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Gojo couldn’t help his leg from bouncing, nerves and despair making his limbs act of their own accord every single time they were alone together.
His mouth acted of its volition too. He didn’t know why he said half the things to her that he did. Even as they walked along the residence hall hallway to his room, he had teased her.
“You’d think someone as old as you would know how to check the weather, senpai.”
She had only rolled her eyes at him then and so for some reason, he had carried on, shoving his hands in his pockets and grinning, nudging her with his elbow and upsetting her gait.
“I guess you owe me one.”
She turned sharply on her heel.
“Let’s go back to the party. Hypothermia suddenly seems preferable,” she muttered.
Gojo chuckled, grabbing her arm and steering her back to their path to his bedroom.
“I’m kidding. Relax.”
But he had felt a stab of panic that she might actually change her mind and so he tried to rein himself in. This was a small window, a fleeting experience of aloneness together, and he was equal parts giddy and miserable that Utahime would be in his bedroom and that she would put on something of his and probably make it smell like her.
He knew that she’d return it laundered and folded and the best he could hope for would be the scent of her detergent.
The crush he had on her was almost unbearable at times. It had completely blindsided him too. He hadn’t properly realised how he felt about her until a fateful dare made her kiss him chastely on the lips during a drinking game. His synapses had exploded and the world narrowed to the smallest cones of meaningful information – soft mouth, temporary privilege, Utahime.
His tiny university bedroom wasn’t tidy and he had pushed the door open over her head and held it for her to go in, cursing that he hadn’t picked up his shoes or tennis rackets or books before he headed out for the night. At least the bed was made.
Utahime in his bedroom, another temporary privilege to cherish.
“You can take anything you want,” he mumbled, moving a pile of physics textbooks out the way so he could plop down on the edge of the bed in the narrow space in front of the cupboard.
He meant it. He wished she’d take more from him. It was frightening and exciting seeing her there in a space where he only ever imagined her being. Gojo didn’t know what to risk and what to play safe. He bit his tongue so he didn’t say something else to make her snap at him.
He secretly loved it when she called him a moron. It felt good to have any space at all on the spectrum of her attention.
“You have a lot of clothes,” Utahime remarked softly, running her fingertips over the hanging shirts and jackets.
Gojo wasn’t sure if this was an indictment, so he shrugged, his leg starting to bounce, hoping she’d touch them all. He wished she’d touch everything. Mark it. Make it permanent.
He watched her select his favourite sweatshirt from the wardrobe, something a little bit worn in the cuffs from his high school days. It was a treasured thing. Anyone else and he would have politely taken it out of their hands the moment it was lifted off the shelf. But Gojo froze, his heartbeat suddenly ticking up as Utahime smiled briefly and pulled it over her head.
He caught a little gust of her shampoo as she flicked her hair out of the collar and readjusted her beret
“Damn, this is kinda cute,” she murmured happily, turning slightly to admire the effect.
Gojo only nodded, his mouth dry. He hadn’t expected it to feel like this to see her in his clothes. He had expected it to be titillating, not this swooping, dropping sensation.
“Move over. I want to send a pic to Shoko,” Utahime said, stepping over Gojo’s feet so she could angle herself in the wardrobe mirror.
She slid in between his knees and he let her, watching the curve of her profile, her sweet lashes, the concentration of her gaze. His heart clenched.
“Thanks, Gojo. I’ll return it tomorrow,” she said distractly, pressing send on her photograph.
“Keep it, Uta. Looks good on you,” Gojo said quietly, hoping her picture hadn’t caught the way he had been looking at her.
Wishing for more permanent liberties.