Chapter Text
On his way back from a fight with a curse, that he’d obviously won. Satoru decided to get dinner at a restaurant for himself, and get some to go for Megumi and Tsumiki. They made it clear that they didn't like his cooking and heck he hated cooking. He just wanted them to have a taste of homemade food. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the home cook kinda guy. He wasn't the any cook kinda guy, honestly. Since he served raw and burnt katsu that was somehow crunchy, with sticky undone rice. He hasn’t touched a stove since and it has been for the better.
He wore his normal clothes instead of his Jujutsu high uniform, and his handsome face shielded him from the weird glances he would have gotten for wearing sunglasses inside. Near the counter waiting for his to-go boxes. He was trying to ignore his six eyes, which were pointing to the cursed energy of someone that he could easily recognize.
He knew it was him from the moment he entered the restaurant, but it’s not like he could go up to Suguru and make out with him in public. No matter how bad the image of him on Suguru’s lap as the man fed him, nagged at him. He couldn’t act on his impulses. Besides, what would he say to the others? He frankly didn’t care for the higher ups, he was Satoru Gojo, they couldn’t touch him and they knew that. He meant Yaga, Shoko and his students; Maki, Toge, Panda and Okutsu.
What would he say to his first years? He couldn’t look them in the eyes if they found out. Found out he was a double agent, that worked for their side and bent over for the other. He was staring right at Suguru and his sunglasses helped him hide it. Even if there was a Shoji obstructing his view, he knew Suguru when he saw him and he could sense him. He seemed to be in a meeting which is expected of a cult leader.
A group of waiters opened the shoji to deliver Suguru and his Party their food. It happened so quickly, while the waiters were serving food. A beautiful woman was standing next to Suguru. She was in a skirt, unnecessarily short with a tight formal top that slightly exposed her perky bosom. Her long auburn locks cascaded past her shoulders and down her back. Her lips, a striking ruby red, her nails manicured and her feet adorned with high heels. He was in his traditional garb as usual, looking dignified and as handsome as ever.
Her hand was on his shoulder and he reciprocated that touch with his hand over hers with a hearty smile plastered on his expression. Just as they came, the waiters left and along with their presence was the unobstructed view of Suguru. His food finally came and he should be relieved he can go home.
Instead he didn’t want to, he wanted to barge in there and rip that woman’s hands off his shoulder. A bitter taste now in the place of a previously satisfied tongue with a desirous feeling gnawing at the pits of his stomach for the man whose shoulder was occupied. His expression, once an aloof one morphed into a puzzle twisted to a pattern of rage and envy. Was that what Suguru liked?. He thought to himself on his way home.
Satoru had tucked Tsumiki and Megumi in for the night. He always made sure they were asleep before he left the apartment. This was his routine every Saturday night, he’d leave his apartment fully covered. In a hoodie , a face cap and a face mask.
He’d check in to his usual hotel room with his duffel bag that he now dubbed the bag of secrets. He headed to a hotel, three blocks away from headquarters of the star religious group. In the seclusion of his hotel room, Satoru did what he has done for the past 27 weeks and every week he told himself it’d be the last time. “The last time”, he’d whisper under his breath.
He stripped naked and started his transformation. He put on his amateur makeup, his lipstick now red, a different approach from the usual pink rose he wore. His wig, now brunette, instead of its usual blonde. His skirt, now shorter and his feet now in heels he couldn’t walk in instead of his usual comfortable flats.
He stared in the mirror and like every Saturday, the feeling of insecurity crept unto Satoru. A feeling only Suguru could elicit out of him. He knew he did all this, just to disguise himself when he went to the doors of the star religious group’s headquarters but he still wanted Suguru to find him attractive. He wanted the man to find him pretty.
Years of training and yet high heels was a battle Satoru couldn’t win, that’s why he didn’t wear them on his way to his weekly session. Unbeknownst to him Suguru liked high heels and that was enough to get him wearing them. He didn’t know what it was about that man that had him hooked like a fish in the sea. If he was suffocating and he had the choice between air and Suguru, his choice would be the man.
Since his teen years he loved him and it took losing his friendship to realize why his friendship with the boy at the time was so different from the one with Shoko. It was because he was in love and it broke him to pieces when he had to let him go. He wouldn’t stop crying, he’d cry when his duties permitted him and any chance at solitude
. He needed that man the way the moon needed the sun to shine. He needed that man to function, to survive and in his absence he felt like a shell of himself. A hollow creature longing for something out of reach and now he had him and unlike his teen years. He was gonna use the limited time he had with him to the fullest. Even if it involved dressing up like a woman. He was willing to do it.
He sloppily headed towards the familiar doors of the star religious group. Steps out of place and order. Hands grasping on the railing for dear life. Finally at the top, he walked in. Suguru had set it up in a way where it was only himself at the H.Q when Satoru arrived. It seemed that way and his six eyes never alerted him of anything else besides Suguru when he was there. Finally at the door of the cult leader.
He straightened his back along with his wig, he had a quick glance at his expression and wiped away some migrated lipstick. At that very moment his nerves were out of control. He did this every week for the last six months and yet like clock work, a familiar bead of sweat at Satoru’s powdered forehead. He pulled at his short skirt, suddenly being hyper aware of the contrast between his tall legs and the skirt, but that only made it ride further up. The door finally opened, like it did every Saturday and like every Saturday, Satoru’s heart stopped beating at the sight of him.