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The late morning sun streamed into the teachers’ lounge, catching dust motes in its lazy beams. It was a picture of mundane peace: a half-eaten pack of strawberry Pocky on the low table, a stack of ungraded essays threatening to topple, and the soft hum of the electric kettle. At one end of the worn sofa, Geto Suguru sipped his tea, eyes scanning a student’s rather creative interpretation of the Meiji Restoration. At the other end, Gojo Satoru was a study in restless energy, legs thrown over the armrest, head in Suguru’s lap despite there being plenty of empty space.
“Satoru, I’m trying to work,” Suguru murmured, not looking up from the paper.
“And you are. I’m not stopping you.” Satoru tilted his head back, his ridiculous white hair fanning out over Suguru’s thigh, his blindfold pushed up into his hairline to reveal unfairly blue eyes blinking up innocently. “I’m providing essential morale support. A weighted blanket of affection, if you will.”
“You’re providing a distraction. And your head is bony.”
“Lies. It’s perfectly sculpted.” Satoru poked Suguru’s side. “What’s more important? Akira’s… frankly alarming timeline of Commodore Perry’s arrival, or your best friend’s dire need for attention?”
Suguru finally looked down, a long-suffering fondness in his dark eyes. “Akira’s timeline suggests Perry arrived by hot air balloon, so it’s a tight race.” He set the paper aside, his hand coming to rest naturally in Satoru’s hair, fingers idly carding through the soft strands. “There. Happy?”
“Getting there.” Satoru closed his eyes, a cat-like smile on his face. “Five more minutes of this and I might grade my own pile of papers.”
“A miracle worthy of note.” They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the only sounds the turning of a page and Satoru’s contented sigh. This was their normal. A world without curses, without the crushing weight of being the strongest, just two men who had chosen to teach, living in the quiet, overlapping space of their shared history. Their students—Maki, Panda, Inumaki, Yuuji, Nobara, and Megumi—had long since given up trying to decipher their relationship, settling on a collective, fondly exasperated assumption that was, as Megumi often dryly stated, ‘obvious and annoying.’
The peace was shattered by the bell for lunch. Satoru groaned dramatically, rolling off Suguru’s lap and onto the floor with a thud. “Back to the trenches. I’m starving. I heard they have curry bread today.”
“You have a first-year class after lunch,” Suguru reminded him, standing and stretching. “Try not to fill them with pure sugar.”
“Suguru! My lessons are sweetened with my radiant presence, that’s all!”
They parted ways in the hall, Satoru bouncing toward the staff kitchen with the energy of a golden retriever, Suguru heading to his classroom to tidy up. The collision occurred less than three minutes later.
A loud, metallic *BANG* echoed through the hallway, followed by an even louder, theatrical yelp. Suguru, who knew the cadence of Satoru’s genuine pain versus his performative misery, still felt a jolt of concern. He found him in the connecting corridor between buildings, slumped against the wall next to a janitor’s heavy, wheeled cleaning cart.
“Satoru?”
“It… it came out of nowhere,” Satoru gasped, clutching his side. “A stealth attack. A metallic assassin. I’ve been gravely wounded, Suguru.”
Suguru walked over, unimpressed. The cart’s sharp corner, used for storing mop handles, was positioned at exactly abdomen height. “You walked into a stationary object.”
“It lunged!”
“You weren’t looking where you were going because you were probably thinking about curry bread.” Suguru nudged Satoru’s hand aside. “Let me see.”
With a flourish that was entirely unnecessary, Satoru lifted the edge of his black uniform jacket and white shirt beneath. There, just above his hipbone, was a small, angry red mark. The skin was barely broken, a shallow scrape maybe two inches long with the faintest bead of blood at the center. It was, medically speaking, nothing.
Satoru treated it like a gut shot. “It’s deep, isn’t it? I feel faint. I might need a wheelchair. And possibly a lifetime of care.”
Suguru fought a smile. He knew this game. The overblown drama, the wide, pleading eyes—it was a ploy for attention, for care, and Suguru, as always, was a willing mark. He sighed, the sound full of fabricated exasperation. “It’s a tragedy. You’ll likely scar. The world will mourn the loss of your pristine epidermis. Come on, you idiot.” He hooked a hand under Satoru’s arm and hauled him upright. “There’s a first-aid kit in the empty chemistry lab. Let’s go before you succumb to histrionics.”
Satoru leaned heavily on him, grinning. “Knew you’d take care of me.”
***
The chemistry lab was quiet and smelled faintly of dust and old ammonia. Sunlight poured through the high windows, illuminating floating particles. Suguru guided Satoru to perch on one of the sturdy lab desks, then went to retrieve the green metal kit from its cabinet.
“Shirt up,” he instructed, his voice taking on a soft, clinical tone.
Satoru complied, bundling the fabric just under his chest. The patch of skin exposed was pale and taut, the faint definition of muscle from his habitual, showy workouts evident. The tiny scratch looked even more ridiculous against it. Suguru crouched in front of him, opening the kit and pulling out a sealed antiseptic wipe and a small bandage.
“This will sting,” Suguru said, tearing the packet.
“Be gentle, nurse Geto.”
“I make no promises.” But his hands were infinitely gentle. He cleaned the area around the scrape first with a dry gauze pad, his touch feather-light. Satoru watched him, the playful smirk fading into something quieter. Suguru’s concentration was a tangible thing; his brows were slightly drawn, his full mouth set in a soft line. He worked with a deliberate, unhurried precision that had nothing to do with the simplicity of the task.
He opened the antiseptic wipe. The sharp, clean scent of povidone-iodine filled the small space between them. He dabbed it carefully onto the broken skin.
Satoru hissed, more for effect than pain. “Cold!”
“Hush.” Suguru’s other hand came to rest on Satoru’s other hip, a steadying anchor. He began to apply the orange-brown solution in slow, concentric circles, starting from the edges of the scrape and moving inward. He was definitely going slower than necessary, savoring the license to touch, to be this close. The pad whispered over skin, Suguru’s knuckles occasionally brushing against the warm plane of Satoru’s stomach.
“You’re taking your sweet time,” Satoru observed, his voice lower now.
“Antisepsis is a serious matter,” Suguru replied, not looking up. “Can’t have you getting an infection and becoming even more insufferable.”
“I’d be a delightful invalid. You’d have to feed me grapes.”
“I’d feed you aspirin and silence.” Suguru’s thumb stroked a tiny, unconscious arc on Satoru’s hip bone. The air in the room thickened, the banter a thin veil over the sheer intimacy of the moment: Suguru on his knees, Satoru bared to him, the sunlight warming them both. It was soft and charged, a secret in the quiet afternoon.
Satoru was about to say something else, something that would have tipped them from teasing into dangerously tender territory, when the door to the lab clicked open.
Panic, pure and illogical, shot through Satoru. The image of being found like this—Suguru between his legs, his shirt up, in an empty room—flashed before him. Without thinking, driven by a reflex to hide the scene, he yanked his bundled shirt down.
Right over Suguru’s head.
There was a muffled sound of protest from inside the fabric. Suguru, caught off-balance, threw his hands forward to steady himself, which resulted in his palms flattening directly against Satoru’s bare abdomen, trapped under the shirt now shrouding his head and shoulders.
Standing in the doorway, holding the handle, was Fushiguro Megumi. He froze for one millisecond. His eyes, the same cool green as always, swept the scene: his homeroom teacher, Gojo Satoru, sitting on a desk, shirt rucked up and pulled down over the head of his other teacher, Geto Suguru, who appeared to be crouching face-first into Satoru’s stomach.
Megumi’s expression did not change. It remained a masterpiece of adolescent apathy. He walked in, his steps echoing in the silent room, went straight to a desk in the third row, and pulled a weathered workbook from the shelf underneath.
From within the shirt-prison, Suguru went rigid. Satoru stared at Megumi, a frozen, horrified smile plastered on his face. “Megumi! Hi! We were just, uh… first aid! An accident! With the cart!”
Megumi straightened up, tucking the workbook under his arm. He turned to leave. As he passed the desk, he didn’t even look at them. He just clicked his tongue, a soft, dismissive *tch*.
“So that’s why you’ve been so eager to do crunches and planks,” he said, his voice flat as a calm sea. “Gotta show it off to someone, don’t you?”
He was out the door, closing it softly behind him, before either man could draw breath to form a denial.
For a moment, there was dead silence. Then the shirt was violently yanked back up. Suguru emerged, his long hair disheveled, his face a storm of disbelief, embarrassment, and utter fury. He was still crouched, his hands now in fists on his knees.
“You,” he mouthed soundlessly, eyes blazing, “absolute. Moron.”
Satoru’s own composure shattered. “He didn’t see anything! I covered you! It was a strategic cover!”
“You put your shirt on my head!” Suguru hissed, finally finding his voice. “My head, Satoru! And now he thinks—he thinks we’re—!” He couldn’t even finish, gesturing wildly between them.
“We can explain! It was medical!”
“He will never believe us. He will tell Yuuji and Nobara. Maki will know within the hour. Panda will make a supportive but deeply embarrassing comment.” Suguru dropped his forehead into his hand. “My professional reputation. Gone. Because you have the reflexes of a startled squid.”
Satoru slid off the desk, pacing. “Okay, okay, it’s a setback. A minor PR nightmare. But we’re adults! We can laugh it off! It’s funny, right?” His laughter was high-pitched and nervous.
Suguru didn’t answer. He stayed crouched, but his anger was already melting away, replaced by the lingering, physical memory of the past few minutes. The feel of Satoru’s skin under his careful fingers. The warmth. The way his muscles had jumped slightly at the cold antiseptic. And then, the bizarre, electrifying moment of being plunged into darkness, his hands splayed on that same warm skin, the soft cotton of Satoru’s shirt smelling faintly of his laundry detergent and something uniquely *Satoru*.
He looked down at his right hand. Slowly, he curled his fingers, as if trying to trap the sensation. A faint, unbidden smirk touched his lips. *Gotta show it off to someone, don’t you?* Annoying as the kid was, he wasn’t blind. The thought sent a flush of something that wasn’t entirely embarrassment through Suguru.
Almost without conscious thought, he brought his hand to his face. He pressed a soft, absent kiss to his own knuckles, the ones that had brushed Satoru’s stomach.
He paused. He sniffed slightly.
“Satoru,” Suguru murmured, his voice low and strangely amused.
Satoru stopped his frantic pacing. “What?”
“You smell… weird.”
“What?” Satoru looked genuinely confused now.
Suguru sniffed his hand again, the smirk growing. “You smell like my grandpa.”
Satoru’s face cycled through confusion, processing, and utter, profound offense. He straightened up to his full height. “Hey! Are you saying I smell *old*? How dare you!” He pointed an accusatory finger. “Being one year older than you does *not* mean I’m ancient, okay? It’s just the povidone-iodine! It’s the plaster I used! It’s a medical, antiseptic smell!”
Suguru finally stood, chuckling properly now. “It’s exactly the smell of his arthritis liniment. Uncanny.”
“I am wounded. Twice now. Physically and emotionally.” Satoru pouted, a magnificent, full-lipped expression of hurt pride. He fished his phone out of his pocket, thumbs flying across the screen with aggressive taps. He then placed it face-down on the lab desk with a definitive *click*. “Hope I’ll stop being angry at you?” he said, his tone dripping with dramatic injury. “Make it up to me, then.”
He gave Suguru one last wounded look, and flounced out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Suguru stared at the closed door, then at the phone. His heart, which had finally settled, gave a curious little thump. *Make it up to him?* For the smell comment? Or for the entire Megumi-induced debacle? Curiosity, sharp and irresistible, pulled him forward.
He flipped the phone over. The screen lit up, already playing a video.
It was a close-up shot of a man with a sculpted torso wearing a tight, light black turtleneck sweater. The fabric clung to every curve of his chest and shoulders, with a few opened stripes at the side of the abdomen. Text scrolled across the bottom: *No sweater can be more sexy on men.* Soft, synth-heavy lounge music played.
Suguru stared.
His brain short-circuited. Heat exploded across his face and neck, rushing down his spine. He made a choked sound and slammed the phone back face-down as if it had bitten him.
“That… that idiot,” he breathed into the empty room, his ears ringing. What was that? A hint? A joke? A bizarre, Satoru-esque non-sequitur? He paced the length of the lab, the image of that sweater seared into his mind. Was Satoru angry about the smell comment, or was this about… something else? Was *this* the making-up he wanted?
He returned the phone to Satoru later that afternoon after classes ended.
The questions plagued him for days.
***
Suguru became a man obsessed. He taught his classes on autopilot, the Meiji Restoration forever linked in his mind with the feeling of Satoru’s hair and the later sight of a tight black sweater. He avoided the teachers’ lounge when he knew Satoru would be there, not out of anger, but from a sheer inability to meet his eyes without blushing. He replayed the video in his mind a hundred times. The message seemed clear, yet it was Satoru—nothing was ever straightforward with him.
After three days of internal turmoil, he found himself opening a package he ordered online. And then he found it. The same shade of heather black. A fine-merino, slim-fit turtleneck. He bought it, the transaction feeling both illicit and inevitable.
That evening, in his dorm room—a mirror just down the hall—he tried it on. It fit. It fit… precisely. It hugged the line of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, tapered down his torso with the openings on the side clearly showing his lines... He stared at his reflection, a stranger with a flushed face and wide eyes looking back. He practiced in the mirror.
“Is this… is this what you meant?” Too hesitant.
“You wanted to see this?” Too confrontational.
“Happy now?” Too aggressive.
He gave up. He would just have to go.
***
The knock on Satoru’s door was tentative, almost inaudible. Satoru, who’d been lounging on his bed watching baking shows, frowned. “It’s open!”
The door opened slowly. Suguru stood on the threshold, dressed in his usual dark jacket and trousers, not meeting Satoru’s eyes. His cheeks were tinged pink.
“Suguru? You’ve been avoiding me.” Satoru sat up, his playful tone hiding genuine confusion. The sweater-video had been an accident—he’d meant to show him a video of a ridiculously complicated cake recipe he thought Suguru would find funny, but he’d swiped accidentally revealing the wrong video on social media. By the time he’d realized, he’d already made his dramatic exit. He’d spent the days since assuming Suguru had watched a three-minute tutorial on Swiss meringue buttercream and was now confused by Satoru’s request for amends.
“I… have something to say,” Suguru mumbled, stepping inside and closing the door. The air in the small room became charged, thick with unspoken things.
“Okay…” Satoru stood, watching him. Suguru looked painfully awkward, shifting his weight.
Slowly, without a word, Suguru’s hands went to the zipper of his jacket. He pulled it down, the sound loud in the quiet. He shrugged the jacket off, letting it fall to the floor.
Satoru’s breath caught.
The black sweater. The *exact* sweater from the video. It clung to Suguru’s frame, showcasing the powerful lines of his body in a way his usual loose clothes never did. The fabric looked soft, inviting. Suguru’s arms were crossed slightly over his chest, a defensive, vulnerable gesture that made Satoru’s heart ache and pound at the same time.
The blush on Suguru’s face deepened to a magnificent scarlet, spreading to the tips of his ears. He stared at a point on the wall past Satoru’s shoulder.
“Is this…” Suguru’s voice was a barely audible murmur. He swallowed. “Is this enough… to make it up to you?”
Satoru was utterly, completely lost. The cake video was gone from his head, replaced only by the devastating reality of Suguru in that sweater, offering himself up in a gesture of such profound misunderstanding and earnestness it made Satoru’s chest tight. He didn’t know why Suguru had done this, but he knew, with absolute certainty, that he never wanted him to take it off.
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them. “Suguru,” he whispered, his own face heating up.
Suguru finally risked a glance at him. Seeing Satoru’s stunned, appreciative gaze only made him burn hotter. “The video… you showed me. I thought…”
“The video I tried to show you was about a chocolate sachertorte,” Satoru said softly, his eyes roaming over the sweater. “I must have swiped wrong. Ended up on an ad.”
The confusion in Suguru’s eyes was briefly comical, then it morphed into pure, unadulterated horror. “You… you meant a *cake*?”
“Mhm.”
“And I… and this…” Suguru made a frantic gesture at himself, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “Oh, my god. I’m going to die. Right now. I’m going to perish from embarrassment.”
But Satoru was still smiling, a soft, wonder-filled thing. He reached out, his fingers brushing the soft wool at Suguru’s shoulder. “But yeah,” he said, his voice warm as honey. “I’m not angry anymore, Suguru.” He leaned in, his breath ghosting over Suguru’s flaming cheek. “Who knows? This one here is also a sweet, fluffy cake.”
The line was so ridiculous, so perfectly *them*, that the tension shattered. A helpless laugh bubbled out of Suguru, a mix of utter mortification and dizzying relief. He dropped his forehead against Satoru’s shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
Satoru wrapped his arms around him, feeling the soft knit under his palms, the solid warmth of Suguru within it. “You’re the one who bought a sexy sweater because of a baking video accident.”
“Don’t remind me.”
They stood like that for a long moment, swaying slightly, wrapped in each other and the absurd, wonderful atmosphere of the moment. The embarrassment faded, leaving only a glowing, intimate comfort. Satoru nuzzled into Suguru’s hair.
“It’s a really nice sweater, though,” Satoru murmured.
“It’s itchy.”
“Liar. It’s perfect.” Satoru pulled back just enough to look at him. “You should wear it more often. To, you know, keep up the teacherly morale.”
Suguru finally smiled, a real, genuine one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Maybe. If you stop walking into cleaning carts.”
“No promises.”
Later, they ended up on Satoru’s bed, Satoru’s back against the headboard and Suguru nestled between his legs, leaning back against his chest. Satoru’s chin was on top of Suguru’s head, his arms looped around his waist, his fingers tracing idle patterns over the soft black wool covering Suguru’s stomach.
“Megumi definitely thinks we’re together now,” Suguru said, the words vibrating through his back into Satoru’s chest.
“Megumi has always thought that. Now he just has… circumstantial evidence.”
“He has eyewitness testimony of me being swallowed by your shirt.”
Satoru chuckled, the sound rumbling against Suguru. “A fate worse than death.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the setting sun painting the room in shades of orange and gold. It was peaceful. It was theirs. A world without curses, just this simple, tangled, beautiful happiness.
“You know,” Satoru said quietly, his voice barely a whisper in the darkening room. “I don’t actually smell like your grandpa.”
Suguru laced his fingers with Satoru’s over his stomach. “I know,” he said. He brought their joined hands up and pressed a gentle kiss to Satoru’s knuckles, just where his own had been days before. “You smell like you. It’s better.”
And in the quiet warmth, surrounded by the softness of the sweater and the softer feeling between them, that was everything.
*okayyyy, i might be a genius thinking of this plot, but yeah. Super self indulgent and ambiguous tho…. Hope u liked it hehehehe