Chapter Text
“Is there any reason you chose your father over your mother?”
The man in the first row—dressed in a neatly tailored suit the colour of midnight, and his hair combed back to show how serious he takes his job—poses the question, effectively silencing every other person in the room. An air of smugness radiates from him as the panel remains stunned, the shock etched in their faces. The enquiry by itself isn’t what broke everyone. It was to be expected at some point over the course of the promo run, but it’s how he posed it to Satoru, almost taboo in his query.
To them, Satoru is the one caught up in this mess—Satoru, a victim; Satoru, unwilling and unaware.
To Satoru, the man’s daring sets him apart from the usual coterie of reporters playing it nice, asking what the others were too scared to ask.
Before the press junket had begun, Satoru had seen the rest of the cast worried about the public’s need for gossip overshadowing their hard work. The fear is understandable, to an extent. No one wants their efforts to be ignored for sensationalism. Satoru knows that every reporter gathered today was itching to ask the same thing, or some variation of it. Everyone wanted answers to what had been plaguing their minds since the news broke, but most held off on it, choosing to honour art and hard work for a moment.
As the event progressed, the need to know was replaced by anecdotes from filming; stories about Satoru’s antics and Takahiro’s adoration for his younger co-star ended up being the main discussion.
Still, it lingered in their mind, the final key to the puzzle that refused to unfold in front of them. The answer should be obvious to anyone, but the greyness of what all has gone unsaid leaves room for ample gossip.
And this far in, everyone thought the topic had been laid to rest, both the press and the cast not wanting to delve into the nitty-gritty of what might have transpired. This far in, no one had raised the one thing everyone wanted to know, keeping their queries limited to the project and the experience of working on something so dark and challenging.
And now that it’s been asked, all the pretences are dropped. All eyes are on Satoru, ears trained to listen to every sound that will fall from his lips.
Satoru sighs internally, ignoring the looks of pity and concern aimed in his direction. It’s not that he doesn’t want to answer. Nor is it something he’s wholly unprepared for. If anything, Satoru’s impressed that it took this long. At the same time, he understands why: they needed the element of surprise, to lull Satoru and the rest into a false sense of security, and catch him when he’s least expecting it.
The man who shattered the illusion of safety gazes at him from where he’s sitting. He has no desire to let Satoru get away without answering, or change the question as an act of mercy, fully intending to put Satoru on the spot. His cohorts gaze at Satoru with an alien demand, examining his every move under the microscope, hungry for a slip-up. Satoru shifts in his seat, the weight of the microphone in his hand reminding him of what’s required of him. He feels Takahiro-san tense next to him. Shiu sits by him, his anger barely restrained. To his far left, his mother listens with rapt attention, curious like the rest, even when she knows.
He knew there would be questions, but he had assumed they would ask him something befitting a child star of his fame and acclaim, and not hang onto petty gossip. The ones they posed to his mother were of a professional curiosity: delving into her headspace about playing a character who has to eliminate a larger threat portrayed by her daughter, fitting now that Satoru looks back. Even the ones aimed at Hiroshi offered him the option to discuss what they gathered here today.
But Satoru is a child, easy to crack and prod at. To them, he’s the weakest link. He can offer them cookie-cut answers with a smile, but that’s not what they want. He knows he can’t placate any of them; they want the gore and the glory of unearthing it. They want to see him bleed his heart out and feign ignorance when he succumbs to the wounds.
He can’t blame them either: it’s not their fault that Satoru’s first public appearance since his last film over a year ago came right after the news of Zen’in and Gojou Families officially breaking ties following Toji and Asa’s divorce. Not their fault that Satoru—beloved child star and model, an angel if there was any left in the world—was made into an unwilling collateral in decades worth of power and politics.
It’s also his first appearance alongside his mother, whom he hasn’t seen since filming wrapped up in April, which the people gathered here are now aware of. They now know that Asa has taken to staying with her family in Chiyoda, effectively moving out of their house in Roppongi. They now know that Satoru’s time got devoted to school and extracurriculars; that whatever professional commitment was demanded of him in the meanwhile was made to sure to have nothing to do with Asa, and, to the credit of everyone who was up all night theorising how their reunion would be, it was awkward when he walked into the venue and saw his mother’s face.
Neither of them had wanted to meet each other’s eyes, but they had a duty to fulfil.
And Satoru is nothing if not a professional.
So sure, they could have chosen a different time and place to ask him about this. Sure, they could have offered him the courtesy of letting today be about his hard work. The premiere of his latest project should not be the ground for rehashing their personal drama—but the cards were already stacked against his favour. And ever since he was getting primed and dressed and ready for the day, the possibility of an interrogation had lingered in his mind.
After all, Asa and Toji were a dream duo: fragments of erstwhile aristocracy meeting in a heavenly union; one of Japan’s top actresses marrying the lead guitarist of Tengoku, and resulting in Japan’s sweetheart. Their love story and the family they went on to form were always too perfect, too pretty. Everything about their relationship was too good to be true, something crafted straight out of a fairy tale. Where else will you see the descendants of political and business rivals falling in love and marrying each other? It’s only granted that their marriage ending so suddenly is bound to shock everyone, even the ones who weren’t that invested; it’s only granted that it would get fashioned into a public spectacle.
It certainly didn’t help public speculation that the news of the divorce and Asa’s alleged infidelity was kept under wraps so well that by the time it was plastered all over the news, they had no option but to divert their attention from Toji and Asako’s failed marriage to the Zen’in and Gojou engaging in a financial stand-off of sorts. It also didn’t help that the otherwise brash and aggressive Zen’in Toji had chosen to sign any and all papers needed to gain full custody (and a promise that Asa won’t be anywhere near him once the project and press junkets were wrapped up, according to Shiu), prioritising Satoru’s wellbeing over whatever shootout he knew the Gojou and Zen’in were going to get into.
Now, his mother sits on the other end of the table, next to the man who ripped into their family, looking away from Satoru’s direction despite her ears waiting for his answer.
The sharks are always hungry.
That’s what Asa used to tell Satoru, combing his long hair back, going over her dislike of the media she’s so reliant on for success.
“Sayuri-chan,” Shiu prompts from next to him, his voice tinged with concern. Toji couldn’t make it today, and Shiu had accompanied him as a gesture of support. Satoru understands why he’s worried. The earlier question hangs in the air, soaking the surroundings in an unfamiliar discomfort. Satoru looks at Shiu with a gentle smile. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to—”
But no sooner did the words fall from Shiu’s mouth than the next one came, the reporter having already anticipated Satoru’s silence. This one shocks him, but he’s not surprised in the least. Asa can be vindictive in ways most people—who are not Satoru—can’t imagine. But he knows it’s she who let it slip. He knows because her blood courses through him, and it will continue to. “Sayuri-san, is it true that you’re planning on quitting acting?”
“It’s okay, Kong-san,” he reassures Shiu with a smile, taking a deep breath and recalling everything he has been taught, media training spoonfed to him alongside the baby formula. Everyone wants to know. Satoru has been part of this circus long enough. It’s important that he says things without revealing anything. It’s important that he never falters.
“Yes.” Another smile, this time more subdued, played down, edging on a tired sigh. “With all that has been going on, I’ve had a lot of time to think. I’ve been acting since I was a kid, and I think it’s time I took a break. Focus on my studies. Live like a normal teenager.” That’s debatable. There’s nothing normal about Satoru. He’s always been a little crooked. He is his mother’s son, after all. None of his father’s hard learned kindness rubbed off on him. Only the ugliest parts of the Zen’in and Gojou clans remain in him.
“I don’t think my mother did anything wrong, but this—” He casts a glance at her, knowing that the cameras will pick it up greedily, answering what everyone wants to hear, carefully and calculatedly, so that no one gets painted a villain. That’s not what Satoru wants. He knows just what to say to end it all—all the speculation and the gossip. “My father loves her. She’s the love of his life, and this decision has left him desolate. The fact that I was the catalyst haunts me, but I was always closer to my father. He’s always been on my corner. And now, I want to be there for him and support him. We need to stay strong for each other. It’s just us now.”
Even without looking, he can feel Asako’s internal scoff. She can read him better than anyone in the room. She knows him better than he gives her credit for, and Satoru ignores the judgment coming his way. The attention is on him, and he gets ready to lay it thick: a shaky exhale coupled with glistening eyes, all the signs that say he’s expended his emotional bandwidth. No one prods him further, and neither does he want to speak another word about this. Whatever he had said gave everyone enough fodder to spin tales as they saw fit.
With their hunger sated, the press conference resumes normally—or as normal as it can get when Satoru is involved. The rest of the event passes in relative quiet, the discussions venturing into the technicalities of filming. The ones now aimed at Satoru are things he can recite without much thought as he sits there and looks pretty.
Asa and he maintain appearances when it comes to the camera, cordial and friendly—but Satoru knows she wants to admonish him. All this happened because of Satoru. All of it was set into motion because Satoru was born of his mother. And he can’t bring himself to care about what transpired, knowing it was bound to happen at some point, knowing that whatever he does now, the outcome remains the same.
By the time his eyes start drooping, the day having sucked all his energy out of him, Shiu pulls him to his side, asking if he wants to leave, and Satoru nods. Before he knows it, they’re stepping out into cool air, Shiu already citing how Satoru needs his rest, shielding and escorting him away from the venue and the crowd, making their way to the car awaiting them.
When he climbs inside, Satoru can’t help the smile that splits his lips.
Toji leans against the headrest, eyes poring over the newspaper in his hands. He looks up when he notices Satoru, a matching smile gracing his lips. Satoru launches himself into Toji’s arms, crumbling the paper under his weight. His arms loop around Toji’s neck, and Satoru nuzzles into the hollow of his father’s throat, inhaling the scent he’s come to associate with his dad. It zaps away the fatigue in Satoru’s bones, filling him with something headier and potent, dark and yearning.
“Daddy,” he simpers, clinging to Toji as Shiu bids them goodbye. Satoru waves to the other man, thanking him for the company, nestling into Toji’s chest once the door shuts. “Missed you,” he says, and Toji laughs against the crown of his head.
“You ready to go?” Toji extricates the paper from between them, putting it down on the seat as the chauffeur starts the car. Satoru nods, slumping against Toji’s hulking form, an exaggerated sigh tumbling out of his mouth. “They must’ve been grilling you, baby. You wanna head to bed when we get home?”
Satoru hums, but it turns into something ugly when he notices what exactly Toji was reading. The tabloid lying across the seat has dedicated the entire issue to their family drama at a quick glance. There are pictures of Toji and Asa on the front page. The headlines pick apart the particulars of their newfound singledom, bemoaning a fairy tale marriage ending—a princess and prince falling apart, leaving an angel in a broken family. Satoru cringes at the words. It’s all flowery. Sweet like poison. They are kind with their words, an uncommon instance for the tabloids Satoru grew up surrounded by and reading, but the three of them have more fans than those praying for their downfall. Even if that wasn’t the case, Satoru has charmed enough people with his sweet smile that they’re sure to take pity on his predicament, and by extension, his parents.
“I’m used to it.” Satoru shrugs lightly. He is used to it. Satoru has been doing this since he was an infant, and Toji for much longer. They’re aware of the toll it takes on their well-being. Toji places an arm on his shoulder and rubs the sore muscles gently. Satoru feels him turning into jelly, and Toji keeps massaging him, letting Satoru relax into his touch. “I think mum let slip that I plan to retire—”
Toji’s hands pause for a moment. Satoru already knows what he’s going to ask. Toji is predictable in ways Satoru finds irresistible. “Do you not want to? I know how much you love doing what you do—”
“I love it,” Satoru rushes to say. There are many things he wants to keep to himself. Many he wants to bury in the murky pit of ambiguity. This isn’t one. “But I love you more. I can’t go back to an industry and share it with the woman who hurt you.”
“She’s your mother, Sacchan.”
“She stopped being my mother the day she started sleeping with that asshole—”
“Language.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy. She hurt you, and I don’t think I can ever forgive her for that.”
“She hurt you, too, baby.” Toji is so sweet and so gentle to Satoru. Always has been. It’s a twisted sort of paradise: how Toji lays affection onto him and how Satoru’s mind turns it into something it shouldn’t be. Satoru moves closer to him, resting against Toji’s chest. His father is a solid presence, and Satoru loves the comfort his mere existence provides. They have a way to go before they reach home, and the nighttime traffic isn’t working in their favour. Satoru tries to meld himself to Toji’s side, already looking forward to getting out of the clothes his stylist chose for him. He shuffles around a bit, grumbling about the fabric itching. The lace and tulle work well for festival circuits, leaving him looking every bit the innocent angel everyone dotes on; it only serves to further his deception.
“You don’t like these?”
“Nope,” Satoru answers, sticking his tongue out. “They’re uncomfortable and itchy. You and Mom are lucky because they give you clothes that don’t feel like sandpaper.”
“Is that so?”
Satoru nods, fighting the urge to mewl when Toji’s hands slide up, fingers massaging the back of his head. His fingers run through Satoru’s hair as gently as he can, taking care not to tug at his scalp. Satoru simpers, purrs, and Toji hums, his voice soft as ever.
“Do you think—” He pauses, the hand ruffling Satoru’s hair, put up in an elaborate hairdo befitting attendance at the Tokyo International Film Festival, stilling alongside his words. Satoru looks up at him, confused and worried because he can’t even figure out what Toji wants to ask him. “I know you want to take your time before telling me, but do you want to get a haircut before that? Just so that you’ll be able to feel a little more comfortable?”
He brings it up so naturally, and Satoru’s eyes widen at what Toji is telling him he knows. He opens his mouth to retort, an unfamiliar panic taking over him, but Toji stops him. “You don’t have to say anything, sweetheart. I should’ve paid more attention to you. It must’ve been painful wearing all those clothes when you didn’t want to,” he recites the words, an apology not fully formed, but sincere and heartfelt. They tug at Satoru’s core, and he feels his eyes glisten, Toji’s form slowly blurring into the dark interiors of the car. The shifting lights from the streets paint him their shades. The neons splay on golden skin almost vividly. “Asa and I really wanted a girl, but I guess we were too dumb to see we got a pretty boy instead—”
“Dad—”
“It’s alright, baby. I should’ve been a better dad to you,” he admits with a quiet laugh. A little guilty. Rueful. “You’ll tell me if there’s anything troubling you from now on, right?”
“Yeah.” A small smile tugs at Satoru’s lips. Unlike the ones before, this is him, laid bare, no secrets, no more hiding. Toji knows. And Toji accepts him. Satoru’s fears, as valid as they may be, can be put to rest now that Toji looks at him, full of love and understanding—and Satoru melts, as one does in the presence of Zen’in Toji. He lets Toji pull him into a hug and rests his head on Toji’s chest. Toji’s heartbeat runs scared, slowing down to a comfortable rhythm the longer Satoru lies there, sleep pulling at his eyelids. Satoru yawns, and Toji continues to rub his back, playing with his hair occasionally.
“Actually,” Satoru says, his voice tinged with slumber. It’s worth a shot. “When we move to our new place, can I get a room that’s closer to yours? I won’t be able to sleep otherwise.”
“Is that all you want?”
“Yeah.”
“Consider it done then,” he says, eyes shuttering for a second. Satoru knows it’s the doubt creeping in, and Toji rubs at his temples. “Are you sure you want to do this, Satoru?”
“It’ll be fine,” Satoru mumbles, sliding down Toji’s body until he’s lying on his lap. He wiggles around, getting comfortable in the cramped space, and Toji smiles. “I have the best dad in the world, so I’ll be alright.”
.
.
.
The story the world knows is merely that: a story.
A story can be anything: a lie, a truth, an omission, all of it stretched to fit a purpose. Satoru was the one who told the story, and if the people around him were smart enough, they would know not to trust him. Even if he meant well, even if it was the truth. Because while it wasn’t a lie, it was still a story, and like all stories, it served a purpose. Like all stories, there’s someone who gains from it being out there.
The only one who saw Satoru’s delicate weaving for what it really was, the only one who saw through it all, all of his deception and subterfuge, was his mother.
She’s his mother, yes.
But it’s because she made Satoru; because he is everything she once was, everything she is; because he is everything that made her grace the magazines and tabloids and steal hearts, that she knows him best. Because he has Asa’s eyes and hair, her slender frame, the features of her that he’s seen Toji kiss a million times over. Because he has everything: her hunger, her want, her desire and love for his father.
And Satoru has seen it one too many times, when they thought him asleep, when the world slowed down until it was just them. He’s seen her on her knees, mouthing at her husband’s length. He’s seen the heat they shared. He’s seen Toji, his face buried into her cunt, lapping up at her like it’s all he wants to do. He’s seen how Toji fucks her, like he loves her, like he hates being away from her, like he wants to fuck another baby into her.
And it’s a miracle he hasn’t yet.
It’s a miracle Asa isn’t pregnant twelve months a year with how much Toji pumps her full of cum. It’s a miracle Satoru isn’t caught. It’s a miracle this whole thing got to this point.
Satoru doesn’t know when it started.
He doesn’t know when he started wishing that Toji would touch him the way he touches his mother. He doesn’t know when he started lying about nightmares to curl up against Toji’s chest, begging him to sing Satoru to sleep, and Toji would every time. He would give in despite Asa telling him he was babying Satoru too much. He would sing songs, helping Satoru fall asleep to the gentle accompanying rhythm of Toji’s heart.
Satoru doesn’t know when he started to sit on Toji’s lap just to feel his cock and the solidness of his thighs. Doesn’t know when Toji stopped being just ‘dad’ and ‘daddy’ and whatever pretty and harmless pet name Satoru used to call him so innocently.
To Satoru, it was natural.
He loves Toji. More than anything in the world. He loves his father, in all the ways that are right and all ways that are wrong. If someone rips into him, all they would see is Satoru’s love for Toji. It has melded into his being, as intrinsic to his existence as breathing, as the act of living. Since he was born, Toji has shown him nothing but love. Toji has always been in his corner, always by his side, cheering him on, keeping him safe from harm. When Satoru needed him, Toji had given everything up for him.
So, if you ask Satoru, he doesn’t know when it started, because it’s all he’s ever known.
And the story the world knows was never a lie. Satoru is just that good at weaving pretty stories out of nothing.
The characters are all the same: Satoru, Toji, Asa, the man who ruined their family—but that’s not really how it goes, and that’s not how it went either. Satoru had known for a while that Asa knew. He had seen the disgust curling into her expression whenever Satoru would fold himself onto Toji’s lap, begging for his touch, begging for his affection. He had seen her disapproval, heard the countless fights and arguments revolving around Satoru’s actions. He had heard the shouts and the, You don’t need to care for her so much, Toji. What about us? We rarely spend any time together because Sayuri takes up all your time.
He had seen it all until the want got too much, until the knowledge that he’s just as lost as his mother started eating at him. So much so that when what happened happened, all Satoru could think was, Ah, now is my chance.
It was easy to slip in a little lie, a little, “I don’t know what I saw, but mum was kissing Hiroshin. I didn’t know what to do, but I wanted— I didn’t want to lie to you. I had to tell you—”
And it was the truth.
They did kiss.
Satoru was on his way to tell her Toji had dropped by the set when he stumbled across it.
They did kiss: this much is the truth.
After a long, drawn-out conversation, over a shared cigarette, Asa’s head slumped in her hands, her voice cracking as she bemoaned Satoru’s increasingly bizarre behaviour towards Toji. Hiroshi was only lending her an ear, as any good friend would. The conversation jumped around, but it kept coming back to Asa’s growing dissatisfaction, to Satoru’s monopolising of his father.
They did kiss.
It played out like every other lapse of judgment: vulnerability and the fear of being misunderstood, of losing everything, making it easier to give in to momentary temptation. Satoru remembers how Asa had laughed a little raggedly when Hiroshi was recounting the band’s reaction to Toji quitting to take care of Satoru, and how they were a bunch of bachelors struggling to understand the intricacies of fatherhood.
They did kiss, but it lasted barely a second: a short kiss they both recoiled from just as quickly. And Satoru had stumbled back, knocking over something in his shock and alerting them to his presence. He remembers Asa’s horrified expression when her eyes finally fell on Satoru. He remembers the quickening of his heartbeat as he ran to where he knew Toji would be, his mother on his tail. He remembers her arm gripping him a little too tight when she caught up with him and dragged him away from the hungry eyes.
“Sacchan,” she says, chest heaving. Her lipstick is a little smudged. Her eyes flit around the room, and Satoru can hear the despair in her voice. He’s never heard her sound this weak. Never seen her composure crumble. “You can’t tell anyone what you saw. It was a mistake—”
“You kissed Hiroshin. Why would you do that? He’s Dad’s friend. Dad loves you—”
“It was a mistake.”
“I need to tell him. You can’t lie to him.”
“You can’t. Sacchan, please. You can’t tell anyone. This will break Toji. I don’t—”
“Why would you kiss anyone? You have Dad. He loves you.” Part of Satoru hates the words leaving his mouth, hates confirming his worst insecurities. He’s always known. He’s always been aware that he never had a chance. And now, all of that comes out of him, feral and angry. It comes out broken. “Why would you want anyone else?”
His mother pauses. Asa’s face twists into a snarl. “I don’t want anyone else—”
“But you did. You kissed— Why?”
“Because of you. Because you keep coming between me and Toji, because you don’t— He’s your father, Sayuri. But you keep acting like he’s more than that—”
Satoru had known that she knew, but right now, he stops, stumbles. “That’s not— You can’t—”
“You think I haven’t seen it? You think I haven’t seen how you look at him? Did you think I wouldn’t notice it? You want him just as badly as I do,” Asa snarls, her words breaking into a pained laugh. “Fucking genetics. Toji coddles you too much. He thinks you’re his innocent princess, but you’re a twisted little thing, Sayuri. I would know. I made you.”
Satoru has nothing to say. His mother has stolen all the words from his mouth. Her confession chokes him, crushes his heart between a well-manicured hand. Anything he says is an admission. Anything he thinks is a confirmation. She knows him, down to the dirtiest parts of himself. Blood will know blood. All of what she is, Satoru is that and much more.
“I’ll tell dad,” Satoru bites out. An empty threat at most. Satoru won’t. He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t. But he needs to stop feeling this. He needs to stop feeling like Asa always wins a competition she isn’t aware she’s a part of.
“What?”
“I’ll tell him. I saw you kiss Hiroshin. I’ll tell him. Dad will believe me—”
This is how Satoru remembers the rest of the scene playing out: he remembers Asa’s eyes widening in anger and the sharp sting on his cheek; he remembers the almost broken sound he let out the next moment, Asa’s mouth opening into an apology just as quick; he remembers Toji, rushing into the room, having watched them for god knows how long, his eyes widened in horror as he pulled Asa away from Satoru.
Satoru remains standing where he is, the throbbing in his cheek and the tears filling his eyes keeping him rooted. No one has ever hit him. In all his twelve years, Satoru has gotten away with pretty much everything. He tries to make sense of the argument unfolding in front of him: Toji and Asa yelling at each other; Toji’s cold fury clashing with something much more tired, much more desperate in Asa. He catches bits and pieces; their words are meant to hurt, but even then, their love is evident. It hurts—it always will.
“I’ve told you,” Toji says, more broken than Satoru has ever heard him. There’s something Satoru won’t get to learn until years later, something hidden so well that the knowledge will surprise him. Right now, he looks around in confusion, dazed from the impact. “This was one thing I can’t compromise on. Asa. I love you, but I can’t—”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did. Look at her. She looks terrified.”
Satoru imagines that he does look terrified. Even now, his body shakes, almost uncontrollably, an unfamiliar fear gripping him. He’s sure his skin is blooming red now, and when he meets Toji’s eyes, the vivid green remains hidden behind a haze. Satoru blinks, and tears slide down. Their hot trail feels wrong. He’s a great actor, but even he knows that this isn’t fake. Everything in him remains stunned and scared.
“Why would you hit her?” Toji turns to Satoru, his eyes pleading, threaded with an apology he won’t receive, voice still so gentle even after the shouting he witnessed. “What happened, Sayuri?”
Sometimes Satoru worries he made a mistake, that the words should have never been uttered. Maybe he could have remained a normal teenager if he had. Maybe he could have grown up and straightened himself out. Maybe Asa wouldn’t hate him so much if he weren’t so rotten, if he weren’t so selfish. But it bursts from his lips, spilling like pearls from the folktales, and Toji’s eyes narrow. He’s seen his father upset; he’s seen him angry. But this rage in him? It cuts Satoru, razes him when he faces it, and Asa pales.
“Toji—”
Toji doesn’t wait for her explanation, doesn’t hesitate one bit before grabbing Satoru’s hand and walking out of the room. He doesn’t wait, because what’s the point of all this fame and money if he can’t keep his blood safe?
And from there, Satoru’s life had changed.
.
.
.
The newspaper report reads: “It’s just us now.”
There’s a picture of the two of them outside the courthouse, the divorce settlements over and done with; another of Satoru from the Tokyo International Film Festival next to Asa, wearing one of the many dresses his mother bought and stashed in his wardrobe for these occasions. They look good together. Like this, he sees her in him. Almost flatteringly pretty, his clumsy youth elevated by her mere presence.
Every magazine and newspaper he can get his hands on recounts the same story, laying it on thick—no one a villain, everyone a victim. It’s a convenient tale, tragic in an almost modern sense: a father choosing to give up fame for anonymity to raise his already famous child in peace; a husband prioritising his child over his wife. They’re kind to Asa, too. Even in his rage, Toji had maintained that there’s no bad blood between them, that their separation is based purely on disagreements about their approaches to parenting.
It’s also what Toji later tells him, hands ruffling Satoru’s newly cut hair, his voice tinged with guilt as he herds them both into their new apartment. Satoru’s dressed in a loose t-shirt and baggy pants, and this is the closest he’s come to looking like what he wanted to all his life. Asa would have never dressed Satoru in anything but the finest clothes—all of it silk and satin; lace and tulle. She would chastise Toji for letting Satoru dress so plain. But Satoru likes the way the shirt drapes over his body, how it hides things he’s always wanted to hide. The tits that sprouted way too early no longer feel so damning. It leaves him resembling the version of him that always felt too far away.
“You alright there?” Toji asks when Satoru lingers by the doorway, not stepping in.
“I’m okay,” Satoru answers, lugging his suitcase in after him. Toji had offered to carry it, but Satoru had declined. Their new apartment feels just as comfortable as their old one, though it lacks its lavishness. Toji had signed it away, along with many other things, to gain full custody of Satoru. Asa’s vicious glance and words aimed at Satoru made Toji want to limit their contact, even when Satoru knew it was all his fault. “I was just looking at the décor. It’s a nice place.”
It doesn’t take them too long to settle into their new place. It’s minimalist, but not oppressively so. Toji decorates the place with photos and knick-knacks. Almost all of their belongings had been brought over. Satoru’s wardrobe had to be built from scratch, now that Toji knew what Satoru liked. Toji had taken great pleasure in taking him shopping. There were pictures of them all over the web; some singing praises of Toji’s parenting, others questioning Satoru’s stark departure from his older style. All of the grumbling died down when Satoru’s old clothes were catalogued and handed over to a charity of his choice to be auctioned off.
It feels surreal to him, at times. He can finally live as a boy. His father doesn’t hate him. In fact, it’s the opposite. Toji might not want him how Satoru wants him, but he can live with that.
Later that night, Shiu visits with Jin.
Ideally, Satoru should be in bed, but sleep had evaded him. His new room is great; Toji had promised to let him decorate to his liking once they got settled. It’s warm and welcoming even in its emptiness. But Satoru has always taken time to adjust to change. And his sleep has always been a fickle thing.
He’s curled up in bed, fingers thumping away at his PSP, when he hears the front door open, followed by a laugh he recognises so well. He hasn’t seen Shiu or Jin in a bit, but something about this visit—the clock almost striking midnight, no prior announcement—tells him that he’s not meant to be a part of it.
But that doesn’t deter Satoru.
He’s bored out of his mind, and he knows their conversations can provide more entertainment than anything Nintendo can throw his way. He sneaks out from the confines of his bed and makes his way to the hallway. His socks pad his footsteps as he inches closer to the staircase, perching by the railings, close enough to hear what’s going on, obscured enough so that no one notices him.
From his vantage point, he can see that the three of them have settled down into the couch, sharing the sake Shiu brought over. It seems like a typical boy’s night in, by virtue of Satoru being asleep and unaware—but they don’t know he’s here as a hidden participant. As the bottle gets shared between them, Satoru hears many tales and secrets. Toji downs the alcohol with ease, laughing along to Shiu’s animated storytelling. Satoru considers leaving. As fun as it is, there’s nothing here for him. Nothing about their conversation holds anything of interest.
Then he hears it, right as he’s turning away. Shiu’s voice, boisterous and serious at the same time, as he’s popping open another bottle, something stronger from Toji’s scrunched face when he takes a whiff.
“Never imagined you and Asa splitting up. How long was it again? Eighteen years?”
“Neither can I,” Jin adds, swirling the glassful of amber liquid. He’s got a much more sombre tone than Shiu. “I still can’t comprehend it, you know?” He takes a sip, makes a face at the taste, and turns to Toji. “Asa loved you. I remember when she used to come to our shows. And with Hiroshi, of all people?”
Toji says nothing to either of them, nursing the drink in his hand. Satoru knows he hasn’t had the time to process what went down. Knows that all of Toji’s time these past few months has been spent chasing after Satoru, ensuring that he’s settled in and comfortable; that he’s been too busy to have a moment of reprieve to himself.
At Toji’s silence, Shiu sighs. “You talk to her recently?”
Satoru expects Toji to shrug it off, but he downs his glass, reaching and pouring himself another. “Friday.”
“Was it one of your infamous Friday sessions?” Shiu asks, his words taking on a more suggestive tone. Toji reddens, and Satoru knows it’s not the alcohol in his bloodstream. “You two were on some wild shit before settling down—”
“It wasn’t—”
“But?” Jin prods, taking the same teasing tone as Shiu. Toji sighs, and that in itself answers all their questions.
“You fucked her again?” Shiu cackles. Loud and booming. Alcohol makes him shed his usual put-together demeanour. Or maybe Satoru never knew these men. “Of course, you did—”
Satoru’s heart stutters as he stands there listening. He scours his memory, trying to place the Friday that Toji’s talking about. All he can think of is last week, when Satoru was hanging out with Mahito before they got busy with moving. He remembers this. A sleepover, he had told Toji, and Toji had agreed. Almost too quickly, but it’s what he always does. Nothing about it stood out to him, nothing felt out of place. But Satoru can picture the day after, when he had come home later than planned; he can picture the glow of Toji’s skin, the ease in his gait as Satoru followed him around the kitchen, grumbling about Mahito being too pushy with coming out. All of it makes sense in hindsight, painfully so.
“You two couldn’t keep your hands off each other,” Jin says, unaware of the hurt he’s dealing Satoru. “The number of times I walked in on you fucking her, man. Not to mention the number of times we had to surgically remove your dick from her when you were always late to our concerts because you were convinced sticking it in her made you perform better.”
It’s crass, how they talk about it. But it confirms all of Satoru’s insecurities. Even now, Toji loves his mother. Asa has always been it for him. She’s his everything, in ways Satoru can never be. Nothing Satoru can do will ever replace her in Toji’s heart.
Shiu joins in, almost leering at a memory, his voice sleazier than Satoru remembers hearing in his life. “Remember the Valentine’s Day concert at Tokyo Dome? Proposing while you’re fucking her backstage right after our tour got over? Only you, Toji. Only you.”
“Pretty sure your angel was conceived then. I mean, you called us up with the engagement and pregnancy news on the same day. You were so happy, Toji-kun. Marrying the love of your life, a baby on the way, and a career high. We really thought you two would be endgame. It’d have been nice for the overall rep of our genre. What went wrong?”
“She said I was too focused on Satoru to pay attention to her. I just— Asa was working all the time. I never held it against her. I still don’t. I was ready to be the one who kept everything running at home. But Satoru is young. I wanted to make sure his needs were met when the workload increased. You know how this industry will eat you up if you aren’t careful. And after what happened, I wasn’t ready to let my kid fend for himself with the wolves again. He needed me.”
“She got jealous of her own kid? You didn’t have time to dick her down like before, or what?”
“That’s fucked up, Shiu—” Jin says, but Satoru can hear that his heart is not in the statement. He shares the sentiment.
“What’s fucked up is her cheating on Toji-kun for paying attention to their child—”
“She didn’t cheat,” Toji says, and Satoru stills. His hands grip the bars. “Asa. She never cheated on me.”
“Then why divorce her?” Shiu fires back. “Why end a decade-long marriage?”
“Did I tell you that we were thinking of having another kid?”
“You were?” Jin’s pleasant surprise is nowhere near the roaring in Satoru’s ears. He’s known for a bit. He’s seen them fuck. You don’t do what Toji does in bed unless you do it with the intention of it taking.
“I floated the idea by her a few times,” Toji admits, and Jin nods at him to continue. “But then again, there was hardly any time for Satoru. Asa, she’s not bad. She’s always been a good mother, but she loves her job. That’s what made me love her. All that passion and drive. She tries her best, and that’s what mattered to me. I was willing to work it out with her. I still am—”
“But?”
“But she hurt Satoru. That’s not something I can forgive her for. No matter how much I love her. He’s my son. No matter what Asa says otherwise, he’s our son—”
“Is that a permanent thing?” Shiu asks, and he can hear Jin’s resulting groan. “I don’t hear about them that much. I mean, if Sayuri-chan, no, Satoru wants to be Satoru, we’ll support her—er, him. Sorry, Toji-kun, it’s hard to get used to this. You divorce your wife of twelve years, and your daughter is now your son—”
“Was always my son—”
“Fuck, yeah. Yeah, my bad. Still getting used to all this.”
Jin grumbles something inaudible. The two of them, except him, are beyond tipsy at this point. Jin seems to be the designated driver. “So, you two did what? Fucked and then went about your way?”
“More or less.”
“And Hiroshi?
“He’s been apologetic. We talked it out. There’s no hard feelings.”
“Good,” Shiu butts in, drawling the word out, hiccupping lightly. “Because imagine having to mediate fights between you two if Tengoku ever has a reunion concert. God, the horror. As much as it sounds like an AV, I never want to get between two judokas.”
“Can we talk about something other than my failed marriage?” Toji groans, reaching to pour himself another glass of whatever’s there. Satoru doesn’t know how much he’s had to drink. “I feel like that’s all I’ve been allowed to think about these past few months.”
“Our bad,” Jin apologises. “Are you holding on okay, Toji?”
“As good as I can be, all things considered.”
“Have you ever thought about returning to music again?”
“In the future, maybe. Once Satoru’s a bit more stable and safer, and I’m able to focus on other things.”
“Well, I hope it happens. Our solo careers may be thriving, but nothing feels as good as getting onstage with you guys.”
Shiu laughs all of a sudden, his delirious giggle interrupting them. “Shit’s starting to sound like a goddamn interview. Are we at your house or the NHK?”
“Ignore him,” Jin tuts, prying the glass out of Shiu’s hand, who hisses comically before slumping into the couch.
“How’s Kaori by the way?” Toji asks. His words are a little slurred, and he takes a deep breath before continuing. “You’ve been settling well into married life as well. Shiu’s the only one who’s still wild and unruly—”
“They don’t let idols or actors date around in Seoul—”
“And when have dating bans ever stopped you?” Jin scoffs.
“When has that ever stopped Toji here? Don’t act like we weren’t all surprised when he was the first one to get hitched. He was getting it on with everyone before Asa got him wrapped around her finger.” Shiu hiccups, his rant getting cut short. “And now it’s your kid. I’m convinced the wild days of Zen’in Toji are more or less over. How will you sell the crazy rocker image if you’re worried about Sacchan’s curfew?”
“Miyavi does it. I’m sure I can manage—”
“Ishihara-kun managed to pull it off because he kept up with promos outside of the group. You, on the other hand, dipped the moment Satoru got into trouble.”
“Maybe so,” Toji says, shrugging.
“You ever regret it?” Jin asks, the sombre tone making a comeback.
“Sometimes,” Toji admits, and Satoru’s heart sinks. He’s always known how much Toji loved performing, how much he missed being on stage. “But then I remember how scared Satoru looked that day when I found him with Ayatsuji. How Asa and I were always careful, and something like what happened still happened—and it suddenly feels worth it.”
Satoru’s eyes feel warm. Tears feel foreign to him even now. But these are good tears. They’re proof that he’s loved.
“You sued that man to hell and back. Sicced your fans after him, and then the Zen’in entire arsenal. I remember your bloodlust shocking everyone. If anyone ever doubted you being a Zen’in, that day proved them all wrong.”
“Ayumi was telling me how sexy people found the enraged father act,” Jin says, adding onto Shiu’s words. “It helped take the heat off your decision to quit the band. I think it makes sense—”
Satoru tunes out the conversation after it dives back into insider gossip. He lingers for a bit more, but none of their stories piques his interest. He slowly gets to his feet and traces his steps back to his room, burrowing under the covers. Sleep refuses to court, and Satoru curls on his side, his thumbs flying across the buttons in a hurry to distract himself from all that he learned today. He tries to push the image of Toji and Asa out of his mind, to not think about what they might have done when Satoru was oblivious and unaware. He doesn’t know how long he stays absentmindedly tapping away at the PSP, his brain whirring as it thinks about Toji and Asa.
He’d left his door slightly ajar, and the sounds from the living room filter in, muffled as they are. Shiu and Jin are loud even then, but Toji’s quiet. Satoru focuses on his game, trying not to fixate on the bits and pieces of conversation that slither to his room.
It takes another half an hour, Satoru almost at the hardest level of the game, for Shiu and Jin to leave and for Toji to lock the door behind him. He hums a tune, his footsteps quiet as he climbs up the steps. He stops by Satoru’s bedroom, peeking in through the crack by the door, and Satoru forces his eyes shut, the light from his PSP hidden under his pillow. If he notices anything, Toji says nothing and walks away, the sound of his bedroom door opening and closing following the tired footsteps.
Satoru doesn’t know how much longer he lies there in bed, eyes trained on the ceiling, counting stars and sheep and all that he can think about to make himself fall asleep. He wants the peace of mind that a good night’s rest can afford him. But time moves slowly, reminding Satoru of its reluctance to give him what he wants. It taunts him. While Satoru likes to believe he has patience, he’s realising that, like everything about him, this might also be a lie.
The more he lies there awake, the more the knowledge that his mother still kept in touch with Toji, that she still fucked him after everything, pisses him off; the knowledge that even now, Asa gets to have Toji—in the one way Satoru can never have him—eats at him. Satoru gives himself a couple more minutes, willing the anger and desperation away. When it doesn’t, when sleep feels impossible, he pushes off the bed, the aircon chilling his bare legs. Satoru should slip on a pair of shorts and make himself look presentable. But he ignores the nagging voice in his head, walking over to Toji’s room in the oversized shirt he stole from Toji’s wardrobe, knocking at the door with an urgency when he notices that it’s locked. Something Toji never does. A moment later, he hears shuffling. A muffled groan gets followed by a curse, and Toji opens the door, poking his head out, looking confused at Satoru’s appearance.
“Sacchan—” Toji’s hair is a bit dishevelled; the flush has climbed onto his face. From the looks of it, he’s still drunk. “Were we too loud? Did we wake you?”
“No,” Satoru answers, quiet and shy. He finds his eyes sliding across the planes of Toji’s body that’s on display. “I had a nightmare. Bad. Can I sleep with you, Daddy?”
“Fuck— Yeah— Can you wait a second, baby? I just gotta get the bed ready—”
Toji tries to close the door behind him, but Satoru follows after him. The lights are off, save for the bedside lamp, which glows a warm yellow. The light spilling from it proves that the bed is not a mess, not in the way Toji wants Satoru to think. Satoru isn’t dumb. He knows what Toji was doing when he knocked. He knows because there’s a wad of tissue crumbled by the bedside, and Toji must be a really humble man to believe his tank top can hide what’s going on in his pants.
Still, he fluffs up the pillows and tidies the sheets before he lets Satoru climb under the duvet. Toji gives himself a moment, occupying himself with things strewn across the room and not yet getting into bed with Satoru. The dim bedroom lights leave Toji statuesque, and from where he’s lying down, Satoru can see the thick cock pressing up against Toji’s sweats. He’s hard. For how much they were drinking earlier, Toji’s still hard and still too drunk to realise that his erection is announcing its presence despite his best efforts to conceal it. Satoru licks his lips. Want curls deep in his gut, almost punishing in its urgency and intensity.
“I’ll be back,” Toji says, when everything he does has proved futile. Satoru yawns in response as Toji steps into the bathroom. Nothing in him wants to succumb to sleep, not when Toji’s not here next to him. The shower turns on, and Satoru curls up on his side. The air conditioner in Toji’s room isn’t turned on, and his duvet is so thick that it traps the heat underneath it, but Satoru doesn’t kick it off yet. He waits. Sweat drips down his arms. Slowly, sticking to his skin almost unpleasantly. Satoru rubs his legs together, the tacky feeling on his inner thighs slightly annoying.
It takes a while—it couldn’t have been longer than five minutes, but for Satoru, it felt like an eternity—for Toji to step out of the shower. He lingers by the bathroom door, a towel mopping up stray droplets of water, and Satoru rumbles, emulating sleep as best as he can.
When Toji does climb in, Satoru rolls around to face him. He’s still wrapped up in the duvet, sweat slowly beading all over him. The heat inside of him consumes him, and he slowly kicks the duvet off, his legs pimpling from the sudden contact with the cooler air.
“You want the aircon on?”
Satoru says nothing, burrowing into Toji’s chest, getting himself as close as he can get, hoping it’s a good enough response. Toji sighs. His eyes are half-closed, and when Satoru mumbles a quiet goodnight, Toji replies with a kiss to his forehead.
It’s an awkward angle.
Toji lets Satoru move around, arranging himself better so Satoru can get comfortable. His movements are slightly sluggish, but they agree on something, and Satoru settles down, and Toji exhales. Satoru can taste the sake and whiskey on his breath. He can feel the solidness of Toji’s chest. They contrast each other so much. Satoru has none of Toji’s bulk. He has none of his looks, and everything about him is dipped in Asa. He pushes the thought from his mind, tangling his legs with Toji. He makes a confused sound at that, but doesn’t push Satoru away.
Like this, Satoru can feel where Toji is still chubbed out, the cold shower doing nothing for him. Like this, Satoru can feel him get harder the longer Satoru moves around, trying to get comfortable.
Toji’s so huge, and Satoru’s cunt throbs as it slowly grows to full hardness. He can feel the wetness seep out of his pussy, a familiar itch taking over him. It feels thrilling to finally have what he’s always wanted this close to him. Toji’s cock twitches when Satoru moves around. He has to hold back a whine when it presses right up against his clit, the cockhead hard and leaking even through Toji’s sweats; he has to bite his lips when he feels Toji’s cock blindly responding to stimulus.
The hand around Satoru’s waist tightens, and Satoru moans, a pained sound, needy and quiet, when Toji ruts up into him, his body moving on instinct, chasing friction, his cock hard and aching, trapped between their bodies. He’s not awake, Satoru can see it as clear as day. Satoru knows he should stop, that he should get up and go to his room; that to do this when Toji can’t tell him no is a crime, but when will Toji ever tell him yes?
Toji grunts something out. Sleep has left his voice guttural, diving straight into Satoru’s core. The hand on his waist is warm even through the thin t-shirt, and it spans the entirety of Satoru’s waist. Satoru wants him. He’ll take anything.
“Daddy,” Satoru whimpers, clutching onto Toji’s tank top, hips grinding against Toji’s cock, the slow drag of the hard length and the rough fabric mussing against his stiff clit undoing him.
His stomach tightens, like every other time he’s done this, thinking about his father, but it’s almost painful now. Almost maddening. The pressure sets him alight, thrumming under his skin, too much for his virgin cunt to handle. Satoru wonders if Toji would let him slip his cock into his cunt, whether Toji would do the honours of defiling Satoru’s pussy like he’s always wanted.
It’d be so easy, he thinks. So easy to slide it out of Toji’s sweats and ease it into Satoru’s wet cunt. Satoru’s sure he can take him. Man was made in God’s image, so it gives that Satoru was made for Toji, that everything about him was perfectly crafted to be at Toji’s disposal.
And Satoru wants.
He wants to stop acting like he doesn’t. He wants even when he knows it’s wrong, even when he’s had to sacrifice everything that he once knew to get this, even when he knows Toji would hate him for it.
The grip around him tightens, and Toji’s pace has lost the earlier rhythm, rocking into him urgently, and Satoru knows he’s close. He’s so close, and Satoru wants to taste it one day, wants Toji to empty it all into his womb one day, and—
Satoru has to bite his lips to hold his moans back, teeth digging in and leaving indents. His body is taut, the pressure releasing so fast and so suddenly that it leaves him disoriented. Toji stills by him, too, the crotch of his sweats wet from both of their releases. His breathing returns to normal, and the hold around him eases, but Satoru can’t find it in himself to pull away. He nuzzles against Toji, ignoring how his underwear has soaked through, the slick dripping down his thighs, basking in the afterglow.
Guilt can hound him later.
.
.
.
When he wakes up, he’s wrapped up in the duvet, the air-conditioner set to full blast.
As he makes his way down to the kitchen, Satoru hears the clatter of utensils. It’s hard to fight the blush when he sees Toji in the morning light, dressed in the same tank top from last night. His hair is a mess, eyes a little hazy. He’s drinking a glass of water. On the stove, Satoru can see the strips of bacon sizzling. Toji cracks a few eggs onto the pile and mashes them around until he’s satisfied. Satoru squeezes his legs together, the slow coiling of want out of place to a mundane act, but nothing about Toji is mundane. Satoru slowly climbs onto the stool, taking care not to announce his presence. When Toji turns around, he looks startled, almost dropping the spatula.
“Satoru, you could have slept in a bit. It’s not a school day.”
“I got hungry.”
“Really?”
“Mmmh, I woke up starving.”
“Is that so?” Satoru can sense the hesitation. A part of him knows Toji was too drunk to piece it together. The fogginess also means it’s easy for guilt to rise, especially with the evidence dirtying his clothes. Toji’s voice cracks a bit, almost like he doubts himself, but he pushes on. “When did you come to my room?”
“I don’t remember. I had a nightmare, and I know you always keep me safe.”
“Ah,” Toji hums, seemingly relieved. “Did you sleep okay?”
“I’ve never slept better.”