Chapter Text
There was really no comfortable way to fall asleep on a couch.
At least not one the size of Shoko’s. The length of the sofa was fine, as fine as it could be for someone of Satoru Gojo’s stature. In the 21 and a half years that Satoru had been alive, he had long since given up any hope in the assumption that furniture companies were able to create any product that wasn't an egregiously sized bed or maybe one of those really soft, light colored rugs that were marketed towards people who either didn't have kids or were just really clean to properly accommodate his vertical challenges.
Still, he took it in stride, aware that it could always—always—be worse. In another universe, where God was considerably fairer and less inclined to play favorites, he was just as egotistical as he was now, only without the 182.88 centimeters to back it up.
Satoru had initially sprawled flat on his back, one arm and one leg dangling over the side, his fingertips grazing the cold wood floor of Shoko’s apartment. It lasted until his foot went numb and his shoulder cramped in protest, at which point he rolled onto his stomach instead. He tried positioning himself along the very edge of the cushions—an act of pure optimism—until that, too, failed, leaving his feet hanging off the end and his knees bent at angles that just didn't look natural.
So instead, he snagged the blanket Shoko had given him and rolled onto the floor. It wasn’t as soft as the couch, but there was significantly more space for his ridiculously long limbs. And honestly, he’d slept in worse places. He wasn’t complaining.
He was grateful his oldest friend had let him stay over at all. They hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms lately—not since she’d very honestly told him he was “an arrogant asshole with absolutely no regard for anyone but himself,” which, in his defense, had felt unnecessarily specific.
Or something like that.
After that their conversations were cordial at their best. Screaming at their worst, and anything that fell in between was too exceedingly rare to include.
Well except for this evening of course.
Satoru had shown up at her door, balancing a box in one hand while knocking as obnoxiously as he possibly could with the other. When that didn’t seem to get the reaction he wanted, he switched tactics, pressing two fingers to the doorbell and holding it down, the insistent buzz filling the hallway.
He smiled while he listened to her fumbling from the other side of the door.
Shoko slid the lock and swung the door open hard enough for the knob to dent the wall behind it. Satoru didn't appear bothered by her lack of excitement to see him. No, he was never deterred by her twisted faces or grumpy moods. Shoko's brows furrowed and lips pouted leaning on the doorframe, boxers that he recognized as his own hanging loosely around her hips, and the t-shirt she had owned for as long as he had known her.
"Satoru?"
"In the flesh."
"What the hell are you doing here? It's like six in the fucking afternoon."
“Which begs the question, why are you still asleep?”
“Mid-day nap.”
“Ah, I see.” He placed the box on the floor, twisted his wrist to check the time. “It’s seven-fifteen.”
“What do you want?” She groaned. “I thought breaking up meant I never had to see you again.”
“It does,” he said cheerfully, just to piss her off. Shoko hated mornings, afternoons, and evenings. Anything that interrupted her already sparse sleep schedule. But the only thing she hated more were those who weren’t sympathetic enough to be aware of her sleep deprivation and cause an interruption. And today, Satoru was that interruption.
“But it doesn’t mean I don’t get to see the shit I left at your place anymore.”
“What shit? There is no shit.”
“Don’t lie, Shoko. There’s plenty of my stuff in your apartment.”
She stared at him. Silence. Then shrugged.
A moment passed.
“I dunno. Maybe I threw it all away.”
Satoru’s expression pinched in on itself, quick and offended. He looked like a cat. “Shoko, if my unfinished—and finished—LEGO sets aren’t somewhere in that apartment, I swear to God—”
“Alright, alright. Calm down.” If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was having fun with this. Maybe she was. She always did get off on seeing him pissed. “I have your things.”
“Alright,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender, “so let me grab my stuff, and then you can go bitch to Utahime about this later.”
“No way.” She scoffed, folding her arms. “Come back in a few hours and I’ll have it waiting outside. Or maybe I’ll have Nanami drop it at your place.”
Satoru blinked. Once. Then frowned, quick and offended.
“Nanami?” he repeated. “You’d trust Nanami with my things?”
“Yes,” she said flatly. “Because he wouldn’t be standing on my doorstep arguing about it.”
“I am not arguing,” Satoru protested. “I am negotiating.”
“You’re stalling.”
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re being annoying.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “Please. I’ll be fast. In and out. You won’t even notice I was here.”
Shoko stared at him for a long moment. Then she shook her head. “Go away.”
“…Wow,” he said, offended on a deeply personal level. “Youre being a real ass about this.”
“Correct,” she replied. “Come back later.”
“Fine.”
She closed the door in his face.
He didn’t bother arguing further. Being extra was more fun. Two fingers pressed the doorbell, producing an insistent buzz that was low to his ears—but he knew from experience how deafening it was inside. From behind the door, Shoko’s yelling came out as a broken mess.
The door opened and a hand shot out, fingers tangling in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth.
“OW—! You’re the devil.”
“Convenient,” Shoko snapped, glaring up at him. “Because you look like hell.”He didn’t, but it felt nice to say.
He straightened, rubbing the back of his head, affronted. “You assaulted me.”
“You rang my doorbell like a psychopath.”
“I rang it like someone who was locked out. Which I was.”
She huffed, bent down, and grabbed the box he’d brought with him. “Get in. And take your shoes off. I don’t know where you’ve been… ingrate.”
“I heard that,” he said, following her inside.
She didn’t bother responding.
His feet stumbled across the cold, wooden floor as he looked around. Shoko followed behind him, closing the door with her hip.
“What’s this?” She tilted her head at the box. On top sat her old Rubik’s Cube.
“Some of your things that were laying around my place, figured I'd bring them with me.”
“Oh.” She set the box down on the nearest surface. “Thanks.”
He tossed a sarcastic look over his shoulder. Could looks even be sarcastic? God, he was a diva.
“Don’t mention it.” His eyes scanned the apartment. “So… where’s all my stuff?”
“Where you left it,” she said from behind him. “Which means any and everywhere.” Her death glare did nothing but amuse him. “I suggest you start in the bathroom. Your toothbrush and skincare are in there. Oh, and those pills you take for your migraines. I tried one when I had cramps—they’re actually good.”
Satoru frowned. His migraines always started behind his eyes.
“You took my acetaminophen?” he deadpanned.
She only shrugged.
“What’s wrong with you? Genuine question.”
He muttered under his breath as he disappeared around the corner toward the bathroom. Shoko could hear him shuffling through her medicine cabinet, probably checking the little blue box to see how many tablets were left. Of course, he’d find none missing. She wasn’t in the business of tampering with other people’s things—especially over-the-counter migraine pills.
He wandered towards her bedroom, and because neither one of them were particularly clean, his things were scattered everywhere along with her own. She hadn't bothered to separate any of it. Her bras draped over his shirts, hoodies on the floor. Singular socks balled up in corners. A notebook he’d abandoned half-finished, doodles and scribbles running wild across the pages, slid into the box. He even grabbed a pen he liked from her desk—though he knew she would probably notice it missing eventually.
By the time he reached the living room, the box was heavy. On the bottom he had shoved a couple of her hair ties just to cause her some kind of discomfort in the near future. He balanced it all carefully, like a Jenga tower of his past negligence.
Shoko tilted her head, glancing at him. “So… how was your little scavenger hunt?”
“Difficult. You’re a slob.”
She rolled her eyes, reaching for a cigarette. “Like you’re any better.”
Satoru waved a hand dismissively. “You’re being an ass.”
“Lean down and kiss it.”
“Pass.”
She arched a brow. “That’s a first.”
He chose to again ignore her.
He leaned down to gather his things. A glance at his watch made him pause—over an hour had passed, and he hadn’t noticed at all.
When he looked up, the sky beyond her window had darkened, heavy drops of rain streaking down the glass. Thunder cracked somewhere overhead.
Shoko followed his line of sight.
No words were exchanged for a long moment. Any eye contact was, at best, imagined on his part.
“It’s getting pretty bad,” she said.
“Yeah. I should get going,” he replied, already shifting his weight, his voice just a little too tight.
She noticed it then—the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand lingered on the box like it was an anchor.
“…You can stay until it lets up,” she added, casual, like it wasn’t anything. “If you want.”
He looked at her, surprised.
Just for a second.
“Sure.”
It hadn’t let up.
There was no use pretending he was going to get any sleep that night. Still, he closed his eyes and willed his mind into a state of fuzz—like the static of an old-fashioned television with a broken antenna. It was the least he could do for his fatigued body.
The rain, which had started hours ago, had softened into an almost soothing background noise. It sounded less like a storm and more like an endlessly falling waterfall. He hated storms—not because he was afraid of them; he wasn’t really afraid of anything—but because they were inconvenient in ways only he seemed to notice.
He snuggled deeper under the cover and froze.
The scent hit him first—familiar, warm, unmistakable. It was her. The woman down the hall.
The woman who’d probably chop his dick off if given the chance.
She washed the blankets with the same detergents she used for her own clothes. It was something tropical. Fruity almost. He brought it directly under his nose to inhale deeper this time. Still the specific scent evaded him. So he leaned back on his borrowed pillow and became comfortable with the dark and with the floor.
His mind was wonderfully blank when the buzzing began. It took a full ten seconds for him to realize it wasn’t in his head. Another three for him to recognize it as something vibrating. Then, only a single second to register that it was his cellphone.
His hand slipped under the blanket, fumbling into his pocket to silence the device. The brightness of the screen stabbed mercilessly at his tired eyes. His thumb hovered over the volume buttons, debating the delicate balance: quiet enough not to alert the caller, yet assertive enough to show he was ignoring them.
Then his brain registered the name.
He groaned.
Nanami.
He had a guess as to why he was calling. Shoko was a little snitch; she leveraged the fact that despite the fact that the three of them were all friends, Nanami clearly favored her over him. He slid the screen. Watching the timer start on the answered call. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.
”Gojo?”
Saturo pressed the phone to his ear. “What?”
His intention wasn’t for the question to come across as so brash, but in all fairness, if business hours existed in friendships and any other regular interactions, this would be a gross professional violation.
“Where are you?”
He shrugged against the floor.
“Home.”
“No, you’re not.”
Gojo frowned, raising an eyebrow in complete confusion.
“How do you know that?”
Nanami leaned back into his desk chair, flicking his wrist to eye his watch.
“I have your location, you're not home."
“Great observation, what’s it gotta do with me?”
“I have hers too dumbass. What're you even doing over there?”
“I went to get my stuff. Big deal”
A pause settled itself between them, and then a sharp inhale on Nanami’s end.
“She’s mad at you.”
God, he was so cynical.
“I’m aware.”
“So why bother her? She’s stressed enough as it is and she doesn’t need you begging her for favors.”
He bit the corner of his lip, rubbing the space in between his eyes, his phone in the other.
“So you two were gossiping about me huh? You're my friend to y'know."
Nanami frowned.
”It’s not gossiping if she told me.”
“And it’s not bothering her if she let me in. And trust me—no favors ensued.”
The word “favors” lingered longer than he’d intended, carrying an insinuation he wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge out loud. The nature of their relationship had long been a quiet topic of conversation within their inner circle—whether they had participated in those discussions or had only been aware of them was open to interpretation.
Shoko was loved by those around her, and from personal experience, it was easy to see why. She was rarely overt with her affection, and few people expected her to be—but it manifested quietly ,in ways that depended on who you were. She listened and empathized with Nanami’s exasperated rants, gossiped and laughed with Utahime, defended her on nearly every front—even when she might have been wrong, fueled by an unyielding loyalty—and indulged Satoru in ways he would rather not think about in the moment.
Because of this, they all took their turns siding with Shoko and reprimanding Gojo whenever their… arrangement, situation, or whatever you wanted to call it went south. As it often did. Asking him if he was an idiot, or why he was so selfish often made him wonder if he was really as evil as they made him out to be.
However, these conclusions were quickly laid to rest when he was reminded of all the times Shoko had refused to acknowledge their relationship properly, calling him clingy, and failing to mention any of these things whenever it came to filling in their mutual friends. He wouldn't call her conniving from the perspective of an ex, but from the perspective of her best friend, she was an asshole.
There were times when they latched onto one another, and she would look at him in a way he could only ever imagine one other person before her doing. In those moments, he wondered what she truly thought of him—if she saw him as more than just what he was.
“Satoru?"
Shoko's groggy voice echoed through the small hallway in the dark. There was the sound of her feet shuffling on the floor before the click of the light switch. Illuminating only the edges of where he was lying on the floor.
Damnit.
"You’re still up?"
"I have to go."
His voice was barely audible to his own ears. He hoped he was close enough to the cell's microphone for Nanami to hear him on the other line. He didn't wait for confirmation before he ended the call, hoping that the circumstances were reason enough for Nanami to come to his own conclusions.
Shoko rounded the corner of the couch. Freezing when she took in the empty cushions. The shadows of her face could be fooling him...but she looked disappointed. She turned back towards her room. Satoru shifted on the floor. The sound of the blanket shuffling caught her attention. Her head darted down in the direction where he laid. Watching her. Well, watching her silhouette.
"Satoru?" Her foot hit the side of his head.
“Ah—fuck,” he hissed, rubbing the spot.
“What are you doing on the floor?”
“The couch was too small.”
“Yeah,” she said flatly. “I know that.”
He cracked one eye open, staring up at her silhouette as she hovered there.
"I mean, you’ve sat on this couch how many times, Satoru?”
She squatted down to his level, elbows resting on her knees.
Only then did he realize the blanket didn’t smell like her as much as he’d first thought. Sure, there was an undercurrent—familiar, faint—but in his half-asleep haze he’d forgotten everything else. Her body wash. Her deodorant. The shampoo she always used. Her perfume. And something else, something that was just her, impossible to bottle or replicate.The blanket didn’t do her justice. He almost felt bad for implying it did.
“So,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded, “you just wanted to see me on the floor.”
She shrugged.
“Was curious how long you could thug it out.”
She ended the thought with a yawn, lifting a hand to cover her mouth a second too late.
“Speaking of which… are you okay?”
He blinked up at her. “Why do you ask?”
She shifted, resting back on her heels. “Only reason I let you stay over was because the rain was starting to pick up. I didn’t like the idea of you driving in that. Didn’t think it’d turn into a storm.”
“Neither did I,” he said quietly.
The rain drummed harder against the windows.
"It wasn't in the forecast." She reached out blindly for him. Her hand settled near the base of his hair. "And I wanted to make sure it wasn't keeping you up. I know how much you hate nasty weather. Suguru did too.”
Silence. Too short to be awkward. Too long to be anything else.
His pride took a blow at the words.
He sniffed, turning his face slightly away. “It’s not like I’m afraid of storms. I’m a grown-ass man.”
She laughed.
“Never said you weren’t ” Shoko replied. “Just said you shouldn’t be driving in it.”
Shoko pulled her hand from his hair. The smile in her voice comforted him. So much so he almost forgot he was on the floor.
“To be fair though, I’d still constitute 21 as a boy.”
“You’ve got exactly a month on me Shoko.”
“I lived in a pre–Satoru Gojo world for a whole month,” she said. “I just like to remind you of it from time to time.”
He huffed out a quiet breath, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“If I’m a boy, that makes you what?”
“I guess it doesn’t really matter what I am,” she answered, simply—almost nonchalantly.
The ease of it made him pause.
To you. It didn’t matter much to you.
That was what she wanted to say—needed to say—and entirely failed to.
Still, he knew it was there.
At the tip of her tongue, behind her teeth, lingering somewhere in her thoughts.
“So you want me to lay with you or what?”
“What?” He sat up too fast, pinching at his leg beneath the blanket where she couldn’t see it, just to make sure he hadn’t dozed off and dreamed this entire thing up.
“Do you want me to lay with you?” she repeated, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she hadn’t spent the last few days avoiding him. “Neither of us is getting any sleep tonight with that storm going
on.”
“And you already bragged about the plethora of space you’ve got down here on the floor,” she added, dragging the last word out for effect.
“You’re desperate to sleep with me, Sho.”
She rolled her eyes and lowered herself beside him before he could even think to pull the blanket back. He settled onto his back again as she tugged at the single pillow; he lifted his head just long enough for her to wedge it between them so they could share.
“You’re the bum on my floor,” she said, “not the other way around.”
She wiggled closer until her side pressed against his. That was the sound of outside erupted and he realized he was shaking.
His ex-girlfriend didn’t comment on it.
Thank God for small mercies—he didn’t think he could handle her pity in that moment.
He hated storms for the same reason he hated waiting rooms and unanswered questions: there was nothing he could do about them. No way to outthink the thunder or talk the rain down from
the sky.
They came when they wanted, loud and unbothered, and all he could do was sit there and let it happen. And the only other person who shared the sentiment, and made it all somewhat more bearable was now gone.
Shoko pushed herself closer against him, her back pressing into his front. She held out a hair tie.
“Tie it back for me,” she asked.
He worked the hair tie through her strands, smoothing it back with familiarity.. She shifted slightly, pressing closer, her head brushing against his shoulder.
Without thinking, he adjusted his position, tilting just enough to let their bodies share more of the space.
She exhaled heavily, an odd combination of mouth wash and cigarettes filling his nose. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to. Shoko being beside him was reason enough to make him shut up.
That of course didn’t last long.
"Shoko?" Her hand came to rest on his arm.
"Yeah?"
"Do you really think I’m selfish?”
She shifted under the blanket and his fingers dipped down to move her bangs past her face.
“Yeah, you are,” she said, resting against him.
“Selfish,” she added after a pause, letting the word settle.
He frowned slightly. “How?”
“You always take what you want,” she said quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “And I… I let you. because it’s easier than fighting you, because I know you don’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“You love, live, do everything recklessly,” she continued, “without thinking of the rest of us—without thinking of me. And it's because you care too much about what you need.”
Her fingers pressed lightly to his arm. “You’re not impossible to love, a lot of people love you very much, you’re just impossible to keep. And I absolve myself from that responsibility. And I think it's because you're scared of something. I’m not really sure what.”
His body went rigid. The ridiculous urge to defend his masculinity bubbled up, to tell her she was wrong about his fear—but he swallowed it. Any defense would have been pointless, and outright dishonest.
Instead, he let her words settle, turning them over in his mind, repeating them silently. It wasn’t the first time someone had said something like that to him. It wasn’t even the first time she had.
So why did it hit him so hard now?
The tightness in his chest from earlier—the weight of Nanami’s phone call—dissolved.
Without considering the consequences of his actions—when had he ever?—Satoru turned to face Shoko. She exhaled as their fronts pressed together. To his surprise, she didn’t push him away. Didn’t complain about his invasion of her space. Instead, she shifted slightly, molding against him more naturally.
With more hesitance this time, his arm draped around her. He didn’t imagine the relieved sigh that escaped her.
She needed this just as much as he did. That much was clear. Which begged the question: why?
Time passed in silence before he finally built up the courage to voice what he couldn’t stop thinking.
“What am I to you?”
Apparently, it was enough time for Shoko to nod off a little. She groaned, ducking her head in a kind of sleepy, ‘shut up’ gesture. Too bad for her—Satoru was fully awake, and he wasn’t letting this go. His finger poked at her side. Slowly, she lifted her head to meet his gaze, sleepiness and annoyance dancing in her eyes.
“What?”
“What am I to you, Sho?”
“What are you talking about—”
“If you absolve yourself of me, of us—whatever that means—and if you don’t care anymore, then what are we doing here?”
She groaned again, pointing a finger at his chest.
“Oi,” he said, grabbing her finger. “Answer my question.”
Shoko furrowed her brows, pulling her finger free but failing to create any real distance between them.
“I’m being a decent friend,” she said.
“And this is what friends do?”
Shoko blinked. Once. Twice. Her nose scrunched up in a way that was almost comical, almost adorable. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “Shut up, Satoru.”
It was a weak defense, and they both knew it. Still, he let her hide her face in his shirt. She grumbled something unintelligible before her soft breathing filled his ears again.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at the minor victory.