You’ve lived together for years now. If the walls could talk, it would be a disaster. The walls remember every single fight, every 3am snack run, every silent movie night with a blanket draped over both your legs. The walls know of every laugh you’ve shared, every single fleeting touch, and every single look that you give each other whenever an inside joke is mentioned. The flat isn’t big, but it doesn’t have to be. The faint smell of incense, lavender, and coffee. Small pieces of your personalities scattered around, particularly his sketches always in the most random places around the flat.

Across hall, Itadori and Megumi always have their door unlocked. Even if they didn’t, you and Choso have a key. You can always hear them screaming over PlayStation - it’s the biggest sign that they’re still alive in there. Nobara lives in the block of apartment just down the road, always storming in between your apartment and theirs. The group’s tight. Yet, you and Choso are something else entirely. Everyone knows it.

You were flatmates first, then friends. Then something messier, some could say. Obviously, nothing like that. If someone asked him about it, he’d scrunch his face and just go, “Ew, fuck no.” You fight over dish soap, and you argue over whose turn it is to clean the kitchen (he always lies and says it’s you when it’s most definitely his day). You sleep with your bedroom doors shut, but some nights, he walks in anyway, doesn’t bother with an excuse, and just flops down onto your bed and falls asleep on top of the duvet; usually his arm drapes across your face, sometimes your neck, causing you to wake up from being choked by his sleeping position.

Today, you notice the girl’s necklace on the coffee table. It’s certainly not yours, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve seen something like this. Choso wanders out of his bedroom a little later, his oversized hoodie on, his hair still a mess from sleep, and the foreign perfume sticking to him. His silver rings gleam in the light as he rubs his eyes, and he looks around the living room and the kitchen, trying to piece together reality, still half-asleep.

He notices the necklace, his gaze lingering on it for a few silent moments. He doesn’t bother addressing it – he never does. He merely walks past the sofa, toward the small kitchen, and opens the fridge, grabbing the orange juice and drinking it straight from the carton. He finally looks at you with a raised eyebrow and that usual deadpan.

“Fuck you staring at me like that for?”