Chapter Text
Art is a beast that is never satisfied.
Not in the way that makes people shake their heads and say, Oh, that’s the beauty of it, but in the way that it is both salvation and suffering, devotion and ruin. It is reaching for something just beyond the fingertips, chasing the shape of a feeling that refuses to hold still. A single brushstroke can be the difference between brilliance and failure, and no artist is ever certain which side they have fallen on.
It should be simple—color, shape, form. Just ink on paper, just pigment on canvas, just hands moving in a way they have moved a thousand times before. But the moment meaning is introduced, it becomes a battle. Against expectation, against self-doubt, against the quiet, gnawing fear that maybe there is nothing left inside worth putting to paper.
Art is not just seeing but understanding, not just creating but confessing. And what if there is nothing to confess? What if the well runs dry, if the hands hesitate, if the mind is no longer certain of what it wants to say? What if every stroke feels wrong, every color dull, every composition uninspired?
Maybe that is the true cruelty of it—that art is both a gift and a burden, that it asks for everything and promises nothing in return. That no matter how much is given, it will always demand more.
And yet, even in frustration, even in doubt, there is no turning away from it. Because to create is to be known. To be seen.
And what could be more beautiful than that?
What could be more beautiful than to stand in the middle of a gallery that your own two hands created and hate every single piece?
Suguru could name a few things.
The gallery hummed with the murmur of low conversation, the clinking of champagne flutes, the occasional measured laugh that cut through the air like the chime of a distant bell. The ceilings were high, the lighting warm and intimate—strategically placed spotlights bathing each piece in the perfect glow, as if reverence alone might elevate them beyond what they were.
And yet, Suguru could not bring himself to see them as anything more than ghosts of better work.
He stood with the poise expected of him, dressed sharp in a way that made him look every bit the successful artist, the genius, the prodigy people had so readily called him. He had learned long ago how to wear elegance like armor, how to make humility look effortless. A small smile here, a gracious nod there. The words came easy. "Thank you.” “I appreciate that.” “I'm glad the piece spoke to you." Lies, all of it. Because he felt nothing when he looked at these paintings, and he couldn't begin to imagine what anyone else might see in them.
The collectors, the critics, the patrons—none of them seemed to notice his detachment. They moved through the gallery like they were witnessing something profound, gesturing toward his paintings with slow, deliberate appreciation, murmuring to one another in hushed, knowing tones.
He watched them from the corner of his eye.
A woman in a deep red gown stood before Fragmented Reverie , one of the more tolerable pieces in the collection—though even that was stretching it. Her fingers, adorned with rings that caught the light with every movement, hovered just a breath away from the canvas, as if proximity alone might grant her some deeper understanding.
An older man, likely a critic, stood before Requiem in a Violet Haze , stroking his chin in that performative way they always did, like he was unraveling some great mystery rather than staring at a painting Suguru had completed in a sleepless daze at three in the morning, desperate to meet a deadline.
God, it was suffocating.
He should be grateful, he supposed. The praise, the admiration—none of it was new to him, but he had once taken pride in it. Had once felt the weight of his work settle in his chest like something worth holding. Now, all he felt was the distant, gnawing question: Are they impressed because it's good, or because it's mine?
He exhaled slowly, willing the tension from his shoulders as another guest approached, a sleek, silver-haired woman with a voice like silk and a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Your work is exquisite as always, Mr. Geto," she said, lingering just a little too close. "There’s such an… effortlessness to it. As if the canvas was always meant to be this way."
Suguru offered her a polite smile, swallowing back the bitter taste that threatened to rise in his throat. Effortless. If only she knew. If only any of them knew how much he had fought against the void of uninspiration, how he had clawed at the edges of his own talent just to drag something—anything—onto these canvases.
Still, he played the part. "That's kind of you to say," he murmured. "I only hope it resonates."
She laughed lightly, the sound practiced and airy. "Oh, it does. One can always tell when art is made by someone who truly understands their craft."
He wanted to tell her she was wrong. That understanding did not always translate to meaning. That mastery did not always bring inspiration. That every single piece in this gallery had been painted not with passion, but with the sheer force of obligation.
Instead, he only smiled again. Said something charming. Let the conversation drift into pleasantries until she excused herself to admire another piece.
Suguru took a slow sip of his champagne, wishing for something stronger, something that might dull the sharp edges of his thoughts. He had expected tonight to be exhausting. He had not expected it to feel like drowning.
And as he wished someone would come along and give him some relief, some kind of conversation that didn’t make him feel like he was trapped in a glass box, his wish manifested itself in the form of a dear friend.
Shoko always carried herself with a kind of effortless elegance, the sort that made it seem as though she had stepped into any given evening without a second thought and somehow still managed to belong. Tonight was no different—she wore a sleek black cocktail dress, simple in its design but undeniably striking against the warm glow of the gallery lights. Dark hair pinned loosely at the back of her head, a few strands falling artfully out of place, a whiskey glass held lazily in one hand as she navigated the room with practiced ease.
Suguru wasn’t sure if it was her presence itself or simply the contrast she brought—the way she seemed so at ease in this crowd of polished strangers while he felt like he was suffocating in it—but the tension in his shoulders loosened slightly at the sight of her. A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding slipped out, slow and measured, as he straightened. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious, the way he relaxed in her presence.
Shoko, of course, noticed immediately. She always did.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she greeted, flashing a knowing smile as she approached. “You don’t look too thrilled to be here.”
Suguru let out a slow exhale, tilting his head toward her in a lazy acknowledgment. “Astute observation,” he drawled, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress the small, fleeting smile that pulled at his lips.
Shoko smirked, bumping her shoulder lightly against his before looping an arm around his waist in greeting. They embraced briefly, a casual press of warmth against warmth, before pulling apart just as effortlessly.
She gave him an appraising once-over, taking in the all-black ensemble he had so deliberately chosen—fitted slacks, the crisp black shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the sharp cut of his collarbone, sleeves pushed up with just enough carelessness to suggest it wasn’t carelessly done at all. It was a carefully curated look, effortless in appearance but entirely intentional.
“You clean up well,” she remarked, raising an eyebrow.
He hummed, taking a slow sip of champagne before nodding toward her own attire. “And you look suspiciously put together for someone who usually smells like cigarettes and bad decisions.”
Shoko snorted, lifting her whiskey glass in mock salute. “Didn’t want to ruin all of this hard work,” she said, waving a vague hand toward the gallery.
“You could burn the whole place to the ground, and I’d thank you for it.”
She laughed, an easy, light sound, before shaking her head. “Oh, hush. These are beautiful, Suguru. You’re your own worst critic, and you know it.”
His smile was thin, tired, but he didn’t argue.
A passing woman—elegant, well-dressed, undoubtedly wealthy—paused just long enough to murmur a quiet, reverent compliment, her voice tinged with admiration. Suguru offered her a gracious smile, murmuring a soft thank you in return, the words slipping from his lips with well-practiced ease. The moment she drifted away, his expression faded back into something unreadable.
“This one was hard, Sho,” he admitted finally, more tired than before. His gaze swept the gallery, the rows of paintings that should have felt like a triumph but instead felt like a weight pressing against his ribs. “It used to be fun. But this—this just felt like one long, exhausting chore.”
Shoko took a slow sip of her whiskey, watching him carefully before arching a brow. “Yeah? Well…” she paused, thinking, “these paintings are selling for what? Like a billion yen a piece?” She gestured vaguely toward a small group of older men murmuring amongst themselves, likely discussing how much they could afford to bid on their favorite pieces. “These old geezers are eating them up. So you could just sell out the show, retire, and live a long, happy, disgustingly rich life. Take a little break. Let your mind recover.”
He let out a soft breath, something almost like a laugh but not quite.
Retirement. The idea had crossed his mind before—was crossing his mind now, lingering in the space between exhaustion and inevitability. He could stop. He could take the money and disappear, retreat somewhere quiet and paint only what he wanted, free from expectation, free from the weight of scrutiny. He could create for himself, for no one else.
But could he? Really?
For years, his art had been met with admiration, with validation, with praise that had become as necessary to him as oxygen. He had built his life on the way people looked at his work, on the way they assigned meaning to it, as if their interpretation was what gave it value.
He loved painting. He always had.
But, now, was it the act itself he loved? Or was it the way people wanted him for it?
The thought curled in his chest like something sharp-edged and bitter, something he wasn’t quite ready to confront. So he didn’t. Instead, he sighed, swirling the champagne in his glass as his gaze flickered across the room, watching as collectors and critics alike whispered and pointed, as if deciding amongst themselves what his work was worth .
Shoko exhaled, shifting her weight onto one hip as she studied Suguru’s expression—the way his jaw tensed, the way his grip on the champagne glass had tightened just slightly, the way his gaze lingered on the white-haired man across the room, sharp and considering.
She let him sit in his thoughts for a moment before nudging his side lightly with her elbow. “I actually brought someone I want you to meet.”
Suguru tore his eyes away from the crowd, turning back to her with an unimpressed arch of his brow. “Not interested.”
Shoko rolled her eyes. “Relax, not like that.”
He hummed, dubious. She had tried before, after all, slipping introductions into conversations as if he wouldn’t notice the way she lingered after their names were spoken, as if he didn’t hear the underlying suggestion in her voice.
Shoko smirked, reading his thoughts all too easily. “He’s hot, but that’s not why.”
Suguru exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Then why?”
“My childhood best friend. My roommate,” she explained, finishing off her whiskey in one smooth motion. “I think you two would get along. He needs a worthwhile friend, and frankly, you do too.”
A snort escaped before Suguru could stop it. “That so?”
“Mhm,” she nodded, tilting her head as she examined him. “You could use some time outside of that stuffy old studio. Or at least some company inside of it.”
Suguru hummed, gaze flickering once more toward the crowd before settling back on her. “I’m not making any promises about liking him.”
Shoko grinned, pleased. “I know you’re my moody loner boy; liking people isn’t exactly your strong suit.”
He sighed, shaking his head. “And yet, you remain in my life.”
“Tragic, isn’t it?” She smirked, adjusting the strap of her dress. “I’m gonna go find him. I think I saw Hime too, so I’ll be back.”
And with that, she disappeared into the throng of people, melting seamlessly into the crowd, her whiskey glass held lightly at her side as she navigated the gallery with the same effortless ease she carried everywhere.
Suguru let out a slow breath, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the room once more.
And just like that, he was left alone again—adrift in an ocean of his own creation, surrounded by paintings that bore his name but not his heart, drowning in the weight of it all.
With a sigh, Suguru figured it best to begin making his rounds. The night was slipping away, and he was no longer sure whether it was the weight of the conversations, the hollow praise, or the relentless ticking of the clock that made the air feel thicker, suffocating. He knew there were reporters at the front, eager to jot down their quick reviews, critics lurking in corners pretending to observe deeply, and regulars—people who had become a sort of necessary fixture in his life. They would all be pleased to make conversation, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to care about their opinions tonight.
So, he began his slow, practiced walk through the gallery. He smiled when he was expected to smile, nodded in polite acknowledgment as people praised the work he knew wasn’t his best.
“This work is exquisite,” one man said, adjusting his cufflinks as though his praise held weight.
“Thank you,” Suguru replied, the word tasting foreign on his tongue.
“What was the inspiration for this one?”
Lies. “Personal reflection,” he said smoothly, the words slipping from him with practiced ease.
“Is this one for sale?”
Suguru motioned toward the front desk with a casual flick of his wrist. “You can talk to my agent up there. He’d be happy to assist you.”
And on, and on, and on. Repetitive conversations he could recite in his sleep. The compliments didn’t sting—no, that would imply they had weight—but they didn’t lift him either. They were hollow, like dead air passing through his lungs.
As he moved deeper into the gallery, his feet were heavy, dragging, his eyes flicking over the paintings in a blur. He didn’t want to look at them. Not tonight. Not when each one felt like a failure, a moment of wasted effort in a sea of desperate strokes.
But then something—someone—caught his attention.
A man. Standing in front of the largest piece in the gallery. The one Suguru had poured the most of himself into, even though he knew it wasn’t enough.
A mess of blue—deep, dark, endless—slashed and spun in violent, chaotic strokes, like a storm captured in oil paint. There was something almost frantic about the way the colors layered over each other, streaks of navy bleeding into electric blues and soft cerulean, as if Suguru had been trying to paint something that refused to be held still. It was anger, it was passion, it was ruin and beauty tangled into one, and at its center—buried in the swirling tempest of color—was the lower half of a woman’s face. Just her nose, her mouth, her chin, the elegant curve of her throat.
But Suguru’s gaze fixed on the man without thinking.
White hair—striking, even under the gallery’s golden lights. His presence was commanding, in a subtle, effortless way. He wore a crisp suit, black and sharp, but the way it hung on him, almost carelessly, made it seem like it wasn’t so much a choice as it was an afterthought. His posture was relaxed but confident, his arms crossed over his chest with an air of casual dominance, an empty wine glass dangling between his fingers.
He was wearing sunglasses. Circles perched on his nose, despite the dim lighting, as if the man didn’t care for the carefully cultivated ambiance of the room, or maybe as if he couldn’t care less about the art he was meant to be admiring.
Suguru watched him for a long moment, trying to read his expression. The man didn’t seem enamored by the painting, didn’t seem to be seeing the layers of emotion Suguru had hoped he could fake. No, he was studying it with something else—something sharp, something less than admiration. Disdain. Annoyance. Almost like he was daring the piece to be something more than it was. Challenging it to impress him.
Something stirred in Suguru’s chest—slow, simmering.
Intrigue .
He wanted to speak to him.
He shifted his weight, took a few steps forward, his eyes narrowing slightly as he approached the man who was still absorbed in the piece, unmoving. Suguru adjusted his posture, slipping into the mask of polite detachment, but the warmth of curiosity lingered beneath the surface.
“What do you think? Of the piece?”
He had asked the question without thinking, as a reflex, but when the man didn’t immediately respond, his curiosity only deepened. It wasn’t what he thought of the painting that intrigued him, it was the man himself, standing so poised and indifferent in front of his work, like he could see through it all, like he could unravel Suguru with a single glance.
And then, without turning around, the man’s voice came, cutting through the stillness with its sharp, unrelenting edge. “I think it’s pretentious. Messy. Lacks intentionality.” He paused. “It’s stupid and it means nothing.”
Suguru’s breath caught, stunned by the brutality of the words. Even his harshest critics had never been so blunt, so ruthless .
But strangely, there was something freeing about it. Because he was right . And Suguru couldn’t help but find himself… impressed.
This man obviously did not know who he was.
Suguru could only laugh in response. "I think I agree. Lacks creativity, doesn’t it? Lacks purpose. The same concept of this piece has been made and remade by artist after artist for decades.”
The man exhaled through his nose, seemingly grateful to find someone who agrees. “Exactly! Where’s the originality? Another abstract emotional crisis? Groundbreaking. You’d think they’d at least try to—”
"What’s your name?" Suguru interrupted, his curiosity consuming him like wildfire.
Finally, the man turned. Suguru’s gaze locked onto him in an instant.
Up close, the man was stunning. Impossibly so. His features were sharp—his jawline, his cheekbones, the curve of his lips—all so perfectly sculpted, it was as though his face had been painted by some higher power. But it was his eyes that held Suguru’s attention. When the man pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, the eyes that were revealed were like nothing Suguru had ever seen.
They were impossibly blue—so brilliant, so vivid, they almost glowed beneath the gallery lights. Suguru’s breath stilled as he tried to comprehend them. They weren’t just eyes. They were a work of art in themselves—each subtle shift in color, the way they flickered with light and shadow, as if they were alive with depth and meaning. They were that of the sky, vast and unreachable. They held an entire universe in their depths, and Suguru found himself unable to look away.
He had spent his life creating art, dissecting it, breaking it down to its core. But in that moment, standing face-to-face with this man, he realized there was nothing more captivating, nothing more consuming than what he was looking at. These eyes— those eyes—made everything else seem insignificant. They were more captivating than any painting he had ever created or would ever create. They rendered his own art meaningless in comparison.
It was no wonder this man found Suguru’s art worthless when he himself held something so breathtaking.
The man faltered at the sight of Suguru and Suguru wondered if he recognized him then. But the narrowing of his eyes and the charming grin that spread across his face said otherwise. “Gojo,” the man answered smoothly, his voice a low drawl that Suguru could feel all the way through his chest. He extended his hand, and Suguru couldn’t ignore the seductive edge in the way he moved, the way his fingers lingered just a moment too long in the air. “But please, do call me Satoru.”
The name sat heavily on Suguru’s tongue. Satoru. He repeated it slowly, deliberately, as if testing the weight of it, savoring the way it felt. He could see the slight shiver that ran through Satoru at the sound of his own name, and Suguru’s lips curled into a smirk. It was as though the name itself held power, and Suguru felt momentarily intoxicated by it.
He looked down at the offered hand, then back into Satoru’s eyes, and without thinking—perhaps out of some instinctual defiance—he declined the handshake. “Come with me,” he said instead, his voice smooth. “Let’s get you a refill.”
Satoru raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his gaze as he dropped his hand. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Unless you’d like to get me drunk.”
Suguru chuckled darkly, the sound rich and almost provocative. “Would I need to?” he asked, his tone deliberately teasing, the words hanging in the air like a dare.
Satoru blinked, clearly stunned for a moment, before a slow, delighted grin spread across his lips. It was a grin that made Suguru’s chest tighten—a grin full of mischief, of interest, and something far more dangerous. “Cocky,” Satoru said, falling into step behind him.
Suguru cast a sidelong glance at him, the subtle challenge lingering in his voice. “Observant.”
Satoru hummed, slipping his sunglasses back down onto the bridge of his nose. “Sure, we can call it that.”
Something came over Suguru then. A quiet, insistent pull in his chest, something neither curiosity nor impulse but an unshakable need . He stepped in just close enough—just enough to see the way Satoru’s breath hitched, to feel the warmth radiating from him, to catch the subtle, expensive scent of his cologne. Something crisp, expensive, with an underlying sweetness.
Slowly, Suguru reached up, hooking a single finger under the arm of Satoru’s sunglasses. He didn’t rush it, didn’t let himself hesitate—just slid them up, pushing them back into the mess of white hair.
The moment stretched between them, thick with anticipation. Satoru froze beneath his touch, his body going tense in a way that was so fleeting, so subtle, that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Suguru did. The faintest shiver down his spine, the goosebumps rising along his forearms—little reactions that sent a quiet thrill through Suguru’s veins.
He likes this.
He wanted to push it further. Wanted to see just how much he could pull from him. So he lowered his voice, let his words slip between them like something intimate, something deliberate.
“I want to see your eyes.”
Satoru exhaled slowly, tilting his head, a lazy grin spreading across his lips. “Forward, aren’t you?”
Suguru only shrugged. “I know what I want.”
“And what is it you want, exactly?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? What did he want?
For a moment, Suguru could only look at him. This stranger—this Satoru —with his effortless confidence, his easy, teasing charm, his eyes like something holy, something otherworldly. He wanted to pick him apart, to understand the way he moved, the way he reacted, the way his gaze flickered from interest to amusement to something deeper in a matter of seconds.
Maybe it was Suguru’s boredom. Or curiosity. Maybe it was the thrill of control—the way he could reach up, tip Satoru’s sunglasses into his hair, and watch him go still, caught between anticipation and something unspoken. Suguru had spent the last few years drowning in expectation, in the dull, repetitive cycle of creation without purpose. But now, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, something was waking up inside him.
Satoru was responsive . That was what it was. Every touch, every glance, every word Suguru gave him was met with something in return. A shiver. A pause. A sharp inhale. Suguru had grown used to being the one observed, dissected, placed under scrutiny—but here was a man who met his gaze head-on, who studied him right back, who reacted as though Suguru’s presence meant something.
He realized, then, that he did want something from Satoru. Maybe it was just the shape of him, the way he carried himself, the striking contrast of pale hair and dark suit. Maybe it was something deeper—the way he had spoken about Suguru’s art, blunt and unimpressed, as if he saw through it. Suguru had spent years surrounded by admiration, by praise that felt more like obligation than sincerity. But Satoru—he didn’t seem like the kind of person to say something he didn’t mean.
And god , what an intoxicating thought.
Suguru’s eyes flicked over him once more, considering. He could paint him. He wanted to paint him. He could already see the contrast in his mind—white hair against black silk, the sharp angles of his face softened by shadow, his eyes bright and unrelenting. He had never painted something he deemed truly perfect. He wondered, if he got Satoru on canvas, if he could get close.
But for now?
“For now? Walk with me.”
And he turned without waiting, hoping— knowing —that Satoru would follow.
He had never played this role before, not exactly. Confidence had always been second nature to him, but this—this deliberate cockiness, this slow, measured game—felt new. And yet, it seemed to be working.
Proof, in the way Satoru caught up without hesitation, falling into step beside him, the grin still curling at his lips.
Satoru tilted his head, slipping his hands into his pockets as they walked. "Do you always offer to escort strangers to the bar? Or am I just special?"
Suguru didn’t miss a beat. "Exceptionally."
He led Satoru through the gallery with practiced ease, nodding and offering polite, effortless smiles to guests as they passed. It was muscle memory at this point—playing the charming, agreeable artist, the man everyone wanted to know but no one truly did . Satoru, however, felt like an entirely different challenge. A different kind of attention.
"What brings you here, Satoru?" Suguru asked, casting him a sideways glance. "Obviously, it's not the art."
Satoru scoffed, a noise so sharp and indignant that it was almost comical. " Definitely not. Art is beyond boring. I was dragged here by my best friend. And then she left me! Alone! I don’t even like art. But she said this Suguru Geto guy is a good friend or whatever, but I’ve never met him, so, like, is he really ?"
It clicked all at once.
Of course this would be Shoko’s friend.
A dramatic, oversized personality wrapped in an objectively beautiful package—charming and theatrical and entirely too confident for his own good. Yes , Suguru thought with wry amusement, this is absolutely Shoko’s friend.
But he wasn’t going to give Satoru that satisfaction just yet.
He only said, “Good question.”
Satoru squinted at him, lips pursing. “Not much of an answer.”
Suguru shrugged. “I suppose not.”
Satoru huffed, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “So you’re that kind of guy.”
“What kind?”
“The mysterious kind.” Satoru gestured vaguely, like he was illustrating some intangible concept only he could see. “You love making people work for it, don’t you?”
Suguru chuckled, shaking his head. “And yet,” he mused, “here you are. Working for it. ”
Satoru visibly faltered. Just for a second, a flicker of something in his expression, like he hadn’t expected Suguru to turn the game back on him so easily. But then—
He threw his head back and laughed, loud and unabashed, something real and full of life that cut through the static hum of the gallery around them. He grinned, tilting his head as if reassessing Suguru entirely.
“Alright, fine. You win that round.”
Suguru’s smirk was slow, deliberate. “Good to know you’re keeping score.”
Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose, amused. “I always keep score.”
Of course he did.
Suguru wasn’t sure whether that made this game more dangerous or more fun. Maybe both.
Before Suguru could respond, a group of American collectors approached him, all sharp suits and eager eyes. They inquired about a particular piece in broken Japanese, voices dripping with feigned intellectualism as they dissected brush strokes and color choices with the enthusiasm of people who enjoyed the idea of art more than the art itself.
Suguru answered them effortlessly, polite but brief, his words a practiced symphony of professionalism and disinterest. He satisfied their curiosities just enough to send them away, watching them drift back into the sea of gallery guests with well-rehearsed smiles.
And then—
“Hey.”
Satoru had sidled up closer in his absence, now standing within a breath of him, head cocked in feigned nonchalance. He was as smooth and charming as ever, voice dipping just slightly lower, more velvety than before. “I don’t think you told me your name.”
Suguru stopped walking. Just long enough to turn and glance at him. He let the silence stretch, savoring the moment before a slow, small smile took over his lips.
“Geto,” he said, measured. Then, just because he could—just because he wanted to see what Satoru would do—he added, “Suguru to you, if you will.”
And Suguru watched, entranced, as Satoru’s entire world crumbled in real time.
It was almost beautiful, really—the way his brain visibly short-circuited, the way his gaze flickered from Suguru to the artwork, back to Suguru, back to the artwork. The color drained from his face with stunning efficiency, his lips parting just enough for a strangled noise to escape. Then, in one swift motion, he slapped a hand over his face, muffling whatever horrified sound threatened to follow.
“Oh my god,” he croaked, barely above a whisper. Then, as if the reality of his mistake was just now sinking into his bones, “Oh my god .”
Suguru raised an eyebrow, already biting back a grin.
“I am literally the worst person ever,” Satoru declared, voice an octave higher than before. “I—I'm going to throw myself into the sun .”
That made Suguru laugh.
Not the polished, distant chuckle he often afforded guests, but a real laugh, warm and rich, spilling from his throat before he could contain it. Satoru, for all his theatrical self-flagellation, was delightful .
“Well,” Suguru mused, eyes gleaming with amusement, “can I at least get you that drink first?”
Satoru peeked at him between his fingers, expression torn between horror and sheer incredulity. “ Get me a drink? ” He let his hand drop just enough to glare. “For what ? So you can spit in it for insulting you?”
Suguru smirked. “Only if you ask nicely.”
Satoru made a high-pitched, strangled sound in the back of his throat before groaning into his palm. “Oh, fuck me.”
Suguru hummed, stepping in closer, lowering his voice just enough to be felt. “I think we’re moving a little fast, love,” he teased. “Don’t you think?”
And there it was again—that visible shiver, so small yet impossible to miss, like Suguru’s voice had reached inside him and plucked a string he hadn’t meant to expose.
But before Satoru could self-destruct entirely, his salvation arrived in the form of Shoko and her ever-patient girlfriend, Utahime.
“Oh, perfect ,” Shoko said, slipping up beside Satoru, clearly unaware of the meltdown occurring. “You two met! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Satoru.”
Satoru deflated instantly, like a drowning man breaking the surface. Without hesitation, he shoved his empty wine glass into Utahime’s hands.
Utahime recoiled, appalled. “What the—?”
Satoru latched onto Shoko’s arm like a lifeline. “We’re leaving. Now. ”
Shoko frowned, confused. “What? Why? I haven’t even gotten to—”
“ Nope .” Satoru cut her off without remorse. “Don’t care. You abandoned me. And I need to rethink my entire life . We’re leaving.”
He barely made it a few steps before Suguru, still composed despite his amusement, called out—
“Wait.”
Satoru froze.
Suguru wasn’t ready to let him go just yet.
He glanced around, eyes landing on a table nearby, where a neat stack of his business cards lay untouched. Plucking one, he reached into his pocket for a pen, flicking the cap off with his thumb before scrawling his number on the back.
Stepping forward, he pressed the card into Satoru’s palm, curling his fingers just slightly around it.
“This is my personal number,” Suguru said smoothly. “I’d like you to visit me at my studio.” A pause, a smirk. “I can show you some more stupid, meaningless art.” His eyes flicked to Satoru’s, searching. Amused. Curious. “Maybe you’ll find something worth appreciating.”
Satoru only stared.
Suguru felt the warmth of amusement settle in his chest as Shoko placed a steadying hand on Satoru’s chest, her fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of his shirt like she was checking for a pulse. She glanced between them, taking in Satoru’s rigid stance, the way he clutched the business card in his hand like it had personally wronged him. Then, slowly, she narrowed her eyes.
“Uh, okay ,” she said, drawing the word out like she was still making sense of what, exactly, had just transpired. “I’m gonna take him home. He seems like he might be having a stroke .”
Satoru made a noise of protest, but Shoko ignored him. She gave him a reassuring little pat, then turned back to Suguru, her usual laziness melting into something more genuine. Her smile softened, her voice losing its teasing edge.
“It was good to see you, Suguru,” she said. “Your artwork is brilliant, as always. Don’t sell yourself short.” She tilted her head, eyes sharp, like she was already anticipating his self-deprecation. “We’ll have to get together sometime soon. I mean it, so keep your schedule open.”
Suguru chuckled, dipping his head slightly in something close to gratitude. “Of course. Always good to see you, Sho.”
And then, like an untrained dog lunging at the first sign of freedom, Satoru bolted .
Well, attempted to bolt. Shoko fought against his pull just long enough to press a kiss to Utahime’s cheek—who looked about five seconds away from throwing Satoru’s empty glass at him—but eventually, they were moving, weaving through the crowd toward the exit.
Suguru watched them go. Watched him go.
What an… interesting experience.
The air around him still felt charged, buzzing with something he couldn’t quite place. Satoru had been a wildfire—brash, theatrical, a mess of contradictions. His words had cut deep, but not cruelly. His presence had been overbearing, yet strangely magnetic. And those eyes —Suguru had barely looked at them for more than a few seconds, yet they had already burned their way into his thoughts.
Just before reaching the door, Satoru hesitated.
And then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he snuck one last glance back.
Even from across the room, Suguru could see it—the soft pink dusting his cheeks, the way he bit the inside of his lip, the way his fingers curled slightly tighter around the card in his palm as he met Suguru’s eyes.
Suguru smirked.
And for the first time in years , something stirred inside him.
It wasn’t overwhelming, nor was it a thunderous revelation. It was something quieter, subtler—the gentle brush of an idea against the edges of his mind, the first stroke of a paintbrush against an untouched canvas.
His art had been colorless for so long. Everything had felt dull , muted. He had created out of obligation, out of necessity,; it had been so long since he had created out of something as fleeting and visceral as feeling .
But now, suddenly—
Everything in his mind was blue.
Blue, like something vast and untouchable. Blue, like the sky before a storm. Blue, like the way light moved across water, never quite staying still.
Blue, like the impossible, electric shade of Satoru Gojo’s eyes.