Work Text:
> Yo
> Gojo's hurt
> Might die soon
> Come
??? <
Where are you?? <
You're kidding right <
ANSWER MY CALLS <
> I’m not kidding
> Come
BUT WHERE??? <
> Oh yeah
> Bar Lupin, in Ginza
Shoko turns off her phone, and ignores the vibrations it sends across the table.
“Let him freak,” she says happily, leaning back on her chair and taking a long swig from the bottle of wine they’ve ordered. Decades-old Merlot, this time. “Now we wait.”
“…He’s anxious,” says Utahime, after two more minutes of the phone ringing. Shoko can just imagine Getou scrambling to get out of their dorms with his own phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, not even trying to get properly dressed. What a sight. “Did you hear me, Shoko? You’re a sadist.”
“If anything can convince Getou to come here,” says Shoko, “this is it.”
“Sadist,” Utahime affirms.
Shoko winks at her. Gives her the slow, soothing, confident smile that always manages to get Utahime grumbling, ears tinted pink.
“Let's bet on how long it takes for him to get here,” says Mei Mei.
“Less than twelve minutes,” Shoko declares.
Mei Mei raises her eyebrows. “It's almost a forty-minute drive to reach this bar. Getou can't teleport.” She tilts her head. “I don't think his cursed spirits are that fast, are they?”
“Twelve minutes,” Shoko repeats, eyes crinkling. “Loser pays for this round of drinks.”
Mei Mei lets out a low chuckle; then nods, and pulls another sip at her drink. That's some gambling, Shoko thinks, pleased.
“It's hard to believe they quarrelled to the point where Gojo would get himself wasted like this,” says Utahime. She huffs, twisting her face in disdain at Gojo, who is — for lack of a better word — shit-faced and passed out with his head on the table. “What were they even fighting about?”
Shoko shrugs. “I don’t know.”
She genuinely doesn't. In an attempt to scout for leftover dinner earlier, Shoko had only sauntered through the halls in time to hear the door slam. It wasn't even a particularly violent, loud bang, so she assumed that everything was relatively fine.
But one look at Gojo had her lifting her brows in surprise.
Funny, she'd thought. It was the first time she’d witnessed them having this paramount a fight. Ever since Shoko discovered Getou's feelings towards Gojo — ever since Getou had asked her to keep it a secret — she’d been privy to far more of the smaller, subtler details between them. Like how they'd always find excuses to fix each other's appearances up. Or how their touches, compared to others, always linger just that tiny bit longer. Or how Gojo would always buy boxes and boxes of noodles, just to stack them up on Getou's shelf.
Or how Getou never truly gets angry at Gojo, no matter what he does.
So it came as a surprise: to see Gojo's crestfallen face and hear him say, I tried to convince him, but he said he's busy tonight. Shoko doesn't get dumbfounded easily, but that got her to wonder.
“You don't know,” asks Mei Mei, fox-sly, “or you won't tell us?”
Shoko smiles. “What do you think?”
Mei Mei’s mouth spreads into a grin. But before she can retort, Gojo abruptly rises from the table.
Shoko doesn’t start, but Utahime does. They all turn to look at him.
Gojo stares back at Shoko— bleary, drowsy, eyes so unfocused that she wonders if it's her he's recognizing. And there's an indent of the wooden table on his cheek, red and wide and marked, so comical she has to bite back a laugh.
You’re helpless, she thinks fondly. Arrogant, unsympathetic, childish to the point of being dramatic— but Gojo can be an adorable moron if he doesn’t try. She can see how Getou loves him.
“Suguru,” murmurs Gojo.
“Not yet, buddy,” says Shoko, quenching the impulsive urge to pat him on the head. “He’ll be here soon though.”
Gojo doesn’t reply. Doesn’t even appear to have registered her words. He only stares at the empty glass in front of him, blinking like it’s a cure, before staggering up from his seat and mumbling, “Bathroom.”
They watch as he stumbles through the cascade of tables to the washroom; as he almost hits his head trying to find the door.
“...Not that I suddenly care about him or anything,” says Utahime, “but should we be more concerned?”
“It'll be fine,” says Mei Mei. “He’s the strongest Special Grade sorcerer.”
“He's still a teenager,” counters Shoko.
Although she does get the point. There’s no need to worry about Gojo. Not with how much he’s honed his instincts to be as sharp as a tack; not with how capable he is at activating infinity on command. Come hell or high water, Gojo will most likely be okay.
“Look at you,” says Mei Mei, amused, “all worried about your peers.”
“And you're not?” says Shoko.
“I have sensible peers.”
Shoko holds Mei Mei’s gaze for a brief moment. Then pours the rest of the wine into her glass, and calls for the waiter.
They end up ordering another two bottles. Utahime seems to have a bottomless reserve for the beverage, Shoko notes. But really, they've all consumed so much alcohol now that Shoko can see Utahime and Mei Mei getting visibly tipsy, their cheeks pink, likely on their way to hangover headaches in the morning.
(She pointedly doesn't check the messages on her phone.)
(It keeps ringing.)
Shoko expects a tantrum. Expects an outburst.
That's why it doesn't startle her when the entrance door blasts open, exactly eleven minutes after her texts.
“Shit,” says Mei Mei.
Shoko can hear the door hinges rattling all the way from their corner of the vast room. Getou is standing at the entrance, panting, not even caring that everyone's attention at the bar is trained on him. She notices the half-assed attempt at dressing, as expected: a wrinkled black shirt, slack pyjama pants, hair tied into a bun so lopsided she wonders how the hell it’s been holding up his locks.
Getou hastily looks around — frantically searching — and finally lands his eyes on them. She thought he’d be soothed by how calm they all look, but Getou’s panic seems to heighten when he can’t spot Gojo in his line of sight.
“Yo,” Shoko calls cheerily, “it’s the hermit.”
It's interesting, she notes, that while she always assumes the best when dealing with Gojo’s well-being, Getou seems to assume the worst. He hurries toward their booth, scarcely maintaining composure as he nearly collides with the tables and people in his way.
“Shoko,” Getou gets out — voice impressively even — when he reaches them. He's heaving a little, expression tight with concealed alarm, breathless and on edge. “Where is he?”
_____
“Where is he?”
Utahime winces. It's a good thing they're at a crowded bar, where, after establishing that this random boy who suddenly burst in isn't going to stab them all in the throat, people have resumed their merry chatter. No one pays them any mind— although, to be fair, Getou is trying his best to look calm.
“Washroom,” says Shoko, jerking her thumb behind her.
And then Getou is gone.
“Oh dear,” says Mei Mei, watching as he runs off. “I didn't know it was this severe.”
Utahime scoffs. Neither had she.
She has known, for weeks and months and many more months, that Gojo has feelings for Getou. Imprudent, infuriating, foolhardy Gojo. It is evident to any astute observer that he harbors romantic feelings for his best friend— evident in his stares, his tone, his words, in everything he does. She almost feels bad for him because of it. Unrequited affection is never so pleasant an emotion.
But seeing how rattled Getou is now, not even stopping to think about how pacified and appeased they all are, here with no trace of danger in sight…
Well. Clearly Getou has the worst taste in men.
“Oh, it's severe,” agrees Shoko.
“How do they not see it?” mutters Utahime, and the amused look Shoko gives her is wrought with something along the lines of: if you didn't know already, their communication skills suck.
There are footsteps approaching them. Utahime has a mere second to discern that they're Getou's— before he appears before them again, out of breath and looking, if possible, even more panicked than before.
“Where is he?” he repeats.
“What,” says Shoko.
“Where’s Satoru?” Getou urges, looking like he's a hair-trigger away from losing his cool. Utahime has never seen him quite like this: eyes wide, brows furrowed, fists clenching and unclenching as if he’s not sure what would make him feel better. “I can't find him, Shoko. He’s not in the washroom.”
Utahime blinks.
Mei Mei blinks.
There’s silence.
And then Shoko starts laughing.
Getou looks affronted. “What are you,” he begins angrily, but Shoko laughs, and laughs, and doesn't stop laughing.
“…Are you sure?” asks Utahime, because she has the feeling that if this goes on any longer, Getou might just swallow his principles and smack Shoko in the face. “Did you check everywhere? The hallway? All the stalls?” A pause. “The trash?”
Getou gives her a look.
“Getou, will you chill out,” says Shoko, once she's regained some poise, wiping a tear from her eye. “I was lying to you when I said he got hurt.”
“What?” says Getou.
“Gojo's just drunk,” says Shoko. “He probably went to relieve himself and then teleported out of here. He's not injured or hurt or anything. It's fine.”
Getou stares at her.
Opens his mouth wordlessly. Closes it.
“You— are you serious,” Getou stammers, voice a little high. “Shoko, are you honestly saying that you lied about Satoru being hurt just to mess with me, but then he went to the washroom and drunkenly teleported to god knows where without telling anyone?!”
“It wasn't to mess with you,” says Shoko. “It was to convince you to come.”
“But is that what you're saying,” Getou demands.
“Well,” says Shoko.
Getou looks too horrified to speak.
Utahime sighs. If it were Gojo reacting this way, she would've let it alone and left him to spiral by himself. But Getou, despite his own faults and haughtiness, has always been an upright student, has always been there to diligently report to authorities. So Utahime takes pity on him — gathers the very final, last reserves of her sympathies for the idiot — and says, “Let's go find him, then.”
Getou doesn't seem entirely mollified by this suggestion, but he does look less like he's going into cardiac arrest.
“Don't stress,” says Shoko, as Mei Mei signals the waiter for the bill. “He can always turn on his infinity, you know.”
“But,” says Getou, “but what if he doesn't?”
“I am not one to worry about the unlikely, and neither should you,” says Shoko.
“But this is Satoru we're talking about,” Getou snaps.
A strange mix of annoyance and satisfaction prickles at Utahime. She isn't a stranger to the distress that comes with your friends being in danger, given how many missions she's been on, how tangled up in this world she's become. But it's slightly different, somehow, with Getou. The guy is so tense that he's letting his anger out, not even consciously aware he's doing it, the air around him brittle. So you can get unreasonable, huh, she thinks, when it comes to him.
Though she supposes it's a condescending sentiment to have.
“We should split,” she says. “I'll go with Shoko.” Because if she's going to encounter Gojo, Shoko is the only person she'd feel comfortable facing him with. “Mei-san, you good with Getou?”
_____
“Mei-san, you good with Getou?”
This is what Mei Mei thinks:
1) She enjoys Getou's company.
2) She enjoys Getou's agitation.
3) If she leaves with Getou — and they definitely will leave first, since he seems too jittery to wait — she can avoid paying for her drinks.
So Mei Mei says, “Of course,” and smiles.
“You can go first then,” says Shoko. “We'll wait for the bill. Call us if you find him.”
Getou wastes no time in rushing out the door.
Mei Mei doesn't like haste. There's no use in it, she thinks; things will come naturally to you if you hold patience, if you take heed. She doesn't like the impulsive, near irrational actions people take sometimes, based purely on emotion. She doesn't quite understand it.
It might’ve been ignorant of her, but she’d assumed Getou would be the same. Calm, cool, charming Getou. Reputedly sturdy against obstacles, always keeps his head above water. She didn't think he was the type to lose his shit over trivial things.
Guess I was wrong, she thinks, watching as Getou splits through the mobs of passersby on the streets, glancing around so quickly that she’s impressed he's not getting a migraine from it. She can tell that he's trying to be as composed as possible, but his expression is tight, stiff, quiet with what appears to be anxiety.
This is too sloppy for Mei Mei's taste.
“Would it help,” she offers, “if we get an aerial view?”
“Oh,” Getou says, winded, “right, yes.”
He doesn't even try to be subtle about it. She has to practically drag him to a little alleyway — under the shadows and away from the busy street’s view — before he summons one of his dragons for them to climb on.
The air is fresher from up high. Mei Mei draws in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool night air as they fly through the wind, cold and crisp on her cheeks. It's quite a nice view, with the city lights beneath them and the starless sky above— a tar-streaked canvas. Perhaps she can bring Getou along for her overseas trips in the future, if only for this ability to float through the world.
“Mei-san, are you even trying to find him?” Getou shouts over the wind.
“Ah, oops,” says Mei Mei.
It doesn’t take very long.
They linger relatively low; only meters above the rooftops of every building, hidden in plain sight. It was going to be difficult anyway, trying to single out one lone person in a swarm of humans, but Mei Mei is surprised that it doesn’t take very long.
It's Getou who spots him. They've just passed through the sloping roofs of a museum annex when Getou jerks suddenly, reigning the dragon to a stop, and looks down.
Mei Mei follows his line of sight. There, seven stories down and lying motionlessly on the ground, is Gojo.
And beside him is a man she doesn't recognize.
She looks back at Getou. His face has turned stony, cold, unreadable— and before she has time to decipher this expression, the dragon plummets to the ground.
“Goodness,” says Mei Mei, once the dragon halts a few inches above cobblestone. “A warning next time, please.”
They're in a rather dim alleyway, the sound of pipe water leakage dropping against the ground, the distant, muted noises of people milling about on the streets outside.
Getou doesn't seem to have heard her. The dragon has barely stopped before he leaps off of it, lands on his feet, and breaks into a run.
“Oh dear,” says Mei Mei, dismounting the dragon herself and dusting off the soot on her clothes. She can’t quite make out what she’s seeing; there's only a lamplight a few paces ahead, moths gathering around it as it flickers from bright to dark, a static sound.
But through the slivers of light casting across the alley, Mei Mei's sight adjusts:
Gojo is limp on the ground four feet away from her, turned to one side with his back to the wall. The top two buttons of his shirt are unfastened, his glasses askew, his eyes closed. He doesn’t appear to be conscious.
And the stranger beside him seems older; perhaps inappropriately so, if Mei Mei is stricter with that sort of thing. He’s kneeling next to Gojo, arm outstretched to hover close to Gojo's shirt. His back is to Mei Mei so she can't see what kind of expression he's wearing, but she can only guess—
Crap, Mei Mei thinks, a split second before a loud bang resounds across the alleyway.
She doesn't look away. Getou slams the man’s head against the brick wall. A muted crunch echoes.
“Oi, don’t kill him,” Mei Mei says as she saunters toward them, her feet light upon the gravel.
Whether or not he hears her, Getou holds the man firm to the wall. One hand around his wrist — twisting it in a way that must be painful — the other hand pressing against his head with such force that Mei Mei wonders if his skull will be bashed in, after all.
“Wait,” the stranger screams hoarsely, voice wracked with terror, “no, no, I can explain!”
Getou pushes the man’s face even harder against the brick wall. His expression is — no exaggeration — simply livid. Mei Mei doesn't think she's ever seen such murderous intent from him, eyes wide, pupils shrunken, lips drawn tight, too angry to even speak. There's a slight tremor in his hands.
“Don't kill him,” she repeats.
It's a few seconds that Getou gives. A few seconds for the man to provide any sort of rectification, any sort of defense. But all that comes out, after several moments of near hilarious silence, is: “I— I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please don't kill me! I didn't mean anything by—”
Getou moves his hand toward the stranger’s fingers and breaks them.
“I’m sorry,” the man shrieks, “wait please please please please—”
Getou whirls him around. Knees him hard in the groin.
“Okay,” says Mei Mei, “no more for me,” and turns away at the sickening sound of something snapping.
She makes the few steps forward to Gojo, still unmoving on the ground. His cheeks are red, sunglasses crooked on his nose, clothes as rumpled and grimy as she'd expected. Mei Mei reaches out her hand to at least straighten his glasses, perhaps shake him awake too while she's at it—
—and finds that she can't.
“...Ha,” she says, delighted and impressed. “You really turned on your infinity.”
Which, Mei Mei realizes, is going to pose a problem if they want to bring him back to the college dorms. They’ll have to wait here until he regains consciousness, or rouse him awake some other way.
She turns to Getou to inform him of this— just in time to hear a fracturing crack. The stranger’s body crumbles to the ground, an unstrung puppet, and stops moving.
Getou turns to them, chest heaving with more fury than exertion. He doesn't even lock eyes with her. Just looks at Gojo, and within the next moment he's by her side, dropping on one knee, catching his breath.
“Hold on, Getou,” she says, “he has his infi—”
Getou leans forward, and pulls Gojo into a hug.
Mei Mei blinks.
Perhaps she hasn't spent enough time with them, but she never expected to witness something so— obvious.
Nevermind the fact that Gojo's infinity technique has one exception. Right now, Getou has one hand on the back of Gojo’s head, soft, as if making sure there aren’t any injuries there. The other arm is wrapped around his back, supporting his weight as Getou presses his cheek to the line of Gojo’s neck.
And it isn’t only Getou’s hands that are tense— his shoulders are as well. He's still breathing irregularly, but the rage in his expression is dying down, replaced with something that's halfway between horror and gratitude.
Mei Mei stares. Blinks again, because under the pale, flickering lamplight, Getou looks scared. Like he has lost momentum for anything else.
“Getou,” she says.
“We had a fight,” he says faintly. “We had a fight earlier, so if, if he—”
“Getou,” she repeats, in the most soothing voice possible. God, it would be nice if she could get paid for this. “He’s fine. He’s just unconscious from the alcohol.”
Getou doesn't look at her. Doesn't even spare her a nod of acknowledgement. Only slowly, he turns Gojo's head toward him, the tips of his fingers on Gojo's chin.
“It was 43% whiskey,” offers Mei Mei.
Getou lets out a sound that’s almost a sigh. He glances at her then; holds her gaze steady for a few moments, eyes resigned.
Then he scoops Gojo into his arms and stands.
Mei Mei smiles, a little fond. Getou has one arm beneath the undersides of Gojo's knees, the other arm behind his back. Gojo's head slumps lifelessly on Getou's shoulder.
“If you carry him bridal style like this,” Mei Mei points out, amused, “he might slap you when he wakes up.”
She doesn't think Getou can care less. He frowns back at her, expression almost scornful, and then exhales quietly. It’s a funny sight to behold, especially with him in his pyjama pants.
“Hey,” Getou murmurs, turning to Gojo and giving him a small shake. He whispers something in Gojo’s ear— so hushed and furtive that Mei Mei can't even catch what it is from the movement of his mouth. It could've either been Gojo's name, or something more tender. From the fragile look on Getou's face, it probably isn't meant for anyone else but them.
Gojo doesn’t react. Obviously. Mei Mei isn’t sure what the point of talking to an unconscious person is. All he does is shift minutely, head rubbing soft against Getou’s shoulder, his eyes still closed. But he’s otherwise unresponsive.
Getou watches him, expressionless. Closed off, somehow.
Then he summons the dragon.
“I'm going to,” he says to her, “going to head back to the school.”
Mei Mei smiles. “I'll call Utahime and Shoko for you.”
“Thanks.” His voice is quiet now, tight with something barely suppressed. And what do you know, it's the first time she’s seen Getou thank somebody without plastering on that perfunctory smile of his.
“So,” says Mei Mei, nodding toward the man still immobile on the ground before them, “what do you want me to do with him?”
A vague cloud of anger passes over Getou's expression again. It’s an admirable attempt at self-restraint, she thinks, watching as he takes in a small breath and turns away. His hold on Gojo doesn't waver as he silently mounts the dragon, one arm latched around Gojo to nestle him in front.
And when Getou looks back at her, it's a nascent emotion she finds there. Cold.
“Whatever you want, Mei-san.”
And they take off.
Mei Mei gives him a lazy salute, even after they've become a tiny speckle in the sky.
It almost makes her laugh. All this for something so trifling, for someone nobody can touch. Getou held Gojo in his arms like he’s bound to disappear, held him just to feel the solid heat of Gojo’s body dissolve some of the responsibility that weighs him down. How incredibly cheesy. How entertaining. It almost makes her laugh.
“Oh well,” she says.
Mei Mei straightens herself and stretches. Tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, and looks back up into the sky. No stars. The dragon is long gone.
In the end, she doesn't think she can bring herself to invest in it, no matter how it unfolds for them. The terror of caring for someone, the taxing result of it. What a load of inconvenience.
There’s only one thing in life that will never trial you, Mei Mei thinks, flipping out her phone and walking toward the stranger. She can see the wallet protrude from his pocket, a gold watch around his wrist. A suit as expensive as travel.
“Now then,” she says, and giggles.
.