Chapter Text
When you’re 25 and your bones are weary from the weight of existing alongside the multiple anomalies you’ve encountered in what you think is a short spread of time, you’re forced to find the best way to cope. It’s something every person should know, probably around the age where they first rely on a form of escapism, but when you feel like you only have five years left to figure everything out, the worst to come can transform into a monster growing out of its cage really quick.
Shoko always felt like that untamable beast that leisured deep down in the caves of her soul was at bay. It was there from the start, not something she could abandon or put up for adoption. A little beast when she first started smoking at the ripe age of 14, medium when she lost her virginity to her Chem1A TA at the dreaded 19, and somewhere close to large when she somehow got into med school at 21. In her mind, Shoko wasn’t a deadbeat, so whatever darkness she harbored from birth was to stay with her till it outgrew her. And besides, it’s not like she could pretend to go to the convenience store for a carton of milk to run away from it, for it was a being that stuck with her everywhere.
When she was 5, she thought everyone had their own little beast. No, she didn’t mean the monsters hiding in the closet or under her bed. She thought that monsters were entities that everyone had, nothing scary, just… there. Maybe it was the slight obsession with Pokemon that started the belief, like we’re all Pokemon trainers with our own little dudes and that only we saw them, carrying all of our secrets and unknown baggage around till we croaked. Maybe even let them fight it out with other people’s Pokemons. Nowadays, Shoko knew the idea was a bit twisted for a 5 year old to conjure up, and she was glad it was never something she shared with her elementary friends. The bullying and the teasing to come out of it would’ve leveled up her said Pokemon by a couple thousand points.
By 12, she understood that maybe that deeper part of her that was always somehow a little beneath surface level was a normal thing. She was normal. She went to school and got good grades. She chose to keep her mouth shut when she knew having it open would result in nothing rewarding. She did her best to prove to her parents that she was a good normal daughter. The itching urge to act out never truly coming into fruition, the lock keeping the cage together iron steel and military grade, with the key held tightly in the palm of her hand.
Unfortunately for her, that monster took a liking to boys who were too tall, too lanky, too stupid and obnoxious, and most of all too observant of its very being. They came in blue and black, running around the place and graffitiing its dungeons with badly drawn images of small penises, and littering with cigarette buds and lollipop wrappers. It loved them from the first sight, loved how their little beasts looked similar to itself, for once it was not alone in the world. There were other people like her. And they were normal. So that solidified her belief that she always was too.
But as all monsters are, they also grow more nefarious when they’re not tamed, and with the help of other monsters they can break out of their cages and run rampant in the world above, a place not meant for them to flourish and be. And once they’re past the point of being captured, they hide in the dark streets and alleyways and jump at any opportunity to wreak havoc, to each other and to themselves.
At first her favorite form of coping was through the dangerous gamble with nicotine. Her first drag, still her most memorable; Suguru’s cold fingers holding the cigarette between her lips and Satoru smiling above her, his thumb pressing down on the lighter, one hand around the flame to keep it from dying out. She remembers wanting to blow it out, to make a wish; that this moment would never fade and life would never change. It was a selfish thing to hope for, and by the time she started nicotine patches she knew the true weight of it.
Her second favorite form of coping was losing herself in the halls of a place she did not belong in. Suguru always knew a spot. He was always dragging her to somewhere new, places that fit him and not so much her. Loud and bustling, more than a little shady which didn’t phase her. Wherever he took her, there would always be someone there giving him a fist bump or a slight nod. A sign of respect for the boy with a crown of barbed wire around his head. Most times a girl, who would stare at him in awe, her eyes tracing his outline like predator to prey, but Shoko knew it was always the other way around. Suguru knew everyone. People often thought it was Satoru who was the crowd favorite and though he never wasn’t, Suguru held down the party. He had the connections. Luckily for Shoko, Suguru was always generous with letting her exist within his hard earned work. As long as he was there, the party would never end.
Maybe she should’ve told him to fuck off earlier, mention how his parties were killing her. He would introduce her to assholes, allow her to get involved with those very assholes, and then tear deep into their flesh, bloody and bruised. Shoko dated a couple of his friends, if one would even call wilting grocery store roses and half assed orgasms, as dating. Every single one of her boyfriends that she met through him have tasted both her lips and the thick silver rings Geto never took off.
Did she ever try stopping him, at least once? Of course not. His beast was bigger than hers. It didn’t stand a chance against him. And her beast could never pretend to hate him despite the blood, the violence, and the pain of having to carry him through all of it. Suguru was more than heavy to hold, but for a long time Shoko adored that weight on her. Needed it, even. She saw it as a comfort that couldn’t be sought in an overdose of prescribed medication or sweaty bodies losing its control to a House beat blaring through cheap speakers. As long it was there she knew she would never be alone again. That there were eyes that saw her for who she really was.
Now, the only time she felt the presence of his gaze was when she would walk through shadows. In crowded places lacking light. She knew he was still there watching her, could feel his stare from a passerby on a late night train ride, reminding her that he’s left too large of a mark to ever get rid of. His weight was gone. In ways it relieved her. She thought something that would accelerate the process of her becoming worm food was through asphyxiation. That he’d suffocate her with the heaviness of his entire being. It’s hard to fully believe that notion when she still wakes up in the middle of the night clinging to the little air she has left in her lungs, clutching for him. She would dream that he would break into her apartment, sit at the edge of her bed wearing that thick black sweater that swallowed him whole, with a sly grin on his face, like he knew something she didn’t.
But he was long gone, taking his beast with him.
Her third favorite form of coping was indulgence. When she let herself taste even the littlest bit, it was often that she’d consume it whole. As long as there was something there for her to take, she would never turn it down. It didn’t matter if she liked it or loathed it. As long as she was gaining something, it didn’t matter. Something was always better than nothing.
So when a 16 year old Satoru slipped a blue cotton candy lollipop out of his lips, told her to open wide, and stuck it into her mouth, of course she allowed her tongue to capture the flavor of his spit, terribly artificially sweet exactly like the candy he forced her to have. He knew how much she hated candy and sweets. Sugar was something she’d do better without. But when it came to him she never said no. Never tried shoving his hands away or closing her mouth.
Rather she often demanded a casual spit in my mouth, when the situation asked of it, or even when it didn’t. Satoru was sweet like that. She could ask him for anything in the world no matter how absurd or hard to obtain with no shame, and he would show up knocking on her bedroom door with a smile all the way up to his eyes, palms out towards her.
The first time she held his hand was an accident. For some reason they thought it was a great idea to sneak out during a super level typhoon. Satoru carried her on his back through knee level flood all the way to the nearest train station above ground, their uniforms soaking wet, hair drenched. If they stayed at the school like they were supposed to then maybe they wouldn’t have to worry about fighting off hypothermia and a crippling fever blooming through their bodies. But if they stayed, Shoko wouldn’t be able to take advantage of the situation. She wouldn’t have been able to laugh in Satoru’s face about how he looked like a ‘drenched albino rat’ and he wouldn’t have grabbed her cheeks, squeezing in annoyance. Her hands wouldn’t have pried him off, eventually slipping into each other. Warm and calloused, her hands small in his. Gargantuan. Titan-like. He made her feel so minuscule yet so important. Like if she were to break right then and there he would disintegrate into dust and get lost with the rain. Giant in the face of a needle. To say the kiss that happened afterwards was an accident would be a stretch, and after that every time she held his hand was on purpose.
Despite how much Satoru let her indulge in everything he had to offer, he never let her take pride in saying it was for a reason. That there was actually a purpose to all that he let her get away with. He’d let her take all that would settle her crave for something bigger but never did he give her the satisfaction of saying it was because he was anything more than a friend. In her eyes, ‘best friend’ was too casual for what they were, too mundane and nonchalant, but he would never let her call him anything else. She knew that if he had it his way, he wouldn’t agree with the term ‘best friends’ to describe what they were to begin with. ‘Best friend’ was only reserved for the one that they let get away. The one who would never come back even if they do change their minds and allow him in again.
Unfortunately for Satoru there isn’t a better word to describe Shoko. More than a friend, less than a lover, the middle ground between him and the one he can’t seem to let go of. So in Shoko’s eyes, he had no other choice but to make her the placeholder for a crown already rusting. An understudy to a role that no longer exists in their play.
And for that very reason, Shoko knew better than to love Satoru more than she already did, at least out loud and to his face. Because as much as his ego needed to be tamed, she already took so much from him. Regardless of how fucked up Suguru left them, he never once threatened to leave her to follow him. He never disappeared from her and left her to fend for herself, kept promises that not even Suguru could make at his best. So why would she ask him where she actually stood with him? Why would she risk the chance of losing him completely when he already offers all that his body can take, and all that his mind can will?
At the end of the day, Gojo Satoru is not a God. His love won’t absolve her of the terrible sins she committed to keep them around. Confessing to him about the only thing that remains a secret between them won’t result in a heaven promised or for cosmic enlightenment. Yet, why is it that the truth always dances behind her teeth, begging to be released? Free of its cages and roaming the surface like their beasts.
If her beast truly had its way it would go right up to Satoru’s, position itself in front of his so that there’s no escape or running away before it could get its words out, and say, “I’ve been in love with you for longer than I’ve been aware of my own existence. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear.”
But her beast was a coward, exactly like her. Terrified of vulnerability, filled with pride, and its fear of abandonment, probably the only entity hiding in the closet.
So when Satoru shows up to her apartment wearing nothing but an oversized dinosaur onesie (she didn’t even know they made those in his size) and a half eaten vanilla ice cream cone, like he does now, she doesn’t hesitate opening the door all the way and letting him in like she always does.
He steps in like he owns the place (he pays her rent sometimes without her knowing though she hates it when he does). Satoru has a power of making any space he walks into conform and mold to fit him best. Suddenly the couch that her parents gifted her for her birthday was crafted just for his ass to sit on. The untouched strawberry jam tucked into the cupboards that a coworker bought for her as a white elephant gift opened and in his palm, a spoon mixing the dark red goo. He moved as if everything had his name on it. It’s a shame it works on people even better.
She sits at the table drinking a cold cup of tea. Before he came she was writing a letter, addressed to well, who else? The letter contained everything she wished she could say to him. Every single thought she’s had about him since they stumbled into each other’s paths. Her right pinky finger was caked with black ink. At one point she started to write too fast and all the words started leaving her mind at a pace that her hand could not catch up with.
He somehow sensed her level of vulnerability tonight and thought that it was the best time to visit. Perfect timing as always. Play pretend at a normal relationship. Sleep in her bed, likely sans dinosaur onesie and covered in sweat, eat all her strawberry jam, and allow himself to relish in the feeling of having her all to himself for another night. Without all those confusing labels of course. No need to complicate something simple and unspoken.
She quickly folds the letter up and tucks it underneath a teared open box of birth control. She snickers at the sight of it. The mind and the body, spelling out his name whether or not she wills it to.
“Hey, whatever happened to that Mothman dude?” Satoru snorts, the question so out of the blue. He has a tendency to speak whatever comes to mind regardless of how the other might feel. Shoko never minded.
“Probably in the woods haunting people for a couple dollars,” Shoko answers nonchalantly. ‘Mothman’ was a nickname for this guy that Shoko dated during her second year of college. He was one of Suguru’s plugs, his favorite actually. Supplied the best of the best at a discounted price. That didn’t stop him from breaking his jaw once he found out that he was forcing Shoko to take Plan B every time they did it. It was fucking up her body so Suguru decided to return the treatment. He got the nickname because Satoru thought he was hideous and his shoulders were so broad that it almost looked like he had wings.
“I don’t know how you get off to that shit, Sho,” He tells her the night she introduced him. She didn’t have it in her to tell him that every time Mothman and her did it, she imagined Satoru in his place. And she came every single time.
Satoru laughs at her comment and spins around to face her, throwing an arm over the couch.
“What’s on your mind, Doc?”
She stands up and brings her cup to the sink, making an excuse to rinse it so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him for longer than she should.
“I’m thinking about how I was saving that strawberry jam for something special.”
“Like what? You hate jam.”
“Hmm, maybe for your wedding. I don’t have a black card like you so I figured I’d re-gift you know?” She dries her hands off on a towel and turns to look at him. He’s smirking like he always is, a bit of the jam left under his bottom lip.
“I don’t think my wife would like it if you were at my wedding actually,” He walks up to the sink, depositing the spoon into her cup.
“Why’s that?” She leans against the counter next to him, staring straight ahead. Maybe this wasn’t the right thing to joke about with him. Maybe she should’ve chosen something else because if they keep going on with this bit she might end up strangling the bride he doesn’t have in her sleep.
“Because you’re my favorite,” He leans against the sink, their arms crossed but touching, “She’d get mad if I pick you up bridal style and toss you into the getaway limo instead of her.”
She’s selfish yet again and allows herself to see that image. She and Satoru running away at his wedding. Him in a suit, his hair done for once, and her in a dress, not white, driving away in a car meant for groom and bride.
Not ‘groom and his best friend’. So she stops it at that.
“She doesn’t need to worry. I won’t object and stop the wedding,” Shoko could feel her pulse racing because of the small physical contact happening between them. She’s ashamed that after all these years he still gets her flustered and red like a schoolgirl. She grew out of the uniform years ago but whenever she’s right next to him it’s like she never took it off.
“But I will. I know you’ll buy me as much strawberry jam as I want anyway,” Satoru drops his hand to her hip, forcing her to meet his gaze. Why were his eyes so fucking blue tonight?
She chuckles. Even at the discussion of an inevitable future for the both of them he still has the nerve to tease her about it when the only man she’s ever envisioned at the altar with her, was him.
“I prefer to not partake in your battle with pre-diabetes actually,” She wipes the strawberry jam underneath his lip with her thumb and licks it off.
“But who else would supply my insulin, Doc?” He was closer now. Less than a foot’s distance away from her. Dinosaur onesie making him look exactly like how he did at 16. As volatile and young as a newly erupted volcano. The paper he saw her folding, long forgotten by Shoko but Satoru knew to look at it after she fell asleep. He’s not a saint so he allows himself the occasional snoop. Something tells him that whatever it was was worth reading. Everything about her was worth reading into. To him, Shoko was his favorite book; never-ending, multi-dimensional, and written just for him.
“You have more than enough money to buy it on your own, Toru.”
“Money won’t buy me a hot doctor though.”
“But don’t you already have a wife in this scenario?”
“Yeah and I left her for the hot doctor obviously.”
“So why didn’t you just marry the doctor in the first place?” It always comes out when she’s not holding it back enough. As much as she tries, her restraint always crumbles when it comes to the idea of losing him. Even when it’s to something that doesn’t exist (at least not yet).
He sighs and lets his right hand crawl up the side of her neck. His eyes are scanning her face, reading into the emotions she’s so badly trying to hide. She didn’t want him to think she held any sense of seriousness when it came to the topic of their relationship. She didn’t want to scare him. If he found out what words she was actually trying to convey then she would never see him in her space again. There would be no one who would eat her unopened fruit preserves, no one who would take more baths in her bathtub than her, no one to play life roulette with.
Shoko would never admit it out loud to herself but sometimes she wishes that the birth control would fail. Sometimes she gets the urge to skip a couple days. To let the universe take its course. To let it all happen regardless of what he might want. Fuck her pride and the little left of her morality. Fuck his hesitance and his guilt that weren’t even a byproduct of their existence, yet it’s all that chains him down.
“Because I’m not someone worthy of being saved by her. She has other lives to salvage. To use all of her power on me would be a waste, maybe an insult to her profession.”
How cute, she thinks. Despite how large he is in comparison to her he only sees himself as someone so reduced and small in the grand scheme of things. That he’s only a diminutive phase of her life she’ll soon get over in a few years when in reality she only started keeping track of time after she met him.
Shoko doesn’t like to imagine him dying though she knows it’s bound to happen. It’s not something she can prevent regardless of how much she fights it. She can’t cure him of a death that awaits him. Nevertheless, if they’re still showing up to each other’s apartments past the age of 70, she can't help but wish that she bites the dust first. She can’t bear to see the light behind his eyes dim naturally, while she’s sitting there not being able to do anything about it. What’s the point in her being a doctor if she can’t save the only person who’s been keeping her head afloat all these years? Why save other lives if the only one she truly gives a fuck about is gone?
But she can’t say that. She doesn’t really have the right to. So like a sharp scalpel from the side of her jaw that she draws up to her lips, she holds back the truth like she always does. A routine she’s grown used to. Why waste the words and regret it later when we could leave things simple? Why risk the chance of him slipping away?
“I’ll violate all the HIPAA regulations for you if you ask me to,” was all she could manage. Luckily for her, he was willing to take it. He always is. Giving her everything that she asks for, and taking anything she was willing to give back.
“It’s not easy to find a doctor who would tell you all about their patient’s history with lung cancer.”
“Nope, you won’t find another like me,” She hopes. To lose him to a replica would be nothing short of an insult. A chopped off middle finger signed with a kiss. She’d go back to more than just nicotine if that were to happen. To Mothman even.
“I don’t want another like you,” He seals it with a chaste kiss to her mouth, strawberry jam meeting 3 hour old tea. It’s sweet on her tongue, like he always is. His favorite method of stopping them from saying more than needs to be said, saving them once again.
And for now she’ll let it stay that way. She’ll let him get his way and more, because to have some of him is better than living with none. For all of her 25 years of being on this godforsaken planet, she’s learned that much. Realizing that there’s no point in gambling with chance, and learning to accept all that you’re given.
Shoko’s beast quietly watches from the couch. Even a monster knows when to stop.