Chapter Text
“They’re pissed at you, so what? It’s not the first time.“
It’s Wednesday evening, and ever since leaving work almost two hours ago, Satoru has been hiding away in the coffee store with a permanent pout on his face.
Where Shoko balances on a chair, Satoru only has to stretch up onto his toes just slightly to grab at one end of the multicoloured lights before tugging them away from the wall, something that his friend had been attempting to do for the past ten minutes by herself. “So what?! Shoko, you can’t just say that!”
Shoko throws him a look, a glare, one that says something along the lines of: why didn’t you help me sooner?, and after snatching the end of the lights and pulling them free, she bundles them up in her arms and jumps down from the chair. “I’m surprised you managed to go this long without pissing them off since promoting into the family cult.”
Satoru sighs and reaches for one of the takeout cups he’d been practising latte-art on whilst talking. “Shoko, you don’t understand. They’re evil! They’re making my life miserable!” The cup is raised to his lips, but before he takes a sip, he sighs and wallows at the sight of the perfectly formed sad face in the coffee. “I’m a model employee, I don’t know what the deal is.” The sad face deforms as he slowly takes a sip of the drink and watches from above the rim of the cup as Shoko approaches, arms folded.
“Oh, poor you, you have to write some apology letters to some rich assholes. You have it so tough, Satoru.”
“It’s humiliating!”
“What did you even do?”
“That’s what I’m asking; so what if I was late for one meeting and it happened to bruise some egos?”
“How come you can say it?” They’ve been on the topic of Satoru’s work drama for some time now, with Satoru constantly circling back around to it to avoid any discussion about his ‘failed relationship’ that Shoko is still adamant on fishing for details for. Whether it’s because she doesn’t believe him that it’s over, or is simply bored, Satoru isn’t entirely sure, but whatever the reason is, he’s not a fan of all the questions. “Why were you even late? You can’t tell me you just happened to oversleep by four hours.”
“I just… overslept. That’s all.” There’s no easy way to tell Shoko he’d woken up late because Suguru had kept him awake, so for now, it’s best to avoid the question entirely. “This tastes like shit,” Satoru grumbles and places down the cup, frowning at the watered-down liquid.
“Then don’t drink it? And there’s no way I’m believing you just overslept, that never happens. You weren’t drunk? Hungover?”
“No, I wasn’t drunk.”
He should really steer the topic away from his reason for being late for work that morning. After waking up in a pool of his own sweat and other uncomfortable bodily fluids, Satoru had insisted on taking an hour-long everything shower before even setting foot outside. And by the time he’d made himself look somewhat presentable and not like someone who’d been up half the night, jerking off on call to their fake-boyfriend, Satoru found himself four hours late for work. That, on top of the previous day's grievances regarding his supposed ‘rude’ conduct during the meeting, Ichiji Kiyotaka had had a meltdown when Satoru had turned up that morning trying to act as if nothing was out of the ordinary. The email from his father was already in his inbox, demanding he handwrite apology letters to each of the investors he’d pissed off with his unacceptable, unprofessional and ‘shameful’ behaviour.
Tossing the leftover liquid from his ruined latte art into the sink, the cup is then hurled halfway across the small kitchen into the trash. “Ugh, whatever. Help me leave the country or something? We’ve come up with contingency plans like that before, right?”
“Multiple times, yes. Isn’t that a slight overreaction, though? Maybe you could just write those letters? Turning up four hours late is kind of an asshole move, dude.”
Asshole move or not, he doesn’t understand why people are always so bothered by him. He’s not (yet) head of the company, nor does he hold much influence over the overall business, so in Satoru’s view, it would be a hell of a lot easier if people just left him alone. “Shoko, you’re supposed to be on my side here.” After restocking a new stack of takeaway cups and lids for whoever’s on the early shift that next morning, Satoru turns back to the counter only to see Shoko staring at him, looking back and forth between him and his phone, which he’d set aside on the counter earlier.
“Satoru… why are you getting a call from Geto Suguru?”
Shit.
His body acts before his brain does, and Satoru leaps forward as soon as her words even properly register. “Give me that—“ he snatches up his phone before Shoko can even blink, and maybe because he doesn’t want to believe it, his eyes quickly flick to the screen, if only to confirm that yes, Suguru is calling him right now. “Like I’m supposed to know why he…” He knows exactly why. He really shouldn’t answer. Not here. And even if he weren’t here, he still shouldn’t. But like everything else revolving around Suguru, Satoru can’t help but feel drawn to him like a moth to a flame. “Give me a moment.”
He hasn’t been ignoring Suguru all day, per se, but he has been avoiding responding to the text messages he saw sent earlier about scheduling their date for that night. Although it doesn’t count as ignoring him if he plans to answer him eventually. That’s probably why Suguru is calling, though, and if not for that reason, then it’s because he somehow knows that Satoru had been watching him on their video call that morning… which is understandably far more terrifying.
After running through the tiny kitchen and pushing his way outside, Satoru makes sure the back door is closed behind him before he even thinks about answering. There’s a shitty yellow plastic chair out the back of the building, weathered and faded by the outdoors which Satoru sits himself down precariously on the edge, resting his phone in one hand and watching the screen as Suguru’s contact keeps calling. It rings, and it rings, but conflicted, Satoru simply watches, his forefinger hovering above the icon to answer but not moving.
Okay, so maybe he is ignoring Suguru. But it’s not without good reason! Satoru from twenty-four hours ago would have answered the call and gladly made plans for a date that evening, but things are… complicated now. He still feels awful about what he saw; he still feels terrible about how he feels for Suguru; and he still can’t decide what to do!
Even if he’d decided to answer the call, it’s too late because ten seconds later the ringing stops and Satoru is left looking at his lockscreen and the looming missed call. “Shit,” he sighs, standing up from the chair to instead pace up and down the tiny, concrete-paved area.
The back door to the coffee store eventually opens after a few minutes of silence and closes with a soft slam. Shoko’s footsteps are quiet as she approaches, and an ashen bitterness soon fills the air, different from the scent of Suguru’s cigarettes, but infinitely more familiar to him. Satoru only raises his head from his hands when he hears the sound of the plastic chair dragging against the concrete, and the tired sigh that Shoko exhales into the silence.
“What did he want?” She asks after a moment, cigarette resting between her fingers, hovering just in front of her lips.
Satoru looks at her, giving her a look of deep contemplation, one he already knows she’ll try to decipher until the very moment he caves in and shares what’s going on in his mind. “I didn’t answer,” he finally says, sounding surprised even himself, as if saying it aloud makes him suddenly hear how it sounds.
“Is… that a good thing?” She’s looking for a connection, reaching out to try and understand what Satoru is going through, and Satoru can only frown at the ground, his thoughts a mess of tethers and loose ends from all of the lies he’s tried to keep up.
“I’m not sure?” Ignoring Suguru for seemingly no reason can’t be a good thing; it's completely unfair, but Shoko doesn't know that. To her, they’re recent exes, broken up for unknown reasons. Satoru had purposefully kept it vague. “I’ve been avoiding his messages all day.” The concrete is cold as he lowers himself to the curb, knees bending, so high up that he knows he looks ridiculous.
“Why is he contacting you? I thought you two broke up?”
He can’t go back on it now, so instead, Satoru reinforces the lie. “We did, we are, it’s just…” It’s perhaps a good thing that Shoko has him cornered like this. Because as much as he’d love to change the subject to save the lie, maybe there is some advice that Shoko can give him. “Do you ever regret meeting Utahime?” And so, Satoru decides to ask in the only way he knows how: in a strange, roundabout manner, one that Shoko, more than anyone, should be able to understand. She’d known him throughout all kinds of ups and downs, so if he’s asking for help here, if he’s silently wanting her advice without directly asking for it, Ieiri Shoko notices almost immediately. “Are there ever moments that cross your mind, days where you feel like you’d have been better off not having met her at all?”
Shoko takes a long, drawn-out drag of her cigarette, embers of ash falling quietly to the ground beneath her and the plastic chair she gets comfortable in. “I don’t think regret is the right word for it. Fear, maybe, is a better one.” She already knows this will be a long one- but it’s needed, God, Satoru needs this. “Especially towards the start of our relationship, I felt a lot of fear surrounding Utahime. I was scared that it wouldn’t work out, that she’d get bored, that she’d fall out of love. But I wouldn’t say that I’ve regretted a single day since meeting her, not really.”
Is regret even the word Satoru is looking for? Probably not. Suguru gave him experiences, expanded his world, and opened his eyes to things he might never have realised without him. So, can Satoru truly say he regrets finding him on Kareshi-Rental all those weeks ago? If only they’d met under different circumstances — as strangers not pulled together by a work obligation, monetary gain and selfishness, but through pure coincidence. Satoru thinks about it often: how things might have gone if he’d met Suguru through a friend, at a bar, or even just on the street. It’s those constant reminders, those fantasies, which ultimately serve only as reminders of his yearning—a longing he fears won’t fade so easily anymore.
Satoru frowns, his fingers interlock around the front of his shins, and his chin settles upon a knee. “Have you ever felt as if, no matter how hard you might try to pull away, it’s like the universe is just sometimes… steering you towards someone?”
Shoko sighs. “I don’t believe in any of that fate bullshit, you know I don’t.” Painfully blunt and firm about her beliefs on facts, figures, and science, Satoru knows that Shoko is only indulging his thoughts here out of kindness, but he doesn’t doubt that she does understand to some degree. “But, sure. I guess I’ve felt that way before. If it’s toward someone you have a connection with, I suppose it could feel like the universe has something to do with it.” She shrugs nonchalantly, and her hand that doesn’t hold her smoke twists her fingers absentmindedly around some strands of her hair. “Either that, or you’re being blinded by something stupid.”
She’s really testing his ability to think on the spot, so Satoru can only hope his words don’t raise any suspicion about the authenticity of his story. “But what if that connection is based on a lie? What if none of it’s real? What if during the time you’re with them, it’s perfect and warm and almost enough, but when you’re not with them, it keeps you awake at night, hoping that maybe it’s not all just an act after all. Even though you know it is.” He’s spiralling, he knows he is, and if he’s not careful, he’ll slip, and Shoko will figure everything out.
“Where’s this come from, huh?” She nudges a foot out, and the toe of her shoe taps gently against Satoru’s knee from where he sits on the curb, knees pulled up to his chest. “Getting all deep and profound on me, using that big brain of yours for once.”
Over the years, conversations like this between them may have become less frequent, be that due to time or life simply getting in the way, but every so often, there’s a moment, a conversation that reminds Satoru of the value he places on his friendship with Shoko. And now, more than ever, it reminds him of the uncomfortable truth: he has lied to her— he’s still lying to her.
“I know how it feels, Satoru. You regret meeting Geto Suguru because your heart hurts, and you don’t know what to do. You’re asking yourself if any of it was even real because it’s impossible to believe it isn’t anymore.” She doesn’t know the full truth, yet somehow, Shoko’s conclusions aren’t too far off. Each word closer to the truth feels like a stab from a knife coated in lies, driving into his heart, every inaccuracy a cruel twist of the blade. “All it means is that you cared deeply enough about him for it to hurt when it was over. It means you’re alive, Satoru. It means you’re human, just like the rest of us. You’re not immune to heartbreak; you’re not invincible, even if you like to pretend you are. And that’s okay.”
“Look who’s getting all profound now.” He knows he sounds rough and, in a way, Shoko isn’t wrong, but she isn’t right either. These feelings are unfamiliar to him, but it’s all so unnecessarily complicated.
Does it make him a bad person for creating this lie, this uncontrollable scenario that now prevents him from confiding properly, even with Shoko?
Sometimes, Satoru wishes he’d never lied in the first place. “But what if,” What if I never had him in the first place? “What if I don’t know what his thoughts are? What if I feel as if I never even knew him at all?” What if it’s all a lie? “What if I want to try again? If I want things to go back to how they… were? What if I want us to be together?”
“Is that what he wants?”
What does Suguru want? Aside from the money, is there anything else he wants? Sure, they’ve discussed how Suguru doesn’t date, much less date his clients, but Satoru isn’t completely unaware of certain instances, particular coincidences he can’t ignore any more, small phrases directed at him that don’t exactly strike him as something that someone entirely uninterested might say. But maybe that’s him being hopeful again, or blinded by something, as Shoko had said. The difficult part is differentiating between the act and reality. And because he doesn’t truly know Suguru, it feels impossible to know for sure without asking outright. “I don’t— “ Satoru takes in a breath, looking to Shoko with wide, almost pleading eyes. “What do I do?”
“That’s not something I can tell you, Satoru.” More smoke rises into the cold air, mixing with their breath and drawing attention to the tiny, almost minuscule snowflakes that begin to form in the cold around them. “I don’t know what happened with you two, and if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. But I don’t want to see my best friend hurting over some man.” Her cigarette is put out on the floor; the end is tossed into a half-full ashtray beneath the plastic chair, and slowly, Shoko looks over at her best friend and smiles. “Can’t have a normal breakup like everyone else, huh?” She stands, and as she passes him, she places a hand upon his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “You’ll figure it out. You’re Gojo Satoru. You can do anything.”
That’s not quite the reassurance she might believe it is. Until recently, he really had felt that way. But there’s something about Geto Suguru that makes him feel comparatively weak. And it doesn’t help that whenever he thinks of the man, he experiences an overwhelming mix of guilt, anxiety, and—perhaps Shoko had been right—fear is the exact word he’s been searching for. Fear because, when all's said and done, there’s still a looming countdown over this whole thing.
Four days left.
“You know what we both need?” Shoko’s voice cuts in from behind him, from where she secures the back door to the coffee store and takes out her car keys, giving them a shake.
“What?”
“Beer! I’ll be waiting out the front!”
Satoru begins to stand, limbs aching from the cold that has taken hold. He looks down at his phone resting on the floor and reflects on what Shoko has just said, and his heart aches. God, does it hurt. He has a choice to make here, but it’s not easy.
Why does the snow insist on ruining this moment? Painting the dark scenery with a delicate blanket makes it something beautiful and bright, even as Satoru feels blue. It’s almost corny, the snowfall and the beating of his heart that won’t shut up, but perhaps swayed by Shoko’s words and a tiny burst of misplaced confidence, Satoru slowly reaches down for his phone.
“Come on, Satoru,” he mutters, “just do it already.” To know what Suguru wants, if anything, he’ll have to ask. At least then, he’ll truly know where he stands. And if it really all has just been part of the act, part of the perfect boyfriend package, then it’s time to end it. Because for his own sake, Satoru knows he can’t do this any longer.
He waits, holding the silence, thumbs hovering above the keyboard in his and Suguru’s chat log, numerous missed calls and unanswered messages taking up the recent activity, and, with a held breath, he types and quickly sends the messages before he can back out again.
[09:21 p.m. - Gojo Satoru] Suguru, hey.
He finally manages to type, eyes focusing on a small patch of frosty grass that pushes up through the paving.
[09:22 p.m. - Gojo Satoru] Listen, can we talk?
***
Alcohol, as a concept, is never a great idea for Satoru. Alcohol and Shoko, combined, however, with the absence of someone more sensible like Utahime to slam on the brakes, spell an all-too-quick descent into disaster, especially for the notorious lightweight, Gojo Satoru.
One beer back at Shoko’s apartment had naturally turned into two, then three, and the next thing he knows, Satoru isn’t entirely sure what’s going on anymore. And for Shoko, who can hold her alcohol alarmingly well, she keeps the endless supply of beers coming as they loudly discuss, in depth and increasing volume, the importance of the downfall of trash reality TV, much to the dismay of Shoko’s neighbours.
With still no response to the ominous text message sent to Suguru earlier, every second that passes without an answer only worsens his growing anxiety about the situation, so Shoko had practically forced him into a night of drinking to forget. When drunk, emotions are amplified, problems are exacerbated, and for Gojo Satoru, who isn’t a frequent heavy drinker, this hits him far worse than he’s expecting. Drunk Satoru isn’t necessarily the issue- the problem lies with drunk Satoru with a bad case of a crush and zero supervision because Shoko had passed out about ten minutes ago on her couch, exhaustion and alcohol both competing for the leading cause.
Six drinks deep and realising that the ceiling and floor are simultaneously spilling in alternating directions, Satoru gravitates toward his phone like his hand has a magnet in it. One voice note won’t be so bad, not when it’s white noise that’s barely two seconds long and can easily be labelled as a misclick.
Geto Suguru’s contact blurs in and out, and when his thumb hits the microphone button again, the next two voice notes sent are then followed by a jumble of keyboard scrawl. When Satoru manages to stand, there’s a fleeting realisation that his stomach and body don’t quite feel connected as they should; something’s up with one of them, but that does nothing to deter him from the next few messages he sends Suguru, the heavy reliance on autocorrect a massive crutch in that moment, and the urge he suddenly has to go outside.
[11:49 p.m. - Gojo Satoru] What’s. Hello.
[11:49 p.m. - Gojo Satoru] Su guru
Genius or foolish, Satoru makes the decision to leave Shoko’s apartment in an attempt to get some air and quell the churning of his stomach. He’s not the quietest as he leaves, he almost forgets his shoes, but Shoko is dead to the world, silent on her couch and none the wiser. His phone is dropped twice in the process; it’s a poor effort, but ten minutes later, Satoru finds himself outside Shoko’s apartment building, in the crisp air of a January night, and unfortunately, no less drunk than he’d been twenty minutes ago.
Finding a piece of wall to steady himself against, Satoru looks up as the sky spins, the pavement disappears, and he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.
[00:03 a.m. - Geto Suguru] ??
[00:03 a.m. - Geto Suguru] Are you drunk?
If it’s ten minutes that pass or thirty, the passage of time does nothing to sober him up to a point where he’s conscious enough to turn around and make his way back to Shoko’s apartment. Spin him around two times, and he’d probably tell you he was on the other side of the country; he hasn’t been this drunk in a long time.
Becoming extremely familiar with the exterior wall of Shoko’s apartment building from crouching down in multiple attempts to bring up those beers at least three times, Satoru eventually looks up at the sound of footsteps getting closer and stands. And maybe he really is fucking drunk drunk, because he swears the shadow coming towards him, walking along the side of the street with its hands in its pockets, looks terrifyingly similar to that of Geto Suguru. But that’s impossible.
“Wh…Suguru?” He stands there, swaying back and forth like a pendulum, eyes glossy with an unfocused stare that looks past the figure as it approaches. “Wooow, I must be… is that you?”
“Come on- take my arm.” Suguru reaches out first, steadying Satoru with a firm hold of his left arm around the other’s stumbling frame. “Where’d you even come from?” To say he sounds concerned is far too complicated for Satoru’s brain to comprehend at the moment, so that will have to be a revelation he comes to the realisation of when he’s lying awake one night in the near future.
Satoru makes no protest to being held up; in fact, he leans into it probably more than is necessary, his feet being dragged along behind him with Suguru’s assistance. “Woah- hi.” He slurs, each word slowly trailing off into a messy string of broken pronunciations. “Where’d you come from, handsome?” As if with a wave of his magical wand, suddenly the man of his dreams is standing right here in front of him- what are the odds? “Am I dreaming?”
Suguru huffs a laugh. “You sent me your location.”
There’s a second where Satoru attempts to think, where his brain begins to process those words, but it falls short of any explanation. “No, I didn’t.”
“Hmm, yes, you did. You also sent me a video of the floor, two very close-up photos of your face, and multiple voice notes, all of which I will absolutely be reminding you of when you’re sober.”
Did he do all of that? There’s no way. “Suguru, we have to…I need to go back. There’s more drinks and I need— You can meet Shoko! I’ll show you Shoko! She’s so funny.”
Suguru rolls his eyes, clearly not having the heart to tell Satoru that he’d already met Shoko before and that even if he’d wanted to ‘meet her’ again, if the journey involves walking any more than ten metres, he doubts Satoru will be getting there. “Sure, maybe some other time, yeah? Right now, I’m taking you home.”
Shaking his head and pulling Suguru to a stop as best he can, Satoru gently taps his arm. “Whoa- at least take me out to dinner first ahaha… fuck…” What is he even saying right now? Whatever he’s saying, he shuts his mouth pretty quickly when Suguru starts walking with him again, lightly pulling him along. “I want to… uh, you want to talk with me. Or, I want to talk… to you?”
“We’ll talk when you can stand up on your own. Come on, the taxi’s almost here.”
They don’t walk far, just to the end of the street, before Suguru lowers him to the floor so he can perch on the curb.
“Oh my god, you’re really here,” Satoru says slowly, looking up at Suguru with wide, unfocused eyes, that tall silhouette casting a shadow down on him in the light of the moon. “Suguru, I’m- I’m really sorry—“ he pauses, stomach lurching. “I didn’t mean to stay on the call. I woke up, and you looked so good, and I know you have a whole life and—“ as if losing his train of thought, Satoru trails off with a laugh. If Suguru is listening, then he doesn’t say anything, not that Satoru’s sentences make a whole lot of sense to him anyway. “Suguru… you’re not gonna believe this, but I’m… I- I am so not making it to work today. Tomorrow. Yesterday? Fuuuuck, I’m gonna be so late again…”
There are then two sets of voices, one of which belongs to Suguru, the other unknown, and despite his body and brain having two differing goals, to keep going and consume more alcohol or to sober the fuck up, Satoru ultimately lets himself be pulled along with whatever plan the person suddenly holding him up wants. The last thing he remembers of that night, if anything at all, is the warmth of a body beside him, the nauseating sensation of being in a vehicle, and then the feeling of an arm resting around his shoulders, holding him close.