seventeen and drenched in someone else's lifeblood-
“Kento?” Yu’s voice trembles. “Kento, what’s going on?”
“You can’t-” Kento’s breath catches in his throat. “Haibara’s dead, he died a decade ago—”
“Kento, help me,” Yu’s voice pleads. “Help me, get me out of here-”
“Stop that,” Kento grits out at the woman, voice trembling. “He’s dead, and I'm not stupid.”
“Honey?” Another voice — his mother’s, trembling with fatigue like it did when she was lying helpless on her deathbed. “Honey, what’s going on?”
“Mom?” Kento thrashes against his bindings, the pit in his stomach growing deeper and deeper, his mom isn’t a sorcerer, not like him, how did they get to her-
“Kento, it hurts!” Yu screams. “Where are you?”
“Fucking - fucking stop that-” Yu’s dead, his mom’s dead , they can’t get to him , not like this, but there's something pounding through his veins, adrenaline-fast and fogging up his memory - Yu's terror-stricken face frozen in time, the piles of his mom's hospital bills, if you can find the funds, we might be able to cure this - “Stop it, they’re dead-”
Someone, he's not sure who, lets out a guttural cry, and Kento recognises the familiar sounds of blood gurgling in someone's throat, the sounds of someone drowning on dry land.
He wrenches his fists against their bindings so hard they almost sprain, a guttural scream building up beneath his diaphragm. His eyes screw shut as the disembodied voices worm their way into his skull, the panic flooding through his veins tinged with brutal insanity as he hears the wails and cries and screams of the people he loves, or used to love, he's not sure what's true anymore, because they’re dead, dead, dead, it’s just a fucking curse that’s clogging up his ears with long dead ghosts -
“Nanamin?” Gojo’s voice rings out, tinged with panic. “Nanamin, what the hell’s going on?”
“Satoru?” Kento gasps out, blood pounding through his temples, his one good eye darting around the room, because he's here, why is he here?
“Oho, now this is sad,” the broad-chested figure laughs cruelly. “You actually love him, don’t you?”
“Fuck off, ” Kento trembles furiously, curse-energy terror slithering through his veins as he gathers up just enough sanity to hack up a glob of spit into the other’s face. “You don’t know shit about me.”
A powerful blow of cursed energy whips his head sideways, blood arcing out from his nose from the harsh impact. “Curses don’t lie, Nanami-san, especially not this one. Cursed sound energy, a one-of-a-kind specimen straight out of our employer’s personal collection. Who needs physical blows when psychological ones can be just as effective?”
“That thing’s just a cheap party trick,” Kento spits out a clump of blood onto the concrete floor as he runs his tongue over his unbroken teeth. “He doesn’t care about anyone. It won’t work on him.”
“Ah, ah, ah!” The woman taunts, gleefuly. “He cared about one person, didn’t he?”
“Geto Suguru is dead, Gojo killed him personally — what do you take him for, a fool?” Kento spits back, hackles raised defensively, because he knows that's not true, because Gojo did, or maybe still does, but they can't know that, Kento won't let them know it -
“Ah, my friend, but you seem to forget! Love, even dead ones, renders us all fools, does it not?” The broad shouldered captor laughs heartily. “Even better that he feels nothing for you, then. The curse will be far more effective if there’s only one emotional source to draw from,” they pat Kento’s cheek patronisingly, sadistic mirth evident in their words. “Thank you for the intelligence, Nanami-san. Out of gratitude to you, we’ll even let you experience the fun for yourself. Take it as a little reminder of what love can do to someone, eh? ”
“See ya!” The woman laughs gleefully as she slams her staff into Kento’s solar plexus, something cracking under her blow as the air flies out of Kento’s lungs. “Have fun with it!”
The maelstrom of painful screams and pleading sobs starts up again, the sheer volume of it drowning out the slam of the warehouse door as the three captors leave him alone, alone,
alone.
He doesn’t know how long he spends thrashing against his bonds as screams ring through his head, vision swimming with flashes of bloody limbs and gouged out wounds; ears bleeding from the sounds of flatlining monitors and breaking bones. His bloody wrists burn as he strains against the curse-strengthened rope, throat hoarse from yelling out at ghosts and nightmares; the knowledge that it’s fake simmering deep in his subconscious, the awareness about as useful as the muted yell telling him to move! whenever he wakes up to a fat demon crouched atop his paralysed chest, its sharp fangs dripping with venom.
He thinks he goes insane. He thinks he feels Yu again, corpse-heavy in his arms; feels the warmth leaching out of his mother’s body; worse, he sees white hair stained yellow-pink from cerebrospinal fluid, blue eyes vacant and unseeing.
He throws up desperate shields in the precious seconds he gets between each attack, the monster cackling maliciously as it brutally forces its way through the cracks of Kento’s shaky defenses every single time, the images it sends even more mangled and grotesque than the last. Seconds turn into minutes into hours, and exhaustion seeps deep into his marrow as he suffocates on blind terror, fists clenching at nothing but air, tears streaming down his trembling face as the curse breaks him apart, bit
by
miniscule
bit.
“Nanami. Nanami, ” a voice filters in, muffled under the ocean of screams. “Nanami, snap out of it.”
“You’re not- you’re not real,” Kento chokes out, eyes staring off into nowhere as he watches a fountain of red spurt out of a taller man’s neck, “Go away, go away— ”
“Fucking- oh, I see-” A scuffle, and then-
The screams suddenly stop, the unending tsunami of terror disappearing all at once as the curse wails and thrashes under the heel of Gojo’s boot. “Shut up, you absolute bloody nuisance.”
“Satoru?” Kento stammers, the white haired man swimming in and out of his vision, the living merging with the dead, afterimages of blood and bruises superimposed on the concern evident on Gojo's face. “Oh god, you shouldn’t be here-”
“Like fuck I shouldn’t,” Gojo stamps viciously, the curse disintegrating into a puff of black with a strangled shriek. “Christ, what did they do to you?”
“There’s- there’s three of them, possibly more but -” Kento breaks off into coughs, the dryness in his throat choking off the rest of his words. “You shouldn’t have come here, you idiot, they have an employer, I don’t know who, but you should get away from this place- ”
“What, and leave you here to get tortured into insanity?” Gojo falls to his knees, long fingers deftly undoing the firm knots of Kento’s binds. “I came with Inumaki-kun as soon as I could. You can thank him for the tips on cursed sound energy — turns out his family has been working on a more potent technique for a while now.”
“You brought a child here?” Kento aims a half-hearted kick in Gojo’s direction, the taller man rolling his eyes as he catches Kento’s foot with one hand. “You imbecile, what if he got hurt?”
“He was the highest ranking sorcerer on campus, and I was legitimately worried about you, dumbass.” Gojo grits out. “A thank you would be nice, you big grump.”
“I’m not worth that! ” Kento snaps back angrily. “You should’ve done more intel before coming here, or come with more backup, not charge in here headfirst with a minor as you put yourself in danger! You knew they were after you, there was always a possibility they had something you couldn’t deal with up their sleeves -”
“You weren’t fucking answering my calls, Nanami!” Gojo shouts back, hands balled up into tight fists, “What’s the fucking use of all of this power if I can’t even help you?”
Gojo stares up at him, and Kento gapes at the sight of the strongest sorcerer knelt before him, pale hands trembling furiously in his lap.
“Just- just stop , you self-sacrificing piece of shit,” Gojo’s sighs, his forehead coming to rest against Kento’s shoulder. “God, it’s like you want to die, or something.”
“I-”
Gojo lets out a strained chuckle as he unties Kento’s hands, wincing at the sight of deep bloody welts ringing around the latter’s wrists. “You know what? Don’t answer that.”
Kento falls forwards with a grunt as the last binding falls loosely to the ground, too exhausted to hold himself up without the ropes binding him to the chair.
“Woah there,” Gojo yelps, arms instinctively wrapping around Kento to prop him up. “Man, they really did a number on you, didn’t they?”
Kento shakes his head, too tired to open his mouth fully. “M’fine.”
“No, you’re not,” Gojo smooths back Kento’s fringe, wincing at the sorry sight he finds there. “Where else?”
“Ribs,” Kento winces as Gojo hurriedly unbuttons his shirt.
“Jesus, Nanami." He hisses sympathetically, fingers brushing delicately over the mosaic of yellow-purple blooming across Kento's torso.
“I‘ve had worse before,” Kento winces as Gojo presses a cool hand to his side, his reverse technique beginning to slowly knit the broken tissue back together. “Seriously, I’m fine.”
“Sure didn’t sound fine, screaming like that,” Gojo's other hand comes up to gently cup Kento’s face, the headache pounding away at his skull finally subsiding as Gojo's energy flows through his skin. “What happened?”
“You didn’t hear it?” Kento can’t help himself from relaxing into the warmth of Gojo’s hand, his eyes fluttering closed as cursed energy begins to soothe the throbbing in his temple. “The screams?”
“No. I guess whatever Inumaki-kun did worked,” Gojo’s jaw twitches angrily. “Who did you hear?”
“People I loved, I think,” he smiles waterily down at the taller man as he wraps his shaky hand around Gojo’s wrist. “I’m glad you didn’t hear it.”
“You shouldn’t have had to, either,” Gojo swipes a thumb under Kento’s eyes, frowning as it comes away wet. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing, you idiot?” Kento smiles, the curve of it wide and true for the first time in a long time as black clouds the edges of his vision. “Like I’d ever blame you, Satoru.”
He barely manages to breath the lost of the words out before exhaustion sweeps over him like a tidal wave, the last thing flashing through his consciousness the feeling of warm skin against his face and chest, rather than the harsh coldness of an infinitely distant curse.
When he opens his eyes, it’s to the familiar sight of Ieiri’s clinic, monitors beeping steadily as he blinks himself back into full consciousness.
“Good. You’re finally up,” Ieiri grunts as she pushes herself out of her chair. “I must admit, Gojo did a half decent job patching you up. Must I remind you that internal haemorrhages aren’t things you can just casually ignore, Nanami-san?”
“Sorry, Ieiri-sensei.” He replies, only the tiniest bit apologetic.
“Oh, hush, if you were actually sorry, you’d quit this fucking job and give me less work to do,” she shines a light in both of his eyes, the worried frown between her eyebrows finally beginning to smooth out. “How many fingers?”
“Two.”
“Good. Do you have a headache?”
“Slightly. But it’s much better than before.”
“No shit,” she scoffs. “I’ve pumped you full of morphine, Nanami-san. I’m surprised you’re not high as a kite.”
Kento lets out a weak chuckle as he casts his eyes around the room, something akin to disappointment falling into his chest when he finds it empty.
“If you’re looking for Gojo, he’s off tracking down the rest of them. Ijichi-san had to round up more than six assholes since he teleported back with you, and he’s about to go bald if Gojo finds any more,” she clicks at her lighter, shoulders sagging as she sucks in a deep breath of nicotine. “Christ, Nanami-san. That curse was a Special Grade, you know that?”
“What,” Kento scoffs. “You think I’ll go crazy from a few screams?”
“Yeah, Nanami,” she glares. “Given what I had to dig out of your skull, I genuinely do.”
He shuts his mouth, chagrined.
“How’d you hold it off for that long?” She asks as she slumps into the seat next to him. “You must’ve been there for hours before they finally tracked you down.”
“I had to. Those screams -” Kento shakes his head, dislodging the echoes still clinging onto the edges of his consciousness. “I've never seen a curse that intelligent before. It knew who I cared about, and used that knowledge to enhance its incapacitating effects, until it felt like - like I'd been drugged, honestly. From a purely emotional standpoint, I genuinely doubted if Gojo-san would’ve been able to hold off all of its effects. Not if- not if it used Geto-san. He’s still human under all that, after all.”
“Fuuuck,” she blows out a plume of smoke. “This is exactly why I stay in the office. I’m guessing, for you… Haibara?”
“And my mother, I think. And- ” he clicks his mouth shut, flushing furiously at his misstep.
“I hear another ‘and’ there, Nanami-san.” Ieri raises an eyebrow, curious.
“No, you don’t,” Kento snaps his mouth shut and tries his best to will away the blush rising in his cheeks.
“Don’t-” Ieiri shoots up straight in her seat, a dumbfounded look spreading across her face. “No way. Not him. Dude, seriously?”
“Ah, I think the insanity’s settling in now, Ieiri-sensei. Wow. How fast of a turnaround,” Kento massages wearily at his temples. “Please, just - just drop it?”
“For now,” Ieiri sighs, rolling her eyes pityingly as she shakes another cigarette out from its half-empty packet. “Smoke?”
Kento nods furiously, and the two of them spend the rest of the hour in blissful, nicotine-filled silence.
10 Missed Calls
19 June, 14:00pm
where r u?????!!!!
this isn’t funny man
fuck
im going 2 kill u myself
19 June, 14:01pm
meet me by the beach. 23:00
Gojo Satoru,
25 June, 17:00pm
Alright.
Me,
25 June, 17:01pm
The beach is deserted when Kento gets there. He thanks the taxi driver, who casts him a worried look before driving away with a loud squeal. He finds Gojo at the harbor, his long form leaning heavily on the sea-battered metal railings separating them from the rocks down below.
“Hello, Gojo-san,” Kento greets him, cool and professional in a way they haven't been for quite a while now, “How are you?”
“How are you,” Gojo scoffs as he looks out over the waves. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“You left me in Ieiri-sensei’s capable hands. Of course I’m fine.”
“Last time you said that, you had half a Special Grade curse living in your head,” Gojo picks at the peeling paint on the railings, the flakes immediately disappearing into the distance by the strength of the tumultuous sea breeze. “So, forgive me for taking that statement with a fucking fistful of salt.”
“Alright. I’ve been better. But nothing permanent, at least,” Kento suppresses the urge to fidget. “Thank you. For showing up.”
“No biggie,” Gojo waves a hand, flippant as ever. “Not like I could find their so-called employer, anyways.”
“They’re dangerous, whoever they are,” Kento sighs worriedly. “Are you sure you’re safe?”
“For now,” Gojo intones monotonously, gaze distant. “But then again, I’ve been fending off assassinations ever since I learnt how to walk,” he finally turns to glance over at Kento, hands shoved deep into his pockets with an uncharacteristic awkwardness. “Look, Nanami, I asked you to come here because- because I wanted to apologize, alright? I knew this whole setup would be dangerous, but I didn’t- I’d never have asked you to help me out if I’d known what they’d do to you. Never.”
“And like I said — there’s nothing to be sorry for.” Kento resists the urge to lay a comforting hand on Gojo’s shoulder, because-
because there’s no longer a need to pretend, is there?
“Still. Kind of a feelsbad, man,” Gojo sighs. “I’ve dealt with this bunch, at least, so there’s no need to keep dating me, or whatever.”
“If you say so, Gojo-san,” Kento nods. “I trust your judgment. I’m glad I was able to help you out.”
“Damn, dude, no need to jump for joy,” Gojo chuckles mirthlessly. “Was pretending to date me that painful, man?”
“Truthfully?” Kento hates himself, blames his sudden need for honesty on the vestigial fucked-up mess lodged between the crannies of his brain that's rewired him into craving the warmth of skin on skin. “I quite enjoyed our time together.”
“Oh. Uh.” Gojo stammers out, eyes widening with shock, “Me too, I guess.”
“How eloquent.” Kento chuckles quietly.
“Shut up,” Gojo grumbles. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure?”
“Why-" Gojo swallows, hesitates, "why’d you call me Satoru? Back then?”
“I-” It’s Kento’s turn to hesitate, trying his best to stifle the need to be honest, to shove it down where he’s hidden the sounds of Gojo’s pained screams away. “I was worried they were watching us. It would’ve been odd if your supposed partner referred to you by your last name.”
“Smart. Never thought of that,” Gojo hums. “Any nightmares?”
“Some,” Kento admits.
They involve you screaming because you came to find me, why did you, you should’ve left me there, but you do, you always do, and whenever I reach out to help you’re already gone, like all the others, and I wake up, and I never want to fall back asleep because I don’t think I can bear to see that anymore —
“You should go see Shoko for that,” He muses. “I’m guessing…Haibara?”
“No. Well. Not just him.” Kento admits before he can stop himself.
“Woah, what?” Gojo reels back. “Damn, who?”
“Actually, may I ask you a question instead, Gojo-san?” Kento stares out across the midnight waves, nothing to accompany the quiet swish of the sea except for Gojo’s eyes boring into his head and something pressing on his sternum, something that feels like desperation, like exhaustion, like truth.
“Why not?” Gojo shrugs noncommittally. “I've got all night. Go ahead. Shoot.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
The waves crash peacefully against the shore, quiet in their restraint.
“I mean–“ Gojo rakes a hand messily through his hair. “Come on, man. Do you have to ask?”
“Geto-san?” Kento murmurs, rhetorically.
“Yeah,” Gojo stills, eyes distant behind his black glasses. “At least. I think so.”
“You think?”
“Well, he kind of fucked off and went full genocidal a few weeks after I made my big, gay revelation,” He bites out, the traces of a scabbed-over wound lurking behind his canines. “In hindsight, I guess I loved him. As much as I could have, given the circumstances,” Gojo glances over, quizzical. “Why?”
“I–“ Kento clears his throat, the sea smashing even harder against the concrete barriers of his chest. “I was just wondering. What you think love is. How it feels like, to you.”
“Why?” Gojo smirks, sharp and sarcastic. “I know I’m irresistible, but don’t tell me you’ve already fallen in love with me, Nanamin. That’d be way too easy.”
And just like that, Kento’s chest collapses under the force of the feeling concaving into his fragile ribs, gossamer membrane and paper shell cracking to reveal liquid yolk and oozing albumin. He feels so, so stupid as he reaches in, in, in, down past skin and bone and muscle as his fingers fold carefully around the quivering mass nesting at his center, drawing it out from the wreckage of its delicate shelter and into cold open air.
“And what if I have?”
A whisper of a confession, wrenched out from between his lips by the briny ocean wind.
He stares down at the pulsating yellow-red cradled in between the palms of his hands, and watches as the tiny mass pours out and into the gaping void of – of whatever this is, shrouded in slanted grins and the wisp of someone’s breath against his cheek.
“Wh–“ Kento can’t even bear to look at him, eyes fixated on the foamy surf; the surprise, the disgust , already apparent in that singular strangled sound. “Wait, wait, wait– what ?”
“I’m in love with you, Satoru,” Kento says with all the passion of a weatherman, his nails digging painfully into his palms. “ Really, is that so hard to imagine?”
And it’s gone , slipped out from between the flesh of his fingers, the only thing left behind a sticky-sap shimmer and the blind, stupid hope that, at the very least, his gift be met with gentleness and care.
Silence dangles between them, damning and heavy.
“Look. Now that this is all over, I just thought I should…be honest with you, in case you should be in need of similar assistance again in the future,” Kento sucks in a breath that doesn’t enter his lungs, chest quivering with the force of it.
“I was emotionally compromised from the beginning of this mission, and I apologize for not being upfront with you about my emotional state. While I am glad this arrangement worked out–“ he clears his throat, attempting to extricate himself from the deluge swirling in his airway. “I would be overstepping if I continued to keep you in the dark about this. I sincerely apologize, Gojo-san. But it’s you that I hear screaming in my nightmares, not Yu, and I don’t want- I can’t be the one who leads you into danger, not again. I hope you understand.”
Kento turns to go, the frigid silence hanging between them expanding with every step he takes away from the mess he’s splattered across the seashore.
“Wait.” Gojo’s voice rings out from behind him.
Kento hesitates, subjected as always to the whims and wants of Gojo Satoru.
“Is this a joke?” Gojo bites out, the sound of it cutting harshly through the midnight wind.
“Why–“ Kento stifles a wet chuckle. “Why on earth would I do that? Do you truly find me so unbearably cruel that I would lie to you about this, of all things?”
“I just–“ The confident cadence of Gojo’s words wavers ever so slightly. Kento hears sharp footsteps clacking onto tiled ground until the hair on the back of Kento’s neck rises with the proximity. “How can you be so sure?”
And Kento wants to laugh, or maybe cry, because of course, of course a man clothed in so much armour could only meet vulnerability with suspicion.
“When I loved Yu – it wasn’t like the birds sang louder, or the sun shone brighter, or some fantastical bullshit like that. The way we fitted together was so instinctive , in a way. Tell me, do you need to learn how to marvel at the beauty of skin on skin? At laughing at inside jokes? At finding something new to love about the person in front of you? Or do you feel it, know it, as soon as you’ve had it for yourself?” He smiles at nothing in particular, bittersweet seafoam memories washed away by the unending tide as soon as they’ve appeared.
“Love isn’t– it’s never been about butterflies, or that perfect bullshit authors shovel into the brains of disgruntled housewives. To me, love has always been a process — the way in which two people, fallible and naïve, always try their goddamned hardest to just- to just understand each other. Because love is just that — communicating, over and over and over again, regardless of how utterly impossible it is for two people to meld their psyches into one.”
His nails score red crescents into his palms as he heaves in a shaky breath, the midnight Tokyo skyline swimming in and out of focus as he strains his ears for any hint of a response from Gojo, because he wants, no, needs this beautiful, impossible man to know that this — these words spilling out of his mouth and into the briny sea-salt air, could not be anything less than the god-honest truth.
“I just want to know you, Gojo-san. Your thoughts, your feelings. Your favorite food, your biggest pet peeve. You ask me how I know I love you? You – you fascinate me, every day, without fail. You annoy me, you worry me, you inspire me, you –” He cuts himself off with a watery chuckle. “I just know, Satoru. I just know.”
He doesn’t expect a response, and he doesn’t get one. And when he finally manages to build up the courage to turn around, all that greets him is the infinite blackness of the cruel, untiring ocean.
Gojo avoids him.
Kento’s honestly not surprised, given the shock and horror that met his confession. It still hurts, though, when he finds himself expecting a text asking for coffee 3pm? or the sound of Gojo’s obnoxious heels clicking on the office tiles as he drops a silly note onto his desk with a wink and a smile.
It hurts even more when he wakes up every night gasping and screaming, reaching out for a warmth that’s not there, a warmth that had never even been there in the first place.
He finds himself retreating back into his old habits — clock in, clock out; buy too little bread, drink too much wine; wake early, sleep late. But he gets up, buys melatonin, throws out his wine bottles, and forces himself to avoid those nasty long-dead habits. The nightmares don’t fully go away, but they come less frequently with every checkup he has with Ieiri, until he’s finally able to make it through the week with less than two sleepless nights. After all, he surmises, there’s no point in mourning the loss of something you never properly had in the first place.
But one muggy summer night, Kento shoots up in bed, sweating and panting, to find a sliver of light streaming in underneath his bedroom door. A bit odd, given his usual nighttime routine, but it had been a long day at work, and he’d probably forgotten to switch off the kitchen nights before heading to bed. He groans as he throws off the thick bed covers, back cracking as he pads his way out of the bedroom in search of some much-needed water.
To his surprise, he finds a white haired man, long limbs toned with age and experience, leaning on the kitchen island and staring at an untouched bowl of warm ramen.
“What are you doing here?” Kento murmurs, a dizzying sense of deja vu washing over him.
“You’re not sleeping well. Your brain isn’t letting you,” Gojo replies matter-of-factly, bright blue eyes sharp and alert despite the late hour. “Maybe this will help.”
“Alright.” Kento nods, and leaves it at that.
He eats silently, the warm soup settling comfortably in his stomach as the other man plays with a pair of chopsticks, the wood twirling hypnotically across his fingers as he watches Kento eat, blue eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Before Kento knows it, the bowl is drained clean, and a cup of water takes its place.
“My favorite food is miso soup,” Gojo says, completely unprompted. “My pet peeve is people who breathe loudly. Or talk loudly. Or just- people, I guess.”
“Gojo-” Kento stares at him, utterly confused at the outburst.
“I don’t really like black. I just wear it because it makes cleanup easier, and there are too many random funerals to go to at a short notice. My favorite place in the world is London, because Londoners are ruder than people in Tokyo but couldn’t give less of a shit about how you look or act as long as you leave them alone. I once broke my leg as a child because I fell climbing a tree in the family gardens. I’ve got nails in my tibia because of it.”
“What are you-”
“I think you’re an idiot for putting yourself in danger for me. You’re- you’re not even Special Grade, Nanami. Why- just why?” He groans, rubbing at the gap between his eyebrows, “I feel- I feel confused, because I don’t understand why you fucking tell everyone you’re okay, and that you’re fucking fine, despite the fact that I hear you screaming yourself awake every other night.”
“How did you know-”
“I’ve been making sure you’re alright, okay?” Gojo barrels on as he flushes bright red with embarrassment. “Look, Shoko wouldn’t tell me if you were okay, something about patient privacy or some bullshit like that, so I had to find out for myself.”
“It is a bit unethical to do that, Gojo-san.” Kento manages to get out, voice surprisingly calm despite the utter confusion swirling through his sleep deprived brain as he stares dumbly at Gojo, the man blushing and stuttering like a teenage schoolgirl, his usual cool sarcasm having completely evaporated into nothingness.
“I’m literally -” Gojo throws up his hands, exasperated. “I break into your house, I tell you I’ve been hovering outside your apartment every night to make sure you’re okay, and all you say is me asking a friend if you’re okay is unethical?”
“Well, it’s illegal, for one. Not that I believe that all laws are ethical, but-”
“You’re so fucking infuriating , Nanami Kento,” Gojo groans. “Look, I’m- I’m trying to say that I like you, okay?”
“Oh.” He blinks, jaw dropping with utter shock and a sudden, bone-deep realization.
“Yeah, oh, what, no smart argument over the ethics of my life choices anymore?” Gojo lets out a tired laugh. “ God, I really, really like you, man. I want to know your favorite type of bread, even though they all taste the same to me. I want to hear you rant about how different grapes have different fucking, I dunno, fermentation rates, or whatever. I want to know your favorite color, and what your parent’s names are, and-'' He buries his head in his hands. “I want to know about your day, I guess. I really, really do.”
Kento bursts out laughing.
“What!?” Gojo yelps, embarrassed. “Why are you laughing at me, what the fuck!”
“You’re such an idiot,” Kento wheezes. “God, you’re the dumbest man I’ve ever met.”
“Okay, one, ouch? And, two, that’s not shit you say to someone you love, or whatever-”
“That’s exactly what you say to someone you love, especially if that person’s you, Gojo-san.” Kento wipes away a stray tear. “How did you figure this out, anyways?”
“You were right,” Gojo slumps forwards, adrenaline completely spent as he sends a humbled, sincere smile Kento’s way. “I just. I just knew.”
“I’m guessing hovering outside my window every night also gave that away.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up. I hate you,” Gojo whines.
“No, you really don’t,” Kento laughs. “ Christ , you really don’t.”
“Why would I be?” Gojo frowns. “I get love confessions every other day.”
Kento stifles the urge to strangle him. “Okay, time for you to get out of my house.”
“Nanamin!” Gojo yells. “No, I was kidding! Look I just — I needed time to process, okay? And I’m sorry for being an idiot, and making you wait, but I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. Seriously,” he reaches across the table and lays a hand atop Kento’s, skin against skin, blue eyes fixed on the join of their hands. “All I want is for you to stop worrying about me, Kento.”
“I always worry.” Kento sighs as he maps out the bumps and dips of Gojo’s fingers, thumb skimming lightly over knobbly cartilage and delicate veins. “After all, If I don’t worry about you, who will?”
“Oh,” Gojo breathes out, and before Kento knows it, there are hands cupping his face and lips pressed against his, the touch of the kiss hesitant and feather-light. Kento stiffens in shock, brain too slow to react before he surges forwards to deepen it, a hand coming up to tangle itself in the fine hairs on the nape of Gojo’s neck to drag him even closer.
They kiss for what feels like a short eternity before Gojo pulls back to rest their foreheads together, warm hands still cradled gently around Kento’s cheeks. “I really fucking hated hearing you being in so much pain, especially when there was nothing I could do about it. And it was all because of me-”
“It wasn’t,” Kento gently traces the line of Satoru’s jaw, the taller man’s pulse fluttering rapidly beneath his palm. “You couldn’t have known that that was going to happen, and I willingly signed up for anything and everything. Don’t blame yourself for things that weren’t yours to control, alright?”
“I know that, but I just - I don’t- I’m not good at this relationship shit, Kento,” Satoru admits in a shaky voice, the barest flicker of Infinity flitting in between the two of them as his eyes screw tightly shut and his shoulders stiffen. “I’m not good at knowing how people feel, or being present, and I- I fucked up, with Suguru. I could’ve stopped him, talked to him-”
“And if I’d reacted quicker, Yu wouldn’t be dead. Satoru, we were teenagers when we lost them . That shit — that shit wasn’t up to us. Those decisions, those situations we were forced into — they should’ve never been up to us. But this? This time was different. You did your best, and things still went south, because the decisions I knowingly made, and the decisions those other people made — you couldn’t have controlled for any of that. You just can’t. Understand?” Kento grip on the back of Satoru’s neck tightens inadvertently, voice trembling with the intensity of his words.
“I know,” Satoru murmurs as he buries his head into the nape of Kento’s neck. “I know.”
“We’re never going to be safe, and we won’t always be there to save each other from our mistakes,” Kento tightens his grip around Satoru’s wrists. “But what we can do is be there for each other after the dust settles, don’t you think?”
“A lighthouse, I guess,” Satoru smiles. “You’d guide me home.”
“Yes,” Kento presses a short kiss to the smile. “I can be that for you, if you want.”
“I’d like that. I really, really would,” He presses a kiss to the inside of Kento’s palm. “I- I really like you, Nanami Kento.”
“And I love you, Gojo Satoru,” Kento smiles gently. “I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Kento.” Satoru warns, voice deeply serious. “You’ll decimate my heart if you keep making those.”
“Alright,” Kento promises as he traces the unbroken lifeline spanning the entire width of Satoru’s palm, long and steady unlike the short crooked slash across his own palms. “I won’t.”
And he prays, hand over his healed-over heart, that he keeps this impossible promise. Blindly hopes that fate has the capacity for kindness, that it's looked at all the scars scoring their too young skin and determined that maybe, they deserve something like a happy ending, something that's as warm as miso soup and comforting as fresh ramen for once in their damned, wounded lives.
“Good!” Satoru beams. “Now come on, old man. Go get some decent sleep for once in your stupid life.”
“You’re literally my senpai. And you have a full head of pure white hair.”
“First bit? Kinda hot. Second bit? Not so much,” Satoru shoots back, a wide smile on his face as he pushes the bedroom door open. “Now shut up, and go to sleep.”
When Kento wakes up the next morning, gasping and clawing at his sheets, this time, there’s someone there to pull him in tight and envelop him in comforting warmth, a tether, guiding him back to shore.