Chapter Text
Itsuki had the distinct impression that he was floating.
As though someone had laid him down on a cloud that refused, stubbornly, to let him sink.
The surface beneath him was impossibly soft — softer than any mattress he had ever owned, softer even than the expensive memory-foam one he had splurged on after his first real promotion, back when he had convinced himself that better sleep might fix the exhaustion eating away at him from the inside. His body felt weightless, muscles slack, joints unburdened, as if gravity itself had decided to take the morning off out of sheer courtesy.
There was also a smell.
Lavender.
Subtle. Clean. Sweet without being cloying. It drifted through the air in delicate layers, wrapping around him like a warm blanket and soothing something deep in his chest he hadn’t even realized had been clenched for months.
He felt… rested. The kind of rest that didn’t come from eight uninterrupted hours of sleep, but from emotional exhaustion finally loosening its claws — the kind that seeped into the bones and softened the constant tension behind his ribs. He couldn’t remember the last time he had woken up without that familiar heaviness pressing down on his sternum like an invisible weight.
For a few suspended seconds, he simply existed there, drifting in that gentle half-sleep, mind pleasantly blank.
Then, slowly — painfully slowly — awareness began to seep back in.
‘Why am I this comfortable?’
His mattress was good.
But not this good.
His brows twitched faintly as suspicion began threading through the haze.
Where…?
His eyes snapped open.
Panic hit instantly. Sharp. Cold. Total.
He shot upright so fast his vision swam, breath catching in his throat as adrenaline flooded his system and his gaze darted wildly around the room.
This was not his bedroom. Not even remotely close.
First reflex: he looked down at himself.
Clothes.
Still fully dressed.
Shirt. Pants. Belt. Everything in place, undisturbed.
“…Okay,” he muttered hoarsely, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to slow his breathing. “That’s… good. That’s very good.”
He forced air into his lungs, grounding himself the way years in the field had trained him to do, and only then did he begin properly assessing his surroundings.
The room was spacious — absurdly spacious, actually. Morning light poured in through tall windows, filtered by sheer curtains that softened the brightness into a warm, diffused glow. The air smelled fresh in that curated, expensive way that suggested deliberate effort rather than simple cleanliness.
Minimalist décor. But not cold.
Cream walls. Dark wood accents. Tasteful artwork placed with intentional asymmetry. A bed so large it could comfortably fit three adults without anyone accidentally brushing shoulders.
This looks like a magazine spread…
His gaze drifted toward the nightstand.
And froze.
His phone.
His keys.
His wallet.
All placed neatly side by side, aligned with almost surgical precision.
He grabbed them quickly, checking each item with growing disbelief.
Nothing missing.
“…Okay.”
The exhale that left him was long, shaky.
He let himself fall back against the mountain of pillows, staring up at the ceiling as his mind began forcing itself to rewind.
Think.
‘How did I get here?’
Fragments surfaced, disjointed at first.
A fight.
Daiki.
The bar.
Drinks.
Too many drinks.
Then—
Oh no.
His eyes widened slowly, horror dawning like a slow sunrise he very much did not want.
No.
No, no, no—
Memory slammed back into him in full, merciless clarity.
The park. The bench.The stranger.
Arms around him.
The way he had collapsed.
The way he had cried. Like a child.
Like someone whose life had cracked open down the middle.
Itsuki slapped both hands over his face.
“OH MY GOD.”
His voice came out muffled, strangled with secondhand embarrassment.
“I cried on a stranger. I cried on a stranger in a park. I cried into his clothes—”
He groaned and rolled onto his side, mortification burning hot under his skin.
What kind of grown man did that?
Worse — why had the stranger let him?
If some drunk guy had thrown himself at Itsuki in the middle of the night, he would’ve peeled him off like a sticker and left him on the pavement without hesitation.
But this man had comforted him.
Held him.
Let him cry.
A fresh wave of shame washed over him, heavier than the hangover that should’ve been there but oddly wasn’t.
And then—
He blinked.
Frowned.
Wait.
He rolled his shoulders experimentally. Stretched his neck. Twisted his back.
No pain.
No stiffness.
No residual soreness from sleeping in an unfamiliar bed.
Nothing.
He froze mid-movement.
“…What the hell?”
He felt…
Light.
Completely light.
As if he’d just returned from a week-long vacation instead of an emotional breakdown fueled by alcohol and unresolved trauma.
“How is that even possible…?”
Before he could dwell on it, something else reached him.
A warm smell. Sweet.
Dangerously inviting.
It drifted into the room in soft waves — buttery, sugary, comforting in a way that bypassed logic entirely and went straight to instinct.
His stomach growled immediately.
Loudly.
Itsuki stared down at it in betrayal.
“…Traitor.”
He swung his legs off the bed, standing carefully, half expecting the room to tilt.
Nothing. Perfect balance.
Still weird.
He followed the smell out of the bedroom, bare feet silent against polished flooring.
The hallway alone confirmed it: this wasn’t just a nice bedroom — this entire place was luxurious. High ceilings. Soft recessed lighting. Tasteful décor that screamed wealth without ever becoming ostentatious.
‘Who even lives like this…?’
The smell intensified as he approached an open living space.
Then he heard a voice.
Male. Familiar.
On the phone.
“I’m fine, Naoya. I told you, it was nothing.”
Lightly exasperated.
Pause.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
Another pause.
“…Yeah. We’ll talk later.”
Itsuki hesitated at the threshold before stepping in quietly.
The room opened into a wide living area connected seamlessly to a kitchen and dining space.
And there—
Standing at the stove—
Was the man from the park.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Facing away from him as he flipped pancakes with casual, practiced ease.
Itsuki moved instinctively in silence, old professional habits kicking in as he assessed the situation before announcing himself.
He was good at tailing people.
Good at entering rooms unnoticed.
Which was why it startled him so badly when the man suddenly turned around and smiled directly at him.
“Ah, you’re awake!”
Itsuki forgot how to breathe.
For one disorienting second, his brain offered hallucination as the most rational explanation.
Because—
Because no one looked like that in real life.
Morning light streamed through the window behind him, crowning his silhouette in a halo of gold. His hair — stark white — caught the sunlight like spun silver. His skin looked almost luminous under the glow.
And his eyes—
Blue.
Not just blue.
Endless.
Like staring into the sky and the ocean simultaneously.
Framed by pale lashes that made the color feel even more unreal.
He wore a light shirt, sleeves rolled carelessly, collar slightly open.
Tall. Slim waist. Broad chest. Long legs.
Perfection, basically.
Itsuki’s heart began beating in complete disarray.
Then last night’s memory resurfaced.
He’d cried.
In front of this man.
In his arms.
He wanted to evaporate on the spot.
The man tilted his head, clearly amused by his stunned silence.
“You’ve got questions, huh? After your emotional breakdown you passed out. Guess you were completely wasted,” he said cheerfully. “So, since I couldn’t just leave you in the park — and because I’m an extremely generous and empathetic person — I brought you home. Pretty great, right?”
“…Uh.”
Before Itsuki could assemble a coherent response, the man crossed the room in long strides and physically steered him toward the dining table.
“I made crepes and pancakes! Hope you like sweet stuff. I’ve got chocolate spread, strawberry jam, raspberry, grape— oh! And ice cream. And fruits. And powdered sugar—”
Itsuki barely registered being pushed into a chair.
One moment he’d been staring at a divine apparition, the next he was being force-fed breakfast by it while it spoke at machine-gun speed.
“I… why are you doing all this?”
The man stopped mid-ramble.
“Huh?”
“Why are you doing all this… for me?”
He seemed to genuinely consider the question, head tilting slightly.
Then he grinned.
“Why not?”
He leaned closer, studying Itsuki’s face with open curiosity before nodding, satisfied with whatever conclusion he’d reached internally.
“What?” Itsuki asked cautiously.
“I want us to be friends.”
“…Sorry?”
“I want us to be friends. You and me.”
“I heard you. But why? We don’t even know each other. I’m just some drunk guy who collapsed on you in a park last night.”
He was completely lost.
And why did this feel less like a suggestion and more like a decision that had already been made?
“Details!” the man waved off. “I wanna get to know you. Let’s be friends and then…” — he shot him a conspiratorial smile — “we’ll see where the rest goes.”
Itsuki choked internally.
The rest?
Why was the back of his neck suddenly hot?
“But first,” the man continued easily, “what’s your name? It’s annoying referring to you as ‘the drunk guy’ in my head.”
“…Kurose. Itsuki Kurose.”
“Nice to meet you, Itsuki-kun~!”
First name immediately.
Okay then.
“And I’m Satoru Gojo, by the way,” he added, stuffing an enormous powdered-sugar-covered bite of pancake into his mouth.
Itsuki nodded politely and served himself.
The first bite made his eyes widen almost imperceptibly.
Delicious.
So he was absurdly beautiful and could cook.
Some people really did have everything.
“Gojo-san, thank you very much for helping me… and I apologize for troubling you,” Itsuki said, inclining his head politely. “You didn’t have to bring me to your home, let alone prepare breakfast. I’m very grateful.”
“Hey, call me Satoru. And drop the formalities if we’re gonna be friends, yeah?” he said, smiling — dangerously. “And don’t worry about last night. I wasn’t gonna leave you in that park.”
“…Even so. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I shouldn’t have drunk that much. I was going through a difficult time.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Gojo murmured, amused but not mocking — like he knew more than he should. “Feeling better now?”
“…Actually, yes. I feel… lighter. It’s strange.”
“Glad to hear it!” Gojo beamed, instantly bright again. “Here — try some ice cream with the pancakes. Trust me.”
And just like that, the conversation — and something else Itsuki couldn’t quite name yet — began.
…
Gojo Satoru was… a strange man.
That was, without question, the very first conclusion Itsuki had reached about him — and one that only grew more firmly rooted the longer they spent in the same room.
First of all — and this truly bore repeating — he was beautiful.
Unreasonably so.
The kind of beauty that felt almost impractical, as though nature had gone wildly over budget on one single human being just to see what would happen. It wasn’t merely that his features were harmonious — they were arresting. Distracting. The sort of face that made conversations derail mid-sentence because your brain simply… stalled.
Itsuki would know.
He’d caught himself doing exactly that no fewer than five times since they’d sat down.
Forgetting to respond. Losing the thread of his own thoughts. Staring half a second too long before forcing his gaze back down to his plate like a man regaining composure after nearly stepping into traffic.
Not that it mattered much.
Gojo talked enough for two people and—...
And— was that green in his eyes?
Itsuki squinted slightly, pretending to be deeply invested in the structural integrity of his pancakes while covertly observing the man across from him.
Yeah.
There it was again.
Beneath that vivid, almost luminescent blue, a faint ring of green circled the pupils — not static, either, but shifting subtly depending on how the light caught them. Turquoise at certain angles. Sea-glass bright at others.
No lenses.
He was almost certain of it.
Which made no sense.
Neither did the hair, for that matter — a shock of soft, snowy white that fell into his eyes in deliberate disarray, too natural to be dyed, too lustrous to be artificial. Between the hair and the eyes, he looked less like a man you met in a café and more like someone who’d stepped out of folklore.
Or an anime.
Argh.
Irrelevant.
Second observation: he smiled.
A lot.
(He had a very nice smile, too. Unfortunately.)
It wasn’t a polite smile. Or a reserved one. It was bright, unrestrained, the kind that showed teeth and crinkled the corners of his eyes — warm enough that you could almost feel it physically, like sunlight on your skin.
He was cheerful.
Intensely so.
Almost aggressively enthusiastic.
And he did not stop talking.
Literally.
Words poured out of him in an uninterrupted stream, jumping topics with absolutely no transition whatsoever. One minute he was passionately reviewing the best dessert shops in Tokyo, the next he was ranking manga protagonists, then pivoting — somehow — into climate change, only to veer violently into Digimon nostalgia as though all subjects existed on the same conversational plane.
Itsuki had long since abandoned any attempt to follow the logic.
When Gojo wasn’t talking…
He was staring.
Directly at him.
With those too-blue eyes.
And it wasn’t an absent stare either — it was focused. Intent. Almost analytical. Like he was studying him under a microscope while simultaneously looking…
Pleased.
No — more than pleased.
Intrigued.
Satisfied.
Fond?
Jubilant?
Why did he look like a smug cat?
The thought surfaced unbidden, and once it did, Itsuki couldn’t unsee it — the self-satisfied curve of his lips, the playful glint in his eyes, the unmistakable aura of someone who knew exactly what effect he was having.
It was mildly unsettling.
“So, what do you do for a living, Itsuki-kun?”
Why did he say his name so softly?
Like he was addressing a spouse.
Ugh.
“…Agent,” Itsuki replied simply, continuing to eat his crepes — which, frankly, were unfairly good. He had no intention of elaborating.
“But agent of what?” Gojo pressed brightly. “You work in the police?”
Itsuki considered the question for a few seconds, chewing slowly, then shrugged.
“Something like that.”
Gojo pouted instantly, cheeks puffing in exaggerated dissatisfaction.
“But Itsuki-kun~! Is that how you repay my immense generosity? You wound me. I’m heartbroken. Betrayed. Deeply disappointed in you, my dear Itsuki.”
Itsuki stared at him with the flattest, most lifeless dead-fish look imaginable while mechanically chewing.
“…And what about you, Satoru? What do you do?”
(He’d finally started calling him Satoru after being corrected five separate times.)
Strangely, Gojo looked amused by the question — like he’d been waiting for it.
“Physics. And math. A lot of math.”
Itsuki blinked, visibly surprised.
He’d been expecting something like model.
Or influencer.
Or celebrity.
He observed him critically for a moment.
…Yeah, no. Still looked like a model.
“Interesting. Are you a researcher? Or maybe a teacher?”
Gojo’s amusement deepened, curling into something mischievous.
“Something like that,” he said, sticking his tongue out playfully.
Itsuki stared at him in silence.
“…I’m kidding! Yes, I’m a teacher,” Gojo admitted, looking absurdly proud of himself.
Radiant, even.
Itsuki found himself wondering how any student managed to focus in his class when their teacher looked like that and spoke like a hyperactive variety show host.
Had he mentioned how beautiful he was?
Yes?
Damn.
He swallowed his last bite and set his fork down, finally full.
“Thank you for the meal. It was delicious, Satoru.”
“My pleasure, Itsuki-kun,” Gojo replied, beaming like he’d just been awarded a medal.
Itsuki took a sip of tea, expecting the conversation to drift elsewhere.
Instead—
“You know, you’re really beautiful.”
He almost choked to death.
“Pardon?” he croaked, coughing lightly and wiping his chin in shock.
“I said you’re really beautiful, Itsuki-kun.”
“Yes, I heard you — but that came out of nowhere!”
Gojo shrugged casually, as though he’d merely commented on the weather.
“Just an observation,” he said, taking another syrup-drenched bite. “You’ve got pretty distinct features. Are you a hundred percent Japanese?”
Was it that obvious?
“…My mother was Korean,” Itsuki answered, shrugging lightly.
“Oooh! Do you go there often?” Gojo asked, instantly lighting up.
“I lived there for a few years.”
“That’s so cool—” Gojo abruptly switched to flawless Korean mid-sentence, nearly giving Itsuki conversational whiplash. “I travel to Korea pretty often! Especially the Gangwon region — their yakgwa is to die for. I still regret not bringing back more last time.”
Itsuki blinked slowly.
“You… speak Korean?”
“No, Catalan,” Gojo deadpanned, rolling his eyes. “Of course I speak Korean.”
“…Any particular reason?”
“Work!”
“As a teacher?”
“Something like that!”
Itsuki pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly.
“Right… your Korean is very good. You sound native.”
“Thanks. I’m good at everything!” Gojo replied instantly, without a shred of hesitation.
Ah.
“And I was joking earlier but I actually do speak Catalan too! I’m amazing, right?”
What was certain was that Gojo had a very high opinion of himself.
Then again…
As Itsuki found himself — once again — looking him up and down, gaze lingering despite himself…
Ridiculously handsome.
Clearly intelligent.
Good cook.
Annoyingly charismatic.
“…Yeah,” he admitted calmly. “You are pretty impressive.”
Gojo looked surprised. Genuinely surprised.
Then — impossibly — his smile widened even further, bright enough to light his entire face.
He looked delighted.
Softly, almost fondly, he said—
“Thanks, Itsuki-kun.”
And for reasons Itsuki preferred not to examine too closely…
His chest felt warm.
Itsuki nodded slowly, though the motion came with a faint heaviness he hadn’t quite anticipated, and his gaze drifted past Gojo’s shoulder toward the wall behind him.
A clock hung there — sleek, minimalist, unmistakably designer.
The kind of decorative object that existed less to tell the time and more to remind guests how wealthy the owner was.
Polished metal. Clean lines. No numbers — just elegant markers that probably cost more than Itsuki’s monthly grocery budget.
9:02 AM.
…Ah. He should probably go home.
The realization settled in his chest with unexpected weight, dull and persistent — like a stone sinking slowly through water.
He shouldn’t leave Daiki alone too long.
Even if he was a little better that morning — calmer, more rested — their argument still lingered between them, unspoken but heavy. The memory of it pressed against Itsuki’s ribs with quiet insistence.
He needed to be there. Needed to make sure things were alright.
Gojo followed his line of sight almost immediately, perceptive in a way that felt at odds with his otherwise chaotic energy.
His mouth pulled into an exaggerated pout.
“Oh. You have to leave, don’t you?”
Why does he look like a kicked puppy?
“Unfortunately, yes,” Itsuki replied politely as he stood, smoothing his clothes out of habit. “I have things to take care of. And I’ve already imposed enough.”
“But you didn’t impose at all, Itsuki-kun! It was a pleasure having you here,” Gojo protested instantly, trailing after him toward the door with restless energy. “You could even stay forever! Why don’t you just stay forever?”
Itsuki stopped walking and turned to stare at him.
The worst part?
He looked completely serious.
No teasing glint. No irony.
Just bright, open sincerity.
“…Yeah. Right.”
He crouched to slip on his shoes, fingers moving automatically through the motions.
“Thanks again for everything, Satoru.”
“My pleasure, my dear Itsuki!” Gojo chimed happily, leaning against the doorframe like a man seeing off a beloved spouse rather than someone he’d met… yesterday.
Then, casually — far too casually:
“By the way — are you in a relationship?”
What.
Itsuki blinked.
Once again — completely out of nowhere.
“No. I’m not.”
He didn’t even know why he answered.
“Perfect,” Gojo replied instantly, flashing a deeply satisfied smile — the kind that suggested he’d just received excellent news.
Huh ?
“Huh?”
“Well, that’s good news.”
Huh?
Brain freeze. System reboot.
“…Are you flirting with me?” Itsuki asked slowly, still trying to process how his life had arrived at this exact conversational crossroads.
“Yeah,” Gojo said frankly.
Pause.
“Or no. Or yes actually. Uh…” He tilted his head, genuinely pondering it. “Depends on your preference, I guess.”
Itsuki facepalmed.
For the sake of his mental stability, he chose not to engage with… whatever that was.
“Anyway. I should go.”
But of course, Gojo stopped him again — stepping just slightly into his path, not blocking, just… present.
“But we’re going to see each other again, right? Yes. We absolutely have to see each other again.”
There it was again.
That tone.
It didn’t sound like a suggestion. It sounded like a decision that had already been made somewhere in Gojo’s mind — and reality simply hadn’t caught up yet.
Itsuki considered it.
Then shrugged lightly.
“Honestly… why not. I’ve got time to kill these days.”
Which was true.
Technically.
He’d like to see Gojo again.
And it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Gojo was funny. And the most beautiful man he had ever seen in his life.
Not at all.
“Great!”
Gojo looked ecstatic.
Like someone had just announced Christmas now happened twice a year.
“But I have one condition,” Itsuki added.
“Anything you want, Itsuki-kun…” Gojo replied in Korean — in that same warm, lilting tone that absolutely did not make Itsuki blush.
“I’ll agree to see you again only if you cook for me. Those crepes were incredible.”
He was barely exaggerating. Five stars restaurant level.
Gojo’s expression shifted instantly into that smug, satisfied cat look again — eyes half-lidded with pride, smile curling with unmistakable delight.
“Of course, my dear Itsuki! I’ll make you even more pastries!”
Tempting.
Very tempting.
“But what do I get in exchange~?” Gojo added, batting his eyelashes with theatrical exaggeration.
“My charming company?” Itsuki deadpanned. “That’s the point.”
Gojo laughed, delighted, the sound filling the entryway with warmth.
“Yeah, but what else?”
Itsuki thought for a moment, genuinely considering.
“…I can cook too. I know you seem to prefer sweets, but I make excellent pasta. And Korean dishes too.”
“Deal!” Gojo grinned instantly. “You handle the main course, I handle dessert. Perfect.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Itsuki pulled out his phone to add Gojo’s contact.
He froze.
There was already a new entry.
AAA Satoru <3 <3 <3
(With accented A’s — clearly to keep himself pinned at the top.)
…
…
“…Uh. When did you—”
“While you were sleeping!” Gojo answered proudly.
“And how did you unlock my—”
“Mathematics!” he beamed.
What the absolute fuck.
Itsuki massaged the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly through clenched teeth.
“I swear I only added my contact, I didn’t snoop!” Gojo added quickly.
Pause.
“Your little brother looks a lot like you, by the way! Adorable!”
“...”
“But I promise I didn’t look at anything else!”
For the sake of his sanity, Itsuki chose to believe him.
He DID have a photo of him and Daiki as his wallpaper after all.
…Thank God he hadn’t had his work phone on him.
“Alright. Then it’s settled. I’ll text you.”
For a brief second, he thought he saw surprise flash across Gojo’s face.
Followed by something softer.
Relief?
Strange.
Was he expecting him to get angry?
That made twice now Gojo had reacted like that.
Hmm.
He quietly filed the observation away for later analysis.
“Okay!” Gojo smiled as he opened the apartment door.
Then, suddenly:
“Can I get a hug before you leave, Itsuki-kun?”
Of course.
Another emotional ambush straight out of nowhere.
Satoru Gojo really was emotional whiplash in human form.
Itsuki coughed awkwardly — but opened his arms anyway.
Gojo stepped in immediately, closing the distance with a small, delighted laugh, wrapping his arms around him with surprising ease — like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Itsuki stiffened for half a second…
Then, slowly, he relaxed.
He was only doing it out of gratitude.
Obviously.
It had nothing to do with wanting to feel that warmth again.
Nothing to do with how well Gojo fit against him — tall but comfortable, solid without being heavy.
Nothing to do with the faint scent clinging to his clothes — clean, soft, faintly sweet.
Absolutely unrelated.
They stayed like that for a long moment.
Long enough for Itsuki to become acutely aware of the steady rhythm of Gojo’s breathing.
Long enough for the warmth to settle under his skin.
Then they parted.
“Text me,” Gojo said with a wink.
Itsuki was not blushing.
Not at all.
“…Yeah. See you.”
And he fled.
Very quickly.
Retreating down the hallway at a pace that could only be described as tactical withdrawal.
Leaving behind one extremely — profoundly — ecstatic Gojo standing in his doorway, watching him go with undisguised delight.
Itsuki fled at full speed.
And behind him, Satoru Gojo looked like the happiest man alive.
…
And happy he was.
Radiantly, unmistakably happy.
Gojo lingered in the doorway several seconds longer than necessary, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, gaze fixed on the now-empty hallway as if Itsuki’s silhouette might still be lingering there — a ghost of warmth left behind in the morning light.
The corridor had long since fallen silent.
No footsteps.
No movement.
And yet Gojo remained there, shoulders relaxed, posture loose, wearing the slow, satisfied smile of a man who had just stumbled upon something rare.
Something precious. And promising.
Itsuki was exactly the fresh start he’d wanted. No — needed.
A new horizon. A new encounter.
A clean emotional slate, untainted by history, expectations, or shared baggage.
And he could already tell —This one was going to work.
Itsuki struck him as calm.
Quietly composed.
Reserved, almost — the kind of man who spoke only when he had something worth saying.
But funny, too.
In that dry, unintentional way that snuck up on you two seconds late, like a delayed reaction you didn’t see coming until it hit.
Gojo had found himself laughing more than once at comments Itsuki probably hadn’t even meant as jokes.
More importantly…Unlike almost everyone else…
He didn’t seem shocked by Gojo.
Didn’t seem overwhelmed.
Didn’t seem irritated by his admittedly immature, over-the-top behavior either.
That was…Refreshing.
Because, truth be told — Gojo sometimes felt like people merely tolerated him.
He knew they were his friends.
Logically, he knew that.
They showed up when it mattered. They trusted him in battle. They relied on him in ways they relied on no one else.
He wasn’t blind to that.
But still…
There were moments — quieter ones, the kind that slipped in between laughter — where something felt… off.
Everyone took liberties with him.
The teasing. The insults.
The constant jabs — some playful, some sharper than necessary.
Sure, he dished it back twice as hard — that was part of the game. The banter. The rhythm. The social choreography they’d all grown used to, where Gojo played the invincible clown and everyone else took turns trying to knock him down a peg.
He was good at it.
Too good.
But it always felt like open season on Satoru Gojo.
Because he could take it.
Because he was arrogant.
Because he was loud.
Because he “needed humbling” from time to time.
Because he looked down on everyone anyway — so what did it matter?
Spoiler:
Sometimes it did matter.
Sometimes the jokes landed wrong.
Sometimes the laughter lingered a second too long.
Sometimes he’d smile on the outside while something small and unpleasant twisted quietly under his ribs.
And what made it worse…
Was that even Suguru sometimes joined in.
Not because he wanted to hurt him.
Never that.
It was simply… casual. Effortless. Thoughtless.
Like everyone else.
A hand on Gojo’s shoulder while he laughed at something someone had said at his expense.
A fond eye-roll when Gojo got dramatic.
A “You bring it on yourself, Satoru” delivered with that soft, knowing smile.
Suguru never meant harm.
And that was the problem.
Because if even Suguru — the one person who saw him most clearly — treated it like harmless fun…
Then maybe it really was harmless.
Maybe Gojo was just being oversensitive.
There had been nights — rare, fleeting, buried fast — where Gojo lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying conversations that shouldn’t have mattered.
Moments where he wondered, not for the first time, whether people laughed with him…
Or simply at him because it was easy.
Because he made it easy.
Because he never showed when it hurt.
Because he turned everything into a joke before anyone else could.
Sometimes he wasn’t in the mood.
Sometimes he wasn’t at his best — exhausted, stretched thin, carrying responsibilities no one else could even perceive — and the sarcasm grated more than it should, catching on nerves he pretended he didn’t have.
But he never said anything.
Never asked them to stop.
Never admitted when the line had been crossed.
He was Satoru Gojo.
The strongest.
The untouchable one.
He didn’t get hurt over things like that…Right?
For a fleeting second, standing alone in his doorway, the smile on his face thinned, losing a layer of brightness.
Then he exhaled softly, rolling his shoulders as if physically shrugging the thought off.
It didn’t matter.
Not today.
Today he had crepes and pancakes, a promising new encounter…
…and the lingering memory of warm arms that hadn’t mocked him.
Itsuki…
Itsuki didn’t seem impressed.
Didn’t seem intimidated.
Didn’t seem eager to poke at him either.
He had this faint air of detached observation — like he simply let Gojo spiral through his nonsense while quietly watching from the sidelines, hands metaphorically in his pockets.
But Gojo could tell:
If he ever crossed a line…Itsuki wouldn’t hesitate to snap back.
That balance?
Refreshing.
Grounding, even.
He radiated a strange calm. A steady, anchored serenity.
Odd, for a guy who’d been on the verge of emotional collapse the night before — crying into a stranger’s shoulder under a park lamp like his world had just imploded.
And there was something else.
The man was…Beautiful.
Striking features — sharp where they needed to be, softened in just the right places.
Dark hair falling naturally across his forehead, framing serious eyes that always looked like they were thinking three layers deeper than the conversation required.
Skin lightly sun-kissed — warmer in tone than most Tokyo winters allowed.
Elegant bone structure.
Controlled expressions — except when embarrassment cracked through, raw and unfiltered.
Gojo was, quite frankly, charmed.
Hence the express seduction campaign.
A royal breakfast.
An infallible method.
And he wasn’t stopping at pancakes and crepes.
(A small, insidious voice in the back of his mind — one that sounded suspiciously like self-doubt — reminded him that Suguru had rejected him despite his cooking skills.
Despite everything, really.
Because Gojo simply hadn’t been worth it.
His ego still hadn’t fully recovered from that particular blow.)
…But Itsuki had liked the breakfast.
He’d looked at Gojo a lot too.
There was clearly physical attraction there.
Gojo knew how to read body language — eye contact, micro-expressions, posture shifts.
Promising signs.
He’d even gone without his sunglasses that morning — purely so Itsuki could see his eyes properly.
Which, in truth, he disliked doing in brightly lit rooms.
Not out of modesty — Gojo Satoru had never been modest about anything in his life — but because exposing his eyes so directly came with a very real sensory cost. Light did not behave normally for him; it fractured, multiplied, refracted into layers of information most human brains were never designed to process. Cursed energy signatures bled into physical space, microscopic distortions shimmered along surfaces, residual traces clung to the air like invisible static.
The dark lenses and the blindfold were not fashion statements.
They were filters.
Tools that dulled the overwhelming influx of data into something manageable, something survivable.
But that wasn’t the only reason he wore them.
People tended to have two very distinct reactions to the Six Eyes.
They either found them beautiful…
Or profoundly unsettling.
There was rarely any middle ground.
Students at Jujutsu Tech — particularly the younger ones — often struggled to maintain eye contact with him for more than a few seconds. Some tried to mask their discomfort behind nervous laughter; others simply avoided looking at him altogether, their gazes drifting toward safer anchors — his collar, his shoulder, the wall just behind him.
But it wasn’t only the students.
Even experienced sorcerers — adults who had faced curses, death, and battlefield carnage without flinching — sometimes found themselves subtly unsettled under the full weight of the Six Eyes. They hid it better, of course. Years of composure training made sure of that. Still, Gojo noticed the micro-reactions: the fractional pause before meeting his gaze, the relief when he looked away first, the way conversations flowed more easily when his eyes were covered.
A few had been more candid.
Students, mostly — but not exclusively.
They’d asked, politely but with visible awkwardness, whether he could keep the blindfold on during lessons or briefings, because his gaze made them feel… exposed. As though he were seeing past their expressions, past their thoughts, straight into something they would have preferred remain private.
One girl — mortified even as she forced herself to speak — had once confessed that being looked at by him felt like being dissected under bright surgical lights.
An adult sorcerer had phrased it differently, with a strained laugh — said that standing under Gojo’s uncovered gaze felt like being “measured for a coffin.”
Gojo had laughed when he heard that.
Loudly.
He’d thrown his head back, flashed that irreverent, dazzling grin of his, and joked that he should start charging extra for involuntary psychological evaluations.
He always laughed first.
Because if you laughed first, nobody thought to wonder whether the comment had landed somewhere sensitive.
And yes — big part of him took pride in those eyes.
They were proof of what he was.
The strongest.
The anomaly.
A once-in-generations miracle encoded into flesh and bone.
But pride did not entirely cancel out the quieter implication that followed him everywhere:
That very few people could look at him comfortably.
That even fewer held his gaze without instinctively bracing themselves.
So yes, the blindfold filtered information.
But it also filtered people’s unease.
If they couldn’t see his eyes, they stopped reacting to them.
Stopped commenting.
Stopped looking at him like he was something slightly removed from human.
But Suguru…
Suguru, once, had told him his eyes were one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.
The memory surfaced with disarming clarity — vivid enough that Gojo could almost feel the summer grass beneath his back again.
They had been lying side by side after a mission, exhaustion mellowing into that quiet, companionable silence that only existed between people who knew each other too well.
Suguru had been staring at the sky when he said it.
So casually that it had almost sounded like an afterthought.
“You know… your eyes are kinda unfair.”
Gojo had snorted, turning his head slightly. “What does that even mean?”
Suguru hadn’t looked embarrassed.
Hadn’t laughed it off.
He’d simply turned his head and met Gojo’s gaze directly — steady, unflinching, warm.
“Means they’re beautiful,” he’d said. “Like looking at the horizon.”
Gojo had rolled his eyes and made some cocky retort about how everything about him was beautiful, because that was easier than acknowledging the way the words had lodged somewhere deeper than expected.
He had laughed it off.
Of course he had.
But he had remembered.
He still remembered.
And remembering, now, carried a dull, lingering ache he refused to examine too closely.
It was easier to pivot away from that memory — easier to let it dissolve before it lingered long enough to bruise.
Which was perhaps why the contrast that followed felt so immediate.
Because Itsuki hadn’t reacted like the others.
He hadn’t recoiled, hadn’t tensed, hadn’t tried to soften the strangeness with humor or polite avoidance.
He had simply looked.
Not boldly nor challengingly, but with a quiet, grounded fascination that felt almost… reverent in its stillness.
Gojo could recall the exact quality of that gaze across the breakfast table — steady and unhurried, as though Itsuki had forgotten the rest of the conversation entirely.
At one point he had even leaned slightly closer, eyes narrowing in concentration — not out of discomfort, but curiosity — as if he were trying to understand the mechanics behind the color itself.
The impossible blues.
The faint turquoise ring circling the pupils.
The way light did not merely reflect in them but seemed to refract inward, scattering depth where there should have only been surface.
There had been no flinch.
No instinctive pullback.
No moment where Itsuki’s eyes darted away in self-preservation like most people inevitably did.
If anything, he had looked intrigued — almost analytical — as though he were silently wondering how such eyes could exist in a human skull at all, let alone on a Japanese man where that kind of pigmentation bordered on biologically implausible.
Gojo had noticed the micro-expressions too.
The faint squint.
The fractional tilt of the head.
The brief flicker of scrutiny that suggested Itsuki had been searching for the edge of a contact lens.
Trying to rationalize what he was seeing.
Finding nothing.
And beneath all his outward ease, Gojo had felt a small, private flicker of relief.
Because if Itsuki had been unsettled…If he had asked him to cover them…
If he had looked away like the others—
That would have complicated things more than Gojo cared to admit.
Instead, Itsuki had simply held his gaze — calm, composed, entirely unbothered.
Like he was looking at a man.
Not a weapon.
Not a phenomenon.
Just… him.
And for someone who spent most of his life being observed with awe, fear, or expectation—
That quiet, unguarded fascination had felt unexpectedly gentle.
It lingered with him longer than he cared to admit, settling somewhere beneath the humor, beneath the bravado — a small, warm imprint he found himself replaying despite himself.
Which was precisely why…
If Itsuki didn’t text him like promised, Gojo could always track him down. He knew how.
He absolutely would.
It wouldn’t even be difficult — a flicker of cursed energy, a residual trace, the faintest impression left in space like heat lingering after a body had moved through it. Finding people had never been a challenge for him; the world, in many ways, was far too transparent beneath the Six Eyes.
…but he didn’t want to.
Not if it meant startling that fragile, hard-won ease out of him — that tentative comfort Itsuki had only just begun to show, like something small and wary inching closer with each careful interaction.
Not if it meant becoming something overwhelming, something intrusive — the way he so often was without thinking, all sharp presence and gravitational pull, used to taking up space simply because no one had ever been able to stop him.
He knew what he could feel like from the outside.
Too much.
Too bright.
Too close.
And Itsuki… Itsuki deserved better than to have that careful curiosity crushed under the weight of Gojo’s attention before it had the chance to fully bloom.
This time, he didn’t want to rush ahead and assume proximity was his to claim.
He wanted Itsuki to come to him of his own accord — to text because he wanted to, not because Gojo had appeared unannounced at his side with that easy, inescapable smile.
This time… he wanted to do it right.
Even if it meant waiting.
Even if patience had never once been a virtue Satoru Gojo possessed — until now.
And for now, he had a more immediate concern.
The familiar cursed energy lingering in the hallway outside his apartment.
He’d sensed it long before the doorbell rang — signatures he knew by heart.
His phone had been bombarded all night and morning.
Messages.
Calls.
Notifications.
Sweet Haibara (Gojo-senpai! Are you okay? Utahime-san shouldn’t have said that, I’m sure she didn’t mean it! Please talk to me if you need!)
Insufferable Naoya (You shouldn’t care what that woman says. She doesn’t know her place.)
And even Nanami. A single message.
(You alright?)
Awkward but sincere.
And then —
Shoko.
Multiple messages.
(Satoru, are you okay?
I mean honestly this time.
What happened last night shouldn’t have happened.
…We’ve been bad friends. We never checked how you were actually doing.
I’m sorry.
We need to talk.
…Please answer.)
Shoko had never texted him please before.
The word sat strangely on his screen, small and unassuming — and yet heavy in a way he couldn’t quite explain, as though it carried more weight than any reprimand or lecture ever could.
Normally, he would’ve deflected immediately.
Made a joke.
Thrown back something flippant about her worrying too much, about him being indestructible, about how it took more than a bad day to rattle Satoru Gojo.
He would’ve turned it into banter — because that was safer. Easier. Expected.
But right now…?
Right now, the energy it would’ve taken to pretend felt exhausting in a way fighting never did.
He was tired of feeling miserable.
Tired of the dull, persistent ache sitting somewhere behind his ribs.
Tired of feeling weak.
And what made it worse — what made it almost humiliating — was how trivial the cause sounded when stripped of emotion:
All this… because someone hadn’t returned his feelings.
Which was entirely their right.
He knew that. Intellectually, rationally, painfully. No one owed him affection just because he existed — even if the world had spent most of his life bending itself around his existence.
Still… knowledge did very little to dull the sting.
And then there were Suguru’s messages.
Twenty of them.
Fifteen missed calls.
The notification count alone made something twist uncomfortably in his chest, a tight, guilty pressure he couldn’t laugh off as easily as everything else.
Suguru didn’t spam.
Suguru waited. Gave space. Trusted people to come to him when they were ready.
Seeing that many messages from him felt like watching composure crack — like proof that his silence had crossed from “taking time” into “causing worry.”
Gojo hadn’t opened a single one.
Couldn’t.
His thumb had hovered over the screen more than once, tracing the edge of Suguru’s name, locking and unlocking the phone again like that might somehow make the notifications disappear on their own.
Look at him.
The strongest sorcerer alive — the man people trusted to face curses that warped reality itself —
…scared to read texts from his best friend.
The thought might’ve been funny under different circumstances. Ironic, even.
Instead, it just felt hollow.
Pathetic.
And what he hated most was that the word hadn’t come from anyone else.
It had come from him.
In the end, he only replied to three people.
Naoya — because talking to him was easy.
Nanami — because Nanami rarely reached out, and ignoring him felt wrong.
He sent Haibara a simple heart emoji.
Shoko and Suguru remained unanswered.
He knew that ignoring them would eventually result in someone showing up at his door.
Still…
He was surprised by the cursed energy he sensed approaching.
Or rather —By whose it was.
Because when he opened the door…He found himself face to face with Utahime.
Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes.
Her hair was slightly disheveled — like she’d run her hands through it too many times.
Her clothes looked thrown on in haste rather than chosen.
He didn’t know how to react.
The silence stretched — heavy, brittle.
Eventually, he stepped aside to let her in.
She thanked him quietly, removing her shoes before stepping into the apartment.
They sat across from each other in the living room.
Utahime looked tense.
Defensive — but also vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be around him.
After a long silence, she spoke.
“I crossed a line,” she said, voice low. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
Gojo knew that apology cost her.
They didn’t apologize to each other. That wasn’t how their dynamic worked.
Truthfully…
Even if he’d been hurt in the moment, with hindsight he regretted storming off.
He’d felt humiliated — but leaving like that had only made it more obvious he’d been hurt.
Not his finest move.
“For God’s sake, say something,” she muttered. “I’ve felt like shit since last night.”
“Oh?” Gojo replied lightly, tilting his head. “So you’re apologizing to feel less like shit? Not because you hurt me?”
He couldn’t help it. The jab slipped out automatically.
She froze.
“…Shit. So I did hurt you. Shit. Sorry.”
Gojo rolled his eyes, leaning back into the couch.
He didn’t want to revisit last night.
It was ruining his good mood.
“Don’t think about it. We’re both in a pretty shitty situation. With the context — and alcohol — it was bound to go badly. Predictable outcome.”
Utahime blinked, visibly caught off guard.
“…Wow. I’ve never heard you sound this reasonable.” She rubbed the back of her neck, an awkward, almost self-conscious gesture. “So… you’re not mad?”
“Nope.”
The answer came easily. Too easily to be performative — stripped of its usual teasing lilt.
For a second, she just stared at him, like she was waiting for the punchline.
It never came.
The relief that spread across her face was immediate — and impossible to miss.
Her shoulders, which had been held just a little too high since he’d walked in, finally dropped. The tension left her posture in a slow exhale, like she’d been bracing for impact that never happened.
“Oh thank God,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him.
Her hand slid down from the back of her neck, fingers flexing once like she was shaking off residual nerves. Even her expression softened — the guarded irritation she usually wore around him easing into something quieter. Something almost sheepish.
“I thought you might be,” she admitted after a moment. “You’ve been… off. And I know I can be harsh with you sometimes.”
There was no bite in it this time. No reflexive defensiveness. Just honesty.
Gojo shook his head lightly.
“I mean… you are harsh,” he said — but the faint curve of his mouth took the sting out of the words. “But not today. I don’t have the energy to hold grudges right now.”
He didn’t say it accusingly. If anything, it sounded like he was letting her off the hook before she could even start apologizing. “ And besides — I kind of walked into that one.”
Utahime studied him for another beat, searching his face for signs of sarcasm — for that familiar glint that meant he was about to pivot the conversation into mockery.
She didn’t find it.
What she found instead was something far rarer on him:
Sincerity.
And fatigue.
Her relief deepened at that — tempered now with a flicker of concern — but at least the guilt she’d been carrying visibly loosened its grip.
“…Well,” she said quietly, exhaling the last of her tension, “that’s new.”
Gojo huffed a soft, humorless laugh.
“Don’t get used to it.”
She smiled and her gaze drifted around the apartment — landing on the breakfast spread still covering the table.
Fruits. Syrup. Crepes. Pancakes.
“It smells amazing. You cooked this morning?”
“Yeah,” Gojo said, smiling faintly. “But not for you.”
“Tsk.” She rolled her eyes. “I know. It was probably for that handsome guy who ran out of your apartment like the devil was chasing him.”
Gojo perked up instantly — mood snapping bright again.
“Oh? You saw him? He’s super pretty, right?”
“Not bad,” she admitted. “You really don’t waste time, do you?”
Gojo shrugged.
“I’m tired of feeling miserable,” he said — unusually sincere. “I want new encounters. My dependency on Suguru… wasn’t healthy. I see that now.”
Utahime grew thoughtful.
Probably thinking about her own complicated bond with Shoko.
“…You’re probably right,” she said quietly. “But he was a non-sorcerer, right? How’d you meet him?”
Gojo grinned.
“I picked him up drunk in a park.”
She stared at him, trying to determine if he was joking.
“…You know what? That shouldn’t even surprise me anymore.”
Gojo laughed.
“Let me tell you the whole story!”
“No thanks.”
“I insist!”
And so he did.
From the disastrous end of the party…
To the park.
To the parasite.
To the crying.
To the hug.
To the breakfast.
Detail by detail — animated, theatrical, occasionally insufferably pleased with himself.
Neither of them would say it out loud —
But by the end of the story…
They both felt lighter.