gojo lives with your obsessions.
(!) warning: severe OCD, self-harm.
it was hard. letâs not sugarcoat it.
you met satoru in your dentistâs waiting room, just as you were leaving your weekly appointment while he was attending his annual one.
"does it hurt much when they fix a cavity?" he had asked, setting down a magazine that was more than five years old.
"not really; a cleaning never hurts." you had replied in a soft voice, arms crossed over your chest.
he gave you a pearly smile âand you absolutely pretended not to notice that his canines stood out more than the rest of his teeth, a detail far too asymmetrical for your taste (though, in all honesty, it was the loveliest set of teeth you had ever come across). he asked for your number, and you recited it to him. you said goodbye without even shaking hands.
he called you that very night, and now, he had moved into your home.
see, satoru was the kind of guy who didn't take anything seriously. a 'weâll figure it out as we go' machine. the kind who leaves a trail of sugar wrappers behind him like breadcrumbs.
but he was the only thing that could distract you from your own brain. when you were with him, he was so loud and so âmuchâ that he effectively drowned out the intrusive thoughts. his energy acted like a white noise machine; he was the only person who could make you forget to count for twenty minutes because he was busy doing something ridiculous like trying to balance five napkins on his nose.
before him, you likely felt like you had to be perfect to be loved. seeing him be a total disaster âspilling coffee, losing his keys, talking while chewingâ but still being the most confident, loved person in the room gave you a subconscious sense of safety. you thought, âif he can be this messy and be okay, maybe i can be a little messy too.â
when he first moved in, the friction was almost physical. it felt like two tectonic plates grinding against each other. satoru was⊠a lot. heâd leave his keys on the dining table. heâd kick his shoes off in the middle of the hallway. heâd tossed his designer coat onto the nearest surface âwhether thatâs the back of a chair or the kitchen counter where you just spent forty-five minutes scrubbing away invisible threats. heâd move your bookmark or rearrange the refrigerator magnets to leave notes âor suggestive messages. his intentions were the best, of course, but it was something you simply couldn't stand.
the first time you had a spiral, he was trying to do the dishes. "satoru, youâre using the wrong sponge. i told you the orange one is for the plates, and the green one is for the glasses." you had to breathe in 4-4-4-4 method to keep from losing your patience. "forget it, iâll do it myself."
his very observant blue eyes would track the way your hands shook as you scrubbed the counter for the third time. then, heâd sat on the kitchen floor âright there on the freshly mopped tiles with the pants he wore outsideâ and waited until the storm passed.
the sun hadnât even fully cleared the horizon when you were already awake, heart drumming a steady thump-thump-thump against your ribs. your brain was already running through the checklist.
- pillows must be angled at 45 degrees.
- curtains must have a two-inch gap exactly.
- skincare bottles in the bathroom must be arranged by height, shape and shade. labels facing the mirror.
you were mid-straightening the edge of the duvet when a heavy, warm arm snaked around your waist and yanked you backward. you landed with a soft oof against a chest that felt like a brick wall wrapped in silk.
"five more minutes." satoru mumbled into your shoulder, his voice thick with sleep. he was a furnace, his heat radiating through his thin t-shirt.
"satoru," you sighed, your eyes darting to the bedside table. "the water glass. itâs too close to the edge."
he didnât even open his eyes. without letting go of you, he reached out, his long fingers finding the glass and sliding it precisely two inches toward the center of the wood.
he shifted it a fraction of a centimeter. "now?"
he hummed, a low vibration that settled your jumping nerves.Â
youâve wasted a minute and twenty-three seconds of your time on that observation, and now your day is ruined.
he didnât get it at first. he thought you were just âa bit of a neat freakâ. heâd laugh when youâd swoop in behind him to wipe down a doorknob heâd just turned.
one day, he came home from the gym, sweaty and grinning, and tried to scoop you up in a bear hug. youâd recoiled and ended up locked in the bathroom for an hour, scrubbing your arms until the skin was an angry, weeping red âbut germen free.
satoru had stood on the other side of that door, his forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the sound of the faucet running for the tenth time. that was the night the âneat freakâ joke died.
he started to notice your hands were always dry; the knuckles cracked and occasionally bleed from the sheer volume of soap and hot water you subjected them to. every time you touched a remote, a light switch, or âheaven forbidâ the mail, you were back at the sink.
one friday, satoru arrived with a bag from a high-end apothecary. he didn't say anything. he just sat on the edge of the bed while you were finishing your ânightly resetâ (which involved wiping down every surface in the bedroom with antiseptic wipes).
"come here." he said. his voice wasn't demanding; it was soft, like he was talking to a stray kitten.
you hesitated, clutching a micro-fiber cloth. "i haven't finished the nightstands."
"they'll be there in five minutes. come here."
you sat beside him, your hands tucked into your sleeves to hide the raw skin. satoru reached out and gently âso gentlyâ pulled your hands into his lap. he winced when he saw the cracks.
"i did some reading," he murmured, pulling out a heavy glass jar of cream that looked like it cost more than his sunglasses. "and i talked to a dermatologist. she said this stuff is like a barrier. itâs unscented, no alcohol. won't make you feel 'greasy', i know you hate that."
he opened the jar. the scent was neutral, clean.
he began to apply the cream once you nodded. he didn't rush. his long, elegant fingers moving in slow circles. it was the first time in weeks that your hands hadn't felt like they were on fire.
the most heartwrenching thing of all: he didn't tell you to stop washing. he just started trying to mitigate the damage.
"i'm gonna buy you every jar of this in the city." he whispered, looking up at you through those white lashes. "weâll find a soap that doesn't hurt you, too."
he found a strawberry soap, a malin + goetz 140g bar with vitamin b5. you looked at him as if he had brought a dead bird into the house because "bar soaps can harbor so many bacteria and are left exposed, which is even worse". so, he had to go find the bottled liquid version instead. you liked it so much he bought it in every single form it came in.
but youâd washed the cream away every single time.
satoru was vacuuming for you while you were dicing vegetables into one-centimeter cubes (exact cubes, because when you first started, you actually used a ruler to practice). then, a slight bump from the machine caused a small crack in the wall.
that was precisely why you never put him in charge of household chores, despite how much he insisted on helping. you could see a glimmer of guilt in his eyes when you walked in to inspect the scale of the disaster.
"weâll have to patch the walls. and paint them." you said.
and so you did. or rather, you did. he only helped you with the paint bucket, the brush, and the roller. youâd chosen a pink color, the shade of strawberry milk. a beautiful, pristine #ffdeeb (getting a hold of it had been a nightmare, since very few places had something so precise, and the mixes they made âjust to make a saleâ were only similar).
you didnât even take a break to eat a single bite until every wall in the house was finished. satoru had gone to bed with a weight on his chest.
you placed one foot fearfully on the scale. the other followed. numbers surged toward the insulting possibility of overflowing if their speed didnât find a limit. it read 57.48 kilograms âtwenty points higher than your current body temperature.
you were staying within the weight youâd set for yourself. you kept exercising at home (youâd burned 664 calories âno more, no less), and that was a spectacular triumph.
"youâre perfect at any number, love." he would say, his voice losing its usual playful edge. heâd try to pull you away from your routine with the same hands that had cracked the wall, offering you a bite of something sweet âa strawberry pastryâ deliberately testing your boundaries.
you would refuse, of course.
but what actually exasperated him wasnât so much that you followed such a strict diet, but perhaps the way you brushed your teeth immediately after eating or drinking almost nothing.
"youâre going to wear your teeth down." he would say softly, though his eyes were horrified as he watched you add another gram of toothpaste to the brush for the eighth pass over your squeaky-clean mouth.
"almost done, this is the last one."
youâd had the worst day of your life.
usually, you worked from home, but they had made you go into the office and let you leave at 5:02 pm, not at 5:00. you and satoru had agreed to meet at the grocery store at 5:30, and you arrived at 5:34.
"look whoâs late." he teased, waving at the air with a playful smile on his face. okay, he used to be offensively unpunctual before he started dating you, but he had slowly changed that habit until the watch on his wrist became his best friend.
your breathing was heavy ânot from running, but from anxiety.
"iâm sorry. they held me back, and the bus missed a light when it shouldn't have. i swear it wonât happen again. iâm so sorry."
"hey, don't worry, i just got here myself." he comforted you as he pulled two pairs of sterile gloves out of his pocket and offered them to you, perfectly bagged. "look, with these, we can hold hands until we touch the cart."
but there was still more to be ruined.
refrigerators were at their usual 20W per meter of LED strip; aisles at 50W per linear LED tube; checkout counters at 60W per overhead LED fixture. there were the 14.4W per meter lights with a CRI in the butcher section, designed to make the meat look fresher than it actually was. those same lights at 4,000K to inhibit melatonin âkeeping you alertâ and inciting you to shop faster.
but the store was too loud. and theyâve changed the layout of the produce section.
you were standing in front of the apples, frozen. the red delicious were where the granny smiths used to be. it was wrong. it was so wrong.
a large, cool hand slided into yours, gloved fingers interlocking with yours. satoru leaned down, his sunglasses sliding down his nose so you could see those crystalline eyes. he was holding a bag of those ridiculous expensive sweets he liked âbut you hated so much, because they had excessive sugar, and excess sugar could lead to increased triglycerides, rotten teeth, bad breath, or worse... diseases like diabetes.
"they're just playing a prank on us." he whispered, his voice a conspiratorial silk. "the grocery store manager? total jerk. did it just to mess with my favorite person."
he gently steered you away from there.
"we don't need apples today." he decided firmly. "apples are mid. weâre a peach household now. or maybe we just go home and order from the one place you trust, where nothing moves unless we tell it to."
satoru knew that after a big âepisodeâ, you felt drained.
so when you were back at the apartment, he ushered you to the sofa. he knew the âsafeâ blanket was the grey one, not the white one (white just gets dirty too easily). he put on a movie youâve seen a thousand times because ânewâ equals âunpredictableâ, and unpredictable is a four-letter word in your house.
he was sitting behind you, his long legs spread so you could sit between them, your back against his chest. he was brushing your hair. he was surprisingly good at it âgentle, rhythmic, careful not to snag.
"you're doing so good, babe." he murmured, his breath tickling your ear.
"i feel like a burden." you whispered, the honesty slipping out in the dark. "i know itâs annoying. having to check the locks. having to wait for me to finish my counts."
satoru stopped brushing. he leaned forward, resting his chin on your shoulder.
"thatâs not it." he said, and the playful edge was gone. "everyone has a rhythm. yours is just⊠complex. like a jazz solo. it takes a little more practice to play along with, but the music is way better."
"i don't 'adjust' to you because i have to. i do it because i like the way our life looks. i like that our towels are always fluffy. i like that i always know where my keys are. and i like you. more than that: i love you."
you turned in his arms, burying your face in his neck. he smelled like vanilla and petrichor.
"i love you too." you mumbled.
"i know, how could you not?" he smirked, the classic satoru ego returning. "now, do you need to go check the front door one more time so we can actually sleep, or are we good for the night?"
you hesitated. the âitchâ was there at the back of your skull. is the bolt turned all the way? what if it's only 90%?
satoru stood up, offering his hand. "letâs go, then. race you to the hallway. if i win, i get to choose the cereal tomorrow. if you win, i also choose the cereal because i have the best taste, but i'll let you organize the boxes by expiration date."
you rolled your eyes, but you took his hand anyway.
you were awake. you were thinking about the kitchen sink. did you dry the faucet? if water sat on the chrome, itâd leave a spot. if thereâs a spot, bacteria might grow. if bacteria growsâ
a heavy, warm hand landed on your hip. satoru was half-asleep, his white hair a birdâs nest against the light-pink pillowcase.
"the sink is fine." he mumbled, eyes closed.
"i saw you do it. three times. itâs the shinest sink in japan. maybe the world."
he pulled you closer, tucking your head under his chin.
"go to sleep." he grunted. "if the sink grows a soul and tries to attack us, iâll fight it off. iâm strong. the strongest."
you huffed a laugh, the tension leaving your shoulders just a little bit. you still felt the itch to get up. you still felt the âstickinessâ in your brain. but satoru was heavy and warm and there, and he decided that heâd rather live in your a world full of bleach and soap than a world without you in it.
satoru had learned to walk on eggshells. he had to learn the "decontamination" sequence.
- shoes off at the matte-pink line.
- clothes in the bin.
- straight to the shower.
- scrub for ten minutes.
- put on the âindoorâ clothes.
in the beginning, he did it with a grin. "anything for my queen." heâd say, snapping a playful salute before stripping down.
but patience wasnât infinite. itâd been six months of this. six months of him not being allowed to touch his own kettle without a lecture. six months of him seeing you cry because he dropped some coins that ultimately required a two-hour deep clean of the entire living room.
he was tired. you could see it in the way his shoulders sag when he was standing at the sink, washing his hands for the third time because you âdidn't see him use enough soapâ the first time. the sweetheart was still there, but he was fraying at the edges.
intimacy was the most complicated part of all.
there was the âbeforeâ. shower had to happen. sheets had to be fresh. teeth had to be brushed and rinsed with mouthwash. STD exams had to be performed once a week, and show the results before anything could happen (you couldnât risk it).
during, a different condom had to be used for oral (chocolate or mango flavored), another neutral synthetic one for vaginal, and a third in case his member stayed out for more than ten seconds âbecause it could get contaminatedâ or if you felt like trying anal.
it was exhausting. it killed the mood faster than anything.
there were nights in the beginning where satoru would try to initiate something âa hand sliding up your thigh, a neck kissâ and you would freeze. did he wash his hands after he used his phone? he was scrolling tiktok for twenty minutes. did he clean it at least with 70% isopropyl alcohol, or did he just wipe it with a cloth?
youâd pull away, and the look of rejection on his face broke your heart every single time. heâd look at his own hands like they were poisonous.
today was thursday, the day you were allowed to have sex.
the apartment was glowing in that soft, strawberry light. you stepped out of the shower after an intense session of cold wax strips. every hair was removed from the root, and you used a brand-new razor just to make sure not a single one remained. satoru was in bed, waiting for you with a smile.
he waited patiently for you to start the timer and begin drying each of your toes â9.5 seconds for each oneâ because leaving even a single millimeter of moisture could encourage onychomycosis. feet had to be dry, perfectly dry.
he reached out, his thumb catching your jawline. he leaned in, kissing you. it was slow, flavored with the peppermint gum he chewed âand you did your best not to feel uncomfortable.
his hand slowly moved, sliding down your arm, his palm brushing against your hand.
"wait." you whispered, your heart starting to race. "satoru, wait."
"i washed, babe." he said, his voice a little flatter than usual. "i took a twenty-minute shower. i used the scrub you like."
"i know, but your hand... you touched the remote earlier. the one i haven't wiped since four o'clock."
satoru froze. he didnât pull away, but he stopped. he looked at his hand. then he looked at you. there was a look in his blue eyes that wasnât roguish anymore. it was a profound, heavy exhaustion.
"itâs just a remote." he said quietly.
"itâs not 'just' a remote, satoru. do you know how long it takes for the bacteria on the remote to spread? between 50% and 90% of the load is transferred instantaneously, within 3 to 5 seconds. so, if bacteria is on the remote, itâs on you, and now itâs on me, and i have toâ"
"you don't have to do anything." he interrupted, and his voice had a rare, sharp edge. "weâre not in a petri dish. weâre having a moment. we were finally, for five minutes, not thinking about germs. can't we just... stay here?"
"i can't." your reaction was almost annoyed, as if what he was saying was completely absurd. "i have to wash. i have to."
when you scrambled off bed, he did too, but his grip kept you from taking a single step.
"no, youâre not going anywhere." he exhaled in frustration. his glare felt like being pierced by a thousand needles.
"satoru, let me go." you warned, on the verge of a breakdown. he wasnât hurting you physically, but he was preventing you from running toward the only thing that would give you any kind of relief.
"no, enough is enough." he grabbed you by the shoulders and you stifled a scream. bacteria were now feasting on your freshly polished skin. "youâre too smart not to understand this is a problem. that you have a problem."
"satoru, please, let me go." you pleaded in a whimper, turning your head so that not a single drop of saliva landed on your face. "let me go now!"
he let go. he didnât just let go; he pulled his hands back like heâd been burned. he watched as you ran to the bathroom. he listened to the familiar sound of the faucet. thud. splash. scrub.
fifteen minutes later, you were still in the bathroom.
turns out, a cleaning does hurt sometimes.
youâd washed your hands so many times the skin on your wrists was starting to slough off in tiny, white flakes. the water was too hot. you knew it was too hot because the steam was thick enough to choke on, but âhotâ meant âsterileâ.
you were crying, but you couldnât stop. there was soap on your collarbones, a sign that you tried to scrub his touch off your shoulders. in fact, the lather spread all across your arm. water was spilling everywhere onto the floor you cleaned so meticulously, right along with your tears. it hit the open wounds like battery acid.Â
the count wasnât ending. you were stuck in a loop. one, two, three. again. one, two, three.
the door didnât just swung open; it banged against the pink wall with a sound like a gunshot.
his face was a mask of absolute, clinical terror.
your hands didnât look like hands anymore.
your skin was gone in patches âbright, wet, meat-red ovals where the outer layers had sloughed away completely. around the edges of those patches, the remaining epidermis clung in ragged, translucent fringes, like wet tissue paper that was starting to curl and lift. between the raw spots, it was swollen, waxy-white, and puckered from the endless water (the way fingertips look after half an hour in the bath âexcept this had been rougher and much hotter).
thin, watery scarlet streaks ran down the backs of your hands, pooled briefly in the webbing between fingers, then slid into the creases of your palms and disappeared. every time you flexed, fresh pinprick beads surfaced along the frayed edges and the deeper fissures across your knuckles. the strawberry soap liquid had turned the runoff pale pink and frothy in the sink.
those cracks were the worst part. they spiderwebbed across every joint, every crease, every place the skin had to bend. some were hairline, some were gaping wet chaps (maybe two millimeters) wide that exposed pale-yellow fat underneath. when you scrubbed (and you were still scrubbing, mechanically, because stopping felt more dangerous than continuing), theyâd tore wider; you could actually watch the edges separate a fraction more with each pass of your nails.
underneath, the quicks were shredded and inflamed; they looked bruised, purplish-red. there was soap foam caught under them too, white and stubborn, because no amount of picking and digging had gotten it all out. your cuticles didnât exist anymore âjust ragged, bloody gutters where they used to be.
the whole surface of your hands and halfway up your forearms was an inflamed, mottled lobster-red that blanched to white when you pressed on it, then flooded back darker. capillaries had burst in little constellations across the backs of your knuckles.
for a fraction of a second, his soul left his body.
"get away from the sink!" he shouted.
"theyâre not clean yet, i just needâ"
"i said cut it off!" he strode over, his large hand reaching out to kill the faucet. the sudden silence in the room was deafening.
the sink was a watercolor mess of diluted blood, bubbles, and soap scum clinging to the porcelain.
"i wasnât finished!" your voice trembled with a mix of anger and heartbreak. "you interrupted the count. now i have to start over."
"you are not starting over!" he grabbed the soap dispenser and set it violently on the far end of the counter, out of your reach. "look at me! look at what youâre doing!"
"they're dirty!" you wailed, trying to pull away. "theyâre still dirty!"
"theyâre bleeding!" he roared. the sound echoes off the pink tiles, sharp and terrifying. it was the first time he had ever raised his voice at you.
"iâm just cleaning!" you screamed back, frustration finally boiling over. "iâm trying to keep this place clean. i want it to be clean!"
"i don't want it clean!" satoruâs voice broke, his anger suddenly melting into a jagged, raw desperation. "i want you!"
"but Iâm not clean!" your screech exploded, uncontrollable. you were sobbing with such agonizing intensity that your legs gave out, and he caught you, anchoring you before you could collapse âand this time, you didnât push him away. "iâm dirty, satoru! iâm so dirty! it wonât go away, the filth won't go away! i just want to be clean, i disgust myself!"
satoruâs chest was heaving. you couldnât see it, but there was a lump in his throat that threatened to strip him of his voice.
"iâm so sorry." you shrieked, burying your face in your arms. "iâm so dirty, iâm so dirty, iâm so dirtyâ"
he looked around the bathroom âat the rows of antiseptic, the three different types of bleach, the âsafeâ towels. he looked back at you, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something that looked like defeat.
"youâre not dirty. youâre just sick." he finally whispered. "i can't do this anymore."
he grabbed a clean towel ânot the âsafeâ one, just a random oneâ and wrapped it around your ruined hands, holding them tight against his sternum.
"youâre killing yourself. and watching you do it is killing me.â he sobbed, looking away. âi thought i could be enough. and i love you too much to watch you wash yourself away until thereâs nothing left."
your heart dropped into your stomach. it was the most serious you had ever heard him in your life.
"what are you saying?" you gasped, trembling.
"look around. this isn't a home. itâs a hospital where no one ever gets better."
you actually looked around at your strawberry sanctuary âthe pink tiles, the pink walls, the pink sink, the pink soap. it was beautiful. it was perfect. it was so clean it reflected you back... and you didnât like what you saw.
"tomorrow morning, weâre going to the psychiatrist." he said. it was not a suggestion. "i already called. no arguments. no âone last washâ. i don't care if you hate me for it. i don't care if you scream the whole way there. i donât care if i have to tie you up and carry you, or drag you there. i am taking you to a doctor. we are going to get you on meds, and we are going to therapy. because iâm losing you, and i refuse to let that happen."
his voice softened just a fraction, though the steel remained.
the silence that followed was sterile, heavy. the âperfectâ life you tried to build had finally crumbled. the pink dream was over âand neither the smell of bleach nor the bactericides could make you fall back to sleep.
"okay." you sighed, leaning your forehead against his collarbone. the thought of a clinic âthe shared chairs, the air filtered through vents you couldnât tell if they had been properly scrubbed, the doctorâs hands that had touched a dozen other patientsâ sent a cold wave of nausea through you. if you took the meds, you would be defenseless.
but for him, youâd try. and then, youâd try for yourself.
he nodded, kissing your forehead with such tenderness, as if you might crumble in his arms. he could not wait for the morning to come so he could finally start saving you for real.
and as satoru carried you out of the bathroom and into the dark bedroom, you realized that for the first time in months, you didn't check the light switch on the way out.
