Chapter Text
The cafeteria was always loud in the afternoon, but today the noise had a sharp edge, like static building up before a storm. Trays clattered, chairs scraped, and the smell of fried noodles and cheap coffee hung over the crowd. At one corner table—shoved half against the window, half into the aisle—sat a group of students who were absolutely not studying.
Yuji Itadori slapped a notebook down on the table with the force of a gavel. “Alright! Final round of bets. Everyone put in your predictions, or forever hold your peace.”
Across from him, Nobara Kugisaki leaned back in her chair with the satisfaction of someone who had been waiting all week for this. She twirled her straw dramatically. “Please. I already know the answer. It’s a matter of when, not if.”
Yuta Okkotsu blinked nervously from the seat between them, half-hidden behind his cup of miso soup. “Um… what exactly are we betting on again?”
Nobara gasped like he’d just confessed a mortal sin. “What do you mean, ‘what are we betting on’? Have you been living under a rock?”
Yuji shoved the notebook under Yuta’s nose. On the first page was scrawled in giant block letters:
GOJO + GETO PUBLIC CONFESSION BETTING POOL
Underneath, messy columns listed names, dates, and speculative scenarios: “During a lecture,” “At graduation,” “Caught kissing in the library,” “In the middle of a protest.” Some squares already had triumphant checkmarks next to them—debunked theories that had proved false.
Yuta’s eyes widened. “You guys… actually made a chart?”
“Correction,” Yuji said proudly. “I made a chart. Nobara made a spreadsheet.”
“And it’s color-coded,” Nobara added, smug. “We’re very organized about this. Academic rigor, if you will.”
Megumi Fushiguro, slouched in his seat at the end of the table, rubbed his temple with the air of a man who had lost all hope. “You’re all insane.”
“Insane?” Yuji repeated, scandalized. “Megumi, we are historians. Chroniclers of our time. People will thank us one day.”
Megumi gave him a flat look. “No one will thank you.”
“Wrong,” Nobara cut in. “Future generations will look back on this and say, ‘Wow, thank god some students documented the epic saga of Professors Gojo and Geto, or else we never would’ve understood the full cultural impact.’”
Yuta looked like he wanted to disappear under the table. “Cultural impact…?”
“Exactly,” Yuji said, pounding the notebook again. “This is history in the making. So. Final bets. I’m saying end of semester, right before exams. Big speech, everyone crying, confetti in the air—”
“No,” Nobara interrupted, waving her hand. “Too theatrical, even for Gojo. It’ll happen sooner. My money’s on next week during Geto’s lecture. He’ll be mid-sentence about Kierkegaard or whatever, and Gojo will barge in with flowers.”
Yuta coughed into his soup. “Flowers? In a lecture?”
“Obviously. He’s dramatic like that.”
“Salmon,” Toge Inumaki added helpfully from the edge of the group, headphones half-on.
“Thank you, Toge,” Nobara said solemnly. “See, even he agrees.”
Yuji frowned. “What does salmon mean in this context?”
“Everything,” Nobara replied with gravitas.
Megumi groaned.
The debate raged on.
Yuji argued passionately "I’m telling you, the confession will happen during finals week—because nothing says true love like standing against the terror of grading exams together.” Nobara countered with a theory involving the winter faculty gala and champagne. Yuta stammered through a guess about “maybe… um… the cafeteria? Like… here?” which everyone ignored. Inumaki contributed periodic food-related one-word prophecies: “Tuna.” “Bonito.” “Spicy cod roe.”
Megumi tried, several times, to bury himself in his notes, but even he wasn’t immune. His pen hovered uselessly above the page as Yuji reenacted Gojo sweeping Geto dramatically off his feet, nearly knocking over Nobara’s tray.
“You’re both idiots,” Megumi muttered, “but if you must know—”
The table went silent instantly.
“What?” Yuji demanded, leaning forward. “If we must know what?”
Megumi sighed, resigned. “They’re not going to make some big announcement. They’ll just… quietly start acting like it’s normal. That’s all.”
Nobara slammed her hands on the table. “Blasphemy!”
“No, wait,” Yuji said, eyes wide. “That actually makes sense. Oh my god, Megumi, you genius. That’s exactly what they’d do. They’re too proud for theatrics. Well, Geto is. Gojo’s a drama queen, but he’d go along with Geto’s way because—”
“Because he’s whipped,” Nobara finished for him.
Yuji slapped the table so hard his chopsticks bounced. “YES. EXACTLY.”
Megumi immediately regretted opening his mouth.
The noise of the cafeteria swelled around them. Somewhere nearby, a chair toppled. Someone shouted across the room about a forgotten ID card. The line at the food counter stretched long, students jostling for the last bowls of curry.
At the betting table, however, the tension had reached fever pitch. Nobara was mid-speech about why she deserved half the pot regardless of outcome—“because my emotional labor has carried this entire operation”—when Yuji suddenly froze.
“Wait,” he whispered.
“What now?” Nobara snapped.
“Look.” Yuji pointed toward the windows, eyes wide. “Look, look, look!”
The whole group twisted in their seats.
Outside, the late afternoon sun spilled gold across the campus lawn. A few students lounged on the grass, heads bent over laptops. A delivery bike zipped by. And crossing the quad, walking in easy stride side by side—
Professors Gojo and Geto.
It would have been enough just to see them together, but the details hit like a tidal wave. Satoru’s sunglasses were pushed up into his hair, his grin wide and careless. He leaned down, lips brushing Suguru’s ear as he said something that made Suguru’s mouth twitch—half a smile, half exasperation. And between them, casual as anything, their hands were linked.
Not hidden. Not tentative. Simply there.
For a heartbeat, the entire table fell silent. Even Nobara’s jaw dropped.
Then—chaos.
“Oh my god oh my god OH MY GOD—” Yuji shrieked, grabbing Megumi by the shoulders and shaking him. “DO YOU SEE THIS?! DO YOU SEE IT?!”
“I see it,” Megumi deadpanned, trying to pry him off.
Nobara actually stood on her chair, pointing dramatically at the window. “HA! I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT! Pay up, losers!”
Yuta made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, turning red to the tips of his ears. “They’re—they’re—holding hands—”
“Salmon,” Inumaki intoned with deep satisfaction, like a prophet whose vision had come true.
Students at nearby tables were staring now, caught by the eruption. Phones whipped out instantly. Screens lit up. Someone shouted, “They’re together?!” and within seconds, the cafeteria was a hive of whispers and squeals.
Outside, oblivious—or perhaps willfully ignoring the commotion—Gojo and Geto continued across the quad. Gojo leaned in again, saying something only Suguru could hear, and this time Suguru actually laughed, soft and unguarded. Their hands swung slightly as they walked, perfectly natural.
Back inside, Yuji collapsed back into his seat, clutching his chest like he’d run a marathon. “I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU FROM DAY ONE. When everyone else thought I was crazy, when Megumi said I was insane—WHO WAS RIGHT? ME!”
“You don’t get credit for guessing the obvious,” Megumi muttered, but Yuji was too busy basking in victory.
Nobara was already updating the spreadsheet on her phone at lightning speed. “New entry: CONFIRMED. Witnessed by approximately forty students in the cafeteria at 4:17 p.m. on a Thursday. Yuji owes me five hundred yen, by the way.”
“What?!” Yuji yelped. “Why do I owe you? I was right!”
“Because,” Nobara said sweetly, “your exact prediction was ‘confetti at the end of semester.’ No confetti. Therefore, you lose.”
Yuji sputtered. “That’s not fair!”
“Life isn’t fair,” she replied, smug as ever.
Yuta, still dazed, whispered, “I can’t believe it. They’re actually—”
“Yes, Yuta,” Nobara cut in, rolling her eyes. “They’re gay for each other. Congratulations on catching up.”
“Bonito flakes,” Inumaki said solemnly.
Yuji collapsed onto the table, face pressed into his notebook, muffled wails of defeat echoing. Megumi sipped his coffee with the serenity of someone who had predicted the outcome all along. Nobara typed furiously, already drafting the “official betting pool announcement” for the group chat. Yuta blinked at the window, as if afraid the vision would vanish.
And outside, the professors disappeared around the corner of the humanities building, still hand in hand.
By evening, the campus group chat was on fire. Screenshots of the handholding flooded every feed. Memes multiplied: Gojo’s grin photoshopped onto Cupid, Suguru’s unimpressed expression overlaid with pink hearts. The hashtag #Confirmed trended locally.
In the middle of it all, Yuji posted a single triumphant message:
I CALLED IT. DAY ONE. NEVER FORGET.
He attached a blurry clip from months ago, grainy phone video of two professors sitting in the cafeteria, sniping at each other across the table. The caption read: They either wanna kill each other or fuck each other. No in between.
Now, with the evidence glowing across a hundred screens, the comment section exploded.
Turns out the answer was both.
The cafeteria table slowly emptied as evening fell. Trays were cleared, laughter faded, the frenzy moved online.
But for the students who had been there in the moment, who had seen it with their own eyes, there was a kind of giddy glow that lingered. The professors weren’t just legends or memes anymore. They were real. Human. Vulnerable. And—finally—happy.
Yuji stretched, yawned, and declared, “Best semester ever.”
Nobara smirked. “And the next one’s gonna be even better. I’m opening a new betting pool.”
Megumi groaned. “About what?”
She grinned like the devil. “Wedding date.”
Yuji nearly fell out of his chair in excitement. Yuta made another strangled noise. Inumaki, deadpan as ever, whispered: “Tuna mayo.”
And the cafeteria roared with laughter as phones lit up and a brand-new poll began making the rounds.
THE END.