Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Despite Nanami’s best efforts, it seems his situation with Gojo has turned from semi-frequent to regular hook-ups. It seems that every time Gojo comes over, they end the night wrapped around each other on the couch, or pressed together under Nanami’s high-thread-count sheets.

The worst part is, it isn’t entirely Gojo’s fault. Nanami is weak; just one pointed raise of a brow or calculated flutter of the eyelashes and he finds himself reaching for Gojo, pulled out of his focus and into his orbit without a thought.

It’s stressful, but it feels inevitable in a way that he doesn’t want to think about. Being careless like this goes against every instinct he has, but he can’t find it in himself to give this up just yet.

Tonight is no different; he’s somehow found himself in bed with Gojo on a Thursday night instead of preparing for the madness that is Friday mornings.

It feels different than usual tonight. It’s not sloppy and rushed, or playful and teasing—it’s…intense. Gojo kisses him with a slow heat that leaves him gasping, struggling to keep up and not disappear in the feeling. Every moment is taffy, stretching sweet and thick, and they get lost in the process, minutes passing by with just the slide of their lips, the warm puff of Gojo’s breath on his cheek.

“Gojo—” he gasps when they finally separate for a moment, but Gojo sinks his face into his neck before he can continue, his teeth grazing that sensitive spot near the crook of Nanami’s neck that makes his head go fuzzy. He’s as frustratingly good at this as he is at everything else.

Nanami is burning, Gojo’s hand leaving a trail of heat as it slides down over his jaw, down his spine, lower, and lower. The other one stays cupped behind his head, holding him close, almost possessive, tipping him forward to meet his lips again and again.

It feels different, but he can’t figure out how, can’t focus on anything as Gojo takes him apart painstakingly slowly, pulling away just far enough that their foreheads touch as he presses Nanami into the mattress. He can barely manage to keep the embarrassing sounds he’s making to a minimum, quickly reaching the point that he doesn’t care anymore.

He’s growing closer and closer with every stroke, body tight and hot all over when Gojo leans down and gasps into his open mouth “Kento.”

Nanami comes with a full-body shudder, arms wrapped around Gojo like a vice.

He expects Gojo to tease him for it afterwards, braces himself for it when Gojo slumps over him breathing heavily, but it never comes. Instead, Gojo slips out of bed without making eye contact, disappearing into the bathroom without a word.

He emerges with a damp cloth in his hand and an unreadable expression on his face. Nanami raises an eyebrow, trying not to betray the nerves coiling in his stomach. “It’s about time you be the one to clean up,” he says, nodding towards the towel.

Gojo doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he leans over Nanami and quietly wipes at his torso, movements slow and gentle. When he’s done, he places the cloth on the bedside table and crawls into bed, tucking himself into Nanami’s side. Nanami just makes space for him, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. He finds he can’t speak.

Gojo presses his face into Nanami’s neck, and Nanami leans into the warmth, closing his eyes. He lets the steady flow of Gojo’s breath calm his racing thoughts, lulling him into sleep.

When he wakes, Gojo is gone.

The “something different” seems to be extending outside the bedroom to Nanami’s growing confusion.

Gojo has always been the more expressive one between them, quick to wink and drop a flirty line, or to throw himself over Nanami’s shoulders or lap in inopportune moments. Now, however, he’s gotten strange about it. Where once, the little touches had come easily and frequently, they’re replaced by tense shoulders and aborted movements, a hand extended and then yanked away, a head on the shoulder quickly withdrawn.

They’re watching a movie one night, some period piece that Gojo claims has excellent reviews. Ever since he’d discovered Nanami’s secret love for cheesy foreign period pieces, he insists on watching them every so often on weekends.

Typically, he makes annoying comments and coos any time something romantic or corny happens just to try and embarrass Nanami. Today, he’s quiet, sticking to his side of the couch, eyes fixed on the laptop.

It’s distracting how not-distracting he’s being.

Onscreen, the leading lady, whose name Nanami has been too preoccupied to remember (Catherine? Caroline?), stands on her balcony dressed in a gaudy gown. She clutches a note from her love interest to her chest, head bowed melodramatically. Next to him, Gojo is tense and quiet.

Nanami gives up. “Is everything alright?”

He doesn’t face Gojo--the question is an admission enough--but he sees him start in surprise from his periphery.

“Yes! Why do you ask?”

“You’re quiet.”

“Just enjoying the movie!”

At this, Nanami turns his head, eyes narrowed. “Enjoying the movie?”

Gojo’s face is the picture of innocence. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” Nanami turns his eyes back to the screen, but his mind still wanders. He hates indirectness--conversations are best when they get straight to the point. Gojo is clearly lying, which is annoying on its own, but worse because Nanami can’t figure out why.

The leading lady (Claire? Camille? Cassidy?) is weeping now, gazing down at her love interest who has somehow appeared in the garden below her. I fear I cannot be content with just your friendship, he’s saying, arms extended up as if he can reach her, my heart yearns for you. It starts to rain. Gojo is still silent.

“Have I done something to upset you?” Nanami asks through gritted teeth. He hates this, sounding like he cares.

“What are you talking about?” Gojo asks. It’s notably not a no.

“You have nothing to say about this?” Nanami gestures to the screen, where the love interest is scaling the balcony, drenched in rain water.

Gojo smiles, the ridiculous wide one he does when he’s about to say something false or irritating or both. “Aw, Nanami, I knew you loved my commentary!”

Nanami ignores him. “You’re sitting all the way at the end of the couch.”

“As opposed to?” Gojo raises an eyebrow. Nanami stalls.

Perhaps he’s been presumptuous. Countless evenings with Gojo sprawled around his apartment, poking his way into every routine had made him lose sight of the reality of the situation. A reality he had promised himself in the spotless glass of his bathroom mirror that he wouldn’t forget: This is not a relationship. Maybe, in losing sight of that, he’s made Gojo uncomfortable.

“Right,” he says. The word tastes sour. He turns back to the screen.

The couple is locked in a passionate embrace now, as if they’re taunting Nanami. Carmen (or Cassandra or Clara) pulls back, hand covering her mouth. I can’t, she gasps, I’m engaged. Her love interest wraps his arms around her. I don’t care, he declares, and they start swallowing each other’s faces again. Nanami fights the urge to roll his eyes, suddenly disenchanted by the whole thing.

He smells a hint of Gojo’s cologne before he feels Gojo’s sharp chin dig into his shoulder. “How come you never kiss me like that?” Gojo asks, and it’s in the mocking tone Nanami has grown accustomed to.

Nanami’s lips twitch in spite of himself, shoulders relaxing a fraction though the irritation still lingers. “I’m not sure I would call that kissing.”

Gojo tilts his head forward so he’s in Nanami’s field of vision, batting his ridiculous eyelashes. “What would you call kissing? I learn best by example.”

Nanami groans to conceal his growing smile. “That was terrible,” he says, but he’s cupping Gojo’s face in his hands anyway and bringing their mouths together.

He starts the kiss gently, just a press of the lips, pulling back a little when Gojo tries to press forward. Then, the smallest touch of his tongue against the seam of Gojo’s mouth, dipping inside when he opens up for him. He holds Gojo’s head steadily between his hands, pressing firmly enough that Gojo is still, kissing him with the steady intensity he knows Gojo likes.

Gojo melts into his touch, inhaling sharply through his nose when Nanami’s thumb brushes against his cheekbone, so Nanami lets a hand slip to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He pulls away when his chest starts to burn for air and sits back.

Gojo’s face is flushed, eyes a bit glassy. His lips are swollen and slicked with spit, and his chest is heaving. It’s a hollow victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“Um. Yeah,” Gojo says dumbly, the answer to a question no one asked.

Nanami fights to keep his expression neutral, turning instead to face the screen. “Shall we finish?”

“I’ll be honest,” Gojo says, “I don’t really care what happens with Lady Catherine.”

Ah, so it was Catherine, Nanami thinks to himself. Out loud he says, “Oh?” Gojo’s hand is already on his thigh.

“Nanami.” He sounds impatient.

“Yes?” Nanami knows he’s being stubborn, but he feels like he has some kind of point to prove. Gojo makes a frustrated noise and wraps his arms around Nanami’s neck, sliding into his lap. He’s on him before Nanami can react, cutting off his snarky comment before he can open his mouth.

This kiss is hungrier, Gojo’s hands sliding into his hair, then sliding down to scrabble at the buttons of Nanami’s shirt. Nanami’s dip under Gojo’s sweater, palming desperately at the curve of his lower back.

He feels a bit crazed, pushing up to meet Gojo when he rolls his body into him. Something inside him is cracking open, spilling out into the slide of his lips, the heat of their chests pressed together. It’s a bittersweet feeling, but he savors it anyway; this is all he can have, so he’ll take everything.

When Gojo rocks into him again, Nanami slides his hand under each thigh, securing his hold before lifting him up off the couch entirely. Gojo breaks the kiss, gasping in surprise, and Nanami moves his attention to his neck, tracing his way to the sharp jut of collarbone.

He tries not to trip on the way to the bedroom, bumping into walls on the way and getting stuck there for a few moments, distracted, but eventually they make it. He drops Gojo on the bed as carefully as he can manage and pauses for a moment, looking down at him.

He can hear faint strains of the movie from the living room, some swelling instrumental. The light from the hallway casts a yellow glow across Gojo’s flushed skin, his sweater rumpled and creased, riding up to expose a sliver of his torso. There’s that mole on the curve of his hip bone, Nanami’s personal favorite, and his eyes, his eyes--

“What?” Gojo asks, voice impatient. He props himself on his elbows, grabbing at Nanami’s shirt. “Come on.”

“Nothing,” Nanami says, and his voice is hoarse. He leans forward, bringing his lips to the mole, tasting it as he hooks thumbs fingers into Gojo’s waistband. Gojo groans, threading his long fingers through Nanami’s hair. He’s wearing his black briefs, Nanami discovers, the ones that he once bragged made his ass look “irresistible.” Nanami had inwardly agreed and outwardly mocked him.

He runs his hands over the elastic waistband now, following his fingers with the drag of his lips before pulling back, ignoring Gojo’s protest. He tugs on the bottom of Gojo’s sweater. “Take this off.”

Gojo does so without hesitation, tossing it somewhere off to the side, eyes never leaving Nanami, tracking him as he sheds his own clothes. It’s addicting being the object of his focus; Nanami wonders how he’ll ever go without it.

He runs his hands lightly over Gojo’s sides, smiling a little when goosebumps rise in their wake. As much as Gojo claims to like it rough, he always seems most affected by Nanami’s softer touches.

Now is no different; he twitches under the attention, hands moving to grip at Nanami’s shoulders. Nanami runs his hands back down over his thighs, slipping them back up to dip under the bottom of his briefs. He presses a kiss to his inner thigh, then another, then another.

“Nanami.” Gojo’s voice is stretched thin, tense like his fingers digging bruises into Nanami’s deltoids. Nanami just hums, continuing his slow trajectory up Gojo’s thighs, avoiding the tented fabric of Gojo’s briefs and continuing up his quivering stomach. It’s the only way he can express the feeling bubbling in his chest, the only way he knows how.

By the time he reaches his neck again, Gojo is panting, and Nanami can feel the vibrations of Gojo’s stifled moans against his lips. He decides to be merciful then, bringing Gojo’s mouth to his and, at the same time, pressing his thigh down between his legs.

Gojo’s answering moan escapes into his mouth, tongue swirling eagerly around Nanami’s as he rolls into the pressure. Nanami holds him steady, keeping control of the kiss as he presses up again and Gojo pulls away at that, tucking his face into Nanami’s shoulder. “Please,” he gasps, and Nanami knows what he’s asking for, even if he doesn’t say it.

He makes quick work of pulling off Gojo’s underwear, reaching towards the bedside table for a familiar bottle. Gojo sits impatiently as he coats his fingers, pulling him back down before he can even put the bottle back.

In the far background, the faint strains of the orchestra fade away. Underneath him, Gojo tenses and shivers as Nanami works him open slowly, one finger at a time. When he’s ready, they come together slowly, like something inevitable. The feeling in Nanami’s chest spreads, filling his whole body with a warmth that feels so good it hurts. It’s all he can do to hold on, grounded by the place on his shoulder where Gojo has his lips pressed.

He can feel himself teetering close to the edge, so he noses at the sweaty hair of Gojo’s brow, pressing a kiss there. “Gojo,” he says, “Satoru. Look at me.”

Gojo turns his head then, and Nanami’s breath stills. Gojo’s face is flushed, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, eyes lidded and glassy. He looked wrecked, almost as lost in it as Nanami feels. He’s beautiful.

He feels it when Gojo comes, his eyes clenching tight and his forehead tilting forward to meet Nanami’s. Nanami follows not long after, muffling his cry in Gojo’s mouth.

The room is quiet, the movie long over, only the distant sounds of the city mingling with the sounds of their breaths. Nanami knows he should pull himself up, clean them up, but he finds he can’t move, can only pull Gojo closer with shaking arms.

It’s foolish to love temporary things, he knows, he knows. But what can he do but savor this? What can he do but curl into Gojo’s warmth, enjoy the feeling of his body under him, his arms wrapped around him like he doesn’t want to let go either? If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine a world where Gojo wants this too. He can almost imagine a world where there are no curses, no escape plan, just work in the morning, breakfast, bills, late nights on the couch.

It’s foolish to love temporary things, but just for tonight, Nanami lets himself play the fool.

When he wakes in the morning, Gojo is gone. Nanami closes his eyes and tells himself it doesn’t hurt.

They don’t talk about it, just like always.

If Gojo comes over more often, that’s just because his schedule allows it. If Nanami takes a little less work home, that’s because it’s the off season. If they share most dinners together, that’s just because Nanami had bought double the portions anway, and he’d done that because of the buy-one-get-one-free deals. He loves a good bargain, nothing more, nothing less.

Self-denial is a vice Nanami knows well, and he carries it with practiced ease, ignoring the growing sense of dread that lingers after every visit. He’s not sure when his imminent departure started feeling less like a comforting escape and more like a looming deadline, but he ignores this too; there’s no sense in wasting energy worrying about things that won’t change.

Instead he focuses the energy on his routine.

It goes like this: He wakes up. He eats. He works. He eats. He works more. He goes home. He meets with Gojo. They eat. They fall asleep. He wakes up (alone).

It works for him. He doesn’t want anything more. He can’t want anything more. There is no use in wanting anything more. It doesn’t make sense to want anything more.

It’s hardest to believe it in the mornings, when his apartment is quiet and his bed is cold.

It’s a few months later, when the summer is giving way to the wispy beginnings of fall, that Gojo is called away on another long-term mission. Two-and-a-half weeks in Hokkaido, dealing with what seems like a cluster of curses in the area.

“Normally they’d send a few grade ones,” Gojo explains, “but we don’t have enough, so I’ll have to handle it.”

“Hmm,” Nanami hums noncommittally.

“Will you get lonely while I’m gone?” Gojo drapes himself dramatically across Nanami’s lap, dislodging his book from his hands. Nanami sighs and places it on the arm of the couch, giving up on trying to focus.

“No.”

Gojo frames Nanami’s face in his hands, his own face creased in mock sympathy. “Don’t try to be strong, Nanami! It’s okay to admit it: you’ll be lost without me here.”

“I think I’ll manage fine.” Nanami fights to keep the smile out of his voice as Gojo pouts dramatically. “I might actually be able to get work done.”

“You mean you’ll waste away, working yourself into the ground to distract yourself from the heartache of my absence?” Gojo’s hands slip around the back of his neck now, and he rests his head on Nanami’s shoulder. He looks ridiculous, lanky legs spilling off the side of the couch as he drops his full weight on him. All Nanami can do is hold him in place so that he doesn’t roll off and make a mess of the coffee table.

“You flatter yourself.”

“Don’t worry Kento-chan,” he coos, poking at his cheek. Nanami swats at his hand, but there’s no heat behind it. “I’m always a phone call away if you miss me.”

“Don’t call me that. And I won’t.”

He does. He hates to admit it, but he does. He misses Gojo enough that it worries him, the same hair-raising feeling when you realize you’ve left an opening for your opponent in a fight. He’d known he was edging into dangerous territory, but this is an entirely different beast.

It’s much more noticeable how much he thinks of Gojo when the actual man isn’t there demanding his attention. There’s no one to blame it on but himself when he pours himself a glass of wine and almost reaches for the sparkling cider. No logical reason for why his weekends feel empty, or why he sits at the very end of the couch, or why he finds himself lying awake at night, wishing for the warm weight of a familiar body.

Even worse, without Gojo’s presence to distract him, the full force of his hatred for his job washes over him every cursed day. His mood sours exponentially; even Hashimoto-kun gives him a wide berth, voice stuttering when he has no choice but to ask for help. His productivity, as predicted, is excellent, but even the faint sense of satisfaction he used to get on payday feels dry and meaningless.

When he finds himself staring blankly at the screen, wondering how he’s done this for four years, he decides it’s time for a break. It’s only eleven, but he shrugs on his blazer and slips his wallet into his pocket, heading out for an early lunch.

The convenience store is blessedly empty as he heads towards the back where the sandwiches are displayed, wrapped in neat plastic behind foggy refrigerated doors. There’s only one thing that can shake him out of this funk.

His eyes scan the shelves, first listless, then again with urgency, then another time, desperate. No.

Taking a deep breath, he makes his way briskly to the counter in the front where a pimply teenager is leaning against the register, lifeless eyes fixed on his phone.

“Excuse me,” Nanami starts, voice level despite his rising alarm, “do you have any casse croutes in stock?”

The teenager shakes his head, gaze never leaving his screen. “Nah. We don’t sell those here anymore.”

“I see.” The kid continues his scrolling, unaware that he has sent Nanami spiraling into darkness and despair. This convenient store is the perfect distance from Nanami’s job, not so far that it takes long to get there, and not so close that he’s likely to run into any coworkers. Their casse croutes have gotten him through years of corporate hell, and now they’re gone.

This is it. The final straw.

Slowly, he turns, the hiss of the sliding doors ringing in his ears like a dirge. He can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed by his dramatics. The impermanence and meaninglessness of everything washes over him, sinking his thoughts deeper and deeper into the areas of his mind he tries to avoid. What is the point? Year after year of suffering and he can’t even have the simple joy of his favorite sandwich? Has he not lost enough?

Just as he’s deciding whether or not to go without lunch entirely, his eyes catch on a bakery sign down the street. The building is small and unassuming, but it’s familiar. He had been a regular there his first year on the job, enjoying the freshness of a bakery sandwich over the prepackaged monstrosities that could sometimes come from the store.

The food was delicious and the workers were kind, but Nanami had stopped going after he spotted a small flyhead taking residence on the cashier’s shoulder. Exorcizing it would draw too much attention to him, but being greeted warmly every day by someone who he was actively choosing not to help was even more unappealing, so Nanami had started avoiding the shop a couple weeks after he first spotted it. He had resolved himself never to return, but this is an emergency.

The jingle of the doorbell does little to raise his mood, but the smell certainly helps. It’s warm, sweet, and inviting, much like the smile of the woman behind the counter. She’s the same as ever, flyhead still perched on her shoulder, though the bags under her eyes seem more pronounced.

Her face lights up in recognition as he steps up to the counter, and she reaches for the casse-croute before he can say anything. “You’re back!”

He doesn’t bother confirming the obvious.

“I’d wondered where you went. Casse-croûte as always!” She slides the sandwich across the counter, and he brings a hand up to accept it, staring down at it for a moment. Something about the little wrinkled mound of carefully wrapped plastic, the carefully layered slices of meat and vegetables, the sloppy placement of the sticker, brings a lump in his throat. He stands, momentarily immobilized by the horrifying urge to cry.

“Are you alright? Are you getting enough sleep?”

Nanami keeps his eyes fixed on the sandwich, unsure how to go about answering. His mind is whirring, everything he’s been holding back for all these years piling on top of each other and pushing to the surface. This damn sandwich. That damn flyhead.

“What about you?” he manages “You look like your fatigue’s been building up.”

The woman smiles sheepishly, bringing her hand up to the affected shoulder and rolling it with a wince. “Ah, you can tell?” The flyhead on her shoulder’s eyes bulge and gleam, but it doesn’t move. “Lately, it feels like there’s been a weight on my shoulder. I haven’t been sleeping well either.”

And that’s just it isn’t it. She’s tired because of a problem that Nanami is perfectly capable of solving, but has chosen not to because he wants to protect his normal, the normal that is slowly chipping away at him every day just like the curse that’s wrapped around her shoulders. He’s worn himself down on some selfish mission to escape, working day in and day out for people who he doesn’t respect, making money for people he respects even less.

He knows he’s trapped, knows that he had the choice between two variations of the same situation. He just thought he’d chosen the better one, the one with a more tangible end date. He goes to work, grits his teeth through his coworkers’ small talk, moves some money around, makes some calls, and goes home. And he hates it. He hates it so much more than he’d allowed himself to realize, hates the way it makes him feel like he’s worse than useless.

The moments that follow feel paradoxically like a blur and like the clearest he’s had in years. His mouth moves without permission, thoughts spilling out in a small mini-monologue that is probably triple the amount of words he’s ever exchanged with this woman before. She seems confused and a little weirded out, but he doesn’t care because all of sudden he understands.

The act of killing the flyhead does nothing for him, but the woman’s immediate look of relief and wonder that follows releases something deep inside himself he hadn’t known was clenched, like he can breathe for the first time in years. Oh, he thinks, this is what I’ve been missing.

Because no matter where he goes or what he does, the world is still the same cruel place that took his best friend. Still the place where generations of young people will follow him to the same fate, the place where humans will work their lives away every day, vulnerable and oblivious, trapped in deadly cycles of their own. There’s no stopping it, no controlling it. All he can control is himself.

He knows what he has to do.

Gojo picks up on the second ring. “Hello?” His surprise is evident, even through the crackle of the line; it’s the first time Nanami has ever called him.

“Hello, it’s Nanami. I need to talk to you.”

“In person?” Gojo sounds even more thrown, cautious almost.

“Yes, I’ll be stopping by Jujutsu Tech tomorrow.”

There’s a pause, and then Gojo laughs, loud and unrestrained.

Inexplicably, Nanami has to fight back a tired smile so it won’t be audible over the phone. Ugh. He missed him. “Why are you laughing?”

“You always surprise me.” he says, and Nanami can’t parse out the emotion behind it. “So have you finally accepted my education agenda?”

“No, I still don’t think that will work. I’ll be working professionally ideally.”

“Through Jujutsu Tech?”

“I imagine I’ll get most assignments there, yes.”

“I see.” The line is silent for a moment, and something uncomfortable drums behind Nanami’s ribcage.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Nanami says finally. “You’ll be back by then, right?”

“Right,” Gojo says, and there’s something Nanami can’t place in his voice. “I’ll see you then.”

He picks a tan suit for his meeting. He wants something new, something he would never have worn to his office job. The tie is fitting too; it’s his, it’s something he’s chosen.

The meeting goes smoothly; despite his mixed feelings about Yaga, he can always appreciate his firm professionalism. A few months of training and evaluation for his grade, and he can go right back into the workforce.

When he leaves the office, Gojo follows him out, matching his pace as he walks down the familiar hall. “I’ll walk you out,” he says to Nanami’s raised brow.

Nanami hums noncommittally, though inside, his stomach coils uncomfortably. This is new territory, and he dislikes feeling unprepared. The silence feels loaded with something he can’t name, and he can’t take it anymore.

“I didn’t come back because of you.” He pauses, adjusting his goggles, still not used to how they feel on the bridge of his nose.

“I figured as much.” Gojo shrugs, smile not faltering. “Wouldn’t be like you.” There’s something almost fond in his tone, familiar. “Why did you though?”

The question gives Nanami pause. How can he explain the feeling that rushed through him at a simple thank you? How can he put into words the way he realized, in that moment, just how lost he had been? “I came back because I’m better served here.” It’s insufficient, but it gets the bulk of his meaning across. His answer seems to satisfy Gojo, who hums in reply, a small smile playing at his lips.

“I see.” He pauses, a pensive look on his face, before turning towards Nanami with a blinding grin. “I like the suit.”

Nanami scoffs, but can’t help himself from reaching up to adjust his collar. “Thank you.”

The silence is more bearable then, lighter, and Nanami finds himself feeling oddly disappointed when they make it to the bottom of the steps. He pauses, unsure of what to say, but Gojo speaks again before he can figure it out.

“You’re really coming back,” he says, and though it’s not a question, Nanami hears the hint of doubt.

“I am.”

“Permanently?” Even behind his glasses, Nanami can feel his stare.

“For the foreseeable future.” It’s not a promise, but it’s as close to one as Nanami can give.
It seems to satisfy Gojo, who nods, a small smile on his face. “Good,” he says, “good. I guess I’ll see you on Monday then.”

Nanami falters for a moment. “Yes. Monday.”

It’s Saturday morning, and Nanami feels off for reasons he is trying not to think about. His attempt to distract himself by cleaning his already clean apartment has predictably failed, so he finds himself wiping fruitlessly at the gleaming coffee table, lost in his thoughts.

Everything has shifted; his pinstripe suits moved to the back of his closet, papers from work stuffed in the trash bin--he’d quit without even a two-weeks notice. There’s one aspect of his schedule, however, that a part of him is hoping won’t change.

Gojo had said Monday. Which was fine. It had been several weeks since they’d seen each other, and they were technically colleagues now, which raised a host of issues that he hadn’t even begun to unpack, but part of him had hoped--

The cloth squeaks under the pressure of his clenched fingers, and he cuts himself off before his thoughts can move in a more foolish direction. He has purpose now. He has a job that gives him a sense of worth, a direction to move in, something to hold onto. Why does something still feel off?

A knock on the door interrupts his brooding, and his head snaps up faster than he’d like to admit. He makes himself walk with a steady pace to the door, places his hand on the knob as calmly as he can, pretends he can’t feel the rabbit of his pulse.

When he opens it, it’s Gojo.

“Nanami!” He’s smiling, but there’s something tense about it, almost nervous. The sight of him on the doorstep, hands in the pockets of his day-off pants, settles something that had been roiling inside him all morning.

“Gojo.” He smiles, stepping aside to make space in the doorway. “Come in.”