Chapter Text
To say that consuming sugar (both condiment and confectionery) was the most notable part of Gojo’s childhood is not an overstatement. Nor is it an understatement, given his upbringing.
For the first eleven years of his life, Gojo was homeschooled by a governess. She was relentless, a stickler for all things proper, and most importantly, a giant pain in the ass. She never laid a finger on him (his mother would’ve had her head if she did), but Gojo imagines she would’ve loved to; red in the face, fuming whenever he’d speak “improperly,” the perpetual tapping of her ruler a ticking threat, like she was counting down to where her patience ended—yes, he’s sure she would’ve loved educating him to perfection. Needless to say, eating sugar at the end of an exhausting week made him a merciful child. Indulging in sweets on a Sunday morning was enough to placate him, so much so that he’d forgive her transgressions, only to reset her tally by Monday.
When his parents eventually enrolled him in school (a prissy academy full of teachers just like his former governess—clones, he’ll tell you), nothing came close to replacing his love for sugar. It was practically his first love. In fact, he would even go as far to say that candy stimulated his brain much better than any of the subjects he was taught throughout middle school and high school. The children there were all dull, painfully uninteresting, and studying three grades above didn’t leave him much of a pile to sift through—not that he’d befriend any of them, but he likes to entertain the thought. He’s friendlier now, anyway.
The one qualm he has with sugar is the sugarburn: the searing sensation down his throat when he’s had more than his fill. Too much sugar, he learned as a child, can incapacitate him and leave him sick, bedridden and fussed about all day. In spite of that, the process of unwrapping candy, letting it melt on his tongue, then having it sink into his belly is too addicting of a feeling to entirely quit—in classic compromise, he doesn’t. Instead, he settles for the everyday sweet, the hard candy from the convenience stores in lieu of the regular foreign confectioneries he had as a child. At this point in his life, it’s become a necessity; he wouldn’t have been able to breeze through three years of university without it.
It’s eight in the morning on a bleary Monday and unsurprisingly, sugar is the only thing keeping him awake. He rolls the lollipop around in his mouth, the clacking sound against his teeth irritating students nearby. He’d be apologetic had it not been for the sheer necessity of the candy, a crutch much needed on a day like this. Professor Yaga has a curious tonal quality to his voice, it’s cadence so monotonous and void of life that if Gojo focuses on an empty spot on the whiteboard, he’d actually believe that nobody was talking. He’d have to ask Utahime about it later.
The class—Professional Ethics 101—is something he took for its credits, a non-mandatory elective outside of his major. Being constantly surrounded by people who brought nothing new to the table was driving him crazy, so he decided to cross reference some fun across campus. His primary reason being in class on the first day is to find new people to talk to, to strike up interesting conversations, but judging from the lecture itself, perhaps coming was a mistake. It’s a bad habit of his, getting too ahead of himself.
The tint of his glasses rinses the gray lecture hall in blue, blurring everyone in the room together. He swivels his head around, looking for something more thought provoking than the “WHY ETHICS MATTERS” written on the board. A glint of fluorescent light bounces off the metal arm of his glasses, catching his attention. In its direction, he finds a row of piercings on a largish ear; a student, diligently paying attention as if the professor has anything important to say. Besides the showy metal, the student has what Gojo thinks to be dilators on (gauges?), dressed in a sage green shirt, wearing his hair half up. A stubborn chunk of hair blocks his face out of view—perhaps they’re bangs. It’s an interesting look. Alternative, if Gojo had to say.
By some luck, they’re paired together for the rest of the semester (something about a paper every week, he’ll have to ask for his notes later). Eager and anticipatory, Gojo walks up to him after class. The student seems to be in a hurry, packing his things with rapid speed.
“Hey there, partner,” he says with confidence. “I’m Gojo Satoru.”
Gojo assesses his face, no longer hidden by bangs. Prominent cheekbones and sharp eyes; lips on the thinner side, but the strong nose and jaw balances the softness of its line. A distinct face—it reminds him of a wolf. Or perhaps a fox. Attractive, if he was into that.
“I’m Geto.” A baritone voice. Smooth. Geto smiles and it’s a polite curve of the lips, barely a quirk at the corners. It doesn’t seem genuine—it’s as though his mouth exists as a separate entity, moving on its own. He’s dead-eyed, lacking emotion everywhere on his face except for his lips, and even then, his smile is tight-lipped, forced.
Huh. Gojo doesn’t think much about it for now. They shake hands, exchange numbers, and promise to meet up the next day.
“I’m telling you, ‘Hime, his voice droned on like those machines, the ones that hum in the background and you tune out.”
“Love the sudden enthusiasm for theory, but what do I have anything to do with this?”
“Thought you’d wanna make him a case study, maybe use him for your thesis.”
“Ha ha, very funny.” There's the sound of a door opening in the background. “Listen, I have to go soon. I’m gonna end the call.”
“Wait, I need to ask for a favor.”
“Shoot and make it snappy.”
“You still talk to Mei Mei?”
A pointed silence on the other end of the receiver.
“Great! I wanted to ask about a guy. His name’s Geto Suguru, got partnered up with him in class yesterday.”
“Oh, I know him. You don’t need Mei Mei for that.”
“You do?”
“Well, I know of him. He gets around in circles here.”
“Oh.”
“What, ‘oh.’”
“I guess I just wasn’t expecting that.”
“Expecting what?”
“He doesn’t look like it, I mean.”
“...Do I look like ‘it’?" A click of the tongue; irritation. "What’s that even supposed to mean?”
He pauses, rethinks, backtracks.
“You’re right. Sorry about that.”
“Mm. Just make sure you think before talking so your new partner doesn’t hate your guts.” The sound of a door locking, keys jingling. “I’m going now, bye.”
He ends the call and drops his phone to his stomach.
Professional Ethics 101 is his only class this semester, meaning for the most part, he has nothing to do on campus the entire week. He’s never stayed home this long before.
Per yesterday's agreement, they’re supposed to meet up today. Gojo squints at the time on his screen—Geto should be here any minute now. He heaves a sigh, tapping his index finger on his phone case. It’s only the second day of his senior year, and from the information he’s just gleaned, he expects it to be an interesting one. Geto is an interesting character, standing out in a sea of gray. He unlocks his phone again, opening their text thread. The most recent message is from Geto from just this morning—a photo of neatly written notes from yesterday’s class. Grateful, he goes to type it in response, but then he hears his doorbell ring.
Geto is a tall guy—not taller than him, of course, but his topknot barely grazes the frame of his doorway, and Gojo’s gotten that door renovated, customized to his own imposing height. His hair is up today, different from the half-do from yesterday. The bangs hang the same, though.
“Hey,” he greets. “Glad you could make it.”
“Hey.” Geto wears a long sleeved shirt and loose fitting pants, his backpack slung over his right shoulder. There’s a light jacket on his other arm. Gojo watches as he takes his shoes off by the genkan, noting the lack of metal on his ears. It’s just the gauges today, he guesses. “Can I come in?”
“Make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to his living room space. “You want anything? Soda, coffee, iced tea—your pick.”
“Just water is fine, thanks.”
“Sure.” He heads to the kitchen to fetch Geto’s water. Upon seeing the state of his kitchen cabinets, the cups gathering dust inside, he decides to grab an unopened water bottle from the fridge, picking out a bottle of soda for himself. He should go grocery shopping tomorrow. “So, Geto,” he starts, punctuating with the sound of the fridge closing. “What’s your major?”
“Sociology. I’m a senior.”
“Damn, really? Me, too!” Geto perks his head up at that, staring as Gojo makes his way back to the living room. He’s sitting behind the coffee table, back to the feet of the couch, unzipping his backpack.
“I don’t see you on campus, though?” He phrases the statement as a question.
“I mean I’m a senior, too.” Gojo grins at his own joke. Geto gives him an unimpressed look. “Applied physics,” he supplies.
“Oh.” Geto nods without looking at him, pulling his laptop out of his bag. “Why’re you taking Professional Ethics? That’s not a compulsory class for your major.” He opens his laptop and pulls out his textbook, some notebooks, a cordless mouse, already setting up camp in Gojo’s living room.
Guess he’s a no-nonsense kinda guy, Gojo thinks. He leans against the pillar in the dining room and watches Geto unpack. “Needed the credits,” he replies casually.
“But why Professional Ethics? I’m sure there’s a similar class for science majors. Ethics for engineering, maybe?”
Gojo shrugs. “I mean, why not?”
Geto is silent for a brief moment. Then he goes on to say, “I guess I see what you mean.”
Walking to his room, Gojo grabs his own laptop, then makes his way back to sit behind the coffee table, a comfortable distance from where Geto sits. “It’s my only class this semester,” he says. “The last one for the year, actually. Thought it’d be fun to try something different.”
“Only class?” Geto raises a brow, leveling him with an incredulous stare. He drums his fingers on his keyboard.
“Yeah. I’m pretty much done, so it’s my only class.”
“And you’re in engineering?”
“Yep.”
“Huh.” Geto starts his laptop, the sound of the Windows startup filling the quiet before he says, “That’s pretty impressive.”
“Thanks.” Gojo goes to turn his own laptop on, too. “It’s that and the thesis this year.”
Geto hums in acknowledgement. “I’m the same.”
It’s gotten awkward again. Gojo fiddles with the marble on his Ramune, pushing it down and hearing the soda carbonate. Geto is difficult to get along with. Originally, Gojo had thought he’d be a more lighthearted guy, less serious, given his appearance and how much he stands out. He’s disappointed his first impression turned out to be false. It's not like he’s rude or anything—on the contrary, he’s been well-mannered and polite so far—but the taciturn responses and tight-lipped smiles are starting to annoy him. Nevertheless, Gojo is not a quitter. He tries again.
“So, you have piercings?”
“Yeah.” By the way he responded, one would think it’s a question he’s answered millions of times. “I don’t have them all on today.”
“Mm, I saw you had more the other day.” Gojo shakes his Ramune bottle to clink the marble inside, careful not to aggravate the fizz. He sips, smacking his lips. “Why’d you get them?”
“Why?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
“I liked them, so I got them.” Point blank period.
“Oh,” Gojo says. “Cool.”
“Right.” Geto sighs deeply, sitting up straight. “Have you read the notes I sent you?”
“I was about to, actually.” It’s not so much of a lie as it is a half-truth; he was looking at the photo when Geto rang the doorbell. “I remember some things from class, but Yaga’s voice is pretty hard to focus on.”
Geto cracks a smile at that, only slightly more genuine than the ones before, but Gojo counts it as a win in his book. “Makes sense,” he jokes. He pulls out his notes and places them in front of Gojo. “I think the first paper will be pretty simple. ‘Ethics and why they matter.’ He talked about it in class yesterday, so we’ll just build on that.” He types something on his laptop, immediately on top of things from the outset. “Then we can do the assigned reading, too,” he adds.
Gojo coughs, clearing his throat. They’re moving faster than he expected. “Sure, yeah, that’s simple enough. Should we divide work or something?”
“Yeah, but we’ll have to discuss everything together later,” Geto says. “Yaga said something about collaborative teamwork, but I can edit and tidy it up later to turn in.”
“Nice.” Gojo flips through the notes in front of him. “I’ll look through this first, then.”
By the looks of it, with how everything is panning out, Gojo thinks they might actually be getting somewhere. Geto is sharp, smart, and detail oriented—Gojo learns all of this through a simple discussion. He’s humanitarian to a fault, which is understandable considering his major. They could be talking about professionalism in relation to ethics and he’d drop words like “justice” and “responsibility,” then go on about doing what’s right. It seems more like a compulsion than a method to him. Gojo tells him he should’ve majored in law. Geto laughs at that.
“Nah, I can’t make a dent in the system with a career like that,” he says.
“Why can’t you?”
“Too many outdated laws and selfish big shots with corporations”—and he glances at Gojo at this part, looking back to his screen immediately—“I wanna help the common people, not them. Make a real change.”
So he’s one of those guys, Gojo thinks. “A real change? Can’t you do that as a lawyer? You could win cases for the people who need it.”
“That doesn’t happen often in the legal system, shit chances. I wanna help them directly.”
“Mm, I see what you mean.” Gojo is giddy; that's something that doesn’t happen often mid conversation. He doesn’t even care about the topic at hand, but he wants to keep talking, to keep picking his brain. He decides to test his limits, poking the bear. “You could be a criminal lawyer, you know, save the powerless and the weak since you’re into that.”
“Into what?”
“That righteous shit, like those people on the internet.” Gojo’s grin is wide as he says this. “You have the guts for it, dude. You fit the bill, with your keyboard and stuff. There’s a word for it, I think.” There's a prominent vein on Geto’s forehead now and his fist clenched on the table. For a second, Gojo thinks he’ll actually throw a punch. It would be a hassle to fight back and make a mess he’d have to clean up later, so he plays it safe, avoiding trouble. “No offense to you, of course. It’s admirable. Awesome. For the cause.”
He doesn’t get a shot back; Geto doesn’t even humor him. “We should continue reading.”
And they’re back to not talking again. In hindsight, perhaps he went a little too far, but in Gojo’s defense, he shot an accusatory glance at him just before, so really it was Geto who started it. He simply picked it up from there.
It’s dead quiet. Gojo needs input on his work, but he’s wary of what Geto will do if he asks. They're partners now, though, so that should at least count for something. Geto must’ve realized this, too, because he’s talking again, however curt his responses are. And maybe Gojo managed to get on his good side because eventually, they cool down and work up to their earlier pace, back on speaking terms.
Geto has a very calm, tranquil way of speaking, but his comments are just as sharp as he is: straight to the point and almost scathing, a formidable opponent. He doesn’t hesitate to point out all the flaws in Gojo’s perspective, and Gojo reminds him of how narrow-minded he can be sometimes, his views flat and one-dimensional. But it’s fun—it’s the longest he’s been entertained by conversation alone. He almost doesn’t want it to end, but it’s late and Geto has somewhere to be.
“You down for dinner?”
“Nah, I won’t be able to make it on time.”
“Oh, okay.” Gojo doesn’t take it to heart. “What other days are you free?”
“Thursdays, usually. But not this Thursday.”
“Cool.” He opens the door for Geto. “Next time we can divide the work in half and do the rest on Thursday.”
“Sounds good,” Geto says, speaking fast. Just as simply as he answered, he leaves with no preamble, leaving Gojo alone in his apartment.
It’s lonelier now that it’s just Gojo. He decides to text Utahime.
what do you know about geto
?
You only text when you need something
Brat
hag
im sorry pls help me
Why, do you like him or something
funny
you know im straight
I wasn’t talking romantically, but if the shoe fits
Like i said, he talks to a lot of people in these circles
Very popular
The people I’ve heard from say he’s pretty charismatic
And nice
Good in bed if you’re interested in that
charismatic?
his smile looks like the smiley face
:)
soulless
Maybe you rubbed him the wrong way
people love me
Your delusion is actually pretty inspiring
oh how cruel u treat your fiance
I am going on a date with a woman tonight.
Don't bother me.
There isn’t much to do now that she’s not responding. He gets up from the couch and turns his console on.
The first time he met Utahime, she was fourteen years old, taller than him, and quiet—it wasn’t much of a first impression, considering he tuned out the rest of their meeting, letting the adults speak for him. He’s known her for a little more than half of his life now.
Their introductions were brief, an exchange of names with the purpose of arranging a marriage for business’ sake. Gojo was ten and indifferent towards what that entailed for him. Wealth, power, politics—whatever it was, as long as he got to play the latest games and stuff himself full with candy, he couldn’t have cared less. He was stuck in his bubble, living comfortably, so it didn’t matter what his family demanded of him. His response to the arrangement was a shrug of the shoulders. It didn’t matter to him then, and despite maturing, it doesn’t matter now, either.
Utahime came out as a lesbian six years after their engagement. Though he didn’t fully understand what that meant at the time, especially as a sheltered teenager, it didn’t change anything between them—if anything, her candid honesty made him admire her. It inspired him; it’s why he’s in university now.
It’ll be good for you, she said to him four years ago; a phone call from college. You can be yourself here.
It didn’t take much to convince him. He’s always loved science, always excelling in subjects requiring mathematical thinking, so without thought, he applied to study physics. Convincing his grandfather, on the other hand, was next to impossible, almost unthinkable—but without fail, persistence is key. He pushed until they said yes, with the condition of a limited allowance each month.
(Not that it meant anything. Since moving out, he’s learned that his family’s definition of “limited” is different from most people.)
The engineering degree won’t do much once he graduates, having his future planned out for him, but the four years spent here is enough of a respite for what awaits him after.
He’s afraid of what comes next.
There it is again—that thought, the constant ringing in the back of his head now front and center stage.
The TV makes a loud sound and the bright colors on the screen hurt his eyes. He blinks, his eyes dry. He’s just lost his winning streak.
Dropping his controller to the ground, he decides to work on his undergraduate thesis. He never imagined enjoying homework, but with full control over everything he writes and an unlimited reign over research, it’s a doable pastime. At the rate he’s capable of, he could finish before the semester ends—really, he could’ve finished last year if he wanted to, but he’s trying to draw out what little time he has left.
At the first yawn out his mouth, he decides to call it a day and head to bed. He texts Utahime a get home safe, washes up, then falls asleep without dreaming.
A week has passed—Monday rolls around again.
Gojo sits in the lecture hall, waiting for Geto to arrive with their assignment in hand. It’s been twenty minutes; he came a little early, having gotten himself a good weekend’s sleep, but now he’s restless, shaking his leg under the table. The rows start filling up one by one, but still no sign of Geto. Just as he’s about to call him, the guy in question walks into class in a hurry.
Gojo stands and waves, gesturing for him to come sit in the seat he saved for him, but Geto sets his backpack down by the closest row to the door. He must’ve not seen him. Gojo brushes it off and walks over to where he is.
“Did you print our paper?” he asks as he approaches.
“Yeah, I just did actually.”
“Is that why you were rushing?”
“You could tell?”
“You’re sweating.” At that, Geto wipes the sweat off his brow. “Can I see?”
“Sure,” he says. “Hold on.”
Geto rummages through his backpack and carefully pulls their assignment out, handing them to Gojo.
A simple flip-through reveals everything to him—the paper is well-formatted, tidy, and pristine. He expected nothing less from someone like Geto. On the second flip-through, Gojo notices something odd.
“I don’t see any of my points here,” he says, flipping through a third time. “I think you’re missing a page.”
“Hm? Which points?”
“On pillars of ethics and utilitarianism. And my part in our discussion last week.” A fourth flip-through—more than enough to be sure.
“Oh,” Geto says, relaxed as he sits in his seat. “They’re there, don’t worry.”
“But they’re not?”
“Are you reading wrong?”
“No, I’ve read it five times now.” A sixth time, just to make a point. “None of my work is in here. Wanna tell me what that’s about?”
Geto stares at him and crosses his arms, leaning back in his seat. He looks annoyed; it’s enough to incriminate himself. This motherfucker. Gojo raises a brow. Offended, he tosses the paper on his desk and opens his mouth to give him a piece of his mind, but then class starts; Geto’s saved by the bell.
Gojo walks back to his seat, his eyes trained on Geto the whole way and Geto glares just as intensely, not backing down.
Class drags on. It always does for someone like Gojo, but time is moving especially slower in the lecture hall today. Yaga speaks in slow motion, clicking through the presentation so deliberately that Gojo could count each pixel switching colors as the slide changes. Yaga’s arms move just as slow, as if underwater. Or in space. With his dark sunglasses, he reminds Gojo of a movie he watched last night, The Matrix. He shakes his leg underneath the table.
Gojo needs to ask him why. Why take out his parts? Why painstakingly write over him, editing each gap? Perhaps he really did cross the line last week with his joke, but even if he did, Geto should’ve said something about it. He chews the cough drop in his mouth into a paste, swallowing when there’s nothing to grind between his teeth anymore. His throat burns.
Immediately after the bell rings, he hops over rows and seats to track Geto and corner him before he gets the chance to run.
“You got a problem with me?” He gets straight to the point.
“Why the fuck would I have a problem with you?”
“I read the entire thing six times, and none of what I said made it in.”
Gojo squeezes the forearm in his hand. Geto pulls his arm back, the force of it pulling Gojo forward, closer to him. Imbalanced, Gojo braces his hands on either side of Geto’s head. Distantly, he realizes that the position is a little suggestive—a couple of students eye them on their way out. Perhaps Geto realizes this, too, because he slips out from underneath him and sprints to the exit. Gojo catches up, pulling his backpack off his shoulder.
“What the fuck, man? My laptop is in there!”
“Then listen, you dumbfuck! I said I read the thing and none of my work is in there!”
“You read thirty two pages in ten minutes? You think I’m that stupid?”
“Yeah, I do, actually.” Gojo steps closer to him. Geto steps back. “You replaced my shit with yours.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“Stop lying! You cut it out!”
“God, you’re so fucking whiny. If you’re so intent on writing your own shit, then do it yourself next week.”
Clenching his fist, Gojo walks up to him with a long overdue punch on mind, but he’s stopped by Yaga. Geto swiftly walks out, fleeing, taking advantage of the intervention.
It shouldn’t bother him. He’s met plenty of assholes like him in highschool, older kids in his college classes who act like they know everything, so he should be used to it by now. Geto’s just another asshole, so why is it bothering him so much?
He’s just unblocked Utahime (he blocked her an hour ago for telling him the situation is his fault) and he texted her, too, but she isn’t responding anymore. Frustrated with no one to vent to, he buries his face in his pillow. He considers screaming, but doesn’t.
He’s already gone to the gym, but working on his arms did nothing to distract him. He’s chatted up some girls on his phone, the ones he forgot he kept in his contacts, but none of them were entertaining enough to keep the conversation going. He’s even cleaned his kitchen cabinets, not a speck of dust in sight. It still bothers him.
In the end, Geto is right—he could do next week’s paper all by himself, nothing is stopping him from doing that. But something about it feels wrong. It’s a task fit for two, and while he’s perfectly capable of handling the workload with his empty schedule, it doesn’t feel right. He flips to his back, staring at the ceiling.
Why did he take this course anyway? He doesn’t have a shred of desire to continue and he considers dropping the class, but he reminds himself he’s not a quitter. Out of spite (perhaps some reverse psychology is involved), he finishes the paper, printing his name alone on the front page.
Yaga doesn’t accept his work. He doesn't accept Geto’s, either. They’re both standing in his office now.
“I specifically mentioned in the beginning of the term that all papers will be done in the assigned pairs,” he says. Huffing, Gojo taps his foot, indignant. Geto looks more than indifferent. Gojo rolls his eyes, focusing on the many stuffed animals on the professor’s table. He looks behind him, and there are more on the shelves. There’s one in the corner, too. “I’ll let you turn in paper two along with paper three next week, but I don’t want to hear anything about this for the rest of the semester. Understand?”
They don’t talk on the way out of the office.
Back at his apartment, Gojo attempts to nap to ease the tension off his body, but not even fifteen minutes later, he shoots back up and grabs his phone. Pride is something he can worry about later. He dials Geto’s number and waits until the call picks up—miraculously, it does.
“Hello?”
Geto hangs up.
Irritated, Gojo dials his number again—none of his calls go through. He resorts to spamming his phone with incessant messages, but he gets no response, left on read. Eventually, he tires himself out and orders dinner.
The doorbell rings just as he gets out of the shower. Hungry, he goes to open the door in his towel.
It’s Geto.
In a uniform.
He’s holding a pizza box.
They stare at each other dumbly, waiting for someone to break the silence. Geto speaks first.
“One order of mozzarella cheese pizza.” Gojo blinks. “With pineapples.” Geto emphasizes the word pineapples.
Gojo is at a loss for words. “I—uh,” he starts slowly. “I know I blew up your phone, but this is a kind of a shitty prank, dude.”
There’s a vein on Geto’s forehead, the same one from a couple weeks ago. “That’ll be ¥2,000, thanks.”
“Are you serious?”
“You’re supposed to pay when you buy things. That’s how the economy works.”
“Fuck off.” Gojo purses his lips in thought. “Mind waiting? My wallet’s in my room.”
“Sure,” Geto drawls. “Take your sweet time.”
Gojo takes him up on his offer. By the time he gets back, he’s dressed in a pair of sweatpants with his towel hanging over his shoulders. He took his sweet time, scrolling on his phone for most of the fifteen minutes he spent in his room. Surprisingly, Geto is still at the door.
“Since you’re here, mind telling me what we’re gonna do next week?”
“I’m busy right now,” Geto answers tersely. “I’ll answer your texts later.”
“It’s a simple question.” Gojo passes him a 2,000 yen note. “Will you comply, yes or no.”
“I will be heading out.”
And once again, Gojo is left to stare at his back, left behind.
Geto texts him at midnight. He’s coming over tomorrow at three.
It’s Tuesday, a sunny and clear afternoon. Spring is warmer in early May, no winds to speak of and barely any rain this year, too. The sunlight floods his entire living room from the window wall, and if he looks closer, he’d be able to see the park by his apartment building filled with people strolling along its paths and enjoying the weather. A beautiful day, no doubt. It’s a shame he won’t be able to see for himself.
Geto sits right where he did the last time he was here, which was about a month ago. His hair is half up today, and he has his complete set of piercings on. The short sleeve t-shirt he’s wearing is different from his last visit, too, revealing sturdy forearms. There’s a tattoo of a tiny dragonfly by his elbow. The linework looks sloppy.
“You have tattoos?” he asks.
“Tattoo. Singular.” Ah. So time away did not make the heart grow fonder.
“Where’d you get it?”
“It’s a stick and poke a friend did freshman year.”
“Oh,” Gojo says. “Cool.” There’s a strange feeling of déjà vu about this situation. “Are you planning on getting more?”
“Maybe.” Simple. Short.
“Nice.”
Gojo clears his throat. It’s gotten awkward again. He decides to tackle the elephant in the room, not wanting to beat around the bush.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he says, folding his arms on the table. “Maybe we should get to know each other first so we can work on our differences.”
Geto doesn’t spare him a glance, his eyes fixed on his laptop screen. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He’s read this on the internet before—an article on building trust in the workplace through honesty and transparency. He decides to put his own twist on it, pulling an account from his childhood. “When I was younger, my over-glorified nanny used to put me in the corner to think about what I’ve done. She used the word ‘reflecting.’”
“Like a time out?” Geto interjects. “Sounds just like you.”
“I’m not finished.” He shifts, turning his body to face him. “I was thinking we could do something like that, sit in the corner together and talk over things. That way we can vent our frustrations and everything. You know, for productivity or whatever.”
Geto doesn’t answer right away. He looks deep in thought—Gojo is surprised he’s actually considering this. A minute passes in silence, then,
“You have a point.” Geto glances at him over his laptop screen. “Why in a corner, though?”
“To avoid associating our work area”—he gestures to his coffee table and the surrounding L-shaped couch—“with things unrelated to work.” A quote from another article online.
Another pause in thought.
“Sure, we could do that.” Geto looks at his phone screen, perhaps checking the time. “We can set a timer to keep track of time, too.”
“How about fifteen minutes?”
“Sounds good.”
Gojo wasn’t expecting the conversation to end well. He also wasn’t expecting his idea to be well received. He didn’t exactly plan beforehand, so he gets up and walks to a random corner in his living room. Geto follows. They sit cross-legged, across from each other.
“I’ll start,” Gojo volunteers. He clears his throat. “Introductions first. My name is Gojo Satoru. I’m a senior in the Department of Applied Physics, Faculty of Engineering.”
“You’re just repeating things we’ve already established.”
“Can you calm down?” Geto levels an unimpressed stare at him. Gojo huffs, continuing. “I like sweets,” he adds. “I’m an only child and I’m engaged to a lesbian.”
“Huh?”
“It’s an arranged marriage,” he explains. “I don’t think we’ll go through with it, though.”
“Oh.”
“Your turn.”
Geto looks down at the carpet underneath him, as if his introductions were written within the fibers, like fuzzy cue cards. Gojo notices his nervous fingers, how they pull at the carpet’s wool, picking at invisible dust. He seems conflicted. When he raises his head, he schools his expression into something more confident, resolute.
“Geto Suguru. Department of Sociology, Faculty of Letters. I work at a pizza place.” He presses his lips into a thin line, maybe in hesitation, then he says, “I like men.”
“Cool.”
As if defensive, he goes on to say, “I like women, too, but…” He trails off, briefly looking to the wall before looking back at Gojo. “I prefer men.”
“Cool,” Gojo repeats.
“That’s it?”
“I mean, I just told you my fiancée is gay, I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“You being arranged to marry a lesbian doesn’t say jackshit about what you think.”
“I don’t care.” Gojo looks him dead in the eyes. “Love is love, man.”
They pick up from there, commencing their fifteen minutes of honesty and going back and forth in discussion. They start by talking about class, about Professor Yaga and how unbearable his lectures have gotten—a show of solidarity of sorts.
“He’s reached an all time low,” Gojo jokes, running his fingers through his hair. “Didn’t know he had it in him.”
Geto huffs a suppressed chuckle. “Mm, it’s like he hit rock bottom already,” he adds breezily. “No new materials and we’re barely a month in, too.”
“Watch, next week he’ll go on about due care again. That’ll be, like, what—the fifth time in a row? I’m telling you, it’s those dolls, man, they’re getting to his head, making him go senile. You think he buys them for himself? Or worse, you think he talks to them?”
“Don’t be mean,” Geto says, lax. “Maybe he’s got things going on outside of work.” He unties his bun and reties his hair into a full topknot. His sleeve rides up, exposing a thick bicep.
Huh, Gojo thinks. Didn’t know he had muscles. Snapping out of his thoughts, he replies, “Whatever it is, he just talks in circles and it’s driving me crazy.”
Geto finally laughs at that, his bangs swaying with the movement of his head. “Yeah, he does have a habit of getting repetitive. Like a broken record, but it keeps skipping, so every time he talks it makes less sense.”
“That’s meaner than what I said!” Gojo laughs, too, slapping his knee. “Seriously, though. I might drop the class if he keeps doing this.”
When the timer is at its last five minutes, Gojo broaches the subject that landed them here in the first place, huddled in the corner of his living room.
“You know, I’m still pissed at you for cutting out my work.”
Geto bristles, almost a flinch. “It was better that way,” he says. “Your points were way too scattered, you weren’t making any sense.”
“You’re biased, dude. You’re a perfectionist, I get that, but obviously you have some very strong opinions.”
“Why does it matter anyway? I’m doing your work for you. Anyone else would be grateful.”
“It matters because that paper had my name on it.” Geto cocks a brow at that. “I wanna at least have it reflect me, too. I hate having people put words in my mouth.” Gojo leans back on his arms, sighing. “Besides, we’re partners, too. We should at least try to work together.”
This time, Geto looks apologetic. “Sorry,” he says, sounding regretful. “I’ll keep that in mind then.”
It’s the first time he’s seen Geto like that, wearing a sincere expression and looking almost bashful. Gojo smiles. Perhaps his little corner of honesty is working.
“Wanna call it a truce?”
Geto eyes his outstretched hand, raising his eyebrows.
“Truce,” he says. They shake on it. “Let’s get to work.”