Chapter Text
The second Geto Suguru brings a cigarette to his lips a man kneels in front of him, his face on the ground and a zippo in hand. Geto eyes him in silence, then makes the tip of his cigarette meet the flame. Smoke escapes from his lips and nose, along with a satisfying sigh; the meeting can finally start.
There are four VIP rooms on the first floor of the night club Sukuna owns – Dismantle, it is called, a little obscure and menacing, but it suits the character well – and where he invited Geto after he was officially named the new Patriarch of the Kamo family. The room they occupied is round and sombre, lighted with purple neon light from above, its entry directly opened to the rest of the club and the bar. The loud music echoing from the dancefloor below is muted enough so that they can have a conversation without shouting.
Not that Geto doesn’t already know what Sukuna is about to say. The timing leaves no room for debate; Tengen’s condition is getting worse and worse with each passing day.
“Cheers.”
Sukuna raises his glass of thirty-year-old whiskey which Geto meets with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Both know their meeting is nothing but sincere. Sukuna must be close to fifty years old now. He has been the Patriarch of the Heian family for twenty years, right after Tengen was named the second Chairman of the Sugawara clan. His longevity is admirable, but that won’t prevent Geto from seizing the throne Sukuna thought was his for so long. This little party is nothing but the confession of his nervousness, or at least that’s how Geto chooses to interpret it, and it only makes the whiskey taste better.
In the old man's defence, the Kamo family is relatively new in the Sugawara clan, but thanks to Geto’s mentor, Noritoshi Kamo, they rapidly grew and became profitable. His most admirable amazing feat was, of course, the merger with the Zenins, after which they became the larger and wealthier family of the clan and redefined the balance between the different families, thus threatening Sukuna’s plan of becoming the third chairman when Tengen would pass. Which would appear to be anytime soon.
Unfortunately, Noritoshi Kamo died of a domestic incident just last week – electrocuted in his bath, what a shame – and against all odds, he named Geto as his successor in his will instead of his true-born sons. So here he is. Sitting in his most fitting three-piece suit in front of the legend of the yakuza world, openly threatening him and teaching him to know his place.
“Thank you for your invitation,” Geto politely replies, and he’s careful to drink only after Sukuna does.
“I dare hope this is the first step to strengthen the bond between our families.”
And there it is, the toothy smile, and the daggers in his eyes. There’s a word going in the underground, one that Geto heard before he even put a foot in this world: Sukuna is a demon, the embodiment of the Hannya that decorates his back. Just like Geto, he started with nothing but his fists and rage and he climbed to the top, earning the respect of his elders and mentors. Everyone shudders at the sound of his name. Everyone but the Kamo Patriarch, and now, he’s dead. Quite fitting right before a succession war, isn’t it?
Their trajectory is not the only thing they share. For as long as he can remember, Geto has always admired Sukuna’s career from afar, and fifteen years later it still inspires him. They are demons, both of them, and they are greedy, and they want the same thing. It takes to be a true predator to recognise another one. As things turn out, Geto is now in the same position Sukuna was when Tengen was named the second Chairman, and this is precisely why he knows Geto is a menace to his empire, and why he invited him here, in his own club: to pressure him. To threaten him. To let him know that if the old Kamo died, he could follow the same road if he’s not docile enough. Geto is still young. He’s just been named the head of the family against Kamo’s own blood, which could be a source of tension among them. Sukuna must think Geto has more important things to do than to mess with another family branch, that he should prioritise this transition time to secure his position at the top of the Kamo family, hoping that by then, Tengen-sama would have passed, and Sukuna would have been named the next chairman.
But contrary to Sukuna’s beliefs, the two of them aren’t the same.
Sukuna is a snake: he likes to poison his victims, silent but deadly. A simple glance can petrify anyone, and each time you’d think you had him, the corpse he left behind was just his moulting, a double wearing the exact same white traditional kimono – his clothing signature – and you’d catch him laughing maniacally at the other end of the city.
Geto, on the other hand, is a dragon.
He is not afraid to show his claws, nor his fangs.
He came here fully prepared: a tailored grey suit and white shirt, a deep red vest, a black haori curled around his shoulders and his sleeves up to his elbows, displaying the tattoos that run down his wrists. Geto’s body is a work of Art, and unlike Sukuna, he is still young and fit. In this battle of ego, he intended to leave a deep, red mark on his opponent’s pride, because he knows how to read the cards and he knows how to play this game.
The Heian family has lost its superb. Noritoshi Kamo took a lot of profitable markets from them. Times are harder for traditional yakuzas these days. They are in agony. So Geto does exactly what he knows would make Sukuna go berserk.
He deliberately ignores him.
As if he were too old for this world. As if he were a has-been. As if he weighed nothing. Which is what he is to Geto Suguru: nothing but another ant to smash to get to his goal.
Sitting next to Sukuna, his right hand, Uraume, is severely judging him from behind their too long bangs. They have been by Sukuna’s side forever, if Geto recalls well, and to him, the fact that Sukuna came here with his most trusted general is only a sign of weakness. Geto didn’t come alone either, and to pay his respect he brought Choso with him, the oldest of Kamo's sons. It’s both an homage to his old mentor and a way to thumb his nose at Sukuna’s face. The old Kamo was like a second father to him, and so naturally Choso became his sworn brother. And as good sons, they both hated him equally. The head of the Sugarawa clan still can’t figure out who had the old Kamo assassinated: is it one of his sons, or his rival for the clan’s head? It is still impossible to tell.
“Let’s talk about business, shall we?” Sukuna says after he empties his glass, and Geto follows suit, playing his role to perfection. “I’ve heard you just opened a new Mahjong parlour, right at the corner of Sesame Street.”
“You’re well informed,” Geto confirms, a polite and discreet smile on his face. Sukuna also owns a Mahjong parlour. In fact, it is the oldest downtown. A little too old for Geto’s taste, but that’s not the point. “Of course, I studied the market first and made sure not to open my establishment too close to your own; I’ve heard you’re quite the player.”
“I’ve heard good things about your skills as well. Maybe we can play a game. Tonight?” What a bold move. Is he planning on assassinating him there? That would be prudent not to play with that snake for longer than necessary. “Uraume is a great player themselves. What about you, Choso?”
As sworn brothers, just one glance between them is enough.
“I’m afraid I’m not that much of a good Mahjong player,” Choso replies calmly, “I prefer shogi.”
“Oh,” Sukuna hides his deception by bringing his glass to his lips, before finding it empty. He snaps his fingers and a waiter fills all their drinks. “Well, you have time to find a fourth player so we can enjoy the night fully next time.”
Geto raises his glass. “Next time.”
His lips are frozen in a thin, elegant line, and his eyes are as sharp as Sukuna’s are. Even the bodyguards securing the entrance of their VIP room can feel the rising tension in the air. With Tengen-sama’s declining health and even despite the old Kamo’s premature death, a war is going to tear the Sugawara clan apart.
After this fleeting moment of hostility is over and alcohol eases in their veins, Sukuna reveals another part of his personality that Geto has learned to be extremely tolerant of: he talks about old literature and poetry for hours without stopping, reciting Haikus only Uraume finds beauty in. More often than not, Geto’s eyes are distracted by the reflection of the neon lights on the whiskey filling his glass, or in the agitation in front of the bar he has a direct view of. People pass by. A lot. Geto likes to observe them. That’s what made him such a good fighter in the first place: he could always guess his enemies’ weaknesses by a simple look. People betray so much of who they are when they think no one is observing them. He would love to analyse Sukuna one day, but just like him, the old man knows that the immoderate ambition they have in common makes it impossible for them not to be constantly stared at, with jealousy and admiration, sometimes combined.
Sukuna asks the waiter for champagne; a man bumps into him as he gets out of the VIP room, to whom he promptly presents excuses, and something about that man catches Geto’s eyes. He’s tall, probably more than he is, which is quite uncommon, but it’s not what’s more striking no – his hair is shining purple like the neon lights that reflect violently on his round sunglasses, his suit as well, and it takes Geto a moment to realise it’s because he’s dressed in white from top to bottom. He must be the kind to like to be stared at. Another discreet glance at his shoes tells Geto that they are tailored and Italian. A rich boy then. Not unexpected considering the kind of place Sukuna owns, but the way his suit fits him to perfection is enough to tell Geto that he is richer than the majority of the customers here.
The rich man stays at the bar for a good ten minutes. Geto has a perfect view of his rear from where he sits. That suit is, definitely, tailored.
The waiter comes back, obscuring his sight for a moment. Sukuna takes the bottle of champagne and opens it with a loud pop, startling Geto, then pours their glasses so full that half of the bubbles fall on the table. When Geto looks back at the bar, the rich man with the nice butt has gone.
Too bad, he had just started to think tonight was not an utter waste of time.
After having drunk so many flutes and whiskey there’s something biological that any man has to surrender to, even as formidable as Geto Suguru.
“No need to tell me,” he tells Uraume as he rises to his feet. “I know where the bathrooms are, and I don’t see why I shall need an escort.” His eyes go back to Sukuna. “I know you have too much class to attempt to assassinate me in a cubicle.”
The smiles on all their faces are cold and fixed but for Choso, who had always found Geto’s frosty humour to be his cup of tea.
As he navigates to the other side of the first floor, between exhausted waiters and wasted customers, Geto catches sight of one of his acquaintances that he never thought he’d see in a place like this. Feeling a rage eased by the alcohol in his veins, he clenches his fists before calling her name.
“Shoko?”
Her eyes widen when she sees him. The young woman, a trainee doctor, is sitting alone in front of a round table with two empty glasses – she’s having wine, a sign she’s enjoying herself. Her obvious missing date went for a cola.
“Are you dating preschoolers now?” Geto bites, but they both know this is hardly the problem of her presence here. She’s working for him, so what is she doing in Sukuna’s nightclub? He paid for her medical studies, he even thought they had become friends! Did she betray him?! Why? Now is hardly the time.
“Look, Geto, I can explain–”
“Hey, are you annoying my friend here?”
Geto turns around calmly – this would make Sukuna too happy if he were to start a fight in his nightclub – only for his eyes to meet the rich man wearing white from hair to shoes. The sight makes his breath itch for a second, probably because it’s atrocious.
A fake smile curls his lips upright, “There must be a misunderstanding. I am not-”
“He’s not-” Shoko says at the same time, but her friend doesn’t have enough patience and grabs Geto by the collar.
“Get the fuck off my friends, okay?” the man threatens, a strong fist on Geto’s shirt and Geto wants to laugh. It’s been a while since anyone has been able to get this close to him with rage in their eyes – or at least, this is what Geto thinks runs behind those stupid round sunglasses. If Miguel and Larue had been here, this man would be spitting blood on the floor.
“Please, he was not-”
“Shoko, shut the fuck up!” the man cries, and Geto frowns; he doesn’t like when ladies aren’t being treated the way they should be. “I’m trying to defend you!”
“And I don’t need your help!”
“Oh please.” The man gives him a look, and Geto sees how his eyes stop on his bare arms, full of tattoos. The man’s face winced with disgust but no fear transpired. Interesting. “The thing you’d do for a free drink.”
And this is when Geto holds him by the collar as well, shoving the rude man against his chest. “Who is annoying the lady now?” he groans.
The man smirks, “Certainly not her best friend, who is, by the way, the delicious man you’re trying to murder in front of hundreds of people.”
“Too bad those hundreds of people are too drunk and horny to pay attention to whatever is happening to that delicious man you’ve just mentioned.” Geto retorts, the hold on the man’s collar getting tighter.
The man’s hands lose their hold on Geto’s shirt to close around both his wrists. Then, his sunglasses run down his nose to reveal the brightest blue eyes Geto has ever seen. They shine in the dark, their initial colour unaffected by the purple neon lights, as if they were too pure to be altered. Geto stares for a second too long and the man notices, he smirks. He thinks it gives him the upper hand, hn? What a fool.
“Boys, please! We’re all good. No one is bothering me, I assure you.” Shoko cries, and her hands are impatiently looking for a cigarette inside her bag. A sign she’s nervous, but probably more by Geto’s presence than by their altercation.
“You mean you know this asshole?”
There’s something in the tone of that man’s voice that makes Geto want to shove him against the wall or smash a baseball bat on this pretty face of his. A little more misogynist and he could have been Naoya’s twin brother. He hides his frustration in the middle of his fists and turns to Shoko, his frozen smile unchanged, “I could ask you the same. But we’ll talk about this another time, as I seem to be interrupting.”
“You are,” Shoko replies, her hand trembling as she adjusts her cigarette between her lips. “This asshole brought me here to celebrate a promotion.”
“Hn?!”
“Oh,” Geto adds, ignoring the man’s annoyance; judging by the fear in Shoko’s eyes, her presence here of all the place is not her due, “what a coincidence, so am I.”
“Great!” The man says, slapping his back violently – if only he knew who Geto was, if only they were in one of his clubs – “That means you will now very kindly return to your own party and leaves us the fuck alone so I can enjoy mine.”
Geto sends him the kind of smile he wears before punching someone. Shoko knows that one well enough to freeze in her search for her lighter.
“Go-”
But Geto keeps his fists to his side. “But of course. My pleasure. Let me… compensate for my rude behaviour,” he emphasises those last two words, which are not meant for him, “and pay for your, what, lemonade? Orange juice?”
“I’ll let you know it’s a Schweppes.” The man replies with absurd assurance.
“Oh, thank goodness. For a second I thought you were a real man. Glad we cleared that misunderstanding before I had to go.”
“I enjoy my drinks bitter like real m-”
“Please. This is a Schweppes agrum .”
“Don’t you have anything better to do than piss off a stranger who’s trying to enjoy some time in your establishment?” The man bites.
Geto raises an eyebrow at the remark. He takes him for the owner of this nightclub… When did he get the idea?
“Ha! I’m not stupid. Your suit is tailored and Italian too. Plus your tattoos, the big muscles, the fact that you know Shoko-”
“Hey!” she cries, slapping his arm as she does.
“Come on, you never wanted to tell me what you did at night to pay for your studies, and we both know you have too much class to be a prostitute. Anyway,” he turns back to Geto, “just because I speak like a brat and drink fizzy and non-alcoholic beverages doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”
“I never said you were,” Geto says, adjusting the collar of his shirt, “I said you were an asshole.”
The man curls his fist and if Shoko hadn’t grabbed his arm, perhaps he would have landed a blow. Or at least, tried to. Perhaps he would have given Geto exactly what he wanted, an excuse to crush him on the ground and make this night at least a little bit exciting and worth remembering.
Geto escapes with a sincere smile on his face this time and asks the barman to put their note on his account, and the barman obeys without asking. This might not be his establishment but everyone in the nightlife knows who he is, and no one dares to contradict him. No one.
Except that guy. Who drinks Schweppes agrum in a nightclub with Shoko, his doctor. Even after feeling how he was built under his hold, even after he figured out he was most likely a yakuza, that guy didn’t back off. During the short moment their altercation lasted, Geto could tell he was rich as fuck but also quite clever. And Shoko is, he has to admit, a good judge of character, so he must have other human qualities that the situation couldn’t put to light. The fact that he’s awfully pretty is nothing but a detail at this point, and really, it’s a shame that such a nice ass comes with a filthy mouth.
Returning to the VIP room, Geto laughs to himself.
The man sure seems hard to impress.
It’s a shame Geto loves to leave an indelible mark on people. Perhaps he’d ask Shoko later if he managed to piss him off enough so that he would never be able to forget about him.
It’s been a week, and yet, Gojo can’t take this man out of his mind. He punches the sandbag with more force each time flashes of the night play in his mind. The man with the tattoos. With the tailored suit and the vest that made the delicious curve of his waist stand out. And his biceps…
But really, what a jerk. How did Shoko meet him? Why did she never say anything? Was she ashamed? Did she think he’d betray her secret and tell the cops? How bad of a friend she thought he was!
“Dammit!” Gojo stops there; it’s past eight in the morning, he’s late for his first office day.
Believe it or not, but Gojo Satoru has more important things to do than to pester about an old yakuza built like a tank who has something against people who can enjoy themselves without drinking alcohol. He’s the sole heir to the Gojo empire, a society that runs in various domains such as real estate, TV channels, social media, and perhaps a couple of barely legal rare metal businesses in Africa. His father used to be a trader. After the subprime crisis, he married the sole daughter of the biggest real estate empire of Japan and thirty years later, here they are. On top of the world. There’s literally nothing his father cannot afford. Next year, he’ll run for a seat in Parliament. With how many friends he has in the political world he’s sure he can make it without sweating. The number of people who owe him money is even scarier. It really feels like he’s playing the game of life on easy mode.
Last month, Gojo’s father decided it was time for his only, brilliant son to put a foot in the real world at the age of twenty-three and gave him a job. CEO of one of their minor branches in Tokyo. He was out to celebrate it with Shoko when the sexy yakuza interrupted-
Wait. No. Wrong.
Well, okay, the guy was sexy as fuck but Gojo is way sexier and that yakuza sure saw that. The way he devoured his eyes and stared at his ass are the only consolations he took out from this awful night, even if Gojo is accustomed to being the centre of attention. He’s been graced with everything from birth: incredible looks, great intellect, and wealth. There’s nothing he cannot do in this world. Or at least, as long as his father agrees to. Like every good son, Gojo hates him with a burning passion but he’s got his reasons. Gojo’s father is a demon. The real deal. A wolf in the middle of innocent sheeps. He sees profit as an end to things and never cared if people suffer from his greed. Never noticed his son was part of the victims.
It’s hard to make a name for yourself when your father is in the top ten fortunes in the country and has the Emperor's number saved in his phone. But difficulty never stopped Gojo before, and he’s certainly not going to back off against his father.
He learned to code when he was a teen and never stopped since. Unbeknownst to his father, he opened a start-up in cybersecurity but uses his skill to hack whoever he feels like spying on. There’s a ton of secrets he collected from his father, his friends, his enemies too, and he keeps them to himself for now, waiting for the right moment to make good use of all this. Information is power these days. Guns and money are outdated. Your reputation online is more important than the number of zero on your bank account. When Apple or Microsoft will have built the first quantum computer it’ll be over for banks and encrypted transactions anyway, so it is safer to bet on something that will never crumble. Secrets are safe. People will always want to hide theirs.
His first day of work is exactly as infernal as he thought it would be. The building is in Shinjuku. It has 26 floors. Every office looks the same. Every employee looks the same. They are just numbers on a chart, barely considered as people by the hierarchy and because they’ve been here for too long, or have been told it’s the only way to go, they started to believe that themselves. Gojo is certain some are more devoted to his father’s legacy than he ever will be.
This empire his father built is Hell on Earth. Gojo wants nothing more than to escape from it. Or perhaps he’ll burn it to the ground one day.
Waiting for him at the door of his office, a woman wearing a man’s kimono salutes him way too solemnly to have been born in the last century.
“I’m here on behalf of your father,” she says, her voice deep; Gojo already saw her from time to time during his father's little ‘parties’. He could never forget such a weird haircut – who tainted their hair like this? Just a red line lost in the middle of white hair? – “My boss invited him to a party he unfortunately cannot attend. He would like you to go in his stead.” The woman gives him an envelope with the name of a new club, the Cleave – another weird name for a place to celebrate, but Gojo is not in the marketing team, so who is he to judge? – “Your father insisted that your presence is required. You can bring a plus one if necessary. If you need to, I will guide you.”
“What sort of party is this?” he asks. Inside the envelope, there’s a note from his father’s hand for sure. It’s probably a test. To see how he can navigate in this sea of sharks. To see what he is truly made of. Or perhaps his father wants him to play his foil in the night world and thought his pretty face would be appreciated. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with him. “Business, casual, or..?”
“An inauguration. A lot of your father’s friends will be present. Maybe he thinks it is the best way to introduce you to his partners.”
Without being there to speak for him? Gojo highly doubts it, but this woman surely doesn’t know anything about his father. Lucky she.
“Then tell him I’ll go.” He’ll ask Utahime to come with him. There should be enough free beer to convince her to tag along. “Is there a dress code?”
The woman eyes him from top to bottom. “That should do. But if you wish to dress to impress, I shall not stop you.”
Pretty face it is then. Not that Gojo minds. Or thought it would be any different. He’s used to being disappointed by the monster who birthed him.
What should not have surprised him either is the fact that Utahime failed him without a proper excuse. She just blankly said no and hung up. How rude! Shoko is on duty and, miserably, Gojo has no other friends he wants to tag along with. Alone to fight in the tank of sharks, alone against his father’s legacy and against, he feels, the whole world. It never impressed him though. Gojo was made for tough battles.
The place is pleasantly chic. There are what seems to be crystal chandeliers on the ceiling and mirrors on the walls. The carpet is red. The glasses are definitely crystals. There’s a small big bang playing Jazz. It’s the sort of party his father would have liked.
Gojo prefers nightclubs, more by argumentativeness than by good measure.
“You came alone?”
The woman with the kimono finds him soon enough. “My friend couldn’t come last minute. Her… tyre burst. Too bad, hn?”
“Well, if you want I fletch a taxi and-”
“No, that would be unnecessary,” Gojo presses, realising this was the lamest lie he had come up with in his entire life. Even Utahime deserves better. “I’m sure I’ll find some good company soon enough.”
The thing is, Gojo has hacked enough of his father’s data to know most of his ‘friends’ and none of them are here. He sees some politicians and journalists, judges, people in show business, owner of big establishments and their beautiful wives – to which he sends his biggest smiles, at least he wants to enjoy the night, and there’s nothing better than a scandal to piss off his father – and he wonders in the end why his father sent him here. He’s been ignoring his texts all day. Again, nothing out of the ordinary, but for once Gojo would have liked it to be different.
Near the middle of the night though, his chance turns.
He’s here. The rude yakuza. Gojo will recognize the back of this haori everywhere. The bottom of a kanji – the one for “strong” – written in red ink, is hidden by long black hair half tied with a bun. Gojo feels his blood boiling inside his veins. Finally, something exciting.
He quickly finds the bathroom and fixes his hair, then puts his sunglasses back into their case and then into the inside pocket of his suit. He’s never been gladder than he overdressed a little for the occasion; he’s literally sex on legs tonight and thanks to all the free drinks he had to decline, he knows it’s a fact, not a fantasy. People would kill for him tonight. The last touch, a little bit of gloss on his lips, and he’s out for trouble. A little scandal with a yakuza sounds like something his father would be furious about.
When he gets out of the bathroom, Gojo finds his next victim at the very same place, half sitting on a stool by the counter, a glass of hard liquor in hand that hasn’t been drunk while Gojo was away. He takes a moment to appreciate the view. Contrary to what he thought the other night, the pants of his suit are not totally black but dark grey, which makes the deep red of his vest look even better. The man looks absorbed in analysing every person that walks in front of his eyes, he’s an observer too, but bad enough not to realise he’s being watched as well. There must be something important he’s looking for. Perfect, that means he’ll be even more vulnerable.
Gojo approaches him from behind, then clears his throat. “Ahem.”
The man turns around and freezes, and in a couple of seconds Gojo sees it all. The way his lips parted, how his eyes got darker. Body language never lies. That man finds him attractive. Gojo baits his eyes once, twice, wet his lips in what is supposed to be an absentminded way and when the man follows his tongue’s journey, he knows the deed is done.
“Excuse me for interrupting your staring contest with, well, your drink,” Gojo starts, taking the stool next to the man, “but I saw you and I thought your throat might be a little dry, and if I’m not mistaken I owe you a couple of drinks.”
The man smiles, sarcastically, a spark in his eyes – which makes him look even more sexy. He took the bait. Gojo just has to pull on the line now. “You’re not mistaken.”
“So, what are we drinking?”
“We?” the man repeats, “Are you suggesting we’d share a drink together?”
“Why not? You’re alone, I’m alone. We’re both adults.”
To this statement, the man laughs. “What are you, twenty?”
“Twenty-three,” Gojo replies. “And you?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Fine, old man. Both adults here. If it’s because you think I’m going to be boring if I don’t drink anything of your taste, I’m ready to make an effort and have some alcohol, like a ‘real man’.” He looks above the counter where all the bottles are. The waiter comes to him before he can even open his mouth. “I’ll have a white Martini.”
The man next to him burst out laughing. “I thought you wanted to drink alcohol.”
“Are you the kind to think little of men wearing pink as well?” Gojo provokes. “There’s nothing wrong with liking sweet things. You should try, from time to time. Please, serve him with apricot juice.” The waiter looks alarmed, Gojo stares back at the man who looks like he’s having some fun. Good. He’ll never realise he fell into his trap before it’s too late. “It’s my favourite.” He whispers loud enough to be heard.
The waiter looks back at the man with the same blank look on his face, and right there, Gojo realises they know each other. Is this one of his places as well?
“Do as he says.” The man says, and the waiter lets out a breath.
“Very well, Geto-sama.”
Gojo raises his eyebrows. “Geto- sama! You sound like someone important.”
“Maybe because I am.” The man – Geto-sama – replies. Gojo gives him another, more thoughtful look. Apart from being handsome and well-built for someone over the sacred age of thirty, this Geto guy has some refined air and countenance. He sits with his back straight, never bends his eyes below the gaze of others except to check him out earlier, and things not a lot of people notice, he does not put his forearm on the table. Gojo respects that.
“Great,” Gojo says, and eyes as their drinks are being served. “That makes two of us.”
And here it is again, that little rictus that makes that important man so kissable. “If you were that important I would have heard of you by now,” Geto says, then tastes the apricot juice. He swallows, Gojo follows the up and down of his Adam apple. “Not too bad. What’s your name?”
“Gojo.” he replies. His father’s name is only known to those who are well-informed. All of their branches have different names. Their empire is hidden from the common folks. “Does it ring any bells?”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t.” Geto looks too pleased with himself for it to be a lie, which is actually playing in Gojo’s favour. His father is often the only obstacle that prevents him from getting what he truly wants. “But thank you for the drink.”
Gojo gives his own a chance and, surprised by the taste, almost chokes on his first spit. He coughs quite a lot, so much that people start walking slower when they approach the counter – even the barman seems concerned and Geto, well, as expected, that devil only laughs.
“Ah, I cannot believe you.” Elegantly, which is something Gojo thought he couldn’t possibly do judging by his aura and the five minutes they’ve spent together, Geto gets off his stool and joins his side, a warm hand patting his back. “Boy, are you alright? Was it your first time?”
Geto’s eyes form a thin line when he smiles to mock him, making him look as sly as a fox. Gojo hates them instantaneously. Just as much as he hates being belittled by someone who doesn’t know him.
“Relax,” Geto goes on, and to Gojo’s – pleasant – surprise, the very tip of his lips run, ablaze, agonisingly slow on the shell of his ear. Gojo holds his breath when he feels Geto exhales against the sensitive skin, and bites his lip so as to not shudder. “There’s no shame in trying things for the first time. I find it quite refreshing even. I wish I had more left.”
“It is not. My first time.” Gojo replies, voice soft and hushed to force his interlocutor’s attention. His father told him a lot of tricks, and one of them was that if he wanted to have someone's full attention he had to speak quietly, so that they would focus on his voice and nothing else. For some reason, he feels there’s no need for that with Geto. The way he only stares at the gloss on his lips tells him he has him in the palm of his hand already. “I was just, perhaps, hoping you’ll try to comfort me.”
“Ah?” Geto raises an eyebrow. He looks content, even proud. God, old men are all the same. So easy to please. So easy to manipulate. “And why that?”
Gojo offers him a lazy smile, his face leaning against the crook of Geto’s neck. “Perhaps I wanted to know if you smell as good as you look.”
That confident grin is back again. Perfect. That Geto thinks he’s getting laid tonight. Which, considering his old man's sexy aura, is more than likely to happen if he would have him. Gojo is not blind nor stupid, and he has the needs of a young and healthy young man, but what would be better? What would be more satisfying?
Dropping his eyes down, Gojo runs his forefinger on the tattoos covering Geto’s forearm. “So, how many do you have?” He draws the lines of the camellias that are scattered everywhere. Their red is hypnotising.
“Plenty. I’ve stopped counting.”
“Do they all mean something? I was told it depends on your position in the… how do you say again? Family? Clan? Hierarchy?”
Geto gets out of his vital space to sit back on his stool as if the conversation was taking a turn he disapproved of. “I have no idea of what you’re talking about.”
“Did you add a new one every time you killed someone?”
This time, the laugh is more reserved, almost shy. “What makes you think my hands have killed people?”
Gojo shrugs. “I’m not judging. My father probably committed mass murder without moving from his chair. That won’t be enough to scare me. Or impress me, for what it’s worth.”
Geto brings his glass to his lips, his eyes to the ceiling. “I wonder what it would take to impress you then.”
“Oh, are you interested now?” He woos, playing his oldest trick and baiting his eyelashes.
And it seems that for the first time tonight, Geto considers him in a serious manner. “Gojo, was it?” He nods. “What are you doing here?”
“Aforementioned jackass father of the year couldn’t come, so he sent me instead. The pretty boy.” He doesn’t know why, but sharing these thoughts aloud makes him sound way more sad and desperate than he thought he was. Perhaps going to that therapist as Shoko mentioned multiple times was a good idea. Gojo takes his glass by the top between two fingers and makes his martini swirl to give him composure. “I have no idea of what I’m supposed to do or who I’m supposed to meet.”
“So, you just thought you’d sit here and be pretty so that your father would get the benefits from your good look?”
“Yeah, more or less. I’d planned on tricking the first sucker who’d find me handsome enough and buy her or him a drink to pass the time.” He waits a second, analysing Geto’s reaction, but he gets none he wants – no anger, no disappointment, no hurt pride. “And then, I saw the back of your haori. How could I forget it.”
“You see me reassured,” Geto replies, voice calm and eyes playful again. “For a second, I thought you were insinuating that I was a sucker.”
“I never said that.” Gojo retorts.
“You’re frankly quite difficult to grasp. First, you insult me, then call me an old man, then buy me a drink, say I’m a cold-blooded killer and then, a sucker? What is it that you really want?”
“I told you, I’m only here because my father couldn’t come. There’s nothing I really want here, and you’re just a way for me to pass the time. Just as I am to you.” Gojo takes another tiny slip of his martini and miraculously manages not to cough this time. He’s so going to regret it tomorrow, but that is probably worth it. That verbal fight with that hot yakuza is giving him a semi and if he’s any good at reading the way Geto cannot cross his legs as smoothly as he would want to then it’s the same for him. A most difficult choice awaits him. He eyes Geto’s tattoo again. “I guess I’m a bit curious. I could give you some of my time if you were to tell me more about them.”
“Oh. So, that’s it. You’re one of those rich papa boys, searching for a thrill by messing with an old yakuza boss.”
“You make it sound ridiculous,” Gojo says, quite amused. He leans his elbows on the counter and rests his face there. “The barman called you Geto-sama, you must not be just a pawn. And you told me you were someone important, so show me.”
“Show you what?”
“How important you are,” Gojo repeats. “Or is it that you cannot? Are you showing off to impress me and stare at my pretty face, hoping I’d be drunk enough after a single martini so you can take me home?”
Ah, the sarcastic laugh again. Gojo likes that one better. Geto uses it when he’s annoyed or angry. He can play with that. “You’re giving yourself too much credit. I see people like you all the time. They don’t impress me either.”
“But I’m not just a golden boy. I have scars too.” Gojo caresses the front of his black shirt right above his belly. “I’ll show them to you… if you show me yours first.”
If a glance could undress, Gojo would be entirely naked at this very second. Geto’s want is getting too obvious to be of any amusement right now. It’s like playing a dating game on easy mode. Well, nothing out of the ordinary for a Gojo. Even yakuzas kiss their boots or venerate the floor they walk on. Geto is lucky he’s so hot. There’s something purely animalistic in the way he stands that turns Gojo’s legs into jelly. If they were to fuck in the bathroom later, Gojo would have to be held against the wall because he certainly wouldn’t be able to stand.
It gets worse when Geto’s face gets serious and a hand plays with the first button of his vest. “Okay,” he says, very quietly, as to force Gojo to listen, and he just undoes it. And the second one. And when his vest is open, he tears the shirt from inside his trousers to reveal the perfect plastic of his stomach and torso, sculpted with saillant muscles that could cut as well as Gojo’s cheekbones. Geto is so well built that it takes Gojo a second to see what he’s supposed to look at, a giant scar in the form of a cross on his chest. Gojo’s throat goes dry. His hands find his drink soon enough.
“That looks quite… bothersome.”
“It was, for a time. It doesn’t hurt anymore though. Just made the skin around very sensitive.” Geto says, his finger drawing the line of the scar only for Gojo to see. His martini takes the highway to his stomach. “What about yours? You said you’d show me, right?”
And Gojo is no man to back off, so he puts his glass down and slowly unbuttons his shirt from the middle, just under his breastbone, to the very last button to show his white, perfectly toned and immaculate stomach. He sees the way Geto’s breath gets stuck in his throat and how, a second later, he frowns.
“You’d need to get closer to see it. Or rather,” he adds when Geto stands right in front of him, “to feel them.”
Gojo takes Geto’s wrist and guides his hand on top of his belly button. There lies a small scar, and two others on his sides. The scar tissue is barely visible, but Geto traces it perfectly with his fingertip. This time, Gojo doesn’t hide how he shudders under his touch.
“Appendicitis.” He announces. “Stayed in the hospital for three days. I was barely six.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“Yeah, right? Utterly horrific now that I think about it.”
Geto hums as he draws the line of the other two scars on each side of Gojo’s belly. “Coelioscopy, I see.”
“My father requested the head of service. He was on holiday in the middle of nowhere in Switzerland. He came back with my father’s jet just for me.”
“I’m very glad your papa was there to save you from this most terrible common affection. The best of us almost had to be under the scalpel of a regular surgeon and we never knew.”
“The number of tragedies that get ignored every day is alarming, I know.” Gojo has to lower his voice not to moan the last part, as Geto’s thumb caresses the soft skin of his stomach, drawing circles outside of his scars. His eyes are dark from this close, clouded with lust. Gojo is sure he wouldn’t mind if he were to drop on his knees between his legs right now. They wouldn’t even make it to the bathroom at this rate.
“How about we…” Geto’s thumb travels dangerously close to the hem of his trousers, but Gojo doesn’t react, “Regardless of how much I’ve been enjoying this little back and forth with you, I suggest we come clear with what we want from each other as proper adults now that there’s no place left for doubt.”
Gojo plays pretty and dumb, his most effective combination, leaning his head to the side and opening this glossy lip just slightly enough for Geto to imagine how it would feel to shove his tongue inside. “What do you mean by that?”
Each time Geto laughs and looks to the ceiling it brings Gojo closer to coming untouched into his pants.
“Look, you’re a lost golden boy whose most thrilling event in life was to drink a glass of martini with someone you think is a high-ranked yakuza. You came alone. You look lonely and bored. I can fix that.” Geto’s thumb breaches through his trousers, brushing onto his hip bone. “At least for tonight.”
Gojo gets off the stool; Geto never breaks the contact they have, his thumb still inside Gojo’s pants and not looking like it wants to get out anytime soon. With every ounce of reason he still possesses, because he had already decided on their fate tonight, Gojo stares hole in Geto’s wanting gaze and asks, not so innocently, “And what do you have in mind?”
“I can show you around. If you're curious about… our world.” Geto murmurs as he leans closer, his lips against Gojo’s cheek and his hard-on pressed against his hip – and oh my he’s so huge that for a second Gojo almost reconsiders his original choice. “I can give you a ride. Show you places you would never dare to dream of. Place you thought couldn’t still exist. We can play games too. Or just drink and party. But it’s a one-way drive.” Geto warns him, his lips trembling against his shell, agonising that they cannot kiss him yet. “If you wish to go home after that you’ll have to get there by yourself.”
Without realising, Gojo had closed his eyes, probably when Geto surged closer to him, an attempt to keep his dignity and the reign of this altercation for himself. When he opens them again, Geto is looking back at him as if he had just gotten out of prison. There’s so much desire in his eyes, Gojo has never felt more wanted than under his gaze.
It’s so tempting to lean in. To surrender, to accept this lust and get over it. It’ll take them ten minutes to get their satisfaction and then, it’ll be over, and Gojo will come back home alone with a new story to tell Shoko later.
But not giving this man what he craves for? That’s even more exhilarating.
Geto -sama doesn’t seem to be the kind of man who does not get what he wants immediately. He needs someone to get him the memo from time to time, and tonight that person is Gojo Satoru.
“Interesting. But, I actually have plans tonight.” He takes a step back to take out his phone from his pocket, shows his credit card to the barman, and calls a cab. “Maybe another time?”
The satisfaction he gets as he watches Geto’s flabbergasted face has a savour that knows no equal. That man wants him so much he’s grasping the counter as if his life depended on it not to shove him against a wall and ravish him in front of so many people. Gojo can live with that. Even if it would have been nice to have that cock inside him.
“Wait,” Geto eventually says after Gojo has paid, “I’m sure there’s something-”
“-You can do about it? I’m afraid there isn’t.” Gojo replies, not giving him a glance – Geto needs to feel in his bones that he is not that important. “Believe me, I know how hard it is when you’re used to having everything you ever wanted in a flash and some gigantic asshole says ‘no’ to you, but I told you. I’m not like the others.”
Gojo walks to the exit, confidence following his strides; Ijichi is already at the door. The drive home is unexpectedly silent. When they arrive, Ijichi immediately asks him if someone bothered him.
“Quite the opposite,” Gojo beams. “I think I’ve made quite an improbable friend.”
Said friend hasn’t left his thoughts alone when he finally crashes into his bed at the astonishing early hour of 11.53 PM and, unable to resist any longer, Gojo runs a hand between his legs.
A silent war has begun.
The higher-ups probably think it is not serious enough to bother Tengen-sama with this considering her health, Sukuna must have bet on that. Now, that is a true asshole. What is Geto supposed to do? Watch his most trusted lieutenant being chased, fired, and stabbed from behind?
Where has his honour gone?!
Geto cannot believe this old demon will get what he wants by cowardly assassinating all the important members of a rival family. Since he’s been destined to succeed Tengen-sama from the moment he took her place as the family head, the other member of the Sugawara clan never questioned his views until last year. Geto understands how difficult it must be for him, to see his dream crumbling like a mere sandcastle so close to his goal, but Sukuna can only blame himself for that with the poor results his family has suffered from. Everyone knows the Kamo family is their best chance to stay in the game and complete the transition with the modern age of the yakuza legacy successfully; they are just all too scared to oppose a man whose legend has grown too large for his ageing shoulders.
It’s a chance that Miguel is literally built like a tank. His back muscles stopped the blade from puncturing his lung, but just barely. He lost a lot of blood though. He needs a check-up.
“Shoko,” Geto mumbles, a cigarette between his lips – Larue is by his side, a lighter ready for him. “Long time no see.”
Sending him a hypocritical smile, Shoko reclines on her worn-out desk chair. “Geto-sama.” She’s wearing her white coat tonight, her hair held in a low ponytail. There are as much bags under her eyes as the day they met. A fond memory, now that Geto thinks about it. A little bit bloody too, just like tonight.
She takes a cigarette as well and by a move of his head, Geto orders Larue to light hers as well. Miguel will live. Shoko puts him to sleep, he’ll be all new tomorrow.
“Does it mean I’m going to have a little bit more work in the upcoming days?”
There’s no joy hidden in Shoko’s words. He had always liked her for that. She never keeps what she truly thinks for herself. Honest to the bones unless she’s with trusted friends – and then, her brilliant sarcasm speaks for herself. She never shines brighter than when she’s mocking someone she loves. That’s how she chooses to show she cares.
“I’m afraid it does.” Geto would have liked to say otherwise. Sukuna has been reckless and aggressive tonight. His misconduct asks for revenge. It’s like that in their world. “Sorry about that. I hope you didn’t have plans.”
“Actually, you might save me from another night with Gojo, so I should thank you and your little family quarrel for that.”
Geto holds himself still not to cough after hearing the name of the man who kept him yearning and ditched him before he could have a taste of him. He still dreams about his eyes, even a couple of weeks later.
But it seems Shoko caught the rising tension in his shoulders. “Speaking of my friend Gojo…” she turns to him, a mischievous grin on her face and a raise of her perfectly shaped eyebrows. She quickly sends a gaze to the back door and Geto understands her silent request.
“Larue, do you mind?”
Larue doesn’t discuss his order but does have a little mocking smile at the corner of his lips. He was with him that night, at the Cleave, and with how awful Geto had been for the rest of the night because of, well, a certain someone, Geto is sure he did not forget any bits of it.
Geto is proud to say Miguel and Larue have been his friends first and stayed loyal when he rose through the ranks. They were never jealous of his ascension. They’d always known who he was doing all of this for. Despite the years, the blood, the wounds, the betrayal, their friendship remained solid like diamond. Geto respects that more than anything else. This is the little family he built himself with his fists, sweat, and blood. He trusts all of them with his life.
As soon as Larue closes the door, Shoko turns on her chair and shows her fangs. “I’ve heard you’ve met him again. How odd.”
“What is odd is your friendship. What an insufferable man.”
“But he’s hot, isn’t he?”
“And that’s such a huge waste of potential.” Geto doesn’t deny the physical attraction; judging by the way she moves her eyebrows, she must already know what happened back there. Gojo certainly looks like he has a loose tongue. “No one will ever take him seriously with an attitude like that.”
“I often tell him that the world wouldn’t be right if he were to be as pretty inside and out. But he’s a nice kid.” She adds, a bit more tenderly than her last words for him.
It spikes Geto’s curiosity. “How did you two meet?”
It’s a weird story, kind of cute as well. When she was in highschool, Shoko skipped class and smoked in secret beside the basketball court. One day she found Gojo there, and he asked for a cigarette. He was twelve at that time.
“He didn’t tell me that,” Geto exclaims.
“Oh, don’t tell me those five minutes of eye fucking were enough to reach the stage of confiding in each other’s first.”
Geto smirks, something soft transpires from his expression as he thinks of Gojo’s eyes. “No, but he did try to drink a Martini to impress me.” Shoko laughs whole-heartedly. “I guess his attempt at smoking was of the same kind.”
“He never tried again, but he stuck with me.”
Geto pulls on the last bit of his cigarette; his eyes follow the swirling of the smoke vanishing in thin air when it gets too close to the MVS. “He didn’t strike me as the kind that would skip class.”
Shoko looks amused. “And why would you think that?”
“Because his father asked him to go to Sukuna’s inauguration in his stead without telling him why and he didn’t bat an eye. He’s just a father’s good boy. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”
“I’m afraid he’s a little bit more complicated than that,” Shoko says with her mysterious way that always succeeds in getting Geto’s full attention. Not that Gojo needed any help for that. The way his endless eyelashes so elegantly curve when he blinks is enough. “As I said… he’s a good kid. If you have enough patience he’s actually worth knowing. As for his presence at the party, he hates his father too much to give him such a petty reason to be disappointed in him. That would be too easy.”
Having finished his cigarette, Geto rubs the butt against the table. “I guess we have that in common.”
“Do you want to see him again?” Shoko asks, tone falsely light. Geto considers the idea. It’s a pretty bad one, which turns out to be his favourite kind. “I don’t think I’ve seen someone with as much ego as he; even you cannot compete,” she adds, and Geto laughs, how cute, who does he think he is? “The chaos that would result from your association could change this shitty world, I just know it.”
“Just so we’re clear, you’re trying to set up one of your friends with the new head of the Kamo family, one of the most important assets of the most important yakuza clan of the whole country,” Geto summarises, but Shoko doesn’t seem impressed. “Let me ask you this: are you really his friend?”
“Let’s say I’m exhausted from having to hear him complain about your big arms and big thighs and big scars and abs each time he opens his mouth.” Shoko turns her back to his bemused but pleasantly surprised face. “You would do me a favour if you could shut him up a bit. Like, you know, with your hypothetical ‘really big dick’.”
Temporary lost in the contemplation of such an act, Geto shrugs. “I guess it is something that is not out of my reach.”
“He masturbates to you every night, you know?” Sure he didn’t, and it makes the night a bit less shitty, “I don’t think it’s going to stop unless you chop it off or, like, use your own hands instead. Take responsibility, Geto-sama .”
“Whose responsibility? He’s the one who teased me first.”
“But Gojo is stupid for those kinds of things, and you’re the rational, dangerous man who flirted back,” Shoko remarks; she has a point. “So, what do you say? Can you sacrifice a night of your life and perhaps some satin sheets to help your favourite clandestine doc’ and her mental health?”
Geto lets out a forced sigh. “...Perhaps.” Behind him, Shoko rolls her eyes. “Sukuna and his plan to discourage me from running for being the next chairman is not giving me a lot of time for leisure, so despite how tempting it sounds… Maybe you should steal some alprazolam for a couple of more days. I’ll bring you the whiskey.”
“Oh, truly, how considerate,” Shoko says, visibly disappointed.
“I have to go.” Geto has nothing more he wants to discuss with her now, she told him everything he needed to know. “I’ll come back tomorrow to check on Miguel. And give you that whiskey.”
“So do I text Gojo that you’d meet him tomorrow night?” she tries still as he walks by the back door, “something like, let’s meet, 10 PM, the IV?”
IV is short for Infinite Void, the last bar Geto acquired. It’s quite trendy these days. A lot of techno that Geto positively hates. Shoko knows that, of course.
“If I want to see him again I know where to find him. See you tomorrow.”
“Wait! Gojo wanted me to ask you if you th-” Geto closes the door behind him. “Dammit! I guess we’ll never know then.”