You're so cold that you don't feel it anymore. Your fingers and toes have gone numb and you're worried that they'll fall off before you can return to school. You add hypothermia to your list of maladies, which are all clamouring for your attention. You can only hope that Gojo will show up soon.
"Tuna, tuna."
"Hm? Oh!" You turn at the sound of Inumaki's voice, almost sighing in relief when he presses a still-warm crepe into your hands. It looks delicious, topped with whipped cream and strawberries and drizzled in chocolate. "Toge, you didn't have to. Really."
"Katsuobushi."
"Okay, then. Thank you. Wanna share?"
Vehemently, Inumaki shakes his head, and points at Yuta, twisting the ring on his finger anxiously. You notice that he always fidgets whenever he's nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot, worrying with the hem of his shirt. He stares bleakly at the entrance to the shopping mall, as if expecting someone to emerge from its depths. Ichiji's worrying must be contagious – the man has been pacing up and down, muttering unintelligibly to himself.
"Yuta." You say, your assessing glance sweeping over his face. You try to smile. "Share this with me."
"No, I couldn't – I mean –" He breaks off, glances helplessly at Inumaki, who nods encouragingly in response. "It's yours."
"I can't finish all of it. Please?"
"Um – Ah – Alright." Presented with wide eyes and a pleading gaze, he gives in easily. You have to bite back a triumphant smile. "Inumaki, do you –"
Once again, Inumaki shakes his head. You're not sure if it's your imagination, but you think that he seems rather exasperated with both you and Yuta. You nibble on the edges of the crepe. It feels good in your tender stomach.
Yuta's just eating his share of the crepe when frantic honking makes all of you look up, at the white minivan barrelling down the street and jerking to a sudden halt. Your seniors are all huddled together, and you catch a glimpse of Hakari, who looks as though he's just seen the life flash before his eyes. Gojo dances out of the car, wearing his happiness like the sun's rays when he sees you and Yuta sharing a crepe, trading it back and forth for the other to eat.
Gojo wails. "[ NAME ], I'm so proud!"
"Shut up. Mr. Ichiji's looking for you." You very pointedly don't meet his eyes, already feeling a tell-tale flush creep into your cheeks and up the back of your neck. "Hurry up and go."
"I will, I will, but first – Here." Gojo's already shrugging out of his jacket and pressing it into your hands. "Better keep warm, or you'll be spending the night with Shoko again."
"Thanks." You say grudgingly, sliding your arms into his jacket. It smells faintly of lavender soap, and more strongly of an expensive cologne. The heat of his skin still lingers upon the fabric, and it feels divine against your chilled skin and frozen joints. You realise that you're shivering again. The sleeves are much too long; you have to shove them back to free your hands.
After a quick, hushed conversation with Ichiji, Gojo disappears into the shopping mall. His frame is as tense as a bow stretched taut enough to break, and his carefree demeanour has all but vanished. Ichiji gets into the white van and drives away, leaving you, Inumaki and Yuta behind. The three of you stare at one another in mute horror, a sick realisation dawning.
You're going to have to ride back with Gojo.
Gojo's quiet when he exits the mall. Far too quiet. At first, you think it's because he's plotting something, and you're taken aback by his change in emotion, but you realise he's simply lost in thought. You've never seen him look like this before – lost and vulnerable. Younger. Fragile.
Gojo turns on the radio; a bubbly pop song blares out at you from the speakers. You sit sandwiched in between Yuta and Inumaki. At some point, you end up grabbing both their hands, refusing to let go. There's no feeling left in your fingers – Inumaki and Yuta are holding onto you as tightly as you're holding onto them.
Privately, you think that Gojo isn't in any condition to drive. His driving technique is at best creative, and at worst he's an accident waiting to happen. Gojo drifts, turns from the wrong lanes, speeds up and slows down according to the pace of the music, and pushes the gas pedal flush to the floor whenever he sees a yellow light.
"Some trip, huh?" You ask, brushing a matted hank of hair back, behind your ear. "You okay?"
Yuta nods. He looks worse than you feel, dark violet half-moons underlining his eyes, standing out starkly against his dull, ashen skin. "Just tired."
"I know what you need." You whisper. "Come to my room later."
"Leave the door open." Gojo says suddenly, not so out of it that he can't hear the both of you talking in hushed tones.
Yuta's cheeks are bright red. He can't look you in the eyes. It's a useless gesture, but you childishly stick your tongue out at the back of Gojo's head anyway.
A few hours later, after you've showered and exchanged your school uniform for the softness of pyjamas, you find yourself pressed close to Yuta, huddled under a mound of blankets and sharing a gallon of cookies and cream ice cream. Although you've expected him to shy away from physical touch, and to insist on there being at least a foot of distance between your bodies, he practically melts into your side, looking more relaxed than you've ever seen him.
He's either more tired than he's letting on, or he's grown comfortable enough around you to accept casual touch, touches which probably mean more to you than they do to him.
You know Yuta's still moving on from Rika. The ring on his finger is proof enough. But your mind is unable to reconcile these feelings and thoughts with the growing attachment you have for him, which you had openly acknowledged to Yuta by promising to protect him, that you would keep him safe.
"Does she die?" Yuta asks.
"Do you want her to?" You ask, unwilling to divulge any more details and choosing to dodge the question instead. Retrieving the spoon stuck in the mound of ice cream, you pop it into your mouth, enjoying how it melts on your tongue.
"No." Yuta says firmly, his gaze darting over to you. You wonder if he's picking out similarities between you and the sickly main character, if he's worrying over your own mortality. You pass the spoon over to him; he licks it clean and dips it back into the carton for more.
That's an indirect kiss! A very Gojo-like voice in your brain pipes up. You know that he isn't at school anymore – he had left the infirmary together with Ieiri hours ago, after popping in to check on you. Ieiri had arched an eyebrow when she'd seen Yuta sitting close to you, but had refrained from saying anything. On the other hand, an elated Gojo had immediately whipped out his phone to snap pictures. You'd only tolerated it because you'd been unable to ignore the haunted edge to his expression still imprinted to the backs of your eyelids, but once he's feeling better, you're going to smack him, you swear you will.
Shut up, you tell the Gojo-like voice, keeping your eyes trained firmly on the screen and not on Yuta, whose tongue darts out and swipes at his lips to catch any remaining bits of ice cream.
"Is she going to die?" Yuta asks again, his eyes glued to the heroine, tucked away in the hospital bed. The tubes protruding out of her are very much alike the ones in your body now, keeping you alive for yet another day.
"No." You tell him, and nestle your cheek against his shoulder.
The ice cream in your mouth tastes twice as sweet.
