Work Text:
Sae wears blocker gloves to cover the little red string of light that wraps around her pinky. The gloves are just like her: clean, practical, a steely grey. Goro’s never seen her without them. Everyone knows that Sae doesn’t need another man telling her how to do her job, let alone how she should conduct her love life, so nobody blames her for ignoring the string so thoroughly and expecting everyone around her to do the same. He wonders if she goes so far as to wash her hands in private stalls, just so she’s never seen with that incorporeal thin red string that trails off into the distance, through walls and across space, always tying her soul to some mystery person somewhere else in the world.
Goro’s excuse is that it’s not uncommon for idols to wear blocker gloves, either. As thin and near-invisible as the red strings might be, even despite how difficult it is to follow the string in a city like Tokyo, more than one celebrity’s soulmate has been murdered by an overzealous fan who tracked the right red string all the way to its other end. It makes him look a little unprofessional to be wearing a constant reminder that he’s famous, but people understand, which is what’s important.
Either way, the blocker gloves make Sae and Goro something of a pair around the SIU, because the rest of the department only bothers to wear gloves when they're on the job. And when people talk about you, you end up talking to each other about other people talking about you. So the first time Sae and Goro have a working lunch, they wind up talking instead about what it’s like to wear blocker gloves in a city like Tokyo, where people bare their hands and freely date people their soul isn’t literally tied to. By the second lunch, they’re debating the merits of blocker gloves altogether, with Goro playing the devil’s advocate: the string is incorporeal, practically invisible in daylight and most fluorescent lights as it is, and it’s become societally standard to ignore the red strings anyway, hasn’t it? The gloves just draw undue attention to it. And Goro’s seen enough blogs dedicated entirely to pictures of gloved celebrity hands to know that there’s a certain fetishization of hiding one’s hands in itself, adding to the mystique of who this person might belong to.
It could even be unhealthy, Goro points out, to wear gloves and block the soul signal. Everyone knows that your soulmate dying and having your string cut is a strain on one’s life expectancy like nothing else.
Sae is not amused. Blocking the string’s soul signal is nothing like cutting the string, she says (sounding somewhat disgusted that Goro would even parrot that old line of argument from right-wing pundits). All the gloves do is interfere with the soul signal, which makes the red light vanish for a good hundred meters; the connection is still there, just not materialized as a light particle; it’s not unhealthy, not inconvenient, and not even costly, with how easy it is to get a good pair of blocker gloves nowadays.
And (she goes on, ramping up into Prosecutor Mode), not only is there no reason not to cover the string, but this little incorporeal red string of light is practically a threat to everyone’s safety, especially in a career like law enforcement. What would happen if the wrong suspect was dedicated enough to follow a detective’s string all the way to his loved one? Personally, she thinks the entire Tokyo police force should be required to wear gloves around the clock, not just on the job. It’s unprofessional to have a reminder of your love life wrapped around your pinky in the first place anyway.
“Besides,” she says, and then glances around the sushi restaurant and lowers her voice: “I can’t count how many people I know who’ve been outed at work by their strings.”
“Ah,” says Goro. Looks like Goro just learned something new about his boss, and Sae probably didn’t even mean to tell him. It’s not her fault that Goro could clock a double-meaning like that at a hundred paces just because he’s the same way. “You’re right as always, Sae-san.”
“It’s a civil rights lawsuit waiting to happen,” says Sae icily, maybe realizing she’d been a bit too obvious.
“Absolutely. I suppose these red strings really are nothing more than a nuisance in the end.”
Sae taps her fingers along the table. “I didn’t say that. They’re just a little… too honest.”
On the spot, Goro decides that the instant he gets off work, he’s going to Leblanc.
*
Did you know that if you cut off a person’s pinky finger, the red string of light tying you to your soulmate still hangs there, tied to where your finger used to be? It turns out that cutting the finger off isn’t enough to sever a tie between, say, a woman and a woman, or a man and a man. For that matter, it’s not enough if you need to marry a woman off for political reasons, a plight well-enshrined in legend and song and many, many J-dramas.
Only death of one of the soulmates can sever the red string. The phenomenon is under all sorts of research for non-LGBTQ reasons nowadays. But if you know your history, you’d know that the first people to know intimately well that you can’t choose or change your soulmate were women without choices and a lot of queers.
In retrospect, it’s no wonder Sae and Goro hit it off about the gloves.
Still, there’s a lot of hemming and hawing about blocker gloves from every angle. There’s that whole push lately to stop assuming that your red string ties you to a romantic soulmate, that maybe your soulmate is a life partner or your best friend, and Goro’s sure that that’s true and a good cause, but personally Goro suspects this is just another way of people sweeping same-sex soulmates under the rug again. But what does Goro know. The Detective Prince is, as everyone knows, perfectly straight, just not dating at the current moment due to his job, thank you.
Then there’s the thing about how blocker gloves are “unhealthy” because humans weren’t meant to interfere with that little red string, even if all the companies say it’s safe and doesn’t actually sever any connection. Forums go back and forth on whether or not blocking the string addles your head. People in failing relationships with their soulmates claim their woes are due to years of blocking. Others wind up chasing after people they're not tied to, and say they don't care if their blockers have dulled their heart's ability to love who they're destined for. Others wear blockers and simply never fall in love.
There's an urban legend that says that touch starvation, among many other mysterious illnesses, is caused by blocking gloves.
Personally, Goro thinks people should take responsibility for their actions and stop blaming their failures on a pair of gloves. You see, Goro, too, can play the "mysterious ailment" game like the best of the Internet masses. When Goro goes too long without going to Leblanc, he gets this craving in his gut, a little voice screaming at him, demanding its fill. He feels himself starting to shrivel and wither. He can feel the craving pulling at his bones, sucking the rest of him in, threatening to implode and disappear all the rest of him all at once.
And Goro takes some sort of sick pride in never trying to pretend it's because of his gloves. He knows better. There's no mysterious illness as the hidden culprit. He won't make excuses for himself, you see. He's just weak, and makes bad decisions.
So there.
*
Goro’s halfway through reiterating the highlights of the blocker gloves argument to Kurusu over a cup of coffee when Sakura sighs, shakes his newspaper closed, and stands up. The severed red string that still dangles from Sakura’s finger drifts back and forth in the air without its other end, long enough to spool on the ground under him.
“I’m heading out for today,” he tells Kurusu.
Goro instantly realizes his mistake. From his face, Kurusu looks like he has, too. “My apologies—" Goro begins, "I can take my leave—”
“Nah, stay,” Sakura tells Goro. “Refills free today if you want them. I just want to get home before the rain starts. Don’t forget to lock up,” he tells Kurusu, already pulling out a cigarette.
Sojiro's red string trails after him when he walks to the door, like a cut artery. If anyone has a good reason to wear gloves, it’d be Sakura, but the man seems to have grown tired of hiding what he’s lived through. (Goro likes Sojiro Sakura quite a lot.) The door closes behind him. Through the glass door, Sakura lights his cigarette, takes a deep, long pull, and then disappears from view.
“I’ll have to make it up to him some other time,” says Goro eventually. He feels sick. “I forgot.” Yeah, he just forgot what happened to Sojiro’s soulmate. Like Goro wasn’t there when Wakaba died.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” says Kurusu, but even he sounds guilty. “He’s not exactly delicate.” Another pause. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Please tell him I meant my apology.”
“I will.”
There’s another tense silence. “I suppose you don’t want that refill,” Kurusu says.
Goro gives a false laugh. “No, thank you.”
“Then I’m having it,” says Kurusu, and peels off his blocker gloves and pulls on his food-service gloves. Out comes Kurusu's little red string, vaguely distorted by the plastic, tying Kurusu to some stranger somewhere else in the world. Goro’s fingers tighten around his coffee mug. “And I’ll make enough for a few cups if you change your mind.”
Goro’s smile feels tight even on his own face.
Don't let Kurusu's kindnesses get to you, Goro reminds himself as he takes out a textbook for something to distract himself from the reason he’s in Leblanc in the first place. First off, Goro should be arresting Kurusu for one crime and arresting himself for what Shido’s about to ask him to do to Kurusu. Second off, it’d be stupid, because Kurusu’s red string doesn’t lead to Goro, and it’s common knowledge that it’s bad form to pursue someone who isn’t your soulmate. It’s not destined to be, so why bother, right?
Kurusu gives him a refill anyway. Before Goro can protest, Kurusu says, “It’s a personal choice.”
“Coffee?”
“No. About your conversation with your coworker about blocker gloves.”
They’re going to keep talking about it after the whole thing with Sojiro? Really?
“Both you and your coworker are talking in terms of widespread policy,” Kurusu goes on. “But that’s not a decision that can be made for everyone everywhere.”
“We, as the police, are in the business of universal laws across the population,” Goro replies. “Most of the police would say that it’s a dangerous line of thought, to let each citizen act as an individual with no regard for the rest of society.”
Kurusu shakes his head. “I didn’t say to act without regard. I said that it’s a decision each person has to make for themselves. The gloves aren’t hurting anyone, anyway.”
“’Do no harm’ is a rather low bar.”
“It’s still their own string.”
“And what about the police? It could be a matter of safety to the officer’s family. A suspect might follow the string to the right house.”
“That’s a different issue. That’s a professional occupation. I’m required to wear food safety gloves when I’m behind the bar. Police officers are required to wear blockers when in uniform. Everyone’s got different faces in different places.”
“A universal blanket policy to have no universal blanket policy,” says Goro. Kurusu makes a face. “I’m joking,” says Goro quickly, and takes a drink of that refill after all because he can’t stop putting his foot in his mouth today.
“Maybe universal policies aren’t all that useful anyway. Every situation is different,” says Kurusu again. “Everyone has reasons.”
“Speaking from experience?”
And Kurusu has the nerve to look surprised.
He could understand refusal, because it was really quite invasive to ask Kurusu why he wears blocker gloves. He could understand irritation, or anger, even if Akira’s never once gotten angry in his presence and Goro has no idea what it’d look like. He could understand Akira shrugging and telling him as if it were nothing. But Akira had the nerve to flirt with Goro and be surprised that Goro would even ask? Goro’s about to be either pissed, offended, or hopelessly intrigued, and possibly all three at once, knowing Akira.
“Apologies,” says Goro quickly. “I figured it was obvious what with your attachment to your own gloves but—never mind—I didn’t mean to ask after anything you didn’t want to share—"
Kurusu’s frowning. “No, it’s… fine. I just…” Now Kurusu’s fiddling with his bangs. “I was just surprised. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that.”
Goro laughs suddenly, because that’s ridiculous. “You can’t tell me not a single one of your friends has never asked you why you wear gloves.” Doesn’t Kurusu have at least a hundred friends all over this damn city?
Akira does a so-so wobble with his hand.
“Really?”
“Ryuji asked,” says Kurusu.
The loud blond? Him? “One person?”
Kurusu fiddles with his hair again. He doesn’t go on, which brings Goro to a stalemate, because this is the part where Goro says that Kurusu doesn’t have to share anything if he doesn’t want to, except Goro actually really, really, really wants to drag the answer out of him with a fishhook.
“It’s not much of a story,” says Kurusu.
But it’s your story, Goro desperately wants to say; why wouldn’t I want to know everything about you? Kurusu could read the fucking phone book and Goro would still be coming back to Leblanc to listen. Kurusu could turn out to be a sentient Shadow and Goro would probably come back. Kurusu could admit to having killed a man and—wait, no, maybe not the best example. Goro can’t say any of these. He’s got to tone it down. Be cool. Act like Goro doesn’t feel like he’s dying if he goes more than forty-eight hours without seeing Kurusu’s attic-rat face.
“I’d listen to anything you feel so strongly about,” says Goro.
(Wait, that wasn’t toned down at all, was it?)
Kurusu looks away. Too strong, too strong. Oh god. Goro fucked up. He’s got to get out of here immediately. “But don’t mind me,” says Goro quickly, “again, I'm happy just to speak with you like this..."
“Hm,” says Kurusu, and peels off his food service gloves. The red string is clear and bright on his bare finger. “Well. It’s not much of a story, like I said. It's because I have a record."
Goro freezes and immediately starts thinking of ways to look like he definitely didn't already know that and he definitely didn't do the police version of Facebook-stalking Kurusu's profile in the police database.
“My soulmate’s some girl back in my hometown,” Kurusu goes on, staring very studiously at his own cup of coffee, like he’s trying to ignore his own words even as he says them. He holds the mug flat against his bare palm. “My hometown is so small that half the time you bump into the other end of the string at Junes. So most of us knew—most of the people where I lived know their soulmate already. It’s really only when you never find your soulmate in town that you have to do the…” He waves a hand. “…post-high-school gap-year road-trip to find your soulmate that everyone else does. I knew who she was from when I was very little. She’s the daughter of a friend of a friend of my mother’s.”
He takes a sip of the coffee. Frowns down at it. “She’s a nice person. She’s really pissed because now the whole town bullies her for being the soulmate of a guy with a record. She said I’m dead to her and she’d cut the string if she could so I better have the decency to pretend she’s dead to me, too.” Takes another sip of coffee. “I think she was having a rough week.”
“That’s,” says Goro. “I’m. I’m so sorry.”
(Actually, Goro wants to go to Mementos and break her legs, but that's not the sort of thing you say in public.)
Kurusu smiles. “Now you know my secret,” he says lightly, and takes a serene sip of his coffee with his bare hands, red string dangling right in front of Goro’s nose. “But I learned a lot from it, so it’s not all bad. Nowadays, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with making your own bonds.” He gives Goro such a significant smile that Goro can feel himself beginning to blush, but then Kurusu goes on immediately like it never happened: “I can’t believe that my string has to be my destiny.”
“You don’t, or you can’t?”
“I won’t,” Kurusu replies.
“I see,” says Goro softly. Truly, Akira Kurusu’s heart is free in ways that Goro cannot imagine. “I’m sorry for asking. I didn’t mean to bring up such painful memories.”
Slowly, Kurusu gives a small smile, like—like he’s embarrassed—no, like he’s shy. “No. Thanks for asking.”
Shy, and still surprised, as if someone asking after Kurusu himself is still such a revolutionary concept to him. And Goro thinks that Kurusu means it when he thanks Goro, which just doesn’t make any goddamn sense. But he looks pleased, and it’s a smile for Goro alone. Goro’s come across something precious, and now he’s terrified he’ll never see it again.
The sun’s going down. With the glove off and the lights beginning to dim, Kurusu’s red string is brighter and more vivid. When it’s night, even such a thin strip of light will be easily seen, like any other beam of light in a dark room. Kurusu won’t ever lose his way in the dark. His red string will always lead him back to the other half of his soul, wishing Kurusu was dead, in a hometown that hates him.
*
In Tokyo, when the sun’s fully down and the shop lights start to go out, you can’t miss the hundreds, thousands of little red lights crisscrossing across the streets. The red strings of light shine best in the dark, after all, like any other signal. The strings slide through walls, across sidewalks, sometimes high up into the sky, sometimes disappearing down into the ground, sometimes strung high up above the street like highwires. They move constantly, some slower and some faster, some very fast if someone’s on a subway train, always pinpointing the path of least resistance between two people, a vast light show and network literalized across the entire world. The Scramble is a tourist attraction if only to see how thick it is with red light. In one of the densest cities in the world, Tokyo’s streets are choked full of little veins, suffocating on the very ties that bind, as statisticians and newscasters report day in and day out the rising rates of loneliness, isolation, depression, and suicide.
*
Shido has a cut string, one of the few politicians who does. He advertises it, actually. It makes him more popular with the lonely masses. A nice sob story about true love lost. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with making your own bonds, Kurusu had said. I can’t believe that my string has to be my destiny. On the train back to his apartment, Goro wishes he could have told his own mother that, before she’d hung herself and severed Shido’s string and become one of Shido’s talking points. It seems like Kurusu’s always doing that—making Goro wish for things he can’t have.
*
When Goro goes home, he dumps his keys and his bag in the kitchen and drifts through his evening routine, head still half at Leblanc. He gets in his pajamas and crawls into bed and, for the first time in a long time, examines his fingers like they’ve disappointed him. There is no string on any one of his fingers. There never has been and presumably never will be.
It’s not unheard of, people like him. He’s heard of people with two or three or even four strings. ‘Deficient’ is the technical word. Nowadays, Goro thinks he should be considered the only sane one: the only person not tied to some other useless dipshit who’ll drag down their performance, weigh down their heart with hesitation and self-doubt. Unfettered by bonds is the closest thing you get to freedom in this city. Free to not give a single damn about anyone else but yourself and survive entirely on your own strength. Fair’s fair. Kill or be killed. Born alone, live alone, die alone. Goro might be deficient and incomplete, but he’s learned to take pride in the ways he’s wrong.
And Kurusu will probably make up with his soulmate later. Whoever she is, she’ll get over it, grow out of it, reconnect with him ten years or so down the line, and then they’ll get married and have a white picket fence or something. The bonds in your life are prewritten, don’t you know. Kurusu’s kidding himself with his unbearable optimism about making your own bonds or whatever the fuck. So there’s no use in going back to Leblanc or giving any more of a damn about a guy who’s practically already married off.
—God, only one of Kurusu’s friends had thought to ask. Fucking unbelievable. Hell with Kurusu's soulmate, Goro wants words with the Shadows of the rest of Kurusu's friends. Like they deserve to say they have any bond with Kurusu if they don't even have the decency to ask.
Goro hits the bedroom lights off with a scowl. Without any red string to keep him company, the bedroom goes entirely dark.