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I.
It happens in Gojo’s office, late in the afternoon. They’ve just wrapped up the introductions portion of the Goodwill Event, and after everyone finally recovered from the shock that was the Tokyo first-year’s return from the dead, Gojo dragged Utahime into his office to discuss a matter of utmost importance. So she finds out there’s a spy on the loose working with Cursed Spirits, but that part of their conversation wasn’t what pissed her off.
“You know I don’t actually think you’re weak, Utahime,” Gojo says, and Utahime doesn’t have to face him to know he’s got that shit-eating grin still plastered on his face, the one he’s had since she flung her ocha at him moments ago, only to have it bounce back. “I mean, you’ve sure got a mean right hook there.”
She ignores him and continues dabbing at her hakama to get the last of the stain out, without much hope.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” Gojo continues talking, despite her lack of response, for God knows what reason. “Just looks like your bladder couldn’t wait before you found a bathroom, and by then… well, it’s too late.”
“Ugh.” Utahime glares at him. “You’re infuriating.”
Gojo honest-to-God pouts at her, bringing his hand to his chest theatrically. It looks ridiculous. He is ridiculous; Utahime has made it no secret that she finds him so, yet he continues to provoke her all the same. It’s a game they’ve played with one another for some time now, a competition of trying to piss each other off that she continues to lose.
“You’re so mean to me, Utahime,” Gojo says, his voice dripping with mock sadness. “Sure, hysterics won’t win you men… but neither will being outright mean.”
Utahime sighs. “Seriously, what will it take for you to show me some respect? I’m your—”
“Yes, senpai.” Gojo laughs. “But we’re also friends. Friends joke with each other, you know. Surely you’ve had friends before?”
“We are not friends,” Utahime retorts, her face twisting in disgust. “What the hell gave you that idea?”
The smile vanishes from Gojo’s face for a moment. He saunters toward her, arching his brow mischievously. He licks his lips once before asking, in a long, drawled out voice, “We’re really not friends?”
“No,” Utahime says, her voice suddenly as small as she is, with Gojo towering over her like this. “For one, friends don’t let friends spill ocha all over themselves.”
“Well, friends should know their friends’ Cursed Techniques well enough to expect them to spill ocha all over themselves.”
Utahime lets out another exasperated sigh, which Gojo takes as a sign of defeat. He grins at her, and she fights the urge to smack him upside his head, which would only backfire on her anyway. Instead, she focuses on unfastening her hakama, shaking it loose and letting it fall down to her ankles. His grin fades from his face.
“Ah, what are you doing?” Gojo asks, his voice wavering slightly.
“Don’t worry, Gojo Satoru.” Utahime picks up the hakama and tosses it onto the chair, revealing a pair of black tights that she’s been wearing underneath. She smoothes the ends of her kosode so that it hangs just above her hips, which is where Gojo’s gaze also seems transfixed. She can see his mouth hanging open just a little, which, unsurprisingly, makes him look ridiculous. Has he never seen a woman before? “I wouldn’t let you touch me if you were the last man on earth. And you would never let anyone touch you, so…”
“Let me touch you,” Gojo breathes, almost desperately, and Utahime startles back, “Utahime-senpai.”
“Gojo, what—”
Gojo reaches out to touch her, his thumb padding across her cheek, running gently along the scar that spans her nose. There’s something foreign in his touch, like he’s just now seeing her for the first time. Before Utahime can find the words to speak, he leans in, slow and unhurried. His nose sweeps once over her cheekbone, and she feels his breath warm against her mouth. He presses his lips against hers softly and with such great care that Utahime remains completely still, the shock and disbelief mingling with how acutely aware she is of the way his tongue is slowly making its way around her own.
When he finally pulls away, Utahime’s mind is still swimming. The only thing she’s aware of is the cold absence of his mouth on hers.
II.
It happens just before the baseball game. After everything that’s happened, a baseball game seems both the most absurd yet the most ideal activity to wrap up the Goodwill Event. The sky is a little dark, and it’s certainly not helping the gloomy atmosphere.
“Baseball,” Utahime says, “has been around in Japan since the year 1872, but it was really popularised after the Second World War…”
“Utahime, oh my God,” Gojo whines. “Seriously, could you be any more boring? These kids are here to play, not listen to you recite from your high school history textbook.”
There are titters from the students, and Utahime feels the heat rise to her cheeks. She crosses her arms over her chest to stop herself from chucking something at him. Don’t go into hysterics, Utahime reminds herself. That idiot is not worth it. Besides, your students are watching. She lets out a slow, measured sigh and glares in Gojo’s general direction.
“Fine, then. You come up here and talk.”
Gojo grins at her, giving a hearty thumbs up. He strolls up to where Utahime is standing, and clasps his hands together as he looks seriously at the students. “Very well, students. Baseball has been around in Japan since the year 1872…”
The students’ tittering turns into full-bellied laughter. Utahime shoots Gojo a dirty look. “That’s not funny.”
“Kidding, kidding.” Gojo gently tugs at the ribbon in Utahime’s hair. “You should loosen up a little, Utahime. Frowning causes wrinkles, you know. I could see your crow’s feet from where I was standing just there.”
That does it. Utahime jabs her elbow into his ribs, which sends him squirming on the ground. She smiles, satisfied, before turning to the students, who look completely shell-shocked.
“Baseball is all about concentration.” She points at Gojo. “Never take your eyes off the target, that’s very important.”
Gojo picks himself up from the ground, brushing the dirt off his jacket. He frowns at Utahime. She has somehow developed a shit-eating grin of her own, which places Gojo on a thin line between annoyed and aroused.
“Tch.” He pouts. “You’re so touchy…”
“Quit whining, asshead,” Utahime ripostes.
The students from both schools stare at the two teachers in disbelief. With Gojo sticking his tongue out at her, and Utahime turning her nose up in the other direction, they look like a pair of schoolchildren—or kindergarteners—bickering over the middle seat in the back of the school bus.
“Um, Gojo-sensei,” Itadori calls sheepishly, startling both teachers from their squabble. “Can we… ah… start playing baseball now?”
“Of course!” Gojo brightens up instantly, and makes his way to where the Tokyo students are gathered. “Sorry to keep you waiting, kids. Please, do take your positions.”
As soon as Utahime returns to the spectator seats, an approaching shadow lets her know that he has joined her. They stand side by side in silence as they watch the students warm up, fiddling with the equipment and laughing together. It’s a warm view against the sinking sun. It’s what they deserve; these brief, carefree moments of youth amidst the harsh realities of the jujutsu world.
“I would wish you luck, Utahime,” Gojo says, his grating voice breaking through the quiet, “but we both know my students are going to win.”
“Always so confident.” Utahime shoots him a scowl. “Always underestimating others.”
“Always so touchy,” he counters, and turns to face her. The sunset catches a few loose strands of her dark hair, and her scar becomes more prominent on her pale skin. It makes her look ethereal somehow. “Utahime.”
“Senpai,” she corrects him, rolling her eyes.
“Utahime-senpai.” Gojo grins.
He’s leaned in closer to her, so that he ends up whispering the words instead of really saying it. He places both his hands on her shoulders. She looks confused, but doesn’t make an attempt to move or jerk away. Then, as hurried and quick as the baseball bat strikes against the first ball, Gojo dips his head and kisses her, full on her mouth. It lasts about half a second before Utahime staggers back in shock.
“Wha—” Utahime gasps, her face burning, “What was… Gojo, what the hell—”
“For good luck!” Gojo beams at her, his stupid grin widening at her reaction. “It’s called a kiss, Utahime. A kiss for good luck.”
“Idiot!” Utahime sputters, the crimson in her cheeks not letting up. “We’re not the ones competing! What do you think you're playing at?”
“Oh, Itadori just scored a home run,” Gojo says, deftly ignoring her. “Guess that was all for nothing.”
III.
It happens in a bright, colourful café in Tokyo Disneyland. After much debating between Itadori and Kugisaki, Gojo finally agrees to take his team to celebrate their victory, much to Fushiguro’s (and the rest of the second-years’) chagrin at how easily their teacher relents.
Of course, Gojo being, well, Gojo, he extends a compulsory invitation to Utahime and her team—whom he happily dubs the sore losers, based on their sulky expressions alone—so they can enjoy themselves, too.
“Why the hell,” Utahime snarled just a few hours ago, “would we want to go anywhere with—”
“Ah, Utahime-sensei,” Kasumi squeaked beside her, “well, you see, none of us have been to Tokyo Disneyland either, and… ah… it’s been a long time since we’ve taken a school trip, hasn’t it?”
Utahime groaned. Damn Kasumi and her sparkly-eyed infatuation with Gojo Satoru, which Utahime will never, never understand.
“Fine,” she muttered, almost hurling in disgust at Gojo’s excited reaction. “Let’s go.”
So now they’re seated in a stupid café—The Sweetheart Café, no less—with its stupid desserts and stupid pink walls, while their students roam stupidly about. Utahime doesn’t know what exactly made her accept Gojo’s invitation to come here. Maybe it was the fact that her feet have been killing her (she really shouldn’t have worn heels; no amount of pride in trying not to seem small next to Gojo is worth the foot blisters). Maybe it was that she hadn’t realised just how hungry she’d been, and the smell of the fresh pastries and chocolate had made her dizzy enough to follow Gojo into the café. Maybe it was just to shut him up, because he’d gone from muttering her name to singing it (“Uuuu-ta-hi-meee, come with meee!”), and the crowd around them had started throwing ooohs and awwws in their direction.
Either way, Utahime has to give props to the café owners: the desserts are delicious, the pastries are fresh and warm, and the place is beautiful, complete with an open-air terrace. Perfect for a—
“… date,” Gojo says, grinning at her. Utahime feels the heat rise to her cheeks.
“Wh—what?”
“I said, this place is perfect for a date,” Gojo says, “don’cha think?”
“Sure,” Utahime scoffs. “Well, then, aren’t we just so out of place?”
“Actually, I think we fit quite well here.” He purses his lips, and Utahime scowls at him. “See, I’ve been accidentally listening to the conversations happening around us.”
“You mean, eavesdropping.”
“Ah, same thing.” Gojo waves an apathetic hand. “And it turns out, we’re the most romantic pair in this café.”
“What are you—”
“That couple,” Gojo says, gesturing to the table just diagonally behind him, “is discussing divorce. Divorce! In a nice place like this! Can you believe it? And those two,” he jerks to the table to their right, pulling a face, “are part of an MLM pyramid scheme, and they’re debating their next move to scam people. I’m actually surprised we haven’t encountered any Curses here, with the negative energy they’re giving off.”
“That still doesn’t mean that we’re…” Utahime trails off, her frown deepening as Gojo’s smile continues to widen. “What?”
“You’re right,” Gojo says, his voice dripping with mock defeat. “What was I thinking? No one would ever believe we’re a couple, with you looking like you’d rather stab yourself with your fork than be here with me.”
Utahime takes in his words slowly, and she absolutely seethes. How dare he challenge her like that? And not expect her to take it head-on?
“You don’t think I can do it, do you? Did you forget who I am?” Utahime leans forward, her brows knitting together in a way that would terrify most people, but—unbeknownst to her—Gojo has long found it attractive as all hell. “Alright then. Challenge accepted.”
Gojo laughs. “Utahime, you’re too easy. Bet you wouldn’t even hold my hand if I let you.”
Without hesitation, Utahime reaches across the table and twists their fingers together. “Done. What’s next?”
In the next half an hour, they’ve shared a large milkshake (which Gojo downed immediately before Utahime could take three sips), told each other the stupidest pick-up lines they could come up with (Utahime felt the milkshake make its way back up her throat as she forced out, sickeningly sweet as she could, “Oh, Gojo, your eyes are bluer than the ocean, I think I’m drowning!”), and caressed each other’s hands (except Utahime kept putting too much pressure on his fingers, so they ended up thumb-wrestling instead).
The crowd around them has suddenly grown louder, and Utahime manages to catch bits and pieces of the conversation. Oh, he’s so sweet, isn’t he! Look at how he treats her! That woman doesn’t know what she has! If she doesn’t appreciate him, then I’ll have him instead!
“It’s just your face,” Gojo says, and ducks before she can chuck her spoon at him. “What I mean is, you still look like you would kill me if you had the chance.”
“Well, I can’t help it.” Utahime shrugs coolly. “That’s how I feel when I look at your face.”
“Ah-ah, I think the table next to us caught that.” Gojo pouts at her, and then says, in a most irritating sing-song voice, “Guess I wiiiinnn…”
“Kiss me, Gojo,” Utahime blurts, and then clamps her hand over her mouth in sheer disgust, like she can’t believe she was even capable of saying those words.
“Huh?” Gojo, who had already begun his victory dance, freezes on the spot. “What was that?”
“I said… k—kiss me, you idiot,” Utahime chokes out.
Gojo is stunned for a moment, and then he just shakes his head and laughs. “And let you win? In your drea—”
Before she can have second thoughts, Utahime pushes herself off her chair and leans forward, pressing—or slamming, really, based on the whack sound that their now-stinging cheekbones make as they come into contact—her mouth against his. It’s so forceful that Gojo’s chair starts tipping backward, but Utahime has a pretty strong grip on his jacket so they stay like that, almost frozen in time and space as the noise around them dies completely.
Utahime pulls away first only because she was stupid enough not to breathe before kissing him, and now she’s gasping for air. Gojo doesn’t move for about three seconds. Then his mouth hangs open, and so does his tongue, so he looks like an animal that’s just discovered a pool in an oasis.
“Wow, Utahime,” Gojo starts, and Utahime glares at him, her face as bright pink as the rest of the café. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe hysterics might win you men, after all!”
“Shut up.” As Utahime focuses on her dessert, she feels the stares of every person in the café burning into her back.
“Anyway,” he continues, leaning forward in his chair, “that was cheating, Utahime. You’re a cheater.”
“Well, I did ask nicely, didn’t I?” Utahime still refuses to meet his eyes. She’s sure that if she sees his shit-eating grin, she might actually punch him in the face. Or kiss him again. Either way, she’s just now discovered that her mango cheesecake has actual mangoes in it. “But did you listen? No, of course not. Because you never respect…”
She trails off when she sees him get up from his own chair. He smirks at her. “You want to play dirty, hmm? So be it.”
“What are you doing?” Utahime really doesn’t like his tone.
“Utahime-senpai,” Gojo says, his voice loud and booming, and Utahime feels her heartbeat pick up rapidly. “I’ve known you for more than half my life now”—all around the café, there are loud gasps and hushed whispers, and Utahime just wants to sink into the floor—“and I simply cannot bear to live the rest of it without you.”
He pulls out a ring from his jacket pocket. It has Mickey Mouse ears on it. When the hell did he get that? We haven’t even gone to a gift shop yet! Utahime’s heart is pounding in her chest. The noise of the café fades from her ears, and there’s only a loud ringing. This cannot be happening.
“Iori Utahime, will you…”
“Okay, okay! That’s it, I give up!” Utahime slaps him hard across the face, and it leaves a bright red mark on his cheek. “You are unbelievable, Gojo Satoru.”
He grins smugly at the gaping customers around them. “She means in bed.”
When they meet up with the students in the evening, there are two bright red marks on either side of Gojo’s face.
IV.
It happens in her apartment, at exactly 3.12 AM. Utahime knows this because the red light of her digital clock is the only thing she can focus on, because she cannot, will not bring herself to think about anything else.
Utahime doesn’t regret much in her life; not the ugly, permanent scar that makes up pretty much half her face; not choosing to become a teacher at Jujutsu High at a time when she herself knew next to nothing about Cursed Techniques, let alone training others; and certainly not—and this is something she’s most proud of, despite being a Semi-First-Grade jujutsu sorcerer—her talent of drinking herself to oblivion and still being able to speak as coherently as ever.
If anything, she likes to show off this particular skill. Like tonight, when Ijichi dragged them all to the bar that just opened down the street from his place. And Nanami, of all people, decided to test whom among the teachers can get shit-faced drunk first. Maybe out of boredom, or maybe he thought being the only sober one among a group of drunk teachers would amuse him. Either way, this series of events is probably the one time Utahime regrets this skill of hers.
“That would be Utahime, obviously,” Shoko said, and Utahime felt just a little embarrassed at how quickly the answer came to her.
“Not when I’m here!” Gojo bellowed, already half-drunk from his share of beers. Tch, Utahime thought, and he has the nerve to call me weak. “Let the games begin!”
Three hours later, Utahime finds herself lying atop a half-asleep Gojo Satoru, on her couch, in her apartment. She vaguely remembers being in the taxi with him, his shoulders slumped against the seat and his head lolling back and forth. And his blindfold, slipping down a little to rest against his pointed nose.
“Can’t go home,” he’d mumbled. “Didn’t bring my key.”
“Then where…?” Utahime began, but Gojo’s blindfold had slipped all the way down then, and she caught something a little sad and wistful in his eyes. “What special kind of idiot doesn’t bring their house key?”
Utahime doesn’t know how she managed to hoist Gojo up to her apartment unit, but ultimately she does. He makes himself comfortable on her couch immediately, and as she starts to walk away, he catches her hand.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, “Utahime.”
“Senpai,” she says. It’s a reflex response by now. He laughs.
“Utahime-senpai.” Gojo tugs at her hand. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
Utahime is about to protest, but something in his voice makes her reconsider her reply. “Sure, Gojo.”
He looks pleased, but still doesn’t let go of her hand. “You know, you never answered my question at the bar.”
“Which one?” Utahime asks innocently, even though she knows exactly what he’s talking about.
Three drinks in, Ijichi had proposed they play Truth or Dare—yes, the 26-year-old suggested that this group of twenty- and thirty-somethings play a drinking game—and Nanami (seriously, what is with the guy?), in line with his shit-faced drunk test, decided to change it up and make it ‘Truth or Drink’, so they could either choose to answer the question or down a beer instead.
“Don’t play dumb,” Gojo says. “It doesn’t suit your face. And it’s already unpleasant.”
Utahime scowls at him. “Is it really that hard to show me some respect—”
“Come oooonnn, Utahime,” he whines. “Tell me three things you like about me.”
“Haven’t you considered that I chose to drink because there’s nothing I like about you?”
There’s a pause before he says, very quietly, “That’s not true.”
“No,” Utahime says, just as quietly, “it’s not true.”
When it seems clear that Gojo isn’t letting go of her hand anytime soon, Utahime kneels on the floor, so they come face to face with each other. Utahime is grateful that his blindfold is back at its proper position, because she wouldn’t know what to do if she has to look right into his eyes.
“Three is way too many things for me to like about you,” she says, with just a hint of annoyance in her voice.
He laughs again. “Fine. Name one thing, then.”
“Um,” she says, her brain suddenly drawing a blank. The after-effect of the beers is just kicking in, and she feels a little lightheaded. The room starts spinning just a little. Gojo is still staring at her, waiting. “You’re the strongest jujutsu sorcerer I know?”
“No.” He frowns at her. “Try again.”
“Well, it’s definitely not your personality, if that’s what you’re thinking!” Utahime grumbles. She runs her free hand across his blindfold, giving the bridge of his nose a gentle pinch. “And it’s not your appearance, either.”
He smirks. “What, you don’t like the blindfold?”
“No,” Utahime responds, and then realises her mouth is reacting faster than her brain. Shit, it’s happening. “But—ah, I’m grateful for it.” Shit. No, that’s not right either.
“Huh?”
“It does a good job at hiding your eyes.” Abort. Abort. Do not say another word.
“What…” Gojo tilts his head to face her directly. He quirks a brow. “You don’t like my eyes?”
“Actually”—for the love of God, shut up, shut up, stop talking—“they’re my one weakness.”
A hush falls between them, and it takes a moment for Utahime to realise that they’re still holding hands. The clock on her TV stand blinks 3.08 AM. Utahime is eternally grateful for the darkness of her apartment, because she’s sure her face is just as red as the glare of the clock.
“Damn, Utahime. For real?” Gojo laughs. He laughs, and Utahime tries to yank her hand out of his grasp, but he tightens his fingers around hers. “Now I get why you chose to drink at the bar. Imagine if you’d actually said that tonight. The others would never let you live it down!”
“You’re such an asshole,” Utahime snarls. She blames her fuzzy brain, blames the beers she drank, blames Nanami, but she doesn’t blame Gojo, because why the hell should she expect anything at all from this—this idiot? “Let go of me, Gojo. I’m going to sleep.”
“Huh?” Gojo props himself up on his elbow. He sounds genuinely confused, which makes her even angrier. “Why are you mad?”
“Don’t play dumb,” she snaps, her voice breaking a little at the end. “It doesn’t suit your face. And God knows it’s already the most unpleasant thing I’ve ever—”
His mouth lands on hers so swiftly that it takes her a long second to realise what’s happening. She remains still for that second, her fuzzy brain registering the warmth of his breath against her lips. She becomes slowly aware of Gojo’s finger at her chin, tilting her head upward. Before long, her own hands are curled around his neck, and she staggers forward on her knees.
Gojo is shaking a little, laughing and breaking off only to catch his breath, before he snatches up her lips again. “Stupid Utahime,” he says. “I didn’t think you could be so stupid.”
“Shut up,” Utahime mutters, gripping the front of his jacket and pressing her mouth messily against his. “If anything, you’re the stupid one here.”
At some point, they both end up on the couch, Utahime on top of Gojo, breathless and completely red in the face that she wishes she could blame on the flush of alcohol. He fiddles with the ribbon in her hair.
“Your one weakness, huh?” Gojo teases, and Utahime feels the heat rise to her cheeks again.
“If you say a word about this to anyone, I won’t hesitate to kill you.” Utahime pauses, mostly for dramatic effect. “Mark my words, Gojo Satoru.”
“You don’t have the guts—ah!” Utahime thwacks his forehead with a flick of her finger.
V.
It happens on the day that they get him back, in the courtyard of the school in Tokyo. She sees Itadori, Fushiguro, and a few of the second-years marching their way toward the school with Gojo in tow, perfectly positioned behind them so that when they disperse, he emerges from the centre like a long-awaited celebrity.
Utahime rolls her eyes. All the worry and distress she’d never admit she felt dissipate as soon as she sees him, and are quickly replaced by a familiar sense of annoyance.
“Utahime,” Gojo grins at her, like he isn’t half-covered in blood, like his silver-white hair isn’t dappled red, “senpai.”
“Gojo Satoru,” Utahime calls, her throat betraying her by making her voice quiver. She blames it on the wind, even though the air is completely still around them. There is a hint of fondness in her next words. “You complete idiot.”
“I’ve missed you.” He says it so candidly that Utahime feels her heart stutter in her chest. What the hell? “Did you miss me, Utahime-senpai, hmm?”
“No,” Utahime says firmly, cheeks flushing despite herself. “‘Course not. Things were so much quieter when you were gone. And I happen to like the quiet, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” Gojo smiles. “But… you’re such a bad liar, Utahime-senpai.”
“What?”
“I could see the red circles around your eyes from where I was walking.” Gojo brushes his finger lightly over the tip of her nose. She stiffens. “Did you really cry for me, Utahime? That’s so sweet…”
“Please.” She swats his finger away. “Don’t be stupid.”
“It’s okay, you can confess to me. I know you were worried about me.” His smile is so smug that Utahime would land a punch on him, if he didn’t look so beat up already. “I won’t tell.”
“You’re my friend,” she says, her voice small, “of course I was worried.”
“Huh?” Gojo wasn’t expecting a sincere answer. His smile turns soft. “Friend?”
“Yes, now don’t get all smug.” Utahime lets out a shaky breath. “Sure we’re friends.”
“Friends,” Gojo echoes, tilting his head to one side. “Friends?”
“Wh—what’s wrong with you?”
“Me? What’s wrong with you? Come on, Utahime,” he says, sounding properly exhausted for the first time since he’d entered the school grounds. “I think we’ve been dancing around this thing long enough, don’t you?”
“I don’t understand…”
“I didn’t almost die and come back for just—for ‘friends’.” Gojo quite literally makes air quotes around the word.
“You weren’t dying at all,” Utahime scoffs. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
“You’re hopelessly mean.” He leans in. Their foreheads are touching.
“You’re being an idiot,” she breathes, closing the gap between their noses.
It’s hard to tell which one of them kisses whom. Maybe they meet each other halfway. Gojo hums pleasantly against her lips, hands circling around her shoulders. Her own mouth is warm and tingling. The air is cool around her, or maybe her skin is just so warm, and so is his skin, and that’s about all she’s really aware of.
Behind them, Itadori exclaims, “Eh!? How long has that been going on?”
“Long enough to make me nauseous,” Nanami huffs. “Now, if you’ll excuse me… I am going to get shit-faced drunk.”