Chapter Text
There is an over abundance and indulgence of teen movies. All fantasies, tragedies and mesmerizing rom-coms idolizing a chapter of Human Life™️ that didn’t really exist until the 20th century. There aren’t hardly enough nuanced workplace dramas or college comedies and even less introspective movies romancing the late twenties experience.
Satoru would direct the opening of his introspective, romanticized movie about being nearly three decades old like this: it’s Friday and you and your friends orbit at work and collide at a bar—acceptably of course. What isn’t acceptable is blamed on the alcohol and usually occurs after karaoke. Something about singing your heart out to your friends makes for a charitable evening.
Right now, it’s 17:45, a karaoke night. Unlike many, Satoru is loosening his hakama in lieu of a tie and in favor of his favorite dark wash jeans and black henley. Out of the “office” no overtime, inspired by Nanami who surprisingly loathes their ritualistic bonding until he’s at least four beers in. Perhaps Satoru shouldn’t have mandated it, because now to Nanami he is synonymous with work, but they both know Nanami likes to loosen his metaphorical tie—needs it really.
It’s the little things in life. That’s the essence of a late twenties experience where Satoru is considered. It’s different for everyone of course but this is his indie film with an obligatory establishing shot of the city, the sun a large, glowing orange disk in the sky, the mountains on the horizon ready to swallow it whole.
Satoru puts his sunglasses on and heads toward the regular spot two trains North. It’s quiet in this part of the city, the houses tall and narrow, almost quaint-looking at sunset. He waits to cross the street as an economy car passes by. There’s a mass of black hair hanging out of the passenger window, a dog perhaps. No, a young guy who lifts his head in time to catch a glimpse of Satoru and Satoru of him. The guy is expressionless, reactionless, taking Satoru in like he would a fire hydrant on the corner of a street. A dog would take more interest if only to piss on him.
Satoru laughs and the guy’s head whips back, eyes discerning and curious all at once. Satoru waves, but the car turns left before he gets a reaction. He’s always wondered what it would be like to be an outsider witnessing the main character of a teen movie sulking, daydreaming and all but draping themselves out of a car window like they’re a web-spun scarve that could blow away.
You can’t get away with that kind of whimsical despair at 28. Satoru remembers those days well, the memories worn from use, drudged up again and again like an over eager mom breaking out baby pictures. He has no such parents himself—shame, he was a cute kid—but has encountered those kinds of moms and cooed at pudgy, big eyed versions of his friends and lovers.
On the train, Satoru distracts himself from reminiscing by constructing a script for Melancholy Car Guy. He knows there’s an over abundance of teen movies because he indulges in them himself after all. It’s nearly the start of second term—he knows because his students are excited and won’t let him forget it—so perhaps it’s a new school situation for Melancholy Car Guy. Starting over in the middle of the school year sucks.
Satoru wishes him the best of luck via a toast.
“To our youth,” he corrals a couple hours later, grabbing Nanami by the arm and ‘helping’ him raise his own glass.
“We’re not that old,” Shoko murmurs, already on her fifth drink.
Nanami wrestles his arm free and downs his beer. “Feels like it when baby-sitting.”
Satoru winds his arm around Nanami’s shoulder instead. “Don’t call the students babies.”
“I was referring to you, the overgrown man child.”
Satoru smiles and tugs at Nanami’s sleeve just to see his jaw clench. “I suppose this means you wouldn’t want to go to a show with me later.”
“What kind of show?” Nanami grits. “Theater?”
Shoko looks put-upon. “We explain this every time. A show is live music.”
“I already ordered take out for when I get home,” Nanami says, “it’s supposed to arrive in an hour.”
Satoru gasps. “An hour! Nanami, how could you? Utahime and Mei Mei haven’t even arrived yet.”
Speak of the teasable and the tease herself. Utahime bursts through the door, Mei Mei fingering her braid absently and shooting Satoru a clandestine grin from behind Utahime’s glower.
“There was an accident,” Utahime announces, loosening her iron grip on her purse, “some street kids got into trouble.”
Satoru scoots further down the booth, knee knocking Mei Mei’s when she sits. “Did you give them the dojo card?”
Utahime narrows her eyes. “You haven’t given us new cards to give out.”
“You are behind on recruitment,” Mei Mei points out, knocking Satoru’s knee back. “my after-school groups are dwindling.”
“Hey, hey,” he whines, “since when does recruitment all fall on me?”
“Since you’re the one that said fifty new students will be enrolled by the next school year,” Shoko says matter of fact, pulling Utahime into a hug on the other side of the booth. “Are you okay, Hime?”
Satoru laughs. “Did I say that?”
“You should get your case of convenient amnesia checked,” Nanami says.
“Stage an intervention, help me out here. I might forget my own appointment, you know.”
“Give him any more attention and we’ll have to cart him to the hospital for a swollen head,” Mei Mei snarks while taking Satoru’s beer because she can.
She pours herself a glass, and it’s gone soon after, only the imprint of her red lipstick on the glass’s rim remaining. Satoru winks at her. A charitable night it might be, buuuut inevitably is not. Karaoke ends promptly with Nanami’s lame exit, so he and his entourage of beautiful, black-belt women head to a very relative ‘seedier’ district where the booze is cheaper and the music louder.
Somewhere in the night he ends up outside, drunk and dewy with sweat. He bums a cigarette from some punk near the alley and their smoke entangles as they puff. Satoru eyes the kid as best as he can with smeared vision and leans back against the brick, rough grain and edge slicing into his scapula.
“Where’re your friends?”
Cigarette Kid shrugs. “‘Dunno.”
“Same boat,” Satoru says and charades the motion of a wave with one hand.
He’s sure Shoko and Utahime are drowning in each other’s spit only to pretend nothing happened when they’re at the dojo again on Monday morning. Mei Mei has probably found someone more interesting than Satoru, at least for tonight.
“What bleach do you use?”
Satoru cocks his head and regrets it when the world wobbles a bit too much. “Oh, you mean my hair. It’s au naturale, came out the womb this handsome.”
Cigarette Kid crosses his arms and kicks at a traffic cone toppled over. “Next you’ll want me to believe you’re not wearing bright blue contacts. You a cosplayer?”
“Precisely that.” Satoru grins and holds out his hand for another cigarette though he’s only halfway through the first.
No cigarette is given because the both of them turn toward the dark pit of the alley, telltale sounds of knuckles cracking into bone and grunts of pain arresting their attention. Satoru is the first to move, his long legs managing a relatively straight line.
“Oi,” he calls, pulling from his cigarette as he assesses the scene.
It’s two guys against one, none of them particularly strong looking. The perpetrators reel back and laugh, spitting at their victim’s feet before he crumples to the ground, blood dripping from beneath a shag of black hair.
“Get lost, fag,” one of the losers shouts.
“Nah, let him stay,” leers the other, “he’s asking for it, isn’t he?”
“Are you gonna take ‘em?” asks Cigarette Kid, who Satoru completely forgot about.
“I am,” he says, “stay back unless you can throw a mean right hook. I’ll say when just in case.”
Adrenaline is radiating from Satoru’s chest, pumping and tightening his loose limbs straight. The shorter one comes first, aiming for a punch to the gut because that’s all he can reliably reach. Satoru grabs him by the arm and twists until the guy is in a lock.
“Now,” Satoru sings and Cigarette Kid delivers a knee to the guy’s face instead of the mean right hook they discussed. “That works, too!”
Satoru releases the guy and he collapses, knees to concrete then face to concrete. Ouch. Satoru pulls his cigarette again, squinting through the smoke at his eager accomplice. “Good job, you really—“
“Watch out!”
Satoru pivots on a dime, smacking Loser Guy Number Two’s weak punch away with one arm and hooking around his neck with another. From there it’s all gravity knocking the guy to the ground and sending Satoru stumbling like he’s Drunken Fist from Mortal Kombat.
“That was sick,” Cigarette Kid exclaims, “you clotheslined the fuck out of him.”
Loser Guy Number Two groans and gasps in response, so much wind knocked out of him Satoru almost feels bad.
“It was actually more of a Tenchi Nage than clothesline,” he explains, squatting next to the other poor guy still dripping blood, “can you stand?”
“Yeah.”
Satoru holds out a hand, but the guy stands by himself, wiping the blood away with a long, draping sleeve before meeting Satoru’s gaze. It’s him. It’s Melancholy Car Guy, but with a busted lip and a bruise blooming over his high cheekbone. That or Satoru is just drunk, but the resemblance is uncanny even if he only saw him for a few seconds via a passing car.
“You need a drink,” Satoru says.
“Can’t drink,” the guy mumbles, “I’m not of age.”
He can’t be much older than Cigarette Kid, but there’s something dark in his doe-like eyes and pensive shoulders that ages him.
“You were just fighting in an alleyway,” Cigarette Kid exclaims, “fuck the law.”
“Fuck the law,” Satoru cheers and waves his bank card at them, “my treat. We just have to find an ATM first.”
They end up at a quiet, late-night ramen shop, Satoru’s new companions, Fushiguro and Yoshino, slurping noodles, broth and honjozo sake. It must have been Fushiguro’s blood-crusted frown and Yoshino’s leather get-up that earned them their booze without IDs. Satoru is content, more or less sober now and feeling incredibly smug about how the night has unfolded. He even snapped a picture of his new delinquent buddies and sent it to the Dojo group chat. No responses yet.
“So, Gojo,” Yoshino says around a mouthful of narutomaki, “where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“I’m glad you asked.”
Satoru slides two business cards across the table. On them are chibi versions of him, Mei Mei, Nanami, Shoko and Utahime. Geto is scribbled out of course. Satoru went through and did so himself to each and every card. All five hundred of them. Shoko said he was pathetic and Nanami appreciated his frugality. And of course Utahime still complains about not having any of the cards when Satoru knows for a fact there’s a stack at the front desk of the dojo.
“What is this,” asks Fushiguro, running a thumb across the raised laminate letters of Gojo’s Dojo.
“A business card! There’s my number and the location of said business. I designed them myself.” Fushiguro isn’t impressed, so Satoru continues, “I’m not one to judge why either of you were where you were tonight, but I do believe you should at least be able to defend yourself wherever you decide to go. We offer a variety of martial arts classes and once you get to a certain level, you can even cross train if you like.”
“I can’t,” Fushiguro says, pushing the card back across the smooth wood.
“If money is the problem, we sponsor five students each season. You should apply.” Yoshino holds up the card to the light, turns it this way and that to see the metallic coating shift. Satoru perks up. “Cool, right?”
“Yeah. I’m in,” Yoshino says with finality. “I’m so in.”
“Think about it,” Satoru says to Fushiguro, “or you can get jumped in another alleyway, but I can’t guarantee I’ll be around to save you next time.”
Fushiguro is frowning, not obnoxiously so. His mouth just seems set that way. Satoru wants to reach out and tug at his cheeks like he does with Itadori.
A phone chimes and they all reach for their pockets. Yoshino is the lucky winner.
“Fuck, it’s my mom. I have to go.”
Or not so lucky winner. Yoshino drinks the rest of his broth and claps Satoru’s shoulder.
“Here,” Yoshino says, holding out his pack of cigarettes, “can’t risk it.”
Satoru pockets them and waves him off. And then, there were two.
“Thank you,” Fushiguro says, no mumbling or embarrassed indignation that Satoru expects from young guys like him, “for saving me back there. Thank you. I owe you one.”
Satoru smiles and leans back in his chair, arms folded behind his head. “You can repay me by coming around to the dojo. At least check it out. You might like it.”
Fushiguro stares into his half-empty ramen bowl like it might have the answers to all his problems. “I want to learn to fight. Like actually fight one, two or three guys if I needed to.”
“Martial arts has many practical applications,” Satoru offers.
“But you don’t teach those ‘practical applications’ in a class setting, do you?”
Satoru quirks a brow. “No, we don’t. There’s YouTube for that if you really want to know.”
“Teach me how to fight. I don’t have any use for martial arts if I can’t apply anything in real life.”
“I only know aikido well enough to teach and it’s an inherently deflective practice. I don’t think that’s what you’re after.”
“You took those guys down easily.”
“Is that what you want?”
Fushiguro shrugs. “I don’t want to go to a class. I don’t want to practice with anyone I can’t go all out on.”
“Tough luck. I can’t just give you special treatment because you demand it.” Satoru sniffs, but peeks an eye at Fushiguro.
“Don’t give it to me then. I’ll earn it.”
Satoru can’t help his widening smile. “Yeah? I am admittedly short a few hands at the dojo. How do you feel about cleaning?”
“I’ll do it.” Fushiguro looks the most alive yet, his pretty eyes gleaming in the low light of the restaurant. “Just teach me how to fight. Anything and everything you know. Don’t go easy on me.”
“Jeez, you’ve got me wondering how many school bullies you have on your back. I’d ask but I don’t think you’d tell me.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Satoru laughs. “Good. The less I know the better. I’ll see you on Monday, then.”
“Monday is fine.”
Fushiguro leaves with the Gojo’s Dojo business card in his back pocket and Satoru goes home alone to watch the original Karate Kid and call himself Mr. Miyagi in the group chat that no one has the decency to respond to. It’s just another Friday night at the ripe age of 28. As predictable and reliable as any save for melancholy Fushiguro and moody Yoshino. Satoru doesn’t even know either kid’s first name.
Oh well. A little mystery can’t hurt.
Monday it is.