Archive of Our Own

When he was seventeen, Satoru’s mother told him, after a disastrous dinner with a potential client, that he had never once made a good first impression. ‘Not even the moment you were placed into my arms,’ she had declared, pouring herself another glass of wine. Satoru had insulted the businessman’s ill-fitted suit and boorish table manners, and almost lost them an important contract. His father had gone to brood alone in his office, his rage and disappointment quiet, leaving his mother to lecture Satoru for his lack of tact.

His mother’s words were meant to wound. The blow glanced off him instead, without leaving a cut or a bruise. First impressions didn’t matter when in his experience, all he had to do was give his name, and disagreements would be smoothed over. Even the dinner with the frumpy businessman had been salvaged with a reminder of his family’s good reputation, and the generous deal he would be forsaking out of pride.

Satoru’s mother hadn’t been pleased when he told her as much.

‘There could come a time,’ she had warned him, ‘when your name means nothing. You shouldn’t rely on it.’

Satoru is the heir to Limitless Media, and his name is worth sixty trillion yen. He had found it hard to believe his name could ever be worthless.

That is, until he met Geto Suguru.

***

When he was getting dressed, Satoru chose his outfit to hide his more distinguishing features, and draw less attention to himself. The effort was pointless. He hasn’t even fully stepped into the classroom when seven heads turn to stare at him. There are fewer members of the club than he thought there would be, and it means that his entrance silences the conversations that had been going on before he opened the door.

Satoru had planned on finding a seat in the back of the room and sitting in on the club’s meeting, until he could figure out the structure of the group, and which version of himself to present to them. Now, he’s been put on the spot, and as he waits for a greeting that doesn’t come, he stands at the front of the classroom, silent. He knows he should introduce himself, but as he scans the members’ faces, all he can think is that Suguru isn’t there. He’s three minutes late, and Suguru hasn’t even arrived.

One of the club’s members hides a laugh behind her hand, disguising it as a cough, which seems to turn into real hacking and heaving. The smell of cigarettes clings to her, obscuring whatever her real scent is, if she has one. A smoker, he thinks with derision, glancing at the outline of a box in the pocket of her slacks. He resists the urge to pinch his nose; he doesn’t want to come across as childish. The woman seated at the table across from her, with glossy strawberry-blonde hair that falls in thick waves over her shoulders, leans in close to whisper something in the smoker’s ear, pulling a phone out of her pocket.

A tall man with flaxen hair is the first to speak. “Aren’t you overheating, wearing so many layers indoors?”

His fringe is choppy, like he cut his bangs himself, though given how he’s dressed, in an ironed button-down, black woolen slacks, and an expensive wristwatch, the unevenness must be intentional. If he has enough money for a briefcase like the one sitting at his feet, then he must be able to afford a more professional haircut. He smells like stale bread, though if he wasn’t so bored, balancing his chair on its back legs and spinning a pen in his fingers, he’d probably smell better. More like a bakery.

“It’s not that cold out,” the smoker adds, clearing her throat to dislodge whatever’s still caught in it.

The brunette sitting near the blonde nudges him in the side with his elbow. “I think the scarf is cool!”

He’s broad-shouldered under the denim jacket he wears, covered in patches and pins. ‘NO MORE ΩPPRESSION,’ one of his pins declares in bolded English. His scent is clean and neutral, other than the faintest trace of honey, which Satoru quickly realizes is coming from the crumpled up paper bag next to him, and not his glands. Either his scent blockers are strong, or he’s the plainest smelling beta he’s met.

It’s surprising. Satoru had expected that there would be more omegas in a club that was, well… for omegas. It’s strange that there are so many alphas and betas present, too.

Satoru hooks a finger under the neckline of his sweater, tugging at it. He is warm, wearing a jacket over a sweater and a long-sleeved shirt, but unless he’s sticking around, he isn’t taking it off and giving the blonde the satisfaction of being right. “Is Geto Suguru here?” 

The man at the front of the classroom wears square glasses, perched on the tip of his nose. He’s the only person in the room that Satoru recognizes, from the list of the school’s faculty. Professor Yaga Masamichi, from the history department. With his arms folded over his chest and mouth pressed into a stiff line, his gaze is appraising as he looks Satoru over. “No, and he won’t be.”

Satoru’s mouth snaps open, his next question on the tip of his tongue, but someone else speaks before he can get a word out. “He’s sick at home with a fever. He won’t be back until next week, but we can pass on a message, if you’d like.” His blonde hair is tied back from his face, and his white sweater is patterned with pink hearts and bows. Though his tone is polite, his lavender scent is tinged with annoyance.

“No need.” His disappointment is immense, but it can’t be helped. Satoru turns on his heel to leave—

“You won’t be staying for the meeting?”

Satoru looks back over his shoulder. Behind his sunglasses, the speaker’s expression is inscrutable. His skin is dark, and he wears a cap on his head like Satoru’s, though his is white, while Satoru’s is maroon. His scent, jasmine and myrrh, makes Satoru’s throat burn as he breathes it in. His arms are crossed over his chest, like Professor Yaga’s, but his posture isn’t as closed off. It unnerves Satoru more than the others’ reactions did, despite not being overtly hostile. He can’t tell what answer he wants from him.

“I was only looking for Suguru.” He didn’t seem ill when he saw him two days ago, gathering signatures in front of the mathematics building. But it’s late autumn, and the flu has been going around campus. “I can come back next week.”

‘Suguru,’ the woman with her phone out mouths to the smoker. Both of them snicker to themselves.

“We can pass on a message,” the man with the heart-patterned sweater offers.

“Or give you his num— oof!” The choppy-haired blonde jabs his elbow into the plain-smelling brunette, and he folds at the waist, grimacing and holding his side. Satoru perks up at the half-spoken offer.

Suguru had refused to give him his number himself, but if Satoru can get it from his friends in the club, then he won’t have to come back and beg him for it. Satoru will send him a text apologizing for whatever he said that upset him, though he still hasn’t been able to work out what it was, and he’ll ask him for another chance. All he wants is to take him on one date, then Satoru will leave him alone.

Pulling out his phone from his pocket, Satoru opens up the contacts app. “What’s his number?”

The plain-smelling brunette groans in pain instead of answering. No one else volunteers the information, and Satoru’s hope that he could get Suguru’s number without having to come back is dashed.

“You can get it from Geto when you see him,” Professor Yaga assures.

Satoru turns on his heel, and leaves, the door slamming shut behind him with a satisfying bam!

***

Satoru’s first impression couldn’t have been too awful, because the smoker that laughed at him waves as he enters the classroom, smiling at him around the stick of a lollipop. It clacks against her teeth as she greets him.

“Hah! I didn’t think I’d actually see you again.”

“I need to talk to Suguru,” Satoru reminds her. He won’t give up until he can speak to him.

She tilts her head. “You haven’t had another chance to speak with him?”

No. His efforts to find Suguru’s address were a waste of time. The school refused to give him his information, and Suguru is stingy with what he shares on his social media. Satoru learned that Suguru lives in an off-campus apartment, and that’s all he could gather. Suguru’s blog and Instagram are dedicated to his political activism, and while sometimes he makes references to events in his personal life, there are no selfies or photos for Satoru to scour for hints to his location. All he knows about Suguru as a person, not an activist or a student, is that he has a pet snake, and grew up in a rural village.

Satoru tried to reach out to him through Instagram, and was met with silence and a prompt block. He got no response when he sent an email to the address given on his blog. But Satoru is nothing if not determined.

“No,” Satoru answers, curt. “Do you have another of those?” He points towards her lollipop.

She twirls the stick in her mouth. “Sure.”

From her purse, she pulls another, the wrapper a bright blue. Satoru takes it eagerly, tugging off the wrapper and shoving it into his mouth. It’s something to occupy himself with until the meeting starts.

Satoru came much earlier than he did last week. The club’s members filter in, and while some cast odd glances his way, none question why he’s there. Satoru leans against the wall, rocking on the back legs of his chair, and tries not to draw attention to himself. He’d rather not be kicked out again before Suguru arrives, and he has the chance to speak to him in person. No one acknowledges his presence, until the strawberry-blonde from the last meeting arrives, and sees him sitting next to her friend.

“Is this the same idiot from last time?” She asks, looking over him with dark, unimpressed eyes.

From his wallet, Satoru pulls out a business card, and offers it to her with two fingers. “The idiot has a name.”

Her brows shoot into her hairline as she reads the card, mouthing his name to herself. She glances between his business card and his face, and he can see the turning in her head as she realizes just who she’s talking to.

The smile that breaks across her face is placating. “I’m Suda Manami, and this is—”

“Ieiri,” the smoker offers.

“Gojo Satoru,” he introduces, sticking out a hand. “My father is the CEO of Limitless Media.”

Dropping the name of the family company is usually enough to impress the average person he meets. It doesn’t have as much impact when interacting with others whose families came from money, but even amongst the rest of the world’s wealthiest families, the Gojo name is one that evokes respect. His family was rich and influential even before his grandfather started the company.

“There was some scandal last year, right?” Ieiri asks, holding a finger to her chin.

It takes Satoru a moment to realize what she’s referring to. There was some omega girl around their age interning there, and she was fired for taking too much time off to tend to her heats, if he remembers right; it’s expected that omegas in a professional setting take suppressants to control them, as alphas do. If an omega can’t keep up with the expectations of their position, and meet the deadlines assigned to them, then it makes sense to let them go. Omegas are welcome in the workforce. Satoru has no problem against it, unlike his own father does. But omegas can’t expect that it will change to accommodate them.

He’s about to tell Ieiri as much, to defend his father and the company, when Suguru arrives.

Satoru smells him before he even enters the room — sandalwood and cedar, turned rotten. Irritation, as pungent as it was when he parted ways with him two weeks ago, but this time, it wasn’t Satoru that caused his foul mood.

But as Suguru enters, he’s wearing a pleasant smile, a binder tucked underneath one arm and a steaming paper cup of what smells like tea in his opposite hand. He exchanges a quiet greeting with Professor Yaga at the front, and sets down his drink and binder on the professor’s desk. He shrugs off his yellow cardigan, leaving him in a white blouse and his jeans, mismatched friendship bracelets clacking against each other around his wrists. Satoru touches his own wrist, an expensive watch clasped around it. 

“You’re late! Did you have to stop at the cafe first?” Ieiri asks, leaning against her hand.

Suguru’s cheeks pinken. “There’s a lot to talk about today! I don’t want to get a dry mouth.”

His voice is sweet and lilting, with none of the same hostility as before. His rotten, unpleasant scent freshens as he leaves behind whatever was bothering him prior to arriving at the club’s meeting room. He opens his binder, sorting through the pages until he finds the papers he’s looking for. Satoru is close enough to see the handwritten notes covering them, portions of the text highlighted with pastel markers.

“I have a few announcements to make, but I’ll make them quick,” Suguru starts. The other conversations in the room have quieted, without him even having to call for his audience’s attention. Even Ieiri is sitting forward in her seat, watching Suguru shuffle through his papers with a little smile. “Because I missed last week’s meeting, it’s important that we talk about our upcoming meeting with the—”

He glances up from his notes, then, and his amber eyes meet Satoru’s.

For a moment, time slows. He’s taken back to their first meeting, Suguru with a clipboard. He held an umbrella to protect it from the rain, but the tip of Satoru’s pen still caught on the wet marks on the paper, turned soft and fragile from the droplets that managed to land on it. He was so distracted by Suguru’s scent, he hadn’t even noticed that he wasn’t writing on the lines. The scrawl of his phone number spanned three boxes, three places where others could have signed. He doesn’t know if it was even legible.

He watches several emotions pass over Suguru’s face, shock, then confusion, before settling on anger.

“What are you doing here, Gojo?” Suguru demands. He’s not shouting at him, this time, but the calmness in his voice is somehow more threatening. But Satoru won’t let himself be intimidated. He knows he has the advantage.

“You invited me to come to the meeting.” He still has the club’s information card tucked into his wallet.

Suguru huffs, rubbing his face with his hand. “Don’t pretend like you’re interested in learning anything here.”

Just because he wasn’t paying attention when Suguru was talking to him before, explaining his club’s goals and the progress it’s made with improving conditions for omega students on campus, doesn’t mean he’s not interested in it now. Suguru’s scent was too distracting. He could tell, from the moment he caught a whiff of him, that they were compatible. While it’s no longer considered magical, as it once was, there’s a scientific basis for the concept that some omegas and alphas are naturally more attracted towards each other. And if Satoru feels that attraction, then certainly Suguru does, too. He’s just in denial.

Most omegas with a scent as strong as his would cover it up, but Suguru doesn’t; the articles on his blog about scent blockers were all about their drawbacks, from the negative effect they have on social interactions, to the carcinogens in some topical blockers, to the unequal perception of omegas and alphas that opt out of using them. Satoru himself has never faced criticism for his natural scent, but his mother smothers her glands in a balm every time she leaves the house. It’s something he didn’t notice, until he read those articles.

“I’m interested in learning more if it’s you that teaches me,” Satoru counters. He’d sit through hours of lectures if it were Suguru giving them.

“So you can pretend we’re on a date?” The reminder of his rejection stings, but Satoru pushes down the hurt. He’s not here to litigate; he’s here to persuade. “You wouldn’t get any special attention in these meetings.”

“I wouldn’t need it, to come and listen to you speak.”

Suguru is unimpressed with his attempt at flattery. He doesn’t even blush. “Get out, please. Your presence is a distraction to me, and there are others that want to be here to advance omega rights.”

Both Professor Yaga and the blonde with the lavender scent stand, and Satoru stands, too. It’s clear he’ll be kicked out soon, but he needs to buy time. “What would it take to not be?” Satoru asks, shoving his hands into his pockets. “A distraction, that is.”

Suguru stares at him with an expression so neutral, it’s hard to tell if he’s considering the question or not. Neither the professor nor the blonde move, waiting for Suguru’s response.

“Prove to me you’re interested in learning on your own,” Suguru says at last, “and I will consider it.”

***

“I think when Suguru told you to get out, he didn’t want you coming back.”

Satoru ignores Ieiri. He drops into the seat next to her, hooking an ankle around the leg of the chair to secure himself.

Professor Yaga’s face reddens.  “Gojo. Do I have to drag you out of here? You’re not welcome—”

“I wanted to give this to Suguru,” Satoru interrupts. From his bag, he pulls out his binder, bulging with papers, both his own notes and the articles and book excerpts he printed out. “It’s what he asked for.”

Within it is the proof that he’s learned. Most of the textbooks and news articles linked on Suguru’s blog were a slog to get through, opinion pieces and dense academic texts, but now, he could get through a conversation about discrimination towards omegas. About the ways businesses and schools are structured to advantage alphas, inequalities in medical care, the higher rates of violence against them.

But he’s not going to tell Professor Yaga all of that. He puts the binder down on his desk, and pushes it towards him.

“Give that to him,” Satoru instructs, “and tell him I’m coming back next week, too.”

Satoru doesn’t give Professor Yaga, or the other club members, the time to recover from their shock.

He leaves, palming his phone in his pocket, and returns to his apartment, where he throws himself into bed, the screen facing up. He waits for hours watching it, a thrill rushing through him each time the screen lights up, only to be disappointed when it’s a news article recommendation or a notification from his mobile games. The only time he leaves his bed is to pour himself another cup of coffee, to keep him awake as light dwindles and the hours drag on, his hope for a response fading. He lays on his stomach, chin resting on his arms, and plays games on his Switch as he waits, and waits, and waits—

Until he gets a text from an unknown number, and tosses the console to the side in his excitement. It makes a harsh smack as it hits the wall, sliding down into the gap between the wall and the headboard of his bed. The screen is probably shattered, but he doesn’t care. He can just replace it with something else.

0198-X-XXXX || 23:47 || Your handwriting is terrible. You should practice to make it look more professional.

He knows who it is without needing to ask. He rushes to save the number into a contact, then responds.

Satoru || 23:48 || we could practice it together :P

It takes a few minutes to get another response back.

Sugu-chan || 23:50 || That won’t be happening.

Sugu-chan || 23:51 || But I found your thoughts on Osakabe’s work and Hisaka’s articles interesting, in the context of your father’s clear resentment towards the Equal Employment Opportunity Law. I didn’t expect you to disagree with him so strongly.

Sugu-chan || 23:51 || chunichi.co.jp/article/…

Satoru knows what the link will be without even needing to click it. Still, he opens it, and scrolls the web article. The intern, fired over taking too much time off for her heats, and his father’s hot-mic moment at a conference saying omegas shouldn’t be in the workforce at all. Blah blah blah, omegas are better suited to raising children, blah blah blah, these laws make it more difficult to run a business, blah… He’s seen the video enough times to know exactly what was said, and Suguru linked the article he sent him on his blog, too. It was easy enough to put a page of notes in the binder critiquing his father’s views.

As a right-leaning news outlet, Limitless Media’s talk shows and news segments all work to push the same views his father has, regarding omegas’ place in the workforce and in the country. Viewership has risen, in the past few years; given the sources Suguru seems to prefer citing, he assumed that he would vehemently disagree with most of his father’s political beliefs. Even before he started educating himself with Suguru’s blog, Satoru disagreed with them. It’s clearer to him now, just how wrong his father is.

Satoru || 23:54 || hes an old man pushing sixty

Satoru || 23:54 || in ten years it will be me on the board instead

Satoru || 23:54 || i just have to wait him out until he retires

Satoru || 23:55 || then i can start making changes there

Satoru || 23:55 || let me join the club if u want me to learn

The typing bubble appears, then disappears. It’s a few minutes before he gets his answer.

Sugu-chan || 00:01 || Fine. Come next week.

***

The next time he returns to the club meeting room, no one questions his presence. Suguru ignores him, but it’s an improvement over being told to get out. And so Satoru sits through that meeting, and the next. And the one after that.

It takes a month of attendance before Suguru’s smile doesn’t fade when he spots him at the tables. It takes another week until he’s greeting him as he greets all the rest of the club’s members, with a wide smile and a scent that doesn’t turn sweet like rotting wood when he sees him. When Satoru makes a suggestion, he considers it, instead of brushing it off. The progress is slow, but he’s careful not to be as pushy as he was. He doesn’t bother asking him out again; he knows what Suguru’s answer would be.

Instead, he waits, listening attentively even when he’s bored out of his mind, contributing suggestions when he can. He learns the names of the other members of the club. And when Suguru asks him if he would volunteer to hand out flyers with him, he agrees in a heartbeat. It’s time Suguru is choosing to spend with him, a step closer to his goal of getting him to ask him out.

“Ma’am! Take one!” Satoru calls, and is ignored. He waves the flyer in his hands at a passing couple instead, walking with their arms linked. “Here, take one, and scan the code to go to our website—”

“We’re in a rush,” the man says, tugging on his girlfriend’s arm to get her to walk faster.

Satoru sighs, slumping against the plaster wall behind him. He’s handed out a few, but Suguru has gone through his entire stack of them, and has taken half of Satoru’s flyers, now. It’s basically a date, he tells himself, though Nanami and Haibara are with them to hand out flyers, too. Suguru asked him to come. He didn’t ask Nanami and Haibara, who volunteered themselves. He wanted Satoru to be there, so Satoru will put up with the humiliation of being the worst at something for once.

It takes Satoru a half-hour longer than them to hand out the last of his papers. Haibara and Nanami both finished theirs before him, and have taken a seat with Suguru on a bench, steaming cups in their hands. Hot chocolate. He doesn’t have time to be jealous before Suguru is presenting him with a cup of his own. Satoru can barely feel the heat coming off the cup, his fingertips are so numbed from the cold.

“I don’t get how you handed yours out so quickly,” Satoru admits.

“It takes practice,” Suguru assures. “You haven’t done anything like this before, have you?” Satoru shakes his head, taking a long sip of his hot chocolate, ignoring how it burns his tongue. “You’ve done well, for your first time.”

He’ll have to take his word for it. “How often do you do this?”

“Whenever we have a project.” Between attending his classes and managing the club, Satoru doesn’t know how he has time for sleep, or a personal life. “It’s important to tell people about what we do. More members in our club means we have more influence in the world outside of it. When it was just me, Manami, and Shoko, they didn’t want to talk to us at all. But besides the members that come to the meetings, we have a lot more on our mailing list, signing our online petitions and emailing student services to share their own experiences on campus.”

It’s like a business, in a way. It needs advertisements, and marketers that can push the product. Omega rights, in this case.

“There must be a lot of members in the club, then,” Satoru muses, “if you’re handing out so many flyers.”

“Not every person who takes one ends up joining.” He jolts a little at Nanami’s voice; the blonde was so quiet, he’d almost forgotten he was there.

“And we haven’t achieved all of our goals,” Haibara adds, “but we’ve gotten a lot done over just the last year!”

Suguru’s knee bumps against Satoru’s, and lingers there long enough to be intentional. “I appreciate you coming here with us today. We’ll get even more done with your help.”

***

“Satoru!”

He almost trips on a step, turning on the stairs to look back down, where the voice is calling to him. At the bottom of the stairs is Suguru, dressed in a puffy purple coat, waving up at him with a mittened hand. Satoru turns on his heel, and changes course, taking the steps two at a time to reach him quicker. The bricks are icy, and he almost slips on the last step. Suguru covers his mouth to hide his grin.

“You didn’t have to rush,” Suguru chides. “I just wanted to make sure you’re coming to the meeting tonight.”

“Of course!” He hasn’t missed a single meeting yet, not since he first joined the club.

“Good.” Suguru reaches up, and grips his bag’s strap, twisting it in his hands. “We’re going to be meeting with the school’s custodial staff, soon, to discuss adding free menstrual products to all the restrooms on campus. I’ll be going over the plan tonight.”

“They aren’t free?” Satoru asks. He’d thought it would be like toilet paper.

Suguru ignores him, stepping a little closer. “I was thinking we could go out afterwards and get dinner, too. If you want.”

It takes a moment for Satoru to realize what he’s implying. A moment longer for his mouth to catch up to his mind, and voice his answer.

***

He groans when he gets the text from his mother. He knew she’d find out eventually; he just didn’t think it would be so soon.

Mother || 08:17 || Is this you?

It’s obvious that it’s him in the photo she sends, white-haired and grinning, his feet touching Suguru’s under the table. Suguru hides a laugh in his hand, while Satoru’s are held up as he tells him something emphatically.

He takes long enough to answer that his phone starts to ring, and with a sigh, he answers the call. “I was getting around for class—”

“I couldn’t recognize the person you were sitting with. He’s not on the list, is he?” 

The list of names his mother compiled of omegas from wealthy families with good reputations, appropriate partners to choose from. He’s gotten messages from a few of them, numbers he promptly blocked, and on more than one occasion, his parents have forced him into meeting them at restaurants and in their home. None of them have wanted a second date.

“No,” Satoru sits on the edge of his bed, “he’s not.” It seems like he’s missing statistics this morning, because his mother isn’t going to let this go. He combs a hand through his hair, pulling his fringe out of his face. “I met him at school.”

“I don’t care where you met him. Tell me he’s at least an omega.”

He’s uncertain where the conversation is going; he expected her to yell at him from the moment he answered her call, but her tone is more exasperated than upset. It’s unnerving. His mother is usually more predictable than this. “Of course he is.” He’s not attracted to alphas or betas, though her accusation chafes at him more than it might have, before he joined the club. Meeting Suda and Ieiri, two omegas dating each other, the thought isn’t so outlandish as he might have found it before. “We’re scent-compatible, too.”

“Then I’ll have Ijichi add an event to the family calendar. Lunch on the weekend, so it doesn’t interfere with your classes.” Before Satoru can ask why, she continues, “Your father and I want to meet him, before this relationship progresses. You shouldn’t let a social climber use you,” Satoru’s heart skips a beat at the word marriage, and he almost misses what she says next, “but we were worried you wouldn’t find someone at all. Send us his social media, and we will have a background check run on him. If there’s anything he’s hiding, you’ll want to know before you’re legally bound and bonded to him.”

It’s almost too good to be true. He thought he’d have to fight them to get their approval for the match, but it seems that resisting their attempts to find him an omega has paid off. His parents will settle for him taking omega far below his station as a mate, so long as he’s not using him for personal gain. His giddy excitement is killed a moment later, as she presses him with more questions.

“What is he going to school for?”

Satoru presses his lips together, considering whether he should lie. But if she wants to run a background check on him, she’ll find out regardless.

“Political science.”

He can imagine, even without seeing her face, the scrunch of her nose and brows. “Does he want to run for office? Omegas shouldn’t be getting into politics. Alphas are better suited for it, being the more assertive sex.”

Satoru wants to remind her of her own involvement, but he bites his tongue. She’s met with officials and even the prime minister before, has consulted with lawyers for the company, has advocated for laws to be passed to benefit the company and against expanded rights for workers. But she doesn’t consider that politics. “No. He wants to work for a nonprofit.” Advocating for omegas’ rights.

“Well,” he hears the sound of a pen against paper through the line, “I hope he’s at least respectful to you, as his alpha. You don’t want to marry a domineering omega, one that will walk all over you in your own home.”

“That sounds like someone I know,” Satoru mumbles.

His mother ignores the jab. “We’ll send Ijichi to pick you up at noon on Saturday. Bring the omega.”

***

As Satoru reclines in the backseat of his father’s black Mercedes, leaving the sprawling estates behind for the dense neighborhoods, it starts to rain.

Pulling up to Suguru’s apartment building, he hurries to get out of the car, so he can hold the door open for Suguru. Ijichi would scold him for his manners if he didn’t, but Suguru sighs with exasperated fondness when he sees him, and hurries to the car, keeping his head ducked and his arms pulled close to his chest. But he hesitates at the door; it takes Satoru prodding him to get him to enter the car.

As Satoru takes his own seat, shaking out the rainwater that’s clinging to his white hair, Suguru leans in close. “There’s a driver up there?” Suguru whispers, gesturing towards the black window separating them from the driver’s cabin.

Satoru had forgotten there was someone else in the car at all. “Oh. That’s Ijichi.”

The beta has worked for Satoru’s father for the better part of six years now, longer than any of his predecessors, despite his nervous temperament. He drives him around, keeps track of his appointments, makes travel arrangements for his work trips, and shops for him when there’s something he can’t order to the house. He has no partner, kids, or other family, no life outside of the work he’s given, too, so his father can call him in whenever he’s needed. Satoru doesn’t know when he finds the time to sleep.

Suguru chews on his bottom lip.“And he can hear us?”

“Not a word,” Ijichi calls through the screen. Discretion is part of why he’s paid so well. Suguru’s face turns pale.

“You’ve taken taxis before, haven’t you?” Satoru teases. Suguru doesn’t have a car of his own, and other than the train, cabs are how poor people get around the city without having to walk. “It’s not that different.”

“I guess it isn’t,” Suguru agrees. He still seems on-edge. “So… where are we going?”

Satoru winces. He told him it was a surprise, and Suguru trusted him, but maybe he should have made it more clear what sort of surprise it would be. “My parents wanted to meet you over lunch.”

Suguru looks sharply at him, and Satoru turns his face away, to look out through the rain-spattered window. “And you didn’t tell me—”

“Would you have agreed to it?” Satoru counters.

Suguru meets the question with silence; the rest of the car ride is silent, too. He lets Satoru open the door for him, once it reaches the estate, and walks with him arm-in-arm to the door. It’s a servant that lets them in, and shows Suguru where to put his shoes, but Satoru’s mother descends on them like a bird of prey as soon as Suguru has traded his running shoes for a pair of slippers, the fabric of them yellow.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Geto-san.”

“It is an honor for me as well, Gojo-sama,” Suguru returns. He seems to have recovered from the surprise he’d felt.

His mother reaches out, and touches Suguru’s chin. Tilts his head from side to side. Suguru’s posture stiffens, but he lets her move him how she wants. “Oh, Satoru… I didn’t think he’d be so beautiful.”

“He is,” Satoru agrees, stuffing his hands in his pockets to keep from grabbing Suguru and yanking him back, out of her grasp.

Suguru gets along better with his mother than Satoru expected he would. He nods along as she shows him around the estate; lunch is still being prepared, she says, and Satoru is forced to follow them with a grumbling stomach. His mother tells Suguru about her life as a housewife, and the comforts that his family’s wealth has afforded her. Vacations, expensive clothes, servants to handle cooking and cleaning and childcare. She doesn’t mention her husband’s mistresses, or how involved she is in the company. Ijichi handles his father’s schedule, but it’s his mother that passes information between them.

“You come from a small town, is that right?” His mother asks. “I’m surprised you have manners at all. But I’m glad you’re not one of those loud, uncouth omegas. I’ve never had respect for omegas that go to college,” his mother continues. “It makes them too arrogant. A submissive wife is a respectful one.”

Suguru looks at him, and Satoru meets his incredulous look with a shrug.

Lunch is soon finished, and the chef calls them into the dining room, where his father comes to join them. His mother is just as overwhelming during the meal; Satoru keeps a hand on Suguru’s knee, supportive, as she interrogates him on his upbringing and his career goals. When she asks about his advocacy work, Suguru’s eyes light up for the first time since they met in front of his apartment.

“I have a few candidates to hand leadership of the club over to. After graduation, there are several organizations I would want to work for.”

“Satoru said you’re majoring in political sciences,” his mother’s gaze shifts over to him. “You’ll find that politics really aren’t that interesting, once you’re out of school. Having children is much more fulfilling.”

Suguru’s excitement fades as he realizes Satoru’s mother is starting on another lecture. “Well,” he says, staring down at his plate, where he’s spent most of the meal pushing his crêpe around without eating it, “there’s not much support for pregnant omegas in this country…” He’s talked about it to Satoru at length. It’s one of the topics he’s most passionate about. “I’d like to improve those conditions before having them.”

“And wait for your womb to shrivel up?” Satoru winces at the harsh phrasing. Suguru recoils as if he’s been slapped, sitting back in his seat. He looks to Satoru, but before he can give his input, his mother presses on. “You should get married as soon as possible,” his mother advises, “and have kids young. Your body will bounce back easier, that way. I still have my figure, twenty years after having Satoru.”

Satoru’s father looks between them. “We should start making arrangements soon.”

“Within the year, surely,” Satoru’s mother agrees.

“For what?” Satoru asks.

“A wedding, of course. You want to marry him, do you not?”

Satoru glances at Suguru, with his pale complexion and eyes wide.

“Let’s talk about this later,” Satoru blurts, and his mother lets out an exasperated sigh. He doesn’t want to say that he doesn’t, not in front of Suguru, but he doesn’t want to scare him off by saying that he does, either.

Suguru doesn’t talk much for the rest of lunch. He’s still quiet as he gets back into the car. It’s unnerving. Satoru thought he’d have more to say about his mother, and how ridiculous and overbearing she was being. Ijichi wouldn’t tattle, if he’s worried about what he says being shared with her. But Suguru keeps his arms wrapped around his waist, and leans against the window as the car pulls away from the estate, back towards the city. Satoru drums his fingers on his thigh and tries to be patient, but one of them has to speak, he thinks, and Suguru is so lost in his own thoughts, it will have to be him.

“Suguru—”

Suguru throws open the limo’s door on his side, and leaps out.

Ijichi slams on the breaks, hard, and Satoru jolts forward. Though Suguru stumbles, he doesn’t fall, slamming the car door shut behind him and gathering his bag close to his chest. For a moment, Satoru stares in shock through the limo’s tinted windows, watching him march down the street with hunched shoulders. It’s as he turns the corner of a building that Satoru’s mind catches up to what’s happening.

Satoru leaps out after him, Ijichi shouting after him. He hears a blaring horn before he sees the car that almost strikes him, and he slaps a hand down on the bonnet, giving an apologetic wave to the driver.

“Suguru,” he calls, but he doesn’t turn around, “wait!”

As he reaches the sidewalk, he steps in a deep puddle along the curb, soaking his socks and his polished shoes. His soggy socks squelch as he runs, his feet will be pruning when he gets home and takes them off, but he ignores the discomfort as he chases after the omega, dark hair plastered to his neck by the rain. Suguru’s sweater must be soaked through, as uncomfortable as Satoru’s socks.

Suguru must hear Satoru running, shoes slapping against the wet concrete, but he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t accelerate to avoid him, either, so Satoru catches up with him easily. He must have wanted him to catch up, for Satoru to be able to catch him.

Grabbing the omega’s shoulders, Satoru tugs him back, keeping him from walking farther. “Suguru—”

The omega smacks his hands away. Satoru stumbles back. He expects for Suguru to keep walking, to have to chase after him again, but Suguru turns on his heel instead. The wetness on his face could be mistaken for rain, except that his eyes and nose are a blotchy red. There’s a wild look in his eyes, and Satoru has seen enough movies to expect the sting of a slap, but Suguru folds his arms across his chest instead of striking him, wrapping them around his purse. Satoru resists the urge to reach out and grab him again, to pull him close.

“What do you want from me, Satoru?”

Everything, Satoru thinks. He wants his time, to spend every waking moment in Suguru’s presence. His scent, to breathe it in instead of air. He wants his attention, all of it, though he’s accepted he’ll have to share.

But none of it feels like the right answer. He can tell there’s an answer Suguru is expecting, but as he thinks through alternative answers in his head, none of them feel correct. The words that will calm him down, make things return to how they were before the dinner, evade him. As the silence drags on, he knows he’s wearing on Suguru’s patience, and he has to say something. “I—”

Suguru spares him from whatever bullshit he’s about to blurt. “Do you want to marry me?”

“Yes,” Satoru answers, with no hesitation. He can’t follow how the conversation has gotten here.

Suguru shakes his head, combing a hand through his wet hair. “We’ve known each other for three months, and you told your mother we were getting married. Without even asking me! Give an inch, of course Gojo Satoru takes a mile—”

“Wait,” Satoru interrupts, “I didn’t tell her we were getting married! She assumed—”

“Based on what,” Suguru presses. “You must have told her something to make her think that.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Satoru reaches out towards him again. “We’re scent-mates.”

“That doesn’t matter to me at all,” Suguru insists, stepping out of range.

“It means we’re compatible.”

Suguru laughs, shaking his head again. Incredulous. “Satoru, we’re not— we aren’t compatible.”

“We wouldn’t have felt such a strong connection if we weren’t,” Satoru protests. He hasn’t been able to think about anything except Suguru for months. Despite his resistance, he knows that Suguru feels a pull towards him, too.

“Your family expects you to find a submissive omega,” Suguru spits his mother’s word back at him, “and that’s not what I am.”

“You acted the part well enough at dinner,” Satoru reminds him.

Suguru sniffles. “I froze up, and I wish that I didn’t.”

Satoru’s chest tightens. “I’ll defend you next time.” He should have spoken up, he thinks, when his mother was pressuring him about his future, but he’d thought they would talk about it after, and be fine.

“I thought you wanted to keep your head down until you inherited the company.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to submit to them.”

“But you would want me to,” Suguru retorts.

“I want you as you are, Suguru.”

“Maybe.” Suguru turns away from him. “But that wouldn’t last. I can see that now. It’s better to end things early than too late, once we’re married, and I have to contend with your family’s wealth in the divorce, and—” he cuts himself off, wiping at his face with his wet sleeve. “Goodbye, Satoru. I hope you find someone else you’re more compatible with,” Suguru sniffles, “but I don’t want to see you again.”

Turning on his heel, Suguru leaves, and Satoru is left behind in the rain.

Ijichi pulls up behind him, eventually. Rolling down the window, he leans out. “Young master—”

“I’m walking home,” Satoru declares. He turns, and goes in the opposite direction, leaving Ijichi behind to block traffic.

***

He’s blocked again on Suguru’s Instagram, and all of the club’s social media pages.

Though Satoru could try his luck with showing up at the clubroom again, he can admit to himself that perhaps he’s pushed it too far this time. Suguru has pushed him away before, but never with tears in his eyes. He should at least give him some space, he thinks, before he reaches out again. He doesn’t want to have to see Suguru in tears again, if speaking to him in person sets off the waterworks again.

And so he resigns himself to his misery. He skips all of his classes, borrowing notes from classmates and emailing his professors to tell them he won’t be attending. He doesn’t give an excuse, and none of them ask for one. His name alone means he’s guaranteed to graduate with top grades, regardless of whether he puts in the work for them. But it couldn’t make Suguru put aside his morals. He would give it all up to have Suguru’s smile on him again, to know there’s someone that likes him for more than his net worth and his name. He misses the feeling more than he ever could have expected he would.

Maybe he’s right, and they aren’t compatible, not in a way that’s more than biological. Alpha and omega are supposed to be made for each other, but to make himself into an alpha Suguru wanted to be with, it took more effort than he was capable of sustaining. He was content enough without him. His life was easier before he had to start thinking about others.

Except he can’t stop thinking about it. Suguru’s expression, when his mother told him he’d find more satisfaction raising children than in politics.

When the apartment buzzer rings, it doesn’t make him stir from his spot on the couch. Not when it rings the second time, either. Then whoever’s downstairs starts to rapidly press it, and with a groan, he forces himself to stand from where he’d been slumped into the couch. It’s clear his unwanted visitor won’t be leaving without seeing him.

He’s expecting it to be one of his classmates coming to harass him about ignoring his emails and skipping class, or a delivery man with a package from his parents that needs signing to receive. He lets the visitor up without checking the video feed of the building’s entrance, and isn’t expecting to see Ieiri when he opens the front door. She looks him up and down, and smiles around the lollipop stick in her mouth, her teeth and lips stained a faint blue.

“I brought mochi.” Ieiri shakes the plastic bag in her hand, and Satoru opens it wider.

The omega steps inside, kicking off her shoes, and the first thing she does is smell the air. She doesn’t comment on the staleness of the room, nor the buildup of garbage near the door, but he can tell by the wrinkling of her nose that she’s disgusted by the smell. Not that she can judge, given the smoke that clings to her, stronger than her actual scent. She tosses the bag onto the kitchen counter as she passes it, and throws herself backwards onto the couch, peering over the back of it through the floor to ceiling windows looking over Tokyo.

“You’ve got a great view up here,” she sighs, resting her chin on her arms. “How much does a place like this cost?”

Satoru grabs the mochi, and takes it to the couch. “Forty million yen.”

Ieiri hums in acknowledgement, watching the city below. Satoru pops open the plastic takeout container of mochi, and without waiting for permission, he digs in. His consolation for the break-up, he assumes.

“You know,” she drawls, “in the right hands, that much money could do a lot of good—”

“Is he handling it well? The breakup,” Satoru interrupts, changing the topic. He speaks with his mouth full, covering it with the back of his hand. He doesn’t want to listen to more moralizing right now about responsibility and praxis.

Ieiri laughs. “I don’t think you can count it as a breakup. You’d have to actually be a couple for that.”

“Wait! We went on three dates,” Satoru protests, holding up his fingers, “we were together.” At that, Ieiri looks surprised. Satoru latches onto it. “You didn’t know, did you? That we were dating—”

“Not for a long time,” Ieiri says dismissively. But she’s no longer smiling. “If it was serious on his end, he would have told me.”

“Then you can tell me how he’s been, can’t you?” Satoru presses.

Ieiri shrugs. “Well, he canceled last week’s meeting.”

“Because he’s sad about the breakup?”

“Because he was worried you’d show up.”

Satoru deflates, slumping back into his couch. He tosses the mochi container onto a side table. “I wouldn’t have. He told me to stay away from him.” He doesn’t know how he’ll show his face again on campus.

Ieiri scoffs. “Your persistence has worked out for you so far.”

It wouldn’t this time, and both of them know it. “Are you here to comfort me, or to gloat?”

“Neither, actually.” Ieiri turns around on the couch, and pulls the lollipop out of her mouth, pointing it at him. “I was here to give you advice. But I don’t think you’d listen to it, so I guess I should leave…”

The advice can’t be to stay away from Suguru, because he already is. Ieiri is Suguru’s friend first, not his, and he doesn’t think she would tell him to go after him. Except Ieiri is twirling the lollipop stick between her lips and looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to ask. And despite instinct telling him she’s just going to mock him again, his curiosity overcomes his caution.

“I’m listening.”

***

Sugu-chan 💔 || 11:04 || ???

He’s unblocked him, then; he had to, in order to send the message. Satoru’s heart lurches, and he grabs for his phone, holding it up to his face and squinting at the brightness of the screen. It’s late at night, but he’s grateful it isn’t later. He would have waited up all night for his message, if he had to. It took Suguru less time than he was expecting to discover what he did, and decide it was worth responding to.

Satoru || 11:05 || meet me in the engineering hall

Satoru || 11:05 || please

Sugu-chan 💔 || 11:05 || You have a lot of explaining to do, Satoru.

Satoru || 11:06 || and i will explain if u meet me there

He doesn’t get another response, but he doesn’t need one. Satoru throws on a coat and his hat, and rushes out of his apartment. He speeds as he drives to campus, in his haste to reach the building before Suguru does.

It’s raining outside; Satoru shakes the water out of his hair as he enters the building. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, clicking on his messaging app— except Suguru is already there, leaning against the wall, holding with his own phone. He would have needed to already be on campus, to get there before Satoru, given his apartment is further from the school than Satoru’s is, and he would have needed to take the train to get there. The club met today. Thinking about him staying on campus afterwards, struggling to decide whether or not to reach out, makes Satoru’s heart beat quicker in his chest.

As soon as Suguru notices him, he holds up his phone. The screen is too bright and small to see what’s on it from a distance, but Satoru already knows it’s one of a dozen articles detailing his father’s swift fall from grace.

“Your family’s company is ruined,” Suguru declares.

“I hope so.”

That was his intention, in sharing the documents with the press; the results of the internal investigation into the case of the intern fired for taking time off for her heat, evidence that his father was bribing politicians, and information on a hundred other secrets buried by his father’s team of lawyers, all printed out and organized into files and sent out to every news outlet in the country, along with some international ones. It was his father’s fault, for keeping it all in a locked safe in his bedroom. The company’s structure is rotten to its core, abuse on every level of its management, its worth built from peddling sexism and bigotry. Suguru would never have been able to come to terms with him leading it.

Suguru scrubs a hand over his face. “I thought you wanted to play nice with your father until you took over the company.”

“My plans changed.” Maybe Suguru’s right, and a relationship between them is doomed to end. But he’d rather risk it all for the chance that it doesn’t.

“Most alphas like you don’t,” Suguru retorts. “Change, that is. Did you do it because you wanted to win me back?”

“I did it because it was the right thing,” Satoru corrects, “and to show you I at least learned something.”

Suguru’s frown deepens. “So… this isn’t an attempt to guilt me into dating again. Ruining your own life and blaming it on me—”

“My life isn’t ruined.” The company might collapse, but his family has enough assets to be fine. And there’s nothing his father can do to disinherit him, given he’s named in his grandfather’s will; he just can’t access the money he left him until he’s graduated. His mother has tried to call him countless times since finding out what he did, and he’s ignored all of her calls and messages. He scuffs the ground with the heel of his shoe, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “And I spilled the company’s secrets. Not you.”

Suguru lets out a long breath, and the tension in his shoulders releases. “You did.”

He’s slow to approach him. Satoru stands still, though he longs to reach out towards him.

“You were the one that made the donation, too, right?” Suguru says, coming to stand just a few feet away.

His scent is intoxicating with him standing so close, sandalwood and cedar, but Satoru is more focused on how wet his eyes are, in the dim light of the building after-hours. Satoru nods, nails digging into his palms. “I didn’t do that for recognition, either.”

If the weight of expectation was Suguru’s problem, he decided, then he would approach him with no expectations. He’s done everything Shoko suggested, to make it clear to Suguru that he has changed, and that he doesn’t just want him because of a biological imperative. No; he cares about Suguru’s passion for change, and some of it has rubbed off on him, too. He won’t return to a state of inaction, even if Suguru doesn’t take him back. Because he wants to make a world that Suguru can be satisfied with, too.

Suguru must see it in his face, because he throws himself into his arms, wrapping them around his neck, and Satoru returns the embrace.