Chapter Text
On a busy Tokyo block wedged between a pharmacy and a narrow stationery shop sits Dimitri’s Fish.
The sign is hand painted in fading blue, the letters slightly uneven as if the person who made it had cared more about speed than symmetry. The front windows are frosted halfway up, blurring the shapes of silver bodies laid over crushed ice. A little brass bell hangs above the door and rings politely whenever someone enters.
Two storefronts down is something much louder.
Geto Family Daycare announces itself with paper suns taped crookedly to the inside of the glass and a corkboard filled with finger paintings that lean heavily toward abstract. The windows are never fully clean. Small handprints bloom across them daily. The door opens and closes constantly, letting out bursts of laughter, crying, and the high pitched shriek of someone who has discovered a new and exciting way to jump off a foam block.
If Dimitri’s Fish smells faintly of salt and brine, the daycare smells like apple juice, disinfectant wipes, and something sweet baking in the back kitchen.
Suguru Geto stands in the middle of it all with a clipboard tucked against his chest and a pen behind his ear.
He is not dressed for glamour. A loose black sweater clings to his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His long black hair is tied low at the nape of his neck, a few strands slipping free near his temples. There are soft circles beneath his eyes that no amount of sleep ever quite erases.
He is tired. He is content.
“Yuji, feet on the floor,” he says gently.
Yuji Itadori, four years old and powered entirely by sugar and audacity, is standing on a small plastic chair like it is a stage. He grins down at Suguru.
“I am a superhero.”
“You can be a superhero with both feet on the ground,” Suguru replies.
Across the room, Nobara Kugisaki is apologizing loudly to Maki Zenin for knocking over a tower of blocks.
“I said sorry,” Nobara insists, hands on her hips.
Maki, eight and perpetually responsible, sighs like a weary adult. “You have to help rebuild it too.”
Megumi Fushiguro sits cross legged near the bookshelf, quietly turning pages of a picture book. He watches everything without appearing to. Inumaki Toge sits beside him, offering Megumi a small smile before pressing a crayon carefully to paper. He does not speak, but he hums softly in his throat, content.
Near the baby section partitioned by a low gate, Nanami Kento rocks Yuta Okkotsu, who babbles happily and attempts to chew on Nanami’s tie.
Nanami gently removes the tie from Yuta’s grasp. “This is not edible,” he says calmly.
In the back, Haibara hums while stirring something in a pot. Shoko Ieiri kneels beside a group of older children helping them with a craft project involving glue that is definitely being used too generously.
Suguru looks at all of it and feels the familiar warmth bloom in his chest.
He loves the paperwork. He does. The organization. The careful budgeting. The structure that keeps everything running.
But this is his true love.
The floor. The noise. The children.
It is Haibara who brings up the fish.
“We should add more protein,” Haibara says during lunch prep, leaning against the counter. “Parents are asking about balanced meals. We could do grilled fish once or twice a week.”
Suguru blinks thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“There’s a seafood shop two doors down,” Shoko adds without looking up from cutting strawberries. “Dimitri’s Fish. We pass it every day.”
Suguru hesitates. He has seen the shop. Quiet. Closed off. A little intimidating in a way he cannot name.
Still, practicality wins.
That afternoon, after Nanami assures him the toddlers are down for a nap and Shoko waves him off with a teasing smirk, Suguru slips on his coat and steps out into the brisk air.
The bell above Dimitri’s Fish rings softly when he enters.
The scent hits him first. Clean salt. Ice. Something metallic and fresh.
Behind the counter stands a woman with auburn hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Her posture is sharp. Intelligent eyes flick up from a ledger.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
Her tone is polite but measured.
“I run the daycare down the street,” Suguru says softly. “I was hoping to ask about buying fish in bulk. By the kilo.”
Before she can respond, a voice drifts from the back.
Fluent Russian, smooth and effortless, threaded with amusement.
Suguru does not understand the words, but the cadence alone makes him glance toward the sound.
A tall man leans casually against the side wall near a stack of crates. White hair falls messily over his forehead. His shirt sleeves are rolled to reveal forearms lined with faint scars. A more noticeable one cuts through his lower lip, another along his collarbone visible where the top button is undone.
He is smiling into his phone.
It is not a warm smile. It is sharp.
“Da,” he says lightly. “If he cannot pay, then perhaps he should not have borrowed.”
There is a pause. His blue eyes flick up.
They land on Suguru.
The world narrows.
Satoru Gojo has built empires out of patience and fear. He has negotiated contracts that would make lesser men tremble. He has watched rivals crumble without ever raising his voice.
None of that prepares him for the sight in front of him.
Black hair tied low. Soft eyes ringed with exhaustion. A polite posture that suggests habit rather than submission. Long fingers curled loosely around the strap of a worn canvas bag.
Suguru smiles at Utahime again, unaware.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what prices usually look like. We just want something healthy for the kids.”
Kids.
The word lands somewhere strange in Satoru’s chest.
He ends the call without looking away.
Utahime notices immediately. She closes the ledger slowly.
Satoru steps forward.
Up close, he is taller than Suguru expected. Broader too. There is something coiled beneath his easy posture.
“You run the daycare,” Satoru says, switching seamlessly to Japanese.
His voice is smooth. Playful. Dangerous in a way Suguru cannot quite identify.
“Yes,” Suguru replies. “Geto Family Daycare.”
Satoru studies him openly. The faint ink stain on his thumb. The way his sweater sleeve is frayed slightly at the cuff. The careful way he stands, as though always aware of others.
“How many children?” Satoru asks.
“Six regulars. Sometimes more if parents need extended care.”
Satoru nods slowly.
He has men who handle shipments worth millions without blinking. He has assassins who move at his command. He has politicians in his pocket.
And yet this man worries about six children and the price of fish.
Utahime clears her throat.
“We can offer a weekly rate if you purchase over five kilos,” she says smoothly. “Salmon and mackerel are popular and affordable.”
Suguru brightens slightly. “That would be wonderful.”
Satoru watches the way his face softens when he speaks about practical things. There is no greed. No calculation.
Just care.
He steps behind the counter as though he works there daily, though he rarely does.
“I’ll prepare the order,” he says.
Utahime’s brow twitches but she says nothing.
As Satoru wraps the fish in paper with surprising precision, he speaks lightly. “Children can be difficult.”
Suguru laughs softly. “They can be. But they are worth it.”
Satoru looks up at that.
Worth it.
The phrase lingers.
He hands the package over the counter. Their fingers brush.
Suguru barely notices.
Satoru does.
The contact is brief but grounding. Real.
“How much do I owe you?” Suguru asks.
Satoru names a price lower than market value.
Utahime notices that too.
Suguru bows his head slightly in gratitude. “Thank you. Truly.”
He adjusts the bag on his shoulder, balancing the weight carefully.
By the weight of a kilo.
By the weight of something far less measurable.
When he leaves, the bell rings again.
Silence settles in his wake.
Utahime closes the ledger with a deliberate snap.
“You never work the counter,” she says flatly.
Satoru is still staring at the door.
“I do now.”
Utahime folds her arms. “He is not part of this world.”
“I know.”
“That makes him dangerous.”
Satoru smiles faintly.
“No,” he says quietly. “It makes me dangerous.”
Outside, Suguru walks back toward the daycare, the fish swinging gently at his side. Through the windows he can already see Yuji bouncing near the door, Megumi standing beside him like a small shadow.
Suguru pushes the door open.
Yuji crashes into his legs immediately. “You were gone forever.”
“It was fifteen minutes,” Suguru laughs.
Megumi peers at the bag. “Is that fish?”
“It is,” Suguru says warmly. “We are trying something new.”
Inside Dimitri’s Fish, Satoru watches through the frosted glass as Suguru disappears into warmth and noise and light.
He has faced men with guns aimed at his head and felt nothing.
This feels worse.
This feels irreversible.
He turns to Utahime slowly.
“Make sure the daycare never has supply issues,” he says calmly.
Utahime studies him.
“You are serious.”
Satoru’s smile returns, softer this time.
“Completely.”
He does not yet know Suguru’s favorite flower. He does not know how he takes his coffee. He does not know that Yuji refuses to nap or that Inumaki prefers green crayons.
He will.
He intends to learn every detail.
For now, he settles for the memory of soft eyes and careful politeness.
He falls instantly.
And for the first time in years, Satoru Gojo is afraid of something that does not bleed.