Work Text:
Orders. For years, Getou Suguru’s life had been about orders. Weapons, syndicates, money. Orders to kill. Find the victim, assassinate, get paid. Execute the orders to survive. Never back down or else be the dead one. Without orders, Getou Suguru would have been no one.
His body would have probably been found drifting somewhere by Tokyo's harbor twenty years ago.
Orders were what made him a person. They gave him meaning, a goal. When every other aspect of his life had been dull and hopeless, orders put him back on track, reminding him that there was purpose in what he did. He never doubted orders, never refused to take on a mission, never backed down from a challenge. He had no family, no relatives, no one who could lead him astray from this life.
Or so he thought until the oyabun of the Infinity Group called him in.
The Gojo family was one of the wealthiest in Tokyo’s underground, holding both power and funds to make everyone else bow to them in respect. They were a big yakuza family with political connections to other clans and even to some members of the government, making them unpredictable and dangerous. One of the deadliest people in the capital city of Japan.
His whole life Suguru knew about them, it was difficult not to in his line of work. Often he met with the group’s subordinates on the field, watching as they moved in unison. Perfect death machines. Getou always thought of them as self-sufficient, their arsenal of men, weapons and cash so big, they did not need help from any outside parties.
That’s why he did not understand why the oyabun requested his service.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Getou-kun,” said the group’s boss and Suguru wondered just how strange it was to hear his own name said in that way when just four months ago his fortieth birthday passed. The oyabun was well into his sixties, he must have considered Getou a child despite his age. “You’re an exceptional hitman.”
“Thank you,” Suguru answered, showing respect and waiting for the man to continue. He had learned his lesson, when he was younger and less tactful, that taking orders seriously was the key to self-preservation.
“There’s someone you need to get rid of for me. Someone I can’t kill myself,” With a wave of his hand he summoned his assistant, who laid a folder full of files in front of Suguru.
“I understand. Do you want their body back or should I get rid of it?” Getou asked, a regular question to his transactions.
“Bring me his eyes,” The wrinkle between the oyabun’s brows creased, distaste written all over his face. “Dispose of the rest of his body.”
“Of course.”
Suguru hadn’t faltered since the beginning of his career. Ever since he had drawn blood for the first time, ever since he deprived someone of their life, he knew what his life would be like, that he would execute order after order not caring about the lives he took. However, the moment he opened the files and gazed into the familiar blue eyes of his victim, Suguru held his breath for the first time.
“You must understand now why I called for you,” The oyabun leaned forward, a devious smile playing over his lips, making Suguru feel uncomfortable. “This is my youngest son. He ran away two years ago and keeps selling his body like the filth that he is. I can’t have him tarnish our reputation. He’s brought enough disgrace upon himself.”
There was no way even a boss of the Infinity Group could kill one of his own men – his own child – and hope the organization wouldn’t go crazy. He would lose the respect of his own people, putting at stake the fate of everything he had been building. So he found a way to fix his problem without causing mayhem.
Suguru could only nod, his eyes still glued to the photo in his hands. White hair, rosy cheeks, crystal blue eyes. He knew them all too well, got lost in them way too many times.
“And don’t let that pretty face fool you,” Suguru looked up to the Gojo family’s boss, watching his face carefully, stopping at his eyes, wondering why he did not realize they were kind of familiar, less enticing, less captivating, but still the same blue Suguru only ever saw on the boy. Up until now. “He was trained to be an assassin, he won’t give up without a fight.”
***
No other order felt so heavy.
Suguru stood by the old wooden door, forehead pressed to its cold surface, a bag of kikufuku in his hand and a gun tucked in the hem of his pants. He had been coming here for two years now. He knew the inside of the room by heart, could roam it with his eyes closed, which wasn’t a difficult task itself. The boy, who lived there, did not possess much. Just himself and a bed, a drawer filled with skimpy clothes and toys.
Getou never stalled for time, the quicker he got to work, the easier it was – that’s how he worked from the beginning. Though this time, he hesitated before finally knocking and pushing the door open.
“Suguru-san!”
Looking at Satoru’s smile rivaled gazing directly into the sun. Blinding .
“Hello, Satoru.”
The boy pushed himself off the bed, long pale limbs stretching in the shadows of the room, most of his skin on display. The tight shorts and his stretched top did nothing to cover his body, as he jutted his hip to the side and watched with crystal blue eyes as Suguru let himself in. Getou handed Satoru the gift bag containing the boy’s favorite sweets, eliciting a pleased squeak from him.
“I’ve been craving them lately, thank you,” Satoru said and Suguru knew, remembered that the boy told him so when they saw each other last week. He turned around to hang his jacket, when a body pressed to his back, long arms winding around his neck. Satoru used that one inch of height he had over the older man and pressed his lips to his ear. “Meimei said you booked me for two whole days, what’s the special occasion?”
Your death , Suguru’s mind provided. My new order.
Suguru brought his hands to Satoru’s forearms, thumbs caressing the milky skin there. No matter how Suguru looked at it, they have been doing this for way too long. In the years before Satoru, he had been changing prostitutes frequently, rarely sleeping with the same people twice. And then two years ago he met Satoru and he hadn’t paid another person for their body ever again. He told himself he was too old, too tired to keep looking for new people but he was well aware it was a pointless excuse.
“Just wanted to hold you,” he admitted, not lying.
“Aww, I missed you too.”
Lips pressed to Suguru’s neck in a quick kiss, arms tightening their hold around his body. The way Satoru had been holding on to him told Getou that the boy had already known there was something that bugged his mind. He truly was spending too much time in between missions with the boy in his arms.
Satoru’s room was located at the back of Meimei’s brothel, a bit further away from other rooms, where his colleagues took up clients. He was the only worker, who also lived here so Meimei gave him a little bit of privacy. Getou’s gun had a silencer, if he were to shoot the boy now, in the middle of the day, when there weren’t many people inside the house, nobody would know. To tell the truth, Meimei always valued money over ethics, so Suguru wouldn’t have a problem with taking the body through the front door either.
Yet he faltered, putty in the boy's arms, letting himself be guided to the bed, where Satoru pushed him to the mattress without a care in the world.
The gun pressed into his hip uncomfortably.
Satoru knew how to lure men, how to move his legs, to tilt his head and wet his lips for his clients to lose their minds. Suguru had been drawn to him since the very first time his eyes gazed into the ocean blue.
“You’re weird, you know that, Suguru-san?” Satoru crawled towards him, plastering his body to Suguru’s side and setting his chin on his chest, inspecting his face with his blue eyes. “The only client that comes here for cuddles and kisses aside from the usual work.”
Suguru could not find the strength in himself to reciprocate the boy’s smile, his eyes shadowed, face sunken. Neither could he lie to him, not in his final moments.
“You’re a great listener. I can’t help myself,” Suguru cradled the boy’s face in his hand, pulling him closer for a kiss. “I find comfort in your loneliness, Gojo Satoru.”
Satoru smiled into the kiss, his lips stretching, mirth bubbling under his skin, until the realization sunk in.
“How do you–” Satoru pulled away but only so that he could gaze directly into Getou’s eyes. His face lost its usual color, looking pale as if he were to get sick soon. “I never told you.”
He was right. Suguru only ever knew him as Satoru the prostitute from Meimei’s brothel. Satoru the lonely young boy, who scammed men with the flutter of his white eyelashes and a pout to his lips. Satoru, the only person that gave Suguru meaning other than executing orders.
Never as Gojo Satoru, the youngest son of the Infinity Group.
He should have realized sooner that coming to Satoru’s room every week, sometimes every other day, was no mere need of his body. He had been apathetic and lethargic most of his life, feelings dulled, mind unwavering, when all he ever did was kill kill kill kill kill. He did not recognize the feeling inside his chest because his heart lost the ability to stutter with his first kill when he was still a teenager.
And yet the evidence of his attachment was there in his hesitation.
“I just learned a few days ago. From your father.” When Suguru reached out again towards the boy’s face he did not pull away, even though his blue eyes stayed wide open. “Satoru, I wish I didn’t know.”
The boy held onto Suguru’s hand, turning his face towards his palm, letting his lips leave a quick kiss there.
“So he found me,” he said, all playfulness and excitement disappearing from his face. “You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?”
It was heartbreaking, even to someone as cold as Suguru, to see the young boy be so sure of his incoming doom. He did not run, did not pull away. He just sat there beside his killer, eerily comfortable in his presence. It seemed Satoru had accepted death a long time ago.
“Yes,” Getou admitted, his fingers caressing Satoru’s cheek, tracing the side of his chin, thumb resting over his plush bottom lip. “He paid me to kill you.”
“It’s okay.” Satoru let a small, sad smile appear on his face. His eyes cast low, but his lips stretched just a tiny bit. Soon he laid back down, this time directly on Getou, chest pressed to chest, his pretty face just inches away from the older man’s mouth. “Actually, I’m glad it’s you.”
Indifference , Suguru thought as he watched Satoru fake confidence when he tried to look as if nothing ever fazed him. The boy pressed closer, his hands cupping Suguru’s face, fingers rubbing at his stubble. When he kissed Getou’s lips, it was overly sweet, perfectly practiced gesture of someone, who sold kisses to desperate men.
“Do it quickly,” Satoru whispered, when he pulled away for air, the tips of their noses still touching. “You know I can’t stand too much pain.”
It was supposed to be a joke, a way to make Suguru’s task easier, smoother, but all Satoru accomplished was to set dread deep inside the man’s bones. Satoru, his sweet Satoru, the ever-cheerful boy, who held Suguru whenever sleep was not in his favor, was sentenced to death and he didn’t even try to fight, to run for his life.
“I don’t think I can do it,” Getou finally admitted. “You don’t deserve this.”
The blue of Satoru’s eyes clouded with an emotion Suguru could not decipher. His pupils narrowed, jaw went slack and a shallow breath left his lips. For a moment Suguru thought Satoru was scared.
But then the boy pushed himself up to sit over the man’s hips, letting his hands wander from his neck, down the muscles over his chest finally to his belt and just when Suguru was about to reach for the boy’s fingers, Satoru pulled his gun from the hem of his pants and cocked it.
“Satoru, what are you–”
“You have to kill me,” Satoru pressed the gun to Getou’s palm, holding it tightly with his hand and aiming for his own head. “Suguru-san, you don’t know my father like I do. He’s going to hunt you down and send somebody else to get rid of me,” Satoru held his hand tighter, urging him to pull the trigger. “Do it and you will be free.”
In the dark room, Satoru’s white hair casted a blinding halo around his head, making him look almost like an angel. A young boy with eyes as blue as a clear sky, with pretty lips and porcelain skin only bruised by a few hickeys left on the column of his throat. He resembled an ethereal being more than a sex worker from around the corner.
Suguru laid under him mesmerized.
He gripped the gun tighter, his chest suddenly feeling contracted, muscle memory trying to pull the trigger. It would be easy, another perfectly executed order, another dead body in his arms. The Gojo oyabun offered good money, Suguru could even retire after this job if he wanted to.
The oyabun also said that his son was a fighter and there he was, accepting death, even begging for it and Suguru’s heart skipped a beat. He was sure his body had already forgotten how to do it.
“Tell me you want to die,” he said and watched as Satoru forcefully bit into his lower lip and leaned his head to press his forehead to the gun’s barrel.
“Do it quickly.”
“Tell me you want to die right now,” Suguru repeated himself. “And I will grant you your wish.”
Satoru may have been trained to be an assassin, he knew how to pin Suguru down and steal his gun, but he was still just a boy, who ran from his family, who sold his body hoping for a glimpse of freedom. Maybe that was what captured Suguru’s attention the very first time he had met Satoru, this broken youth in his blue eyes, the same one he carried for over twenty years now.
“You have to kill me.”
But the boy was right, Suguru could not walk away from this order unscratched.
He sat up and pulled Satoru’s and his intertwined hands down, aiming with the gun under the boy’s chin. He watched closely, every nervous intake of breath, the tightly shut eyes, the way his teeth drew blood from the bottom lip. Getou leaned in and kissed his mouth gently.
“Goodbye, Gojo Satoru,” he said and pulled the trigger.
Satoru’s body curled up in on itself, tears flowing down his reddened cheeks and a strangled sob leaving his lips. He fell forward, collapsing on Suguru’s chest, letting the older man hold his weight, whatever was left of him.
From now on Getou Suguru’s life would be a gamble.
He untangled himself from the boy’s limbs and went to grab a knife from his jacket. The bullet didn’t make much noise but it left a dent in the ceiling, it would serve as proof that Suguru was here and executed his order. With the knife in hand, he came back to bed and slashed his own hand, letting the crimson liquid pool in his palm then overflow to taint the sheets. After years of being a hitman, he knew perfectly well how to fabricate a murder.
“Suguru-san,” Satoru whispered his name, calling for his attention with tear-stained cheeks and shining blue eyes but Getou had to stay focused. After he was done with the sheets, he grabbed one of Satoru’s small tops and tightened the material around the wound on his hand.
“The oyabun wanted me to bring him Gojo’s youngest son’s eyes and to dispose of the body,” he explained while pulling out what little Satoru owned and packing it into a backpack. “I’m going to find someone with similar eyes and deliver them to him.”
Not your father or your eyes . Gojo Satoru was in the past now. The boy, who remained, could write his own story from now on.
“But Suguru-san,” Satoru finally stood up from the bed, eyes wide and frightened, lips bloodstained. “What are you doing?”
Getou put his jacket on, the backpack with Satoru’s belongings hanging from his shoulder, his long hair tangled in the handle. His dark eyes found Satoru’s and with an arm outstretched, waiting for Satoru to grab his hand, he genuinely smiled for the first time in a long while.
“I’m going to save your life.”