Just One Week (7)
Gojo Satoru x Female Reader
also posted on my ao3 account: diluclover300
CHAPTER INDEX:
I H8 U
My Kinda Fun
Balance
{S] Awake
Eggs and Rice
Wait, but I'm broke
Couple's Discount
CHAPTER 7: Couple's Discount
...
Satoru is beyond ecstatic, his vision sticky and gooey at the insane amount of silks and wools carefully hung and displayed. There's a catalog of clothes, an array of expensive clothes. Top-tier luxury brands, ones you'd catch celebrities sporting like a pair of pajamas at the local airport. Ones that he can caress between the delicate friction of his fingers as a warm smile spreads across his face like butter on toast. Oh, how lucky he is.
To reunite with his long-lost friend, whom he spent years tracking down, whom he was able to convince into allowing this moment to blossom into reality. He feels like a kid in a candy store, ogling at each piece of fabric, at each suit jacket and pant. And how tempting the sight is, how it tempts him to envelope himself in pure greed like a creature of sin.
The assortment of colors, the breathtaking pigments, the unique textures of each cloth...
The excitement is so wonderful, so captivating that he doesn't even begin to notice the woman greeting him at the door. He takes off like a rocket ship, roaming around the men's section. A maze that he hasn't ventured in, yet one that feels familiar and natural to navigate through pure instinct.
This must be heaven.
"I think he, uh... I'm so sorry if he causes trouble." You half-groan, head threatening to hang low at Gojo's energetic aura. "Thank you."
The woman nods, a typical response that you'd expect from someone working customer service. You've been in that position before, squeezing out an exhausted smile at something you had no idea how to respond to. Funny enough, your cheeks sting from the muscle memory.
You think to apologize once more, but you refrain, biting your tongue as you dejectedly follow after Gojo. He buries his head in a ring of hung-up clothes, swiping through each shirt like a potential match on Tinder.
"Oh? Do you frequent here often?"
You turn back, confusion overcoming your face.
"No, I've never been, actually." You slowly shake your head, examining the woman for a moment. "Why?"
That low bun of hers wrapped in a red scarf, and that sleek, white uniform doesn't ring a bell. Does she know you?
"Oh, sorry, it's just that your jacket... I couldn't help but notice that it is from our brand."
"Oh," You smile, the interaction as awkward as awkward gets. "That's weird, I never noticed."
You walk away with an understanding nod, fumbling with your lips as you fidget with the black jacket lying in the crook of your arm. Now that you think about it, it does feel like silk, expensive silk at that.
Maybe your memories have faded over the years. It's possible that you snagged this from another one of those annual holiday sales, sort of a bad habit you've accumulated. You always browsed for coats and blazers when no one was around to watch, hunching over that compact cubicle as you frantically refreshed your search engine. Occasionally, when someone would walk past or start conversation, you almost let out a guilty flinch out of fear for getting caught. Almost.
Nonetheless, the suggestion doesn't strike you. There's not a single instance where you, the loyal slave to some measly corporation, could justify the selfish purchase of a fancy coat. A coat was a coat, no matter the price. It would have torn up in that monster of a washing machine you own either. Not to mention the void and guilt that would stem from such an unnecessary purchase.
"Is that my jacket?" Weird. You don't expect it, but you recall the events from this morning. The skeptical look on his rather punchable face.
Your fingers trace over the sewn-in label, mumbling the brand to yourself. Even that leaves a pretentious, bitter taste on your tongue.
Nope, it doesn't ring a bell.
You suppose it's French, and to be honest, you don't have an opinion on the French. There are far more significant matters, at least in your opinion, than some species of European folk. Why would you spend your precious paycheck on such a useless thing?
Everything tells you, everything desperately grasps you by the shoulders and shakes you to your senses. And then you finally uncover the answer as to whether or not you "frequented" such a snobby, stuck-up place.
"I must be remembering things wrong.." Yeah, remembering things wrong, my ass, you think.
He lied. Oh dear, you really tried to give him the benefit of the doubt.
And that certain white-haired culprit is currently nowhere to be seen. Quite frankly, you have no idea where you are either. You've lost yourself in the garden of consumerism, swarmed by the amount of clothes and designer bags laying in front of you. A landfill for the rich, you call it.
But it's peaceful for a bit as it is overwhelming. You're oddly calm when you take in the privilege of Gojo's absence, as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. A heavy one at that.
Five years was, and is too short, much too measly of a distance. If you had it your way, if the Earth rotated to the drumming of your feet, then you would have never known the words "Gojo Satoru". His face would have been an imaginative blur, those eyes nothing but a mere gaze, and those memories would become one of the infinite "what-ifs" of this universe.
And if you ran into him on a fateful spring day?
You would have abandoned destiny a long time ago, parted ways like ex-lovers. The occurrence would leave you as you were.
Still, steady, and normal.
These three values would have stuck with you, through thick and thin. But which one was it? You don't know what to call this incident. Was this the thick? Or was this the thin?
You wonder, mull over it for a bit before you're chained back into the prison of his presence. It's a game of push and pull.
This punishment of a game.
"Yo! Over here, Y/N." You look up from the leather jacket folded on the display shelf below you, eyes hooked onto that raised hand of his.
You seem to be on the receiving end, on both sides of that hellish spectrum.
"Okay." You make your way over to "here", that sigh of yours halted. You have something to ask him anyways, something about that jacket of his.
His hand is still held up high in the air while the rest of his body entangled in a rack of clothes. Stupid is as stupid does.
His and Hers, You regrettably read and fully understand the sign hanging overhead from the ceiling, along with the bolded words: NEW Spring Collection.
"Did you find something?" You only ask as a precaution, monitoring his spending habits. An awful habit that solely relied on you and you only for support.
That hand of his flails around before sinking down into the sea of clothes before him.
"You're here?" His hands scour and fish into the abyss, voice muffled into the ridiculous amount of suits and dresses stuffed in his face. "I'm surprised-"
A groan follows, the sound of plastic material ringing against his skull. A sound that you would have ignored because it seamlessly blended into the rapid snare of the radio-pop tune playing on the store's speakers. You could have paid it zero mind if not for the sheer amount of second-hand embarrassment that ensued from your witness of the scene.
"Careful there," You sneer, watching as his back contorts like a gymnast. "The higher-ups wouldn't want you to come back a complete moron."
Satoru chuckles, scrambling once more before putting an end to his short-lived visit to Narnia.
"I'm thankful for the concern." There's an array of clothes folded over his arm, and oh, does the sight worry. "Please continue to take great care of me, Y/N."
You give him a strange look, your lips curling in disgust. By no means were you concerned about him, worried about this bafoon of a man.
"You're dumb." It's a conclusion you should have come to earlier, really.
"Remind me," Satoru's gaze trails off into the air before landing on you. "Who was the one that lost to me last night?"
You're stumped, mouth opening before it shuts again. That unlucky "who" was you, the loser.
Gojo takes your defeat as an opening, a chance.
"Wanna try this on?" A dress is shoved into your face, along with that cheeky smile of his that peeks behind the cloth.
Your attention darts from Gojo to the pink, girlish dress.
The long-sleeves are puffed just by the slightest bit, and the material a bit translucent until you notice that there (thankfully) is a white cloth underneath to keep yourself covered. Your eyesight was just playing tricks on you. Okay, a bit of decency, you appreciate it. However, you think the skirt is just a little too short, but the sweetheart neckline does look kind of gorgeous, you'll admit.
"Whaddya think?" He reveals more of that hidden smile of his behind the blinding cloth, along with his now enlarged starry eyes. You don't take that as a good sign, it's more of warning. "Hm?"
Emotionally, you don't exactly feel inclined to wear it, nor does the idea entice you. Logically, you can't and don't want to afford a dress you could easily get for way cheaper on the internet. Besides, you'd rather focus on controlling the inevitable loss of your sweet, hard-earned cash if possible. And with the sleek look of the fabric, along with the carefully stitched in details - the item is nothing but a pure fantasy.
You intend to keep it that way.
"No-"
Again.
Again, again, and again! Satoru groans out of pure annoyance. You're using that word again. That boring word, the word which cages him in like a helpless bird, the word which is so draining, so terribly cruel, absolutely inhumane.
No.
How he resents the very existence, the very creation of that word. That word which rolls of your tongue without an ounce of hesitation.
"No?" Satoru interrupts, raising a brow before yanking off his glasses.
"Um.."
When you look into those eyes laced with the pure malice of the devil, your flesh tenses. Your muscles contract, a reaction not one of muscle memory, but one of cold-blooded fear.
"I, um..." Think, think, think! You can't seem to put two and two together no matter how much your brain tells you to.
When his eyes release a frosty residue into the air, when you watch the air melt against him, you lose your resolve. Stripped of it, left with the stubbornness lying underneath.
Telling Gojo Satoru "yes" - you'd rather lie cold in your grave.
"Is it still a no?"
No doubt about it, Satoru notices. Your stubbornness surprisingly (as if he hasn't calculated this reaction) clashes with his want.
Without a single word, you begrudgingly snatch the dress out of his loose grasp, eyes searching around for the dressing room as you turn on your heel, slumping with each step like a deflated skydancer.
"To your left." Satoru directs, burying the self-conceited excitement down his throat. "You're welcome."
Patience is a virtue, he repeats to himself, over and over as you disappear behind the racks of clothes in front of him.
...
You don't want to.
Oh, you really can't stand the look of it because the feeling this dress evokes in you is criminal. The definition of bi-polar, heck, even multi-polar as the fabric drapes around you.
A part of you, the mature side of you, loathes the sight. You feel girlish, frail, and overly-feminine, like a total joke of a woman. You gaze upon the mirror and shy from it, covering your eyes before you peek through your fingers out of pure embarrassment.
You were well-into your twenties at this point, a young age, but still... weren't you a little too old for this? You can't help but feel that way. With those bags underneath your eyes you look like a princess fresh out of a zombie apocalypse, not some cute, innocent-looking chick. Maybe you look a little fucked-up, honestly. Completely out of place.
Oh, whatever. You lightly squeeze and pick at the skirt, tracing the pleated lines.
There's another part of you as well, and you suppose it's your immature side. The side that pokes through your doubts like a roses' thorn.
It's pretty. You feel kind of special, like an actual princess or some kind of tacky, knock-off Barbie doll. Fluffing your hair, a pit forms in the bottom-left of your stomach, plague pooling up inside of you.
Envy, desire, selfishness begin to settle in. And to think that you strayed, parted ways with these three "friends" years ago. Only now do they make their grand reappearance.
So this is what it's like to be normal, isn't it? You ask yourself, only to receive no answer. Surely, this is what it's like to have the world at your fingertips, to have all your wants and desires served to you in silver platter, right?
You should be jumping up and down right now, squealing like a damn schoolgirl at the idea that you were living out a childhood fantasy of yours.
"It's nice," You mumble, almost as if you're trying to convince yourself to agree. The words don't stick as well as you hoped.
You're jealous, almost angry you've never got to experience something so trivial, so materialistic. Jujutsu training took up more than half of your youth and those high-school memories you so deeply craved only remained a simple dream. A selfish goal you could never achieve no matter which plan or path you took to get there. The consequences of your choices would always haunt you, and you suppose this is one of those instances when you see the faintest image of a little girl. A little girl with a pair of eyes all too similar, with a nose much like yours, with lips of the same nature.
You want to scream when your chest compresses against itself, eyes stinging and reddening.
How tormenting, you would have never imagined your reflection to be one of a burden as your fingers still against the fabric of that dress, lips rolling over each other as a ship sinks to the very bottom of your stomach's oceans.
You remember. You remember it all too well, those years in elementary school. One question stuck with you in particular.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
To first-grade you, that was a simple, easy question. So you churned out an answer with very little thought.
"I want to be happy! Like... forever?"
Hah. Simple.
You think, no, you thought that such a simple, inoffensive wish would allow your life to show you a bit of grace, a bit of fulfillment. You were wrong, damn it, you were so wrong that you let out a choked, cowardly sniffle. The little you wouldn't even want to see you face, she'd rather die than accept her reality-
"Yoo-hoo. It's been ten minutes, you done yet?"
You flinch at his voice, blinking profusely as you touch up your watering eyes. Being sad was one thing, but you were not going to cry around Gojo Satoru. Never.
"Hello-"
You swing the door open, feeling your eyelashes water before you speak. The sound of your voice is stupid as all can be, but what could you do? You were just crying to yourself like the main character in some cheaply-produced Disney movie.
"Hi." You frown, crossing your arms as you feel the wind blow against your bare legs. You don't even want to look at him right now. Why? He's not scary.
It's a silence so thick that follows, so thick that you can't even take in proper breaths from the air that lies between the two of you.
Gojo Satoru stares, and you hate it. You hate that equally thick stare lying behind those glasses of his, seriously. You want to hide away, crawl into a hole when he hums like that, sucking in his lips as he examines you like a zoo animal. You're going ballistic and all you can do is stand there with your arms crossed as a defense. It's insulting because you're aware of how ridiculous the thing looks on you. Insulting because he makes it so obvious that you look like a little girl playing dress-up.
"What?" You say, tone flat. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Oops. He swallows, guilty as charged when he stiffly rubs his neck. Satoru feels like a perv, the memories of that night flooding into the dam of his mind.
No, you're a friend.
Just a friend.
Only a beloved childhood friend of his, so there's no reason that these troublesome fireworks should be going off, bouncing off the barriers of his skin.
"Like what?" He looks away, hands stuffed in his pocket as he occupies his mind with the displays surrounding him. "I wasn't doing a single thing except looking at the dress."
Your lips tremble, and you feel dumb. Super dumb. Maybe it's those leftover feelings from earlier that begin to explode out of you, little by little. You can't seem to stop it, and it's killing you as your armor cracks.
"Is it that bad?" Your voice cracks, and he begins to panic as if he wasn't a nervous wreck before. "Be honest."
"What? Of course it isn't-"
"Stop lying." You let out, eyes burning up into ashes as they redden like cherries. "I mean it."
"Why would I lie? You- you look pretty." Damn it. He's let the cat out of the bag, fingers covering his lips before he decides to just accept his terrible fate.
No, that wasn't- that wasn't what you wanted to hear. You toy with the flesh in your mouth, the skin of your forehead scrunching and bunching up.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no... You shouldn't be mad at him, he was just looking at the dress, he wasn't judging you, you just made him call you pretty. Wait, you're pretty?
You ignore that, your skin crawls at the compliment. You hate it, you hate him, everything about him.
Your eyes are - Ugh. What are you doing?
"Well, it was just because... because.." You stammer, fiddling with the syllables of your words as the image of that particular black jacket appears in your mind.
"Because?" Satoru questions, taking in a deep breath. He feels strange when your eyes swell up like that, so strange that he can't put it into words even if he tried.
"Are you crying?" He doesn't know if he should ask, and he's especially scared of sounding like a total asshole. What if the tears just poured out when he asked? But, it felt too wrong, so wrong to just watch you fume up like this without adressing the elephant in the room-- the warm beads flooding the crevices of your eyes.
"You lied." You use the knuckles of your fingers to pat at the corners of your eyes, breathing in a shaky breath as you do, chest slowly rising. "Why did you-"
Okay, he could understand you were beyond frustrated, but falsely accusing him of lying. Oh, he couldn't stand it, even if it was you pointing fingers at him. Even if it was his dear, beloved friend.
"When did I-"
"Hello, I just couldn't help but notice that dress on you, ma'am. It looks wonderful."
You turn around, looking like a deer in headlights at the saleswoman who probably watched that whole shit-show with front-row seats. Gojo, on the other hand, takes in a sharp breath, rubbing his cheek before acknowledging the fact that they were in public, fighting in public, like a-
"Oh? Are you two a couple? We actually have a His and Her deal going on until the end of this month. Would you be interested?" It's the same woman he accidentally ignored, the same woman who unknowingly directed you to Gojo's lie. She's back, this time to upsell you on products you really don't need and can't afford. You thought you had formed some kind of alliance, but alas, she was just doing her job. Unfortunately, you were her target.
Now this, this was the reason for his visit in the first place. There was no way he was going to leave without purchasing color-coordinated outfits, the same ones he's been anticipating the release of since the beginning of winter. Usually, he'd be the type to despise such a release, one that didn't serve him any purpose, but because of you, and solely because of you he was...
"Yes. We're interested-"
"No-" You protest, the tears drying up against the dry of your eyes.
"We are interested." He grits his teeth at you, pulling you in closer to his side, saving face with a smile as his arm wraps around your uneven shoulders. "There's a matching suit for this dress, right? I saw it in the catalog."
"I-" You try to refuse, but they've already beat you to it. What was this? Your unlucky day?
You've been having a lot of those recently. And this day is no different when his arm sticks you to him like glue, feeling the outline of his body against your hip. You shudder, skin crawling once more at the mutual warmth. His fingers press against the fabric of your shoulder, giving you a light squeeze and pat. You might as well bark and get on all fours like his dog at this point, that was how you felt. Like Gojo Satoru's pet, always at his service.
The woman gives him an eager nod, "I'll get the sets out for you two. Please give me a moment."
Your eyes shoot up at him, and it's an angry look, no doubt. First, your vision traces his fingers that hold you, then at the knowing smile on his face. He knows you hate it, and he's just going to continue this torture of his until he's satisfied. You didn't even have to go through another cycle of defiance only to cower at his Six Eyes. Like a dog, you've been trained into obedience, without a single treat in your bowl or stomach.
In other words, you're at a loss. Advantage-wise, speech-wise, physically-speaking, emotionally-speaking... all of it.
Even though you eye him with such venom when that neutral expression looks back down at you, those beads still linger. You don't know what to make of your own conflict anymore, having a difficult time as the ground fills your line of vision.
"Hey, why did you tell her that?" You whisper-hiss, as if those words were meant to be kept a hidden secret. "Now she thinks we're a couple..."
There they are, Satoru takes notes of those tides as his arm slips from your shoulders. They're clashing, the gritty sand soaking those waves dry.
"Are you okay?" Did he have the right to ask such a question? To show an ounce of his care? Was he allowed to?
"It was for the discount." Is what comes out instead as he widens the small gap between the both of you. Ironically, this much more appropriate response leaves him questioning his own intentions. "Why? Does it bother you?"
No, it shouldn't bother you. It doesn't.
"You ass..." You mutter, hoping that somehow a miracle occurs. One so miraculous that his memories of your vulnerability erase.
However, such miracles never seem to hit you - they miss by a large shot.
"I hate you."
Or maybe they do as Gojo just nods. At least this once as you break contact with him, a comfortable silence settling in.
"The feeling's mutual, don't worry."
Satoru doesn't want to test the validity his words.
"You lied."
That isn't so far off from the truth.
...
"How is it?"
Your reflection is disappointing. The colors that swallow you are lackluster, they trap you.
"I don't like it." What outfit was this again? You lost track.
"Oh, that's too bad. Does it fit?" Satoru crosses his legs, resting in a fancy, maroon velvet armchair.
"...Yes." You answer, rubbing your arm. You're losing.
"What was that?" He tips his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, I just can't hear you."
As if.
"It fits." You speak up, tone numb as you tell him what he wants to hear.
"Good."
This, unfortunately, has been the norm of your conversations for the past two hours. Gojo would pick out an outfit from the spring catalog, force ask you to try it on, then he'd ask for your optimistic opinions which he held zero regard for whatsoever before buying or trashing it.
"Excuse me," He holds up a hand before pointing at you. You blink at this, dread filling you whole. "She'll take this one as well."
You did not say that, but you must be remembering things wrong.
The saleswoman nods. "Of course, sir."
She moves to pack up a fresh set, but quickly presses onto her own breaks when he opens his mouth to command speak once more. Poor thing, you can't help but feel your own foot ache at the amount of times she's had to deal with this.
"Also, I want all the accessories."
"A-all?" She raises both eyebrows, masking her shock with a boxy smile. "Are you-"
"I'm sure." Satoru nods, finally looking at the woman.
"Yes, sir. I'll get started on that right away." She scurries off with such urgency that you'd think she was held at gunpoint.
Your lips flubber as you exhale, taking in your reflection. Today has weirdly been all about you, in the worst way imaginable. You can't seem to catch a break with the absurd amount of haughty-designer outfits thrown onto you. This one in particular was your least favorite.
A blue shirt, reminiscent of those soul-sucking Six Eyes, short-sleeved with a slight puff in the shoulders, adorned with buttons of a similar shade. Though it is soft to the touch, it's more than unbelievable to you that this costs around three-hundred yen. The white lace skirt draped all the way down your ankles is no cheaper either, but a couple hundred yen was like child's play for the rich. Another regular day, nothing new.
Furthermore, Gojo hasn't tried on a single thing. He just assumes he'll like his side of the outfit based on yours, a total gamble of your money.
"Is there anything else...?" You decide to follow routine, but of course, it doesn't work when you finally accept your fate.
"Nah, you can go change now." He rolls his shoulders back before getting back on his feet, the chair as empty as he found it. "I'll be waiting outside, yeah?"
You carefully nod, studying his sudden change in demeanor as he whistles to himself, that stern expression wiped off the surface of his face. Now that was bipolar.
"Okay." You'd hate to send him into another frenzy of playing dress-up with a doll that was more than unwilling because you would also like to move on from whatever this was.
One piece after another, as if you're being timed, you strip down your clothes only to re-dress yourself in your original (work) clothes. Oh, how you long for that nine-to-five lifestyle, how you miss being stuck in that stiff office chair. Today taught you that being rich and ambitious was not for the weak, that you, the weak, suited the likes of a corporate, forty-hour work week. Not this pretend fantasy, this mere illusion.
Right now, you'd do anything to escape this hell-hole of a place and that demon of man.
"Oh," Your hands reach for your jacket- sorry, his jacket.
"You lied."
You forgot to prove your point, the evident truth that Gojo Satoru was a liar.
...
You can't believe it. Not a single bit.
"For the last time, and I say this with all due respect, but your items have already been paid for, ma'am." The bald man at the counter sighs, holding a receipt before you.
You cautiously scan the very long paper, fingers grabbing it's very end as your eyes widen at the total.
"But... but-"
You profusely rub your eyes, blinking over and over. You might as well go into cardiac arrest at the seven bolded digits, grasping the thin receipt between your shaky fingers.
"Correct," His voice cuts through your multiple stammers. "You didn't pay, your boyfriend did, ma'am."
B-boyfriend? Gojo Satoru? That man?
"He didn't, and he's not my-" You don't even get the chance to make your case clear.
"The signature is at the very bottom."
You stuff your face into the very butt of the paper, eyes flickering between the signature line and the uncanny smiley face drawn on top it. What an eyesore.
How in the world did he pay? You chew onto the flakes of your lips, releasing a deep breath from the very depths of your lungs. You were under the impression that Gojo came here with absolutely nothing but himself. And the flowers. You almost forgot those flowers, and you accidentally remember how ugly and spacious they look sitting on the counter of your kitchen island.
"Ah, I... I see now, sorry." You let out an involuntary laugh, shoving the receipt down your pocket. "I'm sorry for taking up your time, let me just-"
You grunt, looping one bag onto your arm after another, the worker behind the counter blankly staring as you visibly struggle. Jeez. Were you the one working customer service or was he?
"Have- Have a nice rest of your day." Somehow you manage to carry all six bags, three on your left and three on your right as you head towards salvation. Which was better known as the exit of this damn place.
"You too, ma'am."
Thanks, you mouth to yourself.
You have a feeling the rest of your day will be anything but nice.
...
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