Work Text:
Gojo Satoru was borderline revered by the sorcerer community. He was even viewed as a sort of god by some. The first sorcerer to be born with both the Six Eyes and Limitless techniques in centuries.
But to Geto, Gojo Satoru was his friend; his best friend, in fact. He was the arrogant boy Geto had met on his first day at Jujutsu High, where he pretended not to see relief plastered all over Gojo’s face upon hearing Geto did not, in fact, know who he was nor anything about his techniques.
He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Gojo to grow up as someone like that, receiving next to no privacy and having so many peoples eyes upon him, especially with a technique like his. Ge didn’t know much, just little snippets that Gojo had deigned to share when he was in a particularly forlorn mood.
Geto knew Gojo had always had a certain set of standards and expectations laid heavy on his shoulders; knew he’d never really spent time with his parents, just the caretakers hired to watch over him. He knew Gojo never really dropped the habits ingrained in him from his life before coming to Jujutsu High; saw it in his upright posture, the delicate way he ate, refusing to use his hands for anything but candy and when he did, they were wiped right after with a handkerchief; he saw it in Gojo’s tightly tucked bed, and in how organised his room was, all his clothes folded or hung up perfectly and walls lacking posters.
Over time, a sense of rebellion seemed to take over Gojo, and he began loosening up. He “forgot” to make his bed some mornings, but Geto saw the satisfied little smirk on his face those days. Gojo started leaving papers messily on his desk instead of piling them up neatly, he stopped colour-coordinating his clothes, but they were all still hung up or folded neatly. The walls grew full of photographs of him, Geto, and Shoko (and later included some with Nanami, Haibara and the occasional one with Utahime or Mei Mei), and posters of media he seemed to enjoy.
And the sweets. The sweets were perhaps the one thing Gojo let himself indulge in. It seemed he was trying to make up for not having any during the first decade and a half of his life by consuming as many as he could now. Geto could never deny him when he begged for some on their days off, walking around Tokyo, because the beam on Gojo’s face was worth it every time.
Gojo's appearance was something Geto thought he could never get used to. It was no secret Gojo was attractive. He was beautiful. perhaps even more than beautiful, but Geto didn’t know of a word that could describe it. Though, perhaps ethereal came close.
He was pale, paler than Geto despite spending more time outside than Geto did, and maybe it was a byproduct of his life before; Geto never asked. His hair was paler still than his skin, a shock of white fluff atop his head, softer than anything Geto had ever touched.
But his eyes. His eyes were the most brilliant thing Geto had ever laid his own upon. He supposed it made sense, considering his Six Eyes technique wholly depended on them. Geto didn’t know if he could think of the right words to even begin describing them. All he knew was that they were blue, and they held the universe; Geto knew, to an extent, that Gojo’s eyes allowed him to see close to everything around him and it felt like they’d always held some unknown secret in them, something mysterious, something unknown.
His lips were a feature that Geto constantly found his eyes and attention drawn to. Gojo adored slathering them in lip balm (or lip gloss for special occasions), and the gleam upon his pink lips constantly distracted Geto. He’d lost count of how many times he had wondered what it felt like to press his own chapped lips to Gojo’s soft glossy ones.
His question was answered one night. It was cold, and dark, and he’d found Gojo curled up outside the dormitory with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a warm cup of what must have been tea held between his hands. He lacked the glasses that so commonly rested atop the bridge of his nose, shielding his eyes from the overwhelming information they always took in.
He hadn’t even said anything, just sat down beside his best friend and leaned into his warmth. Gojo lifted one side of the blanket silently and let Geto come closer, wrapping that end over Geto’s shoulder. “Cold?” Gojo asked.
“A little. You could warm me up.” Geto replied, a teasing tone coating his words.
“How so?” Geto went silent. “Suguru, how could I warm you up? What do you want from me?”
The words might have seemed harsh or pushy, but they were spoken oh-so-softly. “I want you to kiss me, Satoru.”
And Gojo obliged. He set the mug in his hands down with a soft clink against the wooden flooring beneath them and leaned closer. Kissing Gojo, Geto learned, was nothing like he had ever expected. He’d expected boldness, or something intense and passionate, and he got none of that. He got a gentle kiss, a brush of the lips and slender fingers cupping his cheek so carefully, as though he was something precious, something priceless. There was no taste of lip balm or lip gloss, just the warmth of Gojo’s lips and a lingering taste of jasmine tea, which was undoubtedly what was in his mug.
“Kiss me again in the morning, when you’re wearing your lip balm.” Geto breathed against Gojo's lips.
“Is that some kind of fantasy of yours, Suguru?” Gojo teased, pulling away slightly and instead dropping his head to rest on Geto’s shoulder.
“Maybe.”
“Okay. whatever you want.”