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For once in your life, short as it may have been until now, you do feel cute.
You admire your figure in the mirror. The new yukata hugs your body in such a way that you have to wonder if it was crafted right for you. The color compliments your complexion, showing you that your mother did listen when you sighed happily about the Color Analysis test you took with the allowance you saved.
You smile sheepishly, fidgeting with your fingers as you twirl one more time to see how the bow sits well on the small of your back. You have to admit, walking in traditional geta isn’t as comfortable as the shoes you wear every day, but you feel it would be a pity to not complete the traditional look.
Your mother bought this yukata for you as a congratulation gift for your results in the last test in school. Seems like trying to escape from the clutches of bullies by locking yourself in the library or opting to never really go out, even during the days off school, paid in some way. Your mother gave you the gift and she smiled proudly, telling you to wear it for the upcoming summer festival that will be held nearby.
A small thing, really. Just something to enjoy the summer as people walk around food stands and watch the fireworks. Enjoying yourself for an evening won’t invite bad feelings or attract the two people who could ruin it for you. You live far enough from your school that you can’t imagine Gojo and Geto being interested in attending such a small event.
One evening, it’s all you want for yourself. So you wear your pretty yukata, and you say goodbye to your parents at the door. They tell you to have fun. You start your walk towards the festival, knowing you are approaching when you hear the chattering and the music, the colors and the smells, all mixed into the warm air of the summer and welcoming you into the joyous festivity.
You can’t help the slight smile stretching on your lips watching people going on with their evening, merry. There are many things you could do, but first you want to enjoy a calm stroll to see all there is to see. You feel a bitter aftertaste when you think how you are all alone to experience this, but the last year has been heavy on you; your friends, in an attempt to avoid being targeted by bullies too, have stopped talking to you.
It makes your stomach knot, rethinking about it, as if you could relive those exact moments of terrifying loneliness in the grasp of Gojo and Geto. You swallow past the lump in your throat, returning to the happy present. You breathe; the warmth, the stillness of the heat of the day left behind, the thrilled noise of children’s laughter as they try hard and long to catch a fish in the barrel.
It’s an evening to feel light. To feel at peace with yourself. Your school life has to be a forgotten memory at least until tomorrow, you think.
You walk for a few minutes, maybe something close to half an hour before you decide to taste something. You let your instinct guide you, looking over all the food stands that are under your eyes. Every vendor smiles, trying to charm with the delicious smell the next client. Something that agrees both with your stomach and your wallet, you think, as you approach one of the stands.
The man behind the counter beams at you, quickly asking if you would like something, and you order something simple, tasty for sure, but easy to carry around and nibble on as you continue your walk. A bun, with meat, rich in taste and puffy in presentation. You pay for the hot bun keeping your fingers warm, and the man thanks you, wishes you a good evening.
You return on your steps, walking back from where you came from to see if there is anything else you could do. You take a bite on your food; juicy, you think, as the meat rolls around your tongue. You close your eyes as the hot bite slides down your throat, leaving behind a burning trail in your chest.
“Is eating all you know how to do?” A voice sounds louder in the crowd, simply because you recognize it. Your blood turns cold, contrasting with the warmth from before. You feel the lights of the festival dim, sight hazy and liquid with the tingling of tears as you open your eyes. Unmistakable, Gojo is walking towards you with his arm raised in waving. At his side there is Geto, silent but sharing with his friend an air of amusement at your reaction.
You consider, for a moment, turning around and running, but they’re upon you in what feels like a second. Even with everyday outfits, out of their uniforms, they still look the same; yet, you can’t help but notice the expensive clothes, and you feel even smaller than usual. It’s as if your position in the chain is remarked, is underlined. They’re above and all you can do is either look up at them or avert your eyes, but always in their shadow.
Gojo doesn’t stop when he reaches you like Geto does, but he takes the opportunity to walk around you in a tight circle and whistle once he has given you a once over. It makes Geto’s smile grow larger, with that fake politeness he has reserved to you and other victims. You just happen to be their favorite lately.
“I didn’t think you would look this cute in one of these.” Gojo says from behind you, hooking a finger in the bow of the obi. He pulls lightly, making you take a step back so the whole thing won’t come undone. You can hear the light chuckle it elicits.
“How did you think they would look?” Geto asks. To answer, Gojo doesn’t say anything, but mimics what would be his impression of a fat boy, with his arms open and curved to simulate the stomach, and blowing his cheeks to make his face bigger. He then proceeds to walk with fake clumsiness from behind you to Geto’s side, as he grins maliciously at the display.
You don’t say anything; the only thing you manage is looking around you, to see if the display attracted attention, but everyone is too busy walking around, enjoying the festival. A privilege not granted to you apparently.
Before you can react, you feel a hand, a finger slip under your chin and raise your head to meet Geto’s eyes. He smiles, and you know many other girls would be happy in your position, but you can’t help retracting a bit from the touch.
“Cheer up, he’s just joking.” He says. Then he turns to Gojo, “Aren’t you?”
“Of course!” Gojo, all of the sudden, is incredibly near. His arm is around your shoulders, pulling you towards his body. You try to push against his chest, trying to wriggle away from this unwanted side hug, but as soon as your hand comes in contact with his body, Gojo laughs, “Getting bold now?”
You look at him, just to drop your gaze and your hand when you realize he’s teasing you for touching him back. You feel heat climbing up your neck, settling on your cheeks and ears, as you feel Geto playfully kicking Gojo’s leg, “I’m trying to make things better, and look what you do.”
There is no bite in Geto’s words. On the contrary, you can hear the smirk even with your eyes averted. You hope this will at least make Gojo let you go, but instead his hand drops to your hip and his other arm snakes in front of you, settling on your hip as well. You are pulled in a sort of hug, the kind of hug a child would give. You can feel the heat on your cheeks grow in intensity, and you thank the dim lights on the festival and the darkness of the night to hide most of your shame.
“They don’t mind.” Gojo affirms, without asking and without even hinting at the possibility of taking into consideration your comfort. Maybe you feel some consolation in the knowledge this position must be uncomfortable for him, curved to adapt his height to yours. Maybe.
Geto hums, in pretend contemplation. He looks at you, scrutinizes you even, and you know that growing smile is because he can clearly see your discomfort. You brace yourself for what could happen next, but you couldn’t prepare fully for Geto reaching out to grab your wrist and pull your arm towards him, the one still holding the hot bun you barely tasted.
He hunches over to do this, but he extends your arm until it’s in range, and takes a bite from the bun. He makes sure to take a good chunk of it, and you are left with your arm in the air, held by Gojo, as Geto gulps down the bite.
There are a lot of thoughts rushing in your head; from the petty consideration that he ate something you paid for to the disappointment of having to dispose of your food before you could even enjoy it. That is, until your gaze shifts from your hand to Geto’s eyes. He is still ginning, linking his lips while looking at you, “Tastes good. Where did you buy it?”
You consider your options: maybe you could just point to the stall among the many others, give them directions as accurately as you manage, hoping their interest in you for the evening is just passing. Or you could just succumb to the embarrassment and the fear, mumbling something incoherent as you try to keep your thoughts in order. And you are about to do just that, but Gojo releases you from his hug, while keeping his arm still around your shoulders, “C’mon, show us.”
You are maneuvered by Gojo to walk back from where the two of them saw you come. Geto follows close behind, then opting to walk at your side. You try to wriggle your way out of Gojo’s touch again, but the slack hold he has goes suddenly hard and unbreakable as you try to raise his arm. He even pulls you closer to him as if to make his point come across better.
You don’t try again.
You walk for what seems hours from your perspective. Gojo and Geto idly chat in the meantime, addressing you from time to time. When you don’t answer out of shyness or because your thoughts lead you somewhere else, Gojo blows directly in your ear. He laughs at the way you yelp the first time, cooing about how cute you are.
When you reach the right stall, you suddenly stop. Which makes them stop, and look at you with the tiniest bit of confusion. You point at the food stand and, with a meek, tiny voice, you point out it’s the right one. You remember the kind man working there, and the fragrant aroma of meat being cooked.
“Right,” says Geto. He exchanges a glance with Gojo, and then he is off to buy the buns. Two of them. He offers one to Gojo when he is back, “You have to pay me back.”
“Man, for a few pennies...” Gojo complains, taking the hot bun. He looks down at you, who still has your own food in your hands, growing cold by now, “Now we match, piggy.”
His grin is wide, and you swear you can see the mischievous glint in his eyes despite the dark glasses he is wearing. He bumps his bun against yours in something that looks like a toast, and then pulls you further into the festival, “Let’s go find a place to watch the fireworks.”
Pulled and pushed around, you can only follow their whims as they find a spot. It seems like an impossible task; nothing pleases them. Too crowded, they say. You wander for what seems forever, still kept close, still sandwiched between them, until they find it: a plot of grass, a bit away from the festival, where no one would venture simply because you wouldn’t see much of the fireworks thanks to the trees obscuring the way.
You are forced to sit down. You wonder if this will ruin your new yukata. Hopefully you can wash away the dirt at home, you think. Gojo has to let you go now, at least, but they don’t give you too much space as they sit so close, impossibly close. It’s suffocating.
“By the way,” Gojo starts, taking a bite from the bun. His eyes are fixed on you, but you can barely withstand the intensity, “Why didn’t you call us when you decided to come here, huh?”
You freeze.
That’s right, they warned you to shoot them a message when you felt like going out. You have their numbers, after that one time they took your phone from you and deleted your entire contact list just to add their own numbers. Getting everyone’s contact back was something that took you a while; even then, when one of them found you texting with someone else, they were quick to ask who it was.
They wouldn’t accept any answer that wasn’t your family. Going as far as ordering you to delete the number, something dark clouding their eyes. Under their surveillance, you deleted the contact, and that something that burned right behind their eyes would sedate.
You look away. Mentally, you chastise yourself for feeling a twisted sense of guilt at their question, but you repeat to yourself it’s an emotion poisoned by fear and intimidation. No matter what, though, you have to placate them someway, before they decide your transgression is enough to reiterate.
You mutter a feeble apology before rambling about forgetting, about it being something you decided on the spur of the moment. You don’t know how they’re taking it until you feel someone’s hand on your cheek; tender at first, as if to coax you to look back at them, but then Gojo pinches the pliable skin.
Pulling, he forces you to turn your head towards them. You see the both of them, amused. Something in you relaxes, but at the same time you feel the humiliation of knowing such a little thing could make you panic.
“Don’t worry, we forgive you,” Geto says with that honeyed voice of his. His smile is genuine, but not sweet, “If you won’t forget next time.”
You nod. Gojo lets your cheek go, and you rest your hand on it, feeling the heat of your face seeping skin to skin. You think they are satisfied at first, but Gojo comes up with an idea, “I will forgive you only with a proper apology.”
You aren’t sure what he means by it as you did spell out your apology. He grins wide, takes another huge bite from his bun, then talks with his mouth full pointing down, “You have to bow.”
You blink. Your gaze shifts to Geto, hoping he will be more reasonable and will talk Gojo out of that idea. He just shrugs when he notices you silently begging for mercy, starting to eat his own bun as well. You wonder if you refused what would happen, what could they possibly do in public that would be so terrible?
However, memories of seeing them torment other students resurface when you ask yourself that. They were physical with other boys usually, but you distinctly remember some girls who had their reputations tarnished by them with little to no hope of living a quiet school life. You bite your lip at the thought. You’re already not the most popular person, if you add the smear campaign they could build to bury you, you would never find peace until the end of the year.
So you move, shifting your weight so that you have your legs tucked under your body. Setting at your side a handkerchief, you leave your bun there. Bowing slowly, knees on the fresh grass as your yukata collects dirt, arms coming forward so that your hands are under your forehead. You aren’t sure if Gojo wants you to look at him or if he prefers you keeping your head low, but you can’t phantom the thought of his eyes looking into yours while you’re in this position.
You repeat your apology.
“You’re sorry for what?” He asks, entertained enough by the sound of his voice.
You admit you forgot to call them, as you should have, to go together to the festival. You add you will remember to do so in the future, if it happens you feel like going somewhere.
“And you are sorry to…?”
You say his name, their names.
“No, no. You have to apologize like you mean it,” Gojo points out. You are confused for a second, before he explains, “Say our name. First names.”
You quickly raise your eyes to understand if he is truly telling you to forgo all formalities in such a demeaning position. But you only find two boys, eager to hear you say their names. You swallow your pride once again, lowering your head.
And you say it. You say you’re sorry to Satoru and Suguru.
You stay in position for a few seconds as you hear them snickering. Then a hand reaches out for you, cupping your chin and forcing you to raise your head. Gojo has his hand squeezing your cheeks, almost so strongly that it hurts. With a song in his voice, he smiles again, “All forgiven.”
“But you have to stay on your knees.” Geto adds, laughter still blossoming on his lips.
“Oh, yes! Good idea.” Gojo chimes in with enthusiasm.
You feel yourself making a face at the imposition, but you don’t move to sit in a more comfortable position. You just straighten up, body weight on your legs as your yukata continues to get dirty. You observe the two boys, jovial, eat their food as you go to look at your bun on the handkerchief by your side.
The way the evening is going, you lost your appetite. Moreover, you couldn’t muster the courage to bite something one of them ate or you would be teased even worse for the borderline indirect kiss. You are sure it would taste sour now, despite how delicious it looks.
“You don’t want that?” Gojo’s voice catches your attention again. You realize you were staring at the bun without talking or paying attention, a crime neither of them would let you commit if they have any say in it. And they will find a way to be heard.
You shake your head. Gojo grins, looks at you over the rim of his glasses, then he reaches out again. You feel yourself go rigid, squeezing your shoulders and leaning away from his hand as if he will grab your face again, but you watch as his hand lands on your stomach. He pats the spot he is touching, “Good idea, piggy.”
You press your lips together, your mouth a thin line. Gojo moves his hand to grab your bun and eats it almost in one single bite. To distract yourself before you could feel tears in your eyes, you grab the handkerchief and hold it tight on your lap, fingers sinking in the soft material.
It’s still slightly warm from the contact with the bun. Maybe it will be useful to clean the yukata, you muse as a distraction, as you hear Gojo and Geto talk about useless things.
With your pitiful mood, you don’t even register the fireworks starting. They’re partially hidden by the trees, but you are staring at the grass under you. Your legs start to hurt, but you stay in position.
Gojo and Geto must have called you and tried to get your attention, but you didn’t hear them. You return to the present only after they slip closer to you, one for each side, and Gojo waves a hand in front of your face.
You blink. They’re close, pretty much pushing their weight on you. You are about to slither away from their grasp when Geto grabs your chin and forces you to look up at the sky. You see the colors, and then the noise. The booming makes your heart tremble, feeling it deep in your body.
“You were about to lose the show.” One of them says, you aren’t sure who. You can only think how unfortunate it is that you had to meet them. These fireworks would have been breathtaking if you were alone or with your former friends.
Or maybe with a nice boy, someone different from the two who are pressing you between their bodies.
When Geto lets you go, your head almost drops low again. You feel the tears coming, you know you shouldn’t let them see you in that condition, but you can’t stop when you feel them chasing each other down your cheeks.
You look down. The first one to notice you crying is Geto, lowering his head to your level and, with no tact at all, questions you, “Fireworks get you that much?”
You sob. Your hands shoot up to cover your face, and you cry into the handkerchief that is still being clutched between your fingers. At this point, Gojo notices too, “C’mon, they aren’t even that pretty.”
You wish you had enough self-respect to stand up and leave them behind, even if it meant incurring their ire later on, but the scenarios in your head keep you anchored down to the ground. Your thighs burn from the position you are sitting in, your yukata is ruined, the pacific evening you had planned turned out to be just another moment of torment for you. You just want to go back home, the last place left for you to find comfort.
You try to stand up, but your legs hurt. You stumble. The two boys get on their feet quicker than you, and they hook their hands under your armpits, forcing you up. They don’t let you go when you are standing, grabbing your arms and holding your hands as if they were truly worried about you falling.
“Careful now,” one says.
The other adds, “We got you.”
Your words are weak, unsteady on your tongue. You tell them you’re just tired.
“You get this emotional when you’re tired?” Geto asks. You hear Gojo laugh besides you. Geto pats your back, between your shoulder blades, “You’re such a baby.”
But they start to move, walking towards the festival without letting you go. You are compelled to move with them, almost not touching the ground under your feet as they hold you like something fragile, but of little value at the same time.
You avoid looking up when you find yourself among the crowd in the festival. You couldn’t take the humiliation of being carried as if you were a drunk or ill, as Geto coos nastiness and fake concern in your ear and Gojo tells you they are bringing your home.
You leave behind the noises, the smells, the joy of the festival to enter the darkness of the streets that lead you to your house. By the time you reach your destination, your tears are dry, your nerves are fried, and you still have no fight in you.
“Here we go.” Says Gojo as he finally relents his grip on you. Geto still has his hands on you and, when you test the resolution of his grip, you find him squeezing hind fingers in warning. You let him.
Gojo smiles again, but maybe this time you can detect a hint of sincerity behind that arrogant air he has. You know he wants to ask for something, you know that look all too well. As a matter of fact, he bends down and taps a finger on his mouth, “I want a kiss as a thank you for bringing you home.”
You stop yourself from sighing exasperated. You figure it’s quicker to just give him something he wants than fight them at this point. You, however, don’t kiss him on the lips; you leave a gentle peck on his cheek, and ignore the way he is pouting when you are done.
Gojo then points at his friend, “Suguru too.”
You turn to Geto, who is grinning placid and loose, but he doesn’t bend down like Gojo did. He tilts his head slightly to give you a better angle, but he coerces you into standing on your tiptoes to leave an equally chaste, non-committal kiss on his cheek.
Only then Geto lets you go.
You finally feel like you are on the ground again. You look down at your yukata; two big, dirty spots are on the cloth, from your knees down. Grass clings to it. You hope you will be able to clean it, but a bitter thought comes that you won’t have another occasion to wear it anyway.
Gojo flicks his fingers between your eyes to get your attention, and you yelp. A few minutes more, you tell yourself, you have to entertain them just enough to say goodnight and then you can go back in your room and sink into a deep sleep.
“See you tomorrow.” Gojo waves at you, and you reciprocate. You even go as far as pretending to smile as you see the both of them walk away.
You drop your hand when you see them far away enough, and you turn towards your house, with all intentions to walk in.
You don’t move though, as a thought crosses your mind.
How do they know where you live?