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DRUNK-DIAL | GOJO SATORU
i’d dial drunk, i’d die a drunk, i’d die for you.
wc. 2.74k+ , gn!reader contents. ex!gojo x non-sorcerer!reader, toxic if you squint but it's ok cause its loserboy gojo, reupload because tag glitch!
The American poet Charles Bukowski once wrote 'find what you love, and let it kill you'. You managed to find Gojo Satoru four years ago, and then you loved him with your entire heart and soul, and then you killed him.
When you pick up your phone at 1 AM with his caller ID on the screen, you think that it might be his ghost coming for revenge.
“Hi.”
You can recognize his voice anywhere, it doesn't matter if it's throaty or silky-smooth, it doesn't matter if he's shouting over the wind or if the soft pitter-patter of the rain threatens to soothe his vocal cords over the line because truly, you can recognize his voice anywhere.
“Hello?”
“I'm on the side of the road.” It’s neither throaty nor smooth this time, he rushes his words out like it's a waterfall and he can't stop himself from plunging down below, “And it's dark outside, and I'm drunk, and there's this car that won't stop looking at me, and Suguru's not picking up—”
“You're on the side of the road, Gojo?”
“’Toru.” He corrects you, his tone clipped, “Or Satoru. Either one works.”
He lets you stay silent on the other side, a rare present from him, you manage to think, and your eyes flit to the outside of your window. Japan can be terrifying when it's dark outside, especially if there's no moon to shed any light on the streets, especially if he's prone to more dangerous beings than just humans, especially if the man is drunk out of his mind on the side of some road. You heave a sigh, glancing at the clock before you grab your coat and your keys.
“…Send me your location, Gojo, I'll come get you.”
You hang up before he can say anything more.
-
Despite Gojo's lack of credibility, you actually do find him sitting on the side of the street, his ass on the cold concrete sidewalk, fiddling with his fingers with his knees up to his face. He looks nervous when he sees your car pull up next to him, leaving the shady alleyway he’s next to with a bounce in his step that unsteadily sways as he reaches for the handle.
“You look beautiful.” He can't help the words that come out of his mouth as he climbs in the passenger seat next to you.
“I’m—um—s-sorry.” He falters, though, his gaze wavering down to the leather that lines the door when you avoid his gaze. He looks as pretty as he always does, his white hair is slightly unkempt and his hooded eyes more droopy, his concealer is creased against the curves of his nose and his clothes are wrinkled—there's something that makes him more pretty when he's not pretending to be so damn perfect all the time.
“…Can you turn the heat on? I—I mean, it was cold outside and—and I was out there for a while—” He babbles, trying to explain himself with a jumble of broken phrases only a drunk Gojo could pull off.
“I can turn it on, don’t worry.” You swallow, turning the knob as you feel the heat blast, turning it away from you.
You really aren't prepared to face him this soon, not as soon as a year after you destroyed his heart and broke your own as collateral. He always claimed that the two of you were like a package deal, after all, that you were the sun to his leaves, the star to his moon, the light to his shadows. It’s almost cruel how quickly two souls that were once so intertwined can become unknown to each other—how you could catch a glimpse of a stranger in your favorite bookstore and know what jokes made him laugh and what songs made him cry, that he would squish the skin between the two moles on his forearm and trumpet like an elephant, that he had a tattoo right under his chest, sunken and embedded into his ribs like your words used to be, that he always smiled when he said that he loved you.
The rest of the car ride to his apartment is silent, other than the time he asks you if you can turn the heat off, because it's too hot this time, because of course it is.
Your fingers grip the steering wheel, and you bite your lip as you scrounge the heat back off, twisting the fan back down to zero as you pull onto a different street.
You still talk to Geto sometimes. They live next to each other afterall, so in theory, it's helpful to get updates on your ex (and just because you're not dating Gojo anymore it doesn't mean you don't have to burn all of your friendships with his friends). In theory it's nice, but in practice, it's much harder because when Gojo Satoru doesn't soar, he crashes and burns. His dates end with him slamming the door to his apartment to pass out, his grades are fluctuating, he's more vicious to the curses he kills, his new car got scratched and he broke the windows in frustration. Geto tells you that time is supposed to heal, but every day that passes only seems to make Gojo all that more uncaring.
“…You need to take better care of yourself.” You manage to say the words against your better judgment, your eyes trained on the road in front of you, “We're all worried about you.”
“Oh,” he chuckles scornfully, “That's a really funny joke coming from the person that broke my heart.”
“Gojo—”
“Fuckin’ stomped on it and cut it up and threw it in the ocean—”
“Gojo.” You suddenly realize you're supposed to turn left and you swerve roughly into the lane, throwing yourself and him against the taut seatbelts; he lets out a grunt as you brake sharply before you can hit the car in front of you. The red lights seem to blare into your soul as you wait for it to turn green.
“You didn't treat me right.” You grit your teeth, “You made me feel delusional, made me feel like you were cheating, and you made me feel bad for finding out about sorcery instead—I would've preferred cheating.”
You met Gojo when he visited the café you worked at, and you'd learned that he was a junior in high school, that he had an insane sweet tooth, and that despite that, he liked his coffee black. You knew him for two years and dated him for another two, and yet, he made the conscious decision to tell you nothing every single day, minute, and second of the day.
“It was dangerous, what was I supposed to do?” He replies hotly, sinking into his leather seat as you turn left.
“Yeah well, I found out anyways.” You snap, pulling into the high-class parking lot next to the high-class building you could never afford, “So that plan fucking sucked, didn't it?”
You hold the brake pedal after you make sure you’re in between the lines, switching the gearshift to park before you sigh, lying your head back on the headrest as you turn to face him. Being here feels like some sick punishment, like it's the universe telling you that Gojo was indeed being held down by you. Gojo’s apartment is far more grand than yours is, and yet, he demanded to sleep in your bed almost every single day while you dated. Your bed feels empty sometimes; the side he used to sleep on is all too cold, the sheets aren't wrinkled enough, it doesn't sink to his side, and even though your mattress has forgotten the imprint he had, you haven't.
“…Do you know what day it is?” He looks sad behind his inebriated eyes, forlornly staring out of your front window, into the shades of blue and black that mix paint and bleed out through the sky.
“...Yeah.”
You assume that's why he was even out drinking in the first place—you can’t call your break-up fresh, it’s already been a year since you told him that you needed to leave him, for both your sake and his. It’s hard, because if you peel back that thin layer of the scab of your relationship, the deep hole that pierced your skin remains, still bloodied and haggard, a mix of pain and admiration. You still love him, and you think you’d be able to admit that to yourself if you could be brave, but you aren’t. Unfortunately for you, you aren't.
“It hurts to breathe when you’re not around me.” He says breathlessly, with a pained smile, “My lungs feel all compressed like even if I wanted to breathe, it won’t let me. Do yours do the same?”
“…No.” You lie, averting your gaze even though you know he's not looking at you, “That sounds like something you should talk about with a therapist—”
“I don't need a therapist, I need you.”
Your lungs might be the opposite of his because the air is heavy when you try to breathe, each inhale you take is clogged and laced with memories of when you still loved Gojo Satoru openly.
You feel the ghost of the lingering touches and delayed gazes he sent you over the counter that divided you two, the small notes and crude doodles he left on the cheap napkins you gave him, the phone number he put down on some fateful day he wanted to try something with you, try something real with you.
The thoughts of his graduation celebration pummel you; you took him on a date to the amusement park with a shy smile and a sent text—he’d tried so hard to win you the prizes that carnival scam games often tried to pull, but the two of you eventually came home sopping wet from the rain that cut your plans off empty-handed (the only thing your hand was holding was his).
You remember your first kiss with him behind the café you work at, you were his first kiss in general, and you were his first for everything. You wanted to be his forever. “’Toru,” you had said, cupping his face, feeling the warmth of his skin, “You’re a bad kisser, let’s practice again.”
Then there’s the first time he told you that he loved you; he was so casual about it, everything about him tries to seem casual about the words he says and the things he does, but it’s always sincere, hidden behind layers upon layers of underlying thoughts and feelings. He thought that you were asleep when he let a soft “I love you.” slip from his lips as he ran his fingers through your hair, brushing the wisps off of your forehead.
“Those two aren't mutually exclusive.” Your voice comes out broken, you're tearing up, you realize, it stings at your eyes and pulls at your heartstrings.
You loved Gojo Satoru, and with some cruel twist of fate, you still love Gojo Satoru. In some alternate universe, you wouldn't be going through this torture, you wouldn't be crying in your car with him about a relationship that never stood a chance, you'd be with him in some park, pointing at the constellations and marking your own places in the sky. Maybe if things had been different, maybe if he'd told you beforehand, maybe if you reacted differently—
“I'd die for you, (Y/n).” He says the words with his whole chest, laying himself out for who he is: a broken man sitting defeated with his shoulder against an old leather seat, facing you but not really facing you. For being the strongest sorcerer in the world, his heart was far too easy to break, completely unshielded and vulnerable to you.
“Come on now, you don't mean that—”
“I'd let a curse pierce right here,” he grabs your palm, setting it right at his heart, “I'd do it for you over and over and I wouldn't regret it for a second.”
You try to pull your hand away, you really do, but he has a vice grip on it (and maybe on you too), forcing you to feel his hoow heartbeat through the layers of black he dons. His blue eyes stare right into you, his brow furrowed in sober desperation, his lips trembling in devastation, and you realize he's telling the truth. This is the first time you’ve looked at him, actually looked at him, since he got into your car; he looks at you with an ache that you've never seen on his face, pained but desperately holding it in. Has he been bearing that expression the entire time? Strength is a fucking facade because how could such a powerful man melt with your hand against his chest, his fingers desperately grasping at the crevices of your own, teetering on the edge of holding it?
“Fuck.” You feel your heart break, your jaw trembling, “I don't even actually know what a curse is, we wouldn’t work.”
“If our biggest problem is you not knowing what a curse is, aren't we set for life?”
“Gojo,” your voice cracks, “You're an honored one, I'm bad for you—”
“Who let you decide that?” He argues, “Who died and let you decide for me?”
“I'm—”
“There was a curse that attacked me a month ago and the only reason I was breathing was because of you—because you taught me that shitty aikido trick and it saved my life.” He breathes vindictively, “Not some other sorcerer, you. I'm alive because of you, I'm living because of you, I live for you, (Y/n). I live for you.”
“Sator—fuck—Gojo—” Your fist clenches in frustration, your head spinning in the circles you were trying to avoid when you got in your car.
“Ignore what I said on the phone, call me whatever you want,” he begs, his shoulders hunched against the seatbelt as he faces you, his hands feel all too big around your own, swallowing and enveloping your bones with the crevices of his skin, “Call me Gojo, call me Satoru, call me ‘Toru—call me an idiot, call me honored, call me cursed, call me to tell me you hate me, call me in the middle of the mission, call me anyway or anywhere you want, just please call me.”
What could you say to that? What did he expect you say to that?
“I don’t know if I still love you.” You croak, “I don't know if I can do this again.”
He never stopped loving you, but he swallows the bile away, his eyes wavering down to the chair below him as he nods shakily.
“That’s okay,” he affirms, to convince himself, “I’ll be easier to love this time. I won’t lie to you, I’ll show you everything you want to know, I won't be so heavy on the PDA when we walk—”
He cuts himself off because his brain is thinking faster than he can think; he clenches his teeth, inhaling through his nose before he grips your hand tighter, oceans upon oceans in his eyes.
“I think you’ve changed me,” he whispers, anguished, “Wholly. For better or for worse.”
The truth is that you could let him go and it’d probably be the best for both of you; your worlds are entirely too different, you would probably fight over the small and big things alike, and hell, you might be even more unhappy being with him than you were without him, but if he could be brave, couldn't you be too?
“I'll call you,” your words are impulsive, “Satoru.”
I'll call you, Satoru.
I'll call you Satoru.
“So stay safe, okay? I'll call you tomorrow.”
Satoru is hesitant, Satoru is a second chance, Satoru isn't ‘Toru, but it isn't Gojo and Satoru knows for a fact that he prefers the name Satoru coming out of your lips than almost any other word.
He nods slowly, the hint of a grin on his face turning into a giddy smile; his shoulders are trembling and he’s sniffling like there’s no tomorrow.
“Thank god,” He smiles happily, shaking, murmuring his words like a prayer, “Thank you, I’ll be waiting.”
I'll call you, Satoru.
You let yourself smile tentatively, shifting your other hand on his and cupping the outside of his knuckles, just out of reach, but close enough—close enough to touch, close enough to barely grasp onto every emotion he feels.
I'll call you 'Toru.
i lowkey hate this but i needed it out of my drafts so yayy noah kahan (and commas) for the win