Chapter Text
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Everything about you, everything you are, has always been pretense, never genuine, never real.
Thomas Bernhard
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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; there ain’t a lot of people chomping at the bit to leave Tokyo for a place like rural Miyagi. It seems you’re either born here, or you end up here by accident; Suguru can’t imagine anyone wanting to live here. As if his arrival isn’t weird enough on its own, 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 ends up being some rich kid conglomerate heir showing up with literally zero explanation, no matter how desperately people search the tabloids. Up against that, Suguru may have been willing to bet on the yakuza theory.
As if the peculiarity of his arrival isn’t enough fodder for the rumour mill, there’s also the way he looks.
Gojo Satoru’s features are… unique, to phrase it more politely than some of his classmates. The prick is so tall it's a little obnoxious; maybe not quite 190cm, but pretty damn close. He has a full inch (and maybe then some, though he’ll die before admitting it) of height on Suguru, who already towers over basically all his peers and most adults.
Okay, it's a lot obnoxious. Suguru maybe sorta has a bit of a chip on his shoulder about no longer being the tallest. And maybe Shoko is not helping by pouring salt on the wound. She’s getting him back for somewhere around a decade of short jokes and loving every second.
And then there’s the hair. 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’s a prodigy too. Because of course he is. 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.
He plays on his phone and stares out the window and every time one of them decided to try and call him on it, he came back with an answer that could’ve been pulled word-for-word out of a university lecture.
He interrupts class to correct people —doesn’t matter if it’s the teacher or another student, if he thinks you’re wrong then you’re gonna know about it. He‘s pedantic as fuck and refuses to accept the ‘lies’ of simplified answers. Bastard goes ahead talking about concepts they haven’t even covered yet, sometimes experimental ones that probably wouldn’t even be covered in a recent textbook — let alone a third year senior high science class.
The teachers eventually stop bugging him about staring out the window instead of at the board. He keeps his interruptions to a minimum. It’s a tedious balance.
But that tedious balance just isn’t enough for Gojo Satoru. Top marks and being the genius overshadowing all the regular people just isn’t enough. Not for Gojo Satoru. He’s also the sole heir to some big enterprise, and his family is richer than god, and instead of going to some fancy private school for other snotty spoiled brats so he can network, or spit on the poor, or whatever those fuckers do for fun, he’s here — at some dinky school in rural Miyagi! Pulling up and leaving every day with his own personal driver in some sleek black SUV like he’s a fucking celebrity or something. Looking down on people, walking around like he’s too good for everyone. Acting like the entire school and all its students are so far beneath him they aren’t even worth acknowledging unless it’s in the form of an insult.
Every single bit of it pisses Geto off to no end. Call him a hypocrite, he does not care — he knows he’s no saint, he knows better than anyone how much of an asshole he can be when he gets stressed or frustrated. Especially in the safety of his mind.
The thing about Geto Suguru 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. He’s always respectful when speaking 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.
It’s a lot of effort, being a nice person. He’s constantly fighting off his natural reactions and plastering a polite smile over even the shittiest of moods. His life could be a lot easier, but he’s a decent person who actually gives a shit about how he’s perceived by others, thank you very much.
The idea of just waltzing through life like a bull in a china shop the way Gojo Satoru does isn’t just foreign, it’s distasteful.
People like Gojo Satoru piss Suguru off by the mere nature of their existence. Simple as that. There’s nothing he hates more than the people born with a silver spoon in their mouth who walk through life as if the world owes them a favour. The ones who expect everyone else to fall to their feet in awe at their mere presence — who talk just to talk, and don’t care who they’re interrupting or stepping on or being a dick to when they do.
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.
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 Satoru opens the door with absolutely no care for the fact that he’s interrupting the beginning of a lesson. Yaga sighs, makes no comment as Gojo 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, but 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.
Suguru grits his teeth, forcing himself to loosen the white-knuckle grip he’s got on his own pen. He turns his attention wholly to Yaga instead of the bastard he is unfortunate enough to sit behind, trying to ignore the itch under his skin every time he hears Satoru lose his grip and drop his pencil against his desk.
It’s a long fucking day and it isn’t even halfway over. Time seems 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 finally arrives, Suguru is out of the classroom before Yaga can finish reminding them about their next assignment’s due date. He’s got it nearly finished anyways, and he hasn’t handed in a paper late his entire high school career. Yaga will get over it. He can say he was feeling nauseous if he gets called on it, but he knows he won’t.
Another second listening to the tapping sounds of Gojo’s sneakers against the linoleum floor and he is going to go bonkers. Shoko isn't waiting for him by the classroom doors and when he glances in her homeroom he sees her talking to the teacher. He heads for the vending machine and decides to meet her up 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.
He makes his escape and of course, the devil follows. The other 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. It’s annoying just to listen to her speak.
Suguru wonders if he’s really all that thirsty.
“Held up by Yaga.” Gojo says it like he’s bored. He talks as if 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 and get 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 he knows 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. Unless you count Suguru and his seething hatred for his mere existence, rooted more deeply in his bitterness over no longer being top of the class and actually having some competition in P.E. Though his personality obviously does not help.
He talks, but not unless he’s interrupting a teacher or making some smartass comment that usually ends up 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 interrupts the poor girl’s attempt, dramatic and drawn-out.
“I mean, I haven’t—“
“Is that not what you were gonna say?” Gojo cuts her off again, his tone making it clear the question is entirely rhetorical. “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 even quieter, so soft Suguru has to strain to even hear it. Not that he should be eavesdropping on this poor girl’s failed confession, but he can’t help himself. 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, as he can only assume Gojo grabs whatever sweets she offered alongside her feelings and leaves her there dumbstruck.
The footsteps 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 Suguru. 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 sunglasses, Suguru can’t even tell if the guy glances in his direction.
Yeah, because obviously Gojo Satoru is the type of dickhead to wear sunglasses everywhere, all the damn time, even inside. Why would you ever think anything different? Even now that they're in the shade, the blackout glasses stay on, hiding a pair of bright blue eyes that are apparently as striking as the rest of his features. Or so Suguru has heard, for some goddamn reason. Just like his hair; also natural, also information that Suguru gained unwillingly.
Every so often his glasses slide down his nose, or Geto catches a glance of his side profile, and he gets the slightest peek at stupidly long white lashes or even a sliver of blue. But he’s never seen them totally uncovered, and he’s never seen Gojo take the sunglasses off. Not even during P.E.
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, more interested in reading the little flavour sheet than he is 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 him, turning on his heel to look at him head on. Probably. Suguru still can’t see his eyes, but he’s now shoving the little pamphlet back in the box, “Certainly not me.”
Suguru has to resist the urge to whack him upside the head, only 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, he 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 deadpans, 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 bothered to spend half a second learning anything about me but my name and whether my hair’s natural.” His laugh is dull, sounding more like disbelief than amusement, “You think a single one of those girls who are being oh so vulnerable could tell you a single thing about me besides my exam scores? As if. They couldn’t even tell you what my favourite colour is.”
They don’t give a shit about me.
Gojo doesn’t actually say it, but the words ring in the silence between them as if he did.
Suguru is taken aback. He's expecting Gojo to roll his eyes and walk off. Maybe cuss him out, maybe. But ultimately, he would decide Suguru’s opinion and commentary weren’t worth a response. He’d walk away cackling with his chocolates and his gigantic ego unbruised, as if the mere atoms around him repelled any attacks, verbal or otherwise.
Instead, there’s something defensive in the way he whips around and snarls his response. Like a cornered housecat, not a lion. His tone is snappy, as if he’s throwing insults. Maybe he thinks he is. Something in his outburst douses the flames of anger in Suguru’s chest.
He can’t put a finger on what it is about the 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, the prick, throws gasoline back on the fire and then stalks off, leaving Suguru there to scoff at his back. He shakes his head, muttering a few less-than-kind words under his breath as his finger 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 fucking soda.
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Another thing Suguru knows, this time through sheer observation as opposed to eavesdropping; Gojo Satoru 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. And yet despite all this slacking, his stupid name sits in the number one spot on the page of their latest exam scores. A spot that had belonged to Geto Suguru for the first almost two-years he attended high school. A spot he fucking lost the first round of exams Gojo participated in, and still has not managed to regain.
Today, Gojo skips the whole damn afternoon, which is honestly a plus for Suguru’s day. In fact, Suguru 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, a verbal indication of her success, 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 huffs, taking a pull of his cigarette. He doesn’t 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 she uses to talk about herself in the third person far too often, “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 constantly claiming 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, unsurprised.
“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 raises 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 on with her infodump.
“He gets like, a confession a week. At least. I’ve heard the record is three in a single day. 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 mutters, 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, “Plus… I mean, he was literally on a magazine cover last year. The guy is one pretty motherfucker. Like. Inhumanly pretty.”
“Seriously?” He deadpans, shooting her an unimpressed look. She just shrugs, unfazed.
“I’m being unbiased here. I don’t even like men, but I can still admit to the fundamental truth.” She says, tone as casual as if she’s commenting on something like the weather. To her, she probably is. Suguru on the other hand has been working very hard to ignore the visual aspects of Gojo Satoru. It just pisses him off even more that someone so pretty has such a shit personality.
“Whatever you say, Shoko.” His tone is one of clear sarcasm, punctuated as he takes 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 rolls her eyes, fake gagging. Suguru’s face heats up at the reminder of that one time she opened his laptop on movie night to some more than a little incriminating tabs. And yeah, if he bothered to push past the embarrassment enough to remember what exactly it was that she saw, maybe he would have to concede that Shoko might just have some weird, crazy idea in her head that Gojo Satoru could possibly fit pretty well into the little box labelled ‘Suguru’s type’.
And yeah, maybe she’s right about that. Much more right than Suguru wants to admit to himself. But she certainly doesn’t need him to confirm it.
“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.”
“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 got some sort of immature joy out of pissing her off.
Geto doesn’t like to think about it too hard though, because then he had to admit that yeah, Utahime in particular is pretty fun to piss off. She just gets mad so easy! There’s literally no bait she won’t chomp at the bit for! But at least Geto doesn’t make a habit of doing it himself, he just appreciates the moments when they naturally occur.
“Too late,” Shoko retorts, her fingers not slowing down in the slightest, “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. Her laughter dies down surprisingly quickly.
“He did, did he?” Shoko suddenly slips her phone in her pocket instead of waiting for a response like she usually does. 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 scoffs, “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. Fucking hell, 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. Or maybe psychology is exactly where she belonged.
“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 doesn’t do all of it because he likes it, but because it's all he knows.”
Suguru just stares at her when they finally come to a stop, blinking a few times.
“Have I ever mentioned I’m really glad we’re not enemies?”
Shoko slugs him in the shoulder with a sharp grin.
“Oh shut up. Go chill out, I’m sure Gojo Satoru isn’t gonna blacklist you from the job market or something just cause you told him to be more polite.” Shoko is already halfway down her driveway, not giving him the chance to come up with a more intelligent retort than flipping her off. She just 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’s thinking back to his conversation with Gojo again.
if they bothered to spend half a second learning anything about me but my name and whether my hair’s natural
His tone was snappy. Haughty. But his words weren’t. They were almost… resigned? Maybe not. There was something else, something other than just annoyance or anger or ego lingering in Gojo’s tone that Suguru’s brain is having trouble identifying.
Shoko’s words ring in his mind. Forced into the spotlight. Is that seriously how Satoru 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 had in knowing exactly who the boy was, 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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