Chapter Text
Yuuji Itadori knew he was an idiot.
He knew it every time his heart stuttered in his chest, every time his hands got clammy, every time his eyes found Satoru Gojo across the lecture hall, the campus quad, the cramped, smelly mats of the university’s karate club. There were a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea, and Yuuji could recite them all like a mantra. Satoru Gojo wasn’t even a teaching assistant in his department; he was a TA for philosophy, which Yuuji didn’t take, and he only knew this because he was pathetically nosy and had spent too many hours stalking the faculty website. Worse, Gojo was an omega. Not just any omega, either: the kind of omega who seemed to float through life on a cloud of irreverent confidence, hair bleached almost white and eyes always hidden behind ridiculous sunglasses. And Yuuji, who had never even been in a proper relationship with anyone, let alone an omega like that, couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Gojo was never alone, not really. He was always hanging around that alpha teacher, Geto Suguru, who was tall and graceful and, from the way he and Gojo bantered, obviously close. Sometimes, Yuuji caught the scent of their laughter together, something sharp and sweet and private, and it made his stomach twist. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be the one making Gojo laugh or if he just wanted to be near enough to catch the shiver of his voice in the air, to see how the corners of his mouth curled when he was amused. Maybe both.
He had made an idiot of himself more than once, joining the karate club because he heard Gojo was in it, even though Gojo was an omega and everyone knew omegas didn’t usually do sports like that. Yuuji had made up a story to Megumi and Nobara about wanting to improve his fitness, but really, it was just an excuse to be in the same room. To watch Gojo stretch languidly before practice, arms above his head, shirt riding up to show a sliver of pale skin and the shadow of scent glands just above his hip. Yuuji couldn’t help but stare, couldn’t help but breathe in deep and catch the faintest trace of something floral and electric.
He told himself that it was harmless. That he was just watching from afar, that he wasn’t going to do anything about it. After all, Gojo was popular, magnetic, always surrounded by people, always a little out of reach. Yuuji was just some alpha; he was just another face in the crowd, another body on the mats. He was nothing special.
Except sometimes, Gojo looked at him. Just for a second, mid-spar, mid-laugh, sunglasses he shouldn’t wear while fighting, sliding down his nose. Sometimes, Yuuji thought he saw a flicker of something there, curiosity or amusement or maybe just the faintest flicker of interest. It made his chest ache, made his whole body flush with heat and hope and embarrassment.
He hated it.
He loved it.
He spent nights lying awake in his tiny dorm room, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, replaying every interaction in his head. Did he sound stupid when he asked Gojo for pointers on his stance? Did Gojo notice how his voice caught when they brushed hands? Did he imagine the way Gojo’s eyes lingered on him just a little too long?
He tried to talk himself out of it. Tried to remind himself that Gojo probably didn’t even know his name, that Geto was always there, always close, a shadow at Gojo’s side. He tried to convince himself that this was just a phase, a crush, something he’d grow out of. But then he saw Gojo in the hallway, leaning against a locker, laughing at something Geto said, and Yuuji felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He felt stupid and young and desperate, and he hated himself for it.
Alpha or not, Yuuji has never been good at hiding his feelings. He’d managed it for a while, at least until Megumi’s last heat, when Megumi had quietly rejected Yuuji for his fated mate. Yuuji hadn’t even been annoyed or angry. Instead, he’d laughed about it with Megumi and Nobara after, and admitted his ridiculous crush on Gojo, relieved their friendship hadn’t been messed up. His friends now tease him about it, call him lovesick, say he’s got it bad, and he knows they’re right.
He thinks about quitting the karate club, about switching to another gym, about doing anything to make this ache in his chest go away. But he doesn’t. He keeps showing up, keeps putting himself in Gojo’s orbit, keeps hoping for something—anything—to change.
The worst part is, Yuuji knows he’s setting himself up for heartbreak. He knows that Gojo and Geto are probably a thing, that whatever is between them is old, comfortable, and real. He knows he’s just a kid with a crush, that he’s just making it worse by hanging around, by hoping for something he can’t have. But he can’t help it. He’s never wanted anyone like this before. He’s never felt so raw, so exposed, so hungry for something he can’t even name.
He catches himself writing Gojo’s name in the margins of his notebook, doodling little hearts like an idiot. He finds excuses to walk past the philosophy department, to linger outside the classroom where Gojo is teaching, just for a glimpse of that white hair, that easy smile. He tells himself it’s harmless, that he’s not hurting anyone, but he knows it’s a lie. He’s hurting himself every day, with this longing that won’t go away.
Sometimes, late at night, he wonders what it would be like if things were different. If Gojo noticed him, really noticed him, saw him as more than just another student, another body in the crowd. He imagines Gojo’s hand in his, Gojo’s voice in his ear, Gojo’s scent all around him. He knows it’s foolish, that it’s never going to happen, but he can’t help dreaming.
He’s tried to distract himself, tried to throw himself into his studies, into training, into anything that will take his mind off Gojo. But it doesn’t work. Gojo is everywhere, laughing in the hallway, stretching on the mats, leaning close to Geto, always just out of reach. Yuuji feels like he’s drowning in it, in want and hope and the certainty that he’s never going to be enough.
But still, he keeps going. He keeps showing up, keeps watching, keeps hoping. Because even if it hurts, even if it’s hopeless, even if he’s just setting himself up for disappointment, Yuuji can’t stop. He’s never wanted anything like this before, and he doesn’t know how to let go.
It was a relief, sometimes, to just let it out. So that was what he did, slumped in the university café one afternoon, his head pressed dramatically to the sticky formica table while the late golden sunlight filtered in through the windows. The place was half-full, the background noise a low hum of voices, clinking mugs, and the hiss of the espresso machine. Megumi and Nobara sat across from him, their trays littered with empty wrappers and the dregs of lunch, both watching him with matching looks of exasperated amusement. Megumi sipped at a can of cold coffee, eyes half-lidded and unreadable, while Nobara idly spun her phone between her painted fingers, her foot tapping against the leg of the table.
“Gojo was so cool at the club today,” Yuuji whined, his voice muffled by his folded arms. “Did you see that spinning kick? He barely touched the mat and he just—” Yuuji broke off with a groan, loud enough to draw a couple of curious glances from nearby tables. It didn’t matter. He felt pathetic and hopeless and, if he was honest, a little bit desperate. “It’s not fair.”
Nobara smirked, her eyes alight with mischief. “You know you sound like a lovesick puppy, right?”
Megumi raised an eyebrow, mouth twitching. “He’s hopeless,” he said, but his voice was gentler than his words. “Are you going to start writing poetry next?”
Yuuji rolled his head to the side to glare at them, cheeks flushed. “Shut up. Neither of you get it. Megumi, you’re literally mated to Hiro now, and Nobara, you’re finally with Maki. I’m happy for you guys, really, but it’s like everyone else is figuring it out, and I’m the only one left being pathetic by myself.”
He could see himself, reflected dimly in the window behind Megumi; rumpled hair, face half-buried in his arms, eyes shadowed. He looked nothing like Geto Suguru, who always seemed so put-together, so smooth. Geto was tall, with that curtain of dark hair and the kind of easy confidence that made people look twice. He was always there at Gojo’s side, smiling like he knew some secret joke, never flustered, always in control. Next to him, Yuuji felt like a mess; too loud, too obvious, never able to hide how he felt.
“Geto’s probably going to walk Gojo home, anyway,” Yuuji muttered, more to the table than to his friends. “He always does. They probably already have their whole lives planned out together. I’m just… I don’t know. Some idiot kid who can’t even get through practice without staring.”
Nobara grinned and nudged Megumi. “Maybe you should just ask Gojo out, since you’re so obsessed. At least then you’ll know if you’ll get rejected and can move on.”
Yuuji buried his face further into his arms, letting out another groan. “I can’t. He’s—he’s Gojo. And Geto’s always around, and I’m not… I’m not like him.”
Megumi snorted, but there was warmth in it. “Geto isn’t all that. Plus, I was talking to Yuta, and he reckons he saw Geto with a cute little omega the other night at a club. Looked pretty cosy. Maybe he isn't actually interested in Gojo after all.”
Yuuji lifted his head, blinking at him. “What? Seriously? But they’re always together.”
Nobara shrugged, spinning her phone again. “People aren’t always what they seem. Maybe Geto’s just hanging around Gojo because he’s bored. Or maybe he’s just leading him on.”
It was a thought, but Yuuji couldn’t quite imagine it. The way Geto looked at Gojo, the way they moved around each other, it felt too easy, too natural. It felt like something real. But he didn’t say that, just stared into his cold coffee, feeling the ache in his chest grow a little sharper. He knew he was being ridiculous. He knew he was acting like a kid, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted Gojo to look at him the way he looked at Geto. He wanted to be the one Gojo smiled at, the one who made him laugh, the one who got to see all his soft sides.
Megumi leaned forward, his expression softening. “You should just talk to him, Yuuji. Seriously. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Yuuji laughed, but it was humourless. “He could laugh at me. Or ignore me. Or tell me he’s not interested because I'm just a 21 year old brat. That’s pretty bad.”
Nobara rolled her eyes, but her tone was kind. “You're the most wussy alpha I've ever met, you know that?" She teased. "You never know unless you try. And if he says no, at least you’ll know. You can stop torturing yourself.”
Yuuji nodded, but he didn’t say anything. He knew they were right, but it didn’t make it any easier. He couldn’t shake the image of Gojo’s smile, the sound of his laugh, the way his eyes crinkled when he was amused. He couldn’t imagine just walking up to him and saying, Hey, I think I’m in love with you, what do you think? It felt impossible, like trying to catch smoke.
Instead, he just sighed, pushing his chair back and standing up. “I’m gonna head back to the dorm. I need a nap. Or something. Anything.”
Megumi and Nobara watched him go, their expressions a mix of concern and fondness. Yuuji waved them off, trying to smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. As he left the café, the warm air hitting his face, he couldn’t help but glance over towards the philosophy building, hoping, just for a second, that he might catch a glimpse of white hair and sunglasses.
He didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
Gojo was probably already gone, off with Geto somewhere, doing something cool and interesting and completely out of Yuuji’s reach.