Chapter Text
The answer had been in that stupid jacket pocket all this time.
But is it an answer that Satoru wants to accept?
Their conversation is short-lived; even if she’d wanted to stay to talk, Yuki returns to her work, to the salon, soon after, leaving Satoru standing in the middle of the street, a mass of confusion. He stands there, he glances up at the sky, and the piece of paper with a phone number he doesn’t recognise sits there in the centre of his palm, moving slightly in the soft wind. “What the fuck is happening… “
Satoru stands quietly in the morning sunlight, closing his eyes, and for a moment, everything stops. The late morning sky is bright and clear, casting minimal shadows on the street. It’s not difficult to understand or even fathom, yet it all feels unexpectedly surreal. This isn't what he expected when trying to rid himself of the last remnants of Suguru, and like some cruel joke, it truly feels this time as if the universe is telling him, ‘not yet’.
But will anything even come from this? Does Satoru even want anything to come from this? It’s been three months; realistically speaking, he and Suguru had only spoken to each other for just over a week in total. For some people, that ratio might be a no-brainer; it shouldn’t be worth the effort, the trouble, or even an ounce of pain or thought. But for Satoru, who’d stupidly fallen hard but somehow held on even harder, that doesn’t seem to matter. He knows how his heart had felt after just a week, how it had continued to feel as the days passed by without so much as a word… and he knows how, deep down, there’s still something that lingers. It’s small and barely burning, but like oxygen feeding embers, Yuki’s words reignite something that was never meant to be rekindled. Something Satoru should have moved on from months ago.
‘Call him’
Regardless of whether he still wants it or not, despite how his stupid heart insists on fluttering in a pathetic Pavlovian response to the slightest glimmer of hope, there’s only one thing that Satoru is sure of.
“Geto Suguru,” He whispers to the sky, and his lips that curse that name, they press together in exhaustive ire. “You made your choice.” It wasn’t me. “So just… leave me alone.”
The piece of paper gets scrunched up and shoved deep down into his pocket, but it doesn’t get thrown away.
***
Shoko had wanted to be here to say goodbye; she’d tried her best, but with her starting her final year of med school that month, the hospital internship and the coffee store, Satoru understood that she’d been kind of tied up. They’d had more than their fair share of goodbyes in the days leading up to Satoru’s departure anyway- and as Shoko had rightly put it, it’s not forever.
It’s six in the morning. Satoru’s been at the airport since four, and before that, he hadn’t managed to sleep at all. In fact, ever since his detour to that hairdresser’s just under forty-eight hours ago, Satoru’s hardly slept more than an hour or two. An extended sugar rush is what’s keeping him awake; he’d raided the first store he’d walked past within the airport, stocked up on sugar for the flight, and immediately bought the sweetest caramel macchiato they’d had on the menu of a coffee place, so overall, he’s doing great. So good.
Ichiji won’t be flying out for another few days, and even when he does, he won’t be staying any longer than a month, just long enough to help Satoru settle into his new job. So that means for now, it’s up to Satoru to navigate this new city, this new country, entirely on his own. With no friends. No acquaintances. No nothing. It’s almost as if he’s starting an entire new life, which, in a way, he is.
But there’s just one thing that’s bothering him, and it takes the form of a scruffy piece of paper torn from a notepad, with a phone number scribbled messily across the lines. In an ideal world, Satoru would’ve thrown this piece of paper away the second it was handed to him, but the problem is… he hadn’t done that. He’d left it on his person, taken it with him, and as he sits alone in the private airport lounge, his carry-on bag nestled on the floor between his feet, Satoru stares down at this piece of paper and the number written there.
Sometimes, Gojo Satoru thinks his sole purpose in life is to make stupid decisions. Will this be another one of those little mistakes, or will it spiral into something bigger? Whatever the case, he’s leaving Japan in less than an hour, so maybe one last mistake can’t hurt. For old times' sake. What’s the worst that can happen?
Satoru types the number into his phone with a forced air of nonchalance, trying to trick his mind into thinking he’s calling a takeaway to place an order, or as if he’s calling Shoko. He tries not to make it a big deal as he saves the number to a new contact with no name, and before he can reason that this is a terrible, horrible idea, with no plan and zero preparation, Satoru presses the call button and sits back, listening to the dial tone through his headphones.
It’s through this spontaneous decision that Satoru learns a few things about himself.
The first ring of the dial tone begins, and he manages to resist the immediate temptation to hang up. So he wants this, clearly. The second and third rings tell Satoru he’s perhaps looking for conflict, for a chance to change things despite what he might say otherwise. Again, he obviously wants this.
The repeating dissonant tone echoes back and forth between either of Satoru’s earphones, left and right, and he holds onto every single one of them, cherishing this denial of internal peace he’s forcing upon himself, like some tyrannical ruler stuck in the past, conjuring up self-sabotaging solutions to problems that no longer exist. And again, the fact that he stays listening, that he continues to sit there on the edge of his seat in the airport lounge, that must mean he wants this, right?
For the fifteen seconds that the call rings, it feels like ten minutes, maybe more. And the longer it goes on, the longer it takes for the call to be picked up, a feeling returns within him; that feeling of missing something you never really had, and Satoru realises: he does still want whatever ‘this’ is. Whatever ‘that’ had been. But not in the form that it had been before, so then what? And how does he do that? And what if this phone call doesn’t get answered; what if Yuki had been wrong, and what if he really doesn’t want to ever speak to him again? Then what?
Satoru doesn’t realise how tightly he grips his phone, glaring down at the screen as all of those overwhelming feelings not seen for months bubble to the surface. He already had the build-up of energy needed for a reaction; not much of a push was clearly needed. Yuki only provided him with the direction. Maybe this was always going to happen eventually, Satoru thinks.
As the fifth ring plays out and renders him a liar who places too much faith in the universe, trust the universe to suddenly pull a fast one and remind him of the word patience, and what it stands for, because Satoru can be so quick to forget. A mere fraction of a second before the cut to an automatic voicemail, the signal drops, and a voice heavily distorted by sleep suddenly pushes through the empty air.
“Yeah?…hello?”
Like night and day, Satoru switches up immediately from a nail-biting nervous wreck to someone who doesn’t realise what they’ve just done. That voice brings about a change in him that Satoru can’t possibly describe hearing for the first time in so long. The air grows heavy in the deepening silence that follows, a concoction of emotions suddenly rising from his feet and swirling around like an uncontrollable storm. What does he do?
“Uh… who is this?”
Suguru sounds tired; the lower register of his voice seeps the kind of comfortable, early-morning sleepiness you can smell, so warm, and Satoru feels it within himself, a gentle vibration filled with so much earnest hope that it almost overflows. It’s not supposed to, but it feels like winter, bottled up into seven days, spoken now as barely five words. And it feels like all of the wasted time after, trying to heal, only for this seed to be planted by none other than himself. Satoru thinks he might just explode, yet there isn’t a single cell in his body that urges him to speak, to respond. Instead, he’s trapped watching on in third person, just like back then, and all he can do is listen.
“Hello?”
It feels like it had back in December, when it had started out as something small that had grown and kept growing, bigger and bigger until it was no longer something he could so easily ignore.
“Is this—“
‘We are now ready to begin priority boarding for flight JL004, for New York, JFK International’
A sound he doesn’t realise he’s missed until he hears it. A singular word that echoes through his headphones and plays roughly on his heartstrings like a sandpapered melody, every soft, short tonal inflection was a devastating blow to his chest.
“… Satoru?”
And that’s all it takes for Satoru to realise he can’t do this. Satoru hadn’t wanted forever; he just wants now. But even now seems too late. Even if he wants this, wanting isn’t enough to quell three months of trying to heal, not to forget, but to understand and to grow. Satoru realises now that he deserves better than what he’d been asking for back then; that was why Suguru had made the choice he had, he’d known he’d be unable to give Satoru what he’d needed, and for that, Satoru does thank him, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt. Suguru had made his choice back then, and maybe, it just hadn’t been the right time for either of them.
Satoru should speak; he should say something, but it’s the fear that things could still be the same, or worse, they could be different: it’s quick to consume. Why would Yuki insist he call if things weren’t different? But even if they are different now, is it a good different, or a bad one?
Like a fish out of water, Satoru sits there, mouth agape, as the airport tannoy announces the boarding call again, and a persistent buzzing in either ear begins to build until it’s excruciating. If Suguru says anything else, if he repeats Satoru’s name, if he even makes so much as a noise, Satoru doesn’t hear it over the thudding of his chest and the ringing in his ears. Panic wins. His thumb slams down on the icon to end the call, and just like that, silence.
Had that been the right decision?
Satoru deliberately avoids looking at his phone at the boarding gate, when he hands over his passport, and when he boards the plane and takes his seat, for fear of a missed call, or worse, a message. But when he finds his seat and eventually dares to check his phone, the lack of signal is a blessing in disguise, because there’s nothing.
***
The flight is nearly fourteen hours long, but with so much on his mind, Satoru values the rare opportunity for solitude and quiet reflection, and he isn’t bothered once his eye mask is pulled on and his headphones are turned up. He tosses and turns through much of the journey, and upon landing, he moves listlessly through the endless airport corridors and queues, feeling like a zombie—dazed, jet-lagged, and simply following the person ahead.
It’s just after eight in the morning now; time zone changes are always jarring, no matter how frequent a flyer you are, and as his phone reconnects to a network, as it catches up to the time zone change, Satoru watches each notification appear in real time: messages from Shoko, social media likes, and two emails that seem important enough to ignore. Then he notices it—a notification appearing at the top of his screen and lingering in his call log, listed as that saved number with no name.
[1 new voicemail]
He wants to listen, because it’s better to rip the bandaid off than to let it fester, right? But now isn’t the time. If he remembers correctly what Ichiji told him, there’s supposed to be a small entourage to greet him somewhere at arrivals, and Satoru would prefer it if he didn’t look as if he’d just seen a ghost, as a first impression.
And speak of the devil, as soon as Satoru turns the final corner, there they all are, standing in a small crowd. A welcoming group from the company, holding up signs with his name scrawled in both English and Kanji, greets him with handshakes and gift baskets, each far too eager for Satoru, who has neglected good sleep for the past few days and whose body is telling him it’s almost ten at night.
He’s polite to them. Technically, he’s their boss now, for lack of a better word, but throughout all the greetings, the small talk, and the car journey into the city, Satoru can’t stop thinking about the voicemail that lies, unopened, on his phone.
***
It isn’t another two hours before Satoru finally gets a moment alone, when the entourage has left him, when his smile can relax, and when the exhaustion can finally take hold. As soon as Satoru finds himself alone, when he’s standing in the open of an empty apartment that’s ten floors up in the air with a gorgeous view of the city below, he takes a seat on the floor and pulls up the singular voicemail waiting in his call logs.
He has questions, naturally. Firstly, what could Suguru possibly have to say to him that makes this voicemail almost two minutes long? And second, something he’d been unable to figure out for the past two days, why had Yuki been so insistent that he call Suguru? If Suguru had really wanted to talk… why hadn’t he called him? It’s been months, and Satoru hasn’t been the one to change his number, either.
Hoping that this will give him at least one of those answers, Satoru turns up the volume, taps play and closes his eyes to listen as the recording begins. It starts with silence, as if the caller isn’t sure what to say, there’s a pause, a sigh, and movement before…
‘Would you believe this is the fourth time I’ve tried this?’ Suguru’s voice laughs, carefree and gentle; he sounds quiet, he’s not whispering, but he’s not loud, either. Satoru wonders if there’s a reason for that. ‘Maybe this will be the right one.’
There’s more silence; close to ten seconds pass before Suguru continues. ‘I wanted to thank you for returning my jacket. You didn’t have to do that. And honestly, I didn’t even know you still had it.’
Satoru still isn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed he’d had the jacket; all he knows is that if he’d found it sooner, it would’ve had a far different fate. If he’d found it back in February, when things were still fresh, he doesn’t doubt it would’ve been destroyed by some method involving fire.
‘It’s been a while… hasn’t it?’
Satoru nods as if his response were visible, as if the sender were right in front of him, and in a way, he almost wishes he were.
‘A lot’s happened on my end. I know you probably don’t care anymore; it’s nothing to do with you, but I didn’t go back to the rental service after January. I couldn’t.’
Satoru hadn’t looked to see if Suguru ever put himself back up on the website, but he trusts what he’s saying. Why wouldn’t he?
‘I still have my other clients, I’m still escorting, but… things are different.’ Suguru’s voice gives a waver that’s minimal, as if he’s purposefully holding back saying everything that he wants to. It’s not strange to hear him like this, not when Satoru’s now had the time to mentally prepare himself, but as with everything else, it doesn’t make it any easier.‘Satoru… why did you call?’
It’s just a recording, Satoru reminds himself, but his mouth opens in a choked response regardless. No words come out, and he finds no comfort in knowing that Suguru isn’t actually there on the other end of the phone. Pausing the voicemail for a moment, letting his thumb hover above the playback bar, Satoru takes a slow breath in and out.
‘I thought you didn’t want to speak to me again, and I don’t blame you. What I told you back in January, how I made you feel, it wasn’t fair. The rule I made, the excuses I made, none of them were fair to you, especially when I didn’t even explain to you why. So for all of it, I can only apologise.’
It’s not as if Satoru hasn’t ever considered the possibility of Suguru contacting him, even if only to apologise. But to actually hear it, after all of those months spent trying to pretend that he didn’t care any more, he really doesn’t know what to say. He’s just glad he doesn’t have to say anything right now.
‘I don’t even know if this is your number, if what I’m saying is making any sense, or if it is you, that you’ll listen to this. Back then, I just needed time. I still do, but I don’t want to just… I didn’t want to never see you again, Satoru. I called you back because I want to talk- I’ve been wanting to talk, but I just… I wanted you to be the one to reach out first. It had to be you.’
Why does it have to be him? Why does Suguru have to make things difficult for him, even though he’s almost seven thousand miles away? Why can’t things just be normal between them? Then again, normality and regular relationships aren’t something Satoru’s ever had, or even really known, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that it’s this way.
‘I suppose what I’m trying to say here is that you can call me. Or message me. Even just to sit in silence, if that’s all you want to do, that’s okay too. Anytime you want, if you want. I’ll be here. Or don’t. Whatever you decide… You have my number. [End of message: press one to del—]’
Satoru’s phone slips to the floor with a gentle thud, and following suit, he falls backwards until his head is flat against the floor and he’s lying there sprawled out, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling.
What does he do with that?
***
Ichiji arrives a few days later; a familiar face is a relief Satoru didn’t know he would be so appreciative of, and as the days pass, Satoru goes close to radio silent. It’s not that he doesn’t think about Suguru’s message; he simply decides not to do anything about it. Yet.
His apartment fills with stacks of boxes, all shipped from his place back in Japan, and while it feels more like a warehouse than a home, there’s something about opening those boxes that carries a feeling of permanence, something that Satoru doesn’t love. The new job isn’t awful; it’s nothing he’s not used to, but the people are so different here; everything from the pavements outside to the numerous lines of the confusing subway, all of it is so different. So maybe, Satoru thinks, hearing a familiar voice might be… what he needs?
It’s only been two and a half weeks since he received that voicemail, and in that time, he’s considered calling Suguru. Multiple times, actually. But the furthest he’d ever gotten, aside from the first time, had been to pull up that contact with no name several times, only to lock his phone and walk away entirely. But, eventually, with a bit of self-encouragement and a reminder that talking doesn’t have to mean anything, with Suguru’s words from the now saved voicemail echoing in his mind that he also doesn’t have to say anything, late one night, Satoru caves.
The middle of May offers a comfortable warmth that Satoru lets drift in through wide, open balcony windows. He’s still in his work clothes, sprawled across a couch, tie loosened around his neck and exhausted from a day of nonstop introductory meetings that could’ve all been summed up in a handful of emails, but his exhaustion only fuels his determination to do this. It’s funny, because despite how different his apartment here is from his one back home, it’s moments like these that almost remind him of the past—of sitting out on his balcony with the doors wide open, gazing at a skyline and wondering how things might’ve turned out differently.
That must be what finally does it: the past, but it’s not entirely without thoughts of the future.
Accounting for the time difference, it’s about midday in Tokyo when Satoru finds his nerve and decides to place the call. But unlike the last time he’d done this, this time, the call is connected after barely a few moments, and Suguru’s voice fills his head.
“I… didn’t think you’d call again, after the first time.” Suguru sounds surprised, but not as if he’s expecting a response.
Satoru’s considered silence. He’s considered sending a message, a voicemail, and even a video, but in the end, a few words are more than enough. Even if he doesn’t entirely know what he should say, what he can say, saying something is a start. Satoru lowers his head into his palms, and in a low voice that he doesn’t intend to sound as tired as it does, he whispers: “Neither did I.”
Whereas before it might’ve felt like winter, encapsulated and characterised entirely by those seven days, for some reason, this begins to feel like summer. True summer.
“I missed your voice.”
Satoru nods and pulls the phone closer. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and exhales quietly. “What else?”
Suguru laughs down the line, and it’s so incredibly soft. “Your smile. Your eyes,”
Satoru doesn’t immediately realise that he is no longer observing this scenario as an outsider in the third person, but rather as a participant to the change in the air. But when he does realise, when Suguru’s words, his voice, and those ‘what ifs’ begin to rise to the surface again, Satoru is surprised to learn that he doesn’t hate it. Maybe, even, this is something new he can learn. After all, Suguru had been the one to show him so many new things in the first place.
“You.”
And there it is, the start of something that Satoru can already see upon the horizon, like the first dredges of spring, the first falling cherry blossoms in April, or the first heatwave of summer. There’s a long silence where neither says a word; they don’t have to, and just as Suguru had put it before, that’s okay.