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rayveneyed · 3 months ago

Note

that cowboy au was really good 🥹 would you consider doing a part 2?

cw: mentions of death, violence, objectively amoral decisions; mentions of marriage, alcohol

the presence of gojo satoru can only mean trouble.

red sky in the morning — shepherd’s warning. nanami kento tries not to take the sight of it personally, tries not to take simple wonders of nature as omen — but it sits like a lump of coal in his stomach all through the morning and well into the afternoon. he doesn’t know why this particular day seems to be the harbinger of something terrible, but sure enough, just after he finishes milking the cows and putting them out to graze, one of the village kids runs up on him. flushed with excitement and hair windswept, the little one calls his name — mister kento! mister kento! hey, over here, mister kento! strange white-haired fella’s lookin’ for you, skulkin’ ‘round the saloon!

it’s a small-town child’s excitement — a stranger in such a quiet place, one where the closest train station is a town or two over, and the most exciting thing to happen is a travelling merchant every few months. kento’s dread, then, is ice-water over the head in comparison. white-haired. gojo, the bastard. and loitering around the saloon, where you’re working — before he can even think twice, he’s running off to mount his closest horse, and taking the dirt road at a frantic gallop.

not many words in any spoken language could describe exactly how nanami kento feels about gojo satoru. there’s a fondness there — they had, after all, fought and lived side-by-side for years, since they were boys. there was admiration for gojo’s tenacity and drive, no doubt, but there was hatred in equal measure. hatred for the man gojo had urged nanami to become — hatred for the shit he’d been told to do. hatred for the simple fact that, at the end of the day, gojo’s brashness had only ever gotten other people killed.

(and fear. fear that, like he had done a hundred times before, gojo would worm his way into nanami’s head, and convince him to return before he knew what he was agreeing to.)

through the dust kicked up by his mare’s cantering hooves, the humble saloon comes into sight; only a single floor, nothing like the multi-story pleasure houses of san francisco. then again, kento’s never much cared for them, or the beckoning women of the night, or the violent brawls that would break out every few minutes. somewhere quiet to drink in peace, suits him just fine, and that’s here. though with gojo satoru around, peace never lingers long.

he takes the stairs two at a time, pushing through the doors, and—

“always been a city boy, myself,” comes that familiar voice. instantly, kento’s eyes shoot towards it — towards you. “towns like this never did quite suit me — y’know, a man needs a bit of noise in his life!”

oh, noise had been the least of what gojo had gotten himself. blood and guts and bullet wounds, wanted posters with his name and mug plastered all over it.

he shouldn’t be here. it’s almost unnatural for him to be here, sitting in old man tom's favourite seat, lounging like he owned the place.

“now, pretty thing like you,” he hears gojo croon, low and smooth like always, the type of voice that weakened women’s knees, “you shoot me a look, sweetheart, i reckon i’d stay in this sleepy little town a lot longer.”

something like panic sits itself in kento’s chest, and he can’t put one damned finger on what it is. the clashing of two lives — gojo, with his hat drawn low over bright blue eyes, his jacket as dark and fitting as always; this dusty little saloon, with its untuned piano and cheap swill; you, with your hair tied up and your neckline low, with those eyes he knows gojo likes—

“charming,” he hears you say, dry, completely unimpressed. the tightness in his chest eases, a little, and then you seem to realise he’s approaching — your gaze lifts over gojo’s head, and your eyes brighten, and golly — ain’t that something? your smile, at his simple presence? like he was something to look forward to? “mister kento, you’re a man desired — this gentleman’s been looking all over for you, apparently.”

gojo turns those baby blues on him, expectant, and kento sighs as he takes the seat next to him — gently accepts your offer of a drink with a thank you kindly. gojo thanks you, too — calls you sweetness, and kento pretends that it doesn’t unsettle his soul. you resign yourself to the end of the bar to give them some semblance of privacy, wiping at glasses with a cloth to rid them of water-stains and dust.

they sit in silence for a moment, listening to the cicadas calling outside and the distant squeals of playing children. gojo, as usual, is the first to break it.

“been a while, ain’t it? gotta say, wasn’t expectin’ you to go all out on this country life thing, old friend.”

kento pretends not to see the spectre of you in the corner of his eye — pretends that he’s not vastly aware of how he has to balance two personas right now. he keeps his irritation low and tempered, cupping his glass between his hands; still, he knows his voice is frosty when he says: “what are you doing here?”

“oh, so cold, kento! and after all we’ve been through together…”

he restrains a frustrated sigh. dancing around it — that’s gojo. deceptively childish but incredibly intelligent — can’t just come out and say something. and kento could be doing something else right about now, something far more important — in fact, he should already be thinking of how to explain gojo’s abrupt appearance here to you. cousin twice removed? long estranged brother? childhood friend with a troubled streak? “doubt you came to see me outta the goodness of your heart. i’ve got no interest in whatever it is you’re peddling. you wanna drink, let’s drink. nothing else.”

“oh, come now. i gotta be after somethin’ to visit you?”

nanami shoots him an unimpressed look — gojo at least has the shame to wince. he takes another sip of his drink, and they both stare at the dusty shelves of booze, until finally, he shrugs.

“listen: this place is gonna drive you mad, kento,” he says, underhandedly casual, sipping on moonshine and syrup. he always did have a sweet tooth. “the silence’ll do you in.”

a thread of irritation tugs itself through kento’s brow. “silence drives you mad. suits me just fine.”

kento doesn’t know what’s more hurtful — the idea that gojo doesn’t know him at all, or that he does, and just doesn’t care to speak to him like it. he knows exactly what game gojo is playing at — badgering him out of his life of peace to join the gang again, fill the empty space left by geto and haibara and god knows who else that’s gone. he could do him the courtesy of being a little more believable, though. less patronising.

this doesn’t suit you. you don’t deserve something good like this, not after what you’ve done. stick to what you know, kento — and what do you know? violence. greed.

“c’mon, kento. you’re better than this, y’know.”

kento fingers tighten on the handle of his cup. his gums feel bruised where his teeth grit together — his anger like a reddening metal on the verge of turning white-hot. “you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“you’ve been up and down this goddamned country—” gojo, at least, has the mind to lower his voice, then, glancing over his shoulder— “tyin’ sheriffs up in knots, laying your pockets with gold, and you think this shithole will satisfy you any?”

that’s enough to send kento’s temper skyrocketing — and he, by no means, is an angry man, but shithole is not how he’d describe it in any capacity — this place that had accepted him with little wariness, treated him with kindness, asked very little questions—

“you’re steppin’ way outta line, gojo—”

but his white-haired companion has always been willing to push the bounds of just about anything — and, leaning closer, devilish smile tugging at his lips, says: “hopin’ that, uh, busty barmaid over there’s gonna make you an honest man? huh? i mean, hell, i wouldn’t blame you, but—”

nanami’s glass hits the countertop with such force it rings throughout the saloon — he can feel it draw the gaze of most everyone around. you, the few daytime drinkers. the low murmurs of conversation drew to an abrupt stop. when he glances in your direction, he sees you almost caught mid-action, brows drawn tight as you make to intervene.

maybe it’s the look in his eye that makes you stop; the serious, humourless glint he’s let himself lose the past few months. maybe it’s the tense set of his jaw. either way, you nod a little, and step back to what you were doing — but your gaze remains, ever-watchful.

nanami levels gojo with a glare so horrid he’s sure he’s never used it on him before; and, sure enough, blue-eyed gojo glares right back.

for a moment — for a short, traitorous moment, he regrets leaving his handy pistol back home. he hasn’t had to carry it in months. he hasn’t ever had to carry it for gojo, of all people, but he saw just how quickly the gang had turned on themselves — how quickly trust was lost. and after the loss of haibara, and geto’s betrayal, who knew what state of mind gojo was in?

kento’s fingers flex.

a beat passes.

and then — gojo’s face breaks out in a gleaming, cheeky smile, and his shoulders jump with loud, sonorous laughter. relief is near palpable in kento’s chest, the tension that had suctioned itself to his bones easing just slightly. “hah, you’re just a riot, ken!”

then, slapping a hand on kento’s shoulder and leaning forward, gojo calms a little. nanami gets the sudden feeling that it was all a rouse, right from the start. is he so out of practice he can’t tell what’s real and what’s fake anymore? once upon a time gojo’s jokes and fancies wouldn’t have made him blink an eye.

“just pullin’ your leg,” gojo says.

“you piss me off.”

“can’t lie—” gojo continues— “i was hopin’ to bring you back with me. but this shit really does suit you, y’know.” his smile takes a saddened edge — nostalgic, no doubt, for the life they once led. the stupidity and rashness of it all. sometimes the same feeling hit kento — and then he remembered the bad of it all, and he tucked it back deep inside himself. “country air, quiet life. settle down with a nice woman.”

his eyes trail over to the right — and this time, when his eyes settle on you, nanami feels no overwhelming protectiveness, no urge to drag gojo out by his silver locks or shoo him out. he feels a fool for doubting gojo in the first place. “things out here make the cities look like hell by comparison.”

“it’s a simple life,” kento agrees plainly. his heart still thrums heavy in his chest. he finally takes a proper gulp of his drink — actually tastes it instead of just letting it pass down his throat. “you should try it sometime.”

“wasn’t lying earlier. think the quiet would have me seein’—” he chokes on a bark-like laugh— “ghosts, and the like.”

haibara. riko. yaga.

“mm.”

they go back to staring at the shelves in silence. kento doesn’t know what to say. he’s never been a man of many words, but what does one say in this situation, anyways? i’m sorry geto left. i’m sorry haibara died. i hate that it was your fault, and i hate that it wasn’t. i don’t like the man i am when i’m around you, but it’s really all i know. you’re my brother, and i hate and love you in equal measure.

a trickling sound interrupts his thoughts. his cup is being refilled — and then gojo’s. extra syrup, despite the fact that sugar is expensive as all hell.

“looks like y’all could use it,” you say by way of explanation, a sorry little smile on your face. when you meet his eyes, it spreads, just a little — an extra nudge, just for him. “i’ll get outta your hair now.”

“thank you for the drink,” kento says quietly.

“thanks,” gojo echoes. he watches you go, and swirls his drink idly around in his cup. “y’know, you got somethin’ good here, ken. hate to say it.”

“mm. the farm, it — it, uh, keeps me busy.”

“wasn’t talkin’ about the farm,” says gojo, shooting him a knowing look. kento’s ears burn, and he tries to ignore it — in vain, he’s sure, if his companion’s snicker is anything to go by.

“there’s nothing there.” he wouldn’t allow there to be, after all. a life of solitude is exactly the punishment he deserved for what he’s done. he wouldn’t rope you into his madness.

“right, right. you make googly eyes at every woman y’come across?”

“just drink your damn drink.”

by the time the sun is setting, gojo sets off on his horse. he ignores all offers to stay the night, to wait until morning; he's got business to attend to, apparently, business that couldn't wait — but could, apparently, wait for an hours-long drinking session. he doesn’t hug kento, doesn’t make any claim to sentimentality — that hasn't changed, kento supposes — he only leans down to shake his hand, firm and sure like yaga had taught them as boys, and says:

“don’t be a fool, kento. you got a chance at a normal life right here." then, grinning, like the idea of being serious had turned his stomach, gojo calls: "you don’t take that chance, i'll steal it from right under you!"

kento only shakes his head, and turns to enter the saloon again.

when he looks over his shoulder — just once, all he can bear — gojo’s already gone, no more than a speck riding into the sunset.

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