Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Jujutsu world does not know when the third major shift of fate happens.

The first shift, naturally, is the birth of one Satoru Gojo. A living god incarnates among men, and the world has to balance itself to accommodate for the power he wields. Sorcerers around the world have to fight to keep up, or fall and get left behind - there is no undoing what has been done.

The second revolves around the first, because Satoru Gojo is a natural disaster more than a man. Toji Fushiguro’s assassination of the Plasma Star Vessel kickstarts a chain of events that spirals far beyond any sorcerer’s grasp, snowballing to an unstoppable avalanche of change that none could dream of stopping single-handedly. They may not know the full extent of it at the time, but the sorcerers feel the shockwaves. Their society is shaken again.

The third event is not one that is so grand, nor immediately felt. It is not Sukuna finding his vessel - not for another year - or any of the events that follow, all caught up in the orbit of that living god. It is innocuous and mundane, jarring only to those who witness it and the aftermath. Naoya Zen’in, notable not for his grand effect on history, in the midst of a training-bout-turned-argument - hits his head on a jutting corner and falls unconscious for an hour and thirteen minutes. 

There is no shift in the air, no immediate ripple. There’s only the awkward shock and embarrassment of those present, and the mild concern of those they answer to, because a bit of sudden head trauma is the sort of thing that takes out schoolchildren and Naoya is frankly too old for such incidents. Nobody sees fate shift for a third time before their very eyes as Naoya Zen’in’s snap shut and his head crunches against a sharp corner.

He will never be the one to open them again. Somebody else does. Fate twists, and the world changes once more.

Sensations creep into his awareness before full consciousness does. The first thing he becomes aware of is a sharp, splitting headache, radiating from a knot in the back of his skull. He lifts one hand clumsily to feel for the bump, only to cringe as he feels it. Thirst follows - he’s suddenly painfully aware that his skin is uncomfortably sticky, and his lips feel closer to dry paper, and he groggily thinks he should shower before he even opens his eyes.

When he eventually convinces his lids apart to stare at the room he’s in, it’s … half-familiar. The sort of nagging sense he should recognize it, specifically, rather than blearily piecing together recognition from the sort of thing you see on television. Has he ever been in a clinic like this? Hospital seems too grand a word for the shoji-screen windows and traditional, out-of-place furniture. It’s not a large room, but he’s clearly not in a bedroom. His hand rises to brush the knot at the back of his head again absentmindedly as he drinks in his unfamiliar surroundings.

Even less familiar are the two other people in the clinic. He gets the vague sense that he should know who the taller one is, a large old man with a thin moustache and large hair. He’s talking sternly to the second, a smaller tired-faced younger man in plain clothes. Both are half out of view from a privacy screen pulled up at his side, too absorbed in a one-sided-argument to take note of him. Neither of them look anything like a doctor, and he tiredly thinks to himself that the old man shouldn’t be drinking inside if this is a clinic. It’s a fire hazard, or something. And just rude.

… and none of it makes any sense, because he most definitely has never been here, or met these people before. Muscle memory sends him reaching for his phone, fumbling a bit with his unfamiliar clothing before finding it. His own face … his own face? stares back at him in the reflection of the dark screen, confirming the sudden mad fancy that he isn’t himself. It’s mad, and yet here he finds himself, staring at a stranger’s face. He’s something like pretty, at least, broad shouldered and sporting sharp, elegant features that don’t seem to suit his wide-eyed look of confusion. 

Right, okay. So he’s a complete stranger. He tunes back into the old man’s conversation in search of clues, while idly looking around for a glass of water. Argument. Whatever.

“- damned fools get such an idea, hm? To believe such mediocre sorcerers could rise above their station. Tch! Ought to execute him for the audacity alone. Why did Naoya even indulge such a pitiful farce?” Sorcerers? Execution? Is this the 1800’s? Some fucked up fantasy isekai? He glances down at the phone in his hands, finally clicking the home button and clumsily seeking out the date.

It’s 2017 . What. What?

He turns it back off thoughtlessly before it can offer him more unpleasant information. The skinny guy is finally answering.

“I believe he sought to teach them a lesson about wasting his time, sir, it - seems to genuinely have been an accident.” 

“Hmph. The fool wastes his time and ours indulging in pointless ‘training exercises’ with his lessers. And look where it’s gotten him! I had to send that half-baked brat off on a First-grade mission to -“ and the rest of the words are lost, as the blood rushes to his aching head and the details finally click.

Sorcerers, grades, execution. Right. Right. An impossibility peeled back into stark reality. He swallows past a sudden lump of panic, trying not to dwell on how terribly dangerous he knows this world is. 2017 - is Yuji even a student yet? When does Shibuya happen? He scans his environment and his reflection more urgently. And again, he grasps at nothing.

‘Oh, no,’ he thinks to himself, staring blankly at the unfamiliar face in his phone’s camera. ‘I could have at least been someone relevant to the plot, like Gojo or Sukuna. Instead I’m a background character .’ There’s no recognition for any of it but that old man, and he - Naoya? - doesn’t want to think too hard on it, because no old men are worth trusting in this new reality. 

He can assume he’s maybe some extra in one of the big clans, right? The environment and attire seems right for that. He brushes his fingers through his hair, frowning harder as he tries to put his name and face to his spotty memories.

Recognition sinks him further into despair, when it finally creeps in and he puts a name to his own face.

‘Oh, no . I’m the sexist .’ 

The realization brings a new ache to his skull, and he tucks his phone back into his clothes thoughtlessly, unable to hide the grimace creeping over his expression. A … Zen’in, right? Naoya. They’d said his name a few times, assuming that’s *him.* The shithead who showed up to beat up on schoolchildren for his fragile ego, and became a fully sentient special-grade curse out of spite. 

‘I could have been Gojo .’ 

If memory serves, he doesn’t even show up until the Culling Game arc. Fuck, the Culling Game, Shibuya - have they happened? Not yet, right? Should he … tell someone? No, he’d sound entirely insane. Naoya draws a hand to his chin, frowning down at the bedsheets and turning the matter over. He should do something, though. The mere prospect is terrifying, frankly, but … thousands of people died, right? Thousands of people died, and poor sweet Itadori Yuji saddled more burdens than anyone else should have. That’s not fair.

Things should be fair . The position Naoya has been born into … none of this is fair, or will be fair. Can he change that?

“…ya. Naoya!” The old man shouts, suddenly, and Naoya jumps as he realizes he’s being spoken to. Both he and the younger man have joined his bedside, and he realizes with a panic that he should focus on the here and now and the fact he can’t name a single family member he supposedly has. “ Naoya !”

“Me?” he answers belatedly, voice cracking just a bit. Shit, don’t play that dumb.

“Do you see another -“ the old man’s tirade is paused as he seems to process Naoya’s response, and the younger takes the chance to speak. He seems largely … generic? Dark hair and eyes, nondescript clothing, nothing to place him as someone significant. 

“It’s good to see you awake at last, Naoya, sir. How do you feel?” Nondescript seems nervous, not quite comfortable talking to him. It … may actually be prudent to play that dumb, largely because Naoya’s head still aches something fierce and he can’t quite muster the effort to be a dick to this man’s well-intentioned questioning.

“… bad headache,” he manages, grimacing a little more. “And I’m thirsty?” 

“I’ll get you some water in just a moment,” Nondescript affirms, apparently ignoring his own unease and the way the old man’s eyebrows are slowly knitting together. He looks like he might explode if Naoya looks at him. Naoya doesn’t look at him, focusing on short guy. Maybe it’s mean to call him Nondescript, even in his head. “Do you know where you are?” 

“… no. A clinic?” he answers honestly, once more flitting his eyes around the room. Both the men at his bedside look a little more uneasy.

“You’re in the healing wing within the Zen’in compound,” Nondescript confirms gently. “Can you tell me what date it is? Do you know who we are?”

Naoya didn’t even glance at the month, too engrossed in the year and all it implied. And try as he might, he never cared enough about the old man with a million death red flags - not enough to remember his name during the information onslaught that was reading Shibuya.

He fumbles for an answer and finds none that won’t dig this hole deeper. He may as well give up on that idea and grab a shovel. “I … no. None of that sounds familiar to me.” He shrugs awkwardly. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Sorry ?” Old man repeats incredulously, brushing a hand through his hair and leaning in, gearing up for what might be more shouting. Despite himself, Naoya feels a twinge of guilt, misplaced and pointless but stinging the hollow of his chest all the same. Maybe the man he replaced was important to people outside of the main cast … but there’s hardly any point dwelling on it. He winces a little when the geezer grabs his shoulders. “No … no. You won’t - you don’t apologize.” Naoya isn’t sure if that’s a command or an observation. “This must have been intentional! An attempt on his life! Ha! Those fools think robbing me of my heir will weaken my clan? Will weaken me ? I don’t need him. We’ll pay this back tenfold, you hear me?”

“I think it was an accident?” Naoya offers awkwardly, failing to follow whatever strange conclusions the old man (his father?) just drew. He’s maybe a little offended by some of that, but he really has no idea how he got from head injury to assassination attempt. Maybe to do with this heir position - but didn’t that go to Megumi? “It didn’t even bleed. I don’t -” 

His father isn’t paying him attention, whirling on the small plain man instead. 

“Yuzuki, gather the Hei. My brother will take command of them until Naoya recovers. If you can’t fix him,” Nondescript, apparently Yuzuki (entirely unfamiliar, still), winces, and the old man ignores that, too, “then send word to someone who can. We can’t waste any more time with my son stuck as some bumbling invalid!” He brandishes his gourd that smells like too-strong-booze, and stalks out of the room, shouting more names Naoya doesn’t recognize.

Yuzuki offers Naoya a thin half-smile. “Can I … get you anything?”

Naoya licks his lips. “Water. Maybe a notebook?”

“Right. I’ll send that with one of the servants.” Yuzuki dips into a bow that makes Naoya prickle uncomfortably, and turns to follow the old man. Shit. Naoya forgot to ask for his name.

The door slides shut and the clinic falls into eerie silence. The old man has apparently written him off until he regains his memories, and there’s likely no chance of that happening. He’s going to have to keep playing the amnesia card, it looks like, and hope there’s some people here with a shred of mercy to spare for his situation. It’s not like they can ‘fix’ this. On the bright side, nobody in their right mind would guess some sort of body snatching scenario. Which … really, they should. Kenjaku is running around somewhere out there. Bigger things than playing house with the Zen’ins demand his attention right now, right? He can figure out whether or not the old man offended him when he has more free time. For now, he needs to focus on the game plan.

It shouldn’t be hard. He just needs to worry about hitting the important beats, and everything should call into place.

1. Do something about the Prison Realm.
2. Don’t die.

… the game plan could use work. His father and Yuzuki don’t seem to be coming back anytime soon. He’s got all the time in the world.

Naoya must have dozed off, because it’s darker inside when his eyes open again, the walls stained with the last dying reds of a sunset creeping in. There’s a pitcher of water weeping condensation by his bedside, ice long-melted, water threatening the edges of a notebook set beside it. He reaches for the water first, downing three glasses before finally feeling some semblance of normal again. The headache’s faded, and he slowly slides to his feet, taking stock of himself and his surroundings.

He doesn’t have much on his person. A plain wallet and a modern smartphone, both tucked out of sight within his clothing. A katana in a scabbard that feels right at home at his hip. A sheathed knife hidden away by his ribs. The notebook joins his meager possessions, tucked into the crook of one arm with the pen finding itself behind his ear for lack of a better place. 

The clinic itself doesn’t offer much else. Cabinets of medicines he doesn’t know the uses for, drawers of equipment. The clan must not have someone like Shoko, who can heal with her Cursed Technique. 

… oh, he probably has one of those. He racks his brain, trying to remember the details of the animation technique he knows he’s supposed to have. It’s there, on the tip of his tongue, right at the edges of his vision. He can almost grasp it, like a button that’s just out of reach, if he could just reach out and tap it -

“Naoya,” someone snaps from behind him, and he damn near jumps out of his skin. It’s his father, looking no different than before but reeking even worse of alcohol. 

Naoya fights not to wrinkle his nose at the smell. “... mmm?”

“That’s you,” his father repeats unnecessarily, as if Naoya has become stupid. (Well … no. He knows more than this geezer about things that matter, doesn’t he?) “Zen’in Naoya. Can you tell me my name yet, boy?”

Naoya reaches for that, but unlike the cursed energy bubbling under his skin, the answer isn’t anywhere he can feel it. He hasn’t forgotten - he just never knew. Damn.

“Still no,” he admits, eyeing the old man warily. He did call him a bumbling invalid earlier, and Naoya’s decided he isn’t too inclined to forgive that.

“I’ve no use for a sorcerer who’s careless enough to forget decades of training,” the old man spits, reaching out and grabbing Naoya’s collar, tugging him along. “Your body should remember what your brain doesn’t. You won’t let me down, will you, Naoya? You won’t make a mockery of this family?”

Naoya idly thinks he could probably try to scramble free, but the Zen’in family are all lunatics, aren’t they? And he doesn’t know how to even leave this building, let alone where he’d run to. His spotty memory doesn’t offer up a map of Tokyo, or anything. So he keeps up, answering with a breathless, “no, sir.” 

He doesn’t say ‘you’ve already made a mockery of it’, no matter how tempting it is. He just follows, wide eyes trained on the halls they pass, notebook clutched to his chest. Left, right, right, left. Maybe he can find his way back on his own. 

They’re heading outside, he thinks, as they pass more and more windows. The landscape outside is lovely, from the glimpses he gets - broad ancient trees and silver moonlight. When they cross the threshold to the outdoors, he breathes in cool night air and the smell of something floral blooming. It’d be peaceful, and beautiful, if not for the old man actively wrangling him along the path. 

He must be concussed, or maybe his father was right about him being stupid, because it isn’t until he’s in the backseat of a sleek black vehicle does he fully allow himself to question what they’re doing. The driver is wearing a black suit and smart glasses, but he doesn’t recognize her. Still, she’s dressed too modern to be a Zen’in, and if he squints at her hard enough he thinks she’s got cursed energy - an assistant? Is his father going to throw his newly-concussed amnesiac son at a cursed spirit?

Oh, he’s a Zen’in. Of course he is. 

“-oya!” the shout drags him from his musing, and he jerks his eyes up to the mirror to catch the old man’s gaze. 

“I’m right here,” he grumbles back. “You don’t have to shout.”

His father looks like he may burst a blood vessel. The old man takes a deep breath, visibly gritting his teeth. “No matter how scrambled that foolish brain of yours may be, your body should remember how to carry itself in a fight. If you can’t even handle a grade 2 curse, we’ll … need to reassess your position within the clan.”

Naoya quietly curses his assessment of this crazy old man for its accuracy, turning to stare out the window instead of answering. He’s pretty sure you aren’t meant to throw newly-concussed people at curses to test their mental well-being. He’s entirely sure he’s never swung a sword in his life, and a second grade is … a big deal, right? It’s a big deal to someone who’s practically a civilian.

He swallows back a sudden knot of anxiety in his throat, forcing his breaths to come slow and even. The future holds worse than that. The future holds teenagers dying to special grades, prefectures rent to ashen wastelands or bloodied war zones. Child soldiers. Naoya swallows again, breathes. Yuji is, what, fifteen? Fifteen, facing things worse than what he’s about to with his bare hands. 

So, it’s simple. Game plan step 2, don’t die. He can live with being banished or whatever. Maki does it. Toji did it. He’s nowhere near as strong, he’s sure, but he can live with it. Maybe the old man’s right, and he’ll have the muscle memory for it. Naoya - original-Naoya, the man he’s not really, he must have been good. He turned into a hell of a curse. Fumbling for his wallet, he picks through it until he finds an ID.

Naoya Zen’in. He’s 26 - impressive age for a job that tends to kill people before 30. Knowing what’s coming, he may not make it yet, but still, 26 is hardly anything to scoff at. Grade 1 puts him at … what, Nanami level? That’s even less to scoff at. He may have been a bastard, but he must have been a competent one.

Past tense, because now he’s a few hours old, feeling more like a kid playing dress-up than an experienced sorcerer. 

The drive is long, winding through pretty forests and into the ever-lit nightlife of what must be somewhere in Tokyo. He ignores the looks through the rear-view mirror - curious, worried, irritated, scornful, he doesn’t care to discern the emotion behind them. He watches the streets, memorizes the landmarks and turns. Down, left, straight, straight. The smear of vibrantly-coloured lights gives way to dingy streets and yellowed lamps, and his mood plummets more and more as they pull away from the safety of civilization. Right, right, left. They squeak to a stop in front of a shopping mall, one bearing the shadow of what was once a sign above its doors, walls splattered with graffiti and windows boarded up. 

It takes him a delayed moment to register the car’s pulled to a stop. End of the road, right? He tugs the door open numbly, holding his notebook to his chest. He should have written down what he could before his death, given it to the assistant to give to Gojo. He curses himself, the old man, himself, this horrible world, that one-eyed cat, himself. 

He takes another deep, steeling breath as the other two climb out after him, tilting his head back to watch the curtain flicker into being above them. 

“You know,” he manages in a conversational tone, walking forward with more confidence than he feels, “you didn’t even make sure I know what a cursed spirit is.”

He thinks the woman behind them makes a choking noise, and his father’s steps falter once, but the old man’s voice stays firm and steady.

“Does it matter? It’s going to try to kill you. You need to kill it first. The rest will come to you.”

“You’re trying to kill me, too,” Naoya answers blankly, pushing the door open. “Should I kill you, too?” He turns to the old man, throwing him a grin he doesn’t mean. “... kidding.”

Maybe he’ll die and become that horrible thing the first did. Maybe he’ll kill the old man and spare Yuji a fraction of his future opposition … or maybe wipe out all those innocent people he saw on the way here. 

‘I can’t do that,’ he affirms to himself as he steps inside, leaving his father to lean on the wall and watch. The mall is dark and empty, the floor littered with broken glass from what was once a skylight now shattered at his feet. Dark shapes flicker in his periphery, the mutters and gleaming eyes of smaller curses winding around the abandoned building. He carries on, katana sheathed at his side, notebook clutched to his chest, eyes peeled for something bigger and uglier. It’s a curse - it’s going to get bigger, going to get uglier.

‘I can’t do that, because Yuji Itadori is like … a baby. And Mai and Maki are like my … cousins or something, now, right?’ He thinks of the stern, brave girl broken by her circumstances and reborn into something cold and cruel, of her sharp, bitter sister, dead as a teenager. A teenager. Thrown into a pit of monsters by the family that’s now his.

The ice in him is so cold it burns. He can’t let that happen, can he? The Zen’in sins are now his to carry, even the ones that have never happened. Especially the ones that have never happened. 

Naoya’s insides have turned to a brittle glacier by the time his opponents make themselves known. Opponents, plural, a wall of gleaming eyes hidden within the darkness of an empty store, chattering garbled whispers and making the air feel fetid and heavy. He steps within their line of sight, and for a single moment, they stand. One man, pinned under a dozen eyes.

‘Oh,’ he thinks, faintly. ‘There’s more than one. He really is trying to kill me.’

The wall of darkness surges, interwoven slimy shapes clambering over each other, snapping jaws of too-human teeth gnashing for his delicate flesh. It’s like a tide of otter-shaped rotten carcasses, breaking free and lunging at him, too fast to outrun, too many for a single katana to carve through in the seconds he has to respond. Distantly, his father - cruel enough to bring him here, careless enough to let his son die unprepared - calls a warning, too late to do any good. The wave of accursed death rushes for him, 

and he reaches out, fingers chilled, and presses the button. His cursed energy crackles under his skin, and the world freezes.

Chapter Text

Naoya Zen’in stands like a deer in headlights, as frozen in place as the world around him.

The surge of tangled cursed spirits before him hangs motionless, close enough that he can count every slick whisker, every gleaming tooth in every gaping maw. They remind him of river-beasts, in the tiny part of his mind that’s not frozen in terror. Like catfish and otters had ugly babies, with flat wide heads and bulging eyes. 

He’s not sure how long he stands there, frozen, before the panicked prey part of his brain reminds him that this isn’t really something he should stand in front of. His thoughts catch up to him like a speeding train, and he twists to the side, scrambling to get out of the line of attack. Every movement is resisted, like he’s suddenly pushing through water to take a step. The curses do not unfreeze. He can see flecks of spit hanging in midair from one wide-open mouth, debris kicked up by squat webbed feet suspended motionless inches above the ground.

He turns his head slowly, irrationally irritated by the way his hair drifts lazily. He feels underwater, or dreamlike, slow and sluggish. His father is likewise frozen by the distant entryway - how did he walk so far in without noticing it? Naoya stands and watches, but the man doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. His lifted foot never falls in that next step he was taking.

It’s as if the world stopped moving. He glances at his own hands, finally spying that button that he could feel but not see, hovering at his fingertips.

The pause symbol blinks back at him. 

‘Oh.’

“Oh,” he says aloud, or tries - the sound doesn’t come, even as he feels his vocal cords work to push the air out. This is … this must be the Zen’in clan technique, right? Something to do with animation? Naoya just … paused the playback. Froze time. No big deal.

‘Or maybe it’s just mine. Maybe this is all me,’ he thinks, a little hysterically, and then chokes out a noiseless laugh. ‘Maybe I’m actually some incarnated crazy-strong curse user who only thinks he read this manga. Maybe I’m just crazy!’

He sinks to the floor slowly, the world resisting every movement, and not-laughs again. He thinks if it made noise it may come out as a sob.

‘I’ve never been so terrified,’ he tells himself, but that doesn’t feel quite right. ‘I’ve never been calmer,’ he tries, and that feels worse. ‘I have blood on my hands that will never be shed and the sins of another man to carry until I die,’ is too much of a mouthful and also definitely crazy.

‘For Maki,’ comes next, and he slowly pulls out his katana, hands shaking and chest as cold as ice. ‘For Mai,’ and that works, pushing him back to his feet. His Cursed Technique can’t last him forever, surely. He can’t die here, which means he can’t waste time feeling sorry for himself. He has too much to do.

He can freeze time. Maybe he can afford to waste it. If he lives, he’ll have to test it and find out.

Swinging his katana is like trying to cut through molasses, or soup. Even his broad shoulders can’t get enough strength behind the swing, no matter the ways his body automatically adjusts its pose. He swings, and barely drives the blade an inch into the wet, solid flesh of the first curse. 

He swears, noiseless and sharp, and drops the katana. It hangs midair once it parts from his fingers, briefly jarring his resolve.

‘For Maki. For Mai.’

The tanto is shorter, easier to push through the thick air. Not easy enough to outright swing it with any real momentum, but easy enough to line up between the first curse’s eyes. He braces his palm against the handle and shoves, hard, jamming the blade into the beast’s skull, all the way to the hilt. The resistance of pushing through bone and then flesh makes him feel faintly nauseous, and he has to tug with his whole body to pull it back out. The wound doesn’t bleed, but it sits, open and glistening and purple, as he regains his weapon.

Naoya grits his teeth, bracing the blade inches above the first puncture, and repeating the process. If he cannot slice through the curses, if he cannot effortlessly dice his enemies apart like Sukuna or reduce them to ash like Gojo, he will manage the only way he can. Slowly, meticulously, punching his short knife through his enemies, leaving bloodied dotted lines splitting each skull. How much would it take to kill them? What if he can’t pause again once he releases it? How many stabs? One, two, seven? It takes seven to circle each head, from the front of the mouth between each flared nostril to the back of each flat skull, meeting where fat and wet hair gathers at the base of the neck. 

‘It’s like perforated lines on paper,’ he thinks nonsensically, as sweat and purple blood drips down his forearms. ‘Like fault lines. How many will it take? Between one and seven?’

It takes a slow, painful eternity. He’s shaking with effort by the time he draws back to examine his handiwork. His arms burn with the effort, dizzy from air that feels too thin, skin and clothes stained with every stray drop of blood and mucus pulled free with his blade - but the work is work he has done well, all the same. Six coiled curses, each the size of the car he arrived in. Each sporting seven clean, straight stab wounds through the skull, in a straight line. Will that be enough?

Naoya gulps a mouthful of air, pushing himself away from the curses, absentmindedly grabbing his katana as he staggers away from their path and out of their peripheral eyesight. The pause button blinks by his fingertips, but he doesn’t reach for it again. 

What if seven isn’t enough? Naoya heads down the stairs slowly, bringing his katana’s handle up to shatter the glass in an old vending machine. It takes a few swings, and even as the glass fractures into hundreds of shards, he finds himself having to pull them out of the way manually, silently cursing with each nick carved into his fingers.

The soda inside is two years past the expiration date, and maybe the worst thing he’s ever tasted - flat, warm, and grape. Gross. An attempt to wipe the sweat from his brow just smears him in blood, and he grimaces, finishing the soda and dropping the can. The sugar sits heavy in his stomach, but makes him feel a bit less … fucked up. The crushed aluminum hangs in midair, just like the glass shards and drops of spit and blood. He wipes his bloodied hands ineffectively on his kimono, and turns to stare at the curses above, assessing his own state.

… he doesn’t think he’s tired from pausing this animation’s nonexistent playback, or whatever he’s done. He thinks he’s tired from the effort of stabbing through each, and maybe from his returning headache and whatever he was doing before he became himself. But he doesn’t think it’s the cursed technique wearing him out, because that part of him feels …limitless. Like he could stay here forever, eating and drinking his fill of expired vending machine spoils to his heart’s content, watching the world fail to tick by. The energy dancing along his fingers feels eternal, while his own body feels painfully mortal and weary. He doesn’t feel like he has a timer ticking down, or some depleting store of stolen minutes. He just feels … sort of like shit.

Naoya considers that maybe, just maybe, he could hold this … forever. He could steal himself as much time as he needs.

Naoya considers that, and then paces back to his father’s side, where the floor is free of glass. He sits, finds the pen still wedged behind his ear, and opens the notebook.

For Maki, he writes, pen resisting every stroke. For Mai.

He can’t measure the time that doesn’t pass, but he’s filled a dozen odd pages by the time he’s done. The first two are embarrassingly scant; ‘Who am I?’ sporting little more than his name, age, and some barebones theories on his Cursed Technique. (He hesitantly calls it Freeze Frame, and makes note to check his time limit when he’s not actively in pain and exhausted.)

‘Who are they?’ is even shorter, Yuzuki’s name alongside nameless descriptions of his father and the assistant from the car. 

‘Who do I save?’ spans two pages. ‘Who do I kill?’ spans three.

His game plan has been filled out with a tentative list of allies, but remains only two steps. Do something about the prison realm. Don’t die. The main cast … he shouldn’t get too close, or else he may change things so drastically his foreknowledge becomes useless. Satoru Gojo stands as a person to save, and not an ally to involve. Naoya can’t distract him from Yuji, not when the man barely has enough time for his students to begin with. Too easy to get the kid actually assassinated, instead of almost-assassinated. 

The dead may be of more use to him, but the dead are an unknown variable either way. Especially with the unknowns of the timeline, one he’s very roughly mapped out with crude drawings - it felt too serious, too real, and too dangerous to write down. Most of this is probably too dangerous to write down, except it’s also disjointed enough that nobody who reads it would take it as anything but insane. 

Writing it down helps solidify his plans, at least. He feels less cold and lost, even as his headache is back in full force with a fair bit of extra dizziness to boot. That may be because his fingers are still dripping blood from the vending machine’s glass shards - and how does that work? Does pausing keep his blood from clotting, but not from flowing? Nonsensical. It just makes his head hurt more to think about it.

Naoya wipes his bloodied fingers on his sleeves once more, tucks his journal away, and stands. The curses hang right where he left them, frozen in midair. His father stands beside him, mid-stride, caught in the middle of a warning shout. Naoya eyes the man he still doesn’t know the name of, and decidedly doesn’t think about how he didn’t add him to either list, unable to pick this man’s fate off the course of a single confusing evening.

He doesn’t think about how many fates he has picked, either.

He reaches out, and taps the button. The world starts turning again.

The curses above them explode into a grisly spray of purple blood, shooting out at such a force he’d think he carved through more than a few arteries. Momentum carries them forward even as their bodies crumble to ash, and Naoya blearily thinks that seven must have been enough even as his own body suddenly pitches sideways. He catches the tail end of his father’s shout, and finds he doesn’t have the energy to respond ‘I’m right here, didn’t I say to stop shouting?’

It’s like the effort of everything he just did rebounded right back onto him despite already feeling it as he did it, the cost of his actions brutally doubled all at once. The sudden exhaustion robs him of the strength to stand, knees buckling uselessly. The rush of noise dizzies him further, the splatter of gore and crashing of bodies and tinkling of glass hitting the ground. He barely registers arms wrapping around his shoulders and keeping his head colliding with the ground for the second time today. 

“How?” his father asks, sliding to his knees to support Naoya’s sudden limp form. “Naoya, how did you do that?”

Naoya’s answer is bringing up the contents of his stomach onto the cold tile beneath them. He thinks he’d be mortified if he weren’t so suddenly fatigued - or irritated that the old man didn’t ask if he was okay, but his head feels too empty and achey for irritation. His limbs shake with the fruitless effort to hold him up, and he shudders with the effort as he retches again, bringing up stale soda and bile. His skin feels sticky, he feels disgusting, and he can’t muster the strength to do anything but senselessly puke his guts up.

A steady hand rubs circles on his back, as Zen’in senior holds him upright silently, soothing the tremors that shake his whole form. Naoya finds himself grateful for the silence, even as he dry heaves onto the ground for an eternity.

“What’s wrong with him?” an unfamiliar voice sounds from above their shoulders. The assistant from before has joined them, it sounds like, and Naoya feels that shame burn hotter under his skin. “If he can’t finish the mission …”

“He already has,” Naoya’s father answers. “My son is not some incompetent fool, woman. Remember your place.”

“Your son looks like he needs to go to a hospital.” She sounds closer, now, like she’s crouching beside him. A smaller hand brushes his hair from his face. “… shit, he’s really warm.”

“… this ability is not his cursed technique.” 

“I know that. We were classmates , remember?” The woman’s voice is almost a sneer, and the old man doesn’t respond. 

The hand on his back stays, and he finally pushes himself upright, wiping his face on his already filthy sleeves. “Still with us, Naoya?”

The words don’t come immediately, lungs burning as he gasps for fresh air. “Headache’s back,” he chokes out, shuddering at how disgusting and raw his throat feels. “Fine. Hit me … hit me all at once, is all. Might be the … concussive force.” He attempts a glare and fails miserably, with his skin clammy and his eyes blurred. “If you kill me, I’ll become … a curse. You’ve got a really,” he pauses to gag, but nothing comes up. “Really shitty approach to head trauma.”

His father doesn’t have the grace to look ashamed, but the woman beside him manages the glare he couldn’t, throwing the older man a look that could cut through stone. Naoya wishes he knew who she was, because he likes her for that alone, even if he thinks being his classmate must have been hell.

“Let’s get you home,” the old man decides with a sigh. “You can tell me about … this afterwards, alright?”

Naoya doesn’t even remember making it back to the car. He hits the back seat, and he’s asleep instantly.

What happens next passes in a blur. He remembers dragging himself out of the backseat, needing to be shown to his own room, nearly blacking out in the shower and coming to on the bathroom floor, drenched and freezing. He remembers curling up in bed, flickering in and out of awareness as one moment shows sunlight drenching the room in gold, and the next time he blinks it’s pitch black. He sleeps harder than he ever has in his life, probably, plagued by fitful dreams of faces he half-remembers and has never met. At one point, he hysterically imagines an angel knitting his broken skull back together - he thinks he tries to beg she leave his brain where he is, afraid of being overwritten.

He shivers out a fever, and then swings wildly between too-hot and too-cold, rising to throw his blankets off or desperately fumble for them again. Maybe a day passes. Maybe a week. It’s all like some forever fever dream.

It must be midday by the time he rises, headache blessedly gone and mind clearer than before. He hadn’t even realized how sluggish every thought had felt before now. The window is open, and the fresh air does nothing to dispel the lingering smell of cigarette smoke that he’s certain wasn’t here when he went to sleep. 

A woman he definitely more-than-sort-of-recognizes is leaning on the windowsill, a cigarette between her teeth, tired eyes trained outside. His angel was real, then - not that he’d call her anything of the sort now that he’s conscious. Naoya quickly confirms he had the presence of mind to get dressed before he slides from bed, his dignity bruised enough to not take any chances. His body must have remembered where his clothes are, though it did a rather haphazard job of getting dressed. He’s decent. It’ll do.

“Shoko … Ieiri?” he tries, voice rough with sleep.

She doesn’t jump, but she does turn her head sharply, fixing him with an unimpressed stare. “Would you look at that,” she drawls. “Sleeping beauty rises. Naobito told me you didn’t have any memories.”

“Who,” he rasps, before it clicks. “The old man?”

Her eyebrows creep up her face. “You remember me, and not your father. That’s … interesting. Your head was in a state when I got here, you know? All of you, really.”

Naoya sits atop his sheets, inspecting his surroundings. “Don’t remember you getting here. It’s not like I forget … everything.” He grimaces. “Fuck, I feel like I was gargling sandpaper. My head?”

“You had a brain injury,” Doctor Ieiri confirms, snuffing her cigarette out on his windowsill and reaching for another. “Something concussive made worse by your own cursed energy, it looks like. It’s hard to say for sure, but it’s like your body stopped recognizing itself - your immune system and CE were reacting to each other badly . If you had injured yourself further, you may have started seizing.” She clicks her lighter, watching impassively as Naoya grimaces at her. “The other interesting thing is your amnesia case. You should have regenerated those missing neural pathways - you’ve regrown everything that was damaged, and none of those were memory centers.”

Naoya is struggling to get past the idea of brain bleeding, rubbing where he’d hit his head. Was it the injury itself, or whatever brought him to inhabit this body? He can hardly ask Shoko that. “I … don’t feel like I have brain damage?” he offers. “I have muscle memory for things like buttoning a shirt and writing. I did those yesterday.”

He taps his fingers thoughtfully against his chin. “I can form new memories, as far as I can tell, considering I remember yesterday, so it isn’t anterograde amnesia, either.” Is that the sort of thing a Zen’in would know? Considering the way Shoko’s eyebrows continue to raise, probably not. “I can sort-of tell you what a cursed spirit is, right? But I don’t, uh, recognize people.”

“You recognized me,” she notes, and he internally kicks himself for not thinking of that. “Can you tell me what you know about me?”

Naoya wrinkles his nose, thinking on what is and isn’t safe to say. He has no idea what the reader might know that some random Zen’in heir wouldn’t. “You’re smoking in my room,” is his first answer, which makes her draw the corner of her lips up in a ghost of a smile. “You live on one of the school campuses, right? And you can use your technique to heal others.”

“You could have gotten most of that from what we’ve already said, but it’s interesting you remembered where I live. And anyone else?” she asks, blowing another plume of smoke out of the window.

Naoya leans back with a weary sigh, screwing his eyes shut. He can use this to his advantage, can’t he? Realistically, he can only ‘remember’ a majority of people close to or related to the two Jujutsu High campuses. If they’re current students, maybe that can give him some … rapport? Excuse? A reason to get into one? He’s not quite sure of the end goal yet, but he knows he does need to get access to the Kyoto campus, at the very least.

The Tokyo campus is a no-go. He needs to steer desperately clear of Gojo, and doubly clear of the kids there. But Kyoto is a necessity, not for the campus itself … but because he can’t quite figure out any other route that will take him to the very top of his list of prospective allies. 

So the question becomes, how does he use his amnesia to get him there? 

Shoko is staring at him expectantly, and he realizes a few too many heartbeats have ticked past without an answer. “What was the last major attack by a curse user?” he questions instead of answering.

“That’s an interesting touchstone,” she notes dryly, as if she thinks there’s gotta be something seriously wrong with him. “What’s the last one you remember?” When he glares and doesn’t answer, she huffs a laugh. It doesn’t seem nice. He’s probably given her ample reason to dislike him, but he still has to grit his teeth a bit before he feels the need to get pushy. Maybe she takes mercy on him, answering instead of pushing him for more answers. “Back in March there was a woman who killed about twenty civilians before she was taken out in Roppongi. You’re not the one who took her out, so if you’re reaching for a past mission, it wouldn’t be that one.”

Naoya chews the inside of his cheek. It tells him everything he needs to know that her answer is anything but The Night Parade of a Hundred Demons. That’ll be this December, then, won’t it? December, not October, because October will be Shibuya instead. Thoughtlessly, he pulls his notepad from under his pillow and adds that to a new sheet. Shoko watches him with the curiosity of a doctor watching a rat in a maze, one who’s done something mildly interesting. He doesn't let her see the page.

“I have two … cousins?” he finally answers, voice frail with a brittle lack of confidence. It makes him sound like he’s not sure about his words, when truly it’s the other shoe dropping he fears. “Cousins. They’re twins. One of them … will go to your school. Maki and Mai.” Two kids the family failed. That makes it his responsibility to make things right for them. For them.

Again, Shoko laughs that unkind laugh. “And you don’t remember your own father,” she half-scolds. “Not that I blame you. Maki’s one of our first-years, yeah, she’s already going to our school. Maybe that’s it … is there anyone else?”

He shakes his head. “It’s hard to just list off everyone you’ve ever met, you know,” he grouses, crossing his arms.

“Really! Not even Satoru Gojo?” she questions, smile turning a bit sly.

“I’m trying not to remember Satoru Gojo,” is his automatic, thoughtless response - one that draws a far more genuine laugh out of her. “No, I … know him. He’s strong, and really annoying. I don’t understand his technique.  And he’s a teacher?” The last bit is tacked on, but he’s very sure Gojo is already a teacher. Okkotsu will be a first-year, too. Another year before Yuji and his yearmates enter the picture.

… and who knows how long before he can actually act on Ally Number One, if that curse doesn’t even exist yet. He mentally rearranges his list, unwilling to open the tangible thing while Shoko’s looking right at him.

“I’ve got a theory, but nothing beyond that. Let’s test your basic mental facilities before we move onto your cursed technique,” Shoko instructs, snapping her fingers at him. Naoya gets the sinking feeling that conversation will be one with his family involved.

Naoya, blessedly, doesn’t fail at performing basic cognitive functions. He might throw himself out the window if he somehow fucked up touching his toes and walking in a straight line in front of this tired woman. As-is, it’s embarrassing having to manually and slowly count down from 100 by sevens.

Shoko, for all she maybe probably dislikes him, is patient enough with the questions he peppers her with in return. He was in the year behind hers and attended the Kyoto school (he mentally whoops at another point in his favour of excuses to visit), she can’t tell him if he has any siblings but she’s fairly sure he’s unmarried (thankfully, and probably unsurprisingly), and as far as she knows his cursed technique was always identical to his father’s, matching what the old man said before. They don’t seem to be friendly acquaintances, but he gets the sense that the sorcerer world is small enough to hear things about one’s peers. Maybe they’ve never talked directly, or maybe he was a huge dick when they were students (probably that one), but she knows who he is more than he does now.

He likes to think his newly displayed patience and lack of toxic vile bullshit may win her over a bit, but she hasn’t stopped smoking since they started. Maybe it’s the compound stressing her out, and not him.

(… it’s probably him.)

When he’s done proving that his brain sits intact in his skull, the two find themselves staring into the hallway.

“It occurs to me,” she notes dryly as they inspect the Zen’in compound beyond his room, “that you probably don’t know your way around any better than I do.”

“Maybe less,” he agrees. “The only time I left the building, I was really out of it. I don’t even remember getting home.”

Shoko hums, then gives him an assessing look. “… Right. Lead the way, big guy, let’s see if that muscle memory is still intact.”

Naoya looks for a joke in her face and knows he won’t find one. She’s entirely serious. He rolls his shoulders, tucks his journal into his haphazardly-arranged kimono, and promptly sets himself to the task of navigating. It’s a house. His house. How hard can it be?

Chapter Text

“Maybe I was shitty at directions before the head injury,” Naoya offers in his own feeble defense as the two find themselves inexplicably outside once again.

It feels like they’ve been going in circles, even if he knows they aren’t, because he’s memorized every turn they’ve taken and has yet to double up on a combination. He knows they aren’t, because every single wrong doorway he’s taken to the outdoors has been a different door.

“I’d believe that if you didn’t live here,” Shoko deadpans, unphased by the despair mounting in his expression. “But as far as I know, you’ve lived here since you were born.”

Naoya can’t refute that without sounding insane or stupid. “I was born yesterday,” he grumbles to himself, sweeping back inside and marking another route off of his mental map. 

It’s not like the hallways are empty, either. They’ve passed all sorts of other Zen’in clan members, servants and soldiers and people he doesn’t recognize. They’ve drawn eyes, even - but Shoko kept butting in before he could ask for mercy, impressing upon his … roommates? that she needed to test how much of his memory he’d lost. 

It’s far more likely she just likes seeing Naoya suffer. He supposes he would, too, if he were currently anyone but Naoya. He doesn’t gripe at her too hard, because he still burns with the shame of realizing the people in this place seem afraid of him.

Even now, the other Zen’ins eye him like a sort of animal, like a stray dog they’ve brought in that they expect to bite. He supposes he wouldn’t know how to deal with himself, either - he was in charge of the Hei, whatever that was, and now he’s … demoted? Demoted. And different, and he looks at his lifelong home without a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He wouldn’t know how to deal with that either. He might crawl out of his skin if anyone else calls him Naoya- sama .

He’s thinking so hard on the reputation he’s been handed, the sort of bastard he must have been to make servants steer clear of his path, that he stops paying attention to where he’s going. He slides open a door thoughtlessly, mind a million miles away, and abruptly finds himself looking at his father sitting at a low table having tea.

“Ah,” is Naoya’s inelegant greeting, before he turns to Shoko and gestures to the room, “See? See!” 

She swapped to lollipops after the fourth cigarette, and she chews the stick thoughtfully as she looks him over. “You got here as soon as you stopped thinking about it, didn’t you? That’s … interesting.” 

“You took your damn time,” his father (Naobito? That sounds less personal, which is a win in Naoya’s book) snips as Shoko slips into the room, sitting herself at the opposite end of the table from him. Naoya, reeling over the concept that he can only get lost when he’s trying not to, belatedly closes the door behind him and joins her. 

Shoko doesn’t respond to the jab, and Naoya’s too preoccupied trying to reverse-engineer their path here, neither in any hurry to talk to their cantankerous host. Naobito grits his teeth in the awkward silence, seemingly growing angrier and angrier at the lack of his son’s proper greeting.

“We brought you here to heal him, didn’t we? Why does he still look like - like that ? Do you think you can just waste our time?” 

Shoko has the grace not to roll her eyes, leaning one elbow on the table and assessing her own notes almost lazily. “Physically, there’s nothing wrong with him. His head injury is entirely healed, and his cognition’s all there. There’s nothing I can do about his memory, because there’s nothing wrong with his brain.” Naoya finds himself avoiding the hard stare of his father, reading over her shoulder instead. Shoko has noted down a complete alteration of personality. Good. “The memory may come back, it may not. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say it has something to do with his change in cursed technique.”

“... and what a technique it is ,” Naobito sighs, blessedly not launching into more yelling. “I’ve never seen such a drastic shift in cursed energy. His used to match mine in its entirety, but what he exhibited yesterday is … unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Naoya -” the man in question snaps his attention back to the table, wide-eyed and lacking any recognition, “can you describe it?”

Naoya chews his inner cheek again, thinking. It … couldn’t hurt to reveal it. That’s supposed to make it stronger, right? That’s a thing . And it’s not like anyone here could force him to use it. If they tried, he’d just pause and walk away. Facing a fresh day with a clear mind, he’s moderately confident he could do that.

“I’m not sure how to,” he admits. “It was like hitting a pause button on the whole world. What … did it look like to you?”

“It didn’t,” Naobito confesses, frowning even more. “One moment, you were about to get swallowed whole. The next, the curses exploded and you were beside me, on the verge of passing out.”

Naoya grimaces, wishing he’d left out that last bit. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“I cannot imagine you before your … accident … getting ill in front of Honma Michika and not making a scene about it,” the old man drawls. “You’ve always been proud, Naoya - that should not have changed.” Hm. Unfamiliar name, but one he can add to the list. Naoya fumbles for his notebook and writes it down in front of her description. “Regardless - it was less than a second, from my perspective. I never once saw you move. Pause button … What did you do that I couldn’t see?”

“It was more like … an hour, maybe, from my perspective. Maybe two. I wasn’t keeping track,” Naoya mutters offhandedly, attempting a sketch of Honma’s short-cropped hairstyle beside her name. He thinks his father must drop a cup, because the old man swears and fumbles before something can shatter on the ground.

Shoko still manages to look unimpressed as she returns his earlier gesture and glances over his shoulder. “Can you do it right now?”

“Yeah?” What if he can’t. What if he can’t? He’s banking on the use of his cursed technique to carry him here, and the one he has seems so very useful. The ability to pause the world before him. Maybe he can pickpocket the prison realm, or fire a million bullets into Mahito’s face. No, bullets probably won’t work on Mahito. Maybe he can saw its hand off before it touches Junpei -

Shoko snaps her fingers in front of his face, dragging him out of his thoughts. “Focus.” She’s got a stopwatch in her hand - when did she get that? - and she presses it into his firmly. “With us again?”

“Yeah.” He’s not sure why people keep asking him that.

“I left my lighter in your room. Activate your technique, and bring it back.”

Naoya frowns at her, bordering on a growl. “I’ll just get lost again! You - you may as well tell me to walk all the way to Tokyo!”

“That’s fine,” Shoko admits with a shrug. “If you could walk all the way to Tokyo, I’d be impressed. Not that I’m saying to actually do it. I don’t expect you to have Gojo levels of power, here, Naoya, I’m just trying to measure how long you can keep that up … and what happens to you afterwards. Take your time - but only drop it here, if you can help it.”

He looks at the stopwatch in his hands, ignoring the way his father’s eyes shine at the prospect of Gojo levels of power . “... whatever,” he grits, getting back to his feet, ignoring their stares. “Not like it’s gonna take me two hours to find my bedroom.” He reaches out, tapping the pause button. The world shudders to a stop, back to that syrupy slowness. Pushing open the door is slow and difficult, leaving him to cringe under the eyes of his frozen, uncomprehending audience.

It’s oddly relieving, to be back in the winding halls and away from the scrutiny. There’s something gut-deep and uncomfortable about being known by strangers, let alone being known for being someone you aren’t. Naoya is … not. He is, and he isn’t. He scoffs at his own nonsensical train of thought and cuts it off, forcing his way through the thick air as he seeks out his own room. It’s slow and heavy, and with a clearer mind now he can take note of how the air feels, how his breaths feel shallow and insufficient even when he breathes deeply. He ponders this, letting his feet remember the path as his brain turns over the implications of frozen molecules and lowered oxygen intake. Maybe he was breathing too quickly for how slow everything is, resisting every one of his movements … ? No wonder he got so dizzy before - he practices deep, methodical breaths with each step, counting one-two-three-four-five with his slow inhales.

There’s a comfort in passing through the halls unseen. Nobody cringes away from him, nobody peers at him like an oddity. He passes before their eyes like a ghost, relaxing in his nonexistence. He wonders how much of it is because he is unseen, and how much of it is because the weight of his sins cannot be placed on his shoulders. Whoof - this is exactly the sort of thing he doesn’t need to be pondering. What he should be thinking about is Suguru Geto, right?

Geto’s not yet attacked Okkotsu and his classmates for Rika. But Naoya shouldn’t interfere with that - he can’t conjure a good enough reason to. It all works out. Not so much for Geto, but that ship’s already sailed for him, as far as Naoya’s memory goes. He’d been a real peach when younger, really, and Naoya would probably take Toji on in a fight for that kid - but that kid’s grown up to the racism CEO, and he hasn’t landed himself on the list of people to save for it.

No, it’s not preventing his death that has Naoya worried. It’s circling it like a vulture. It’s the one time in the timeline when he can be entirely sure of Kenjaku’s whereabouts. Following Suguru Geto’s death will lead him right to Kenjaku’s newest incarnation.

And then what? Kill them? He weighs the pros and cons as he palms Shoko’s lighter and meanders his way thoughtlessly outside, barely registering stopping in his own room. The sun warms his skin, and the world is still. An airplane hangs, frozen like a stamp on the clear blue sky above. No wind rattles the branches, no birds sing. 

Does he kill Kenjaku? Eventually, yes. But … could he? Debatable. Likely not alone. And to take them out now, so early - what if it changed everything?

What if it didn’t change anything?

Option B is to ingratiate himself to his fellow body-snatcher. To pull a double-agent act … can he afford to risk that? Can he pull it off? He bites at his inner cheek. He’s a Zen’in - an adult, but an adult belonging to one of the big three or whatever they’re called. Belonging, literally, because he’s certain unless he gets disowned his family will consider him property. Time alone will tell how much freedom that grants him, but -

Naoya looks up at the frozen leaves, the still air. Does this not grant him freedom in of itself? Can he alone not wander a world no one else sees? So long as he has this technique, he has all the freedom he desires.

So, the motive. He flips back to ’Who do I save?’ and regards the name sitting at the top of the list. 

Kokichi Muta ’s name stares back up at him. Not for fondness, or importance to the story, but for something as terrible and clinical as usefulness to his plans . Mechamaru is powerful, and clever, and Naoya isn’t. Most importantly, his vow with Mahito will all but trap him into the alliance Naoya can offer. He cannot betray him to the Zen’ins or other higher-ups, because to do so would to be to betray his own arrangement with the special-grade patchwork curse.

Muta is still a first year - will he have made the vow yet? Will he have caught Kenjaku’s attention already? Can he afford to leave that up to chance and hope? Too much lies in the balance, too much stands to be lost if he fucks this up, not just a single ally to back him at Shibuya. 

So, that’s … one benefit for that alliance. Easy access to Muta when the vow is struck - maybe even before it. A powerful ally he can yank from the jaws of death and keep at his side. Someone who will not have the option to betray him.

A teenager he can save from a painful death.

He has four months until Kenjaku takes Geto’s corpse, give or take - time enough to hone the cunning he’ll need to survive the brain’s attention. Kenjaku offers more, Naoya can grasp victory if he is only bold enough to keep his enemies closer … but for now, it will be ingratiating himself to them, and to Mechamaru, and then … and then the prison realm. He’ll work the details as the pieces fall more into place.

The question instead becomes what needs to be done before the Night Parade. Everything turned out alright in the end, maybe, but he can’t rule out pieces being taken from play that he could use. So, what does the Night Parade take out of play?

… something about a rope. Wasn’t there something about a rope?

Naoya stops dead in his tracks, tapping his pen against his fingers. He’s long since stopped noticing the resistance to every movement, he’s yet to take notice of how far down the road he’s walked or the ache in his muscles from how heavy every action is. A rope.

Miguel. That’s something to keep in play, for reasons he can’t quite remember. So, Naoya will need to ingratiate himself with Kenjaku - which comes after the Night Parade - and at least acquaint himself with one of the body’s followers before the Night Parade.

Naoya bites the end of his pen and keeps walking. He may need to meet with Suguru Geto after all.

He thinks walking through a frozen city would be spectacular at night. He admires the tall buildings even as he remembers how striking they were, all lit up in the darkness. Enough colours to make him sick - though that may have been the headache. Even after the extensive hike down to the city, that headache’s yet to return, and he’s grateful. The walk may have been more comfortable without the sun’s brilliance overhead, and he’s grateful to duck into a shop and feel the still air around him cool dramatically. His skin feels warm.

Naoya probably has money. He’s a decently powerful sorcerer, and from a clan. Its heir, or at least former heir. He probably has the funds to throw around. Certainly enough for a wardrobe that doesn’t billow so much, one without sleeves that drag with every movement through the soupy reality of his cursed technique,

Naoya probably has money, but he’s not sure, and nobody can stop him from just taking whatever strikes his fancy in this motionless world. Hell, they probably couldn’t stop him even without his technique - he’s seen himself in the mirror. He’s jacked . Maybe he can just punch Miguel and bounce. But what to do about the rope?

“Why do you have this?” is the first thing he says to Shoko as time resumes and the stopwatch drops into her hand. The fatigue creeps in nearly instantly, but not so severe as to make him collapse immediately - he has the strength to very inelegantly fold his legs and lean just a little harder on the table than necessary, taking a few deep, ragged breaths to stave off his dizziness. The doctor purses her lips as she looks up at him, and then at the stopwatch.

“Timing seizures. I thought I’d need it with your prior symptoms ... did you forget my lighter?” she questions, taking in his disheveled appearance and what feels like the sting of a faint sunburn across his cheeks, the slight blue tint to his lips. He drops the lighter into her hand, too. “You kept it up for six hours . That’s … How do you feel?”

“Like I was on my feet for twelve,” he grunts, letting his eyes slide shut. There’s the headache - not the same as that oxygen-starved delirium that set in before, though, instead the sort of pain he can pinpoint as dehydration and maybe poor blood sugar. Yet again, he’d followed his body’s sudden sugar craving, plucking some overly sweet iced coffee from the hands of the woman who ordered it to satisfy himself. He was mindful enough with his breathing to not instantly empty his stomach, which he’s oddly proud of even as his stomach revolts in sudden hunger. He should have snagged a second coffee, or something solid. He feels … wiped. Wrung out like a towel. Six hours feels less like an accomplishment and more like a questionable spur-of-the-moment decision to regret.

Naobito looks like his eyes might bug out of his head. “Six? That … that’s unfathomable, Naoya.” He leans in, and Shoko shows him the time to confirm it. “Six. Six hours in a second. Less than. You could truly challenge Satoru Gojo with this sort of power at your fingertips.” Naoya is just reflecting on how clever it was to hide his pilfered clothes away in his room before returning (the old man wouldn’t approve, he doesn’t need memories of him to know that much) when his father takes his shoulders. “To think I was ready to - Finally, the Zen’in clan sports an heir to challenge the Gojo’s! You’ll take your rightful place in this world, Naoya. Finally. We’ll be afforded the respect we deserve. ”

Naoya inelegantly leans backwards and out of his grasp, narrowly avoiding pitching backwards. “And all I had to trade was my entire life’s memories and personality and existing cursed technique,” he deadpans.

Shoko eyes him, and mercifully elects not to mention the things he does ‘remember’. “Your personality sucked, anyways. You look tired - anything out of the ordinary?”

“Kinda gathered as much. Just tired, and hungry.” Naoya gently removes his father’s hands from his vicinity, avoiding those eyes that shine at him with an ugly sort of pride. It makes him feel … gross, that he kind of likes it. Revolting. Nothing worse than fatherly affection he had to earn. “I don’t feel in a state to challenge anybody … sir.”

“You’d … turn your back on us?” The old man has to have willfully misinterpreted his words to reach that conclusion. Naobito reaches for his shoulders again, grasping harder, perhaps in anticipation for Naoya’s readiness to wriggle free regardless of indignity. The grip hurts, this time.

“You - I didn’t say that!” he huffs, weariness fraying at his temper. “I didn’t say that. But you’re a stranger.” A stranger that threw me to curses as soon as I popped into existence. “I don’t want leadership or whatever, I don’t even know you. I’m not gonna join in some pissing match -”

“I am your father, Naoya,” Naobito cuts him off, shaking him once by the shoulders. “I raised you. I gave you everything. I made you worth something, and you will protect and honour your family, you horrible, ungrateful child.” Seeing his son’s wide-eyed look, and perhaps predicting his mounting nausea or an attempt to flee, the tight grasp loosens just enough, the old man’s voice makes some attempt at softening. “I am your father. I only want what’s best for our family. You can make new memories, no? Surely, somewhere deep in your heart you remember how much you care for us.”

(Naoya thinks the ugly look Shoko is giving him is something akin to pity. It’s a conscious effort to not pause the world and slip free from Naobito’s hold.)

The worst part is how easily he sees right through it. He knows the first Naoya wasn’t the sort who cared for his family by any metric. He knows the person he was two days ago would never cave to hollow platitudes of family and obligation. His father may have tempted him with power - but now a stranger sits in Naoya’s place, and he could not be less interested in leading the Zen’in clan.

Maybe one day. But too much hangs in the balance now. And Naobito cannot understand that. The only thing his father could offer to sway his loyalty would be to undo the years of cruelty towards those family members who weren’t lucky enough to suddenly be proven powerful enough to love. 

He sees right through it, and seeks to pacify the old man all the same. Being a Zen’in could still be useful to him, right? (And, if he’s to get disowned … it won’t be in front of Shoko’s pitying stare. She looks all too understanding, and he loathes the idea that Naoya could receive anyone’s pity. The first wouldn’t have ever deserved it.)

“Of course. Of course, father,” he soothes, trying a calm, quiet tone that doesn’t betray his tooth-gritting irritation. “I’m not turning my back on us. Not even I could forget my family pride. I just need time, right? Just until my memories come back.”

Naobito breathes in and out, squeezing his shoulders once more. Naoya is briefly afraid he’s going to be shaken again, before the old man releases him. 

“Of course, Naoya. What’s the rush? You have all the time in the world, don’t you?” He smiles, suddenly placid, and Naoya forces one in return despite what feels like bruising worn into his shoulders. “Now I see absolutely nothing was wrong with you. Why don’t you escort this … woman to the entrance?” The old man’s smile grows thinner. “Of course, you have our family’s thanks for your assistance, Ieiri. We’d hate to keep you from your duties for much longer.”

Naoya stands again, feet aching but head steady, offering Shoko a hand. “As you wish, father.”

“Yikes,” is the first thing she says to him once they’re free from earshot. He’s led her outside, trusting himself to find the front of the house more without hallways to confuse him. “Is he … always like that?”

“It’s like he can’t tell I’m dead on my feet. Ugh. You tell me ,” Naoya answers.

She doesn’t, and the two fall into awkward silence.

“... how’s she doing?” he finds himself asking, if only to break it, if only to ensure the last conversation they have is not one where his father treats him like a dog before her. Conversation beats the effort of staying on his feet.

“Mmm?”

“Ma-kiii. She’s at your school, right? How’s she doing? Does she have lots of friends?”

Shoko snorts, looking up at him again. “You … really aren’t him, huh?”

He pauses, tries to find any remorse over not better emulating the man he’s expected to be - comes up empty. “I hope so. Let’s hope it sticks, right? … c’mon. Tell me about Maki-chan!”

That earns a laugh right in his face, but she complies. “She’s a mean little thing. The school just got this new kid, Okkotsu, and …” 

The two spend longer than he thinks he’d admit, leaning on Shoko’s car as she catches him up on his brave, wonderful, alive little cousin. Maki and Mai, with any luck, won’t ever have to run into him again - he has no right to either of them, but he permits himself distant pride of the new generation all the same. 

If there’s any Zen’in who deserves that blinding pride, it sure as shit isn’t Naoya.

“Hey,” Shoko says as she gets in the driver’s seat, before he can pull away. “Give me your number.”

“Eh … ?” He bites down an automatic protest, but he’s not - Shoko’s really not -

“In case your head gets fucked up again. Any weird symptoms at all, really. I don’t trust the old man not to do anything stupid again.”

“Oh! Right - yeah, that sounds … good.” Naoya can’t argue that, and obediently pulls up his number for her to copy into her own battered flip-phone. “Call me if - uh, for anything, I guess. I have nothing but free time, right?”

She gives him another of those pitying smiles, and he already misses when it was thinly-veiled loathing. “Sure, Zen’in. Don’t overdo it. Hope I don’t see you again anytime soon.”

He watches her go, quietly sure that he’d take her loathing and pity over four more months alone in this place. Two days were more than enough.

… Maybe he should get a hobby. Or a job. Or friends. He breathes a sigh into the clear summer sky, before turning and meandering back into the compound’s monotonous hallways, pondering Mechamaru and Geto and the teetering tightrope act before him.

Chapter Text

The revelations about his ‘upgraded’ cursed technique brought further uncomfortable scrutiny onto him before he could even imagine uttering the words damage control. He wakes up from a respectable ten-hour nap and finds, abruptly, that he’s lost the privilege of being ignored as an oddity.

Change comes as soon as he slides his door open, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and finds a giant man towering over for him - waiting. “Naoya,” the giant grunts. Naoya vaguely recognizes him, with his long hair and distinctive forehead scar, but he’s entirely positive he was never assed enough to remember his name. He frowns, staring, and the giant stares right back, seemingly waiting.

The two make awkward eye contact for a long few seconds before Naoya unfocuses his eyes and stares at the far wall instead. “That’s my name, or so I’m told. Can I … help you?”

The giant grunts again, eyes narrowing. “Ogi has taken over the Hei until your situation improves,” he eventually answers, and Naoya understands some of those words. “But you’re still a Zen’in, and of the Hei, and your presence is demanded.” More silence, with Naoya staring at nothing and the big man staring at Naoya. “... well?” the giant prompts immediately.

Naoya stifles a yawn, refocusing his eyes back on the man’s face. “Uh, yeah, I follow,” he lies. “Attendance requested. Needed for familial duties and all that. Lead the way, big guy.” 

The big man twitches, as if Naoya’s struck a nerve. “Arrogant as ever,” is all he growls, before he turns and stalks off. Naoya follows, sleepily rolling the stiffness out of his joints as they walk. Knowing the Zen’in clan, he may have an ass kicking awaiting him. And every little crack of his bones makes the big guy twitch, which is oddly satisfying.

The first person he spots is his father. The old man is sitting with two other old men, on a wooden platform overlooking what Naoya hesitantly places as a wide-open training hall for its empty wooden floors gouged with sword-marks. Old man number two is the most familiar, with dark eyes and long hair and a face like he just tasted a lemon ; Naoya hesitantly places him as the twins’ father. Old man number three has a mohawk and horrid smug face that fails to conjure even a spark of recognition in him. 

The floor is occupied by two younger men in the middle of an unarmed spar. Both have the dark green hair he’s come to associate with the clan, one with the same sort of spiky hair he’d imagine Megumi has (oh, fuck, that’s right, he’s related to Megumi, and Toji, who’s dead by now so not as important - the second guy hits the ground and Naoya refocuses) and a wrapped ponytail, and the other likely around Maki’s age with a deeply unfortunate bowl-cut. Ponytail is vaguely familiar, and bowlcut is so unfamiliar Naoya wants to assign him an offscreen death for how unrecognizable his face is. Maybe that’s mean, and he shouldn’t think about people like that.

“Stop slouching,” Naobito snaps at Naoya as a greeting, causing the two younger men to pause their tussle. Six pairs of eyes turn to him, and Naoya stares off at nothing and makes no attempt to fix his posture. It’s easier to avoid the attention if he doesn’t look at it, and he doesn’t react when Ponytail scoots into his line of sight to try and make eye contact. ”Naoya,” Naobito tries, voice even thicker with irritation.

“I hear you,” Naoya drawls lazily, tilting his head sideways and watching Ponytail imitate the movement. Cute. “Didn’t I say to stop yelling?”

“And stop talking like that,” his father grumbles. “You sound like an answering machine. You’re a Zen’in, carry yourself with some dignity.”

“As if he ever has before,” Forehead grumbles - but he sounds a little uneasy, now. Maybe Naoya unsettles him. Good.

Naoya smiles, snapping his fingers and pointing at Ponytail before him. “What’s your name?”

Ponytail blinks once, laughs nervously, and then stops laughing when he sees Naoya patiently staring at him. “R-right! You’re … not kidding. Hello!” He straightens all the way, then, like a soldier standing at attention. “Zen’in Ranta of the Hei! Forgive me - I didn’t realize you’d,” he falters as Naoya casually waves him off.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s probably weirder for you than it is for me. It’s only fair to introduce yourselves, yeah?” The atmosphere of the room grows even more uncomfortable as Naoya sits on the ground right where he is and pulls out his notebook, flicking through to add onto his list of people he knows. “You’ve all got the advantage here. Let’s level the playing ground a bit. We’re cousins or something, yeah?”

“Cousins!” Ranta affirms with a clap of his hands. The room falls silent save for the scratching of Naoya’s pen, and Ranta not-so-discreetly elbows Bowlcut beside him.

“... Nachi. Your … nephew.” Nachi may be even younger than Ranta, but it’s hard to tell with his hair over half his face. “My Cursed Technique allows me to redirect the trajectory of anything I throw once I imbue it with my cursed energy.”

“Nephew?” Naoya questions, eyes flicking up to stare through the teenager, biting the end of his pen thoughtfully. “I’ve got siblings?”

“Y-yes, Naoya-san!” Ranta answers. Naoya pretends not to see the questioning glance he and Nachi exchange as he returns to his note-taking. At least someone maybe-thinks that it’s a little late for introductions. The old guys are muttering quietly to each other - Naoya would eavesdrop, but he’s distracted by Forehead finally sitting beside him, cross-legged and entirely invading his space.

“... I will forgive your earlier disrespect,” the man growls at him, which Naoya is just starting to think is his default way of speaking, “as I did not realize you’d been left so … uneducated about your surroundings. I am your cousin as well. Jinichi. ” That might be an apology. Or a criticism? Jinichi continues talking. “The Hei are the elite soldiers of the Zen’in clan who possess exceptional cursed techniques. You were formally our head - which is what you’re here to discuss now.” He clears his throat, somewhat awkwardly. “Among other things.”

“Ogi-san wanted to see your technique for himself!” Ranta declares, dropping to his knees to join the two men sitting on the floor. “Naobito-san claims it’s changed entirely, and - well, I can believe it, looking at you.”

“What do you mean?” Naoya questions, pen finding its way back between his teeth. Jinichi twitches again.

“It’s like looking at an entirely different person!” Ranta declares, clapping his hands together again. Man, this kid’s got a lot of passion. “Your cursed energy is so unfamiliar I wouldn’t recognize you without seeing you, and - and you are talking a bit like an answering machine, Naoya-san. It’s very unlike you!”

Naoya considers this. It makes sense - as far as his memory of the world’s rules go, a person’s cursed energy is a part of them. Innate, unchanging. Maki was the only one he can remember ever changing drastically, and even that was losing her energy rather than warping it. It makes sense, but it’s interesting anyways, because physically his body is the same. Maybe he’s got an entirely different brain in his skull. Or maybe it’s a soul thing, the sort of metaphysical theorizing Mahito spat that went straight over his head when he first read it. He’d failed to consider how … tangible it would be to the sorcerers around him. It’s all he’s ever known, and sensing others’ energy is still sort of beyond him. He can’t quite wrap his head around it.

Ranta’s smile has become a little fixed, and Naoya belatedly realizes he’s lost focus again, staring through the young man instead of at him, unblinking. “Huh,” is his delayed response. “I don’t think I sound like … an answering machine.”

“It’s not bad,” Ranta hastens to assure him, maybe reading offense where there is none. “You sound very, um, proper.”

“You sound like you’re thinking before you speak,” Nachi adds flatly, in a tone that very much suggests this is a change. “Or reading from a script. It’s weird.”

“Naoya,” old man two calls, drawing the attention of the four sitting. The three around him immediately straighten at attention. Naoya slouches a bit more on principle. (Jinichi twitches again.) “We didn’t summon you to waste time with pleasantries. You can socialize on your own time - preferably when you actually care to take the initiative and make up for what you’re lacking.” He stands, hands limp at his sides, and Naoya idly notes that the old man doesn’t register him as a threat.

(“That’s Ogi,” Ranta whispers helpfully to him.)

Ogi glares at him as if he’s a cockroach daring to crawl on the floor. “My brother has long since claimed his children exceed mine, but as far as I’m concerned, the Hei cannot waste any more time coddling a disrespectful, ignorant brat. You were tolerated before because you were powerful - I’ll see for myself whether you’re worth keeping, as the temporary head of the Hei.”

There’s a lot unsaid there, as Naoya stares through the old man and the room grows tense and quiet once more. A lot he’s not saying aloud that Naoya easily picks apart. It’s a power grab and an attempt to undermine Naobito all at once, calling into question his claims and Naoya’s competence. If his technique’s use doesn’t outweigh his sudden ignorance, Ogi stands to inherit full leadership of whatever the Hei is. Naoya’s the heir, apparently - maybe the two go hand in hand? Maybe Ogi intends to make a grab for the title of clan head, if this gamble pays off.

Maybe he just wants to humiliate Naobito.

Naoya blinks at him slowly, and lazily tucks his pen behind his ear, snapping his notebook shut. “Freeze Frame,” he announces, stretching his fingers out, neatly telegraphing the movement. Predictably, every hand in the room reaches for the weapons on hand, or raises to counter with a technique of their own. Announcing your moves before going for them is childish and cheesy …

But aside from pushing everyone present to unintentionally announce their methods of attack? It feels really, really cool. “ Dodge this. ” The world shudders to a stop at a flick of his fingers, just as Ogi lunges off of the platform.

‘I should come up with a cooler name for it,’ he decides.

With the world locked in syrupy stillness, Naoya can leisurely rise to his feet, stretching out and assessing each person in the room. It’s a rush of power, of freedom. He could walk right out if he wanted, or take every blade in the room and run it through Ogi’s chest.

But he won’t do either of those, because Ranta seems sweet, and Nachi has to be around Maki and Mai’s age now that he can really look at the softness of his face. And if he killed Ogi, he’s certain everyone here would try to kill him in turn - and he comes to the easy realization that he doesn’t really want to murder anyone, ever, especially not a child. That decided, he assesses the room, his family, and decides how to make the right impression here.

Non-lethally. 

Immediately around him, Jinichi alone is the only one who succeeded in getting to his feet before Freeze Frame took hold, not quick enough to succeed in landing the punch he’s winding up. Ranta is half-frozen in a crouch and in the middle of turning his wide eyes to Naoya’s position, cursed energy trapped mid-surge in a thick unbreaking bubble around him. If he squints he can feel out how different it is from before. Active? Weird. ‘Eye contact, maybe,’ he muses, stepping neatly out of Ranta’s line of sight. Nachi and old-man-three didn’t even get as far as crouching, the former pulling a curiously shaped dagger from his sleeve and the latter lifting his hands as if to clap. A known and an unknown with two more techniques - old-man-three worries him more, as Nachi’s dagger is easy to pluck from his fingers. He’ll have to hope the unknown variable isn’t one that can adapt to the target suddenly displacing themselves through spacetime.

Ogi … Ogi. Quick reflexes, this one. He’s caught mid-swing, blade already drawn, feet off the ground. In another second, he’d have landed a hit. A hit that might have caught the younger two in its arc, Naoya thinks, eyeing the arc of his blade. Maybe not - it says a lot that he can’t be sure if his uncle considers his younger kin as acceptable collateral or not.

To Naoya, it’s unacceptable. Ogi’s blade joins Nachi’s dagger in his hands, and he goes as far as to find a thin knife hidden at the old man’s ankle and take that, too. ‘Dishonourable,’ he mentally mocks, like he doesn’t have his own tanto against his ribs and a technique that counts as cheating in the best of circumstances. ‘I think you’re the type of scum who’d shiv his daughter.’

He will not drive his stolen blades through an unarmed man’s ribs - but he feels a gut-deep, perverse satisfaction at dragging the dagger through that long sleek ponytail. It must have taken years to grow it out, and the cut Naoya leaves is messy and crooked, inches from the scalp. It’s petty, and cruel, and feels like something between a punishment and a threat. Feel how easily this could be your throat, it says. See what happens when you raise your blade to me.

‘You’re terrible’ he silently tells the still, silent room, noise caught in his throat. ‘Don’t you have a heart?’

He stands there for what feels like a long time, breathing deeply to stave off the dizziness, assessing his options. He … could crush every person here like a bug. He could fulfill the fate he seeks to spare Maki from and kill every person within these walls. He could strike down the Hei and take control. But he won’t, because he’s already decided not to, and thus his only other option remains.

Naobito had not moved when everyone else did. The old man sits, still and defenseless and smirking, gourd in one hand and the other calmly folded in his lap. Naoya looks at his father and feels the phantom ache of bruising fingers gripping his shoulders. He feels nothing but cold, hollow resentment pooling in his chest for this old man in this moment …

But to shape the future, he must remain practical. Naoya sits in Ogi’s former seat at his father’s side, imitating his neatly crossed legs. Every stolen weapon lays before Naobito’s feet as offering, his own remaining undrawn for the duration. A silent reminder of the implicit threat he poses … and a clear gesture of his loyalty and affection.

He taps the button, face turned already to offer his father a smile he doesn’t feel.

Ranta’s stare seems to catch Jinichi for the split second he’s expecting someone between them, the scarred man immediately locked into place by a different force. Old-man-three stops mid-gesture, smile unchanging from his wrinkled face - the first to notice Naoya, even as Ogi hurtles into the middle of the other three, balance lost from his sudden lack of a blade. He catches his footing with a scrape and thud, and he’s freezes as what’s left of his hair barely falls to his ears and the rest scatters over the floor. Nachi aborts the attempt to get to his feet, fingers scrabbling as they meet air where there was none.

For a moment, nobody moves, a stillness not enforced by Freeze Frame. Naoya counts the seconds ticking by.

Ranta’s the first to break the stillness, reaching out to steady Jinichi and breathing a frantic apology. Ogi’s hands lift to clutch the back of his exposed neck, the old man’s face going purplish in rage (and maybe a little terror - he hopes so). Naobito has eyes only for his son, and no scolding for his posture falls from his lips this time. His father lifts a hand, and Naoya does not flinch or tense as his hair is ruffled. Affectionately. Naobito looks at him with unabashed pride, and it makes him feel warm and nauseous all at once.

“So,” Naoya breaks the silence, turning his hollow grin to the assembled Hei. “Let’s finish those introductions, shall we?”

He leaves the leadership of the Hei to Ogi, all while smugly hammering in how generous he is to concede the role, and how he just doesn’t have the free time for such things anymore. The man’s face has gone colours he’s never seen before, and more than once Naoya catches his fingers twitching as if desiring to strangle him - Naoya, pointedly, does not return his weapons, relishing the glare seared into his back as he walks right past him to instead return Nachi’s dagger.

Nobody points out that he has nothing but time, or asks what he intends to do instead.

His father is left in an especially indulgent mood, repeatedly clapping Naoya on the back or resting a hand on his shoulder. He lingers at Naobito’s side even as the others excuse themselves to other duties. Old-man-three somehow still evades giving Naoya his name.

“You’ll need to work hard on your training,” his father tells him firmly. “Your technique is … easily special grade, Naoya. If those other clans wouldn’t stand in the way of your promotion …”

Naoya, sensing the opportunity he craves, pounces before Naobito can move on. “Let me work outside of the clan,” he requests, in a tone just shy of pleading. “I don’t want to become stagnant, and I’m sure keeping busy with sorcerer work would help me remember my training.”

His father’s expression falls, and Naoya is prepared to offer apologies and pleas, afraid of being shaken again - but Naobito speaks before he can react properly, sounding more thoughtful than angry. “I … often wondered if sending you to that school was truly any good for you. You were wasted on those low-born weaklings, and often made your displeasure known at needing to associate with lesser sorcerers. You truly have grown so much when I wasn’t looking.”

“I can see the benefit of it now,” Naoya lies easily, wondering if the old man has already forgotten his ‘amnesia’. It seems a non-factor in his eyes. “I can learn and improve my technique in the field more effectively than I could in training, and if I’m active out there, no one can deny the strength of my technique or my clan.” When his father doesn’t answer, he adds, “it would be tremendous to have a Zen’in acknowledged as a special grade, wouldn’t it?”

“Grown so much …” his father repeats. “Are you … truly my son?”

Naoya smiles, and lies as sweetly as honey. “Of course I am.”

It isn’t as easy as being given free reign of the world at large, and the shift in circumstances feels more like an uneasy temporary peace, ready to shatter at any moment. Naoya is to endure training atop the work he accepts, training that promises to be harsh to the degree of merciless. Not just physical training, either. If only he were so lucky - while his drastic change is chalked up easily to the head injury, the Hei are expected to school him ‘into shape’, correcting how he carries himself and failing to instill in him their ‘traditional’ ideas about women and social seclusion.

He perfects his posture, his sneers and impassive stares. He finds the ability to stare through someone instead of at them, watching their cursed energy pool and twist around their body and letting it drown out anything they have to say. The Zen’in clan learn to tread lightly around him when his eyes sit empty and distant, and push even harder for his attention when he exists in their present. They scold when he abuses his technique to escape them, but he is never punished - maybe because they aren’t confident he can be. 

(When will their unease fail? The other shoe hasn’t dropped yet, the tolerance of his changes holding steady for now but not forever. It will - if not from his family, then from the other clans, surely.)

The pressure is relentless all the same, even in the rare moments he finds himself actually enjoying another’s company. Ranta is earnest and bright and sometimes willing to let his elder cousin hide away for a nap in his room, easily accepting his increased need for rest and food beyond what a normal person demands. Jinichi can be blessedly quiet company when he’s not trying to fix what he perceives as some fatal flaw in Naoya’s brain. Ogi …

… well, he’s sure he’ll find something nice to say about Ogi one day. He’s a bit preoccupied with other fruitless wastes of his time, like trying to find Kenjaku or Geto without actually looking for them.

Naoya clumsily slots into the role of Zen’in heir, and opens his notebook every morning to drill a different ideal into his head.

For Maki. For Mai.

Chapter Text

It’s only been a month since Naoya Zen’in woke up, and at least a week since he lost count of how many missions he’s taken - and lied about taking - since then. The days blur together, his cursed technique stretching twelve hours of daylight into twenty, thirty, pushing forty before he finally collapses into a bed and sleeps off the dizzying ache. His technique doubles the energy spent within it right back onto him once dropped, or something - he learns to constantly replenish himself with sweets if he wants to stay conscious when stretching it to its limits. And he finds those limits, trial and error pushing him further and further. A month on the calendar, marked off in glittering gel pen, maybe doubled in the time he’s spent timeless, hours in a world all his own hidden between everyone else’s seconds. 

A month passes and he experiences the equivalent of two. 

He takes every excuse he can to get out and keep busy. He learns how to hack spirits apart in that syrupy-slow timeless world where momentum fails to aid him. He trains until he’s bruised, carrying injuries not from curses but from the merciless lessons at the hands of his kin. He drinks alone to celebrate the higher-ups refusing his promotion to special rank, discounting it as nepotism. (He doesn’t drink again - the headache isn’t worth it, nor is the uncomfortable resemblance to his old man.)

He tells himself that each curse he pursues is another opportunity to meet Geto Suguru, or even one of the unregistered special grades he knows exist out there. He scans the foreheads of curse users and passerby for stitch marks, and tells himself that it’s all for the goal of making everything better.

He doesn’t quite convince himself that he’s doing anything but running away from his family’s attention.

So he works. He takes every mission he can, and fails to turn up the brain or the cult leader or any meaningful headway into anything, really. The only thing of note he discovers is how long he can maintain his technique before his face starts bleeding, and he doesn’t aim to repeat that incident anytime soon.

He works, and it’s … lonely. He comes to the slow, steady realization that Naoya didn’t have friends, and was perhaps not especially well-liked by his family, and maybe didn’t even have hobbies beyond bigotry and being the strongest. Reading through his old text logs was nauseating and depressing in equal measure, and he doesn’t once regret wiping his chat history. 

Naoya isn’t that person anymore. Very literally.

Shoko’s the only contact in his phone he ever speaks to nowadays, and neither of them acknowledge when the other is up at some ungodly hour. Even those exchanges are brief, because even his self-inflicted overwork cannot hold a candle to the schedule of the jujutsu world’s only competent healer.

Whatever they’re paying her, it isn’t enough.

Today, there’s no mission awaiting him, even though he’s reported as such to his uncles as an excuse to avoid another gathering of the Hei. Today he’s dressed casually in stolen civilian clothes, his tools of the trade hidden away under a loose coat, time ticking along as intended as he joins the crowds of non-sorcerers on the busy streets, falling in step with harried businessmen and excitable teenagers. He feels worn out in ways he’s not sure the original ever would have been, and today he’s not a sorcerer - he’s just a tired young man doing business in the city.

Today’s task is nearly as daunting as the prospect of facing a curse, though. Maybe moreso, because Naoya cannot stab his way out of the challenge of setting up in an apartment.

It’s something he’s come to think of as a necessity, and not just a desperate escape from the Zen’in’s ever-watchful eye. It’s a necessity to have his own space, with his odd hours and increased demands for long stretches of uninterrupted sleep. The compound simply has too many people coming and going, people who don’t understand that Naoya’s door is closed for a reason.

Beyond that, he doesn’t fully trust his family. Scratch that, he doesn’t at all trust his family. Not with the precarious future he’s trying to shape. His notebook never leaves his side, but even then … if he can get his hands on that rope, or the prison realm, or any other tool that could help him, he’s not about to let it be locked up in the Zen’in vault. For now, his solution is an apartment. One nobody else needs to know about.

He can’t quite say why he chose Ikebukuro - it’s farther from home, he supposes, and just as bustling. Kahamecho Station is just close enough that he could endure public transport. And the building is … nice. He’s got very little frame of reference, but it seems nice enough. It sounds like he gets a nice window, and everything is so sleek and modern - a refreshing change of pace from the Zen’in compound.

(He’d considered looking for a place in Shibuya - but that’s just asking for trouble.)

Naoya is dressed normally and respectably, and he musters his best attempts at smiles and easygoing cheer to the woman who brings him into the office to fill out some paperwork. He’s certain she must be suspicious of him, with his shadowed eyes and cagey non-responses to personal questions. He can’t imagine what she thinks of him ; some … shady yakuza type, maybe, or something closer to the truth like a spoiled nepo baby - but he offsets it as best he can, employing what he’s fairly sure passes as good manners and smoothing the matter over further with his eagerness to pay a years’ rent up-front.

Money makes the world go round, and all that.

The apartment is spacious and clean, furnished only with the exceptionally ugly furniture the previous tenants left behind. Naoya loves it immediately and immensely for how shabby it appears in contrast to the empty beige walls, and vows not to be rid of it.

By sunset, the space is protected by seals on the walls and door, the furniture is arranged with no regard to the possibility of guests, and he’s got an empty fridge and two cabinets full of the sweets that fuel his technique. He’s truly the platonic ideal of a single man nearing his 30’s living alone. The rain now pounding on his new windows really sells the atmosphere. Now all he needs is a permanently joyless expression and back pain.

He can’t do anything about either of those right now, but he can do something about the hollowness of either his fridge, or his stomach. He pockets his keys (exciting!) and sets off to see which of the two comes first.

He doesn’t get further than the hallway, though - not even a door down from his own - before he draws himself to an abrupt halt. The only other person out here is a tired-eyed man in a dark suit, apparently losing a battle with his doorknob. Naoya stops, sweeping his eyes over his profile, the wet edges of his suit cuffs, the sunflower lapel badge, the rumpled windswept umbrella and rain-splattered briefcase leaning on the wall beside him.

Remembering belatedly that it’s probably off-putting for a stranger to stand and stare at you in your apartment building’s hallway, Naoya clears his throat and puts on a smile. “Anything I can help with?”

He doesn’t let his eyes linger too closely on his new … neighbour? He doesn’t dwell on the thought that the world really is so impossibly small, and yet big enough that he finds someone he wasn’t looking for instead of Geto or Kenjaku.

Higuruma, flustered from the situation, seems to take a moment to realize he’s being spoken to. “Ah, not at all, I can ask Shimamoto-san for a replacement key - oh, um,” his eyes flick up finally, realizing he’s addressing a stranger. “Sorry, do you … live here?”

“Just moved in!” Naoya holds up his keychain proudly before the attorney can get the wrong idea, eager to not spoil this first impression for all it may never amount to anything. “Do you ?” he lifts a brow, at least pretending this man is a stranger, playing at a suspicion he doesn’t feel. It would be even weirder to just accept that this stranger does live here without asking, right? Is he overthinking this?

Higuruma holds up the snapped remnants of his key, offering an awkward grin. “Aha, yes - I was hoping I’d be able to get it to turn, and sort this out inside, but it seems like that’s not in the cards for me. Just my luck.”

The sorcerer inspects him while pretending to peer at the key. Predictably, not an ounce of cursed energy flows through him. He’s an entirely average civilian. One who, if Naoya’s work is successful, will never be a sorcerer like he is.

Naoya chews his lower lip, then plasters the smile back on his face. “Lemme take a look. Maybe I can manage something.” Higuruma steps back obediently, and Naoya crouches in front of the lock. It’s not deadbolted, so he could probably wiggle it open … he doesn’t think before pulling Ogi’s thin hidden blade from an interior pocket, remembering a moment too late that most civilians don’t carry weapons on them. In a too-eager attempt to distract from that, while focused on the task at hand, Naoya asks, “do the crimes belong to the body or the mind?”

Higuruma is quiet for a moment, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I … pardon me? I don’t follow.”

“Your pin - you’re an attorney or something, right? I’ve … been reading a manga series that had me wondering. If a guy broke the law, and then an alien wiped his brain completely, would the new brain in the old body still be guilty?”

That, at least, prompts another awkward laugh from the man, who fidgets awkwardly with his cufflinks. “Well, it raises the discussion on how legal brain wiping may or may not be, but … in theory, he could very well be found guilty still. It depends on the prosecution.” At Naoya’s encouraging hum, he continues talking, seemingly relaxing further into the ‘hypothetical’. “Memory loss in of itself isn’t an airtight defense. I’m sure many drunk drivers don’t remember their accidents … ah, but I think the more important question is should they be found guilty?”

“Shouldn’t they?” Naoya questions, glancing briefly up at him.

“Would it be just? Would it be right? A complete loss of everything - if it encompasses memory and personality alike - means your man is not just missing the memories, but the motive, the rationale, and maybe even the ability to be considered mentally sound enough to stand trial. In that case, it may as well be a different person entirely being punished for his body’s actions. Ah, that was your question, wasn’t it? Hm …” he folds his arm and drums his fingers on his bicep. “Legally, yes. He could be found guilty. Morally, I don’t think it’s fair to equate it to drunk driving, or to not give the brain-wiping victim their own chance for justice.” His brows have knit together in thought, and Naoya briefly worries he’s somehow nudged the man’s cynical breakdown a little sooner up the timeline. “What good would come from punishment? What would be accomplished by removing that person from society, maybe even depriving them of the support they need?”

“Aha … I haven’t gotten very far in the series,” Naoya makes up on the spot. “Maybe there’s laws about that sort of thing, if it’s a thing that happens.” And before Higuruma can dwell further, Naoya jiggles his blade just right and pops the door open. “Here we go! Take care not to lock it again, I couldn’t get the key out - you’ll need a locksmith or whatever.”

Higuruma takes the handle, offering him a genuine smile as the door swings open. Naoya utilizes all of his self control not to peer inside. “Thank you. I … what would you do?”

“Hm?”

“If you were deciding. For the man in your story.”

Naoya stands back upright, rolling one shoulder and putting the blade away. “Well … punishing him wouldn’t make anything better for anyone, but would it not be unfair to let him clean off the hook? I think … it’s his duty to make things right, but it’s … you’re right, I think. That it’s not fair to him either. No matter what, it doesn’t feel like there’s a right answer.” He offers the attorney a thin smile. “I’m Naoya, by the way. Apartment 303. Zen’in Naoya - I have a big family, so I hope you don’t mind using my given name.”

Higuruma’s smile fits well in his tired face, clasping Naoya’s hand in a firm shake. “Higuruma Hiromi, defense attorney. 305. You’re … an interesting man, Naoya-san! It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Higuruma-san. Ah … I don’t take it you have any recommendations for places to eat nearby? Sorry, I think that’s what I meant to ask before I got you caught up in my … silly hypotheticals.” His grin is entirely, genuinely sheepish. “I haven’t gone shopping yet, and I … can’t really cook for myself anyways?”

He’s only a little embarrassed when Higuruma laughs. It feels more like it’s with him than at him.

The ramen restaurant is a bit small and unimpressive, sandwiched between a real estate agency and a drugstore. Naoya’s hungry enough by this point that he thinks Higuruma could have led him to a shady back alley food stall and given him food poisoning and he’d have still thanked the man. It’s a surprise enough to be accompanied, and the attorney insists that Naoya is the one doing him a favour while his door’s lock gets worked on. 

A favour he also insists on paying for. Needless to say, Naoya remains unconvinced.

But it’s nothing he’ll complain about. Higuruma comes across as very easygoing, if worn down, with a weary kindness behind every action. Naoya thinks, if he could find an excuse to introduce them, that he’d get on well with Shoko. No, he won’t complain at all about sharing a meal with this man he should have never met.

“- really only just finished settling in,” he’s explaining as they sit at the counter, gesturing vaguely as he speaks. “I haven’t even bought any furniture yet! It’s a work in progress, and I kind of expect I’ll have to figure it out as I go.”

“Is it your first time living alone?” Higuruma questions. Naoya flushes and stammers a little defensively, but the question seems earnest, devoid of judgement.

“Ah - that is, um - yes, yeah. I work with my family’s business, y’know, and my father wants me to inherit it one day, so I’ve always lived with him and my uncles and everything. It gets kind of … stifling, is all. I’m really looking forward to some time away from them. It’s been driving me crazy.” Naoya thoughtlessly adjusts his collar with a forced laugh, and Higuruma’s eyes zero in on him with a sudden intensity that catches him off guard.

“Naoya-san, you’re not … in any trouble , are you?”

“Eh?” Naoya blinks at him incredulously, and then once more tries to assess himself from an outsider’s perspective. His tired eyes and bruised knuckles, his vague family business - ah, he’s throwing up red flags like he’s in a bullpen. “No, not at all! Sorry, I didn’t realize how that sounded. I’m just the type of guy who doesn’t want to be around his annoying younger cousins all day.”

“Ahhh, that’s a relief!” Higuruma’s smile is weary and unconvincing. Shit, he totally thinks Naoya is some sort of delinquent or something. The sorcerer is growing more and more tempted to employ Freeze Frame for a hasty escape … but they’re neighbours now, and it’s too late to get a new apartment. He can’t just vanish when he’s so likely to run into the man again. He’s just gotta ride it out. At least until they get their food. Act normal. He’s so good at acting normal.

Thankfully, Higuruma doesn’t push the matter. 

“So, you like manga?” he asks instead. “I don’t often have the time for reading, so I can’t say what’s worth reading these days, but that story you were talking about sounded interesting.”

“It’s alright,” Naoya answers as casually as he can. “The main character’s a bit of an idiot. I get the sense he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. I … don’t have the time I used to, either, but it’s nice to have something to pick at on nights I can’t sleep. And my father’s really into anime.” That last part’s true, even. Naoya can easily grasp at least a half-hour of peace when he joins Naobito in whatever new thing he’s watching. Admittedly, he tends to nap through it all, but he’ll take the old man’s passion for animation over his rants about special grades and family pride anyday. “It’s alright. What do you do with your free time, Higuruma-san?”

Higuruma sighs wistfully, and accepts his bowl of noodles instead of responding.

“Whoof. That dire, is it?”

“I love my job,” Higuruma answers, like he’s trying to convince himself. “It’s not always easy, but it’s important, and it’s worth it. Especially when it’s not easy. I’m doing what nobody else is willing to do, because it needs to be done.”

Naoya hums in understanding, privately thinking that Higuruma thinks like a sorcerer long before becoming one. And that mindset eats sorcerers alive - apparently, it does the same to attorneys. “You can’t ignore all the ugly unpleasant bits like the average person can, right? Not when you gotta see it every day.”

“Yes! Yes, that’s - it’s just been a long day.” Despite his words, the light in Higuruma’s eyes stays there, bright and intense as Naoya offers easy understanding. “Even when it wears me down, I’m proud of it. It’s for something.”

How long until he can no longer convince himself of that? What will he do, if not for his sorcery awakening - what outlet will this honest, tired man turn to when he finally snaps?

Why do his affirmations sound so suspiciously like the ones in Naoya’s head at night?

“I get it,” Naoya affirms as kindly as he can. “Obviously my work is different, but … hey, hey. Just because it’s easier to take pride in shouldering that burden than it is to turn a blind eye, that doesn’t mean you’re the only person in the world who has to. If nothing else, you should at least … I dunno. Bitch to your friends about it.” He slurps his noodles, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. “Or else you might slam headfirst into a crisis of faith.”

Higuruma hums. “It’s never a burden. I’m doing my part to see justice brought to fruition - I can’t see that ever changing.”

“Sure,” Naoya agrees. Maki. Mai. Megumi. The Zen’in clan is a burden - the justice he will one day bring to his family weighs on him heavier than the world on Atlas’ shoulders. He says nothing of the sort out loud. “But we’re neighbours now, so whenever I’m around, you’re free to bitch.”

That makes Higuruma laugh again. “I think I’d much rather borrow your manga. Ah, do you like the food here?”

“Mhm. Hey, next time I’ll take you out! I gotta try all the places in the area. For science. And I’ll bring you something to read. What’s your go-to genres?”

“Will you laugh if I say mysteries? It’s been a while, but if I had to pick …”

The two stay and talk long after their noodles are cleared, and while it’s awkward to skirt around the curse-shaped elephants in the room, and they blunder into awkward lines of questioning and inelegant shifts in topic? It’s fun, all the same. Naoya isn’t sure he’s ever spent time with someone just for fun, not since waking up.

It’s fun. He can’t bring himself to regret talking to Higuruma-san, in the end … 

even as he eventually remembers his new apartment building is going to end up a battleground if he can’t prevent the Culling Game from starting. Just his luck.

Pain lances across his vision like a supernova, white-hot and bleeding crimson around the edges. Naoya chokes out a curse and staggers back, reflexively raising his hand to cover his face to protect from another blow. His body corrects on its own as he tries to clear his eyes from the stunning blow, shifting backwards and automatically deflecting the next swing.

Ogi is wielding a wooden staff instead of a blade, which is the closest thing to mercy that Naoya can force himself to be grateful for. If it had been a blade, he’d be more patchworked than Mahito at this point. The old man’s lessons are heavier with grudge than any actual learning. If he didn’t know better - and he’s not sure he does - he’d think his uncle was trying to beat his technique right back out of his battered skull. If it had been a blade, Naoya might end up dead in a ‘training accident'.

Old scars lacing his forearms and knuckles make him think once upon a time they worked their way up to a blade, but he doesn’t ask. 

“Pitiful,” Ogi sneers, and Naoya swings at the sound of his voice before his vision’s swum back to him, sparks dancing painfully in his eyes. His own staff meets nothing but air, but he can hear the older man’s soft footfalls as he circles around, and his next swipe connects with something with a sharp thwack!

Ogi grunts, and Naoya’s spotty vision does nothing to warn him of the next blow directly to his ankle. “My daughter could dodge this in her sleep.”

Naoya fakes a stumble then lunges forward, swinging an elbow at his uncle’s face. “Maybe she should be here beating your ass, then,” he spits, relishing as the blow connects and he follows it with a punch that meets nothing but air.

Ogi kicks his stomach hard enough to send him skidding backwards, and Naoya grits his teeth, trying to regain the air that was suddenly knocked out of him. “You’re useless without that technique of yours. If you intend to lead this clan one day, I suggest you adjust that attitude of yours and take this seriously.”

Naoya, still winded, responds with a middle finger.

He’s spared further beatings by the appearance of Zen’in Yuzuki, member of the Kukuru unit and bearer of the rarely-offered ‘tolerable family member’ title. Since their first brief meeting, Naoya’s learned Yuzuki was one of the few members of the Kukuru permitted to seek training in anything but combat - namely, an apprenticeship in healing. He’s little more than a glorified school nurse in the eyes of the clan, and undoubtedly resents how little regard is given to his hard work or studies. It’s like the Zen’in clan thinks doctors are only good for patching up their abused children and delivering their heirs. These days, Yuzuki seems to be treated more like Naoya’s personal assistant, which Naoya suspects may be because Yuzuki’s the only person he hasn’t desperately avoided with Freeze Frame. 

It stings, knowing the only reason Yuzuki is considered beneath him is bad luck . The bad luck of not inheriting the right technique, or any technique at all. Naoya sure as hell doesn’t beat him in expertise, or reflexes. Naoya isn’t above him in anything but height, but Yuzuki is a nobody in the eyes of everyone around them.

(It stung even worse when it took two weeks to learn Yuzuki is his brother. The distance between them feels like miles, the power imbalance blocking him from pushing to close the gap. They remain awkward and professional and Naoya tries to be okay with that. They remain awkward even as For Maki, for Mai extends to include for Yuzuki, for Megumi. )

And as a member of the Kukuru unit, Yuzuki’s entrance doesn’t even warrant acknowledgement from Ogi, who nearly knocks Naoya’s lights out again in his moment of distraction. “Focus.”

“Ah, Ogi-sama,” Yuzuki greets, bowing. Naoya doesn’t breathe until the old man relaxes his posture, turning to the plain-faced medic. “Naoya-sama’s presence has been requested urgently.”

That’s all Naoya needs to hear, tossing his staff to Ogi and picking up his weapons-laden duffel bag, absentmindedly rubbing his sore cheek. “Duty calls, old man. See ya.” He throws him a smug grin - and then loops an arm in Yuzuki’s and beats a hasty retreat before he can get something thrown at him. 

“Thanks for the rescue,” he tells Yuzuki once they’re clear.

“I - your presence has been requested, Naoya-saaa …” he falters, remembering Naoya’s earlier demands for a lack of honorifics. They’re brothers , right? He should have never had to call him that in the first place. Still, it must be rough remembering to treat Naoya respectfully only when people are looking - Yuzuki tries, all the same. It’s why he’s the favourite. “ Naoya . It’s … I thought you might want to see this one. Rather than letting Naobito-sama veto it outright, that is.”

“You’d have my interest either way, aniki ,” he confirms, holding a hand out. The details on Yuzuki’s phone are rather scant for a collaborative mission offered directly to a Zen’in clan member - something that in of itself is an abnormality, even with Naoya’s bizarre and indiscriminate mission picks. There’s not even a reward listed, and the curse seems to be located in a rural town far out of his usual range.

It seems suspicious because it is . The sorcerer requesting his ‘ assistance’ is Mei Mei.

“... yeah, I’ll take it,” he agrees, rolling his shoulder. “Tell her I’ll be there.”

“A-ah, Naoya, this is - Mei Mei isn’t the type to do anything she isn’t paid for,” Yuzuki warns, even as he taps in a confirmation. “She has a reputation. And this is on such short notice. She’s very likely going to try to take advantage of your … condition .”

“I’m counting on it,” he confirms. “If she’s inviting me , she can benefit in some way from my acquaintance, or my technique, right? Which means she could very well know ways I could be benefitting that I’m not!” He claps Yuzuki on the back with a too-sharp grin, downright beaming at the plain man’s answering glare. All manners, Yuzuki is, while barely hiding the fact he thinks Naoya is a bit of a reckless idiot.

Good man. Doesn’t question if Naoya has any ulterior motives here. How could he? He’s got amnesia. Favourite family member.

Naoya delays only long enough to change clothes and bid Yuzuki goodbye, and then he’s out the door, popping open a bag of sweets to entertain him while on the road to the train station.

He’ll see what she wants, of course. Maybe an offer, maybe attempted blackmail. Not that it matters to him, not when he’s willing to pay her very handsomely for what he needs and more for her silence. (Maybe he’s taking his own advice to Higuruma after all. Maybe he just wants to bitch.) Naoya doesn’t know what she has that she thinks he wants, but she’s right in that he wants something from her.

It’s a wonder he didn’t think about it before. He doesn’t need to be the one to find Suguru Geto at all, does he? 

Chapter Text

His first words to Mei Mei are “I think you’re the kind of person who doesn’t deserve to be outside.”

They meet on the train itself, Naoya flopping casually opposite her and slinging his legs up over the seat beside his own to block anyone else trying to sit beside him. Despite his words, a wide easy grin has found its way on his face, and he looks utterly at ease as he leans back against the wall. The ride out will be at least two hours, and at least two back. They’ve got plenty of time to talk, and a freeze-framed sweep of the train confirms there’s no one and nothing to overhear them.

“Interesting proposal,” she drawls in response, glancing up over the absurd pair of diamond-studded round shades she’s donned. The braid in front of her face kind of ruins the effect, but he doesn’t tell her that, because no sorcerer is immune to looking at least a bit like they're closet-cosplaying a B-tier villain. At least she owns it. “I’ve been informed by very reliable sources that you’ve lost all your memory, Zen’in. Tell me, does that assessment come from a root of misinformation from someone else, or your own blatant disregard for women?”

Naoya considers it, chewing on another cookie from his quickly depleting bag. “Instinctive gut feeling. Like how birds know to fly south for the winter. You should be in a cave somewhere.”

A smile quirks her lips, and he grins right back. “Oh, my. I think you’re lying to me , Zen’in. I think you know exactly who I am - but where does that dishonesty lie? With your sources, or the bizarre amnesia you’ve so suddenly attained? Should I claim the Zen’in clan are trying to stifle my business dealings in secret?”

“No one’s gonna believe you if you claim something absurd like, say, a case of interdimensional body-swapping,” he tells her entirely earnestly. “Dunno how you’d go about proving something like that anyways.” He snaps the final cookie between his teeth, relishing the way he’s clearly caught her off guard with his frank admission. “Does it matter? I’ve got money, and we both have things we need.”

Hook,

Mei Mei recovers quickly, leaning forward with that smug smile on her face widening. “My, my, my. You … you aren’t Zen’in Naoya at all. You look identical, but … your energy is foul, you know. I don’t know how you’re convincing anybody like that.”

“I am Zen’in Naoya,” he answers with a shrug. “It’s just a new development. How much are your non-disclosure agreements?” 

… line,

“You’d pay me to keep secret a matter you disclosed to me for free?” Mei Mei’s smile is growing even wider, her long manicured nails tapping the axe in her lap. How did she get that past security anyways … ?

Naoya knows he’s got her. He knows damn well she can’t repeat that little tidbit to anyone, because what she’s so easily accepted as truth is a frank impossibility as far as any historical record can tell. And, more importantly, because the horrible witch is a shrewd businesswoman, and he may have just made himself into her most interesting client.

“I’d pay you to keep a lot more than that. I give you spoilers, and you can act on them without telling anyone.”

“Spoilers …?”

“For the things that haven’t happened yet.” 

… and sinker .

If nothing else, working out the specifics of their Binding Vow is good practice for future dealings with Kenjaku and Mahito. The details are as followed, noted down neatly in his notebook once all is said and done:

‘ Mei Mei cannot tell another soul, human or curse, the information Zen’in Naoya relays to her, without explicit permission. This restriction applies to all of Naoya’s foreknowledge and current knowledge, as well as any present information Naoya collects for her. Mei Mei can act as she pleases on this knowledge, but cannot use it to intentionally betray or harm Naoya.

‘Zen’in Naoya cannot outright lie to Mei Mei about any of the above information, though he is welcome and able to withhold information. Likewise, Naoya cannot tell another soul, human or curse, the information Mei Mei relays to him, without explicit permission - nor the sources of that information. Naoya can act as he pleases on this knowledge, but cannot use it to intentionally betray or harm Mei Mei.

‘Should either participant of the vow die in the line of duty, the obligation for secret-keeping is encouraged but not enforced, as the vow will break. Should it be deemed a matter of life or death, information may be divulged to keep either participant or third parties from death. ’

He reads over it all again, finds no further flaws or loopholes, and tucks his precious notebook back against his chest. Mei Mei doesn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t intending to snoop, but she’d have a hell of a time getting her claws on it without him noticing.

“So! In … three months, give or take a bit,” he begins, lifting three fingers, “Geto Suguru is going to die.”

“By your hand?” she questions. “Your father has been claiming your technique is worthy of the Special Grade, I’ve heard.”

Naoya grimaces. “Don’t remind me. It’s … no, not by my hand. That’s going to happen, and I’m not gonna interfere. Neither are you! It needs to, or everything else kinda goes out the window. Got it?” She nods, and he continues. “I think I need to meet him before then, though. Or, rather … I need something that one of his followers has. A rope?”

“A rope,” she repeats. “Incredibly specific, dear. So very much to go off of.”

“If you can find Geto, I can deal with the rest,” he assures, mostly confident that it’s true. “But it’s … the rope’s important.”

Mei Mei keeps her own notes, it turns out, and the click-clacking of her nails on her phone screen is almost pleasant. He’s sure just from their short exchange that hers are probably more secure than his - she seems like the sort of creep to encode them automatically, and knowing her, her phone probably somehow charges the holder’s money if anyone but her tries to open it.

“My rates are hourly,” she tells him, “but if you give me enough intel to make it worth my while, I might be inclined to give you a discount. Luckily for you, I already know what Geto looks like. To think my cute little kouhai went so far off the deep end …” 

“Oh!” Naoya claps his hands together, flipping his notebook to a blank page. “There’s more, too - since you’re going to be looking around anyways, I mean. And since you charge hourly instead of by-person.”

“Extra fees may be applied,” she answers noncommittally. 

Naoya bites his tongue as he applies his artistic talents to depictions of his extra targets. He tears the page free once he’s done, holding it up.

“Sentient - er, sapient? Both? Sentient, unregistered special grade curses,” he announces. “If you see them, call me. I’ll be there before you can hang up.”

Mei Mei pulls her glasses down again, squinting at his elegant renditions of the special grades in a manner that reminds Naoya of a parent parsing a meme on your phone.

“I’m charging you extra,” she decides, “if I actually locate any. Consider it a finder’s fee.”

“Don’t engage,” he tells her, adjusting in his seat to lay completely back. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that -“ 

“I’m in no rush to die.” 

“Weird choice of career for that mindset. Anyways, I really mean it. Patchwork especially - don’t dispatch any sorcerers to its location and don’t engage it.” 

“And you?” Mei Mei questions, folding the paper up to put away alongside her belongings. He hums questioningly, closing his eyes, and he hears her likewise lean back. “Special grade, I mean. You didn’t say if it was warranted or not.” 

“I didn’t,” he agrees noncommittally. “Wake me when we get there.” 

The town is nearly a ghost town, with aged sagging buildings overgrown with the greedy vines reaching out from the encroaching forest and rusted, long-dead cars lining the streets like metal carcasses. Mei Mei’s shiny black shoes click rhythmically on the street as the two sorcerers follow the asphalt to their destination. 

“People live here?” Naoya questions, already cringing at the way his collar sticks to his neck. The hike here wasn’t pleasant, and he’s rapidly giving up any hope he may have possessed for a future where his clothes and hair aren’t drenched in sweat. He’s already shrugged off his coat, hanging the heavy thing over one arm, the many weapons lining its interior jingling quietly in the still air. It’s uncharacteristically hot even for early September, and he idly thinks Mei Mei is some inhuman capitalist curse for not letting it slow her down at all. The air is getting warmer and warmer as they walk, and nobody surfaces to greet them or utter ominous warnings or - whatever happens in forgotten small towns. There isn’t even a flicker of life, despite the deep, uncomfortable, nagging feeling he’s being watched.

“People lived here,” she confirms, eyes fixed ahead instead of on any of the circling black birds overhead. “As of three days ago, at least. The second grade sorcerer sent in to investigate never returned, despite the spirit being assessed as a third-grade minor deity.”

“You think it’s mis-classified? That’s happened before, right?” He pauses. “On accident and otherwise.” 

She hums idly. “These things happen. Do you remember Haibara-san?” 

Naoya considers the name, squinting. “Nanami’s classmate? He died as a student? I never met him, technically.” 

“Oh, you did. You were rather merciless, I recall. You liked to make him cry.”

He swallows back a pit of guilt lodged in his chest. “… back on topic,” he mutters after a few moments of processing that he used to bully the boy who died as a teenager, another dead child. “You think we’re looking at something more dangerous.” 

“Or an entirely unexpected coincidence,” she confirms. “Dangerous enough that I invited a potential special-grade as my backup.”

“I kind of thought you wanted an excuse to talk,” he admits, brushing his wet hair out of his face. They turn another corner, and before them lays their destination : a decrepit shrine shimmering like a heat mirage, surrounded by dried yellow vines and trees long stripped of their leaves. The air is near-scorching, thick with bubbling curse miasma that leaves the back of his throat feeling sour. A gentle breeze sways the surrounding forest, but the shrine and its vines remain so still he double-checks to ensure he didn’t pause it somehow.

“Here’s another piece I haven’t told you, then,” she discloses, shrugging the axe off of her shoulder and holding it ready at her side. “This mission was assigned to a student. We’re here to find out why she didn’t come back. A … personal favour for Iori Utahime, if there’s a body to recover.” She lifts two fingers. “ Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure. ”

“More dead children,” Naoya sighs, shrugging his jacket back onto his shoulders for easier access to the blades lining its interior. They’re all identical, faintly charged with his cursed energy but lacking any unique abilities. Simply-shaped steel blades each engraved with BAD OMEN, wooden handles wrapped in coloured strips of fabric. He draws two, held gingerly between his fingers, as Mei Mei’s curtain descends over the shrine and its surroundings. “All this world ever seems to make is more grief, and more dead children.”

On that optimistic note, Mei Mei takes point and leads the way in.

The interior of the ancient shrine is a haze of dry, swimming heat. The ancient red paint is peeling before their eyes, littering the floor like shed autumn leaves and crackling under their feet. Naoya has to breathe quickly through his mouth as to not scorch his throat, and overlaying it all is the cloying rot of the foulest cursed energy Naoya’s ever encountered.

It’s the residuals, shimmering like the mirage he thought this place to be, that he notices first. Winding lazily along the interior, imprinted into the ground like ashen footprints, unlike that of any curse he’s ever seen. Human footprints swirled in a dizzying waltz - footprints he’d assume belonged to their missing student, if not for how vile their energy feels, and if not for the smaller phantom footprints Mei Mei is following, which vanish right in the middle of the room.

Naoya hangs back, eyes caught in the dizzying array of cursed energy, as his accomplice marches into the room, axe at the ready.

“It’s empty,” he mumbles, eyes sliding back to the spot where the footprints just … vanish. There’s nothing there, no traces of heavier energy or spots of spilled blood. Mei Mei stands expectantly in the middle of the shrine’s single-room interior, and it offers no answers.

Hesitantly, Naoya picks his way along the other set of footprints, swirling around the room in search of clues. Nothing, nothing at all, even as the hot floorboards creak underneath his movements and the air seems to dance with him. “I don’t get it.” 

His mimicked dance brings him to a stop at her side, and they assess each other in tense silence.

“There’s nothing here,” she confirms. “It’s empty.” 

“It’s … empty?” Naoya looks down at the dark gaps between the floorboards. They creak as if in response.

It’s only because he’s looking that he sees the way the floorboards seem to warp beneath them at his approach. Naoya yelps in wordless warning, taking a staggered step back as the floor suddenly caves in. Two steps, three, he has to back up all the way to the door to avoid dropping into the yawning pit beneath the shrine. There’s nothing he can do for Mei Mei, standing over where that missing student stood. She’s plunged directly into the darkness before he can lunge after her, and there isn’t even a cry or a thud to tell him if she’s hit the bottom or if she’s even alive down there.

But she has to be, because Mei Mei didn’t die before canon starts. She has to be, unless this is Naoya’s fault - and a voice that sounds like a teenage boy Naoya has never met keeps whispering to him that everyone deserves a good death, a death with dignity.

“I’m not carrying your resolve for you forever, Itadori,” he tells the empty air. “Just this once. I don't want it. I have enough to carry.” 

Naoya lingers at the edge of the pit, sweltering heat threatening to slowly rob him of his strength and resolve. Before he can talk himself out of (or into ) making a stupid decision, he pulls out his phone to type a hasty message. If he’s going to die a stupid sorcerer-death, he may as well set matters straight first.

naoya [3:37 pm] 
for the record, i think mei mei deserves to stay in the hole.
but i’m going after her anyways so who’s the real loser here

shoko [3:38 pm]
what?

He leaves behind his notebook, just in case, letting it sit innocuously on the pavement outside, full of half-decipherable omens of a future he prays will never come. If he can’t come back for it, someone else will have to finish what he started. On impulse, he leaves one of his knives atop it, like a morbid paperweight. BAD OMEN glints in warning under the sunlight back up at him, and he takes one more moment to hope that pertains to the journal’s contents and not what he’s about to do.

And then he takes a running start and jumps.

Falling with Freeze Frame active is the single most disorienting, nauseating experience of his life. If asked, he’d prefer the concussion. The air’s heavy resistance feels like it slows him down, to such an extreme degree that he thinks he might be able to plant his feet on empty air and feel it solid beneath him. At the same time, the resistance isn’t enough to keep him from plummeting - he’s falling so quickly that the breath is ripped from his lungs, and so slowly that it feels like sinking.

All of that resistance does nothing to lessen the impact of colliding feet-first with the ground. The pain radiates up his ankles, and he hisses in pain and drops his technique just to catch his breath. The heat isn’t any better down here, clinging to his airways.

“Mei,” he whispers, trying to peer through the darkness and find her light hair. There’s no answer, no flicker of movement, only the faintest impressions of his surroundings illuminated by the faintest light filtering in from the hole above. The stone walls are slick with moisture and partially overgrown with more of those twisting yellowed vines. He feels one, fingers clumsily managing to graze the thorns hidden underneath. Using them to climb back up - assuming they’re normal and don’t dissipate whenever he exorcises whatever lies in wait down here - that won’t be viable. Unless he wants to shred his hands. Grimacing and sticking the pricked finger in his mouth, Naoya assesses there’s no way to go but deeper in. The pit seems to slope down into a tunnel, and beyond that, darkness.

His head jerks back up as the floorboards slowly groan back into place above him. Fumbling to turn on his phone’s flashlight, he takes another deep breath and presses onwards.

The vines grow thicker and thicker the deeper he goes, tangling across the floor in such a snarled mass that before long there’s no free space to stand upon. He regrets not wearing sturdier boots as he crunches his way through the ugly mottled greenery, thorns and jagged broken roots finding every soft vulnerable spot to stab into as he forces through them. He doesn’t see any sign of Mei Mei making her way through, but there’s nowhere else she could have gone. Gradually, the vines get stranger, more gnarled and harder to look at - or, maybe harder to comprehend. Like looking at an AI’s attempt at greenery, an image that couldn’t quite differentiate every vine, or keep track of where it began or ended. They seem to blend into each other and twist nonsensically in impossible loops, the ugly yellow giving way to painful shades of orange and grey and blue. Flowers begin to poke out through the mass, bloated and rumbled like the rotting corpse flowers that attract flies, smeared slate-grey petals dripping and blurring like smudged paint. Their centers hold no pollen, only irregular gaping holes and half-formed pseudo-faces. The heat remains, and the cloying too-sweet cursed energy is so thick in the air he can taste it. Impossibly, there seems to be some sort of rattling breeze down here, one he can hear but not feel, irregular and groaning through the plant life around him.

He feels like he’s been walking for ten minutes, maybe more. “Third grade my ass,” he hisses, ducking under the malformed mass of fleshy petals blocking his passage forward. Finally, he’s exited the tunnel, and he sweeps his flashlight up to take in what awaits him.

He very immediately regrets his decision to leave the tunnel, and whatever decisions led him here in the first place. He may go as far as to regret having eyes.

The cavern carved beneath the shrine may have once been some sort of manmade structure, with how his eyes can just barely pick out smooth squared edges on a far wall. It’s impossibly large and out-of-place after the derelict shrine and cramped tunnel, like someone displaced a warehouse twenty feet underground. An incomplete domain … ? It’s hard to make out the space itself, because so much of it is occupied. It’s almost cramped with overgrowth, vines twisting in and out of malformed body-shapes, disjointed limbs and torsos jutting in and out of mangled greenery, all in a horrible array of impossible colours. Flowers as wide as a train car hang wilting from every surface, petals drooping and leaking something repulsive from their misshapen cores or laying limply over the uneven ground. Thorns jut up irregularly, some as tall as he is, ugly and crimson. And the breathing, fucking hell on earth the breathing. Deep rattling exhales shake the flowers at sudden irregular intervals - everything will be still, and then before his eyes, barely illuminated by his meager light, one of those malformed faces will open a mouth and breathe in desperately with an awful rasping noise. 

His own breaths feel just as laboured, locked in this rotting heat. He scans the area the second time with intent, searching desperately for dark fabric or pale hair. He finds his first target on accident - not Mei Mei, but just as out of place in Hell’s greenhouse. She’s impaled on one of the thorns stabbing clean through her upper arm, exposed bone shimmering in the light of his phone, body limp and sprawled out lifelessly over the cursed plant matter beneath her. She’s still in her school uniform, sans jacket, blood vibrant against her white shirt. Her dark hair fans around her like a halo. It looks like the damaged arm had been crushed between the vines - if he looks closely enough, he can make out malformed green fingers gripping her flesh.

Naoya swallows hard against his sudden nausea, body tense and senses alert as he crosses the uneven ground to reach her. It’s a relief and a shock of horror to confirm her fragile pulse against his fingers, the shallow breaths she fights to take. She’s maybe a third-year - seventeen at best, as tall as he is but feeling so tiny and frail under his hands.

He stays by her side as he once more searches for Mei Mei. Straining in the silence, he hears her, finally - a dull groan from deeper within the garden.

“Naoya?” she wheezes, and the curse responds before he can. Naoya has to throw himself into movement to keep the vines from tearing the unconscious student in half as the whole room suddenly shifts, the floral abomination shuddering into life. Its voice is as horrible as those breaths, wet and scratchy.

“The windowww …. Opennn …. The wiiiinnnndow ….” it moans, a cacophony of noise above him as grasping hands and vines seek to dig into his skin. Naoya chokes as he’s nearly immediately entwined, barely making out a sharp cry from Mei Mei.

Freeze Frame is not a mercy. The twisted reach of the curse remains locked on his flesh, and each inhale becomes torturous as the world stops at his command. Naoya fights for an inhale that isn’t enough, cutting himself free in jerky movements that shake more and more as his head starts swimming with the telltale warning of poor air. He barely registers when his short blade cuts his own flesh in his desperate, half-blind haste to free himself.

Even as he turns his phone, the light doesn’t move with it. He is half-blind and choking and, not that he’ll admit it to anyone, he is terrified.

The girl is his first priority, before air or light. He tugs a shoelace free with unsteady hands and binds her forearm as tightly as he can, right where it connects to the shoulder. The freeze has caught her in the grisly moment the curse’s hold pulls hard enough to tear through her mangled flesh, strips of sinew and muscle stretching as her arm is ripped free of her body. It may be too late to prevent blood loss, too late to save her -

But can you live with yourself if you don’t try? asks the voice that sounds like Itadori in his brain. He doesn’t need to answer.

He can’t force himself further than that. He needs air, he needs the momentum to tear himself free from this mass of vile greed and he needs to breathe. With one shaky hand gesture, time resumes in the moment he pulls himself upright, vines and malformed limbs crumbling to pieces around him. It freezes again with his feet on solid ground, and he lowers himself to wrap an arm around the student’s middle just as her arm disconnects with a wet pop! that echoes in his ears.

He doesn't need to buy himself hours, he tells himself. Just seconds. He only needs seconds. One, two, or seven - it doesn’t matter. He only needs to stop long enough to breathe.

It’s a slow, heavy crawl forward, one without light to guide them with his hands full. The trek forward is agonizing and methodical all at once, a limp head against his neck, a weight on his shoulder that makes his muscles scream. He has to tap his command into her side with his free hand holding their sole weapon. Pause, cut through. Play, move, breathe, pause. He doesn’t let himself pause long enough to consider what he’ll do when he reaches Mei Mei - what he’ll do if he needs to drag her out of here, too. He doesn’t pause to think at all. He focuses on the next step, the next desperate breath. 

Naoya could weep when he staggers his way to Mei Mei’s side, to find her on her feet carving a channel through the dense grasping vines. How fucked up is his life that he’s happy to see someone like Mei Mei? She’s an ugly sight, dress hanging in tatters around her arms and neck, visibly bearing the wounds of the smaller vines that had wound their way around her neck, her wrists. He eyes the mass of writhing filth encircling them and realizes, horribly, that it likely would have broken her neck if she didn’t wake up.

“She’s alive,” he gasps, already moving to dice through a tendril as thick as his arm.

Mei Mei spits, cleaving through another mass with that heavy axe he finds himself abruptly and deeply grateful for. “If … if you can,” her voice is bruised and raspy, “set her down … can we manage a stand?”

He heaves another shuddering breath, affirming her proposal by setting the girl down gingerly at the clear ground by their feet. “Nowhere else to go.” Another gasp. “Too hot to breathe.”

“Then don’t breathe. Just move.” Another swing of the axe, an adjusted stance to stand over the girl’s body. She shifts to offense, and Naoya has the time to gulp another breath before he’s pushed on defense.

Where’s the main part of the body? Where’s the head to carve through? He freezes the world and tries to count the flower heads in the dark. One, two, seven? Most are suspended above his reach. Unpause. Breathe - pull yourself up before you’re crushed and breathe. Pause. He finds the first within reach, brandishing his blade in the frozen world, counting seconds with slices. 

One, two, three, four, each slice cleaving easily through light spongy flesh. 

Unpause. Move. Breathe.  

Naoya pushes himself forward on burning lungs and searing fury. His earlier hesitation has dissipated as he grasps thorn-laden vines and pulls himself upward breathlessly, blood pouring freely from his palms. He doesn’t feel any of it. 

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. 

Two flowers, then three, then four. 

Twenty-five, twenty-six. 

The world resumes spinning when he pushes off a vine to jump, freezes again at his command as he impacts, driving his jarred momentum to cut through mangled flowers, splattering himself with searing-hot purple blood. The burn is nothing next to his lungs. 

Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two.

The eighth flower falls to pieces under his furious hacking, and when the world resumes, his feet find themselves not on gnarled vines but on hastily-dissolving soft paint. A bloodied hand reaches out for purchase and pulls something free with a disgusting wet noise. Naoya draws in a ragged breath, half-falling and half-scrambling down to the sludgy wet ground below, barely keeping on his feet as the curse dissolves around him. The only thing he can hear is his heartbeat rushing in his ears. With one final loud, rattling wail, the garden dissolves, and the world seems to crumble around them. The last thing he sees is Mei Mei trying to pull the girl upright, and then he sees nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Naoya wakes up cold and drenched, ears ringing.

The first thing he’s aware of is how horribly, uncomfortably soaked he is. His front is splattered thoroughly in blood and sweat, drying sticky-cool against his skin, plastering his tattered clothes to his body. His back is lying on chilled concrete in several inches of what he hopes is water. Above him is nothing but empty concrete, and a set of stairs he can barely make out in the dark … room?

He blinks once, twice. His body hurts, the air is stale but breathable, and his hands are aching with how fiercely they’re curled into fists. The ringing persists, and he slowly realizes that it’s not in his ears at all.

Pushing himself upright with a low groan, Naoya’s eyes scan the bottom of the cistern they’re laying in. Gone is the tunnel they used to arrive here, and any trace of the plant curse that called it home. Mei Mei’s sprawled at an uncomfortable angle to his side, nose barely above the water’s surface, axe still clenched in one hand. The girl is tugged up over her stomach, unnaturally pale in the dim light, remaining arm curled around her would-be saviour. He watches in terror for a long moment - but both seem to be breathing.

Mei Mei’s phone is ringing.

Naoya slowly uncurls, body protesting either his prior mad scramble or his decision to sleep on the concrete ground. The blood has crusted his hand in place as he drops the knife it’s holding and instead roots through his fellow sorcerer’s pockets. As soon as he hits the answer button, a desperate wailing fills the air, echoing through the cistern and making his ears actually ring.

“-Mei! Please tell me you’re okay - did you find Isako? Is she …” a pause, a horrible little sob. The caller sounds like she’s been crying hysterically, and Naoya can’t quite place her voice - he rests one hand against the student (Isako)’s back to feel her shallow breaths. “Mei?”

“She’s … alright,” Naoya answers, voice catching and rattling on its way out of his throat. It’s worse than retching felt, like his throat was scorched from the inside. Maybe it was - he thinks he can feel blisters on the inside of his mouth with his teeth. “The girl and … Mei Mei. Um. We’re gonna … we’re gonna need Shoko.”

The caller gasps, and Naoya hears something clatter. “She’s okay! She’s - Isako’s alive? You recovered her?”

Naoya hacks out a ragged cough, grimacing as something solid comes up. “Okay is … a strong word. Alive. Arm’s … gone.” He glances around, fumbling in the dark. “Ah - I have it … here.” Maybe Shoko can reattach it.

Mei Mei’s expression has become more and more pinched, and it takes him a moment to realize she’s staring at him when he turns back from locating Isako’s arm mangled arm, half-registering that he’s made the woman on the other end of the phone cry even more hysterically.

“Naoya,” Mei Mei wheezes, “you … aren’t allowed t-to make Utahime c-cry anymore.” She reaches out without sitting up, prying the phone from his bloodied hand. “Hime, hey, we … we got her. Gonna … get her to Tokyo. No, it … semi-first at l-least.”

Naoya stretches his fingers as he slowly pulls himself to his feet, half-listening to Mei Mei try to convey the mission’s details to the girl’s teacher in between haggard gasps. His phone wasn’t as lucky to survive the cistern’s water, and he puts it away thoughtlessly before picking up Isako’s missing piece. Maybe Shoko can … well, it looks rough. Maybe she’ll want to keep it?

The ache in his palm lingers, and finally, Naoya remembers to uncurl his second hand and release the piece of the curse he tore free.

… yeah. He’s really, really certain this didn’t happen in the first timeline.

If asked later, even under pain of death, Naoya couldn’t tell the full story of how they got back to the city. He remembers brief flickers - carrying Mei’s axe and Isako’s arm as Mei Mei carries the rest of the girl up the stairs. Tracing his own cursed energy back to his abandoned knife and journal pointing the way out on instinct, not pausing to worry about the way the cursed blade seems to have been moved where it sits atop the notebook. Mei flashing some sort of ID to the guards at the bullet train as they climb aboard, wrapping the unconscious student in his half-shredded coat to try to keep her warm. 

(The cold creeping sensation of being watched finally dissipating when the train speeds away from that ghost town.)

Sitting beside Mei Mei, turning Sukuna’s finger over in his hand. “How could someone swallow something like this?” he asks her. She doesn’t seem to hear him. Her face is a mess, an ugly gash cutting up the side of her jaw. This didn’t happen before - that looks like it’ll scar.

“I think,” she says at last, ignoring his question, “we were … breathing poison down there. I c-can’t … my throat burns.”

“Ah,” says Naoya, who is so used to the struggle to drag oxygen from the frozen world and the way it burns his lungs that he didn’t notice anything beyond the heat. “Is she …”

“She’ll live.”

“And you … ?”

Mei Mei doesn’t even try to smile. “I’ll live.”

“Shame,” he answers without meaning it, turning back to his staring contest with Sukuna’s finger. The energy the thing gives off is toxic. It burns worse than his throat does.

They must break a speed limit or five when they haul Isako off the train and into a waiting black car. Naoya sits in the back with her head in his lap, watching Ijichi Kiyotaka’s pale face in the reflection, watching as Mei Mei sags against the window and drifts off. The finger feels like it’s eating a hole through his hand.

He stares at that, too, and then - on some sort of floaty impulse - he presses as much of his own cursed energy as he can into the blood smearing the accursed thing. It doesn’t leech into the finger, but it makes the aura less cloying, less oppressive, muffles it in his own. Mei Mei jerks but doesn’t wake. Ijichi goes a few shades paler and swerves another hard turn. Nobody says anything.

He’s mostly back to himself mentally when it’s his turn to pick Isako up this time, bridal-style carrying her limp form up the steps to Tokyo Jujutsu High. Ijichi is half-supporting Mei Mei, and Naoya’s pretty sure it’s his blood and not either of the girls’ he leaves in messy smears over the clean floors as the assistant leads them all to the clinic. It has to be well past midnight, but Shoko’s as awake as ever, and as soon as Isako’s set down in one bed and Mei Mei’s collapsed into the other, Naoya is shooed off.

He thinks Shoko intends for him to follow Mei Mei’s example, but the adrenaline’s exhaustion has worked its way right back out of him, and he’s left buzzing with anxious energy and unable to ignore the searing pain. He takes quick stock of his injuries - shredded hands from climbing those thorny vines, a few holes punctured clean through his fingers. Wrists in marginally better condition, and already crusting over. A deep gash in his thigh where he caught himself with his knife, still oozing blood down his leg. Bloodied ankles above the edges of his boots, countless little scratches dotting where his clothes were punctured. Coppery taste in the back of his throat. Mind alert, breaths painful but strong. He’s feeling the chill of what must be blood loss, but he’s steady on his feet.

Instinct tells him none of it is life-threatening. His body tells him it refuses to rest.

Naoya stays on his feet, slipping out the door. Ijichi’s residuals are faint whispers, but easy to distinguish from Mei Mei’s feather-light trail and his own staticky remnants crackling around them. The man’s made a noble attempt at retreating to his office, and looks even more ashen when Naoya - still blood-smeared and a little woozy, grinning too sharp for a man who was just shredded by an evil plant - swings open the door and leans in, interrupting him before he can settle. 

“Hey.” 

He holds up the finger, marked with his blood and his cursed energy, and is suddenly confident he’ll be able to find it wherever it goes. 

“I don’t want this.”

Naoya is, perhaps predictably, denied the opportunity to accompany Principal Yaga as he takes the finger to the Tokyo campus’ warehouse. It’s the safest place for it, so close to Tengen - and maybe they’re afraid of that. Maybe they don’t want the Zen’in clan heir even risking knowing the ever-changing path there. Maybe they’re afraid of exactly what he’s already planning to do.

Or … maybe the principal isn’t acting on any authority but his own, and is simply concerned about the blood-soaked injured lunatic walking around like this is some normal state for him. Yaga is a stern man, but not unkind , and is generous enough to tell Naoya where to find the nearest shower instead while herding him back to the clinic like he’s one of the man’s wayward students. It’s almost as good.

Better, maybe, because Naoya is so, so certain that he can trace his own signature. He’s … not sure what he’s going to do with that yet, admittedly, but he knows if push came to shove he could reach out as confidently as he does for the nonexistent pause button and he could feel where that finger is hidden away. He knows, as sure as he knows the sun will rise tomorrow. He’s not sure what good that does him, but he can’t not take advantage of this opportunity. He can feel it if he focuses, ignores that ever-present yearning call for something beyond and feels that which is nearer, realer. It lays just within reach.

… after a shower, preferably. If only he had some clean clothes …

He takes another look at the hospital, at Shoko’s shadow hard at work behind a curtain, at Mei Mei dead to the world. It’s too quiet. Worse than the quiet of Freeze Frame, it’s the sort of fuzzy quiet that sticks to the backs of your teeth.

Naoya gets back up, and slips back out. Doesn’t he remember this place having vending machines … ?

Naoya’s sitting in what he thinks is the very same spot Geto Suguru took that first step down the road that led him where he is today. Metaphorically at least. He’s pretty sure Geto was sitting when he had that fateful conversation with Yuki about the birth of curses and humanity and … all of that. It’s a bit jarring now to sit and think about it seriously. The last time he visited that conversation, it wasn’t real. It was a story playing out on a screen, a tragedy he already knew the end of while illogically hoping for a happy ending. At the time, he’d not given the topic of their debate much thought, overshadowed by the grief of this doomed young man.

Now Naoya can revisit it as a sorcerer. Now it’s real. Geto Suguru is going to die in three months and humanity is going to keep birthing curses forever. More dead teenagers, more grief and tragedy, and it’ll never stop. The realization is a gut punch for just a moment, and he breathes out slowly, silently wishing for one of Shoko’s cigarettes. Naoya can circumvent Shibuya, Naoya can eliminate Sukuna and Kenjaku and every reincarnated ancient sorcerer single-handedly … and in the end, curses will keep being born, and sorcerers will keep dying to put them down.

Hm. That leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Hopefully that’s the chemical burns lining his throat, and not the mortal grief of time’s slow unstoppable march forwards. Shoko can fix one of those things, and it isn’t the grief spurred on by the unavoidable tragedy of the world they live in.

Naoya sighs, contemplating the unopened can of soda in his hands. It would hurt too much to actually drink it, but the cold metal feels nice against his hands, even as it slowly drips through the gaps in his fingers and stains the floor pink. That feels poetic. This place should have bloodstains carved into it. A man’s soul died here, and that man is going to die in three months.

Naoya wonders, if he dies, what places in this world will feel devoid of his blood. And then he shakes that feeling off, and instead wonders about what sort of melon the soda is meant to taste like.

Yuta isn’t sure what drags him out of bed before the sun rises, but drag him it does. He stretches the stiffness from his joints and dresses, trying to place what feels wrong in the quiet dorm rooms. He strains to listen, but the only noises are the creaking of the old building and the distant hum of Inumaki’s white noise machine through the thin walls. Something is wrong, though. Maybe Gojo-sensei will know. Yawning, Yuta pulls on his shoes and slips silently out the door.

As he walks, it pulls at him, crackling across his skin. It’s an uncomfortable energy in the air, one his gut tells him to turn around and avoid - he clutches Rika’s katana a little harder than necessary as a shiver dances electric claws up his spine. Electric, that’s how it feels. The heavy air before a thunderstorm, if that thunderstorm hated you. The wrathful aura of an angry chemical storm. It sinks into him as he draws nearer and nearer to its source, crawling under his skin and digging into his joints. The choking air before a burning acid rain.

He’s never felt cursed energy like this. The closest he’s gotten is the sweeping vertigo of Gojo-sensei’s, that weightless force he’s come to appreciate for its familiarity. This crackling storm is unfamiliar - and so thick in the air that it must not be a threat, because no threat could go undetected when it radiates malaise like this.

Its source is … what Yuta thinks must be human, or must have once been human. It (he?) sits slumped in the bench beside the vending machines, pale and washed out under their fluorescent lights. His hair is bleached to something between muddy blonde and light green, matted with streaks of blood and sticking in wet clumps to his skin. His head sits at an uncomfortable angle, lolling to the side like a puppet with its strings cut. He holds a dripping soda can in both hands, as if it’s an unfamiliar object worth intense scrutiny. The can drips steadily, plip-plip-plip onto the ground, carrying more blood with it. He’s covered in blood, caked along his neck and coating his mangled fingers, dripping from somewhere within his dark clothing onto the bench and the floor, plip. plip. out of sync with the can. Yuta can see winding cuts and strips of red irritation around his exposed arms, ugly mottled remnants of yellowed bruises over a face that would be handsome if not smeared with murder, a path of damage leading right up to too-bright eyes set in blood-dark shadows. 

Yuta jumps when he realizes the man is looking right at him, and he grips Rika’s katana so tightly his knuckles creak.

It’s a grisly, haunting sight - but Yuta has always been a human before he is a sorcerer, and the man is clearly injured, so he asks in as soft and kind of a voice as he can muster, “are you … okay? Do you need … ?”

The man, or spirit? lifts his head slowly, in a leisurely manner that brings to mind a disturbed lion. He’s so still, undisturbed by Yuta’s sudden appearance. His eyes never leave Yuta’s face for a second, and he doesn’t blink. His smile feels hollow. Menacing. Too sharp for those lightless eyes.

“Oh, I’m … perfectly alright. You’re up awfully early, Okkotsu-kun.”

He knows my name. Yuta swallows, hard. “I was …” his free hand fidgets with his collar, pulling it up more over his face instinctively. Like a child pulling up the bedsheets to hide from a monster. “Yeah. Sorry.”

The spirit, or ghost? waves a hand to dismiss the thought, and Yuta can’t tear his eyes away from the ugly state of his hands. His wrists, creeping up his forearms, like something chewed him up and spat him back out. “No, no. Don’t apologize. You’re fine! It’s fine. You want this?”

“I … sorry?” Yuta stiffens, blinking rapidly at him. The ghost holds up the soda can. It’s no different from the ones in the vending machine beside him, almost out-of-place in those mangled fingers.

“The soda,” the ghost clarifies. “Do you drink soda? I got it for myself, but I forgot I … can’t, right now.”

Yuta blinks again. The ghost keeps smiling at him, unblinking, unwavering. Silently, Yuta holds out his hand, and receives a cold melon soda placed in his palm. It’s just like the ones from the vending machine, but smeared pink and unopened. Yuta opens his mouth, maybe to thank him, or ask if soda is some sort of unfinished business for him, when a flicker of movement, of white hair, catches his periphery.

Toge blinks back at him blearily, still clad in his sleepwear and ruffled from sleep. “ Kelp ?”

“Toge,” Yuta gasps, turning to face the cursed speech user with eyes as big as saucers. He glances back to the ghost, only to find the hallway empty. Even that horrible stormcloud energy has dissipated to something sitting heavy on the horizon instead of choking the air around him. If not for the bloodstains, and the soda, he’d have no proof it wasn’t a dream. “Did you see that? Did you - did you feel … ?”

Inumaki tilts his head to the side, inspecting the empty bench smeared with streaks of black. “Bonito flakes. Salmon roe, salmon?”

Yuta holds up the can almost desperately. “Yeah! A ghost just handed me this! And then vanished! Did you know about this?”

The two boys stare at the can, and then each other - and then scramble back to their dorm to barrage Hakari-senpai with questions at an utterly unreasonable hour, leaving said ghost entirely unaware he’s just spawned a ghost story.

(‘What a nice kid,’ Naoya thinks to himself as he heads back to the clinic. ‘Maybe once my throat feels better I can try that melon flavour …’)

Haibara Isako lives, and her name is another gut punch at the end of this long, long night.

Shoko announces it as soon as Naoya arrives back in the clinic, bent over Mei Mei’s form prodding at her throat. “Haibara’s gonna pull through,” she calls to him without looking. “Her arm’s beyond repair, but the poison didn’t spread far enough through her system to do any organ damage. She’s dehydrated to hell and back, and time will tell how she bounces back, but …” She sits in silence for a moment, before turning to confirm he’s still there, peering around the privacy curtain. “Naoya? Still with me?”

Naoya’s eyes are fixed on the bed at the end of the room, hidden behind its own curtain, and he drags his stunned gaze to Shoko slowly. She must read something in his eyes, weary expression softening.

“Yeah. You - remember him too, huh?”

“No,” Naoya lies, sinking into the nearest chair and letting his whole body slump. “Mei Mei … told me. About Haibara. I think she was trying to upset me.”

Shoko tsks, refocusing on the task at hand and disappearing from view. “Yeah. That’s his younger sister over there. He forbade Isako from getting involved in Jujutsu, but after his death … she’s a hard worker, but reckless. This won’t be the first major injury she’s suffered as a student, and she’s only a third year. I can’t say for sure if she’ll recover from this one. Not down an arm. Nanami’s gonna be gutted, I’m sure.”

Naoya curses quietly, resting his face in his hands. “She would have died down there, Shoko. She … she would have died, and I’d have never known. Why didn’t I know … ?”

“What’re you on about now?” she asks him, not unkindly. He feels her surge of cursed energy ebb, and hears her pull away from Mei Mei’s side. When he doesn’t answer, or look up, she sighs - and a hand rests itself gently on his arm. “Nobody’s omniscient, Naoya. It’s stupid to beat yourself up over it.”

Isn’t he, though? Isn’t he meant to be? How is he meant to stomach the reality that knowing Itadori’s story won’t be enough? The gaps that lead to dead sorcerers he doesn’t know to save?

“You can’t save everybody,” she tells him, firmer, “and it’s not your fault if you fail.” He lifts his face, then - only to grimace as she lightly tugs his shirt. “And your hands are going to scar. At least have the decency to get into a bed and have your crisis where I can treat you without hurting my back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls, offering her a thin smile and a lazy salute, staggering slowly to his feet with another long look at Isako’s bedside. “... it’s fine, yeah? She’s alive, in the end. I managed not to fuck it up.”

“She’s alive,” Shoko confirms, nudging him to draw his attention elsewhere.

“Go me. Wahoo.”

She laughs a little, giving him that same look Yuzuki does - like he’s an idiot, but perhaps at least a charming one. “Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself. Good work, Naoya. You did a good job.” He can’t even pretend like the praise doesn’t make him giddy for a moment, even though she’s most definitely making fun of him. “Now - make my job easier and strip.”

Naoya sighs, mourning both his ruined wardrobe and his dignity. “... yes, ma’am.”

It’s well past noon when he wakes. The clinic bed isn’t comfortable by any means, but the painkillers Shoko slipped him did their job effectively. He’s still a mess, and can’t offer himself the luxury of lounging in bed when he’s suddenly aware of the itchiness of dried blood on his skin. With an irritated little growl, he pulls himself gingerly to his feet, looking around slowly. 

The clinic is empty, with Mei Mei’s curtain drawn back and the woman nowhere to be seen. Naoya decides he’s not alarmed by her absence, especially when he realizes Shoko (an angel sent by a merciful god, the kindest woman on earth) has left him clean clothes to wear and that takes precedent over Mei Mei on the best of days.

He’s not sure he’s ever had a more divine shower. It’s scalding, hot enough to burn away the phantom sensation of grasping vines. Naoya takes stock of his new scars, faint as they are - countless little nicks ever-so-lightly cut into his hands and fading up his arms. They’re hard to see, but he can feel them with his fingertips. His ankles are similar, almost too faint to see but present enough to be felt.

He doesn’t mind them. They make the body feel more his, in a way. He has worn holes into it and a girl is alive because of it and that feels bizarrely good.

Damp and clad in clothes he’s fairly sure are Yaga’s and the tattered remnants of his coat, Naoya sets out to wander the Tokyo campus with three goals in mind. He lists them out neatly in his head as he starts mapping his turns.

1. Eat something immediately. He’s so hungry now that he’s not distracted by feeling disgusting.
2. Trace Sukuna’s finger to that warehouse. 
3. Bail upon any encounter with Gojo Satoru.

He admires the sunlit grounds and lush green grass outside even as he sticks to the shadowed walkways, mentally retracing his steps to the vending machines. The campus looks different in daylight, comfortable and inviting rather than the stark militant vibe he got last night. If not for steps one through three, he’d be tempted to enjoy the time away from the Zen’in compound and lounge in the grass.

… hmmm. His absence may be noted, and he can’t easily reach out.

1. Get a new phone before getting home.

The walkways aren’t as empty as they were at fuck-o-clock in the morning, and Naoya finds himself stopping awkwardly at a turn and finding the hallway blocked by a crying woman. Ah, there’s Mei Mei - likewise dressed in borrowed clothes that don’t quite fit, a ring of scarring neatly wound around her visible throat and what he suspects to be another scar tracing her jaw hidden under her adjusted hairstyle. She’s got said crying woman in her arms, petting her dark hair reassuringly.

Naoya pauses, and goes to take a step back and hastily retreat when Mei’s bright eyes flick up to him and he freezes in place, balancing awkwardly on one foot. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Mei greets him flatly, even as her fingers comb through the wailing woman’s hair. “I could feel you coming from a mile away, you know. You should do something about that.”

“Eh …?” is Naoya’s elegant response, pointing a questioning finger to himself despite how obviously she’s addressing him. When she looks at him like he’s stupid, he instead points at the woman in silent inquiry.

Said woman is probably pretty, when her face isn’t red and puffy from crying and a visible lack of sleep. The scar on her face tugs at his memory - right! One of the teachers. Oh, no wonder she’s a mess. Utahime’s face wavers between misery and outrage for a moment, and Naoya offers her an awkward wave in greeting.

She doesn’t look like she knows what to do about that. That makes two of them!

Mei Mei huffs a sigh. “Zen’in Naoya, this is Iori Utahime, one of Isako’s teachers. 

“We don’t …” Utahime’s voice is nearly as scratchy as Mei’s, and her expression has slid further into confusion and anger both. “I know Zen’in, Mei.”

Naoya responds before Mei can, lifting his hands in surrender. “Ah, shit, you do? Sorry. I don’t - really remember what I’m apologizing for, but I find it’s a good idea to apologize to every woman I meet on principle.”

Okay. Now she’s looking at him like he’s crazy. People look at him like that a lot.

“You told me I should be in a cave,” Mei reminds.

“That - that’s different,” Naoya protests weakly. 

“It was the very first thing you said to me.”

“That’s because you’re a capitalist, and not because you’re a woman.”

Mei arches her brow elegantly, the slightest smile quirking the corners of her lips. “Ah, speaking of - I’ll take seventy thousand yen upfront, if you’d please.”

Naoya elects to ignore that for now, mostly because he’s not really sure where his wallet got off to, and instead offers Utahime an awkward smile and a handshake. “Let me start over? Hi. I’m Naoya - just Naoya - and I have retrograde amnesia. I’ve been told I used to be a huge piece of shit, I’m very sorry about that. It’s nice to meet you.”

Utahime keeps the bewildered look on her face but reaches out to return his handshake, sniffling. “I … oh. Oh, you helped Mei get her back,” she seems to realize belatedly, and then dissolves into tears all over again. Naoya throws a panicked glance at Mei, who rolls her single visible eye at him.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for her?” he tries, only to grimace as she wails even harder.

“I couldn’t do anything,” Utahime chokes, cannoning back into Mei’s chest. “I nearly lost Isako, and then I nearly got Mei killed, and now I’m crying like an idiot instead of doing anything about it -”

“You’re not an idiot,” Naoya and Mei both say in unison.

“Just cry it out, dearest,” Mei adds, rubbing Utahime’s shoulders. “You’ll feel better.”

Naoya, lightly discomfited by this nice, patient Mei Mei, decides to run through his pockets for his wallet as the lesser of two evils to face. He pauses only when Mei holds something out - one of his knives, chipped from the hack-and-slash path carved through hell’s garden. 

“Bad Omen?” she questions.

“I’m haunted by an ever-present sense of dread for the doom that awaits our near future,” he answers absentmindedly, taking it to find the gap where it slots in with the rest of the set. “Hence your curse-hunt.”

“It’s important that I find those three you showed me, then?” Mei questions, lowering her voice a bit. Naoya wishes they weren’t discussing it in front of Utahime, but … oh, Utahime will be Mechamaru’s teacher too, right?

“Four,” he corrects, finally finding his wallet (still a little soggy). “But I don’t think you could find the fourth, so don’t bother.”

Her mouth curls with displeasure, and he wonders when and why he dedicated the brain space to learning to read her emotions. He’s known her for a day, damn it. Why couldn’t he work harder to read his father instead?

“You think I couldn’t?” she questions, a little haughtily, shoulders straightening.

“That’s not a challenge,” he sighs in answer, counting out the bills he has on-hand. Just shy of half her fee. “I don’t know what face they’re wearing right now - and I don’t want to go goose-chasing every person you see with a forehead scar.”

She considers this. “Wearing …” She doesn’t say like you? but her eyes scan his face as if trying to find Kenjaku’s scars. “And they’re … important, this one?”

He hands her the bills, meeting her single visible eye with as much intensity as he can, praying she picks up the gaps between his sentences. “The most important. Everything hinges on the ringmaster.” He claps his hands together, putting on another smile, finger temporarily forgotten. “So let me handle all of that! Now, I dunno about you, but I need food and coffee before you assault my bank account, and I don’t know how to find my way around this place. How does breakfast sound?”

Chapter Text

A special circle of hell is dedicated to third-wheeling breakfast between two long-time friends, who are alternating between teaching you lessons that children should know and regaling you with your body’s past sins. Naoya’s sure of it, and he’s sure he’s in it.

Utahime’s face is still blotchy, but a cup of tea and sorry excuse for a meal they cobbled together from the bare cupboards has done wonders for her tears. The campus kitchen is comfortable, if under-used, and the three of them have done the best they could, a meager meal of junk food and microwavable broth and noodles. 

The best they could isn’t entirely inspiring. Naoya hesitantly classifies it as edible. A feast more suited to college students, instead of three high-grade professional sorcerers. 

Mei was absolutely gleeful in recounting his past dynamic with herself and Utahime while they scrounged for scraps, perhaps to see if she could get him to crawl out of his own skin in discomfort. He came awfully close, flushed and mortified as she tells him that he’d go as far as to sabotage instances of the working together - Utahime especially was often a target, despite being older. Apparently, her being a woman was bad enough, and her bearing a ‘weak’ technique only good for support was even more disgraceful. She went through what Maki and Mei are now, apparently, having a Zen’in with a grudge block her well-earned promotions. Except it was him, specifically, being petty and terrible.

If it weren’t the food that stopped her tears, it may have been him bowing and apologizing a dozen odd times, red to the tips of his ears. That seems vindicating to her, but she eventually waves him off - Mei Mei, the merciless devil she is, takes that opportunity to instead swerve the topic onto his memory loss.

“It was impressive watching you work,” she’d drawled as she poured the three of them cups of tea. “If a little frustrating. You’re sloppy, Naoya. You had better control of your cursed energy at fourteen. Some people just get all the luck with their techniques, don’t they, Hime dearest?”

Naoya, still red-faced and uncomfortable, had snapped back, “I’m still figuring it out! I bet you weren’t perfect after having your technique for like a month, Mei.”

He didn’t realize his mistake until Utahime snapped onto him like a cat about to pounce. “Oh, you should have said so! I’m a teacher, you know, and it’s my life’s honour to impart knowledge onto my juniors. You must have so many questions.”

Naoya had glared at Mei Mei, who simply smiled smugly back at him, and resigned him to a forseeable future of being treated like an idiot.

He is an idiot, but he doesn’t need to make that obvious to everyone he meets, or for her to do it for him.

At least lecturing him seems to make Utahime happy. She downright beams when he starts taking notes. And Mei is thrilled to point out the flaws she picked out during their field excursion, even after she begrudgingly admits his technique is ‘monstrously impressive’.

“Your actual movements were messy,” she adds, before he can feel at all complimented. “Un-coordinated. You injured yourself as much as the curse - any experienced sorcerer can keep their head in a situation like that. Panic is the mark of inexperience, dear.”

“Oh, it’s because I was suffocating,” he explains helpfully, making Utahime choke on her tea. Ah, he’s getting the look that tells him he just said something strange.

“Explain?”

“Oh. Well, I don’t know for *sure* … Freeze Frame affects things on a molecular level, I think. The air doesn’t move, so it’s harder for me to breathe, and if I were to stay in one spot too long I’d end up choking and running out of oxygen. That’s why I was flashing in and out of it like that, instead of just freezing it for as long as I needed. The heat and the poison were a bad combo for me, and I couldn’t breathe at all with it up. I can usually take my time and move slowly, considering … y’know. I’m not used to feeling like I’m on a deadline. That and the air … I lost my cool a little. It’s fine! I know for next time.”

Utahime clears her throat, taking a moment to collect herself and wipe her mouth. “That’s … rather horrible! Ahem. It’s a bit inconvenient, I mean, but we can figure out a solution! Like carrying an inhaler, or perfecting that blinking method you described. In a controlled environment! You should not be figuring these things out in the field! It’s beyond reckless!”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees sheepishly, watching her puff up more at the address.

“Would you consider working with students, Naoya?” she offers, steepling her fingers together. “One of our second-years has a technique that could be incredibly synergistic with Freeze Frame, if you could bear to be paired up.”

Naoya considers it, trying all at once not to appear too eager. It’s a tempting offer even if he’s certain the student isn’t the one he’s trying to reach. “Todo Aoi?” he questions - and then remembers that he probably shouldn’t know that, and adds, “you’re not the first person to tell me that, but I don’t think I have anything to teach a kid. He probably knows more about all of this than I do.”

“Experience is as valuable as any lesson,” Utahime insists. “And … it would reassure me some, to know my students aren’t alone out there. It could be good for both of you, but I won’t lie, most of the reason I ask is to have a competent chaperone for the kids.”

Isako, lying alone in a hospital bed, robbed of her brother and then her arm. Spared from a fate he’ll never learn.

“I would die for them,” Naoya tells her, straight faced.

“I-I’m not asking you t-”

“Anyone should be willing to.” He places his empty noodle cup down and leans forward, crackling with intensity. “This world has had enough dead children in it. I will cut down anything that aims to make more. All you need to do is ask.” He draws back, energy dissipating, putting on a grin and clapping his hands together. “Consider me your chaperone on standby, Iori-sensei!”

“See?” Mei Mei asks, looking to Utahime, just as smug as before. “What did I tell you?”

“I, ah,” Utahime nervously returns the smile, mimicking his clap. “Right! Excellent! I’ll be in touch, Naoya-san!”

Naoya’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know. Satisfied with their very productive conversation ending there, he picks up their empty dishes and retreats to the sink.

The two women depart when Ijichi comes bearing news of Isako regaining consciousness - Utahime to the clinic, and Mei Mei off to whatever business she has. Naoya could leave, too. Should leave, considering he has no business of his own to keep him here. It’d be nice to say goodbye to Shoko, though, and he probably can’t do that without interrupting Utahime … so it’s only fair he lingers for just a little longer.

It’s not like he has anywhere better to be. Home doesn’t appeal. Home doesn’t feel like home. What a sad thought.

He picks himself up to meander back to the clinic, intent on waiting outside for Shoko or Utahime - whoever leaves first. He’s in no hurry, once more enjoying the view of the warm sun and lush greenery. It’s peaceful here. Easy to forget what waits outside.

He pauses to lean against an open window, spying movement below. The field stretching out beneath his view has been converted to a wide open track, and the students are out and about, hard at work in their training. His eyes are drawn first to what must be Panda, wildly swinging Inumaki Toge around like a baseball bat. Naoya … isn’t really sure what the training is for. Maybe they’re just having fun. Okkotsu is definitely getting his as kicked in a spar, though -

and there’s Maki. It’s the first time he’s seen her in person. Or at all, really. Even from a distance, the sight of his little cousin squeezes his chest painfully. She’s a fiend in motion, green hair whipping about as she dances around Yuta in a flurry of staff-swipes. He aches to see some of Ogi in her movements, the steady rhythmic discipline of a diligent training routine laden with the weight of her origins. Her father would have never trained her, he’s sure - never wasted his time. He wonders how often she must have watched the men in her family train, how hard she must have trained among the footsoldiers, to carry Zen’in in every movement.

She wouldn’t be happy if he told her that. He isn’t cruel enough to ever say it aloud.

He wonders what his movements speak of. He wonders if a stranger could watch him and know with certainty that he is a pale imitation of a Zen’in. Maki, even distant and distracted by her friends’ antics, outshines him. Brighter than the sun.

He laughs as Panda chucks Inumaki straight into her, imagining he can hear her indignant yell from here, watching the ensuing scuffle. These sights aren’t for him. He’s eavesdropping, making himself a part of something he swore to keep at arm’s length … but it’s nice, reminding himself what it’s all for.

“Those kids are something else, aren’t they?”

Naoya practically jumps out of his skin, whipping his head to the side so hard his neck cracks. Leaning against the wall is the very man he wanted to avoid, shit-eating grin plastered on his smug stupid face. Gojo Satoru’s stupid pleased expression gets even more aggravating as Naoya looks at him. “ Hey , Yaya-kun, long time no -”

Gojo doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. Naoya doesn’t even think to activate Freeze Frame until after he throws himself out of the window.

Ieiri Shoko later finds a note left on her desk, one she never saw anybody drop by to deliver.

‘sorry to run off on u! avoiding the blue-eyed menace. text me when ur free, i owe u a drink! ;P - naoya’

She rolls her eyes, smiling fondly to herself, and pins it to her calendar.

“Ta-da!” he announces as he presents the paper bag with a flourish. It’s hefty, sporting a full 19-volume manga set, and Higuruma looks a bit surprised by the weight of it. “ Liar’s Game is an older series, but it really seemed right up your alley! And I needed an excuse to get physical copies of it all.”

They’re in Naoya’s apartment, sharing the assortment of takeout dishes he ‘accidentally’ over-ordered. He’s sure having a gift waiting for the man entirely gives away his ruse, but he’s too excited to not share. The attorney eyed the walls covered in protective seals and anime posters, his single frying pan hanging in the kitchen, his slowly growing collection of ugly blankets - all with curiosity over judgement. Naoya didn’t even wait until their meal was done before he scampered off to his under-used bedroom to retrieve his gift. The manga set he’s “lending” Higuruma, the one he bought just for him in the hopes he’d enjoy it.

“I’m eager to give it a try, in that case,” Higuruma answers, gingerly setting the books to the side - and then surprising Naoya by pulling out a gift of his own. “You mentioned not having as much time as you used to, so of course, don’t feel obligated to watch this if you don’t want to. I haven’t seen it - I thought you might like it, based on the description. You prefer animated media, yes … ?”

He’s rambling a little. Naoya carefully takes the still-wrapped DVD case, a smile creeping up his face as he realizes Higuruma bought him a brand-new copy of The Girl who Leapt Through Time .

“Oh, good pick! It’s an older one, but I haven’t seen it. Only ever heard it’s good. Wanna watch it with me?”

Higuruma smiles, very earnestly. “I have the free time. Why not?”

They end up using Higuruma’s laptop, sitting on the floor in front of it like teenagers instead of respectable grown men, watching a movie Naoya’s seen at least five times. He still cries at the end. He still cries, harder than any of the other five times, and it’s embarrassing and cathartic all at once. Higuruma hands him a handkerchief politely.

“You didn’t strike me as the type to cry at movies, Naoya-san.”

Naoya lets out a wet cackle. “Oh - I am. Ah! This one gets me. It’s hard not to put myself in the protagonist’s shoes in these sorts of movies, y’know? Even if I haven’t been that age in, well, ages.”

“And never time-traveled, I hope,” Higuruma jokes lightly.

“Shows what you know,” Naoya teases right back, wiping his face dry, “I personally can’t go a week without some time hopping related love-that-could-have-been flickering into my life and changing me forever. I’m desirable, Higuruma-san!” He places a hand theatrically to his chest, smile coming just as easily as the tears. “Hey. If I told you that I came from the future, would you laugh?”

“At least you have the good grace of watching the movie with me before making references about it,” Higuruma lightly scolds him, making him laugh all over again. “I don’t know what I’d do if you said a sentence like that to me before now.”

“Hey, this just means we have to watch more movies. Really, though! Time travel. It’s not one you see utilized for the tragedy of it all too often, right?”

Naoya watches as the other man leans back against the couch, contemplating the topic. “I wonder if I’d use it as frivolously as our heroine. It may seem obvious at our age to not squander such an opportunity … ah, but then, would I not be too cautious? Would that limit of chances paralyze me into inaction?”

“What would you consider worth it?” Naoya questions, copying his posture and leaning beside him.

“Hm … a part of me wants to say my work. To push for the right outcome in a trial. But then … such things are out of my control, no matter how well I do in presenting my case. So what beside that? Is it too selfish to use it for my own personal gain?” He furrows his brows, and Naoya thoughtlessly reaches over, pressing his thumbs between them.

“... gonna give yourself worry lines,” he explains belatedly, dropping his hand once the attorney’s expression relaxes into one of gentle confusion. “I’d use it to make a ton of money.”

Higuruma inspects his secondhand furniture and worn blankets. “Ah, really … ? You never struck me as the type.”

“It’s opportunity , right? If I’m the richest guy alive,” Naoya spreads his hands, imagining catching the city’s skyline between his fingers, “I can fix things without having to jump around in time. People don’t have to be hungry or homeless or scared if I have the power to make things better . Less misery in the world to birth the curses that spawn more misery. Cutting an end to the bitter cycle.” Clearing his throat, realizing he’s perhaps said too much, he adds, “and I could justify a Netflix subscription and a really nice mattress.”

“That … sounds nice,” Higuruma agrees quietly. “A better world.”

“And the mattress.”

“Well, it would be your mattress.”

Naoya laughs again. “Aw, we’re like, media club buddies and neighbours. I’d buy you an even nicer mattress.”

“Ah - ! Naoya-san, I must insist you buy yourself the nicer mattress when you use time travel to become the world’s richest man. You look like you haven’t slept since we last met!” It’s such a silly thing to bicker about that Naoya can’t help the way it makes him giddy, this rare moment of fun stolen and hidden away from the jujutsu world.

“Compromise, then. We take turns on it.”

Higuruma laughs, putting his face in his hands. “You could buy two … !”

“Nah. There’s only one. The best one there is. We get split custody.” Naoya grins even wider, leaning in. “And you’ll never stay up late on nights you have custody, because you’ll feel so bad for me in my cold shitty bed. Languishing.”

“Ah! And now the other bed doesn’t even have blankets? You can afford blankets, Naoya-san, why would you be cold?”

Naoya cackles so hard he slides sideways to the ground, wheezing through Higuruma’s breathy reminder that it’s late and we’re going to get scolded by Hina-san next door if you don’t quiet down! and he doesn’t again think to ask would you laugh, if I told you?

The condemned middle school is a foul hotbed of curses left to fester out of control, as soured and profane as the mold and mildew clinging to every wall. Naoya adjusts his face mask a bit, eyeing the flickering shapes as they retreat from the hallway he turns into. He can pick them out, huddling in corners and rafters and peering around doorways, small hideous malformed creatures in the shapes of lizards and insects, the fears of poor grades and judgemental peers.

“I’m really glad I don’t remember going to school,” he comments idly, tilting his head back to instead watch the mold on the ceiling. “It seems like a stressful time.”

The empty hallways don’t answer, obviously. He tunes out the chatter of the low-grade spirits, internally thankful he’s only here to deal with the big one. It would take time he doesn’t have to waste to clear them out, and the mere thought is funny - the man with all the time in the world not having any to spare. He’s keen on preserving his energy, though, already dreading what awaits him at the end of this last-minute mission. To think he was fool enough to assume being almost thirty and in a different universe would get him out of the timeless classic parental demand of ‘you’re coming to an event with me and you’re going to be bored out of your mind’. Ugh. 

Speaking of the devil, Naobito’s contact flashes across his new phone’s screen, blaring the opening chords of donut hole through the empty hall and sending the smaller curses into a startled flurry of activity. Naoya rolls his eyes before answering.

“Yo. Naoya speaking.”

“Try again,” comes Naobito’s gruff response. “Not like I’m one of your little friends.”

“Hello, father. What can I help you with?”

An answering grunt. “Better. We’re expected by eight-thirty.”

“Ehhh?” Naoya starts shrugging off his coat, holding it under one arm, elbow pressing his phone to his ear as he winds down the stairs. “Oh, ew, it’s wet down here. You said nine, before.”

“That Kamo bastard, I expect. Impatient as I’ve ever met. Half-senile, I say, probably wants to be done with this before his bedtime.”

Naoya politely doesn’t point out that his father is nearly the same age as that Kamo bastard. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll wrap up soon. You’ll probably want to bring me a change of clothes, though.”

“Hmph. I shouldn’t bother. The old fools could do with the reminder that not all of us are resting on our laurels, eh?”

Naoya laughs, half because he thinks his father is using him to threaten his peers, and half because his father is older than some of those old fools. “Father, I don’t think Kamo-san will survive how tight my work clothes have to be. I may give him a heart attack. Who knows when he last saw anyone handsome in that clan of his.”

“Good!” Naobito scoffs. “Keep your old man company and get rid of that senile old fool without lifting a finger. You’re a good boy, Naoya.” His father leans away from the phone, and Naoya hears him barking orders at someone to collect his son a clean change of clothes.

He’s been that for a while. His son. Naobito states it more often than his name, nowadays, ever pleased to announce his son and his accomplishments. It’s a far cry from the cold, disappointed ‘boy’ leveled at him when he first awoke. Naoya’s not sure what the old man makes of his recent cram-packed busy schedule, but it seems he’s settled on pride over those results. Even when Naoya ducks out of training or earns the complaints of the Hei, Naobito is happy to remind them the rest of their family who’s the one really lagging behind.

It’s strange. It’s strange, but for now, it works.

“Ahhh,” Naoya hums, finally finding his target. A misshapen horselike curse with a long drooping face that drags on the ground. Not massive for a semi-grade one, but by report, quick enough to evade two other sorcerers. “Hold for a second, dad. Found it.”

He lets his phone and his coat hang in midair, minding the puddles of stagnant water as he paces forwards leisurely, a blade held between each fingertip. The curse is fast, but Naoya is the fastest thing on the planet.

It’s less than a second later that he snatches his phone back out of the air, listening to the tink-tink-tink of his knives hitting the ground while the curse dissolves underneath them. “Right! So, eight thirty. See you soon?”

It isn’t that Naoya takes any joy from being paraded about like a show dog. He’s not stupid, he knows that’s what this is about. A public showing of Naobito’s favourite son, a silent brag to the other powerful old men who run this broken world they live in. Naoya’s not sure why Naobito even attends these gatherings, drinking and eventually gambling and arguing with people he dislikes - part of it is the social aspect, maybe. None of these high-ranked old sorcerers like each other, but together they hold the power of the entire jujutsu world, or influence over that power. The higher-ups, the clan heads, the few sorcerers old and rich and strong enough to retire. All bound by mutual resentment, a pack of hyenas viciously maintaining control over their territory while eager to rip each other apart at the first sign of weakness. 

Naoya doesn’t drink, and prefers to cheat at games. He knows without even attending that this is going to be boring and miserable.

But he gives Naobito whatever he asks for, and a single inconvenient outing is a small price to pay for his father’s continued favour. He pulls his clean clothes on over top his work attire, almost regaining the image of the Naoya that came before. But he knows without a mirror that it’s not the same, and not only because of the muddy boots and out-of-place modern coat thrown over his shoulders. The differences lie in his scarred hands, in his dark green roots starting to grow out, in his gait and face. He’s dressing up as the man he used to be - but this man, the one with the coat and the hollow eyes, is Naobito’s son all the same. A warm calloused hand claps his shoulder as they step out of the car and head up the path to Samidare Manor. He falls short of Naoya, and Naobito still pretends like everything is fine.

Maybe it is.

Most of the old men here are ones Naoya has never met. Maybe he’s heard them, in moments yet to happen, handing down orders while hiding away behind screens and power. He offers polite greetings and lingers like a well-mannered pet at his father’s side, keen to silently observe rather than be directly involved. He’s not the only heir in attendance, by the looks of it, and at least they can commiserate in their misery through awkward silent eye contact, glances of ‘can you believe this’?

“Okkotsu-kun’s a nice kid,” is the first thing he says, tuning back into the conversation at mention of an execution. Right. These drunk geezers also love death sentences.

A few of the old-timers scoff. One balding old man (Naoya’s already forgotten his name, one who’s not a clan or of the higher-up’s council) tells him, “nice doesn’t excuse the threat that curse poses to us all. I don’t know how you lot were incompetent enough to let that ticking time bomb attend our schools with our children.”

“The Gojo clan’s head, of course,” mourns Samidare, who Naoya thinks is a council-member-whatever. “We couldn’t override his demands - he went as far as to claim he’d defend the thing if we pushed further.”

“Okkotsu-kun’s a nice kid,” Naoya affirms again. “And I wager it’ll only be a few more months before he lays Rika-chan to rest, and a few months after that to come into being a proper special-grade on his own. Good kid, proper sort of cursed technique, really flexible. It’d be a pleasant change of pace to have a nice, agreeable special grade sorcerer kicking about, don’t you think?”

Naobito snorts. “We’d have one now , if Satoshi could pull his head out of his ass.” Naoya cannot imagine in what world he could be considered nice or agreeable, and judging by the faces the men around him pull, the thought is near unanimous. 

Kamo Satoshi, who is inexplicably sitting next to his longtime rival and pouring him drinks, all but snarls at Naobito for that. “You’re delusional, Zen’in. Play pretend all you’d like with that thing claiming to be your son, but the rest of us can see through your shallow attempts at a power-grab.”

Naoya leans around his father to stare at Satoshi, staying silent as Naobito swings his gourd forcefully into the other old man’s chest.

“Jealous that your heir falls short, Satoshi? Afraid to be seen as weak? You always were petty. You claim to know my son better than I do? I’ll have you know that your bastard won’t amount to -”

and just like that, Naoya tunes them back out, leaning inelegantly on an elbow and turning back to the rest of the guests. The shouting match beside him should dissuade anyone else from trying to talk to him, but jujutsu sorcerers are habitually insane and socially inept. Like as a job requirement. He taps idly on his phone, entirely past worrying if it’s rude.

naoya [8:55]
would it be childish to fake a family emergency to leave

shoko [8:56]
isn’t your dad right there?

naoya [8:56]
fuckkkk youre so right
i can feel the spirit of teenage rebellion taking over my body
i need to get piercings and bleach my hair 
behind my father’s back

shoko [8:57]
you’re like 26
and you’ve already done those things

“Iori informs me you volunteered to escort her students on further missions,” Gakuganji (actual higher-up, Kyoto school principal, if his memory’s right) states as a greeting, because nobody knows how to acknowledge when he is clearly uninterested in speaking to them. For all these old guys hate Gojo, they sure take a page from his book. Naoya pours him a drink, resigning himself to company worse than Shoko’s. “One would think you’d not willingly waste your precious time on babysitting . I seem to recall you claiming such a thing was a waste on any decent sorcerer, once upon a time.” 

Naoya catches the gleam of an eye, the shrewd quirking of one overgrown brow, and answers with a shrug. “Ah, I wouldn’t know about that. I have all the time in the world, don’t I?”

“Hmph! Be direct with me, boy. Is it a teaching position you’re after, or is the Zen’in clan looking to indoctrinate my students?”

… indoctrinate? Naoya fights very hard to keep a straight face. Into what? Gakuganji has more piercings than he does! “I wouldn’t go as far as angling for a teaching position so indirectly,” he answers smoothly. “Truthfully, I would like to do something beyond exorcisms. They don’t challenge me very often anymore. But I agreed mostly because I agreed with Utahime’s reasoning.”

“That being?”

“Ha! That spirits have been getting misclassified since I was a student, and we’d have more living and competent sorcerers to help split the burden if paperwork accidents stop killing them young.” Now Naoya does permit himself a grin, leaning his chin on his hand. “Not that anyone could have predicted one of Sukuna’s fingers finding its way into that shrine, of course. But it’s unlucky that it happened to any student, let alone that one. It’s no major inconvenience to me to kick around while the kids learn the ropes, and step in if they’re gonna die.”

Samidare, who is seeming more and more like a horrid rat of a man whose only saving grace is his nice house, invites himself into the conversation. “If they’re so weak as to die against low-grade curses, clearly they wouldn’t cut it as sorcerers anyways.”

Gakuganji observes Naoya, measuring … something. The Zen’in heir isn’t interested in whatever one old man or another might think of him right now, instead leaning over the table and letting his cursed energy flare with his spiking temper. 

“Hey, hey, Samidare-kun.” Naoya grins, ear-to-ear. “What grade were you when you were a student, eh? Fourth, third? You can say that, sure, if you never had to face something two grades stronger than you were told it was. That’s a cheap excuse, isn’t it?”

“Now,” Samidare pounds a fist against the table, pointing a gnarled finger his way, “you’ll not speak to me with such disrespect, Zen’in whelp. I’ve been in this business since before you were born. The children of today are weak, and coddling them will only make them weaker. We have no room for weak sorcerers.”

“Eh hh ?” Naoya drags the incredulous noise out, cocking his head to the side. “You wanna waste my time with weak pests instead, then? You think I don’t have anything better to do than put down shitty grade fours and threes?”

“A weak sorcerer is marginally more useful than a dead one,” one of the other red-faced old-timers says, lifting his glass in agreement. “And some little girl could hardly be expected to handle one of Sukuna’s pieces.”

“You’re making a fool of yourself,” Gakuganji tells their host dryly, smiling into his glass. “And I believe this discussion was between myself and Naoya-san, old friend.”

Naoya feels a warning touch press into his shoulder, and he sinks down obediently, rearranging himself into something passably placid and agreeable without needing to glance at his father. Naobito’s hand stays, squeezing lightly, and he’s not sure if it’s for scolding or comforting him. In a much more pleasant voice, he adds, “ah, but I think my temper runs a bit too hot for teaching!”

The tension dissipates a bit, and a few chuckles answer his sheepish admission. 

“Youths,” the ruddy-faced geezer says fondly. “When I was your age, son, I’d have knocked out one of his teeth by now for less!”

“You did!” Samidare tells him, sliding from argument into banter easily, plied by alcohol. Jeez, these old men bitch a lot. “I’d still have the chip to prove it if I had all my teeth still, you bastard!”

Naobito and Gakuganji are both watching him now, and he itches to curl in on himself and talk to Shoko or even Higuruma instead. He’s not sure whether or not he’s relieved when they talk to each other over him instead.

“I’d arrange it for him, if you’d allow it,” Gakuganji tells Naobito plainly. “Yaga isn’t firm enough with those second-years he’s got, and Gojo Satoru’s a joke of a teacher. They’d do well with proper, firm guidance.”

“You’ll do good to remember he isn’t yours to keep,” Naoya’s father answers back, gruff and lightly slurring his words. “He’ll need to focus on his duties as head of the clan once I pass.”

“Of course, of course. With any luck we’ll have a few new candidates by then, hm?” Gakuganji holds up his glass again. “Your boy’s sharp. More than I could say for most. And you’ve got some years left in you yet, you old dog.”

“Who are you calling old?” Naobito laughs, and Naoya leans forward politely to let his father cuff the other man’s shoulder. “I still have all my hair. It’ll be a good while before Naoya here takes my role, I can accept that much.” 

That heavy hand settles itself back on Naoya’s shoulder, and Naoya leans into his father’s touch this time, sensing the danger has passed. “Am I … being offered a job, then?”

“You’re taking a job,” Naobito instructs.

“Ah! I’m taking a job.” Naoya manages a paper-thin smile. “In that case, I look forward to it.”

He’s seeing a future of being overworked like one Gojo Satoru, looming before his eyes. A future working alongside the very same man. With … Hakari and Kirara, if his memory is right - the furthest thing from the students he actually wants to get close to. 

It doesn’t feel like progress, but his father’s hand on his back weighs as much as Atlas’ globe. As with everything else, Naoya cannot afford to decline.

“You’ll mind yourself more closely in the future,” Naobito scolds him once they slip back into the backseat of their ride home. The grip on his shoulder is closer to bruisingly painful, and Naoya doesn’t so much as flinch, eyes downcast. “You’d nearly convinced me you’d lost that arrogance of yours entirely.” A squeeze, and then the grip loosens. “I understand, Naoya. It’s frustrating for lesser sorcerers to think they can talk down to you. My son. But you mustn’t embarrass me before the other elite members of our society, no matter how warranted it may be for you to put them properly in their place.”

“Of course, father,” Naoya answers placidly, letting his body slide sideways to lean into his father’s shoulder. The quiet act of affection gets the desired response - Naobito clumsily holds the back of his head, combing fingers through his short hair and holding him closer instead of gripping him with bruising anger. 

“Good boy. I know you’d never disappoint me, Naoya. So mindful of your father, aren’t you?”

“Of course, father. Always.”

naoya [9:30]
i have an apartment i’m not meant to have
and i want you to have a spare key to it.
i think i just got recruited into teaching btw?

shoko [9:35]
oh shit.
this late in the year?
are you like competent enough for that?

naoya [9:35]
FUCK no
definitely not second year levels
i at least get to visit my favourite doctor ;-;
do you wanna. come over

shoko [9:42]
those two are gonna eat you alive.
ok yeah i can make time. buy me that wine you owe me.
and have enough bleach for me too.
let’s be shitty teenagers together for a bit.

naoya [9:43]
i don’t deserve you.

shoko [9:44]
nobody does, i think

so.
what are you gonna do about gojo?

Chapter Text

Naoya has two weeks left before he’s placed abruptly in charge of children, which is some sort of defiance of the natural order, surely. He has two weeks, which means he’s already spent the last six cramming as much knowledge into his own head as possible, last-minute-studying like he’s back(?) in college, praying he retains some of it. His head is full of things he should have known for a lifetime, and he’s already asking himself if this is all a mistake on a daily basis.

He was, originally, going to start working with the duo at the start of their final semester, to see if he could manage to drag them into the next year with half-decent grades. That would have given him until January. A blessedly long period of time - one that would have him safely free to act on his own while the Night Parade took place.

Originally. And then Yaga, the merciless demon more evil than Sukuna himself, told him Kusakabe had been specifically requested to help with one of the Kyoto students, and was all but roped into teaching the girl’s whole class, and that it’d be ‘easier for everyone’ if Naoya started early, moving the schedule up and sweeping the rug under his feet. And he can’t even be angry about it, because he knows Utahime is making up for Isako’s injuries despite not being the girl’s proper teacher. So, really, the only person he’s mad at is whichever clown isn’t pulling their weight over in Kyoto. And himself, for being an idiot who doesn’t know jack shit.

The only mercy is the sudden drop in spirit activity. He might genuinely drop dead if he had to contend with his self-inflicted workload atop speedrunning his teacher certification.

Shoko’s coaxed him into sipping enough of her wine to take the edge off, and the two are definitely solidly undeniably friends, now - her sitting on the ground in front of him managing to sip on a wine glass despite the awkward angle, as he holds a comb between his teeth and paints strips of bleach into a randomly-selected portion of her hair, blocking out half her bangs and one of the long strips framing her face. He’s sure they look absurd, both shirtless and covered in chemicals and strange configurations of hair clips, him doing her hair as she coaxes the bruises and scrapes out of his skin with her technique ; he’s just as sure that this definitely means they’re friends .

“You think I should dye it after?” she questions idly, smoothing a thumb over his scarred ankle and making his skin buzz.

“Mmph,” he answers, and she reaches up blindly to take the comb from his mouth. “You could. You’ll wanna wait a few days for it to settle, probably. Could go with something semi-permanent, swap out the colour every few weeks. What are you feeling?”

“Hmmm,” she hums. “You think I’d look good with green?”

He peers around his strips of foil to look at her. “... nah. It’d make your eye bags look worse.”

“Ahhh. Is that why you look like shit all the time?” She drains the rest of her glass as he wraps her hair securely and pins it out of place. “You ever think about letting yours grow out again?”

“I don’t even know what I look like with it,” he admits. “I’ve gotten used to the way he used to keep it, y’know?”

She’s silent for a moment. “... I didn’t think about that. Is that how you think of yourself? As a him and now a you?”

“Uh … yeah. Is that weird?”

“I think it’s maybe the most normal thing you’ve ever said,” she tells him, pulling herself upright to occupy the couch as he rises to clean up the excess bleach.

“Hey! I’m normal. I’m so normal.” He points the brush at her playfully, and she gives him a tired smile. Their silence is comfortable instead of awkward, filled with the sounds of the sink turning on and the muffled crooning of Hatsune Miku coming from wherever he left his phone. 

He distantly catches the ping of a text notification, swiveling his head to try to pinpoint the sound. “Who’s that from?”

Shoko shifts a little on the couch, humming. “Lemme see … ah, Mei says she’s … found him?” She holds his phone up for her to see. “What poor man do you have Mei hunting down at this hour?”

“I do not control Mei Mei’s sleep schedule,” is his automatic answer, even as his heart picks up and he walks a little too-quickly back to the couch. “And I don’t think you want to know that answer? It’s … for a really good reason, though. Pinky swear.”

He says it lightly, but when she lifts her pinky he locks his around it without a moment of hesitation. They fall back into their easy quiet as he hastily types a message back to Mei, then taps his foot anxiously on the ground, waiting for the details.

“... you were friends with Geto Suguru, yeah?”

Shoko frowns, and elects to pour the rest of the bottle into her glass. “I thought I was. What business do you have with him?”

“I … don’t,” he answers a little lamely. “I’m looking for someone who hangs around that cult of his, though. I, uh …” He picks at the skin around his nails, foot tapping, not looking at her. “There’s something I need from that someone. So I may need to play nice.”

“Naoya,” Shoko says flatly. “Are you asking for my blessing?”

He is, he realizes as soon as she says it. He doesn’t want to ruin Shoko’s friendship - even though he can’t afford not to pursue this.

“Yeah. I think so.” 

She’s quiet again, and Naoya waits, patient, not unlocking his phone screen even as it buzzes with Mei Mei’s response. Shoko sips her wine, exhales slowly, and stares hard at him as he avoids eye contact. “... stay outta trouble, alright?” is her eventual answer. “I’ve already lost two friends to the path Suguru chose. I won’t be able to forgive him if he gets you killed, or lost.”

“Lost?”

She looks more tired than ever. “Lost. Don’t get lost. I won’t forgive you, either.”

Shoko spends the night on his bed (he insists on taking the couch), and promises to come back when she picks a colour to put over her newly-applied blonde before leaving with his spare key in her pocket. She doesn’t say it outright, but it reassures him that they’re still friends.

Some small part of Naoya is always going to remember Geto Suguru as the student he hasn’t been for a long time.

It’s a hideously soft, kind part of him lodged deep in his chest, the one that worries for children he’s never met and weeps for every life he can’t save. It’s a piece of him that may one day kill him in this cruel line of work - it’s the most important piece, the bit that slots into him and keeps him human. If he gives it up, he may very well become Geto Suguru - or, even worse, he may become Zen’in Naoya in the ways he never wants to be.

It’s soft, and inconvenient, to mourn the Geto who has been dead for years. It’s dangerous, to risk blinding himself to the man who he’s become. Geto is a danger, an unhinged cult leader and genocidal lunatic who somehow believes he can kill every non-sorcerer. He has deluded himself into a dangerous way of thinking and he is a threat to them all.

( He loved Gojo enough that his body fought Kenjaku, that soft part of him howls. He needed a meaning after reaching his breaking point - any of us could become like him! )

Naoya reminds himself that Geto called Maki a monkey. Brutalized her, Naoya’s wonderful little cousin. Will brutalize her. He would kill Higuruma, given the opportunity. 

The soft part of him goes very quiet after that. Then, it instead becomes a task of convincing himself not to take a human life.

He is the perfect image of the Zen’in heir when he arrives. Fine traditional clothes that are a bit too thin for how cold it’s been lately, a katana at his hip, just enough makeup to hide his dark eye circles and emphasize his eyes instead. He’s pretty, and a degree of confident just shy of arrogance, and it perfectly hides the high-strung anxiety bubbling in his gut and the blades tucked hidden against his skin. He is exactly what he needs to be.

The woman awaiting him is not expecting a sorcerer, this he knows. Mei Mei arranged the meeting (for a cost), and could not arrange it to be with him, so Geto’s underling is expecting maybe a desperate non-sorcerer looking to be rid of a curse, or spiritual guidance, or some shit like that. She’s on edge before she even sees him, tense and alert, aware of the cursed energy that seems to radiate from him at all times.

“Suda-san?” he questions, making her jump as he steps in beside her, easy and confident because he simply belongs here. 

“Identify yourself,” she instructs, adjusting her stance defensively. Naoya pretends not to notice, dipping into an elegant bow.

“Zen’in Naoya, here to request the audience of Geto Suguru. I was told you were expecting me … ?”

Suda Manami adjusts her coat, expression becoming pinched. “... give me just a moment. And stay where I can see you.” She steps away from him pointedly, pulling out a phone and engaging in a hasty, hushed conversation he pretends not to hear, glancing over her shoulder at him every few seconds. He remains where he is, hands folded, staring her down with the best bored expression he can muster.

She’s got a smile plastered on her face as she turns back to him, making a far more obvious attempt at sounding pleasant once her call is concluded. “Apologies for the delay, Master Zen’in. Please, come with me - Geto-sama will be ready to see you shortly.”

(For once, he is grateful for the reputation of his family and their traditions. )

Geto is a very striking man in person. Physically, he is tall and broad, elegant with his beautiful robes and long sleek hair, stretched out lazily in the room Naoya vaguely recognizes as one where he harvests curses from the desperate, every bit the king of this place. His energy … for the first time, Naoya understands what people mean when they describe how they can feel his presence. Geto’s cursed energy settles itself in the curve of his stomach like the wretched things the man swallows, heavy and dark, a roiling mass of something nauseating. It isn’t a physical sensation exactly, but tangible all the same. It would be impossible not to be aware of it. Of him.

He is handsome, and powerful. Naoya does not react outwardly, because he is supposed to have known Geto for a long time, and not be phased by him being handsome or powerful.

He isn’t alone - those girls of his are sitting on their knees, one on either side, expressions unreadable. Standing as guards, maybe, or just curious. Naoya can’t tell. Suda stands beside him as she escorts him into the room, decidedly eyeing him like he’s something she expects to bite if given the chance.

Naoya bows - not as deeply as he could, because the Zen’in heir is famously arrogant, and because Naoya will not take his eyes off of them - and offers Geto an easy, sharp smile. “Geto Suguru. You look well. Thank you for your time - you’re a tricky man to get ahold of.”

Geto looks just as relaxed, smile wide in a way Naoya can tell is fake only because he has seen Geto, the character. Geto, the man, wears it perfectly. “What a surprise this is. Whatever could the heir of the Zen’in clan want from me and my family, I wonder?”

“Is it so unfathomable that I could be here just to talk?” Naoya questions, tilting his head to the side. “Perhaps I was simply curious about your ideals and goals. I am the future head of my clan, as you said - it’s my responsibility to look to the future … and get to know my neighbours.”

“Is that so.” Geto considers this, then reaches out the hand he’s not leaning on in a grand sweeping gesture. “Come, then. Sit, make yourself at home. Suda, perhaps you could be a dear and bring us some sake?”

“I can’t drink,” Naoya informs them as he walks forward to sit before Geto, mirroring his daughters with their legs tucked beneath them. “Alcohol, that is. Water’s fine.”

“Water, then, Suda, for us both.” Geto slowly sits upright as the woman ducks back out the door, his every movement graceful and measured. Naoya, with his slouches and vague gestures, is almost envious of how easy it seems. “I confess to bear some curiosity of my own! I wasn’t at all expecting a sorcerer at my doorstep today, let alone an old associate looking to … re-acquaint themselves. From my school days, no less. You seem to have changed much more than I ever expected, Zen’in Naoya.”

Naoya laughs it off easily, dismissively. “Ah, well, it has been a long time!”

“Tell me, why now?”

“Ah, well … hm, how to put this. Have you ever felt a lot of tiny stressors all build up on you, and you don’t quite notice until something big gets dropped on it all?” Naoya presses a hand to his chest, smile dropping. “That something big hit me lately, and … I find myself increasingly at odds with my family, content as they are to maintain the status quo. I’ve been seeking a way to make things right, and I thought if anyone would have it, it would be you.”

It’s a careful show of half-genuine weakness. A moment of vulnerability, a crack allowed to peek through the veneer. Only a moment, before he steels himself, straightening again, proud and arrogant and hiding that insecurity deep down inside. Just like with Naobito, Naoya offers up his weakness on a silver platter, waiting to be taken advantage of. Suda hands him a glass of water, and he accepts it with a nod and nothing more.

“I see,” Geto says slowly, gently. There’s sympathy there, set against the glint of opportunistic cunning. As sharp as a knife and just as liable to cut you if you handle it incorrectly. “I understand, my friend. Much the same happened to me so very long ago … truly, so many of those I call family will have experiences like ours. It’s so very unjust, isn’t it, to live our lives in service to those - the unappreciative masses?”

(Ah, so he has the presence of mind to tone down the crazy on a first meeting with a prospective ally.)

Naoya nods in slow agreement. “It’s never made sense to me, I can admit that. Our family is an old and proud one. We’ve long since stood against the changes pushed on sorcerers by those in control, and our tradition dictates the strong hold dominion over the weak. Power lies with those who have power. It’s only natural.” He struggles to bring up the right amount of anger for a moment, fumbling within himself until he grasps at that earlier thought. Maki, beaten bloody for the crime of bad genetics. He lets his anger choke him, drip venom into his voice. “Why should I be brought to heel, thanklessly protecting the weak from the evil they make?”

“So unfair,” Geto agrees lowly. “The Zen’in clan have always had the right idea of matters, of course, but I find our forebears are so often afraid of taking the next step. Sometimes tradition inhibits us.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Naoya says, straightening further. “That’ll be my duty one day, after all.”

“And you wish for my aid, is that it?” 

“Your … guidance, Geto-san. You’re powerful, yes, but you’re also years ahead of me in this matter. I seek answers, not strength.”

Geto finally takes a sip of his own water, breaking the illusion of a divine otherworldly being elevated above the common man. Naoya considers him, and considers his next move in the brief moments of reflection Geto takes.

In truth, he’s here for the proximity. He needs to get his hands on a few inches of that rope Miguel carries, and that’s it. Maybe he can benefit more, but in the short period of time before the Parade, he doubts he has the time.

He’s here for the rope, but he cannot just tell Geto that. But … what does Zen’in Naoya have to offer that will be enough to deem him worthy of this company? 

The answer is the same as it always has been. Knowledge. There’s so much he doesn’t know, it’s all to easy to forget the things he does. Naoya has a mix of half-truths and outright lies on his tongue, and the readiness to use them.

“I’d be interested in whatever it is you’re seeking, Zen’in Naoya,” Geto decides eventually, smile warm and gentle. “I may not have every answer you seek at the ready, but if nothing else, I am happy to always be a listening ear.” (And, he’d wager, an ally to a powerful sorcerer clan in the future.)

Naoya forces his shoulders to relax just a bit, leaning forward on his knees. “What do you know about soul transfiguration?”

Geto gestures instead of answering. “Go on.”

Naoya breathes in, breathes out. “It’s a scarcely-recorded phenomena,” he decides, “one that I could only find a few traces of, in texts I … am not exactly permitted to have been reading, you understand. An event in which, through cursed technique or some other use of a curse I don’t fully understand, a non-sorcerer has awoken sorcerer powers.”

The man and his daughters have both gone a little stiff, and Naoya catches Suda throwing him a suspicious look. “Such a thing is impossible,” Geto says eventually. Gotcha.

“That’s what I thought, too,” Naoya agrees eagerly with a nod. “Until I saw it myself. Not directly - but I’m not so stupid as to be unable to tell the difference.”

“Huh?” The blonde girl - shit, he doesn’t remember which is which - cuts in, seemingly unable to contain herself. “You’re telling me some stinky monkey became a sorcerer without us knowing about it?”

“Nanako,” says her sister, “don’t interrupt.”

“Ah, so you don’t know about it either,” Naoya sighs, feigning disappointment. “I thought for certain …”

“Can you tell us more?” Geto asks, a little too intently, trying a little too hard to pretend to be calm and unruffled as Naoya gleefully sows the seeds of what might be doubt.

“He claims to have had a strange encounter … a shady individual with scars on their head, directly linked to the sudden awakening of his powers. I haven’t seen him for some time, but I can personally verify he didn’t have an ounce of jujutsu in his blood beforehand. If he hadn’t - well. He could have gone as far as a grade one, if he were still with us. Such raw potential …”

Geto’s sleek elegant robes are bunched in a clenched fist, and the man visibly takes a deep breath to recollect himself. “No, I’m afraid I’ve heard even less on the topic than you have,” he murmurs, as gently as ever. “And I’m afraid we don’t have much more time to discuss the matter. That said -” and he reaches out, taking Naoya’s scarred hands in his own- “I implore you to seek us out when you learn more, Zen’in Naoya. If we may aid each other, spare each other future suffering, it is our duty, is it not? I’d be … very interested to hear your future findings.”

Naoya squeezes his hands, giving him a resolute nod. 

“Of course, Geto-san. You can count on me.”

naoya [5:34]
shoko
he’s kinda hot
:(

“And you’re sure you’re up for this?” 

Naoya, admittedly, doesn’t have the best impression of Kusakabe. The man’s a coward in his memory, not cruel by any means but self-interested in a way beyond Naoya’s comprehension. Still, the man’s gone out of his way to invite his new coworker over to give him a show around the place proper, and a rundown of his future students - a duo who have apparently run the man ragged. “It’s not that they’re bad kids, but Hakari doesn’t care for anything outside of fighting, and Hoshi … I don’t know what’s up with him these days.”

Naoya hums, comparing that to what he knows about the two. He won’t make any judgements on Kusakabe, not … yet. If he were to guess, with the unfair advantage he’s got? Hakari’s bored with his teacher and his lessons, and Kirara’s not out - either to her teacher or the school entirely. That sounds stressful. He can’t blame her if classes are harder for it. “I think I’m probably more interesting than you,” he decides, giving the man a thoughtful look.

“... thanks? Listen, Zen’in -”

“Naoya, please,” he corrects automatically.

“ Naoya . This is … I’m not putting you down or anything, but you can’t expect to have an easy time with these two.” Kusakabe tells him, chewing on a long-devoured lollipop stick. “They aren’t interested in doing worksheets, don’t pay attention in class, barely split up for missions … I’m not sure they’re really the right class to be your first.”

“I like a challenge,” Naoya answers evenly. “And none of that is nothing I can’t work with, right? Oral quizzes, joint missions, it’s not like that’s hard.” He offers the man a hard candy from his pocket. After a moment, Kusakabe accepts. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, or that I’m even entirely qualified for this, and I’m sure I’ll have, like … a million annoying questions. But I can compromise.”

Kusakabe doesn’t look convinced, so Naoya adds, “and it’s not like I can fuck them up worse, right?” and the man can’t really refute that, so he begrudgingly agrees.

It’s an absolute miserable downpour on Naoya’s first day as a teacher, with a pitch-black sky and icy rain pelting everything mercilessly. It feels like a bad omen - but most things feel like a bad omen when you know society may end in less than a year’s time. He brings an umbrella and squashes the feeling.

Naoya’s like, fifty percent sure he can find his way around on his own thanks to Kusakabe’s tour. It may be wasteful to use Freeze Frame to navigate around, but on the plus side, he has all the time in the world to look for the right classroom, while minimizing the odds of running into the fiend.

It’s an odd surprise to find his two new students actually in the classroom before him - it’s early, and neither of them really struck him as diligent student types, something that aligned with their former teachers’ warnings. He thinks he remembers Hakari’s grades being the lowest out of all the students … it’s why he’s here. To be strict and impart traditional values or whatever. Pointless.  

(Sometimes he just wants to scream at everybody that Shibuya is less than ten months away, and none of this matters.)

He takes a good look at them before doing anything else. Hakari Kinji’s leaning backwards in his chair at a concerningly dangerous angle, feet kicked up on his desk, head craned to the side. Hoshi Kirara is showing him … a meme on her phone. Naoya thinks of it as horribly outdated before belatedly remembering that it’s not their fault he’s a jaded internet user stuck in the past, and it’s probably a passable, modern, and funny joke in this day and age. Neither of them are really adhering any sort of dress code, but Hoshi is at least wearing her uniform jacket, so … that counts for something. 

(She doesn’t have the little streak in her hair yet. It’s shorter, too - maybe she only just started growing it out.)

They don’t look ready to learn, or … whatever. He wasn’t really expecting them to. He sure as shit wouldn’t be if he had to deal with the higher ups’ bullshit for what’s gonna be going on three years soon.

Naoya just has the advantage of being a freak of nature, with foreknowledge that makes him horribly fond of them both without having met them. He hopes they drive him fucking crazy.

“Good morning,” he greets, dropping Freeze Frame and appearing directly behind them, one hand tucked behind his back and the other catching the back of Hakari’s chair before he can fall on his head. It’s always fun to scare people with his technique, and he does want to make a bit of a splash with these two. His other hand snags Hoshi’s phone from the air in what he thinks was a panicked toss at his head, and he hands it back to her without even glancing at the screen. Attention suitably grabbed, Naoya claps his hands together and steps to the front of their desks instead. “I’m Zen’in Naoya, your new instructor while Kusakabe-san is away. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

The two gawk at him a little. He takes it as an invitation to continue.

“Speaking bluntly, I was placed here to act as a traditionalist counterbalance to Gojo Satoru’s … loose and irresponsible approach to teaching. I don’t actually intend to do any of that, but if anyone asks, I’m imparting things like elder respect and … sexism, and whatever.”

Hakari snorts, snapping out of his surprise. “What do we get out of playing along with that?” is his first question, and Naoya decides he adores this little bastard already.

“You get the benefit of what I’m actually going to teach you. And if you put in the effort, I’ll endeavour to extend my assistance in social and political matters. That’s the part you’re interested in, yes, Mister Hakari?”

Hakari leans back in his chair again, crossing his arms. “Me? Nah. Model student right here. Peak of attendance and … good grades. If the rest of that stuff happens it’s just ‘cause I’m a good damn student.”

“Naturally,” Naoya agrees placidly.

Hoshi raises her hand, a little timidly - unlike her, but he supposes he is a strange man from a family with a Reputation. “And what's it you’re gonna be teaching us, Zen’in-sensei?”

“Everything and anything I can, Miss Hoshi!” He almost kicks himself for not checking that beforehand. Nobody wants to be assigned gender by teacher , after all - but his worry’s for nothing, because her whole face lights up. Her excited little squeak at his address adds a year to his lifespan.

(Hakari immediately strips that year right back off of his lifespan by falling backwards again. On purpose, this time?)

“We’ll be balancing your normal subjects a bit more loosely with sorcery lessons, to give you a little more breathing room. Allow me to demonstrate what I can do,” he announces, as he resumes time once more holding the back of Hakari’s chair upright. “Beyond interfering with Mister Hakari’s desire to concuss himself, I mean. If you two would,” he takes a few steps back, into the mostly-empty part of the sad oversized classroom with its two desks. “We’ll start today’s lesson simply. I’d like either of you to attempt to land a hit on me. No techniques just yet. Throwing things is permitted.”

Neither of them needs much more than that. ‘Say what you will about their student track record,’ he thinks, as the world melts to a stop, ‘they’re eager when you engage them.Or maybe only when you ask them to hit you.’ Hakari’s mid-punch, and Hoshi’s thrown a water bottle that he thinks would miss even if he didn’t use Freeze Frame to move. He grabs it only so her things don’t end up damaged - the stickers are too cute to risk. Not even a second ticks by, and he’s standing a foot to the left, water bottle abruptly displaced into his hand.

He holds up his stopwatch and clicks the timer. “You have five minutes to hit me. Go.”

Predictably, neither of them manages it - as soon as the timer’s up, he hands Hoshi back her water bottle, shoe, phone, and Hakari’s phone, which she gives back to him a little sheepishly.

“There’s no way it’s been five minutes yet, though,” she protests, even as he holds the timer up to show her.

“Five minutes for me, Miss Hoshi. I believe this has been an excellent display of my cursed technique. I’m not going to be training you against it yet,” he holds up a hand to stave off any potential protests, “because it’s the sort of technique that can’t be countered. I am, however, going to be employing it frequently in our lessons together. If you are going to get injured, or make a severe mistake, I am going to endeavour to fix it before you can. If you are in danger, I will be there to protect you. All you have to do is ask, and I will make you untouchable. To date, I have found nothing that can interact with Freeze Frame, let alone counter it.” He smiles, clapping again. “And I rely on it far, far too much! I’m still learning all of this, just as you are. All I need from you two as students is to outpace me in everything I learn. Think you can keep up?”

Chapter Text

Naoya, teacher extraordinaire, discovers that the easiest way to not run into Gojo is to simply not be anywhere on campus. 

This would be a problem, hypothetically, but as of yet there’s no one really stopping him from just … taking the kids out. Field trips , he calls them, even though they’ve been a daily occurrence in the five days since he started and they haven’t really visited many fields at all. It’s fun, and he feels like they get some good work in all the same. The city is a great place to study curses and the places they live in, and there’s always unclaimed missions or unreported infested areas to investigate for some actual combat practice. He dedicates a lot of his time just getting to know them, beyond their techniques and their skills - he learns their coffee shop orders and lunch preferences, he learns that Kiara isn’t out to any of the staff or other students yet, just Kinji and now himself; he learns that Kinji really enjoys tagging along on Naoya’s missions to see the types of curses an “honorary special grade” takes on - and he learns that he would do anything for either of them, even when he has to rationalize the use of nearly every lesson they go through before they bother paying attention.

(It works, though, because if none of the three of them can come up with a good reason why a lesson is of any use to their future selves, Naoya skips it.)

They both look at him strangely when he promises out of the blue to quit if they ever get expelled, but it took far less than five days for them to accept him as more than a little odd.

(He doesn’t notice that they learn just as much about him in turn. He doesn’t question when he’s left with his preferred flavours after letting them take first pics of any snacks, or how Hakari is always casually standing at his side when he needs to lean on something solid and catch his breath. Kirara has started a list of his favourite flavours after he memorized theirs. Kinji remembers every song the man seems to like, compiling a hefty spotify playlist and searching incessantly for the ones he sometimes sings that they’ve never heard. They have a handful of theories as to who Higuruma is, all based entirely off of the fondness on their sensei’s face when he mentions the man.)

And the kids had been over the moon when Kirara had accepted the soda Naoya bought her and reflexively chucked it at the man, hitting him for the first time entirely by accident. Naoya thinks he probably shouldn’t reward his students for throwing things at him … and then rewards it anyways.

Kinji is quickly proven the best scrapper of the three of them by far (and demonstrates it by kindly wiping the floor with Naoya more than once, complaining about how mediocre he is without his technique), and when they find an abandoned parking lot or empty stretch of pavement, the teenage boy takes great joy in sitting back and watching them throw punches at each other. Or, watching Kirara throw punches at Naoya, who mostly dodges and deflects and still sometimes gets hit. She’s learned through trial and error that hitting him usually makes him activate Freeze Frame entirely subconsciously, and in just a few days of practice she’s stopped telegraphing her hits nearly as much. She’s learned to strike like a viper, coiled and then springing so suddenly he can’t predict it. Useless against curses, maybe, but threatening to be deadly against curse users.

He prays she won’t need it, but doesn’t dare risk her not knowing.

“I don’t see the point in wasting time with learning English,” Kinji grumbles, hands stuffed in his pockets as the three make their way to Naoya’s next mission. The kids are constant tagalongs, able to test their fangs on higher-grade curses safely under his watch while he gets some work done. “Not like curses speak anything worth hearing.”

History comes easily to Naoya, easily enough to make it interesting - though, truly, sorcerer history is interesting - and the less said about math the better, but any other subject is one they have to negotiate whenever it comes up. He’s grown quickly used to bribing his darling students into learning.

“I’ve met a few who curses could speak as well as you or I,” Naoya tells him offhandedly. “Besides - it’s not about curses. You never know when you’ll meet a foreign sorcerer or curse user.” No response to that, but he can feel Hakari’s eye-roll, so he adds, “... and if you get good at it, once you graduate I can take you to Vegas.”

“I’ll be the best damn English student you ever had, sensei! Who thinks language classes are useless? Not me!” Naoya affectionately claps his shoulder.

“Do you gamble, sensei?” Kirara questions, as they duck under the police tape and into an empty lot holding only a row of condemned warehouses.

“Eh, only with fate. I cheat at cards, so no one plays with me anymore.”

“Ah … ! With your technique?”

“Hm. Y’know, I probably could. I meant card counting, but, yeah. I’ll have to try that sometime. Good idea, Kirara.” He snaps, pointing at them. “Curtain?”

Kinji’s the first to raise his hand, eyes closing. “ Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness…”

The other two wait for the barrier of night to start dripping down the sky before they continue.

“Do you use your technique for … anything else?”

“What, you’re asking if I shoplift ?” Naoya questions, scanning the warehouse interior for their target. A big ugly baboon-like curse, rocking back and forth in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the crushed remains of old crates and equipment. It’s intimidating to behold, with stringy wet hair and lips pulled all the way back over its face to show off an ugly mass of crooked yellowed teeth. Eugh. “Yeah, all the time. Look alive, kids, show me whatcha got.”

… he probably also shouldn’t be confessing to crimes to his students, but he thinks they respect him more for it?

The two are a deadly duo in action, not for technique synergy but for the easy trust and reliance between each other. He’s not sure if they’re together by this point in time, but the affection they hold for each other is obvious. They know each other’s shortcomings, and know to rely on the others’ strength. Naoya hangs back, raising his arm to let Kirara snag one of his daggers as she slips by him, before lifting his fingers. They’re good kids, and they work well with him when they want to. It’s his duty to keep them safe as they grow.

Freeze Frame : Frameskip. An adaptation of Naoya’s innate time-stopping technique, allowing him to tick time forward by a nanosecond at will without dropping out of his technique fully - essentially, allowing himself to view the world around him as a frame-by-frame slideshow.  

Kirara dances close enough to touch the curse, and Naoya’s attention is laser-sharp as he drags his view forward tick by tick, watching every subtle movement to ensure she ducks out of range safely. Holding his breath when using Freeze Frame is dangerous even now, but he finds he does it subconsciously whenever his kids get a little too close, too bold. She evades the razor-sharp claws nimbly, pressing her fingers to the knife she had jammed into her belt loops, charged with Naoya’s cursed energy. He can feel the resonance - if he pauses Frameskip where it is it would sing eternally through his bones - and he doesn’t need a mirror to know she’s placed ★Gacrux on the back of his neck. The curse is now locked into the constellation’s order, forced to go through Kinji before reaching either of them. Kinji closes the gap easily, all melee force, brutally sharp blows paced so quickly the baboon-curse can’t keep up. He’s a heavy-hitter, and well-practiced with Kirara’s technique. When the curse moves to attack the more vulnerable of the two, it’s sent careening back into Kinji. Naoya holds his breath for that, too, but he’s worried for nothing. The boy’s ready for it, sending the massive thing flying beyond him and crumpling into a far wall. 

Naoya lets that moment linger for longer than he needs to, observing their identical wide grins at their victory. He’ll have to remind them not to celebrate until their enemy is certifiably down for the count, but it’s cute when they’re excited all the same. 

He flicks forward a frame, then two, pausing again and considering the way the curse’s form is warping, as if tugged by some unseen force. That’s unlike any of their techniques, and Naoya turns his head to glance back at the warehouse’s door. A party crasher, and one he wants far away from his students. Fuck. Fuck.

… not one who will hurt them, though, at least there’s that. He has to hope the meager trust he’s built with them will survive this.

The world resumes as Geto Suguru effortlessly compresses the curse into a ball in the palm of his hand - and Naoya doesn’t think to warn any of them as Kirara’s technique stays in effect, and the curse-ball still marked as ★Imai hits Kinji right between the eyebrows.

“Geto-san,” Naoya greets serenely, the only one in the building not lightly stunned by whatever just happened. “I wasn’t expecting to run into you here.” He tosses his students a Look as he speaks, even as the polite smile remains plastered on his face. Kirara drops her technique, but neither of them moves closer, Kinji staring intently at the sphere of cursed energy in his fingers and Kirara fixing Geto with a look of ugly recognition. 

“Ah, these must be your … students?” Geto questions in that soft, soothing voice of his, one that does nothing for Naoya’s nerves. “Marvellous work, you two. It does so warm my heart to see young sorcerers supporting each other. I pray you don’t mind if I borrow your teacher for a moment …?”

They look at each other, and not at Naoya. “Yeah, sure,” Kinji says after a moment of silent communication. “Get the old man off our back for a while, right?” He’s passing the curse’s remains back and forth between his hands, and as Naoya turns back to Geto, he can feel that sharp glare piercing the back of his neck.

Geto places a hand easily on Naoya’s shoulder, gently steering him away, content to turn his back on his students. “I’ve been thinking a lot on what you’ve told me, Zen’in Naoya. This awakening you pursue. I’m sorry to tell you I do truly believe it to be impossible.”

“Is that so,” Naoya answers, trying to sound disappointed instead of wary.

“At least on the scale we desire, I’m afraid it just can’t be done.” Geto squeezes him gently, and it’s nowhere near the bruising grip of his father but it feels just as deadly. “Truly impossible. It hurt my heart to imagine you pursuing such a hopeless dream … please, forgive me for being the bearer of bad news.”

Naoya mimics Geto’s earlier actions, reaching out to take the man’s hands in his own. “I … don’t know if I can thank you for it, Geto-san, but I’m sure I will, in time.”

“It’s not the only option,” Geto soothes him, leaning in closer. His melodic voice is bordering on seductive, and Naoya thinks if he didn’t know better that this man could pull at every bruised heartstring and mold him like clay in his hands. “We simply need to kill every non-sorcerer, bringing an end to this nightmarish cycle and allowing humanity to evolve past this stagnation!”

… yeah. Good thing Naoya knows better.

He allows his discomfort to show on his face. “I’m tired of all the violence, Geto-san.” He pointedly doesn’t look back at Kirara and Kinji. “I don’t know if I have the stomach for what you’re suggesting, not if …”

“There’s no other way,” Geto tells him solemnly. “Surely you don’t want your students to suffer as we have?”

“... I won’t stand in your way, Geto-san,” Naoya tells him quietly. “You have my full support for the world you desire.”

“That’s all I ask,” Geto tells him, and Naoya’s certain he’s lying. “Why don’t you come meet the rest of my family sometime? Soon, we’ll all be together, in preparation for the next step. Everyone’s very eager to get to know you.”

“Really?” Naoya puts on a slight smile, straightens as if remembering himself. “I mean - of course they are. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Marvellous!” Geto draws back, turning that deceitful smile onto his students. “I’ll be taking my leave now, if you’d be so kind … ?”

“Sure,” says Kinji, and when Naoya turns back to them neither of them budges. Very pointedly, Kinji pockets the curse.

Geto doesn’t so much as twitch, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m sure I’ll see you all again very soon.” With a lazy wave, the man turns on his heel and saunters off.

Naoya waits until he’s well and truly gone before wheezing out a ragged “phew,” letting his shoulders drop. He needs to stop holding his breath as he gets tense. “Kin. Rara. Do you know who that was?”

Kinji shakes his head slowly, while Kirara answers in a terse voice, “they say he’s the worst curse user there ever was.”

“Maybe not ever,” Naoya concedes, straightening again and wiping his palms on his pants. “Sukuna existed, after all. The worst alive, easily. He’s killed hundreds. He’s … very, very dangerous, you two, do you understand me?”

“Then why were you acting all buddy-buddy a moment ago?” Kinji accuses, pointing a finger his way. “Seemed pretty chummy to me.”

“Because he has something I need,” Naoya answers flatly. “And because I didn’t want to give him reason to hurt you.”

The two look at each other, and nod in another unspoken exchange. Kinji pulls the curse back out and hands it to his teacher, and they fall back in step with him, all silently agreeing they’re eager to get out of this place. 

“Are you friends with any other terrorists we should know about?” Kirara questions, the start of what he suspects will be an entirely unsubtle interrogation.

“Not yet. I will be, if I’m lucky.”

Kinji wrinkles his nose, and he can see the moment when his kids conclude he’s crazier than they thought. Kirara’s the one to ask, “ why , though?”

“... would you laugh if I told you that I was from the future?” Naoya quotes, thinking back to the movie he shared with Higuruma. “Really, though. I’ve got a bad feeling that something big is coming for us. All of us. You know how I don’t remember anything from my life before? People … want to take advantage of that a lot. I let them think they’re successful … and if I play my cards right, I can save a lot of people.”

Kirara chews her lower lip. “... you cheat at cards, sensei.”

He smiles at her. “Exactly!”

Kinji sighs, throwing a heavy arm over his shoulder. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think I’m ready for some peace and quiet on campus after that. Hey, not before we get lunch, though. You promised.”

Sensing himself maybe-forgiven, if not fully trusted, Naoya bumps his head against his student’s shoulder. “I promised. You pick the place, I’ll pay.”

(Not trusted, but decidedly forgiven, as they make a game of swiping his fries and sneaking unwanted pickles onto his plate. They’re good kids, but god, they certainly are kids .)

Despite what people tend to think of him, Hakari Kinji is not stupid.

People define smart very literally. People look at his grades and assume he’s stupid. Worse, they don’t even look at those, just accept him at face value as a slacker and an idiot. He’s neither, and the real idiots are the ones who think schoolwork defines a guy’s smarts. 

Scratch that, the real idiots are the ones who think smarts define a guy’s worth .

But Kinji’s plenty smart. He can read the flow of battle like he was born to do it, see incoming moves in the shifts of bodies no matter how oddly-shapen. He can react under pressure without a second’s pause, and he knows it ‘cause he’s done it, time and time again. He’s good with people, too - at least, he can always tell when something’s wrong, and he knows when to back off and when to push for a good brawl to get those ugly feelings out.

Kinji’s not stupid, and he can tell Zen’in-sensei knows it. The guy’s weird, capital-W-Weird, even. Way too friendly and easygoing, but hey, if a guy can freeze time with a snap, there can’t be much he feels challenged by. And he can do that! Zen’in-sensei is powerful, the type of impossible crazy strong that gets Kinji’s blood pumping, the loftiest of goals to dream of attaining. Not just with his technique, which is basically a sure-hit effect without a domain expansion, times a million. No, he’s just strong. His cursed energy is an endless well constantly spilling out of him, and he’s got this sharp thoughtful look to him wherever they go. Kinji bets the guy’s constantly aware of everything, all the time. No matter how many times he sees it, he’ll never get used to Zen’in-sensei telling them “ah, give me five seconds to knock this out”, and then four seconds later reappearing in front of them eight hours wearier and with a hefty collection of local curses crossed off his list. Crazy strong. Maybe he’s biased towards the man who’s now their teacher, who buys them meals and understands Kin’s grades don’t make him stupid and has only ever seen Kirara as a girl, without needing to be told. Maybe he’s biased, but he likes to think Zen’in-sensei could be the strongest.

Which is why he worries. He worries when that monk holds his teacher by the shoulder and a line of tension creeps up the man’s back. He worries when Zen’in-sensei scans the crowds after passing someone with silver hair, only to relax when he sees some old geezer going about their day. He worries when the man’s mind seemingly slips away from reality at random moments, growing entirely unaware of his surroundings as Kirara and Kinji bracket him protectively until he comes back to them.

He worries, because Zen’in-sensei may very well be the strongest , and Kinji is afraid one day they may meet whatever it is that terrifies him so much.

Naoya’s left his students with a long weekend to themselves, impressed by their determined attempts at a full week of catch-up work. They’ve headed off into the city without him but with an allowance from their overindulgent new teacher, with Naoya instead appointing himself to the rewarding task of accompanying Shoko out to Kyoto. She has her own car but they take the train anyways, both for the sake of time and because they’re both exhausted people who shouldn’t be behind the wheel. She laughs in his face when she first sees his now-routine habit of using Freeze Frame to help himself to coffee from the hands of strangers. With December’s early chill creeping in more and more every day, he’s gone from iced coffee to anything warm he can get his hands on - more often than not he swipes his picks directly from counters or baristas. Shoko, for some reason, finds this funny.

“Gross,” she tells him. “I hope you at least swap out the straw first.”

“You’re jealous of my overpowered immune system and capacity to put other peoples’ spit in my mouth,” he tells her, disregarding to add that swapping out the straw is the first thing he does.

“Sure,” she agrees. “Tell yourself that. Kinda sad, you know, indirectly kissing strangers on the street. Makes you seem needy.”

“It’s - I’m saving money.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.” She tugs a lock of his hair before stepping forward to board the train, urging him to follow on her heels. He feels a bit like a guard dog on a leash at her beck and call - but it’s a nice feeling, in a way. Shoko’s combat abilities were neglected during her schooling in favour of her medical knowledge, or so she’s claimed, and with Naoya at her side she’s all but untouchable.

“I’m not needy,” he tells her insistently as they find seats side-by-side. She can’t smoke on the train, and insists she’s trying to quit, so Naoya keeps slipping her hard candies whenever she’s not paying attention, even as he tries in vain to defend his honour. “I spend all day avoiding a man and you think I desire them?”

“Woah, never said anything about men,” she tells him, lifting her eyebrows. “Methinks the brain doth protest?”

“I’m not needy. Shut up.” He elbows her.

“I didn’t say anything.”

He sticks his tongue out at her and hands her another candy.

The Kyoto campus isn’t dissimilar from the Tokyo one, just in a different place, marked with different residuals. He hadn’t realized how much he noticed it before, the slight thrum in the air of multiple cursed energy signatures all in the same area. He suspects part of it is the combined effects of Gojo and Okkotsu, because Kyoto feels still in comparison. Quiet.

He stays by her side as they head in, because they have the same destination. Haibara Isako returned to school not long after she was cleared to be up and about, after all. Shoko wants to see how she’s adjusting, and Naoya … well, largely has the same motive, but he also has some questions he hopes she can answer.

Isako’s not alone, tucked away in a clinic somewhere. She’s sitting in one of the campus’ kitchens with who Naoya assumes are her friends - who he recognizes! The little witch-girl, Momo and Miwa. They’ll be second and first years, respectively, he’s pretty sure. Meaning Isako maybe doesn’t have any yearmates? Lonely. He hopes Kusakabe’s being good to whichever class he has - and hopes they’re less trouble than his two.

“Hey, kids,” Shoko greets, as she and her escort invite themselves in. Miwa’s braiding Isako’s hair for her, and Momo’s painting the nails on her remaining hand. It’s sweet. Maybe some attempt at normalcy. “Isako, I’m here to check in on your recovery.” She points a thumb at Naoya. “I don’t really know what he’s here for.” Naoya waves helpfully.

“We can do it here,” Isako says with an easy shrug. Her voice is sweet, in sharp contrast with a tone that leans more moody. Well, she is a teenager, and one who just went through something traumatic. “Nothing the girls haven’t heard before by this point, right?”

“R-right!” Miwa agrees.

“Do I know you?” Momo asks, looking Naoya up and down skeptically.

“I hope not!” Naoya tells her, cocking his head to the side. “Mei Mei and I were the ones who were investigating the shrine mission. I wanted to ask Isako some questions about it, but I can step out for a bit if you’d prefer.”

Isako makes a harsh scoffing noise in the back of her throat. “You saved my sorry ass after I fucked up, you mean. Man, I just … I was supposed to be getting better. Getting stronger.”

“Everyone fucks up,” Naoya tells her, pulling out a chair for Shoko and then sitting beside her.

“You ever fucked up this bad?” She shrugs the shoulder her arm used to be attached to. She’s got less than half of her upper arm left, now, with her sleeve tied in a knot beneath it.

“Hmmm. I fucked up so bad I got factory reset? Like an iPhone?”

“... yeah, that’s pretty good. What do you wanna know, Reset-san?”

That’s a new one! And a single step away from making him sound like a Nintendo character. He likes it. “Can you tell me about what happened beforehand?”

“Everything was awesome and then I died,” Isako deadpans. When Naoya doesn’t react, she groans, leaning back to rest her head on Miwa. “Ugh. No, it’s - I feel like such an idiot, because there were so many red flags. I should have known something was up, y’know? Like how empty the town was - completely. Not a soul half my hike in. And the way the air started getting hot, like, midsummer noon hot, not autumn-afternoon hot, y’know? You probably felt it. I was just … bitching to myself about the heat, and not thinking things through. And then this woman and I just scare the shit out of each other -“

“A woman?” he questions. “The town was empty.”

“Yeah, exactly! Why didn’t I question some random woman strolling about? She was even headed to the shrine, and I didn’t think twice about it!” Isako slams a fist into the table, then holds her hand out apologetically to Momo, who has to wipe away her work and start again. “Shit, sorry. I just … ugh. I let her give me directions. And then she just strolled off, changing directions and everything. And then I walked right in and boom, floor opened up. I … you don’t need me to tell you the rest, right?”

She was down there for so long. Naoya shakes his head slowly. “No, I’d … much rather prefer you didn’t, actually.” The scars encircling her single palm match his hands. Neither of them comments on it. “Can you tell me more about the woman, instead? Did she have any defining characteristics, or items on hand? No one was with her?”

Isako chews her lower lip. “Nah, she was like … super average. Kinda milfy, I guess, y’know,” she takes her hand back to gesture in the shape of a much larger chest than her own. “Short hair, but not like, short-short. Um, what else … sorry, I’m drawing a total blank.”

“This much has already been a huge help,” he assures her. “I really appreciate it. In the future, Utahime-san has asked me to be ready to come with any of you kids on solo missions she’s worried about, so … don’t be a stranger if you see me out and about! And let me know if anything else comes to mind.” The girls all murmur their assent, and Naoya pushes back from the table. “All yours, Shoko! Yell when we’re due to leave.”

Naoya follows his awareness of cursed energy instead of his mind, wandering almost aimlessly as he turns over the new information Isako offered him. Something had seemed off about the whole affair, not just with Sukuna’s finger … but also, yeah, with the finger. He’d think Yuji might have heard, if one of the fingers was deemed responsible for the girl’s death. Or maybe not … ? No, it may be weird if Yuji heard that, actually. He forgets too easily that Yuji likely never even knew of Haibara, as far as memory serves. Hm. It still sits sour on his tongue for some reason he can’t place.

Naoya’s snapped out of his thoughts abruptly as two figures hurtle around the corner before him. Two boys - one a hulking giant, one slighter, sleeker. Both are visibly geared for combat, every inch of their posture screaming threat! danger!  

Naturally, Naoya stops, looking around for any threat they could be lunging at and finding nothing but empty hallway. The two boys (definitely boys, despite how tall the one is) stare at him instead. 

“It wasn’t a curse at all,” Kamo Noritoshi murmurs, the fight visibly draining out of him. “Ah - Naoya-san! Deepest apologies for our hastiness.” He bows, and only then does Naoya realize the boys registered him as a threat, and sought to kick his ass. Oh, that’s cute.

“No harm done,” Naoya tells him, smiling when he straightens. “You two were quite the scary sight, charging about like that. Though, if I may say - maybe you should have gotten a teacher, if you thought I was a curse strolling about?”

“Right,” Kamo agrees, visibly embarrassed. “It was a … hasty decision.”

“Though, for the record, I am a teacher these days! So, you technically did get one. And you were prepared to react, that shows good initiative. Good work, Kamo-san.” Poor kid’s so uptight and tense he might snap in half if Todo gets any more worked up beside him - the taller of the two has a grin threatening to split his face in half, rocking back and forth on his heels. “And it’s definitely not the first time someone’s made that mistake, so don’t feel too bad. My cursed energy really feels nasty , huh?” 

“Who cares about that!” Todo declares, and Kamo takes a preemptive step away from the boy, a slight hint of dread crossing his refined features. Todo either doesn’t notice or ignores him. “I’ve heard all sorts of conflicting stories about you, Zen’in Naoya, and what I wanna know is -“

Naoya can’t resist cutting him off. “Before you ask me anything - shouldn’t I know who I’m talking to?”

“I’m Todo Aoi! Second year! And,”

“Hey, hey, you think that stuff doesn’t matter, right?” Naoya teases. Kamo is inching further and further out of the hallway, as this conversation devolves further into crazy person territory. Slowly. As to not draw said crazy person attention his way. Naoya generously keeps his half of the crazy person attention on Todo. “What I should wanna know is what kinda girl you like, right?”

Stars shine in Todo’s eyes. “That goes without saying! It’s the best way to tell a person’s character! I appreciate tall women, like Takada!” He swings a pointed finger out with all the passion of a man brandishing a weapon. “Zen’in Naoya! Tell me, what sort of woman do you like?” A brief pause. “It could be a man too, that part doesn’t matter!” 

Naoya thinks it over for a moment. “Hm … well, I guess I like a serious type of character, the sort who works a little too hard and needs to unwind. The type to wear a suit most days … or maybe a uniform?” He thinks a little harder. “Ahh. I think I just described half my coworkers. They need a bit more bite to them than, like, Ijichi. A bit more bloodlust. I’m talking the sort of overworked where they might one day snap and stab you to death with a pair of scissors.”

For some reason, Todo is looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky. “You … want to get stabbed to death … with a pair of scissors?” 

“Well, it’s more like an occupational hazard, right? Like if you skydive for a living, one day your parachute might not deploy.”

“Zen’in-san, you …” Todo clenches a fist, a single tear running down his cheek. “… are an absolute freak ! I don’t understand you at all ! Who answers with something like that ?” 

“Ehhh? But you asked!”

He’s not sure if he should be proud or ashamed that he is, apparently, too much of an incomprehensible weirdo to get his ass kicked by a teenager unprompted.

They don’t get much beyond introductions, Naoya trying to coax Kamo to re-enter their radius now that the threat has passed, when he hears a voice call, “Reset-san!” Isako is waving her arm at him as she hurries to catch up, Shoko on her heels and her friends behind her. “I remembered something about the woman! I dunno how I forgot. She had this - super gnarly scar!”

Naoya’s blood goes cold. “Across her forehead, right? Like stitches.”

“Eh - yeah, that’s it! You’ve met her?” He wants to answer yes, for all that it’s a lie he’d be unable to explain away.

Shoko catches up, drawing forward and putting a hand on his arm before he can answer anything at all. “Naoya. We need to head back.”

“Something happened?” Something tells him the dread in her tone has nothing to do with Kenjaku, and she proves him right as soon as she opens her mouth.

“Geto Suguru just declared war.”

Chapter Text

“Did you know?” Shoko asks him on the train ride back to the Tokyo campus, her head leaning listlessly against his shoulder.

“That Geto was gonna turn up as soon as he didn’t have to face us?” He answers, arm hooked around her to keep her warm. “No. I … think it’s likely for the best, though. I would have done something stupid.”

“Mmm,” Shoko hums, closing her eyes. “No you wouldn’t. You … always think way too hard about everything.”

“It doesn’t make me right, Shoko. It just makes me stressed.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the trip. He gently shakes her awake when they arrive, waves Kusakabe from the seats he took a few down from theirs, and tells the duo he’ll catch up in just a few minutes. “I have a few things to check on, first. Take care of her, Kusakabe. Your head if not.” The man nods, a few shades paler suddenly.

Shoko looks suspicious, shaking her head. “You … your timing leaves something to be desired. I hope you know what you’re doing, Naoya.”

“I do too.” And then time stops, and he’s gone.

Geto Suguru is alone, and then he isn’t. 

The curse user is sitting on a windowsill, watching the sunset, contemplating the salvation finally fallen within his grasp - and then there’s a knife against his ribs, and the cloying oppressive energy of an angry curse radiating down his spine.

“Tell me you aren’t going to butcher those students,” Zen’in Naoya whispers, breath cold against the shell of his ear. “Tell me you aren’t building our future on the backs of dead children, Suguru.”

Suguru remains calm, even as he tries to calculate how the sorcerer approached without his or anyone else noticing. “Calm yourself, Zen’in Naoya,” he soothes, tilting his head back with an easy smile. It would be child’s play to disarm him, but he’s a valuable ally - one taking a very direct approach to soothing his fears. Such things must be handled patiently. “Of course not - of course I wouldn’t. Have more faith in me than that, dear friend. It’s all accounted for already.”

Naoya is still, and Suguru levelly meets those empty eyes, offering him easy compassion and receiving cold fear in return. They sit there for a senseless eternity before Naoya’s expression levels into its usual blank state, and he pulls the knife away.

“Of course. Geto-san. Forgive my haste. I …”

Suguru relaxes imperceptibly, rising to his feet. “I understand, dear friend. How could I not? This is an emotionally charged time for all of us. I swear, as the shepherd of our new era - as its herald - I wouldn’t cut short the life of a young sorcerer.”

“... Would you make a vow with me, Geto-san?” Naoya asks him suddenly, leaning in closer. The air crackles like ozone. “Would you swear not to kill my students? Promise me you’ll help me save our world?”

He hasn’t put the knife away entirely, and Suguru wonders, idly, if Zen’in Naoya is threatening him. It’s no matter - he doesn’t need the Zen’in clan’s backing, but it would smooth the road once Rika is within his grasp. The sorcerer world would accept him more easily with that sort of support, and it’s trivial to bind himself to a course of action he already intends on following. He was going to do that anyway, wasn’t he?

“You don’t trust me?” Suguru questions him sweetly. Naoya is a starved little thing, even as he’s sharp and distrustful, swaying closer to honeyed words and easy promises. “If it’s what you need to prove that my intentions are honest, then … by all means, Zen’in Naoya. I swear on our future that I won’t raise my hand to strike down the lives of your precious students unless it is absolutely necessary for victory,” he raises one hand to pacify him, already anticipating Naoya’s displeasure when Okkotsu is dead - Rika is necessary for their victory, after all - “and I swear on my life that I’ll offer you everything within my power to help save our world.”

Naoya smiles at him, placing the compressed form of that baboon curse into his palm gingerly. So easily swayed, this one. No questions, no doubt. It’s so fortunate that Suguru got to him before anybody else.

“All for the future, right? Everything for that brighter tomorrow …” His smile is sharp and predatory, but the warmth in his voice is palpable. “Ah, and don’t go too easy on them! My kids like a challenge.”

Suguru presses a hand to the younger man’s shoulder, smiling back down at him. “I’ll be sure of it, Zen’in Naoya. Come, come! Let’s not dwell on our fears and sorrows when we’re so close to our victory. Come with me. It’s time you met the rest of our family.”

He meets Shoko waiting for him outside of the meeting room. She doesn’t blink when he appears out of nowhere, shoulders heavier with another vow lashed to his soul, smiling and hollow. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he tells her. “Did I miss it?”

She looks him up and down, checking for any obvious injury. He snaps a chocolate-filled straw wafer in half with his teeth and offers half to her - she sighs and accepts. “No, not yet. We haven’t even started yet - Mei Mei hasn’t shown, and Ijichi’s still getting everything together. You took a while, though - you don’t normally do that.”

“Eh …?” He could have sworn Mei should have been here before them … he’s too tired to think about it too much, though. He shrugs and snaps another wafer. Fuck, he’s tired. He should have waited to confront Suguru until tomorrow, but … he had to be sure. He had to be sure he hadn’t changed things too much. “So I could have taken my time a bit more, huh?”

“Don’t slack off, this is serious.” Shoko pauses, taking his wrist in her hand. “... you weren’t … what did you just go do?”

“Just a quick talk,” he soothes. “I’m not crazy enough to go try to take out a special-grade alone, and I don’t kill people, besides.”

“No?” She shakes her head, sighing again. “Maybe it’d be better if you did. Come on, let’s go. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

Yaga is fuming when they arrive, and Naoya would wager he’s been fuming for the past twelve hours or so. Or - no, more like three have passed since Geto’s declaration, right? It’s so easy to lose track. The sunset has stretched on for an eternity.

The mood of the room is dire overall. Naoya puts names to faces quickly - Gojo, who he’s been avoiding up until now; Kusakabe, who settled in without waiting for the two he travelled back with; an empty seat he thinks should hold Mei Mei; Nanami, looking more severe than even the ever-serious anime incarnation from his memories; Ino, looking to Nanami as if for guidance. The other sorcerers in the room are unfamiliar to him, but he’s not surprised to be on the receiving end of a few suspicious stares from the familiar and unfamiliar alike. As he trails after Shoko, he notes a laptop at the other end of the table, holding a video call with Utahime sitting on the other end. 

Right. They don’t know that Geto won’t be a risk to the Kyoto students. It makes sense to keep a teacher there, even one who could never feasibly match him. Realistically, they should have brought Utahime and left Kusakabe … ah, who is he kidding. None of them could handle Geto.

“Where have you been?!” Yaga snaps, and Naoya takes a moment to realize he’s the one being spoken to.

“Kyoto?” he offers, pointing both hands at Shoko. “With Shoko.”

“For two weeks?”

Naoya blinks once, slowly. “No? I work here.” He pauses, tilting his head. “... ah! I’ve been walking around with my technique active between classes. It’s a bad habit.”

Yaga pinches the bridge of his nose, and Naoya pulls out a chair for Shoko, who looks like she’s going to remain standing until she figures he wants to sit beside her. 

“Right,” the principal grits. “We’ll discuss that at a later date. And what’s taking -”

As if on cue, Ijichi stumbles through the door they just came through, arms full of papers. “Sorry for the delay, everybody. Are we all here?” the assistant asks, scanning the room.

“No sign of Mei, then,” Kusakabe notes. “If she’s flaking for a paycheck …”

“I’ll fill her in later,” Utahime promises, voice tinny through the laptop speaker. “She’s been busy with something lately, and won’t tell me what it is.”

(Naoya wonders if his mission was that something.)

None of the information Ijichi presents is anything he hasn’t heard before. Geto Suguru, curse user whose technique allows him to ingest curses and bind them to his will. He’s the suspected cause of the decline in curses lately, using his cult to collect them from the desperate. He has at least two thousand at his command (an unfathomable number, even considering the hundreds Naoya has carved through. An unfathomable number to eat.) - Naoya’s attention slides away from the conversation, considering his own plans. He doesn’t want to engage either side, and they should be fine without them. The Parade is one of the few events he can think of that goes well for them .

He’s snapped right back into the conversation just in time to catch the tail end of Gojo’s musings. “-start a war he wouldn’t win.”

“He’s not trying to win, though, is he,” Naoya says absentmindedly, inspecting his nails. Maybe he can pickpocket Miguel and bail … ? Oh, he’s got to keep Kinji and Kirara from getting suspended, too.

… oh, it’s gotten real quiet. 

Naoya glances up just in time for Yaga to snap, “finish that thought, Zen’in .”

“Ohhh. Scary. Well, in the end, we have our hands tied anyways, don’t we? Even knowing that much, we can’t just ignore the attacks. Too many people would die.” He starts on another of his rapidly dwindling tin of wafers, staring at his reflection in Yaga’s glasses. “Mmm. But I don’t think he’s trying to win, else he probably wouldn’t give us a head’s up. It doesn’t quite line up, right? Even earlier, he threatened but didn’t hurt anyone. He’s got a different game, or two goals at once. It’s like a magician’s trick - you show your audience something to watch, and they don’t pay attention to your other hand.”

He can see gears turning in the heads around him, but Utahime is the one to speak up. “Those curses you mentioned … it won’t have anything to do with that, right?”

“Ahhh … ?” Right, the ones he has Mei hunting. Utahime was there. Shit, he didn’t really want to bring that up here. “No, I’m sure it’s not. Until now, you, myself and Mei were the only ones who knew about those, and my sources are … inaccessible to a guy like him. So maybe don’t bring those up lightly, Miss Utahime.” He lifts his brows meaningfully, and she flushes, mumbling an apology. “Nah, he wouldn’t make a big move like this over something that may or may not even exist, even if he did have some idea.”

“You’re implying he’s after something else, then.” For the first time, Zen’in Naoya and Gojo Satoru make what he assumes is eye contact. So much for ignoring the guy. He can feel the stare, even under those bandages. He can’t see Gojo’s eyes … but it’s intense all the same. Gojo is a nuisance, and cocky, and someone Naoya trusts entirely to make the right decision here - the one he’s already made once. Yuta needs to face this, sooner or later.

Naoya hopes Gojo gets the idea, and hopes that it goes over everyone else here - he smiles and cracks another wafer in his teeth. “Dunno! But it’s a possibility, yeah? Ought to be prepared for it.”

There’s another beat of silence, then Yaga groans, rising into an irritated yell. “Damn it! You’re right, we can’t just ignore this even if he’s moving around behind our backs. God damn! Kiyotaka, put out a call for aid to all alumni. Alert the Kamo clan -” a finger prods Naoya’s way, “-Satoru, Naoya, I trust you with your own.”

Naoya doesn’t even try to hide his cringe. Ah, the punishment for avoiding the other staff: having to interact with his father. Yaga continues, snapping orders. “-this is all out war!”

Shoko squeezes his hand under the table. He hands her a wafer before she can reach for a cigarette.

In a movie, the meeting would end on that last note. But in reality, it continues, even as half the sorcerers present file out, because in reality they need to work out the details of what they’re to do as teachers. The staff remains, Utahime staying on-call, Ino staying because Nanami’s here and Nanami’s staying because … well, he isn’t sure. Naoya stays because Shoko’s here, mostly. He’s not sure why she hasn’t left. 

He could do without Gojo sitting next to him. He’s really trying to ignore that guy. Maybe if he makes enough desperate eye contact with Kusakabe he’ll be miraculously rescued.

“I don’t know if Isako’s ready to be involved in something like this,” Utahime sighs, “but I’m also not sure I can stop her. I’ll assign her to watch the younger students, and hopefully that’ll keep her out of trouble.”

“It’s probably for the best if we don’t bring Yuta along,” Gojo chimes in, still uncharacteristically serious. “Rika’s too large of a threat. And Maki’s not high enough ranked to be involved - Toge’s the only one who is, really, excluding Yuta’s circumstances.” Naoya wonders who the man’s glaring at more; Naoya for Maki getting blocked from promotion, or Yaga for his nepotism with Panda’s likely inclusion.

“I’m confident in our second years being competent enough, but agreeable …?” Naoya muses, tapping his finger against his jaw. “Kin might pick a fight with an ally if he has to work around any of the more conservative clan sorcerers. I think they’d both be better off stationed wherever my relatives aren’t .”

“Ah, wouldn’t that be a sight?” Gojo muses teasingly. Naoya points a wafer at him.

“Not if it’d get my kids in trouble, it wouldn’t.” He hands that cookie to Shoko, too, just as she finishes the first. 

“I’ll look after them, if I can,” Kusakabe promises, even as he looks tense and a little sweaty. “If not, we can ask Nanami. I don’t like the idea of involving the students at all, but there’s nothing to be done about that. Shoko will need extra hands, too, someone should do that.”

“I’ll be there,” Utahime promises brightly. “We’ll make a hell of a team, Shoko!”

Shoko finally seems to be roused from the solemn mood she’d dropped into, smiling faintly at Utahime through the camera. “I’ll count on it.”

“And the rest of us are due on the front lines, is that it?” Naoya guesses, only to grimace when Yaga points at him again.

“Naoya. Be honest with me. Could you kill Geto Suguru?”

Naoya bites the inside of his cheek. “Physically? Sure. It’d probably be easy, even. But I don’t kill people. I’ll ask you not to ask me to do that.” He leans in before Yaga can cut him off. “Beyond that … when Geto dies, I’d suspect every curse he has in him will be freed, instead of dying with him. It’d make things much worse to release however many he has all in one place without evacuating first. It’d be catastrophic. I can handle him, but not even I can handle that.”

“Fuck,” Yaga huffs. “Alright. I still want you on standby. If you’re right about Geto moving around behind our backs, your job is to interfere. If necessary, take him out, one way or another.”

“Yessir,” Naoya agrees, deciding then and there to stay right here at the school and hang back entirely unless something goes entirely wrong. “I’m gonna need time with my old man, so if you don’t need anything else from me …”

Yaga flaps a hand at him, and Naoya gets up - only to pause when Gojo turns to look at him again. “Hey.”

Naoya turns, stares back. He’s not sure what Gojo can See. What he knows. How deeply he can look clear through Naoya’s core. He meets his eyes without seeing them, and prays the blindfolded man can trust him on this.

That serious tone can’t mean anything good.

Gojo stares at him for a long moment, making his hair prickle … and then holds out a hand for a wafer. “Can I have one of those?”

Naoya blinks, once, and holds his tin closer to his chest protectively. “... No.”

And then he’s gone, vanishing before Gojo can elect to annoy him further.

“He’s hiding something,” Satoru murmurs as Naoya makes his split-second departure.

“Yeah,” Shoko agrees wearily, finally getting up. “But he’s on our side.”

“You’re sure about that?” Kusakabe questions, sharp and skeptical. “The interests of the big clans aren’t always the same as ours. You were worried about him making a move on -”

Shoko considers the question, drawing out a cigarette and cutting Kusakabe off abruptly. “He meant it, when he said he wouldn’t kill anybody. That guy’s … different from before. You can trust him.”

Different, huh. Yeah, Satoru supposes that’s true.

A young woman, barely more than a girl, has come to petition the old man who lives alone on this mountain. She is beautiful, with long silky hair cascading like a dark waterfall down her back and eyes like starless nights. She prostrates herself before him, paying no mind to the way the snow outside of his door soaks her fine clothes.

“██████ ███████, I have come to study under you. Take me as your apprentice, and teach me how to live forever.”

Naoya blinks awake as the train rattles to a stop, groaning and rubbing his eyes. He’s really pushing himself too hard lately. The backs of his eyes feel heavy and feverish, his skull jammed full of strange dreams and fuzzy exhaustion. The adrenaline rush from earlier has entirely worn off, and it’s creeping to an absurdly late hour. He could have waited until tomorrow - but he’d like to catch his father early and sober, rather than shaking him awake at … he checks his phone. Half past two in the morning. It’s a far better idea to spend the night at home.

Away from his coworkers. Shoko is their sole saving grace.

Actually dragging his heavy limbs home is a feat in of itself, and he feels faintly as if he could drop and sleep on the floor by the time he makes it back to the building the Hei call home on the Zen’in compound. The cicadas don’t sing at this time of year - the only sound as he walks up the old pathways is the rustling of the trees and the distant rumbling of thunder.

A single light is on somewhere inside, casting dreamlike gold over the lawn as Naoya pulls off his shoes and coat and steps inside.

Jinichi is leaning on a table more than standing beside it, head hanging down, long hair rumpled. Naoya considers leaving him to it. He’s a grown man, it’s his business if he wants to sit alone in an empty well-lit room at this hour.

… but Naoya’s chest holds something hideously soft and kind, even now. “All right, cousin?” he calls gently, taking care not to sneak up on the man. His older relative looks up, brows furrowed and eyes unfocused, almost as tired-looking as Naoya tends to be.

“Naoya,” Jinichi grunts in greeting, running a hand through his hair and straightening in an effort to compose himself. “I wasn’t expecting you to return.”

Naoya hums, setting his coat on the table and moving to put a kettle on. “I’d be shocked if you were, with the hour. I really didn't mean to get home so late …” When did he start calling it home? “You look like you’ve had a rough one.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Jinichi grunts, and says nothing else. Ugh. Men. Unable to accept the natural phenomena of experiencing feelings. “And hardly anything to concern yourself with.”

Naoya just sighs at him. “Yeah, I suppose that’s fair.” The kitchen is still stocked with the cheap black tea he likes, untouched in his absence, and he measures it out absentmindedly. “I didn’t get the impression that we were ever close or anything, and it’s not like I share what’s troubling me, so it’d be hypocritical for me to push. Ahhh, I’ve been around the kids for too long. I don’t usually talk so much.”

“… no, you don’t.” Jinichi accepts the glazed cup Naoya places into his hands, holding it between them. “… you enjoy teaching, then.”

Naoya adds some sugar to his own tea, letting it steep until it’s a little bitter. “Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m not very good at it, but … yeah. My students are the best in the whole world.”

“… they must be powerful, to earn such praise.”

Naoya laughs a little, sitting beside his large cousin. He knows Jinichi is likely not a kind man, but it won’t hurt to sit and talk with him for a while, will it? “I guess so. They aren’t the most diligent duo in the world, but they’ve got spirit in droves. It’s hard not to want to protect them.”

Jinichi huffs, finally sipping his tea and making a face at the taste.

“Ah, is it bad?”

“… no. I like it.” Another sip, as if to prove his point. “You shouldn’t coddle them. You cannot protect them from every curse they’ll face.”

“Can’t I?” Naoya laughs. “No, it’s not curses I worry about, it’s people. Other sorcerers. They’re … a lot of sorcerers are very close-minded. Our clan included.” 

“… Tradition is what keeps us alive. We are noble for our heritage.” 

Naoya hums. “I think some of it’s holding us back. Not just the Zen’in clan, us as sorcerers. Us as people. Makes me feel ambitious. And angry, but I try not to be angry too often. So, ambition.” He smiles up at Jinichi. “If you had been born a woman, you wouldn’t be able to stand among the Hei, no matter how strong you were. Isn’t that sad to think about?”

Jinichi stares at him for a long time, silently. “… you shouldn’t let outsiders poison your viewpoint, Naoya.”

“I’m not.” He shrugs. “I just think any Zen’in should be elevated above the common man. I think Maki inherited Toji’s restriction, you know, only her being a twin made her only get half of it.”

“Maki … Ogi’s daughter?” 

“Mhm.”

“You remember Toji?”

“Am I old enough to have known him … ? Yeah, I guess so. I don't remember-remember him or anything like that. Just the stories.” He finishes off his tea. “He killed a teenage girl, you know. His last mission. Killing a little girl for money.” Naoya stands. “If anyone of this clan tries to do something like that again, I think I’ll have to kill them first. Make sure they don’t, won’t you?” He pats Jinichi on the arm, collecting his coat to leave for his room.

“Naoya,” his cousin stops him.

“Hm?”

“… are you happy, spending so much time away from the clan?”

Naoya … considers it. Really stops to think. He’s tired, always tired. His soul weighs a million tons on his shoulders, the weight of what he must do and what he must pay for. But the good parts make it all feel worth this life he’s stolen. An evening out with Kinji and Kirara poking fun at him. Silently sharing morning coffee with Shoko, or bleaching their hair together. Sitting on his floor with Higuruma, sharing the things they love with each other. Love, love, love.

“Yeah.” He smiles, and means it, from the bottom of his heart. “Sorry, but … I don’t know if I’ve ever been happier. Good night, cousin.”

“… good night, Naoya.”

Chapter Text

Naoya’s alarm drags him from bed after a truly mediocre attempt at sleep, begrudging his body its mortality and weakness from the second he forces his eyes open. What he wouldn’t give to sleep in Freeze Frame’s hold, to curl up somewhere dark and confined and rest for as long as he wanted without the fear of suffocation to deter him. 

Sometimes, he’s so tired he wonders if it would be worth it to suffocate. Just a little. 

He feels especially wretched, pulling himself out of his room like his limbs are uncooperative weights dragging him down, following his ears and letting his eyes lull closed as he seeks out his father.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), the clan in general tends to be noisy in the mornings. Ranta has a disgusting amount of energy regardless of the hour, and there’s always either loud debates or even louder conversations to follow when he’s in a room with someone else. The boy (and he truly is just a boy in Naoya’s eyes, despite them being not too far apart in age, really) is eagerly recounting the details of a recent exorcism to someone, and Naoya can pick out the lower murmurs of Naobito and what might be Chojuro (he stayed old man 3 in Naoya’s head for an embarrassingly long time) answering him. 

Barely stifling a yawn, Naoya shambles into the room, cracking open an eye and waving in response to the three greetings he receives. Nachi’s here, too, greeting him with a wave of his own and rising from his seat beside Naobito to let him claim it instead. Mmm, Nachi will be Naobito’s grandson, won’t he? And he’s around Kirara and Kinji’s age, which in itself is enough to earn him an affectionate head ruffle as Naoya passes him and takes his seat.

“You’re home,” Naobito notes dryly, reaching out to tilt his face. “Hmph. They’re overworking you, Naoya. You look like a corpse walking.”

“I hope I didn’t disturb your slumber!” Ranta announces, a little too loudly.

“It’s fine, Ranta - and I’m overworking myself, father,” he grumbles, voice scratching unpleasantly. “I’ve got some important news, if we think we can round up everyone else …?”

Naobito makes some gesture he doesn’t catch, and the two youngest scamper off to round up whoever’s around. Naoya does permit himself a yawn, now, folding his arms and resting his head on the table as he waits. “I never had that much energy,” he grumbles, making his father laugh.

“You were worse. Twice as much, and three times meaner.”

Naoya hums quietly, and doesn’t manage an answer beyond that. Naobito talks quietly with Chojuro beside him instead, but the words flow over his head, not managing to find sense between his ears.

He doesn’t register dozing off, only jerking awake when a rough hand shakes his shoulders. “Naoya,” someone says. “Up you get, son, we’re all here.”

Naoya jerks upright, tense for a split second before he remembers he’s here safely(?) amidst the Hei, in the company of his kin and not some body-stealing ancient sorcerer. 

Ugh. Weird dreams.

“Shit - sorry, sorry. Hey. It was a busy day yesterday.” He rubs the sleep from his eyes and gets to his feet, clapping his hands and lifting his voice even as he already seems to have the full attention of everyone present. “Yesterday afternoon, Geto Suguru and a small squadron of curse users invited themselves onto the Tokyo Jujutsu Tech campus.” A few whispers break out, but no one interrupts. “He didn’t attack anybody - instead, he announced his intentions in an outright declaration of war.”

Now comes the sharp angry shouting, a surge of outrage he lets die down on its own before resuming.

“Geto intends to unleash one thousand curses in both Kyoto and Shinjuku, along with his allied curse users, in a large-scale terrorist attack. They will have one intention : to wipe out all non-sorcerers.”

“Impossible!” “That’s outrageous.” “We’ll have his head.”

“Entirely possible,” Naoya refutes without bothering to pick out who said that bit. “In fact, he likely has even more than that under his command. We’re talking about one of four existing special-grade sorcerers, one who’s spent what must be a decade amassing curses for this attack. We’re being called upon for aid.”

That swells the noise in the room further, and Naoya sinks back into his seat, letting Naobito stand and take charge. His father commands a respect he doesn’t, but he doesn’t need to call his kinsmen to arms. Between anger at the curse user or excitement for the challenge, it seems everyone present is eager to be included. Maybe. He’s kind of tuning out half of it, overwhelmed by the noise. Instinctively, Naoya tucks an arm over his head with a grimace.

Nachi has slid in at his side without him noticing, and whispers carefully to him. “Are you alright? You look … unwell.”

“Once this is done, I’m going back to sleep,” he whispers back, bumping his shoulder against his nephew’s. 

“Naoya,” he lifts his head again, tired eyes seeking out - that’ll be Jinichi, who looks nearly as tired as he does but far more composed. “Tell us where we need to be.”

Naoya doesn’t have to think on it. “Kyoto will probably need you all more. The majority of Tokyo’s school staff will be in Shinjuku, and I expect that’ll extend to … a sizable portion of alumni, too. And I don’t trust the other clans to be useful.” Was his clan useful, the first go around? Ahhh, regardless. They can be, and this way he can be sure they won’t mess with anything in Shinjuku … so long as they don’t cause the Kyoto students any trouble. 

“Where will you be, then, if not standing with us?” Ogi cuts in, glowering.

“Around,” Naoya answers vaguely. “Wherever Geto turns up. Let me worry about me, and you worry about the city being massacred.”

“Hey, Jinichi,” he corners the large man once the meeting disperses, before either of them can retreat back to their rooms. “I have a request. Oh, or an order, if that makes it easier.”

“... speak,” the gruff man commands.

“If Uncle Ogi starts shit with either of his daughters, I want you to knock his lights out for me.”

“You … want me to involve myself with my superior’s familial matters, and attack him at your behest.”

“Yep. Hey, it’s your familial matters too, we’re all family. Just deck him. Easy, right?” Naoya smiles, miming a punch. “Easy. If not, I might have to go out of my way to retaliate - as a teacher, you understand. It’d be super inconvenient to waste my time with.”

Maybe he’s threatening his cousin. Hmmm. He’s too tired to tell. Jinichi seems to take it that way.

“... very well. If you demand it, Naoya. Only if he initiates. I will be sure to inform him of your orders.”

“You’re the best, big guy.” Naoya grins at him, and slips away, hoping he can black out undisturbed for a few more hours.

As if sensing his desperation for a solid rest, his phone pings at him the second he crosses the threshold to his room.

🌻Higuruma🌻 [9:58 am]
Naoya-san! Are you busy today?
Would you like to come over?

He should say he’s busy. Or ignore it while he sleeps, and then invite the man to something once he’s awake. He should crawl back into bed and ignore the message.

naoya [9:59 am]
never if its you! ;P
thats a joke haha im a teacher i never have free time
nothing pressing right now. ill be there soon

When Higuruma answers his door, Naoya worries that the man might be sick.

His tired eyes are a little bloodshot and puffy, his face red, his hair a bit more disheveled than usual. Naoya blinks up at him, a frown crossing his face as he realizes it’s far more likely that his neighbour has been crying.

“Who hurt you,” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. “I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em for you.”

Higuruma looks stunned, and then laughs, shaking his head. “No, no, nothing like that, Naoya-san! Please don’t overreact. It’s - nothing, really! Are you ill? You look … unwell.” (He’s getting that a lot today.) He steps back, ushering Naoya into his apartment.

It’s the first time Naoya’s been here. Everything is very tidy, sleek and modern and sterile. There’s very few personal touches, but Naoya’s chest warms a little when he sees an entire shelf lined with the books he’s bought the man, a gap mid-series with the half-finished issue sitting on the modest coffee table, a receipt in it as a bookmark. It’s not quite cozy, not quite lived-in outside of a paperwork-laden desk and a single motivational poster on the wall beside it.

“I’m fine,” he assures, stepping out of his shoes and remembering belatedly that he’s still in the clothing he thinks of as Zen’in-wear and not outside-wear. He feels a bit out of place in it, for all that it’s comfortable to walk around in so long as he doesn’t have Freeze Frame up. “I haven’t been sleeping very well lately, is all.”

“You should have said so,” Higuruma tells him a bit weakly, brows knitting into that worried stare again. As has become habit, Naoya lifts his hands to smooth out those worry-wrinkles, and the attorney stands still and exhales. 

“I know. I wanted to see you,” Naoya tells him plainly. “I’ve been so busy! When rabbits get lonely, they die, you know, Higuruma-san.”

Higuruma sits them both on the couch, one that’s decidedly more comfortable than Naoya’s. He’s even got a television. Fancy!

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Higuruma muses. “I think that’s guinea pigs, not rabbits. I - why are you dressed like that?”

“Mmm. My family is very … traditional,” is the answer he settles on. “It’s what I wear at home, or sometimes while I’m teaching. What, you don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Higuruma assures. “You just have a tendency to surprise me, is all. Whenever I think I’m beginning to know you …”

Naoya smiles at him, breathing out a soft laugh. “So you won’t get bored of me, is that it?” Higuruma stammers some hasty denial that makes him laugh a little harder, nudging the man’s shoulder. “Hey, hey, I’m teasing. Are we watching something today, or just hanging out?”

“I’d prefer your company,” Higuruma murmurs, leaning back with a sigh. “I don’t think I could focus on anything right now.”

“Eh, not even on me?” Naoya teases, adjusting to rest his cheek on the back of the couch, facing his friend. “Is everything okay? Really?”

“Work,” the older man sighs, and Naoya hums in soft understanding.

(He knows just how far Higuruma’s work can push him.)

“Tell me about your students,” he prompts after a few moments of silence, reopening his eyes to face Naoya. “You started recently, didn’t you?”

“Ah, yeah. You don’t know what you’re asking of me, Higuruma-san. I think I could talk about those two for hours. You’ll have to remove me forcibly for peace and quiet.”

“I wouldn’t mind. Only two of them?”

“It’s a small private school. Isolated. The commute’s straight out of hell.” Naoya snuggles into the couch a little more, letting his heavy eyes fall closed. It’s easy to sleepily ramble about Kinji and Kirara, even skirting around the things he can’t mention, like curses and sorcerers. It’s easy, because he already has so much to say. He talks about their heated debates on what topics are and aren’t worth learning, about that habit of Kin’s to make himself out to be a paragon of virtue only whenever he wants something from their teacher, Kirara’s ever-growing collection of stickers she finds too cute to actually stick on anything, about promises of Vegas and Greece if they make it to graduation. He finds himself continuing to ramble, about his twin cousins split across two campuses, and then about his family. His father, who’s stern and loves him only for his successes - how quickly he fears that love would vanish if he were to make a single misstep. His cousin Ranta, who’s so blindly loyal it terrifies him. Ogi, who deserves to rot for being such a shit father that it makes Naobito seem kind and rational. And then he talks about Maki and Mai, and his family’s mistreatment of them, of every girl unfortunate enough to be born a Zen’in.

“Why do you stay?” Higuruma asks him, eventually. “With your family, I mean.” When Naoya opens his eyes, he’s surprised to find the attorney inspecting his face closely, that wrinkle back between his eyebrows until Naoya reaches up and smooths it out.

“I love them,” he surprises himself by mumbling thoughtlessly, eyelids drooping again. “Maybe not Ogi, but - ah, it’s hard for me to not see the good in people. My father can be horrible, but he’s not some … one dimensional evil villain. He’s an old man stuck in his ways, and with how things are, I don’t know if anyone’s ever told him it’s wrong. Generational shit, y’know? Maybe once I take his place as head of the clan I can fix it … hm. Or step down. Let Maki and Mai have it, even if it feels like running away.” He yawns, and feels a warm finger press between his brows, coaxing him out of a frown he didn’t realize he’d slipped into. The hand lingers for a moment, tracing under one of Naoya’s eyes, and he could fall asleep here and now under it.

“... I don’t have anyone to tell you about,” Higuruma admits after a long, comfortable silence, dropping his hand again.

“I’m here.”

“I can’t tell you about yourself, Naoya-san,” he protests, but Naoya can hear a smile in his voice.

“Why not? You said yourself that I’m interesting.” He smiles back, without forcing his eyes open. “Hmmm, what about you, then? Bet I could guess your favourite colour.”

He feels Higuruma shift on the couch. “Oh?”

“Green,” Naoya decides. “Like … a nice dark green, almost blue. It suits you.”

“I can’t say I’ve given such things much thought. Not since I was very young.” 

Naoya pries one eye open again, reaching up to tap Higuruma’s forehead. “That’s your homework, then.”

“Ah, I’m one of your pupils, now, am I?”

“Sure. I expect a full list of all of your favourite things on my desk by … whenever I get to see you again.”

Higuruma laughs - not his usual quiet snorts, but a full laugh, one that takes years off his face. “Yes, master, as you command.”

“Master,” his apprentice calls, arriving at his doorstep with blood pouring down her fair face, dripping like river water from her hairline. “Come see! I’ve discovered something marvellous!”

“-ya-san?” Naoya blinks, looking at Higuruma again and not the daydream that flickered across his senses, so vibrant it could have been real.

“Ah, sorry. I think I dozed off for a second there.”

Higuruma rests a hand on his forehead, and hums. “You could have told me no. At least take a nap, won’t you?”

Naoya’s apartment is right next door. It’s right there. He’d have to walk such a short distance to get to it. They both know that, because they’re neighbours.

None of that stops Naoya from flopping over right where he is with an agreeable hum, obediently closing his eyes and curling up as tightly as he can. “Great idea.”

“Ah - I - alright.” He feels Higuruma get up and walk away, and for a while thinks he’s going to be left alone there - but then the couch dips back down, and the last thing he feels before he slips off is a blanket being laid over his shoulders.

Voices wake Naoya, and he opens his eyes - only to find he’s gone entirely blind.

… and then he tilts his head a little, and realizes it’s just dark, and he’s buried his face half under a pillow that wasn’t here when he fell asleep. He sits up halfway, brushing his scarred hands over the soft blanket pulled over him. He’d stretched out in his sleep, and he finds the buttons on his cuffs and at his throat have been undone as to not choke or squeeze him - it’s such a thoughtful little gesture he can’t help but quietly appreciate Higuruma.

Who isn’t here. He strains to eavesdrop, getting to his feet in the pitch darkness. A hushed argument is coming from the doorway, and he peers into the short entry hall to see what’s going on.

Higuruma must have been asleep, because he’s dressed down in sleepwear, half pressed behind the door and whispering to the woman who’s partially leaning into his apartment. It takes a moment to place her without her horrible stupid hairstyle - the scar left on her cheek catches his eye, and he mumbles, “Mei?”

“Ah, see, here he is now. If I could borrow him for just a moment,” Mei Mei purrs, all saccharine venom.

Higuruma gives him an apologetic look, and Naoya feels immediately guilty for getting the man involved in his shit.

“I know her,” he reassures. “I’m terribly sorry for the trouble, Higuruma-san. I’ll let you get back to bed - I’m so sorry for falling asleep on you.” 

Higuruma grants him an awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck. It’s weird seeing him out of a button-up, but sweet. Endearing. “Not at all, Naoya-san. I really appreciate you coming by. Good night.”

Naoya all but shoves Mei out of the door and into the hall - and then, for lack of anywhere else to take her, hauls her right next door. She looks smug the whole way there, and strides in to make herself right at home once he closes the door.

“A non-sorcerer,” she muses. “And a man. Anyone who’s anyone would have a field day with that tidbit, Naoya.” She sits on the couch and crosses her ankles, picking at one of his ugly blankets. “Hm. Charming.” 

“What do you want?” he asks, sitting on the table in front of her. “At this hour - they told you about Geto, right?”

“Oh, indeed. I’m looking forward to that bonus pay. I’m surprised you didn’t tell me first, but I suppose by your timeline, he’s going to be dead by the end of this?”

“Yeah, if everything goes as it should. Gojo … y’know. Finishes the job.” Naoya shrugs awkwardly. “Doesn’t feel right to cut in, with their history.”

“You’re a bleeding heart, dear.” She steeples her fingers. “I want you to tell me about the curse user with the stitched-up forehead.”

Naoya straightens, ice creeping down his spine. “What? No. They’re - Mei, you can’t kill them.” She’s a grade one, right? Kenjaku is beyond her capabilities.

She huffs, losing some of her aloof airs. “I think they’re interested in you, Naoya. Potentially even trying to get to you through our connection. A third party nobody could tell me the name of placed some inquiries into the details of our mission together, and someone I’m entirely unfamiliar with has been looking to employ my brother and I for a private investigation. Good pay, too, but the timing has me … wary.”

“And you think it’s - why?”

“Intuition, mostly,” she shrugs, but there’s something sharp and wary to her eyes. “I’m covering my bases before I accept something like this.”

“You shouldn’t,” he says immediately. “They’re … powerful. They’ll have multiple techniques, and I can’t tell you what they all are.”

“Multiple? How?”

“They … change faces. Hop between bodies. They’ve a liking for powerful sorcerers.”

She makes a face he can’t read. “Like you do, then. What’s your connection?”

“Our - no, I’m -” he shifts uncomfortably. “Different. It’s different from me. I didn’t choose for this to happen, I … don’t think.”

“You don’t think?” She leans in. “Naoya. That’s the sort of thing you know.”

He avoids her gaze. “I don’t, though. Not for sure. It’s something I would remember, but I don’t want to risk being wrong or under-confident or whatever and then getting snapped by our vow - is that how it works? I can admit that I don’t know. But - but I’ve definitely never even met them. Kaori, right now, I think they’ll be in Kaori still. I didn’t think I’d even be on their radar - I can’t imagine why I am. Maybe because I met with Geto -“

Mei Mei considers this, then sighs. “Well, none of that’s very helpful to me.”

“You shouldn’t take the job.”

“Have more faith in me, dear,” she says, rising to her feet. He can’t tell if she means that as I can handle it or as I’m not that stupid, and he doesn’t ask. “I’m not a heroic type, rushing in to save the day. You should try to be more like me, your skin looks terrible.”

“Thanks, Mei. Be careful.”

Her teasing expression falls into a very serious one, and she leans down, catching him off guard. “I should be telling you that. You’re too quick to make enemies, and those friends of yours are just as dangerous. Be careful.” Then she rises and winks playfully. “Your boyfriend’s cute. Very protective of you, isn’t he? Introduce us properly sometime.”

Naoya sighs, quietly touched by her concern. “Not happening. You’ll try to find your way into his wallet.”

“Oh?” Her lips quirk, eyes lighting up. “So he’s got money?”

“... get out of my apartment, Mei. Lovely seeing you. Never come back.”

She laughs as she leaves, and Naoya goes back to bed alone with every door in the apartment locked.

Chapter Text

December 19th - five days before the Night Parade of One Hundred Demons.

Classes are cancelled for the kids, and the sorcerer world has dropped into a moment of apprehensive waiting. It feels like he’s used Freeze Frame, pulling time to a standstill as the world holds its breath. Everything and everyone is … waiting.

The tension settles under his skin uncomfortably, becoming just another facet of his existence. A part of him as much as his fingernails or teeth, that apprehension, that almost-fear of what’s to come. Is it better or worse that he knows what to expect? Worse, he thinks - worse, because he won’t know what to do if, when, things go wrong. No plan survives the enemy, but does the timeline? Does fate?

If Isako survived fate itself, does that make him its enemy?

The tension threatens to bubble over any moment - the fear, to call it what it is, that terror that threatens to numb his limbs. If things go wrong, can he even salvage it? The weight of the future on his soul could sink him, and he could weep when his mind reminds him that the future won’t stop looming over him even if, when, something goes wrong. Shibuya and the Culling Game will rise even if Naoya has to bury his children. It -

He gasps, sharply, as his chest suddenly burns with cold. It drags him forcefully back to the present, pulling him to meet Kirara’s worried eyes as she shoves an ice pack directly against his chest.

“Breathe, Sensei,” she reminds, and he obeys, shuddering a breath in and out. How does he keep forgetting to do that? “Are you back?”

He nods quickly, not trusting his voice, and she doesn’t remove the ice. Maybe she doesn’t trust him not to lie to her - more likely, she doesn’t trust him to be able to tell. It’s not the first time he’s slipped away from them.

It’s just the two of them in the kitchen, and she throws him a weak smile. “I’m starting to think you’re more nervous than I am about this.”

He blinks, breathing again, slower this time. “Not about this. Yaga’s … a good man, Kirara. Your schoolmates are good kids. I’m not nervous about it.”

That’s right. With the Night Parade looming, and Kinji and Naoya quietly supporting her from behind, Kirara has decided to talk to Yaga about personal matters. As soon as Kinji shows up, she’s gonna sit him down for that talk , and if it goes well (Naoya has faith that it will), repeat it with the first years.

Kin and Naoya have already planned a big meal afterwards, tucked away out of sight in the school’s abundant greenery. It’ll be either a celebration or a consolation. 

“I’m back,” he assures, forcing his usual detached calm over his troubled soul. “It’s hard not to worry, that’s all.”

She finally removes the ice from his chest, dropping it in the sink. “I’m not worried about this ‘parade’. We’ve been working hard, and besides, Gojo’s gonna be there.” Her smile is still worried, her tense shoulders giving away her attempts at focusing on something else. “He’s probably just gonna snap his fingers and make all the curses vanish instantly, or something stupid like that, and we’ll all look really dumb.”

“You’ll be fine,” Naoya tells her softly.

“... what if I’m not?”

“Then I’ll be there. Ah, Kinji too. Can’t forget him.”

As if on cue, Kinji arrives, bizarrely drenched and missing his shoes. God, these kids are weird. He throws both hands up, offering Kirara and Naoya the energy neither can seem to muster. “C’mon! Let’s do this!”

Yaga is worn thin with stress, in desperate need of a break - but one duty supersedes his allegiance to the higher-ups or his loyalty to his fellow sorcerers: before anything else, Principal Yaga is a teacher meant to guide children. So when he opens his office door and sees Second-year Hoshi, wide-eyed and nervous, he doesn’t let his frustration show. 

“Principal Yaga? I have …something I want to talk to you about.”

Yaga doesn’t need Hakari and Zen’in glaring at him from down the hall to encourage him - he would have ushered Hoshi in anyways.

“Of course. Come in, and tell me what’s on your mind.”

(Yaga is, as Naoya expected, a good man. Even with the looming threat of a terrorist attack on his shoulders, the principal takes the time to arrange a dorm change and uniform alterations for the girl.)

(Naoya is going to make sure he survives this.)

“We weren’t expecting you to actually do good with them,” Yaga admits, sitting at his desk once again, steadily burying himself under mountains of arrangement and paperwork and correspondence. Naoya’s lounging against the windowsill behind him, watching the kids’ exchange on the grass below. He can’t hear anything from up here, but Panda’s giving Kirara a very literal bear hug, so it seems to be going well.

Naoya hums in response. 

“Was it the nepotism, or was it me ?”

“... both,” Yaga admits gruffly. “Used to thank my lucky stars you weren’t one of my students to handle. You’re here mostly because Satoru wanted to keep an eye on you directly, you know - not that you’ve made it easy. That doesn’t look good for you, Naoya.”

Naoya hums again. “I won’t tell you I don’t have any ulterior motives of my own. You’re a good guy, Masamichi, I don’t want to outright lie to you, y’know?” He lolls his head to the side, watching the kids. Somehow even this has turned into roughhousing, Kinji tussling with both Panda and Inumaki as Kirara chats to the side with Okkotsu. “But really, I won’t pretend like a major deciding factor wasn’t getting away from my family for a bit.”

“... that shouldn’t surprise me,” Yaga admits. “And yet. Ah, but Shoko did warn us all of your condition.”

“You shouldn’t have accepted me here,” Naoya muses. “Or assigned me to an empty class, or something. Those two deserve better than a teacher you thought would fail.”

“You’re right.” The principal sighs. “But you’ve done a damn good job with them all the same. Those two were one confrontation away from leaving us entirely, on their own volition or otherwise. You being their teacher was just meant to give them more time, you know. We were relying on your pride interfering with the higher-ups’ attempts to suspend them both.”

Naoya considers that. It makes sense - it’d be harder to get rid of the two with a Zen’in as their teacher. It’d be seen as stepping on his toes, or calling him incompetent. “Ohhh, political. You’re good at this, Yaga.”

“Satoru was prepared for you to target Yuta.”

“Ehhh? Me? Okkotsu ? I’d kill for that kid. He’s a darling.” Yaga laughs at his easy, thoughtless admission, and Naoya hastens to add, “I mean, all of them ! I don’t have any blatant favourites or anything. Well, I do, the two that are mine. You know what I mean. Besides, I told Kin that if anyone causes him trouble, he shouldn’t immediately jump to violence - I gotta be a good role model for that. Which means not beating up a random unlucky teenager.”

“And Kinji agreed to that?”

“Yeah, duh. Instead, he should memorize their face, tell me, and then we work through the best way to ruin them. I’ll even count it as a graded assignment!”

“...” Yaga’s chair creaks, and Naoya turns around to find the man looking at him oddly. “... it seems to be working, I suppose.” He shakes his head, and Naoya wonders if he’s said something strange somehow. “If you’re going to sit in here, at least sit down and help me with this paperwork.”

“Ah, but Masamichi - our kids are having a good time together! I think Panda and Hakari are having some sort of competition to make the others … laugh or cringe at their bad jokes, I can’t tell if they’re really good at it or just fucking it up severely.”

As predicted - at the mention of his own son, Yaga joins him at the window.

Their fragile peace is eventually broken by the footsteps Naoya hears in his nightmares, approaching down the hall. “Bye, Yaga,” he calls as he swings the window open. “What is wrong with you” is the man’s answer, as Gojo pulls open the office door just as Naoya makes his second hasty escape.

(“The ghost ,” Yuta suddenly gasps, and he doesn’t understand why Hakari-senpai and Hoshi-senpai start laughing at him.)

December 20th - four days before the Night Parade of One Hundred Demons.

Naoya’s just settled down for bed in his quiet apartment when his phone rings, jarring him from what was shaping up to be an early night’s rest. He answers without glancing at whos’ calling, and a voice he knows is speaking before he can get a word in.

“-rcumstances,” Geto sounds as if he’s leaning away from the phone, and Naoya is taken aback to hear a note of urgency bordering on alarm in his usually calm voice. He’s speaking directly to Naoya, then - “Zen’in Naoya, forgive this late hour. I’ve a … situation that could perhaps make use of your connections, if you could find your way here as quickly as possible?”

Naoya’s already on his feet, pulling on his boots. A situation? The fuck does that mean? He does not need a situation to pop up so soon, to further derail what he expects. “I’ll be there shortly. Do I need to bring anything?”

“I … don’t take it you could find a way to - no, no. You don’t need to bring anyone else. Let yourself in when you arrive, I know you’ve got no problem with that.” And then the line goes dead.

He makes it in record time, hopping in and out of Freeze Frame’s hold whenever he can to cut the travel time short. The whole trip is spent with his heart in his throat, hurrying like the King of Curses himself was on his heels. He appears in the secluded compound, catching his breath and following his ears to find where Geto and his family are tucked away.

It’s one of the back rooms, the one they all gathered in when he was introduced to them all. Everyone he met then is now gathered about almost aimlessly. Suda is pacing and talking in a hushed, angry tone to someone on the phone. Negi and Larue are talking to each other, stopping only to both nod at him as he slips into the room. Suguru is … a disheveled mess, far more than even the unease over their call would have led him to believe. He’s out of those flowing monk robes, only in a plain button-up and slacks that takes away from his usual regal atmosphere, on his knees beside the room’s sole couch. Nanako is crying quietly, curled into his side as he sits there unresponsive. Miguel pulls away from them to cross the room, leading Naoya over to join the duo.

Trio. Mimiko is laid out on the couch, as still as death save for her shallow breaths, a sheen of sweat over her face and a seal imprinted onto her forehead. Naoya’s heart plummets straight through his feet. “Oh,” he says, quietly, because this doesn’t make sense.

The twins were there at the Parade, and later at Shibuya - which means the girl locked before him, her comatose state, is somehow his fault.

He crouches silently on Suguru’s other side, touching a hand gently to his shoulder. “She won’t die,” he tells him gently, because lunatic or not, the man doesn’t deserve to go to his grave fearing for his daughter. 

Nanako hiccups, wrapping her arms more firmly around Geto - he doesn’t seem able to respond, his face locked in a thousand yard stare hovering right above Mimiko’s slack face.

“She won’t die,” Naoya repeats, directed to the sister and not the father. “But she may not … wake up as herself,” if at all is the bit he doesn’t say. 

“How -” the girl sniffles, “how do we wake her up, then … ?”

“That’s … up to the curse user who did this,” Naoya admits, aware that he’s gathered everyone’s attention but Suguru’s.

“Someone did this on purpose? ” Larue questions, straightening upright.

Miguel, sharp and suspicious, asks more quietly, “associate of yours?”

“She’s been marked,” Naoya half-answers, “to be the vessel of … someone. I don’t know why - this … individual, they don’t have any business with you.” Aside from wanting your father’s corpse as their skin. “And they don’t … do this to sorcerers.”

Nanako lunges over her father, half in his lap, grabbing Naoya’s coat lapels with a sudden teary-eyed fury. “Give me a name, damn it! Tell me who did this to my sister, and why!”

“K-” he’s not expecting the way he suddenly chokes, the way that heaviness around his chest tightens to squeeze the air out of him. He fumbles for his throat, eyes widening, trying in vain to breathe past the sensation. The air doesn’t get past his throat.

I can’t say their name.

As soon as he thinks that phrase as if it’s a reminder, the pressure lessens, and he hacks, sharply, dragging in a rattling inhale forcefully. “Can’t,” he wheezes, batting the girl’s hands away as his mind starts racing a thousand miles a minute. Why? How? How could they place a curse on him without knowing - how could they know to do that?

“Someone with a collar on you, then,” Miguel notes dryly, crouching down on Naoya’s other side. “Pretty tight one, too, huh?”

“Fuck off,” he chokes out, still reeling.

“How do we wake her up?” Nanako asks again, more forcefully, swinging out of shock and into anger. “What do you mean she won’t be herself?”

Naoya tests the thoughts on his tongue before he speaks them, relieved to find he doesn’t choke this time. “A vessel, one of many. One meant to house a powerful sorcerer from the past when they’re … awoken for this curse user’s gain.”

Geto finally seems to rouse himself, turning that empty, deadly stare onto Naoya. It reminds him vividly of the look on the man’s face when he found two little girls in a cage. It’s a frightening thing, being on the receiving end of it.

“I’m already looking for a way to undo it,” Naoya tells him, before his shock, too, can become misdirected anger. “If all else fails, one of the … one of the others who hasn’t woken up yet will be able to do it once she’s here, I’m sure of that.” He’s not sure about much of anything. He’s lying. But Geto looks thrown so deeply off course that it terrifies him, and he needs to be the man’s anchor in a storm if he’s going to keep any control over the situation. “She’s not going to die, Suguru. Nanako-chan.”

Nanako peels herself away from her father, taking her sister’s clammy hand in both of her own. “You … you hear that, Mimiko? You’re not going to die. Zen’in-san is going to wake you up.”

He doesn’t think he said that much, but … she looks so painfully small and young. He does have to try, doesn’t he? Not only for her sake - but because this event didn’t happen the first time, so it’s his fault, his responsibility. 

And, if nothing else, it’s his duty to ensure Kenjaku loses whatever bartering chip they’ve gained in marking Geto Mimiko as a vessel.

“We continue,” Suguru croaks, voice hollow with dull horror, slowly giving way to resolve. “We claim Rika Orimoto, and allow Mimiko wake up to a world without curses. Zen’in Naoya,” still, his eyes can’t seem to focus. Naoya reaches out to hold his shoulder. “Naoya-san. Mimiko will wake up?”

“She will,” Naoya says, not sure whether or not it’s true. “I’ll try to fix this, Suguru .” He squeezes the man’s shoulder. “You’ve let me into your family, my friend. I won’t let your daughter languish.” He sits up, then, leaning in to inspect the comatose girl. She’s so small.

What was it Ijichi said? They’re just children, they don’t even know right from wrong yet. Is Mimiko-chan going to suffer being erased from her own body for the sins of her father, or is it for the mistakes of Naoya himself?

“... you’re right, though,” he admits, trying to remain level. “The Parade can’t be called off for this - it could easily put her in danger if you got the attention of the whole of sorcerer society and then failed to appear. Maybe we could move her out of the way, so she stays safe … ah, Nanako-chan, do you want to stay with her?”

“No,” Nanako spits, bristling with anger and unshed tears. “Like hell I do! I wanna kill everyone who hurt Mimiko! I want Geto-sama to steal that stupid curse and kill whoever did this to my Mimiko!”

“I’ll make sure she’s taken care of while you do that, Nanako-chan,” Naoya assures, reaching down to pull Geto to his feet, not allowing the panic and nausea he’s feeling to show on his face. “Stay firm, Suguru. You know what you have to do. Let me take care of everything else for now.”

(Nanako could be alone after this. The thought makes him want to sob, for some reason - alone, just like Maki was. Never again. Never again.)

He knows they all have questions, but he’s not sure he can answer them. He’s not sure he wants to. So, instead, he makes an excuse to retreat into the hallway, claiming he needs to place a call before he even knows who he’s placing a call to. He decides with his fingers on the screen.

“Hey, aniki,” he greets. “I have a … patient for you, and I need you to not ask me any questions about it.”

“Naoya,” Yuzuki’s tired voice answers. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”

Naoya doesn’t have an answer for him. Naoya doesn’t even have an answer for himself.

Despite it being the obvious choice, Naoya can’t bring himself to bring Geto anywhere near his apartment. It would be perfect, but something ugly and protective curls in his chest at the thought of him anywhere near Higuruma, blazing into a shrieking anger that claws at the inside of his chest at the mere thought. He may end up attacking the man with his teeth should he pursue that action, and that rules out the possibility of his apartment.

Mei Mei doesn’t pick up her phone, but after a series of increasingly frantic pleas via text she answers.

mei [1:45 am]
has shared a contact : Mr. A.
You’ll accept whatever he offers you, and it’ll be yours by the end of the night.
I’m sure it’ll be passably livable. I’m not offering you one of my nice properties.
You’ll be paying me back for it at the earliest opportunity, of course.
I figured you may need something like this.
Let no one say I’m not generous.

naoya [1:46 am]
mei did you buy me a fucking house without asking

mei [1:50 am]
Of course not. I sold you a house without asking. Keep up, Naoya.
As business partners, you should trust me to make good investments for you.
It was only a matter of time before you became a fugitive anyways.

Naoya [1:51 am]
uh
thanks i guess
i owe you?
stay safe out there mei

mei [2:02 am]
You owe me. Definitely.
Stay safe out there, Naoya.

The property he unknowingly and unwillingly purchased is a bit less house and a bit more decrepit workshop. The ground floor is entirely taken up by a large garage, with a staircase headed upstairs to a modest two-bedroom living space, and another heading down into a worryingly wet garage they elect not to explore. He arrives with Geto and Nanako in tow, with Miguel along ‘to help’ - he knows the man is wary of him, perhaps expecting some betrayal, perhaps simply not trusting him to be competent enough to handle an unconscious teenager on his own.

(If it’s … either, really, he has good intuition.)

The water is running and the heat is passably functional, even if the lights don’t cut on. He lets Geto and Nanako take the lead without complaint, Geto carrying his daughter into one of the rooms to get her set up, leaving Miguel and Naoya hanging back awkwardly in the pitiful kitchen.

“... I want a piece of that rope you have,” Naoya says, without looking at him.

“You aren’t doing all of this just for a bit of rope,” Miguel accuses in a calm, passive voice. “You aren’t giving up a safehouse just for that, surely.”

A safehouse - yeah, he supposes it is that. “Well, it’s mostly for the girl. I’m a teacher, you know. I don’t like seeing kids in danger, and … they, they shouldn’t be using children for this game of theirs.”

“So it’s personal, then.” Miguel sighs, taking off his hat and rubbing a kink out of the back of his neck. “That collar of yours. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, Zen’in.”

“I’m selfish. I can admit that. But I won’t use it to hurt Mimiko, or betray any of you.”

“... I’ll think about it,” Miguel concedes. “I’m not stupid enough to think you won’t just try to take it if I don’t hand it over, right?”

Naoya can’t refute that, so he settles on “I’m being polite . We’re allies, I don’t cheat my allies. Just everyone else.”

“Now that, I can believe.”

“This place sucks!” Nanako declares as she re-emerges from her sister’s room.

“Ah, yeah, I’ve owned it for like - an hour?” Naoya offers awkwardly. “I’ll work hard to make it more comfortable, so - so that once Geto-san has Rika-chan, it’ll be nicer to visit her. Less dusty.”

“Make it less grey, too, and clean the windows,” the girl demands. “And get her better sheets, ugh, I can’t believe anyone would live in a filthy place like this. It better be spotless by the time we get back, you hear?”

“I hear,” Naoya agrees politely, because it seems like she just needs to be angry at something.

“Does anyone else know you’re here?” Suguru questions, seeming to have come a bit back to himself. His hair is tied into a bun, and his sleeves are rolled up, so he’s at least snapped out of it enough to neaten himself a bit. “Not that I’m not appreciative, of course, but …”

“No one,” he assures. “I’m not sure Mei Mei would have ever even visited this place. Dunno why she owned it - maybe she cons her way into old peoples’ wills on weekends.” It certainly looks like it. “My - older brother, Yuzuki. He’s trained as a nurse. He doesn’t have a technique like Shoko’s, but that wouldn’t do her any good. She just needs care, and I don’t want to leave her alone, so I’m asking him. I wouldn’t bring anyone I didn’t trust here.”

Suguru sighs. “... of course. Thank you for your hospitality, my dear friend, and for keeping your head. I’m putting my faith in you.”

Naoya rests both hands on those broad shoulders, and then draws the man into an impulsive hug - because if all goes according to plan, he is still going to die, and it costs nothing to offer a doomed man some kindness. “I won’t let you down. Save the world for me, Geto.”

Chapter Text

Yuzuki has spent the last two hours glaring at him from the kitchen table, watching in silent disapproval as Naoya bustles about, trying to make the building more livable.

“... a terrorist, Naoya,” his brother grits. “A curse user. One we’re going to war with. Did that head injury make you stupid?”

“Geto’s got a vow with me for my students’ safety,” Naoya answers quietly, not letting that sharp anger cut at his heart. “And it’s not for the curse user. He’s gonna be dead in less than a week. It’s for his daughter who’s about to get orphaned.”

“You’ve never been kind.”

Naoya stops, turning to face him with a frown. “Can’t you let me try?” Yuzuki looks away, and Naoya sighs, pulling out the chair next to him. “Listen, it’s … just for a bit, aniki. I didn’t know who else to ask. She’s so little, ‘zuki, I can’t let a little girl rot away because she was unfortunate enough to get caught between two dangerous people. She won’t wake up, not - she won’t wake up. You won’t have to talk to her or anything. I just need someone to look after her.” Still, no answer. “... please?”

“I want you to pay for my schooling,” Yuzuki eventually answers, gruffly. “And … I want to know what happened to you.”

“You were-”

“What actually happened to you. This isn’t how amnesia works, you know - it’s not like a movie, Naoya. I’m not stupid. If you’re dragging me into this, you owe me that much.”

He does owe him something. Future knowledge is too much to offer, especially when he’s so unsure of the future that stretches before him. It’d sound like a lie. Or worse, like mockery.  

So, he offers his older brother part of the truth, and prays he doesn’t demand the rest.

Naoya drags a hand through his hair. “... the girl back there has been marked by an ancient sorcerer, one alive from an era before even Sukuna was born. When that sorcerer activates a trigger, that girl’s body will be taken over by the remains of another ancient curse user - one who may override her very soul and mind, erasing her entirely. She’s been marked as a vessel.”

Yuzuki looks at him with sharp, immediate distrust. “And that’s what happened to you? You’re some - ancient curse parading around in my brother’s body.”

“He was a bastard and we’re all better off without him,” Naoya snaps, before taking a deep breath in, then out. “He would have died within the year. Become a curse, too - a nasty one. Special grade, easily. You’re better off, Yuzuki.”

“I’m not grieving Naoya ,” Yuzuki growls, getting up and putting more space between them. “Why are you playing pretend with the clan? Why me?”

“I’m not playing at anything, ‘zuki,” Naoya murmurs, drawing in on himself a little more. “I don’t understand what happened, really. I don’t know how I woke up like this, or why - I don’t know anything. I woke up one day with a bunch of people claiming to be my family, in a world I didn’t know. What would you have had me do? Deny it?”

Yuzuki’s hard expression has softened somewhat. Naoya wonders if he ever once loved his younger brother, despite everything. Wonders if he’s grieving someone he didn’t realize was dead.

“... alright,” he says eventually, sitting back down. “So you’re some … ancient curse user who took over Naoya’s body. And we can’t get him back?”

He doesn’t say I’m from a different place and time entirely, I’m something unlike anything ever before seen, and I don’t have answers as to why or how. “... no. Nothing left of him in here. Just me.” Naoya shrugs awkwardly. “Sorry.”

“You should be.” Yuzuki pinches the bridge of his nose, every bit the image of their father. “I shouldn’t have asked. What’s your goal, then? What - what do I even call you?”

Naoya thinks, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I mostly just want to live . Naoya’s … Naoya’s the only name I’ve got.” And that’s true, he realizes. Reaching for the one he held before he awoke here comes up with only empty space. More questions he can’t answer. “I like it. I like being him, being me - even if I have to contend with what sort of person he before I woke up. I want to make things better, and I want to live.”

Yuzuki looks away, brows furrowed, the slightest angry wrinkle to his nose. “... you being ancient won’t get you out of paying for my schooling,” he decides. “I like you more than him, which is fucked. There’s no way someone like you was a good person, which means he was even worse than whatever you were, and that’s - awful.”

“I … I don’t feel like a bad person?” he protests weakly. “I can’t remember doing anything bad.”

“Good people don’t steal another person’s body, Naoya. Good people don’t just erase other people.”

He thinks of Kenjaku, of Sukuna, of himself. “... yeah. I suppose you’re right.” He manages a thin smile. “Can you let me try?”

“... pay for my school. Then we’ll see.”

Yuzuki doesn’t tell the rest of their family, and stays to take care of Mimiko. That’s the most Naoya could hope for. Despite it all, he does not regret the fact his existence erased Zen’in Naoya.

Maybe that’s cruel. Maybe he truly is some displaced curse user, some unknowing cog in Kenjaku’s machinations. It’s starting to make a scary amount of sense, as much as it makes none at all. Too much of his existence just doesn’t line up - how could he have ever dreamt of accepting his circumstances without questioning, when the events he knows should happen have already snowballed out of his control?

Who does he think he is, to claim to control the future? His soul feels heavy with the weight of a hundred vows, and yet he’s only ever made two.

December 23rd - one day before the Night Parade of One Hundred Demons.

When fate shifts again, it is not with some great rippling effect upon the fabric of the world. There is no immediate spiral away from the path not yet tread, no cascade of cause-and-effect. It’s one single step taken away from what once-was. What is different is that it is a lesser change, a smaller one, one that does not immediately change the shape of the board. The slightest release of pressure, a single vow broken.

What is different is that Zen’in Naoya is already incarnated, and thus aware of it when it happens.

It hits him like a rubber band drawn too taut was suddenly released, snapping into his chest with the abrupt force of something coming undone all at once. The noiseless impact echoes around his head, looping between his ears in an overwhelming nothingness that drowns out every one of his senses. Something happened, he thinks to himself, repeated like a mantra. Something happened, something happened, something happened. 

He pays his apprentice a visit, sparing her the long trek up the mountain in the dead of winter. She’s older now, clad in fine clothes that poorly suit the hovel she and her sister dwell in. The second shies away from him, bitter and distrustful, white-haired and blue eyed and altogether less beautiful than her twin.

He knows this one, doesn’t he? Master -

“Master,” the dark-haired twin greets, eager to keep his attention all to herself. He lifts a thumb to press between her eyebrows, sliding it up to feel the line of twisted flesh she wears like a crown. “You came. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“ Tengen ?” he calls, eyes blinking open.

“... definitely not,” Kinji tells him. “Not even a little bit. Weird dream, sensei?”

“You were mumbling nonsense,” Kirara adds in a very helpful tone.

He doesn’t remember the two joining him, but he can’t find himself to be surprised at their company - not even sleep can make him forget what awaits them tomorrow.

“I think …” he murmurs, “something just changed, somewhere.”

“Probably,” Kinji agrees in a tone that tells Naoya he thinks his teacher is still mumbling nonsense. “That tends to happen. All the time.”

Naoya snorts, swatting the boy’s hand. “And why were you two in here watching me sleep?”

“It’s such a rare sight, sensei, we had to document it. Who knows when it’ll happen again,” Kirara sing-songs, adjusting in Kin’s lap to throw her legs over Naoya’s. Ah, so he’s being held hostage by his children.

“Maybe in a hundred years,” Kinji chimes in, leaning into him and bringing his girlfriend along at the odd angle. Hostage and squished. Kirara doesn’t seem to mind the three of them very slowly succumbing to gravity taking them sideways, giggling at Kinji’s joke.

“If we’re lucky.”

Naoya rolls his eyes at their antics. “You two are doing some medieval torture shit to me right now, you know.” It chases the echoes of the confusing dream from his mind, casting it away for future contemplation. Or to never think about it again. That sounds nice. “Ready for tomorrow?”

“Nah,” Kinji decides without even pausing to consider it. “Don’t think anyone could be.”

“At least you get to stay here, sensei. And spend the whole time terrified and waiting for news.”

Ugh. She just had to remind him. “I’ll be staying here until it’s my job to handle something. That’s it, Rara. Can you two get off of me?”

Kinji leans harder into him.

“It’s like having the world’s worst little siblings,” Naoya grouses, letting himself be squished without even trying to escape. “It’ll be okay. Call me if you get in trouble. Fuck Geto, fuck Gojo, everyone can do whatever they want. You make sure you come back in one piece, or else I’m gonna burn this bitch down and take everyone down with me.”

They seem to find this charming instead of threatening, and Kirara squishes him further with her arms around his neck.

“We’ll be alright, sensei. We were taught by the best, you know!”

December 24th - the Night Parade of One Hundred Demons.

Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College

Okkotsu Yuta waves goodbye as the second-years depart with everyone else, watching out the window at their retreating forms. The campus feels empty, a little too empty. He knows somewhere else, his fellow first-years are likewise held back from the action - theoretically in order to protect the school, but Yuta suspects Gojo and Principal Yaga are probably just trying to keep them safe.

They probably don’t appreciate it. Sitting around like this, he reckons they’re going to miss all the action.

Shinjuku

A lone girl waits within the mouth of a curse, burning with sorrow and anger and revenge. The sky, the streets, everything is swarming with them. Hideous misshapen animals and shambling humanoids, infesting the city like vermin. A small handful of curse users await them, distant shapes on rooftops and balconies.

Their allies are easy to pick out in their dark clothes, gathered loosely together. Everyone is strung tightly, some with fear and some with the eager anticipation of bloodshed or a paycheck or the pure unadulterated desire to bring an end to the week of tension.

The two of them are firmly within the eager crowd. Hakari Kinji stretches leisurely, flipping the coin given to him as a lucky charm. “Ugly crowd, huh?”

“I’ve seen uglier,” Hoshi Kirara jokes, rocking back and forth. Even waiting for the go-ahead, she’s coiled like a spring, ready to lunge at any moment. She’s already tracing out her constellations among the crowd, the environment, the single chipped knife tucked into her belt.

“True. We’ve been to the Kyoto school, after all!” Hakari lifts his fists, grinning ear to ear, and every sorcerer is finally cut lose to move. He’s off like a shot, his girlfriend bounding along with his pace, her eager laughter ringing in his ears.

“C’mon, Kin - let’s dance.”

Kyoto

Haibara Isako’s steps clatter across tiled roofs, tap-shoed footfalls echoing off the narrow alleyways she darts over. She’s like a swooping bird, descending onto the ground to dive after her prey, feet pounding out a rhythm into stone, flesh, bone, all without missing a beat. Her movements are relentless, driven by hungry desire to prove her worth in massacre -

“Fuck!” she spits as she loses balance and rhythm, pitching sideways from a weight she’s still learning to accommodate. A clap! follows the tail end of her tapping, and her feet are firmly balanced on the ground as her underclassman takes the tumble for her.

“Todo!” she calls, tapping up to his side. “C’mon, I thought Takada-chan was gonna be on that Christmas talk-show you’ve been talking about! Why are you slowing down for lil old me, huh?” She elbows his side (it’s like elbowing a brick wall) and makes him boom with laughter. There’s no shame in stumbling, because Todo Aoi isn’t the type of man to judge her for it, and therefore it’d be self-absorbed to judge herself.

“We’ll need to pick up the pace, Haibara-senpai! We can’t afford to miss it!”

Isako couldn’t give less of a shit about Takada, but as she sets off, resuming her tempo from where she lost it. This time, when she moves, it’s with the reminder that if, when , she falls, someone will be there to catch her.

Shinjuku

Above them on towering concrete rooftop arenas, two titans clash. A swinging cursed rope whistles through the air, pieces of the environment torn free and crumpled uselessly against the barrier of Infinity. The mortal men and women among the force of sorcerers largely linger on the ground, carving through the endless march of curses flooding the streets.

Nanako sobs and sways as she moves through the opposition in a furious haze, phone held ahead of her in shaking hands. “Was it you?” she howls at every sorcerer she encounters. “Did you do that to her?” Her hatred for those horrible monkeys lacking in cursed energy has been burned away by something stronger, more personal, deeper than any wound can cut. Was it you? Was it you?

Her victims’ bodies are left to hang, not by rope but by environment, impaled on sharp edges of the cityscape, crushed into closed windows or tangled in wires, feet swinging in the air. Feebly twitching, or still, corpses with none of the answers she needs. Nanako kills and kills and kills, humans and curses alike - she kills, and it does not bring her sister back.

Ijichi Kiyotaka wants to wipe his glasses, badly, because it’s getting increasingly difficult to make out the world through a haze of smeared red. But he doesn’t, can’t, because he and Nitta-san are precariously carrying the limp form of a sorcerer between them, making their way to the makeshift clinic. Either of them could have stayed within its walls, or off to the sidelines - the option remained open for any of the assistants present. But Kiyotaka couldn’t bear to stand back in the hospital and watch as Shoko failed to save everybody brought to her - much better to be terrified out here on the streets and useful than to be in that clinic, terrified and useless. 

They drop to their knees to shield their patient as a massive force implodes every window in a two-block radius, and Kiyotaka lifts his head to watch Gojo’s battle with the dark-skinned curse user winding to an end.

“So much for property damage,” Nitta-san mumbles, catching her breath. “C’mon, one two three up -!”

???

The pale-haired boy steels his shoulders, wiping his pink cheeks. He’s soft and defenseless, features still round with baby fat, light eyelashes clumped with tears. “Forgive me, sister,” he murmurs.

“Nothing to forgive, my dearest,” she reassures, brushing a hand over his hair. “Calm yourself. Just do as I say, brother - just like we practiced. Let me take care of the rest.”

Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College

Suguru cannot bring himself to kill Zen’in Maki. He may never have been able to, before, despite her being a disgusting, un-evolved monkey who can’t even see curses, so presumptuous as to call herself a sorcerer - no, even then, he may not have truly been able to kill her lightly.

Now, it feels like he has ten-pound-weights on each limb. His jeers die on his tongue, and while he does not pull his punches, he does not kill her. A single flick to summon the right curse could see her disemboweled across the rooftop, could exsanguinate her in mere moments. He could, and yet he can’t.  

Help me save the world, Zen’in Naoya had forced a vow from him, once. Maki doesn’t look like Naoya much, Suguru thinks, as the girl collides with the ground beneath her and doesn’t move. 

Maki looks like Mimiko.

Suguru doesn’t think he can bring himself to kill her - and he’s spared from having to make that decision, because the cursed speech user and the cursed corpse leap into the fray and he’s too occupied by proper sorcerers to dwell on it further. Now where on earth is Okkotsu … ?

Kyoto

Mai is on the tail end of her class’ group, keeping pace easily with her peers. She’s obvious even from afar, the telltale green of her hair near-black in the darkness, an easy grin gleaming on her face.

She’s avoiding her kin easily, and they’re content to avoid her in turn. Those Tokyo students are powerhouses, even if the more elitist of the clan sorcerers won’t admit it openly. Nachi admires their group from afar, the way they work together not like soldiers but like friends. He feels, for the briefest of moments, a flicker of envy. The Kamo heir’s technique is like his but better, and the youngest of the Hei irrationally wants to run off after them, watch him fight, learn.

It’s not him who takes a step in the way the students went, though. Nachi turns to watch Ogi, face twisted into an ugly snarl, make as if to run off after them for reasons Nachi can’t even begin to fathom. The man can’t bear to see people happier than him on principle, it seems - and Mai, one of his daughters, will never be forgiven for the crime of living.

Jinichi lays a large hand on Ogi’s shoulder. “I’m under orders to remove you from consciousness,” he states, simply, “if you forsake the mission for personal reasons.”

… what? Nachi gawks a little. Ogi’s hand hovers over his katana blade, turning away from where his daughter vanished to glower at Jinichi.

“I don’t answer to you,” Ogi growls. “You answer to me.”

“I will interfere,” Jinichi says slowly, as if Ogi might be stupid, “or Naoya will take it personally and take matters into his own hands.”

The ugly, blunt edges of Ogi’s hair sit exactly at neck-length. Jinichi is very obviously doing him a favour.

“We should get going,” Nachi reminds, quietly, breaking the stare-down. “I don’t want Ranta to get more kills than me.”

As they pull away and head back down the streets, Nachi wonders as to when Naoya started giving a shit about Mai of all people. Maybe when he started caring about the rest of them …

Except for Ogi. Something about that feels like it won’t end well.

Shinjuku

Satoru flicks, effortlessly reducing another building-height curse to nothing but splatter and dust. That man with the rope had shoved the rest of that cursed tool in his pocket and made a mad dash for it at some unseen prompting that evaded Satoru, and the other curse users had apparently followed suit. He could pursue them, but it feels shallow, pointless. He knows in his gut they won’t lead him to Suguru.

Ah, but Suguru won’t kill his students, even as far gone as he is these days. The Suguru he knows wouldn’t be able to kill those students, which means the conclusion is foregone. That thing pretending to be the Zen’in bastard seemed to be of the same mind, if those meaningful glances meant what Satoru thinks they meant.

And oh, that bastard. Satoru still isn’t confident in leaving him at the school with the students, but the man has displayed no malice or any real interest in the kids beyond his own, and Shoko inexplicably vouched for his trustworthiness more than once. So he’s trustworthy, and Satoru … very barely trusts him enough to step in, if Suguru is farther gone than even he thinks.

Satoru’s feet take him to the street below, following after a trail of hanging bodies. “My, my,” he muses playfully, identifying the girl at the end of the alley, face mottled with tears. Alone, now, that’s not right. “What have we here?”

“Was it you ?”

Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College

Okkotsu Yuta promises his life, his future, everything he has, to Orimoto Rika. She howls to the heavens, I love you I love you I love you.  

Naoya monitors the fight from a safe distance, the ever-present seductive hum of Freeze Frame at his fingertips. It’s much harder than he thought to sit back without interfering, but he’s another task to attend. Yuta’s application of Reverse Cursed was … near-flawless, for his first crack at it. Maybe he managed to make some sense out of that nonsense answer Shoko always gives. The other first-years will be sore, and maybe have an extra scar or two, but they’ll live.

Maki’s tense the second her eyes flicker open, and Naoya barely dodges a reflexive kick. “Hey, hey, it’s alright.” He’s crouched beside her, safely far enough away as to not make her feel cornered, and he holds up the replacement pair of glasses in his hands. “I thought you might appreciate a new set.”

“What the fuck - who do you think you are -“

“You’ve been here the whole time?” Panda asks, as Maki seethes in confused fury - ah, Naoya remembers belatedly this is really the first time they’ve talked.

“Yeah. You’ll have to forgive me for not jumping in, but,” he turns watching the sky get illuminated with a brilliant light, overpowering Uzumaki effortlessly. “Okkotsu-kun needed this chance. And he’s gonna need you, too, so … go thank him for fixing you up, yeah?”

He doesn’t touch Maki, but he does ruffle Inumaki’s hair as he gets up, tossing the three a lazy wave as he leaves. His cousin is staring a hole in his back as he goes - but in the end, Yuta will be more important than answers from him. She goes after her friends.

Geto Suguru staggers against a wall, sliding against it senselessly, barely able to keep his feet under him. Ah, with a power like that … blood flows down his robes, clogs his nostrils. His flesh is mangled and torn, arm gone at the shoulder, injuries creeping along his ribs. Ah, this is it, isn’t it?

He sits there for an eternity, or maybe just a few seconds, before footsteps draw his eyes. He’s expecting the palette awaiting him - dark clothes, white hair.

The rest is wrong, though. He was, after all, expecting Gojo Satoru.

Despite it all, Suguru laughs.

Naoya means to give them time - but that odd buzzing sense of wrongness is creeping back into his chest. Perhaps he should … make sure. Ensure that things are right. Okkotsu beat Geto, everything is going as it should, so why … ? What’s different? What changed?

He stops, pieces clicking into place. Ahhh, that’s why. The near-obscured cursed energy trailing along behind him, one that doesn’t belong here, not here, not now. He turns, looking for his shadow - and then he lowers his eyes, because he’d set them too high. Ui Ui holds out one hand, a sheet clenched in the other.

“Come with me,” he instructs, aiming for haughty and sounding nothing but afraid. “Hand of Fate, your presence is requested.”

He supposes that must mean him. “I don’t bite, kiddo, no need to be so formal.” 

Naoya kneels obediently, letting the boy draw the sheet over them. There’s the other shoe, then - finally dropped.

Shinjuku

Her phone is cracked at her feet, and with it, her ability to defend herself.

“It’s not too late, you know,” the white-haired man tells her, because he’s an ignorant jackass who doesn’t know how Nanako’s whole world is ending. “Unless it is! I guess that’s up to you, huh?”

“Satoru!” a distant voice calls. “It’s looking like we’re done here. Are there any more?”

The sorcerer turns his back on her, sauntering down the alleyway and leaving her alone. “Nope! All clear. Just a dead end.”

Nanako picks up her phone. It’s cracked and broken, dead, and with it, every picture of the other half of her soul.

Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College

When he learns Geto has vanished, Gojo isn’t sure whether or not he’s surprised. When his Eyes then fail to find Zen’in Naoya on campus, he isn’t surprised at all.

???

They arrive in an unfamiliar penthouse, overlooking the Tokyo skyline. Naoya knows what awaits him in the pit of his stomach before he even opens his eyes, but he takes his time to look around at everything but their host.

She must have been staying here for a while. The luxurious bed is currently occupied by the bloodied, unmoving form of Geto Suguru, sprawled out like a dropped toy. The remains of where his arm once was has been healed over, but his blood hasn’t been wiped away - even from this difficult angle it is obvious there is scarring. Ui Ui has shrunk back to the shadows, hands clasped together, uncharacteristically timid.

And there she is. She looks exactly as he’d expect, long white hair tied into two long braids, plain black dress, an axe at her hip and a bird on her shoulder. An easy smile sits on her face as her head sits cocked to the side, and Mei Mei’s eyes are bright with amusement and expectation.

He can’t see the scars she wears like a crown. He doesn’t need to.

“Master,” she greets him. “You’ve come at last.”

Naoya reaches for half-remembered wisps of memories, for a man he is not. He knows it, knows her, knows he will choke to speak her name, knows he has been bound by dozens of vows lashed to his soul from long before he awoke. That is all he knows - but Naoya cheats at cards.

That is all he knows, and nobody else needs to know he can’t see the hand he’s been dealt.

He drops to one knee without a moment of hesitation, taking one of her hands and pressing a tender kiss to the inside of her wrist. “You’ve kept me waiting, Mother of Monsters.”

Chapter Text

Ever since the day she was born, there has been a man on the mountain.

It’s a cruel, inhospitable place to live, her mother warns her. Mother is a clever woman, one who wears nicer clothes than anyone else the girl has ever known, who comes from somewhere else in a time before she bore her daughters. Mother is clever and beautiful, and the girl loves her enough to aspire to be just as clever, just as beautiful. Maybe even more so, so clever and beautiful that their family can live in a nice palace, like the one in her mother’s stories. Mother has a lot of stories, whispered tales of heroes and grandeur to distract her daughter from the crawling demons in the woods and the itching in the back of her skull.

Her favourites are the ones about the man on the mountain, because those ones are true. On clear days, she can see the shack all the way up in the clouds. 

Mother says the man has always lived up there, even when she was a young girl. He’s been around for a very long time, but he isn’t always an old man. He isn’t a man at all, truly, but an evil spirit who steals the bodies of strong men and whisks them away to his mountain to live out their lives. 

The girl always asks the same questions: Why? How?

Well, darling, all spirits were alive once. Well, darling, he is cursed, after all.

The man has always been there, and he always will be. She whispers to her sister, sometimes, about why. Maybe he’s looking for a wife. Maybe he forgets he’s a spirit. Maybe he can see everything from up there. Her sister rarely entertains this. She entertains very little, even as a child. Her sister is a cold person, even in appearance, with white hair and eyes bluer than the skies above - like winter was born into a person. She doesn’t care for the stories of the old man and the mountain.

Her skull doesn’t itch. Sister doesn’t know what it’s like to itch.

As she grows, she continues to enjoy the fanciful story, though it takes the shape of something more philosophical in her mind. After all, who hasn’t imagined living in another person’s body? She pictures it often when passing through the village, entertaining fantasies of giving into that ugly urge, of forcing herself down the throats of the men in the village who scoff at her plain clothes and bare feet. Of replacing them. Becoming them. What would she do if she could do something like that? She could parade herself back home to their wives, dash their dreams and throw them out onto the streets just to see their faces. She could draw a sword on their closest friends and then leave them for another form, bodies and reputations tarnished at her hand.

The story, really, isn’t so much about the old man. It’s a fanciful fairytale, because one person cannot take another’s skin. She itches, and thinks less about the man - but she doesn’t stop thinking about him entirely.

When she works with the wives of the farmers, she hears the different versions of the story they pass onto their children. The young woman entertains herself with patching them altogether into a whole to one day tell her children. It’s a gory tale, not the softened version her mother would share. A brother, or maybe a son, grew angry at the man (a diplomat or a king or a noble) over an inheritance (or a wife or, in one inventive telling of the tale, the slain brother had been a monster who chose to lay with demons rather than executing them) - the details don’t matter, because one man killed another man who was his kin. The murdered man became an evil, vengeful spirit, a terrible beast in the shape of a monkey or a dragon or sometimes still in the form of a man. The spirit tormented his murderer’s bloodline for fifty long years, reigning misfortunes upon them and forcing their sons to live through their worst days over and over in an illusion of eternity.

(The young woman finds this entertaining and fascinating. If she could create illusions, she would instead create honeyed deceptions to lure others into false comfort. She would command their minds not through fear but through adoration, or love, or guilt - softer feelings. Powerful feelings. She doesn’t remember when the silly story became a fantasy with herself in the man’s place, but she entertains it, because it is more entertaining than the work. She itches.)

The spirit was challenged by nine great shamans from across the land, and he ate them all. The tenth, the son of the son of the murderer, did not challenge the spirit directly. Seeking only to lay the spirit to rest, the grandson bound the spirit into the body of his own son and sent the infant away. (There’s some playful debate over this, over where the babe was sent. The foolish woman who invented the man’s dalliances with demons claims he was Tang, while the eldest of the wives argued he had been sent to this very village, which is why he returns time and time again.) They all agree that he will be reborn eternally as punishment for his crimes, fifty hundred years for every tormented member of his clan.

The young woman wonders if it’s truly punishment if he chooses to live alone on a beautiful mountain. She wonders even more what she’d do if she could live that long.

That thought takes root in her mind, scratches at the inside of her skull. On some days the agony of it is all-encompassing, leaving her sweating through her haori in bed, her frigid sister beating away the crawling demons drawn in by her agony. She itches. Her desperate fingers leave gouges in her scalp, pull away strings of brown hair matted with blood. It passes, as she always does, and she happily returns to her passive fantasies of palaces and living forever, punishing the foolish people around her.

Mother dies in spring, and the young woman - as the eldest - claims all of her fine robes as rightful inheritance. In truth, they do not know which is the eldest - they were born on the same night, on the cusp of winter breaking into spring. But she claims it to be herself then, even knowing she’ll claim the title of youngest if it ever becomes time for them to be wed. The woman does not want a husband. A man could not soothe the empty ache inside of her - she hungers for something else. More and more often, she dreams of the mountain. 

She makes the hike, finally, as spring gives way to summer. The air is warm and she’s a parcel of dried fish and fruit to sate her as she walks. The mountain is treacherous even without snow, and there is no sign of anyone ascending it recently. There never has been, for all her winters spent staring at it, longing to see footprints in the snow. For the twenty long years she’s lived here (and she has never lived anywhere else), nobody has been to the mountain, and nobody leaves it.

She isn’t truly expecting to find anybody, which is why she’s surprised when she very nearly passes him. There’s some ill miasma in the air, the feeling of a brewing storm clinging to her fragile body even though the skies are clear and blue for miles. It chokes her so much she nearly turns back, and when she considers it she sees him. He’s very, very old, with long silver hair, stooped and wrinkled with age. She can’t see his face, for he’s facing away from her, sitting at the edge of a ravine overlooking jagged stone. It’s not a very pretty view to behold, not like the forests and rivers beyond - but, she supposes he’s seen every view there is. 

He’s old, and small, and does not seem to notice the young woman standing there watching him. She stays there for an eternity with her breath held, pressed behind a tree, the bark cutting into her palms for how hard she grips it. If there’s even a chance, a small chance for it to be true - she needs to know. She needs to know, craving it so badly she nearly collapses to her knees then and there, the press against the back of her eyes agonizing in her need.

The young woman obeys the impulse that seems obvious to her. It’s the only choice to make. She crosses the clearing quickly, heedless of the cuts on her feet and the splinters under her nails, and she pushes him from the edge.

It’s a satisfying choice, she reflects, gazing down at his distant form splattered across the rocks below. Even if he’s not the man, the man of her childhood stories, she has learned something new today.

She returns home with a grin plastered to her face. She doesn’t itch for days.

(She doesn’t stay to watch the body.)

The stranger comes to town on foot with the coming of winter, sweeping in an air of choking miasmic terror that nobody seems to feel, but everyone whispers about him all the same. Their village is not one often visited - the merchants have to travel for days just to peddle their meager wares in the nearest city. He’s a samurai, or a criminal, they whisper, at first. She tucks herself around corners and buildings and watches him as he stops to rest. He’s handsome, she thinks, with sharp features and long eyelashes. He has darkened circles carved under his eyes, and long straight hair - a deep green, cut through with streaks of stormcloud grey and silver - tied out of his face. He’s handsome, maybe because he’s new, because he’s unlike anyone she’s ever seen. Maybe because she’s been seeing the same people her entire life. He must be old, wearing crow’s feet like the fisherman and worry lines like the sneering butcher. He’s more dignified than them both. More dignified than anybody she’s ever known.

She doesn’t admire him like a woman admires her husband, the way the girls giggle after the young men off to work, of that she’s sure. She watches him with bone-deep longing, and aches to pry him apart and climb inside. She wants to wear him, to be him, to turn his feet right back around and walk back out into the world on them.

He doesn’t linger long, and she could crow her victory to every star in the sky when he begins the long trek up to the mountain. It’s real, he’s real, she declares to her sister, swinging off of her pale arms in giddy, greedy excitement. It’s true, she tells the fish she’s gutting, that smile plastered back onto her face and unwavering. When she sees the butcher’s sneer she smiles back and imagines prying open his skull and dropping herself inside. 

She knows, from the very earliest tales she was spoonfed along with her milk, that the mountain is treacherous. It is a cruel, inhospitable place to live. But her grin burns into her and the itch intensifies to something insatiable. 

The foolish woman, the one who embellished the story in the most entertaining ways and was naive enough to consider the twins her friends, gave her an excuse to visit - while they worked, she leaned over and asked if she’d seen him again since then. 

He spoke to my mother very kindly, she claims eagerly. His name was Zen’in - Hanako-san says they’re a very wealthy family from afar. You have to promise to tell me if you meet him.

The young woman does not tell the foolish little thing that she has, perhaps, already killed him. No, the idea is too tempting, sitting giddy and fluttery in her gut. She’s been offered a scapegoat to blame should the trip go awry, and with that justification locked in place, she steals the warm boots of the merchant’s wife and heads up the mountain.

The trip nearly freezes her. Her fingers and toes are both cold and burning when she finds that shack she’s spied so many times from the ground below, led by the choking dread that fills the air, familiar enough to lead her right to his doorstep. It’s pitiful, barely better than the hovel she and her sister call home.

The green-haired old man is there, sitting before the door with a sharp blade resting in his lap. His clothes are cut strangely now, tighter to his skin. He was in the midst of brushing his hair, too mundane an activity for an immortal spirit.

She wants to tell him about the itch in her skull. Her desire to lay open the petty people around her and wear them like masks. She wants to ask about the demons of the wood, the ones only she and her sister can see. His eyes are older than the mountain, and she itches with the need to know. She wants to tell him she killed him, if only for a little.

She drops to her knees, heedless of the snow, of the cold, of ruining her mother’s nicest kimono. She begs, demands, to become his apprentice. To live forever.

“Foolish thing,” he scoffs, and heavy arms are lacing around her middle and pulling her up from the snow. Before disappointment and anger can crush her, he brings her inside, and hands gentler than any curse should have draw a moth-eaten blanket around her shoulders. “Do you not feel the cold, silly girl? Sit, warm yourself, eat . Spare me your nonsense until you have come to your senses.” His hands linger for a moment, brushing her hair free of her face before taking her hands. He’s so warm it nearly burns her. Her face aches from grinning.

He’s kind. The horrible spirit of her stories is a kind man. That turns something wonderfully in her stomach, makes her itch even more for the knowledge he holds. The accursed man holds a power that could shape the entire world, not just her little village.

She wants it. Needs it. Itches for it. One day, she vows, she will shape the world in her perfect image.

Chapter Text

“You’ve kept me waiting, Mother of Monsters.”

The words slide from his tongue effortlessly, oozing a confidence he doesn’t feel. It’s a careful, measured greeting, weighed in his mind against the information he has at hand. He’s compiling it, mentally, as if it were just another list in his notebook.

What Do I Know?

1. I have a some form of curse physically preventing me from saying Kenjaku’s name, so I can assume we’ve met.
2. If I’m wrong, my greeting will hopefully instead be interpreted as an exceptionally well-researched nod to Yuji. 
3. Suguru is still alive, and I can’t be sure of Ui Ui’s safety. Using Freeze Frame to escape is not an option.
4. Mei Mei is dead, and it is my fault.

The beautiful white-haired woman beckons that he remain kneeling with the slightest hand gesture, tilting his face to inspect it. Her scrutiny makes his skin prickle with discomfort, and he has to suppress a shudder. 

“How quaint,” Kenjaku notes, as if he’s a particularly entertaining insect. “So affectionate, Master. Did you miss me?” They quirk the corners of their lips up in a smile so painfully like Mei Mei’s that he could weep. “Do you even know who I am?”

“I cannot say your name,” he tells them flatly, not allowing himself to avoid that piercing eye contact.

“Come now, surely you’ve not so quickly forgotten your dear associate Mei,” Kenjaku’s laughter is warm and soft. A gentle hand combs through his hair. “What a fine vessel you’ve chosen - young, too.”

5. They believe I incarnated myself, which means they didn’t call me here. Either someone else did … or they’re right, and I did this. This is my fault.

Naoya forces a smile, suddenly unable to bring himself to look at Ui Ui for reasons other than wariness. “… right. Sorry, Mei. I … thought you may still be cross with me.”

“Never,” Kenjaku assures, hands cupping his face. “I had other plans, of course … but I thought continuing our business endeavours may be a more prudent use of my time.”

6. They may have killed Mei Mei to access what knowledge I told her. This is my fault.

“You only ever had to ask,” Naoya hums as sweetly as he can muster. “Though … I confess my tongue is often tied. I don’t do spoilers, Mei, I’ve already told … you .”

They sigh, but truly don't look disappointed. “You and your vows, Nao-ya.” They drag his name out, and it’s never felt less like his. The way they say it sounds too indulgent, like they’re playing along with some game of his. “You’ve already been acting on this foreknowledge you’ve attained, though, haven’t you? Imagine my surprise to see the Hand of Fate awoken so soon … and so young. I ache to learn of what you’ve attained, and how - did you arrive merely to taunt me with it?” Their slim fingers trace a line around his forehead. 

“I would have waited until after the Culling Game had begun,” he bluffs, reaching for what he knows and spinning it to imply more, “but … ah, such a thing wouldn’t have been possible if I wanted such a thing to still happen, you understand.”

Kenjaku considers this. “Hence you made connections with Geto Suguru,” they muse, connecting the dots he randomly scattered before them. He thanks his lucky stars they seem to think he’s smarter than he feels. “And set me to instead seek out … that very important curse user.” 

7. My fault, my fault, my fault. They think I chose Mei Mei for them? 

“He's more useful to us functioning independently , with the proper guidance,” Naoya says, unclear if it’s anywhere near true. “Ah, and his daughter … ?” 

“I couldn’t pass up the opportunity,” they agree, which tells him approximately fuckall. 

“Even with my foreknowledge, you remain one step ahead of me,” he praises, for lack of any other response.

They maintain that flawless smirk. “I’ll tolerate your pets , Master. You hardly need to act so chaste every time some clever sorcerer catches your fancy. I’ll account for your greedy habits going forward, as I always have. I suppose it’s part of your charm, to be so consistent - ever the curse, even now, aren’t you? Maybe I’ll use him later - be sure not to erase anything before you’re done with him.” 

He finally glances past them, to where Suguru is limp on the bed. If he understands this right, Suguru is being offered to him like a gift - a dead mouse on his doorstep, left by a smug, dangerous cat. How the tables have turned - he wonders idly if the curse user has ever been on the receiving end of his own belittling, dehumanizing language before. 

In any other situation, Naoya would be disappointed he wasn’t awake to hear it.  

“You know me better than I know myself,” he says, as if admitting some easily accepted embarrassment. “I’ll monitor him very closely.” He pauses, and then decides to press his luck. “My absence may be considered suspicious … ? Inexplicably, the Gojo heir has decided I am attempting to assassinate one of his students.”

“I didn’t think you’d draw close to the Six Eyes wielder,” Kenjaku muses, an unspoken question in their low, seductive tone.

“I assumed I’d be the only incarnation active at this time,” he lies again, “and unique enough to not be recognizable as one.”

They sigh, and he’s not sure if he’s relieved or terrified when they sound almost fond. “I shouldn’t be surprised to find you at that school. Ever the teacher, Master - I assume none of this era have outperformed me , have they?”

8. They speak to me as an equal, and an ally - even fondly, to the extent they may spare sorcerers I seem to have an interest in. I can’t tell if we’re fellow mad scientists, allies through circumstance, or something else, but it seems they think of me as some sort of teacher.

“That would be a feat enough that I’d announce it instantly, my dearest disciple,” he answers, wishing he knew half of what they were talking about. “Ah, but I expect the pieces will align for one of the sorcerer children to be of some use to you shortly, Mei . I’d like him to remain in play, if you can ensure it seen through. I … expect I’ll need to begin exerting my own separate influence on him soon.”

“Oh?” they question, eyes bright with sudden curiosity. “This is something you didn’t tell … me about.” Their fingers twitch. “But I suspect you found a way to tell me before I found you anyways, didn’t you?”

He hums, brain running a mile a minute to put things together. When would he have talked to Kenjaku without talking to them? 

… the journal. The journal. From their perspective, he left it right out in the open, marked with his cursed energy, just for them. Some way to circumvent whatever vow they believe he has. That whole trip could be seen as him preparing Mei Mei as a vessel, if he looks at it from the right angle. He feels sick.

“To think I worried for nothing,” he hums agreeably, getting to his feet. “Ah, it’s truly been lovely, Mei - and we have much to discuss, but I think I’ll be taking my leave for now. I’d hate for people to talk, and I’ve a new ward to see settled.” He prays they’ll let him leave, takes their hand, pressing another kiss to it.

They bridge the gap, leaning in and responding in turn with a brief, chaste kiss pressed into his mouth.

9. Oh. I have wildly misjudged this relationship.

The worst part is the way he doesn’t have to fake the way heat creeps up his face, the way electricity dances down his spine. That secures his theory as much as the vows did - he knows Kenjaku, not in his memories but in a way his soul recognizes. He does, and not Naoya - he knows them.

He feels even sicker. He wants to go scrub his skin off. He wants to kiss them again.

He needs to get out of here.

“Enjoy him. I’ll arrange for a ride for you both,” they promise. “Tell my darling sister I say hello, would you? We’ll all see each other again, Master, whenever that may be.”

“And pray it is sooner rather than later. Try not to surprise me too much in the meantime, my dearest disciple,” he bids in a hollow mimicry of the playful tone he uses when ribbing Higuruma. “Goodnight, Mei Mei.”

He can’t bring himself to look at Ui Ui as he drags Suguru into his arms, into an awkward deadlift bridal carry. The elevator takes forever for a floor this high, and he’s relieved to climb into the back of the waiting vehicle with the man and direct them far, far away from here.

The dingy garage apartment is well-lit when they finally arrive, just as Suguru is rousing - though, that can be attributed less to coincidence and more to Naoya smacking him repeatedly in the face.

The night sky above hides any looming black birds, and Naoya reminds himself that he is going to need to fear the very sky itself along with the chessmaster’s hidden machinations. He gets out of the car first, and before he moves to help Suguru up, Naoya ducks into the adjoining alley and empties his stomach onto the street.

By the time he’s done dry heaving, the curse user has managed to sit up on his own in the backseat, shaking like a leaf with the effort, looking as awful as Naoya feels. At least if there’s one man who won’t judge him for getting vomit on his shoes, it’s the curse-swallower.

“Suguru,” Naoya rasps, putting both hands on the car roof to lean in. “You can understand me? You’re here with me?”

Suguru turns ocean-deep purple eyes on him, and he’s not shocked to see that stunned, devastated look has crossed the man’s face again. He’s sinking. Spiraling. They can’t have that. Naoya fists a hand in the front of his robes and pulls him close, heedless of how disgusting they both are. 

“Listen to me. Quiet. Listen. On Halloween, a coordinated attack is going to be made on Shibuya, to seal away Gojo Satoru within the prison realm and release Ryomen Sukuna from his vessel.” That got his attention - those eyes have widened, uncomprehending, and Suguru opens his mouth for a question Naoya doesn’t let him voice. “You, Geto Suguru, have sworn to help me save the world. Make good on that promise. Trust no one. Do you understand me?” Again, his mouth opens. Again, Naoya cuts him off. “Nod. Yes or no.”

After an eternity, Suguru nods.

“Good. You were meant to be dead, you know. That … that was meant to be you. Don’t forget that. Don’t you dare forget that.”

Naoya maintains their intense eye contact before leaning back back, pressing himself under the man’s remaining arm to pull him upright. The two manage to stagger in through the front door, and just as Naoya is beginning to wonder how they’ll manage the stairs, his saviour appears. Miguel, tense as if expecting a fight - only to loosen and take the steps two at a time to take the family’s beloved leader from Naoya’s hands. It’s the most animated Naoya has ever seen Miguel. He’d almost call it happy.  

Suguru says nothing, somewhere between pinched with shock and stunned with the information Naoya offered him.

“We’d assumed the worst,” Miguel says, as if explaining - and then he turns and calls upstairs. “Girls! Draw a bath, get the supplies - Zen’in brought him back to us in one piece after all!” He pauses, noting Geto’s shell-shocked look, his missing arm, the scars winding over his face and the eye that won’t open. “Mostly one piece,” he amends.

“He should be okay,” Naoya tells him. “I don’t know if I’d dump him in water just yet, though?” 

“It’s for you,” Miguel says, already heading back upstairs. Naoya needs no further incentive to help the two men to the top floor.

Nanako has launched herself into them by the time they reach her, blessedly not catatonic in her sheer emotions but instead a flurry of action, that desperate need to be of help he knows so well. Naoya doesn’t pick out all of Geto’s family waiting in the room, but it’s close. He could kiss Suda when she emerges from the other free room and tells him, “bath’s on.” 

Geto’s found his voice, speaking quietly and kindly to his remaining daughter. “I’m here. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Everyone is eager to see Geto, and ensure he’s all in one piece. Naoya is just grateful for the excuse to withdraw from the emotional scene - and suspects maybe they want him out of the way for a few minutes, maybe. He wants himself out of the way, too. He’s got more than enough emotions to contend with right now.

He locks the bathroom door and takes the opportunity to check his phone. Whoof. That’s a lot of missed messages.

Yaga [8:02 pm]
Where are you? Is everything ok?
Pick up your phone damn it!

Shoko [8:20 pm]
how do you wander off at a time like this

Kin💜 [8:50 pm]
SENSEI WHERE ARE YOUUU I WAS SO BALLER TODAY

Rara💚 [9:00 pm]
kin says to tell you he was so baller today
also are you ok??? you always text back

Kin💜 [9:02 pm]
Sensei you can’t die on me you owe me VEGAS!!!!!!
SENSEIIII
😭

shoko [9:31 pm]
no but seriously where the fuck are you
what happened with suguru

unknown number [10:10 pm] 
What’s your fucking game here? 
Stay the hell away from me and my class.
Or else.

And those are the nice ones. Well - nice, and one that he thinks is from Maki, which makes him happy despite the contents. He wisely elects against checking the staff group chat just yet, for the sake of his emotional well-being. He quickly pens out a mass text, deciding to leave out … all of that. He doesn’t know what to do with all of it yet.

Naoya [10:46 pm]
still alive, sorry to disappoint!
geto’s not gonna be a threat anymore
my sincere condolences to those of you who knew him
give me like 40 minutes to wash the puke and blood off
and then we can all go back to pretending i have dignity

He’s peeled off his mostly-pristine clothes and is testing the water (scalding, set to boil him like a lobster, perfect) when he sees the only reply he really needed pop up.

Rara💚 [10:47 pm] 
we were supposed to pretend you have dignity? 
<:’-(

He manages a faint smile at the screen, and sets to soaking the horrible evening off of his skin, ignoring every other ping that comes through for the time being. He just … needs to stop thinking for a while. He just needs a moment. Just a moment.

Naoya hasn’t felt so brittle and off-balance since he first woke up. First incarnated. The implications are dizzying - or maybe that’s his empty stomach and the burnout from losing all of his adrenaline. The bath left him jelly-legged and wrung out like a towel, and he may have fallen asleep if not for Nanako knocking on the door and sweetly telling him she found his spare clothes and left them by the door. His are still wearable, but feel … tainted. Wrong, like whatever he washed out of his skin, the mark that still lingers on his soul. He touches his lips and shudders. 

He doesn’t bother with his shoes, pulling on the kimono and hakama he’d left here as spare clothes, combing through his wet hair with his fingers. His reflection stares back at him through the fogged mirror, and he stares at himself. His face has felt like his for a long time now. He runs a thumb under one of his eyes, taking in his well-worn dark circles and solemn expression. He doesn’t wear Naoya’s face like Naoya. He wears it like himself.

He just don’t know who that’s meant to be anymore.

Padding out of the bathroom on quiet feet, he lingers in the empty bedroom for a while, listening. Geto’s family are talking quietly with him, the tail end of a soft argument.

“-on’t care about stupid monkeys,” Nanako is saying in a choked voice. “I don’t care anymore! Geto-sama can do anything he wants, and I want to wake up Mimiko with him.” 

“You know we’d follow you anywhere,” Suda agrees quietly, with a rustling noise. “If you say that person needs to die, they need to die - I’m not here to ask questions.”

“In that case, I’m going home,” Miguel sighs. “In truth? Can’t say if I would have stayed either way. I’m sure I’ll come back to you eventually, but I’ve got my own losses to recoup.”

Geto’s answer is too soft for Naoya to make out, but it earns a few watery chuckles from the group, even if it sounds like their hearts aren’t in it.

Naoya decides to stop eavesdropping and to join the group proper, slipping out of the room and offering an awkward wave in greeting.

He isn’t expecting Nanako’s arms around his middle, nearly carrying him clean off his feet. He blinks, once, briefly stunlocked as Nanako hugs the life out of him and Negi throws an arm over his shoulder to draw him closer to the group.

“Thanks,” the younger man says as the girl babbles out her own far less coherent thanks. Ah. Right, to them he saved their leader, brought him back - maybe they didn’t want him out of the way after all. Maybe, just maybe, his actions have cemented him as one of them. Maybe he was being … uncharitable.

Suguru has lost the robes, and Naoya wonders if it’ll be the last time he wears them. “What will you do now?” he asks the maybe-former cult leader, allowing Nanako to direct him to sit beside the man instead of joining the others in standing around him.

Geto stares at him for a moment, his expression so carefully blank Naoya can’t even fathom what’s going on behind that piercing stare. At this angle, he can see his second eye just barely through his scarred lid, cloudy white and unmoving. Naoya refuses to cringe away at the sight.

“I’m going to refocus my efforts,” Suguru says levelly, good eye drifting shut. “Mimiko’s condition is unchanging, and those monkeys are going to be … near impossible to stamp out without Rika-chan. The infestation may need to be culled another way.” Naoya hums vaguely, gaze drifting down to the remains of his armless shoulder. He thinks, illogically, not of Suguru’s danger to them or of the unpredictable force Naoya is now responsible for. He thinks I wonder if he’ll be okay, getting used to that on his own. Which was his dominant hand?

Geto continues, unaware of whatever odd ideas are dancing across Naoya’s skull. “For the time being, it would be careless to proceed. The sorcerer world is too alert. Do they … ?”

“I’ve heavily implied I killed you,” Naoya answers, easily grasping the unspoken question. “Please don’t go out of your way to prove me a liar anytime soon.” 

Geto nods, shoulders slumping a bit more. “In which case, our focus shifts entirely to an unforeseen enemy : the sorcerer who took my daughter, and interfered in our attack.”

Naoya won’t ask him how much he remembers of the aftermath - he isn’t ready to talk about it. About Mei Mei. He shakes his head to clear it, and then gingerly tucks an arm over Geto’s shoulders. “Your focus should shift to recovering, first. I’m already looking into the matter, remember? Ah - I’m guessing you all sent my brother away?” Yuzuki is conspicuously absent, and Suda nods.

“We … assumed Geto-same had died, and securing Mimiko became our next priority,” she explains, the softest edge of terrible emotion in her professional delivery. “It’s … what he would have wanted.”

“You did well, my dear family,” Geto says, sliding back into playing leader with his gentle smile. “I owe you all more than I could ever repay. For those of you who are going to leave us, go with my blessing.” Miguel dips his head.

Naoya jerks his head up, remembering why he’s even here. “Ahhh? You’re leaving, Miguel?”

“I was never staying forever,” the man answers seriously. “And I’ve had my fill of you crazy lot for the time being.” He sounds fond all the same, and reaches into his pocket to offer something to Naoya. A strip remaining of the black rope, a length just longer than a finger. “I nearly got a nasty beating in my effort to keep this for you,” he says. “You’d better put it to good use.”

“I will,” Naoya promises in a soft, hoarse voice. “Thank you, Miguel. This means more than you could imagine.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Miguel waves him off as if wary of a hug, but then places a hand atop his head. “I expect you all to visit me next time, when Miss Mimiko wakes up.” Geto shares a firm handshake with the man, and then Suda - for Nanako, Miguel takes a knee and grips her in a firm hug. “Stay strong,” Miguel assures her quietly. “Stay outta trouble - for her, and for me. Got it, pipsqueak?”

“Yes, sir,” she giggles, hugging him as tightly as she can. “I’ll miss you.”

“You’ll see me soon.” Miguel stands, bows, and then he’s gone, out into the street and - for the time being - out of their little family.

Naoya doesn’t ask about Larue’s absence, heaving a soft sigh. “… is Mimiko staying here, then?”

“Would your brother allow it?” Suda questions, finally sitting on the couch with the other two, leaving Nega and Nanako to claim the couch arms or stand awkwardly. 

“You already told him Geto was dead. I’ll tell him I convinced you all that a bunch of fleeing fugitives wouldn’t be good caretakers for a comatose girl.”

They’re all quiet for a moment, and then Negi declares, “we couldn’t all stay here anyways. We’d never fit all six of us in this place.” Naoya does a headcount, and confirms that includes him and Mimiko and not Miguel. Another family to claim him.

“She can stay,” Naoya confirms. “I’ll make sure she’s taken care of. You all … stay safe, alright? I should probably get back.” He stands, stretching out wearily but feeling marginally more human for the company. “I can’t help much with figuring out where to go, but … let me know when you get settled, yeah?”

“Thank you,” Suda bids him as he excuses himself. “For everything.”

“... don’t. Not for this. Don’t thank me for this.”

Chapter Text

Naoya scrolls through the hefty backlog of messages he missed, trying his damndest to focus on the words on the screen and not the earth-shattering revelations brought on by Kenjaku. He can’t even tell anyone - the only person he could have told was Mei, and she’s dead, maybe because he told her. Stupid, stupid. Too confident, too complacent. It’s a mistake he can’t afford to make again.

It’s nothing he didn’t expect, awaiting him on his screen. Confirmation that Suguru had shown up at the school, and Okkotsu put him down and freed Rika in doing so. There’s some discussion about that between Gojo and Yaga - the boy can still see curses, still has his energy, so that once-carried dream of ‘becoming a normal person’ is forever unattainable to him. Naoya knew that already. He wonders if they know about the shikigami Rika left him - he wonders if Yuta knows about it. 

It would be crazy to ask, especially now, so he doesn’t.

They don’t turn up Suguru’s body, predictably, and Gojo’s the first to point out Naoya’s absence. It doesn’t take the Six Eyes wielder to track Suguru’s bloodstains, apparently. He doesn’t recognize the third set of residuals present, but notes the blood lost is more than enough to be fatal.

(Can Suguru not used Reverse Cursed? Naoya supposes freaks of nature like Gojo and Okkotsu have swayed his own perspective of what’s normal to expect from a sorcerer.)

Shoko chimes in for the first and only time, confirming it has to be Suguru’s because ‘Naoya’s blood doesn’t dry’. Naoya … didn’t know that about himself. He brushes quickly past the lull in conversation, past Gojo’s simple response of ‘it’s done, then.’

If only. If only it was.

His kids’ messages are more entertaining, less of a weight to bear. They’re excited, and their eagerness for his praise or reassurance is near-palpable even over text. He’s sure they did good, and they don’t hear that often enough. 

Utahime messaged once, to ask him if he knows where Mei Mei got off to. He turns his phone off.

Gojo Satoru is waiting for him at the gates to the school, lounging with his hands in his pockets. Naoya says nothing and walks past him, knowing full well he can’t evade a conversation but hoping anyways. Just as he’d expect, Gojo falls in step with him, easily sauntering along at Naoya’s pace with his freakishly long gait.

“And here I thought you were gonna stay all holier-than-thou about killing somebody,” Gojo drawls, grin flashing in Naoya’s periphery. “You just had to have someone else do all the work first, huh?”

“Okkotsu-kun needed the chance,” Naoya repeats his earlier statement flatly, unable to conjure the motivation to play along. “We needed to let push come to shove for him to free Rika-chan from her curse.”

“Ahhh, so it was altruistic. You’re such a paragon of virtue, and all that.”

Naoya finally turns to look at him, annoyance bordering on anger creeping into the numb chill that had gripped his chest. “If you didn’t agree with it, you wouldn’t have let it happen. Why are you giving me a hard time about it? I’m not in the mood, Gojo.”

“Ouch, Yaya-kun, you wound me!” He presses a hand to his chest and reels back in mock offense, not bothering to hide his grin. “You’re usually so keen to run away, how could I resist the opportunity presented. Ah - let’s not be hasty,” he adds, when Naoya instinctively raises a hand to activate Freeze Frame. “I didn’t say we were done, after all.”

Naoya sighs, dropping his hand limply down to his side. “Yeah, yeah, and you’ll follow me to the ends of the earth to drive me mad until I give you the attention you so badly want. Ask me whatever it is and be done with it.”

Gojo is quiet for a moment, leaning in, and Naoya - perhaps feeling a little cruel - cuts him off with “ Love is the greatest curse of them all. That’s what you want, right? What he’d had to say to you.”

“Ah,” Gojo says, stilled for just a moment. “Oh, Yaya-kun , I’m so flattered ! To think you even wasted the time to get his last words, just for little old me !” Becoming a bit more serious, he continues. “Not that I don’t appreciate it. That’s thoughtful of you. More thoughtful than I thought someone like you would be capable of.”

“I’m only human, Gojo. No matter what your eyes or your intuition or whatever are telling you. I’m only human.” He turns his glare up to the sky. “Not all of us are so keen to leave behind our humanity for godhood.”

“And now I’m insulted. You’re implying I was ever some weak mortal ?” Gojo pretends to wipe away a tear. “You’re right in that I’m stronger than you, though. So when you decide to stop being only human …”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll splatter me like a bug.” He shoos the other man away as they finally reach the building Naoya sleeps in, one he’s not sure he can call home. “Go be human for a bit, Satoru. Cry over your ex, smash some plates, eat some ice cream and feel like shit. Promise I won’t tell.” He ducks in through the doorway, pretending not to notice the way the taller man stands and stares after him as he retreats inside.

They both know Naoya won’t be able to hide from him, but Gojo lets him pretend that a simple door in the face will stop him. It’s the most merciful thing he’s done since they met.

Even after what must have been a long, exhausting day for everybody, he’s not especially surprised to receive a knock at his door not long after arriving. At least he’s gotten Gojo out of the way for now. Naoya opens his door, and then offers a smile to the girl awaiting him outside. A scowl is etched into her face like it’s always sat there, and there’s no sign of her prior injuries. He can feel the curling cursed energy radiating from the weapon she’s got clenched in one hand - and, of course, none from her. She has none, after all.

“Hey hey, Maki. Is something wrong?”

She steels her shoulders, bracing herself as if she expects a fight instead of a conversation. Naoya carefully keeps his body language relaxed, hands folded harmlessly in front of him, visibly unarmed. Brave, spectacular girl. The visible hatred in her eyes only serves to endear him further - atta girl, Maki, atta girl. Only person here with any sense.

“Yeah, something’s wrong. What the hell are you doing here?” She brandishes her staff at him, a slight tremor to her hands. “What are you actually doing here? Don’t give me that teacher bullshit. I don’t buy it for a moment, not when you’re slinking around like a rat.”

He lifts a hand, slowly, pushing her staff out of his face with one finger. He’s no doubt she could stop him if she wanted - she’s undoubtedly stronger than he is - but she doesn’t, just glowers. A rat. Ouch . “I don’t know what to tell you, then. I’m teaching. I would have taken the Kyoto campus, but most people don’t trust me any more than you do, if it makes you feel any better?” He shrugs, once. “I’m not gonna offer you some shallow apologies or whatever. I’m good to keep staying out of your way.”

She just continues glaring, hands tightening further on the staff.

“... Maki,” he says, when she doesn’t respond. “Would it make you feel better to kick my ass?”

“Huh?” she straightens, even more tense now. “What, like you’d just roll over and let me?”

“Yeah, probably. Sorry, I don’t think there’s any making this better, so … y’know. It’s kind of all I’ve got to offer you.” He gestures vaguely. “I kinda figured offering to kill Ogi for you would just piss you off, and apologizing for things I don’t remember would also piss you off, so …”

Maki turns her staff over in her hands, finally breaking eye contact. “And offering me an easy win wouldn’t piss me off? Don’t make me laugh. I don’t need your pity.”

“Hey, I’ll put up a fight if you want. I’m just, y’know,” he gestures again, “kinda dogshit at hand-to-hand. Kin beats the shit out of me regularly, and I figure you could beat the shit out of him. So …”

Her anger’s slid more into the line of bewilderment, as if this conversation has veered entirely out of the realm of sanity. “... prove it. Fight me. With your technique.”

He wonders if she knows. Knows he can’t bring himself to hurt another person that easily. The mere idea of hitting her makes him want to curl up and weep.

“Sure,” he agrees, stepping out and closing his door. “With my technique. Let’s not do this in the hallway, yeah?”

He’s fully expecting Maki to lunge at him without warning once they reach their destination - the first open space they cross - but that expectation does little to actually aid him in avoiding it. Maki’s unnaturally fast, spearing her staff into the ground and using it like a pole vault to launch a devastating kick to his stomach. Even as the world freezes and he regains his footing, one-two-three-four, he’s stuck on the back foot, defending. On five he drops his technique where he’s circled around and sweeps her staff out from under her, keeping up his mental tempo, one-two-three-four-five as she spins to keep her balance and uses the momentum of his kick to swing the staff up at him. He flickers in and out on steady counts of five, landing one hit for every two of hers, stuck dancing between her blows.

“What’s with the timing?” she asks, aiming a kick at his head that he blocks even as the force nearly sends him off his feet anyways. She hits like a truck. “You’re moving around me - every six seconds?”

“Five,” he corrects, getting a grip on her ankle and throwing her with it. She rolls to absorb the impact just as he flashes away, five-one-two-three , reappearing in time to land a solid hit on her ribs before she can get back on her feet. She doesn’t rise fully, using her low position to take out both his feet from under him, slamming him hard into the ground below.

“You can do it longer than that,” she grunts, aiming a punch at him - one that connects with nothing but dirt. “You’re going easy on me!”

Naoya, struggling to keep up, doesn’t feel like he’s going easy at all. He backs up safely out of swinging range, wiping his stinging cheek. “I … am trying … not to choke. Long fucking day.”

“Coward,” she spits, and he yelps as she launches her staff like a javelin and clocks him in the face. He presses a hand to his eye, and she closes the distance in a second - he’s once again gone before her punch connects. “You think you can get away with this sorry display? You’re right, it’s really pissing me off - !”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, ducking under another swing of that deadly staff of hers.

“That doesn’t make me feel better! I don’t want you to be sorry! I want you to be good enough ! If I’m going to be compared to you, how do you think it feels that you can’t even beat me?” Another swing. “If I had that power, all my problems would be solved by now!”

Naoya, breathing hard, circles back out of range. This time, when she throws her staff, he catches it, keeping it at his side. “No … they wouldn’t. Only thing this power is good for? It’s killing - or running away.” He breathes in, breathes out, then tosses her staff back to her. “Could you kill someone who couldn’t fight back?”

Finally, she falters, hands staying at her side. “... yeah. Not all of us are cowards like you are, when it comes to doing what needs to be done.”

He wonders if she knows just how true that is.

“S’pose so.” He stands up, dropping his hands to his side to mimic her posture. “Go for it, then.”

“... what?”

“Kill me. I won’t fight back.” When she doesn’t move, he pushes. “I mean it. Nobody would fault you - Gojo would probably cover for you.” He spreads his arms a little, cocking his head to the side. “And I’m pretty sure I’m a terrible person, you know. You wouldn’t even have to feel guilty.”

For a long moment, he’s expecting her to take him up on his offer. Then, she scoffs, turning her head away.

“Like hell I’m going to be your easy way out of taking accountability, Naoya. If you want to die that badly, find someone else. I’m done here.”

He just sighs, rubbing his eye again. “Sure. Don’t stay up too late, Maki.”

“Fuck off.” And then she’s gone, stalking away, more angry and confused than when this started. Naoya lets out a larger, more exhausted exhale, sitting down on the ground to catch his breath. Maybe he does want an easy way out of this mess, but not like that. Sheesh, the heat of the moment really got to him there. He can feel bruises already blooming across his skin, but the chill of the night air soothes him just enough that he doesn’t hurry inside for ice just yet.

“Merry Christmas,” he mutters to the stars above. Predictably, they don’t answer.

“Maki-chan really beat the hell out of you,” Kirara notes, a degree of glee in her voice that Naoya finds entirely inappropriate for the topic at hand. “Jeez, Sensei, you’re such a wet blanket.”

“You didn’t even call us out to watch,” Kinji grouses, inspecting Naoya’s bruised eye. “We coulda placed bets.”

“You’d both bet against me,” Naoya grumbles. “My ego can’t take that. Ow! Don’t poke, Kin.”

“Did that hurt?” Kinji questions, before doing it again. 

Kirara pats his arm sympathetically. Classes are still off, but for some reason these two oddballs have elected to spend their free time with their teacher instead of each other. He … supposes he must have worried them a bit, vanishing like that.

He’s proud, though, he’s so proud of them. Nobody’s said so much as a peep about the two being suspended or getting in any fights, and some of the well-respected sorcerers on-site at the time had ample praise for the two. Mostly for Kinji, who’s a beast once his luck gains momentum, but every single compliment overheard for Kirara’s clever technique usage and quick thinking makes Naoya just as giddy. He’s so proud of them it could choke him.

“Kin,” he says, warmly. “If you poke my eye out, I’m going to find a way to block that promotion.”

“You wouldn’t,” Kinji huffs, obediently withdrawing his hand. “You’re too excited about it. Don’t think we didn’t catch you bragging about it on the phone.”

Naoya aims a halfhearted kick at the boy’s side, not even budging him. “Horrible children. You are killing me. You are killing your teacher. Of course I’m proud. You’re both wonderful sorcerers.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever make grade one,” Kirara admits. “But grade two by the end of my second year is nothing to scoff at, right?” 

“Your sense of scale is skewed with freaks like Gojo around,” Naoya confirms. “Grade two is phenomenal - especially at your age, Rara. Kin is just a crime against nature to be recommended for grade one this early.”

“I’m not the only one, either,” Kinji grumbles, sounding faintly sore about the fact. “They say that Todo bastard took out a special grade. On his own!” 

“Todo called me a freak,” Naoya mumbles automatically, “so you’re clearly the superior sorcerer.”

“I call you a freak all the time, sensei,” Kin tells him, patting a shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “But I’m still better than him! Bet we’d have a hell of a showdown. Next year’s exchange event is gonna be hot!”

Naoya thinks about it - about the curtain and Hanami, about his kids being there to face the unregistered special grade. “It’s gonna be something, alright.” 

Later, the kids wheedle him into lunch together, all but hauling him off between them, paying no mind to any halfhearted complaints he musters. 

“Sensei,” Kirara asks him quietly, when they’re away from the campus and the first years and the Six Eyes. “Are you really okay?”

“You’re a shit actor,” Kinji adds. “So we won’t believe you if you say yes.”

Naoya closes his mouth, unwilling to admit he was, indeed, going to claim to be fine. “I … can’t outpace all my fuck-ups,” he admits. “And I’m in over my head, I think. But I can handle it. You can worry about it, and about me, when you’re older than me. Got it?”

Kinji sighs. “If you insist, boss.”

“… ah?” Kirara squeaks in protest. “But Sensei, we’ll never be older than you! You get older every year too!” She puffs up her cheeks. “How old even are you?”

Naoya hums. “Ah … twenty-six?” 

Kinji is suspiciously silent as Kirara gasps at him. When Naoya turns to look at him, the boy is facing him with a shit-eating grin, holding up his phone. On the screen is a picture of a dinosaur, in the middle of eating another, smaller dinosaur. “Sensei … look. Your baby photos.” 

“I’m expelling you both,” Naoya grumbles, but it gets a laugh out of him all the same. “Asshole.”

The kids high five over his head.

Shoko doesn’t look up from her work as Naoya meanders into her clinic. He assumes that she assumes, rightly, that the students so often needing her attention are usually a rowdy bunch who feel the need to shout for her attention and get underfoot in their eagerness to help. Her company is like a balm to his very soul, and he’s happy to just settle on a chair and wait for her to be done. “Need a hand with anything?”

“No,” she answers curtly. “The fewer people touching my things, the better.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees easily, closing his eyes and listening to her work. The air smells bitter, of antiseptic and cigarette smoke and the vinegar-y cleaning agent she uses on the floor. He’d hate it if it weren’t Shoko to him - it smells like she does, though, so it’s more home than hospital. 

“… woah, you got your ass kicked. Want me to fix that?”

Naoya grunts, not opening his eyes. “You gonna unkick my ass, Shoko? Doesn’t hurt too bad, it’s fine. I think Maki needed to work some frustration out about my … existing.”

“Ah. Be less of a punching bag next time. Mai has a gun.”  

Naoya only laughs, because he very possibly would let Mai shoot him. “No promises.”

She finishes the task at hand and locks the cupboard, walking over to sit beside him. He doesn’t protest when her cold fingers grab his jaw, turning his face down towards her. He feels the way her cursed energy pulses under his skin, soothing his aching eye, dulling the bruises without dispelling them completely. “ Men ,” she huffs, releasing him once she deems her work acceptable. “Always so noble about the stupidest things. Are you here as a patient?”

“Only ever as a friend, Shoko. I’d never spill a drop of blood if I could help it, only to lessen your workload.” He presses a hand to his chest in a pledge. “… can you tell me about - when I hit my head? What state I was in before I woke up?”

It’s definitely a weird question, but Shoko is a professional, and works in a career where she has to face a lot of weird questions. “You’d been seizing intermittently between the time of impact and your first awakening, before you were brought to my attention as a patient. Nobody on hand thought to time them, but I could tell when I first got my hands on you that they were likely responsible for a portion of the damage. It’s a minor miracle you either didn’t bite through your tongue, or you subconsciously applied reverse cursed technique after doing so.”

“Can that happen?” he wonders, tilting his head.

“One of your students does it, doesn’t he? It’s rare, because usually by that point of injury sorcerers are worn out of their energy. You’ve got a ton, though, and … hmmm, if I were to hazard a guess, the sheer amount you gained all at once may have force-activated it anyways, to mitigate some of the damage. You might not have working nerves right now if not. Your body was attacking itself - think akin to that of the immune system attacking a transplanted organ. I couldn’t find any traces of healed damage, but there should have been more damage.” She lifts a finger, twirling a lock of dark hair around it. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. If I could trigger it again I’d like to see it firsthand.”

“Shoko,” he whines defensively. “My brain.” 

“You don’t use it anyways. Why do you ask?” she quirks a brow, and it takes all of his self control not to lay himself bare at her feet, share every terrible fear. 

“Just overthinking,” he mutters, guilty for every half-lie he’s ever offered her. “It’s not something that’d happen again, or happen to one of the kids, right?”

“Hmmm … it’s hard to say without knowing exactly what caused it, but I don’t think so. If it could happen to you again, it would have by now.” She bumps her shoulder against his. “Want a smoke?”

“Eugh, no. I can’t heal my own lung damage, like someone I know.”

She purses her lips thoughtfully. “I’d heal it for you, idiot. At least come stand outside with me for a bit.” Obediently, he does exactly as she demands.

They walk for a bit, to one of the abandoned portions of the school still damaged in Yuta and Suguru’s fight. Shoko exhales a plume of smoke, and Naoya wrinkles his nose but doesn’t complain. 

“Did you actually do it?” she asks eventually.

“… no.”

“Hmph. Satoru might genuinely kill you, you know. Can you, if … when you need to? Do you have it in you to finish the job?”

“Yeah. I can. I will. I just won’t like it.” He observes a demolished building, a heap of wood and stone crushed like a child’s toy. “One of his daughters is comatose.”

“Shit. How?” She still cares for him, but he knows she won’t ever forgive him, and that makes it worse. Naoya rests an arm on her shoulder.

“Nothing you can fix. A curse.” He squeezes once, lightly. “I’m not telling you for your help, I’m telling you because … I dunno. You should know. I don’t like keeping secrets from you. I think bottling it all up … isn’t really possible without me breaking. I’ve seen what it did to him.”

Shoko finishes her cigarette and draws out another. He lights it for her by force of habit, and they’re quiet for a bit. “Low blow, Naoya. Any other secrets you’d care to share?”

“Well. My other best friend is a non-sorcerer, and I would have exploded into a million pieces by now without him in my life maybe, and I think you two would get along every time I spend time with him. I threatened to kill my uncle if he was cruel to his daughters anywhere near me again, but it was like, an implied threat through my cousin? Uh, what else … I don’t like Gojo much.”

She snorts. “That last bit wasn’t a secret. Invite me out to drinks with him.”

“Gojo? I just said - oh, you mean Higuruma !”

“If that’s your friend, then yeah.” He’s definitely earned the idiot stare this time. “… how’s Suguru?”

“Bad,” Naoya admits, as he pulls out his phone to do as she commands. “Still crazy, definitely. Kinda pulled along by a binding vow I tricked him into - dunno what he’ll do once it’s done, but for now, not in any state to be a threat. Still crazy for sure, though, the sort of crazy you keep yourself so you don’t need to face reality. I don’t think he can come back from where he’s gone, but - the girls, y’know. He’s, uh, down an arm. Maybe an eye too, hard to tell.”

Shoko sighs. “Suits him right,” she murmurs, in a tone that makes him think she doesn’t mean it for a second. “… are you texting your civilian friend now?”

“I can’t take being here any longer. You look like you need a break as much as I do. And dinner. I may as well feed you both. Remember - non-sorcerer, no talking about … y’know. Stuff.”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response, besides stepping on his foot. “I should let Satoru kill you. You’re both too annoying to tolerate at once, you know?”

Preparing for their last-minute dinner date involves Shoko stepping out of her heels and lab coat while Naoya flags Ijichi down, and … that’s it, really. They should reasonably put in more effort to look nice, but if Shoko isn’t going to bother, neither is he. He texts Higuruma to reiterate that it’s super casual and figures the man is going to turn up in a suit anyways. Speaking of suits …

“Ijichi, do you wanna come with us?”

The assistant adjusts his glasses, looking a little nervously at Naoya. “I rather expected I was, sir, considering I’m driving you there … ?”

“Ahhh, no, I mean - have dinner with us! My treat. You need some time off too, you know. You don’t mind, right, Shoko?” he calls over the man’s shoulder as the doctor catches up with them.

“Not at all. Maybe next time we go out we can bring Utahime and Akari, too.”

“As long as I don’t have to look after Iori’s kids. Todo thinks I’m weird.” He turns back to Ijichi, grin on his face. “So? Whaddaya say?”

“W-well,” Ijichi stammers, “if you’d like to have me along, I suppose I can’t decline … and it’s only sensible to have your driver on standby if Shoko gets called away. That is to say - yes, I’d like that very much, Zen’in-san.”

“Please call me Naoya,” he reiterates for what must be the millionth time. “I’d even prefer Gojo’s stupid nickname over Zen’in - do you know how many Zen’ins there are? There’s two on this campus alone!”

“Ohhh, Yaya ?” Shoko teases, taking the passenger seat and letting Naoya occupy the back on his own. He settles with his back to the window, telling himself not to stare out searching for birds. He can’t start getting paranoid now. “That silly name used to drive you crazy . I think you actually started frothing at the mouth once.”

Naoya snorts. “It still drives me crazy, whenever it comes out of his mouth. Most things he says do that, though. I think it’s some hidden facet of his technique. My patience with him is certainly not limitless.”

Shoko leans back to hit him.

Naoya spends most the drive leaning between their seats pointing out turns for Ijichi to take in between telling them about Higuruma. He might talk excessively on the topic, but it’s - special, somehow. Higuruma is his only friend who’s his, the only connection he’s formed where he is not preceded by the name Zen’in or the well-earned reputation of the original Naoya. He has never been anyone but himself to Higuruma, and there’s something so deeply precious about that. And it leads him to a bit of rambling, maybe. About the sort of upstanding man the defense attorney is, how he’s a little awkward and how Naoya thinks Higuruma probably thinks he’s some sort of shady criminal or something because of their awkward first meeting and how Naoya can’t actually clarify because of keeping cursed spirits a secret or whatever but really it’s a shame because Higuruma never even asked about all the seals in his apartment or where his new scars came from so he’s clearly able to be subtle and -

“We’re here,” Shoko interrupts him, putting a hand on his head. “Do you hype up the rest of us like that, Naoya?” 

He huffs a laugh at her. “Only dear, reliable Ijichi. As dependable as the sunrise, our Ijichi. You aren’t nice enough for me to brag about. People would worry I was being harassed and bullied by a mean coworker.” She tugs a lock of his hair, and he snaps his teeth at her before getting out and opening her car door for her. “And besides, you all know each other, and everyone knows me or some version of me. Higuruma is - he’s unrelated.” He’s all mine, he doesn’t say. It’s my choice to share him with you.

“You don’t have to sell us on him,” Shoko reassures as Ijichi finishes locking up and joins them (he’s still sporting pink ears from the praise, and Naoya makes a note to do so more often). “He’s friends with you, that’s impressive enough. Must be made of some pretty stern stuff.”

“Hey. I’m charming. I have tons of friends.”

“Two isn’t tons .” She lets him open the restaurant door for them both, brushing in first, eager to get out of the cold. “Your students don’t count.”

“You literally hate me.” He lifts his hand to wave at the tired-eyed older man waiting inside for them, beaming at the smile he offers. “Higuruma-san!” Naoya takes Shoko’s wrist in his hand to pull her over, keen to introduce his dearest friends. Ijichi, perhaps used to a lifetime of keeping up with Gojo, doesn’t lag behind. “It’s so good to see you again! This is Ieiri Shoko, who I’ve told you about - and Ijichi Koyotaka, who I’m not sure I have!”

“The dependable gentleman! You have,” Higuruma tells him, offering the trio a polite little bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you finally - I’ve heard an awful lot about Naoya-san’s friends.” 

“We’ve certainly heard a fair bit about you ,” Shoko says, as Naoya herds them all to sit down towards the back - where he can sit with a clear view of the rest of the restaurant. “Yaya’s been nothing but complimentary, don’t worry.”

“Sho kooo , don’t call me that in front of Higuruma-san,” he whines. She ignores him.

The three hit it off as well as he expected. Higuruma is awkward and polite, making small talk about their work. Ijichi stammers even more awkwardly around a vague explanation of his job, but Shoko easily picks up the slack with a very matter-of-fact description of her job, which sounds just as thankless and difficult even with the supernatural details removed. Higuruma matches with his own, detailing his unique view on justice and the truth while quietly lamenting how often his clients take out their stresses and frustrations on him. Naoya, who loves his job, instead volunteers Ijichi as ‘the world’s most overworked man,’ which the assistant sheepishly denies only for Shoko to corroborate his claims. If only because she’s the world’s most overworked woman. Lightly complaining about their jobs proves an easy bonding point, and Naoya can’t be surprised when Ijichi and Higuruma somehow find ways to compliment each other’s hard work. The unshakable human bond between two salarymen with a mutual friend-of-a-friend, or something.

“So, how did you three meet …?” Higuruma eventually asks. He and Shoko are drinking at the others’ go-ahead, and it has eased the conversation along further.

Shoko spares him having to invent something. “Ah, we all went to the same high school. Or, well - Naoya went to our high school’s sister campus, but we met up during events and whatnot. He was in the year below me, and Ijichi the year below that.” 

Higuruma looks nothing but understanding and pitying upon learning tired, worn Ijichi is younger than both of his friends.

“Ah, and what about you two?” Ijichi asks. “It seems unlikely for Naoya-san to be friends with a … ah, um, anyone outside of his immediate social circle.”

Higuruma smiles. “Oh! He broke into my apartment.” He relishes the splutters that ears, as Naoya whines and sinks into his side.

“You’re sooo cruel to me, Higuruma-sam! You make me sound like some horrible delinquent!”

“Aha, no, no, it was nothing like that. It was very strange, though, you have to admit. I’d had a difficult, very rainy commute back home, and my key snapped off in the lock before I could get back into my apartment. And then some man I’ve never met appears, starts very carefully breaking in, and asks me philosophical questions about moral dilemmas while doing so. It was a very striking first impression.”

“He tends to make those,” Shoko agrees. 

“You’re very memorable, Naoya-san,” Ijichi tells him helpfully.

Naoya groans, spearing a bite of pork with his chopsticks. “You’re all so mean to me. I’m an innocent man having his reputation slandered .” 

The conversation meanders a bit aimlessly past that point, drifting from topic to topic far easier now. Naoya’s thrilled to brag about his kids, while Ijichi (with a little prodding from Shoko) is happy to share stories about those same kids causing the rest of the staff a world of trouble. 

“It’s good when kids can cause you trouble,” Naoya defends, having finished his own dish and set to the noble task of eating whatever Shoko doesn’t. “It means they trust you not to hurt them for it, y’know? It’s the kids that are too scared to fuck up a little that I worry about. It means they can’t handle when they fuck up big.”

“I suppose,” Ijichi agrees, nodding. “I can’t argue with that logic …”

“Besides, Ijichi-san is the best. You let that blue eyed bastard get to you way too much.” 

“That guy does what he wants,” Shoko maybe-agrees. “He’s always been that way, he’s just gotten more mature over the years. Higuruma-san, you are so, so lucky you don’t know the guy we’re talking about. If you see him, run for the hills.” She sounds fond all the same, and more than a little wistful.

Naoya makes a note to tell Gojo to spend more time with her, watching as Higuruma nods his assent. The poor man doesn’t even know what Gojo looks like.

“We probably shouldn’t stay out too late,” Ijichi says at last, apologetically. “Though it’d be nice to do this again sometime … ! I’ve had a good time, and it was nice to meet you, Higuruma-san.”

“You should drive Shoko home,” Naoya tells him, already pulling his coat off to give it to the lightly tipsy doctor. “I can take Higuruma, since I live right next door anyways. Text me when you get home, alright, Ijichi-san?” 

“Ah, I haven’t had that much to drink, Naoya-san.”

“Eh, it’s for me! What if I get lost?” He bumps his shoulder against Higuruma before refocusing. “I mean it, Ijichi! If you make me worry I’ll have to come hunt you down!”

“You have my word,” Ijichi promises seriously. Naoya isn’t worried. Ijichi looks at Shoko like she’s as precious as a jewel - and this probably isn’t the first time he’s driven her back to the campus either drunk or exhausted.

“I hope we can meet again sometime,” Higuruma tells them both, dipping his head as the two wave and depart. “… your friends are very kind, Naoya-san.”

“Right? Aren’t they the best?” Naoya offers the man a sharp grin. “Including you, of course.”

“You’re a strange man. Are you - ah, rather, are either of them …”

“Hm?” Naoya tilts his head, but Higuruma drops the topic, leaving Naoya to guess. “Oh, those two aren’t dating or anything like that, if that’s what you mean? Ahhh, don’t tell me you mean to ask one of them out, Higuruma-san! I’ll get jealous if you like any of my friends more than you like me . Well, I suppose I could live with it if you took a liking to Ijichi.”

“A very strange man,” Higuruma sighs, before smiling and offering him an arm. Naoya takes it happily. “You won’t get cold?”

Naoya turns his head up to watch the sky, trying to find black birds in the black night looming overhead. “Nah, I’ll be fine. You leave all the worrying to me, alright?”

“Ah,” Higuruma sighs, shaking his head. “I was worried you’d answer with something absurd like that.”

“You’re gonna get wrinkly if you keep stressing.” He keeps his eyes to the sky, to their surroundings, wary in a way he never has been before. Higuruma doesn’t comment on it, and Naoya doesn’t say anything else; he keeps step with his friend with his eyes to the sky, trusting Higuruma to lead them home.

Chapter Text

Scanning the sky for birds has become such an ingrained habit that Naoya is starting to feel more like a rabbit than a man. In just a few days it’s become routine already. He idly wonders if he’ll survive all of this only to end up scared of crows.

It’s fine, though. Time with his friends made him feel … human again, or something close to it. A past he doesn’t know looms over everything he does, but he repeats a new mantra to himself whenever it threatens to drown him. My name is Zen’in Naoya. I am only who I am now. I love. I am loved.

“What are you looking for?” Ranta asks, leaning in close to Naoya’s face and mimicking the angle of his head. Naoya lightly shoves his cousin a few inches away, but not much more than that.

“Crows. They say that crows are omens, and they mean different things depending on how many there are.”

“Ahhh, is that true?” Ranta questions. “Which numbers?”

“... I don’t remember,” Naoya admits. “One alone is bad, though.”

“I didn’t know you were superstitious,” Jinichi grumbles, lagging behind the two. It’s rare that three of the Hei are dispatched together, and downright overkill for Naoya to tag along, but … Naoya suspects this is more of a social outing than a proper exorcism. This family doesn’t seem able to just admit they want to spend time together for things other than training or missions. It’s nice, though. It’s nice to spend time with Ranta, at least.

“Eh, I’m not, really. I’ve been working on situational awareness with my students, ‘since - well, you know how teenagers can be.” Even their own teenager, Nachi, is currently in hot water for slacking on his studies. Being excluded from this mission is definitely his punishment. “You start paying attention to birds after working with Mei Mei.”

He doesn’t miss the way Ranta grimaces. “The woman?”

“You say that like there’s only one woman sorcerer,” Naoya scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Her technique is a bit like mine, y’know?”

“... no?”

“See, this is what I’m teaching my kids. You should be aware of what the sorcerers in the world can do, too. Your technique’s good for support, but what if you get paired up with my Kirara-chan, hm? You two could accidentally lock yourselves in a disadvantageous position and get hurt.” He taps Ranta on the nose, and ducks first into the worn-down university building. 

Jinichi follows first, then Ranta. “You shouldn’t speak so fondly of outsiders,” he notes, in a tone that suggests he already knows it to be a losing battle.

“Then I’ll adopt them or something,” Naoya teases, flashing him a grin. “Did I mention they’re both getting promoted after the Night Parade?”

Jinichi closes his eyes and breathes, searching for patience. “Once or twice, yes. Don’t joke about such things.”

“Who said I was joking?” 

He watches as the spirits infesting the hallway retreat, humming to himself. Incarnated sorcerer … maybe that’s a part of it. He remembers Rika had the same effect on lower-level curses. The original Naoya definitely didn’t feel like this. People can hardly resist commenting on it.

He hums, and pulls out his notebook to write a few things down. His new notebook, the one written in a bastardized blend of alphabets and codes that even he can barely read.

“Jinichi, he’s taking notes again,” Ranta calls.

“Ignore him. We don’t have the luxury of such distraction.” Naoya walks after them, falling behind and half-paying attention to the sounds of extreme violence against babbling curses. Super overkill. Now, if he has a distinct cursed energy, would it be the same as it was … before? Would another sorcerer familiar with it be able to identify him? Kenjaku clearly did, but they’re such a unique case it’s hard to say. Maybe it’s a byproduct of some sort of bonding vow, like Kenjaku’s scars remaining for each incarnation to indicate they swapped skulls. What does that do, though, does he remember? Better bonding with the host, or use of their technique? He doesn’t have the original’s technique, so then what? Is he off the mark entirely? Is this hypothetical nonsensical - surely, the sorcerers around him would be able to tell … maybe he should ask the guy who eats them.

“And he’s mumbling to himself.”

“I said to ignore him.”

“Ignore me,” he mumbles, not looking up. He clicks his pen and activates Freeze Frame as he paces down the hall, tucking the implement behind his ear and drawing a knife. His thought train continues, even as his muttering falls forcibly silent. He knows he has to get a head start on those other connections, and tracking the cursed spirits falls entirely to him now - but maybe he can forgo that so long as Kenjaku believes them to be allies? Can he count on that, though? Should he? No, probably not … and he knows there were thousands of sorcerers incarnated for one reason or another, nowhere near the few the manga showed him.

How does he even know that? How does all of that work? Trying to recall details of the life he does remember grows more and more difficult - he only remembers obsessing over the media he consumed, late night study sessions over topics he can’t quite name, nothing close to a personal life or childhood. A name? Nothing.

Whatever. Problem for later. A list of sorcerers may help him identify whose vessel Mimiko has become … and who he is, if he’s lucky. 

He puts the blade back in his belt, picking up his pen again, and with a click the hallway explodes into a splattered mass of gore and viscera. He avoids getting any on himself, in the midst of coming back down the stairs, staring at his own half-legible notes. “Hey, do we have a library at home?” Jinichi and Ranta, both interrupted mid-fight and now splattered in blood, don’t look particularly pleased. Naoya remembers to blink, once. “… right, whoops, I forgot you can’t, uh - next time I’ll throw a towel over you or something. So, a library?”

“... yes,” Jinichi sighs, reaching out one big hand and gripping the top of Naoya’s head like a basketball, rattling him in place a little. “But it is our duty to ensure we did the job correctly. Don’t rush off.”

“Yessir,” Naoya mumbles, finding he doesn’t mind being rattled all that much. His family aren’t especially touchy, because they’re all horrible men about the matter - any bit of affection is rare and appreciated. “I just need to … look at it. Later.” He ruffles Ranta’s hair as he passes, doing nothing to lessen the younger man’s resemblance to a spiky urchin or perhaps a particularly startled cat.

“Did you really forget we can’t freeze time?” Ranta asks him, more earnest than the teasing tone he’d expect from Shoko or one of his kids.

“Aha, yeah, sorry. I … forget things sometimes. I’ve been distracted lately.”

Ranta nods, once. “Yeah, I heard your principal asked us to take you home, because he thought you might be going through some sort of breakdown.” Jinichi’s sigh tells Naoya that they weren’t supposed to tell him that bit.

“... Masamichi’s a nice guy,” Naoya mumbles, smiling to himself. “That was thoughtful of him.”

“Ah? Are you going through some sort of breakdown? I thought it was an excuse to get rid of you or something!”

Naoya considers it, because Ranta seems so genuinely concerned at the prospect. He really admires the other Hei, doesn’t he? Even strange, outsider amnesiac Naoya - who was a horrible person to him, undoubtedly. “Hmmm. I’m like … not there yet. Just aware of that edge more than usual. That’s all.”

Ranta pats his shoulder awkwardly. “I don’t really get it, but, uh - you’ll feel better soon.”

Jinichi pauses to look over his shoulder, stiff and disapproving. “... what happens when you go over the edge, then?”

It’s an unspoken question, the maybe-worry that another powerful sorcerer will take Geto Suguru’s place. Naoya smiles back at the big man.

“Cry ‘till I puke. Shower fully clothed. Lock myself in Freeze Frame until I feel like a person again. Nothing too dramatic.”

Jinichi nods once, continuing as if he hadn’t spoken - leaving Naoya to get lightly shaken by his younger cousin, who insists he can’t take a shower fully clothed, he’ll catch a cold.

(He’s not sure if they care about him for anything more than his last name, but … I love. I am loved.)

He isn’t expecting company when he returns to the compound - but Jinichi surprises him, a steady silent presence at his side as he locates their archive and starts collecting anything that seems appropriate. He ends up with a stack about a foot tall, notebook before him and Jinichi beside him.

“... not reading anything?” he asks eventually, once he realizes the man hasn’t even bothered to pretend to pull out a book of his own. These people are so weird.

“Am I bothering you?” Jinichi asks in response.

“No, no, not at all.” That seems to be that, and Naoya’s left to make his own notes in peace but not solitude.

He’s pleased, maybe, to find some names he knows. The Thunder God, the Fujiwara Clan’s Sun, Moon and Stars squad, the Frozen Star, Dhruv Lakdawalla who had been born twice and once conquered Japan. The scourge of the Kamo clan, Kamo Noritoshi, and the Death Paintings. He finds familiar-sounding techniques, too, not just those carried by the three major clans - Séance, Tool Manipulation, Miracles, Weightless. About a million references to Sukuna - the King of Curses has smeared his bloodied fingers all throughout history, spoken of with fear and reverence centuries after his death.

(When was he alive, before he became Zen’in Naoya? Did he know the King of Curses? Will Sukuna know him?)

There’s a lot of titles he doesn’t recognize. There’s a fair number of those in general - countless titles preserved when the names were forgotten. Sage of Defiled Graves, Winter’s Victory, the Iron Maiden, the Burned Oracle. He takes note of them all, of what records he has of their abilities - just in case. Just in case. He scours for ‘The Hand of Fate’ and comes up, frustratingly, empty.

Most of the books are aged, handwritten, disorganized. He’s giddy every time he finds an appendices at the end, or any help whatsoever in sifting through its contents. He’s about halfway through the pile when one catches his attention not so much for its contents. He had taken the old journal largely because it was between two other books that seemed useful, and its lack of title was admittedly more interesting when he hadn’t already endured pages upon pages of half-relevant outdated mythology and conjecture. He expects to discard it on the first page alone, unimpressed with what he’d hesitantly place as an Edo-era record with the front page labelled “practices in sorcery and medicine” by one Zen’in Eto - but his eyes feel like they stutter into place on the first page of notes beyond that. It takes him a long, long moment to place it - he flickers his gaze back and forth between his own notes and the notebook.

Ah. The handwriting is exactly the same. The slight slant, the neat lettering crammed a little too close to itself, the breaks in topics indicated by a neat vertical line.

The fact he can barely read either. He may need to take notes on what are, apparently, his own notes.

Naoya has to refrain from digging into the journal immediately. He would, he should - but the sunlight is creeping orange through the windows and Jinichi has fallen asleep in his chair twenty minutes ago, which is a clear indicator that he should call it for the day. His spinning head and tired eyes have nothing to do with that decision, no, it’s for Jinichi’s sake. Naoya re-stacks the books, keeping the journal with his own and tucking both hidden into his inner pockets before putting everything else back. By the time he’s done, all his pacing about has woken his cousin, who seems a tiny bit relieved to be done.

Naoya still isn’t sure why he stayed.

“Finished?” Jinichi asks.

“For now,” Naoya concedes, leading the way out and shielding his eyes from the dying sunlight. “For a bit, actually. I’m going with one of Utahime’s kids on a mission the day after tomorrow, and then prepping for classes and catching up on my work.”

Jinichi snorts, and a heavy hand rests itself in the small of Naoya’s back as his cousin rather forcefully herds him towards the dining room’s plain table. “You’re avoiding us.”

“If I were avoiding you, I’d have done all that reading in Freeze Frame and left before you showed up,” he retorts, not protesting when Jinichi pushes him into a seat and once more settles beside him. They’re the first to show up, but they’ve barely seated a minute before Nachi enters. Naoya’s wave to the teenager goes unanswered - or, rather, he drops to his knees next to him, hands clasped together.

“Mercy, Naoya-sensei. I beg of you, noblest and kindest of my uncles. The theory of it all escapes this empty head of mine. Grant me the boon of your teaching wisdom.”

Naoya cackles, ruffling his nephew’s hair. “You’re worse than Kinji! Get up here, explain to me what’s giving you trouble.”

That’s how the others find them when dinner time arrives properly: Nachi nodding along, Naoya leaning over a few sheets of scrap paper with one pen tucked behind his ear and another in his hand alternating between being used to illustrate a point and to serve as a chew toy, Jinichi and Ranta watching as more of a captive audience than actual assistant tutors. Naobito, the last to show up, sits beside his son and doesn’t interrupt his ongoing lecture.

“-includes domain expansions that are inherently intrinsic to a user’s innate technique, right? A sorcerer’s cursed technique can get stronger, and reveal aspects it didn’t have before as it does, but it doesn’t ever change naturally. Your body is built to work in synergy with your technique, it’s fixed to you. Let’s say I put Ranta’s soul in your body. What would happen?”

Nachi grimaces a little. “Uh … it’d explode my eyes if he used his technique?”

“Well … yes, but also no. Your body isn’t suited to his technique, so if it carried over your eyes might explode - but it wouldn’t carry over. Because it’s a part of his body. He’d end up with your technique.”

“I’ll take good care of it!” Ranta promises cheerfully.

“There’s exceptions, of course,” Naoya adds, settling back down in his seat. “Like Master Tengen, who merges with new vessels but keeps their memories and technique. I don’t know if anyone really knows how that works … ah, but I expect your technique doesn’t carry any secret body-hopping abilities in it, Nachi.”

Nachi nods again, sighing. “In practice, it’s the same, though, right? Even if I can’t miraculously change my technique, I may find some secrets in it with enough training.”

“I suppose so. It’s still a good mindset to keep you from hitting your head against a wall, though,” Naoya muses. “If there’s a hard limit you know is there, you’d be better off learning to go around it rather than pushing through and wasting your time.” 

Nachi frowns even more at him. “My technique doesn’t have any hard limits, I don’t think.” 

“Ten points to anyone who can name one,” Naoya says automatically, locked firmly in teacher mode - and he permits himself a grin when Ranta lifts his hand. “Yes, Ranta?” 

“Momentum! He can’t make it go faster!”

Naoya considers this. “I don’t know if that’s entirely true - it may be more accurate to say you’re still bound by the laws of physics, Nachi. Studying that more would be a good idea.”

Naobito cuts in for the first time, chuckling fondly. “Ah, research. I remember the days when I was discovering the strengths of my technique - very young, mind you. No more than six, I spent my days running around, getting underfoot, and using it on my brothers at every opportunity.” He slaps Naoya on the back. “And you did the very same!”

Naoya laughs despite himself. “Ah, remind me to apologize …”

Nachi seems to be thinking hard about something, and so does Jinichi - though Jinichi always looks like that. Eventually, Nachi raises his hand, mimicking Ranta. “What are your technique’s hard limits?” 

Naoya shrugs. “Physics, like yours. Molecules don’t move beyond my body. And - well, my body. Freeze Frame isn’t a domain expansion, but I’d say the energy backlash once it’s done is comparable. I just expend that energy at the end of it, rather than the start. While my cursed energy is damn near limitless, my physical energy is exceptionally limited.”

“Is that why you always look so tired?”

“Ugh, yes. I am always tired.” Naoya wrinkles his nose. “It isn’t socially acceptable for me to sleep for twelve hours straight, for some reason.” Nachi’s hand goes up. “Yes, Nachi?”

“What’s your Domain Expansion like?”

Naoya wonders if he can find that in his journal. It’s something he’ll just understand one day, right? Something he has to feel. “Dunno! Can’t use it, or Reverse Cursed technique, at least not yet. I think, theoretically, I could manipulate time further than stopping it, but that’s all in theory. And from there I have to determine what form of time manipulation it is. A closed loop, or a branching timeline, or even timeline-hopping to an existing branch - all theoretically possible. It’d be a tactical decision either way, but could I utilize it knowing I’d be essentially abandoning a doomed timeline to a worse fate? Would I be aware of a doomed timeline?”

Okay, he thinks he’s lost them. He’s getting a lot of blank stares.

“I just think time travel could be cool to do,” he grumbles, sinking down in his seat.

“… you’re impossible,” Jinichi says flatly.

“Eh? Jinichi, don’t be mean! It’s totally normal to think time travel is cool!” Jinichi just shakes his head, and turns a hard stare to Naobito. Naoya’s father, in turn, claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Take care not to accidentally make yourself nonexistent, son,” Naobito says, grinning. “And stop giving your cousins headaches with your science fiction hobby. Tell me about your students instead.”

Naoya, who loves talking about his students, talks all through dinner.

“Do you have anything you’d like to tell me?” Naobito asks, out of the blue, while Naoya’s in the midst of escorting his father back to his room.

“Hm?” Does he know about Suguru? About Kenjaku? About Higuruma ?

“Ah, maybe it’s nothing. Interesting choice of topic, is all.” Naoya tilts his head uncomprehendingly, and Naobito just snorts, slinging his arm over Naoya’s shoulders. “Ah, don’t worry about it. You’re a good boy, Naoya. It’s good to see you less distracted!” He squeezes, lightly, mindful not to bruise. Naoya obediently doesn’t flinch, just rests his head on his father’s shoulder.

“I have more to think about than ever,” Naoya sighs. “… Maki and Mai. Or, Mai specifically, going to school as a punishment. Was that your decision, or Ogi’s?” 

Naobito sniffs. “Sullying a good night speaking of those failures, Naoya.”

Naoya pulls his head back, frowning. “Maki’s a powerhouse, father, our systems do her talent a disservice. Mai seems less interested in being a sorcerer, right?”

His father grunts. “Ogi suggested their placements, and I agreed. I don’t know which is more disgraceful, the non-sorcerer or the weakling.”

Naoya frowns more, biting at his lip. “… I see.”

Naobito pulls away, holding his shoulder and frowning back. “I’ve upset you,” he notes, questioningly. “Why would you waste time or energy on those two?”

“I detest the way sorcerer society is built,” Naoya decides, once more tilting his head to the side, staring his father down. “I loathe the way this world is, and nothing disappoints me more to know than how my family has some of the worst of it to offer.”

“Naoya,” Naobito says in a tone that’s nearly a warning.

“I’m only being honest. How can I not feel disdain for the people who spew the same rhetoric repeated by people like Geto Suguru? I take no pride in aligning myself with a terrorist. I hardly think myself unreasonable for the apparently outlandish idea that two of our youngest kinsmen have any worth to us.”

“You’ve been outside of our walls for too long,” Naobito growls.

Naoya sighs, leaning forward to press his hands gently to his father’s shoulders. “It’s the other way around, father. I love you, you know that? I love this family. I love what we could be, but I don’t love the way we are. If it doesn’t have room for my little cousins, maybe it doesn’t have room for me.”

He’s expecting the slap, but it doesn’t sting any less when it lands. It’s just a slap, because Naobito at the very least isn’t Ogi , but it’s still a slap. Naoya blinks, once, and faces his father again with empty eyes. Naobito’s glare crumbles into bitter regret as soon as their eyes meet again, and the very hand that hit him raises to brush his cheek in silent remorse.

“You’re speaking nonsense . This clan will always belong to you, and you will always belong to it.” Naobito sighs, drawing his hands back. “I love you, Naoya, but I do not understand you. I don’t understand where this is coming from, but I won’t hear any more of it.” 

“I hope you do, one day,” Naoya sighs, rubbing his sore cheek. “I won’t trouble you further. Good night, father.”

“… sleep well, son.” 

Naoya doesn’t intend to sleep at all. Tomorrow, maybe - but the secrets he’s gotten his fingers on beckon too sweetly, lodge themselves so temptingly against his chest that he cannot even imagine resisting the pull. He walks into the night with nothing but two books and his clothes, meandering out of the compound while slowly deciphering his own(?) ancient writing. 

If he wrote it, he should be able to make sense of it, even if he doesn’t remember writing it.

In preface to a series of studies regarding individuals possessing what is colloquially referred to as ‘cursed energy’, and the dissection of specialized cursed technique and its interactions with both mundane medicine and other cursed energies, the author aims to clarify …

Chapter Text

Dawn finds Zen’in Naoya armed with a medical dictionary, a laptop full of historical language references, and a dense medical sorcery journal he can now confidently date as coming from the early 1600’s. The Kyoto Jujutsu Tech campus doesn’t have the cursed artifact storage, but it does have its own library, and he finds himself here rather than Tokyo for one reason alone - the winter break means less students he has to deal with. All of the Tokyo kids stayed over the break, for lack of any desire to return home for one reason or another. Naoya’s hoping that’s less of a trend with this bunch, because statistically at least one child has to have family or friends to visit. It’s improbable that nobody leaves campus for break in two places.

Regardless, that’s a problem for the Naoya of a few hours from now. The Naoya now is more occupied processing an absurd amount of vague information, vague feelings of guilt and confusion, and his own existence. Normal early-morning stuff, truly.

The journal is dense, but interesting in a sort of horrific way. A quick search did turn up records on one Zen’in Eto - the youngest daughter of four born to the clan’s head at the time, unmarried and without children. Maybe youngest son? There’s some debate on the matter, since Eto was never permitted sorcerer training nor acknowledged as heir but refers to himself as a man in his own writings. Good for him …? Maybe it’s weird to say that about a sorcerer he maybe used to be in the past. Whatever. Good for himself. Except for the unethical experimentation part.

Because what the journal details is definitely unethical. Eto never names any accomplice but the work has Kenjaku written all over it. Master, they called him - he’s starting to get an uncomfortable sense of what he may have taught them. It references ‘past techniques’ often, techniques he’s hesitantly placed as the creation of cursed artifacts used to incarnate sorcerers. It references past successes, too. Whatever these studies aimed to accomplish, they were conceived long, long after incarnation was honed to a science. That part he could have guessed at - Sukuna would have been dead by this point, fingers scattered. The idea that he pioneered it alongside Kenjaku is … something to unpack later. From what he can gather, Eto had been attempting something grander with the advancements of medicine. Incarnation without direct access to the intended host - incarnation without direct access to the sorcerer. Pulling in a soul or some sense of being from across space and time, or projecting it.

‘The author fears it will be another hundred lives before the procedure becomes truly possible,’ Eto muses. ‘Some unidentified aspect of the essence of self is too fragile, torn asunder in the attempted transfer and rendered unusable. Perhaps an incarnation over a shorter time period may be possible. As such, the author and his disciple intend to shift focus in measuring this damage. It will take time, as every aspect of the sorcerer’s life must be recorded to identify aspects lost when pulled through.’

Naoya grimaces through translating the whole passage, tucking the journal away. Augh. Augghhh . The idea is fascinating, truly, and he wants to know how it turned out just as much as he wants to never think about it again. It won’t have been used for anything good, would it? Not this, not in those hands. He knows his disciple, after all. And he doesn’t really know himself, but he doesn’t like the image that the journal paints. Clinical, detached, entirely unbefitting the man who has chosen to ground himself in the knowledge that he is loved, that he loves.

With a groan, he starts straightening his notes and putting those away, too. They never leave his side anymore - it feels dangerous to keep them, but even more dangerous to discard or burn them. It’s an anchor, some tangible written evidence that he was here and he lived and he didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

Something solid, to prove to himself that he won’t forget again. He gets up and stretches, deciding a break is in order.

The Kyoto kids are even worse about stocking their pantries than his. He hopes and prays they just emptied it all out before going home for the holiday, or something. How do seven children collectively have nothing in the fridge but ketchup packets and a single bruised apple? How do they live like this?

Well. They’re children . He supposes that’s why. And it’s also why he goes out shopping as the sun is coming up, grumbling good-naturedly to himself like an old man the whole while. He has a moment where he stops in the middle of the street, realizes he most definitely counts as an old man now, and cackles aloud before carrying on heedless of strange looks. 

This is all so fucked up. He may as well laugh about it!

He doesn’t even go here, and yet here he is, making sure their cabinet is stocked and then making himself breakfast in their kitchen. It’s like the law of equivalent exchange. Breakfast cannot be created or destroyed. Fullmetal Alchemist was all about this. 

“Reset-san?” Naoya turns, staring at a very disheveled, very visibly tired Haibara Isako, hair in a clumpy mess around her head - for a brief moment, he thinks she has a weird hat on. “Oh, yeah, it’s totally you. What’s, uh … what’s going on.”

“Isako-chan,” he greets, before brandishing a wooden spoon at her. “What was the last vegetable you ate, and when?”

“Oh, right, you’re like a crazy person,” she mumbles. “I forgot about that. Uh, I dunno. Carrots in curry the other night, maybe … ? Do the flakes in noodles count?” 

“You want breakfast?”

She sniffs the air once, looks him over skeptically, then shrugs and sits down, busying her remaining hand with combing out her snarled hair. “Yeah, I’m in. Is that offer an open one?”

“Mai might want me dead,” Naoya warns, “but I’m like one mild inconvenience away from losing it entirely, so, yeah. Go for it. Invite whoever. If I get shot you don’t get fed.”

She hums and ambles off, leaving him to figure out portion sizes. It’s less of a recipe and more like a large pan of whatever-the-fuck. Rice and eggs, ginger and mushrooms and scallions and chili oil - it’s all mostly just whatever smells like it would taste good together. The Kyoto kids should be thankful that his students have already served as his taste-testers, and confirmed his preferable spice level is ‘about a hundred degrees over any other living person’s’ and ‘qualifies as an assassination attempt’. Kirara called him a masochist. Kinji asked for seconds. This time, Naoya remembers to not make it spicy.

Zen’in Mai doesn’t have her sister’s mock confidence when it comes to approaching him. She tries, straightens her shoulders and stands tall, but Mai would have preferred to play along and live a humble life, and it shows in her posture. He can see it in the way her steps are light and her eyes never leave his back.

She’s just as sharp and distrustful, caught between the choice of fight or flight. She tries to project pride and confidence even as she slinks around him like a timid cat.

Naoya, who would kill if she wanted, decides he may as well offer just that - not so much a gentler approach, because she wouldn’t trust it. Direct. He simply chooses to be direct.

“Hey, Mai.” He already had her attention, but her shoulders stiffen, just a bit. “I’m not in charge of shit yet, but … say the word and I’ll do all your sorcerer work for you, yeah?”

Mai’s sharp eyes narrow, and the way her face sort of scrunches up isn’t at all like Maki’s. They’re so similar, but Naoya can’t imagine confusing the two. “... what’s in it for you?”

“Eh. I’m pissed at your old man every day of my life, and I don’t think anyone should be forced into this.” He hands her his phone absentmindedly, returning to his cutting board. “Gimme your number of whatever. Consider it an apology for, y’know, the time before the brain trauma made me stop being a huge prick.”

She’s quiet for a moment, before coming up to join his side, watching him work. “Hm. Yeah, sure, if you’ll actually do it.” He simply hums his assent, watching the girl unabashedly scroll through his texts instead of adding her contact info. He thinks she’s doing it in front of him on purpose, seeing if he’ll retaliate. He doesn’t. 

“... are you really - y’know? Kamo said that Todo said you could be into guys and that you didn’t even bat an eye or - deny it. You would have killed him before.”

Now it’s Naoya’s turn to be caught off guard. He stutters a bit, hissing as he nicks his finger. “Ah, shit. Sorry, what? I mean - why do you wanna know?” He runs his hand under the water, grimacing. Best to just … wash that away. Shoko did say it doesn’t dry. “Is this a blackmail thing, or a getting-to-know-me thing?”

Her glare isn’t much like her sister’s, for all their expressions are similar. “Just - answer the damn question.”

Naoya shrugs. “I mean, sure. Sorta. Men, yeah. Yes. I’m not too pressed about the whole matter.” Kenjaku had been his first kiss, technically - he banishes that thought pretty quickly. “I don’t really have the free time or personal freedom to go barking up that tree.”

Mai hums, finally keying her info into his phone and sending herself a text message. “Cool. Maki really beat you up?”

“Ugggh. Who told you about that? Yeah, she flipped me like a pancake.” He angles himself so Mai can slip the phone back into his pocket. “I’m some sort of sick fuck who doesn’t like punching teenagers, and she had no such reservations. You staying for breakfast?”

Mai chews her lip, then pulls away from the counter. “Maybe later. See you, Naoya.” With a lazy wave, she departs, her answer and her speed both just a tiny bit too quick to be casual. Naoya lets her retreat with her dignity intact.

Miwa and Kamo both went home for the break, and Momo’s presumably wherever Mai is - ah, geez, did all the M names go to Kyoto? - and Mechamaru, predictably, isn’t interested in hanging around while everyone’s eating. With any luck, that poor boy will be resting. That leaves Naoya to share breakfast with Isako and Todo for the time being, which is apparently an endeavour that involves more talking than eating. One that also involved recounting his taste for Isako before they could even sit down - she seems to find it hilarious. What about him attracts children with no respect for authority figures?

“Wow, so you were just a scumbag,” she laughs, leaning on her arm. “What did the thing? With your head?”

Naoya shrugs at her. “Either a seizure that caused head trauma, or head trauma that caused a seizure. Or some … secret third thing that caused both. Do I look like a doctor?”

Todo, thinking hard, suddenly slams a fist against the table. “ Ieiri Shoko ! Uniform, capacity for violence - could it be?”

“ Definitely not, big man. Just friends. Why are you kids so interested in my love life? My two interrogate me about Higuruma like, weekly - do you do this with all of your teachers?”

Isako looks like she couldn’t care less, but grins anyways. “Oh, yeah, it’s way more interesting than any of our relationship drama. Everyone knows all of that stuff already. Miwa’s obvious, Zen’in’s edgy, Todo’s delusional. And it’s not like our teachers could get mad about it.”

“Kusakabe-sensei is always avoidant,” Todo confirms(?) with a firm nod. “I can’t respect a man afraid to admit to his own passions! And Utahime-sensei is beyond boring!”

“I’m definitely not friends with either of them,” Naoya grumbles. “Scumbag, remember? … Why am I playing along with this? We could talk about literally anything.”

“We could,” Isako agrees. “Like what a Tokyo teacher is doing hanging around our campus at odd hours. Buying our silence with breakfast, Reset-san?”

“I don’t think either of you could ever be silent,” he grumbles. “I needed to borrow a library, and I didn’t want to run the risk of dealing with Gojo when I don’t have to. That guy’s a huge pain.”

“Why aren’t you teaching here, then, instead of shuffling around and leaving us with Kusakabe?”

“Ehhh, I think they might’ve been worried I’d try to kill baby Kamo or something stupid. Besides, I like Shoko more than I hate Gojo.” He lifts a hand preemptively to cut them off. “Not like that. Friends .”

“Aw, you call him Baby Kamo? That’s cute. I’m gonna make his life hell about it,” Isako declares happily. 

“You’re all like, twelve in my eyes. He’s a baby. You gonna help with cleaning up?”

Isako winks, pushing her empty bowl over to him. “Sorry. Can’t do dishes with one hand. Byeee!”

Todo, for some reason, rests a hand on his shoulder. “A real man doesn’t shirk responsibility. I will help you clean up, Zen’in-sensei.” His eyes glint. “I still don’t understand you, after all!”

Naoya sighs and pats Todo on the shoulder. What a strange kid. “Sure, bud.”

He’s quietly surprised at Mai’s company when he returns to his work in the library. He’s expecting her to continue her avoidance, to approach him only when she needs something. But she slips into the library and beelines towards him instead, and by the time she sits down, hands fidgeting just a tiny bit, he concludes he was probably right - she looks less like she wants company and more like she wants to ask for something. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he greets easily. “What do you need?” 

“Ah -“ she straightens a bit. “Who said I needed something? Do you think I’m shallow or something?” 

Naoya laughs a little despite himself. “No, no, I just figured. No student wants to hang out with a teacher during break, right? And you definitely don’t like me much. So it’s either family stuff or you need something. Don’t tell me it’s family stuff, please.” 

“… maybe I just wanna talk,” she answers, committing to her defense.

“Sure.” He closes both books and tucks his pen behind his ear, offering her an easy smile. “Anything in particular?”

“No,” Mai mutters, scrunching up her nose. “I mean, sure. What are you doing here?”

He looks around their surroundings. “Research. Ah, tedious translation, really. Super boring. I’d love a distraction - if someone happened to need something from me.”

She doesn’t look impressed. “… what if I’m just here to pester you for an allowance or something? You gonna keep being all … pleasant about it then?”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” He misses Mei Mei, as absurd as it seems. Fuck. He can’t dwell on it now, stifling the grief for when he’s alone. “You’d be the first I’m related to, which gives you a leg up. I dunno, are your grades good?”

“Are my - I wasn’t asking seriously,” she grumbles, but after a moment she answers, “yeah, they’re good. It’s not like I’m slacking off.”

“Good! Good. You’re allowed to slack off a little, but don’t tell Utahime I said that.” Naoya considers the matter. “So, yeah, I’d be cool about it. You’d have to tell me what it’s for, but as long as it’s not drugs or something that’s fine.” 

“What sort of person do you think I am … ?”

“A teenager. I dunno, you kids do stupid shit, it’s part of being a kid. But if it’s not money you want -“ he doesn’t bother to hide a smile when she shoves her hand out expectantly, turning her head away with a sharp huff. “Ah, so it was only for my wallet.” She still looks surprised when he actually puts the change he has on his person in her hand - change, he calls it, vaguely sure that by current inflation standards it’ll easily cover like, a teenager’s trip to the mall or whatever. “Be responsible, mind curfew, call me if you get in any trouble, et cetera.” 

Mai blinks rapidly, counting her allowance with rapidly lifting eyebrows and then shoving it all in her pocket. “You’re not my dad,” she answers, more flustered than the irritated tone she’s clearly trying for.

“Ah, and I thank my lucky stars every day that I’m not.” He re-opens his journal, but she stays, leaning on her arms and swinging her feet under the table. She’s so young, and he’s very pointedly not thinking about how she died young, not thinking about dead children - two in the future and one in the past, all Kyoto’s. “… do you like school, Mai? Not sorcerer work, I mean, like … school. Your friends, your classes.”

“It’s alright. I mean, my friends are great, way better than anyone - uh,” she almost clumsily brushes past the unspoken back at that place, and Naoya is spared having to agree with her. “You’ve clearly met Isako, dunno what’s up with that. Todo’s awful and Kamo’s weird and Mechamaru’s definitely creepy - ugh, all the boys pretty much suck to hang out with. You can have them, if you want. Momo’s the best person here by miles, and Isako’s at least reliable and funny. Miwa’s cute. A little annoying but in a way that’s kind of charming.” 

Yeah. That’s cute. Mai’s a standoffish sort, but he’s glad she seems to have friends, even if she’s probably sort of mean to them. It seems to work for her.

“That’s good! That’s good. What about - oh, man, we only have the two girls in Tokyo, huh? And I know you and Mai don’t get on … are you friendly with Kirara, then?”

“Who?”

“Ah, Hoshi Kirara? Second year? She’s got the constellation technique.”

Mai processes this, thinking hard. “Oh. Oh! Huh … um, no. The one always hanging out with Hakari?” She thinks even harder. “I guess we never talked. It’s not like I hang out with those Tokyo losers, and I didn’t pay her much attention during the exchange event.”

“Right, right, school rivalries. I was probably the same when I was your age.” He stops, thinking. “I was probably worse. There’s a historical precedent for that.”

“… were you, uh - do you think you were like this before?”

It takes him a second to place the question, lining it up with her earlier one. Hm. Okay, now there’s … a whole gallon of implications to unpack. Either he confirms the original Naoya was a misogynist because he liked men - uncomfortable - or that the head trauma made him like men - also uncomfortable! Does his poor little cousin not have any other mediocre bisexual adults to implore for their wisdom? Is he really her best option? 

… he runs through every sorcerer he knows, and comes up with only Gojo as someone who definitely experiences same-sex attraction. Okay, yeah. He can speculate all he wants on the others, but considering the time and laws and his own status, maybe it shouldn’t surprise him that he’s sort of her only option who’s like, been direct about it so far.

“It’s a recent development,” he settles on awkwardly, brushing aside the implications for a third, slightly less honest option. “I … met someone?”

“Woah. That’s … oh, that’s probably not good, huh.” She looks uncomfortable suddenly, maybe weighing his role in the family against the cost of an illicit affair with an outsider. “Hey. You shouldn’t be telling just anyone about that, are you stupid?”

Naoya sighs, leaning back. “Yeah, yeah. First of all, you’re not just everyone, you’re my cousin and defacto favourite Kyoto student. It’s not going anywhere, it’s not like I can tell him.” Nice save, Naoya. “Besides, I don’t think he’s - it’s whatever, you know? Just aware of it now. I like women well enough, I can tolerate whatever marriage I get tossed into whenever that happens.”

“That sucks,” Mai murmurs, and she sounds genuinely upset - for him, or more likely, for the glimpse at what future awaits her. 

Reassuringly, he adds, “I don’t think it’ll be as rough for - uh, anyone else in the family, you know? I’m under more scrutiny as my father’s blatant favourite child. It’d be an easier secret to keep for someone, uh, in lower standing.”

“Right. Yeah, that makes sense.” She’s quiet for a moment. “This sucks! It’s not that I don’t want to be good, and keep the peace, I just -“

“Mai, you’re not being bad.” He reaches over, ruffling her hair thoughtlessly. “You’re good. You’re a good kid. You deserve better than the hand you’ve been dealt. I’ll … try to make things better when I take my old man’s place, alright?” He gives her a thin smile. “And if I don’t make it for one reason or another, I'll run away and marry rich and then you can live in our apartment or something. Sound cool?”

She makes a scene out of trying to fix her hair, lifting her head haughtily. “Hmph. You’d better make it now that you’ve made a claim like that. I’ll never forgive you if you don’t. That means you must be too stupid to be left alone, and then I’ll have no choice but to move in with you.”

Naoya laughs. “Ah, Shoko tells me I’m too stupid to be left alone all the time, so I’m basically professionally diagnosed. I’m doing my best, promise! So … which girl is it?”

Mai gets to her feet, her pinched expression suddenly distinctly more red-faced. “I was asking for a friend! And I have to go do my homework now! Go back to your own school!” 

He laughs himself to tears as she stomps off, relieved and delighted all at the same time. 

For Mai - and for her girlfriend , too. Why not?

Chapter Text

“Zen’in Naoya-senpai!” Todo Aoi declares, so loud it makes his head ring a bit. The kid’s already shirtless for some reason, even though they aren’t even in the car yet. Naoya, having napped (for about ten hours) in the library, is suddenly deeply grateful he had the foresight to be well-rested for this.

“Yeah, Todo?”

“I can’t predict a single instance in which I’ll require your assistance! And you’re sort of weird, so I don’t particularly want your company!” Ah, this is why he likes Todo. The kid’s probably more sane than most sorcerers, just … direct, and honest. He knows his worth, and doesn’t like his time wasted. “I understand supervised excursions are necessary for my promotion, but Takada-chan has a livestream this afternoon, so I expect you not to hold me back for something as trivial as my safety!”

Naoya hums, gesturing for him to settle down. “It’s for Utahime-san’s peace of mind, Todo, this is all basically a formality. I think she and Kusakabe are making each other more anxious through proximity … I won’t get in your way, or hold you back. And I … suppose I like you well enough, even if it’s not mutual?”

The assistant tasked with delivering them onsite, Honma Michika (her hair’s a very bright crimson this week), throws him a look. “You’re not supposed to tell the students their promotions are a formality, Zen’in.”

“Ahhh, sorry, sorry, Honma-san! Todo, forget I said that, please? Or at least don’t tell Utahime-san …”

Todo grins. “You can say whatever you want! A strong sorcerer shouldn’t be afraid to speak his mind, you know.”

“Ehhh, do you want me to fight you to buy your silence or something …?”

That’s clearly not what Todo meant, but by the way his cursed energy flares up, he thinks it’s a great idea, raising his hands in two fists. “Honma-san! Stop the car!”

“... No.”

“You have to finish the mission first,” Naoya adds sulkily, predicting another beatdown in his future. At least he feels better about throwing punches at Todo.

Thankfully, the kid doesn’t protest the order - but Naoya still just about jumps out of his skin when the teenager throws himself out of the window before the car’s even stopped moving, sprinting towards the school with single-minded focus. Honma doesn’t bat an eye, just raises the curtain while she’s in the middle of parking.

“And I still think he’s less crazy than most sorcerers,” Naoya mumbles, letting himself out. “I’ll try to keep property damage to a minimum, Honma-san! Please don’t tell Utahime! She’ll scold me!” With that, he blinks into Freeze Frame to duck under the dropping curtain and catch up with Todo Aoi, living human force of nature.

Jeez. What a monster . Jujutsu sorcerers really aren’t normal people, are they?

Well, considering his notebooks written centuries apart tucked away within his coat and the thrum of time itself dancing at his fingertips, he supposes he definitely fits in.

Todo, predictably, didn’t even use his technique to demolish a first-grade curse into a mere concept. Just his fists. A monster among monsters, and definitely deserving of his recommendation. Easily outpaces Naoya himself, huh? 

Spirit eradicated into a fine mist, Todo whirls his attention onto his chaperone. “I’ll ask again -“ 

Naoya sets to trying to gently herd him back outside of the school that has to open tomorrow before Todo throws him through a window. “I just don’t get what you don’t get about it!” 

“Explain it again! You’re not boring, or interesting, you’re just inhuman!” With movements smooth enough to make a dancer envious, Todo lunges forward, plants one hand on the ground, and swings his whole body upwards in a devastating foot-first spring. Naoya drops, flashing under the trajectory of his kick and staying out of grasping range as Todo rolls easily to his feet. He’s fast - not as fast as Naoya is with Freeze Frame, but maybe faster than he is without. Maybe. Naoya, fingertips crackling, stays locked in the flow of time.

Maybe it’s a sort of disingenuous approach for a teacher to take, but he’d really, really like to learn from watching Todo. Every opportunity that isn’t Ogi killing him with a sword is one he should take, after all.

“I think the gist of it’s pretty understandable, y’know? I like someone who’s well-dressed and mature! I work with teenagers, it’s a huge turnoff if someone my age acts like one.” Naoya weaves back around devastating punches, dodging over deflecting, aware Todo is studying him just as much in turn. Kid’s too smart not to. “I met my ex recently, and lemme tell ya, I used to be into way bigger freaks, apparently.” He grabs an arm swung his way and uses it as an anchor to swing a kick Todo’s way. Like kicking a wall. Worse than Kinji! 

“Did they try to kill you?” He drives an elbow into Naoya’s ribs, jarring him into Freeze Frame reflexively as he draws back to recover.

… did they ? Yeah, probably, definitely, right? He knows Kenjaku, and he knows how they are about pawns and power and potential. Even Eto makes references to lifetimes spent in their company. If he’s an ally that can always reliably come back, would Kenjaku not indulge any impulse to kill him and inspect the parts that made him tick?

Eugh, did he let them do that?

Time resumes with him behind Todo, landing between the kid’s shoulderblades where he wasn’t a second ago and pushing him sharply downwards with the impact before bouncing off to regain his distance. “Maybe! I don’t remember.” He blocks a kick, wincing. “Not really in a - stress-induced way - oof. More like a crazy mad scientist.”

“They don’t even sound like your type, if you can’t remember something like that!” Todo accuses, seemingly growing angrier. “You’re inconsistent! Indecisive! You don’t know what you want!”

“I don’t have time for things like that!” Naoya huffs, before he’s caught around the middle and tossed, half-catching himself and lightly wrenching something in his shoulder as he rolls right back onto his feet. “What if I’m not the same person anymore, huh?”

An elbow thrown at his face he manages to dodge, a punch he doesn’t. His next kick is actually angled right, taking Todo clean off his feet. If nothing else, he’s gotten stronger, lessons and studying improving reflexes his body had but mind didn’t. If only Todo didn’t pop right back up like a jack-in-the-box!

“It’s the duty of all men to grow and change,” Todo tells him firmly, snagging the collar of his jacket. “And to embrace that change! You’re holding back, in both your desires and your growth! Hesitation poisons everything you do!”

“I’m -” Naoya wriggles free of his coat, flickering into Freeze Frame only to yank it back from Todo’s grip and pull it back on. The boy finds the weight he was swinging gone mid-movement, and transitions smoothly to another high kick without a second of hesitation. “I’m beginning to think this isn’t even about my taste in guys?”

“It’s all about your taste in guys! Yours tells me everything I need to know about you!” 

Naoya scrambles as he’s swept off his feet, rolling over the kick rather than taking its brunt force. “So, what, that I’m too - inconsistent?” Todo’s too big for him to swing fully, but he’s getting into the rhythm of catching him off balance at every small opening. 

“That you’re restrained. It shows in everything! Your blows lack strength because you choke the life out of your own passion!” Naoya squeaks as Todo picks him up around the middle like a cat - he is a grown man and this is a little humiliating - and holds him out. “There is no emotion to channel your cursed energy. Can’t you tell? Are you a man, or a doll ?”

“I’m going to bite you if you don’t put me down.” Todo complies, standing back and crossing his arms, and Naoya backs up a few steps before continuing. “I’m not really … angry or anything.”

“I understand you now,” Todo says, as if he didn’t speak. “You’re an interesting creature, sensei-”

“Creature?”

“- but to refuse your own heart is to refuse the life you’ve been given! If you’re content with that, you should retire now!” That done, Todo turns to head back to the car. “Takada’s pre-show is going live in thirty minutes, so we should get going!”

Naoya stands there, staring after him, bewildered and maybe a little offended. “... he didn’t even look at a clock. Scary .”

“Ahhh, Honma-san, I’m actually going to be headed back to Tokyo now, if you could tell Utahime-san? I’ll get all the paperwork done, don’t worry! Todo did great.” With a smile, he sends the car (and its very judgemental teenager) off without him.

Only once it’s out of sight does he sigh, pulling out his phone and looking up. A crow is sitting on one of the light poles above him, and he suppresses a wince and waves instead. We’re friends, right? They call me Master. Play nice.

“Naoya?” comes Masamichi’s voice on the other end of the call. “Something wrong?”

“Ahhh, not at all, not at all! Why do you think anything would be wrong?” Naoya hums, turning to start walking. If he focuses, he can feel that great, distant tugging sensation in his chest - if he digs under it, something small and sharp, constantly pulling him towards Sukuna’s bloodied finger.

“You lot only ever call me if something’s wrong.”

“Don’t lump me in with those guys, it’s cruel. Hey, I’m headed back to the campus and I’ve got something to ask you …”

His heart is lodged somewhere deep in his throat as he slips down corridors he’s not permitted to be in, following the ache in his chest to one door among thousands. It opens, as he predicted, into an impossibly high-up expanse of ancient gnarled trees tucked in some impossible space - he hadn’t known how dizzying it would be to actually see in-person. Incredible, yes, but chilling. He descends slowly, carefully, habitually scanning for crows even as he knows he’s in some facsimile of outside they can’t access. There is no life here, nothing but the master of the domain.

He’s doing nothing but stalling when he eases open the door to Jujutsu Tech’s artifact warehouse. The sturdy walls and countless interwoven protections prevent him from even feeling the cursed energy within - though, that may be in part due to this place’s barriers. He’s sure it would be potent if it weren’t stifled. After all, more than Sukuna’s finger (fingers?) lie in wait here.

Naoya keeps his hands to himself as he explores rows and rows of cursed weapons and tools, talismans from more cultures than he could begin to count, severed preserved parts and twitching things in jars. He eyes a set of instruments as if they might bite, admires a rack of clothing most definitely not safe to wear. Sorcerers love to hoard their treasures, don’t they? Their tools and their knowledge. 

He thinks, not for the first time, that their secrecy is nothing but a poison. Their secrecy does not protect the children in rural villages from being mistreated, offers no safety from the wider world. It drives them apart, separates families and communities. Would Suguru had gone off the deep end if he’d been allowed to remain close with those he called monkeys - or would that closeness have driven him there sooner?  

Hate, fear, hand in hand. He thinks, with an ache lodged firmly in his chest, that maybe it’s always been this way. An endless cycle of fate he has borne witness to over countless lifetimes, all lost.

He’s doing more than stalling when he shakes himself free of his depressing spiral and instead pulls out a box to peer inside. More jars, more little twitching things inside. He studies every shape, trying to find familiarity and failing.

“Ahhh, sorry, sorry, I really don’t know which of you is Choso! It’ll be a bit before you look like how I expect you to …” He feels stupid, talking to himself. He doesn’t know if they can hear him, but he sits on the ground, carefully lining them out. “Must get boring, in there, not seeing anything. So, hi! Nice to meet you - ah, it wouldn’t be kind to call you Kamos, would it? How about Itadori, then? It’s a good name. And it’ll help you find your brother, right? If you’re also Itadori. Oh - I’m rambling. Sorry, sorry. I’m really nervous right now! But listen, this is important.” 

Some of the little things in jars are shifting a bit, and he gets the sense he’s being stared at. Maybe that’s good? Maybe that’s bad. Maybe Tengen’s ever-present consciousness is going to accuse him of treachery, or Gojo is going to decapitate him once he walks out. Naoya swallows and reminds himself he’s being silly.

“You’ve got another brother! Itadori Yuji. He’s - you’ll understand when you meet him. He’s really something special. The people who are going to wake you up … hm, what can I say safely here? They wish ill on him. A fate worse than death for a boy like that. You should play along, maybe, whatever feels right. I don’t really know how things are gonna go, but. Hmmm . That woman, the one with the scar - she made you, when she was the first Kamo Noritoshi, and I think maybe I made her before that. So you’re my family too, huh? And that’s all my fault too. Sorry. I really am sorry. For …” Naoya stops, taking a deep breath. “I don’t remember anything. I think I must have been evil. I’m hoping for answers, but … just in case. If I’m not around later.” There’s nothing human or recognizable about any of the little malformed fetuses, not truly alive - and yet his heart bleeds. “I must have been evil. I only know three of your names, after all. So, hey, listen - Choso. Kechizu. Eso. The rest of you. Don’t forget, okay? And please be alright. I love you.”

Ahhh. Embarrassing. He almost hopes they couldn’t hear that, or won’t remember it. He definitely said too much! He puts them all back carefully, replaces the box, and takes his leave, with no trace of his presence but slight scuffs in the dust.

The elevator ride down returns that sense of impending doom that talking at the Death Paintings briefly dispelled. He can’t begin to fathom what awaits him, and he’s not sure which outcome is worse - getting the answers he wants, or getting nothing. Which will be heavier to carry with him, condemnation or ignorance?

Again, what he finds gives him pause, even though this time he truly doesn’t mean to delay. The floor is still smeared with blood, and a wave of grief grabs him, nearly sways him off of his feet. If he had been a bit earlier … oh, if he had been earlier. To save Riko, yes - but for her to become Tengen anyways, or for her to live on even if it meant Kenjaku’s victory could fall within reach? Could he have chosen? Would it have saved her? Saved Suguru? Oh, it would have been worth it to try, if he had been earlier.

Fastest thing on the planet, yet not fast enough.

He brushes his fingers over long-dried blood, and then presses his hands together in a silent prayer.

Rest well. I’m sorry.

And then he rises, and proceeds.

He’s expecting the empty white expanse awaiting him - he’s under no qualms that Tengen will admit him into the shrine - and yet its vastness, its hollow all-encompassing being, makes him shrink in on himself. He waits for a long moment, steeling himself. He won’t turn and run. Not from this.

“Master Tengen?”

No answer, no appearance. He sighs, resigning himself to more rambling to something that may not even be able to hear him.

“I’m not here to cause trouble, or - or help Khhk-” he splutters, chokes. “... you know who I mean. I just want answers. You … know who I am, right?”

“Yes,” says the voice behind him, and Naoya jumps and whirls around. There they are, strange and inhuman and yet so terribly human, all four eyes gazing at him, unreadable. Features elongated and flattened and doubled but so recognizably human. “I know who you are, though I cannot see into your heart.”

Naoya splutters, gasps, regains his breath. “Tengen! I - ah, um. I don’t. I don’t know who I am. I … I’m here for answers, if you could offer them.”

“I could,” they agree easily, inspecting him. “I was expecting I would not see you again in this life. You departed this world, and in that last time we spoke, I expected it was intended to be permanent.”

“In the - last time?”

“You came to say goodbye,” and they offer the slightest smile. “Or, rather, Zheng Jian - who hated this world terribly. He spoke at length of his - of what is now your desire to rewrite it … and when this failed, and his other projects proved fruitless, he made a desperate choice. Instead of rewriting this world, he would depart from it.”

“I killed myself?” he questions, voice creeping a little hysterical. Zheng Jian, Zen’in Eto, the Hand of Fate. “Do you know why?”

“Not entirely.” They keep their hands folded, standing as unmoving as a statue. “You identify that being as one with yourself. It is true, and yet not entirely so. You carry the spirit, but not the memories - though those, too, may be yours in time.”

Naoya considers that. Is that good? Wouldn’t that just erase who he is now, or make him worse? “I don’t know if I … want that. It sounds like I was a bad person, even if my soul isn’t?”

“Spirit,” Tengen corrects. “Your soul is an intangible thing I cannot measure or grasp, but you are much like myself. You are not a bad person, for you are not truly a human at all. The distinction meant much to you, once.”

He swallows, hard, pressing his hands together. “... can you tell me? Please, Tengen? I need to know if I’m going to stop them. I just need to know.”

Tengen nods, slowly, once. “In that case, I ask you to tell me who I’m speaking to right now.”

Zheng Jian. Zen’in Eto. The Hand of Fate.

“I’m Zen’in Naoya, son of Zen’in Naobito.” He bows, and pictures himself laying the name over the others, brighter and clearer and loved. “I’m the second-year teacher at Jujutsu Tech, and heir to the Zen’in clan. When I first woke up, I was in a hospital bed, and I remembered this world only as a story I read in another. My father was …”

It’s hard to say how long the story takes in this timeless void. At some point, he sits, and Tengen copies him, both sitting cross-legged, storyteller and audience alone in the expanse of nothing. He spares no details, for the first time including the tale of the other world, the one on a screen a world away and eternity ago, years in the future. He tells them about Mei Mei and Kenjaku and their terrifying affection, about Ui Ui and Suguru, about the fate the curse-eater should have borne and the one Mei Mei suffered in his place. He talks about the Zen’in clan and the fate he so desperately needs to avoid, the first Naoya and the monster he became long before he died and rose again as a cursed spirit. He recounts Kenjaku’s first plan, the Culling Game, using Suguru’s technique with both Mahito and Tengen to attempt the Merger. He talks, more vaguely, of the great cost to bring it to an end - he doesn’t know, not truly. He never read the end of the story, too afraid of the grief it would bring. His last memory of it is a fucking Twitter spoiler, the admittedly relieving confirmation that the three kids survived when so many didn’t.

He talks more hesitantly about that fifty-year absence. “I only remember the one life, barely,” he muses, “and I definitely wasn’t fifty. No more than twenty.” It comes in disjointed pieces, more incoherent. Not a timeline of events, more a messy string of anecdotes cut in with “my parents had a cat” and “I think I chose to study physics, but I also think I regretted it.” He remembers the stories he read more than he remembers living. “There weren’t cursed spirits, or sorcerers, or any of that. Everyone in the world was … a normal person. That sort of thing was for fantasy stories. Maybe that’s why it’s all lost.” He sighs, rubbing his eyes. They sting with unshed tears still, his chest still tight from the would-bes he’s scared may yet become reality. “I’m some sort of … incarnated sorcerer like that one, right?”

“You’re not dissimilar to my current state,” Tengen finally says. “You were once completely and solely a vengeful cursed spirit, but that was long before I met you. In the days of my own youth, you instead stood as a teacher and protector to myself and my sister, Kenjaku … not unlike you are now with the young sorcerers of this era. In the long years that followed, apathy and grief ate away at your resolve. You favoured my sister over me, but largely remained apathetic in our affairs and subsequent disagreements. I long expected each incarnation to be your last, and yet … here you stand with a vessel, and I stand with none.”

“Shouldn’t people be able to tell that I’m a cursed spirit?” he murmurs.

“They would, if you were fully a cursed spirit. Like I said, you were. The ritual that bound you to your bloodline created something wholly unique. Such as myself, or maybe the Sukuna from your story.”

“Right, okay. I’m human enough, then. That explains some things, and gives me questions for a lot of people.” That alone is sort of dizzying, and he puts his head in his hands. “And I’m as old as dirt. That’s cool. The … time-freeze. That’s always been my technique?”

“Stasis? Yes, always. You exhibited it for us many times, and utilized it well. It limited you in ways, needing to undo injuries instead of healing them - your Domain Expansion was particularly shocking to me the first time I saw it.”

“What, is it - scary?”

“If you use it, it will kill your host body by method of decapitation.”

“Ah.”

“It was how you were killed in your first life.”

“Ah.”

Naoya considers that, and decides quickly to stop considering it.

“So - right, okay. Yeah. Okay. What do you think I should do now?”

“You won’t be able to kill Kenjaku easily,” Tengen muses, slowly rising to their feet and beckoning that he do the same. “And not directly. Nor myself, should you be so inclined. You swore it when uninhibited by a living vessel, and those vows shall never die until one of us does. I expect they’ll be making use of the curse-eater’s form once this one runs its course … it’s the boy’s technique I expect they’re after.”

“Ui Ui’s, yeah? I thought it might be, but I can’t quite put together how.”

“Hm. Kenjaku is skilled with sorcery beyond barriers. You yourself often showed us ways in which to overcome a technique’s set limits by exchanging them for others, and something you’ve told me - this is purely conjecture, but I would theorize their current goal is removing the need for the consent of one or both parties with the boy’s soul-swap technique.”

Naoya considers this, chewing his lip. “... for Gojo?”

“You can see the value in such a pursuit, then. Binding the Six Eyes to a useless vessel, and granting Limitless to a potential ally … perhaps some aspect of it is to spite my lineage, as well.” Tengen leads him past the void, and he barely registers the lovely garden they’re in for that bit of information.

“You … looked a lot like him. In the dream I had. The white hair, and the blue eyes - you were a Gojo?”

“In a way. I was human once too.”

“Okay.” So Gojo’s … great-great-great-aunt or something. Does he know? “Right - I see the value. And they only need Ui Ui to do that once, so it won’t matter to them if it kills him … I’ll keep my eyes open. For whoever that vessel may be, in case you’re right. I’ve already got plans for the Prison Realm, but I won’t be able to circumvent that … ” He stops, clapping his hands together. “Ah! I have a request, if I may.” He digs in his plentiful pockets, drawing out the silken drawstring bag protecting the length of black rope within. “Keep this safe, for if we need it?”

They accept it. “Very well. When you return to my tomb, unless I sense other danger, we will be meeting here.”

He stops, looking around. It’s a nice garden. Not the nicest, or the most extravagant. It’s unfamiliar to him, and so is the modest little outdated wooden house sitting on the edge of it.

“... was it important to you once?” he finds himself asking.

“It was important to us. I’ll tell you the story when the time comes.” A pause, as Naoya tries to stomach what he’s been handed, tries to muster the strength to ask for more. Tengen spares him by speaking again. “When Sukuna’s vessel consumes his finger, return for it, and for the rest of the tale I now carry for you. The Six Eyes wielder is waiting for you upstairs, and your position would be best served without undue suspicion.”

Naoya is swallowing dread for a whole new reason now. “... okay. Thank you for everything.” He bows. 

Tengen smiles, properly smiles, for the first time. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen something new … and, perhaps, an end to all of this.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t a little sooner.”

“Fate goes as ever fate must.”

It’s been a long day, when he finally emerges from Tengen’s tomb and into the campus above. A long day, one given way to a long night already. He supposes he’s allowed to feel too old and too young for this all at once - he’s certainly in no mood to entertain Gojo. His fingers twitch, prepared to whisk himself away at the first opportunity.

“Yaya-kun,” the all-seeing bastard himself chirps as he sidles up to where Naoya’s waiting for him. “Imagine running into you here! Funny, I could have sworn you’d vanished. Into the old creepy murder basement, even!”

“You’re gonna have to specify which creepy murder basement,” Naoya grumbles at him. “I expect there’s probably twenty around here. What do you want? Did something happen with one of the kids?”

“Ohhh, so concerned! ” Gojo grins mirthlessly. “That’s you, huh? Diligent teacher extraordinaire! Captain fantastic!” The white-haired man leans easily into his space, and even without seeing him Naoya can once again feel those too-bright eyes carving deep into his very soul. “So what’s an upstanding guy like you doing slinking around places you shouldn’t be?”

Naoya opens his mouth for a retort - then looks around, wary of black feathers and beady eyes. “Shhh. Not here,” he hisses defensively. 

“Oh? You know,” Gojo leans even closer, planting an arm against the wall to prevent Naoya from ducking away, “ I’ve always heard you aren’t supposed to let suspicious men take you to a secondary location.”

Naoya, thoughtlessly, reaches up to shove him away - the hand aimed at the man’s chest bumps against Infinity, and then it’s like getting struck by lightning. The recoil, for lack of a better term, jolts up his fingertips and makes his whole body jerk back. Gojo seems to feel it too, flinching back as if he’d actually been struck. The aftershocks of the collision seem to linger in Naoya’s nerves like echoes of lightning, and for a moment, both men are stunned. Naoya rubs his wrist, wide-eyed, and Gojo lifts a hand to feel along his chest.

“... that was a tasteless joke,” Naoya says, breaking the silence by deciding not to acknowledge that. The part of his brain that must contain a centuries-old scientist is urging him to drive both hands forward and see what happens, while the rest of his brain is far too smart for that. “Not here, alright?”

“Sure,” Gojo answers, recovering easily, likewise acting as if nothing strange just happened. “Let’s go back to my place, why don’t we?”

“See, that’s the sort of scary thing a man says before he tries to get you to a secondary location. Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Maybe it’s the new knowledge rattling about in his head, or maybe it’s just that they haven’t been close to each other before. Whatever the reason, Naoya can’t stop overlaying Gojo with the white-haired woman from his dreams. They don’t even look that similar, not really. Gojo’s got elegant, pretty features - long white lashes and sharp eyes and a face that would suit a model. The girl - Tengen - would have been plain if not for her snow-white hair. In comparison to the swirling galaxies of the Six Eyes, hers seem flat and dull in his memory. They don’t look alike at all, aside from the pale hair, the blues that don’t quite match. Maybe it’s those eyes. Not the colour of them but how sharp they are, how they drink in every detail with a surgical precision. 

Maybe it’s the detachment. That air of observing the world like an outsider - like someone above it.

He should stop dwelling on it. He’d never survive the shame of accidentally calling Gojo Tengen . 

The large, empty house reminds him of the compound back home, but stripped of all life. Everything is too expensive, too pristine, unlived in. It’s a house that would be better suited to a robust family, crowded like his is - but it’s empty, skeletal. Like a dollhouse. He wonders if the basement below has its setup for the boy it’ll host one day. Ah, maybe not. He doesn’t intend to let Yuji die. That vow … he cannot allow it. It may rob the children of a valuable lesson, but it’s one he can impart later, if he allows himself that close. And it’s not like the distance can be preserved like he initially wanted. He’s in Gojo’s house. It’s a bit too late for that.

He takes a long moment to drag himself back to the present, realizing they’ve been stopped for at least a minute now. Gojo is just standing there, watching him like he’s some sort of interesting specimen, smirk plastered on his insufferable face. Naoya shudders.

“Ugh. Put your blindfold back on!” He steps back with a grimace. “I don’t know why anyone finds that charming. You’re creepy , you know.”

Gojo hooks a finger in his blindfold, pulling it up over his face - and off entirely, swinging it around a finger. “So, the snake finally shows his fangs. You’ve been way too perfectly well-behaved, you know? If you wanted to be less suspicious, you should have at least tried being a little meaner.” He leans in even closer, and the air feels like it crackles. Gojo’s cursed energy aura is so strange, drifting foglike through his chest and reaching lazily into his bones - he has to fight not to shudder. “What business do you have poking around the school’s warehouse? Or maybe you were there for something else entirely … ?”

“Tengen,” Naoya mumbles, drawing away from him - away from the windows and doors, wary of imagined foes outside and a very real one inside. “Why would I go through all the trouble for some tools? I had some questions for Master Tengen.”

Gojo seems entirely unbothered by Naoya inviting himself further inside, and after a moment reaches out. “The -”

“Don’t touch me,” Naoya hisses unthinkingly, flinching back, expecting that jolt of uncomfortable energy again. Gojo puts both hands up in easy surrender, something unreadable shifting in his expression.

“Relax! I don’t bite, you know. The stairs downstairs are right there, if you’re that eager to hide from the sun. There’s no one else here.”

Naoya nods stiffly, and follows the vague direction to the stairs. Ah, creepy basement number two today. Or, three, if you count one of many corridors of doors to be a creepy basement with Tengen’s tomb a second, creepier basement within. It’s comfortably dark down here, and some tension slides off of him. Some, but not all, because being in a room with Gojo is like being in a room with a tornado seconds from touching down. He’s not something a normal person could outrun.

“Taking me into the basement, Yaya-kun? Another point to being creepy~”

“It’s your basement.” Naoya takes the couch, watching Gojo like a hawk the whole time, Freeze Frame crackling at his fingers. “What do I look like to you … ?”

Gojo sits on the table, one leg crossed over the other, looking utterly at ease. “Like a cornered rat, right now. What did you talk to the old tree about?”

Naoya twitches, refusing to rise to the bait and give the bastard the satisfaction. “That’s personal.”

“I can keep a secret~”

“Are you familiar with the writings of Zen’in Eto?” He doesn’t draw the old journal out, its weight ever-present in his coat pocket.

“The necromancer’s apprentice,” Gojo recites. “I did pay attention to my history classes, you know. They say he followed in the footsteps of his ancestor, Zen’in Norio, and sought to revive Sukuna. He failed, obviously - we may not be here today if he’d succeeded! Though, most of the debate around him these days is the old farts trying to justify why he was totally a cis woman.” He leans on one elbow, smiling. “Why? Looking to follow family tradition, Yaya-kun?”

“ Definitely not,” Naoya grumbles, mentally adding the title and new name to his ever-growing library. Necromancer. Ugh, that’s so edgy. “I think … someone’s got the idea, though. A girl I’ve - I’m responsible for her now, sort of. She fell into a coma - no eyewitnesses, no one able to identify the curse. I thought it was a … possibility.”

He has Gojo’s attention, searing and discomforting. The man doesn’t blink - is this how people feel about him? “Quite a leap, to jump to some ancient curse user.”

“I have good intuition,” he answers, aware of how lame that sounds as an answer.

“Really.” Yeah. Gojo’s also aware of how lame that sounds.

“... I wouldn’t go as far as calling it precognition, y’know? I can’t see the future. But sometimes I have to trust my gut on matters like this.”

Gojo hums, leaning his head idly to the side. Looking at his eyes directly makes Naoya feel like he’s falling. This whole conversation is making him feel almost seasick.

“The blindfold,” he requests again, just shy of begging. “Please.”

This time, his fellow sorcerer complies, and some more of that tension ticks out of him. Naoya breathes and continues. “I know I’m … this is all super suspicious, I’m suspicious, I know. I’m not here on the behalf of the Zen’in clan. I’m just trying to prevent some things from happening to people I care about.”

“And you chose to go to Tengen. Hm.” Gojo purses his lips, thinking. “Yeah, I can see the logic there. Was the old hermit any help?”

Naoya sighs, leaning his head back against the couch, a bit more comfortable now that Gojo’s not staring into his very soul. “Like, emotionally, sort of? I don’t know how to fix things yet, but I’ve got a rough idea of how to get there, maybe.”

“So why so paranoid?” Oh, the smug grin is back, Naoya can hear it in his voice. “Something you’re avoiding worse than me - must be pretty bad.”

“... mmm. Another premonition, maybe.”

“Fine, keep your secrets. And Tengen let something like you into his tomb?”

Naoya lifts his head again, staring him down, his crackling tension giving way so easily to irritation. “Don’t … don’t say it like that. I’m not a thing. I’m Naoya.”

“So you say.”

Naoya tries to kick him, and is a bit relieved to meet that impenetrable barrier. “Fuck off. Who are you to decide whether or not I’m a person, huh? Who is anyone to decide that? I’m Naoya. I’m Naoya. I’m Naoya. ” He punctuates each repeated declaration with another frustrated kick against Infinity. It’s oddly cathartic. Gojo just watches him, permitting it through inaction. “If you called me here to insult me, or threaten me, I’m leaving.”

Gojo lifts a hand, gesturing with his fingers as if to flick, and Naoya goes still at the implicit threat. “You know, I really shouldn’t let a curse bearer like you walk around among my students.”

Naoya, unblinking, tells him, “you allowed Rika. You’re going to … she won’t be the only one.”

“I see. That precognition of yours you claim to have? You’re not very much like Rika-chan, so that’s not really convincing.”

Freeze Frame beckons him to flee. He doesn’t listen. “I didn’t know until Tengen told me. You never said anything.”

That drops Gojo’s hand. “Ah, really ? And here I thought I’d surprise you! Are you surprised?”

“... yeah, I’m really glad you weren’t the one to drop that bombshell on me,” Naoya hisses, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Hey, Gojo.”

“You may as well call me Satoru. We’re friends now, aren’t we? Down here sharing our dirty little secrets .”

Gojo hasn’t told him anything, really, but Naoya doesn’t say that. He crosses his arms, leaning back again. “ Satoru . You should talk to Shoko more. She gets lonely, you know.”

Gojo sighs, sounding - wistful, maybe? “If only you could see yourself how I do. You’d think twice about making requests like that, Yaya-kun!” He tugs his blindfold up again, one eye peering at him, making the vertigo feeling magnify immediately. “Looking a little queasy there. Are you sure there’s anything you aren’t telling me?”

“Tons. You’re gonna make me sick.”

The blindfold goes back down. “One more thing. Try to touch me again.”

Naoya shudders, craving the fresh air he’d shied away from not long ago. Maybe it was an eternity. Itadori’s a good kid, he deserves way better than this creepy basement. “Creep.” He complies, though, reaching out a hand once Satoru offers one of his own. The jolt isn’t quite painful this time, but it’s still a shock - like two sharp currents suddenly intersecting, brute force battering him. He doesn’t pull back this time, pushing through it. His fingers press against Satoru’s, the ever-present buzz against them intensified into a raging storm dancing down his whole arm. The rest of his hand sits flat against Infinity, as solid as concrete rather than the slight resistance offered to his fingertips.

“Isn’t that something,” Satoru muses. “If only you could see yourself how I do … I really, really should just kill you.” Just like that, he pulls his hand back and stands, clapping. “You know, I was supposed to be meeting Yaga about twenty minutes ago, so I really should get to that. Oh, and he already told me I shouldn’t just off you without warning, so I guess I can put it off ‘till later.”

“Ah - you slack-off! You’re telling me you did all this to avoid some paperwork?” Naoya straightens his clothes, following Gojo as he takes the stairs two at a time. “You really are something else. I knew I avoided you for a reason.”

“Oh, so you admit it was on purpose!”

“Uh, yeah, I thought that much was obvious.” Naoya focuses as they head outside, urging the staticky whisper of Freeze Frame to creep up his fingers, his hand, over his wrist - he wasn’t aware of it truly until now, until he could feel its limits against Infinity. It warps to his command, fed by irritation and fear, sliding invisibly over his forearm. Then he reaches out, pressing a hand to Satoru’s shoulder.

The world freezes. He can see the moment Gojo realizes it, watching everything come to a standstill. The clouds above may very well be painted for their stillness, dying leaves locked mid-fall from their branches above, a crisp winter breeze cut into nothing. There is no ambient sound, no rustling or distant chatter. The world is silent, and unmoving. (Naoya wonders what it looks like to those terrible eyes.) He keeps his hand pressed tightly to Gojo’s shoulder as the white-haired man turns around to face him, mouth slightly agape. Naoya raises his free hand against the air’s resistance, mouthing slowly, deliberately.

‘Don’t trust the birds.’

He draws his index finger in a horizontal line across his forehead, an approximation of Kenjaku’s scars.

Gojo nods, slowly, and Naoya releases him and Freeze Frame at the same time. The aftershocks of excluding someone from its grasp are exhausting enough to nearly drag him right off of his feet. Gojo doesn’t bother stabilizing him, turning to trot off cheerfully. “Lovely catching up with you, Yaya-kun! Let me know how that super boring research thing goes - oh wait, I don’t care!”

Naoya really fucking hates him.

Going from one half of the duo from hell right to the other half must be some sort of divine punishment for his past self’s crimes. On the bright side, he definitely got the worst of the two out of the way first. Gojo comes with only himself - Geto comes with Nanako.

“Mister Naoya!” she yells in greeting, racing down the walkway to meet him with the hasty eagerness of a child who knows the visiting adult has gifts in tow. Naoya holds said gifts to the side to allow her to connect with his middle in a bruising hug. She’s talking quickly, so quickly he can’t get a word in. “How’s Mimiko? Have you been to see her yet? Did you bring us anything to eat? Have you seen this place - it looks alright from the outside, but I’ve found, like, twelve spiders in two days! That’s wayyy too many, I can’t believe anyone lives like this.”

The building Suguru and his ‘family’ have … commandeered, for lack of a better term, is spacious bordering on being classified a manor over a house. Even from the outside it’s a bit decrepit, a number of windows boarded up and greenery climbing over the exposed brick. There’s nothing else in the area but empty buildings and overgrown farmland, left behind by the children of elderly residents who chose to move to cities rather than remain tethered to the countryside. There’s few people to question the new family’s presence … but it’s a hell of a ways out of the way. It took several bus trips and then twenty minutes of walking just to get here. He can hardly fault Nanako her enthusiasm as she drags him along the crackled cobblestone path to the front door. “Manami! Toshihisa! Mister Geto! We have a visitooor !”

Suda is the first to greet him, a smile on her face and an eagerness to relieve him of his collection of offerings. She’s got a scarf for warmth, but it’s Naoya’s selection of extra warm clothes and supplies that will probably make this place more comfortable to live in. Apparently, half of them didn’t have any winter clothes to carry, and Negi can’t wear Suguru’s sweaters forever. Suda, elegant as ever, doesn’t show it if she’s cold with only a scarf - but she’s a little hasty to take his bags. “I can’t say how wonderful it is to see you, and that’s not just for this.”

“Ah, but the presents don’t hurt, right?” Naoya winks at her, and she rolls her eyes. “Where’s Negi and Suguru?”

“Geto-sama is upstairs.” A smirk curls Suda’s lips. “And it’s Negi’s turn on laundry duty, so don’t let him convince you it’s Nanako’s.”

“Ah, I’ll be sure of it.” He follows Nanako’s pounding footsteps up the stairs, observing how many protective talismans have been plastered over the walls. Maybe they’ll let him add his own … enough to incinerate any bird of Mei Mei’s that comes within twenty yards.