Chapter Text
I. Geto Suguru
Suguru is the first to notice.
He supposes it comes with being naturally more perceptive. Satoru would say he thinks too much with his head and that is why he has his monthly depression phases. Suguru begs to differ. At least one of them has a functioning brain.
Especially since Shoko rarely joins them in the field.
Somebody—meaning Suguru—has to keep them out of trouble.
Shoko rarely ever gets into trouble since she is always cooped up somewhere, smoking her lungs away. Though, Suguru is just as guilty, so maybe there is a little bit of truth in his monthly depression phases.
Today, it seems, Satoru has the brilliant idea of dropping in on the first-year students during their very first mission. Suguru cannot say he is surprised. Satoru has always had a flair for unnecessary dramatics, especially when an audience is involved. As far as Suguru knows, the assignment is barely worthy of being called a mission at all. Low-level curses, controlled environment. A formality. Just to help the first years get their feet a little wet. Just to give them an idea of what to expect when they are actually sent out on their first mission. Still, despite the lack of danger, that does not stop Satoru from announcing—mid-morning, with far too much enthusiasm—that he is going to “check on the first years.”
Suguru, never one to miss out on entertainment or damage control though he leans more on the entertainment side, decides that he would tag along. Shoko immediately dips as soon as she hears that, noting something about treasuring her valuable time.
By the time they arrive, the first years are already engaged.
Kugisaki’s hammer cracks through a curse’s skull with practiced irritation. Fushiguro’s shikigami move efficiently, no wasted motion. Itadori lands a punch that sends curse goo splattering across the cracked pavement. The smell of burnt residue and damp, stagnant air lingers.
They are fine. Actually, they are more than fine.
Suguru opens his mouth to make their presence known.
But as usual, Satoru, impatient as always, gets to it before he does.
Though the announcement does not come verbally.
The air distorts, and then the entire structure collapses inward as if the world itself has decided it is done standing. Curse remnants explode outward in a spectacular, unnecessary display. Goo rains down.
A bit of an overkill, if Suguru has anything to say about it.
Three heads snap up simultaneously.
“Gojo-senpai!” Itadori greets, his voice loud and clear. “Geto-senpai!”
Suguru lifts a hand in a lazy wave, seated comfortably atop his favorite flying curse. Satoru floats beside him, hands stuffed into his pockets, round black sunglasses obscuring his eyes as he looks down at the first years like a god inspecting ants.
“I cannot believe you guys were struggling to beat a bunch of weak fodders,” Satoru mocks, his tone light but demeaning.
Fushiguro rolls his eyes. “We were not even struggling.”
“You clearly were,” Satoru rips back like a child on loose leash.
“Seriously, what took you guys so long? Back in my first year, Suguru and I were already doing solo missions.”
“That is not true,” Suguru says mildly.
“It is emotionally true,” Satoru counters and promptly ignores him in favour of terrorizing their kouhais.
Kugisaki and Fushiguro tune him out instantly.
But not Itadori.
“Wait, really?” Itadori steps forward, eyes practically sparkling as he stares up at both him and Satoru. “You went on missions alone?”
Suguru’s starting to worry for Itadori and his naivety.
“O–of course!” Satoru puffs out his chest, and if noses could grow like Pinocchio when he lies, Suguru is almost sure that Satoru’s nose would be over twenty feet long. “You are looking at the strongest sorcerer alive. One day I will take you along, and you will see just how amazing your senpai is.”
Turning his attention away from Itadori, Satoru immediately locks in on the black-haired first year who automatically groans when he meets Satoru’s eyes. “You could not hold your four shikigamis at the same time, Megumi. You really need to work on focusing.”
Fushiguro clicks his tongue.
Satoru is loud. Insufferable. He treats authority like a personal joke and responsibility like a suggestion. To the untrained eye, Gojo Satoru is exactly the same terrorizing senpai he has always been. But Suguru has known him far too long to miss the shift. Suguru watches instead of intervening. That too is familiar. Satoru has always been a spectacle best observed from a safe distance.
Then Satoru turns his attention to his next victim. “And you, Kugisaki, how many times have I told you to watch your back—”
“—argh, I did not ask for your feedback,” the girl grumpily complains.
“—is that any way to talk to your senpai?” Satoru sneers, slowly floating down. Suguru follows, intent more on watching the exchange.
“If you start acting like one then I might treat you like one,” Kugisaki snaps back, flicking her hair.
Before Satoru could engage in further argument with her, Itadori bounces up towards them. Bright eyes, excitement glowing across his face. If Suguru did not know any better, there might be a wagging tail behind him. Truly, he could feel his chest growing light and warm. It’s not everyday that he and Satoru get greeted with actual pleasant and happy greetings. Most of their interactions were usually between a click of a tongue or full-on ignoring—although in Suguru’s defense, they were more directed towards Satoru than him.
“What about me, Gojo-senpai?”
“W-what about you?” Satoru shouts, moving back, his Infinity bulking up even more to create more distance.
“Any feedback for me?” Itadori asks, patient, tilting his head to the side.
Suguru blinks a couple of times when he does not hear Satoru say anything. Opting to stay silent for a while as Itadori calls out again and again, waving his hand in front of Satoru’s face. It takes a second, clearly for Satoru’s brain to reboot before Satoru is yelling loudly, jumping back almost comically.
“Y-you dumb potato!”
“Eh?”
Suguru laughs, he can’t stop himself and he hears briefly Satoru telling him to “shut up”.
After years of friendship, Suguru has learned the art of selective listening. Satoru is already deep into his usual monologue—something about how strong he is, with a generous side mention of Suguru, because apparently greatness is contagious. Despite Satoru clearly not answering his initial request for feedback, Itadori eats up the nonsense coming out of Satoru’s mouth. Soon Suguru learns to tune him out in favour of looking after the other two first year students. He approaches them while keeping an eye on Satoru and Itadori.
Fushiguro and Kugisaki both do not even look up, already reporting that the mission is complete.
It is almost funny. The entire thing, and considering the fact that all three of them are still dripping in curse filth.
“Oi,” Suguru calls casually, eyes still tracking the white-haired menace. “You two alright?”
Kugisaki shoots him a look, annoyance written plainly across her face, but she nods anyway. “I have been in worse.”
Fushiguro gives a short hum of agreement. “No serious injuries.”
“Good,” Suguru says, though his attention never truly leaves Satoru.
Because Satoru is leaning down slightly in front of Itadori, his height oppressive over their smaller kouhai. The Infinity—normally humming, tangible even when invisible—has softened. Thinned. Suguru doubts anyone else would notice.
“Are you hurt?” Satoru demands.
Itadori blinks. “Huh? No.”
Satoru narrows his eyes. “At all?”
“Well,” Itadori adds, scratching the back of his head sheepishly, “I think I bumped my head earlier. But it did not hurt that much!”
Satoru clicks his tongue sharply. “That is because you are an idiot. You should have dodged.”
“It was really fast!” Itadori protests, entirely unapologetic.
“Then get stronger,” Satoru snaps immediately. “If you are already struggling with a fodder like that—”
“—I was not struggling!” Itadori cuts in, louder now, earnest to a fault.
“Don’t interrupt me!” Satoru groans out. “How are you going to catch up to me if you are getting flipped around by a fodder?”
“I just—I mean—I will get stronger. I promise! I will catch up to you, Gojo-senpai.” Itadori says earnestly, there’s not a drop of dishonesty in his words or expression. “So you can be proud of me as your kouhai.”
The words tumble out without hesitation.
Satoru freezes.
It is brief. A fraction of a second. But Suguru sees it—the way Satoru’s shoulders tense, the way his mouth opens and then shuts again. The faintest color creeps up the tips of his ears, just barely visible beneath his hair.
Suguru blinks.
Once. Twice.
Suguru feels a giggle escaping his lips as Satoru snaps his head around and tells him to “shut up, Suguru” and then turn his attention back to Itadori. “And you—” Satoru grabs Itadori by the shoulder. “D-don’t say weird things. You are so annoying!”
He lets go of Itadori.
His Infinity does not come back up.
Suguru exhales slowly through his nose, shaking his head at his idiotic friend’s rather…intense display of affection. He looks back at the other two first year students now finally completing their report. “Fushiguro-kun, Kugisaki-chan, go get checked by Shoko when you get back to school. Even if you think you are fine.”
Kugisaki groans. “We are not even gravely injured.”
“I know,” Suguru says pleasantly, smiling sweetly at his kouhais. “Do it anyway.”
Fushiguro nods, already resigned.
“Argh, fine,” Kugisaki complains under her breath.
Satoru straightens abruptly, immediately catching Suguru’s attention.
“Alright! That is enough babysitting for today.” Satoru announces as if they did not just, on a whim, decide to crash in on the first years’ first mission. “We have another mission to get to.”
Satoru glances to his right where Itadori’s still looking up at him, a bright smile lingering on his face. It takes Satoru a second before he reaches out and ruffles Itadori’s hair roughly, fingers tangling without hesitation.
“Do not get cocky just because you are alive.”
Itadori beams like he has been blessed. “Okay!”
Satoru floats up without another word, already moving away. Suguru follows, summoning his curse beneath his feet. He lifts a hand in farewell. “Good work today,” he says. “All of you.”
They turn.
Halfway up, Suguru pauses. “…Ah, I forgot to tell Itadori to get checked by Shoko.”
He glances back, his lips pursuing as he takes in Itadori still standing there, hand half-raised. His expression is distant—soft, dazed.
Huh.
Suguru turns back around, his mind racing a little.
Then he looks forward. Satoru has not noticed a thing.
Suguru sighs quietly, shaking his head as they fly off toward their next assignment. “Two idiots,” he murmurs to himself.
II. Ieiri Shoko
Shoko should have known better than to think this job would ever be calm.
She is on her way to becoming a doctor for stability, predictability, control. She did not expect regulars like him.
Itadori is here again.
For the third time this week. And it’s only Tuesday.
Her hands hover over the counter as she watches him grin, shoulder bleeding through his uniform. A large, jagged gash. She does not ask how it happened. She already knows. Same story every time: reckless enthusiasm, misplaced heroism, protecting someone else from harm. Fushiguro or Kugisaki usually end up fine. Itadori, on the other hand, usually is not.
“Take off your shirt,” she says flatly, gesturing toward the examination table. Her tone leaves no room for argument.
Itadori complies immediately, eyes wide and sparkling. Honest to a fault. Earnest. Impossible to stay upset at. But whenever he visits, he brings with him…an annoying presence she is not in the mood for. She hopes this time will be different since earlier this morning, Suguru had messaged in their group-chat something about Satoru being dispatched to Kyoto for a mission.
For once, she will finally have peace and quiet.
It is something that she has never had ever since the three first years started.
Odd reasons or not, Satoru always manages to appear whenever Itadori came to her office. Some excuses about coming to protect Shoko in case Sukuna comes out. Shoko calls him out on his bullshit all the time. Satoru, as usual, just ignores him in favour of lecturing (in a rather less bullying way) Itadori.
Shoko doesn’t think she has ever seen Satoru even visit her office when Kugisaki or Fushiguro get injured.
She makes a note to call him out on his favouritism when he returns from Kyoto.
“It is not too bad, is it, Ieiri-senpai?” Itadori asks.
Shoko studies the wound on Itadori’s shoulder. The torn muscle along the edge, the small fragments of debris embedded in the skin. His vitals are steady. He will survive.
“Nothing I will not be able to handle,” she answers.
It is true for the most part.
Before she can begin treatment, the air shifts.
Speak of the devil.
“Satoru,” she greets simply.
“Shoko,” he returns, dropping himself into her chair, which squeaks under his weight. He has his spare uniform in one hand and tosses it beside Itadori who blinks.
“Gojo-senpai!” Itadori greets as if he is not bleeding profusely from the wound on his shoulder. “Is this spare uniform for me? Wait, I heard you were in Kyoto, how are you here already? Can you teleport that far?”
“One question at a time,” Satoru huffs out.
“Oh,” Itadori held onto his chin with his good arm, trying to decide the order of his questions. “Is this uniform for me?”
“Obviously,” Satoru answers, staring intensely at Itadori’s wound.
“Oh thank you! I heard you were in Kyoto today from Geto-senpai—how did you get here so fast?”
“Duh, I am that great,” Satoru answers with pride. “You think I wouldn’t be able to teleport from Kyoto to back here?”
“I didn’t say that,” Itadori frowns.
“You implied it,” Satoru argues back.
Shoko rolls her eyes. “Did you finish your mission?”
“Obviously, Shoko, you really think a measly grade one curse is going to beat me?” Satoru place his chin on the back of the chair, staring at his friend. His goofy round sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.
Shoko mumble something under her breath. “I wish it did.”
“That’s rude,” Satoru says before turning his attention back to Itadori. “You got hurt again.”
It is a pointed fact.
Itadori nods sheepishly.
“You dumb potato,” Satoru rolls over, nearly running over Shoko’s foot before tapping his forefinger aggressively against Itadori’s forehead. “What did I tell you about getting injured?”
“Uhm…” Itadori grins. “You said not to get injured.”
“Exactly—” Satoru lets out an exasperated sigh; the kind Shoko can feel in her own chest if he does not move so she can start treatment. “—and as soon as I turn my back, you are back here already. Are you an idiot or what?”
Shoko wants to tell him to stop being an idiot and move. Instead, she kicks the back of his chair. He shifts just enough.
“But senpai,” Itadori whines, “at least Fushiguro didn’t get hurt! If he did, we’d be in serious danger. We needed his shikigami to lead us back out!”
Satoru rolls his eyes, pushing his round sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “Well, it would have been better if you got out without a single scratch. Even if you guys did not come out, I would have come and saved you anyways.”
“But you were in Kyoto,” Itadori points out.
Satoru waves his hands dismissively. “Do not mind the details. Do you think I would not be able to save you?”
“Of course you would…erm could,” Itadori corrects.
“They are not like you and Suguru,” Shoko points out.
She is already wearing her gloves and starting to prepare her instruments. Satoru snorts, rolling around using the wheels on her chair with the grace of someone intentionally trying to annoy someone. He’s close enough to interfere, but far enough to let her work. Shoko fills the needle with anesthesia, pressing the tip against Itadori’s arm. It slips in slightly harder than necessary.
Itadori hisses.
Satoru clicks his tongue.
“Do you want to do it yourself,” she asks flatly, pulling the needle back, “or are you going to keep hovering like a worried spouse?”
Silence.
Satoru laughs too loud, too fast. “Wow, Shoko, projecting much?”
She ignores him and returns to her work. A small part of her briefly imagines a “No Gojo Satoru Allowed” sign for the door, though she knows it would be futile. He could teleport anywhere or in his case, he would probably just rip it off and stick out his tongue at her.
“Why are you even here?” she asks, starting to wipe away the blood. “I thought you were on a mission.”
“You cannot even call that a mission—” Satoru whines, twirling around with her chair. It strides loudly against the tile floor. Shoko kicks the chair as a warning to stop as Satoru continues to talk. “It only took one hit. I cannot believe Kyoto needed help with that. Maybe that’s why they are always behind us.”
Shoko tunes him out. Itadori is still watching Satoru with wide, sparkling eyes, laughing at every exaggerated movement. She studies the bruises along his forearms, the gouges near his knuckles, the shallow but angry cut along his face. It tells her everything: reckless enthusiasm, misplaced confidence, zero self-preservation. Classic Itadori. Satoru does not touch her instruments or interfere. Itadori sits still, hands resting on the table, drinking Satoru’s nonsense. Satoru clicks his tongue when Itadori grunts.
“Careful, dumb potato. Don’t you know not to make any sudden movements?”
Itadori jerks his arm slightly. “I—I just—”
“Stop overthinking! Just sit still!” Satoru leans closer, eyes sharp, voice teasing but edged with warning.
“It hurts a little…” Itadori admits, hands tightening on the table.
“Of course it hurts!” Satoru huffs, waving a hand as if to swat away his complaint. “The anesthesia does not hit right away, dummy. Also, you are not made of steel, dumb potato. Now stop squirming or I swear I will stitch you up instead.”
“I-I am trying!” Itadori says, trying to stay still.
Satoru rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue again. “Trying is not enough. You are lucky Shoko is saving your sorry self. You will never survive on your own like this, dumb potato.”
Itadori flinches again, and Satoru shakes his head, muttering, “Ugh. You are hopeless. Next time, I’m telling Yaga-sensei that either Suguru or I will accompany you first years when you get dispatched to your missions.”
“Eh?” Itadori tilts his head. “Wouldn’t you be tired, senpai?”
“Tired? Me? This is nothing for the strongest,” Satoru grins proudly.
Shoko rolls her eyes.
If Itadori wasn’t so focused on looking at Satoru’s face, then he would notice the aggressive tapping of his feet against the tiled floor. The anxiety almost seeping out from his right foot.
“Stop that, I’m trying to focus,” Shoko murmurs under her breath.
Satoru stops almost immediately.
Shoko returns back to cleaning the area, disinfecting it and starts to stich it up to help with the process of healing. She can feel Satoru’s penetrating stare to the back of her head but ignores it in favour of stitching Itadori up. It only takes her a couple of minutes to finish stitching the area before she moves back—satisfied with her work.
Finally, she finishes, wipes her hands, and sets the instruments down.
Itadori rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Thanks, Ieiri-senpai.”
“You’re welcome,” she says. “Though if you really want to thank me, maybe visit less often.”
Satoru raises his eyebrows dramatically. “See? Told you she is amazing.”
Shoko does not respond. She is cleaning instruments, hands steady, calm, clinical. From the corner of her eye, she sees him subtly remove his Infinity so he can lean slightly over Itadori. Interesting. He rarely, if ever, does that around her or Suguru.
She does not feel anything. No jealousy, no irritation—only clinical observation. Interesting.
Itadori sits up carefully, wearing the spare uniform that Satoru teleported to her office with. Shoko recognizes it as one of Satoru's many spare uniform. Itadori is not small by any means, but Satoru's just abnormally bigger and larger so the uniform ends up drowning Itadori's frame. It almost looks like one of those boyfriend shirts. She glances back at Satoru and sees his cheeks turn a faint pink. Maybe, she's not too far off with the boyfriend shirt idea.
“See, Gojo-senpai?” Itadori says, “It was nothing serious. I’m fine!”
Satoru huffs, hands on his hips like a parent caught between pride and frustration. “Fine? You’re dripping blood and almost gave me a heart attack.”
Itadori grins bright, “Aww, are you worried about me?”
“W-worried? As if—” Satoru splutters. “Over a million years would the Great Gojo Satoru ever worry about a dumb potato like you!”
Shoko leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching. She notices how stupid the pair are. It is a bit of a funny sight since Shoko has never seen anyone that can tolerate Satoru’s presence for longer than an hour and not feel offended by the words coming out of his mouth. In fact, Itadori seems to enjoy being around Satoru despite his crass way of showing his affection. In return, Satoru seems a little…different. He automatically lowers his Infinity as he approaches Itadori, poking and twisting his finger into the swirl on top of Itadori's head.
“Stop,” Itadori whines, pushing Satoru’s hand off. “You are going to give me a stomach ache.”
“Good,” Satoru returns childishly and pokes at the top of Itadori’s head even harder, the tips of his ears growing red. Bright against his pale skin but Itadori’s too busy trying to get Satoru off that he doesn’t notice.
Shoko does.
This Satoru is not the same Satoru that is around her and Suguru.
This Satoru is a little more…huh, love-sick. Puppy love-sick.
How interesting. He never does nor behaves this way with anyone else.
Satoru leans slightly closer, careful not to touch the wound but close enough to make Itadori shift back reflexively. “You’re an idiot. Did you even think about what could have happened?”
“Yes! I thought about it!” Itadori replies, earnest as always. “I just—I couldn’t let them get hurt!”
“Classic Itadori,” Shoko mutters quietly under her breath.
Satoru clicks his tongue and waves a hand, brushing away the invisible chaos. “You’re lucky Shoko saved you again. One day, you’re going to make me lose my mind.”
“Thanks, Ieiri-senpai,” Itadori says cheerfully, oblivious.
Shoko nods slightly. “Try not to make it a habit.”
Satoru crouches slightly, eye level with Itadori, still hovering with that strange closeness only Shoko notices. “You will not survive if you keep doing this. Do you understand?”
Itadori nods vigorously. “Yes, Gojo-senpai! I’ll get stronger!”
Satoru exhales sharply, he runs a hand through his hair. “I swear, if you die before you even make it to my level…” He trails off, but the faint twitch in his lips hints at a smile he would never admit.
Shoko files it all away: the voice, the posture, the micro-movements.
Itadori finally swings his legs off the table, bouncing lightly. Satoru's shirt goes down to Itadori's mid thigh, and it looks comically huge on Itadori. Satoru, on the other hand, stares openly at their kouhai wearing his clothes. Clears his throat and pulls himself back from what Shoko assumes is probably, perverted things runnig through Satoru's mind.
“Okay! I promise I’ll be more careful, Gojo-senpai,” Itadori says, smiling brightly at the older boy before he turns to look at Shoko. “I also promise not to return back to your office. At least not for another three or so days.”
Satoru stands, brushing off his pants. “Careful? Sounds like an impossible task for a dumb potato.”
Shoko watches him, noting how he does not immediately re-engage his Infinity, letting Itadori lean slightly closer without the invisible buffer.
“Try to at least make it a whole month, Itadori,” Shoko pipes in.
“No promises,” Itadori grins, waving cheerfully as he heads for the door. “Bye, Ieiri-senpai! Bye, Gojo-senpai!”
Satoru lingers just long enough to ensure the boy leaves safely, then follows, floating a step behind him. Shoko returns to cleaning instruments, hands steady, calm, clinical. From the corner of her eye, she notices the slight slump in Satoru’s shoulders once the door closes, the brief exhale that suggests relief—or satisfaction.
She cannot tell which.
III. Fushiguro Megumi
Megumi does not want to notice.
He really does not.
They are out on a day off, walking through crowded streets with Itadori and Kugisaki. The sun hangs high, bright and relentless. Voices overlap. Laughter bursts from storefronts. The smell of street food clings to the air in thick, greasy waves. Megumi hums under his breath, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed straight ahead, doing his best not to think too hard.
Itadori ruins that immediately.
He lags behind them, unusually quiet, chewing on his lower lip as they move from one souvenir stall to the next. He keeps stopping, staring at displays like each one presents a moral dilemma rather than cheap merchandise.
“What kind of gift should I get Gojo-senpai?” Itadori asks suddenly.
Megumi stops walking.
Kugisaki continues ahead without looking back, already engrossed in a display of accessories. They agreed to meet at the restaurant later. Megumi doubts she cares whether or not they follow her since she glances back once and decides to continue on without them. Itadori spins a keychain around his fingers. Two charms hang from it: a tiger and a snow leopard. The resemblance is…unfortunate. His brow is furrowed, eyes darting between shelves stacked with trinkets, snacks, and useless junk as if the fate of the world depends on his decision.
Megumi exhales slowly. “Do you really need to get him a gift?”
Itadori looks at him like the thought never occurred to him. “I think I should show my appreciation at least,” he says, smiling softly. “Gojo-senpai has been really helpful these last few weeks.”
Megumi grimaces.
Gojo Satoru. Helpful.
Words that do not belong in the same sentence.
Half the time Megumi sees them together, Gojo is lecturing Itadori, insulting him, calling him names, or flicking him on the forehead hard enough to knock sense loose. And yet Itadori absorbs every word like sacred wisdom, nodding earnestly, eyes shining, like each lecture is a lesson passed down to a favored disciple.
If it were Megumi or Kugisaki—if it were anyone else—they would have walked away the second Gojo opened his mouth.
Megumi cannot, for the life of him, understand why Itadori tolerates him.
Geto and Ieiri, at least, are marginally better. Marginally.
Megumi stops completely and turns to face him. “Why do you even like him?”
“L-love?!” Itadori freezes mid-step, eyes widening. The pink haired boy’s face turns completely red as he stutters through his words.
“…I said like,” Megumi mumbles under his breath.
Dear Lord, he can already feel a headache coming on.
“I mean Gojo,” Megumi clarifies, gesturing vaguely. “You know that most people do not even tolerate him. He is selfish. Stubborn. Loud. Annoying. Proud. Why do you even like him?”
Itadori presses his chin into his palm, genuinely thinking, his cheeks still faintly pink.
“Well,” he says slowly, “I think Gojo-senpai is really funny. And he is nice. Sweet.” He pauses, then adds brightly, “He is also handsome.”
Megumi blinks. “Funny?”
Itadori nods.
“Nice?”
Another nod.
“And sweet.”
Itadori grins, like Megumi is finally starting to understand. “Yeah.”
Megumi stares at him. “…We are talking about the same person, right?”
“He really is nice,” Itadori insists. “You know how I was trying to get that limited-edition manga in Osaka?”
Megumi vaguely remembers that conversation. Kugisaki mocked Itadori’s taste. Itadori retaliated by criticizing her spending habits. Megumi tuned both of them out for his own mental health. He remembered that conversation lasted for quite a while. Precious time he is not going to get back.
“Well, after I got injured, I went back to my room,” Itadori continues. “And guess what?”
Megumi already knows.
“He bought it for me,” Itadori says, beaming. “Gojo-senpai apparently waited in line in Osaka to get it. Then he came back and left it on my desk. He is really nice. I wish more people could see that.”
Megumi presses his lips together. A response forms and dies at the back of his throat because Megumi knows that Gojo—the Gojo Satoru would never do something like that for anyone else. He vividly remembers Gojo spending that same morning evading Nanami after dyeing his shampoo neon pink.
“…I see,” Megumi says finally. Then, after a pause, “We are talking about Gojo Satoru, right?”
“Yeah.” Itadori confirms for a second time as he tilts his head. “I don’t think there is another Gojo Satoru running around.”
Megumi turns away, muttering under his breath. Itadori is either delusional, hallucinating, or interacting with a version of Gojo that only exists for him. None of these options are comforting. Eventually, Itadori settles on a neatly packaged box of handmade mochi. He handles it carefully, like it might shatter if treated too roughly.
“We can agree that Gojo-senpai is good-looking, right?” Itadori asks hopefully.
Megumi makes a face.
Itadori laughs. “Okay. Maybe not.”
They reach the restaurant where Kugisaki waits, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. They slide into a booth, menus in hand. The first round of food arrives quickly. It is good. They eat and talk idly. Nothing really could ruin their outing. Megumi thinks, for once, that their day is going to end without seeing any of the third years.
As usual, he spoke too soon because their pleasant conversation ends when someone cuts in rather rudely.
“Oh, look who it is.”
Gojo’s voice cuts through the restaurant, loud and unmistakable.
Megumi and Kugisaki groan in perfect unison.
“Gojo-senpai!” Itadori greets, the only one that might actually be happy to see him. He quickly follows up when he sees the other two senpais following in. “Geto-senpai, Ieiri-senpai! What a coincidence.”
Megumi could hardly call it a coincidence.
Gojo strides in with Geto and Ieiri flanking him. Before anyone can object, they slide into the booth like they own it. Geto sits beside Kugisaki. Shoko takes the other side. Gojo drops directly next to Itadori.
Itadori lights up like he has been personally blessed.
“Enjoying yourselves?” Gojo asks, leaning back, sunglasses crooked, grin unbearable.
Megumi sighs. His patience evaporates instantly.
Gojo kicks Megumi’s shoe under the table. “Wow, Megumi. You look thrilled. Did you miss me that much?”
“Yes,” Megumi says flatly. “Every second.”
Gojo laughs like that is a compliment and turns to Kugisaki. “You are still eating like a bird, slowpoke.”
“Say that again,” Kugisaki snaps, brandishing her fork, “and I will stab you.”
Gojo ignores her and focuses on Itadori. “You are barely touching your food, dumb potato. You want to get strong, right?”
“Yes, Gojo-senpai.”
“Then eat more.”
Gojo dumps more meat onto Itadori’s plate.
“That is a lot,” Itadori protests weakly.
“You think strength comes from air?” Gojo says. “Eat.”
“Fushiguro and I have eaten the least,” Kugisaki complains. “That is unfair.”
“Argh. Fine,” Gojo says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll order more stuff for everyone.”
He orders enough food to feed an army. Megumi pinches the bridge of his nose but refuses to complain since Gojo is likely going to pay for their meals. He does, however, notice against his will, the way Itadori eats under Gojo’s watchful eye. Straighter. Faster. Like he is being evaluated.
“Chew,” Gojo says.
“Yes, Gojo-senpai.”
“More meat.”
“Yes, Gojo-senpai.”
Gojo watches him with visible satisfaction. “Good boy.”
Much to Megumi’s dismay, Itadori blushes. He hears Geto and Ieiri gag silently across the table. He silently agrees with them. He sees Gojo reach out, wipes a grain of rice from the corner of Itadori’s mouth with his thumb, and licks it off without thinking.
Megumi looks away immediately. Heat creeps up his neck.
By the time they leave, the sun is setting, the street painted gold. Their stomachs are full.
Megumi walks ahead with Kugisaki, Geto, and Ieiri, half-listening. Then he realizes something is wrong.
It is too quiet.
He turns.
Itadori stands behind them, holding out the box of mochi. His face is red, glowing in the sunset. Gojo bends slightly to listen, his usual grin replaced with something awkward and unguarded. Both of them are blushing like idiots.
Megumi exhales.
Geto’s hand settles on his shoulder. He shakes his head knowingly and gently steers Megumi forward.
Megumi does not say anything.
He does not want to notice.
But he does anyway.
IV. Kugisaki Nobara
Nobara notices last.
Which, frankly, infuriates her.
She is not supposed to be the last one. She is good at this. Great at it, actually. She reads people the way others read menus: quickly, efficiently, and with devastating accuracy. She notices tone shifts before sentences finish. She clocks posture changes, micro-expressions, the way tension tightens in a room seconds before someone snaps. Vibes are not abstract to her. They are data.
This is a survival skill.
She has never missed something like this before. She just never thought to apply it here. Because surely not. Surely not this. She is mid-rant when it happens.
“I am telling you,” she says, jabbing her fork aggressively into the air, “the next time that idiot merchant overcharges me for hair accessories, I am hexing his entire bloodline—”
She stops.
Mid-sentence. Mid-gesture.
The fork freezes halfway to her mouth.
Gojo laughs.
Not his usual laugh. Not the loud, obnoxious, echoing cackle he deploys like a weapon, filling rooms and daring people to challenge him. Not the laugh that exists to irritate, to dominate, to remind everyone who he is.
This one is quieter.
Shorter. Almost restrained. Almost fond. The word hits her like cold water.
Nobara’s sentence dies in her throat.
She watches the moment rewind itself in her head, slow and merciless.
Itadori has just said something stupid. Something harmless. Something that should, by all rights, earn him a flick to the forehead or a sarcastic comment about brain cells. Something that is neither clever nor impressive nor worthy of attention.
And yet.
Gojo gives him his full attention.
He leans in without thinking, tall frame folding closer, posture shifting instinctively as if pulled by an invisible string. His body angles toward Itadori like it belongs there, like this is the default setting. The sharp, arrogant grin Nobara is used to seeing dulls at the edges, softening into something warmer.
Something private.
The change is subtle. So subtle that most people would miss it.
Nobara does not miss subtlety.
Even behind those ridiculous blacked-out sunglasses, she knows exactly where his gaze is fixed.
On Itadori.
Always on Itadori.
Like gravity.
Her eyes narrow.
Her head tilts.
She tracks the space between them. The way Gojo nudges closer under the excuse of reaching for food. The way their shoulders almost brush. Infinity turned off which Nobara knows is usually never turned off. At least not around them. The way Itadori does not flinch. Does not pull away. Does not even seem aware that this distance is not normal.
They are far too close for a senpai and kouhai.
Too comfortable.
Too practiced.
Her gaze slides to Itadori, who is smiling up at Gojo like he personally hung the sun, the moon, and every stupid star in the sky. Like this attention is not surprising. Like it is familiar. Expected.
Like it has always been there.
Something in Nobara’s chest tightens.
She exhales slowly through her nose.
Then she leans sideways and jabs her elbow hard into Fushiguro’s arm.
“…Are they fucking?”
Fushiguro chokes.
“What?”
“Oh my god,” Nobara says, louder now, eyes wide with equal parts horror and vindication. “They totally are fucking.”
“No, they are not,” Fushiguro denies immediately, sharp and panicked. “Do not say that.”
Gojo snaps his head towards them, briefly catching their exchange. “What?”
Itadori blinks between them. “Huh.”
“They are not,” Fushiguro repeats, coughing again, face flushed. “Shut it, Kugisaki.”
“They absolutely are,” Nobara snaps back without missing a beat. “Look at him.”
“I am right here,” Gojo says.
“That is not helping your case,” Nobara fires back, pointing directly at him. “You do not laugh like that with anyone else.”
Gojo narrows his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Laugh like what?”
“That,” she says flatly. “That weird soft thing. You look like a stray cat that just got fed.”
Across the table, Geto goes completely still.
Ieiri pauses mid-drag, smoke curling lazily around her fingers as she raises an eyebrow. Geto slowly lowers his drink, eyes flicking between Gojo and Itadori as something unmistakable clicks into place.
“Oh,” his expression says.
Itadori tilts his head, genuinely confused. “Wait. Are we not supposed to tell people?”
The table goes dead silent.
Fushiguro closes his eyes like a man accepting his fate.
Gojo freezes.
“…Tell people what?” Gojo asks carefully, each word measured.
“That we are together,” Itadori says, honest and bewildered. “I thought we were keeping it low-key.”
Nobara slams both hands on the table.
“Ah, I knew it.”
"What?" Gojo blinks, bewildered by the sudden rush of information.
“Dating,” Itadori answers easily, as if this is the most obvious conclusion in the world. “I mean, Gojo-senpai takes me out. He buys me things. He makes sure I eat. He yells at me when I get hurt. He touches my face sometimes.”
Gojo makes a sound that should not come out of a human being.
“That is not—” Gojo starts. Stops. Tries again. “That is not dating.”
“It is not?” Itadori’s face turns red instantly, the realization suddenly donning on him. “Are we not dating? Oh my god. Do you not like me? That is so embarrassing—”
“What. No. That is not what I meant,” Gojo blurts. “We are not dating, but I do like you—”
Itadori bolts.
Gone in a blur, sprinting across the courtyard with his face covered, ears burning red.
Nobara stares after him.
Fushiguro groans.
Geto sighs and reaches out to pat Gojo’s back. Gojo looks like his soul has briefly left his body.
Nobara squints at him. “…Do not tell me you have not actually asked him out.”
Gojo bristles, lifting slightly off the ground. “I was working up to it.”
“For how long,” she demands.
“…A while.”
Fushiguro drops his face into his hands, muttering under his breath.
Ieiri exhales smoke. “That explains literally everything.”
Gojo is already scanning the grounds, panic overtaking pride. He spots Itadori near the edge of campus and disappears in a flash.
They follow. Discreetly. Poorly.
Itadori stands stiffly, eyes wet, face flushed, hands clenched into his sleeves. Gojo grips his shoulders gently, grounding him.
“I am sorry,” Itadori blurts. “I should not have said anything. I must have embarrassed you.”
Gojo takes a breath. “We are not dating.”
“Oh,” Itadori says, saying it twice does hurt.
The word is small. Soft. Crushed.
“…Not officially,” Gojo rushes out. “I want to. I thought that was obvious.”
From behind a wall, Nobara snorts. “It was not.”
“You thought bullying was obvious flirting,” Fushiguro mutters.
“I read it in a manga,” Gojo snaps back. Then, louder, his face flushed red to the tips of his ears. “Damn it. I like you, Yuuji. Date me.”
Itadori blinks. Once. Twice. He pinches his own cheeks.
“…Yes,” he says finally, smiling. “I would like that.”
Gojo exhales like he has been holding his breath for weeks. “Do not call me Gojo-senpai.”
“Satoru-senpai,” Itadori offers, cheeks warm.
Gojo groans. “I will take it.”
He pulls Itadori into his arms, possessive and unashamed. “Yuuji is off-limits. He is mine.”
Gojo straightens, one arm still slung around Itadori’s shoulders like a prize he has no intention of hiding.
“Alright,” he says loudly, clapping his hands together. “No booing. No jealousy. Control yourselves.”
Fushiguro stares at him. “No one is booing.”
“Yet,” Gojo says. “I can feel it. The bitterness. The yearning.”
Nobara squints. “You are unbearable.”
“Please,” Gojo scoffs. “I am simply better at romance than all of you.”
“That is not romance,” Fushiguro says flatly. “That is harassment.”
Gojo waves him off. “Details.”
He grins at the group, sharp and victorious. “For the record, you are all a bunch of virgins.”
“HEY—” Nobara snaps.
Geto laughs, loud and delighted. “That is bold coming from you.”
Gojo points at him. “Do not act like you helped.”
Ieiri exhales smoke. “I need a raise.”
Itadori, still tucked against Gojo’s side, blinks. “Wait. Is dating supposed to be a competition?”
“No,” Fushiguro says immediately.
“Yes, and I am winning.”” Gojo says at the same time before correcting himself. "We are winning."
Itadori nods proudly, pumping his fist and earning a fond smile from his boyfriend. Nobara pinches the bridge of her nose. “They're both idiots. I hate this.”
“You hate this because you want what we have,” Gojo replies smugly.
“Absolutely not. You’re so uncool.” Nobara scoffs, rolling her eyes.
Gojo looks down at Itadori, grin softening just enough to be infuriating to others but not to Itadori. “Do not listen to them, Yuuji. They are just bitter and jealous.”
Itadori laughs, bright and unguarded. “That is okay. I think you are cool, Satoru-senpai.”
They promptly ignore the gagging.