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Nanami makes out the exact moment he spots the book and his intention with it.
He's never run as fast for anything in his life.
"Mine," he rushes out, at the same time the other guy on the other end of the aisle sprinted in a surprisingly quick fashion to plant a hand on top of his to say, a little breathlessly, "Mine!"
They lock eyes.
Nanami thinks there's tension in there, somehow, maybe sexual or maybe awkward or maybe misleading.
With their hands awkwardly on top of each other, he definitely doesn't notice how the other guy has long, lean piano fingers or that his eyes were the color of a river pond in the summer. He definitely doesn't track the height, either, taller than the bookshelf and towering over half the student body easily that even Naoya would be jealous. He tries harder than he's ever had to in his life, then, to feign ignorance at the knowing tilt to his lips, raised just so, in amusement.
Nanami coughs, tugging his hand out and using the momentum to drag the book with him. "Sorry," he says, sincerely. "But I really need this book for class."
The stranger blinks. "So do I," he says, taking the other half of the book with him. "I'm behind like five chapters already."
"I can't graduate without it," insists Nanami, momentarily forgetting the temporary lapse in judgment now the realization he might actually have to fight a stranger for scraps of paper was starting to sink in. "I need this to proceed with my final paper. It's for my dissertation."
"It's for my best friend," the stranger blurts out just as quickly.
What, Nanami thinks at the same time he says exactly, "What."
"It's his dying wish," he elaborates, sounding less and less confident. "Or something. He has cancer," he adds quickly, still unsure. "...Or something."
Nanami narrows his eyes. "Your best friend's dying wish," he turns the book over. "Is for you to get the last available copy of Bad Samaritans: The Myth of Free Trade and the Secret History of Capitalism?"
The stranger flushes. "Y-yes," he says, but the words don't sound certain coming out of his mouth, like he was just saying things on the fly and hoping something lands. "He knows that I'm very passionate about," he pauses, eyes flicking briefly down the book title. "Bad people. And capitalism. Yes. He'll die if I can't have it."
"Let me get this straight," Nanami clarifies. "You're saying there's only one copy left of this textbook and you need it or else your best friend will die of cancer because somehow that's all related?"
“Exactly,” the guy nods, more to himself.
Nanami arches a brow, tugging the book more protectively to him. "What's the name of your best friend?"
He tugs it back with just as much force. "Suguru Getou," he rattles off distractedly. "Not that it matters. He's very sick, and uh, bedridden and in hospice."
"Gojo?" Nanami momentarily stills on their tug of war, realization dawning on him. "You're Gojo Satoru?"
Gojo's eyes widen in horror and unadulterated shock.
"No," he breathes out, voice cracking at the end. "No no no. Do not tell me you seriously know him. Getou knows a minimum of maybe five people and you cannot seriously, seriously be telling me you just happen to be one of them."
"He's in my mentor group!" rebuts Nanami, now just fully annoyed.
"We're seniors!" argues Gojo, gobsmacked.
Nanami waves him off. "We share an advisor," he explains. "And last I saw him, precisely 24 hours ago at the TA dinner, he seemed perfectly fine to me. Not battling some life-altering disease."
Gojo's look of open mortification just kept expanding, from the tips of his ears tinged red to the hunched posture bathed in shame. He looked smaller, somehow.
"Okay yes, Getou is perfectly alive and has all functioning organs in place," he admits, an edge of desperation to his tone. This, at least, sounded honest. "But I do seriously need this book. I missed the deadline for orders at the start of the term and this is the only library that still carries it."
Nanami rolls his eyes. "Aren't you a nepo kid?" he admonishes. "Don't you just snap your fingers and make the world work for you?"
Gojo takes a beat to answer, his face morphing in disdain. "I'm going to kill Getou, I swear to God..." he mumbles, swearing under his breath before he looks up at Nanami again, suddenly invigorated and spirited. "Fine then," he declares hotly. "Name your price."
Nanami scoffs, planting the book firmly against his chest. If Gojo's eyes flickered briefly down to check out the way his chest puffed up in the process—because thank you, free gym membership benefit as a TA—it only fuels his confidence higher.
"I can't be bought," he says, moving to pass him. "But good luck with your class, Gojo-san."
Gojo trailed after him. "Seriously," he pleads. "Anything."
"I'd rather work for whatever it was myself, thanks," chides Nanami, raising his chin higher.
"I'll pay your rent."
"Already live in student housing."
"Your tuition."
"Free ride scholar."
"Lunch money."
"I cook."
Gojo looks ready to pull his hair out in frustration. "Then," he says slowly, a lighting bulb in his eye. "I'll date you for it."
"A date?" Nanami slows to a crawl. "With you?"
It's almost pathetic how quickly the transformation took. Gojo stood up straighter, coming into himself and his confidence and skin in a territory Nanami has no doubt he has great comfort with.
"I saw the once over you gave me awhile ago."
"Yes," Nanami nods along, maybe pityingly. "Because objectively finding you attractive automatically means I want to jump your bones."
The easy grin on Gojo's face falls. He sputters, blinking, malfunctioning. "Wait, what—"
Nanami moves past him again. "Such a pity," he drones on. "You were so pretty too."
"H-Hold on," Gojo was still stammering, shaking himself out of it as it took him great effort to catch up. "Wait, hold on a minute—"
"Good luck with your class, Gojo-san!" yells Nanami, already moving past the exit as Gojo found himself meeting a group of students halfway just on their way to the entrance. He was instantly crowded and trafficked. "Send my regards to Getou, too!"
Before Nanami leaves, he thinks he can make out the beginning legs of a smirk take root in Gojo's face as he stood there, imposingly tall. His eyes, now that same clear stream of a river pond in the summer, now had levels of heat to it that burned just as hot as the season.
"If I was willing to kill my best friend to get a damn book," Gojo yells back, wicked. "Who knows what I'll do for a date?"