Chapter Text
Kento hates actors.
The bass of the club’s muffled electronic music pounds mercilessly into Kento’s skull as he vacantly gazes out at the five people sat around him. “Inumaki-san. Please remember that in poker, you deal to your left.” The white-haired man nods, and continues silently dealing to the right.
Kento wants to scream. He hates actors.
The dingy back room of the club is cramped, the wobbly poker table taking up most of the small space. The glass wall across from Kento encases a few scantily clad men and women pole-dancing, the garish neon red emanating from the transparent box casting a demonic glare over everyone’s faces. If Kento squints, he can just about glimpse the writhing mass of bodies in the main room from in between the dancers’ legs. The air stinks of cigarette smoke and booze, and Kento, not for the first time that night, wonders how he fucked his life up so badly that this, of all places, is where he finds himself on a Friday night at the ripe old age of 34.
Ijichi manages to corner Kento when Kento’s taking his regularly scheduled fifteen minute morning break at the water cooler.
“Nanami-san,” Ijichi pleads, “These actors just need someone to teach them the basics of poker for a major picture that’s coming up soon. The gig’s only once a week for a few months leading up to the start of filming, just until they can convincingly fake something. I heard the pay’s good, too!” Ijichi flashes Kento a sweaty grin that he must think is charming, but just comes across as pathetic. “They asked for the best player I knew, and I immediately thought of you.”
It’s only been a month of this shitty arrangement, and these knuckleheads still think Kento’s teaching them how to play UNO.
“Kasumi-san. Why are you holding six cards.” The blue-haired woman’s face is screwed up in a look of intense confusion. Kento wants to tear his hair out. “Kasumi-san. You can’t have six cards in a five-card game.”
Todo ends up winning the game with the worst hand Kento’s ever seen in his life. As the five whoop and cheer their sick poker skills, dude, Kento slips out for a drink. Or three.
Kento sits at the bar, the music diligently jackhammering away at his brain, turning the low-level headache he’s been nursing all day into a full-blown migraine. He’s still facing those goddamn strippers, and he shuts his eyes to momentarily block out the harsh light. He’s so tired, what with his full-time day job at the hedge fund and this weekly babysitting job Kento’s being grossly underpaid for, given how many braincells he loses after spending two hours with these baboons.
Still, Kento grudgingly admits as he presses the cool crystal tumbler to his temple in an attempt at easing its throbbing, it’s better than spending time at the apartment. That place has been achingly empty for far too long – has been ever since Yu nine years ago, and especially since him.
Kento downs the rest of his cheap bourbon and flags the bartender down for a refill.
He’s slowly nursing his second drink, savoring the last dregs of his break, when he catches a glimpse of someone in the back room from between the dancers’ bodies.
“What the fuck.”
Kento manages not to sprint into the room, desperate to dispel what he swears has to be a loneliness-induced fever dream, but it’s a close thing. He pushes the entrance curtains aside, and there, chatting to Kasumi and languishing on the chair opposite Kento’s as if he owns the entire club, is him.
“O-oh hey, Nanami-sensei, you’re back! We’ve got another player who wants to join us if that’s…in the rules? Is that okay with you?” Kasumi stutters out, blushing.
As if just noticing his presence, Gojo fucking Satoru leisurely gazes up to meet Kento’s shocked stare.
Face a veritable textbook definition of mischief, Gojo Satoru winks back into Kento's eyes.
“I think he’ll be fine with it if the person crashing the party is me, right, Nanami-sensei?”
Gojo looks unfairly handsome, even five years later. Backlit by the red light and wearing a black turtleneck suit so perfectly tailored it should be illegal, Gojo looks like some demon prince sent from hell whose sole purpose on earth is to wreck more havoc on Kento’s mess of a life.
Kento’s migraine has morphed into something that transcends human understanding. He desperately wants another drink.
“So, Gojo-san –”
“Oh, please, Miwa-chan, just call me Satoru. Everyone else does.” Gojo’s smile, unlike Ijichi’s, is so saccharine sweet it’s almost cloying.
Kento almost laughs out loud. Gojo’s the gayest person he knows. Poor Miwa-chan doesn’t stand a chance.
Kasumi squeaks out something that must be an assent, face turning firetruck red. The ponytailed man sat next to her – Koki? Kochi? Something involving a K and a M, Kento’s brain supplies unhelpfully – scowls furiously at Gojo’s direction.
“W-well, Satoru-san, we-we were wondering what you did for a living.” Kasumi manages to ask. Kento wants to applaud her – Kento knows, firsthand, that being on the receiving end of Gojo’s charm can be devastating.
“Now, why on earth would I mind you asking? After all, we’re all friends here, aren’t we?” Gojo glances up at Kento over his sunglasses, bright blue eyes loaded with meaning. “Two cards.”
Kento flicks his gaze down towards his cards to break the contact. Friends, his tipsy brain whispers bitterly, just friends.
“Well, Miwa-chan, would you believe that I’ve just been freshly released from prison?” Gojo grins toothily, greedily casting his eyes around at the shocked expressions on everyone’s faces. “Got released two years early, too, for good behavior.”
Kento picks up a card and puts it back down, eyes barely registering the visual information.
“Well, why were you in prison?” The ponytailed man – Muta-san, Kento’s useless brain finally offers up – grunts out.
Gojo smirks conspiratorially. “I stole things.”
“You stole things? What, like jewels?”
Jewels, Kento thinks with derision, what does he take us for, beginners? And shit, Kento must have had too much to drink because:
“Historical art. Specifically, the paintings hanging in the Meiji Memorial Picture Gallery.” Kento chances a glance at Gojo, and he looks as surprised as Kento feels at Kento’s outburst. Kento mindlessly throws a few chips into the middle of the table at an attempt at dispelling the weird energy running through his veins.
“Any money in those paintings –”
“From the Meiji Memorial Picture Gallery? There’s some.” Gojo replies casually, his gaze drilling into Kento’s forehead.
“Don’t let him fool you. They’re worth a fortune.” Ah, Kento’s last sober braincell remarks, I guess we’re going there. “As long as you’ve done sufficient planning, and made sure that you’ve got a person on hand that can actually move them.”
The sudden silence trembles in the air, so fragile even a butterfly’s wings could snap it clean in two.
“Try to think of one person who could do that,” Kento whispers into the quiet, “but you can’t.” Kento finally musters up the courage to properly look back at Gojo.
Gojo’s completely motionless, eyes hidden behind his dark glasses. Kento has faith in his ability to read Gojo, but like this, with his face half concealed in shadow, Kento’s working blind.
Gojo clears his throat, shrugs. “My fence seemed confident enough.”
“If you’re dealing in cash,” Like I had advised, like I always advised you, “you don’t need a fence.” Kento doesn’t know why he’s the one whose anger is out on display for everyone to see – wasn’t Gojo the one who spent time locked up?
“Some people just lack vision.” Gojo responds, cool as a cucumber. Gojo’s gaze hasn’t moved off of Kento for a millisecond, and Kento squirms.
Kento scoffs at an attempt to regain face. “Probably everybody in cell block 5.”
Surprisingly, Gojo doesn’t rise to the bait. “Here’s some of the cash you’re so obsessed with.” He tosses a bunch of chips into the pot. “50,000 yen.”
Kento feels like he’s back on solid ground. Poker. He can do poker. “Todo-san, what’s the first lesson in poker?”
The man raises a hand up to his face with a flourish and smirks like he’s posing for a camera. Has Kento mentioned that he hates actors? “Leave emotion at the door, right, sensei?”
“Yes, Todo-san.” If he had got that wrong, that would’ve been embarrassing. For me. “Seeing as we have Gojo-san here to assist us, I believe we can move on to a more complex lesson.” Kento glances back at Gojo’s unwavering gaze. “How to draw out the bluff.” Kento gathers up his cards, taps them neatly together on the table, spreads them back out. “Betting that much money this early in the game means Gojo-san is probably holding nothing better than a pair of face cards. Kasumi-san?”
Kasumi frowns, thinking. “I – I fold.” She turns to her left. “Kokichi-kun?”
Muta glowers at Gojo. “I’m game. You know what, I’ll even double that offer. 100,000 yen.”
Kento wants to laugh. Gojo is, honestly, so gay. But Muta’s following Kento’s instructions, so he won’t call him out for the badly hidden dick measuring contest Muta’s trying to instigate with Gojo.
“Although an admirable strategy, we should be careful, Muta-san. We don’t want to push him too hard too fast – after all, we want to keep him on the leash.” A corner of Gojo’s mouth quirks up in a facsimile of a smile that looks more like a sneer.
Everyone else calls. It’s back to Gojo.
“I see Nanami taught you all well! Well, gentlemen and lovely lady, –” Kasumi’s so red Kento’s scared she’s at risk of an aneurysm, “– I’ll see you another 50,000, and raise you –” Gojo thumps a stack of chips down, “– 200,000 yen.”
Someone whistles.
“Everyone, you’re free to do as you please. I understand that it is a lot of money, but I’m staying in.” Kento searches Gojo’s face, but it stays unreadable aside from the slight upturn of his lips. Kento’s good at poker, better than Gojo, but Kento’s not in top form right now. He rarely is, whenever it comes to Gojo. “I believe Gojo-san is trying to buy his way out of his bluff.”
Another round of calls.
Gojo leans forward out of the shadows, face now fully illuminated by the weak overhead bulb. He tilts his head, resting it in one of his hands. “Na-na-mi,” Gojo sings, “you never did like taking risks, did you?”
Shit.
With a flick of the wrist, Gojo’s cards land faceup in the center of the table. Four nines and an ace.
“Now, I’m not sure what those nines do, but an ace – I think that’s pretty high, huh, Nanami-sensei?”
Kento wants to punch the mocking smirk off of Gojo’s pretty face. He somehow finds himself smiling back at the taller man instead.
I missed you, you blue-eyed bastard, something whispers into Kento’s ear.