Chapter Text
Section Abstract: Despite incomparable success in multiple domains, subject Satoru Gojo exhibits a notable deficiency in romantic competencies. Preliminary analysis outlines three distinct empirical exhibits: sustained personal satisfaction in isolation (1.1), onset of unanticipated emotional awareness (1.2), and failed initial trial in social flirtation (1.3).
The following section examines Exhibit 1 in detail.
Exhibit #1: May 4th, 2018
“Suguru, open your mouth.”
When it comes to Gojo, Geto always does as he’s told.
Without taking his eyes off the television, he drops his jaw and catches the flying popcorn on the first try.
“Wow,” Geto mutters, half-laughing around the crunch. He sinks deeper into his corner of the couch, folding his beefy arms behind his head before shooting Gojo a teasing side-eye. “You’re getting good at this. Didn’t even have to use your technique to score, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure…” Gojo drawls before stuffing his mouth with a perfectly calculated handful of popcorn, just the right amount to stretch his cheeks to the limit, which, in his opinion, is the only correct way to eat popcorn.
Outside, it’s already gone dark. The smell of soba takeout from lunch still lingers in the air, along with the sugary trace of whatever dessert Gojo had but didn’t finish. The cushions sag beneath them, shaped to their asses after a full day of barely moving. Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith blares from the television, flashing in green, blue, red, and the occasional purple as it builds to its final act.
That’s what they’ve been religiously doing for the past thirteen years: every May 4th, Gojo and Geto marathon the six Star Wars movies.
It started back in 2005, in their first month at Jujutsu High. The last movie of the franchise was about to hit theaters, and Gojo had been counting the days. He even scored premiere tickets, thanks to some bratty pestering of his clan’s elders. Now, imagine his exponential shock and an exponentially more exponential offense when he found out none of the other sorcerers his age cared.
Growing up, those movies were one of the few things he had during a pretty lonely childhood. The Jedi were born with powers, exactly like him. They trained from a young age, carried the weight of their responsibility, and lived with the knowledge that their lives would never fully belong to them. They were meant for something greater, whether they wanted it or not.
Gojo understood that like no one else. He was four when he first overheard someone call him the chosen one. Five, when he had full control of the Six Eyes. Nine, when the elders stopped talking to him like a kid. And just a few weeks before starting Jujutsu High, he had undergone his genpuku coming-of-age ceremony to please his clan.
The concept of the Jedi made it all feel, if not necessarily fun, then at least familiar. They chose discipline. Chose purpose. Chose to protect. Maybe he could be the best at it, too. The idea of being a sorcerer started to feel less like a sentence and more like a superhero story. Something he could look forward to.
So, fulfilling his duty as the cultured fifteen-year-old he was, he hosted a movie night in his dorm to fix the issue by preaching the Jedi gospel. He had his own DVD player, and all of his classmates were invited—Geto and Shoko. Only half of them showed up—Geto.
At the start of the first movie, Gojo wasn’t particularly thrilled. The only thing he knew about ‘bangs boy’ was that he was from the countryside, and just too quiet and boring. But much to his surprise, the boy didn’t fall asleep, didn’t fidget, or make an excuse to leave. He stayed.
Halfway through the second movie, Gojo got to witness Bangs’ live reaction to Darth Vader’s revelation of being Luke’s father: a shy, but sharp inhale, like someone who was genuinely invested. And not just that, the boy even let him pause the movie and talk for twenty-five minutes about everything he could remember about the lore, behind-the-scenes rumors, and theories. Bangs didn’t interrupt him once, his narrow eyes following him around—golden brown eyes, Gojo noticed—under the loose strands of hair. It was the first time anyone had given him their undivided attention for that long.
Bangs was promoted to Geto in Gojo’s head when the third movie ended, when he decided his favorite droid was C-3PO, which made perfect sense, since Gojo’s favorite droid was R2-D2, and they complement each other.
Before they started the fourth movie, the first of the prequels, Geto offered to grab drinks, then returned with a full bag of Colas from the vending machine. Promising, Gojo thought, as if he wasn’t the type to be easily bought with his favorite soda. Geto didn’t even ask, just guessed correctly.
Then, by the end of the fifth movie, Attack of the Clones, they were dueling with chopsticks like lightsabers, jumping around the room and laughing well into the night, until Yaga-sensei was banging on the door to scold them. Before finally dragging himself back to his own room, Geto paused in the doorway.
“See you tomorrow, Satoru.”
“See you tomorrow… Suguru.”
Finally, when they got to watch the saga wrap up on the big screen a few weeks later, Geto had officially fallen in love with the franchise. That’s how they started calling each other ‘my best friend’. And that’s the reason why Episode III is Gojo’s favorite movie.
The tradition stuck when they graduated and moved in together, a total of ten years now.
Another kernel flicks in Geto’s direction, but this time, it smacks him right on the cheek.
You see, Gojo actually used Infinity on that first throw, but to avoid raising suspicions, he uses his technique again to miss on purpose. Not that he even needs to, really—from three meters out, a 3.2 m/s flick at a 35-degree angle, adjust for the drag on a one-gram kernel, he’d easily calculate a clean parabolic arc with a 91.8% hit accuracy. He learned that in his first year of college, it’s like baby Physics. But Gojo doesn’t mess with probabilities, and his brain is all mushy from all the galactic politics and the sugar in his blood, so he cheated. Whatever.
With a sigh, Geto picks up the rogue kernel and tosses it back at him. The way he rolls on his side and joins his hands on his lap—yeah. Here comes a lecture from Mister Samurai. “You were totally cheating the first time, and now you missed on purpose so I wouldn’t notice. You know that integrity is one of the Jedi’s core virtues, right? That’s the kind of behavior I wouldn’t let my pupils at the dojo get away with, because I take the principles of makoto and meiyo seriously, and—”
“Shut up, the best part is coming up!” Gojo cuts through with a flapping hand. His spine shoots straight up, his long legs fold under him, he pushes his glasses up his nose, and starts bouncing in his seat like a six-foot-three little boy. Even the popcorn bucket gets set aside because this part has to be taken seriously.
Then, in perfect sync with Anakin Skywalker, he clears his throat and recites, “You turned her against me!”
“You have done that yourself,” Geto slips right into Obi-Wan’s line as it is expected of him.
“… I have brought peace, justice, freedom, and security to my new Empire!” Gojo is louder now, fully into character, glancing sideways because the next part is his favorite.
“Your new empire?!!” Geto yells.
And Gojo giggles, clutching the closest pillow against his chest, because he’s obsessed with how Geto always nails the voice, the face, everything. Still laughing, which totally ruins his next delivery, he shouts, “Don’t make me kill you!”
Line after line, they keep going.
“… my allegiance…”
“… then you’re my enemy!”
“Only a Sith deals in absolutes…”
“… You will try!”
Even when Gojo was drowning in coursework across a decade of one degree after another, and Geto had hands and pants busy with yet another boyfriend, this has always been their day. Nothing and no one will ever come between them and their May 4th.
The epic music swells, the lightsabers clash, and for a few hours every year, they’re fifteen again. Sure, there are more bathroom breaks now, a longer pause to feed the cat, and Gojo needs prescription glasses just to properly make out the actor’s faces. They are more mindful of junk food, and they have to sleep early to work tomorrow. Still, it’s like nothing has ever changed—it’s silly and exciting, and they can be themselves.
Years will go by, and this will always mark the start of spring for them: the living room of their apartment glowing red with all the lava spilling across the television screen as the final battle reaches its peak.
“…I have the high ground!”
“You underestimate my power!”
“You were my brother, Anakin. I loved you.”
And so, a limbless Anakin burns. Padmé gives birth to twins. Darth Vader breathes for the first time through his black helmet. The movie ends with the two suns over Tatooine and the Force Theme fading into the credits.
No, Gojo is definitely not crying because of the nostalgic orchestral music that shaped his entire adolescence. His eyes are just tired after twelve hours of screen time.
With a sniff, he wipes his eyes under his glasses and rises from the couch to turn on the lights. “Well, well, we survived another marathon.”
“Good choice of words. Survived.” Geto is also on his feet, stretching tall with a deep grunt, arms overhead, making his pajama shirt hike up just enough to flash a sliver of his toned stomach. He pulls his waist-length hair into a ponytail, the hair tie pinched between his teeth as he mumbles, “Did Galadriel survive, though? Haven’t seen her in like, an hour.”
“Where’s my baby at? Pspspspsps.” Gojo walks into the kitchen, summoning the white devil.
The cloud-shaped white ball is perched atop the fridge, blinking once at Gojo with her judgmental pair of blue eyes. Her tail swishes once, but only when Geto appears in the kitchen.
“She doesn’t like it when the TV is too loud,” Geto calls out, already filling the kettle. “Us yelling didn’t help either.”
“Nah, come on, we don’t even bring out our lightsabers anymore for her sake!” Gojo rummages through the cabinet for the one last candy before bed, still complaining about being a responsible adult, who has adult money to buy those expensive collectible items, and chooses not to use them because Galadriel is terrified of them.
Geto’s reply is a nasal huff and a smirk. The kettle clicks off, and he pours his tea in silence, retrieves his phone from the charger, and slumps back onto the couch.
Holding the box of Pocky sticks between his teeth, Gojo reaches up to lift the cat from her perch. He successfully gets to cradle her like a baby for full six seconds, only for her to fuss, slap him across face, and curse him in cat language before sprinting off, only to land squarely in Geto’s lap, curling up and purring the moment he brings a hand to scratch behind her ears.
Gojo follows with a defeated flop onto the couch. Dramatically biting down on the strawberry stick, he whines, “You know you wouldn’t live here if it wasn’t for me, right, you little menace?! With a 7% rate of adoption of strays in Japan, you were statistically more likely to end up in a shoe box. And, Suguru didn’t even want a cat!”
But instead of humoring him, Geto doesn’t respond. He’s staring at his phone now, and lets out a slow, annoyed groan.
When the silence stretches for too long, Gojo asks, “What was that for?”
“It’s Masaki. He wants to hang out this weekend…” Geto sighs, sips his tea, then sets it aside to fidget with his phone. “I’ve been ignoring him all day, now I feel bad about it.”
“Huh, that’s a name I haven’t heard before. Let me see a photo!” The cat drama instantly evaporates from Gojo’s brain. He pops the rest of his Pocky into his mouth and scoots closer, elbow digging into Geto’s shoulder to peek at his screen. “Yeah. Hot, I guess. Why wouldn’t you go?”
“Oh, I’ll go. I’m just… I don’t know.”
“He reminds me of Hisashi with this whole lip ring and dyed hair thing going on. I really liked Hisashi, though you were right to dump him for Ryu… I think he was the hottest among the few I met in person.”
And Gojo really means few. If he had to estimate, half of Geto’s flings didn’t survive beyond the first date. Maybe three out of ten lasted past the three-week mark. Of the ones who made it longer, no more than a dozen in the past ten years ever made it as far as their apartment. And out of those whom Gojo met in person, most didn’t seem to like him very much for some reason.
“Yeah. Ryu was hot, but he made fun of you when we went to get ramen. Not hot enough for things to work out in the end.” Geto chuckles, clearly scrolling on whatever app instead of replying to the text. “Then, there’s Masaki here. Hot, but five texts in the last two hours… It’s giving me clingy vibes, so I’m not keeping my hopes up.”
“Yeah, yeah, you always find a fatal flaw in all those dudes.” Gojo slumps back onto his side of the couch, glancing at Geto to make sure he’s not looking before eating a crumb off the cushion. “What’s even the point of trying anymore if you’ve made up your mind?”
Geto lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Hey, I think everyone deserves at least a shot, you know that much about me, Satoru…”
But Gojo just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but isn’t it about time you actually liked one of them? I haven’t seen you in love in like, ages. At least not since Kazuo—I mean, sorry.”
Something flickers across Geto’s face, gone before Gojo could analyze it. “It’s… okay,” he mumbles without looking up from the screen.
Hardly any topic is forbidden in their apartment, considering how long they’ve known each other, how often they talk, how much they say out loud, and how intimately their lives have overlapped. They talk about anything and everything, but even in a friendship built on ten years of honesty and constant proximity, a handful of names and topics remain untouched by a silent agreement. Haru Kazuo, Geto’s longest relationship and now ex, is one of them.
Great. Now, Gojo is rewarded with an awkward silence, the sugar is fading on his tongue, and Galadriel is flashing him a half-lidded glance as Geto runs his fingers through her fluffy fur. She could be his biological child, really—same tone as his hair, same texture, same static. It brushes against Geto’s calloused skin like dandelion tufts, folding gently under the weight of his fingers. It almost looks like Geto is scratching his head. If his head were in Geto’s lap. Which isn’t. Obviously.
“So…” Gojo can’t help it. He has to start talking again before his thoughts get any weirder. He clears his throat, fixes his glasses, and mumbles, “Masashi. No, Masaki? What’s gonna be?”
Geto is still typing calmly, using only one hand. Gojo doesn’t get it. Well, he’s used to waiting full minutes for Geto to thumb out a response, letting that massive digit of his do all the work. It’s honestly a mystery how this Masaki guy has the patience. Or the hope.
“Thursday. There. Done.” Geto tosses his phone aside and lets his head drop back with a groan. “How can that be so exhausting?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Gojo just mumbles, stretching his legs across the couch. “Can’t relate.”
“You’ll never relate if you never try dating. It’s been what, three years since you came out? I get it, you were a late bloomer, but you only dated like, one guy since.”
“Oh my god, I did not date Yuta’s brother!” Gojo’s gasp is too loud and maybe a bit too indignant, like he’s about to explode. “We got coffee one time—once—because it was his last day in the physics lab.”
Well, back when he told Geto about it, he might have forgotten to mention that Eiji Okkotsu had actually asked him out a few times—fine, several times, to which he always said no—during their PhD years, but now, offering up that information would only strengthen Geto’s argument.
“I was trying to be nice and inflate it a little,” Geto replies, keeping his tone dry. “So yeah, correcting: three years and a total of zero guys.”
“It’s not like I don’t want to. I’ve never had the time! Barely managed to squeeze in anything fun between studying, teaching, and saving the world.”
“Yeah, I know. But now you’ve finished your PhD, and for the first time in your life, you’re not busy with the studies part. Isn’t it about time to start living a little? You and your hand should start seeing other people…”
Gojo isn’t even paying attention anymore. His arms are crossed, legs stretched out across the couch, and he lazily uses his toe to nudge Galadriel’s pink paw beans as they dangle off the edge of Geto’s thigh. When she shifts away, his foot ends up grazing the fabric of Geto’s blue-and-white pajama pants, poking one of the tiny R2-D2 droids scattered across the pattern.
Yes, R2-D2 is Gojo’s favorite droid, but it’s Geto who owns the pajamas. Gojo himself is wearing the matching yellow set featuring C-3PO. They had to swap because the store only had one size left—the largest one—which would’ve swallowed Gojo whole but fits Geto perfectly. Or at least, it used to fit when they got those three years ago. Geto seems never to stop growing, muscle-wise, and now the fabric stretches taut across his chest and thighs, warping the blue droid design, making him look more like a square than a cylinder.
But, it’s important to clarify that they don’t go around wearing matching pajamas. This is the only full matching set they own, strictly because the movie marathon is a special occasion. The rest of the time, they shop for the rest of their pajamas in an absolutely normal way: Gojo likes oversized shirts, and Geto only sleeps shirtless. Therefore, they can buy a set and have one piece each. Convenient, that’s all.
“Hey, stop pouting,” Geto adds, gentler now. “I didn’t mean to make you upset…”
“I’m not pouting,” Gojo replies, pouting. “It’s just… I don’t know. It’s not like you’re exactly making it sound appealing with all this talk about how exhausting it is…”
“Like everything in life, there’s an annoying part that requires work and effort, but I can assure you…” He pauses, just to tilt his head and flash a grin. His voice drops lower when he adds, “The good part makes up for it. Very, very much…”
“Oh my god!” Gojo throws a pillow at him. “You’re disgusting, Suguru!”
Geto catches it with a laugh and hurls it right back, and then they’re both laughing too hard, and Galadriel is completely done, choosing to bolt off the couch and find a dark corner to plot her revenge against them.
It’s not like Gojo has never thought about it at least once. Fine, he’s thought a lot about that very good part. He wouldn’t be opposed to exploring that very good part. But well, nothing seems to justify all the work he’d need to go through to get to the very good part.
It just doesn’t make sense to his numbers-driven brain. You are expected to spend hours curating conversations with strangers, adjusting your schedule, your sleep, your personality. You accept invitations to loud bars where the seats are sticky, you gamble on emotional exposure, and maybe—maybe—you get lucky to experience the thing Geto is smirking about.
He wouldn’t know where even to begin such a project. No matter how he looks at it, it’s the least measurable, predictable, or replicable thing a person can do. There’s no way sex is that good that justifies the risk-reward imbalance.
Besides, he’s well aware that his chatty, flirty, and carefree old self is long gone. Life forced him to man up, shut up, and own the responsibilities of his role as the mature man he is now. He’s become a nerd with poor eyesight and an excuse for a stubble. And, as a nerd, he will always run the odds before acting.
The pillows eventually stop flying because they are old men who start panting after two minutes. Geto ties his hair up neatly again as he says, “Satoru, what I mean is, you don’t need to date if you don’t want to. But, if you do want to, you need to put yourself out there.”
Without giving it too much thought, Gojo just ends the conversation. “Nah. I’m fine like this.”
They collect the last of the abandoned dishes from the coffee table and the floor, and head toward the kitchen. Once the sink is empty and the dishwasher is humming, Geto turns off the lights for the night. “Anyway, I gotta go to bed. Those early Monday classes with the Judo kids will be the death of me. I barely make it through the solo taekwondo lessons without dragging for the rest of the day.”
“Yeah… Oh, don’t forget to leave the coffee on before you leave. Last time I had to microwave it, and it tasted just like the way you describe the curses you used to swallow.”
Geto scrunches his nose all the way to the bathroom, where he starts brushing his teeth with his door open. With one hand propped on his hip, he grumbles around the toothbrush, “Ugh. Yeah, I don’t miss that.”
And Gojo is glad Geto doesn’t do that anymore.
All those years Gojo spent trying to make the jujutsu world a better place eventually paid off. Despite the sacrifices, everyone is safer, saner, and, most importantly, alive. That goes for his students, his colleagues, and Geto. There’s always the occasional mission that needs him, and Geto still steps in now and then as an independent sorcerer, but nothing compared to the endless cycle he used to go through during their youth, making him sick and depressed. Those days are long gone.
A decade later, Gojo can say with 100% confidence that Geto is happy. They are happy.
Gojo only realizes he’s smiling at himself when Geto nods for him to step in to brush his teeth next. Unlike Geto, he does it quietly, because he finds it disgusting to talk with a mouth half-foamed up. Weirdly, though, it doesn’t bother him when Geto does it.
With fresh breaths, lights out, and Galadriel in Geto’s arms, their long-standing night routine carries them to their rooms.
“See you tomorrow, Satoru.”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
But before stepping in, Geto lingers for a second by the door of his room, hand on the frame. “You know… You should start coming with me to the gym. Not that you need to,” he adds, eyes flicking briefly down and back up Gojo’s body. “Just… for fun. You could meet new people or something. I can help with that, if you ever need.”
Gojo just snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, but no thanks. I’m fine with my Pilates friends.”
It’s flattering that Geto acknowledges that he doesn’t need to go to the gym, and Gojo silently accepts the compliment. As for the other part, he decides that Geto doesn’t have to know that his lovely sixty-year-old friends have consistently tried introducing him to their daughters, and when they found out he was gay, they consistently tried introducing him to their sons just the same. Gojo declined every time.
“Right,” Geto huffs, shaking his head with a soft smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
They each go to their own room, to their separate beds, to sleep with a wall between them, just like they’ve always done since they met.