Chapter Text
If Goro possessed any hopes for a quiet night in, they were dashed when the cat went slinking out the front door, weaving between his legs in a disturbing approximation of a huff. “You talk some sense into them,” Morgana hissed. His tail spasmed. “I’m heading to Futaba’s.”
“Good,” Goro replied, before the rest of the sentence caught up to him.
No need to ask who they were.
Goro kicked off his work-shoes in a succession of quick, brutally efficient motions. His house slippers came next. One, two. He exhaled-- having, at some point in the last fifteen seconds, ceased to breathe. What the hell was this, then? Anger?
That would be too easy. Goro knew what to do with anger.
“What,” Goro sighed, “the hell are you doing.”
Their bathroom (averagely sized only for the sorts of micro-apartments two college students could afford) was too small to withstand the hurricane that had hit it. Was still hitting it-- Joker rattled about the counter, sending Goro’s little pots and bottles and tubes scattered to the four winds.
“Goro,” they grunted.
“Joker,” he replied. He stepped off the threshold and into the room, lip curled when Joker knocked his 30,000 yen pot of CC cream to the floor. It bounced merrily across the room, only coming to a halt when it hit Goro’s ankles. “Answer the question.”
“You have eyes.”
It wasn’t hard to see what Joker was doing, but it was another thing entirely to understand what the person Goro knew used two-in-one was attempting to do to their hair. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t work, not with that shit. Anything Goro bought was meant for him, the soft waves he’d inherited from his mother.
Joker had been blessed with volume and curls and the sort of rakish self-confidence Goro couldn’t help but be envious of-- usually. Not now, when copious amounts of hair-gel had turned the curls into an army of horrible little spikes.
“I see,” Goro said, as he slid fully into Joker’s space, “a fucking idiot.”
“Original,” Joker snorted-- but they shuddered when Goro drew close enough he knew they must feel his breath on their neck. “...is there something you want? I’m--” they swiped at their hair, spikes sticking out at strange angles. “--busy, if you can’t--”
Goro caught their wrist, and Joker fell silent. “Like I said,” Goro pushed. “An explanation. This isn’t…” he paused, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Foolish. “...this is stupid, even for you.”
Pithy, but it hit— maybe. Goro’s boyfriend deflated. He caught them as they sank, though some quiet part of him couldn’t help but laugh. It was bad comedy. His hands weren’t made for comfort, as much as his therapist insisted otherwise. But he could pretend with the best of them.
Those hands of his held steady, at least, as he maneuvered Joker’s wrist down to their side. Uncertainty smoothed over by action.
“Ready to talk?”
“No. Yes.” Joker moved of their own violation, maneuvering Goro’s free arm to rest around their waist. Goro allowed it. “Sorry I fucked with your stuff.”
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
Joker laughed, some of the energy returning to their limbs. Less collapsed than languid. “Is that a promise…? No, uh. It’s stupid. You’re going to laugh.”
The impending headache loomed like a tangible thing. “Don’t put it off.”
“There’s this… dinner, tomorrow. Very fancy. I need to look, you know. Good.”
That was stupid. “There’s more to it then that,” Goro prodded.
Joker exhaled.
Hoshikage Soranosuke was large, prone to long-winded speeches, and in possession of one of the most prestigious defense firms in Tokyo.
He was also Joker’s boss.
A succession of rapid fire networking decisions had landed them a position as one of Hoshikage’s interns, two years off from their law degree and three from a planned grand attempt at the bar. Blatant manipulation tactics set them apart-- and when an acquaintance of Hoshikage had turned out to know his beloved intern, well, he’d wasted no time inviting them all out for dinner and drinks.
“Still dodging,” Goro snorted, giving in to the petty urge to pull at Joker’s hair. The fool had thoroughly ruined their clothes in the crossfire, and Goro had wasted little time stripping them down and shoving them into their economic little tub.
He didn’t follow. Even if there was space, or Goro had been in the mood, the chemicals he was scrubbing out of their hair left the water tinted an unpleasant looking brown-- the expression on Joker’s face had been enough, anyway, when they’d protested the treatment.
“Ow, ow--“ Joker hissed. Goro pulled harder. “I’m getting to it!”
“Get faster.”
The acquaintance's name was Kimura Yamoto, a professor of political science at a private university near the rural Yamanashi prefecture. He’d met Hoshikage through one of Joker’s fellow interns, a mousy kid Joker hadn’t much faith in-- but the kid was irrelevant to the situation, and Goro crossed a few more possibilities off the list at the remark.
“Kimura,” Goro mused. “That’s… familiar.” Extremely. Where had he—
“He’s, uh.” Joker submerged deeper into the water. Morose bubbles heralded their return to the surface, before Goro would have taken it upon himself to drag them back up. “Mom’s husband. So--”
Goro froze.
“--that would be where you. Heard that, before.” They paused, before they splashed at Goro in a deceptively careless motion. “You stalker.”
And Goro couldn’t--
“Are you seriously,” Goro hissed, “seriously putting yourself through the fucking wringer for--” it was difficult to even finish the sentence, as simmering rage turned the edges of his vision white-hot and fuzzy. “For your fucking-- stepfather!?”
Joker sat ram-rod straight. “Don’t make assumptions.”
“Oh,” Goro laughed, “Do tell me, Joker, what assumptions I’m making! I’d love to know!”
“It’s not just him!” Joker snapped back, “Hoshikage invited my whole fucking-- Mom, and Akito.” The half brother, Goro recalled, distantly. “And it’s not for them, okay! It’s for me!”
“How is this for you?! You hate them!”
For the first time in years, Goro couldn’t understand the expression on Joker’s face. It was that, more than anything, that set his teeth on edge--his vision got fuzzier, the blood rushed in his ears.
“I don’t...” Joker cut themself off, and shook off the hands Goro had almost forgotten were resting in their hair. The rebuke stung. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“The hell you don’t!”
“I don’t,” Joker replied, voice level. “Shut up.” They affixed him with an expression of cold contempt, and even wet and naked and foolish they managed to make him feel-- “you want to help me so bad, Mom? Get the hell out.”
“Get the hell--” Goro laughed, trying and failing to reign it in before the bastard could accuse him of being, what. Hysterical!? “This is my fucking apartment! Are you seriously--”
“--then I’ll leave,” Joker replied, cutting Goro off. “If it’s your apartment. I don’t care.”
Goro still couldn’t read them, and he hated it, hated the way Joker could always make him feel like a child throwing a fit. “Then I’ll leave,” he mocked, but it was probably better than some of the nastier alternatives rattling around inside of his head. “Far be it to me to get in your way! No, if you’re so insistent on-- on flaying yourself alive for--”
“I don’t want your opinion, Goro.”
“--for no good fucking reason, then. Fine!”
He stormed out of the bathroom, or started too, vibrating at the threshold. Goro knew what he’d see if he turned around. Joker, gaze cool, mask secured as tightly as if they’d welded it there-- so he didn’t. “I’m not your fucking… mother,” he said to nothing, instead. “If you want an apology for giving more of a shit about YOU than she ever has, then--” he laughed, a full-body guffah that rattled through the hollow expanse of his body. “Then I mean this sincerely. Fuck you.”
The cat was waiting for him at the front door. Goro didn’t have time for him, frankly, and set about swapping shoes faster than Morgana could speak up.
“Aw-- that didn’t work?!” the cat hissed, predictably pissy.
Goro ignored him.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!”
He hurled his house-slippers somewhere into the neurotically clean expanse of the living room. Joker could deal with that when they were done flagelatting themself, or whatever the fuck they thought they were doing. Why should Goro give a damn!
“Hey!” The cat wormed his way into Goro’s space and bit down, hard, onto his hand-- Goro hissed and swiped at the cat, but Morgana was too fast for him, and dodged with a uniquely feline sort of ease. “Goro! Listen!”
“I would literally rather die.” Goro scrubbed at his brow, and added-- “I thought you were sulking at Futaba’s, anyway.” The cat could take his long-nosed master’s strange short-cuts, so the cat could have gotten to Futaba’s place and back-- but it was strange he’d returned at all, if he had.
“I was,” the cat yowled, “not sulking!”
“I’m sure.”
The cat ignored Goro’s wit as pointedly as Goro wanted to ignore the cat. “I was not sulking,” he repeated, “but I was at Futaba’s place, yeah. She wants to talk to you. Dunno why.”
That got Goro’s attention, enough that he even stopped in the middle of tying his shoe-laces. “She wants to talk to me…?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Why,” Goro projected up, to the listening devices he hadn’t yet discovered in the ceiling, “is that? I would’ve thought she’d take Joker’s side in their little piss-fit.” She usually did.
“I told you I didn’t know! Urgh--” Morgana’s cat’s eyes turned sharp, but his tone blunted. Became soft. Dear god. “Hey, Goro... seriously, what happened back there?”
Goro yanked on the first of his shoes. “None of your business, that’s what.”
The cat was not deterred, every pitiable meow turning Goro’s bad mood worse. “Joker gets mean when those guys come up-- sometimes, I guess. I mean, I’ve met them! They suck! Are you--”
Goro yanked on the second shoe.
“--okay?”
A single cat (however supernatural) was not a difficult obstacle, and Goro nudged him out of the way with minimal difficulty-- Morgana obliged, in fact, which was just as annoying as if he’d put up a fight. “I am leaving,” Goro snapped. “Don’t wait up.”
“Goro!”
The door slammed shut behind him, cutting off whatever the cat had been about to say. The only thing worse than Morgana’s scorn was his pity.
Futaba and Yusuke rented a trendy apartment in a fashionable arts district two steps away from the main Kichijoji thoroughfare. Goro was (of course) incredibly jealous, but as he was not an internationally wanted cyber-terrorist who plundered off-shore bank accounts for fun-- well. He seethed in silence.
He regretted the visit the moment he crossed the threshold, but by then it was too late to back out.
“Goro!”
Futaba had been waiting in her apartment’s spacious living room, crouched with her boots on the upholstery of a very nice chair. Goro ground his teeth and did not comment.
“It took you long enough,” she continued, unfurling from the crouch. Her feet kicked against the floorboards in a staccato rhythm that sent nails pounding into Goro’s head.
He inhaled, and exhaled through his nose like his therapist told him too when it was getting a bit much. It helped. Some.
“It’s been... a day,” he tried.
As if she didn’t already know.
There was another free chair and a handful of comfortable looking floor-cushions scattered around the living room. Goro closed the door behind himself and debated his options before sitting down on the nearest plush surface— one of the floor cushions. It sagged under his weight.
“Take off your shoes!”
Yusuke’s voice floated over from the vicinity of the kitchen, out of sight from the living room. He sounded, as Yusuke often did when Goro was involved, irate. Goro briefly wondered how he’d even known Goro had opted out of their hideous green house-slippers. Then he remembered he didn’t care.
“Good evening, Kitagawa,” he said.
Yusuke made a noise of pure disgust.
“Hey, hey! You’re a guest, Onii-chan.” It was never a good sign when Futaba decided to remind him they were related. “Take off,” she made a pushing motion, “your shoes.”
Goro inhaled, and looked down at Futaba’s boots. They probably cost more than some people’s rent. So did that chair. He exhaled, through his nose.“You wanted me, Futaba-chan…?”
(“Futaba! Did he take his shoes off?!”)
“Yeah, well, we could have had this conversation over the phone if you answered it, idiot.”
Goro’s hands moved to his pockets on instinct, but—
“Don’t bother! You left it back at your place.” Futaba folded her hands underneath her chin and chewed on her lip. “Joker picked it up when I called-- but I’d already sent Monamona, and he can take all the weird shortcuts, so. Whatever.” She narrowed her eyes and added, “I haven’t heard them that pissed in months. Maybe not even since that last thing with Kirijo, holy shit.”
“Kirijo,” Goro drawled, lip curled in distaste. Nobody set Joker off as fast as Kirijo-Goddamned-Mitsuru. It was like water on a grease fire. The comparison was insulting. “Go fuck yourself.”
(“Do I have to come in there?!”)
Futaba tilted her chin up and laughed at the ceiling. “Eh heh heh--” Goro hoped she’d choke on it. “--whatever, Gogo.” The grin wiped itself off her face. “But I guess we should probably get, y’know. Serious.”
“Must we?” Kitagawa loomed in the archway to the kitchen the way Kitagawa always loomed, compelled by his abnormally long legs and general demeanor. Goro wouldn’t know-- he’d never be mistaken for an overgrown beanstalk. “I still don’t see why he has to be involved,” Kitagawa continued. “It’s unnecessary.”
“Inari.” Futaba looked at the walking monument to her poor taste pitiably. “He’s already involved. He is literally as involved as it is possible to be involved. Like, two-hundred-percent out of our hands involved.”
“I can leave,” Goro said.
Futaba whirled back towards him, nearly toppling off of her chair. “No!”
Kitagawa shrugged, sending puffs of the blue, chalk-like substance he was inexplicably coated in floating across the apartment. Tasteless weirdo. Whatever art-project he was currently absorbed on, Goro could be sure it was tacky. “He can.”
She whirled back to Kitagawa. “Shut up! This is about Joker!” Ah. “And Joker’s shit parents!” Argh. “And if Gogo’s gonna go crawling back to them later tonight anyway we should just join forces! Team raid!” Urgh.
Goro counted to ten. Holy shit. Crawling back, holy shit. “What--” he stopped himself. That was stupid. “What,” he repeated, “are you idiots planning.”
Futaba bounced in her chair, as if delighted Goro had finally asked the right question. Kitagawa seemed substantially less enthused, which was disturbingly relatable. Typical Kitagawa. “Gogo. Bro. You know me.” God help him, he did. “The pies,” she emphasized, waggling her fingers. “I have-- you know, fingers. In them. I have my fingers in the pies. I have-- uh, all of the--”
“Futaba.” Kitagawa slipped behind Futaba and bent over her chair, careful eyes trained on Goro. She shut up-- embarrassed? May miracles never cease. “Futaba spies on all of our chat-logs,” Kitagawa elaborated, blunt as ever. “Our friend included, of course.”
Goro narrowed his eyes. He already knew that part-- he could even guess the rest of it, now that Kitagawa’s set this ball rolling.
“Suffice it to say,” Kitagawa continued, his shoulders sloped in a graceful shrug-- “we’ve known about this longer than you have. The whole situation.” His gaze became razor-sharp. “Family is… difficult. Joker’s family is…” that earned a wrinkled nose. “Detestable. We can be sure they don’t want us intruding, but--” he shifted from his position behind Futaba’s chair and took a single agitated step towards Goro. “What kind of man would I be if I turned away from them now? After everything?!”
“A sensible one,” Goro scoffed.
The temperature dropped. “Then I was correct,” Kitagawa replied. “You’re as cowardly as ever.”
Something cracked. Goro thought it might be him, but by then he was--
“Oh--” oh, oh, oh, “--QUIT IT with the sanctimonious shit you--” fucktwit, Goro’s brain hissed “--are banging your head against a wall and they aren’t going to thank-- you-- for-- the-- fucking concussion!” They never did! Never ever! Never, ever, ever-- “They brought this on themself! Are bringing this on themself! And I am, not--”
“Goro!” Futaba yelped. She looked... “Wait, we’re just--“
“--not some kind of fucking dog who comes CRAWLING BACK when-- when, fuck, god, they hate those people! You know what they’re doing?!” Goro pushed himself to his feet, the world narrowed to himself and the dynamic-fucking-duo. He jabbed a finger at Futaba, cowering, fire crawling up his lungs, and snarled, “They’re fucking flagelating themself for people who don’t-- fucking care, and never will, and acting like THEY’RE the only goddamned,” Futaba flinched, had been flinching all-- along-- “Goddamned person, who ever had a, a what, a fucking family situation, holy sh--”
Sense caught up to his hind-brain, dousing the flames. His jaw snapped shut.
It was quiet.
Kitagawa had moved in the middle of Goro’s snit, planted halfway in front of Futaba. She peaked out from behind him with wide eyes. “Are you done?” he asked, dry as a desert. Maybe he’d caught it from her, some memetic idea, but that train of thought was--
Stupid. That was stupid. “I--” he tried. Rasped. “Yes, I-- I suppose I am.” A moment passed. “...I’m sorry.” Goro pressed his nails into his palms hard enough he might break skin and began the always frustrating task of packing his shit back into the box. “...I shouldn’t have yelled.”
He tried not to, around Futaba. She didn’t like it.
“I… shouldn’t have said it like that,” Futaba replied. The amusement had drained out of her voice. She sounded tired. “Sorry.” She fidgeted, and then pushed herself just a little further out of Kitagawa’s shadow. “I mean-- you’re not crawling. You care about them.” She perked up, emboldened. “And they care too! It’s just… a mess. You would know-- I mean, I guess you knowing is why it’s a mess. Joker can be...”
“Moronic.”
Futaba shrugged. “Yeah, that. And it’s, you know. Family crap.”
Goro did know. He supposed Futaba was right, too, about him knowing being the point. For once he wished Joker would just-- just--
“You can’t expect me to lie to him,” Kitagawa shrugged. Goro felt his blood pressure spike, and pressed his fingernails harder into his palms. “I have nothing to ‘take back’--”
“Inari! Shut up!” Futaba punctuated her remark with a punch to the arm, hard enough Kitagawa yelped-- she was a fair bit sturdier than skin-and-bones, these days. “Let’s just-- finish the spiel, God. I’ll do it.” She rolled her eyes, mouthed boys.
“Futaba!” Kitagawa had caught the comment, and looked insulted. “I am not,” he drew himself to his full height, and with the highest distaste said, “a boy.”
Futaba looked up at Kitagawa incredulously. “I didn’t say boy! I said boys! Boys is a--” she waved her arms “--frame of mind. A vibe. Gogo, tell him--”
Goro pinched the bridge of his nose. “No.”
“--whatever, whatever.” The mood shifted, again, as Futaba waved off the argument before it could descend back into hitherto unknown levels of lunacy. Or Goro started yelling again. That was on the table. No-- it wasn’t, he’d just leave. “Look. You know Joker doesn’t like admitting when they need help.”
All of the arrests and near-death situations would attest to that, yes.
“And this is one of those times,” Futaba continued.
Possibly.
“So we’ve got a plan to help them anyway. And you want in,” she pushed on, cutting Goro off before he could reiterate how much he absolutely did not ‘want in’, “because you don’t want Joker to have to...” she paused awkwardly. “I dunno. Hit the final boss on their own. Even if they’re acting like they want too.”
Goro found himself compelled to state the obvious. “They aren’t acting, Futaba-chan.”
Futaba watched him intensely. “I guess that’s not right, yeah. It’s more like… urgh. It was different for me, I just… asked, but--” she shoved at Kitagawa before he could say whatever he’d been gearing up to say, “--maybe it’s like. Did you want help?”
That was pretty fucking tactless, even for her. “No.”
Futaba pressed on past Goro’s flat tone. “But you needed it.”
“...There are several things wrong with that sentence.”
“I don’t believe so,” Kitagawa interjected, fire in his eyes. “It’s exactly the same.” He isn’t talking about Goro’s situation at all, of course-- that’s projection. Christ. “I never would have asked. Intervention was... necessary.”
“They’ll ghost you all for months.” Goro felt, all at once, exhausted. Yelling had taken more out of him then he’d thought. “Whatever you’re planning, you’re just going to piss them off.” Which… no, wait a second, that’s projection too. Get a grip. “Or--”
Projection. Get a grip, Goro.
“Or?” Futaba said, eyebrows raised.
Lay it out on the fucking table. What’s pissing you off, Goro? They hit a sore-spot and brushed off the concern. They’re a goddamned hypocrite. They’re supposed to be better then-- ah, there it was. “Joker,” Goro said, carefully, “does not want to be... thought of as… weak. Inadequate.” Keep going. “If you sneak around them, you’ll just… they’ll take it the wrong way.” Uh huh. “...but you’re…” It hurt to say. “Right. I suppose. Leaving them to self-destruct is--” unkind.
Goro didn’t want to be unkind to Joker, not really.
“Look. I’m not joining your parade of stupidity. And-- and I need you two morons to engrave this into your minds-- fuck off, now.” Goro sliced his hands through the air, cutting off any complaint before they could get started. “But I’ll talk to them again. Happy?”
“What?! No!” Whatever decision Futaba had been waiting for Goro to make, it wasn’t that. “You already tried that! Abort!”
Kitagawa had no further comment, it seemed, but his glare was withering.
“...are we done here? Yes?” Goro stepped off towards the front-door. “Goodbye, Futaba-chan. Kitagawa.”
The sputtering cut off when he closed the door to their trendy apartment behind him. Excellent soundproofing. Rich bastards.
Goro took the long way home, because he had things to get, and there wasn’t much he could lose by giving Joker a few more hours to cool off. Possibly useless-- Joker could hold a grudge like none-other, even if they liked to pretend they were above that sort of thing-- but still, Goro thought, it didn’t hurt.
He’d forgotten to lock the door behind him when he rushed out. Goro contemplated the entrance and the odds that Joker had locked the door themself-- unlikely-- and, rearranging the packages in his arms, pushed through into the apartment.
“I’m home,” he called out.
He didn’t get a response. It didn’t really matter: Joker was still there. Goro didn’t have his boyfriends third eye, exactly, but a sense for his own cards was an experience Narukami and that blonde robot had agreed was innate. Goro sighed, and set his packages down, removing his shoes and putting off the inevitable until--
He found them in the bedroom. Good to know. If he hadn’t, Goro would be forced to assume they’d been seething in the bathroom for the past four or so hours. “Joker,” he said. “We need to talk.”
They were perched on the bed, typing at a furious speed on the expensive laptop they’d acquired (or “acquired”) at some point in the recent past. “Goro,” they said, not looking up. Their hair had dried and returned to its usual state, and they were dressed in loose grey pajamas. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Their tone was impossible to decipher: calm and even, but not monotone.
Goro resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They were infuriating, but if he made any sudden movements there’d be hell to pay for weeks. “...I shouldn’t have blown up on you,” he admitted.
Joker continued to type.
“I don’t want--” he approached the bed and perched at the edge of it, leaving a foot of space between him and Joker. “--to babysit you.”
Joker paused for a moment, before the typing began anew. “Don’t, then.”
Goro inhaled. Exhaled. “I would just--” and he thought about all of the inane little things his therapist told him to think about when he was close to blowing his fucking top. It was easier than before, if only because he’d come into the room knowing what to expect. “--like you to think about what this looks like to me, okay? Can you do that?” Aggravation bubbled up despite himself. “A little, fucking. I don’t know. Empathy?” His voice wavered. “Please?”
It was the please that got through to them, he thought. Joker jerked mid key-press, the laptop nearly falling off their lap and down into the narrow space between the bed and the wall. They looked up at Goro, grey eyes blown wide. “This isn’t-- like that,” they replied, their voice cracking with the intensity of the denial.
“It is,” Goro said.
“It’s not.”
Goro examined their white-knuckled grip on the laptop screen, clutched tight the moment it had almost fallen off the bed. “Explain how, then.”
They broke eye-contact. “I’m not trying to impress-- him,” they snapped. “Or Mom,” they added, more subdued. “Or my boss. It’s just…” they paused, their mouth moving silently, before they turned back to Goro and met his eyes once again. “I told you this already. It’s for me.”
“For you,” Goro repeated.
“Can’t you believe that?” Joker’s unflappable wall had fallen, and Goro couldn’t even find satisfaction in it. Not when they looked so small. “I know you… care a lot, about me.” They pushed the laptop to the center of the bed and focused the whole of their attention on Goro. “I... appreciate it. But I can make my own decisions.”
“I know you can.” Goro moved a little closer, and set his hand near Joker’s. After a heavy moment, they accepted it, interlocking their fingers. “...I wouldn’t put up with you if you didn’t. I just--” he cut himself off.
“Yeah,” Joker said. “...I mean. I’m sorry. I am.” They squeezed his hand, but there was a stubborn set to their jaw. “Still going to that dinner, though.”
“Fine, whatever. You’re going to the dinner.” He hadn’t come in here to convince them to not go, as much as he’d prefer it. “I think that’s stupid as all hell, but I can’t stop you from doing anything.”
“You can’t,” Joker agreed.
“--which is why I’m coming with you,” Goro tacked on, a declaration that made Joker twitch in such a sudden and violent way it was for the definitely for the best they’d already dropped the laptop.
“No,” Joker wheezed, “no way.”
Goro kept his grip on Joker’s hand and bared his teeth in the closest approximation of a smile he could manage. “What?” he laughed, trying for levity. It came out pained. “Am I not good enough for them?”
“It’s not that.”
“I know what it is.” Goro moved just a little bit closer, close enough that he was all but pressed against Joker. “But if I can’t convince you not to go, this is the only compromise you’re going to get. Fair is fair.”
“You don’t give a damn about fair-- aurgh.” Goro very carefully did not fill the silence between them. It was one of those nights. “...Fine,” Joker relented. Their expression turned calculating, straight through Goro, into the middle distance. “I guess you are…”
Goro’s eyes narrowed.
“...intelligent,” Joker continued, undeterred. “And successful, and witty, and--” they pushed onto Goro’s lap, curled into him like the mysteriously and suspiciously absent cat liked too. “--extremely attractive.”
“Shut up,” Goro muttered. He suspected Joker could see the flesh melting off his cheeks.
“Fair’s fair,” Joker mocked. They poked him in the chest. “Look,” they added. “I won’t stop you. You win. Fuck you, asshole.” They sighed. “But… argh. They’re going to hate you. Even if you’re perfect. Especially because you’re perfect.” They jabbed him again. “And you can’t shoot them.”
“I thought that was the point.”
“...something like that.” They examined him, expression indecipherable. “And, if you do this,” they continued at last, “...then I’m going to insist.”
“Insist on what?” Goro replied, wary.
“That you...” Joker trailed off, and pursed their lips. “...do my hair?”
“Is that all? No.”
Joker glared at him.
“No.” Goro shoved Joker off, stood up, and brushed off his slacks. The complaints were easy to ignore. “But I can do you one better-- I picked up new clothes, while I was out. For both of us.” His best suit was being dry-cleaned, and Joker’s was... adequate, but it wouldn’t match anything Goro had.
“That was presumptuous,” Joker replied. The bastard had the nerve to look wary. “Are you sure you picked out something I would wear? I have clothes. You don’t even know where we’re eating!” They gestured at their head. “And what about my hair?!”
“I have great taste,” Goro defended, “and it’s a formal dinner, I have been to formal dinners. It’s not even the first time with your boss.” He pursed his lips. “But for all my talents--” and he had a lot of them “--I don’t have the faintest idea of what to do with...” he squinted at Joker’s curls, genuinely at a loss. “...that. My hair is completely different. We’ll find a hairdresser who can work on short notice, if you’re that concerned.”
Joker opened their mouth, and then closed it. “...yeah,” they said, suddenly sheepish. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Well. I’m always right.” Goro held out his hand.
Joker examined it. “...Guess I’ll have to see the damage, then,” they said, and took it-- Goro pulled them to their feet.
It was going to be a long night. Goro detested getting into shit like this half-cocked.