Chapter Text
"You rely on Suguru too much!" Satoru grumbles out loud, his voice gruff with the mockery of Yaga's baritone, "It's time we cut the umbilical cord!" he quotes with his arms crossed over his chest. If he were a dragon, the heavy sigh he releases while sliding down to the ground would set the entire academy ablaze.
Satoru leans against the wall, elbows on his knees, eyes unfocused on the floor. The hell is that old man thinking? Satoru doesn't rely on Suguru, damn it; it's called teamwork… and preemptive damage management – they keep each other in check, totally mutually, of course. Yaga must be truly going senile if he thinks Satoru's gonna behave with this, uh, what did the old man call it… mentor? Yeah. What a joke.
"I don't need a mentor," Satoru mumbles to himself, loud enough for the faint presence coming closer to hear him, "The mentor's gonna need me."
"Well, I'd say you may need some help taking your head out of your own ass," a rich, smooth male voice slithers into his skull, "Looks like it's lodged pretty deep."
Satoru glares first, finds his target second – "Who the f–"
He cuts himself short, teeth sinking into his own tongue – it's a chest, that Satoru belatedly realizes belongs to a person. It's a man obscured by penumbra, sharp eyes and an even sharper smile, body molded into sinuous, sinful curves. Takes Satoru some conscious effort to get his eyes off the guy's jeans-clad, thick thighs and back to the lazy smirk on his face.
"Name’s Toji… the guy you were just talking about," the man explains, one hand to his hip, “Think we can get along well, Satoru-kun?”
The way he rests his weight on one foot accentuates the curve of his waist, the sight immoral and unholy – Satoru feels the fiery pits of hell threatening to brew behind his cheeks at the mere sight of it. The young sorcerer promptly tells his overactive hormones to go fuck themselves and gets to his feet, arms over his chest in rebellion. “Depends what getting along well means to you.”
A shrug – “Not stabbing ourselves to death.”
Then he’s a pretty simple guy, no nonsense, the albino thinks as his gaze slips down, magnetized by the way Toji’s black t-shirt stretches thin over his pectorals. Satoru can appreciate those— That. Toji’s bluntness, that is. “That looks good to me.”
“Looks good?”
“Sounds good,” Satoru corrects himself with a scowl, “I have a hunch this may not work out that well, actually."
Toji gives out a curt laugh, spinning around to walk away as if he knows for a fact that Satoru’s gonna follow. “That’s gonna depend on you. Come on, kitty, kitty,” he provokes, beckoning for the albino without even dignifying him with a glance, “We’re leaving. Got a job to do.”
“I take it back; I will stab you.”
Toji decides that's as good a time as any to look back with a grin, his smugness reaching the curve of his dark blue eyes.
“If you can.”
Satoru bitterly adjusts his shades over the bridge of his nose, remains of cursed energy dissipating behind him after his unsurprisingly successful exorcism. Toji watches him with a leisurely smile, flicking out the cigarette he’d been smoking, and tilting his head with blatantly fake confusion when Satoru stomps on the burning stick.
“You didn’t help at all,” the albino accuses, driving a finger into Toji’s sternum. It’s not just to touch him, no.
“Did you need it?”
“You’re just making me do your job for you!” Satoru insists, poking the man’s sturdy chest at least a dozen times too many to get his point across. Toji doesn’t look like he cares, merely shrugging in response to the aggression.
“I’m mentoring you,” he corrects.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Figures. Do you even know why I’m really here?”
To be a nuisance. To be a distraction. To make Satoru question how his optical nerves truly operate because, apparently, the scar on the side of Toji’s rosy mouth is impossible not to look at when he smiles lopsidedly. The albino tears his gaze off his mentor’s lips and fixates it on the blue depths of his dark eyes instead. “To spite me,” he attempts.
“Not worth my time,” Toji puts plainly, “Try again.”
Satoru sighs, arms folded over his chest, gaze drifting away. “Yaga says it’s so I can stop relying on Suguru, but I don’t,” he frowns, “I don’t get why he’s doing this. You're supposed to teach me some thing or another, I guess?"
“I’m here for the money.”
“What the fuck?”
Toji laughs, mimicking Satoru’s stance. “Just joking. Well, not really, but there is a lesson here – you're immature. You need independence, and you can't get that with your buddy always watching your back. Jujutsu sorcery isn't about teamplay, Satoru-kun. There is, no, teamplay."
“And that’s why Yaga paired me up with you. Makes sense. Unhelpful prick,” Satoru growls, poking Toji’s chest one last time – and he doesn't blame himself; this guy's pectorals and the Great Wall of China are the only things that can be seen from space, after all. There’s gotta be some wacky magnetic field involved.
“Well, you can always file a complaint to him. I promise I’ll be nice and pretend like I care.”
“You know what? We are not getting along well, mister,” Satoru frowns.
Toji smiles lopsidedly again, his scar drawing the albino’s gaze to his lips, “I beg to differ.”
He goes four days without seeing that man's face, and it feels like peace. It's then brutally shattered by the width of Toji's biceps on the fifth day, the muscles constricting as he slides the door to the classroom open.
Satoru's feet drop off his desk, his jaw following suit. "You!" he barks out, pointing at the smirking man leisurely strolling into the place.
"It's good morning, Satoru-kun," he greets in that ridiculously smooth voice, closing the door behind him, "Do we have to add 'good manners' to your curriculum?"
"Like you can teach that!" Satoru accuses, then shakes his head to ward off the thought. "Why are you even here? I thought either you died, or Yaga finally saw the light of reason and gave up on that stupid idea of his."
"Oh," Suguru chuckles from the side, arms leisurely folded over his stomach, "So that's your mentor."
"Toji-san, is it? Satoru talks so much about you, it feels like we already know each other," Shoko completes, filing her nails without casting a single glance at their accursed visitor.
Satoru clenches his teeth, ears prickling with heat at the smirk forming on Toji's lips. "Don't you dare—"
"What does he say about me?" his nemesis asks, completely disregarding Satoru's warning, a hand on the teacher's desk and his weight leaning against it.
"This guy here says you stink like cigarettes and alcohol and that you've got an attitude, at least five times a day," Suguru says, standing up to snatch Satoru's notebook from his desk. The albino attempts to get it back, but his friend stops him with a hand to the face – "And he doodled you and your, I quote, snake bitch face."
"You traitorous piece of shit! Give that back!"
The moment Suguru realizes Satoru will reach the notebook, he tosses it to Toji, who deftly catches it midair. The albino resigns to his fate by grinding his teeth and growling at his soon-to-be-ex-best-friend.
"Oh, it's looking good. Lots of details," Toji mumbles with a hand to his chin, turning the notebook around for Satoru to glance at his own work of art – a chibi caricature of the man's face with snake fangs, a long sharp tongue, and his hands on the side as if he's a witch ready to cast a spell. "So you have been paying attention to me."
"I think he pays a lot of attention to you," Shoko adds with a small grin, extending her arm to check out her nails. Suguru laughs, because of course he does.
Satoru calls them a few names under his breath as he slumps back onto his chair, his face flaming up like the sixth circle of hell. He'd hide it behind his palm if it didn't make him look even more like a sore loser.
Toji hums with amusement – and, Satoru dares say delight, the absolute jerk – and takes slow strides with his long legs, soon reaching the albino's desk. He places Satoru's notebook on top, his hand lingering, veins curling over tendons and small, fading scars. Takes the young sorcerer a moment to look up from it and meet Toji's eyes. "I hope your focus is on the right places," the man says before moving away, a knowing smirk playing by his lips.
He knows. Of course he knows.
"By the way," Toji adds as he's walking to the door, "There's a mission today; I'll pick you up after classes are over. Ciao."
Satoru glares at him as he opens and closes the door, his voice distant but still echoing with "Oh, mornin', Yaga. Was just making sure Saroru-kun didn't forget about me, but it looks like I needn't worry," out in the hallway. The young sorcerer ignores the way he's being stared and snickered at by his friends and sinks further down his chair.
Satoru knows exactly what's coming when lunch break arrives and Suguru pays a drink for both him and Shoko.
The albino sits down right beside the vending machine, a cold can of juice to his forehead to try and quench the heat that their insinuating gazes are casting into his face. Doesn't work. His traitor of a best friend sits across from him on the hallway, Shoko standing beside him with one foot on the wall, and their smiling presences are simply impossible to ignore.
"So," Suguru begins.
Satoru cuts him short with a well placed and well earned, "Fuck you."
"You know what, I had my doubts about this, Suguru," Shoko says as she's swirling her canned coffee, "But after what happened back there… and right now, I'm inclined to think you were right."
"Of course I was; I keep telling you, Satoru isn't half as mysterious as he wants people to believe," he lies, pausing to take a sip of his iced tea, "He was so passionate about his hatred," – and he says that while air quoting with his free hand, the bastard – "That it was obvious something was up."
"Passionate? As in…" Shoko hums, in thought, "Digimon levels of passion?"
"Gabumon levels."
"Oh boy, this is serious."
"For how long can you two talk about me, in my presence, without addressing me?" Satoru barks out, resisting the urge to toss his half-empty can at Suguru's face and forcing the remaining contents to splash all over Shoko.
They both shrug. Satoru scowls.
"I don't like him! He's super annoying, and bossy, and lazy, and…"
When he fails to come up with anything else, his friends smile at each other and shrug again.
"Assholes," Satoru grumbles, "I'm not saying I hate him, I'm just saying he's unlikeable. I will give credit where it's due, though – I like that I'd have to catch a train to travel from one side of his chest to the other."
"He's a degenerate, Suguru."
"You haven't seen the half of it, Shoko."
"Hey! I'm not the one with tentacle porn in my hentai collection!" Satoru accuses, earning an offended gasp. Shoko sighs in resignation as the two begin their millionth back and forth, this time including flying cans.
Satoru can’t wire his jaw back into place.
It’s not that he thought of Toji as a weakling – Yaga wouldn’t pair his golden goose with someone like that – but he had very plausible reasons to believe that the guy isn’t 'all that'.
Turns out he was wrong.
It starts with Toji saying stuff like ‘since you’re so eager to learn from me, I guess I’ll do my job just this once’, and ends in an exorcism speedrun. His mentor cuts down the curses he was tasked with so quickly that Satoru would’ve had difficulty following him without his Six Eyes, and it wasn’t all small fry either – he’s just that strong.
He swings his polearm before tucking it close to his body, approaching Satoru with lazy steps. The cigarette he’s kept between his lips throughout the fight has reached the filter; he tosses it out before snatching yet another from the pack he keeps in his front pocket, biting into it, and unsuccessfully flicking his lighter to cause a flame. When it does, the stick doesn’t burn. Satoru would laugh if he wasn’t so flabbergasted with the entire situation.
“Damn it. Help a man out, will you?” Toji pleads from behind his teeth, throwing the lighter Satoru’s way. The albino grabs it by instinct.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” he grumbles, “It’s bad for your health and makes you stink.”
“Oh, you’re worried about me?”
Clicking his tongue, Satoru holds the lighter beneath Toji’s cigarette while the man makes a wall around it with his free hand. A few breaths later, the stick ignites. “I have a strong constitution,” Toji exhales with a cloud of smoke, twirling the item between his fingers, “I'll be fine."
"I wasn't worried!"
"Mhm," his mentor agrees, taking another drag and exhaling out of puffed up, rosy lips.
Satoru looks away, decided on not inconveniencing himself by staring. "Is it because of your Heavenly Restriction?"
"Hm?"
"You have no cursed energy," the albino muses out loud as he's kicking a pebble, ethereal strings of smoke briefly entering his line of sight. "You don't have a regular body, do you? I imagine smoking doesn't even tickle your lungs."
"You're making theories about my body, Satoru-kun?"
"That's not the only– Wait, what?! No!" he corrects himself, a heated glare thrown Toji's way. The man smirks from behind his cigarette, slowly, tentatively blowing the minty smoke at Satoru's face. Its ghostly touch caresses the albino's warm cheeks and blows at his bangs; he swallows down out of reflex and finds a lump that may or not be his thundering heart jammed up there.
"What else do you theorize?" Toji questions, barely above a whisper.
"Nothing," he's quick to reply, his voice a hiss. He forbids the mere thought of it to cross his mind, and it works until Toji takes a step forward, invading his personal space, and Satoru's Infinity flares up nigh automatically. His mentor stops right there, the curves of his body pressing against the albino's technique in provocation. "Back off," Satoru warns.
"There's a leaf on your head."
"Wh- Wha?"
Oh, fuck, he stuttered.
Toji smiles and Satoru's Infinity crumbles down, allowing the man to lift up a hand and pick up a red maple leaf that wove around his locks somehow. He waves it in front of the albino's eyes, as if showing him what a complete idiot he is, before allowing it to take off with the wind. "You really are like a kitten. You're skittish, you keep hissing, and your hair—" He cuts himself short, shaking his head. "Nevermind. Let me stop before you decide to use your little claws against me," the man provokes as he's leaving.
Satoru sighs. It comes out electrical. He rubs at his face, finding it hot; his belly feels equally warm inside – it's too late to stop his theories from crawling back into his skull. Unfortunately for his rapidly decaying mental health, they all involve the look of Toji's body and how dumb it makes him feel, rather than anything health or jujutsu related.
Satoru is terribly, astronomically pissed one day. The elders of the Gojo clan won't stop bothering him about unimportant things, such as the future and what the albino intends to do with it, matters like his reputation, and futile attempts at guiding him to do what they want. They reprehend him for the smallest things, saying he'll destroy the clan with his attitude, that he'll tarnish their reputation and prestige, yadda fucking yadda.
It's when he's sulking on the back of the gym, ass going square on the cold floor, tongue rolling angrily around a lollipop and teeth clenched around the stick that Toji appears, feet stopping right in front of the ill-humored albino. Satoru doesn't grace him with a greeting.
Toji hums out loud, a lit cigarette landing beside his feet only to be stepped on, putting out the smoky strings previously rising. He crouches, and the only reason why Satoru even bothers to make eye contact is because the guy hasn't been a menace… yet.
His mentor doesn't say a word for a while. Stares at Satoru until the obscure blue of his eyes becomes familiar, and slowly lifts up a hand. He pokes Satoru's forehead with two of his fingers, for reasons unknown and unexplained.
"Let's go get some ramen. You're paying," the man informs, getting up to walk away without offering the slightest bit of context.
Satoru bites into his lower lip until his tongue tastes like copper. Only then he gets up and follows Toji, without asking a single question.
They get into the train and Satoru immediately sits down. It's mostly empty thanks to the odd hour of the day; it allows Toji to sit right beside him. Their legs touch and Satoru can't help but feel like it's on purpose.
He tenses up but doesn't shy away, not wanting to look like a little bitch throwing tantrums – it's not like he opposes the touch, anyway. Feels warm. He relaxes after a while, sneaking occasional glances at Toji who doesn't once talk to him – he just keeps his head lolled back, eyes closed, hands in his pockets.
Satoru's gaze follows the curve of his Adam's apple, the angle of his jaw, the scar cutting across his lips. His eyes linger there, magnetized, his mouth going dry and stomach doing a pirouette. Satoru looks away, dragging his tongue over his lips, hands curling over each other on his lap, a strangled little breath spilling out from behind his teeth. His face feels warm.
The next time he looks at Toji, the man's staring right back. Satoru freezes on the spot, heart throttling up his throat.
"I won't ask jack and shit," Toji warns after a moment, "But you can talk if you want."
"...the hell are you on about?"
Saroru's voice comes out annoyingly coarse, no doubt because of spending too much time in silence, after screaming his lungs out into his pillow to release pent up stress. He swallows down saliva in an attempt to lubricate his vocal chords.
"You look like shit," his mentor elaborates.
"Why, thank you, I had no idea."
Toji huffs in amusement, shrugs and returns to his previous position with his eyes closed. Satoru scowls at him for a second, then averts his gaze to the cold metal floor. He fiddles with the hem of his gakuran, pressing it hard between thumb and index just to watch his nails go white before releasing, pressing, releasing—
"...it's just a bunch of clan bullshit," he chortles out, lips pursing so tight that they quiver, gaze locked to his whitened knuckles. "I dunno why I'm so worked up… this is just another Tuesday for me."
"That's probably why."
Satoru understands the implications of Toji's words – the unending cycle he goes through every time he visits the Gojo estate keeps wearing him thin, layer by layer, and their nonsense gets worse the older he gets.
"...does it get any easier?" Satoru asks just to keep the conversation going. He wanted to be alone before, but not now – Toji reeled him in, so he better keep Satoru entertained.
"You'll get desensitized eventually. And, who knows," Toji shrugs, his gaze distant, "Maybe you'll meet someone who can free you from those shackles one day."
Satoru has the distinct impression that he's talking from experience, but there's no explanation, no context, no reasons given.
"Who are you?" Satoru asks with suspicion – he's not some lowly no one, that's for sure, but he's never talked about himself before.
"Oh, you forgot? I'm Toji," he replies with a lopsided smirk, "Fushiguro Toji."
"Okay then, Bond, James Bond," Satoru grumbles, "Keep your secrets; I don't care."
He finds that he does, actually, and that he'd really like for Toji to open up and talk to him without meaning four different things with every one of his words, but this is fine, too – Satoru doesn't feel like he's stranded in a throne adrift anymore, like he's supposed to magically tend to the world's wounds by himself. There's human warmth pressing against him, and it makes him feel human in turn.
It suddenly dawns on him – Toji's gesture before they left Jujutsu High, that tap against Saroru's forehead – it had a meaning, after all. The albino hitches a breath, a cozy heat coiling in his gut as he looks at the yawning man beside him.
"You were checking whether I'd activate my Infinity."
Satoru finds that he's not too fond of raising his barriers around Toji anymore.
They eat their ramen amongst lighthearted complaints about the elders of the Jujutsu world – it seems like they share a similar view on those human-shaped raisins, although his mentor seems to harbor more intense feelings towards them. He doesn't outright say it – guy likes being as direct as a U-turn, apparently – but he complains about Satoru too, and his voice sounds much softer when he does. That has to count for something.
He finds that they have as many similar views as completely opposite opinions on different things, which makes for engaging discussions – mostly one sided, since Satoru talks that much more – and they're always filled with jabs and provocations. It doesn't feel like Toji's actually trying to offend him, so it's fun to try and outsmart him, to get the upper hand, to have the last laugh.
Amidst these conversations, Satoru steals a piece of meat from Toji's meal, since he is paying and he has decided to be a brat. In truth, it's really just to fully monopolize the man's attention, because it feels good to have it, and to rile him up. Toji catches Saroru's chopsticks with his own a total of seventeen times in retaliation.
The albino continues to be mischievous just to get a rise out of his mentor, to force him to talk more, to get closer to him and force 'accidental' physical contact. Their time together is soon over but, before they leave, Toji orders a portion for takeout.
"You're still hungry?"
"It ain't for me."
Satoru doesn't ask – refuses to ruin his newly acquired good mood.
On the way back to campus, they sit beside each other again and Satoru doesn't think, doesn't ask, doesn't give a shit – he leans closer to Toji and rests his head on the man's sturdy shoulder, closes his eyes and inhales rich, musky tobacco. Warmth radiates into his cheek, into his thigh, and anywhere their bodies converge.
Toji doesn't move at all, as if Satoru isn't even there, but the young sorcerer doesn't mind – it's okay as long as he's allowed to stay like this.
Toji shows up every once in a while, dragging the albino to his missions and making him pay for their meals afterwards. His reasoning is 'you're rich and I'm hot', which makes Satoru his de facto sugar daddy even if their ages say otherwise.
Satoru keeps exorcizing curses for him, but Toji won't complain when he stomps his foot and yells 'I'm not your employee, lazy ass!' – he simply draws that annoyingly beautiful smirk and does his job in, arguably, even less time than the albino would've.
He doesn't offer praise, but sometimes he ruffles Satoru's hair after the mission's over. He doesn't offer compliments, but he never lets Satoru feel unappreciated. He doesn't offer comfort, but his body language invites Satoru to his friendly shoulder. It's always warm, and Toji never pushes him away.
Nothing with that man is shown outright. On the surface, he's nothing but an exploiting piece of shit, a lazy asshole, a terrible mentor, a closeted narcissist who doesn't give a single flying fuck about anything but himself.
Satoru likes those things about him – likes that Toji doesn't care that the albino's arguably the most important sorcerer to be born this century; likes that he treats Satoru not like the simulacrum of a god, but instead like a person. He likes that Toji poses a challenge to him with every one of his words and actions, yet still makes him comfortable enough not to take them if he doesn't feel like it.
And that's because, below surface level, that man isn't really antagonistic. He's just… Toji.
That's all Satoru could ask for.
"Ah–"
Satoru turns his head to the side to bite into the pillow, eyes closed tightly. His body writhes on the sheets, toes curling in, the soft fabric tickling his clamping thighs; they quiver as he picks up speed with his hand, cock twitching in his grasp.
The porn magazine he'd been looking at glues to his forearm for what feels like the thousandth time; he growls and tosses it on the floor with his free hand. It didn't work to distract him anyway – these static pictures of naked women got nothing on what his mind produces.
Toji.
Satoru can recreate everything about that man in his head – his alluring, manly scent; his comforting warmth; the richness of his voice; the curves of his body; he even pictures the fluttering of Toji's muscles as he removes his shirt to crawl on top of the albino, that lopsided smirk taunting Satoru into licking his scar.
The closer he gets to his climax, the more fragmented these thoughts and images become – his moans fill his skull, his legs spread with his hips pushing off the bed, his cock leaks enough precum onto his hand to make it wet and slippery. Liquid bliss substitutes the blood in his veins, his muscles tightening with zaps of hot electricity, eyes rolling to the back of his head and the pulsations of his rock-hard erection becoming uncontrollable.
His orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut. He stiffens, hips pistoning up, hand locking tight around the base of his cock as it throbs and shoots out in ecstasy. He inhales sharp breaths, struggling to get his brain to work, tiny spasms seizing his entire body. Feels like there's fireworks blazing inside him.
His soul eventually returns to his body, and he finds himself staring at the ceiling. There's a painful constriction against his ribcage, like something's trying to squeeze his heart and bleed it dry. Satoru does his best not to put a name to the feeling. He knows what it is anyway.
I want to see him so bad.
Satoru can't concentrate on his manga.
He wishes he could blame it on the blasting sounds coming from the TV, but Suguru doesn't turn the volume up enough for that. He doesn't smash the controller's buttons quite as angrily as Satoru, either, and doesn't scream in agony upon entering the fourth phase of a boss battle, so these excuses won't work.
Sighing, Satoru pushes away what he'd been reading and sprawls on Suguru's bed like a melting slug. He mindlessly watches his friend's Final Fantasy adventures without actually processing anything that's happening onscreen.
"You were right," he eventually says out loud.
"That's usually the case," Suguru says dismissively, continuing with his game.
"About Toji."
That makes his friend stop. He turns his head around with a frown, joystick laying on his lap as he tucks some hair behind his ear. "Really? You're admitting you've got the hots for him?"
"I like him. Romantically."
Suguru mumbles "Holy shit," under his breath and fully turns towards Satoru, arms folding over the bed, "Seriously?"
The albino pushes his burning face into the bed, sighing. "Yeah. On a scale from one to ten, how fucked do you think I am?"
"Zero if you mean it literally; eleven if metaphorically."
"Fuck you, Suguru," Satoru grumbles, kicking down at the mattress to show his disdain, "These weren't options!"
"Neither is you getting laid."
Satoru growls, sitting up to toss the pillow at his friend's face. He dodges, unfortunately and unsurprisingly. "Why'd you think he wouldn't want to get a piece of me? I'd want to get a piece of me, and I'm myself!"
"Chill, Narcissus," Suguru jokes, "Are you even looking at this objectively? I've heard that Fushiguro isn't his birth name. Guy's probably already taken."
"...what?"
Satoru wishes his disappointment didn't show on his voice. Were he able to conceal it, though, he knows that Suguru would be able to see right through him.
"Hey, don't make that face. I don't know for sure, I'm just making an educated guess."
"But it makes sense. The other day, Toji grabbed takeout after we were done eating ramen and said it wasn't for himself," Satoru explains dejectedly, a pained little sigh spilling out. "What have I gotten myself into, Suguru?"
"...would you feel better if I gave you the strawberry jam filled marshmallows I bought for this exact occasion?"
Satoru pouts like a cold, wet puppy. "Yeah."
Suguru gets up to grab the sweets, while Satoru stares at the bed. Amidst the wooden noises of drawers opening and plastic folding, his best friend makes an interesting and very valid suggestion: "How about you just ask him about it?"
Fushiguro, it reads on the small plaque. Satoru stares at it for a while, a plastic bag tight in his grasp, his other hand deep into the pocket of his jeans. He looks at the house again, a small and beautiful little thing, walls dyed light yellow and a tiny garden in the front. Looks well tended to. Satoru goes through the gate, following the short cobblestone path to the front door, and hesitates for an instant before ringing the bell.
He taps his foot against the ground in nervousness, his gaze moving everywhere, hand curling on his hip just to keep it busy. A few moments later, the doorhandle finally moves; Satoru readies one of his charming, playful greetings at the tip of his tongue—
A child opens the door. He looks like a tiny Toji after an electric shock.
Satoru bites into his tongue hard enough to sting; he releases the bag he's holding, dropping it to the ground while cursing under his breath using a few choice words that could possibly scar the boy for life. He doesn't seem fazed by it, though, simply grimacing at the scene.
"Dad!" the boy yells while turning his head around, "There's a weirdo at the door!"
Oh, no. Oh, no.
The guy he likes has a son.