❅・WHISPER OF THE HEART
SYNOPSIS — The three times he tries to tell you, and the one time he actually does.
WC — (4k)
CONTENT: SFW, suggestiveness, angst , hurt/comfort, family issues/neglect, unrequited love (or so they think), alcohol/being drunk, self-worth issues/insecurity, mild jealousy, late-night drives & emotional talks, emotional repression, gojo deserves sleep but never gets it™, soft!gojo but he’s suffering in silence, gojo is really down bad.
a/n: highkey wrote this half asleep… but anyway i finished this faster than i thought! comment if you wanna be added to the taglist (just found out what this is lol) for this series :p
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Somewhere near Tokyo, Japan
2009
Gojo lets the steering wheel glide through his fingers before tightening his grip on the expensive leather again. His palms are sweaty, his knuckles white, and the three hours of sleep he got the night before are finally catching up to him, creeping into the edges of his vision like static.
The plan for tonight had been simple: finish up paperwork at his father’s company, where he had been offered forced to start training straight out of high school. Then, he’d head home, maybe work out, maybe waste time bothering Suguru over the phone before eventually crashing. A mindless, predictable routine.
Instead, he finds himself almost an hour outside of Tokyo, in the middle of god knows where.
His foot eases off the gas slightly as he glances around, taking in the unfamiliar roads lined with trees and dim streetlights, their glow barely enough to cut through the darkness. The city was nowhere in sight. There were no high-rises, no neon billboards, no distant hum of traffic. Just the low rumble of his own engine and the occasional flicker of headlights from a passing car.
He exhales sharply, rubbing at his tired eyes with one hand while keeping the other steady on the wheel.
What the hell was he even doing out here?
The truth settles in his chest, heavy and uncomfortable. He didn’t want to drive this far. He didn’t want to end up here at all. But somehow, without thinking, he had ended up exactly where he always does when everything feels too much— wherever you are.
Gojo got the call just as he was wrapping up work. You were drunk. Alone. Over an hour away from the city at some stupid college party in an abandoned warehouse.
He was exhausted. Three hours of sleep deep into a week where everything felt like too much. His head hurt from staring at contracts and numbers he didn’t care about, and honestly, the only thing getting him through the evening had been the promise of leftover Chinese food waiting for him in his fridge.
But when you called, he came. Right?
Even if his body screamed at him to go home. Even if he knew he shouldn’t always make it this easy for you. Even if the rational part of his brain told him that one day, this whole thing, his stupid highschool crush that never seemed to go away, was going to wreck him.
Still, he grabbed his keys, got in his car, and drove.
And now, almost an hour outside of Tokyo, in the middle of god-knows-where, he’s gripping the wheel with sweaty palms and trying not to let exhaustion drag him under.
He should be annoyed. Wants to be annoyed.
But all he can think about is you waiting, unsteady, needing him. And that, somehow, is enough to keep his foot pressed firm against the gas.
As he rounds the corner onto a dimly lit street, he hears it before he sees it. The deep bass of the music rattling the ground beneath his feet, the drunken laughter and shouts of students spilling out into the night.
His jaw tightens as he follows the noise, pulling up outside the warehouse. A mess of people lingers near the entrance, bodies swaying in a haze of alcohol and cigarette smoke. The place reeks of bad decisions and even worse company.
And then he sees you.
You’re sitting on the curb, a little hunched over, your arms wrapped loosely around your knees. The party continues on behind you, people laughing, stumbling, yelling. But you’re separate from all of it.
For a second, relief washes over him. You’re safe. You’re not lost in that chaotic mess of bodies, not pressed against some guy who doesn’t know when to back off. You’re here. He exhales, tension leaving his shoulders.
But then you look up.
Your tear-stained eyes meet his, mascara smudged at the corners, eyeliner streaking down your cheeks.
He steps out, shutting the door behind him, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he strolls over with a smirk. “Hey, gorgeous.”
You blink sluggishly at him before a slow, sleepy smile spreads across your lips. “Hi…” you mumble, then suddenly, as if remembering something, you groan and cover your face. “Don’t look at me. I’m not gorgeous right now.”
Gojo huffs out a laugh, crouching in front of you. “Bit late for that.”
You peek through your fingers, pout deepening. “Y’always see me like this.”
“Like what?” He tilts his head, playing dumb.
“Pathetic.”
Before he can respond, you push yourself to your feet. Not steadily, not gracefully, but you manage. Sort of? You take one step forward, then another, before your balance wavers.
Gojo moves to catch you, but you beat him to it, stumbling straight into him, arms wrapping lazily around his middle.
He stiffens for half a second.
Because shit.
Your dress clings to you, thin and weightless, like it was made to drive him insane. Not because he’s just noticing, but because he’s spent the last four years trying not to. But now, with you pressed up against him, with your warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt, with the scent of whatever sweet perfume you’re wearing clouding his already exhausted brain.
God.
You sigh against his chest, voice muffled. “Can’t believe you actually came.”
Gojo blinks. Focuses. Ignores the way his hands instinctively settle at your waist. “Yeah, well,” he says, clearing his throat, “I am at your beck and call”
You lean back just enough to look up at him, blinking slowly like it takes effort.
“Alright, princess,” he says, “Think you can walk the rest of the way, or am I carrying you?”
You scoff, swaying slightly. “I can walk.”
“Right. Cuz that little show just now was real convincing.”
You narrow your eyes at him, then take one defiant step forward before immediately tripping over… nothing??
Gojo catches your wrist with ease, smirking.
And despite your protests, you let him guide you, his fingers firm and steady around yours.
He opens the car door, steadying you as you lower yourself into the back seat. You move sluggishly, like even the smallest effort is too much, and he frowns as he reaches over to buckle you in. Your purse gets placed beside you before he shuts the door and circles around to his side, slipping into the driver’s seat with a sigh.
The engine hums to life, but for a second, he doesn’t move.
His gaze lingers on you through the rearview mirror. You’re curled up against the window, lashes heavy, lips slightly parted, your breath fogging up the glass. His fingers flex against the steering wheel, something unspoken settling in his chest before he shakes it off and shifts the car into reverse, backing away from the warehouse.
You’ve never been like this before.
Sure, he’s seen you tipsy; laughing a little louder, cheeks pink with warmth, words spilling out without a filter. But this? This is different. This is the first time you’ve ever let yourself fall this far.
The GPS screen glows softly as he punches in your address, the familiar route flashing across the screen.
– ETA: 1:03
He exhales, rolling his shoulders as he glances at you again.
“Don’t throw up in my car, please.”
You hum in response, eyes barely cracking open. “M’not gonna,” you mumble, but your voice wobbles, breaking slightly at the end.
He sighs, shaking his head. “Just… if you do feel sick, tell me, alright?”
You mumble something incoherent, and he decides to take it as a yes.
The road stretches out ahead of him, empty and quiet. He tightens his grip on the wheel, keeping his eyes forward.
Because if he looks at you too long, if he lets himself really think about how easily you trust him, how you always call him when you need someone, he’s going to lose the battle he’s been fighting for years.
“So,” he says, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the car. “We gonna talk about why you’ve been crying?”
You shift against the seat, barely opening your eyes. “Can’t,” you mumble. “Too embarrassing.”
Gojo snorts. “C’mon. I’ve known you since we were fourteen. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you do worse.”
You hum, considering it, as the car smoothly merges onto the highway. The dim lights shrink behind you, fading into the distance, leaving only the soft glow of passing streetlights and the rhythmic sound of tires against pavement.
For a while, you don’t say anything, and Gojo doesn’t push. He just lets the silence stretch, waiting.
“Remember that guy I told you about?”
He gulps. “The one in your language seminar?”
“Yeah.”
He already doesn’t like where this is going.
You continue, voice softer now, like saying it out loud makes it more real. “He was there tonight. He invited me, actually.”
Gojo’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles paling.
“I thought maybe… I dunno.” Your voice is slightly more steady now. “I thought something was there between us.”
His jaw clenches. His grip on the wheel tightens. He doesn’t want to ask, but he does anyway. “And?”
Your breath hitches slightly, and when you speak again, your voice is quieter. “And I tried to kiss him.”
Gojo freezes, his gaze flickering back to you in the mirror.
His heart stalls for half a second before it kicks back in, pounding hard against his ribs. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry.
You keep going, oblivious to the way his grip on the steering wheel turns bone-white.
“But he pulled away,” you admit. “Said he doesn’t… doesn’t like kissing.” You scoff, shaking your head. “And I believed him. I told him it was fine, that we could still be friends.”
Gojo exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his expression to stay neutral. Fucking idiot, he thinks.
He should say something. He wants to say something. But you’re still talking.
“He said he’d be back. Told me to wait.” Your voice wavers, and he knows what’s coming before you even say it.
“He never came back,” you slur. “So I went looking for him.”
He doesn’t realize how hard he’s pressing the gas pedal until the speedometer ticks a little higher than it should. He forces himself to ease off, fingers aching from how tight he’s gripping the wheel.
“And?” he asks, voice low, strained.
You let out a small, bitter laugh. “Found him making out with some girl in the back.”
Silence.
Gojo breathes in slow, exhales through his nose. He should say something, anything. He should tell you that guy’s a fucking idiot, tell you that you deserve better, tell you that you should’ve never wasted your time on him.
Instead, what comes out is:
“What a dumbass.”
You hum in agreement, but it’s empty, hollow. “Guess I should’ve seen it coming.”
Gojo risks a glance in the rearview mirror. You’re staring out the window, fingers absently picking at the hem of your dress, your shoulders curled inward like you’re trying to disappear.
And fuck.
He hates this. Hates that he wasn’t there to stop it from happening, hates that he has to sit here and listen to you talk about someone else like this. Hates that you kissed him (or tried to). Hates that some guy got to have that moment, got to see the way you look just before a kiss, got to be the one you wanted tonight, even just for a second.
Most of all, he hates that you’re hurting, and he can’t do a damn thing about it.
His throat tightens, his chest burning, aching, twisting in ways he doesn’t know how to fix.
He should’ve been the one.
“Toru.”
Your voice pulls him out of his thoughts, sharp but fragile, like you’re barely holding yourself together.
His heart lurches at the sound. Because it’s you, because it’s the nickname only you call him.
But then you sigh, pressing your forehead against the cold window. “You’re a guy, right?”
Gojo snorts, the tension in his chest easing just enough for him to fall back into his usual teasing. “Last I checked.”
“Then tell me.” Your voice is quieter now, almost hesitant. You shift slightly, facing him from the back seat, eyes hazy but still searching. “What’s wrong with me?”
“What?”
You let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “Why has no one ever liked me?”
His throat goes dry.
“Not once,” you continue. “No guys in high school ever asked me out. The ones I liked never liked me back. And now this?” You gesture vaguely, frustration laced in your voice. “I just don’t get it. What is it about me that’s so… unloveable?”
Gojo’s entire body locks up.
Because.. are you serious?
You, who he has spent the last four years trying not to love too much, not to touch too long, not to stare at like you hung the damn moon— you actually think that?
His fingers tighten so hard around the wheel he thinks he might snap it in half.
“What kind of dumbass logic is that?” he mutters.
You frown, shoulders curling inward. “It’s not dumbass logic, Satoru, it’s just—”
“No,” he cuts you off, voice sharper than he intended. His jaw clenches as he forces himself to take a breath. “You don’t get to say that.”
Your lips press together, confused, vulnerable in a way that makes his chest ache.
Gojo doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to tell you the truth without telling you. So he exhales, trying to steady himself, trying to be careful with the words he chooses next.
“You ever think,” he starts, voice quieter now, steadier, gentler, “that maybe it’s not you that’s the problem?”
You blink at him through the mirror. “Then what is it?”
Gojo grips the wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white.
It’s not that no one likes you, he wants to say. You just keep liking the wrong guy.
But instead, he exhales, rolling his shoulders like he can shake the weight off. Keeps his gaze fixed on the road. Forces a smirk.
“I dunno,” he lies, voice light, easy. “Maybe guys are just fucking stupid.”
You huff out a small laugh, but it’s tired, empty. “Guess so.”
And Gojo doesn’t say anything else. Because if he does, if he so much as breathes the wrong way, he’s afraid the words he’s been swallowing for four years might just slip out.
“It’s just…” You hesitate, fingers curling in your lap. “No, never mind.”
Gojo sighs, glancing at you through the mirror. “Nope. Not letting you do that. Tell me.”
You exhale, rolling your head against the window, staring out at the passing lights. “You wouldn’t get it,” you mumble. “You’ve had a girlfriend before. Everyone I know has been in a relationship at least once.”
He flinches at the reminder. The girl he dated in senior year (if you could even call it that). A little over a month, barely anything. He never liked her much, never felt the way he should have. Maybe because no matter how hard he tried, she wasn’t you.
“I just don’t know why I can’t get anyone to like me,” you admit, voice quieter now, like you’re talking more to yourself than to him. “Like, what am I doing wrong?”
Gojo exhales, staring at the road ahead. And before he can stop himself, before he can think better of it—
“You know I love you, right?”
Silence. Then, a small, sleepy smile tugs at your lips.
“I love you too,” you murmur. “You’re my best friend.”
He forces himself to chuckle, to keep his voice light. “Your bestest friend.”
You hum in agreement, stretching slightly before slumping deeper into the seat. A second passes, then another, and when Gojo glances at the mirror again, your eyes are drooping, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.
He waits for you to say something else, but instead, you sigh, shifting until your head rests against the window.
“…What were we talking about again?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
“Nothing important,” Gojo lets out a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Go to sleep, princess, I’ll wake you up when we’re home.”
You hum once more, barely conscious now, and within seconds, your breathing evens out.
It’s a little past one when Gojo pulls up in front of your apartment building. The streets are quiet now, the world settled into a lull, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional flicker of a passing car.
He shifts the car into park and exhales, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. You’re curled up against the window, lips slightly parted, face relaxed in the soft glow of the streetlights. Peaceful. Innocent. Completely unaware of the way he’s been drowning in his own thoughts for the past hour.
Gojo drums his fingers against the steering wheel before turning in his seat, reaching back to nudge your shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, voice softer than usual. “We’re here.”
You stir slightly but don’t wake.
He tries again, fingers brushing against your cheek this time. “C’mon, I know you’re tired, but I’m not carrying you all the way upstairs.”
You groan, turning away from him, burrowing deeper into the seat.
He huffs, shaking his head with a smirk before unbuckling your seatbelt for you. “Alright, princess, up you go.”
Reluctantly, you blink your eyes open, slow and sluggish. “Wha’ time is it?” you mumble.
“Too late for you to still be passed out in my car,” he teases. “Let’s go.”
You manage to get out, swaying slightly the moment your feet hit the pavement. Without thinking, Gojo’s hand finds the small of your back, steadying you before you can tip over completely.
“Yeah, no,” he mutters, tightening his grip. “You’re gonna break something if I let you go up alone.”
You don’t argue, just let him guide you into the building, down the quiet hallway to your apartment. When you finally reach your door, you fumble for your keys, missing the lock twice before Gojo sighs and takes them from your hand, slotting the key in effortlessly.
You step inside, blinking sleepily, and Gojo lingers at the threshold.
“You got it from here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
You pause, looking over your shoulder at him. “Wait for me?”
His brows lift slightly. “You sure you don’t just want to pass out in your dress?”
You glare at him, well, as much as you can in your drunken haze, before kicking off your shoes and stumbling toward your closet. “Give me five minutes,” you mumble, already pulling out a set of pajamas.
Gojo sighs but steps inside, leaning against the wall just outside your bedroom door as you disappear inside. He hears the soft rustling of fabric, the muffled sounds of you grumbling under your breath, the faint thud of something hitting the floor.
A few minutes later, you shuffle back out, dressed in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, eyes barely open.
He pushes off the wall, stepping toward you. “Alright, come on, let’s get you to bed.”
He leads you to the edge of your mattress. You sit down, and before you can do much else, he’s tugging the blankets over you, tucking you in with practiced ease.
Just as he turns to leave, your fingers weakly grab at his sleeve.
“Toru,” you mumble, voice barely above a whisper.
He stills, glancing down at you. “Yeah?”
You blink up at him, cheeks slightly flushed, though he can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or exhaustion. “Forgot to take my makeup off.”
Gojo exhales a small laugh, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
He leaves for a moment, disappearing into your bathroom before returning with a makeup wipe. He kneels beside your bed, pulling you up slightly to sit, and tilts your chin with a gentle touch.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.
You obey without question, too tired to protest. His fingers brush against your cheek as he wipes away the remnants of mascara and foundation, careful, steady. He’s never done this before, but somehow, he knows exactly how to be gentle with you.
He watches as the tension in your face fades, as your breathing evens out under his touch. He lingers, just for a second longer than necessary, before finally tossing the wipe aside.
“There,” he mutters. “All clean.”
Your eyes flutter open slightly, a lazy, sleepy smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Toru.”
He swallows, something warm and aching curling in his chest.
“…Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “Anytime.”
He stands to leave, but your fingers wrap around his wrist.
“Stay?” you ask softly. “I don’t wanna be alone.”
Gojo exhales, rubbing a tired hand over his face. For a second, he hesitates, then, he drops onto the floor beside your bed. “Yeah, okay,” he murmurs. “Go to sleep.”
And for the first time all night, you listen to him.
The next morning, you wake up to a dull, throbbing headache and the faint taste of regret lingering on your tongue. The room is dim, soft morning light barely filtering through the curtains, and for a moment, everything feels disoriented. Until you shift slightly and feel the warmth of a blanket tucked snugly around you.
Blinking against the ache behind your eyes, you turn your head and freeze.
Gojo is asleep on the floor, his long limbs sprawled out awkwardly, his head resting at the foot of your bed. His white hair is tousled, one arm draped lazily over his face, and his breathing is slow, even, completely at peace.
Your heart clenches, but before you can process why, a particularly sharp pang of pain shoots through your skull, and you let out a quiet groan.
At the sound, Gojo stirs, blinking blearily up at you before stretching with a lazy yawn. “Morning, sunshine,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “How’s the hangover?”
“Terrible,” you croak, burying your face into your pillow. “Why are you on the floor?”
Gojo pushes himself up with a groan, rolling his shoulders. “Because someone wouldn’t let me leave,” he teases, ruffling his hair. “Which, by the way, you owe me for. My back is killing me.”
You groan again, rolling onto your side to look at him properly. “Ugh. Please tell me I didn’t do anything too embarrassing last night.”
Gojo pauses for half a second.
He remembers it all. The way you clung to him outside the party, the way you called yourself unloveable, the way you looked up at him through tired, glossy eyes and told him you loved him— as a friend.
But you don’t remember.
And for the first time in his life, Gojo is glad you don’t.
“Nah,” he lies smoothly, standing up and stretching. “You were a total angel.”
You squint at him. “You’re lying.”
He grins. “Guess you’ll never know.”
You groan, flopping dramatically back onto your pillows. “You’re the worst.”
Gojo snorts. “And yet, I’m the one getting you water and headache meds.”
That catches your attention. You peek up at him, skeptical. “You’re actually taking care of me?”
He places a hand on his chest, feigning offense. “What, like I wouldn’t?”
You narrow your eyes. “I feel like this is a trap.”
He laughs, already making his way to the kitchen. “Shut up and let me be a good friend for once.”
A few minutes later, he returns with a glass of water and a couple of pills, setting them down on your nightstand. You mumble a half-hearted thanks before sitting up, wincing as you swallow them down.
Gojo watches, hands on his hips, then huffs dramatically. “Alright, move over.”
You blink at him. “Huh?”
He gestures toward the bed. “Move. I spent the night on the floor like a peasant. I’m reclaiming my dignity.”
You laugh, groggy but amused, before shuffling over to make space. “Fine, but if you kick me in your sleep, I’m shoving you off.”
Gojo flops onto the mattress beside you with a relieved sigh, settling into your pillows like he belongs there. “Please, I am an excellent bedmate.”
You roll your eyes but don’t protest when he drapes an arm over his face, already half-asleep again.
And as your headache fades and sleep starts to pull you under again, you don’t think too much about how comfortable this feels.
But Gojo does. And he wonders how much longer he can pretend this is enough.
pls do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own :) if you have any issues with what i wrote or noticed any mistakes, let me know privately. thank you for reading <3
