Chapter Text
Mid-summer, 2005
Tap, tap, tap.
You’re somewhere unfamiliar. The sky’s a little brighter than it’s been all summer over Jujutsu High’s Tokyo campus, washed in a soft blue that makes everything feel just a bit too normal. Your knuckles are pale in comparison to the usual red on your skin — left over from hours of sparring. It kind of looks like your old middle school, but bigger and louder and packed with faces you don’t recognize.
Tap, tap, tap.
Some of your new friends are there — the ones from your new school. But something's... off. Gojo’s suddenly taller, towering over you in a way he wasn’t just a few days ago. Geto’s hair is much longer, and he’s quiet in a way that makes your stomach twist. And Shoko... she smells like cigarettes now, almost like she’s been smoking for years. It all feels real — the air, the sounds, the ache in your shoulders — but none of it is the way it should be, the way it is .
Tap, tap, tap.
Your eyes open, with a start, focusing on the sounds coming from the door. You rub the weight from your eyes and turn toward the bedside table. The old alarm clock you brought from home blinks back at you, the red numbers a little too bright in the dim room.
3:17 AM.
“Coming,” you say groggily, sliding into a pair of slippers and making your way to the door. The floor is cool against your bare feet.
You swing the door open, and there he is. One of your classmates, but the real one this time. Not the off-version from your dream, with hollow eyes and a too-quiet mouth.
His arm is still midair, like he was about to knock again. “I’ve been knocking for a while,” he says softly, almost like he’s afraid to wake the hallway.
“Geto,” you breathe. “What are you doing here?”
“Sorry,” he murmurs, gaze flicking down to your torso. That’s when you realize — the tank top. Thin straps. Bare shoulders. Cleavage. His eyes drop to the floor, like the hallway suddenly got really interesting.
“I just got back from that thing they sent me on with Shoko,” he says, voice low. “But I don’t wanna sleep.”
You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself more out of habit than modesty. “Well, you can’t be here.” It comes out sharper than you meant.
“I know,” he says, taking a few steps back. His hands slip into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders drawn up like he’s bracing for a no. “Walk with me? Please?” He nods toward the door that leads out to the fields.
You hesitate, your fingers tightening around your arms. The air’s cold for a summer night, and so is the look in your eyes — but not for long.
“You’re buying me lunch tomorrow,” you mutter, already turning back inside. “Let me grab a hoodie.”
He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding. Doesn’t say anything, he just waits in the hallway.
You pull the hoodie over your head, the fabric still warm from where it sat folded on your chair. It smells like your room at home still — detergent, a little lavender, and something faintly burnt by your dad in the kitchen. You tug the sleeves over your hands and step back into the hallway, door clicking softly shut behind you.
Geto doesn’t say anything, just glances at you and starts walking. You fall into step beside him.
The corridors are quiet. Everyone else is asleep. The kind of silence that only exists past midnight, where the world feels more fragile.
Outside, the air bites at your skin, cool and sharp. The grass is damp beneath your slippers, and the field stretches out like a shadow under the moonlight.
Neither of you speak at first. You walk side by side, your arms tucked into your sleeves, his hands still buried in his pockets. The only sound is the soft crunch of gravel and the distant hum of campus lights.
Finally, he says, “It was hard.”
You glance at him. He’s staring straight ahead, like if he looks at you he’ll fall apart.
“I figured,” you say gently.
He nods. Swallows hard. “I kept thinking about coming back. About seeing someone who… wouldn’t ask me to explain it.”
You stay quiet. That part, you understand.
He stops walking, and you do too. The trees ahead sway slightly in the breeze, tall and dark against the pale sky.
“I didn’t wanna be alone,” he says. “But I didn’t wanna talk either.”
You look at him. “So… you picked me?”
He finally meets your eyes, a small, tired smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the only one I’d want to say nothing with.”
“It’s alright,” you say softly. “It’ll be better in a few days.” You’re not sure if it’s true, but it’s the only thing you can offer. The only thing that feels safe to say.
He doesn’t respond right away. Just shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes still distant.
But when he speaks again, his tone’s lighter.
“We’re still going to Shinjuku this weekend, right?” he asks, elbow nudging you gently in the side.
You nod. “Gojo wants us to try that new bakery that opened up on the corner.”
He huffs a laugh. “Imagine how much money his dentist makes off his cavities.”
“He probably just blinds them with his eyes and skips the bill,” you mutter.
“That’s not even a joke, that’s probably real.”
You walk past the field, your steps quiet against the damp earth. Up ahead, the faint outline of the baseball diamond comes into view, tucked near the edge of the boys' dorms. It’s hard to see in the dark, but the soft glow from the school’s main building spills just enough light to make it feel safe.
“You know,” he says, pulling his hands out of his pockets, fingers flexing in the cool air. “I actually really like it here.”
“Yeah,” you reply, your voice low. “Me too.”
“I mean—” he pauses, eyes trained on the path ahead, “—when we moved in back in April, I was so hyped. Like, I thought I knew what to expect. But then school actually started, and everything hit at once. Training. Missions. I don’t think I was used to… my body hurting all the time.”
You let out a soft laugh. Yeah. That part still surprises you too.
“But,” he goes on, glancing at you, “I’m glad I met you. I mean—” he corrects quickly, “—you guys. All of you.”
You smile, not bothering to correct him.
“Yeah,” you say. “I know what you mean. I’m glad I met you too.”
You look up at him.
He’s only slightly taller than you — just enough that you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes, if he ever let you see them. But right now, his hair falls in loose strands around his face, just past his shoulders, hiding most of it in shadow.
It moves a little with the breeze, brushing against his jaw. You wonder if he notices, or if he’s too caught up in whatever he’s thinking to care.
For a second, you consider brushing it back for him.
You don’t.
Instead, you tuck your hands deeper into your sleeves and look forward again, pretending you didn’t feel whatever that was.
“Hungry?” he asks.
You glance up briefly.
The boys' dorms have two vending machines on the first floor. Everyone knows that. It's the unofficial late-night pit stop — the place you all end up when the cafeteria food is disappointing or training’s left you too wrecked to make the trek for anything better.
“Yeah,” you say, “I could eat something.”
Before you even shift your weight, his hand wraps around your wrist, unthinking, like muscle memory. You don’t pull away. Instead, curiosity flickers in your chest. You glance down and tug up your sleeve with your free hand, just a little, like you need to see it to understand it.
His fingers are warm. Steady. There’s no pressure in his grip.
“Come on,” he says, already turning toward the dorm entrance, still holding onto you like this is something the two of you have always done.
You feel the cool rush of the air conditioning the moment you step inside. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead fills the quiet, and your slippers make soft, muffled sounds against the tile.
He doesn’t let go of your wrist until you’re halfway down the hallway — not that you mind.
The vending machines glow at the end of the corridor, casting soft blue and orange light across the floor like some kind of cheap, modern campfire.
“Nah,” you shake your head. “I don’t want a sore throat tomorrow.”
He snorts. “You sound like Shoko.”
“Well, one of us has to be the responsible one.”
“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically, crouching down to scan the options. “Guess I’ll eat my feelings alone.”
You roll your eyes but step up beside him anyway, peering into the vending machine like it holds the answers to life. It doesn’t — but maybe a bag of chips will do for now.
You point to the bag of Lay’s tucked in the corner slot. “That one.”
He follows your gaze, nods, and punches in the numbers. The machine whirs to life.
Sleep starts to pull at you again, soft and heavy, wrapping around your limbs like fog. You blink slowly, shoulders sinking just a little.
“Getting tired?” he asks without looking at you, focused on catching the chips before they drop too hard.
“A little,” you murmur. “Thought I was past it, but… guess not.”
He straightens up, chips in hand, and glances over at you. “You always look kind of half-asleep.”
You yawn, not bothering to hide it. “Thanks. I try.”
He grins and hands you the bag. “C’mon. Let’s go sit. Just for a bit.”
And even though the hallway is cold and the machines are humming and your bed is calling, you follow him anyway.
He walks a few steps up the stairs and drops down onto a middle step, resting his elbows on his knees. Without thinking, he uses his teeth to tear open the wrapper of his popsicle, the plastic crinkling softly in the quiet.
You follow, settling beside him with the bag of chips rustling in your hands. You fish one out, pop it into your mouth, and chew slowly, the salt waking your senses just enough to keep your eyes open.
The stairwell is still. Dim light spills in from the hallway, casting soft shadows on the floor. Neither of you says anything for a moment — just the occasional crunch from your chips and the faint, wet sound of him biting into the popsicle.
It's peaceful in that odd, late-night kind of way. Not quite awake, not quite dreaming. Just enough.
You glance at him. “What flavor?”
He looks down at the popsicle, then at you. “Blue. Always blue.”
You hum in response, barely audible, and rest your head lightly against his arm. He stiffens just a little — not because he minds, but because he wasn’t expecting it. After a second, he relaxes.
You feel him turn his head to look at you, the subtle shift of his weight beneath your cheek.
“You’re really pretty, you know,” he says. He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but didn’t stop himself either.
You stay still for a beat, lips parting like you might say something back — but nothing comes out.
“…Thanks,” you whisper, voice barely above the hum of the vending machine behind you. “You’re really pretty, too.”
That makes him laugh.
“Pretty, huh?” he repeats, glancing down at you with a lopsided smile. “That’s a new one.”
You shrug, your cheek still resting against his arm. “Felt accurate.”
He doesn’t argue.
Instead, he leans back against the stairwell wall, popsicle balanced loosely in his fingers, and lets the silence settle again.
“I’m sorry if this is weird,” he says after a while, voice quieter now. There’s a hesitation there — not nervous, just careful.
You pause, fingers brushing the bottom of the chip bag. Almost empty.
“What’s weird?” you ask, not looking at him yet.
There’s a beat.
“Can I kiss you?” he says. “Please, I really want to kiss you.”
He doesn’t say it like a line. Doesn’t try to make it cool or clever. He just says it like it’s the only thing that feels true in this moment — like it’s been sitting on his tongue all night.
You finally look up, your eyes meeting his, and everything feels still again. The hallway is quiet, the air still. Even the hum of the vending machine feels distant now, like it’s waiting too.
You don’t say anything right away. Just study his face — the way his bangs fall a little into his eyes, the faint color in his cheeks, the way he’s trying so hard not to move unless you give him something back.
Your fingers crinkle the chip bag as you fold it closed, setting it gently beside you on the step.
“…Okay,” you say, so softly it barely counts as a word. “You can.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he asked.
And then he leans in — slow, careful, like he’s afraid he’ll break the moment if he moves too fast. His hand brushes your cheek, thumb tracing just below your eye, and you close the distance between you both without even thinking.
The kiss is soft. Hesitant, at first. Then warmth takes over your body.
It’s not perfect — his popsicle hand is still a little cold and your hoodie sleeve gets caught between you for a second — but it doesn’t matter. Because in that moment, everything else fades.
You pull apart a minute later, your breath just a little uneven.
“You taste cold,” you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips.
He huffs a laugh, eyes still half-lidded as he leans back against the wall again. “That’s the popsicle. Blue. Premium flavor.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Tastes more like a potential brain freeze.”
He grins, that lazy, sleepy kind of grin that only shows up when he’s too tired to pretend. “Still kissed me anyway.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite behind it. “Yeah, well… I wanted to.”
He doesn’t say anything to that — just looks at you like you’ve handed him something delicate, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it yet. So instead, he bumps his shoulder gently against yours.
“C’mon,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “I’ll walk you back.”
You glance at him, not quite ready for the moment to end, but you nod anyway. “Okay.”
He stands first, offering you a hand without thinking. You take it, and he pulls you up with an ease that makes your chest feel warm in a way that has nothing to do with body heat.
You both toss your wrappers into the bin on the way out, your footsteps echoing softly in the stairwell. The vending machines hum behind you as the door clicks shut, sealing the quiet moment between their glowing lights.
Outside, the night is still cool, the campus quiet. The path back to your dorm feels shorter now, like the space between you has shifted — something small, something subtle.
You walk in step, side by side, fingers brushing now and then but not holding. Not yet.
And when you reach your door, he stops, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze lingering on you, like there’s something he wants to say but hasn’t figured out how.
You step forward, hands resting on his shoulders as you press a soft kiss to his lips.
“Goodnight, Geto,” you say, pulling back.
You’re halfway through closing the door when he calls your name, voice barely above a whisper.
“You know you can call me Suguru,” he says.
There’s a beat. Then a sheepish smile tugs at your lips.
“Goodnight, Suguru.”
You close the door the rest of the way, the latch clicking gently behind you.
In the quiet of your room, you tug off your sweatshirt, letting it fall to the floor, and slip back into bed.