Chapter Text
August
The smell of hot asphalt hits like a balm, even through his helmet, thick with the heady edges of burnt rubber and the day's heat. Late summer nights always do this to the outskirts of Tokyo.
Under gloved palms, the rubber handlebars shudder, the low hum of the engine sending tiny reverberations through muscle fibre. The muffled growl of other engines beneath his own signals that he's found the right place, at least. Satoru pulls slowly toward it, into an isolated lot a few turns off the outer reaches of the Shuto Expressway, tucked between abandoned industrial buildings and heat-damp greenery.
A smile plays at the corners of Satoru's lips before he comes to a stop, kicking down the stand and swinging his leg over the side. He pulls the helmet off, giving his hair a shake before setting it on the seat.
Satoru can’t remember the last time he spent a whole weekend without trailing his bike out here. Life has been disgustingly ordinary lately: paperwork, fax machines, ramen eaten in some hole-in-the-wall near the office. A whole parade of minor indignities, none fast enough to matter. At least there's this every few weeks—something to set his teeth on edge, numb that itch for a while.
For as long as he can remember, it’s how his body has operated. Endure the dull stretches, with the knowledge that sooner or later, something interesting will wander into reach.
The gravel, churned up from tyre treads and heavy footsteps, crunches under his boot as he walks up to the familiar sight of Shoko. She's leaned up against her red Suzuki, expression faraway. One foot resting on the edge of a tyre, head tilted back, and eyes half-shut. A plume of ashy smoke puffs out from her mouth as she lifts, drags, and drops the cigarette ritualistically. Her eyes flicker open and find him, lifting in surprise.
“Gojo! Thought you couldn’t make it tonight."
“So glad to see you too, Ieiri,” Gojo replies, reaching out to grab the mostly dissolved cigarette from her lips and throwing it into the gravel. Ignoring Shoko's disgruntled cry, he crushes it with the heel of his boot. "Gross."
“I had a stressful day.”
"Stressful or smelling like shit. Choose one."
"Both. Those things cost money, you know?You've really got to stop adding yourself to the list of my stresses," she mutters that last bit under her breath.
Satoru hums, moving next to her and nudging his shoulder against hers. She cranes her neck, looking up at him with a raised brow. "Did you read the chat?"
"Tsukumo's message?"
"New guy," Satoru says, waggling his brows. "Wanna take bets before we see him race?"
It's relatively rare for a new person to join. Word of mouth invites only, no personal information shared, no meeting up outside of races unless you already know each other. Not even phone numbers, just a Telegram group chat with everyone's numbers hidden. It helps keep things contained. That way, they can all carry on with their monthly races and occasional meet-ups without someone getting arrested for driving at—admittedly, fast—speed through the streets and them all ending up paying a hundred fines each.
Really, though, Satoru thinks it just gives peace of mind to the gamblers who rally at every race. It makes no difference to him.
And so, whenever someone new does join, Satoru likes to play with them a little. Novelty within novelty, and he's not one to pass up the opportunity for that.
Shoko laughs lightly at him, shaking her head. "You always lose those, idiot."
"I'll have you know I'm an excellent judge of character."
"Sure, Gojo," she replies, patting his arm. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
Satoru huffs at her indignantly, slapping the hand away. "Is he here yet?"
Shoko nods, eyes pointing to where a small group stand a few paces away, towards the outer reaches of the lot. "With Tsukumo."
"Let's go, then," Satoru sing-songs, grabbing Shoko's hand and pulling her along despite protests of, Slow down, not all of us have freakishly long legs. Satoru chooses to ignore her, but lets go when they reaches the others.
He recognises all of them, except one, immediately. Tsukumo, wearing her waist-length hair down, standing with her elbow draped over Choso's shoulders. Satoru has a theory, currently at 90% certainty, that they sleep together after every meet-up. There's also Nanami and Haibara, the latter of whom gives him an excited wave, the former glancing over like he's suppressing a deep sigh. Some others are still setting up on the other side of the lot.
On the nights when they plan a race, it's busier. The high rollers and low rollers who set bets with equal amounts of confidence fill out the space at those times. It's rare, but sometimes they'll come along to practice runs like this. Satoru scans the area, but doesn't find any of them.
Good, he thinks. They end up kissing his ass for too long.
Satoru can't quite see the last person standing there, back turned to him, but he does a quick mental calculation— tall, broad, long dark hair— and decides, based on no information at all, to place him just above Choso, and below Tsukumo in the private ranking system he's made.
"Hey guys," Haibara greets, eyes forming half-crescents from the wide smile he sports. "You met Geto yet?"
It's Geto, then.
"Nope," Satoru calls back, shoving in to make room for himself and Shoko. "We came over to see what all the fuss is about."
The new guy turns, then, eyes settling on Satoru and Shoko. Half of his hair is pulled up into a loose bun with a single bang falling out and over his left eye, the rest around his shoulders, face structured with high cheekbones and a defined jawline. The headlights of some bikes, which have been left buzzing away, catch on the glimmer of silver in his face—two studs snakebitten below his bottom lip, one barbell threaded through a thin eyebrow. A face made of contrasting points of delicate severity.
It takes Satoru too long to notice that he's staring without saying a word. He clears his throat, although Shoko speaks for him, noticing the missed beat.
"You know Tsukumo, right?" she asks Geto politely, silently sizing him up.
Geto nods, glancing around. "Yeah. Took a while for her to finally tell me about this, but I get why you need to keep it low." He's softly spoken, another discrepancy like those in his features. There's a small accent in there, a soft drawl that catches on the vowels. And when he looks back at Satoru, lips pulling a little, eyes wrinkling kindly in the corners, Satoru feels—
What the fuck.
Satoru snaps out of it with a forceful blink and returns the smile. "What do you drive?" He blurts out.
Geto points his gloved hand to his left. "That one over there. Two bikes over."
A sleek, jet-black Honda Fireblade, with a single yellow stripe running up its side. Satoru runs through his catalogue of knowledge: it's fast, usually track-focused. Most importantly, it's not faster than his.
Satoru beams. "Nice."
"It's modded," Geto adds, like he knows exactly what Satoru's thinking, and Satoru feels his smile almost slip.
"Oh?"
Tsukumo sends a mildly interested look over. "Geto helped me with mine, too."
Ah. The mystery guy who helped Tsukumo, somehow legally, modify her engine to the point where she almost started winning against Satoru.
Fantastic.
"You've been riding long then?" Satoru asks, compelled to know as much as he can without pushing things quite too far.
"All my life. You?"
Since I first snuck on the back of Shoko's at sixteen.
"All my life."
Shoko snorts next to him, and it takes all of Satoru's willpower not to respond. She wouldn't dare. Satoru has too many of her own misdeeds tucked away, ready to spill. Surely.
Tsukumo interrupts by clapping her hands together, calling over some others who are milling around. "So, like I said on Telegram, no races today. Friendly only." She looks pointedly at Satoru. "So no stupid tricks."
Yeah, right. Satoru glances back at Geto, intending to send over a look of casual bravado. They catch each other's eyes, and there's a flicker of sudden, fluttering tension beating in Satoru's gut, before he disregards it. Race or not— he's beating him.
──── ⋅•⋅⊰∙☽༓☾∙⊱⋅•⋅ ────
It doesn't take long for Satoru to, potentially, begin to doubt himself.
He has all the factors on his side— one of the fastest (legal, except for his own modifications, but that's no matter) bikes available, to start. A beautiful Ninja H2, courtesy of the account his family set up for him and, by some small miracle, never check the balance on. Quick reflexes. Familiar roads. Confidence that soon shows it's been earned.
Through his visor, the orange glow of streetlights along the highway becomes a mirage of blurs. Bike and body answering each other like always; a perpetual cycle of adrenaline pushing his body further down, letting wind whip around smoothly, the vibrations pumping more back into his blood.
It's hot tonight. Rebounded breath, sweat trapped under leather and denim. Almost perfect.
If only he didn't have someone up his ass.
Satoru catches the flicker of Geto’s headlight in his mirror, too close and too steady to be accidental. He clenches his jaw shut tighter, feels the masseters tense against the press of the helmet.
There's no way the guy is just driving 'friendly', testing out the routes and everyone's driving styles. Satoru's pushing it about as far as he can without getting a slap from Tsukumo when they circle back around, and the guy is still tucked into the space behind him like he's been personally invited to the spot. Using the shield of broken air behind Satoru for his own momentum.
Satoru slows, and so does Geto.
He's definitely being tested.
To check his theory, Satoru twists the throttle until his knuckles must be bone-white, picking up speed. Lo and behold, Geto stays just as close.
What an asshole.
There's a tight bend in the road ahead as it curves around the climbing mountain, highway slipping more and more into the shadow of Tokyo's glow. Satoru grits his teeth and leans harder into the next curve, knee dropping, the road tilting beneath him. The asphalt skims his kneepad, tyres gripping, engine snarling higher, and for a second he loses the light behind him.
Finally.
Then they hit the straight, and Geto appears again.
This time, he moves further to the left, out of the shadow of Satoru's bike. It's less strategic. Counterintuitive, if anything. If Geto stayed in that same spot behind him, slipstreamed, he would've been able to use the extra momentum to overtake easily. Flicking his eyes over for a second, Satoru sees the Fireblade at his side, flashes of gold under the streetlights, coming and going rapidly. Just steadily maintaining pace there. And then, the smallest tilt of the helmet in his direction.
Is Geto laughing under there? It could be his sense of humour, perhaps.
Or are his teeth also gritted, his stomach knotting strangely, trying to push as hard as he can, testing what Satoru will do?
Satoru's usual, resolute certainty slips just slightly, replaced with restless curiosity and a hot line of suspicion drawn through him.
It's only for a moment that he can keep up the look before he has to turn his attention to the road ahead. The questions still needle at him, though. Satoru notices the headlights behind grow a little further away. He slows back down until he's driving just ahead of the group again, insides settling. Not so far away that it'll kick him out of their next race for bad sportsmanship.
Another ten short, dragged minutes of driving later, Satoru finds his way back to the lot. The others all trickle in after him, parking in more organised rows than when they first arrived.
Geto takes the long way, slowly rolling past a few other bikes using his feet as leverage, until he cuts the engine next to Satoru. Even though he's masked under the helmet, Satoru raises a brow.
So, that's that. Geto can drive. Unfortunately, well. Controlled, precise, and passive aggressive. Not a good combination.
As the engines start to cool, their noises simmering into ticks, Satoru stays perched on his seat. He pulls the helmet off and breathes in the humid air. With both feet planted to the floor, he sways the bike side to side, side-eyeing Geto discreetly.
The other man doesn't take his own helmet off, face still hidden, the dark colour of it melting into the hair he kept hanging over his back for the drive. Satoru watches him pull the gloves off. Left, then right, flexing his hands out a few times before untangling some wind-whipped strands.
Satoru wonders, again, what Geto's face is doing under the helmet. If he's noticed Satoru, if they're actually making eye contact each time he sneaks another look.
He should probably clear the air, just ask if Geto was sizing him up, or trying to be friendly, or deliberately trying to get under his skin— or whatever.
Instead, Geto moves first, hand flicking up to his helmet. He slides off the bike and waves to Tsukumo a few meters to the other side of Satoru. All steady, smooth movement.
"You're a good rider," Geto comments as he passes by. The visor's tipped up, just enough for his voice to come through, muffled. Just enough to catch a little glint in his eyes, too. "Thanks for showing me how you race. I'll be keeping it in mind."
Geto winks, a quick flash. A dampened laugh follows after him, almost swallowed up by the ticking engines, while Satoru is left there. Sitting still, watching, blood running too hot.
He shouts over an excuse to leave at Shoko, and lets the deafening engine noise dampen a pinch low in his belly.
──── ⋅•⋅⊰∙☽༓☾∙⊱⋅•⋅ ────
Satoru spends the next month, between the last meet-up and the next real racing night, pretending that he couldn't care less about the new guy.
The first week is mercifully useless. Workworkwork, late nights, numbers blurring into names. There's no room for anyone else. A real personal victory.
Until the second week ruins it.
By then, the company's scrambling higher-ups suddenly ease up with all the grace of a whiplash victim. Deadlines met, quarterly reports finished, and Satoru finds that he has too much time on his hands.
The girl he met on another failed meet-cute won't stop sending him playlists, even though he'll only send a late emoji back as a response. The local konbini is, devastatingly, out of his all-time favourite strawberry daifuku. Shoko is working nights all week, so he doesn't even have her to run to and pester.
One evening, halfway through the week and half-watching a reality show, his phone buzzes.
Satoru groans, anticipates another mix of ballads, and stops when he sees, in small glowing text: Geto.
His heart lurches into his throat, and settles back down when he sees it's just to their Telegram group. Satoru presses his thumb to the screen, expanding the message.
He's almost certain that won't show it as read. Almost.
Hi, everyone! I've been changing out my brake pads today. Putting some sintered pads on, so have my old organic ones going. Let me know if anyone's interested in taking them off my hands. -G
Satoru lets out a strangled noise. That Geto was keeping up so well even without sintered pads is, admittedly, ridiculous. If he's upgrading parts, he must be hoping to drive even better next time. Which is something Satoru is fundamentally against.
Without hesitating, Satoru gets to work.
By the end of week three, he quite comfortably considers himself an expert in all things Honda Fireblade. Amongst other theoretical musings.
He spends too much time wondering if Geto is a mechanic, or if he works in the same engineering company as Satoru— a thought quickly dispelled simply from how fuzzy it feels. He picks at the idea of him having a workshop, or just a small parking spot where he does all the mods. If it's a mere hobby or his livelihood.
One day, Shoko catches his extensive search history when scooted up next to him, and stares at Satoru blankly for a full minute.
"You know, most people just message someone."
"It's research."
"Sure."
"For the race."
"I never said it wasn't."
"Shut up."
He's fooling no one. Not even himself.
The thing that keeps bothering him is why.
It's not like he's never lost a race or had someone show him some good old-fashioned competition. Could it just be the mundanity of life, a way that his brain is trying to inject some ill-advised tension to break up meetings and PowerPoints and goddamn KPIs?
That's exactly it, he decides, staring up at the dark ceiling of his bedroom. Officerot. Incoming heatstroke. A catastrophic lack of sugar. His brain, starved as it is of anything worth chewing on, has simply picked up the nearest pretty problem and found teeth for it.
On top of it all, the AC broke yesterday, because of course it did, and the only thing to give the smallest inkling of relief is a relic of a desk fan he found buried in his closet. It sits there, buzzing like a fly in his ear, spinning dust and more warm air into his face. He can't really bring himself to care, still too irritated at intrusive images of superiorly sintered pads and a helmet tilting in his direction.
Maybe he needs to find a new hobby. Maybe this is the death knell of street racing— unable to sleep from sweltering heat and the thought of that guy beating him in their next race.
Although… it could be that he just has an itch to scratch. More research to complete for full satisfaction. No need to jump to conclusions.
Satoru glances at his nightstand, where his phone lies face down next to the droning fan. Snatching it off the side, he unlocks it, wincing at the sudden brightness of blue light.
1:42 am. Amazing.
Mindlessly, he opens, scrolls, and closes every app he can think of. The same repetitive relay of unanswered texts from family—Why won't you answer us? Your aunt is asking about you. Won't you come home for a weekend?—old school friends either getting engaged or trying to pretend they're happily married, emails about upcoming deadlines. Thankfully, no new songs.
An idea starts to form.
Should he..?
Fuck it.
His next move is a quick tap to open Telegram. He scrolls to the right group chat, finds the profile, and inspects it for any information.
Nothing. Just Geto. Not even the courtesy of a profile picture, just a black image filling up the space.
Biting his lip, Satoru rolls onto his side, letting the fan work over the damp skin of his back.
It's not a very common name; Satoru can't recall ever meeting someone else with it. Even with no one around, Satoru shifts his eyes around like he's committing some heinous crime, and opens the search tab.
Geto
Nothing.
Geto Tokyo
Nothing.
Tsukumo had mentioned that it was Geto who helped modify her bike. It also seemed like he was changing the brake pads himself. Then the next thing he should search for is…
Geto Tokyo motorcycle
And then, there is something. A few scrolls down through the images tab, Satoru catches an image of people crowded around an old motorbike. Two men and two young girls, one on each shoulder. Holding his breath, Satoru inspects it closer.
Definitely Geto, but likely younger. His features look softer and more boyish, hair wrapped up in a bun at the crown of his head, a loose t-shirt hanging on his torso. He's leaning his hands onto a beat-up seat, smiling brightly at the camera as the girl on his shoulders looks down at him adoringly. Satoru squints his eyes to see the man to Geto's left more clearly. It's hard to tell, with a dusty grain over the small image, but he does look similar to Geto, maybe a few decades older.
Under the link to a social media page, Satoru reads, Look who decided to pay us a visit! Come all the way from Tokyo…
Right when his finger hovers over the link, something startles Satoru back to now. Sense or shame; it doesn't really need a name to matter. He swipes up, locks the phone, and chucks it to the other side of the room before he has time to think further.
What the fuck?
He's being weird. He's acting weird.
It's because I'm bored. That's all.
It takes another hour of restless pillow-flipping until sleep finds him.
──── ⋅•⋅⊰∙☽༓☾∙⊱⋅•⋅ ────
Tonight's spot, texted by a very excitable Tsukumo two hours ago, takes Satoru forty-five minutes to drive to. He's lucky that he even caught the message, still in the office a full two hours after he should have left. It's a whirlwind rush to get home, dress, shove half an onigiri in his mouth, and he just about makes it on time. Thank God for lane splitting.
It's at an old service station, disused for several years now, illuminated by flickering lights overhead. Satoru pulls up, engine rumbling low, and clocks the group immediately. As usual for a racing night, there's more than at their last meeting. There are those who prefer to watch, or those who prefer to ride, so they're all out tonight.
Tsukumo animatedly waves him over. Climbing off the bike, Satoru checks the time on his watch and holds it out as he reaches them.
"Something incredible is happening today," he says in lieu of a greeting.
Shoko rolls her eyes from where she sits cross-legged on an old crate. "Guys, no one ask him."
Satoru ignores her. "I'm on time!"
"Yay," Shoko deadpans. "Would you like a reward?"
"Beating you is my reward, Ieiri," Satoru teases, nudging her knee with his own.
"Good thing I'm not racing today."
"What?" Shoko never misses a chance to race. After smoking and drinking, it's one of the few vices she has outside of sterile hospital hellscapes. "Any reason why, or are you hitting an early retirement?"
Shoko tips her head to the left. "Too many of us tonight. Thought I'd be courteous and let Geto take my place."
Tsukumo catches his frown, aimed at Geto's leather-clad back. His hair is wrapped into a loose, low bun today— easy to pull under a helmet. She waggles a chastising finger at him.
"Hey, let's try for no ego today, Gojo."
Satoru grins at her, wide and entirely insincere. "No promises."
"Yeah, yeah," she gestures dismissively, turning with a hand on her hip. "You guys should have seen the route I sent out. Circular route, through the underpass, 5 miles, 3 laps. Winner gets… ah shit. I forgot to bring anything. Ieiri, any ideas?"
"A pack of cigarettes," Shoko responds, smiling all too sweetly at Satoru. He gives her a death stare in return.
"Perfect!" Tsukumo cheers, ushering everyone to their spots, before leaving Shoko to assume her role as flag marshal for the night.
When it's all set, Satoru finds himself positioned at the front, next to Tsukumo and Nanami. As the newest addition, he notices that Geto is the furthest back, but it's not exactly reassuring, given how close he rode earlier that month. And, with all his newfound knowledge on Fireblades — thank you very much, sleepless nights and Reddit — he knows that all it'll take is some careful steering to sling it lithely to his position.
Satoru rolls his neck once, trying to loosen up the tension, looking very deliberately ahead.
Engines rumble out, stormclouds in waiting, loud enough that Satoru feels it moving through his ribs. All that low, mechanical thunder, rolling over asphalt and edging him to focus. Breathe it in, hold, and ready yourself. Some of the streetlights overhead flicker, throwing shadows into jittery angles across the empty streets.
Just off the street, standing on a patch of dried grass, Shoko stands with one hand on her hip, one hand raising a flag. She drops it, and they move.
For the first few minutes, everything goes clean and simple. Smeared lights, world narrowed to bike and body, the wind battering at his shoulders. He bites, pushes the throttle, lets month-long tension focus itself in speed and movement and focused attention. Always the perfect, answering pull of speed in his blood.
The others come close, tyres barely apart as they bite into the asphalt, the rise and falls on bends working the bikes to and fro like a rolling wave. Flashes of red, and blues, and neon greens in his periphery, under the lights.
And then, a goddamned yellow stripe appearing once, colour warped by all the bright headlights.
It doesn't stay completely tucked this time, not a hovering fly in his shadow, but beside him. Rhythmically dropping side to side, levelling out, and repeating. When they reach the underpass, barely taking a few seconds to clear it, prickly irritation gives way to a hot firing.
Satoru can't shake him. He can feel a manic grin growing beneath his helmet. He can’t remember the last time he blinked.
They finish the first lap with the Fireblade inched just a few seconds ahead.
Somewhere toward the end of the second lap, on a sharp curve by some crippled vending machines, Satoru slices in dangerously close to Geto. Close enough to feel the wind knocking from the Fireblade and into his own H2, neither quite destabilised.
Satoru does have some sense to recognise that it's a little risky, cruel even, to test Geto's reaction like that. Fortunately, when Geto does the same back on their next bend, he sees the exact reaction he wanted: finally, some bite, some chase.
Wind-whipped realisations dawn, unrelenting in their speed. That Geto can match him without complaint, and that this is the most fun Satoru has had in months.
He decides to hold back for the last climb back toward Shoko, hoping to tease just a spark of hopeful victory in Geto. Just before reaching the waiting line, he jumps the bike ahead.
Satoru crosses first. By a too-small margin. But still, first is first.
He skids to a stop, unable to stop smiling so hard his cheeks ache. Riding his perfect, undefeated high, Satoru easily cuts down the smaller path back to the lot, where those watching give congratulatory claps and questions about methods of precision-driving.
When Geto comes next to him, he doesn't seem fazed in the slightest by the loss. Visor up, enough to see a heady flush and excited eyes; the same buzz that Satoru feels clearly thrumming away in his own veins. Pulling the helmet off, he gives his hair a shake, the bun now almost falling out.
"Impressive," Geto comments, with genuine praise.
Satoru's heard it before. Now, though, it leaves him muddled with unsteadiness, off-balance. A flicker of embarrassment runs through him at it, quickly masked with a laugh that lands a little too suddenly.
"You didn't make it easy." Compelled to add his own compliment, he says, "Good agility," then looks back to where the last people are filtering back in.
Shoko strolls up to him, rummaging through a bag slung over her shoulder, and throws a pack of plastic-wrapped cigarettes at Satoru. He catches it with a scowl. "Aw, look at you giving away prized possessions."
Annoyingly, it doesn't ruffle Shoko. "Enjoy throwing it in the trash."
Satoru notices Geto angling his head over.
"You don't smoke?" Geto questions.
"Nah. Ieiri just likes being a dick. You?"
Geto lifts his shoulders in a small shrug. "Sometimes."
"Here, then," Satoru says, sliding off the seat and placing the pack in front of Geto. "Consolation prize."
Shoko's eyes cut between the two of them. "That's uncharacteristically nice of you, Gojo."
"I can be nice."
"Huh."
Satoru levels a pinched look at her. "I can!"
"Sure," she says, in the tone of someone about to call bullshit. In a rare act of mercy, she leaves to walk toward the chatting group, leaving Satoru alone with Geto's seeing eyes.
The air holds low and close, and Satoru doesn't know what the hell to add once she’s gone. He crosses his arms over his chest, contemplating trailing after Shoko like a kicked puppy.
The night should dissolve the way it always does: money changing hands, losers grumbling over bad bets, winners acting like Satoru’s victory has anything to do with them. Already, there are disgruntled voices behind him, pacing steps, someone complaining that Geto should have come with stats attached.
Tough shit for them.
Satoru can feel the whole familiar rhythm waiting to swallow him. The praise, the complaints, the shoulder-claps, the inevitable comments about making sure Geto doesn’t get that close again.
"What's that for?" Geto asks, a snap back to himself. He's pointing to a piece of plastic on the back of Satoru's bike.
Satoru feels his face split with a smile. Now this, he can answer.
"It's for my tail."
"Your what?"
Geto's looking at him like he's lost his mind. Gripped with wild enthusiasm, Satoru opens up the compartment above the engine, digs around for a moment, then pulls it out, along with the remote. With dancing fingers, he holds it to the air.
Pink and blue stripes decorate a puff of faux fur, curled up happily, with a plastic clip on the front. Satoru waggles his brows as he moves to clip it into place.
"Geto," he says proudly, "meet my tail."
Geto blinks at him for a second, before folding into a laugh and running a hand down his face. The sound, tinkering, lighter than the others Satoru has heard from him, catches onto his skin like little fishhooks. More, again. "You've got to be fucking with me."
"No, no, just watch," Satoru says, fumbling with the remote before pressing down on the button. The tail starts to wag back and forth. Satoru looks up at Geto, feeling a bubble of delight that he's still laughing silently.
"That's amazing. Seriously, please tell me where you got that from," Geto says when he gathers his breath, moving closer to inspect the tail for himself. His lips are pressed together in that way where someone is desperately trying to hold back, betrayed by the pinch of pulled-up cheeks. It’s alarningly… endearing.
Satoru's sure that he's mirroring the expression.
"It gets better," Satoru adds, thrusting the remote into Geto's hand. "Give that a few presses."
Greedily, Geto taps away. Satoru watches as his face lights up each time he tries out a new setting.
"I set it to my mood," Satoru says.
"Oh yeah? How come you didn't put it on and set it to flustered when we first met?"
Satoru is suddenly aware of their proximity. He notices that their elbow pads are almost brushing, that he can see the individual hairs falling into Geto's face. Warmth moves up his nape, clammy and creeping. There's a sudden urge to clear his throat, to throw out a budding lump right at the back.
Instead, he shuffles over a little to where he can find cooler air and says, "I keep it to the core emotions. Can't make things too complicated."
Geto nods, still watching the tail wag furiously. "How’s this for victory?"
Endearing. Cute.
Satoru refuses to add another strange mental compliment to the guy. He needs to change the topic. Immediately.
"So," Satoru says brightly. "You live far from here?"
"I thought there were no personal questions, Gojo," Geto counters easily, despite the abrupt three-sixty Satoru’s thrown out, tilting his head to the side as he looks over. That bang that insists on falling out drapes over the side of Geto's face.
"Hardly personal," Satoru mutters. "We could live in like, the same ward and never run into each other."
"Depends on the ward."
"Yeah," Satoru looks down at his hands. The tail is still wagging, like Tsukumo's earlier warning finger. He wants to rip it off. "Look, I wasn't trying to pry or anything."
"Gojo," Geto interrupts with a light laugh, face all warmth, "you're not prying, I'm just teasing. I'll be heading out east from here."
Satoru's shoulders twitch in relief. Hopefully Geto doesn't notice, even though he's still looking too closely. "Me too."
Geto moves away swiftly and swings his leg over the side of his bike, deftly kicking up the stand with the toes of his boot. "Something I never considered when Tsukumo invited me here were all the technicalities. I had hardly any time to eat before getting here. I'm starving."
Satoru raises a questioning brow as Geto pulls his helmet on. "Okay…"
"There's a konbini on the interchange just before getting to the city. You know the one?"
"I think so."
"Well. You wanna come with me?"
"I-uh, yeah. Yeah."
"Cool. Keep the tail on, though."
Fifteen minutes of steady riding alongside each other (with Satoru very aware the entirety of the way that his tail could fall off at any moment— the devastation) takes them to the right stop. A 24/7 Lawson's, signalled easily by a glowing blue band.
They pull up, strip the helmets, and wordlessly make their way past the door as it slides open, dings its melodic tune out. A cashier stands leaned up against the counter, glancing up languidly, before returning to her phone.
"So, what's your go to sweet treat?" Satoru asks, the first to break the silence.
"Ah, I'm a savoury guy," Geto answers without looking back, treading down one of the aisles, steps slow alongside Satoru's. Under the heavy fluorescent lights, it's easier to read Geto's expression. A faint , almost imperceptible pinch between his brows as he thinks. The piercings seem to stand out more too, their metallic shines caught under the lights.
His lips quirk, and he grabs something off one of the top shelves. "Perfect."
Satoru noses over. "What'cha got?"
Geto turns and holds up a pack of extra-spice Oshaburi Kombu, smiling brightly. Half-crescents and tiny wrinkles in the corner. "Roadside snack."
Satoru curls his nose. "Your idea of a snack is seaweed that's gonna burn your tastebuds off?"
"Hey, don't be angry at me if you can't handle heat. I'm guessing you're more of a sweet lover?"
Satoru huffs, irritated that Geto's completely correct, and takes them down the aisle filled with candy. "How'd you guess that?"
"Hm, you just seem like you're always on the verge of a sugar crash, to be honest. Like a kid."
"Hey!" Rude. Again, not completely untrue.
"How about this?" Geto asks, crouching down and picking out a plastic bag from the bottom shelf.
"Holy shit," Satoru breathes. The strawberry daifuku in all its artificially sweetened glory. Without thought, he snatches it from Geto's fingers as he rises back up. "Dude, you have no idea."
"Damn. Clearly not. Long history?"
"The longest. We've been star-crossed for weeks. Thanks to you," Satoru quips with a light shoulder-to-shoulder push, "we've been reunited."
Geto coughs out lightly. He doesn't pick up much else, other than a pack of gum and some water, while Satoru spends ten minutes mulling over what candies to take home until his arms are overflowing. A packet of dorayaki slips out of its position, ambitiously placed on top of the rest. Behind him, Geto catches it.
"Thanks, dude."
"Sweet tooth indeed," Geto comments.
"Yup."
The cashier, clearly bored out of her mind on the late shift, casts an eye over them. Satoru places the pile of food he's gathered on the counter, and smiles up at her. "No rest for the wicked, eh?"
She doesn't return the smile. Just nods like she's heard it a thousand times before, and scans it all through. Satoru pays first, then Geto, noticeably politer than himself.
Leaving through the hollow ding again, Satoru slings the plastic bag over his handlebar. He goes to start the engine, then pauses.
"It's cool for us to, like, message on Telegram," Satoru says, trying to keep his tone nonchalant. "Just in case you were wondering."
"Ah, yeah. I talked to Haibara a couple of times already."
"You have?"
"Yeah. Sold him some spare parts." Geto opens up the snack, sitting on the curb with his legs crossed widely. The dorayaki is placed neatly on his thigh, balancing there.
"Right. Cool. Just shoot a message across whenever."
"Cool," Geto repeats, looking up with an easy smile.
"Right." Satoru runs a hand through his hair. "Well. We should get going now."
"Don't forget this," Geto hands him the dorayaki that he placed in his lap, stretching upward. "I'm gonna hang back and have a smoke before going."
”Ah. Cool.”
──── ⋅•⋅⊰∙☽༓☾∙⊱⋅•⋅ ────
Satoru lies awake, unable to sleep yet again. His chest is starting to burn from the dusty air that's been blowing straight into his face since last night. Against better judgement, he's kept it on. In the same lane as bad and judgements, he’s also staring at his phone screen.
From: Gojo
hey man
link for the tail if u wanna check it out
just make sure urs isn't bigger than mine lol
As soon as he sends it, Satoru's eyes widen. Shit. Does Telegram delete messages on both ends? Before he can destroy the evidence, three blinking dots form under his string of texts.
Curling into a ball seems like a wonderful idea.
From: Geto
Hey Gojo! I'm not getting it for myself, but I'll keep that in mind. You don't have to worry about me stealing your thunder
Plus, the bunny one looks better than yours ;)
Satoru's heart kicks once at his chest, his eyes closing in on the winky face. It doesn't have to mean anything—it doesn't. Geto's a winky person. He likes to wink. Satoru's seen him wink plenty of times already.
This is, entirely, ridiculous. Satoru knows that. He'd never think twice about a harmless comment sent to anyone else in the group.
Gojo
good good
bc u would fail
and a bunny tail wouldn't suit u
Geto
Maybe I was just holding back?
Ouch. I could pull it off
The image is immediate, intrusive, and entirely unproductive. Satoru curses inwardly.
Gojo:
sure dude
anyway
i was thinking
Geto:
Sounds scary
The rapid response, cutting into his next line, interrupts Satoru's train of thought. Rather, it's filled with images what Geto is doing now — if he's also lying down in bed, face held close to blue light. If he's sitting on his couch, one foot hanging off the end. If he has roommates who've passed by, curious as to who he's texting…
A sharp line runs up Satoru's back; the hallmark of waiting at the start line, revving an engine and letting it rumble through his body. His fingers move without waiting for his brain to catch up.
Gojo:
shut up
like i was saying
Shit. He can't remember what he was going to say.
Gojo:
u think i can die from a fan?
Satoru sighs to himself.
Geto:
Gonna need more info on that one
Gojo:
using this old electric air fan rn
dusty
keeps making my chest hurt
u think it could kill me?
Geto:
Not my expertise sorry
Maybe try a doctor?
Gojo:
oooh
ur not a doctor then
writing that down
Geto:
Guess I've crossed some off the list for you too
Gojo:
???
wdym
Geto:
Can't give all my secrets away Gojo ;)
Gojo:
u shld stop winking
Geto:
Why's that?
Because it's sending my stomach into knots! Just a thought.
Gojo:
gonna make me think u got a tic
text tic
see
i could be a doctor
that was a crazy efficient diagnosis
Geto:
Doctor Gojo…
Nah. You'd scare the patients off
Gojo:
actually
i'd charm them so much the whole of tokyo would be in the emergency department every day
Geto:
How generous of you, saving us all like that
Gojo
maybe i can do special visits
bedside miracle work, i show my face and they're cured
Geto
So like a jester for the sick and needy?
Gojo
idk whether to b offended or not
Geto
Ah shit
Gotta go
Looks like I woke the cat up
Night Gojo ;)
Satoru goes to type do bunnies and cats even get along, then stares at the words long enough for a curl of embarrassment to latch around him. He deletes it, and settles on something more… normal.
Gojo
nighty night