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Satoru to the Stage

Summary:

“You misheard me. I said eighteen.”

“No, you didn’t,” Suguru said slowly. “You said fourteen. I’m sure of it. You… slept with them at fourteen?”

“I said eighteen!” Satoru’s voice cracked like a whip. “I bent over and they gave me brand deals and appearances. There. That’s your exposé, now get out!”

-

Suguru Geto is an investigative journalist, and a damn good one, so when he's assigned a typical puff piece with the known diva Satoru Gojo, the biggest pop star of the modern day, his expectations are low. What he's not expecting is the kind of scandal that will blow his entire career to-date out of the water and—if he’s not careful—put Satoru himself in the ground.

Notes:

for those who don’t really care about what ship this fic is, please disregard this!

for those who do, this is a disclaimer: the ship tags have been added because that ship has one or more significant scenes in this fic, whether explicit or romantic in nature. the ships have been added so that people can easily filter this fic out if it is a ship that they do not enjoy reading. i understand that may be frustrating some people, and i get it—i’ve been in many rare pairs where half of our fics was just a bigger ship crosstagging their fic. i understand.

even so, i still think this is the wisest choice. i’m willing to hear out arguments otherwise, but please be warned that i may still decide that this tagging system is the best and safest option. you’re more than welcome to mute my account if you feel otherwise. most of the ships tagged are sexual in nature.

i won’t make any guarantees about the endgame romance, because at the end of the day, this fic isn’t romance and isn’t about two specific characters getting together. you’re looking for a ship/romance fic, this likely isn’t it, sadly. however, if you’re okay with everything listed above, please enjoy!

PLEASE take care if you are sensitive to themes of child abuse, CSA, sexual abuse, etc.

Chapter 1: april, 2019

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

I'm liquid smooth, come touch me, too,

I'm at my highest peak, I'm ripe,

About to fall, capture me,

Or at least, take my picture.

(Liquid Smooth, Mitski.)

 

“I don’t give a shit how much we’re paying her, I want her gone!”

People milled about with frantic energy, the darkness of backstage hiding the scurrying of stagehands and sound techs as they parted like Moses himself was in their midst. Thousands of concert-goers screamed and shrieked from the stadium, growing ever fainter in the wake of calls from staff as they passed around water bottles, collected microphones and lying cords, and cleared the way for the approaching crowd of swarming attendants.

“What good is she if she can’t keep fucking timetables straight?” 

Above the din came the voice of one young man, his words sharp like the crack of a whip as he held a cellphone to his ear. His handsome face was contorted into a scowl beneath his sunglasses, his white hair glowing beneath the spotlights as a woman by his side carefully extracted his ear piece. He narrowed his eyes and swatted away the hands of a man who tried to touch up the powder on his cheek, continuing his heated tirade.

“The studio just emailed me and asked if I needed to reschedule my recording for tomorrow. Me! Reschedule!” he hissed. “Do I look like the kind of idiot that needs to reschedule shit? Now I do, because some dumbass couldn’t put together that if you need to leave at 4:00, you probably want to try to call up the chauffeur before then. Or am I the only one here who understands that it takes time to move a car from the garage to the front step?”

“…probably won’t be happy to hear this,” came the voice from the other end of the speaker, “but it looks like the next thing she has on your docket is an interview from JLN.”

“That fucking news joint?” he snapped, throwing his free hand up—either unaware, or uncaring, of how it nearly hit the woman next to him. “Come on, this is a waste of my time! I’m on tour in two weeks, where is E! News? Entertainment Tonight? Fuck it, I’ll even take TMZ! Who scheduled this shit?”

“…um. That would be Miwa, sir.”

“Ugh!” In a fit of annoyance, he hung up the phone, shoving away his attendants as his patience ran out. “I want her gone! Yesterday!”

He trudged off stage and towards the back of the venue, followed by a flock of fluttering attendants that desperately tried to get his attention for something or other. Normally, he might not even have to field these stupid requests or bids for attention; that was a job usually reserved for his personal assistant, Miwa, who he had furiously dismissed only hours earlier for failing to have his dry cleaning ready by call time for the performance he just left. He wasn’t about to start paying attention to them now. He had only a few hours left of free time before he would have to board the plane east for his recording session the next morning—and now, that time was being taken up by some interview. 

To be expected, outside of the door to his dressing room stood a man. An entirely unremarkable looking man with a press badge and a notebook, and as he approached, there was a marked look of irritation on his face, even as he plastered on a smile and said, “Satoru Gojo, it’s a pleasure to finally-”

“Don’t care,” Satoru said bluntly. He pushed open the door of his dressing room, leaving it wide open for the man to follow in—or leave, Satoru didn’t honestly care what he did. He was more focused on shedding his thick leather jacket and kicking off his heeled boots. He threw himself down on his couch, relieved to finally be off his feet after hours of dancing and singing on stage. 

He heard the sound of someone clearing their throat, and looked up at the man again. “…Mr. Gojo, my name is Suguru Geto. We had an interview scheduled for… well, an hour ago.”

“What do you want me to say? I’m a busy guy,” Satoru grumbled. He waved idly at one of the plastic folding chairs in front of him. “Sit, or whatever.”

“Thanks,” Suguru Geto said dryly. Satoru heard the sounds of the chair moving, followed by some sighs that were clearly meant to be passive aggressive, which might have worked if Satoru actually gave a shit. 

Satoru glanced back up at him, an eyebrow raised as Suguru made himself comfortable—or rather, uncomfortable—on the plastic chair while Satoru lounged idly on his couch. The name ‘Suguru Geto’ rang a bell, and he was sure that he had heard it in the news somewhere, at some point. Suguru Geto… JLN News Network… oh, shit! This is the guy who busted the city for the election poll address mishap, right?

“Suguru Geto, huh?” Satoru drawled. “This is a bit of a switch up from the polling address shit. Isn’t this kind of stuff below your pay grade? Or did you choose to downgrade from local government exposes to celebrity puff pieces of your own free will?”

Suguru’s eyebrow twitched, which was interesting, but he still kept that professional smile on his face. “Well, they can’t all be hard-hitters, can they?”

“Sure. Network strapped for cash, I get it,” Satoru said. He didn’t buy it, but more importantly, he didn’t really care. He didn’t want to be here, Suguru clearly didn’t want to be here; they could just get through the questions that his PR team and publicist approved, and then they’d both be done with this nonsense. “So. Questions.”

“Right,” Suguru said flatly. He opened up his notebook, giving another all-suffering sigh as he set it on his lap and withdrew a pen, trying once more to put on a more friendly persona. Satoru would have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t too tired to manage the effort for it. “Well, Mr. Gojo, your recent album release, ‘Pillow Talk’, was a total success. You’ve shot to the top of the queue for every radio station in the nation, and you’re set to be Spotify’s Most Streamed Album for the year. What are your thoughts on your rising fame as you ring in the New Year as pop’s top male artist?”

“Seriously?” Satoru asked, scoffing; were they just skipping to the shallowest questions JLN could muster? He did end up rolling his eyes, before plastering on an overly peppy voice as he laid his head over the back of the couch. “Well, I’m just ecstatic to be able to put on a good show for my fans. Every album is a new chance to meet with some incredible people and give back to the men and women who put me here.”

“That’s… nice,” Suguru said, sounding entirely insincere as he jotted down some notes from Satoru’s answer before clearing his throat. “Now, your discography in recent years has been known to ‘push the envelope’, so to speak, but many have noted the abundance of erotic overtones in this album compared to others. Would you care to share some more about what inspired this shift?”

“I’ve always been a very physical person, I’ve never hidden that,” Satoru said in that same, falsely-cheery tone. “There’s so much meaning to be found in exploring sensuality and sexuality, and I’m happy to be able to bring that discussion into public conversation.”

Another eyebrow twitch, before Suguru smoothly continued, “And what can you share about your creative process for this album? What’s your inspiration for composing these tracks?”

Satoru narrowly resisted the urge to scoff again. Was that seriously a question? What was his inspiration? Sex, sex, and more sex. That’s all his songs ever were: shallow, surface level mediums for him to sell his sex appeal to millions of drooling, thirsting fans. He’d love to just say that outright, but the media liked it better when he dressed up the truth in some more appealing verbiage. 

“I’m so lucky to have such a great team of producers and songwriters that really help bring my creative vision to life,” he said boredly, the words contrasting sharply with how bored he felt as he lounged on the couch. He couldn’t be assed to put any real effort into this shit—he didn’t want to be here, straight up, and he didn’t feel like acting otherwise. “I have to give a very special thanks to my collaborators for being the magic behind the music, I couldn’t do it without them.”

There was a drawn out pause, long enough that Suguru leaned up and glanced at Suguru over top of his sunglasses. The man was sitting there, rifling through his pages with an unimpressed look on his face. “Speaking of ‘collaborators’, you have a notable number of other stars featuring on your tracks. Fans are eager to know if you’ve developed a special relationship with one of them.”

“I always have an eye for beautiful people, but the spot of lucky Mr. or Mrs. Number One is still open for that certain special someone , but a very big thank you to all the incredible men and women who really helped bring ‘Pillow Talk’ to life.”

“...you’re referring to, of course, the ‘unique’ audio sampling from your tracks,” Suguru said, his voice sounding dull. Satoru felt a smile pull at the edges of this mouth. Was that what this guy’s deal was? Another one of the prudes so up in arms about the ‘explicit nature’ of his music? It would make sense. Satoru’s eyes roved over him once again—iron-pressed slacks, modest button-up, hair pulled back neatly with just a little bit of bang hanging out to lend the air of informality. “Would you care to clarify this, hmm, creative choice to those who might find it scandalous, unnecessary, or even gratuitously titillating?”

Satoru had to resist the urge to laugh. Oh, he’s definitely one of the prudes. “Well, I’ve always been a big believer that if you’re doing something right, you’re going to get some backlash. So to all my fans out there who are scared of ‘pushing the envelope’, just know that you only get the controversy when you’re saying things people aren’t ready to hear.”

“And to those who might claim that your music crosses a line from artistic expression to voyeuristic shock value?” Suguru asked, his eyebrow raised as his eyes narrowed almost infinitesimally. It was clear that he was using the assigned and approved interview question to push some of his own opinions; he was just lucky that Satoru found it hilarious. “After all, you’ve made it quite clear to the media that these audio samples are ‘organically produced’.”

“It’s borderline erotica, I’ll give you that,” Satoru said, chuckling. “But erotica can be beautiful and explorative in its own right. Human sexuality is an incredible thing, and I’m happy that the common culture has shifted to a celebration of sensuality. To those who would rather keep it locked behind closed doors, I’m sure they might find it full of ‘voyeuristic shock value’.”

“Hmm,” Suguru said, his pen flying across the paper as he jotted down his notes. Satoru was sure, now, that this was just a front for his burgeoning annoyance; he was willing to bet money that this guy had some sort of personal grievance before he even stepped in the room. “Now some would argue that, as public figures, music artists bear the responsibility of representing healthier, more responsible examples of human sexuality.”

“Who decides what’s responsible and healthy?” Satoru countered, raising an amused eyebrow. “If I’m allowed to create what I think is a ‘healthy and responsible’ example, who’s to say that can’t be, hmm, that men having sex with men is disgusting? Would that be justified, since I have the ‘responsibility’ of representation?”

Suguru’s eyebrow ticked once more. “That would be regressive and irresponsible. Art should be used as a medium to illuminate the truth and advocate for progression. One might say that you’re intentionally misunderstanding.”

“Oh no, I’m intentionally understanding,” Satoru said. He shrugged as he laid his arms out on the back of the couch, lying his head back again. “After all, if I’m supposed to advocate for the truth, don’t I get to decide what my truth is? That would be my moral responsibility, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s a good thing, then, that we live in a society governed by social norms and laws,” Suguru drawled, his hand tightening around his pen. Satoru could hear the plastic creaking. This shit is so funny.  

“Yeah, and ‘norms and laws’ have always been known to be for the best interest of the people,” Satoru said, snorting. “I’ve decided that the new norm should be that sex is freeing, incredible, and should be indulged in frequently. Hallelujah.”

There was another marked silence as Satoru tipped his head back, followed by a thinly veiled, aggravated. “Then I suppose it falls upon journalists like myself to ensure that these ‘norms’ align with common principles of responsibility and respect.”

“But that’s not what you’re here to do, is it?” Satoru asked, his tone going condescending as he leaned back up to give Suguru a knowing look. “Sure, maybe you’re not here of your own free will, but you’re here to do a job, aren’t you? And that job is to write some vague, soulless puff piece that rakes in money for your company, and gets me the publicity I need before I go on tour. Isn’t it?”

Suguru’s eyes visibly narrowed. Bingo. Got him, Satoru thought  

Satoru continued, smugly, “So, how about you just run through the rest of those questions, and then we can both be on our way?”

“...I don’t see what the point is,” Suguru muttered, some of that annoyance finally breaking free of the professional mask as he shuffled his papers in marked irritation. “It’s all PR-approved, mindless bullshit.”

“Yeah, well, it pays your bills, and it pays mine, so how about we save the moral crusade for your day job and get on with it?” Satoru said. “Congrats, the pop industry is mindless, recycled bullshit to peddle money and influence, you finally caught up to everyone else.”

“I could always expose it,” Suguru argued. “I’m very good at that, you know. It pays my bills. I’m sure your ‘fans’ would be very curious to know about the truth behind the persona.”

"Oh, come on, really?" Satoru asked, scoffing. He tossed his hands up as if to say, so what? Did Suguru really think he was doing something ‘new’ or ‘original’ here? "First of all, let's assume that you do. Sure, some fans are scandalized, but then the rest worship me for how 'real' and 'honest' I'm being. Oh, and your job goes up in smoke, and you can kiss your career goodbye. Do I really need to say that all out loud?"

Blatant hostility finally overtook Suguru’s face, contorting his pretty features into a rather impressive scowl. “I don’t care if I lose my job. I care about the truth.”

Satoru nearly had to laugh at that, and settled for a broad grin instead. “The truth? What truth is that, huh? The one that no one wants or cares about? Look, man, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re clearly new to this shit, so let me tell you: people already know celebrities are fake and plastic. You’re preaching to the choir here. Your ‘thinkpiece’ on shallow A-listers is going to get you pennies after your network cans you, and that’s a pretty low price to sell your career for.”

He could hear the sound of Suguru’s teeth gritting, followed closely by a very tight, “Your love life. Are you really as promiscuous as they say?”

More PR-bullshit. Good. Just get with the program so we can both be done. “My fans will be happy to know that each song on my album is an ode to a very special connection I had with each of my collaborators. They’ll find everyone’s names credited, so be sure to check out their other works to support their artistry.”

“I see,” Suguru muttered, and then, almost conversationally, “Just out of curiosity, do you ever get tired of… connecting with so many talented individuals?”

Satoru’s expression dropped. This shit again? “That’s not on the question list.”

“No, it isn’t, that’s true, but we can call it something off-record, can’t we?” Suguru countered, and Satoru could hear his pen tapping on his notebook. Tap tap tap. Poorly disguised annoyance. “Isn’t personal conversation part of the interview? It’s a simple question, really.”

Or an attempt to get me off my script, Satoru thought, unamused, but if Suguru thought he could back him into a corner by knocking him off routine, he was dead wrong. Satoru managed his public appearance for years without a publicist or PR team. “Every connection is special and unique,” he said, false sincerity rolling off his tongue with every word. “I could never ‘get tired’ of meeting so many new and incredible artists.”

“Really?” Suguru asked, sounding unconvinced. “Not after the tenth, hundredth… thousandth ‘connection’?”

“Thousandth?” Satoru repeated, snorting. It wouldn’t be the first or last time that someone had penned him as whorish or easy due to his public persona, but it was amusing that Suguru thought he had something there. “You know, the whole slut-shaming thing doesn’t exactly read well these days. Your social norms have moved past that.”

“Well, you could say that I’m curious to know how your family feels about your public persona,” Suguru said smoothly. He wasn’t thrown off easily this time. “After all, the Gojo family rather publicly endorses your music career, and it’s no secret that as your first manager, your mother had a rather personal hand in the beginning of your career.”

“Oh, the ‘nepo baby’ angle? I have to give you credit, that’s maybe the most obvious thing you’ve said all day. I don’t exactly hide the fact that my parents funded the first years of my career.”

“I just have to wonder,” Suguru mused, “if all of that support comes with strings attached. As you said, they have invested a lot in you. Your family owns a number of labels across the entertainment industry and beyond—your mother, as your label owner, and your father, with the hospital that he runs. As such notable public figures, I think it would be perfectly reasonable to believe that they might have some expectations regarding your behavior.”

Satoru didn’t want to talk about his family. Why the fuck were they talking about his family? “They’re perfectly happy watching me parade around as the painted whore, thank you very much. My career is my own; I make my own decisions, if that was what you were wondering.”

“Oh, no, I’m not doubting their support for your position. Much as I may hate to admit it, there is a niche for music like yours, and you fill that niche perfectly adequately,” Suguru said, a practiced, polite smile on his face. “What I’m wondering about is those attached strings. Your career brings in a rather impressive amount of revenue. Does your family partake in these earnings?”

“Yeah, no shit,” Satoru said, feeling uncomfortable. He didn’t know when it had happened, but Sugruu had started angling towards something; he could see that much. What he couldn’t see was what Suguru was angling towards. It made him antsy. He was starting to regret letting them get off topic. “Like you said, my mother managed the first years of my career, I don’t think it’s so strange that I would want to pay her back for it.”

Suguru’s smile only grew more indulgent. “Yes, filial piety, I’m aware of the concept. How generous of you to pay your mother back for her support. Does she still influence your career these days?”

“No. Are you stupid?” Satoru asked, frowning. “I’ve had a new manager for years now. That’s common knowledge.”

“Yes, Ryu Higashi, I’m aware of him. That wasn’t my question, Mr. Gojo. My question was whether or not your mother still has influence over your career. Ryu is influential in the music industry in his own right, with a rich history of client management that I’m sure you have benefitted from. It must have been hard for your mother to release responsibility over your career. Some habits, I imagine, may have been hard to break.”

“My decisions are my own,” Satoru insisted again. “I decide the direction of my career. My management has never influenced my creative decisions.”

Suguru raised an eyebrow. “No? I just find it curious that your sudden shift into explicit songwriting happened around the time that you shifted management—coincidentally, around the time that you turned eighteen, as well. Do you have any thoughts on this?”

“What thoughts am I supposed to have?” Satoru asked, scowling. What the fuck is he trying to get at? “I grew up, I wanted to take a more mature angle. What’s your point?”

“Nothing, really, only that it’s interesting that you turned to the explicit so soon after beginning your adulthood,” Suguru said, rather casual despite the sharp gleam in his eyes. It made Satoru uneasy, like the gaze of a predator hiding in the bushes. “And if your family profits indirectly off of your career, does it not pique your interest that your family might be so supportive of your professional shift towards the erotic?”

“I don’t see what that has to-”

“I mean, Ryu is known to manage other prolific adult stars,” Suguru cut in, pressing his advantage. “Yorozu, Haruta… just to name a few, besides yourself, of course. Many of his clients joined his team well into their twenties or thirties, yet your mother presumably handed you off at the fresh age of eighteen. Do you truly have no thoughts on this?”

“What the hell are you implying?” Satoru asked, irritated. “Are you trying to say that my mom pushed me into the sex shit? Because she managed me as a child. She passed me off to a manager that we agreed on because I’m an adult now. I can make my own choices.”

“Within the bounds of what your family finds acceptable, of course.” Suguru’s pen tapped idly on his notebook—he wasn’t even writing notes anymore, just analyzing Satoru with those sharp, unblinking eyes. “Otherwise they might pull your funding, wouldn’t they? Because you were successful as a teen artist, of course, but nowhere near the levels of infamous that you are now.”

“My family had nothing to do with it,” Satoru said through gritted teeth.

“Oh? Then what else inspired your sudden shift? Would you care to elaborate?”

“No,” Satoru said firmly. “You have a list of questions. Ask them.”

“I think this list of questions are far more insightful,” Suguru disagreed, that stupid, infuriating smile on his face as he shrugged. “If you won’t share why you chose this new direction, then maybe you could give me your opinions on why your fanbase responds so eagerly to it. The child star turned sex icon, an interesting transformation…”

“How the hell am I supposed to know why they eat it up? I just know that they do.” Satoru’s fingernails were digging into his palms, his irritation growing harder to push down. This guy was just so fucking obsessed with finding some way to paint him in a bad light. “It’s not a unique experience. People ask you to sign their bras and underwear, write letters about how bad they wanna fuck you when you’re sixteen, make countdowns until you turn eighteen. It’s normal.”

“It’s normal,” Suguru repeated demurely, idly flicking his pen between his fingers. “What are your feelings about it? Do you find it flattering, maybe, or distressing…?”

“Why would I find it ‘distressing?” Satoru demanded. 

“Well, I certainly would feel uncomfortable being objectified on such a grand scale,” Suguru said, shrugging casually. “I mean, the constant, unending stream of sexual interest from all angles, on stage and off stage… that sounds exhausting.”

Satoru’s jaw snapped shut. He could see the moment that it caught Suguru’s attention—the look of a snake with its prey in its coils, slowly tightening, tightening. When had Suguru cornered him? When had this interview gotten out of his hands? Anger swelled up because there was nothing else to fill the space that arrogance had gone. “You’re terrible at this reporter shit. You’re supposed to ask about my tour dates, my next album, my rivalries and shit like th-”

“You’re avoiding the question again,” Suguru said. “Maybe I hit a nerve? Please inform me, Mr. Gojo, does the pressure to perform as the ‘painted whore’ end when the stage lights die down and the music ends? Or does it just continue for a different kind of audience.”

Satoru’s teeth gritted. He doesn’t fucking know, he’s just spouting shit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? You don’t? Maybe I’m mistaken—is that not part of the playbook? The image to uphold, the songs to push, the people to charm, to sleep with, if need be.”

“I sleep with who I want,” Satoru hissed. “I never traded sex for anything.”

Suguru’s smile became a grin. “Oh, well, I wasn’t implying that, but clearly you’ve got something you’d like to tell me. So, I can assume you traded your free time, your future, and your dignity for the makeup and the stage, but you’re right, some people do trade sex. Have you ever found yourself in that position?”

“That’s a weird fucking question,” Satoru said, his hands clenching with barely contained rage. “This interview is done. You’re done.”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Gojo,” Suguru said. He was cool as a cucumber, entirely comfortable now in his fake, plastic chair. “It’s a simple yes or no, really. There’s no shame in it these days, plenty of people sleep their way to the top. Maybe it’s not as ‘progressive’ as you think you are, but it’s a rather prolific way to earn your success. I can respect it.”

Fuck. “I never traded sex for anything. Final answer.”

“So it’s just a coincidence then?” Satoru’s palms were slick with sweat, his heart beating double time in his ears as Suguru counted off on his fingers. “It's a coincidence that you hit the markets as soon as you were legal. It’s a coincidence that your mother traded you to a manager known for managing adult stars at the same time. It’s a coincidence that you’ve famously enjoyed massive success since your shift in trajectory. And it’s a total, complete coincidence that you’re still paying your dues to your family to this day.”

“I don’t-”

“Because you know what it sounds like to me?” Suguru interrupted. “It sounds like the whole ‘sex angle’ wasn’t your choice at all. After all, eighteen may be an adult, but you don’t suddenly become one just because the timer ran out.”

“I made my-”

“-made your own choices, yes, as you’ve said,” Suguru cut in once more, sounding exasperated with his words. “I hear you say that. I hear you say that you never traded sex for anything. I hear you say that the sex angle was your choice. I hear you say that the rampant sexualization is normal. I’m hearing the excuses and the justification, but what I’m not hearing is your answer, Mr. Gojo.”

“No!” Satoru snapped, his breath quick. “No to everything. No, no, no. Is it so fucking hard for you to believe that I’m happy the way I am? I like this, I like my career, I like my art, I’m fulfilled and satisfied and happy and all the stupid shit you keep asking about. Why wouldn’t I be happy? I have everything anyone could ever want!”

“But you’re not,” Suguru said. He leaned forward, his chin resting on his palm as he smiled and tapped his pen on his notebook. “You know what I think you are? I think you are uncomfortable with the persona. I don’t think any of this is what you wanted.”

“I’m not,” Satoru bit out. “Final fucking answer.”

“Mmh? Is that so?” Suguru leaned forward, his expression smug. “What did you give up for it? The fame, the success, the popularity? What did you trade away?”

Satoru nearly felt a tooth crack. “Nothing. Get out.”

“You’re avoiding the question aga-”

“I said get out!” Satoru shouted. He stood from the couch, his heart racing and his breath heaving. Fuck, fuck, fuck! “I’ll call security, you can ask your questions in fucking handcuffs!”

“Really? You want to leave me to make my own conclusions?” Suguru asked, practically purring. “Because I’ve got an interesting set of connected threads here, and maybe you can set the record straight for me. I can assume it wasn’t the money you needed, but maybe the connections?”

“Get out, get ou-”

“It’s hard to break into the industry, after all,” Suguru powered right over him. Unstoppable force meeting a very movable object. “Your family had no way into the music industry before you, after all. I imagine some record labels and CEOs may have been hard to convince.”

“You don’t know shit,” Satoru said, his voice a low, venomous hiss. He was shaking, but whether with rage, or something else, he had no idea. “You’re just spouting random shit off to see what sticks!”

Suguru only grinned. “Is it sticking, Mr. Gojo? It seems like it is. So it was for connections, wasn’t it? Or maybe something similar? Charts just weren’t hitting as a child, maybe that left you with a hunger. It’s normal for young people to desire popularity, of co-”

“I didn’t need the popularity!” Satoru finally erupted. His self-control had snapped; the words were falling faster than he could stop them, his mouth like a damn that had cracked and could no longer be sealed up again. “I was viral at twelve, I didn’t fucking sleep with any of them until I was fourt-”

Satoru’s heart dropped. His words died in his throat as he slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes widening; he saw his shock reflected in Suguru’s expression as his pen hit the floor and his jaw dropped. It became so silent you could have heard a pin drop. Though Satoru was sure that the other man had to be able to hear his racing, pounding heart as adrenaline poured into his veins. Fuck, he thought, bordering on hysteria as the reality started to set in. What did I just say? I didn't just say that.

“...fourteen,” Suguru eventually said, his words slow and his eyes glued to Satoru. “Is that what you were going to say? Fourteen.”

“No,” Satoru said quickly. His mind raced, like there was a blinking red alarm flashing ‘Damage Control, Damage Control, Damage Control’. “You misheard me. I said eighteen.”

“No, you didn’t,” Suguru said slowly. “You said fourteen. I’m sure of it. You… slept with them at fourteen?”

“I said eighteen!” Satoru’s voice cracked like a whip. This wasn’t working. He could see the gears turning in Suguru’s head, that quick mind jumping to conclusions faster than Satoru could stop him. He reeled, trying desperately to distract Suguru from the information that he had let slip. “I said eighteen. Disney’s marketing director. The Kids Choice Awards host. Netflix’s hiring manager. I bent over and they gave me brand deals and appearances. There. That’s your exposé. Get out.”

“I’m not looking for an expos-”

“Get out!”

The door handle jiggled, and creaked as someone poked their head in—a man on Satoru’s security team, covered in tattoos. Relief flooded through Satoru as the decision was finally taken out of his hands. The man glanced at Suguru warily, and then looked back up at Satoru, as if to ask, ‘Everything okay in here?’ Resisting the urge to sigh, Satoru cleared his throat and said, “He was just leaving. Would you escort him out?”

He could feel Suguru’s eyes on the side of his face, no doubt unwilling to leave so soon, but Satoru refused to look at him. He looked at nothing but the wall as Suguru reluctantly stood from his seat, gathered his things, and followed the man out of Satoru’s dressing room. In the moments before the door closed behind them, Satoru could hear his fans as they left the arena, chanting the lyrics of one of his songs—Ceiling, his final track.

“...got you on your back, you’re starin’ at the ceiling,” their voices faded in, barely imperceptible if he didn’t already know the lyrics to his own fucking songs, back to front. “No one needs to know, it’s just us, this feeling.”

Satoru gritted his teeth. His hands fisted at his sides.

What a fucking joke.

Notes:

ty all for reading! i hope this goes without saying but of course im not actually accusing any of those entertainment people i mentioned of any of the crimes happening in this fic, i just came up with random titles. i dont even know their names lol.

im not sure if i'll continue this, im still debating it! but if you like satosugu and youre interested in omegaverse, please feel free to check out my other fics, or come see me on twitter under @/SidewaysClari !!! kisses!

feel free to join a discord server for writers and readers of jujutsu kaisen fanfic here!

Chapter 2: september, 2011

Notes:

punched this ch out in one day,,,, hoo boy.

idk what my plans are for this fic. i have some semblance of a plot, but it kinda takes a backseat to my other projects right now. chapters will be posted non-linearly, and i have no idea how long it will be. to avoid disappointment, im going to keep it completed bc theres no guarantee of more chapters. even so, i hope yall enjoy.

warnings: this chapter features explicit child sexual abuse. there is also what could be interpreted as an eating disorder. the child abuse is extensive, multi-faceted, and perpetrated by multiple people. please take care if you are sensitive to these themes.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Strobe lights and blown speakers,

Fireworks and hurricanes,

I'm not here, this isn't happening.

I'm not here, I'm not here.

(How to Disappear Completely, Radiohead.)

 

A grainy video begins, the opening shot showing little more than a dark brown couch and an off-white wall. The faint sound of music can be heard, alongside the rustling of closing as a voice starts up. It’s the voice of a young boy, still high-pitched and cracking with all the telltale signs of youth as he comes into focus. The boy is singing along to the music, his head of white hair bopping as he dances in and out of the camera view. As the song comes to the chorus, he throws himself dramatically on the couch, bright blue eyes trained on the camera as he belts out the lyrics to Britney Spears’ ‘Baby One More Time’. He mimics the video, his expression one of feigned innocence.

“I must confess, I still believe!” 

With a showy flair, he leans over the armrest of the couch, lithe body stretched over it as he keeps his eyes on the camera. 

“When you’re not with me, I lose my mind… Give me a sign!”

His voice is advanced for his age, smooth and pretty sounding as he performs for the recording. He’s having fun, the corners of his lips quirking with a smile as he dances along to the music, batting his pale eyelashes and peeking at the camera with sparkling eyes. He’s energetic, precocious, keeping the energy up even through the bridge as he throws himself back on the couch melancholically. His shirt rides up on his stomach, and as if on instinct, he reaches down to grab it and tease it further up his stomach, still keeping those bright blue eyes trained on the camera as if to tease it. 

“Don’t you know I still believe? That you will be here, and give me a sign~! Hit me, baby, one more time!”

The lyrics and dance are clearly out of his age range, meant for someone much older than him, but he performs them both with the practiced ease of someone who has done this many times before. He finishes the performance with a dramatic pose, back to the camera as he peeks over his shoulders, panting softly as he grins and flicks his hair out of his eyes. As the music ends, the next song begins, another one from Britney Spears as his name is called off camera. Looking briefly annoyed, he signs petulantly and calls back, “Just a minute, mom, I’m recording the video!”

Another call of something that the camera recorder can’t quite pick up, as the boy rolls his eyes.

“Yes, mom, I still have one more.”

More speaking as the boy picks up the camera and starts to fiddle with the buttons. The shot focuses on his face, screwed up in concentration.

“Fine, I’m coming!”

Then, the screen goes to black, and the recording ends. The date and time reads from August, 2006.


“Isn’t that just the cutest thing, folks?”

A crowd cheers in agreement, the sound of it drowning out all else as it’s directed towards the stage in front of him. There, in two chairs, sits an older woman to the right, and to the left sits the same boy from the video. He’s older now, perhaps in his later teens, and he has grown taller, a little broader, his face a little older as he laughs sheepishly at the crowd cheering. The woman seems amused as she watches the crowd, before putting on a dazzling smile as she looks over at the boy to her left. 

“Now, Satoru,” she says, her tone rich with all the false cheer of a typical talk show host, “this video was posted, what, maybe five years years ago? Walk us through the story, how old were you when this was posted?”

“I was… um, eleven, I think?” the boy, Satoru, says, his eyes turned to the ceiling as he tries to recall it. His cheeks are lightly flushed, his smile lingering on his lips as he fidgets in his seat, clearly not used to being watched by so many. His words come out hesitantly, though the woman gives him an encouraging smile. “And I liked Britney Spears quite a bit, haha, as you can tell. My mom was on the fence about it, you know, I’m sure she probably wished I was doing my homework, or cleaning my room, hah.”

“Already a performer at eleven,” the woman teases as Satoru flushes a little darker. “So young! Now, I’d love to show the audience some of your other ‘performances’, but that would take us off the air, folks! You’ll just have to do some research for yourself.”

The crowd laughs, and Satoru gives another flustered smile, reaching a hand up to scratch at his cheek. The woman is clearly endeared by him, her expression affectionate as she laughs and reaches over to give his arm a squeeze. The lights are bright, reflecting off of Satoru’s white hair and the shades that hide his eyes partially from view. Unseen by the crowd, the collar of his shirt has grown damp, both with the heat of the lights and his own nervousness. He seems excited, however, to be up on stage even if he isn’t quite used to it yet. 

“Oh, what the hell,” the woman says, throwing her hands up. “Let’s show them a little teaser, shall we?”

As the lights in the audience dim once more to the sound of raucous applause, the screen projector at the back of the stage starts to light up again, this time showing a different video than the one before. In this one, Satoru’s hair is pushed back with a headband, leaving the focus on his dazzling eyes as he dances to the sound of ‘Slave 4 U’. His t-shirt has been cropped just above his belly-button, showing a few inches of exposed stomach above the hem of his low-slung sweatpants. He’s dancing and gyrating in front of the camera, singing along to the words, and as the crowd hoots and hollers, the real life Satoru hides his face in his hands as the woman laughs and claps. 

The video cuts off as, in the video, Satoru’s hands start to tease down between his legs. The video freezes with his fingers at his waistband, eyes half-lidded and tongue caught between shining teeth as he grins at the camera. The image stays frozen on the screen even as the woman starts to speak again, struggling to the heard over the sound of hooting and hollering,

“For those in the audience who don’t know, this video was one of a series that went viral, turning our Satoru Gojo here from an eleven year old boy into one of the country’s rising pop stars at only sixteen years old!” The crowd cheers yet again, the sound of it deafening as the woman laughs again. “Satoru, honey, tell us, what’s life like now compared to five years ago when this video was posted?”

“It’s a lot crazier,” Satoru confesses, glancing shyly at the crowd as he holds a hand to the side of his head, as if to hide from the image frozen on the screen. “Um, I don’t really go to school anymore? But I have a lot of tutors… they go on tour with me so I can still get an education and, um, I got signed on to this new show on Nickelodeon? So I get to make a lot of friends on set. It’s really fun, we spend a lot of time on set together so we’re, um… we’re pretty close.”

“How cute,” the woman hums. The image on the screen finally fades away as their conversation picks back up again, instead cycling through a few pre-chosen photos from some of Satoru’s most recent photoshoots. “Speaking of this show, if our research is correct, it sounds like you’ve been working on your six pack! How about you give the folks in the audience a little teaser?”

Satoru flushes darker, his face pink all the way down to his shoulders, but the crowd hoots and cheers so loudly that it drowns out whatever he says to the woman. She merely motions at the audience, encouraging him along as he slowly gets out of the chair and reaches for the edge of his shirt. He faces away from the audience as he pulls his shirt up and shows off his stomach, already taking on the telltale appearance of well-defined abs. The audience goes absolutely wild for it, screaming louder than before as the woman laughs uproariously, clearly entertained by the wild energy of the crowd. Satoru’s face grows red as he drops his shirt again and returns to his chair, much to the disappointment of more than a few people who boo and ‘aww’. 

“Isn’t he cute, folks?” the woman says, motioning to a pink-cheeked Satoru as he hides beneath the collar of his shirt, evidently a bit too embarrassed to look anyone in the eyes. Even so, the audience cheers him on, titillated by his painfully genuine shyness. “Satoru, you’re a real sport. How many boys your age can say they’re as built as you are?”

“Not many,” he murmurs, his words barely picked up by the microphone attached to his collar as he looks down at his lap, feet shuffling. He doesn’t say anything more, too flustered for words, but the woman picks up the slack of the conversation with hardly even a pause.

“Something tells me you’re going to become the country’s next heartbreaker,” she teases as the audience laughs. “Well, folks, be sure to check out Satoru in the pilot episode on Nickelodeon this Friday night at 6pm! Here’s hoping we’ll get to see those muscles again soon, am I right?”

A final cheer from the crowd as the lights dim, casting the audience into a semi-darkness as they talk amongst themselves. Up on the stage, floodlights illuminate the way off for Satoru and the interviewer as they walk off, retreating backstage as the next act starts carrying their set-up out to replace them. The woman’s hand is on Satoru’s lower back as she leads him off, that same dazzling smile on her face as she gives him a reassuring pat.

“You did great up there, honey,” she says, effortlessly maneuvering them through the crowds of interns, PAs, and stage hands towards where a table full of food and various refreshments have been set up. A woman is waiting there, tall with a head of white hair blown out into big waves—Satoru’s mother. “You get used to the lights! The crowds too, don’t worry so much about this one appearance. You’ll have plenty more chances to practice your stage presence. Here, Mrs. Gojo, we have a publicist that we recommend for our younger guest stars, I’ll provide you his phone number.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Gojo says smoothly, accepting the business card from the woman. Satoru moves closer to his side, his cheeks still burning faintly pink as he keeps his mouth shut and lets the two women speak. “We’ll be in touch, I’m afraid Satoru still has a few more appearances scheduled for today. Satoru?”

He’s close on her heels as she turns away, following her out of the backstage and towards the parking lot. As he does, he glances back towards the woman, but by then, she’s already gone, coordinating the next act on stage. All he sees are the bustling crowds—nobody he recognizes. He faces forward, following at his mother’s heels towards the limousine that she has parked outside. Their chauffeur stands waiting at the back door, holding it open for Satoru and his mother as they climb in. She has her cellphone in her hands as she sits, her eyes glued to the screen as Satoru sits in the seat next to her, his hands tucked into his lap as he leans against the door.

“Don’t slouch,” his mother says without even glancing up from her cellphone. “It’s not cute, Satoru.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, lowering his eyes. He sits up straight, tailbone pressed to the back of the seat as he straightens his shoulders and picks his jaw back up. His mother makes an approving noise.

“We have an interview scheduled in an hour,” she says as she types something on her phone. “You won’t have time to eat before. We’ll get dinner with your agent afterwards, then the late night show at 9pm. I have some wipes in my purse, make sure you clean up well. The host has you for the evening tonight, so make a good impression and we’ll be back on it after your first album drops.”

Satoru swallows thinly, but the motion goes unseen by his mother. Stomach twisting uncomfortably, he says a quiet, ‘yes ma’am’, before looking back out the window, trying to distract himself with the sights of the drive. 

The building that the talk show was hosted in is utterly surrounded by crowds of people, all holding up posters with his face on it, or hand-made signs with his name. Some of them are cute—the ones that just say his name, or how much they love him—but there are more than a few with cutouts of his last photoshoot, the one exposing his stomach. It was promo for the show that he was signed onto. His character was a playboy that always had some number of shirt buttons undone, so they really wanted to tease his physique to get viewers hooked. If his agent could be trusted, the pilot episode would be the perfect jumping point for the release of his album—the woman swore up and down that the show and the album would get everyone’s eyes on him.

He doesn’t know if that was true, but his mother believes it, so he does what she says. He dresses for the interview as she directs, answers all the questions that some faceless man asks, embarrassed by all the questions about his workout routine, or the girls he’s interested in, or what celebrity is crushing on him now. He thought the interview went well, but when they’re in the car again, Satoru’s stomach rumbling with hunger that his meager lunch hadn’t satisfied, his mother tells him to cut back on the blushing and shyness. He agrees, but doesn’t know what exactly to do about it—he hasn’t exactly been faking any of his reactions.

They don’t have time to stop and eat before they have to head towards the airport. They have a short flight scheduled to the next state over for the late night show, so their chauffeur takes them onto the interstate towards the city. It’s supposed to be a long drive; Satoru was expected to work on some of his classwork while they were in the car, but he can’t focus. His mom is on the phone with somebody, probably someone from the show set, because Satoru doesn’t spend his days in the same city that the rest of the cast stays in between shoots. They always have to call his mother about script changes, and some of the other kids complain that Satoru doesn’t have to sit through all the rehearsals and workshops that they do.

Satoru kind of wants to be in those workshops. He’d rather be with the rest of the kids, really, but he doesn’t have a choice—his agent and his mother create his schedule, and he doesn’t get a lot of say in it. If he did, he definitely wouldn’t be doing this talk show. It’s late, and he’s tired, but he can’t even nap because a nervous, anticipatory energy has taken hold of him and refused to let go. He can’t ignore it, can’t focus on his classwork. His mouth is dry and his leg bounces unevenly as his stomach does little uneasy flips. He feels like he’s going to be sick. He wishes his mom would at least pick up some food on the way so his hands wouldn’t shake, but he knows that’s unlikely.

The hair and makeup team meet them on the flight, cutting down the time needed to get ready as they just get him dressed and prepared in the cabin of the jet. They layer him up in foundation and concealer, dashing eyeshadow over his eyes, rouging his cheeks and powdering him to keep it all in place. He gets the briefest look of himself in a mirror as one of the hairstylists passes it to the makeup artist, but he can’t really recognize the person in the reflection. He looks older, maybe ten years older than he actually is; he doesn’t know if he likes it or not. It feels thick and clammy on his face, his hands pinned beneath his thighs so he won’t touch anything by accident. 

His head is pulled back as the hairstylist slaps gel on his locks, taming them into something slicked-back and manageable. She’s barely able to set it with hairspray before the wardrobe team is yanking him up, shoving him into his suit in the last few minutes before the jet is supposed to land. They leave the top buttons of his shirt undone, showing a bit of his pale chest, but when he’s finally released to go sit back down, he manages to button the rest of them up before anyone notices. It makes him feel more comfortable; less exposed. 

His mother sits in the seat next to him as the seatbelt light lights up. She looks over his appearance as she always did, squinting at his makeup and hair critically, before reaching over and undoing the buttons once again.

When the plane lands, he hardly has the time to get himself together before he is being ushered off, the bodies of black-shirted security guards surrounding him on all sides as he is escorted to the next limousine. His mother won’t be with him this time; she’s taking a different limo, since she’ll be in the audience, and it’s just easier for her to get in the back and start checking things before he gets there. Satoru would be going in the front entrance, where all the paparazzi and magazine interviewers would be waiting to catch comments from him. He can see the flashing of the cameras before the car even stops, and in a last second decision, he buttons his shirt back up again as the chauffeur opens the door and lets him step out.

This time, there are only two security guards with him, one on each side as he plasters on the smile that his mother had him practice and the wave that she had taught him. He makes sure to try to greet both sides of the screaming crowd, giving whatever autographs he can, trying to give a quick comment to each interviewer before the guards urge him on. He doesn’t get to everyone—it almost makes him feel guilty, like he’s being rude. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it. The stage staff had already called for everyone to get into their places, and he’ll be on air in less than ten minutes.

He’s brought to the stage and quickly outfitted in his microphone, the hands of strangers touching and maneuvering his body into place as everything about him is checked—his hair, his makeup, his clothes. At some point, his buttons are undone again. He doesn’t have time to fix them before he is being pushed towards the stage—a desk at one end, and a comfortable-looking seat on the other. The comfortable aspect had clearly been faked. Satoru feels like he’s sitting on cement as he’s shoved down into his seat and told to stay, like a dog. Nobody speaks to him after that. He’s left mostly alone as the minutes tick down, until a shadow reaches him, followed by the sound of a voice.

“Satoru, right?”

Startled, he looks up and sees a man in a nice suit standing before him. The man is handsome, all chiseled features and dark eyes, a charming smile on his face as he kneels down in front of Satoru. This must have been the man to speak to him, but even though he knows Satoru’s name, Satoru doesn’t know his. He feels his cheeks growing warm in embarrassment.“Um, hi,” he says, smiling a little. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m Hideki,” the man says, holding his hand out to shake Satoru’s as his smile grows wider. Oh, right; Hideki, this was the man who hosted the show. Satoru takes his hand, and Hideki grips it firmly, holding eye contact as he shakes it. He doesn’t let it go afterward, like Satoru expected he would. Instead, he lifts his other hand to hold on to Satoru’s, letting their joined hands rest on his bent knee as he speaks again. “You seem a little nervous, Satoru?”

“A little,” he confesses, “I haven’t really been on a lot of these.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Hideki says, giving him a cheeky look. “We’re just talking, right? Just the two of us. Here’s how it’s going to go: I’m going to ask you some questions about yourself, about your show and your music, and you just answer them the best you can, okay? Try to follow my lead, I won’t let you struggle.”

“Okay,” Satoru says, agreeing easily enough. It’s easy to trust this man when he speaks like this, and it’s almost enough to make Satoru forget that this man has already bought his time for the evening. He’s just so handsome, and charismatic, and his hands are so warm and firm as they hold Satoru’s… would it really be so bad to spend the night with this man? He seems nice… “You’ll help me if I, um, if I get lost or something?”

Hideki’s smile widens like Satoru said something amusing, his eyes glittering as he straightens back up and finally releases Satoru’s hand. It leaves him with a disappointed feeling that he can’t really understand. “Of course,” Hideki practically purrs, “I got you, sweetheart. Just follow my lead, alright? It helps us both out if tonight goes well.”

Nodding, Satoru feels his cheeks warm again, but it’s not the same feeling of shame and embarrassment that he had all day. No, this feels a little nicer, the roiling feeling in his stomach growing gentler. Hideki really is handsome… and when he circles around to sit at his mock-desk, he unbuttons his jacket to sit down, the fabric parting around his broad legs. Satoru can’t help but look, his eyes glued to Hideki’s thighs as they part casually, spreading out in his chair. He’s clearly comfortable and at ease, confident, and the sight of it is ridiculously attractive. Hideki catches him staring and winks. Satoru flushes as the lights dim.

Is it so bad if he’s attractive? That’s a good thing, right? For what Satoru has to do later…? He wonders when he stopped being so nervous. 

“Welcome, folks!” Hideki announces, and Satoru startles as he realizes that the broadcast has begun. Nervousness comes right back to him, like a dog to its house. “So happy to have you guys here tonight. We have with us a special guest: Satoru Gojo, pop star and face of Nickelodeon’s new TeenNick show, the Corner Complex!”

The crowd roars again, but this audience is smaller, maybe forty or fifty people that he can’t even see the faces of with the lights so bright. He remembers to smile and wave, forgetting for a moment about his shirt. It doesn’t feel quite as overwhelming this time; he’s not so scared of the people in the audience, and when he looks at Hideki, the man’s smile is just as warm and teasing as it was before. Not like the lady with her too-white teeth and sharp eyes, and her crowd that couldn’t seem to get enough of his half-dressed body. 

“Satoru,” Hideki says, and the sound of his name on the man’s tongue sends a little shiver down his spine. “You look dashing as always. Tell me, how are you, how are you doing? Hair and makeup didn’t torture you too much, did they?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Satoru says, smile widening a little as Hideki’s casual tone puts him at ease. Hideki gives him an encouraging look, so Satoru tries to extend himself a little further, tongue fumbling over unfamiliar words. “I, um, I think there’s probably more gel on my head than actual hair. Does it look too bad?”

Hideki laughs, as does the audience. Satoru didn’t really think it was that funny, but the crowd seems to like it, so he files that away for later. “You look great,” Hideki tells him indulgently, earning another round of laughter from the audience. Satoru starts to wonder if he actually knows what they’re all laughing about. “Gotta stay photo-shoot ready, right? But I think you’re probably wearing more layers than the cameras seem to like, right, folks?”

Another round of laughter, but Satoru is distracted by the sight of something flashing out of the corner of his eye. It’s another one of those projector screens, and Satoru feels his eyes widen and cheeks darken as yet another photo from his shirtless shoot is thrown up on the screen. It’s one of the more embarrassing ones; they have him with the rest of the set from the show he’s on, and he’s hanging from the bars of a jungle gym in a playground. His upside-down position makes his shirt fall up to his chin, and the other characters are giving him unimpressed looks. His entire chest and stomach are on display as the crowd hoots. 

Satoru puts a hand up, again, to hide the sight of the photo, but all it does is make people laugh all over again. What’s worse is the look on Hideki’s face—pitying, amused, interested. It makes Satoru feel funny, but he can’t figure out if it’s a good or bad kind of feeling. He just wishes people would stop putting his shirtless photos up on screens without warning him.

“Now you’re being shy?” Hideki teases, and the audience coos. 

“It’s embarrassing,” Satoru says, trying to force a laugh that doesn’t come out quite right, but no one else seems to notice. 

“Aw, come on.” Hideki laughs again, and even if they’re in front of so many people, Satoru can’t help but feel like the man is speaking directly to him. It’s both comforting and disconcerting. “It can’t be that bad. What, too much love? Too much adoration? Oh, no, let me guess, too many girls declaring their love? The life of a teenage boy, folks!”

More cheering and laughter. Satoru puts on another smile, and tries to make it more convincing this time. He wonders how much time is left on this session. These show segments weren’t long, right? He’s so hungry now that it’s starting to make him feel nauseous. 

“Speaking of photoshoots,” Hideki says, guiding the conversation as Satoru flounders. “This set is promoting your new show, Corner Complex, in which you play the free-spirited playboy Takara. Tell us, did you audition for the part, or did they write this role just for you?”

The audience laughs, but Satoru can’t pick up why, exactly. Embarrassment starts to flood through him again, his cheeks growing hot as he tries to come up with something to say. “Well, um, I was offered the part…”

“And they say Hollywood can’t typecast,” Hideki says dryly. More laughter that Satoru can’t understand, filling his head like white noise. “Unfortunately, he was passed over for the role of book-loving Akihiko, but it’s anyone’s guess why.” Yet another round of laughter, and Satoru can’t really understand what exactly Hideki is saying, but he starts to get the impression that he’s being made fun of. He tries to keep his smile on his face, but he’s faltering fast and hard. “Why laugh, folks? He’s smart, really!”

The thing is, Satoru is smart. He’s ahead of most of his peers in his academics, and it’s not just because of his tutors. He wishes he could say that— I’ve actually been learning calculus and mathematical physics, I just learned… but he gets the impression that isn’t what people want to hear. Instead, he focuses all of his energy on keeping up his smile as the audience continues to laugh. 

“Now, folks, let’s be nice,” Hideki chuckles, drawing their attention again. Satoru almost wishes he were sitting in the audience instead of on the stage; maybe then he’d be able to appreciate how Hideki maneuvers and directs their attention as he pleases. “Satoru, you have an album you’re releasing in about a month, but you’ve been touring the country promoting it for the past few weeks. Tell us what the life of a celebrity is like, sweetheart.”

Ah, that pet name again. It’s like ripping a bandaid off—a sting, but then the balm of a kiss afterward. It leaves him unsettled, but he smiles anyway. “It’s been fun, but, um, really crazy, you know. The schedule is pretty packed between performances and rehearsals for Corner Complex, so I’ve been busy.”

“Sounds like something I’d take over a 9-to-5 any day,” Hideki jokes. The crowd laughs, and Satoru tries to chuckle along, but he can’t understand why they’re laughing; do they think Hideki works a schedule like that, that he’s like them? “And you like the performances, the touring?”

“I do,” Satoru says, trying to laugh a little. They can’t be making fun of him if he’s laughing too, right? “It’s tough, but it’s rewarding, I love seeing the fans.”

“Not the weird ones though, right? Any stories on that? People jumping on stage, grabbing you on the way to the car?”

“A couple times, yeah,” Satoru admits. It’s why he needs so much security—he never knows who’s lying in wait, these days, and his mother doesn’t like it when people don’t pay first. “I was, um, actually getting off stage the other day, and this guy stole a press badge to follow me to my dressing room? I think he saw my boxers, haha…”

“Wow! How do I trade places?” Hideki says, laughing, and the crowd laughs along with him, too. Satoru is starting to learn what is and isn’t funny to them now. His smile feels so forced that it’s starting to hurt his cheeks. Hideki turns to the crowd and points to one of the cameras recording them, that same charming smile on his lips. “I expect to see details on Twitter! No, I’m just messing around… but really, if you’re out there, sir, tell us more.”

More laughter. By the time the show ends, Satoru can’t keep the smile up even a moment longer.


“Do you drink, Satoru?”

By the time they make it backstage to Hideki’s private dressing room, it’s dark outside, and the clock that Satoru can see hanging on the wall has 10:46 PM displayed in big, red writing. He’s grown so hungry now that his stomach is starting to growl audibly, but Hideki either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, as he hands Satoru a small glass filled about quarter way with something brown and transparent. Satoru accepts it before he can really think better of it, and when the glass is in his hand, he leans down to smell it. The scent is gross, burning his nose, and Hideki grins as he watches Satoru, leaned against his desk while Satoru sits before him. 

“I’ll take that as a no,” Hideki says, his voice amused as Satoru’s cheeks darken. He holds his own glass to his lips and takes a sip, before picking up the lit cigarette he has hanging off of an ashtray. The smoke kind of makes Satoru’s eyes burn, but he keeps his mouth shut. It’s not why he’s here. “Good. Never start, never have to stop. You’re a step ahead of most of your predecessors.”

“What is it?” Satoru asks, tilting the glass in his hands. Hideki doesn’t answer verbally, he just motions his head as if to say ‘try it’. Satoru, though hesitant, does; he holds the glass to his lips, holding his breath to avoid the smell, and takes a sip—immediately, he chokes on it. It burns his throat and he forces himself to swallow it because he knows better than anyone that foul tasting things taste worse if they come back up. It tastes absolutely terrible, the taste lingering even as he coughs and sets the glass on the floor. “That tastes terrible, how does anyone like it?”

“It grows on you,” Hideki says, chuckling. “You’re probably too young to enjoy it. How old are you again?”

Satoru sets his now-empty hands in his lap, answering, “Sixteen.”

“Sixteen, huh?” Hideki takes a drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out, the smoke billowing in the dressing room. “Have you ever had sex with anyone before, Satoru?”

Satoru feels his nervousness skyrocket. No matter how many times he does this, he feels like he never gets used to it, but… the man already paid. Satoru can’t go back home without doing this. “...yes.”

“Who?” Hideki asks, like he’s actually curious.

Satoru can’t tell the truth. His mother told him that he can’t mention his uncle to anyone, under any circumstances, so he lies instead and says, “A boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend. Did he teach you how to suck dick?” The words sound crude coming off of Hideki’s lips, making the tips of his ears burn, but Hideki asks the question as casually as if he were asking about the weather, or the traffic outside. Satoru flounders for a moment before Hideki raises his eyebrow, pressuring him into answering.

“Yes,” he says, and that’s the truth. That’s what most people pay for—one of the cheaper options for Satoru’s time. Hideki hums like maybe he already knew the answer to that, before his free hand falls to his thigh and pats it softly, the message clear. Come here.

So, even though Satoru really would rather not, and he wishes he could just be at home and not so hungry, he obeys. His head slips into something more comfortable, something more familiar; his stage presence is new, but this isn’t. He knows what people want from him, and he knows what to do when someone orders him around in such a way. Silently, with the expectation of obedience. They want to feel dominant, and Satoru can do that. He can make someone feel dominant. He slips down onto the floor and crawls on his hands and knees towards Hideki, his eyes glued to Hideki’s waist, like there’s nothing more he wants than what’s hiding beneath his belt.

The nervousness fades. The hunger fades. Satoru leaves his mind, and something else comes back.

“Good,” Hideki purrs around the rim of his glass. He’s still handsome, even if Satoru kind of hates him, and those palms are still as warm and firm as they were before when he captures Satoru’s chin between his fingers and lifts it up. Satoru wordlessly lifts his chin, keeping still as Hideki’s thumb brushes across his lip. It pulls his lower lip down, running one manicured fingernail over his white teeth before prying those apart, too. Satoru opens his mouth and lets his tongue peek out; he doesn’t gag even when Hideki’s thumb presses down on it. “Very good. Pull it out, sweetheart.”

He does. He unbuckles Hideki’s belt and pulls down the waistband of his pants, fishing Hideki’s cock out of his briefs. It’s nice enough, cleanly washed and fresh shaven, which is more than what Satoru can say for most of the men he meets. It’s a solid handful, too, if not on the shorter side, but Satoru won’t complain. The smaller ones are easier to take. 

He doesn’t have to wait for instruction to do what’s expected of him, what Hideki paid for. He parts his lips further and presses the head of Hideki’s cock to his tongue, looking Hideki in the eyes as he closes his mouth and sucks on it, soft. He gets a soft, pleased breath in response, and that’s motivation to go further; his eyelids flutter as he sinks a little deeper, getting Hideki’s cock nice and wet. He pulls back to press open-mouthed, wet kisses down the length of it, ending at the base of Hideki’s cock. There, he drags his tongue back up in one long stripe before sucking it into his mouth again, sinking down on it with a muffled moan.

They always like it when they think he likes it, so he’s vocal even if it’s forced. He moans and hums as he bobs up and down Hideki’s cock, teasing the head of it with his tongue on each upswing and swallowing deeply on every downswing. His hand jerks and fondles whatever he can’t reach, because even if he’s good at this, it doesn’t mean his gag reflex is just gone. He’s still imperfect. He’s still human, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” Hideki groans. His hand settles on the top of Satoru’s head, disrupting the hold of the gel as his fingers dig in. His hand fists around Satoru’s hair, starting to push him down a little further with each bob. Satoru looks up at him with wet lashes, trying to get him to knock it off, but Hideki again either doesn’t see it or doesn’t care. He just keeps pushing Satoru’s head up and down, his grip too strong to disrupt, even if Satoru’s eyes start to water and his throat convulses. “Fuck, yes, just like that…”

He likes it when Satoru gags, so he keeps pushing his cock into the back of Satoru’s throat, groaning lowly when it makes Satoru’s throat tighten around him. Satoru has to squeeze his eyes shut, breathing tight through his nose and fighting down the nausea roiling in his stomach. Please just cum soon, he pleads, his persona slipping as his distress rackets up further. It was fine when he was controlling it, when Hideki let him go at his own pace, but now his control has been taken from him and he’s tripping. He can barely keep up with how fast Hideki fucks his mouth, because when moving Satoru’s head isn’t fast enough, Hideki just starts thrusting. 

Spit froths on his lips, tears pearling in his eyes as Hideki just keeps moving and moving, straining his self-control. His fingernails dig into his palms, drawing blood as he tries to count in his head, tries to distract himself, tries to think of anything else. He’s suffocated and dizzy, just hoping that someone will take mercy on him—and it comes, literally, as Hideki buries himself in Satoru’s throat and cum. Satoru’s eyes snap open, blurry with tears, as the taste of salt shoots down the back of his throat. He writhes and squirms, but Hideki holds him in place, forcing him to either swallow it or choke. 

“Good boy,” Hideki praises as Satoru swallows it. It sits heavy and disgusting in his stomach, and he has to fight down nausea as Hideki finally releases him. He pulls back with a gasp, coughing and dry heaving, tears falling down his cheeks. He looks down at his lap and feels so ashamed of himself that it ruins any chances of keeping his composure, because despite everything, despite the disgust and shame he feels, he’s still half-chubbed in his slacks. He wishes he could just make his dick disappear. He wishes he could make every part of his body that people want so bad disappear—anything, everything.

Just leave him a faceless, featureless form. Just leave him alone.

It’s wishful thinking. Hideki tucks himself back into his pants and hands Satoru a napkin to wipe his mouth with, before setting his empty glass back down on the desk. Satoru manages to get up to his feet, wiping his mouth free of spit and semen before crumpling it up and shoving it into his pocket. He wordlessly reaches for his suit jacket, thrown over the back of the chair he’d been sitting in, and beelines for the door. He did what he was supposed to do. He’s free now—that’s the deal.

“Want another drink?” Hideki calls, sounding casual as ever.

Satoru grits his teeth, hesitating, but continues on, leaving the dressing room behind. He pulls his suit jacket on as if that would protect him from the wandering eyes of the lingering staff, holding it tight around himself as he trudges out through the backstage and towards the parking lot. He knows his mom will be waiting for him by the limo, the chauffeur keeping the car warm. He doesn’t bother to button his shirt up all the way, knowing that his mother would unbutton it again just in case any paparazzi snuck a picture on the way home.

It’s only when he’s in the safety of his own room that he strips everything off. He throws the clothes aside for someone else to pick up, scrubbing the makeup off of his face until his skin is red and raw, rinsing his gelled hair in the shower.  He dresses in shapeless clothes, sweatpants and a hoodie, and draws the hood tight up over his head, retreating back to the bathroom. He kneels by the toilet, reaches into his throat, and forces himself to throw up everything Hideki made him swallow. 

When he makes it to his bed, half past midnight, he isn’t hungry anymore.

Notes:

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Chapter 3: april, 2019

Notes:

chapter warnings: referenced child sexual abuse, referenced incest with a minor, implied alcoholism, implied drug use, unwanted touching.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Journalism can never be silent.

That is its greatest virtue,

and its greatest fault.

(Henry Grunwald.)

 

Fourteen.

Honestly, after Satoru Gojo kicks him out of his dressing room and has him escorted off the premises by his security guard, Suguru finds the closest bar that he can reasonably walk to without hailing a cab and he drinks. He drinks and he drinks for hours, until the bar empties and he has nowhere to go but home. He finally takes a cab home, staring out the window aimlessly as if the pavement streets could give him clarity, and when he gets back to his apartment, he opens a bottle of wine and starts drinking that, too. He drinks until the bottle is empty, his mind spinning and hazy, the world unfocused in front of him and teetering like a ship at sea.

He finds himself wandering over to his work bag, fumbling gracelessly through the different compartments until he finds his notebook. He supposes that he’s lucky no one had it confiscated, because in it are all the interesting questions Suguru asked in their interview, and the answers he got in response. His notes start to taper off right around the time he remembers the interview getting interesting, before Satoru let that damning little truth slip free and derail the interview altogether. He didn’t end up writing anything down, too focused on getting to the truth that Satoru was hiding, but in the end… it doesn’t really matter, because in his bag sits his MP3 audio recorder.

He got everything, every word that Satoru said. Numbly, he fishes out the recorder and holds it in his hand, sinking down to the floor onto his ass. He shuffles backwards until he hits the edge of his coffee table, a strange feeling of foreboding making his stomach roil uneasily as he thumbs through to the recording from earlier that day. When he finds the timestamp that most closely matches the time of their interview, he presses play and holds it up to his ear, swallowing uneasily. Everything is like he remembers it… he listens to the sound of his own voice, cringing at his own questions and the pride he felt at the time, rooting out what he thought was his next big expose. 

He should’ve kept his mouth shut. He should’ve just done the interview as scripted. 

“I didn’t need the popularity! I was viral at twelve, I didn’t fucking sleep with any of them until I was fourt-”

So, he didn’t imagine it. What he heard was right—Satoru was going to say fourteen. Feeling nauseous, Suguru drops the recorder into his lap and presses his palms to his eyes, digging in harshly. Fourteen. Fourteen. He still can’t wrap his mind around it, no matter how much he repeats the information to himself. At fourteen years old, Satoru was being taken advantage of by network executives and industry professionals, and if Suguru’s hunch is right, then he had been pushed into that position by his own team and family. When Suguru was fourteen, he won a writing contest and got a $15 gift card for the pizza parlor on the corner. The difference makes him dizzy.

How deep does it go? How many people are involved? He researched Satoru before their interview, as he researched everyone he planned on interviewing, and Satoru’s career is expansive. He’s been in the public spotlight since he was eleven years old and has stayed in it for well over ten years—thirteen, if his math is correct, and there’s no telling how many people he met, how many people he made deals with, how many of them came before or after the timer reached zero on Satoru’s eighteenth birthday. It makes him feel sick. It disgusts him. 

He pulls his laptop out of his bag and into his lap, fingers stumbling over the keys and misspelling words as he opens the internet and starts to dig. He doesn’t know what he’s searching for, but he starts with Satoru’s name and goes from there, poring over every article he can find. He knows there’s a lot of bullshit, and he had to wade through a lot of it to find the information he used for his questions in the interview, but he starts to look deeper now—tangentially, out from Satoru’s sphere of influence and into the shadows around his spotlight. He looks for Satoru’s family; he looks for what Satoru’s family is hiding.

Most of what he finds is what he’s looking for. He finds a lot on Satoru’s mother, his first manager, who stayed involved even after she handed the reins over to Higashi; her appearances, her public addresses, her business moves as she handles Satoru’s label and various properties. He finds a fair bit on Satoru’s father, mostly about the hospital he owns, the research articles he publishes, and the success stories of his patients. All in all, they’re a typical upper-class family, normal and accomplished and well-adjusted to Satoru’s fame. There isn’t much he can find there—Mr. and Mrs. Satoru’s reputations have been, in a manner of speaking, scrubbed free.

The rest of the Gojo family? As far as the internet is concerned, they hardly exist.

He sees mentions of cousins and grandparents, but what he finds are dead-ended scraps that do little more than waste his time. He digs and digs and digs, but he can’t find any more names, any more details, scrolling for hours and hours until something catches his eye—the sex offender registry for the state. Eyes narrowing, he clicks on it. He doesn’t see any name associated with the website’s presence in his search results, but something pushes him to check it out anyway, and over the years, he’s grown to trust that gut feeling.

So, he searches the database using the Gojo last name. His hand hesitates when he hovers over the click pad, eyes glued to that search bar, before finally pressing enter. When it processes, he gets one single result, one name: Shinichi Gojo, and the offense list… it was long.

“Child molestation, sodomy…” he murmurs, expression furrowing with disgust. “Distributing obscene materials to minors…”

It’s the last offense that catches his eye, the one that makes all the dots connect into one sickening picture in his mind. The last charge is perhaps the worst, likely the reason why his name had been buried and the Gojo family had been scrubbed clean… incest with a minor. He knew there were few options for who that applied to, and in this case, he had a feeling that the most likely victim was probably the right victim. He holds a hand to his lips as his stomach starts to rebel, but he can’t stop, he can’t stop looking into it until he gets the answers he needs, because if he compares the year Shinichi was arrested with the year Satoru was born, then…

The year Shinichi was charged and arrested, Satoru was eleven years old.

He barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up everything in his stomach. 


“Alright, Suguru, I’ve never seen you spend this long on an article. What the hell is up?”

Suguru blinks, realizing that he’s been staring at his computer screen for… he looks at the clock at the corner of his screen to see that nearly an hour has passed since he opened the document. Shit, he thinks, raising a hand to comb his hair back and out of his face. What the hell is wrong with me? He closes the document on instinct and looks over his shoulder to see a woman standing behind him—Yuki Tsukumo, his beautiful blonde bombshell of a coworker and currently, the only person he could stand in the whole building. 

“This one is… crazy,” he sighs, rubbing his hands up and over his eyes. “It’s been keeping me up at night for days. I swear, I can only open the doc when I’m so drunk I can’t see straight. Putting the words down is like pulling fingernails.”

“Jeez,” Yuki whistles, crossing her arms. Her expression is sympathetic, but it hardly makes Suguru feel any better; all he can think about is the look on her face if she really knew what he was writing about. Still, he’s grateful for the distraction, and turns away from his desk to face her properly. “But you always write crazy shit, don’t you? How’s this one any different?”

“It’s bad,” he whispers urgently, reluctant to speak any louder for fear of being overheard. “Like, bad bad. Possibly get me fired and blacklisted, bad.”

Yuki’s eyes widen. “Woah, seriously? What’s it about?”

Suguru hesitates to tell her. Sure, on one hand, it would take some of this suffocating stress off of his shoulders to have someone else in on the loop, but on the other hand, to have to subject anyone else to what he knew… to share information that he knows is as sensitive as sensitive information could possibly get… should he? He isn’t doing himself any favors by keeping everything to himself, he knew that much. But still, he truly can’t risk anyone overhearing. He glances around them at the desks of their other coworkers, and though nobody is paying them any attention, he’s still paranoid that someone will overhear. 

“Closet?” Yuki asks, reading the expression on his face. 

Suguru nods. "Closet.”

She reaches out and takes his hand, pulling him up and out of his chair as she leads him out of the office. They carve a path through and out of the office, dodging the bodies of their coworkers and their supervisors as Yuki leads him to the hallway and towards the janitor’s closet. There, she yanks it open, shoves him in, and closes it snugly behind them before twisting the lock. Suguru is sure, at this point, that most of his coworkers assume that they’re fucking when they disappear into the closet like this, but that’s fine. Their boss knows it isn’t true and that’s all that matters. 

“Spill,” Yuki says, leaning against the door. Her arms are crossed, biceps strained against the fabric of her button-up. “What’s got you so messed up?”

“It’s… Satoru Gojo,” he confesses, sighing. 

He leans back against the shelves even if the wood digs painfully into his back because he needs some sort of physical support for the words he has to say. He’s still wondering if he should say them out loud—should he just bury this interview and act as if it never happened? He knows Satoru would probably prefer that if he did. A lot of people would probably prefer it if he did, but Suguru’s job, his purpose in life, demands that he uncover the world’s dirty secrets no matter the cost. People deserve to know the truth and have their voices heard, that’s what he believes, that’s what fuels him, gives him purpose and meaning. 

Then… why does he feel so damn guilty about this?

“Satoru Gojo?” Yuki repeats, brows furrowing. She holds a hand to her chin, going silent for a long moment, after which her eyes widen, and she snaps her fingers. “Oh! That pop singer you were doing the filler piece on, right? What’s the deal? I thought you were just asking about his album and all that dumb shit.”

“I was,” Suguru says. He scrubs his hands over his face, letting them slide down to cover his mouth as he carefully considers his words. “I just… I found more than what I was looking for.”

Yuki makes an ‘oh’ kind of face, returning her arms to their crossed position. “Let me guess, he’s bankrupt? Started his own cryptocurrency? Oh, no, I know—he’s a Scientologist, isn’t he?”

“I wish,” Suguru groans. 

He really, honestly wishes it were that simple and easy, that he could just out Satoru as a terrible person and be done with it, but it isn’t. He can’t make himself say the words no matter how badly he wants to, so instead, he reaches into his pocket and withdraws his phone. He saved copies of the recording to his phone, laptop, work computer, and a couple extra flash drives just in case. He has already gotten two cease and desist letters in the mail since he had last seen Satoru, and he’s not confident that there won’t be any surprise ‘break-ins’ or ‘car robberies’ that just happen to steal all the evidence he has to back up his article. 

He opens the recording and fast forwards it, enough that the sound bite will be able to explain itself. Yuki looks interested as he starts the recording and holds it up, lowering his eyes to the floor. 

“Really? You want to leave me to make my own conclusions? Because I’ve got an interesting set of connected threads here, and maybe you can set the record straight for me. I can assume it wasn’t the money you needed, but maybe the connections?”

“This is you?” Yuki asked silently, mouthing the words as she pointed at him. He nodded silently as the recording continued. 

“Get out, get ou-”

“It’s hard to break into the industry, after all. Your family had no way into the music industry before you, after all. I imagine some record labels and CEOs may have been hard to convince.”

“You don’t know shit. You’re just spouting random shit off to see what sticks!”

“Is it sticking, Mr. Gojo? It seems like it is. So it was for connections, wasn’t it? Or maybe something similar? Charts just weren’t hitting as a child, maybe that left you with a hunger. It’s normal for young people to desire popularity, of co-”

“I didn’t need the popularity! I was viral at twelve, I didn’t fucking sleep with any of them until I was fourt-”

Yuki’s eyes widen almost comically, her mouth falling open, but Suguru lets the recording go on just a moment longer. 

“…fourteen. Is that what you were going to say? Fourteen.”

He ends the recording, his hand falling down to hang at his side as he sighs, exhausted. He’s played the recording for himself over and over again, but no matter how many times he hears it, it still doesn’t get any easier. He can see his own disgust and horror reflected in Yuki’s eyes as she holds her hand over her mouth, the silence between them heavy and thick with words left unspoken. In their line of work, they’ve seen some pretty awful things, and met some pretty awful people, but this… this takes the cake, for Suguru, at least. He thinks that maybe it’s a good thing that they haven’t grown numb and desensitized to it all, but in times like these, he almost wishes he was. 

“He had me escorted off shortly after that,” he says quietly. “I’ve gotten two C&Ds in the mail. This unregistered number keeps calling my phone every hour, and I swear, there’s a van that’s been parked outside of my apartment complex since the interview. All I have is a hunch, but the way he’s reacting-”

“-he has something to hide,” Yuki finishes, following his thoughts. He nods silently and she sighs, rubbing her mouth. “You have a confession, too. That’s gotta have him panicking.”

“It gets worse,” Suguru says despairingly. “I thought I had it all figured out, I mean, he went into the hypersexualized persona practically the moment he turned eighteen. I thought, ‘yeah, his parents likely pushed him into it to turn a profit, but that’s the worst of it’. I was wrong. Really, really wrong. Yeah, this has been happening since he was fourteen, but Yuki… I think it goes further back than that.”

Yuki winces. “Further back than fourteen?”

“Yeah. I researched his family before I went into the interview, but after I left, I had a hunch that I wasn’t seeing the full picture. I mean, I saw everything about his parents, right? They’re public figures in the state, but their record is clean. Abnormally clean. There’s barely anything on any other family members, too. There’s a couple of grandparents, but no cousins, no aunts and uncles, no extended relatives, and with these rich families-”

“-there’s always extended family.”

“Right!” Suguru says. “But with them? Nothing. All I found was one relative outside the main family, and it’s Satoru’s uncle, but guess where I found him?” Yuki makes a face like she doesn’t want to know the answer, and honestly, Suguru wishes he didn’t know the answer, either, but it’s important. It’s the piece that starts the whole story—as far as Suguru is hypothesizing. “The sex offender registry. He’s been serving time for fourteen years, and here’s the headline: he was charged with incest with a minor, Yuki.”

“Holy shit,” Yuki whispers, stunned. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he confirms, wishing it weren’t true. “It’s insane. I have no idea how deep this goes, or who all is involved, or how long this has really been going on.”

“Do you have any witnesses?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

“I haven’t even started networking,” Suguru confesses. “I can’t even wrap my mind around what this really is. He’s not a minor star, Yuki, he’s one of the biggest faces of the music industry, how did nobody blow any whistles?”

“Something this big? I’m sure they did,” Yuki says, and Suguru starts to catch on to what she’s insinuating.

“They were probably just buried,” Suguru realizes. She’s right, there’s always a whistleblower. It’s just a matter of who they are, where they are, and how to get them to talk. “I can try to reach out to some of my contacts, see if anyone has heard anything…”

Yuki nods, her expression deadly serious as she talks. “You need to watch your back too, Suguru. He’s already on your tail, who knows how much he’ll escalate?”

“I’ve never taken on a case this big,” he says miserably. “Yuki, this is so out of my league. How am I going to do this?”

“The same way you always do,” Yuki tells him. “You keep this tight, watch your back, and get to your sources before they can. You can’t chicken out on this now, Suguru, who else is going to put the truth out there?”

“I know. God, I know,” he says, sighing heavily. 

He has handled some big-name cases, exposed some secrets that people probably wanted to take his head for, but that was all local issues, all on the public and political level. Technically speaking, he didn’t expose anything that wasn’t already public knowledge—he just put it in language that the common people could understand, but this? This is totally different. He doesn’t handle cases this big. Hell, he doesn’t handle the entertainment industry period . He doesn’t have any real strategy or any idea of what he’s doing, and even if he did, this… this is different. A crime is a crime, he knows that, but sex crimes are worlds apart from what he handles.

Is it really right for him to expose this? Is he doing the right thing by pushing for the truth?

He has no idea, and something tells him that he won’t know until it’s too late.

He barely manages to make any progress on his article that day. He wastes his time with smaller stories, easier and shorter articles that he can zone out on while he writes, but inevitably, his mind ends up wandering back to the Satoru Gojo case. He finds himself re-reading the sex offender registry over and over again, when he’s not listening to the tape recording just to confirm to himself that yes, this all is really happening. He manages to finish a week’s worth of work in one day just avoiding the article, but for the last hour of his scheduled time, he finds himself just staring at a blank screen, watching the cursor blink and blink and blink. 

And then, he’s called into his boss’ office.

Confused, he looks across the floor to make eye contact with Yuki, who looks just as confused as he feels. Suguru is rarely, if ever, called into Yaga’s office; most people aren’t, unless they’ve really fucked up. Every floor in their organization has a supervisor, and they’re the ones to typically facilitate conversation between Yaga and everyone who works for him. Suguru can honestly count on one hand the number of times that he’s spoken to Yaga, including his onboarding interview.

Feeling nervousness twisting in his stomach, he stands from his desk and follows after his supervisor, panicking as he tries to think over everything he’s done in the past six months. He’s a good journalist, a damn good one, and that’s the reason why he’s on the same team as many other senior level journalists like Yuki despite being a good few years younger than them. He does good work, he behaves himself (when he has to), and with the bombshells he’s been publishing recently, he’s been told that he’s catching people’s eyes in a major way. Surely he’s not getting fired, or demoted, right? He hasn’t done anything to warrant it. 

His supervisor leaves him at the door, and as he enters quietly, his palms are sweating. He quickly wipes them off on his slacks as he closes the door behind himself, before turning around, facing Yaga’s expansive office. The space is surrounded by open windows on two sides, floor to ceiling, and there’s little else in the room other than Yaga’s desk. He’s sitting there, eyes on his screen as he types, so Suguru silently approaches and seats himself in one of the chairs facing Yaga, waiting to be addressed. The man himself is kind, of course, and fair, but there are very, very few reasons for someone to be sitting where Suguru is and most of them are not good.

“Suguru,” Yaga says in greeting, to which Suguru nods and smiles, waiting uneasily as Yaga finishes up whatever he’s typing. With a sigh, he rubs his eyes before looking at Suguru, his expression serious and unreadable. Without another word, he reaches up to take hold of his computer monitor, twisting the screen around to face him. Suguru registers the sight of an email inbox, but it’s as he starts to read it closer that he realizes what all of these emails are saying. Much of it is his name or in reference to it, all saying the approximate closest bureaucratic translation of ‘muzzle your fucking dog’ that Suguru can imagine. “Do you want to explain to me why I’ve been having to put out fires for you all day?”

Suguru winces. That’s not a happy tone, appropriate for a matter that isn’t exactly happy, either. “I’m sorry, I swear there’s a good explanation for it.”

“Does it have something to do with the piece you were assigned to, with Satoru Gojo?” Yaga asks, raising an eyebrow. Feeling more than a little chastised by Yaga’s exasperated tone, Suguru only nods, deciding that maybe it would be wise to keep his mouth shut for now. At his nod, Yaga sighs once more, reaching a hand up to pinch his nose. “Suguru, I like you. I do. I knew from the moment I hired you, you would do good work, and you’d raise hell. You know I like the hell-raising, but it’s not enough to keep the lights on. This should have been explained to you…”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Suguru says again, guilt starting to creep up on him as he tucks his hands between his legs. “It was, and I do understand, and I promise, I really was going to do the interview as scripted, but-”

“I understand that he’s obnoxious,” Yaga says, leaning back in his chair, “but you’ve never had an issue keeping a clear head before.”

“-there’s more to it than this,” Suguru finishes, his voice growing more insistent. He knows that Yaga will understand if he can just finish explaining it all… “I mean, we know these people. They only panic this badly if they know that we have something big on them, right?”

“Do we have something big on him?” Yaga asks, his expression all-suffering.

Suguru doesn’t explain it out loud—he doesn’t even know where he would begin to start if he tried to. Instead, he just pulls out his phone and finds the recording, turning the volume of his phone all the way up before playing the recording over again, the same one that he had played for Yuki. It’s not any easier to hear, and it grows every time he plays it, because he practically has the words of their conversation memorized by now; he could recite it word-for-word even without the recording, but he doesn’t think he could be able to mimic that same shock he had felt in the moment, hearing Satoru’s confession.

“Jesus Christ,” Yaga says the moment that the recording ends. He leans his head into his hands, rubbing his palms along his face as he goes very, very quiet. When he pulls his hands away, he doesn’t look at Suguru, just staring off into space—Suguru bets he’s probably processing, something that took him hours to do himself. His voice is very quiet when he finally speaks. “And you have back-up copies of that?”

“Multiple,” Suguru murmurs. “At home, here, and in other places.”

“Jesus Christ,” Yaga says again. Emphatically this time, like he’s venting his own feelings through those two words. “Do we have names for these… these people?”

“Not yet,” Suguru confesses. “I haven’t even really started writing the article, or contacting any sources, but he’s been hounding me from the moment I stepped out of that interview. Whatever it is, it’s big, and I swear, that’s why he’s on our backs so hard. They want to keep this hidden.”

Yaga scoffs. “Yeah, no kidding. I can imagine why. This…”

Suguru gets what he’s trying to say, even if he doesn’t say the words out loud. It’s the kind of thing that just starts to feel worse and worse the longer that it processes, the longer that you think about it and start to connect the dots, the longer that you see the what and start to wonder how long? “It’s bad. Really bad. I mean… when you put it all together…”

“It’s an ugly picture,” Yaga agrees. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair as he regards Suguru with unreadable eyes. His expression, if Suguru had to guess, looked akin to calculating. “And it could get ugly for us, if we move forward with this. We’ve never taken on something of this caliber.”

“I’m still not even sure if I want to keep pursuing this,” Suguru says. He lowers his eyes, looking instead at his folded palms in his lap; he picks at the skin around his nails, unable to get rid of the uneasy feeling he gets every time he thinks about this case. “I’m not afraid of… putting the truth out there. You know I’m not, but… is it really responsible for us to put this out there? This has been going on for years, and I get the feeling that it- that it goes a lot deeper than what I can see right now. How many people have been hiding this? How did they keep it hidden? I don’t even know who is involved.”

“I understand,” Yaga says, nodding slowly. His shock from before has faded, disappearing beneath a mask of cool neutrality. He holds a hand to his chin. “But, on the other hand… it would be irresponsible not to think about the consequences of not sharing what we know. There may be more victims than just him, after all.”

“You think there could be?” Suguru asks, wincing. Sure, he knows that there are any number of children being sexually abused at a given time, and he knows that there are dozens undiscovered for every one child saved, but he wants to believe that in such a public sphere—on the silver screen, for Christ’s sake—it wouldn’t be possible. Surely someone had to have seen, surely someone had to have said something, but… if even the biggest pop star of the decade can be swept under the rug, how many others could there be? Other stars, other children, ones without Satoru’s fame or connections or wealth. “...fuck.”

“We know well now that law enforcement can be paid off. You could submit what you know to a tip line, but there’s no guarantee that any justice will be served,” Yaga points out. It’s true, Suguru knows intimately how deep corruption can worm its way into organizations that are supposed to be for the people, of the people. “Something like this will get attention. We can use that to our advantage, if we play our cards right.”

Suguru looks up at him, unable to help the vulnerability he feels. “...you think I should move ahead with it?”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Yaga says, giving a little rueful shrug. “Unless you can convince Satoru to come forward himself.”

“Do you think he’d even be willing to do that?” Suguru asks, eyebrows furrowing. “I mean, he was still denying that he said anything, and he seems pretty determined to bury it now.”

“We give him the same choice we give everyone,” Yaga says simply. “We give him a chance to give a comment, but ultimately… we have to do our job. You don’t have to write this article, Suguru, but someone needs to say something. That can be us, or him. He gets to choose.”

“You’re right,” Suguru murmurs, looking back down at his folded hands. The weight of indecision still sits heavily on his shoulders, no matter how he tries to make himself choose what to do. There are as many reasons to write the article as there are reasons not to, and for once, Suguru… doesn’t really know what to do. He doesn’t know what the right choice is. Once again, he’s left with the distinct feeling that he won’t know until after he’s made his decision. Biting his lip, he looks back up at Yaga and asks, “Can I take the weekend to think about it?”

Yaga nods. He reaches down to his desk, pulling open his drawer and withdrawing a white card that he pushes across the surface of the desk towards Suguru. “This is my number. Let me know Sunday morning what your choice is, and I’ll start pulling some strings, alright?”

Suguru nods in acknowledgement as he takes the card, tucking it carefully into his messenger bag. By the time their conversation ends, it’s past his contract hours, so he’s left with little else to do other than head home and sleep on it. Yuki is already gone for the day, as are the rest of his coworkers; the office is quiet and empty as he walks through it, his eyes blurring with the litany of thoughts racing through his brain. They plague him on his commute home, the sound of the recording playing in his ears as he sits on the subway, surrounded by the thick throng of commuters also heading home for the day. 

As he sits between them, he gets the familiar feeling that he always gets when he starts digging into coverups: the feeling of, ‘ How does nobody else know this is happening?’ Before, that thought used to fill him with a righteous fire, the kind that only motivated him to find the truth and expose it to the world, but this time, it makes him feel cold. All of these people, all of these humans, and not a single one of them has noticed that the biggest name in music is being exploited and abused. Every eye in the modern world is on Satoru Gojo, but none of them—including himself—have picked up on what strings are being pulled behind the curtain, and that thought unsettles him.

If Satoru can be swept under the rug, then what does that say about the fate of other victims?

He drinks again that night, making his way through an entire large bottle of wine as he stares at his laptop and makes no more progress than before. Every time he starts, the words evade him, and he starts to wonder if it's a sign. Maybe he isn’t meant to write this article; maybe no one is. Honestly, what gives him the right to expose the sexual abuse, the rape, the exploitation of someone for the whole world to see? What right does he have to nose into Satoru’s history, to track down his uncle, to sift through his employers and wonder how many of them raped Satoru? What right does he have to wonder which ones Satoru was of age for, and which ones he wasn’t? What right does he have to look into secrets that Satoru clearly wants hidden?

He doesn’t have that right. He can’t even comprehend it; he can’t comprehend the abuse, the pure extent of it, much less how he would feel if some reporter dragged it into the media circus for everyone to gawk at. He’s torn between two options in a way that he never has been before. The right thing to do has always been very clear to him—if injustice exists, he’s going to root it out and drag it into the daylight. He won’t allow the people to go uninformed. He won’t allow those in power to sneak around beneath the noses of the good people of the country. He won’t allow abuse and misinformation to go unpunished.

Now, the right thing to do isn’t so clear to him. Maybe, if the consequences weren’t so dire, it wouldn’t matter, but right now, he holds the life of one man in his hands, and he knows that he can save it or ruin it with the press of a button. The problem is: the button that will save Satoru, or ruin him, looks exactly the same. It’s a fifty-fifty chance. He could avoid it altogether if he just let the article die, if he destroyed his recordings, but who would that be helping in the end? Satoru, or those who abused him?

He doesn’t know the answer to that question.

He does spend the entirety of Friday afternoon into Saturday looking for the answer at the bottom of every bottle he can get his hands onto, though. He spends his Saturday morning in bed, nursing a mimosa and staring at his document, until Yuki comes around about midday to drag him into bed and force him into the shower. He’s not really up for doing anything, not when the decision he needs to make is looming over his head, but she doesn’t take no for an answer; she takes him out to dinner, where they meet up with her fiancé, Choso, before she manages to convince them all into going out dancing for the night. Admittedly, getting his mind off of things… it helps.

For a few hours that night, he can just be a normal person, getting drunk on a Saturday night and enjoying his weekend. He dances with Yuki and Choso, he dances with strangers, he dances with a drink in his hand, or a body against his, or someone’s hands around his waist, and he tries to put everything else away. Satoru, the article, the industry—for a few hours, he just forgets about it all.

He stumbles home off of the subway sometime around four the next morning, his veins buzzing with the burn of alcohol. The cold hardly even bothers him. All he can think about is putting one foot in front of the other, not throwing up, and making it at least to his front door before he finally collapses. That ends up taking up most of his attention and concentration, so he would like to think that he can be forgiven for not noticing that the van on the street is finally gone. A BMW is parked there instead, not that he notices, nor does he notice the figure leaned against it. He’s busy fishing his keys out of his pocket, trying to find the right one to get his door unlocked and his body into the warmth of his apartment.

That is, until he hears shoes scuffing across the pavement, and he startles. His keys fall to his feet, and he leans down to pick them up with a curse, nearly losing his balance. He supposes it’s not entirely irrational for other people to be out and about at this hour. Most of the clubs and bars are already closed, so there’s probably a number of young people like himself making their way home for the night.

Then, a familiar voice calls, “Suguru Geto.”

The use of his full name, admittedly, startles him again, but he manages not to drop his keys this time. Instead, he steadies himself with a hand on the railing of the stairs, managing to turn around with narrowed eyes and a fair amount of nausea that thankfully fades when he stills. He manages to make out the sight of someone standing at the base of the stairs, just a few feet away from him, but their face—and everything identifiable about them, really—has been hidden beneath a dark hood. All he can really make out is pale skin and blue eyes that are apparently not very happy to see him. Suguru squints further at the guy. Does he know this man?

Like a slap to the back of the head, recognition hits him. He’s less surprised that Satoru Gojo himself is at his apartment, and more surprised that it took this long for him to make an appearance.

“You’ve been avoiding my calls,” Satoru says, accusatory.

“Calls?” Suguru repeats, because he’s drunk, he’s so drunk, and his brain is not working nearly as fast as his mouth evidently is. “Or threats?”

Satoru scoffs, his eyes narrowing and nose wrinkling. He honestly doesn’t look great; he looks like shit, if Suguru were allowed to say anything about anyone else looking like shit. His hands, though tucked into his hoodie, can’t hide his shivering in the cold air, and his eyes are visibly bloodshot even in the poor lighting of Suguru’s apartment. He’s willing to bet money that Satoru is strung out on something, but what drug exactly, he has no idea. “Don’t be a bitch. You know what I’m talking about.”

“I do,” Suguru says. There’s no point in acting like he doesn’t know that Satoru has been trying to get in contact with him, or why. They both know it. “What about it?”

“I’m giving you one last chance to drop this shit,” Satoru says. It’s clearly meant to be a threat, and Suguru is aware of that; he’s also aware that Satoru’s voice is uneven, that he’s itching his wrist every few moments, that his eyes are strained, and that he’s awake at four in the morning. None of those signs, unfortunately, point to a man who’s in control of a situation. Suguru is aware of that, too. “Or do I really have to take you to court and wring every goddamn penny out of you and your whole network?”

“What will you sue me for?” Suguru asks. Realistically, he knows he shouldn’t even be giving Satoru any attention right now; this, right here, is all the evidence he needs that he’s in no danger, and that he has the upper hand in this battle of wills, actually. He should just go inside and go to bed because he’s really, really drunk, it’s late, and he’s pretty sure that he’s about one sharp head turn away from throwing up, but… something keeps him in place. Maybe, in his heart, he’s hoping that Satoru will make his decision for him, the decision that he can’t make himself. “You don’t have anything unless I post the article.”

“Don’t act like I can’t dig something up,” Satoru hisses, his voice snapping like a whip-crack as his patience boils up. It’s only more confirmation to Suguru that Satoru has no metaphorical legs to stand on right now. “I’m serious. Drop it. Now. Final warning.”

Suguru doesn’t answer that. Instead, something else comes bubbling out of his mouth, words coming out before he can really stop or think about them. “You know, when my targets come to threaten me themselves, that usually lets me know that I’m headed in the right direction. I mean, why come here yourself? Why track me down just to threaten me?”

Satoru’s eyes narrow. “I don’t need to come here to threaten you.”

“You’re right. You don’t,” Suguru agrees. “So why, huh? Why come here? I know why they do. I know it’s because I have them right where they don’t want to be, and they can’t sleep at night without knowing for sure that they’ve shut me up. They can’t help themselves. They’re so paranoid that they can’t trust anyone else. They need to threaten me to my face to get their sense of security back.”

“I sleep just fine,” Satoru argues. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“You don’t. You’re not sleeping at all. It’s fine, I’m not either,” Suguru says, quietly. “I can admit it. Can you?”

Satoru’s jaw visibly clenches. His irritation is visibly rising, and perhaps if Suguru were more sober, he’d be paying more attention to it. “Admit what?”

“Anything,” Suguru says, shrugging. “Or are you still going to try to sell me the ‘I said eighteen’ bit again?”

“Because I did say that,” Satoru snaps. “For the millionth time, you heard me wrong. There’s no goddamn story, because you’ve got it all wrong.”

Suguru’s head cocks to the side. It’s strange, watching Satoru still try to deny all of this, as if Suguru hasn’t played the recording to himself so many times that he hears it in his sleep. He knows what he heard, what the recorder caught, and he’d like to think that Satoru knows that, too, but the indignation he sees in Satoru’s eyes isn’t like the kind he sees in most of the people he exposes. He’s more than used to those who lie, who act like they believe in their lies, but he can usually see it in their eyes when they’re bullshitting. They can’t quite sell it; it’s hard to commit to a bit that you know isn’t true, after all.

He sees none of that in Satoru’s eyes, however. What has happened to Satoru is wrong, on so many levels. What Suguru is starting to wonder is if Satoru knows that, too.

“You know, even if you were eighteen,” he says slowly, carefully, “it’s still wrong. It’s still exploitation. It’s an abuse of power on… so many levels.”

“It wasn’t.” Satoru’s words are sharp, bit out between clenched teeth. “I wanted it.”

“Did you?” Suguru asks.

Without hesitating, Satoru says, “I did.”

“Even what happened with your uncle?” The moment the words leave his lips, he can see it hit Satoru. His pale face manages to turn even paler, his blue eyes widening impossibly further in the light. Suguru doesn’t rush to fill the silence with words, even with Satoru’s silence giving him the opportunity to press further. There’s nothing more he needs to add to that, nothing more he could say to get his point across. It’s an ugly truth, an ugly fucking truth, and Suguru just needs to know—he needs to know if, deep down, Satoru knows that, too. 

“That…” Satoru’s words come out uneven. He’s shaken, even if he’s trying to hide that. “That- that kid wasn’t me.”

“It wasn’t?” Suguru asks. He feels almost disappointed. Still, even now, Satoru is denying it all. He just feels… sad. He feels sad for Satoru. He feels sad that one person could be abused for so long, so extensively, that they don’t even register it as abuse anymore. If terrible treatment is all you receive, he supposes that it’s to be expected that terrible treatment would become normal. The person he’s trying to find, the Satoru beneath it all, is hidden beneath the weight of all that’s happened to him, and the Satoru of today is determined to keep it that way. “You really don’t think what happened to you was wrong?”

“Nothing happened,” Satoru says, forcing the words out as if simply saying them aloud will make them true.

“Is that your official comment?” Suguru asks.

Satoru’s jaw abruptly snaps shut, and his expression shutters once more. “No comment. No fucking article. Swear to me you’re going to drop this shit.”

“Why?” Suguru asks. He can’t understand it. “We can help you. You can come forward, tell your story how you want to.”

“There is no story to tell,” Satoru insists. “I’m being serious. Drop this. What do you want, huh? Clout? Money? Because I can give you that shit. It doesn’t have to go down like this.”

Suguru recoils slightly, admittedly a little caught off guard that Satoru could still think that he was the type that could be bought off. “I don’t want any of that from you.”

“But you do want something, don’t you?” Satoru asks. He starts to scale the steps, one at a time, and Suguru starts to back away only to hit the door of his apartment behind him. “Come on, everyone wants something. Just say it, I won’t judge. I can give you whatever you want, just let the article go, okay?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Suguru says again. Satoru is getting closer, only a foot or so away from him now, but Suguru’s door is still locked and he knows that a quick escape won’t be easy. His hand reaches for the door knob, but just as quickly, Satoru crowds him against the door, batting his hand away from the knob. “Stop-”

“I know you want something,” Satoru says, voice breathless and harried. His eyes are bright, so bright, and his proximity mixed with the sickly sweet smell on his breath and Suguru’s lingering nausea makes him feel sick, uneasy. He pushes Satoru back with a hand to his chest, but the other man just leans right back in, hands grasping his hips. “Come on, everyone wants something. Just tell me. You want me to suck your dick? You want to fuck me? Come on, just say it.”

“Get the hell off of me,” Suguru snaps, trying and failing again to get Satoru away from him. “Stop it, get off me!”

Satoru’s eyes are manic, pupils blown and fingers grasping too tightly. “What, you want me to fuck you instead? I can do that, that’s fine, just- just swear to me, promise me-”

“Get off!” 

Finally, Suguru manages to get his hands between them again, and even if he’s drunk, he still has twenty pounds on Satoru. His next shove pushes the other man back, enough that Suguru can get his key in the door and his hand around the knob again. He retreats into his apartment, his hand tight around Satoru’s hoodie—keeping him back, keeping him away, as Satoru’s hand wraps tight around his wrist. Agitated, he looks back at Satoru, opening his mouth to say something else when he catches sight of the panic underlying Satoru’s expression. It stops him in his tracks, derails his train of thought.

Satoru is afraid. 

Suguru pulls his hand away, skin hot as if he had been burned by Satoru’s touch. He feels… sick, and he knows that it isn’t just because of the alcohol. He feels sick deep in his soul. He feels gross. He’s disgusted with… not himself, not Satoru, but… everything. With whatever had replaced Satoru’s ‘fight or flight’ response with ‘fawn or fuck’.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Suguru says again, loudly, clearly, as if trying to make it clear to both Satoru and himself. He retreats further into his apartment, overcome with the urge to just… get away. To be done with all of this. Satoru is looking at him like Suguru is about to tear everything that matters to Satoru right out of his hands, and Suguru doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t know what to do, or to say, so instead, he retreats. “I just- good night, Satoru. Leave, please.”

Without another word, he closes his door, and locks it quickly. His heart is pounding loud and uneven in his ears, his entire body unsettled; he feels so, so fucking sick, his mouth watering like he’s about to throw up. For a long moment, he just stands there in the dark, staring at his door, hand around the lock of his door and mouth open with his panting. He hears nothing from the other side of the door, not even the sound of breathing. He starts to wonder if he had just imagined this all, if Satoru had never really been here, when he hears a sneaker scuff against the ground. If he strains his ears, he can hear the sound of retreating footsteps, and then, silence.

A car roars to life. It peels away, and after a minute, he can hear nothing else.

It’s silent.

Numbly, he lets go of the door knob and stumbles backwards, walking blindly through the dark in search of his couch. As soon as he finds something couch-shaped, he falls down upon it, sprawling across the cushions in an entirely undignified way. It makes the blood rush to his head, and he has to spend a few minutes focused on resisting the nausea that threatens to make him ruin his carpet. When it finally abates, his phone tells him that it’s rapidly approaching five in the morning. Yaga is expecting his answer in just a few hours…

“Fuck,” he breathes. He drops his phone on his stomach and throws an arm over his eyes, sighing heaving. Part of him can’t even believe that the interaction with Satoru happened in the first place. Not many people try to track him down to his home. Not many people try to sleep with him to get him to drop an article. Not many people would think that sleeping with him would do anything at all, but Satoru did. Satoru thought it would fix something. Satoru thought it would save him.

And to Suguru, that… that’s just fucking unbearable. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what he can do, except…

…except for one thing.

Notes:

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Chapter 4: march, 2010

Notes:

chapter warnings: sexuality crisis/compulsive heterosexuality, dubiously consensual kissing/touching, implied child sexual abuse, implied underage drug use

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

No man really knows about other human

beings. The best he can do is to

suppose that they are like himself.”

(John Steinbeck.)

 

Utahime meets him for the first time when she’s sixteen years old.

To be honest, she’s more than a little bit embarrassed about it initially. For starters, she’ll be turning seventeen soon, and now she is expected to play lovers to this guy who is… freshly fifteen. Barely fifteen. Almost two whole years younger than her, and even if two years aren’t a lot to most people, they’re a lot to her. She feels like she’s being expected to babysit more than date this guy, but her manager was insistent: there was nothing that the country ate up more than two young stars in love. It would be good publicity! It would boost her music! And most importantly, it would give her a rather convenient way in with Noritoshi Kamo, a network executive who was well known to be fond of Satoru Gojo.

So, reluctantly, she agrees to allow her manager to reach out to his—the fact that Satoru’s manager is his own mother, too, makes Utahime feel like she’s babysitting once again. Her own manager, Ms. Futaba, is most definitely not her mother. She’s an industry professional who knows what she’s doing far better than Utahime or her parents, so she trusts the woman. What she doesn’t trust, however, is what feels like an arranged marriage, even if no vows are being exchanged and nothing is being put on paper.

Thankfully, Ms. Futaba arranges for a private first meeting, and she swears up and down that if Utahime really doesn’t like this kid, then they’ll call the whole thing off and act as if it had never happened. That gives Utahime some comfort, as does the fact that they’ll be meeting in Utahime’s studio break room; home base for her, so to speak. It’ll be a quick meeting, just a thirty minute ‘get-to-know-you’, before they both have external obligations that will take them away. Even if it goes terribly, even if she can’t stand the guy’s guts, it will only be thirty minutes, and then she’ll be done. Really, it isn’t all that terrible. She’s making it out to be worse than it actually is. For all she knows, Satoru could be a nice kid.

Ugh. Kid. Right.

Sighing, Utahime pulls her hair over her shoulder, running her fingers through it anxiously as she sits and waits on the couch. Ms. Futaba is in the hallway on a phone call—something about the casting for a kids’ show that Utahime is trying to get on—so she’s alone for now, with little else to keep her company other than her own anxiety. She catches a tangle in the base of her hair and pulls it aside, picking at it with her fingernails as she watches the cracked door of the room. She can barely hear anything over Ms. Futaba’s phone call, but she strains her ears anyway, waiting to hear the telltale signs of someone approaching—footsteps.

She hears Ms. Futaba quickly end the phone call, and nervousness bolts through Utahime again. They’re here, then. The moment of truth. 

“Satomi! So good to see you again,” she hears Ms. Futaba gush in that over-the-top way that she always talks to other people in the industry. “How are you, how is your husband?”

“Busy as always.” Utahime doesn’t recognize this voice, but the sound of it sends shivers down her spine. This woman speaks deeply, measured and calm, like she has her hand on the pulse of the interaction and knows exactly how to control it. Utahime finds herself eavesdropping, even if she knows that she shouldn’t. “Satoru, introduce yourself.”

“Hi, I’m Satoru.” This is a boy’s voice. Utahime instinctively grimaces—he still sounds pre-pubescent, and even if he’s laying on the charm, it’s underscored by the immaturity of his voice. She wishes the mother would speak again. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Ms. Futaba says. Her voice is affectionate and fond, which does not bode well for Utahime’s inability to get over his age if Ms. Futaba is already treating him like a child. “Come in, come in, please, I know you two are very busy these days.”

Utahime straightens up immediately, tossing her hair back over her shoulder and dropping her hands into her lap. She puts on the smile that she’s practiced in the mirror hundreds of times, trying not to let her hesitance reach her expression as the door creaks open and two new people walk in. The first of which is an older woman—she must have been the deeper voice from earlier—with long, blown out hair and cool blue eyes. Her expression betrays nothing, but Utahime still feels as if she’s being examined as the woman gives her a quick once-over. Utahime feels her cheeks go a little pink. She hopes the woman is satisfied with what she sees.

This woman must be Satomi. She fits Ms. Futaba’s description: tall, elegant, sharply dressed and effortlessly composed. Satomi gives a minute nod, almost imperceptible, but Utahime doesn’t miss the subtle mark of approval. Flushing a little darker, Utahime smiles again, rising up to stand on her feet.

“Hi,” she says, internally ecstatic that her voice stays smooth and even. She reaches a handout to shake Satomi’s, and as she does, her mind buzzes with thoughts of how soft Satomi’s hand is, how manicured her nails are, how firm her grip is. This is a woman, no doubt about it. “I’m Utahime Iori, it’s really nice to meet you.”

“Utahime,” Satomi repeats, as if testing it out. Another shiver runs down Utahime’s spine. “My name is Satomi, and this is my son, Satoru.”

“Hi,” comes that squeaky boy’s voice again. Utahime’s eyebrow twitches. Almost annoyed, she reluctantly lets Satomi’s hand go and looks over to the side, where a young boy stands next to his mother. He has her same hair and eyes, but his smile is entirely boyish, face littered with the evidence of youth and inexperience. He holds his hand out, and Utahime realizes belatedly that she’s supposed to shake it. Unlike his mother’s, his hands are a little dry, and his grip is too loose. Utahime is already disappointed. “I’m Satoru. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met.”

“...thanks,” Utahime says, unable to pin down why exactly that compliment means so little to her. 

Still, she wasn’t raised to be rude, so she smiles at him as she withdraws her hand. Is she supposed to compliment him back? It feels weird to do something like that. Isn’t he too young for her? What can she even call him? Surely not ‘handsome’, that’s a word meant for men twice his age, yet she can’t call him ‘cute’ either. That would be too infantilizing. In the time it takes for Utahime to figure out what she’s going to say, however, Ms. Futaba has none-too-subtly whisked Satomi away, giving her a thumbs up behind the woman’s back. Utahime tries to smile but it really feels more like a grimace. Now, she and Satoru are alone.

“Do you want to sit?” she asks, because that feels like the right thing to say in this situation.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

She leads him over to the couch and thankfully manages to get back into the spot she had been sitting in earlier. The warmth of the cushions beneath her makes her a little bit more comfortable, though she doesn’t think she could truly relax with this stranger sitting next to her. He sits with one leg up on the couch, like maybe he’d been shooting for criss-cross before he realized how silly it would have looked, and ended up with a half-abandoned version of it. He just seems so… awkward, riddled with misplaced charm and poor timing. It reminds her of the boys in middle school who learned to flirt from their mother’s romance movies, but couldn’t quite pull off the charisma or allure needed to really sell the act. Except, that awkwardness seemed to extend, diffusing into every aspect of his personality. 

“So,” he says, just as she opens her mouth to speak. She closes it instead, waiting patiently for whatever he’s about to say as he gives her an apologetic look for interrupting. “Have you, um, done anything like this before?”

“What, dating?” she asks, and he nods in agreement. Sighing softly, she draws her hair back over her shoulder and starts to run her fingers through it again. Just twenty-seven minutes to go, as the clock says. “Well, this fake-dating, no, I haven’t, but I’ve had boyfriends in school before.”

“In school?” he asks, his eyes widening a little as she nods. “Oh, that’s cool. Like, public school? I never went to that, my mom and my tutors taught me. You’re not in it anymore?”

Great. Not only is he a kid, he’s a spoiled rich kid, too. Private tutors. Utahime nearly scoffs, but keeps her polite smile on her lips instead. “Mhm, I was in a public school until I debuted. Now I take classes online to keep up while I’m touring.”

“Was it fun?” Satoru asks. He seems almost wistful as he says, “I bet you had a lot of friends, too. There’s a bunch of people in public schools.”

“Um… sure,” Utahime says. Typical of a home-schooled kid to think public schools were such fun. Utahime had to wonder if he would still be so excited if he knew about the cliques, the bullies, the pressure for grades, or being stuffed into classrooms full of too many kids for teachers to keep up with. Education had gotten so much easier for her the moment that she could take classes online—no longer did she have to suffer through loud classrooms, crappy cafeteria food, fights in the hallways, or code red drills. Private schooling was a league above. It would be even nicer if more people could do it, too. “But public school isn’t all fun, you know.”

“More fun than tutors,” Satoru says, flashing that boyish grin, and he keeps talking before Utahime can really argue otherwise. How chatty, she thinks, feeling a little judgmental. “Do you have a favorite subject? What is it?”

Utahime wonders if he actually cares, or if he’s just asking to hear himself speak. He’s got the self-centeredness of a spoiled rich kid, that’s for sure. “…I like history.”

“Yeah? History’s cool. It’s kinda boring though, isn’t it?” Satoru says. Utahime’s eye twitches, though he doesn’t seem to notice that. “I like astrophysics the most so far. Did you know that the universe is constantly expanding at an accelerating rate? A lot of people think that galaxies in space are just moving away from each other, but space is actually being created between these galaxies. What’s really cool is that this acceleration is driven by dark energy, but we still don’t even really know what dark energy is even though it makes up about 68% of the universe.”

“Oh,” Utahime says. What…?

“Like, how is it that dark energy and dark matter make up 95% of the universe and we don’t even know what they are?” Satoru continues to ramble, like he doesn’t even know or care that Utahime finds all of this to be utterly incomprehensible. “We know that dark energy exerts negative pressure opposite to gravity, and it works into Einstein’s cosmological constant, but is it a new field? Is it vacuum energy? Or is our understanding of general relativity flawed?”

Utahime glances at the clock. Eleven minutes left… “Uh-huh.”

“And speaking of gravity, why is it so weak compared to other fundamental forces? Like, I’ve seen a theory that says-”

“Satoru.” Utahime has to fight hard not to sigh in relief when she hears Satomi’s voice cut through Satoru’s rambling, thankfully shutting him up as she peeks her head back into the room. Her eyes are on her phone as she taps something into it, a furrow marring the skin between her eyebrows. “Time to wrap it up. There’s been a crash on the interstate, we need to leave soon if we’re going to stay on schedule. Come on, say your goodbyes.”

“Oh, okay,” Satoru says, sounding almost put out. Utahime nearly snorts at how disappointed he sounds—is he really that sad to lose his captive audience? Satomi leans back out of the door, letting it close behind her, and the moment that it does, Satoru turns his attention back onto Utahime. “Sorry, maybe next time you can tell me about history, or something.”

“Sure,” Utahime says, feeling rather unimpressed. It’s true that Satoru could have been much worse—at least he isn’t mean, just oblivious and rude—but Utahime still wishes she could have been paired up with someone cuter, or more charming. If Satoru had inherited more of his mom’s personality, maybe Utahime would like him more. As it stands, he isn’t the worst. Not good, not bad, just okay. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Satoru.”

“You too,” Satoru says, flashing that grin again. 

Utahime looks away, preparing to get up and walk him to the door like a good host, when she sees movement out of the corner of her eye. A little surprised, she looks back at him just as he leans in and presses his lips to hers in the quickest and briefest of pecks. Utahime’s eyes snap open, shock flooding through her as she realizes that, yes, Satoru just kissed her. He just kissed her. Satoru just kissed her. … what the hell?

“What was that?” she asks, frozen in place. She can still feel the faintest imprint of his lips, her cheeks starting to flood with color. He seriously just kissed her?

“That was a kiss,” Satoru says matter-of-factly, eyebrow raised like, somehow, she’s the weird one here for even asking. 

Still stunned, she asks, “…why did you kiss me?”

“Because we’re dating now?” Satoru says, eyebrow raising further. “That’s what boyfriend and girlfriend do. What, was that your first kiss?”

Utahime doesn’t answer that. Her cheeks warm further, because it’s the truth—that was her first kiss, and Satoru just took it without a care in the world. Shouldn’t there have been more build up? Shouldn’t they have had more dates? Shouldn’t it feel magical and wonderful and exciting, like fireworks? All she feels is… embarrassed, mostly, because yes, that was her first kiss, and yes, she just lost her first kiss to a boy almost two years younger than her, and said boy is starting to snicker about it. 

“That was, wasn’t it?” he asks. His white teeth flash as he grins, eyes twinkling with amusement. “I thought you said you dated guys before? Aren’t you sixteen?”

Utahime’s eyes widen, and then abruptly, they narrow. Oh, he thinks he’s really funny, doesn’t he? “I never kissed anyone before! Be more gentlemanly!”

“Sorry,” he snickers, though he hardly sounds apologetic. He does get up just as she raises her hand to smack his arm, dancing out of the way of her palm as he retreats and grins further. “I’ll give you a warning next time. See ya!”

Utahime is left flustered and annoyed sitting on the couch, buzzing with the restless energy left behind with her when Satoru leaves with his mom. Her annoyance with Satoru has only redoubled—not only is he rude and oblivious, he’s a total scoundrel, too. Who cares if she’s sixteen and hasn’t had her first kiss until now? That’s normal! What’s not normal is that some fifteen-year-old has, presumably, had his first kiss before her! What kind of person is he to be so comfortable just kissing girls like that? She bets that she isn’t even the first girl he’s dated. A rude, oblivious, scoundrel of a player. 

And now she’s ‘dating’ him. Ugh!

“So,” Ms. Futaba says, her eyes sparkling with mirth as she rejoins Utahime in the break room. “How was it?”

“I hate him,” Utahime is quick to say. She doesn’t bother to hide an ounce of how much Satoru has annoyed her, and takes great joy in telling Ms. Futaba about it. “He’s chatty, and annoying, and rude!”

“Is that so?” Ms. Futaba asks. She sounds amused to hear that, though Utahime can’t comprehend why; what about Satoru being the most annoying boy she’s ever met is so funny? “So, I should tell Satomi that it’s a no go, then?”

Utahime wants to say yes initially, but something makes her hesitate. It’s true that she finds him unbearable and annoying, particularly that childish, playful attitude, but she also knows that there’s a reason why she met him in the first place. Ms. Futaba, even if she seems crazy or weird in the moment, always knows what she’s doing, and it’s been because of her that Utahime is going from small roles on kids' commercials to a more serious career as an actress and performer. If she thinks it’s a good idea to attach Utahime professionally to Satoru, isn’t there a good reason for it?

“Is it really important that I date him?” Utahime asks, chewing at the inside of her lip. She’s trying to be smart and mature about this, even if it’s hard. 

“It’s not the end of the world,” Ms. Futaba tells her, smiling, “but it would be good publicity for you, yes, and it might grease the wheels for you to make your way up into a more serious career if that’s what you want.”

“Okay,” Utahime says reluctantly. She weighs these two realities in her mind, trying to decide whether or not Satoru’s attitude is something she can put up with for the sake of her career. It isn’t fair, because she shouldn’t even have to do something like this just for a job, but the truth is that she’s a newcomer, and Satoru is more established—at least, from what Ms. Futaba has told her. He’s already been in the industry for a few years. That’s longer than her, so maybe there’s some merit to this, if she can get past how annoying he is. “…ugh. Okay, fine. But I can still break up with him if I need to, right?”

Ms. Futaba snickers. “Yes, of course you can. Something tells me you won’t want to, though.”

“What? Why not?” Utahime demands. Of course she might want to! What if Satoru grows up and just gets more annoying? 

“Woman’s intuition,” Ms. Futaba says in her sing-sing voice. 

Utahime hates it when she says things like that, because it always makes her feel like Ms. Futaba knows something that she doesn’t. It’s not like it even matters here anyway. Utahime does not like Satoru, no matter what anyone says, and there’s no chance she’ll ever have real feelings for him. This is just a fake relationship, a publicity stunt, and she’ll break it off with him the moment that she finds a guy that she really likes. 

She’s sure of it. 


Satoru, all things considered, is probably not the worst boyfriend to ever exist. He certainly plays the part well when they go public, and suddenly there are thousands of people poking their noses into their new ‘relationship’. The media wants to know who she is, what she does, how she met Satoru, what she thinks of him, what she likes most about him, if they’re ever going to collaborate, what shows they’ll be on, if they’ll tour together—on and on and on, like a fast-flowing river with no end in sight. Satoru weathers the current easily, as could be expected of someone who had already spent a few years in the public spotlight, and Utahime feels like he’s the life raft that she’s clinging to so she isn’t swept out to sea.

It’s something that gets easier with time, not because the tide goes out, but because Utahime slowly gets better at weathering it. She starts to learn that no, she doesn’t have to answer the questions of every reporter, and no, she doesn’t have to take every interview that they beg her for, and no, she doesn’t have to give any explicit details about her relationship with Satoru to anyone unless she wants to. Not that there really are any explicit details to be given in the first place; besides their short and sparing ‘dates’ every few weeks, nothing really develops between her and Satoru. They’re both busy, and when they do get together, Satoru’s either talking her ear off, or they’re both complaining about the ferocity of media speculation. 

There’s a day where cheating rumors start spreading around based on a photo that someone took of Utahime going out to dinner with some mysterious older man. Utahime’s father, for one, is very surprised to hear the news that he’s apparently dating his own daughter. The absurdity of it absolutely blows Utahime’s mind, sometimes.

But as the months drag on, the media storm starts to die down, and Utahime and Satoru go from the ‘next hottest thing’ to a ‘more established thing’, with little abnormal attention other than when they attend premieres or concerts together. Satoru plays the part of the charming flirt, always offering her his jacket, holding the door open for her, keeping an arm around her waist, and kissing her cheek in front of the cameras, but for some reason, it only mildly amuses Utahime at best, and annoys her at worst. She can’t see what Satoru’s millions of screaming teenage fans see in him. She certainly doesn’t feel the butterflies when he kisses her, or when he does nice things for her, not like everyone else seems to when they’re dating someone.

Maybe, though, that’s because she knows that in private, he’s an oblivious, rude dork who can only seem to find interest in talking about things like Zeno’s Paradoxes and the Pauli Exclusion Principle. Whatever the hell that is.

With the media taking a step back, Utahime finally has some time to breathe, and she and Satoru find themselves with more opportunities to actually get to know each other. He’s still busy, of course, but Ms. Futaba is better able to work around his schedule now, so they find themselves at each other’s houses more often than before. It’s never anything wild—usually Satoru tries to rope her into playing video games with him, or on the lucky days, they talk about music, and Satoru actually lets her get a word in edgewise—but the more they’re around each other, the handsier Satoru starts to get.

It’s not that bad, at first. Satoru just likes to sit close to her, or with some of their body parts touching while they talk or watch TV. She’s aware of it in the same way that she thinks a frog must be aware that the water it’s in is growing warmer, but she lets it slide. It’s not harmful, after all, and he doesn’t pursue her if she moves away from him, so she can put a stop to it if she wants to without much discussion. 

What’s harder, however, is to tell him that she doesn’t want to kiss him. It’s not like she really has a valid reason. He’s not a bad kisser, if Utahime could be a judge of who was or wasn’t bad at kissing, but Utahime just finds herself… dreading it, because he always seems to want to kiss when they're alone together, and more increasingly as time goes on. Utahime can tolerate it for a few minutes of making out, but after a while, she just gets annoyed and wonders when it’s going to end. Surely Satoru can’t enjoy kissing this much; doesn’t it get boring to him? It sure gets boring to her, and she finds herself making excuses to avoid it whenever she can. 

She just can’t pin down why she doesn’t like it. He’s relatively good looking, he’s a good kisser, and Utahime is more comfortable with him now than she was at the start—even if he still annoys her to no end. She just doesn’t care for it. She’d rather be doing anything else, honestly, than enduring Satoru’s wet tongue in her mouth or his hands squeezing her hips. Is this how every girl feels? Is kissing just something that they have to tolerate? Was every girl just lying about how much they liked it when their boyfriends kissed them? Surely someone had to be exaggerating, because she couldn’t square this with those fireworks-inducing kisses she always saw in movies.

Satoru doesn’t seem to notice her lack of interest. He still wants to kiss every time they hang out, and while the year anniversary of their relationship comes and goes, he just gets even more handsy, more pushy. He wants to kiss her neck, he wants to put his hands under her shirt, he wants her to take her shirt off, and the longer that it goes on, the more uncomfortable Utahime feels. The feeling of his palms on her stomach and around her back make her shiver, but not in a good way. She always just feels vaguely nauseous, and greatly bothered. It isn’t until his hands go for her bra that she finally snaps and shoves him off, her irritation bursting like a popped balloon.

“That’s too much!” she snaps at him, eyes narrowed and cheeks flushed with anger. “I don’t like it when you do stuff like that, Satoru.”

“What? Why?” he asks, bewildered. He’s looking at her like she’s the crazy one. “That’s just the next step, what’s the problem?”

“I liked it better when we were just kissing. No tongue, no hands,” she tells him, even though she didn’t really like it all that much when they were kissing, either. 

“But that’s baby stuff!” he argues back. More than annoyed, he just looks confused, like he really can’t understand why Utahime doesn’t want his hands all over her breasts. Shouldn’t it be obvious? They’ve only been dating for a year! She thought she would have more time than this. “We don’t do that forever, we’re supposed to do more.”

She can’t understand it. Scowling, she scoots back away from him on the couch and asks, sullenly, “Why?”

“Because that’s what boyfriend and girlfriend do,” Satoru says. He grows further and further exasperated by the moment, acting like he’s explaining all of this to a child instead of a girl his own age. “It’s not supposed to take this long.”

“And how would you know?” Utahime fires back. He never said before if he dated anyone. Why does he say these things so matter-of-factly?

Heaving a great sigh, Satoru lays his hands out and says, “That’s just how it works.”

Ugh, figures. ‘That’s just how it works’, like his only experience is romance movies or TV dramas, which it probably is. He’s been on the stage longer than she has, sure, but when it comes to people—women, particularly—he’s completely clueless. “That’s just how it works? What do you know anyway, huh?”

“Well, I-” Spluttering, Satoru’s cheeks color, and he retreats just as she had. He looks less sheepish and more embarrassed, his eyes narrowing as he fires back, “I-I just do, okay! And I know more than you, so you should be listening to me!”

“I don’t want to,” Utahime says firmly. Of this, she’s sure, and she won’t be bullied around about this. If Satoru wants to get handsy so badly, then he can just find another girl to do it with. “I don’t like it, so why should I?”

“You don’t always like all of it, that’s not the point,” Satoru insists. “It’s normal!”

“I’m not doing it, and you can’t make me!”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t like it!”

“I already said that’s not the point!”

“It is!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!

“Is not!”

They bicker and argue until the sound of their fighting must reach the ears of Utahime’s mother, because the next thing she knows, the woman is coming down the stairs, utterly confused by the devolution of their ‘date’. They bicker even when trying to explain to her what the argument is even about, but all Utahime’s mother hears is ‘kissing’ and that ends the conversation for her. She politely but firmly calls Satomi, who sends her security over to pick Satoru up, and that’s the end of it. Just as quickly as he arrived, Satoru is gone, and Utahime is finally alone—albeit grounded for making out with her ‘boyfriend’ against her mother’s house rules.

That’s fine with Utahime. She doesn’t want to speak with Satoru, anyway, is too annoyed with his words and his actions to even entertain the thought of wanting to contact him again. She’s just so aggravated; it’s so typical of a teenage boy to try to push his girlfriend towards making out and fondling and having sex. Satoru is no better than any other boy his age, and it annoys her to no end. Remembering what they had been doing before the argument just makes her nauseous and uncomfortable and irritated, but once again, she’s left without any real reason why. She has the right to be annoyed with him for being so pushy, but how is she supposed to explain that the idea of doing that with Satoru again just grosses her out?

She can’t make sense of it. Girls her age are supposed to be thinking about boys and dating and sex, but Satoru is so far from her fantasies that it’s not even funny. He’s nowhere close to the kind of guy that she fantasizes about at night, when she’s alone with herself and her pillow or her hand. No, the guy she thinks about is much easier on the eyes, and he’s kind, and sweet, and doesn’t push her to do anything before she’s ready. He lets her take her time, even lets her take control, direct the pace, what they’re doing. It’s a totally fictional man that she imagines, one not like anyone else she’s met, and when she tries to imagine Satoru in his place, the fantasy totally fizzles out.

She guesses that she just doesn’t feel attracted to him. Then, she starts to wonder if maybe she’s just not interested in boys like that. She likes the dating well enough, sure, even if it’s kind of boring or tedious; at least it doesn’t gross her out as thoroughly as the kissing and fondling does. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she just didn’t have sex with a guy, but… that was her situation with Satoru before the handsiness started, right? They were just a normal couple back then, yet still, she was bored with him and annoyed with the relationship. Maybe she wouldn’t be so annoyed if it were anyone else but Satoru.

Sighing, laying in her bed as the moon shines through the curtains of her windows, Utahime pulls her hand out of her panties and resigns herself to another frustrating, unsatisfying night. Every time she tries to imagine her fantasy man, Satoru’s dumb face keeps popping up and ruining it all. She doesn’t understand how he is so absolutely infuriating. Did his mother’s charm just skip a generation?

She sighs. It would be nicer if he got some of his mom’s charisma… Now, there’s a woman who knows how to woo someone. Over the year that Utahime has known her by extension of Satoru, she has only developed a further appreciation for her. Satomi is a beautiful, smart, charismatic woman who knows how to control every room she walks into. She’s so effortlessly cool and calm, and whenever she has a moment to spare to speak to Utahime, she gets butterflies over it. She’s everything that Satoru isn’t—gorgeous, charming, and suave. If Satoru were half the person that his mother is, Utahime would have been head over heels long ago.

Utahime bets that Satomi wouldn’t be so pushy… no, she bets that the woman would take her time. She would have taken Utahime out on proper dates, would have dressed nicely and taken her to expensive restaurants, and would have spent the whole time listening with rapt attention to whatever Utahime had to say. She would watch Utahime with those stunning eyes and those red lips, that amused smile, the one that made Utahime feel funny and tingly in ways that she had never felt before. Utahime bets that when Satomi would kiss her, it would be electric. It would steal her breath away, and she would want more: more kisses, more touching, more, more…

It’s at the end of the night, after one very confusing but explosive orgasm, that Utahime realizes that she really, really shouldn’t be thinking about her ‘boyfriend’s mom like this.


Thankfully, the media doesn’t sniff out their ‘split’, though it lasts for some time. She knows that Satoru is trying to contact her, but even after her grounding ends, Utahime still avoids him. It’s easy enough to do what with rehearsals, recordings, and concerts to do, and Ms. Futaba, thankfully, seems to pick up on her reluctance to speak to Satoru, and helps out as well. She still hasn’t told anyone the real truth of why she’s avoiding Satoru, because she, herself, barely even knows it. All she knows is that the fantasy of Satomi has been plaguing her for night on end, and to make matters worse, it seems to only open the floodgates for more fantasy women.

Utahime can’t understand it. Her whole life, she’s been sure that she’s straight, that she’s heterosexual. She has dated boys before, so how can she be a le- she can hardly think the word, much less speak it, because thinking it makes it feel more real, and she’s not ready for that yet. She doesn’t know who to talk to, either—there’s no one she knows who is gay, not in 2011, not in their country. It’s still so taboo… and Utahime is scared. What if she is homosexual? Won’t that change everything? Won’t her whole life be different the moment that she acknowledges that it's true?

It’s scary to imagine. In a world where… maybe she is a homosexual, how will she ever be happy? Most normal people can’t date the same sex publicly, and as a celebrity—no matter how minor in comparison to someone like Satoru—she’ll be held to a much more vitriolic standard. Her fanbase is all young boys around her age, what will they do if she comes out? They’ll abandon her, and she’ll be excluded from the industry, and she’ll be without a job. Her parents might not disown her, but her life would still fall apart. Being a homosexual terrifies her.

But, she can’t stop thinking about it. She can’t stop thinking about Satomi, or her girl friends, or the women that she works with both on and off the stage. She feels so perverted for staring at them, knowing that her glances aren’t innocent in nature, knowing that she’s hiding this taboo attraction. She feels like such a freak for it. Would these women associate with her if they knew?

Her guilt and shame plagues her as time goes on, and admittedly, it makes her sloppy. She knows damn well that both she and Satoru are scheduled to appear at the same festival, one slot after the other, but she completely forgets about it. She doesn’t realize that she’s on the same property as Satoru until she’s sitting in a private lounge with Ms. Futaba, and the boy in question promptly leans against the railing they’re both standing by and says, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Ms. Futaba, wisely, excuses herself. Utahime is left alone, and put on the spot. “Um… sorry.”

“Sorry?” Satoru repeats, scoffing. Thankfully, they’re mostly alone in the outdoor lounge, not that Satoru really seems to care about who overhears. He’s much more confident than Utahime is that no one else in the lounge will share the details of their conversation to the media. “You’ve been avoiding me all summer and all you have to say is ‘sorry’?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” she hisses, keeping her voice low as she checks again to make sure that no one is eavesdropping. “You know damn well why I’m upset with you.”

“Jesus, that stuff again?” Satoru asks, rolling his eyes. Rude as always. Utahime’s eyes narrow. “Look, if I say I’m sorry, will you stop sulking?”

“I’m not sulking,” she says, even though she definitely kind of is. She looks away from Satoru, choosing instead to stare aimlessly at the thousands of festival-goers beneath them as they mill about, wandering from stage to stage. It’s growing dark outside, and the younger audiences are beginning to filter out as the older performers start their sets. “And no.”

“Seriously? Why not?”

Utahime doesn't have a good answer for that—at least, not an answer that she really wants to say out loud. The very thought of telling Satoru the truth makes her palms grow clammy, nervousness coiling within her. “Because.”

“Because, why?” Satoru asks again, audibly growing more frustrated as he tries to look at her. She avoids his eye contact no matter how hard he tries to force it. Her lips, too, stay stubbornly closed, and the words that she should be saying are buried deep within her. He gives a great sigh and finally pulls away, resuming his position leaned against the railing. “You know, you can’t keep giving me the silent treatment. Someone will catch on.”

“You’re such an asshole,” she says again, scowling.

“Yeah, okay, got that part. Can we skip to the part where you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I just-” she stops, sighing harshly and squeezing her eyes shut. She raises her hands to cover her eyes, taking a long moment to steady herself before she finally confesses, “I don’t think we can be together.”

She doesn’t hear a verbal response to her words, and for a long few moments, she doesn’t sense any movement, either. It’s like she was imagining Satoru the whole time, and the moment she opened her mouth, he disappeared. She’s nearly tempted to open her eyes and check when she hears, “...’kay then. So, you’re breaking up with me?”

“We weren’t really dating,” she says in a rush, instinctively trying to shirk the feeling of guilt she starts to feel the moment that he speaks. It’s not the right thing to say, and with another sigh, she drops her hands, still unable to look Satoru in the eyes. “I just- I don’t know.”

“What’s so confusing about it?” he asks, and he doesn’t really sound upset. Just vaguely annoyed, like he always seems to be when she isn’t doing what he wants. “You’re either breaking up with me or you aren’t. What is it?”

“It’s not that simple,” she argues. She wishes Satoru would have some more tact right now, because this really isn’t the kind of thing that she can just come out and say. 

“Then make it simple,” he says, and she can see him shrug out of the corner of his eye. “You either like me, or you don’t.”

“I-” Frustrated, she groans, and finally looks at him. His expression is so impassive, and it really isn’t fair. Why is she the only one suffering through this conversation right now? Annoyed, she says in a whisper, “I don’t think I like any of you.”

“Any of us?” he repeats, eyebrows furrowing. Like always, totally tactless. “Who is ‘us’?”

Frustrated and on edge, Utahime looks around the lounge again before quietly admitting, “Boys.”

“Oh,” he says. For such a bombshell, he shows absolutely no reaction, other than his eyebrows finally relaxing. If anything, he only seems to be confused, and it reflects clearly in his eyes as he asks, “So, like, you’re a lesbian, or what?”

“Don’t say it so loudly!” she admonishes. Even if they seem to be alone, there's no telling who could be overhearing them, and this isn’t the kind of information that she wants people to know. This could literally ruin her career, her reputation, her life. “And I don’t know, okay? I mean… maybe, but I don’t know. Don’t use that word.”

This time, Satoru looks at her like she’s crazy, an eyebrow raised. “What’s so bad about it? Everyone’s a little gay.”

“No they aren’t,” Utahime says. Sure, people say that, but it’s never true. People are or they aren’t. Then, she thinks again about what Satoru had said, and her eyes widen. “Wait, are you trying to say that you’re gay, too?”

“No,” he says, nose wrinkling. “I like girls, but I guess I like guys sometimes, too. You can like both.”

“Really?” Utahime asks. He’s saying it so matter-of-factly, and normally that annoys her, but right now, he really has her thinking that it’s… okay to be a little gay. Like maybe she isn’t the only one, and isn’t that a lot to process? Satoru likes both, and she never noticed before? How could that be? He’s never dated any boys, hasn’t dated anyone from what Utahime knows. “...how do you know?”

“How do you know?” he counters. “Have you ever even kissed a girl before?”

Utahime flushes a little. “No, but…”

“So I know more than you. Again,” he says, a little smugly. Ugh, trust him to ruin a good moment. Typical Satoru. “But I guess you can be gay, that’s fine.”

“...it is?” she asks, a little wary that he’ll say something else to ruin the moment that they’re in. He’s so good at that, saying all the wrong things at the wrong times. If nothing else, it’s reassuring to know that at least she isn’t alone in this… weird possible homosexuality. And, honestly, she supposes that she should be grateful that he isn’t calling her names, or threatening to expose her to the media. Maybe she can give him a pass, just for today. 

“I mean, to me? Yeah, it’s whatever. Definitely a relationship-ender, though.”

“...yeah,” Utahime murmurs. She guesses that makes sense—after all, it wouldn’t make sense for them to date if Utahime isn’t attracted to him like that. She does want to branch out, wants to maybe try to meet some other women like her even if it scares her, but… the idea of losing Satoru as a safety net scares her. Frowning, she looks back out at the crowd and hides her mouth behind her hand, trying to consider her options. “I mean… does it have to be?”

“Unless you’ve changed your mind on being attracted to me?” Satoru asks dryly. “Yeah. Kinda.”

“No, I mean, our ‘relationship’.” She emphasizes it with air quotes, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Can we just… keep that part? At least, until I’m ready for people to know?”

“So, you want to keep up with the fake dating?” he asks, eyebrow quirking. When she nods, he gives a little shrug, making a noise in consideration. “I mean, I guess we can.”

“You can still sleep with other people, if you want to,” she offers. She knows it’s probably a lot for her to ask of him, even if he’s the most annoying person that she knows. “I mean, if you want to.”

Squinting, Satoru asks, “We weren’t already doing that?”

“You…” Utahime feels her eyebrow twitch, though she valiantly manages not to smack him in the bicep for his comment. Case in point: wrong things at the wrong time. “We are now.

“Oh, okay,” Satoru says. He either doesn’t notice her irritation, or doesn’t care, but he’s doing a massive favor for her right now, so she very reluctantly decides to let it slide without further argument. 

So, they continue their fake relationship. They continue to attend movie premieres, perform concerts, and do interviews together, all the while playing the part of the happy young couple. No one is ever the wiser, and as the months pass, Utahime gets to… experiment. It’s hard finding other homosexual girls, especially ones her age, but a time or two, she gets lucky. She finds a young woman in the crowd of her concert, or at an autograph signing, and sometimes she doesn’t realize their attraction until long after they’re gone. Sometimes, though, she does notice it quickly, and sometimes, a VIP meeting turns into shy kisses and sweet touching, and Utahime realizes that, yes, she really does like this.

Her relationship with Satoru keeps her protected. It’s the shield that she hides behind, and it makes her interactions with Satoru not quite as… painful. He’s still irritating, of course, but he’s mellowing out over time, too. She doesn’t really notice how much he’s calming down, too preoccupied with gratitude that she doesn’t have to endure his constant needling, until his birthday passes, and her birthday passes, and she realizes that the boy she’s ‘dating’ isn’t quite the same one that she met back in 2010.

Her mother assures her that it’s just because he’s going through puberty as all young boys do, but Utahime isn’t sure that’s quite right. Satoru always took the opportunity to talk her ear off about his academics whenever they were alone together, but now, she never hears a peep. Nothing about mathematics, nothing about physics, nothing about space. Whenever they’re together on dates to keep up appearances, he either listens to her listlessly, or dozes on her couch the few times that they’re together alone. He says that he’s exhausted, and Utahime might believe that, but her intuition tells her that something is just… not right.

He’s always either sleeping, or vaguely annoyed, which is strange to Utahime. He’s always been annoying, sure, but never outright mean, and now he is. He’s moody and snappish, and his temper always flares when she pushes too hard about what exactly has him so exhausted. Increasingly, she sees him in sunglasses, even indoors, and to her complete bewilderment, he starts to get, like… itchy. He’s always complaining about it around her, and it always seems to happen the times that he’s sleepier than moodier. She can’t understand it—what about puberty causes changes like this? Because she must have missed the memo.

His attitude only gets worse as time goes on. Their second anniversary passes, and it should be a time to celebrate—at least, for appearances—but Satoru spends the whole party in his room, sleeping off what he claims is a ‘migraine’. Utahime spends the party alone with her friends and colleagues, and the next morning, she isn’t surprised at all to see the tabloids talking about it. No doubt everyone noticed Satoru’s absence at their anniversary get-together, and judging by the articles she’s seeing, they have a lot to say about it. 

The worst of it hits a few months later into 2012, just after her birthday, when Satoru’s behavior swings a 180. All at once, he’s like his old self—energetic, babbling, and tactless—but there’s something different about it now. For a week, he had ignored her calls, and now he’s sitting across from her at her favorite restaurant, looking like the last few months hadn’t happened at all. He’s not wearing his sunglasses anymore, but she almost wishes he would put them back on; his eyes are moving erratically, and his pupils are so big that it unnerves her.

“You missed my birthday,” she tells him, both trying to communicate her annoyance and test the waters. She doesn’t know what Satoru she’s going to get right now—normal Satoru, or moody Satoru. “It was a month ago.”

“I know,” he says, quickly, like he’s trying to change the subject as quickly as possible. “Sorry, I was busy, but we’re celebrating it now, right? You should go all out, order something fancy. I heard the dessert is good.”

“I don’t want to order something fancy,” she tells him. Things don’t feel right. Her intuition is screaming at her that something is wrong, but she can’t pin down what, exactly. Frowning, she opens the menu and starts to look over it, as if she doesn’t know exactly what she orders here every time. “You were too busy to send me a text?”

“Look, I said I’m sorry, okay?” he says, his tone straining a bit as his irritation starts to peak. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“How about hello? How are you? What have you been up to?” she says, glancing up at him from over the edge of the menu. He’s tapping his fingers erratically on the table, and it gives him the look of someone who’d rather be anywhere but here. Not exactly the kind of attitude she really wants on her so-called ‘birthday dinner’, almost a whole month late. “But I guess I should be asking you that. I haven’t seen you in weeks. You went radio silent in February for a whole week, too.”

“What, so I have to check in with you now?” he asks, scoffing. His hand wrings the tablecloth as he leans back in his chair, eyes lowered to the table. “You’re not my mom.”

“I never said I was,” Utahime says, frowning. She feels like she’s dealing with a moody toddler, not a seventeen-year-old boy. Maybe, though, there isn’t as much of a difference as she thinks. “It would just be nice to know that you’re alive every once in a while.”

He rolls his eyes, dropping the cloth. His hands slide off the table to shove into his pockets. “If I was dead, you’d know. What’s with the third degree, huh?”

“I’m not giving you the third degree,” Utahime says calmly, though her own irritation is starting to rise. Does he have to be such an asshole right now? 

“You are,” he argues. He finally looks up at her, and she doesn’t recognize the look in his eyes. Whatever boy it was that she met in 2010, he isn’t sitting in front of her right now. Someone… mean and bitter has taken his place. “We’re not dating anyway, I don’t understand why you give a fuck.”

Eyes widening, Utahime quickly looks around the restaurant, nervousness bolting through her. Satoru is being entirely too loud and saying things that really shouldn’t be said in private, and he knows that. Lowering her voice, Utahime leans across the table and whispers, “I don’t know what crawled up your ass today, but drop it. I’m serious.”

“You started arguing with me and now you want me to drop it?” he hisses right back, anger flashing in his eyes. “I don’t need you to look after me.”

“You’re still my friend,” Utahime says, eyes narrowing. Sure, they’re ‘friends’ in a loose sense, but they’ve been together for two years now. Surely that counts for something, right? They’ve known each other long enough that she can call them friends. “You’re being ridiculous. Calm down already.”

“Get out of my business and I will,” Satoru says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He’s really acting like a toddler right now, and it’s frustrating Utahime; is she not allowed to be upset about anything? Does she just have to swallow down everything Satoru does to hurt her feelings? That’s not fair, and she knows that he knows it. 

“You’re being rude,” Utahime tells him, trying to keep her voice even. “Something is up with you lately. You’re being mean.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says flatly. “Maybe you’re just being sensitive.”

Frustrated, Utahime drops her menu to the table, lip curling. “If you’re going to act like this the whole time, then I’m leaving.”

“Fine, leave then,” he shoots back. “I don’t need you up my ass anyway.”

“You’re such a dick, Satoru,” Utahime snaps. 

She grabs her jacket off the back of her chair and collects her purse, throwing it haphazardly over her shoulder as she stands and leaves. She can hear him calling something after her, but she’s not listening to him anymore, not when he’s acting like that. Instead, she goes home, puts on a movie, and tries to forget the entire stupid conversation. Hopefully, tomorrow, he’ll wake up and realize what an asshole he was being, and he’ll apologize. It isn’t the first time they’ve done this, so she knows how it goes. They fight, they apologize, they make up. Easy. 

She sleeps fitfully, her mind swimming with things that she wishes she had the nerve to say to him when they were still together. She doesn’t feel rested at all as she wakes up early that next morning to get ready for a flight, and opens up social media to see her and Satoru’s name plastered all over the trending pages. She suspected that someone may have seen their argument, but this feels almost like… too much. Then, she sees why.

Satoru Gojo Spotted with New Mystery Lover?!?! Yorozu and Satoru Make Their Debut!

In less than 24 hours after that argument, that motherfucker moved on. 

Infuriated, Utahime throws her phone onto her bed and picks up a pillow, screaming into it. The makeup and hair artists there to get her fixed up before her flight give her a few confused side eyes, but thankfully stay mostly silent—that is, except for Ms. Futaba.

“What happened?” she asks, sounding equal parts amused and interested.

Utahime pulls the pillow away from her face. Her eyes are sting and her cheeks are red as she bites out, hatefully, “Satoru Gojo is a fucking asshole!”

Of that fact, she is 100% sure.

Notes:

as always, check my twitter for more sneak peeks and updates!

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Chapter 5: may, 2019

Notes:

chapter warnings: dubious consent, implied/referenced child sexual abuse, implied/referenced human trafficking, drug use and abuse, drug addiction, implied/referenced underage sex

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sweat drips a trail down his damp hairline, running down his cheek to hang off of the razor’s edge of his jaw. It seems to linger there, almost consideringly, before it breaks free, joining its brethren on the muscled stomach beneath him. Satoru draws in a deep breath, holding it in his burning lungs as his hair sticks to the back of his neck, his palms clamming and uneven while bracing his weight against equally slick skin. This process is arduous every time, no matter how he tries to prep in advance; Jinichi is a large man, undoubtedly so, and as gifted in his cock as he is in his stature. It’s a fucking ordeal and a half just to get himself seated, but he manages it, skin pressed flush to skin.

Another deep breath rattles between his lips. The stretch and burn borders on painful, no matter how he tries to relax. He should have taken another perc before he got here. That’s the only way he’s relaxed enough to do this properly, without a round or two to warm up with beforehand. He’s going in dry, but only in the proverbial sense—he’s used more lube than strictly necessary just to try to make this easier, but he’s nowhere near the level of prep that he likes to be before this. Not that it matters. It’s now or never, and he knows that.

Jinichi’s palms are coarse and clammy where they grip his hips, and Satoru can’t bring himself to feel any sort of gratitude that the man is relatively patient for this part. The truth is, too much of Jinichi disgusts him for Satoru to really feel anything other than vague disdain towards this client, but he masks it well. He masks everything well. He never lets his clients see anything but what they want to see.

Sex, in this sense, is very intuitive to him. He’s not nearly as oblivious as he knows people like to think—he’s aware of things, though whether or not he chooses to care about those things is the real gamble. He knows Jinichi well in all the ways that matter: he likes it bareback, he likes to manhandle, he likes to cum inside, and he really, really likes it when Satoru acts like Jinichi’s dick is the best he’s ever had. That’s typical for a man like Jinichi, who has only ever been second string in a second-string family with a first-string brother that none of them talk about, but Satoru has met before. Just once. Just one incredible time.

Satoru denies Jinichi most of his requests on a normal day. For starters, he doesn’t like forgoing a condom, no matter how many clean STD tests he gets from a client, and on the rare occasion that he does allow it, it’s pull out or nothing. He doesn’t like the cleanup process, and with how in demand his time is these days, he can afford to deny particularly pushy clients however much he wants—normally. This isn’t a normal time, however. No, unfortunately, he has to make some concessions.

“Did I miss my birthday, or something?” Jinichi croons, thumbs rubbing along the skin of Satoru’s hips. Unfortunately, for how quiet he is normally, he’s more of a talker in the bedroom. Much to Satoru’s chagrin. “You’re so generous today…”

“I’m in a giving mood,” Satoru says, his voice a low purr to cover up the disgusted gag he’d rather be giving. Men like Jinichi are never his type—sure, the muscles he can understand, but the sheer amount of body hair that Jinichi has? It’s gross, and Satoru doesn’t care how sanitary Jinichi is. He doesn’t want to feel like he’s riding a bear, but that’s exactly the position he’s in right now. He picks up his hips, rocking experimentally on Jinichi’s length to see if he’s ready to go. He’s not, really, but the show must go on. “What, do you want me to change my mind?”

“Of course not,” Jinichi is quick to say. So simple-minded. No matter how smart men and women are outside of the bedroom, they’re fucking idiots the second that they get naked. Satoru lets his hair fall over his eyes to cover up the fact that his smile doesn’t quite reach them as he picks up his hips and starts moving. “Satoru…”

He hates that they use his first name. It’s an unfortunate byproduct of his services being advertised by word of mouth, and his first clients used his first name, so of course everyone else does. It feels so fucking tainted now, it gives him the utterly inexplicable urge to rip the word right out of their mouth and burn it in front of them. If it were possible to just magically detach his own genitals and do the same, he’d do it, but life doesn’t work that way, so he makes do with the cards he’s been dealt. There’s no changing it, no use complaining about it, so he might as well just suck it up and shut up.

It’s not as if it’s so bad these days, anyway. Years of mechanically performing the same act, over and over again, does tend to take the thrill out of it, particularly when there was no thrill to be had in the first place. It’s not the worst, nor is it the best; it just is. He picks apart what his clients like, and he applies those traits like makeup, speaks those words off a script, plays that act like he auditioned for it. It’s not really that different from being in front of the cameras. He’s just performing a character, and the particular character that Jinichi likes to see is the overwhelmed whore who has never in his life had a cock as big as this.

He can’t really tell if his moans are real or not anymore. He supposes at one point, they were, but he’s added so much drama and fine-tuned them so well that he doesn’t actually know if they are or aren’t. The trick to making them more believable, he’s found, is to pretend that he’s trying to conceal them, so that every ‘slip’ is proof of his ‘act’ falling apart. Breathy and whiny, he forces a ‘choke’ when Jinichi thrusts upward to feign surprise, and the resulting grin on Jinichi’s face is entirely expected.

He starts to ‘lose’ his rhythm, and the tremble in his thighs isn’t really difficult to fake with how exhausted he actually is. Jinichi croons at him again, caressing his ribs. 

“Tired already?” he asks, amusement glinting in his eyes. 

Satoru has, honestly, taken much worse for much longer, but men like Jinichi like to feel superior, so he gives a tired nod and sees the way that it makes Jinichi laugh. What he’s really expecting is for the man to take on some of the work of thrusting or picking up a bit of Satoru’s weight—what else would he be doing with all of that ridiculous, self-reverential muscle?—but instead, in between one blink and the next, he feels himself falling backwards to hit the mattress. His noise of surprise is genuine, but he has to act quick to cover up his annoyance when he realizes the new position that Jinichi is pushing him into. Legs pushed back, waist aloft, weight on his shoulders—this stupid asshole is trying to throw Satoru’s fucking back out. 

That starts to cross a border into something Satoru knows is going to bite him in the ass later, but he really, really needs to get on Jinichi’s good side today, so he forces himself to bear it. His annoyance grows with the remembrance of his promise to let Jinichi come inside, because with this angle, Satoru won’t be able to pull off before Jinichi is done. Like he originally planned to do. Just fucking bear it, he tells himself, loosening his jaw against the instinct to grit his teeth. Just bear it, just bear it, just bear it.

Jinichi is unfortunately one of the people who thinks that having a big dick makes up for poor stroke game, so Satoru is really, really not having as much of a good time as he’s pretending he is. He can hear the telltale grunting Jinichi makes when he’s close, though, as their skin slaps together and the scent of sweat permeates the hotel room, so he needs to figure out how the hell to fake it—and fast. He’s going to ruin all of this if he can’t make himself orgasm, so he flips through some of his memories, some of the better ones, scouring his mind for something more arousing than this grunting gorilla above him. 

Yorozu is usually his go-to—she’s a good lay, but she’s been pissing him off lately, so that only serves to annoy him more than arouse him. No, no… he can’t think of a good one. Fuck. The Zenins are all terrible fucks, except for Toji and- ah, yeah, Naoya. Naoya was annoying as shit, but the way he moaned and pleaded when Satoru was finally able to shut him up was heavenly. Satoru takes a vicious satisfaction from men like that, those who talk such a big game about how many women they pull, only to end up crying and overwhelmed the moment he pushed inside. Sex like that? He’d do it free of charge.

He forces himself to think of Naoya, instead; of blonde strands gripped between his fingers and skin blooming purple under his lips, whimpers and cries of his name, mouth drooling and pleading for Satoru to go faster, slower, too much, not enough, more, please, please, please-

It’s a relatively uneventful ordeal to finally orgasm, but he plays it up in all the ways that he knows goes straight to Jinichi’s ego. And yeah, sure, maybe he squeezes down a little more than strictly necessary, but it does the job of getting Jinichi to cum well enough. The feeling of it is pretty gross, particularly because he’s sure that Jinichi probably drinks more alcohol than water on the best of days, but he bears it and tries to act like it isn’t making his skin crawl. It’s a narrow thing, what with how Jinichi keeps rolling his hips lazily, no doubt enjoying a feeling that he won’t get again for quite some time—ever, if Satoru has anything to say about it. 

When Jinichi finally pulls out, it’s not a moment too soon. He sure takes his time with it, standing naked next to the bed as he reaches down to his pants and withdraws a lighter, and a carton of cigarettes. Satoru instinctively wrinkles his nose, but largely ignores it; so long as Jinichi keeps it outside, he’ll tolerate it, but he fucking hates the smell. Thankfully, Jinichi does just that, picking up one of the towels that housekeeping had laid out to cover himself up as he steps out onto the balcony. Satoru, finally, is left alone.

All at once, his expression drops, eyes narrowing and eyebrows furrowing as he looks down at himself. He can feel the slickness inside of him and it’s disgusting, even worse considering the type of person he allowed to do the act in the first place. There’s sincerely nothing that he would like more than to get in the shower and scrub every imprint of Jinichi’s touch off of himself, but he knows that his job isn’t done yet. No, this time, he has to go the extra mile, no matter how much he’d rather be anywhere else. 

Sighing, he reaches for some tissues to try to get the worst of the wetness between his legs, before he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands up. He winces when he feels the soreness in his back, cursing Jinichi underneath his breath as he tries to stretch out the worst of it. The rest, he’ll just have to drown out with more pills before he’s on to the next. He reaches down to swipe his briefs off of the floor and pulls them on, a little annoyed by the feeling of cloth against his damp, sticky skin. He pads out towards the balcony, his eyes on Jinichi’s back as he pushes the door open and joins the man in the fresh evening air.

Jinichi, lounging lazily on the chaise, raises an eyebrow at Satoru, flicking some ash off of his cigarette. Satoru doesn’t quite manage to hide the wrinkle of his nose, but apparently, it amuses Jinichi, so he’s safe. The man moves his leg out of the way as Satoru slips down to sit next to him, hooking his chin over Jinichi’s shoulder. He plays demure, sliding his fingers around Jinichi’s waist to his hip, drawing his hand up and down the plane of Jinichi’s lower stomach. Jinichi chuckles, blowing a cloud of smoke away from him as his free hand moves down to rest atop Satoru’s.

“You’re awful clingy today,” Jinichi says, his voice vaguely endeared. “Sticking around, no condom, let me cum inside… should I be worried?”

“Am I not allowed to be sweet on you?” Satoru asks. He nuzzles his chin into Jinichi’s neck, teasing his nose along the skin of Jinichi’s throat. He knows he has Jinichi’s attention by the way his cock twitches just beneath Satoru’s hand; though they’re both a while away from getting hard again (Satoru more than Jinichi could ever suspect), there’s still an attempt on Jinichi’s part. A futile attempt, but an attempt, nonetheless. “Mmh… maybe I do have a favor to ask.”

“Oh, no,” Jinichi says, chuckling. Satoru closes his eyes as he caresses Jinichi’s waist, because it’s a little bit easier to fight his nausea if he’s not looking at the thing that disgusts him so. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad at all,” Satoru hums. This is the critical moment, the entire reason why he’s here, so he has to play this safe. He can’t afford to fuck this up. “Do you trust me?”

“Trust you?” Jinichi repeats. He chuckles again, flicking ashes into the ashtray to his right. “I trust that you like money, sweetheart.”

Satoru makes something like a laugh at that, but he’s the only one around to know how truly fake the sound is. Thinks he’s so funny, Satoru thinks, rolling his eyes before closing them again. “There’s a reporter sniffing around me these days…”

“You get yourself into trouble?” Jinichi asks, giving Satoru’s hand a squeeze. He starts to shift, enough that Satoru is forced to open his eyes and look the man in the face as Jinichi’s palm comes up to cup his cheek, running a thumb across his skin. Jinichi’s eyes are on Satoru’s mouth, appreciation clear in his gaze as his thumb caresses ever closer to pink lips. “Little Satoru needs some help, does he now?”

“No,” Satoru says, smiling, as he kisses Jinichi’s thumb. He licks it once, teasingly, glancing up from beneath his lashes to see the way that Jinichi’s pupils dilate. “He’s just making noise, that’s all. All I need you to do is trust me to handle it.”

“Is that so?” Jinichi murmurs. His thumb runs across Satoru’s lip again, slick with saliva, before poking between his lips. A nail scrapes across his teeth, and Satoru obediently opens his mouth, letting Jinichi’s finger press down on his tongue as Jinichi sucks on his cigarette, eyes glued to Satoru’s tongue all the while. Satoru lets himself salivate, his breath a little intentionally heavier as it ghosts across Jinichi’s hand. He’d honestly rather eat actual trash than suck Jinichi’s dick, but he likes to think that he does a pretty good job of pretending otherwise. “I might consider it… if.”

“If what?” Satoru asks, but it’s a little incomprehensible around the finger in his mouth. Jinichi understands it, anyway.

“If,” he says, drawing out the word teasingly, “you do uncle a favor. He has someone he wants you to meet.”

Satoru’s stomach drops instinctively. His breath hitches, and he tries to cover up the ice-cold feeling that washes over him, but he can’t quite catch it in time. He sees it when Jinichi’s eyes sharpen, a dark kind of amusement twinkling in his eyes as his hand tightens around Satoru’s jaw. He’s pinned in place, a butterfly spread open beneath the eyes of a collector, and Satoru knows all at once that whatever power he thought he had, it’s being taken from him right now. The collaring of the dog, as it were.

“Unless you’re not feeling up for it,” Jinichi says, dashing his cigarette out on the ashtray as he leans over Satoru. “If you’re feeling sick, I’ll pass on the message. It’ll be a pain in the ass for him to find a new SAG Awards presenter though, won’t it?”

“No,” Satoru says in a rush. His heart pounds double in his ears, his expression chipping at the edges. His voice sounds too saccharine, too forced, as he draws back enough for Jinichi’s thumb to slip free of his mouth. “I’m always happy to make new friends, you know that.”

Jinichi hums, though he doesn’t speak a word out loud. Instead, he eyes Satoru consideringly, his eyes unreadable as his hand pulls away from Satoru’s cheek. For however much he can read people’s desires, Satoru doesn’t have that same strength outside of the bedroom. If he did, then maybe… then maybe, he wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. Maybe he never would have slipped and said that one word to Suguru Geto that he couldn’t take back. 

“Good,” he finally says, and Satoru has to fight hard not to show the pure relief that floods him with that one, single word. He pats Satoru’s cheek, his lip quirking. “Good boy. I’ll pass on the message, then. In the meantime, don’t you have something to be getting ready for?”

“Yes, yeah, you’re right,” Satoru says with a steadiness that he absolutely doesn’t feel. Trying to hide the trembling of his hands, he forces on a smile and stands up, no longer as confident in his nakedness as he was before. Now, he’s sure that someone is watching, someone sees him, someone can see right through him, and he’s not sure if it’s better or worse if Jinichi is that person. Now, though, he is exposed. He is laid bare, and he needs to escape. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

Jinichi merely hums in response as he lights up another cigarette. It’s true that Satoru has somewhere to be; in a rush, he picks up his clothes and re-dresses himself, leaving the hotel behind in a typical mess as he takes the elevator down to his waiting chauffeur. As he stands in the elevator, his leg bounces restlessly, his hand clenching where it holds his phone to his ear. The phone rings once, twice, and a third time before someone finally picks up, and Satoru wastes no time speaking.

“Did you send it?” he asks impatiently, before the man on the other end can even greet him. 

“Hello, Mr. Gojo,” Ijichi says anyway, his voice audibly nervous as he speaks. “Um, yes, I did, it was just sent through the mail earlier today.”

“How long until he gets it?” Satoru asks. The elevator opens, and he forces on a more pleasant expression as he steps out into the lobby. There are a few people he recognizes, and he regards them about as he regards a wild animal—though by the smile on his face, none of them would have ever guessed his hidden animosity. They avoid him as he points to his phone, leaving him undisturbed as he returns to the car parked outside. “Today? Tomorrow? When?”

“Well, it is a weekend… the postal service-”

“Then have one delivered in person,” Satoru snaps. Honestly, is every person on his staff a goddamn idiot? No one ever gets shit done, no one except for Satoru himself. Why he even pays them anymore is beyond him. “Look, I have been busting my ass handling this on my end, the least you could do is deliver a fucking letter like I ask you to.”

“Sure, Mr. Gojo, but legally, I think this is beginning to border on harassment. We may take a hit if we send any more… but if you could let me know what we’re contacting him for, that would-”

“It’s none of your business,” Satoru says, irritated. He tucks the phone between his cheek and shoulder as the chauffeur opens the door for him to climb in, and he buckles himself up as the door is closed. He holds the phone in his hand again, voice lowering to an annoyed hiss now that he’s finally alone. “Just write the letters, Ijichi, I don’t pay you to ask questions.”

“Yes, Mr. Gojo, but- really, if he hasn’t even done anything yet…”

“Just write the letters,” he bites out, hanging up the call and dropping his phone into his lap. What the hell is the point of paying a legal consultant just to have to do all the work himself? Cease and desist letters can’t be that hard to write, yet Ijichi has something to say every time Satoru tells him to; he might as well just write them himself.

He stews in his annoyance the entire drive back, and his attitude is notably worse by the time he makes it to his house for the hair and makeup team to get him ready. He’s really cutting it close, having visited Jinichi so close to the call time for the awards ceremony, but he had no other choice; he has many, many clients, and there’s only so many he can see in one day even running against the clock like he is. He’s sure that Geto won’t post the article, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared, and that means keeping his boss’ and investors’ cocks warmed so they don’t drop him the moment some whispers start spreading.

Getting ready is a short, rushed affair, and before he knows it, he’s back in the car and on the interstate. His date for the night is some girl that his manager’s been pushing off on him—he can’t really remember her name, nor does he really care. It’s Sumiko, or Noriko, or something like that. What the fuck ever. The only thing she’s good for is keeping him relatively distracted, but she’s pretty shit at that; she blushes and stutters every time she speaks to him, and she can’t manage to find anything to talk about other than that this is her first celebrity awards ceremony, as if they don’t happen multiple times a year and don’t get more boring every time he attends one. 

He listens to her with half an ear, more concerned with retrieving another handful of pills to make this ceremony minutely more bearable. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything, probably too nervous to ask if the pills are legal or not. They’re definitely not, so it’s good that she doesn’t ask; what she doesn’t know can’t be held against her. It does, however, seem to make her shut up, which Satoru realizes with just as much relief as exasperation. No doubt she’s feeling all nervous again. Why exactly did Ryu think this girl was a good fit for him?

Whatever shitty mood he’s in is, of course, covered up with a million-dollar-smile the moment that the car doors open and the cameras start flashing. He walks the girl—Mariko?—down the carpet and towards the entrance of the theater, where a couple of other celebrities are already making their way inside. He’s fashionably late, as always, partially to keep up appearances, and partially because the later he is to any event, the less time he has to spend sucking up to soulless ghouls and acting like he gives a shit about their new mansion, or the car they just bought, or what woman they’re cheating on their wife with now. 

He’s irritable. The pills aren’t working fast enough—he’s tense, and he knows it shows by how far Fumiko is trying to inch away from him. When she excuses herself to the bathroom, he hardly fights her, letting her retreat. He won’t exactly be surprised if she doesn’t return; if they’re both lucky, she’ll spend the rest of the awards show fulfilling her lifelong dreams of pulling her skirt up for some C-list celebrity in the theater bathrooms.

It’s not what Satoru cares about. No, what Satoru cares about is how much money he spent on his seat, all with the goal of getting some one-on-one time with the person sitting next to him—none other than Hideki Ito himself. He still looks as good as Satoru remembers him, all roguish smiles and slicked-back hair, his arm around the chair of his scandalously younger date that everyone side-eyes, but doesn’t care enough about to actually say anything. Satoru braces himself, sucking in a quick breath before putting on a more amiable smile. When he sits down in his chair, he does so gently, flicking his hair out of his eyes as Hideki glances over at him. Recognition flickers in the man’s eyes; he smiles.

“Satoru,” he says, voice as smooth as ever. His date becomes forgotten as Satoru takes his attention. “Now, who did you charm to get us these seats together?”

“Oh, you know me,” he says, shrugging. He leans against the armrest, his shoulder bumping against Hideki’s; he looks up through his pale eyelashes, and doesn’t miss the pleased glint in Hideki’s eyes. “I called in some favors… I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Hideki chuckles. Satoru hates that, no matter how many years have passed, it still gives him butterflies. They feel sickening in his stomach, and make him nauseous. “I can’t argue with that. To what do I owe the honor, sweetheart?”

“Am I not allowed to want to catch up with you?” Satoru asks, putting on a bit of a pout. Sure, they both know that Satoru is angling for something, but Hideki likes it when he plays along with the game. At least, he used to. Satoru hasn’t really ‘played’ with him in years. 

“Is that all?” Hideki asks, amused. His hand finds its way around the back of Satoru’s chair, fingers running across his back and over his shoulder. Satoru has to fight the urge to shiver, but it’s a narrow thing. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with, say… this reporter that I’ve been hearing about?”

Nervousness cracks through him. Satoru fights to hide it, but Hideki only snickers; he’s caught.

“Don’t lie now,” Hideki coos. “You think we don’t talk, Satoru? You’re not very subtle, you know… visiting everyone so quickly, checking in on us, touching up your connections. Didn’t we teach you better?”

Satoru is keenly aware of Hideki’s hand as it settles on the back of his neck. He swallows, feeling Hideki’s finger trace beneath the collar of his shirt. “Sorry, I’m just- I’m just a little nervous about this reporter. I have it handled, but… I don’t want any of you to panic. I can handle it, you know?”

“I know,” Hideki says, and his voice is practically a purr. “Little Satoru has it handled, does he?”

“I do,” Satoru is quick to tell him. Perhaps a little unsubtly, he brushes his leg against Hideki’s, their thighs pressed together. He leans in a little further, breathing in the scent of Hideki’s cologne. “You know me, I’m good at handling things.”

His finesse seems to evaporate in the face of Hideki, who only regards his attempts at charm with a fair amount of amusement. It’s been almost ten years that he’s known Satoru, after all; he knows how much of this is real, how much of this is a facade, but he seems perfectly content to let Satoru flounder about anyway. He can see the interest in Hideki’s eyes, but what he can’t see is what’s in Hideki’s mind, what he’s thinking when he chuckles and runs his fingers through the hair at the nape of Satoru’s neck. As the lights dim, Hideki leans in, murmuring his words into Satoru’s ear. 

“Trust me, I remember,” he whispers, lips ghosting across the shell of Satoru’s ear. “You might have caught my interest if you hadn’t turned into such a washed-up junkie, sweetheart.”

Satoru’s eyes widen as he recoils, but Hideki’s hand catches him by the back of the neck, keeping him from going far. He can’t escape, forced to act casual as he watches Hideki grin out of the corner of his eye.

“How many pills are you on now, hmm? Ever checked your pupils in the mirror?” Hideki asks, mockingly. “You’ve gotten sloppy. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you want to get caught, but you’d never do anything to put yourself in harms’ way, would you?”

Satoru’s heart pounds in his chest. As the announcer takes to the stage, he says, very quietly, “...no.”

“Good boy,” Hideki says, giving his neck a pat. His hand relaxes, and instead drapes over Satoru’s shoulder, fingers massaging the tense muscle of his neck. “Handle this reporter. I’ll let Ryu know that you need a refresher in discretion.

Hideki doesn’t say another word as the announcer starts to speak, and the audience goes silent. His hand stays on Satoru’s shoulder throughout the entirety of the ceremony, even as Satoru’s date returns and sits quietly next to him, her eyes wandering over to Hideki, then Satoru, then back again. He doesn’t dare look at her, or at anything other than the stage in front of him. His body feels cold, his eyes open and unblinking, as Hideki’s hand taps rhythmically on his shoulder. It’s a warning, he knows, and a public one. Look what I can do. Look what they’ll ignore. You think you have any power here? Think again.

He tries to resist bouncing his leg, but halfway through the ceremony, the nervous energy becomes more than he can contain. Counting down the moments to the end is torturous; every moment that passes is spent in pure discomfort, just wishing for Hideki to take his fucking hand away. He needs to get out of here. He needs to get away from Hideki. He needs- he needs to forget about this shit. 

The moment that the ceremony ends, Satoru shoots up from his seat. He leaves both Hideki and his date behind without a second thought, shoving his way through the crowds of people trying to exit, in search of one person—one woman. He finds her out the front door, already embroiled in an interview with some entertainment outlet, body clad in a skin-tight dress that left nothing to the imagination. The woman he needs.

Yorozu.

They’re technically in an ‘off’ stage. He kicked her out of his house the last time they were together, and she said some shit to piss him off. As far as the media knows, they’re not on speaking terms, but Satoru doesn’t give a shit about that anymore. He doesn’t care about the stories they’ll spin, the drama they’ll create, or the headlines they’ll make. All he cares about is the little plastic baggie that he knows Yorozu is hiding in her bra.

He grabs her from behind, spins her around, and kisses her to the sound of rapid-fire camera flashing. 


“You know, I think this is the best you’ve ever looked,” Yorozu tells him cheerfully. She’s sprawled across his couch, her black satin skirt stretched over the expanse of her thighs and corset top hanging dangerously low. Undignified as always, of course, and Satoru doesn’t bother to resist the eye roll as he tosses his jacket off somewhere and starts unbuttoning his shirt sleeves. “Seriously, I mean, how much concealer did it take to cover up those eyebags of yours? You look ghoulish, no wonder Hideki blew you off.”

“Can you not right now? It isn’t fucking funny,” he snaps. 

He kicks his shoes off somewhere, uncaring of where they land. He’ll just find them in the morning, he couldn’t give a shit less about something as stupid as clothes right now. Irritation and indignation still burn within him, alongside the persistent fear of checking social media that has refused to leave him alone for weeks now. Suguru Geto will bury that article—Satoru has to believe that, because the alternative is… the alternative makes him sick to his stomach. It’s not happening. It isn’t. It won’t.

Yorozu either doesn’t notice his mood, or doesn’t care; he’s inclined to believe the latter, knowing her. “Someone’s testy today.”

“Can you shut up and cut me a fucking line?” he says, his voice cracking harshly. “I’m too sober to talk to you right now.”

“Aw, come on, don’t be so mean. It’s my treat, after all.” Satoru sees from the corner of his eye as Yorozu withdraws something from beneath her breast, a lazy smile on her lips as she holds the little plastic bag aloft and shakes it a little. The sound is like music to his ears—the promise of a balm to his panic, a way to leave all this shit behind and finally get his mind somewhere else. He practically salivates, and he knows he’s not being subtle about it when Yorozu’s smile widens. She sticks one long fingernail into the opening of the bag and holds her hand up, a silent invitation. “Come on, if you’re so desperate for it.”

Satoru is. He really, really fucking is. With a huff, he rolls his sleeves up and out of the way, abandoning the rest of his efforts to trail across the room like a mutt in search of a treat. She holds her hand steady even as his fingers wrap around her wrist, holding her still as he leans down to press her fingernail to his nose. His free hand closes one nostril as he snorts the power up with the other, and the first hit is, sincerely, better than any sex he’s had in his life. The high is quick, exhilarating, and some of his annoyance reluctantly fades as he opens his eyes again and sees Yorozu’s amused, half-lidded eyes. 

From here, he can see down her chest to where the corset top just barely covers the obscene curve of her breasts. He’s looking, and she knows he’s looking, but it’s not enough, not yet. Her attitude pisses him off on the best of days, and at a time like this, he sincerely needs all the help he can get tolerating her snark. One wrong word is liable to set him off, and he knows that Yorozu will try her damndest to find it. He drops her hand carelessly and licks his finger, sticking it into the baggie to pick up a bit of powder that he rubs over his gums as he drops onto the couch next to her. 

“Better?” Yorozu asks, eyeing him. 

“Barely,” he says, some of his earned good mood souring the moment that she speaks. Not enough, then; he picks a card up off of his coffee table—someone’s business card, no doubt, not that he gives a fuck—and taps out another line. He takes that line just as quickly, eyes slipping shut and hand falling to his side. “Jesus Christ.”

“Your panties sure are in a twist tonight,” Yorozu comments. He cracks an eye open to peer at her, eyebrows furrowed; she’s leaning her head against the couch, the long line of her neck exposed and ripe for the taking. If she’s trying to get him interested, it’s working, as much as he hates to admit it. Her eyes practically sparkle as he finally looks at them. “Tell me about it. I’ve been told I’m a great listener.”

“Was that before or after you shot up?” he asks, rolling his eyes. 

“So funny,” she says dryly. If she’s annoyed with him, she never shows it, but he sincerely has a hard time believing that her mind isn’t occupied by one of four things: sex, heroin, social media, or making music. He found, in all of his time knowing her, that rarely anything else appears on her radar. Even now, she’s reaching across the couch to brush her hand along his thigh, her fingernails tracing over the seams of his pants as she leans into his space. “Come on, let me take some stress off your shoulders…”

The thing about Yorozu is that she is an absolute, indiscriminate horn dog—somehow, even more so than Satoru, which is a sobering comparison that he reminds himself of whenever he feels he’s starting to get too desperate for the finer things in life. Yorozu had her peak far before Satoru entered the spotlight, and every day, he has the pleasure of watching it dwindle further and further as she wastes it away on pointless indulgences. On some level, it’s a reminder that the clock is running for everyone, even him. One day, his looks, or his money, or his talents will fade. Maybe even all three. 

But for now, he has all three, he’s already high, and he has better things to do than to watch his life be pulled in by the black hole of entertainment. All he wants is an outlet, and Yorozu is conveniently providing three. 

“There’s this reporter,” he finally says in a rush, and it’s like the moment he speaks, he loses control over the words that come out. “He’s a hack-job, but I- I let some shit slip and now he’s sniffing around for something to dig up and use against me.”

“Oh?” Yorozu smiles lazily, leaning her cheek against the couch. “Should I be worried?”

Satoru has to resist the urge to laugh aloud—that’s so fucking typical of her. So self-centered, yet so oblivious. He can practically feel his brain melting out of his ears into a gross, lumpy puddle on the couch. “If they start looking around for who got their hands on me before I was ‘legal’? Yeah, you should be, dumbass.”

“You were already ruined before I even got my hands on you,” she says, waving her free hand dismissively. It falls to the back of the couch before traveling across the cushion to brush against the back of his neck, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine as her long fingernails scrape across his skin. Her palm is cool where it presses against his warm skin. He’s well aware that she’s more interested in a different kind of ‘stress relief’, but she got him started, so now she’s going to listen whether she likes it or not. “Besides, I don’t think a ‘kid’ is someone who knows as much as you about how literal the phrase ‘bang for your buck’ gets.”

“You’re so hilarious,” he says, sneering at her and knocking her palm off of his thigh. She’s always saying stupid shit like that, always pissing him off and then reaching for his dick as if that makes up for what she said. Yorozu laughs, and it only serves to annoy him further, energy pumping wild and restless in his veins as his knee bounces. “It isn’t funny. If it gets out, everything is gone. My career, my reputation, my fucking money-”

“Is that why you’ve been hopping from dick to dick for the past week?” Yorozu asks, interrupting him. Her palm returns to his thigh, though he’s too focused on his paranoia now to really give it any more attention than an annoyed side eye. Yorozu purrs at him, “You’ve been fucking everyone like you’re getting paid for it. More than usual, at least.”

“I have to. He’s going to ruin everything,” Satoru says in a frustrated hiss. “These people—they’ll jump the moment the boat rocks. If I don’t start doing damage control now, I’m fucked. Can you get that through your head? Some stupid idiot is going to be the reason I lose everything, and I have to keep people happy because, for some reason, he’s a goddamn priest or something for how little he gives a shit about the money or sex I offer him. Shit, even a priest would have been easier dick.”

“Aw, are you finally realizing that no one with any self-respect wants to fuck the run-through, cracked-out super twunk?” Yorozu coos, leaning in to run her nose along the column of his throat. He shivers at the feeling despite himself, and ever the traitor, of course his cock twitches in his pants. He’s long since given up on expecting his body to react the way it wants to—like he’s a hostage in his own mind, it takes him wherever it wants, whether he wants to go or not. Yorozu seems to be aware of this as she traces her fingers over his zipper, giving his erection a squeeze as she smiles. “Surprise, surprise.”

He shoots her an irritated look, jerking his shoulder to knock her away from his neck. It doesn’t really stop her, as her slim hand quickly dips beneath his waistband to reach into his briefs. “Yeah? You’re more run-through than I am, so what does that make you?”

“Someone who doesn’t fuck anyone with any self-respect,” she says, raising an amused eyebrow at him. He scoffs at the barb, shifting in his spot; his waistband is made even tighter with her hand beneath it, and the firm squeeze around his cock has only half to do with Yorozu herself with how much space her hand takes up. Regrettably, it does distract him from his thoughts. Once again, his dick has a mind of its own. 

“How are you still insulting me with your hand down my pants?” he asks, his voice snarky even as he shifts in his seat to give her some more room. She doesn’t miss the movement, her red lips splitting in a grin as her free hand reaches down to unzip his pants. There, she fishes out his cock, her long-nailed fingers wrapping around it and squeezing softly. Despite himself, he sighs, because at the end of the day, a hand is a hand—no matter the person it’s attached to. Still, he vents some of his displeasure with a muttered, “You’re so goddamn annoying.”

“Someone has to keep you humble,” Yorozu is quick to say. Her white teeth flash as she leans in towards his neck again, pressing stained lips to his throat before nipping the skin with her teeth. Her hand, ever experienced, starts to pump up and down his cock, slow and unhurried. He’s willing to bet now that she probably shot up before she even got here—she’s syrupy and sweet in the way she always is when she’s high out of her mind. Mean as hell, too. No filter, no impulse control. I hate her, he thinks, gritting his teeth. As much as he hates her, he keeps her around for a reason, and a majority of that reason is this: her smooth hand and devilish lips. 

Reluctantly, he gives in, letting the last of his rational thought slip by as he embraces his own approaching high with the same lack of forethought that he uses when making all of his decisions. His arm loops around her, cupping her back and drawing her closer as she practically climbs into his lap. Her sticky red kisses make their way further up his throat to his jaw, her tongue caressing his skin as her hand twists a little firmer, a little sharper. She leans back with a grin, pulling her hand free to spit on it and wrap it around his cock again, as she leans back down to press her lips to his.

For as annoying as she is, Yorozu is also one of the most attractive people that Satoru has ever had the misfortune of meeting. Pale-skinned, dark-haired, and quick-witted, she’s kept his attention no matter how many times she insults him beyond what any normal human being would tolerate, and she knows him as well as he’s come to learn her. Seven years of on-and-off sex will do that to a person.

His hands slide down the slick fabric of her dress to her ass, his fingers digging into the plump flesh there and drawing her closer. Yorozu snickers as he does so, hand quick and tight around his cock now as she jerks him off; not for free, of course, with the silent price tag attached. He gets a bit to enjoy himself, indulging in her wet-tongued kisses and clever hand, before her impatience becomes undeniable and he slips a hand between her legs, too. Finding her cunt is like second nature—the only difference is that, this time, she isn’t going commando like she usually does. Digging into her skin is a too-small thong that snaps against her hips when he pulls it back, drawing a surprised noise from her throat.

It’s a small victory. He doesn’t wait much longer after that, because now that his body has another outlet, he needs relief and fast. He presses two fingers into her, slipping rather easily into her slick channels, and swallows up the moan he gets in return. He knows her probably better than he has ever known himself; knows where her sensitive spots are, knows how she likes to be handled, knows about how long it’ll take her to cum. It’s routine, the way he thrusts his fingers into her wet pussy, his thumb teasing and circling the sensitive flesh of her clit. Less mechanical than fucking Jinichi, but he knows that if he weren’t already high, he’d be hard pressed to feel anything other than annoyance right now.

But the coke eases the way. The coke makes it better. The aches fade, his mind whites out, his thinking buzzes and buzzes until it’s just white noise—if he does it right, if he has the outlet that he needs, and Yorozu is good at it. Yorozu means cocaine, and cocaine means sex, and then both of their problems are solved at once. They both get the outlet they’re looking for, the intimacy they take from each other.

She’s moaning into his lips, rocking against his hand as hers jerks his cock tightly. Her breasts are pressed to his chest through the thin fabric of their clothing, soft and heavy, and he yearns to do a line off of her tits. He always has—Yorozu’s tits are the best on this side of the state, he swears. If he had the patience, he would probably pull her dress down to really enjoy them, but at the moment, he hardly has the mind to do anything but push her back against the couch, leaning over her and kissing her senseless. Her dress hikes up around her waist, her thong pushed to the side and his wrist flexed as his hand thrusts in and out of her.

“Fuck,” she gasps against his lips, free hand clawing into his shoulder. “More, Satoru.”

“This is all I have,” he hisses, because the closer she gets to cumming, the more she forgets about his reddened, strained cock in her hands. “It’s not my fault you killed your goddamn nerve endings with your vibrator.”

Yorozu only laughs, leaning up to nip at his lower lip. “Don’t call it that, it has a name.”

“You named your vibrator?” he asks, lip twitching in a sneer. She’s jerking and moaning like she always does when she’s about to cum, flushed down to the sweet curve of her cleavage showing through her dress. He finally knocks her hand off of his cock, pushing her thigh up and back to get better access. Predictably, it makes her whine louder than before.

“Yeah,” she says, breathless as she grins. “Called it Satoru.

She’s full of shit, of course, but admittedly, the way she moans his name makes his cock twitch in interest. It doesn’t take her much longer to cum, her thighs clamping shut around his wrist as she tenses and moans again, rocking into his palm as her release rocks through her. He manages to get her through the aftershocks before his patience runs out, and he withdraws his hand. Yorozu watches him, tired and amused, as he wraps his wet hand around his cock and starts jerking it himself, eyes glued to the way her chest heaves with her breath. Her red lips curve in a smile, her eyes glittering, legs spread open for his own viewing pleasure.

“‘m gonna cum on your panties,” he says, more of a statement than a question.

“Fine, but buy me a new pair,” she purrs, hooking her leg around his waist to pull him closer. The head of his cock bumps against the fabric of her thong, his knuckles brushing against her skin with each pump. Her fingers slip down to pull her thong down, showing him the bare, waxed skin of her pussy. 

“If I buy you a new pair,” he says, panting, “I’m fucking you in them.”

“Is that a promise?” Yorozu asks, winking.

He cums over her cunt, sticky strings painting her skin and staining her thong. It’s a total mess—one that he’s surprised she even let him make—and it even makes a noise when she lets go of her thong, the fabric snapping back into place, that Satoru wrinkles his nose at. “That’s gross.”

She doesn’t seem to care. She only shrugs, leaning back onto the couch. “You wanted it.”

Whatever, he thinks, because she’s not exactly wrong, but he knows what it’s like to walk around with someone’s cum in your underwear, and it’s gross to even think about. He doesn’t waste any time leaning back up and off of her, leaving her behind on the couch as he retreats to his kitchen to find some napkins. He manages to track down some in a drawer, and he wets them with a bit of water before wiping his cock off. He still needs to take a shower, but it’s clean enough to tuck back into his pants. He grabs another couple of napkins, wets them, and then tosses them carelessly at Yorozu’s reclined form on the couch. She grins at him as she takes them. 

Satoru snatches the remote off of the coffee table and turns on the TV, flicking through some channels to something that looks interesting enough to serve as background noise. He settles on some shitty ‘reality’ show, letting it run on in the background as he picks up Yorozu’s abandoned baggie on the coffee table and plops down onto the couch with it. In a matter of a few seconds, he takes another line, and then a second, cursing lowly beneath his breath as it hits him quickly and blurs his vision. 

It’s just what he needs to get over these thoughts about this stupid journalist. Hell, maybe it would even do Geto some good if he did it, too; a good high and a good fuck would get his mind off of Satoru, surely. He should have taken Satoru up on his offer. He’s too fucking pent up, probably one of those nerdy types that can’t get a girl, anyways. Or a guy. Maybe he’s in the closet. Maybe that’s why he feels the need to stick his nose into everyone else’s business. If he’s exposing everyone’s secrets, no one will look at him, after all. Satoru has to respect it. He gets it. It’s pathetic, but he can understand that much. 

The more Satoru thinks about it, the more that it makes sense. Why else would Geto be so invested in the skeletons in other people’s closets unless he had a few of his own? He’s got to be hiding something, Satoru is sure of it. The guilty are always looking for others to blame, right? Maybe he’s just been going about this all wrong. Maybe what he really should have been doing was hiring a private investigator. He still can, after all. All he has to do is dig up whatever dirt Suguru Geto is hiding, and then they’ll be even, right?

He won’t sit around and wait for this shit to happen. He’ll call Ijichi tomorrow and have him hire a PI, and then everything will be fine. He’ll put this stupid journalist in the ground and then everyone, everyone, will finally leave him alo-

“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you breaking news. The story tonight: renowned investigative journalist Suguru Geto, and what might just be the shock of the century.”

The baggie drops from Satoru’s hand. Numbly, he looks up at the television, and the broadcast plastered across it. 

“This report is already sending shockwaves across the entertainment industry, alleging details of exploitation, human trafficking, and sex crimes against children by the highest names in music management. The alleged victim? None other than global super star, Satoru Gojo. We are reaching out to representatives of Gojo and alleged abusers named in the case, and folks, stay tuned for more details as this story unfolds.”

All Satoru can hear is the tinny sound of Yorozu’s cackling.

Notes:

as always, check my twitter for more sneak peeks and updates!

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Chapter 6: june, 2019 - interlude

Notes:

if u see me update this multiple times, forgive me..... im trying to figure out how to backdate chapters

chapter warnings: child abuse, child neglect, child sexual abuse, physical abuse, kidnapping, bodily injury, character death

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Do you ever think about escaping?”

Maki’s hands are pruned and raw, detergent soaking through the cracks in her skin to sting and burn sensitive flesh beneath. Her legs ache, and stones are digging into her knees, and the sun has been burning the skin at the back of her neck for hours now. There’s no point in taking a break or stopping, not when they still have several more rounds of bedsheets and clothing to go through if they want everything to be dried by sundown. Still, Mai’s words give her pause, and she hesitates for a moment to look at her sister. 

“Escaping?” she repeats, eyebrow raised. If there were people around, she’d be more concerned about the volume of their speaking, but the nice thing about laundry days is that the rest of the family are usually off doing something else off the compound, or involved in meetings. It’s not as if any of them speak to Maki or Mai in the first place, really. “...why are you thinking about things like that?”

Mai scoffs a little, rinsing the soapy clothes that Maki hands her. “You don’t?”

“No,” Maki says honestly. She looks back down at her hands, idly scrubbing through a load of shirts. These are all whites, so she needs to pay careful attention to any stains, or they’ll both regret it. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“Sure there is,” Mai says, her tone insistent. Her hands are rough, and she’s splashing water everywhere. “Somewhere. Anywhere. Don’t you ever think about what life would be like outside? We could do it, you know. I’ve been thinking about it.”

“You should stop,” Maki says. She drops the fabric in her hand to give Mai a look. It’s one thing to think about it, but to plan it? That’s dangerous. “Seriously. You know how it went last time.”

“We just weren’t ready last time.” Mai avoids her eyes, but her ears burn in the way they always do when she doesn’t want to admit that Maki has a point. “It’ll be different this time. We could use that guy, you know? The one he always calls on when he can’t use us.”

Maki squints as she recalls—she vaguely remembers him. He used to be around a lot more, back when they were younger and could only handle so many of Master Naoya’s desires, but she hadn’t seen him in quite some time. She couldn’t recall his name, but she remembers that head of white hair, those shockingly blue eyes. Maki could never forget a man like that. Who else in the world had hair so pale? 

“Him?” she asks, and she shouldn’t even be entertaining Mai’s ideas, but she can’t help the little flicker of intrigue she feels. “He’s never spoken to us before.”

“We never had the chance,” Mai says. She holds her hands out expectantly for more clothes to rinse, so Maki refocuses on the load in her own water bin. “But he’s from outside, right? So if we can catch him when he comes, maybe he can help us. He could tip off the police, right?”

“Why would he do that for us?” Maki wonders.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Mai demands. 

Maki looks back up at her as she hands her a load of clothes to be washed. She isn’t convinced. “He hasn’t said anything before.” 

“He just didn’t know.” Water splashes across the dirt as Mai starts cleaning, adding more to the pile of wet laundry to be laid out on the hanging lines. “They always hide us when visitors come by, right? So we just have to wait until he gets here and ask him for help. It’ll be easy, Maki.”

“If it’s so easy, then why haven’t we done it yet?” Maki asks. She’s still not quite convinced. This sounds like a bad idea, and one bound to get one of them hurt—or both of them, knowing Master Naoya’s proclivities for discipline. It’s not like she wants to live the rest of her life here, but… is an attempt to escape worth the punishment they’ll get for failing? What price can she put on Mai’s safety? On her life? “I don’t buy it.”

“Let’s just try,” Mai urges her. “What’s the harm in trying, huh? What can they do to us that they haven’t done already?”

Maki knows the truth to that question—a lot. There’s a lot they could do to Maki and Mai that they haven’t already, and she knows that keenly. While Mai tends to be Master Naoya’s go-to, Maki spends much of her days around the servants and laborers, listening to whispers of the treatment they endured under the other masters of the house. They looked at Maki with sympathy, and passed their well-wishes on to Mai, but Maki knew that things could be much, much worse for them.

But Mai looks earnest. These days, there’s little that seems to keep her sister afloat, and Maki can’t bring herself to shoot this idea down. Besides, on the odd chance that they succeeded… that they actually got help, that they could actually be freed…

It’s with much reluctance that she sighs and says, “Okay, fine. Just this once, we’ll try.”

“...yes!” Mai immediately reacts, lighting up with joy the moment that Maki acquiesces. 

She grabs one of the white shirts from the wash—Maki recognizes it. That’s one of Naoya’s uniforms, the one that he wears for all of his important meetings. It’s half the reason why they’re doing the wash today: tomorrow, he and Master Naobito would be off to close a deal on some hotshot new client that Maki heard them all whispering about when they passed her scrubbing the floors at night. 

She watches as Mai grabs a fistful of grass from a patch nearby, scrubbing it onto the shirt until it stains. She tosses it into the pile of clean clothes with a grin, tossing the grass aside. 

“There,” she says, determination lighting in her gaze. “That oughta piss him off.”

Mai looks excited, but all Maki feels is a creeping sense that this is all about to go very, very wrong.

In the end, she’s right. The stained shirt does more than just derail Master Naoya’s day—it derails the entire meeting itself when he shows up thirty minutes late in an unironed shirt that clearly doesn’t even belong to him. His rage is incandescent, a reckoning the likes of which they haven’t seen in many years. Beating Mai black and blue doesn’t sate even half of his anger, and what fury he has left is only stoked by how unprepared Maki is to really take it. She’s strong, she is, but it’s been so long since he last assaulted her that the shock of being torn causes her to wet herself. It only infuriates him further, and he beats her, too.

It does go wrong in that way, but in other ways, it goes right. They’re given a break from their daily cleaning to recover—though calling being thrown and locked into their broom closet for the day is hardly what she would call a break—and just as they had predicted, Master Naoya is forced to call upon the white haired man to properly satisfy himself.

Like always, they know that a visitor is on the compound by the change in the demeanor of the servants. They don’t whisper or skulk about anymore. The bruised and injured ones conceal themselves from sight, and those that are able to be seen take extra care with their hair, or doll up further with makeup. They put on smiles and trade the ‘master’ for ‘sir’ as they always do. More importantly, though, the masters forget to lock the closet door, and Maki and Mai are left forgotten.

Maki watches from the ground, the closet door cracked open just enough to allow her to peek out, while Mai rests uneasily behind her. They’re sore in the ways that make it hurt even just to lay down, and Maki can’t quite put any weight on her lower end, but this is too important to worry about things like that. If they’re going to do this, then they need to do it right, and they can’t afford to make any mistakes. If this is what Master Naoya will do for a stain, then for an escape attempt… Maki doesn’t even dare imagine it.

She quickly closes the door when she hears footsteps, leaving the closet in pitch-black darkness as she presses her ear to the door and listens. Just as she suspected, she can hear two voices: one that she recognizes as Master Naoya’s, and one that must be the white-haired man’s. As they walk past, Maki holds her breath, and she feels Mai’s hand wrap around the fabric of her pants.

“...letely useless.” That’s Master Naoya again, ranting in irritation as he often does. “I mean, they’re just not made like you anymore, Satoru.”

“Should I be flattered you think I’m one-of-a-kind?”

“You’re just a professional. Whatever your mom did, you need to get her to write a book or some shit. Better yet, just move in here. It’s a fucking hassle trying to get into your books.”

“...hah.”

She hears the sound of a door opening, closing, and then silence. She hears nothing else in the hallways after that, so she pulls herself away from the door; they have some time before they enact their plan, anyway.

“Is it him?” Mai asks quietly. 

Maki can’t see her in the dark, but she finds Mai’s hand where it’s wrapped around her pant leg. She gently pulls Mai’s hand free, and instead holds it between her own, giving her sister’s fingers a squeeze as she leans back against the door.

“It’s him,” Maki murmurs. 

“Thank God.” The relief in Mai’s voice makes Maki’s eyes water, because she can tell that Mai is already crying. Maki can take the beatings easier than the rapes, but Mai isn’t like that—she’s gentler, more sensitive, doesn’t know how to take a punch or a kick. It’s been a long time since she’s ever taken a beating. Hopefully, this will be the last time. “We’re so close, Maki. So damn close.”

“Shh. Just sleep for now.”

She knows it will be some time before they’ll be able to do anything. From what she remembers of Master Naoya, he’s not the type to only be satisfied once, and that only seems to grow worse the older he gets. So, she makes herself as comfortable as she can, curling around Mai’s dozing form as she tries to at least rest her eyes. She’ll get no sleep in here, not when they’re so close to their chance. She fears she’ll oversleep, or miss the white-haired man when he leaves, and then this would all be for nothing.

She doesn’t know when exactly she got on board with Mai’s idea to escape. On some level, it still feels nearly impossible to her; after so long, can it really be so easy? Is it really possible? Doubt clings heavily to her heart, but the faint candle flicker of hope keeps it at bay. It’s Mai’s hope, Mai who put it there, Mai who fed the sparks until they burned. Mai believes they can be free, so Maki will trust her just this once, and maybe she can believe it, too. 

Some time later, she feels the vibrations of footsteps along the ground. Silently, she jostles Mai awake, and crawls forward on the floor to reach the door again. She cracks it open just a little, and then she can hear it: the faint murmuring in Master Naoya’s suite. A few minutes later, his door opens, and the white-haired man steps out to close it behind him. He walks alone, hands tucked into his pocket and eyes distant.

Now, Maki thinks, determination fueling her. Now!

She quickly steps out of the closet, and as the man passes in front of her, she grabs his wrist and yanks him into the closet. Shock works in her favor, and she’s able to close the door quickly before he even realizes what happened. Mai is able to get to her feet, and as Maki leans against the closet door to block his escape, she pulls the string to turn on the light. In her hand is a sharpened stick—a pathetic sort of weapon, but the only one they could find, and the sight of it matters little when she presses it to the man’s neck.

“Don’t scream,” Mai threatens. 

The man, to his credit, stays very quiet.

Maki keeps her hand on the door, tense and frozen in place, her eyes glued warily to the sight of her sister and this man. His eyes flicker between the two of them, and as the initial alarm starts to fade from his expression, a new sort of blankness takes its place. Maki realizes that he isn’t surprised to see the two of them, but the implications of that are something she can’t quite understand.

“You know who we are?” Mai asks. She looks equally confused, broken and bruised nose scrunched up. 

“...I know what you are,” the man says. “I’m Satoru. Put the stick down.”

“No,” Mai says quickly. She tightens her grip on the stick, pressing it against his skin until it indents. The man, however, doesn’t seen very phased. The red mark left behind by the stick only blends into the litany of bruises already dotting his neck. 

“You have demands, then?” Satoru asks. “I don’t have anything on me. You can check.”

“We don’t want money,” Mai says. She squares her jaw, and Maki can see her actively trying to gentle her tone. “We… we need your help.”

His eyebrow raises. “Help?”

“He keeps us prisoner here,” Mai says. “He took us from our mother.”

Satoru says nothing. The way he looks at Mai—blank-faced, as if waiting for something to catch his attention—makes Maki’s stomach sink. Something is wrong here. She can’t put her finger on what, exactly, but she knows in her gut that something is wrong.

“He beats us,” Mai continues, desperate. “He rapes us.”

“He knows,” Maki says. She’s not quite sure what makes her say it, but the moment she says it out loud, she realizes that it’s the truth. He looks over his shoulder at Maki, as if just realizing that she’s there, and she’s stunned to see only dispassionate regard in his startling eyes. “You already know… don’t you?”

“You’re not the only ones,” he says, and Maki’s lips part, brows furrowing. The stick in Mai’s hand falls to the floor as her hand lowers, stunned. He looks between the two of them once again before sighing, running a hand through his hair as he steps away from them both. Mai lets him go. “...look, the less you fight it, the easier it is, okay? Just keep your head down and bide your time. Play nice. Don’t give them a reason to distrust you.”

“We…” Mai trails off, stammering. Their whole plan is going sideways. “No, you… you have to help us. You can go outside, right? You can send someone to get us?”

“That’s a shitty idea,” he says. His hand starts to reach for the door, and in a panic, Mai jumps forward to grab his sleeve, stopping him. Satoru sighs yet again and reaches down to pry her hand off, but she just wrenches her hand free and grabs onto him again. “Look, kid, enough, okay?”

“You have to help us!” Mai demands. “Take us with you! Or- or call someone, please, you have to help us.”

“Please,” Maki adds, desperate. She doesn’t want to believe her eyes. She doesn’t want to believe what her gut is telling her. “Help us.”

Satoru starts to look vaguely annoyed. “I already said-”

“You’ll regret it,” Mai says, her voice low and furious. She refuses to let go of his shirt, dragging him away from the door. “I swear, if you leave us here, we will never, ever forgive you!”

“Enough!” Satoru snaps. 

He wrenches her hands off of his shirt, and the movement sends her stumbling, falling backwards onto her ass. She cries out, and in barely a second, Maki is kneeling at her side to help her up. Mai, however, is looking up at Satoru, whose irritation has only grown.

“No one is coming to help you,” he hisses. “Get that through your fucking heads. You’re on your own—we’re all on our own. Figure out how to help yourselves instead of bothering me!”

“You’re a coward,” Mai tells him, even as her voice shakes with fear and hatred. “You’re too scared to do anything. You’re too scared to help us.”

Satoru’s eyes darken. He leans down, and his next words are low and furious. “I’m this close to getting myself out. This fucking close, you hear me? I’m not risking it for you two brats. Figure your own way out like everyone else.”

Stunned, neither of them can do anything when Satoru throws the door open, anger rolling off of him in waves as he leaves the two of them behind. Mai recovers quicker, and she shoves Maki aside to get to her feet, poking her head out in the hallway in the hopes that he hadn’t gotten far. Whatever she sees, though, makes her face go pale, and Maki feels cold dread seeping into her. As Mai stumbles backward, hands trembling, another form joins them in the closet, far angrier than Satoru himself.

Master Naoya.


“...sweetheart? Can you open your eyes for me?”

Maki is roused by the searing glow of flashing lights, flickering over her eyes with rhythmic regularity. It makes her head ache and pound with her heartbeat, and with a groan, she bats a hand in front of her eyes, trying to dispel it. The light retreats, but in its place comes the sound of snapping by her ears, forcing her away from the dark temptation of sleep. She reluctantly blinks her eyes open, and for a moment the light blinds her. It takes a long moment for her to see anything.

When she does, she sees a face, and brown eyes that look down at her. The light flickers over each of her eyes again, and Maki grimaces, retreating away. She tries to speak, but her throat is so dry, so sore, and filmy with the acrid taste of blood in her teeth. Her tongue is swollen, and pulses in time with her heart. Still, she tries to speak. “Bright…”

“I know, honey, I’m just testing your pupils,” the face says. 

Maki looks back up, vaguely making out the sight of a blue paper hat and a pen light, but as the light switches off, she realizes that she’s looking at a woman. Not a woman she recognizes… no, one with brown eyes and tanned skin that the masters would have shunned, would have been disgusted by. Is she not on the compound anymore…? Confused, Maki tries to look around, but her neck is stiff and twinges painfully when she moves.

“Try to stay still, okay?” the woman says, her voice soft. “Can you tell me your name?”

“M-” She tries to speak again, but her voice gives out. She clears her throat. “Maki. Who are you?”

“My name is Miya,” the woman says. Though the light is gone, it is only replaced instead by the feeling of hands that pry her eyelids open gently, before moving on to open her mouth. “You’re in the hospital, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

Safe. Safe…? From what?

All at once, it comes back to her in a rush—Satoru, Master Naoya, the closet, the blood. She remembers blinding pain and Mai’s ragged, reedy wheezing, days spent in the closet rotting until… until-

Where is Mai?

“Where is my sister?” she asks. She doesn’t get an answer at first, and when Miya averts her eyes, a sudden desperation possesses her. She surges up, no matter how hard it hurts, how much it makes her ache and whimper with pain, to wrap her hand around Miya’s sleeve. “My sister. The other girl. Mai. Where is she?”

“You need to rest,” Miya tries to tell her, prying Maki’s hand free to push her back down onto the bed. “You’re badly injured and malnourished, okay? Just rest, we’ll tell you when you’re-”

“Mai!” she demands again, more frenetic. “Mai, where is Mai?”

She should be here. She should be at Maki’s side, they should be together. Maki shoves away Miya’s hands and tries to stand, but finds herself restricted by a jungle of lines and tunes connected to her body. Snarling, she ripes the lines free, tears the tube out of the crook of her elbow and throws aside the tube in her nose. She can hear shouting and pleas for her to lay back down, but only one thing is on her mind: Mai. She needs to find Mai.

She doesn’t recognize where she is, but she knows Mai must be nearby. She stumbles out of her room, blinding by fluorescent lights, and wanders in a haze down the hallway as people shout after her. Each curtain she tears aside reveals a person, but not Mai; none of these people are Mai. She keeps looking in room after room, dodging hands that grasp and pull at her, until she sees a crowd of people dressed in blue—the same as Miya. They’re hovering outside a door, faces pale and voices quiet, but when they see Maki, alarm crackles through them.

“Honey,” an older woman says, quickly reaching hands out to stop her. Maki feels a pull to this room. She knows Mai is in here. “You need to lay down, alright?”

“My sister,” she bites out. “She’s in there.”

She knows Mai is in there. She dodges beneath grabbing hands, shoving her way through the bodies of doctors and nurses alike to get into the room. She sees a bed, and atop that, a white sheet curving around the shape of a lump. Maki feels hands wrapping around her middle, hauling her up into the air, but she gets one good hand around the tail end of the sheet and yanks it with her and-

And she sees it.

The hands holding her freeze, and the whole room seems to hold its breath as Maki’s eyes settle on the form of her sister. Mai’s face is bruised and swollen, her body hardly any better, but what Maki’s eyes find is the paleness of her skin, the gauntness of her cheeks, and the empty, unseeing look in her eyes. Her chest, it… it doesn’t move. Not once in the time that Maki hovers there does her chest move. The heart monitor is still; silent. Maki realizes, all at once, what’s going on.

Mai is dead.

The fact settles into her slowly, like trickling grains of sand. Mai is dead. Mai is dead. That’s why they don’t want her here. Why they tried to stop her. Why they were separated. Why the sheet… she’s gone.

Maki can feel herself moving, a sharp prick registering in her mind as something is jabbed into her arm and injected. A syrupy heat starts to fill her from her arm to the rest of her body, seeping in slowly, leisurely. Hands carry her from Mai’s room back into her own, and with silent efficiency, the nurses reattach her lines, her tubes, her oxygen, and put her back down. The nurse from before, Miya, is still there. Sympathy hangs heavy across her shoulders as she brushes hair out of Maki’s eyes, and unconsciousness starts to speckle black and blue at the edges of her vision.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Miya says softly. “She wasn’t in any pain. She was at peace. And she loves you, very much. Just rest.”

Maki won’t believe that. Her sister wasn’t at peace, never could have been at peace. How could she? How could she be resting in death knowing that she had died before she ever got the freedoms he wanted so badly?

Not Mai. Not her sister.

Her eyes roll listlessly as fatigue takes her, settling on the hum of the television set just behind Miya’s head. She can hear Miya talking to her, but all she can process is the subtitles on the screen. She recognizes the head of white hair on there, but the significance evades her. That is, until she reads the broadcast. White lines written on black bars flicker across the screen, and as Satoru speaks to the crowd gathered in front of him, the subtitles follow his words.

“...article is completely and utterly false,” he’s saying, flashing that dazzling smile. “I owe everything to Hideki, to Noritoshi, to the Zenin family. Despite Suguru Geto’s claims, they’re all incredible people, and I hope to continue working with them in the future…”

Maki’s howl of rage is all that she can muster before unconsciousness takes her.

Notes:

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Chapter 7: september, 2019

Notes:

chapter warnings: discussion of past sexual assault/rape, explicitly referenced child sexual abuse, referenced and explicit drug use, explicitly referenced incest, suicide attempt.

WARNING: this chapter gets pretty intense. if you need any specific content warnings, please let me know in the comments and i will answer as soon as possible. please consider your own mental health as you read, and take breaks if necessary. if you need a pick-me-up, please let me know in the comments and i'll do my best to give you a silly or lighthearted detail to help out.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

"It has been said that time heals all wounds.

I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind,

protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue,

and the pain lessens, but it is never gone."

(Rose Kennedy.)

 

“...is there any place I’m supposed to start?”

“Just start from the beginning, with as much detail as you can remember.”

“Okay, um… well, it was, uh… 2012, I think? I was twenty-two back then, um, and I was working for Satoru’s mom, Ms. Satomi. I didn’t know Satoru all that well back then. I worked the graveyard shift, so, y’know, he was already, um… occupied when I was around. And I wasn’t always there, I was usually runnin’ errands for Ms. Satomi. The shit that they didn’t want to be seen doing, you know.”

“And how did you come to be in Satomi Gojo’s employment?”

“She was… you know, really the only person who would hire me back then. I mean, I was fresh out of prison, maybe only a few months? I picked up a couple of felonies, and I was doing some time when my folks passed and left me with my kid brother. It was hard enough findin’ shit as a felon, but add a kid into the mix? There weren’t, uh… a lot of people who wanted to work around the shit I needed, so I was doing odd jobs. Bar bouncer, security gigs, that kind of stuff. I guess I was good enough at it, because my name got passed up somewhere high enough for her to notice me.

“So, I got word that she was willing to interview me, and I got the job pretty easy, I think. She needed someone to work nights with her, and that worked out perfect for me. She wasn’t askin’ a lot—she was gonna pay me decent, and all I had to do was, y’know, look scary enough that people would keep their distance. It wasn’t great money, but nobody else would hire me, right? And my connections, back then… she liked that shit. It was easy for me to get in touch with people that the richie types don’t wanna be seen with, so… yeah, I ran a couple things for her and her friends.”

“When did you cross paths with Satoru Gojo?”

“Well, I… I had seen him a couple times, and I knew him, of course. My brother liked his music, always wanted me to play that shit on the radio, so if I saw him, it was pretty… ‘Hey, could you sign this for my brother?’ kinda stuff. We didn’t really talk a lot, the few times I did see him. He was always busy, or resting, or… occupied.”

“Occupied how?”

“I didn’t really know back then? I mean, nobody said shit about what he was doing. It was always just, ‘Oh, he’s talking to an agent’, or ‘Oh, he’s in an interview’ or audition or something. I didn’t ask, y’know, wasn’t really the type of environment you asked a lot of questions in. Sometimes, his mom would send me to pick him up, or drive him places, and he didn’t talk a lot. He’d ask about my brother sometimes, or some shit like that, but… I didn’t know jack about him, honestly.

“I don’t think I would’ve even known the questions to ask, you know? I mean… who the hell sees some sixteen-year-old kid go into an office with his recording agent and think that he’s… like, shit. Of course I didn’t know. Why would I think that? Who would think that? And yeah, he seemed in a shittier, quieter mood than usual after, but… he’s a sixteen-year-old kid on the face of every magazine, sure he’s gonna be a little short-tempered.”

“When were you finally made aware of his… well, activities?”

“It wasn’t until shit went down. Ms. Satomi didn’t always wait around for him. Sometimes she’d be in the car, or she’d have me go pick him up afterwards, but… I usually wasn’t close enough to hear anything. The one night I did, though, he was with that talk show host. I can’t remember his name, it was… fuck, like, Iki something.”

“Ito? Hideki Ito?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy. Satoru was in with him after one of the shows, and I guess Ms. Satomi thought it was gonna be quick, because we were just waitin’ in the lobby for them to be done. I didn’t hear anything in the room—they were in some dressing room, or somethin’, and more than anything, I just wanted to get their asses home so I could get off my feet, you know? So I was waitin’ out in the lobby with her, and I remember I heard some, like… talking, or something. It must’ve been pretty loud if I was able to hear it, but Ms. Satomi wasn’t sayin’ anything, so I’m thinking it’s normal, right?

“But it just got louder, whatever they were doing. I remember I could hear his voice, and I didn’t know what they were sayin’, but I remember thinking that, like… something doesn’t sound right. It was just too loud, you know? And then I heard, like, ‘It hurts’. Really clearly, those two words, and I remember just getting up on my feet ‘cause I knew somethin’ was wrong. Like when you get that gut feeling, that really bad feeling, and you know you gotta do somethin’ or some shit is gonna happen. The door was locked, though, so I had to kick it open, and, y’know, I, um… I saw it.”

“Who was in the room?”

“It was Satoru, for sure, and that guy, Hideki. I didn’t know who the other dude was, I had only seen him once or twice. They were both, uh… with Satoru.”

“What was happening when you saw the three of them?”

“Well, y’know… it…”

An extended silence. A heavy sigh.

“I know this is hard. Any detail you can give us will help. Just try to describe what you remember as best you can.”

“I know, fuck… sorry, okay, I’m fine. They were, um… well, mid-act, I think. I remember seein’ Satoru between them, and one of the guys were already, um, inside him, but I couldn’t tell which one. I think they were tryin’ to… Jesus, I don’t even know, he was just… too small for it, or maybe they rushed it, I don’t fuckin’ know, but he couldn’t fit both of them inside and he was bleeding. They dropped him ‘soon as I stepped in, and it was like he had his puppet strings cut, you know? Just hit the floor, and they didn’t even… they didn’t even give a shit, just looked at me like I was crazy, and I heard Ms. Satomi comin’ in but… I wasn’t payin’ attention to her.

“Satoru was… I mean, I know what it looks like when someone’s strung out. Better than anyone else, and he was on somethin’. I didn’t know what it was then, but I knew he was on somethin’, and he was in hysterics, you know? He was bleedin’ everywhere and he couldn’t get his legs under him, and he was naked as the day he was born. I don’t even know… fuck, I don’t even know what I was thinking. I couldn’t even process it. I knew what I was seein’ but- but I didn’t wanna believe it. I mean, who would do that? Who the fuck would actually do that?

“Ms. Satomi was yelling at them, and shit, and I thought, ‘Yeah, thank God his mom’s here’. All I could really do was find somethin’ to cover him up. It feels so… fucking stupid in hind sight, but all I could think about was gettin’ something to cover him. I couldn’t see anything but I had this jacket, right, so I threw the jacket over him and just… picked him up. For a kid, he was pretty damn light. ‘s like he didn’t weigh a damn thing to me.”

“...I see, and what happened next?”

“His mom was, like… yellin’, or somethin’. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, all I got was, y’know… ‘You didn’t pay for that, that’s more than you paid for’. I didn’t think a lot about it at the time, how weird it was, what it meant, I just… kept thinkin’, ‘I need to get him outta here’. He was still bleeding, right? And he was crying, and his pupils were fucking… blown to shit. He was on something and I knew it.

“She told me to take him home, that she’d handle it, so I did. I didn’t think about it, I just took him home, and he was so… restless. He couldn’t sit still, and I think it was partially ‘cause that shit hurt, but he was on- some kind of upper, I knew that much. Couldn’t sit still, kept crying, kept breathing fast and dry heaving and shit. It was hard enough just keepin’ him in his seat. He was startin’ to crash by the time we got back.”

“Back to the Gojo residence, correct?”

“Yeah, I thought, just take him back home, get him some medicine, figure out where he’s hurt, right? And I didn’t know what he was on, but I know when you’re on uppers, the comedown is… it’s fucking awful, and I knew it was coming. Whatever he was on, it was a fucking lot of it, and he was already dipping when we were in the car.”

“Did you take him to receive medical attention?”

“...no. I don’t… I don’t really know why I didn’t. I should’ve, right? And maybe if I did, it would’ve… fuck. Maybe shit would've been different, but I didn’t. I just took him home, I put him in the bath, I was tryin’ to calm him down, but he was freaking out. Hard. He just kept begging me not to tell anyone. That’s all he would say, y’know. Just… ‘Please don’t tell anyone, swear to me you won’t tell anyone, you can’t say anything’, and I told him I wouldn’t, just so he would calm down, because he was… it was hitting him hard. I didn’t think enough about it back then. I just wanted him to calm down.”

“And why did you decide to come forward today?”

“Because I… I saw his shit on the news. The lawsuit, y’know, the defamation and shit, and I thought… I thought that shit was wrong. I knew I promised him, I knew I told him I wouldn’t say anything, but… they fucked him, you know? They seriously fucked him, and it’s not right. That journalist was telling the truth, and I know it. I always regretted not saying shit, but after seeing how much they took from him, I just… I knew I had to say something. And I heard, you know, that there was an investigation, so… here I am. I should’ve come sooner, but I… I didn’t, and that’s my sin to bear, I guess.”

“It’s good that you’re coming forward now. This will help in the investigations, and- sincerely, please believe me when I’m saying this: you’re doing the right thing. Okay? You’re doing the right thing.”

“... thanks, I guess. Just wish I did it sooner.”

“There’s nothing we can do to change the past, but with this, we can help other kids like him. There may be more victims we haven’t heard from yet, but we're hoping they’ll step forward once we go public.”

“Right, um… do you need anything else from me, then?”

“No, that’s plenty for now, thank you. We’ll end the recording here, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

A hand reaches out, pressing the ‘stop’ button on a tape recorder that looks too old to be used in this day and age. An officer steps forward to take it as the woman in front of him clears her throat, shuffling her papers and gathering them together. The other officers in the room are already starting to clear out as he clears his throat, rubbing his sweaty palms on the fabric of his pants. His heart is beating erratically in his chest, shirt made slightly damp from the sweating he’s been doing. It’s been years since he had remembered this shit, and never before had he said any of this out loud. It feels like a weight off of his shoulders, sure… but he knows, after this, that there’s no going back.

The moment he leaves this room, and his testimony is processed, it’ll be too late to change his mind. Hell, it already is. The recording is done. He told them everything.

“We’ll reach out to you if we need anything further, alright?” the woman tells him, her voice gentle as she addresses him. “Just make sure you leave your contact information with the front desk, and we’ll be in touch, Mr. Itadori.”

“Sure,” Sukuna says, reaching up to rub his hand across the back of his neck. He’s sweating there, too, and his palm comes away damp as he stands and tucks his hands into his pockets to hide the shaking. The coffee wasn’t the best idea, but like the interview, it’s too late now to do anything about it. The woman stands as well, and after a pause, Sukuna asks, “What’s next, then?”

“Well, we’ve already reached out to Mr. Gojo for his side of the story, but we haven’t heard word back,” she says, sighing. “But with your testimony, Mr. Itadori, we have all we need to move forward with the case. We still have other victims left to interview, and we’ll need to discuss a motion to subpoena Mr. Gojo-”

“You’re going to subpoena him?” Sukuna interrupts, eyes widening a little as he registers what that means. “What, like, you’re gonna force him to talk?”

“He’ll be held in contempt of court if he doesn’t cooperate, yes,” the woman says, taking his interruption in stride. “It’s… not our first choice, of course, but if we want to get him the justice that he needs, we’ll need him to cooperate with the case.”

“...fuck,” Sukuna murmurs. He can already guess how Satoru is going to react to that, and the thought makes his sweating begin anew. It’s an ugly, ugly habit, but it’s not like he can help how his body reacts. “What if he still doesn’t do it?”

“Then we’ll be forced to ask the judge to issue a bench warrant for his arrest,” the woman says. It’s clear that that’s an outcome that neither of them want, but the severity of it is not lost on Sukuna—they’ll force Satoru to testify, no matter what, and it’s thanks to Sukuna’s testimony that he’s in this position at all. And he knew, he knew that this would happen, but reality is starting to creep in, and he knows that this isn’t going to go well. “If he continues to resist, he’ll be levied with fines, or possible jail time. It really, really is crucial that he cooperates with us.”

He won’t, Sukuna thinks, resisting the urge to sigh again. 

The air is still chilly with the dredges of winter slipping away one day at a time, the wind rustling his hair and cooling his skin as he leaves the station. He brushes away the strands that had fallen free from his headband before tucking his hands back into his pockets, sighing heavily to no one but himself. He figured he’d be more relieved to have confessed, and in a way, he does, but in a way, he feels shittier than ever before. After all… he promised Satoru, all those years ago, that he wouldn’t tell a soul about what he’d seen. It was a stupid promise, one that he never should have made in the first place. He should have called the police. He should have told the authorities everything. He should have run, and taken Satoru with him.

He can’t make up for that sin, but maybe, with this, he can start.

It’s a shitty start, to be sure. He knows that, even now, he still hasn’t told them the truth. Not the full truth, at least, not the truth that he can’t admit to anyone—hardly even himself. He didn’t tell them how he’d gotten Satoru sober again after the assault, because he hadn’t. In that bathroom, with Satoru sobbing in the tub as he bled and fought off the comedown from a drug that he couldn’t even name, Sukuna hadn’t done the right thing.

All he knew back then had been that… well, Satoru was suffering. He had been assaulted, and drugged, and in withdrawal, and Sukuna couldn’t do anything about a lot of those factors, but he could do something about one of them. With Satoru’s thin, flailing arms caught in his hands, he had pushed Satoru to tell him what the drug was, how they administered it, what it felt like. Sure, the track marks threw him off—his first thought had been, of course, heroin—but he knew the symptoms when he saw them. One of the men had given him cocaine, and a lot of it, just based on how hard he was crashing.

The right thing would have been to help Satoru ride out the comedown. The right thing to do would have been to explain what the drug was, how temporary it was, how Satoru would find his way back to sobriety in a few hours, and be free. Sukuna had always known what the right thing to do was, but he’d never done it. Back then, it seemed like all he could do was the wrong thing, because he hadn’t helped Satoru through the comedown.

No, like a coward, he had run from it. He didn’t know how to handle a kid on coke, he didn’t know how to handle any of it, so he did what he knew best. He fished out a baggie from his pocket, wet his finger and picked up a bit of powder. Satoru had resisted at first, incoherent and unwilling to trust anyone or anything, but Sukuna had coaxed him into calming down, into opening his mouth and letting Sukuna rub the powder over his gums. It would hit slower, last longer, stave off the comedown until Sukuna could figure out what the fuck to do and how to help him. It worked, for a little while; Satoru had calmed down, eased by another dose, and the rest of what he told the officers had been true.

Satoru had begged him to keep the whole thing a secret, and, to his shame, he had.

As he walks down the streets, Yuuji’s colorful middle school comes into view, already swarming with kids waiting for their parents to come pick them up. Most days, Yuuji had some sort of sport or club, but this Friday, they’d all been cancelled because of the weather coming in. Now, Yuuji stands obediently by his teacher’s side, chatting animatedly to a dark-haired boy next to him. The boy is pretty tiny, particularly compared to Yuuji, and his expression is blank and unreadable despite Yuuji’s rambling. If Sukuna hadn’t already known the kid pretty well, he would’ve guessed that he hated Yuuji. 

“Yuuji,” he calls as he approaches. 

He sees it as Yuuji looks up at him, his eyes widening before he turns back to Megumi. He tells the other boy something, and Megumi nods, watching as Yuuji races away from his school and towards Sukuna. Whoever it is that picks Megumi up, Sukuna has never seen them, but every time he asks if Megumi needs a ride home, he always politely declines. The teachers, at least, always stay until every kid is picked up.

“Hey, kiddo.” Yuuji grins at his greeting, bumping up into his side as Sukuna reaches out to ruffle his hair. He’s getting pretty big now, almost to Sukuna’s shoulder, and built like a damn horse—eats like one, too. Sukuna takes his backpack from him and slings it over his own shoulder, throwing his free arm out around Yuuji’s shoulders. “How was school?”

“It was okay,” Yuuji says absently, far more preoccupied with trying to match his steps up to Sukuna’s. His legs aren’t quite long enough, but it’s funny watching him try, anyway. “Can we get a snack on the way home? I’m hungry.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sukuna asks, “What happened to your lunch?”

“I shared it with some girl who didn’t have money for the cafeteria food.”

“Yuuji,” Sukuna sighs, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 

Whatever good that Sukuna used to have, he’s convinced that Yuuji absorbed it the moment he was born—through osmosis, or something. He’s nothing like Sukuna at all. He cares about his school, he cares about his schoolwork (even if he isn’t the smartest), and he cares a great deal about his classmates, even at his own expense. He’s a great kid with or without Sukuna’s intervention; maybe in spite of it. Maybe what saved him was the years he spent with their parents, away from Sukuna, before the crash happened and they were both left alone. He’s unspoiled; untainted. He’d kill to keep Yuuji that way, even if his little brother’s good will exasperates him more times than not.

“We can get somethin’ small,” he relents, trying not to rescind his offer when he hears Yuuji’s excited shout. “But if you spoil your appetite for grandpa’s, don’t come runnin’ to me. I’m not savin’ your ass.”

“I won’t!” Yuuji says, too excited to really process what Sukuna is saying.

So, they end up stopping by the 7-Eleven on their way back home. He hands Yuuji a ten dollar bill and sends him off while he picks up a pack of smokes for himself. He tucks them into his pocket after he pays, before leaning against the counter by the register, watching one of the TVs that plays up in the corner by the drink coolers. It’s on mute, but Sukuna doesn’t need to hear it to know what the news anchors are talking about. They’re talking about the same thing that everyone is talking about: the lawsuit filed against Satoru by his old bosses.

The entire thing, in Sukuna’s opinion, is a fucking sham, and a joke played by the justice system. Defamation, breach of contract, fraudulent misrepresentation, tortious interference… the lawsuit had been filed near immediately after Suguru Geto’s article dropped, and despite the fact that the article mentioned a half dozen other victims in explicit detail long before Satoru’s name was even mentioned, he’s the only one they’re gunning after—and they’re gunning after him, hard. Sukuna had barely made it through a few minutes of the first newscast on the start of the trial before he had to shut the whole fucking thing off. It was less of a legal battle and more of a legal murder, and Sukuna can’t, for the life of him, understand why the fuck anyone is allowing it to even happen.

Satoru hadn’t even hired an attorney. He showed up to the courthouse alone, accepted ‘responsibility’ for the article, and seemed to be paying out whatever the hell those vultures wanted from him. The settlement had just been… utterly obscene. Of Satoru’s nearly $700 million net worth, the courts had actually allowed them to ask for—and be given—$380 million. It had shocked everyone: analysist, commentators, anchors, law experts, even normal everyday people. 

Sukuna couldn’t wrap his mind on how it had ever been allowed. How could any damages done to their reputation be that high? Why had no one stopped them? Why had no one stopped Satoru?

Even now, they’re still talking about it on the news as Satoru’s net worth continues to fall and fall. After the lawsuit, he had been dropped by nearly everyone he worked with—his record label, his management, his agent, even his publicist and half of his PR team. They dropped like flies, and with the payout that they’d taken, Sukuna had no delusions about exactly why. They got their paycheck, and there was no need to hover around Satoru’s corpse for more scraps. They had taken everything that could be taken.

It disgusts him. It enrages him. It bewilders him.

“Sukuna?”

A voice interrupts him from his thoughts. Blinking, he looks away from the news report and down, finding Yuuji standing just next to him. His arms are full of cheap snacks and a bottle of soda, and if Sukuna were in his right mind, he’d have told Yuuji to put half of that shit back, but… his mind is elsewhere. For all that he’s done today already, he still has more to do.

“Ready?” he asks. Yuuji nods, oddly somber; maybe he can tell the kind of mood that Sukuna’s in. He’s not exactly being very subtle with it. 

He manages to shove enough of his snacks into his hoodie pocket to free up one hand, which he promptly uses to grab onto Sukuna’s to lace their fingers together as they leave the 7-Eleven behind. Sukuna tucks both of their hands into his jacket pocket as the wind picks up, bringing in the promise of rain and warmer temperatures. The sky overhead is full of clouds threatening a downpour, so he hurries them back home, where Yuuji will pack his things up for the weekend so they can get back on the road before dark. 

It starts to rain on their way up to their grandfather’s house, and Wasuke chides Sukuna for not dressing Yuuji in his raincoat before they left the house. Sukuna tends to forget that Wasuke has raised his own children except for times like these, when he frets over the rain drenching Yuuji’s hair and the snack wrappers falling out of his pockets. Of course, Sukuna ends up catching shit for ruining Yuuji’s appetite for dinner, and Wasuke levels him with a lengthy, narrow-eyed lecture about teenagers and nutrition before he finally lets Sukuna leave for the night.

Yuuji will be staying with Wasuke for the weekend, while Sukuna makes his way back into the city. The roads are slick with rain, and thunder rumbles overhead as he drives in the traffic of people trying to get home and dodge the worst of the storm. It takes him a little longer to get into the city than he was expecting, but thankfully, the address he’s heading to hasn’t changed in three years, so he still remembers the shortcuts and—thankfully—the gate code.

He parks in front of one of the Gojo residences, the luxury apartment building inhabited exclusively by Satoru and his day-to-day staff. Or, at least, it would be, except it’s just as empty as Sukuna remembers it. He can see maybe two or three people wandering around the din hallways by their shadows in the windows, but evidently, Satoru hasn’t changed much on how much he dislikes living in a house full of staff. The rain pounds overhead, pattering against his jacket as he races from his parked car to the front door, shaking droplets off of his hair and clothes. He rings the doorbell and waits, hoping that someone, at least, will answer. 

A few moments pass. He can’t hear any footsteps, so he debates ringing it again, but he hears the sound of the door unlocking. He glances up, unsure of who he’s going to see, only to find Satoru himself peeking around the edge of the door.

“...Sukuna?” he asks, sounding stunned.

“Satoru.” Smiling, Sukuna’s shoulders relax, relief flooding through him. He really had been gambling on whether or not Satoru would actually be here—his luck won out. “Hey.”

“Uh, hi? Jesus, what are you doing here?” Satoru asks, still shocked as he pulls the door open enough to let Sukuna in. The apartment is dark, all the lights already dimmed, and as Sukuna hangs his jacket up to dry, he catches sight of Satoru’s appearance. He’s dressed in his comfortable clothes, the hoodie and sweatpants, and over his eyes are a pair of nearly blacked-out sunglasses that Sukuna would wonder how he even sees through them if he hadn’t seen them before. His headphones are down and around his neck, his lips parted as he looks at Sukuna. “Holy shit. How long has it been?”

“Three years, give or take,” Sukuna says, a little sheepish. “Sorry for not seein’ you sooner. Yuuji’s been keeping me busy. It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, it’s good to see you, too,” Satoru says. “Fuck, um. Towel?”

“Please.”

Satoru leads him into the kitchen, the same as he remembers it, and pulls a towel off the counter to toss to Sukuna. Sukuna takes it gratefully, toweling off his wet hair and shoulders in the quiet kitchen, where he and Satoru stand alone. He doesn’t hear any other people besides them; every light is turned off, except for the floodlights on the floor. That, with Satoru’s sunglasses and headphones, isn’t a good sign. Sukuna tries to hide his wince.

“What’s the occasion?” Satoru asks.

When Sukuna looks up at him, he’s leaning against the counter, his arms crossed and hands tucked into his hoodie. It’s cold in here, after all. “Can’t I just come by and see you?”

“After three years?” Satoru asks wryly. “Forgive me if I assume something is up.”

“Sorry, Yuuji’s has a lot goin’ on, and I started a new job,” Sukuna says, feeling guilty. He did mean to come see Satoru sooner, but… he has a couple of reasons why he hasn’t, and none of them are good ones. “Um, how are you?”

“Great.” Satoru’s tone is flat, utterly dry and toneless, and Sukuna can’t quite hide this wince.

“Sorry, I know the case and all-”

“Can we not talk about that?” Satoru says, his voice cracking harshly. Sukuna’s a little too stunned to be spoken to like that, by Satoru of all people, to do anything other than stand with his mouth open. For a moment, silence stretches between them, before Satoru sighs and asks, almost as a peace offering, “...how is Yuuji?”

“He’s, uh, he’s good,” Sukuna says, slowly. He’s trying not to be too distracted—Satoru changed the subject for a reason. Yuuji, at least, is a good middle ground, at least until he can figure out how to talk to Satoru like he used to. “He’s likin’ his middle school. I think he’s gotta be friends with just about every kid there. You know how he is.”

“Yeah, I do,” Satoru says. This time, his words come out a little bit softer; he relaxes somewhat, tucking his chin into the collar of his hoodie. “Sorry. I’ve been jumpy.”

“‘s okay,” Sukuna says softly. “I get it. I can come back another time…?”

Satoru shakes his head quickly. “No, don’t, I could use the company, really, I’m just…”

Sukuna watches as Satoru lifts a hand to his forehead, sighing softly as he presses his palm to his skin. Sukuna tries not to frown, but it doesn’t quite work; he knows what that means. He hesitates for a moment, but he ends up giving in to his instincts. Stepping forward, he reaches out, keeping his hand slow so as not to startle Satoru. Sukuna brushes white hair out of his eyes, replacing Satoru’s palm with his own, cooler fingers. Satoru leans into it, and for a long moment, they sit in silence, broken only by the sound of the rain pattering on the pavement outside.

“Your head?” Sukuna asks quietly. Satoru doesn’t answer verbally, but the nod he gives is enough of an explanation.

After all, when your superstar was on the face of every magazine and newspaper in the country, you couldn’t hit him anywhere that left a mark. 

“You wanna go lay back down?” he asks. He figures that’s where Satoru probably was before he came—curled up in bed, eyes and ears covered, trying to weather the storm of his migraine. It’s not the first time, but hopefully, it’ll be the last. Satoru nods again, and Sukuna runs his hand back through Satoru’s hair. “Do you want me to go?”

“Stay,” Satoru murmurs. He leans into Sukuna’s hand, lowering his head until his temple is pressed to the damp fabric atop Sukuna’s shoulder. His hand comes free from his hoodie, instead tangling in Sukuna’s shirt, holding on tight. “Please.”

The thing is, Sukuna isn’t a stupid man. He isn’t an idiot by any means. He knows that when Satoru asks him to stay, please, exactly what it is that Satoru is asking for. The same thing he always asks for. The same thing that Sukuna has spent three years trying to avoid, this hurricane of drugs and sex and secrets that could never see the light of day. He’s spent three years trying to… unlearn that, to separate himself and be a better man for Yuuji. He’s spent two years sober, going to AA and NA meetings, keeping his nose down and avoiding the life he used to live, but…

The one addiction that he was never quite able to break is holding onto him and asking him “Please.”

Sukuna is too weak to resist.

So, he helps Satoru out of the kitchen and through the dark hallways, up the stairs and back to the same bedroom that he’s kept even after all this time. He toes off his socks and shoes at the door, shirking his wet shirt, following Satoru’s entreating gaze towards the bed at the center of the room. It’s Satoru’s personal bed, the one he seldom shares with others; Sukuna is not oblivious to the significance of this. He’s not oblivious, either, to Satoru’s intentions when he holds the sheets back for Sukuna to join him.

He climbs into the bed with him, and for a moment, he can fool himself into believing that this is all that it will be. He lets Satoru get situated, first, trading his sunglasses for a thicker, softer blindfold, the headphones snug over his ears, body lax beneath the blankets. Then, Sukuna joins him, curled at Satoru’s side as the younger man presses closer to him. They’re glued together, shoulder to foot, the warmth building between them beneath the blankets as he wraps an arm around Satoru’s waist and pulls him closer. It’s comfortable; familiar. Just one iteration in the string of many, many nights of sleeping the same way—sometimes with other bodies, and sometimes, not. 

It’s easy to trick himself into believing that this is it. They’ll just sleep, and in the morning, Satoru will be better, and they’ll talk. For a few minutes, it seems like that. He’s lulled into relaxation by the sound of Satoru’s steady, calm breathing, the feeling of skin against his, the quiet sound of his heartbeat in his own ears. It’s like no time at all has passed, like those three years behind them don’t exist at all, and Sukuna has been here this whole time. He’s warming Satoru’s bed, and no time has passed at all.

It hasn’t passed, because just as he did then, Satoru’s hand starts to wander. It’s nearly innocent at first, an unspoken invitation, but he knows what it means when Satoru’s fingers find his thigh. When he presses back into Sukuna’s hold, tucking his head beneath Sukuna’s chin as best as he can with his headphones in the way. His lips can’t quite find Sukuna’s skin, but that’s fine; that’s Sukuna’s part to play.

His hand slides down to dip beneath the edge of Satoru’s hoodie and splay across his smooth, muscled stomach, earning a soft shiver in response. Satoru pushes harder into him, and the need for proximity becomes a need for friction, for movement, as Satoru finds the bend of Sukuna’s waist and pushes into it. His hand twines together with Sukuna’s as his free hand dives into Sukuna’s hair, scratching against his scalp as he leans down to press his lips to smooth skin, earning a soft noise from the man in his arms. 

The way they move together is natural, but Sukuna takes his time with it, takes more care than usual. He pushes Satoru back into the pillows, keeping him gently pinned there until Satoru gets the hint and becomes still. He lays obediently for Sukuna’s direction, helping to guide off his hoodie, to shrug off his sweatpants as Sukuna trails kisses down his exposed skin. Satoru is as pale as he always has been, skin carefully curated by watchful eyes and guiding hands, free of marks or scars or even hair. Sukuna guides his briefs down impossibly perfect legs that stretch so long, so endlessly, held in his hands as he kisses pale red marks along Satoru’s calves and thighs.

Every sound he gets in response is breath-taking, makes his heart skip a beat and his breath come up short. Satoru is a sight to behold, so handsome and perfect under the pale moonlight, his soft gasps and encouraging moans swallowed up by the patter of rain outside. He’s so receptive, so eager, so pliable and malleable, the same as he always was. It’s like no time has changed at all—Satoru is as perfect as the day he left. 

He’s too perfect to be natural, too ethereal to have been shaped by the lottery of genetics. Sukuna always thinks that Satoru is more like an expensive, beautiful, hand-crafted piece of glasswork, one that stays tucked away behind velvet ropes and security guards, because one careless touch is all that it would take to shatter him. He’s been too thoughtfully created to endure such a risk—everything about him, down to the noises he makes, the words he says, the way he flexes and arches and writhes, is all curated. Selectively bred. Selectively trained.

There’s no use trying to pick out what’s real and what isn’t, what’s been practiced and what comes up in the heat of the moment, because at the end of the day, it’s not as if Satoru knows, either. There hasn’t been a time in his life where Satoru has been himself, where he’s been his own person. Every part of him has been shaped and perfected by human hands; it’s an unfathomable treasure to be able to touch him, but at the same time, an unspeakable tragedy. What he holds in his hands, when they join together and Satoru clings to his shoulders, is not some naturally occurring gift. What he holds is, in a way, a bastard product of selective breeding and handling. 

Guilt and desire threaten to tear him apart, pulling his soul in different directions. Satoru, of course, is none the wiser. He’s caught in the throes of pleasure, legs tight around Sukuna’s hips, rocking down into every thrust with lips parted on gasping moans. He’s so warm, and soft, and wet, and his lips are as eager as his hands, sucking and biting along Sukuna’s throat and shoulders with unrestrained fervor. His fingernails claw through Sukuna’s skins, moans rending the air as he tightens and cums, falling apart in Sukuna’s hands.

He can’t help but stare, as he waits and gives Satoru time to catch his breath. Even in the moonlight, he can see the flush as it travels down Satoru’s chest, his cheeks stained pink and lips bitten raw. With his eyes and ears concealed, he’s forced to rely on Sukuna for guidance, but then again, that’s how he has always liked it. He only sighs in contented pleasure when Sukuna spoons him, re-entering him from behind with a moan shared between them both. His long leg drapes over Sukuna’s hip, gripped between broad, tanned fingers and held in place. 

The slide is smooth, slick, and as he fucks Satoru slower this time, his fingers find their way into Satoru’s gasping mouth. Satoru clings to his hand, sucking and biting down on the digits in his mouth, panting and crying out as he’s filled over, and over again. Sukuna doesn’t think that he’s like the stars people see on television, in their porn or their erotic films; no, he thinks those people must be based on Satoru, on the kind of performer who plays his act so well that even he doesn’t know where it ends, and where his own self begins. Maybe in that sense, this is a cruelty, but that just becomes another reason on a long, long list that Sukuna has been carrying for years.

Completion brings him pleasure, and relief, and relaxation as the condom is thrown aside and he pulls the blankets back up over them both. Satoru is asleep in his arms in moments, wrung out, leaving Sukuna alone in the darkness of Satoru’s bedroom, watching the rain pour down through the window.

Completion brings him pleasure, yes, but with that comes that same feeling of guilt, and of shame. This part of his life has never been something that he was proud of, and three years ago, he swore to leave it all behind. A relapse feels like an odd way to describe it, but in essence, that’s what this really is. Satoru is a drug that he gave up, years ago, but in one night, he’s back where he started, and neither of them are better off for it. The weight of the information that he holds is heavy within him; even now, he’s not making the choices that he should. Selfishly, he debates telling Satoru at all. He’ll know come morning, regardless.

He’ll tell Satoru in the morning. He will. He’ll face the music, and he’ll do the thing he should have done the moment Satoru opened the door and let him in.

For now, though, he sleeps.


The illusion is ruined in the daylight. Beneath Satoru’s nose is a streak of white that he, when Sukuna points it out, runs his thumb over and licks off of his finger. 

Without any of the hesitance from the night before, he points at a pan of splattered eggs and asks, “Breakfast?”

Sukuna, truthfully, does not want anything that Satoru is cooking, but at least when he’s cooking, he’s not re-upping on whatever dose he took when Sukuna was still asleep. How Satoru manages to be absolutely fine with getting high at the ripe time of nine in the morning is utterly beyond him, and at the same time, uncomfortably reminiscent of the days before he got sober. He remembers how it felt to wake up in the morning, feeling like the world was crashing down on you until you shot up, snorted, or drank. He remembers how desperate he felt to cling on to those brief moments of peace between withdrawal and the high itself, when for once, he just felt normal.

These days, Yuuji makes him feel normal. Coffee in the morning makes him feel normal. The weekends where he makes pancakes and french toast, in that cold and quiet time before Yuuji wakes up, makes him feel normal. He wonders when Satoru feels normal—if a time like that ever even existed for him. It’s an uneasy reminder of what he’s actually here to do.

The eggs he’s handed are barely edible, but Satoru looks proud of it, and Sukuna has a strong stomach, so he shovels them down fast enough that he can’t taste anything, and instead helps himself to Satoru’s coffee. His cabinet is filled with the stupid expensive flavored stuff that Sukuna doesn’t honestly care for, but at the very back (likely stashed away by Satoru’s night shift security) is a box of blessedly normal coffee, albeit in k-cups what with the only coffee maker around being Satoru’s keurig. He starts himself a cup, and as he waits for it to brew, he tells himself that he’s not procrastinating.

“So,” he starts, keeping his eyes on the machine as it drips coffee into a white porcelain mug. “What all do you have goin’ on today?’

“Today?” Satoru repeats thoughtfully. His mouth is audibly full, but thankfully, before he speaks again, he swallows. “Not much. Not exactly a lot of music to be making these days, so… sleeping and fucking around it is. I might have Yorozu over later. You should see her, she misses you.”

I don’t miss her, Sukuna thinks flatly. He tries to school his expression as he picks up his mug and holds it in his hands, letting the warmth cool his fingers while he turns around and finally faces Satoru. Somehow, the other man managed to actually enjoy the nuclear waste of a breakfast he had created for himself, though no meal is complete without a dessert. He tries not to look too hard on the pills Satoru takes with his water, and whether they’re legal or not. “Maybe you and me could just spend the day together.”

“I already invited her,” Satoru says, shrugging. He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, utterly leisurely. “What, you don’t wanna see her?”

No, I don’t want to see the worst fucking person I’ve ever dated in my life, he thinks, but he says instead, “No, I just… figured we could catch up.”

“We still can,” Satoru says.

He’s not getting the point, so Sukuna sighs and finally says, “I don’t like that you’re still hangin’ around her.”

“Why? Because it’s been years since you guys-”

“I don’t think you should be seein’ her,” Sukuna interrupts, because he knows where Satoru is about to go with that—and it’s not relevant, at all. He sees the way that Satoru recoils slightly, brows furrowing, and rushes to make more ground before Satoru can object. “Look, maybe this shit is a sign, right? This could be your way out, start fresh and get clean-”

“Like you?” Satoru asks. Sukuna has no real answer for that, so Satoru scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I see how it is. What, you got clean and now you get to tell me shit? Are you gonna ask me to give my life to Jesus next? Come on, Sukuna.”

“I’m being serious,” Sukuna says. He sets his mug down and moves closer, leaning against the counter just next to the table that Satoru sits at. “I’m not tryin’ to lecture you. We’re friends, right? A friend would say this shit to you.”

“Are we friends?” Satoru asks, brows furrowing further. “I mean, fuck, dude, you get sober and suddenly lose my number? It’s been three years, you don’t get to tell me what to do with my life.”

Sukuna tries not to sigh, but it’s hard not to; it’s hard to explain his reasons for leaving, because he thought that surely Satoru would’ve understood. Years ago, they could have had entire conversations without speaking a word. “You know why I left, Satoru.”

“Yeah, I know why,” Satoru argues. “I get it, I get that you probably got tired of having shit handed to you, huh? All you had to do was keep me company and get me high, and I paid you better than anyone else would’ve. But sure, fuck me, right? Fuck every time I accommodated your hours, or let you call off for Yuuji, or lent you money for his sports or clubs and shit.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Sukuna pinches his brow, rubbing away the feeling of an oncoming headache. 

Satoru, however, doesn’t hesitate to keep pushing. “No, it was, wasn’t it? You took what you wanted and fucked off. So now you get sober, and you’ve come to rescue me, because I clearly can’t take care of myself.”

“Can you?” Irritation slips into Sukuna’s voice against his will, his temper starting to loosen no matter how he tries to suppress it. “When was the last time you stayed sober for longer than an hour, huh? It’s not even ten in the fuckin’ morning and you’ve already done a line and a handful of pills. Who knows how much more?”

“You don’t get to judge me,” Satoru hisses. “You weren’t any better in your heyday, or did you just conveniently forget that? You can drop the fucking savior complex, it’s an ugly look on you.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Sukuna says, voice low and carefully level. “And don’t act like I took the easy way out. You don’t know shit about how hard it was to get to where I am today.”

“So, we’re comparing hardship now?” Satoru asks, livid.

“No.” Sukuna gives in to his urge to sigh, picking his hands up to rub at his face. This isn’t what he came here for, what he was hoping to do, what he was hoping to say. He needs to focus, redirect the conversation back to safer ground, because it’s now or never. He can either help Satoru do this the easy way, or the hard way, and he’d really, really rather avoid the hard way. “Listen, Satoru, I’m not tryin’ to get on your case, okay? I just think you should think about-”

“Thought about it,” Satoru cuts in tersely. “No thanks.”

“-taking the chance to jump ship while you can,” Sukuna continues, pressing onwards. “You won’t get another chance like this. Sell what you can and we can just- we can get out of here, okay? You can come with me, come see Yuuji for a while. You know he misses you. At least come visit, I can get you an appointment with my rehab therapist.”

“Why are you doing this?” Satoru asks. His expression becomes bewildered the longer that Sukuna speaks, confusion and anger reflected with dizzying force in his narrowed eyes.

“Just give it a chance,” Sukuna pleads, his last bargaining chip. “For yourself. Fuck it, for me, if that’s what it takes, I don’t give a shit, just listen to me.”

“Would you shut up already?” Satoru demands. “Where the hell is all of this coming from, huh? Did someone put you up to this?”

Sukuna’s jaw snaps shut. Pure defeat starts to trickle through him, cold and uneasy, as he realizes that his last resort has failed. He had been hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, he could convince Satoru to do this himself, to come forward willingly before the justice system takes the choice away from him, but it’s no use. 

“Sukuna,” Satoru says, slowly and warily. “Answer me. Did someone put you up to this?”

“No,” Sukuna says, and it’s not the truth, not really. His words come out weak, without conviction. “I’m just saying, I think-”

“Someone did,” Satoru cuts in. He stands from his seat, eyes narrowing further and gaze growing suspicious as he looks over Sukuna with new, distrusting eyes. “Was it him? That dickhead reporter? Because I swear to God, Sukuna, if I found out you fucking told him anything-”

“That reporter doesn’t even matter now,” Sukuna blurts out, and it’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it when Satoru’s expression goes from suspicious to outright hostile. “It’s past the damn article, Satoru, can’t you see that?”

“I settled the lawsuit,” Satoru says, each word alight with anger. “I paid out every fucking one of them. What the hell do you mean, it’s past the damn article?”

Sukuna can’t lie. He knows he can’t—the way Satoru is right now, he’ll sniff it out in seconds, and fill the absence of truth in with whatever his drugged-up mind can concoct. If there’s one thing that Sukuna has learned over the years, it’s that Satoru’s idle mind truly is the devil’s playground, so he reluctantly confesses, “...they’re buildin’ a case. A new one.”

A dead silence settles between the two of them. Admittedly, Sukuna is too much of a coward to look Satoru in the eyes, so he chooses instead to stare at his feet. His skin feels as if ants are crawling beneath it, pinned beneath the weight of Satoru’s stare. Then, very quietly…

“What?”

“The Department of Justice,” Sukuna clarifies, his voice equally quiet. “The FBI and Homeland Security are already investigatin’. You’re gonna be subpoenaed.”

“What?” Satoru asks again. When Sukuna finally musters the nerve to look up, Satoru’s face is ashen white, his hand white-knuckled around the edge of the table. “I… how?”

“We all came forward with Geto and JLN’s article,” Sukuna sighs. “Riko, Ui Ui, the Zenin girls… everyone.”

“We,” Satoru repeats. It’s not a question; it’s a statement. 

“We,” Sukuna says again. This is where Satoru might… actually kill him. “The cops have been askin’ around to see if anyone would come forward with information about this shit and-”

“Sukuna, you didn’t.”

“-I saw the tip line,” Sukuna continues, powering through before he loses his nerve. “So I called them, and I wasn’t gonna say anything, but they kept askin’ questions and- and one of them asked me if I could come in and tell them more, because they didn’t have a lot for your case-”

“Please tell me you’re lying.”

“-so I told them,” he finishes. His palms are sweating as Satoru stares at him, eyes wide and face pale. Like Sukuna had just ripped the rug out from beneath him—and in a way, he has. “About, um. The shit that happened with Hideki, and that guy.”

“Sukuna,” Satoru breathes, and that single word is filled with such a deep tone of pure and utter betrayal that for a moment, it makes him want to shrivel up and turn to dust. He knows, he knows that he did the right thing, that he did the right thing for Satoru, but right now, he’s having a hard fucking time remembering any reason not to find the nearest time traveling machine and undo all of this. The betrayal in Satoru’s eyes is too much. All trust eradicated. Years and years of friendship destroyed, and all he can do is pray that this will be worth it, that the feds will find something to make this all worth it. 

“How could you?” Satoru asks. His free hand is trembling at his side, nails digging into the table. “You swore, you fucking swore-”

“I know I did,” Sukuna snaps. He raises his hands up to run through his hair erratically, wishing that he’d at least allowed himself to keep smoking because a cigarette would be a goddamn gift right now. “I know, and I fucked up, okay? I never should have promised you that shit. If I could go back, I woulda called the cops the second I saw it happened, but I didn’t, and I’m sorry.”

“Nothing happened. Nothing happened!” Satoru’s voice breaks, rage and betrayal and upset bursting forth all at once. He scrubs his hands over his face, breath picking up. “For fuck’s sake, Sukuna, nothing happened! You’re just- you’re adding to all this shit, and I don’t need it! I have enough going on without you getting the feds involved! Jesus Christ!”

“I know what I saw,” Sukuna insists, “I never lied to them. What the hell are you talking about, ‘it never happened’? We both know it did!”

Satoru’s blue eyes are red-rimmed, veins raised and irritated as he scowls at Sukuna from between his fingers. “It didn’t, and with how many drugs you were on back then, I don’t know why the hell anyone would listen to what the fuck you have to say!”

Sukuna recoils. “Are you serious? Fuck you, Satoru, that’s a low fuckin’ blow. I know what I saw. You can lie to that reporter, you can lie to the courts, but you can’t lie to me. They fuckin’ assaulted you and we all know it!”

“It didn’t-”

“Could you at least admit it?” Sukuna demands. “To me? You can say whatever the fuck you want to anyone else, I don’t give a shit, but don’t fucking lie to me, not after-”

“Fine!” Satoru snaps. “Fine! Fine, I was assaulted! Fine, I was raped! Fine, I’ve been raped almost every single day of my fucking life for the past sixteen goddamn years! Is that what you want to hear? I mean, fuck, Sukuna! Does that change anything? What fucking difference does it make to you?”

Sukuna’s jaw snaps shut. Somewhere, in some subconscious part of himself, he knows that now isn’t the time to speak. Not when the truth is spilling forth. Not when the image is put aside, and the real Satoru stands in front of him, panting and red-faced with fury.

“Do you think I want everyone to know that? Huh? You think I want everyone to know that there hasn’t been a single fucking man in my life who hasn’t bent me over?” Satoru presses, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you think I want everyone to know that I lost my virginity at ten years old? That I wouldn't have gone viral in the first place if I wasn’t recording videos for my fucking uncle to jack off to? What the fuck do you want me to say, Sukuna? Please, tell me, so we never have to have this fucking conversation again!”

“Except, we can’t now, can we?” Satoru asks, tone bordering on hysterical. “I don’t have a choice anymore, do I? No, now I have to stand in front of the country in the fucking courts and tell them every goddamn detail— or I’ll be arrested! And it’s your fucking fault! You and that stupid reporter and those stupid vultures! If you want me to talk so fucking bad, how about this?”

Before Sukuna’s eyes, Satoru crosses the kitchen, and Sukuna doesn’t register where he’s going—not at first, until Satoru’s hand reaches for the knife block and Sukuna’s brain connects the dots. He hears the sound of metal on wood as the knife flashes in the kitchen light and Satoru brandishes it wildly, like he’s not holding a blade’s edge in his palm.

“You can have it, alright!” Satoru says, expression twisted in a sneer as the knife waves again. “You can have the fucking story over my dead b-”

On pure instinct, Sukuna lunges forward, eyes glued to the threatening flash of the blade. He grabs Satoru’s hand hard enough to twist bone, jerking it away from Satoru’s body as the other man fights him. He snarls and writhes, but he’s always been smaller than Sukuna. The knife clatters across the ground as Sukuna wrenches Satoru’s arms back and away, his chest hitting Satoru’s back. He yanks Satoru away from the knife block, running on pure adrenaline, heart pounding loud and hard in his chest. 

“Let me go!” Satoru spits. “Fuck you, let me go! Asshole! Traitor!”

He can’t—can’t even control his own body anymore. It’s on autopilot that he backs against the counter, holding Satoru tight in his arms. The realization hits him slowly, trickling in over seconds of Satoru fighting his grip. Satoru was going to kill himself. Right there, right in front of him, and if he had moved a second later-

“Let me go!” Satoru’s voice isn’t as strong anymore, tone rent through with distress and upset as his rage flees him. It’s always like this when he’s high—he’s always so brightly, incandescently rageful, and when it flees, the despair comes in. It’s the same cycle, unchanged even after the years Sukuna has been away. He knows that if he waits, if he just holds tight enough, the fight will drain away. “Let me go, let me go, let me go!”

He doesn’t. He stands there against the counter, a writhing creature of fury in his arms, until the squirming stops, the screaming dies down, and the tears start. For a moment, he can’t think of how to react like he usually does, because no matter how bad Satoru’s meltdowns get, no matter how many drugs he’s on, it has never been like this. He’d never tried to… and Sukuna can’t even imagine it. The very thought terrifies him. He almost lost Satoru. He almost lost Satoru.

“Fuck you,” Satoru is sobbing in his arms, nails carving crescent moons into Sukuna’s skin. “Fuck you, you ruined everything. I had a plan. You ruined everything.”

“Yeah?” Sukuna says, and his words are hollow; he’s not back in his body, not yet. 

“Employment contracts expire. You fucking traitor, they were gonna let me go. I was so close, you ruined everything.”

“And they’d just let you go?” Sukuna asks tiredly. When the adrenaline leaves, it leaves him cold, body trembling with the sudden weakness he feels without panic to fuel him. He can’t hold Satoru hostage any longer, but neither of them move, stuck in this limbo between the past and the future. Even still, he knows that Satoru’s ‘plan’, if it can even be called that, is futile. Somewhere, deep down, Satoru knows it too. “After all these years, they’d just let you go? No questions asked?”

“They would,” Satoru insists. His voice is weak and wet with tears. “They would’ve. I know they would’ve.”

“They wouldn’t,” Sukuna says, ending Satoru’s delusion with those two words. “They know you, they know what it takes to force your hand. You’d sign on more contracts. They’d wring you dry until you were no better than Yorozu. You’d be forty and washed up, wrung out, and left for dead. We know this. You know this.”

“Fuck you.” It’s all Satoru can say; the only thing he has left. “Fuck you.”

A lion’s den awaits Satoru—bloodthirsty beasts that don’t care to eat, don’t care to fight death, only care to tear him apart for the pure joy of nothing else but to see blood flowing. What’s done is done; inevitable, in a way. A reckoning that would have come about no matter what.

They both know that now, the only way forward is through.

Notes:

as always, check my twitter for more sneak peeks and updates!

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Chapter 8: september, 2019 - interlude

Notes:

so this is not a full chapter, merely one in a series of three 'interlude' chapters i am writing in order to cover some scenes that i feel don't necessarily contribute to the plot of this story, but do contribute to some background knowledge, emotional development, etc etc.

this interlude is #2, and the first interlude will actually be RETROACTIVELY POSTED between chapters 5 and 6. if you see an update in this fic but cannot find the new chapter, look for the one labeled 'june, 2019 - interlude'.

chapter warnings: drug abuse, drug addiction, suicidal ideation, active planning of a suicide, suicidal thoughts, referenced sexual abuse, satoru's litany of mental issues, implied cheating

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

He can hear his phone ringing somewhere in the apartment. It’s an incessant and unending chiming that goes on for a minute or so, disrupting the silence, before it cuts off. Then, inevitably, a few minutes later, it starts up again, loud and piercing from wherever it is in the building. He’s actually not sure where he left his cellphone; he vaguely remembers dumping it somewhere in the living room, but that’s about two floors beneath his current position in bed. Somehow, he still hears it as if it were ringing right next to him.

Chiming, then silence. Chiming, then silence. Over and over again for hours on end. 

If he had the energy, he would get up and silence it, but he’s lacking that, currently. He’s currently out of both the powder and pill form of ‘energy’, and getting more would mean either listening to Yorozu’s piercing cackles every time she remembers his lament, or suffering through an awkward ordeal of calling up the security that he had dismissed in an incoherent rage during the first day of his withdrawal to tell one of them to grab him something. Neither of those options sounds remotely tolerable, no matter how miserable he currently is, so he sits in his misery and listens to the phone chime and chime and chime. 

He’s so fucking sick of it—the people who call him over and over to no end, no matter how many times he ignores the calls. It’s been days. He has no peace. If it isn’t his phone, then it’s flashing cameras outside his window, or knocking at his front door. He hates it. He hates everyone.

It’s not energy that fuels his movement, but rather in incandescent annoyance, thrumming wildly beneath his veins as he forces himself out of his bed and into the hallway. He follows the sound of the ringing down two flights of stairs and around a corner, but it’s not in his living room like he thought. No, for some reason, it’s on his kitchen counter, not that he can remember putting it there. Then again, there isn’t much that he remembers these days, so in the end… what does it matter?

He picks up his vibrating phone and denies the call that’s currently plaguing him, turning his phone on silent and placing it face-down back on the kitchen counter. It solves the source of his irritation but does nothing with the uneasiness he feels throbbing in his veins. He feels like those colonies of ants, from the videos where someone pours gasoline down their hive and sets it alight. The ants panic; they run, with nowhere to go. Just a roiling mass of bodies, climbing over each other for the chance to escape. Frenetic energy. No outlet.

He picks up his phone and throws it against the wall as hard as he can. He watches it shatter into pieces, glass flying and metal bits skittering across the floor, the sound deafening in the silence that surrounds him. Frenetic energy finds an outlet. 

Unblinking, he looks away from the mess, finally at something resembling peace. Before he can get far, his back hits something hard, and firm, and the first vestiges of awareness start to trickle into him. It’s too late, far too late; by the time he registers that something is covering his mouth, his breath drawing up in his lungs to scream, something presses against the side of his jaw, and he freezes. Whatever it is, it’s cold, hard, and carries the faintest scent of metal polish. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what it is: a gun, the muzzle of it denting the skin of his cheek. The message is clear, even if it is unspoken. Don’t move, don’t scream. 

His mind races, his heart pounding double time in his chest. It’s the first time in weeks that he’s felt present in his own body, a body that he’s prepared to give up. This is not how he wants to die, brains blown across his own kitchen counter, and he’s ready to give up whatever he needs to to keep it from happening. 

Then, a ghost of breath across his ear. A shiver races up his spine. He’ll do what he has to. 

“Kidneys,” a voice rasps, as the gun trails teasingly down his throat. “Liver, lungs, pancreas… they run a damn good price on the market, you know. Eyes aren’t as valuable, but for a pair of peepers like yours, I could negotiate.”

The gun comes to a stop over his chest, the muzzle tapping against his chest once, twice, before resting there. A chin hooks over his shoulder and this time, the voice is closer, words practically murmured right into his ear.

“Now, a heart,” they say, amusement in their voice. “That’s 80 grand, easy. Add that to the check I get for putting a bullet in your head? That’s retirement money, doll.”

Doll? His eyes narrow—he recognizes that nickname. In one motion, he throws his elbow back until he hears a breathy ‘oof’, shoving himself free of arms that hardly resist his movement. It’s dark in the kitchen, but when he turns around, expression twisted in an annoyed scowl, he recognizes shaggy black hair and green eyes. What really gives Toji’s identity away, however, is that stupid cocky, scarred smile that he gives him, like he wasn’t just threatening him with a gun and telling him how much he could sell his organs for on the black market. And putting a bullet in his head? What the hell is he talking about?

“You’ve been gettin’ yourself into trouble, Satoru,” Toji says, grinning. He steps back to lean against the counter, tucking his gun back into the waistband of his pants. His muscles ripple as he folds his arms, and Satoru watches it warily, unable to shake his feeling of unease even if he knows who it is, now. He’s only met Toji a handful of times, after all, and having sex with a man once doesn’t mean he can be trusted—Satoru knows that better than anyone. “Wanna tell me why I’ve got offers for your head in a basket?”

“I think you’d know better than me,” Satoru says. He can’t remember what’s left of his security. Is it one person? Two? He can’t remember if they run shifts. Whatever he has, it’s not enough if Toji can get through. His eye flickers towards the hallway, where someone is supposed to be making rounds, and even if it only lasts for barely a millisecond or two, he knows that Toji sees it—the man’s grin widens, and his eyes flash. 

“He’s asleep,” Toji says, amused. “Cut down your staff too, huh? What, you got a death wish?”

“I don’t want them around,” Satoru says, because he’s not going to explain this all to Toji, not to a man who kills and maims for a living and likely doesn’t give half of a shit what Satoru has going on. “You took the hit?”

“Sure I did.” Toji shrugs, as if it were supposed to be obvious. 

“So, you’re going to kill me?” Satoru asks.

Toji’s teeth flash in the dim lighting. A predator at play. “‘course not.”

“You make no sense,” Satoru tells him. “Then why the hell did you take the hit?”

“Because they paid me half up front and contacted me directly to skip the middleman,” Toji says. “Serves them right. I got a handler for a reason. You got somethin’ to eat in here?”

Before Satoru can answer him, Toji is already pushing off the counter and straightening up, helping himself to Satoru’s kitchen. He opens up cupboards and noses around in them for something to eat—not that he’ll find much of anything left—before reaching for the fridge. That, too, is equally barren, and Toji pulls out a half empty handle of pink whitney with a wrinkled nose and a judgmental look in his eyes. He puts it right back into the fridge and closes it, looking a bit more miffed as he opens the freezer up, instead.

“You don’t got shit,” Toji informs him.

Satoru, for one, is too struck by the absurdity of the situation he’s in to say much of anything. He just tucks his hands into his hoodie pocket and watches Toji figure out that there really isn’t anything interesting to help himself to. “Not hungry these days.”

“Withdrawal will do that,” Toji says, ever perceptive. He doesn’t find anything other than a box of shitty organic fruit popsicles that someone on Satoru’s team must have purchased before he fired them all. Sighing, Toji grabs a red one out of the box before returning it to the freezer. He doesn’t even offer Satoru one, just pops the popsicle out of its plastic wrapper and sticks it into his mouth. He leaves the wrapper on the counter. “So? Why do these guys want you dead?”

“You’re supposed to answer that for me,” Satoru says, irritated. “How am I supposed to know?”

“Because it’s front-page news,” Toji says, licking his lips as he points his popsicle at Satoru. Annoying asshole, asking questions that he already has the answers to. Satoru almost forgot how annoyingly cocky he was. “All over the country. Can’t go anywhere without seein’ it.”

Scowling once again, Satoru prepares himself for a long, aggravating conversation, and decides to make himself comfortable. He pulls his hands out of his pockets to instead hop up onto the counter, leaning back against the wall so that he’s somewhat eye-level with Toji. If he’s going to entertain this when he’d much rather be alone in bed, he’s at least going to be comfortable while he’s doing it. “Then why the hell did you ask?”

“I said that it’s on the news, but the news says a lot of shit,” Toji says, shrugging. He sticks the popsicle back into his mouth, biting off a chunk of the end. His words come out muffled around a mouth full of flavored ice. “Figured I’d come hear it straight from the source.”

“Who says I’m saying anything?” Another crunch of the popsicle, and a fragment of it falls to the floor. Despite the pile of shattered phone bits in his kitchen, Satoru scowls at it, turning displeased eyes up at Toji. “Stop making a mess.”

“Sorry,” Toji says, entirely unapologetic. “Well, I could figure it out if I really wanted to, but somethin’ tells me you’ve had enough of that.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow. “You’re not funny.”

“Wasn’t tryin’ to be.”

“Then you have a funny way of going about it,” Satoru says. “You break into my house, threaten me with a gun, eat my food, and expect me to tell you about how I used to fuck my bosses?”

“So, it’s true then.” Toji whistles lowly as he finishes off the rest of his popsicle. The stick is dyed a dark, vibrant red, and that end of it disappears back between Toji’s lips as he sucks the flavoring off of it. The stick hangs out of the side of his mouth like a cigarette, bobbing as he speaks. “That’s some tough shit, doll.”

“Don’t call me that,” Satoru says shortly. “And save the sympathy. I’m not interested.”

“Fine. Maybe you’d be interested to know how I got in here, then.”

Satoru hops off of the counter. If this is all their conversation is going to be—dancing around the things that neither of them really wants to talk about—then he’s going to go back to bed. It has to be somewhere around three in the morning, and those are not hours that he wants to be both sober and awake for. “Not really. You can lock the door on your way out, though.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t be such a spoil sport,” Toji entreats. Satoru hears the sound of his footsteps approaching from behind, and he closes his eyes in vague annoyance when he feels a hand catch around his stomach. He’s stopped in his tracks, held effortlessly in place as the wooden stick clacks between Toji’s teeth. “Wrong way. Get your shoes, we’re goin’ on a field trip.”

“A what?” Satoru asks, eyes narrowing. He watches Toji step around him, striding casually into his living room with a hand tucked into his pockets. Satoru watches as he starts searching around the living room, disappearing out of sight for a moment before returning with Satoru’s sneakers dangling from his fingers. He shoves them into Satoru’s hands, uncaring of the way that Satoru glares at him. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s three in the morning.”

“4:11, actually,” Toji says. The wooden stick crunches as Toji bends it, mutilating it with his teeth and hands before plucking it out of his mouth and dropping it onto the kitchen floor. “Put ‘em on already. Need me to lace ‘em for you?”

“I know how to lace my shoes,” Satoru snaps, swatting Toji’s hands away as they start to reach for his sneakers again. He quickly shoves them on and tucks the shoelaces into the sides without actually tying them—the shoe is well-fitted enough that he doesn’t really need to. Toji raises an eyebrow at him when he stubbornly crosses his arms and refuses to lace them further, but eventually, he gives up and merely shrugs. “Where are we even going?”

“To get you some better security,” Toji says simply. “We’ll take my bike. Come on.”

Fifteen minutes and a nerve-wracking first trip on a motorcycle later finds Satoru shuffling behind Toji through the brilliantly lit aisles of a late-night hardware shop, surrounded on all sides by models of various cameras, motion detectors, and alarms. They all look the exact same to Satoru, who has never really given a shit about what security he has set up in his home other than the people who do it for him, but Toji considers each model with a critical eye, silently looking them over and weighing them in his hands. 

Satoru’s not really sure what he’s supposed to be doing, or why he even needs to be here at all, but boredom is an ever-present shadow at the edges of his awareness that he finds himself habitually running away from, so he picks up a few of the cameras to look at. They’re dense and streamlined, attached to the display by a thin anti-theft wire that doesn’t budge as he idly tugs on it. He wanders across the aisle as Toji considers each option silently, and he finds himself comparing different prices and features as he does. He couldn’t really give a shit less about what each of these cameras does, but he’s looking for anything to entertain himself.

Should’ve grabbed some pills before I left, he thinks, considering the doorbell camera in his palm. Might’ve made this shit more entertaining.

“That camera is bullshit,” Toji calls, and the sound of his voice startles Satoru momentarily. He glances over at Toji, but the man isn’t even looking at him; somehow, he must have caught Satoru out of the corner of his eye, or through some other freakishly insane and inhuman ability of his. “Makes you pay for features. Not worth the time to even read the damn description.”

“I don’t really give a shit about money,” Satoru points out. Maybe he should. His net worth trickles down, down, down every day, like grains of sand in a timer. Not that there’s a point in caring anymore. Not that there’s a point in anything anymore.

He’s not sure why they’re here. He doesn’t care about security. Honestly, Toji would be doing him a bigger favor by pulling the trigger than… whatever this is. An intervention. An attempt at help. Some strange expression of guilt. Is a man like Toji capable of a thing like that? 

“It’s the principle of it,” Toji says. He must like whatever he sees with the camera he’s examining, because he sets down the display model, picks up a box, and tucks it under his arm. That’s when he finally looks up at Satoru, a faint hint of disdain in his eyes as he looks at the doorbell camera in Satoru’s hands. “If they know they can wring pennies out of you for stupid shit, they’ll never stop. It adds up.”

“Sure,” Satoru mumbles. Is he going to get to the part that I’m supposed to care about soon?

Toji starts to leave the aisle, and he reaches out to wrap an arm around Satoru’s shoulders as he passes, drawing him in close. He leads them away from the door cameras and towards an aisle that has more motion-sensor technology, from porch lights to cameras to alarms. This part, he seems to know better, because he hardly considers each model for more than the second it takes to read the name before he starts picking up boxes. He turns Satoru into his personal shopping cart, stuffing his arms full of boxes and bags and wires, before finally satisfying himself with his selection. Satoru feels much like a pack mule as Toji guides him back towards the front of the store, where one sleepy-looking teenager manages the register.

“Am I paying for this?” Satoru asks, unamused.

“Don’t be a smartass,” Toji says. He motions for Satoru to dump all of his items on the conveyor belt, and as he does so, Toji addresses the teen at the register as she starts to scan their myriad of items. “Don’t bother with the warranty questions and shit, I don’t need any of ‘em.”

“Sure, dude,” the girl says, clearly bored with the entire affair. “Is that gonna be cash or card?”

She scans their items in short order, and Toji opens up his wallet as the charges come to a total. He’s got a concerningly large wad of cash in his wallet, and Satoru raises an eyebrow at the stack of hundred-dollar bulls as Toji pulls a few out and hands it to the girl. Killing people pays well, he thinks, averting his eyes to the bags as the teen starts to load up their purchase. Go figure.

“Get your shit,” Toji tells him, motioning to the collection of bags waiting to be taken back to Satoru’s apartment. 

Satoru makes a face at him as he picks up the bags. “It’s your shit, actually.”

“It’s your shit now. Come on, hop to.”

Satoru rolls his eyes and sincerely debates dropping all of these expensive boxes onto the floor in front of Toji, just to see the expression on his face when they all shatter, but he narrowly restrains himself. He carries the bags reluctantly to the front of the store, sagging beneath the weight of them with no actual energy in his system to keep him moving, until Toji sighs and grabs half of the bags from him. He carries the weight much better, walking a few steps ahead of Satoru out into the dark, damp parking lot where his bike is still parked.

He loads what he can into the bike storage department and hands the rest of them to Satoru to hold onto. Satoru raises an eyebrow at him yet again as Toji unlatches their helmets to put back on. “How am I supposed to hold this and you at the same time?”

“Stick it between us,” Toji says, shrugging. He puts Satoru’s helmet on his head and buckles it for him, before putting on his own. He starts the motorcycle and swings his leg over it, holding it steady for Satoru to climb on behind him. He can technically pin the bags between the two of them, but the boxes dig into his stomach uncomfortably, making him painfully aware of how long it’s been since he last ate anything that wasn’t a candy-colored controlled substance. “You ready?”

“Whatever.”

He holds on tight to Toji as he puts up the kickstand and peels out of the parking lot, taking them back onto the roads leading to Satoru’s apartments. Now that he’s had the benefit of one ride, it isn’t so overwhelming to feel the wind whip through his hoodie. He can actually look around at the streetlamps and neon-lit buildings as they pass by them, spotted with the bodies of the few late-night wanderers left on the streets after the bars closed. 

Every once in a while, when they’re stopped at a red light, the girls start to wander out from behind corners of buildings, their red-stained lips curled in sickly-sweet smiles as they call out to Toji, entreating him closer. Toji doesn’t respond to them, and he tells Satoru not to pay them any attention, but he can’t help it. He stares out of the corner of his eye, watching as they realize that Toji won’t be paying them for their time and start to wander off in search of someone who will. He can’t really say what he’s feeling when he looks at them, retreating in the reflection of Toji’s side mirrors as he speeds away. 

It’s not kinship. It’s not pity, either. It’s not even sympathy. What he really feels is just… nothing, and he idly pokes at the expanse of nothingness in his mind with the expectation that maybe it’ll do something, maybe it’ll become something else, but it never does. 

For better or worse, he’s nothing like them, yet all the same, he knows it’s a thin, thin line that separates them, and that line grows smaller every passing day.

He feels drained when they finally reach his apartment. Somehow, even more than before. Toji senses this, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, but he takes all the bags up the steps by himself. His security, who is evidently awake now, openly stares at Toji as he passes, and blanches when he sees Satoru right behind him.

“S-Sir, I-” he stammers, rising to his feet.

Satoru should care. This guy, whose paycheck he pays, slept right through a break-in by Toji of all people. He should give a shit, should fire the guy. Instead, all he says is, “Don’t care.”

And he doesn’t, really. He doesn’t even know this guy’s name, stopped paying attention to them years ago. Toji chuckles ahead of him as he dumps the bags on Satoru’s kitchen counter, taking up the granite countertop with his bounty of finds. He starts pulling boxes open, rifling through instruction manuals, and Satoru gets the feeling that he probably doesn’t need to be here for this, but… his palms sweat. There’s a logical progression, here.

“So,” he says, because if Toji isn’t going to initiate, then Satoru will. He doesn’t want to be caught by surprise, hates being caught by surprise.

“So, what?” Toji asks. He’s still fiddling with the boxes. Satoru wishes he would just get this shit over with so he can go back to bed, sleep off the exhaustion that’s pulling at the edges of his vision.

“So,” Satoru says, a little more annoyed this time. “Are you staying the night, or what?”

Toji finally looks at him. A raised eyebrow, cast over his shoulder. “...do you want me to, or what?”

Satoru can’t help but laugh, and it’s a short, mean sound. “Don’t play games with me right now.”

“Touchy,” Toji mocks. He looks back down at his hands, and at the camera that he starts to load batteries into. “Figured you had enough of that.”

“You bought all of that shit for me,” Satoru says, motioning his hand at the collection on the countertop. He’s not sure whether to feel relieved or aggravated. He has another night of peace, but Toji should’ve just said up front that he didn’t want to fuck. And if he doesn’t want sex, then what does he want in exchange for this shit?

“I bought all of this shit,” Toji says, slowly, “so you can survive long enough to get on the stand with your head still on your shoulders. Brat.”

“Why?” Satoru demands.

Toji scoffs, and it’s the first time that night that he actually sounds anything other than coolly amused. There’s a real thread of something in his voice, something Satoru can’t put his finger on, but feels it when the room seems to grow colder in its presence. “Because those Zenin girls? They're my nieces. Were, at least.”

“Oh,” Satoru says. For a moment, he’s not sure what to say in response. The words won’t come to his mouth. Inexplicably, what instead comes is a feeling of… something resembling shame. If it’s true, if Toji really was related to Maki and Mai, then… no wonder he wanted Satoru on the stand. No wonder he had a stake in this. No wonder. Everything in Satoru’s life, in this section of hell they take residence in, connects, inevitably. The silence stretches heavily between them, until Toji clears his throat.

“Besides,” he says, a little stiffly. “Got someone to go home to.”

That distracts Satoru, pulls him closer to something like safer, neutral ground. He crosses his arms, running his fingers over the fabric of his hoodie. “What, are you married or something?”

He’s mostly joking. That is, until Toji declines to answer his question, and Satoru’s eyes widen.

“Seriously?” he demands. “How long?”

“Long enough,” Toji says, more than a little sheepish as he reaches up to scratch at his ear. 

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” Satoru says, utterly incredulous. He’s willing to bet whatever money he has left that Toji had been married when they first fucked, too. What an asshole, making Satoru complicit in his cheating. 

“Don’t I know it,” Toji chuckles. He finishes up with the camera and starts to open up another box. “She never lets me forget it. Love her to death, though.”

“Not that much, apparently,” Satoru says. He picks at the fabric of his sleeve, tearing at well-worn threads of fabric. 

Toji merely shrugs. Then, he says, “You should go to bed. Your security and I gotta have a good talk. What happened to Sukuna, huh? That guy was worth his paycheck.”

“He got clean,” Satoru says, short and clipped. He’s not interested in getting into the details of it with Toji of all people, so he refuses to elaborate past that, and Toji eventually takes the hint. “And why should I trust you, huh? You took the hit on me, you could just be setting me up to get robbed or killed or something.”

“Good question,” Toji says. Satoru can see his grin and how it stays in place as his question goes unanswered. Satoru rolls his eyes.

“I’m going to bed, then,” Satoru tells him. “You can let yourself out, since you know the way in so well.”

He turns away from Toji, tucking his hands into his pockets as he wanders out of the kitchen. He’s itching to grab a few pills, just enough to get himself to sleep, just enough to make it through the night, and maybe the day, if he’s lucky. He still has a bottle of oxy in his bathroom—if he only takes two, it’ll put him to sleep, and he’ll still have enough left over for when he needs them. He’s mentally tallying the number of pills left in his head— if he’s going to do it, after all, he’d need at least eight… maybe ten considering his tolerance— when he hears Toji speak up again, voice cutting through the silence and stopping Satoru in his tracks.

“We…had fun back then,” Toji says, almost like a statement, and more likely a question. When Satoru looks back, one foot already on the stairs, Toji is looking up at him, expression blank and unreadable. He almost wonders if, maybe, he’d just imagined the words. After a moment, Toji tacks on, a little less certainly, “Didn’t we?”

Satoru doesn’t miss the meaning. He’d dealt with a lot of shit back then, but… Toji hadn’t been part of it. There were a few times in his life where he had done something for himself, slept with someone just for the hell of it, and Toji was one of them. He can give the man that much credit. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “We did.”

Toji doesn’t react outwardly, but his shoulders released a little tension that Satoru hadn’t really even seen until the moment that it was gone. He gives one short nod, and looks back at his collection on the table, focusing on assembling Satoru’s new security system.

Satoru turns and continues his ascent back up the stairs, shuffling across cold floors on his bare feet as he wanders towards his bathroom. He ignores his reflection in the mirror and instead opens it to reveal the medicine cabinet beneath, his eyes wandering across the shelves for the one bottle he’s looking for. They’re all mostly empty—a consequence of his usual dealers deciding that Satoru’s name was now synonymous with that of the feds—but there’s one bottle still half full. He pulls it down, twists off the child-lock cap and shakes the pills out onto his hand.

“Eleven, twelve,” he murmurs to himself, counting them as they fall out of the bottle. “...fourteen… sixteen.”

Sixteen pills left. He’ll need ten if he ever gathers up the nerve to do it, and do it for real this time, so that leaves him with six left until… well, until. He pours the pills back into the bottle and tosses two back into his mouth, swallowing them with a mouthful of water from the sink. He tucks the bottle back into the cabinet and switches the light off, wandering back towards his room. 

He has four left until he hits that magic number, his lucky number. 

Ten pills. 

Notes:

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