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“I don’t get it, though.”
Shoko has altogether too much energy when Satoru would rather just lie down face first and bury himself in the pillows until morning; that and an annoying tendency to mix business and pleasure. Satoru blinks open a single eye to look up at where she’s leaning back against the headboard, cigarette in hand.
“Get what?” Satoru asks wearily, and rolls onto his back. “And I thought I told you not to smoke in here.”
Shoko gives him a look. “You don’t care, though.” And he doesn’t, but still. “What I don’t get is why Okkotsu would make contact now, after all this time.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Satoru smirks, intent to drag his explanation out as long as possible when that earns him a scowl from Shoko. “Well, I guess you wouldn’t get it after all, Shoko. It’s for love.”
Shoko’s eyebrows raise in that cynical way that she does so well. She breathes out a long line of smoke and smiles, putting her cigarette out on the ashtray Satoru keeps on the bedside table just for her. “Love, huh?” Shoko repeats, and leans over to circle a manicured finger on Satoru’s bare chest.
“I guess it’s not really your thing.”
Shoko smiles in agreement. “Not yours, either.” Her eyes narrow with an alarming clarity to them, and suddenly he’s not sure if she’s laughing with him or at him. “Or is the cute singer at the cabaret bar you like to make eyes at an exception?”
Satoru smiles back at her, easy and disingenuous. He thinks of running his fingers through black hair, sharing cigarette smoke and the feeling of being at the very top of the world; so high nothing else can come close.
He guesses Shoko isn’t wrong, on both counts.
“I don’t really do love anymore,” Satoru replies.
“Yeah, I suppose not.” The smile drops from Shoko’s face as she draws back and swings her legs over the bed. Shoko’s always older than he remembers her; cynical and world-weary enough for the both of them. Not something he’d ever tell her - he values his life more than that, thanks - but there’s a nostalgia that’s verging on melancholy when he watches her closely enough to dwell on it.
Satoru thinks he’s matured some from those days himself, but when he thinks of the cute singer at the cabaret bar and her ruminative eyes, he’s not entirely sure he has - at least not enough to keep himself from making the same mistakes. Satoru’s eyes flick back over to Shoko as she’s fastening the front buttons of her shirt. He doesn’t bother to sit up as he speaks, “Shoko-”
“You don’t have to tell me, Gojo. I won’t say a word to anyone,” she says looking back at him, unimpressed, as she grabs her shoes off the floor. “But when you get this kid killed, you better know it’s on you.”
Satoru scoffs and easily ignores the voice in the back of his head that says she might be right. Shoko’s not cute at all - no way he’s ever falling for her. “He’s not a kid, Shoko. Twenty-two’s old enough for him to be making his own decisions.”
Shoko gives him a blank look, and he doesn’t have to try too hard to guess what it means. Twenty-two’s old enough to be making your own decisions; old enough to not know what the hell it is you’re doing. Old enough to turn on the world, old enough to fall in love, and definitely, most certainly, old enough to lose it.
“Didn’t realise you had such an altruistic streak in you, Shoko,” Satoru says wryly.
“You’re annoying when you’re moping. I know you’d only blame yourself, so.” She reaches inside her jacket and grabs another cigarette as she starts towards the door. “See ya, Gojo. Ask her out.”
The door closes with a loud click of finality, and in the silence that remains the room feels too large and altogether too empty. Satoru sighs and flops back against the bed, presses the bases of his palms into his eyes, and watches as dark hair and pale skin morph into choppy bangs and scars in blurry visions before him.
--
Satoru descends the few stairs to the basement club and doesn’t glance at the bouncer as he opens the door.
The cabaret bar is in the seedier part of downtown - tiny, easily overlooked, and almost designed to be that way - it’s the perfect place to disappear when one doesn’t want to be found, provided you know where to hide in the first place. Satoru had first discovered it when scouting neutral locations to meet clients, and has been using it as such ever since.
The furnishings suggest a vision of opulence, the glitz and glamour of a bygone era, but look a little closer under the dim lights and you’d notice the paint on the walls is cracking and the colours of the upholstery fading. Satoru can’t help but feel a certain affinity for it, and wonders if Shoko would call him overdramatic for that.
The bar is owned by a geezer named Gakuganji, a real old hand when it comes to running things exactly as they were back in his day. When Satoru casually proposed the idea of acquiring the bar once, he had been shot down with a sternness that suggested he not ask again. Satoru probably will, but maybe he’ll wait until the old man’s kicked the bucket first.
Even when he’s trying to hide, someone with Satoru’s reputation can’t just disappear, and once the bar became known as one of Satoru’s favourite haunts it effectively lost it’s neutral status for good. But after a one-sided negotiation or two with Gakuganji, it ended up being a win-win: the bar gets round the clock protection from the Gojo family, and Satoru gets to continue seeing the singer with the scar and the most heavenly voice that’s ever graced his ears.
Satoru shrugs off his winter coat and scarf and leaves them with the cloakroom attendant at the door; once inside, he sidles over to the bar and takes his usual seat where he has a view over the whole club. Most of the room is populated by small candle lit tables, with patrons sitting at chairs facing the raised semi-circular stage in the centre of the room. A piano occupies one side of the stage, and a lone microphone stands waiting in anticipation.
A pianist is playing soft, gentle notes on the piano when Satoru arrives, nothing more than a backdrop to the chatter and noise of conversation that fills the room. Cigarette smoke lingers in the air and mixes with the scent of perfume and alcohol - a heavy, heady mixture that goes right through him.
“What can I getcha, boss?” the gruff bartender, Kusakabe, asks him.
“A martini,” Satoru answers simply. “Don’t care how you make it.”
Satoru doesn’t usually drink, but for some reason today he’s feeling bold - or maybe it’s that he’s trying not to think about Shoko's unwarranted advice from the other day.
Kusakabe nods and grabs a glass from behind him. Kusakabe’s the kind of bartender Satoru likes: not curious enough to ask questions, and definitely not prepared to do anything to sell out the most powerful piece on the board.
Kusakabe slides the glass over the bar to him, and Satoru sips at the drink as he glances over the room - it’s a Friday night, so the club is busy (as much as this small, washed up corner of town ever is).
After a few minutes, the light piano music comes to a stop. A hush falls over the room; people lean in closer to each other across tables, more glances are cast to the microphone on the stage. A man walks out from behind the backstage curtain, checks everything is in order, and leans into the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Utahime Iori.”
A small pattering of applause. Satoru rests his martini glass back on the bar, not wanting any distractions now.
Utahime walks onto the stage, nine P.M. on the dot, a vision in iridescent green satin. Her hair falls loose around her face, framing scarlet lipstick and dark eyeshadow.
She takes a moment to survey the room, sharp eyes brushing over the bar, and Satoru, for a second that feels like adrenaline injected directly into his veins.
“Thank you for taking the time to be here tonight,” she greets the audience. “This first one is called My Darling.”
Satoru finds himself leaning forward as she starts singing to the accompaniment of the piano. He can’t fight the smile that comes to his face - natural, genuine, a dangerous showing of emotion for the Gojo family boss that would be a problem were anyone paying attention.
Lucky for him, there’s only one person in the room anyone is interested in right now.
Utahime’s got a voice that belongs on the stages of the most acclaimed theatres in the city; she deserves to be singing for kings, prime ministers, the kind of patrons that show appreciation by bouquets of flowers sent to backstage dressing rooms and lunches in the finest hotels in the city, not the underground criminals and lowlifes that frequent this tiny club in the backwaters.
And she would be there, if not for the small matter of class and that face.
Her set lasts for 45 minutes, and it’s the best 45 minutes of his week, every week, without fail. After the final song and the pause to take in the crowd’s modest applause, Utahime glances over the room; usually at this point she would have walked backstage, and Satoru would lament that for a bit before returning home without ever really having the intention of talking to her.
He’s not really sure why he hasn’t crossed that line yet - the Satoru of a few years ago probably would’ve invited himself backstage to pester her without second thought. But certain experiences have, maybe, given Satoru a perspective that he didn’t have back then; mellowed out the sharp impulses that would jump into everything without a plan, because for him, things would always work out in his favour either way.
If there’s one thing Satoru thinks he has learned, it’s that some worlds just don’t mix, and some hearts just can’t be swayed.
Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to try, though.
And today, Utahime walks right over to the bar. Right next to him. There’s a buzzing in his head that feels something like fate. He can just imagine the look Shoko would be giving him right now if she were here.
“Same as usual, Utahime?” the bartender asks.
“Please, Kusakabe,” she replies, disinterested gaze not moving from the bar. Kusakabe turns to grab a glass and pours out a pint of some hideous looking lager into it. Utahime takes the glass, lifting it to her lips with a relaxed smile.
And then, because he’s Satoru Gojo and he just can’t help some things, Satoru says, “Well, this is a surprise.”
Utahime’s eyes dart over and meet his. For a split second Satoru could swear she can see right through him, is certain that he could hide no secrets to those eyes, and it makes him feel exposed in a way that nothing ever does to the boss of the Gojo family.
Then the moment breaks, because she asks churlishly, “What? You’ve never seen a woman drink before?”
“Well, not lager,” Satoru replies with a practised smile.
She only raises an eyebrow at him. “Too common for the Gojo household, I expect.”
His eyes widen slightly, and he hopes she can’t tell as he blows it off with a grin. “You know who I am?”
Utahime looks him dead in the eye, not even bothering to pretend. “It would be hard not to.”
For a second Satoru isn’t sure how to respond. It really shouldn’t be surprising; Utahime works here, Satoru’s seen her talking with the geezer multiple times in a way that suggests they must be relatively trusted colleagues, Satoru’s the one who muscled in here with his family’s influence. In some ways it certainly makes things easier - Utahime’s far from stupid, so that means it’s not like he’ll have to explain anything, or lie about anything.
But.
But - judging from the expression on her face, and the tone in her voice, she’s already told him everything he needs to know about her opinion of his family. Something twists in his chest that feels strangely like hurt. Which is ridiculous, because Satoru knows what he is and what he does and never once in his life has he felt guilty for it, because he simply doesn’t care about what anyone else has to think of him.
Except, under Utahime’s pointed stare, he thinks that maybe in more ways than one she’s the exception to the rule.
“Well,” Satoru says as he blows out a breath, because he still has his pride and there is absolutely no way he’s letting her see him at a loss for words, “Since there’s no need for introductions, then… Give us another song, would you?” When Utahime raises her eyebrows, Satoru adds a “For me?” with a teasing smile and what he has good reason to believe is his most sultry gaze. According to Shoko, at least.
Utahime looks away with a huff, and he’s half expecting her to tell him to piss off, but to his surprise (and delight) there’s a tiny smile that she’s trying to hide playing on her lips. That alone is enough to light a fire under Satoru, nervous energy buzzing in his fingertips as he raises his martini glass to drain the rest of his drink. Briefly the thought does flash through his mind that he is, completely and utterly, enamoured.
“Well,” Utahime begins after a moment, still not looking at him. “I suppose I am still on the clock. One more, then.” Her eyes flicker back to meet Satoru’s for a fraction of a second, expression guarded, before she slides off the stool and starts walking back to the stage.
“Wait!” Satoru calls after her, “Aren’t you going to ask what song I want?”
“No,” Utahime replies, “I already know.”
Utahime takes the stage for the second time tonight, her figure almost seeming to grow when it crosses that threshold, like there’s nowhere else in the world she’d better belong.
When she approaches the mic she taps once to check it’s still on; the pianist has left, so there’s no accompaniment, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
She leans into the mic, saying simply, “Special request,” before she starts to sing.
Utahime’s voice is like freshly forged metal - her words flow like molten silver through their melody, sharpening at the end of every phrase with an edge that would make even the finest craftsmen envious. It’s a sad song, not wallowing, but the haunting kind that burrows its way into your consciousness and stays with you long after the final note.
Her eyes are downcast as she sings, not looking at him, and there are other patrons still hanging around the club but it might as well be just the two of them. She’s singing to him; singing of him. Satoru finds he barely remembers to breathe as he watches her, eyes never leaving her face, the black fans of her downturned eyelashes, the soft curve of her lips.
As Utahime’s final note stretches into silence there’s a small pattering of applause from the patrons still lucid enough to realise it’s over. Satoru is not one of them.
Utahime smiles playfully as she gives a quick nod of her head in acknowledgement of the crowd, and descends the few steps off the stage. Satoru feels something like a sailor from myth, being lured to his heart’s desires by siren song; if he was in trouble before, he’s damned now.
“Well?” Utahime asks after she walks over and slides back onto the barstool next to Satoru. There’s a smile she can’t suppress entirely playing on her lips, a slight flush to her cheeks under the low lights. “Was that to the boss’ satisfaction?”
She’s joking, but Satoru isn’t when he replies, “Yes. You’re amazing, Utahime.”
“W-well, I–”
“Come with me,” Satoru starts, and the words are falling out of his mouth before he even has the chance to process them himself. “You deserve better than playing this shitty little bar, you deserve to be heard. I own some of the best clubs in town, I can have you up on a stage by this time tomorrow - I’ll pay double what that old geezer does - no, triple - screw it, whatever you want!”
Satoru’s hand unconsciously slides closer to hers over the bar until they’re nearly touching. He wants to believe that if he reaches out that little bit farther, Utahime would too; but all of a sudden her fingers curl away into a loose fist. To Satoru’s surprise, the expression on her face is not one of awed gratitude, but hurt and thinly veiled resentment.
“Is that really what you think of me?” she begins, and Satoru has a horrible sinking feeling that he’s said something he might live to regret. “That I can be bought by the highest bidder?”
Utahime draws her hand back completely, eyes that meet his blazing with indignation. “And this isn’t just some shitty little bar,” she continues, fighting to keep her voice level even though it shakes with anger. “This place gave me a chance when no one else would. When your clubs turned me away, saying no one would ever want to look at me on a stage. And that’s not to mention the other girls here, I’m a mentor to them, I couldn’t just leave –”
Utahime cuts off, sharply looking away from him.
“Look, Utahime,” Satoru begins, and wishes he didn’t have that martini earlier, because god he’s a lightweight, one drink in and he can’t seem to string the right words together in a sentence without messing up. “That came out wrong. It’s just that I think you could do better - you deserve better–”
Utahime looks back to meet his gaze - elegant, composed, the emotion behind her eyes replaced by a sharp coldness.
“I’ve met people like you before, Satoru Gojo, and you’re all the same. Looking down on us from your high towers, thinking you’re invincible just because no one has the balls to stand up to you - because in your family, you’d probably get shot for it, right? But maybe you are right. I can certainly do better than you.”
Utahime whirls, sliding off her barstool before Satoru even has a chance to refute that. She takes one last disdainful glance at him as Satoru starts “Wait, Utahime!” with a panicked edge to his voice that’s genuine, and stalks off through the door to backstage.
Satoru lets out a hard breath as he keeps his eyes fixed on the space where Utahime was sitting just a second ago. The prideful part of him is frustrated at letting her get the last word; the tiny, easily ignored self-doubting part of him is wondering whether she’s right; the part of him which is head over heels feels like he’s just run a marathon.
Utahime is everything Satoru was expecting her to be, and then some. She’s capricious and radiant and she acts like she doesn’t give a damn who he is, because she probably doesn’t. Satoru’s never had anyone speak to him like that before, and it’s then that he makes a vow he might also live to regret: this is not going to be the last time he talks to Utahime Iori.
Satoru leaves the cabaret bar feeling bereft and ecstatic, with a certainty that he’ll be back next Friday night.