Toji x Gojo

Blood-red Hearts

Compared to the Gojo estate, Toji's walk-up was a dump. The wallpaper was stained and peeling, the carpet worn down to the wood. He hadn't cleaned up the empty takeout boxes littered across the coffee table or the cigarette butts in the overflowing ashtrays.

"It ain't the Ritz," he said as he sat Satoru in front of the grainy television.

Toji made him a grilled cheese while pondering what to do with him. It wasn't until the bread had burned at the edges that he realized the movie on TV was ridiculously violent, gratuitous gore filling the screen. Satoru watched in rapture, knees pulled up to his chest.

An anonymous goon's head was torn clean off and the kid laughed.

So Toji decided he'd let him stick around for a while.

The nature of Toji's job required constant movement, seedy apartment after seedy apartment.

Satoru followed him up the wrought-iron staircase, struggling with his suitcase. It was a small, ratty thing with a cat on it that Toji had found at the thrift store, now bearing the letters S-A-T-O-R-U in smudged permanent marker. Toji had long since sold Satoru's expensive things because hey , a man's gotta eat.

The kid didn't seem to mind the state of the places they stayed at. He said he liked the way the lights flickered like there was a ghost in the walls. He said he liked the wallpaper because there were stars on it and the cigarette-burned pullout couch he slept on because it had a view of the movie theatre.

Satoru never asked about his parents.

"Just aim and pull the trigger," Toji instructed. "It ain't rocket science."

Satoru's face was scrunched up in concentration as he lined up the sights and he winced as the recoil hit the bruised spot on his shoulder where the gun had bumped again and again.

"What're you waiting for?" Toji lit up a cigarette, spoke around it as he told Satoru to replace the clip.

"But my arm hurts," Satoru whined. Toji blew smoke into the cool fall air, watching the grey-white spirals drift towards overcast skies.

"Not my problem."

Toji never would have done this with Megumi, never would have dragged him into his bloody world. But with this kid - Satoru - it was acceptable. By the time he was a teenager, Satoru was a natural. He could kill a man with anything from a ballpoint pen to a hair elastic.

The night was dark and dreary, heavy skies weeping onto torn-up pavement. The streetlamps' yellowy light spread like stars in the puddles lining the streets.

"All you do is sit there and look sad and pretty. Got it?"

Satoru's eyes rolled back in his head, narrow shoulders falling with his overdramatic exhale.

"That's all I ever do... I'm strong, I can-" The kid was growing a bratty streak. Toji slapped him, just once, to show he wouldn't put up with it.

"Don't start with me."

Satoru licked his lips with a blood-red tongue. He opened his mouth to argue but seemed to discover a brain cell or two and thought better of it.

"You wanna do what I do? Learn to shut up and take orders." An impossible task for someone like Satoru. He chewed at the split skin inside his mouth and frowned as he echoed:

"Sad and pretty."

"Sad and pretty," Toji affirmed.

Satoru huffed in indignation.

"Can I at least be the one to kill him this time?"

"Satoru." Toji's voice was harsher than the slap and Satoru recoiled from the impact. Toji reiterated, quieter but just as firmly: "Don't start with me."