Chapter Text
The opera house lights were blinding even through Satoru’s sunglasses. Red and gold booths extended in Satoru’s peripherals, people teeming in the balconies to get a better view of the renowned prodigy.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Satoru set his hands on the piano, long, pale fingers extending over the keys. Ivory on Ivory.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The trumpets began the grandiose opening of Bartok’s Concerto No. 2 , the imperial sounds announcing the arrival of royalty. Of Satoru.
It was practiced precision, muscle memory. Satoru’s fingers flew over the keys with ease, a butterfly flitting over a field of flowers. The playful, chaotic sounds and extreme technicality were perfectly suited to Satoru’s strengths, the notes reverberating in the multi-tiered hall of the opera house.
The crowd held their collective breaths, taking in Satoru’s pure skill with unbridled awe. He could feel it emanating from them, their admiration, their reverence.
The prodigy drew them in,
casting a spell on all who dared to listen.
“Captivating as always, Satoru.” A man’s clammy hands were clasped around Satoru’s own in a nauseating handshake. Satoru recognized him distantly from one of his family’s many dinner parties, but couldn’t be bothered to remember his name. Another has-been, probably. Another washed-up pianist or composer.
“I know,” Satoru said, watching irritation flash in the man’s eyes for a split-second before his expression returned to falsified wonder.
The opera house foyer was elegant, grandiose. High ceilings of marble curved inwards towards a glittering chandelier. A thin stream of people were entering through the heavy double doors as the masses watching Satoru exited to the rainy streets.
“Is someone else performing tonight?” Satoru asked.
“I’m not entirely sure.” The man’s tone almost made Satoru expect him to tack on a ‘sir’ . “Toji Fushiguro, I believe.”
Satoru had never heard of Toji Fushiguro. The man was like a ghost, an inhuman apparition materializing as if from nothing.
He towered over the piano bench, broad shoulders casting a dark shadow over the scrupulous arrangement of keys. The man looked like he should be sitting in a prison cell rather than playing the piano, hands thick and rough, a scar stretching across his lips. He paid the crowd no attention as he adjusted the bench, sitting quite a bit farther than Satoru had.
Satoru sat in the back row, toying with the program in his hands. It announced Schubert’s Sonata in A Minor. He bent it into what he hoped was a reasonable origami crane, but he’d never bothered to learn how to make them properly. His legs were kicked up onto the seat in front of him, sunglasses still perched on his nose despite the near-darkness.
The meager crowd in attendance quieted as Toji cracked his knuckles, measuring his distance from the glossy black Steinway.
From the moment he played the first notes, Satoru’s demeanour changed. His legs dropped from the chair, falling to the floor as he leaned forward intently. As the first movement bled into the second, Satoru was transfixed.
The second movement began slowly, simply. Just a few soft notes, so quiet you had to stop breathing to hear them, stop your heart beating to feel them. It was a gentle, desolate melody. A love letter to someone lost, a lover, a friend. As the melody shifted to the major key, it remained slow and soft, a distant recollection of fond memories. The re-introduction of the minor chord shifted the melody to bittersweet melancholy, love tinged with sorrow. Satoru could feel the man’s pain in his very bones, his soul. He could feel his anger as the score grew into something violent, corrupted.
Even long after the song had ended, Satoru could still feel its reverberations through his body, could imagine the pain and loss all too clearly. Even long after everyone had shuffled out of the opera house, Satoru couldn’t will himself to move.
“No more performances tonight, kid,” a gruff voice said.
Satoru gazed up at the shadowed figure over his sunglasses, sitting up straighter as he recognized him as Toji Fushiguro.
“You were amazing!” Satoru babbled. “The piece isn’t even hard, but the way you-”
A low chuckle cut him off, the man’s scarred lips twisting in something resembling amusement.
“You must be the Satoru Gojo .”
The way Satoru’s name rolled off his tongue was almost mocking. Still, Satoru could hear him refer to him as the Satoru Gojo on a loop for all eternity without getting tired of it.
“Sure am!” Satoru pushed his glasses up into his hair, crossing his arms on the chair in front of him. “Did you watch my performance, too?”
“No,” Toji said shortly. Satoru pouted.
“Why not?”
Toji exhaled rapidly through his nose, the sound resembling the bastardization of a laugh.
“I’d rather have my eardrums stabbed out than listen to Bartok’s second concerto. Frankly, it sounds like shit no matter who’s playing it.”
Satoru couldn’t keep his lips from dropping open, a sharp giggle escaping his mouth in lieu of words.
“It is pretty atrocious, isn’t it?”
Toji retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. His jacket was the wrong kind of vintage, ill-fitting and faded. He tucked a cigarette past his lips, flipping his lighter in his hand as if itching for the taste of nicotine.
“Pick your own music next time, kid.”
Satoru had never picked his own music in his life.
Thin tendrils of light bled through the drawn curtains, giving the appearance of an underwater grotto. They bathed the austere Victorian surroundings in an eerie glow, a haunted luminescence that called to mind abandoned manors perched atop misty hills. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the living room walls, surrounding the grand Steinway at the centre of the room. Sheet music littered the floor, Schubert’s Sonata in A Minor.
The notes were easy. Almost too easy compared to what Satoru was used to playing. The metronome ticked continuously as he picked at the score, trying to emulate Toji Fushiguro – his passion, his emotion. It proved all but futile as his rendition fell flat.
“What the hell am I missing?” Satoru’s voice echoed in the silence of his parents’ mansion. An unfamiliar feeling was creeping up Satoru’s spine, a feeling he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before. Inferiority. The taste was sour on his tongue, acidic in his throat.
He played the song ten times over, staring at the notes as if they’d divulge their secrets if he looked at them long enough. Still, it never sounded quite right. Never sounded like him .
In his frustration, Satoru tossed the sheet music in the trash.
Service will be reduced on the Expo Line between the hours of 6 and 9 due to construction.
Satoru scrolled absently through his phone as he waited for the train. Cat photos, memes, pictures of him and Suguru that must have been a few years old by now. Sonata in A Minor played in his headphones but the recording hardly did the song justice compared to Toji Fushiguro’s performance.
More buses will be made available. We apologize for the inconvenience.
The droning voice echoed in the tiled chamber, mingling with the distant rumble of an incoming train. The train roared into the station, blocking the myriad ads lining the walls: perfume, alcohol, a local university. Satoru’s hair ruffled as it came to a halt. Immediately, passengers rushed to exit, passing by in a flurry of anonymity.
One figure in particular drew Satoru’s attention. A muscular frame, a rumpled jacket, a slow, confident gait.
“Fushiguro!” Satoru called. He chased after the man, up the escalator, even as the train chimed to announce its closing doors. “Toji!”
Satoru pushed his way through the people crowding the escalator, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. He turned, startled, revealing a face that was decidedly not Toji’s.
“Oh. Sorry… I thought you were someone else.”
Satoru disembarked the escalator, lingering at the top of the stairs while faceless people milled around him. It was the third time this had happened, the third time he’d mistaken a stranger for Toji. His face seemed to haunt his every waking moment. Those piercing green eyes, that scarred smirk that made Satoru feel so forgettable. He occupied every groove of Satoru’s brain, his pictures hanging in every room of Satoru’s mind.
He scrolled through his phone as he waited for the next train, scouring the internet for any sign of Toji Fushiguro. Satoru’s annoyance grew and grew as he found nothing but a small article from decades ago, a local competition attended by Toji Zen’in. Zen’in. The Zen’ins were a family of musicians like the Gojos, high-profile violinists. He’d briefly encountered most of the members that mattered at his parents’ parties, but never once had he seen Toji.
The enigmatic man continued to plague Satoru’s mind, slowly driving him insane.
Satoru arrived at the sushi restaurant ten minutes late. His boots squeaked on the marble floors as he placed his umbrella in one of the holders lining the walls. He passed high-end Japansese decor on the way to his parents’ usual table.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said to no one in particular. His parents’ driver, Ijichi, was the only one at the table, head bent over a newspaper. He nodded his acknowledgement to Satoru as he sat down, setting his hands on the table.
“Unfortunately, Mr. and Ms. Gojo have decided to remain in Prague. They won’t be joining you today.”
Satoru sighed as he rested his elbow on the ornate tablecloth, his head falling to his open palm.
“Again?” Satoru fiddled with the menu, suddenly not hungry anymore. “They haven’t been home in months.”
“They send their apologies and well wishes. And your father asked me to remind you-”
“To practice my Concerto,” Satoru finished automatically. Ijichi’s thin smile was a knowing one.
“Yes.”
The waitress arrived with green tea and Satoru immediately poured himself some, relishing the heat that flowed to his cold hands.
“They missed my performance,” he said into his teacup.
“They send their apologies for that, as well.”
Sure, they do. For all the money his parents had spent on lessons, tutors, and recitals over the years, one would think they would take more of an interest in Satoru’s career. As it was, all they seemed to care about was his acclaim.
“I’d rather just eat with you anyway, Ijichi.”
Rain pelted on the roof of the taxi, grey, spackled light falling over Satoru’s slouched form. Fat raindrops trailed down the windows, the city gleaming in their mirror-like surfaces. He watched the surroundings pass like a dream, insignificant streets stretching and receding.
“Can’t you go any faster?” Satoru whined as the car slowed to a stop. Red brake lights spread like stars in the windshield.
“There’s traffic,” was the taxi driver’s curt response.
“Fuck traffic.” Satoru tossed his head back dramatically, his heavy exhale fogging up the back window.
A broad figure caught his eye, wide shoulders shrouded in a ratty jacket, cigarette smoke billowing around the man’s frame. It wasn’t until he stopped at the streetlight that Satoru noticed the familiar profile.
It took him a moment to determine that it wasn’t all in his head, that this was truly Toji Fushiguro. In his hesitation, the taxi jerked back to life, green light replacing red in the raindrops’ reflection.
“Wait! Stop!”
“Thought you wanted me to go faster.”
“Pull over.”
“What?”
“I said: pull over. ”
“There’s nowhere to-”
“Then I’ll just get out here.”
A series of angry honks accompanied Satoru pushing open the door of the taxi, rushing into the pouring rain.
He was quickly soaked through, his coat clinging to his thin frame as he shoved past pedestrians, craning his neck to keep an eye on Toji. He lost sight of him as he ducked into a diner off 34th Avenue.
Toji liked his mornings to himself. He had a routine. Drop off Megumi at school, pick up scratchers at the gas station, and head to the diner for his morning coffee. He used a nickel to peel away the metallic coverings of his scratchers, frowning as they showed nothing of promise.
“Fuck.” He’d lost money instead of making it. Again.
The diner he frequented was small and seedy; the plastic coverings on the tables and chairs were smutty with fingerprints, the menus sticky, the decor tacky. He stretched himself out in one of the booths, a cup of coffee already steaming in front of him. The taste of tobacco was thick on his tongue but he still yearned for another cigarette. If only the diner’s policies were as outdated as their decor and Toji could smoke inside.
He was halfway through another scratcher when the sound of loudly squeaking shoes drew his attention. A dripping wet boy – and yes, he was, in fact a boy – stood in the entranceway, shifting from foot to foot like he was lost. He brightened when he made eye contact with Toji, unceremoniously dropping into the seat across from him.
“Make yourself at home, I guess,” Toji grunted.
He recognized the kid. Some rich brat from the Gojo family. Satoru , this one was. His white hair was plastered to his scalp, rivulets of water running down his face, his neck. Those lost-puppy eyes gazed at him with uncertainty, their icy shade of blue almost unnatural in its clarity. Satoru shifted uncomfortably in his seat, hands settling on the table before dropping back into his lap, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Like he hadn’t thought this through.
“You’re a Zen’in,” he finally said. “But you don’t play the violin.”
Toji’s coffee soured in his mouth.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
Satoru’s long, slender fingers drummed on the plastic-lined table, tapping out an imaginary melody. He tucked his chin into the collar of his jacket.
“What do you want?” Toji asked. He had to have a reason for interrupting Toji’s morning.
“You remember me, right?”
“Yeah.” How could Toji forget? He’d been at Satoru’s first performance, had seen the birth of a supernova with his own eyes.
“How come I’ve never heard of you?”
“You don’t pay attention.”
Satoru laughed, slinging an arm over the back of the booth, uncaring that he was invading the personal space of those seated behind him. His head tilted to the side, sunglasses sliding down his wet nose.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.
Toji halted mid-sip of coffee, eyes sliding up to Satoru. He didn’t like where this was going.
“Your performance,” Satoru elaborated. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”
“That’s what music’s supposed to do, kid.”
“You’ve watched my performances… So do you think about me?”
It was so hopeful Toji almost felt like a dick for saying: “No.”
“Why not?”
The beginnings of a migraine were beginning to sting between Toji’s eyebrows. He massaged the spot with two fingers.
Satoru’s position shifted again, restless energy coiled in every muscle of the kid’s body as he propped his elbows on the table, resting his chin on open palms.
“I want to play like that,” Satoru continued. “I want people to remember me.”
The hypnotic azure of his eyes seemed to shine in the harsh light, gleaming like bioluminescence.
“Teach me.”
Toji scoffed.
“You’re already good. You don’t need me.”
“But I want you.”
“And you always get what you want, is that it?”
Typical of a Gojo , Toji thought bitterly. Satoru reached across the table for a napkin, pulling a pen from his coat pocket. He scrawled a number onto the napkin, passing it back face-down.
So he had a flair for the dramatic. Figured.
“That’s how much we pay my current piano teacher.”
Toji peeked at the number and fought to keep his jaw from dropping. He ground his teeth instead, taking in the smug look on the Gojo brat’s porcelain features.
“What else do I need to do to convince you? Suck your dick?” Satoru taunted.
Fucking brat. Toji slammed his mug onto the table, relishing the microscopic flinch it elicited from Satoru.
“I can tell you this for free: I won’t be like the other teachers you’ve had, alright? I won’t treat you like you’re special and I won’t go easy on you because you’re Satoru Gojo . Understand?”
“Does that mean-”
“If I ask you a question, you answer it. Do. You. Understand?”
Satoru visibly gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath milk-white skin.
“I- yeah. Understood.”
“Great. We start tomorrow. Now get out.”
“Huh?”
Toji wiped at the table where his coffee had spilled. He noted in annoyance that there were now deep brown stains on his scratchers.
“Get out,” Toji repeated. “I’m trying to enjoy my coffee. Alone.”
When Satoru left the diner, the sun had broken through the clouds, thin beams dancing along the sidewalks of Main Street, spreading over storefronts and quaint coffee shop patios. Its light was too bright, gleaming from a lazuline sky, stinging Satoru’s sensitive retinas to the point of pain. Still, Satoru was practically skipping as he hopped from shop to shop, his parents’ credit card passing all too quickly from greedy hands. Soon enough, his arms were laden with shopping bags. Prada. Gucci. Louis Vuitton. He didn’t care much for brands, but he cared about the price tag. If he spent enough, maybe his parents would call him to complain about his spending, finally acknowledge his existence. Then again, maybe not. Probably not.
Satoru tried on dresses at a local consignment store just to twirl in front of the mirror, imagining the sheer horror on his parents’ faces if he dared to perform in one. It would be entertaining in a way, scandalizing the boring old classical music affectionados by playing Rachmaninov’s Concerto No. 2 in the skin-tight cerulean dress now hugging his lean figure.
“It suits you,” the shopwoman said, probably because she had to. Satoru offered her a disarming smile, sliding his sunglasses down to look at her.
“It does, doesn’t it?”
Well, everything did, but that wasn’t the point.
Satoru stopped at his favourite pastry shop next, buying enough danishes to make himself sick. He was halfway through his third when boredom began to prickle at his stomach. He fished his phone out of his pocket.
“ Suguruuu ,” he sang as the line picked up.
“Hi, Satoru.” There was a microscopic smile in Suguru’s voice, its image so clear in Satoru’s head that it made his heart ache. “It’s been a while.”
“Gotta make you miss me, don’t I?”
There was a beat of silence, broken by a quiet: “I always miss you.”
Satoru played with the bag of pastries in front of him, took another too-cold sip of his double cream frappuccino. I miss you more than you know. More than he could express.
“I have a new piano teacher!” Satoru announced. “A Zen’in .” He spoke the name like one would that of an elusive mythical creature.
“What happened to your old one?”
“He was so boring .”
Suguru’s breath rattled through the phone as he sighed.
“Satoru… you’re not going to fuck him, are you?”
“What?! Where would you possibly have gotten that idea?!”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Satoru couldn’t help the sharp, manic giggle that escaped his lips. It wasn’t Satoru’s fault he was irresistible.
“I’m serious,” Suguru continued. “It’s a terrible idea.”
“I’m not gonna fuck him . He’s just… interesting.”
“Goddammit, Satoru.”
“Besides,” Satoru said, stirring the heady concoction of sugar and syrup with his straw. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”
Suguru hadn’t seen the way Toji looked at him, the disdain etched into the lines of his rough features, the disinterest in those dark green eyes. He didn’t look at Satoru the way everyone else did, with fascination and thinly-veiled desire. The absence of attention was as exciting as it was frustrating.
“Just… be careful, Satoru,” Suguru said.
“Stop worrying so much! It’ll be fine!”