Chapter Text
The first time Satoru tasted his own blood, he was seven. Maybe eight .
It split him open just above the lip, sharp enough that he could feel it press against his teeth when he tried to close his mouth. The taste was thick, metallic, filling his tongue until he thought he might choke on it. He cried—loud, messy, the way children cry when they still believe volume equates to someone coming closer. His small hands fumbled uselessly at his mouth, pressing against his face, trying to stem the flow. Smearing red across pale skin, as if tidying himself might make him bearable. As if staying clean, staying small, would make her choose to love him.
———
It was the kind of memory that never really went fuzzy. If he thought about it, he could replay the whole thing start to finish, every part of it still sitting there in his head.
The staff woke him early. The kind of morning that made it hard to discern whether the day had started or ended.
The light hadn’t come yet; the shoji screens were still papered over in black. He was tangled in his bed, hair sticking up in all directions, blinking blearily when the door slid open.
Hands—not his own—were on him before he could sit up. They lifted him from his bed to his mat, steady but brisk, and began dressing him while he was still half-asleep. His white yukata was exchanged for something stiffer, heavier. The collar was tugged too tight, the sash cinched until he let out a small grunt of protest.
“I can do it myself,” he mumbled, his voice catching on a yawn. Akiko, his favorite, a woman he sometimes wished was his own in the absence of his mother only smoothed his sleeves and crouched to meet his eyes.
“I know you can Satoru, I’m just a little faster hmm?”
Her voice was soft, but her face looked like it was holding something back, like words pressing against a door that wouldn’t open.
“I can be fast.” Though his hands were still clumsy.
She smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Even at his age he knew that it was sad. So incredibly sad.
“Next time okay?”
The estate was different at this hour. The gravel paths were wet with dew, the lanterns snuffed out, the gardens swallowed in shadow. The air smelled like damp stone and pine, and everything felt too quiet, like the world was holding its breath. He stumbled once on the uneven stones, and she steadied him without looking down.
“Where are we going?” His voice was small but eager, tugging at her hand.
She didn’t answer at first. Her lips pressed tight together, eyes fixed straight ahead. When she finally spoke, it was barely louder than a breath. “To see your mother.”
His chest lit up.
“Really?” He nearly tripped in his hurry to walk faster, his sandals slapping the stones. “I get to see her? I’m gonna tell her about the book I read—she hasn’t heard me read that one yet. And the clouds I saw yesterday, it looked just like a rabbit. She told me I look like the ones that run through the gardens.”
Akiko smirked. “You know, rabbits are smart Satoru.”
“Really?”
She nodded, his hand still in hers. “Mmhm.”
He grinned, wide. His small teeth on full display.
“She thinks I’m smart!”
“That’s because you are.”
He chattered the whole way, little-boy words spilling over each other, too quick to stop. Akiko only squeezed his hand once, thumb rubbing over his knuckles, like she might answer, but she stayed silent.
They walked, and walked until they reached the training grounds, Satoru slowed. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Everyone told him that.
He was permitted to watch the older clan members train sometimes, though only from a distance. It never lasted long. A servant would inevitably appear at his side, ushering him back inside with a practiced hand at his shoulder, reminding him that he was too young, too unprepared, to witness such violence.
He looked up at her curious. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Yes you are.”
Akiko dropped to his level holding his face in her hands. His face was still but his eyes darted in every direction, looking for someone who wasn’t yet there.
“Listen to me, Satoru,” she said softly. “You’re strong, and you’re kind. And some people… they’ll try to take that away from you.”
His brows drew together, a small, confused pout forming.
“You can’t take kindness,” he murmured. “That’s… silly.”
She stroked his hair gently, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. The first and last time she ever allowed herself that kind of tenderness
“It’s not silly,” she whispered.
Satoru blinked up at her, smiling despite himself, ready to tell her how strange that sounded. How strange she had been all morning. But she didn’t lean back down. She stepped away, just out of reach, her expression unreadable, her gaze fixed on something beyond his shoulder.
Before he could ask, a shadow fell over him. One of the older men from the estate approached, taller, deliberate in each step across the sand, a weight in his presence that made Satoru’s chest tighten.
“Akiko?” Satoru asked. He looked to the man, his words catching on a response that never came.
However, a different answer came fast.
A hand struck him across the mouth, sharp and sudden, a sound like wood cracking in the quiet morning. The force knocked him sideways, his teeth cutting into his lip. He tasted it immediately—hot, coppery, the sting spreading down his chin.
The world tilted. His sandals slipped in the dirt. For a second, he thought he might fall, but he caught himself, one hand clapped to his mouth. His fingers came away red.
He swallowed, tasting it fully: thick, bitter, unmistakably his.
——
At the time, he didn’t understand. Later, he forced himself to. For his own sake. That moment, and the many after that followed, wasn't one that revolved around physical pain but more so the clarity. It settled into him slowly—the understanding that he could and he would bleed, break, even beg, and still his mother would not come.
Not out of hatred. Not because a part of her didn't love him. Not even out of indifference. But because he was no longer only her child. Because he needed to learn that no one would. That one day he wouldn’t be crumpled in the safety of his estate home, but somewhere else entirely, and he would have to endure it alone. He was the immeasurable shift. Her son and his eyes that saw everything. And for her, that was reason enough to hand him over to the world.
So he swallowed it all—the blood, the tears, the ache in his throat. He told himself he’d grow used to it, that one day the sting of being unseen would dull. And when it was finally over—when he had done what they wanted, become what they needed—then she would come. She would pull him into her arms, wipe his face clean, make it all better.
Satoru would later realize that the staff had been preparing for this all along. Since he had been born. The novelty toys and picture books that once filled his room had quietly disappeared, replaced with gauze, tinctures, and cloths that stung on contact. They had been told what to do—how to lift him off the training grounds when he folded in on himself, clutching his stomach, his cries scattering thin into the cold air.
Their voices were clipped, brisk, treating his pain as an inconvenience rather than an emergency. They had been warned not to indulge the boy. One pinned his chin still with a hard, impersonal grip, refusing to meet his gaze.
Another pressed a cloth against his mouth. The sting of alcohol flared hot, sharp enough to make his eyes water. He whimpered, twisted, but their hands didn’t soften. No one told him it was all right. No one told him to be brave. Speaking no words. They moved with the same efficiency they might use to scrub a floor or polish a blade.
Eventually, he learned to straighten in their grip, shoulders trembling as he lifted his head. He thought if he sat taller, carried himself like his father did, they might pause. They might see him differently. Maybe then the weight of his bloodied face would mean something more than another mess to be cleaned. Maybe they’d let him go, even let him clean himself. But of course they didn’t.
Because he was just a boy, and his father was a man.
So the cloth stayed pressed to his mouth, and his lip kept bleeding.
————
Shoko had never been one for conversation.
The very idea of standing before another person, listening to them speak, reading their expressions, and reacting as if she actually cared—well, it exhausted her. She had realized this early, though she couldn’t pin down the exact moment. Somewhere around six or seven, the developmental years, she’d come to the obvious conclusion: people simply had a knack for irking her.
She remembered one particular event—forced, adult-focused, disguised as a party. Looking back, it was just a dinner where her parents’ friends got thoroughly drunk under the guise of social propriety. Shoko had retreated to her room, deliberately separating herself from the chaos of adults and other children invading her home.
It wasn’t silence she craved so much as avoidance. She sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through medical textbooks she barely understood, taking quiet satisfaction in trying to explain the material aloud to herself and a lineup of stuffed animals.
Out of context, her seclusion could have been concerning. Her fascination with death, her refusal to engage with others—these were traits often associated with darker instincts. Her parents worried, her peers whispered, and anyone attempting to “understand” her treaded carefully. Shoko, however, remained entirely unconcerned. Eventually, everyone stopped noticing, which suited her perfectly.
Her eventual career choice did little to contradict these tendencies. She couldn’t help it: her curiosity lay in the mechanics of life and death, in studying what had passed beyond understanding. And her aversion to communication wasn’t about talking itself—it was the inevitable questions that followed, questions that demanded answers she rarely wanted to give.
The empty jokes that had never been funny, the intrusive insinuations she had no patience to dodge, the lingering dissatisfaction she carried after every interaction—Shoko knew them all too well. She always felt like she was giving more than she was receiving, and after nineteen, almost twenty years of keeping others alive for the benefit of those who could scarcely grasp its significance, there was very little left to give.
Yet, as with every diagnosis, condition, experiment, or treatment, there was always an exception—an outlier that defied expectation.
And in much the same way that no one could fully comprehend Shoko Ieiri’s desperate attempts to avoid company, she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to be in hers.
—————
Shoko sat on the school’s stone steps, elbows digging into her knees. Summer was slipping into its last weeks, hot air still sticking to her skin, but the cicadas had started to sound like an ending. Sixteen was nearly done. She dug around her pocket until she found her cigarettes, slipped one between her lips, and sparked it to life.
“Your hair’s getting long.”
She tilted her head, catching him over her shoulder. Suguru’s shadow stretched beside hers on the steps.
“You like it? I’m starting to look like you,” she said, the words half a tease, half true.
He smirked, easing down onto the step next to her. “Couple more years and you might catch up.”
“In a couple years,” she said dryly, “I hope you’re bald.”
That got a laugh out of him, low and unguarded. She let the sound settle between them, the stone stairwell swallowing and echoing it back like the school itself was laughing too. She flicked ash off the edge of the step and exhaled smoke, and for a little while there was nothing but the two of them and the hum of summer pressing close.
“What’d I do to you, huh?”
“Nothing.” She slid the cigarette from her lips, breathed out, then passed it to him. “I just like thinking about impossible futures sometimes.”
“Impossible?” He arched a brow, dragging on the cigarette before giving her a look. “Like what?”
“Things that’ll never happen,” she said simply, with a shrug.
“Then why even bother imagining them?”
Shoko’s lips quirked. “Because I already know what’s actually gonna happen. You and Satoru’ll keep orbiting each other until the end of time. I’ll get smarter, you’ll get dumber. Nanami will wise up and ditch this whole jujutsu bullshit for a real career.”
Suguru held the smoke in, then leaned to blow it away from her face. “And Haibara?”
Her smile softened. She reached to take the cigarette back. “He’ll live a long life. He’s too stubborn not to. Probably spend it with Nanami, if you ask me.”
Suguru rested his chin in his palm, eyes half-lidded like he was storing her words away. “So in this impossible version, I go bald. Satoru what—grows up?”
She huffed out a short laugh. “Yeah. He matures. Gets his head out of his ass. Starts acting like a person instead of a walking disaster.”
“And you?”
Shoko thought for a while, smoking in silence until the paper burned down to the filter. She stubbed it out against the step, brushing ash off her shoe.
“In that world? I’d have a family. Couple kids. Someone to raise, someone to chase after. Teach things to. Take those silly little pictures at the mall.”
He tilted his head. “And what makes that so impossible?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead she stood, dusted off her skirt, and reached down to haul him up. He slung his arm over her shoulders like it was second nature, and she leaned into him without thinking about it.
“Because I’ll be taking care of you for the rest of my life,” she said matter-of-factly, like it wasn’t anything more than the truth.
———-
When Satoru first sees him, he wants to throw up.
Not figuratively. But physically.
He wants to double over and violently empty his guts across the pavement—his breakfast, his nerves, his entire bloodstream if that’s what it takes to stomach the fact that this kid looks just like him.
Not like him-him. Not Satoru. Like him. The man he killed. The man he had to kill. The man who, in Satoru’s own wants and needs, sometimes wished had been his own father—just so it would’ve been easier to justify. Maybe even make him feel better.
But that was neither here nor there.
He hates himself for even thinking it, but he wonders—if things had gone differently, if the Zenin clan had gotten their hands on the boy—would Megumi have grown to resemble Satoru, or his father? A scar above his lip, or one carved into it?
But then again scars heal different when they come from a cursed tool instead of your own teeth.
The boy was small. Which made sense, most kids were. But this wasn’t the soft kind of small—baby fat, stubby fingers, the kind that promises height later.
This was lack.
The kind of small Satoru recognized too well. Skin too tight over bone. Shoulders too sharp. Clothes that weren’t hand-me-downs because there wasn’t anyone to hand them down from. He was gaunt in a way that said skipping meals wasn’t punishment, but routine.
Satoru knew that flavor of small. Had lived it. Had bled it.
The kid had a small face, a small frown, a whole head of hair like a shadow too heavy for his size. Wide, dark eyes—too still. Too aware. Like someone who’d already learned nothing good ever came from making noise.
He held a single bag. Worn, cheap, probably packed by someone who hadn’t asked what he wanted to bring. If they’d asked at all.
Satoru stared, words shriveling to dust in his throat. His stomach lurched. He didn’t know where to put his hands. Didn’t know what expression belonged on his face. Didn’t know how the hell to look at this boy.
“You’re Megumi, huh?” he managed, voice a little too bright, a little too high—like if he smiled hard enough, it wouldn’t feel so much like a funeral.
The boy didn’t answer right away. His fingers tightened around the straps of his bag. Something sharp flickered in his eyes—unreadable, unbroken. Like glass waiting to shatter. He only nodded.
Satoru swallowed. Loudly enough to embarrass himself.
“I’m Satoru.”
The boy frowned.
“I know.”
“I know I wasn’t supposed to get you for another few weeks, but plans fell through earlier than expected.”
He just blinked up at him. “Okay.”
No awe. No fear. No curiosity. Just flat, weary observation. Like he was used to people knowing things about him he never got a say in.
Satoru opened his mouth. A joke, maybe. Something dumb to fill the air. Nothing came. Just that same acidic weight clawing at his ribs.
Because maybe she’d been right. He was nineteen. And he didn’t know how to be a person. Much less whatever the hell this boy needed.
He looked at Megumi—really looked at him—and hated that his first reaction had been disgust. Hated that he could still taste the bitterness of it.
It wasn’t Megumi’s fault. None of this was.
But God, he looked just like his dad.
And Satoru…he didn’t know what the fuck to do with that.
_______
Satoru watched him stare out the window, the blur of passing buildings reflected in his wide, dark eyes. Every few minutes, Satoru opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.
Finally—
“Are you hungry?”
Megumi didn’t look at him. His grip on the bag straps tightened, loosened, tightened again.
“A little,” he said after a beat.
Satoru nodded, like that settled something. Like he’d just been handed instructions he knew how to follow. “Okay. Good. We’ll get food when we get off.”
Silence stretched again. The train clattered over its tracks.
Satoru slouched back in the seat, tapping his foot, restless in a way that made his whole body itch. He wasn’t used to silence lasting this long. Normally, he’d fill it with noise until someone begged him to shut up.
But Megumi wasn’t begging. He wasn’t even looking at him. Just staring out at the world sliding by, like Satoru wasn’t even there.
And for some reason, that made it harder to breathe.
——
The train dumped them into the city with its usual racket—metal brakes, voices, the blur of bodies shoving past one another. Megumi kept close without being told, small enough that the crowd swallowed him whole if Satoru didn’t watch.
They walked the blocks to Satoru’s place in silence. Megumi’s bag looked too heavy for him, but he never complained. Just held it tighter against his chest, eyes flicking at every crosswalk like he was memorizing the timing of the lights.
By the time they reached the building, Satoru felt like he’d chewed his tongue raw from holding back stupid commentary.
He swiped his keycard at the door, holding it open. Megumi stepped inside, blinking at the polished lobby, the marble floors, the way everything seemed like it had been designed to echo.
The elevator ride up was short. Satoru shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. Megumi said nothing until they reached the door of the apartment.
Satoru pushed it open, tossing his own shoes off into the entryway. The lights flicked on, bright against white walls, tall ceilings, too much space for one person.
Megumi stepped just past the door, his eyes moving slowly over everything—the couch, the kitchen island, the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling in afternoon light.
“It’s big,” he said finally.
Not impressed. Not admiring. Just…observing. Like he was cataloguing facts.
Satoru laughed, a little too quickly, tugging at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Guess it is.”
Megumi’s eyes lingered on the wide open living room, then on the windows again, where the skyline stretched sharp against the sky.
“It’s nice, too,” he added, in the same flat tone.
Satoru tried for a grin, but it felt crooked in his mouth. “Glad you think so. You, uh… get the guest room. It’s down the hall. Sheets are clean.”
Megumi wandered further in, shoes still on, small bag clutched in both hands. He didn’t look curious so much as methodical, eyes moving from one corner of the room to the next.
Satoru leaned against the wall, trying to play it cool, but his stomach twisted every time the kid’s gaze lingered.
On the coffee table, there was a chipped mug with a lipstick stain along the rim. In the bathroom, a bottle of nail polish remover sat beside the sink. And on the back of the couch—half hidden under a throw blanket—was a white coat Megumi was too sharp not to notice.
He turned, slow, his frown just as small as always.
“It’s not just you here?”
The question wasn’t accusing, but it wasn’t casual either. Just flat. Careful.
Satoru barked a laugh that came out too loud, waving one hand like he could swat the tension away. “Nah, nah—it’s just me. She just… leaves her shit everywhere.”
Megumi’s eyes narrowed a little, unreadable. He didn’t push, didn’t ask who she was. Just gave a slow nod, like he’d taken the information and stored it somewhere Satoru couldn’t touch.
“Okay.”
Satoru shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, grinning with more teeth than ease. “Guest privileges, y’know? Anyway, your room’s this way.”
But as he led the kid down the hall, he could still feel those dark eyes on his back. Heavy. Measuring.
———
The cart rattled under the weight of everything Satoru had already crammed into it—sheets, pillows, clothes, a lamp shaped like a soccer ball that Megumi had stared at too long to be a coincidence.
“Okay,” Satoru said, pulling a pair of sneakers off the shelf, “what do you think—blue or black? Actually, screw it, both. You need options.” He dumped them into the cart, ignoring the faint frown tugging at Megumi’s mouth.
The kid hadn’t said much all afternoon. He touched things carefully, almost reluctantly, as if each hanger or display might bite him back. Satoru wanted to shake him, laugh him into admitting he wanted something, but he knew better. He knew that kind of quiet.
And as much as he hated to admit it, he knew he wasn’t good at this. He didn’t know the right brands for kids, didn’t know which sweaters were actually warm and which just looked it. He bought a ridiculous duvet cover because it was the first one his hand landed on, and the whole time he couldn’t stop thinking—Shoko would know. She’d know what fabric held up after a hundred washes, which notebooks didn’t bleed ink, which curtains made a room feel less like a box.
He shoved another pack of pencils into the cart, jaw tight.
She’d know exactly how to make the room feel like a place to live, not just a place to sleep.
And the thought twisted, sharp, because he missed her—missed the ease of her, the way she filled gaps he didn’t even see. But the part of him that missed her didn’t drown out the part that was still furious. Furious at her silence. Furious that she could walk out and not look back. Furious that she hadn’t said a single word to him since.
So he swallowed it down, plastered on a grin, and ruffled Megumi’s hair.
“You’re lucky, kid. Most people get the bargain bin treatment. But me?” He pointed two fingers at his chest. “I only buy the real expensive shit.”
Megumi looked up at him, unimpressed. “It’s just a blanket.”
Satoru barked a laugh, throwing it into the cart anyway. “Nah. It’s the best blanket. And it’s yours.”
Megumi didn’t argue. Just walked a little closer to the cart, fingers brushing the edge, like he wanted to make sure it didn’t roll away from him.
And Satoru let himself grin, even if the ache in his chest stayed put.
——-
Shoko had called him. Once, twice, ten times. By the end she stopped counting. He wasn’t answering, which was typical. She wouldn’t have answered either. She didn’t even want to talk to him in the first place, but she needed her textbook back. Without it, tomorrow was going to be a nightmare.
She sat on the edge of her bed for a long time after the last call cut off, phone still warm in her hand. She told herself she’d manage without it. Borrow someone else’s. Make do. But the thought of showing up unprepared made her stomach turn. So she stood, pulled on her jacket, and went to find her shoes.
It wasn’t anything special—just the small steps of getting ready. Jacket zipped, hair tied back, bag slung over her shoulder with the rest of her things. But she felt the weight of it anyway, like each movement was some kind of admission. She didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want him to see her. And yet here she was, lacing her shoes.
The station was busy for the hour, more people than she’d expected. She bought a ticket without thinking, muscle memory carrying her through the motions. The place smelled the same—faintly of oil and damp concrete. When the train arrived, she found a spot by the window and leaned her head against the glass.
The ride was familiar. Too familiar. She used to make it often, back when things weren’t so tense. When showing up at his door hadn’t felt like dragging herself into enemy territory. She could almost pretend it was the same now—the blur of city lights, the hum of the tracks under her feet, the sway of the carriage as it took each curve. Except it wasn’t. Now the ride felt longer.
When her station came, she stood, adjusted the strap of her bag, and stepped off. The platform air was colder than she expected, sharp enough to sting her nose. The walk from there was short. Too short. She kept her eyes on the ground, pace steady, trying not to think about how automatic it felt—turning down the right streets, recognizing the buildings without having to look up.
And then she was there.
The door opened, and Satoru’s face shifted fast—first confusion, then surprise.
“Shoko?” His voice caught on her name, like he wasn’t sure he’d said it right.
She stood there, hands shoved into her jacket pockets. “You didn’t answer your phone.”
“Yeah. I was making dinner.” He blinked once, still staring at her like she was an apparition. His hand stayed on the doorframe, grip tightening. No grin, no shrug—just wide-eyed surprise that she was standing in front of him at all.
“Since when do you cook?”
“I don’t. But I’m learning.”
“Oh,Congratulations. I need my textbook,” she said, sidestepping before he could say anything else.
That was when her gaze slid past him.
The boy at the table looked back at her, quiet, dark-eyed. His legs didn’t reach the floor. He hadn’t gone back to eating.
She hadn’t expected Megumi to be there. Not yet. She hadn’t been following the details of the situation closely—didn’t want to—but as far as she knew, she had another week before any of this became real. Which was why she was here at all. Against her better judgment, yes. But here nonetheless.
“It’s your friend,” the boy said. His voice was calm, almost flat, but it landed like a stone in the room.
Shoko’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. She turned back to Satoru, caught in his stare. He didn’t look smug. He didn’t even look defensive. He looked caught—guilty, almost—as if she’d stumbled into a piece of his life he hadn’t wanted her to see.
“Can we speak outside,” she said finally. Her voice was steady, but her throat felt tight.
Satoru blinked, slow, still trying to catch up to the fact she was even here. For a second, it looked like he might argue. But then his eyes dropped, and he gave the smallest nod. Stepping back from the door, he let her through to the hall.
The door shut behind him with a dull click. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Shoko crossed her arms. “You didn’t say he was here already.”
Satoru leaned back against the door, hands shoved into his pockets. “Didn’t know I had to clear my schedule with you.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Her voice came out sharper than she wanted. She took a breath. “During the initial meeting..We were told that we’d- you’d have until the end of the semester.”
His mouth pressed into a line. “Plans changed.”
“Pretty big change.”
“What else do you want, Shoko?” His tone wasn’t raised, but there was an edge under it. “You wanted your book, I’ll get it for you.Then you
Can leave and complain about this to Utahime in your free time if you’d like.”
She studied his face. He looked tired, drawn in a way that wasn’t usual for him. There was no grin to hide behind, no lazy teasing to soften the words. Just the flat weight of someone trying too hard not to let anything slip.
“That’s a child in there,” she said finally.
“I noticed.”
. “He looks like a nervous kid.”
Satoru leaned back against the door, his hands sliding into his pockets. “We’re getting better.”
She studied him, searching his face. His voice wasn’t defensive, exactly, but there was strain there. “What was he watching in there?”
“Digimon,” he said, with the faintest shrug. “He likes it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you feel ready for this, Satoru?”
He let out a breath, almost a laugh, but without any humor. “No.” His gaze lifted to hers, steady now, though his words were anything but. “But I think he’s the closest thing to loving someone I’m gonna have for a long time.”
“You think you love him?”
“Somebody has to.”
Her throat tightened. Before she could second-guess herself, she stepped closer. His eyes widened slightly, like he thought she was about to scold him again. Instead, she leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t long. It wasn’t soft, either. More like the kind of kiss that comes when there aren’t any better words to give.
When she pulled back, his expression was unreadable—surprised, maybe even shaken. She didn’t trust herself to explain, so she didn’t.
“I’ll see you later,” she said quietly.
He stared at her another beat, then nodded and pushed the door open again.
“Later.”