Chapter Text
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Humans are suspicious and jealous creatures. When they see something perfect, they want to find a flaw.
Gosho Aoyama
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There are a handful of things that Geto Suguru already knows about Gojo Satoru, all of which are against his will.
New faces are uncommon in their village; have been for as long as he can remember. Most of the people Suguru will graduate with in March are the same people he used to see running around on the playgrounds in his youth. Transfer students from the city are especially rare; Suguru imagines there aren’t many people chomping at the bit to leave Tokyo for a place like rural Miyagi. This town is unremarkable, so are most of the people. It seems you’re either born here, or you end up here by accident.
Maybe that’s why Gojo’s arrival gets so much attention — or maybe it’s because they’re a bunch of teenagers, stupid and ignorant and self-concious, pointing the spotlight at others so it doesn’t land on them. But come on — to show up on the tail end of second year, six weeks before the last semester ended? The entire situation is completely unheard of. Rumours fly about a delinquent expelled from three different schools and moving out of the city to avoid juvie, a yakuza heir trying to escape the depths of the underworld, and a celebrity’s son trying to live a normal life. He hears it all secondhand from Shoko, and they end up cackling so hard they nearly fall off their smoking stump. None of the rumours quite hit the mark, but he and Shoko probably could’ve been a little less incredulous about their classmate’s theories.
The reality is some rich kid conglomerate heir who shows up with literally zero explanation. Up against that, Suguru may have been willing to bet on the yakuza theory. Suguru doesn’t exactly know what he expects — maybe a scrawny nerd who wears a suit to school, or a prim and proper young master who slicks back his hair and brings a butler everywhere he goes.
Gojo Satoru is… not that.
When he walks into the classroom on that first day, the first thing Suguru notices is how he looks. He’s not a shallow person — anyone would find it incredibly difficult not to note how Gojo Satoru looks. Sure, he’s pretty, whatever — Suguru will reluctantly admit it in the safety of his own mind and absolutely nowhere else. Will acknowledge it’s existence as an objective reality that pisses him off. Beauty is subjective or whatever, but come on. Sky is blue, grass is green. That’s not actually the primary focus here.
Gojo’s features are… unique, to phrase it more politely than some of his classmates. Geto notes it when he’s standing up at the front of the class and then confirms it when the guy takes the seat in front of him — his hair is actually fucking white. Not blond, not platinum, not even grey. White, like fresh snow. Suguru wants to imagine it’s disgustingly crunchy and dry from over-bleaching, but he’s already very well aware that the lack of pigment is entirely natural — a piece of information overhead from a particularly loud group of girls who started hanging around outside the 3-A classroom ever since the new school year began.
He stands the same height as Yaga despite being just under half his age, and it doesn’t matter that his hair is giving him a bit of a boost — it doesn’t change the base reality. The prick is so tall it's a little obnoxious. Not quite 190cm, but pretty damn close. He must have a full inch (and maybe then some, though he’ll die before admitting it) of height on Suguru.
Okay, so maybe it's a lot obnoxious. Suguru maybe sorta has a bit of a chip on his shoulder about coming across someone his age who is taller than him for the first time in his life. It’s weird! Especially after so many years of towering over his all of peers and most adults. Maybe in a different world he would have less of an issue with it, but in this life he knows Shoko, who is pointedly not helping — if anything, she’s pouring salt on the wound. She’s getting him back for somewhere around a decade of short jokes and loving every second of it.
Then there’s the sunglasses. Suguru learns fast that Gojo Satoru is the type of dickhead to wear sunglasses everywhere, all the damn time, even inside. Which honestly, shouldn’t have surprised him that much. Standing in front of the classroom on that first day, he makes no move to remove them or even push them up. All he does is slide them down his nose for the briefest moment to scan the classroom — even from the back row, Suguru is surprised at the shock of blue. His first assumption is that the kid is wearing contacts, but he learns quick that they’re entirely natural. Suguru would also like to note that he learns this information entirely against his will. Those fangirls are so loud it’s impossible not to hear them.
Geto doesn’t focus much on the colour — what catches his attention is the way Gojo Satoru looks distinctly unimpressed with what he sees as he stares at his classmates. He pushes his sunglasses back up after only a second and lets out a noise that Suguru swears is a laugh. And call him insane, but Suguru is at least 70% sure that said laugh was directly caused by the half-second of eye contact the two of them made in the moment before.
Yeah. Suguru doesn’t like him. It’s not a difficult decision to make. He doesn’t smile when he introduces himself and he doesn’t say anything but his name. He doesn’t say a word to anyone as he walks towards his seat, doesn’t even spare a glance or a nod in Suguru’s direction.
His arrival provides the anticipated fodder for the rumour mill. Girls squeal over his looks and guys flip between jealousy and admiration, but the attention he gets doesn’t end there. A regular new kid would garner interest for a week or two, tops. Gojo Satoru isn’t a regular new kid. People talk about him all the time and still never manage to learn anything substantial. Third year starts up and the whispers of his name still haunt Suguru through the hallways.
The guy is a prodigy, which is so fucking annoying it makes Suguru wanna rip his hair out sometimes. He never takes notes or hands in homework and still manages to get top marks. It’s not even some sort of favouritism, though Suguru would honestly prefer if it was. But it can’t be — all the teachers basically hate his guts. At the very least, they don’t love having him in class. Suguru shares that sentiment. Shoko being in a different homeroom makes it that much worse — she can ignore him when he complains over text. Him whispering in her ear and poking her in the back, however…
He still texts her, but most of the time he’s stuck fuming to himself, watching as Gojo plays on his phone or stares out the window. The single time Suguru saw him pull out a notebook, it was to doodle. Gakuganji tries calling him on it a couple times, but Gojo has never missed a question. He never raises his hand to answer them either.
He interrupts class to correct people, and that’s it. That’s the only time he talks. Teacher, student, it does not matter — he’s an equal opportunity asshole. It’s just about the only time Suguru ever hears his voice.
He doesn’t take notes, he doesn’t hand in homework — for fucks sake he barely shows up half the time! — and then somehow the prick goes and gets top marks on every exam and test ever. It taunts Suguru mercilessly, his unfair regulation to second plate. He glares so intensely he feels like he’s trying to set the paper on fire with his mind every time he sees Gojo’s name taking up the spot that used to be his.
On top of being a general asshole and a fucking know-it-all, Gojo Satoru is also the sole heir to some big enterprise. Because of course he is. His family is richer than god, the type of rich that regular people can’t think about for too long without getting pissed off. So Suguru has to wonder why, then, is Gojo Satoru here at Jujutsu Technical High School? Pulling up and leaving every day with his own personal driver in some sleek black SUV like he’s a fucking celebrity or something — yes, Suguru is being dead serious. He actually does that. And Suguru cannot figure out why the hell he does it here. Shouldn’t he be somewhere in the city, at some fancy private school with high tuition and a stupid uniform, where he can network or spit on the poor or whatever those fuckers do for fun? That makes a lot more sense to Suguru, and he’s not just saying that because it’s the situation that gets Gojo as far away from him as possible. But for some reason, he’s not there; he’s here.
That pisses Geto off. Gojo pisses Geto off. Call him a hypocrite, he does not care — he knows he’s no saint. He knows, better than anyone (excluding Shoko), how much of an asshole he can be. Especially in the safety of his mind.
The thing about Geto is that he knows good and well when things should be kept in the safety of his mind. He knows how to plaster a smile on his face and be a functioning person in social situations. As much as his style may say otherwise, Geto Suguru has left his delinquent days behind him. Mostly.
He’s always respectful when he speaks to strangers or his elders, he’s courteous to his classmates even when they’re maybe getting on his nerves a little bit. He doesn’t interrupt, or talk down to others, or act condescending — not even when he really, really wants to. Because that’s what snot-nosed teenagers do as adulthood looms ofer them and reality starts to nip at their heels — they grow up, because they have no choice.
It seems Gojo Satoru never got the message.
People like that piss Suguru off by the mere nature of their existence. The mere idea of waltzing through life like a bull in a china shop the way Gojo Satoru does isn’t just foreign, it’s distasteful. Sure, Suguru probably could do it. He could be an asshole to people when he’s in a bad mood and stop plastering a smile over his frustration, and it would probably make his life a lot easier! There’s just one problem with that concept; Geto is actually a decent person who cares what other people think about him. Unlike some people.
TLDR; his personality fucking sucks. It’s a fact of life. The sun rises in the east, sets in the west, and shines down on a world where Gojo Satoru makes it his life’s mission to be the bane of everyone else’s existence. And oh man, is he fucking succeeding. Because that stupidly smart prick succeeds at everything he tries.
He’s busy picking at the chipped nail polish on his thumb when the door to the classroom swings open, and he resists the urge to groan. Goodbye, peaceful morning. Geto is so sure he didn’t speak of the devil, but he did think about him, so it might be the same thing in the eyes of the universe.
Gojo opens the door like he’s not interrupting the beginning of a lesson. He fucking kicks the door shut and walks right across the front of the room instead of around the back — directly between the teacher in question and the students who actually care enough to put effort into their education. He fucking saunters to the empty desk in front of Suguru’s as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Yaga just continues talking, long since accustomed to the daily interruption as he leans over his desk and marks Gojo’s name on the attendance sheet.
Suguru watches as he pulls out a pencil and no notebook. The pencil is just for him to twirl between his fingers, his head tilted ever so slightly in the direction of the window he sits next to. Staring out at the clouds as the wind carries them across a light blue sky.
He grits his teeth and, with a lot of mental fortitude, lets up on the white-knuckle grip he’s got on his pen. Suguru counts to three in his head, slowly, and then turns his attention to Yaga instead of the bastard he is unfortunate enough to sit behind. He does an incredibly good job at ignoring the itch under his skin every time he hears Satoru lose his grip and drop his pencil against his desk.
It’s a long day and it isn’t even halfway over. The minutes seem to roll past slower than usual, at times Suguru even thinks the second hand on the clock comes to a complete stop. He definitely thinks it said 11:30 the last time he looked, but then ten minutes go by and he looks again, and it still fucking says 11:30.
When lunch arrives, Suguru is the first one out of the classroom. One more second listening to the tapping sounds of Gojo’s sneakers against the linoleum floor and he would have gone bonkers. Shoko isn't waiting for him by the classroom doors — when he glances in her homeroom he sees her talking to the teacher. He heads for the vending machine and tells her to meet him on the roof.
Of course, because the universe hates him and wants him to suffer, the vending machine is out of the only flavour of iced coffee he likes. All the ones still in stock are way too sweet. In one hand he holds Shoko’s melon soda, while his other hovers over the buttons.
He might stand there for seconds or minutes, he’s not entirely sure. An excited call of a name — thankfully not his — pulls him out of the spiral of indecision.
“Gojo-senpai! There you are, I thought you weren’t going to show up…”
Suguru resists the urge to groan. It’s a close call, but he does it. God — he makes his escape and of course, the devil follows.
The voice is vaguely familiar. Not enough to put a name to, but enough to draw up a mental image of some first-year — one that he remembers constantly hanging outside the classrooms with the rest of Gojo’s little fangirls. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, sharp and almost flute-like in a way that grates against his eardrums.
Y’know, I don’t even think I’m all that thirsty—
“Held up by Yaga.” Gojo says it like he’s bored. He says it like just being forced to stand there conversing with a peer is a horrible inconvenience to him. His tone is clipped, laden with a desire to get the conversation over with so he can devote his attention to whatever sorts of things a spoiled asshole like him thinks are important in life. Suguru’s only ever seen the kid show interest in the windows, his phone, and the various gaming devices he definitely isn't supposed to have in class. As far as Suguru is aware — which is far too much, mind you! — Gojo hasn’t joined a club or any teams since his transfer. He doesn’t have friends and despite his attitude, doesn’t really have enemies either. He doesn’t really interact with anyone enough for them to truly hate him.
Well. Unless you count Suguru.
But it’s not like that’s a result of some sort of extended interaction. Gojo has never talked to him either. He doesn’t talk at all, not unless he’s interrupting a teacher or making a comment that usually devolves into insulting someone.
Gojo doesn’t talk to people. He talks at them, or about them. To himself.
Suguru tunes back into the conversation when he hears the sound of a throat clearing.
“I wanted to tell you—“
She doesn’t even get to finish her damn sentence.
“Eeeh? A confession, really? That’s why you made me come all the way out here?” Gojo’s groan is dramatic and drawn-out.
“I mean, I haven’t—“
“Is that not what you were gonna say?” Gojo cuts her off again; the question is rhetorical, judging by the way he plows on without waiting for an answer. “I’ve been in love with you for whatever, I like you so much, you’re so handsome, go out with me?”
“I-I… Well, I mean—“ Her voice gets quieter, so soft Suguru has to strain to hear it. Not that he should be eavesdropping on this poor girl’s failed confession, but he can’t help himself. It’s like watching a car wreck. He’s hidden around the corner anyways, out of view from where he can only assume the two are standing by the tree. He’s surprised Gojo didn’t know it was a confession from the location alone.
“I’ll save you the time. No. I’ll take those chocolates though. You can keep the letter.” Satoru’s cadence is flat and uncaring, not a hint of remorse for rejecting her so rudely.
Suguru hears a small thump, like someone snatching a box of chocolates from another person’s hand so fast it makes the bonbons hit the lid. Then footsteps. He can only assume Gojo grabs whatever sweets she offered alongside her feelings and leaves her there dumbstruck.
The footsteps start to get louder, and it takes him a moment too long to realize that Gojo is heading in his direction. Suguru busies himself with the vending machine to make it seem like he didn’t just hear this shithead very rudely turn down a confession from a girl (who he's pretty sure is sniffling right now).
Gojo rounds the corner almost too fast, nearly bumping into him. His attention is wholly on the box of chocolates in his hand, he could have just as easily almost gone face-first into a concrete column or something. The way he reacts, he may as well have. He doesn’t apologize or even say excuse me. Behind those blackout shades, Suguru can’t even tell if the guy glances in his direction.
Now usually, Suguru considers himself a pretty respectful person. Eavesdropping is fair game, but commenting on things he’s heard is out of the question. Usually.
But something is up with him today. He didn’t get enough sleep, or woke up on the wrong side of the bed, or something. Because everything is getting under his skin more than usual, especially Gojo. Something about this dickhead and his stupid shades is grating on a particularly sensitive nerve, and Suguru just can’t help himself.
“You should be nicer to people, you know.” Even though Suguru doesn’t address him by name, Gojo stops a couple feet away, barely sparing a look over his shoulder as his form of ‘acknowledgement’. Suguru takes it as an invitation to continue. “Especially people who’ve worked up the courage to confess.”
“And why’s that?” He’s already torn open the box of chocolates, clearly more interested in reading the little flavour sheet than he is in Suguru’s words. He clenches his jaw. Seriously?
“I mean, it’s the polite thing to do. They’re putting their feelings out—“ Suguru scoffs.
“And who the hell asked them to do that?” Gojo interrupts, turning on his heel to look at him head on. Probably. Suguru still can’t see his eyes, but he’s shoving the little pamphlet back in the box. “Certainly not me.”
He speaks the last bit around a mouthful of chocolates, and it makes Suguru’s face pinch in disgust. He has to resist the urge to whack him upside the head, and he only does so because he’s worried the kid’s gonna choke on the chocolate he’s stuffing in his mouth. In the blink of an eye he’s inhaled nearly half the box, and shows no sign of abiding by the serving sizes.
And also, Suguru doesn’t go around hitting strangers. But Gojo Satoru is seriously making him reconsider the validity of that second reason.
“You’re an ass.”
“Congratulations, you’ve stated the obvious,” Gojo says, not put off in the slightest by the insult. If anything, he seems to be proud of it, it fucking emboldens him. “They’d know that too, y’know, if they weren’t so caught up in their own shit. Though maybe you should take some fucking pointers.”
Satoru is turning around to walk away again, the last sentence barely even loud enough to be considered an insult directed at Suguru. It’s more like the bastard is talking to himself, and for some reason that grates on his nerves even more. He scoffs again, tilting his chin up and rolling his eyes so hard he thinks they’re gonna get stuck. This egotistical prick—
“As if you’re in any position to be telling me how to behave.” Suguru spits, because hell if he’s gonna let this asshole get the last word. “Spoiled young master, riding on his family’s coattails. One would think you’d be better with manners.”
Gojo stops mid-turn, his sneer growing. There’s something defensive in the way he whips around and snarls his response. Like a cornered housecat, not a lion.
”Oh I’ll bet you think you’re so noble, don’t you?” He scoffs. The grin that splits his face in two is all teeth and sharp edges. Suguru is a whole three seconds away from knocking a couple of those pearly whites out, but something stops him — something in the way Gojo’s shoulders hike up to his ears makes him hesitate. “What the fuck do you care how I treat people? What are you, my etiquette tutor?”
”I care about decency—“
”Decency, is that what you call it?” Gojo mocks. “I think something like that doesn’t come for free.”
”What does that even—“
”Do you think any one of those girls who are being oh so vulnerable could tell you a single thing about me?” He barks out a laugh that serves as an answer to his own rhetorical question. “As if. They couldn’t even tell you what my favourite colour is. They want a piece of arm candy and to say they’re dating Gojo Satoru. What sort of decency is that?”
The flames in Suguru’s chest are doused, ever so slightly. He can’t put a finger on what it is about those simple words that have him short-circuiting, but his hesitation gives Gojo the space to continue, so he does.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion anyways, shitty bangs. Keep it to yourself next time,” Gojo continues, turning his back on Geto and waving a hand over his shoulder dismissively, “Or go comfort the chick about it, get yourself a date, and get out of my hair. You can bond with her over how much of a bastard I am instead of lecturing me. Only one of those things’ll get you laid, and it isn’t the latter.”
Gojo throws gasoline back on the fire and then stalks off, leaving Suguru there to sputter and scoff at his back.
He shakes his head, muttering a few less-than-kind words under his breath and jabs a random button on the vending machine. Whatever, the universe will decide his drink today. He just wants to get the fuck back up to the roof and have a smoke. He grabs the can and heads off, shooting some reassurance in text form to Shoko when she asks if he managed to get himself kidnapped trying to buy a soda.
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Another thing Suguru knows about Gojo Satoru; he skips class a lot.
Any other student with his attendance record would be shit out of luck for graduation. Not Gojo Satoru. Of course not Gojo Satoru. Consequences don’t exist when you’re the heir to a multi-billion yen umbrella corporation or fucking whatever. Either the administration knows it’s useless to bother, or they’ve tried to punish him for it and failed miserably. One way or another, it doesn’t matter how many verbal reprimands are directed at Gojo for showing up late — or not at all — he continues to skip at least one class a day.
Today, Gojo skips the whole damn afternoon, which is honestly a plus for Suguru — he doesn’t see him again at all that day after their little thing by the vending machines. He doesn’t even see that stupid black SUV sitting by the sidewalk when he and Shoko make their way to the front gate.
“Alright, spill. What’s your deal?”
“What?” Suguru tears his eyes away from the empty space where that obnoxiously sleek car would usually be sitting, to see Shoko already staring at him in that unamused way that’s typically reserved for when he’s being a smartass. Except this time, he has no clue why it’s being directed at him.
“You’ve been weird since lunch.” She retorts, pulling two cigarettes from her pack and offering him one. Suguru knows he shouldn’t, but he takes it anyway. He figures he’s not technically a smoker as long as he doesn’t have his own pack, but he has a feeling Shoko is gonna run out of patience for him bumming her smokes one of these days. Today is not that day, though.
“Inside pocket of your jacket,” Suguru says when he sees Shoko start patting around in search of her lighter. He watched her put it there during lunch. She lets out an aha! once she finds it, lighting her own cigarette before handing it off to Suguru.
“Alright, now spill.”
Suguru groans, smoke trickling out around the filter as he gives the lighter back.
“I don’t even know, man.” Suguru says, taking a pull of his cigarette. He huffs out the smoke in a way that’s almost petulant and he does not elaborate.
“Did something happen when you went to the vending machines?” Shoko arches an eyebrow.
“No. I mean… Yes? But no.” He says lamely.
“Wow. That clears it up.”
Suguru elbows her in the side. She does it back twice as hard.
“Nothing happened to me, really. I mean… I just happened to overhear some confession.” Suguru says.
“Oh, Mizu-chan’s spectacular failure with Gojo?” She rolls her eyes a little, putting extra emphasis on that stupid nickname the girl uses to talk about herself in the third person — far too often, may he add. “Yeah, I heard about it. Then she wasn’t with that little group of fangirls outside the classrooms today, so. Figured it was credible. You actually heard it? How bad was it?”
Shoko’s ability to keep up with their school’s gossip frightens him sometimes. For someone who constantly claims she couldn’t care less, she manages to catch a whole lot of information in her little web.
“It was bad. Really bad. He was a total dick.” Suguru sighs, shaking his head.
“Yeah, well. Fork found in kitchen,” Shoko shrugs.
“No, but like… She didn’t even get to confess. He figured out what it was and then denied her outright, before she even said anything. I guess she had chocolates and a letter with her, he took the chocolates—“
“— told her to keep the letter, I did hear about that. I honestly thought it was fake though. That’s harsh, even for him.” Shoko lets out a low whistle, torn between impressed and amused. “Part of me feels bad for her, just because no one deserves that when they’re being vulnerable. But also… He’s kinda got a reputation for it at this point. They’re basically asking to be harshly rejected.”
“He does?” Suguru asks, raising an eyebrow. Shoko rolls her eyes.
“You are so socially dense it’s impressive.”
“Thank you?” He doesn’t exactly know if that’s an insult or not. Shoko doesn’t clarify further, continuing with her infodump.
“He gets like, a confession a week. At least. I’ve heard the record is three in a single day, but it was valentines so that’s a bit of an outlier — He has not responded kindly to a single one of them. The stories get worse with every one, it’s like he’s upping the ante and no one’s getting the hint.” Shoko says, flicking away her ashes.
“…Why does anyone even like him in the first place?” Suguru asks, exasperated. Shoko decides to answer his rhetorical question.
“As obnoxious as he is, he’s a rich genius heir who may as well be a celebrity with how well known his name is.” Shoko states the obvious. “Also. I mean… look at him.”
“Seriously?” He says, shooting her an unimpressed look. She just shrugs, unfazed.
“I’m being unbiased here.” Suguru knows she is — Shoko doesn’t even like men. which is probably why it’s double annoying. “Pretty sure he was on a magazine cover last year.” She says — like she’s commenting on something as casual as the weather. To her, she probably is.
Suguru, on the other hand? He has been working very hard to ignore the visual aspects of Gojo Satoru. Sharp features, lean frame that’s filled out enough to no longer be considered scrawny. Fluffy hair and thin, full lips that always have some sort of glossy sheen to them. Okay, Suguru is going to stop thinking about it now. It pisses him off that someone so pretty has such a shit personality.
“Whatever you say, Shoko.” His tone is one of clear sarcasm, punctuated by another pull of his cigarette. Refusing to verbally acknowledge the fact that the bastard is, in fact, stupidly pretty. Thus far, that has been strictly an inside thought, and an inside thought it would stay.
“Oh don’t even, I’ve unfortunately seen more than I’d like to in regards to your type.” Shoko says, with an eyeroll and a faux gag. Suguru’s face heats up at the reminder of that one time she opened his laptop on movie night to some — ahem. Incriminating tabs. Maybe she saw some things, and maybe she came to some conclusions, and maybe Suguru would have to admit to the logical nature of those conclusions if he sat down and thought for more than five seconds about what it was that she saw. So Suguru will simply not do that. It makes his life much easier.
“Anyways,” Shoko continues when she realizes Suguru isn’t dignifying her statement with a response, “So, you're saying he rejected another confession and you got front row seats. Why are you so weird about it?”
“I’m not being weird—“
“Oh my god wait, do you have a thing for Mizumi? Did you seriously develop a crush and not tell—“
“No!” Suguru cuts her off, barely managing to stop himself from choking on the last puff of his cigarette. He clears his throat, snuffing it against a lamppost and then shoving the filter in his pocket, “God, no. No. I couldn’t even remember her name, I just hear her voice all the goddamn time when that big stupid group of them is loitering outside the classroom.”
“So….?” Shoko gives him a look that says get on with it, losing her patience for his dodging.
Suguru hesitates. It feels stupid. Even he doesn’t really know what’s got him all in his head about his interaction with Gojo.
“Listen, I don’t even know why I’m so focused on it,” He prefaces, “He came my way afterwards. And for some reason I just felt like I should say something. He was a total dick to someone just trying to confess…”
“Wait, no way.” Shoko raises her eyebrows, amused, “Did you lecture him on being polite?”
“I didn’t lecture him!” Suguru rolls his eyes, throwing his head back to stare up at the sky, “I just said that he should be nicer. More considerate of people’s feelings.”
He conveniently leaves out the part where he called him a spoiled young master.
“Oh wow,” Shoko cackles, pulling out her phone, “and how did that go for you?”
“…He called my bangs shitty?”
Shoko cackles louder.
“Oh I am so texting Utahime. That’s what you get for trying to play goody two shoes with Gojo fucking Satoru.”
“Do not text Utahime-senpai about this!” Geto groans. He does not whine, he will die on that hill. Beyond his own embarrassment and not wanting to be used as a conversation starter with Shoko’s crush, Utahime is the singular person who could maybe end up telling Gojo, and that’s the last thing Suguru needs right now. She doesn’t exactly like him, but apparently they’re distant cousins; so there’s a bit of that begrudging ‘I love you because I have to’ and ‘we have no choice but to hangout at family reunions’, which is apparently a thing that rich families actually do. Utahime says it’s a bunch of business talk bullshit, and even Gojo is easier to deal with than that. Still, every time Suguru saw them interact in the brief period their school careers overlapped, Gojo was egging Utahime on until she was red in the face. It’s like he gets some sort of immature joy out of pissing her off.
Geto doesn’t like to think about it too hard. Partially because he does not care about Gojo Satoru or his shitty personality, but mostly because he has to admit that yeah, Utahime in particular is pretty fun to piss off. She gets mad so easy! There’s literally no bait she won’t chomp at the bit for! But Geto, at least, doesn’t make a habit of doing it himself. That much. He mostly appreciates the moments when they naturally occur.
“Too late,” Shoko retorts, her fingers not slowing down. “Keep talking, what else happened?”
“He asked ‘why should I’. Then said something about how he didn’t ask them to confess to him.” Suguru continues against his better judgement. “The bastard referred to himself as arm candy — can you believe that?”
He scoffs, hoping Shoko will affirm his commentary and maybe dispel the last of the discomfort that swirls in his stomach every time he thinks of that comment. Because Shoko prides herself on doing the exact opposite of what Suguru wants her to, she lets out a short huff through her nose that could maybe qualify as a laugh, if she didn’t look so pensive.
“He did, did he?” Shoko slips her phone in her pocket instead of waiting for a response. She lets out a hum, the way she does when she’s considering an inference, “Sounds like he doesn’t like the attention as much as it may seem.”
“Oh please, he practically makes himself the center of attention,” Suguru tries again, because he’s nothing if not stubborn. “You reap what you sow.”
“Does he, though?”
“Yes! He walks in ‘fashionably late’ every single morning, interrupts class all the time, and he makes random comments at other people for no reason.” Suguru genuinely can’t believe he has to state the obvious here. He knows that Shoko hasn’t actually had to deal with Gojo in class since those first few weeks, so maybe she’s somehow forgotten what a horrible bastard he is. Suguru is more than happy to remind her!
Shoko hums again. She looks like she’s trying to put some things together in her mind, so Suguru lets her, though he’s unsure what exactly about what he’s said could cause her to have to think so hard. They’re maybe half a block away from their houses when she finally snaps her fingers. Suguru raises an eyebrow, silently urging her to share whatever epiphany she’s landed on.
“When you spend your entire life being forced into the spotlight, what other choice do you have than to perform?”
Suguru almost stops walking.
“Why the fuck do you just whip shit like that out of nowhere?” He mutters, half to himself. One of these days she’s gonna seriously send him into an existential crisis. Or psychosis. Or both. The statement doesn’t even really apply to him and it still makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.
Sometimes he thinks that Shoko should be the one planning to pursue philosophy instead of him.
“But like, think about it. He was literally born right onto a pedestal, was he not? Heir to Gojo enterprises, which was already an international, multi-million yen company before he was even old enough to know what money is,” Shoko says. “Just the name is enough to draw attention. Then add how he looks, he sticks out like a sore thumb in Japan — hell, probably anywhere in the world. Maybe he’s just… dealing with it all in the only way he knows how.”
Suguru just stares at her when they finally come to a stop, blinking a few times. Like he’s waiting for her to continue, or maybe laugh and say she’s just fucking with him.
”I still think you’re giving him too much benefit of the doubt,” is what Suguru finally lands on, because any other response would require him to really consider Shoko’s words.
“Maybe you’re not giving him enough.” Shoko smirks, raising her eyebrows and shrugging. “Maybe you’re stubborn, and prideful, and don’t want to admit that your hate-at-first-sight may not have been as warranted—
”Okay, that’s just dramatic—“ Suguru has to interrupt on that one, because like — seriously? That is such a poor reduction of the situation—
“Maybe—” Shoko raises her voice a little to continue past Suguru’s arguments. “You’re as bad as he is, and that’s why he pisses you off so much.”
Suguru reaches out to swat her, but she’s already walking backwards down her driveway. The sharpness of her grin says she knows her words have hit their mark.
She doesn’t exactly give him the chance to come up with a better retort, so he settles for flipping her off. She waves cheerily and slams her front door behind her.
“I’m home!” Suguru yells out as he steps through the door, hearing the sound of running water from the kitchen. He stops in, kisses his mother on the cheek, and asks her if she needs help with the dishes. She waves him off and tells him to do his homework. Nana and Mimi are sitting at the table colouring, and he ruffles their hair on his way out.
He doesn’t start his homework when he gets upstairs, even though he probably should. He drops his bag by his bedroom door with a thump and swaps his uniform for some sweats before throwing himself into bed. He bounces a couple times from his own weight, huffing as he starfishes out on top of his comforter.
He is pointedly not thinking about what Shoko said, at least not the last bit. Unfortunately that means his brain takes a sharp turn towards the only other semi-interesting thing that happened today.
He starts thinking about Gojo.
They want a piece of arm candy and to say they’re dating Gojo Satoru. What sort of decency is that?
His tone was snappy. The words were haughty and egotistical. But the way Gojo said them — that’s what gives Suguru pause. He sounded… resigned? Maybe not. There was something else, something other than just annoyance or anger or ego lingering in Gojo’s voice, something that Suguru’s brain is having trouble identifying.
Shoko’s words ring in his mind. Forced into the spotlight. Is that seriously how Gojo feels? Like some sort of actor on a stage, or a statue on a pedestal? There to be stared at with awe instead of understanding? Curiosity instead of interest? Something to be watched, observed, consumed, but not touched?
Is Gojo looking down on everyone? Or does everyone else insist on looking up at him?
Suguru thinks back. For the first few weeks he was here, Gojo was always surrounded by people. A crowd around his desk before class started, even before he showed up. Then it stopped.
Because… Gojo started coming into class late.
Suguru blinks up at the ceiling.
Now most people have given up, gotten the message that Gojo Satoru has no interest in conversing with peasants like them. But some still hang around his shoe cubby. The cubby Suguru hasn’t actually seen him use all year. Or outside the classroom, where Gojo brushes past them as if they don’t exist.
They couldn’t even tell you what my favourite colour is.
Bitterness, his brain finally supplies. Dripping off Gojo’s words like tar, seeping into every syllable, every snarky remark.
Pure, unfiltered bitterness. Suguru’s almost baffled that he didn't realize it earlier. He’s been standing along the back wall of the auditorium, convincing himself he was seeing some ‘real’ version of Gojo Satoru that no one else managed to figure out yet. The asshole, the spoiled brat, the guy who’s too good for everyone around him.
What if it’s all the same performance? What if he’s just been watching from a different seat? The backstage is still hidden from his view as much as anyone else’s.
For all this confidence he’s had in knowing exactly who this boy is, Suguru is realizing that he couldn’t tell you Gojo Satoru’s favourite colour either.
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It’s a universal instinct of the human species, isn’t it, that desire to dress up in some sort of disguise?
Daphne Du Maurier
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