Chapter Text
The night is quiet, but it presses down on Geto like a weight, suffocating in its stillness. The moon hangs high, spilling its pale light across the courtyard of Jujutsu High, casting long shadows that seem to stretch with the same grief he's been carrying for months now.
He hasn’t slept—not truly. Not since…
The thought claws its way back, but he pushes it aside, forcing himself to keep walking, to keep moving, even though his feet feel heavier with each step. It’s been months, but the memories won’t let him go. He’s tried to bury them, tried to pretend they don’t haunt him every waking moment, but it’s useless. They linger in the corners of his mind, persistent as ever, no matter how far he tries to run.
His feet, now moving almost automatically, take him down familiar paths—paths he knows so well he could walk them in his sleep. But tonight, they feel foreign, like a maze he can’t navigate. He’s lost somewhere in it, trapped in his own head.
The darkness is a strange comfort, though, wrapping around him like a cloak.
It’s easier to be in the dark—where he doesn’t have to pretend, where the fractured pieces of himself can stay hidden, tucked away beneath the veil of the night, without the weight of a mask to bear.
But then, his stomach growls—sharp and sudden, a hollow reminder of how far he’s pushed himself, how long he’s neglected his body’s demands. This hunger feels distant, however, more like an inconvenience than a true need. He’s been running on fumes for weeks, and he knows it—but eating? It’s just another task, another weight he’s too drained to carry.
Still, his feet carry him to the vending machines near the second-year dorms, almost by instinct. It’s muscle memory, or perhaps something else—a stubborn, unyielding part of him that refuses to let go, that won’t let him completely unravel.
And then, he sees you.
You’re hunched slightly in front of the vending machine, fingers hovering over the buttons as if caught in a moment of indecision. The soft glow of the machine’s light bathes you in gentle hues, and for a brief moment, Geto watches—studying the way the light catches the curve of your jaw, the slight furrow in your brow. Then, as if realizing he’s lingered too long, he considers slipping away before you even notice him standing there.
But it’s too late.
You glance up, your eyes meeting his—
“Geto-senpai?” you say, your voice tinged with surprise. There’s no judgment in your tone, just curiosity and… warmth. “What are you doing out here?”
“Could ask you the same,” he replies smoothly, his voice even. The practiced mask slides into place effortlessly. “Late-night snack?”
You nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah. I couldn’t sleep and figured a snack might help. What about you?”
He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Same, I guess.”
But you don’t look convinced. Your gaze lingers on him, searching, and he has to fight the urge to look away, to shield himself from the weight of your scrutiny. He knows what you see: the shadows under his eyes, the weariness etched into his features, the weight he carries even as he tries to stand tall.
You’ve always been perceptive—annoyingly so, in moments like these.
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” you say softly, concern threading through your voice. “Are you… alright?”
“Of course,” he answers quickly, the words automatic, too rehearsed to be believable. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
But your expression doesn’t waver. If anything, the concern deepens, and that’s when he feels it—the first tremor in his carefully built facade, the moment it starts to crack.
It’s always like this with you. You’re kind in a way that feels disarming, like you’re stripping away every defense he’s ever put up, peeling back layers he didn’t even know were there. It’s frustrating. Terrifying. And yet… somehow, it’s comforting, too.
“Geto,” you say, dropping the honorific, and the effect is immediate—he stumbles, his breath catching in a way that betrays his composure. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
The words land like a blow, deeper than they should, and he feels the fragile hold on his control begin to slip. For a brief, heart-wrenching moment, he’s caught between staying and running, torn between letting you see the rawness of who he really is or retreating into the carefully constructed distance he’s spent so long building.
But then, the mask cracks.
Just enough for you to catch a fleeting glimpse of the exhaustion, the grief, the suffocating weight of everything he’s been carrying in silence.
And in that moment, the silence between you is thick and heavy—an insurmountable gulf that stretches between you both. He clears his throat, straightening as if doing so could somehow piece everything back together.
“I should go,” he says, his voice low and tight, as he turns to leave—
“Wait.”
Your voice is soft but unwavering, and it halts him mid-step. He doesn’t turn around, but he feels you closing the distance, your presence growing impossibly closer.
“Would you…” Your voice falters, and he can’t help but glance back, his eyes catching the quiet uncertainty in yours. “Would you like a hug?”
The question catches him off guard, too simple, too sincere, and it strikes him harder than he expects. He opens his mouth to refuse, to say he’s fine, that he doesn’t need anything from you. But when the words come, they aren’t the ones he intended.
“Yes.”
It’s barely more than a whisper, but it carries a weight that says everything he’s been too afraid to admit.
Without a word, you step closer, your arms wrapping around him in a way that makes his chest ache. The softness of your touch catches him off guard, and for a moment, he’s rigid, uncertain, trapped in the rawness of the connection.
But then, slowly, as if something in him can no longer resist, he begins to lean into you. His arms lift, hesitant at first, as though testing the weight of this newfound closeness. But soon, they settle around you, drawing you in with a gentle urgency, as if he’s trying to anchor himself before the moment slips away.
And when your embrace tightens just a little, your palm brushing down his back—between his shoulder blades—something shifts in him. The gesture is simple, yet it unravels something deep inside him, and without thinking, he pulls you closer, his hold firming as if you’re the only thing keeping him anchored, the only thing tethering him to something real.
In the weight of the quiet that follows, he doesn’t try to speak, but the silence itself seems to echo with the emotions he can’t voice. Yet, you don’t ask, don’t urge him to break it. You simply hold him, your warmth seeping into the cold, hollow spaces inside him.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, Geto allows himself to feel something other than despair.