Chapter Text
Everyone in Ingary has heard of the great Gojo Satoru. How he and his mechanical castle meander through the mountains and valleys, a great cloud of smoke trailing behind wherever they go. People whisper about his magic, men and women alike whisper about his snow-white hair and his golden, glittering eyes, and how, if one were to be lucky enough to catch a glimpse, one could be lost in them and his hypnotic beauty.
Equally spread are the warnings, however.
Eyes were the windows to one’s soul. And Satoru was ravenous for souls.
Sight is such a small price to pay for something as small as a kiss from such a beautiful creature, they would say.
I would let him take my eyes, girls would swoon. I would let him take my heart.
Everyone in Ingary has heard of him.
Including Suguru.
He’s tired of it, honestly.
Every time Mimiko and Nanako open their mouths, half the time it’s Gojo Satoru this, or Gojo Satoru that. The other half of the time, it’s about some passerby’s hat they’d found especially atrocious.
As a hatter, Suguru can’t say he’s had the most fulfilling life. But despite his rather dry occupation, he’s found happiness.
He has a bed. And a roof. And a job with decent income. Not that he needs it, with his inheritance.
And he has people. He’d come across Mimiko and Nanako one day after he’d ventured to the market. He’d been seventeen at the time. He’d turned the corner of a shady alley to find a group of men around some sort of cage, and to his absolute horror, he’d realized that there were children inside.
It had disgusted him, how such a vile act could be committed in a place like Ingary, and before he knew it, suddenly his fist was shoved into a stomach and his nose was bleeding and he was on the floor, a knife pointed at him, and there, his memory goes blank.
Apparently, he’d fought the men with a fierceness and violence that surprised even himself, and it had taken him nearly half an hour to coax the girls out of the cage and that he wasn’t going to hurt them.
Suguru had brought them home with him, and despite his disappointment at losing dinner’s ingredients, he’d tried to scrape together some semblance of a meal for the starving girls. Later, after finding out how they’d gotten into that situation, he’d nearly lost his shit again.
But now, it was nearly four years later. The girls were old enough, independent enough to be able to live on their own. They’d begged him to let them leave, and he hadn’t offered much resistance, despite his heartstrings begging them to stay, to keep him company. He wasn’t about to be another cage.
They’d moved out three months ago. They write him each week, detailing their escapades at the beach, the city, everywhere they roam where he cannot.
And he’s happy.
Mostly.