let’s talk soon
i’ll see you ’roundwe’ll never talk again
me and you
you and me
will never talk again— Grabbitz
Chapter 1: probably our last conversation
“Hey, Utahime.” His mouth wrapped around her name softly, as if it would shatter when spoken any other way. “I need to—can I tell you something?”
She refused to look at him, her eyes narrowing on the horizon. “Don’t.”
“Listen, I—”
“No, Gojo,” she said firmly, the slight tremor in her voice giving away her true feelings. “You can tell me when you come back—because you’re going to come back.” Her arms were tucked into the sleeves of her white kosode, the fabric ruffling as she rubbed her own forearms for comfort.
There was an orange glow illuminating her face, holding his devout gaze. A swell of uncertainty seized hold of his conviction, and it wasn’t the frosty air that dried his tremulous lips which he swiped at with his tongue. “If I come back…”
“When you come back,” she corrected, her expression sharpening.
“…will you have something to tell me too?” The sun was setting on December 23rd, 2018—they were running out of time, each minute even more precious than the last. Even still, she allowed the moments to pass by, honeyed eyes aglow in the dying light. Look at me, he begged. Please, look at me.
As if she’d heard his thoughts, Utahime turned towards him, her body trembling as their eyes met. “Yes,” she murmured. “Satoru.” A single emotion, born from the very depths of their souls, connected them by a thread in that moment, entangling them—intertwined, they remained, regardless of any outcome they might face.
And Satoru smiled.
* * * * * *
He could still recall the very first time he’d laid his eyes on her.
It wasn’t exactly a meeting between the two where names and words were exchanged. In fact, he was sure she had no recollection of that moment in time herself. It made the memory more personal to him—something so intimate that he could only indulge in its reminiscence privately, fiddling with the hem of his blindfold to temper his emotions.
In the Summer of 2004, Satoru Gojo was fourteen years old, wandering the campus of Tokyo Jujutsu High. Perhaps he should’ve been paying closer attention to the conversation occurring between his handlers—representatives of his clan who spoke on behalf of the regent head—and the principal, but he really couldn’t be bothered. He already had a good idea of what the topic concerned and, while he loved being the center of any conversation, he wasn’t currently in the mood.
He’d been told that they would stop for a meal before coming to tour the campus after their long journey from their estate in Kyoto to Tokyo but, due to delays, that never ended up happening. In response to his very vocal protests, his handlers waved him off in favor of pointless drivel. So here he was, aggravated fists in his pockets as he kicked rocks. Seriously, can we get the fuck outta here already?
Satoru wandered further away from his handlers in pursuit of a large, jagged pebble he sent skittering across the stone courtyard. To keep himself entertained, he would intermittently activate his Infinity to push the pebble farther until the stone courtyard turned into a dirt pathway. He would’ve kept going had he not heard a sweet sound contrast the buzz of the cicadas.
Someone’s singing? A girl, to be more precise.
It was an unintelligible melody but, somehow, Satoru felt it sounded familiar. Had he heard this song somewhere before? He couldn’t quite grasp the memory despite the way it danced on the tip of his tongue. No, wait—the taste on his tongue was cursed energy. Sweet and warm, like drinking a glass of milk and honey. Satoru’s legs moved on their own at a tentative pace, curiosity seizing him.
The cursed energy was far from threatening—faint and weak when compared to his own. He knew he could crush whoever it belonged to without breaking a sweat, so his sudden need to find the source had nothing to do with power. Typically, he’d be entirely disinterested with anything so inconsequential, but Satoru couldn’t seem to help himself. His legs kept moving, Six Eyes in fervent pursuit of the source, and luckily, he didn’t have to walk too far before he found it.
Before he found her.
Golden energy flowed through her body, flooding her limbs and pooling into the base of her humming throat. She was crouched in front of a bed of flowers—bundles of hydrangeas in full bloom. Her ink-black hair was fashioned into two loose braids, secured with white ribbons as they hung forward over her delicate shoulders. She was dressed in a Jujutsu High uniform, identifying her as a student of the school.
She was thoughtful and kind. He could tell by those fragile fingers grasping the handle of the watering can, honey brown eyes focused on each careful pour while her soft lips moved in time with her song. The way the flowers seemed to reach for her, a summer breeze blowing through the bundles to carry a scent just as sweet—if Satoru didn’t know any better, he would’ve said they had been dancing for her.
He wasn’t moved by much in the way of girls despite being at the age he should begin to notice them. Really, his only concern had been strength—why should he give a shit about romance and sex? He was Satoru Gojo, inheritor of the Six Eyes and Limitless; the head of the Gojo Clan. His very existence shifted the universe in a way nothing else could, destined to be the strongest sorcerer in the world. He had heard plenty of sweet voices and seen even prettier faces, never sparing a second glance if he somehow awarded them a first.
But this girl certainly had his attention.
This girl in her Jujutsu High uniform, watering flowers while wielding the most gentle cursed energy he’d ever experienced, created a firm opposition to everything Satoru Gojo ever learned while growing up in jujutsu society. A girl like her shouldn’t have been alive and smiling the way she was in their world. It bothered him as much as she fascinated him. He wanted to stomp on all her pretty flowers to give her a taste of the real world, but then, he also wanted to put her in a little cage to keep her safe from it.
Those feelings were far too big and complex for his teenaged brain to comprehend so he clicked his tongue with disapproval and walked away. She’ll be dead by the next school year.
***
It’s her.
Her silky braids were tied off with red ribbons this time around—a surprising choice despite not knowing her even a little bit. Her appearance indicated she’d taken extra time getting dressed that day, carefully crafting herself into the image of perfection with the hope of something that he couldn’t quite grasp. She had a certain reservation about her, highlighted by the modesty of her neatly pressed uniform.
Perhaps it was that very same modesty drawing Satoru’s eyes down to her pleated skirt, black pliable fabric contrasting with her pale thighs. It was only when their plushness stirred something within him did he tear his gaze further downward. She had on a pair of black socks hugging the circumference of her calves, brown loafers firmly planted on the ground to support her impeccable posture.
At first, he thought she was too flawless—then, he saw that moon-shaped scar on her left knee. It was too small to be significant, but Satoru fixated on it. How did she get that? The question tattooed itself somewhere inside of him, blooming into an ineffable curiosity. To him, that tiny scar represented her weakness and fragility—an explanation for the demure nature she wore like armor.
And Satoru yearned to slip underneath it all.
“Hi, you’re Satoru Gojo-kun, right?” She held out her hand—uncertain, delicate fingers attached to a dainty wrist. “I’m third year student, Utahime Iori! I was sent to make sure you got around okay.” Utahime had a pretty smile. “Did you have any—?”
“Nope.” Satoru averted his eyes, expressionless. How else was he going to stop his heart from fluttering the way it was?
Utahime’s outstretched hand faltered, her smile weakening as she appeared a little embarrassed. “Oh, sorry, are you not Satoru Gojo?”
Damn. His name sounded so pleasant in her mouth—safe—and that really pissed him off. “Weak and dense?” Satoru mocked, a cruel chuckle bubbling in his chest. “Pick a struggle, will ya?”
Her honey brown eyes flickered with bemusement. “…Huh?”
God, she had such pretty eyes. Damnit.
“Of course, I’m Satoru Gojo,” he told her with a cocky tone. “I was saying ‘no’ to your other question.” Satoru rolled his eyes. “Geez—and you’re a third year?” From the way Utahime presented herself, Satoru thought that she would continue on politely or, at the very least, walk away without saying anything more. Most people in the jujutsu world behaved cautiously around him, acutely aware of how powerful he was—everyone knew his name.
In any case, it would be best for her to get as far away from him as possible.
“Yes, I am, actually,” Utahime snapped, face screwing with irritation. “I’m not sure what your problem is but it’s actually customary for underclassmen to show a little respect to their upperclassmen around here so maybe, watch your tone!”
Oh. That was different.
Her dark brows were knitted together, pouty lips pulled into a snarl. Utahime’s nervous fingers had tightened up into fists, enclosing the hem of her skirt as if the garment were the only thing holding her back from the object of her ire—him. There was depth to the flush warming her cheeks, ignited by more than just offense. Embarrassment, perhaps?
A chuckle bubbled up into Satoru’s throat, genuinely amused. “Watch my tone? That’s hilarious!” Her face was only getting redder—he really liked that. “Do you know who I am?”
“I don’t care who you are!” Utahime released her skirt to point an accusatory finger at him. “You’re disrespectful and rude. Someone ought to teach you a lesson, and it seems it has to be me!”
Satoru cocked a brow, unable to hold back the wry smile formed from his laughter. “Oh?” The way Utahime snarled, squaring her shoulders as she narrowed those sweet eyes of hers—it was so deeply entertaining to him. He could feel the enjoyment take root inside of him, lodging itself between his ribs and sprouting within the hollow of his chest. “Okay, princess, whatever you say,” he ribbed with a dismissive wave. “I’m headin’ to my dorm room now.”
“Huh?!” She gaped at him as he walked past, agitation pulling at the nerves in her face. “We’re not done here!”
“Only the strong dictate conclusions, Utahime.” Satoru hadn’t intended to say her name. It just slipped out of him, tapping along his tongue with an unrivaled ease. U-ta-hi-me—he wanted to taste its sweet melody again, but resisted the urge.
Her voice wavered as she warned, “That’s Iori-senpai to you!” Was she afraid?
No, that’s not it.
“Or what?” Satoru chuckled. “What are you gonna do about it, Utahime?” A pretty name for a pretty girl—it was so irritating. Weakling. “You’re about as threatening as a butterfly!” Just under the sound of his jeering, soft grunts and shuffling could be heard from behind. Satoru didn’t process what was happening until he felt a disturbance in the air, pushing him to activate his Infinity.
“YOU’RE A JERK, SATORU GOJO!” When Satoru turned around, he found a single brown loafer floating behind him, lodged within his Infinity. Utahime was balancing on one foot, seething as she glared at him. Hopping to adjust her balance, she gave the appearance of an irritable rabbit, which made her even less threatening and only enhanced his growing fascination with her.
What an interesting girl you are, Utahime Iori. Satoru plucked her shoe out of the air, examining it for a moment as he held back a grin. The shoe spun around his index finger, his gaze fixing itself intently on her form which was still heaving with unexpressed anger. “So, uh, is this your technique?” Satoru teased. “Cursed Shoe Manipulation?”
She began to deflate, allowing her socked foot to touch the dirt pathway as she seemed to give up on maintaining her balance. With the trembling exhale of her breath, Utahime shook her head and turned away from him. Much to Satoru’s disappointment, she didn’t respond to his quip, wobbling off with her remaining shoe as if she’d determined getting back her other one wouldn’t be possible as long as he held onto it.
And she was correct.
Satoru held her discarded shoe in his hand, gazing upon it like a prize won from a carnival. He bounced it in his palm with a wild grin. For once in his life, he wasn’t bored to tears. This moment had set a precedent for him, giving Satoru the idea that life at Tokyo Jujutsu High might be more eventful than he originally anticipated.
***
Satoru discovered very quickly into his first year that there was no second year class at Tokyo Jujutsu High. They had all died in their first year while Utahime had been a second year. Soon after that, the rest of Utahime’s classmates would die as well, leaving her the only student to move into third year. All of her friends, she had watched them die but, somehow, she was still alive herself—she was the only one alive.
“They must’ve been weak as hell.” Satoru leaned back in his chair, a forearm hanging over his fatigued eyes. “No way Utahime of all people was strong enough to be the last survivor.”
“That’s pretty insensitive, Satoru. How do you think Utahime-senpai would feel if she heard you say that?” Suguru Geto, while aloof and objective, had a significant amount of emotional sophistication that Satoru himself lacked.
Satoru scoffed. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
There was an airy laugh on his other side. “You really are heartless, aren’t you, Gojo?” He had moved his arm to peek over at his other classmate, hoping to figure out her feelings on the matter. Shoko Ieiri was difficult to read as she didn’t seem to take anything too seriously while maintaining an air of indifference. There was always this passive smile on her face, even when expressing displeasure or dissent. Shoko held strong judgments, but didn’t seem to allow those judgments to affect any of her actions. It was incredibly interesting, but quite frankly, unsettling for Satoru.
“I’m not heartless,” Satoru countered with a dismissive grin. “I’m being realistic.” He hopped up onto his feet, stretching out his limbs. “Do we know how it happened?”
Shoko shrugged, rotating the toothpick in her mouth with her tongue. “Nah, the conversation didn’t get that far.”
“Aw, why not?” Satoru whined. “That’s, like, the most important part! You suck at gossip, Shoko!”
As unflappable as ever, Shoko spared no reaction. “If you’d seen her face,” she said, pulling out her cellphone and flipping it open, “I would hope you wouldn’t ask either.”
His fingers twitched in time with the stuttering of his heart as an image of Utahime’s face flashed through his mind. Does it make her sad…? Satoru shoved his hands into his pockets, fixing a smile onto his face. “Nah, I’d probably just make fun of her for crying again.” He moved toward the door of the classroom. “Now, are you guys comin’ or what? I’m starving!”
Satoru would gather the details of what happened to Utahime’s class soon after that, reading through reports and files he had no excusable reason to be looking at aside from gross curiosity. It was how he discovered that Utahime was in the year below what was appropriate for her age due to the nature of her cursed technique and her late enrollment into the school. Utahime should have been in the same year as Mei Mei and Atsuya Kusakabe, explaining why they referred to each other in such a familiar manner despite Utahime’s nigh obsessive concern with hierarchy.
According to the reports, as was his only way of getting any information at all, Utahime had opted to join Mei on a Grade 1 excursion just before a mission for her class arose. It was supposed to be simple—a Grade 2 curse for two Grade 3 sorcerers to exorcise. The mission was likely chosen with Utahime in mind seeing as it was in her scope but, without her around, her classmates were relegated to taking the mission on their own. With how limited sorcerers were, there was no option to decline or wait around for Utahime to return.
It should have been simple, but that Grade 2 cursed spirit soon developed into a Grade 1. As Satoru read the report, he couldn’t help but grit his teeth with frustration. Anyone with a brain could predict that a curse born in a hospice facility would rapidly evolve. They should’ve handed the mission off to someone else, even if Utahime had been available to join. Satoru knew—gripping the file with shaking hands, he knew—if she hadn’t gone off with Mei, Utahime would’ve died too.
She has no reason to be here, he had convinced himself. She should go back home to the sticks where she belongs. And there were times he thought she agreed with him. It was in those moments his body decided it couldn’t stay away from her, impulsively tugging on her braids and pulling at her clothes; ruffling her hair and flicking her cheeks as he reminded her how weak she was. “And how are you gonna stop me, Utahime?” Satoru would goad, laughing off her pointed glowering. “Sing me to death?”
Uncertainty would flicker across her face, her knitted brows easing with realization for a split second. But Utahime was stubborn and driven; compassionate and fragile. So she hardened herself again, her determination flaring with an even greater resolve. She had this terrifying combination of personality traits along with a non-combative innate technique that made her unfit to be a jujutsu sorcerer, and he knew it would lead her to an early grave. To survive, you had to be selfish and ruthless with combative skills to boot, but Satoru trying to make her come to terms with that seemed to only push her further into ambition.
There were times he thought she might listen if it were to come from someone else, but no one else was around—at least, no one willing to try.
Whenever Satoru saw Utahime around campus, she was typically by herself and, when she wasn’t by herself, she was with Mei, Kusakabe, or a member of faculty. She seemed to have a way with authority that gave him the impression she might become one of the higher-ups herself or, at the very least, make it a goal of hers someday. Utahime was smart, obedient, and easy on the eyes with a more traditional cursed technique, which those conservative fucks loved, giving her more value than others would have in similar circumstances. Strength didn’t matter as long as you made yourself useful, so in that regard, Utahime’s continued attendance of Jujutsu High made sense.
And for some inexplicable reason, that incensed Satoru.
He justified his cruel comments and incessant teasing with constant reminders that Utahime didn’t belong at Jujutsu High; that she was just some Grade 2 bootlicker who should’ve stuck to her destiny as some virginal shrine maiden. Then, she would be safe and Satoru would no longer catch himself staring at her from a distance. His hands would no longer ache in her presence, his lungs constricting when her pretty mouth wrapped around threats of retaliation. There would no longer be this urge to place her in a gilded cage like a lovely little songbird when her absence made it difficult for him to eat and sleep—to breathe, even.
Satoru had known this first year would be his only chance for frequent contact; to really work whatever these tumultuous feelings were out of his system. So he picked on her as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted, and however he wanted. Undoing her braids by stealing her ribbons, tugging at her clothes while making fun of them, throwing her into a headlock to ruin her hair, taking her belongings and holding them hostage, throwing things at her—hell, there was even a time he snuck into her room and stole all her socks.
Her comebacks were always the same. “Respect your elders!” He had succeeded in making his presence nearly unbearable to her but, somehow, she always found it in herself to give him some grace now and then. There were many times he’d tricked her into believing he genuinely needed her help—albeit, only after much convincing—which led her into whatever elaborate prank he’d crafted specially for her.
“Gullible is written on the ceiling, Utahime!” And though he knew she didn’t believe him, she would still look up.
He was still too young and naive to understand why he had this incessant need for her ire. It was entertaining to pick on the weak, sure, and Utahime seemed the weakest of the bunch. But the level of which he enjoyed Utahime’s reactions and how it pushed him to want more, there was no explanation that didn’t involve feelings he wanted no part of. He was Satoru Gojo after all. The only thing he cared about was becoming the strongest.
So he just kept telling himself it was for entertainment since he couldn’t seem to get a rise out of either of his classmates—that he might as well get as much enjoyment out of her as he could if she insisted on attending Jujutsu High.
If it weren’t for Suguru and Shoko discouraging him, Satoru might’ve taken things even further. A part of him wanted to make her hate him so much that she’d remove herself from his life and do what he wanted her to do—go back home where it was safe. There was this compulsive thought whenever he busied his hands while she was close and fought to stare at the golden aura draped over her shoulders, wrapping his tongue around lollipops to drown the subtle taste of milk and honey. It screamed in his ears and thrummed within his chest, a flood of blood to the heart.
She’ll be dead by her next mission.
Her next mission would come and go, Satoru waiting for the news, but the news never came. She would walk around with cuts and bruises, still flashing her polite smiles. He could tell, however, that she was growing weary. Perhaps she felt like a failure in some way whenever she came back with injuries and having to report that, once again, all she could do was support her partners.
And Satoru—relieved in his heart of hearts, though he’d never admit it—would make fun of her for it. “Useless Utahime,” he would sing as the intrusive thought that had been pestering him in her absence faded away. She’ll be dead and only her corpse will come back, had become but a faint whisper before it would inevitably crescendo once again. While he hadn’t acknowledged it himself, Satoru’s concern for Utahime became obvious to everyone else around him.
“Utahime-senpai’s on a mission, isn’t she?” Shoko had pointed out once, sitting beside him in the courtyard. He’d skipped out on lunch with them, opting to go for a walk to clear his head which had been full of persistent and incoherent thoughts. Satoru often referred to them as black spiders, the thoughts seeming to crawl around the inside of his skull indiscriminately.
And there were many when Utahime wasn’t around.
It was the end of the school year, and spring break was just around the corner. This meant Utahime would be entering her fourth year at Jujutsu High, which guaranteed constant assignments on the field. It would be her last year before graduation into a full-time jujutsu sorcerer, acting as a trial run for the rest of her career, so Satoru couldn’t understand why they’d send her out on a mission instead of just letting her enjoy her final weeks of freedom.
Yes, he wanted to respond. And they sent her out on her own. However, he kept that to himself as he shrugged. “What makes you think I would know?”
“You’re not eating.”
“I’m not hungry,” he protested, patting his stomach. “Big breakfast—no correlation.”
Shoko cocked a brow at him, lighting up a cigarette. She’d picked up the nasty habit halfway through the year to ‘take the edge off’ and satisfy her oral fixation. As she took a long drag, she said, “You’re never hungry when she’s on a mission.” The jet stream of smoke from Shoko’s mouth billowed out at the end, lingering in the air.
Satoru rolled his eyes. “Maybe you should stop smoking so much,” he deflected. “That nicotine addiction is frying your brain cells.”
In typical fashion, Shoko had shrugged and carried on, knowing there was no point in pressing the matter. To him, none of this was an indicator of care or affection. He knew he cared for Shoko and Suguru, but he never lost sleep nor his appetite over them. Then again, Shoko was always safe because she wasn’t assigned any missions—her Reverse Cursed Technique was far too valuable to Jujutsu HQ. And Suguru was a Special Grade sorcerer just like him so there was never any need to worry because of his strength.
Of course, these weren’t things he mulled over at his young age, always deflecting wherever he could to avoid the truth.
But the truth would catch up to him eventually.
***
Satoru’s second year had just begun, putting Utahime in her long-awaited transitory fourth year. To indicate this new chapter in her life, she decided an outfit change was in order as she was no longer required to wear her Jujutsu High uniform. So Utahime pranced around that first day in a miko outfit as she went about her business, ‘honoring her roots’ as she claimed.
Everyone who approached her had received the same explanation for her new attire, Utahime tripping over the long length of her hakama. She would look down with a pout, lifting the fabric to reveal a pair of sensible ballet flats which could pass for the customary asagutsu shrine maidens wore. It seemed she’d decided on these for comfort, but evidently, she hadn’t taken the appropriate measurements for her attire into account.
Hands buried in his pockets, clenching and releasing as she smiled brightly, Satoru watched. “How annoying,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “Is she not tired of repeating herself?” He and Suguru had taken to sitting in the garden, eating lunch as they usually did. They’d been relegated to watching her as she kept stopping her habitual watering of the hydrangeas to show off her outfit to whoever walked by.
Suguru chuckled. “You’re just upset that she’s receiving so much attention. Say, have you been counting how many men have walked up to her?”
Satoru scoffed, scowling. “Why would I?” Just as he’d responded, another male faculty member had approached Utahime, distracting her from her task again so he could compliment her attire. “What a creep,” he commented. “Shrine maidens can’t even have boyfriends, so what’s the point?” He slumped back on the bench, fiddling with his sunglasses until his eyes were peeking over the top. Creep Number Five…
“Pretty sure that’s an outdated stereotype,” Suguru said nonchalantly. “Anyway, that’s the fifth one.”
Satoru cocked a brow, a knot forming in his chest. “Why are you keeping count?” He pushed the sunglasses back up his nose. “You like her or somethin’, Suguru?”
Another chuckle. “And what if I do?”
“She’s not your type,” Satoru stated firmly. “She’s too weak and emotional for your tastes. Besides, you’re into younger girls! Not old ladies like Utahime.”
“You make me sound like some predator, Satoru—I date my age. Besides, how would you know what I’m into?” Despite the wriggle of his nose, Suguru was thoroughly amused. “Seems like you’re trying to dissuade me from forming an interest. I wonder why.”
There were times Satoru hated the way Suguru could see right through him—he hated that he called things as he saw them—and he absolutely hated knowing that, somewhere deep down, his best friend having a thing for Utahime Iori would bother the fuck out of him. “Nah, I really don’t care,” he lied. “Go for it, I guess.”
Once again, Utahime tripped over herself, pretty lips pouting. The man steadied her with a charming smile, holding onto her arm tenderly. Satoru saw red, impulsively hopping up onto his feet and charging ahead without a second thought. He fixed a shit-eating grin onto his face, hands still buried in his pockets. “Utahime,” he sang, watching as her face fell into a scowl.
“What do you want?” Utahime had long abandoned trying to correct his habit of calling her by her first name as if they were familiar. Her name was a song on his tongue that he’d never stop singing.
Satoru’s presence was enough to have the man backing away from her, seemingly intimidated by his cursed energy. Go away, he wanted to order, but he refrained. “I wanted to make a friendly suggestion.” Satoru towered over her, placing his hand on top of her head. “You may wanna grow a few inches or else you’ll trip face first into a curse.”
Utahime smacked his hand away. “How about you go trip into a curse and bring us some peace?”
“Oh, ouch,” he hissed sarcastically. “So much hostility—is that any way to talk to your junior?” Before she could say anything, Satoru impulsively stomped on the hem of her hakama, making it impossible for her to back away without tripping. He couldn’t say what exactly had come over him as this was the very definition of taking things too far. Something he’d avoided up until this point.
“Hey!” Utahime exclaimed frantically. “Get off, Gojo! You’ll ruin it!”
Satoru cackled. “Ask me nicely.” He was so certain she would relent, submitting to his request. Submission—why did he want that from her so badly? Why did the idea of her listening to his every request and doing everything he asked of her excite him so much?
Satoru wanted to hear her speak to him softly, especially when she was riled up and frustrated. Everyone tired of him eventually, dismissing him with cold indifference when they’d finally had enough of his attention-seeking antics. But Utahime—despite how long this targeted teasing of his had gone on for, she still got mad. She still felt something towards him and wore it on her sleeve so openly. Even if the emotions were negative, it was something and that mattered to Satoru.
But sometimes, he wanted the soft side she showed everyone else. Her warm smiles—the care and affection spoken through the lingering touches and thoughtful gestures she afforded her friends. His touch-starved, love-starved body craved it in a way he hesitated to admit. Satoru knew Utahime was capable of giving him what he needed, but she withheld it from him, and it was his own damn fault.
It was these complex feelings that brought them to this moment. Come on, Utahime. He held firm. Submit.
But she didn’t—she would never submit to him.
Instead, she pulled on the fabric in an attempt to force release. Utahime had tears of frustration in her eyes as she tugged, demanding he ‘let go‘ repeatedly under her breath. Satoru knew the hakama would rip if this continued and felt a pang of regret, causing him to loosen his hold on it. It was an involuntary action, so the consequence hadn’t occurred to him at all until it happened.
Utahime fell back into the flowerbeds, wet soil splattering and spoiling her outfit. Muddy splotches decorated her white kosode, and it should’ve been hilarious, but for once, Satoru wasn’t laughing. Her tears of frustration finally spilled over her red cheeks, her bottom lip quivering. Still, Satoru couldn’t find it in himself to laugh as he usually would.
“Why do you hate me so much?” Her voice was small and broken. “What did I do to you? You spoil everything, Gojo!” She wiped her tears away with her dirty sleeve, getting a spot of mud on her cheek. “I really hate you…”
He zeroed in on the brown smudge on her red, tear-stained face. Nope, still no laughter. Not even the bubble of a chuckle. For once, Satoru didn’t find her feelings funny. He couldn’t find the joke in her frustration. So Satoru stood there quietly, his blood cold as his heart hammered away with anxiety. She hates me. He wanted to say something—anything to remedy the situation.
But he couldn’t even think straight.
Suguru passed him with a disapproving look, immediately offering assistance to Utahime, who was now sobbing. She shrugged off his hand almost immediately afterward before running off. “Nice one, Satoru,” Suguru scolded before he walked away himself.
The man had long since disappeared, leaving Satoru there to stand in silence. A swell of emotions rose in his chest, unsure of where to focus his thoughts. Had he finally taken it too far? Would she no longer speak to him? Did it matter if she did or not?
Satoru took a moment to mull it over. “Damnit…” He realized in that moment that he didn’t want Utahime to hate him, but wouldn’t allow his thoughts to travel far enough as to arrive to a reason why. What do I do?
A few days later, Satoru would be approached by Utahime, about two inches taller than normal. She had a stern look on her face, brows furrowed with her arms folded over her chest. “Gojo.”
“Utahime.” He adjusted the glasses on his nose, his fingers shaking which forced him to bury them into his pockets.
She released her defensive stance, digging around her own pockets before pulling out a check. “This is way too much for a dry cleaning bill,” she stated. “Take it back.”
Satoru looked at her over his glasses, trying his best to maintain eye contact despite how badly he wanted to look down at her frowning lips. She’s wearing lip gloss. His heart stuttered, but as usual, he ignored it before closing his eyes. “Nah, keep it.”
Utahime grumbled. “This, plus the shoes, is excessive. Take it back.”
“No.” Satoru began to walk past her, clenching his fists in his pockets. He had no intention of saying anything more, ready to ignore the protest he could hear forming in her throat, but then, he faltered. “Do you like the shoes?”
He wanted to turn around and look at her face but his heart was racing. He settled for listening to her thoughtful silence, a sharp intake of breath as if preparing to do something she didn’t want to do. “Yes.” She began stuttering, making Satoru curious as to whether she was blushing or not. “But t-they’re way too expensive—I don’t need luxury brands!”
The sensation of satisfaction warmed his limbs, an involuntary smile creeping onto his face. “All the reviews were from working women,” he divulged, “saying they’re the most comfortable shoes they’d ever worn—worth the price point when you don’t have to sacrifice fashion.”
“O-Oh,” Utahime stuttered, clearing her throat. “I didn’t know you put so much research into it.” There was a pause. “T-Thank you.”
Oh. His heart thrummed. Gratitude? Satoru released a shaky breath, hoping Utahime couldn’t hear it. “You shouldn’t show gratitude towards an apology.” He forced himself to move away from her despite how badly he wanted to face her. Satoru’s hands were shaking. He wanted to grasp at something…someone.
“Wait,” Utahime called out. “How did you know my size?”
Satoru recalled the brown loafer that had been sitting in his dorm room for over a year at that point. “I guessed,” he lied with a shrug. “I have pretty good eyes, y’know?” He continued down the hall. “See ya later, old lady!”
“GOJO!”
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