Chapter Text
The night was quiet. Only warm gusts of summer wind broke the silence, occasionally rattling the small window. This was no pleasant night breeze offering relief from the sultry August heat. These gusts carried only dust and dirt, promising a storm.
Glassy blue eyes, fixed on the ceiling, betrayed anything but calm. His eyelids flickered, his ragged breathing would not steady, and a single tear collected in the corner of his eye and rolled down his cheek. Satoru lay on a worn double mattress long ago tossed carelessly in the middle of the room. There had never been a bed here. He paid no attention to what was happening around him. He paid no attention to what was happening around him—not the hurried movements of the man in the corner pulling on his pants, not the sticky, unpleasant kiss that landed on his cheek, not the bills slapped onto the nightstand with a casual "See you soon, cutie," and not the slam of the front door.
He got up and threw on a long terrycloth robe. Each step through the shabby two-room apartment with its worn-out interior felt like an effort. Countless memories tied to this place mingled with fresh wounds—tonight's additions. Satoru hated this place, but he was afraid to leave. Here, he had at least a chance to be alone.
A pale, trembling hand reached for the dusty dresser. Gojo opened it and, as expected, found what he was looking for: a crumpled, slightly damp pack of Marlboro cigarettes, left there once by his mother. He picked it up and, without thinking twice, headed for the balcony. He had held out against nicotine for a long time—most of his peers smoked, but tonight he surrendered to the bitter embrace of cigarette smoke.
Sitting on the floor with his thin legs threaded between the black, flaking iron bars and the balcony door wide open, he smoked. The acrid fumes filled his lungs, stinging his mucous membranes, but now they brought him temporary pleasure, dulling the adrenaline still rushing through his veins. His eyes, no longer clouded with panic, gazed tiredly at the distant, equally grimy buildings.It was the dark hour before dawn, and he knew the day ahead would be darker still. But now he just listened to the beautiful silence.
The cigarette had burned out and no longer emitted bitter smoke into the night air, but he still sat on the balcony, lost in thought. “If dad were here, things would probably be different,” Satoru caught one of the feverish thoughts rushing at breakneck speed. He did not understand why he was thinking about a person he’d never even met. He figured that if he weren't alone, he definitely wouldn't be doing what he was doing. Or if someone had beat all this shit out of him just fine…
“Why am I thinking about this now?..”
At 17, Satoru was left alone. Although his mother had stopped trying to raise him long ago, her presence at least created a semblance of ‘home’. An empty wine bottle, a full ashtray, and a bad TV series—this was the home Gojo returned to after school for as long as he could remember. He tried to understand her—she had raised him alone, after all. Tried but couldn’t.
One day, Satoru didn't find his mother at home. No full ashtray, no scattered bottles, no blaring TV—just a short note on the kitchen table, tucked under a cheap chocolate bar.
“I'm sorry, son. You do on your own fr now.”
Gojo quickly scanned the note, crumpled it up, and threw it in the trash. “Well, at least she didn't kick me out, and left herself...” he thought, without much sadness. He had always liked the feeling of freedom—now, it seemed, he could enjoy it to the fullest.
But Satoru soon experienced all the pleasures of adult life. Within a week, the money he had foolishly spent on chips and sweets ran out. What's more, utility bills were now coming in his name because, unfortunately for him, he was registered in this apartment. Loneliness—colder now than it had ever felt—crept closer and closer, tightening around him like a vice. As it turned out, freedom was restrictive.
Although Gojo refused to admit it, bitterness and resentment festered inside him. Everything around him was suffocating. A small town at the edge of nowhere, where he knew every stone, a half-empty store where he couldn't even afford gum, the sidelong glances of neighbors and old acquaintances—and a life where everyone knew everything about him.
No matter how hard he tried to distract himself, a nagging question still occasionally surfaced: “Why didn't you take me with you, Mom?...” He had always dreamed of leaving the town.
A year passed. Satoru barely made it to graduation. Now he was studying at the local Construction College—the only option for any kind of education in this backwater. He desperately needed money to pay for his studies, but somehow he managed. He took on any job he could find—porter, cashier, cleaner. Of course,he was worn down by having to work so hard just to afford the bare necessities, but he didn't give in to despair. Gojo understood that he had to pay for everything in life...
“You're fired, Gojo-kun,” the manager of the 24-hour store where Satoru had been working for the past six months said, without a trace of sympathy.
“What?!” The guy was confused. “Did I mess up somewhere?...” He didn't want to lose this job—everything had been stable enough, and the pay was decent.
“No...” the manager continued impassively, “you see, my nephew needs a job, so...” The man grinned and added, “Find yourself something else to do.”
Satoru drifted through the deserted evening streets after finishing his shift. Options for where to go next raced through his mind, but nothing concrete lingered for long. Gojo understood that he wouldn't find a job as quickly as he would like. And it wasn't just that every available position was now flooded with students looking to earn some extra money. He was also drowning in college debt he needed to pay off urgently because if he got kicked out, the small spark of hope he'd built for himself would be snuffed out. The hope of one day being able to leave the town...
Quickly turning the key, Gojo opened the front door and entered. His apartment smelled of damp and cigarette smoke. Suffocating. Hateful.
He threw his backpack on the hall dresser, along with a pile of papers from the mailbox—utility bills. The aggression he’d been trying so hard to contain all day finally burst out—he kicked the dresser with all his might and sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands. He didn't understand why everything had to be this way. The worldview in which Satoru had nothing to complain about was crumbling before his eyes, and despair was consuming him from within.
“Fuck it all...” Gojo thought and reached for his backpack. He took out his wallet and, realizing that there was almost no money left, decided to spend the last of it. Satoru opened the battered wardrobe and took out a worn blazer that had been hanging there as long as he could remember, put it on, and left the house.
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting in a local dive bar. The decision to spend his last money for alcohol was probably not the most rational one, but Gojo wasn't thinking about anything else right now. He was too tired...
“Bad day?” asked the blond girl behind the bar—she looked a couple of years older than him—handing him a second glass.
“Yeah…” Satoru replied. The first glass of whiskey, downed almost in one gulp, hit him hard and blurred his vision—until tonight, he had never really drunk before.
“Gojo, aren’t you?” the bartender continued the conversation. “I saw you in college...”
Satoru didn't answer. It wasn't surprising that she knew him—if anything, it annoyed him. Everyone knew him here...
Nevertheless, talking to this girl brightened his evening a little, and at least he wasn't thinking about money, or rather the lack of it, all the time. Her name was Yuki, and she went to the same college, only two years older. It was easy enough for Gojo—she did most of the talking—and somehow they seemed to have become friends.
“I think it's time for me to go,” Satoru said, getting up from his chair. Everything before his eyes was already blurring, and he decided to leave while he could still stand. Besides, he had no money left for drinks, even though Yuki had quietly poured him a couple of free ones.
“Come again!” the girl waved cheerfully from behind the bar. “But next time, bring tips!”
Gojo smiled, but it was completely joyless. He knew he wouldn't be back tomorrow or next week. He headed for the exit, weaving his way through the crowd of drunken bodies. Suddenly, Gojo felt a hand on his shoulder. He instinctively jerked away, breaking free. He knew to be careful here…
His eyes caught sight of a drunk man still trying to grab him. A leering smile crossed the stranger's face. “Hey, kid, are you here alone?” The reek of alcohol hit his nose as the man spoke.
“Fuck off,” Satoru replied bluntly.
The man snorted, but was apparently too drunk to take offense at the guy's sharp words.
“Wanna make some extra cash?” he asked, still smirking maliciously.
Something like interest flashed in Gojo's clouded eyes. He decided to hold off on hitting the man and listened, tilting his head to one side.
The man, apparently satisfied with what he took as an affirmative answer, made a crude gesture—unmistakable in its meaning hinting at oral sex.
Satoru was stunned. He had half expected sidelong glances and offers like this, visiting a bar in a rough neighborhood on a Friday night looking the way he did. But he was not prepared for an offer to do it for money.
“How much?” Satoru blurted out, confused. He didn't know how to respond in such situations. Of course, he wasn't inclined to agree, but something compelled him to find out the price.
The stranger thought for a moment, theatrically rubbing his balding head and rummaging in his jeans pocket. Soon, he pulled out a crumpled bill and replied, “I'll give you five grand.”
Satoru felt the weight of it settle over him. He was frightened by what he was weighing. To agree meant a humiliation he had never known—one he would not soon forget. However, he desperately needed the money. “Five g’s doesn’t grow on trees...” This thought became louder and more insistent. In addition, lines with amounts from unpaid bills began to pop up in his memory at the most inopportune moments.
“Well, cutie? You going or not?” the man urged him. “Hurry up and decide already...” Almost in despair, he began to look around for a new object of interest.
“6,400,” Satoru blurted out thoughtlessly.
“If I agree, it needs to be enough to cover utilities...” The thought surfaced and held. “It's no big deal, right?...” Gojo reassured himself as he followed the staggering stranger behind the bar building. “Still, I'm not going to have sex with him...”
As soon as they turned the corner and found themselves in a dirty doorway, the man pulled the guy toward him with a sharp jerk, openly groping him. Satoru felt like he was going to throw up. Everything inside him tightened and began to tingle with each nauseating touch from this man. The only way to stop it was to get down on his knees as quickly as possible. “The quicker it’s over, the better…”
Friday night flew by quickly. The bar, which had only recently been filled with visitors, quickly emptied. It was getting close to morning, and everyone was going home, while some were “crawling” home, because what could be more reckless than a Friday night, huh? Only a young blond figure was still kneeling in a dirty alley behind the bins. For him, time seemed to have stopped. He couldn't pull himself together. Damp strands of hair stuck to his forehead, and a dried streak ran down his cheek. He didn't even notice that his knees were in a puddle. His gaze was fixed only on a few bills lying nearby.
“What an idiot...” Satoru grinned hysterically. “He drank so much that he threw a ten instead of a five!” Gojo was almost giddy—the night had turned out more profitable than he'd expected. But deep down, disgust rose inside him—surging, making his heart pound with anger. The confusion made him want to scream.
He got up with difficulty and put the bills in his pocket. A couple of steps and the inevitable happened—as he expected, he threw up.
Somehow, Gojo managed to get home. Climbing the stairs meant a few stumbles, but he made it.
The jingle of keys.
The slam of the door.
The click of the lock.
And finally, he’s home. Finally alone. The loneliness he both feared and loved was waiting to engulf him again. Still staggering and throwing off his clothes, he made it to the sofa in the living room and fell asleep.
The very next day, Gojo paid for his apartment. With no debts, life seemed to take on bright colors. Especially on the hangover morning, when the rising sun’s rays warmed his face, breaking through the open window. Satoru stretched out on the sofa, working the stiffness from his limbs, and decided to get up. He hadn't taken a shower yesterday, so he headed straight for the bathroom. Standing at the cracked, yellowed sink, Gojo splashed his face with cool water, then slowly looked up at the mirror. “I look pretty fresh for a hungover morning...” he murmured, watching the small drops run down his cheeks. His eyes landed on a red mark on his left cheek — a vivid spot against the otherwise unmarked skin.
“Suck it better, you slut!” came a loud shout from an unfamiliar voice, followed by a heavy blow and tears.
That evening began rising from the depths of his memory, but Satoru was quick to shut it down. “I just got drunk, fell, and hit somewhere...” Gojo rubbed the bruise, smiling indulgently. “No one was around...” He kept reassuring himself. “No one saw...” His fingers gripped the sink. “No one knows...” He whispered, but still smiled.
One second. Two. A scream.
He wanted to scream yesterday, but he could only do it now. Satoru could stop thinking about it; he could forgive himself—but he could not forget. t took him thirty minutes to still the tremors spreading through his body, when he finally found the strength to get into the bathroom. There, he sat for what felt like half the day, until his stomach growled.
“Damn...” Gojo exhaled, standing in the kitchen, wrapped in a towel, staring hypnotically at the empty fridge. But the memory that he now had money in his wallet lifted his spirits, and he began to get ready to go to the store to buy some food.
Quickly running down several flights of stairs, he jerked open the front door when suddenly...
“Idling around again, you little brat?!” came the angry shout of an elderly woman, his neighbor, whom he had accidentally bumped into.
“Oh, sorry, sorry!” Satoru stammered and ran away, ignoring the shouts behind him. He wasn't interested in his neighbor's opinion that he had been “wandering around until midnight” and “woken up all the neighbors with his drunken escapades,” and, of course, that he was “just like his good-for-nothing mother!”
He entered the store with a smile. His eyes darted around. Usually, he only bought what he could afford, but now he could at least think a little about what he really wanted. The guy stared at the refrigerators with ice cream, soda, and frozen ready-made meals for a long time, and after much deliberation,he grabbed some and tossed them into his basket.
“Where did you get the money, Gojo?” said the heavyset cashier with the greasy hair, grinning. “You got fired from your job.”
“None of your business,” the guy replied cheerfully.
“You stole it, didn't you?” the woman laughed maliciously. There were few customers today—she'd been sitting around with nothing to do—and she wanted to draw the conversation out. “Keep in mind, there's no ice cream in prison!”
Satoru just smiled, gathered his purchases, and hurried away. “No one will find out...”he murmured, swinging the shopping bag. The echoes of the morning's hysteria were no longer present.
“Everything is fine now...” he thought, finishing a tub of chocolate ice cream while sitting in front of the TV in the evening.
A month had passed, and Gojo was still struggling to find work. He was getting by with odd jobs, of course, but he couldn't find a full-time one. Now his savings, which he had been putting aside for college, were no longer being replenished with his salary and were constantly being depleted by his own purchases of groceries.
Even in college classes, where Satoru had previously tried not to slack off too much so he could pass his exams, he was now mentally absent. With each passing day, his options were dwindling, his classmates were starting to seem more and more like viable options, and the thought that he could earn money that way kept surfacing. Of course, he thought about that ill-fated evening. His disgust had long since faded, and what he remembered now was the satisfying jingle of coins in his wallet. He knew that in this backwater, every third, if not every second, person earned extra money by selling their body. The more he thought about the future, the more insistently this prospect loomed before his eyes.
That evening, under the dim light of a lamp, Satoru looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror in the hallway. Tousled hair, dark glasses, and the same brown blazer. Gojo took a shower and splashed on old cologne to make sure he wouldn't smell like someone else afterward. Meeting his own eyes made him feel sick, so he put on his round sunglasses. Satoru tried to smile, but it came out too forced. With money taken from his stash under the pretext of “I'll pay back tomorrow,” Gojo bought condoms and lubricant and threw them into the deep pocket of his blazer. A moment later, the guy was already running down the stairs, heading for a familiar bar. Today, he was in the mood to earn as much as possible....
Soon, shabby toilets, stuffy rooms in cheap hotels, and back alleys became a familiar evening routine for Gojo. The guy easily found those who wanted to spend the night with him. A couple of coy glances thrown from the side of the bar, and a ‘client’ was found. It turned out that even locals barely making ends meet were willing to pay for sex with a handsome young man. At first, this came as a slight shock to Satoru, but he quickly stopped thinking about the immorality of those around him. It was certainly not his place to judge them...
Once he got the hang of it, he started bringing the people he met at the bar back to his apartment.
The jingle of keys.
The slam of the door.
The click of the lock.
Even the familiar ritual, after which he used to be left alone, had now changed. Behind the locked door, debauchery now ensued:careless hands undressed him, open palms slapped him hard and left red marks, hungry lips bit him roughly and kissed him wetly. This was repeated every weekend:
The jingle of keys.
The slam of the door.
The latch.
Sex.
Money first, of course.
There was no longer the chilling silence of the night here. There were slaps, someone's heavy breathing, and his own moans. And pain. It was hard to endure, but he tried, because if the pain disappeared, the money would too.
Satoru smiled less and less because now there was definitely nothing to smile about. Rumors spread like wildfire, and soon there were countless sidelong glances. Passersby whispered, friends stopped acknowledging him, and neighbors swore at him when they passed. Even at college, people whispered behind his back, but he didn't pay any attention. “I don’t fucking care... They're no better themselves...” Satoru tried to resign himself. “I earn how I can!” He only pretended not to be offended by anyone. In reality, anger was boiling inside him. Mostly at himself.
Yuki was the only friend he had left. Now she often came to visit him, and he spent a lot of time at her work. Of course, she knew everything. She knew what he did on the weekends. She knew the people he spent his evenings with. She could probably guess how much they paid him. She knew, but she didn't judge him. And for that, Satoru was grateful to her.
Gojo was walking down the street in the evening. The light from the street lamps hurt his eyes, so he pulled his glasses up higher. His dressy blazer fluttered in the light wind. The button, recently torn off by yet another client eager to strip him, no longer held, but Satoru didn't care. The top two buttons of his shirt were also undone, completely exposing the hickeys, a vivid bouquet blooming across his neck. He had nothing to hide.
Before heading to the bar, the guy stopped at a store because he realized he was out of cigarettes. He clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction when he noticed the cashier who was always pestering him, but he went in anyway.
“Marlboro Red, two packs,” he said confidently, giving the woman behind the counter a good-natured smile.
She just looked at him disapprovingly, crossed her arms, and didn't rush to hand him the cigarettes.
“Please, I'm in a hurry,” Satoru waved his hand impatiently. Her silent disapproval made him nervous.
The box under the counter opened with a jerk, and his coveted two packs flew into Satoru's face.
“Choke on that, you slut,” hissed the cashier.
I wish you well, too,” Gojo replied, forcing himself to respond. He was in no mood to argue with anyone or prove anything. The guy also casually threw her 1,500 yen and turned toward the exit. “No change needed.”
“Of course, you need no charge!” the woman shouted after him. “You'll earn some more today fucking with someone, of course! You're such a whore…”
The shop door slammed shut, and Satoru could no longer hear her. He quickly walked to the bar, a cigarette now smoldering in his hand. “I'll earn a little money and then leave this town...” Satoru thought, something like hope in it. “I’ll go to a place where no one knows me...”