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Utahime grew up on tough love.
Given the fact that she has four older brothers, maybe it was inevitable that she would have some rough edges. Maybe she was always meant to be a fighter, giving as good as she got when her brothers pulled her pigtails and trashed her toys as children, building tolerance to drink them under the table and matching their crude jokes with even worse ones as adults lest they ice her out.
But, maybe, it was her mother who taught her that love is stringent. Unyielding.
Her mother, may she rest in peace, was a horrible mother. There was no pleasing that woman, not when all she saw were the ways Utahime wasn’t like her.
Utahime was never elegant enough, never beautiful enough, never enough. Her mother never failed to remind her that she put her life on hold for her, quitting her job and resigning herself to becoming the sort of woman she used to scoff at just so she could raise a daughter who grew up to be nothing special.
Sometimes, Utahime wondered if love was really meant to be so sharp. If it was meant to be swallowed down like a pill and then spit out because of its bitterness. If, instead, she could learn to be soft and gentle and kind and maybe then she would be able to love the right way, because the way she had known love so far did not feel right.
Sometimes, regardless of whether it was the sharp kind or the not-as-sharp kind that she hadn't known much about yet, Utahime wondered if her mother ever had any love for her.
She might have wondered, but the answer always presented itself in her memory. There were days she would come home, beat-down and worn, and the table would be full of her favorite foods, her laundry folded on her bed, a warm bath bubbling down the hall. There were nearly-invisible stitches sewn along the hem of her hakama, the red fabric growing as she did every year, without fail.
Then the end came and there was still no apology, but there was a confession.
“I’m only so hard on you because I want you to be better,” her mother had said. “Better than me or your father or your brothers. You're the best of us, Utahime. If I leave this world, then at least I will have left you with thick skin and a strong heart.”
And then she left and Utahime realized that maybe the love her mother had given her was not the love she wanted, but it really was love, in some way. It had hurt, not always, though it did, but don't most things in life? Didn't she come out stronger for it, in the end? At least she was loved, in some way.
Utahime doesn’t think Satoru grew up with any kind of love at all.
Satoru picks her up in front of the station.
He's dressed in his usual uniform, its baggy cut made worse by how loosely it hangs from his frame. She frowns.
“Utahime!” He bounds up to her, his long legs swallowing up the distance between them in the blink of an eye. She's picked up in a hug and spun around a few times before he delicately lowers her back onto her feet. “You're here! Did you miss me? Did you?”
People are staring. She gives him her bags and kisses his cheek. He towers over her, blocking the sun.
“I did.” She graces him with a smile and holds his empty hand. “So much.”
Satoru swings their hands between them as they walk, the sea of passersby parting easily for him. Utahime wonders if they avoid him because of his sheer size or because of the ozone lingering around him. She holds his hand a little tighter and presses closer to his side, soaking in his warmth, lending him some of hers. Infinity has no place between them.
“Sorry we have to walk,” Satoru says after a while, looking down over the rims of his sunglasses. He really does look apologetic. “I couldn’t find a driver and I didn’t want you to have to take the subway right after the train.”
“I don’t mind,” Utahime grins at him. “It’s nice to get some fresh air and I like spending time with you.” Utahime likes that he shortens his stride for her, stalling just enough that she’s a half-step in front of him instead of trailing after him. “Do you have any plans for us this weekend?”
He shakes his head and his bangs fall into his eyes. Before he can even wince, Utahime is stretching up, up, up onto her tiptoes and brushing them out of the way for him.
“Thanks,” Satoru says, popping a kiss onto her forehead. She kisses his chin, the only part of him she can reach. “Love you.”
They're obstructing traffic. They're awful in their shamelessness. People are staring. Utahime doesn't care.
“Love you too,” she says, and drops back onto the flats of her feet. She tugs Satoru’s hand and they start walking again, him letting her navigate through the crowd. “So, plans?”
“Not really,” he hums. “I just wanted to stay at home with you for today, at least. Unless you want to go out? I can make reservations somewhere nice for dinner.”
“A night in sounds good. Just tell me what you want to eat and I’ll make it. Besides,” Utahime squeezes his hand in hers. “I like it when it's just the two of us.”
Satoru gives her hand a gentle squeeze back. “I like it too.”
Satoru’s house is obscenely large.
Obscenely large as in it has four fully-furnished bedrooms, two and a half baths, and a second story. The backyard is grassy, with a quaint garden and a swing hanging from the tall pine tree that stands in the center of everything. Utahime’s favorite spot is a small nook in the garden, where she likes to set up a parasol and a picnic blanket so she can read in the shade while Satoru putters about the yard, gardening or painting or sometimes just lying his head on Utahime’s lap, listening quietly while she reads aloud to him.
As far as Utahime knows, Satoru has lived alone since he graduated.
The first time he invited her over, a month after they’d actually started dating, she had expected to have to make the trek to the Gojo estate. Instead, her GPS had taken her to a quiet suburb at the base of the mountain. She'd been polite throughout the house tour, but she could only keep herself from prying for so long.
“You don’t live with your clan?” Utahime had asked, projecting her voice to the kitchen where Satoru was getting them drinks. He had left her in the main room and as much as she’d tried to snoop around for family pictures or albums, she hadn’t been able to find any.
Satoru walked back into the room holding a tray with two steaming cups of tea and a package of cookies, snorting an inelegant little laugh as he settled down next to her on the couch, “My clan is me, my mother, and my grandmother. I moved out years ago.”
Utahime shifted closer to him, their thighs nearly touching. She can't imagine living in such an empty house. “They live on the estate alone, then?”
“I think so? Not really my business.” Satoru tore into the cookies with a vicious focus. He turned his gaze toward the ceiling as he crunched on the snack. “We don’t talk much. I think they prefer it that way, actually. Neither of them ever really liked company. Or maybe it was just me they didn’t like? Haha.”
And maybe it was then, that singular moment, where Utahime saw Satoru in a different light. A kinder one. One where maybe the strongest man in their world has hurts that match hers, where maybe he was an unloved little boy the same way she was an unloved little girl, but not really. Not really, because she was loved even if it was in a backwards, crooked way. He probably doesn’t even know what love is.
That’s okay, Utahime had thought. He can learn how she learned. She can teach him. She can love him.
Utahime picked up one of the cups on the table and brought it to her lips. She blew on it, careful and slow because she could feel his gaze on her, took a sip to check the temperature, and held it out to him.
Satoru took it without question, only blinking when she touched his face and brushed the crumbs from his chin.
“I’m sure that wasn’t it,” she’d smiled, watching as he put his mouth on the same spot hers had been. “Your house is probably much nicer, anyways. Especially the garden. I love the garden, it’s beautiful.”
Satoru perked up instantly, blooming under the slightest hint of praise.
“Yeah? It’s yours.” His eyes widened, like he was taken aback by his own eagerness. Like he realized what it sounded like. He took another gulp of his tea. “I mean, I’m glad you like it a lot. So, uh. So, you can spend more time out there, if you’d like. Or you can change it however you want. That’s fine. I mean, you’ll be over here pretty often now that we’re dating, right?”
He’d asked the question with tense shoulders and a hesitant side-glance, like he was already bracing himself. She felt something ache in that spot just next to her heart and shifted closer, properly leaning against him.
“Of course I will,” she soothed. “I’ll come by all the time, if that’s okay with you.”
It had been more than okay with Satoru and so her first-ever-visit turned into once-a-month visits which turned into one of the spare rooms made up with her favorite silk sheets, littered with the various trinkets he liked to get her which, eventually, became her sleeping on the right side of the bed and Satoru sleeping on the left. His closet half-filled with her jeans and tees, but also with her pretty dresses and skirts, still carrying the lingering scent of her sugary perfume.
Utahime was invited to stay and so she did.
Now, Utahime breezes past the entryway and heads straight for the kitchen. She sets her insulated bag on the floor and starts unpacking, a formidable wall of tupperwares with prepared meals quickly filling the fridge.
“Are you feeding your boyfriend or an army?” Satoru teases, hip checking her as he ambles over to the smaller countertop fridge reserved for drinks.
“You haven't been eating enough, have you? Your clothes don't even fit properly anymore.” Utahime frowns as she digs out fossilized onigiri from the produce drawers. She checks the dates— all expired a week ago. They go straight into the trash.
“I've just been busy, you know how it is,” Satoru dismisses, side-stepping her on his way to the main room. “I’m not usually that hungry, anyway.”
“We've talked about this,” Utahime calls, giving the contents of the fridge one last check before closing it. “Gotta eat even if you’re not hungry, baby.”
She follows Satoru into the room and, seeing him already seated and flipping through movies to stream, settles down in his lap. He hugs her to him instantly, the sharp jut of his chin digging into her shoulder a little. His chest is warm against her back, his heartbeat a steady thing.
“Maybe I would start eating better if you would just move in already,” he says, with a whine in his voice. “Nothing tastes as good as your cooking, ‘Hime. I wish I could have it all the time.”
“Flattery won’t score you any more points with me, you’ve already got me. You’re just not used to homecooking,” she explains, twisting around to pinch his cheek. He stares at her sulkily, only pouting harder when she pokes the furrow between his brows. “I’ll make some of your favorites while I’m here and we can freeze them, how does that sound?”
Satoru drops his sullen look and hands her a beer and kisses her cheek, “Like a dream. You’re the best, babe.”
Utahime cracks open her drink and relaxes while Satoru finally picks a movie.
“Let's go shopping tomorrow,” she says, a while later. Satoru is still focused on the screen. “We’ll get you some nice things that fit and I’ll dress you up. My treat,” she says, like he isn't the heir to the Gojo clan.
He stabs his straw into the top of his strawberry milk and laughs. She turns so that she’s sat right on his lap, straddling his hips.
“Oh? Are you gonna be my sugar mommy?” Satoru's cheeks color a rosy pink and he takes a long sip, avoiding eye contact. It's precious. She rests her head on his shoulder and nuzzles close, wrapping her arms around his middle.
“You can say it, you know,” Utahime murmurs into the curve of his neck. His ears are red, the flush crawling down his neck as she watches. “It’s okay. Just like over the phone, remember? Say it.”
“It's weird,” Satoru says, squirming underneath her insubstantial weight, but not enough to break the loose hold she has on him. “Don't wanna.”
“You don't want to?” She hums, peering up at him. “But I want you to. I don't think it's weird, I think it's cute. I think you're cute.”
“You'll laugh at me,” he whines, finally looking back at her. There’s something that she can’t describe written across his face. “I don't want you to think I’m a freak.”
With every word that leaves Satoru’s mouth, Utahime feels a new weight in her chest become heavier and heavier, coalescing into something that makes it harder to breathe. It starts up near her throat, sinking down to her heart, leaden with a cold that sends chills to her bones.
Satoru thinks she’d hurt him? He thinks, despite how much care and consideration and love she’s shown him, that she would treat him like a stranger? That he’s not the most important person in her life?
“Do you really think I would? You think I’m that shitty of a person?” He doesn't say anything in the split second she pauses. “Wow. Okay.”
“Babe, I didn't mean it like that, come on.”
Utahime knows how he meant it, knows exactly what he was trying to imply. “I wanted today to be good for you, for us, since we spend so much time apart, but now we're doing this, huh?”
“I don't even know what you mean, it's still a good day—” Satoru’s voice holds a note of agitation and the weight in her chest grows heavier, colder, still.
“You know I only get on your case because I love you. If I didn't care about you, I wouldn't be doing shit but here I am, trying so hard to make you happy and you make me the bad guy. For caring.” She cares so, so much. All she does is care about Satoru.
Satoru tries to placate her, “That's not it, I am happy. I love you too, I do, baby—”
“I guess I should go, then, since apparently you think I’m such an asshole.”
“You're not, ‘Hime, you're perfect —”
“Maybe you were just looking for an excuse to get me to leave. That’s it, isn’t it. God.”
She goes to climb out of his lap.
“Wait!” Satoru panics into action, frantic, his big hands scrabbling to hold her down against him. His fingers span her ribcage, twisting into the soft cloth of her shirt. “Don't leave, don't go. Sorry. I’m sorry. Sorry.”
“Gojo.” A wounded sound tears itself from his throat. “Let go of me.”
He lets go. He's crying. His expression is scrunched up like he's in pain, fat tears roll down his ruddy cheeks, snot runs from his nose. The whole affair is completely silent.
Utahime looks at him and then goes up on her knees to hold his face in both of her hands. Cradles it, even, smoothing her fingertips over his temples before cupping his head in her small palms. She sweeps her thumbs under his eyes, wiping away the tears.
“I’m not mad.” More silence, a brief flutter of clumpy lashes. She softens her tone, “I promise. I just got a tiny bit upset, but I’m not really mad. You can talk to me, sweetheart.”
He shakes his head and tries to curl into himself, tries to hide from her. She doesn’t let him.
“My poor baby,” Utahime croons, her voice sticky, sweet and cloying. “My little boy got real spooked, huh? Let me make it better, tell me what's wrong. I’ll fix it.”
Satoru shakes his head again, silent except for the occasional ragged breath, like he’s swallowing down the rest of his tears. She hugs him to her chest, one hand running through the short hairs at the back of his neck, the other rubbing circles on his back. He buries his head in her softness, soaking in her warmth, her comfort. Infinity has no place between them.
“...Am I still?” Satoru whispers, eventually, voice hoarse and small.
“Still what?” she says, pulling back to see him properly. She's playing dumb; she knows what he wants. She just wants him to admit it, to know what he wants too. “My little boy?”
He nods, staring off somewhere to the side with bleary eyes. She guides his focus back to her, framing his face with her fingertips.
“You are,” she says softly, petting his cheek with her knuckles. “Of course you are. You're mine and I’m going to take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”
He turns his head to her touch, leaning into it. “Even if I make you mad?”
And there it is. The reason he avoided her, why all his words came out wrong and got stuck before she could help him. It was so simple, the root of his silence. She should have seen it earlier, shouldn’t have doubted him.
“We don’t talk much. I think they prefer it that way, actually. Neither of them ever really liked company. Or maybe it was just me they didn’t like? Haha.”
Utahime bows her head and kisses his temple, his brow, his eyelids. “I told you I’m not mad, but yes. Even then. Always.”
Satoru’s lip wobbles like he’s about to cry again, “You sounded mean. Like you were mad at me. I was just scared ‘cause I didn't want to get in trouble and I wasn't allowed to say it before but I want to, I promise, please don't leave.”
“Hey, hey, none of that. Eyes here.” He obediently meets her gaze, tears still caught in his fine lashes. He blinks and they fall. “Who loves you more than anything else in the world, Satoru?”
“You do,” he says immediately, not pausing to think. Not hesitating.
She kisses his tears away in reward. “Could anyone love you better than I do?”
“Nuh uh,” he sniffles. “You love me the best.”
“That's right.” She smiles again, knows how much he likes her smiles. “That's right, baby. Do you know why I love you the most? I bet you do.”
He ducks his head, like he’s shy, like if he could only make him small enough to tuck his head perfectly under her chin, he would. “‘Cause you're my Mommy.”
The horrible weight in Utahime’s chest dissipates and all that she's left with is an incessant ache, something soft and yearning and a little empty that hurts just at the tail end of every heartbeat. Something still rough around the edges, waiting to be held so the empty isn't so empty anymore.
Satoru makes a quivering noise from somewhere behind his soft palate, pitiful but endearing in his demand for attention, and Utahime is drawn back to him. She always is.
“Attaboy,” she praises, smoothing his bangs back from his damp face. “And you shouldn't be scared to say it. That made me very sad, Satoru.”
“I’m sorry.” He leans into her palm, seeking repentance, unshed tears glimmering. “I’m really sorry I made you sad.” He bites his lip, worries it between his sharp teeth. “I’m really, really sorry, Mommy.”
Satoru peers up at her through his lashes, waiting for her forgiveness. Her rebuke. Her benediction, her condemnation.
There is a song and dance to this and Utahime knows every line.
“I forgive you,” she soothes. She kisses the seam of his lips and he parts them for her, opening up as easy as a hot knife through butter. “I’m not sad anymore, baby, not even a little bit. How could I be, when my good boy is so sweet to me? I love you.”
“I love you,” he sighs into her mouth, like he can spoon feed the words to her, like it’ll work. It’s working. “I don't want you to go away, I want you to like me. I want to go shopping with you. I love you.”
Utahime kisses him one last time. She rests her forehead against Satoru’s and smiles and Satoru smiles back because he loves her smiles.
“I know,” she says. “I love you too.”
Sometimes, Utahime wonders if this – what she and Satoru have – is love.
She likes to think it is. She hopes it is.
She is soft and she is gentle and she is kind and she has worked for this. She has worked her damn ass off to be all those things she wanted to be and she damn well deserves to love someone the right way. To be loved by someone, the right way.
Satoru loves her. She loves Satoru. She really, really loves Satoru.
Maybe this will work. It was working before. The back-and-forth call log of hours-long video calls, her weekly train rides, his house that has too many rooms for one person. Their love lives in so many different places that she's lucky there's still enough, just barely any of it, left to tuck right next to her heart, slotting in nicely between all of the cracks.
But maybe she's all wrong inside, never in her life loved enough to learn love, just gathering enough scraps from wherever she can find them to get by, unloved and unlovable. Unfixable.
Maybe she should leave, while their sweet little love is still intact, mostly, before it sours and turns bitter, bitingly sharp.
Before it's too late, she thinks.
But then. But then, after that, she thinks—
Maybe Satoru will cry when he sees her side of the bed empty, her things disappeared from his home, her, gone.
Maybe he will ache for her and her patchwork love because out of everyone else's, hers is a perfect match to his. They are a perfect match, their jagged edges lining up to make something that doesn’t hurt so much, and that's how she knows that she would ache for him, too.
Heavy, dragging footsteps pull Utahime from her thoughts and she looks up from her shoelaces. The lamp from the hall casts Satoru in a backlight, his shadow stretching over hers.
“‘Hime?” Satoru’s voice is rough from sleep, his eyes still shut. He's probably not even really awake. He probably woke up, saw she was gone, and followed her trail without thinking. “Where y’ goin’?”
“Nowhere, baby,” she says. His eyes flutter open. “I was just getting some water. Do you need me to tuck you in again? I’ll be there in a second.”
Satoru yawns in response, rubbing his eyes with his fist, sweetly clumsy in a way that he usually never is, in a way that tugs at her heartstrings. He’s good at doing that.
“...M’kay,” he mumbles. He blinks down at her, crystalline sapphire melted soft by sleepy affection. “I’ll wait. Love you.”
Utahime slips her shoes off, tucks her bag under the coat rack, and goes back to bed.