Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Train outbound for Tokyo, now boarding at platform three."

Your mother kisses your wind-chapped cheeks in the winter sun, hands you your bento, and makes you promise to call once you’ve settled in. She tugs on your scarf, and you squeeze her hand as hard as you can.

You pick a window seat so you can wave to her as the train pulls away from Kagoshima station; you hope she doesn't see the tears that begin to well as the distance between you two grows. You crane your neck to watch and wave over the back of your seat as she gets smaller and smaller and smaller. You feel like a child ushered onto the school bus for the very first time, sent off into the unknown, and torn from the safety of your mother's love.

You wind your arms around your bag as your lip wobbles; the bento, still warm, is like an anchor in your hands. 

She promised she would be okay.

You argued with her last night — like a warrior making her last stand. 

"You will be alone,"  you'd snapped over dinner, "What sort of daughter am I, leaving you so soon after Papa died? It's wrong. I should spend the engagement here—"

But, she wouldn't hear it. 

Your mother knew you would sacrifice everything if it meant her happiness. Your mother knew you'd put everything on halt, just as you did with your father's health. Work, friends, dating... All of it, put on the back burner to grow cold. 

You were so fiercely devoted to your family — and Chiyo Taika wondered how she became so lucky in this life. The cards were always in her favor. Even now she feels that way as she watches the train carrying her only child wind away into the distance until it's nothing but a spec on the horizon.

You grip the bento tight, lean back into your seat, and exhale tightly.

By mid-afternoon, you'll be in Tokyo.

You drop your head back against the seat and screw your eyes shut. Your tears do not fall.

All of this is happening too fast. You feel like you can hardly catch your footing. 

One second, you're shaking Satoru Gojo's hand for the first time. The next week, your mother receives a call from the Gojo Clan seeking her input on updated terms of the arrangement — which she did all while gripping your arm, a finger to her lips to urge you to be quiet, while on speaker phone. 

Sneaky.

The newly agreed-upon terms seemed straightforward enough; there was to be no dowry, and an amendment made to the timeline of... childbirth. Those changes, the man on the phone said, came from Satoru Gojo himself.  From the sounds of it, the clan heir wasn't budging, and agreeing to his (no room for negotiation) terms was the only way this marriage would even take off the ground. 

And that  was much farther than the clan ever got with Satoru Gojo on the topic of marriage. So, a win is a win. 

You shouldn't complain. 

The fine print meant that your mother would be brought into the fold of the Gojo Clan and looked over financially. She could stay in Kagoshima if she wished, or if she wanted to be closer to you in Tokyo, she was welcome with open arms. 

Your engagement to Satoru Gojo would last six months to a year pending the usual, official, formal announcement. If all went to plan, the wedding would be held — at the latest — this time next year.

In the meantime, Tokyo was going to become your new home.

More specifically, Satoru Gojo's three-bedroom apartment in Shinjuku Ward. 

Why he's renting out three bedrooms  in Shinjuku is beyond you — I mean, we get it, you're the Heir to the Gojo Clan. But, c'mon. Isn't that a little excessive?

(You snooped. Of course, you snooped. You were laid up in bed, boring holes into your phone screen in shock. Between the two available unit layouts you saw listed for rent, they were both close to 700k yen a month. Who even  has  that kind of money?)

The train rattles you back to the current moment. Your phone in your back pocket buzzes.

Ijichi? Is that, like, his butler?

He would have a butler.

You hit send — and then hesitate. Is that too dry? Too formal? What if he thinks you're boring? Or... stale? 

Wincing, you send one more message before locking your phone and tucking it into the front pocket of your bag.

Satoru Gojo, as he bounds up on the steps — two at a time — of Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College, snorts a little at his phone. 

Cute. 

Turns out Kiyotaka Ijichi is  not a butler. 

He is, however, a very good driver and a nice man, if not incredibly nervous. He helps you with your bags outside of Shinjuku Station despite your bowed attempts to dissuade his help. You don't want to be a burden — but Ijichi says that's what he's there for  according to Satoru Gojo. 

"Don't let her lift a finger," Satoru said, pointing in Ijichi's face that very morning, " We've gotta make a good impression, bud. It's her first time in Tokyo!"

"Sir, I'm sorry to pry, but... who... is she again?"

"I never said,"   Gojo remarked cheerfully as he pulled Ijichi around the corner; then, the white-haired Jujutsu instructor leaned in close and whispered lowly, "And don't ever ask me again. Got it?"

The seriousness in his voice was enough to make Ijichi break into a cold sweat.

Truth be told, Ijichi wasn't really sure  who he was expecting to pick up outside Shinjuku Station, but it certainly wasn't the pleasant young woman in his back seat making small talk with him over the weather and smiling at the sights out the back window. 

At a stop light, Ijichi adjusts the rearview mirror to get a better look at you.

...Who are you?

Don't ever ask me again. Got it?

You're leaning across the back seat, eyes wide with awe, as you take in the bustle of the city.

You're definitely not his sister. As far as Ijichi knows, Satoru is an only child. He sure acts like it. You  could be a cousin from the Clan, but isn't it, like, a prerequisite to have white hair or something? And Ijichi  definitely doesn't recognize you from their school yearbook. Maybe you attended the sister school in Kyoto? 

But, Satoru did say this was your first time in Tokyo.

...Who the hell are you?

"I really appreciate the ride, Mr. Ijichi," you say softly as you lift your gaze to meet him in the mirror, "I can't imagine it's very fun to drive in all this traffic, so thank you very much."

Ijichi rubs his cheek to will away the blush.

You're too nice. You have manners . 

So, there's no way you're a girlfriend of Satoru's. There's no way. Ijichi decides that's simply impossible three minutes into the ride to his boss's apartment. 

You even try to tip him after he helps you unload your bag from the back and carry it into the lobby. Ijichi shyly promises there's no need for that, and gives you his card promising that he's only a call away in case you need anything else. 

"Have a nice day, Mr. Ijichi!"

...Definitely not his girlfriend. Too nice.

The receptionist at the front desk is young and pretty, and she takes your ID to confirm you're who you say you are as you marvel at the lobby. There's art. A small fountain on the back wall. The modern touch is nice. The lobby is nice. Really nice. Definitely 700k-yen-a-month nice. 

"Here you are," the receptionist hands back your ID with a smile, then hands over the FOB to apartment 601, "Welcome home, we're happy to have you. Mr. Gojo let us know to expect your things within the next day."

The moving company was due to arrive with the handful of boxes you packed up from home tomorrow. 

Er, well, your other home. This place is home now. 

Apartment 601 is, as one could guess, on the sixth floor. It's got easterly facing windows and an open floor plan with modern appliances, one and a half baths, and three bedrooms. You know these things before even stepping inside because, like you mentioned, you snooped. 

But, that was that. It's a different thing completely to walk into that luxury apartment and see it for yourself.

There are flowers on the counter.

A big bouquet of peach roses, white buttercups, and baby's breath. 

You close the door behind you, stepping out of your boots, as you take in the entryway, the kitchen, and the adjoined living room in awed silence.

It's clean.  Really clean — like, incredibly clean. 

The shoes in the entryway are aligned neatly. One pair of dress shoes and a pair of heavier-duty, black boots sit beside one another. There's a coat rack, and you recognize that suit jacket he wore to your father's funeral hanging there. 

Quietly, bag slung over your shoulder, you slink inside the kitchen. 

The back hallway leads to the other bedrooms and bathrooms, no doubt. 

This is the sort of kitchen your mother would have dreamed  about. The appliances scream money — everything is either black or stainless steel, from the toaster to the espresso machine. Even his plates, dishes, and bowls look more like  fine art than anything. Everything has a place in this kitchen, and it's all done tastefully. 

You eye the bouquet. 

There's a plain white card in front of it.

Your name is written in flowing script.

You pluck it up.

...The note is the polar opposite in tone compared to his earlier texts. It feels like whiplash. Even the handwriting doesn't seem like the Satoru Gojo you've come to understand, three degrees removed.

Either way, it's sweet. Even if he definitely had someone deliver these and write the accompanied note.

You thumb the card as you begin slowly creeping through the rest of the apartment with a wandering curiosity.

The large floor-to-ceiling windows allow for a lot of natural light in the living room and kitchen. The sectional is leather, and there's a large (definitely decorative) book on the coffee table about feng shui. The art on the walls is mostly traditional, sticking to the  grey and black color scheme of the entire apartment. 

You poke your nose through the small floating bookshelf beneath the television. The books — ranging from translated classics to non-fiction — look largely untouched but free from even a spec of dust. 

Whoever styled this apartment was really into mid-century modern. Something tells you it was not  Satoru Gojo.

Why?

Well, his bedroom for starters.

You're being nosey. You know  you're being nosey, but c'mon. This is your home now — and you're telling me you wouldn't poke your head in, at least, to see what your future husband's bedroom looks like?

The answer is: much less put together than the rest of the apartment.

Like a puzzle, you're beginning to get it.  Satoru Gojo pays for a cleaning service — and a good one at that. 

But, his bedroom lacks the sterile, clean, modern touch that the rest of the apartment does. There are wrinkled photos taped to the far wall above a disorganized desk. His closet is open, displaying an array of shoddily hung dress shirts and slacks. The lampshade beside his bed is lopsided. His bed sheets are patterned — striped blue and white, and his pillowcases don't match. There's a worn and faded bear, once white and now a loved cream, half tucked beneath his pillow. The sun's late afternoon rays are warm against the carpet, casting shadows across a lone dress sock at the foot of the bed.

Something about all of it is endearing.

Quietly, you shut the door.

Your room is more like the rest of the apartment — with crisply tucked edges on a queen-sized bed with pristine white sheets. You place that little card down on your bedside table as you shrug off your backpack. 

You packed the essentials. A few changes of clothes, skincare, and some makeup all tumble onto the bed as you begin the slow process of putting things away. It feels a lot like killing time. After all, according to Satoru's text, he would be home later in the evening.

You have no idea what time that really means, but you hope it's enough time to at least let you shower away the travel day. 

You hesitate, though, over the threshold of your room. 

His response is nearly immediate.

And rapid.

You snort. The blue heart is cute.

Scoffing a little at the wifey comment, you bundle your change of clothes and toiletry bag into your arms and shake your head.

The bathroom — the full bath between you and Satoru's room — is just as swanky as the rest of the apartment. You lock the sliding door behind you.

Black tile, a waterfall shower, bamboo wood accents, and hand soap that you can't pronounce. It's French. 

You take your time in that shower.

I mean, how could you not? 

All of this is really putting the Taika Clan to shame — it's not even like you grew up destitute, but this level of wealth? 

Your shampoo is off-brand. Meanwhile, the shampoo in Satoru Gojo's shower (that, yea, of course, you use because...  something, something,  what is yours is mine in marriage? Right?) is in a fancy bottle that takes you far too long to figure out how to open. 

You almost drop it, and swear your soul almost leaves your body.

The conditioner is just as nice.

By the time you're done, the bathroom is thick with steam and you're bundling up in one of the handful of towels folded beneath the sink. They're black and soft and you laugh a little at the sight of a single, white hair clinging to the one you snag.

It's the first indicator Satoru Gojo was even here,  aside from his room, of course. 

There's a corner tub and the toilet has a bidet and the medicine cabinet above the double sink is stocked with more  products you can't pronounce. You chew your lip, pushing your wet hair aside as you poke your nose inside. You yank the cap off what you assume is shaving cream and sniff — it's sandalwood and musk. It's nice. You hum in soft agreeance (he's got good taste) as you eye the label, and then carefully put it back. 

There's some sporty deodorant, an old tube of emergency acne cream, an electric toothbrush... and beside it, another toothbrush. Same model. 

You squint.

Two toothbrushes, huh? 

You make a mental note about it — maybe it's an exes? Too sentimental to let it go? You get it, you've been there.

You close the medicine cabinet after your continued snooping, wipe away the condensation on the mirror, and begin to sort yourself out. 

You're finally landing on the couch — hair wet, body clean and face dewy — by the time six rolls around. Now, in the dark of the apartment, the fact this place is going to be your new home starts to set in. You bury yourself a little deeper into your sweatshirt and decide you'll text your mother. You'll let her know that you've settled in and—

"Ooooh, honey!"

The door is jingling unlocked.

A slight wave of panic washes over you — like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't. And then, you remember you  live here  now and—

"—I'm home!"

You poke your head up over the edge of the couch to see Satoru Gojo cross the threshold of his entryway. His eyes already seem to know where to look for you. That blindfold is still on, but you swear you can feel his gaze.

At the sight of you, his posture tightens a little.

His lips break into a smile that is disarmingly handsome. It’s enough to wind you, and you feel a little bit like floating, but you push all that away. 

You’ve thought a lot about how this moment would go. You've laid in your old bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to script it in your head until the wee morning. You wondered if it would be painfully awkward, or tense, or cold. 

How do you go from being complete strangers to newly engaged lovers?

"Welcome home," is the best you can offer as you sit up a little straighter.

Satoru throws his arms open and his grin goes a little lopsided. The bag of takeout in his arms dangles dangerously as he does a little spin. 

You catch yourself fighting the urge to check him out.

“Sooooo?”  he croons, “What do you think? Nice, right?”

Slowly, your smile begins. It’s clear he’s trying to dissuade any awkward tension. You watch him cross into the kitchen as you stand, bare feet padding across the hardwood as you knit your arms around yourself. 

"It's...  really  nice," you say quietly as Satoru plops the takeout beside the bouquet, "The flowers were a sweet touch."

Satoru throws you a grin over his shoulder as he gathers two sets of chopsticks for you both. He knocks the drawer shut with his hip as he throws a thumb to the roses.

“Hey, can’t have my fiancée  thinkin’ I don’t appreciate her,” Satoru chirps as he brushes past you; you catch a glimpse of the button pinning his jacket shut. A Sorcerer’s pin, “How was your travel day? Did Ijichi give you any trouble?”

He grabs the bag of takeout and takes it with him.

He moves to flop lazily onto the couch. His feet immediately land on the coffee table. His socks are patterned. There are cats drawn as sushi on them. 

That word — fiancée — doesn’t feel real. 

None of this does, frankly. 

He begins unbagging the meal on his lap, delicately holding out your order of tonkatsu in one hand as you follow his lead and land beside him on the couch. The box is warm on your thighs. Satoru is already cracking open his order of udon.

You watch him slurp up a huge bite of noodles as you slowly crack open the plastic lid to your dinner.

"You know, I thought he was your butler."

Satoru pauses mid-chew as if he didn't hear you, then breaks into a grin that transcends his full mouth. "I don't have a butler."

"Well," you dig a piece of tonkatsu out and take a small bite, "I didn't know who he was. He was nice, though. Great driver."

“My coworker,” Satoru leans his head back and grins up at you, though there’s no telling where he’s looking with the blindfold, “A real stick in the mud, sometimes. Totally doesn't think he's good at his job, but — and don't tell him I said this — he's pretty great."

"Does he teach?" you ask, taking another bite; the food is really good.

Satoru's expression, as much as you can see it, seems to brighten. "Ooh, so you know I'm a teacher, huh?"

"It's, like, the one thing I know about you," you concede quickly.

"Okay, okay, now you've got me curious,"  Gojo finishes his bite before throwing his arm across the pack of the couch and gesticulating at you with his chopsticks, "What else do you know about me, huh?

You take another bite and chew slowly. You don't speak until you've swallowed — only to drag him along. It works. His attention is so heavy it feels like a physical weight on your chest.

"You're thirty," you tap your finger as you count off the things you know, "We have the same birthday. You're an only child. You've got that whole Limitless thing going for you — cool, by the way. Uh, hm . What else..."

"Wow," Satoru mumbles, "They really kept you in the dark about me, huh?"

"In all fairness," you smirk, " Someone  really dragged this whole thing out."

"Parents didn't want you getting your hopes up?" he smirks.

"Eh," you shrug in mild disagreement, "I think it was more that they didn't want to make assumptions about you."

For some reason, that hits Satoru right in the heart.

He's quiet for a beat, and you wince internally. 

"Sorry, was that—?"

"No," he waves you off with his chopsticks, "No, it's cool. Just not used to...  that , I guess."

You hum, watching him out of the corner of your eye as you push your tonkatsu around.

"...What would you have  wanted  me to know?" you ask him after a beat, lifting your chin, "Like, what makes Satoru Gojo  Satoru Gojo?"

He's not really used to being asked about himself.

Actually, he can't remember the last time anyone even asked him something like that. Maybe on one of those shit dates he went on last year when he told himself he'd  actually  give dating a try? But, even then, his answers weren't honest. 

The last person he was ever  really  honest with was Suguru.

"You first," he deflects easily as he scoops up another heaping bite, "You liked the flowers, so roses, check. And tonkatsu, check."

You smirk.

"Also an only child—" you begin.

"And thirty—"

"—And thirty," you confirm as you take another bite; your posture is loosening up, "Uh, not a trained sorcerer — might as well get that out of the way early."

Satoru almost chokes.

He blinks beneath his blindfold as he snatches a napkin and coughs. 

You quietly rock a little. 

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"Now hold on—"

"—I was educated privately but—"

"You didn't attend a Jujutsu technical school?" Gojo gawks, sitting up straight; he drops his food to the coffee table and turns to face you. There's a flare of disbelief coursing through him. 

You shake your head.

And then Satoru throws both hands up to stop you before you can speak.

"Then how the  hell  did you know how to cancel out my Infinity?"

You blink.

Your brows raise and you gesture in the air as if to say 'go on'.

Satoru can hardly believe this.

"You didn't know that you did that—?"

"Did what?"  you ask, leaning forward and forgetting about your meal, "When? Now?"

"No, not now,"  Satoru exasperates, "At the funeral service. When you shook my hand."

"...Right," you squint, "I... shook your hand... and...?"

"You canceled my technique," he stresses, "Limitless. Y'know,  the  Limitless."

" Oh!"  you brighten — and Satoru can see you suddenly get it.  You sit up a little straighter, then move to place your dinner on the coffee table; your smile is proud, "That's my technique!"

Well, what the hell.

"You couldn't tell?"

"It's not like I can  use  the techniques I disrupt," you chide just as you've been chided before by your trainers and instructors, "Void Hand stops at that. I can void a technique upon touch. Sometimes it... just  happens." 

"Because your control isn't refined, because  someone didn't attend a Jujutsu technical school," Satoru says tightly; suddenly, he sounds like a teacher, "Every technique has a reserve. There is no exception to that rule."

You blink.

"No way," you laugh incredulously, shaking your head, "The technique has been around for generations — if it  had  a reversal, I would know. My  Clan  would know—"

"Clans know a lot they don't share with the class," Satoru cuts and narrows his eyes as he leans back and crosses his long legs, "Trust me on that."

The silence that stretches between the two of you is long. Satoru can  see  the thoughts racing by as your eyes bounce around, spaced out. 

So, he leans over, pats your knee, and grins.

"Guess we got our work cut out for us, huh,  wifey?"

You don't argue with him.