"𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒆"

╴𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅╶

Pretend
verb
to feign an action, part, or role especially in play / to make believe

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Takahiro quietly stepped out of his room, the soft fabric of his socks muffling his footsteps against the cool hardwood floor. He glanced down at his pajamas, which hung a bit lower than usual due to a night of restless tossing and turning. The hem of his shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin that he quickly smoothed down. The dim light of early morning filtered through the windows, casting long shadows in the hallway as he made his way to the smaller kitchen, a space he preferred for its intimacy and familiarity.

As he entered the kitchen, he moved towards the counter, his palms meeting the cool surface of the cabinet. The familiar chill felt grounding, yet it also served as a reminder of his fatigue. He opened the cabinet, reaching for a mug that had become a comforting part of his morning routine. As he pulled it out, he felt a wave of weariness wash over him, the weight of his thoughts pressing heavily on his shoulders. This space, once a haven of warmth and familiarity, now only dampened his mood, amplifying his sense of isolation.

He set the mug down with deliberate care, striving to keep the sound to a minimum. Leaning into the counter, he let his hips take most of his weight, resting his forehead against the cabinet door he had just opened and closed. His messy hair fell into his face, a chaotic curtain that he couldn’t muster the energy to push aside. With a quiet sigh, he closed his eyes for a brief moment, longing for a sense of peace that felt increasingly out of reach.

“You didn't come visit me last night, you know?” The sudden voice behind him shattered the silence, echoing in the small space much louder than he would have preferred. He recognized the voice instantly, and rather than respond, he remained still, hoping to ignore the interruption. The footsteps that followed were unmistakably deliberate, growing closer with a confidence that made his heart race. He felt a familiar weight and warmth press against his back, pushing him gently but firmly against the counter.

“You don’t have to pretend you want to be here. You don’t have to pretend you’ll enjoy these next few months,” the voice continued, now close enough that he could feel the breath on his skin. He shivered involuntarily as hands found their way to his waist, fingers gently rubbing against his sides, seeking to ease the tension that coiled within him. “Or at least, you don’t have to pretend around me.”

“Relax, horndog. Get your paws off me, dammit, Satoru. You’re the reason no one can have nice things,” Takahiro huffed, trying to push the hands away but only half-heartedly. He feigned irritation, knowing that the truth was far more complicated. In reality, the attention he received from Satoru was something he had craved for years, a connection that was difficult to ignore.

“Come on, I didn’t even do anything yet.” Satoru’s playful tone, laced with mischief, made Takahiro roll his eyes, but he couldn’t suppress a reluctant smile.

“That ‘yet’ says everything you didn’t,” Takahiro shot back, turning around to face Satoru directly. The movement caused Satoru to take a small step back, though not as far as Takahiro had hoped. The proximity was electric, and he could feel the warmth radiating from Satoru’s body, an intoxicating mix of comfort and tension.

“I'm serious though. You don’t have to keep pretending around me. Barely talked to you for ten minutes, and you’ve practically lied about everything.” Satoru leaned in closer, invading Takahiro’s personal space. He reached up to brush a few stray strands of Takahiro’s hair back from his forehead, a gentle gesture that made Takahiro’s heart race. “I miss him too,” Satoru murmured, the weight of those words hanging heavily between them.

“Stop, Satoru. I’m not talking about it.” Takahiro’s voice sharpened as he locked eyes with the blindfolded male, a mix of frustration and hurt swirling within him. He detested these conversations, the way they dredged up memories he was not ready to confront. Most of all, he hated discussing it with Satoru, whose presence both comforted and unsettled him.

Satoru sighed, his breath escaping in a soft rush. He knew all too well that he wasn’t going to get Takahiro to crack. They had danced around this topic too many times before, and he understood that pushing further would only drive a wedge between them. With a slight nod, he decided to change tactics. Leaning in closer, he reached over Takahiro to the coffee machine, the small movement placing him even nearer to Takahiro’s warmth. As he picked up the coffee pot, the rich aroma filled the air, grounding them both in the moment.

He poured the dark liquid into Takahiro’s cup with a practiced ease, the sound of coffee splashing against porcelain offering a brief distraction from the tension that had settled between them. Takahiro swallowed hard, the lump in his throat a physical manifestation of the emotions swirling within him. He turned his gaze away, focusing on the kitchen’s mundane details—the chipped edge of the countertop, the fading sunlight filtering through the window—as if they held the answers he was searching for.

“I’m not pretending, or at least I’m not trying,” Takahiro finally admitted, his voice low and strained. “Just being here makes me feel like I can’t be myself anymore. I can’t be who I used to be. That part of me was stripped away a long time ago—the part of me that admired the people here, that believed in the ideals we stood for. I saw the truth and realness behind it all, and now… I don’t care for this place anymore. It’s not my home.”

Satoru listened intently, his heart aching at Takahiro’s words. “It may not be your home, but I still am,” he replied gently, as he grabbed a couple of small creamer cups from side. He expertly opened one and then the other, pouring their contents into the coffee before adding a spoonful of sugar, the sweet aroma mingling with the bitterness of the brew. “I felt the same way when I first became a teacher here. But being here—helping the kids train, hoping they won’t end up like—” He paused, the unspoken name lingering in the air like a ghost they both wished to forget. “Just try. For a week. If you still hate this place, I’ll see what I can do about getting you home, okay?”

“Okay.” Takahiro’s voice was softer now, a hint of relief breaking through his tension. His body relaxed slightly, the warmth of Satoru’s presence seeping into the cracks of his guarded demeanor. He seized the moment to pivot the conversation, desperate for a reprieve from the weight of their previous discussion. “Why don’t you have your infinity on?”

Satoru smirked, a glint of mischief in his blue eyes that couldn't be seen. “I can’t miss possibly the only opportunity to touch you,” he quipped, his playful tone drawing a reluctant smile from Takahiro. He raised the coffee mug to his lips, taking a sip before handing it over to Takahiro with a flourish. “Your favorite.”

Takahiro took the mug, the warmth radiating from it mirroring the warmth that Satoru always seemed to bring into his life, whether he wanted it or not. “Anyways, I’m not sure what’s planned for today. A few things happened, so everything’s a little off schedule. Just stay alert in case you get called up. And try to visit me this time, or I’ll have to take it into my own hands and show up at your room door instead.”

With that, Satoru turned to walk away, leaving Takahiro standing there, the mug warming his hands as he stared at the spot Satoru had just occupied. The room felt emptier without him, a stark reminder of how much he both craved and resisted this connection. Takahiro’s thoughts spiraled, a confusing mix of affection and frustration swirling within him. He really couldn’t tell if he loved or hated Satoru Gojo, but one thing was certain: Satoru had a way of unsettling him, stirring up emotions he was not ready to confront. And yet, he found himself longing for their moments together, even if they left him feeling vulnerable and exposed.

♡