Chapter Text
It all began, as most things do, as something entirely innocent—a white lie at best. Pride, ego and a deep, unexplainable need for something more; gradual, painful and confusing, yet intense and entirely unexpected. A meeting scheduled out of purpose; for the pure intention of saving his pride, and then small coincidences that seemed to happen intermittently, one after the other until eventually, they couldn’t be ignored anymore.
Gojo Satoru had never claimed to be devoid of the characteristics of a risk-taker. An ‘unintentional’ rule-breaker, the result of a pampered upbringing, no doubt. Nevertheless, even he could never have anticipated the extent to which he would go to satisfy his own seemingly superficial wants, no matter the cost, and no matter the actual legitimacy.
It starts in December, with a small lie, and a fake boyfriend.
***
A winter evening charmed by its moody lighting and the permanent smell of coffee beans, it’s the time of year when everything feels warm, despite the bitter cold. Ten at night, and the dim lights of a coffee shop in its final moments before closing down. Tucked away in its own corner of Tokyo, the cafe has seen better days, but the strung-up multicoloured lights around the counter and a newly handwritten row of festive-themed drinks for sale on the board above show that if anything, the store is fully set on keeping the holiday spirit alive to some extent.
“Come on, Sho, it looks good. You look good,” With an earnest smile and bright eyes to match the enthusiasm, Gojo Satoru stands leaning over the front counter of a small, shoebox-sized coffee store. Lumps of balled-up sticky tape and stray plastic pieces from a fake Christmas tree stick to a far too small, ugly sweater he wears beneath an employee apron. Lit up by the string of multicolored lights that hang above him, he’d spent the best part of an hour balancing on a chair to stick them up onto the wall, a way to ‘put his height to use’ according to Ieiri Shoko. “Would I lie to you about something like this?”
Dresses and heels had never been Shoko’s style, but for a last-minute fit thrown together during her lunch break, it’s not a bad effort. Shoko stands behind the counter and in the doorway to the back room, spinning around to try to dispel the uncertainty about the chosen black minidress and matching heels. “Are you sure?”
Kept afloat with nothing but coffee, cigarettes and minimal sleep, Shoko had been working part-time at the coffee shop for the past five years in between the hardships of med school and now, an internship at a hospital. She’d been surprised when Satoru approached her during their college days and asked her to help out at the small cafe. But as his best friend, she’d obviously given him a position, even if he showed up less than what would be acceptable in any other job, and was the worst type of colleague imaginable.
“Uh, yes?” Satoru reiterates with a frown, and if he pauses for a moment, then it’s only because his friend still doesn’t look convinced. He’d already been trying to tell her as much for the past ten minutes. “And even if you didn’t, and I was just saying you did, do you think that Utahime would honestly care? She’s crazy about you.” Out of everyone in their friend group, no one had expected Shoko to be the first to get into a serious long-term relationship that actually worked. Nanami Kento was more the type for that kind of thing, and, realistically speaking, Satoru had never had a chance. “How long have you two been a thing now, anyway? What, like ten, eleven months or something?”
Shoko turns to him and sighs. “Three years, Satoru. It’s been three years.”
“Right. Yeah. Obviously. I was testing you, uh, well done, you passed.”
“Speaking of dating,”
Satoru knows what Shoko’s going to say; he could write the goddamn book at this point and be awarded author of the year in December. Still, he lets her say it; he steps away from the counter, folds his arms across his chest and desperately attempts to stop himself from pouting.
“Please tell me you’re bringing someone this year to the Christmas party.”
And there it is. Gojo Satoru’s favourite topic of the week. Not. Ever since Shoko had first brought it up two days ago and he’d cleverly avoided it with some even louder bullshit about a cute dog he’d seen, she’d been trying to get him to answer with a yes.
“I dunno, Shoko, you know I don’t like to drag people into those things.” Christmas parties were pretty lame in Satoru’s humble opinion, especially ones where attendance was an obligation more so than an option. Not to mention, he’d already exhausted his limited friend list of invites, to which everyone had already said no.
“That’s not the point, Satoru. You already know that people will ask why you, of all people, aren’t bringing someone. Especially this year, with your new position and—“
Since when did he, Gojo Satoru, ever care what people thought? Any other year- every other year, he hadn’t cared. But even if he wants to say that Shoko is wrong for assuming that he’d only be bringing someone to his parents’ annual business Christmas party for the sole purpose of looking good, she’s unfortunately not wrong at all.
Six months ago, Satoru had finally accepted a position within his parents’ business. And, well, the thing is, it’s not the type of quaint, tight-knit little circle you think of when someone says family business. It’s not a restaurant with secret recipes that’s been passed down for generations, or a little hair salon tucked away with stupidly low rent because it’s been there for so long. It’s a massive conglomerate, built on generations of inheritance and carefully shaped into a giant tech tycoon that has more than half the country licking its boots.
So no, it’s not just a Christmas party. It’s a fucking warzone. A culling game. And everything this year has to be perfect.
“You know I care about you, idiot. You told me last year that this year would be different because you wanted it to be. Your words, not mine.” There isn’t anything in Shoko’s tone to suggest anything other than concern for her best friend. Satoru can only stand there, almost at a loss for words, a rare occurrence, but not one that’s entirely unprecedented because Shoko is right, he did say that. “Besides, I don’t think I can handle you bitching the entire night again about being painfully single, because that’s all I’ve been hearing for the past twelve months! Not my fault you apparently refuse to date.”
“It’s not that I refuse, I just—“ It’s not that he finds it impossible to date, it’s just…that he finds it impossible to date. And it’s not like he hasn’t tried— the effort hadn’t been neglected in its entirety. Still, for Gojo Satoru and his self-proclaimed ‘impossible personality’, some people prefer him as a pretty face yearned from a distance, never reached and never touched. Forever an unattainable figure with an unusual appearance, white hair and bright blue eyes that are the intense, scary type; resigned to an eternity of sad, sad loneliness. Is that what Shoko had been talking about?
“You don’t know that I’m not trying, Sho.”
Shoko’s heels echo loudly against the hardwood flooring as she emerges from the doorway to the kitchen behind the counter and approaches the door, a jacket in hand. “Don’t bullshit me, Satoru. I know you’re not trying. I’m not forcing you to date someone, and I’m not trying to set anything up. All I’m saying is, from what I’ve seen and from what you’ve told me, I know you want to. And as my best friend, obviously, I want to see you happy, dude.”
It’s cold outside, and when Shoko opens the door and steps out onto the street, a cool chill drifts into the store, not yet cold enough for snow, but close.
Satoru sees Shoko out, and after being handed the keys to lock up, he sighs. “I appreciate the concern, Shoko, but there’s really no need for it,” He sighs, standing in the doorway of the coffee store, lit up by the blinking coloured lights overhead. “Because—“ This should be the end of the conversation. He should close the door, lock up the store and go back to his apartment. But for whatever reason…
“Because?”
Sometimes, Gojo Satoru has no idea why he says the things he does.
“Because I’m…already going with a date. I’ve been dating— I have a date. For the party.” Should Satoru be concerned that Shoko suddenly looks terrified? Probably.
“What?”
Idiot.
“You heard me.” It’s not something he means to do; he doesn’t intend to lie like this, but it just comes out like a pile of word vomit, clumsy and with not a sliver of truth behind it. “I have a date for the Christmas party at the end of the week.” And honestly? His confidence should be commended.
But for Shoko Ieriri, who now stands there like an obstacle, arms crossed and waiting for an explanation, he’s not getting away that easily. “What are you talking about, Satoru. No, you don’t.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“No, you don’t. What are you—“
It must be some kind of pre-Christmas miracle that Shoko’s phone suddenly begins to ring, ending their conversation prematurely, and after muttering something about how she doesn’t have time for his bullshit, Shoko takes her leave.
In a self-inflicted state of panic, Satoru silently turns off the lights of the coffee shop, locks up the store and tracks down a taxi. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He mutters to himself, barely acknowledging the driver as he slides into the backseat and crumples up against the side door. There’s no way he’s actually going to get a real date for the Christmas party, but the thought of turning up with his tail between his legs and Shoko hitting him with an ‘I told you so’, would be a horrific blow to both his pride and his ego, one that Satoru doesn’t know if he can stomach. There’s always the possibility that Shoko will just forget he said anything, but knowing his best friend, that’s unlikely.
Maybe he could pay everyone he knows to gaslight Shoko? Or, leave the country? Not turning up to the party was also an idea, though that wouldn’t—
“Stop the car!”
Satoru shouts the words as loud as he can, his eyes wide in disbelief at what he then sees through the window of the taxi, lit up by a street lamp on the side of the road.
Before the vehicle even comes to a complete stop, Satoru’s half out the passenger door. The loop of the seatbelt almost wraps around his wrist in the struggle, and he barely remembers to toss a pile of money at the driver, which is snatched up as quickly as a tray of free drinks at a work party. And then he’s sprinting back one street over like his life depends on it, which it does.
Right before a crossroads’ junction, beside a row of vending machines, the answer to all of his problems lies about eight feet in the air, plastered to the metal siding of a sketchy-looking nail salon. It’s an advertisement, and while that in itself is hardly uncommon in a place like Tokyo, it’s what exactly is being advertised that has Satoru gawking like a fish, wide-eyed and unable to quiet the one hundred good ideas he’s suddenly hit with all at once.
A beautiful man, albeit heavily filtered but still objectively pretty, is front and centre of the advertisement- below the image of the man is a website and a slogan that changes everything.
‘Kareshi rental- Rent a boyfriend!’
Satoru stands, open-mouthed and bewildered, as a moment of sheer brilliance washes over him like a tidal wave, with ideas that could rival Aristotle's and Einstein's in both ingenuity and sheer stupidity.
Surely something like this is a scam, meant to entice those with way too much money to spare. But…why would there be an advertisement for it if it weren’t real? Why would he be seeing this now unless it was…meant to be?
Satoru had heard of these types of things before; he was pretty sure Haibara Yu had rented an old man for a day to get an elder discount at some store before, and he’s pretty sure, no, he’s certain, that something like this is a plot to some manga he’s read before.
It’s so so stupid- the worst best idea ever; it’s so not going to work, but at the same time …It’s…it’s perfect!
Boyfriend, girlfriend- does it even matter? So long as he shows up to that Christmas party with someone, so long as he can keep up the lie for just one night, his pride and his reputation might just be spared. And besides, who would even bat an eye if whomever he was supposedly dating suddenly didn’t exist anymore come the new year? People always called the winter period cuffing season for a reason, so it’s entirely plausible that Satoru and his assumed ‘boyfriend’ could gradually part ways after the new year, never to be seen together again.
He plays the idea over in his head again and again during the remaining hour walk back to his apartment, and honestly, the more that Satoru thinks about it, the more of a genius he realises himself to be. All he has to do is rent a boyfriend for the period of the Christmas party, make sure there are zero holes in their combined iron-clad alibi and story of their fake relationship, and then let it all play out until the end of the night, where it would be bye-bye fake boyfriend. What could go wrong? Sure, he’d never been in an actual relationship before, but it would be easy enough to fake. He’d seen enough movies and TV series, and if Shoko could do it, he could do it too.
Buzzing with a newfound type of excitement, Satoru almost drops his keys three times between entering the lobby of the apartment, calling for the elevator and pressing the button for the seventh floor.
His modest (not modest in the slightest) two-bedroom apartment had been a gift from his parents after his graduation, and one of many incentives to begin his initiation into the Gojo family business earlier. The coffee shop gig was, for the most part, a side hustle that he’d initially volunteered to help Shoko with during their second college year. And even though he didn’t need the money, Satoru had stuck with it; sometimes it was nice to wind down to the dulcet tones of copyright-free jazz and the scent of coffee beans and freshly made cakes, not to mention, whenever Satoru happened to be on shift, the shop for some reason always saw an influx of female customers, which Shoko appreciated.
Barely in the door, with one leg still in his jeans, the other clumsily carrying him over to his bed, Satoru dive-bombs onto the mattress, kicks off his pants, sending them across his room, throws off the ugly sweater and snatches up his laptop from its position on the bedside table.
This is all Shoko’s fault, he tells himself as his fingers hurriedly type his predicament word for word into the search bar, and an eerily similar situation on some Reddit forum pops up as a top result. Surprise, surprise, aside from the useless top answer being, ‘just bring a friend’, there are some suggestions which entertain the idea of renting some company. So it’s not just him- he’s not crazy after all.
“It’s a good idea,” Satoru mutters, “All my ideas a good ones.” It’s not like there’s anything wrong with hiring a boyfriend for the night- that’s what the website is for, after all, and it doesn’t make him an asshole to lie to his friends and family if they never find out. The asshole thing to do would be to show up with no one after adamantly insisting that he had a date.
About all of thirty seconds after typing in the name of the website from the billboard and tapping on the first link that pops up, reality catches up to him and hits him like a goddamn curse. “Oh my god, stupid, stupid, this is so fucking dumb!” And suddenly he feels like a teenager again, burdened with secret internet searches and an incomprehensible amount of incognito tabs. How pathetic.
The page is closed before it even loads.
Five minutes later, after fighting a losing battle, Satoru retypes the website name, hits search and this time, holds his breath and stands his ground. And there it is. Kareshi rental: rent a boyfriend with all its bright colours, advertisements, and pop-ups.
The website is set up more like a dating app than anything else, obviously with the glaring exception of the main premise being able to quite literally purchase a boyfriend of choice. It’s simple enough to understand, with navigation tabs to help with searching and filter options within each tab.
The target audience is clearly tailored towards women, which, for a second, does make Satoru think it might have been a better idea to rent a girlfriend instead.
Why doesn’t he just do that?
The first profile he dares to click on, about three rows down when filtered by distance, is quickly dismissed as a no after reading the profile bio at the bottom of the page. While he’s hot, he also sounds exactly like the type of guy that would definitely have a type of questionable fetish, and Satoru isn’t so sure that would go down well at his parents’ Christmas party.
Just as he’s about to reconsider, to close the website and spend the next twenty minutes rethinking everything, his laptop pings, and Shoko’s contact pops up in the top corner of his screen as an incoming video call. It’s not the best timing, but whatever- he’d never be one to ignore a call from Shoko this late into the night. A quick click of the accept button and no attempt to look pretty for the camera, Satoru answers the call sitting slumped against his headboard, laptop resting on his chest, one hand shoved purely for comfort down the front of his boxers.
“Dude, why do you look like that.” Shoko’s voice comes through the laptop speakers, a close-up of her face taking up the left side of his screen. Wherever she is, it’s busy, the background noise filtering through in crackles signalling a poor connection, and despite the dim lighting, it doesn’t take a genius to see and hear that she’s clearly drunk.
Satoru yawns and stares at her through the laptop’s webcam, indignant. “Like what?” With the call open on one half of the screen, the rows of rental boyfriends take up the other half, his free hand lazily scrolling through the faces of beautiful men from the corner of his eye.
“You didn’t have to answer if you were, y’know, busy.” She snorts and pulls the phone away from her face only to show Utahime draped over her shoulder, beer bottle in hand, face flushed from the alcohol. They seem to be in some bar somewhere. “Anyways, Utahime and I, we’ve been talking and—“
Loud enough that Satoru has to turn down the volume, Utahime grabs the phone and shrieks into the microphone. “Shoko, stop!”
“She thinks you’re lying about having a date for the Christmas party!”
Shit. Satoru figured that word would get around eventually, but before he’s even acquired a boyfriend? Still, the fact that his friends would think he would lie (even though he totally is) doesn’t sit too well with him- in fact, it twists something bitter into the base of his stomach and leaves an unpleasant taste on his tongue.
“Oh my god, Shoko, you said that, not me!!”
“You said it too!”
And Satoru, he lies there unimpressed, face blank, the inside of his cheek at how wounded his ego is getting with every word spoken. “Wow, great. I appreciate the support, guys. Is that all?”
“Seriously though, there’s no need to pretend to have someone to bring to the party. Being single is fine.”
“Soooo fine.” Utahime shoves her face into the camera.
Sick of the lack of belief in his ability to bring a date to this stupid Christmas party, for a second, Satoru honestly considers renting multiple fucking boyfriends at the same time. “Whatever, I’ve gotta go, okay? I’m busy.”
“Let him jerk off in peace, Sho.”
He can’t end the call soon enough, and it’s almost sad how quickly Satoru then expands the website back to full screen again.
The next two profiles he checks out are an improvement, but the men are so not his type; therefore, it would be entirely unbelievable to show up at a party with them. What even is his type? An age-old question that Satoru had obviously thought about before, but had never really come to a consensus on. Probably just someone nice. Tall? Not taller than him, though. Probably a woman.
So then why is he looking for a boyfriend to rent?
Fourth page, fifth row down; he’s been at this for an hour now, and the novelty is quickly wearing off. He’s learnt the rules of the game now, too. Each rental boyfriend on the website works under an agency, which is where the initial contact comes from, supposedly. Hourly rates vary; some have a minimum number of hours you can rent their time for, but there’s one rule that seems unanimous: everything is paid for by the customer, from transport to whatever activity is chosen for the date.
It makes sense, and the further Satoru falls into this rabbit hole, the easier it is to rationalise in his mind. It’s not like he’s exactly short on money at the moment (literally the opposite), and it’s only for one evening and maybe one more day max- after all, he’d probably want to meet his boyfriend before turning up to a party with him, right?
Every potential boyfriend he clicks on just isn’t…right, a feat that only reminds him of why he’s probably been single for, well, forever, to which he begrudgingly reminds himself that he has every right to be picky with these things.
Fifth page, seventh row down, and a profile finally catches Satoru’s eye. Whatever agency runs this particular website seems adamant on making all of their rental boyfriends look like a photo booth final boss, photoshopped with sparkles and smoothed to all hell, but even with all that shit on this boyfriend’s profile picture, from what Satoru can make out, he doesn’t look half bad. He’s not the closest in terms of distance, but is still in Tokyo, which Satoru reasons is a good thing. A fake boyfriend that lives too close runs the risk of being seen after all is said and done, and Satoru isn’t sure he wants that extra stress.
Below the website’s terms and conditions, there’s a small written biography that Satoru largely skips over. “Lived in Tokyo for ten years, twenty-five years old, hourly rate of seven thousand yen, blah, blah, blah- hopefully not a serial killer, likes talking with people, reading…and enjoys simple and quiet dates, hm.” Whatever else it says, whether important or not, Satoru skims through it, lazily reading some words here and there, but otherwise he’s searching for the inquiry email address at the bottom of the page and pulling up his inbox.
Emails, unsurprisingly, had never been Gojo Satoru’s forte- that’s what secretaries were for.
Two hours. Two hours, not a moment more and not any less, that’s how long it takes him to write a very simple email enquiring about the rental boyfriend service. It’s rewritten nearly ten times, with varying levels of formality and formats, but eventually, at three in the morning, the email is sent, and immediately, the mortification that he forgot to sign the email with his name makes itself known. But there isn’t exactly anything he can do about it when ten seconds later, an automated response decides to bless his inbox.
It reads:
Thank you for contacting Kareshi Rental! Please allow up to twenty-four hours for a response from your chosen boyfriend!
It isn’t until nearly four in the morning, the time when the earlier wave of exhaustion has fizzled out, leaving an empty husk of a man too anxious to sleep, that Satoru finally gets a response. Staring up at the ceiling in a dark room lit only by the blue light of a laptop screen playing an old rerun of a One Piece episode, when a pop-up dings in the corner of the screen, Satoru rises like the undead, navigates to his inbox and stares, unblinking, at the new message that suddenly glares back at him. It has a different address from the automated response from before, which means…
“Hello and thank you for your interest through Kareshi rental,” pulling the laptop into his lap, Satoru sits up now cross-legged in the centre of his bed, hair askew in the dark, quietly reading the response out loud to himself. “Apologies for the early response, but if you’d like to contact me directly, there is a phone number below. I look forward to hearing from you…”
A number? A phone number?
And suddenly it’s real. It’s not just an idea anymore- he’s reached out and received a response. But it’s not too late yet- he’s only sent one email. Satoru could delete the response, apologise to Shoko, and that would be it. Almost everything within him, a shaky at best rational and a deeply ingrained obedience, tells him to stop while he still can. But there’s another part of him, something far more rebellious and prideful that swells in satisfaction at the idea of continuing whatever this is.
And there’s something else, call it a hunch or just an exhausted brain working overtime at near five in the morning - but something else tells Satoru that as soon as he sends this text message, there’s no going back. It’s a terrifying thought, but stubbornness over logic wins out, just as it always does. He’s copying the number down into his phone and typing out a message before he can convince himself not to.
[04:43 a.m. - Gojo Satoru] Hi! Sorry it’s so early in the morning, but I’m the one who enquired on Kareshi rental?
[04:44 - Gojo Satoru] Just wanted to make sure this was an actual legit number and not a random number put on here as a prank or something.
The moment that his thumb hits send on the second message, Satoru cringes and has to physically stop himself from throwing his phone across the room. Who the hell sends two messages to start with? It’s desperate, and he’s not desperate! He only needs this to prove everyone wrong.
If he thought waiting for an email was bad, the nervous breakdown his stomach experiences while waiting for a text message is far worse. But it’s fortunately not nearly as long as he fears.
Ten minutes later, Satoru receives a reply, and surely there’s no going back now.
[04:55 a.m. - Unknown number] Hello! Thank you for reaching out. It’s no problem at all. To confirm, yes, this is definitely my real number and not a prank. Sincerely, Geto Suguru.
“Geto Suguru…” the name sounds unfamiliar on Satoru’s lips, but when it’s whispered again in the quiet of his apartment at nearly five in the morning with a curiosity and an intrigue that consolidates with every syllable, it sounds almost…mysterious. Both the number and the name are saved to his phone, and, hit with an unexpected wave of exhaustion, Satoru repeats it to himself one last time. “Geto Suguru…”
Geto Suguru and Gojo Satoru?
“Hm…doesn’t sound half bad.”