Chapter Text
The first time they meet, it’s anticlimactic; at least, at first, it feels that way.
After years of hearing about the Gojo heir, practically since birth— about his greatness and how he was to restore order to the Jujutsu world— Naoya thought there would be more to write home about. The elder Zen’in spoke of him like a God, one they envied and despised in equal measure; an example for Naoya to model himself after with no hopes of ever living up to.
So when he finally shows up to the Zen’in estate, where their parents herd them into a room together in the hopes of them forming some kind of connection that might unite the Gojo and Zen’in for years to come, Naoya is left feeling… disappointed.
Other than his geriatric hair and freakish eyes, Gojo Satoru is wholly uninteresting.
Where Naoya held his head high with all the might of a snotty, entitled brat, Gojo merely stared indifferently as if he was so above it all he couldn’t be bothered with posturing. Hands tucked into the pockets of his casual outfit, he looked no different than the average non-sorcerer walking the streets, a stark contrast to Naoya’s traditional kimono and hakama befitting of his bloodline. He doesn’t flinch nor stir when Naoya looks him up-and-down like he’s trash, and when Naoya scoffs at his indifference, Gojo barely rewards him with a near-imperceptible roll of his eyes before turning his attention to the window slightly ajar on the opposite side of the room.
They sit on zabuton about two meters apart, with nothing but the birdsong of spring drifting between them.
Naoya decides then that he hates him, more than he has ever hated anything else before; barely seven and eight, respectively, and Naoya has marked Gojo as his first true enemy.
And yet, a fascination stirs within him at the same time, one he can’t quite place on the spectrum between disgust and desire, and so Naoya does what he always does to things he doesn’t quite understand. He torments.
Rising from his zabuton, Naoya marches across the room with all the authority a seven year-old boy could possibly muster— a startling amount, given his sense of entitlement— and grabs a fistful off Gojo’s hair, yanking as hard as he possibly can.
”Ow!” Gojo shouts, a satisfying reaction that sends Naoya’s blood singing. Then, Gojo grasps his wrist, digs his nails into the skin with enough stinging force to draw blood, and rips Naoya’s hand from his hair; not without a few tufts of white, cottony strands sticking out from between the fingers of his clenched fist.
“What was that for?!” Gojo demands as he rises from his zabuton, shoving Naoya a few steps away from him.
This time, it’s Naoya’s turn to look indifferent, gazing down at the spiky strands of hair clutched in his grasp as he twists his fist to and fro. He makes sure to let nothing show in his expression, not the revulsion nor intrigue that stirs in his gut.
“Didn’t think it was real,” is the only explanation Naoya offers before discarding Gojo’s torn locks to the floor, wiping his hands against his hakama as if cleaning dirt from his palms, “guess it is.”
When Naoya looks back up, Gojo is seething, face twisted in a mean look that makes those round, glistening blue eyes look less like endless pools of crystalline ocean and more like the crackling chaos of a celestial vacuum. The reaction is blissful for Naoya’s attention-seeking soul, and he can no longer match Gojo’s previous apathy as it stokes a fire within him. Naoya grins, a cruel twist of his lips that lights his eyes up in the same manner a child his age should look when gazing upon a buffet of candy rather than the misfortune of others.
“You mad about it?” Naoya asks, condescending beyond his years, and when Gojo swings at him, Naoya doesn’t even bother dodging it; he knows he could, but the biting punch of the Great One feels like a long-awaited caress as it connects with his cheek. No one ever fights back, and it excites him that Gojo does.
The blow was expected, but both of Gojo’s fists in his hair are less so, making Naoya hiss in pain as he tries to jerk back from the hold. Of course, this only results in Gojo pulling harder, fingers rooting deeper into his scalp before he’s pushing Naoya backwards, toppling them to the floor. Gojo pins Naoya there as a manic look glazes over his features, and in that instant, Naoya realizes it.
They are very much alike.
“How do you like it?” Gojo croons as he leans closer, closer to Naoya’s face, close enough that their noses bump as Naoya struggles beneath him.
Clawing at Gojo’s clothes, his arms, Naoya fails to regain the upperhand; Gojo is bigger than him, a year older than him, and objectively, destined to be the strongest. There is no winning this battle that Naoya started, and they both know it. Yet, Gojo so clearly takes joy in winning an easy match, in watching Naoya struggle, his abnormal features seemingly bulging with glee as Naoya continues to squirm and whimper.
A strange sense of kinship pools in the center of Naoya’s being.
“Get off me!” Naoya shouts, tears stinging at his eyes, running down his temples where the moisture soaks into the pulled-taut strands of his dark hair.
“You started it, Zen’in,” Gojo mutters in an eerily calm voice, laced with all the menacing undertones of a lethal predator.
“What’s the matter?” He sounds sickeningly sincere now, though he does not relent. “Bit off more than you could chew?”
“I said, get off!” Naoya musters all the strength he possibly can and reverses their positions. He has the sneaking suspicion that Gojo merely allowed him to do so, but he doesn’t linger on that fact. Instead, Naoya grabs two fistfuls of Gojo’s baggy hoodie and lifts him a few centimeters off the floor, a cackling laugh bubbling up in Gojo’s throat. Then, he slams Gojo back down, knocking his head against the old cedar floorboards hard enough that his laughter stops abruptly and his hands jolt free from their death grip in Naoya’s hair.
By this point, tears have streamed down Naoya’s cheeks, and so he rights his posture where he’s sat on Gojo’s chest and quickly wipes them away, embarrassed to be crying so pathetically. When he gazes back down at Gojo, he’s grinning again, several strands of black hair clinging to his sweaty, open palms.
“I like you,” Gojo finally says, much to Naoya’s shock. He can’t seem to hide that shock from his face, either, eyes widening as he stares down at Gojo stupidly with his mouth hanging slightly agape.
“Huh?” Naoya mutters ineloquently, angry with himself for the way he feels giddy with Gojo’s admission. Nobody particularly likes Naoya, he knows this because he doesn’t try to make himself likeable; he doesn’t need to, not when he’s got money and authority as a birthright.
“Well, I kinda hate you,” and that sounds more accurate, more like what Naoya was expecting, “but, I kinda like you, too.”
Naoya’s face scrunches up as if he’d just bitten into a whole lemon, confused by Gojo’s contradictory words even if he somewhat understands them; to say what Naoya felt towards Gojo was raw hatred would be a lie, but to say he liked him? That seemed like a strange stretch of the imagination. Though, Naoya couldn’t deny that there was an admiration there, the first level playing field he’d ever stood on.
“That’s stupid,” Naoya scoffs, pulling at Gojo’s hair once more; except this time it’s more playful than harmful, like a boy tugging at a cute girl’s pigtails. Gojo matches the gesture, reaching up to tug just a bit harder than Naoya did before letting his arm fall back against the dark cedarwood floor beneath him.
“Maybe,” Gojo mutters, folding his hands behind his head as an easygoing smile spreads on his face, “but I think you get me.”
And, while at the time neither of them had been quite old enough or wise enough to understand just how deep-rooted and binding that statement was, it rang true all the same. Who, other than the prodigal Zen’in son, could understand the plight of strength? Who, other than the Gojo heir, could understand the loneliness, the disconnect from all others that came with the burden of greatness?
It was this moment that would determine the fate of their budding relationship.
They don’t see each other often, at most twice a month, and sometimes for stretches of months without any contact at all, but it’s enough; enough for them to form a twisted, strange bond that nobody else but them can understand. It’s a constant push-and-pull, both literally and figuratively, as they hurl insults and fists only to end up rolling in laughter together afterwards.
Gojo likes to make Naoya cry, which is the worst of it. Naoya hates crying, hates feeling weak, and yet he always gives in when Gojo gets that real mean streak about him, rubbing Naoya’s face in the dirt or dunking him in the stream until his lungs feel like they’re going to burst. It’s not until they’re a bit older that Naoya figures out that he gives in just to hear Gojo call him pretty before he wipes the tears away and squeezes Naoya in an embrace so fierce it could hardly be considered one.
And Naoya, though he would never admit it, just likes being in Gojo’s presence. The shadow beneath his gleaming light, Naoya clings to their moments together, heart racing and palms sweating with a sense of vitality he can’t grasp without Gojo at his side. It’s the closest Naoya gets to the sun, everything muted and grey when Gojo leaves him to mingle amongst the weak and unworthy fools littering his clan.
Sometimes, Naoya wonders if Gojo feels the same; then he tells himself he doesn’t care, always fighting to tamp out that feeling reminiscent of having been punched in the guts.
The first time things go too far, they’re fourteen and fifteen. Rolling around in the dirt late at night while the Zen’in clan sleeps, Gojo gets Naoya pinned beneath him (per usual) and gets in his face (see previous parenthetical), heat radiating off of him in waves.
They’re in one of the vast gardens on the Zen’in grounds, hidden behind blooming azalea bushes and trellises of wisteria. Cicadas chitter and hum, and a fountain pours tranquility in the distance; Naoya feels anything but.
Gojo is too close, too overbearing and all-encompassing, and Naoya can’t help but freeze up beneath him. They’re both panting, chests heaving and pulses hammering, and Gojo has that look of delirium he gets when he’s having too much fun.
“Nao-chan,” Gojo sing-songs, shuffling above him as his fingers flex around the thin bones of Naoya’s wrists, “what’s wrong? You look scared.”
Like a knee-jerk reaction, Naoya scoffs, knitting his brows together in defiance. It’s not that Gojo isn’t scary— if anything, he gets scarier by the day— but there is a part of Naoya, a part he seldom acknowledges, that knows Gojo would never hurt him, not really.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Gojo,” Naoya bites back, and with the same intensity of a dying star, Gojo’s face falls. It’s almost as if Naoya has struck him harder with his words than he ever has with his fists, just before Gojo gets petulant about it; pouting, leaning closer to brush the tip of his nose just below Naoya’s right eye. When Naoya blinks rapidly at the sensation, he can feel his eyelashes ghost over the bridge of Gojo’s nose.
“Won’t you ever stop calling me that?” Gojo murmurs, sounding uncharacteristically small.
“Stop calling you what? Your name?” And Naoya knows he’s being purposefully obtuse about it, but that’s part of the game; in this way, Naoya has some semblance power.
“Don’t play dumb,” the pout on Gojo’s face is audible in his voice, whiney and pathetic in a way only someone who truly has everything could be. “I have a cute nickname for you.”
“Yeah, and I hate it.” It’s an obvious lie, but he says it anyway.
Gojo giggles, snow-white eyelashes tickling at Naoya’s cheek as he nuzzles himself further into the spot he’s seemingly made himself at home in.
“Liar,” Gojo coos, and then there’s lips on his, silky-soft like magnolia petals and unbearably sweet from all the candy Gojo eats.
Naoya’s eyes split open wide, breath caught in his throat and feeling every bit scared as Gojo accused him of earlier. It’s far from Naoya’s first kiss; he’s pretty and wealthy and tied to a strong family name, so it’s unsurprisingly easy to come by girls desperate for a taste of excellence. But it’s certainly his first kiss with another boy, and by startling association, the first kiss he’s ever really felt something from. He has no idea whether it has to do with it being a boy, or if it’s because it’s Gojo, but something new and confounded explodes inside his chest.
Except he does know. He knows it has everything to do with it being Gojo, being Satoru, and his guts twist up with anxiety as he wonders if Gojo will turn this into another one of his sick jokes. It’s what Naoya would deserve, after all, but he still has the gall to hope for the best when he kisses back, eyes closing and body going blissfully limp for the briefest of moments beneath the physical embodiment of greatness.
Something in Gojo seems to snap then, a pitiful whimper escaping his lips before he’s practically devouring Naoya’s face, forcing his tongue down Naoya’s throat as his hands grip tight enough at thin wrists to nearly cut off the circulation. Naoya squirms, fighting for the sake of it, but Gojo only pins him harder for it, asserting dominance with the brutal effortlessness of being the strongest.
Despite how small it makes him feel, Naoya enjoys it— the same way he enjoys being bullied by Satoru just as much as doing the bullying— and it eats at him from the inside. So he struggles, minutely, if only to feel Satoru force him further into submission, putting Naoya in his place in that way only Satoru can.
It’s not until Satoru bites his lip hard enough to draw blood that Naoya finally bucks him off with enough force to make him budge, sending him tumbling into the dirt alongside the wilting petals of fallen azaleas.
“What was that for?!” Naoya shouts, an echo of the past, as his face burns hot with a blistering mixture of embarrassment and arousal. He wipes at the blood trickling down his chin as he scrambles to his feet, taking a few shaking steps back from where Satoru is still lying in the dirt, peony-pink lips stained red with Naoya’s fresh blood.
In a display that Naoya finds sickeningly arousing, Satoru licks the blood from his lips, smirking knowingly at Naoya’s feigned outrage.
“What do you mean, Nao-chan?” Satoru murmurs with derision, slowly climbing to his feet. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself just a second ago.”
Naoya grits his teeth, calculating how he should respond; he always needs to calculate his words when it comes to Satoru, lest he fall victim to being used against him.
“You’re a sicko,” is all Naoya can muster, spitting his own blood onto the ground at their feet. The insult echoes back at him— like speaking into a mirror— knowing he is every bit the sicko he proclaims Satoru to be.
“That’s rich, coming from you.” Both Satoru’s features and voice have fallen flat, a ghost of the lively boy he’d been just a moment ago. It unnerves Naoya, sending a chill down his spine, and when Satoru takes a step towards him, Naoya forgets to hold his ground and stumbles back into one of the azalea bushes lining the dirt path.
Satoru laughs, but it’s humorless, his eyes piercing Naoya with unspoken accusations that will haunt him deep into the night.
“Shut up,” Naoya spits back, loathing how petulant he sounds even to his own ears. This makes Satoru laugh harder, the punchline seemingly landing, and Naoya’s guts twist up in shame and embarrassment.
“Shut up!” Naoya shouts this time, scrambling out of the bush gracelessly as it snags and pulls on the billowy layers of his clothing. Once he emerges, he shoves Satoru in the chest as hard as he can, and even his defiance seems to make Satoru laugh harder. Naoya boils with rage, and so he shoves him again, tetchy and bratish from his own festering feelings.
“You’re so cute when I get under your skin,” Satoru coos like it’s a compliment, dodging the punch Naoya throws his way with practised ease.
And, damn it, he can feel it; the familiar sting of tears in his eyes, throat clenching tight as emotion swells within him. Naoya tries to swallow it down, but it’s too late, he’s already brimming with unshed tears, and Satoru— a shark smelling blood in the water— has already caught on.
“Aww, Nao-chan, don’t cry.” They both know he doesn’t mean it, not when it’s no secret that Satoru revels in withering Naoya to nothing more than a pathetic little crybaby.
“I’m not crying!” But Naoya’s voice cracks, splinters at the edges, and then he’s sobbing like the opening of a floodgate, shoulders trembling as he wipes fretfully at his stained cheeks with the sleeves of his kimono.
Naoya knows what comes next, and he hates himself for craving it like the hapless whelp that he is.
Satoru crowds in on him, enveloping him in an embrace that tucks Naoya into his chest as he hushes him the way a mother might hush their wailing child. Unable to help himself, Naoya curls into the very source of his inconsolable sniveling, both comforted and belittled by the same embrace; he is a product of brutish men and negligent women, scrounging for human connection. Blood and tears mix in a messy stain on the front of Satoru’s shirt, which Naoya clutches at with both hands as he gets locked in an internal struggle of shoving Satoru away and pulling him closer. His inability to decide prevents him from doing either, so Naoya merely clings, helplessly pathetic even in this regard.
One hand pets at the back of Naoya’s head while the other strokes his back, and Satoru nuzzles his face into the dark tresses of Naoya’s hair as he whispers to him gently, patronizingly.
“You’re such a crybaby sometimes,” there’s a sweet edge to Satoru’s voice that hints at the smile on his face, and it makes Naoya shudder harder with his sobs, earning himself a feather-light kiss to the crown of his head, “it’s a good thing I like you most when you cry.”
“I hate you,” Naoya manages to warble between his blubbering, “why did you do that to me?”
Satoru chuckles and has the gall to ask, “which part?”
Naoya doesn’t dignify the question with an answer, too ashamed to voice any of it, so he allows Satoru to hold him until he’s quieted down, cheeks ruddy and eyes rubbed raw when he finally shoves away from Satoru’s chest. Seemingly satisfied, Satoru lets go easily, cerulean eyes sparkling with delight as he gazes upon Naoya’s childish glare.
“So?” Satoru inquires, reaching out to press his thumb into the open wound on Naoya’s lip. Naturally, Naoya flinches away, hissing at the sting it leaves behind.
“Wanna do it again?”
Sadly, he does.