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Gojo is like a cup of coffee — bittersweet.
Like the ghost of the past and distorted smiles that he could not bring himself to remember.
So much for someone who ate sweets on a daily basis. His blood is probably made up of glucose at this point, diabetes rotting at his bones to death faster than a special grade cursed spirit can even attempt to kill him.
Nanami thinks back to the days where Gojo Satoru was unapproachable with the way he addressed himself; using “ore” to emphasize his masculinity.
Reliving the moments where he was easily flustered by his seniors, breaking into a taint of pink on his face when Gojo calls him by his given name to catch his attention.
Recalling the times whenever Gojo asked him what beverage would he like from the vending machine and the answer is always,
“—canned coffee.” He mumbles under his breath.
His lips pull into a wide smile, “Alrighty~ Wait here, Nanamin!”
And there he runs off, like a golden retriever chasing after a frisbee to pick it up and return the disc to its owner.
The brand is always the old, same variation; same design and same taste.
But somehow the flavor blurs along the line if it was an overwhelmingly unbalanced bitter or perfectly balanced sweet.
It makes him wonder if it’s the effect of Satoru who has a sweet tooth, sweet voice and a bitter aura, bitter story.
It is an unsolved mystery he knows he’d never come to know.
And so their paths continued.
Nanami returning to the job of being a jujutsu sorcerer, Gojo coming to wear a blindfold instead of the bandages he used to wrap around his eyes, Yaga becoming principal to the college, and Shoko working as the clinic nurse.
It was something they never expected, but it wasn’t like it was something they disliked in particular.
“Gojo-san,” Nanami sighs upon the sight of white hair cascading by the arm chair of his couch. “Could you please stop coming to my office when you can text me to come?”
Gojo beams in amusement. “Your workplace has better environment though. I like the position of the sunlight in here.”
The blonde man lets out another sigh — feeling it’s too early to deal with this guy and goes off to his counter to make some coffee.
He had an espresso machine sitting on the edge of the countertop. This piques Gojo’s interest, whereas he’s not reluctant to question his junior, “Nanamin, you brew coffee?”
When he uttered his name, it was like milk and honey dripping from his rosy lips, filled with saccharine to the brim — it was nothing like how people often slurred it. If anything, he emphasized each and every syllable with tenderness. It fits Gojo’s mouth better than his own.
He never felt so safe with his name cascading from someone's lips. If he had to describe the flavor, he'd say, it tastes like the last coffee they'd drink before the time comes that they part from one another.
“Yes.” He briefly replies. “Would you like a cup?”
The white-haired man only hums, in which Nanami couldn’t identify if he was accepting his offer or declining but he decides to make two servings anyway.
The scent of coffee fills the room, dispersing while hot water poured over the ground beans, cascading as streams of bean juice into the cup.
(Lmfao, don’t look at me like that.
He relishes in it; the gentle humming of Gojo’s voice in a vivid tune, the warmth of sunlight hitting his back, the fragrance in the air.
It somehow brought him a sense of comfort — far from the mundane feeling he receives when dealing with cursed spirits or doing desk work.
“Here’s your espresso.” Nanami politely offers him the freshly-brewed cup of coffee before sitting to the sofa opposite of him.
“Thank you~” Gojo remarks in a singsong voice.
He glides up the fabric of his blindfold, letting his snow white hair frame over his forehead. Nanami hasn’t seen him like this in a while; that pale complexion of his, those knowing Six eyes and his unbelievably rosy lips. For someone that’s endowed with such elegant charactersitics, he was a vainglorious man.
He watches as Gojo slowly brings the cup to his mouth, frequently blowing in attempts to cool the beverage before taking a sip of it.
He watches as Gojo’s long, white lashes flutter against his cheek as he closes his eyes, savoring the taste of morning, the taste of coffee, and the taste of unfamiliarity; he didn’t seem to be too accustomed to it.
When his eyes slowly open back to the world, it was as though he was born again, unshed tears beading in their sapphire beauty.
The smile that pulls on his lightly-stained lips is small, genuine and wistful.
Much like how good moments grind through the pouring currents of time.
“It’s good.”
The next time they meet again, they were called by Principal Yaga for a small gathering.
Most of them gets coffee for refreshments while Gojo Satoru has a goblet of iced tea, topped with a miniature paper umbrella and a straw.
This was somehow an interesting incidence, but Nanami doesn’t question it.
The assembly was full of discussions regarding the associations of their work, newly identified cursed spirits and the execution of plans that were yet to be decided on.
One by one, members left the room as the meeting ended.
Tobacco fills the air as Shoko takes a cigarette to her lips, taking one long drag, before exhaling a puff of smoke. Nanami’s been long used to this stench — reminding him of the days when one of his seniors was alive, and when he was extremely stressed (he still is lmfao) that he resorted to smoking while drinking out in an izakaya after office work.
“Satoru isn’t fond of coffee, if you’re curious.” She mumbles, before bringing the stick for another inhale of nicotine.
“How did you…?”
“You don’t have your glasses on.” She quietly says. “It makes it easy to read through your gaze.”
A silence falls upon them, in exemption for the prolonged breaths that she makes while continuing to smoke; she doesn’t need to elaborate that and Nanami doesn’t know how to respond to her remark.
“He seemed to love the one you brewed for him though.” She snickers, “Satoru was acting like a high school girl. He could never shut up about it.”
A sense of embarrassment washes over Nanami upon learning the newfound information, but he takes it to heart. And honestly, the racing pulse within his chest wasn’t that bad of a feeling.
It felt refreshing; it’s not a reaction out of concern or worry. Just a small reminder of how he can be human in pleasant manners.
The taste of the memory is bittersweet in his tongue.