Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Mid-May, 2015

“I still don’t get why it has to be us,” Satoru sighed from where he was idly spinning himself in the recording booth's rolling chair. He was stretched awkwardly across it, his legs draped over an armrest, pushing it in lazy circles with his foot against the corner of the U-shaped table that housed the soundboard and its accompanying tower of analog equipment. 

There was a monotonous hum to the room from it all, a droning that hid behind the muffled sound of moving bodies and music playing just outside of the door, but still found ways to slip through. It’s not unlike being trapped in a bubble, being in this room; with the lights turned down low, the way the heavy door holds in the dry warmth from the machines, just their two bodies taking up what little space is available. 

“I think you just don’t want to do it.” Suguru barely glanced up from his phone as Satoru whined, watching his friend for one slow rotation before his gaze was back down on the device. He was perched on what little table space was available, forgoing using one of the small, awkward chairs shoved into the corners of the room. “We’ve been over this before.” 

“Obviously I don’t want to do it,” Satoru snarked in return, pausing his spinning to glare up at Suguru. He wasn’t granted a glance this time; in fact, Suguru hardly acknowledged his statement at all. Satoru hooked a foot around one of Suguru’s dangling ankles to try and haul himself closer to his friend, bidding for his attention against whatever it was he was reading on his phone. “Why would I want to spend my day off training someone?” 

“We’re closest to her in age, apparently,” Suguru said as if that gave valid reason to occupy Satoru’s time; he scoffed, rolling his eyes as he craned his neck to peer over the top of Suguru’s phone. That got him to look up, a glare of his own meeting Satoru’s as Suguru locked his phone. 

“Make one of the people that trained us do it. They aren’t close to us in age.” 

“We’re the youngest DJs here, Satoru,” Suguru huffed, finally discarding his phone on the tabletop next to him. Satoru remained crowded into Suguru’s space, keeping his cheek firmly planted on Suguru’s knee. The contact made Satoru’s stomach flip, a warmth bubbling through him at the proximity, at the heat radiating through worn denim against his skin. “It’s probably to make her more comfortable or something. They don’t want to scare her off, they’ve been wanting to get younger DJs in.” 

“We don’t even know what we’re doing! We’ve had our show for, like, three months–” 

“And Yaga said our show is doing exceedingly well,” Suguru countered, voice pitching down in a bad imitation of the station manager when he said it; it made Satoru snort out a laugh, turning his face enough to muffle it into Suguru’s knee before Suguru was shifting his leg away entirely. 

Suguru had been weird about that lately; the little touches, the close contact. He hadn’t ever seemed to care about it in the past, had even reciprocated in his own small ways, but something had changed recently. Satoru had always been a touchy friend, even if he had been a bit more pointed with it in the past few weeks. It was hard for him to not be in contact with Suguru constantly, ever since he had his big realization. His palms itched with the want to reach out again, to drag him a little closer, back where Satoru could feel him. It was hard for him to not feel dejected at the loss, finally righting himself in his chair before he rolled it into the space between Suguru’s legs to huff up at him. 

“We can set a good example, Satoru. We’re doing really well, they want her to do well too.” Suguru made a point of staring through the scratched plexiglass window separating the recording booth from the on-air booth two rooms away, head turned sharply to the left to watch the person currently inside it hosting. If he caught his own warped reflection in the glass, he didn’t make a show of it while lecturing. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that we’re too new to be training someone.” 

“We’re already here. We may as well try.” 

“We should have said no.” Satoru managed to wear a pout as he said it, nose wrinkled and lip jutted as he stared up at Suguru through his lashes, a poor yet formidable show of defiance on his face. Suguru sighed heavily at the sight of him, his posture sagging. 

“You can be such a brat,” Suguru bit out, but there wasn’t any real anger behind it. He reached a hand out, ruffling at Satoru’s hair; it made his mind stagger and go blank for a few moments, his mouth stuck half-open on a retort that had been wiped from him before he could say it. Instead, he was left leaning into the contact, pressing his head up and into Suguru’s palm not unlike a cat might. It made Suguru laugh, an amused little sound leaving him as his nails just barely scratched along Satoru’s scalp, transitioning from just ruffling his hair to something closer to a massage. It felt nice, nice enough to make Satoru hum syrup soft and honey sweet, letting his eyes close for the few brief moments of contact he got. 

“You need a haircut,” Suguru commented idly, fingers pinching at the ends of Satoru’s hair where it fell into his eyes. Satoru made an indignant noise in return, flinching back for a moment before reconsidering and pressing his head more insistently against Suguru’s hand. 

“You need a haircut, mister-man-bun,” he snarked, cackling obnoxiously at his bad joke. It earned him a flick on the forehead despite Suguru returning to carding his fingers through Satoru’s hair, making him melt once more. 

There’s a loud thunk from the recording booth’s door being opened just moments before the harsh overhead fluorescents are being flicked on. Suguru recoiled like he’d been burned, his hand yanked back from Satoru’s hair as he nudged his chair backwards at the same time, creating space between them. His face was red when he turned to stare at the doorway. 

“-Ah, here they are,” a deep voice sounds, as Satoru finally turned his gaze away from Suguru’s startled frame and onto Yaga as he shouldered his way into the small room. There’s a short figure half-hidden behind him, peering curiously around his arm and at the pair inside the room with wide eyes. “This is Gojo and Geto, they’re going to be training you.” 

“Hello!” The girl called, side-stepping further into the room with a small wave and a bow. “I’m Riko. It’s nice to meet you both!” 

There was an awkward shuffle in the small space the room allowed, as Suguru hopped up to stand and bow politely to the girl. Satoru, reluctantly, followed suit, though his dislike for the situation was palpable, and his own bow was an awkward bend at the waist more than anything else. It earns him an elbow to the ribs from Suguru and Yaga clearing his throat. 

“Well Riko, I will leave you in their capable hands. You know how to reach me if you need anything.” Yaga offered both boys a pointed look, before he patte Riko on the shoulder and absconded from the room mumbling about a board meeting he needed to get to. 

It left all three of them staring at each other for several moments; Suguru scrambling for how to actually start training someone, Satoru wondered if he could make Riko leave if he glowered enough, and Riko looking like she was already unimpressed with the both of them. Any peppy attitude she had prior is replaced by something bordering on judgmental as she cocked a hip and waited for someone to break the silence. 

“So, uh–” Suguru started, clapping his hands together as his gaze averted toward the soundboard, the stack of CD players, anything that wasn’t this girl's borderline defiant expression. It made Satoru snort to see his friend scrambling, as he paced over to one of the chairs crammed into the corner of the room to slouch down into it and pull out his phone. 

“Neither of you know what you’re doing, do you,” Riko stated, and that earned another laugh from Satoru. 

“Yeah, no clue.” 

“You could try to help, at least,” Suguru quipped. It got Satoru to look up from the text he was sending at least, before he was glancing toward Riko. 

“Have you done anything yet?” He asked through pursed lips, his head lolling in her direction. She squinted at him for a few moments, like she had all the time in the world to decide on an answer.

“No, not yet. That’s kind of why I’m here.” She rolled her eyes before she moved to take off her messenger bag, dropping it onto the table in front of her as she continued to look between the pair. Something about her attitude rubbed Satoru the wrong way, even if he could commiserate with the fact she also seemed like she’d rather be anywhere else. It made him want to take at least a little bit of pity on her, and he offered a lax shrug before he spoke. 

“Okay, have her pre-record a show.” Simple. Efficient. Productive enough to appease Yaga, when they could hand in a show their newest DJ had recorded herself. 

There was silence, before Suguru hung his head and smiled, like a perfect answer had been handed to him. It made Satoru’s stomach go warm and gooey once more, as he tried to smother a smile of his own and go back to his phone. He had no intention of participating in the task of training Riko, but it still left him feeling satisfied that Suguru was happy with his suggestion. 

“Yeah, we can do that,” Suguru said, before nodding toward Riko’s bag. “Are you running your show off your computer, or do you need to pull CDs?” 

“I can’t afford music,” she stated, arching a brow before she was being herded toward the door to the recording booth. 

“C’mon, I’ll show you the CD library then. Satoru, get up.” 

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” 

The trio filed out of the room at that, making their way down the hallway and through the front of the building to the CD library. Floor to ceiling, in a maze-like layout of shelves, was exactly what the name implied; CDs, organized by genre via colored stickers on the spines of their cases, sub-divided alphabetically from there. Suguru gave a brief rundown of what color was which genre before he asked Riko what kind of music she wanted for her show, and off they went to start pulling CDs down. 

“You should get about… twentyfive, maybe thirty to be safe,” Suguru reasoned, holding the CDs that Riko chose from the walls. She balked briefly at the number, scrambling to try and reach something towards the top shelf, when Suguru shouldered her over to reach up and grab it himself. Satoru, who had previously been distracting himself with his phone once again, dedicated to the facade of not wanting to be there and not wanting to hide the fact, felt his mouth go dry as he watched. 

Suguru’s shirt rode up as he stretched his arm over his head, fingertips grazing against the plastic over him as he waited for Riko to tell him stop and pull the correct CD down for her. There was a clean line of tanned skin exposed, the waistband of his boxers peaking above his jeans, the defined lines of his lower back muscles illuminated by the harsh fluorescents overhead. Satoru can’t help but stare, almost like he’s in a trance; he knew Suguru worked out, and he had seen him shirtless plenty of times before, but it felt different now that he knew he likes him. 

Satoru likes him, and he’s never seen him look quite so good struggling to reach for something. Where Satoru would usually tease him for the two inches of height he has over Suguru, he found he was at a loss for words. His stomach turned at the sheer absurdity of the situation, of something so simple making his face go warm and tingley. He couldn’t drag his eyes away from Suguru, as his brain tried to shed his shirt entirely and fill in the concealed gaps with smooth skin. The swell of his bicep stretching the thin cotton of his sleeve was almost overwhelming, and Satoru had never felt more virginal in his life. 

And then Suguru smiled. Satoru wasn’t paying enough attention to know what caused it, but his face split open, wide and honest, his gums peaking out past his lips. At that point, he had already memorized the way one half of his lips curled higher than the other, but it still made him pause whenever he saw it again. It was one of those smiles that made Suguru’s eyes pinch shut, a quiet huff of a laugh following the action– at something Riko said no doubt, but Satoru doesn’t care about that right now. He cared more about the overwhelming surge of nausea that hit him when he saw it happening. He sees it all the time, but it’s been different for two weeks now, and it was still overwhelming whenever the feeling occurred. 

It made him fidget, his phone forgotten in his hand as Satoru finally forced his eyes off of his best friend and over to the CDs he’s leaned against. He tried to busy himself like that, reciting the names of bands and artists he had never heard of before in his head like he could distract himself away from the hormone-fueled thoughts he was now having about his best friend. He could distantly hear Suguru rambling to Riko about the basics of running a show of her own. They’ve rounded a corner at this point, no longer within Satoru’s sightline, and he took the time out of view to lean back against the shelves and suck down a few deep breaths. 

He can be normal about this. Satoru Gojo was fully capable of being a normal eighteen year old boy about his best friend. He had known Suguru since they were kids, and this sudden change wasn’t going to do anything terrible to their friendship. Satoru can be normal about this. He needed to be normal about it. 

Another laugh rang out from the depths of the CD library, and all at once Satoru’s heart kickstarted into a pace that was far beyond normal. 

All he can think to himself as he tries to slow it down, is I am so fucked. 

***

November 7, 2026

It is oppressively bright outside. It’s the only thing Satoru can really focus on as he stares across the parking lot, watching the way the light gleams insultingly off of all the parked cars there. It makes him squint as he witnesses it dance, hands fidgeting toward his pockets in pursuit of the sunglasses he knows he left at home. He’s regretting it now; there’s a dull ache brewing behind his eyes, the kind that warns of migraines and visual auras and a terrible rest of his day. It was already set to be a shitty day, given his docket of things to do. Of course the universe would make him do it all with a headache to boot. 

If he were more spiritual, he would make an attempt at manifesting it away, calling upon something greater than himself to relieve the aches and smooth the wrinkles for him. The past week has made it overwhelmingly apparent to Satoru though that he doesn’t believe in God, and if he did believe in him, he would have one hell of a bone to pick over a lot of things. Namely, the reason he’s stuck standing outside of a funeral home pointedly putting off showing his face inside. If he can ignore it for a little while longer, he can pretend it isn’t real, and he’d much rather shiver in the morning chill and ignore, ignore, ignore, than acknowledge the day at hand. 

It was still too sunny out for the rainy season though; it had been dry for the past five days, and today proved no exception. For some reason, Satoru can’t seem to consolidate that fact within himself as he stares out at the picturesque view in front of him. The day was much better suited for something dreary, something soggy and pathetic and torrential that might sweep away the cars and the somber air hanging around him. The lot he stands in is across from a park, the trees swimming in gold as a breeze rustles through them, marking the slow death of autumn into winter. He’s not sure where the time really went, if he’s honest. Not much had changed, but everything was warped now. 

“Satoru?” 

It’s the kind of day that exists on a hairline fracture; one wrong move and it gets worse, and worse, and worse, until it finally shatters and a splint or cast is useless in the aftermath. It’s the kind of day that mounts to surgery, to intervention and flatlines and collapse. It folds inward on itself, dissolving in the pit of Satoru’s stomach, reflux-riddled and overly acidic. 

It should be raining, he considers through a frown as he squints up at the morning sun. There’s still some frost clinging to the world, the temperature mild enough during the early hours that it makes him shiver where he stands. It’s weird that it’s so bright today. It feels wrong. Everything's all-

“Satoru?!” 

There’s a harsh jab at his side following the call of his name. It makes him jump, grimacing as he turns his glare from the full parking lot and the overly friendly sun down to Shoko, who’s looking up at him equally as unimpressed. There’s a twist to her brow, that squint in her eye that she gets when she’s about to ask a question she already knows the answer to. 

“What the hell was that for?” Satoru whines as he rubs at his side, trying to beat her to asking. She got him right between the ribs with that one. There’s a shine to her that says she’s proud of her aim. 

“Did you even hear what I said?” She returns easily, before she’s taking a drag off of her cigarette. It’s her second one of the morning, and Satoru is more inclined to loitering outside in the morning chill letting her puff away her whole pack if it means avoiding what’s still to come once he steps foot in the building behind them. Every time the door cracks open, someone just entering or stepping out to join them in their vices, the din of bodies and voices and tears reverberates through the gap left letting the cold air inside, the billow of hot air out. Satoru dreads the rush of it against his back each time even if the frequent reminder of the rest of his day makes him square his shoulders, tighten his jaw, blink through the strain in his eyes. 

“Uh– no. No, I spaced out,” he admits with the decency of looking sheepish about it. He tries for a grin, something too-wide and too-fake, all teeth that don't reach his eyes. He holds it for too long when Shoko doesn’t elaborate immediately, instead taking the time to really look at him like she can see straight through his facade.

“...I asked how writing the eulogy went,” she eventually lands on. It leaves her placidly with an exhale of smoke, and Satoru watches the way it hangs in the air before her like a ghost for a few moments before it drifts off with the light breeze. He’s thankful for her nonchalance for once; usually he would gripe about how uncaring she comes off just to be difficult, but given the weight behind the topic, it’s a relief to talk to someone about it casually. There’s no fanfare, no tears, no condolences or grief to bear down on him for it all. It just is, plain and simple, no inflection or glassy eyes. 

“The station thing?” Satoru asks, rhetoric, as he waves away her next exhale when the smoke wafts up towards his face. His hand gravitates towards his suit pocket afterwards subconsciously, seeking out the folded looseleaf hiding inside. “Yeah, it went fine. Nice and dandy. I have it covered.” 

“Nice and dandy,” Shoko mirrors with a snort, cracking a half-smile as she chews on the filter of her smoke. “I’m sure you’ll do good. You let Yaga know?” 

“Of course I let Yaga know. Emailed him and everything.” Satoru puffs a dry laugh. “He’d probably kill me if I didn’t have it handled, so– I have it handled. It’ll be fine.” 

Shoko levels him with another one of those all-seeing looks, eyes shifting to her periphery so she can watch him while she takes another drag. She lets this one linger and Satoru imagines the burn in her throat, the bitter way the smoke bites at her vocal chords, how it makes his own seize up for a few moments around a knot that has been growing for a week straight. He swallows it down as she exhales and speaks. 

“I doubt he would. He’s going to be too emotional to care,” she squats down to scrape out the remains of her cigarette, the cherry still burning as it’s knocked aside and over the sidewalk curb, the butt discarded with it into the gutter. “Isn’t that the whole reason you’re reading it in the first place? He’s going to be crying the whole time.” 

“I think–” Satoru starts, before self doubt starts to creep in. He knows it’s a joke, that it’s just Shoko’s weak attempt at bringing light to the situation, but the vulnerable act of honesty weighs more than his ability to laugh or joke back. He swallows again, involuntary and thick, before he lets himself continue. “I think it’s because I was so close with her, actually. I saw her every show, I… I trained her. I think he thought it was fitting I read the eulogy. Her family even asked me to be a pallbearer.” 

It’s a horrible admittance, something that makes Satoru curl his arms across his middle like he can protect himself from the ache he harbors inside. I brought her into this job, so Yaga thinks it’s only best if I carry her out of it. He can’t bring himself to voice that thought aloud, what he’s already said is more open than he would usually confess to, but Shoko seems to understand him all the same when her face tenses, when her eyebrows downturn into themselves. 

“How do you feel about all of that?” Shoko questions, her voice lowering momentarily. It’s clinical, another question she probably already knows the answer to; she was good at that. It was habitual. She thumbs at her lighter as she does, turning over the spark wheel like a bad habit, like she’s considering lighting up for the third time that hour. 

“I…” Satoru staggers at the thought, at being confronted with how he’s feeling about the day, the funeral, his role in all of it. It’s something he hasn’t let himself linger on, not for long at least. He’s generally one to not confront his feelings much when he can help it, and with something this heavy… “I’m honored that they thought of me to do all of it. I can handle it.” 

Shoko falls prey to the allure of a third cigarette as he’s talking, lighting it up and taking a long drag before she’s examining him over the length of it once more. It’s like she’s looking for something, a little crack or fissure to let the light in, let her see what he isn’t saying outright. Seeking out some proof that he isn’t as impenetrable as he’s always made himself out to be, lowering his pedestal enough to reach out and touch him, molding him into a human shape that fits in with the rest of the sardine packed bodies waiting inside. 

The silence drags on as her latest smoke smolders itself down, and it makes Satoru fidget the longer she takes to say anything. He takes to toeing at a pebble on the sidewalk, nudging it with the tip of his polished dress shoe before rolling it under the sole for the sake of something to bide the time with. He doesn’t want to interrupt her thoughts, even if he dislikes when he feels pressed under her thumb. 

“Have you seen Geto at all?” Shoko eventually breaks the silence, gaze turning towards her cigarette as she ashes it. It’s a pivot in the conversation that leaves Satoru feeling turbulent, his stomach plummeting ten stories before he manages to suck in a startled breath and turn enough to look down at her in shock. 

Right. Suguru. Haven’t thought about him in a while. 

“Suguru?” Satoru questions, blinking owlishly for a few moments before he turns to glare out across the sea of cars in the parking lot once more. It’s still too bright out, and it’s odd for Shoko to bring up Suguru of all people, especially at random. Usually she would know better than that, and also would want to save herself from the theatrics of Satoru’s grudges. The mention makes Satoru’s tone as sour as his mouth tastes, biting his tongue for a few moments before he continues. “I haven’t been inside yet. Why.” 

Shoko shrugs, almost too casual about the topic as she sucks on her cigarette. She doesn’t look at Satoru this time, instead following his gaze across the lot as if she’s looking for something; Suguru’s car no doubt, though Satoru wouldn’t know what kind it is to begin with. It’s been ten years and some change since they last spoke. 

“He’s always seemed like someone who would hide outside until he has to go in. For events like this, at least,” she elaborates contemplatively, offering a weak shrug. “He was always the sensitive type.” 

“Haven’t seen him.” Satoru grits out. He kicks at the pebble he had been rolling under his shoe, watching it skitter off under a nearby car with a tiny, tinny noise, like it’s ricochetted off an undercarriage. 

“Yeah,” Shoko sighs out, before she’s squatting once more to extinguish her cigarette; she only smoked half of it this time, and if Satoru looks close enough he could catch the slight tremor in her hand as she dragged the cherry against the pavement. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Satoru miffs, head jerking around to stare down at her. 

“Exactly what I said,” she sighs out, standing upright and dusting her hands off on the sides of her skirt, “don’t get your hopes up.” 

“You just hate elaborating today, don’t you.” He glares down at her pointedly, a jut to his lower lip and a wrinkle on his nose. It’s a boyish habit, the pout he puts on when he isn’t getting his way, when he feels inclined to pushing his luck with something. “Why would I get my hopes up that he’s here? It’s been years. I don’t care anymore. In fact, I hate him-” 

“Alright, alright,” Shoko chides, taking a few slow steps towards the doors of the funeral home. She jabs a thumb towards it, a silent ask for them to head in while she tugs her jacket a little tighter around herself with her other hand. Satoru starts to trail after her, a little shaky at the reminder of his ex, whatever delicate balance he had been maintaining for the morning thrown out of equilibrium in an instant at the mention. “Good to know, though.” 

“You’re freaking me out. Why is that good to know?” 

“It just is. Drop it,” Shoko mumbles, grabbing at the ornate door handle and retching the thing open. She’s avoiding Satoru’s gaze like she’s hiding something, and it does nothing to help the way Satoru’s stomach is turning over.

There’s a burst of warmth that follows the action, a hard suction as the air inside shifts to make impossible space for them inside of the crowded lobby. The chatter is cacophonous despite everyone's voices being lowered, a constant buzzing at the base of Satoru’s skull that insists on being heard in select fragments. How are you doing’s and such a horrible accident filters through the blur of bodies as Satoru and Shoko slowly wade their way to the refuge of the concessions table at the far side of the room. It’s a little more spacious here at least, the worst of the crowd being gathered around the viewing room as everyone impatiently awaits the service.  

There’s a store-bought spread of pastries laid out and partially picked through, mismatched labels from a few different bakeries and groceries stores adorning their containers, with two tall accompanying carafes of coffee to one side. The stack of cups is dwindling as Shoko goes to grab two, filling them up with coffee before she’s passing one off to Satoru. He’s startled by the heat and pressure of it against his palm, jerking his head down from searching through faces and hairstyles in pursuit of something familiar, to stare into his own reflection in the styrofoam cup. 

“Add your fifteen sugars yourself,” she snarks into the rim of her own cup before she blows onto it, the dark liquid rippling from the force of it. Satoru barely dignifies her banter with a snort, too wrapped up in just how sallow he’s looking this morning. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, the glass of water he had for breakfast, the previous week in general. He looks like there’s something in the air, something going around, the raw patches of skin surrounding his nose and under his eyes a little too stark and prominent in the low lights of the funeral home as he simply glares at his appearance. He makes a weak attempt to tame his hair, ruffled by the wind outside, with little to show for it. 

“Gojo!” 

Both heads turn in tandem at the call of Satoru’s name, breaking him out of the staring match he got caught in with himself. Yaga shoulders his way through the bodies between them, looking worse than Satoru does. Satoru barely manages to raise a hand in greeting before the station manager is wrapping him up in a hug, just narrowly avoiding spilling the half-full cup of coffee Satoru still holds. He gives Yaga a couple of awkward pats on the back as the man sucks in deep breaths, sounding close to tears already, before he pulls back just far enough to look at his employee. 

“I can’t- I can’t thank you enough for this,” is what he starts with, face a bit crumpled as he speaks. His hands are firm on Satoru’s shoulders, holding fast to him like an anchor as his eyes turn wet and glossy. “Truly, it means so much to-” 

“I got it covered, boss. It’s not a problem,” Satoru cuts short what he feels would be a pretty long-winded and emotional monologue in the making, forcing a reassuring smile on his face as he claps Yaga on the shoulder with his free hand. He can see how thickly Yaga swallows, watches the buildup of tears in his eyes almost reach a breaking point before they’re being wiped away.

“Still, thank you,” Yaga counters, finally letting go of Satoru to step back and look over at Shoko. She gives him a nod before she’s sipping at her coffee, wincing a bit at the heat of it. 

There’s an awkward silence that falls over the trio at that, no one entirely sure what else to say or how to carry the weight of the conversation between them. Something unspoken passes through them all, the awareness that everyone is mourning, that they’re probably already sick of the apologies and well-wishes that trail after grief like a heavy shroud. It’s quick that Satoru is consumed by feet-shuffling and fidgeting, rolling his cup of coffee between his palms, shifting his weight from foot to foot. At one point he goes to take a sip, forgetting that he hasn’t actually done anything to the black coffee, and Shoko has to bury a laugh into the rim of her own cup at the face Satoru makes when the bitter taste hits his tongue. 

“Are you sure you don’t want the night off?” Yaga eventually asks, breaking up the silence to give Satoru a concerned look. Shoko looks a bit surprised to hear it, looking up at Satoru curiously, like she had expected him to call out. 

“Uhm- no. No, I’m good to go,” he says with a shrug, his gaze turning back towards the crowd inside of the building. He’s still scanning, and he knows it, but he can’t resist the urge when his nerves are already so frayed. 

“Are you positive?” Yaga tries to argue, of all things, “it would be easy to find something else to air. I know it isn’t an-- an easy day.” 

“It’ll be good to do something normal, I think,” Satoru confesses, before daring to take another sip of his coffee. He still makes a face, and Shoko still has to tamp down a laugh, though she takes pity on him by passing over a gratuitous handful of sugar packets from the table next to them. “You know me. I’m like a shark, gotta keep moving.” 

“Alright, if you’re sure,” Yaga concedes eventually, closing the short distance between himself and the coffee carafes to get himself a cup of it. He hardly glances over his shoulder at the pair, now rearranged next to each other, when he speaks again. “By the way, have either of you seen Geto yet?” 

Vaguely, beyond the jolt of something close to seasickness that passes through Satoru’s gastric system, he can feel Shoko tensing beside him. The styrofoam of Satoru’s cup gives a creak when his grip tenses around it, and he forces another mouthful of it down like it will keep the rest of it from coming back up. 

Why the fuck is everyone so fixated on Suguru today? Of all the people and of all the days, Satoru cannot seem to catch a break. His head moves on a shaky swivel to look over the crowds of people, and unless Suguru has drastically changed his hair or is lurking in some unseen corner of the funeral home, it doesn’t look like he’s in attendance. Satoru doesn’t even know what he would do if he was; whether he would lay into him over their past or dissolve into the longing he’s been stuck battling against for the last decade in moments of weakness, the shake in his hands betray no preference for either. 

“Haven’t seen him,” Shoko cuts in when the silence starts to press on too long. Yaga lets out a sigh as he pours creamer into his cup, the liquid sloshing briefly against the rim as a result of overfilling it. “Did he… say he would be here?” 

“He said he might be, when I saw him the other day. I tried to stress how important it would be for him to come, but…” 

“Yeah, no, I know,” Shoko says around her own exhale, resolved to carrying the conversation until she can pivot it to a safer topic. Satoru’s head remains raised, watching the front door of the building like a death sentence. 

“Gojo, have you heard-” 

“I haven’t,” Satoru cuts in a little too briskly, heart in his throat as his head jerks around to look at Yaga with wide eyes. He seems a bit startled by the cut-off; they both do, really. Satoru clears his throat, checking the time on his watch for a moment, focusing on the consistent tick of the second hand as it works through its infinite loop around the clock face. “I’m… I’d like to go see her, before the service starts. If you’ll excuse me.”  

Really, Satoru just needs an out. It’s too much for today, to be hearing this much about Suguru, to be repeatedly forced to stare down the potential that he could see him again. Still too unresolved on whether he would even want that in the first place, the fact that it might just be sprung onto him at any given moment of his already too stressful morning is leaving the back of his tongue sour like bile, his throat scratchy and bitter. 

He’s quick to hand his half-drunk coffee to Shoko before he’s giving a nod to them both, making a b-line through the crowds towards the viewing room to his left before either of them have a chance to respond to his quick departure. Just barely, before he’s fully out of earshot of the pair, he hears Shoko stage-whisper a brief he doesn’t know about- to Yaga, the rest of her sentence lost to the crowds. He needs an out; for the conversation, for the day as a whole. There have been too many unexpected variables, there’s too much weight for him to bear alone through all of this, and he just needs a minute to calm down somewhere quiet, somewhere he can at least have the illusion of being on his own. 

He wishes he knew why Suguru of all people seemed to be a repeat topic for his morning. It’s a conflicting potential reality to consider. It’s scary. For as much as Satoru has sworn that he hates Suguru, that he’s thankful to have never seen him again, that he doesn’t want him coming within ten feet of his life, it’s becoming increasingly obvious to himself that… he might care still. He might like to at least catch a glimpse of him, see how he’s doing, if life is treating him any kinder than it apparently wasn’t when they still spoke. Satoru had his own questions and confusions regarding their situation, their sudden ending, but more than anything– being here today, at a funeral, reminds him of just how close he had gotten before to being in this exact same position for the man. 

Seeing Riko definitely doesn’t help the feeling, as his hurried pace slows drastically when he makes his way into the viewing room and the coffin comes into sight. 

There’s no line for viewing thankfully, but it leaves Satoru no real time to try and swallow down his anxieties as he paces up towards the pinebox. He passes through bodies like they harbor a plague, weaving between everyone in avoidance despite the quiet calls from station staff or Riko’s family to greet him or catch a word. His gaze is locked solely on the simple box, set up on a pedestal and swallowed by floral arrangements on the small two-step stage at the back of the room. It smells overwhelmingly of them in the cramped space, already too overfilled with bodies as people try to find unclaimed seats or sequester themselves away to the walls and corners to wait for the service. He couldn’t name the blooms, but they’re fragrant and sweet, cloying about to mingle with perfumes and colognes and something vaguely chemical but subtle enough to not be able to place. A small table, barely hip-height for Satoru, hosts a single stick of burning incense held upright by rice, the coiling smoke rising slow and steady from the lack of airflow in the building. 

He thought he would have something to say to her when he finally saw her; he thinks it could have been poetic to utter his usual yo, Riko that he would parrot without fail every time he laid eyes on her in the past. His throat clogs this time though, as he takes the steps up towards her resting to peer down at her. 

Her dress is nice. Her makeup is almost right, but the eyeliner isn’t angled the way she always liked it, and her lips look too pink to suit her tastes. She glows, but in a way that looks like a poor imitation of life. Her face looks lopsided, a little ill-placed, like a reconstruction gone wrong. She’s too still, too solid where she lays, buried in florals with her hands folded primly in front of her. Satoru is skittish as he reaches a hand over the edge of the pinebox on impulse, a tremor present in his fingers as they hover over her face like he can wiggle them and breathe new life into her. He settles for fixing her hair, brushing it back into something more closely resembling how she always wore her bangs in her face, a little messy, a little wind blown. 

“There we go,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, “that’s better. Much better.” 

His hand drifts far enough down to adjust the collar of her dress, hiking it up a little higher, smoothing out the already pristine lay of the fabric like he can tidy her up and get her moving again. It feels stiff and starched under his fingers, her skin waxy and cooled to room temperature where the pad of his thumb makes contact. He feels compelled to press his palm between her ribs, looking for a heartbeat he knows he won’t find, and it takes a few more moments of hovering before he manages to talk himself out of doing it in front of so many people. 

“...I miss you,” he says to her body, voice shaking as he whispers. “It’s… It’s weird not seeing you after every show. I keep waiting for you to come through the door. It feels wrong to lock up for you every night. I think you did a better job than I do with it, you always tried to leave the place clean and organized. Between you and me, I’m not even going to try and vacuum the carpet. It’s older than I am at this point, there’s no saving it.” 

He isn’t sure why he talks to her. It rolls out of him unexpectedly in hushed waves, aimless thoughts that come as easy as the tide. It feels confidential as he laughs watery to himself over it all, at the fact that he’s talking about cleaning habits at the station of all things. It felt more pivotal than his trivial comments, that these are the last moments he’ll get with her even if she’s already gone. At least he can convince himself that it’s private, that it’s something shared between just the two of them. He knows people tend to pray over the body, to help it along towards whatever might come next, and it makes him fold his hands where they hang over the edge of the pinebox. He’s never been one for prayer, or gods, or spiritualism in general. He can’t reason why he would, when he’s staring down at Riko. There is no comfort in the concept of a God if they can be as cruel as this. 

“It looks like the whole station came to see you– see you off.” He stutters on his words when he feels his throat cinch and ache. He clears it, swallowing thick around the growing knot. “Everyone loves you so much. I love you so much. I really hope you knew that. I can’t stand the thought we lost you–” 

“-Satoru?” A voice cuts through the quiet chatter of the viewing room, making Satoru raise his head to stare over his shoulder in search of its owner. “Are you Satoru?” 

A woman stands before him, not far from Riko’s age, maybe a year or two older. She looks well put together, despite the way her face is scrunched with unshed tears; her brown hair done up in a tight bun, her dress simple and meticulously pressed. Her fingers twist in the cuffs of her cardigan, holding onto the fabric tight enough to risk tearing holes into it with her neat nails. 

“That’s me,” Satoru replies after clearing his throat again, pawing at his eyes to get rid of the burn hiding between his lashes. He steps down from the small stage Riko rests on in two long strides, approaching the woman with a forced smile. She looks vaguely familiar, like he’s seen her in passing, but he can’t bring himself to try and place where. “I take it you knew–” 

“I’m Misato Kuroi, I was– I was her partner,” Misato says, though it leaves her as more of a whimper. Her eyes keep trailing behind Satoru to where Riko lies like she can’t draw them away from her. “Riko talked about you a lot. Said you were one of her best friends.” 

Satoru’s smile falters when he hears that, closing the distance between them until he’s standing just a foot away from Misato. He recognizes her now, from pictures and rambles and Riko gushing about the woman standing before him, and his own weak agreements to meet her one day. He gives a weak nod, glancing behind himself to follow her gaze towards Riko before his own trails back to her. 

“Yeah, we were pretty close,” he supplies simply, tone sympathetic. “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” 

Misato’s face crumbles at that, a shaking gasp leaving her like the dam is finally breaking under the pressure. She mumbles weak apologies as she rubs at her face, what little makeup she had on smearing messily in the process while Satoru watches on slightly startled; it would never stop being jarring, how quickly people fell apart in front of him, no matter how fitting it felt for the day. He’s quick to open his arms to her, offering a hug that she readily accepts and folds herself into. 

“I-I’m sorry, I told myself I wasn’t going to cry anymore,” she says, words muffled against the silk of his button down. She withdraws after a few moments of sniffling and letting Satoru rub against her spine in soothing motions and small circles. He can’t help but notice she smells overwhelmingly of the flowers surrounding Riko. 

“I think it’s more than okay to cry, today of all days,” he says back softly, letting his arms fall from around Misato as she backs away from him. She manages to crack a weak smile at the comment though, still pawing at her face to try and staunch the tears that keep falling, her gaze still torn between Satoru and Riko laying behind him. It had only been a week that Riko had been gone, but Satoru knows there will never be enough time to adjust. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” 

“That’s probably what she would have said,” Misato remarks, almost reverent. “You meant a lot to her though. It would mean a lot to her to know you’re here today.” 

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” he says in kind, sliding his hands in his pockets, fidgeting with the few things he has hiding inside them. Somehow, even in the small building, it’s still too bright; his head still aches, and his eyes still burn, and it’s easier to blame it on the sunlight pouring through the delicate windows on the far side of the room than it is to admit he’s choked up. “I’m… Well, I’m not happy to be here, but you know what I mean.” 

“I do, yeah…” Misato pauses for a moment, glancing around the room. She passes off a wave to Riko’s parents, folded into each other in the front row of seats, almost like she’s beckoning them over to talk. Satoru dreads the thought, but still vows to find and speak to them before the crowds disperse and the pair head with their daughter to the crematorium. “Have you seen Geto at all, though?” 

Oh great, we’re asking this again. 

“Uhm– no. No, I haven’t seen him here today. A lot of people seem to be asking around for him,” Satoru says, just barely resisting the urge to grit his teeth through the words. He gives a weak attempt at amused laughter instead, to try and cover up the fact that it’s uncomfortable to suddenly hear his name in every conversation; it makes him feel more haunted than usual, makes him jumpy and skittish as his weight shifts against the old floorboards. His own head does a quick turn around the room, scanning for what feels like the millionth time that morning in search of a tight bun or a pair of tired eyes, only to once again come up empty.  

“Oh, that’s a shame. I hope he makes it,” Misato says with a frown, staring down at her hands. The silence lingers for a few moments, enough to apparently encourage her to keep talking. “He and Riko were also very close, so I just… I don’t know. I was hoping he would be here.” 

“I didn’t know they still talked. I’m glad they stayed friends after so long.” 

“Oh yes! They saw each other almost weekly, they stayed very close. He meant a lot to her.” 

It’s startling, that Satoru never knew this, that she never told him or even just slipped up and accidentally mentioned him at any point. He’s sure it was only done out of mindfulness, Riko having heard more than enough about how touchy he could be about Suguru, but it doesn’t stop the sting of learning after the fact that they saw each other weekly. Consistently. Habitually. Satoru hangs his head as the words level with him, dislodging something in his chest that hadn’t been touched in a long time. The empty space burns and throbs and chants something that sounds a little too close to replacement. 

“That’s… I’m glad,” he manages to get out, raising his head with a forced smile. He isn’t glad– if anything he’s hurt by it– but he bites down on the feeling like he can chew and swallow. “I’m glad they were such good friends. I’m sure he misses her a lot.” 

“He’s been taking it really hard, from what little he’s said,” Misato says around a quiet sigh. “I hope he’s doing okay.” 

There’s a thrum that passes through the masses inside of the funeral home all at once, a wave that rolls in with bodies inching through the door of the viewing room and beginning to disperse into the rows of seats set up before the stage. A harrowed looking man in a stiff looking suit makes his way past Satoru and Misato, settling himself behind the podium to the right of Riko and shuffling through pages already laid out there. His face gives the impression of too little sleep and too much coffee, eyes tired where they scan over documents and cue cards. Both watch him as he organizes and mumbles to himself, as the pews slowly begin to fill, and both mutually agree to take their leave with parting condolences and gratitudes for attendance. 

Shoko finds him almost as soon as Misato turns towards her seat with Riko’s family, pacing up to him with her own exhausted look on her face. If he was in the mood for jokes, he would no doubt crack one about the uncanny resemblance between Shoko and the funeral director on the stage, but he feels drained after the few conversations he has already had this morning and he knows he still has an awful lot of talking left to do. She doesn’t seem to mind his silence as she herds him towards the first bench in the row in front of the podium, settling down next to him on it with her coffee cup cradled in her palms. 

“Who was that?” She asks after a few moments pause, trying to fill the space between them with something more than the vacant look in Satoru’s eyes. 

“Riko’s partner, Misato,” he says softly, taking a sidelong glance towards the girl in question, eyes following the harsh forward curve of her spine in her seat. “Even she’s asking about Suguru. I can’t catch a fucking break.” 

“I’m sorry people keep bringing him up,” Shoko winces, heaving a sigh as she sips at her coffee. She at least seems sympathetic when she apologizes, which Satoru does appreciate; he knows it isn’t entirely her fault that it keeps happening, even if she was the first to bring him up. “He also trained her, I’m sure that’s why people keep asking.” 

“Did you know they still hung out?” He can’t help how accusatory it leaves him. 

“I-” she hesitates, her eyes going wide for a few moments, before she sags in her seat. “Yeah, I did. Riko had mentioned it a number of times. They went out for lunch or coffee a lot to catch up. She was one of his only friends.” 

“One of them,” Satoru echoes back, eyes sliding from Misato across the room to land on Shoko instead. She smells more strongly of tobacco now than before, so she no doubt went out for another smoke prior to tracking Satoru down. He eyes her warily, the way she seems to shift in poorly masked discomfort next to him as the silence stretches miles wide between them, the implication somewhat damning. Satoru doesn’t have a chance to continue his impromptu interrogation though, because the funeral director clears his throat into the microphone and announces they’ll be starting the service. 

“Everyone, we are gathered here today to remember a life cut all too short-” the man starts, his tone a little too bored to be deemed appropriate for the setting. Satoru barely finds it in himself to pay attention to it though, absently watching his shoes instead as the light bounces off of their polished surface not unlike the cars in the parking lot. His blood itches for a cigarette of his own as the glare burns through his retinas, searing an impression of itself into his cornea that shifts as his eyes do. He doesn’t smoke– he’s made an abject point to never make a habit of it– but the concept of relief is all too appealing as the clock ticks down toward his turn at the podium. 

He hopes what he wrote is good enough for the day; for her. It strikes surprise into him to consider the fact that he’s never scripted anything for himself before today. Sure, a primary part of his job was public speaking, amusing the masses tuning into the radio station and charming them into sticking around and giving them money, but he’s always flown by the seat of his pants when he’s on air. He’s always been good at that, at carrying a conversation and adlibbing himself out of any situation. He’s charismatic by nature, and it shows given how popular his radio show is and the fans it has amassed throughout his years on air. 

It feels odd to have sat and tried to summarize an entire life in five hundred words or less.

***

It’s quiet in the car once Satoru and Shoko have climbed into their respective seats. The driver's side window is cracked enough to let in a harsh breeze, catching on the car's edges to barrel inside and muss Shoko’s hair as she sits and smokes, occasionally fitting the stick through the gap to ash it into the parking lot. Satoru sits curled tight into himself in the passenger seat, staring down at his phone like he might be able to dismantle it through mental force alone. 

“...Are you sure you don’t want the night off?” Shoko questions after a drag and an exhale, the scent of tobacco a bit suffocating in the small car. Satoru has long since outgrown his need to complain about how cramped the space is for him, his knees folded awkwardly even with the seat fully pushed back in a poor attempt to accommodate his height. He doesn’t glance up when Shoko questions him, instead still glaring down at his phone. 

He could call him. It would be easy to do it, granted Suguru didn’t change his number in the past ten years. Satoru supposes there’s a chance he has, with that much time standing between the two of them, but the contact is still sitting there under the name DO NOT ANSWER, a bit mocking and shameful that he ever thought he would get a call from him after how things ended. 

“I’m fine,” Satoru says on a reflex, head angled down. 

“Satoru, I’m going to be honest with you.” A pause, while she takes another drag. “You don’t seem fine.” 

“I am fine. I’m just… thrown off. It’s a rough day.” 

Shoko lets out a smokey sigh, staring dead ahead through the windshield for a few more moments as she watches cars slowly trail their way out of the parking lot and onto their lives outside of the funeral. Eventually, without saying anything, she turns the key over in the ignition and lets the car hum to life beneath them. The heat comes on automatically, a bit higher than Satoru keeps it, but it’s a relief from the wind still making its way inside every few moments. In increments, he relaxes his muscles along with the heat as it floods the space. 

“Usually a rough day is exactly why people call out,” Shoko says eventually, factually, passing a sidelong glance Satoru’s way. The set of his shoulders, tense and near his ears, says he’s carrying too much and refuses to put any of it down. He’s still staring at his phone. 

“I don’t call out for rough days. You know I don’t call out, period.” 

“Yeah, your habit of coming into work sick is still an issue. You get other people sick like that.” 

“They need better immune systems. I’m doing them a favor.” 

His thumb hovers over the unblock button, glaring and red like a warning flare. He could call him. He could give him grief for not showing up. Satoru bets it would feel great, to give Suguru a piece of his mind for his lack of attendance. He should have shown up; it was probably the worst thing he could have done, to not show up, in Satoru’s opinion. His blood boils silently in his veins, his stomach swooping every time his thumb twitches enough to almost hit the button. He should call him. 

“You should do yourself a favor and take the night off. You suck to be around when you’re in a mood.” She emphasizes her words, before throwing the rest of her cigarette through the gap in the window and rolling it shut. She blows into her hands for a moment before shifting the car out of park, beginning to drive them out of the parking lot and back towards Satoru’s apartment.

“Thank god it’s just you and Choso who have to deal with me tonight, then. The glories of late night time slots.” 

“I don’t have to deal with you. I can avoid you the whole time I’m there if I want to,” she says pointedly, the ticking of her turn signal a backdrop to her words. Her hands are tense around the steering wheel, ten and two, knuckles going pale. There’s something off about the stiff way she sits up in her seat, the amount of road laws she’s meticulously abiding by. 

“Coffee for a week says you won’t, though,” Satoru sing-songs, and finally, he looks up from his phone to grin leeringly over the center console at her. 

“Choso is nice. Don’t do this to him,” she pointedly ignores Satoru’s attempt at betting. 

“You’re so going to bug me the whole time. Two weeks says you’re not leaving the on-air booth. You’re too much of a worry wart.” 

“I am no such thing.”

Satoru only dignifies her insistence with a soft hmph, nose scrunching as he stoops further into his seat. It isn’t more comfortable, but it’s dramatic enough to satiate his attempts at arguing for the time being. He goes back to fiddling with his phone instead, back to staring down at Suguru’s contact like it might bite him if he leaves it unattended for too long. He could call him. A part of him argues that he should call him, that it’s up to Satoru Gojo himself to bring down the gavel on one Suguru Geto for refusing to attend Riko’s funeral. He’s back to seething in silence, resentful of the candid photo that remains the contact image, until Shoko breaks the trepid silence of the car. 

“...You did good,” she starts, a little awkwardly. It’s not often praise comes naturally to her. “With the eulogy, I mean. It was good.” 

“Thank you,” Satoru replies back reflexively. It’s curt, with a nod to accompany it, something strained and discomforted in his face when he says it. It doesn’t help the odd air surrounding them.  

“What you said about her– I’m… I’m sorry, Satoru.” 

“You don’t need to do this, Shoko.” 

“I know I don’t need to, Satoru, I just–” 

“–I’d rather you didn’t,” Satoru tries weakly to cut her off, but she steamrolls right through. 

“I’m sorry she’s gone, okay? I know you two were close, and I know this is hard to go through, and the eulogy, and being a pallbearer, and I just–” 

“Shoko, stop. Please, stop, I-I don’t… I don’t need to hear it. It’s okay. I’ve got it handled, so let's just…” His voice stops a bit short as he clears his throat, runs a hand down the length of his face. It’s still too bright outside, and the last turn Shoko took put the sun directly in his face, and his headache has only been slowly worsening throughout the whole morning, and he briefly wonders what the likelihood of dying from throwing himself out of the car at this current moment is. 

An aborted glance at the dashboard says she’s going 38 miles per hour. He scoffs. 

“Okay, okay, we are done talking about it then,” Shoko adjourns, her hands flexing around the wheel for a few moments, her tone a bit defensive. She fiddles with the heater, turns on the radio for the sake of filling the awkward silence, turns it down to barely audible when she can’t find a station to her liking and resorts to WJJK’s midday show instead. 

“You know you don’t have to have everything handled all the time though, right?” It’s tentative when she says it, like she’s being cautious, like Satoru’s cup has gone beyond flowing over and is now shattered across the floor and she’s avoiding the fragmented glass. He feels a bit shattered, no thanks to Shoko’s prodding on the sore subject like a bad bruise. 

“Yeah, I kind of do Shoko,” Satoru starts, unable to hold back the angry pitch in his words. His hand is tight enough around the phone to warrant concern for cracking it, a precursor to forward arcs and throwing. “Because Yaga is a mess, and half the station is a mess, and everyone at the funeral is a mess, and someone needs to keep it together so everyone else can fall apart. Someone needs to power through, Shoko, and I am fine being that person. So drop it already.” 

He sucks in a heavy breath after he’s done speaking, glaring down into the dashboard as he grits his teeth. The guilt is an immediate and sharp thing that settles in his chest, burning like reflux as he exhales slow and shaking. Shoko herself is tensed behind the wheel as she pulls into the parking lot for Satoru’s apartment complex, letting the silence steep as she finds a spot and parks the car there. 

“Okay,” she starts after a few moments of idling, “I’m sorry.” 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Satoru replies back, letting his head hang until his chin meets his sternum. The stretch is painful in a satisfying way, his tendons and muscles forced to relax from the motion. “I’m sorry, Shoko, I shouldn’t be yelling at you. Thank you for caring.” 

“Well, I’m a worrywart, aren’t I?” She tries weakly to joke, and it gets a crooked smile out of Satoru as he tips his head enough to look at her for a few moments before straightening. Small mercies. At least he has her. 

“Yeah, you are.” He decides on before throwing off his seatbelt. He leans across the center console enough to wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side in a weak hug that barely lasts a second or two. She still slumps into him though, her shoulders relaxing, a small smile on her face like a secret they share. 

“Thank you again, Shoko,” Satoru says once he’s climbed out of her car, leaning against the door to speak to her. “It means a lot.” 

“Of course loser,” She says back easily, hunching to look him in the eye. “Just don’t forget what I said.” 

***

“–And that’s one of the things that I think makes WJJK so important as a radio station! There’s so much freedom to be found–” 

Satoru pauses the recording with a heavy sigh, staring a bit despondently at the screen of his laptop, at the old video he has pulled up. Riko is there, seated on the sofa that used to exist in the station’s kitchen, young and grinning at the camera as she prattles on about the merits of community radio, and why people should help fund WJJK specifically, for a fundraising event several years prior. She looks good; she looks more familiar than she did earlier that day. 

He’s been trying to keep himself from idling in the hours between getting home from the funeral and leaving again for work that evening. Anything to help ignore the burning of his phone in his pocket, on the bed, on the nightstand, in the other room. Distancing himself from the device had yet to silence the voice in the back of his mind whispering I should call him, but at least Satoru could tell himself that he was trying to avoid a catastrophe. 

At this point he felt like he was failing, but he was still making attempts at distracting himself, and that had to count for something, right? It had been a few hours since Shoko dropped him off, the sun starting its slow descent toward the horizon as midday passed into late afternoon, and Satoru had revised and re-revised his show for the evening several times over at this point. He has double-checked all of the audio clips he pulled, he listened through the playlist twice since he had gotten home, and he’s now positive it’s one of the most polished shows he’s ever put together. The bar was never all that high in that regard, but this one will surely take the cake as far as his audio engineering skills are concerned. 

I should call him. 

His head drops back to glare up at the ceiling, his headache still lingering behind his eyes at a steady, throbbing pressure. The ache makes him restless, makes him shift about and change positions and clench his hands in time with the heartbeat living in his skull, like if he moves enough he can escape it. It makes him discard his laptop from his lap, leaving it to overheat against his bedsheets as he moves to stand, starting a slow pace through his room like a tiger in a cage. 

I should call him. 

His hands rub against his temples as he actually considers the act of doing so. For as much as giving Suguru a piece of his mind has been at the forefront of his own, he hasn’t actually lingered much on what he would say to him if he went through with calling him. If he would be cordial or if he would yell, if he would swear up a storm or if he would stay firm about the matter. If he would give him the space to tell his own side, or if Satoru would just say his piece and then hang up afterwards. He doesn’t know what he would do. He doesn’t even know if he’s ready to talk to Suguru again after so long, after their tumultuous fallout, but the itch is there and burning away at him like it wants to rend him raw. 

I should call him. 

Satoru pauses long enough to press his palms into his eyes, like he can push the ache out. He tries to breathe deep, despite the way it trembles in his throat when he sucks the air down. He feels like he’s going to self-destruct if he doesn’t do something about the feelings raging away inside of him. He needs an outlet, he needs a punching bag, he needs to break something. He needs to feel the glass crack. He needs to. 

Fuck it. 

Satoru cuts a straight line into the kitchen in record time, moving on autopilot so that he can’t give himself the option of backing out of what he’s deciding to start. He moves in such a haze that he hardly processes the act of grabbing his phone, unlocking it, unblocking Suguru’s contact. He doesn’t come back to his senses, and the subsequent panic of everything he has now initiated, until he’s heard two dial tones already. 

He doesn’t know what to do when a woman answers the phone. 

“Hello?” She says pleasantly, her voice aged yet airy. Satoru’s whole body goes stock still, like if he moves he’ll be caught doing something horrible. It feels a bit like a murder scene, with him standing in the middle of his kitchen, the phone a blade and the drip of the faucet in the background going arterial. 

“Hello? Can you hear me?” The woman continues when the silence drags on for too long. 

“H-hello! Hi, I’m… sorry to bother you,” Satoru blurts out, tripping over his tongue. She sounded too old to be a partner, and Satoru is struck with the realization that he no longer remembers the cadence of Suguru’s mother’s voice. “I’m looking for Geto Suguru. Is he… available?” 

“Geto Suguru?” She parrots, her confusion palpable. “I’m sorry but I think you have the wrong number. I don’t know any Getos.” 

“Right, right… I must have. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” 

Satoru hangs up the call before he can get a response, his hands shaking with adrenaline as he drops his phone onto the granite of his countertop with a clatter. He hardly processes that his breathing is a bit hard, a little too heavy for something as simple as a phone call; his posture sags as he stares down at the key pad of his call screen. 

It feels like a tie has been severed, now. Some semblance of connection he retained for years, a tether he clung to despite his resentments broken at his feet as he processes that Suguru didn’t have the same phone number he used to. There was no way to reach him now, the hope squandered and crushed down like an empty can. He hadn’t realized how much it meant to him, the illusion of lack of distance, until he is confronted with being miles away. There is an ocean in front of Satoru, an impossible drop and a sheer cliff face and waves that crash and crest, and he has no boat. 

He has forgotten how to swim. 

He feels like he is drowning.

***

Like the body’s ability to push out toxins through sweat and tears and vomit, Satoru pushes himself through the rest of his day; begrudgingly, exhaustively, in a haze of sleep deprivation and mental taxation. 

He has been numb ever since the phone call. Like his brain has decided he does not have the bandwidth to process the disconnect of his final tie to Suguru, and all the weight that comes barrelling along with it, it shuts down instead and leaves Satoru floating through his apartment for the rest of his afternoon. He showers, he thinks, and he eats, maybe. He packs his bag with his laptop and headphones for the station, and in a single blink of his eyes he is already on the road and autopiloting himself through the countryside to his job. 

He feels squirrelly now, driving. The same stretch of road as her, the tire marks still fresh on the asphalt from the accident, from one asshole not caring for anyone but himself. He’s never fully thought about how sharp the serpentine bends of the highway are until he’s considering going thirty over the speed limit, with the pavement wet and alcohol in his system. When the sky is dark, when it’s after midnight, he knows that the turns are too sharp for his headlights to wrap around them; they simply bathe the sheer rock face to the left of him in the pale yellow of the lights. The lines blur to invisibility when it’s raining, because they need to be repainted. He can’t remember how many times her car rolled until it stopped. 

“I don’t need to think about that,” he mumbles to himself, like it could halt the pervasive thoughts of what became of Riko that night. It does nothing for him, the same way that turning up the radio to try and drown them out does nothing, but he still tries regardless as he drives through the scene of the accident at ten miles under the speed limit. He holds his breath as he does, like it’s a disrespect to breathe as he passes through the spot where she stopped doing so. It feels like superstition; Satoru has never believed in ghosts or hauntings, but he keeps glancing in his rearview mirror like he might find her perched in his back seat, or see her car upturned in the loose dirt of the ditch on the opposing side of the road. 

He feels nauseous when he catches the glare of vibrant fake flowers planted in the grass at the scenic pull out. He doesn’t turn to look at them, or the old black car parked just before them, or the tall figure that stands alone in front of what is surely a small monument to Riko. Photos and flowers and stuffed animals, something he’s been telling himself for a week he will make a stop and hold a vigil at and hasn’t worked up the courage to actually attempt yet. He isn’t surprised to see someone else in his place at her roadside marker, what with the funeral having been just hours earlier. It’s as sweet as it is sickening; he used to enjoy his drives to the station before this happened. The nature next to the road, the countryside wide and welcoming until now. He tries to hold onto the dinner he thinks he ate but isn’t sure, and he turns up the radio even more to try and overwrite the thoughts in his head occupied by the crunch of metal and the scream of a car alarm and the smell of blood. 

He wasn’t even there. He doesn’t know what good imagining the scene does him now, but he does it anyway, because at least it lets him feel closer to her. It lets him imagine she didn’t go alone, in the cold and the dark of Halloween. It was a record low that night, thanks to the storm that rolled through. 

***

Fifteen minutes later, and the station parking lot still looks the same as it always did in its early evening light, with the exception of Shoko’s car hiding in the far side of the lot. The gravel still crunches the same under his tires, the stout building still needs a fresh coat of paint, and the large sign reading WJJK fm Radio is wind-worn and neglected as always; but there’s something perverse following him in. Like something is off, like he’s forgotten something important, like something bad is about to happen. It’s been present and mounting since the bridge, since the pull out, and Satoru in his brain fog hasn’t been able to figure out why. He kept checking his rearview mirror just in case, and found it empty every time. 

It makes him double check his belongings before he goes in, hunched awkwardly into the back seat of his car to root through his bag and run through the short mental checklist of what he needs for his show; laptop, charger, headphones, coffee. Nothing is amiss though, even after he triple checks everything, and with a nauseous belly he gathers his bag and his drink and heads for the front door of the station. 

The interior is the same it’s always been as well, with its old carpet and its photo-covered walls mapping out the history of the station. The CD library is dark, the kitchen light is on just past it, and the door to the on-air booth is shut with the hot mic sign glowing a dull red against the wood. The speakers overhead broadcast the current show airing, Choso’s voice floating about the space in his usual low timbre as he rattles off song titles and mentions of a new album from a band Satoru has never heard of and isn’t going to bother looking up. The volume is low, the noise existing to occupy the space and offset the discomfort of silence more than anything; Satoru adjusts his bag against his shoulder and waits for the hot mic light to turn off before he’s shouldering his way into the booth. 

“Choso!” He exclaims loudly, letting the heavy door of the booth slam shut behind him with a loud thunk, suctioning out air as it closes. The man in question jumps visibly at all the noise, turning his bewildered eyes up to Satoru as he sits up straight in his chair, blinking owlishly. He looks like he wasn’t expecting to see him here tonight. “How’s everyone's favorite punk rocker doing tonight?” 

“Gojo, hi, hey,” Choso blurts out, relaxing in increments back into his chair as he turns it to fully face his coworker. “I’m fine. You seem in good spirits.” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Satoru says, placing his bag and travel mug down onto the sound table. He slouches into the chair in front of the second microphone, bending at the waist to lean against the tabletop and see Choso around the stack of CD players sitting partially in front of him; he’s pushing his rolling chair back and forth idly, as he watches the meters on the sound board bounce to the beat of the song currently playing low in the background. He’s chewing on his lip like he isn’t sure how to continue the conversation, and for some reason seeing it makes Satoru’s already frayed nerves spike with anticipation. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were… holding up okay.” 

“Holding up okay? I’m great,” Satoru puzzles around his smile, his eyebrows pinched as he cocks his head at Choso. 

“...The funeral was today, wasn’t it?” Choso asks eventually, blurting it out like he’s run out of more gentle ways he could rephrase it. “You were close, weren’t you?” 

“Right, Riko… Yeah, I’m– I’m fine. Nothing I can’t handle.” Satoru swallows thick, repeating the words he’s been rehearsing for a week straight now as he forces his smile to stay intact. He’s kicking himself for not seeing this coming, really– he underestimated Choso’s kindness. 

“How was the service?” Choso hums, diverting his attention from the smile slowly sliding off of Satoru’s face despite his best efforts to the clock on the wall across from him, down to his laptop to check his playlist. The intro to Sea, Swallow Me by Cocteau Twins fades in, and just barely, the volume is turned up in the booth. 

“It was nice,” Satoru reasons, a little more subdued this time. He had hoped he might get away with not talking about his horrible day, but he can’t blame Choso for asking; it was kind of him to worry, however much he was. “Lots of flowers, lots of people. You know how WJJK likes to make a whole ordeal out of these kinds of things.” 

“Shame she was so young, though. Normally it’s for all the old heads.” A sigh as Choso gives a shrug, fidgeting in his seat. 

“Yeah, well, only the good and all that.” Satoru offers a half-shrug in return. 

A brief quiet passes between both of them as Choso adjusts a channel on the soundboard, types something on his laptop that makes him huff a quiet laugh. Satoru is about to pull out his phone and busy himself with that when Choso speaks up once more, though. 

“I heard there’s a new DJ starting tonight,” he muses, not glancing up from his computer as he speaks. “I guess they filled Riko’s spot quickly.” 

“Oh, really?” Satoru questions, taken aback by the news. Nobody had bothered to let him know, which he finds a bit odd in itself, but he can reason Yaga was being his usual self and didn’t want to overwhelm him given the events of the day. He isn’t sure how he feels about it though; someone taking Riko’s timeslot. It had been hers for years, something she prided herself on having. He had almost been looking forward to hearing another one of her old pre-recorded shows as he packed up for the night after his own show was finished, like a piece of her to keep him company in the quiet of the station after hours. 

“Yeah. Don’t know who, or anything about them, but… I guess you’ll meet them in a few hours.” 

“Explains why Shoko is still here, I guess.” 

“Yeah, she’s hiding out somewhere in here,” Choso jokes, giving a shrug before he’s standing from his seat with a stretch that leaves his spine popping. “Well, I’m all set once this song ends. Got like, 30 seconds left on it.” 

Choso shuffles about the studio to grab his few things, stuffing them into a messenger bag that looks older than himself while he waits for the clock to count down. Satoru is quick to drop into the host chair, letting it groan slightly under himself while he internally muses that he needs to suck it up and just get a new chair for the station. 

It’s an easy exchange, when the clock ticks down to 7:58pm; a quick slide of one of the channels on the board to turn on the one pre-programmed for the top of the hour ads, unplugging the aux chord from Choso’s laptop while connecting his own to bluetooth. Choso gathers his computer into his worn out bag quickly, standing awkwardly by the door for a moment while Satoru plugs his personal headphones into the sound board and finishes setting up for his show. Choso looks like he’s debating saying something, one hand on the door handle while the other clutches the strap to his bag, fingers flexing white knuckled before releasing to blush pink, repeating the motion a few times. 

“I’m sorry again for your loss,” Choso says, voice quiet. He looks like he wants to say more but doesn’t have the words for it, a conflicted expression on his face like he’s somehow seen through Satoru and down to the muck hiding beneath the surface of him. He doesn’t comment though, beyond a brief, “Have a good show, Gojo.” 

“Thanks, Choso. Appreciate it,” Satoru hums back, throwing a wave of his own over his shoulder as he watches the monitor housing all of the pre-programming, the bar counting down how long is left in the current ad. He has nine seconds to slip into his persona, to crush everything down before it can fully bubble back up to the surface; a man’s voice drones on about a computer repair shop for a few seconds longer while Satoru dons his headphones, adjusts the microphone in front of him, and begins to slide up the channel for it. 

“You’re listening to WJJK fm, 95.5 in Tokyo and 102.9 out in Kyoto and this… Is Limitless Radio.” 

***

It’s a reprieve for Satoru to be hiding away in the quiet of the on-air booth for the next two hours.

 It’s just him and the music, and the supposed thousands of people that tune in for his show on a several-times-weekly basis. Alone with just the microphone to keep him company, since he’s resolute in not answering the phone for tonight’s show, he bides his time silently and idly. He doesn’t want to deal with his listeners today, even if he would normally suck it up and answer the calls coming in and thank each person individually for their time spent listening to his show. He can’t stand the thought of any more apologies, after all the ones he’s gotten this past week. He can’t face the music anymore than he already has. He doesn’t have it in him, drained dry as he sits slouched in the host seat like a statue. He follows his setlist and pre-planned timing to a near-T, floating throughout the course of his show with only half a brain in it. He reasons it’s thanks to just how many times he went over the whole thing that he’s able to autopilot as well as he does tonight, as he takes his time on-air to retell stories about Riko and play commercial and interview clips she had made just for the sake of hearing her voice. It’s familiar in its own way, despite how grief-soaked the evening– the whole day– has been. 

He’s not looking forward to the end of his show. That’s when reality sinks in the heaviest, straight through him and into the floor, the basement, the dirt beneath it all. When she isn’t there to burst into the room with a teasing call of Satoru’s name, to ruffle his hair and ask how he’s been and insist they hang out outside of work soon. It fossilizes down there, compressed into something small he can fit into his palm and worry as he cleans up the station as much as he feels up to doing so. He’s not looking forward to the change in routine, a fresh face to fill the human-shaped hole Riko has now left behind. Satoru was content to let that space collect dust, in the name of preserving her memory. It makes him ache to consider this as a way for her to be replaced. 

He thinks he has time to consolidate the upcoming change, in the quiet of nostalgic songs turned down low and the hum of the radio transmitter in the on-air booth. He always thinks he has more time than he does; it’s been a routine he’s made a nasty habit of. Ever since high school, he’s taken to walking through life like he owns time itself, like he’ll never go bankrupt, and without fail he’s smacked across the face with it marching on without him. The second he starts to dawdle is the second it takes off running ahead of him. 

The real cherry on top of the horrible day he’s had is that Shoko decides introductions are fine to do when the mic is hot and Satoru is mid-sentence. 

“ –The station hosted event to celebrate Riko Amanai’s life is happening a week from now at the station itself, so if you’d like to see some DJ’s in action, meet members of the station, and share in the joy that Riko leaves behind for everyone, please feel free to attend!”

The muffled sound of the on-air booth’s door clunking open and then shut just barely makes it through Satoru’s headphones, almost causing him to fumble in his talk about upcoming events. He glances to his right without pausing when he catches the sound; Shoko has slipped into the studio, looking more on edge than usual compared to her normal placid and indifferent attitude. That alone seems off, but what’s as infuriating as it is curious is him. The looming feeling of offness that has been following Satoru since he drove over the bridge seems to have manifested physically, and all at once Satoru connects the dots that align towards some massive cosmic joke at his expense.

Nobody interrupts his show. The outlier of his night, the thing that shouldn’t be here but undeniably is and has thrown off his routine, is unmistakably this fucking guy. Not the funeral, not the dragging weight of everyone else falling to pieces, not the hours spent idling before his shift tonight trying and failing to make mistakes. No. The cause for all his anxiety when coming into work was standing right in front of him like a mockery. 

There’s several seconds of silence on air before Satoru is turning slowly in his chair and leaning back towards the mic. His voice has lost some of its expected flamboyance and charm when he speaks, his tone falling flat as he tries to process the man standing behind him, the torrent of memories and emotions overwhelming him at just the sight of him after as long a day as Satoru has had. 

“Up next we have another song that Riko loved.” Robotically, Satoru fades in the song and cuts his mic, taking a steeling breath before he turns back to the pair hushedly talking in front of the studio door. 

“Satoru, you know Geto,” Shoko starts, something forcibly calm about her tone and phrasing. She looks like she’s bracing herself, in the way her fingers fist at her sides, the unnatural way she’s squared her shoulders. It’s almost insulting how casually she states it, how impassively she acknowledges that Satoru knows Geto, like it was simple and they were just acquaintances. Satoru feels a bit betrayed by it, given the extent of Shoko’s knowledge about the two of them; she had to have known this wouldn’t go over well, and he’s going to make sure she’s given hell for the decision to corner him while on-air with their untimely reintroduction. Satoru stares up at Suguru like he’s seen a ghost, some horrible manifestation that leaves his face as pale as his hair. He forces a smile, chokes around a laugh, and finally drags his gaze to Shoko. 

“And the big red light outside usually means don’t come in, but it’s okay! We all make mistakes!” What would have normally been sarcastic, some joke all too on brand for Satoru, comes out flat and irritated instead; too genuine in his upset, even if they’re all realizing it has nothing to do with someone coming into the studio when he’s on a hot mic and more who came in. Satoru’s gaze jumps back to Suguru afterwards, something critical in his expression. 

“...Suguru. Long time no see.” 

He looks- like shit, really. His clothes are somewhat clean but still definitely worn in, almost like he rolled out of bed and didn’t bother to change; dark sweatpants, a plain black crewneck, all of it slightly too big for his frame. His hair is long like he never cut it since the last time they spoke all those years ago, greasy like it’s been unwashed for far too long but he at least attempted to tame it. Matte yet shining in that awkward way dry shampoo acted, half of it pulled back in a sloppy bun; tacky and grainy and going pale in places he didn’t brush the product out well enough. His baby hairs fray like a halo around his face, his bang falls stringy and stiff into his eyes, and he’s staring through it at Satoru, critical and cold despite the warm amber of his iris. 

“Hello Gojo.” 

There’s a long, towering silence that follows Suguru’s words; an uncharacteristic one, due to the shock of the statement, of the name. Suguru says it almost like saying a slur, like he’s chewed it up already and decided it wasn’t worth swallowing, like he’s spitting it out so he doesn’t choke. It makes Satoru visibly cringe, his face twisting up in obvious displeasure. 

“Gojo? Really, Suguru-” 

“Geto,” Suguru corrects, his face a mask of impassivity as his weight shifts from one foot to the other, staring Satoru down in a way that feels oddly challenging. Satoru, surprisingly, doesn’t rise to the bait; instead, he bends inwards, curling on himself in his chair as his shoulders shift towards his center and his spine twists forward; like a salted snail receding into its shell, like a tide from a shore, like waterlogged wood getting molded into a new shape, he recoils once more into himself as he continues to warily watch Suguru. 

“That feels a bit excessive, we’ve known each other since we were, like–” it comes out defensive, something meek and mild where Satoru would usually scathe. 

“I’d like to keep things… professional. Just Geto is fine,” Suguru continues, hardly missing a beat. It makes Satoru swallow thick, his confusion palpable as he just stares dumbly up at Suguru like he’s been struck. 

Satoru tells himself it’s just the day catching up to him, sucking the fight out of him, drawing him up emotionally into the fetal position. His mind swirls like water down a drain as thoughts and questions and accusations rush by too quickly for him to grab onto. He isn’t prepared for this– the unexpected meeting. He’s fantasized about it a million which-ways, the things he would say and yell and cuss and cry about to Suguru over how he left, why he did what he did, why he didn’t say the things Satoru thinks he should have before turning tail and running from it all. 

He isn’t ready for this. It sinks like a brick in him as he continues to stare up at Suguru unblinking and lost, choking on what he’s trying to swallow down. He isn’t ready for it. He isn’t ready yet. He doesn’t know if he ever will be. 

“Professional,” Satoru parrots after too pregnant of a pause; his response comes out stillborn and quiet. The upbeat pop song playing in the background feels too out of place for this room's weight. “I’m sorry, what– why are you here?” 

“Geto is taking over Riko’s timeslot,” Shoko supplies before Suguru gets a chance to. There’s a finality to her tone that pleads for no arguments, like she’s making a weak pass at moderating the interaction. “Yaga thought that it… would be fitting. Since he helped train her, and they were close.” 

“I’m honored to be filling her shoes,” Suguru tacks on afterwards, offering a smile. A smile, of all things, on what just might be the worst day of Satoru’s life sans one miserable day in his youth. It was hard to say which one was worse now, given the course of today. He doesn’t have it in him to try and decipher the differences either, because Suguru is smiling at him, and he’s here at the station, and they will be forced to interact at least passively multiple times a week, and Satoru isn’t ready for this. 

“I see,” is all Satoru can think to say as he sits and tries to really process the information. He had thought it would be bad enough, having some stranger sweep in to take Riko’s place, but this is somehow ten times worse. His gaze drifts away from Suguru down to the floor of the studio, staring through the carpet like he can retrace his steps and undo the past day, the past week. All Satoru wants is to go back in time to a moment where she’s still here, still laughing, where nothing has changed. 

The silence in the booth is stifling. Every sound seems amplified; Suguru adjusting his bag as the fabric brushes against itself, Shoko shifting her weight nervously while she shuffles in place. The song playing fades into the next, and the beat feels deafening. Satoru almost wants to throw up as much as he wants to rip his hair out and scream. His knuckles itch with the need to feel bone cracking behind thrown force. 

“Shoko,” he says eventually, not looking up from where he’s still glaring into the carpet. She perks up at the sound of her name, her spine straightening into a hard line. “A word, please.” 

There’s only a brief pause as Shoko and Suguru exchange a look before the latter is slipping from the room without a word. Satoru buries the balls of his palms into his eye sockets as he waits for the door to settle closed because they’re starting to burn. He’s starting to crack. He can feel something dislodge in his chest, a chip in his armor being revealed, and it’s the last thing he needs in this moment. 

He sucks in a deep, shaking breath before he speaks.

“What the fuck.” In his defense, the bellowing way he yells it is the calmest he can manage to be in this moment. 

“Look, Satoru–” Shoko says in a placating tone, like she actually feels bad for what she’s done. Satoru is trying and failing to reconcile with the fact that she could do this to him in the first place. 

“No, no, don’t you fucking look Satoru me right now. What the fuck is wrong with you, Shoko?” He finally drags his hands away from his eyes and down his face, shooting a glare his friend’s way as he speaks. He’s thankful for the fact that the room is relatively soundproofed, given his inability to moderate his tone. “Why would you– Today, of all the fucking days to ruin–” 

“I didn’t get a say,” she tries to interject, dragging the chair sat in front of the second microphone over to the end of the sound table and dropping herself into it. She fits her hands between her knees despite the way one of them bounces. She can’t meet his eyes. “Yaga nearly insisted Suguru take over the time slot–” 

“You still knew, you still knew it was happening today–” 

“Yes! Yes, okay, I knew it was happening today, but–” 

“But nothing, Shoko! But nothing, I cannot believe you, or– or this, or just…” Satoru’s voice tapers off at the end, as he leans his head against the back of his rolling chair. It creaks with the motion, reclining slightly against his weight, and for a brief second the only thought in his head is that he should suck it up and buy a new one for the station. It’s a momentary lapse that tastes like escape, but it’s all too fleeting. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make today any worse, when you had to talk at the funeral. You would have been a wreck if you knew.” 

“Yeah, well, you still made it worse.” Satoru resents the wet way the words come out, as his hands raise to scrub over his face. It feels a little cathartic at least, to let some of it out; he’s sure he’ll feel bad for laying into Shoko as hard as he is, but at the same time he can’t reason why she didn’t say anything. The way Shoko cringes at his snapping isn’t lost on him, and it makes Satoru deflate all at once. 

“I know I probably should have just told you, I kept trying and it just… wasn’t working,” she admits quietly, a sigh following her words. Satoru doesn’t doubt she’s itching for a smoke right about now; it felt odd to be having this conversation without the scent of tobacco filling the space between them. 

“God, and all that bullshit this morning about– about seeing him.” 

“Not my best work,” she tries to joke. It falls resoundingly flat, enough to make Satoru groan pitifully into his palm. 

“Yeah no shit it’s not. I’m so mad at you right now Shoko.” Satoru stands at that, pacing in the short space he’s allowed in front of the soundboard; it isn’t bigger than one full step, but he feels like he has too much energy inside of his body. Any corner that was riddled with exhaustion has been replaced by an instinctual need to run, to flee, now that he’s all-too aware Suguru is in the building. It makes his stomach turn with nerves, his on-going show all but forgotten now as it autoplays in the background. 

“And I deserve that.” Shoko reasons, her tone understanding in a way that disgusts Satoru. He had always hated a person who asked forgiveness instead of permission, someone who did what they wanted with the choice of dealing with the consequences over avoiding them. He didn’t care if it was hypocritical of him either, given his own nature of powering ahead with his own plans and intentions. It’s a violent difference when he’s on the receiving end. It’s a bloodbath when his best friend is the one to have done it to him. 

“I’m not forgiving you for this,” he threatens, though it comes out of him weak and shaky. His hands feel no better than his voice, trembling where they clench and unclench at his sides. He stops long enough to lean them against the counter, bearing down his weight like it might stabilize him, like it might give him the opportunity to break something. He glares daggers through the booth door as he does. “I swear Shoko, I’m not forgiving you.” 

“And I don’t blame you for that. I should have told you sooner, I-I just… I don’t know.” She heaves a large sigh at that, shifting to stand from her seat and move it out of the way, antsy to get out of the room given her attempts at calming Satoru down didn’t seem to be working as well as she had hoped. The chair drags gratingly against the worn carpet as she does. “I thought I was making things better when I was making things worse. I didn’t think it through.” 

Satoru doesn’t even know what to say in response to that. He’s still drowning in his anger as it burns inside like a smolder is spreading through him. He knows he’s right to be angry, just as much as he knows he shouldn’t be stewing in it either. It knots his throat as much as it aches behind his eyes, rendering him speechless as he struggles to find anything to say that isn’t more vitriol. He trusted that Shoko meant it when she said she fucked up at least, that she didn’t do that unless it was justified. She wouldn’t admit it if it wasn’t true. 

His silence is the most he can offer her in light of it all. 

“Well, I need a cigarette. Do you… want a coffee? Some tea?” An olive branch extended through the space between them, enough to bridge the canyon of a gap that’s been created. Satoru glances briefly at her before he looks away once more. 

“You think I drink the shit they stock here?” Satoru grumbles bitterly, his arms folding over his chest as he continues to stare daggers into the booth door. He’s all too aware that Suguru is loitering in the building now, that he could be feet away on the other side of the thick wood, that he’s back. He never thought he would come back. Satoru had tried to make peace for years with the fact that Suguru would go to extreme lengths to stay away from him. He couldn’t explain why he had suddenly gone back on that now. Maybe the death had made him go soft; Satoru hates the thought that maybe Suguru would let him back in, as a result of the absence in his life needing to be filled. 

“Well, it was worth a shot,” Shoko reasons around a dry laugh, like even she’s sick of the situation they’ve both found themselves in. 

“Why didn’t he come today,” Satoru spits out before he can let himself think better of it. It makes Shoko pause with her hand extended towards the doorhandle, glancing at Satoru over her shoulder as she thinks. 

“I don’t know,” she says eventually, shrugging. “Like I said, he’s sensitive. Maybe he couldn’t stomach it.” 

“He should have been there. He of all people should have been there for her.” 

“You can always ask him yourself?” Another shrug, before her fingers close around the bar on the door. “You want to grill him? Or should I tell him to fuck off until turnover?” 

“Tell him to fuck off. I don’t… I can’t. Not today.” 

“Okay. Alright, okay. That’s okay.” Shoko gives a weary nod, her face pinched like she’s gone worried and soft just like her tone has. She can see the gap in his armor. She can feel him cracking. She waits for a few moments like she’s holding to see if anything else reveals itself to her, before she’s exhaling slowly and tightening her grip on the door. Something shifts, like she’s decided to carry a weight that isn’t hers to bear, before she’s nodding to herself and leaving the on-air booth without another word. 

The quiet she leaves behind is deafening, even with the show still playing in the background. Satoru knows he needs to talk; he’s late to talking, this music break lasting several songs longer than he would ever allow if he had more control over his evening. He drops heavily down into his chair with a groan, that tapers into a whine, that transitions into a choked gasp. He can’t help it, the way his eyes spill over and go bloodshot, the way his face scrunches up in an ugly display of weakness. 

He lets the music keep playing without interruption. 

He tries to choke it back down before the top of the hour.