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The afternoon is just the way she likes it: warm air and the sun saying goodbye in shades of orange and red. She's just stepped out of the shower after a long day submerged up to her elbows in deformed, ugly corpses. Today she got lucky—she didn't have to examine anything human, so she saved herself the extra calls and paperwork.
She's tired. Her heels ache from standing almost all day in stilettos, going back and forth without a break, filling out reports she's certain no one will read unless she insists. But since nothing relevant has happened in the last few weeks, she'll let it slide. She'll wait patiently for them to pile up in some corner of Yaga's office until he finally works up the courage to read them at the end of the month, as tradition dictates.
He always says reading her reports brings him a certain peace. Shoko knows that's a lie. She's aware that her job isn't the happiest in the world—that cutting colleagues and curses into pieces alike comes at the cost of mental exhaustion, which she doesn't bother to hide when she sometimes shows up to work hungover. She could easily heal it, but she doesn't, because it makes her feel more normal than she actually is. She often thinks that dismembering dolls as a child was an unsettlingly appropriate preparation for her future.
Still, she appreciates her former teacher—now boss—for trying to encourage her to write those reports, even though she's sure they depress him just as much as they depress her.
She walks through her apartment in a towel, her hair still damp, hoping it's not wet enough to leave a trail of droplets she could slip on. She opens the fridge and pours herself a cold glass of milk. She remembers her mother trying everything to get her to drink her daily glass back in elementary school. She always said she had to drink it if she wanted to grow. Maybe if she had listened, she'd be as tall as her brothers.
She wishes her mother had insisted a little more. If she had, maybe Shoko wouldn't be a centimeter shorter than her, or maybe she never would have attended Jujutsu Tech, and right now she'd be at home with them watching some trashy reality show.
She glances at the calendar stuck to the fridge door and realizes that tomorrow is her father's birthday. She smiles a little at the glittery stickers decorating the edges with no order at all; she's been thinking about taking them off for months. She quickly decides she'll call him in the morning.
The sticky, grating sound of her phone ringtone makes her startle. She recognizes that childish, annoying noise instantly. Satoru. She doesn't need to look at the screen. He set the Digimon opening as her ringtone years ago, when he offered to set up her phone, and she, for some reason, never changed it.
She grabs her phone and answers while closing the fridge door.
“What's your favorite scary movie?”
She rolls her eyes out of habit, but a brief laugh escapes her lips. She has to admit his Ghostface impression has improved over the years. She'll give him that, at least.
“Mmm…”, she says, as if actually searching through a poorly organized mental video library. “Probably the one where the guy turns into a walrus.”
She waits for his response calmly, letting herself be drawn into the game. She walks to the living room sofa and drops onto it.
“Wait… Tusk?” she hears him reply, offended, though still trying to stay in character. “Come on, Shoko… for real? I thought you had better taste than that. ”
She laughs softly, amused, and twists a strand of damp hair between her fingers. She sinks deeper into the sofa, searching for the remote without much enthusiasm. She knows cinema is a sensitive topic for him: he's the kind of "sophisticated" person, in his own words, who prefers classics like Casablanca, Psycho, or The Silence of the Lambs.
Lately, he's been on a Spike Jonze kick; Apparently, he can't wrap his head around the fact that she's more of a Sofia Coppola girl.
“I got it”, she yawns slightly, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Do I really have to remind you that you like Adam Sandler?”
She can hear him scoff on the other end. Knowing him, he's probably scrunching up his face like she just personally attacked his entire personality.
“Jeez, what's wrong with that, woman?”, he shoots back, laying it on thick; it's kind of funny that he's still doing the voice. “His comedies are entertaining.”
“Whatever you say.”
To be honest, they both enjoy mediocre movies too much; Shoko thinks they've seen more bad ones than good ones, in retrospect. They have a guilty pleasure for low-quality horror and pretentious scripts they know will lead nowhere.
It's one of their many ways of passing the time.
Not counting the times they can't keep their hands off each other.
Shoko has learned to ignore those moments strategically so they don't haunt her at night. She believes that way she'd stop caring so much, that she'd stop waiting for his calls when he's not sleeping by her side.
It embarrasses her a little to realize how much space he takes up in her head.
Sometimes she likes to imagine they're an average heterosexual married couple; that they have a dog and live in a small apartment. That he works until late at night with an irregular schedule, and she's a kept housewife who waits for him with dinner ready. Other times she reverses the roles because it seems more realistic.
She frowns. Just thinking about it is uncomfortable enough to try to push it away. With her eyes closed, she stretches her arms above her head in a vague attempt to relieve the tension building in her shoulders.
She stays like that for a while as she listens to him ramble about how much he wants to go to that new restaurant they saw the other day. It's not until the familiar scent of his cologne mixes with the faint smell of ozone that she decides to open her eyes.
She gives him a small wave of her hand in greeting. He smiles back and doesn't even try to hide how much he enjoys finding her sprawled on the sofa with nothing but a towel on. She doesn't make much effort to cover up either.
“I thought I told you to use the door”, she says, with irritation so unconvincing even she doesn't believe it.
“Aww, don't you miss me?”
His tone is so disgustingly sweet it makes her want to barf right there. She holds back the urge to remind him that he got a copy of her keys made like a month ago.
He doesn't wait for a response. He learned a long time ago that Shoko has an almost professional talent for dodging any question about what they have. Still, she's surprised that he seems to have gotten used to that.
They both hang up at the same time. He sets his phone on the coffee table, and she abandons hers on her stomach.
She follows him with her gaze as he wanders through the apartment. It irritates her to admit how much she misses the blue of his eyes every time he decides to hide them behind that piece of fabric. The dampness of her hair is starting to bother her. What's truly torturous is that it reminds her of him and his unpleasant habit of kissing her while still soaked after a shower.
She watches him open drawers and check surfaces where the remote clearly isn't. After a few seconds, she understands what he's looking for. She sighs and stands up.
She finds it endearing that he still hasn't realized the remote has been next to his phone this whole time.
“Here.”
Her voice comes out softer than she'd like.
He lets out a short laugh. He stays kneeling in front of the open drawer a few seconds longer than necessary. Shoko walks over until she's standing beside him and offers him the remote.
“Well... “ he takes it, and she ignores the way his gaze travels up and down her body.
That gives her enough reason to tease him a little. She leans forward just enough to give him a better view of her chest.
“Stop being a pervert”, she accuses, covering his face with her hand.
Her fingers find the blindfold almost immediately. A second later, it's already fallen. He fixes his hair with a low laugh he doesn't bother to hide. He stands up, and she instinctively takes a step back.
“So…” he says, taking the remote from her. “There's a specific genre of movie I'd love to reenact with you.”
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
She tilts her head, squinting like she's actually weighing her options. The hopeful look he's giving her makes her want to mess with him just a little.
“I don't know”, she says, playing hard to get, even though they both know if he asked twice she'd probably fold immediately.
She remembers their small phases of experimentation. Out of curiosity, she wonders if he still keeps those recordings; she wouldn't find it strange to keep her own. Remembering is living again, or so they say. It doesn't seem like such an absurd idea to admit that, on certain dates, she revisits them more often than she should.
There's one in particular she'd like to try again—with his help, of course.
“Maybe later” she declares, feigning indifference, and smiles a little wider when she sees him make puppy dog eyes.
“Whyyyyy?” he whines, voice all dramatic.
Shoko seriously considers kicking him in the shin. “I've worked all week without a break. I deserve a reward.”
She turns around without waiting for him to drop the whole wounded-puppy act. She's heading to her room to change when she catches him pouting from the corner of her eye. Such a baby.
...
When she comes out of the room, she's wearing her pajamas. At some point, he's gone into her bathroom to take a shower. She hopes he doesn't leave the floor completely soaked when he comes out; if he does, she'll make him mop for the next few months.
She takes the time to pick up his clothes from the floor and leave him a dry towel. She takes the opportunity to order some food and opens one of the many streaming platforms they share with Nanami. She's still surprised Satoru hasn't made much effort to hack into the blonde's account just to ruin his algorithm.
She suspects it's because he's put a password on it—one she probably knows but won't share; it's fun to watch him try countless times without succeeding.
Shoko sits back down on the sofa, leaving a space open. As if he were going to sit anywhere else. She watches him arrive with a blanket he's dragging across the floor—something she corrects instantly with a stern look.
“What'd you order?” he asks, settling in beside her, yawning and scrunching up his nose. Cute.
“Thai”, she says.
“Nice”, he murmurs.
She looks away, scrolling through the screen. He takes up way too much space; they always end up way too close. She can feel the steam still coming off him from the shower. She's told him a million times that scalding hot showers are bad for his hair.
Satoru spreads the blanket to cover them both, and protests when Shoko presses her icy feet against him. She laughs maliciously at the dirty look he gives her; still, she feels his large warm hands wrap around her anyway.
They're stuck between La La Land and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. They go with the latter because Shoko says she's had enough of the first one for at least another year—thanks to him making her watch it on repeat all month. Satoru doesn't argue; he figures it's only fair. For once.
The food shows up right as they finally settle on the movie, after he tried to change her mind with a sneak tickle attack—which she shut down with a knee to his gut when he got a little too handsy, like that wasn't exactly what he was going for.
Shoko ends up with her cheek pressed against his shoulder. He doesn't seem to mind too much; he just slides his arm behind her when he pretends to yawn.
The movie is halfway through. Neither of them is really paying attention.