Chapter Text
Tokyo, 26 Dec 2005
”Are you ready to order?”
The voice was polite, almost hesitant, cutting throught the low hum of conversation and the clatter of porcelain. It was directed at the tall figure at the forefront of it all, humming thoughtfully as he browsed through the menu.
Suguru would want the melonpan, he mused absently, then cleared his throat and began rattling off nearly the entire pastry lineup.
Crossiants. Cream buns. Three types of sandwiches. Two matcha roll cakes. And a strawberry danish. Maybe two.
Or four.
The cashier blinked, scrambling to keep up. Her finger hovered, faltered, as she glance up at him. He was tall, stupidly pretty, and wearing black-rimmed sunglasses indoors. The moment he’s walked in, he’d drawn more than a few stares—his presence a sharp contrast to the soft aesthetic of the little cafe.
Now caught between maintaining professionalism and the existential horror of finding the boy devestatingly cute, the poor girl could only stammer. For one reckless, hormone-fueled second, she even considered scribbling her number on the reciept and tucking it into the bag.
But then he smiled—easy and dazzling, all boyish charm and casual confidence—and her brain promptly blue-screened.
All she could manage was a strangled, “T-thank you for your business!” as she shoved the overstuffed bag across the counter, cheeks flaming.
She probably should’ve packed a second bag, but frankly, she really couldn’t think straight under that stare.
The boy blinked. Then gave her a lopsided grinlike he knew exactly what kind of effect he had and had already decided to make it worse.
He leaned in just a little—not enough to be inappropriate, but enough for her turn three shades redder.
”You’re welcome,” he said smoothly, “But if you ever mess up my total, I might have to come back and lodge a formal complaint.”
The girl looked like she forgot how to breathe.
He gave her a wink for good measure, then turned on his heel and sauntered toward a particular booth, bag swinging at his side, sunglasses glinting, and ego very much intact.
Just by the door, a group of high school girls giggled into their sleeves, blushing furiously as they stole glances his way. Another nearly dropped her pastry.
He was used to it—the curious eyes that watched him and the whispers that followed them.
A part of him reveled in it even.
Of course, he was Gojo Satoru after all.
Pastries perfectly balanced in one hand, he strolled back toward the spot where he’d left Geto waiting—only to be intercepted by a girl in a familiar uniform.
She stepped into his path timidly, rubbing her index fingers together, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Ano… excuse me?”
On autopilot, Gojo’s expression slid into a practiced smirk. He tilted his head, raising a perfectly sculpted brow. “Yeah?”
”Y-you uh, came in with that guy, right?”
Flustered, she gestured vaguely behind him, as if afraid saying the name aloud might summon something. Gojo followed her line of sight.
Ah. There he was—Suguru, tucked into a corner booth, serene as ever.
Gojo’s smirk faltered, just slightly. “Suguru?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes! Geto Suguru, right?”
He blinked. “Uh… yeah?”
“I went to middle school with him last year,” she explained quickly, her voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “My friends and I were wondering if… um—is he single?”
Gojo stared at her.
“Single?” he echoed flatly.
She nodded, oblivious to the way his entire vibe shifted. He squinted at her like she’d just said something deeply offensive.
“You don’t wanna know if I’m single?” he asked, deadpan.
The girl floundered, caught off guard. Her mouth fell open, then closed, incredulity clouding her features.
“Oh, um… I mean you seem cool too?”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re not his type.”
Her eyes widened. For a moment, she looked like he’d slapped her with a baguette.
It wasn’t cruelty, exactly. Just facts.
Because if there was one thing Gojo knew from being Suguru’s best friend, it was that Geto didn’t go for the shy, roundabout types.
He would like someone with presence—someone who was loud in the way they lived. The kind who didn’t overthink every breath. Unfiltered. Sincere. Who laughed with their whole chest, meant every word, and didn’t care who was watching.
It’s why they got along so well, right?
Which is why, as Geto approached—calm, collected, and very much within earshot—Gojo couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his lips.
The girl saw him and immediately shrank in on herself. Her fingers twitched. Her gaze dropped to the floor.
Yeah.
She didn’t stand a chance.
“Are you done yet?“ Geto asked tiredly, eyeing the overstuffed bag in Gojo’s hands. “We still have a mission report to finish.”
He offered the girl a polite nod, cat-like in his smile—charming without trying. She made a strangled squeak and promptly bolted.
Geto blinked after her. “She looked… vaguely familiar.”
Then he turned back to Gojo with a long-suffering sigh. “What did you say to her?”
“What? I just saved her from dissappointment and humiliation—she should be thanking me honestly.” Gojo shrugged, feigning innocence.
“Besides it’s not what I did, Suguru. It’s what you did,” he lamented.
The white haired boy then proceeded to sigh dramatically, pressing a hnad to his heart as if he’d been mortally wounded. “She wanted your number, not mine.”
Geto chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course she would.”
Gojo gawked. “Ridiculous. Actually ridiculous. She didn’t even ask if I was single.”
“You are single,” Geto said dryly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Not like you would’ve called her back. You never do.”
For a beat, his expression shifted—subtle, but not lost on Gojo. A flicker of irritation beneath the usual calm.
Because Gojo did have a reputation. Not just for being cocky or unstoppable in a fight, but for the way he treated people like passing weather. Bright, blinding, and gone just as quickly. Flirt, tease, disappear. A trail of disappointed girls and unfinished promises followed in his wake.
Geto never understood it.
Why say yes if you didn’t mean it? Why take a number, a heart, a moment—if you weren’t going to do anything real with it?
Gojo just shrugged. “I like being asked,” he said, a little too carelessly. “Is that such a crime?”
Geto didn’t answer.
Not right away.
He just turned, coat rustling softly as he stepped toward the door. “Come on. You promised melonpan.”
Gojo followed, grinning like the moment hadn’t soured at all. “She’s not my type anyway.”
Geto glanced over, dry. “Didn’t know you had one.”
“Of course I do,” Gojo said, clapping his hands together like it was obvious. “She’s cute, smart, strong—someone who can keep up with me.”
“Uh-huh,” Geto replied flatly. “So, a mythical being.”
“Why is she mythical?”
Geto gave him a blank stare.
“You’re Gojo Satoru,” he commented as if that explained everything anyone needed to know. “What girl’s gonna keep up with that?”
Unbothered, Gojo continued, counting off on his fingers. “Yeah, whatever—she’s tall, maybe blonde, big eyes, and a big—”
Geto cut him a deadpan glare. “And he wonders why it never works out.”
Too lost in his own musings, Gojo didn’t even hear it.
A few beats later, as the sidewalk stretched ahead and the chatter faded, he shrugged. His voice lowered, just a little. Not teasing. Not smug. Just matter-of-fact.
“Not like I’ve got time for a relationship anyway. We’re the strongest, after all.”
Geto paused.
He turned slightly, eyes narrowing—not out of annoyance, but focus. Attention.
There was a smirk on Gojo’s face, of course. When was there not? But beneath it—just beneath—Geto saw the quiet flicker of something more. A tired set to his shoulders. A crease between his brows that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
He hesitated, then asked softly, “…And does that upset you?”
There was a long pause. The kind that filled the space between them with unsaid things.
Then Gojo’s grin came back, sharp and deflecting. He rubbed at his chin in mock thought.
“It’s definitely upsetting to everyone else,” he said breezily.
Geto huffed through his nose, lips twitching. And to think, for a second, he’d been concerned.
Gojo stretched, hands behind his head, resuming his usual swagger as he let the conversation fall away like it hadn’t meant anything at all.
“Anyway,” he sighed, dragging out the word. “I still don’t get it. How could she not want my contact? I’m amazing~”
Geto rolled his eyes, already tuning him out.
Gojo was definitely not as over it as he claimed.
⟡
After Gojo finished his ramble—albeit a bit abruptly, as Geto had taken a piece of mochi from the box and forcibly shoved it into Gojo’s mouth—the rest of their walk back to school was quiet.
A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the soft crunch of leaves underfoot and the crinkling of a paper as Gojo began rifling through his bag of sweets like a raccoon with no shame.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the tree-lined path. The air had that faint golden tint of late afternoon, warm and fleeting.
They were nearing the front steps of Jujutsu Tech when Geto finally spoke again.
“Ah, Satoru—” he started casually, rummaging through the overstuffed bag of sweets with a grimace. “—why do you always buy so much crap?”
Still, his hand landed on the melonpan he’d been eyeing, and he tore the wrapper open with his teeth. “Anyway,” he added, voice muffled slightly, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. A little humility and sincerity wouldn’t kill you, you know.”
Gojo hummed like he was truly pondering it, but the smirk on his face made it clear he wasn’t taking it seriously. “Mm. And ruin the brand?”
Geto rolled his eyes. “I’m serious.”
Gojo popped another bite of mochi into his mouth, cheeks full.
“You’ve been whining for the past hour about how amazing you are and how it’s apparently a cosmic tragedy that you’re still single.”
Gojo sighed, loud and theatrical, tossing his head back. “It is tragic. Misunderstood, underappreciated. And so, so single.”
Geto exhaled, exasperated. “Maybe the problem isn’t the girls, Satoru. Maybe the problem is you.”
Gojo tilted his head at him like he’d just been accused of a crime he didn’t know existed.
”It’s not that no one can match you. Maybe your standards are built for a myth. You want something real?” Geto glanced over. “Look around. Try sincerity for once in your life.”
Gojo swallowed slowly. “Wow,” he deadpanned. “That almost sounded like a therapist line. You been reading psychology books again?”
“Shut up,” Geto muttered, but his voice lacked heat. “I’m just saying, not everything gets handed to you. The answer to your ‘problems’ won’t just fall into your lap.”
“Really?” Gojo replied around a mouthful of rice and red bean. “It normally does.”
Geto muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like spoiled brat, but didn’t bother arguing.
Instead, he slowed a little, head tilting. “Sometimes I wonder,” he mused, “if you’d even recognize something good… if it didn’t show up wearing neon and punched you in the face.”
Gojo blinked. “That sounds kind of specific.”
Geto shrugged. “Just a theory.”
He was just about to finally take a bite of his melonpan when—
He stopped.
His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing.
“…You hear that?”
Gojo’s smirk faded at the sudden shift and stilled. He strained his ears to listen in, tilting his head as if to catch onto the distant noise easier.
“Huh? Kinda, I guess. It sounds like—”
The sound cut clearer then, slicing through the stillness like a blade.
“—screaming.”
Not just any scream. High-pitched. Raw. The kind that only came from someone who was truly, helplessly afraid.
Both boys snapped to attention.
Their heads jerked up in unison, scanning the sky just in time to catch sight of something—someone—plummeting through the air at an alarming speed.
A falling yellow flash of limbs and hair.
Gojo met Geto’s eyes. No words were needed.
They moved.
Geto’s fingers cut through the air, summoning Rainbow Dragon in an instant. The ethereal creature burst forward, its luminous body catching the last slant of sun.
Gojo leapt onto its back and vaulted upward, riding the beast’s momentum. In a heartbeat, he was airborned—soaring above the treetops—arms outstretched.
He caught her mid-fall.
The impact was jarring.
The sheer velocity of her descent sent them both spiraling backward. They collided midair, and for a split second, they were weightless—just flailing limbs and adrenaline.
Then gravity took over.
Gojo twisted, shifting their position mid-descent to shield her from the worst of it. They crashed through the trees in a violent blur, branches snapping and leaves scattering, before hitting the ground hard—rolling across the damp grass in a graceless sprawl.
When the world stopped spinning, he groaned strenuously, body aching in ways he hadn’t felt since… ever, maybe. His head was foggy, chest heaving, and something soft and warm was pressed directly against his face, muffling his every complaint.
Wait.
He lifted his head slowly, blinking through the haze, and looked down at the figure nestled awkwardly in his arms.
A girl.
Her clothes were torn in places, scuffed with dirt and singed at the edges like she’d barely escaped something explosive. And her face—
Gojo blinked.
Then blinked again.
Waves of golden hair fanned out beneath her like a halo, catching the last rays of the setting sun. Her skin was sun-kissed, tanned and smooth, cheeks flushed from the fall. And her eyes—an impossibly vivid shade of blue—locked onto his, wide and glassy with unshed tears.
She looked… unreal, like she had fallen straight from the heavens.
Which she quite literally did.
Which is precisely what led Gojo to his next words—
“Am I in heaven?”
For a moment, everything was quiet, just the wind rustling the leaves, the distant hum of Tokyo far below.
Then the girl’s face exploded in color, and flushed a deep, searing red as the situation caught up to both of them.
Gojo’s gaze dipped instinctively.
And—
Oh.
Oh.
He was flat on top of her. One leg slotted between hers, his face having landed squarely between—
”GET OFF ME, YOU PERV!”
POW!!
A fist connected clean with his jaw, sending him flying sideways into the grass with a grunt and a thud.
Today was really not his day.