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It was the kind of Tokyo summer that clung to skin and bone. Heat shimmered above the pavement, turning the air into something liquid. The world slowed down, wilted under the weight of humidity. And in the middle of it all, Gojo Satoru lay sprawled across the dormitory roof like a bored housecat, sunglasses crooked on his nose, shirt untucked.
He looked ridiculous.
“Gojo,” Geto said, leaning against the roof’s railing, arms crossed. “You’ve been up here for two hours.”
Satoru cracked open one eye behind his tinted lenses. “Wrong. I’ve been up here for exactly two hours and thirteen minutes. You’re late.”
“Late to what?” Suguru asked, but he already knew the answer. There was never a plan. Not with Satoru. Just whims dressed up in smug grins and too much power.
“To bask,” Satoru said, stretching out with a groan. “In the glory of my youth.”
Suguru rolled his eyes. “You’ll get heatstroke.”
“I’m invincible.”
“And deeply annoying.”
Satoru grinned. “Flirt.”
“Dream on.”
It was always like this lately—words tossed back and forth like a volleyball, the net invisible but very much there. Neither one of them called it flirting, but both of them knew. It existed in the space between a shared glance, the way they bumped shoulders walking side by side. It was in the comfort of silence, the electricity of a fight, the way Satoru always kept his back exposed only when Suguru was nearby.
They were seventeen. Sharp-edged and glittering. Too powerful, too young.
Too doomed, but they didn’t know that yet.
“Shoko’s downstairs,” Suguru said after a pause, trying not to watch the way sweat beaded at Satoru’s collarbone. “She has popsicles.”
Satoru perked up. “Grape?”
“Probably.”
With a speed that defied physics, Gojo was on his feet. “Lead the way, prince charming.”
“I’m not your—”
“Yet.”
Suguru didn’t dignify that with a response. He pushed off the railing and walked ahead, pretending his ears weren’t burning.
They collapsed in the common room, popsicles in hand, legs splayed out like kids at summer camp. Shoko was already half-asleep on the couch, a single ice pack melting on her forehead. She didn’t open her eyes when she mumbled, “You two are loud.”
Satoru stuck his tongue out at her. “You love us.”
“In moderation,” she replied. “Like arsenic.”
Suguru chuckled, biting off the tip of his popsicle. It tasted like fake grape and freezer burn. Somehow it was perfect.
Satoru was staring at him. Not in his usual cocky way. Not teasing or smug.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Suguru turned. “What?”
Satoru didn’t look away. “Do you think we’ll ever be normal?”
Suguru blinked.
“That’s a weird question.”
“Is it?” Satoru took off his sunglasses, resting them on his head like a headband. His eyes, always hidden, were so blue they hurt. “Just… sometimes I wonder. What we’d be like if we were normal kids. If we weren’t gods.”
“You’re not a god,” Suguru said.
“Close enough.”
Suguru sighed. “We wouldn’t be friends if we were normal. We probably wouldn’t even meet.”
That made Satoru frown. “Why not?”
“You’d be some rich brat in Aoyama. I’d be a scholarship student with a buzzcut. We’d never cross paths.”
Satoru looked genuinely offended. “You think I wouldn’t notice you?”
Suguru met his eyes. “No. I think you wouldn’t know how to look.”
The silence that followed was strange. It wasn’t tense, but it hummed with something heavier than heat. Shoko had fully passed out, her popsicle stick hanging from her mouth.
Satoru licked his grape-stained lips.
“You’re wrong,” he said.
“Oh?”
“I’d look,” he murmured. “Even if I didn’t know why. I’d find you.”
Suguru didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Not when his throat felt tight and his chest ached in a way that was both beautiful and unbearable.
It was dangerous to let Satoru speak like that. Because it made it harder to pretend. Harder to keep things where they were: messy, casual, undefined.
Suguru had his own fears. His own questions. Like how long this fragile world would hold before it shattered. Like whether Satoru would still look at him the same way once they were covered in real blood, not just the kind that washed off with cold showers.
The mission came three days later.
Two first-years had been trapped inside a veil downtown. A curse was feeding on them, slowly. The higher-ups wanted Satoru and Suguru to handle it—quick, clean, efficient.
It wasn’t.
They found the kids. One of them alive. One not.
The curse had been old, twisted from years of festering in the city’s underbelly. It had a face that looked like a human child, but its eyes were empty holes and its voice mimicked the screams of its victims.
Suguru was the one who killed it. His technique had evolved, become crueler. Efficient, like they asked.
Satoru didn’t speak the whole train ride home.
Suguru sat across from him, watching the city blur past the window.
“I should’ve been faster,” Satoru said finally. “The girl—”
“She was already gone,” Suguru cut in.
Satoru’s fists clenched. “I still should’ve—”
“You always say that,” Suguru said. “Like you’re supposed to save everyone.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“Then what’s the point of having this power?” Satoru snapped, eyes flaring. “What’s the point of me?”
Suguru looked at him. Really looked. And something inside him twisted.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But I know what the point of us is.”
Satoru stared.
“It’s to be there,” Suguru said. “When we fall short. When we lose. It’s to make sure we don’t do it alone.”
The train rocked. A billboard passed: an ad for soda, bright colors and smiling faces. It looked obscene.
Satoru leaned back in his seat, face tilted up to the ceiling.
“I hate this world sometimes,” he said.
Suguru nodded. “Me too.”
Later that night, they snuck back onto the roof. The sky was cloudless, stars smeared across the black. Tokyo buzzed faintly below.
They didn’t talk.
Satoru laid down first. Suguru followed, their shoulders brushing.
Minutes passed.
Then, tentatively, Satoru reached out. His pinky hooked around Suguru’s. Just barely.
It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t a confession.
It was something small. A promise without words.
Suguru didn’t pull away.
He didn’t look.
He didn’t need to.