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"You're in love with me," Satoru says one afternoon to test the words out, and to test the truth of them, sprawled in the patch of butter-warm sunlight in Nanami's living room.
They're having boba that Satoru brought with him– well, Satoru is having boba, and Nanami is having some grapefruit abomination with no pearls in sight because Nanami says it feels like eating frog eggs, and sour enough that Satoru nearly gagged when he accepted the offer to try it – and Nanami is reading the newspaper with a little divot of a frown between his brows, focused more on it than Satoru. Nanami had taken one look at him and not commented once on the date, not said anything other than, “You remembered my order,” in a mildly surprised voice, and, “There’s leftovers in the fridge so don’t try to convince me to get takeout.”
Maybe that’s why he says it today, instead of any other day – because he’s been thinking about it and he’s petty enough to want an answer now, because if he thinks about whose birthday it is, the name that Nanami says to Shoko but won’t ever say to him, he’ll go insane. Because somehow, the two of them have become inextricably linked in Satoru’s head: Both leaving, neither telling him; both cut deep by the death of a boy Satoru barely remembers, neither talking about it with him; one leaving, one returning, the two of them bracketing his solitude with closeness, past and future. It's a cruel thing to do, to drag another contrast nobody wants to look at out into the light, but Satoru's never pretended to be kind.
Not with Nanami, anyway; Nanami's always caught off-guard by the small, nice things Satoru's capable of, which is maybe why Satoru does it just irregularly enough to be unreliable.
There's a deadly silent moment where Nanami doesn’t answer, his expression doesn’t change, but Satoru sees the paper crumple under his fingers.
Ah. Something squirms in his chest, a little uncomfortable. He – doesn't know what he expected, beyond dismissal, denial. Teasing, maybe. Except none of that is happening which means Satoru is right, which isn't a surprise because he's almost always right, only now he can't deal with it properly until he gets a response.
It’s not hard to wait for Nanami to speak; Satoru doesn’t like to be patient, but despite what anyone might say, he does know that it’s useful sometimes. When dealing with the higher ups, when his students are taking a long, long time to get the point, when talking with Nanami. All very delicate arts, all things that Satoru’s mastered well enough to be considered accomplished. Especially that last one, he would put it on his nonexistent resume – as is, he’s thought very hard about making himself a mug with the phrase. It probably wouldn't make Nanami laugh, but it might make him roll his eyes, and that's almost as good.
“Why are you saying that,” Nanami says more than asks. His grip on the newspaper loosens, and he turns the page, folds the thing in half, and picks up the pen lying on the coffee table in wait for this very moment. He crosses his legs, uses one thigh as a surface to write on; he always wears dark pants for this, so as not to smudge newsprint on anything. Satoru watches with mild fascination as he always does – only old men do the puzzles in the paper, only lunatics do it in pen, and he almost tells Nanami this out of force of habit until he remembers that he’d better not change the conversation. Nanami’s slippery like that, and Satoru’s too prone to committing to the bit.
“Why do I say anything, Nanami? Wait, don’t answer that. It’s because I was thinking about it,” he interjects, before Nanami can say something devastating like ‘because your mouth flaps like a pair of underwear hung to dry on a windy day’ or ‘that’s a mystery nobody can ever answer, Gojo-san, which is a shame because it’s the first step to getting you to stop.’
Nanami taps the end of his pen against his chin. He’s doing the crossword, because he always does that first, mouthing along with the clues like a kid working out how to read.
“Congratulations on your newly found brain cells,” Nanami tells him dryly. He puts pen to paper, every stroke meticulous and neat. Nanami’s handwriting looks like it could be typed half the time; the other half, it’s in some weird shorthand that Satoru has no real hope of deciphering.
“Thank you! You should throw me a party, give me a gift in exchange for putting up with all that sass,” Satoru informs him, lofty. He’ll allow the digression just for now, because there’s something in it for him. Nanami’s mouth twitches – victory, the closest thing he’ll get to a smile. It’s nice to be able to do that; Satoru’s categorized Nanami’s smiles like they do curses, except it’s both easier and infinitely more difficult to do given how stingy he is with them. It’s like drawing blood from a rock sometimes.
Sometimes Satoru wants to grab anyone who has the balls to complain about him being obtuse, or cryptic, or evasive, and drag them in front of Nanami to show them what that actually looks like. Nanami’s got them all fooled into thinking he’s straightforward, but he’s not as simple as he likes to think.
Satoru’s got it all figured out. Well, most of it.
“I’ll consider it,” Nanami says solemnly. And that’s it. He stops writing for a second – probably double-checking his answers, or working something out in his head – before starting again. It’s like Satoru hasn’t said anything at all; he’d be impressed if it wasn’t so annoying.
Satoru scowls at the ceiling and viciously sucks down four pearls in quick succession.
“You should do more than that if you like me,” he mutters.
“And you should know better than anyone that what somebody should do isn’t what they actually do,” Nanami replies. His voice is even. Even more annoying. They could be talking about the weather, for how bothered he sounds; Satoru shouldn’t be the one whose skin this is getting under.
He changes tacks, decides deceit is the best way to do this. Nanami already thinks Satoru’s a liar, and not entirely unfairly, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to let himself be shamed into honesty. “Shoko said.”
“She didn’t.” Immediate, calm. Nanami has a sip of his tea, thin lips around the straw, fingers getting wet with the condensation on the outside of the cup. His knuckles are raw, probably from a mission Satoru’s not that interested in asking about, seeing as Nanami didn’t come back missing any obvious pieces.
“How do you know?” Satoru counters. “She gossips so much. It’s like broadcasting something on the radio, telling her. You might as well go viral on Twitter."
“I know because she hasn’t spoken to me about it. She’d do that before ever approaching you.” Completely unapologetic, Nanami puts his drink down and wipes his hand dry. “You aren’t involved.”
Satoru gapes at the fucking absurdity of that statement. It's technically a denial, sure, but of a fundamental fact rather than the statement as a whole. It's like he's said the weather is nice and then Nanami went, "Is it? The sun exploded into a supernova yesterday." Satoru can practically hear him say it.
“Close your mouth, Gojo-san. You look ridiculous,” Nanami says in the exact same tone as in Satoru's head. Faintly disapproving and judgemental, neutral otherwise.
“You don’t even know what I look like, you’re doing your stupid puzzle.” Satoru closes his mouth anyway, suddenly self-conscious about it. He decides to push. What else is there to do? “Were you ever going to say anything?”
Nanami pauses, sighs out a long exhale like this is just another thing Satoru’s dragging him into, like it’s a job that’s ended up more complicated than he’d been originally told. Satoru’s not sure he likes it, if he’s honest. It’s not a special reaction, it’s not the one he wants.
He doesn't know what one he wants, but it isn't that. He's sure of it.
“I don’t think this is worth discussing,” he says, which isn’t a complete shutdown of the topic even if it’s still very stupid.
“Seriously?” Satoru can’t keep the disbelief out of his voice; he doesn’t even bother trying. “Nanami. Nanamiii. You're joking, you finally learned how! Tell me you're joking.” He draws the other’s name out in the way he knows Nanami hates.
“Not everything is about you, Gojo-san,” Nanami says, a little colder than usual, which. Hm. Is something, just also not what Satoru wants. It wouldn’t kill him to give a real explanation, or even denial. Denial, Satoru could work with, needle him with for ages and then they wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Well, Satoru wouldn't; it would give him something to stop stewing over, gentle the blow of a realization that's been creeping up on him for longer than he'd like to admit, and probably solve a ton of problems before they ever started. It’d be a good pattern of talking about it while also not talking about it, except for how Nanami’s being a spoilsport.
Which, on second thought, Satoru really should’ve anticipated.
Nanami likes to throw a wrench into things.
“I’m just saying! This is literally about me, so nice try, but I won’t feel bad for being self-centered.” Satoru takes another long pull of tea, drawing up the last of his boba.
“You don’t feel bad about that anyway,” Nanami says. But he folds the newspaper in a single, careful crease, and sets it aside. “Fine, then. I’ll field one minute of questions about this, and then we’re done.”
He even looks at the clock, deliberate enough that Satoru can't tell if he's bluffing or if he's going to turn a bluff into reality if Satoru calls him on it. Nanami's a bastard that way, he never says anything he's not prepared to eventually mean.
“One minute!” Satoru nearly squawks, sitting bolt upright. “That – no, that’s not how it works. And I already asked a question that you didn’t answer.”
“Then your minute is up,” Nanami informs him without a single drop of remorse. Satoru groans.
“Nanami. Come on! I just – I just want to know.” It sounds pathetic when Satoru says it like that; he’s never been someone who just wanted to know, it’s always about what he can do with that knowledge, whether he can use it or not, except now he’s wondering if Nanami doesn’t want him to use it at all. If Nanami thinks so little of him, that he’d use this as a weakness to exploit. He wouldn’t. It’s Nanami.
Another sigh. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Why not?” The words fly from his mouth, a wrong note in a symphony.
“Why would I?” Nanami counters.
“Don’t answer a question with a question,” Satoru protests. “Just to waste the time I have left to grill you like a fish.”
“Consider it a rhetorical question, then. Honestly, Gojo-san, why would I tell you? It wouldn’t accomplish anything.” Nanami’s looking at him, eyes clear behind the gold-framed glasses he wears when he’s not working, his expression entirely steadfast.
“I don’t understand,” Satoru finally says. “Don’t you want – things?” He grimaces. “Ugh. You know what I mean.”
“Not really,” Nanami says, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. “But I can guess. And – no. I don’t. I’m content with being your coworker. It would be rude to make my feelings your problem.”
“Coworker,” Satoru repeats, almost incredulous. “Nanami, you’ve said a lot of dumb things in this conversation but that might be the worst one – and I want you to know that’s very, very impressive since you also just said that your feelings about me had nothing to do with me.”
“Friends, then,” Nanami corrects himself with a speculative glance Satoru’s way. Satoru nods. Friends, sure. It’s not wrong, they’re closer than Satoru ever expected to be, given how Nanami is generally and how Satoru is specifically. It just – doesn’t feel quite right either, but maybe that’s just because Satoru hasn’t ever had many of them, and definitely not like this. His friendship with Suguru had been easy as breathing, when he thinks back on it, shot through with an undercurrent of something more. They’d been two halves of the same whole, it felt like, except they weren’t in the end. And Shoko’s, well. Herself. Acerbic like Nanami, but she doesn’t have the same sense of humor as him, she’d never hang out with him like this, welcome him into her home and cook for him and do the crossword or Sudoku or whatever while Satoru did something else.
“There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it? And friends tell each other things,” Satoru prompts. He doesn’t know why he’s pushing so hard – the denial he’d wanted isn’t forthcoming, and the discordance between them is slowly building and building. “Like this, for example. We can paint each other’s nails and do face masks and you can tell me your top five favorite things about me! I’m disqualifying any mention of my perfect ass, and beautiful face, and –,”
“Winning personality?” Nanami asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll pass on that, Gojo-san. Your ego doesn’t need the help.”
“You’re being annoying,” is what Satoru says, accusing.
“And you’re being nosy,” Nanami replies, less accusing and more factual.
“I’m allowed to be nosy! You just said we were friends, you can’t take that back. It gives me a license to be nosy, and it never expires,” Satoru tells him. “So cough it up, Nanami! I’m sure some online therapist would tell you that your feelings aren’t a problem and are valid, so I won’t bother. I’ll even be a good friend and say I’m proud of you for telling me that you have feelings. How’s that?”
“Terrible,” Nanami says immediately, deadpan. “But the effort is appreciated. Let me rephrase, then. I didn’t want you to feel guilty for not reciprocating. Or resentful that I felt this way at all. Both seemed possible, and like I said, I’m content with what we have now. I don’t want anything more, certainly not what you’re not prepared to give.”
“You don’t know what I’m prepared to give or not,” Satoru says, more stung than he’d expected by that. Jesus.
Nanami looks at him for a long moment and shakes his head. “No, I do. And even if I didn’t, Gojo-san, there would be no point. I’m a sorcerer. If I make it to retirement, then I’ll think about having a love life.”
His voice doesn’t do a single thing to highlight the seriousness of that one word: If. Satoru’s jaw clenches; the slow, creeping sense of wrongness erupting in a single, high-pitched note.
Then you’ll die alone, he nearly says, but that’s – too much. He doesn’t know why the words are suddenly on the tip of his tongue, where all that vitriol is coming from.
Nanami’s mouth turns down at the corners like he can read it in Satoru’s expression anyway.
“There’s a reason you’re bringing it up today of all days,” is all Nanami has to say to make shame and guilt and resentment rush through him in an awful, searing flash. He’s gentle, but that doesn’t make it better.
“Wow,” Satoru manages to get out, voice steady despite the knot rising in his throat. “Great way to confess, Nanami. ‘I like you but I was never going to do anything about it because you’re not capable of returning it.’ Ten out of ten.”
“It’s not a confession if you do it for me, and I didn’t say that.” Nanami frowns slightly.
“You turned yourself down for me, I might as well confess for you,” Satoru shoots back.
“Stop making this into something it isn’t. I didn’t turn myself down, I have eyes. You’re not interested. I don’t think you’re in a position to be interested. It’s not personal for either of us. Things turn out that way sometimes. Attraction isn’t a tangible, quantifiable thing. I’m an adult, Gojo-san. I’ll get over it,” Nanami adds, almost like he’s looking forward to being free of an inconvenience. Which is honestly just rude. He’s Gojo Satoru, the least Nanami could do is pine properly – but then, Satoru doesn’t like the thought of Nanami pining properly, because knowing Nanami, it would mean he’d do it long-distance, which would mean Satoru wouldn’t see him, which he’d manage with, of course, he spent years not seeing Nanami, but he likes the routine they settled into.
Alright, so maybe he understands why Nanami wouldn’t have breathed a word about it. Satoru likes what they have too, and Nanami’s always been more cautious than him.
“Sure, but crushing on anyone after me is a huge downgrade and I want you to know that,” Satoru finally says into the air, almost petulant. He doesn’t regret saying it, even if the air in the room gets heavy for a second after he does. It’s not like Nanami thinks of Satoru as this uncaring statue, but the way he’s been talking makes it sound like Nanami thinks of himself as deeply uninteresting, and at the very least Satoru knows that’s not true. There’s plenty of people who’d fall all over themselves to go on a date with him, or even have him breathe in their general direction. Not as many as Satoru, sure, but that’s a high bar to clear. And Nanami’s got a devoted set of people, like that sorcerer, the second grade, who follows Nanami around like he’s hung the moon, sun, and every star in the sky.
Satoru’s always thought that blatant hero worship was gross and kind of weird when directed at Nanami, paired with the guy always looking at him.
He doesn’t really want to think about what it’d mean if Nanami started looking back.
His mouth feels dry all of a sudden; he drains the rest of his tea, and it doesn’t help.
Maybe that’s why he blurts out, “And I could, for the record.”
Nanami just hums, noncommittal, like he doesn’t believe Satoru at all.
“We’ll see,” is all he says, two words he’s told Satoru in a hundred different circumstances. It’s enough to slide them back towards normalcy, in the steady way Nanami’s good at.. “I may as well wait, I don’t have anything better to do until this passes.”
And just like that, he picks his newspaper and pen back up, attention sliding from Satoru almost pointedly, as if to say, see, it won’t change anything, it really doesn’t matter.
What it really means is that Nanami will be here. That Satoru is still welcome.
The relief Satoru feels is edged in something he can't name.