Chapter Text
Kento fishes out his card from his suit pocket, impatiently tapping against the tiles, knowing damn well he got himself into this situation. He has a meeting in twenty-three minutes and he’s standing in line at a coffee shop. The guy in front of him rattles off a complex list reminiscent of dismantling a nuclear bomb and Kento’s patience wanes.
His manager won’t be happy with him, but Kento refuses to sit through insufferable corporate leads without at least a double shot of espresso.
Finally, finally the guy leaves and the line clears up for Kento.
“Sir, twelve people in front of you have paid for the drink behind them.” His barista tells him cheerfully. “Would you like to continue the line?”
Woefully optimistic at such an early hour and Kento is a cynical man even on his best days. He doubts the sincerity of her words immediately— twelve people were peer-pressured into giving away a drink this early? And here Kento thought college kids usually slept in past noon.
“No, thank you.”
There’s a flutter of noise behind which he ignores. Kento couldn’t care less about any social faux-pas he may have committed. The free drink might just be the only highlight of his miserable day, so he moves to the side to grab it.
Only for the guy behind him to stumble forward, fingers outstretched, and knocking the drink out of Kento’s hand.
“Oops.”
Kento’s reflexes are too slow. His body twists, cup spills, and the next second Kento is too busy trying not to get burned to pay any attention to the perpetrator who comes to stand beside him.
His shirt is definitely ruined.
“Guess now you don’t get a free drink.”
Deep breaths. It’s with a slow deliberate movement that Kento turns to him, comes face to face with an early twenties guy; smug smile, mean eyes that quickly go wide in horror when he assesses the damage caused by his ineptitude.
“Oh shit.”
‘Shit’ is correct.
“Wow.” Kento says instead. It’s a rare opportunity to meet someone so self-absorbed.
“I’m sorry! I was only planning to— I was going to buy you a new drink, I promise!”
“So your only intent was to make me late? Classy.”
The clock ticks on. Five minutes of delay can be afforded in a meeting, but this appears to drag on well beyond that. Kento doesn’t have the patience nor the time for this. He shrugs off his blazer and starts unbuttoning his ruined dress shirt only to find it soaked through. It’s a miracle his skin doesn’t sting as much as it should.
“I’m really sorry.” The guy insists and his fingers wrap around Kento’s elbow. Kento jolts back, startled. “Ah, shit. Not a touchy guy, got it.”
In what universe would a stranger want to be touched? This kid sounds a tinge unhinged and it would be wise to step away.
They’ve now gathered an audience. Great. He’s tired of this day already. Instead of answering him, Kento decides this kid doesn’t need a name: ‘obnoxious’ suits him just fine. His fingers touch on the second button when Obnoxious speaks again, oblivious to Kento’s aversion to his voice.
“You don’t need to give ‘em a show.” He tells him obnoxiously. There’s a curve to his mouth that Kento doesn’t like: one that tells him he will become grabby again in seconds if the mood strikes him.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve unbuttoned your shirt.”
“To avoid getting second-degree burns.”
Obnoxious kisses his teeth as though he finally realised that coffee is hot. “Shit. Yeah, sorry. I was banking on—”
“On what?”
The guy winces. “On it landing on the floor.”
“So not only did you intend to make me late, you planned on leaving the mess to the baristas here.” Kento says coldly. “You’re terrible.”
“Forget the drink, let’s get you a new shirt!”
Kento’s prediction becomes reality in a mere minute when the guy physically drags him out of the coffee shop to embark on his personal mission of making Kento’s life worse.
/ /
“Absolutely not.”
“C’mon man! It’s the only shirt I can find—”
“It’s the only shirt available.”
“That’s basically the same thing!”
Of course, although eight in the morning might mean decent opening hours for coffee shops, clothing stores don’t share that notion. The only clothing stores open at this hour are tourist traps full of graphic tees Kento wouldn’t even consider for use as a rag. Unfortunately, there is no way to salvage this situation. Not only is his dress shirt stained, but Kento reeks of early-morning coffee and the longer he wears it, the higher odds that the smell will cling to him like morning-after sex. It has imprinted on him, the same way this terrible guy just won’t leave him the fuck alone.
“Just wear it. I’m paying for it.”
“You’ll be paying for a lot more than that.” Kento keeps his voice level, even if he’s shoved his hands into his pockets. It’s a lot easier to keep them to yourself that way.
Obnoxious blinks at him. “Like what?”
“Dry-cleaning for one.”
“Yeah that’s fine.” He says as though that was ever even a consideration. As though Obnoxious is generous for considering the offer.
Kento can’t stand him and yet here he is, shrugging on a black shirt that has ‘sorry I’m so cranky, I’m in my terrible 30s right now’ printed on it. Kento makes sure the print’s on the back before he shrugs his suit jacket back on.
It’s acceptable. Or, it would be, were it not almost forty past eight and Kento has missed his meeting by a miserable ten minutes. He’s ignoring the phone calls for now, while Obnoxious pays for the shirt and chats up the girl behind the counter.
“Hurry it up.” Kento’s patience is wearing thin. “Some of us have jobs to do.”
“Stop being so cranky, Mr. Thirties.”
Kento’s positive that murder would be acceptable under these extenuating circumstances.
/ /
Obnoxious has an easy laugh that turns heads and a sunny disposition which causes people to follow them long after they’ve already gone past. He has insisted he walk Kento to his office which means that many of those eyes unfortunately belong to his department.
Kento hasn’t found an acceptable reason to refuse because the guy hasn’t exchanged contact information with him yet and Kento needs it for the dry-cleaning bill.
“Let me buy you dinner to make up for it.”
His face is so earnest; bright eyes in an otherwise pale face with a mouth curved into a smile that tells Kento he doesn’t believe he’ll say yes.
“Fine.”
It is satisfying to see the smile falter, Obnoxious is not quite so obnoxious now. “Eh?” He blinks at Kento slowly. “Did you just say yes?”
“Nevermind.” Kento keeps his voice level just to see him squirm. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“No, no! Please, I’d love to take you out to dinner!”
His words reverberate across the empty lobby. Several curious looks are thrown Kento’s way but the only one embarrassed is the other guy. It’s an open spill of pink that snakes its way up to his ears to clash terribly with the shock of white hair.
“Uh, it’s only to make up for the… the shirt situation.”
What he doesn’t expect is for the guy to take out a business card and press it into Kento’s hands.
“Is this your formal way of introducing yourself to me?” Kento sounds bemused as he skims over the card; Gojo Satoru. There’s only a phone number on there, not a job description. At least Kento can stop calling him obnoxious now.
“Force of habit.” Gojo grins.
So Kento digs out his own business card and hands it back to Gojo. “I don’t get off work until eight.”
“That late?!” Gojo stares at the card in his hands and he silently mouths the syllables to Kento’s name. “Ah, a senior financial analyst. That tracks.”
“Tracks what?”
Gojo gestures dramatically at Kento’s face. “It explains the dark circles under your eyes. That’s overtime isn’t it? Don’t worry Nanamin, I’ll make sure you’ll have fun tonight!”
Nanamin.
He regrets his decision immediately.
Before he can take it back, Gojo has made it to the other side of the lobby and offers him a quick, wide-toothed grin before exiting, leaving Kento’s quiet groan only for the ears of the handful of women staring at him.
/ /
Yu would have laughed.
Yu would have teased him, asked to see the front of it and buried his face into Kento’s chest, until his laugh was swallowed by the fabric. It’s all Kento thought about when agreeing to dinner: the way Yu’s eyes would crinkle and his mouth would tilt, sweet and red, and laughter would follow straight after.
Kento twists the ring around his finger.
“Nanami-san?”
Kento looks up to meet with the curious eyes of one of his colleagues. She’s not the only one, twin pairs of eyes follow them from three cubicles over, and Kento has a sinking feeling; knows what she’s going to ask before it happens.
“I’m rather busy, Sasaki-san.” He tries for kindness.
“Ah, I was just wondering who the guy in the lobby was—”
“An acquaintance.”
“We just wanted to say—” Her voice is too loud and Kento’s heart clenches too tight, shrivels until it collapses his lungs with it.
He desperately wishes she would not say it.
“It’s good that you’re moving on.”
Moving on.
Kento is well-familiar, too familiar, with heartbreak. It never quite goes away. The band around his lungs tightens so much that his heart has no other place to go, squeezes further into his airways, stealing away air as it climbs into his throat until the broken pieces cut away at his tongue.
He can’t speak. He’ll vomit if he does.
Kento abruptly shoves his chair back. “Please excuse me.”
Sasaki-san turns pale. There’s an apology on her trembling lips but Kento doesn’t want to hear it, wringing himself into the little space available past her, and heading quickly for the doors. Furious whispers cut off the second those doors close behind him.
Toilets. He needs to get to the toilets. He clatters inside, his footsteps echoing across the tiles, slams one of the stalls open with brute force. His hands are trembling, white around the knuckles, as he locks himself inside.
“Breathe.” He tells himself in a voice he recognises all too well but doesn’t sound like his own. “Just breathe.”
He’s immobilised. Mute. Breathing when he’s drowning, breathing when he’s hyperventilating, breathing when he can’t. It’s the only lesson from therapy he has learned to apply, fight against the odds of your own heartbreak; the blood rushing through his ears.
Autopilot. His breathing kicks in in short wheezes, tiny gasps, a gap in his aching lungs. It hurts.
Moving on?
Two years ago, he’d been happily married to a boy whose kindness sprung from every pore of him. A boy who’d run late for work because he’d been caught by helpless wonder for a world who did not want him as bad as he wanted to exist within it. Two years ago there were flowers in bed, breakfast at the table, warm words and I love you Kento’s.
One year ago he’d said goodbye to him. Torn from him by cruelty; a bright spot dimmed and lost and for what? He’s never received an answer to that question. Perhaps because there is none, perhaps because this world picks off those it can, because they’d shown the world was just fine without them after all.
Kento heaves. He spits bile into a piece of toilet paper, tosses it away. He’s had to practise control; a flimsy little thing held only by the confines of his office, trapped in the keys beneath his fingers, because work offered the only distraction Kento had, lest he drown in his grief.
Moving on.
Impossible.
How could she ask that? Why were people so desperately nosy?
It’s as if he never even existed.
As though Yu hadn’t been part of their office Christmas parties. Kento’s sole reason for showing up, dragged off to meet people so Yu could meet them. They’d loved him. So why was it that they’d all forgotten him now? Why is it only Kento desperately keeping his memory alive.
A year.
All condolences had offered one variety or another of it becomes easier with time. But time stands still for Kento; every day is a day that happened three years ago, two years ago, one year ago. Every day feels like there’s needles in his lungs, drowning in their shared memories, pushed under as they cling to his clothes and drag him down. Each day the shore becomes smaller and if anything time makes it all worse.
It’s watching colleagues celebrate first dates, anniversaries and children and knowing none of these milestones are going to happen for him anymore.
There is no boy with a smile like marigolds by his side.
There is only ash in a cold white urn set in a corner of his hallway.
His hands are shaking. He tries to squeeze his hands together and remembers the lines on Yu’s hands, how small they’d been in his, how his voice had never wavered as he told Kento he loved him.
“How can I ever move on?” He asks the empty cubicle, a hushed whisper that feels too personal as it echoes back. “How can I move on when I still love you?”
The walls don’t answer back.
/ /
Sasaki doesn’t return and most of his colleagues take care to avoid him. It suits Kento fine.
By mid-day Kento’s phone vibrates and although he dreads looking at it, he still reads the text.
[unknown]: Hey! It’s Satoru, hope you didn’t give me a fake business card. :)
Kento is about to text him that their dinner is off, that he can’t do it today- except the guy texts faster than Kento can get his fingers to work.
[unknown]: I reserved a spot for us @ 8.30 p.m. close to your office, so you should be able to make it! They serve great cocktails, if you’re interested.
It’s too late if the guy has already gone through the effort of putting down a dinner reservation, it would be bad manners to cancel.
His coworkers can see him. What will they think? Kento with a phone in his hands, distracted; another person lined up. Harder still to ignore the roiling of his gut as he thinks of Yu. The way they’d think he’s moving on.
[Kento]: I’ll see you at 8.30 p.m.
He’s gone through more unpleasant meetings than dinner with an obnoxious guy who’s ruined his shirt. Kento can pretend very well, even with the streaks of red in his eyes, and the hollows in his cheeks. Kento can pretend past the grief.
[unknown]: Great! I’m looking forward to it.
He can even pretend that the text didn’t lift his mood, if only slightly.
/ /
“Nanamin!” Gojo waves him over from a brightly lit sushi display. “Over here!”
Kento prays for patience. “Don’t tell me you’re inviting me to have conveyor-belt sushi.”
Gojo looks quickly behind him, then turns to him with a smile. “Why? Is that not good enough for you?”
He’s teasing him. It’s discomfiting; he takes a small, measured step towards Gojo and is surprised when the guy doesn’t budge, comfortable to be in Kento’s space. “If you want.”
“I’m not taking you to have conveyor-belt sushi, Nanamin.”
Kento scoffs. “Please call me Nanami, Gojo.”
“Ohhh, no honorific? You’re warming up to me!”
Kento neglects to tell him he’s been calling him obnoxious in his head and tacking an honorific onto Gojo’s name seemed inappropriate after that. Then Gojo moves past Kento’s personal bubble and leads him down a narrow couple of steps until he finds himself in the smoky environment of a cosy izakaya.
“I’ve been coming here recently.” Gojo cheerfully tells him and nods to the waiter, who brings them to a table at the back. “Their sashimi is really good!”
This izakaya, with its grey haze and dark wood; a gruff bartender at the helm who nods at them in passing, does not suit Gojo. Gojo, bright and cheerful, is in direct opposition to the grumbling businessmen in the opposite corner; yet they greet him with polite nods as though they’ve known each other a while. It makes Kento feel restless; discomfited by the idea that Gojo wasn’t able to fit the narrow confines of his box.
“I’m sure.” He says instead, sitting down with him and immediately ordering a beer.
The events of the afternoon still linger. Most of the ordering goes right by him while Gojo chatters away at the waiter. Things at work remain awkward; Sasaki has refused to look at him and left without saying a word. Humiliated. He’d feel bad if that remark wasn’t so woefully inappropriate.
They’re all just waiting for him to move on.
He won’t.
“You doing alright?” Gojo says. He’s too focused on Kento, chopsticks in hand; gesturing vaguely at Kento’s food. “You don’t seem excited about the food. Did I pick wrong?”
Of course he’d picked it. Irritation prickles the back of Kento’s neck.
“You realise I can order myself, right?” He says before he finally looks at the food. Karaage and edamame plus some grilled fish.
“You looked like the type of guy who eats meat.” Gojo laughs, but the nervosity scrapes itself over his vocal chords, leaving it high and lilted. “You looked a little out of it so I just—”
“So you just ordered me whatever you wanted.” Kento says coldly. “You don’t know me, Gojo.”
Gojo visibly deflates, teeth pushed over his bottom lip; all that transient beauty and now he looks faded. He pulls back his chopsticks only so he can poke at his sashimi. “Sorry. Wanna try some of mine?”
Kento breathes through his nostrils. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine. I should’ve ordered.”
“Well, you must be tired from work right?” Gojo smiles at him, although it lacks its earlier confidence. It’s a peace offering and Kento feels worse for putting that look on his face. Gojo doesn’t deserve his ire. “I figured you were close to falling asleep.”
If only that were true. Yet Kento takes that graceful exit offered to him and the guilt snakes around his heart. He shouldn’t have snapped at him. This isn’t Gojo’s fault- he’s just, he’s not ready for anything like this.
Moving on.
“I actually do enjoy karaage.” He says awkwardly. “You weren’t too far off.”
Gojo’s responding smile is beaming.
/ /
It was alright. An evening where Kento had let the heat of the alcohol chip away at the iciness he’d let Gojo feel until he’d almost forgotten why it had crept into his voice in the first place. Can’t be cold when your voice slurs, can’t remember when your brain’s clouded. By the end he’d said goodbye, eager to get home, and Gojo had left him to it.
It is a solitary diversion.
But when Kento pushes the door to his apartment open, flicks the light on, and kicks his shoes off, his phone vibrates.
[unknown]: You got home okay?
Kento still feels the aftereffects of one drink too many; that lull in his step; one beat too slow lest he keels over. Gojo had watched him drink, curious eyes above the rim of his glass, but hadn’t partaken in it himself. If Kento were sober, he would have thought it odd for someone like him not to drink.
But Kento isn’t sober. Not by a long shot.
[Kento]: Yes.
Best to address his concern and then let the contact fizzle out.
Bzz. Bzz.
[unknown]: I had a great time. :)
Kento’s not ready. Not at all.
/ /
It isn’t so easy to ghost a man like Gojo Satoru. Kento had already decided that he’d let this interaction be the end of it, had insisted by the end of the night that he’d take care of dry-cleaning himself, but Gojo is persistent.
Weekends are always the hardest for him. Work offers a perfect if boring distraction, but the weekends provide him with ample time to stare at the walls, until they start creeping in on him.
On Saturdays, Kento goes out for walks. His therapist recommended he at least familiarise himself with the concept of open air. She’d also said she thinks it’s good if he’s around people and Kento has pointedly ignored that part of her advice.
Saturday morning finds him out in the drizzle and his phone screen blurs in front of his eyes when he tries to read the text he’s received.
[unknown] 10.34 a.m.: Good morning! I hope you’re not feeling hungover… You hold your liquor really well.
Kento shakes the droplets from his eyes and wonders whether this is meant as an insult. He shoves his phone back into his pocket and resumes his walk.
When his phone vibrates again, he doesn’t pick it up.
Later in the afternoon, hands wrapped around a coffee in another nondescript coffee place (far away from where they’d met), Kento finally braces himself for another ridiculous text.
[unknown] 10:43 a.m.: Did you sleep well? You looked really tired. Don’t let work overwork you, ok??
[unknown] 10:58 a.m.: What are your plans for today? I hate the rain, kinda makes me wanna stay indoors but I’ve got stuff to do.
[unknown] 11:15 a.m.: Can you send me the bill for the dry-cleaning? I owe you that much at least!
At noon, Kento finally relents.
[Kento] 12.06 p.m.: I’m fine. I’m eating lunch at a café. You don’t need to pay me, dinner was enough.
The response is immediate. Kento is convinced the table shakes with the speed of Gojo’s enthusiasm because he gets five texts in return; three of them emojis Kento doesn’t use and two more with questions.
[unknown] 12:09 p.m.: I’m an adult, you don’t need to coddle me Nanamin!
[unknown] 12:10 p.m.: Send me a photo of your lunch!
By one p.m. in the afternoon, Kento’s finally updated the contact so he at least knows who is texting him.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Even if he does send the photo in the end.
/ /
[Gojo] 6:16 p.m.: Please tell me you’re not having takeout. You’re a growing boy, Nanami.
[Kento] 6:23 p.m.: I wasn’t aware that you were concerned for my well-being.
Kento puts the phone down, even as it gives him one pathetic buzz; whining that Kento’s not checking the next three texts in a row. Most of his office has gone dark, automated lights that clicked off one by one the more people left while Kento sits aglow in the corner. His eyes are getting tired, but if he can just get through one more client he can grab dinner.
Then his phone vibrates again. Kento’s fingers itch.
[Gojo] 6:35 p.m.: I can’t believe you’re still at work. You’re making the rest of us look bad.
Kento can’t deny that he likes receiving these texts, small reminders that he’s not entirely alone while his retinas burn out of his skull as he scrolls down his screen.
[Kento] 6:47 p.m.: I wasn’t aware you had a reputation to keep.
His lips tilt when he receives an immediate response.
[Gojo] 6:49 p.m.: I’m hurt. My reputation stands to lose the most of all y’know? I can’t be seen hanging out with the office bully slash nerd.
“Nanami-kun?” He snaps from his thoughts to find his boss staring at him over his desk, eyes glued to the phone in Kento’s hands. Kento flushes. His fingers grip the phone just a little tighter, one quick click and Gojo’s texts disappear from view. “You’re allowed to go home.”
Kento takes it for the gentle reprimand that it is, but is also eager to seize the opportunity to get out of here. “Thank you, sir.”
His boss’ smile is weary but not unkind. “Goodness knows you’ve been here longer than anyone else these days. Hurry on home.”
By now, Kento has well and truly given up on trying to ghost Gojo. His resolve had already crumbled on the first day, out in the rain, trying to make out the small texts through his shaggy hair and blurry screen. He’d tried and failed to take a step back to reassess, to figure out what he was doing, texting a guy he barely knew.
But Gojo is witty. He’s vivid. He’s personal in a way that unexpectedly endears him to Kento. He doesn’t care to text and wait on a response before texting again. It’s refreshing not to be expected to respond. Then there’s the midnight texts which made Kento wonder if, like him, Gojo was an insomniac. Two days ago, after a read receipt, Gojo had sent;
‘I know you’re up.’
It had been three a.m., where he’d been clutching one of Yu’s old shirts and failing to fall asleep. Yu’s scent was slowly disappearing; Kento’s own scent mixing with his husband’s and soon the hands of time would erode it all.
Instead he’d texted;
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
Stop distracting me, he’d wanted to say. Stop bothering me. Stop inserting yourself into my life.
Stop making me feel guilty.
Gojo’s response had been: ‘me too. Guess you had one too many coffees eh? Can't believe you’re still drinking that crap after our unfortunate meeting.’
And just like that, it became easier to settle into bed. He still hadn’t slept, but it had been easier to pass the time with someone who didn’t make him feel bad about being up at this hour nor demanded a reason for it.
Gojo just was.
Kento finds that he enjoys that very much.
So he leaves the office with an excuse he’s happy to use under the circumstances before entering the station.
He flicks his screen open again once he’s sat down and smiles when he finds another text. He lets the lull of traffic, of people quietly flicking through their own phones, the soft murmurs of children, settle him. It becomes easier to exist within a space that seemed to hold no space for a man like him, taken by grief. Most people become wary of men like him, sensing it like disease, repelling it lest he infect them.
Kento is fine being alone these days.
[Gojo] 7:11 p.m.: Ignoring me is rude, Nanamin.
The nickname is persistent. No matter how many times Kento insists on stopping, Gojo manages to find ways to sneak it in. Still, he finds that it’s easier to leave Gojo be. The more he protests the man’s persuasions, the more they stick to him like a summer’s heat.
[Kento] 7:15 p.m.: Boss caught me texting. I’m on my way home right now.
[Gojo] 7:16 p.m.: Oh no!! Did I get Ken-chan in trouble?
Kento’s hands still. He tries to come up with a response but his mind is carefully blank, smoothed over by the appearance of an old nickname, but no less a tender one. It feels wrong coming from another man like this, even in jest. Especially then. The metro turns a sharp corner and Kento’s so distracted he collides with the person next to him, apologising with the slightest stutter in his voice.
It takes him three tries before he gets the words out, misclicking keys and cursing under his breath.
[Kento] 7:20 p.m.: please dont call me that
He breathes out slowly. His station is coming up soon, but instead he’s waiting on a text back, gearing himself up for a fight he won’t give up quite so easily as ‘Nanamin’.
[Gojo] 7:24 p.m.: guess we’re not that close, huh? sorry that was weird, won’t do it again.
Kento stumbles out of the train at the last possible second, snatching his briefcase, and letting out a deep breath into the open air. He was fine, they were fine, it’s nothing. Let Gojo believe it’s about familiarity and not a soft voice that called him Ken-chan during their wedding vows, an entire childhood packed into one endearment, of boys sitting together on a pair of swings before Kento could even put a name to the feeling in his chest.
[Kento] 7:31 p.m.: Thank you.
/ /
The nights are warming up now that they’re well and truly into March and Kento takes care to unwrap his scarf from around his neck as he steps onto the platform. He should be grateful how daylight stretches onward, casting this carriage aglow in shades of orange and red in the resulting twilight, but daylight makes it harder for him to hide in empty offices, lingering until someone tells him to go home.
By the time he gets home, after a quick trip to a combini because bakeries are not open at this hour, it is already eleven. His apartment is cold and dark and Kento drops his soggy sandwich onto the counter, half-eaten. When he fishes his phone from his pocket, he realises his mistake.
[Gojo] 3:17 p.m.: Do you wanna go for coffee?
[Gojo] 3:20 p.m.: If you’re, yknow, not traumatised by the thought of having coffee with me
[Gojo] 4:01 p.m.: You totally don’t have to if you don’t want to! know you’re busy
[Gojo] 4:12 p.m.: You’re probably at work, pls don’t feel like you gotta respond
[Gojo] 4:14 p.m.: Or say yes. You don’t have to do anything, I thought it’d be nice to grab coffee with the guy I’ve been texting with
[Gojo] 4:43 p.m.: Just lemme know, OK?
That won’t do. So Kento calls him.
The phone’s picked up on the third ring. “I’m on my way.”
Kento is not sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. “Excuse me?”
“You’re calling me at midnight, so clearly something’s wrong. You’re clearly bleeding out on a sidewalk or something, just hold on and lemme get to you.”
“Gojo—”
“Good! You still remember my name, that’s great.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure you’re not going into shock?”
“Gojo.”
Gojo’s staticy breathing comes crackling through the line. “Why are you calling me at midnight, Nanamin?”
“I just saw your texts.” Kento walks into his living room, flicks on a light, and settles onto the couch. The sandwich lies forgotten on the counter. “I only wanted to call to confirm.”
“Confirm what?”
Gojo sounds sleepy. There’s a soft lilt to his voice that suggests he’s about to fall asleep and Kento’s guilt is overridden by the fact that he finds it endearing. “Confirm our coffee date.”
“Huh—?” Gojo takes a few seconds, Kento’s fairly certain he can hear him yawn and it’s making him feel drowsy too. “Oh! Oh. You wanna go?”
It’s impossible not to smile at how surprised he sounds. “Yes. I apologise for the delay, I had a lot of meetings today.”
“No, not at all!” Kento hears him fall quiet. “Uh, sorry it’s midnight and all. I’m a bit—” He pauses again. Whatever thought he meant to finish remains in the infinity of their shared phone call; lost to the static. “When are you not so busy?”
“I can do tomorrow.”
“Great! Same place?”
“You sure the barista’s not still mad at you for spilling coffee on purpose?” Kento teases gently.
“I’m a return customer. I gave her a big, fat tip next time I saw her so I think I’m forgiven for being so adorable.”
“Those don’t correlate at all.”
“You don’t think I’m cute?”
“I think you’re very cute.” He means to tease him, but Kento finds that he means it. Gojo is cute.
The silence that follows stretches on for so long that Kento brings his phone to his face to make sure that the line hasn’t gone dead. But no, he’s still calling Gojo. He has been for the past twenty or so minutes as they tick into the dark of night. Perhaps he’d gone too far.
He decides to spare Gojo the awkwardness by talking about the coffee plans instead. “Is tomorrow during lunch fine?”
“Yeah, yeah that sounds great.”
Gojo still sounds a little off but that could also be the hour, even Kento has to suppress another yawn and he’s been a classified insomniac for a while now. “I’m off to bed then. See you tomorrow.”
“Sure. Yeah- see you then.”
When Kento hangs up, he has a strange feeling that he’s handled this wrong but figures he can deal with that tomorrow.
Sleep comes faster than usual.