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It’s the middle of the night when his phone rings. Peter groans in his sleep, lazily reaches his nightstand to take the call. His eyes are still closed when he answers, “Hello?”
“Duty calls. Might be a murder case, we need you to come take a look.”
Peter’s eyes immediately flutter open. He rids off the crust from sleep with his fingers. “I’ll be there in 20,” he hangs up. The bedsheets ruffle underneath as he sits up to leave. He quickly puts on a pair of green slacks sitting in his closet, grunting when he struggles to tug the zipper over his stomach. His noises are enough to wake his wife from her dreams.
“They’re calling for you right now?” She huffs.
Peter doesn’t have to look at her to know she still refuses to look at him. Nothing he does is ever good enough. The last time she told him about her concerns surrounding their marriage, he had tried coming up with solutions. He took time off for a little getaway, he cut back on his work hours (for a while), he complimented her everyday (for a while), he started helping with chores around the house (for a while). None of it was ever enough for her.
Yesterday, it was a new concern. A friend of hers had told her the secret to a long, happy marriage was sex. They don’t have enough sex, she explained to him.
And so, like a diligent husband, Peter had tried. He tried so hard to please her, letting her lead him to the areas she liked most with her rough hands. There was nothing romantic or sensual about it; it was simply one more task he had to fulfill as her husband.
But when she laid there on their married bed of 23 years, waiting for him to get it up— his eyes traced over her naked body, soft but still aged just like his own (he had stared at himself long enough in the bathroom mirror to know this), it was useless.
She sat up on the bed, covering herself with a sense of disappointment so suffocating it brought Peter to tears. He feigned exhaustion, she merely scoffed, wishing to go to bed without yelling at each other.
Peter was burnt out, he wished that could have been enough for her to hear.
“Yes, Lois,” he replies, his voice quiet. “Potential homicide.”
“Alright,” she says. And that’s that.
Peter ties the laces on his shoes, grabs his wallet and keys. Before he walks out of their bedroom, he turns to look at Lois. Her back is turned. She must already be asleep. He lets his gaze drop to his feet for a moment and then he closes the door.
“What was the autopsy report like?” Peter questions the officers on standby at the station. He makes eye contact with a younger officer in front of him, expecting an answer. The officer stutters, red-faced and Peter takes pity on the poor kid. He pats his shoulder with a slight grimace, “It’s alright, good work.”
“Peter. You’re here,” the chief calls from across the station. Sitting in his wheelchair, he signals him over with an obnoxious finger wave that makes Peter internally cringe.
“Joe,” Peter starts, “Update me.”
Joe rubs his face with his palm. “It’s a mess, Peter. The examiner was telling my men that there were obvious signs of foul play when he was looking at the body, but there wasn’t any strict evidence of it. There were just guesses. On paper, his death was ruled an accident, so legally there’s nothing to continue investigating. But a lot of us feel uneasy just letting this go.”
Peter’s eyebrows scrunch in thought. He scratches his chin. “What did the examiner say then?”
“Initially he thought it was weird that this man just fell off the cliff— I mean we all found that strange. This was a well known hiking trail, even my 80 year old grandmother can hike up that mountain without an oxygen tank.”
Peter hums. Joe’s grandmother with life-debilitating heart issues would certainly not be able to take five steps up that incline, but he keeps his mouth shut in favor of his job.
“He’s bruised pretty badly from the fall, but there’s a few cut wounds he can't explain. From the height of the fall, there was no way the rocks could have sliced him. He was filming the whole thing too,” Joe shakes his head, uncomfortable. “Poor guy recorded his own death. He talked to the camera like a YouTuber. We tried finding something about a channel or any blogs he might have had, but nothing came up. In the video, he mentioned his lover— someone by the name of Gojo Satoru.”
“Gojo?” Peter squints at the chief, curious.
Joe’s face suddenly falls. “Honestly Peter, it’s 2024. There is genuinely no need to be homophobic. It’s actually trendier to be gay these days, so the more we nag the older we come off. You know, it’s funny, I’ve always been a little bi-curious on my dad’s side—”
“No,” Peter interrupts, waving his hands in the air, frantic. “Not that. I don’t care if he’s a homosexual. That’s a Japanese name.”
“Right,” Joe clears his throat. “He’s an immigrant.”
The lights in the interrogation room are a little too bright for Peter’s liking. It’s nearly eight in the morning and the bright LED bulbs are headache inducing. He lets out a sigh as he watches the man in front of him fidget.
He’s beautiful, for one. Peter has never been ashamed to admit when another man is good looking, never thought it was wrong. And this man— Gojo— is gorgeous.
Usually blue eyes and white hair is served with sun spots and wrinkles so folded you’d think God was making focaccia bread with skin. No, this man couldn’t be more than 28.
Peter tries not to cringe when he realizes, again, just how old he is. He’s not so far off from resembling a loaf of focaccia himself.
“Ah, I realize it’s pretty late— or early, in the day,” Peter starts, testing the waters. He doesn’t want to come off too strongly and spook any potential evidence pointing to homicide. “Are you hungry?”
Gojo sits up, uncrossing his (rather long) legs. He smiles something sweet; it makes a warm feeling erupt at the pit of Peter’s stomach. He mentally mistakes it for acid.
“I could eat.”
Some of the younger cops run out to bring back assorted breads and snacks from the convenience store near the station. Peter laughs at the variety of drinks they picked out too.
He picks up a grape juice box and offers it to Gojo with a grin, “Grape juice?”
The man lifts an apple juice box with his own (rather large) hand with a smirk. “A trade?”
Peter chuckles good spiritedly. Gojo is charming, this will make things easy for him. They swap drinks and respectively take their polite sips in the quiet of the room.
“I apologize about your— your. Well, your partner. I know everything is still fresh, but I’m afraid it’s protocol to do this.”
“Yes, I understand. It’s quite alright,” Gojo says, putting down his juice. He shifts in his chair across from Peter and sighs. “He was a good man. He wasn’t the brightest, but he was kind.”
Peter’s toe switches in his shoe. That’s a rather odd thing to say about your boyfriend who had just died. “I see. How did you two meet, if you don’t mind me asking.”
Gojo lets out a dry laugh. “Why bother with respectability politics? This is your job after all, I can’t get mad at you for asking the most basic questions.”
“Why bother with anything at all then? Is it a sin to be polite?” Peter fires back, curious, but he’s smirking. The man across from him seems so lax, at ease. It’s a challenge, Peter recognizes. “I’m merely doing my job, yes, but you do have the legal right to not answer. Do you wish to call for a lawyer?”
“No,” Gojo exhales slowly. “No, there’s no need. We met at a gay bar in Japan. He was traveling for work. He fell in love— or something of the sort. He took me to his hotel, and then to the States. We lived together for a year. And yes, I do have a work permit.”
“Right,” Peter nods, a little flustered that the man covered so many bases. He clears his throat. “I don’t mean to offend, but your English is really good for someone who just moved here.”
“I suppose I’m lucky I studied well in school,” Gojo smirks, staring down at Peter. There’s a sparkle in his blue eyes that makes Peter’s breath hitch.
“What kind of work do you do here?” He asks once he gets his lungs to function properly again. He takes another sip of his juice.
“I work at a nursing home close to my apartment. It’s what I did in Japan as well. It’s hard work,” he says. “It takes up the majority of my day.”
“I see. And when you’re not working, what do you typically do?”
“Stay at home,” Gojo answers simply. He shrugs his shoulders, crossing his legs again. He doesn’t touch the snacks on the table. “I live a very mundane life, Detective.”
Peter gets home later than he anticipated. By the time he finishes the interrogations, looking through file copies, attending meetings and walking through the media training the newer cops require once the press gets a hold of what happened, it’s eleven p.m.
He tosses his car keys onto the kitchen counter and curses when he sees a plastic-wrapped plate of food taunting him. He ditches washing up before dinner, immediately moving to microwave his wife’s cooking. The microwave beeps. He opens the door to take the plate out. He stirs the pasta with a spoon and takes a bite. A lot of it is still cold, but he can’t be bothered and continues to eat quietly in the kitchen.
There’s a tiny metal tin in the pantry holding cigarettes, he remembers. He had forgotten about them since he decided to quit smoking a while ago. Today feels like a good day to start back up again.
He takes one outside, fishing through his pants pocket for a lighter. He can’t see the stars in the city but he always finds himself staring at the sky anyway.
He takes a drag and pretends the satellites past the ozone layer aren’t man-made technology, but hot balls of air instead. He pretends something as beautiful as constellations are tangible from his backyard. Peter laughs to himself when he takes another drag of his cigarette.
The wooden fence next to him starts to shake, scaring Peter. He steps away from the fence but quickly relaxes once he sees a familiar face pop out from the other side. “Cleveland,” he exhales. “You scared me, I almost crapped my pants.”
“Sorry Peter,” Cleveland apologizes with a cheeky tone of voice. “The kids are at my mother-in-law’s and the wife’s asleep so I figured I’d light up too. She thinks I quit cigs five years ago.”
Peter sighs. “Jesus, Brown.”
“Jesus was brown,” Cleveland mumbles. He takes a drag of his own cigarette and happily exhales through his nose. There’s a humming in the back of his throat that makes Peter burn with envy. How undoubtedly content he sounds with his life. “This is nice. This is what living is all about, Peter.”
Peter doesn’t grace him with a response for a few moments, craning his neck to watch the satellites in the night sky instead. “Do you ever wish for more, Cleveland?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean— I’m happy now. With work and with Lois. Even our kids are all grown and out of the house. There isn’t much more I can ask for. Logically, logically. But sometimes, I come home and I feel so empty. I’m happy. But I wish I was happier, you know?” Peter finishes. His eyes dart back to Earth to look at his friend.
Cleveland nods his head but remains silent. Peter squints, waiting for a response. A few minutes go by in pure silence (not counting the cars on the street and the birds). Peter stares at his friend.
“Cleveland?”
“Peter?”
“Did you hear me?” Peter asks, suddenly embarrassed. His cigarette is getting smaller. His break from life is almost over.
Cleveland’s face twists into one of confusion. He strokes his mustache with a finger as he thinks to himself. “Were you talking to me?”
“Oh forget it,” Peter drops his cigarette bud to the floor, putting it out with his foot. He waves good night to his friend as he walks back inside.
Peter sits in his car, waiting.
Before he drove back home last night, Joe had requested Peter babysit Gojo “just in case.” Nothing about him screamed psychopath during the interrogation but apparently, everyone watching behind the glass thought it was weird how unaffected the man was. It was almost as if he had no relation to the victim at all. You’d hardly think they were lovers the way Gojo behaved in the interrogation room.
Peter thinks it’s dumb. There’s so many possible reasons why this man could have been unaffected by his boyfriend’s death— reasons unworthy of accusing him of pushing his boyfriend off the cliff that night. It doesn’t make sense, but he’s here appeasing the chief.
Gojo hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch. Peter can see this from his car using binoculars. It feels ridiculous using them when the man’s apartment is 90% windows; there truly is no need for them. He wonders if a man with that many windows, so willing to let others see him, is actually capable of murder. What’s really going on behind those blue eyes?
Peter’s hands grip the binoculars tighter when Gojo suddenly stands. He stands in the middle of the living room for a minute or two, almost as if he’s debating something. He turns his head to look out the window where Peter’s car is in view.
Peter ducks his head, cursing to himself. He gives it a moment before raising his head again to see Gojo turned away from the window.
Gojo closes his eyes and sways to something. Music, probably. A vinyl, CD, Bluetooth speaker. Which could it be? What song is he listening to? What song gets him feeling like this? He looks blissed out, shrugging off his dark jacket as he dances with his shoulders. There’s a rhythm he’s following. That much is obvious when he begins to roll his hips, grinding against the air.
Peter swallows a lump of spit, suddenly tense. He feels his chest begin to heave uncomfortably like he’s sick.
Through the window, Gojo is moving with much more emotion, almost as if he’s copying a routine. He moves his hands in the air with precision. His eyes are still closed, but his face is twisted in such a sensual way, it would make anyone feel unnerved. Anyone would feel this wound up about watching a beautiful man dance in his private home.
“What the hell am I doing?” Peter groans, covering his face with his hands. This isn’t a real job, this is just creepy. He uncovers his face to look at Gojo one more time.
He’s still dancing, but his fingers are dangerously close to the bottom hem of his tank top. There’s no way he’d… Peter rolls his eyes. And now he’s shirtless. “Jesus, fuck.” He turns his key into the ignition, looks over his shoulder and drives.
“Joe, there is nothing suspicious about that man,” Peter reports. “There’s nothing more to investigate. It was a fatal accident, it’s clear as day.”
“That’s exactly it!” Joe argues. They’re sitting in one of the break rooms at the station. He hits one of his wheels with a fist, “That’s exactly why we need to keep looking at him.”
“What are you talking about?” Peter groans. “Joe! He hasn’t done anything strange. I followed him to work, I watched him eat dinner— today he danced in his living room. All completely normal human activities!”
“That’s what’s so odd about him!” Joe fires back. “What kind of man loses his romantic interest in an accident so grandeur and then does a strip tease in his apartment to alleviate himself? There’s something about him that doesn’t sit right with me,” he replies. He’s looking at Peter carefully.
Peter throws his head back. He’s exasperated. Between Lois being mad at him these past few days and driving around to keep tabs on Gojo, he doesn’t feel real .
He’s staining his entire detective career being paid to stalk an innocent man.
“Peter, please,” Joe quietly says when Peter doesn’t respond. “I need this. Ease my subconscious.”
Peter looks at the despair in the chief's eyes and finds himself in it. Something about it makes Peter’s chest ache. And Peter is nothing if not dutiful.
He puts his pride to rest when he agrees, “Of course, Joe, I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Lois is in a mood as soon as Peter walks in through the front door; he can tell by the way she sashays around the kitchen. It’s been a few days since they last spoke. Not that it bothered either of them when Peter started coming home late again. This “mission” of keeping tabs on Gojo that Joe has sent him on is taking a bigger toll on him than he thought it would.
Gojo isn’t a liar. Peter knows this because his days are filled with his ass glued to his car seat, glaring at the man through his windshield. His days are boring. He can’t imagine the depth of somebody’s mental illness it takes to stalk someone for fun; he hates watching this beautiful man go about his life.
He swears he can see the image of Gojo whisking matcha, stripping to his house clothes, dancing by himself behind his eyelids every time he blinks. Peter doesn’t know if he’s ever met anyone with such an incredible amount of poise. It pisses him off.
“Peter, where have you been?” Lois suddenly breaks his train of thought. She’s standing in front of the kitchen stove, crossing her arms around her in a sort of self-hug. Her face looks gaunt, her small, beady eyes scary.
“Working, Lois,” Peter mumbles.
“You’re cheating on me,” she groans, immediately tearing up. “The girls were right! You’re a lousy excuse for a husband. You know nothing about true love .”
Peter’s eyes begin to water. He stomps into the kitchen, determined to tell her otherwise. How could she accuse him of such a thing? When he’s working long hours to afford this house, to afford her shopping trips with her friends to the mall. When he comes home exhausted, struggling to think of anything else besides what Joe could possibly find so sketchy about stupid Gojo Satoru.
His voice is shaky when he exhales. “Damn it, Lois. I really have been at work, you know. I love you, I would never cheat on you, you know this. You know this, honey.”
“Peter,” Lois starts, angrily wiping her tears. She huffs, keeping her gaze away from his direction. “You won’t even bed me properly. Honestly, what am I supposed to think? Coming home from work and eating the food I make isn’t enough to show me you love me.”
“Then how can I make it up to you?” Peter quickly asks. “How can I show you?”
“You know how,” she answers simply.
Peter nods his head. “Okay.”
There is something to be said about how difficult it is to bed someone who secretly hates you. There is something to be said about how difficult it is to stare into her beady eyes as she impatiently waits for you to get yourself out of your boxers. There is something to be said about how much of a turnoff it is to feel her annoyance bounce off her shoulders like sound waves.
No matter how well Peter fills her with his fingers, his tongue, his hard earned money, it’ll never be enough. No, not for Lois.
That is why there is something to be said about how hard it is to pump yourself in front of her as she looks at the wall behind you to keep herself busy.
Peter huffs, more tired than horny. He looks down at his wife, his eyes desperate to find any part of her sexy enough to help.
Eventually, his eyes fixate on her left kneecap. How smooth, hairless and pretty it looks untouched. He feels like a fuckin’ loser when he feels himself harden. He briefly thinks he should question why staring at her breasts, miraculously round and perky after all these years, or looking at the way her collar bones glimmer, covered in her sweat. Why such a neutral part of her body, he wonders.
He pushes the thought away to grab Lois’s attention.
He thrusts into her with a sense of agency. On top, like this, he can make her proud. He can prove himself to her. She bucks her hips with every thrust, whining happily, but Peter doesn’t flinch. He tries his best to focus. Focus, focus. He needs to focus. He pushes her thighs to her chest, relieved when she mewls at the new angle.
Peter closes his eyes when he finishes inside of her. An image of a blue eyed, white haired man appears behind his eyelids. He lets out a mangled moan.
“I waited for you to come up and invite yourself, but I guess that isn’t happening anytime soon,” a gentle voice echoes inside Peter’s car.
Peter opens his eyes, jolting awake. He sits up from his position to look outside his cracked window and gapes at the man in front of him. “What the hell?”
“Detective Peter, right? Griffin?” Gojo chuckles, covering his smile as he does so. “Care to join me for tea?”
The apartment is different from the inside. The blue wallpaper looked lighter from his car, Peter thinks to himself, it’s darker inside. There’s an artsy print design on it as well. Blue ocean waves. Or maybe they’re mountains? They could be both. How peculiar.
“I got them done by an artist in Shibuya.”
Peter blinks, turning to look at Gojo who is now standing right next to him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare so hard. It’s beautiful.”
“That’s what it’s for. Don’t apologize,” Gojo speaks casually. Peter tilts his head to the side, watching Gojo move towards the kitchen to serve the both of them hot tea.
“Why did you invite me here? You’ve known this entire time, right?”
“I already expected this, believe it or not, Detective,” Gojo answers. His hands gently pour the tea from a tiny pot into two adorable teacups. Everything he does, he does it gently. Peter internally rolls his eyes. Joe couldn’t be any more wrong about him.
“I am quite familiar with how untrusting Americans are of each other, why would they treat a foreigner like me with such grace?”
“Except,” Peter dryly laughs, slightly stunned by Gojo’s perspective. “I’m a cop. Does that not scare you?”
Gojo shrugs his broad shoulders. “Why would it? I have nothing to hide,” he grins, directing Peter to the couch in his living room. He places their tea on the tiny table in front of them. He brings his knees to his chest as he faces Peter. “Do you think I had anything to do with my ex boyfriend’s death?”
“Should I?” Peter asks, awkward. He keeps his feet on the floor.
Gojo laughs, it sounds like a ringing bell in Peter’s ears. It’s a pretty sound. “You’re the detective.”
Peter shakes his head, finding it in himself to relax his shoulders and talk comfortably just as Gojo is. Odd how quickly the guy can disarm Peter. “No, I don’t. My boss does. He has me watching you instead of looking at any possible evidence of foul play.”
“Hmm,” Gojo hums. “How productive has that been so far?”
“Don’t tease,” Peter huffs, reaching for his cup of tea. He takes a sip and makes a surprised, but delighted, noise. Earl gray, delicious. “I’m doing the best with what I got.”
Gojo laughs wholeheartedly, so free and full of life. A small smile graces Peter’s lips before he can stop himself. Gojo uncurls from his position to sit criss-cross on the couch. “What if I helped you?”
“What?” Peter chuckles, feeling awkward again. What the hell is this guy suggesting?
“Let me help with the investigation.”
“Do you believe your— your partner was murdered?”
“Well,” Gojo starts, “I don’t think it was a complete accident.” His long arms reach for his own cup of tea on the table. Peter traces the movement with his eyes, attentive. Gojo takes a careful sip before he continues. “I think I could be useful to you.”
“No,” Peter immediately rejects. “No, that would be— that would be illegal .”
Something twinkles in Gojo’s eyes. He tilts his head back, smirking down at Peter’s now nervous demeanor— the same way a lion plays with his food before it pounces with calculated precision.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think following someone everywhere they go is legal either. Especially if that someone is being followed by authorities who have no official permission to do just that. That sounds like a serious court case to me. Or are things just different here in America?”
Peter swallows a lump of spit in his throat. “You invited me up to trap me.”
“Oh please,” Gojo laughs again, just as loudly as the previous laugh. He shakes his head. “I don’t have any evil intentions. I’m just explaining the situation to you. I really do just want to help. Besides, you look bored out of your mind outside of my apartment everyday.”
“Right,” Peter mumbles in defeat. Gojo makes an appealing case. Working with him on this would be so much better than just sitting in his car all day. He could conduct a proper investigation. Maybe he could even present it to Joe; surely, he’ll come around and thank Peter for it. Peter nods his head definitively. “Okay, what do you know?”
Gojo’s face lights up as he plants his feet on the ground. “I’ll grab us a notebook.”
They’re on the mountain. The night it happened, Peter didn’t reach the crime scene in time, rushing to the station instead. But he’s here now. It’s 10 PM, around the same time the man had fallen off the cliff. And he’s here. With the victim’s past lover of all things.
No one’s around, it’s peaceful. Guilt crawls up his insides like a tiny bug.
Gojo wraps his jacket closer to his body. “This is where he fell.”
Peter turns around to walk further up the mountaintop. He stops a foot behind Gojo’s position and exhales shakily, catching his breath. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Gojo nods solemnly. He lets out a shallow breath as he stares at the edge of the cliff.
“Are you alright?” Peter asks. He gently places his hand on Gojo’s elbow, suddenly scared he’ll fall too, following his lover’s tragic fate.
“It’s just—” Gojo stops. He sniffles, bringing his wrist to his nose and sighs out again. “It’s weird being here,” he manages to get out.
Peter’s eyes soften as he watches Gojo drop his face into his hands. Peter offers his arms, bringing the tall man close to his chest. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Peter whispers, unsure if his words are helping at all.
“It’s cold,” Gojo mumbles into Peter’s neck, his arms wrapped around him tightly. The position is oddly comfortable despite their severe height difference. A shaky inhale, “I hope he wasn’t cold when he— when he—”
“You don’t have to talk,” Peter reassures him. “It’s okay.”
Gojo pulls away from Peter’s body, but stops before his face can get too far from Peter’s face. A sad, unfulfilled smile rests on his lips. “I didn’t think I’d ever come back here. Thank you for coming with me.”
“Of course,” Peter immediately answers before he can stop his mouth from moving. For a second, he’s taken aback by his eagerness to talk to Gojo but disregards it upon looking at the younger man’s dim expression. “It’s really no problem for me.”
“Yeah,” Gojo nods his head. “That’s good,” he whispers, peering into Peter’s brown eyes.
There’s a swirl in Gojo’s blue eyes. It’s gorgeous, Peter thinks, just like the rest of this man. Everything about him lures you in. It’s impossible to feel this attracted to a person, right? Peter can’t look away, can’t move. He doesn’t budge, not even when Gojo pushes his face a little closer to Peter’s.
Not even when their lips eventually touch.
The cold mountain air around them is merciless, leaving Peter in goosebumps, but he doesn’t move. His eyes are closed when he properly registers the fact that he’s kissing a man. He doesn’t stop. He moves his lips, following Gojo where he leads him. It’s a warm taste. Earl gray tea, sweet breads, cigarettes. He feels rejuvenated. He feels young again. Peter thinks he’d follow the man anywhere if it meant getting to feel euphoria like this again.
Peter smiles into the kiss as their cold noses brush against each other. His body is hot despite the wind biting his skin. Gojo holds Peter’s waist and chin like he’s something fragile. A fire burns at the pit of Peter’s stomach; he can feel himself start to chub up.
Peter breaks the kiss.
He gasps, breathing in the oxygen he hadn’t realized his lungs were deficient of earlier. Peter’s eyes begin to water once he sobers up. Suddenly he feels the pressure all over his sides, the mountain incline is too much. He’s lightheaded.
“I’ll take you home,” he whispers. Gojo keeps his eyes away from Peter’s, but there’s an undeniable lust in the way he doesn’t move away. Peter feels sick.
Joe wheels himself next to his office’s table, confusion written all over his face. He picks up Peter’s letter with a slight pout. “What the hell do you mean you’re ‘quitting?’”
“It’s straightforward. I quit, Joe,” Peter sighs. He runs a palm across his face, exhausted from the lack of sleep these past few days.
After the night at the mountain, he holed himself in at home. Lois was more than happy to have him at the house for more than five hours at a time, but Peter couldn’t match her contentment. Internally, he was fighting what felt like world war three. Being cooped up at home was purgatory, but his mind now is clearer than ever. He needed to quit this job. It’s evidently taking a lot more out of Peter than he could ever imagine and he’s terrified at the fact that he doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror anymore. He hasn’t in a long time.
This will be good for him. And for Lois. Maybe they can rekindle whatever is left after Peter’s multiple fuckups. He already promised to actually accompany her to one of her shopping trips this weekend. This is redirection.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Joe questions. His eyes are opened so wide they look like they’re two blinks away from popping out of his sockets. “Is this because I put you to surveillancing Gojo? Because you’re done! Fine, you’re off the case.”
“No, that’s not it,” Peter responds, his voice near pleading. Memory of his lips tingling after he pulled away from Gojo plays in his mind. It was so cold on that mountain, but he burned bright red standing there in front of that man. “Lois wants me home.”
“Peter, what am I going to do without my right hand man?” Joe frowns.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says with a small smile. “You’ll find someone else.”
“I haven’t felt heartbreak like this since I was 13.”
Peter draws his head back, curious. “What about when you found out your legs were paralyzed?”
Joe pauses, staring down at his lap. He abruptly bursts out laughing. “I forgot about that.”
“You’re a good man, Joe,” Peter says with a slight laugh. “Thank you for being a friend.”
“Any time, Peter. I’m here whenever you need me,” Joe grins up at Peter. He offers his hand, which Peter takes in a firm handshake goodbye. “Take care of yourself.”
“I’m so happy you finally quit that stupid job,” Lois hums, rinsing the oranges they picked out at the market earlier that morning. She places them into a large bowl and hands it to Peter. “That’s what having kids is for, Peter. Now it’s their turn to take care of us.”
“You’re right, honey,” Peter muses as he begins to peel an orange for the both of them to share. It’s only been a few weeks since he’s quit work, a few weeks since he last saw Joe. And Gojo.
But things are a lot better at home now. He stopped stressing, stopped worrying about money, and stopped smoking cigarettes. And Lois is back to her normal self.
“Of course I am! I’m your wife,” she smiles. She walks over to where Peter is sitting at the kitchen table, sneaking up behind his back to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Reminds me of when we were 17 and in love, do remember that? Just a couple of kids in high school.”
Lois lets out a husky laugh. “I remember. I remember you couldn’t get your hands off of me! You were an animal back then. I wonder what changed,” she teases.
“Are you testing me, woman?” Peter fakes angry, turning around to face Lois. His eyebrows are furrowed when he jokingly glares at her. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“Then show me,” Lois whispers, placing her palm on the side of his cheek. She smirks when her husband blushes, placing his half-peeled orange back into the basket.
“I have to wash the orange residue off my fingers first.”
“Oh, Peter.”
There is something to be said about how easy it is to bed someone who still loves you. There is something to be said about how easy it is to stare into her beady eyes as she now patiently waits for you to get yourself out of your boxers. There is something to be said about how much of a turn on it is to feel her admiration fall off her shoulders like her hair does.
Peter fills her with his fingers (orange residue gone), his tongue, his time and commitment. And it finally feels enough for Lois. He’s finally enough for his poor wife.
How big of an idiot he was to not have realized all she wanted was the same love she has always shown him.
That is why there is something to be said about how hard it is to pump yourself in front of her as she looks at the wall behind you to keep herself busy.
The corners of his eyes begin to prickle with something hot and disgusting. He’s disgusting. He doesn’t deserve this love. He doesn’t deserve this beautiful woman in his bed, what is he doing? What is he doing?
“I’m sorry,” Peter’s voice cracks.
He stands at the foot of their bed, sobbing. He cries like there isn’t any air left to breathe in the world. He cries for more than one, like a toddler lost without his mother at the grocery store. He cries and cries and cries.
He doesn’t even have it in himself to feel shame when Lois silently dresses him and herself, begrudgingly rubbing his back.
Come morning time, Lois is scrambling eggs and lightly roasting baby tomatoes on a pan. A combo for toast that she’s been obsessed with as of lately. She isn’t completely angry about last night, but she is a little upset. Peter can tell in the way she watches him for a second longer than usual.
He thought of apologizing, but knew it would do nothing for his wife. If 23 years of marriage taught him anything about her, it’s this.
“I think I’m gonna have a girl’s day today.”
Peter feigns ignorance, “Really?”
“Yep,” she answers tightly, assembling her toast. She takes a bite out of it before passing it to Peter with speed. “You can have the rest. I think the girls are ready, so I better go pick them up.”
“Okay,” Peter dumbly mumbles. “Have fun, I’ll be home. Let me know if you need anything from me.”
“Goodbye Peter,” she says as rushes out the front door with his purse in her hand. She unlocks the car before she can lock the door, and then Peter is left alone.
He finishes the toast. He washes the dirty dishes in the sink. He breathes out.
Things were so good, he thinks to himself. Why does he still feel like he doesn’t know what to do with himself? His body feels odd. His head is all over the place. And he’s so fuckin’ mad this is all because of a kiss.
It was one kiss. Just one, just one.
His ringtone goes off, startling him from his train of thought. He pats down his pants, looking for his phone. He grunts once he finds it. “Hello?”
“Peter.”
“Joe? Hey, how have you been?”
“Good, but—” Joe cuts himself off. On the other side of the screen, a muffled Joe shouts orders, cursing when the sound of footsteps comes through.
Peter’s eyebrows scrunch, confused at the commotion. “What’s going on, Joe?”
“A few of our men found Gojo Satoru guilty of manslaughter.”
Peter freezes. He feels his heart drop. “What do you— what are you talking about?”
“He was involved with the Japanese mafia. The fuckin’ yakuza, Peter. You only hear about this kind of shit in the movies! And he killed his boyfriend,” Joe explains. He lets out a loud sigh on the other side of the phone, “Look, I’m not calling you to blame you for finding out. But I figured you’d like to know— I don’t know what your relationship was like with him, but. He was yours to keep watch of.”
He was yours. Peter internally curses, chewing his bottom lip like a maniac. His frontal lobe feels like it’s pounding with how fast he’s thinking.
Joe licks his teeth. “We tried his apartment and the nursing home, but he’s on the run. Take care of yourself, Peter. And call me if you find him. Jesus, we have a 6’3 Japanese man on the run! That’s not everyday!”
“Thanks Joe,” Peter manages to get out before hanging up. He drops his phone onto the kitchen table and grabs his head. “Fuck.” Everything was a lie. In the interrogation room, inside his apartment, on that stupid fuckin’ mountain. Were there any signs? He can’t think of anything that stood out. He was grieving, it was clear he was grieving. He cried on that mountain… he kissed Peter on that mountain. What signs were there? The yakuza?
Peter jolts up from his chair when he hears a knock on his front door. He looks around the kitchen for a weapon. His face is more determined when he grabs a hold of an umbrella, carefully making his way to the door.
He feels a drop of sweat trickle down his temple but his hands are steady.
He opens the door and lunges forward.
A shocked yelp echoes in the neighborhood when Peter pushes the stranger down to the ground. Peter’s huffing, red in the face as he’s suddenly face to face with the white-haired, blue-eyed bane of his detective career. “Get the fuck away from me.”
“Peter,” Gojo starts gently, his head flat against the ground as Peter keeps the umbrella close to his face as a reminder. He doesn’t resist, just lays there underneath Peter. There’s something teasing about his friendly smile. Even out of his element like this, he’s still so beautiful. It pisses Peter off.
“How the fuck did you even find me?”
“So you know, alright,” Gojo mutters to himself. He sighs out, pouting. “Will you let me explain?”
“I want nothing to do with you,” Peter says, finally letting up. He moves the umbrella away from the man’s face, standing closer to his door. “Leave, now.”
“You don’t really want me gone, do you?” Gojo asks. His smile has unashamedly transformed into a taunting smirk. “I know you haven’t stopped thinking of me.”
“You lied to me,” Peter whispers, looking away from him. He feels himself start to water before he can stop himself. He grips onto the umbrella in his hand tighter. “I don’t even know who you are. Is Gojo even your name?”
“Yes,” he answers, there’s a sense of urgency of his tone and it throws Peter off making him flinch. Gojo keeps his eyes on Peter. “That’s why I came here. To explain everything to you.”
“You don’t care about me. You were ensuring your innocence.”
“Peter,” Gojo says, exasperated. His hands brush through his hair. “Can you please let me explain myself to you?”
“The mafia? Are you kidding? You were serving me tea and assassinating people with the same hands!” Peter shouts. His head is spinning again. Seeing Gojo in front of him isn’t helping at all. He feels so lost. Could this really be the same person? Was Joe sure of it?
“It’s not like that,” Gojo tries again. He’s frowning now and his brows are furrowed. He steps towards Peter. “Let me show you the truth. Please.”
“Leave this house right now,” Peter firmly states, taking a step back. This is dangerous, even for him. This man is a complete stranger now. This couldn’t end well.
The expression on Gojo’s face is so sad. “Peter, please.”
“Leave my house. Leave me alone. Leave my family alone. I’m doing you a service.”
Gojo’s face hardens at this. His eyes zero in on Peter’s eyes. “If you really wanted me to fuck off, you would have called the chief by now. Right? So, let me in. You at least deserve this from me.”
Peter scowls, but he hesitates to reject him. Lois could be back any minute. The house won’t be safe with him in it. He’s right though. He does deserve answers, he thinks. “Fine. But not here.”
“I’ll drive this time?” Gojo smiles gently, lifting his set of keys in the air.
They’re at the beach. Peter closes the passenger door behind him as he stares at the ocean. No one else is here, a random Tuesday morning. It’s high tide now, the sand is shining under the sun. It’d be a heartwarming sight if it weren’t for the fact that Peter was here with Gojo Satoru.
“Okay, you drove us all the way out here. Say your piece,” Peter says. His stubborn frown deepens when Gojo plops onto the sand, taking his shoes and socks off.
“It’s such a nice day today.”
“Gojo,” Peter calls, confused. “Explain your story and go. What the hell are you doing?”
“Come sit Peter. The ocean breeze feels so nice,” Gojo ignores him, patting a spot next to him. He shrugs the jacket off his shoulders too, revealing a plain wife beater and what-look-like stab wounds on his back.
Peter gapes at the now-dried blood. “What the fuck? What are those? What happened?”
“Sit, please,” Gojo repeats, this time a little firmer than before.
Peter finally sits next to him, pushing some of the sand away from his ass to get comfortable. His eyes dart back and forth between his feet and Gojo, who’s quiet. He draws his legs in to sit criss-cross, watches the waves and slowly exhales. The salty air is nice. It’s cold enough to appreciate the bright sun above them too. He wishes he wasn’t here right now.
“Ever since I was a child,” Gojo starts, breaking the silence. He draws lines in the sand with a finger as he speaks. “I loved the ocean. I was born in Tokyo, the heir to a powerful… family , which meant I wasn’t allowed to go outside often. I stayed at home, typically with my caretaker. She taught me how to read and write, taught me to speak Japanese, English and French. She taught me about life.”
Peter watches Gojo’s eyes fixate on the waves in the ocean. He wonders how it’s possible that his eyes could be any bluer. He really is beautiful. In another lifetime, he thinks he would have been good friends with him. In another lifetime, he would tell him how beautiful his eyes are, especially when they’re looking at him.
“She also taught me about the ocean,” he says. His finger stops tracing the sand, resting his folded hands in his lap. “The ocean is so big. So much of it is unknown to people. It should be terrifying, but oddly enough, it isn’t to me.”
Peter waits for Gojo to continue but senses he should say something in response. He feels tense sitting next to the man suddenly, surprised by the man’s story. “I once read something on Twitter. It was a quote from Confucius— ‘the wise love the water, the benevolence the mountains.’”
Gojo lets out a self-deprecating laugh, dry and hollow. “I’m anything but benevolent. I adore the ocean.”
“Why are we here, Gojo?”
“So I can apologize, Peter,” he mumbles lowly. He turns his head to look at him with a sad, lopsided grin. “I’m sorry Peter. I don’t know how much you know, but it’s true I— I was raised to be this. I wanted out of my family’s business, out of Tokyo, but I couldn’t escape them. I thought if I married that man here I could live here permanently, learn a different lifestyle. But my father had people sent to find me. They threatened to kill me if I didn’t kill my boyfriend first. So I did. I planned it perfectly but I was fuckin’ scared . He was supposed to be my scapegoat. He was my ticket out of my past life, and I had to get rid of him.”
Peter stays silent, patient.
“I thought it would stop there. But after following me to the States, they figured I could stay here and do their international dirty work. It was more convenient for my father to utilize me than to bring me back home,” Gojo takes a breath. He looks away from Peter to watch the waves again. His shoulders reach his ears as he breathes, clearly anxious.
Peter doesn’t say anything but reaches for Gojo’s hand with his own. Wordlessly he intertwines their fingers and smiles up at him.
A few tears fall down Gojo’s cheeks as he peers into Peter’s eyes. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. But you deserved to know.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Peter dumbly mutters under his breath. “You could have— you could have seeked some other type of help. There’s resources here, I don’t know about Japan but— there are people here whose jobs are about working with toxic families. You didn’t have to kill a man….” Peter trails off. He squeezes Gojo’s hand.
“Peter, you are the only person to have ever genuinely care for me. I know everything may seem like it was a lie, but it wasn’t to me. I wanted to keep talking to you in that interrogation room. I wanted to kiss you on that mountain— and I wanted to take you to the one place I feel at peace,” Gojo eagerly explains. His eyes are watery again as he looks for approval in Peter’s face. He smiles, a pitiful gesture. “I know this could never happen though.”
“What can never happen?” Peter asks before he can even process what Gojo is hinting at. He feels his heart beat in his throat, his face is warm and his stomach is churning.
Instead of answering, Gojo leans forward. He stops right before their lips touch and exhales. Something in Peter’s chest aches when he recognizes the faint scent of earl gray tea and cigarettes.
Peter’s eyes are closed, trusting, when he whispers, “Kiss me.”
It’s not soft like the kiss on the mountain. It’s rough, both so desperate for something more than a few hours on the beach. Gojo rests his hand on Peter’s knee as he digs his tongue into his mouth. Peter moans when he feels Gojo tug at his bottom lip before eventually pulling away to breathe. A string of saliva connects their mouths in an obscene way, making Peter blush.
Gojo exhales, wiping at his mouth with his arm. “You have to go now.”
“What?” Peter asks, upset. The serious look on the taller man’s face gives him whiplash.
“I’m a criminal, Peter. Go, before you get yourself in trouble.”
“I’m already in trouble. You confessed to everything right in front of me, why does it matter now?”
Gojo groans, pushing himself up from the sand. He pats his pants down, looking for something. “Don’t be dense, Peter. We both already know this could never happen.”
“So what? You’re just gonna kiss me and run away?” Peter yells. He stands up from his position too, hurt. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why did you bring me here?”
“Peter, please. I care about you.” Gojo simply says.
Peter scoffs. “No, you don’t. You only care about yourself.”
“What the hell would you like me to do Peter?” Gojo snaps as he picks up his socks and shoes. He hovers over Peter like a street lamp. “Tell me, what is it that I can do to make things right? Do jail time for murder and then what? You divorce your wife? Wait for me to get out? That’s if I do. What if the state decides I’m to be executed? What would you have me do Peter? Please tell me! I’m dying to know!”
“You’re a fuckin’ asshole,” Peter curses, his eyes welling up with hot tears. “I wish I never met you.”
He turns away from Gojo, running towards the car further down the road from where they were sitting. He’s going home. He’s going to pretend none of this ever happened. He’s going back to what he knows makes sense: the house, spending time with his wife, watching TV in the living room ‘til midnight. He’s done with sexy Japanese men.
When he gets inside the car, he starts the engine with the key Gojo left in the ignition. He sighs out, more than content to go back home. He looks to the beach again, only slightly curious if Gojo went after him, but he’s gone.
Peter’s alarmed by this, immediately turning off the car. He was just there on the beach. Surely, Peter didn’t take that long to get to the car. Where the hell did he run off to?
Peter gets out of the car, anxiety crawling up his stomach like tiny ants. He runs back down to shore, searching for Gojo.
“This man is going to kill me,” he whispers as his eyes frantically look wherever he walks. He checks behind the giant boulders sitting on shore, beyond the car in case he made it to the main road, but nothing.
He feels crazy, sweating and huffing as he searches. Where could he have possibly gone?
“Oh no,” Peter starts to cry. “You fuckin’ asshole,” he curses as he picks up the pair of boots left next to a boulder further down the beach. He notices the GPS tracker inside one of the boots when he hears approaching police sirens and the drag of tires.
“You fuckin’ asshole,” Peter curses again, looking out to the ocean. The sun is setting beautifully, the water looks even bluer than before.