Archive of Our Own

“Did we cover Markov chains in class?”

“Nope,” Geto replies, flipping the page of his book. Aramis, or the Love of Technology is not the most complex text he’s read, but the concept of things being as important as people isn’t something he can wrap his head around. “We do cover marxian strain in our modern political thought course, if you’re interested in theories of justice and power. Maybe you got the two mixed up.”

Geto waits for a reply, and when he doesn’t get one, he swivels around in his chair, which creaks loudly in protest. The student stands in the doorway, unmoving as he flips through a printed essay in his hands.

Geto’s TA office is quiet, tucked away between the campus library archives and the fire escape. Foot traffic is sparse, sunlight even sparser, and his only visitors are his thesis advisor and the occasional student fighting for points back on shitty papers written for a gen-ed humanities requirement. A few volumes of epistemology books he’s read twice over are stacked on the radiator, which made too much noise for the inconsistent heat it provides, and his desk lamp made up for the overhead light that hadn’t worked in the year he had this office. He doesn’t mind: the solitude makes for a good working environment. The small space makes it easier to organize his little library, shelved by subject, author, and publication date. His lamp provides a comforting atmosphere. The dripping, stained ceiling, smell of must, and lingering rodent issue aren’t as advantageous, but they aren’t troublesome, or distracting, or disgusting. At all.

He spends more time in this room than in his own apartment, which Shoko quips about often, but it’s nice to have clear expectations. Grade papers. Answer questions. Write his crappy advisor’s grants into odd hours of the night, until the caffeinated tea he drank stained his teeth. 

Geto squints at the clock on his screen. He has three minutes until his next appointment, which he is confident his next student would skip, because who actually shows up for their advisory meetings? He certainly didn’t, back in undergrad. He waves the student in, who’s still staring at their paper like they’ve never read any of the words on the page. Geto sighs. “Come in,” he says, “and show me what’s wrong.”

The student’s head snaps up, and he stumbles in, just barely dodging the stray water droplet that plips slowly from the ceiling. He flips through the essay once more, and sets it on the desk in front of Geto. 

“I got an A,” the student mumbles, despair licking at his face. Geto cocks his head. 

“Huh?”

“I got an A, but like,” the student waves his arms about, “what do the comments mean?”

Geto looks at the paper. The title is familiar: "Is Moral Responsibility Compatible with Determinism?" It’s a standard topic for the second-year ethics course; he remembers assigning it, and remembers grading them, too. But as he starts skimming this essay, he finds that he can’t recall revising this. Although, he thinks, I don’t think I remember any of them anyway. The argument is fine, if only slightly underdeveloped and a little hasty. It certainly would have earned an A, and there were no comments visible on the first page that the student could be referring to. Geto is about to ask if this was some sort of prank and shoo him away, before he flips the page and is met with an abundance of red scrawls in the margins. 

“So, you wrote that ‘Hard determinism fails because it doesn’t account for the complexity of human decision-making.’” Geto states, lips drawn tight. 

“Yes.”

“And you want to know what I meant when I commented,” Geto brings the paper closer to his face, like it will make the note more comprehensible, “‘Your rejection of hard determinism feels emotionally motivated. Try modeling it like a Markov chain, see if your transitions still hold.’”

“Yes.”

Geto presses his fingers into his closed eyelids and thinks back to last week, when he graded this assignment. Had he taken Shoko’s edibles? Had he gone to the club? Had he let some one-night stand take his laptop and pen and start grading his essays? 

He remembers staying sober to finish a presentation for his postdoc last week, but he could not have written this without some level of inebriation. He learned about Markov chains for about 10 minutes in an econ lecture over three years ago, and was tested on it maybe once. He’s pretty sure he got that question wrong, too.

“And then I wrote that ‘The human self is not reducible to physical parameters, because we can transcend them through moral reasoning.’” The student rushes. “And then you wrote that-”

“- ‘If the self transcends physical parameters, then it violates conservation laws. That’s fine, as long as you’re okay with being untestable and unfalsifiable.’” Geto’s eyebrow twitches. “Your argument is a valid one to make, however contentious it may be, if you supported this by referencing Kant, or, like, the noumenal self or something. Which you do,” Geto points to the bottom of the page, “right here.”

The student stares at him, his eyes saying, so, what the fuck?

Geto looks at him, then at the clock. His next appointment has certainly bailed. Or is ten minutes late, but he doubts it’s the latter. Geto sits up a little straighter and looks through the comments again. But now that he’s really paying attention, though the handwriting looks similar to his, the ‘a’ is a little too circular, and the ‘d’ is written loopy, like half-baked cursive. The spacing is kind of off. Geto also writes in straight lines: these comments are completely haphazard. Some of the comments scrawl into the essay itself. 

He blinks. “I didn’t write this.”

The student’s face scrunches up. “It’s okay if you did, Mr. Geto. I just didn’t think my writing was,” he sniffs, eyes going a little glassy, “emotionally motivated.”

Geto pushes his chair back, stands up, and begins pacing behind his desk. The student’s watery eyes follow him, back and forth, and back again. 

“No, I definitely didn’t write this. The handwriting is similar, but I don’t give many shits about conservation of mass. Can I see your submission receipt?”

The student takes the essay and flips to the back, and promptly turns pale. The student doesn’t speak. He just turns the paper around and points to the top of the receipt, where the submission portal lists the course code and instructor initials. PHYS-108. Instructor: S. Gojo.

Geto stares at it. Then, at the student. Then back at the receipt. “You submitted this to your physics class.” 

“I- I must’ve clicked the wrong link,” the student stammers. “I had Gojo last semester for intro physics. I guess I still had his name saved in my portal. And you’re both S.G., so…”

Geto doesn’t respond right away. He walks back to his desk, spares a glance at the essay open-faced, smug in its absurdity, and opens his laptop. He types “Satoru Gojo university physics TA” into the search bar and clicks through the physics department site. He sees his name on the faculty page, then his profile photo. White hair, shockingly blue eyes, a wide smile, but it’s knowing and cocky, rather than welcoming. He’s peering at the camera over round, tinted shades. 

Gojo, Satoru. Graduate TA, Department of Physics. Research interests: particle physics, quantum computing, pedagogical innovation. Office Hours: Uncertain until observed! But unlike quantum particles, probably between 2 and 4 PM.

He’s seen this face before, and he’s heard the name thrown around once in a blue moon in his corner of the philosophy department. He’s pretty sure Gojo was the TA who once turned a midterm review into a live demonstration of quantum tunneling using a fog machine and a cardboard wall; who was reprimanded for submitting his own paper to a student journal under a pseudonym to prove a point about peer-review bias; who taught half the stats department how to gamble using Bayesian inference.

Geto stares at the photo for a moment longer, and closes the tab and shuts his laptop. He leans back in his chair. The radiator hisses. The ceiling drips. The essay sits on his desk, still annotated with comments about stochastic matrices and Hamiltonians. He rubs his jaw, squints at the clock: 2:30 PM. Unless the observer effect has rendered his office hours entirely uncertain, Gojo is probably in his office right now.

Geto stands up and starts gathering his thesis documents; he needed to get out of the office anyway. 

“I’ll talk to the physics TA,” he says, and the student’s shoulders go lax. “You go to your next class, and I’ll re-grade your paper. It was looking fine to me, so don’t worry too much.”

The student, after a series of blubbering and teary thank-you’s, patters off of the philosophy floor. Geto rubs his jaw, shrugs his winter coat and scarf on. The physics department is on the other side of campus, which makes the below-freezing weather and borderline-snowstorm outside more daunting than it was from the comfort of his small room.

Geto looks back through the comments before cramming that into his backpack. Why the fuck is he deriving harmonic functions in a 200-level philosophy course paper, Geto thinks to himself, before mapping the physics study offices.

The natural sciences building smells of alcohol wipes, metal, and coffee: the walls are a white sort of plastic, which reflect Geto’s face. He grimaces at the dark circles and knotted hair staring back at him, but he can only fix one of those things for the moment. He navigates the endless student centers and computer labs - how much funding are they getting? Jesus Christ - as he ties his hair back. He passes a bulletin board advertising a seminar on quantum cognition and a flyer for a club called “Chaos Enthusiasts.” He does not stop.

Gojo’s office is exactly where the directory said it would be: second floor, west wing, adjacent to the study lounge. The door is open.

Inside, the space looks like it’s been hit by a very specific kind of storm: one made of whiteboard markers, half-eaten granola bars, and textbooks. The walls are covered in equations. Not just one or two neat derivations, but sprawling, recursive tangles of math that looped across surfaces like graffiti. Geto spots Dirac on the office table and chooses to ignore it. Anything starting with quantum is absolutely none of his business.

Geto spots two students on the other end of the room, scribbling away at the wall-to-ceiling whiteboard, the squeaks erratic and impatient. The girl’s hair is cut in a bob, which swishes to the side as she glares at the other student, snatching the marker he was writing with out of his hands, crossing out the lines he had drawn on the board.

“You’re modeling it like it’s underdamped,” she says. “But the system’s clearly overdamped. There’s no oscillation.”

The boy frowns. “It’s borderline. The damping coefficient isn’t high enough to kill the motion entirely.”

She points at the sketch he’s made. “Then why does the displacement drop off without crossing zero? That’s overdamped behavior.”

He crosses his arms. “You’re ignoring the initial velocity. If it’s high enough, you’ll still get a shallow dip before it stabilizes.”

She scoffs. “That’s not oscillation. That’s just inertia.”

He grabs the marker back. “You’re just being pedantic.”

She snatches it again. “You’re just being stupid.”

“What a comeback.”

Geto watches all of this unfold from the doorway, arms crossed. The board is now half-covered in decay curves and increasingly aggressive arrows. He considers leaving.

And then a flash of white appears, and Geto’s gotten what he was looking for.

The man slides out from behind a stack of textbooks, holding a slinky. His hair hangs just over his dark, tinted shades, the same ones from his picture. “You’re both right,” he says cheerfully. “And both wrong. Which is the best kind of physics.” The man - Gojo, Geto knows - drops the slinky onto the desk and flicks it. It wobbles once, then settles. “Overdamped,” he says. “No bounce. Just decay.”

He flicks it again, harder. It oscillates briefly before dying out. “Underdamped. But only barely. Depends on the damping ratio and initial conditions.”

The boy groans. “So who wins?”

Gojo grins. “Nobara wins. Megumi, you owe her lunch. You used the wrong damping ratio last time.”

Megumi groans. Nobara looks smug.

Geto clears his throat. Gojo glances over, and when their eyes meet, Gojo’s face goes still, his mouth dropping a little slack. He turns to whisper something to the two students - Megumi and Nobara, information Geto really can’t do much with - and Geto takes a moment to look down at himself. His hair is still pulled up, and his skin is probably a little red from the weather. His coat is still on, so Gojo won’t be able to see the coffee stains or the slight stretch of the old, worn shirt he’s wearing. He doesn’t think he looks bad enough to warrant any of the aforementioned shock, but he knows he doesn’t look as crisp as Gojo does, in his shades and clean slacks and tucked-in tight polo. His head snaps when he hears snickering from the two students.

He’s also met with the sight of Gojo sauntering over: Geto really can’t describe the way he approaches him in any other way. Geto wants to get second-hand embarrassment, but fights it. 

“Hey,” Gojo says, eyes bright. “You come here often?” He leans on the pillar in front of Geto. Nevermind: Geto can’t fight the second-hand embarrassment. He decides it’s easier to just get this over with.

“No,” Geto replies, holding up the essay like a warrant. “I’m a philosophy TA here. I think you graded this on accident.” There’s no way it was an accident, but Geto doesn’t phrase it like that at the outset, because he has some degree of decency.

Gojo takes it, flips through the pages with one hand, and hums. “Oh, yeah. This one. Good thesis. Bit fuzzy on the modal logic, but the Kant reference was cute.”

“How do you know about Kant?”

Gojo raises an eyebrow, and Geto sees the corner of his mouth twitch.

“I might be in STEM, but I did retain my ability to read.”

“No, like,” Geto sighs, “you’re a physics TA. Why didn’t you just send the paper back to the student and tell them they submitted it wrong?”

“I had time.” Gojo shrugs. “And the argument was interesting.” His eyes roll behind his glasses, and his head tilts just a little, like he’s backtracking. “Well, the student’s argument was a little boring. But the assignment wasn’t.” Geto shuts his eyes and prays for the virtue of patience.

“You graded a political theory essay using stochastic modeling.”

Gojo smiles. “Hard determinism’s a physics problem. I figured I’d help.”

Geto chooses to ignore that. “You told the student to model moral agency like a Markov chain.”

“Well, yeah,” Gojo says. “If your transitions don’t hold under probabilistic drift, maybe your free will isn’t as free as you think.”

Geto stares at him. “That’s not how moral philosophy works.”

Gojo grins. “That’s not how physics works either, but we still publish.” Gojo lets his eyes wander over Geto for a moment - and Geto knows he doesn’t look that shitty, what is this guy’s problem - before speaking again. “So what, you came all the way across campus to scold me?”

“I came to ask why a physics TA gave an A to a paper that doesn’t contain a single equation.”

Gojo shrugs. “Because it held up under pressure. Even if the pressure was statistical.”

Geto raises an eyebrow. “That’s not your call to make.”

“Maybe not,” Gojo laughs. “But I made it anyway.”

Geto plucks the paper out of Gojo’s hands, stuffing it into his backpack. “You should be more respectful of academic boundaries.”

Gojo’s grin sharpens. “You should be more skeptical of them. The professors here are idiots.”

Geto feels a muscle in his cheek twitch. 

“It would probably help your reputation if you were more respectful toward your superiors, Gojo.”

Gojo crosses his arms over his pecs, the grin on his face getting even wider. But speaking of those arms - damn, they’re big, Geto thinks, and fights the odd urge to flex his too, as some form of retaliation, or to soothe his own ego. If Geto really thinks about it, if he turns his head sideways and squints some more, Gojo is actually pretty attractive. His white hair almost glows under the fluorescent lighting; his skin is flawless in a way Geto is a little envious of; he’s tall, and built, and doesn’t bother hiding it like Geto does, who almost exclusively wears gym covers and baggy pants.

It’s unfortunate that Gojo seems a little pompous and a lot annoying, and it’s even more unfortunate that Geto met him on this dreary campus instead of in some bar downtown, where that attitude would be sexy instead of a waste of Geto’s time. But before Geto gets carried away in that train of thought, Gojo takes a step closer, right into Geto’s personal space.

“What do you think of my reputation?” Gojo is smiling sickly sweet at him, lips pressed over his teeth and eyelashes wisping over his eyes as he peers over them. His mouth opens, just a little, and Geto can see his pink tongue run over his teeth. The back of Geto’s neck is getting warmer; he knows he’s not reading him wrong, so Geto lets his eyes drag over Gojo’s small waist, thick hands drumming on his slacks. He tracks the cords in his neck, the way the tilt of Gojo’s jaw makes it look like he’s looking down at him, though he’s certain they’re the same height.

Then Geto remembers that he walked almost a mile in the dead of winter to talk to this guy, who incorrectly graded his student’s essay, who will almost certainly refuse to apologize for his inconsiderate overstepping. Geto also remembers that he himself will now have to regrade that damn essay on his own time. Geto’s eyes reluctantly leave the shine of Gojo’s sharp teeth and looks back at the paper. “I think you’re the reason our grading system needs audit logs.”

Gojo laughs. “That’s fair.” He opens his mouth to say something else. He shuts it, though, and looks at the wall behind Geto’s head. “Where’s your office?”

Geto hesitates, not knowing if he should say anything, but it’s not exactly private information anyway. 

“Basement level of the behavioral sciences building,” Geto says. “Between the library archives and the fire escape.”

Gojo whistles. “Sounds haunted.”

“It’s quiet,” Geto replies.

 “Cool. I’ll swing by sometime.”

“No thanks,” Geto says, already turning.

Gojo calls after him, “If you ever want to co-grade a metaphysics paper with a Lagrangian-”

“No, thank you,” Geto repeats, without looking back.

Gojo laughs again. Geto begins his walk back to his side of campus, , and in the first foot outside the building, his boot sinks half a foot into the depths of unshoveled snow that blankets the sidewalk. He groans, rubbing the dark circles under his eyes.

It’s been a while since Geto saw Gojo.

Not that he thinks about it. Not after he regraded the essay, not after the student got their A, not after he filed the correction and moved on. The whole thing was a hiccup in an otherwise predictable week—grading, grant edits, a departmental meeting that could’ve been an email. Gojo doesn’t cross his mind. Not when Geto’s buried in manuscripts, not when he’s reorganizing his office shelves by citation frequency, not even when he passes the physics building on his way to the archives.

The semester lurches forward. Geto’s sleep schedule deteriorates in quiet, manageable increments.

Itadori shows up at his office on a Thursday, knocking once before letting himself in. He’s carrying two coffees and a folder that looks like it’s been sat on.

“Morning,” Itadori says, handing him the less dented cup.

Geto takes it. “You’re late.”

“I brought caffeine,” Itadori whines, flopping into the chair across from him. He springs back up in moments. “That’s worth at least a five-minute grace period. Right?”

Geto doesn’t argue. It’s a combination of exhaustion and the fact that Itadori, the new undergrad his advisor has assisting him is halfway decent: funny, reliable, sweet. He’s a nice break in Geto’s otherwise mundane, extensive routine. He remembers being more like him in undergrad, before this shitty masters program. 

He opens the folder and flips through the manuscript draft inside - it’s dense, full of half-finished footnotes and citations that lead nowhere. The topic is one Geto knows well: epistemic justification and inferential holism. His master’s work is built around it: how knowledge claims rely not on isolated evidence, but on networks of interdependent beliefs. He’s written about it, lectured on it, diagrammed it on whiteboards for students who didn’t ask.

“Professor wants to talk to you,” Itadori says, pulling out his laptop. “Said to come by after lunch.”

Geto doesn’t look up. “Did he say why?”

“Nope. Just that it’s urgent.”

Geto nods, closes the folder, and sets it aside. He finishes his coffee slowly, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling. The radiator clicks once, then goes quiet again. He probably needs to get that fixed. He doesn’t think about the way the physics building radiators didn’t sputter once during his short visit two weeks ago. 

He heads to the advisor’s office just after one. Professor Kiyotaka is seated behind his desk, surrounded by stacks of books and a monitor that’s far too large for the space. He doesn’t look up when Geto enters.

“You’re late,” he says.

“I wasn’t given a time,” Geto replies. He immediately knows it’s a mistake, the second it comes out of his mouth.

Kiyotaka pauses, looking up at Geto with a popping tendon on his forehead, and waves a hand. “You should know better than to wait for specifics.”

Geto doesn’t respond. He sits.

The professor scrolls through something on his screen, then turns slightly, just enough to make eye contact. “I’ve been asked to recommend someone for a new seminar. Cross-disciplinary. Half-semester. Starts in three weeks.”

Geto nods once. He doesn’t ask what the seminar is. He knows better.

“It’s called ‘Truth, Logic, and the Ethics of Knowledge.’ Philosophy and physics. You’ll co-lead.”

Geto blinks. “With who?”

Kiyotaka doesn’t answer right away. He’s typing something. Then: “One of the physics TAs. Satoru Gojo.”

Geto’s stomach drops, but he doesn’t let it show. He just sits straighter.

“You’ll be responsible for the philosophy side,” Kiyotaka continues. “They want someone who can handle epistemology, moral reasoning, and logic. You’re work is passable.”

Geto nods again. He wonders if his work is really only passable. “What’s the format?”

“Weekly meetings. Joint lectures. Some planning sessions beforehand. You’ll get credit toward your graduate requirements. It’ll look favorable.”

Kiyotaka looks at him, and the pause ends.

“You’ll do it,” he says. No choice, then.

Geto doesn’t argue. There’s no point. He’s been in this office too many times, heard too many versions of the same sentence. His success is contingent. His funding is contingent. His future is contingent.

He nods. “Understood.”

Kiyotaka turns back to his screen. “You can go.”

Geto leaves.

Geto doesn’t go straight back to his office.

He walks slowly, hands in his coat pockets, the wind biting at the edges of his sleeves. The behavioral sciences building is only a few blocks from the library, but the walk feels longer today. The snow is half-melted, slushy in places, and his boots sink just enough to be annoying. He doesn’t bother sidestepping the puddles. The seminar starts in three weeks. That’s twenty-one days of pretending like he might actually have enough time for it.

By the time he reaches his office, the radiator has kicked back on. The ceiling drip is quiet again. His desk lamp is still on, casting a soft glow over the stack of papers he left behind. He sits, opens his laptop, and stares at the screen for a moment before pulling up the manuscript draft.

Itadori’s edits are clean. The footnotes are mostly fixed. The citations are still a mess, but that’s not Itadori’s fault. Geto scrolls through the document, highlighting sections that need rewriting. He doesn’t think about Gojo. 

He works for another hour before Itadori knocks again.

“Hey,” Itadori says, poking his head in. “You talk to Kiyotaka?”

Geto nods. “He assigned me to the seminar.”

Itadori steps in, holding a bag of chips and a folder. “The cross-disciplinary one?”

“‘Truth, Logic, and the Ethics of Knowledge,’” Geto says. “Starts in three weeks.”

Itadori whistles. “Sounds intense.”

“It’s half-semester.”

“Still,” Itadori says, dropping into the chair across from him. “You’re co-leading?”

Geto nods.

“Who’s the other lead?”

“Satoru Gojo.”

Itadori pauses mid-chew. “Wait. The guy from physics?”

Geto doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

“Oh my god,” Itadori says. “He’s the one who - ”

“Yes.”

“ - graded that paper with math - ”

“Yes.”

“ - and told the student to simulate free will - ”

“Yes.”

Itadori starts meandering about the room, kicking one foot in front of the other, hands behind his head. He spins around to look at Geto again.

“I have some friends in the physics department!” Geto nods absently, squinting at another fucked up citation. He wishes he could send the other co-authors a PurdueOwl example citation without sounding passive aggressive, but that’s just not possible. Maybe direct aggression would work better. “They say Gojo is really helpful! Maybe you’ll like him.”

Geto smiles. Bless Itadori’s endless optimism. 

Geto doesn’t respond. He just opens a new document and starts outlining potential topics. Epistemic closure. Inferential holism. Moral reasoning under uncertainty. He types slowly, deliberately, ignoring the sound of Itadori crunching chips beside him.

The department email arrives the next morning.

Subject: Cross-Disciplinary Seminar Planning Body: Dear Suguru Geto and Satoru Gojo, You have been selected to co-lead the upcoming seminar “Truth, Logic, and the Ethics of Knowledge.” Please coordinate your schedules for weekly planning meetings beginning next week. The seminar will run for half the semester and culminate in a joint lecture series. Best, Department Coordinator

Geto reads it twice. Then closes the tab.

The rest of the week passes in quiet increments. Geto grades a batch of ethics papers, rewrites a section of his thesis, and meets with two students who want to argue about compatibilism. He lets them, gently explaining why their arguments don’t hold, and takes silent pleasure in two students so ardent to prove themselves right. He also recommends they pursue another degree in their field, then thinks of the dark bags under his eyes and the Celsius he drank for breakfast and takes it back.

He doesn’t hear from Gojo, until he checks his inbox and finds a calendar invite from the day before that Gojo had apparently sent. It’s for Friday, at 5PM. Geto accepts the invite, and doesn’t bother leaving a comment.

Friday inevitably arrives - a cruel act of fatalism, Geto thinks. He finishes his office hours early, packs his notebook, and walks across campus to the seminar room. He sets his writing materials down, opens it to a blank page, and waits.

Gojo arrives seven minutes late, wearing sunglasses indoors and carrying a smoothie.

“Hey,” he says, like they’re meeting for coffee. “Nice room. Very… monk cell.”

Geto doesn’t look up. “You’re late.”

Gojo slides into the seat across from him. “I’m here now.”

Geto flips a page in his notebook. “We need to finalize the syllabus outline. The department wants a balance of philosophical and technical material.”

Gojo sips his smoothie. “Cool. I brought some ideas.”

Geto waits. Gojo doesn’t elaborate.

“Do any of them involve actual readings?” Geto asks.

Gojo grins. “Some. I was thinking we start with epistemic closure and then throw in some quantum indeterminacy to mess with their heads.”

Geto blinks. “You want to teach undergrads that knowledge is probabilistic because particles are weird?”

“Basically.”

“That’s not how epistemology works.”

Gojo shrugs. “It’s how physics works.”

Geto exhales. “We’re not here to confuse them. We’re here to teach them how different disciplines approach truth.”

Gojo leans back. “Confusion is part of truth.”

Geto doesn’t dignify that with a response. He writes Week 1: Epistemic Foundations in his notebook and underlines it twice.

Gojo watches him. “You’re very serious about this.”

“It’s a seminar,” Geto says. “One that our advisors will be watching over like a hawk. We should take this seriously.”

“I told you,” Gojo says, his lips pulling down like he’s trying not to laugh, “that you should put less faith in the professors here. They don’t know shit.” Geto doesn’t respond, and Gojo hums. “You ever think maybe the students learn more when they’re off-balance?”

“I think they learn more when they’re not being baited into existential spirals by a guy with a fog machine.”

Gojo laughs. “You heard about that?”

“Everyone heard about that.”

Gojo grins. “It worked.”

Geto doesn’t respond. He writes Week 2: Inferential Holism vs. Empirical Modeling and taps his pen against the table.

Gojo watches the pen. “You’re doing your master’s on holism, right?”

Geto glances up. “Yes.”

Gojo nods. “Cool. I read your conference abstract last year. It was good.”

Geto blinks. “Why?”

Gojo shrugs. “I was bored. And it was in the packet.”

Geto doesn’t respond. He’s not sure what to do with the idea of Gojo reading his work in a moment of boredom. He’s not sure what to do with Gojo, period. Instead of thinking too hard about it, he writes Week 3: Moral Reasoning and Predictive Systems and closes his notebook.

“Well, I haven’t read anything you’ve written.” Geto says, point blank, staring at Gojo unabashedly. “We’ll need to submit the outline by Friday,” he adds.

Gojo doesn’t flinch. He just nods, then reaches into his bag and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper, half-covered in diagrams, bullet points, and what looks like a flowchart drawn in three colors of highlighter.

“I sketched a few topic pairings,” he says, smoothing it out on the table. “Physics side, philosophy side. Nothing formal.”

Geto glances at it. There’s actual structure. Week 4: Observer Effects and Epistemic Bias. Week 5: Causality, Counterfactuals, and the Arrow of Time. Week 6: Measurement, Morality, and the Problem of Error.

He looks back at Gojo. “You made this?”

Gojo shrugs. “I got bored during office hours.”

Geto doesn’t say anything. He picks up the paper, starts inspecting it with a hint of disbelief.

Gojo grins. “So I’m helpful now?”

“No,” Geto says, reading through Gojo’s incredibly detailed, slightly messy planning lessons. They’re perfectly suited to everything Geto knows from his prior research. “You’re less useless than expected.”

Gojo beams like it’s a compliment.

Geto doesn’t smile. He flips his notebook closed and stands.

“We’ll meet again next Tuesday,” he says. “Same time.”

Gojo salutes him with the smoothie. “I’ll bring a better draft.”

“Bring a real draft,” Geto says, already heading for the door.

Gojo calls after him, “You want it typed or color-coded?”

“No colors,” Geto says, without turning around.

Gojo laughs. “You’re no fun.”

Geto doesn’t respond. He steps into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him.

The meeting after the syllabus submission is quiet.

Gojo shows up on time, which is suspicious. He’s wearing a normal shirt, no sunglasses, and he’s brought a printed draft of the seminar outline: double-spaced, annotated, and stapled. Geto eyes it like it might explode.

“You’re early,” he says.

“I’m evolving,” Gojo replies, sliding into his usual seat. “Next week I’ll show up before you and start grading your papers.”

 Geto flips open his notebook and starts reviewing the draft. It’s not bad. The structure is clean. The readings are balanced. There’s a note in the margin next to Week 4 that says “Let Geto rant about holism here.”

He circles it. “Don’t do this.”

Gojo leans over. “What, label your strengths?” Geto breathes out, heavy and loud, through his nostrils. 

The meeting after that is louder.

Gojo brings a whiteboard marker and starts diagramming something that looks like a probability tree but ends in a question mark and a doodle of a cat. Geto watches him draw for a full minute before saying, “That’s not how Bayesian inference works.”

Gojo turns. “It’s a metaphor.”

“It’s a mess.”

“It’s a metaphorical mess.”

Geto pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to confuse them.”

Gojo shrugs. “Confusion is pedagogically underrated.”

Geto stares at him. “You’re exhausting.”

“Sorry, did you say delight?”

They stare at each other for a beat. Gojo’s marker squeaks against the whiteboard as he adds a question mark to one of the branches.

Geto sighs. “You’re going to teach this, aren’t you?”

Gojo smiles, eyes rolling from the board to Geto behind his shades. Geto tries to ignore the wisps of his hair, white and shining, over his forehead, the way his even lighter eyelashes dance over impossible blue. “Only if you don’t erase it first.”

The meeting after that is strange.

Gojo’s in a mood. Less performative, more focused. He’s scribbling notes in a legal pad, muttering about observer effects and the ethics of measurement. Geto watches him for a while before asking, “Did something happen?” He mentally smacks himself, because why should he give a flying fuck? 

Gojo looks up. “Nope.” Well, good then!

So Geto doesn’t push. But he notices the way Gojo’s handwriting gets sharper when he’s annoyed. The way he stops joking when he’s actually thinking.

They finish the outline for Week 6. Geto adds a footnote about the problem of error in moral systems. Gojo adds a diagram of a particle detector with a question mark next to “intent.”

They stay twenty minutes past the scheduled hour. Neither of them mentions it.

The meeting after that is the one where Gojo makes Geto smile.

It’s accidental. They’re arguing about Plato - again.

“You can group many aspects of your life into it,” Geto says, rubbing his temples. “I’m not saying it’s, like, the end all be all. But it isn’t that shitty.”

“Tripartite soul theory is totally that shitty,” Gojo cries, slumping in the beanie chair he brought last week. Geto doesn’t have the heart to ask him to take it back. “You’ve got reason trying to lead,” Gojo says, gesturing wildly, “but spirit’s yelling in the group chat and appetite is going around trying to, what? Bang the first thing it sees? Please.”

Geto snorts. It’s quiet, involuntary, and immediately followed by a cough he doesn’t bother to disguise.

Gojo pauses mid-sentence. “Was that - did you just laugh?”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I was breathing.”

“Breathing?”

“Do you want me to stop breathing?”

Gojo leans forward, elbows on the table. “You laughed.”

Geto doesn’t look up. “The things you say are absurd.”

“And funny.”

“Absurd,” Geto repeats.

Gojo’s grinning now, but he doesn’t push it. He just watches Geto underline something in his notes, then says, “You should do that more.”

“Underline things?”

“Laugh.”

Geto finally glances up. “You’re not that funny.”

“Not yet,” Gojo says, and goes back to his diagram.

They don’t talk about being friends.

There’s no need. The meetings stretch longer than they’re scheduled for, and neither of them mentions it. Gojo stops showing up late. Geto stops pretending he minds when he does. They argue less about structure and more about content. Gojo brings readings. Geto critiques them. Gojo listens. Sometimes.

Gojo sees how Geto’s longer and longer hours and shittier and shittier meetings with his advisor suck the life out of him, so he suggests they stop using the seminar room. It’s too cold, too dim, and the chairs are loud. Gojo suggested the coffee shop near the library. Geto didn’t agree. He just showed up. It doesn’t make the weight come back, or the dark bags disappear, but it improves his mood. It’s, as Gojo puts it, his only source of vitamin D. They share meals sometimes, when meetings run late and the cafeteria’s still open. Gojo orders three sides and something fluorescent. They sit at the corner table and argue until Geto flicks whatever is on his plate at Gojo. 

Gojo reads The Republic. Geto lends him his annotated copy. Gojo returns it with new notes in orange, labeled “counterpoint” and “this is dumb.” Geto reads them. He doesn’t say anything. Geto tries to understand tensor fields. Gojo sends him a PDF with diagrams and a note that says, “Don’t worry, the math hates everyone equally.” Geto prints it out. 

So no, they don’t talk about being friends, and Geto doubts most people do anyway, but Geto starts to believe that maybe this is what it looks like. Showing up, or staying late because the conversation is good.

He starts to believe that Gojo will keep showing up, but Geto feels the foundation of their friendship shake with every passing day, because how would that be possible?

Because Gojo is not consistent. Not really. He’s brilliant, yes. Engaged, yes. Capable of depth and insight and real connection. But he’s also erratic. Untethered. He moves through the world so much faster than everyone else. He doesn’t stay in one place. He doesn’t stay in one rhythm.

Geto knows this. He’s seen it. He’s heard the stories. He’s watched the way Gojo talks to professors: like they’re peers, or obstacles, or both. He’s watched the way Gojo treats deadlines, expectations, structure: like they’re optional. Like they’re funny. He doesn’t follow the same rules as everyone else, because he’s a genius and the university will keep him around regardless of what he does. Geto doesn’t have that privilege. He’s an expendable philosophy master's student.

And yet.

Gojo’s office is technically a shared space, but no one else uses it.

There’s a desk, a whiteboard, and a couch that’s definitely not regulation. The windows face west, which means it gets too warm in the afternoons, but Gojo likes it. He keeps the blinds half-open and the lights off. 

Itadori’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a copy of some book Gojo has seen Geto read a few times. Gojo has known Itadori since Megumi and Nobara started coming regularly to his office hours: they’re a trio of sorts, but he doesn’t want to tell Geto just yet. He’ll let Geto have Itadori to himself for now. He needs him more than Gojo does. 

Nobara’s perched on the arm of the couch, eating dried mango slices out of a ziplock bag. Megumi’s at the desk, pretending to take notes but actually drawing a diagram of something that looks suspiciously like a moral dilemma involving cats.

Gojo’s leaning against the whiteboard, sipping something caffeinated and watching them with the vague expression of someone who’s either proud or deeply concerned.

“You’re all going to fail the seminar,” he says cheerfully.

Nobara throws a mango slice at him. “You’re the one teaching it.”

“Exactly,” Gojo says. 

Megumi doesn’t look up. “You’re supposed to be co-teaching with the other guy. You call him Suguru.”

Itadori blinks. “Wait, Geto? My PHIL 415 TA?”

Gojo nods. “Sharp jaw, tragic eyebrows, world’s prettiest smile.” Nobara gags.

Megumi rolls his eyes. 

“You two are weird together.”

“We’re balanced,” Gojo says.

Megumi finally looks up. “You mean he’s competent. And you’re… whatever you are.”

“Watch it, Fushiguro!” Gojo sings, leaning back in his chair. “I still grade your pop quizzes. Show some respect.”

Itadori flips the page and twists so his legs are straight up the ceiling and his back is flat on the ground, bent in a 90-degree angle, before snapping his book shut. “He’s very serious!”

“He’s not,” Gojo says. “He’s just allergic to nonsense.”

“You’re nonsense,” Nobara says.

Gojo bows. “And yet he tolerates me.”

Megumi to glance up and say, “Are you guys friends?”

Gojo shrugs. “I think so.”

“You think so?”

Gojo sips his drink. “He hasn’t thrown me out of a window yet.”

“That’s your metric?”

“It’s a good one.”

Megumi raises an eyebrow. “You like him.”

Gojo doesn’t answer right away. He just watches the light shift across the floor, the way the blinds cut it into stripes. Then he says, “He’s the best academic partner I’ve ever had.”

Itadori blinks. “Seriously?”

Gojo nods. “Seriously.”

Nobara tilts her head. “You’ve had, like, five co-authors.”

“None of them argued with me about Kant while diagramming tensor fields.”

Megumi snorts. “That sounds awful.”

“It was incredible,” Gojo says.

There’s another pause. Itadori flips another page. Nobara finishes her mango. Megumi goes back to his diagram.

Gojo watches them for a moment, then says, “He’s my best friend.”

No one responds right away. Then Nobara says, “Does he know that?”

Gojo smiles. “Probably not.”

“Forcing us to listen to this is an abuse of power, by the way,” Megumi grumbles, and Gojo smirks at him.

“You want an F on that quiz, Fushiguro?”

It’s late.

They’re sitting on the lawn outside the archives, backs against the stone wall, legs stretched out over the brittle grass. The coffee shop was closed by the time they finished, and neither of them suggested going anywhere else. They just ended up here.

Gojo’s holding a half-eaten sandwich. Geto’s sipping tea from a thermos he forgot he packed, with so much caffeine in it it might actually help him pull a dreaded all-nighter. Their notebooks are closed. The seminar outline is done. The readings are finalized. There’s nothing left to plan.

Gojo’s talking about a student who tried to model moral dilemmas using tensor calculus.

“He said Bentham would’ve loved matrices,” Gojo says, chewing. “Claimed utilitarianism is just linear algebra for happiness.”

Geto raises an eyebrow. “Did you fail him?”

“I gave him a B. For creativity.”

“You’re maximizing confusion, not happiness.”

Gojo grins. “Mill would’ve approved. It was higher-order pleasure.” Geto has a moment of heat in his chest. He likes that Gojo talks about philosophy in their conversations. If he was willing to sabotage the only real friend he’s made here, Geto would tell him that it’s much better than the pickup lines he uses. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t. He instead watches the steam curl from his thermos and lets the silence settle.

Gojo shifts, brushing grass off his jeans. “You know, I think my brain might be a Hilbert space.”

Geto glances over. “Infinite and orthogonal?”

“Mostly misunderstood.”

“How tragic of you.”

Gojo chuckles and leans back, looking up at the sky. “You ever think about how surreal it is that we’re teaching this stuff? Like, truth and ethics and quantum uncertainty. All in one seminar.”

“It’s interdisciplinary. It’s not earth-shattering.”

Gojo continues, quieter now. “We did that grading thing two summers ago. All the TAs. You were there.”

Geto blinks. “I don’t remember that.”

“You finished your stack in half the time and left before the pizza showed up.”

Geto hums. “That sounds like me.”

“I remember thinking, ‘That guy’s terrifying. I’ll never see him again.’” Gojo smiles. “And now we’re co-teaching a seminar on,” he waves his hands around, “truth, or whatever.”

Geto sips his tea. “I guess it was pretty surreal for me too. I never thought I’d understand a reference about Hilbert spaces.”

Gojo laughs, real, full-bodied, surprised. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Don’t be weird.”

“I’m being so serious, Suguru.” Geto flinches at the use of his own name, like he’s never heard it before.

“I’m leaving, Satoru.” Geto swears he sees Gojo’s face flush, but it’s probably wishful thinking. What the fuck am I wishing for, Geto thinks.

“You’re staying.”

Geto doesn’t move. Gojo’s still laughing, but it fades into something softer. They sit in silence for a while. 

Then Gojo says, “I don’t know if I could ever leave.”

Geto exhales. “Like, the lawn?”

Gojo nods. “The whole thing. Academia. Structure. Deadlines. Advisors who think prestige is a personality trait. I hate it all, but I can’t leave.”

Geto doesn’t answer right away. He watches the lights flicker in the library windows. “I think about it a lot.”

Gojo scoffs. “You’re too good at this to leave. At teaching.”

Geto doesn’t respond.

Gojo nudges his shoulder. “You are.”

Geto shakes his head. “I’m methodical.”

“That’s not a flaw.”

“It’s not charisma.”

“I have enough charisma and natural charm for both of us, don’t you worry.” Geto scowls.

“I’ll never compliment you again, my bad.” Gojo’s response is a series of whines, something along the lines of no, Suguru, please, and Geto hates that he’s abusing the use of his given name now that he knows he can use it, but he probably will too, so.

Geto exhales, slow. His tea’s gone cold, and only a few drops are left. He doesn’t remember finishing it: his eyes still ache from exhaustion. So much for pulling that all-nighter. He sets the thermos down beside him and presses his palms to the grass, fingers splayed like he’s bracing for something.

Gojo’s talking next to him, and he’s talking pretty loudly about the stars or the shape of the clouds or something, so it’s pretty miraculous that Geto doesn’t actually hear him. He’s trying to remember when this stopped being a collaboration and started feeling like something else. He thinks it might’ve been the second time Gojo brought him coffee without asking how he takes it. Or the first time he didn’t interrupt him mid-sentence. Or maybe it was when he said “you’re good at this” and didn’t laugh after, like he was a joke.

Or maybe it’s now. Maybe it’s this. Sitting here, in the dark, with Gojo saying his name like it’s a shared secret and Geto pretending it doesn’t matter.

He shifts, just slightly, and their shoulders brush. Gojo doesn’t move away.

Geto doesn’t either.

There’s a beat. Then another. Then Gojo says, “You’re thinking too loud.”

Geto huffs. “You’re imagining things.”

“I have never imagined anything in my life ever, actually.”

Geto doesn’t answer. He’s not sure he can.

Gojo tilts his head, just enough to catch his eye. “You okay?”

Geto nods. Then shakes his head. Then shrugs.

Geto finally says, “I don’t know what this is.”

Gojo blinks. “The seminar? I hope you know what that is actually, it starts on Monday.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Geto looks down at his hands. They’re still pressed to the grass. His knuckles are cold. “I don’t know what we’re doing.”

Gojo’s quiet for a moment. Then: “We’re sitting.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Geto doesn’t look at him. “It’s just, like, I don’t know. This was supposed to be a project. A half-semester thing. Joint lectures. Planning meetings. That’s it.”

“Right.”

“And now we’re here.”

“Yeah.”

“And I don’t know what that means.”

Gojo’s voice is softer now. “Does it have to mean something?” And Geto thinks he’s feeling his throat close up. Maybe he’s allergic to the grass.

Gojo shifts beside him, rubbing green strains off his jeans. “You’re my best friend,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Isn’t that good enough?”

Geto blinks. He doesn’t look at Gojo. He looks at the ground, at the way the grass bends under their weight, at the way his thermos has left a damp ring in the dirt. He feels something tighten in his chest, something small and sharp and familiar.

He nods. Gojo smiles. “Good. I was worried you didn’t like me.”

Geto huffs. “I don’t.”

Gojo laughs. “Liar.”

Geto doesn’t respond.

Gojo leans back, arms behind his head, looking up at the sky like he’s won something. “You’re the only person I’ve ever taught with who didn’t make me want to fake a sabbatical.”

Geto hums. Gojo keeps talking. He’s happy. He’s relaxed. He thinks this is a good moment. It is, it is, it is. It should be. But it’s not, and Geto knows that. He feels sick to his stomach. He feels nauseous. He wants to go home and curl up in a ball and pretend he doesn’t have to peer-review a thesis his advisor sent him. He wants to hit Gojo and break his nose and kiss him and shake his shoulders, ask him to wake the fuck up I know you look at my ass when I turn around and I know I’m your best friend, don’t you want me? But he won’t do that. 

Eventually, Gojo glances over. “You want me to walk you back?”

Geto shakes his head. 

Gojo blinks. “You sure?”

“I’m fine.”

Gojo hesitates. “It’s late.”

“I’m not a maiden in distress, trust me.”

Geto stands slowly, fingers stiff from the cold. He picks up his thermos, holds it like it’s something to do with his hands. He doesn’t look at Gojo.

Gojo stands too, stretching his arms overhead, spine cracking. “This was nice,” he says.

Geto nods. “Yeah.”

Gojo smiles. “See you tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

Gojo doesn’t move. He’s watching him now, like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s expecting something. And Geto almost gets absurdly angry about that, too, because how dare he? Geto’s the one waiting for something. For anything. Gojo won’t give it to him, so why can’t he just go home? But Geto knows that’s not the kind of person Gojo is, and he wouldn’t have felt this way about him if he were. He resigns himself to his fate.

Gojo waves, casual, easy, like nothing’s wrong. “Night, Suguru.”

Geto flinches.

“Night,” he says, and turns before Gojo can see his face.

He walks back alone.

The campus is quiet. The lights are dim. The wind picks up just enough to make him pull his coat tighter. He doesn’t check his phone. He doesn’t think about the seminar. He doesn’t think about the thesis draft waiting on his desk.

He thinks about Gojo.

He thinks about the way he said best friend like it was a gift. Like it was something generous, that Geto should be grateful for. He knows he’s being so, so selfish for not being grateful for it. He disgusts himself. 

He thinks about how easy it is for Gojo to be liked. To be wanted. To be chosen. How he moves through the world like it’s always going to make room for him.

He thinks about how hard it is to be methodical. To be careful. To be someone who needs things to mean something before they can be trusted.

He looks at his own reflection in his dark cell phone screen. His eyes are sunken in. He’s lost more weight, and his hair is thinning. He looks fucking awful. He’s so, so tired.

The seminar room is full.

Not just full - overfull. Students are sitting on the floor, pressed against the walls.  Someone dragged in a folding chair from the hallway. Someone else brought snacks. There’s a buzz in the air, the kind that usually precedes a guest lecture or a scandal. Geto looks at Gojo, who’s preening behind his sunglasses. Geto rolls his eyes.

The first seminar lecture starts, and Gojo’s holding a marker like it’s a microphone. He’s talking about quantum uncertainty and the ethics of observation, and somehow - somehow - it’s landing. The students laugh. They nod. They write things down. One of them whispers “he’s insane” and another says “he’s kind of brilliant” and Geto wants to crawl under the desk.

He’s seated beside the projector, flipping through his notes with the kind of precision that looks like calm but is actually just containment. He’s supposed to follow Gojo’s segment with a lecture on epistemic frameworks and moral attention. He’s done it three times already in rehearsal. He knows the material. He knows the transitions. He knows the rhythm.

He still feels like he’s going to throw up.

Gojo finishes his segment with a joke about Schrödinger’s cat and the grading system. The room laughs. Geto stands.

He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t smile. He talks about Simone Weil and the ethics of attention. He talks about how knowledge isn’t just a function of observation - it’s a function of care. He talks about how truth, in any discipline, is shaped by what we choose to notice and what we choose to ignore. He finishes with a quote from Weil: “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”

Gojo looks at him like he’s never heard it before. 

The Q&A starts. Gojo fields the first few questions - mostly about physics, about uncertainty, about whether Bayesian models can be used to predict moral failure. He answers with metaphors and diagrams and one-liners. The students laugh again.

Then someone asks Geto about Weil. About attention. About whether moral clarity is possible in systems built on power.

Geto answers. Slowly. Carefully. He quotes Foucault. He references Kant. He draws a line between epistemic bias and institutional design. He doesn’t look at Gojo. If he looks at him, he thinks he’ll start crying if he remembers last week on the field, and he’s not going to fuck up this seminar over some half-assed heartbreak.

More hands go up.

Someone asks about the difference between moral attention and moral obligation. Someone else asks about the role of empathy in knowledge production. Someone else asks if Geto thinks truth is ever neutral.

Geto answers all of them.

His heartbeat picks up. Not from nerves. From something else. From the way they’re listening. From the way they’re looking at him. From the way Gojo is quiet now, watching him with that tilted expression like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect.

Geto feels like he’s being split open.

The seminar ends. The students clap. Some of them stay after to ask more questions. 

The department chair stops by to say it was “refreshing.” Someone else calls it “the most coherent interdisciplinary seminar we’ve had in years.”

Geto’s advisor doesn’t show up.

Gojo’s does.

He’s tall, sharp, and smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. He shakes Geto’s hand like it’s a formality. He claps Gojo on the shoulder like he’s proud.

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” he says.

Gojo shrugs. “It was both of us.”

The advisor laughs. “Don’t be modest. You’ve always had a gift for making theory palatable.”

Geto doesn’t respond.

He’s used to this. The way faculty talk about Gojo like he’s a phenomenon. Like he’s a brand. Like he’s something they discovered and now get to name-drop. He’s used to being the shadow in the room. The supporting structure. The one who made the scaffolding hold.

Gojo turns, slowly, sunglasses still on, voice still casual. “Do you even know what Geto did?”

The advisor blinks. “What?”

“The readings. The structure. The pacing. The transitions. That was all Geto.”

“Well, sure,” the advisor says, smiling like he’s humoring a child.

Gojo doesn’t smile back. “What the fuck are you 'well sure'-ing me for?”

Geto kicks him, hard. “Be quiet.”

“You weren’t here,” Gojo continues, and pushes Geto off of him. “You didn’t see the room go quiet when he started talking. You didn’t see the students quote him. You didn’t see the questions they asked.” 

The advisor smiles, tight. “I’m just saying-”

“I know what you’re saying,” Gojo says. “And it’s wrong.”

Geto watches the exchange with a kind of detached clarity. Gojo’s not performing. He’s not grandstanding. He’s just saying what’s true. He’s pretty sure Gojo’s lying. He could care less. The advisor pulls Gojo close, whispering something in his ear. He pulls back, clearing his throat.

“Well. I’ll let you two sort out authorship.”

Gojo nods. “We have.” His advisor stalks off to god knows where.

Gojo turns to him. “Sorry. I know he’s a jackass.”

Geto shakes his head. “You didn’t have to say anything.”

“I did.”

Geto exhales. “It’s not sorted.”

“What?”

“The paper,” Geto says. “It’s not sorted.”

Gojo blinks. “I figured we’d split it.”

Geto nods. “That’s what I figured too.” Gojo smiles at the ground. Humility is an odd look on him. Geto doesn’t know if he likes it or not.

Then Gojo says, “You were brilliant.”

Geto doesn’t smile. “I know.”

Gojo laughs, soft. “You’re insufferable.”

Geto replies, deadpan, “Excuse me.” Gojo laughs harder.

The seminar sessions get better and better. More and more students come. Geto and Gojo have a dynamic in the classroom: they banter, and joke, and involve the students. People come up to Geto in the philosophy department and ask how the sessions are going, if they are allowing people to audit. Gojo and Geto meet on-campus to talk and review their lectures, but it’s mostly Gojo gushing over their highs and successes, the results of their work. Geto basks in it, like he basks in the last round of applause at their final seminar.

This is why the email comes as a surprise.

Geto’s advisor forwards it without comment. Just the subject line: Submission Confirmation – Journal of Interdisciplinary Ethics. The body is brief. The paper has been received. It’s under review. The title is theirs. The framework is theirs. The citations are theirs.

The authorship is not.

Satoru Gojo (First Author), Suguru Geto (Acknowledged Contributor)

Geto stares at the screen for a long time. He reads it twice. Three times. He checks the metadata. The timestamp. The sender.

It’s Gojo’s advisor.

No co-signature, or consultation, or draft approval. All there is is Gojo's name at the top and Geto's the footnotes.

Geto doesn’t breathe for a full minute.

Then he closes the laptop and walks to his advisor’s office. Kiyotaka doesn’t look surprised.

“You let him take over,” he says, before Geto can speak. “You’ve proven nothing.”

Geto blinks. “I didn’t-”

“You let him run the seminar. You let him dominate the room. You let him take credit. And now you’re in the footnotes.”

Geto’s throat tightens. “I didn’t submit the paper.”

“No,” his advisor says. “But you let him submit the narrative.”

Geto feels something snap.

“I built the framework,” he says. “I wrote the structure. I designed the readings. I answered the questions. I made it coherent.”

His advisor shrugs. “I should have known what you were capable of.” He flicks his eyes over to Geto’s. “Which clearly isn’t much.”

Geto doesn’t remember leaving the office. He doesn’t remember walking across campus. He doesn’t remember texting Gojo. He just knows he’s standing outside the physics building, waiting.

Gojo shows up ten minutes later, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, coat half-buttoned, expression open.

“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

Geto doesn’t answer. He holds out his phone.

Gojo reads the email. His face doesn’t change. “What the hell.”

“You didn’t know?”

“No,” Gojo says. “I didn’t know. I didn’t submit it.”

Geto watches him. “Your advisor did.”

Gojo nods. “I’ll retract it.”

Geto doesn’t move.

Gojo looks up. “Suguru.”

Geto flinches.

“I didn’t do this,” Gojo says. “You know I didn’t.”

Geto doesn’t respond.

Gojo’s voice sharpens. “You think I wanted this?”

“I think you didn’t stop it.”

“I didn’t know it was happening. You think I wanted sole authorship?” Gojo’s face, usually pale and soft and so smooth, is turning red and mottled. “We said we would split it.”

Geto doesn’t answer.

Gojo steps back. “You don’t trust me.”

Geto’s jaw tightens. “You can afford to be generous. I can’t.”

Gojo blinks. “What?”

“You can afford to say it doesn’t matter. You can afford to let it go. You can afford to be liked and quoted and remembered no matter what name is on the paper.”

Gojo doesn’t speak.

Geto keeps going. “I can’t. I need this. I need the credit. I need the authorship. I need the proof.”

Gojo’s voice is low. “You think I don’t care about that?”

“I think you don’t have to.”

Gojo looks at him with a crazed look in his eyes. “You think I’d take credit for your work?”

“I think you didn’t stop someone else from doing it.”

Gojo’s jaw tightens. “You think I’m complicit.”

“Are you not?”

Gojo runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll retract the paper.”

“Sure.” And Geto thinks that will be it.

Gojo doesn’t leave. “You still don’t trust me.”

Geto doesn’t answer.

Gojo laughs, bitter. “After everything?”

Geto looks away.

Gojo says, “You think I’m just like them. Like your shit-ass advisor and our shit-ass professors.” Geto doesn’t say anything, staring at his shoes. Gojo starts laughing, and it’s not the boisterous, too-loud one that comes out of his nose when Geto says something he knows will make Gojo laugh, or when he intentionally gets some physics concept wrong in conversation so Gojo will explain it to him again. It’s mean, and wild, and angry. 

Gojo’s voice is sharp, now, but it shakes. “You think I’m coasting, Suguru.”

“You don't get it.” Geto’s voice is steady, calm. This wave of serenity has washed over him, like he’s finally found the answer to all his questions. What if he never liked him at all? What if he never looked at Gojo’s beautiful face and perfect body, and amazing words, mind, thoughts, jokes with love? Maybe it was all jealousy. Maybe he was envious of Gojo all along. The only thing that was here was Geto scrambling to catch up to the amazing Gojo Satoru. That’s all this ever was. 

Gojo laughs again, but it’s shorter this time. Bitter. “You think I’m invincible.”

“I think you’re smart enough for everyone to workship you. But not all of us are prodigies, Satoru.” Geto sighs. “I think you’re not afraid.”

Gojo’s voice cracks. “I’m afraid of losing you.”

“As what, Gojo?” Geto seethes, clenching his fists, his bangs framing his face as they fall out of his ponytail. “As what. Tell me.”

Gojo stands there, and his brows are crinkled inward, like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. Geto wonders what he sees. Does Geto look angry? Sad? Manic? Happy? He can’t feel the expression on his own face. He can’t feel his fingertips or his toes, and he can’t think over the way his heart beats so, so loud in his throat. “It doesn’t matter,” Geto says. “You already have, anyway.”

Gojo blinks. “Suguru-”

“Don’t.”

And Geto turns and leaves, walking blindly. As expected, Gojo does not follow him.

Gojo doesn’t sleep.

He lies awake in his apartment, staring at the ceiling like it owes him something. The walls are too quiet. The air feels stale. His phone buzzes twice. He doesn’t want to look right now. He’s still thinking about the way Geto looked at him. The way he didn’t wait for an answer. The way he said you already have, anyway like it was a fact.

He replays the conversation in fragments. The hallway. The email. The accusation. The silence. He doesn’t know what he was supposed to say. He doesn’t know what he would’ve said if Geto had waited. He thinks that, but he knows it’s a lie, because he does know what he would have said. Geto probably wanted him to say it, too. He should have just said it.

The next morning, Gojo walks into the department office and asks for the submission log.

The secretary hesitates. She’s used to Gojo being charming, not curt. But she pulls it up anyway. Shows him the timestamp. The IP address. The attached draft.

It’s the version they finalized together. The one Geto built. The one Gojo annotated. The one they agreed was solid.

The author line is edited.

Gojo’s name is first. Geto’s is in the footnotes.

Gojo doesn’t speak. He just stares at the screen.

The secretary shifts. “It was submitted from Professor Shinohara’s office.”

Gojo leaves without another word.

He doesn’t go to class. He doesn’t go to office hours. He walks straight to the philosophy building and stands outside Geto’s office door.

It’s closed.

Gojo doesn’t knock.

He stands there for a full minute, staring at the nameplate. Then he turns and walks to the faculty lounge.

His own advisor is there. Laughing with someone from the grants committee. Talking about funding cycles and publication metrics like they’re sports scores.

Gojo waits until the conversation ends. Then he walks up and says, “We need to talk.”

His advisor raises an eyebrow. “Is this about the paper?”

Gojo doesn’t blink. “You submitted it.”

“I did.”

“You changed the authorship.”

“I corrected it.”

Gojo’s jaw tightens. “You erased him.”

“I acknowledged him.”

Gojo doesn’t move. “You stole his work.”

His advisor sighs, like he’s tired of being brilliant. “Satoru, you’re the one who made it land. You’re the one they quoted. You’re the one they remember.”

Gojo’s voice is quiet. “He built the framework.”

“You elevated it.”

Gojo doesn’t respond. He watches him. Watches the way he leans back in his chair like he’s already won. Watches the way he talks about Geto like he’s a footnote.

“You’re wasting your time defending someone who doesn’t know how to play the game,” the advisor says.

Gojo says, “Then I’ll change the rules.”

His advisor laughs. “You think you can?”

Gojo nods. “Watch me.”

He walks straight to the department chair.

He doesn’t wait for an appointment. He knocks once, opens the door, and says, “I need ten minutes.”

The chair looks up from his laptop. “Is this about the ethics paper?”

Gojo sits down. “It’s about the submission. The authorship. The sabotage.”

He lays it out, piece by piece. The seminar. The draft. The metadata. The edit. The advisor. The fallout.

He doesn’t dramatize. He doesn’t embellish. He just tells the truth.

The chair listens. Nods. Frowns.

Gojo says, “Retract the submission.”

The chair hesitates. “It’s already under review.”

Gojo says, “Retract it.”

The chair nods slowly. “I’ll speak to the journal.”

Gojo stands. “Make it clear. The paper is Geto’s.”

The chair blinks. “You’re sure?”

Gojo nods. “Put my name in the footnotes. Where it belongs.”

The retraction goes public.

The journal issues a statement. The department circulates a memo. The seminar is cited again, this time with Geto’s name at the top. Students talk about it. Faculty talk about it. Someone calls it “an overdue correction.” Someone else calls it “a political gesture.” Someone else says, “Well, Gojo doesn’t need the credit anyway.”

Gojo doesn’t care.

He walks to the archives lawn. The place they used to sit. The place they used to talk. The place where Geto once said I never thought I’d understand a reference about Hilbert spaces.

Gojo sits there for a long time.

Geto doesn’t show up.

It’s late again.

Gojo stands outside Geto’s apartment door, hands in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. He’s been standing there for almost three minutes. He hasn’t knocked yet. The hallway is quiet. His nerves are louder than anything else on this side of the residency halls. Gojo swallows and remembers that he’s not supposed to be scared of anything. He’s so scared. This sucks. 

Gojo exhales. Then he knocks.

Once. Then again.

There’s a pause. Then footsteps. Then the door opens.

Geto’s standing there in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair loose, eyes tired. He doesn’t look surprised. He doesn’t look angry. He looks like he hasn’t slept either.

Gojo clears his throat. “Can I come in?”

Geto steps aside.

Gojo walks in slowly, like he’s not sure the floor will hold him. The apartment is clean, quiet, dim. There’s a stack of books on the coffee table. A half-written draft on the desk. A mug on the counter. It’s empty.

Geto closes the door behind him. Doesn’t say anything.

Gojo stands in the middle of the room, unsure where to put his hands. “I didn’t know if you’d answer.”

Geto walks past him, into the kitchen. “I almost didn’t.”

Geto opens a cabinet, pulls out a tin of coffee grounds. He doesn’t drink coffee. Gojo knows that. Geto knows Gojo knows that. But he still makes it.

He fills the kettle. Sets it on the stove. Doesn’t look at him.

Gojo watches the way his hands move. They don’t shake, or fidget, or fumble. Gojo has seen him pick his nails for the last few months, or crack his knuckles, or tap his fingers against each other. They don’t, now. They’re firm and solid and move smoothly. Gojo doesn’t know how to feel about that. 

The kettle clicks on. The silence stretches. Geto spoons the grounds into the filter. He doesn’t ask how Gojo takes it. He already knows.

“You didn’t have to let me in.”

Geto turns back to him, and Gojo sees how red rims his eyes. A knot twists deep in his gut. “I know.”

The kettle starts to hiss.

Gojo leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry.”

Geto doesn’t respond.

Gojo keeps going. “I should’ve said something. In the hallway. When you asked. I should’ve said it.”

Geto pours the water slowly, evenly. The smell of coffee fills the room.

Gojo says, “I didn’t know what to say.”

Geto says, “You did.”

Gojo nods. “I did.” Because Geto has always been able to see right through Gojo. He’s not the physics prodigy, or the favorite TA, or anything else here but Satoru. He wonders if Geto would call him that, now.

Geto sets the mug in front of him. Black. No sugar. No milk. Just the way Gojo likes it.

Then he sits across from him, legs folded, hands in his lap.

Gojo picks up the mug. Holds it. Doesn’t drink.

He says, “I feel like shit.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Gojo laughs, but it’s quiet. “I get it now.”

Geto looks at him. “What do you get?”

“I didn’t say the right things to you.” Gojo sips the coffee. The taste is so familiar, and he fights the urge to cry. “I haven’t been saying the right things for a while.”

Geto’s eyes go softer. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

Geto looks down at his hands. “I didn’t trust you.”

Gojo blinks. “What?”

Geto says, “I should have. I didn’t.”

“No,” Gojo shakes his head, “you don’t have to-”

Geto stands up, and Gojo trails off into silence. “This wasn’t your fault.” Geto says, resolute. “You helped me. You aren’t like them. I just needed a minute alone.” Geto’s face pinches, and Gojo’s seen it before. He’s flushed, ears and neck warm with what he recognizes as self-consciousness. God, it’s such a good look on him. He’s so cute it makes Gojo sick. “I shouldn’t have said, like, anything I said. That was on me. Thank you.”

Gojo exhales, setting his cup down and pressing his face into his palms. The room is silent, and Gojo thinks that Geto has to know how hard his heart is pounding. He must. He’s going to die of embarrassment before ever publishing his master’s project. He needs to tell Megumi, Nobara, and Itadori to start planning his funeral. 

“Also, I’m switching advisors.”

Gojo sits up. “You are?”

Geto nods. “I’m done being someone’s cautionary tale.”

Gojo doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he says, “Good.”

Geto whispers, “I’m scared.”

Gojo grins. “I’m not. You’ll be great.”

Gojo leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers wrapped around the mug. “I didn’t know how bad it was.”

Geto doesn’t respond.

Gojo keeps going. “Your advisor. The way he talks to you. The way he talks about you. I didn’t realize.”

Geto shifts slightly, but doesn’t look up.

“I thought he was just strict,” Gojo says. “I thought he was pushing you because he saw potential.”

Geto huffs, quiet. “He saw a liability.”

“You’re not.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty fucking great,” Geto says, completely serious, and Gojo snorts so hard a little bit of the coffee he was drinking comes out of his nose. 

He coughs, swears, grabs a napkin from the table and presses it to his face like he’s trying to erase the moment. “Fuck. That burned.”

Geto doesn’t move. He just watches him, expression flat. “You deserve that.”

Gojo wipes his nose, still laughing. “You’re the worst.”

Gojo watches him for a moment. The way his hair falls around his face. The way his hoodie sleeves are pushed up just enough to show the edge of a scar on his wrist, one of the old ones, from grad school, from a broken beaker or a bad fall or something he never explained. The way he’s sitting like he’s finally stopped bracing for impact.

Gojo doesn’t ever want to stop looking at him. “You’re kind of phenomenal.”

Geto doesn’t look at him. “Don’t be weird.”

“I’m being serious.”

Geto exhales. “That’s worse.”

Gojo wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. Holy shit, they are sweaty. Now or never, he supposes. He’s pretty sure he’s not getting rejected, which somehow doesn’t make him feel any better.

“I didn’t say it before. When you asked.” When Gojo looks up, Geto is staring right into his eyes, pinning him where he sits on the couch. He wonders if Geto was always this intense, if his dark lashes always fluttered the way they are now over darker eyes, if his lips always looked so red as his mouth parts just slightly. Everything is fine! The rational part of his soul screams at him. Appetite is telling him very different things, which he chooses to ignore.

“Why didn’t you?” Geto asks, tilting his head. His hair cascades over his shoulder. Gojo has to look away to be able to make his tongue move enough to give an answer. He stares at the wall next to him. 

“I didn’t want to mess it up.”

He hears, more than sees, Geto start walking toward him. Gojo’s going to squirm out of his skin. Or shit his pants. Oh my god, I’m so scared I’m going to shit my pants, Gojo thinks, and he hates it, because he’s not scared of anything. So he jumps into the deep end.

“I like you,” Gojo rushes out in one breath. The footsteps get closer and closer.

Gojo keeps going. “Not just as a friend. Not just as a colleague. Not just as someone I co-teach with and argue about Kant with and steal pens from.”

“You do steal my pens. My markers, too,” and his is voice is louder, now.

Gojo says, “I like you.”

Geto doesn’t speak.

Gojo rambles on, “I think I’ve liked you for a long time. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Geto’s in front of him now. He stares up at him from his place on the couch. 

“You could have started with, ‘I like you,’”

“Fuck you,” Gojo snorts out.

Geto watches him. “You’re serious.”

Gojo nods. “I’m serious.”

Geto leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “You’re not just feeling guilty.”

“No.”

“You’re not just trying to fix things.”

“I mean, I am trying to fix things.”

“But that’s not why.”

Gojo shakes his head. “No.”

Geto doesn’t speak.

Gojo’s eyes start to water because oh my god, maybe he is getting rejected. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Don’t be stupid, Satoru.” Gojo’s heart lurches. When he turns his face to really, really meet Geto’s eyes, they’re soft. “I’m in love with you. You know this.”

And like, kind of, yeah. But hearing him say it? Fuck. Gojo feels a flush creeping up his face, down his body. He feels warm, like his body’s floating, and he’s not even high. “Yeah,” Gojo squeaks out, and immediately ducks his face in Geto’s shoulder as Geto starts laughing at him.

“That sounded so stupid.”

“Suguru, please, no.” Geto only laughs harder, stroking Gojo’s hair as Gojo  tucks his face, eyes squeezed shut in minor humiliation, into Geto’s neck.

Eventually, Geto takes Gojo’s jaw, cradling it as he lifts his face away from his shoulder, looking at him with eyes glassy from laughing so hard. Gojo’s throat closes up. God, he’s gorgeous. He hopes his old advisor dies somewhere.

Geto shrugs. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Gojo blinks. “You do?”

Geto gives him a look. “I just said I’m in love with you.”

Gojo grins, wide and stupid. “I know, but I needed to hear it again.”

Geto rolls his eyes. “You’re exhausting.”

Gojo leans back, arms stretched across the back of the couch, head tilted like he’s trying to memorize the ceiling. “You’re beautiful.”

Geto doesn’t respond.

Gojo glances over. “Too much?”

Geto’s voice goes low? Deep. “You’re lucky I’m tired.”

Gojo waggles his eyebrows. “Or what?”

“Or I’d smack the shit out of you, sweet-talker.”

But as Geto berates him, he’s sliding his fingers in between Gojo’s, slipping into the seat next to him. Geto is staring at the place where their hands touch, and Gojo rubs his finger on the ridge of Geto’s knuckle, eyes never leaving Geto’s face. The sharp slope of his nose is illuminated by the moon filtered through the small window, his bangs slightly covering the cut of his high, high cheekbones. He’s so gorgeous, Gojo thinks, but he lets the silence permeate the air for just a little bit longer. 

Geto shifts, just slightly, and leans into him.

Their shoulders touch. Their thighs press together. Gojo feels the warmth of him, steady and grounding, like gravity. 

He exhales.

Geto turns his head, just a little, and rests his temple against Gojo’s shoulder. His hair brushes Gojo’s neck. His breath is soft against the fabric of Gojo’s shirt. 

Gojo closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know how long they sit like that. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime. Geto’s hand tightens around his.

Gojo squeezes back.

Outside, the moon shifts. Inside, nothing does.