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Gojo has always had a real talent for being nonchalant. Utahime immediately noticed it when they first met because his lack of seriousness was easy to read in his slovenly uniform, too-tall, too-slouchy gait, and the wide, teasing grin beneath his sunglasses. That is the first thing you notice about his face—the smile, the glasses, the lack of concern. It all sort of spoke for him. It still does.
Back then, these attributes had all struck Utahime in quick succession, like rapid-fire blows, when she was perhaps too vulnerable to that kind of charm. When they met, Utahime felt like her own lack of these qualities could be just as easily read off her body as Gojo's. But whatever Gojo Satoru represented, she felt like she was fundamentally the opposite — too earnest, wide-eyed and guileless, nervy. She had always been a goody-two-shoes.
She was different now, obviously, but when they met, she hadn't yet developed the necessary defences. It took embarrassingly little from Gojo. Just a teasing smile, a ruffle of her hair, and a moment of his grating attention, and Utahime found her heart throbbing in her chest.
She was terrified that he could see it immediately, plainly — large letters.
It was a silly thing at first, and she hoped she was doing a good enough job of hiding it. Gojo was younger than her— flashy and popular, too—so Utahime couldn't bear the humiliation of him knowing about her crush on him. She’d confess to anything but the truth when it came to him. Over time, it was much easier to prickle when he teased and let the façade of anger hide her blush in plain sight. He helped this process along by being exceptionally disrespectful and grating when it came to her.
Over time, though, the crush has simmered down into her gut and become quieter, deeper, and less easy to hide. Even her anger has become predictable, a sign of their bond, and Gojo's continued teasing has only made things more complicated. It’s lost one crucial aspect, as per her flustered request, but he still—perhaps reassuringly—teases her within an inch of a full-blown rage.
But the touching had stopped. It had been humiliating to have to ask Gojo to stop grabbing her like he used to. It was the closest she'd come to confessing her feelings, and it was the most transparent and most devastating moment of realisation that Gojo knew, on some level, how she felt about him.
He has always been so much better than her at hiding things. Utahime only recently realised that the nonchalance she reads so easily in his smile and gait is a ruse—or maybe just a relic.
Either way, Gojo no longer touches her because she asked him not to.
That day, he'd taken this familiar game too far, grabbing her from her deck chair on the lakeside and carrying her squirming and shrieking to the too-cold water. Utahime's entire body had flashed with an uncomfortable awareness of him , his skin against hers, the scent of him, the breadth of his hands over her waist as he jumped bodily into the water. The world had dissolved into bubbles, a kind of disintegration of colour and sound, as he plunged with her into the chilly lake water. They emerged, her coughing and shrieking and Gojo cackling with his pale hair plastered to his forehead. The worst of it was that her bikini top had ridden up in the plunge, and Utahime felt, with horror and heat, that her bare breasts were pressed against his chest.
"Oops," he laughed, swimming back slightly and pushing her head under the water.
Utahime kicked out, aghast and squirming to get her top in place. In her bid to swim back from him, she kicked him in the stomach. He grunted, still laughing, but Utahime, spluttering, felt the deep shame of tears springing to her eyes.
"Sorry, Hime!" he called, still grinning, as she swam back to the shore, fumbling and humiliated.
"I fucking hate you!" she shouted, not looking at him. She pulled herself out of the water, stumbling a little on the rocks and sand as gravity rudely reasserted itself.
"Uta—!" he called after her, the hint of contrition colouring his words. “Don’t be like that! It’s funny!”
"Leave me alone!" she shouted. " You're such an asshole."
"Don't be mad," he laughed. "Come on, Uta, I didn't mean—"
She was walking faster, her feet sliding and crunching on the beach, trying to ignore him.
"I said I'm sorry," he whined. Utahime could tell he was close behind her, his feet making loud slaps in the water. "I didn't think it would make you so mad."
He followed her into the cabin with everyone else hanging back awkwardly because at least half of them knew about Utahime's crush and were aware that something terrible had just happened. Utahime stormed through the hallway to the bedroom that she and Shoko were sharing.
"Uta," he whined, catching up with her too easily.
She slammed the door in his face, but he followed her into the room and shut the door behind him.
"I don't want to talk to you right now," Utahime snapped, her eyes pricking with tears again. "You always take things too far."
"Uta, c'mon, you know I was just messing around," he said softly, looking deeply uncomfortable among the feminine chaos of the girls’ room. "I always mess with you. It's our thing."
She had been fumbling with her luggage, digging through it to find a change of clothes. Her teeth were chattering, and her borrowed bikini was cold and wet against her skin. She ignored him, sniffing.
"Uta, I'm sorry, you have to calm down. I’m sorry your top kinda slipped there. But it’s chill," he tried, hovering behind her. "It's no big deal—"
Utahime spun around, her face hot despite the chill of her wet clothes and hair.
"It's a big deal to me," she said, haltingly. "Ad you—the way you’re always touching me—it's just hard for me, and I don't think you understand why."
There, she'd said something.
She'd expected Gojo to look smug or surprised, not wide-eyed. He looked, in fact, rather stricken.
"Uta—"
"Just—stop, okay?" Utahime said, her voice cracking. “I need you to not be so casual with how you touch me or treat me because it—means something different to me."
Gojo was silent, his mouth opening and closing. She’d never seen him at a loss for words.
"I get that it's not your fault, and you can't help how you feel," she continued. "But I'd like to have a little dignity in all this. Please stop touching me."
She said this last bit through her teeth for once, Gojo didn’t joke and laugh in her face.
"Oh," he said quietly. "Okay. Sure, whatever. If that’s what you want."
Even as she nodded firmly in confirmation, she braced herself for mockery. Thankfully, she seemed to have embarrassed him for once. He was silent, staring awkwardly back at her, his pretty blue eyes wide.
"I just want you to know," he said, slowly, like he couldn’t properly find the words to express his meaning. "I don't do that shit to be mean."
Utahime remained silent. It was hard enough to like him when he was annoying—she didn't want him to be kind to her, either.
"Okay, thanks," she mumbled at last, the steam running out of her tirade. "I'm gonna change."
"Sure," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his head.
"We don't have to talk about this again," she said quickly, flushing.
"If you say so," he said. He still looked rather shaken but was making an effort to look casual, his lips twitching as though he wanted to smile. "See ya out there."
"Okay," she muttered, flushing.
And they did not, in fact, ever speak about it again. But even back then, Gojo’s teasing came back with almost instant recoil, but he doesn’t touch her ever. And now, just like Utahime’s fits of temper, Gojo's antics have toned down a little, mellowing into a kind of verbal sparring that feels comfortable and expected.
But he doesn't touch her. Maybe it’s not just Gojo. In fact, she's touched less by everyone these days — it's as though, having seen the way she reacts to him, everyone else has been reminded to give her a little space.
Utahime wonders if Gojo even remembers what she confessed that day.
She wishes, not for the first time, that she had articulated it properly and just gotten it over with. The half-said thing from teenage years seems like an unvisitable site now. Perhaps it is good enough just to let the memory recede. These days, they have more significant issues to worry about, after all.
Perhaps because of this, the accident, when it happens, feels inevitable. Utahime has half been waiting for something like this. Maybe she is too careless with her life and too willing to sacrifice herself.
She takes a real beating, but somehow she survives, coming to on Shoko’s table with a blood transfusion doing some of the lighter lifting to hurry Shoko’s technique along. She’d lain out there in the rubble for a bit too long, and so the work is a little imperfect. But Utahime understands. The scar is large and jagged, and she can't quite look at it in the small mirror without flinching. There are actually too many reflective things down here in Shoko's office.
"That's a big one," Shoko comments while she washes her hands. "Makes you look badass."
"Thanks," Utahime mutters, pulling her kosode up her shoulders, heartbroken and feeling stupid about it. "I'll keep that in mind next time I need to scare an unruly student into submitting his assignments."
Utahime knows she should be glad she's in the recovery room and not on a slab out there.
"Are you going to call him?" Shoko asks, raising an eyebrow.
Utahime's cheeks flush, too easy to read. She doesn’t need to say much more.
"You really ought to," Shoko says, not unkindly. "Nobody told him you were even in town, nevermind fighting for your life. It's his day off."
Of course, Shoko knows that Utahime’s feelings are still a big problem for her. She also knows why Utahime feels like it's too much to confess now. The fact was, about two hours ago, Utahime really had thought she was about to die, and the feeling of her strength ebbing away into the concrete floor only served to confirm that love isn’t a wager she ought to make. She's too soft, and Gojo is too abrasive. Whatever he is, she is his opposite.
It doesn't matter what the accident has done to her — Utahime doesn't want to hear him tease her about her feelings. She doesn't want to hear him tease her about her face.
"Maybe later," she says, feeling the lie sour her mouth.
"He could take you back to Kyoto," Shoko pressed. "Especially if you weren't feeling up to the train ride."
Utahime, for the first time, lets her fingers trail over the scar on her cheek and over her nose. The skin is too smooth. She turns to look in the round mirror on the stainless steel trolley. It's strange. It's strange, too, how her eyes seem to be the same colour, but her face looks so different. She thinks the scar makes her look older.
"Yeah, I suppose I'll see if he can teleport me back," Utahime says, her voice sounding hollow. "Could you call him for me?"
"Me?" Shoko queries, putting her hands in her lab coat pockets.
Utahime looks up at her old friend, thinking about how, only briefly, their lives revolved around beach trips, boring classes, and trips to manga stores.
"Yeah, can you warn him?" she replies softly. "I really don't want him to tease me."
Shoko frowns.
"He won't tease you about this," she says firmly.
But both of them, Utahime knows, can hear Gojo's annoying chuckle like a spectre in the room with them. They both can visualise it like a long finger poking into Utahime's cheek and a curious cock of his head.
Oh damn, weren't you quick enough, Uta-hi-me?
They both know there's probably no point in telling him to go easy on Utahime because he's going to react however he reacts. Shoko has, in fact, given him enough warnings over the years that they've become a little meaningless.
"Do you have something to change into? There's a lot of blood on that."
Utahime looks down at her ruined Miko attire.
"Yeah," she says wearily. "I left a few things in the locker room here last time I had an overnight mission."
Shoko nods.
"Go change," she says. "I'll call him to come get you."
"I can meet him somewhere," Utahime cuts in, wanting the moment to be away from the prying eyes of other Tokyo High staff and students. "I need to pick up a few things before I head back."
Shoko only nods again.
So Utahime goes. Her heart feels heavy, and her head is a little woozy. She changes quickly, her fingers fumbling over buttons. When she's changed into the pink frock, she looks into the mirror in the locker room and sighs. The pretty pink was chosen to complement her complexion, but the scar disrupts the colour palette with a new, foreign hue.
Makes you look badass .
She sees it differently. It's a sign of not being strong enough. She'd seen Gojo right after the Star Plasma incident. Suguru had told her that Gojo had been gutted like a fish, but there wasn't a mark on his body anywhere.
Utahime reconciled herself to the fact that she will never be the kind of girl that Gojo Satoru likes, but now she's a little worried she won't be the kind of girl that anybody likes. The mark is going to attract comment from anyone, not just him. In their circles, being a woman with a scar speaks very loudly.
"He'll meet you in Shinjuku," Shoko says, fiddling with a package of swabs.
"What did you tell him?" Utahime asks, chewing her lip and trying to rearrange her hair back into a neat bow.
"Not much. Just that you were badly injured, you're fine now, but you'd like to get back to Kyoto as soon as possible."
"Thanks," Utahime says, relieved. "I appreciate it."
"It's okay," Shoko smiles, putting her hand on Utahime's shoulder. "Call me when you're back."
Utahime's smile feels tight when she forces it.
Utahime navigates the crowded sidewalks. She adjusts the strap of her bag, feeling the cool air against the fresh scar on her face. She grimaces, anticipating the inevitable teasing from Gojo when he sees it. As she approaches the crosswalk, she spots a familiar white-haired figure across the way. Her heart takes a plunge, like the world disintegrating into bubbles, like the shock of cold water.
Of course, he's taller than most, and he's not wearing his uniform. His day-off clothes are a bomber jacket and sunglasses like he's trying to blend in with the tourists. But it's a useless exercise, as everyone stares at him anyway. Gojo Satoru is a hard man to miss.
Utahime takes a breath and squares her shoulders, preparing herself. She expects the glint of mischief in his eyes, the smirk that always precedes his jabs at her. To her surprise, he takes off his sunglasses while the light is still red. He's already staring across the crosswalk at her.
Utahime realises with a sinking heart that Shoko hasn't warned him about the scar.
So, instead of mischief, his eyes are stormy, filled with an emotion she can't quite place. Worry? Anger? Both?
She falters, confusion knitting her brow as he closes the distance between them with uncharacteristic urgency. The crowd seems to part for him, the world narrowing down to just the two of them amidst the sea of people.
He's not smiling. He's not saying anything either, which is very unlike him. Utahime is not used to this version of Gojo Satoru; his eyes are uncovered and the corners of his expressive mouth are tipped down.
“Gojo—” she begins as he approaches, but he is already there, his hands reaching out to cup her face.
She starts, as his long fingers slide along her cheek, both palms cradling her jaw. He stares down at her, frowning. For the first time in her life, she finds his expression unreadable. His thumb traces the edge of the scar, his touch light, barely tactile.
“Utahime,” he says, his voice low and strained, “What happened?”
She blinks, taken aback by something raw in his eyes. “I— It was just a mission. I’m fine. Shoko patched me up.”
He lets out a shaky breath. His hands are still cradling her face. Utahime’s heart is hammering against her chest, confused at the liberty he’s taking. This isn't how she imagined this would go. She waits for the crack of a smile, shocked by his touch when she once told him she didn't want him to paw at her ever again. It’s throwing into relief the fact that he really did listen when she asked him not to touch her.
His unsettlingly blue eyes are roaming over her face, like the ghost of his touch lingering on her scar. She feels his eyes as much as his fingers.
He swallows, his voice hoarse when he speaks.
His thumb brushes lightly over the scar, causing something like those bubbles again; a disturbance. “This isn’t fine,” he says, his tone barely masking his anger. “You can’t see what I can see. Your cursed energy is depleted. You're super pale. How much blood did you lose?”
Utahime swallows, expecting a sarcastic remark, a playful jab, anything but this intense concern. “I didn’t die, though. I’m here.”
“That’s not good enough,” he replies fiercely. “You need to be more careful. You can’t just—”
He trails off, the words caught in his throat as if he realises he’s crossing a line. Utahime has never before seen Gojo measure what he says. It startles her into silence.
For a moment, the bustling world around them breaks apart completely, bubbles in the lake. It is just the two of them in the static under the cold water, standing in the middle of a Shinjuku crosswalk together, her face in his hands.
A lump forms in Utahime's throat as she realises that he cares about her. The thought makes her dizzy with too much emotion, a feeling like exhaustion, like too much expended. She doesn’t know what to say, blinking hard as she struggles to find the words.
She's not expecting the brush of his lips on her forehead, feather-light and so tender that her chest aches. His hands slide to the nape of her neck, and her breath catches. There, with tourists waddling after their flag-toting guides and purposeful salaryman striding past, Gojo Satoru is holding her face, his hands trembling, his lips coasting hesitantly over her brow.
She tilts her head up slowly. His mouth finds hers, and she tastes salt.
The kiss is tender and soft. It's so hesitant, like he's frightened. Utahime doesn't know why, because she's the one who feels bloodlessly flimsy, her hands clutching the front of his jacket. She has to go onto her tiptoes to kiss him back, her lips parting under his. It's a weak, fragile kiss, too soft and gentle for the harsh world.
When he breaks away reluctantly, she's flushed, her knuckles white from her grip on his bomber jacket. The noise of the world rushes back, the cacophony of sounds jolting her.
"Hime," he whispers, "I've not known how to tell you this. I've wanted to say something for years."
Her heart skips a beat, and her stomach clenches with anticipation. She holds her breath, waiting for the burst of air that will tell her she’s reached the surface.
"Satoru—"
"I kinda hoped you'd figured it out, based on how I acted. I didn't understand myself at first, and then, the time passed, and it felt like it was too late to confess."
He pauses, looking at her with a strange vulnerability. His thumb moves on her scar again.
"Hime," he says, his voice catching, laughing at himself.
For a moment, it’s all suspended, and Utahime wonders if she’s got enough blood in her body to withstand the force of her heartbeat.
"I'm in love with you," he says softly, his eyes searching hers.
"Oh," she stammers, shocked that he could be so unequivocal.
"I was a dumb kid. It took me a while to realise it," he continues, his voice going a little dreamy as his gaze roams over her face like the reality of her proximity is a distraction to him. "And by the time I did, you hated me."
"Satoru," she says, shaking her head, almost choking on a hiccuping laugh. "You know I never hated you. It was so obvious."
"It sure felt like it," he murmurs. "You’re hard to understand sometimes. Maybe I preferred the idea that you hated me a bit. That would be better than indifference."
She lets out a shaky breath, her fingers digging into his lapels.
"Did you really think either could be true when I confessed first," she whispered. "When we were teens. And you didn't take it well."
He grimaces.
"The confession where you told me never to touch you again?" he queries, his brows furrowing. "It didn’t seem real after a while. I teased you twice as much just to see if you’d confront me again and you never did. I couldn't imagine you actually wanting me back. Not the way I wanted you."
Utahime bites her lip because she wants to argue, to remind him that she has always been a fool for him and that everyone noticed it. Shoko even teases her about the fact that he barely needs to do anything to get a rise out of her. She feels like it’s obvious that her entire body thrums with anticipation every time he is near. But it doesn't matter anymore, not really, because he's looking down at her now, his eyes shining even his mouth is pulled tight with concern, and he's in love with her.
"You're not joking?" she says, a note of apprehension entering her voice.
She pulls back slightly, suddenly worried that this is an elaborate ruse. She wonders if he would be so cruel as to kiss her for the good laugh of making her implicate herself like that.
But there's no mirth in his expression, just feeling.
"No," he says, his voice low. "I'm not joking."
Her breath is too light, and she softens slightly, feeling faint. Utahime cracks a wavering smile, her heart pumping something warmer than blood now.
"Why did I have to almost die to make you confess?" she asks.
He grins—it's like a bolt of electricity—and kisses her roughly on the forehead again, like the action has welled up impulsively between them.
"Hime, I've been so obvious this whole time," he chuckles, pulling on her hair fondly for the first time in a decade. "You're the only one who didn't notice."
He wraps his arms around her, and she feels her feet lift off the ground like he’d pulled her off a deckchair once. Her stomach lurches as he grabs her, and her bag falls, the contents spilling onto the crosswalk pavement. Her handbag doesn't make it to Kyoto with them, but she doesn't care.
Now, like a flurry of bubbles, he kisses her in the low light of her apartment, everything confessed, everything in large letters.