Actually, it was ruined before it ever started. Lunch with his parents was never going to be pleasant. Matter of fact, nothing in this house is designed for pleasure at all. The dining room is washed in pale afternoon light, everything arranged with such precision it feels sterile.

White porcelain plates, polished silver cutlery, rice steaming in a lacquered bowl; there is grilled salmon set in front of him with the skin crisped perfectly, pickled vegetables lined beside it in a neat little row, miso soup untouched near his hand. 

The household staff move in hushed motions around the edges of the room, they never insert themselves or get too close, that would be entirely inappropriate in a house where service is meant to feel invisible. They know their place and occupy it by replacing tea before anyone asks, clearing dishes before they even look used, and existing in that very careful silence everyone here seems to understand except him.

Satoru keeps his eyes fixed on his plate, which helps, barely, but it does—because if he looks at the table, he can pretend this is only a lunch with his parents. If he keeps one hand around his chopsticks and the other resting loose in his lap, he can forget about his body still feeling wrong from the flight, his fucked up final exam, and the bathroom at Van Nuys where he had to turn the faucet on so nobody would hear him struggle to breathe. 

While he’s too busy staring at everything else instead of the woman sitting in front of him, his mother stares at him with eyes as cold and blue as glacial water. They resemble his own, or so he’s been told countless times, though he prefers to believe that they look nothing alike. His cerulean hues have warmth in them, teeming with life, an impossible brightness this family has never known what to do with. Hers do not. Hers are beautiful in the way a winter storm is before it kills everything in its wake. 

Nobody knows where the Gojo family gene for blue eyes came from or with whom it had started, but few Gojo members carry it, and even fewer have ones like Satoru’s. Perhaps he’s the only one with eyes like his, and maybe that’s what makes him, well, him. Maybe the white hair has a hand in it too.

He’s the only one, from his knowledge, with such light features. All the others, his mother included, have dark hair. He finds it a little strange, why he’s the oddball out in every single aspect when it comes to this family, but suppose darkness never had any business coexisting with light. 

His father, with eyes so dark they’re borderline black and even darker hair, sits at the head of the table, reading something on his phone through rimless glasses, quiet as ever because he doesn’t do small talk, especially not with food in front of him and work that requires tending to at all hours of the day. 

Neither of them has asked about his eleven hour flight back home from Los Angeles. They haven’t bothered asking about how his birthday was. And they couldn’t care less about asking why he looks like he’s only slept three hours in the last week and survived the rest on shame as if it’s caffeine. 

Honestly? He’s fine with them not asking. He would’ve just lied anyway. 

But when his mother’s gaze becomes impossible to ignore, that’s when he knows she’s ready to start presenting her evidence, “Satoru.”

He finally lifts his eyes, brilliant blue meeting the dull one, “Yes?”

Her chopsticks rest delicately beside her plate. She has also hardly eaten, far too engrossed in observing her son, waiting for the right moment to strike, “Your father and I reviewed your transcript update.”

Satoru doesn’t react, or, more accurately, he reacts nowhere anyone can see. Beneath the table, his fingers curl once against his thigh. His chest tightens, not enough to turn into the disaster that happened at Van Nuys, but just enough to remind him that his body is still a traitor. 

“I assumed you had,” He says eventually. 

His mother’s eyes sharpen slightly, that’s the first warning. Lose the tone.

At the head of the table, his father does not look up from his phone, “Microeconomics.”

Satoru glares at the now lukewarm soup in front of him, “A B-minus,” His mother notes, as if naming a medical diagnosis instead of a stupid final after the two worst consecutive months of his life. 

He reaches for his tea because he needs to do something with his hands besides clench them, “I saw.”

“You had an A-plus in the course before the final.”

“I’m aware.”

“The final was weighted heavily?”

“Forty percent.”

“Then you should have adjusted your preparation accordingly.”

His jaw tightens, because just like that, everything becomes procedure here. There’s never any room for grief, or any feeling at all, actually. He can’t admit that the word future had appeared on the exam and suddenly all he could see was the image folded in his wallet. 

So he admits the only thing he can, “I miscalculated."

His mother’s mouth stays pursed, doesn’t move an inch, yet he feels the disapproval radiating off her, “That is unlike you.”

Her words trigger his father to finally set his phone down, and Satoru hates that more than the fact that he shares the same colored eyes with the woman in front of him, “Did you speak with the professor?” 

“Yes.”

A lie, obviously. He did debate speaking with the professor, going as far as to draft an email, though he never sent it because what the fuck was he supposed to write? He remembers what he tried to—

Good afternoon Dr. Curtis, 

I sincerely apologize for my abysmal performance on the final. My girlfriend had an abortion then broke up with me, I went on a coke bender for my twenty-first birthday, and I spent finals week drawing her face in the margins of my notes instead of reviewing the material like a pathetic fucking loser. 

I know you mentioned during syllabus week that there would be no extra credit opportunities. However, as one of your top students, I was hoping that you might be able to make an exception. If not, thank you for the great semester, and have a delightful winter break. 

Best, 

Gojo Satoru

—Funny, but not nearly funny enough to send. Fuck no, he’d never send something that embarrassing. If he were to say anything, he’d probably just lie too. Make up some dumb excuse that would garner a firm ‘no’ anyway. 

His father watches him, pressing, “And?”

Satoru forces himself to take a sip of tea, the temperature of it burning his tongue, “There was nothing to be done.”

“Nothing?”

“No extra credit. No curve. No retakes. The professor was adamant about that from the beginning of the semester.”

His mother exhales softly through her nose, the smallest sound and somehow it’s worse than yelling, “There is always something to be done.”

Satoru looks at her then, rather closely, taking in her calm face and perfect pearl earrings; the picture of composed disappointment. Yeah, she’s real good at that. This woman who believes every error has a correction plan if one is disciplined enough to apply it. He wonders what she would say if he reached into the pocket of his trousers, retrieved his wallet, placed the ultrasound on the table beside the grilled salmon and asked her what she would like him to do about that.

What is the correction plan for fucking up so bad that my girlfriend felt she had to kill our baby because I couldn’t be trusted anymore? Better yet, how can I skip past the first four stages of grief and arrive neatly at acceptance? Is there paperwork for that? A professor to email?

Oh, no answers? Of course not. 

Because there isn’t one. There’s no fix to any of it.

“Not this time,” Satoru mutters. 

His father’s gaze narrows, “Then we need to understand what happened.”

Satoru almost laughs out loud at the question. What happened? Where should he even start?

With the girl in the filthy rhinestoned baby tee at Sigma Chi? When he came inside you for the first time and grew obsessed with it ever since? What about the three positive pregnancy tests you handed him? The coke he couldn’t quit because everything became too real? Your face streaming with tears when you broke his heart in an In-N-Out parking lot, telling him it was done?

Or, maybe, he should start with the beginning before the beginning. 

A black trashbag. A broken pencil. Emi bowing in the entryway because she had been kind to him in a house where kindness comes with consequences. 

Really, what happened is that he wanted something. More than that, he loved something—someone, this time. And, well, both wanting and loving has always ended badly for him. 

His father’s voice cuts through the thought, “We considered whether the fraternity had become an issue.”

Satoru looks him in the eye despite himself, the word fraternity sounding entirely ridiculous in his father’s mouth. He makes Sig Chi sound like a term from a case study he’s been forced to cite in a language he finds utterly distasteful, which he probably does. His father must already know about the sticky hardwood floors, bathroom counters lined with cocaine, beer-slick kitchen islands, brothers chanting the Gojo name as if noise could ever amount to affection if repeated. Though, the mere idea of his father knowing that this is what he does while he’s away makes him fairly embarrassed. 

“The fraternity,” Satoru repeats, brows raised. 

“Yes,” His mother confirms, “It was the obvious concern…but you have been involved since your first year. Maintained the same social circle, the same house, the same obligations.”

Obligations. That is…definitely one way to put it. 

His father adds, “Your academic performance remained excellent through all of that.”

Yes. Somehow, Satoru has managed to make it through massive hangovers, girls, nights where he smelled like cheap beer and weed and some random bitch’s perfume; lectures he attended half-awake, still understanding better than students who had actually slept and tried their hardest. Through every ugly, acceptable way he had been ruining himself because he kept producing the right results his parents wanted. None of that shit mattered, since none of it had touched the numbers. 

His mother grabs her tea, taking a small sip, “So we looked at what changed,” And immediately, Satoru knows what she means before she even says it. His body knows, too—hand tightening in his lap, mouth going dry, “The girl.”

Her lips lift, the most minuscule movement that nobody would ever notice. Satoru honestly thinks he imagined it, but no. He’s certain he didn’t, because he knows his mother well. Well enough to know that she feels satisfied in identifying the correct wound he’s suffering from; his face is one significant tell, and truly, there’s not much he can do to hide everything from his parents. 

And of course, she must add insult to injury by referring to you as the girl, like you’re unworthy of being named among them. 

“She appeared frequently on your social media this semester,” His mother continues, “Then, quite abruptly, she was gone.”

Satoru’s pulse kicks once, his father concluding, “Your grade declined in the same period.”

The staff keep moving near the wall, distant from the table, pretending not to hear his mother diminish the worst thing to ever happen to him into a timeline, “You checked my Instagram?”

Her expression remains almost pleasant, that’s how he knows he has annoyed her, “Do not be childish, Satoru.”

“Is that a yes?”

His father answers for her, voice calm and flat as usual, “Your public image is not irrelevant.”

Public image…Right. That’s what matters here.

Satoru sets his cup of tea down way too gently, his mother’s eyes flicking to it, “She was American?”

His mouth curves slightly, flashing a humorless grin as he scoffs, “Obviously.”

“From Boston, if I recall.”

Suddenly, the room feels colder. How typical of her it is to remember such a detail and notice you before you ever disappeared. Even across an ocean and living in a different continent, they had managed to flatten you into information. An American girl from Boston, Massachusetts who frequently appeared on his social media and is now absent. The confounding variable in this equation.

His mother tilts her head out of curiosity, “The football player’s daughter?” Satoru’s pulse spikes, “Your father looked into it after she became a recurring presence.”

“A recurring presence,” He mumbles softly, the words leaving him quietly in disbelief. Reducing you to a nuisance rather than a lover. 

His father picks up his glass of water, takes one measured sip, and looks directly into Satoru’s eyes, “It was prudent.”

That is the exact kind of word that he would use. No, it wasn’t invasive or fucking insane of us to stalk your girlfriend online, it was prudent. We’re just looking out for you. We want what’s good for you—what’s right for you. 

His mother reaches for her tea again, “She seemed like a very pretty girl.” Seemed. Past tense. His stomach twists, “But young. A bit young for you, don’t you think? That kind of age difference often comes with immaturity. And from what could be observed, she was not especially serious.”

Satoru’s teeth press together so hard his jaw aches. She couldn’t be any more incorrect. Yeah, sure, you’re a few years younger, but the immature one was him. He was the one who made risk feel romantic, minimizing the consequences because wanting you had become more important than anything else, and for someone who is so intelligent, he was extremely stupid. But that’s what happens when you have no experience with relationships, both platonic and romantic. 

He’s had very few close friends throughout his life, everyone always wanting him around for the wrong reasons. The only one he could ever trust is Geto, and girlfriends? You were his first. Probably his last, at this rate too. 

“The timing is difficult to ignore,” His father hums, grabbing his attention, “Your academic performance declined during the same period you appeared to be involved with her.”

It’s as simple as that, in their eyes. Before you, A-plus. After you, B-minus. Conclusion? Remove the confounding variable. 

His mother’s voice softens into a tone so delicate it is cruel, “Satoru, you are twenty-one now. We are not unreasonable. It was only a matter of time before a girl caught your eye. However, you must be able to recognize when something has become a distraction.”

Distraction. Just like the drawing, you fall into the same category. So disgusted by the word, Satoru can’t find it himself to move a muscle. The room continues on horrifyingly perfect around him—uneaten food, steaming tea, his father watching, his mother waiting, the staff pretending they are deaf. But then…something inside him, something old and ruined, snaps.

“Don’t call her that,” He hisses, bitterness dripping from every syllable, “Don’t ever call her that.”

Both of his parents stare at him with a blank look on their face, they have never heard that tone before. Usually, Satoru is pliant. Or at least, the version of him they know is. 

Even one of the servers near the doorway has paused, a fresh pot of tea clutched in both hands, although it’s only for a second. She lowers her gaze and continues forward, quiet enough that the porcelain barely clicks when she sets it down. Satoru realizes only after he has spoken that his voice came out dangerously low, surprising himself along with everyone else. 

His mother’s fingers fall from her teacup, “I…beg your pardon?”

He leans back slightly in his seat, a sour smile touching his mouth even though nothing about him is amused, “You heard me.”

“Satoru,” His father warns once more, but he’s too wound up to listen.

“No,” Doubling down, he keeps his eyes on his mother when he says, “She wasn’t a distraction.”

She glares back, icy blues unyielding. She holds eye contact a moment too long, the silence growing unbearable. It’s so quiet that Satoru becomes awfully aware of his own breathing and the stillness of the staff members in the room, present to bear witness to the terrible dynamic between parent and son. The shame of making something that should be private visible crawls under his skin, but he can’t make himself care enough to take any of it back.

His mother folds her hands in her lap, her composure perfect as ever, “Then what was she?”

The question is poisonously soft, and if any other person other than his mother or father asked it, he may have answered honestly. Satoru’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. 

What the fuck do I say?

She was mine. 

No. No, that’s—that’s the old language. The bad one.

She was my girlfriend.

That one…is too small to explain how much you mean to him. 

She was the first person I ever loved because you made love feel like something I was undeserving of. 

God, no. That’s pathetic. Though, it is pathetically true. 

She was the girl who almost had my—

His throat closes before the rest of that thought can form. His mother watches him fail to answer, and something scarily close to satisfaction moves behind her eyes.

“Exactly.”

Satoru’s hand tightens around the edge of the table, and for one treacherous breath, he imagines throwing his hot tea right at her face. The violent nature of it perturbs him so deeply he freezes. He has never really thought of himself as a violent person. Fighting Kyle on Halloween was one thing, easy to justify in the moment. The asshole was drunk and loud and talking about you as if you were some prize he almost won, and Satoru had been high and jealous enough to mistake violence for protection. But being violent here is different. 

This isn’t a college bar and the person running their mouth isn’t some drunk frat fuck doing it for clout. It’s his mother—his own blood. The woman who raised him with cold hands and colder rules, sitting across the table in a cream silk blouse while his tea steams gently between them.

Yet still, he thinks it. For one disturbing second, he wants to hurt her like how she always hurts him. The realization startles him more than the anger itself. 

His father seems to have noticed his inner conflict, whispering a harsh, “Control yourself.”

The instruction almost pulls a laugh out of him. Yes. Control. The fucking family motto. At this point they should carve it into the wall of the foyer. His mother resumes as if his interruption was only a minor inconvenience, "Attachment is not inherently shameful, but unmanaged attachment becomes weakness. You know how it is. You are well aware that it can affect your judgment and disrupt your discipline. And ultimately, hinder performance.”

Everything is about fucking performance, isn’t it? Satoru is so tired of performances. 

And because his mother can’t let the discussion die, or maybe she just loves to hear herself talk, she goes on, “Whatever happened with this girl, it would be wise to take it as a lesson.”

“A lesson,” He echoes, rolling his eyes, “What lesson?”

“That desire without discipline becomes destructive.”

The second she says that, Satoru hates her even more. Because she’s right, but not for the reasons she believes. She’s referring to the destruction of his academics, meanwhile he genuinely destroyed things that matter more than a stupid fucking B-minus. He loved you badly, wanted you without any semblance of discipline, made wanting you cost way more than it should have, ruined the relationship due to his own selfishness, hurt you in a way you will carry for the rest of your life. 

His mother doesn’t know any of that truth. All she means is to stop wanting the wrong thing. Return back to your usual form. And be useful again.

The room grows tense after that. Satoru’s father picks his phone back up, but doesn’t unlock it. His thumb rests against the black screen, disguising dismissal as restraint. His mother lifts her chopsticks again, apparently she has an appetite left, “We will discuss appropriate steps after lunch.”

No, he thinks. We won’t. Satoru stands up abruptly, deciding that he should leave now before he does or says something he can’t take back. The chair underneath him hardly makes a sound against the floor, as if even inanimate objects know better than to be loud in this house.

His mother’s face falls into a scowl, “We are not finished.”

“I am.”

His father says his name once, sharp enough to freeze the entire room, “Satoru.”

He looks at him then, the light meeting the dark, but neither of them speak. His father just takes in the sight of his son, paler than normal, eyes too bright beneath the surface. Maybe he spots the crack within him or maybe he only sees the disrespect. Satoru doesn’t know which would be worse. 

His mother breaks the silence, “You are emotional.”

He finally laughs, unable to hold it in, “Yeah,” He admits, “Imagine that.”

The quiet that follows is absolute. His mother’s mouth tightens by a fraction, the dark eyes of his father lose whatever shine they had left, if any. Somewhere near the wall, a staff member lowers her chin. Satoru knows he should apologize, he knows the correct move to satisfy his parents. Smooth it over, smile, blame his temperament on the jet lag and exhaustion, make some dry comment as he usually does, retreat with dignity instead of bleeding openly at the dining table. 

But he has so little dignity left at this point. He bows his head slightly, just enough to be the proper man they expect him to be, “Excuse me.”

And as he turns to leave, his mother’s voice stops him before the first step, “Satoru,” He does not look back immediately, “Do not allow this mood to follow you into tomorrow,” His fingers curl at his side, she continues, serene as ever, “It is an important evening. Your father and I have planned it carefully. You are expected to represent this family with honor.”

Satoru’s jaw shifts, he had almost forgotten about tomorrow. How could he? The event his parents have been dressing up as a belated birthday celebration and holiday gathering; an elegant family occasion. 

Bullshit. 

They would never do anything to celebrate him unless it had strings attached. Which, of course, it does. In reality, the event is a little pre-anointing for the son who will one day take their place as the head of an empire he never wanted. Attended by relatives, investors, business partners, high ranking government officials, old family friends with old family money—all of them will gather to look at him and see proof that the Gojo future is still intact. 

Still beautiful, disciplined, profitable, and most importantly, still theirs. 

He glances over his shoulder, mouth curving into something similar to a smile if no one cares to inspect it. Luckily, nobody ever does.

“Right,” Then he turns on his heel before either of them can misinterpret his restraint for disobedience. 

He makes it down the hall, past the staff, past the flowers arranged too beautifully to be alive, the shiny floor beneath his feet reflecting a version of himself he detests. Near the entryway, there is an empty space where his memory insists Emi should be standing, but obviously, she’s not there. She hasn’t been there for twelve years. Those who are kind never survive in this house. 

When he steps outside, the air is cold enough to sting his lungs and for a second, he does nothing except breathe it in. Tokyo is gray around him, winter sky slipping over the garden walls, the city waiting beyond the gates as a reminder of the cage he resides within. 

He pulls his phone from his pocket with fingers he has to force steady and opens Geto’s contact rather than yours. 

you busy?

The reply comes less than a minute later. 

suguru: for you? unfortunately

Satoru huffs once. He’s missed his best friend’s humor. 

meet me at the 7-eleven by your place

suguru: what happened 

Looking back at the house, instead of seeing anything resembling a home, all he can see is a place that has spent his whole twenty-one years of life teaching him the easiest ways to suffocate. 

Then he looks down and types the only version of the truth he can stand. 

they happened

And when he steps toward the gate, one of the security guards straightens the moment he notices Satoru moving toward him, “Gojo-sama.”

Every time he hears that stupid title, it feels like a noose around his neck growing tighter. Another guard hurriedly opens the gate and both of them bow, reminding him that even leaving this house comes with an audience. However, Satoru doesn’t bow back; he only gives a curt nod. The kind his father gives when he wishes to acknowledge them without inviting conversation, dismissive and practiced, because again, he doesn’t do small talk. Maybe Satoru doesn’t do small talk either.

“Will you need the car, Gojo-sama?” One of them asks.

“No.”

The man pauses, “Should I inform the driver?”

“I said no,” His voice comes out colder than he means it to, or perhaps exactly as cold as this place taught it to be.

“Of course,” The guard says, lowering his gaze, and Satoru hates how immediately the gesture makes him hear his father in his own voice, but walks through the gate before anyone else can offer help he doesn’t want. The metal clanks shut softly behind him, and for a second, he just stands there on the other side of it. 

Ridiculous, really. One step away from the house and nothing has changed, but for some reason the air is cooler out here. That imaginary noose seemingly loosens now that nobody is around to watch him fucking breathe. 

So, he walks, and walks. Through familiar Tokyo streets that should feel like home, yet don’t, up until the 7-Eleven sign comes into view, bright and horribly ordinary against the darkening street. Geto is already there, leaning against the glass windows, black coat open, hair half-up, lip ring catching the store light whenever he turns his head. There’s a joint tucked behind his ear, which means he’s high already or plans to be within the next fifteen minutes. 

He squints when Satoru approaches, seeing right past the whole facade before he even gets a chance to open his mouth. He clocks it in real time—the expensive cashmere sweater, the fancy trousers he wears when trying to impress, white hair slicked back with intent. He’s got all of it going on and somehow, he still looks like shit. 

“Damn,” Geto mutters, “And here I thought you couldn’t look any fucking worse than the last time we FaceTimed.”

And just like that, something in Satoru’s chest unclenches. He never knew that getting insulted by his best friend could ever feel so good. 

He strides past him toward the doors, “Missed you too.”

Geto pushes off the glass and follows him inside, “Wow, that terrible?”

Satoru grabs a basket without glancing at him, “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry, fucking fatass.”

“Yeah, and today I’m hungrier than usual,” He stops abruptly in front of the sweets aisle and turns to him with a flat, vicious little smile, “I just spent ninety minutes getting reamed by my parents through lunch and couldn’t eat a single fucking thing. So, either help me or shut the fuck up. Okay, asshole?”

Geto blinks at him as he lifts both hands, “Geez. Okay, cranky. My bad—”

“Thank you—”

“—For assuming this was your typical fatass behavior.”

Geto’s mouth twitches slightly, fully aware he’s playing a dangerous game, but fucking with him is far too fun. Satoru forces himself to focus back on the shelf, otherwise he may throw Suguru into it, “I hope you choke,” He seethes, “And that your weed never gets you high again.”

Feigning hurt, Geto lifts a hand to his chest as he dramatically gasps, “How dare you?” He asks, voice dropping into a hushed whisper, “Take it back this instant.”

Satoru grabs the first purin he sees and drops it into the basket, “I’m not taking shit back.”

“Some friend you are,” Geto follows close behind him, “I come meet you during your time of need, and you wish away my biggest joy in life?” He shakes his head and tuts, “You’re evil—seriously, California got you all fucked up.”

Because that last part rings more true than Satoru would’ve liked, he ignores him and grabs another purin; Geto looks down, “Two?”

“One is for later.”

That makes Geto raise a brow, “You don’t believe in later.”

“You’re right,” Satoru grins at him, beautifully mean, “I believe in silence, actually. Can you believe in that too? For, like, five minutes?”

“Oof,” Geto winces, sarcasm dripping from his tone, “Most I can spare is four.”

“Great. Don’t care. I’ll take whatever the fuck I can get.”

And because Suguru Geto is a man of his word, he shuts up for exactly four minutes. He says nothing as he watches Satoru add strawberry daifuku, dorayaki, matcha roll cake, two cream puffs, some random bag of gummies, melon pan, and a strawberry parfait in a clear plastic cup that he stares at for half a second too long before dropping it in with the rest.

Yet even though he is silent, the smug, narrow-eyed expression plastered on his face is miraculously louder than his stupid voice. So loud, in fact, that Satoru decides to add a third purin to his basket out of spite.

Geto checks his phone and apparently, the four minutes haven’t passed. What a tragedy. 

So he begrudgingly remains silent while Satoru starts throwing in various drinks he doesn’t need—milk tea, green tea, café au lait; then grabs nikuman and karaage from the hot foods case for some savory to counterbalance all of the sweet.

The second time Geto looks at his phone, his mouth curves. Satoru knows why before he even speaks, “No.”

“Time’s up, sweetheart.”

“I hate you.”

“You asked for four minutes and now you hate me for giving you those four minutes?” He leans in and studies the contents of Satoru’s basket, “Greedy fuck.”

“Fuck off,” Satoru huffs, turning toward the drinks again.

“You know this is the kind of greed they talk about in the bible, right?”

“We’ve already established the fact that I’m evil so let me sin in peace.”

“Bet.”

Then, very casually, Geto reaches over and drops a bag of chips onto the heaping pile of Satoru’s bullshit. He looks down and up, “Suguru.”

“Satoru.”

“This is my basket.”

“Yes,” Geto answers easily, “That’s exactly why I put them in.”

Satoru removes the chips out and puts them back on the shelf, and of course, Geto reaches over again, grabs the same bag, and tosses them back in. The fluorescent lights hum overhead as they both stare deadpan at each other; a woman at the end of the aisle glances at them once, sees Satoru’s face, notices Geto’s devious little smirk, and wisely chooses another aisle to browse. 

“Pay for your own munchies.”

Geto blinks at him like the suggestion itself is totally absurd, “Why the fuck would I do that when I’m with my sugar daddy?”

Satoru continues staring at Geto, hand tightening around the basket handle, “Do not ever repeat those words out loud again.”

“Why? Did I lie?”

“Um, obviously?”

“You pay for everything though,” He argues, already mentally preparing to present the evidence, “Dinners, bar tabs—oh, you bought me that Saint Laurent coat last winter because “I was cold”. That shit was like…almost five hundred thousand yen—bro, you even sent your driver to pick me up over summer break. Remember that?”

“You were blackout drunk and stranded outside some nightclub in Roppongi.”

“Exactly,” Geto gestures at him like the reply won him the case, “Sugar daddy.”

Satoru closes his eyes and exhales slowly. When he reopens his eyes, he grumbles, “I’m going to kill myself in this 7-Eleven.”

“That’s selfish,” Geto says, fake pouting, “Could you…at least wait until after you pay?”

Satoru genuinely considers leaving him and his fuckass bag of chips right then and there, but because he needs Geto more than he wants to admit, he turns toward the register instead, “I’ll buy you the damn chips.”

Geto beams and pats him on the shoulder, “Knew you loved me.”

“I’m cutting you off.”

“You say that every year.”

“One day I’ll mean it.”

Geto just laughs the words off, “No, you won’t.”

And unfortunately, Geto might be right. Satoru probably won’t. 

At the register, the cashier scans the pile in polite silence. Purin. Purin. Purin. A shit ton of other miscellaneous sweets. Nikuman. Karaage. Geto’s chips. The total flashes across the little screen and Geto peaks just enough to see it, whistling a low, “Jesus.”

Satoru taps his card without even checking the price, “Shut up.”

The cashier hands over the plastic bags with the neutral expression of someone who’s managed to have witnessed stranger things than two overdressed assholes arguing in the middle of a convenience store, and Geto grabs one of the bags before Satoru can stop him, “My place?”

Satoru scoffs, rolling his eyes as they step outside, doors chiming softly behind them. The cold bites immediately, slipping under his coat, nothing like the sixty degree weather in Los Angeles that everyone swears is natural disaster, “Beats the alternative.”

“True,” Geto agrees, and they start toward his apartment, shoulder to shoulder.

Surprisingly, he lets the silence sit without it being prompted. Though, that’s the thing about Suguru. He’s annoying as hell until suddenly he isn’t. Satoru keeps his eyes forward, watching their shadows stretch and break every few steps. The bag knocks against his leg; one of the purin containers shifts against the milk tea with a soft plastic thud.

He can already feel the air beginning to drift into something serious, and that’s when Geto breaks the silence, “So—”

“No.”

Geto ignores him, “What did they say?”

Right. The whole reason he’s even here right now is because of them. He almost wishes he never mentioned it all. Satoru looks ahead watching as a bicycle rolls past at the end of the street, bell chiming once before disappearing around the corner, and sighs.

“They brought up the grade first.”

“Naturally.”

“Microeconomics.”

“Disgusting.”

“I got a B fucking minus.”

That one seemingly changes Geto. His body tenses, just barely, eyes narrowing, “Really? That’s not even…that bad though?”

Satoru laughs bitterly, biting the inside of his cheek, “Yeah. I know. But for them it’s like—world ending...I don’t get anything except As.”

“...I know.”

“But then…” He trails off, “They brought up the frat.”

“I mean…” Geto says, almost in agreement, “...That is sorta reasonable, to be honest.”

“Don’t start.”

“I said sorta.”

“They ruled it out though.”

Geto nods thoughtfully with a grin that tells it all, “Because you’ve been fucking around since freshman year and still kept the 4.0?”

Despite himself, Satoru’s mouth twitches, “Basically.”

The quiet returns as they walk a few more steps, but this time it doesn’t feel nearly as easy. It presses against the side of Satoru’s throat until he has to swallow around it. Geto though, he waits. Shockingly, he’s good at waiting. Satoru envies him for being good at it. 

“So what changed?” Geto asks eventually.

Satoru’s grip tightens around the bag. He contemplates making another joke or saying anything other than the truth. Theoretically, He could let Geto fill in the blank himself because he always knows how to. But…he doesn’t let him do that this time. 

“The girl,” Geto’s steps slow by half a beat, Satoru keeps his pace, “My mother called her that. The girl. The American. The football player’s daughter,” His mouth twists around the last one, “A recurring presence.” Geto’s expression loses the joke, “Oh, it gets worse,” Satoru assures, empty hand flailing, “My father looked her up, bro. Stalked my social media. Stalked hers. Probably stalked her whole fucking family, honestly.”

“Of course they did,” Geto’s mouth curls with disgust, “They need to keep tabs on you. God forbid you have a life they can’t monitor.”

The sidewalk suddenly grows quieter, 7-Eleven glow fading behind them with every step. Geto’s apartment is only a few blocks away, but the walk stretches like even the universe is buying Satoru time to spill his guts. 

His stomach bubbles as he recalls the part he hated most, “She called her a distraction,” He reveals at last, head bowed, chin almost hitting his chest, “She…wasn’t a distraction.”

“I know.”

“But they—they fucking said it like she’s something I need to quit,” He spits, voice wavering furiously. 

Geto spares a glance at him, “Do you?”

Satoru finally stops walking, Geto stopping too, “What?”

“Need to quit her,” He clarifies, violet eyes fixed on luminous blue.

The answer leaves him so fast it’s embarrassing, “No.” 

Geto doesn’t react at all, which almost makes the shame hit harder. Satoru looks away first, unable to stare him in the face, “No…” He repeats, softer than the last, “I wouldn’t even know how to…Will I regret it? Probably. It’ll probably ruin me too, but quitting her would ruin me anyway, so what the fuck am I supposed to do? I’d rather want her and hate myself for it than go back to feeling nothing.”  

Geto falls entirely silent, and the pause is long enough that the only thing he regrets now is being too honest. His best friend watches him closely, almost as if he is trying to measure how much of that sentence was romance and how much of it was a warning. 

Geto eventually exhales through his nose, “That’s…a dangerous way to love somebody, Satoru.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens, “I know.”

“No,” Geto presses, “I don’t think you do,” For once, he isn’t smiling. The lazy amusement in his face has vanished, so has the little grin waiting to cut the tension in half. He just looks at Satoru under the streetlight, mouth set into something resembling worry, “You keep talking about ruining yourself like it’s proof you love her.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It kinda is.”

“I said I know it’s bad.”

“After you said you’d do it anyway,” Geto’s voice stays level, the plastic handles of the bag digging deeper into Satoru’s fingers, “Listen…I’m not telling you to stop loving her. But, you need to stop acting like destroying yourself is the same thing.”

Satoru swallows hard, jaw flexing once. The warning settles deep in the pit of his stomach, an ugly feeling. He thinks of the cocaine almost immediately, which probably proves Geto’s point more than he realizes and more than Satoru would ever admit. Those thin white lines, the borrowed silence, and the horrible, clean second when everything inside his head finally shuts up. 

But then, the silence wears off and there he is again. Satoru Gojo is left without you, still wanting and still waiting. 

Geto watches his face closely enough that Satoru wonders how much of that thought showed. Probably too much.

“I’m not doing this with you on the sidewalk, Suguru.”

Geto holds his gaze for another second, then nods, “Okay.”

Satoru blinks, expecting more of a fight, “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Geto shrugs, walking again, “I said what I had to say.”

For some reason, that unsettles Satoru more than if he had kept going. He follows after him, adjusting the bag in his hand, “So you’re not going to lecture me?”

“Nah, not tonight.”

“Why not?”

Geto glances over, “Because you look like you’re one life lesson away from walking into traffic.”

Confused, Satoru briefly looks around, “There’s…barely any traffic though?”

“See? You’re already scouting.”

A sound escapes Satoru before he can stop it; it’s similar enough to a laugh that when Geto hears it, he decides that permission has been granted to become annoying again, “You are so fucking sappy now, by the way. Like deadass—major aura loss. Thank fucking God you didn’t fall in high school, bro. Your ass would’ve been unbearable." 

The almost-laugh dies instantly, “Fuck you.”

Geto chuckles to himself for another few steps before the sound fades naturally; his apartment building comes into view farther down the street, warm light spilling from the entrance. Then he works up the courage to ask, “Tomorrow’s the thing, right?”

Satoru’s countenance flattens, “What thing?”

“Don’t do that shit.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The party,” Geto clarifies, though he knows he didn’t have to. 

“It’s a holiday gathering…A belated birthday celebration,” Satoru adds and Geto keeps looking at him with a face that says I know damn well you’re lying. Because, well, he is, “Fine. It’s a pre-anointing.”

“That sounds more like it.”

“Relatives, investors, business partners, government people,” Satoru waves one hand vaguely, continuing on, “All the usual assholes gathering in one room to congratulate my parents on successfully producing an heir.”

Geto nods, “Very fun.”

“I hope the building burns down,” Satoru says jokingly. Or maybe not jokingly.

“Before or after dinner?”

Satoru brings a hand to his chin, seriously considering the question, “Hmm…After. The catering will be good.”

“Fatass.”

Satoru’s mouth twitches, “They want me smiling and shaking hands all night,” He explains further, “Looking grateful. Representing them with honor. Like California hasn’t done irreparable damage to the product.”

“Can you pull that off?”

He shoots Geto a look, “I have to.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Satoru says nothing, letting the lack of an answer hang between them for the rest of the block, and Geto doesn’t press any further. He just reaches the apartment entrance, shifts the bag into one hand, fishing the keys from his pocket.

Unlocking the door, he holds it open with his shoulder, “Come on. Your three emotional support purin are getting warm.”

Satoru walks past him, mumbling, "Should’ve never told you anything.”

Geto steps inside, sporting a lazy grin, “Still did.”

The door clicks shut behind them, sealing out the cold and everything waiting for Satoru back at the Gojo estate. And for the rest of the night, it is just him and his best friend in a cramped apartment with too many snacks and freshly ground weed spread on a tray on the low table. Some terrible comedy movie plays on the TV neither of them follow, and Satoru eats until the ache in his stomach is greater than the one in his chest. Here, he is not Gojo-sama. He gets to…just be Satoru. Feeling almost like himself again. 

But the world has never cared who he would rather be, because tomorrow comes and it calls for him to put on the performance of his fucking life.

As soon as four in the afternoon hits, the Gojo estate no longer resembles home, well, actually, it never resembled one in the first place, but today it’s been stripped of even the pretense. Every room on the first floor has been rearranged for display, furniture shifted into configurations designed to encourage conversation without intimacy—no, the Gojo family doesn’t do intimate. White orchids spill from crystal vases, gold light glowing against polished wood and glass, saturated enough to flatter each face that enters the front doors. Outside the house, blacked out cars glide through the gates one after another, depositing people dressed in designer fabrics so expensive they could end world hunger. 

The staff, unfortunately or perhaps fortunately for the hefty paycheck, have been moving since six in the morning. From florists to caterers to security detail and assistants carrying tablets and speaking into earpieces as if the estate is hosting the United Nations rather than a late birthday celebration for a son whose birthday passed a week and five days ago without either parent bothering to call.

And said son stands in front of his bedroom mirror while a tailor makes a final adjustment to the cuff of his tuxedo jacket. The suit is a deep, immaculate black; perfectly fitted, custom made and imported from Italy—Giorgio Armani to be exact, just like the signature scent he wears. It makes him look older than freshly twenty-one and he already knows the guests will fucking love that because they love everything he doesn’t.

His white hair has been styled back from his face again, not a strand out of place. The dress shirt beneath his jacket is crisp enough to cut skin, cuff links bearing the Gojo crest since apparently his face and eyes alone aren’t sufficient advertising. 

The tailor steps back to examine him with extreme attention to detail. To his delight, there is nothing more to be fixed, “Perfect, Gojo-sama.”

Satoru looks at his reflection. Perfect. A word that has always been attached to him. Perfect son, perfect grades, perfect heir. Yet, he wonders how many times a person can be called something before it starts meaning nothing, “Thank you.”

With that, the tailor bows and leaves, closing the door behind him to grant Satoru approximately seven seconds of privacy before his mother enters without knocking. She is dressed in a dark blue gown with a high neckline and long sleeves, diamonds resting against her throat, hair pinned back neatly. Every detail constructed to communicate wealth without the vulgarity of admitting wealth matters. 

Her glacial eyes move over him slowly, meticulously, like an inspector checking merchandise for damage before putting it on the market. She could never just be a mother admiring her only son as he grows older. 

“Your hair,” She notes.

Satoru catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, “What about it?”

“One side is slightly uneven.”

He stares at her dumbfounded as she steps closer, lifting one hand to correct a section near his temple, fingers never once touching his skin, “There.”

“Crisis averted,” He scoffs, eyes faintly rolling.

She lowers her hand, “Satoru.”

“What?”

“I do not want a repeat of yesterday.”

He looks at her reflection instead of turning around, “Then don’t ask me about grades over dinner.”

“It was lunch,” She uselessly corrects. 

“Thank you. That changes everything.”

Her expression tightens, but tonight is too important for her to indulge in a real argument. She smooths the front of her gown to ensure it is flawless, “People will be watching you.”

“They’re always watching me.”

“Then you should be accustomed to it.”

That one almost pulls a laugh out of him, because that is the exact problem. He is accustomed to it. Conditioned to the sight cameras and his name whispered like he is some second coming, strangers knowing his family before knowing him, and adults asking about his future when he was too young to understand what they had already decided it would be.

His mother turns toward him fully, “Your father will be speaking with members of the board tonight. Several shareholders are attending, along with representatives from the ministry.”

“Thrilling,” Satoru sighs sarcastically, shifting slightly in his Italian leather shoes. 

His mother ignores the insolence, “The American delegation arrived this morning.”

“Did they survive the airport?”

“Satoru,” She says, voice in that tone that always meant warning, “Enough. This is important.”

“I gathered that from the government officials downstairs.”

Her gaze sharpens, adding, “They are not here socially.”

“No?” He adjusts his cuff, “And here I thought the Ministry of Defense came for the cake—which, by the way, better be white chocolate strawberry this time.”

“It is earl grey and yuzu.”

Satoru’s hand stills against his sleeve, “...I hate earl grey.”

His mother glances at him through the mirror instead of directly at him, faintly puzzled, when she asks, “Do you?”

“Yes,” He drawls slowly, “I do.”

He has told her that before, more than once, actually. He hates mostly all of what they find palatable.

Every year he asks for white chocolate strawberry, and every year he doesn’t receive it. Last year, his birthday cake was matcha and black sesame because his father found excessive sweetness to be unsophisticated. The year before that, some renowned pastry chef assembled a glossy chestnut monstrosity that tasted like expensive dirt. Even when he was younger, there had always been something more refined and appropriate for the adults attending rather than the birthday boy himself. 

Never white chocolate strawberry. Never the cake he has asked for. 

His mother checks the delicate watch around her wrist, already over the subject, “Well, the flavor was primarily selected with the guests in mind. Earl grey is better suited for an event of this nature. White chocolate strawberry is rather juvenile, wouldn’t you agree?”

Satoru would’ve given her an answer to that question, the obvious one being juvenile or not, at least it doesn’t taste like shit and God forbid I get something I want for my own birthday party, but he hesitates for a heartbeat too long and she continues before he can get it out.

“You ought to grow out of such things eventually. You are a man now.”

Disbelieving of what he heard, he just stares at her with his mouth slightly parted. 

Grow out of such things? How could I grow out of being a child when you had never once allowed me to be one?

And for one brief, stupid second, Satoru’s thoughts flicker back to you as they always tend to do. He thinks of you, in his Porsche on the night of his actual birthday, holding out zunda and cream mochi because you remembered the one time he had taken you to try it. The funniest part is that he didn’t deserve a damn thing from you, but you had still cared to remember how much he liked it and still bought it for him anyway. 

You’ve only known him for a few months, whereas his mother has known him for his entire life. Despite her supposedly remarkable memory, she always seemed to forget the things he liked, or perhaps, she remembered perfectly well. 

Perhaps she simply never cared enough to grant him even one tiny thing merely because he wanted it. 

“Right…” He hums, mouth curving without humor, “Wouldn’t want my birthday cake inconveniencing anyone.”

His mother doesn’t respond, attention dropping once more to the Patek Philippe watch around her wrist as if the conversation had been only a minor scheduling delay. Satoru observes her check the time and wonders, not for the first time by any means, how it’s possible for someone to know so much about him on paper and so little about him in practice. 

“Your father will bring you into several discussions tonight,” She informs, diverting the subject, “You are expected to listen before offering an opinion.”

Satoru turns back toward the mirror, “That sounds miserable.”

“It is called restraint.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“Have you?”

Their eyes meet through the glass. He has heard of restraint in theory, but has always struggled with it in reality. She most definitely somehow knows that about him too. Holding his gaze for a moment, she steps closer to smooth a nonexistent crease from his lapel.

“Several guests have traveled a considerable distance to attend,” She adds, “You will greet them properly, remain attentive when they speak, and refrain from turning every conversation into an opportunity to be clever.”

“What if they’re boring?”

Ignoring him again, her fingers stop against his jacket when she finds another thing to warn him of, “And do not disappear with Suguru for half the evening.”

“He isn’t even here yet.”

“He will be.”

“What,” He huffs, tilting his head, “Are you psychic now?”

“I know you.”

No, you don’t.

The thought arises automatically, but Satoru swallows it. He’s suddenly too tired to hand her another piece of himself she will only misunderstand, or worse, not even care to understand at all. So he opts for the easier route, flashing the expression she wants—the smile she helped construct long before he knew why he needed it. 

“Anything else?”

His mother studies his reflection, “Do not drink excessively.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“You rarely plan to.”

Satoru turns his head slightly, “Was that a joke?”

“I am not joking.”

“Shame. It would’ve been funny.”

“This is not university,” She hisses, “Nor is it one of your fraternity events. People will notice if you become careless.”

He adjusts one cuff, even though the tailor has already perfected every square inch of the suit, “I know how to behave.”

“You know how to perform,” She corrects, and the words are so accurate they nearly knock the air out of his lungs. Checking her watch for a third time, she sighs, “Though, I suppose for tonight that will be sufficient enough.”

“Don’t worry,” He assures after a heavy pause, the weight of her words seeping into his skin, “I’ll represent the family with honor.”

Searching his face for a hint of mockery, she isn’t surprised when she finds it, but since she can’t, or rather, doesn’t want to discuss any of this for a minute longer, she brushes it off, “Five minutes.”

And she turns on her heels and leaves him with that. Satoru continues to blankly stare at his reflection, stomach twisting slowly. Five minutes until he has to become someone else…wait, no—that isn’t right. 

Five minutes until he has to become the version of himself everyone here believes is the real one. 

His phone buzzes on top of the dresser. 

suguru: outside

suguru: your security guard looks like he wants to cavity search me

suguru: should i flirt with him ??

The corner of Satoru’s mouth lifts as he types back.

do that and i’ll tell them you’re carrying 

suguru: wow

suguru: police state 

suguru: do that and i’ll leave your ass all alone to fend for yourself 

Satoru rolls his eyes, slips his phone into the pocket of his jacket, and takes one last look at the man in the mirror. 

Gojo-sama stares back. 

He looks perfect, dressed up in the most expensive clothing money can buy once again to fit his role of the night in the same way he did on December 7th. And here, surrounded by family and people who don’t even know him, he will have to put on the best performance of his life. 

He reluctantly forces himself to pick up his own two feet and tread downstairs, plastering a look on his face that screams polished heir rather than suffering son. 

The first hour of the party passes by with Satoru exactly where his parents want him. At his father’s right hand—close enough to be introduced with pride, but always far enough behind him that nobody could ever mistake which Gojo actually controls the room. It’s a position that Satoru has occupied in one form or another since childhood, merely another thing he has grown accustomed to over the years. 

At twelve, he stood beside his father at Limitless Industries anniversary galas in stiff collars that made his neck itch. Four years later, he was bowing before executives who congratulated him on exam results they somehow knew before he did. Once he finally turned eighteen, somebody from the board placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and told him he carried the future of Limitless in his blood. 

Now, at twenty-one years of age, the handshakes last longer. People view him differently, like a man approaching a transfer of power. 

“Satoru,” His father says as another group reaches them, “You remember Director Ishikawa.”

He does, unfortunately. Ishikawa oversees international development and has two sons who both attended Keio, neither of whom Satoru’s father considers relatively competent. His wife collects French antiques excessively as a hobby because of her need to fill in the void of a rather empty marriage. He always found Ishikawa particularly funny because he dislikes California ever since Japanese Airlines lost his luggage at LAX six years ago which apparently is somehow the state’s fault and no wound has ever healed more slowly. 

Satoru remembers all of this because he learned early that making powerful people feel memorable is its own form of currency, and truly, who here isn’t in an empty marriage?

“Director Ishikawa,” He extends his hand warmly, “How is your wife? Was she ever able to find that eighteenth-century desk she was searching for?”

The older man’s face brightens immediately, “She was. You remembered.”

“Of course.”

His father stays quiet, letting the approval appear in the slight easing of his posture instead, and watches as Satoru beams while Ishikawa tells him far too much about some meaningless desk he doesn’t give a single fuck about but seems like he does. 

That is the trick—making others feel important. To Satoru’s advantage, that is something he has gotten quite good at, better than his father even, though nobody would ever admit that aloud while the current chairman is still breathing. 

His father commands attention by withholding it, whereas Satoru gives people just enough to make them want more. He knows when to laugh, lower his voice, ask a question he already knows the answer to so the other person can feel intelligent and enjoy explaining it. 

“And California?” Ishikawa asks, “You still enjoy it?”

Satoru accepts a champagne flute from a passing server, flicking his attention back to the director, “It has its moments.”

“I imagine the culture is very…different.”

“That’s a polite way of putting it.”

Ishikawa laughs and his father’s mouth barely moves. A sign that he has responded successfully, “And your studies remain strong, I hear.”

“Very,” His father answers for him.

The reply to that sentiment used to be excellent, but since the B-minus, he has been demoted to very. What an awful punishment indeed. 

Satoru keeps smiling, “I survived another semester.”

“With distinction, no doubt.”

“Absolutely,” He lies, and the lie is accepted because it simply sounds like him.

Ishikawa lifts his glass, “Finance was a wise choice.”

Satoru risks a glance at his father, “Was it?”

The director chuckles heartily, assuming he is joking though he isn’t, “Limitless has no shortage of engineers. What it requires from its future leadership is the ability to recognize which technologies deserve investment.”

“I’m relieved. I was beginning to worry that somebody might ask me to manufacture a processor,” Satoru muses with a smirk, “I’m smart, but even my own ego knows its limits.”

Ishikawa finds entertainment in his humor, “We employ thousands of people for that purpose.”

“Thank God.”

“You possess a knowledge that I believe may be far greater than that,” Ishikawa continues thoughtfully, “What you understand is value. Capital. Risk. Timing.”

“Numbers,” Satoru supplies, because yes. He is good at numbers. That is one good thing he can say about himself. 

“And leverage,” Ishikawa finishes, the word hooking somewhere unpleasant inside him. So unpleasant he has to take a measured sip of champagne to flush it out. Director Ishikawa gestures toward the room, “Superior technology is only part of what made this company prosperous. Our competitors develop excellent products.”

“But dependency is more profitable than excellence,” Satoru says.

Ishikawa’s brows rise, his father looking at him now too, “Precisely.”

Satoru’s smile remains in place while Ishikawa leans in closer, changing the subject, lowering his voice as though offering him some privileged information about his own life, “Your father mentioned that you may begin in international strategy after graduation.”

His eyes briefly flicker to his father, who has since looked away, “Oh, did he?”

“It would be a sensible place to start. Your understanding of the American market will be valuable, especially if expansion continues at its current pace.”

International strategy. Interesting. The last time his father mentioned post-graduation plans to him, he suggested an executive rotation through several of Limitless’ divisions. Apparently, the plan has since evolved without requiring input from the one person expected to live it.

“I’m glad everyone has been keeping busy arranging my life,” Satoru says pleasantly, flashing the most dazzling smile he can conjure.

Ishikawa laughs, assuming it’s a joke, though it most definitely isn’t. His father, on the other hand, does not even flinch; his face staying as stoic as a statue, “Satoru has several options,” He notes. 

“Of course,” Ishikawa agrees, “Although I doubt he will remain beneath anyone for long. Young men of his ability rarely enjoy waiting.”

That, at least, rings true. Satoru lifts his glass toward him, “You understand me perfectly.”

His father’s gaze cuts sideways. Guess he didn’t like that one. Despite it, Satoru grins wider. 

They move onto different people, harboring different conversations shortly after. The next man Satoru speaks to asks whether he intends to pursue a Master’s degree. The woman after him asks whether he has considered graduate study in London. An official from the Ministry of Economy tells him Japan needs internationally educated young executives who still understand tradition.

One shareholder speaks approvingly about his fluency in three languages—Japanese, English, Mandarin, and encourages him to pick up a fourth if he has the time. He assures her that he already has. He’s studied Korean enough that he’s practically fluent in it as well.

Another asks whether he has visited the new Limitless robotics campus outside Osaka, “Not yet,” Satoru admits.

His father turns slightly, “You will tour it in January.”

Satoru shoots him a look, “Will I?”

The shareholder laughs uncertainly, sensing the tension; his father doubles down, “Before you return to California.”

“Interesting. I’ll check my itinerary,” A silence threatens to form and Satoru smiles before anyone can recognize it, “Assuming my staff has informed me of my own plans.”

The shareholder laughs properly this time, his father does not, and the conversation moves on. A senior executive from the communications division mentions a presentation Satoru gave during a summer placement at seventeen. 

“I still remember it,” He says, “Your analysis of the Southern Asian market was remarkably mature.”

Oh, Satoru remembers it too. 

He stayed awake for almost thirty hours preparing it because his father read the first draft, placed it back on his desk, and said only, “You can do better.”

The presentation received a standing ovation and his father never mentioned it again. 

“You were always unusually focused,” The executive continues. 

Across the room, Geto nearly chokes on his champagne. Satoru catches his eye over the man’s shoulder. Geto mouths, “Focused?”

Satoru gives him the smallest middle finger against the seam of his trousers, the executive goes on without noticing, “Your father must be proud.”

Proud? Yeah, right.

“Overwhelmed,” Satoru says.

The joke earns himself a few more laughs. They all seem to laugh whenever he gives them permission. That’s another skill his father never mastered.

At some point, he catches a long enough break to attempt an escape and fuck off somewhere with Geto, but his mother intercepts him, “Stay nearby.”

“I’ve been nearby for an hour.”

“Deputy Minister Takahashi has not spoken with you.”

“I spoke with him in August.”

“That was August.”

Satoru rolls his eyes at her, “Does he regenerate every quarter?”

Her smile stays fixed for the room, “Do not be difficult.”

“I’m being charming. Everyone keeps telling me.”

“You are being flippant.”

He shrugs it off as if it’s a compliment, “They seem to like it.”

“That does not mean you should encourage familiarity.”

Ah, there it is. Be charming, but not accessible.

His mother adjusts the front of his jacket, performing maternal affection for anyone watching, “You are not at university,” She seethes, reminding him.

“Oh. I know,” Satoru says, gesturing to the passing waiters, “Sig Chi could never afford this many bottles of Dom Pérignon. That’s way out of their budget.” 

His mother’s eyes widen with what might be disgust, “Stop with the belligerence. These people are assessing you.”

Satoru’s gaze drifts around the room—an investor near the bar, two members of the board beside the fireplace, an executive from an American aerospace firm speaking with the head of Limitless Autonomous Systems, Deputy Minister Takahashi listening while Satoru’s father speaks quietly beside one of the company’s legal advisers. 

All of them glance toward Satoru at intervals too regular to be accidental, “I noticed.”

“Then you should take that seriously.”

“I am.”

“Are you?”

His smile doesn’t move, “Look at me,” He says quietly, “I’m fucking radiant.”

Her fingers stop against his lapel, then she lowers her hand, “Watch your language.”

Satoru inclines his head, “Of course.” 

A server passes with champagne and he exchanges his empty glass for a full one before his mother can object.

And by the second hour of entertaining guests for a party that is not his, Satoru comes to the realization that the evening is a test run. His father brings him into conversations and then gradually withdraws, forcing Satoru to carry their weight himself. 

From a discussion about an American acquisition, to another about regulations surrounding Limitless’ new artificial intelligence platform because that is what the future is coming to. Then a third about declining consumer confidence in one of their overseas telecommunications markets. 

Satoru answers carefully at first, but then somebody challenges him. That makes the chat just slightly more digestible. 

“Expansion at that scale would expose the company unnecessarily,” One older executive says after Satoru offers his opinion, “The American market is too volatile.”

“It is,” Satoru agrees, the man appearing briefly satisfied, “But volatility is not the same as unpredictability," He watches as the satisfaction on the man’s face dissipates, swirling the champagne once in his glass, he continues, “The current hesitation is emotional. Investors are reacting to political noise rather than the actual performance of the sector.”

“And if that instability continues?”

“It will,” The answer draws a few confused looks, Satoru explains further before anyone can interrupt, “American politics are always unstable, trust me, I’ve seen enough from my studying abroad. But that doesn’t mean demand disappears. Their companies still need processors. Their cities need infrastructure. Their government needs contractors capable of building systems faster than public agencies can.”

A ministry official studies him, “You sound very confident.”

“I’m confident they’ll continue needing what we sell.”

“And if domestic competitors undercut Limitless?”

“Then we structure the acquisition so risk isn’t concentrated and make ourselves more expensive to replace than tolerate.”

The circle of men quiets; his father watches from beside him. One of them asks, “How?”

Satoru thoroughly explains, but not for any other reason except the fact that someone challenged him, and he has always found incompetence more irritating than captivity. When he finishes, two more people have joined the circle. One asks about regulatory oversight, the other asks how he would address concerns about a foreign company controlling critical infrastructure. 

He answers both cleanly, feeling the room change around him in tiny increments. People begin looking at him rather than his father, and that should probably frighten him. Yet instead, something hot and shamefully satisfying sifts through his chest.

Satoru understands the appeal. Power did always fit him particularly well. That’s what makes it dangerous and somewhat alarming, though he ignores it anyway. 

As the conversation ends, the older executive gives Satoru a slow nod, “I see why your father speaks so highly of you.”

Stunned, Satoru almost risks a glance over at the man mentioned, but stops himself. 

My father speaks highly of me? To everyone else, I suppose. 

Never where Satoru might hear it. 

“Careful,” Satoru warns playfully, “You’ll inflate my ego.”

The group falls into bits of laughter and chuckles, this is also when his father decides to step in. He places one hand on Satoru’s shoulder, though this time the gesture feels less like possession and more like confirmation. He absolutely loathes that some young, starved part of him still responds to it.

“Well handled,” His father hums after the others move away from earshot.

Two words. Barely praise. Satoru, of course, feels them spread warm in his chest anyway. It disgusts him so terribly that he finishes his champagne in one go. 

Eventually, Geto finds him near one of the tall windows several minutes later. Thank God, “That was hot.”

“Let’s add that to the list of things you never say again, yeah?”

“No, seriously. I almost invested.”

“You don’t even know what we were discussing.”

Geto grins, shaking his head, “Not a single fucking word.”

“Then shut up.”

He leans beside Satoru, one shoulder against the wall. His tuxedo would almost make him look respectable if not for the black ring in his lip, “Your dad kinda looked proud for once.”

“Don’t.”

The way he says it makes Geto glance at him, though Satoru deliberately keeps his attention on the room. He doesn’t want to discuss the ugly little spark still glowing inside him from those two pathetic words he would’ve killed to hear when he was a little boy. 

All he ever wanted was his father’s approval. 

And some damaged, sad part of him still believes this is how he finally earns it. Maybe if he becomes impressive enough, useful enough, capable enough, his father will look at him one day and see something worth praising. 

Fuck, he hates that he wants it. He shouldn’t even care to want it anymore. Especially not after everything. 

But…he does. He just wants to hear it once. 

You did good, Satoru.

I’m proud of you. 

Just once in fucking his life. 

“Everyone keeps talking about me like I’m not standing here,” Satoru says, dragging the conversation somewhere safer. 

“What are they saying?”

“That I’m returning after graduation. Joining international strategy. Doing executive rotation. Getting an MBA. Taking over before twenty-five,” He takes another sip of his drink, “Apparently, I’ve been extremely productive.”

“Damn,” Geto appears genuinely impressed, “And here I thought you spent your time doing blow and being community dick.”

Satoru glares at him for that, he’s not necessarily wrong. He has been doing blow despite that one feeble attempt to quit, but community dick? He hasn’t been that for months—ever since you, really. 

Turning away from Geto, he looks out across the reception room, “They keep acting like finance was my decision too,” Satoru adds. 

Geto inclines his head, “Wasn’t it?” 

“I picked it.”

“That sounds suspiciously close to a decision.”

“My options were finance, economics, or something else my father could explain to investors without looking embarrassed.”

A smirk tugs at Geto’s mouth, “So interpretive dance was off the table?”

“Sadly,” Satoru says, biting back a laugh. 

“Finance suits you, though.”

“That’s what everyone says.”

“You like numbers,” Geto notes, taking a champagne glass from a passing server. 

“I like winning,” He corrects.

“And money.”

One of Satoru’s brows raises, “I already have money.”

“Exactly. You’re experienced,” And he snorts despite himself as Geto’s amusement settles into seriousness, “...Would you actually be good at it?”

“At finance?”

“At this.”

Satoru’s gaze drifts toward his father—another circle has formed around him as it naturally does. One day, the people in that circle will turn to Satoru instead. They’ve already started doing so tonight. 

“I’d be very good at it.”

And before that answer can even sink in, his mother calls his name from across the room. Of course, he can never catch a break for too long. 

Reluctantly, he turns in her direction. She’s standing beside his cousin, Kiyomi, whom he has not seen since her wedding. Her husband, Kenji, stands close beside her. One hand rests lightly against the small of her back as she speaks, and a baby sleeps against her chest. 

“Satoru,” His mother calls again, grinning for the room, “Come greet your cousin.”

Geto follows his gaze, then looks back at him. The amusement has since been removed from his face. Satoru takes one final drink and places the glass onto a passing tray. That was probably his fourth, or fifth. Honestly, he stopped counting, and unfortunately, he is still far too sober. He forces himself to cross the room anyway. 

“Kiyomi,” Satoru greets once he reaches them, leaning down to press a polite kiss against his cousin’s cheek, “It’s been a while.”

“Nearly two years,” She replies, pulling back to inspect him with the same surprised fondness everyone seems to wear when seeing a child after too much time has passed, “Look at you. You’re all grown up.”

All grown up. 

He’s heard enough variations of that phrase tonight to last another twenty-one years, despite the fact that everyone has always treated him as if he were older than his age. 

“So I’ve been informed,” Satoru says.

Kiyomi laughs softly, either missing or kindly ignoring the bitterness tucked beneath it. She’s always been one of the easier relatives to tolerate. Not warm enough that they’ve ever been particularly close, but warm by Gojo family standards, which means she once remembered his birthday without being reminded by an assistant. 

“This is Haru,” She whispers, glancing down at the baby sleeping against her chest. 

As if Satoru could’ve ever failed to notice him. 

Haru is small—smaller than Satoru expected a baby to be, though he’s not sure what he expected in the first place. He looks no older than a few months, dressed in a cream-colored knit set with tiny pearl buttons and wrapped in a blanket so soft Satoru can practically feel it without touching. One teeny fist rests under his chin, and his lips part slightly with every quiet breath.

“He’s beautiful,” Satoru hums, only because it’s the correct thing to say. However, for once, it also happens to be true. 

Kiyomi’s entire face changes when she looks at her son. The polite smile she’s been wearing loosens into something fonder, something real. Something that was definitely not practiced in front of a mirror before she entered this room. 

“Thank you,” She murmurs. 

Kenji’s hand remains at the base of her spine, thumb moving once over the fabric of her dress. The touch itself is restrained, barely noticeable, but affectionate all the same. 

They look good together. Satoru almost loathes that they do. 

Kenji isn’t remarkable by any means. He’s handsome enough, dressed impeccably, polite in the forgettable manner most men from families like theirs are trained to be. There’s nothing about him Satoru could point to and call extraordinary, but there’s something in the way he stands beside his wife. Close, yet not possessive. 

God, Satoru doesn’t know anything about that. 

His hand rests against her back without directing her anywhere. When she adjusts Haru against her chest, Kenji’s attention drops immediately toward them, making certain the blanket hasn’t slipped and the baby’s head is still properly supported.

Kiyomi mutters something Satoru can’t hear and Kenji leans closer to answer, and the smile that passes between them is quiet, tired, and private. 

They appear happy…At least for now. 

Satoru has lived around marriages such as theirs long enough to not place too much faith in appearances. He knows how quickly affection can become ceremony once a marriage has fulfilled its intended purpose. Once the correct child has been produced, the correct surname secured, and both families have received what they negotiated for. 

That is, in reality, what happened with his own parents, and perhaps several years from now, Kenji’s hand will stop finding Kiyomi’s back when nobody’s watching. 

Perhaps she’ll stop leaning toward him when she speaks. Maybe they’ll begin sleeping in separate rooms once there’s no longer a practical reason to share one. Sex reduced to reproduction, then discarded when the job is complete. Love, if it existed at all, slowly eroded by obligation until they become like nearly every other couple in this room.

Beautiful together, appropriate together, and entirely empty together. 

Satoru expects it. A bitter part of him might even need to expect it, because believing they could stay this happy would mean accepting that the life he’s always wanted was possible, but just not for him. 

Nevertheless, Kiyomi and Kenji have it now. So that is what he hates. 

They have the beginning—the warmth; the right to stand beside each other with the approval of everyone in this room, holding their child without shame or explanation. 

Nobody is calling Kenji a distraction or discussing whether Kiyomi’s future will survive loving him. Nobody is treating the baby in her arms like evidence that she’s destroyed her life. 

The right timeline. The thought enters Satoru’s mind so quickly it feels placed there by somebody else. 

The correct order of things. Marriage. A home. A baby arriving after the promises and the planning. 

Kiyomi and Kenji probably discussed when they wanted children. Likely toured homes and argued about nursery furniture, compared names over dinner, and had entire conversations about their future without wondering whether the subject itself may tear them apart. 

Kenji probably attended every appointment. Heard the heartbeat. Learned which foods his wife could tolerate when the nausea became unbearable and stayed awake beside her on the nights she was afraid because that’s what husbands were expected to do. 

They had time to prepare, but more importantly, they had permission. 

What did Satoru have?

Three plastic tests handed to him in a college dorm room. 

Drugs and liquor in his system on too many of the nights he went out with his frat brothers when he should've been at home with you because you were afraid. 

A blur of grey and white tucked in his wallet as proof that there had once been a life, but not anymore.

His mother’s voice cuts into his thoughts, “Haru has behaved exceptionally well tonight.”

“He enjoys being around people,” Kiyomi informs, rocking him slightly in her arms. 

“Unlike his mother at that age,” Satoru retorts with a wicked grin on his face.

Kiyomi narrows her eyes, “You were worse.”

“I was delightful.”

“You bit me once.”

His brows lift in protest, “Allegedly.”

“You were five.”

“I was defending myself,” Satoru argues pathetically, hands half-raised in surrender. 

“From what?”

“You touched one of my toys.”

Kenji chuckles under his breath, and for one brief moment the conversation vaguely resembles something normal, but then Haru stirs. His little nose wrinkles first, followed by the scrunching of his face, and lips pursing before his eyelids flutter open. 

Satoru quickly forgets whatever sarcastic reply he has ready because—blue.  

The baby’s eyes are blue. 

Not quite as bright as Satoru’s, a bit darker around the edges and softened by sleep and the slight haze of infancy, but unmistakably blue.

The air leaves his lungs as Kiyomi smiles down at her son, “He has the Gojo eyes.”

“So it would seem,” Satoru’s mother says pointedly, glancing toward Satoru.

Haru stares up at the lights from the chandeliers above with the solemn confusion of someone who has only recently entered the world and is already unimpressed by it. Then, his unfocused gaze drifts toward Satoru.

That same family trait has never looked so gentle. His mother’s eyes are cold enough to make people lower their own; Satoru’s have been called striking, unnatural, intimidating, beautiful—everything in the fucking world except soft. 

Whereas Haru's are innocent, harmless. Oceanic blue untouched by expectation. 

His mind, unfortunately, decides now is the time to do something cruel. It calculates. 

A few more months. That’s all. 

A few more months and Satoru could have been waiting for his own baby. Not holding one yet, but close. 

Close enough for your stomach to have rounded visibly underneath your clothes and for you to begin buying shit neither of you understood how to use, leaving them scattered around whichever room the two of you claimed would eventually become a nursery. 

Late June. Maybe early July.

He could’ve finished junior year knowing that a child was waiting on the other side of it. 

His mouth. Your eyes, hopefully, but because Satoru never gets what he wants they would’ve probably had his. 

Your temper and his ego—a horrifying combination for every other person involved. 

The image forms so vividly that his vision softens around the edges, and before Satoru can stop himself, he hears his own voice ask, “Can I hold him?”

The question leaves him quietly, so quietly that both Kiyomi and his mother look surprised. For half a second, Satoru considers laughing and pretending he was joking. He could say he has no fucking idea what to do with children, make some remark about dropping expensive things, and let the moment pass instead of reaching right for the hurt. 

But, Kiyomi is already beaming with happiness, “Of course.”

Satoru places his empty hand against the back of a nearby chair, suddenly unaware of what to do with any part of his body, “You should sit,” Kiyomi tells him.

“I can hold a baby while standing.”

“You have never held a baby.”

“That feels unnecessarily judgmental.”

Kenji gestures to the upholstered chair beside them, “You’ll be more comfortable.”

Comfort left the Gojo estate approximately two hours ago, but Satoru sits anyway and Kiyomi steps closer, “One arm beneath his head,” She instructs as she starts lowering Haru toward him, “Keep your other hand under his back.”

“I know.”

“You look terrified.”

“I’m being handed a person whose skull hasn’t finished forming. A little caution seems reasonable.”

Kiyomi giggles as Haru settles into his arms.

Warm…He is so fucking warm.

That is the first thing Satoru notices. 

Next, he notices how he almost weighs nothing, yet he feels it everywhere. 

Against his chest, his ribs, inside the hollow space within him he has spent weeks trying to pretend doesn’t exist. 

Kiyomi keeps one hand underneath Haru’s head for another second before slowly drawing it away, “There,” She says softly, “You’re doing fine.”

But Satoru barely hears her. The hushed music playing in the background recedes; the conversations around them fade into meaningless noise. The company, the board, the investors, the future waiting to devour him—all of it narrows into the tiny body breathing against his suit. 

Haru looks up at him, eyes moving without fully focusing, lingering somewhere near Satoru’s face before drifting away again. A small breath leaves his mouth, hot against Satoru’s wrist, and then settles deeper into his hold as though he’s decided there’s nothing here to fear. 

The trust of it is instant, and rather undeserved. And soon enough, another thought enters Satoru’s consciousness. 

Oh. 

So this is what it would’ve felt like.

Satoru knows this isn’t his baby. He knows you’re not standing beside him, exhausted and probably yelling at him to support the baby’s neck even though he already is. 

Still, his body doesn’t give a shit about technicalities. His arms tighten by a fraction, protective and instinctual. 

He had wanted the baby before there had ever been one to want. Wanting it badly enough to gamble with your body and both of your futures, finishing inside you while pretending the possibility was incidental because the truth was too fucked up to admit. 

If you became pregnant, you’d stay.

If something permanent existed between the two of you, then perhaps you’d become permanent too. 

Possession disguised as hope and control dressed up as fate. Yet, when fantasy became reality, he quickly realized that wanting something like this had consequences. That a baby required more than obsession and money and the blind certainty that Satoru Gojo could ever force any future he desired into existence. 

Haru’s hand slips free from the blanket, his fingers flex clumsily near Satoru’s cuff, catching briefly against the Gojo crest. Of course even the baby finds the branding. 

Satoru moves one finger closer without thinking and Haru’s entire hand closes around it.

Fuck.

The grip is weak, barely more than pressure, but it feels like everything. 

“Oh,” Kiyomi gushes, “He likes you.”

“He has poor judgment,” Satoru manages. 

She giggles quietly and Kenji smiles as well, though his gaze remains fixed on his son, watching carefully. He doesn’t distrust Satoru, but he does it because that’s what fathers do. They watch their children. 

The realization cuts him deeper than it should. 

What would I have been like?

Would I watch others hold the baby in the same way?

Would I have been too scared to sleep in case the baby stopped breathing?

Would I have memorized every feeding time, every temperature, every minute change in their breathing and convinced myself that each one meant imminent death?

Would I have learned how to warm bottles?

Fasten the ridiculous little buttons on clothes built for hands half my size?

Hold something gently without confusing love for ownership?

Could I have learned?

Satoru looks down at the tiny fingers wrapped around his own and his mind supplies another image.

A hospital room with you sleeping beneath white blankets, drained and exhausted. A baby against his bare chest because somebody told him skin to skin contact mattered. His mother hearing about the pregnancy and immediately asking who else knew, how quickly it could be contained, and whether you understood what this could do to his future. His father asking whether a paternity test had been conducted because Western women are promiscuous and can’t be trusted, as if Satoru hadn’t spent months making sure no other man could ever fuck you. 

Neither of them calling the baby his child, only a complication. A liability. Another weakness you’ve given him that they would expect him to correct.

Satoru taking you and the baby and leaving before either of them could place their hands on something else he loved. 

A whole life. Messy, terrifying, unapproved, but yours and his. Gone before it had the chance to exist. 

“It suits you,” His mother’s voice reaches him from above.

Satoru lifts his eyes, “What does?”

“Holding a child.”

The words feel wrong coming from her mouth, and Kiyomi grins, interpreting them as tenderness, “He’s a natural.”

He looks down at Haru again. Truly, he had not been natural at any of it. His mother observes him with an expression he can’t fully decipher, her lips curving into a faint, approving smile, “One day, you should have this too,” Satoru stills, and she continues because she can’t help herself, “With the appropriate woman, of course.”

Ah, yes. She sees a child in his arms and instantly thinks, one heir producing another. Though not only that, but with a woman they consider appropriate. Not the American girl with the football legend father who became distracting. 

“Yumiko Nishimura is here tonight,” She adds, Kiyomi’s attention flickering between them. 

Satoru stares at his mother now, perplexed and annoyed for the hundredth time tonight, “Why are you telling me that?”

“She recently returned from her studies in London.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“The Nishimuras have been close to our family for many years.”

“So have the Ishikawas,” Satoru supplies, “You haven’t asked me to marry Director Ishikawa.”

Kiyomi’s mouth twitches before she swiftly looks down at Haru. His mother on the other hand, does not look amused, “Do not be childish.”

“I’m holding a child. Apparently, that makes me a natural.”

“Satoru,” The warning comes quietly. Kenji watches him now, concern replacing the easy smile on his face. His mother goes on in the same pleasant tone, careful not to alert anyone nearby that this conversation is anything other than familial affection, “Yumiko is accomplished. Intelligent. Discreet. From a family that understands the obligations attached to your position.”

Satoru follows the subtle direction of her gaze. Yumiko stands across the room near the fireplace with her parents, listening politely as her father speaks to one of the board members. 

He recognizes her. Their families have placed them beside one another since childhood. At dinners, summer events, and formal photographs constructed to appear spontaneous. Her dark hair is swept into a low arrangement at the base of her neck. Her gown is pale and understated, her posture faultless. 

A few years ago, Satoru might have thought she was beautiful. 

Before you and before every other woman’s face began irritating him simply because it is not yours. 

The same rings true for Yumiko. Now, Satoru barely registers her as a woman at all. She is simply a figure at the end of a life his mother has already planned. A proper girl who would understand that Satoru belongs to the company before he belongs to himself. One who would never demand that he choose between love and obligation because she’s been taught that obligation is the only respectable version of love. 

He can already envision the marriage. A wedding at some ancient shrine, portraits printed across society magazines; Yumiko beside him at events like this, knowing exactly when to speak and when to smile. The two of them sleep together just often enough to produce the necessary child. Then after that…nothing. 

Once the child arrives, the marriage would have completed its purpose. The bloodline secured. An heir provided. So sex no longer occurs and love was never required in the first place. At some point they’d probably move into separate rooms or maybe they’d continue to sleep in the same bed and somehow feel even further apart. 

They would attend events together, raise a child together, grow old beside one another without ever truly belonging to each other, and everyone would call it stable. Successful. Mature. 

Satoru would rather fucking die. 

He doesn’t want a marriage that merely functions. Doesn’t want a wife who understands Gojo-sama and never thinks to search for Satoru beneath him. 

He wants to be unable to keep his hands off his wife. Wants to desire her after the baby, and after another baby, and another. After age softens both of them and years turn familiarity into something deeper rather than duller. 

He wants arguments and laughter and sex that serves zero purpose beyond the fact that they still fucking want each other. 

He wants attachment so complete it terrifies the both of them. Wants to be obsessed with his wife and have her just as ruined over him.

He wants love to be greedy. Because, in some ways love is. Greedy and alive. 

Chosen over and over when there is no family obligation forcing either of them to remain. 

What he truly wants is you. 

Only you. 

Always you. 

And as if sensing his attention, Yumiko looks across the room and their eyes meet. She offers him a soft, practiced smile, yet Satoru feels nothing except the urge to look away. 

“She understands this world,” His mother says. 

He turns back to her. The words, apparently, are meant to recommend her. She understands it all, yes. Maybe she even understands exactly what kind of empty marriage awaits her too. Hell, she probably has already accepted it. 

Satoru hasn’t. He would sooner die. 

“You should speak with her before the evening ends.”

“I’m not interested.”

His mother doesn’t even appear disappointed, which makes it worse, “You do not have to be interested tonight.”

Right. Because his interest is irrelevant. His wanting has always been irrelevant—they can’t even get him a white chocolate strawberry cake for fuck’s sake. 

But they don’t care because they expect him to become tired enough to comply and come to acceptance. Eventually, everybody will call his surrender maturity. 

And the thought makes him sick. But…what makes him sicker is the newest question that has entered his consciousness. 

What if his parents aren’t the only ones capable of choosing a suitable spouse?

Your father would find someone for you eventually. Not literally, maybe, you would never tolerate being handed a husband you don’t love, plus he’s not that controlling, but there would be somebody he approved of. 

Not Satoru, of course. Never Satoru. But somebody respectable. 

A man without pictures of himself drunk at frat parties scattered across social media. Someone who doesn’t disappear into bathrooms to snort powder or turn every feeling he can’t handle into something you have to survive. A guy who has never gotten a girl pregnant because he was terrified she could leave him. 

The sort of man your father might look at and think, Yes. Him.

The possibility makes hatred rise so quickly inside Satoru that it nearly chokes him. 

This hypothetical man doesn’t even exist and he wants him fucking dead. 

He hates his face, his voice, his career, the car he may or may not drive. The way he would sit beside you at family gatherings as if he always belonged there. 

He hates the imagined sound of your father laughing at something this man says. Hates your mother offering him another plate. Fucking hates the possibility of Blair assuring that he is good for you. 

Most of all, he hates what you might become around him. Comfortable…soft. 

Happy. 

Satoru doesn’t want you happy with another man. 

The truth comes in an instant, rotten and rancid. 

He doesn’t want you gradually learning to laugh at another man’s jokes or falling asleep against his shoulder or reaching across the center console to hold his hand. 

He also doesn’t want you to heal so well that loving Satoru turns into some horror story that happened to you in your freshman year of college. 

And he absolutely does not want you marrying him. 

Satoru’s jaw locks. No. 

Then the worst would come next. You pregnant again, but not with his baby—another fucking man’s. 

Somebody else resting his hand against the curve of your stomach, speaking to the baby at night while you laugh and tell him they can’t understand a damn word. Someone who stands beside you at appointments, gets to hear the heartbeat, hovers over you in a hospital bed while you place the baby into his arms. 

The thought is so awful that Satoru’s vision flashes white. Absolutely fucking not. 

He doesn’t give a fuck about whether this imaginary man would be good to you. Or whether he’s sober, patient, reliable, and capable of giving you every safe, ordinary thing Satoru failed to. 

In fact, that makes Satoru hate him more. Because what right would some faceless asshole have to benefit from every lesson Satoru had to lose you to learn?

To give you the child Satoru already mourns? Build the family that was supposed to belong to the two of you?

No. Fuck that. He doesn’t want what's best for you. 

Not if what’s best takes you farther away from him. Not if being healthy means forgetting him. Not if healing means learning to love somebody else. 

He wants you even if wanting him makes your life harder, and yeah, maybe that’s not right. Scratch that—it isn’t right, but frankly, Satoru doesn’t care. 

It’s selfish and cruel and the same kind of love Geto would condemn, but Satoru wants his version of love to be greedy anyway. 

And maybe that makes him a bad person. Though honestly, the only person he cares to be good for is you. And maybe one day eventually he will be, but that day isn’t now.

So fuck that. Fuck him. Fuck Yumiko. Fuck every suitable stranger waiting to replace what the two of you had. And fuck this entire room for making replacement sound noble. 

Haru suddenly shifts against his chest and the small sound drags Satoru out of a future that doesn’t exist and back into the one currently breathing in his arms. The baby’s finger is still wrapped around his, trusting him while he sits there imagining all the people he’d rather destroy than ever learn how to let you go.

His stomach turns, “I should give him back.”

Kiyomi’s smile falters slightly. “Oh. Of course.”

Satoru stands too quickly—the movement makes Haru stir, his little face scrunching against his chest, and panic flashes hot within his veins. He immediately slows, one arm tightening protectively around the baby while the other remains firm under his head.

“Sorry,” Satoru mutters, but the apology is so quiet that he isn’t sure whether he said it to Kiyomi or Haru. 

Maybe neither…maybe it belongs to another baby entirely. 

Kiyomi steps closer and reaches for her son; Satoru transfers Haru into her arms with painstaking care, refusing to release him until he’s certain that every inch of the baby is properly supported. His hand stays beneath Haru’s head even after Kiyomi has him for one second too long, then two. 

Eventually, he forces his fingers to loosen, and the warmth instantly leaves his arms. The absence of it feels grotesque, like his body had made space for something it was never supposed to hold and now has no idea how to close around the emptiness again. 

Haru settles against his mother without fully waking, one tiny fist catching in the fabric of her gown while Kenji’s hand returns to the base of her spine. 

The picture repairs itself. 

Mother, father, and child. The right life continuing neatly without Satoru’s interruption. 

“You were very gentle with him,” Kiyomi says, looking down fondly at her son and then up at her cousin. 

Satoru flexes the finger Haru had been holding, “Beginner’s luck.”

“I don’t think so.”

His mother keeps watching him with that faint, approving smile, as if she has discovered another desirable qualification to attach to his name, “Satoru.”

He can’t answer her. Not without reaching into his wallet, pulling out the ultrasound, telling his mother there had already been a child, and cracking this immaculate room wide open. So, he does the intelligent thing and steps away, “I need air.”

“You have yet to speak with Yumiko.”

Satoru looks at her then, taking in the sight of diamonds resting against her throat and the irritation hidden within her smile because her son has failed to transition smoothly into the next scheduled portion of his life, “I said I need air.”

“Satoru,” She murmurs pleasantly, careful not to alert anyone nearby, “Do not make a scene.”

Ah, a scene. Right. Satoru does not make scenes, he only acts in them. 

Screw his feelings. Forget the grief and panic, forget the fact that his arms will remember the weight of a baby he’ll never meet. No—keep acting according to the script. 

Every sound in the room begins separating from the others. Music and hushed laughter, shoes clicking over polished floors, men discussing government contracts while women compliment one another’s jewelry and pretend half the marriages surrounding them were built on anything more intimate than mutual benefit. 

His pulse starts beating high inside his throat. Fuck. Not here. I can’t do this shit here. 

He can’t break down with his father ten feet away and shareholders scattered through the room waiting to determine whether the future CEO of Limitless Industries is emotionally stable enough to inherit several hundred billion yen worth of influence. 

Satoru leans toward Kiyomi and Kenji, “Congratulations,” And his voice sounds normal. It’s possibly the greatest performance of his life.  

Kiyomi studies him for a moment before nodding, “Thank you.”

Satoru inclines his head and turns away before his mother can stop him again. At first, he walks unhurriedly, the pace of a man merely stepping outside for fresh air rather than fleeing before something inside him ruptures publicly. He passes the fireplace, then the champagne tower and the investors who laughed whenever he permitted them. But by the time he reaches the center of the reception room, his stride has lengthened.

Geto straightens beside one of the tall windows, their eyes meeting. Satoru doesn’t gesture for him to follow, he simply doesn’t have to, he already clocked everything as per usual. The baby, the way Satoru looked at him, Yumiko, the cautious handoff back to mom, and the most concerning of all—the dangerous blankness that settled over his face immediately afterward. 

Geto places his glass of champagne onto a passing tray as Satoru keeps moving. He passes his father, who pauses mid-conversation when he notices his son gunning it, cutting across the room, “Satoru.”

Despite the attempt, Satoru still doesn’t stop; the balcony doors wait at the far end of the reception hall. A server carrying champagne accidentally steps into his path, notices his expression, and swiftly moves aside. Satoru snatches a glass from his tray anyway. His fifth one, maybe sixth, he doesn’t know, doesn’t care either, and drinks half of it before reaching the doors and pushing one open. 

Winter air surges inside, several guests turn toward the sudden draft, but Satoru steps onto the balcony with haste, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. The party absorbs his silence in an instant—conversations resume and glasses clink; the heir temporarily leaving the room, but the performance survives perfectly without him. 

Cold strikes his face hard enough to steal his breath, the balcony stretches across the rear of the estate, overlooking gardens reduced to black silhouettes beneath the night sky. Warm light pours through the windows behind him, turning everyone into golden figures moving gracefully behind glass. 

Satoru reaches the stone railing, placing his champagne beside him, then grips the edge with both hands. 

Breathe, damn it. He tries, but air catches inside his chest and refuses to travel farther. He tries once more—nothing. Pressure spreads beneath his ribs, sharp and horribly familiar. 

No, no, no, fuck no. Not again. Please, not again.

Satoru bows his head, fingers tightening against the stone, and all he can think of is the warmth against his chest, little fingers around his own, and blue eyes that haven’t yet learned how to become cold. 

The balcony door opens behind him, “If that’s my mother,” Satoru forces out, though the words scrape against his closing throat, “I’m jumping.”

“Bit dramatic,” Geto says, shutting the door, and Satoru doesn’t bother to turn around.

“Go away,” He hisses, both out of annoyance and petulant embarrassment. 

“No.”

“I’m serious.”

Fabric rustles behind Satoru, “Don’t.”

Geto pauses, arms slightly raised despite not being visible, “Don’t what?”

“Start.”

“I haven’t even done anything?” 

Satoru tries to inhale again, but the breath breaks in the middle. Geto falls quiet, aware of the former history surrounding these spouts of panic attacks, “Satoru.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah. You sound fucking fantastic,” His hands have started to shake, he presses them harder against the railing, but the trembling climbs into his forearms, “Satoru.”

“I said I’m—” The sentence collapses underneath another failed breath, Satoru lifts one hand to his chest as though he can physically pry it open, “I can’t—”

Geto is beside him before he can attempt to finish the thought, “Hey.”

Satoru shakes his head, “I can’t fucking—”

“I know.”

“No, I—” His lungs seize, the balcony tilts under him. 

Geto catches his arm, firm enough to steady him without pulling, “Look at me,” Satoru’s gaze remains fixed on the stone, “I said look at me, asshole,” He manages to lift and turn his head; Geto’s face swims in and out of focus, “Slow down. You’re trying too hard.”

“Fuck you.”

“Great. Insult me. Means you’re still alive.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“You are breathing. You’re just doing it like a fucking idiot,” Satoru would laugh if his body allowed him to. 

Geto grips the back of his neck suddenly, “In through your nose,” Satoru tries, but the breath comes jagged, “Again.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah, me too, whatever. Try again,” He takes another inhale, it’s still shallow, yet deeper, “Good.”

Satoru exhales shakily, though the next breath comes easier. Then another. The pressure doesn’t disappear, but the world finally stops narrowing around the edges. Geto keeps his hand at the back of Satoru’s neck until he pulls away. For several seconds, neither of them says a word, which is exactly when Satoru looks down at his hands—empty, of course. Yet, he can still feel Haru inside them. 

His throat swells again for an entirely different reason, “I can still fucking feel him,” He says in a broken whisper, mouth twisting as a tear slips free. He wipes it away roughly with the heel of his palm, “Fuck.”

But the tears don’t stop there. Another trickles down his cheek, followed by more. Satoru turns away fast, one hand covering his mouth as if he can force everything back inside before Geto sees it in order to save himself the embarrassment. Unfortunately, he can’t. He just humiliates himself anyway. 

A strangled sound tears out of him and Geto moves without asking, catching Satoru by the back of the neck and pulling him forward. His other arm closes hard around his shoulders. Satoru goes rigid on instinct, but his body eventually gives up the fight. His hand grips the back of Geto’s jacket; his forehead presses against his shoulder while the tears come in small, furious bursts that make breathing hurt all over again. 

Geto doesn’t tell him anything sentimental or assure him everything’s gonna be okay, thank fucking God. He just holds Satoru together until he remembers how to do it himself. And when he pulls away, Geto lets him without hesitation. 

Satoru turns back toward the railing and scrubs both hands over his face, ashamed, “Never mention that.”

“Mention what?”

Satoru huffs a breath that almost resembles a laugh, “Good.”

And as Satoru gathers whatever left of himself he can, Geto reaches inside his tuxedo jacket and removes a small metal case. Satoru glances at him sideways, eyes still burning, “Are you fucking insane? These people will deadass get you arrested.”

Geto opens it, taking out a pre-rolled joint, “They won’t do shit. Fuck ‘em anyways. I don’t care.”

“You’re such a dumbass.”

He places the joint between his lips and shields the lighter’s flame from the wind. The cherry glows in the darkness, followed by the familiar smell Satoru knows all too well when Geto exhales, “Yeah. I know.”

“You can’t go back inside smelling like that,” Satoru warns. 

“Wasn’t planning on standing close enough for anyone to sniff me.”

“They will.”

“I’ll tell them it's some special incense.”

A chuckle catches painfully inside Satoru’s chest and Geto leans against the railing beside him. For a while, they let the silence between each other sit, listening to the faint music behind the glass and people shifting in and out of conversations. 

Geto takes another hit of the joint, “You really wanted it.”

Already aware as to what he means by that, Satoru stares through the glass at Haru, “Yes.”

Geto watches him closely, perhaps waiting for the answer to change, and to his surprise, it doesn’t, “What did you want?”

“The baby.”

“I know. I mean…what did you think it was going to fix?”

Satoru’s jaw clenches, “Why does it have to be something I wanted to fix?”

“Because it’s you.”

“Fuck you,” He hisses, though Geto just shrugs unbothered and takes another drag. 

Satoru looks at everything beyond the window on the other side. He sees his parents standing on opposite ends of the room, Yumiko by the fireplace inside a future neither of them chose, every marriage crafted to appear whole from a distance. The image honestly disgusts him. 

“I wanted something that wasn’t like this,” Geto follows his gaze, “Everything in there is perfect. Perfect houses, wives, children, and none of it feels fucking real,” The cold hooks in his throat, “I wanted something messy.”

Satoru thinks of you leaving countless hair ties in his room. You yelling at him for waking you, then reaching for him in your sleep anyway. The two of you arguing loudly enough for his brothers to hear through the walls and absolutely making up in ways they heard too. 

“Loud,” He continues, “Annoying,” Slowly, his eyes return to Haru, “Something warm. A family I chose. One that didn’t feel like some fucking business contract.”

“And one that couldn’t leave,” Satoru hates how it sounds, “You said it before.”

“At first, yeah,” The admission tastes worse in his mouth with a real baby visible through the glass. A person, not proof or leverage. Only a warm body with small fingers that trust whatever they close around, “If she got pregnant, she couldn’t just disappear. Even if she hated me, even if we broke up, there would always be something between us that nobody else could replace.”

“A baby.”

“A bond.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know,” Satoru bites the inside of his cheek, “But that wasn’t all it was.”

“No?”

“No,” He looks toward the ballroom again, “I didn’t sit around picturing diapers and cribs and all that shit. Not then.”

No, those details came later. After grief learned how to build entire lives out of what ifs. 

Geto’s gaze cuts to him, “And now?”

Satoru swallows hard, “Now I picture everything.”

A baby with your eyes. Whether they would have inherited your temper or his inability to shut the hell up. How you might have looked asleep with the baby against your chest. How it might have felt to come home to people who were there because they wanted him rather than because the Gojo name required it. 

Satoru looks down at his empty arms, “I didn’t even know what holding one felt like until tonight,” His fingers curl against the stone, “I wanted it,” He repeats, because apparently he needs Suguru to believe him, “I really fucking wanted it.”

“I believe you.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, yeah. You’re stupid enough to want to be a dad at twenty-one with a girl you’ve known for four months. That part wasn’t the one that confused me.”

Satoru glares daggers at him, but then his eyes narrow, “What was then?”

Geto inhales smoke before saying, “Why you acted like you didn’t. You had her. You had the baby you keep saying you wanted. Then you started going out and doing blow while she was back wherever sick and scared.”

“It wasn’t every night.”

“Shit, my bad,” Geto flicks ash over the balcony, “You abandoned your pregnant girlfriend every other night.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Satoru curses, voice raised, muffled by the glass, but loud enough that one or two guests glance over. 

Geto lowers his own and shields the joint, “I know why you do it now. You don’t want to think about all this shit—still fucking stupid, but I understand it,” Satoru flinches as Geto continues, “But back then? You still had them.”

Them. One simple word, though it strikes deeper than anything else. Them. 

You and the baby.  

“So what the fuck were you running from?”

Satoru turns away. The answer has been sitting inside him for weeks, rotting, “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“I said I don’t know.”

“You do,” Geto’s voice stays level, “That’s why you’re getting pissed.”

Satoru grips the railing harder and for several fleeting seconds, he watches his father through the glass. Then he says, “I’d never gotten what I wanted before.”

Geto’s brows furrow, “Huh?”

“Not like that,” Satoru gestures toward the house, unable to explain the entire history of his life without pointing directly at what built it, “Everything I’ve ever had was something they decided I should have. The schools. The degree. The fucking company.”

“And her and the baby weren’t.”

“No…” Satoru’s mouth twists, “I wanted it…Then it happened and I had no idea what the fuck to do with the fact that I actually got what I wanted,” The confession sounds just as pathetic as it is, but he continues anyway, “She was sick because of me. Scared because of me. Her whole life changed because I kept cumming inside her knowing exactly what could happen.”

“She knew too.”

“I know. That made it worse—she said all that shit while I was fucking her,” Satoru sighs, “‘Make me yours’, ‘cum inside me’, whatever. But that didn’t mean she wanted to be eighteen and pregnant.”

“Yeah…definitely not.”

“And I knew she probably only even considered keeping it because she loved me…which was fucked up,” His voice grows quieter, “She looked at me like I was supposed to know what to do. Like I could make it okay because I had money and kept telling her everything would be fine.”

“But you couldn’t.”

“No…I could buy her things. Feed her. Tell her I’d take care of everything,” Satoru laughs once without humor, “But I never actually gave her a reason to believe me. And then? Then I had to meet her fucking dad,” Geto’s expression shifts as Satoru’s chest constricts around the memory, “He told me to keep her safe and I had to look him in the fucking eye, lie through my fucking teeth, and tell him I would, knowing I had already failed to.”

Geto purses his lips, “Yeah, man. That’s some fucked up shit.”

Satoru lets out a hollow laugh, “Thanks.”

Taking another drag as he looks through the glass, Geto's gaze passes over the room before settling somewhere near Satoru’s parents, “And after him, you knew eventually you’d have to look them in the eye too.”

“Yeah…” The thought alone is enough to make his stomach churn. 

“What were you gonna tell them?”

“The fuck do you think?” Satoru asks, watching his father, “Oh, by the way, my girlfriend—yeah, the one on my Instagram you called a distraction? Yeah, I knocked her up and we’re keeping it. So the entire life you planned for me can go fuck itself.”

“And what would they have done?”

“I don’t know…” The uncertainty frightens him more than any definite answer, “They probably would’ve tried to control it. Her, the baby, me. Maybe cut me off. Maybe drag me back here. Maybe turn the kid into some succession issue they needed to manage.”

He drags both hands over his face, “I wanted to blow my life up. I did,” Satoru insists, “I wanted her more than I wanted any of this shit,” His hands fall, gesturing helplessly toward the estate, “But I was still fucking scared of the explosion…So I went out. And when I did coke, I stopped thinking about it.”

“For how long?”

“Not long.”

“Then what?”

“The high’d wear off,” Satoru peers down at the finger Haru held, “And everything came back—the baby. Her being scared. Lying to her dad. My parents finding out. All of it…So, I would just do more.”

“Wow—”

“I know how it sounds.”

“Do you, though?”

“Like I abandoned her because I was scared.”

“You literally fucking did. You felt like shit, so you decided your fear was the one that needed relief. Meanwhile, she had to just live in it.”

“I fucking know,” His voice cracks loudly enough that another person inside glances toward the balcony again, Satoru softens his tone, “I know…I abandoned her because I felt like shit, while she was feeling like shit because of something I did to her.”

The cold and the silence settles between them. Inside, his father laughs at something one of the board members says. His mother touches Yumiko’s arm as she speaks to her, already laying another piece of his future into place.

“Why are you still doing it?”

Satoru glances over, “The coke?”

“No. This,” He nods his head toward the party, “You hate them choosing everything for you. So why do you keep letting them?”

Satoru stares at him as if this is the dumbest question ever, “And do what?”

“I don’t know. Leave?”

A sick, pathetic laugh escapes him, “Right. I tell my father to go fuck himself. He cuts me off, hands the company to some cousin, and then what?”

“You graduate.”

“With a finance degree I only chose because it was one of the options they approved.”

“You’re still good at it,” Geto reassures.

“And get some regular job?”

Geto raises a brow, “God forbid you live like the rest of us.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. I also think hearing you say it is hilarious.”

Satoru turns toward the ballroom, “My whole life was built around this. Every class. Every language. Every internship.”

“So?”

“So if I leave, what the fuck was any of it for?”

Geto lets the thought sit there unanswered. Satoru thinks of summer placements completed while other boys traveled. Exams taken with fevers because his father considered illness irrelevant. Presentations rebuilt through sleepless nights after being told they weren’t good enough. 

The years would remain spent whether he inherited the company or not, but without it, they would feel stolen, “And I’m supposed to give up everything? The company, the money, the only thing I actually know how to do?”

“You hate it.”

“But, I’d be good at it.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“It might be close enough.”

“For you?” 

Satoru doesn’t answer, the truth lies there inside the ballroom. He had felt it earlier when men turned to him instead of his father—power suited him. The room had shifted and some starved, shameful part of him had come alive beneath the attention. 

“What happens if you leave?” Geto asks. 

“I lose.”

He loses Limitless. The fortune. The authority waiting at the end of decades spent becoming what they demanded. He loses the prize large enough to make every horrible sacrifice in his life feel intentional and worth the suffering. 

Geto studies him, “So you don’t actually want out.”

“I never said that.”

“You want it to belong to you.”

Satoru says nothing, already thinking about it now. One day, the room will answer to him. Nobody will tell him which flavor of cake is appropriate or which woman suits his future. He’ll possess enough power that nobody can take anything from him again, “That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Geto glances through the windows, “You want to own the cage.”

The words are unpleasant, but Satoru understands them, “I could do whatever I want once I did.”

“Could you?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“No,” Satoru snaps, truth leaking out of him, “But I’d be the one holding the fucking key,” Geto’s gaze slides toward him, reaching for more honesty, “I want the money too,” He admits, “I’m not going to pretend I don’t.”

“Good. That would be very annoying.”

“I like not checking prices. I like being able to go anywhere whenever. I like buying shit for people just because I can.”

“Sugar dad—”

“—I will throw you off this balcony.”

Geto smiles faintly, Satoru’s expression sobers, “I could give a family everything. They’d never worry about money. She could finish school, not finish, work, not work. The baby could have anything.”

“With money they also control.”

“It becomes mine.”

“When?”

Satoru would answer if he knew the exact timing. Could be after graduation. After executive rotations. Years of obedience packaged as preparation. Years performing until his father decides he has earned the right to inherit his own life.

“I don’t know.”

Geto extinguishes the joint against the stone, holding the roach between pinched fingers, “So let me get this straight.”

Satoru already despises his tone, “What?”

“Your parents keep you in a cage—”

“—Here we fucking go—”

“Her father keeps her in one too, right?” Geto turns fully toward him, “And then you met her and put her in another one.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“That wasn’t the same.”

“Why?” Geto presses, "Because yours looked prettier? You gave her gifts, fucked her senseless, called it protecting her instead of controlling her?”

“Fuck you.”

“Am I wrong?” Satoru opens his mouth and nothing comes out, Geto nods once, “You did the same shit they do to you. It just looked nicer.”

“No,” But even Satoru hears how weak his reply sounds.

“You can’t control a single fucking thing in there,” Geto waves a hand toward the windows, “So the second you got something they didn’t choose for you, you controlled the shit out of that too,” Satoru’s heart thumps painfully, “You hate them for treating you like something they own, then you turned around and did it to her.”

Satoru looks at his mother through the glass, unable to form any sort of argument, because Suguru is right. Your father’s rules came wrapped in fear and protection. His parents’ came wrapped in duty and legacy. Satoru’s came wrapped in gifts, jealousy, sex, permanence, and the certainty that no one could ever love you more than he did. 

“She liked being mine,” Is all he can say. 

“She loved you,” Geto corrects.

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it isn't," Geto says, slipping the metal case back into his jacket, “Love doesn’t make the cage disappear.”

Satoru keeps his eyes fixed forward, the only sound moving between them now is the wind blowing through the gardens below. There is an entire room of people behind him who have turned control into tradition and called tradition honorable. He had called his version romance. The realization guts him. 

Then, he hears himself ask, “What if she doesn’t choose me?” The question comes out rougher when Satoru repeats it, “What if I stop using, fix all this shit, become whatever the fuck I’m supposed to become, and she still doesn’t choose me?”

Geto doesn’t sugarcoat it, “She might not.”

“Fuck that—that’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one there is, Satoru.”

“I don’t want her with someone else.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want someone else having the life that was supposed to be mine.”

Immediately, he thinks of the hypothetical man from before that his mind already invented. The sober, patient, and approved guy standing beside you while your father looks on without suspicion. Holding a child Satoru will never know. Again, it makes him want to die. 

“Yeah,” Geto says, “And you don’t control that,” Satoru turns sharply, “You never did.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No. You just spent the whole relationship pretending you did. You couldn’t control whether she loved you. Couldn’t control whether she stayed. And so you can’t control whether she ever chooses you again.”

“Then what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Live with it.”

Satoru loathes the answer entirely. Live with it? Is he fucking joking? 

“Get better because you need to get better,” Geto adds, “Not because you think it buys her back.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then at least this version of you doesn’t fucking kill you,” The winter air feels bitterly cold all of a sudden as the words hang there. Geto spares another glance at the reception, “And maybe figure out who the fuck you are when nobody else is deciding for you.”

And before Satoru can say anything else, the balcony door opens. His mother stands framed in the warm light. Her gaze travels first to his face, catching the redness around his eyes, then to Geto and the faint remnants of smoke lingering in the air. 

Her expression turns as glacial as her blue irises, “The cake is being served.”

Of course it is. Satoru peaks through the doors and sees that the disgusting three-tiered earl grey and yuzu has appeared at the center of the room. Candles wait to be lit while guests gather around it. 

His mother’s eyes narrow, “People are waiting,” 

Satoru takes one final breath of cold air. His chest still aches. The baby is still gone. You are still thousands of miles away. Nothing Geto said has repaired a single fucking thing, but the show must go on. 

He wipes once beneath his eyes, smooths both hands over the front of his jacket, and adjusts his cuffs. The transformation takes seconds; his shoulders settle, his expression clears, his mouth curves into the dazzling smile he has adorned all evening, “Of course. Wouldn’t want to keep anyone waiting.”

Geto witnesses the entire transformation happen, Satoru catches the look on his face, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

His attention flicks toward his mother, then back at the polished heir standing where his best friend had been moments ago, “Just…proving my point.”

Satoru ignores it, stepping past his mother to return back into the spotlight.

And the smell of earl grey reaches him before the applause does.