Dear Hamlet | YANDERE!GOJO SATORU/READER

FIVE: BLOOMING FONDNESS.

Gojo thinks you're adorable.

He had mused to himself about that while flipping through your diary, the material weathered and crisp in his large hands. How you were writing to this man called Hamlet. How your musings were worthy of analysis itself. English major? Yeah, he could tell.

He remembers a particular line that you had written in one of your entries: I cannot die not knowing how my father died; even if I become a zombie or a psychopath, so be it. How you were so overcome with grief that you felt completely inhumane, how such a human emotion had the capacity to rear its ugly head and turn you into something that you weren't sure you were.

And he thinks you're so frail. So fragile. He had been watching you following the death of your father, trying to find ways to approach you. But you had this strange aura to you, as if you had this pentacle that he couldn't breach. Which was odd; he was the one that was supposed to have this pentacle–he had infinity, after all. But no, it was like the roles were reversed.

He thinks you're the cutest when you're mad at him. Your eyebrows furrowed and your pouty lips pulled to a sneer. He thinks about you a lot, he's had his six-eyes on you for a long time, and it had driven him nuts how normal you were. How you lived with your parents because the alternative would have been stewing in your own grief alone; how you dutifully went to university; how you had a petty ex-boyfriend; how you wrote in your diary like those girls in American movies; how you conducted yourself in school, as if you were contagious, infected by a virus that forced you to quarantine yourself.

It drove him crazy. It drove him mad with curiosity. You re-ignited a hunger in him that once only knew the name of his last best friend.

"–ojo. Gojo," Nanami's voice cuts through his thoughts and the white-haired man blinks through his black blindfold. "You haven't been listening to me this entire time."

"Ah, sorry Nanami~" Gojo says, in sing-song. "My ol' noggin's been filled with some particular thoughts."

"I don't even want to know what they're about," Nanami stoically states as he flips a page of the newspaper he was holding. The inky paper rustles noisily in his hands. "Knowing you, it's probably nothing good."

"You hurt me." He puts a hand to his chest and pretends to keel over his chair, before straightening up. Nanami lifts his gaze above the paper.

"Were you thinking of (last name)?"

"Which one, the father or the daughter?"

"You've met both?"

"Yep," Gojo pops the 'p' with his lips. "Sweet daughter he has. Poor little thing, had to witness what happened to (father's name)."

"Truly a tragedy."

"Yeah."

"I must get going," Nanami checks his wrist watch and flicks it, the silver material clicking against his sturdy flesh. "I'll drive myself mad if I stay any longer with you."

"You're always so mean to me," Gojo pouts as Nanami walks past him, the clear noise of his shoes against the tiled floors clicking like a metronome.

The clock ticks noisily. You suddenly feel irritated.

You look up from your book and make an angry noise, before reaching up and detaching the clock off the wall. You yank the batteries out of the back and the ticking noises stop. It felt like you had a car bomb strapped to the wall, ticking noisily, threatening to take everyone down with its incessant tauntings. You throw the clock on your bed and return back to your chair.

You spin your pen between your fingers, before clicking it and putting it aside on the table. You close your annotated The Great Gatsby to the side and lean back on your chair, reclining to a dangerous angle that teeters on falling off or staying on. Your mind wanders to the white-haired man and how he claimed he was the strongest: but if he was the strongest, didn't that mean he was the loneliest? And if he was the loneliest, where did he belong? You wondered if Gojo felt as though he was outside the entire world, in a realm of his own.

"But he had a best friend," You say to yourself, eyes rolling to the ceiling. "...that died."

You still can't comprehend how these jujustu sorcerers were able to kill and be killed on a daily basis. You supposed, as Gojo put it, they needed to be crazy to be one. Otherwise, they just wouldn't survive.

"Dinner, (first name)!" Your mother shouts. You don't answer but throw one of your slippers against the door, which makes a loud THUD noise. Yeah, you might be disrespectful, but in your eyes, your mother never seemed to look kindly upon you either. She would stare at you with her dull, glazed over eyes and pull smoke out of a cigarette with her mouth, as if you were a complete stranger and she couldn't comprehend something like you came out of her. You recall an argument she had with your stepfather when your bio-father had disappeared, where furniture was thrown aside and bangings on the wall reverberated throughout the house.

"–t's not that I don't love you. It's just everything depresses me. The tobacco company depresses me, (first name) depresses me, (father's name)'s disappearance depresses me..."

"Take some fucking pills if you're so depressed!"

"No need for swearing; and no, I won't take some pills that'll mess with my brain chemicals," A pause which indicated she was taking a draw from her cigarette, tapping it against the ashtray rim. "Don't take offence to anything I say, dear. I'm just an old woman grieving. Can't you see my wrinkles?"

"Why'd you marry me if you're still grieving?" Hands slamming down the table. The ashtray jolts up and falls back down. "I'm not your fucking rebound!"

"I never said you were."

"You're sure as hell implying it!"

You cut their conversation off there, plugging in earphones and turning your music up to the max.

But that was the past. Your mother and step-father stopped arguing gradually over the years, but there were times where your mother would go on a tangent about how your bio-father was a "maniac" and an "adrenaline junkie", always going on spontaneous trips around the world–what you didn't know, back then, was that he was risking his life to save people.

"Saving people, huh," You mumble to yourself. "Jujutsu sorcerers."

You wondered if Gojo was also saving people. He better be, if he was the "strongest". Otherwise, what use was he other than a bothersome asshole who read through your diary?

He must have seen your entries about your ex. There was no way he could have missed that: people like romance stories, especially if they're set in the past. It had a wafting hunger for blood. And especially yours, since it ended the way it did. You sigh, rubbing your eyes in embarrassment, cringing at Gojo's possible reaction; you could smell it from a mile away: the light chuckles, the teasing voice, the capacity for laughter. You groan and slam the door behind you as you enter the living room, onto the dinner table with your mother and step-father.

"Finally decided to come down from your fortress, eh?" Your step-father points his chopsticks at you to which you answer by slamming yourself down on the wooden chair.

"Zip it, old man."

"Don't speak to him that way," Your mother chastises.

"Don't talk to me," You grab your utensils and start eating. "No one talk to me."

"Alright, then," Your step-father chuckles. "No talking about school?"

"Not your business."

"I'm paying for it. It is my business."

"Don't care. Too bad."