Archive of Our Own

Gojo Satoru had been at the gala for exactly fourteen minutes, and he already wanted to stab his eyes out with a toothpick.

The ballroom was suffocating in its opulence. Crystal chandeliers threw sparkling light across three hundred guests in black tie, all of them performing various shades of dignity and restraint. Waiters glided between clusters of conversation with champagne flutes balanced on silver trays as a string quartet played something inoffensive near the far wall. Everything was marble or gold leaf or sometimes even both, all accented by the particular hush of people with too much money trying to look like they were enjoying themselves more than they really were.

Satoru hated every square centimeter of this room.

He leaned against a pillar near the east bar, one hand in his pants pocket, the other holding an empty flute he'd already drained twice. His suit was custom and fitted within an inch of its life, and his hair, which some stylist took a stab at taming earlier that evening, had already started just doing whatever the fuck it wanted. He looked expensive and careless, which was pretty much the point.

"Satoru." His dearest mother materialized at his elbow with her strong perfume and even stronger disapproval. "The Zen’in are here. Come and greet them."

"Can't," Satoru said without even bothering to look at her. "I think I have serious stomach thing. I might even be dying."

"You are not dying."

"You don't know that. I could have some freaky parasite." He plucked a canapé off a passing tray and ate it in one bite. "See? Gotta feed the worm."

His mother’s jaw tightened. "It’s just for twenty minutes. I only need you to smile and shake hands. Perhaps you can even say something appropriate for once in your life. Then you can go back to being insufferable."

"I'm never not insufferable, you know that," Satoru needled, but she just scoffed and walked away.

He grabbed a third glass of champagne from a passing waiter and surveyed the room. This gala in particular was an annual exercise in political theater, and Satoru’s role in it had evolved over the years from "precocious child paraded before donors" to "young adult the family hoped would eventually start to take things seriously." He had absolutely no intention of taking things seriously. Serious was for people who peaked in their thirties and needed spreadsheets to feel alive.

Satoru had other ideas.

It was a hobby, really, or maybe even a sport. Whatever it was, it was better than golf or whatever the fuck all these people did for fun. He'd discovered it at seventeen when he'd made a forty-year-old board member turn bright red by loudly asking him, in front of his wife, whether he worked out, because his ass was really something. The man had excused himself so fast he'd knocked over his own chair, and Satoru had been chasing that high ever since.

The game was simple. All he had to do was find the most composed, stick-up-his-ass older man in the room, and slowly take him apart. It had to be public enough to be thrilling, but private enough for plausible deniability. He’d watch that composure crumble as his target realized that some twenty-year-old twink was making his dick very inconveniently hard at some fancy event, and that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

None of them ever really tried to do anything about it, and that was the funniest part. They were all too mortified by their own reactions to act. Satoru got the thrill of the hunt without ever having to deal with the kill, which suited him perfectly fine. He didn't actually want any of these men, he just wanted to watch them want him until they had no choice but to spontaneously combust.

He scanned the crowd. Satoru wanted to avoid anyone who was too young or too drunk, because that would just be too boring. He needed someone with enough pride to make it actually satisfying.

His gaze swept past a cluster of men in dark suits near the bar and stopped.

Satoru’s champagne glass paused halfway to his lips.

Oh.

Oh, hello.

There was a man standing slightly apart from the group, half-turned toward the bar with one elbow resting up on the dark wood. He was tall and incredibly broad, with long black hair pulled back into a knot. A loose bang framed his face while the rest cascaded down his shoulders. His suit was incredibly well-cut, but otherwise nothing special. He held his drink low as he listened to someone drone on, looking like he had absolutely nowhere else to be.

The man was, in the precise clinical language that Satoru’s brain supplied, hot as fuck.

These kinds of events usually attracted some amount of handsome men, of course, but this was another level entirely. Maybe it was the line of his jaw, or his posture. The way his fingers curled around his glass made Satoru’s breath catch. He looked like the kind of man who fucked slowly while trying to hold in his moans.

Satoru felt the sudden urge to make him so uncomfortable he forgets his own name.

He was already writing the script in his head. A man like that was going to be spectacular when he started to crack.

He'd start with something innocent, maybe a compliment paired with a gaze that lingered a beat too long. He'd watch those dark eyes widen just a fraction in surprise, and then he'd push. A hand on a forearm followed by a whispered comment that no one else could hear would do wonders. He'd watch that jaw clench as he tried to maintain his composure while Satoru fed him something filthy enough to make his ears burn.

He drained his champagne and set the empty glass on the nearest surface.

Okay, mystery man, let's see what you look like when you squirm.

Satoru straightened his jacket and started walking.

He took the long way around the ballroom, dodging no fewer than three relatives who wanted him for one reason or another.

Satoru slid into the space next to his target like he belonged there. He was close enough that his shoulder was almost touching the man's arm, but he ignored that for a moment as he flagged down the bartender with two fingers.

"Another of whatever he's having," Satoru said, nodding toward the man's glass, "and one for me."

The man glanced at him. There was a brief flick of dark eyes, but no reaction otherwise. Honestly, it was both impressive and personally offensive.

"That's a bourbon, neat," the man said. His voice was deliciously smooth in a way that settled somewhere in Satoru’s gut. "You sure about that?"

"I'm sure about most things," Satoru said as he flashed his best boyish smile. The corners of his mouth turned up just slightly as his eyes sparkled with fake sincerity. "I'm Gojo Satoru."

"I know who you are," the man said, and while it was a shame he wouldn’t get to enjoy any anonymity, this was still plenty workable. "Geto Suguru."

The bartender set two glasses between them. Satoru picked his up and took a sip without breaking eye contact. The bourbon hit his tongue like liquid fire and he managed, through sheer force of will, not to make a face. He hated bourbon, but he’d literally rather die than let this man see him flinch at a drink.

"Geto," he repeated, letting the name sit in his mouth. "I don't think I've seen you at one of these before."

"First time," Geto said. "A colleague insisted."

"Unlucky you." Satoru angled his body so he was facing Geto fully. He relaxed his shoulders and tilted his chin slightly down so he was looking up through his lashes. It was a subtle sort of thing, but it would make him look even younger and more than a little vulnerable, which older men tended to be weirdly into. "These things kinda suck big time."

That got him something. The corner of Geto's mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, but more of an acknowledgment. "The string quartet is a nice touch, though."

"You think so? They've been playing the same Vivaldi on a loop. I'm starting to think they might actually be mannequins."

He got what might’ve been an actual smile this time. "You have strong opinions about classical music?"

"I have strong opinions about everything," Satoru replied, and he wasn’t shy about letting his personality ooze out into his words. "It's my most charming quality."

He took another sip of the bourbon. It was still terrible, but he kept his expression relaxed. He kept watching Geto's body language, looking for the first sign of tension.

So far, there was absolutely nothing. Geto, for all intents and purposes, seemed perfectly at ease. He hadn't shifted away from Satoru’s proximity, but he hadn't leaned into it either.

Okay, time to try a little pressure.

"So," Satoru said, swirling his glass in favor of actually drinking more, because gross, "you said a colleague dragged you here. That means you're not here with anyone."

"So he’s observant, too," Geto said.

"I'm just saying it’s such a waste, is all. You clean up well." Satoru let his gaze drop to the line of Geto's collar, lingering on the open button right at his throat, before drifting back up. "This a rental, or do you actually own a suit that fits like that?"

Geto looked down at his own jacket, then back at Satoru with the flattest look he’d ever seen in his life. "It's mine."

"You’re saying someone got paid to put their hands all over you like that?" Satoru tipped his glass toward him and let out a whistle. "Lucky tailor."

No reaction. Like, literally nothing. Geto just stood there, sipping his bourbon. Satoru’s compliment hadn't bounced off him exactly, he'd acknowledged it like he had with everything he’d been saying, but it hadn't really landed with any visible impact.

Okay, so, this was a little weird. Most men, even the ones who kept their composure on the surface, gave at least something away at this stage, even if it was small. Geto didn’t let anything slip.

Satoru decided to change tactics. Maybe if he softened his approach, he could give the impression of casual conversation rather than targeted attention. More complementary and less downright flirty, and then he could move in for the kill. Sometimes the rigid ones just needed a longer runway.

"I meant it, though," Satoru said, turning to lean his back against the bar so they were shoulder to shoulder. "Most of the men here are just going through the motions. You at least look like you chose to be here."

"Whether or not that's true is debatable," Geto said with a dramatized sigh.

Satoru laughed and immediately wished he hadn't. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t here to schmooze, he was here to take someone apart.

"Fair enough. So what is it that you do, Geto Suguru, when you're not being held hostage at galas you don’t want to attend?"

Geto considered the question for a moment, like he actually intended to answer honestly, which was already unusual for this kind of event. "Consulting, mostly. Organizational strategy, but I’m occasionally brought in to dismantle things that aren't working."

"A professional destroyer," Satoru said, letting his grin grow wide. "That's hot."

He dropped it casually, like loose change. Just lobbed out with a smile to see where it fell.

Geto's eyes moved to him with the same unhurried attention he'd given everything else tonight. He looked at Satoru for a long second, and he suddenly couldn’t help but feel like he was being appraised.

"You're a very direct young man," Geto eventually said in a voice that could only be described as bored.

"I don't see the point in being anything else," Satoru said, holding his gaze. He shifted his weight, letting his shoulder press against Geto’s arm. "Life's too short for subtext, right?"

Something shifted in Geto's face, but it wasn’t quite the crack Satoru was fishing for. It was closer to recognition, like he’d just confirmed something Geto himself had already suspected. He took a slow sip of his bourbon, his gaze still resting on Satoru’s face, and the faintest trace of amusement surfaced in his dark eyes.

"Is it," he said.

Then he looked away, back toward the room.

Satoru stood there, shoulder to shoulder with this man. His script was running more or less on schedule but his instincts were telling him that something was off by a degree he couldn't name quite yet. But the bait was in the water and the target was finally engaged. Everything was proceeding normally.

But Geto hadn't given him any ground at all, and Satoru couldn't tell if that meant the walls were thick or if there were no walls at all.

He couldn’t hide the wince as he finished his bourbon in a single gulp.

Fine. So you've got a good poker face. Doesn’t matter, everyone breaks eventually.

He set the glass down with a loud clink and smiled, politely excusing himself to find whatever fucking Zen’in his mother wanted him to meet.

A whole hour passed, and Satoru couldn't stop looking at him.

It wasn't on purpose. He'd done his rounds, shaken the hands he was supposed to shake, smiled for the people he was supposed to smile for. He'd endured a seven-minute conversation with some mogul who wanted to talk his ear off about real estate, and a considerably worse four-minute conversation with his own grandmother, who wasn’t shy about telling him how he was a disgrace to the bloodline. He’d thrown down two more glasses of champagne and given his number to a waiter just to watch the poor guy fumble his tray.

But the whole time, his attention kept drifting back to the man at the bar.

Geto hadn't moved much. He'd migrated from the bar to a table near one of the tall windows. He was talking to a very average looking woman in a red dress who kept touching his arm every time she laughed. Satoru watched him say something with an obvious smirk that made her throw her head back, and immediately felt a hot flicker of irritation.

It wasn't jealousy, because that would be dumb as fuck. Satoru didn't get jealous. He was simply annoyed that someone else was getting any reaction at all when he hadn't been able to get shit.

He watched Geto excuse himself from the woman before pausing at the bar for another drink. Satoru intercepted him on the return.

"You again," Geto said, not sounding surprised in the slightest.

"Me again." Satoru fell into step beside him, matching his pace. "Miss me?"

"I wouldn’t say that, but you should know you have a habit of watching people when you think they can't tell," Geto said as he navigated the crowds to a new table. He set his drink down and turned to face Satoru, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "You're not half as subtle as you think you are."

Satoru’s stomach did something he really didn't appreciate. "Watching is a strong word. I was just keeping tabs. You're the only interesting thing in this room."

"No, you were definitely watching, save for the four times you looked away," Geto said simply. He picked up his glass and took a sip. "I counted."

Four? 

Satoru’s brain scrambled backward through the last hour. He never looked away. Looking away was what the targets did. That was their move, and the telltale break in eye contact always told him when the hook was in deep.

He hadn't. He couldn't have.

Satoru did his best to recover. He planted a hand on the table and leaned in, closing the distance to something just shy of appropriate.

"Okay, so maybe I was watching," he conceded, dropping his voice in a way that was meant to lean just a little more into the seduction. "Can you blame me? You've been standing over here looking like that all night and I'm supposed to, what, not notice?"

"You’ll have to be more specific. Looking like what?" Geto asked. The question was soft and, dare he say, inviting, like he was holding open a door and waiting to see if Satoru would walk through it.

It was the biggest fucking trap he’d ever seen in his life.

Satoru recognized it the second the words left Geto's mouth, because an answer to that question was going to be revealing no matter how he phrased it, and they both knew it. If he went vague, it’d be obvious he was hedging, but if he went specific, he'd be giving at least part of himself away.

Satoru went specific, because he'd never hedged in his life and he wasn't about to start now.

"Like the sexiest person in the room," Satoru said, "and you know it, and you don’t even care."

The words came out with much more sincerity than he'd intended. He heard them hit the air and wanted to snatch them back, which was a new feeling for him. He wasn’t used to wanting to retract things, and he sure as hell didn't fumble.

Geto studied him for a moment that lasted just long enough to make the skin on the back of his neck prickle. Then he set his glass down and a warm smile spread across his face. It made the corners of his eyes crinkle in a way that made Satoru’s chest feel tight.

“That’s very generous,” Geto said. He leaned up against the table, angling toward Satoru in a way that halved the already slim distance between them. “But here I thought you were going to say something clever.”

Satoru’s mouth opened, but Geto wasn’t finished.

“You know what I find incredibly intriguing?" Geto said, and Satoru fought to hold in the gasp that wanted to escape. His voice had dropped just enough to make that last word feel like a hand gently resting on the small of his back. “Someone who’s clearly smart enough to run circles around everyone else in this room, but can’t quite figure out how to get what he actually wants.”

Satoru’s smile stayed pinned to his face, but his pulse absolutely fucking skyrocketed.

“The way you decided to compliment my suit, for instance,” Geto continued. He was close enough that Satoru could smell his cologne, warm cedar and something darker underneath. “All very charming.”

He tilted his head, and his dark eyes traced a slow path from Satoru’s eyes to his mouth and back.

“But you weren’t really talking about my tailoring, were you?” Geto murmured. “You were testing to see whether I’d blush if a pretty thing like you started undressing me with his eyes in the middle of a crowded room.”

A pretty thing like you.

Satoru felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He was supposed to be the one doing this, goddamnit. He was supposed to make other people flush and stammer, not the other way around.

“And when I didn’t give you what you wanted,” Geto continued. His smile deepened, turning more than a little predatory, “you pulled back and got awfully friendly. You even made me laugh. That was my favorite part, actually. Your pivot was so smooth a lesser man would’ve missed it.”

There was something about the way he said it. He wasn't admonishing Satoru’s game. It was more like he was savoring it, admiring what he’d done so far while pointing out where the foundation cracked.

"But here you are again," Geto said. He reached out and, with one finger, straightened the knot of Satoru’s tie. The touch was feather-light and lasted less than a second, but Satoru felt it through his entire body. "Which tells me the friendly approach didn't quite scratch the itch either. What you want isn't conversation, but for me to look at you the way you've been looking at me all night."

His hand dropped away and he picked up his bourbon again.

"And the fact that I haven't given it to you yet," Geto said, taking a sip, his eyes steady on Satoru’s face, "is making you absolutely desperate."

Satoru stood very still. The champagne buzz that had been coating everything in a comfortable haze suddenly felt thin. He was aware of his own heartbeat in a way he usually wasn't. His tie even felt tighter than it had ten seconds ago even though Geto had barely touched it.

He should laugh it off. He wanted to toss out something flippant, something that would let him reset the dynamic and retake control. That was the play.

"Wow," Satoru heard himself say, and he knew his grin was brittle. "You charge by the hour for that kind of analysis, or is the first session free?"

"First session's always free," Geto said, and the warmth in his voice made it sound like a gift rather than a barb. "Besides, I have nineteen-year-old twins." He swirled his glass before taking yet another sip. "You learn to see through this kind of performance pretty quickly when you've been on the receiving end of every manipulation tactic a pair of teenage girls can devise."

Satoru felt his brain snag on nineteen-year-old twins. He should have just let it go, or at the very least clocked the comparison as the gentle insult that it was and pivoted to something safer.

But instead, his mouth moved on its own, the way it always did when someone handed him a live grenade.

"Daughters," he said, letting the word stretch between his teeth. He tilted his head, and he felt himself lock on. "So you're a dad. That's so sweet. Nineteen, you said?"

Geto hummed, but didn’t say anything further.

"So practically my age." Satoru pressed a hand to his chest in mock surprise. There had to be a way of salvaging this. There just had to be. "Then this must be so strange for you right now."

Geto's expression didn't change. "Should it be?"

"I don't know," Satoru said, and he leaned in further than he probably should’ve given that they were surrounded on all sides by crowds. He was close enough that his breath hit the side of Geto's neck. "Doesn’t it feel strange? Talking to someone your daughters’ age who you admit has been eye-fucking you for the last hour?"

Nothing. No flinch, not even a sharp fucking inhale. Geto turned his head just enough to regard Satoru at close range, and the proximity that he’d designed to be a weapon started to work against him.

Satoru had no choice really but to press in even harder.

"Because I think it does," he murmured, his lips close enough to Geto's ear that they grazed his skin. "I think that's why you brought it up. Not because it bothers you, but because you wanted to see what I'd do with it." 

Satoru pulled back just enough to look Geto in the eye, and smiled. He picked up Geto’s bourbon and took a small sip of his own. He was buzzed enough at this point to ignore the burn.

"I'm not one of your daughters’ friends, though, am I?" Satoru said, dropping his voice into something a little more sultry. He let the words pour out of him like warm honey. "I'm just a pretty stranger at a party. Nobody here knows we're talking, and nobody would care if you reached over and put your hand on me right now."

He paused, letting the image settle between them.

"I wouldn't stop you, you know." His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, and he watched Geto's gaze drop to track the movement. There. Fucking finally, he was getting somewhere. "If you wanted to touch me, I'd let you."

He stepped back until only the lapels of their jackets brushed. He tilted his chin down so that he could look up through his lashes, and let his voice go all breathy and ruined, pitching it into the register he usually saved for when he was truly backed into a corner. He'd practiced it in his bathroom mirror until it sounded like he was literally in the middle of an orgasm.

"I'd let you do whatever you wanted," Satoru moaned, letting his mouth hang open just slightly as he ran his tongue against the back of his teeth. "And I'd be so good for you."

He held Geto's gaze and dropped the next word like a lit match into gasoline.

"Daddy."

He loaded everything he had into that single word. He made it wet and needy, like he was already on his knees and ready to suck cock then and there. Satoru wanted it to sound like his mouth was made for begging, and that the only thing standing between Geto and the filthiest night of his life was the word yes.

Satoru waited for everything to drop. This was the moment where his composure would finally shatter. Geto would either go red and run away or go red and do something about it. Either way, he was going to go fucking red. This was the tactic that cracked open every uptight, repressed asshole he'd ever aimed it at, and it wasn’t about to fail him now.

Geto blinked once.

Then, after a beat, he laughed.

It started in his chest and moved through his shoulders. He looked at Satoru with an expression that was, horrifyingly, something close to fond.

"Oh, you're good," Geto said, and he sounded so unbelievably delighted. But, like, what the actual fuck. "That must be absolutely devastating on the right man."

Satoru felt the ground shift under him for the second time in five minutes as his voice shifted back to normal. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't be like that, you know exactly what I'm talking about," Geto said, as casually as if he were discussing the canapés. "It was a good closer, I’ll admit. Very provocative, and designed to trigger either shame or arousal, but ideally both."

He took a sip of his bourbon.

"The problem," Geto continued, "is that you're just slinging it with the goal of watching a grown man choke and not know where to put his hands."

Satoru’s smile quivered at the edges. "And what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing." Geto set his glass down as his lips curled into a smirk. His eyes hadn't moved from Satoru’s face. "But you should be careful about saying it to someone who might actually know how to handle a brat like you."

The words landed softly, which honestly was the worst part.

Satoru’s first reaction was a spike of anger, because he wasn’t a brat. He was running a sophisticated operation here, and this man had the audacity to reduce him to a fucking brat? His jaw tightened and he wanted to say something sharp and cutting that would put Geto back in his place.

But before any words could come out, his brain caught up to the rest of the sentence. And his face went so incredibly hot, because Geto said he knew how to handle brats like him, except he wasn’t a brat to be handled in the first place. The only problem was the more he thought about it, the more the burn spread down the sides of his neck.

Absolutely not. We are not doing this.

He scrambled for the anger again and grabbed it with both hands.

"So what," Satoru said, and he was pissed to hear his voice come out less than steady. He leaned forward to crowd Geto’s space again, because maybe he could reclaim ground through sheer assertiveness. "You're telling me all this bullshit doesn't work on you? The whole thing?"

He wanted it to sound like a challenge. Instead, it came out breathless and a little desperate. The heat in his face got worse because he could hear the different even if Geto couldn’t.

Except Geto definitely could.

Geto took a moment to consider his words, notably unbothered by the body in his space. If anything, the closeness seemed to settle him even fucking deeper into his own calm.

"I'm telling you," he said, "that there's a difference between a man who wants something and is afraid of it, and a man who wants something and has made peace with that a long time ago."

He held Satoru’s gaze. The ambient noise of the gala suddenly felt very far away.

Something was happening in the air between them, and Satoru’s stomach dropped away. He felt like he was standing on nothing, because Geto wasn’t talking about hypotheticals. He’d said wants, present tense, and he was looking right at Satoru when he said it, and there was absolutely nothing in his face that resembled shame.

Satoru’s body responded before his brain could intervene. Another wave of heat rolled through him, lower this time, as his throat went very dry. 

"So which one are you?" The question fell out before Satoru could stop it.

Geto smiled, and this one felt much more dangerous than everything else he’d given.

"I think you already know the answer to that."

A silence opened up between them. Geto didn't fill it. He just stood there, relaxed, watching Satoru like he was a piece in a game of Shogi.

Okay, so this was the moment where Satoru should’ve just walked away. He should’ve laughed it off, grabbed another drink, found some cousin to annoy, and written this whole encounter off as an anomaly. It happened sometimes. Not everyone could crack, and that was fine, because there were three hundred other people in this ballroom, and at least a dozen of them would fold if he so much as winked in their direction.

He didn’t walk away.

Satoru was too warm, which was part of the problem. The heat that settled deep within him didn’t feel like it was dissipating anytime soon. He wanted to leave, and he also wanted to step in closer, and these two warring wants was making his hands fucking shake.

"Let me ask you something," Geto eventually said, cutting through his thoughts like a sharpened knife. "All these men you've played with at events like this. After you've won your little game and they leave, what do you actually feel?"

Satoru slipped into his automatic grin to hide all the unease he was suddenly feeling underneath. "Satisfied as fuck, obviously."

"Obviously," Geto echoed. "And is that enough for you?"

The question landed in the quiet space between them and sat. Satoru felt it pressing against something he didn't want to look at directly, let alone explore in any level of detail.

"I'm not here for your therapy session," Satoru said.

"No, you're here because you want to win," Geto agreed. "But the game you're playing has a limit. You find men who want something they're ashamed of, and you offer it to them in a way that lets you hold the power. It's elegant." He paused. "But it means you only ever get to play with people who are weaker than you, and I don't think that's what you actually want."

Satoru’s jaw tightened. The energy that had been building all night was crackling under his skin now, and he needed to do something with it. He needed to stop talking and start acting because this man kept finding seams in him that he didn't know existed and clearly had no qualms about prying them open with careful fingers.

"You sure talk a lot," Satoru said, just as softly, "for someone who hasn't actually made a move."

"Is that what you want?" he asked. "A move?"

"I want you to stop fucking analyzing me and start reacting like a normal person," Satoru snapped, and he’d probably be a little embarrassed by his outburst if he wasn’t so fucking frustrated at this point.

"Alright," Geto murmured.

Satoru reached for Geto's tie. It was a move he'd used plenty of times before. His fingers closed around the dark silk and he tugged, pulling Geto's face toward his own.

Geto let himself be pulled. He tilted forward until they were breathing the same air. Then, his hand came up and closed around Satoru’s wrist.

The grip wasn't tight, but it was solid and warm. Geto's fingers wrapped around the narrow bones of Satoru’s wrist like they'd been measured for it, and his thumb settled directly over the soft flesh on the inside.

Satoru’s heart wouldn’t stop hammering. He could feel it jumping against the pad of Geto's thumb like it was trying to escape.

Neither of them moved. Satoru was still holding his tie, and Geto was still holding his wrist. They were locked together in a strange, silent standoff, close enough for Satoru to see exactly how Geto's pupils had started to expand. It was the only hint he had that he was affected by this literally at all.

"You're shaking," Geto observed, almost too gentle for the position they were in.

"I'm not," Satoru lied. His fingers were trembling against the silk of his tie and they both knew it.

Geto held his wrist for three more seconds. Satoru counted each one. Then, without hurry, Geto reached up with his free hand and uncurled his fingers from his tie, one by one.

He didn't drop Satoru’s hand. He held it for a moment, loose enough that Satoru could pull it back if he wanted to, but firm enough that he knew he’d been caught.

Then he let go, and Satoru’s hand dropped to his side.

"There," Geto said as he casually adjusted his tie back into position. "A reaction."

Satoru just stared at him as his face started to burn. His brain, which had been running at full capacity all evening, generating scripts and counter-scripts and contingency plans, started producing absolutely nothing.

"That," Satoru managed, his voice coming out wispier than he wanted, "was not what I meant and you know it."

Geto smiled in a way that bypassed his eyes entirely and went somewhere much more visceral.

"Perhaps," he said. "But I think it's what you needed."

He straightened up, buttoned his jacket, and glanced toward the bar. "If you'll excuse me."

Geto didn’t give him any more of a goodbye than that. He just turned around and walked away.

Satoru stood at the table, breathing carefully through his nose. His wrist was still tingling. He pressed his thumb against the spot where Geto's had been and felt his pulse kicking under the skin, completely out of control.

He watched Geto cross the room. He stopped at the bar and exchanged a few words with the bartender before sliding some cash across the wood. He was leaving. Satoru knew without a doubt that he was just collecting himself and preparing to walk out the door, and that was going to be the end of it.

Let him leave, the sensible part of his brain said. You know you're outmatched, so just cut your losses and go home.

But fuck that, because Satoru had never once in his life listened to the sensible part of his brain, and like hell was he about to lose now after all that.

He crossed the ballroom. His long legs ate up the distance faster than he was prepared for, and he forced himself to slow down, to look at least somewhat casual. By the time he reached Geto, his face was arranged back into something that almost resembled his usual grin.

"Leaving already?" Satoru asked, falling into step beside him as Geto began walking toward the main entrance. "The night is young, and you're not that old. Let's not be dramatic about this."

Geto glanced at him sideways. "I've been here for a handful of hours. That's a respectable showing."

"Respectable is boring. Stay for one more drink." Satoru’s fingers were twitching at his sides, so he shoved them into his pockets.

"I've had enough to drink."

"Then stay for the pleasure of my company."

Satoru heard the edge of his own voice. He was doing a horrendous job of sounding casual, and an even worse job of caring. His body was still running way too hot, and there was a maddening pulse every time he looked at Geto’s hands or the loose hair running against his neck. He wanted to run his fingers through it and tug on it. He wanted to press his face into the collar of Geto’s suit and find out if his cologne was stronger there. Satoru wanted a great number of things that he wasn’t going to stay out loud, so instead he trailed after this man like a goddamn stray puppy.

But it made Geto stop walking, so whatever. They were in the corridor now that connected the ballroom to the lobby. The noise of the gala was reduced to a low murmur punctuated by the occasional clink of glass. More importantly, however, they were finally alone.

Geto turned to face him with his hands settled into his pants pockets. His expression was unreadable in the half-light, but his eyes were focused on Satoru’s face with the same level of attention that had been undoing him all evening.

"Why?" Geto asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do you actually want me to stay?"

Satoru opened his mouth to fire off something snarky and found that nothing would come out. His usual flippant responses were all there, loaded and ready. Because you're hot, because I'm bored, because I’m not done annoying you yet. But they felt wrong, and if he said any of them, Geto would see through them instantly and then he really would leave.

Geto was watching him struggle, and the worst part was that his expression wasn't smug. It was annoyingly patient. He was giving Satoru space to answer him honestly, and the kindness of that felt worse than any mockery would have.

"Because," Satoru said with scrunched eyebrows, much more quietly than he planned, "you're probably the first person who's actually seen what I'm doing and didn't either run away or pretend it wasn't happening, and I really don't know what to do with that, but for some reason, I just don’t want to let you slip away like this."

The words hung in the corridor. Satoru heard them land and immediately wanted to set himself on fire, or maybe just throw himself out a window. That was far too much. He'd just shown his hand to a man he'd known for maybe three hours, and the vulnerability of it made his skin feel like it was on inside out.

Geto was quiet for a long time.

Then he said, "Do you actually want what you've been offering tonight? Or do you only offer it because you're counting on the answer being no?"

The silence that followed was the loudest thing Satoru had heard all evening, because what kind of philosophy bullshit was this?

He thought about every man he'd ever targeted, from the flustered to the guilty to the ones who sweated and stammered and excused themselves. It had always given him a sense of satisfaction to watch them squirm. But regardless, he'd always felt a little hollow afterward. There was always this faint idea of disappointment that he'd attributed to the thrill wearing off, but maybe it was something else entirely.

He thought again about Geto's thumb on his wrist.

"I don't know," Satoru admitted. The honesty tasted foreign in his mouth, even worse than the bourbon. "I've never had to find out."

Geto nodded slowly and he took a step closer.

"Here's what I think," he said quietly enough that Satoru had to lean in to catch it. The closing distance made his breath hitch, and he prayed to whoever was listening that Geto hadn’t heard it. "You've spent a long time being brave in a way that costs you nothing, and you’ve never had to deal with the consequences because the men you choose are always too afraid to give you any."

He was close enough now that he was all Satoru could focus on.

"I think you approached me because you know I'm not afraid of you," Geto said. "And that terrifies you more than anything you've felt all night."

Satoru’s breath was shallow as his heart pounded against his ribs. The champagne and the proximity and the low rumble of Geto’s fucking voice were all conspiring against him. He could feel himself getting hard, and the tight cut of his suit pants was going to make that very obvious any second now if it wasn’t already.

"And yet, you still came over," Geto continued, and when did he start fucking murmuring? Was he doing that on purpose? He had to be. "Which tells me that the answer to my question is yes, you do want it. You're just not used to someone who'll actually give it to you."

Satoru swallowed. His body was screaming at him to grab this man by the collar and drag him somewhere dark and quiet, but he still couldn’t bring himself to say a single word. If he opened his damn mouth right now, nothing clever would come out, only desperate pleas.

"So," Geto said, and his tone shifted into something a little more dangerous. "I'm going to ask you a very simple question, and I want an honest answer. Just a yes or a no."

He held his gaze.

"Do you want to find out what happens when someone calls your bluff?"

The corridor was still empty as the gala continued to hum softly behind them.

Satoru looked at this infuriating man who had somehow dismantled every defense he had and was now standing in the wreckage, offering him a hand. His whole body was taut, filled with want and fear in equal measure. He could feel his heartbeat all the way in his fingertips.

"Yes," Satoru said, though it came out more like gasp.

Geto nodded once. Then he glanced down the corridor, toward a hallway that branched off to the right. That was the direction of the private restrooms, the nice ones with the marble counters and actual doors.

Geto looked back at him.

"After you," he said.

Geto closed the stall door behind them and slid the lock into place.

The stall was spacious by any standard, but with two tall men inside it, the walls felt like they were pressing in close. Satoru’s back was to the door, Geto a half-step in front of him. The noise of the gala was barely audible now, a faint buzz through layers of marble and drywall. But barely audible wasn't silent, and someone could walk in at any moment.

Satoru opened his mouth. He wasn't sure what he was going to say, maybe something that would let him re-establish some semblance of footing, but he never got the chance. Geto's hand came up and pressed against his mouth, sealing his lips shut.

"Here's how this is going to work," Geto said, and his voice was different now. It was still low and composed, but the conversational warmth had burned off. "You’re not going to make a sound, not even a moan or a whimper. If someone walks in and hears you, I’m going to stop and leave. Do you understand?"

Satoru’s breath was hot against Geto's palm and his eyes were wide.

He nodded.

"Good boy."

Satoru gasped as Geto removed his hand.

The absence of contact lasted exactly one second before Geto replaced it with his mouth.

It was nothing like what Satoru had expected. Geto kissed him slowly and thoroughly. He took his lower lip between his teeth and pulled, a measured pressure that sent a bolt of sensation right down through his chest and straight to his dick. Then he licked into Satoru’s mouth. His tongue sliding against Satoru’s with a gentleness that made his knees feel weak.

Satoru grabbed the front of Geto's shirt and he kissed back hard, trying to speed things up. Geto let him for a moment, but then pulled back just far enough to break the kiss. He looked at Satoru with dark, half-lidded eyes.

"Don’t worry," Geto murmured against his mouth. "I'll give you what you need, but we're doing this my way."

Satoru bit down on the inside of his cheek. He didn’t say a word, but he gave him a small nod.

There was one hand on Satoru’s hip, the other on his shoulder, and suddenly he was facing the wall. The marble was cool through his shirt. Geto's body was warm, close enough to just barely brush against him.

Geto's hands went straight for his belt. The sound of the buckle was weirdly loud in the quiet room as a series of clinks bounced off the tiles. Satoru felt the leather slide free, and then Geto was hooking his thumbs into his waistband and pulling his pants and underwear down just past his ass. Everything else stayed on.

Cool air hit his bare skin and Satoru’s fingers curled against the marble.

Behind him, he heard Geto's own belt. There was a rustle of fabric being pushed aside, and then the sound of Geto freeing his cock.

"Hands on the wall," Geto whispered into his ear. "Keep them there."

Satoru shuddered and held in a gasp as he pressed his palms flat against the cold stone. His forehead dropped forward to rest against the marble. He suddenly found himself breathing too fast, short little bursts through his nose that fogged the polished surface.

Geto stepped in even closer and Satoru could feel the press of his cock against the bare skin of his ass, settling between his cheeks. His hole was already winking in anticipation.

Geto's hand appeared in front of Satoru’s face.

"Open," he said.

Satoru did as he was told. Two of Geto's fingers slid past his lips and pressed down on his tongue. They were long and warm and tasted like salt and bourbon. Satoru’s eyes fluttered shut as he sucked, his tongue coating them in spit until it started to pool at the corners of his mouth.

"That's it," Geto murmured behind him. His cock shifted against Satoru’s ass in a lazy grind that nearly made him gasp. "Get them nice and wet for me. That's all you're getting."

A sound tried to climb out of Satoru’s throat, but he swallowed it as his tongue continued working around Geto's fingers. Spit ran down his chin as Geto pushed them deeper, testing the back of his throat, and Satoru’s gag reflex kicked weakly before he suppressed it.

Geto pulled his hand back, and then in what felt like an instant, those wet fingers were between his cheeks, sliding down until they pressed against his hole.

"Breathe," Geto said against the back of his neck.

Satoru forced air into his lungs. Geto rubbed the pad of his middle finger over the tight rim, and then he pressed in. The stretch burned, and Satoru’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp. His hole clenched tight around the intrusion, and Geto held still, letting him adjust, before pulling back and pushing deeper.

He worked Satoru open with the same patience he'd shown all evening. He added the second finger and Satoru wanted to moan at the wider stretch, but he held it in. Geto scissored them apart, working his tight walls until they softened. He curled his fingers and found an angle that made Satoru’s thighs tremble, then pressed into it without mercy. Satoru bit into the arm of his suit jacket to keep from making noise.

"Look at you," Geto said right up against his ear. His fingers continued to pump in and out of Satoru’s ass, surprisingly silent in the quiet room. "Trying so hard to keep quiet while I get you ready to take my cock."

Satoru squeezed his eyes shut. He was fully hard now, and a clear line of pre-come dripped from his tip and smeared against the cold marble.

"You wanted this," Geto continued, withdrawing his fingers slowly and then pushing them back in deeper, twisting them so Satoru could feel every little drag. "Every time you batted your eyes, this is what you were really asking for, isn't it? You wanted someone to just bend you over and shut you up."

Satoru’s breathing was ragged and wet against his own arm. He couldn’t stop his hips from rocking back onto Geto's fingers, his body begging for more even as his brain was stuck in a bit of a fog.

"None of them ever did, though. Did they?" Geto crooked his fingers hard against his prostate and his hips jerked, his cock twitching against the wall again. "They just got embarrassed and walked away, and you got to go home all alone and tell yourself you won."

He pulled his fingers out. The loss left Satoru empty and clenching around nothing. A pitiful whine caught in his throat before he strangled it.

He heard Geto spit, and then the wet sound of him stroking himself. Then the blunt head of Geto's cock pressed against his hole, nudging up against his only slightly loosened rim.

"I'm not going to walk away," Geto said.

He pushed in.

The head alone spread Satoru incredibly wide. His hole stretched around the thick crown, burning as he was forced to take it in, and Satoru’s mouth opened wide against his forearm in a silent gasp. Geto didn't pause. He fed himself in, splitting him open on nothing but spit and pre-come.

Geto wasn’t gentle, but he was at least slow. He had one hand on Satoru’s hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and the other braced against the wall above his head. Satoru could hear his breathing, maybe a little heavier, but still steady and in control.

When Geto bottomed out, his hips pressed flush against Satoru’s ass, they both went still.

Satoru was shaking. Full-body tremors started at his knees and ran up through his spine. He felt so full, his hole stretched and burning around the thick base of Geto's cock. Every tiny movement sent a fresh jolt through his nervous system.

Geto's lips brushed the shell of his ear.

"Still with me?"

Satoru was supposed to be good and quiet, that was the deal, but even outside of that, he didn’t trust his own voice, so he just nodded.

Geto pulled back, dragging his cock almost all the way out. The rim of Satoru’s hole caught on the head before he snapped his hips forward and drove back in.

Satoru’s vision sparked.

The pace started slow and deep, but that didn’t mean it didn’t punch the air from Satoru’s lungs. Satoru turned his head sideways against the wall, and the marble was cold against his cheek. The contrast with the heat splitting him open from behind was dizzying. Each thrust had started to sound a little wet, but the slap of Geto’s hips against his thighs was muffled by the fabric of their pants. Under it all, the distant murmur of the gala carried on without them.

Geto's hand found the back of Satoru’s neck, and he pushed him into the wall as he picked up the pace. The thrusts came harder now, punching sharp little gasps out of him that he could barely hold in.

"This is what you were begging for all night," Geto said, his voice all breathy against Satoru’s hair. His cock drove into Satoru’s ass with a heavy smack that echoed off the tiles. "Pushing and pushing and pushing, just trying to get a reaction." He snapped his hips hard enough to jolt Satoru’s body into the wall. "Here's your fucking reaction. You're taking my cock with three hundred people on the other side of this wall, and you can't even ask for more because you’re so good at keeping your mouth shut."

Tears were building at the corners of Satoru’s eyes from the sheer effort of staying silent while Geto fucked into him, hitting his prostate every time. His own cock was aching, and he couldn't even touch it because his hands were braced against the wall and if he moved them his legs would give out.

Then the door to the bathroom opened and they both froze.

There were footsteps, what sounded like dress shoes on marble. Someone crossed from the door to the sinks, followed by the rush of a faucet turning on.

Satoru stopped breathing. Geto was buried balls deep inside him, but neither of them moved. Satoru could feel his own heartbeat pulsing in the tight ring of muscle stretched taut around Geto's cock.

And then Geto very deliberately rolled his hips.

It was just a tiny grind, shifting the angle just enough to press right up against his prostate. Satoru’s hand flew to his own mouth, clamping down so hard his teeth dug into his palm. He felt Geto's fingers tighten on his hip in response, a silent warning to stay still.

The faucet soon shut off, followed by the sound of paper towels rustling. The footsteps came back, and the door opened and closed.

Geto's hand tightened on the back of Satoru’s neck.

"Good boy," he breathed. "Staying so quiet for me. I could feel you squeezing me the whole time."

And then he resumed, somehow even harder than before.

Satoru felt like he was dissolving. The sounds were louder as Geto’s cock started to squelch, fucking in and out of him.

Then Geto pulled out.

The emptiness was staggering and Satoru’s hole felt like it was gaping. He nearly sobbed, but he caught it at the last second and turned it into a sharp exhale through his nose. His legs were trembling, barely holding him upright.

"Turn around," Geto said in a demanding voice.

Satoru turned. His back hit the marble and the cold seeped in through his jacket and shirt. He was a wreck, and he knew it. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his eyes had to be wet and red-rimmed by this point.

Geto looked at him. The composure was still there, but Satoru could tell that it was thinner now. His pupils were blown wide and there was color high on his cheekbones. A single strand of dark hair had escaped his knot and hung across his forehead separate from his bang.

He stepped forward, and his hands slid under Satoru’s thighs.

"Hold onto me," he said.

Satoru’s arms went around Geto's neck, and then suddenly his feet left the floor. Geto pinned him against the wall, hooking his knees into the crooks of his elbows. Satoru’s legs were spread wide like this, his ass completely exposed between them.

"There we go," Geto murmured, looking down at him. In this position, Satoru’s face was slightly below his, and Geto's gaze traveled down his body. Satoru could see the open hunger in his eyes. "I want to see your face when you come on my cock."

He lined up and pushed back in.

Gravity did half the work. Satoru sank down, his own weight driving him onto the full length in a single slide. The depth was staggering, even deeper than before, the angle made Satoru’s vision fracture into a shower of white sparks. His head fell back against the marble with a dull thud and he was vaguely aware of his mouth hanging open. But there was nothing coming out, just silent huffs and the feeling of his throat working around sounds he wouldn't dare let out.

Geto started to move. He used his grip on Satoru’s legs for leverage, his arms flexing as he pulled him down onto each upward thrust. The pace was punishing. Each snap of his hips drove his cock deep into Satoru’s ass with what was now a wet slap that echoed in the stall. Satoru could feel the head grinding against his insides, pressing into that spot that was quickly burning away his last shred of coherent thought.

"Look at me," Geto said.

Satoru forced his eyes open. Geto was watching him, reading every twitch and tremor on his face with those dark eyes. There was nowhere to hide, just Geto's gaze and the relentless rhythm of his hips pumping into him.

"So pretty like this," Geto said, and his voice was significantly rougher now as it started fraying at the edges. It was the first real crack in his composure he's seen this whole time. "All night you’ve been running your mouth." He thrust up hard enough to bounce Satoru against the wall. "And now look at you. Stuffed full with your legs spread like a whore, and you can't even make a sound."

Satoru’s fingers dug into the back of Geto's jacket, clawing his nails into the expensive fabric. Tears were tracking down his cheeks and he couldn't wipe them away. His cock was trapped between their bodies, rubbing against Geto's shirt with every thrust. The friction was just enough to keep him on the agonizing edge without pushing him over.

"This is what you really needed," Geto continued, and his pace started to build. His arms started to shake, no doubt with the effort of holding Satoru up and fucking into him at the same time. He adjusted his grip and drove in at a steeper angle, and Satoru’s back arched violently off the wall as the tiniest of gasps escaped his throat. "Someone who would bend you in half and give you exactly what you've been asking for."

Geto leaned in pressed his lips against his jaw, and his breath started coming out in ragged bursts.

"You can let go now," Geto whispered. "I've got you."

That was the moment Satoru shattered.

His entire body seized up as his orgasm hit him. Satoru’s mouth opened in a scream that had no sound as his back bowed off the wall. He came untouched, his cock pulsing between their bodies, spilling hot and thick across both their shirts in long, messy ropes. His ass clamped down around Geto's cock in waves, squeezing tight with each spasm.

Geto didn't stop. He fucked him through it, but his pace was beginning to falter, and his composure was finally cracking open. His breathing broke into something much more uncontrolled, and he let out a low groan against Satoru’s neck. His grip on his legs tightened just as his thrusts shortened, his cock driving into the clenching heat of Satoru’s body with a desperate roll of his hips.

"Fuck," Geto hissed, and it was probably the first graceless word he'd spoken all evening, as he buried himself to the hilt. He pressed in as deep as Satoru’s body would allow, his hips flush against his ass as he came. Satoru felt every pulse of it, the thick flood filling him up, Geto's cock twitching and throbbing inside him as he emptied himself deep. Geto's forehead dropped against his shoulder. His body shuddered and his breath was broken against Satoru’s ruined shirt.

They stayed like that for a little while.

Geto's arms were now definitely trembling under Satoru’s weight, the first sign all night that the man might've actually been human after all. Satoru’s head was tipped back against the marble as he stared at the ceiling through wet eyelashes. He could feel Geto's come and the slow softening of the cock still buried in his ass.

Eventually, Geto pulled out and lowered him carefully to the ground.

Satoru’s feet touched the tile and his knees buckled pretty immediately. Geto caught him with one arm around his waist, and he held him steady against the wall until his legs remembered how to be legs again.

Once Satoru could stand, Geto stepped back. He tucked himself away and closed his pants before reaching up to fix his hair. Within thirty goddamn seconds, he looked exactly as he had when Satoru first spotted him at the bar.

The only evidence was the damp stain on the front of his shirt, which was quickly hidden beneath his buttoned jacket.

Satoru was still leaning against the wall with his pants bunched around his thighs. He could feel Geto's come leaking out of him, trickling down the inside of his thigh, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

Geto turned back to him. He looked at him for a long moment, and then something in his expression shifted.

He reached over to grab a handful of toilet paper and started wiping up what he could from Satoru’s skin. His hands then went to his pants, easing the waistband over his hips before fastening it all together. Satoru just stood there with his arms limp at his sides, letting himself be put back together by the same hands that had just taken him apart.

Geto straightened Satoru’s collar and smoothed the lapels of his jacket flat, tugging the fabric into place. Then he reached up and fixed his tie, tightening the knot and centering it with a small adjustment.

His thumb grazed the hollow of Satoru’s throat as he pulled his hand away.

"You should wait a few minutes before you go back out," Geto said. His voice was soft, suddenly stripped of the authority it had carried not even five minutes ago. He sounded like just a regular man, like this. "Splash some cold water on your face. It'll make the redness fade quicker."

Satoru nodded. His mouth wasn't quite working yet.

Geto held his gaze for another second. Then his hand came up, and he brushed a damp strand of white hair off his forehead. The gesture was horribly tender, his fingertips just barely grazing skin. His hand lingered, his fingers tracing from his temple down to his cheekbone before settling under his jaw.

He tilted Satoru’s face up and leaned in.

The kiss was nothing like what had just happened between them. It was close-mouthed and gentle, just a warm press of Geto’s lips against his own, lasting maybe two seconds.

And then Geto pulled back. His thumb brushed once more across Satoru’s jaw before his hand dropped away. That, more than anything, cracked something open in his chest that the sex hadn’t touched.

Geto didn't say goodbye.

He just unlocked the stall, stepped out, and closed the door behind him. Satoru heard the tap run for a minute, followed by the click of the main door opening. There was the muffled swell of music and conversation from the gala outside, and then the door swung shut, leaving him in silence once more.

Satoru didn't move.

He could still feel all of it. The weight of Geto's hands under his thighs, and the raw ache of being stretched open. The warm, sticky mess of come that hadn’t been wiped up was slowly cooling against his skin. His hole was sore and tender and still spasming, still adjusting to the sudden absence after being so full.

What the everloving fuck just happened?

Satoru ran a hand through his hair and flinched at the sheer amount of sweat. He looked down at himself. Geto had reassembled him so carefully that he actually looked almost normal. Below the surface was another story entirely, but the surface itself was immaculate.

He thought about going back out to the gala. Maybe he could find a drink and a familiar face and pretend the last hour hadn't happened. He'd done it before, compartmentalization and all that. He was rather good at boxing up whatever didn't fit and shelving it somewhere he didn't have to look at it.

But this didn't fit in a box. Every time he tried to fold it down to a manageable size, he felt Geto's lips on his and the whole thing blew back open again.

He let out a shaky breath. Then he straightened up, rolled his shoulders, and patted down his jacket out of habit.

His fingers hit something in his breast pocket.

Satoru frowned. He reached in and pulled out a card. It had a super minimalist font, but no logo and no company name.

All it had was a name, followed by a phone number.

Satoru stared at it for a moment. He turned it over, but the back was blank. He tried to pinpoint when exactly Geto had slipped it in.

Satoru didn’t know what to think of it. If anything, it felt like a question, printed on cardstock and left for him to answer on his own time.

Call me, or don't. But now you know I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere.

Satoru’s thumb traced the edge of the card.

He thought about the men he'd played with at past galas. He'd always walked away from every single one of them without a backward glance, buzzing with the satisfaction of another small, meaningless victory. He'd never once wanted them to leave a number, let alone remember his name come morning.

But now he was standing in a bathroom stall, sore and sticky and wearing a goddamn come stain under his jacket.

He pocketed the card.

Satoru stood there for another minute, just breathing, letting his pulse calm back down to something somewhat resembling normal. Then he opened the door and walked to the sinks, opting to run cold water over his face until the red flush faded, just like Geto told him to.

His reflection stared back at him from the mirror. He was slightly disheveled, maybe, but nothing that couldn't be explained by a long night and too much champagne.

But his eyes kept dropping to the pocket where the card sat.

Satoru turned off the faucet, and he dried his hands. He straightened his tie one more time.

Then he walked back out into the party.