Work Text:
Sorcery has not, in his time away, become less shit. It has, however, in the months since his return and subsequent reinstatement as a Grade 1 sorcerer, become more shit, a level of insanity that Nanami feels like he probably should’ve anticipated.
He’s not unaware of the fact that strings must have been pulled to get him accepted so quickly, slotted into a mad training regimen that left him exhausted and bruised at the end of every day, ignoring the bloom of warmth in his chest because at least this would be worth something in the end, no matter how small. He’s also not unaware of the fact that the jujutsu world is incredibly short-staffed, but it rankles less to be an adult thrown into the deep end all over again than a child put in the same position.
At least now he can say that he chose this. At least now he can more than safely say that he knows the dangers.
“Are you going to stay there and mope?” Ieiri asks him abruptly. She’s sitting next to him, propped up against the open window with a cigarette hanging from her lips. Nanami remembers how she’d sworn to quit. He also remembers her fingers brushing against his, her perfume as she leaned in to light his very first cigarette, and her laughter as he inhaled his first lungful of smoke and nearly collapsed a lung trying not to cough at its harshness.
“I’m not moping, Ieiri-senpai,” he tells her. “I’m in pain.”
That much is true; the ache of his second official solo mission sits uncomfortably against his ribs, bruises that Ieiri hadn’t bothered to heal once she’d dealt with the more concerning gash in his thigh. Her bedside manner hasn’t improved either, but at least it hasn’t worsened.
It’s nice to see that some things haven’t changed. He was always close with Ieiri when they were students; the two quieter ones gravitating towards each other, and then the two of them almost the only ones left, after everything. He’s never said exactly how much she did to keep him sane; he suspects she wouldn’t appreciate it.
“Out of practice,” she says, crisp and unsympathetic. Her voice softens as she adds: “Well, you’ll get used to it soon enough. Not too used to it, mind. I happen to like having another adult around here.”
Nanami opens his mouth, only to be cut off by another voice, ringing in even as the door slides open to accommodate a lean body and blindfolded eyes, and what looks like a bag of souvenirs.
“What happened to three being a crowd? I thought you liked hanging out with me!”
It’s awful to see that other things haven’t changed. The only thing that Nanami can say has improved about Gojo Satoru is that he’s much older now. He’s still difficult to be around, maybe more so now that Nanami hasn’t been constantly exposed to him for the past four years. Or exposed to him at all: His calluses have gone soft, leaving a wound behind that begs to be salted, a raw nerve aching for a finger to press on it. And Gojo Satoru has never met a button of Nanami’s that he didn’t want to get his long, sugar-sticky fingers all over.
Nanami takes this as his cue to leave, swinging his legs off the bed and standing carefully to take stock of his body. He feels both their eyes on him, Ieiri’s as piercing as Gojo’s, though Nanami takes a little more comfort in that.
“I can’t go drinking with you,” Ieiri answers flippantly. She ignores Gojo’s dramatic pout and gasp – it must be second-nature to her now, while Nanami’s still relearning the skill, relearning a dance that he was never quite part of. He wasn’t close to Gojo in the same way, was never his only remaining classmate. Nanami was one of a pair, and then he wasn’t.
“And you go drinking with Nanami?” Gojo’s eyes are boring into him. Nanami bears it with more grace than he used to. “So much for the nice things I got you while I was away, I’ve changed my mind, you don’t deserve them.”
“I’ll live without whatever tooth-rotting sweets you picked up at the airport,” Ieiri says, and favors Nanami with a smile. It’s easy to return; he tries to keep a standing appointment with her as much as either of them can as actively working sorcerers, and Ieiri the sole doctor in the school. “And Kento keeps up. Better than most anyway.”
The use of his first name is deliberate, and it still shocks him a little, but not as much as Gojo, whose mouth hangs open for a solid three seconds – long enough to be an infinity in its own right. There’s something satisfying about it. It makes Nanami want to play along, just a little.
“I aim to please, Ieiri-senpai.” Nanami bows a little to sell it. “After all, it would be pointless if I came out of four years as a salaryman without any transferable skills.”
She laughs outright, the sound sharp and delighted.
“I’ll see you this weekend, then. Now quit cluttering my infirmary, since you can stand up just fine.”
“Thanks for your care, Ieiri-senpai,” he says. Nanami crosses the room until he’s standing directly in front of Gojo, and pulls the door open a little wider. It’s not an easy feat to slip out without actually touching the man – Limitless or not, Nanami’s built broad even if he’s not as tall as Gojo – but Nanami manages it.
He’s only taken a few steps before Gojo’s right next to him, close enough for Nanami to feel the blunt pressure of a body just next to his, even without touch.
“You never call me Gojo-senpai,” Gojo says, right next to Nanami’s ear. He’s almost draped himself over Nanami, impressive given that they’re walking. “Or invite me to go drinking! With you and Shoko, no less – what do you even talk about? Taxes? Loads of boring stuff, I bet!”
“You don’t drink, and you’re almost always busy. There’s no point inviting you.” Nanami drapes his jacket over his arm, not ready to brave putting it back on.
Gojo clicks his tongue. “So serious, so logical, and I’m still your senpai so you should just say it already. Don’t you miss the good old days, Nanami? Old men are supposed to, you know.”
“I call Ieiri-senpai that because I respect her,” Nanami says flatly. The crack about his age is easy to stomach; he feels it, sometimes. He thinks everyone except Gojo feels it, in this world of theirs. “I don’t respect you, Gojo-san.”
He walks a little faster on the slim hope that a devastating emotional blow will get Gojo off his back, get the uncomfortable crawling sensation of being watched so closely off his skin.
Nanami is, unfortunately, overestimating both the damage he can deal and Gojo’s ability to take a hint.
Gojo is by his side again, leaning in obnoxiously close even though they don’t touch. Of course they don’t. Nanami doesn’t remember if they had before the Star Plasma Vessel case, but he doesn’t think they did after. Certainly never after Geto-senpai had left and Gojo had drifted further into his own gravity.
It makes him clench his jaw. He’ll need to adjust his budget for a good nightguard some time soon.
“Nanami. Nanamiiii,” Gojo whines out. “When did you get so mean? Or – no, wait, you always had a bad personality, all sour and serious. Like you’ve been sucking on a lemon.”
“That might be a side effect of spending time with you,” Nanami mutters. He doesn’t bother trying to keep it to himself; Gojo is close enough that it’s a moot point. Nanami moves to the left, puts lateral distance between them that Gojo doesn’t close this time.
Instead he just turns his head to face Nanami, eyes burning through cloth, one hand tucked into his pocket where it forms the shape of a fist. Nanami wonders briefly if it’s a reaction he’s eked out, a physical tell of anger or something held back, or whether Gojo’s just doing it to fuck with him. When he puts it like that, the answer is obvious.
He’d forgotten what it was like to have Gojo look at him, but it’s different now in a way that Nanami can’t put his finger on. Maybe it’s a lack of practice. Maybe it’s that Gojo is, somehow, subtly different in a way that Nanami can’t recognize because he was never here to see it happen. Maybe it’s that he’s just looking, with no punch line or nonsense to follow, and it’s so new that Nanami has no idea what he’s supposed to do with it at all.
“Gojo-san,” Nanami starts, and then stops. He lets out a slow, measured breath.
“Hm?”
Gojo tilts his head a little, mouth curving pleasantly.
Allegedly. Nanami doesn’t like it; it only adds to the sense of strangeness. His smile is wide, vacant and impersonal. It’s not like the times where it feels as if he’s looking through Nanami rather than at him – it was always like this, though Nanami didn’t mind when he was a teenager and he doesn’t mind now. It feels like Gojo is looking for something instead, and Nanami has no idea whether he wants him to find it or not.
He scowls. Better, always better, not to attract the attention of someone like Gojo. He sees too much and says too little about it, until he doesn’t.
He’d rather Gojo not look at him at all, if it came down to it.
“Stop looking at me please, Gojo-san,” Nanami says finally. “I’m going home. I assume you have to go talk to Yaga and you’re avoiding it.”
“Don’t be like that,” Gojo says. Under the blindfold, Nanami is sure he’s rolling his eyes. But his smile shrinks to something smaller, a new thing Nanami doesn’t recognize. “I got you something, anyway. It’s what I dropped by for, but don’t tell Shoko that. Horrible woman, she holds a grudge so well I’m amazed she hasn’t generated fifty curses just being here.”
“I’m not a fan of sweets either.” Nanami resolutely focuses on walking evenly, one foot in front of the other. He’ll go home, maybe take a hot bath for his ribs. He has some Epsom salts, courtesy of an overly solicitous Ijichi. The man was so delighted when Nanami actually accepted them that Nanami thinks he might actually be the first to have done so.
“Lame!” Gojo laughs, brief like his heart isn’t quite in it. “Don’t tell me you have plans you need to be rushing home for? A hot date? You won’t be getting lucky tonight if you show up looking like that, Nanami, take it from me! Not even a hot body can save a face like yours.”
A date. The idea was laughable before, as if the corporate hellscape he’d flung himself into like it was a noose left him with any time to sleep, let alone date. And being a jujutsu sorcerer makes it out of the question in a different way.
Nanami just scoffs, not bothering to dignify it with an answer.
“No date, then,” Gojo deduces. “You’ll get there eventually, probably. Maybe. Have you considered smiling more? That could work, but you seem the type with a totally terrifying smile, so maybe not.”
“My smile is fine, Gojo-san,” Nanami sighs out. “And I don’t have any plans.”
“Great! I’ll come over, then,” he announces, like it’s a normal thing to invite yourself to your coworker’s house on a whim.
“Why?”
“Oh, you know. To catch up? And I wasn’t kidding, Nanami, these souvenirs need to be eaten soon and it’s a two person job.” He lifts the bag, shaking it a little for emphasis. Nanami can’t imagine it’s good for whatever’s in there. “You still like food, right?”
“Everyone likes food,” Nanami points out. “Seeing as all living things need to eat, humans included.”
“Yeah, but you’re intense about it. You know,” Gojo says, his hand moving from his pocket to wave vaguely in the air. Nanami squints at the shape it makes until he realizes what it is. “Or are you not into that stuff anymore? I guess being a salaryman would kill anybody’s taste buds.”
“I still like food,” Nanami admits, grudgingly. Gojo’s shoulders lower a fraction of an inch.
“Good, good! See, Nanami? Catching up is going great already. It only took me a minute to get that out of you: Still a foodie.” Gojo’s still looking at him, and it makes Nanami’s skin feel too small for his body. It’s more unbearable now, with a note of actual sincerity in Gojo’s voice.
“There isn’t much to catch up on,” Nanami deflects.
“Boo! Four years changes a person, Nanami, and you called me right out of the blue to end up back where you started. Can’t I be curious about that?” Gojo leans in a little more.
Nanami doesn’t understand him at all. He’d never cared to before – or tried that hard, admittedly; Gojo Satoru had always been so far out of his reach and at first it’d been apathy but then bitterness, before Nanami realized that they were children, all of them, even Gojo.
It sticks in his throat that he might want to now. It’s worse to think that Gojo might feel the same.
“Why?” is what he says instead, more sincere than he means to. It’s as good as giving Gojo an entire mile, the man gluttonous enough to take what’s on offer and then more and more, because he’s the strongest and he’s untouchable and nobody has ever successfully gotten an etiquette lesson to stick in the empty space between his ears.
Well. That’s uncharitable, Nanami thinks, a little sour. The issue with Gojo isn’t that he’s an idiot, it’s what he chooses to be an idiot about.
“Oh? Well, even gods have favorites, Nanami,” Gojo says with a bright smile, stopping mid-step to turn and face him. Disarmed, Nanami freezes, half-turns to dodge, except Gojo’s suddenly right in front of him, maddeningly fast and eating up the world around them. Swallowing it whole, like he’s always done.
Nanami wonders if curses feel like this when he notices them, when he’s lined up his perfect shot, 7:3 to end a fight. He wonders if this is how curses feel when Gojo is the one looking at them, eyes snapped unerringly their way, mouth pulling into a smile as he lifts a finger.
Infinity thrums between them, and then –
A brush of too-soft hands, black cloth slipping down to reveal too-bright eyes.
“And you’ve always been one of mine.”
Nanami’s throat is suddenly dry, his face threatening scorching heat. He’s never been more grateful for his thick skin around Gojo before – and that says a lot, given how much it’s been tested.
“Only if you mean your favorite to annoy, Gojo-san,” he says, and his voice doesn’t crack. “Please let me pass.”
For a moment, Gojo is frozen still, eyes boring through and into Nanami. He bears it – not comfortably, not with ease, but with resignation as the only thing left to him. He holds his breath all the same, and in the long space between inhale and exhale, Gojo takes a quick step back, hands up and palms splayed, vapid smile firmly in place.
“You’re so mean to me, Nanamin,” he says, sing-song. Gojo starts walking again, every movement effortless. “Such a cold-hearted kouhai, and now a cold-hearted coworker!”
The moment where he looks away is a tangible thing, and a falsity Nanami finds abhorrent. He rolls his shoulders once to release the tension anyway, pretending that Gojo isn’t aware of it.
“I am who I am, Gojo-san,” Nanami says plainly. He slides his hands into his pockets and follows, each step careful and measured. Nanami is very much aware of the gap between them, that Satoru Gojo is, theoretically, untouchable, all-powerful, and even godlike, if Nanami wants to play along with this. He rarely does, but he also doesn’t make a habit of lying to himself.
Nanami hadn’t heard the name before he came here, but once he had, it was unforgettable. The balance of the world changed when Gojo Satoru was born, and having met the man, it’s hard to argue that. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says or does when there’s someone like that in their midst – or so Nanami is trying to get out of the habit of thinking.
After all, he’s here to do what only he can do. And there’s some things that he knows Gojo can’t. It doesn’t matter, necessarily, what Gojo is, only that sometimes Nanami wonders how he can breathe, with it so irrevocably entwined with who Gojo is, and no real hope of separating the two.
Nanami left and came back; Gojo never had the option.
Gojo’s eyes are still on him, the smile replaced with the full weight of his attention. It feels like being pinned to a board, held up for display by some careful curator. It feels a little like being taken apart, but Nanami’s innards are no novel sight for anyone; there are no surprises to be had here.
“That you are,” Gojo says, and just like that, the smile flickers back on and a hand comes down to land squarely between Nanami’s shoulderblades, hard enough to make him stumble forward and bite down a curse.
“Anyway, if you don’t want to eat anything I took so long bringing over here for you, you might as well watch me eat them! Chop chop, Nanami, the whipped cream is melting as we speak!”
Nanami’s ribs ache, his entire body bogged down with fatigue, and it’s half past six in the evening, much later than he’d wanted to be leaving.
That’s why he decides, just this once, to say, “I’m not letting you into my apartment, Gojo-san. But if you insist, we can go to your place.”
His chest does something uncomfortable when he sees how Gojo lights up at just that concession, even if that’s probably an act too.
The sense of danger hasn’t passed at all.