Chapter Text
It’s an innocuous Tuesday afternoon when Satoru realizes he should’ve read the fine print.
“You want me to do what? ”
Yaga sighs. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Satoru. You need to—”
“No, no, I heard you the first time,” Satoru interrupts. “It just didn’t make much sense.”
Yaga’s eye twitches. “You just said the same thing twice.”
They’re in Yaga’s office on the top floor of Yaga Music Group’s main administrative building. Satoru, originally sitting across from Yaga, is leaning over the desk with his hand tightly fisted on the wooden surface.
Satoru ignores him, forcibly unclenching his fingers after a moment. “Let’s take a raincheck on this chat, Yaga. You seem like you could do with some rest. I’ll get Ijichi to drop by that café on main—”
“ Satoru ,” Yaga growls. “Sit down.”
Satoru stops. He closes his eyes for a few seconds– not that Yaga would be able to see through his sunglasses , he thinks– and sits down. “What am I, a kid?”
“Don’t start now, please,” Yaga mutters. He slides a thick manila folder across his desk to Satoru. “Do you know what this is?”
The corner of Satoru’s mouth twitches. “Let me guess. Coupons? Promotions? The waiting list of all the brands wanting to sponsor Gojo Satoru?”
Yaga looks like he wants to punch Satoru.
“It’s the first contract you signed with YMG,” He says instead, rubbing at his temples. “The revised one, I mean. Before Star Plasma was released.”
Satoru squints at Yaga. “The terms you set when I was sixteen?”
“Let me rephrase,” Yaga continues, nonplussed. “It’s the binding contract you signed. You and Suguru both.”
“Okay, binding contract. What does that have to do with anything?” Satoru groans, slouching further in his chair.
Yaga taps on the folder a few times before looking Satoru in the eye. “Did you forget what’s happening next month?”
Satoru grins. “Is it your birthday?”
“No. It’s the ten-year anniversary of Star Plasma ’s release. And your debut into the music industry, by association,” Yaga says with a frown. “
Satoru snorts and leans back in his chair. “It’s the ten-year anniversary, so what? We upload some pictures, release some remixes, and that’s it. And hopefully, nobody makes us celebrate twenty.”
Yaga sighs, for what must’ve been the third time in five minutes alone. “Page twenty-four, Satoru. Read the footnotes.”
“...Seriously?” Satoru says, wrinkling his nose.
Yaga leans forward and rummages through the folder before drawing out a sheet of paper, headlined CLAUSE 7 and typed up in thin ten-point font.
Satoru stares at the paper, then back up at Yaga.
Yaga’s eye twitches. “The footnote , Satoru.”
Satoru’s gaze drops down to the very bottom of the paper, where there’s a barely-visible line of text that runs across two lines. He squints, leaning closer to read it. You’ve got to be kidding me.
“On the occasion that over ten million album sales are achieved,” Satoru reads. “The artists are to hold a world tour for the ten-year anniversary of the— Yaga, what the hell?”
Yaga is stony-faced as Satoru stares at him in disbelief
“Did you put this shit in here?” Satoru demands, fingers tightening on the edge of the contract, tight enough to rip a tear in the edge of the paper.
Yaga mutters something indiscernible.
“What?”
“— ther ,” Yaga coughs into his fist awkwardly. “Your mother. She put that in there.”
“I haven’t talked to her in years,” Satoru retorts, brows furrowing. “There’s no way that this still applies.”
Yaga shrugs helplessly. “She could take you to court.”
Satoru swears under his breath. “And on the occasion that she does, what are our chances?”
Yaga looked down at the manila folder, then at his fingers, then at his computer screen. “Optimistically, small. Realistically, none.”
Satoru’s head hurts. “Does he know about this?”
Yaga raises an eyebrow. “Satoru, I didn’t even know this clause existed until I received a strongly-worded email from Gojo Inc.’s relations manager. And clearly, you didn’t know about this either.”
Satoru nods– not in agreement, but as if to placate himself. “Right. You’re right. Hey, Yaga?”
“No.”
Satoru ignores him and barrels on. “Court sounds nice this time of year. I’ve always wanted to be interrogated by an attorney, actually. Why don’t we–”
“ No, Satoru,” Yaga sighs. “We are not fighting a legal battle that we’re going to lose.”
Satoru runs a hand through his hair. “How much money would we even lose?”
“None, because we’re not risking it,” Yaga says. “We just recruited three new young artists, each slated for an album this fall. I’m not letting any resources go to waste, not after that lawsuit from Night Parade Records last year.”
Satoru groans. He takes off his sunglasses and rubs at his eyes tiredly, wincing at the way the harsh afternoon sunlight glares into his vision.
Yaga stands up after a minute of silence. “I’ll talk to Shoko. I’m sure she’ll be willing to help both of you out. She was your manager back then, after all.”
“No need,” Satoru says, waving him down. “I was on my way there before you caught me.”
Yaga doesn’t move as Satoru looks down at the contract disbelievingly one last time before turning and moving to walk out of the office.
“Satoru, by the way.”
Satoru stops, still facing the door. His head tilts minutely, a barely-there indication that he’s still listening.
Yaga hesitates before speaking. “I’m… sorry, for what it’s worth. I never did apologize to your face, but I want you to know that what happened back then was not your fault. You— both of you were young. I should’ve taken responsibility.”
Satoru’s fingers twitch by his side. “Don’t apologize to me, Yaga. The ones you should be saying this to are already long gone.”
Yaga sighs. He dips his head in acquiescement. “Have a good day, Satoru.”
Satoru pauses for another section before picking up his pace again. He waves his sunglasses around in lieu of a good-bye, turning the corner to leave before Yaga can say anything further.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
Shoko exhales and stubs her cigarette out on the marble counter of the communal kitchen. “Repeat that one more time.”
“That’s what I told Yaga,” Satoru complains, flopping backwards onto a sofa. “And you know what he did?”
Shoko raises an eyebrow.
Satoru takes off his sunglasses to rub at his eyes. “He pulled out the contract , Shoko. From before the album was even released– hell, I didn’t even know that was official.”
Shoko laughs dryly. “Of course you didn’t.”
“What?” Satoru says irritably, peeking out at her suspiciously from behind his fingers.
“Nothing. Go on.”
Satoru groans. “I hate you.”
Shoko reaches out and tugs on a strand of his hair, hard .
“ Ouch .”
Shoko brushes off invisible dust from the front of her shirt. “So, what are you going to do?”
Satoru drops his arm over his eyes and leans his head back against the armrest of the sofa. “Dunno.”
Shoko curls her lip disdainfully. “Idiot.”
For a few minutes, it’s comfortably silent. Shoko sits down in the armchair across from Satoru and puts her legs on the coffee table, mindlessly coiling a strand of her hair around her finger. Satoru closes his eyes and lets out a long breath.
“How's Yuuji doing?” He says finally, breaking the silence.
Shoko lifts an eyebrow, surprised. “The boy? He’s fine. He’s probably out with those other two kids right now.”
“That’s good,” Satoru observes. “They should have more fun, instead of cooping up in a studio all day.”
“You would know, huh?” Shoko teases. “Acting like you did nothing but work.”
Satoru rolls his eyes. “Teenagers shouldn’t have to work that much at all.”
“Mn,” Shoko says agreeably. “That’s true.”
Satoru lets out a vague noise of annoyance. “You were there too, as our manager.”
“Don’t remind me,” Shoko grumbles. “Those were hard times. It’s bad enough with one stuck-up, pretentious celebrity. I don’t need to think about two.”
“Who are you calling pretentious?” Satoru demands, lifting his arm off his face to glare at her.
“You.”
Satoru frowns. “You could’ve at least tried to pretend otherwise.”
Shoko snorts. “One second, Satoru.”
She unlocks her phone and searches up Yaga Music Group on the browser, navigating to the News bar.
“Gojo Satoru’s favorite food is kikufuku mochi,” She reads. “Gojo Satoru celebrates his twenty-sixth birthday. Gojo Satoru slated to release a new album early next year.”
Shoko narrows her eyes at Satoru over the top of her phone. “Why is it all about you?”
Satoru shrugs, grinning. “I’m just too cool. The tabloids love me, what can I say?”
“Case in point, you pretentious bastard,” Shoko snaps. She closes the tab and throws her phone at his head, missing by an inch. “Let’s see what they have to say about you when you’re beaten up black and blue in the next hour.”
Satoru picks up her phone from where it fell behind one of the sofa cushions. “Are you threatening me?”
Shoko levels him with a deadpan stare. “No, why would you think that?”
“Ugh, whatever. That’s not important— Shoko, what do I do? ”
Shoko stands up and stretches. “This again? Shit, I need another cigarette.”
“You’re gonna die at thirty,” Satoru grumbles as she walks back into the kitchen area.
“That’s what you told me ten years ago, but look where I am now,” Shoko calls over her shoulder as she digs around in the drawers for another pack of cigarettes. “Do you have my lighter?”
Satoru throws it at her.
“Thanks.”
“Hey, Shoko. Do you have a few million dollars I could borrow?” Satoru says suddenly.
Shoko whips her head around to stare at him like he’s crazy, cigarette dangling from her mouth. “What the fuck? Satoru, who’s the award-winning artist in this room?”
“Yaga won’t let me take the contract to court,” Satoru complains. “He thinks I’ll lose the case. Says I should just get it together for a few months and deal with it.”
Shoko shrugs. “I agree with Yaga.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Satoru grumbles.
“When have I ever been on your side?” Shoko snaps. “Anyway, Yaga’s right for once. It’ll be good for you.”
“Good for me?” Satoru repeats disbelievingly. “I’m going to get– I don’t know, murdered mid-tour or something.”
“By Suguru?” Shoko snorts. “Don’t be so pissy. He might have fucked us over last year, but he’s not a murderer.”
Satoru sinks deeper into the couch. “Yaga was wrong. You’re not helping at all. I’m going to go find my little proteges and go for a snack run, actually– thanks for bringing up kikufuku mochi, you got me hungry.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Shoko says. “You’re setting a bad example for them. Who let you be in charge of the young artists anyway?”
“Me,” Satoru sighs. “Anyway, they’re young, Shoko. Let them be young when they can, before they have to face the ugly side of this industry.”
Shoko takes a long drag of her cigarette, exhaling and watching as the smoke rises up in front of her face. “We would know, huh.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
“Gojo, how does YMG plan on helping all the smaller artists who’ve suffered following the NPR lawsuit last year?”
“Gojo, over here please! No, here!”
“Is it true that YMG has scouted three more young talents following the removal of Kinji and Kirara?”
Satoru smiles at the reporters, flashing his brightest grin and waving energetically. He hopes that his expression doesn’t look like a grimace. Immediately afterwards, he’s blinded by the flashing lights of dozens of cameras going off, and the reporters crowd closer. How that’s even humanly possible, Satoru isn’t quite sure.
“As popular as ever, Satoru.”
Satoru freezes, his smile stuck to his face. Slowly, he turns around, and there he is— Suguru Geto, leaning against the wall of the YMG building with his arms crossed.
Suguru’s gaze shifts over to the crowd of reporters. “ Tch . Annoying.” He covers his face with his palm as a few of the nosier journalists catch sight of him and curiously murmur amongst themselves.
Satoru doesn’t know what to say. There are words on the tip of his tongue that fight to tumble out into the world, but he forcibly swallows them down as Suguru walks towards him.
Suguru raises an eyebrow, inclining his head at the doors behind Satoru. “Are you going in or not?”
Satoru tilts his head to the side. His sunglasses slide down his nose a little, and his eyes lock with Suguru’s for a split second. Then, Satoru pushes his sunglasses back up and turns around.
“Get inside,” Satoru says, and the words he wants to say slide deeper down his throat.
The double doors of YMG’s main building slide shut behind Satoru and Suguru as the reporters continue to clamor outside.
“You never did take a break from the fame, did you?” Suguru remarks as he follows Satoru.
Satoru’s fingers curl and uncurl by his side as he flashes a smile at the receptionist, who shyly nods at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Suguru pulls down his face mask and takes off his hat. The receptionist looks at his identification card and back up at him, nodding absentmindedly, before doing a double take.
“You—” She stutters. “Suguru Geto?”
Suguru smiles wryly. “In the flesh.”
Satoru wordlessly walks past the front desk and heads straight for the first-floor meeting room. He distantly hears the receptionist blabber out some vague compliments while Suguru nods and mhms along.
Yaga and Shoko are already in the meeting room when Satoru enters. Shoko is draped over one of the office chairs, spinning around idly with her legs crossed. Yaga is at the head of the table, arms firmly set on the table.
When Satoru enters the room, Yaga stands up immediately. “He’s here?”
Relaxed footsteps stop behind Satoru and the door clicks shut. Suguru pokes his head out and waves a hand, eyes curving into crescents. “Long time no see, Yaga. Shoko.”
Shoko stops spinning in her chair. “Suguru.”
Satoru pushes his sunglasses further up his nose and plops into the chair next to Shoko.
“How long has it been?” Suguru says, sliding into the chair across the table from Shoko. He leans forward, bangs falling forward into his eyes.
“We saw you last winter,” Shoko reminds him. “Whole lot of good you did for us then.”
Yaga coughs into his fist. “Suguru. It’s good to see you.”
“I would say the same, but I wouldn’t mean it,” Suguru grins. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve just swallowed a pillbug.”
An awkward silence falls over the group before Shoko breaks the silence with a yawn. She throws her arms up and stretches, cracking her neck to the side before resting her hands on the meeting table.
“Okay,” Shoko says. “Let’s be cordial here. We’re all friends, aren’t we?”
Satoru leans backwards in his chair. Behind his sunglasses, he narrows his eyes at Suguru. His gaze flicks from Yaga’s sour expression to Shoko’s helpless shrug to Suguru’s gaze.
Yaga clears his throat. “Friends. Right. You three worked very closely back then. There’s no reason why this tour shouldn’t go smoothly—”
“Hold on a second,” Suguru interrupts. “I haven’t even agreed to it yet.”
Yaga’s eye twitches. “There’s no other option. Go on tour, or lose a million-dollar lawsuit against Gojo Inc.”
“I have a better question, actually,” Shoko says after a moment. “Why did you never tell us about the last clause until this week?”
Yaga lowers his head. “...I didn’t notice it. I apologize. But, regardless, it would not have made a difference— I would not have spoken out about it in the past. I did not see a reason to, until it would’ve been too late.”
Shoko sighs, shaking her head mirthfully. “Suguru, you really do have to go and make everything complicated.”
Suguru puts his hands up in surrender. “Well, I’m not the only one who signed that contract. Right, Satoru?”
Satoru looks up.
“What, don’t tell me you agreed with Yaga?” Suguru says.
Satoru shifts in his seat, dropping his arm backwards to hang over the back of the chair. “He didn’t give me much of a choice. Neither did Shoko.”
“It’s your mother he’s talking about. Can’t go home and ask for help?”
“ You —” Satoru jerks forward.
“Oh my god,” Shoko bursts out, throwing her arms up. “One year, two years, ten years, what does it matter? You can’t spend a lifetime pretending to be strangers, can you?”
We can try, Satoru thinks, slowly sinking back into his chair. From across the table, Suguru looks equally surprised at Shoko’s outburst.
“Shoko,” Suguru tries.
Shoko shakes her head adamantly, jutting a finger at the door. “No. Yaga and I will discuss logistics. You two need to figure something– anything– out within the next two hours. Otherwise, I’m feeding both of you to the paparazzi.”
Yaga is looking between Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru like it’s some kind of intriguingly terrifying tennis match. At the mention of his name, his face pulls into a frown and he mouths the word no at Shoko.
“I just got here,” Suguru argues. “And you’re kicking me out already? How inhospitable of you, Shoko.”
Shoko levels him with a flat stare before turning the same gaze to Satoru. “I said what I said. Both of you go. Now.”
Satoru acquiesces. He stands, pushing his chair in with the heel of his foot. Satoru looks down at Suguru, who’s still leaning back comfortably but staring at Satoru with a strange look in his eye.
“What are you waiting for?” Satoru says finally, cocking an eyebrow down at the other man. “You heard her. We’re going.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
Yuuji’s rambling again. This time, it’s about some album released in the 90s that nobody’s ever heard about.
“—except when it came to the week of the release, their company switched up on them and didn’t let them release it! Isn’t that crazy, Fushiguro? They worked for two years on those tracks, and they eventually had to give half of the credit to their stupid company.”
Megumi shares a sidelong glance with Nobara.
The three of them are walking down a street in Harajuku, Yuuji talking animatedly while waving around the beef skewer in his hand.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Nobara swears. “Put that down, Itadori. You’re gonna stab someone’s eye out.”
Yuuji blinks, stopping mid-sentence. “Oh. You’re right. Sorry! Anyways—”
Megumi sighs as Yuuji continues without missing a beat. “How does he not run out of energy?”
Nobara shrugs. “Is he really the same age as us?”
They stop at a crosswalk. The building across from them has a large digital billboard wrapping around its side and front. The current advertisement is Gojo’s commercial for an overseas brand of sweets, and Gojo’s face is proportionally blown up to ten times its normal size.
“Eugh,” Nobara shudders, watching as their teacher winks at the camera. “That’s disturbing.”
A group of schoolgirls stops by the same crosswalk and they point at the billboard, giggling. Megumi eyes them warily.
“I hope I never have to do one of those,” He grumbles as the light flashes green and the trio starts walking. “It’s unsettling.”
“Are you guys listening?” Yuuji interrupts. “
“Yes, of course,” Nobara says sarcastically.
Yuuji frowns. “Losers. Hey, wait a second, is that Gojo?”
Megumi rolls his eyes. “Itadori, maybe you’re the one who hasn’t been listening. Or do you need your vision checked? His face is literally—”
“Gojo-sensei!” Yuuji shouts, waving his arm frantically and nearly slapping Megumi in the face.
“What the hell?” Nobara hisses, slapping Yuuji’s arm down and looking around frantically to make sure nobody’s giving them the stink eye. “We’re in public. What are you doing?”
“It’s Gojo,” Yuuji says, blinking. “Look, right there. In that café.”
A girl passing by is sipping on her iced coffee when she hears Gojo’s name. Her head immediately snaps around to stare at the three of them. Awkwardly, Megumi dips his head politely at her.
“What are you talking about?” Nobara grumbles. “Why would he be— holy shit, you’re right, it is Gojo.”
Megumi squints. Sure enough, Gojo’s sitting in the corner of a cafe. He has a baseball cap pulled over his head, covering his hair, and a black face mask obscures the bottom half of his face. Nonetheless, it’s definitely Gojo.
“Who’s that man sitting across from him?” Nobara wonders. “He looks kind of familiar, but I can’t place it. Should we go say hi?”
Yuuji is already moving across the street. “Obviously, we should. It’s Gojo.”
Megumi’s hand shoots out to grab Yuuji’s wrist. “Wait.”
Yuuji looks backwards. He blinks, confused. “What?”
Megumi’s eyes are wide as he stares at the café and at the man across from Gojo. From the trio’s spot on the street, they can’t see anything except for the man’s silhouette— long hair, broad shoulders, leaning backwards.
Except Megumi knows who it is.
“That’s impossible,” Megumi says slowly.
“ What’s impossible?” Nobara says, annoyed. “Spit it out, Fushiguro. You’re pissing me off. Well, you always are, but you’re pissing me off more than usual.”
“That’s Suguru Geto,” Megumi says finally, furrowing his brow. “It has to be. But what is he doing here?”
Yuuji frowns. “Geto? Who’s that?”
Nobara nods in agreement with Yuuji.
Megumi blinks and turns back to them. “Sorry. I forgot you two haven’t been at YMG for long. Let’s— let’s go somewhere else to chat. It’s not good to talk about this in public, and I don’t think we should intrude on those two right now.”
The three of them end up in the restaurant across the street from Gojo and Geto, in a booth right by the window.
“It’s for observation,” Nobara claims quickly, squinting down at the café.
“You’re a stalker,” Megumi mutters.
“Can I get an alfredo pasta?” Yuuji says to the server.
Nobara looks at Yuuji with disgust. “Eugh. Is eating all you do?”
They’re sitting on the second level of the restaurant, a ways above ground level. Nobara sips out of her glass of water as she looks down at passersby. Her gaze flicks back to the café across the street, where Gojo and Geto seem to be involved in an argument.
“Fushiguro, can you hurry up and tell us what’s going on?” Nobara grumbles, stirring around the ice in her glass with a fork.
Megumi sighs. After a moment’s worth of hesitation, he nods. “Neither of you can tell anyone , okay? Or I’ll hunt you down and make sure no record company ever signs you ever again—”
“Okay, okay,” Nobara interrupts. “We get it. Get to the good stuff, now.”
Megumi swallows. He looks around to make sure nobody’s eavesdropping. There’s an elderly couple in the booth over, but he doubts they even know who Gojo Satoru is.
“Okay,” Megumi says, leaning in. Nobara’s eyes flash with excitement. Yuuji slurps down his pasta. “Do you remember Gojo’s debut album?
“Ten years ago, right? What was it called again, Star —”
“— Plasma ,” Megumi finishes, nodding. “Most people only think of Gojo when you talk about that album, now– for good reason, obviously– but it was a collaboration album between Gojo and Geto.”
Nobara’s eyes widen and she covers her mouth. “Geto? That Geto?” She points a finger down at the café across the street.
“Yes. That’s Geto Suguru. He was recruited by Yaga the same year that album was released.”
“So that’s why his name sounds so familiar,” Nobara says.
Yuuji slams his hand down on the table. Both Nobara and Megumi flinch at the same time, and twin accusatory glares turn to the pink-haired boy.
“ Mffhgr nghtr schlame ,” Yuuji mumbles through a mouthful of noodles.
“Gross,” Nobara mutters. “Did nobody teach you to swallow then speak?”
Yuuji swallows. “I know who Geto is!”
“I would hope so, considering we’ve been talking about it for the better part of fifteen minutes.”
Yuuji shakes his head. “I heard Sukuna talking about it when I was with him and his manager. He’s the CEO of some bigshot record label, apparently. Evening March? Morning Parade? Something like that.”
Nobara’s jaw drops and she slams her palm down onto the table. One of the servers glares at her and she flashes him an apologetic smile before whipping her head back to stare at Megumi. “Night Parade Records? Geto’s their CEO? You’re kidding.”
Megumi shakes his head. “Unfortunately not. Something happened between Geto and Gojo in the months following the release of Star Plasma – I’m not sure what– but Geto eventually resigned from YMG.”
“You can resign?” Yuuji asks curiously. “I thought the contract you signed was binding.”
“Usually it is, but Geto was a special case.”
“And then what happened?” Nobara urges. “Wait a minute, isn’t NPR the company that sued the hell out of Yaga last year?”
Megumi nods. “Yeah. It was radio silence from Geto for eight, maybe nine years. Then, one day, he showed up out of the blue with his attorney and a stack of paperwork.”
“What’d he sue Yaga-sensei for?” Yuuji interjects.
“I’m getting there, Itadori,” Megumi pushes Yuuji’s head away from him. “I don’t know the specifics, but you can probably search it up online. It was a whole big thing– not just for our company, either. Hundreds of small labels and solo artists suffered big losses.”
“Sheesh,” Nobara breathes. “That’s insane. He seriously used to be a NPR artist?”
Megumi nods again. “Yeah. I don’t know why he’s here now, though, or why Gojo’s with him of all people.”
Yuuji pushes his plate away from him. It’s empty, with only a small pool of sauce in the center. Nobara wrinkles her nose in disgust.
“Kugisaki, are you gonna drink that?” Yuuji asks, pointing to Nobara's half-full glass of water.
Nobara grimaces and shakes her head, pushing it towards Yuuji. The pink-haired boy eagerly chugs the glass, nodding happily afterwards.
“Well, whatever they’re talking about has gotta be pretty serious, right?” Yuuji says after crunching on one of the ice cubes. “I mean, for Gojo-sensei to meet up with someone he hates.”
“Hates?”
Yuuji tilts his head in confusion. “Isn’t that what you’re saying?”
Megumi looks out the window. In the café, it looks like Gojo and Geto have stopped arguing. Gojo is leaning against the back of his chair, gesturing animatedly with his hand.
“Gojo-sensei doesn’t hate him,” Megumi says, after an extended period of silence. “I don’t think he ever has.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
“I’ll have an iced americano.”
“And for your friend?”
“I’m okay—”
“He’ll have a latte.”
Satoru stares at Suguru irritably. “Why’d you order for me? I don’t want anything.”
“Liar,” Suguru says. “You always have coffee in the afternoon.”
Satoru sniffs. “Maybe I don’t anymore.”
Suguru raises an eyebrow in lieu of a response. “Anyway, why are you still wearing that trashy disguise?”
Satoru pulls at his face mask a little, letting the elastic band snap against his finger. “Unlike someone, I tend to get recognized fairly easily in public.”
Suguru squints at him from across the table disbelievingly. “Anyone can recognize you even with your disguise, Satoru. How many other people do you know with pure white hair?”
Satoru huffs. “Well, no one has yet.”
Their waitress comes back over, balancing the two drinks on her tray. “Iced americano and a latte. Can I get you two anything to eat?”
“We’re alright,” Satoru says before Suguru can try anything. “Thank you.”
The waitress smiles, leaning down to set down their drinks. “No problem. Let me know if you…”
She trails off, blinking in surprise. “No way. Are you–”
Suguru snorts.
Satoru internally winces. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a 5000-yen bill, pressing it into the waitress’s hand. “That’s for the coffee. Keep the change.”
The waitress stares at the money dumbly before looking back up at Satoru, who nods placatingly. She nods frantically. “I’m– I’m a big fan,” She whispers, before backing off.
“Unrecognizable?”
“Shut up.”
Suguru nurses his coffee while Satoru looks out the window into the bustling streets of Harajuku. After a few minutes, Suguru sets down his coffee and lets out a breath.
“We should talk.”
Satoru narrows his eyes. “We are talking.”
“You know what I mean.”
Satoru drums his fingers on the tabletop. “Okay, then talk.”
A muscle feathers in Suguru’s jaw. “Satoru, don’t be so difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult ,” Satoru snaps. “You know what was difficult? Me, Nanami, Shoko, and half the staff at YMG working overtime to fix the mess that you made last year.”
Suguru blinks slowly. “Right. About that. I’m sorry,” He says, and has the gall to sound genuinely apologetic.
“It’s too late for that,” Satoru shakes his head. “Apologize to Yuta and Inumaki if you have to at all.”
Suguru winces at the names of the two younger singers. “It must’ve caused you a lot of trouble.”
“You’re realizing that now?” Satoru deadpans. “Either way, that’s not what we’re here to talk about.”
Suguru nods agreeably and leans forward, clasping his hands together. “Okay. Let’s not beat around the bush, then. I’ll start— I think Shoko’s right.”
Satoru reaches up to tug at his hair. “Shoko’s always right.”
“First, that’s not true. Second, I’m talking about being… cordial.”
“Cordial?” Satoru says, snickering.
Suguru’s lips lift into a half-smile. “Well, Yaga doesn’t want to face your mother in a legal standoff, and I don’t think I want to either. So, for our own sake– and Shoko, too– let’s just try to be friendly for these three months.”
Satoru stares at him, gaze concealed behind his sunglasses. “Three months, huh? How do you know the tour’s gonna last that long?”
Suguru raises an eyebrow. “Yaga and Shoko will make it happen.”
“What if I pulverize you in your sleep?”
“You won’t,” Suguru says simply. “And you’re not gonna say no, either.”
Satoru rolls his eyes and lets out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He reaches up and takes off his sunglasses, letting fluorescent light fill his vision. His gaze flicks from the streets outside to Suguru, who’s watching him intently.
“Alright, Suguru. Three months. ”