Chapter Text
A rapid tapping noise – someone tapping their foot against the floor. A nervous tick?
Damp, moldy air. The scent of a basement room.
Voices – two men? Their words as though filtering through glass, although he supposes that’s just his head re-adjusting to consciousness.
He makes to swallow, but his mouth is stuffed full of coarse fabric. Tamping down a gag (don’t let them know you’re awake) he opens his eyes – total darkness. It’s stiflingly hot, hard to breathe through the opaque fabric over his head.
Cool metal on his wrists – professional cuffs. He assumes the same on his legs, although he dares not move to test it.
Breathe through your nose. Focus. Listen. His head aches, but he wills himself out of his body, into the room around him.
“Yeah, yeah, is the full torture set up really necessary?” A young man. Inexperienced?
“He’s a high-risk detainee. This is protocol.”
“Whatever. He’s going to be set loose to terrorize the suburbs in due course, what’s the point of the fuss now?”
“You know we can’t break proto- “
“Cut it, just give me the assignment.”
“High level cult operative – appears to manage ‘re-education’ of absconded members. Extremely popular with the members in his vicinity and on the books of several state politicians.” The voice pauses as papers are rifled through.
“Creepy.”
“Very dangerous – estimated body count in the hundreds if we include encouraged mass suicides, which we do. He needs to be kept alive. Key witness in the upcoming court case against a fellow cultist.” More paper rifling. Could the guy get a tablet or something?
“Blah, blah, blah. Cut to the chase.”
The hard press of a gun between his shoulder blades causes him to stiffen. The bag is yanked from his head unceremoniously and he blinks rapidly at the sudden flood of light.
The man with the folder is standing in front of him. Basic suit, glasses. Law enforcement. He looks nervous – so a paper pusher. The other guy stands behind him, gun pressed firm. He prods him with it then grabs a fistful of his hair, twisting his head to the side.
“Behave. I’m so not in the mood today.” The gun disappears, and the man releases his grip and moves to stand next to the suit, who continues droning on. He’s significantly taller than the suit, arrogant and flippant as well. He faces away, typing on a cell phone. Jeans, a loose-fitting t-shirt with an expensive drape – a plain clothes cop? His watch gleams – a Rolex. Not a cop then. He keeps his eyes fixed on him; the suit isn’t a threat.
“Name is Noritoshi Kamo. Known alias Kenjaku – no other names, no knowledge on place of birth or age.” He pauses to fiddle with his glasses, which are slipping off his sweaty nose.
Slipping his cellphone into his pocket, the rich asshole turns around and finally looks at where he sits, gagged and bound to the metal chair. His eyes briefly flicker with surprise, and then a lazy, shit-eating grin spreads across his face.
“Say, Ijichi. What was his name?”
“Pay attention please, it’s Noritoshi Kamo.”
“Nah. That’s Suguru Geto.”
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“It’s a conflict of interest; you really need to start declaring these things!” The suit’s – Ijichi’s – voice is frantic, whispered as though it will prevent Suguru from hearing. “We’ll need to get this re-assigned.” He looks back at Suguru furtively, sweaty and fearful.
“Dude, you want me to declare a conflict with everyone I’ve glanced at since I was born?” The asshole – Satoru Gojo – whines. “Plus, who else is going to take this assignment?”
Suguru sits limply, head throbbing and drool pooling behind the gag. He’s not happy with the turn of events either, primarily as he still doesn’t know why the hell he’s here. The room is lit with fluorescent ceiling lights, the flooring smooth and extended up the walls like a veterinarian’s office. Easy clean-up.
The chair – bolted to the floor, he’s tried the wiggle – is the only piece of furniture. The cuffs are solid too, so there’s nothing to do for now but wait and save energy.
The two men have been bickering since Satoru’s big reveal, and it’s increasing his headache. He squeezes his eyes shut until static appears and then blinks rapidly, focusing his eyes back on the two of them.
“Look,” says Satoru, “realistically I’m the only person insane enough to do this. You’re stuck with me - ‘conflict’ or not.”
“Sir.” Ijichi looks pained, takes off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“You’re right, Ijichi.” Satoru sounds suddenly sober, his expression somber. “He is dangerous. You need to let this slide and leave me on the assignment.”
Ijichi sighs one last time and then nods. He then steps out of the room, closing the door hurriedly.
Satoru walks across the room and squats in front of the chair, tilting his head up to make eye contact with Suguru over the lenses of his glasses. He reaches up, gently removing the gag from his mouth.
Suguru sputters and gasps for air for a moment. He’s furious.
“Satoru. I thought you were dead.”
“Surprise!” Satoru makes jazz hands for an extended period until it’s clear Suguru isn’t going to laugh. “Cult leader, huh?”
“What’s going on?”
“Aw, no life update for an old friend?” Satoru winks at him and Suguru spits. “Hot.” Satoru says blandly in response, watching the spit soak into the fabric of his shirt near his collarbone.
“Satoru, what the fuck is going on?”
“You were in prison, you were probably going to get totally assassinated by your buddies since you’re snitching – which isn’t like you, by the way – and so you’ve been whisked off to witness protection.” Satoru rocks back on his heels, glances at his phone for the time.
“You’re what? A cop? A public servant?”
“A concerned citizen.” Satoru smirks. “And your new husband.”
Suguru fixes him with a glare. Satoru flutters his lashes and pouts.
“Cut the shit, your watch is too nice. Who do you work for?”
“You’re way nosier than I remember. I’m going to take off your cuffs and stuff, so don’t try to hit me, okay?”
Suguru nods.
Satoru unlocks his feet, then his hands. Suguru gingerly moves his hands and stands up. Then, he punches Satoru in the face, moving to grab his gun. Within seconds, Satoru has him pinned to the ground, knee in his back.
“I literally just said not to hit me.” His voice is breathy. “Now I’ve got blood and spit on this shirt.” He grabs a fistful of Suguru’s hair once more, slamming his cheekbone against the floor before getting up.
Suguru stands up slowly, face throbbing.
A knock at the door.
“Come in.” Satoru says, and mouths behave.
Ijichi pokes his head through the door and looks fretfully at Satoru’s bloodied face and Suguru’s swollen eye.
“The amenities are ready.”
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The shower room is pristine – more akin to a hotel than a prison. Satoru leans against the wall on the other side of the room, gaze conspicuously averted as Suguru showers. Suguru’s mental stock-take of the room reveals nothing that has potential as a weapon, and he doesn’t fancy taking on Satoru again in his current condition. So, he washes.
“Clothes are there.” Satoru says, tilting his chin towards the bench where a pile of casual clothes lays.
Suguru towels off and dresses in silence, irritated by the outfit chosen.
“Do I really have to wear a polo?”
Gojo just laughs.
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He’s roughly escorted to a minivan, Satoru’s grip on his elbow like a bear trap. He’s shoved into the passenger seat, door slamming in his face as Satoru has a final conversation with Ijichi.
The driver’s door swings open, and Satoru tosses a clipboard with a cover sheet reading Preston Girls Hockey – Autumn Season onto his lap.
“Enjoy the read.” He turns the key in the ignition. “And no more attacking me until we get there.”
He then cranks the radio to a pop station, sings along to himself, and slams the gas pedal.
Suguru tries the door handle.
“Baby lock.” Satoru says cheerfully.
Suguru slumps and opens the folder. Immediately, Satoru interrupts.
“Does anyone else know your name?”
“My real name?”
“Yeah. Does anyone else know you as Suguru Geto?”
Suguru is silent for a long beat.
“No. That name died with you.”
“Good, then disregard the names in there. We’ll go by our real names – Suguru and Satoru Geto.”
“That is not your real name.”
“It is as of ten years ago at our lovely spring wedding at the local courthouse, followed by a beautifully understated reception lunch.”
“You’re even more insane than I remember.”
Satoru rolls his eyes. “Just read the file.”
Suguru does not, in fact, read the file. Instead, he closes his eyes and is lulled into a restless sleep.
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He wakes up to the van’s sliding back door slamming shut. He jolts, turning rapidly to the back seat.
“Who the fuck are they?” He asks Satoru, who is sliding casually back into the driver’s seat.
The two teenage girls glare at him from the backseat, looking murderous. One of them takes a picture of him on her cellphone and then begins rapidly typing, while the other increases her glare as though he’s said something offensive.
“Those are our wonderful twin daughters!” Satoru exclaims.
Suguru looks at the girls a second longer. The staring one bares her teeth at him briefly. What the fuck?
“What the fuck?” He says.
“Seriously, read the file. We’ll be there in two hours.”
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‘There’ turns out to be a quaint suburban cul-de-sac, the houses modest and off-the-plan but clearly still expensive. The minivan pulls into the driveway of a house with a neatly manicured lawn, shrubbery trimmed to submission and a cute stone pathway leading to the grand double-doors of the entry. In the glow of the sunset, it looks idyllic. It’s completely manufactured, and Suguru feels neutered in his polo.
“We’re home!” Satoru announces, killing the engine. “Girls, grab your things.”
The girls (demons?) hiss as though they’re untamed kittens and slink out, lugging colorful backpacks littered with keychains and photocards of pretty boys. They disappear into the house.
“Were we like that as kids?” Satoru says watching them from the car window. “They give me the creeps.” He mock shivers.
“Satoru, this is insane. Just let me go – I’ll rough you up a bit and you can tell them I escaped.”
Satoru tenses, turning to face him.
“No.”
“No?” Suguru scoffs. “I will kill you if I have to.”
“No,” Satoru smiles, “you won’t. You’re going to go inside, memorize every single word of that file, and play house until I drop you off at court in two months. Whatever you decide to do after – I don’t give a shit. But you’re going to behave until then.”
“You don’t care about the trial?”
“What? Not at all.” Satoru pushes his glasses to the top of his head and stares at him with the full brunt of his blue eyes. “But if you don’t show up, I don’t get paid. Plus, it’ll be totally embarrassing, ruin my reputation, yada-yada. You get the gist.”
“Your reputation as what, exactly?” Suguru is unsettled, having assumed until now that Satoru was some sort of Fed assigned to babysitting duty on the regular.
“Always so inquisitive. Come on, we’ve got to get an ice-pack on your face otherwise the neighbors will talk.”
Satoru leaves the minivan abruptly, stretching his arms above his head obnoxiously as he walks around to Suguru’s side, opening the baby-locked door for him. He leans in, holding Suguru’s face gently between his hands, running his thumb softly over the split skin under his eye.
“Suguru,” he murmurs, “I’m under instruction to bring you to court alive. Whether that means perfect health or barely breathing is up to you. Don’t make this difficult.” Then he steps back and looks over the house. “Besides, this could be fun, right?”
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Head on, the girls are even creepier. They sit across the table from him, hostile stares unwavering. Satoru sits at the head of the table, divvying out fast food to each of them.
“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands together, “quick refresh of our story before bed. Tomorrow is game time.”
One twin rolls her eyes and pulls out her phone, watching Instagram reels out loud.
“Okay. So, Nanako? That’s exactly what I need you to not be doing right now.” Satoru sounds long-suffering.
Mimiko takes a break from glaring at Suguru to glare at Satoru.
“Mimiko, don’t give me attitude. Let’s just say from now on, no phones at the dinner table.”
Nanako huffs exaggeratedly and slams her phone face down on the table. She crosses her arms and Mimiko copies the posture.
“There we go!” Satoru unwraps his burger and continues speaking as he eats. It’s repulsive. “So – Suguru, what’s our family’s situation?”
Suguru debates killing everyone in the room and then himself. He decides that the day of travel and the confusion of the situation has him on the lower hand, and sighs.
“We’re married, fresh start, our…girls,” he pauses to look at the twins, who make grotesque faces at him.“ Our girls transferred to this high school because they got hockey scholarships.”
“Great. Now nobody is to say or do anything that disrupts the sanctity of the image of our perfect family. In public, you’re all angelic. Understood?” Satoru’s voice has a poisonous edge, and even the twins nod. Suguru rolls his eyes and gives a reluctant nod.
Satoru seems pleased and waves the girls away from the table. They disappear, Nanako’s acrylics clacking on her phone screen and Mimiko shooting continued daggers at the two men over her shoulder as they leave.
“Why are those girls here? Are they also in protection?” Suguru picks at his fries halfheartedly. His entire jaw aches and exhaustion is tugging at him.
“You can think of them as my colleagues.” Satoru says, his tone still lively despite the hours long drive. “Though, they seem to have less patience than me. I think all the screentime has rotted their attention spans.”
Suguru watches as Satoru gathers the rubbish from the table, moving to the expansive kitchen that connects to the dining room where he sits. He begins opening each cupboard door in sequence, eyes raking over the contents.
He’s so much older than Suguru remembers – than Suguru ever let himself imagine that he’d be – but he’s still immediately recognizable as himself. Blue eyes, the long lashes of a baby cow, smile that settles easy on his face. Now, the ease of that smile has etched itself permanently into him – fine lines at the outer edges of his eyes and around his mouth. His shoulders are broader. Even still, he’s slender. Suguru has the discomfiting feeling that he’s watching an apparition – a ghost of lives past.
Despite the casual way in which Satoru moves around the kitchen - hip cocking to the side as he looks in each cabinet, his shoulders rounded forward as though the weight of the day is resting on them – he looks more composed than the boy of Suguru’s memories. Gone is the gangly boy with a smart mouth and rash temper. Maybe he had died, replaced by this expensively dressed mystery. But Suguru knows it’s still him. The Satoru that he knows.
“I’m glad that you’re alive.”
Satoru whirls around, staring at Suguru like a deer caught in the headlights. He opens his mouth and then shuts it again. Suguru shakes his head, indicating there’s no need to speak. He doesn’t even know what else they could say to each other. They clearly aren’t on the same team anymore, and neither of them know where the other’s allegiances lay. It’s risky, to re-hash the past. Though he suspects if Satoru remains the same, cutting open old wounds would give him the upper hand. Not tonight though.
“Let’s just sleep.” Says Satoru. “Let’s please come to a truce, just for tonight. I’m tired.”
Suguru nods.
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Despite Satoru’s complaints of exhaustion, he will not stop wiggling for the life of him. Suguru lays next to him on the king-sized bed – which, by the way, is a precious luxury coming from prison, and one he would like to savor – unable to fall asleep, due to the constant movement from Satoru’s side of the bed. He’s holding the TV remote in his hands, flicking through channels on the giant wall-mounted entertainment unit with a speed that blurs the noise into a sickening cacophony of nonsense.
Suguru screws his eyes shut and tries to retreat into himself as he had in his prison cell. However, Satoru is a more formidable opponent than his snoring, but otherwise silent cellmate. On the other hand, he reasons, Satoru is less likely to smother him in his sleep. You win some you lose some.
Still – there’s only so much a man can take.
“Satoru,” he groans, eyes still closed. “Please. Pick a channel and stop wriggling.”
The channel surfing stops, the TV remaining on a couple re-doing their interior decorating. Satoru wriggles more, and Suguru is about to protest before he realizes that he’s moving from sitting to laying down, pulling the blankets up around his shoulders.
“Goodnight, Satoru.”