Chapter Text
When Satoru thinks about his father, the innate, almost Freudian-esque urge to approach him with a copious amount of disgust completely consumed him.
The kind that made his head hurt and throat ache.
A feeling that clawed at his insides like an unrelenting fever.
With the few memories he did have of his father, he’s yet to forget the interactions laced with a bitter mixture of confusion and resentment.
He could still recall the distant, cold gaze his father had often given him—disinterested, if he had to properly put it into words.
As though he were an inconvenience that had the tendency to remind him of the parental responsibilities he would never fully comprehend.
The man never offered warmth. In any regard. Not in words or not in actions, and Satoru highly doubts in thought.
And the few times he did speak, it was always with an undercurrent of criticism that seemed to sink deeper than anything constructive.
Satoru tried to remember the moments before the bitterness, when he might have been a child seeking love or guidance, but the memory felt almost foreign, like a dream he had pathetically conjured up in his mind to compensate for the lack legitimate interactions between himself and his father.
And more times than not he looks at himself wondering, and silently hoping, practically begging at points to whatever higher being was tasked with the burden of listening to his requests, that when the time came and his boyish features morphed into the ones that more closely resembled a man, the reflection looking back at him wouldn’t be the image of his father.
Because he really, really doesn’t want to have to do that.
And when Satoru thinks of his mother, he cries.
He’s not sure why. But he does, and that fact alone is enough to make him feel some kind of embarrassment.
He knows there’s no real age requirement or limitation to properly exercise empathy, but 16 felt a little too old to be crying about his “mommy.” Still, that doesn’t disregard the fact that he still does.
She didn’t leave—she’s just distant. In fact, her physical presence still lingers in the house that he’s no longer invited to. Quiet and subdued.
He thinks his mother is just inherently reserved. A conclusion he came to during his formative years. Six, possibly eight.
She’d never been outwardly cruel. Not in the way his father was.
Never raised her voice at him and scoldings were far an in between. Opting to instead kneel down to his level , hold his small face in her hands and wiping away his tears with her thumb, frowning and planting soft kisses on his forehead.
She’d hold him close, running her hand through his hair while he buried his face into her clothes.
Speaking to him softly,- There’s a lot going on Satoru. Too much for you huh? -waving away the au pairs and household staff that had so desperately tried to mediate his tantrums, as per their job descriptions.
He remembers those moments. Vividly. And for that reason alone he doesn’t hate her. Doesn’t think he ever could.
But as his tantrums became less of a result of his childish demands and more due to the fact that he was the closest thing to inhuman that anyone had ever seen, she stepped away.
And so gradually but steadily the moments between himself and her become interrupted, her presence being replaced with tutors and professionals who could better assist the boy and his eyes that saw everything.
She stood as he was isolated and trained. All supposedly for his “prosperousness.”
Until eventually she ceased to engage in simplest of conversations with him.
Offering him a small smile or peck in passing.
It felt as though she simply stopped trying to reach him. And Satoru can’t shake the feeling that somewhere along the line, he became invisible to her.
And again- he doesn’t hate his mother. But he questions if she ever looked at her son and saw a boy that she loved to whatever extent she was capable of and less of an incomparable maternal achievement.
A virgin Mary kind of procurement. A reminder that she was the precursor to the immeasurable shift that the world had been involuntarily subjected to.
And so, he cries. Not because she’s gone—because she hasn’t left, not physically. But because she’s gone in a way that hurts more than anything, a subtle absence that lingers in the spaces between them. There’s no argument, no fight to explain it, no big event that marks her departure. It’s just a slow, quiet erosion of the bond they once shared, and it leaves him with this gnawing, empty feeling in his chest.
Her maternal affection that he had once thought could never be replicated, becoming, replaced by the quiet ache of trying to reach someone who’s no longer there. Settling into the space beside his father.
A space he had yet to fit into. And quite honestly doesn’t think that he ever will.
He doesn't know what changed. Maybe it was the years, maybe it was the weight of the repercussions that came with her unprecedented motherhood. She had expected a son who navigated the typical trials of adolescence—social circles, school struggles—not the bearer of some grandiose, unspoken prophecy that had he had yet to fulfill.
And in a way he took that from her. Her luxury to love “normally.”
He’s embarrassed by it. Embarrassed that at 16, he still feels like he needs her approval, still craves the comfort only she could offer. He should be stronger by now, more independent, more like his father—cold, unbothered, indifferent.
But he’s not. He’s 16, on the cusp of 17 and in years separated that had been spent curating his cocky, shit eating kind of disposition , he’s yet to fully abandon the boy who just wants his mother to see him again.
He thinks these things. Often. But resolution remains elusive. He doesn’t speak to his parents—not because he doesn’t want to, but because they find communication to be unnecessary, impractical even. They tend to view most things that way.
So his father doesn’t like him. He can live with that.
And his mother is indifferent to him. He’s unsure of how to proceed.
So he doesn’t. He continues to stay stagnant in that regard.
Inspecting the lines of his jaw, the structure of his nose and the curvature of his lips.
He’s undeniably his father’s son, white hair and abnormally saturated eye color aside.
Oh fucking well he thinks.
~*~
Satoru tells Shoko this sprawled across her bedroom floor, his head resting in her lap, eyes closed as he tries to ignore the pain pounding at his temples.
His glasses are discarded to the side, left behind hours earlier when they'd started their conversation, now abandoned like most of his thoughts. The only comfort he feels comes from Shoko’s gentle touch, her fingers working their way through the base of his hair, a weak attempt to alleviate the growing pressure in his skull.
The room is quiet save for their voices, though the conversation has been pulled to the floor by Geto, who had unceremoniously monopolized Shoko’s twin bed. Geto, as usual, had lost interest long before they did, drifting off into his own world with a casual dismissal of whatever topic they were debating. Satoru couldn’t help but roll his eyes at that, though the corners of his mouth twitched into a small smile at the thought.
Suguru liked to say it was because he was just more mature than the rest of them. Shoko and Satoru both thought he was simply a pain in the ass.
Satoru’s not drunk, just tired. He’s been running on fumes for days, and Shoko knows better than anyone that sleep deprivation works just as well as alcohol in dulling his senses. The haze in his eyes isn’t from a buzz; it’s from exhaustion, a weariness that hangs on him like a heavily.
Shoko says nothing. She knows better than to respond right away, because to say anything so soon after a raw revelation would be considered cruel.
Her silence is her way of giving him space without pushing him away. Any words of comfort would feel too forced right now, too shallow. She doesn’t want to offer something hollow, not when he’s laid himself so bare.
Instead, Satoru’s fingers trace lazy patterns on her thigh. He does it absentmindedly, and she smiles a little at the small, familiar gesture. He never could give anyone personal space. Not even her. Typically Ignoring her standoffish demeanor.
The way he leaned into her now, as if it was second nature, was just another piece of their long, complicated history. She let him, mostly because it was easier than pushing him away.
Plus, it didn’t bother her—not really.
She inhales deeply from the cigarette dangling between her fingers, the filter providing her with the same relief it always did. She pulls it from her lips and hands it to Satoru, not expecting him to actually smoke it—just knowing he likes holding them.
He says it makes him feel like Frank Sinatra, though neither of them really knows what that means.
Satoru takes the cigarette without question, rolling it between his fingers, studying it with a detached interest. Shoko watches him, a fondness creeping into her gaze, unexpected and unwelcome, but present all the same. She didn’t know when it started, this strange attachment to him, but it was there, undeniable.
"Do you miss them?"
Satoru extends his arm to put the cigarette out into the dish next to them. He hadn’t actually smoked it, but he never did. He just liked the weight of it, the illusion of doing something grown-up, even if he was far from it.
Shoko wasn’t done with it, but she doesn’t say anything.
He shrugs, leaning a little closer, his breath warm against her skin.
“I dunno.”
Yes, he did. He missed them. Even if he couldn’t admit it fully to himself, or even to her, he did.
Shoko smiles softly, then leans down, cupping his face in her hands and forcing him to look at her. His eyes meet hers, reluctant but steady.
“Yeah. You do.”
They were close. They always were, the three of them. They had never understood the concept of personal space—or maybe they just didn’t care enough to. Either way, it worked for them.
But there was something odd, slightly off putting in the way he was looking at her now, even if it was through a forced lens, even if he tried to mask it.
They were still connected in a way neither of them knew how to describe. Their shitty fan in the corner hummed in the background, the only noise in the room, giving the silence a strange, heavy intimacy.
Shoko preferred the open windows but Geto was a huge baby who constantly complained about the lack of ventilation, so she gave in.
Failing to point out the fact that it was bad room, but that was beside the point.
Under different circumstances, maybe the “almost” silence would’ve been unsettling. But for them, it was oddly comforting.
“Yeah. I miss them.”
Shoko nods, thumb gently brushing over his cheek. It’s a soft, almost maternal gesture, but she doesn’t think about it.
“It’s natural. To miss them, I mean. They’re your parents after all.”
Satoru’s voice is quieter now, distant. “Do you miss yours?” Shoko smirks, dropping her hands back into her lap.
“Nah. I love being away from them.”
Satoru snorts, his laugh escaping in a short, soft breath. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging it away from his face.
“What happened to ‘it’s natural’? Does that just not apply to you?”
Shoko shrugs, leaning her head back against the wall, her eyes half-lidded from the cigarette smoke and the weight of the conversation.
“I’m just not natural, I guess.”
Satoru’s hand reaches out, gently cupping her face between his fingers, his thumb giving her cheek a slight squeeze.
She almost slaps his hand away—almost—but she’s feeling gracious tonight so instead, she simply rolls her eyes.
“Cause you’re a fucking weirdo.”
He strongly believes that she was dropped on her head as a baby. There was something a little off about Shoko.
He found it hot.
She sticks her tongue out at him, nudging him playfully off her lap, but it’s a lighthearted gesture that doesn’t hide the comfortability between them.
They both know it—how they always seem to come back to this. He doesn’t have to say it. Not yet. She’d laugh in his face.
He laughs, a small, dry sound that doesn’t reach his eyes, but it’s enough to fill the space between them. Enough to keep the silence from becoming too heavy.
Shoko watches him with that same quiet affection, as if trying to figure him out, but knowing she probably never will. That was the thing about Satoru—he was always just a little out of reach, even when he was right there in front of you.
And maybe it was that distance that made him so… magnetic. Like something dangerous but impossible to look away from.
“So,” she says, breaking the quiet, her voice soft but steady. “What now?”
Satoru doesn’t open his eyes, but his lips curve into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I dunno know. What’d you wanna do?”
She raises an eyebrow, her lips twitching at the corners as if amused by his suggestion. “What do I want to do? You’re the one sprawled on my floor contemplating your life choices.”
“Fair,” he admits, voice muffled. “But you’re the one with the cigarettes. Gonna die like that.”
Satoru’s headache is somewhat alleviated and has no more interest in regurgitating the ever complicated relationship he has with his parents and as a direct result he’s restoring to his default personality, which is simply asshole.
And Shoko, knowing the drill by now, doesn’t even try to save him with words of wisdom. Instead, she simply lets him talk, or not talk, as it is. She knows he’s only here for the company and a bit of distraction.
“So, you’re really just gonna lay there all night?” Shoko asks, poking at his shoulder, though she knows the answer.
Satoru doesn’t open his eyes, but he shifts his body to get more comfortable, spreading out like he’s marking his territory. “Yeah, gonna stay here forever. This is my spot now.”
Shoko raises an eyebrow, amused. “Your spot? I don’t remember designating this as your spot.”
He grins, eyes still closed. “Well, sometimes life doesn’t ask for permission. You’re just supposed to accept greatness when it’s presented to you.”
“Greatness?” she says, her voice dripping with mockery. “More like the Gojo version of a rug.”
Satoru opens one eye, side-eyeing her. “A rug? Excuse me, but I’m a luxury rug. Only the finest materials. You know, like—what’s that fancy one you like? Persian? Yeah, I’m basically that.”
Shoko snorts. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about. You’re more like the kind that’s been left out in the rain for too long.”
He puts a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Ouch. That really hurts. I thought we were friends, Shoko.”
“You thought wrong,” she says with a grin, tapping his forehead lightly. “You're lucky I’m letting you camp out here and not throwing you out like a stray dog.”
“Stray dog?” he asks, lifting his head slightly. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh but I would . she says, raising an eyebrow. And extending her leg outward, watching him watch her as she lifted herself up and straddled in a way that forced him look at her.
The position was nothing new to them. Wrestling, sparring, facials that required Shoko to be above Satoru or Suguru when applying her mint scented creams and strawberry flavored lip balms with alarming amounts of precision.
Satoru shifts again, still sprawled on the floor and content. “Then you’d be stuck with Geto, and then what?”
“He’s nearer than you.” she says dryly.
“Yeah but ,” he continues, completely undeterred, “he snores in his sleep. And takes up all the space.”
Shoko laughs under her breath, reaching for her second cigarette of the duration of their conversation. “Well that’s arbitrary because you move in your sleep so it makes not a difference. Plus he’s pretty. So I tolerate him more.”
Satoru furrowed his brows and pinched her leg.
“Screw you Sho”
She grins lazily, cigarette still unlit and hanging from the corner of her mouth.
“It’s not like you’re complimenting me or anything so don’t expect it to be reciprocated
He raises an eyebrow, watching her with a smirk. “I compliment you all the time.”
His thumb rubbing over her leg and smiling at her as if whatever she says next is the key to the universe.
She shakes her head, reaching into her pocket for her lighter.
“I don’t count that one time you’d say you’d screw me if you had to.”
“Why?” He asks laughing.
“Because it sounded like an obligation Satoru.”
Satoru’s lips curl into a smirk. “I’d still do it.”
“Do what?” She asks as she blows out of the corner of her mouth.
“Screw you.” He answers bluntly. “Right here on this dirty ass floor if you asked.”
She pauses for a moment, considering it with fake seriousness. “Can I do a rain check? Not really in the mood right now, especially after hearing about your mom and whatnot. Makes me feel weird.”
He lifts his head dramatically. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime Shoko. And you’re gonna rain check?”
“Once in a lifetime?” she asks, laughing. “I’m sure I can get the second hand experience from Geto or maybe Utahime if she ever lets you get within five feet of her.”
Satoru gives a half-hearted shrug. “What can I say? I’m in high demand.”
“I can see that,” Shoko says, passing her cigarette to Satoru to again take. Again, never to smoke because he’s a punk like that, but because her hands were growing tired and she liked the fact that she could pass him almost anything and he’d hold it for her without question.
“Well,” she glances down at him, patting his chest. ”I’m going to bed.”
“Bed?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “It’s like two in the morning.”
“Exactly.”
“All the more reason to stay awake.”
Shoko smirks at his response, her eyes flicking back to the bed ahead of her, silently wondering how she could make room for herself. Knowing that Geto was most likely in his infamous starfish position.
“You're the one who kept me up talking about random nonsense. I’m going to sleep, whether you like it or not.”
Satoru chuckles, his fingers absentmindedly twirling the cigarette between them, not yet ready to drop the subject. “You always say that, but you never actually sleep. You just lay there, thinking.”
“Thinking’s not the same as sleeping.”
She shrugs, sitting up and her sweater tighter around her shoulders as a cold breeze blows through the room. “Besides, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Oh yeah? What’s got you all deep in thought at this hour?” He tilts his head, genuinely curious despite his usual flippant demeanor.
Shoko stares at him for a long moment, her gaze almost unreadable. “Nothing that would make sense to you.”
Satoru grins lazily. “I think I’m more capable of understanding than you give me credit for.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Whatever you say Satoru.”
Shoko takes a step forward, fully prepared to leave him there on the floor, her bummed cigarette still in his hand. But then, she pauses and looks down at Satoru with a more serious expression. “You really should get some sleep, you know. You can’t keep running on fumes forever.”
Satoru tilts his head upwards, shrugging.
“I’m fine. I’ve got time.”
“You’re arrogant. You know that right? You’ve got time until you don’t,” she says, voice low but with a certain weight behind it.”
“Are you referring to anything in specific?”
She avoids eye contact, shrugging.
“I’m not telling you what to do” She pauses. “I don’t care what you do. But call your mom, if you meant half of what you said, you should call her. She’d pick up.”
Sator's expression hardens for a brief moment, his gaze shifting to the ground as if he's suddenly lost in thought.
The cigarette between his fingers burns down further, but he doesn't take any kind of action to stop it. The air between them thickens, heavy with the unspoken.
"I'm fine, Shoko," he says, his voice carrying the same nonchalance as before, but there's a slight edge to it now, like he's trying to push the conversation away.
Shoko doesn't flinch. She's heard that tone before. And not just from him. Her mind wanders to the boy sleeping under her sheets.
She knows it's his own form of deflection. Avoiding the topic when he doesn't want to deal with something, but she's not letting him. He’s entitled and gets everything he wants.
“You know, you're full of shit sometimes." She says not moving. Her gaze soft but unyielding.
"Oh and you’re not?”
He stands up, leaning against the wall like he’s suddenly carrying a weight he hadn’t planned on.
“This isn’t about me.”
Satoru glances at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. But it's empty, not the usual playful grin he throws around. "But it very well could be.“
She sighs, heavy and exhausted.
"I think you've been dodging this for too long, running away from it like it doesn't matter."
"Oh, it matters," Satoru sneers. "But I'm not about to beg for approval. Not from her, not from anyone." He pauses, watching her closely. "You wouldn't understand, though, would you? You and your family get along great right?" His voice drops into a mockingly sweet tone. "What's it like, Shoko? All that love and support?"
Shoko's face hardens. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Satoru expression, an edge of smugness creeping into his voice. "Come on, don't act like you're some saint. Like you have any room to give me advice on my relationship with my mom.”
Shoko's breath is sharp, her eyes flashing with a convoluted mix of frustration and confusion.
"You're so selfish," she spits "You always have been."
Satoru's brow furrows. "Selfish? How the hell am I selfish?”
“The fact that you can’t see it speaks fucking volumes.”
His eyes narrow, defensiveness creeping into his voice. "I don’t need anyone’s pity or your half-baked lectures, Shoko. Especially not from someone who sits on the sidelines, doing nothing but watching."
Shoko barks out a bitter laugh, cutting through his words like a knife. "You really think that, huh? You think I do nothing? I’m the one who cleans up the messes you leave behind, Satoru. You waltz in, playing the savior, and then leave the rest of us to deal with the aftermath. But yeah, sure, I’m the one who’s useless."
Satoru scoffs, crossing his arms. "Oh, so now you’re the victim? Give me a break, Shoko. If I didn’t step in, nothing would get done. You think anyone else could do what I do?"
Her glare hardens. "God, you’re insufferable. You think the whole world revolves around you, don’t you? Just because you can warp reality doesn’t mean you’re the center of it."
"Don’t act like you’re any better.”
Satoru fires back. "You’re so quick to judge, but what have you done lately? You bury yourself in your work and pretend it’s not your way of running, too."
Shoko's jaw tightens, her hands trembling at her sides. "You don’t get to turn this around on me. At least I don’t use people like they’re disposable. You’re reckless.”p>
"Oh, here we go again," he snaps, his voice rising. "The same old 'poor little Gojo' speech. You think I wanted any of this? You think I chose to be the one everyone depends on? You have no idea what it’s like to carry the weight of—"
"Then let someone help you, damn it!" Shoko yells, her voice raw. "But no, you can’t do that, can you? Because that would mean admitting you’re not as invincible as you pretend to be."
Satoru takes a step forward, his voice devoid of any discernible emotion . "You don’t know what it’s like to be me, Shoko."
"And whose fucking fault is that?"
Her words hit him harder than he’s willing to admit, but he masks it with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.
The silence that follows is deafening, the tension between them thick enough to choke on. They stand there, staring each other down, both too stubborn to back away, both too furious to say anything more. The unspoken words hang in the air, louder than anything they’ve just said.
And for once, Satoru doesn’t have a comeback. And that, more than anything, is what finally makes Shoko turn and walk away.