Archive of Our Own

Suguru is not a violent person.

Sure, he’s been in his fair share of fist fights, and yeah, he sometimes shoves his way through crowds a little too aggressively, but as a general rule, he keeps a cool head.

That said, Suguru has never wanted to throttle someone more than he does right now. Namely, the annoying, obnoxious, pretentious, shithead white-haired bastard sitting beside him and wearing that stupidly smug grin of his. Somehow, Gojo Satoru has mastered the art of getting under Suguru’s skin, with an efficiency and success rate that has never been and will never be topped. It had quite possibly been the worst mistake of Suguru’s life when he chose to sit next to him on the first day of their biology lab just because—for reasons he doesn't feel like disclosing.

“Hey, Suguru—”

“Don't call me that.”

“You heard what Yaga said, yeah? We’re partners! ” Gojo says gleefully. Hence the urge to throttle.

“I heard,” Suguru bites out. He can hear Shoko’s voice in the back of his head. You'll grind your teeth to dust, you know. Her lungs are in a worse state, so Suguru doesn't give a shit what she says, but the sentiment is there.

“Isn't that exciting?”

“Not at all. Don't be late on Thursday, I'm not getting a failing grade because you're allergic to being on time, asshole.”

“It’s a date!” Gojo laughs his obnoxious laugh and waves like a five year old when Suguru gets up to leave. Asshole.

His mood is ruined for the whole day by this new partner lab. Gojo might be ridiculously smart—which Suguru has enough problems with on its own—but he’s a nightmare to work with. They'd only had to do it once before, and that was bad enough when it was just sharing a station. A man can only hear “ what do we do next, I wasn't listening ” so many times before the hot plate starts calling to him.

Shoko had made a Gojo-jar that day because of the sheer amount of times he’d complained to her, a good 200 yen every time he said his name.

“He only calls me Suguru when he’s trying to piss me off, Shoko. ”

“So, all the time? ”

“All the goddamn time. ”

In Suguru’s defense, it just goes to show the extent to which Gojo makes him want to bang his head against the wall. He’s late on Thursday, to no one’s surprise, but the way he comes tumbling into class has Suguru raising an eyebrow. He’s bundled in what looks like three layers, a thick beanie pulled over his head, nearly covering his eyes, and a scarf wrapped around him all the way up to his nose. He ignores Yaga’s loud and pointed sigh at his entrance, ducking his head as he practically runs to his seat, dumping his snow-covered bag next to Suguru.

“You look—”

“Shut up,” Gojo hisses. “Just shut up.”

Suguru grins.

The guy is still shivering, despite how hard he tries to hide it, his arms trembling slightly as he tucks them closer to his chest, curling over himself in his seat. Like he can feel Suguru’s gaze on him, he flips him off without looking and tugs off his beanie. The scarf falls away, dangling off his shoulders as he slumps back in his chair.

This, arguably, is the worst part about Gojo.

He gets on Suguru’s nerves like no one else, makes him want to tear his hair out and quit college to join the army, but he’s pretty. He’s ridiculously pretty, the kind of pretty that has people doing a double-take on the street, wondering if they'd come across a celebrity they'd never heard of. Gojo Satoru is the kind of pretty that makes Suguru’s breath catch in his throat when the light hits his hair, his eyes—

His eyes.

They're the most beautiful things Suguru thinks he’s ever seen in his life, and he hates it. He hates how he can't look away when Gojo’s teasing him, that brilliant blue filled with amusement, glimmering like he knows something Suguru doesn't. He hates how his tongue feels like lead when Gojo turns to him, his cheeks flushed from the cold, embarrassment twisting his features when he huffs and turns away again.

Three snowflakes are perched delicately on his lash line. Suguru resists the urge to rub them away.

“Stop staring at me, freak.”

The words come out mumbled, and Suguru bristles. “Like I’d ever want to stare at you,” he scoffs. “You look dumb, that’s all. Besides, you were late,” he points out. “Just like I knew you would be.”

At that, the white-haired boy straightens, scowling as he leans in, eyes darting to where Yaga’s still talking at the front of the room.

“It’s not like I tried, ” he whispers harshly. “I was—”

Abruptly, he stops, lips clamping down around whatever he was going to say. “It doesn't matter. It wasn't my fault, though, so fuck off.”

“Whatever.”

It’s not whatever. Suguru desperately wants to know what he was going to say, but he holds his tongue, turning back to his notebook with a roll of his eyes. He can hardly focus the whole of class, distracted by Gojo’s constant shuffling and all-around kicked puppy look that doesn't let up. Once class ends, he tries calling out to him to set up a time to work, but Gojo packs haphazardly and leaves before he can get a word out.

“Oh, fuck you,” Suguru snaps. Now he’ll have to ask Shoko, and she will never let him live this down.

-

(5:21): Is this Gojo

(6:33): no

(6:46): Yes it is

          This is Getou

          When are you free to work

          We can go to the library

(7:07): um they dont like me over there lol

(7:11): just come over

          sometime next week

(8:02): Tues? I have work but I can come in the evening

-

Bitch leaves him on read, but Suguru assumes it’s settled. It’s how he finds himself staring up at the apartment building Gojo tells him in class, ignoring his request to send a message so Suguru doesn't forget. He likes being difficult, so that isn't anything new.

There are voices inside Gojo’s room when Suguru makes it down the end of the hall, preparing to knock and seal his fate for the next three hours. He pauses, fist hovering over the door as huge, stomping footsteps make their way across the expanse of the room, leaving no room for doubt that Gojo’s downstairs neighbors hate him even more than Suguru does. The voices have quieted somewhat—probably just the TV—and now it’s just Gojo’s insufferable inflection that has Suguru taking another deep breath and shaking out his limbs, just in case his patience is running thinner than he thinks and he feels the urge to deck him.

He knocks, and it goes eerily silent. Then:

“Shit. ”

It’s muffled, but unmistakably Gojo. More shuffling drifts through the door, something that sounds suspiciously like ‘ get under the bed, ’ and a slam that has the door shaking on its hinges.

Then it opens.

“Hi,” Gojo says breathlessly, clearly too distracted to be a dick about it. Suguru doesn't think he's ever seen the other man so disheveled. His hair is a mess, sticking up every which way—more than usual, at least—and his face is flushed like he’s been running around. A baggy sweatshirt with what looks like multiple coffee stains hangs off his frame, the checkered pajama pants he’s wearing not even reaching down to knobby ankles. The shit he wears to class might be abysmally hideous, but at least it’s somewhat put together.

It’s kind of insulting that the first thing Suguru thinks is cute. Then there’s Shoko’s voice in his head again, the smugness seeping through even in his imagination. Dick.

Gojo’s eyes dart to the side when he doesn't respond. He clears his throat.

“Hello,” Suguru says after a moment, adjusting the bag slung over his shoulder. “Bad time?”

It’s supposed to be a dig, but Gojo doesn't seem to catch it. He shakes his head wildly, his fringe flicking every which way, and pulls the door open wider, practically yanking Suguru in. “No! Um, ignore the…crayons.”

Crayons. There are actual crayons littering Gojo’s desk, scattered on top of a drawing of two dogs, a white one—a blob with vague but impressive shading around the edges—and a black one. The black one is half-done, the entire bottom half stuck as a shaky outline. “Did you forget I was coming?” Suguru asks, bemused. He tries to fit this Gojo in front of him—fidgety, skittish—with the one he knows—annoying and obnoxious. Gojo opens his mouth to respond, letting out a sheepish laugh as his eyes dart around the room.

“Funny story—”

“Is it him, Satoru?”

A few things flash through Suguru’s mind.

First, he wonders if he’s going insane or there really is a little girl’s voice coming from under the goddamn bed but Gojo’s petrified expression pretty much confirms that question before it’s asked, and then—

Suguru feels a little like a movie character: “ Yep. That’s me. You're probably wondering how I got here, ” with stop-motion frames and static in his head, because for one, Gojo Satoru really did not strike him as an ax murdering-kidnapping children sort of guy. In the split second that they're both frozen, staring at each other like a pair of fools, Suguru decides he has dramatically overestimated his own skills at reading people, but Gojo doesn't give him much time to marinate on this devastating revelation. His hands fly up to cover his face, and faintly, Suguru wants to tell him that it’s a little bit too late to hide his stupidly attractive looks now, but he doesn't think Gojo would care, with the way he’s whirling around and looking two seconds away from stomping his foot.

“Tsumiki!” He wails. “You aren't supposed to ask me!”

And, okay, Suguru is beginning to realize that no kidnapped child would address said kidnapper by their first name like they've known each other for years.

The girl—Tsumiki—gasps like she can't imagine a worse fate. A pair of hands stick out from under the bed, clinging onto the bedframe and followed by large brown eyes. Immediately, they fix on Suguru as best they can, being upside down and all. He’s feeling a little dazed. “Hello,” says the little voice.

“You'll be the death of me, Tsu,” Gojo sighs. He crouches, pulling her out the rest of the way, and ruffles her hair. Despite his moaning and groaning, he doesn't look all that upset with her, the creases between his eyebrows melting away when she giggles. Suguru’s breath catches in his throat. Now that he’s eliminated ax-murdering from Gojo’s hobbies, it’s almost embarrassing—no, it’s definitely embarrassing—how quickly he goes back to admiring this supremely irritating boy. Gojo beams at Tsumiki, dimples appearing on his cheeks, and Suguru has to look away. He’s never seen Gojo look so soft. He’s always leering or teasing or complaining or something else equally annoying.

Soft looks good on him.

“Might as well get your brother out too.”

Dumbstruck, Suguru watches as Gojo yanks open the closet door. From under his shoulder, he can just barely make out a head of spiky black hair and furrowed eyebrows. The kid takes a huge breath, like Gojo’s kept him locked up in there for years, and the murderer/kidnapper line of thought drifts back.

“What—Megumi, did you hold your breath the entire time?” Gojo asks. He pokes at chubby red cheeks, making an affronted noise when his hands are slapped away.

“You shoved me into your dirty laundry, shitface,” Megumi snaps, and Suguru’s eyebrows shoot up, but after looking at him for a second, he finds he isn't actually all that surprised. Megumi’s face is pulled back into a scowl that looks startlingly natural, his eyes narrowed into slits that glare at Gojo with more hostility than Suguru would've thought possible from someone who was barely a meter tall. Gojo doesn't even blink, just sticks his tongue out at him and spins, hands flung out wide to present the kids who he probably didn't kidnap.

“Are there any more children you're going to pull out of nowhere?” Suguru asks wryly. The boy peers up at him, not-so-subtly looking him head to toe and clearly unimpressed by what he sees. Ouch.

“Who are you?” Megumi demands.

“Getou Suguru. Hi.”

He’s about to add on something about being Gojo’s classmate and the partner project that brought him here, but he trails off, eyeing the children in front of him warily. Tsumiki’s jaw has dropped, and Megumi’s eyes widen comically at his words. “Getou Suguru?” The former echoes, a strange tone of awe in her voice. “You mean—”

“Shut up, ” Gojo hisses, slapping a hand over both of their mouths. He wrangles them under his arms, pressing them into an almost picturesque family portrait against his sides, if the average family was made up of one sleep-deprived college student and two rabid children. Tsumiki might be excellent at hiding it, but Suguru can tell she has her moments, too.

She waves.

“You know how kids are,” Gojo says, the words tumbling from his mouth as he shoots him another award-winning but distinctly nervous smile that Suguru doesn't do much but blink at. He gets the feeling that he’s missing something. “They'll just say anything that comes to mind.”

Megumi pries himself out of Gojo’s grip, kicks his shin in retaliation and gives Suguru another dirty look.

Suguru sticks his hand out. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing.

“Fushiguros, Getou. Getou, Fushiguros. Shake his hand, Megs, come on,” Gojo sighs, mouth twisted like he’s sucking on a lemon, and Suguru is swiftly reminded that he’s possibly the worst person to walk in on this, considering he and Gojo’s passionate and public dislike of one another. He grins, amusement welling up in him at the petulant glare Gojo gives him. Still, it’s impressive how he’s able to swallow it down and gesture vaguely towards Suguru with an almost encouraging thumbs up at the kids. “He won't bite. He's an asshole, but I don't think he eats brats. Probably.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Suguru says. “Sorry.”

“They don't care. You can go fuck yourself too.”

“I'm not shaking his hand. I hate you,” Megumi says, punching Gojo in the side. “Why didn't you tell us someone was coming over?”

While the white-haired man yelps and jumps back, Tsumiki sidles up to Suguru, primly grasping his hand in hers and giving it a firm shake. He huffs a laugh, his smile becoming more genuine when she beams up at him.

“Look, I forgot, ” Gojo groans, holding Megumi back with a palm to his forehead and rubbing his ribs tentatively with the other. “I admit it, okay? It just—slipped my mind, or whatever, with the hell you two were giving me. And I'm sorry for shoving you into my dirty clothes. Happy?”

“No. Go fuck yourself,” Megumi declares. His sister gasps.

“ Megumi! ”

“Sorry,” he says, sullen. “Are we leaving now?”

“ You're the one who asked to come over,” Gojo accuses, and Megumi flushes bright red.

“I did not!”

Suguru finds it wildly entertaining how Gojo seems to de-age about ten years when talking to these two. Tsumiki can't be more than nine years old, and Megumi even younger. Fushiguros. That means they probably aren't related to him, either. Maybe he’s babysitting.

The thought makes Suguru snort.

“I can leave,” he offers, helpful as ever. “We can do this later, or—”

“Do not leave,” Gojo hisses. “Megumi just finds some kind of psychotic pleasure in being mean. Everyone is staying,” he says loudly, hands on his hips and everything. “You—” with a finger pointing at Megumi, skillfully ignoring the waves of malice radiating from him with an ease that could only come from lots of practice— “Go back to your coloring. Tsumiki, you're in charge.”

“She's always in charge,” Megumi seethes. Suguru suppresses a smile as he watches the kid scramble up into Gojo’s desk chair, flipping the white-haired man off while he does it. So much rage in such a small body.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair, letting it flop back onto his forehead. He glances at Suguru and the tips of his ears burn red from embarrassment . A look down at himself has Gojo swearing under his breath, seemingly just becoming aware that Suguru’s seeing him in a night-four-of-finals-week kind of outfit. “Let me—shit, I don't know where my stuff is. Tsu, did you take my laptop?”

“Megumi wanted to play club penguin, so I gave it to him,” she responds without looking up, too preoccupied with searching for something on Gojo’s unmade bed. It’s a little surreal that Suguru is really in Gojo’s apartment staring at his bed. Not just that, but watching him get a handle on these random children, one of whom is making herself comfortable in said bed, like she’s been there a hundred times before.

“It’s on the desk,” Megumi grouses, and then Gojo’s scrambling to the other desk across the room, covered in crinkled drawings and empty plates. A yogurt carton teeters on the edge.

“We’ll have to use their side,” Gojo sighs. He snatches what Suguru recognizes as his biology notebook off the floor. “Megumi insists that mine has better lighting because of the window, and everyone knows crayon drawings are more important than schoolwork. Jesus, guys, I didn't think you'd eat all the cinnamon rolls at once. You won't have space for dinner.”

“Then you shouldn't have brought them all at once,” Megumi says snidely. With a truly impressive eye roll, Gojo begins clearing the mess, muttering something under his breath about messiness and freeloaders. He looks up, startled, when Suguru drops his bag, stepping closer to help.

“You don't have to—”

“Too late,” he interrupts. “I don't want to hear it.”

“Whatever. Dick.”

“Idiot.”

“Shitface.”

“You can't copy a five year old’s insults.”

“I'm seven, ” comes the snapped response.

“You can't copy a seven year old’s insults.”

“I taught him that insult,” Gojo splutters, and Suguru’s already getting addicted to catching him off guard. “You’re so—I hate you.”

“Right.”

Unimpressed, Suguru sweeps the remaining crumbs into the trash bin, noting how Gojo can't seem to meet his eyes, a perpetual blush staining his cheeks. It truly is a shame that he’s so pretty, Suguru muses, tracking the way Gojo’s lashes flutter against the apple of his cheek. He looks like a total and complete mess, and Suguru’s smitten.

How annoying.

“You didn't kidnap them, right?” Suguru blurts, regretting it instantly with the way Gojo pauses, slowly turning to look at him, and Suguru can't remember the last time he felt the need to explain himself—especially not to someone like him— but he finds himself bristling under the sheer incredulity of that frankly frighteningly blue gaze.

His mouth opens and closes. He gestures at the bed and then the closet like Gojo is supposed to follow his line of thinking and understand exactly what he's trying to say, and infuriatingly enough, he does, understanding dawning in his eyes.

Gojo giggles.

He giggles, like an asshat, before dissolving into full-blown belly clutching laughter, doubling over with a hand braced against the desk. Suguru watches him, disdain burning a hole through Gojo’s already ruined sweatshirt.

“Eat shit and die,” he says eloquently.

It takes another solid thirty seconds for Gojo to come up for air, swiping away the tears in his eyes and staggering to his feet. He glances at Suguru, lips clamped tight around another burst of laughter, and pointedly turns away. You're so ridiculous that just the sight of you makes me want to laugh, it taunts. Suguru decides it’s acceptable if he stews in boiling hatred for a few more minutes, and then he can get to work.

Gojo jumps onto the lower bunk bed, ignoring Megumi’s disgruntled ‘ hey!’ and crosses his long legs under him, leaving the chair for Suguru.

It’s the least he could do.

They all fall quiet, apart from the almost inaudible sounds of Tsumiki playing a game on Gojo’s phone, and then of course the bastard has to ruin it. Suguru makes the fatal mistake of glancing up at him when he clears his throat, a smile already tugging at his lips. “You know—” Gojo starts.

“I don't care.”

“—if anyone did kidnap these brats, they'd be begging me to take them back after a couple hours.”

He’s giggling again, and the asphalt outside the apartment’s fourth story window is calling Suguru’s name. “Does he think we can't hear him?” Megumi rages, looking very much like he’d like to drive the wild watermelon crayon in his hand through Gojo’s skull.

Suguru’s notebook smacking the white-haired idiot in the face is enough to shut him up as he takes a picture of the data and sends Suguru the document he’d started the write-up on. Small miracles, Suguru thinks, after a whole seven minutes of proper work time. It’s a little hard to believe that this is Gojo he’s working with. The same one who Suguru can't stand, the one who sticks his foot out to trip him whenever he gets the chance, the one who—

Who’s currently staring at him over the top of his laptop.

Suguru raises an eyebrow, and Gojo’s gaze immediately drops, eyes locked on his screen, but his hands are too busy fidgeting at the corners of his keyboard to type anything, blunt nails clacking rapidly against the sides. For a second, Suguru wonders if he has something on his face, but that can't be it, because Gojo would've teased him mercilessly for it already if that was the case.

Then it clicks.

“I'm not gonna tell anyone,” he says, watching the way Gojo’s shoulders tense and two heads look his way, trying their best to look like they aren't eavesdropping. Megumi’s legs twitch, like he’s fighting the urge to turn his body. “You don't want anyone to know they're living here, right?”

“It’s not that, it’s—this place is tiny. It’s not what you expected, right?”

“It’s not,” Suguru admits. “It’s small. No offense. I don't give a shit, but I know some people would. I won't tell.”

“Perfect ammo, I wouldn't put it past you,” Gojo snarks, and then a little quieter: “You're serious?”

The thing is, Suguru really is not a nice person, kind of a piece of shit if he’s being honest with himself. He doesn't like most people, doesn't like dealing with their drama, doesn't like when they dump their shit onto him. Shoko and Haibara are the exceptions Suguru never expected to meet, but he’s grown enough to admit that they're exceptions, that they mean something to him. Those two aside, Suguru doesn't really care about anyone else, but—

But.

But Gojo’s lips, which are never not smiling, are thin and wavering like he wants to say something and can't get the words out, like he’s pleading with Suguru the best way he knows how. He’s anxious. Suguru doesn't know what the hell is going on with these kids, why Gojo has to take care of them like this, but they need him. He can see it in the way Tsumiki is clutching the bedspread until her knuckles go white, and Megumi, despite all his blustering, has his gaze locked on Gojo, eyebrows twitching up. If Gojo’s pleading with Suguru, then Megumi’s pleading with him.

“I'm serious.”

And shit, Suguru’s shriveled heart warms a little bit at the three collective sighs of relief. Gojo slumps back, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Thanks,” he mumbles, face still covered. He doesn't see the way Suguru’s lips part in surprise. “It’s too much trouble to deal with anyone snooping around, trying to figure out why I don't live in a fucking penthouse. These leeches don't even live here all the time, but the landlord would get on my ass if he knew anything about them.” He jabs a thumb out at the kids, blowing them a raspberry that makes Tsumiki’s nose scrunch and Megumi’s face pull back into a sneer.

“Not to pry, but why don't you live in a penthouse?”

Gojo flaps his hand. “Don't have enough yet. I have to keep the heating and shit running in their place.”

Aren't you rich? Suguru wants to blurt. He doesn't, but Gojo answers his question anyway with a small shrug.

“They wouldn't want to move in with me, anyway, and no way am I asking my mom to buy a place for just me. Trust me, I already heard from Utahime and Nanami that I'm being stupid, but it’s whatever. I like this place.”

Suguru is vaguely familiar with the names. He knows Nanami as the guy that Haibara has a massive and frankly embarrassing crush on, and Shoko’s mentioned Utahime once or twice, which basically means the same thing.

“I don't think it’s stupid,” Suguru says honestly. It’s almost endearing how fast Gojo’s head whips around, eyes wide. “I’d do the same thing.”

Gojo stares at him for a moment. A long, long moment, long enough for Suguru to shift in his seat, wondering if he said the wrong thing, but then Gojo stands and clears his throat.

“I have to piss,” he announces, flipping off Suguru and the face he pulls. It’s like the conversation never happened with how quickly he moves on, but Suguru’s not blind. He sees the slight quirk of Gojo’s lips that he's so desperately trying to restrain, eyes darting every which way but landing squarely on Suguru’s face more times than he can count. “Don't give them any candy while I'm gone—”

“It’s not like you're going to war— ”

“And don't let them talk you into having a sleepover. Tsumiki saw it on TV and now she’s insatiable.”

“Am not!” Tsumiki denies, indignantly looking very much like someone who has no idea what insatiable means. Gojo waves his hand at her dismissively and scooches off the bed, and when the restroom door shuts behind him with a click, Suguru feels a little bit like a cornered rabbit. Sure enough, the kids are unabashedly staring him down, identical looks of curiosity on their faces—no matter how much Megumi tries to cover it up with irritation. God, they remind him of the twins.

“Why aren't you telling on us?”

Tsumiki speaks first, but they don't give him any chance of reprieve, Megumi leaning forward and nearly falling out of his chair as he points an accusatory finger. “Is it ‘cause you're friends?” He asks suspiciously. At that, Suguru can't help but laugh, albeit a little hesitantly. Sure, his dislike for Gojo has weakened since coming here, but they’re hardly friends. Barely even civil. He’s just nice to look at, is all, and nice to make fun of.

“We aren't friends,” he says firmly, and for some reason, that makes Megumi’s expression sour even further, if that’s possible. Tsumiki’s remains perfectly even, apart from an eye twitch that almost looks painful. “I just have no reason to tell. I don't hate him that much that I’d gossip.” He shrugs, like it really is that simple. And maybe it is. Suguru doesn't want Gojo to think he has to worry about him, too. He cares about these kids, which Suguru figures counts for enough.

“Right,” Tsumiki says slowly, nodding in a way that says she definitely doesn't believe him. “Well, thanks for being so nice to him, even though you guys pretend to be mean.”

“It’s not pretending, I just—”

“He’s never brought anyone home before,” she continues, and Suguru’s mouth clamps shut. “Ms. Utahime and Mr. Nanami don't count, he’s known them for years and years. You're the only person he's ever mentioned, other than them and Shoko, and he doesn't talk about Shoko like he talks about you, you know. It’s nice seeing Satoru have some new friends.”

And she looks so genuinely grateful that Suguru doesn't have the heart to correct her a second time. He doesn't talk about Shoko like he talks about you.

Suguru thinks about the ever-present blush on Gojo’s cheeks and bites his tongue.

The restroom door flings open and Gojo stomps out, making his way all the way to Megumi to flick him squarely on the forehead, a scowl plastered over his features. "What did I say about hanging the hand towel back up, huh?"

Megumi shrugs and bats his eyelashes. "Dunno," He says, demure. "I don't listen to what you say."

"Oh, you're evil," Gojo decides. "I'm officially taking away your crayon privileges. Sit in silence and think about what you've done."

Suguru snickers. He throws his hands up in surrender when Gojo glares at him to shut up, though he’s also clearly suppressing a grin at the way Megumi groans, shoving his face into his crossed arms.

"Fine," he grumbles. "I'll hang up the towel, okay?"

"That's what I like to hear," Gojo croons. "You can be so sweet when you try, Megs."

"I'll kill you."

"'Kay, but after me and Su—Getou finish this project, yeah?"

Like the fucking saint he is, Suguru doesn't comment on the slip up. They're able to work the rest of the night away and then some, and by the time Suguru is putting his things away, Tsumiki is asleep on the bed and Megumi’s fighting to stay awake, his head nodding forward every couple seconds. Bent at the waist, Suguru zips his bag and slips it over his shoulder, glancing up to see Gojo watching the kids with… love, really.

“They're cute,” Suguru says after he’s caught staring.

“No shit,” Gojo snorts. “I’d take the apartment in a heartbeat for these two, even if it meant bruising my ego and asking my parents for help. I'm an asshole, but I wouldn't pull this sneaking around stuff if that’s what they wanted. But they don't.”

He scoffs a little, giving them another long look, more wistful than anything else. Frustration clouds his face. “They want to stay in their own place, where they grew up. It’s so shitty, dude.” He laughs humorlessly, his lips thinning as he stares at the wall next to Suguru’s head, like he’s remembering a bad memory. “Shit place with a shit, deadbeat ghost. But I let them stay there and they come over here whenever they want, which is more than it used to be.”

“I'm glad,” Suguru says earnestly. “I'm glad they have you.”

Gojo fiddles with his sleeves for a second, lips parting like he wants to say something else but can't figure out what, and Suguru decides to spare them both the trouble by stretching his hands behind him with a loud groan. “I'm gonna go,” he sighs.

“I—yep.” Gojo chews on his words for a second as he sees Suguru to the door, foot kicking against the ground. “Thanks.”

It’s not easy to mask his shock at hearing that from Gojo’s mouth a second time in one night, but Suguru manages with a dismissive shake of his head. “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

“For being civil,” he insists. “That’s all. Even though—yeah. That’s all. Don't go getting a big head, you won't hear it again.”

Even though what? Suguru wants to ask. He doesn't.

“Whatever,” he says instead. “You're real irritating, anyone ever tell you that?”

“Fuck off, you're worse than me. All righteous and annoying. It won't kill you to have a little fun, Suguru.”

Gojo’s eyes glimmer with mirth, his lips pulled back into a smirk, and for once, Suguru doesn't want to wipe it off his face. It’s weird. He coughs, hiding his own smile, and punches Gojo in the arm. “Sleep terribly, dipshit.”

“Goodnight to you too,” Gojo calls after him. The door shuts, and Suguru is doused in silence once again.

Something changes between them after that night. At first, Gojo had been almost weirdly cordial, but once he realized Suguru truly wasn't planning on spreading any rumors, he fell back into his old self, doing his very best to get on Suguru’s nerves. Suguru, on the other hand, is trying something new.

“Did you paint your nails?” He asks one morning, fighting a smile as Gojo fumbles his laptop.

“You got a problem with it?”

“Hm. Light blue looks nice on you.”

He doesn't mean anything by it. It becomes more fun to watch Gojo flounder from unexpected compliments than his usual insults, noting the way his shoulders hike up to his chin and he refuses to look up the entirety of class. He’s so expressive, Suguru can't help but get a kick out of it. It’s not like he’s lying, either. Light blue really does look good on him, just like the new shoes he wears one day and the handmade bracelet that appears on his wrist.

“Did you make that?” He asks, genuinely curious. Gojo rubs a finger along the edge, a private smile on his lips that gives Suguru the feeling he’s intruding.

“Tsumiki,” he says. It’s the first time either of them have brought the kids up, and for some reason, it feels monumental. Suguru swallows. Before he can lose his nerve, he clears his throat and nods once.

“My sisters like making those kinds of things. I think they'd get along with Tsumiki. Even Megumi, though he’d think Nanako is too loud.”

“Nanako,” Gojo repeats.

“Nanako and Mimiko. They're twins.”

He beams at Suguru then, a bright, genuine smile that makes a lump form in his throat. “Neat!”

That’s it. He’s not sure why it feels like he’s revealed some big secret, because it isn't. Suguru loves the twins so much, but they're personal in a way he hasn't allowed himself to get. Not with Gojo. The guy is completely oblivious, humming a stupid commercial jingle under his breath that Suguru finds himself tapping his foot to. It’s ridiculous, he tells Shoko over the phone, glumly laying on his bed and watching the snowfall. His roommate is home for the weekend, so Suguru’s all alone in his dorm room. It’s fucking cold. Even in the building, the cold seeps in, sending chills down Suguru’s spine when the blanket tucked around him shifts. Shoko tells him that she’s doing just fine at Utahime’s. Suguru thinks it’s because she’s at Utahime’s. He’s blocked for saying so, which just means he’s right and she’s embarrassed. In any case, it doesn't really matter to him, so long as he doesn't have to walk in on anything awful.

Suguru swings his feet to the ground, just about to stand and find some junk food to call dinner when he glances out the window and nearly drops his phone in shock. Some poor bastard is having an awful time out there, trudging along the path with their hood pulled over their head. He snorts. Only an idiot would be out walking. The storm was on the weather broadcast of every news station in the prefecture, there’s no reason—

Suguru pauses, eyes widening. The person’s hood had swept off, revealing a head of hair that nearly blends perfectly into the snow around them.

“What the fuck? ”

Gojo’s apartment is on the other side of campus. There’s no telling that he’ll make it there without freezing to death in that flimsy hoodie. Suguru can't even begin to imagine what the hell he’s doing out there, but the only thing flashing through his mind is the face Gojo had made that day in class, the way he’d been so miserable under three thick layers and shivered even after making it inside.

Suguru doesn't think before he slams open his dorm door, snatching a coat off the back of his desk chair, and skids down the stairs. “Gojo! Gojo!” He calls, nearly eating shit on the slippery tiled floor as he races out into the storm.

He shouldn't be able to hear him. Gusts of wind send flurries through the air, howling between tree branches and drowning out anything else, but by some miracle, he does . Gojo turns, eyes wide, and Suguru nearly recoils. Snowflakes cling to his flaming cheeks, settling along his brow and along the bridge of his nose. Suguru’s surprised his lips haven't gone blue yet. Gojo opens his mouth, confusion painting his face, but all that comes out is a terrible clattering of teeth, and Suguru doesn't waste another second before yanking Gojo along after him by the sleeve. He’s careful not to let him fall when he practically shoves him inside the dorm building.

The glass door swings shut behind them, and Suguru can hear himself think again. Most of all, he can hear Gojo, his staccato breaths and sniffs.

“What—”

“Are you insane?” Suguru bursts. Gojo gapes at him as best he can—like he hasn't really processed that Suguru’s standing there in front of him—looking like a wet cat with his hair clinging to his forehead in clumps, dripping into squinted eyes. “What the hell were you doing out there? Hypothermia isn't a joke, dipshit , you could've died .”

The genuine fear is just now settling into Suguru’s bones, and christ, he can see the outline of Gojo’s collarbones underneath his soaked-through hoodie, filling Suguru with the urge to wrap him up in a blanket and shove him next to a fireplace. Gojo doesn't look like he’s hearing a word Suguru is saying, blinking at him blankly. Suguru would smack him if he wasn't worried he’d explode into a million shards of ice.

“Are you mad at me?” Is what comes out of Gojo’s mouth, incredulous, and it strikes Suguru as such a strange thing to say that he falters, grasping for something to defend himself with, but his jaw sets and he shoves at Gojo’s shoulder. The other boy lets himself be pushed, and it only makes Suguru angrier.

“Yes,” he hisses. “I'm fucking mad. You're an idiot, you know that?”

“I wasn't—”

“I don't care,” he cuts off. They're silent, staring each other down, only Gojo just looks fucking stupid because he can't keep himself from shivering, holding himself in a white-knuckled grip. Suguru spins on his heel. “Come on.”

Maybe it’s the promise of warmth, but Gojo bites his tongue and follows without a word, sopping footprints trailing behind Suguru. He’s got his arms around himself, but it doesn't look like it’s helping much, might even be making it worse. Abruptly, Suguru stops, shucking off his own coat to bully Gojo into it, ignoring his huffs of annoyance and the way that he’s standing ramrod straight, stubbornly avoiding Suguru’s gaze. Little shit can't even let himself be helped without complaining about it. Suguru ignores the attitude, letting his arms linger around Gojo’s shoulders, and he prays that some of his body heat reaches Gojo through the layers.

The reflective wall in the elevator mirrors Gojo’s perfectly empty expression, the way he’s almost staring straight through himself. It’s an ugly expression on his face, twisting Suguru’s gut with how it just doesn't fit. Gojo’s not supposed to be upset. Not like this, at least. Not this kind of quiet hurting like it’s something he’s used to. Suguru worries, his arm tensing where it brushes Gojo’s bicep, and Gojo sends him a searing glare, but even this isn't right. It feels like a sham, like he’s convincing himself that Suguru’s done something worth fighting about— trying to convince himself, because when Suguru doesn't yield, leveling Gojo with even eyes, his feathers fall flat and he stares at his shoes. Biting back a sigh, Suguru places a hand on the small of Gojo’s back. He's not looking at him, but he can feel the way Gojo jolts, his entire body stiffening. It stays there until they reach his room, where Suguru pulls away to dig out his keys, and immediately, he's hurrying to find a fresh set of clothes while Gojo kicks the door shut behind him.

“Hey,” he begins, turning to see Gojo staring around his room, distracted eyes flicking from wall to wall. It reminds him of how Suguru had acted the first time he saw Gojo’s place. He ignores the slight twinge of nerves at having Gojo in his room as he glances at him, wrapping Suguru’s coat tighter around himself. “The rec center’s still open, you could've waited it out in there.”

With a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, Gojo kicks his shoe against the floor, studying Suguru like he’s gauging how to respond.

“Look, I'm not actually upset,” Suguru huffs. “You just scared me.”

“‘Scared you’?” Gojo repeats, and Suguru really doesn't know why he's always fixating on the wrong things, but when he doesn't respond beyond a nod and a raised eyebrow, Gojo scoffs lightly and looks away, letting the coat drop. It hits the floor with a muted thump, and Suguru cringes at the wet splotch on the rug. “Sorry,” Gojo says thinly. He bends to pick it up, turning the fabric over in his hands. “I forgot my key card. Was just gonna bang on Shoko’s door ‘til she let me in.”

“Shoko’s at Utahime’s,” Suguru answers, and Gojo blinks.

“Oh. I don’t know where anyone else lives,” he confesses.

You're the only person he’s ever mentioned, Tsumiki had said, and Suguru is starting to understand.

“Good thing I saw you,” he says lightly. “Now go, shower. Not too hot, that’ll fuck you up even more . ”

Even trembling like a leaf, Gojo manages to convey a sense of irritation with the wrinkle of his nose, blowing out a breath directly on Suguru’s face and hissing when he’s pinched in return. “I know how to take a shower,” he mumbles. Suguru rolls his eyes, hiding his relief at hearing him talk like himself.

“ Go .”

Gojo drops his phone on Suguru’s bed with one last long, defeated look. Just as he’s about to step inside, he hesitates at the threshold. Suguru can see his Adam’s apple bob. “Thanks,” he says quietly, shoving Suguru’s coat back at him. “Stop making me say that so often, jackass.”

With a snort, Suguru hangs it up to dry, pushing Gojo’s shoulder lightly as he passes. The bathroom door clicks shut before he can respond.

There’s a notification from an hour ago lighting up Gojo’s phone when he switches it on, but no service.

While Gojo’s inside, Suguru pulls out a set of clean clothes, joggers and one of his comfiest sweatshirts, and sets them on the bed before hurrying down to the kitchen. There’s already a pot of coffee on, but the girl who brewed it is standing there with her fingers clutched around a cup, dark circles hanging under her eyes, so Suguru bites his tongue. He nods politely and waits his turn, making eyes at the second coffee machine that’s been broken since he moved into the building.

Gojo’s sitting on his bed when Suguru steps back inside, faltering at the sight of the white-haired boy wearing his clothes. The hoodie is too big around the shoulders, the joggers too short at the ankles, but it looks perfect anyway, and Suguru wants to gag. He’s so lame.

“Better?” Suguru asks. He watches the way Gojo shrugs, his eyes never leaving the black screen of the phone clutched in his hand, and steps closer, nudging the coffee into lithe, pale hands, the skin peeling around his nails. Carefully, Suguru sits next to time, taking care not to jostle, and studies Gojo’s pinched expression.

This is weird.

He’d known it would be, from the second Gojo shook the water out of his eyes and stared at Suguru like he’d grown two heads, but it’s weird. He’s used to Gojo’s expressiveness, the way he pouts and whines and grins, but he’s doing none of that now. When he speaks, every word is deliberate.

“I could've made it back to my own place, you know.”

Suguru makes a face. “Sure. How long were you out there?”

“Just from the station. The trains are still running. They were, at least.”

“That’s still a twenty minute walk.”

“And it would've been another ten to get back to my place. I would've been fine.”

“Twenty in that weather. Cut the bullshit. What the hell were you doing out there?”

A sharp inhale, a shift on the bed sheets. This, Suguru realizes, is the first thing he’s said that got a real reaction. Gojo opens his mouth and closes it again—shrugs, like he’s not wringing his hands where Suguru can see them.

“It doesn't matter,” is what comes out, and Suguru rolls his eyes.

“Don't be stupid. If you don't want to say, then that’s fine, but don't lie to me. If it didn't matter, you wouldn't be out there.”

And it’s true, it’s not like Suguru’s going to be upset by Gojo keeping it from him, it isn't his business. But the white-haired man frowns and shakes his head like Suguru’s got the wrong idea.

“It matters, but it’s—I shouldn't have—”

He cuts himself off, his face twisting, and it makes something in Suguru’s chest tight.

“Gojo, I'm serious. I don't like it when people pry at my shit either, I'm not gonna push you. Dumbass,” he adds, and Gojo snorts.

“You're such a dick,” he mumbles, but he relaxes a little bit, giving Suguru a small smile, and it all feels worth it, even when those piercing blue eyes flick down to the steaming mug clutched in his hands. Suguru watches him watch it. They're quiet for a minute, and in that minute, he could almost forget that he’s not supposed to like Gojo. He should be annoyed, really, that he got snowed in with him, but Suguru can’t muster it up, can't even pretend to. He just wants him to be okay.

“You’re staring,” Gojo mutters, so quiet that Suguru almost misses it. He stutters, looking down at his own hands, grateful that Gojo can't see the flush darkening his cheeks.

“It’s—sorry.”

“I don't mind.”

This, Suguru would’ve liked a minute to process—because ???—but Gojo keeps opening and closing his mouth like he’s on the verge of saying something, so he stays silent, waiting for whenever he’s ready. At the very least, he looks less like he wants to run back outside into the storm and more like he’s kind of glad Suguru’s here with him. Small victories.

Suguru startles as Gojo heaves a big sigh and flops back onto the bed, splaying out his arms wide. Twisting to look down at him, Suguru pokes at his belly, smirking at the full-body jerk Gojo can't hold back. “Fuck you,” he says lazily, squinting up at the ceiling, at Suguru. “Can't a guy lay down in peace around here?”

“Scooch over.”

He picks up Gojo’s right arm and throws it over his body, lying down next to him with a quiet grunt. They're shoulder to shoulder, and Suguru can just barely see the way Gojo turns his head a centimeter to look at him. Gojo’s warm, squished against Suguru like this, and it’d be awkward to move away now, so there isn't really much Suguru can do but clench his fists where Gojo can't see them, but then a head of fluffy white hair is pressing into him, and Gojo’s cheek burns against Suguru’s shoulder.

He thinks Gojo is giving him way too much credit when he says, muffled, “don't say anything.”

All he can do is suppress a shiver.

Gingerly, he rests his hand atop Gojo’s head of messy, ridiculously fluffy hair.

“Hey.”

“I said— ”

“I'm not,” Suguru laughs, aborted, because Gojo starts moving away and Suguru really wants him to stay. He slides his hand down from the crown of Gojo’s head to around his shoulders, tugging him in.

Even with his face half smushed, Gojo’s smile still peeks out, and Suguru yanks at his hair. “Don't say anything,” he parrots.

“Yeah,” Gojo breathes. And that’s all they do, for a moment. Just…breathe. Gojo’s antsy, shifting this way and that, though he can't go far or else he’ll leave the comfort of Suguru’s side, so all he really does is change how much he’s burrowed into him.

His breath fans over Suguru’s skin, and belatedly, Suguru realizes he really wants to kiss him. Unfortunately, it’s not as groundbreaking a revelation as he would have liked. The want comes easy to him. He’s not sure where they stand, really, whether Gojo’s like this with everyone or Suguru’s reading too much into it, but he knows enough to say that when he looks at Gojo, his stomach turns for an entirely different reason than it used to.

(Secretly, Suguru thinks that maybe it always turned for the same thing, but he’s not sure he’s ready to admit that yet.)

“Getou,” Gojo says, turning his face up to peer up at him, scrutinizing. “Do you hate me?”

Suguru blinks.

“Pardon?”

“Like, do you want to punt me out into the snow right now like usual, or is it more of a low-key frustration?”

“A low-key—? Why are those my only options?”

At that, Gojo’s eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion. “I kind of barged in here on your night in,” he points out. “And I just threw myself on you without asking. Mostly, I was just trying to see how you’d react, but you didn't kick me off the bed, so I don't really know what I'm doing anymore.”

Suguru can practically feel his hackles raise, his hand falling still. “My mistake,” he says sharply. “I didn't realize I was supposed to be an asshole about it. If you want to move away you—”

“Where the hell did you get that from?” Gojo demands. “I'm fine right where I am, thanks.”

“Oh.”

He is so lost right now. Gojo always finds a way to spin him around in circles, like one of those fairy tale characters who messes with people’s minds.

“You're like an imp,” Suguru tells him.

“Thank…you?”

“An evil one,” he adds. “Always confusing the shit out of me.”

“I don't mean to. You're the confusing one.”

“Liar. I'm as straightforward as you can get.”

“Wow, I didn't know a person could be this delusional.”

“Fuck off, ” Suguru groans, but he’s laughing, pinching Gojo’s ear and snickering at the yelp that follows. Gojo swats at him. His head tilts away from Suguru, and he can see the exact moment Gojo’s eyes catch the sight of the phone lying limp on the bed sheets next to him, with the way that wide smile drops. He doesn't know what’s got Gojo so upset, but he can't ask again without inadvertently pressuring him to tell him, so Suguru chooses the next best thing.

He laces their fingers together and squeezes his hand, hard. Gojo twitches, but then he’s squeezing back and peering at Suguru, eyes flitting over his features, mapping them out. Whatever he’s looking for, Suguru hopes he finds it.

“Megumi kicked me out.”

Jesus christ.

“What?”

“We got into a fight. Or, he got angry with me, I guess. I don't really know what happened. It wasn't snowing this bad when I left.”

A feeble defense. Of himself or Megumi, Suguru isn't sure. “Does this…happen often?” He asks tentatively, but it’s no use. Gojo scoffs anyway, tugging at the sleeve of Suguru’s shirt.

“You sound like a shrink. It's never happened before, something—I don't know. Tsu’ kept telling me to stay.”

He stops again, fingers tapping on his thigh. “But Megumi was throwing a huge fit, I've never seen anything like it, I—she was cryin’ and I wanted to start too, but that’d just make everything worse so I just left. She has my number,” he whispers. “But there's no service anymore. Anything could've happened, Getou, what if the heating went out? It’s happened before, that shithole is so—I hate him,” he spits, and Suguru balks, thinking he’s talking abt Megumi for a split second, but the sneer on Gojo’s face would never be about him.

He speaks before he’s even fully put the pieces together. “Their dad?”

“I fucking hate him. I wish he came back to life and died again, that piece of shit. Leaving his kids in that run-down closet of an apartment with a woman who cared more about how much alcohol was in the cabinets than food on the table. I hate him so much , but—”

The words get caught in his throat, sticking there until Suguru rubs his thumb over Gojo’s knuckles. He does it again and again and again until the tension lining his shoulders bleeds away.

“I can't be him, either,” Gojo says plainly. “And that’s the worst part. Megumi knows, Tsumiki knows. I'll never be him and Megumi hates me for it. He hates me.”

Suguru’s quick with his response, tilting his head to catch Gojo’s eye. “He doesn't,” he says firmly. “He doesn't hate you.”

“You should see the way he looked at me,” Gojo scoffs. “He wants me gone. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, taking them in. I can barely take care of myself. ”

“You're the best thing that ever happened to them, Gojo. When he thought I might tell everyone where you're living, you should've seen his face. I thought he was going to cry.”

Gojo frowns, and Suguru thinks it’s a little unfair how he has dimples even now. “What are you talking about?”

“When I came over for the bio lab.” He’s staring into disbelieving blue eyes now, watching Gojo prepare to deny it, but Suguru barrels on. “You were in the bathroom, and they asked me, ‘are you friends with him?’ I said no, because we weren't, and you should've seen the look he gave me. Megumi loves you, man, both of them do. They love you and they need you.”

With a stuttering breath, Gojo turns his face up to the ceiling, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Suguru traces the line of his profile over and over and over again, desperately fighting the urge to lean over and kiss him right then and there because that’s the last thing Gojo needs right now. Mildly, Suguru wonders just how horrified the version of himself three weeks ago would've been to see them now, but then Gojo drapes an arm over his eyes and the thought vanishes.

“I don't know how to fix this.”

He sounds frighteningly young.

Suguru nudges against him, remembering what it was like when Mimiko and Nanako first moved in with them, just after the accident. They'd been terrified of everything , and Suguru hadn't known what to do. His parents had to work twice as much to feed two extra mouths, which meant Suguru had to figure out a lot of shit alone.

He doesn't want that for Gojo.

“He’s just a kid. Thinks you're the cause of everything bad that happens to him. And, from experience, kids are shit at understanding their own emotions. All they know is that they're feeling , and that they're feeling a fuck ton. Don't take what he said to heart. Talk it out with him when you go back, and if he really has a problem with you, it'll stick. If not, you'll know I was right.”

“You're never right,” Gojo mumbles, and Suguru can't see his eyes, but he can see the way his lip quirks up, just before he lowers his arm and looks at him. “You really think so?”

“I do,” Suguru says firmly. “I really, really think so. Those kids love you. Nothing’s going to change that.”

“Did the twins ever—I mean, you don't have to say.”

Suguru thinks back to sleepless nights rubbing Mimiko’s back, soothing her cries as Nanako clung to his side. The way they would refuse to let go of his hands in public, shying away from strangers cooing at them, bawling once Suguru left their line of sight. “They've been through a lot,” he says finally. “Before we adopted them, they didn't—they weren't living in good conditions. That fear never really went away. Don't tell Nanako, she would kill me now if she heard me saying that,” he snorts, and Gojo laughs with him, a small smile settling on his face.

“I’d like to meet them,” he whispers.

Suguru turns his head to find Gojo already watching him, their noses inches apart. Before he even knows what he’s doing, Suguru is leaning in, intoxicated by Gojo’s shimmering eyes and lashes fluttering down. Reaching his palm up to cradle Gojo’s jaw, Suguru closes his eyes and—

“Lunch!”

Abruptly, the warmth beside him springs upwards as Gojo tugs his hand free and launches upright, gripping the bedspread on either side of him. Bemused, Suguru lays flat on his back, eyes fixed on Gojo’s undercut.

“Lunch?” He echoes.

“Lunch. You—let’s get lunch.”

He doesn't look at Suguru when he speaks, but his nape and the tips of his ears burn bright red. “You know,” Suguru begins, just to watch him fidget. “People usually ask. ”

“Fuck you,” Gojo groans, but he turns just enough to catch Suguru’s eye, fiddling with the fabric bunched in his hand. When he speaks, it looks like it pains him physically. “You said earlier that we weren't friends. As in past tense.”

“I did,” Suguru admits. “What about it?”

“Will you? Lunch. Get lunch with me. Please?”

“You're really bad at this,” Suguru snickers, but Gojo’s starting to look constipated, so he decides to throw him a bone. “Yeah, I'll get lunch with you, moron. It’s a date.”