You rubbed at the lead stains on your fingertips. Your hands were sore from gripping a pencil for the past five hours. Your eyes, now dry, still burned from crying that morning, staining the white pages on your worksheets grey. On Saturdays, children run outside, go to the movies, and play video games.
You weren't a child. According to your father, your future hinged on your ability to factor polynomials, multiply three-digit numbers in your head, and find the value of x. On most days, you suffered under the watchful eye of your instructors, but sometimes your mother decided to torture teach you herself.
(It was for your own good.)
She had promised that if you finished that problem set perfectly, your evening would be free, but your father had other plans for you, and now you were here.
After waiting all week for the non-stop back-to-back Sailor Moon ultra-marathon that started- you glanced at the clock and sighed quietly- two hours ago, you were here.
Instead of losing yourself in the sheer euphoria of magical girls, the monster of the week, and a castle on the moon, you. Were. Here.
Grinding your teeth as you wasted away, next to some boy.
You knew his type.
Gojo Satoru had a TV in his room. With cable, a game cube, play station, and a VHS player. A bookshelf spanned the far wall, stacked floor to ceiling with manga. On the ceiling above the bed, a Yu Yu Hakusho poster peeled at the edges.
You dared a glance Gojo, who was seated on the other end of the couch, absorbed in his Game Boy.
He slouched lower into the cushions, then brought the screen closer to his face and hissed "come on Sonic, you dumb rodent."
In stark contrast, you were sitting upright with your hands folded primly in your lap. Gojo hadn't bothered greeting you when you were unshared into his room fifteen minutes ago. His lip had curled when you quietly perched on the opposite end of the couch. Clearly, you were unwanted. Being ignored was nothing new, but it also wasn't an excuse to forget your manners. You shifted your attention to the door, willing your father to finish his business and take you home.
Beside you, Gojo muttered "no, no, no," then shouted "come on!" loud enough to make you flinch. The Game Boy clattered noisily across the floor. The screen cracked. You sucked in a breath through your teeth.
Then, you felt his stare on the side of your face; your own gaze returned to the door. Playing possum, hoping he'd pick another toy to break.
"This is all your fault," Gojo snapped at you.
You pursed your lips.
Were you allowed to ignore him too? Probably not. Your father gave the impression that this child (the strongest? Him? You had been careful not to raise your brows.) was A Very Important Person.
You unclenched your jaw to ask softly, "Sorry?"
"I fell off the last loop in the level because of you. That never happened before. I was this close," he shifted, pinching his fingers together, "this close to beating the record."
You bit your tongue. He was allowed to be childish; you weren't. You had towered over children your age for as long as you could remember. Because you looked older and because your family's reputation was always at stake (what will people think) you forced the corners of your mouth upwards and said, "sorry Gojo-san, I'll go sit by the window so you can focus." The birds in the yard might entertain you.
"It's no use," he pouted, "The game's already ruined."
Because he threw it on the floor.
"And I won't be able to concentrate on anything with you blocking the sun with your giant head."
"I see," you replied.
He narrowed his eyes and said, "No you don't. You're a game-ruiner and a terrible liar."
Children like him enjoyed breaking whatever they could get away with. Furniture, vases, Gameboys, quiet girls. This was why you hoped he'd pick another toy to play with while you suffered in silence. Any more cracks -your eyes flitted to the flickering pixels a few feet away- and you'd shatter.
So, you compromised.
"I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to make you lose." You furrowed your brows, smiled gently, and even made a slight bow. Ire redder than blood scorched your rib cage and clawed at your throat like a trapped animal, but on the surface, you were a still blue pond.
Gojo narrowed his eyes, suspicious.
"Why are you apologizing? Obviously I'm the one who screwed up."
You tilted your head, keeping your expression neutral.
"Are you scared of me?" He asked.
"No."
"Maybe you should be."
There was no satisfying him.
With the same tone you used to appease all the other spoiled rich kids your family made you deal with, you responded, "if you say so."
"I told my father I didn't want another babysitter."
Clearly, Gojo needed supervision. That didn't explain why your father forced you to come along.
"How old are you?" He asked.
"Ten," you answered.
"No you're not. I'm ten."
"Girls grow faster than boys."
"Everyone else my age is shorter than me, including all the girls."
"Oh. That's… good."
"Even if you are freakishly tall, I'm stronger than you."
"I know you're strong."
This was your first meeting, but everyone in your world knew about Satoru Gojo. An unstoppable force in stark contrast to your own family's hidden hand.
"The strongest," he corrected, petulant.
"That too."
Your palm itched under your glove. It wanted to see him. You curled your fingers against it, making sure it stayed closed.
"… seriously, why are you here?"
"Honestly," you allowed yourself a small sigh, "I have no idea. There's a Sailor Moon marathon on right now. I wanted to watch. But then my father," you shrugged and cast a longing look at the TV set just a few feet in front of you. You knew better than to ask; boys like Gojo preferred to break their toys than share. "I really didn't want to bother you or anyone else today."
"What makes you think you're bothering me?"
Clearly, this kid, like all the other rich kids in your father's extensive network, was evil incarnate.
"I don't know," you shrugged, calm and pleasant as you imagined a school bus barreling into him one fine Tuesday afternoon. Gojo didn't seem to be the type to look both ways before crossing the street. You doubted anyone would shed a tear at his funeral.
"Also, Sailor Moon is a show about a dumb girl for dumb girly girls in ugly girly dresses," Gojo scrunched his nose again with a pointed look at your outfit. "I guess you really are ten."
You looked down self-consciously. Your father didn't tell you where he'd be taking you, just to put on something nice, so you picked your favorite sun dress. The small blue jays flitting around the hem had always made you smile. When the wind rippled the fabric, you imagined them coming to life and flying off the chiffon.
You wanted to tell Gojo to look in the mirror. He wore a burnt orange pullover with a faded charmander print and matching holey rolled up sweatpants. It reminded you of a prison uniform, though you were the one who needed a jailbreak.
"I like my stupid girly dresses," you said, "They make me feel pretty," don't cringe now. Later. When you're alone. "And I love Sailor Moon. She gets to have fun with her friends even though she hates math."
You doubted Usagi could add two and two without counting on her fingers, but that didn't stop her from saving the world. If only, you thought, lead-darkened fingers tracing the vibrant feathers printed on your hem. If only life could be that simple.
You left yourself wide open on purpose. Let him mock you. If the Gojo boy wanted to laugh at you for proving him right, he could. He wouldn't be the first to call you weird or stupid or freakishly tall. You could swallow the sting until you went your separate ways, hopefully forever. Maybe someday, a grand piano would fall from the sky and crush him into the sidewalk. What a peaceful image.
The silence stretched on. Seconds passed with no harsh words. Gojo's gaze never left your face.
You straightened your skirt and gave him a glance. His eyes went wide, caught in the headlights, before snapping away.
"You could've asked."
You tilted your head, a silent question.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"If you wanted to watch something, I have- I'm not- forget it." He got up from the sofa and stepped on the already cracked game boy with a crunch that made you wince. As he kicked it aside, he said, "Chill, I'll get another one. It's not a big deal."
He rummaged in the TV stand's drawer for the remote, then flopped back down on the other end of the sofa, still avoiding eye contact. You hoped he'd go back to ignoring you.
A quick click and a bright flash brought the screen to life. Gojo flipped through the channels until he found the one he was looking for. The only channel that ever mattered in the history of TV or Saturday afternoons. With a gasp, you leaned forward and clutched a throw pillow to your chest. You dared not hope.
"Is this really okay?"
"Whatever."
You waited for the trick, the other shoe, the knife waiting behind the bouquet.
"Thank you." You meant it. Suddenly, you regretted wishing for his sudden, violent demise.
"You owe me."
Never mind. You regret nothing.
Still, Gojo basically saved your life, so you didn't think twice before promising, "sure, anything you want," with a bright semi-sincere smile. His cheeks tinted pink, probably by the light from Usagi's transformation scene. He grumbled something, but you'd already tuned him out.
Slowly, you let yourself relax. For the next few hours, you squealed, giggled, and cheered, while Gojo huffed, rolled his eyes, and occasionally stifled a chuckle behind his sleeve. You gave him a knowing look. He stuck his tongue out and complained about his brain cells dying. You didn't notice the sunset or the moon rising through the wide window across the room. It felt like only minutes later there was a knock on the door.
You sat bolt upright in your seat, startled. Your pulse raced. It stirred under your glove, asking to see, offering help. You pressed your left hand against your knee hard until it retreated.
Gojo gave you a perplexed look. "It's just Miyo. Probably wants to ask about dinner."
Right. You're not at your house, and your mother and father knocked much louder.
"What is it?" He raised his voice to drawl.
The door handle turned. You tensed at the familiar click, then stood up, straightening your dress and checking your hair for flyaways. Keep your wits about you, be presentable. (What will people think.)
"Nemu-san's father has concluded his business. He's ready to take her home."
Gojo tapped his chin, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling fan.
"Naw."
"Pardon?"
"She'll stay a while longer. You can bring dinner up to us. Her father can wait until we're done or I'll have the chauffeur take her home."
What.
"As you wish."
"Yo, tall girl, what'd you want to eat?"
"Nothing, actually. Thank you for your hospitality Gojo-san but I really should be going."
"I thought you wanted to finish watching your show."
You really, really did.
"Are you in the mood for pizza? Chinese take out? Something from the kitchen? I could really go for a fresh apple pie with vanilla ice cream on top."
"Anything's fine," you said. Your stomach was too twisted up to even think about food. A boy giving orders to your father through a servant, no less. Not even informing him directly. How was this allowed? Who exactly did Gojo Satoru think he was?
As usual, you were missing crucial information. Dread pooled in your stomach. This thoughtless slight to your father would have consequences.
Gojo scrubbed a hand through his hair and groaned, "that's not what I asked. Fine. Miyo-chan, just bring up the usual. Double everything."
Miyo-chan lingered in the doorway. Her lips curved upward, crows feet crinkling at the corner of her eyes like spiderwebs.
"Miyo, do not."
"I didn't say anything, Satoru. Shall I turn on the light, miss?" she asked you.
"Yes, please. Thank you Miyo-san."
"You're very welcome, dear."
The door closes. You finally let out a breath, then remembered that the boy who saved your life (Sailor Moon is life, okay?) also signed your death warrant, and tensed up all over again.
"You're making this weird. Listen, if you hate hanging out with me that much, I can-"
"No, I like it here." A second after the words tumbled from your lips, you realized that was the truth. "It's just," you fidget with your hem, "I have a… strict schedule. My family doesn't like to deviate."
They have your best interests at heart and they don't appreciate it when you stray from "the plan" as your father calls it.
"You're here because your dad wants us to spend time together. He'll be happy about this, trust me."
"Just now, you said you thought I was here to babysit."
"I was messing with you, duh. If your old man is anything like mine, he's obsessed with politics. Building relationships for the next generation or whatever."
What 'political' benefit was there to leaving you with some strange boy, as influential as he might be, you couldn't imagine. Gojo knew something he wasn't telling you.
"There's another reason, isn't there?"
Gojo climbed off the sofa and walked right up to you, stopping about two feet away. He craned his neck to peer at you, so you stood up straight and purposefully looked down your nose.
"My dad never fills me in on anything. Yours is the same way. I can tell. Still, it's not hard to figure out what they're trying to do." He glanced around theatrically before beckoning you closer.
You leaned down.
He cupped his palm to your ear and whispered, "three years."
You waited for him to say more. Instead, he rocked back on his heels, smirking.
You narrowed your eyes and took a half step back.
"What will happen in three years?"
"I'll be taller than you."
Since you've seen his father, you know it's a given.
"And…"
"And the commercial break's over. The Sailor Scouts are about to fight queen Beryl."
"For a 'stupid' show, you seem pretty into what's going on."
He swung his arms back and forth, then clapped his hands together. "Plenty of stupid things can be fun, too. This one grew on me."
He hadn't answered your question. You decided to let him think he distracted you; let him believe you were easily manipulated. It'll make getting answers easier down the road.
Miyo-Chan brought platefuls of pastries, a whole chocolate cake, and two liters of coke. She placed everything down on the coffee table along with two glasses full of ice. And crazy straws. You hardly noticed, leaning this way and that to see past her until the next commercial break.
When you saw the feast laid out before you, you pulled back.
"I'll get in trouble," you told Gojo.
"For eating?"
"For eating things I like too much."
"That doesn't sound normal."
Gojo had special privileges. There was proof everywhere: in his room, the way he bosses adults around without so much as a 'please' and 'thank you,' and even his eyes, the color of a shattered summer sky, were proof. You weren't a child; He wasn't a child, but in a different way. If your parents didn't love you so much, you'd envy his freedom.
"Explains what it means to be normal, Gojo-san."
"It means that if you're a kid on a Saturday night, you can do whatever you want and no one can stop you."
"Desert for dinner seems like a bad idea."
(Also, again, you weren't a 'kid.')
"You are such a girl. I asked you, remember? I asked you what you wanted to eat so you wouldn't sit there and starve and you said," he pitched his voice high and sickly sweet, "anything's fine," he gestured to the colorful spread, "well this is anything."
"I do not sound like that."
"Deadass, you do. I'm an awesome impressionist."
Gojo cut a generous slice of apple pie, slapped it on the gold rimmed china plate, and slid it towards you.
"Have as much as you like but only if you want to. You won't get sick. Trust me. Us kids are made to eat sugar all the time and grown-ups hate that. They're just jealous."
You eyed the plate skeptically.
Then, because his promise was sweeter than anything you'd heard before, you took him at his word. For the first time in your life, just because you could, you ate as much sugar as you wanted and then some.
With each bite, the air around you grew warmer and brighter. The things you noticed earlier, about the boy beside you and his colorful, cluttered room, came into focus. Gojo's hair was whiter than the vanilla ice cream on your plate. It reminded you of icing, powedered donuts, and the Milky Way.
"Do you always eat this much sugar?" You found yourself asking.
"Yup," he answered with his mouth full, spewing crumbs without a care in the world.
"Maybe that's why your hair is so white," you mused, "all that sweetness turned your follicles into a cotton candy machine."
"My what?"
"Hair follicles." At his blank stare, you amended, "never mind."
For some reason, this made him laugh.
"You're so weird."
You were trying hard not to be.
"Sorry."
"No, don't go back to making those dumb apologies. Have some soda."
You didn't know what time it was, only that lightning zipped through your limbs and made it hard to keep still. You couldn't concentrate on the epic finale, even as the Sailor scouts defeated evil with the power of friendship. You fidgeted and tapped your foot quietly, pursing your lips against a flood of meaningless observations -hey look outside, the moon is full, can you hear that owl, your family's garden is beautiful but nothing compared to mine-
"I kinda want to climb a tree," Gojo said.
"Right now?"
"No, next Tuesday." At your blank stare, he grinned, "Yes right now. Let's go."
You looked down at your dress.
"Ugh, girls. Fine, you can borrow something to wear. Wait here."
Gojo bounded off into the hall. He shut the door behind him. The moment he did, you sprung up off the couch, unable to sit still for another second. But what was there to do? You found yourself stacking the empty plates and straightening the cushions. The cracked game boy caught your eye; you walked over and picked it up. Your reflection blinked back at you from the jagged black glass.
You wondered, really wondered for the first time, who exactly Gojo Satoru was and why your father didn't take you home hours ago. You traced the spindly cracks on the broken toy -crows feet, spiderwebs, trap, it's a trap-
"Here you go," Gojo appeared in front of you. The game boy slipped from your grip, landing with a loud clatter. You flinched, stumbling a few steps back.
"Calm down weirdo, it's just me."
"Sorry," you blurted, embarrassed and on edge, "sorry. I know. I'm really sorry."
"Oh," he squinted at you, "kay then. Go put these on."
These were a hideous purple pair of sweats and an even more offensive t-shirt featuring an angry green man.
"Is this Frankenstein?"
"That's the Incredible Hulk. Bathroom's down the hall, come on, go! Go! Go!" Gojo practically shoved you out of his room, into a long, dark hallway, dragged you to the bathroom and shut the door behind you. You fumbled for the light switch and changed into the ridiculous borrowed outfit.
When you stepped out, Gojo was waiting, arms crossed and foot tapping.
He regarded you with a slight frown.
"Why doesn't that look terrible."
"I think it looks really bad," you replied, clutching your dress to your chest. The sweatpants reached mid-calf, and the shirt was. Well. Ugly and oversized.
"Whatever, you're welcome, miss priss. Leave the stupid dress. You actually folded it? That's what the maid's for. C'mon, let's go!"
He grabbed your wrist and pulled you through the winding hallway, down the stairs, past the kitchen, through the back door. You tried not to focus on how cold and clammy his hand was, gross, and bit your lip when you stubbed your toe on a chair leg. Even with moonlight filtering through the many windows of the Gojo mansion, you couldn't make out anything more than vague shapes. Gojo carried himself as if it was noon, not midnight, and you wondered how that was possible.
Finally, he dropped your wrist (now damp from his sweat, which you subtly wiped off with a grimace) to opened a door. You followed him into the night, breathing the crisp summer air, tilting your head up to the full moon and spill of silvery starlight above. You couldn't appreciate how dark it was inside the mansion until you saw how much light shone outside.
For some reason, this night seemed to brim with infinite possibility. The air, alive with summer warmth and flickering fireflies, filled you with boldness.
"So Gojo-San," you turned to him, "which tree did you want to climb?"
"First of all," he walked ahead of you, taking for granted that you would follow, "drop the '-san.' It's just Gojo. Or Satoru."
You stood your ground, let him walk away, and said nothing.
It took him a while to realize that he was alone on the path; no one behind or beside him. He turned back, eyes wide, caught in the headlights again. You waited for him to come back to you.
"You're supposed to come with me."
"Oh, my apologies, Gojo-san."
With that, you began walking down the same stone path he had been taking before, knowing he would follow.
"No really, call me Gojo. Or Satoru," he laced his fingers behind his head, looking up. Not meeting your gaze again. "But only if you want to."
That was better.
"Maybe someday," you replied.
Gojo contemplated this for a while.
Softer thank you'd ever heard him speak before, he asked, "can I call you by your name?"
You pretended to think it over.
"Only if you want to," you echoed.
Though why he would, or why it even mattered was beyond you. You didn't think you'd see Gojo much after this night; your father would call him a bad influence and keep you away.
You swung your arms freely and found yourself skipping here and there, still buzzing from your very first sugar rush. Gojo quickened his steps to keep half a step ahead, hands shoved in his pockets as he kept his head down. Thinking about something again; maybe some new way to push you around.
All around you, the garden flooded with full blooms. Hydrangeas, pink and pale blue like cotton candy, saturated the flowerbeds on either side of the stone path. Wisteria dripped above you, petals catching the moonlight. Now and then, pebbles stuck to your bare feet, but you brushed them off easily.
Gojo led you to a weeping willow; the tallest you'd ever seen. Earlier that day, you had glimpsed it through the car window on the way here, and pressed your nose against the glass to stare in awe. Fine white threads streamed down its branches like liquid moonlight.
"I'm going to call you Nemu, because that is your name," he declared suddenly, startling you again.
Gojo fell asleep on the couch. The final episode came to a dramatic end. You switched off the TV and quietly walked out the door, sparing a fond smile at the tuft of white hair that was sticking out over the armrest before leaving the room.
The servants at your estate worked late when your family had guests, and it was no different here. Miyo-Chan offered a sleepy smile, summoned the driver, and waved farewell while fighting off a yawn.
Halfway home, you had the driver pull over. As you heaved the half liter of soda, three pastries, and two monstrous cake slices into a bush, you reminded yourself that you weren't like him. The same rules didn't apply.
((Later idk when)))
You weren't smart.
Learning took more time and practice than it should. Once you grasped a new skill, it became second nature. Your hands would complete the task while your mind was free to wander.
Sometime between your first words and first steps, your instructors taught you the rules to chess. While your cousins rode tricycles and chewed on Lego's, you grappled with the Belgrade Gambit and Caro Kann defense, though you didn't learn what they were called until later. White knights, black castles, and Sandlewood checkerboards paint the insides of your eyelids as you drift to sleep.
Your education is thorough and comprehensive. Your instructors explained the 'why' behind their curriculum as well as the 'what.' Math underpinned money and physics: the immutable, intangible forces governing this world. If you knew the patterns, the layers of equations behind jagged lines and smooth parabolas, the stock market could be as predictable as gravity. What goes up must come down, after all.
Chess supposedly taught you how to read people, think ten moves ahead, and anticipate your opponent. See the future.
It was all so boring, you wanted to cry.
What frustrated your chess instructors to no end was that you started perfectly, gained momentum in the mid game, but always ended at-
"Stalemate. How does this keep happening?"
"Beats me," you sighed, flopping back on the tatami mat.
You caught the sunlight streaming from the open window with your fingernails. Crescent shaped rhinestones gleamed atop opalescent laquer, reflecting faith spots of light onto the ceiling above. Your gloved left hand longed to touch the light too. You ignored its complaint.
"Maybe I'm too dumb to win and you're not dumb enough to lose," you said when the silence stretched too long and the burn of his glare started to sting.
"I don't think you're too dumb for anything," Gojo grumbled, "that's the problem."
"How magnanimous of you," most grown-ups didn't know that word. You figured that included Gojo, from the way he wrinkled his nose at you. "Let's agree to disagree. Can we do something else now?"
From the clicking and clattering on the table in front of you, Gojo was already resetting the board.
"Not until I win."
"You already won five times in a row." Followed by three stalemates. Two stalemates more than last Saturday, three less than the Saturday before. You had slipped up and made an obvious 'mistake' instead of a minor blunder. Gojo realized you were throwing the game. Now, like an angry puppy with a slipper, he wouldn't let it go.
"Those don't count as wins. You lost on purpose," he nudged your foot under the table, "now get up and play for real."
"A win is a win," you yawned because this really was boring and childish, "learn to take it."
"White moves first." Now his foot was tapping yours in tempo to his fingers drumming on the table. "Get up."
You sighed.
Gojo was a bit of a bully. Not a tattle-tale like most of the other rich kids. You could usually relax around him. But he wouldn't stop until he got his way and you found it was easier just to go along with whatever he wanted.
So, you dragged yourself upright and started with the standard King's pawn opening.
As you played, his mouth turned down and his eyes blazed, flicking to yours, then back to the board. After a year into your acquaintance, he was used to your fake apologies, just as you were resigned to spending Saturdays bearing witness to what must be a budding napoleon complex.
"Are you mad because you're still shorter than me?"
"That'll be fixed in a couple of years." From the way his jaw tensed, you knew you struck a nerve, but not the right one.
You decided to bring your knight into the fray and castle early. A safe play. Gojo aggressively moved to control the center of the board.
"Is this fun for you?" You asked.
"Fuck no."
Reflexively, you glanced around. If anyone caught you spitting four letter words, your mother would wash your mouth with soap and make you swallow the suds.
Not Gojo; the boy who had everything, including more freedom than the birds above.
And yet, all he cared about was beating you at chess.
"So what do you get for winning?"
"Same thing all winners get," he flashed a lopsided grin, "satisfaction."
"How pointless," you complained, threatening to capture his Queen with your rook. Instead of retreating or moving to defend her, Gojo decided to use his queen as bait. You didn't capture her. You moved your pawn forward in a meaningless stall.
Gojo facepalmed.
"What are you doing? Why didn't you just take her?"
"You'd take my queen in another three moves."
"And you'd have the better position," he said, tapping your bishop insistently.
You knew that. You also knew that playing the game with two queens down would take forever, and lead to another stalemate.
"Now look who's losing on purpose," you undid your last move and took his queen to humor him, "there. Happy?"
"No. We're restarting."
You rubbed your forehead; your morning math lesson had been brutal, and now this. "I want Advil."
"If you win, I'll give you a whole bottle of Advil. Advil for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. All you can eat Advil. How does that sound, princess?"
You hated that nickname.
"Like you want me to die."
"I want you to try to beat me for real."
That was the worst part: you had been trying. Your limit and your potential were one and the same. Whatever Gojo thought you were capable of was his own projection. He was 'Limitless,' not you.
"Gojo-san," you began.
"Drop the -san already. We've known each other long enough."
"Gojo-san," you doubled down, "I need some incentive."
"Whatever you want."
"If I win," you toyed with your pawn. You were playing black this time, a slight handicap. "You're going to apologize for wasting my time. We will never play chess again. And you can't ask me how I won."
Gojo's eyes narrowed fractionally at the last term. You forced an empty smile, the kind you knew he hated, and offered no explanation.
"Deal," he agreed, holding his hand out. Your palm stopped a millimeter from his own, not moving forward or back. He stuck his tongue out. You tried to withdraw your hand, but he caught it and shook firmly.
"Sweaty," you commented, pointedly wiping your hand on your hem.
Gojo's hackles raised and pink tinged his cheeks.
"At least I don't smell like potpourri," he shot back.
"Cotton blossom," you corrected.
"Shut up and play, stinky."
Your left hand itched again. An eager hum as it blinked open, roused by your burst of motivation. 'Stinky' landed precariously on top of 'princess,' which sat upon years of needless suffering for a game with nothing at stake, and broke the camel's back.
Slowly, carefully, under the table, you tugged the glove off your left hand. The atmosphere shifted as your focus sharpened. White wisps, too translucent to be thread, too solid to be smoke, curled and twisted off the chess pieces. Pale tendrils flickered like candles in a light breeze as they shifted with intent; yours and your opponent's. Then, the telltale tinge of red, fate's thumbprint, marked your path to victory.
It took you exactly thirteen moves. You could already hear the whispers -trespasser. Keep out. Never should have been, never meant to be, not for you, don't look, don't touch, DON'T CHANGE-
"Checkmate." With your right hand, you tipped his king over, then brought it under the table to quietly tugged your glove back on. The cloth muffled the accusations, made it preen and sneer and flutter its lids.
Gojo stared at you, mouth agape.
-for a silly game, no honor, worthless disgraceful how dare you how dare-
"You!" He pointed, accusing.
You flinched.
He dropped his hand, a familiar perplexed frown overtaking his comical shock. "Relax, I'm not going to hit you. How the hell did that happen?"
"Ah, ah," you tutted, feeling smug and condemned, tainted, tarnished filthy unclean never again-
"we had a deal."
Gojo picked up chess as a hobby months ago and stood already toe to toe with your years of grueling lessons. You weren't modest about your natural ability- you honestly just weren't that smart, and you made your peace with it. He was better than you in every way that mattered.
But at least now you had this: a single victory.
Turns out, there is satisfaction in victory, even one an ill-gotten one.
"Now for your apology."