Chapter Text
Jutsu Daigaku: Art/Technique University
Jido Yogo Shisetsu: A living space (i.e., institution) for children who do not have parents or who cannot live with parents (i.e., children’s care facility)
Jido Yogo: Childhood (e.g., ground, earth, etc.) recuperation
He wears sunglasses inside Toji’s classroom. That alone is enough to make him hate the kid.
They’re wayfarers (because of course, they are), and when you pair that with his leather pants and dark purple Gucci sweatshirt he wears on the first day, Toji is ready to throw up. Violently.
His class isn’t for the weak of heart. It’s his brainchild: a clinic in the Psychology Department at Tokyo Jutsu Daigaku that uses an attachment-based approach for lessening the psychiatric demands of clients with violent tendencies. In other words, it examines how a therapist’s approach based on a client’s early relationships can help them function on a lower level of psychiatric medications. The class is composed of two three-hour lectures and three ten-hour shifts in a mental health center placement each week. Students are graded on mid-term and final papers as well as their performance at their placements.
He had to fight tooth and nail for the clinic to come into existence. Why, you might ask? It made sense to have it at a small, social sciences-heavy school like Jutsu Daigaku. The students didn’t have the opportunities more selective schools did, so the clinic was designed to give them the ability to do high-quality work with the few centers willing to take them on. But Toji wanted it to be open to social work master’s students, in a flexible, relatively short program that allowed for graduates to become psychotherapists, as well as doctoral psychology students, in a more grueling program that produced psychologists who could prescribe medication. He didn’t want the two programs’ training to be mutually exclusive (particularly because he detests hierarchy and finds most social work classes lacking in rigour that could help them become better therapists). He also wanted to cap the clinic at ten students. The dean believed such a small class that blurred traditional lines and demanded so much time from its students seemed “destined to fail,” but he could die mad because Toji debated circles around him until he felt like he had to approve a “pilot class.” And, once that went well, a “prototype.” And now, a goddamn clinic.
Toji was simply too sharp. He’d still had to fight for everything he got in his life: he’d had virtually no social life for years to get the degree that led to his job. But he’d always been good at figuring people out. That’s how he’d met his ex-wife (and after the honeymoon phase wore off, how she became his ex-wife). And that’s how he knew how to get his students the best damn training they could while working as a consultant on top of it. He can meet with a therapist’s client for two sessions, figure out how to approach them best and construct a treatment intervention that helps their client go off of a significant amount of medication within three months. And while he isn’t very personable (many clients feel “interrogated,” as he’s never been one for small talk), the clients are always happier than they were before. So in his clinic, he simply gauges each student’s method at their placements and works with their supervisors to teach them his approach, complemented by some bare essentials in his lectures.
The flipside of this is that he critiques every little thing his students do. But each one graduates with an offer of employment from their placement, with more and more centers offering one each year. His clinic cranks out people who can help hot-blooded, generally feared patients become more stable and make meaningful changes in their lives. Do his students whine about burnout? Absolutely. That’s by design: he worked hard to get to where he was, and if any of his students has an issue with stress, it’s best they know now instead of once they’re out in the field. Besides, he doesn’t accept peoples’ demons as an excuse for half-assing their work. He has demons of his own and figured out how to balance things just fine.
This is why he hates this kid in his clinic upon first glance. It’s not just the fucking unnecessary wayfarers, the Gucci leisure wear or wearing leather pants to class. It’s that he knows he comes from one of the three richest families in all of Tokyo. And Toji not only knows that from seeing his name on the roster beforehand, but because he also comes from one of the three richest families. He used to be at all of the stuffy parties with Tokyo’s wealthiest, and he’d heard of this kid at one before he ran, changed his last name as soon as he met his ex and never looked back. He’d hated how everyone was gifted in all these different ways that the city’s best tutors nurtured throughout their childhoods. Toji was always the ugly duckling, too blunt with hardly any friends and only good at convincing people to get him what he wanted. So he cut off his ties early and made something of himself on his own terms. He literally chose to focus on a psychological framework from outside of his own culture because Morita therapy reigns supreme in Japan and promotes accepting life as it is, which he never did. No one in his department has ever met anyone special to him (not like there are many people to choose from), let alone been to his house, and he only goes to terrible school-run social events to network for the next project he’s interested in. He lives alone, and his secluded life gives him the peace he needed away from the spotlight and pressure of his “family” that was more than happy to see him go instead of besmirching their reputation with his social “apathy” and relative “ordinariness.”
Satoru (he hates that he remembers his name) stayed, and it shows. He exudes this pathological sense of confidence, like a Jonas brother touring a buddhist monastery, and all of the students in the room are doting on his every word. The women curling their lips at the crude comments he can hear are acting like they don’t like him, but they keep listening to him instead of talking among themselves. He even has some guy by his side hanging on his every word and genuinely laughing at each of his humble brags.
“I mean, she told me I had a way with words! At least give me that, Mei Mei!” He licks his lip and arches an eyebrow while he manspreads on the table in front of her.
“Because you were in a library and the only one talking!” ‘Mei Mei,’ a girl with this insane hairstyle literally covering her face (she’ll get rid of that by the end of the week) spits out, hands at her sides in feigned indignation. You can tell it’s feigned because she’s mimicking his pose, her legs spread far apart on the floor as well.
Toji’s not looking because he’s a pervert. He just knows humans are animals, and if she’s mimicking him that obviously, she’s more pissed off she wasn’t the girl in the library than anything else.
“Back me up, man!” Satoru turns to his chuckling human appendage.
“She definitely couldn’t stop looking at you–”
“See?” He juts his chin out at Mei Mei.
“But you might’ve just been a loud asshole, dude.” The guy smirks.
He might be ok with the human appendage afterall. Maybe he’s not just a gigantic tool.
See, Toji got cut across the face for being too confident with someone’s girlfriend in a bar once and he doesn’t regret it. But this kid doesn’t know what confidence can cost you. He has no understanding of the world of hard knocks, let alone, Toji bets, how to deal with a young adult who’s beaten up more people than they can count. Yet here he is, seemingly magnetic, all the energy in the room going straight to him.
The hour hand of the clock finally strikes ten. Toji chugs the rest of his cup of coffee. “If I might, could we begin our semester?” He snarls.
Most of the class promptly sits up straight, but Satoru mosies on into a chair, hips slinking as he lands, one leg on top of the other, arms over the top of his seat. He smirks at Toji, and it makes him want to get into another bloody bar fight over literally anything. He glares daggers back at Satoru before he starts roll call.
**
Toji puts Satoru at the most difficult placement they have: a nonprofit for young adults who grew up in child care institutions and have been convicted of at least one violent crime. The place is a godsend for the population it serves: enough people saw a pattern between being estranged from one’s family and trouble interacting in a prosocial way with others to create an organization to address it, offering free therapy, social skills courses and vocational training. But those young adults hardly trust anybody. They act like they do to your face, and then, you find out they haven’t told you half of the less-than-great things they’ve done in the past week. It makes sense when you had a hard childhood and didn’t feel like you could trust anybody to stick around (or not report what you did wrong). That’s exactly why it’s such a good placement site: if you connect with one of them in a way that makes them feel grounded, they suddenly don’t need to be so jacked up on meds just to function in society. Toji would call it a miracle, but it’s not magic. He learned how to do it as he grew as a practitioner.
Satoru hasn’t had the training he’s had, though. He hasn’t had to struggle to learn how to do it, either. So Toji schedules his call to his placement supervisor earlier than anyone else’s–he wants to hear firsthand how he’s flailing in the wind with an actual challenge daddy’s money can’t solve for once.
The supervisor answers after the second ring. “Nozomi-sama?” He asks. He doesn’t ever have the time for pleasantries.
“Good afternoon, Fushiguro-sama!” She has this glint of…happiness in her voice. That’s new. “You never told me Gojo-kun would be so amazing!”
Damnit. “What do you mean?”
“He just gets every client he has. They usually smile and nod with the therapists and never come back for a second session. But with him, it’s like…it’s like…”
Toji sighs and smacks his hand against his forehead. “Everyone around him falls into his orbit.”
“Wow! You were never one for words!” She immediately catches herself. “I’m sorry, Fushiguro-sama. That’s just such a beautiful way of putting it.”
He knows. He knows because he’s been thinking about it for the better part of three hours each class for two weeks now. He watches Mei Mei and Utahime fall into it every week, staring at his bleached bedhead, past those wayfarers into those electric blue eyes framed with long black lashes, his slick lips from mint chapstick he offers them to flirt as obviously as he can with a slightly different pair of skinny jeans and that same Gucci sweatshirt on. They scoff to his face but their eyes linger, Satoru soaking it up while Toji’s attempting to teach them how to be the best therapists he can.
He’s competing with a fucking brat over real lives, and he’s so goddamn sick of it.
He must’ve been silent for too long because Nozomi laughs nervously. “Thank you for sending him to us! He has two clients who he sees twice a week and they’re both doing better already. We honestly couldn’t be happier!”
Toji’s livid. “When can I visit?”
**
Secure attachment: A way of approaching relationships that fosters high self-esteem, healthier relationships and trust in others for social support
Insecure attachment: A way of approaching relationships that's characterized by fear or uncertainty
Attachment rupture: A disruption in the emotional connection a child has with their caregiver
Hakase: Professor, only used in university and graduate school with someone with extremely high academic expertise
Satoru finishes each class assignment early. He snorts and speaks in hushed voices with Suguru when he’s done, who halfheartedly bats him away. Toji hasn’t called on him yet because he doesn’t want to give him even more attention than he already gets, but he’s about to visit the kid’s placement and he just can’t watch it happen anymore.
“Gojo-kun, you appear to be in good spirits over an exercise on insecure attachment. Would you like to share with us what Client X’s displays of aggression were?” He drinks some more coffee. He wants to murder this kid.
Satoru slides his wayfarers down his nose and smirks at Toji. It feels…completely inappropriate. “I thought you’d never ask, Fushiguro-hakase.” His voice is lower than it is with his peers, husky, even, and Toji lifts his coffee mug to his face again to hopefully hide his flushed cheeks. How is he supposed to deal with a student who’s that belligerently disrespectful? Toji told his students not to call him “hakase” on the first day, but Satoru’s still dressing up whatever he’s doing with social conventions that almost make him sound reasonable. “At his new job, he only uses honorific language with everyone except the delivery person, who he tears down regularly in snaps of rage. And when he speaks normally, it’s only to talk loudly about another coworker so that they’ll hear it.”
Those are all three behaviours. Damnit! “Which aspects of his childhood might contribute to insecure attachment?”
Gojo rolls his eyes and leans forward, elbows on the table, and quickly looks him up and down. Toji tries not to let the hand on his mug shake, in rage, or…nerves, he’s not sure. “His mother mocked him when he tried to be consoled and left him home alone most of the time with no family around to keep him company. He felt like he could only rely on himself, especially once his father left. He was five, so it’s a little late for an attachment rupture, but it’s spot on for messing the kid up anyway.”
A couple students chuckle under their breath. “Give us an example of one aspect of a treatment intervention for client X.” He hasn’t gotten to this part of the course, but if the kid understands the basics so well that he can be a comedian at the same time and he’s some gift kissed by angels at his placement, why not ask?
He’s vindictive. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to be in his goddamn clinic.
“How about I give an example of the treatment intervention you would make for client X, Fushiguro-ha-ka-se?” He grins, leaning forward a bit more, and that stupid Gucci sweatshirt hangs just low enough for Toji to see the top of his chest. He’s flabbergasted. Too flabbergasted to stop him before he says, “You’d think, ‘He’s having outbursts at work, but he trained to be a chef who gets more independence in everything they do and he’s stuck being a sous-chef at a not-that-great restaurant. He probably hates that, so he thinks he doesn’t need friends at this dump, but he’s still working hard, because even if he doesn't get a glowing character reference, he’ll be able to leverage his position for a job as an actual chef somewhere better. His skills will speak for themselves, so he’s just got to not be a total social pariah until he levels up.’”
Toji’s stunned. He’s never had someone see through him that clearly before, and this kid doesn’t know the first thing about him.
Satoru grins even wider. “I got that right, huh?” Toiji realizes his jaw is hanging open, and he doesn’t know how he lost control of the class so quickly. “So, you’d suggest the therapist play the long con. Don’t talk about the aggression for a while and get him some applications for restaurants that are a little more interesting around the area, where he likes the food more or just generally speaks more highly of. And after you prove how useful you are, you tell him not to be so hard on himself when it comes to his career path. You show him you see how high his goals are and how hard he tries, and you bet he loosens up a bit and stops lashing out at people over his own hangups.”
Toji almost drops his mug.
He’s a “social pariah” who not only likes pinpointing what other people are all about to get what he wants, but to stop them from getting too close. So he likes that people can never understand him. It’s like he’s always on the outside, looking in, and the outside is terribly underrated.
But the space between him and Satoru gets distorted and shrinks in that moment, and he’s bare for him to see, bathed in the faint smell of mint and taken in by those electric blue eyes. He’s genuinely upset Satoru’s wearing those sunglasses, tinting this window he built into how Toji thinks. He knows they don’t actually know each other, but it feels like they do, and that foreign feeling–of actually being known –is so overwhelming that he leans in just a little closer over his lectern. Despite all of his instincts, he wants to fall into him and feel that way forever.
But they can’t actually know each other. Satoru’s a student, and an arrogant one at that–one who he still wishes he could destroy, and he can’t do that, either. It’s maddening.
Satoru leans back finally, hands clasped behind his head. “Did I do well, hakase?”
Toji clears his throat as subtly as he can, forcing himself to stand up straight. “Gojo-kun, you’ll go further in your work if you act less pretentious.”
Everyone looks between the two of them. A showdown like this never happens, but he needed to put him in his place. Things were getting out of hand.
Satoru almost stops grinning, but Toji can make out the ghost of a smile still haunting his flawless face. “You’re right. You’ll be able to see exactly how I work at my placement next week, huh?”
It’s 1pm. It’s 1pm and he wants to kill this kid. And kiss him until he can’t fucking breathe. He wants to pin him down on the table he’s been leaning over and tell the rest of the class to get out, and he doesn’t know whether he’ll rip the stitching on his sweatshirt that costs more than he spends on groceries for a year when he yanks it up to suck on his nipples and hear him moan like a bitch, or punch him dead in the fucking face. But he’ll show him who’s really in charge. He will.
“I will. Class dismissed.”
**
Toji can’t want to beat up or fuck a student. It doesn’t matter if Satoru acts as grotesque as everyone in his old life used to and more–he’s the adult in the situation. Sure, Gojo’s a doctoral student in his third year, so he’s old enough to make his own decisions, but Toji still has principles.
He can pick him apart at his placement if he sees him trip up, though. It’s annoying to watch the rich kid sail above the rest of his students when he knows they’re struggling like they should be (minus Suguru, which makes him even more angry–it’s like they feed off of each other). He just wants to take him down a peg, and that’s not that terrible to want to do. Not nearly as terrible as wanting to fuck him stupid or give him a bloody nose, at least.
The kid needs to learn how to treat people with respect, ok?
Moments after he lets Nozomi know he’s arrived, she opens the front door of Jido Yogo, bowing low. When she lifts her head, she’s beaming. “Welcome, Fushiguro-sama! Gojo-kun’s just inside.”
She practically waltzes into the building, and what once was a dauntingly sterile social welfare facility has a completely different energy to it. Clients are talking to each other on the couches instead of keeping their eyes glued to their phones, and occasional peels of laughter echo through the hallways. He follows her down the hall and sees Satoru in the middle of a group of three clients.
“She doesn’t get that she’d only have more time with you if you weren’t killing it at work!” Great. He can pick this apart afterwards. Satoru is indeed acting completely unprofessional.
“Stop, Gojo!” The client snorts and rolls his eyes.
Just ‘Gojo’? He’s only been there for three fucking weeks!
“Dude, that’s the reality! If she wants more time with you, you gotta have that money. Tell her if she wants to know so bad.”
He’s unprofessional, but he’s doing exactly what he said Toji would do: complimenting the client and giving him objectives for treatment disguised as ‘friendly advice.’ And the client seems comfortable. In front of two other clients. After knowing him for three weeks.
“I’m not like you! I can’t just say that.”
Satoru chuckles. “Fine. Don’t let her know you’re gonna be making serious money soon. Your choice.” And Toji’s unfortunately standing behind Satoru, looking as dumbfounded as he did in class the other day as he turns around and licks his lower lip. Just enough that Nozomi might think it’s just a nervous tick. “Oh! Hey, ha-ka-se.”
Toji’s furious. “When will I be able to sit in on a session?” He’s hoping that trips the kid up: that he knew about the site visit but not how much Toji can shadow a student.
Nozomi’s smile drops as she trips over her words, her forehead lines creasing. “Gojo-kun, could you start your session with Ren-kun a little early?”
Satoru winks at her. His supervisor. “Of course, I can, Nozomi-senpai.” Nozomi sighs with relief and Satoru turns and clicks his tongue at a kid who’s glaring at Toji. “Let’s go, Ren.”
**
“It’d suck if I had to talk about this in front of someone else.” The client’s acting aggressive, and for once, Toji couldn’t be happier about it.
Satoru points his thumb at Toji and leans a little closer to the client. “He’ll hate it if you do that kind of stuff. So you should do it.”
Toji. Is. Done. “Gojo-kun, do you think this type of behaviour is respectful and appropriate in the workplace?” He wants his voice to cut through him, speaking just as loudly as the client was but with the gravelly undertones of a 41-year-old who doesn’t fuck around. Satoru’s, what, in his mid-20s? And this other kid probably is, too. He’s not going to lose this match.
But Satoru just turns around and smirks at him the same way he did last week. “This is what I’m talking about! My ‘method’ will drive you nuts, hakase.”
The client actually laughs, but looks solemn and almost apologetic when Toji’s wide eyes fall on him.
Satoru keeps his eyes on Toji. “Ok, Ren. Your job is to tell me when Fushiguro-hakase looks like his mind is blown.” He takes out his goddamn chapstick and slathers more on while this chucklefuck of a client almost snorts again, licking his lips before he bites his lower one, carefully, quickly, just enough to taunt him. “Think we can do that for twenty minutes?”
Ren pipes up, “Uh, yeah.”
Satoru turns around and they proceed to talk through how he dealt with an asshole at work and didn’t snap. The conversation is too friendly, sure, but in terms of content? It’s perfect.
Satoru’s still been outrageously rude and acted like a buddy to these clients instead of a therapist, though, so Toji will make him follow him outside and reprimand him before explaining, just in case he didn’t know, that he’ll be giving him his own evaluation for his final grade.
Satoru has one rule: break whoever wants to spoil his parade. He does great at pretty much anything he puts his mind to, and he’s put his mind to other people more than anything else. They fascinate him, turn him on, give him company and make him think. And the more he understands them, the more he gets to have fun with them. He looks at social interactions like jazz: he’s playing a part and he knows a ton of gnarly chords, but nobody really knows where he’s going, himself included. If someone gives him something crazy in return, it makes him smile. He doesn’t feel like he can ever really get enough of it to feel…satisfied? But he likes being surprised while he’s improvising. And if you spoil his music, ya get burnt.
Fushiguro is the most broken-looking person he’s ever met, and he has some ideas as to why but they’re all speculation. He’s seen the Zen’in family at parties and heard about the one uncle who “went crazy and left,” but it was a rumour. There was only one clue as to who it was: he’d changed his last name.
Satoru got a second clue the first day of class: Fushiguro looks like a dead ringer for who might be his father. He just looks like he laid in a garbage dump for years before someone slashed his face: tired, ugly and sour-faced. Like one of those rare people who “doesn’t like music,” let alone jazz.
So he can’t be sure his professor’s the man in question, but anyone who can’t take a single joke and grills him in front of a class, especially when every other teacher loves him, is a nuisance. He’s spoiling his parade.
Satoru wants to break him.
He also truly wonders what he could even learn from the guy. He’s learned a little from his placement, but most of his methodology comes from already knowing the basics of attachment theory. When it comes to class, he’s learned just how large Fushiguro’s biceps are at certain angles through his drab, button-up shirts, and how much he flexes when he clutches his ever-present coffee mug each time Satoru so much as breathes. See, a confident loner who might’ve never gotten to the level of everyone else in a cutthroat, overly competitive family makes Satoru want to get a little feral, even if he’s usually into girls. Some experimental weekends with Suguru have taught him a little more about what he likes, and he’d like to watch Fushiguro’s irritated façade and organized little world disappear while Satoru rides his cock ten ways ‘till Sunday.
This is what he’s thinking about when Fushiguro asks him to follow him out to the front of Jido Yogo (as if he needs someone to show him the way around his own placement).
“So, what’d ya think, hakase?” The ‘se slithers out of his mouth and he leaves his tongue resting on his lips. Fushiguro’s eyes stray down to it. Perfect.
His eyes snap back up to his. “I am responsible for half of your field placement grade, Gojo.”
“Oooh, Gojo now?” Perfect!
Fushiguro tries to crowd his space but he’s at least a good ten centimeters shorter than him, so Satoru has to look down at him to see the attempt at intimidation. “Listen! I see what you’re doing, and don’t think for a second that I won’t give you a failing grade. You’re not going to undermine me as part of a silly little game!”
He’s fuming, nostrils flaring and fists by his sides, and Satoru can really see how dark brown (almost black) his choppy, messy hair is, exactly where that scar strikes down both of his lips, and, when he looks down even further, how insanely ripped he is for a guy in his, what, 40s?
He’s so ugly, he’s gorgeous.
“It’s not a game,” Satoru says simply, with no trace of arrogance in his voice for once. Because he doesn’t feel arrogant. He suddenly feels…a little overwhelmed. Fushiguro’s weirdly stunning , and he also seems…slippery. It’s like he’s always planning something and simultaneously trying to fuck off–like he wants to show him off to Nozomi as what Jutsu Daigaku has to offer and fail him at the same time–and Satoru’s never been up against someone like that before. He’s used to people committed to watching him succeed or fail, but not people committed to using him and getting him out of his face as soon as they can.
How does he do that?! It’s easy to dismiss him as an antisocial narcissist, but it feels deeper than that. And Satoru wants him to want more from him…even if it’s a red flag on top of the red flag of being his professor.
He sees sweat gather on Fushiguro’s upper lip and starts to salivate. “G-good,” he grunts. “And stop calling me ‘hakase,’ you megalomaniacal brat. I’m not an academic by trade. I made that pretty clear.”
He turns on his heel and starts walking away when Satoru asks, “What should I call you, then?” He hates sounding like he cares, but he does.
Fushiguro stops. “Sensei.” He still sounds a little angry, but calmer. Softer, even.
Fuck. Calling him “sensei” is actually hot to think about.
He still wants to destroy the guy. He wants to matter to the man who gives so little of a shit about the people around him that he makes them into abstractions by trade, so that he can “solve” them with treatment interventions instead of seeing them as human beings with feelings. So Satoru will ride him until his thighs are sore, mesmerize him like he usually does so easily with everyone else, and fucking wreck him.
But maybe he’ll call him “sensei” when he does it.