ynasomniaur - Tumblr blog

ynasomniaur · 22 days ago

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i was losing my mind — i was listening to so highschool, the alchemy, tsunami, and twilight zone — good god this is so good >< i am: giggling, sobbing, twirling

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.

it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head

tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.

he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.

now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.

and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.

“excuse me.”

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.” you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic ^^

#yna.ircheck #yna’s random posts #yna’s random thoughts <3

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ynasomniaur · 24 days ago

Text

please, xanny | sanzu h.

classification: confidential (dark content)

pairings: bonten! sanzu haruchiyo x PA/fem!reader

genre: psychological drama, romance, trauma fiction, angst, character study

status: ongoing

wc. 9.6k

warnings: 18+ only. Contains mature and triggering themes, explicit language, alcoholism, suicide attempt, drug consumption, mental & physical illnesses, self-harm, moral deterioration, graphic depiction of abuse (emotional, physical, domestic). Proceed with care and precaution.

— .• The circumstances weren't in your favor - but then again, when did it ever side with you? With Sanzu Haruchiyo back in your life — all over the place and crumbling – you wonder for the nth time if your DNA was somehow coded with misfortune for you to bear the crushing weight of this spiraling connection with him; festering, explosive, and marring. Why you even bother is the biggest mystery you're both yet to uncover.

tag/s: slow burn, corporate rot, co-dependence, moral ambiguity, SA attempt, drug use and addiction, graphic violence, abuse (emotional, physical), manipulation, criminal activity, graphic domestic violence, canon divergence, self-harm, suicide attempt, trauma bonding, sanzu haruchiyo is his own warning, he falls first and falls so hard it turns into madness, angst, more angst, hurt/comfort (heavy on hurt), angst ending, dead dove: do not eat

author's note 𓍼ོ We're back with an update — and this one challenged me, deeply. Chapter 02 was originally three separate chapters when I wrote it last 2021, but since all the events took place in the past, I decided to compress it into one. We’ll return to the present timeline in next chapter.

This was incredibly triggering (and scary) to write but it helped me sit with the discomfort of how traumatic events shape someone’s perceptions, memory, and nervous system. I've updated the genre and the warning tags accordingly as well —please, take them seriously. Proceed with caution and do not romanticize them. If this chapter is too heavy for you, feel free to skip it and proceed to Fragment 03 instead.

One line in this story echoes a phrase I read years ago in a fic called “Flighty”. That single line stuck with me — it haunted me in the best way possible, and quietly stayed with me. This story is entirely my own, but I wanted to leave a small, grateful nod to that line/word.

── .✦ please, xanny masterlist ⟡ fragment 01 (prev) ⟡ playlist

There’s a failsafe in every human, right? There has to be something built-in — primal, instinctive. There should be. It would activate in the times you need it the most, for preservation. For safety purposes.

There’s a failsafe in every human and it wouldn’t just malfunction. At least that’s what you’re choosing to believe. Who else would you count on if this system fails? The thought of it was damning. It can’t fail. It just can’t. It shouldn’t.

A loud finger snap clicked in front of you, loud enough to temporarily pull you out of your suffocating musings.

“Are you listening?” Yuzuha asked, uncharacteristically serious. She was leaning on her propped-up elbow, lazily munching on her chip while watching you with perceptive, tired eyes.

You sighed. Lately, breathing became an afterthought — no longer somatic, no longer natural.

“Sorry. Just thinking about something,” you tried to pick up your utensils to resume eating the lunch you prepared earlier, but it felt too much of an effort you can’t exert. Eventually, you just closed it and looked up to meet Yuzuha’s confused eyes.

“So, what were you saying?”

She hesitated at first — her brows knitted, and her eyes squinted, as if she’s trying to make sense of your behavior — “I was just asking if you finished our calc homework, and if you know that guy over there,” she nodded at the direction she was pointing to.

Behind you, just a few tables away, you saw a somewhat familiar figure queueing in line for lunch: bleach-blonde shoulder length hair, pale blue zircon eyes. He wore a mask that covered the lower half of his face. Aloof, seemingly avoidant.

“What about him?” You turned to Yuzuha who’s staring at him curiously. You snorted, that’s the face you know she makes when she’s about to either instigate something or tell you some random bullshit no one would give a damn at all.

“Do you know him?”

“Not really. He’s in another class with Baji… I think. People call him Sanzu.”

She zeroed on you. “So you know him.”

“Knowing his name isn’t the same as knowing who he is.” You shrugged and tucked your lunchbox inside your bag and stretched your arms up.

The cafeteria bustled with students — some frantic, some resigned, most just laid back and eating with their own friends — the mundanity of this place calmed something within you. An emotion you couldn’t quite catch or name, but has always been there; gnawing, eating away your consciousness. It’s an image of distance. Being here with muffled chatters, inaudible gossips —

“I heard he’s in a gang,” Yuzuha prompted. Speaking of gossip, you stared at her, who has her chin on her propped-up arms, observing Sanzu with an evaluating eyes.

She still hasn’t dropped that topic.

You raised your eyebrow at her, teasingly you asked, “Why are you so keen on knowing him?”

Yuzuha looked at you and scoffed. “I just think he’s interesting. People say the reason why he wears a mask is because of the scars on both sides of his lips,” she shrugged and wiped the crisp crumbs on her side off the table nonchalantly.

You glanced back behind you again. No thoughts, just observing, what a reasoning, you briefly thought. When your gaze found his silhouette, he doesn’t even evoke anything. Not at all, as if he was just there.

Maybe a bit.

Okay maybe what Yuzuha said made him just a bit interesting. Quite charmingly mysterious if you squint your eyes or strain them enough with much effort — something you’re definitely not gonna do … or doing — doesn’t matter — he moved through the crowd quietly, not making any eye contact, maintaining a careful distance with everyone. He’s… evasive. And it shows. You can’t even recall if you two interacted in the past other than those distant borrow-and-return shenanigans your sections did during calc — lots of them forgot their own calculators — and during cleaning hours. Other than that? Zero. None.

Ah yes. The effect of rumors; you blaze people up so the smoke looks interesting to talk about.

“Staring already?” Yuzuha cheekily grinned at you as she snacked another chip.

── .✦

The heavy stupor of the classroom flattened every ounce of your weary muscles. Terminologies and definitions flew over your head like a throwaway, a badly aimed free throw landing outside the line. The faint scratching sounds of pen and paper hummed the first melody of the sluggish ambiance, the pages being turned, confused “ha?” from your classmates — it was all as if the environment was begging you to just fall asleep.

You tried noting it all down with great effort, how glucose is converted into ATP — adenosine tripho… tripho… what? Okay cross that. Maybe you can follow what comes next.

Cellular respiration has three steps: glycolysis, krabs, no, krebs cycle, and ETC, which means electron transport chain. It matters because cells need ATP to function — whatever the hell ATP was — for healing, muscle movement, and brain activity.

See? It’s easy. You can easily waddle away from your sleepiness. It’s that easy until your teacher dropped the balanced chemical equation of cellular respiration.

Respiration…you can’t even breathe.

For some great miracle bestowed upon the classroom, you managed not to fall asleep — all while contracting every muscle you have to stay awake — you could barely recall anything. You mentally noted to just review the lesson once the exam week looms over your shoulder by the end of this month.

As thankful as you are that the boring and mentally taxing biology class finally ended, a deep-rooted fear struck your body.

Going home shouldn’t feel this… dreadful, right? It’s not supposed to make you tense up and purposefully slow down your steps tracing the path towards your home and hoping it ends up somewhere else… right?

Going home shouldn’t feel like your throat’s closing in on you. But still, it does.

Maybe it’s just the hunger dawning in your system. You haven’t finished your lunch after all. Or maybe it’s the sleepiness seeping in on your consciousness. Maybe. God you hope it is what it is because of the reasons you listed, and nothing else.

── .✦

What a fucking sight.

You should be used to this — after all this is your home. House.

Home.

The living room was a mess — crushed beer bottles, the evident sticky surface of the coffee table from spilled beer with crisp crumbs stuck on it like a spore, dirty clothes scattered on the floor; candy wrappers and greasy food containers were abandoned neglectfully on the already-stained sofa; everything reeked of smoke and ash, of mold and bitter rubber from the lingering smell of cheap whiskey. Lonesome and suffocating to your very being.

But hey, at least it’s quiet. You shrugged your bag off your shoulder and started picking up the mess as you called out to your mother.

No response.

Just a thick air of palpable silence.

Your body stiffened, and as if on cue — like your whole system was just waiting for a flimsy excuse to spiral — your mind went to the worst case scenarios, no — calm down. You shut your eyes tightly, wishing that the dread would leave your body. There’s no need to spiral. Maybe she’s just asleep.

“Ma?” A little louder this time. You dropped the trashbag you were holding, clenched your jaw to steady your panic-stricken body, strained your ears to hear better, anything at all, but your heart that was aggressively thumping against your ribcage was so loud you could barely hear anything else other than that — the air clogged in your throat.

A faint cough. In the kitchen.

You sighed shakily. You didn’t even notice the breath you were holding and that your body’s feeble quivering.

Another sigh; a breathing reminder rather than it being automatic. You picked the trashbag and collected the other garbage and headed to the kitchen — which was also a fucking disaster — and tried to help your mother that was struggling to scrub the sink and other piles of dirty plates and dishes. You swallowed the lump budding on your chest.

Your mother hadn’t looked up to you at all, until you gently took the crumbling and spent sponge away from her hand. Her troubled and clouded gaze softened as she realized you were already home. “I didn’t hear you come in, sweetheart,” she thanked you softly as you replaced her spot near the sink to continue the overloaded chore.

“Have you eaten?” you asked, worried that she might be overworking herself again.

“Yes, a bit before your father’s friends arrived here,” she smiled weakly, the creases on her eyes crinkled with her age and exhaustion. She wiped her hands on the hanging rag near the fridge.

You knew your mother by observing her passively; she never really told you anything about her and her gradual illness. Never was the one to communicate her needs nor wants, but she never failed to show you how much she cared for you.

The neatly ironed uniforms that hung on your wardrobe before your school. The lunchboxes she used to make for you, those with little and jagged carrot flowers she tried to perfect — it was adorable despite the crooked petal shapes. Organized and folded laundry that smelled faintly of lavender. The soft lullabies during the salt and grain of thunderstorms.

It wasn’t an outright declaration of love, but you grew to understand that maybe that was the only way she knew to show it.

By hiding the crumpled medical results beneath their bed.

Of course it was difficult to understand what any of it meant — the paper spoke in a language of numbers and jargon: eGFR, serum creatinine, labels with mg/dL; none of it made sense but the flags do. “Critical”. Elevated”. You didn’t need anything else to figure out it was bad, especially if the diagnosis was written in bold: Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD), Stage 5, End Stage Renal Disease (ESRD).

It was haunting.

Maybe she was trying to shield you from the pain of the truth. The loss.

The upcoming loss.

But it's not like she can shield you from any more pain that came alongside living under this house anymore. Of the booming voices every night, the heavy impact of blows on the skin, the thudding footsteps — you wished she’d reach out, argue better, so that maybe it’ll stop when the point gets across. Argue harder so maybe then, he’ll finally stop and listen.

Or better yet, just leave this house with you, and on your part, you wish you could speak more, do more, communicate better even if the only way you know was through shouting and gritting your teeth.

The cold water hit your skin with a jolt; the plastic plates were greasy and there wasn’t enough soap to work with.

“There’s still food left,” she started, voice soft and inviting. She was now sitting down near the dining table, watching you with tired and careful eyes. Despite the wan light of the bulb — you could still clearly see her sunken features: pale and dry skin, hollowed cheekbones, unfocused gaze, deep shadows beneath her eyes, thinning hair and swollen feet.

It was like watching her slowly fade away.

“Your father will be out until tomorrow, so why don’t you stay and have dinner with me. You don’t have work tonight, right?” she continued, her voice was warm. Too comforting — it lingered around the silence of this damp and dull kitchen.

You turned off the faucet once you were done rinsing the dishes and looked at her. “No, it's my day off.” You shook your head and smiled as you dried your hands on the rag near the fridge and walked towards her.

You were never raised in a vocal and communicative household where emotions were openly talked about. You knew she could feel the weight of everything you were holding back. The questions. The details of when and how. The harrowing question of why do you even stay. You knew — deep down — that she knows.

It’s not like you can keep a terminal illness away from someone you live with under the same roof.

She smiled at you; her smile never reached her eyes. Never once in your waking life could you remember her smiling with her eyes at all. “Great. I’ll reheat the food I cooked earlier. It’s your favorite, tonkatsu.”

She stood up and began busying herself around the kitchen. You could clearly see the strained effort in her movements; subtle staggering steps that she tried to hide. “Tell me about your day, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip. You wanted to ask her instead. Ask her how long she had been skipping her dialysis sessions, how long was she going to pretend everything’s just fine and okay, if she was even drinking her medicines —

“Biology’s fine,” you replied curtly that made you mentally curse yourself. That wasn’t even what you wanted to say — not even remotely close at all — but the words often disintegrate on the base of your throat before you could even spell them out.

Your body often betrays you.

“My classes are difficult but interesting," you added.

Fuck. See?

Another lie. You knew you had to stop but sometimes the lies that come out of your mouth are so much better to hear than the silence that often fills the gap between the two of you. The gap that was too harrowing to address or acknowledge. You stared at her with a heavy heart, unable to do anything else, but watch her and maybe try to help her with the chores.

“That’s great, have you considered what you want to pursue in college?” She asked, briefly glancing at you as she stirred the miso soup on the stove.

It was so natural that it broke your heart into more pieces. You could be an actress, you thought, because you’re both so good at pretending this playhouse is okay. You didn’t know what to feel.

“Not yet, but I think —“ your phone rang loudly in the living room.

Sometimes, you thought, timing matters. It matters because just when you’re trying to connect, mend, and share a moment of peace and silence with your mother; a moment of courage you’re trying to muster for clarification, something comes up.

Like work.

Like how your manager asked you to cover your co-worker’s shift since something came up on their end; an emergency.

Like how you promptly kissed your mother’s forehead goodbye — her warmth wavering, clammy and faintly shaking figure — and took off.

For some reason, running away has always been so easy.

── .✦

“Thank you, come again.” You’ve been doing this for hours now; greet, swipe, punch, take payment — repeat. In the dead of the night, it was always either of the two: your mouth dries up from the sparsity of customers or from saying the same lines over and over; greetings and pleasantries were learned habits, not feelings.

Phatic communication.

Where everything you say feels shallow and performative. Rehearsed. Done for the sake of sustaining a contact. To maintain a learned routine — at least that’s what you remember on that random informative reel you saw the other day while killing time on your shift.

Turns out, you were great at communication. Who would’ve guessed?

The quiet whir of the air conditioner, the calm drip of the leaking pipe just beside it, and the low buzz of the fluorescent lights — it was too bright, almost disorienting — gave you a space to just be.

To exist outside academics and the burden of your household — to just float away, aimless.

2:30 am. At this point these are just numbers. Checking the time doesn’t do much for you in this draining job.

“I’m really sorry for the trouble. Please, take this,” your co-worker handed you a paper bag full of snacks. He looked flushed, his bangs damp with sweat, chest rising and falling a little faster than usual. You gave him a faint smile — a muscle memory — and muttered thanks before you said goodbye.

After a few minutes, you were finally out of your uniform — the sleeves were a bit too itchy sometimes — and walked toward the deserted parking area without much thought. Just the idea of plopping down to your bed after a long day and shift was all you could think about.

Screw the homeworks for now. You‘d still have time before Biology later. Maybe you’d just copy off Yuzuha’s work and tweak some of it. You nodded to yourself proudly, like that was some solid plan. But as you reached your bike parked at the far corner of the parking lot, another disappointment crawled up on your chest.

Your bike’s tire was flat.

Good-fucking-god.

“Are you kidding me?” you exhaled sharply through your nose with teeth gritted in frustration.

You lost count how many times you sighed today — not that it mattered — but everything just felt like it was testing the crumbs of patience you had left in you.

It took you at least a minute — maybe two — to compose yourself. The urge to lash out, cry, kick the damn bike until it breaks for having a flat-fucking-tire pulsed aggressively throughout your body — the unadulterated frustration thumped against your ribcage and limbs.

You wanted nothing more than to just scream and curse everything. You were frustrated, but where, or better yet, at who, exactly? On your bike? Your boss and co-worker who could easily rope you into shouldering their shifts? Your mother? Father? Or ultimately, yourself? Fuck.

There was no point spiraling.

Eventually, you just walked home with profanities mumbled every now and then. You tried to look inside the store, and of course, there were no floor pumps nor any inflators inside. How useless, you thought.

Could this day get any more worse?

The walk home usually takes about 15 to 20 minutes, and exactly 10 minutes if you rode your bike.

Bike.

You groaned every time you’d remember your bike with a flat tire; you could’ve been home already, shoes kicked off on the other side of your room and already asleep — to hell with changing your clothes. You wanted to sleep.

The wintry breeze was scathingly sharp on your skin. It didn’t even matter no matter how thick your jacket was or how tightly you hugged yourself — you still shivered from beneath the layers of your clothing; the coldness permeated through it. Your teeth chattered as your body quivered and the smoke you exhaled was thick enough to briefly fog your sight.

It was too quiet. Too empty. Just flickering street lights and a few, distantly muffled barks of some dogs. The crunch of gravel and dirt on every step you took felt magnified and overly loud in the silence of the night.

There were only a few stars, and even the half moon glowed faintly against the pitch-black skies.

Just as you turned to a corner that leads to an alleyway, you heard men laughing in the distance.

Your mouth felt dry.

It’s okay. You’re fine. They’re just there, and all you had to do was mind your business and walk past them.

Simple as that.

Was it?

You swallowed your parchedness and it scraped your throat like sandpaper on a blackboard. The synthetic material of your leather bag squeaked faintly as you gripped it tighter.

There were two men near the grimy green dumpster — beer bottles and cans were toppled around their feet. One of them was squatting on the floor, a cigarette nestled between his fingers, while the other one was leaning recklessly on the sludgy pipe, a beer bottle in his hand. His posture was slouched and smug.

They were talking about something. Something you really don’t give a damn about. Or maybe you just can’t make sense of what they were saying, too inaudible and incoherent to process when their lingering and suffocating gaze instantly fell on you.

An eerie silence hung heavy in this dim back alley.

Your footsteps crunched the gravel beneath you, each step on the wet pavement with deep potholes and puddles felt magnified; each movement felt raw and overly loud. You knew this alleyway like the back of your hand but right now, it felt unfamiliar. Too spacious. Too winding. Too suffocating. Your house felt like a city away.

A sharp whistle sliced through the air.

“Hey lady,” one of them drawled.

Don’t look back.

Don’t stagger.

Don’t panic.

But you already were when you heard another set of hurried footsteps other than yours.

You picked your pace and started to half-run when one of them abruptly yanked your arm backwards, vice grip as they turned you to face them, holding you in place. You could feel your heart convulsing against your ribcage, clawing its way up to your throat.

“You from around here?” one of the two asked as he took a drag of his cigarette. He blew the smoke to your face — the smell of intoxication and smoke was too familiar to your system. He threw the spent stub on the ground before he zeroed on you.

The other one was still holding you in place, his grasp steady and firm. Unflinching compared to your shivering and fidgeting body; he shamelessly raked over your figure before he leaned closer to you, “what brings a girl like you strutting around like that way past midnight?”

You clenched your jaw. Everything felt hazy and nauseating; your body felt rigid and your breath kept getting lodged at your throat. Your stomach churned and your skin burned with the urge to run beneath the cold layers of your jacket.

The stench of their fermented sweat, laced with liquor and stale smoke violated your nostrils. Vile and prickling — you wanted to puke.

“How about you drink with us. You look old enough. Go on.” The invitation didn’t make room for an argument and you knew better than to push. It was a demand, not a request. You dared not to test what would happen if you rejected the offer.

With your jaw clenched so tight it felt like your teeth were about to shatter, you took the bottle. The other man loosened his grip and shamelessly ogled as you brought the bottle closer to your mouth.

God the fucking smell made you dizzy.

But there it goes.

The internal snapping of your veins..

You didn’t think much when you crashed the bottle on the head of the man in front of you. It was somatic, like a program your limbs were itching to do from the get go.

You tried so hard not to pay much attention to the heightened sensation of splattered beer that was sticky and freezing on your skin, or how sickeningly heavy the impact was when it cracked on his forehead, disgustingly loud that it made you wince.

It didn’t matter.

You didn’t bother to look back when you tried to bolt away as far as possible from them, how harrowing their voices were as they called out to you. You tried so hard not to pay that much attention to how your soles chafed beneath your feet, calloused and bleeding from running. Or how desperation and unadulterated fear scraped your ribcage raw, your lungs contracting for air.

It didn’t fucking matter.

You tried to scream for help as you ran but before you could even blink a sound, you were dragged backwards on your arm with such force you felt your muscle bruise beneath. Grimy hands clamped down on your mouth with such pressure, “You fucking bitch, let’s see you fight back now,” he gritted through his stained teeth before he manhandled and threw you on the ground, exactly landing on the deep puddle with a loud splash.

Nothing mattered.

Not when you felt the clammy hands gripping you from behind your nape that tried to pin you down, how his nails dug on your skin, or how the belt being unbuckled echoed utterly damning in this damp alleyway.

Nothing fucking mattered.

If only your bike didn’t have a flat tire. Or if the store had a floor pump, or maybe if you, yourself had a floor pump, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. You made a mental note to buy a floor pump next time; that is if there’s still next time. Maybe if your boss didn’t ask you to cover a shift, maybe if you just said no, if you just stayed home, none of this would’ve happened, — none of their sweaty hands would’ve roamed down your layered clothes.

With closed eyes, you laid down on the cold-hard pavement, waiting for the worst to happen, to be finished, and part of you begged to disappear after it. You squinted briefly and stared at the overhead lights, too orange, too bright. It buzzed with electricity.

The grip on your shoulder and nape was gone.

“Can you stand?”

That was new. What is it this time?

You tried to sit up with great effort, your muscles and bones doubling down on your body, the high of the adrenaline dissipating slowly leaving you hollow and… lifeless.

He repeated his question quietly. His voice was muffled beneath his mask. “Can you stand?”

He was crouched in front of you, eye level. He was wearing an all black outfit: jacket, shirt, jeans, and mask; only his hair contrasted his clothes. Striking bleach-blonde neatly tied up in a ponytail.

You were well aware of how long you were staring but it’s not like you cared anymore. It doesn’t seem like he does too, based on how he could easily hold your hollowed gaze. You tore away from it and looked at the passed out bodies around you.

When you glanced back on his pale blue eyes, you didn’t know what to make of it. What to make of him.

What to make of this day.

── .✦

There’s indeed a fail-safe in each human. Something built-in — primal, instinctive. It just so happens that yours is finding solace in the raw tenderness of your skin being ripped apart near your thumb as you continue to scratch on it, while burning holes on the ceiling of your decaying bedroom.

It’s been days…? Since what happened that night. You skipped classes and made up a bunch of excuses not just to your classroom teacher, not just to Yuzuha — who never stopped texting you every morning and afternoon telling you what lessons and projects you missed — but to your mother as well.

That was the hardest part, lying to her without piling up the hurt that she was already shouldering — which was impossible — even though at this point it was already a muscle memory to swallow down the bitter aftertaste of each lie you tell her.

You knew that she knew.

But none of you were just brave enough to hear it out loud.

You could barely recall anything that came after that night — not even how you managed to come home.

Ah.

Yes.

Sanzu.

You don’t know how long you two were sitting down on that damp and subdued alleyway, nor what time you arrived home. You don’t recall much except how he walked with you without saying a word despite not taking the hand he offered to you to stand up. He didn’t speak. He never asked you anything.

Just silence.

Despite the hollowness and haziness of that night, he still placed the jacket on you quietly even if it didn’t do anything — the coldness was already imprinted on your tendons and no amount of clothing could ever warm it all up.

No matter how hard you scrubbed your skin, how scalding the water felt on your body, how much soap and fabric conditioner you drowned the clothes you wore that night — it can’t seem to wash away your regrets and the stench that lingered uninvitedly on your nose.

Eating became an arduous challenge. Not only because you had no appetite, but because everything felt nauseating to consume. Even your favorite food that your mother cooked for you paled in comparison to the repulsion nestled on the base of your throat threatening to spill out every time you would try to eat something.

4:53 AM - Tuesday

You were sitting down — hugging your knees folded closely to your chest — lightly rocking back and forth on your bed.

Oh, by the way, did I mention that sleep became impossible after that night? It already proved to be grueling to fall asleep when all you could hear in this household was the endless nagging and shouting from your father, and the sound of the heavy blows that haunted your dreams whenever you’d fall asleep — but now?

It was just plain torture.

Of course you tried to take the melatonin supplement you kept on your bedside table, and you may or may not have taken more than three at once, with the utter desperation to just have one good sleep but only to end up waking up, thrashing and quivering; drenched with sweat.

Hence this.

You clenched your jaw as you kept rocking back and forth on your bed. Time collapsed into random numbers you could no longer keep track of.

Your boss blew up the notifications on your phone — some messages said you were fired written in all caps and the next ones were a bunch of missed calls followed by a text, “pls go 2 work.,”

It made you want to throw your phone across your room but you just couldn’t — too much effort of lifting your limbs was needed. Plus, Yuzuha sent you the materials and reviewers for your upcoming exam this Tuesday.

You were grateful but you also couldn’t bring to tell her that through chat. When you swiped your phone open to scroll through the images and files she sent, you noticed the date on the top left of your phone.

Today was Tuesday.

Exam day.

Well fuck.

You didn’t even study. For the love of god, you could barely remember anything. Not even the time and date — and now you’re supposed to cram a cluster of terminologies in different subjects in your already fried brain — shut up.

Screw it.

── .✦

You probably should’ve stayed home, dragged more lines on your thighs and watched the rivets of blood pile up on it.

Maybe you should’ve studied harder, read the notes Yuzuha sent you — because the whatever the fuck was written on a piece of paper in front of you right now did not even register as a regular language anymore.

“Which of the following is the correct balanced equation for cellular respiration?”

A. CO₂ + H₂O → C₆H₁₂O₆ + O₂

B. C₆H₁₂O₆ → Lactic Acid + Alcohol

C. O₂ + ATP → CO₂ + H₂O + Sugar

D. C₆H₁₂O₆ + O₂ → CO₂ + H₂O + ATP

Too many Os.

Letter E. as in you need to exit this damn classroom and just disappear. Wait there’s no letter E. Damn. Maybe letter D. as in you wanna die. You shut your eyes tightly.

Can you even hear yourself?

Everything felt too overwhelming — the pen scratches, the hushed murmurs and the clacking heels of your teacher made you want to slam your head on the table till it cracked open. Maybe it could solve all your problems, open a new knowledge that could make you miraculously pass all your exams.

“You look…” Yuzuha started, her face contorted into something you could only make out as shock and concern.

You scoffed.

“I think I could say the same thing.” You glanced at her busted lip, the faint and fading bruise on her cheeks and the horrid black eye.

She shrugged.

“Some shithole we live in.”

Despite her casual tone, you can’t help but feel bad for how absent you were for her. You were too latched and hollowed out that you didn’t think fear could even bubble up on your chest anymore. You watched her walk with confidence and stoicism towards the table you two often shared during lunch. During breaktimes.

You were afraid to lose her. As a friend. As someone who made your everyday life a little less exhausting.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice came out barely a whisper, immediately drowned out by the rampage of footsteps and laughter in the cafeteria hall.

You didn’t even know what exactly you were sorry for. For ghosting and becoming MIA on her? For not replying? For not asking how she had been doing? Or maybe, for disappearing right when she probably needed you the most, too?

She didn’t respond and for a moment, you thought, maybe she didn’t hear it — maybe she just chose not to.

“Me too.” She whispered as she sat down on the bench. She looked weary yet understanding — that sick bitterness of understanding the situation you’re both in — when she met your gaze.

Your heart contracted.

You paused for a moment; unsure whether you could still sit down next to her after everything.

With a quiet sigh, you finally sat down next to her.

You then leaned on her shoulder without saying anything. The noises of the bustling cafeteria and hurried students — clang of trays, plates, and ringing laughter — around you were loud enough to fill the gaps where you two fell short.

Communication.

“I definitely flunked calculus.”

“I flunked everything.”

── .✦

They said that the derivative of a function is its rate of change. The slope of the curve at a single point. A reflection of motion. Of transition. How fast the output changed in response to its input.

Frankly, you never really paid any attention to the specifics — math was too mechanical and complicated to digest all at once. But the concept? That stuck. And that says a lot — especially if it mirrored the bullshits in your life.

Your ear was still ringing — high-pitched, disorienting white noise — as you grappled the grime on the floor beneath you. Your lips tasted of metal and iron as the blood settled on your tongue. Your hair fell on your face messily.

“What did I fucking tell you? Skipping classes? Skipping work?” your father gritted his teeth, his voice thundered — spit flying everywhere — over the delirious thumping of your heart against your ribcage.

It never really fully registered.

It never got easier.

Shouldn’t you be used to this by now?

How come it never felt any easier?

You stood, wiped the blood off your lips and met your father’s seething gaze.

The urge to curse everything, to let everything just burst up into flames crawled underneath your skin as he pointed a finger at you spitefully.

“After everything I’ve done for you, for this damn family? Who the hell is feeding you? Paying for your shit? Your fucking school —“

Crack.

The slap landed on your face with a brutal thwack, sound jarring and echoing; palms flat and searing on your swollen cheeks. It burned. God, it burned like your nerves were left open and raw in the cold, harsh air.

“Can’t even pull your damn weight in —“

“That’s enough —“

Thud.

Your heart doubled when his hand struck your mother — unforgiving. Incredibly dehumanizing. The mere impact sound made you dizzy, breathless.

Please.

“Stop fucking spoiling her, you already wasted enough money by not attending your sessions! Is this your way of getting back at me, huh? By leaving everything on my fucking hands when you —“

Maybe blacking out was the best option. Maybe dropping dead would be the greatest mercy you could ever taste, feel, and experience.

Not the persistent taste of metal and iron on your teeth.

Not the permanence of stinging on your skin.

Definitely not the fucking convulsion of your chest whenever this happened.

When you pushed him, it didn’t quite match whatever was unfolding in front you. You pushed him with the intention to disappear — but you didn’t know whether it was him or yourself that you wanted gone — with all your might. With everything within you that was still intact.

Is it possible to see black when you’re just watching everything in front of you happen, without any control with what you were saying or doing?

Without thinking, you grabbed your mother’s wrist and tried to run away with her, but then she stopped and tugged your arms back.

You looked back at her and noticed that she was silently crying. She had disheveled hair, pale and swollen face, and a busted lip.

She shook her head. Weakly. Softly.

What?

What the fuck does that mean?

You didn’t understand. You couldn’t — no, you were choosing not to.

She looked at you with that all-too-familiar expression, the ‘please, understand’ look, silent and breaking.

“Why?” you choked, vision blurring as tears fell uncontrollably, everything was too much, like your body was on fire. Not enough to hold the rage that bubbled from deep within your chest.

“Why the fuck would you choose to stay with him?” your voice felt raw on your hoarse throat. It was loud, resentful. You couldn’t recognize it even if you tried.

“Why?”

She looked at you with apologetic eyes as she silently accepted the rage you jabbed at her — like she already knew.

Like she knew that it was only a matter of time before you resent her too.

“Why do you keep choosing him over me?” you sobbed. It was childish, wanting to be chosen for once. Childish in a sense that you heard your younger self cry out to her mother when you first scraped your knee.

She carefully approached you, hands raised as if she was about to soothe you — not now.

No.

“Don’t,” you sniffled. “Just fucking don’t.”

When you turned, your feet moved on their own and just ran. You didn’t know what you were running away from — your father’s abuse? Your mother who can’t find the courage to run away with you? Or the voices in your head that aimed to cut the pulse of your heart?

Maybe you shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t know.

You didn’t know anything anymore.

── .✦

It was cold, bitterly numbing.

It felt like your feet were about to fall off your ligaments and bones. Like your skin had been peeled raw, leaving only exposed, tangled nerve endings behind.

The waves that crashed against your feet were relentless, dense, and biting. The footprints you left earlier were immediately washed away, replaced with the tide‘s undulations. No trace of your existence remained.

Everything hurt — excruciatingly painful and devastatingly numb, all at once.

You didn’t know how long you had been standing at the shore. It’s not like it mattered anymore.

When you finally walked closer to the deep waters, the crashing waves slammed on your thighs harder — so much harsher. Salt and numbness shrouded your senses and for a moment — you could finally feel your heart hammer against your chest again.

It’s funny.

Funny how alive you always felt when on the brink of death. Like it’s mocking to you. Taunting you.

You hated it. You hated everything.

You wanted it gone — the voices, the bruises, the stinging sensation of the cuts.

Everything.

Your body shivered as your clothes clung to your skin, drenched and uncomfortably heavy as you sunk deeper to the surf.

You wanted nothing else but to carve something out — your bones, skin, flesh, anything — just to separate yourself from the deafening and suffocating pain you couldn’t name anymore.

You wanted to scream it all out — to let every frustration that lacerated your skin be swallowed whole by the roaring ocean. To let yourself — made up of bruises and open wounds — finally disappear.

But just like always, your voice often died on your chest before it could even be breathed out.

You were gasping — gasping for air, despite being smothered by the salt-slick hissing of the wind.

Gasping for air, like your own lungs was trying to crawl out of your own body, to exist outside your skin, because for some reason it felt easier to be anything or anyone, than yourself.

“Practicing for the swimming class next PE?” a voice called out behind you.

Now why the hell would be here — now, out of all times?

Shut up.

You didn’t bother to look back. Instead, you continued to walk. Slower this time. You welcomed the freezing waves that slammed against your body, one after another.

Ignore him.

Ignore him the same way you ignored your trembling body, your chattering teeth, your damp and clumped hair that swayed with the violent zephyr.

Not now.

Not ever.

You hugged yourself tighter each step you took; you knew damn well he was still there. You could feel his presence; how he was still watching you.

“Go away!” You croaked.

Please.

Your eyes stung — from the salt, from wind, from crying too long. It burned more, as tears started to well up again. Just when you thought you have no tears left to cry out, here you are on the verge of spilling again in front of someone you barely know.

Humiliation.

That was all you could feel — stacked on top of everything your mind listed, like a debt you owe and couldn’t repay— long overdue.

Why in front of him? Why the hell would he be here?

For god’s sake, you didn’t need an audience to witness your breaking point. You didn’t care about anything at all anymore, but maybe because nobody actually, really, cared enough.

So you dampen it.

You’d beat them to it — you’d always break yourself first, before they could try to shatter you even further.

You didn’t turn. You just hoped he’d finally go away.

Or maybe don’t.

“Go the fuck away!” Vile. It was distasteful, incredibly pathetic, the way you shouted and how it broke mid-sentence. Your throat tightened as you choked on your sobs you tried to hard to swallow.

Were you telling that to him or to yourself?

You didn’t notice him walking closer, you just saw his faint shadow casted on the thrashing waves.

He didn’t say anything — but then again, he rarely does. He was just there, watching you crumble on every edge that you tried so hard to hide, only for it to spill out helplessly in the open.

Not in front of him. Especially not in front of him.

“Why won’t you go away?” You hiccuped, voice hoarse. When you looked at him — really looked — your tears fell again. Harder. You couldn’t stop them even if you tried, and honestly? You did.

He was still wearing his black mask as he stood just a few feet away from you. Drenched, silent, and … accepting.

“Make it go away.” you quietly pleaded.

Regrets hit your heart like a freight train — maybe you shouldn’t have lashed out on your mother. Maybe you should’ve stayed, be with her, maybe it’ll hurt less next time.

But … you somehow know it wouldn’t.

It never does.

Where do you put down whatever you’re feeling? Was it resentment? Hatred? Desperation?

To whom?

You thought about the people in your life. Yuzuha. Your mother. Your father — no, fuck him. You hate him so much sometimes you wish you were never born at all.

With every hit you endured, every cut you tended to, with every bruise you tried to cover up, most times, you felt more of an open wound than a human at all.

You scoffed internally — to think you just have three important people in your life, yet it felt like you were drowning trying to shoulder the weight of it all.

How? Why?

You don’t know. You don’t really know —

“It’s okay. Don’t hold back.” Sanzu spoke, slowly. Quietly.

You almost forgot he was there because of how loud the thoughts became.

But really…? Maybe that was all it took.

Just five words.

Five words as you finally broke down. To become so undone — sobs and screams that echoed with the roaring waves, easily lost in the vastness of the ocean that laid barren before you.

Hazy.

It was all so hazy — how you felt away and so present at the same time. How you just finally let yourself go — all your muscles contracted as you wailed, begging and praying for the rage or pain — maybe both, to just be gone. For it to run out before you do.

Externalize it. Make it go away.

You screamed and screamed, until your throat felt so raw and splintered; how you let yourself be swayed away by the tides that pulled you under.

He easily caught you before you finally collapsed — how his equally drenched hands wrapped around you carefully, but somehow warm — so warm against your uncontrollably trembling figure; from the freezing coldness of the water, the salty wind, and your own mind that tortured you.

── .✦

The sand clung sparsely to your feet even after you dried off. It coated your ankles like a thin sock before you brushed it away.

You sat on the shore — a good distance away from the clashing tide — your knees folded to your chest. It was a habit — one you formed somewhere along the way; you didn’t know when, but you knew it helped. Hugging your knees somehow always made it easier to breathe.

Sanzu’s jacket draped over your shoulders felt heavy — but oddly comforting. The smell of motor oil hit you at first — sharp and intrusive, but beneath it, something else lingered. Something gentler.

The faint scent of clean musk — then sandalwood. It was grounding.

You didn’t know where he went after putting his jacket on you. He just muttered a quick “wait” — almost impossible to hear because of his mask that seemed to flatten everything he said.

Everything about you — your body, your throat, your hair — was a mess. You were well aware of that.

You looked down on the sand and started tracing some small patterns. Stars. Circles.

It was quite comforting.

“Here.” Sanzu’s voice startled you, cutting through the long, shared minutes of silence with the heaving tides. He held out a white plastic bag.

With furrowed brows, you looked up to meet his unreadable expression.

He lifted his hand that was holding the plastic bag, urging you to take it. You stared at him a beat longer, trying to make sense of what he might be thinking. Eventually, you accepted it with reluctance and confusion.

Then he quietly sat down next to you.

Inside the bag: a pocari sweat, a squished egg sandwich with a few napkins, and two fun-sized chocolate bars. You knitted your brows at the contents, probably blinked once or twice, then back at him.

He opened his own plastic bag and unwrapped a twix bar. The foil wrapper crinkled as he folded it on the sides, filling the space between the two of.

Without a word, he removed his mask.

He removed his mask. And just ate in silence.

He stared at the expansive ocean that laid bare before the two of you. You knew how hard you were staring — like trying to piece together an answer to a problem you can’t solve.

His eyes were gray — clouded, with no trace of blue and zircon. Almost sentimentally unreadable. His hair swayed gently with the blowing wind, and most of all — you noticed his scar.

The scar most people talk about — almost a myth, a bet if it’s real. A concept. The defining mark.

“Why are you doing all… these?” you whispered.

You were uncertain. Unsure whether you wanted an answer at all. But you needed to know — what would it cost you if you let him.

“Do I need a reason to?” he answered.

Certainly not the answer you were looking for. But then again, you didn’t really know what answer you wanted. He met your searching gaze unflinchingly. Unapologetically.

Then he returned to his chocolate bar — uncaring whatever you might be thinking, like your question didn’t weigh anything at all.

At least to him, it didn’t seem like it did.

Absurd.

You found this whole ordeal so absurd but you still can’t help but feel so vulnerable as you stared at him. You noted the details about him — features, expressions — details you never really noticed with anyone else before.

You turned away from him when your chest began to ache — with dread. With warmth.

An oddly comfortable silence enveloped the two of you as you reached inside the plastic bag for the sandwich.

“Thank you.” you whispered.

Tears threatened to fall again when you said your gratitude out loud. Damn, really? You couldn’t believe that you were about to cry over a squished, lukewarm, convenience store sandwich.

From the corner of your eye, you caught how he paused mid-bite, and glanced your way after your quiet ‘thank you.’

You met his eyes.

And somehow, for some unexplainable reason, it was so easy to get so lost in them.

You averted your gaze away from his eyes before you mustered a faint smile. Before you could let the warmth within you spread further.

You unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. It really has been a while since you ate something without your body violently rejecting it.

It was bland and soggy, but god, does it taste so relieving after days of not eating anything. It dawned on you months later that it wasn’t the sandwich at all.

You chewed slowly, just quietly watching the tides roll in and out.

You didn’t move. Didn’t dare to look at him again after that.

It was quiet.

Not the maddening one.

Not the deafening one either.

But exactly the stillness that you needed after the chaos of everything.

── .✦

Pitter-patter.

There’s something unrenowned about the emptiness that creates a home within you, once the problems start to pile up on your feet. Gradually burying you.

Eventually erasing you.

Until you are no longer yourself — until you are what you are feeling.

Utterly consumed.

Splash.

How do you continue living while actively decaying? To keep going forward with no sense of direction? When every corner rounds you back to square one. Every arrow points inward, no steps forward, no space backward.

Stuck in a never-ending limbo of misdirections. Afraid to move at all — one move would sink you down further, crushing your windpipes.

The other? It shoots you sky-high just to crash your marrowbones on the way down.

Beep-beep.

So, where to begin?

Oh wait.

Yeah…

That night.

That night at the beach.

How long ago was it again? You forgot. You forget a lot of things lately. You never kept track of the date anymore, your studies, your work.

Your life.

Sanzu — like he always did — walked you back that night. Morning. Was it morning? Time was meaningless anyway.

He walked you back to Yuzuha's flat, not yours. You couldn’t go back there, after you hollowed your soul out to the oceans.

You wouldn’t be able to bear the smell of smoke, of liquor and sweat. The damp and moldy corner of the living room and the recurring metal taste in your mouth that never left, even after years had passed.

Yuzuha never asked anything either. She just opened the gate quietly as she rubbed her eyes that were groggy from sleep. You knew she knew. She always did.

Back there in her room, everything melded like the blood that pooled on your thigh. The gaping cut that gradually filled the space before it trickled down.

Your doubts made sense — that perhaps you were the problem all along.

Beep-beep.

You thought of your mother — did she drink her medicines? Had dinner? You hoped that she was able to open the gas stove that you always opened for her.

What about your father? You prayed that he was away. Away from her, from the two of you.

You thought of Yuzuha sleeping on the bed. Her back was facing you. What would she do in your place? Would she pathetically hold the blade like you did?

Knowing her, she wouldn’t.

But you… you just couldn’t.

It takes strength to face your scars, your bruises, your whole fractured being without flinching.

You always wondered how Sanzu managed to do that.

Ring.

You jolted out your skin.

“Move!” someone barked from behind.

You staggered to the pavement as a cyclist sped past you, spraying water against your already drenched jeans.

The pattering rain pelted your skin like dull bullets — soaking through your clothes.

Your boots were filled to the brim.

The police station looked drab and dismal under the looming thunderstorm. The flickering lights and the bustle of uncaring people didn’t help. Muddy footprints, annoyed guards, and the revving sounds of the vehicles that drove past you felt… undeniably real.

You clutched the ziplock bag tighter in your hand and clenched your jaw.

This has to be some sick fucking joke… right?

You watched your father shake hands with another guard, offering that brief smile as he fumbled with the umbrella stacked on the rack outside the station.

His smile immediately faded to a frown the brief moment you locked eyes. Those same eyes that taught you to close yours when his hand hits. To flinch before being touched.

He looked away almost immediately as he recklessly opened the umbrella he was holding.

He frowned at you before he walked away, grumbling curses under his breath. He disappeared in the corners of this suffocating street.

You looked down on the ziplock bag you were holding. Moist and fogged up, with the rivulets of the rain trickling down on it.

“Certificate of Death” was written in bold letters, striking.

Impossible to miss.

Your mother’s body was stiff — sunken eyes, blotches of blood on the skin; she was pale. Startingly cold to touch. You don’t remember much now. Most times you just see fragments of what happened.

In still frames.

Yuzuha called the paramedics as you kneeled before your mother’s body, frozen, unmoving. Lifeless.

Soon enough, the house was full of people that talked too much, too loud. Crowded with faces that blurred altogether. They spoke in the language of death. Technical, but you knew it was nothing good.

Something along the lines that livor mortis has been fully developed along the posterior part of the body; that the rigor mortis has settled in, and good god — what does that even mean?

You should’ve told her you loved her.

Even just once.

Maybe it would’ve been enough.

You wished you had enough courage for the two of you. Fought better, argued louder.

You should’ve worked harder. For her medication. For her treatment. You should’ve asked about it, maybe talked it out. Helped her more on the chores and in life.

Maybe she was just waiting for you to open up to her. You should’ve spent more time with her, hugged her more when her warmth was still there, when you could still feel her beating heart.

You wanted to beg for her forgiveness.

Did she resent you for leaving her alone that afternoon? Was she scared? Did she know? What were her last thoughts? Was it you? You sometimes hoped it was you and most times, you wished it wasn’t.

Guilt replaced your bones.

Because you knew it was you — after all you found her collapsed body inside your bedroom. Piles of your newly washed clothes were scattered on the floor. She was folding it. For you.

And for the longest time, were mad at her, for always being so fucking selfless. For never choosing you, for always sacrificing herself. You wished you hated her more, maybe it would hurt less.

It didn’t. You would’ve stayed if you knew this would happen.

You wished you could’ve done more.

Another splash.

As you stared at the ziplock bag in your hands, you realized that was the only remnant of the family you had. If you could ever call it ‘family’.

The conclusion.

Your mother’s death certificate. Your father’s warrant of arrest. The dismissal of charges. Temporary protective supervision. Your school determent certification.

You were finally free.

You should be happy right? No.

It never felt like freedom even after years had passed. Truth be told, it felt like a nail to your coffin.

Those documents were buried somewhere in the boxes that sat unopened in your apartment.

When you looked up, you saw Sanzu standing across the street, parallel to where you stood.

You wondered, why does he always appear before you in your lowest moments? Just watching.

Never flinching.

He was holding an umbrella in his right hand, the other was stuffed inside the pocket of his black jacket. You noticed his white knuckles as he gripped the umbrella.

You stared in his eyes until everything around you faded into white noise. Just a fragment. A bitter nightmare.

You still dreamt of those days.

Everything about the past, haunted you — past your dreams, past your waking life. It was a constant shadow that loomed over your shoulder. Waiting to take you with it.

Ten years never felt like anything. ── .✦ author's note 𓍼ོ Hello! So this chapter was written last 2021 with the hopes to build my OC’s backstory (Kasumi) — which is now the reader — and how Sanzu left an impact in her life; best believe that much has been revised since then.

As I mentioned, this was heavy and disturbing to write and if you’re going to ask me why I even bother, I do it to portray the horrors people are too afraid to discuss and take seriously. Mental health — CPTSD, complex and prolonged grief, how our nervous system grapples with what we have to survive — was never clean and linear. Let me know your thoughts with this one. I may or may not have overlooked some ungrammatical sentences, typos, or errors (just kindly auto-correct them in your mind mwehe >< )

Reblogs and hearts are highly appreciated, if u have reach this far, thank you sooo much for readingg !!! AAAAA

Tune in till the next fragment luvies!

xoxo, yna <3

do not repost, copy, translate, or redistribute on any platform without explicit permission. all credits to @inanisomnia / @ynasomniaur . this work is fiction and does not reflect the views or actions of real individuals.

#yna's self reblogs <3

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