Chapter Text
"I'm going north."
Gojo slammed the car's door, sprawling across the backseat. He was done. His phone was bursting with notifications; he turned it off for the first time since he'd gotten it.
He'd woven his success thread by thread. Case by case. He'd been so focused on work that he'd lost sight of the bigger picture. And, when he took a step back to look at what he'd been weaving, it was the very noose that he felt tied around his neck.
He stretched his arm over the leather seat, smiling to himself. Today was the day he was snapping that thread, and —
"I'll still need an address, Gojo-sama."
So much for his dramatic getaway.
Figuring out said address was more complicated than expected.
Making sense of clear directions – such as North and Far – was apparently above his driver's pay grade. The same applied to his realtor. This lack of common sense also afflicted the movers, who insisted that The essentials wasn't good enough of a descriptor of what they had to pack.
Nevertheless, a few days later, he was at last heading North. He didn't get to have his theatrical dropping-everything-and-driving-into-the-sunset moment, but he couldn't part with the idea of getting over there on his own — even if it was a seven hour drive. He'd been the one to tie himself to Tokyo. As he stepped on the gas, he was the one to tear himself away from it. It felt cathartic.
The city flew by his review mirror. It was the change he needed, he told himself as traffic gave way. Gojo had always succeeded at everything — starting over would be no different. Other cities shrunk behind him. He was getting farther away. It didn't ease the restlessness under his skin.
It must just be excitement. Over time the concrete gave way to greenery. This was exactly what he wanted. What he needed. He clutched harder onto the steering wheel, even as the sun shone brightly above. Cities grew thinner, farther apart. By the time the first sign naming his destination showed up, his knuckles were white.
A small collection of wooden structures grew in the distance. The homes were traditional, the signs in front of restaurants were modest. No bright colors or lights fighting for his attention. It'd feel like he'd stepped into a rift in time if it weren't for the few kids with gameboys in their hands.
They took a second glance at the car.
Every person he drove by did.
He drove through the main street — not that there were many of them. It couldn't take him more than thirty minutes to walk across the entire place. So it wasn't a surprise that it didn't take long to recognize the small two-story house the realtor had sent him pictures of. He stopped the car and watched for a moment.
The style was much the same of every other home; light walls and dark ceilings, with wood accents. The milk coffee color of the second floor made it easy to spot. The first floor had dark wood shoji doors and windows, with outer glass protecting the inner translucent paper. There was a full glass pane in one of the windows, and the door was slid open.
The first floor was home to a kissaten. The lights inside were warm. Cozy, even. Young girls shared pastries with matcha and red bean paste. Not as intricate as the ones he'd see in Tokyo, but looked nice enough. Everything about the kissaten felt very traditional, in the way only a place that hadn't been redecorated for decades did. The shiny espresso machine seemed a bit out of place, but so did the dark haired man operating it.
Gojo drove a little further to where he could leave the car on the side of the road. He cracked his fingers, weirded out by how stiff they were. He picked up his phone, but was met with a black screen. It'd been off for days now. Gojo didn't plan on turning it back on. Still, the reflex of checking on calls and messages was a rough one to get rid off.
On his walk back, he took another moment to look at the kissaten. There were several ceramic pots with different tea names. Everything was neatly in place. Except for the man behind the counter. His long hair was traditional enough, but the unruly bangs were off. Kinda stupidly pretentious, if Gojo were being honest. The guy's shoulders were broad, but he knew his own were broader. The thought made him straighten his back.
Gojo must've stood there too long, because the guy eventually tensed up. The man's smile to the customer didn't waver, but he murmured something as he made his way to the door. Probably excusing himself to greet the newcomer.
They locked eyes for a brief moment. Gojo flashed a tired out grin, and the man's smile seemed at its most sincere as he slid the door closed right in Gojo's face.
Not the warmest of welcomes.
The entrance to Gojo's apartment was on the back street, where a small door lead to a staircase. He'd meant to buy the ground floor too. Alas, the realtor insisted the owner hadn't interested in selling both. Either the guy was an idiot, or there must big bucks to be made from selling coffee around there.
Gojo took a quick walk through the place. There was a handful of furniture still around — which, frankly, worked in his favor. Most of what he owned wouldn't have made it through the staircase. Most importantly, after settling for packing on his own, he couldn't be bothered to bring much. He liked nice things, sure. But they didn't seem worth the effort of packing.
The process of removing what was in the shelves and replacing it with his stuff was tedious. By the time he'd unpacked the first of the few boxes, it was nightfall. And he realized he hadn't brought anything to eat. He couldn't be bothered to go out after the long drive, so he took a look at the kitchen.
The previous owner had left some non perishables behind. He took a sniff at some jars. One of them had tea — some type of sencha, if he had to guess. Once he found one that had sugar, he settled for brewing the tea. He sat by the front window, facing the main street.
It was a small counter, tucked at the end of the kitchen. The kind of place where a kid would work on their homework as their mom made dinner. Outside, there wasn't much to look at. A few homes with neat gardens. The odd shop at the edge of his sight. Two street lights, and the absolute dark above.
It's right about then that Gojo started questioning what the fuck he was supposed to do in a place like this.
The only thing worse than the silence was not having something to keep his mind busy.
His fingers tapped idly on the edge of the counter, across a small gap between it and the wall. All the way through and then back again. Until something felt different. Not quite as empty. Begrudgingly, he turned his phone on. There was a cascade of missed calls popping up, which he promptly ignored as he put it in airplane mode. He used the faint light from the screen to make sense of what he'd felt between the counter and the wall just now, and spotted something hidden in that small crack. It took some creative use of chopsticks, but he managed to retrieve a small notebook from it.
It was a Midori journal, the kind that would easily fit in one's pocket. The cover was some faux leather, but pretty thin — not the expensive kind. Still, it was in remarkably good shape. Specially given how thoroughly used the pages looked. He flipped through a few; it looked like a diary. Fucking jackpot, he grinned as he threw himself back on the chair. Some gossip on the townsfolk would probably be better than whatever he would've ended up watching.
And, honestly, if the owner didn't want someone prying, they shouldn't have left it behind. He tilted the chair back, making himself comfortable, and flipped to a random page, coughing off as some dust hit his nose.
I need you to find a way to hold my hand, to pull me along and out of this like you did in Aomori when I panicked because the street was too crowded, I need you to find a way to reach, to get me out of here, because everything I touch crumbles to sand, slips through my fingers, and I can't do this alone.
I miss your bickering with dad. Your tea was always too bitter, all the time, every single time. And you'd scold me when I said so, and dad would laugh like a car engine struggling to start midwinter. And it was so constant, so mundane, and I thought I'd be there forever.
I reach for a book you would've left on the coffee table, but it isn't there, because you didn't have a chance to put it there, because you haven't been here for so many years. It tugs at my ribs, like they're breaking inwards, crashing into some sort of you-shaped void that is trying to swallow me whole.
Gojo furrowed his brow. He flipped through some pages, but it was more of the same. He wasn't expecting that level of melodrama. Sure, he'd witnessed it in person a handful of times. The overly mournful widow. The estranged son, turned utterly devoted and heartbroken the second he learned that his parents were ill. A looming inheritance was all it took to bring the family together. He'd seen it all too often within his family. Enough times to know that that's all that kind of grieving was — theatrics.
Still, something about this felt off. Why would one feel the need to perform in private?
He skimmed through the journal some more. The ramblings went on and on, pages upon pages of sparse punctuation and the occasional wavy spot where the texture was off and the ink was blown over. The hiragana were crammed together, as if the writer was afraid of running out of space. At other spots the writing was so rushed that the kanji were borderline incomprehensible.
Gojo snapped it shut. But he didn't put it back in it's hiding place.
The next morning, Gojo decided to give the kissaten another try.
Once again, the barista smiled politely as he made his way over to Gojo at the door — and slid the door shut. Gojo was quicker this time, though, and managed to stop it with his foot.
The guy's eyebrow twitched.
Gojo sparked with joy.
"Not a nice way to welcome a customer", Gojo chastised, grinning a little too smugly.
The guy's customer service smile was top notch. The kind you'd see in infomercials, friendly but oh-so-fake. The man bowed in a greeting; a little deeper than necessary.
"Not all customers are welcome", he replied as he made his way back behind the counter.
Gojo faltered. 'Cause, sure, people had disrespected him before. It came with being straight up better than everyone at, well, everything. He was used to dealing with people's envy. But usually it was blatant, or whispered behind closed doors.
It rarely presented itself as this thinly veiled, overly-fake politeness.
It pissed him off. Which must've been the guy's intention all along. Which further pissed him off . He wouldn't let it show, though. He kept on smiling as he slid through the doors, passing through the few tables and pulling a seat at the counter. Totally unfazed.
Maybe a little fazed, as he put too much strength into the motion and the thing nearly fell backwards. Whatever. The guy hadn't noticed.
(His smile was 10% more annoying when he turned back to Gojo. He definitely did notice.)
Still… Gojo refused to let anyone get the upper hand on him. "I won't be a customer unless you get me something, hm?"
"Flawless logic."
Gojo put both his elbows on the counter. If the guy wanted to be a dick, then two could play that game.
"Why don't you do your job and get me a cafe au lait?"
The guy's smile didn't waver, "It's an honor to serve you, Gojo-sama", and he bowed again, holding it for a few seconds longer than anyone in their right mind would.
Gojo was being openly, politely mocked.
The casual manner the man slipped it by made it seem worse — as if he were actively looking down on him. It was so off putting that it took Gojo a moment to realize that the guy knew his name.
By the time Gojo regained his grounding, the man was operating the espresso machine. Gojo couldn't just not say anything, but what slipped out felt a lot less eloquent than he'd like it to. "And your name is…?"
The guy didn't even bother looking at him. "You've seen it in the contract."
Ah.
So he was the asshole who'd refused to sell him the first floor. Bold of him to assume Gojo would remember his name, though.
Before he could voice just that, the man pushed a white cup towards him. "Anything else I can help you with?"
Gojo picked it up. "No, I'm— ", it took a moment for his brain to register that his fingers were, quite literally, burning. The cup was scalding hot. He dropped it, too distracted shaking his hand in the air to dissipate the heat to pay any mind to the coffee that spilled to the counter, dripping from it onto his pants, and now scalding his thigh. "What the fuck?!"
The barista didn't say a word. But Gojo could swear he could hear the dude's smile as he made his way to the back.
The guy didn't even take his damn money.