Chapter Text
Utahime is a master of the art of noticing. She knows when to smile and when not to smile. She knows when to laugh when dead air fills the room. She can read people as easily as breathing and she knows just what to say when good words seem to have flown away. Apart from that, she’s also a master of keeping it all in. All for the same reasons, honestly—because she didn’t want to become a burden to anyone. No one listens anyways, she thinks.
Somehow, when somebody needs someone, she’s there. But when it’s her who needs somebody, no one is suddenly free for dinner or a simple brunch or someone sane enough she could trust that she could debrief with. It’s not like she’s expecting them to be present for her, there’s just this deep longing to have someone to run into when things get a little heavy to carry or when it feels as if the whole world is mad at her. Utahime knows very well how it feels to be lonely—as much as she tries to avoid falling into the rabbit hole of falling into that thought, life just has to remind her every time.
“Anything that could get me drunk. Give me the strongest one!” She says, her elbows against the marble counter as her palm and gravity squish her cheek.
She had planned to sleep from work today, but fate had other plans. Suddenly, it’s a nice idea to get drunk on a Saturday night. So there she was, alone at the bar wearing the only little black dress she owns. It did not look fancy in any way, just a simple body-hugging black dress and the black stockings she did not have enough energy to remove.
“What a shitty fucking life! Nothing alcohol can’t fix, I guess.” Utahime exclaims.
It wasn’t a statement of a woman who’s tired from work—instead, it was some sort of a cry as a woman who’s been suffering through life for more than thirty years. Utahime believes that a partner is not a necessity in life. That is why some marvelous old woman out there is living in a castle with only her cats; the way it’s worded sounds so peaceful and nice. But deep down, Utahime always knew she was looking for someone who she’d be comfortable being with. Who she’d be comfortable confiding with because good Lord, everyone wants to have someone to call in the afternoon.
Maybe a friend who knows how to listen just to lessen the weight off her chest or maybe someone to kiss at midnight. Both would be a delight, Utahime thinks she’s already asking for too much if she wishes for both.
“Uhm, one Long Island iced tea, please.” A voice smooths in beside her, overriding the bartender’s hesitation.
Utahime doesn’t need to turn her head to know who it is. That unmistakable, looming presence slides onto the stool right next to hers. Seemingly, the air around Utahime is tarnished by the faint scent of mint sandalwood. She doesn’t even have to look beside her to know who it is.
“And perhaps a Piña Colada for the lady, please.” Satoru adds. Utahime could hear the smirk on his lips with her eyes closed.
“Since when do you order drinks that could strip paint off a wall, Hime?” Satoru asks, leaning in so his face is just inches from her squished cheek. Even in the dimly lit bar, his cheap-looking blue-tinted sunglasses can’t hide the sharp, perceptive glint in his eyes.
“Uh, since forever? Go away, Satoru.” She mutters, her voice muffled by her hand. “Can’t you see how busy I am having a silent crisis?”
“Looks pretty loud to me…” he retorts with that kind of a maddening lopsided smirk Utahime hates so much.
“You almost yelled at the bartender. You’re wearing the one black dress you buy for funerals and accidental dates and you look like you’re about to fight the ice bucket.” Satoru leans back, slinging a long arm over the back of her stool, effectively trapping her in his orbit.
They’ve known each other for over a decade—the ever so quintessential “platonic best friends” who almost everyone around them believe is the biggest life of the century. The kind of “platonic friendships” who swap brutal insults over cheap convenience store coffee, who knows each other’s worst habits that for pete’s sake is a testament to how they feel for one another, and who can spend hours together without a lick of romantic pretense but everyone watching them will be convinced it’s a lie.
Satoru knows something’s up—Utahime might be a drunkard, but she’s never one to wear something black without occasion. It’s either she’s very much at a low period or she’s having some kind of withdrawals for something she’s never going to admit.
When the drink arrives, Utahime doesn’t even bother with the straw. Satoru watches in awe as she downs half of it in one long go, a desperate gulp of a lonely woman. Soon, that awe manifests into a playful smirk fading into something darker, sharper, as he takes in the sight of her. The flush climbing up her neck, the way the thin fabric of her dress hugs her ribs, and the unnecessary dark stockings she usually hides under long skirts.
Three drinks later, a certain break-the-friendship clock starts to tick.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Satoru says gently, taking the glass from her hand before she can finish a fourth. He drops a ridiculous stack of bills on the marble counter, grabs her waist, and pulls her off the stool. Utahime catches a glimpse of it; wishes the money was hers for a blip, then realizes if it came from Satoru then she no longer wants it. It’s one of her paradoxes as a desperate woman for happiness.
Whatever Ariana Grande said about having not enough money to be happy? She’s speaking facts, Utahime thinks.
“But I’m not done—”
“You’re done, Utahime. We’re leaving.” He half-guides, half-carries her out into the cool night air. Before her sluggish brain can even fully protest, Utahime’s all bundled up into the passenger seat of his sleek, black custom sedan. The heavy car door then shuts with a quiet, suffocating thud, sealing them into a tiny bubble away from the rest of the world.
This isn’t the first time she’s been here. But it is, however, the first time she’s placed on the passenger seat.
Satoru slides into the driver’s seat, but he doesn’t start the engine. No, he obviously won’t just yet. Then there’s this ruling silence in the car, silence and deafening. Without a doubt, Satoru shifts in his seat—turning his entire body’s directions toward her. He tosses his sunglasses onto the dashboard, revealing those terrifyingly beautiful bright blue eyes—fixed entirely on her face.
“Okay,” Satoru says quietly, his usual lighthearted tone completely gone. Utahime grips the edges of her dress a little tighter, her lips in an unconscious pout, her eyes heavy lidded looking at Satoru’s face. “What’s the problem?”
First, Utahime shakes her head. She tries to show him one of her generic smiles he knows so much and of which Satoru deeply despises—those smiles don't bring the light in her eyes out. It’s fake, he thinks.
“Come on. You can tell me,” he persists.
This time, Utahime squirms, pulling her knees up towards her chest and wrapping her arms around them—an obvious instinctive shield. She tries to laugh it off, but goodness! Satoru knows her too well enough to know what her actions meant.
“It’s nothing. I’m just tired.” Utahime tried to smirk it off. But Satoru wouldn’t accept it—there’s no signs he would any moment now because he clearly isn’t convinced and Utahime knows that.
“Don’t lie to me.” Satoru murmurs, his voice dropping an octave though still rich and smooth. Utahime hates how no matter what he does, he’s just so fucking majestic. She’s starting to believe that God really has favorites. This is clearly favoritism, a voice like that reverberated up until her insides!
“You don’t drink like a pirate when you’re just tired. Yes, you’re a drunkard—but never like that, Utahime. You’ve been silent in the group chat for weeks, you won’t respond to either me and Shoko, you’re always busy, and you’re lying. You weren’t at your parents’ house last week.” Utahime smirks, a crack visible from his speech.
“Were you following me?” Utahime doesn’t look at Satoru. But for some reason, she can strongly sense that he’s somewhat taken aback. Surprised by the sudden realization. But the white-haired man only sighs, as if to give in.
“Took you long enough to notice.” Satoru says smugly, this time putting his hands on the handle.
“You’re such a stalker!”
“Yeah, and you’ve been carrying something heavy for weeks! I’m not blind.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Satoru. It’s stupid. I’m stupid.” Utahime turns her head toward the window, looking at her own reflection in the glass. It’s as if the effects of the alcohol glasses she downed not too long ago have lost their effect—and she’s back into the haze of devastation.
Utahime scoffs, “it’s not like you’d understand, anyways. What do you know?”
A sudden warmth from the palm of the man clasps onto Utahime’s arm, slowly holding onto her as his hand guides her book to look at him. In utmost sincerity, Utahime didn’t mind how piercing his blue orbs were. For a moment, Utahime had wanted to give in. Until he spoke, “try me, then.”
“No.” It was final. There’s no changing her mind this time.
Satoru leans across the center console. The space between them shrinks drastically. She can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the heat of his skin mixed with his expensive perfume.
“Come on, Hime.” Satoru teases softly, his tone dipping into a low, velvety coaxing. Satoru’s fingers reach out, lightly tracing the line of her jawline… brushing back a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. Done so gently, Utahime’s eyes grew heavy-lidded but her face remained stonish.
His touch seemed to send out a sudden electric shiver straight down her spine.
“Since when do you keep secrets from me? Tell me, please? I’ll be good. I promise I’ll just listen.” Utahime bit the insides of her cheek, wondering if that’s how transparent she is for other people. How did he know that’s all she ever wanted tonight? How can he say that so lightly, as if he doesn’t know how heavy things can be?
His fingers don’t leave her skin. They linger at the side of her neck, his thumb lightly brushing over her pulse point which is suddenly hammering like a trapped bird. Something tells Utahime this isn’t good—they are both up to no good!
And yet she lets out a ragged and trembling breath. The alcohol, combined with the sheer exhaustion of holding her entire life together with tape and fake smiles, finally snaps the last thread of her restraint. Utahime’s eyes closed as she shook her head softly, she can’t bear to look at Satoru as she admits everything because it felt like accepting defeat right in front of the face she wants to prove she’s strong.
“I’m just so… tired, Satoru,” she whispers, her voice breaking into several cracks.
She turns her head to look at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears and a throat that’s starting to hurt. “I’m a fucking good swimmer,” she breathes, taking in a deep breath.
“I’m a good swimmer! But I can drown too! I’m so tired of being the person everyone calls when they’re falling apart, but having ABSOLUTELY no one! I’ve got no one to call when I’m the one drowning.” Satoru’s gaze hardens, his eyes darkening as he listens. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to allow a side of him she wouldn’t like.
That’s the very reason why she hesitated to tell him, Satoru thinks. So, no. No matter what he hears from this point on must not be met with cruelty or anger, but gentleness and soothing. Something Satoru rarely does because he knows to himself he was never the kind of person.
“I tried calling some people today,” Utahime admits. A bitter, self-deprecating laugh slipped right off from her. She swallows, trying to keep her voice stable.
“Just to, you know, get brunch. Just to have someone sit across from me so I wouldn’t feel like I was disappearing. But there was no one, everyone’s so busy and it’s not like it’s their fault for having lives, you know? I just wished I had someone who actually wanted to be there. I want someone who I don’t need to call or bed to be there. God!” Utahime purses her lips firmly, and in a blink the tears she had been trying to hold fell. She stops, her chest heaving. The raw confession hung heavy in the confined air of the car.
It’s the very moment Utahime Iori raised her white flag. The Iron beauty of Kyoto has waived her flag in front of the man she once vowed she’d never allow to see her this vulnerable!
Satoru doesn’t pull away. If anything, he moves closer. His knuckles sliding down her neck, resting heavily on the collarbone exposed by her black dress.
“You didn’t call me,” he says, his voice thick and laced with a strange dangerous mix of anger and hunger. Both of which he knows to himself deeply he badly needs to control.
“You’re you, Satoru,” Utahime breathes out. Her hands gripping the edge of her seat. “You joke around. You don’t take things seriously. I needed… I needed someone to hold me or kiss me or just tell me I’m not invisible.”
The air in the car changes instantly. The comfortable, familiar boundary of their decade-long friendship didn’t just bend—it snaps completely.
“Invisible?” Satoru breathes, his eyes dropping down to her mouth then sliding down to the curve of her throat to the dark fabric clinging to her chest.
“Utahime… You think you’re invisible to me?” There’s a faint sense of warning from his voice that subtly scared Utahime but still there she sat.
“Satoru…”
“Invisible? I’ve been here beside you for more than thirteen years! I’ve seen every fucking thing you do,” he whispers firmly. He leans in until his lips are a hair’s breadth from hers, his hot breath fanning across her skin.
“I see how hard you try. I see how pretty you look when you’re angry. And I see you sitting here in this dress, trying to be someone you’re not, and telling me you want someone to hold you. Take a look around, Utahime! Maybe the one’s not looking hard enough is you.” His hand shifts from her neck sliding down, his broad palm resting firmly against her waist pulling her slightly closer over the console.
His thumb digs softly into her hip through the thin cotton.
“I do—!”
“You should’ve called me,” he mutters. His blue eyes searching hers, heavy with some kind of primal desire that has clearly been buried under years of joke-cracking and friendly banter. Well, joke’s on both of them.
“I would have dropped everything. And I’m definitely not going to let you go home alone tonight.” Utahime’s breath hitches, her heart pounding against her ribs—now completely undone by the sudden, terrifying heat between them.
“We’re friends, Satoru!” She tries to debate but to no avail.
“You once said you don’t want to be friends with me, right? So, no. Not tonight, we aren’t. If it pleases you, maybe we never were. Maybe I was just a coward to risk it. I thought I’d be content with having you near me. As friends, but I’m a fraud. I’m a liar and I’m certainly never someone who’s ever going to be content.” He whispers, now their eyes holding one another to each of their own regard.
Satoru’s lips brushed against the corner of Utahime’s mouth, sending a shockwave straight through her.
“Tell me to stop, Utahime. Tell me right now. Tell me to stop if you don’t want this… or I’m taking you back to my place.”