Chapter Text
Geto Suguru watches, deep in thought, as the sunset casts a deep red glow across the restless waters of the bay before him. It’s a hot, sticky evening in the city—the foregone conclusion of an even hotter, stickier day, and to Suguru’s consternation, the meagre breeze coming in through the ocean does little to alleviate the thick, stifling nature of the air around him. Arms crossed in front of his chest, he shifts uncomfortably under the heavy weight of his many layers of kimono. No doubt the thick fabric does him no favours, unsuited as it is for the warmer, more humid weather of the southern islands
By all accounts, he needn’t be here at all. Not just here, hovering quietly at the balustrade that looks out over the bay as ships move through, in and out and in and out in a seemingly never-ending train. No, Suguru needn’t even be in this city, away from his estate, from his daughters and the rest of his family to the cool, calming north.
He needn’t be here and he wouldn’t be here, if it wasn’t at the behest of his oldest and dearest friend. He wouldn’t be here if Satoru hadn’t asked him—if Satoru hadn’t sent for him, especially, in a letter by his own hand, and if Suguru hadn’t found, as is the case in many things between them, that he could not refuse.
And so here he is and here he has been for most of the afternoon, watching the ships as they crawled through the harbour, in and out and in and out until, at last, just under an hour ago, there came the ship he was looking for. Docked at the edge of the bay, a hundred or so meters away from where Suguru stands and cast almost completely in shadow, there rests a strange ship from a strange land—its style and fittings foreign, and its crew even more so; the ship and its occupants both haling from a kingdom at the opposite end of the archipelago that Suguru and his best friend call home.
The ship’s flags and standards are all too familiar. Violent, harsh black markings slashed across a deep, blood red: the unmistakable colours and pattern of Ryomen Sukuna, the Warlord of the West.
Suguru frowns at just the sight of them. He can’t help it, though they no longer carry the same meaning as they did only months ago, when to see them struck fear like ice through the hearts of any army unlucky enough to be pitted against Sukuna’s on a battlefield. It’s going to take some getting used to for Suguru and, he wagers, for all the people of the Eastern kingdoms, before even the thought of those colours evokes anything other than dread.
The wind shifts slightly, and Suguru is momentarily broken from his thoughts by the catch of a familiar scent heading towards him from the direction of the ship. He flicks his gaze over, and watches as the imposing figure of a man he knows well emerges from out of the dusky shadows of the portside streets.
“Nanami,” Suguru calls, smiling once his friend is properly in view. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
Nanami looks up, eyes widening ever-so-slightly in surprise because, of course, he’s only a beta. His sense of smell could never match Suguru’s.
“Geto-san,” he says, once they’re close enough to speak properly. He’s dressed smartly but far more lightly than Suguru, in a collared white shirt, a pale kimono and matching grey hakama. “I could say the same to you.”
Suguru lets out a soft chuckle into his hand. “Satoru sent me,” he explains. “He wanted me to keep an eye out for anything suspicious—an alpha unaccounted for, or an unusual number among Sukuna’s party.” With no small amount of relief, Suguru found neither.
At Nanami’s answering nod, Suguru cants his head, curious. “Did Satoru send you, too?” he asks. “Are you here to escort Itadori-kun? I thought Hakari-kun was handling it.”
Nanami makes a faint noise of assent. “Gojo-san thought I might make the boy feel more at ease. I’ve seen to him now, and I’ll rejoin him once I’ve sent a message back to the palace.”
Suguru nods. He can see, theoretically, why Satoru chose Hakari as head of the official expedition into Sukuna’s territory. Hakari Kinji is an alpha: bold, fierce, strong and tenacious—more than capable of winning most any fight he happened to face on the long journey over land to get there, and on the shorter, more vulnerable journey over sea to get back. But likely what Satoru didn’t consider, at least at the start of the season, when the plans for this particular journey were being set into place, is that Hakari falls short on the softer traits omega tend to look for in their companions.
Affection. Protection. Sensitivity and, above all else, reliability.
As far as Suguru is concerned, it’s a miracle Hakari’s rare and precious cargo has arrived in their city’s harbour at all. Which reminds him—
“So?” he asks, raising an eyebrow to Nanami in question. “How is our bride-to-be?”
Nanami frowns, if possible, even deeper, and Suguru catches a sharp scent of discontent as it starts to radiate from him in waves.
“Young,” he says, this singular word laced with all the scathing disapproval of a complete sentence.
Suguru hums with interest. “He’s presented, though, hasn’t he? If he’s old enough to heat, then he’s old enough to mate.”
At Nanami’s skeptical look, Suguru only shrugs. “That’s how the council argues it, Nanami. Whether we agree or not is irrelevant. And besides—” He smirks, shooting Nanami a sly, playful sidelong glance. “He’ll be in good hands with Satoru.”
Nanami huffs. “Yes,” he says dryly, “I suppose you’d know.”
“Nanami!” Suguru stage whispers, infusing as much of a scandalized tone into the word as he can, though he can’t keep the mirth laughter in his voice. Were they in court back at the Gojo estate, he might have whipped out a paper fan and frantically fanned his face with it for the sheer spectacle of it all. “Satoru hasn’t touched me in over a decade, as you are well aware.”
“I am well aware,” Nanami says, voice deadpan. “Because while you were off cavorting in the mountains, I was the one who had to stay here and listen to all of his complaints about it.” A beat, to emphasise the point that follows: “For years.”
Suguru laughs. A faint, fond chuckle of recollection. “Honestly,” he says, “he can be such a chil—”
“I do believe what you are about to speak may be treason, Geto-san.”
Suguru waves him off, still grinning. “I only mean to say,” he says, “that if Itadori-kun is as young-minded as you claim, then he and Satoru are well matched, and all will soon be right with the realm.”
Nanami deigns not to justify this statement with a response. Instead, he asks, “And how is our esteemed lord this evening? He was…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Rather quiet, when I left a few hours ago.” This spoken as though quiet is a most unusual state in which to find Gojo Satoru. Which, Suguru supposes, it is.
But as far as Suguru is aware, Satoru has long since moved beyond the sedate beginnings of the day and right on to a new, far more familiar emotion.
“Sour,” Suguru says frankly. “I do believe the closer we get to the point of no return, the more he fights it like a rat in an inescapable trap.”
This draws a rare smile to Nanami’s face, and after meeting his amused gaze, Suguru can’t help but smile himself in reply.
“Well,” his friend says, after the fond moment between them has passed, and an air of solemn contemplation has descended once more. “He’s about to get a lot sourer, when he hears the new terms of Ryomen Sukuna’s contract.”
-*-
“You can’t be serious.”
Suguru exchanges a quick look with Nanami—something along the lines of, Are you going to manage this, or shall I? met with By all means, manage away—and then returns his gaze to Satoru, who is looking less and less manageable by the second.
“Ryomen Sukuna has requested,” he says, repeating what Nanami already said only seconds ago, but slower, “that after the wedding ceremony, the marriage be consummated immediately.”
A pause.
“In front of a selection of witnesses.”
A longer pause.
“Including the council elders, and a nominated representative from each of the four major clans.”
A longer, more irate pause, and then—
“Four?”
“He’s including his own clan among them,” Nanami chimes in, though it’s clear that fact is evident based on the look on Satoru’s face.
“We’ve gone over the particulars,” Suguru says carefully, before Satoru can voice his thoughts on that little detail, “and it seems we’ve no further say in the matter. Apparently, the council have already agreed—”
“They’ve what?” Satoru exclaims, his pale blue eyes widening in outrage. There’s a vicious, borderline dangerous spike of displeasure in his scent that fills the whole room, and Suguru sighs inwardly at the emergence of yet another fire he’ll have to put out. “They can’t—”
“They can, actually,” Nanami cuts in, and Suguru sends a silent prayer to the Gods that Satoru doesn’t lose his temper and eviscerate him on the spot. Satoru has such lovely living quarters, it really would be such a shame to see them stained with blood.
As it happens, Satoru sends their friend a ferocious glare, but Nanami’s not one to be intimidated so easily. Even as a beta. Even as he faces down an alpha with a more imposing presence than most people would ever have the misfortune of encountering in their entire lifetime.
“We’re walking a fine thread here, Gojo-san,” Nanami says. “If we refuse Sukuna’s terms, he’s liable to call the contract off.”
Satoru scoffs. “He’d be a fool to call it off, and you both know it,” he says. “He wants this war over just as much as we do. Hell, he suggested it, didn’t he? I certainly wasn’t advertising any interest in mating his brat.”
“Itadori-kun isn’t Sukuna’s son,” Nanami says, with the long-suffering air of someone who has made the effort to explain this far too many times before. “He’s his younger brother.”
Satoru shrugs, waving Nanami’s correction away as if it means nothing. Which, in all fairness, it doesn’t. To Satoru—
“Son, cousin, brother, sister, whatever. They’re cut from the same cloth either way, Nanami. Point is, I’ve been saddled with the boy against my will—”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Suguru interjects, but Satoru continues as though he hasn’t heard him.
“—and all at Sukuna’s request. And now he’s asking even more? I’ve half a mind to call the contract off myself.”
“I’d recommend against that,” Nanami says stiffly. “It’s not just Sukuna you’ll displease with such a decision.”
Satoru rolls his eyes, insolent in that specific bratty, teenaged way that casts Suguru’s mind pleasantly back to the days of their youth.
“The council have made their opinions very clear on all this,” he clarifies. “They’ve not the resources to support you, if it comes to battle again.”
“And,” Nanami says, tone of voice belying the fact that he’s about to drop something of a bombshell on their prince. “It would seem Sukuna has some leverage now, that he wasn’t in possession of previously.”
Satoru blinks at him, brows drawn together in question. When Nanami doesn’t immediately avail himself of the big secret, Satoru directs his gaze to Suguru instead, and Suguru sighs. He supposes he had best get it over with.
“Zenin Megumi-kun is pregnant,” he says, and watches as the realization of this fact, and its greater implications, seems to hit Satoru all at once. “Due in only four more months. Once their child is born, Sukuna’s alliance with the Zenin will be—”
“Complete,” Satoru finishes, a grim, cool determination flickering in his eyes. “Yes. I follow you, Suguru.” A moment of quiet contemplation. “We can’t fight a war on two fronts.”
Slowly, Suguru nods. “There is no love lost between Megumi-kun and the Zenin clan head. But even Naoya could not ignore the insult, if…”
Satoru nods. “If my actions so openly threatened a member of his clan.” He sighs, long and weary, and runs his hand tiredly across his face. “Hell, he’d probably jump at the chance. To incite war with Sukuna now is to incite war with the Zenin, too.”
“As much as it no doubt chafes,” Nanami says dryly, “to marry the perfectly nice young omega that just travelled for weeks across the sea to see you, I’m afraid there’s no way of getting out of it, Gojo-san. Not without bloodshed.”
“Don’t say that, Nanami,” Suguru chides him good-naturedly. “The best way to ensure Satoru does anything is to tell him he can’t.”
“Excuse me,” Satoru snaps. “I’m still right here, you know. And Nanami—” He addresses Nanami with a harsh, mocking smile. “If he’s so perfectly nice, why don’t you go out there and bed him in front of a pack of ugly old men? In fact, I give you my blessing. Go fuck the kid so I don’t have to.”
“Satoru,” Suguru cautions, as Nanami’s eyes flash dangerously in warning. And then, Suguru makes a snap decision. “Nanami, could you leave us, please?”
Nanami glances over at Suguru, then back at Satoru, eyes narrowing as he nods, frowning in earnest now. “Gladly,” he says, then turns and strides from the room without a look back.
After he’s gone—his scent departing briskly, along with his body—Suguru moves closer to Satoru, who’s procured a jug of sealed plum wine from somewhere, and is pouring himself a cup with just barely trembling hands.
“Why yes, I’d love some wine. Thank you, Satoru.” Suguru shoots him a wry smile, aiming for a light change in tone, but Satoru only meets it with a stubborn glare.
“This is your fault, you know,” he says. His stone cup successfully filled, he places it at his desk and reaches for another, apparently tucked away behind it. Suguru raises his eyebrows, amused.
“I’ve never known you to care for alcohol. Have you been drinking, Satoru?”
“It’s not mine,” Satoru tells him, and hands him his own cup. Suguru inhales the sweet, rich scent of it, and takes a mild sip to savour the taste.
Across from him, Satoru brings his own cup to his mouth and knocks it all back in a single swig.
“Ugh,” he says, face twisting into an expression of revulsion. “Disgusting. Why do people drink this?”
Suguru doesn’t dignify this with a response, and declines to ask where the wine came from if Satoru dislikes it so much. No doubt a souvenir left behind from one of his conquests. The thought stings, but only a little. It has been so awfully long, after all.
“Dare I ask,” he says instead, “how this is my fault, exactly?”
Satoru lets out a short, sharp laugh, devoid of any true mirth. “If you had only accepted my proposal—”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Suguru cuts him off. “Are you still harping on about that? Satoru, it was ten years ago!”
“Yes, and it’s ten years I’d have been spared of this nonsense if you hadn’t turned me down.”
In reply to this, Suguru only sends Satoru a glare of his own. He has no interest in revisiting the fine print on why things wouldn’t have worked between them. Chief and most frustrating among them being that they are both alpha and male, and couldn’t bear each other’s children. The Gojo clan needs an heir, after all, and Satoru is his parents’ only surviving child. And even putting that aside, the council never would have allowed a union between them. They’d have sooner seen Suguru dead in some contrived, tragic ‘accident’, and Satoru bereft and vulnerable to their every whim.
Instead of reminding Satoru yet again of these facts, Suguru says instead, “Marriage isn’t so bad, Satoru. And you might yet like Itadori-kun.”
Satoru snorts, leaning lazily against the wall, now, as he pours himself another cup of wine. Suguru fights the irritable urge to knock it out of his hands. “Do you really think so, Suguru? That boy’s brother is responsible for the death of thousands of soldiers—some of the best fighters I’ve ever known.”
Suguru nods, grave. Their own mentor, Yaga Masamichi-sensei, a grizzled, powerful old alpha who trained them both from childhood, had perished in one of the more recent battles between the two armies. But still—
“Itadori-kun isn’t Sukuna. And it doesn’t sound like Sukuna cares for him all that much, either.”
Satoru raises his eyebrows and shoots Suguru a wan smile. “What tipped you off? The fact that he’s sold him off to me, or the fact that he’s asked me to publicly claim his virginity?”
Suguru chuckles, though it’s hardly an amusing situation—certainly not for young Itadori Yuji.
“Nanami told me,” he explains. “While we were planning on how to break the news to you. It sounds like—”
He pauses a moment, and thinks of the best way to put it. Satoru waits, eyeing him curiously.
“It sounds like this might be harder on him than on you, Satoru. I think you should try and remember that, when you’re feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not the one who’ll be baring your neck before the night is done.”
Satoru’s silent for a time after this, frowning slightly as he swirls the dregs of wine around in his cup. Finally, he speaks once more—voice pensive, almost thoughtful. “Did you speak to him, then? Itadori.”
Suguru shakes his head. He explains that he made his own way home in the end, and met up with Nanami again later. “I did see him, though,” he says. “Briefly.” He could not resist the impulse, to get a look at the boy who was to marry his one and only best friend
“And what did you think of him?” Satoru asks.
Suguru smiles softly. “He’s cute, I suppose. Youthful. But…” He clicks his tongue, considering. “Popular. They all seemed drawn to him. His escort. The whole time I watched, they would not stop talking to him.”
Satoru raises an eyebrow. “Popular, eh? Good. I’ve no use for a charmless bride.”
Suguru laughs out loud. “True. One amongst you has to have some charm to spare, I suppose.”
Satoru throws the empty cup at him, and he avoids it with a well-practiced dodge. It hits the wall instead and breaks, a mess Satoru’s servants will need to clean up later. Suguru tuts with disapproval, but his voice is rich with affection when he says, “I certainly hope you won’t be sharing any of that behaviour with Itadori-kun!”
Satoru snorts. “Of course not,” he says, and pushes off from the wall. He inhales in a single big, long stretch, and exhales with a sigh, standing there looking as despondent as a man about to face his execution instead of his wedding.
He turns to Suguru, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable, and his eyes entreating. “Will you be there?” he asks, in a tone of voice that makes Suguru feel like they’re boys again, barely past the crest of puberty. “Not for the wedding, I mean. For what…comes after.”
Suguru shakes his head, then reaches out and places a hand gently across Satoru’s cheek. “I do still have my own feelings, you know,” he admits, and runs his thumb along the smooth, clean-shaven plane of Satoru’s achingly familiar jawline. “And seeing you like that with another—I don’t think I’m there yet, Satoru. I may never be.”
Satoru nods, understanding. He turns his head slightly and kisses Suguru’s palm in an uncharacteristically tender gesture that threatens to cast Suguru back to a time when it might have ruined him, to be here now, about to watch the love of his life bind himself eternally to another.
But then the moment passes, and Satoru pulls away, allowing Suguru’s hand to fall from his face.
“Poor Naoya,” he says, a wicked smile cutting itself across his face. Suguru blinks at him, uncomprehending, until he continues, “He was after Fushiguro Toji’s son for years, you know. Thought it was his divine right or some such, to make perfect little Zenin babies with him. And now Megumi’s pregnant with the Warlord’s child.” He laughs, sharp and cruel. “I only wish I could have seen the look on his face when he found out.”
Suguru smirks himself in answer. “You still can. No one in the Zenin delegation knows yet. Nanami only knew because Itadori-kun told him.”
Satoru’s face lights up, delighted. “Oh, no. You’re telling me I get to be the one to break the news?” He grins. “Finally, something to look forward to about this wretched day.”
Suguru laughs, and for a moment all the anxiety of minutes earlier is forgotten. Then—
“Well,” Satoru says with a sigh, and brings his hand up to run agitated fingers through his fine white hair. “I suppose there isn’t anything else for it, is there?”
Suguru smiles at him, fond. “No, I suppose there isn’t.”
“All right,” Satoru says, and starts making his way over to the door. “Then let’s go meet my bride.”