Chapter Text
Gojo took long strides along the marbled hall, the heels of his shoes clicking sharply against the polished stone.
Late, as he always is.
He was scheduled until breaking point and of course the breaking point was on the rare occasion his father would be in attendance.
His fingers brushed the metal of the door handle to the meeting room, exhaling shallowly as he closed his eyes.
He fixed his expression, eyes neutral, plastering a grin across his face, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Immediately aware of the dozen or so pairs of eyes on him, he was long past the point of being fazed by the spotlight, the face of the government, the one the public turned to. He was raised for it.
The attention.
His father, seated around the table, didn’t share his laid back attitude.
The sharp disappointed look shot at him was enough to disrupt the settled nerves Gojo hadn’t realised he felt.
“You’re late,” Nanami muttered, voice low but stern as Gojo took his seat by him.
He reprimanded him as some other minister discussed the budget for– What was this meeting about again?
"I'm here now, right?" Gojo whispers back, flashing a casual smile but ultimately sighing as he focused on the meeting.
Nanami’s brow twitched, but he said no more, turning his attention back to the rest of the room.
Gojo notes the military’s presence, he doesn’t recall the need for either parties, his father or the army.
Regardless, he looks over the military personnel there.
In all honesty he wasn't brushed up on exactly who was who within the military ranks, too many faces and names to remember.
But his eyes caught on a broad-shouldered figure sat at the opposite end of the table.
The man’s build was imposing and strong; he reeked of authority.
A scar adorned the right side of his face, the absence of the eye on that side was striking, seamlessly, the damage seemed to meld with the rest of his face.
The imperfection of the eye itself almost seemed to belong there. The man’s gaze, if anything, felt sharper from the lost eye, the remaining one searing and calculating.
Gojo realised, after a moment too long, that he had been staring.
Quickly he tore his gaze away, his mind snapping back to the agenda at hand, hoping no one caught him in his daze.
Now wasn’t the time to get distracted by the military’s decorum.
The discussion unfolded about military alliances and defence strategies. Diplomats carefully presented and outlined their positions on allegiances with the West.
And Gojo in his infinite boredom felt his gaze drift back to the man, sat with his arms crossed snuggly across his chest, God he'd kill to see what his hands looked like.
The meeting concluded, people gathering their papers and murmuring amongst themselves.
His father, who’d overlooked him for the majority of the meeting, glanced pointedly at Nanami, who leaned over to Gojo as the last of the diplomats and soldiers exited.
“You'll be managing him," voice calm as he stated the responsibility now placed on him.
Gojo paused, snapping out of his dissociated state blinking as he turned his attention back to the matter at hand.
“Hm? Managing him?" Gojo glanced towards the man he’d been gawking at for the better part of that meeting.
"We need him for the summit but he's a bit… abrasive. Antisocial to put it lightly, we need things to go as smoothly as possible.”
He sighed as he continued, “Your father elected you to be in charge of communicating his points clearly to other officials, other countries, you understand."
Gojo let the information settle before turning his gaze back to him, standing with a compelling presence—he was staring back now.
His military uniform hugged his broad frame making it harder for Gojo to look away and focus on retaining eye contact like a normal person.
His father rose, adjusting his suit jacket before indicating to Nanami to introduce them, then leaving without another glance.
Nanami stood up walking around the table. Gojo followed as he approached the general, a brief introduction escaping his lips as he gestured toward Gojo.
"General Ryomen, this is Minister Gojo’s son, Satoru." Nanami introduced him willfully.
Now stood in front of the General, Gojo was pleasantly surprised by his need to crane his neck up to meet his eyes.
He extended his hand, forcing himself to keep his posture casual, though the air felt thick with an unspoken tension.
Gojo bit his cheek when Sukuna’s calloused hand gripped his, the roughness of his palm sending an unexpected shiver up Gojo’s spine.
The weight of Sukuna’s voice carried through his hand,
"Just Sukuna is fine," the General said, his tone flat, his grip was firm but released Gojo’s hand with the same ease.
A shallow disappointment dissipated in Gojo's gut, dismissing it, unwilling to linger on the sensation.
Nanami’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. Gojo had forgotten he was even there for a second,
"I have a conference to attend, Gojo. You and your General here should have clear schedules until the debrief. Make yourselves familiar."
Nanami's tone was as blunt and uninterested as ever, without a second thought, he turned and left the room, leaving Gojo alone with him.
Sukuna barely glanced at him, “I assume you have my itinerary,” he spoke flatly. “I’ll attend what’s necessary. Don’t waste my time with the rest.”
Gojo raised a brow, already feeling the pushback. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, tone light but his gaze analytical.
Sukuna exhaled through his nose. “Then we’ll get along fine.”
Gojo could feel his eye twitch, he always was stuck micromanaging everything, everyone, because of his position, making the government look less corrupt than it actually is, smoothing over public relations, a pretty face to distract people from the country’s fuck ups.
Now here he was babysitting a general who clearly thought he was too good for politics.
"Great,” Gojo spoke, his voice easy, “Because I’d hate to have to hold your hand through this whole thing.”
Sukuna gave him a slow, unimpressed glance. “I don’t need handling.”
"That’s what people who need handling say,” Gojo shot back, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You’re lucky I’m good at my job.”
Sukuna chuckled, low and indifferent. “You’re half my size and you talk like you run the room. That’s cute.”
Gojo’s smile didn’t waver, but his tone sharpened. “And you’re supposed to be good at leading. That’s cute.”
Sukuna’s smirk faltered just slightly, his gaze narrowing as he straightened to his full height, towering over Gojo. “Careful, kid. You don’t want to make this personal.”
Gojo tilted his head, unfazed. “Oh, believe me, I don’t. I just like to point out when someone’s ego’s bigger than their actual influence.”
Sukuna leaned closer, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. “You think you’ve got influence? All I see is a pretty face playing diplomat. If this goes south, you’ll be the one explaining it to your father, not me.”
Gojo’s jaw tightened for a brief moment, nerve struck, but he masked it quickly with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right. Because nothing says ‘responsible leadership’ like deflecting accountability.”
Sukuna gave a short humourless laugh. “Accountability isn’t my problem: Results are, and I deliver. You, on the other hand, seem to think your mouth will do all the work for you.”
Gojo narrowed his eyes before a laugh escaped his lips. “You’re fun.” It’s been some time since someone actually pushed back against him, and not in an outright dismissive way.
Gojo turned on his heel walking towards the door, looking back at Sukuna expectantly. He looked back with an indifferent expression.
He waited for a second by the door, once he realised Sukuna wasn’t going to follow him he spoke up.
“It’s a nice day, c’mon let's get ice cream.”
The other raised his eyebrow bemused considering the sharp switch in tone,
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” He shrugged as he kicked the door open behind him as he left.
Sukuna hadn’t planned on entertaining his chicanery but he didn’t feel like waiting around for him before the debrief either considering what he’d witnessed from Gojo’s punctuality so far.
Once Gojo realised that he’d accepted his invite he couldn’t help but smirk at the small victory.
He turned to glance at the soldier as he slowed his pace, Sukuna was not the kind of man to quicken his stride for anyone.
Pushing the doors open they both could feel the summer heat was relentless, thick with humidity that clung to your skin like a second layer.
The sky stretched out in an unbroken sheet of deep, saturated blue, illuminating everything that fell under its cast with an impaired contrast.
The sun was high, its rays keen and unforgiving, bouncing off concrete and glass making even the shadows feel warm as they walked.
Gojo squinted against the brightness, huffing before sliding on his sunglasses with a careless flick, the dark lenses masking his expression.
Crystalline blue, hues lighter than the sky above them, almost translucent in the sunlight.
Too bright, taking up the space of his eyes, pupils shrunk to pinpoints under the intense light.
Sukuna found himself staring, just for a second too long, before looking away.
“Alright, important question,” Gojo began playfully, leaning against the glass counter, arms crossed.
“What’s your go to flavour of ice cream, wait, don’t tell me, you like the weird flavors. You seem like a rum raisin kind of man.”
Sukuna stared at him, then at the menu. “None.”
Gojo blinked. “None?”
“I don’t eat sweets.”
“That’s tragic.” Gojo threw out his hands theatrically, Sukuna, unreceptive to the theatrics, remained with his blank stare.
Unbothered, he turned around to the cashier, a bright expression across his face as he ordered.
Gojo noticed how the cashier’s eyes flicked the figure beside him and he couldn’t blame her.
Sukuna stood with his arms loosely crossed, his expression flat, save for the slight downturn of his mouth.
His auburn eye, devoid of interest, flicked over the scene before him with the faintest breath of irritation ghosted across his features, he didn’t bother to mask it as he felt no need for pretense.
It was an absurd contrast. The ice cream stall, all pastel colors and cheery branding, and Sukuna, stood at the centre, misery emanating off of him.
Gojo accepted his order with an absent-minded hum of thanks before turning towards the door, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure Sukuna was actually following.
The moment they stepped back into the blaring sun, the ice cream began to melt, beads of liquid already tracing down the cone.
Gojo licked at the droplets trying to catch them before they could drip onto his blazer, his movements careless.
Sukuna watched the entire ordeal with a mildly disgusted glare, unimpressed by both Gojo’s struggle and the juvenile indulgence in the first place.
The heat still clung to them as they walked back toward the building, their steps slow in the lingering haze of the afternoon.
Sukuna had barely said a word, Gojo had caught the way his jaw tensed when he tossed the napkin into the trash, irritated that he’d gone along with the ordeal in the first place.
Gojo found the whole thing quite amusing; he was perfectly content, hands in his pockets, humming something tuneless under his breath as they approached the shaded entrance.
“By the way,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence. “There’s a party this weekend.”
Sukuna didn’t so much as glance at him. “And?”
Gojo grinned. “And it’d be a shame if you missed it.”
Sukuna scoffed. “Now why should I go to some overstuffed political gathering?” He turned to glare at him, almost caught up in how the sun highlighted his irises.
“Because it’s the overstuffed political gathering of the week,” Gojo teased, kicking a loose pebble on the pavement. “It’ll be good to familiarise yourself with everyone.”
“Sounds awful.”
They reached the door but before Gojo pushed it open he leaned against it Gojo turned his head to meet his gaze. “So you are coming.”
Sukuna let out a sharp breath through his nose. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you also didn’t say no,” Gojo pointed out with his everlasting smug undertone.
Sukuna hit him with a look that could have shattered glass. “I’d rather be shot.”
“Oh, c’mon ,” Gojo prodded. “Mingle. Maybe have a drink and relax that scary military posture for five minutes. You might even have fun.”
Sukuna’s silence stretched long enough that Gojo almost thought he’d let it go, he turned to press the door open as they walked down the halls. Once they’d reached the conference hall Sukuna turned to him with a flat, unimpressed tone, Sukuna muttered, “If I go, it’s not to have fun.”
Gojo smiled, bright and genuine. “That’s a yes.”
Sukuna gave him a sharp, sidelong glance before pushing open the door to the conference room, not blessing him with a response. But the way Gojo’s grin widened said he’d already won.
Gojo and Sukuna stepped into the debriefing room together, the heavy double doors closing behind them with a defining click. The room was already filled with officials, diplomats, military personnel, advisors, each engaged in quiet conversation, but the second Gojo entered, all eyes subtly turned toward him.
It wasn’t just recognition. It was gravity.
He didn’t miss the way the atmosphere shifted with Sukuna’s attendance. People straightened in their seats. Some offered nods of acknowledgment, others waited for him to speak before even daring to settle.
Gojo moved through the space as if he owned it, all easy confidence, before sliding into his seat like this was just another casual discussion over drinks. Sukuna took his own seat beside him, far less entertained by the spectacle.
The debrief started, and as expected, Gojo took the lead effortlessly.
"Alright, let’s make this quick. We’ve got a full agenda today; military coordination, foreign policy adjustments, and, of course, making sure none of us get embarrassed at the summit," Gojo began, his voice light, yet carrying authority. A few quiet hums circulated through the room.
Sukuna crossed his arms, watching the way people naturally leaned into Gojo’s words. It wasn’t just that they were listening, they were engaged. He had the kind of charm that made people want to follow him, even if he was being half serious.
It annoyed him.
He didn’t trust people who could sway a room so effortlessly. Especially someone who missed half the commencing meeting and didn’t seem to have a clue what the subject was.
Gojo continued without missing a beat. “We’re finalising our approach for the international discussions. There’s been talk of new military cooperation agreements, some people are eager, some hesitant. The West is expecting a show of unity from us, so the last thing we need is infighting. Understood?”
A few murmurs, a shuffled paper here and there, but no immediate resistance. Gojo shifted, resting his chin against his hand before tilting his head toward Sukuna.
"You’re awfully quiet, General. You do have thoughts, right?"
Sukuna barely lifted his gaze from the documents in front of him. If Sukuna wasn’t so caught off-guard from the fact Gojo seemed to know what he was talking about he’d quip back with something more refined.
“I prefer to speak when there’s something worth saying.”
Gojo’s lips quirked. “Oh, I love that. Very serious, but see in these meetings, we use our words.”
A few people smirked, the tension in the room briefly breaking, but Sukuna remained uninspired, his eyes narrowing at the audacity and what he could tell was an establishment of hierarchy,
“I don’t waste time on theatrics,” Sukuna replied, voice measured.
Gojo raised a brow. “And yet you’re in politics now.”
Sukuna shot him a sharp look, but Gojo had already turned back to the table, steering the conversation forward.
The meeting carried on with Gojo dictating most of the flow. To anyone else, it looked effortless, his ability to diffuse tension, redirect conversations, make dry discussions feel almost enjoyable. But Sukuna could tell it wasn’t just charm; it was control.
He wasn’t just talking. He was leading. And worse, people were following.
By the time the meeting began to wrap up, Sukuna had leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his patience wearing thinner by the minute. Gojo, of course, was still in full form, exchanging last, minute remarks with the officials like he had all the time in the world.
People stood to leave once the meeting hand ended, filing out in small groups. Sukuna didn’t move right away, watching as Gojo stretched his arms over his head, yawning like he’d just finished a particularly dull class.
The sun was close to setting, casting long golden streaks through the windows of the government building as Gojo and Sukuna stepped out of the debriefing room. The air outside the conference halls felt noticeably lighter, the tension of official discussion melting away into the quiet hum of the evening.
Gojo loosened his tie with one hand, exhaling sharply. "Well, that was thrilling," he drawled, stretching his arms above his head again before shoving his hands into his pockets. "Don’t you just love the sound of bureaucracy in the afternoon?"
Sukuna barely glanced at him, walking at a steady pace down the hall. "I prefer silence."
Gojo grinned. "You keep saying that, but I’m starting to think you like the sound of my voice."
Sukuna refused to dignify that with a response.
They moved through the corridors, the building quieter now as most officials trickled out for the day. Gojo had grown accustomed to the way people acknowledged him, some with nods of respect, others with brief pleasantries, a few with careful avoidance.
Sukuna, on the other hand, commanded a different kind of presence. There was no warmth in the way people looked at him. No casual greetings. Maybe respect, wariness, or in some cases outright fear.
Gojo wasn’t sure if Sukuna enjoyed it or just tolerated it.
They reached the main foyer, where aides and junior officials were wrapping up their work. Gojo was about to suggest a drink, a way to shake off the dullness of the debrief (and a way to get in his pants), when he noticed movement near the east wing. A small group of military officials, sharp suits, flat faces, moving quietly amongst themselves.
Sukuna’s pace didn’t falter.
Gojo tilted his head. "You’ve got somewhere to be?"
Sukuna didn’t stop walking, but there was something unreadable in the way he glanced at him. "You don’t."
Gojo narrowed his eyes as he watched Sukuna disappear through the set of restricted doors, his fingers twitched at his side, his mind already turning.
You don’t.
A statement, not an insult. Not entirely.
Gojo’s fingers curled, then stretched out again. He hated how quickly his mind latched onto it, that Sukuna assumed he had nowhere pressing to be.
His mind pushed back, but the discomfort lingered, the weight of it pressing against him like a hand on his throat. It was fine. He didn’t need to think about it. He didn’t need to think about anything.
"Focus," Gojo muttered under his breath, forcing himself to breathe deeper, trying to shake off the pressure that was slowly creeping in.
His father hadn’t made him aware– God, who did he think he was? His father hadn’t done his due diligence in making him privy to the secret meeting. Gojo mocked himself with a chuckle, eyeing the set of doors before turning on his heel, it was the end of the day. Whatever meeting Sukuna had that he wasn’t aware of wasn’t his concern.
If only he could truly convince himself of that.
The sun had dipped past the skyline, casting long shadows through the government building’s tinted windows. Most officials had packed up and left for the evening.
Inside the private, heavily secured conference room, Sukuna sat among a handful of high, ranking military officials. The atmosphere was tense but composed, the low hum of conversation settling as Kenjaku entered. He moved with an air of control, a quiet authority that didn’t need to be announced.
"Let's not waste time," Kenjaku said, his voice smooth with confidence, setting down a thin, unmarked folder onto the table. “We have a situation that I want resolving immediately.”
Sukuna leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, an unreadable gaze fixed on Kenjaku.
The room smelt of old wood and stale cigarettes, the dim overhead lighting casted harsh shadows on those around the table. He didn’t enjoy these late, night meetings, but he knew this one's necessity.
Kenjaku flipped open the folder with deliberate ease, its contents contained a single sheet of paper, a list of names.
His eyes flicked to others around the room, there was a tension in the air, the kind that settled low in the gut, the crawl before the trigger fires.
"Twelve names.” Kenjaku continued, voice even. “The orders are simple. Their movements stop, no traces.”
A stillness settled over the room. This wasn’t unusual, but the weight of it was still palpable, all those in the room were familiar with these politics. There was some disturbance amongst the soldiers present, an exhale too sharp,
"Are the Gojo family aware of these actions?" A voice questioned, cautious not to overstep.
Kenjaku’s expression remained unchanged. "These are orders from the minister himself.”
Sukuna didn’t react outwardly, he recognised the implications. These kinds of directives weren’t new. Political theatre was one thing; the reality behind it was another.
“What about his son?”
There was a pause, barely a beat but noticeable. Kenjaku smiled, cunning.
“Satoru's not to know, and it stays that way.” He exhaled as he continued, almost tired of the fact he had to explain something that he saw as common sense. “His role is diplomatic, if this were to ever come to light we need his innocence to be reflected in earnest."
Sukuna glanced at the man who’d spoken. Young, new enough that he thought asking questions was a good idea. He’d said nothing but his stare alone was enough to make the soldier shift slightly in his seat.
"What have-"
"Irrelevant." Kenjaku cut in smoothly, eyes flicking over to the soldier. With a pairing like Kenjaku and the Gojo family, any question is asking for your head to be displayed on a spike.
"This is to be dealt with as soon as feasibly possible. We've had them monitored for the past few weeks. We know schedules, movements, habits. Any additional information you require I can guarantee is already on file.”
Sukuna drummed his fingers absentmindedly against his armrest, Kenjaku turned his gaze towards him.
"Sukuna, I'm assigning you to the first quarter of the list, I trust you won’t disappoint."
A formality. A needless one.
"Yes Sir," Sukuna stood up, his chair pushing back with a muted scrape against the floor.
Kenjaku reached into a separate folder pulling another file, sliding it across the table towards him. Sukuna took it without looking, tucking it under his arm,
Kenjaku closed the folder. “You know your assignments. Get it done.”
He turned into the hallway, the corridor was quiet, the cool air hitting his skin as he ran a hand over his face.
This was going to be a mess.
The air conditioning did little to temper the weight pressing against his skull. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, steady, the dim overhead lights faded into the city skylights. By the time he reached the exit, the hush of the building gave way to the low hum of traffic outside.
He cracked his neck as he stepped out into the warm night air, the temperature finally approaching something tolerable. The heat had lost its bite, settling into a heavy, lingering warmth that clung to the pavement, the scent of cigarette smoke and asphalt standing in the night.
Sukuna exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he took in the skyline. He could hear the faint rumble of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from some teens, the distant wail of a siren weaving through the streets. Life continued, unaware of the blood about to be spilled.
His fingers twitched at his sides, muscle memory kicking in. It had been a long time since he’d had to do this himself. Long enough that some might think he’d gone soft. A snort left him at the thought.
Footsteps approached from behind.
"You looked bored in there." His voice was light, almost amused.
Sukuna exhaled through his nose, gaze fixed on the skyline. "I was."
Kenjaku chuckled. "I suppose diplomacy isn't quite as exciting as," he made a vague motion with his fingers, "your previous line of work."
Sukuna sighed deeply, the weight of old instincts settling in again. “Wasn’t much work to begin with. Just got things done.”
Kenjaku hummed, tilting his head. "And yet, you stayed. All these years. Makes me wonder if you actually enjoy the bureaucracy."
Sukuna turned his head slightly, giving him a slow, unimpressed look. Kenjaku just smiled. The lights from the street cast shadows across his face, but his eyes held a sharpness beneath the amusement.
"I already know you’re not someone who likes sitting still," Kenjaku mused. "You get to stretch your legs a little. I’d almost say it’s nostalgic."
Sukuna scoffed. "Nostalgia’s for people who regret something."
Kenjaku's smile widened, but he said nothing to that. Instead, he took a step forward, looking out over the city alongside him. “You think the kid suspects anything?”
Satoru.
Sukuna didn’t answer right away. His mind flicked back to the debrief, the way Satoru commanded attention so easily, the way he ran his mouth like he had nothing to lose. His insistent questions, his push for cohesion.
“He’s not stupid.” Sukuna rolled his shoulders again, shaking off the thought. “But he’s green.”
"Keep it that way.” Kenjaku hummed as if considering it. "God knows how his family kept him so naive.”
“Enlighten me,” Sukuna didn’t keep up with politics, it was all the same at the end of the day.
Kenjaku let out a soft chuckle, resting his arms against the railing. "Satoru’s been a showpiece since the day he could walk; smile here, shake hands there, make sure the cameras love you. But the real work? His family never let him touch it."
Sukuna scoffed, rolling his neck. "Kept the golden boy clean, hm?"
“As clean as they could,” he repeated, his tone almost amused, but his eyes carried an indifference that seeped into his voice. “But you know how it is. Put something pretty in a room full of wolves, and eventually someone takes a bite.”
Sukuna stilled. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the way people in power operated, he narrowed his eyes, this is why he couldn’t stand politicians. His jaw tightened as he rolled his shoulders back, like shaking off something he didn’t want clinging to him.
Kenjaku glanced at him, all too aware of the shift in Sukuna’s posture. “His family made sure it was swept under the rug, of course. A scandal like that? Would’ve ruined the image. And he plays his part well, doesn’t he? Smiles like he’s never had a thing to be afraid of.”
A brief silence settled between them, heavy but unhurried, as Sukuna considered Kenjaku’s words.
Kenjaku watched him, amused. "You're already thinking too hard about him."
"Tch," Sukuna clicked his tongue, turning his gaze back to the skyline. "I don’t think about politicians."
Kenjaku hummed, unconvinced. "Good. Because he’s got no place in this part of the world."
Sukuna didn’t disagree. Gojo was too bright, too reckless, too kind . Even if he played the game well, he wasn’t cut out for all of what happened behind closed doors.
The conversation was lost to the night air, the bustling city pouring over the skyline, lights of each room just specks of glitter amongst the landscape.
In Shinjuku Ni-chōme Gojo pushed open the door to the bar, the music was low, the conversation lower, just murmurs and laughter as he scanned the sparse room for Shoko.
She’d already arrived and sat in a booth, Gojo slid into the seat opposite her with the familiarity of people who'd known each other far too long.
"Long day?" Gojo asked, leaning in just slightly.
"How’d you guess?" Shoko replied as she sipped her drink. "They don't stop running me ragged with this health ministry stuff. Paperwork, meetings, and then trying to keep the hospital running smoothly."
Gojo chuckled, more for show than anything else. He studied her for a moment, noting the lines around her eyes, the tightness in her shoulders. She had always been the more grounded one, someone who could deal with people and their problems, even when her own seemed to pile up.
"How’s Tsumiki? Still getting the treatment she needs?" he asked, glancing as he took a sip of his drink.
Shoko’s expression softened, and she gave a small shrug. "She’s doing fine. I check in on her now and then, most of it’s taken care of by the team in the hospital. She’s stable."
Gojo nodded, relief flickering briefly in his chest, he didn’t press her further. He watched her for a long moment, seeing the exhaustion in her under-eyes. His gaze softened, but he didn’t say anything more.
“Long day?” she asked, mimicking Gojo’s cadence.
Gojo exhaled through his nose, rolling his glass between his fingers. “Something like that.”
Shoko raised a brow. “That’s the least you’ve ever said about your job.”
“I could go into detail,” Gojo shrugged. “But you’d make fun of me for how desperate I am, then I’d have to kill myself out of embarrassment.”
Shoko snorted. “That’d be a shame. Who else would ruin my drinking nights with political gossip?”
He rolled his eyes, lips twitching. “For once there’s something worth gossiping about. We got a new guy.”
"New guy?" Shoko’s eyebrow stayed raised, clearly intrigued.
"New guy." Gojo repeated, his grin widening.
Shoko’s expression shifted, a curious glint in her eye. "You think he’s gay?" she asked, her voice barely hiding the amusement.
Gojo replied simply, “He's in the army."
Shoko snorted into her drink. "So he’s gay," she said, completely deadpan.
Gojo laughed slightly, tipping his head back averting his gaze. “Anyways, that doesn’t matter, I'm not gonna get with him. He’s annoying.”
Shoko snorted. “More annoying than you?”
“Okay, whatever.” Gojo clicked his tongue, taking a sip of his drink.
Shoko smirked, waiting. Gojo always had more to say.
And, of course,
"He’s so fucking frustrating. He just looks at you, and you know he’s thinking some condescending shit, but he won’t say it. Just stands there all quiet.”
A brief pause, “But then he speaks and his voice makes you forget why you were mad in the first place." He accidentally rambled on.
"Sounds like you're into him," Shoko teased, her lips curving into a smirk.
Gojo raised his hands in mock surrender.
Shoko laughed, shaking her head. "You’re jealous he doesn’t fall at your feet like everyone else."
"Shut up," Gojo muttered, though he was clearly amused.
Shoko paused as she took another sip of her drink. Shoko pressed, enjoying the teasing. "Is he hot, though?"
Gojo paused, reluctant to admit it grin spread wider, practically glowing. “Oh, you couldn’t even imagine. He’s tall,”
“Taller than you?” Shoko cut in, leaning back with a smirk.
“Yes!” Gojo practically barked, radiating frustration. “And he’s so big, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his hands , ”
Shoko groaned dramatically, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know why I asked. What about his face?”
Gojo threw his head back with a theatrical sigh, whining, “Oh my fucking god, his face.”
Shoko gave him an exaggerated, mock exasperated look. “God, why did I ask?”
Gojo practically gushed, as if trying to catch his breath from sheer excitement. “He has this scar that takes up half of his face. He's missing an eye, and the eye he does have, ” Gojo stops himself, but can’t help but shift to the same topic
“He could bench press me.” He paused, grinning sheepishly. “And I’d let him.”
Shoko’s face twisted into a mixture of amusement and disbelief, taking a long sip of her drink. “You’re ridiculous,” she deadpanned. "I can’t believe you’re going on about him like this.”
Gojo leaned forward, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You don’t get it, Shoko. He’s old but not where the generation gap is painful. He's probably the finest man I’ve seen working in the government in years. His eye, the way he looks at you like he’s already figured you out, and the worst part is, ” Gojo huffed, shaking his head. “He probably has.”
Shoko let out a long exhale, before her tone turned teasing. “So, when’s your first date?”
Gojo laughed, though there was a bit of nervous energy behind it. “You know I’m not trying to date him,” he said, but his eyes betrayed him. “I can barely stand being in the same room as him.”
"I’ll let you keep pretending you're not into him." Shoko laughed but paused for a moment raising an eyebrow, her expression shifting slightly as she leaned forward. "You have a tendency to, never mind."
"What?" Gojo asked, clearly curious but also annoyed.
"Repeat bad habits?" Shoko's words were deliberate, testing the waters.
Gojo stiffened, eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"How much older is he?" Shoko pressed, eyes glinting with a touch of concern now.
Gojo huffed, leaning back in his seat, trying to play it off. "I dunno, I’m almost thirty now. You're acting like we're still teenagers, and me sleeping with a dilf is actually problematic."
Shoko just glared at him. “Gojo it doesn’t matter if you’re pushing thirty you look like you’ve barely hit twenty.”
“Thank you.” Gojo rested his chin on both his hands, batting his eyelashes satirically.
“No, really, let’s look at the pattern.” She held up a finger. “Older.” Another. “Emotionally unavailable.” Another. “Kind of an asshole.” She wiggled her fingers. “Ringing any bells?”
Gojo scoffed, taking a sip of his drink. “Who cares? What’s wrong with liking older men?”
Shoko stared at him, deadpan. “You don’t just like older men. You like ‘this man has committed war crimes’ older men.”
Gojo grinned. “I like them experienced.”
Shoko made a disgusted noise. “I regret this conversation.”
“You started it.”
“Because I’m concerned.”
“Well, don’t be.” Gojo waved a hand. “I can handle myself.”
Shoko leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “That’s what you said last time.”
Gojo clicked his tongue, feigning offense. “You act like I have terrible judgment.”
Shoko gave him a long, flat look.
Gojo sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, whatever.”
Shoko smirked. “Just saying, it’s a pattern.”
Gojo shook his head, exasperated, then slumped back in his seat with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Needlessly caring doesn’t suit you. Leave that for Suguru.” The words were bitter as they left his mouth, sharper than he intended.
The silence that followed was thick, the weight of his tone lingering in the air. Shoko’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, her expression softening just a fraction, but she didn’t say anything at first.
Gojo let out a long breath, trying to push down the simmering frustration that had surfaced unexpectedly.
He wasn’t sure why that last part had slipped out, but it had. And now it hung between them like a silent accusation.
Gojo finally broke the quiet, his voice quieter than before.
“I didn’t mean—”
"You’re more of a mess than you let on, Satoru."
Gojo's eyes shifted away from Shoko. "I'm a mess because I wanna sleep with the old hot guy that just started? He's probably not even gay."
Shoko leaned back, her gaze unfazed as she took a sip from her glass. "I'll stop by tomorrow. When are you scheduled together?"
Gojo's eyes briefly flickered to her before he sighed, the exhaustion creeping back into his tone. "We should have a meeting in the morning. You can stop by after that. Why, you think you have a better gaydar than me?"
Shoko smirked, setting her glass down slowly. "I knew you had a thing for Suguru two years before he did. And half a year before you even knew you were gay."
Gojo blinked, then gave a short, half, laugh. "You're not wrong, but," he muttered, a little embarrassed but still defiant.
"I always know," Shoko interrupted, her voice light but with that sharp edge only she could pull off. "You are completely in denial about your type. You never were good at figuring yourself out."
"Shut up," Gojo shot back, his smirk returning, but there was something defensive underneath the banter. "I know what I want. It’s just complicated."
Shoko rested her chin on her hand. “So, enlighten me, what exactly is so complicated about it?”
Gojo scoffed, swirling his drink. “You wouldn't get it.”
She arched her brow. “Try me.”
He exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking away for a second before landing back on her. “You ever want something you know is bad for you, like, every cigarette you’ve ever smoked?”
“Right.” Shoko snorted “So, you want something that'll ruin your life.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.” Shoko leaned back, arms crossed. “Come on, Satoru, you’ve never cared about the consequences before. ”
Gojo clicked his tongue, giving her a look. “It’s different.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Okay, rude.” He huffed, then waved a dismissive hand. “Anyway, enough about me. What about you? You seeing anyone?”
Shoko snorted. “No. I have this thing called ‘standards.’”
Gojo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Too cool and mysterious to fall in love, I get it.”
“Exactly.” She stretched her arms above her head. “Besides, watching your disasters is enough entertainment.”
Gojo clicked his tongue. “You just like watching me suffer.”
“Who wouldn’t.”
A short silence settled between them, comfortable, the background chatter of patrons faded into the late hour.
The train was quiet, save for clusters of teens and the occasional lone salaryman—regulars at this hour. Gojo didn’t listen to music, instead he counted buildings as they passed, noted each stop, who got on and off, scanning for unfamiliar faces.
He smiled at the aunties, nodded at anyone who recognised him. The performance never ended, even after the clock struck five.
The train emptied out as it neared his stop. Most people who lived in Minato City didn’t take the train. Gojo wasn’t sure why he still did—habit, maybe. Probably because back in high school, Shoko would take it home. Shoko And–
Geto.
To placate the loneliness that came with his upbringing, he’d go with them. He missed it. High school, that was.
He pressed a thumb to the crease of his brow as his thoughts scattered. The Mita Line called out Daimon. Gojo opened his eyes, glanced at the screen to confirm, and stood, waiting for the train to stop.
He stepped onto the platform. The lingering heat settled on his skin like a blanket. Exiting the station, he breathed in the familiar stillness of Minato, refined gentlemen and elegant women returning from frivolous nights out. He couldn’t mock them. Not when he’d just spent the evening drinking cocktails in Shinjuku til the last train.
The lobby of his building was marble-tiled and quiet at this hour, lit by gold downlights that cast long reflections across the floor.
The doorman greeted him with a nod and a deferential “Evening, Gojo-san,” which Gojo returned with a smile that never reached his eyes.
The elevator ride was silent. A long mirror reflected him back at himself: collar askew, sleeves wrinkled, fatigue softening the sharpness of his face. The city unfolded beneath him through the glass as the numbers ticked upward, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, until the doors opened to the private hallway that led only to his penthouse.
He stepped inside without thinking, shoes kicked off with practiced ease as he padded across the cool wood floor. The stillness of the space settled around him like fog.
He moved down the corridor, loosening his tie with one hand, blazer slipping from his shoulders and landing in a careless heap on the floor. His bedroom was dimly lit, curtains drawn against the skyline.
In his en-suite, he flicked on the lights and leaned briefly against the sink, blinking at his reflection. His fingers moved on muscle memory, shirt unbuttoned, cuffs rolled. The mirrored cabinet opened with a quiet click, revealing rows of neatly ordered skincare products.
Oil cleanser first. He held it on top of his palms before massaging it into his skin, watching the concealer dissolve from his under-eye. Then the second cleanser, a light soap that smelled faintly of yuzu.
He rinsed with lukewarm water, patted dry with a towel. Toner pressed gently in, then serums: niacinamide, a brightening ampoule, then the retinoid that left a yellow sheen.
Moisturiser last, cool and thick beneath his fingertips. His skincare routine was the one gift he gave to himself, letting the rhythm soothe the static in his head, ritualistic in a way.
He undid his trousers and stepped out of them, folding them only loosely before dropping them onto the edge of a chair.
The day sat heavily on his limbs, too much to resist as he dragged himself to the bed, slipping beneath the cool sheets with a sigh.
For a moment, he simply lay there, eyes fixed on a segment of paint that’d been peeling for at least a year now.
Then he picked up his phone flooded with news, messages, and something stupid from Shoko. Nothing caught his attention, hoping to get lost in an endless loop of content he found himself distracted with the task of distraction to really focus. With a quiet huff, he locked the screen and dropped it beside him.
His thoughts circled, refusing stillness. Sukuna.
Gojo shut his eyes, tried to redirect. His father at the meeting, his mother’s last call, the numbers in next week’s policy briefing. But Sukuna's presence lingered like a fingerprint on glass; half-erased, still visible in the right light.
He turned onto his side, foolishly thinking a shift in position might realign his thoughts.
It didn’t.
He drifted back into his orbit, slow and inescapable.