Chapter Text
When Satoru opened his eyes sometime in the middle of the night, after his impromptu dinner had long ended, he found that he wasn’t alone in his usually cold bed. It took him a few seconds to remember that Ijichi was there with him, sleeping soundly in borrowed pajamas, buried beneath the blanket and resting against his arm. Satoru flexed his hand into a fist and grimaced at the tingling sensation of numbness—Ijichi’s weight had been pressing on it for a while.
His blue eyes settled on the marks that stood out against the neckline of the worn and poorly buttoned pajamas he had lent him. Seeing him in his clothes stirred something in him he couldn’t quite classify, because from the beginning, having him wear his black blindfold or his sorcerer’s jacket during some of their encounters had excited him—but seeing him resting in his expensive, silky pajamas was different. Satoru admitted that although it could be harmless, since convenience colored the gesture, it could also be interpreted as an extension—or, truly, a manifestation—of intimacy. A year ago, the idea of wearing his clothes for something as innocuous as sleeping would probably have embarrassed Ijichi, and Satoru wouldn’t have offered; he would have let him wander around his apartment to enjoy the view, or the thought simply wouldn’t have crossed his mind.
He exhaled, trying to clear his head.
With his free hand, he carefully shifted him until they were face to face. Ijichi was still completely lost in sleep, his usually dark under-eyes softened, his breathing steady and calm—his cursed energy was just as gentle and still, like a quiet embodiment of silence itself.
It felt harmless, almost soothing, amid the constant flood of stimuli that paraded before his Six Eyes—through the grating hum of human energy and the rancid stains left by curses. Ijichi, with his faint cursed energy, his considerate nature, and his unthreatening presence, felt like a rare balm against the noise of the world.
His hand took a lock of black hair between his fingers, watching the strands slip slowly and gather with the rest on his messy head. Satoru gazed at the redness on his skin and ran the pads of his fingers over Ijichi's bare shoulder, deliberately tracing a line that ended in the air. Ijichi didn’t move, nor did he react to the touch, and Satoru remembered that first time, when something as simple as sitting close to him to kiss him had caught him by surprise.
Watching as the assistant unconsciously nestled closer against his chest in search of warmth, Satoru recognized the dangerous quality of comfort—the way complacency and stillness could so easily threaten the delicate equilibrium of his chosen detachment.
⟣ ♡ ⟢
The first sign that everything had been a mistake appeared in the morning and was subtle: a simple act of service that, though perhaps more eager than usual, Satoru didn’t give much thought to. After all, Ijichi was always quick to lend a hand; it was one of the few things—besides sex—that made his cursed energy come alive, pulsing joyfully beneath his skin.
When Satoru opened his eyes on the morning of December 8th, he found himself staring at the white ceiling of his room and an empty bed. But unlike the day before, the empty side of the bed was still warm. He stretched as he sat up, and when he stood before the mirror to brush his teeth, he noticed the slightly damp washcloth hanging by the sink—a subtle reminder of Ijichi’s presence.
When he finally stepped out of his room, having gone through the usual morning routine, he found Ijichi in the kitchen, cooking. Satoru took a seat on the barstool, watching him move with effortless grace, only breaking his concentration long enough to offer a warm, gentle “good morning.”
“Ooh, what’s this?”
“Tamagoyaki and rice,” Ijichi explained, his voice unexpectedly shy as he placed a plate of food in front of Satoru.
Ijichi stepped back, and Satoru watched him return to the counter to start washing the few dishes.
“Forget that, come eat instead.”
“Sure, I’ll clean up later,” Ijichi nodded, rinsed his hands, and grabbed a plate before sitting next to him at the counter.
The sound of the barstool scraping echoed through the apartment. Satoru turned back to his meal, savoring the homemade, genuinely nourishing flavors.
“Where’d you get this?”
“The rice was in your pantry, and I went out to buy eggs.”
“Oh, I didn’t even hear you.”
“Yeah, you seemed tired, and I didn’t want to wake you. Sorry if it was too forward, but I took the keys because I didn’t want to be left outside.”
“Ah, it’s fine.”
“I wanted to make breakfast to thank you for inviting me.”
“Well, having something decent to eat every now and then isn’t so bad.”
Ijichi smiled and took a bite of his portion.
Satoru did the same. His uncovered eyes focused on the reddish marks on Ijichi’s neck. The hickeys, though a few hours old, still looked fresh, standing out against Ijichi’s pale skin.
Ijichi glanced at him from the corner of his eye, blushing and lowering his gaze to his plate, while covering his neck with his hand.
“I’ll cover them before work,” he said, removing his hand to continue eating, his ears hot and his cheeks flushed.
Satoru licked his lips, feeling a tingle on them. He leaned in slightly and pressed a soft kiss to the side of Ijichi’s neck, gently sucking on the skin before pulling away just enough to admire the new mark layered over the others.
He leaned in and brushed his lips against his skin again.
“No, wait. They’ll show, and—” Satoru ignored him, opting to give his ear a light bite and was about to kiss him again when Ijichi blurted, “Nitta saw them.”
Satoru’s eyes widened, pulling away and taking a bite from his own plate as if nothing had happened. Ijichi looked sideways, his fingers brushing the mark on his neck, clearly embarrassed.
He tried to imagine what Nitta would have thought if she knew those marks were his doing. He’d once overheard her telling Ijichi that he was an idiot, a rude one, who didn’t even deserve to lick the soles of his shoes. She’d ended it with advice to not talk to him more than necessary. It was like how Nanami saw Ijichi—believing he was a helpless being and a victim of Satoru in every sense.
“And what did she say?” Satoru asked, to which Ijichi raised his eyebrows slightly, as if he didn’t understand.
Ijichi watched his hand take hold of the collar of the pajama he had lent him.
“About this,” Satoru clarified, tugging at the round collar of the silk shirt.
Ijichi stared at him, wide-eyed for a long moment before responding.
“Nothing,” he replied. “She said nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“She said I should cover them up,” Ijichi clarified, poking at the rice on his plate and mixing it with the tamagoyaki. “That day I had meetings with Principal Yaga and some officials, and... well, I didn’t realize until she pointed it out.”
The image of Ijichi walking around with hickeys on his neck struck Satoru as too funny.
“It’s not funny,” Ijichi complained, scrunching his face and turning bright red, swatting Satoru’s shoulder—though it didn’t stop him from laughing.
“Such a clutz,” Satoru teased, which only seemed to annoy Ijichi more. “She’d probably be mad if she knew I was the one who did this. She hates my guts.”
“Nitta’s a good person. I don’t think she hates you,” Ijichi said, gently contradicting him. “She just… doesn’t like you very much.”
“Same thing.”
“No. She thinks you could be nicer, that’s all. She doesn’t actually hate you.”
“To you?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, she hates me—” Satoru cut himself off when Ijichi frowned, clearly tired of hearing him say that. “She doesn’t like me because she thinks I’m mean to you, doesn’t she?”
“Maybe. But I don’t think it’s about that. Not everyone gets along. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Do you agree?”
“About what?”
“That I’m mean… to you.”
Ijichi froze at the question, visibly startled. Then he shook his head.
“No. I don’t.”
Satoru smiled, but it was more of a dry chuckle that barely reached his eyes. He knew better. He had been mean, sometimes still was. But Ijichi was the kind of person who made a choice to see the best in people, even when they didn’t deserve it.
“Maybe Nitta’s right,” Satoru murmured, looking down at him. There was something flickering in Ijichi’s eyes. “I should try being nicer… And you should try being meaner.”
“I don't think I can pull it off.”
His gaze lingered for a long, quiet beat before drifting lower, to the soft skin of Ijichi’s neck. Satoru reached out, fingertips brushing along the faint marks he’d left there. Ijichi drew in a sharp breath, then stilled, silent, letting the moment stretch.
“I’ll lend you something to cover them.”
“I can wear a scarf.”
“Mmm, no. Better a turtleneck. That way you won’t have to worry about it shifting.”
“Do you think…?”
“...that someone noticed the hickeys?” Satoru finished for him, and Ijichi nodded. Satoru pretended to consider it for a moment before saying, “Probably, yeah.”
Ijichi flushed at the thought, and something in Satoru gave a faint twist.
“I’ll be more careful,” Ijichi promised, leaning his elbows on the counter and looking at his reflection in the faux marble surface.
“It doesn’t matter,” Satoru said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
And it really didn’t. Even if the entire school saw the marks, it was irrelevant. It wasn’t like anyone could piece together the truth just from something so inconsequential.
“Still… it’s not appropriate.”
“What’s wrong with getting a little action?” Satoru teased, clearly amused—he knew Ijichi often got embarrassed over things that were perfectly normal and harmless.
Ijichi was horrified by the crudeness of how he’d put it. But really, if Nitta had seen the marks, or Nanami, or anyone else—it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like Ijichi owed anyone explanations about his personal life.
He rested his cheek in his hand, trying to hide the lingering blush.
Satoru popped a bite of rice into his mouth, shooting one last glance at the fading hickey on Ijichi’s neck—his work—before dropping the subject.
“About the clothes…”
“Oh, right. They’re in the dryer, but I should probably head to your place anyway. They’re probably all wrinkled by now.”
“Besides, I can’t show up to work in civilian clothes. It's unprofessional.”
Silence followed. The only sound in the room was the soft clatter of chopsticks against ceramic.
Satoru picked up his phone and started clearing out the endless stream of meeting notifications flooding his screen. From the kitchen, he heard the quiet rush of water as Ijichi began washing the dishes.
He was just about to complain about how many meetings they had lined up when he noticed Ijichi standing behind him.
He set his phone down and turned his head just in time to see Ijichi leaning in, wrapping his arms around Satoru's bicep and resting his cheek on his shoulder. The fact that Satoru could feel the warmth of Ijichi’s flushed face against his skin made him feel a strange tingle, like a mix of discomfort and secondhand embarrassment.
“Thanks for having me,” Ijichi said softly, not pulling away. “And... happy birthday.”
“Thanks,” Satoru murmured in a casual tone, but flat and detached. He didn’t move, and although he didn’t push Ijichi away or shake off his arm to cut the gesture, he didn’t respond.
He didn’t do what he would normally do and stayed still, not opening the door. After a few seconds, Ijichi slowly pulled away, lifted his head, and gave him a confused look mixed with what Satoru believed was disappointment in his cursed energy.
⟣ ♡ ⟢
When breakfast at Satoru's house came to an end, they dressed and prepared to head to work. Just like that time in Ijichi’s apartment after three days of confinement, Satoru felt that strange sense of realization—that the domesticity of their dynamic felt… different. More distant from the dynamic of two people who had shared a hookup, then shared a meal before heading off to their separate lives. Like those first times he’d gotten up from Ijichi’s couch, like much of the past year.
Though a certain level of comfort in a situation like this was understandable—and even expected—Satoru wasn’t sure what to think. He had never slept with the same person more than twice—maybe three times with some of his fleeting lovers from bars, but he rarely bothered to remember the details of those encounters, which he sought out whenever he needed to relieve stress. He had no frame of reference. Beyond never having had a formal relationship with anyone, he had never been in a situation like this before.
He didn’t like it. Even though the afternoon in the apartment had been entirely defined by sex, and Satoru had never been shy about it, this time felt… weird. There was something about it that felt unusual, like they were standing on the edge of something—something that he wasn’t entirely sure belonged in their kind of relationship, something dangerously close to a line that shouldn’t be crossed.
It wasn’t just the hug he had given him, nor the tremor in his cursed energy when he said it, it was how sweet he had been, how sugary, loving.
So, acknowledging his partial responsibility, he realized that he’d have to guard this space carefully. To keep everything in place, Satoru knew he’d have to stick to the basics of the agreement, which was just casual sex and the occasional nap, maybe some meals or coffee—but no talking about personal lives, no comforting hugs, or kisses.
The issue was, he knew that if he said anything—no matter how gently he phrased it—Ijichi would turn into a mess, a bundle of nerves and tears. And if there was one thing Satoru had never learned to handle, it was tears. They still irritated him, not as much as they had in his adolescence, but he could never be sure that he could offer the comfort Ijichi might need. Yet he also couldn’t just look the other way.
He lifted his gaze from his lap and looked at Ijichi, offering him a soft smile. His cursed energy hummed with a lively, almost cheerful tone, despite the fact that in the morning, he was sure he had been disappointed when he didn’t get what he wanted from that hug.
He thought about what he had said in the morning about the marks and also considered that if anyone ever found out, both of them would be in trouble, but especially him. He scoffed thinking about what Nanami would say, though he’d probably just look at him disapprovingly while lecturing him about regulations or repeating how bad he always was with Ijichi.
He blinked and decided to focus instead on the image of Ijichi getting dressed in the middle of the room, adjusting the piece of clothing he had lent him to make sure the red marks on his neck were covered. The black turtleneck he had lent Ijichi did an excellent job of concealing the hickeys on his neck, as well as accentuating the line of his pronounced collarbones and his delicate long arms.
“Nothing shows, right?”
“No.”
Satoru exhaled, deciding to give Ijichi the benefit of the doubt before doing or saying anything. He knew there was a chance he was overanalyzing things—reading too much into simple gestures that might just be normal for a kind, considerate person like Ijichi, who usually went out of his way to give as much of himself as he could. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.
He just needed to keep his eyes open. As long as things stayed normal and nothing crossed the line or settled too close to pushing his boundaries, there would be no need to say anything.
⟣ ♡ ⟢
"I brought you something for the road."
"Oh, thanks."
Satoru took the crumpled paper bag Ijichi handed him when they met the following morning. Inside was a simple offering: mochi along with a strawberry matcha latte. While it could be interpreted as a thoughtful gesture, it could also be something without much thought behind it, since Ijichi had ordered a matcha croissant and a black coffee for himself.
It was cold, and that day was what Satoru called an "office day"—filled with endless meetings to give reports and review statistics in PowerPoint presentations in some conference room. Someone would read a report, and then they’d exchange almost rehearsed dialogues in formal language.
The definition of "could’ve been an email," one Satoru wouldn’t have read anyway, or one Ijichi would have casually mentioned in passing, a quick comment at a red light just to fill the silence.
Satoru ate the mochi with a simple "thanks," while shoving the good morning note into his pocket and crumpling it up, deciding not to think too much about it. He told himself that Ijichi's innocent gesture didn’t mean anything beyond what it appeared to be.
⟣ ♡ ⟢
The second sign was something not very subtle, but still harmless at first glance: a box of cookies. But unlike Nanami's, these weren't a form of blackmail, but rather appreciation.
Satoru had spent the afternoon dealing with the most boring parts of being the head of the Gojo clan, because even though he could avoid it most of the time, every now and then it caught up with him, and that afternoon had been one of those moments. When he returned to his office on campus, he came across two curious things: the first, that Ijichi had apparently done him the favor of completing his mission reports; the second, that there was a box of cookies from a bakery he didn’t recognize.
He didn’t give it much thought. After all, Ijichi always did things for him, and to think that he was trying to convey something with such a simple gesture might be a bit too unfair, so he didn’t.
Instead, he sat down to eat the cookies as a late snack while reviewing his schedule full of missions and meetings.
⟣ ♡ ⟢
The third sign was something less subtle, though it was open to interpretation. Satoru wanted to believe it was for other reasons. It was Sunday, and although they weren’t supposed to spend so much time together without something physical between them—especially in public, without the excuse of working together—Ijichi had insisted that Yuta needed help and that he needed new things to bring to Kenya.
Satoru would never say no to a shopping trip to spend money and buy things.
The next unauthorized trip abroad for Yuta seemed to be one of the things occupying Ijichi’s mind. So, even though Satoru felt that maybe, just maybe, Ijichi was trying to be sweet with him, he also doubted it when he saw how absorbed Ijichi was in other things that had nothing to do with him, like work or Yuta’s situation.
It wasn’t that Satoru didn’t care or that it didn’t matter to him, but he knew everything would be fine. He trusted everyone involved, and although the higher-ups weren’t people he thought it was wise to underestimate, he doubted they could do anything once everything was said and done. Maybe on another occasion, he would think Ijichi was overthinking it, but at the same time, seeing him essentially show dedication to something that wasn’t directed at Satoru gave him comfort and made him think that maybe those red flags were only in his mind.
So, that Sunday, Satoru had invited him to his apartment, and almost like on his birthday, they barely spoke after Ijichi mentioned something about the cost of flights, which was just pocket change for him. Ijichi, like every time, simply melted under his touch, and although Satoru wanted to find something different, to detect some abnormality or excess attachment, there was nothing. In the end, they had just gotten dressed while talking about the final travel details for Yuta. Satoru had half-listened while combing his hair and deciding which glasses to wear that day.
On the way to the mall, nothing strange had happened either. Ijichi drove as usual, while his cursed energy seemed to vibrate contentedly, but not excessively. Satoru watched his calm and serene demeanor as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his black coat.
By the time he snapped back to reality, Satoru realized they had spent a few hours buying some essential things like suitcases and clothes for the vastly different climate in Kenya. That was also one of the issues that caused him conflict, because when Ijichi stayed within the clear boundaries of their relationship and didn’t get overly affectionate, his company felt pleasant enough to spend hours together, but when he didn’t, Satoru became irritated with him.
“You seem to have everything covered,” Satoru remarked from one of the seats in the shoe section.
Ijichi just turned and nodded while examining another box of shoes, making sure it was the correct size.
“It’s important that he has everything for his stay.”
Satoru exhaled, a little bored, but didn’t complain.
He just observed the intensity of Ijichi’s dark gaze as he checked the list on his phone. Ijichi had told him on the way there that he’d asked Yuta about his personal style, and that had struck him as so funny that he hadn’t even heard the rest of the conversation, thinking about how ridiculous that exchange must have been.
“Looks like we have everything.”
"Great," murmured Satoru as he noticed the collar of the corduroy jacket Ijichi was wearing was crooked.
He stretched out his hand and fixed it, earning a glance from him that made him blush slightly, before he lowered his gaze back to the list.
Satoru almost laughed, until he realized that the jacket Ijichi was wearing was his, and he hadn’t lent it to him.
⟣ ♡ ⟢
“Usami-san has some missions assigned in Tokyo, so the departure point will be Shin-Yokohama Station, and you will head to Nagoya together by train.”
“You’re handling the logistics for Nagoya? I thought that was Ijichi’s job. The higher-ups always dump all the supposedly important missions on him,” Satoru commented, skipping over the part where he acknowledged that it was basically their way of punishing Ijichi for not-so-subtly ‘working’ for him.
Masato looked up from the papers in his hands without breaking stride beside Satoru.
“Only the logistics and expenses. The mission details are still between HQ and the Assistant Director. Ijichi-san has too much work, and I wanted to help out—he looked really stressed the other day,” Masato explained as he followed Satoru to his office. “And his time could be better spent on more urgent matters.”
“Got it.”
It was still fairly early, but with the Nagoya mission looming, Satoru couldn’t afford to slack off as usual.
He let Masato in and dropped into his ergonomic chair in front of his usually cluttered desk. But it wasn’t covered in scattered papers, pens, or the post-its where he doodled when he was bored—it was clean and perfectly organized. And right next to his laptop sat a bento box he didn’t recognize, but he instantly knew was meant for him—and also knew exactly who it was from, thanks to the neat, straight handwriting on the small note on top that read “Good morning.”
"Gojo-san."
Satoru looked up from the bento box and realized he’d gone quiet, just staring at it. He let go of it and peeled off the note on top, waving it lightly in the air as he gestured for the assistant to continue speaking.
“Well, you were saying?”
Masato glanced briefly at the small piece of paper, then lowered his eyes back to the documents in his hands.
"As I was saying, the mission will start from here. There’s only one major change, and that’s due to Usami-san’s commitments—it’s been delayed three days from the originally estimated date. No confirmation is needed from the requester since it’s a mission sanctioned by HQ…"
“Yeah, right.”
"Gojo-san."
"I’m listening."
But Satoru wasn’t listening. The only thing he could focus on was the uncomfortable feeling creeping over him from the fact that he could tell Ijichi had written the note twice—the first version ending in a little heart, pressed so firmly it had left an imprint on the note beneath. Even though the second version just read a simple “Good morning” with a little sun doodle, the original message still lingered like a shadow beneath it.