Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There’s a package wedged behind one of your pot plants.

Your eyes narrow on it as you’re scooping up the clump of letters on your mat. It’s pouring down rain so you have to bend down close to read the sender's address. Your heart twist. That can’t be…right. It’s probably just a trick of the light. Rain getting in your eyes or something.

You shoulder your way through your apartment door, kicking off your shoes and shaking out your wet jacket in the sink. You grab some scissors from the knife block and slide into the chair by your kitchen table. A ‘FRAGILE’ yellow stick is taped to the front of it. With the letters closer, the sender address unfortunately confirms your suspicions.

Your heartbeat races to gallops as you glimpse the Tokyo postcode. It's a letter. An honest to gods letter from them. You press a finger against the tightness building in your chest, trying to ward off the spike of adrenaline tingling into your fingertips. It doesn't work. Your mind splinters, a thousand different possibilities coalescing into an ugly, panicked rush of breath.

What if someone’s in trouble? What if the whole country’s in crisis? What if they need your help?

Your teeth clench. 

Why would they need your help? It’s been years since they’ve contacted you.

Nine, but who's counting, yeah?

You put the parcel down, running through your options. Ideally, throwing it in the trash is your best bet. Just forget about it and go take a nap. It's bullshit, you know, but it sounds nice in your head.

If only your mind were that easy to tame.

After all this time, why now? Why today? It's almost like they knew you were finally getting back on your feet, and this would throw an appropriately weighted curve-ball into your recovery.

A few years ago you would've jumped for joy just to be mentioned in the same sentence as one of your old colleagues. To be validated with a letter? Shit you would've gotten down on your knees and cried. But no. They wait until you're lucid enough to remember how fucking awful they are. 

You should ignore it. You don't owe them anything. It was never for them. 

Still, ignoring a letter from your mighty overlords is just asking for trouble. You should read it, even if you plan to do nothing about it.

You split open your scissors, hovering the tip over the stretch of masking tape. You hesitate for a moment, watching the tape bend beneath the pressure of the blade. What if they’ve finally decided you’re too much of a liability to keep alive? What if this box has some deadly neurotoxin in it?

As if on cue, your cat comes crawling out from the space behind your couch, howling her hello's. You give her a look, and she stares back at you, her gold eyes shrewdly examining.

“It’s a parcel slip,” you murmur. “…from home.”

Mem flicks her tail out and trots over to plant herself at your feet. You show her the evidence, and she gives it a suspicious sniff. You wait, and when she finishes her examination, she gives you a flat, uninterested meow. Not rigged to explode then.

You pet her absentmindedly as you tear through the parcel. A sealed letter falls out first, and then a plastic slip. You go for the letter first, noting the ostentatious wax seal on the front.

Jujutsu Headquarters formally invite you to Tokyo in light of recent events.

Your eyebrows furrow, a knot tightening in your jaw as you clamp down on your teeth.

Mem meows at you.

You check the seal again, thumbing over the wax. It seems legitimate.

Recent events have compelled us to reach to you with a most sincere request.

We have recently discovered some information pertaining to a non-sorcerer who came into contact with a special grade cursed object. Ryomen Sukuna's finger, to be precise. Subsequently, Sukuna has manifested within the vessel, and since then, become cause for multiple life-threatening incidents. His reawakening has begun to stir the fabric of Jujutsu society. 

Your jaw cracks open. 

Holy shit.

This can't be real. 

It's a hoax. A dream. 

You wet your dry lips, fighting off a laugh. 

Hysteria grips you this time, it's claws sharp and exacting. 

Ryomen Sukuna. The legendary sorcerer turned curse who split his soul in twenty pieces? 

Of course. It couldn't be anyone else, could it? 

We want to evaluate Sukuna's risk. Your Domain will be useful in extracting said information. This temporary collaboration would involve an equivalent fulfilment option.

It feels like someone's pressed a bowling ball into your sternum, and you breathe shallowly through the sharpness. This can't be real. Can't be. 

You drop the letter back onto the table, staring at it like it's cursed. It’s curt, yet exasperatingly vague. You force yourself to re-read it. No typos. No mistakes in your address. You rub your thumb over the characters of your name, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia at seeing the kanji.

Ryomen Sukuna. The King of Curses. He's manifested in your century. What are the chances of that?

They really want you to use your domain on his vessel? The whole reason you’d been booted out in the first place?

Your eyes shift to the tab stapled to the bottom of the page. A first-class ticket to Tokyo—for tomorrow.

You laugh.

The higher-ups haven’t changed.

You’re not surprised. A decade is a blip of nothing to them. It’d take a hundred, maybe a thousand years to rewrite the Jujutsu manual when there’s a thicket of double-dipping, misogynistic geriatrics running the whole damn thing. It’s almost incestuous how they function together, mollycoddling every prestigious clan, sticking their greedy little fingers into every honeypot.

You wonder how relentlessly Gojo’s been picking that scab.

His face flashes in your mind, young and wily, staring down at you over the bridge of his glasses, his lips sinking into that haughty smirk. You blink, catching yourself before you can let the thought wander.

You flip the page around, looking at the back. There's nothing here you can use to dissuade it's authenticity. They actually discussed this letter together and then sent it to you? It's remarkably polite. A stark contrast to the wrinkling foreheads and disapproving glares you’d gotten at twenty—when they’d discussed your execution to your face. 

You drum your fingers on the table, frowning.

You don’t get news about the jujutsu world here, which is by design. It makes this offer even more puzzling. Whatever issue they have, clearly it doesn’t involve Gojo, or you wouldn’t be getting this letter in the first place. He’s their Fix it Felix, after all.

Or maybe that’s exactly what it means.

There’s a certain stench of desperation coming from all of this. To reach out to a sorcerer they’d all chosen to banish in their self-absorbed version of ‘diplomacy’.

Your eyes drop to the end of the note.

We have attached a cursed tool to help with concealment. It’s an uncouth measure, but we would like to avoid alerting certain parties to your attendance.

A smile splits your lips.

So he doesn’t know about this.

Something about the higher-ups' recklessness lights your blood on fire in a way you've sorely missed. They're freaking out, and they're desperate to hide it. They're more frantic than you've ever seen them. If this vessel is as much of a problem as they claim, Gojo would've handled it, which means he's refused their request.

He's keeping the vessel alive.

Why?

What about is it about Ryomen Sukuna that's caught Gojo Satoru's attention? 

You so badly want to know. 

“Mem.”

She peers up at you, and then looks at the letter when you hold it out to her. 

“Is this real?" 

She jumps up, brushing her cheek against the piece of paper. Rubbing her scent on it. You watch the paper bend, it's shadow morphing long the kitchen tiles. Mem tilts her head at you questioningly.

She can see it. Smell it. Touch it.

It is real. 

You grab your raincoat out of the sink and run for the door.

You have never considered yourself a lucky person. Luck is a matter of circumstance. Being born with things other people don’t have. It’s resources and perspectives, and pattern recognition. Your average person is never lucky. Not in the way most people would perceive luck.

It’s about probability and odds. And that mostly leads to money. Luck never applies to tragedy. Or simply getting in your car and not having an accident.

What you’re doing is not attached to any preconceived notions of luck. No. This is good old-fashioned karma. If they think they’re inviting you back into the snake pit out of their own goodwill, they’re blinder and stupider than you’ve ever given them credit for.

Ishimori had given you the same calm, patiently bemused look she always gave you and told you to run for the hills. You’d laughed nervously, rubbing at your neck. When she realised you were being serious, her shoulders had sunk, and her grip on her cane had tightened. You’d felt guilty then. Like you were throwing something in her face you couldn’t quite understand. She hadn’t tried to convince you otherwise. She’d just taken you out to the beach and spent the rest of your time together telling you all the things you should be avoiding during your stay.

You don't blame her for thinking this is a mistake. Packing up your humble little life and throwing it into the fire. 

It's stupid, really, and you've always felt this way when it comes to jujutsu society. Stumbling around out of reach, desperate to catch up, and getting the tapering whispers of respect in return. 

Turbulence rattles your eyes open. The sky is a blur of clouds, but you know you’re far closer to Japan than Australia now. There’s a charge in the air. A magnetic, stinging ozone—an abundance of cursed energy. You’ve crossed Tengen’s barrier. You should feel better, more in control, more connected. But you don’t. You just feel nauseous.

You’ve never been a huge fan of planes. Or airports. Or heights.

You take another deep breath and lean your head back in your seat. You keep picking at your cuticles, peeling at the skin and biting the sides of your nails. When your nails are bitten to the edges, you start fiddling with your snack wrappers, sealing and unsealing a bar of chocolate. The only modicum of calm you can seize out of this is having Mem curled up at your side. She’s unperturbed by flight. You suppose being a feral street cat hardens you to most traumas.

That buzz in the back of your head feels more like a migraine than a connection to your homeland. You take a sip of your soda, and then another, and another. Caffeine is supposed to help with this kind of shit, right? You down the entire thing and squish it into a tiny flat circle with cursed energy. It’s reckless, but no one in first class gives a squat what you’re doing. They’re too busy sleeping in silk eyepatches…or drinking champagne?

You don’t really know what rich people do.

You shift in your seat, stretching out your legs. Ignoring the issues you’d had with your passport—being a Japanese citizen on an Australian work Visa didn’t help you in the way of speediness. Border security had sat you in a room for an hour answering boring questions about the nature of your visit. Then they’d gotten a call from someone and you were suddenly free to go. You got no answers from that, just a underlying irritation from being spoken to like a child.

Your contract with the Australian government had been some long-winded, impossibly dense manuscript you’d signed at twenty. You figured if the bigwigs were asking you to come back, they would’ve sorted their shit out with whatever minister was responsible for your existence overseas.

“We will be landing very shortly, miss,” a flight attendant informs you. “Please put on your seatbelt. And your cat is to be put…away."

“Away?” You repeat, blinking at her.

She eyes Mem very seriously. “Away, yes.”

“Uh…sure.”

Not like it’ll help much if you crash. You look down at your cat, assaulted with the image of her death, and a panic hits you so sharp you clamp down on your teeth to stifle it. Your hands are jittery as you dig out her carry case from under your seat. Mem doesn’t complain when you scoop her into it, just curls up on the spot and drifts off again.

You fiddle with your jacket and close your eyes, imagining something—anything—else.

The landing isn’t so bad. It’s the mass of impatient assholes loitering in the aisles that pisses you off. You wait until you’re one of the last people left before you stand up, not wanting anyone to bash into your suitcase in their haste to leave. There’s some annoyingly important stuff in there, including the concealment bracelet.

You shrug off your jacket while you’re up, not wanting to be assaulted by Japan’s summer heat with your very much Australian autumn-appropriate outfit. It’s a typical ensemble for you. A loose fitting tee, patterned stockings and black shorts. Shouldn’t be too bad for the weather.

You get everything else sorted before scooping Mem’s carry case onto your arm. You awkwardly shuffle out of the aisle and into the exit compartment. A flight attendant smiles at you and gestures uselessly at the giant hallway attached to the side of the plane. You duck your head down and move past, patting at your side to check if your passport is still where you left it. Thankfully, it hasn’t magically teleported away.

You turn to face the tunnel and a smell hits you. Some kind of cleaning agent mixed with hot air. You look down, watching the hairs rise on your arms. The humidity sticks to your skin for a moment and then it’s blown away by a sharp puff of cold air conditioning.

Anxiety pools in your gut, as slow as tree sap.

It’s been nine years since you’ve been home. Nine years since you’ve heard your native language on mass. Nine years of awkward cultural clashes and a lack of cursed energy you’ve never really acclimatised to. Nine years of different alarms and street jingles and traffic signs. The colours, the smells. The food.

You blink hard.

You take a breath and push on, the faint sound of overhead announcements making your heartbeat rattle. The airport is so much bigger than you remember. Everything is louder and brighter. The floors are shinier. You can see your tired reflection in the tiles.

You walk on slowly, pacing yourself to the influx of information. There are televisions on every corner, listing flights to places you’re probably never going to. Little children are screaming and crying, chasing each other in circles. One kid grabs another by their backpack straps and throws them to the floor. More wailing ensues.

The sense of nostalgia you had before is immediately swallowed, replaced by a balloon of dread.

You’re back.

You’re really back.

You rub gently at your wrists and then at your neck, feeling a phantom ache tingle along your skin.

You expected to be accosted by sorcerers as soon as you stepped foot outside the plane, thrown into some convoluted special grade cursed object and killed without much fuss. Instead, you're forced to traverse the airport alone.

You make it to baggage claim without any fuss. People stop and chance quick looks at you, but the second you look back, they turn like you’ve burned them. You’re used to that in a way you never thought you would be. 

When you’re finally out of the airport, you’re greeted by a mass of taxi drivers, all holding signs in kanji. You blink hard. You’re grateful that your memory has never waned when it comes to your language, but you’re a little ashamed to admit some of the characters are a little foggy to you.

“Kanzaki-san?”

Your head snaps sideways. It’s jarring to hear someone call you that. All your time in Australia had gotten you used to being called your first name. Kanzaki feels like another person. Someone you’d pass on the street and barely recognise.

You have no idea who you’re looking for. It’s a sea of people. You hear your name in full this time, and your eyes narrow on the suspect. You spot a man in a dark suit holding up a piece of paper with your name on it. You speed walk over to him, your fingers sweaty around the handle of your suitcase. It is hot here.

You tip your head up at him in greeting. “You're my driver?” 

“Are you Kanzaki-san?” He asks dully.

“Don’t you have a photo?”

“It’s from ten years ago,” he says. And then he does a very disgusting male thing and stares right at your chest. “You’ve changed a lot.”

“The non-consensual eye-fucking better mean you’re taking my bags.”

His neck flinches at your vulgarity. He opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him short.

“Bags.”

You make a spinning gesture with your finger and then point at the space beside you.

His eyes narrow in annoyance, clearly not enjoying being ordered around.

“You’re not wearing your concealment item.”

“Yeah, I bet you noticed that.”

“Why are you not wearing your concealment item?” He tries again.

“I don’t need it,” you mutter. “Did you all forget how my cursed technique works?”

He slowly blinks at you. “That was the point of your banishment, Kanzaki-san.”

He goes to take your cat carrier and you lift your arm away.

“Not that one.”

He doesn’t even pretend to care why.

He gestures out into the parking bay. “This way.”

You walk quickly, trying to burn the rage out of your body with speed. The car is one of those conspicuous black sedans, and you watch him carefully load your suitcases into the boot. You slide yourself into the back seat, pulling Mem’s carry case over your lap. You can feel her moving around and you unzip the top to check on her. Her fluffy red and white head pops out of the flap. She discerns in her surroundings in a quiet panic, and once she deems the car safe, ducks back down into her cage.

The driver gets in and does up his seatbelt. As he’s readjusting his mirrors, you catch him staring at you and immediately turn to look out the window.

“Where are we going?” You ask, your tone flat with disgust.

“To your accommodation.”

More vague nothingness.

He pulls away, loading into the heavy airport traffic flow. You don’t mind so much. It gives you some much-needed processing time. It’s late in the afternoon and the smog is doing a terrific job of blocking out the horizon. It’s about a two-hour time difference between Tokyo and Melbourne, which is essentially nothing, but you still feel on the fritz.

You drive through the city, soaking in every detail. Every street sign, every corner, every billboard. Businesses, restaurants. Even rubbish bins. It hasn’t changed that much from when you left. There’s more advertising. More construction. More bright lights. But that’s it. Some things are still familiar to you. Hole in the wall restaurants, trees that’ve grown weird around powerlines. That one KFC you always used to go to.

The driver doesn’t speak at all, which is a wise choice. As you get further out of town, the smog clears, and the approaching night sky is speckled with stars. Eventually, you pull into a rocky driveway that backs onto a weird, cube-like house. You crack your door open and peep your head out, staring at the front door. It looks like a rectangle built on top of a square, with no discernible windows and some very heavily landscaped plants.

Your boots crunch in the gravel as you get out, hauling Mem’s carrier onto your hip. This place looks like the perfect spot to quietly murder someone. You’d just roll up their body in some tarp and dump them in a barrel of acid. Goodbye forever.

No family to notice you’re gone. Only Mem.

“This place got cell service?”

The driver doesn’t reply.

You whistle at him. “Well. Do you?”

He turns around, his ears bright red. “Do I what?”

My god. Talk about a bad signal. Maybe his brain isn’t connected to its stem.

“Must be pretty bad up here.”

“It has internet.”

Great. You can hit up the online emergency website.

PLZ HELP. GETTING STABBED. Xo.

You wait behind him as he unlocks the front door and walks your suitcases inside. The place is in complete darkness. You can only see vague furniture-shaped silhouettes. The driver turns and palms his hand along the wall. Lights glow to life above his head, leading down into what looks like a communal space. You hold back from grimacing. This place is thick with cursed energy.

You linger at the door, sending out feelers. The house is the source. You don’t detect any cursed energy around the back or in the peppering of trees around the perimeter. There’s something flickering in the centre. A cursed object, perhaps. Then you notice something else. A fluctuation. It’s muted. Done with purpose. Someone who doesn’t want to be detected.

Panic digs its claws into your chest, but you batter it off. Can’t be Gojo. It’s not his style to suppress his energy or lurk around in the shadows. He’d make a big entrance. Probably destroy something. Or make the driver piss his pants.

You’d love to see that.

You trudge into the house, your fingers curling tighter around the carrier handles. Mem shifts around in her case, her movements getting more erratic the closer you get to the lounge room. When you skirt the corner, she full-on growls.

There’s someone here, alright. A governing official.

You recognise him immediately—although it’s not exactly hard given the way he’s chosen to present himself. At the end of a long wooden table, Kawakatsu sits like he’s got a pinecone stuck to his ass. His hands are folded in such a way that he had to have actively thought about it beforehand. He wants to come off relaxed—in control, but it really just makes him look nervous. 

You gingerly put down Mem’s carry case, making sure your eyes never leave his. He doesn’t speak. He won’t. That’s your job. It’s a sign of weakness to speak first. Of uncomfortableness. Or at least that’s how he’ll see it. In his and everyone else’s eyes, you’ve always been weak. Sending you past Tengen’s barrier had just solidified that.

“Planning to waste up all the oxygen in the room?” You ask.

He smiles. It’s not a pleasant one. It’s a knife twisted around flesh.

“I knew you would come.”

You try to breathe as evenly as possible.

“The others weren’t sure, but I knew,” he stands, his expensively embroidered sleeves fluttering behind him as he approaches. It feels like you’ve been ambushed by an evil Sith Lord, and for all intents and purposes, you kinda have. “You’re a smart girl, aren’t you? You wouldn’t let something as trivial as the past stop you from grasping such a…momentous opportunity for yourself.”

“…momentous, huh?”

His eyes slide down to yours, and you watch hesitation flicker through them, but he manages to compose himself. “Quite. The offer we’ve given you is more than you probably deserve. Opportunity is hard to come by, and you finally have a chance to offer the world something.”

You don’t take the obvious bait. It makes his eyes glint.

“Your cursed technique isn’t much to talk about, but that domain of yours,” he wags a finger, his smile spreading wider, showing teeth. “That is very special. So special you—…ah, well,” he looks at you again, his eyes alight with amusement. “No need to bring up anything unpleasant. We're in civilised company.” He taps the spot next to one of his eyes, like you’ve somehow forgotten what happened.

“Of course,” you say evenly. “I’m very lucky to be here, I know that.”

He blinks at you, his neck twisting a little. Shocked by your non-reaction. After a moment of awkward silence, he leans back, smoothing at his sleeves in a show of nonchalance.

“Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

He wanders over to the table again, where you notice a small beige folder. “Everything you need to know about the assignment is in here. Some parts may be redacted for security reasons, which is why I took it upon myself to come and inform you personally.”

You expect a ‘and you are so very welcome to be in my presence’ but Kawakatsu somehow refrains. It’s bullshit anyway. Someone higher up would’ve had to confirm your arrival. They wouldn’t want you sneaking off into Tokyo unannounced.

“The subject in question manifested Sukuna back in early April,” his eyebrows furrow with what you aren’t sure is either annoyance or disgust. “For some reason, the vessel was capable of suppressing Sukuna's manifestation, and that complicated matters." 

Your eyes flit up. No wonder that letter had been so desperate. Someone capable of suppressing Ryomen Sukuna's soul? Just who was this person? 

Kawakatsu's eyebrows furrow. “You do know who I’m talking about, yes?”

“I know who the King of Curses is, yes.”

Too well, maybe.

“How informed,” he smiles tightly, and then clears his throat. “As I was saying…the vessel was sentenced to an immediate execution, but…” he swallows, his eyes trailing across the table. “Circumstances changed.”

You hold back a snort. “Gojo said no?”

Kawakatsu makes a strange face, but doesn’t acknowledge your question. Not that you needed an answer. “We decided it would be more beneficial to keep it alive.” It. You swallow dryly. “Since the vessel has an innate sense of where the other fingers lie, we used it to track their whereabouts. You understand how cursed objects can attract other curses, yes?”

Does he think you’re five years old?

“…yeah.”

He nods. “We set back the execution in order to collect the other appendages. But the vessel…it didn’t last long.”

You take a step back. “They’re dead?”

He shoots you a look. “We thought so. But…certain parties got involved, and we have reason to believe it’s alive.” He leans over and slides the folder to your side of the table. “All the vessels' information is in there, including a photo. Your job is to find it, use your domain, question Sukuna, and then kill him.”

You stare at the folder, burying down the urge to reach across the table and smash Kawakatsu's head into the beautifully varnished cedar. Does he really think you'll believe that story? When have the higher-ups ever prioritised the pursuit of knowledge over security?

You can't govern with an iron fist if someone is walking around contradicting your every rule. This is simply a kill order wrapped in safety gloves. They don’t care to question Sukuna; they're just saving face, which seems a little counterintuitive. They know exactly what you think of them; there's absolutely no need to pretend this is anything but a power play.

They wanted to kill a kid and when Gojo refused, they came to you.

You pick up the folder. You make no move to open it, not in front of him. You know the second you see this kid’s face, you’ll flinch. So you tuck it under your arm.

“When is this assignment to be completed?”

“Tomorrow,” he says it casually, like you’re not discussing the murder of a child. “The annual Goodwill event is on. Everyone will be in attendance. Including yourself.”

You frown. Assuming it’s Gojo they’re trying to hide you from, that seems like a fantastically stupid idea.

“You’re confused,” he notes, his bushy eyebrows high with amusement. “The event is the perfect opportunity to catch them off guard. There will be a calculated level of chaos. Perfect for slipping in and out undetected.”

You scoff. “And Gojo? How do you plan on dealing with that?  You know he’ll see me once I use my domain. And do you expect me to find the vessel in acres of thick forest? What if he’s got buddies around?” Just how many kids are you killing tomorrow?

“There is an effort being made to isolate the vessel. You’ll do what needs to be done. Speak with Ryomen Sukuna, and then…” he makes a gesture with his hands like he’s tightening up two ends of a rope.

“Sure,” you answer dully. “And what’s my payment?”

“Cutting right to the chase, hm? Of course, there will be a sum. A very large one. But considering the alternative factors,” you dying when Gojo realises what’s going on because he isn’t stupid and then snaps your neck. Dying very un-heroically. “We’ve considered reevaluating your sentence. And—“ he sighs, like he can’t believe he’s been forced to say it. “Potentially putting forth a promotion.”

“A promotion,” you repeat.

“You’re what…a fourth grade?”

“Semi-grade two.” 

He tuts at you, like you’re some noisy child not paying attention in class.

“We were considering bumping you up a grade. How does that sound?”

You could not give less of a fuck about your rank as a sorcerer.

“Sounds fine.”

He hesitates, annoyance flattening his brow. “How trite. We dangle a promotion in front of you and you actually manage to be civil.”

You nod carefully. You sense he’s gotten to the end of his already very limited patience. Spending his time talking to low-level trash like you probably grates on his nerves like nothing else.

He digs into his pocket and pulls out a bundled pair of gloves. “We want to make a statement, you see.”

That doesn’t sound good. When angry old men decide to make statements, it usually ends in some kind of pointless battle where no one wins. Just a ledger of innocent people caught in the crosshairs. 

You stare at the folder, wondering what the vessel looks like. 

Kawakatsu tugs one on, making sure it sits snugly against his wrist. “Authority cannot be undermined. Even by the likes of Gojo Satoru.”

Chapter Text

You’re probably wasting your time doing this.

There’s a thunderous screech as the casket of wine bottles shatters in the bottom of the bin, followed by the ping of beer bottles toppling against them. You turn around and pick up another box—one full of whiskey—and throw it in too, tossing what is probably a hundred thousand yen’s worth of alcohol in the rubbish.

Guess they hadn’t gotten the sobriety memo. 

You slam the lid down hard.

Mem is curled up on the couch when you step back inside, staring out the window into the darkness, her tail flickering apprehensively. You couldn’t find the controller for the blinds, so you’ve been forced to mull around with an ever-growing darkness leeching in. There’s a massive forest behind the estate, one that’s full of feral things, all hiding in the shadows from the boogeyman.

You tap away at your phone as you flop down on the couch. The internet here is surprisingly decent, but not at all helpful with your navigational skills. You’ve put in over a dozen addresses and snooped through endless streams of satellite imaging. None of the places look even remotely familiar.

Either they’ve all drastically changed since you were nineteen, or your memory really did get fried from the oxy. Your stomach curls just thinking about it, a tiny bead of sweat breaking out on your neck. Just another reason to throttle past you’s neck. You shiver, sinking further into the couch. Ishimori-san would beat you with a newspaper if she heard that thought.

Frustration sneaks up on you, and you toss your phone onto the table. The noise it makes isn’t loud, but the house is so eerily quiet that it echoes.

Mem makes a soft noise, stirring from her spot. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, running your fingers down her back. “I’m just tired.”

She blinks up at you questioningly, as if to say, ‘Why aren’t you sleeping then?’

You peer down the expanse of your legs to the file you’d flopped onto the coffee table. You haven’t been avoiding it, but you certainly aren’t looking forward to reading whatever cruel summary the higher-ups wrote up. 

You lean forward.

Mem meows.

“I’m deliberating.”

With one finger, you lift the edge of the file and carefully push it back. Your eyes immediately catch on a photo clipped to the top. You slip it out, bringing it to eye level. It’s a teenage boy who's got the softest eyes you’ve ever seen. Big and brown like a doe. 

“Itadori Yuji…”

Fifteen years old. Judging from his eye lines, he’s probably got a big smile. Seems like a happy kid. 

You read underneath his name.

Highly-dangerous. Kill on sight.

You toss the photo back onto the table and stand up. Your phone screen is still open, highlighting the area of the map you’d been looking at. Mem jumps onto the table, flicking the folder closed with her tail. She doesn’t touch the photo, though; she lets it sit there, almost taunting you.

“We should go, right?”

Her tail curls, pressing against the top of your phone.

You sigh. “We may as well get started—before this all goes to shit.”

“You look awful,” Kawakatsu sneers.

He’d asked to meet on the outskirts of campus, far enough away so Mei Mei's crows won't be a problem. 

You squint at him from behind your sunglasses. “Are you flirting with me?”

His bushy eyebrows bend with indignation. “As if I would ever waste my time on gutter trash like you.”

“A man after my heart,” you sigh. “M'fine, thanks for asking. I spent most of my night reading that file. Didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

His head snaps down to you, jaw clenched. “You do realise how important it is that you’re prepared, yes?”

“Hence why I read the file. Do you know how densely worded some of those techniques are?”

He ignores your vulgarity. “So you’ve analysed them all?”

“Yep,” you roll your shoulders. “The Todo kid claps and teleports. Another one’s got voice commands. The only one I’m kinda concerned about is the Straw-Doll kid.”

His face wrinkles. “Really? That one?”

“Yeah. That resonance technique…” You purse your lips. “It’s quite the trick.”

You turn towards the cliff-side, looking down at the spot where the school would be, if not for the barrier. You pull at your memories, trying to fit little bits and pieces into place, but it feels distant and blurry. Like a repetitive dream you’ve never had the chance to digest fully—just wisps beneath delirium.

You dig your shoe deeper into the dirt, lifting the grass. You still haven’t fully fleshed out a plan. There are so many variables you haven’t had time to consider. Hidden techniques, the monitoring system, Mei Mei's crows. Not to mention the forest below, full to the brim with curses. There’s so much cursed energy around you’re struggling to pinpoint who from whom.

Normally, this is what comes easiest to you: stealth and long-distance intelligence gathering—identifying each curse user individually and being able to mark them from it. But right now, you’re blurred by numbers. You don’t have any faces to attach to the energy signatures you feel. Well, everyone except Gojo, who’s a supernova among a garden of fireflies.

And then it happens, as if on cue.

The pressure.

He’s here. Somewhere on campus.

Your heart rate picks up a bit. Suppressing your cursed energy is one of your most adept skills, but with Gojo simply existing, you’ll never be too sure if you’re 100% hidden. He might’ve already noticed you, a tiny flicker of nothing at the edge of the horizon. Or maybe he’ll mistake you for one of the curses in the forest. That’s the best you can hope for when it comes to him.

“You two get along in school?” Kawakatsu asks, almost casual in his assessment.

You pop a piece of gum in your mouth. “Nope.”

Well, 'get along' is a little too straightforward a word to describe your relationship, but that’s a whole bunch of complicated that isn't worth explaining—especially to an imbecile like Kawakatsu.

“Colour me surprised.”

A silence engulfs you both. One brewed in the nervousness of Gojo’s sheer existence. One fuck up—a tiny little fluctuation and he’ll be right here in front of you, burying a hole of cursed energy in your stomach.

“Listen,” you start, pressing your gum to the side of your mouth. “If I die, you have to give my cat to Utahime.”

You’re spitballing here, but you figure she’d be a nice parent.

“The Kyoto teacher?”

“Huh?” You frown. “Oh uh, yeah. That one.”

You’re forgetting yourself.

Utahime’s a teacher. So much has changed. You can’t really wrap your head around the fact that Gojo is a teacher too. The Gojo from your high school years is near impossible to reconcile with now. Clearly, he’s changed. That or he’s quite possibly the worst teacher on the planet.

“They’re getting started,” Kawakatsu informs, tapping away at his phone.

“Alright,” you stretch your hands above your head, rising onto the tips of your toes. Then you lean down, pressing your palms into the floor. Your back creaks in protest, and you fold yourself back up, cracking your neck from side to side.

“Time for a walk.”

You get maybe three-fourths down the mountain before your technique picks up on something. Through the cloud of different energies, there’s a signature that feels distinctly off.

It’s barely even residual. You’d felt a flicker. Something that registered against your technique like a radio wave, faintly glitching as it tried to blend in with all the other noise. It’s overwhelmingly chaotic for what a sorcerer would consider a microscopic particle of cursed energy. It screams danger, but it also screams something else. Something familiar.

Just trying to get an understanding of its composition confuses you. If the circumstances were different, there are other avenues you could consider. Strengthening your lines, or unravelling more to get a better assessment. But as of now, four seems like a respectable amount of unimportance.

You expected using your technique to feel gritty. All this time away, training without Tengen’s barrier makes the well you’re pulling from feel bottomless. You’re waiting for the strain. The intensity, like pulling at a rope and letting it burn through your hands. But it’s not. It’s so concentrated here. Fragile, and yet wholly encompassing.

You breathe in deeply, letting it settle in your chest.

Perhaps you aren’t giving yourself enough credit. You’ve trained for years doing this, and Gojo—well, he won’t be expecting you at all if the higher-ups have actually done their jobs.

Your strands curl softly through the air. Translucent—like dust shifting in the wind, following the whispers. They tell you where the energy is going, even if it is being very careful.

You step across the barrier into the main campus, absorbing the mountainside in all its tranquil glory. The main shrine stands out against every other building with its staggered wooden balconies and stairs. With Tengen’s barrier, the temples' positions change every day, so your memory is useless at placing the buildings. But the sounds, the smells, the grass. That’s the same. You can see the three-story pagoda, the dorms and the sports field. (Which you’ve never really been a fan of.)

You remember Suguru’s weird obsession with soccer during the summer holidays, and how it had taken its turn infecting everyone—even Shoko and Nanami. Your outright refusal to play had meant you got to be the referee, and you spent hours blissfully calling Gojo out on literally everything; red cards and all.

You frown, shaking the memory loose. You knew coming here would lift things up from where you’d beaten them down, but you promised yourself you wouldn’t let it compromise the mission.

The energy shifts directions, and you follow. It takes you down the mountain, across the canal and over two concrete fences. You get so close to the actual school that you can hear the echoing shouts of voices. It’s as sure as any evidence that your suppression is sufficient.

You have no idea where the energy spark is taking you, but it has an uncanny understanding of Tengen’s barrier. Of a 1000 shifting doors, only one will take you to a certain place. Some are cursed storerooms. Others are…even more important. Only Tengen knows which door leads to the storeroom. So that means either this sinister presence works at the goddamn school, or they’ve somehow manufactured a way to locate the storeroom without Tengen.

You know what you’d bet money on.

It’s not some random person walking around. It’s a thief—one with connections. Otherwise, how would they know about Tengen’s barrier system—let alone the intricacies of it? Someone told them. And why? What amount of money or power constitutes selling secrets to the enemy? The permanent enemy.

You suck your gum to the roof of your mouth and glare at the canopy of trees ahead of you. What an annoying choice to make. Stick to the original plan and locate Itadori Yuji? Or follow this random lead to its source and see what the hell is going on?

You sigh, shoulders slumping.

Who are you kidding?

Obviously, you’re doing the latter.

You pull back every other strand, narrowing it down to the thief and their technique. No more distractions. If you’re committing to this, you need absolute focus. You can’t have other energy signatures randomly cropping up and tapering off, blurring your trail.

Soon enough, you come across a disfigured curse, wilted into the grass and quietly sobbing. You crouch down, peering at its enlarged head. Odd. The cursed technique residuals you’ve been following are all over this thing, but the thing’s cursed energy is completely dull. Muted, and yet it’s still alive. You don’t touch it—you’re not stupid enough to even contemplate it. But you do nudge it with the tip of your boot. It murmurs and turns, tears still treading down its cheeks. It’s dying, and quickly too.

“How’d you wind up here?” You mutter, standing back up.

It whines, reaching out to you with stubby little grey arms, and then stops moving altogether. There’s something haunting about it, but you don’t have time to analyse it. You need to keep moving.

You follow the trail of dead creatures all the way up to an unassuming temple door. When you slide it open, an acrid stench hits your nose, burning its way into your brain.

“God!” You step back, holding in a sneeze. “Smells like—” you gag, shoving your jacket over your face. It smells like someone left milk out in the sun.

It’s not the smell alone that bothers you; it’s the heaviness of it. You can feel it clinging to your skin. Hatred. Fear. Regret. It’s pungent. You’ve forgotten how awful the aura of high-grade curses can be, and there’s probably a wealth of them stacked away in this storage room.

You’re essentially stepping into a lion's den, willingly. This curse could’ve unleashed several cursed objects by now, but for some reason, it has decided not to. Either it’s keeping them sealed because of Gojo, or it’s looking for something specific.Both of those answers horrify you. 

You step back into the doorway and immediately notice a lump of clothes on the ground. Piles of navy jackets and white robes. Uniforms. Among the clothes are two curses with deformed heads.

Holy shit.

Your stomach drops, dread clinging to your pores. You quickly take out your phone and snap a photo. It immediately docks into your camera roll. It’s exactly the same. No blurring. No glitches.

These imploded creatures…they’re humans.

It’s not their energy that’s been warped. It’s their souls.

Hell. That’s why your technique picked up on it.

You creep inside, keeping your steps light. The curse doesn’t seem to care about masking its presence now. You find more transfigured souls squirming in its wake. Some are tiny, like earthworms. Others are as bloated as whales, nearly touching the ceiling.

It leaves a horrifying trail into a dark, candle-lit room marked with different talismans. Seems like the kinda place to keep important stuff, and annoyingly, you’re correct. The curse stands in the centre of the room. It’s…strange looking. But not in the way you know curses to be strange. Not oozing and sickly; with a dozen arms and one sickly, baleful eye. This one is humanoid. It’s got long, blue-ish hair and jagged lines across its arms. Almost like a—

Your arm snaps to the back of your neck. To the scar there. A muscle quivers in your jaw, and you grind your teeth down, nearly chipping them in an attempt to stop it.

You won’t do this to yourself. Not again.

The curse has a patchwork of stitches all across its skin, like it’s been assembled in a lab. Or put together from spare parts. A real Frankenstein’s monster.

That makes you want to laugh, but you know that's just fear and sleep deprivation talking. The last thing you want to do is underestimate it.

This curse has killed every sorcerer guarding the place. So it’s efficient and quick. Its technique mustn’t be that complicated or have many rules. Judging from the flow of cursed energy coming off it, you’d say that assumption is quite accurate. Its entire energy is…bold. One colour. No questions. No fluctuations.

It’s holding a bag full of things that stink. Some nasty cursed objects, no doubt. You slink up close, peering at it from the front. Its face is quite androgynous, but there’s something about the way it moves, with a peacock-like confidence that’s distinctly masculine. And it seems pretty proud of itself—of what it’s done here.

“What’cha got there?” You ask over its shoulder.

It screams.

You watch it leap back, dropping the bag on the floor.

“I didn’t think curses could get spooked like that,” you hum. “Isn’t that your thing?”

The curse looks at you, bewildered. Its eyes are two different colours. It looks around you, behind you, to the side of you, and then at you. You catch the shift in its expression, its eyes slowly lighting up with interest. It’s not afraid of you. Which means it thinks very highly of itself—or it’s so crazy it doesn’t care.

Good.

“I think you might be outta a job,” you drawl out, pressing your boot over the bag handles and dragging it to your side. You know when this fight eventually breaks out, it’s going to use the cursed objects as bait to distract you, and you never want to be one of those people who leave precious stolen goods lying on the ground for the sake of what—monologuing?

Why not kill two birds with one stone?

“What kind of job?”

You raise an eyebrow. So it can talk.

“You came out of nowhere, Ms.” Its eyes rove over you, its brows furrowing, head shifting. Confused. “How’d you do that?”

“Ms?” You grin, pulling the bag behind your back. “How polite you are, cursed spirit.”

“It’s Mahito,” he says flippantly. “What’s wrong with your soul? I can’t see it. ”

“I don’t know you very well, and that’s a very private question.”

“True. But we could get to know each other.”

“How much time you got?”

A wide, frenetic grin splits his face. “I like you!”

You play coy. “Oh really?”

He giggles, eyes glimmering in a way you can only describe as child-like. He’s getting some strange satisfaction out of talking to you. You’ve never seen anything like it. Nine years abroad and you’ve only ever encountered three special grade curses. Three in nearly a decade. And none of them spoke coherently.

This is something else. Being able to speak with a curse. The fact that it understands sarcasm and innuendo. You might be in trouble.

You notice his fingers are twitching.

Some kind of subconscious tic?

“You’re trying to figure it out, aren’t you?” His grin splits wider, white, perfectly set teeth gleaming against the candlelight. Uncanny. It’s not right. His cursed energy is so calm, and yet his demeanour couldn’t be more…heightened. “I’ll make you a deal. You tell me about your soul, and I’ll tell you what I did to your coworkers.”

“They're not my coworkers.”

That catches him off guard. “You’re not…one of them?”

“Nah.”

“Oh!” He brightens. “Then we should work together! Hanami-san is taking on a big risk right now! They’re relying on me!”

“What kind of risk?” You ask.

He doesn’t reply. He just smiles.

You smile back. That poor curse is fucked. “How is Hanami-san? Are they doing well?”

“Are we gonna be friends?” He asks instead.

“Dunno. Do we have much in common?”

“Maybeee. What’s your favourite colour?”

“Blue.”

“Sames!” He gushes, taking a step forward.

“Hold it!” You put a hand up. “Moving was not a part of the deal.”

“We never made a deal,” he coos. “What’s wrong with moving? You think I’m going to kill you?”

Yes. “No. I need to check your bag for contraband,” you explain, spreading your boot tip against the bag to peel the fabric back. “You never know what people are walking around with these days.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you take in its contents. This was much worse than you expected. You take your foot off the fabric, trying not to show just how careful you’re being. You’re pretty sure those glass vials are special-grade cursed wombs. Why a cursed spirit would be stealing them, well, that’s the question of the hour, isn’t it?

You pick up one of the gnarled fingers, hesitating at its awful smell. “A fan of old Sukuna, huh?” You’re trying to imagine a fifteen-year-old kid swallowing one of these. The nail alone looks like a gastrointestinal nightmare waiting to happen. But if he’s become a vessel, he wouldn’t be digesting them; he’d be absorbing them.

Mahito sighs. “I want Sukuna-sama to be my ally.”

“Is that why you got these fingers? They’re a…gift?”

“Yup!”

Or a bargain.

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mahito-san, but I can’t let you take these.”

His expression doesn’t falter. “That’s too bad!”

He launches at you like a fucking dog.

You anticipated it, and so you just shift your weight to the side. He goes flying by, right into a pillar, and he takes the whole thing out like some clumsy, loose-limbed giraffe. He seems…unpracticed. Or reckless. You can’t decide.

When he jumps back up, there isn’t even a scratch on him.

“You’re quick.”

You shrug. “Dive better next time.”

He jumps you again, this time swiping at you with his hands.

So you’d been right about that. He needs physical touch to implant his technique on someone. For a singular second, you feel relieved for having figured it out, but it’s quickly dwarfed by the realisation that this guy—this stupid, batshit crazy curse—is your natural born enemy.

Your technique functions as a direct conduit to your soul. All Mahito has to do is accidentally brush past one of your strands, and that’ll be it for you. He’ll feel the shape of your soul and transfigure it.

Shitttttt.

You draw back your technique immediately, your chest stinging from the divergence of cursed energy slamming back into you.

Mahito’s fist flies for your face, and you swerve to the side, slamming your boot heel into his hip as he stumbles past you. It sends him headfirst into another pillar, which cracks right in the centre.

His face twists with displeasure as he turns to look at you from the floor. He stands up and shakes off the debris. Then he reaches out, both his hands wildly contorting until two spinning blades emerge from his wrists.

Well fuck. He can change the shape of his soul, too? Why hadn’t you thought of that? Too late to dwell on it. You turn and wallop him in the face with the bag, and he spins back into the wall. The glass vials tumble out of the bag and hit the floor, cracking slightly. You make a face. You forgot they were in there. You were so focused on the fingers.

“Whad’ja hit me with that for!?” Mahito demands. “You almost broke them!”

You swallow thickly, anger building up in your throat. That’s the kind of mistake a first-year student would make, not a fully fledged sorcerer. You’re getting yourself all panicked over a talking curse. Breathe. Just breathe. You won’t have a chance to pick up the wombs. Going for them will undeniably open you up to an attack from Mahito.

With your cursed technique, none of this would be a problem.

What a pain.

“You…” he licks his lips. “You know the shape of your soul.”

You curl your fist tighter around the bag. “What of it?" 

His eyes darken. “Yet…you can’t use your cursed technique against me, can you?”

Oh, for gods sake. You can’t catch a break.

“Maybe I’ve got a binding vow,” you challenge.

He doesn’t buy it for a second.

“You can’t!” He giggles. “You can’t you can’t you can’t!”

His arm bulges, turning into a giant scythe.

“I’m gonna kill you!”

You weigh your options. You could fight. Maybe you’ll win, but you’ll probably lose the bag. Then there’ll be a struggle for it. You’ll prioritise regaining the fingers over fending off his attacks—because it’s Sukuna. The most dangerous curse/human to ever live. You can’t let Mahito take them.

Then you’ll get turned into a weeping, drooling blob of nothing.

Mem becomes an orphan, again.

You scoop up the bag and bolt in the other direction.

“Comeee back!”

Nope, nope, nope.

The scythe swings down, and you bend, watching it cut right over your nose, taking some of your hair with it. You’re up and running within the second, leaping onto the gable of another roof.

You can hear Mahito’s chittering, high-pitched laugh as he gives chase. Your foot tweaks on a thatched tile, and you stumble, barely managing to dodge what seems to be a transfigured, heat-seeking rope dart. It slashes at your feet, and you jump, twisting sideways to avoid the return swing. You hit your back in the worst spot on the way down. Dull pain trickles down your legs, and you’re forced to roll to avoid another massive blade.

You kick your legs out, boot heels catching against the gutter before you throw yourself right over the edge. Mahito cackles behind you. Good god, you wish you could just shred this fool to ribbons. You jump for the next rooftop, landing in a mess of limbs as you roll to your feet and turn, readying your fists.

The bag is still tightly wound around your wrist, but you’ve managed to shove all of Sukuna’s fingers into your jacket and short pockets—with the exception of one also being awkwardly wedged between your boobs. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Mahito still thinks they’re in the bag, and you intend to abuse that knowledge.

He lands on the other side of the rooftop with a disarming amount of his grace, his skin twitching, bursting as it settles.

“Is this really all you’ve got?” He sighs. “I suppose I under-appreciated Nanami…”

You frown, sliding your foot back into a fighting stance. Didn’t Nanami quit Jujutsu for good? Guess you’ve been sincerely out of the loop to miss something like him rejoining Jujutsu society.

“Nanami-kun is a talented person,” you spit out. 

Mahito opens his mouth—no doubt to cajole you some more—and then frowns, tilting his head up.

You follow his line of sight. There’s a dark, thickened dome surrounding the school. A veil.

In the chaos of getting away, you hadn't noticed it.

You quickly evaluate your surroundings. You’re on the outside of the veil, smooshed between a smattering of old classrooms. There are no students close to you, no one to get caught in the crosshairs. Not that you’re in a position to unleash anything but angry words.

You sense an overwhelming amount of cursed energy coming from the river. Shit. That was a hell of a lot more oppressive than Mahito’s signature. They really did plan this out. 

Guess Kawakatsu had been right about one thing. The chaos of the event certainly acted as a smokescreen. Just not for you.

You search the skyline, and see no sign of Gojo. A giant field of brown gunk and a very obvious special grade curse popping off, and he’s seemingly nowhere to be found? He has no know what's going on. If you can feel it, he can undoubtedly see it. 

You don’t have to guess about the Veil’s rules. If they’re inhibiting the entrance of Gojo Satoru, the trade-off must be insane.

You take a breath and tighten your fists. The Veil won’t last long if Gojo’s already set to work on it. You just need to hold out long enough for it to break. That is—if Mahito has the self-preservation to run at the sight of Gojo. Looks like you’ll be playing an incredibly reckless game of Chicken.

“Well then,” you wet your lips. “That changes things, huh?”

Mahito doesn’t seem all that frightened. “You really should just give me the fingers. I’ll let you live if you do.”

You bark out a laugh. “Don’t piss me off.”

His grin deepens.

“Wanna make a bet?” You ask, the handles of the fabric bag burning against your wrist. “When that veil breaks—and it will—what’d you reckon he’s gonna do? Go for your friend by the river, or the fingers in this bag?”

Mahito tilts his head. “You think he’d care more about the fingers than Hanami-san?”

“A whole lot of them in one place, right next to a special grade?” Your lips twitch. “I’d have to take a guess.”

Mahito’s smile fades. 

“Clocks ticking, Patchwork.”

At the same time as he launches forward, you toss the bag out. It confuses him completely. He tries to stop, but his momentum sends him sliding, and he lands on his ass. The bag flutters through the air—light enough for someone to notice it’s empty, but Mahito’s frazzled. He snatches it with one elongated arm, pulling it to his chest like a little kid at Christmas.

“Huh?” His brows furrow. “It’s empty!”

The veil above you shatters, folding in on itself within a fraction of a second.

You both sense him immediately, heads snapping up to the sky.

He’s there, floating amongst the clouds.

An angel with six eyes and a thousand ivory feathered wings.

Mahito turns and runs.

You don’t exactly blame him.

Chapter Text

Gojo disappears from the sky as quickly as he appeared. He warps to nearly the opposite side of the school, making a tiny little supernova of energy at the edge of your senses.

You thought the river would’ve been his priority, but clearly, something else has taken his attention. 

You rearrange Sukuna’s fingers into your short pockets properly. Then you take a moment to assess yourself for any injuries. Mahito hadn’t touched you anywhere, but the fall on that rooftop has your back aching. That’s going to be a problem for your future sleep habits.

You scowl, drawing on your technique with zero reservation. If Gojo’s deemed a special grade curse not an immediate threat, you doubt he’ll have the presence of mind to mark you down with Six Eyes.

You use a line of Sew to glide yourself through the forest. Gliding makes it sound effortless when really it's like surfing on a tightrope—except the tightrope is the size and width of tooth floss, and you’re telekinetically controlling the line to your whim. For all intents and purposes, you look stupid, like a character lagging through the map of a video game, but it gets the job done. 

You lower yourself down to the riverbed, focusing on the residuals. Three cursed energies. One of them is obviously the special grade—Hanami, you’re guessing. The other is too strong to be Itadori’s, even if his own cursed energy output is a lot more than you expected.

There's an intense amount of energy coming from the river, but when you zip over there, all you can feel are the ripples of a residual technique. You look around, seeing the pathways of their energy. You follow the weakest line, keeping low to the ground so you don’t clothesline yourself on a tree branch.

You thought Mei-Mei’s crows would be more of a problem at this point, but weirdly, they don’t seem to be following Yuji. A million-dollar answer for why that’s happening. You scowl just thinking about it. Mei Mei's always been such a suck when it comes to money. She’d probably sell her soul for the right amount of cash.

The thought makes you shudder.

Your threads eventually lead you to Itadori Yuji, who's standing at ankle-height in the river, looking very confused. He’s covered in cuts and bruises, and there’s a giant welt in the middle of his forehead that’s bubbling with blood.

You feel bad for the kid. All these grumpy old farts are out to get him, and all he did was accidentally eat a finger. You’d never actually gotten an answer as to why he consumed it, but you assumed it was an accident. Who'd want to eat something like that?

“Hey kid!" You call, taking your hand out of your pocket and waving. That seems friendly enough, right? You hope. 

The boy goes rigid and slowly turns to face you like a stone totem. His expression is stunted, half horrified and half confused. 

Okay, rough start. 

You step off your line and gently land on the riverbank.

“Uhhh…” Yuji looks around. “Where’s Todo?”

“Why would I know?” 

He somehow grows stiffer. “U-uh…good point. Who are you? Why did you just randomly appear!?”

“I didn’t randomly appear; you just weren’t paying attention.”

He scratches his ear. “Oh. That's, yeah, another good point." 

“Listen—“ you only get one word out before your jaw forcibly closes, your teeth roughly closing around your tongue. 

Something happens. No, it’s not something. It’s everything. It's light and darkness and the absence of both. It takes up every part of your mind, eclipsing every thought, every instinct. It blots out the sun, replaces it, and burns even brighter. You’re throttled by the sensation of everything and nothing all at once, and you barely have the presence of mind to shut off your technique before you’re hitting the ground on your knees, a second away from turning your brain to complete mush.

You open your mouth, and blood pools out. The technique blinds every one of your senses. Nothing else can pervade. You’re trapped, forced to experience the crushing power of Limitless at its most heightened.

Hollow Purple.

He’s such a fucking asshole if he did that on purpose.

“Huh!?” Yuji freaks. “A-are you okay?! What the hell was that?! S-some kind of bomb?”

You gag, another wave of blood surging up your throat and into the riverbed. Pain dulls everything else to a blot at the edge of your vision. Your tongue thrashes in your mouth, desperate for the pain to stop. All you can taste is iron and severed flesh, folding your tongue over to access the sharp indents of your own teeth. You haven't bitten it off, thankfully, but you're bleeding a lot. A lot, a lot. 

“Gojo,” you slur out, pressing your palms into your eyes. Your vision returns in dots. “Doing something unnecessarily reckless.” Or maybe the right amount, given this extremely coordinated attack on the school by special grade curses and curse users.

“You know Gojo-sensei?” Yuji asks, his voice picking up.

“Yes.” You spit out more blood and haul yourself to your feet.

He gives you a suspicious look. “How come you’re so roughed up?”

“I had my technique out when his hit.”

“What does that mean?”

You spit out more blood. Fucking great. The one time you need to properly speak with someone, and Gojo's made it nearly impossible for you to get a sentence out without spitting blood everywhere. “Imagine having your ear pressed up to a door trying to listen for whispers, and then suddenly that door turns into a giant fucking megaphone and it screams right down your ear canal.” Your tone is ragged, but you don’t have the patience to care right now. All that sleep you never got paired with the rager you’d just had in your brain has dropped your mood to bedrock.

Yuji shrinks under your irritation. “I see…”

There’s a silence.

“Excuse me,” he says politely. “But what are you doing here?”

“Uh…” you roll your neck. “That.”

Yuji’s body language immediately changes. His shoulders hunch up and his fists curl at his sides.

You put out a hand to stop it, but he flinches. You immediately put it down.

“I’m not gonna fight you, kid.”

His fists hesitate, but he doesn’t put them down. “You’re…not?”

“Not officially.”

He makes a face. “What does that mean?”

“It means I got hired to kill you—“

“WHAT!?”

“Hold on,” you say. “There’s a massive 'but' coming.”

He waits.

“I’m not going to.”

He doesn’t look relieved.

“Ugh,” you tug on your jacket sleeve and use it to wipe away the crust of blood that's formed on your lips. “If I didn’t just have a goddamn nuke dropped between my ears, this would be coming out a lot more eloquent.” You take a breath. “Okay! I’m just gonna say it. The higher-ups hired me to kill you. I never planned on agreeing to it, but when I heard Sukuna was involved…well—everyone has their vices, right?”

Yuji balks. “What does that mean?”

“Sukuna is kinda a big deal in the world of souls. It’s unheard of for someone to split their soul, let alone into twenty pieces. Those things are really uncomfortable, by the way,” you mutter, patting at your back pockets. “Aren’t fingers designed to be put into pockets? Whatever. Doesn’t matter, we’re getting sidetracked,” you take another breath. “Essentially, what I’m trying to say is that I’ve cahoots’d my way onto campus because I want to chat with Sukuna. Not because I want to kill you. And I won’t—if you’re worried about that.”

Yuji stares at you. There’s rage in his eyes, endless wells of it. He hadn’t looked like that in his photo.

“You have some of his fingers,” he says slowly. “Don’t you?”

So he can sense them. Interesting. 

You take a step back. “Is that a…problem?”

“How’d you get 'em?”

“I un-stole them off a patchwork curse. Or re-stole them—guess it depends on who you ask.”

Yuji’s expression shifts, rage dilating his pupils. “Patchwork?”

A dry laugh sounds between you, immediately setting you on edge.

A mouth appears on Yuji’s head, like a pimple.

“That fool?” The mouth says. Its pitch and tone are distinctly different from Yuji's. “Seriously? He lost to you?”

“Oh,” you squint. “That’s weird.”

Yuji slaps his forehead. “Yeah—sorry, he does that.”

“I can’t say I’m shocked by his personality.”

“So why exactly do you need to talk to Sukuna?” Yuji asks.

“Well, technically, I don’t. But I’m hoping that if I get a look at his soul, it could give me some insight into containing it for you.”

Yuji’s eyes light up. “You can contain Sukuna? Permanently?”

Not if he keeps eating fingers. You’re not sure there’s a single technique in the world capable of containing a fully fledged Sukuna. But what you’re doing is just a means of examination, not the end result. Having even the smallest glimpse of how his soul looks, or has been formed. That would be invaluable. And it’s far too complicated to explain to a kid who's just become a part of this world. So you…lie.

“Piece of cake." 

There’s another manic laugh. Sukuna.

“I look forward to devouring you, little girl.”

You and Yuji make the same face of disgust.

"Mm, very creepy. And you have to deal with that all the time?" 

Yuji huffs. "Yeah. It gets really annoying."

"Imagine how I feel, brat." 

You snort. Their dynamic is certainly interesting.

"Can you really contain him?" Yuji asks. "Like...right now?" 

Considering Yuji’s only consumed three of Sukuna’s fingers, and by extension three parts of his soul, you should be fine. And it’s not like you're directly interacting with Sukuna's soul anyway. You’ll just be observing it through the lens of Yuji’s soul.

“Yup.”

Yuji flops his hands out. “Oh-kay! What do we do?”

“You do nothing, just stand there.”

He does as told.

"This'll be fun," Sukuna chuckles. "Good luck."

You shake your hands out. Suddenly becoming aware of the sweat running down the side of your face. You’re tired and overstimulated, and your throat feels like it’s been seared on a grill and then run through a shredder. You’ve still got enough cursed energy to do this, but after that, you’ll be done. If Gojo decides to punch now, ask questions later, there probably won’t be a later.

This shouldn’t be as nerve-wracking as your body is making it out to be.

You take a deep breath right down into the pit of your stomach and pour it out. You cross over your wrists, hooking your pinky fingers together. You join the tips of your index fingers to your thumbs, creating two circles. 

“W-wait a second,” Yuji looks pale. “W-what’s with the hand sign?”

“Domain Expansion,” you say firmly. “Soul Labyrinth.”

Glimpsing Sukuna’s soul through Yuji is like peering through thick, bulletproof glass. Sukuna does not want to be perceived by the likes of you, let alone be touched. But in his current state of disassembly, your arrogant assumption has thankfully paid off. He can't kill you for looking. 

It takes some time, but you think you’ve gained a general understanding of how they work together. Normally, it's impossible for someone to exist without a body. A detached soul, especially one separated into twenty pieces, is like a fire without a hearth. It exists without any concept of sentience. Only with a body—a hearth—does the fire, and thus the soul, burn brightly.

Sukuna and Yuji are in a completely different galaxy of complications. Yuji is in a constant state of polarisation. One soul is vying to become host, and the other is simply ignoring those demands. His mere existence is somehow interfering with Sukuna’s ability to properly manifest.

Yuji suppressing Sukuna’s manifestations is, quite frankly, insane, especially for someone who had been a non-sorcerer up until a couple months ago. Any other person would’ve had their soul shattered. Yuji being able to maintain the shape of his body and his soul leaves you to believe he has an innate understanding of both. Which is incredibly rare.

Confusing? Kind of. To most people, souls are an invisible, imperceivable idea. But in reality, they’re simply a cortex of characteristics. Cursed energy, innate domains, techniques. They all come from the blueprint of your soul. The body in this instance becomes the hardware. It puts all the densely worded theory of your soul into practice, like a conduit. Much like how cursed energies are the electricity to a cursed technique's appliance, a body without a soul is a husk. Only truly strong individuals are capable of maintaining the blueprint of their body without a soul.

Yuji might just be one of those people.

If you’d had more time, you would’ve loved to analyse it further. But as it stands, there are certain parameters you can’t explain without further research and cursed energy. One: You have no idea what Yuji looks like when Sukuna takes over his body. Two: You have yet to properly perceive either of their souls in great detail.

Your domain breaks apart into tiny, prismatic shimmers. You watch them bounce in the air, hitting the water and dissolving like cotton.

A massive wave of exhaustion hits you. Cursed energy burnout. It’s like a migraine rolled in nausea, and you fight off a violent gag as the taste of your own blood revitalises in your mouth.

It takes you a moment to remember where you are and what you’re doing. You remember in bits and pieces. Your ruptured throat and crushed tongue. The Hollow Purple. Not only did it render your brain to buzzing white noise—it’d actually done some internal damage.

Your neck slumps forward, and you nearly stumble headfirst into the river. You catch yourself before you fall, pins and needles tingling up your arms as they flop down to your sides. You feel like you weigh a tonne, fighting to get the mere sensation of blood back into your pinky fingers.

Where the hell is the kid? He couldn’t have fallen far. You’d made sure his brain went relatively untampered with.

“…Yuji?” You mutter out, your voice completely wrecked.

He’s passed out in the riverbed, his expression eerily vacant. You catch an intake of breath rippling out from his chest, and your frown slowly shifts.

You bully yourself to look up straight and stumble over, pulling him by his legs from the river. You make it about two metres before the tingling in your arms becomes too much, and you drop him. He lands in the grass, a little patch of drool trickling from his mouth.

You snort, collapsing back onto your ass. You stretch out your legs, bending your head beneath your knees to get rid of the awful curling stitch that’s racing up your side. You take a few deep breaths, willing away the bile that’s rising in your wrecked throat. It stings so bad, to the point where you refuse to swallow, and genuinely contemplate the downsides of drinking river water.

You don’t get time to finish that thought-map. The wind suddenly shifts. You can feel it rush against your sweaty skin. 

“Yuji!”

Your heart nearly implodes.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but Gojo’s voice being the exact same hits somewhere right between your fourth and fifth rib, and it digs into the stitch like a kunai. It’s rich and powerful and easy. 

You hate what it does to you. 

Your legs wobble, and you press your heels into the dirt to keep from falling apart. You can’t look at him, not when you’re half-delirious and sweating from every pore on your skin. You know what this looks like. You’ve seen it so many times in the mirror, echoing back your contempt. Dull, glassy eyes and shivering skin. Sadness that feels somehow encompassing and performative at the same time. You want to punch that reflection, beat it within an inch of its life for being so pathetic and weak, and undisciplined.

This is not the person you wanted to present to the jujutsu world. You wanted to be different. You wanted confidence, encumbrance. Patience. You want to be entirely capable and completely unflappable. Even if it's a facade no one believes, it's better than the alternative. 

You feel Gojo’s feet coming to a stop a couple metres away. Maybe he’s thinking about which fun way he’s going to murder you. 

“He’s not dead,” you husk out, one hand coming up to gingerly rub at your throat.

“Am I supposed to thank you?” He asks, an edge to his voice.

You snap your fingers and Yuji gasps, flinging himself upwards in the grass. You would’ve liked to have let him sleep for longer, considering what you did, but you’re not sure you have the time anymore.

“Gojo-sensei!” Yuji chirps. “You’re here! I thought you were flying in the sky.”

“He didn’t fly,” you mutter. “He floated. There’s a difference.”

Gojo makes a noise. It’s sudden and quick, coming from the back of his throat, like you’ve caught him off guard.

“Yuji,” he says, his voice slightly higher-pitched.

“Hai, sensei!”

“You should head back. Everything’s been dealt with now.”

“What about the lady?”

“Leave it to me!” 

“Oh-kay!”

You hear the pattering of footsteps slowly receding, and then nothing. Silence.

You can feel his stare piercing into you.

You are so dead.

You press your forearms against your knees, giving you just enough energy to lift your head. The first thing you notice is he’s wearing a blindfold, not glasses. It's made his hair all poofed up around his head. You press your bloodied tongue into your cheek, staving off some delirious, exhaustion-addled laugh. The next thing you notice is his hands, which are curled into fists at his side. Almost like he was ready to Reversal Red you out of existence.

“Hi,” you say plainly.

He stiffens. You hear a small ‘huh?’ leave his lips.

There’s a silence, one that feels like it’s stretching over you two, creating a domain of its own. You expected flippancy, maybe even a little bit of rage, but not silence. Anything else—excitement or happiness was always going to be outside the realm of possibility. Gojo Satoru would never rejoice in your existence; he would only spare it a passing glance.

That’s how it has always been.

You can’t read his expression like this, with the blindfold in the way. You can see he’s clenching his teeth, though. There’s a little muscle on the curve of his jawbone that’s twitching. Something barely noticeable. But given your imminent demise, you’re categorising everything with immense detail.

He’s taller than before. A little broader around the shoulders. There’s also something less intense about him than you remember. Contained, almost. Even his posture is different. Precise, but relaxed.

In all the years you were gone, you’d relied on a slowly fading image of him in your memory. And with each year, those lines had blurred, and all you could really remember until yesterday was his eyes and the general shape of his face.

Now, it’s all coming back to you. The curve of his jaw, the shape of his nose, the exact white, purplish glow to his hair. 

You pin him with a stare, trying to remember what his eyes look like behind that blindfold. You watch his mouth turn down, his lips parting slightly. He’s shocked, which is weird. You didn’t kill Yuji, and you certainly didn’t hurt any of the other students. What would he have to be shocked about?

Shit. The fingers.

You forgot about them.

“Listen—“

Gojo steps forward, one of his hands lifting from his side. You lean back, expecting something bad. But he keeps lifting it, all the way up to his face, and then he’s digging it into the edge of his blindfold, and he’s pulling it down.

Bright cosmic supernovas stare back at you, locking you in place.

“Kanzaki,” he says, his voice a dark, twisting cord of rage. “Are you with them?”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. 

“Answer the question,” he says, his jaw levelling.

“Who’s them?” You ask. “You’re gonna have’ta be a little more specific cause I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.”

“M’not lying.”

Gojo hums lowly. “Is that right?” He crouches down beside you, and you’re assaulted by the intensity of how much your body is suddenly screaming at you to run. You swallow thickly, unable to break his line of sight. “Why have you got six of Sukuna’s fingers then?" 

“That—“ you take a breath. “Was a coincidence. I was comin’ down here and I just…” you trail off, another wave of exhaustion hitting you. “I took them cause I thought I’d be bad.”

Something grabs you, and your eyes wearily flicker. It’s Gojo's fist curled through your top. “And what would be bad, exactly?”

You let your body sink, the pressure of his grip anchoring around your chest. “Listen, I haven't got a clue what you’re talking about. I just showed up to talk to the kid, nothin’ else. It was the weird patchwork freak that got in my way.”

“The curse Nanami fought?”

You let your neck relax. “He did mention Nanami.”

“What was he doing?”

“Stealin’ stuff from the warehouse,” you murmur. “I couldn’t figure out how he knew where to go through Tengen’s barrier. But then I realised one of the fingers had a single-layer seal on it.”

“They used it as a homing beacon,” Gojo catches on. “Smart.”

You expect him to ask more questions, maybe hit you, or just flat out kill you at this point, but he doesn't. He stares at you, his gaze searing with intensity. You know you look like a disaster, but you can't help but stare back, unflinching in his assessment of you. You tell yourself you don't care, that his evaluation of you means nothing, but there's a little part of you that wants to be seen by him, even after all this time. 

His eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth, half a word spilling out before he shuts it again. 

He drops you back into the dirt. 

You cough up some more blood, the tingling sensation in your arms turning to complete numbness. You struggle to keep your eyes open, assessing yourself for what you’re assuming is internal bleeding.

Gojo tilts his head at you. “Why are you so roughed up?”

You snort, blood smearing along your teeth. “You rang my brain like a fuckin’ wet towel, asshole.”

“…what?”

“Your Hollow Purple?” You mutter, curling onto your side as you feel the blood start to trickle into the back of your throat. “Fried my senses.”

“It ran interference with your technique? From that far away?”

You nod very, very slowly.

“Huh…” he says, like it’s some fun little fact for the day. Who cares if he’d almost given you a seizure? That’s some weak shit for him.

Gojo turns away in contemplation.

You’re not sure how long you sit there, lying on your side. Your brain turns over a thousand ideas at once. How come he didn’t notice the cursed energy surge from your domain? Maybe he did, and he’s fucking with you. You’re not sure. And after that thought, it becomes distinctly harder to think at all.

You stare at his shoes, little red flowers curling into the corners of your vision.

“…are you taking me in?”

“Hm?” Gojo turns back to you. “Why would I do that?”

You spit out another wad of blood. “Why wouldn’t you?”

There’s another silence. You’re pretty sure you’re dying. You close your eyes, trying to remember why you were panicking and what was so important. Nothing comes to mind.

Something touches your cheek, and your eyes flutter open. Gojo's crouched down beside you again, and he’s poking you in the face. You gurgle softly, trying to pull out some anger, but it stalls and collapses, folding back into your chest.

“Awh,” he pokes your neck this time. No, not pokes. He’s checking your pulse. “You’re actually dying right now, aren’t you?”

Many words come to mind in response, but all you can do is glare at him.

He just laughs like you’re some wounded dog whimpering for help. He then plucks up your arm and gently pats your hand.

“Guess I’ll have’ta save you again, Kanzaki.”

“Don’t warp me,” you plead softly. “I’ll hurl.”

He grins at you. “Too bad.”

You pass out somewhere between point A and B, and when you wake up, the first thing you notice is that you can’t move. You shift your shoulders, and your skin presses tightly against something. Restraints of some kind.

Your cursed energy is completely dulled—probably a result of a carefully applied ofuda. Your still half-mangled human senses tell you there’s a presence in the room you’re in. You fight to open your eyes and blearily look around. You’re sitting in an uncomfortably stiff chair, your arms and legs bound by thick knots of rope.

Talismans coat every inch of the room.

You’re in an isolation chamber. Fucking great.

Strangely, you notice your wounds have been healed, and someone even had the presence of mind to take the chewy out of your mouth. You wiggle your fingers, and they move accordingly. No numbness or circulatory problems. You’re still in your clothes from before, thank the gods. 

You roll your neck to the side, trying to get a look at the exit. But instead, you notice the blurry silhouette of Gojo standing beside you. He’s got his hands in his pockets and he’s leaning down, his face barely inches from yours. The blindfolds back too.

There’s no chance in hell you’re getting out of here now.

Resigning yourself to your fate, you slump back down again into your chair, hanging your head so your chin tucks into your chest.

“Huh? Did she fall asleep again?”

“Wake her up,” a withered voice demands.

There’s a silence. Then some shuffling around. You hear Gojo’s very distinct sigh.

“So barbaric, old man. You really gonna hit someone while they’re defenceless? You get off on that or somethin’?”

“She’s hardly defenceless.”

“Let her gain her bearings,” comes another voice. You know that one. It’s Yaga. “She’s probably still recovering.”

Someone grimaces. “I don’t want to imagine what it’s like to take on that imaginary technique of yours.”

“No? I could probably give you a list of symptoms. Although it does vary from cursed spirit to curse user. I haven’t had to use it on a human in—“ he pauses. “Some time!”

“Idiot,” a feminine voice snaps. “You’re lack of restraint could’ve gotten her killed.”

“But it didn’t!”

“That isn’t the point! You tore a hole in the school campus! What if that thing had hit one of the children?”

“As if.”

There’s a silence.

“What the?” Gojo sounds offended. “You guys seriously think I’d aim Hollow Purple just anywhere?”

“Yes." 

“Ehh? That’s so dark, old man.”

You let out a slightly sharper breath, their words sliding between your ears like water. You can hear what they’re saying, but it’s harder to comprehend it without context. Warped syllables shift from one part of your brain to the other, weighed down by some distant, throbbing pain.

There’s another silence.

“Kanzaaaakii,” Gojo sings, annoyingly close to your ear. “You awake?”

You want to pull back, his voice too loud and too close, but you barely have the strength to hold your head. Instead, you shift your chin to the side, squinting at him through the kaleidoscope of blood cells rushing behind your eyelids.

“Oh my!” He wriggles his fingers at you. “It’s alive! It’s alive!”

Your eyebrows flatten, and you trap your teeth together. Did he seriously just quote Frankenstein at you?

Oh, the things you would do if you weren’t restrained.

“Gojo,” you croak out. Your voice is heavy and slurred, something that at one point in time meant a very different thing for you.

Gojo leans even further into your personal space, his warm breath puffing over your cheeks. “Hm? What is it?”

“Get out of my face before I break yours.”

He laughs. “You reckon you could?”

A twitch forms on your upper lip, forming into a knife-like sneer.

He rocks back, his grin splitting across his face. “See? You guys were fussin’ about brain damage for nothing.”

“I’m going to bite your head off and spit it down your neck.”

“So violent…”

“Okay,” you hear a feminine voice. “That’s definitely Kanzaki-san.”

You turn slowly. “Utahime?”

She shoots you a nervous smile.

She looks…completely different now. Her hair, her clothes. Her face. A void of difference compared to the frazzled, unsure sorcerer you’d met all those years ago. She’s put-together. Dressed like a teacher, with a hardness to her features that wasn’t there before.

You glance around, your eyes falling on Yaga. You nearly smile, but a pressure builds up in your chest the longer you stare, and the short burst of relief vanishes. He’s different, too. His posture’s straighter. There’s a power to his presence that you’d probably never really paid attention to as a kid. He’s still wearing sunglasses indoors, and he’s still got that immaculate goatee.

Pain stirs in your stomach, creeping its way into your throat until your jaw begins to ache. You have missed so much of their lives. Horrors and joys and everything in between. So many memories that you’ve been barred entry to.

You notice Gakuganji standing at the back, curled over his cane like a weathered skin sack. He looks almost crippled. Your senses sharpen, realising what this is. Him and all his dick-swinging compatriots are here to make sure you burn for their mistakes. Your wrists ache against their restraints, and you take a rattling breath. A measure of control.

Yaga folds his arms over his chest. No hello’s. But you guess you should’ve expected this. There’d been no goodbyes either.

You’re practically a stranger to these people now.

A numbness trickles into your chest, settling at the bottom of your pelvis. 

“What were you doing with Itadori Yuji in the forest?”

You don’t flinch at the question; you just stare at the floor.

“Answer the question,” Gakuganji demands.

That kink in your back is beginning to play up. You can feel little air bubbles drifting up your spine, each one digging the pain deeper as it dissolves.

Gojo lets out a big yawn. “Really? This again?” He’s leaning against the wall with his hands shoved into his pockets. The perfect picture of ease for someone who could rip your head off your shoulders without even lifting a finger. “We got anyone skilled with interrogations? I’d like to skip the bullshit this time round.”

A bubble pops on your cheek. “Should’ve thought about that before you blasted my brain with imaginary mass.”

Utahime sends Gojo a look.

“Don’t be such a crybaby. I didn’t even mean to.”

“Answer the question,” Yaga redirects.

“You answer it,” you say with a jerk of your head. “It’s his little bandwagon that invited me here in the first place.”

Everyone turns to stare at Gakuganji.

Gojo’s smile drops.

That makes you laugh, the sound deranged as it passes your cracked lips. Utahime looks at you, her expression jarred. You can’t begin to imagine what she thinks of you. Tied up and cackling like a psycho. Some part of you—a small, squashed-down part—actually cares about what she thinks of you, but it’s been swallowed whole by so many other things.

There’s a frivolity to managing expectations.

Gakuganji huffs, shaking his head. “A poor deflection.”

“From what? The fact you wanted him dead anyway?” You snort. “Careful, old man, wouldn’t want you to fall from that blessed moral high ground you have.”

Gojo’s lips press together.

“You can’t get your own hands dirty, right?” You jab. “You like letting children do it for you." 

Gakuganji won’t look you in the eye, and there’s something so intensely delicious about his discomfort that you can’t pull yourself away.

“I wasn’t aware the vessel was alive until a couple hours ago,” he grunts, eyes glued to the floor. “How could I have orchestrated something so convoluted?”

Your first instinct is to dismiss his lie as shitty back-pedalling. But then you consider the fact that maybe…just maybe, you’ve been screwed in a completely different way than what you expected.

In the world of contracts, there’s always someone jumping through hoops to cover someone else’s ass. If Gakuganji does, in fact, have no idea what you’re talking about, that means the higher-ups either discussed it within a very small, very important group of people, or it was completely off the books to begin with.

So they can’t be liable for any of it.

You let out a breathy laugh, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling.

“Is that funny to you?” Yaga asks.

“Not particularly.”

You had considered the fact that if you were double-dipping on them, they could probably be doing the same. It's certainly no skin off their back if you get caught. You'd planned for it. But that was before you nearly got yourself killed by a special grade curse. 

“I’ve been set up worse than I thought.”

You expect Gojo to jab at you, but he surprisingly stays silent.

“You must understand an excuse like that will be hard for us to believe,” Yaga says.

“Ya think?”

“We cannot simply take your word for it.”

 “You don’t have to. You can take there’s.”

“You have evidence of a contract?”

“I got sent a letter in the mail a couple of days ago—a nice, expensive one. Wax seal and everything. They told me about Sukuna's manifestation, said he was a problem that needed to be taken care of, and that I'd get a pretty nice reward for it. They were desperate to get rid of him, paid for my ticket and everything.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence. 

You bore your eyes into Gakuganji again. “I figured that your little goblin friends were just spitting the dummy big time. Obviously, I was never going to kill the kid. I just needed an excuse to get back without getting mowed down by sorcerers at the airport.”

Yaga and Gojo share a strange look, but don't say anything. 

“If you never intended to harm Itadori, then why are you here?”

You sigh. “I was curious. I wanted to see if it was true; if he really could suppress Sukuna.” You laugh. “Now I see why you were shitting your pants about it, old man. The kids got massive potential.”

“If what you say is to be believed, where is the letter in question?”

“At the place I was staying out,” you say flatly. “But that alibi’s gonna fall flat. They’re probably tearing through the place right now looking for it.”

“So we’re back to square one?” Utahime sighs.

“What about the fingers?” Gojo asks.

You shrug. “What about them?”

“We know the patchwork curse attempted to steal from us,” Utahime explains calmly. “It used a charm beneath one of the fingers to navigate through Tengen’s barrier. We understand it took three special grade cursed wombs along with the fingers, as well as killing many sorcerers along the way. Did it communicate with you when you engaged it?”

“He wouldn’t shut up, actually.”

Yaga’s face tightens.

“He mentioned his coconspirator—the other special grade. Seemed pretty planned out.”

“How’d you get rid of him?”

You make a face.

Yaga sighs. “We know you didn’t exorcise the curse. It left with the cursed wombs intact.”

Shit.

“I realised I was in a tiny room with a very powerful, touch-orientated cursed spirit and I—“

“You ran?” Gojo cuts in, utterly delighted.

Warmth burns at your ears. “I strategically evaded.” 

“Psh,” he snickers. “You ran.”

“Gojo!” Utahime scolds. “Imagine what would’ve happened if she did stay. We’d be down another sorcerer, and they’d have six of Sukuna’s fingers. Her decision to flee was a good one.”

You don’t feel very triumphant about it.

More silence creeps in. 

"Well?" You draw out. "Have I satisfied your curiosity yet?" 

“I have another question,” Utahime says. You gesture for her to go on. “Before…what did you mean by ‘get back’?”

You pause, squinting your eyes in confusion. What kind of question is that? “I’ve been…” you look around the room, going from expression to expression. “Did…do none of you know?”

“Know what?” Gojo asks, stepping forward. 

“I got banished,” you say slowly. “Nine years ago." 

Utahime chokes. "E-excuse me?!" 

You shrink back. “I…I figured you guys knew.”

“No?!” Utahime looks horrified. “We did not know! Not a thing! I-If we knew, w-we would’ve done something! That kind of sentencing is ancient. It hasn’t been a thing for...for five hundred years!”

You are completely and utterly confused. "I don't think they cared much for the rules." 

Yaga scowls. "You don't say." 

Gojo leans into your personal space, the block of his blindfold pervading every corner of your vision. "Why?" 

You lean back, pressing your cheek into your shoulder. "Why what?" 

“Why did the higher-ups banish you?”

You swallow thickly. Now’s the time to lie like a fucking champion.

You shrug. “They gave me plenty of reasons. But the official statement is that I broke some dumb old Jujutsu law.”

“And did you?” Utahime asks.

“What do you think?”

She sighs, rubbing at her forehead. 

“Even if I did, it wouldn’t have mattered. They would’ve come up with any excuse under the sun to get rid of me," you turn back to them, a thought suddenly occurring to you. "What...what the hell did you guys think I was doing all this time?"

There's a quiet. 

“We thought you were dead." 

Dead? 

Dead dead?

“For nine years,” Gojo adds. “Packed into a little urn and everything. Guess even the higher-ups are good at surprises.”

You look at him, and even now, when so much time has passed, you can see through his flippancy. You know Gojo's pissed, because that's how he'd been with Suguru.

The mere thought of him has your shoulders dropping; every memory you’ve suppressed fighting back to the surface.

Dead.

Satoru thought you were dead.

Chapter Text

Late May, 2005. 

You’re sitting with your back straight against a chair. It’s hot for a spring day and the windows aren’t doing a very good job of letting the air in. Your skin feels itchy against the shirt they gave you. You keep playing with the buttons at your wrist. The colour throws you off.  You can’t remember the last time you wore something that hadn’t yellowed with age.

Your vision feels cloudy today.

Yesterday, everything had tasted bland. The day before that, you had a killer headache. Then, even before that, you couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t dream. Couldn’t speak.

You guess having a little bit of blurred vision isn’t so bad in comparison.

“…are you listening?”

Your stare refocuses. “Yes.”

His eyebrows furrow. He’s frustrated. You would be in his situation, but for some reason, that self-awareness doesn’t extend into the capacity to change your behaviour. It just sits, pooling in your gut, making you feel guilty.

Yaga rubs at his forehead with a sigh and then continues his explanation. Classes, exercises and special events. Then he starts on about dorm rooms. Etiquette. Where your food will be prepared and presented. 

“The bathrooms are typically shared, but that won't be an issue in your dorm." 

You frown, but don’t say anything.

There’s a silence. Yaga stares at you in a way you’ve learned is contemplative rather than judgmental. Then he groans out of his seat and gestures to the sliding door.

“You can go now.”

You narrow your eyes at him. Days ago, you’d been superciliously assured this meeting would take hours. They had spoken above you. Tall, well-dressed men—because they always are. Their words droned across your forehead, opinions about your life. Your family. Your future. All of it completely out of your grasp. There was much to discuss, after all—potential to surmise. 

Yaga flits his hand at you in a shooing motion, and you reluctantly get up, quietly shutting the door behind you. You walk down the hall in silence, trying to remember the steps you took to get here. The place is so much bigger than anything you’ve seen before. Your old school had been a bunch of squashed shacks with rails—nothing like the sprawling, hilly landscape surrounding you.

You don’t know where anything is.

The last thing you want to do is ask for directions, so you wander aimlessly, walking this way and that, trying to spot something familiar. Students meander by, some giving you curious looks, but they mostly keep to groups, chattering about stuff you barely understand.

You stop at a vending machine, staring tiredly into the shelves of flavoured milks and coffees. You rummage around in your pocket and pull out a couple of coins. Yaga had given them to you yesterday for this exact purpose, but it would’ve been pointless at the time. You pick out a strawberry milk and stand there watching the machine struggle to move.

You sigh—pretty scenery, but shitty old vending machines.

“I think the newbie’s figuring out that one’s busted,” a soft, chiding voice says.

“Who?” A feminine voice asks.

“The transfer student. She’s standing over there.” The softer-toned guy lowers his voice a bit, like he’s worried you’ll hear him.

“A transfer this late? That’s odd.”

It’s only May.

“Something happened to her. She was injured really badly—couldn’t go back to her normal school, so they put her in here.”

“Oh. What’d you think it was?”

There’s a silence.

“A second grade, probably." 

“YES!” —a third voice cuts in, making you jump, nearly smacking your head into the vending machine. Your eyes sweep over to the source of the noise, and you find three students sitting in varying uncomfortable positions on a bench.

“I got a new high scoreeeee!” The loud boy sings, flashing his phone at his friends. “Look, look. Five hundred bonus points: jade level difficulty~”

You look away, immediately recognising what his white hair means.

The softer-voiced boy sighs. “Now you feel like talking?”

The Gojo boy yawns. “Your conversations are so boring, Suguru—don’t tell me you actually care about that?”

Suguru’s voice has a taciturn quality as he responds. “Her family was killed.”

“Lots of people die every day. What makes her special?”

“It’s not about being special.”

“Yes it is. The whole world revolves around being special.”

“Maybe to you.”

“Nuh duh.”

The girl sighs.

Finally, your milk plops down into the box. You quickly snatch it up and turn in the opposite direction, speed walking down a ramp into a section of the school you’ve never seen before. You spin in a circle, finding no discernible exit. The last thing you wanna do is turn back around. The thought of bumping into the Gojo boy makes your skin crawl.

“Hey…" someone calls out. "Are you okay? You look a little lost.”

You recognise the voice immediately, your shoulders flattening from where they’ve hunched up against your ears. You whip your head around on him, pinning Suguru with a stare. He stops in place, one foot hesitating back onto the ramp.

He doesn’t look like what you thought he would. His dark hair is a mess of split ends stopping at his shoulders, paired with mismatched earrings and a half-unzipped jacket. He tucks a loose thread of hair behind his ears, shooting you a smile.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Your eyes narrow. “You didn’t.”

“I’m guessing you heard all that crap back there?”

You aren’t really sure what kind of response he’s expecting, so you shrug.

He winces, scratching at the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

You crack open your milk bottle. “I wouldn’t bother with that.”

He opens his mouth, half a word tumbling out before he shuts it again. His expression shifts. He looks almost…amused? But he shuts that down pretty quickly too, returning to practised politeness.

“Okay, I deserved that.”

You take a slug of your milk, staring at him.

“Tell you what,” he unravels a palm from his pocket. “As penance, I’ll help you get back to your dorm. And I’ll be silent the entire time.”

You pause from drinking your milk. “No talking…at all?”

His smile tweaks a little. “None. Not a peep.”

True to his word, Suguru doesn’t let out a peep.

You finish your milk in record time as he leads you through a mass of different building sections. Over a bridge, up some stairs, across a beautiful stretch of garden until finally you recognise something. Your footsteps pick up, and you hear Suguru make a faint huffing noise behind you, and then he’s at your side again, his pace matching yours.

You take the last little step onto the elevated concrete and open the door. The dorm room you’ve been allocated isn’t next to the other first-year students. Whether that was mercy or a lack of foresight, you aren’t sure. Instead, you're living in one of the vacant fourth-year buildings.

When you turn, you immediately notice some cardboard boxes sitting at your door. Yaga had said you’d have your stuff by the end of the day. Or rather, what was left of it.

“I can help with those,” Suguru offers. “If you want.”

You don’t answer. Picking up the first box, which is full of clothes, you kick your door open. When it doesn’t immediately swing back, you shoot a look over your shoulder. Suguru has the other box and is lingering in the space between the door and the hall.

You gesture with your head.

He smiles and then steps into your tiny room.

You plop the box on your bed, folding the flaps closed. Suguru follows your lead and puts his down beside it, turning to look over your room. There’s not much. Just the stuff they’d given you. Bed, desk, cupboard.

Suguru pops his lips. “So you’re a minimalist, huh?”

“No.”

Your parents had liked things a certain way—colours, shapes, materials—so you’d never had knick-knacks as a kid.

“Just not a fan of clutter?”

“I don’t collect things,” you reply. “Unless they’re Pokémon.”

For some reason, that makes him grin. “You like Pokémon.”

It’s not a question, so you just nod.

“Okay. Across all the games, who’s your favourite?”

There’s an innate childishness to his question that makes you relax a little. It’s like a little kid asking to swap cards with you on the bus after school.

“Unown. Specifically, the ‘H’ form.”

Suguru makes a noise, a mix between a huff and a hum. “That makes sense." 

You frown slightly. Should you be offended by that?

“And you?”

“Rayquaza, obviously.”

You nod. “That makes sense too”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The fifteen-year-old boy picking the giant green dragon?”

He makes a face. “What’s wrong with that? Rayquaza is a badass.”

“Picking the legendary is always a cop-out.”

“So you’re a Pokémon snob,” he decides. “Legendaries are cool for a reason. At least I didn’t pick Groudon.”

“Alright then,” you fold your arms over your chest. “What starter did you pick in Sapphire?”

He scratches his head. “Uh, Mudkip, I think?”

“Oh,” your shoulders drop. “I suppose that’s an acceptable answer.”

“I bet you picked Treecko.”

“What if I did?”

His smile deepens, making his eyes crinkle. “Knew it.”

You roll your eyes, sitting down carefully on your bed. Being careful isn’t enough, unfortunately, as one of the cardboard boxes attempts a dive. You reach out to catch it, but Suguru beats you to it. His fingers brush yours in an awkward jumble, and you shoot your arm back down to your side. 

An awkward silence fills the air.

Suguru clears his throat, staring at the door.

“So, you like video games then?”

You’ve never really considered it. You spent most of your time reading as a kid. One time when you were seven, you found a doll stuffed down in a box beneath the cleaning cupboard. Your mother had screamed at you and snatched the box from your hands. The next week, your father got you a Game Boy. Out of the blue. No questions asked. You’d thanked him profusely, and he’d just shaken his head. Said one of the maids got it for your birthday.

Your birthday had been months before that.

“They’re an unproductive way to pass the time,” you say. “But…fun.”

“You any good?”

You shrug. “Never really thought about it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You must be if you play a lot.”

“Does committing hours to something automatically make you good at it?”

He opens his mouth, hesitating. “I…I guess so?”

There’s another blip of quiet awkwardness.

Suguru clicks his fingers. “What’s your name?”

You quietly give it to him.

“Kanzaki-chan, then?”

You squint at him, perturbed by his boldness. “If you want. I don’t really care.”

He nods far too many times. “I’m Geto Suguru.”

You nod back at him.  “Thanks for your help, Geto-san.”

“Geto-kun,” he corrects.

You give him an immediate thumbs down, and to your surprise, he tips his head back and laughs. His dark hair falls more and more across his shoulders with each chuckle, and you watch stray cowlicks of hair pop at the back of his neck.

“You’re not like I thought,” he says, cheeks flushed. 

You look up at him, eyebrows bent. “And what did you think?”

“I dunno,” he back-pedals a bit, smile faltering. "Kinda stuck-up?" As soon as the words leave his mouth, he flinches. "It was when you first arrived, so really, it was just me being overly presumptuous."

“Everyone around here is stuck up,” you respond. “Clan’s function on rigidity.”

“Wouldn’t know about that.”

You frown. “You’re not from a clan?”

“Nope,” he shakes his head. “My parents are non-sorcerers.”

You stare at him intently. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I’ve never heard of that before,” growing up with two normal, non-curse seeing parents. “That’s interesting." 

Geto enjoys that compliment. You can see it settle between his eyes. “Ya think?”

“Yes. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have said it.”

His eyes slide down to your feet. To your torn canvas shoes and their stained laces.

“Did you have any sorcerers in your family?” 

A neat way of skirting the dead elephant in the room.  

“My grandfather on my mother’s. He got injured on a mission and had to retire early. Supposedly, there's a family technique, but my mother didn’t inherit it, so that’s where it ended."

"She didn't become a sorcerer?" 

You shrug. “Jujutsu wasn’t important to her like it was to my grandfather. I never really bothered to ask her about it." And now you won’t be able to.

“And your father?”

“Unimportant.”

You didn’t have much of a relationship. As a kid, you’d been convinced he was playing games with you. Every time you’d enter a room, he’d leave. Try to speak to him? He’d find some excuse, some errand that needed tending to. Like some decade-long game of hide-and-seek. Even during the holidays.

“You train as a kid?”

You nod again. “The housemaid taught me most of what I know.”

“Housemaid?” There’s no judgment in his voice. Just curiosity.

“Yeah. She’s—” you swallow. “She was a retired sorcerer. Or…whatever supplementary workers are called here.”

Geto's eyes soften, rounding with pity. “Sounds like a badass.”

You appreciate the compliment. She would’ve too.

“She was.”

You don’t look like Geto does when you put your uniform on. Or his friends, for that matter. You look like a poor imitation of a sorcerer. A cosplayer.

At the very least, it covers your skin, even if it’s a little suffocating.

Yaga had asked you what kind of shoes you preferred. He said there wasn’t a dress code for it, so it was students' choice. You considered the fact that you’d probably be going on a lot of missions. The campus is huge as well. You’d need something sturdy and comfortable. You’d asked for boots. Yaga had shrugged. And then a pair of expensive leather shoes had appeared at your door.

You find yourself staring intently at the tips of your boots as you enter the room, your chin nearly digging into your collarbone you’re so uncomfortable. 

“Students, this is your new classmate,” Yaga introduces you by name. “She comes from Ibakari. Make her feel welcome.” You notice he cut out the ‘please’ in that. “These are your classmates. From the left are Geto Suguru, Gojo Satoru and Shoko Ieiri.”

You lift your head. It’s the tiniest classroom you’ve ever seen. There are four desks, all up the front, and with barely any space between them. The Gojo boy sits in the middle, his arms hoisted over the back of his chair, a lazy smile plastered to his face. His hair was clearly cut short before he’d started school, because it’s grown out in strange fluffs around his forehead. He’s wearing sunglasses inside for some reason. Thick black ones that clash with his hair. You dart your eyes away as soon as you realise he’s actually looking back at you.

There’s a girl in the seat to his right. Probably the one from yesterday, judging from her silhouette. Her expression is mild, like she’s not interested in you either way. She just tucks a bit of brown hair behind her ear, leaning tiredly into her palm. She’s wearing the same uniform as you, but with loafers instead of boots. 

Your eyes turn to Geto next, who shoots you a small smile and points to the open desk beside him. The one closest to the door. Thank god. You nod slightly in acknowledgement and attach yourself to it quickly.

“All settled? Good. Let’s get on with it. Today—“

Gojo’s hand shoots up. “Sensei!”

Yaga looks like he’s going to pop a blood vessel. “What?”

“I wanna ask the newbie a question!”

You tense up. You expect Yaga to shut it down. You want Yaga to shut it down. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, watching you both.

“Yo!” Gojo calls. “You deaf?”

You force yourself to meet his gaze. “No.”

There’s a silence. Gojo’s seat suddenly slams down, and he sits up to face you.

“What’s your deal?”

“…my deal?”

“Yah,” Gojo leans over Geto’s desk, planting his chin in his palm. You shrink back, your chair making an annoying grating noise. His eyebrows raise, and he grins.

“Are you a weakling?” He asks casually. “Is your technique shit?”

“Satoru…” Geto sighs, but he doesn’t seem actually upset by his friend's nosiness. 

You swallow around what feels like sandpaper. Words bubble up and dissolve, leaving you gaping at him like some stupid, open-mouthed fish.

His smile turns, gaining a sharp edge. “So you are weak, huh?”

A phantom breath whispers along the back of your neck, and you fight the urge to slap your palm over it. Instead, you coil your hands in your lap, staring straight ahead. Gojo tilts his head at you like he’s waiting for something.

When you don’t reply, he shrugs, leaning back in his seat with a yawn. “Lame.”

His final jab. You can see it in the sneer of a smile he wears on his lips. Someone completely absorbed in themselves. Entitled to inflicting misery on others for the heinous crime of simply existing in the Jujutsu pecking order.

Unfortunately for him, his words fall on encapsulated ears, pitching forward into a nebula. All the heroic speeches you've been force-fed in the past weeks fester in there, too. Gojo's words blur to a thin line, waiting to be forgotten. They peddle in their unimportance like they're supposed to.

Until they don't. 

Weak. 

You are weak. 

You sink further into your seat, sweat breaking out on your neck.

Weak.

You are weak.

You are. 

Slow and dumb like a herd animal, watching everything happen in shutters of light and shadow. Increments of nothing, all collapsing into change.

Your life was shattered, pulled to microscopic parts, and now, really, you're just doing this song and dance for the sake of it. 

Your feet are taking you somewhere.

Thundering against the pavement.

You can’t force yourself to own this weakness.

Every muscle in your body stings like you’ve run through a wasp nest. You make it to the bathroom just in time to hurl up your guts. Your knees crunch against the cold floor, skin splitting beneath your tights. Your fingers curl around the toilet bowl, blood pulsing under your skin. Acid burns the back of your throat as your partially digested breakfast splatters into the toilet bowl.

Cursed techniques. Of course, of course, of course.

You’re shambling, collapsing, gasping. Somewhere. You’re looking for something.

You gag, but there’s nothing left to throw up. Dizzily, you lean back, palming hair out of your eyes. The blur from yesterday is gone, replaced with a tingling numbness below your eyes. You sit for a moment, anxiously waiting, but nothing happens.

With a soft whimper, you close the toilet seat, resting your blistering cheek against the cold plastic. It’s probably riddled with germs, but you don’t really care. 

Your neck throbs, right at the tip of your spine where your jacket collar meets your hairline. Your elbows ache too. You grab at your left arm, feeling the long, circular bump beneath the fabric of your shirt. You remember the feeling. The cold, blinding slither of metal.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. But you’ve never been in front of other people before. You hear shuffling outside the door and turn, finding a pair of feet planted outside the cubicle.

Yaga’s commanding voice calls your name.

You close your eyes to keep yourself from groaning. Not a moment. Not a single moment to yourself. Pressing your palms into your cheeks, you silently get to your feet. Your left tight’s torn at the knee, but it hasn’t created a ladder yet. You fix your hair and readjust your shirt, tucking it back down behind your belt.

You open the door to the bathroom and almost bump into his chest. He looks down at you silently, and it immediately makes you feel bad. He’s been dealt the worst possible hand with this, and he still treats you with a disarming amount of respect. You don’t resist when he gestures to the door, leading you out of the room. 

“Another episode?”

You dig your fingers deep into your pockets.

“Did the boy’s questions trigger it?”

“Who knows?”

Probably. Maybe. Definitely.

Yaga sighs. “If he wants something, that kid will needle it out of you. He won’t stop. Won’t listen. Not until he’s satisfied. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“That’s why you let him ask this morning,” you realise. “You were letting him organically be an asshole.”

“I wouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket about it,” he says gruffly, folding his arms over his chest. “Six Eyes allows him to see the ebbs and flows of cursed energy down to the tiniest, most minute detail. Suppressing yours is only going to cause you more problems later on.”

Six Eyes. Right. That’s what he is. Your grandfather had expressly warned you about it. About him. His abilities allowed him to manipulate the properties of cursed energy with unequivocal efficiency. Using a microscopic drop of cursed energy to create a black hole. You’d never really thought about how that would reflect in the Six Eyes’ actual vision of the world. In all honesty, thinking about it creeps you out. Does he see everyone like that? Is that why he’d asked if you were weak?

“Are you threatening me on his behalf?”

“Don’t joke about this. Cursed energy is—“

“Linked to strong emotions,” you quote. “I know. I’m not doing it on purpose.”

He frowns. “You need to get a handle on these attacks.”

“And how do you handle something like that?”

His head snaps down. “There are signs. You’re just not listening to them. The more control you have over your technique, the better you’ll feel.”

“Is that a fact?” You sigh, rubbing at your eyes. “I’m not an expert on these things, but I’d wager cursed techniques aren’t supposed to hurt when you use them.”

“In what way does it hurt?”

“My brain feels as though it’s melting.” You cup your face, pulling at the skin around your eyes.  “Everything is hot and loud and vibrating on this…this frequency.”

He nods slowly, like you’re actually making sense. “Eventually, it won’t be like that.”

“How do you know?”

“Cursed techniques are innate for a reason. They are your fingerprint. Your pulse. It’s not meant to be harmful to you.”

“And yet they said nothing.”

“Your parents didn’t know—couldn’t have known. Some techniques just appear. Some, like yours, are completely different to their line of inheritance. No one can understand it the way you eventually will.”

“I’ll probably die long before that.”

Yaga doesn’t react, leaving an awkward silence to burn through the air.

“Don’t pretend you’re not thinking the same thing. It’s reductive.”

“That technique saved your life,” Yaga says. “It could do it again. Many times. You just have to trust it.”

You press your palm over your elbow and look at the floor.

It did save your life. But at what cost? What was the point of all of this, if all they’d managed to accomplish was prolonging your death to another day? The best you can hope for is that the next time, it’ll be slightly less painful. But you’ve heard stories. The life of a Jujutsu sorcerer is short and bleak, and pain is the only consequence of power. 

You’re not sure why there’s such a reverence placed on being a cog in the wheel. Kids come here all gleeful, ready to change the world, and then reality hits. Power is finite, burning the body from both ends. The mind can only handle so much. Why would you want to be a part of this institution? Because you simply can? Because someone told you and you never considered any other possibility?

How is that a good answer?

Money. Yes, money is nice. Perhaps glory. Vindication. Respect. All emotional gateway traits that lead to corruption and unparalleled arrogance. You suppose that’s why everyone old in this profession is an asshole. There’s no etiquette left for someone with such a withered soul.

Revenge, maybe, if things had turned out differently. But there’s nothing left to chase, only people to mourn. 

Heroics don’t balm you. Why would they? Before this, you’d gone to a normal school. Had a normal life. Normal insecurities. Now they’re all inane. Nothing compares. You feel embarrassed to even reminisce on such triviality. 

When you think about your family, all you remember is blood. How it smelled. How it moved. How it dried. Footsteps creaking around the house in the dark. Cracked lampshades and broken shoji panels. A high, whimpering whine, like a person imitating an animal. You’re first introduction to the world of Jujutsu. The last time you’d ever considered it a noble profession.

You refuse to bring yourself down to whatever level these people function on. Where the mission outweighs the clarity of the message. Where death is a neighbour that you greet politely in the morning and return to each night. Where non-sorcerers are silly little creatures rolling around in the pigsty of their own ignorance.

You are one of those creatures, and you refuse to forget that.

“If anyone is putting their eggs in one basket, it’s your governing officials and whatever they presume to know,” you snap out.

Yaga sighs, like he’d expected your outburst. “You know you can’t avoid training.”

“I’m aware. The part I’m not interested in is dying for some ill-conceived pipe-dream.”

“There is honour in the cause.”

“The cause?” You hold back a bark of laughter. “The cause might’ve been noble once. But now it’s become a cesspool of chauvinistic, old men bending everyone to their whims. I’m not so disillusioned by the mere concept of power that I’d sign my life away. “You turn away, taking a deep breath. “I’m only here because I have nowhere else to go. And I have no intention of living beyond my means.”

You step up under the engawa, rage simmering in your chest.

“Yo!”

“Fucking hell—!” Your soul nearly leaves your body.

You stumble back a step, clutching at your chest.

Gojo laughs, something haughty and filled to the brim with arrogance. You readjust yourself, watching him lift off the wall, sauntering over with his hands in his pockets.

“You don’t look so good,” one pale white eyebrow rises above his sunglasses. 

You are not in the mood for whatever game he’s playing. “What do you care?”

“I don’t,” he says simply. “I just heard you yacking up ya guts and was wonderin’ what the fuss was about.”

You fold your arms over your chest, ignoring the way his head shifts to follow the movement. “You seriously think I’m stupid enough to believe that?”

“Maybeee. I'm still figuring you out."

You narrow your eyes at him. It's obvious he's baiting you, and he's severely underestimated your intelligence if he thinks you care enough about his opinion to ask. 

He realises that pretty quickly. "C'monnn, don't play dumb. I know you're curious."

"Not enough to put up with whatever nonsense you'll surely spout."

"Nonsense?" He makes a sad hum. "I wouldn't have put it that way, but if the shoe fits."

Your eyebrow twitches. "Now who's playing dumb?" 

He laughs, leaning down into your personal space. His sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose, and you get a full, unfettered view of his eyes. The first thing your brain thinks is—blue. Very, very blue. Which is an underwhelming and downright exasperating explanation. They’re—glacial. Astral. Fiery ice backed onto a ghostly flame.

His gaze freezes you to where you stand, forcing you to stare into what feels like an interlocking chain of infinite everything. Space, time, the absence of it. They’re as the poets proclaim; complete and utterly beautiful. 

“Didn't take you for the infatuated type," Gojo says, looking utterly delighted. "First for everything I guess. But considering we just met, I'd ease back on the staring. Gives people the wrong idea, yeah?" 

Your lip curls back into a snarl. You are not going to stand here and be forced to listen to this. “Can you move?”

“Nah,” he swings around to your side, and you’re forced to follow the movement, turning in a circle to track him. “I gotta question.” He leans down into your personal space again. “Are you really suppressing your cursed energy?”

Your heart rate picks up. “You were eavesdropping?”

“Kinda hard not to with all the sulking you were doing,” he says, mocking your expression with some over-pronounced pout. “Now tell me. What’s your cursed technique?”

“None of your business.”

“It kinda is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“C’monnnn, tell me.”

“No.”

His jaw flutters. “It can’t be that embarrassing, right?” He looks down at your legs, and then back up at your face, his eyebrows furrowing the tiniest fraction of a bit. “You don’t… turn green or something?”

You don’t fall for it. 

His smile drops off his face like a stalagmite, sharp and dangerous “If you think you’re being cute, you’re not. You’re just being annoying. Tell me your technique.”

“I said no, shithead. If this is how you plan to woo girls, you’re going to end up sad, alone and involuntarily celibate.”

He wrinkles his nose. “As if I’d want you to like me. You give me the creeps!”

Your upper lip twitches. “You—“

“Listen,” he cuts in. "You're worthless as shit. Quit being a sorcerer." 

A laugh rips out of your mouth, but no words follow. You're stunned, and really, you shouldn't be. 

"If you say no, m'gonna make you're life here awful." 

The potency of your rage makes a tiny, hysterical smile edge at the corners of your mouth.

"Is that funny?" Gojo asks.

The breath drags out of you, emotions rushing to the surface, sending shudders through your voice. “You really think you can make my life awful? That's a level of overbearing arrogance I somehow didn't expect from you."

Gojo lets out an annoyed sigh. “I can already see some internalised resentment going on here, so let's just stop now, okay? It’s not my fault I’m better than you. It’s just a fact of life. You need to get over it now, or it’ll just drag you along. Trust me, I’ve seen the effect it has on people. You’re not the first chick to act all high and mighty, pretendin’ you don’t like me.” He flicks down his glasses, giving you another eyeful. “It'll get old real quick, and then we'll be back to square one. So just cut the shit now, yeah?"

Your lungs burn, stiflingly, until your entire body feels like it’s on fire, heat crawling beneath your skin. Something simmers in the back of your throat, begging to be let out, but you clamp it down out of instinct.

You hate him.

Right down to his rotten, entitled little soul.

“Trip on a knife, asshole.”

His eyes train your expression, every muscle on his face going lax. It’s boredom. He’s bored. Bored with your hurt. Bored with your indignation. He doesn’t care. Of course, he doesn’t care. You’re just another button to push. Something to idly occupy his mind, like a little doll.

You storm past him. Shame burns at your ears, embarrassment crawling down your neck—disgust, low and curling in your gut.

“Do me a favour and crawl back to where you came from!” He yells from behind you. “You’re wasting everybody’s time, Frankenstein!”

Chapter Text

Late July, 2005

For the first two months of your Jujutsu Tech life, all you do is train.

For most the most part, it’s with a deceptively weighted cursed corpse, which Yaga forces you to carry around like a Tamagotchi.

It’s been the subject of endless torment from Gojo, who won’t stop mentioning it at any given moment. You—a fifteen-year-old—are training with a cursed instrument typically used by children. You—Frankenstein, as he so affectionately calls you—have the cursed energy application of a potato.

Every morning before class, he’ll have a new barbed insult to throw your way. Something about your technique or your attitude or your staggering lack of ability in every other sorcerer-related category. Yaga lets Gojo prattle away about it. Perhaps he thinks Gojo’s comments will motivate you to do better. To push yourself.

All they have managed to accomplish is making you feel even more humiliated than before.

Having the self-control of a five-year-old while you’re surrounded by sorcerer prodigies feels like a giant insult from the universe. You’re a solar system-sized outlier, and Yaga, using this tough love, natural selection approach, isn't helping. How are you supposed to train with these monsters? They're so far ahead it feels like you don’t even know what foot you’re standing on.

The other part of your training is done alone in a hall, swinging swords and pole-arms at wooden targets. It’s about the only time Gojo isn’t badgering or heckling you, and the only part of it that feels marginally helpful.

Your cursed technique is incredibly painful to wield, and you can only summon one singular thread, much to Yaga and the higher-ups' endless confusion. The other time had been a fluke. A storm of strong emotions had built up and imploded, causing what the higher-ups were so thrilled to facilitate. Tough shit for them, you suppose. 

That’s not even mentioning how entirely unpredictable it is. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the telekinetic aspect completely shits the bed. Yaga theorises that its unpredictability is a direct reflection of your moods. When you’re tired or angry or not concentrating properly, the thread doesn’t obey you properly. It goes limp, other times it acts like a possessed whip, spasming around in loop-de-loops, severing anything in its path.

You’re resigned to the belief that you will plateau within the next month and thus become monumentally useless. Yaga doesn’t seem to think so. You’re not sure if he’s being unreasonably optimistic or if he genuinely sees something in you, but as you’d forewarned, expectations need to be lowered.

That’s how things go, until one awfully hot Wednesday.

You’re lying on your bed, your school clothes still on, resting your eyes. Some days, like today, your limbs ache as though they’re being split in half again. There’s no reason for it. No warning. The doctors had said it was some abnormal trauma response akin to phantom pain. Typically, that only happens when you don’t have a limb. Yours reverses itself, reminding you of the feeling, and then doubling down on it further.

An obnoxious banging at your door interrupts your self-loathing. You turn your head, staring at the wood. There’s another bang, and this one rattles the hinges.

“Frankenstein!”

You scowl. What wrath have you incurred to have Gojo banging at your door? You’re surprised he even knows where your dorm is. You roll yourself out of bed, straightening out your jacket as you shuffle to the door.

When you answer, Gojo’s got a god-awful sneer on his lips. His eyes flash over the curved lens of his sunglasses. “About time.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “I suppose there’s a reason you’re standing outside my door?”

“Yah, genius. We’ve got a mission.”

You stare at him, unblinking. “A mission. With you?”

“Stupid, right? As if I need the help—especially from you. But, sensei’s orders.”

“Why…” you cut yourself off, realising it’s pointless.

Yaga’s clearly playing at something, and you’re once again forced into the position of lab rat. You turn, ducking back into your room to snatch up your backpack and sword. When you return, Gojo’s leaning against your doorway, clearly trying to take a peek into your room.

You block his line of sight. “Do you know where we’re going?

“Do I look like a manager?”

You sigh. “Let’s go.”

“Fuckin’ finally,” he slips his phone into his pocket. “Cute bed hair, by the way.”

You scowl, lifting a hand to flatten out your twin braids.

Gojo strides ahead of you, leaving you in the hallway as you lock your door. He stays that way for the entirety of your walk up the mountain, calling shotgun when the auxiliary manager's car comes into view. He doesn’t pay her any mind as he breezes past, yanking the door open and throwing himself into the passenger seat.

The woman gives you a worried look, and you simply shake your head. You slide into the back seat of the car wordlessly, placing your backpack beside you.

The auxiliary manager does her best to explain the assignment, but it’s entirely obvious Gojo’s not paying attention. He pulls out his phone and starts tapping away at it. You sit up straighter, trying your best to look earnest in compensation. But the second you get a look at yourself in the car window’s reflection, it becomes startlingly clear that it isn’t going to work either.

You look like a zombie. Your eyes are bruised with sagging lines, and the skin around your face is gaunt. You look like you’re actively fighting off an infection, barely well enough to stand, let alone fight.

It should make you nervous, being thrown so unexpectedly in the deep end with Gojo, but it doesn’t. You feel strangely calm. Perhaps your body is merely hibernating the feeling, and you’ll pay for it later.

You’ve only been on one other mission before, and all you did was shadow Yaga while he explained the basics. Following residuals, sensing cursed energy fluctuations, determining physical clues. When you’d finally found the curse, Yaga had spent half the time teasing it as he gave you a lesson on techniques. How you can use visual clues to surmise what kind of technique a curse might have, and its limitations?

That all seemed great in theory, but you had very little practical experience with exorcising curses. Maybe that’s why Yaga had partnered you up with Gojo? He’s probably been on a dozen or so missions. His experience far outweighs his recklessness. Maybe you’re meant to read between the lines.

You’re not sure how this is going to play out with your very…charged dynamic.

The manager explains that the curse you’re looking for has been causing trouble near some old farming land. Kids have been getting sick. A couple people have been hospitalised. No one’s been able to identify its den or its attack patterns. It seems entirely random. They suspect it must have some kind of poison attack if it’s only making people sick.

It puzzles you. If the curse isn’t killing anyone, why are they sending Gojo to eliminate it?

The drive out to the country is long, and Gojo is uncharacteristically quiet throughout. You arrive around midday, the heat nearly blistering as you step out of the car. You look around in a daze, green fields stretching out as far as the eye can see. You don’t have time to appreciate the view. It’s a lot of ground to cover, and the last thing you want to do is fumble around in the dark looking for some curse with Gojo.

Gojo lounges against the side of the car, still on his phone. You glance at the auxiliary manager, and she looks completely exasperated. Guess she’s never worked with Gojo before. She tells you that most of the sick kids had been hanging out near the old farmhouse when it had happened, and gives you a small folder with directions.

You quietly thank her as you retie your shoelaces, then you turn and set off down the poorly maintained asphalt road. You don’t wait for Gojo, and frankly, you couldn’t give one measly little fuck if he actually follows. This entire time, he’s acted as if this job’s beneath him. If he’s going to play pampered prince, he can stick to playing Snake on his phone. The last thing you want to do is occupy his callousness when you could very well die to this curse if you're not careful. 

You speed walk, quickly taking in your surroundings. The fields ahead of you had once been used to farm rice, but since then, have fallen into disrepair. Judging from the placement of the ditches, the irrigation system seems a little outdated. The dried-out canals have turned the surrounding grass and wildflowers to blackened crisps.

Once upon a time, this place was probably beautiful, but now it’s just an eyesore of dust and weeds. You flip open the folder and read through the directions. According to the locals, a couple hundred metres up there’s an old road sign that’s fallen into a ditch. It’s apparently a marker, warning them not to go any further into the fields. Toxic residue from cursed spirits isn't that dangerous to sorcerers, but it can be incredibly harmful to non-sorcerers. If the curse's infection radius is really that far, you're worried it might be difficult to find. That's a lot of land to cover. 

“Oi!”

You feel Gojo’s presence at your side. He’s gotten pretty good at teleporting short distances, evidently using it to scare the living daylights out of you at any given chance.

This time, however, you expect it.

“You walked off! Why the hell didn’t you say anything?!”

You flip through another page. Your auxiliary manager put a lot of information together in this report.

“Oi,” his voice is a lot closer now, nearing your shoulder. “Did you bite your tongue off in the car? Answer me.”

Gojo once again being exceptionally demanding.

“I thought you’d appreciate my silence, considering it’s such a chore for you to be here. Also,” you turn to glare at him, and his shoulders immediately perk up. “You should treat the auxiliary managers with more respect.”

“Huh?” He leers at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “Why? They’re just pen pushers. They’re not important.”

“We wouldn’t even know where to start if it wasn’t for that ‘pen pusher’.”

He folds his arms behind his neck, matching your pace effortlessly. “Who says? I’m sure I coulda figured it out. I am the strongest.”

“….you’re certainly not the smartest,” you mutter, flipping another page.

He scowls. “If you’re so smart, where the hell are we going?”

You point to the dilapidated road sign. “This way. We’re going to the farmhouse.”

“The farmhouse?”

You sigh. “That’s where most of the reports come from. Anyone who went inside rapidly fell ill afterwards. You’d already know that if you listened.”

“Yeah, yeah. Touch weird shit, get sick. Who cares. Once we get close, I’ll be able to sense the damned thing anyway. All that stuff you're reading is useless.”

“Useless to you,” you correct. “This information might help us figure out what kind of curse we’re going up against.”

“Oh yeah? Okay genius—what curse are we gonna be fighting then?”

You scoff. This is probably just some ruse to make you look silly. But even if it is, there's an angry little voice in your head pushing you to prove him wrong. To stand up to his superiority complex and knock him down a few pegs. 

“Most of the civilian reports describe the area as peaceful. There are no historical records of wrongdoing. No unsolved murders or missing persons. No creepy bedtime stories either. I considered isolation as a catalyst, factoring in the terrain, but with the size of the farm, it doesn't seem likely. The only other emotional register I can think of is perhaps they suffered a really bad drought? It would explain why this place shut down. But even then, losing a job wouldn’t fester enough energy to create a curse this dangerous.”

Gojo stares at you, his mouth gaping open. You stare back at him, unimpressed by his shock. 

“There’s no way that file said all that," he says, already dismissing you. 

“Maybe if you actually read one, you wouldn’t be so surprised.”

He groans. “Don’t tell me you actually enjoy reading that shit?”

“I don’t, but not everyone can get by only doing things they enjoy.”

He clicks his tongue noncommittally.

“We’re getting off track—again. But my guess is that this curse dwells in a very specific environment.” 

“Based on?”

“It’s humid,” you wave a hand in the air. “There’s a lot of unused soil and water. Lots of abandoned buildings. Shade. Heat. Wet.”

“So it’s a mushroom curse.”

You slap the folder closed with a groan. “Don’t be dumb.”

He kicks dust at your feet, dirtying your tights. You kick some back, but he just uses his Infinity to block it. Annoying.

“Mushroom or not, you have'ta tell me how your technique works, and no, you can’t dodge the question. It’s important to the mission. You wouldn’t want to jeopardise the mission, would you, Frankenstein?” He bats his eyes at you.

You immediately scowl. Every iota of your being wants to refuse him, but you know now isn’t the time to be petty or immature, even if Gojo’s abilities enable him to be. 

“I’m waaaiting…”

You let out a withered sigh, tucking the folder under your arm. “My technique is called Sew. It allows me to telekinetically form and control a line of sharp thread.”

When he doesn’t immediately say something, your eyes narrow, nervousness creeping up your throat.

Gojo’s eyebrows bug out. “…that’s it?”

You swallow around what feels like a razor. “…e-excuse me?”

“Telekinesis is cool and all, don’t get me wrong, but…only being able to move a singular thread?” He makes a face, like he’s going to vomit. “I figured if you survived a second-grade curse, it’d be kinda interesting. But… man—“ he laughs. “Was I wrong! Funny how that happens, hey? You’re weak and boring. Maybe you should be an auxiliary manager.”

Your mouth opens and closes, but only a tiny stretch of breath escapes you before your teeth clench together in a vice. Rage chokes you, wiping your mind of the ability to speak. You can feel the heat on your skin, electrifying, turning the hairs on your arms straight. Your teeth grind down, harder and harder, until you're close to cracking a tooth. But all you can do is stare at him, your eyes burning. 

"That’s a scary look.”

Your chest sinks, deeper, until the cavity becomes a crater, crumbling in the absence of breath. 

You knew you shouldn’t have told him. You knew, and yet you’d done it anyway. Who were you kidding? It'd be an impossible feat to check Gojo Satoru's ego. All you'd managed to do was flip the script around on yourself. 

You turn and saunter down the road, Gojo’s laughter making your face burn. This feeling. This shame. It penetrates your thoughts with total authority. Today, yesterday. Every day. The foreignness, the wrongness, you can't decide which is worse. The way you were before, ignorant of the difference, or now, surrounded by unfamiliar waters, knowing you're going to be swept under, and still, entirely unprepared.

Apathy or misery, which side of the coin do you choose? 

You don't realise you're running until a thicket of leaves from an overhanging branch hits you in the face. It stings for only a moment, and then your shame swallows up the feeling.

You're kicking up gravel, creating a cloud of dust in your wake. Rocks are wedged into the soles of your boots, needling at your feet like tiny daggers. None of it catches your attention. 

Your face feels itchy, irritated, strange. You reach a hand up to your cheek, and your fingertips come back wet.

No. 

Nononono. 

You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t do this. You wouldn’t let him do this. But for some unexplainable reason, Gojo pulls these feelings out of you like they’re made of butter. Soft and useless, shifting between his careless fingertips.

You’re whole life, you’ve struggled to act the way you should. Teetering on a spectrum of calm and bored, never upset, never angry. But now…now of all times, after everything that’s happened.

Gojo Satoru has actually made you cry.

You didn’t even cry when you were born.

Your heart pounds an unsteady rhythm in your ears, blocking out the thundering stomps of your footsteps. Heat makes your tears stick to your face. You shudder around each sob, desperate for breath. You’ve never run this hard in your life. Trees pass in a blur, the wind lashing at your hair, burning at the moisture on your face.

In the back of your mind, you know this is stupid. You’re all alone out here, in the middle of nowhere, hunting a curse that is exceptionally good at hiding, but you don’t have the mental fortitude to stop. You just want to run. As far as you can. From him.

Your feet don’t stop until the road physically cuts you off, a giant, sunken farmhouse blocking the way. Your heart rattles in your ears, your hair sticking to your forehead as you turn to absorb your surroundings. You’d run all the way here, completely mindless of your surroundings.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. Stop, breathe, evaluate. You recall all the advice Yaga gave you about hunting curses. Looking out for residuals, following tracks. Evaluating behaviours. You can do that. It’s just a house. It’s not like you have to go inside or anything. 

You shake the rocks out of your boots and retie them, straightening yourself out. From the front, the farmhouse looks like the kind of stereotypically creepy place a curse would inhabit. The wooden exterior is completely rotted, and the glass windows are dirtied up and cracked, covered in old newspapers. Even the door’s been covered over, a sloppily painted warning traced on the wooden boards.

In the distance, you can see dusk setting in, turning the horizon to a thick, burnt orange. How long have you been out here? Where did the time go? You shake your head, circling the perimeter. You can’t see any movement inside, nor can you hear anything. Doesn’t seem like there’s any activity.

There’s also a suspicious lack of animals around here. No birds. No insects.

That would suggest there’s something around here, and yet it’s hiding from you. You grit your teeth. Not from you. From Gojo. It can probably sense him from a mile away.

If it’s smart enough to understand that Gojo’s a problem, then maybe the file snubbed its ranking. A shiver goes up your spine. This could very well be a grade one, and you’ve just walked into its den all on your own, completely frazzled.

You take another breath and pull at the well of your cursed energy. This time, it responds without a hitch. You can feel the line of Sew materialising, a glittering, almost pearlescent thread. You’re immediately hit with a sense of wrongness. A squirming, tingly ache like air brushing over an exposed nerve.

The overstimulation from using Sew makes you squeeze your eyes shut. You hate this part. The chaos that churns inside you. Yaga had explained that your thread acts as an external embodiment of your senses. Your thread processes everything the way your body would, but without the physical receptors. No eyes, no ears, no nose. Only tactile touch. Almost like an octopus. It’s millions and millions of neurons firing off at once. Everything the thread touches, even the air, feels a hundred times more heightened. Pain too.

The upside?

You can sense cursed energy like a goddamn dog. 

You take a shuddering breath and extend the thread, moving it towards the house. You get about halfway there before a voice wails in the distance, shattering your concentration.

“Kanzaki!”

Your posture stiffens.

“Kanzaki!”

He couldn't have just left you alone, could he?

Your hands curl into fists, and your thread flexes, twisting in the air. You can hear his feet crunching against the gravel, and then a rough, scratching noise as he skids to a halt.

“Oi! Kanzaki!” Gojo sounds breathless. “Shit—“ he huffs out another breath. “You…you can run pretty fast.”

Your eyelids flutter, wrinkling with rage, but you can’t open them, not with your thread still active. The overstimulation would probably make you pass out, or cook your brain from the inside out.

You hear Gojo take another step towards you.

“Are—“ he stops, his shoes shifting in the gravel. Is he staring at you?

“…are you cryin'?”

Shit. You should’ve wiped your eyes. You swallow thickly, your shoulders tipping forward as the thread curves around the side of the house, trying to find a gap in the wood.

“…What the hell are you doin'? You look possessed." 

You turn to him—or to where you think he is. “I’m using my technique, you halfwit.” You haven’t tried speaking while your technique is active before. You’d assumed it wouldn’t be very coherent. Apparently not. “It’s a sensory input thing."

"And? What are you planning to do with it? Wave it around?" 

It catches you off guard for a second that Gojo can actually see your thread, considering it's practically invisible. Then you remember...Six Eyes. 

“I'm seeing if they’re are any residuals in the house," you mutter. 

“Oh?” Gojo has the gall to sound intrigued, which baffles you. “So your senses are linked? It’s got a pretty long range too...” 

You’re only half-listening to him now. The further away the thread is from you, the harder it is to control. Cursed energy output can cause its speed and agility to fluctuate too, so you really don’t need Gojo yammering in your ear. “Can you shut up? I’m concentrating.”

Gojo snorts. “Isn’t this like your first mission? Why are you taking it so seriously?”

“It’s my second.”

“Baaaby,” he teases. “You don’t even know what you’re doing! You’re just pretendin’ to be in control.”

“Opposed to you?” You snap. “You treat everything like it’s a joke and mess around. At least I’m actually doing something!”

“What do you get out of being such a priss all the goddamn time?”

“A priss?” You sneer at him. “I’d rather be that than a pampered asshole with an ego the size of Jupiter!”

“What’d you call me?”

“You deaf?” You drawl out, mocking him.

Before Gojo can respond, your thread picks up on a pulse of cursed energy below you. You swear, releasing your technique with a snap. Dirt explodes in a massive geyser beside you, concealing the form of whatever cursed spirit has burrowed out of it. You’d been so distracted arguing with Gojo, you’d allowed it to sneak up on you.

Whatever the curse is, it’s huge. Even with the dirt everywhere, you can see the edges of its hard, undulating body. Something roughly pulls you aside as the mass of dirt showers back down onto the ground. Gojo. He’d just saved you from being clobbered.

The cloud of dust clears, and the curse rears back, its giant underbelly a ladder of segmented, hardened skin. No. Not skin. The textures not right. It’s thick and rough, with an almost shiny exterior. An exoskeleton. A centipede.

Goosebumps race up your arms.

Gojo’s mushroom guess hadn’t been that far off.

The thing’s about the size of a school bus, with thousands of razor-sharp legs sticking out of either side of its body. You’re not even sure which end its head is, not until two darkened pincers tucked beneath its body snap open, exposing a mouth filled with hundreds of tiny, jagged teeth. The kind of teeth that would shred you to wood chips. You look at its rotating head, which has two antennas poking out of it, and then at its blackened beady eyes.

A clicking, broken scream fills the air. You get the sense that it’s less of a warning and more of a ‘holy shit that little white-haired kid is scary, time to murder everything in sight’ kind of scream. It flops forward, landing on its thousands of sharp, tanned legs. The sheer weight of it sends a gust of damp wind right into your face, flattening your hair and blocking your line of sight.

You blindly dodge as it stabs down at you with a dozen or so legs, each one creating a small, cylindrical crater in the dirt. You curse, rolling to your feet in a patch of itchy grass. If this thing has been living underground, it’s probably created a network of tunnels to get around. The ground beneath your feet might not be structurally sound, and the last thing you want to do is take a stab at it and fall into a sinkhole.

You dodge to the side as it swings around, trying to barrel you over with its backside. You reach for your sword that’s attached to your backpack, quickly unsheathing it. As it comes back around, you bring the blade down on its back. It harmlessly dinks off of it, like you’d smacked it with a toothbrush.

Shit.

You take a second to glance around, finding Gojo standing right where you’d left him. He's staring at the centipede with his hands shoved casually into his pockets. You want to throttle him, but you’re also aware that you’ll probably die here without him.

Bitterness creeps into your throat. You circle the back of the centipede, looking for an opening in its armour. You remember learning about samurai in school, and how manoeuvrability often caused their armour to be weak in certain places, like the backs of the knees.

You can’t see anything close to what you’d describe as ‘soft’ on this cursed spirit, but you figure if all those legs are moving around independently, there’s gotta be some kind of squishy tendon you can hack at. It spins again, frothing at the mouth like a manic merry-go-round, and you flip your sword, stabbing it down into one of its legs.

Its resounding scream of pain nearly bursts your eardrums, and you don’t have the time to pull your sword back when it violently flinches. The momentum throws you sideways, skidding you across the dirt like a stone.

You flip backwards, crashing into something—the barricaded door of the farmhouse—and hit another wall, which stops you dead. You blink back spots. The back of your head is stinging, and there’s a distinctly slimy feeling dripping down your head.

You’d taken the door clean off its rotted hinges, and it had barely done enough to soften your fall. You let out a muffled groan as you throw a wooden board off your shoulder. You’ve probably got a thousand splinters embedded in your face, but you’re far more concerned with the fact that you’ve been disarmed.

You feel around in the dark for your sword and find it wedged beneath an old, broken cupboard. From your squished position, you have to see-saw the blade out from beneath it, which has dulled considerably.

You awkwardly stumble to your feet, peering out into the darkened orange sky just in time to see Gojo punching the centipede. The hit—amplified by Blue—sends the centipede flat into the ground, and then through it, creating a centipede-shaped crater.

You frown, picking a small piece of wooden shrapnel out of your cheek. That hit should’ve made the centipede implode in on itself, but it had used an alarming amount of cursed energy to shield the blow.

Gojo plops down next to you, staring into the hole with disgust. “Chicken-shit. I was gonna use Blue to pull the farmhouse apart, but then you went and got yourself tossed Super Mario 64 style.”

You ignore him, using your sleeve to wipe the blood off your face. You peer down into the hole, contemplating the drop.

“You'll just get yourself killed if you go down there, y'know." 

“It’s our job,” you remind him.

“I doubt you’ll make it ten steps before you pass out.”

“Ten thousand yen says I won’t.”

"You’re on." 

You take a step, and then plummet into the hole. It only goes down about ten metres, so you only have to use a minimal amount of cursed energy to soften your landing. Gojo’s manic laughter follows you down as he lands beside you effortlessly.

You turn in a circle. It’s dark down here; the only light comes from the hole above you. You’d been right about the tunnel system, too. The whole place looks like an underground railroad. Huge burrows break off in multiple different directions, all of them secreting some form of residual energy. It’s hiding again, using the labyrinth of holes as a smokescreen.

“I hate when they hide,” Gojo throws his head back in a whine. “Don’t they get that they’re wasting their time? M’just gonna find it and kill it anyway.”

“Creatures rely on instinct, not rationale.”

He groans some more. “Running away is for weaklings.”

“Stop whining so much. I can use Sew to locate it, remember?”

He tilts his head. “Huh, look at that. Guess you’re not completely useless.”

You make a face.

“Well? You plannin’ on waiting all night?”

You sneer at him and turn away, closing your eyes as you activate your technique. Your thread is harder to control this time around, which you could attribute to a whole lot of things. Despite that, with your technique active, it becomes pretty obvious which tunnel the centipede has gone down.

“That one,” you say, pointing at it.

Gojo grunts noncommittally, but you hear his feet shifting towards it. “You reckon?”

You release your technique. “No. I just lied for the sake of it. Yes, you insufferable pest.”

You saunter past him, making your way into the dark burrow with your mobile phone held out as a torch. Gojo’s quiet for a moment, and then he starts walking, cutting the gap to you in half a second with those stupid gangly legs of his. He gets out his own phone, which is some fancy, uber-expensive red thing, and shines it against the wall absentmindedly.

The silence feels charged.

Gojo makes a noise, sucking the air between his teeth. “You’re real mad at me, aren’t ya?”

You huff irritably. 

He sighs, flashing his torchlight onto your cheekbone. You stretch your chin away, avoiding the light. 

"You always say exactly what I think you’re gonna say, y'know that?”

You grind your teeth together.

“Yep. Go all quiet to spite me. That’s predictable too, Frankenstein.”

You turn, pinning Gojo with your camera light. An insult burns at the tip of your tongue, but your rage comes to a screeching halt when Gojo lets out a yelp, flinching away from you like you burned him. 

"Shit!" He turns his head away. "Turn your high beams off!" 

You raise an eyebrow. Not a fan of bright lights, huh? You hold out your phone closer to his shoulder, and he groans, turning to face the wall.

"Guess you're not the strongest after all." 

"Not wanting your shitty little camera light burning my optical nerve to a crisp doesn't mean I'm weak," he spits out.

"No. Just sensitive."

"M'not sensitive,” he snaps. 

"It's fine. Some girls are into that."

"It's not—" he hisses when he turns back around, momentarily forgetting about your flashlight. "Turn that shit off!"

"No way," you shake your head, grinning. "I much prefer you this way. Are you allergic to cheap phones or something?” 

"It's Six Eyes." He groans, pressing his forearm over his glasses. "They make my eyesight sensitive. So your cute little flashlight joke feels like it’s detaching my goddamn retinas.” 

You pause, genuinely considering his request for a second.

And then you snort. 

Why the fuck should you care about him? 

You're about to reply when something prickles at the edge of your vision. 

There’s a presence up ahead.

You flick your phone shut. “Gojo.”

“Yeah, on it.”

He disappears in a flash, and in the next moment, a pulse of blue flickers nearby. There’s a cracking sound. Your heart drops to your stomach as you watch Gojo tear a hole in the ceiling. Rock and sediment crumble, pulling roots and grass with them. Sunlight flashes into the darkness, pressing twisted shadows into the walls.

If he’d been any more reckless, this whole section might’ve collapsed on top of you. You race down the hall, your sword at the ready. When you reach the hole in the tunnel, you’re able to see much more clearly what Gojo is doing.

He’s beating the ever-loving shit out of the curse. His fists move in a blur, landing hit after hit without reprieve. The centipede is too tall and wide to dodge in such a confined space and takes every punch with a terrified squeal.

You can’t keep up with him. You’ve never been able to when you watch him train with Suguru. But now…this is on a completely different level. You’re not even sure what he’s doing to the curse anymore. His speed is untraceable.

This kid is fifteen. Fifteen and fighting with that kind of hand-to-hand combat. Just what were they teaching him as a kid?

One clap of blue and the centipede rears back, its neck contorting painfully in a wretched scream. You expect it to start spitting acid—it seems like the type of predictable boss movement it’d do—but instead, its head pulls back and something starts spewing from its mouth. You remember the report had mentioned some kind of poison attack.

It comes out in thick dark spurts, dissipating into the air. You hold your breath, inching back into the tunnel as the poison gas builds, growing larger and denser until it’s the size of a goddamn storm cloud. You can’t see a thing through it.

You hold your free hand over your nose and mouth, waving through the fog with your sword. It does nothing to dissipate it. Every slice causes the particles to swarm closer, clinging to your sword, and then to you. It doesn’t really hurt, but it’s prickly against your exposed skin.

Another spark of cursed energy lights up the area. Gojo hits the centipede with Blue again, and the thing implodes instantaneously, like he’d shoved a bomb down its gullet. Its body breaks apart, but it doesn’t dissolve. Its energy coagulates, twitching and shuddering until it begins to reform.

“It’s got a slime mechanic!” Gojo yells.

Its body turns and separates into smaller, creepier centipedes. They fall to the ground in a monstrous, wriggling pile, all squealing in unison. It’s a nightmare. An honest to god nightmare.

Gojo blasts a hole through the centipede mountain, killing close to a hundred of them in one go. It barely scrapes at the edges of the pile. There are thousands, too many to even attempt to account, and they’re all crawling in opposite directions.

Gojo turns, blasting another lot to smithereens.

You turn and ready your sword as a herd of them charges at you. The first one leaps off the ground, and seeing its slimy, wriggling underbody makes you hesitate for a second, and then you swing. Your sword cuts the centipede straight in half, and it falls with its pincers out, its nervous system still jittering.

The constitution of these centipedes must be significantly lower in a smaller form. You switch stances, swinging left to right in a wheel motion as they jump at you. You mow through crowds of them, little pieces of their legs and exoskeletons hitting you in the face like shrapnel.

This strategy is unsustainable. You’re running out of breath to hold, and they don’t seem to be letting up. You take a moment to glance around and find Gojo at the opposite end of the tunnel, having the time of his life stomping centipedes to death like they’re cane toads. You’re not sure how his Infinity works with air-borne attacks, but he doesn’t seem even remotely concerned with the giant cloud of poisonous gas filling the room.

A centipede suddenly jumps at you from behind, and its disgusting pincers sink into your shoulder. You curse yourself for getting so distracted, and turn sideways, ramming yourself into the wall behind you. It squeals as it’s crushed into the compacted dirt and bites down harder, tearing something in your shoulder.

Pain screams down your arm, and suddenly the whole limb becomes inoperable. Panic seizes your brain, reminding you of something else. Images flash. Something glinting in the lantern light. Sharp and jagged, almost like a smile. There’s something else. Something worse. It’s stickier and harsher and darker. Pain. So much pain. You’re drowning in it, you’re—

“You really planning on dyin’?”

You take in a deep breath through your nose without thinking and get the heady, disgustingly sweet stench of poison hitting your system. You blink rapidly, noting that all the bugs are dead. Exorcised. You want to relax, but the pain is tensing through your body, making you stand uncomfortably still.

Behind you, the last centipede stops wiggling.

Gojo raises a hand into the air and uses a pinpointed Blue to manipulate the poisonous cloud, directing it up and out of the tunnel.

Huh. So that’s how he’d dealt with it.

Gojo hums, looking around at the carnage. “Okay. That was way more fun than I thought it’d be.”

You gurgle on a reply.

“Oi,” he approaches you with his sunglasses pushed into his hair, waving a hand in front of your face. “Anyone hooome?"

"Shit, are you actually dying?”

You’re in a lot of pain. How many of them had bitten you? How much poison had you ingested from the miasma attack? Questions without answers. You turn dizzily, gripping onto your limp arm.

“Gojo…” you murmur.

“Hm?”

“You owe me ten thousand yen.”

He blinks at you and then cracks a massive, boyish grin.

The sun has completely set by the time you get back to school. Suguru is waiting for you in the communal area, sitting on a beanbag, fiddling around with his Tamagotchi. When he sees you approach, his eyes go almost comically wide.

Half your face is covered in bandages, allowing you one eye to see out of. Your arm is in a tight, immovable sling. That centipede had severed the tendon in your shoulder clean off.

"So..." he schools his expression. "How'd it go?" 

You open your mouth to reply, but Gojo barges in past you, beating you to it.

“Curse was a cinch, some weird centipede thing with a poison attack. Kanzaki huffed herself up on it, and needs to see Nurse-Shoko,” Gojo taps away at his phone as he speaks, not even bothering to look up. “Hey, Suguru, can I borrow your charger?” He doesn’t wait for Suguru to respond; he just marches into the next room. There's a moment of silence, and then Gojo pokes his head back in. "You look better covered up like that, by the way," he flutters a hand over his face. "Masks the perpetual hideous scowl." 

You flip him the finger and watch him giggle down the hallway as he leaves. 

There's another silence. You’re not only physically, but mentally exhausted. Gojo Satoru is a whirlwind of a person.

Suguru sets his soft, calm eyes on you. “How did—“

“Don’t even start,” you mutter tiredly, your posture sinking. “I have no clue how you deal with that every day.”

“I don’t, remember? Satoru likes me.”

You sigh. “How could I forget?”

He chuckles. “You say that, but I’m pretty sure that’s Satoru being considerate.”

Your lip quivers. “What?”

He just smiles. “Don’t worry, it’s not important. Now. Go and see Shoko. You look really roughed up.”

He gently ushers you out of the room, leaving you no time to question him.

Gojo being considerate?

What exactly did that mean?

Chapter Text

2005

At Jujutsu Tech, summer holidays are complicated.

Although there aren't supplementary classes, most students don't go home for the holidays. It’s something to do with the influx of curses that form from winter depressions. There is never a busier time period for a sorcerer than the height of summer. 

For the most part, your school life remains the same. You study and train with far more enthusiasm than before. Your mission with Gojo had revealed a disconcerting number of things you don't like about yourself. You might work well under pressure, but you're easily distracted, quick to anger, and above all, reckless.

You allowed yourself to be caught off guard multiple times. You used your technique recklessly without considering the consequences. What if the cursed spirit had sensed your thread beforehand? What if it had affected it in some way? You have no idea what that would've done to you. The sensory input alone physically limits you. Having something so intrinsically exposed, pulled on, or poisoned? You’re not even sure if that’s possible. There are so many variables when it comes to Sew. You’d been unbearably naive to go out there expecting it to function like it did in training.

In actuality, you don’t understand your technique or its limits. What are your strengths? What are your weaknesses? You’d been so resentful of being placed in this position, you’d all but blocked it out. The idea of training—of bettering yourself—had seemed like a blight on your existence. Of whatever remained of it.

That naivety and inexperience would’ve gotten you killed if it wasn’t for Gojo, and even admitting that in your head physically stings. To rely on someone like that? To be such a snivelling coward. Your philosophy and pride outweighed by incompetence. How were you so arrogant to assume you could do it all on your own? That you were strong just because you’d experienced pain.

If you wanted to live up to your ideals and survive being a Jujutsu sorcerer until graduation, you had to get better. You had to learn control. Coasting by on anger alone wasn’t going to help you grow. It had actively hindered you. All that time spent hating sorcerers—hating their cause and their beliefs and their arrogance, and you’d nearly died with those words trapped in your mouth, completely and utterly meaningless.

You start your training regime by setting an early morning alarm so you can exercise before school. You do laps around the perimeter, letting the humidity dizzy you until you can’t see straight. Pain is nothing. Exhaustion is nothing. These are all physical limits. You know that, you've learned from it. Pride is so much worse. You need to learn in every area if you want to survive.

You borrow books from the school library to study up on the history of sorcerers and curses. You figured the anecdotal understanding you’d gotten from your grandfather only went so far. You were right. There’s a lot about sorcery you’ve been completely ignorant of.

You move at a snail's pace into something that resembles a routine. You train harder for longer, trudging back to your dorm covered in bruises and cuts. You sleep like the dead and eat like a horse.

You know when it comes to sorcery, talent is almost entirely innate. There’s only so much you can do to improve, but you also know there are still some levels you can reach. You wouldn’t have learned that you could move and speak with your technique active if it weren’t for that mission. There’s more. There has to be.

Wedged somewhere between studying and training is a dash of social interaction. You’d never been popular in normal school, and it’s pretty much the same at Jujutsu Tech. Gojo and Suguru are resounding extroverts, and although Shoko’s temperament is more like yours, she’s far less awkward. 

You are a little too dreary for their tastes.

You’re not a wise-cracking hilarity, or the earnest, caring type. You don’t get their inside jokes, and you can’t follow conversations the way they can, switching from one thing to the next in a matter of seconds. You’re somewhere between blunt and rude, constantly second-guessing yourself whenever you try to be even remotely vulnerable. Meanness becomes second nature to you when you're nervous.

All you are is sharp edges and even sharper words. Some part of you wishes you were different. That you could join in, laugh, and banter with them. You’d want it to be effortless, not like dragging teeth against wood. But you know that’s a ridiculous wish. You’ve always been this way, since the moment you were born.

Yaga pushes you to conform to friendship-making activities. You play basketball in the sports centre, hating the sound of your sneakers squeaking against the floor. Not once do you manage to get the ball into the hoop. At fifteen, you are too short to do much of anything sports-wise.

You eat oranges in the grass whilst Gojo and Suguru spar, pretending to pay attention. Shoko notices, because of course she does, and always makes the suggestion for you to leave if you want to. You do. Outside of that, you don't see them very often. You realise class has been the determining factor of your social life, and when you aren't obligated to show up, you simply don't.

Months go by. Gojo and Suguru are called out on more missions. You are not. You ask Yaga about it, and he brushes you off. 

The exchange event occurs, but since you’re a first-year, you aren't allowed to participate. After the weekend, you get told that a Kyoto student died during the group event. You attend a small service, where their picture is placed on a small easel. They look younger than they should, and the photo isn't exactly a happy one either. One of the second-year students quietly sobs through the eulogy, and no one attempts to comfort them. This is normal. A factor of sorcerer existence. Not something to be condemned or glorified; merely accepted.

Suguru seems the most upset about it all.

Gojo doesn't even have the decency to show up. 

The rest of the year falls back into rhythm after that. You spend your birthday alone, tucked beneath your bedcovers, thinking about the past. You're not sure when you became the kind of person to reminisce about your youth on your birthday, but you don't try to subvert it. Perhaps you've aged more than you realised. 

Because you miss out on a summer break, the curriculum overcompensates in the winter holidays. School ends early in December, right after Gojo’s birthday. You don't get an invite. Shock horror. You spend the night curled up playing Resident Evil, trying to save the US president’s daughter from some insane cult. 

The next day, you watch Suguru and Shoko pack up, dressed up in fluffy coats and beanies for the winter. You ask them about their Christmas plans—as is the polite thing to do—and Suguru talks about his family with a fond smile. His non-sorcerer parents seem nice. Considering they have an incredibly powerful son who smiles at you like you’re not weird or broken, something must’ve gone right.

You’re expecting to spend your winter break alone, but to your utter dismay, Gojo decides to stay.

Your first thought is to avoid him at all costs, but that seems a little too childish. If you can’t share a communal space with someone you dislike, how are you going to survive four more years of Jujutsu Tech? You don’t live in the same building, so it’s highly unlikely you’ll bump into each other. You don’t share mealtimes, or any other activities, for that matter. You may as well be on opposite sides of a mountain peak.

With Yaga not around, you don’t so much as see—but hear—Gojo. Groundskeepers yelling at him. Housecleaners scolding him. Whispers from other faculty members about equipment getting ‘mysteriously’ destroyed.

It sounds like a tantrum, and the housekeepers seem to think he’s lashing out because he’s alone for the holidays. You denounce that theory. You’re also alone for the holidays, and you’re not blowing up the goddamn sports field. You don’t have an ounce of pity for someone who abuses their power with such imperious recklessness. Like a rich boy trashing his daddy’s favourite car, he’ll get a little slap on the wrist, and then everyone will go back to calling him ‘Gojo-sama’, coddling and babying their prophesied messiah.

It does, however, beg the question as to what the hell Gojo is doing with his time. As you’re approaching the end of the week, you finally get a suitable answer.

You’re sitting beneath a large cedar tree, reading a horribly dense book, when a tree a hundred metres over from you explodes into smithereens. You frown, your eyes taking in the intense swirls of cursed energy. You can barely understand the flow of Gojo’s cursed energy at the best of times. It just looks like a bunch of fizzing, fluttering nonsense. 

Another blast pops off, making a huge crater in the grass.

Is he practising Limitless on trees?

There’s a moment of silence as you anticipate the next strike, but it never arrives. Instead, Gojo pops into existence on your left, dressed in one of those expensive puffy winter jackets, a very worn pair of sweatpants and light-blue canvas shoes. He’s got a navy scarf wrapped around his neck. It’s covering the bottom of his mouth in a boyish, ninja-like way that makes you want to roll your eyes.

“Yo! I didn’t know you were out here.”

Liar. His Six Eyes would’ve told him exactly where you were.

You wrap your own scarf tighter around your neck. “If you’re trying to show off, you’ve picked the wrong audience.”

“Hah. You’d know if I was showing off, trust me.”

“To do what? Not hit the tree behind me?”

He grins. “Only if you ask nicely.”

“Is killing trees really a good use of your time?”

“I didn’t plan on killing them. Reversal Red is just really finicky. ”

“Reversal Red?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and you have to violently fight off the pained expression that twitches along your face.

Gojo notices immediately. “You interested in my technique, Frankenstein?”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap.

“But it suits you, don’t ya think? You’re like an old, macabre horror story.”

That’s why he’s been calling you Frankenstein?

You’d always assumed it was because of your scars, which was confusing in itself. Famously, Frankenstein is the scientist, not the monster. And Gojo's not stupid enough not to know that. So instead, he was just referring to you as the whole book?

“Charming,” you mutter flatly, your neck sinking into your scarf.

“Hey, don’t get all shy on me now,” Gojo throws himself down onto your blanket, resting his back against the tree bark. After a moment, he makes a face. “Ugh, you really sit like this?" He shuffles around, getting comfortable. "You are a masochist." 

You gawk at him. “You're inviting yourself into my personal space now?”

“I didn’t realise you owned this tree.”

You make a noise in the back of your throat, indignant and annoyed. 

“Anyway—“ he side-eyes you. “Reversal Red. Pretty cool, right? I’ve been workin’ on it for a while, but I just can’t get it to stick. I keep askin’ Shoko about it, but she’s worthless when it comes to explaining stuff.” He flicks something off his knee. A leaf. “Trying to describe spacetime curvature distortion to dummies is exhausting. Limitless is all vectors and dimensional analysis on top of cursed energy application."

Your first instinct is to make fun of him, but then you take a moment to consider what he’s saying, and how annoyed you would be if your technique involved genuine doctorate-level analysis to control. Having a technique that relies on a vast understanding of spatial manipulation sounds like a pain, even if it’s one of the most powerful cursed techniques in human history.

“So…” you wet your lips, barely cognisant of Gojo leaning further towards you. “This other technique—Reversal Red. It requires a different frequency of cursed energy application?”

Gojo gasps. “You do have a brain.”

You close your book with a violent snap. “One that actually fits inside my head? I guess that's hard to relate to, given your xenomorph-sized one." 

Gojo's expression voids.

You stare at each other, and after a moment of silence, his face wrinkles, eyes squinting shut as he bursts out laughing. You stare at him, absorbing the boyishness of his laugh. An actual, genuine laugh. No haughtiness. No meanness. It perplexes you for a moment, and then that strangeness melts, and your nervously set shoulders give into something comfortable adjacent. 

He's laughing at your joke. He's smiling at you. 

Your ears feel hot. Never has Gojo ever looked at you with such sincerity before. You're so used to being on guard around him, your nervous system shot both ways. Anticipating malice and scrambling to fortify yourself against it, knowing you've never had to guard yourself against someone's words the way you do with Gojo. And now, your body doesn't know what the fuck it's doing. Calm, or crazed? Which is it? It's like a mouse being picked up and petted by a human. It's not hurting you right now, for whatever reason, but it might, at any moment.

Why? What's its motive?

What's its purpose for doing this? 

You feel like he's playing with you. 

"Calling it xenomorph-sized is too much," Gojo breathes, his face flushed with humour. "But I'll give it to you. That got me. I didn't know you were an Alien fan."

"Why would you?" You don't know a thing about me, is left unsaid. 

Your dull response sobers him. His expression shifts, so slight, you probably wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the fact that he's so close to you. You've bummed him out a little, you can tell. His lips have gone all pouty. He slumps against the tree, spreading out his legs to the point where his knee nearly touches your folded legs. “So, what do you think?”

"Of what? Alien?"

"My technique," he tuts. "Pay attention, Kanzaki." 

"No normal person can keep up with your ramblings," you defend.

"Then be less normal. C'mon, I wanna know what'cha think." 

You hesitate, a tiny bit blown away by his sincerity—or whatever gets close to that with Gojo. He’s openly asking for your opinion on his technique. You, whom he’d dubbed useless and incompetent from the moment he laid eyes on you. A weakling with no purpose in his world. That Gojo is asking for your opinion.

You thrum your fingers against your book. “Well…my fundamentals on cursed energy aren’t even close to yours—“ you shoot him a look, warning him to shut his mouth. He just bats his eyes at you from behind his glasses. “But if you look at it logically, Reversal Red should have the opposite application point of Blue, yes? So instead of attraction, it’s…repulsion, right?”

Gojo’s shoulders perk up, like he’s surprised you’re actually engaging with him—and about his technique, no less. “Sort’ve. Reversal requires a different application, yes, but I’m not exactly sure if it’s the opposite of attraction. I’ve tried so many different approaches, and it either doesn’t work at all or blows up in my face.”

“So you’re struggling to find its ‘on’ button?”

He nods. “Sucks that I can’t feel everything that’s created through Limitless. If I had your technique to transcribe it, it’d be so much easier. I could look at the equation and then reverse engineer it.”

“Pretty sure exposing my thread to Limitless would fry my brain.”

He pouts. “But it would be realllly helpful.”

“Figure it out yourself. You’ve done all right so far, haven’t you?”

“Is that a compliment, Kanzaki?”

“I guess. Shoot me if it ever happens again, because clearly something’s gone wrong upstairs.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but something’s already gone wrong upstairs.”

A laugh rips out of your mouth without your permission, and Gojo's expression shifts from amused to utterly delighted.

…is that the first time you’ve ever laughed in front of him?

He turns away, shifting his feet from side to side, almost like he doesn’t want to bring attention to it. “So…” he pats at his thighs with his gloved hands and makes a show of looking around. “This is how you’ve been spendin’ your time? Reading out in the cold?”

“Would you rather I join you in destroying the gardens?”

“Uhh, yes? Blowing shit up is fun.”

“That is such a boy thing to say.”

“And I am a boy, in case you didn’t notice.”

You give him a sidelong look, and he raises his eyebrows at you. There’s a moment of silence as you stare at each other, and then Gojo’s eyes dart away from behind his sunglasses. His ears are pink from the cold, and he covers them with his gloved hands, cupping them roughly.

“What’cha reading?” He asks. 

“Nothing that would interest you.”

He waggles his eyebrows. “I dunno. I might surprise you.”

You give him a flat look. “A historical recording of cursed techniques from the eighteenth century.”

He makes a face.

You shake your head with a soft huff. “Told you.”

“Why the hell are you readin’ that?”

“Research purposes.”

“Oho? Tryin’ level up?”

You shrug. “As much as one can, I suppose.”

Gojo must sense you’re about to get up, because he leans over into your personal space, hovering over your shoulder like a bird. “It got anything interesting in it?”

You inch away from him. He really does have no concept of “A couple of bits, but nothing really helpful. It mostly talks about the causation between changing seasons and mutations in cursed spirits. Also weirdly, the soul.”

“The soul?”

“Yeah,” you shrug again. “I didn’t really get it.”

“But you’re so good at reading boring things.”

You tap the spine of the book onto the top of his head, and he leans away, finally getting the hint. “Are you done bothering me now?”

He pouts. “No. You’re the only person here that’s fun to talk to. Well, except for Tanaka.”

You ignore the fact that Gojo had just admitted, purposefully or not, that he thinks you’re fun to talk to.

“The old landscaper that yells at you?”

Gojo smiles wistfully. “Yeah. His face gets all red when he talks. It’s great.”

A silence falls between you. It gets awkward incredibly fast. For some reason you can’t explain, you don’t want this conversation to end yet. You’ve barely spoken more than a couple sentences these past two weeks. You’d forgotten how relieving it is to simply chat. How it gets your mind off other things.

You clear your throat, trying your best to come off casual. “Are you, uh, going home for Christmas?”

Gojo snorts. It sounds a little sarcastic. “Nope.”

You frown. You’re not sure if you should ask. Seems a little too personal.

He cracks a smile. “You are so awkward, Kanzaki, it’s making me cringe.”

You scowl. “Forget I even asked."

His smile softens a little, and then levels into something entirely unreadable. “Christmas is a pain in the ass at home—been that way every year since I turned thirteen.”

“Why thirteen?”

“Apparently, that’s the suitable age for breeding.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Super ew. All the clan elders just try to smooch up to me. Last year, I had this thing. A meeting, I guess. A bunch of clan representatives showed up. Old ass dudes with wives half their age—throwing their daughters in my face, tellin’ them to spread their legs for my genetics.”

You jerk back, your face going violently warm. “W-what?”

“Clan politics, Frankenstein. Arranged baby-making,” his eyes darken just the tiniest bit as he says it, and suddenly, you’re seeing a completely different side to Gojo. “I mean, some of them were pretty hot…but they bored me to fucken death. Just sittin’ there, trying not to breathe too hard in my direction. Don’t wanna piss off the almighty Six Eyes.”

Your jaw works over the words you want to say, but they don’t leave your mouth. Thirteen? That’s when they decided Gojo needed a wife? It’s downright monstrous. Your eyes level over him, taking in his appearance, trying to comprehend what an adult man would see in it to come to such a decision. 

He looks like a teenager, plain and simple. His cheeks still have baby fat in them for god's sake. He is taller than the average boy. Much taller. He’s grown a lot since May. But he’s still a teenager. Not even close to being capable of making that kind of decision—even if he thinks he’s the prettiest, smartest thing to walk the planet.

Surely no one in their right mind would see that and think marriage?

His hair has gotten longer. It’s fluffy and dishevelled, poking out around his head like a cloud. When had that happened? Admittedly, you haven’t been paying the most attention to his appearance, but you’d think you would realise something so obvious. It’s been eight long months since you started here.

“You finished appraising me, Kanzaki?”

You blink at him. “I…I wasn’t—“

He waves his hand. “I really don’t want to break your heart, but I’m not lookin’ for a wife. Even if it would eternally piss off the elders to marry someone of such low standing. Fortunately for you, I’m too nice a person to put you through that.”

“That’s disgusting, Gojo.”

He grins at you meanly. “Which part?”

“All of it? They’re essentially bartering you off to the highest bidder, and those girls don’t have a choice either. I thought arranged marriages were a thing of the past.”

“My clan is a thing of the past too,” he shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not my problem anymore.”

It still unsettles you. As much as Gojo acts like a pampered prince, there are things he's gone through that you will never understand. You fiddle with the spine of your book, not knowing what else to say.

Gojo gives you a look, like your discomfort on the subject is amusing. “So. What do you normally do for Christmas?”

You purse your lips, giving him a proper eye-level stare. He doesn't shy away; in fact, he seems to relish it. In your attention. “Nothing really. My family didn’t celebrate, but Yasuda-san would sometimes sneak me some KFC, and we’d watch cheesy American horror movies.”

“Who’s Yasuda?”

You stiffen, your fingernails digging into your palms. You’d said her name so thoughtlessly. With such instinctual familiarity. Your throat suddenly feels tight, and you struggle around the sound of her name, thoughts swirling in your head. Her face appears in your mind, mangled and blank, eyes staring into the distance.

Your head dips, her face still burnt into your eyelids when you blink.

“Oh,” Gojo says, taking in your expression. “Didn’t realise it was that kinda thing.”

“‘What kind of thing?” You ask, your voice scratching, trembling over your teeth. 

He makes a face, debating with himself.

A sharp, indescribable rage pulls you from your panic, and suddenly you're awake, staring at the boy whos' brought you nothing but misery for the last eight months. 

"...well?" 

“You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Don’t act like you care,” you snap at him, your throat aching. “I remember what you said on my first day. That you couldn’t care less about my family getting killed. People die every day, right?”

His mouth curls, and you can see a rush of thoughts behind his eyes. There's a moment of silence, and you feel your fingers curling into your palms, your blunt nails digging into the skin, drawing blood.

Gojo lazily shrugs.  “I’m not wrong, am I?”

You flinch, a tiny gap opening up in your ribcage.

Numbness swarms.

Eight months.

It’s been eight months since she died.

You don’t want to forget her. You don’t want to move on.

Yasuda, who’d brushed your hair every night before bed until you were eleven, upon which you firmly told her you were too old to have your hair brushed. She’d laughed at you and tapped her fingers along your head. Her expression had been a little sad, and you hadn’t understood why.

If you try hard enough, you can still feel the phantom touch of her fingers, and your heart burns.

Yasuda, who helped you pick out flowers for your mother’s birthday every year, even though you both knew she wouldn’t care. Who chuckled and squished your cheeks together when you asked obtuse questions. You try to remember your parents' faces, but her face is the only image you can conjure. Kind, gentle Yasuda, who held your hand so tightly on your first day of school. Who’d said goodbye to you on the train with tears in her eyes.

Yasuda, who trained you, fed you and loved you.

You stand up on wonky legs.

Gojo lets out a groan, running a hand through his hair. “C’mon, Kanzaki, don’t throw a fit. It’s nothing personal."

You can’t even look at him.

All you see is her.

You expect a reprieve.

But Gojo, being Gojo, doubles down.

You’re not sure how he learns about your morning routine, but two days later, you find him standing beneath a snow-covered veranda, waiting for you.

He’s bundled up in warm clothes, his scarf wound like a headdress across his face. When you approach, his head tips up from typing away at his phone. He’s not wearing his sunglasses, and so you can see the way his eyes light up triumphantly, proud of his well-devised trap.

You scowl, trying not to shiver as the cold wind blows through your exercise clothes.

It’s smart to ambush you here. If he’d shown up at your dorm, you would’ve snuck around the back to avoid him. Deciding to wait here instead means he’d either noticed your absence at your dorm and wandered around looking for you, or he’d stalked you to this spot. You don’t put a lot of thought into the latter.

At the very least, it tells you he’s put some thought into this.

But why?

Surely this isn’t some pathetic attempt at extending an olive branch after he’d snapped the one you’d given him. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do remorse. Any mistakes he makes are probably rationalised and absolved by a dozen or so pathetic Gojo clan members burdened with the specific purpose of providing him clemency.

Perhaps Gojo is capable of recognising failure in one way or another, but something as uncomfortable and vulnerable as guilt? You can’t imagine that digesting very well in his gold-lined, appeased stomach. This is probably just him trying to soothe his boredom. Always—forever—at your expense.

“It’s freezing!” He hisses at you, rubbing his gloved hands together. “How are you wearing that?”

You fold your arms over your chest. “What are you doing here, Gojo?”

He scowls, pressing his nose further into his scarf. “I live here.”

“Don’t be obtuse. You know what I meant.”

He shrugs. “Tanaka-san told me you go on a run around this time every day. That you’ve been doing it since August! So…I did some Six Eyes sleuthing,” he smiles, like the idea of using his power to hunt you down like a bloodhound isn’t unsettling. “You holding out on me, Kanzaki?”

You ignore his question. “Tanaka-san? That’s who snitched on me? Why on earth would he help you?”

“You asking if I paid him off?”

“Did you?”

“Nah. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to set us up together—which is wildly off mark—but still helpful.”

You make a face. "Set us up? Like, on a date?"

Gojo makes the same face back. "No, he's setting us up to fall for one of his crimes, Kanzaki. Obviously for a date. And Suguru says I'm obtuse. Don't worry, I made it very clear that I find you super creepy and unattractive. So no miscommunication there."  

You turn around and walk away. 

"Whoa!" Gojo slides in front of you, his hands out in a weirdly placating gesture. “Hold on. I haven't finished yet."

You give him a scathing look and dodge around his side. Something holds you back. Gojo. His fingers are wrapped around your wrist, firm, but not exactly painful. Your neck snaps to him, your eyes wide with disbelief. He's touching you. Actually touching you. Your skin crawls, like every blood cell in your body has gained a sharp exterior.

Gojo opens his mouth to say something, but whatever he sees in your expression manages to tame his arrogance for a moment, and he quickly lets go of you. 

"Uh," he tucks his hands into his pockets, half of his expression hidden behind his scarf. "Forget that bit, okay? Just don't go off and cry again. I'm...I'm trying to do something." 

His sudden discomfort intrigues you enough for you to stay put.

"...something?" 

He laughs, but it sounds a little nervous. You stare at each other for a moment, and then his eyes widen slightly, realising that you’re being serious about your question. 

"Oh. The joke kinda died when you got all pissed-off. So, uh, it doesn't...it's not, uh...yeah?” He loses steam halfway through, and his rambles completely throw you. Since when does Gojo Satoru ramble? 

You frown. "So you followed me out here to insult me...as a joke?" 

"...not exactly. I thought I'd be a good classmate and help you out with your 'training', because if we're being honest, running around the campus like a greyhound isn't gonna help. But I get the feeling you're gonna flat-out reject that idea. So...How's the weather treating you?"

You sigh. "Great. Can I leave now? Or are you gonna latch onto me again like a feral dog?" 

Strangely, Gojo doesn’t respond. Not right away. His back straightens, and his cold, flushed ears turn redder in the snowy morning haze. You're not sure what it means, but it strangely satisfies you. 

“You’re still mad at me.” He says it like he’s just realising it, like the idea of actions having consequences is baffling. His expression is strangely polarised from his tone. He looks—well, nervous. “My bad about the other day, alright? I honestly didn’t think you’d care this much.”

“You didn’t think I’d care about spending Christmas alone since my entire family is now dead?” You ask flatly. “What a conundrum for a self-proclaimed genius such as yourself.”

“Now you're just making me sound like an asshole.”

“That’s because you are one. Why wouldn’t I care about it?”

He shrugs. “This may be a little bitter to swallow, but you don’t really come off as the sentimental type, Frankenstein.”

“Says who?”

Gojo makes a face. “Everyone?”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Shoko, Suguru….me.”

“Right. Three teenagers whom I don’t know that well.”

“That’s most definitely a you problem. And who says 'whom' anymore?" He shakes his head. "See? You really are an old, macabre horror story."

"And what? Does that make you a children's book with pop-up pictures?" You snap back. "Have you ever considered that the reason I don't hang out with you guys is because of you?" 

"Not really," he doesn't look even remotely offended. "I mean, I know you're cool with Suguru, and you have some weird mindmeld with Shoko. But you don't hang out with them when I'm not around. You’re distant,” he says it matter-of-factly. “And yes—I know all about the psychological trauma stuff, so you don’t have to shove it down my throat that you’re broken and sad. Most sorcerers are, y’know?”

You fold your arms over your chest. “So you just assumed I struggle with people because I'm...that?”

“Well, duh? What other reason would you have?”

You bark out a laugh. “You are such a dick, my god.”

“Huh?!”

“I'm an introvert, not a vengeful ghost. But thank you so much for that incredibly arrogant assumption.”

You turn and walk in the opposite direction, and this time, Gojo lets you. 

The next day, when you go for your run, you find Gojo waiting in the same spot, but dressed in a much sportier outfit, a light-blue beanie shoved over his head, making little white cowlicks poke out of the ends.

You make a point of ignoring him, bursting right past him in a jog. He makes a weird squawking sound and takes off after you. The first ten minutes of your run are uneventful. Gojo’s gangly legs allow him to run ahead of you, looking back with a smug smirk every so often, which you obstinately ignore.

He’s definitely fast, but he doesn’t know the track you take, so he goes off on random detours, not paying attention when you veer off. Watching him stumble into a dried-out bush and fall down a tiny hill, only to return with sticks and leaves in his beanie, makes you burst out laughing.

Serves him right.

The scowl he sports for the rest of your run worsens your giggles. You can’t even look at his shadow without chuckling, and he knows it, grumbling about you being rude and compassionless. By the end of it, you’re breathless, skin tingling with warmth. Your cheeks feel tight, stretched by the ache of smiling.

You can’t remember the last time you laughed this much. At someone's expense, too.

You stop near a water fountain to fill up your drink bottle. Gojo doesn’t have one, so he tips his face beneath the tap and gargles on water like an elephant. It’s disgusting and entirely boyish, but all it does is make you roll your eyes.

When he’s done, he leans back up, water splattered all over his jacket. You take another slug of water, eyeing him suspiciously. He seems different. His behaviours shifted. He’s been less abrasive. You’re not sure what’s caused the change, but you’re not going to complain. Spending an hour without Gojo insulting you seems like a blessing.

He clears his throat. “By the way. I’m not a self-proclaimed genius.”

You blink at him.

He’s still thinking about yesterday?

Your mind spins. Yesterday, he’d gone about his approach in the same callous, arrogant way he did everything, throwing out bargaining chips so you’d entertain his boredom for the winter. Assuming everything between you has to be transactional.

Along that line, you can acknowledge the fact that he’d gone out of his way to find you. He’d even apologised for his coldness, albeit in an incredibly annoying way. Now he’s trying something different. He's pulling back from letting every thought that pops into his head come out of his mouth.

Gojo Satoru is filtering himself.

Maybe he's more human than you thought.

"Okay," you reply, giving him a nod.  

His eyebrows shoot up.

Something shifts between you. 

The next day rolls around, and Gojo’s nowhere to be seen. You feel strangely unsettled by it. Just when you think you’re starting to understand the inner mechanisms of Gojo, he throws you for a loop. 

Apparently, two days is all it takes for Gojo to give up on something. It makes sense. If it doesn’t serve him, it’s not worth his time.

You go through your stretches in silence, listening to the birds sing. You get halfway through a set of calf raises when you hear a thundering rush of footsteps. You turn and spot Gojo barrelling down the pavement, taking the stone steps to the sports field two at a time.

His clothes look entirely dishevelled. He’s wearing a pair of pyjama pants over a black hoodie and a winter jacket. Clearly selected in a panicked rush. He’s forgotten to wear a beanie and gloves, and his entire face is flushed pink. He comes to a grating halt a few metres from you, bending over to pant into his knees.

Instead of being disappointed, like you thought you’d be, you end up laughing at him.

“Overslept, huh?”

He holds out a finger. “No.”

“So you just wear your pyjamas out and about?”

He stiffens and then looks down at his legs. “Shit.”

“Cute bed hair,” you mock.

You go for your run, and Gojo is quiet the entire time, which is extremely unsettling. Gojo being quiet is like still air before a storm. It’s an unnatural calmness, charging the atmosphere with something menacing.

He’s clearly pissed about something, but you’re not emotionally equipped to deal with it. You doubt you can offer anything helpful, let alone friendly, and you don’t want to jinx whatever lapse in judgment has allowed you to tolerate his presence for this long without thinking something violent.

After you’re done, you stand by the water fountain, drinking water as snow starts to fall. Gojo watches snowflakes glitter in the hazy air, his own snowy eyelashes softened with contemplation. You watch him without even meaning to, wondering if his Six Eyes make something as fleeting as snowfall a chore to observe. If he sees everything in atomic detail, what would seem beautiful to the average person must be a nightmare to Gojo. Like a ladybug under a microscope, cute from afar, but horrifying under a defined lens.

You catch a snowflake in an open palm and watch it melt into your skin. Gojo watches, and then sighs, shifting his sunglasses closer to his eyes. You get the sense he’s feeling better. Maybe your silence was what he’d been expecting, or wanting.

You part without words, but something in the back of your mind calls you to look back at him as you leave.

You fight the voice off. 

The next morning, Gojo takes a slight lead, steering you through a different route around campus. Eventually, you end up jogging along the backend of the school fence and then through a small, well-kept garden. The place is barren in the winter weather, but then you notice a patch of small perennial flowers buried in a heap of snow, flourishing in purple and white.

You’ve never had a sensibility for flowers. It’s why you’d always commissioned Yasuda’s help on your mother’s birthday. She understood their colours and meanings with an almost encyclopaedic memory. Your chest stirs at the thought. Yasuda would’ve liked this place. All the different trees and flowers, and grass types.

Standing in the cold, overcast morning, with sweat forming along your hairline, you try to imagine her face again, but all you see are her faraway eyes, staring at nothing.

“You good?”

Your head snaps to his. Gojo is looking at you, his head tilted to the side. But this time, there’s no smug smile. No raised eyebrow. No judgement. His expression is even.

“Yes." 

He’s quiet, not firing off the first teasing thing he can think of. You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t. He stares back at you, his eyes a wide, eclipsing avalanche of blue. You're caught in a standoff, but it lacks the challenge and intensity you're used to when it comes to Gojo.

For eight months, when Gojo looked at you, it was with revulsion. He saw you in a way that no one else ever had, with a morbid curiosity that cut straight through all hope of pretence. His simple assessment had brought you down to tiny little pieces. He looked through you, into the part where your mangled little soul was still clinging on, and waved it off with boredom.

In one look, he'd collected up the parts of you and pinned you as the underwhelming sum of someone who could never, in a million years, become a sorcerer. He saw the haunted exhaustion in your eyes, your torn-up tights, and the faint thump of your heartbeat, and he saw everything. 

But now, he's not judging you, he's not appraising you. He's just looking. 

There's nothing offensive about looking, as much as your body screams at you to avert yourself. To hide and cower and cover up all the ugliness you know he can see. But you don't. You won't. You look back, eyes burning with defiance.  

Gojo's eyes shift, and your back straightens, anticipating meanness. But he says nothing, he just drags his eyes along your face, his expression even and focused.

The blueness of his eyes, which you normally try to ignore, pierces into you. The backdrop of snow and the cold glare of the cloudy sun somehow make his eyes look even brighter. A flickering, fire of blue. Suddenly, you can't remember what you were thinking about. He invades your space, even in the quiet corners of your mind, and he doesn't even know. 

You blink. 

Gojo continues to stare.

The hairs on your arms stand up. It's like he's looking into your mind, reading your every thought, and swimming through your past. 

"Gojo," you say, trying to keep your voice even. "You won. You can stop now." 

He blinks, and then hesitates, like he's confused. 

You break away, looking down at the patch of purple flowers. The silence between you grows, and you have no idea what to fill it with. That was weird, right? You should probably acknowledge it. Or say something. Anything. 

“Pick them.”

Your mind swirls, trying to connect his words into something feasible. 

“Pardon?”

He clicks his tongue. “You obviously like them. Take ‘em.”

“I can’t just take them.”

“Sure you can. It’s better than staring at them until they wither and die.”

You frown, wanting to push back, but you find yourself lost on what to say. You do like them, but you’re not sure if you’re allowed to take them. Won’t that upset someone?

“They’re just flowers, Kanzaki. They’ll grow back.”

You rigidly shake your head. “I don’t need them.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

He turns away and then pauses, looking back at you. "You've got a pimple growing here," he taps his cheek. "It's gonna be a killer."

You huff, rolling your eyes. 

You're not sure why you were expecting something else, and that freaks you out, so you put a bag over it. 

You finish your run and go your separate ways without a word. Days pass in the same fashion. The weekend comes, which means Christmas is creeping just a little bit closer. The school faculty numbers dwindle until there are only five people on campus. 

You find yourself starting to relax a little around Gojo the more time you spend together. 

Gojo is a hall of constantly shifting mirrors, or at least, it feels like that. His childishness is a cover for something else. Something he either doesn’t like about himself, or desperately wants to hide. Perhaps he finds self-pity just as disgusting as you do, but you don’t have the guts to ask him about it.

It horrifies you to think he might’ve been worse as a kid. What kind of childhood did Gojo have? Considering the Gojo clan elders had tried to marry him off at thirteen, you don’t want to consider any other horrible traditions they tried to enforce.

You understand why his emotional regulation is inconsistent. Growing up with everyone treating you like a God and an object at the same time would’ve been pretty confusing. That’s not exactly something you can call him out on. Definitely one of those ‘said the raven to the crow’ situations. Sometimes, he comes off so irritable and impatient, snapping at anything that moves. Other times, he’ll go quiet for long stretches of time, intermittently pressing his palms harshly against his eyes. His incessant need for attention often overcrowds your ability to observe those softer moments, but—begrudgingly—you’re starting to realise that there’s more to Gojo Satoru than just his annoyingly arrogant mouth.

Gojo’s actually pretty tolerable when he’s not slinging cruel judgements at you every twenty seconds. He’s impish and loud and everything an extrovert is, but he also makes you laugh—which pisses you off. Why couldn’t it have been someone like Yasuda? Or Suguru? Anyone else, really. 

Since your family died, you feel like you've been stuck ambling along on some foggy, undesirable road of nothing. Purposeless and full of rage, you've made so many decisions based on the spontaneity of your rage, or the cold embrace of apathetic logic, and there was no in between. Fluctuating between incredibly heightened and barely present has exhausted you endlessly; you just hadn't realised it until you felt something else. Something different.

Gojo, despite everything he's done, brings it all to the surface without the weight. 

Something you thought you'd be forced to wade through alone, confused and out of your depth, has become possible, and at times, painless. His straightforward, uncomplicated way of doing things completely subverts your instinct to think way too hard about every little thing. With him, you don't have time to panic about the foreignness of whatever you're feeling.

It's freeing. 

Chapter Text

Late December 2005

It’s not enough for Gojo to insert himself into your morning exercise routine anymore. 

No. You should’ve known, someone with such voracious self-interest would never be satisfied with an hour and a half of entertainment a day. Now he’s infiltrated your dorm, found where you have your meals, and refuses to let you eat in peace.

The first time he weasels his way into your dorm, Kimura is horrified, her head dipping lower and lower with each mortified apology as she scuttles away to prepare more food for him.

Gojo sits down on the opposite side of the kotatsu, shuffling around to get the electric blanket properly draped across his lap. An obvious sign that he’s not planning on leaving any time soon. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, scanning over Kimura's quickly placed utensils.

You take a moment to dull your anger, placing your chopsticks down on their ceramic rest. You’d been halfway through your lunch before he’d interrupted, a piece of tempura shrimp chewed between your molars.

“C’mon,” Gojo brings up two fingers and makes a ‘come hither’ gesture. “Spit it out.”

You bristle. “Excuse me?”

“You’re pissed, right? So spit it out. Tell me why you’re huffy.”

You scoff, turning your chin away. You are not huffy. “You are so—” you bite your lip, catching yourself in the bait. 

“So…?” Gojo eggs on, leaning further across the table. He’s looking at you like he knows what you’re thinking.

“You can’t just show up unannounced and expect a meal,” you snap, turning to face him. His eyes light up at your reaction, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. “Kimura-san is very meticulous about cooking, and since I'm the only one living here, there's only so many ingredients. You’re just…you don’t even care about inconveniencing her.” 

Gojo snorts. “If asking for a bowl of ramen is enough to freak her out, then she’s got some serious hang-ups. Should probably look for another job—Oooft!” You sock a plastic bottle of water at his head, and it hits him in the stomach. “What the hell was that for?!”

“You are such a brat,” you grind out. “I should’ve thrown it at your balls.”

“Eghhh. That’s harsh.”

“Don’t be a rude, arrogant shithead then.”

“You’ll never get a boyfriend with that kinda attitude.”

You look at him, one of your eyes nearly bugging out.

He purses his lips like he’s holding back a laugh. “Kanzaaaki, you gotta learn to take a joke.”

“Those aren’t jokes. They’re poorly veiled insults, and if you think they’re funny, you’re the one who’s going to have trouble finding a boyfriend.”

Gojo snorts. “I’d tell you how wrong you are, but I’m afraid you’ll start throwing more stuff at me. Hysteria is not a good look, y’know.”

“You’re being a pest, Gojo. If you’re so hungry, go make yourself some food.”

“No way. That lady is getting paid to make food. I’d be acting against her self-interest if I made something myself.”

"So now you’re helping her?”

He grins, wriggling his eyebrows at you. "Seee? I can be considerate." 

You let out a scoff, shaking your head.

Gojo's grin widens. He always seems to get something out of making you viscerally react to his delusional shenanigans.

“If you’re so concerned about stressin’ her out, gimme some of your food.”

“No.”

“Uhuh,” he leans across the table, snatching up the pair of chopsticks Kimura-san had laid out for him. “One bite. Then I’ll stop bothering you.”

"What's your definition of stop?" You ask. "Because if it includes tallying up all of the annoying things you didn't get to do today, and plaguing me with them tomorrow as retribution, it doesn't count." 

Gojo gasps. "Did you just read my mind?"

You make a face. "No amount of money in the world would make me want to do that."

"Your loss. Peaking into the inner machinations of my genius would probably make your brain implode anyway." 

"Gojo Satoru discovering the concept of empathy at age sixteen probably would blow my mind," you gasp, touching the side of your head. "It's dying as we speak. Ooh. There goes the prefrontal cortex...aaannd the brain stem. Does this mean I've gotten down to your IQ now?”  

Gojo pouts. "I don't like this anymore. You have an edge. You're stomach's full of gloriously salty food." 

"Have you not eaten today?"

"Yeah, like an hour ago."

"An hour ago?" 

"I'm a growing boy!" He defends. "I need nutrients.”

”Don’t call it nutrients. Are you a plant?”

“C’monnn Kanzaki,” he whines. “Don’t be so cruel. I’m withering away here.” At your non reaction, he sighs. “I’m trying to be honest. On my technique," he places a hand over his heart. "I will leave you alone for the rest of the day if you give me some of your food." He reaches over, and you pull your bowl of ramen away as his snapping chopsticks descend.

“C’monnnn, just one bite!”

You have no more room to move, so you have to counterattack. You pick up your chopsticks and knock his back. He lets out the most dramatic gasp yet. Your eyes meet from across the table, charged with promise. You readjust your chopsticks, rolling out your shoulders in challenge.

Gojo stretches out his hand, wriggling his fingers to perch them back on his chopsticks. “On guard, Frankenstein.”

“Do you even understand the rules of fencing?”

“Oui oui." 

He strikes first, which you anticipate. You block him, and you dance back and forth for a bit, blocking and swiping. Gojo goes for a big play, ducking past your hand, reaching for the bowl. You sweep it away with your elbow, moving to slide your chopsticks between his, disarming the bottom one from his grasp. It clatters against the table. A swift and absolute victory.

Gojo’s eyebrows pinch together. “You moved the bowl! That’s cheating.”

“You didn’t specify any rules about bowl moving.”

“It’s an unspoken rule.”

“And therefore irrelevant.”

He readies his chopsticks. “Let’s go again.”

“That’s not how it works, Gojo." 

You dig your chopsticks into the broth and swirl them around, pulling out a wad of udon noodles. You slurp them up enthusiastically, eyeing Gojo over your bowl. He looks at you like you've just spat in his face. You watch him fall back onto the tatami mats, a wheezing sound of defeat leaving his lungs. 

"I will die here, cold and alone. A samurai, betrayed by the country he loves." 

"Dead people don't talk." 

"Yeah, they do. Haven't you seen 28 Days Later?"

"Those are zombies, and they still don't talk."

Gojo turns to look at you, propping himself up on his elbows. "They groan. Would you prefer I groan?" 

You eye him over your bowl. "No." 

He cracks a big grin and flops back down onto his back, resuming his role. "Tell my brothers I fought with honour!" He twists onto his side, groaning. "But in the end, I couldn't do it. There were too many of them." 

You take a sip of your broth. "If you're a samurai, doesn't that mean you have to shave the top of your head?" 

Gojo immediately reanimates himself. "I'm not a samurai. Who said that?" 

You burst out laughing, hiding your face behind your bowl. 

The shoji panelling to your left suddenly slides open, and Kimura stands on the other side with a tray in her hands, her head slightly bowed.

Gojo flings himself up into a sitting position, eyes alight with excitement. 

"And now I'm being revived by the grace of Amaterasu!" 

You try to stop yourself, but an ugly snort erupts from your mouth. 

As Kimura places the tray down, you can see a small tweak at the edge of her lip. She’s smiling. At both of you. 

"Looks great!" Gojo hums, completely oblivious to it.

Kimura’s smile deepens, making the skin around her eyes wrinkle. "I'm glad to hear it." 

For some reason, you get the feeling there was a double meaning there.

Christmas arrives a little too quickly.

The thick black symbols of the date glare at you from the calendar on the wall. You went to bed not really knowing how the day was going to play out. You didn’t want to have expectations, but silently, you knew it was going to suck.

You spent most of Christmas Eve trying to convince Kimura to take Christmas Day off to be with her family. The argument had gone on into the early evening, Kimura coming up with every excuse imaginable to stay on. It's a kindness on her part, wanting to make you feel less alone, especially on Christmas, but it's not her job to pity you. You tell her as much, which has the intended effect of sheepishness. She gives in pretty quickly after that, not being able to look you in the eye for too long.

Now, sitting in bed staring at the ceiling, you regret being so uncompromising about it. The righteousness you've caressed fizzles out when you're alone. Philosophy sounds so good on paper until you have to live by the punishment of your own logic. Never in your life had you ever thought this is where you’d be right now—lying in bed in an empty fourth-year dormitory at Tokyo Jujutsu Tech, alone on Christmas Day.

You turn over in bed, staring at the closed curtains. Why do you always punish yourself by thinking this way? You don’t want to do this. Your mind has never felt more dissonant. Your feelings are constantly clashing with your sense of security. The warm familiarity of logic over emotion. That’s how you’ve always been. Letting Yasuda compute all the complications in your life, all because you’d never had the inclination to understand them. 

So what now? Do you commemorate her death by bathing in your own misery? Would she be proud of you for being so open? Even if it makes you feel hollow? How is that anything but pathetic, self-pitying drivel? It’s a disservice to the kind of person Yasuda would want you to be. You have an independence now beyond anything you’d understood before, but something about it makes it feel like you've never really had much of a choice.

Yasuda’s been the one constant in your life. You never—not once—thought what life would be like without her. Never thought about what you’d do if it happened. Who you’d be sharing it with instead.

It was always just you and her.

You’re hit with a familiar wave of cold, but it aches in a way it hadn’t before. The gap in your chest, a yawning chasm where all uncomfortable emotions are consumed, filters them back out into the light, and you feel your eyes begin to burn.

Alone. Alone without Yasuda. You have no one anymore. No one who loves you or worries about you. No one who'd care if you died. You’re just an ink blot. A nothing.

You throw your blankets off and sit up.

Yasuda would hate this.

The coldness digs deeper, and you rattle out a breath, pressing your palms into your eyes. Don’t do this. Not today.

Your thoughts drift to Gojo somehow. His face appears in your mind. Him grinning around a cup of hot chocolate, marshmallow fluff sticking to his nose. The sound of his laughter. His light blue beanie, and how it made his hair all flat and staticky when he took it off.

Your fingers dig into your wooden bed frame, pushing away the feeling that's creeping up on you. He’d told you flat-out yesterday that he had plans, so he wouldn’t be around to ‘bless you with his presence’. You hadn’t thought too hard about it past a tiny prick of disappointment. But now, knowing you’ll spend the day alone and marred by self-pity, you have an intense urge to seek him out. You don’t understand it. Any of it.

You drag yourself into your morning routine, getting showered and dressed in echoing silence. You make yourself a plain breakfast and force yourself to eat it even though it tastes like ash. Every now and then, your eyes flick pathetically to the sliding panel, waiting for a puff of white hair to disrupt your quiet.

Nothing happens.

You only have yourself to blame for being upset.

You spend your day trying not to mope around and fail spectacularly. You play video games for a couple hours, getting stuck on the same mission in Resident Evil for two hours. You accidentally soft-lock the game and quit after that.

You try to study up on sorcery, but you can’t get yourself to concentrate. Everything’s just symbols on a page, and it doesn’t mean anything when you put it together. Your mind just wanders, treading down old, familiar paths. You can’t get yourself to stop reminiscing on the things that hurt you.

It’s almost six in the evening when you decide to call it a day. You’re halfway through folding your laundry when there’s a knock at the door. It’s a faint knock, a tiny rasp of knuckles against wood like someone’s trying their best to be quiet. Your eyes narrow. Gojo's cursed energy blares through the door, bright and imposing, like a supernova. He's normally obnoxious about knocking, so his politeness immediately makes you suspicious. 

What is he doing here?

You put your sweatshirt back down in the basket and approach the door. You twist it back, and your mouth immediately falls open at what greets you. Gojo’s standing there, plastic takeaway bags looped around both his arms. He’s wearing a white sweatshirt and blue track pants, his head half-wrapped in that same navy scarf. His face is flushed from the cold, and when he smiles at you, it’s not the smug, haughty smile you’re expecting.

“Merry Christmas!” He sings, barging his way past you into your dorm.

You turn, still stunned to silence, and absent-mindedly close the door behind him. Gojo dances his way into your room, turning to dump the takeaway bags on your desk, shoving your library books and pens out of the way with a rough sweep.

You can’t even bring yourself to be angry at him. All your brain can manage to muster up is one singular question. “What—“

“—am I doing here?” He finishes, turning around. “Celebrating Christmas, duh. Spoiler alert: I lied about yesterday. Wanted to make it a surprise so you wouldn’t be all rude and grumpy about me comin’. Guess it worked huh?” Gojo throws himself down onto your bed and kicks off his shoes, settling in.

You hesitantly step forward into your own space, feeling exposed. Gojo being in your room doesn’t make sense properly in your head yet. You’re so used to being alone. Everything about this space has been perfectly aligned to suit your dulled edges. Him being here changes it in an instant. His energy, so bright and imposing, snuffs out the quiet.

Your skin prickles when you look inside one of the takeaway bags and find three giant brown bags. A lump forms in your throat, making it hard for you to speak. “Is that…KFC?”

Gojo grins at your reaction. “Yup. Got all the good stuff. And some sweets, obviously.”

He sits up and makes a grabby hand motion, which you quickly interpret, reaching over to hand him the plastic bag he’s pointing at. He digs inside and pulls out a rectangular cardboard box. “There’s this great bakery outside Roppongi. Fresh to order doughnuts!” He pops it open, showing you a line of beautifully iced sweets. He picks one up and takes a massive bite, talking through each chew.

“It’s also got crepes, cheesecakes and other stuff. There was this pop-up kakigori stall there during the summer, and it had so many flavours. Suguru and I got like…six each one time. But it’s closed now.” He pouts. “Still, doughnuts are good.”

You get the sense that Gojo might like sweet things.

“That’s…”

“Generous? Thoughtful? Genius? Yes. I know. It really is a privilege to have such a considerate classmate.”

You snort. “Shouldn’t you have dinner before dessert?”

“Meh,” he takes another bite. 

You shrug, plopping yourself down into your desk chair. You spin it around to face Gojo, who’s lying back on his elbows. There’s a boy sitting on your bed. It hits you a second time, and you look away, feigning interest in the takeaway bags.

Gojo hums, taking the last bite of his doughnut. “So. This is your room, huh?”

You bristle. 

“Suguru said you were a minimalist, so I came in with low expectations,” his eyes roam around the room. He looks at your calendar, and then at your wardrobe. Your folded laundry basket full of school clothes, your desk with library books, notes and pens. His expression crumbles, and you wait, expecting judgement, but then his eyes snag on your bookshelf.

He sits up again, leaning off the edge of the bed, looking at the collection of video game covers organised on the lower half. There’s a pile of posters stacked on top of each other near the end of the shelf, stuff you’d gotten for free with the game promotions. 

Gojo slides out one of the covers. “You’ve got Resident Evil 4.”

You nod awkwardly. He hadn’t phrased it like a question. More like a surprised statement.

“I bought it for my birthday.”

The one you celebrated alone. 

Not now, though. Because Gojo's here. In your room. On Christmas. 

Your heart pulls against your ribcage and then twists, like it's wrapping itself up in your bones. 

Gojo hums, putting it back and pulling out another game.  “You play MGS too?”

You nod again, your shoulders softening slightly. He’s trying to keep things casual, and you appreciate it. This is new territory for you, and probably for him too, but he’s much better at hiding his discomfort, if he even has any.

You can’t help being apprehensive. You don’t understand why Gojo’s put so much effort into this. You’re pretty sure he only really tolerates you, as much as you tolerate him. But that definition of your relationship is missing crucial context. Why would someone who simply tolerates you choose to eat breakfast with you every morning? Why would they go on runs with you everyday? Why would they go out of their way to keep you company?

Gojo brought you KFC on Christmas Day for god sake.

That was something you’d mentioned to him once in a moment of weakness. You—who’s convinced Gojo doesn’t listen to a single word that comes out of your mouth unless it actively involves him—remembered your sad little recollection of Christmas, and planned this.

Him being so thoughtful doesn’t sit right with you. It makes you wonder if there’s some kind of ulterior motive, and that makes you feel like a piece of shit. Gojo’s doing something kind and your immediate response is to doubt it.

How stupid are you? You’d been hoping to talk to him all day, and now that he’s here, you’re stumped yourself on what to say. On how to act.

Be normal. It’s fine. Talking with Gojo is fun, remember?

Then why did you feel so nervous?

Gojo grins. “Snake Eater was pretty good, but the Boss? Man that fight was hard. The fact she can wipe out half of your health if you don’t hit the CQC prompts perfectly? I hated that.”

You take a breath. Easy opening. Just say what you think. Don’t be weird. Don’t try to say something funny or smart. “I found it pretty difficult. It’s one of the only bosses you can approach with a singular strategy—that or you both get blown up by a nuke. I liked the End and the Sorrow much more. Their bosses had some pretty cool easter eggs.”

Gojo turns to face you, his eyebrows furrowed. “What easter eggs?”

You perk up. “If you complete the game without killing anyone—apart from forced cutscenes—there’s no one in the river when you fight the Sorrow. It makes it really easy. And when you’re fighting the End, if you save your game at the beginning of the battle and change the system clock forward, you can wait him out until he dies of old age.”

“That’s cheating, Kanzaki, not an easter egg.”

You make a face at him, and then immediately regret being so childish. “If it’s cheating, why’s it apart of the game?”

He shrugs. “So cowards like you can progress the story, probably.”

“Just because I’m not following the most obvious gameplay direction doesn’t mean I’m a coward. It’s strategy. Not everything can be solved by killing people or blowing things up.

“They’re bad guys! Bad guys get killed and bad things get blown up. Simple. No strategy needed.”

"Who determines if they're bad guys? The entire game is played through the perspective of Snake, but it's not like he's a saint either."

"So? You'd rather he let a bunch of people die instead?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying." 

"It sounds like that’s what you’re saying.” 

"I'm saying that violence is a cycle. An idea that seems insane to you might be completely justified by someone else. Morality can get warped. Snake was never going to give up, and because of that, he saved millions of people. But he also altered a lot of lives negatively doing so." 

He groans. “Ennnnough with the philosophical debate, Kanzaki. You know how hate that shit.”

“It’s not my fault you’re incapable of holding a mature conversation.”

“Blah blah blah,” he snaps his hand at you in a crocodile motion. “Let’s eat and watch the movie.”

“Movie?”

“You said you watched cheesy American horror movies right?” He digs around in one the bags and pulls out a DVD cover. The art on it is some indiscernible creepy face with one of those blueish horror filters.

“Where the hell did you find that?” You ask. 

He grins. “I’m the strongest, Kanzaki. You think I can’t find a shitty slasher movie in my spare time?”

You shrug.

“How insulting.” 

You busy yourself with cracking open the boxes of KFC. It becomes very clear after opening the third box that Gojo’s ordered pretty much everything off the menu. There’s an assortment of different types of fried chicken. Some spicy, some original, and then a combo of soy-sauce and honey. There’s two massive servings of fries and coleslaw, as well as some chicken cutlet sandwiches. There’s matcha-flavoured onigiri, biscuits with syrup, and a double pack of different flavoured sodas.

You move onto the next bag, and lift out a tall cake box that holds a giant serving of tiramisu from the same bakehouse as the doughnuts.

“You don’t seriously expect us to eat this all.”

Gojo turns back around from fiddling with your DVD player. “Maybeeeee.”

“Ever heard of left overs?”

“Nope. That’s for middle aged dudes and office workers.”

You sigh, cracking open a melon-flavoured soda and taking a sip to stop yourself from needling him into another pointless argument. Gojo finally manages to get the movie going, and throws himself down next to you in front of your bed, using the frame as a backrest. You side-eye him silently, trying your best to be discreet when you inch a little further away from him.

He’s always been oblivious to personal space, but you would think in a such a small, confined space he’d be a little more aware of just how close he’s getting.

No such luck.

Gojo fiddles with the remote for your television. The screens pretty small, so he’s using your desk chair as a mobile stand, propping the television up to an appropriate sitting height. The cords are a mess, but it works well enough for you to keep quiet.

All the food boxes are pooled neatly around their plastic bags, which you hope will protect the carpet from any accidental messes. You pick out a sandwich and a box of fries and dig in. Gojo copies your selection. The sound of your collective crunching and chewing makes it hard to hear the start of the movie, and Gojo pumps the volume up.

You watch the opening credits role through. The Japanese sub-titles appear before the dialogue even begins.

“This is gonna be soooo bad,” Gojo hums around his food, looking positively delighted. “I can’t wait for the annoying characters to die.”

You raise your melon soda. “Cheers to that.”

He turns to you with suspicion in his eyes, his cheeks packed to the brim with food. For a moment, he seems mystified by your active choice to not be a miserable grump and actually play along with his shenanigans. Then he grabs his own soda and brings it to your own, clinking them together.

“Merry Christmas!”

The movie is just as you expect it to be—a mess of gore, conflicting plot lines and horribly wooden acting. You love it. It starts, as all good movies do, with someone bleeding profusely and then promptly dying. The rest of the movie follows in pretty much the same fashion, and it becomes painstakingly clear that it’s a terrible rip-off of Ringu. Except in this movie, if you’re caught looking at torture porn on the titular website, you die within forty-eight hours to a vengeful ghost girl. Seems like a pretty fair trade, but the movie drags it out into a quest for justice.

“If her ghost is so powerful, why can’t she kill the guy who killed her?”

Gojo speaks through a mouthful of tiramisu. Neither you nor Gojo have a weak stomach for body horror it seems. “She’s attached the website. Her spirit can’t just leave, otherwise it’ll ruin the plot.”

“Rigggght,” you nod. "Because that's been stellar so far." 

“Also—“ Gojo points at the screen. “Since her spirit is apart of the website, finding her body ain’t gonna do shit. You’d have’ta to purge the website.”

“Why don't they just get a hacker to fix it instead then? Running off to some abandoned construction site is mind blowingly shit decision making." 

“Mhm,” he takes a long slurp of his soda, and then wolfs down a handful of fries. Gojo’s stomach truly is bottomless. "The one with the bad hair cut is definitely dying for it too." 

The two main characters end up finding the torture chamber, and after a whole lot of uncomfortably perverted exposition into the serial killers kinks, the main character dies, and the lady who manages to survive get’s an eery staticky telephone call at the end of the movie.

“Wow. By far the worst route they could've taken," Gojo tears a chunk out of a doughnut. "Ten out of ten." 

You burst out into a cackle. “You enjoyed the fake out at the end?" 

“That was the best part. After releasing her spirit, you think she’s finally at rest. But nope! Turns out she’s capable of implanting herself into phone lines despite it never being an established ability prior to the literal end of the movie." He whistles, shaking his head. "Low-budget horror movies really are a monster of their own.”

“And a totally reasonable way to spend your Christmas Day.”

Gojo nods his head a dozen times. “For sure. M’telling Suguru ‘bout this. He'll love this movie.”

You frown, but don’t say anything. You’re not really sure why the idea of him telling Suguru bothers you so much. Hell—he’d probably be ecstatic to know you’re actually getting along. It's not an digestible line of thinking, so you tuck it away.  

Gojo lets out a long-suffering sigh and sinks further down onto the carpet until his chin is nearly touching his chest. He looks like one of those goofy panda's half asleep in a tree. It's almost cute.  

“I think you’re going into a food coma." 

“No m’not,” he rigidly shakes his head. “I’m just relaxed. You should try it.”

“I am relaxed."

He cracks open one eye and gives you a look. "Pssh. Yeah right. Why are you sittin' like that?"

You blink, looking down at your folded knees. "Like what?"

"Like you're bowing at some ceremony. Doesn't that shit hurt ya back?"

You scoff. "No, it doesn't. I have good posture, Gojo. That doesn't equate to uncomfortableness." 

"Good's one word," he mutters, almost under his breath.

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothin'. It's just somethin' Suguru bugs me about." 

You raise an eyebrow. You expected him to fire back something equally vexing, but it seems the sugar crash has made him a little loose lipped. 

“Why would Suguru bug you about my posture? That's..." you don't have the words to describe how out of left field it sounds.  

Gojo doesn't seem all that confused. He takes the last bite out of his doughnut, and sits back onto his elbows. “When I was a kid, I got all these rules drilled into me about etiquette. Sit up straight, never slouch—shit like that. ‘Cause, y’know, apparently every Six Eyes user in history has to act a certain way. Be a certain way,” he presses at his eyes, stretching out the skin. “Speak with purpose, walk with purpose…” he glides his hand out in a graceful motion. “Just sit there and…I’dunno. Just sit there. Be powerful, but be obedient.”

“After a while, I realised it was bullshit. Their rules and traditions, it's all a fucken hoax. I started doin’ my own thing. They hated it, but they couldn’t do anything to stop me," he tilts his head at you, gesturing to your body. "Whenever Suguru see’s you do stuff like that—the posture, the mannerisms, the politeness—he thinks it's funny."

“That I remind you of your horrible clan and it's outdated principles?”

“Eeegh, when you put it like that, it makes it sound really bad." He shuffles forward to sit up, turning to face you head-on. "It’s more like…they’d want me to be more like you, not that you remind me of them." 

“Oh.”

He's so close to you that his breath fans over your cheeks. It smells like artificially flavoured soda. You can only hold his stare for a moment, and then your eyes duck down, drawing to your folded lap. 

"Suguru calls it discipline," he says. "But really, it's just training."

Like dogs, goes unsaid.

You press your lips together, fighting off the urge to look at Gojo. This is the second time he’s mentioned something about his family. You’re getting a much clearer picture into what his childhood may have been like. It explains a lot, but at the same time, it creates more questions.

You do know exactly what he's talking about this time though. Coming from a small, forgettable jujutsu household did not prevent those same traditionalist values from being branded into your being. You were taught, like most are, how to act, how to speak. How to be.

Perhaps Gojo saw your existence as an act of regression. 

"It's one of the reasons I didn't like you," he says simply. "I thought you were just some clan puppet. A nobody." 

You stare at him, digesting his words. 

Gojo being loose-lipped isn't as enlightening as you thought it was going to be. Robbed of their usual snickering meanness, his words cut deeper, and sink further. Knowing when he says them he truly means them this time, without any intention of offence. Just truth. 

A puppet. 

A nobody.

You’re not sure why you’re angry. Gojo is always like this. The onus is definitely on you for getting all upset about it. In a way, he's right about it too. To him, you were a nobody. It would've been easy to assume you were a production of clan traditions. Quiet, unassuming, entirely incapable of interaction. The porcelain doesn't reflect the inside, after all. Maybe Suguru was right. That in some convoluted may, Gojo had tried to get help you by telling you to leave.

Being a sorcerer is probably going to get you killed. He knows it. You know it. And yet, he's still willing to get close to you. Or close enough.

So maybe you've engineered your own destruction by siding with the higher up's this time around. Or maybe everything was meant to happen this way. But you know, above anything else, that you're not the same. Something's shifted inside, and sometimes it feels like you're bleeding. Or flying. 

Gojo's just dug it out from beneath your skin.

"Beware; for I am fearless," you breathe out, lifting your head to meet his gaze.

Gojo's eyes widen, and his expression shifts to something far more alert. His eyes seem to burn, digesting everything in a fraction of a moment, completely absorbed in pretence and implication. He was no doubt expecting malice in return, because that's how things always are between you. 

"And therefore powerful," he finishes, his voice the lowest you've ever heard it.  

You try not to let your anger fracture inwards, but you’re not sure if you’re doing a good job.

Chapter Text

"One person coming back from the dead this year would've been enough for me," Shoko murmurs, flicking the edge of her cigarette. "All this paperwork is such a pain..." 

You raise an eyebrow. "I'd say the circumstances are a little different."

Shoko turns from leaning against her desk. “I’m obligated to agree with you, except for the fact that as far as everyone else’s concerned, you were just as dead as Itadori up until twelve hours ago.” 

There's a slight edge to her voice, one that's uncharacteristic of the Shoko you used to know. The emphasis on used. Although many things about her have remained the same; her darkened eyes, the bruised skin beneath them and her general uncaring demeanour, she has changed. Her bedside manner has definitely gotten better, and she seems a little more gentle with her words when it comes to the students. Dealing with the corpses of mutilated children has certainly dulled some part of that, but you can't decide which yet.  

You wonder if she ever thought her life would filtered down into these kinds of conversation.

Maybe she’s always known.

That would make her far more alert than you. 

You run your pen along the questionnaire sheet, answering the final question. "Itadori revived himself pre-autopsy. At least I saved you from doing that. And I’m finishing your paperwork for you." 

"Technically you didn't," she says, her tone flattened back down. 

"Meaning?" 

There's a moment of silence, and then she turns away, staring at the wooden shelf behind her. Your first instinct is to watch her body language carefully, but you catch yourself before it turns into a paranoid exit strategy. You can’t view her adversarially. This is Shoko. She's not an enemy. There are no ulterior motives here.

She shifts her wrist to tap the end of her cigarette ash into the tray. "I had to examine your remains." 

You tilt your head at her. "What remains?" 

She shrugs, taking another slug. "A burnt body, which looking back, makes sense. I had to pick out the remnants of your bones and catalogued them. Guess they knew if I'd had more to work with, I would've figured it out." 

A stone feels like it's rolled down your throat. You hadn't expected that.

Why would you? 

"How pragmatic," you mutter, scratching at the side of your face. "I didn't know that they had my death faked to that degree." 

"You think we would've accepted a note instead?" 

You open your mouth to respond, and then realise you're not quite sure what you're saying. Shoko's eyes sharpen, and she shifts further across her desk. You look down at the table, and then around, trying to escape her gaze. 

She huffs. "You're more comfortable with signing off on your own death certificate than entertaining the idea of people caring about you?" 

"Did you at least pick out a nice urn for me?"

She sighs, seeing the diversion for what it is. "I did, actually. I got Yaga to paint a red spider lily on it. Y'know how he gets with craft projects."

You stiffen in your seat. 

She takes your silence as confusion. 

"You like those flowers, right?" 

You nod, your chest filling up with what feels like a typhoon of oxygen. Until now, you’d back-pedalled the idea of everyone accepting your death as reality. It seemed stupid. You’d been alive the whole time, so why put any merit into a lie?

It hadn’t really sunk in, not until now.

People mourned you.

People grieved you. 

What were you supposed to do with that?

How were you supposed to feel? 

An entire fracturing existence dedicated to grief, while you were off getting high and passing out in random places. 

Shame digs into the sides of your ribcage. 

"Not like it matters," Shoko says, breaking your train of thought. "People change. You certainly have. A lot." 

"Changed as in alive?"

"Yeah, but also everything else."

A waft of smoke hits you full in the chest. You turn your cheek, trying your best not to breathe it in. "Everything else?"  You already know what her answer is. People always phrase it that way when they don't know how to bring attention to it. Of course you're different, everyone is, but you haven't changed in the way they probably prefer.  

"You dress better," Shoko says matter-of-factly. "Still kept the boots though." 

That's the kind of response you'd been expecting. You huff out a laugh. "And you kept the lab coat. I guess hospital white suits you." 

Her lips stretch into a small, almost creepy smile. A Shoko smile. 

"I saw your tattoo," she says, taking another puff. "Nice. Very fine line work."

"You saw that?" 

"Doctors job, unfortunately. I had to take off your shirt to get to the nasty bits. It was that or you die."

"Guess I prefer you seeing my tits then."

"Glad you're no longer a prude," she says dryly, flicking the edge of her cigarette. "Became a bit of a thrill seeker in Australia, huh?" 

Your heart stutter-steps. That's...there's no way her reversal can pick of things like that? Your eyes somehow find their way to her ash tray, which is lined with an obscene amount of stubbed cigarettes. You know she use's reversal to heal her lungs. Could that extend itself to other forms of addiction? Could she see the damage it’s done?

Your fingers curl into your palms, sweat already breaking out in the webbing of your fingers. "What makes you say that?"

“Morbid curiosity."

You don't know where she's going with this, so you remain silent.

She leans over the table and swipes at the paperwork you did. "Just noticed some scar tissue is all. Lots of it, actually. My technique unintentionally mended what it could, but as you well know, once something scars, it imprints itself on the soul. I figured with the way the vectors lined up, you've probably been doing some crazy shit over there." 

No. 

Dread drapes itself over you like a warm breath. This is worse than her bringing up your addiction. So much worse in every single way. 

"The spinal injury..." she starts. "The amount of force required to break your back...it would've been excruciating." She looks at you expectantly, and suddenly you remember that you've always been particularly bad at lying to Shoko. 

"Is there supposed to be a question here?" 

Her eyebrows furrow. "Why didn't you retire?”

You’re silent. Disbelieving. And so she continues. 

“It would've taken years of physical therapy to get anywhere close to the mobility you had before. Any decent medical professional would've told you to quit. So why haven't you?" 

Your shoulders wind back so far you feel a tendon spasm. "I..." your voice scratches to a halt, your mind voiding your lies until the truth is all that replays. You can't explain this, not now, not while you're like this. There's too much time between you to make sense of something you barely acknowledge at the best of times. 

You take a deep breath, and stand up. "I should go. It was nice seeing you, Shoko."

The disappointment that sweeps across her face is immediate. Her chair scraps against the floor as she stands up. "Akari I didn't mean..." 

You crack the door open with your boot tip, an ache working it's way between your ribs. "It's nothing." 

You hear the sound of papers fluttering back down to the table. "I just wanted to help." 

"You helped enough." 

The door rattles behind you on your way out. 

You remember that change is a constant, but it also works in circles.

Somehow, your friend has become a stranger, and you have become one to yourself. 

Working in circles, bandaging instead of solving. 

At least Shoko works with the absolutes. 

The story they come up with amongst themselves is to keep the Goodwill incident a secret. Which, in some form, means keeping you a secret. In order to prove you're not a dangerous criminal, you've agreed that in exchange for preserving the evidence of your contract—which you’re sure has been ripped to smithereens at this point—you will be granted some level of immunity within campus grounds. So really, what you’re doing is directly opposing the idea of secrecy.

They let you go after Shoko clears you medically and Yaga vets your story with some mysterious airport contact he has. You’re not sure how someone confirming that you did in fact come to Japan via a plane has cleared your name. You sense a little bit of bias has slipped in somehow despite Yaga’s surly demeanour, and it makes your skin warm a little.

Old fool.

What if you had been a deadly assassin?

You suppose them letting you roam free on campus is a test?

You’re not sure if it’ll prove anything though, considering you find yourself utterly lost within the first four minutes of walking. The deja vu you’re hit with is not the soft, nostalgic type. It just plays on your already frayed nerves and lack of sleep, turning every veranda into a woozy, kaleidoscopic maze. Nine years later and you’re still ambling around like some helpless faun, completely directionless.

You don’t have time for any of this. Mem is probably hiding up in some tree cursing your name to the high heavens.

You angrily buy a soda from the vending machine, which props up your glucose levels just enough for you to see in a straight line. You’re just about ready to give up on this mess and use your technique to leave, when Gojo materialises next to you.

“Ya lost?”

“Fucking hell—!”

You nearly crush the can in your hand he spooks you so bad.

You turn around, mustering up just enough strength to glare at him. He’s still got the black blindfold on, but from his smile alone you can tell he’d planned to scare you. Maybe he was hoping you’d spray coke all over your face, and have to waste even more time miserably cleaning yourself up.

Your fingers tighten around the aluminium. “You were watching me?”

He gasps. “Not in that way, you pervert. I got bored. Thought I’d do my duty as a school representative and help out.”

Your fingers crush the can tighter. “How noble of you.”

He grins. “Right?”

You turn, skull down the rest of your soda and slam it into the oncoming rubbish bin as you pass it.

“Hey! You know you’re still going the wrong way, right?!”

“Anywhere far from you isn’t wrong,” you shoot back.

You hear him laugh, and then he’s suddenly in front of you again.

“Get out of my face, Gojo.”

“Awhh,” he pouts. “Don’t be like that. I know you missed me.”

“Missed you?”

“Mhm. I bet you thought about me all the time. Laying awake in bed, looking up at the moon. Ah, I wonder what Gojo-sama is doing right now? He’s so handsome and strong and amazing.”

“Not once in my life have I ever called you that.”

“I’d be cool if you did though.”

“Another one of your weird messiah-complex fantasies?”

“Weird?” He sounds offended. “They’re hot.”

You grit your teeth together. You’re not sure why you’d even considered the possibility of Gojo maturing. He’s still doing this same old song and dance. Flirting and insulting you in the same breath. His words are wrapped in a thousand little prickles of subversion and innuendo, watching and waiting for the eruption.

You swerve around him, shoving your hands deep into your pockets so he can’t see how tightly wound your fists are. You know with Six Eyes, shit like that is pointless, but you refuse to give him free ammunition.

Gojo tilts his head at you, and then takes three quick steps to catch up to you. His nearness makes you swerve, taking off down some dirt trail. After a moment, you realise that the path seems familiar.

“This is so weird…” Gojo hums, rocking slightly from side to side as he walks.

“What’s weird?” You grumble.

“Oh y’know. Seeing you…talking to you. All that,” he laughs suddenly.“I mean…I totally thought you were dead!” He makes a little show of running a finger along his neck. “Good thing I didn’t blast your head off by the river huh? That woulda been awkward.”

For who, exactly?

“I’m surprised your Six Eyes didn’t recognise me,” you mutter.

He shrugs. “S’not like I keep an encyclopaedia on all the different cursed energies I bump into. Haven’t seen you in yonks. You look different. You’ve…filled out.”

Your neck snaps as you turn to look at him. His expression is hard to read with the blindfold on, but you get the sense that this some kind of test. He’s throwing out as many provocative, insane statements as he can to see what makes you react. It’s like he’s recalibrating all those buttons he’d gotten so used to pressing. In this specific instance, you guess he expects you to become a little shy, or insecure. Stomp your feet and wail out some insult like would’ve when you were fifteen.

“Ditto,” you simply say, keeping your eyes firmly on the path ahead.

He stops walking, disappearing from view. For a second, you think you’re free of him, but then he’s springing back into view. His lips pulled into a delighted smile.

“You think I’ve filled out, huh?”

You roll your eyes.

“You think I’m hot."

"I didn't say that."

"You thought it. I can tell. You're still thinking it right now." 

You scoff. “Are you that desperate for a compliment?”

“I live for praise,” he says, unfazed. “Now, start again, but go into detail. I want the really vivid fantasies.”

“The only fantasies I have about you are violent ones.”

He wriggles his eyebrows. “Didn’t take you as a the kinky type.”

“Kinky like cutting off your arms and feeding them to you?”

“Oooo! You’re gonna make me blush!”

Your fingers twitch in your pockets. “There better be a point to this conversation, Gojo, and you better get to it quickly.”

“As prickly as ever,” he sighs. “Maybe I just wanted to chat to an old friend.”

“Don’t lie to my face.”

“Okay,” he shrugs. “Only if you don’t lie to mine. You’re a terrible liar.”

“What exactly have I lied about?”

“That’s up for debate, but I’m talking about Yuji specifically.”

You’re taken aback for a second, hurt tingling across your throat. “You don’t really think—“

“Nonono,” he waves his hand at you, cutting you off. “Not about killing him, god. You’re too gutless for that.”

“…thanks?”

He leans into your personal space, and you reach your neck back, refusing to surrender a single step at his intrusion. He takes it further, his breath warming over your cheeks as his lips quite nearly brush yours. You expect some kind of bait, but he doesn’t say anything. He just hovers, staring.

When Gojo speaks, all the musicality is gone from his voice.

“Stop me if I’m wrong,” his smile is sharp, the playful pretence dropped. “Your energy isn’t fluctuating at all, so my first guess is you’ve gotten pretty good at the whole suppression thing. Explains how you snuck onto campus undetected, and why Mei-san crow’s were so easily picked off. But what I don’t get is the why,” he elongates the word, and you follow the shape of his lips, not knowing where else to look. “You had everything to lose and virtually nothing to gain from coming here. The higher up’s wouldn’t have cared if you died, shit like that means nothing to them, and you’re not stupid enough to not consider that. The only explanation for coming here is you needed something,” he pauses, and you can feel his stare running across your face, absorbing your reaction. “You needed it badly.  Enough to risk dyin’ for it.”

There’s a silence.

“You got all that from one lie?”

“Give or take a couple others,” he tilts his head at you, almost like he’s goading you to give him more.  “I haven’t gotten all the particulars yet—obviously, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with your technique. And don’t start spouting that crap about being curious, everyone knows that was bullshit." 

Your eyebrows lower, regarding him carefully. This is the attitude you’d initially expected from him, and it surprises you that he’s managed to catch you off guard in his approach. It seems in the time you’ve been gone Gojo has successfully learned how to underplay his intentions.

In the past, he’d never had any reservations about spreading his opinions or flaunting his strength. There was no need to hide anything. Subtlety had never been apart of his skill now set.

But now, you have to admit you’re kinda impressed. There’s an art to his flippancy; one that makes people take what he’s giving them at face value, assuming he’s fickle-minded and shallow. And then you miss the knife at your back. 

You strum your fingers against your arm. “If you’d already figured all this out, why’d you cut me lose?”

“A hope for basic human decency?” He suggests, looking bored. “I’dunno, it was Yaga’s idea.”

“And your running theory is that I got myself into this shitstorm on purpose because I’m planning some ultimate evil takeover?”

“Yah.”

You shake your head. “You really think I’d do something so self-serving? After everything that happened when we were in school?”

There’s a long silence.

Gojo stares at you. 

“Oh.”

That’s the point.

One that you’ve completely fucking missed.

He thinks you’re like him.

You turn around and keep walking, a lump of what feels like coal pushing itself down your throat.

You walk for a staggeringly painful minute. The only sound that permeates your thoughts are your own footsteps.

You expect that to be the end of it, but Gojo appears again, this time a little further away. Keeping space. 

He clears his throat. “Y’know…I burnt up one of those little papers for you."

You look at him over your shoulder. “Huh?”

He shrugs. “Yaga said I’d get haunted in the afterlife if I didn’t. He was real cut up about it.”

You turn back around so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.

Something in your chest burns, like the rocks dropped into your stomach and torn through everything to get there. 

Of course he wouldn’t have cared.

Of course.

You should’ve known.

You've just been deluding yourself with the past.

There’s an awful screeching sound as the taxi’s tyres spin, burning rubber against the asphalt. You watch it take off in a cloud of smoke, covering your mouth with your jacket as it swerves out of the driveway.

You don’t exactly blame your taxi driver for leaving immediately. This house has an awful aura. You can feel the effects of it swirling under the foundational concrete, creating a thick miasma along the garden beds.

You take your time getting to the front door, noticing that it’s already slightly ajar.

So you have company.

Wonderful.

You let out a long breath, staring at the slip between the door and the wall. No signs of forced entry. Perhaps it’s a surprise party. You straighten your spine and lean back, booting your heel into the door. It flies back and crunches into the wall, the doorknob cracking as it caves through the plaster.

Guess no one was stupid enough to hide behind the door.

You quietly enter, cautiously sending out a line of thread. The place feels empty, which is quite the feat. A place being completely devoid of cursed energy is infinitely more suspicious to you. It's akin to someone cleaning up a crime scene with molecular level cleaning supplies. No evidence; not even a strand of hair, or a fingerprint, signals intentionality. Whoever is inside has clearly been informed about your technique, and has been appropriately equipped with concealment devices.

You note that the lights are off. You press along the wall with your jacket pressed over your thumb, checking for thumbtacks or pins. It seems childish to consider, but you’ve been caught off guard by something as stupid as a trapped light switch before. As far as you’re concerned, the whole house could be trapped.

You flick the lights on and nothing explodes, which you take as a go-ahead. You slink down the hallway quietly, watching for shadows in the gaps beneath the doors. There’s no movement. Not even a breath of sound. You make it to the edge of the lounge room, looking for any signs of Mem when your phone starts ringing. Your body tenses, waiting for something to happen, but the room remains stagnant. You’d expected the ringing to be some sort of signal; a way to put you off guard.

But perhaps this is something else.

You carefully extract your phone from your pocket and answer.

There’s a silence.

“You failed.”

Oh for the love god.

Your fingers curl tightly around the edges of your phone. Rage surfaces, tingling to the tips of your lips, but you squash it down. Yelling will get you nowhere. Old, wrinkly men only respond to apathy. Hysterics—emotion—turns their brains to babbling mush. 

You take a breath. “I’ve temporarily contained Sukuna’s soul.”

“We don’t not ask for his containment.”

“You actually preferred outright killing the kid?”

Silence.

“You guys are unbelievable. Don’t have some mighty reputation to uphold? Or have you given up on that pretence completely?”

More silence.

“What did you talk about with Gojo Satoru?”

“You really do have a hard on for him, huh?” You turn and move towards the bedroom. “Why does it even matter what he said? It’s not like you guys are capable of doing anything about it, and you know that.”

“We have ways.”

You pause at the door, considering. You know Yuji’s fake death had been a consequence of intentionally—(or otherwise, it’s not like they cared to write that)—unleashing Sukuna at correctional facility. It had said his heart had been ripped out. You also know that their mission had been too much to handle, due to the presence of special grade cursed womb. In laymen's terms, utter bullshit. To have three first years go up against a special grade curse meant that reports of it’s sitings and danger level had been purposefully understated. They knew exactly what was waiting for those kids, and they’d been willing to kill two other first years to achieve it.

So they’re leveraging Gojo’s students as way of keeping him in line. Delightful.

“You will be extradited back to Australia,” the voice starts. “You will have no further contact with any sorcerers, especially Gojo Satoru. You will not be able to reach this line again. If you fail to comply to any of these commands—“

“Hold it,” you press your phone to your cheek as you walk into the bedroom. “Did you…go through my stuff?”

More silence.

Your suitcase is wide open, and your clothes have been dug through. You crouch down, flipping the suitcase top over. You palm your hand down into one of the unzipped pockets and feel around. Your fingertip touches the edge of a piece of paper and you pull it out. Another plane ticket—economy class, back to Australia.

And no letter.

So they stole back the letter back, but paid for your ride home? You drop the ticket on the floor. That seems like more trouble then it’s worth. Gojo and Yaga already know that the higher’s ups are more than capable of going through with the plan you described. You’re simply acting as a catalyst.

So why steal the letter? It won’t change anything. And they know that. What is it about the letter they’re so worried about? What is it that the higher’s ups know that Gojo and Yaga don’t?

Your fingers twitch around your phone.

Your domain.

They don’t want information about your domain getting out. Or better yet, the fact that you even have one.

“You will leave this place immediately,” the voice continues. “You will never return.”

“And how do you plan on enforcing that?”

You sense movement and turn, finding a man blocking the doorway. He’s pointing a handgun at you, his expression carefully neutral. You carefully pull your phone away from your ear, your eyes never leaving the assassin’s face. It feels like some awkward wild west stare down, except you’re gunless and standing over your ransacked luggage like a moron and he’s completely unruffled in his expensive-looking suit.

You press your thumb down onto the index finger of your free hand until you hear a crack in your knuckle.

He presses the trigger and a strange clicking sound follows. No bullet. His eyebrows furrow, and he tries again. Another dull clicking sound.

“Performance anxiety,” you shrug awkwardly. “Happens to the best of us.”

He goes to holster the weapon, but the gun falls apart in his hands. Pieces of metal hit the carpeted floor, shortly followed by the tink of bullets, one after the other. The assassins eyes grow wide with alarm, and he moves, grabbing at something on his hip.

You making a flicking motion with your finger and thumb and the assassin pauses mid-draw. It takes a moment for your technique to register, but then tiny little lines of blood start to form on his face. His skin shifts against the cut lines in a way human skin shouldn’t, and then his face starts to slide down.

He falls apart, cubed into tiny little pieces. You watch his flesh and clothes collapse in a heap, blood splattering onto your boots. You turn and zip up your suitcase, hefting it awkwardly into your arms as you take a large step over the puddle of remains.

You shuffle into the hall and find five more well-dressed, armed men in the lounge room. They look a little less confident then the other guy. You put your suitcase on the floor and kick it aside, not wanting to get any blood on it.

Someone jumps you from above, swinging down on you with a sword. Fucking shit. If he’d had a gun, you could get by using a single piece of thread to severe his spine, but with the sword aimed at your neck it means you’ll have to dice him. It’s a little complicated, but the wider an object is, the less effective a single strand of Sew is against it.

It's like a huge piece of jelly walking a tight-rope. It’s much more effective to just push the jelly through a grater. In this case, if you opt to cut the sword in half instead—the broken off bit could still very well kill you.

You flick a finger and the sword shatters, raining down tiny little bits of metal confetti on your head and shoulders. The unfortunate part about him being above you means that you get a bunch of blood and guts emptied onto your head.

You flinch, sealing your lips shut as the blood gushes down your face. Despite how many times you've done this sort’ve thing, but you will never get used to the feeling, or the smell. You rub angrily at your eyes, flicking the blood and bits of tuxedo fabric off your eyelids.

This would’ve been the perfect time for one of them to jump you, considering you’d been blinded, but they’re all just standing in place, staring. Your technique run’s through them just as quickly—and with arguably a lot less blood.  You don’t even have to move.

You return to your phone call.

“Y’know, sending a bunch of assassins to the house really makes it seem like you never intended on letting me leave.”

There’s a quiet.

You wonder if it’s surprise that silences them this time around.

Guess they didn’t do their homework.

“I knew you’d never accept our conditions,” the voice finally replies. “Kawakatsu thought you would be a suitable asset. We warned him that despite your obedience in the past, you could not be trusted. You’re unstable, and we do not have any use for sorcerers living beyond their means.”

“So you’re breaking up with me?”

The phone line dies.

Mem is fine.

Pissed off, but fine.

You found her hiding in a tree at the back of the property, and when you cooed at her to come down, she scratched the ever loving shit out of your hands and arms. Your attempts to explain to her that you hadn’t meant to be gone so long, and the evil guys in the house also weren’t part of the plan fell on flattened, angry ears.

She’s still glaring at you now from the bubbled space of her carrier. She looks so cute even when she’s mad, and you have to fight off visceral aggressiveness that surges through you when her pupils retract in the afternoon sun. You really want to pick her up and squeeze her, but you’re still covered in blood—which is now mostly dried—and you smell awful.

You veto’d the idea of showering at the boobytrapped assassin den, and you knew you couldn’t take a taxi back to school covered in a man’s…innards, so you’d used your technique—which turned out to be a terrible idea. If you could turn back time, you would’ve taken the taxi and just made up some lame excuse and paid for the guy’s detailing afterwards. It took you hours to get to Jujutsu Tech. Factoring in your exhaustion, abysmal levels of cursed energy and cargo, it felt like you were dragging a boulder behind you the entire way. You had Mem in her carrier on one arm, your suitcase in the other, and your backpack, all the while balancing on a moving tight rope.

Never again.

You trudge through the school in your half-wet clothes, your mood beyond irritated. The blood drying on your face has become like the worlds worst face mask. You desperately want to pick at it, but you know you’ll just make it worse. There’s gunk under your nails and bits of flesh sticking to your jacket and the heat is making everything sticky and disgusting. You’re almost grinding your teeth down into a powder your jaw’s so tense. The overstimulation is making you want to strangle something.

You glare up at the long stone staircase that leads to the main courtyard, and then a shadow glances over your body, blocking out the afternoon glare. You hear someone whistle at you from the top steps.

Gojo.

Rage trembles in your throat, but you don’t have the energy to ignite. It sits, stirring in your gut like a rattle snake. Your fingers twitch around your suitcase handles, the veins in your wrists becoming distended against the flex of muscle and tendon.

You watch the buffoon skip down the steps, waving his hands in greeting.

“Kanza—woAH!” Gojo stops short just of the first step, looking down at you, his mouth agape. “That’s a lot of blood!”

You stare at him frigidly. “I need to talk to Yaga.”

“Uhuh, uhuh,” he nods. “For sure.”

You take the first step, and he takes one back. “Ooo, that’s a smell.” He waves a hand over his nose. “You fall in a bloodied manhole?”

You ignore him, taking another step.

“Fight with your taxi driver?”

Another.

“A bad prom night? Ooo, ooo. I know!” He snaps a finger, and the sound reverberates painfully in your ears. “You got attacked by the Aka Manto and picked the red paper! You know you’re supposed to refuse the paper altogether, right?”

Angry thoughts claw at your tongue, biting at the edges of your lips, but your exhaustion washes over them in waves, lulling your brain back to a buzzing, flat line. A frequency so low you can’t even fathom the idea of forming the words in your head. They just brew inside you, repeating over and over, promising retribution.

A silence passes between you, curling in the humid air and sticking to your bloody skin. Gojo makes a distinctly awkward sound, somewhere between a hum and a cough.

“What’s with the cat?” He asks.

More silence.

“Why’d you bring it here?”

Nothing.

“Oi,” his voice lowers. “Pay attention to me.”

You turn on him in a flash, and he flinches back a step. If you had the energy, you’d feel triumphant in managing to catch him off guard. “Don’t you have students to teach?”

He grins at you, and you glower, realising you’ve fallen for another bait. “They’re all resting. Didn’t you hear? There was a violent attack on the school.”

“I’m not in the mood, Gojo.”

“Well aware,” he hums, and you catch an actual hint of irritation in his voice. “And if you weren’t being so difficult, this conversation could have already ended.” He leans forward, suddenly uncaring to how you smell. “Tell me what happened.”

You take a deep breath, weathering your nerves. “I got ambushed at the house. They took the contract and told me to go back home.” You flinch as the word leaves your mouth. Home. You hadn’t even meant to say that. It just slipped out.

Gojo notices. “And what’d you tell them?”

“To take a hike…more or less.”

His grin reemerges. “Good.”

You take the last step up into the courtyard and are given the tiniest whisper of a breeze in reward. You take another deep breath and straighten your back. Your legs are starting to ache, and there’s a tremor going down your arms. You know if you stop to take a break you’ll collapse, in front of Gojo no less.

“I’ll go talk to Yaga,” Gojo says suddenly.

You turn—ready to argue, but the man isn’t even looking at you, he’s on his phone. “You should go shower. I was not kidding about the smell.” He wrinkles his nose as he flicks at something on his phone screen. “Did you unspool some guys organs or somethin’?”

“Yes.”

He looks up from his phone and you can see the outline of his eyebrows rising.

“…really?”

You nod miserably.

“Hot.”

A delirious laugh escapes you. You want to fight the comment, but you know you need to pick your battles when it comes to Gojo.

“You know where the faculty dorm’s are, right?”

Your eyebrow’s flatten. Obviously not. You couldn’t even remember where the exit was.

He takes one look at your expression and sighs, pocketing his phone. “When I said I’d help you out, I didn’t think it’d mean playing tour guide.”

Your straighten up. “I can figure it out.”

“Nah. I’ll just keep thinking about how hopelessly lost you are and then I’ll have to deal with you passing out in some random bush, which Yaga will blame me for,” he scowls. Or is it a pout? You’re not sure. “Let’s get it over with now.”

Your face warms with irritation at how bored Gojo sounds. He takes a step towards you, and you fight off another tremor. Even with bone-deep exhaustion, his presence still sets you on guard. He notices that too, but mercifully doesn’t comment. He just grabs the edge of your jacket collar, a place that probably doesn’t have any guts on it, and warps you.

You blink, and you’re standing in front of a brown door in a low-lit hallway, spared from the sun’s harsh glare. Your shoulders immediately sag, nausea stirring in your gut. You sway sideways for a second as the delayed motion sickness hits you, your sweat slicked palms struggling to hold Mem’s carrier steady.

Gojo snorts at you, and then slowly wipes the fingers that had touched you against his jacket.

“I dunno about the pet policy,” he says mildly. “But I guess I can keep it a secret for now.”

“…thanks.”

“But you owe mee~!”

Instant regret.

“Have fun showering!”

You turn to let him have it, but he’s gone.

You open the door to the room, and a sweet burst of air-conditioning hits your hot, sticky skin. You groan softly, taking a moment to just feel the sensation. Mem starts to squirm in her carrier, so you quickly let her out, joining her in an investigation of the place.

It’s a lot nicer then you expected, and far more spacious then your old dorm. There’s a small bench area. It’s not big enough to be a kitchenette, which you suppose is intended. It’s just a nook of cupboards with a microwave and an electric kettle.

The door to your right goes into the bedroom, which has an unmade double-sized bed pressed against the back window. There’s a small wardrobe further down on the same wall with a couple freestanding clothing hooks imbedded above it. You suppose those are for uniform?

There’s a desk and chair opposite the bed, but no computer. Behind the open door is a small flat-screen television with a tiny couch. You’re impressed they even bothered with something like that. You’d think sorcerers only use these rooms as a place to crash between missions. It’s not like entertaining is a priority.

It’s got it’s own bathroom though, which you suspect was Gojo’s purpose for dropping you off here.

You march in and flick on every light switch, your mind already fluttering at the thought of being clean. A heat lamp turns on as well as an incredibly loud fan. You quickly strip off your clothes, which slap damply against the tiles, blood splattering the walls and vanity. You reach into the shower and crank the cold tap on. A harsh spray rushes out, and the water pressure immediately has you excited. You turn up the temperature a bit, knowing you won’t be able to get all the dried blood off with cold water alone.

There’s already some basic shower products set up on a metal wrack, so you don’t have to go hunting around in your suitcase. You step over the ledge of the bathtub and close your eyes as the water hits your head. The relief you feel is instantaneous, and you have to grip the wall as your legs wobble with another wave of exhaustion.

You let the water pelt over you, the dried blood peeling from your face is strips. It feels so good your mind wanders for a moment and you have to pull yourself back as sleepiness hits you. You shake your head and another bucket of water dumps at your feet, clumps of flesh getting stuck in the drain.

The water runs red for awhile, and once the colour tapers off, you squirt some shower gel into your hands and get to work, aggressively scrubbing yourself. You’re aware logically that the blood is only on your face and shoulders, but you clean everywhere. Your hair takes the longest, disgusting clumps of who knows what sticking between locks. You have to pull each piece of manually, and it takes what feels like an hour. By the end of it your biceps start to quiver, and you’ve lost all feeling in your fingers. 

When you step out, there’s not a spot of red on you. Just scarred flesh and dark bags looking back at you in the mirror. You dry yourself slowly, feeling dizzy from the steam. As you get changed, you notice you smell weird. It’s a mix of the gel in the shower and whatever fabric softener was used on the towels. It’s not a bad weird…it’s just different. 

You wander out into the bedroom, scratching at your stomach with a yawn. Mem is perched on the windowsill, looking out at the setting sun.

“S’nice, right?” You say through another yawn.

She turns slightly and glares at you.

“Awh, c’mon. You can’t be mad at me forever.”

She turns back to the window.

You slouch. It feels like everyone’s angry at you right now.

You sort out Mem’s  litter box, which is some evil contraption you paid way too much for at a pet store, and then set out a bowel of water and food. She hears the shaking of the dry food and jumps down from the windowsill, her bell tinkling as she trots up to the saucer. You let her eat in peace, flopping down onto the stripped mattress with a sigh.

You think about doing the sheets, but you pass out before you can even reach for the pillow.

Chapter Text

You wake up to someone banging on a door.

Your ears adjust to the noise at the speed of a glacier, a dull thud becoming a rattling drum. You make a noise, a weary, drawn-out moan as your senses come back in blotches. The sunlight from the back window hits your face, blinding you. You flinch, smushing your head back into the springy surface beneath you. Whatever you’re laying on has a strange texture, almost like a hard sponge.

You drift off for a moment, the sun on your back lulling you into a nebula between dreamland and reality. You’re half here and there, focusing on the smell of whatever you’re laying on. It’s the easiest of your senses to absorb.

There’s another noise. Someone is saying something, but it’s muffled through the wall. You shift onto your side and slowly open your eyes again. Instinct makes you imagine your apartment back in Melbourne, but as soon as your eyes adjust, you recognise that this is not your apartment. Your surroundings are completely foreign.

Where are you?

You shoot up from the unmade bed, dizziness causing you to overcorrect and nearly fall off the bed. You’re wearing something simple. A white tee-shirt and some sweatpants. Perfect psychiatric ward attire. Is this one of those lucid dreams? Do you have to wander around an abandoned facility looking for incomprehensibly placed clues to escape?

You hear a soft trilling noise and turn, finding Mem sitting on the edge of the bed staring at you.

“Is this real?” 

She tilts her head at you, annoyed yet questioning, and turns around to preen herself.

Real. You’re in a real Tokyo Tech dorm room. In a real bedroom with a real mattress.

You angrily rub at your face. You must’ve passed out last night. You look down at the spot where you’d fallen asleep. There’s a damp circle from where your wet hair had pooled against the fabric. It’s an unmade bed with no sheets or blankets. Not even a pillow. It’s not close to the worst place you’ve slept, but you still feel disorientated.

There’s another knock at your door.

You take a deep breath and get to your feet, navigating the foreign room in a daze. You don’t even think to check your appearance before you open the door. There’s a navy and white blur standing in the doorway, and you have to rub your eyes to get rid of the morning glaze.

“…Gojo?”

He smiles at you immediately. Then his chin dips, no doubt taking in your appearance, and his lips shift into a full-blown manic grin. “Cute bed hair.” 

You rub at your eyes again. “What time is it?”

His mouth opens slightly, like he’s surprised by your non-reaction. He’d probably been expecting something acerbic to launch out of your mouth, and was absolutely ready for it. 

“Twelve thirty,” he says after a moment of readjustment.

The silence stretches between you as you digest the information. 

“Shit. I was supposed to talk to Yaga.”

“You absolutely were. Glad you remembered."

You press your palms into your face, trying to shock some urgency into your brain, but it remains just as sluggish when you pull away. You step back into your room, already running through the steps it'll take to get ready in minute. 

Gojo clears his throat, reminding you that he is, in fact, still standing at your door. 

"Did you really sleep that entire time?”

You scowl at him. “Not everyone can run on coffee and jellybeans.”

“Jellybeans?” He looks horrified. “I haven't had a jellybean since I was like...four! What kinda abysmal candy do they have in Australia?" 

Oh. That’s right. Gojo’s always been a sweet fiend. You're suddenly hit with the memory of him eating an entire peanut-butter and chocolate crepe cake in the mess room, and Suguru annoyed voice complaining about the crumbs he was spilling all over the couch. He'd devoured the thing in ten minutes flat, and was completely off his dial for the rest of the day.

You’re not sure how you forgot that.

But then again, you do.

“Earth to Kanzaki…”

You blink at him. “Huh—what?”

Gojo leans forward to press a finger into your forehead. “Pay attention.”

You swat him away. “I just woke up.”

“And who’s fault is that, hm?” He hums. “While you were sleeping the day away, Yaga got busy. I’m here to relay some information on the boss man’s behalf.”

“You playing messenger boy?”

“I’m getting a faint hint of skepticism in your tone, which is really just hurtful. I am more than capable of completing any teacher-related task assigned to me.”

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“And it gets me out of setting up equipment for the event.”

There it is.

You frown. “I thought you would’ve cancelled that given the absolute catastrophe that happened yesterday.”

“It wasn’t an absolute catastrophe. I—for one—was a badass.”

“They stole three special grade cursed wombs, Gojo.”

"But no one died!"

You stare at him.

"None of the students died," he amends, bowing his head slightly in a show of respect. 

Your lip curls in disgust. "You are sick."

“C’monnn,” he groans. “Don’t pretend you actually care about that.”

“I'm not pretending." 

He snorts. "I seriously doubt all those years you spent getting battered around overseas magically changed your tune on the Jujutsu system." 

Your throat spasms with rage, words biting against the back of your teeth to get out. Your eyes narrow on Gojo's expression. The utter delight brushed across that crooked smirk of his. You quickly close your mouth, recognising the bait for what it is. You’re getting yourself into another one of these childish, pointless tennis matches with him—the kind of shit he absolutely craves. 

"Got nothing to say, huh?" 

“I don’t have to prove myself to you. Just because I didn't know them doesn't mean their deaths don't deserve respect, but I understand if that's hard for someone like you to grasp." 

"Someone like me?"

"You're incapable of respecting anyone, especially in death."

"I respected yours." 

That catches you off guard, mostly because of how delusional Gojo sounds. "You think that's respect? Burning a piece of paper because some else told you to?"

He sighs, like the conversation is suddenly dragging on him. “Okay. I think we're getting a little of track—"

“You are such a dick."

"And you're taking this too personally," he says. "The exchange event could've gone better, yeah, but no one in a million years was ever gonna believe you came here to save some kid you've never met. You're not the bleeding-heart type, Kanzaki."

Your nostrils flare. "You don't know me enough to guess what type I am, asshole. And if I hadn't put my life on the line, they'd have six of Sukuna’s fingers." 

”Whaddya want? A gold star?”

You scoff softly. "You're so inside yourself you don't even see what I'm getting at. While you were off being a ‘badass’, you got robbed. They specifically planned for that—they put you in a situation where they knew you’d choose combat. They made the veil a priority to stroke your ego and draw you away from the cursed tools. They’re planning these attacks with you in mind. And because I was never apart of their plan—“

You can see the light finally hit him as you're speaking. "You caught them off guard,” he finishes. You watch him go through what is probably a thousand thoughts in the span of a couple seconds. He suddenly laughs, the grin returning to his face. “Guess that whole ‘death’ shtick is pretty fortuitous now. You’re an unknown quantity. They’re probably scrambling trying to find information on you.”

"Not so unknown anymore." 

He tilts his head at you, intrigued. “No?”   

"The patchwork curse knows my technique is weak against his, even if he doesn’t understand it.”

Gojo looks confused for a second, but then he makes an ‘ohhh!’ sound, wagging his finger. “Right, righhht, ‘cause your threads are connected to your body.” 

“You forgot that?"

He shrugs at the accusation, like it means less than nothing to him. Which it probably does. 

Because if you’re not powerful like Gojo, he loses interest. He’s like a magpie with shiny things.

Your shoulders drop, your battery for entertaining his bullshit already flatlining.

“So,” you start. “Yaga?”

His shoulders drop a little. “Oh, yeah. He wants you to meet him over near the sports field.”

You make a face. If it was that brief a message, surely it could’ve been a note tucked under your door. Not a verbal assault.

“Okay,” you swallow slowly. “I’ll just go get my shoes,” you move to close the door and Gojo’s foot juts out, stopping it.

You give him a look. “What?”

“You might wanna change your clothes while you’re at it.”

“…what’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Nothing really. But y’know how old timers are, tradition and what not. I don’t think they’d appreciate you without a bra on as much as I do.”

You look down at your body. The edges of your tee-shirt have been pulled taut around your waist, the fabric unintentionally cupping the underside of your chest. Heat warms at your neck. Just what you fucking need.

You slam the door in his face and hear his laughter echoing in the hall.

You put on a different shirt with a bra this time, and repeat the same denim shorts and stockings combo from yesterday. There’s still some blood on your boots, but it’s not nearly as bad as your jacket, which you’re suddenly realising you’ll have to go without for your meeting with Yaga.

It causes a minor issue.

By minor…well—you spend half an hour scrubbing it in the bathtub with shower gel, desperately trying to get rid of the stench. But afterwards, it just ends up smelling like a mix between rotten meat and artificial lemon, which causes a tiny upset to your routine.

You stand in front of the mirror, picking at the ends of your tee-shirt, trying desperately not to stare at the stitched scars on your elbows. This is what the jacket, choker and the stockings are for. They cover the evidence of a longwinded story you’re sick of telling people.

It’s not that you hate your scars—not anymore at least—you’re just done with the rehashing it over and over. And when you don't explain yourself, people tend to runaway with ideas. 

You’ve struggled with it for years. Avoiding cameras and ducking out of photos. Feeling nervous and out of place in large groups: not wanting to be noticed or perceived. Refusing mirrors and skating by on an abysmal sense of fashion. It’s not really that you detested your appearance, it’s more that once you’d been presented with it, you became weirdly fixated. Dragging out every flaw and drilling it into your mind.

Your scars have always been painfully obvious. The skin around the stitching is thick and discoloured. Some parts are lined with taut webs of tissue from where your limbs had been forced back together unevenly. The stitches are just as sensitive as the day you got them. Especially around your neck. On a bad day, it feels like even sunlight hurts to touch them. It’s why you’ve gone to so much effort to create a style that conceals them.

And now, with the summer heat bearing down on you, you have to choose between overheating or exposing them. 

Sweat forms on your hairline, a warning to what you’re assuming is a panic attack. Maybe you should just wear the jacket anyway; wet and smelling like a half-cleaned murder scene. 

You are so fucked.

You dig around in your backpack for your sunglasses and awkwardly step out of the flat, feeling naked without your jacket. You don’t know what to do with your hands, so you shove them into your pockets, trying to work the rise out of your shoulders.

From where the faculty dorms are, you recognise some of your surroundings. You take a couple wrong turns, but eventually make it to the edge of the sports field. To your absolute horror, it’s crawling with students. You hesitate, thinking about ducking back behind a tree, but it’s already too late. A couple heads turn towards you. They’re wearing pads and helmets.

Don’t they have individual battles today? What’s the the baseball get-up?

Clearly someone has purposefully mislead you about today’s events. Your teeth grind together, dotting between heads until you find the asshole responsible. He looks completely different from a half an hour ago. He’s wearing what can only be described as the world’s most luxurious work shirt, and the sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows. He’s ditched the blindfold in favour of some presumably fully blacked out sunglasses, which makes his hair fall in a way that is distractingly familiar.

You contemplate hurling a baseball bat at his head. 

You’d been struggling to reconcile with the idea of one person seeing your bare arms. Not an entire herd of children. And Gojo has unknowingly dumped you straight down the ice cold deep end.

You search between the heads and find Yaga. He gestures to one of the benches that’s—thankfully—much further away. But to get to the bench, you’re forced to walk the length of the field. Panic grips your chest, and your fingers press at the seams of your pockets. So many eyes. So much judgement. You remember what you were like at sixteen; all or nothing with bouts of volcanic rage or frosty apathy. You wouldn’t have cared about staring.

You focus on the bench ahead of you, not letting your gaze to stray.

“I know you!” Someone in a helmet says.

You give them a sidelong glance and realise it’s Itadori Yuji. He starts waving at you, drawing attention from every other student on the field. Your body goes through several stages of pained shock. You decide that waving is a terrible idea, and recentre your gaze, flat-out ignoring him. Yuji visibly deflates at your reaction, earning a raucous laugh from his classmates and teacher alike. It makes you feel like an asshole. 

You speed walk the rest of your way over to Yaga and plant yourself down on the bench, hiding behind his broad shoulders.

“Satoru did not inform you the students would be here.” 

"No. He didn't." 

Yaga turns to face you, his body no longer blocking the sun. You tilt your head sideways, trying to get back into his shadow, but the position is uncomfortable. You lean back, pushing your sunglasses further up your nose.

“If it bothers you, you should try waking up on time.”

“I was tired, Sensei.”

His jaw shifts slightly at the title. “You need to take better care of yourself. I know you haven’t eaten anything today. Or yesterday.”

Your stomach gives a soft twist and you sit up straighter on the bench. You’d been so preoccupied trying not to die multiple times that hunger completely left the stratosphere of survival. You don’t even feel hungry now, which sends a hot spike of panic through your chest. Your appetite hasn’t been the same since the oxycodone.

You’re aware this is just a symptom of a symptom, but the fact you hadn’t even noticed it concerns you beyond words. You’ve always been vigilant about your meals. These past forty four hours has just been…chaotic.

Yaga’s eyebrows lower contemplatively.

“You seem bothered by your arms,” he says

“I—“ you start and stop, pulling your lips between your teeth. “I overthought it. I was worrying about the stitching. I'm not really in the mood to explain so I..." you gesture to the field, not wanting to speak the words aloud. 

"You're not obligated to explain anything," Yaga says. "They’ll forget about it in a couple minutes. The competition will sharpen their focus.”

You’re inclined to disagree, but you don’t know these kids at all.

Yaga folds his arms over his chest and turns to. “We’re not doing individual battles this year.”

“I noticed,” you say. “How come we never got to play baseball?”

Yaga’s jaw flexes. “Evidently, someone put a slip into the choosing box.”

You tilt your head at him, a smile playing at your lips. “Someone, huh?”

Your eyes drift back to the field, to Gojo, who’s swinging a whistle lanyard around his finger. Two kids are arguing behind him. One of them takes off their helmet and throws it on the grass, causing an immediate retaliation from the Kyoto students. Gojo merely grins, letting them fight amongst themselves.

Your irritation softens watching it play out. If Yaga and Gakuganji had it their way, those kids would be beating the ever loving shit out of each other in the name of poorly supervised competition. You admire and respect Yaga, but he’s still the same hard-ass teacher he’d been when you were at Jujutsu High. When it comes to training young sorcerers, he holds no sentimentality for school experiences.

Gojo’s not so anonymous decision to let the event continue by playing baseball of all things is so…Gojo. It’s still a physical competition, which is in line with the event rules, it’s a nonviolent option. The kids get to air out their grievances, let off a little steam, while not getting gravely injured. The fact that Gojo actually considered all of that when he decided to sabotage the event is kind of…sweet.

You immediately cringe at the thought.

“Describe what happened yesterday,” Yaga starts. He’s never been one for preamble. “Try to be as objective as possible.”

You swallow thickly, your mouth tasting faintly of lemon shower gel. You explain what happened, careful not to linger any singular part for too long. The easiest way to keep a secret is tell as much of the truth as you can, omitting only the most important details. You don’t say a word about domains, steering the conversation towards the suited assailants and their awareness of your technique.

After you’re done, Yaga takes a moment to digest your information.

“Satoru seems to have embellished your story.”

You huff, curiosity biting at you. You really want to ask about it, but you know there are far more important things to discuss. You take a breath, feeling sweat start to form along your waistline. “Which story do you believe?”

Yaga turns to you, his sunglasses catching in the light. “It’s not a matter of belief. It’s a matter of truth. And you are not capable of lying to me, Akari.”

Him saying your first name sends a numbing jolt up your spine.  “It has been nine years, y’know. Maybe I’ve gotten better at it.”

He let’s out a rumbly snort.

“At least pretend to consider it,” you mutter, shoving his shoulder with your own.

He smiles slightly. “You are still you, as I suspected. Time only erodes external perceptions.”

That is oddly comforting, coming from him.

Yaga continues without missing a beat. “The only thing that remains as a talking point is the contract, and their reason for taking it.”

You shrug lightly.

“Perhaps it was a test,” Yaga says. “They sent those assassins as a means to judge your strength. Since you killed them with ease, it might’ve given them an idea of your informal ranking.”

“Like that even matters.”

“It does matter,” he says firmly.

“I know you think it does." 

Yaga's shoulders tighten, and he turns to face you. “You don’t believe the ranking system is necessary?”

You sigh. “That’s an oversimplification. I think categories are important when it comes to defeating curses, just not sorcerers. There are so many useful cursed techniques out there that get roadblocked from promotion because they’re not intrinsically offensive. Look at Utahime-san. Being able to increase someone’s cursed energy output is insane. But she’ll never be considered powerful. Just…helpful.”

Yaga’s quiet for a moment. “That’s true.”

You make a 'see what I mean' gesture. 

"Has living abroad changed your view on many Jujutsu principles?"

"More or less. You know better than anyone how much I hate traditionalist. Being banished just opened my world view even further. Overseas, simply being able to see curses means you’re a sorcerer. And because they’re so few and far between, people get desperate. It’s…” you trail off, lost for the words. There’s so much you could say. Too much. “I was one of the lucky ones, if you can believe it. I had a developed technique to work with and a basic understanding of cursed energy. But to them, I was like a goddamn special grade.” You shake your head. 

“These people—intuitions, they don’t have thousands of years of historical context to understand the intricacies of techniques. When the majority of curses are formed here and grow here, there’s no hope of educating a mass that barely understands it’s existence. No clans. No rule books. It’s just a bunch of people running around guessing what works while people's lives are on the line." 

Yaga takes a breath, digesting the information.

“Is that why you decided to return?”

You straighten up, the soapy taste in your mouth turning bitter. “You make it sound like I had a choice. Leaving was the lesser evil. That, or my death wouldn’t have been so greatly exaggerated.”

There’s more. So much more, but you’ve barely been able to stomach thinking about it, let alone speaking the thoughts aloud. Your heart clunks, pushing around what feels like iron staples. You push it down. You can’t acknowledge it, not now with everything so fresh. With all your dreams so close and so far. Your eyes begin to ache, and you resist the urge to rub them beneath your sunglasses.

“I meant the school,” Yaga says. “This is a foundation of values you reject. Why would you risk it?”

“The kid,” you flick a hand out, gesturing to him across the field. He must have a sixth sense, because his head immediately turns to look at you. This time you give him a short wave, which he returns enthusiastically. “They wanted to kill a kid, Yaga. My moral standards might’ve slipped since the last time you saw me, but this goes beyond that.”

“I don’t doubt that. But waging a political war against Jujutsu officials—all for the sake of a boy you’ve never met before—goes beyond ignorant heroics. You must have had a purpose for endangering yourself so earnestly.”

Your eyebrows furrow. Is really so hard for anyone to believe you'd do the right thing? The flat-out scepticism ribs against your side with every repeat, like a warning siren you can’t escape. 

You’re not the bleeding heart type. You wouldn’t put yourself in danger for a kid. You have to get something out of it, right? Every instance hammering home the same sentiment; you’re not capable of it. You’re not Gojo Satoru. You don’t get to play saviour for the sake of it. You’re just a gun-for-hire rummaging up her pay check. 

And shit, they’re probably right. 

“I knew I could help Yuji with Sukuna’s expression. So I did,” you shrug. “There’s no big mystery to it. Wouldn’t you do something if you knew it would help?”

Yaga’s quiet for a moment. “…how? How did it help?”

You pause, staring out at the field. Gojo’s head shifts the slightest bit. With his sunglasses on, he could be looking anywhere, but you know he’s looking at you. You need to be careful with what you say here.

“You understand souls as much as I do. They’re a cortex of information, and because Sew is a direct conduit to my soul, on some level, I can understand other people’s information as well. It’s sorta like blindly palming your hand over an engraving. I can understand the makeup without physically seeing it. I was able to use my threads to suppress Sukuna’s soul from expressing through Yuji’s body. He's still in there, but Yuji won't have to hear his voice anymore.”

Yaga’s hands tighten on the fabric of his jacket. “That is…impressive.”

Normally, you’d try to draw out another compliment, or make one yourself. But with everything you’ve discussed, your anxiety about your scars and the lack of food in your stomach, you don’t have the energy for it. You’re entirely frazzled inside, riding this unending wave of exhausting situations, trying to navigate old relationships with new personalities.

“I have something to ask of you.”

You wait for him to start, but he doesn’t. You realise he’s waiting for your permission, which immediately stokes panic in your gut. If he’s taking this that seriously, you doubt he’s asking for a simple errand.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

“I’m not sure what else you’ve been planning in your time back, but with your unique understanding of Itadori’s situation, I am considering asking for your consultation while he remains at Jujutsu High."

“You want to…hire me?” You almost laugh as the words come out of your mouth. That was about the last thing you expected him to ask.

You’d always wanted to be a teacher. At eighteen, it had been your only goal, past living to see yourself graduate. You were only a third grade then, and you knew you wouldn’t be helpful when it came to missions. You thought helping shape a new generation of sorcerers could fulfil your sense of justice.

You quickly realised you were out of your depth to even consider it.

The weak don’t teach.

“You are—as of now—the only person who can accurately sense Sukuna’s soul within Itadori’s body, and potentially be able to recognise when they switch. Your technique would be invaluable in keeping him alive.”

You press your teeth together. Your technique’s never been called invaluable before. The landscape in which people talk about your grade, your technique and your cursed energy are so different here to overseas. You’ve been squished back down between the boot heels of big angry clan men. An inconsequential dot.

“So what,” the bitterness in your mouth has sharpened. “Like a canary in a mineshaft?”

“Exactly like.”

You scoff, leaning back on the bench with a slouch. “I’m not exactly qualified to be a babysitter.”

At all, really. Your time overseas hadn’t been sunshine and rainbows despite the lack of cursed spirits. You’ve done a lot things that wouldn't fly on a working with children's certificate. Hence why the higher’s up’s thought you’d be the perfect person to hire to murder a kid. That alone still bothers you, like a prickle’s been embedded in the centre of your back, and you can’t reach it. You don’t want to be that person. But you can’t hide your past either.

Also, the track record at Jujutsu tech isn't exactly a long list of morally equitable professionals. 

Yaga clears his throat. “I know. I'm aware of your…issue.”

You tilt your head questioningly. “Issue?”

“What would you call it?”

Oh. You bristle, realising that you and Yaga are not on the same page. He’s talking about something completely different, something that you’d pushed from your mind for this very reason.

You turn away, folding your arms over your chest. “I’d called it what it is. An addiction.” 

“I heard,” he says, his voice strained. “It was…because of an injury?”

Your mouth feels suddenly dry, and that kink in your back aches. “There’s only one Shoko in the world, and she’s here.”

There’s a tense silence.

Both of you stare ahead for a moment, watching the kids play baseball. 

Yaga shifts awkwardly, rubbing at the side of his cheek. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” your voice nearly cracks, and you have to pull yourself back. “I’m just…you don’t need to tip toe around it—especially if you want me to be Itadori’s babysitter.” You notice Gojo looking over at you again, and you turn on your side, hiding your mouth. That fucker probably knows how to lip read. “If you trust me to look after him, then I imagine you already know the worst of it. I'm not—“ you swallow, shaking your head. “I'm not gonna be like him." 

"Him meaning Satoru?"

"I'm not…” you struggle to get the words out. “—someone to look up to." 

Yaga’s jaw softens. “Is that really what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“I am not concerned with your past, Akari,” Yaga says quietly. “I know you’ve been sober for quite some time.”

The comment doesn’t comfort you. It sinks into your skin like a fiery talon, cutting through layers of muscle, sizzling into your blood. This…is not the person you ever imagined you’d become. Not the conversation you ever thought you’d been having with your teacher. A rush of shame hits you, and your eyes start to burn.

No. You won’t cry. Not now. Not in front of him.

“I’ll do it,” you say quickly, afraid if you linger too long your voice will quiver.

“You know by accepting this, you’ll be angering the higher up’s even more.”

You scoff breathlessly. “And?”

“There will be more attempts on your life. I can't guarantee your safety, not outside the boundary." 

A dull ache blooms behind your eyes. You fiddle with your sunglasses, banishing the thoughts that rise with them. 

“I can deal with it.”

He frowns, and then slowly nods. "I don't doubt it." 

The way he says it makes you feel even worse. 

Chapter Text

Your mood simmers on a familiar meniscus of anger as you stare at the vending machine. Either it still hasn’t been replaced after all these years, or the vending machines here have a vendetta against you. 

A soda drops into the tray and you bend down to fish it out, your back screaming at you the entire time.

Shoko's been known to work a miracle or two, but she was right when she said your back injury should've forced an early retirement. No amount of reversal can change a scar that's imprinted itself on your soul. Nor the pain that comes with it. 

Yaga told you he’d get back to you about the job offer once he smoothed things over with the higher up’s. You’d grimaced, dreading that conversation on his behalf. You can already imagine the pigheaded, patronising comments they’ll make. But you also know they’d be foolish to refuse the kind of offer Yaga’s proposing. They can't formally request your detainment or execution without outing themselves as the one's who facilitated your return, so they'll definitely try to backdoor it. You staying at Jujutsu Tech makes it much easier for them to track your movements; as well as Yuji’s. Perhaps they’ll consider taking out two birds with one stone.

You grin against the lip of your soda.

The idea of them marching down to campus with their faded hairlines and impotent rage, asking for your's and Yuji's head really would be a sight to behold. Your knuckles start aching just thinking about it. Too bad they're a pack of whinging cowards. Never in a million years would they consider something so bold. They like chirping orders from behind the scenes, hiding in their own dwarfed shadows, desperately clawing at the rulebook to maintain a facade of control.

You slowly make your way back to the faculty dorm, nursing the pain in your back as well as you can. As you’re taking off your boots in the hall, you find that some of the shoji panelling has been partitioned, creating an opening into a small, well-lit room. Your stockings slip a little against the floor as you go to investigate, and you’re forced to hold onto the sliding door as you peer inside.

A varnished tea table has been set up on the floor with a cushion.

A noise from your right makes you turn, and you find a bald man in buddhist attire walking down the hall, a tray of dishes in his arms.

“Please excuse me,” he says softly, bowing his head.

You move back and he steps into the room, coming to kneel by the table as he gently takes the dishes off his tray. There’s a bowl of rice, a plate of cubed tofu, and a small teapot. You also notice him symmetrically placing down a series of small ramekins, each filled with a different seasoning. There’s furikake, soy sauce, coriander, pieces of pickled ginger. Your stomach clenches, and you’re delighted to realise how hungry you are. 

“I have brought food, as requested. I hope it is to your liking.”

You blink, momentarily forgetting your manners. “Thank you very much,” you reply, bowing your head in return. “This is…for me?”

He nods.

Your stomach makes a noise, and the man smiles. You return it.

“It looks lovely,” you say, stepping hesitantly into the room.

The man moves around you carefully, like you have your own personal infinity retracting against him. You know he’s just being respectful, but it makes you feel like edgy. You ignore it, awkwardly kneeling down on the floor with your hands, trying not to tweak your back. You shuffle onto the cushion, silently wishing they’d brought a zaisu instead. Sitting like this without tweaking your back is going to be an ab work-out 

You straighten up, fighting the urge to flinch as you open tea pot lid. The liquid is light and steaming. It’s probably been steeped for a while.

“Um, sorry,” you say, ducking your head. “What kind of green tea is this?”

“Sencha,” he replies. “It’s ochazuke, Kanzaki-san.”

What a thoughtful meal to have prepared. You shoot him another smile. “Thank you.”

You bow your head again, and he quietly leaves. As he slides the door shut, you notice his presence lingering in the hall. Is he…waiting for you to eat? You turn to the table, unsure of where to start. His silhouette persists. You pick out the rice bowl, piling pieces of ginger and furikake onto it. Then you carefully take the teapot and pour the green tea into your bowl. The smell is very earthy.

You eat quietly, enjoying the mix of mild flavours and textures. You add some tofu after a couple spoonfuls. The sauce they’ve been marinated in is absolutely delicious. You wolf down the entire plate of cubes, and then return to your porridge with less lustre. You hadn’t been a fan of porridge as a kid. You’d been more of a curry and noodle girl. Anything salty and fatty really, but after being away for so long, nostalgia has softened your pickiness.

You add more sides, and chew thoughtfully, reminding yourself that someone had painstaking prepared this for you, so there's no way you could complain. After you’re finished, you notice a small glass cylinder of iced water has been set out, and pour yourself some, musing over the fact that you’re probably incredibly dehydrated as well.

You’re through your second glass of water when the sliding panel snaps open.

“Kanzaki!” Gojo yells.

You turn and narrow your eyes at him, carefully placing your glass down.

“Were you trying to scare me just now?”

He purses his lips. “Why would I do that? That would be incredibly immature.”

“Idiot,” you mutter, turning back to the table. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” he says, stepping into the room with a kind of ease that tells you he must eat here all the time. “Well, it’s more half-and-half, actually.”

“If you’re hungry, you’re a little late.”

He peers at the table, his lips tweaking. “You ate everything, huh?”

You expect him to comment on your appetite, but he just grins, plopping himself down on the other side of the table. He props himself up on his hands, stretching out his legs with a sigh. You straighten up slightly in anticipation,  expecting a conversation flitted with daggers and subterfuge, but Gojo doesn't bite. Not immediately. He just turns and looks at the wall, tapping at the side of his cheek. 

You watch him in silence, wondering what this angle is supposed to be.

“Soooo….“ he twists the handle of your teapot, thinks about it, and moves it back. “What did you and Yaga talk about?”

You snort. “You're interrupting my lunch for gossip?" 

"I feel like we definitely established you've already finished your lunch."

You take a measuring sip of water. 

"Yes, I'm here for gossip," he turns to you, his blindfold hiding what you assume is an eyebrow wiggle. “So spill. I wanna know every nitty-gritty little detail.”

You drum your fingers against the table. “And why should I tell you?”

He pouts. “Because I asked really, really nicely?”

“That’s nice?"

"Mhm." 

"You barged in here uninvited. You didn't even say hello." 

"Oh?" Gojo tilts his head at you. "You want me to be more formal with you?" 

For some reason, the suggestion makes the back of your neck grow warm. "Greeting someone doesn't automatically make it formal. You're being purposefully dense." 

He just grins, leaning forward to prop his elbow up on the tea table. “You want me to be more gentle with you then?”

“Is that even in your vocabulary?"

"For you, maybeee." 

Your eyebrow bugs. "Aren't you a fuck and dump kinda guy? 

The grin drops off his face. "Who told you that? Was it Nanami? Ugh, I bet it was Nanami."

"It wasn't. I did know you as a teenager, remember?" 

He groans. "That was ages ago, 'Zaki. I'm different now."

You are entirely unconvinced. 

"I swear. I wouldn't fuck and dump you," he puts a palm over his heart. "Sorcerers honour."

An oxymoron at it's finest. 

"You really are a class act, Gojo."

He shrugs. "Yeah, but you're not really one for subtly, are you?" 

Oh. How exasperatingly wrong he is. 

“C’monnn, Kanzaki, just tell me.”

“You already know what we talked about. You’re the one who set up the meeting.”

“Now you’re being dense,” he sighs. “I know you were talkin’ about something. You were really huffy near the end of it.”

You pause, regarding him quietly. He seems, in his own annoying way, genuinely earnest. Considering how he’d acted yesterday, interrogating you within an inch of your life, and then threatening said life, this is decidedly more polite. And you can’t really blame him for not trusting you. He did think you’d been dead for nearly a decade. 

You skirt over his face, taking the time to properly soak in his appearance. He definitely looks older. The undercut is a stark contrast to the hedgehog of white fluff he’d paraded around as a teenager. He’s taller, obviously. He’s lost that tiny bit of baby fat he had in his cheeks, which has made his face annoyingly more beautiful. He’s kinda…elfish.

You notice that his lips are really…well maintained. You make a face, hating that your brain had narrowed in on that. You know for a fact that Gojo doesn't need to put in effort to look good, but he also loves spending money on ridiculous things. Expensive face creams, bajillion dollar hydrating serums, those creepy LED masks that look like Jason Voorhees. Even his fingernails look filed, which reminds you that you’re own have been chewed to hell. You curl them into your palms, making a fist against the table. This is stupid. You’re comparing yourself to Gojo fucking Satoru.

“He wants me to supervise Yuji,” you say plainly.

Any other person would probably take a moment after hearing something like that. But Gojo just tilts his head at you. “That’s seems like more trouble then it’s worth. What do you get out of it?”

This again? “Why do I have to ‘get’ something out of it? Can’t I just do a good thing?”

“Nah. You know that’s not how sorcerers work. We’re greedy, arrogant bastards. Which means Yaga is dangling out something you want, or something the higher up’s want. I know it’s got something to do with your technique, but I’m still figuring out how it’s connected to Yuji. Probably Sukuna-related?” He pauses, looking at you. “Yeah. It is. So what? What little trick have you got?”

You scoff. “It’s entirely farcical that you think I owe you an explanation. You don’t get to come in here and disrupt my peace because you think I’m some vengeful Nure-onna that’s gonna suck the blood out of your students."

Gojo laughs. “Yuji doesn’t need a supervisor. You’d just get in his way."

"Yaga hired me because this is something only I can do. If you don't trust me, then at least trust Yaga's decision making." 

"Yaga get's bent outta shape all the time. Toes get stepped on. This isn't any different."

Your jaw clenches. "Yaga wouldn't lie."

"How would you know? You haven't been around very long, remember? Things change." 

"Clearly you haven't. You're still spouting the same ignorant bullshit, even when you're completely out of the loop."

He shrugs. "Then re-loop me. I've been practically beggin' you to explain yourself. Now you've got the floor, and all you're doin' is piling on excuses. It's getting a little dull." 

"We wouldn't need to have this conversation in the first place if you didn't spend all your goddamn time with your head up your ass. But technique is so forgettable, right?" Gojo's mouth forms a crease, an almost frown. You continue. "Sew allows me to observe the outline of other people’s souls. Sukuna’s soul, for a big fat example," you snap. "Yaga wants me to act as a ‘early warning system’ to any unexpected developments with Yuji. And as I said—I’m doing this for the kid. If I’m chaperoning him around, he’s not gonna die like an idiot on some poorly covered up special grade mission. Yaga’s negotiating the terms, but I don’t think they’re in a position to reject his proposal after the embarrassing weekend they’ve had. Which means you won’t have a bunch of old morons breathing down your neck about his execution.”

Gojo’s silent.

You leer your neck at him. “Yeah, feel bad, fuckin' asshole.”

He sighs, slumping down to his elbows. “Okay. I guess I deserved that.”

“You did,” you pick up your glass again, taking a sip. “From now on, instead of doing this whole manipulative interrogation tactic to see if I’ve got ulterior motives, just be honest. It’s far less exhausting.”

He smiles slightly, which unnerves you. 

Silence falls between you. Thoughts percolate. You half expect Gojo to get up and leave, but instead he sits up and turns to face you, crossing his legs together. “So…you’re gonna be a teacher?”

“A babysitter. And only for missions." 

He pours himself a glass of water, taking a long sip. You pointedly ignore the way his throat bobs. “So…what if I take the first years on a mission? Are you contractually obligated to tag along?”

“I’m not a mascot, you dick.”

“Hey! My questions are purely professional.”

“Well…” you put your glass down, and it makes a soft thump against the wood. “I’d imagine it’d be pretty pointless.”

“Meaning?”

You sigh, already annoyed at yourself before the words leave your mouth. “Why would you need me to supervise Yuji on a mission when you’re entirely capable of handling Sukuna on your own?”

You expect him to grin and say something snarky, but he doesn’t.

“There’s a difference between handling Sukuna and containing him. Your way is better.”

You press your lips into your mouth, hiding your surprise. You feel a little bad for judging him so harshly, but Gojo’s never been the type to concede a fight willingly. Especially when it comes to the application cursed techniques. It makes your hackles lower just a bit. He genuinely, resolutely, cares about Yuji. About all his students. Every time your brain witnesses it in real time, it tries to spin the evidence into some selfish, incentivised power flex. But the Gojo you knew and the one sitting in front of you are…frustratingly different at times, and you can’t deny it.

“What’s he like?”

Gojo looks at you questioningly. “Yuji?”

“If I’m gonna be spending a lot of time around him, I wanna know.”

“He’s a good kid. Kinda reminds of myself actually…” his jaw cracks open at your immediate reaction. “Hah!? What’s with the face? That’s a compliment!”

“You were a nightmare in high school."

Gojo looks so incredibly offended by the suggestion it makes you grin. 

"That is patently false! I was a great student! Saintly, even.”

“You bullied me, Gojo.”

“Yeah, for one year,” he puts the corresponding finger up. “Then it was fineeee.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

His shoulders slump, and he leans further over the table. “We got along in the end. I bought you birthday presents! We ate lots of food.”

“Those are the only things you remember?" You sigh. "Truly, your compassion knows no bounds.”

“Now who’s being a bully?" 

“You deserve it.”

“Resentment is such an ugly emotion. It’s not good to be hung up on the past, y’know?”

“You’re the who brought it up. And I’m not resentful. If I was, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.”

Gojo perks up. “Oho? Did you just inadvertently admit you like talking to me?”

“Now you’ve gone too far.”

He laughs, his grin returning in a flash of teeth. “Kanzakiiiii, you’re much better at banter now. I like it.”

“I fear that says a lot about my mental state—we’re getting off topic. Back to Yuji. And don’t say he’s like a younger you, cause he’s not.”

“How would you know?”

“Cause he waved at me earlier today. Sixteen year old Gojo would piffed a basketball at my head.”

He snorts. “Yeah. I totally woulda done that. Guess you’re right.” He pushes your teapot back so he can put his elbows on the table. “The kid’s tough. Doesn’t hold grudges or think too hard about sorcery. It’s a byproduct of not being apart of this world, but he takes everything in his stride. He’s got one those…unbreakable spirits, y'know?”

You can see it so plainly on Gojo’s face. How much he cares. He doesn’t try to hide it from you, even though he probably could.

“So he’s reckless. And brave.”

“Awh. You think I’m brave?” He presses a palm to his chest, looking down at it in awe. “I think my heart just skipped a beat.”

You ignore that. “I suppose anyone with Infinity would be.”

“Killjoy,” he mutters.

"You better not be teaching that kid your bad habits."

"I don't have any of those." 

"Uhuh...I seem to recall plenty of times your Infinity got me in trouble." 

"You getting skidded like a stone by that centipede was not my fault."

"Skidded like a stone?" You reach across the table and whack the bottom of your glass on the back of Gojo's hand. He gasps, looking at you like some scandalised Victorian woman.

"Seeenseiiii, Kanzaki's getting violent!!" 

You jerk a finger at him. "You are such a shithead. I got swatted by that thing because you were playing with your food."

"I was distracted!" He defends, moving away from your finger. 

"By what? You're own reflection?" 

"No..." he smiles. "Although it is pretty distracting..." 

Your knees crack as you shift sideways. "Okay, I'm leaving."

Gojo's smile drops. "Awh c'mon. I was only joking." 

"I'm tired," you explain flatly. "I’m gonna go have a nap.”

“Haven’t you slept enough today?”

“No, you cyborg. I haven’t.”

“Still don’t mince your words, huh?”

You flatten your hands out on the table, using it to hold your weight as you pull your knees out from under you. Your back twinges despite how careful you’d been, and you grit your teeth to keep from groaning. 

Your little demonstration does not go unnoticed by Gojo.

"Why are you getting up like an old lady?"

You shift your head to look at him. "I am not doing that."

"You definitely are. That right there," he points. "It's the tortoise position." 

"Tortoise position?"

"It's good on the knees, I think." 

"Do you have a habit of watching old people get up?"

"With all the meetings I get dragged into? Unfortunately, yeah." 

"Oh," you don't bother trying to hide your disgust. "That's shitty." 

He shrugs. "At least you're nicer to look at than Gakuganji." 

"Oh joy, I'm prettier than a wrinkly, old testicle."

"Your words, not mine."

You straighten out your elbows, and you feel a sickening tweak in your back as your knees move. It makes your head spin, pain numbing your mind to a blank dot. 

"Okay, this is hard to watch," Gojo says, and before you can even question what he's talking about his arms curl themselves around your hips. Suddenly he's hoisting you to your feet like a baby in a jolly jumper. 

"You fucking—" you pause, expecting pain when there is none. You turn to face Gojo, rubbing at the small of your back, shock painted over your face. "Huh."

"You're welcome~~" 

"Never do that again."

"What?" He frowns. "I was helpful. I helped. You were helped." 

"You should've asked first." 

"Would you have let me?" 

You purse your lips, already knowing the answer. You’d adamantly refused Gojo touching you in any circumstance, even if it was beneficial.

Gojo just smiles at your reaction, proving a point without any words. You roll your eyes and step out into the hallway. You forget about how slippery your stockings are on the floor, and slide for a fraction of a second. Your hands snap out, gripping the sliding door, which moves back, taking you with it. Your feet come out from under you, you’re saved from falling straight on your ass by a hand between your shoulders blades.

Your head tips back until you're staring at the bottom of Gojo’s chin. He looks down, and annoyingly, still look's gorgeous. The second your eyes meet he bursts into cackling fits of witch laughter. You've never heard him laugh like that before. 

You regain your balance, turning to shuck off his hand. His grin is all teeth, right up to his cheeks. Your first instinct is to yell at him, but then you’re hit with the image of him. Utterly delighted, his flushed face and his laughter pitched and drawn out. You hesitate, your ire dissipating like smoke. Seeing him be so…boyish catches you off guard, softening your instinct to bite back before you can even think.

He’s pointing at you, breathlessly harping on about how stupid you look. You poke him hard in the shoulder and he gasps, pouting as he rubs the spot. You’re surprised you touched him. You expected his Infinity to stop it.

You remember something. A vague conversation from your youth. Gojo practicing his Infinity with you, Suguru and Shoko. He’d been changing it to filter out threats automatically. You never really understood how it worked, how he could categorically program Infinity. Do air and light phase through it? Sound? Vibration? Did it work against airborne viruses?  Those questions would probably bore him.

You clear your throat, lowering your hand. “You’ve pretty much mastered it now.”

His smile is wry and his face is still flushed with laughter. “What?”

You wave a hand between your bodies. “Your Infinity.”

“Oh,” he shoves his hands back into his pockets, shrugging. “Yeah.”

There’s no haughty confidence in his reply. Just an objective, factual answer.

“Gojo Satoru…” you murmur, looking him over. His shoulders straighten under your gaze, flourishing like a peacock. All beautiful feathers and bright colours within the carefully crafted veneer. It’s so different to the volatile, careless hot-head you’d known at fifteen.

Now, he’s untouchable in every sense of the word.

He’s contradictorily careful with his words, acting callous as a way to probe emotional responses out of people. Hunting for clues, observing intentions. So, so careful, because trust is something Gojo lost at seventeen, screaming at his best friend on the side of the road, a button cutting into his palm, bleeding through his fingers.

You’re not sure if he’s ever found it again, but he certainly seems to be trying when it comes his students. Is it desperation? Loneliness? Is he still seeking that same unattainable dream of equality between sorcerers? Surely he knows no one can get to his level, not now, not ever. The skill ceiling is too high, the mountain peak too tumultuous. Unknowns multiplied upon unknowns.

Perhaps that's why he became a teacher.

As if hearing your thoughts, Gojo’s grin softens, his expression shifting. You notice the tips of his ears have gone a little red. You’ve been staring for an unavoidable amount of time, but strangely, he hasn’t tried to interject. Perhaps he enjoyed being looked at. You cut off that idea. One look at his levelled expression and you can tell he’s bothered.

“I wasn’t sure if it was possible, but somehow, you’re even stronger than before."

Gojo doesn’t react for a moment, and you swear you see his hands moving in his pockets, like he’s straining them. Then he grins again. “I thought you’d fully lost it for a second. Thought I'd have'ta call Yaga." 

You smile slightly. 

Gojo Satoru has no true allies, not anymore.

He's in his own world, pantomiming friendships. 

And you're just a bandaid.

Chapter Text

You spend the rest of your day in your dorm unpacking your suitcase and watching reruns of old shows. It’s weirdly nostalgic, despite that fact you’ve never seen them before. Television had not been a popular way to pass the time in your household. The idea of your mother and father being able to coexist in a room together for an extended period of time—a necessity for watching television—was a novel idea.

You switch channels, tweaking a piece of fluff behind Mem’s ear. She purrs softly, twisting around in your lap.

It’s been thirteen years since your parents died. Somewhere along that line, thinking about them has become less and less of an exercise in mental fortitude. Before, you would remember their faces, caught in the frozen moments of death, pained and terrified, torn between screams. Then you would remember their pleas. Their sobs. You would remember your rage. How it had suffocated you. Dulled you.

Now, you can barely remember what they look like. The house had been destroyed in a blazing fire. No photographs had been saved. You’d relied on tiny shutters of memory. The back of your father’s head. Your mother’s hair falling down around her face. Her grim, tightened expression. Now, it’s a blur. You can’t remember their shapes, or the colours of their eyes. Even their voices have faded away.

That moment feels so far away now, buried beneath a thousand other things.

Your attention drifts from the television, imagining all the things you swore you wouldn't. The little red clip Yasuda wore in her hair. The shape of her hands. The scar on the bottom of her chin. Those are things you still remember, because you replay them over and over, trying to find a reason. Trying to imagine what she would look like if she were still alive.

A knock at your door stirs you from your thoughts, and you open it to a tray of food. This time it’s katsu curry and some ridiculously sweet iced tea. You savour each bite, enjoying the thickness of the sauce and the crunch of the vegetables. You wash your dishes in your bathroom sink when you’re done. You’re not sure if that’s the proper etiquette, but you can’t just dump the tray outside your door.

You hunt around in the cupboards and find some bedsheets and a pillow case. You make your bed in a daze, fluffing up the pillow and tossing it aimlessly. Mem licks her lips from the residuals of her wet food and immediately leaps onto the bed, getting comfortable right in the middle  You resist the urge to sigh, and head into the bathroom to shower and brush your teeth.

When you’re done, you find Mem's moved to one side of the bed. You slip into the sheets, curling onto your side. The pillow is a little too soft for your tastes, but you wouldn’t dare complain. Mem shuffles up next to you, practically sitting on your neck.

She smells a little different. The air of the apartment has started to cling to her fur. It’s not a bad smell. You’re just not used to it.

You shift around until your shoulder feels comfortable and then close your eyes. It takes you a moment to get used to the silence, but soon enough Mem’s purrs coax you to sleep.

You wake up to Mem playing with your eyelashes. She’s not using her claws, so it feels like someone is rubbing a soft, squishy cloth over your eyelids. You crack a small smile, and she notices, leaning forward to lick your nose.

“Terrible morning breath,” you murmur.

She licks your cheek next and you open your eyes, squinting at her fluffy face. Her golden eyes stare back at you, curiously gleaming.

“Sleep well?”

She trills back at you happily.

You throw yourself out of bed, noting the time. Seven. Not a horrible start. You roll out your shoulders and neck, feeling a series of satisfying pops.

“Now that I’m thinking about it,” you turn. “Why didn’t you wake me up yesterday?”

You swear Mem rolls her eyes, like she’s annoyed by how obtuse your question is. You snort, tossing the edge of your blanket at her. It envelopes her completely, and you watch her wrestle beneath the covers to find an opening, and her dishevelled little heads pops out near your thigh. Her pupils have gone entirely black. She snatches out a paw, her claws digging into the drawstring of your pyjama shorts.

You pluck her into your arms, and she still refuses to let go of your shorts, wriggling like a ferret. She's only a year old, so the kitten tendencies are still there. She doesn't stop chewing on the string until you plop her down in front of her bowl and serve her breakfast.

You go through your morning routine in a sluggish daze. This space is still foreign to you, so it takes you a moment to gain your bearings. Back in your old apartment you’d be already on a train by now, a coffee in hand and your phone in the other, trying to find the email for your next mission in a endless scroll of unread spam. 

Now that you’re out in the countryside again, time seems slower. There's moments in-between moments; tiny little breaths you can take for yourself unselfishly. The fresh mountain air. Then the birdsong. The clicks of insects. The rustle of the trees. It calms you for a moment.

Once the caffeine hits, you reluctantly draw yourself away from the window. You make your bed and clean out Mem’s kitty litter. There’s a tiny, office-sized bin in the kitchenette for you to dump it in, so you have to crack open a window to get the smell out.

Mem sits by her food bowl, happily munching on dry food. There’s something strangely idyllic about it. 

You duck into the bathroom, eyeing your jacket hung over the towel rail. You’d given it another rinse last night and it still smells disgusting. You’re gonna have to find a washing machine around here, but thinking about how you’re going to explain your predicament to some poor worker has you cringing against your coffee mug.

You fossick around in one of the vanity draws for some grease removing detergent when a hard knock rattles against your door. You peak your head through the hallway, staring at the wood suspiciously. This time, you're alert enough to recognise it's not Gojo who's knocking. 

You give yourself a quick once over in the mirror, checking for clothing tweaks, but nothing seems awry. You open the door and find Yaga standing in front of you. 

“Have you had breakfast?”

Not even a good morning. Straight to business.

“Not yet.”

“We should discuss the meeting over food, then.”

You nod, opening the door wider to step out.

Yaga pauses, staring at your feet. “You have a cat.”

You look down. Mem has woven herself between your feet, and is staring at Yaga with her chest puffed out. You recall what Gojo had said about pet rules, and your face falls. “No I don’t.”

“I can quite plainly see her,” Yaga’s lips tweak. “You’re aware there is a no pet policy.”

You groan, scooping Mem up into your arms. She struggles against you, planting her paws rigidly on your sternum. She knows that hurts. You soften your hold on her, and she immediately hikes herself up onto your shoulder, curling her tail around your neck.

“Okay yeah, I have a cat,” why your first thought had been to blatantly lie mystifies you. Your brain is probably still messed up from that Hollow Purple. “But a no pet rule is entirely unreasonable. Kids are allowed to have shikigami. And what about you? You’ve got all those cursed corpses. I’d argue they are far more of an occupational safety issue than a cat.”

He’s silent.

“Are you allergic to them?”

“No.”

Mem meows her agreement.

“Oh,” you uncurl Mem’s tail from around your neck. “What’s the problem then?”

“I was never planning on kicking her out,” Yaga says.

“But you—“

“I merely stated the rule. I didn’t say you had to conform to it.”

“So I pleaded my case for no reason?”

He nods. “You should have breakfast.”

You sigh, leaning your head against Mem’s side. She wobbles slightly and pushes back against you.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks. I’ll do that.” Despite what’s happened these part couple days, you’re still getting used to all the back and forth. You’d forgotten just how weird  sorcerers are.

Over breakfast, Yaga explains what he discussed with the higher up’s. It’s not a very exciting retelling. It mostly serves to irritate you as you shove rice into your mouth. Leave it to a bunch of old pricks to completely overreact. A situation as complicated as Yuji’s deserves a nuanced perspective. He’s a kid, after all.

You can understand the logic in wanting Ryomen Sukuna dead, but jumping to execution as soon as something makes them uncomfortable is classic ‘scrap and start again’ behaviour. Very on brand for the higher ups. Being a sorcerer is the most uncomfortable job out there. It’s an unavoidable part of life, and if killing everything who ruffled their feathers fixed those issues, well, you’d all be buddy buddy with Geto Suguru.

It does surprise you that they agreed to Yaga’s proposal so quickly. You thought they’d drag it out a little longer just to piss everyone off. They’re probably just saving face this way though. Now that Gojo fully understands what lengths they’re willing to go to, killing Yuji has become a less than desirable mission for anyone up to the task.

“As of now, you are an official member of the Tokyo branch faculty,” he tosses you a pin, and you catch it between two fingers, admiring the kaleidoscopic lines of the Tokyo crest.

“Does this mean I have to wear the uniform?”

“No. Only teacher’s wear the uniform.”

You’re simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“I’m planning on introducing you to the first and second years today.”

You grimace, memories from the last time you'd been introduced at this school drifting to the surface. The utter shame of standing in front of other sorcerers as yourself; a girl so lost she couldn't find her way out of an unwalled room. 

“It won’t be as difficult as you’re imagining.”

You press your thumb down onto the edge of the table. “You don’t know what I’m imagining.”

You remember Gojo's warning. He'd earnestly wanted you to quit, assuming you'd die a grisly, forgettable death. You didn't listen, and although you're still alive, a part of you wishes you weren't. 

Death would've been more peaceful then. 

Death wouldn't be so loud.

Yaga decides to take the long way around to the common area. You wonder if it’s his silent way of trying to help you out—offering you a small reprieve to calm your nerves despite his intense rigidity for schedules and appointments.

That reprieve turns into something else when Mem decides to tag along on your journey. She trots around, the white fluff between her back legs swaying almost rhythmically. She sniffs suspiciously at wildflowers, investigates ants as they march out of their hill, and delights in watching her reflection ripple back at her from a pond.

Yaga becomes completely absorbed in watching her play.

A random bush becomes the object of her ire, and she spends a whole thirty seconds hissing at it in different tones. Then a flyhead floats out of it, screeching in terror. You crack a grin, watching her chase it across the yard as it phases through a concrete fence. Mem stares at the wall, growls, and turns back around, prancing up to your feet with a look on her face that says ‘Aren’t I great?’

You both watch her chase a butterfly around for a stupidly long amount of time. By the time you get to the common area, Yaga is smitten. It’s not outwardly obvious, except for the way his mouth has softened from it’s usual downturned line.

You crest the edge of the stone steps to the sports field, your expression falling as you notice students sparring. They’re all dressed in slightly different training clothes. One girl is swinging some nunchucks at a boy. Two other kids stand out of the way, one has white hair and the other brown. It seems like they’re yelling at the panda who’s tossing…Yuji? You squint. Yep. A panda is tossing around Yuji.

From the file, you remember bits and pieces of names and a couple techniques, but not enough to place anyone properly. The brown haired girl is the one with the Resonance technique, and the white-haired boy is the cursed speech user. Those two, along with Todo Aoi, had been on your list of potential counters for Sew. Luckily none of the scenarios you’d peddled in your mind had come to fruition. Instead, you’d played tag with a deranged special grade curse.

“Kannn—zaaa—kiiiii!”

Gojo is waving at you from the concrete steps besides the field. He’s swaying from side to side, his grin nearly bursting against his cheeks. Every single head in the vicinity turns to you.

Your face falls, and you shove your hands deep into your pockets, refusing to wave back. You try your best not to stomp down the steps, but with each clunk of your knee, your embarrassment festers, and your desire to get this over with grows. By the time you make it to where Gojo is standing, your ears are burning. He immediately notices, and coos at you like you’re some endangered bird.

“Stop that,” you hiss, shoving your boot tip against his shoe.

“Noo way!” He gushes. “This is priceless. I should take a photo!”

You turn away, much to Gojo’s audible displeasure, but the view from the front is arguably worse. All the students have gathered to the edge of the grass in front of Yaga, and are staring at you in varying degrees of suspicion. Only Yuji seems happy, but you’re pretty sure that’s just his default setting.

You force yourself to stare back at them, noting the couple of students you hadn’t recognised from before. The panda hadn't been mentioned in the report, nor had any of the other kids. If you had to guess, it's probably because most of the students here would be considered unimportant in the eyes of jujutsu officials. Even to the likes of you;  someone ineffectual beyond a domain expansion.

The report had been very limiting in it's information on the students, a purposeful tactic to muddy your perception of their threat levels. The panda, which you're guessing is one of Yaga's more refined curse corpses, confuses you the most. You swear you'd heard it speak before, and with a cadence unlike the cursed corpses you've seen in the past. 

The more you look at it, the more complicated your imaginings become. Refined seemed to be an understatement. 

What has Yaga been up to exactly?

You don’t recognise the two dark haired students. One of them—the boy with blue eyes—seems particularly bothered by your presence. You don’t really blame him for being sceptical of you after the disaster of a exchange event he was put through, but it stings a little to be regarded like some sketchy vagrant. Although…it’s not exactly inaccurate.

You're saved from thinking too hard about that as Mem dashes past your feet, leaping onto the stairs in a frenetic surge of energy. Gojo watches her fluffy tail disappear between a line of bleachers, and turns back to you with a raised eyebrow.

“I see the cat convo went down well.” 

“Yaga’s been watching her chase flyheads,” you mutter.

He hums. “Cute.”

“Everybody,” Yaga calls, but he doesn’t have to do much in the way of corralling them. “I'm introducing a new faculty member today.” He gestures towards you, and you flick the students a small wave.

“You’re the lady from the river and the baseball field!” Yuji says.

“You know her?!” The first year girl squawks.

“This is Kanzaki Akari,” Yaga says. Everyone murmurs their greetings, bowing politely. “She is an alumni of the school—the same year as Satoru. Treat her well.”

Yuji lights up. “You were classmates with Gojo-sensei?!”

You try not to grimace, but it doesn’t work very well. “…yes.”

“Was Gojo-sensei a fun classmate?!”

“Depends on your definition of fun.”

“I was super fun,” Gojo interjects. “The funnest.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” the dark haired girl says.

“Close to it." 

Gojo pouts. “So mean." 

“You're just easy to be mean to." 

The first year girl raises her hand. “Are you going to be in a teaching position?”

You shake your head. “No. I’m only here for Itadori's situation.”

Yuji tilts his head. “Me?”

“There another Itadori around?”

The girl cackles and Yuji blushes, ducking his head. You immediately feel bad. You’ve gotten your wires crossed between Gojo and the students. That’s something you’ll have to rectify moving forward

“So you know about Sukuna then?” The dark haired boy asks. His questions are straight to the point.

"Mhm."

"What has that got to do with you?" 

You share a look with Yaga. He gives you a small nod, so you turn back to the kids. "I've got a good handle on souls, so Yaga's brought me in to supervise any developments with Sukuna." 

There's a moment of quiet, and you watch Yuji deflate into the crowd of his classmates. Gojo shifts away from you a little, steering his cheek away as to not meet your gaze. He didn't like that. You don't really blame him, but censoring the truth on a first introduction is a bad idea. A foundation built on insincerity...well, when has that ever worked out? You don't want to to lead perceptions astray more than you already have. 

"That's if he loses control," the dark haired boy says. 

"Yes, though I seriously doubt that'll happen. Itadori's ability to suppress Sukuna is weirdly...innate." 

Yuji springs back to life like a sunflower. 

“What rank are you?” The dark haired girl asks.

“Maki!” Panda shushes. “That’s rude!”

The girl—Maki, scowls. “I know you’re all thinking it! At least I had the guts to ask!”

“I’m a semi-second grade sorcerer.”

“Huh?!” Yuji’s face falls. “Fushiguro is higher than you?!”

You stiffen at the name, your eyes darting to the dark haired boy in question. Flashes of memory spin through your mind. A little boy, barely six years old, with clothes that hung off his frame like bedsheets. A tiny little scowl affixed to his face. Fushiguro. Fushiguro Megumi. Holy shit. How had you forgotten that? 

There's an image in your head, a rough, broken sketch. His little head pressed begrudgingly into Gojo's shoulder, squirming in his hold as you walked back to Gojo's flat. Him stubbornly holding your hand as you walked to the park, and how despite that, he’d refused to look at you the entire time. He'd barely spoken. 

Fushiguro Megumi.

The little boy who’d been sold off to the Zen'in clan.

Your brow wrinkles. He had a sister. She was sweet. Polite. You strain trying to remember her name.

Tsumiki?

It’s been…a while.

You know for a fact Megumi hadn’t been in the file. You would’ve recognised his name immediately. That means he’d been left out on purpose. But for what purpose? You can’t imagine they thought you’d have any interest in hunting down Megumi. 

You come back to yourself and realise everyone is staring at you. You've been silent for some time now, and no one's utter a word to fill the space. Embarrassment warms the back of your neck. You feel dizzy trying to get Megumi out of your mind.

“Now students, rank isn’t everything, yeah?” Gojo jumps in, saving you. “Kanzaki has a very versatile technique! It allows her to perceive other people’s souls~” he makes a motion with his hands, like he’s casting out some ghostly spell. Yuji visibly pales.

The cursed speech user says something, but it sounds like gibberish to your ears.

“I’ll introduce the rest of the kids for you, yeah?”

You nod woodenly.

“You’ve already met Yuji and Megumi, so let’s skip to everyone else!” He sweeps his hand out, gesturing to the line of second years. “Cursed tool user, Zen’in Maki, cursed speech user Inumaki Toge—he can only speak in rice ball ingredients, so have fun chatting! And this is Panda, obviously.”

“You forgot me!” The brown haired girl snaps.

“Oho! And our last first year, Kugisaki Nobara! Like you, she has a creepy cursed technique!”

She looks pissed. “It’s not creepy!”

Gojo just laughs. “You can go back to training now! Bye-bye!”

The students disperse after a moment, talking in low voices. You take a deep breath and turn away, rubbing your hands over your face. That couldn't have gone any worse. The black cloth necklace covering the scar around your throat feels uncomfortably snug, and you tug at it with your fingers.

“You good?” Gojo swings his head down to yours, invading your personal space. "You went all ‘I see dead people’ there for a second.”

“I did not.”

“Ya kinda did. It was creepy. The kids could tell too.”

“I’m not used to talking to teenagers,” you snap at him, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’ve never done this before, remember?”

“Well…there’s room for improvement. Lot’s of improvement—and hey! You’re wearing a bra today too, so extra points!“

You sock him in the shoulder.

“Ow! So mean…”

“Stop talking about my tits then.”

“I wasn’t. I was talking about the apparatus that surrounds them. But since you brought it up—“

You glare at him. “I will sew your mouth shut if you don’t stop.”

“That a promise?”

You scoff, shaking of your head. "You really want me to?"

"I mean...it'd be fun, if nothing else."

"You're a masochist." 

"Or you're a sadist," he throws back. "You're looking at it as if I like being hurt, but you're the one who's threatening me all the time."

"Because you say stupid shit."

"Saying you have a nice chest is stupid?" 

You nearly swallow your own tongue. "W-what?"

"Oh. Did I say that out loud? Oops."

Words evade you. You know he doesn't mean it—he'd said it so flatly, like he was telling you the time—but your traitorous body heats up anyway, right to the tips of your ears. 

"Awhh," he leans over, his breath catching the shell of your ear. You violently fight off a shiver. "Look at you getting all tongue-tied. S'okay, take the compliment."

Fucking hell. He doubled down.

"Don't joke about that shit," you snap, turning away from him. "You're a teacher for godsake."

He follows you around. "And? Are teacher's suddenly exempt from liking boobs? That's news to me." 

You turn again. "You know what I mean. You're getting off on this, aren't you? Is this one of your weird kinks?"

He countermoves, turning your avoidance into a dance. "Again with the 'weird' card? Why do you think everything is weird?" 

"I...I do not." Excellent rebuttal. 

"Woooh, you are rattled," he realises. "I was only teasing. I'm a professional, remember?"

"Nothing about that was professional."

Gojo opens his mouth to respond when something comes sailing at you. You catch it with a line of Sew before it hits you in the face. It’s the nunchucks Maki had been practicing with. You turn looking down at the field. Maki stands there with her hands on her hips, not even pretending to look apologetic. She just raises her hand and gestures for them back.

Gojo grins at you. “I think that was a test.”

You sigh in annoyance, flinging the nunchucks back. You might’ve put a little too much elbow grease into the return, because Maki has to dive out of the way as the nunchucks rocket into the dirt, making a crater in the grass.

“The landscapers are gonna be pissed about that.”

“Don’t pretend to care about lawn maintenance. I remember what you did to that old landscapers maple tree.”

Gojo snorts, like you’ve physically conjured up the memory for him. “That was an accident.”

“Yeah, pointing a lapse blue right at it was an accident.”

“It wouldn’t have been an ‘anything’ if you didn’t snitch on me.”

“He spent most of is career looking after that thing and you turned it into wooden confetti.”

“And I wouldn’t be half as accurate now without the target practice. In a way, that tree’s probably saved a bunch of lives.”

“That is an olympic gold medal jump in logic, Gojo.”

He makes a face, pursing his lips. “My point still stands. Maybe go a little less hard on them.”

“Like the way you weren’t hard on me?”

He makes a noise, an uncomfortable drag of breath. 

Silence consumes the both of you. 

The reality is, you don’t care enough to dig into their tricks. Maybe when you were younger. When you'd lied yourself into a hole of expectations; desperate to be validated and respected by your peers whilst conveying the exact opposite. You cared so much you burned yourself down to the marrow for it. You spent everything you had and now your stuck on the very ugly end of the sorcerer stick. Useful enough. Helpful enough. But not dangerous. Not threatening. Not worthy.

This image you've been chasing—the put-together, powerful sorcerer—it's not happening now, or in any lifetime. No matter how much you want it to be true. You're spare parts. Bits and pieces of a person, one half yearning for recognition, the other stalwart in her rejection of the system. They never coincide. 

You don't even know if you are doing this for the right reasons.

What if this is just ego and nothing more? 

You let out a sigh. "I'm going.”

Yaga frowns, but he doesn't say anything. 

Gojo doesn't even acknowledge your goodbye. 

You saunter up into the bleachers to pick up Mem, but she flat out refuses to heed your calls, running off into a bush. Once she realises you can’t get to her, she parks her butt right in the middle of it and starts cleaning herself. You spend an embarrassing amount minutes begging her in varying pathetic tones to come out before you realise she’s fallen asleep. 

You give up, feeling entirely unsettled by the idea of leaving Mem to her own devices, but there’s not much else you can do. You wander off to get a drink from the vending machine, hoping she’ll move by the time you get back. The machine works just fine this time, spitting out a strawberry milk. 

You fiddle around stabbing at the carton with the straw, not paying attention to where you’re walking. You end busting your knees right into a park bench, the milk nearly flying out of your hand as your momentum throws you forward. Your hips crunch against the arm railing as you’re curled over the side, nearly crushing your uterus in the process. Your fist reflexively tightens around your drink, and Strawberry milk unleashes from the straw in a laser-focused spray all over your chest.

You stay utterly still for a moment, pink milk dripping onto the bench. Curses bounce around inside your head, but your jaws clenched like a vice, and not a sound escapees you. You take a deep rattling breath, a muscle near your mouth spasming with rage. The milk is already soaking into your top with a sickeningly sweet smell. It’s pointless to try to save it.

You put the milk down on the bench, glaring at it as you use the bottom of your shirt  to wipe the excess milk off your neck. More fucking dry-cleaning. You park your ass on the bench, sucking down abysmal amount of milk left in your drink. The sun has warmed the wood to an almost uncomfortable degree, but your bruised knees and crushed abdomen refuse to let you get up, so you slump back, closing your eyes.

You know the sun is about to turn your shirt into one of those awful smelling two dollar candles, but you can’t find it in you to care. Smelling like rotten ice cream is much better than human remains. Your legs kick out, and you slide further down the bench, your posture melting. The breeze manages to curb some of the smell, and the warmth draws your guard down. You struggle to remember what you were supposed to be doing.

Tired. You’re tired.

A strange fluttering noise breaks your serenity, and your eyes snap open.

Gojo is standing a few metres away with his phone pointed right at you.

“You are such a dick."

“A dick without strawberry milk on his shirt.”

You flick the finger at him, and hear another flutter of his camera going off.

“So unladylike.”

You scowl, folding your arms over your chest. “You better delete that.”

“Not a chance.”

He takes another photo, and another, and another.

“Hey, face this way! Shoko’s gonna love this.”

You turn your head completely away. “Did you come over here just to be an asshole?”

“Not entirely,” he takes another smattering of photos. “I’m here because of your cat.”

You turn back to him, confused, but then you notice Mem sitting a good metre away from Gojo, lazily licking her paw.

“She got all whiny when you left,” he explains. “I tried picking her up to teleport her over here, but she attacked me!”

“Good. I hope she ripped out your eyes.”

He gasps, throwing himself down onto the bench beside you. “Rude. You don’t really think that. My eyes are too pretty.”

You stare at him, watching as he taps away at his phone, his other hand playing with the edge of his blindfold. You suppress a laugh. Is that supposed to be some attempt at seduction? Or is it merely a habit he’s gotten himself into?

You wonder when he’d switched from the glasses to the blindfold, and what had prompted the change. Maybe he’d just gotten sick of breaking them all the time, but surely being probed on the street about his choice of accessories would get just as annoying at times. You debate asking him outright, but you’re afraid he won’t take your question earnestly. He’ll probably just tease you, or make some arrogant joke out of it.

You sigh. At least in that regard, Gojo hasn’t changed. You’re not sure if you should be happy or upset about it. Happy in the sense that the Gojo you knew at nineteen hasn’t completely disappeared, taking all that hard-earned warmth and familiarity with him. Sad because you feel as though you have missed out so much in the meantime. There are so many holes in the perception you have of him. So many truths you want to uncover.

Even admitting that in your head makes you tense.

These are the exact kind of dangerous thoughts you want to avoid. You’d promised yourself nine years ago you wouldn’t think too hard about it. About any of it, but especially Gojo. You knew if you did, you’d weaken yourself enough to turn back.

It rotted away at you for a while—that you’d left everything the way it was. It burned you to think about him, but also to not think about him, and if he was thinking about you. And that cycle almost destroyed you during the first year. So in way some self-flagellating way, you’re relieved to see him act so indifferently to the time gap. If he’d made any attempt to acknowledge it sincerely, you probably would’ve burst into tears.

All that time away, building the idea up in your head. Imagining it. Fantasising about it. The same moment over and over. It couldn’t have come close to the crushing reality of it all, of seeing him again.

Your eyes sharpen into focus, taking in his side profile. He’s so clueless to it. To how uncomfortable you are simply exisiting next to him. Acknowledging that this is real—when for nearly nine years you were sure you’d never see him again.

He’s still tapping away at his phone, playing some sort of game. You’re surprised he’s stuck around. You would’ve thought he’d have left as soon as Mem spotted you. The last couple times he’s sought you out were entirely strategic. There’d been something he wanted from you, and once he’d gotten it, he disappeared. Now though, you’re not sure. What is he getting out of this? You can’t imagine his tactic for needling information out of you is to sit here playing some tile matching game on his phone. 

Surely it’s not just for the sake of it. When did Gojo ever do shit like that?

Your lips thin. There’s no way he’s doing it because he wants to, right? Your ears warm, and you inhale through your nose. Maybe he’s just devoid of company or something.

He can’t have actually… missed you after all, right? Despite him saying he hadn’t really cared about your death, he’d put up a blessing for you, hadn’t he? That meant something.

You want to slap yourself.

The bar is abysmal when it comes to this man.

Mem disrupts your thoughts as she jumps up onto the bench and awkwardly balances her way into your lap. You spread your thighs a bit to compensate, and she sits down in a little loaf facing your stomach. You brush your palm down her head, and she aggressively nuzzles you, flattening her ears against your thumb and pinkie finger. She begins to purr, her tail rattling against your leg with each pat. Gojo huffs at you, like he can’t believe Mem is capable of affection.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he says, tapping away at his phone. “What kinda name is ‘Mem’ anyway?”

“It’s short for Dismemberment.”

His head turns at an almost impossible degree to look at you, his mouth wide open. You can tell from the stretch of his blindfold his eyebrows are raised. There’s a moment of silence as you both stare at each other. Gojo looks down at Mem, and then back up at you, and his phone slips between his fingers, landing in his lap. 

You peel into laughter, running a hand over your face. Mem gives an displeased little meow at being jostled, but you can’t help yourself. You wheeze, your breath constricting into you throat until your eyes begin to water. “Now that was priceless. Man I wish I had my phone!”

That seems to snap Gojo back to reality. “Would you take photos of me too, Zaki-chan?”

You grimace. “You know I didn’t meant it like that.”

He rolls his eyes. Or at least you think he does. “I forgot how proper you are. Always following rules.” 

“I…” your voice catches in your throat. Memories cut through you, setting your nervous system alight. “I’m not proper—and it’s been well established that I don’t follow rules.” 

“Trueee,” he hums. “You do some naughty stuff overseas then? Get a little wild?"

Your lips thin into a line. Gojo is the last person you'd want to confide in about your drug issues. The idea of it already has goosebumps running down your arms. You can just imagine the disgruntled look on his face, like he expected a little bit more of you, but isn't really surprised by it either. 

You sink your fingers into Mem's fur to distract yourself. "No. I just don't know what to tell you. I did normal stuff. Clubs and bars. That kinda shit." 

"Kanzaki!" He says in a scandalised whisper. "You went to a club? You drank alcohol?"

"You're making me sound like some stiff-lipped nun." 

"Did you finally get laid?" 

Your eyes narrow.

"Wow. Good for you. Was it good? Or did he suck?"

"I'm not answering that."

"I think you just did..."

“Quit making it sound like something it’s not. I was talking about high school. Y’know. When I got transferred?”

He makes an ‘ohh’ sound, and then has the gaul to look uncomfortable. “M’bad.”

There’s an awkward silence. Bringing up your dead parents tends to do that. 

“Her name is short for Agamemnon,” you say quietly, offering an olive branch.

Gojo perks up a little bit. “Like the king?”

“Mhm.” 

He grins. 

“My turn!” He clicks his phone shut and puts it away. “You and Megumi back there. That was pretty intense.”

You sigh, rubbing at your forehead. You'd expected this line of questioning from the beginning, but it doesn't help with the nerves.

"So what, you didn't recognise him?"

"Not really,” you admit. “My memory can be a little unreliable."

"How unreliable are we talkin'?"

You shrug. “I…I’ve lost track of time. I guess I could’ve figured it out, he was six when I left, it’s been nine years. He’d be a first year. But he…he wasn’t in the file.”

“The file?”

“They gave me a mission file, and it had a bunch of students and their techniques written down. Megumi wasn’t in it. Neither was Panda. Or the Zen'in girl." 

Gojo is quiet for a moment.

“A brain teaser for sure. That and your rank," he sits up and leans over a bit. "Are you really still semi-grade two?”

“Why are you surprised?”

He shrugs. “You look stronger.”

“Did your Six Eyes tell you that?”

“Among other things. Your cursed energy is different too. Kinda...” 

"Kinda, what?" You probe. "Weak?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you thought it."

Gojo snorts. "And I jump to conclusions."

You glare at him. "You're not refuting it." 

"I just said it like...thirty seconds ago!" 

"You said I look stronger. Not that I am stronger."

"That's semantical." 

"Is it?" 

Silence consumes the bench again, but this time it's charged. 

"God," Gojo lets out a long sigh. “Can't have one conversation without you getting pissed off." 

Your eyes flash to his face, and you can see he's goading you. Your jaw clenches down, fighting every instinct inside you that says to talk back.

"Why do you even care?" He asks. "I thought you were above all this? You hate the school. You hate the system. You hate sorcery. ‘Pretty easy opinion to have when no one relies on you—but I guess that’s your choice, right? Knowing no one gives a shit, but still yapping about it.” He shakes his head, like he’s scolding a child. “You criticise something you're barely apart of it. Something you don’t understand. So it's easy. Most sorcerers don't have the luxury of ignorance."

You see fucking red.

He's not finished though.  

"If you're strong, great. If you're not, whatever. S'not my prerogative. We're not teenagers anymore, right? You have your life and I have mine. You're a semi-second grade. I'm not. You're angry about shit that happened years ago, I'm not." 

You stand up, Mem leaping out of your lap and perching herself between your feet. 

Gojo immediately spreads out his legs on the bench. “There you go again, running away." 

You swallow tightly. “So I should what? Sit here and let you berate me about how weak and spineless I am? You must be to  righteously fucking stupid if you think I’m putting up with that!” 

Gojo tips his head back on the bench and lets out a big groan. "I never said that, you just assumed it. Fuck—for someone who claims not to be hung up on the past, you keep mentioning it.” 

“I’m not hung up.”

“You sure about that?" 

You turn away, a hundred different voices churning beneath the surface, threatening to break through like a wave. 

His words do more than sting. They bruise deep into your skin. 

You knew this was stupid, but you'd entertained it anyway. 

Chapter Text

Itadori Yuji.

You hadn’t really thought about what you’d do once Yaga’s proposal went through. At least, not at length. Babysitting sounds easy enough on paper, but factoring in mission escorts—where any number of unquantifiable things could happen at any given moment—it becomes entirely more complex. 

You’ve done bodyguard jobs in the past, but those had been for a couple of weeks tops, and it certainly hadn’t involved continually supervising the tumultuous energy of two ever-colliding souls—one being the King of Curses. You are woefully unequipped in every other department. 

A younger version of you would've been ecstatic for this kind of opportunity. Teaching had been your goal. Your purpose.

It's a nauseating reminder. Decisions, choices. They feel independent in the moment, but then the sweeping context of a far distant future rewrites that pretence. There's no such thing as hard choices. Only grieving acceptances. Those two congruent lines. Two different lives. They're converging, creating a tangled mess. The decision’s already been made. It happened a second ago, or a minute, or day. A year. A decade. You just didn’t know it yet.

You sit on the concrete steps outside the sports field as Itadori Yuji approaches. Yaga had organised the meet up on your behalf, and you'd spent the better half of your evening reading an article on how to get along with 'youths'. Unsurprisingly, it hadn't help. It'd only made you feel more stupid. 

There are things about Yuji you hadn’t noticed the first time you met—not that he’d remember anything you talked about. His school uniform is almost standardised, the only difference being the red hoody. It suits him, but you know there’s an entirely different reason for changing his uniform. It’s a warning signal, so sorcerers can tell him apart from other students easily. Morbid, but probably necessary.

Until now.

You sit up straighter. This is only something you can do, and you will do it.

“Hello, Itadori.”

He immediately smiles. “Helloooo! Nice to meet you again. You can just call me Yuji.”

“Nice to meet you too…again. You can call me Kanzaki or Akari. I’m not fussed.”

He sits down next to you on steps, a measured distance away. “Kanzaki-sensei?”

“I’m not your teacher, remember?”

He pouts. “Ooohhh. Nanami said the same thing.”

You snort. Of course he did.

You turn to face Yuji, and his head inches back a bit, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. “So, Yuji. Since we’re going to be working together from now on, I want to get an idea of your experience level.”

“With jujutsu?”

“Mhm,” you stretch out your leg, hooking it over the other one. “You’ve only been here a few months. I doubt Gojo’s taken the time to study you up on everything.”

Yuji ponders for a moment. “I’ve learnt about some techniques and stuff. Gojo-sensei helped me practice using cursed energy it with a doll.” He rubs his cheek, looking miffed. “I had to watch a bunch of movies and make sure it slept the whole time.”

“It punched you a lot, huh?”

“How’d you know?!”

“I had to do it when I was your age. Except the movie part. That sounds like a very Gojo-centric add-on.””

“He spoiled half of the movies too," he groans. "Especially this one about an internet ghost. Ugh. That one sucked."

You blink, your heart stutter-stepping. That sounded familiar. 

"It worked though. I’m a lot better at controlling my cursed energy now.”

You pull yourself back from getting distracted by that little piece of information. "Is there anything else you can think of?”

He hums. “Oh! One time Gojo-sensei was fighting this really scary curse that looked like Mt Fuji. He was spurting fire everywhere, and I think we were inside a volcano or something,” he rubs his chin. “He said a bunch of stuff I didn’t understand. A domain expander or something.”

“You were in a domain battle with Gojo?” 

“I dunno. One minute I was sitting on the couch, the next I was hovering over a lake, and Mt Fuji-san made some weird hand gesture and then we got surrounded by lava!”

Your jaw clenches. Gojo seriously took a first year inside a cursed spirits domain? What the hell is he playing at by being so reckless? You take a breath and shake your head. Not now. You can be angry about it later.

“Domain expansion is complicated,” you explain. “Only really powerful sorcerers can pull it off.”

“It’s just like a Bankai, right? You use it and you win.”

“Not exactly. Domain expansion’s are incredibly powerful, but they don’t always guarantee victory,” you take another breath, rubbing at your eyelids as an ache starts to form behind them. “Domain expansion is separated into two categories, but only one of them is relevant nowadays. It's called a ‘lethal' domain. When you cast them, you apply a ‘sure-hit’ affect to anyone within it’s radius. There are ways of skirting around the sure-hits though.”

Yuji nods. “Like when I broke into Mahito’s domain and it stopped him from hurting Nanami.” 

“You broke into his domain?” 

You haven’t heard of that one before. Maybe Gojo taking him into a domain battle isn’t as insane as you thought.

“I broke it and jumped in. Nanami said it was because of Mahito’s transfiguration thing that it didn’t work on me.”

You’re puzzled for a moment, and then it clicks. Yuji being a vessel for Sukuna gives him an extraordinary constitution for those sort of things, but it also protects his soul from Mahito’s technique. “I get it. Sukuna didn’t like someone tampering with his soul. He’s a bit of a diva, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. He called Mahito a bunch of names.”

You huff, trying to imagine it. “That’s a pretty niche way to counter a domain. If that had been any one else, you probably would’ve gotten yourself killed.”

Yuji’s shoulders slouch a little.

“There’s other ways to counter domain expansion,” you say, trying to soften your tone. It doesn’t work. “It’s complex and boring, so I’ll leave it for another time. Now,” you groan as you lean forward to get up, turning to face Yuji again. “You’re a close quarters combatant, right?” Yuji nods. “It’s a good thing Gojo’s your teacher then. He’s pretty good at beating the shit outta stuff.”

Yuji looks at you in shock, and then bursts out laughing.

You groan, running a hand down your face. “Sorry. Forgot about the swearing rule. It’s been awhile since I’ve talked to a teenager.”

Yuji shrugs. “I don’t care.”

“That doesn’t help. I’m supposed to be your guardian. I can’t be teaching you bad habits.”

“Y’know Gojo-sensei is my teacher, right?”

“Good point. Considering he failed to explain the basic theory of cursed energy to you before throwing you to the wolves.“ You stop yourself, realising you’ve strayed a little too far into your own resentments. You don’t want to ruin this kids view of Gojo, especially considering what he means to Yuji. Being the only adult who advocated for his life in a completely insane situation. You know how important that kind of person is for a teenager who’s life is in upheaval, because you were that person.

You clear your throat. “With his eyes, Gojo’s the best person to explain that stuff. It’s an incredible resource to have as a student. You should ask him about it when he’s not busy.”

Yuji makes a face, tilting his head at you in confusion.

“What?”

“…it’s just…” he scratches his neck awkwardly, looking away. “Gojo-sensei said the same thing about you.”

“…huh?”

“He said that with your technique, you could explain how cursed energy feels. And a bunch of other stuff about functions and fluctuations. I dunno, it got kinda confusing, but I think I understand what he was saying. You feel cursed energy. And Gojo-sensei sees it really well. You’re opposites, right?”

Your jaw cracks open, your face going violently warm. “He said that?”

“Mhm!”

Your shoulders sink. All this time you’ve been finding different ways to curse Gojo out for being a shitty, annoying space invader, and he’d been…complimenting you behind your back? Your draw your lips into your mouth, fighting off the flush on your cheeks. Now you feel like a dick. Your first instinct is to disprove it, because there’s no way in hell he meant that. But why would he lie to one of his students about it? That seems beyond petty, even for him.

“What does your technique do?” Yuji asks, batting his eyes at you. “Gojo-sensei said I should ask. He also told me to not get bummed out if you refused to answer.”

Oh. So he’s manipulating you through Yuji now? Great.

You sigh. “It’s called Sew. It allows me to telekinetically control lines of sharp thread.”

“Telekinetically? Like—with your mind?”

“Yes with my mind.”

“Is that how you caught those nunchucks yesterday!? I thought you used the Force or something.”

You snort. "My threads are translucent. Makes them really hard to see." 

"Have you got them out right now?" He whispers conspiratorially. 

"What do you think?" You whisper back. 

He straightens up, recognising the challenge for what it is. He stares at you for a solid thirty seconds, and then shakes his head. "You don't."

"How'd you figure that?"

"Gojo-sensei told me that you can tell when someone's using a technique 'cause they're cursed energy goes all weird. Yours is really still, like a statue." 

You flick the edge of his hair with a thread, curling it into a tiny loop.

Yuji's jaw cracks wide open. "What the hell was that!?"

"A singular thread requires very little cursed energy to summon, so my levels don't fluctuate," you cut your technique off. "Smart sorcerers know how to shield their energy fluctuations, even when they're using a lot. It makes things very unpredictable in a battle. I guess that's something Gojo didn't mention?" 

"No." 

You shrug. "Now you know."

He pouts, folding his arms over his chest. His ire only lasts for a moment though, and then he's turning back to you with a grin. “Gojo-sensei said that you’ve been working abroad. What are curses like overseas?"

“Very different.”

“Different how? Are they weirder?" 

You sigh, squeezing at the corners of your eyes. At this rate, you’re going to spend the whole morning going back and forth with questions until Yuji’s satisfied. Best to just be open about it. As open as you can get, anyway.

“Cursed spirits aren’t that common outside of Japan.”

“Huh?” Yuji looks baffled. “Why’s that?”

You frown. How do you explain something like that to a fifteen-year old?" 

“I'm guessing you've seen Star Wars, yeah?"

Yuji nods enthusiastically.

“Okay. So…the reason cursed spirits are so concentrated here is because of this person named Tengen. Tengen is like Yoda. Very old, very powerful and very wise. They’re a really important person in jujutsu society, and they’re very good at creating barriers.”

“Barriers? Like the one at the event?”

“Exactly like that one: except on a much bigger scale. Tengen’s barriers makes it so the majority of cursed energy forms within Japan’s borders. Overseas, your senses are dulled, and cursed energy is harder to optimise. You can exhaust yourself very quickly. It’s pretty rare for a powerful curse to manifest itself outside of Japan. Does that make sense?”

Yuji makes a face, rubbing at his chin. “Kinda?”

You’re not convinced. “Repeat it back to me in your own words.”

Yuji’s face contorts harder. “Yoda-san makes it so Japan is like a super concentrated sour candy, and curses really like sour things. There may be other sour places in the world, but Japan is the sourest. And because of that, the Jedi and the Sith are born here.”

A laugh rips out of your throat. Weird. This kid is really weird.

“You know a bunch of stuff, Kanzaki-san. Are you like the Obi-Wan Kenobi of sorcery?”

You stiffen, instinctively taking his comment as an insult. Silence stagnates between you, and it takes you a solid five seconds to realise Yuji is complimenting you. He genuinely thinks you’re some worldly, unbelievably patient person like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Clearly there’s a perceptional dissonance between whatever he’s seeing when he looks at you, and what you see.

You turn slightly, swallowing down a cough. “I’m not sure about that.”

His smile widens. “If you’re Obi-Wan, does that mean Gojo-sensei is Anakin?”

Gojo Satoru, the honoured one, the strongest sorcerer, prevailed at birth to be unlike any human ever before. He definitely emits a ‘chosen one’ kind of energy. But he’s also a teacher, and as the story goes, Anakin slaughters all the younglings in the Jedi temple after his mental state disintegrates. You know Gojo’s had those kinds of thoughts before with the Time Vessel Association, but that was a long time ago. 

“He’s more like Luke Skywalker,” you say, knowing it’s a dangerous type of compliment to give out to someone like Gojo.

Yuji nods. “Yeah, that does make more sense.”

You stare at each other for a moment, not saying anything. Your eyes drift to the centre of his chest, to the place where he harbours an overbearing, calamitous power. Sukuna presence is so powerful it can impose itself over someone else’s body with one singular shard of his soul. How is that possible? To think this bubbly, excitable kid is a vessel to the most evil curse user to have ever existed.

Your spine prickles uncomfortably, goosebumps covering your neck. This is bad. Really, really bad. But what other choice do you have? 

It’s awkward between you now, but you’re incapable of reattaching yourself to the moment. Something’s shifted from the start of this conversation, your mood dipping into that familiar hollow of nothing. It’s a habit to zone out like this; to reign your emotions to a singular muted expression.

There’s a little sprout slowly blooming in the back of your mind. You’ve been trying to ignore it, but now it’s thorny vines are wrapping around your heart, bludgeoning it. Whispering to you about all the awful things you’re doing. That you’re going to do.

You should feel remorse. But you don’t.

You need to do this.

“C’monnn, c’monnn, tell us what happened!”

Itadori Yuji was used to meeting strange people nowadays. It came with the territory of being a sorcerer. Yuji also liked to think he was pretty easy-going, so none of that stuff really fazed him. He’d never met someone who flat out despised him before, so he hadn’t thought too much about how he’d get along with his new ‘babysitter’ as Gojo-sensei had dubbed her.

He figured things would be fine.

But there was something off Kanzaki Akari. 

She was almost too normal compared to what he was used to. She wasn't intensely pragmatic and blunt like Nanami. Or flippant and goofy like Gojo-sensei. She spoke just enough for things to be casual, but not enough for him to get a read on her personality. She was quiet when it was acceptable, and similarly composed when Yuji barraged her with questions. She didn't complain or tell him to shut up. She also didn't make him feel stupid either. She kept her cards close to her chest, but didn't make him feel like he was talking to a brick wall. She was private. Mysterious.

He didn’t understand why he felt so suspicious of her, and that made him feel guilty, because she’d been nothing but kind and patient with him from the moment they’d met. So he brushed it off, figured it was just nerves.

Kanzaki explained beforehand that the cool guy who makes cute ugly things organised their mission specifically so they could get used to being around each other, in combat or otherwise. Same deal as when he went out with Kugisaki and Fushiguro, or at least, that’s what he thought it would be like.

Kanzaki said that ‘synergy’ was very important when it comes to co-oping missions. Yuji understood that—like how he and Todo worked really well together against the tree-curse. Punching and kicking is good for Boogie Woogie, but if someone had a long-ranged attack, like some kind of wizard spell, being teleported constantly wouldn’t be very helpful.

Kanzaki’s technique—from the vague way she’d explained—seemed pretty versatile. So no harm there. Yuji wasn’t really sure why everyone was freaking out about the two of them going off on a mission alone. 

It had gone pretty well at first. The location—which was some old, abandoned mattress pressing facility—was a couple hours from Tokyo. The car ride had been pretty quiet, Yuji’s attempts to prod Kanzaki for personal questions ending in silent boredom for the most part. When they arrived, the air was noticeably colder, and the facility, even from the parking lot, stunk.

Yuji was excited to show off his experience with curse hunting after all the time he’d spent with Nanami, and Kanzaki had looked pretty impressed by his initiative, letting him lead the way into the warehouse. She was quiet the entire time, answering his throw-away questions only with faint hums of approval. She’d seemed a little far away, and Yuji—looking back—now understood why.

Even though she’d said she was only acting as a supervisor, and that Yuji was in charge of how they approached missions and exorcised curses, she’d been using her technique to track the curse the whole time they’d been looking for it. What he’d misunderstood as absentmindedness was actually extreme concentration.

Yuji’s cheeks flush darker just thinking about it.

He’d been taking them in circles when Kanzaki had probably found the curse the second she stepped out of the car.

Yuji eventually found it—or rather, the curse found him. He did his usual thing, punching it over and over, dodging it’s weird spring-shaped attacks. He chased it all the way through a series of giant conveyor belt machines. The thing had seemed pretty weak. He got distracted trying to show off, and somehow, ended up trapped in a mattress.

The thing folded over him like a chocolate wrapper, catching him from behind. No matter how much he squirmed and fought, the fabric wouldn’t budge. It kept compressing around him like a Chinese finger trap, squeezing him tighter and tighter until he couldn’t breath. He tried calling out to Kanzaki, but all that came out was a pitiful wheeze.

He’d readied himself for one final attempt, pulling all his weight, when the mattress suddenly disappeared, leaving him sprawled on the ground in a heap. He’d sucked in a deep breath and looked around in a daze. Kanzaki was standing beside him, completely unscathed, with her hands in her pockets. She’d exorcised the curse in a matter of seconds, the only sign of physical exertion being a tiny piece of hair that’d fallen in front of her face.

Even now, hours later, Yuji’s face feels like it's on fire thinking about it. With Nanami, making mistakes hadn’t been so bad. Nanami was always honest about his thoughts, and gave Yuji advice when he made mistakes. Kanzaki hadn’t offered him anything like that. She’d just shook her head and smiled slightly when he tried to apologise. She’d been so calm. So unbothered.

It hadn’t really relieved his conscience.

“Hellooooo?” Kugisaki shakes his shoulders violently. “Are you going to answer?!”

Yuji feels like he’s being coerced into a confession. He’s never been good at hiding how he feels, and he’s never considered that a flaw, until now. His frown turns to a full-on sulk. “I totally messed up our mission. Kanzaki-san had to save me.”

"She saved you, huh?" She frowns. "I guess she isn’t out to kill you then.”

“Kill me? Why the hell would she do that?!”

“Like that old guy at the event,” she says. “I’m not going to completely discount it. Maybe her motives are more complicated. She seems like the cunning type.” She looks at him again, her gaze fizzling with intensity. “So? What do you think of her? Our dumb teacher won’t tell me anything!”

Gojo-sensei places a palm over his heart. “It’s against my vows as a teacher to instil prejudice into my students.”

Kugisaki glares at him. “You love gossip! That’s why you’re here!”

Gojo-sensei makes a face, pouting his lips like a fish.

Kugisaki sighs and turns back to Yuji. “So? Spill it! What do you think of her?”

“W-well…” Yuji cringes. Knowing Kugisaki, she’ll hate it no matter what he says. “I think she’s a smart and kind person.”

Kugisaki makes a face. “That's so boring! I was talking about her personality! Y'know, is she the quiet type? The stoic type? What kind of smart is she? Books or maths?”

“Uh…both?” He’s not really sure, but it sounds right. “She knows a bunch of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“About domain expansions and cursed energy.”

“Shop talk?!” She looks disgusted.

“She knows a lot of movies too. We talked about Star Wars.”

“Star Wars? She likes nerdy stuff?”

Fushiguro sighs. “Liking a very popular movie franchise doesn’t make you a nerd.”

“But it’s Star Wars!” Kugisaki argues. “She could’ve brought up any movie and she starts with Star Wars?”

Yuji scratches his ear sheepishly. “Actually, I brought it. She was just using it to explain how cursed energy works.”

“More shop talk?! Did you seriously get nothing interesting out of her?” She knocks her fist onto his head. “You were supposed to be listening.”

He gingerly rubs the top of his head. “Well, there was this one thing that happened.”

Kugisaki immediately perks up. “What is it? Tell me!”

“When we were walking to the car, the auxiliary manager took one look at Kanzaki-san and went super pale,” Yuji mimics the face, pulling at the skin on his cheeks. “He looked terrified of her.”

Gojo-sensei looks up from his phone. "Oh?" 

Fushiguro turns to him. “You got somethin’ to say?”

“Who? Me?” He waves a hand. “Noooo.”

Kugisaki turns to him like a weeping angel, her eyes bugging out “Speak, you traitor!”

Gojo-sensei hums, not at all fazed. “Her spooking people isn’t a new thing. She used to do it in school all the time. She’d walk up behind someone and BAM!” He spreads out his hands and lurches forward at Fushiguro. “They’d pee their pants! It was hilarious.” Fushiguro doesn’t even flinch, which makes Gojo-sensei sigh. “You’re no fun, Megumi.”

Kugisaki frowns. “So they're scared of her? Why?"

Gojo-sensei shrugs. "She gives off bad energies, apparently. A monk said that to her once." 

Kugisaki scoffs. "She isn’t scary.”

“You were vilifying her a moment ago,” Fushiguro points out.

“That was before—when I thought she was planning to kill Itadori. Now is different!”

"Right.”

“She looked a lot different in school,” Gojo-sensei says, tapping at his phone. "Which probably didn't help."

Kugisaki’s eyes narrow. “How different?”

He shrugs. “You remember, don’t ya Megumi?”

“Don’t bring me into this.”

“You can’t reel out a hook and just leave it there!” Kugisaki launches at Gojo-sensei, trying to snap at his phone. He giggles and pulls it from her reach, ruffling her hair. She squawks at him in protest, fixing her hair back in place.

“Fushiguro,” she turns on him. “What did she look like!?”

“I don’t know. I was six years old,” he grumbles, turning his head to the side to hide his pout. “Gojo’s just dragging me into this because he’s bored.”

“Found it!” Gojo-sensei cheers, ignoring Fushiguro completely. He flips his phone around, and Kugisaki snatches it out of his hands, eyes glued to the screen. Yuji jumps up from the couch and peers over her shoulder, his curiosity peeked.

It’s a picture of two Jujutsu Tech students in uniform. One of them is quite clearly Gojo; tall and gangly with his white hair fluffed out in every direction. He's grinning from ear to ear, making bunny ears with his fingers behind the other students head. The other student looks anything but amused. She’s tall for a teenage girl, with ink-black hair coiled into two impossibly tight braids down either shoulder. Her face is tweaked with frustration, and it pours from her grey-coloured eyes like a death-laser. Her posture is ruler straight, her arms folded in front of her chest, not a wrinkle in sight on her uniform. She looks too proper to be standing next to Gojo.

“Who’s the girl?” Yuji asks. “You’re being pretty smoochy with her in this photo, sensei.”

Kugisaki laughs. “Yeah right! She looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

Gojo-sensei suddenly coughs, turning his head away.

Fushiguro sighs. “That’s Kanzaki guys…”

“WHAT?!”

The posture, the hairstyle, the facial expression. It was completely at odds with the Kanzaki Akari Yuji met a couple days ago; who had a thousand ear piercings and slouched at any opportunity. He opened and closed his mouth multiple times, but nothing came out. He was just gaping like a fish. Her fashion sense was totally different too. It was like looking at a completely different person.

“That…that’s her?!”

“No way!”

Gojo-sensei snickers. “I know right?”

“She’s so different!”

"She looks pissed in that photo. You musta done something to tick her off."

"Believe it or not, that was just her resting face. She was always grumpy and annoyed." 

Fushiguro snorts. “Probably because she had to share a classroom with you.”

Gojo-sensei gasps. “I was an outstanding classmate, thank you very much. We got along super well!" 

They all give him an unimpressed look.

His shoulders slump. “My students are ganging up on me…”

“That was almost nine years ago,” Fushiguro cuts in. “People change. It’d more strange if she looked the same.”

Yuji nods. “That’s true. I mean, Gojo-sensei also looks pretty different.”

“You’d think the auxiliary managers would get over it,” Kugisaki mutters, handing Gojo back his phone. “There's nothing creepy about the way she looks! They're all idiots." 

“Some stuff just sticks,” Fushiguro says. “I doubt Kanzaki really cares.”

Yuji frowns. “Still, it’s kinda messed up that they think she’s like…evil or something.”

"She does look like an angry water spirit in that photo," Gojo-sensei says. 

Fushiguro elbows him in the side. 

Kugisaki lets out a big sigh and flops down onto the couch, folding her arms over her chest.

Yuji tilts his head at her. “What’s wrong Kugisaki?”

“Nothing…” she mutters. “Just reminds me of someone back home.”

You told Yaga you’d fix the crater you made in the sports field with Maki’s nunchucks, but you hadn’t accounted for the god awful humidity when you made that promise.

The landscaper on campus had been delighted by your proposal—seeing as it got him out of work on a hot day—and had sent you packing with a wheelbarrow and a bunch of mulch.

Knowing it’s your fault makes you even more pissed about digging a giant, stupid hole with zero shade cover. You hadn’t even had the forethought to bring a water bottle, and so you’ve powered through the heatstroke with the sheer intensity of your frustration.

Your whole body feels like an exposed nerve by the time you’re done. You’re not sure why you keep getting yourself into these messes, you need just to quit. Rest. Your back has been killing you since your fight with Mahito. (Or pursuit, depending on how you look at it). No amount of anti-inflammation cream has managed to improve it, and ibuprofen isn’t something you’re comfortable with using. Not now, at least.

You thought about going to Shoko, but visiting her for something as trivial as back pain seems like a waste of her talents. And quietly, in the back of your mind, subjecting yourself to the plume of cigarette smoke and alcohol Shoko surrounds herself in is a little too much.

You feel bad about avoiding her, but alcohol and cigarettes…they’re a bad combination for you. Being alone with her for a merely five minutes had sent you barrelling into worn-out memories from years ago; stumbling around, out of your mind. Being lead around by the nose and unleashed like a rabid dog—killing curses because that’s what you were good at. So many times you’d embarrassed yourself unknowingly, acting the fool without a feeling to sway you.

You trust yourself now, but you’re also not a masochist.

You let out a sigh as another tingle of pain shoots up your back. You pat your shovel along the dirt, trying to level it out. You thought you were pretty fit, but as it turns out, digging a hole is a lot of hard work. You’re drenched in sweat, your eyes are stinging and you smell like garbage. You feel close to passing out, but you’ve committed to fixing this hole. You are physically incapable of backing out once you start something. It’s one of those annoying idiosyncrasies you’ve been unable to reconcile with.

You lean back to prop up your shovel, assessing the flatness of the dirt in comparison to it’s surroundings.

“Yo!”

You startle, teetering back and tripping over the wheelbarrow. Your elbows slam into the wooden handles, and your ass falls into the gap between them, leaving you dangling like a puppet with tangled strings. Your back screams at you, and you have to physically control the muscles in your face to hide your pain.

Gojo laughs at you, because of course he does. You half-expect him to pull out his phone and start taking pictures, but he doesn’t. He just stands there with a big, shit-eating grin on his face.

“Fucking asshole,” you seethe, glaring at him over the brim of your hat.

“Maybe if you weren’t so wired all the time, you wouldn’t get spooked." 

“I’m not wired,” you grunt, trying—and failing—to articulate yourself out of the wheelbarrow handlebars. “And the only reason you caught me off guard is because you teleported—which is cheating.”

“Is it? I don’t remember that being a rule.”

You narrow your eyes at him, not falling for the bait. Today above all days, you’re not in the mood for his games. “Why are you here?” You didn't think he'd have the balls to confront you so soon after your massive shitstorm of an argument. But then again, him pretending everything's fine is very on brand. 

Gojo shrugs. “Just wanted to check on you, see how things are going with Yuji. Y’know, teacher stuff.”

You glare at him. “Cut the shit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“I know for a fact Yuji blabbed to you about our mission already, so don’t pretend this is a courtesy call. You want something.”

“You are so cynical! Can’t I just check on an old friend?”

You look at him.

He lets out a loud, childish sigh. “Fineeee. I wanted to know what your deal was with Yuji.”

“My deal?”

“Ya. Why’re you being weird with him.”

“Define weird.”

Gojo tilts his head at you in emphasis, gesturing to your predicament.

You suck in a breath, fighting off the embarrassed flush crawling up your neck. The fact you’re having the conversation whilst stuck on a wheelbarrow handle isn't lost to you. You're well aware you look like a proper idiot. You should move, but you’re delaying the inevitable on purpose, readying yourself for what you know is going to be painful.

You twist sideways, your back screaming at you, and throw your legs off the handle. Using the counterweight of mulched grass in the wheelbarrow, you pull yourself up, stumbling awkwardly to your feet.

You sway for a moment, caught in a dizzy spell as heat reaches your head. You blink at Gojo’s suddenly blurry outline, and then your left knee tweaks. Your weight shifts to your feet. Your eyes flicker, your body leaning forward until the grass seems a lot closer than before. Gojo grabs onto your shoulders and pushes you back, steadying you.

You open your mouth, some unintelligible comment stirring on your tongue, but your body goes limp. Gojo's hands sweep beneath you in a near instant, catching you like some swooning bride. Your mortified response is swallowed back by the warp effect of Gojo’s teleport. In a moment you find yourself beneath an engawa, Gojo holding you to his chest. 

He leads you over to a wooden bench, and plops you down on it like a potato sack. You blink rapidly, more words coming to the forefront of your mind and stalling behind your clenched teeth. Gojo wanders off, and for a moment, you genuinely think he’s abandoned you on some random bench to suffer through your heat exhaustion, but then he comes back, an iced soda in his hand.

You blearily stare, trying to figure out if you should be pissed off or grateful. Guess they’re not mutually exclusive.

Gojo lifts your legs off the bench and sits down, repositioning them on top of his lap. You squint up at him from your slouched end of the bench, wondering what the hell he's playing at. He presses one hand to your shin, and despite their being a layer of sheer fabric between you, your skin tingles, breaking out with goosebumps. 

Oh my god.

Can your body just stop being cringe for one fucking moment? 

“I can’t believe you almost fainted,” Gojo muses, pressing the bottom of the soda can into your kneecap. It feels good, so good that you want to close your eyes. But then you see Gojo’s annoyingly smug smile, and that feeling crumbles. You don’t even have the strength to move your leg away, so you just glare at him.

“I should probably scold you for not taking a break, but that’s something a senpai would do, and you’re older than me.”

“By like two months,” you mutter, not even sure why you’re defending yourself. “And I didn’t ask for your help.”

“I know, I just did it out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Yeah fucking right.”

“Eh?” He sounds awfully hurt. “Just what kind of guy do you take me for, Kanzaki?”

“…do you really want me to answer that?”

He sighs, tilting his head back onto the wall. “So mean…”

Your eyes drift to the soda in his hand, to the little trickle of condensation on the aluminium can as it hits your leg. 

Gojo hums. “You eyein’ up my soda?”

“Your soda?”

“Mhm,” he shakes the can lightly in your face, looking positively smitten with himself. “What? Did you think I got it for you? Hm. That would've been really nice of me, huh?”

“Gojo,” you grit out. “Don’t be a dick.”

“Uh, I’m the one who helped you out, remember?”

“Then help me out some more, and give me the damn soda.”

“I guess I could give it to you, but…only if you say please.”

You turn away, folding your arms over your chest. Hell would freeze over before you ever did something so demeaning, and for Gojo Satoru, no less.

“Kanzaaaki,” he hums, his voice a lot closer than before. “Don’t be such a buzzkill.”

You patently ignore him.

“Take it,” he extends his arm, leaning over to wiggle the can in front of you. “I was only joking.”

More silence.

Gojo lets out a long suffering sigh, and then he cracks it open and forces it into your hands. “Crybaby.”

Your knuckles clench, crunching the metal slightly. You glance a look at him, and he’s blatantly staring at you, his eyebrows raised behind his blindfold, like he’s curious to see just how stubborn you are.

You purse your lips, fighting off a sneer, and take a big gulp of the drink. The feeling is instantaneous. The cold, sharp intensity of the sugar makes you nearly groan, soothing the dryness. You press the soda greedily back to your lips, nearly draining the thing in one go. When you're done, you brave it and swing your legs out of Gojo's lap to sit up. 

“Feel better now, my little Diglett?” He coos.

You splutter. “Diglett?”

“Y’know, cause you’ve been digging holes? I thought it suited you, but I guess you can be a Cubone if you want. Or a Wooper,” he snorts at that thought, tapping a finger to his chin. “M’trying to think of other ground types, but I never really liked ‘em.”

“If I’m a Cubone, then you’re an Oddish.”

He gasps. “I called you a cute little ground dino and you call me odd?”

“That was a mercy,” you mutter, taking another sip. There are so many other words you could use to describe Gojo Satoru, and he knows it.

Gojo grins, and scoots himself closer to you, invading your personal space like he always does. You inch away, your hip digging into the sidebar.

“Why were you out there in the first place? Y’know they pay people to do that stuff.”

“I offered. Considering I’m the one who messed it up, it’s the least I could do.”

“Ahhh,” he nods sagely. “I see.”

“Do you?”

“What? Ya think I don’t know how to repay a debt?”

“Considering how much of an ass you just were about helping me, I’d say yeah—you suck.”

“C’monnnn,” he sings. “That was just a bit of fun. I could go all out if I wanted to.”

You turn to face him. “Name one time you properly made it up to someone. And I mean properly. No half-promises or jokes. No innuendo. Just a sincere gesture of apology."

Gojo makes a face, like you’ve posed a brain teaser to him instead. A moment passes, his expression becoming more and more torturous.

“You are unbelievable.”

He slaps his hand out onto your shoulder, shaking it. “Wait wait, I’m thinking.”

“The fact you even have to…”

“Oh!” He turns to you, a grin split wide across his face. “October 17th, 2007!"

You blink. It takes you a second to understand what he’s saying, and then your neck jerks back. October 17th 2007 was your eighteenth birthday. You open and close your mouth a couple times, but words evade you. 

Gojo smiles triumphantly. “Seeee? I can be nice. Realllly nice.”

You a huff. “You didn’t even say sorry.”

He leans his shoulder into you. “Awhhh c’mon, don’t get all grumpy just ‘cause I won.”

“Won?” You shake your head. “It wasn’t about winning.”

“Silly, Kanzaki,” he pats you on the head like you’re some deluded little puppy. “Everything’s about winning.”

You scowl, shrugging his hand off you. This is another one of his stupid games, and you'd been so caught up arguing with him you'd somehow let yourself become a participant.

Gojo straightens up, sensing that he’s actually managed to piss you off in a serious way.

You get to your feet and start down the engawa, taking the last slug of your soda before dumping it in the trash.

“Oi,” Gojo calls out, his tone completely flipped from before. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the oval,” you say. “I left the wheelbarrow out there.”

He appears next to you. “Someone else can get it.”

“I don’t want someone else to get it.”

“Now you’re just being difficult.”

You turn and give him a sharp smile. “I’m the difficult one?”

“Remember the whole ‘heat exhaustion thing’? Wanna go for a blockbuster failure sequel?”

A muscle in your jaw quivers. “That was your fault. Maybe next time you have something to ask me, you can approach me like a normal person instead of jumping me like a half-baked poltergeist.”

He gasps. “Half-baked?”

“Yes. Now, can you move?”

“Nope. I told ya. I gotta make sure you don’t pass out.”

“As if you actually care about that. You just wanna pester me until I bitch at you, and I don't want to play that game anymore. So be straight with me, or you can fuck off and keep doing that for the rest of your life."

"The rest of my life?" He repeats. 

"The rest."

"That's extreme." 

"I'm gonna hit you," you threaten.

"Really? Like, right now?"

You turn and stare at him.

"Okayyy!" He puts his hands up. "I admit, I was being dick. I did genuinely want to ask about Yuji, but then I got distracted gallantly saving you from passing out." 

You keep walking. 

Gojo blips in front of you, and you screech to a stop before you run into him. 

"Don't be petty, 'Zaki. That's my thing. Your thing is being grumpy and boring. And you're much, much better at that then I am. It's why we work so well."

What delusional planet does this man live on?

You scowl at him. "Grumpy and boring?"

"Don't worry, it works for you. I mean, I still talk to you, right?" 

You scoff. "Y’know Gojo, if you just wanted to spend time with me, all you have to do is say it.”

He pauses in his grandstanding. With the blindfold on, you can really only get a vague discernment of his reaction. You hope you’ve managed to catch him off-guard, but you’re not really sure.

Gojo suddenly leans down, a warm breath casting over your cheeks. If you had to guess, he’s probably batting his eyes at you beneath the blindfold as well.

“Is it okay if I stay by your side…just for today?” His voice has breathy tinge to it, like the words—and their intended meaning—are exciting him. It makes your spine got ramrod straight, your stomach twisting as a different kind of warmth floods your body. Your face goes hot enough to melt stone and you jerk backwards, nearly slipping on the engawa.

Gojo’s hand comes out instantaneously, steadying you between the shoulder blades.

“Seeee? You can’t handle me being earnest." 

Something prickles in your chest. A tiny seed of coalesced feelings you've locked away. 

“You shouldn’t play with someones feelings like that, Gojo,” you mutter, folding your arms over your chest. “What if I’d been upset?”

“You, upset? That's rare.”

You try to kick him in the ankle, but it hits his Infinity.

“And I’m a wuss.”

“You’re the one who tried to kick me the ankle.”

“Don’t play the victim.”

“But I am. I’m just a humble teacher now, Frankenstein. I’m nothing but respectable. A gentlemen, and you’re treating me like some common criminal.”

The old, dreaded nickname. But somehow it doesn’t dredge up the same feelings of inferiority that you once so viciously held. “You’re the furthest thing from being a gentlemen, Gojo. And quit calling me that.”

“Why? You still mad about it?”

“No.”

“You sound mad,” you can practically hear his grin. “I thought you would’ve gotten over it by now.”

“I have,” you mutter, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”

He doesn’t reply, seemingly taking your words at face value. You find yourself staring at the black strip of fabric where is eyes would be, waiting. The silence stretches, becoming almost accusatory in nature. Gojo stares back, his lips levelled, expression ambivalent.

What is he thinking about?

It burns you how much you want to know.

You realise rather suddenly that you haven’t answered Gojo’s original question about Yuji. You have no idea how to bring it up now that the conversation has shifted. It’s needling you with the irritation of explaining yourself properly, but the moment’s gone, and bringing it back up is only going to make you look blatantly transparent about your thoughts.

But then again, this is Gojo you’re speaking too. He’s always been flippant in conversation. It makes him easy to talk, easier than most, at least. 

Gojo lets out a low hum, a smile playing at his lips. You’re about to question him, when he reaches over and brushes his hand over your temple. Your jaw shifts, lips parting around a breath. His fingertip is cool, gently dragging through the baby hairs framing your face. You feel your heart stutter stop, words building up in your throat.

Gentle. He’s being gentle.

He’s never touched you like that before.

What? What? What? What?

What the fuck is happening?

When he pulls back, he’s got a ladybug on his fingertip.

“You’ve got good luck for the rest of the day, Frankenstein,” he says, letting the bug flutter off. “Better make good use of it.”

You don’t know what to say. Your heart is hammering in your chest. Thoughts swirling, but never truly connecting. He notices, and his smile ticks up. Your instinct is to call it smug, but there isn’t a haughtiness there. He’s just smiling to himself.

“Go back to your room, ‘kay?” He says. “I’ll get the dumb wheelbarrow.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “But—“

He pokes a finger between your eyes, disturbing the wrinkle of muscles there. “Kanzaki. I’m willingly doing some laborious task for you, and you’re rejecting it?”

“You…” your tongue stalls. You’re struggling to remain coherent, your heart spasming out of control. “What do you get out of it?”

Gojo shakes his head. “Now you’re just being dense.”

“I am…not.”

Another excellent defence.

He stares at you for a second, and then sighs, like you’ve disappointed him in some mysterious Gojo-centric way. “You really are a lost cause. Now!” He grabs you by the shoulders and spins you around. You fight his manhandling, planting your boots into the floor, but all you manage to do is make a grating sound against the wooden floorboards. He’s too strong for you, even now.

“Go be grumpy somewhere else. Bye-bye!”

He disappears, leaving you staring at the wooden floorboards, your mouth opening and closing in frustration. A jitteriness overcomes your muscles, making your fingers shake as you curl them into your palms. You press your fist over your chest, feeling your heart thump against your knuckles, fluttering in a panic.

His touch lingers still, tingling across your forehead like a phantom. You let out a shaky breath, your shoulders slumping as reality comes crashing in. None of that meant anything to him. He’s just fucking with you, the way he always does. You know that.

You promise yourself you won’t think too hard about it, but by the time you get back to your room, you’ve replayed the conversation more than a dozen times in your head. It’s deluded, trying to find meaning in it. Gojo does that kinda stuff on a whim all the time. But you can’t help it.

Your thoughts spiral around it. You question everything. Every word, every expression. Breaking down his motives into tiny, digestible equations is the only way you can deal with it. And even then, you can’t make sense of it.

It’s a meaningless examination, one that only further cements where you stand. Gojo is Gojo, and will always be Gojo. You, on the other hand, are nothing. You came from nothing, left with nothing and returned all the same.

How many times are you planning on beating this dead horse?

Chapter Text

You decide to bring Mem when you meet up with Yuji again, hoping her presence might help break the ice. 

When Yuji appears, he approaches you without hesitation. For a moment you think Gojo might've misinterpreted Yuji's feelings; and maybe there isn't any awkward air to clear between you. Then you notice the slight coil in his shoulders. Well hidden, but pretty easy to spot if you're actively searching for it. He's nervous, and it makes you feel awful.

You’ve reconciled the fact you’ll be working together for an inestimable amount of time. You accepted the contract under the assumption that it wouldn't matter if Yuji disliked you because it's just a job. You're in charge of keeping him safe. Gojo won’t be here all the time, and can’t defend Yuji against every accusation thrown his way, especially when it comes to the big clans. You are his sole protection against an entire system that’s working against him. 

There are incredibly limited options on who to trust right now, and half of those options are also children. You’re the adult here. Your word, as little value as it has, is still more influential than Yuji's. It’s your decisions that will affect him, whether you like it or not. Everything else is secondary to his life.

You thought you could put up with him hating you, or resenting you, or whatever else. But now, you're not so sure. 

How does Gojo deal with this feeling all the time? 

Yuji notices the little ball of orange and white fluff between your feet, and stops, his eyes slowly widening in delight.

Okay, so that worked.

“Is that your cat?”

“Mhm,” you shoot him a smile. “Her name is Agamemnon, Mem for short.”

“She’s so fluffy!” He marvels, crouching down to coo at her. “What breed is she?”

“M’not a hundred percent sure, I’ve never done one of those ancestry tests, but she’s at least half Norwegian forest cat. I found her on the side of a highway as a kitten. She was pretty roughed up, and lost a part of her ear.” You reach down and flatten your palm over Mem’s head, and she nuzzles against it. “She had fleas and worms and hadn’t eaten in days. The vet said she was lucky to be alive—that her ‘indomitable spirit’ had kept her from deaths door.”

“Indomitable,” Yuji repeats. “Like…brave?”

“Yup.”

He grins, all that nervousness seemingly disappearing. “Can I pet her?”

“If she lets you.”

Yuji takes a couple gentle steps forward and reaches out his hand, making a ‘pspsps’ sound. Mem observes his behaviour in avid confusion, which Yuji translates as interest. He shuffles forward and Mem’s spine curls straight up, her hair sticking on end. She quickly ducks behind your legs, staring at Yuji suspiciously

“She’s a bit shy.”

That’s a lie. You’re pretty sure Mem’s just sensing Sukuna’s presence, but you don’t want to bum the kid out.

“Don’t worry,” he smiles reassuringly. “I’ll make sure she warms up to me!”

Your expression softens. Optimism isn’t a common trait among jujutsu sorcerers, most often because it’s quite literally beaten out of people. But there’s something about Yuji that makes it different. His naivety doesn’t come from unawareness or inconsequence. He’s just…believing. He’s gone through so much in such a short amount of time, and sure, he probably could’ve leant on a pessimistic outlook to get by, but he didn’t. It’s in his nature to rise above it.

Extroversion at times can be just as proficient a mask as introversion. Yuji is light. His soul is vibrant. Without knowing what the word meant, he’s probably the definition of indomitable.

“So…” Yuji ruffles his hair, looking a little shy under your gaze. “We've got another mission?"

"Yes, but first I wanted to talk to you about something," you fold your arms over your chest. “Gojo told me yesterday that you were feeling uncomfortable on our mission. That I’d made you uneasy—“ you stop talking, holding back a laugh at the horrified look on Yuji’s face. Outstanding evidence to the fact he'd been snitched on. “Don’t worry, I’m not offended. You’re well within your rights to dislike me. It’s not like I’ve done anything to make this transition easier for you.”

“I don’t dislike you,” he says matter-of-factly, his expression shifting into something mildly confused. “I’m the one who messed up on our mission, and you had to do all the heavy lifting. I thought you were mad at me.”

“I would never get angry with you about something like that.”

“O-oh,” he makes a face. “My bad then.”

You sigh. Time to get to the uncomfortable part.

“Yuji,” your tone catches his attention. “I’m sure Nanami’s spoken to you about this to some extent, but being a jujutsu sorcery isn't all it's cracked up to be." 

He nods once. “He mentioned it a little, yeah.”

“Well, I’m going to be meaner about it. And yeah, this is obviously going to be biased, so take it with a grain of salt, but this job isn’t for the sane. You'll get hurt a lot, your friends will get hurt a lot. You'll probably lose people you care about, and that’s just how it is,” you take a breath, faces spinning through your mind. Mostly friends, but some foes, and an uncomfortable intersect between the two. “Saving people is what we do, as many as we can, but…we’re human just the same. There’s always going to be people out of our reach, and that’s…it’s—well, it’s hard. It’ll break you and burn you and turn you into someone unrecognisable to yourself. There’s no heroics in it. Just survival. Some people get out of this life because they can’t stomach it, some people—like you and Gojo and Megumi—they don’t have a choice. This is their life, and that’s it.”

Yuji nods again. 

"The people around you, even the one's who want to help you, they're still sorcerers. They're not heroes and they're definitely not role models," you take a breath. "I am one of those people too. You can ask me about it, but I promise you won’t like my answers. If that bothers you, I understand, but because we're stuck with each other, there's not much I can do about it." 

Yuji’s expression falls for a moment, and you watch him digest your words. And then his eyes soften, and he looks down at the ground. “I get it.”

“Good,” you take a deep breath and nod to yourself. Before you can start your next sentence, a tall navy blob suddenly appears next to you both, doing mach-ten jazz hands.

“Time for an excursion with the rest of your class!”

Mem jumps nearly a solid vertical metre and howls, bolting off into the yard. Yuji startles, his heel slipping off the edge of the stone stairs. You reach out and grab him by the arm, steadying him. His cheeks go a faint pink, and he mumbles out a ‘thank you’. You turn to face Gojo, your once mutable expression narrowing with rage.

“Explain yourself." 

“Uh-oh,” a third voice joins the fray. “The idiot’s in trouble.”

You tilt your head to the side and find Nobara and Megumi standing at the top of the sports field, Nobara sporting a wolfish grin and Megumi looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. They’re both in their uniforms, Nobara brandishing a brown leather belt bag with a hammer looped through it.

“This wasn’t on my briefing,” you point out, trying to keep your voice level.

“That’s because it was a last minute change..."  

“And you’ve sorted this out with Yaga?”

He makes a face, pursing his lips.

You sigh. “Great.”

You consider the pros and cons of arguing with him right here in front of all the kids. No doubt, you’ll make things incredibly awkward for them, and give that little sleuth Nobara more fuel to add to her increasingly pervasive questioning into yours and Gojo’s relationship. But you also hate the idea of walking into a mission unprepared. Gojo being in control is the exact antithesis to how you function as a sorcerer. You can’t just pull up to a cursed spirit sighting and waltz in like you’re about to do an modern art viewing. You need numbers. Reports. Anything but a hunch.

You realise rather irritatingly, that everyone’s watching you, gauging your reaction. The only pro you can think of is that with Gojo tagging along, the kids aren’t going to get hurt. There’s no possibility for injury, at least, not seriously. And with you all together, they could probably learn quite a bit. Your jaw clenches. It’s not worth it to go off on him now.

Then again, when is it ever?

Gojo watches your shoulders slump, and breaks out into a stupidly smug smirk.

“You owe me for spooking my cat,” you seethe, jerking a finger into his shoulder. He pouts and rubs at the spot, and Nobara barks out a laugh. “And for pulling this on me with no notice.”

“Fair enough!" He shrugs. "So! What's the sitch? I hope they haven't gone easy on you~" 

You take a moment, schooling your expression down into something flat. "I only have the date."

Gojo stares at you like he's waiting for a punchline. When you don't give him one, his eyebrows furrow so hard you can see a wrinkle form on his forehead. 

"Show me," he demands, fluttering his fingers at you. 

You grumble as you pull out your phone. "On the first mission, they sent through another email with more information closer to the time."

Gojo leans over your shoulder and plucks your phone right out of your hands.

"Oi!" You spin, swiping back at it, but Gojo turns on his heel, blocking your attempts off. 

Yuji and Nobara purse their lips, clearly holding back giggles. Megumi merely watches you both in silence. 

"Gojo, give me my phone," you say, urgency slipping into your voice. 

He ignores you, flicking through your emails with a furrow between his brows. You know there's nothing incriminating on there; but the idea of him going through your phone sets your nerves alight. 

"Gojo," you hiss. "Give me the bloody phone!" 

"Shh," he swats you away. "I'm reading the mission report."

“And? Where are we going? What are the parameters?”

“Potential second grade,” he reads off your phone. “Some old holiday rental’s been causing a mess. Tourists going missing. Tokyo’s already sent over a sorcerer and they haven’t heard back, so that’s some bad news." He tosses you back your phone, and you catch it against your chest. “It’s way outta town, so we’ll be travelling most of the day, but it’s us or nothing. Seems like the higher up's were getting pretty yappy about it.”

“And you want to send three first years to do this?”

“We’ll be there as well!” He defends.

“Did you say ‘most of the day’?” Megumi finally speaks, deadpanned as usual.

Gojo grins wryly. “Road trip!”

“What’s your favourite band?”

Your head bobs as you go over a particularly nasty bump. “Too many to name.”

“What have you been listening to lately?”

“The Smiths.”

Nobara’s eyebrows bend. “The who?”

“I’ve heard of The Smiths,” Yuji says. “I think Fushiguro likes a couple of their songs.”

“They’re good,” Megumi says quietly, his voice muffled through a thick layer of leather and foam. 

“Who else?”

“Daft Punk? Tame Impala?” You offer.

Nobara groans. “I don’t know either of those. Can’t you pick something from this century? Or at least Japanese?”

You ignore the blatant shot at your age, which Gojo giggles at from the front seat.  “I have been living overseas,” you point out. “The radio’s all English stuff. You get acclimatised.”

“Your English must be pretty good,” Yuji offers, smiling. He’s always smiling.

“Decent enough, I guess.”

“Okay,” Nobara waves a hand over Yuji, like she’s cutting something in half. Your conversation, you realise. “What’s your favourite colour then?”

You make a disgruntled noise.

It’s been three hours of this.

You’re sitting on the left side window in the backseat, Yuji pushed up agaisnt your right, Nobara next to him, and poor Megumi’s squished into the tiny extra seat in the boot of the hatchback.

In the beginning, it was just Yuji trying to fill the awkward car silence. He asked you about old missions—places you’ve been to overseas, different cuisines you’ve tried, monuments you’ve seen. Touristy stuff. Pretty easy to answer. Then Nobara got involved, and the questions took a dive from talking about a specific part of Pakistan, and a curse you’d exorcised there, to incredibly personal questions of taste.

Your favourite food, favourite song, favourite article of clothing. Favourite student. (She tried to slip that one in unnoticed.) Then she asked about your school life, which you answered in vague, puzzling comments, much to her immense annoyance. She kept picking, and you kept evading, and her ears were getting redder and redder. If you were a sadist, you’d admit it was kinda fun to tick Nobara off.

When you don’t reply, Nobara leans forward to look at you, her seatbelt catching on her shoulder. “Is it black?”

“Black is the absence of colour,” Gojo points out.

“You, shhh,” Nobara warns. “You’re not apart of this.”

Gojo tilts his head back, his hair shifting sideways as he grins. “Says who?”

“Me,” Nobara deadpans. “Multiple times.”

“I reckon’ I’d win in a game of Kanzaki-Jeopardy,” he muses, slipping his phone away. “And as of now, you’re not doing so great. Might need’ta phone a friend.” 

She turns back to you, ignoring him completely. “Is it green? Emerald? Teal? Jade?”

“Stop with the questions, Kugisaki,” Megumi says. “You’re bothering her.”

She pouts, but doesn’t deny it.

You’re so distracted by the idea of Gojo saying he’d win a trivia game based on you, that you can’t come up with anything to say to soothe Nobara’s burned enthusiasm. There’s no possible way—not in this universe or any other—that Gojo Satoru knows enough about you to go on a game show, even if it was goddamn multiple choice. As of last week, he’d completely forgotten the fundamentals of your cursed technique. Him knowing your favourite colour is entirely unfathomable.

There’s silence in the car. The engine screeches, straining over a pothole. Everyone bobs in their seat, shifting with the motion. It’s like you’ve been caught in a vortex, and only awkward tension remains.

“I think I know it!” Gojo says suddenly, startling everyone. “It’s blue, right?”

You hit another bump in the road, and your thumb nail cuts over your index finger, tearing part of your cuticle clean off. Blood wells, and you jam your finger into your mouth to stop it. Yuji and Nobara’s heads turn on a swivel, staring expectantly at you with wide eyes. You blink, and slowly withdraw your finger from your mouth.

You look like a moron.

“Yeah,” you murmur quietly. “It’s blue.”

The car erupts into dismayed and excited screeches. Nobara throws her hands into the air. Yuji squawks in delight, rocking forward to grip the centre console with both hands, blabbering out compliments to Gojo. Ijichi, who’s been driving in complete silence, is rattled by Yuji’s wild movements. Gojo doesn’t deter him, he just grins, giving you a triumphant look from behind his headrest. Your launch your kneecap into the back of his seat, and he lurches forward, turning to give you an offended look. You glare back at him. Just when you think this conversation’s going to die, he revives it at full-force.

“You didn’t specify what kind,” Nobara points out. “That doesn’t count.”

“It’s gotta be dark blue,” Yuji insists.

“Sky blue?” Nobara leers at you, expecting a reaction. When you don’t give her one, she grumbles. “Sapphire? Azure? I’dunno!”

The car crunching to a halt in the dirt saves you from having to answer.

“We’re here,” Ijichi stammers out.

The frenetic mood dies like a candle flame. You all pile out of the car like it’s the goddamn Mysterious Machine, Yuji and Nobara tripping over each other to get out so they can release Megumi from his confinement. You’re pretty sure he’d be happy to stay in the car at this point, given how annoying those two are.

You slide out of the car and stand on numb, tingling feet. The bumpy ride did a number on your back pain, pitching it from a manageable eight to a roaring eleven. You stretch out from your fingertips to your toes, pulling until you feel your shoulders pop. You let out a sigh, and bend down to touch your knees, trying to relieve the ache in your hamstrings. Your skin burns, but you can’t get to the spot you want to no matter how hard you pull and twist. Your back just wants to be a heathen today.

A shadow dwarfs you, stretching out along the mix of rocks and dirt. You turn to find Gojo leaning against the car with his hands in his pockets, watching. Or, at least you think he is, it’s hard to tell with the blindfold. Unfurled from the car, you’re reminded of the fact that Gojo is tall. He'd bundled up in the car without complaint, giving you more than enough leg room to bully his spine with knee jabs. 

“I’dunno how you put up with that,” you mutter, standing back to full height.

He tilts his head at you. “Which part? The two-hour long questionnaire, or the god awful road?”

“The length of the trip,” you correct. “Don’t you get cramped sitting that long?”

He smiles. “Is this your convoluted little way of askin' if I’m alright?”

You fold your arms over your chest and give him a look.

He lets out a huffy laugh and leans away from the car.  “I’ve been in worse situations. You really think a road trip could take me out? I’m the King of road trips.”

You roll your eyes. “I’d wager you call yourself the king of everything.”

“I am amazing at most things." 

Not Mario kart, you want to add.

“But perhaps today I’ve blundered in acceptable car choice. It was pretty uncomfortable. Except for that last bit. That was nice.”

“What bit?”

He grins, and suddenly you feel like he’s caught you in some awful word trap.

“The view.”

Or not?

You open and close your mouth, not sure what to say. Was that an innuendo? And if it was, what the hell is he talking about? Is he fucking with you? Are you missing something?

“The cogs are churning,” he hums, stepping right into your personal space. His cologne hits you in the chest, and you blink, feeling like you’ve been teargassed, but with something incredibly subtle. Your heart does a stupid little jump, and you square your shoulders, refusing to be intimidated. You’re not a short stack by any means, and he knows it. “Next time, it can just be you and me, yea? Like old times.”

“Old times,” you repeat slowly. “When did we ever go on a road trip together?”

Gojo cheeky little smile falters. "That mission in Nagano?" 

Your face must bespeak your confusion because Gojo splutters. "It wasn’t that long ago. One of the monks there said you were creepy. You got all offended and threw your scarf at him, remember?"

You slowly shake your head at him.

"Wow," he whistles lowly. "You really have gone over the hill, huh?"

Your jaw drops. You’re about rip into him, but Yuji and Nobara round your side of the car in a flurry of conversation, a dishevelled Megumi in tow. They look at you both. You standing with your arms taut across your chest, and then at Gojo with a faint frown, and come to some sort of internal decision. The moment lasts barely a second, and then they’re back to normal, bickering amongst themselves.

“Creepy mansion time!” Yuji cheers.

They storm past in you a cloud of dust, leaving you staring at Gojo, still trying to wrap your head around the incredibly convoluted conversation you’ve just had.

Gojo gestures with his head. “You heard the kid.”

You rigidly turn and walk after them, Gojo keeping a respectable distance away from you this time. 

The first thing you notice is that the mansion isn’t traditional. It’s a Victorian style two story house, made with massive sandstone bricks and a full wraparound porch. It’s all detailed trimming and steep roofs, ripped straight from The Conjuring. Or perhaps, it might’ve looked like that, if the place wasn’t completely boarded over. Yuji and Nobara immediately take off to the front veranda, observing the massive double doors barred off with tape. You resist the urge to call them back from the house, realising you’ll sound like some paranoid mother.

You make it to the edge of the veranda and peer up at the second story balcony, which is covered in varying degrees of broken outdoor furniture. All the windows from the veranda are boarded over, and there’s a piece of paper taped to the front door, probably some sort of warning notice from landlords or real estate agency. Pretty standard for a cursed spirit sighting.

You take one singular step onto the porch, your boot tip creaking against the wood, and your suspicions are confirmed. You don’t need your technique to know there’s something rancid inhabiting this house. The energy it’s oozing is so faint, it’s almost unnoticeable, but it feels putrid. It takes you a moment to call on your technique, hesitant to feel the full effect of the house's energy. Your thread materialises, and the hot, aching weight of the house's energy levels your shoulders. It’s makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

Gojo notices, giving you that infuriating tilted-head look, which you patently ignore.

Megumi notices it too, which doesn’t really surprise you. From what you remember, he’d been the sensitive, observant type. “Are you alright?”

Yuji and Nobara perk up from trying to peek through the windows. “Is something wrong?” 

Everyones eyes are on you. It makes your throat go dry. “I’m fine,” you insist, fighting off a cough.

“Kanzaki here is merely picking up on residuals from the house,” Gojo says. “Remember what I said about her technique?”

“That it helps her sense stuff?” Yuji asks. “She can sense a drop of cursed energy from like a town over, or something like that…”

Nobara eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

Yuji nods nearly ten times. “Mhm! She’s like a…uh, super cool shark!”

Your shoulders droop, and you turn to look at Gojo, but he’s already looking at you, a blinding grin on his face.

“Is it about using Sew to differentiate cursed energies?” Megumi asks, his focus unmarred by his classmates banter. 

Gojo squeezes his fingers together, separating them by only an inch. “Close! But the aspect I’ve referring to is her ability to feel the cursed energy. Not sense it.”

Megumi frowns. “Everyone can do that.”

“True. But Kanzaki—well,” he sweeps a hand out to you. “I should probably let her explain, right?”

You stare at him, your upper lip twitching with irritation. Did he just handball off the answer to save his ass? Does he really not know anything about your technique anymore?

He doesn’t react at all to your silent seething, he just lets the question hang in the air, trapping you into answering. You rigidly turn back to the kids. “It’s…different, yeah.” You wrack your brain, trying to come up with something articulate, but nothing bounces back at you. “It’s um, like synesthesia, I guess. Ever heard of that?”

Nobara and Yuji rigidly shake their heads. Megumi just stares.

"Biologically, synesthesia is a misalignment of synaptic receptors. It changes the way your brain inputs certain information, and because of that, experiencing one sense can trigger another one, the second being unrelated. Like someone who sees the colour blue might feel a sharpness on their skin, or taste—saltiness, sweetness. Or a complex flavour.” The three of them look at you, their expressions entirely blank. You cringe, folding your lips over to stop yourself from scowling. You’re probably not getting anywhere with this line of thinking.

“Okay. Forget that. I’ll just say…because my technique, I've become hyper sensitive. It’s not the way a typical sorcerer would deduce cursed energy. It’s…well, if the emotion is the result of the curse, or it’s origin, if you wanna call it that, I can feel the cursed energy in it’s most neutral state, and how it interacts with other things. Positives, negatives. Attraction, repulsion. How it applies itself, essentially.”

More silence. You’re pretty sure you’ve completely confused them.

And then Megumi nods. “That’s a powerful ability.”

“Right?” Gojo eggs him on. “Despite her very convoluted explanation; it’s super helpful.” 

Helpful. You resent that word entirely. Your technique has always been helpful. Since you were seventeen, when the higher’s up’s finally realised you were never going to live up to their vision of you; and that really, your technique wasn’t all that. It’s the same kind of language that’s always used to describe female sorcerers.

You choose to ignore it. If you react to every little annoying thing Gojo does, you won’t be getting anywhere with this mission, and you’ll probably lose all credibility with the kids. You’re pretty sure Gojo knows that, and is abusing your civility to piss you off more than usual.

“So, Kanzaki, what does this house feel like?”

“It’s something old,” you reply evenly. “Humid almost. It’s growing. Or shifting.” 

Gojo makes a face. “Maybe a little less vague for the people in the back?”

“The curse is old,” you repeat. “Creepy. It’s energy isn’t complicated, but it’s got a lot of it.”

Gojo turns to the house again, and after a moment, nods his head, filling in the gaps with his Six Eyes. “Mhm. I get it now. Kinda nasty for such a nice house.” He turns to you, grinning. “Look at us, huh? Sew and Six Eyes workin’ in tandem,” he slings an arm over your shoulder. “Who would’da thought?”

You blink at him. You hadn’t thought about it before, but with your fully developed Sew and Gojo’s Six Eyes, you can observe the known world of cursed energy in an entirely different way.

The kids all share a look.

“They’re consciousness are connecting,” Yuji says, in awe. “Like in the Matrix.”

Nobara makes a face. “They are not.”

“If this is was the Matrix, who would you be?”

“Never seen it.”

“What? How have you never seen it?!”

“I’m not a nerd like you.”

“Well…I’d wanna be the Oracle. She was cool. And Gojo-sensei is definitely Neo. He can stop bullets and stuff.”

“Neo rewrites the code of the simulation,” you point out. “He doesn’t trap them in an infinite slowness.”

Gojo hums. “Except my way is much cooler.”

You suddenly realise he’s still got his arm slung over your shoulder. You duck under him and step away. “Of course you think you’re cooler than Neo.”

He pouts and then reanimates himself, like that whole conversation was merely fluff between his ears. “So, how do we get in?”

“We break the door down!” Yuji answers immediately.

You expect him to correct Yuji, but instead, Gojo nods and claps his hands together “Most amount of damage wins!”

Yuji turns and punches the centre seam of the doors, and they fly off their hinges. There’s a whole lot of cracking and breaking that follows, and then silence.

“Yuji wins!”

“You dumbass!” Nobara knocks her fist onto his head. “You could’ve destroyed important evidence.”

“What evidence?!” Yuji argues, rubbing his head. “Kanzaki said it was old and powerful, what more do we need?”

“You’re unbelievably stupid.”

“You’re just mad cause you lost!”

Nobara knocks him on the head again.

Yuji turns to you, dismayed and looking for guidance.

You shoot him an awkward thumbs up.

Gojo snorts.

You all amble over the broken doors into the barren remains of what looks like a sitting room. All the furniture has been covered with sheets, but that’s about the only thing that hints that this place has been closed. There are still paintings hung up around the room; each one an incomprehensible work of animal drawings. A stag. A dog. A snake.

You drag your finger over the back of what you assume is a couch, and your finger comes with a little bit of dust. It’s not as dirty as you would’ve thought, given the state of the veranda. It doesn’t seem as unkempt as you expected, and that immediately makes you suspicious.

“Where should we look first?” Yuji asks, looking around the room in awe. “The place is massive.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Nobara says. “Maybe the bedrooms? Creepy stuff always happens in bedrooms.”

“They are all upstairs,” Gojo says.

“Is this the part where I say we should split up?” Yuji offers.

“Absolutely not,” you snap. “That’s sorcerer 101, kid. Splitting up just makes you an easier target for curses. The bigger the numbers, the better the outcome.”

“Unless of course, you have an explosive AOE technique,” Gojo says. “Then it would be a really good idea to split it.”

You give him a look. Is he going to contradict everything you say?

“Right…so…we shouldn’t split up?”

“Yes,” Megumi grunts, passing by him into what looks like a kitchen.

It’s the same sort of deal. Half packed up, half left behind. There’s still tea and mugs in the cupboards, and when you test the water, it dribbles a little. The utilities haven’t been turned off for very long if there’s still water trapped in the pipes.

You check the lounge room, which alludes the same results; dusty furniture and random knickknacks. You  move into the hallway that leads down from the sitting room to the back of the house. At the end of the hallway, there’s another door that opens into a small bathroom.

You immediately pick up on something. You drag your eyes along the tiled floor and then to the bathtub. You pull back the shower curtain, and find a strange black residue pooled slightly above the drain lip. It's mostly dried, but the part that isn't has left behind a tiny residual. You don’t say anything, you just move out into the hall and wait. Megumi is the first one to catch on, and enters the bathroom, moving straight to the tub.

“There’s something here,” he says.

Yuji and Nobara cram in on either side of him, staring into the tub. 

“Or there was, a while ago.”

“How long ago?”

He thinks about it. “I’m not sure how long, but the residual is tangible. Some kind of dark liquid. It has to be a cursed object, or a run off from a technique."  

You’re impressed. “Do you know what kind?”

“No,” Megumi says, standing up to face you properly. “But you do.”

You turn to Gojo, who’s been standing next to you in the hall. “Am I allowed to tell them? Isn’t that cheating?”

Gojo just smiles. “A good sorcerer will use every available resource. Good job, Megumi.”

Megumi doesn’t look very tickled by his praise.

“Okay, for the sake of learning, I won’t flat out give you the answer, but I’ll say; it's not an inherently aggressive technique.” At least, that’s what you’d felt. Whatever had been used here, it's residuals aren't showing in the same kind of pattern an attack would. Not even close really.

“So it’s some kind of strategic ability, or maybe a defensive one?”

You remain silent.

“A strategic one...” Yuji ponders. “Is that like Nanami's?"

Nobara snorts. “That's still a offensive technique, idiot."

"Only when he uses it! By itself, it's just a bunch of math equations, right?!" 

They both turn to you and stare. Your lips tweak. Do they think you’re a cursed technique encyclopaedia? Given your history abroad, it’s not entirely off the mark to assume that, but when you’re standing next to Gojo Satoru, it feels a little patronising. It’s like a pocket dictionary trying to match up to the infinite source machine of the World Wide Web.

“It’s not entirely off the mark to consider that,” you relent. “But there are other options as well. Tool manipulation, for one. Or perhaps an ability like Utahime-san's, where you're boosting the output of another sorcerer. Both are non-aggressive techniques. There is also the possibility of summoning."

"Like Fushiguro's technique?"

You nod. "Since Fushiguro's shikigami are applied through the medium of shadows, his cursed energy only shows up as something 'summoned' to my threads. I can't tell what type of shikigami he's called on."

"Wow! Hidden, just like a shadow~" Yuji coos. 

Megumi ignores him. “But if someone didn't use shadows?"

You stifle a smile. This kid is always asking the right questions. "Some techniques, like a seance, require you to use prayer beads or specific chants to implement summons. That's more specific, and therefore gives me more information. The more one interacts with the soul of the subjugated, the more complicated it gets, but also, the more powerful the subjugated are. It’s why the Ten Shadow’s is so revered.”

Yuji and Nobara both turn in unison and bow to Megumi.

“Summoning master,” Yuji says, putting on an old voice. “Show us the way.”

Megumi’s face falls, but there’s a tiny flush of pink on his ears. “Shut up, idiot.”

You and Gojo snort.

You move into the library next, which is really just a glorified study. Each wall is lined with built-in shelfs, but only half of them actually have books in them. You take turns shuffling around the small space. Yuji checks under the old, wooden desk and finds nothing. Nobara pulls open every draw and rifles through an assortment of odd things. Battery packs, old receipts, an iPhone charger. That one seems out of place.

You’re just about to give up and leave the room when Gojo makes a very obvious coughing noise, and points to the floor. In the ruckus to search the room, someone flipped over the edge of a rug that; revealing a set of semi-circle scratch marks on the floorboards. They end at the edge of an empty bookshelf. Oh. That’s why the bookshelves are barely filled. Too many, and you risk messing with the pressure mechanisms that probably open a hidden door.

Yuji fiddles around along the shelves. “Please be a secret door, please be a secret door!”

There’s a clicking sound, and then a whirr of machinery, and a crack appears between two shelves.

Yuji is practically vibrating with excitement. “This is officially the best mission ever.”

You slide your hand along the back of the wooden desk and mutter under your breath. Gojo notices your little superstitious habit, and tilts his head at you. You wrinkle your nose back at him. 

Yuji heaves the bookshelf door back, revealing an even smaller room with a giant, metal door that looks like it’s been vacuumed sealed shut. Next to it is a small keypad, which Yuji starts jamming numbers into.

“Stop!” Megumi snaps, ripping Yuji’s hand away from it. “You’re gonna block us out.”

“And why the hell would the combination be 1234?” Nobara scowls. “That’s way too obvious.”

“Actually, it’s the most common password in the world,” Gojo says, cutting between the students to inspect the keypad. “Human laziness tends to trump innovation these days.”

“No more necessity,” you fill in.

Gojo hums in agreement, hooking his thumb beneath his blindfold. He lifts it up just enough to reveal one eye, and then he quickly pulls it back down. He types a series of seemingly random numbers into the keypad, and the steel door makes an alarming buzzing noise, and then hisses open.

“HOW’D YOU DO THAT?!” Yuji exclaims.

Gojo grins triumphantly, folding his arms over his chest. “A little bit of math from your very talented teacher. You think a silly little lock’s gonna get in our way?”

Yuji’s eyes practically sparkle. “So cool…!”

You take a step forward, staring at the door. If you had to guess, he probably took note of which numbers were the most pressed with his Six Eyes, and then ran through all the possible combinations until he finally got the right one. Calculations like that would be nothing for him, despite the fact he could’ve just blown the door off it’s hinges.

You peer into the opened corridor, which looks like it’s been chipped away at with a pickaxe. It’s a long, poorly lit hallway of rock that doesn’t look even close to be structurally sound. On the other side is the same type of keypad. A two-way lock. Odd.

Why was the steel door guarding this place was so well maintained in comparison to the rest of the house? More importantly, why the hell is it even here? How old is this house? Did the tunnel come before, or after it was built? It feels disjointed. Maybe it was used for transporting illicit contraband? Or perhaps an old mineshaft? You swear Gojo mentioning mining this morning.

You go first, pulling out your phone to use as a flashlight. You hear the shuffling echo of footsteps behind you and turn, finding Gojo bring up the rear. Good. At least he’s on the same page as you in that respect.

“So,” you start, your voice bouncing off the walls. “How were the kids supposed to open that if you weren’t here?”

Gojo makes a startled noise.

“There’s all sorts of investigative work you’ll have to do when he’s not around,” you say, flashing your light along the walls to inspect them. “Since none of you have the power to blow a hole through every steel enforced door that stands in your way, or use the Six Eyes to expedite a very length mathematical process, you’ll need other strategies.”

“Does Gojo-sensei count as a resource in this scenario, still?” Yuji asks.

“Yup,” Gojo answers.

You scoff. “Well then just throw out the entire lesson, if that’s the case.”

“I’m sensing a little resentment in your tone.”

“She’s right, Gojo,” Megumi cuts in. “You should’ve sat this one out. You’re not helping."  

“What?!” He sounds affronted. “I’m helpful!”

“You’re a cheat code,” Nobara says.

"And Kanzaki isn't?" 

“She's competent enough to not give us all the answers." 

He makes a sound like he’s been shot.

“I don’t like this dynamic anymore.” 

You can hear the pout in his voice.

You stop yourself from asking a leading question. Gojo’s the one who organised this entire affair, he must have had some sort of idea on how everyone would interact with each other. Good or bad. That, and maybe he genuinely does think your technique is helpful in a teaching capacity. Yuji had implied it enough as is.

You don’t have time to linger on the thought. A pulse of energy suddenly comes rushing toward you from out of nowhere. Yuji makes a noise; something choked between a gasp and a word of warning. You activate Sew and pull at your threads to try and weave a shield, but the force is too quick. You can’t even get a sense of what it is, or how it operates.

The walls swarm closer, eclipsing the tunnel like a wave of shadows. You force yourself to keep your eyes open as the wave of energy hits. There’s a long stretch of silence. All you can hear is your own breathing between your ears. You don’t dare move. Your phone starts bugging out. The flashlight flickers, and the back of your phone starts to warm up in your hands. It gots so hot you have to drop it, afraid it might actually explode. It hits the dirt floor and the flashlight immediately dies, leaving you standing in pitch black darkness.

Light pervades. Somehow, despite the fact you know you’re standing in a long, narrow corridor, it swoops in, illuminating the space in front of you. Except it’s not the same space anymore. You look around, and realise why.

You’re in a partial domain, and it being cast as completely warped your surroundings. Nothing is the same. 

You turn around, ready to grab the kids, but it’s too late. Yuji, Megumi, and Gojo are gone. Nobara is the only one still with you.

“What was that?” She’s holding her hammer and nails, trying her best to look strong. “Where are Itadori and Fushiguro?!”

You reach out and forcefully grab onto her arm, pulling her to your side.

“Don’t let go of me,” you demand. “Whatever curse is down here has just imposed it’s domain on the space, and it’s bled into the surrounding area. Yuji and Megumi probably got separated during the wave.” Guess you don’t need to point out that Gojo’s probably fine. You’re just reiterating the obvious.

Nobara presses her lips together and nods. “Like at the detention centre.”

“Good. You’re familiar with this then,” you turn in a circle, trying to find any inconsistencies. Nothing jumps out at you. Everything is different. Flipped and shifted and turned inside out. For some reason, a thought comes to you. You never checked the upstairs bedrooms. You push it away. You don't have time to ruminate on anything but keeping Nobara alive.

“Since it’s incomplete, there’s no sure-hit effect, and no way for the curse to stop us from leaving. That means the curse isn’t as strong as we thought.”

“Still strong enough to impose an innate domain,” she points out, looking at your grip on her arm.

You loosen it a little. “And for a little extra salt in the wound. We’re lost.”

Chapter Text

Using Sew, you drag Nobara through the domain, leading her away from the most contentious points of cursed energy. The energy disparity has your blood pressure rising with each turn. The partial domain has become a beacon to lesser cursed spirits, drawing them into tunnels the width of a pencil. They're flooding through every nook and cranny of this place. Floating down through layers of thick rock. Crawling up through the floor. You can't get a good reading on where they're coming from through the distortion of the domain either. You just know you're slowly being surrounded. 

You get to an intersection, information crawling beneath your skin as hundreds of threads input the sensory information.

“W-here are we going?!” Nobara asks, breathless and clearly angry as you roughly pull her around a corner.

“Outside."

You feel her hesitate on a step and she trips slightly, relying on your strength to keep her going. “You want me to stay out there?! What about Itadori and Fushiguro?”

“I’m going back to get them.”

Silence.

You can feel her protest burning into your shoulder blades.

“This isn’t the time to play hero. You’re a liability in here.” It’s harsh. Maybe even mean, but you don’t have the time to coddle her right now. The sensory load from Sew splits your attention too far for you to entertain pointless conversations. Her classmates are very much in danger, and her arguing a moot point isn’t helping anything.

You feel her arm fight your grip for a moment, clearly upset with the judgement, but then she relents.

Avoiding conflict takes you down a longer, more convoluted route, but each area becomes less distorted the further you move away from the domain. Using that logic would be a useful navigational tool if not for Sew, which you relay to Nobara in a poor attempt at advice. She doesn’t have the breath to respond, so she just nods her head a dozen times.

You make it back to the security door, your threads spasming in all directions, seeking out danger. When all you find is Ijichi's nervous energy on the other side, your shoulders drop. “Okay,” you pull her through the door and spin her around, making her face the exit. “Go outside, stay with Ijichi.”

She doesn’t argue despite how clipped you’re being. Nobara is certainly a confident kid, but she also knows when she’s beat. Her presence is only going to exacerbate your ability to work quickly, and she knows it. You watch her turn and run, and only when she exits the house do you run back the way you came.

You sprint back into the madness, following the threads that are blaring the loudest. As you sprint, you use some strands to run through the weaker cursers, soaking up their energy in anticipation for what you assume is a cursed spirit close to special grade. Even with Gojo potentially in the mix, you'll need whatever you can stockpile.

You run through a wider, taller passage of the mineshaft that filters back out into a massive chamber—one where most of the mining has been done. You have to force yourself to stop sprinting as the pathway at your feet levels out into a narrow bridge of rock, covered on either side by a giant pitfall. It’s so deep you can’t see the bottom, let alone hear anything when you kick a pebble down it. For a mineshaft, digging that deep seems completely against regulation. It spawns many questions about the nature of this place, none of which you have time to think about. 

You keep following your threads, trusting your technique to not lead you astray. The bridge ends, and you step down onto a platform that separates into three tunnels. Your threads tell you the far left one is the closet route to the cursed energy signatures you’re tracking, but when you step into the corridor, you can't feel anything particularly ominous. 

Being alone in some a creepy, reality warping domain probably should play on your nerves a bit, but truthfully, you've grown far more accustomed to this environment then being back at Jujutsu Tech. You jog through the tunnel, ducking beneath old, busted lanterns dangling from chains. The landscape shifts when you’re nearly three quarters the way there, trying to trick you like an ever shifting labyrinth.

Sew keeps you on the right path. You make it to the end of the tunnel and beyond an invisible threshold into the centre of the domain. The feeling of the cursed energy here is humid. Weighted with something so intensely intwined with the area that you struggle to seperate the two. There's a thickness in the air. Something that crawls along your skin with unforgiving permanence. It demands attention and belonging in a fraction cursed energy.

Your eyes draw to the centre of the room, where you find the source of it; a squirming, spasming pile of inhumanly long tentacles attached to a huge formless sludge. Each tentacle slithers in the air, grabbing and flexing, dripping with the contaminates of it's body. In the centre of the mess is a barely contained slit of two red eyeballs. It moves across the floor as slowly and slimily as a snail, reaching in every direction as it grumbles.

You turn your attention to the back of the room, where a man dressed in shinobi robes stands high up on a ledge. His clothes are all black, with a blood red octopus mask covering his face. It's near identical to the cursed spirit, which tells you a lot.

Your head swings to Gojo, who's standing a solid ten metres away from the octopus curse, his hands stuffed into his pockets, watching it curiously. If he senses your arrival, he doesn’t bring any attention to it. 

Why hasn't he killed the thing already? Is he seeing something within it that you can't feel? You follow Gojo's line of sight, and near the back of the room you spot the horrifying mess of Yuji and Megumi's unconscious bodies. They've been strung up upside down, covered from head to toe in black slime. It looks to be the same liquid that’s dripping from the curse. They've been cocooned in it. Most of Yuji’s shoulders and neck have been covered by, but Megumi’s cocoon seems a lot less formed, only reaching his chest. Perhaps there’s some sort of time constraint there. Or some other rule the goo has to follow.

A burst of cursed energy suddenly rockets towards you—too fast for even your threads to pick up on. Your body flinches, pain flaring, your eyes shrinking shut. One singular blink, and you’re completely robbed of information. Was it a weapon? A technique? You expect to hear a cracking sound, your ribs caving in around your lungs, but instead, nothing happens.

You flick your head up, and find Gojo standing in front of you, his hand lazily drawn out. He'd probably just saved your life. A part of you burns to acknowledge it. You’d been unprepared walking in here, your attention divided and your patience worn thin. With Gojo effortlessly redirecting your errors, you suddenly feel like a teenager again, righteously furious and desperate to prove your strength.

This is wrong. When have you ever worried about something so inane? Losing concentration and judgement in a dangerous situation is so unlike you. You’re focusing on the unimportant and you can’t get your mind to stop. It’s a spiral, pinning you beneath a wave of adolescent insecurities. You hate to admit it, but being back home is picking at the edges of your control, reminding you of all the reasons you hate this place.

You look around, reestablishing your hold on where the shinobi is. Still on the ledge. Wherever that attack came from, it was impossibly fast, and incredibly hard to discern.

Your threads spasm, scrounging up information. The feeling you’d felt before—the old, withered miasma—it’s definitely coming from this curse, or more aptly named, shikigami. An old, sad shikigami with a reality warping domain and a poison-like quality to it’s body. You can feel a tiny fluctuation of cursed energy coming off the sorcerer in comparison, like an echo shifting through water.

That gives you a wealth of information.

If this mystery man is good enough to mask the flow of his cursed energy, but also very aware of who Gojo is—that means he’d done that to counter you.

“I have to admit,” the mystery shinobi says, his voice somehow booming beneath his mask. “I didn’t take you as the saving type, Gojo Satoru,”

“It’s a professional courtesy,” Gojo replies, his voice completely even. “There was this thing with a centipede a while back. I kinda owe her."

You have to dig into your professionalism to not throw a comment back. 

The shikigami whines, dozens of tentacles scratching at the ground, it's suckers clinging to the floor as it drags itself along. Sew tells you it’s cursed energy output far exceeds your initial guesses. It’s complete lack of mobility is what confuses you. Scrambling across the floor at the pace of a snail makes it seem a whole lot less dangerous to how it feels. Something is wrong with this scenario. You just can’t figure it out.

“So…” Gojo rocks his shoulders back. “Am I killing you now, or do you wanna monologue for a bit longer?”

The shinobi laughs. “I’m afraid killing me won’t do you any good, and it certainly won’t end well for your students. My little friend here isn’t just a disgusting mess. That gunk it secretes? Practically impossible to get rid of once it hits a target. And then it grows, a lot. Until—well,” he gestures to Yuji and Megumi. “You get stuck. Then it leaches off your cursed energy, making itself bigger. But the big trade off—and listen, cause this is important. You exorcise it? Your students get consumed along with it.”

“What if I kill you?” You ask, as polite as one can be with such a question.

“Same story, just a slightly different start. And since I explained how it works, I get some pretty cool buffs!" 

A binding vow. Great.

Your eyes flick back up to Yuji and Megumi. Your heartbeat rattles a little bit louder. It’s been a long time since you’ve had to fight on someone else’s behalf. It’s a very uncomfortable responsibility. 

“I’m kinda winging it here,” he says, plonking himself down on the ledge and swinging his legs over. “Names Octopus, by the way," he flourishes a hand at his mask. "I'm aware it's on the nose, but rules are rules, and I didn't get to choose. Crow did." His voice sounds almost pouty. "Anyway. I did have a pretty cool monologue planned out, but…the thing is, you weren’t supposed to be here,” he points a dark-tipped kunai at Gojo, who points at himself in return. “Yup. You." He swings a leg up onto the ledge to stretch it. "Man. I had this all planned out. It was so good. But then you add Gojo Satoru to the mix and..." he makes a strangling motion with his hand. "It's pretty damn awful, y'know." He swings his legs out. “The original plan was use Sukuna’s vessel as a hostage, and then take the little Spider sorcerer for myself, but I can deal with the other twerp just as well.”

Your neck prickles with goosebumps.

Gojo tilts his head at you. “Since when were people calling you Spider? Are you guys in some weird club together?”

Octopus laughs. “Haven’t you heard?”

“I hear a'lotta shit. You’re gonna have’ta be more specific.” 

“Spider-san’s arrival has caused a lot of problems for a lot of people. I’ve been getting calls day and night—I’m a problem fixing guy, you see?” He pantomimes a phone. “It’s all; ‘Who is she?’ ‘How does her technique work?’ ‘What’s all this about Sukuna’s vessel?!’” He really plays the panic up on that one. “You’ve realllly ruffled some feathers, lady. Why didn't you just stay dead, huh?”

Your eyes narrow. "Is that your job? To make me stay dead?" 

“Kinda,” he says. “But Boss wants to talk to you first, which is exciting. I rarely ever get to do a kidnapping.”

You remain quiet, your focus poorly divided. You thought you’d have a little more time than that. Guess fear’s always been the currency of decision. Your existence disrupts a carefully dissected set of rules and understandings. And you being aligned with Gojo probably scares the shit out of them even more. Like it had nine years ago.   

Your fingers twitch the slightest bit. There’s no room for error with this.

“You are so creepy, dude," Gojo taunts. "The mask must really be an improvement if you need to wear it."

“Awh really? I was kinda hoping you'd like it." 

A tiny bead of sweat shifts down the side of your face.

Men and their egos.

“Okay,” Octopus hoists himself to his feet in one move. “Sawaru’s domain is depressing at the best of times; but I’m starting to get bored. Hand over Spider-san and I’ll leave your dumb little students alone.”

A strange sound echoes from above, like a piece of slime hitting a concrete floor. Yuji and Megumi slowly slide out of their cocoons, completely untethered and are scooped into the embrace of several hundred threads.

“What...?" Octopus' voice sounds breathy. "How the fuck did you manage that!?" 

“You shoulda been paying attention,” Gojo hums. “Although I’ll give it to you, her threads are reallllly hard to see.”

“That…that’s not possible.”

You flex your hand, fighting off a cramp. Your brain feel like it's been shaken in a cocktail maker, but at least you'd pulled it off. Removing them from the gunk had required near surgical precision, which became exceptionally hard once the Octopus started babbling about his boss. 

“Well then," Octopus swings onto the balls of his feet like a sheepish school girl. "The plans gone tits up.”

He raises his hands, slams his palms together, bends them and mutters an incantation. The room suddenly tilts. You spin, your head going left and the rest of your body going right. It sends you into a lethal spin, the blood in your brain dropping to your ankles. You fall, momentum pulling your limbs forward and your hair flat against your skull, covering  your face in wild lashes. You brace yourself to the hit the floor—or rather, the ceiling, but it never happens. You’re pulled sideways, or backwards. You can’t tell what direction you’re in anymore. You’re completely disoriented.

You finally open your eyes and find yourself plummeting straight into the sticky, anticipatory tentacles of the shikigami.

Fuck.

You grapple at your technique, trying to catch yourself, but it doesn’t respond. Your threads are going haywire. Spasming in all directions. Yuji and Megumi slip between through your strands and fall to the floor, unconscious and completely open to attack. Shitshitshit. This isn't right. It's not how you work at all. All the training you’ve put in; all the time you’ve spent beating your subconscious into submission, and now you’re getting rattled by some random dude in an octopus mask.

Your brain is being pressed through a juicer. Thoughts aren’t connecting. Your proprioception is off. You can barely open your eyes. Your senses aren’t catching up to the physical sensation. Nothing makes sense.

You need to get it together.

You open your eyes and stare the shikigami dead on. It’s tentacles are all reaching up, tensed. It’s dark, viscous body is drooling. There’s no time to consider anything but yourself, and your imminent death.

You’re a fingernail away from being torn to pieces when your threads obey your command. You catch yourself by the wrist, the momentum yanking you back. Your shoulder tweaks, shifting in a way that probably isn’t normal, but you’re so fuelled up on adrenaline you barely notice. You pull yourself up, standing on a blanket of threads. Everything’s been flipped on it’s head, so it takes you a moment to gain your bearings. The whole room is spinning, shifting from upside down to right side up, and then sideways and back again.

Gojo—remaining unaffected by the gravity manipulation—is already trading fists with Octopus, but his shinobi clothing isn't just for show it seems. He manages to duck and shift away from Gojo's punches, locking him into a strange sort've dance. Gojo adapts to it in a matter of moments though and he reaches his elbow back, trying to crack it into Octopus' mask, but the second he swings, the room spins, and Octopus disappears, reappearing on a lower level of the mine.

Panic breaches your mind, and you almost miss a poison-tipped kunai aimed at your torso. Your head whips to the side, and you spot the annoying little shit standing on the ceiling, his bright red octopus mask grinning through the gloom. Is he cloning himself, or is he just moving really quickly? What the hell kind of technique is this? Sew is giving you nothing.

He throws another kunai and a thread deflects it away from you. You ready yourself for another toss, but the room spins again, and the kunai you’d deflected comes barrelling back down at your head.

Shit.

Is this his technique, or is it the shikigami’s? Being able to alter the gravity of a room, and perhaps the gravity of himself? What are the limitations? How much of a boost does his binding vow give him? You grit your teeth. It’s been awhile since you’ve been in a proper fight, and it feels like every blood vessel in your body is dilating, tightening your skin to a near straight jacket around your muscles.

Your threads surge, circling the shinobi like sharks, anticipating a jump. He does; teleporting to the opposite side of the room. What he makes up for in room, he lacks in cover. He’s smart enough to know that running from you is a pointless exercise in cursed energy. Wherever he moves, your threads will remain. They’ve taken up the entire space, stretching to the very edges of the mine, mixing with the shadows.

He’s standing in a snake pit, and he knows it.

When the pounce on him, they hit a protective shield of cursed energy. The harder you push, the more he repels you. He’s reinforcing his skin, effectively putting your threads up against a sheet of chainmail. You tighten your hold, and he merely laughs.

“He’s right, y’know! Not being able to see them really is freaky!”

You try a different approach, arrowing a bundle of threads down from above. This time he does dodge. Your threads redirect like a heatseeking missile, and the gravity of the room shifts once more. Octopus falls victim to his own technique and lands on the floor, right beside Megumi’s unconscious body. It takes you a moment to readjust, and in that tiny fraction of time, he takes aim at Megumi with a kunai.

In a flash of sound Gojo sends him flying into a wall with a near fatally timed punch. The whole chamber trembles with the force of it, and for a fearful moment you think the place might start collapsing in on itself, but it manages to hold itself together. Octopus is left pinned in the crater of Gojo’s punch, blood dripping down sides of his neck. Gojo swings again, going for absolute proof of death, but Octopus once again disappears, the room shifting with him.

There’s an upgraded sense of urgency to his gravity manipulation this time around. The chamber spins faster and faster, your view warping with every blink. You get pulled back and forth within your little prison of threads, trying to stay as grounded as you can while your body's thrown through a blender. 

Nausea pulls at the back of your neck, and you’re forced to watch as Yuji and Megumi’s bodies are tossed around like rag-dolls, caught in an endless spin-cycle. Trying to keep up with their movements is making you even more lightheaded, so you close your eyes, relying on feeling alone to navigate your threads. It immediately dulls the nausea, and you’re able to pluck them from their suspended animation. Their bodies are heavy. It takes nearly a hundred threads to hold them both, and they’re left dangling in the open air.

Octopus seizes the opportunity, rapidly firing kunai at them. You let out a groan, pulling on even more threads to deflect them. But with each timely deflect, the room tilts, and they come showering back down in an array of silver.

You can’t keep up with this.

Gojo jumps him again. The shinobi teleports again.

This isn’t good. Gojo can’t use any fancy Limitless techniques in here without catching you and the kids in the crosshairs. Or potentially getting the whole mine levelled down on top of you all. Octopus knows it. He’s making you work against each other. Using your threads to hold yourself whilst dodging poison-tipped kunai for all three of you is making it difficult to move freely. Your attention’s too divided, and he’s doing a great job of disrupting you. You’re overextending yourself, and Gojo’s relying on close quarters combat against a crafty teleporter. Eventually Gojo will catch up to him—that’s a certainty—but it might be at the expense of Yuji and Megumi’s lives.

“Gojo!” You call out.

His leg snaps out in a deadly kick, hitting the dusty air the shinobi leaves behind. His head snaps to the side, a clear indication that he’s heard you. How he can pay attention to so much at once is annoyingly impressive.

“Get them out of here!” You point to the kids.

There’s the smallest hint of hesitation in his left hand, and then he nods.

“Ah shit,” Octopus hisses. 

He shifts the room again, but it does nothing to change Yuji and Megumi’s gravity while they’re suspended in your grasp. Gojo appears right next to them and grabs them by the arms. They disappear in a silent blink, leaving you alone with the shikigami and it’s master.

Despite the dizziness and the nausea, you immediately feel more at ease. Your cursed energy might be dwindling, but you're much more comfortable with the collateral taken out of the equation. 

Octopus laughs, swinging a kunai around on his finger. Flourishing it. “Another sacrificial play, huh? You Jujutsu sorcerers are too much.”

You roll out your shoulders. “Maybe I just wanted you alone.”

He hesitates for a moment, and then bursts out laughs. “No kidding?”

“Come over here and find out.”

“Oooo,” he sucks a breath through his teeth. “As fun as that sounds, I’ve heard what lady spiders do to their partners. They eat them.”

You open your mouth to respond when something hits you in the chest. You’re forced backwards by a gravitational pressure so immense it nearly makes you black out. Your own threads end up pinned to your arms down, aiding the enemy in grounding you like a shotgunned pigeon. You gurgle on a breath, barely having the chance to breathe before the pressure doubles.

Your body presses deeper into the floor until it bows, and a series of sickening cracks follow. There’s so much pressure on your diaphragm you can’t even let out a scream. Your body is pulling pulled through the rocky floor, and it’s being torn apart in the process. Bones? Tendons? Teeth? You’re not sure what’s splitting apart. You can barely hear with your blood rumbling in your ears.

And then all at once, the pressure lessons.

You take a gasping breath, fighting pointlessly to free your pinned limbs. It doesn’t work—you expected as much. You’re left stuck, sinking back into your shoulders with exhaustion. The adrenaline in your veins is masking most of your pain luckily, but in a few moments, you expect to be livid.

A crunching sound alerts you to Octopus, who’s jumped down from his perch. He approaches you casually, like a hunter coming to unspool the goods from his net. You don’t take your eyes off of him as his feet come to a halt by your head. With his mask on, you can only imagine the kind of expression he’s making.

You pinned down and helpless after making such an effort to kill him.

A high of pure ego.

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way…” he hums, drawing a kunai. “We should talk, yeah?”

You ignore him and tune back in to your cursed technique.

“Ahhh, ahh, ahh,” suddenly there’s a kunai drawn across your throat. “Try it, and I’ll slit you from your tits to toes.”

The breath in your throat sticks, settling just beneath the bump of your larynx.

“You’ve got a really nice pair,” he says. “I’d be a real shame to fuck ‘em up.”

Revulsion coils in your stomach, breaching like poisonous smoke, but you comply.

“Good girl,” he pats your knee. “See? I knew you would cooperate.”

You barely hold back a sneer.

He just shakes his head patronisingly. “It pays to focus on your surroundings, hm? Assuming Sawaru wasn’t the main threat 'cause he’s slow, well…y’know what they say about assuming." He sits down next to you, crossing his legs. "It’s not just the room’s gravity,” he points at the ceiling with a kunai. “Normally, it’s gotta properly touch you to get you to obey it’s rules, but ‘cause of the binding vow, all you have to do is be in a certain proximity to him. Granted, Sawaru got reduced to a flatten pancake ‘cause of it, but it’s still pretty neat, huh? The technique’s reliant on being in an enclosed space, otherwise you can just walk right outta the sonovabitch without a fuss. In here though, it’s like a proper domain expansion,” he looks around the mine, and lets out a low whistle. “It’s okay, you can be impressed. I told you I planned it out.”

You don’t say a thing.

“C’monnn, don’t be such a sour puss,” he taps the handle of his kunai into your stomach, pressing it down until you can feel the dull pressure of it against your skin. “There’s soooo much to talk about now that he’s gone.” He sways his head from side to side, the tentacles engraved into his mask swimming almost hypnotically with the movement. “Ooo I know. How about you getting banished? That’s fun, right? You like to mess around with some pretttty nasty people babe.”

Your lip curls. “Like you?”

“Woah there! I’m just a foot soldier, sweets. The people I’m talkin’ about are big wigs. Real angry guys with a lotta money and a lotta influence,” he rubs his finger and thumb together. “The kinda people your little jujutsu officials want no business messing with. It's why they make deals. We give you the girl, you give us money. Or cursed tools. Or insider knowledge. I'dunno what those old farts like nowadays. Maybe virgins? Are people still into that? Who knows. The point is, you got sold out. But I'm willing to bet you already knew that, huh?"

Your heart rate picks up like a jet plane. You know who he’s referring to, but you don’t take the bait. You’re not even sure you could vocalise an answer.

“They told me you got—“ he mimics sliding a knife over neck face. “Chopped up. That true?”

Sweat pools at the back of your neck. His words start to swim between your ears, shifting into new shapes.

"Your domain has some fancy thing it can do, and people want it, right?" He taps his kunai on his mask. "Or they did. I'dunno. I can't keep up with any of this shit anymore." 

The room ripples, like the surface of a pool, and suddenly you’re somewhere else. The room’s dark. People are whispering. Your head hurts. Why does it hurt so much?

It’s hot. Too hot.

The moonlight is so bright.

“It’s not enough, Akari.”

No.

That voice. 

“This only goes on as long as you make it.”

Distantly, your body begins to scream.

Move!

Do something!

But you can't. 

The screaming continues. The voice is desperate. Clawing at your ears. 

No. This isn't right. 

This feeling isn't good. You should be in pain. A lot of pain. Why aren't you in pain?

You run through the strategies in your head. All the things you're supposed to do when this happens. 

You remember the nursery rhyme Yasuda would sing. 

How it had calmed you down. 

Kagome, kagome.

The bird in the basket.

When, oh when will it come out.

In the night of dawn.

The crane and turtle slipped.

Who is behind you now?

A laugh slips out of you, low and soft. 

The shinobi pauses whatever he’s rambling about. “What’s wrong Spider-san? Getting a little frustrated?”

The laugh turns into a wheeze, and then it wraps back around, and suddenly, you’re finding this entire situation hilarious. This little freak thinks he can scare you? After all that? He think this is torture?

Your laughter comes out in barks, starting low and building into a fizzling high pitch.

Octopus stops talking altogether.

“Okay. You’re just as crazy as him.”

“Who?”

“Gojo Sato—“

He doesn’t finish the sentence. His head along with his octopus mask are sheared right off his neck. Gojo appears, deadly, exacting and terrifyingly silent. He holds the shinobi’s severed head in one hand, and calmly, almost robotically, he turns and tosses it away.

You watch him, nearly awed by the timing. The precision. The quietness of it. 

When had Gojo learned that?

The pressure on your body is gone. Gojo had exorcised the shikigami too. You'd been too out of it to realise. 

You close your eyes, enjoying the feeling of not being crushed. When you open them again, the Octopus' decapitated head is rolling around on the floor, peddling in a circle. 

Someone's talking to you.

"Kanzaki—...can you? ... Kan-, hey? Helllo? How many fingers am I—" 

You blink heavily. It's hard to focus. 

“You’re being a little dramatic," he says.

His voice is nice. Quiet, but nice. 

"Keep your eyes open, yeah?”

You don't really want to do that. 

"Akari," his voice is low. Tense. "Stay awake."

Chapter Text

You’re aware, distantly, that you’re still awake, but not enough for it to be considered conscious. You’re swimming in a quiet, murmuring silence, where thoughts drift, never really attaching themselves to anything.

Time feels like it's folding on top of itself. A moment stretches out, elongating each tiny blip before it crashes back together. Your eyes crack open. You're dwarfed by a shadow. Not a shadow—a person. Gojo.

His torso is the only thing you can see. Dark navy clothes and flashes of moonlight reflection off his body. His arms are coiled around your legs, holding you. He’s gripping you tightly. You can see the bend in the fabric of your tights from where his thumbs are pressed in.

Pain feels like it's pressing against you like a blanket. Your clothes are warm and wet with blood. It's getting on his jacket. 

You must say something, because Gojo’s head suddenly bends, and his bright blue eyes stare right at you.

“Akari,” he’s slightly breathless. "You're good. Just stay awake, okay?" 

Something warm bubbles up from your centre, like the gentle trickling runoff from a ferocious waterfall. You laugh. Giddy. You feel giddy. You’re overcome with the urge to touch his face. To press your lips to the little spot behind his ear. Your body doesn’t obey your commands. It’s stuck in a pained trance where your skin feels like an exposed nerve, flinching with every brush of air. 

You groan in frustration.

Satoru. He’s here. Oh my god. He’s here. Your heartbeat picks up, tickling beneath your ribs. You make a sound, something happy and stupid, your mind spinning with the idea of Satoru being right in front of you. 

“Satoru,” you whisper.

His thumb presses down harder on your leg. “Mm?”

Your lips part around a breath. “…Satoru.”

His eyes dip down to meet yours again. "Yes, that's me."  

“You…” your eyes flutter closed and you fight to open them again. "You're here." 

Gojo stares at you wordlessly. His lips part, half a sound whispering into the night before he stops. Silence pervades, and his grip on your body growing near bruising.

You close your eyes and try to heed his command to stay awake, but you fail. When you wake again, you’re sobbing into someone’s arm. Pain has stretched your mind to a long, vibrating thread. You can think of nothing else. Forced to endure endless waves of scorching pain, your mind grows heavy and lidded. You cry silently, overwhelmed by the sensation and then deafened by the quiet that follows.

You feel cold. Or maybe too hot. Your brain is fuzzy. Voices bounce around outside your skull, each in varying degrees of volume and pace. Someone is shouting, but everything sounds distorted. You feel something gliding against your skin, and then a strange flowing sensation. There’s movement within your body. Your diaphragm shifts, curling back into place, and suddenly breathing feels right again. The pain dies down to a manageable threshold, and your head no longer feels cracked open.

There’s a pressure on your elbow and something sharp pricks your skin.

Panic surges through your body. You sit up, fumbling with your hands through waves of numbness. Someone immediately pushes you back down.

“Woah—Akari, you need to relax, okay? It’s just a needle.”

That is the least relaxing thing anyone could possibly say to you. Your heart feels like it’s about to slingshot itself out of your throat. You try to plead your case, telling whoever it is to stop, but the words slur out of your mouth into a pathetic groan. 

Someone caresses your side. Shoko. “I know it hurts. Let the morphine do it’s work, okay?”

You shake your head, leaning away from her touch, and someone immediately repositions. An ugly snarl bares itself between your lips and you launch forward, surprising whoever is holding you down. You fumble blindly for the needle on your arm, only managing to grapple the end of it before someone grabs you and pulls you away.

You’re pinned back down to the table, a voice muttering near your ear. "Stop moving."

“Let—" your mouth feels so heavy, and you're forced to swallow around a itching dryness in your throat. "Let go!" 

“Akari. Stop!”

“Move!” You pant. “I need to—“ you bite your tongue in the struggle, and cry out in pain.

Your mind is circling only one thing; the raw unfiltered panic in your veins. You bend your hips forward and anchor them back in one powerful thrust, throwing the person who’d pinned off your chest. There’s a loud crash, like someone’s fallen onto something, and then a thunder of moving footsteps.

“What’s happening?”

It’s Yaga’s voice.

“I don’t know! She—she's freaking out.”

“You need to—“

You reach for whatever’s near the bed and pick it up. A tray.

"Shit!”

You turn and hurl it. You hear a pained shout, and the sound of someone toppling over. Someone clamps down on top of you, pinning your thrashing body to the bed.

“Get the fuck off me!”

“If you stopped this crazy shit, I would,” comes Gojo’s strained reply. “You’re at Jujutsu Tech. It’s just us. Me. No one’s hurting you.”

You pull your head forward and twist sideways, trying to wriggle out of his hold. Gojo fingers dig into your biceps and he heaves your arms until they're twisted behind your back. 

"Let go of me, you fuck!" 

“Stop moving!” He hisses. “You’re gonna make me break your arm.”

“Fucking try it!” You scream, tears streaming down your face. “I’ll fucking—” you thrash. “I’ll kill you!”

His lips are flush to your ear. “Akari—" you swing your elbow back, but he dodges it. "I'm being serious." 

You don't care. “I need to get rid of it!”

“Get rid of what?”

“The needle!”

Gojo goes silent and then all at once releases you. You pull yourself up, desperately fumbling with your hands, but Yaga saves you the trouble of bursting a vein in your arm, and quickly removes the needle from you. You blink at it rigidly, watching a tiny red dot appear from the injection mark. Blood pools, slowly dipping into the crease of your elbow.

Your heart is fluttering. Hot tears pool in your eyes.

You broke your sobriety. You fucked it all up. Three years. Thirty six months. A hundred and fifty weeks.

You burst into loud, shaky sobs, cupping your elbow to hide the evidence. Everyone stares. Shoko and Gojo look baffled; thinking you’re in pain over a tiny injection, but Yaga knows. He reaches forward and clasps your hand, cradling it in his bigger, warmer ones. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs softly. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

His words don’t penetrate. You’re delirious and tired and in pain. All you can think about is how it’s inside you now. Swimming around. Destroying everything you’ve worked so hard to build. Yaga strokes the back of your hand, letting you cry until you return to the same quiet, dazed sniffling.

Shoko shakes off her shock and rushes to your side with her tray of tools. She presses a cotton ball to the injection mark to soak up the blood, and then she tapes it over to keep it still. She soothes her thumb over one side of the tape, brushing it gently against your skin. Her eyes are narrowed, observing you with a critical eye. She mutters something under her breath when she catches the tiny, hidden scars of old injection marks. Dwarfed in the shadow of your Sew scars. 

"Akari..." she says in a pained whisper. "Why..." the rest of her words drifts over you in a low warble, turning to nonsense.

You stare at her blearily, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier with each blink. Your parasympathetic nervous system takes over, and you pass out, the underlying fear of them drugging you again settling like a plague in the back of your mind.

You sleep dreamlessly. There are moments when you wake up, assaulted by the sharpness of pain in your side or back, but you’re too delirious to hold onto it, and fall back asleep. It happens over and over. Sometimes, you’re able to vaguely understand words being spoken to you, other times you just blearily stare at moving shapes. 

When you finally wake up lucid, you’ve been moved into a room you don’t recognise. It’s small, with a bi-fold window that looks out onto campus. On the window sill sits a tiny vase with a singular pink flower in it. You’re not good with flowers, but it looks nice. 

There’s a small monitor by the bed showing your vitals. Your ears tune into the monotonous beep of your heart rate, and it sounds fine to your ears. You shift a little, testing the limits of your body, and find only a dull shimmer of pain in response. Your heart skips a beat as you look down at your arms, but there aren’t any needles plugged into you.

Your shoulders sink in relief.

“Welcome back,” a tired voice chimes.

Your head snaps to the side. “Gojo?”

He’s sitting in a very uncomfortable looking chair beside your bed, his blindfold rung rather tightly around his head, pinching around his nose, like he’d tied it on in a hurry.

“Hi,” he replies, not looking up from his phone. "You remember me. That's good." 

His question confuses you. “What are you…“

“—doing here?" He finishes. "Waiting for you to wake up, obviously. Or die—which was pretty touch and go for a minute. Especially with you throwing stainless steel trays at people." A strained smile pulls at his lips, like he's going for humour, but doesn't quite stick the landing. "I didn’t know you had that kinda pitch in you, Kanzaki.”

You blink, the memory coming back to you in bits and pieces.

“Oh my god,” you cringe. “Did I hit anyone?”

He grins. “Ijichi had a giant red mark on his forehead for ages. It was great.”

You swallow thickly. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean—“

“Nope! No apologies.”

“What…?”

“It’s not allowed, I’m afraid. This has officially become a no apology zone.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “But I hit Ijichi in the face with a tray.”

“I know!” He laughs. “I keep replaying it in my head. The sound it made. The impact of it. The way he fell over—“ he covers his mouth with two fingers, stifling another giggle. “That, and you screaming like a banshee and threatening to kill me.”

Your mouth opens, ready to apologise, but no words come out. Shame breaches your lungs, fizzling up from the bottom of your pelvis. You have no idea how much or how little Yaga’s told them. Your first instinct is to duck out of the more incriminating details by feigning exhaustion or ignorance, but you’re not conversing with some random schmuck. It’s Gojo Satoru. A person who’s suffocatingly persistence when it comes to getting the things he wants.

Your shame quickly curdles into apprehension.

“I was so confused. Shoko was too. Y’know she thought you had some super intense fear of needles?” He lets out this forced, breathy laugh. “Turns out you’re not the biggest fan of morphine, huh?”

Your throat suddenly feels scratchy. “No. I'm not.”

Gojo nods, shifting his chair forward with a long, grating squeak. 

Silence grows between you. You don't know where to look. The longer it stagnates, the tighter your chest feels.

Your vitals monitor exposes the jump in your heart rate, turning it into a symphony that Gojo pretends to ignore.

“It’s more—“ your voice cracks, and you have to awkwardly clear your throat. “It's more that I...I’m too much of a fan—became too much of fan,” you correct quickly. “I was a fan. Not—" you cough. "Not anymore.”

A moment of silence passes. The panic in your system has manifested in an immense amount of sweat. You're hot all over too.

Gojo taps the side of his phone, turning it off. He shoves it into his pocket. “Yaga told me.”

You press your lips together to stop the pained little noise that creeps out of your throat.

“Which is why you’re not allowed to be sorry," he explains. "I think it's stupid. I also think if we’d maybe, I’dunno, communicated a little bit better, we could’ve potentially avoided you going batshit in Shoko’s office. You broke her laptop, did you know that?”

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry. I paid for it.”

You frown. “You didn’t have to.“

“I know. S’not the point.”

You nod stiffly and look down at your lap. You notice that one of your arms is in a sling. 

“So…” Gojo leans over the rail and plants his chin on it, grinning at you like he’s Betty Boop or something. “How ya feelin’?”

You don’t know where to look, but Gojo’s face is definitely off limits. You physically cannot bare it.

“Fine.”

He strums his fingers along the edge of your bed. “Very believable.”

“I—“ your throat catches. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

“Find out?” He sounds confused, and then after a moment, he lets out a huff. “It’s not some big scary secret. Stop looking so freaked out.”

“This is a very freak-outable scenario.”

“Is it?”

“Yes!"

“Why? You thought I'd judge you or somethin’? Is that why you kept it between you and Yaga?”

You sense a tiny little bit of hurt to his tone.

“I…” you press your lips together. “I thought you’d be…”

“Be what?”

You shake your head. “Never mind.”

“Kanzaki.”

You ignore him.

“Kanzaki.”

You turn your cheek away, but Gojo reaches across and puts his hand on the back of your elbow, right where the scar line runs. Even through the sling, your skin tingles like someone’s struck a match on it.

“Akari,” he says firmly.

You sheepishly side-eye him.

“You are so annoying,” he sighs. “Anyone else wouldn’t even care. Most sorcerers are incapable of shame, or guilt. S’how they function.”

“It’s different,” you insist.

“Why?”

You don’t have the words to explain it. Not to him.

He retracts his hand, sitting back in his seat. You hate that you wanted it to last longer.

“Anyone who gets into this profession has more than a couple screws loose. I’ve met some reallly fucked up people. Being a former addict is some bottom tier shit in that regard.”

You snort. “Was that supposed to cheer me up?”

"Yes. Because you did something a lot of people can’t do. You beat it. You’re still beating it. This—“ he gestures to you. “It’s nothing. Okay?”

You know he’s trying to comfort you in his own weird Gojo way, but his advice honestly sucks. But he probably knows nothing about addiction, so there’s leeway. You’re sure if Ishimori was here she’d tell you ‘sobriety isn’t a linear journey’. Everyday has the same amount of importance as the one before; even if you’re one day sober or one thousand. Setbacks don’t mean failure and all that lovely, self-deprecating bullshit.

You just nod. “Thanks, Gojo.”

He grins his brilliant Gojo grin, and sinks back into his chair. “Now that you’re awake. I have some bad news to break to you.”

“Oh joy.”

“So, y’know how we got ambushed?"

"Yeah."

"And that creepy dude in the octopus mask started blabbering about a bunch of weird shit?”

“Yeah.”

“Well…” he makes a face.

More memories come back to you. Specifically the Octopus' head rolling on the floor.

"You killed our only lead." 

He pouts. “In my defence, I thought he’d killed you.”

“So it was revenge?”

“Mhm!”

“That makes it all better.”

His pout deepens. "At least you know where my loyalties lie." 

A small part of you is embarrassingly elated by that comment, but you the rest of you rolls your eyes. 

You consider the alternatives to Gojo's recklessness. There are other ways of tracing the assassin's origins. You could start with the mission log. Backdate it’s details and the people who were involved. The Octopus had vaguely mentioned you being 'sold out'. 

“You hungry?” Gojo asks. 

You blink at the change in subject. “A little, I guess.”

“You’ve been out of it for two days. Think ya might need somethin’ to eat.”

“You’re offering?”

"Ew. No. I’m not your maid.”

You shake your head, fighting a smile. You should've known better. 

Gojo sighs dramatically. "I guess I could be persuaded to change my mind...-You've still got all your fingers, right?" 

"If you're about to ask me for a hand job, I'm going to rip your fucking eyes out."

Gojo nearly slips out of his seat. "W-woah—" he grips the side of his chair and pulls himself back up. "Well...now that you mention it, I haven't—"

"Stop digging the hole deeper," you cut in. "You're asking someone with one functional hand for a hand job?” 

"If the person is you? Yes." 

The speed of his answer makes you roll your eyes. "And if it was someone like...Waka Inoue?"

He gasps. "That is a loaded question!" 

You turn away to hide your grin. 

"Full disclosure, I was going to ask you to help retie my blindfold. M'not that much of a prick." 

"You want me to do it?" 

"I'm runnin' out of choices and I've got a bitch of a migraine. It's like a bunch of tap dancers are gettin' down to the Chrono Trigger loading theme right behind my eyeballs." 

"Okay. That was incredibly specific. Also...I'm very injured. I doubt I'll be able to help."

"Your fingers are fine, it's every other bone in your body that's broken."

You sigh and sit up against your pillows. “C'mere then." 

Gojo observes you for a moment, and then his lips tick up into a smile. He flips his chair around and sits it on it backwards, then he reorients himself so the back of his head is facing you. He unravels his blindfold and chucks it behind him like he's throwing flowers at a wedding.

You laugh, scooting closer to the edge of your bed so you can assess the gap. Despite his efforts, you'll have to nearly pull yourself out of the cot to properly reach him like this.

"Can you lean back a little further?" You ask quietly.

"Sure." 

He tips his head straight back like he's about to be possessed by Sadako. You choke around a laugh, not really grasping the situation you're in until you see the long, pale line of his neck and throat.

His skin is perfect. Not a scar or freckle in sight. You have the sudden and insane urge to sink your teeth into his neck. To mark his skin. 

Fuck.

You fight the tremble of out your hand and slowly reach around his face, draping the blindfold across his nose with your thumb and middle finger. Everywhere your fingers touch, your skin tingles like electric eels are swimming in your veins.

You have to lean forward to use your bound hand, and gently pull the blindfold around his head, hooking each bit of fabric above his ears. Your fingertips graze the tiny bit of skin on the shell of Gojo's hear. A muscle in his neck tenses, but he doesn't say anything. 

Swallowing thickly, you make sure each bit of fabric is parallel before neatly tying it back. 

"Done," is all you manage to get out. 

Gojo's throat bobs and you watch his eyebrows lift. "Hm?" He sounds almost sleepy.

"I fixed your blindfold." 

There's a moment of silence, and then Gojo clears his throat. "Right. Yeah," he leans forward, running his fingers over the knot.

"A deals a deal, then," he pushes his chair out and rocks to his feet. "Anything specific?"

You quietly tell him what you want. He shoots you a thumbs up and then skips out of the room with all the whimsy of a man who hadn’t just fallen asleep with their head bent backwards in your hands. 

You take a deep breath once he's out of sight and let it rattle out of your chest, exorcising your nerves. Your fingertips are still tingling from where you'd touched his skin. You curl them into your palms, stretching them until your muscles burn. 

You bury down every little thought so that when Gojo returns, the feeling is long gone. 

You're discharged five hours later. 

When you open the door to your flat, Mem pokes her head out of your bedroom doorway, her face wrinkled with sleep. You're relieved. She looks completely fine. 

Mem takes a moment to register who you are, and then she dashes across the room and starts meowing loudly up at your face.

"Hi baaaby," you coo, leaning down to pat her. "I missed you too."

She mews and trills, purring as she threads in and out of your legs. You wish you could pick her up, but with one hand it'd be like holding a very wriggly, uncomfortable fish. Instead, she jumps up and nudges her head into your hand over and over like a meerkat. 

You spend a solid fifteen minutes patting Mem and playing with toys. By the end of it, you're covered in cat fluff and so is the couch. You check up on Mem's food and kitty litter and find that everything is in meticulous order thanks to Yaga, who'd been caring for her in your absence.

After that, you take an extra long shower, getting into the place's a sponge bath can't reach. You get dressed in some comfortable clothes, reset your sling and flop down onto your bed. Mem jumps up next to you and settles against your leg. You pet her earnestly for a couple minutes, but then your thoughts begin to drift. You're thinking about all the things you definitely shouldn't be thinking about.

You stare at the ceiling, trying to get a hold on your breathing. It doesn't work. You decide to get up. You've been sitting in a bed for a few days, perhaps you just need to move around a little bit. You pace your apartment, counting each step. You trace and retrace your footsteps, but nothing changes. 

"I need some air," you tell Mem.

You spend an hour wandering around campus, wearing down the edges of your already destroyed fingernails until some of them start to bleed. You’re waiting for some kind of bone crushing craving to emerge from the tiny slip of morphine you’d taken. Or an avalanche of desperate, swirling thoughts about how good it feels to get high, and how you’ll only do it once. Just once. But it doesn’t happen.

It leaves you feeling edge, like your brain has somehow tricked itself into doing a good thing. You’re just waiting for a slip up. A thought that turns into a craving that turns into a mistake.

Ishimori's grumpy, crackling voice circles in your mind.

Focus on the breath.

Then focus on the body. The sights. The sounds. Try to be in the moment. 

Whatever you repeat gets stronger, and whatever you don’t repeat gets weaker.

You have a vivid memory of standing on the beach with her, your feet sinking through the wet. You’d stared out at the shoreline, watching the waves, feeling disjointed from your body.

Ishimori told you that as the urge to use festers, it might feel like a wave is growing inside you. It starts small and then builds, cresting into something nearly impossible to ignore. It overwhelms you. Hurts you. Wraps you in shadows. But you have to trust that this huge wave will eventually reach the shoreline. That it will break away, brushing at your ankles until it subsides. 

You ride the wave. Or at least, you try to. But you're alone. And everything's harder alone. 

"Kanzaki?" A voice asks.

Your eyes shoot open. Gojo's standing a few metres from you, his hands tucked into his pockets. With his blindfold on, you can only see the barest glimpse of his raised eyebrow. 

"Oh," you look away. "Hey."

"You good? You looked like you were Blair Witching."

You huff. "I'm not Blair Witching, I'm doing a thing." 

"And that thing is...?" 

You swallow thickly, your face growing hot. "A technique. Helps with cravings." 

"Does it work?"

"...sometimes," you murmur. "It's for the intrusive urges that come with withdrawal. You have to say stuff like: 'My thoughts cannot actually hurt me. They have no power.' Blah blah blah."

"So the technique is just pointing out obvious shit?"

"No. You gotta breathe and visualise as well." 

Gojo nods. "And it's not working?"

"Nope." 

"Do you have a plan B?"

"Eat a bunch of snacks?" You shrug, making a strained face. "One time I ate two litres of ice cream in half an hour fighting off a craving."

"Half an hour? That's weak shit." 

You snort. "Of course you'd say that."

"'Cause it's true. But hey, if it's ice cream you need, I am the perfect person to talk to."

"You're offering to get me food again?" 

"No. I'm offering to take us both somewhere to get ice cream."

"Gojo," you sigh. "I don't wanna go to an ice cream parlour or anything. I'm one sandwich short of becoming a raging asshole picnic right now." 

He grins. "Does a convenience store suit?" 

"It's better, I guess."

"Great!" He reaches out his hand, wriggling his fingers at you.

Your neck warms, and you gingerly offer your arm to him.

Gojo’s grin widens, like he finds your sheepishness amusing. He takes your arm and within a blink you’ve moved from Jujutsu Tech campus to the edge of a street. No one’s around to witness the impossible—a well considered move on Gojo’s part—so you step out and walk across to the small grocery on the corner.

It’s the middle of a weekday so the place is pretty much empty. When you walk through the sliding door, the girl working the register sleepily turns your way. When she notices the tall behemoth of a man behind you, she perks up like a cat. You ignore it, reaching down to awkwardly scoop up a shopping basket with your one functioning arm.

Gojo snorts.

You turn, giving him an eyeball. “What?”

Without asking, Gojo takes the basket off you.

“Oi. What are you doing?”

He tilts his head at you. “Standing in a convenience store …?”

“You took my basket, Gojo.”

“Your basket?”

“My basket,” you repeat.

“Are you always this possessive with your things?”

You glare at him, a dozen snide remarks sitting on your tongue.

“Well, c’mon,” he makes a sweeping gesture. “Onward!”

His raised voice earns him a look from the worker stacking shelves. You duck into the nearest aisle, speed-walking over to the back fridges. 

Gojo catches up to you in about two strides. “Watcha getting?”

There are too many options. “I’m not sure.”

You stand in front of the freezer for a minute saying nothing, just staring into the void. 

“What kinda stuff did you have in Australia?” Gojo prompts. 

You think about it. “They had some really good ice cream places actually. This one store had a beautiful toffee ice cream. It was my favourite for years. I even tried to buy it from a wholesaler. I’d get it with coconut or cookies and cream. So, so good.” You make a whining noise. “Ahhh, now I really want some.”

Gojo smiles, and this time it's a soft one. Reserved for tiny fractals of moments that you can almost remember.

“What do you like?” You ask quietly.

Gojo immediately points at a pint of gelato. “Those are good; but only the mango flavour.” He leans over your shoulder and points at something else through the glass. “Minisoft is always good, obviously. The caramel and waffle ice cream sandwiches too. The ice parfaits! Oooh, this one!” His voice is so full of glee you can’t help but smile. “These are top tier! You have to get those!”

“Okay,” you pick out a couple of the things he suggested. As well as a simple toffee flavoured gelato. “Anything else?”

“Aren’t you supposed to decide that?”

“I’m buying you stuff as well, idiot.”

“Oh my!” He gasps. “You're buyin' me ice cream? But it’s not even close to White Day!”

You contemplate chucking a tub at his head. 

By the time you get to the front counter, Gojo has convinced you into getting a dozen other snacks. You approach the only open register, and the girl shoots you a practiced smile, which quickly morphs into something else when she realises you’re standing next the tall attractive person you’d entered with. Her face goes pink, and the practiced customer service grin turns into a flirty pout.

You resist the urge to groan. Why do these places only ever have one register open?

“Hello,” she greets, throwing Gojo a smile.

You dump your basket on the counter. “Hi.”

She blanches at your roughness, and then peers inside the basket, looking at the six pints of ice cream and family sized bags of chips. She gapes. 

Gojo coughs on a laugh.

“Buying lots of ice creams, huh?”

You nod. 

“A special occasion, or…?”

“No.”

She nods a little too quickly, like the answer has appropriately satisfied her. Her eyes flit to Gojo again, and you can see the physiological response her body has to his presence. You know exactly how annoying that particular sensation is, and it almost makes you feel bad for her, until then she smiles at him again, this time packing a lot more sensuality into it.

You just want your fucking ice cream.

“So…” she starts, scanning the mango gelato. “Are you just a big fan of ice cream?”

“Yup.”

The girl nods stiffly.

“Don’t mind her,” Gojo interjects. “She’s not good with people. Talking in full sentences makes her break out in hives.”

What the fuck?

You shoot Gojo a seething look, and he smiles back at you innocently.

“O-oh, I don’t mind!” The girl insists. “My brother struggles with social anxiety, so…I’m used to this sort’ve thing.”

What an astounding assumption for her to make.

“Thank you for being so understanding,” Gojo says, the picture of sincerity. “As you can see, my friend here broke her arm, and it’s a bit of a hassle to go shopping with one arm. A lot of things are a hassle actually, so I offered to help her out.”

She smiles brightly. “You are very generous with your time, Onisan.”

He smiles back at her, and she practically turns to goo where she stands.

God, you wish someone would just beam you up into the sky right fucking now.

“I’d like to think so,” Gojo continues. “I’m a big sweets guy, and m’trying to…broaden her horizons, y’know? Cheer her up!”

She nods her head about a dozen times. “How kind of you to do that!”

“So kind,” you mutter.

Gojo ruffles your hair. “C’mon, don’t be so pessimistic.”

“It’s not pessimism. It’s realism and—“ you jerk your head away. “Stop messing with my hair.”

She looks between the two of you, her expression puzzled, and you’re suddenly reminded that touching people like that is very much a taboo in Japan still. But Gojo being Gojo, doesn’t care.

“Say that again after you eat the ice cream. I’m sure it’ll fix your rotten attitude.”

Rotten?

You have a sudden fantasy; one where you’ve got your hands wrapped around Gojo’s throat and his lips are flying with spittle, desperately choking on an apology.

“Oh!” The girl giggles. “My grandmother always used to say…autumn weather and a woman’s mind change seven times a day. I think ice cream is a great way to lift someone’s mood. No one like’s a downer!”

You blink at her, slightly stunned by her passive aggressiveness.

You go to pay for you snacks, but Gojo beats you to it, sliding his card through the machine. You narrow your eyes at him, grinding down on your teeth to stop a very impolite phrase from slipping out. Gojo smiles back at you, and then takes the plastic bags before you even have a chance. You walk back out onto the street in silence.

“That was fun.”

You make a slight noise, the barest acknowledgment.

"You mad?"

You slowly turn your head to look at him. "What gave you that idea?" 

He laughs. “I thought you were about to eat that girl's soul just now.”

“I don’t eat souls.” 

“But if you could? Ooo. I wonder what mine would taste like...” 

“Probably disappointment," you mutter. 

"Yeeesh! You really are mad!" 

“No. I’m just freaking the fuck out about going through withdrawals and I don’t have the energy to give a shit about some random fucking girl and her grandmother’s alarmingly sexist anecdotes about how women ought to feel! So please just shut up and teleport me back!”

Your voice echoes in the empty street, bouncing between alleyways before it's swallowed up in the concrete. Silence rushes into the charged space between you, cresting your emotions until they flatline. That tiny spark of anger raged for one blinding moment, and then died back down to a coal, leaving you with nothing but smoke. 

Gojo teleports you back to Jujutsu Tech. You stand in front of your door, staring at the stripes in the wood.

You wonder if you should feel ashamed of your outburst. Gojo doesn't enlighten you with an answer. He’s just standing there, his blindfold obscuring most of his expression. 

You reach for your doorknob and Gojo suddenly reanimates himself. 

"I have an idea!"

You pause, your fingers wrapped around the metal. 

“We should watch a movie together," he shakes the bags. "Y’know? For old times sake!” 

You look at the bags again and it hits you what he’s reminiscing about. Memories of all the Christmases you'd spent together come crashing into one frame, and for once in your life, you can actually see Gojo's intentions.

He doesn’t want you to be alone.

It's an awfully sweet thing to do. 

And god does it burn.

"Alright," you say quietly. "You got a movie in mind?" 

His lips stretch into a triumphant grin. "Maybeee." 

You open the door to your room, swallowing around what feels like a giant piece of granite as Gojo walks in. He stands in the tiny kitchen area, looking around with a plastic bag in each hand.

Your heart feels like it’s been wrapped in a tightened fist.

Gojo is in your dorm. He’s barely a couple metres away, taking up your space, existing amongst your things. You struggle to wrap your mind around it. The idea that this would be your life in a mere couple of weeks to the day of that letter. That you would be speaking again. Sharing angry, spiteful words that have somehow turned into tiny cadences of kindness.

Fuck. Maybe you hadn’t thought this through.

You take a small breath and shake the feeling off. You’re not doing this self-sabotaging nonsense again. You’re just watching a movie together. It’s not even close to being a big deal.

You collect some bowls and spoons from your kitchenette cupboard, balancing them in the crook of your elbow as you move into your bedroom. Gojo follows with the snacks, stopping in the doorway of your bedroom to openly snoop. It’s completely void of personality; except for Mem, who’s sitting on your windowsill. She turns and observes Gojo with her ears flattened to her head. Gojo takes a step towards her, and she lets out a low, rumbling growl. He takes another step and she darts off the windowsill and ducks beneath your bed. 

He pouts. “She still doesn’t like me.”

“You haven’t given her a reason to.”

His pout deepens, and then turns back to you, dumping the plastic bags on the tiny coffee table.

“Alright,” he claps his hands. “M'gonna get the movie."

"I don't get to know what it's called?" 

"It's a surprise~" 

He soundlessly blips away. 

You assemble the snacks in the most horrendous display of flavours imaginable and then squish onto the tiny couch in your bedroom.

Gojo teleports back after a couple minutes, holding a singular DVD case with a blurred picture on it. He’s also changed into some comfortable clothes, with his black glasses instead of his blindfold. 

You squint at the title. "Jigsaw? There's another one?"

"Mhm! Came out last year. Takes place a decade later according to the synopsis."

"I thought Jigsaw died in the last movie. What even is the plot gonna be?"  

Gojo grins. "Dunno. Guess we'll have to find out, huh?"

You lean over and grab the toffee ice cream, residing yourself to what is surely going to be a gory, incomprehensibly mess.

Gojo puts the disc into your TV and then he flops down next to you on the couch.

You take a massive scoop of ice cream and shove it in your mouth. "Why do you have the DVD if you’ve never seen it before?”

“I planned to watch it, but my free time’s a bit of a commodity these days.”

“Oh," you frown. "I thought being a teacher, they'd be running you around less."

"You would think that, yeah. But, alas..." he sighs. "The higher's up love ordering me around. I just work my lesson plans around their bullshit most of the time." 

You make a disgusted noise. "Fuckin' assholes."

"Bingooo," he sings, clinking his ice cream sandwich with your tub. 

You laugh, shoving another spoonful into your mouth in agreement. 

The movie starts running through a series of other trailers.

Gojo turns to you. ““I’ve been meanin' to ashhk you somethin'" he says through a mouthful of ice cream.

“Mm?”

“That Octopus guy—y'know when he said you shoulda stayed dead and all that?"

"...yeah?" You have an idea on where this is going, so you sit up. 

"I was thinkin' about it. The higher's up's faked your death to stop me or anyone else from finding out your banishment. They were afraid I'd kill them. Or at least, that was the assumption." He says, sucking the last remaining bit of ice cream out off the wooden stick. "But now I'm thinkin' there was a whole lot more to it. That octopus freak knew things he shouldn't have. Specs, techniques, time management. Which means we've either got one mole, or a whole band of 'em. The higher up’s either don't care, or are apart of it. I'm leaning on the latter, but there's a few holes in that theory."

"Like?"

"If they were so concerned with hiding you away, why bring you back? Especially if they've been fucking around with the wrong kinda people."

“Aren't they the wrong kinda people anyway?"

He shrugs, reaching over to grab a handful of corn-puffs. “I’ve known them to be a lot more careful with their investments. Especially when it comes to outsourcing talent. They like things to be discreet. S’not so much to keep up appearances, but as a method of control. Keeps the circle...contained." He flattens his palms together and twists them. "No black mail. No leveraging. Everyone knows each other secrets, so everything can be tracked back to a source. This...this seems out of character for them. And on that note—you still haven’t told me why they banished you in the first place. And your deal with Sukuna." 

You purse your lips. “Was this movie a ploy to interrogate me?”

“No. And I’m not interrogating you. We’re having a conversation.”

“Give me an ice cream sandwich then." 

He hands it over without a single word of fuss, his eyes piercing into you.

"I would've thought you'd have figured it out by now," you admit, peeling away the paper wrapping. 

He smiles. "I'd rather hear it straight from the horses mouth." 

"I bet," you take a bite and slowly chew it. "I'll start with this. Panda. He's a step up from Yaga's usual cursed corpse deal, isn't he?" Gojo lips tweak at the sides, like he's impressed, but he just nods. "To create a sentient cursed corpse...it involves a certain kinda skill set. Yaga was smart enough to shut his mouth about it. I wasn't."

"It's about souls then?” 

You nod. "I wasn't aware of it until it was too late, and the higher up's didn't like it," you wrinkle your nose. "They don't like souls much. Don't like talking about them. Researching them. Teaching about them. I thought it was a traditionalist thing. A taboo kinda rule. But as you're probably aware, it's a whole lot more complicated than that." You wet your lips. "It's knowledge that they hide. They're scared of it—can barely stand to look at it. The soul is a centrical pillar of jujutsu. It informs most of what we know and how we learn. Add Ryomen Sukuna into that? The most fundamentally sound sorcerer to ever exist?"

Gojo's eyes are wild, like he's getting off on your passion. "You sound like you admire him."

You shrug. "I guess I do. He came from nothing, and yet he managed to master jujutsu on every level. Barriers. Binding vows. Cursed techniques. Domain expansion. He reconceptualised what it means to be a sorcerer. And when he died, he split his soul into twenty pieces. Twenty." You shake your head. You're getting distracted. Talking too much. "There is a lot to learn from studying souls. How they function. How they expand. How they adapt. Hiding that knowledge is a form of control. It chains younger generations to the same archaic bullshit, because the higher up’s know the more people learn, the less power the system can hold over them."

"So they banished you," he finishes. "And Yuji? He was, what? A research project?”

You don't shy way from the question. “Initially, yes. I wanted to observe Sukuna's soul and then be on my way. But when I saw that Yuji was suppressing him, I realised there was something else going on. I couldn't ignore it." You put your ice cream down. "Is it callous to admit that, now that Yuji’s my responsibility?"  

He shakes his head. “Two things can be true at once. Wanting to make your technique stronger—that’s the point, yeah? And you have gotten stronger for it. That octopus dude was a grade one at the very least, and you dealt with him pretty fucking well. Before he y’know…crushed you like a piece of rice paper. It’s not as if you're messing around for no good reason.”

You nod slowly, but you don't really want to believe in Gojo's logic. You'd been selfish. Desperate. A miracle had fallen into your lap, and you'd taken it as far as it could go. Going back and forth on how to deal with Yuji is probably a good thing. 

You draw your eyes back to the television, knowing that Gojo is still looking at you, searching your face, trying to glimpse something.

The movie begins, and you fall back into silence. You're tense. Everything about that conversation had been dangerous. Your answers—as long-winded and vague as they were—coil between your ribs like stinging nettles. It was foolish to confide in him, even with the slimmest of truths.

Had you let anything else slip unintentionally? You know Gojo is cunning. More than any other person you’ve ever met. Getting him involved with your problems would makes things inexplicably worse. He’s too blunt. Too untouchable to understand how precarious things are. You let one problem slip, and he’ll bulldoze your entire plan to the ground.

Your inability to lie to him has never been more present either. You’d danced around every question except one and you know he’s not satisfied. Not in the least. He's just pretending for some reason. 

The movie flits by in flashes of colour and sound, but you’re too consumed by your thoughts to really pay attention. That is, until Gojo shifts closer to you and his shoulder brushes your own. Even in the throes of internal panic, you’re hyper aware of his presence. His touch makes you stiffen.

“How is it?”

You turn to face him, unsure exactly as to what face you’re making. “What?”

“Your cravings,” he reminds, his eyebrows furrowed. "Have they cooled off?" 

You'd expected any other question to come out of his mouth. More about the higher's ups. About Sukuna and Yuji. About being gone.

Him asking you if you're alright? It hadn't even entered your mind.

Your mouth opens slightly, a pained little breath whistling out. “Um. Y-yes, I’m okay.” Your face feels like it’s been dragged against a grill. “Thank you—for asking, that is. Thanks.”

Gojo does a terrible job at hiding his amusement, but this time, it doesn’t feel as barbed.

In truth, you feel perfectly fine. No sweating or shaking. No stomach cramps. Not even a headache. Normally that would make you even more suspicious and intensely more paranoid, but tonight, your mind is silenced from those doubts.

His shoulder presses into you again. You allow it. After a couple more minutes, his knee shifts, touching yours. Your heart flutters and then jumps up a dozen beats. Goosebumps break out on your skin. You press back into him until your legs are flushed. You can’t look at him. Not right now. Because if you do, you’re going to do something stupid like ride him into the sofa.

Your legs stay like that, your heart nearly beating out of your chest. The points where you’re touching are so hot. There's no way Gojo hasn't noticed.

The movie becomes distant. You’re both ignoring it, and it scares you. The longer you do this, the more tangible this feeling will become.

You turn your cheek and find him already watching you, his forehead crinkled and his eyes burning. Burning into you.

All your senses tunnel into Gojo, tuning out the world. Dialing into his presence. His scent. His touch. His smell.

It’s his face, staring at you, daring you to try something.

Try what?

His eyes fall for just a fraction of a second to your parted lips and then they’re back up again. 

God, this had been a monumentally bad idea.

You swallow thickly, wrangle whatever shred of self restraint you have left and return your attention to the movie. You can’t do this. You’re playing only yourself by giving into baseless desire. All it will serve as is a balm to your shattered, unrequited feelings.

He doesn’t want you. Not the way you want him. You’re just a conquest. A momentary pleasure that circles familiar waters.

This is not how you would ever want this to happen.

But even still, the image of him looking at you like that will haunt you for the rest of your life. However long that may be.

You close your eyes, knowing that this moment above anything else, is a place you can escape to.

It can reside in the labyrinth of your soul.

Chapter Text

You can't decide if you regret it or not. You aren't sure it's even possible. The only thing you do know is that Gojo definitely doesn't. There's no room in his life for regret, and he's surely happier for it, but also, probably crueller.

Sometimes your regrets feel like a mountain. A constant bending shadow blocking out any sun, it's pointed tip a glaring reminder, sharpening every mistake into a fatal flaw. 

You have walked in that shadow for most of your life, wondering time and time again if what you're doing is right. If your internal compass is pointing in the right direction. If you're living up to the expectations of the people who loved you. You've never really known where you stand on that, so you've just squeezed yourself into the bits that look most like your shape, working around other puzzle pieces. 

Of course-it's all an external perception. A burden one applies to themselves without ever being told to. But it's how you exist. How you breathe. You forsake yourself over the slightest slip in moral perfection and then completely debase yourself at the same time; a slave to your own rage.

It's easy to overcomplicate being human. Or alive. To dig into every little decision trying to unearth reason. It's a way of micromanaging your existence, so that all the tiny mistakes cover up the big, uncomfortable ones. You fix your bed so it looks nice and neat, and then you step out into the fiery shithole of the world. 

Thinking too hard about why you exist or what your purpose is becomes an exhausting exercise. There are no answers. No reason. The only certainty that exists in this world is that everyone eventually dies. One day, you won't have to worry about all the mind-numbing philosophy you spend your time obsessing over. Or your mountain of regrets. 

Sometimes you want that day to come soon. Sometimes you're so afraid of it you shut down. 

You can't decide which is worse. Existing with all your fuck-ups, or dying with them.  

Your phone buzzes, drawing you away from your thoughts. Your eyes slowly move to your bedside table, staring at it. 

Since leaving for his next mission, Gojo has been texting you incessantly. You're not exactly sure when he stole your number, but he's abusing the ever loving shit out of it. If you don't respond within half a second to one of his messages, he will spam you. 

GOJO (literally your most favourite person in the whole wide world):

hey

wyd?

You sigh. You keep forgetting he put that into your contact list. 

Shouldn't you be working?

:(

wow

meanie 

im bored

i wanna yap and ur bullying me

I’m not?

This is just how I text.

fr?

pfft

u even use full stops

thats cute

You don’t reply to that obvious bait.

You’ve been brushing Mem between texts, and each time you put the brush down to respond to a message, she starts chirping at you, demanding your attention. You return to her stomach, brushing the comb through the messy fluff under her front legs. She stretches out her arms, letting you attack the mess with the thicker side of the comb.

She loves that. She starts purring, but her purr isn't a loud rumble like most cats. It sounds more like a Geiger counter. It’s a soft and crackly kind of purr. You resist the urge to bury your face in her fluff and give her head a dozen tiny kisses.

Your phone is blowing up with messages again.

GOJO (literally your most favourite person in the whole wide world):

how r things with shoko

have you been freed yet???

hey

kanzakiiiii

zakiii

zakii

zaki

Can you wait ONE second? 

And how did you know about Shoko?

she told me

duh

You start typing a reply, but rethink it.

finish the thought pussy

No.

ˢᵒᵇ(ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣ ہ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣ ✿)ˢᵒᵇ

If you know I'm on house arrest, then you know I've been doing absolutely fuck all.

lool

figured you'd be losing ur mind

also

im requesting a photo of mem

i need to see something cute

You consider rejecting him, but then you think about the back to back missions he's been on, and how little sleep he's probably getting. You send Gojo a photo of Mem in her current position, splayed out on her back with her paws stretched out on either side of her face.

Gojo immediately ‘hearts’ the image. 

(●♡ᴗ♡●)

(*˘︶˘*).｡.:*♡

( つ•̀ω•́)つ

٩(๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵๑)۶

(⁎⁍̴̛ᴗ⁍̴̛⁎)

memmmmmm

memmy <3

im her biggest fan 

let her know

no one else can do what she does

Fr

omg

did u just abbreviate something??

i gotta show ijichi

WTF????

Don't show him our text chains.

It's private.

relaxxx

it's not like im sending u dick pics

You stare at the message, heat creeping up your neck. Against your will, you imagine his dick. It's probably ridiculously pretty, and knowing him, incredibly well groomed.

You groan, smacking the edge of your phone into your forehead. You want to say something witty back, but nothings coming to mind. His stupidly pretty dick is just spinning in your mind, scrambling it.

leaving me on read after that is cold 

I was trying to let you down gently.

ur version of gentle is just blowing someone away with a shotgun

straight to the knees

Why a shotgun?

oop

ur right

ur more like a sniper

in one of those sexy catsuits

You sigh. 

To answer your ACTUAL question.

I'm seeing Shoko later today.

Judging from my flooded inbox, she's gonna discharge me. 

mission requests already?

wowow

they really want you dead

Are you surprised?

nah

but still

they gave you four days to recover

a gerbil probably gets more time off

PFFT

I'm recovered enough. 

Where are you today anyway?

Fukuoka

Damn.

Say hi to Ijichi

you'll say hi to ijichi but not to me?

:)

ok

meanie

msg me when ur done being boring

I thought that was my whole schtick though?

GASP

using my own logic against me!!!

u r brutal

You're just easy to catch out.

;)

anyways

be careful out there hunny bunnyyy

make sure a weirdo in an animal mask doesn't pop out of the walls and shank you n yuji

mwaah

( ˘ ³˘)♥

You slam your phone on the bed face down, staring at it in horror. Your face trembles, and you cup your mouth to repress the stupid, idiot smile that’s working its way into your cheek muscles. Mem gives you a look full of righteous cat judgment and then rolls onto her side to lick her back leg.

You are insufferable. 

And Yuji will be fine.

and u???

I will also be fine.

mmkay

oh!

almost forgot

gimme ur email so i can send thru the pdf for the case file

Case file?

incident report

Why is this the first I'm hearing of this???

dunno

probably some higher ups bullshit 

they’ve been working on it for a couple days

been too busy with missions to follow up so i asked ijichi to cc me

thought you might wanna look

Yes.

You send through your details. After a moment, you get the notification for a new message. You open your inbox and find the cc'd letter. You flick through the file dates and introductory lines. 

INCIDENT REPORT: #5491

═══

PERSONNEL:

Students:

• (REDACTED), Itadori Yuji.
• Grade Two Sorcerer, Fushiguro Megumi.
• Grade Three Sorcerer, Kugisaki Nobara.

Faculty:

• Semi-Second Grade Sorcerer, Kanzaki Akari.
• Special Grade Sorcerer, Gojo Satoru.
• Auxiliary Manager, Ijichi Kiyotaka.

INCIDENT DETAILS:

The preliminary report noted that the estate was deemed unfit for human habitation and renounced three months prior to the investigation.

The residence was terminated from rental agreement a further three months before that.

Party arrived at 17:04. 

It was stated by Kanzaki Akari (leading supervisor) before entering the residence that it was excreting considerable cursed energy.

Confirmed by Gojo Satoru, fostering the assertion of a curse higher than second grade.

The utilities had only recently been turned off. The  kitchen tap was tested and found dripping with water.

Gojo Satoru stated that the layers of dust on the furnishings were not conducive enough to suggest six months of inhabitation.

(Further investigation establishes substantiation to this point.)

Only the bottom floor of the house was thoroughly investigated. This excludes the basement.

Fushiguro Megumi during a sweep of the downstairs bathroom discovered a residual with the appearance of crude oil.

A passage leading to a mineshaft was found during the investigation. This was not previously listed as apart of the estate.

Further investigation revealed ongoing labour in the west end of the mine and several more entryways. It is still unclear as to the purpose of the mine and what minerals were being harvested.

Kugisaki Nobara, Itadori Yuji, Fushiguro Megumi and Gojo Satoru stated that shortly after entering the mine, a partial domain was deployed into the space, causing separation.

Gojo Satoru encountered a curse user of at least first grade ranking in the partial domain, as well as a shikigami of a similar structure. (DECEASED.)

Itadori Yuji and Fushiguro Megumi sustained minor wounds in combat against the curse user and shikigami.

The curse user referred to as the ‘Octopus’ only activated his cursed technique (REDACTED) once Kanzaki Akari arrived on the scene.

The curse user involved was observed to convey obsessive sensibilities towards Kanzaki Akari.

The curse user mentioned multiple unnamed coconspirators and alluded to receiving a monetary sum for the detainment/abduction of Kanzaki Akari.

Kanzaki Akari sustained critical wounds in combat.

It was heavily suggested that the curse user was involved in some level of organised crime.

Upon further investigation, four sets of human remains were discovered on the premises.

Two bodies have been linked to prior missing persons reports.

The remaining sets of remains have yet to be identified.

FOLLOW UP RECOMMENDATIONS:

• Investigate other occult activities in the Gifu Prefecture. Push the margin wider if necessary.
• Review any cold cases with similar backgrounds.
• Analysis of suspicion indicators.
• A larger team will be required for further investigation into the mine and surrounding area.

═══

You frown. It’s a well documented report on the surface, but it’s clearly been cut down to a skeleton in terms of information. Any evidence that might point towards the higher up’s being involved has been scrubbed out. Their gross negligence is barely mentioned.

You also feel like they’re subtly blaming you for the execution of the mission as well. No one else's job description was noted. Although, given the fact that Gojo was never supposed to be on the mission, there's probably some credence to that decision.

You scroll down to the listed attachments and tap on the photo catalogue. When you see the first photo, you nearly drop your phone.

It's a picture of an upstairs bedroom. The four post bed has been completely stripped of sheets and pillows. In the centre of the mattress, drawn in blood, is a pentagram. Even if the staining makes it look black instead of red, it's definitely blood. It’s precise too, like it was drawn with a paint brush instead of someone's fingers. There's experience to the strokes. 

At the foot of the bed is a black octopus mask hanging off the metal railing like a Christmas stocking. At the other end, placed neatly in the middle of the pentagram is a completely bare human skull.

Your throat suddenly feels like it’s made out of sandpaper.

A skull and a mask.

A warning and a consequence. But for what?

You click on the next photo. It’s a series of human bones aligned in order of height. Most of them are fingers, but one of them is a part of a jaw. A small…barely grown jaw that clearly belongs to a child.

You let out a rattling breath and press your lips together.

Fuck.

No wonder they can't identify their remains. There's barely anything left.

You click on the next photo. It’s the same situation, just a different bedroom. More circles. More blood. More strange animal masks.

The next photo is of the downstairs bathtub where you found the black residue. There’s a small note beneath the photo stating that the bathtub was used to dispose of the multiple sets of remains. Forensics found small traces of blood matching that of the upstairs bedroom. Bone fragments were also discovered lodged in the draining pipe.

The evidence matched the DNA profile of two women; Aiba Tomoko—who'd been on a solo hiking journey according to the evidence tag. The other identified victim is also a woman. Kitou Homaki. A budding journalist. There's nothing else noted about her, or why she was staying at the house.

You frown. Is this how all the missing tourists had died? Or was something more sinister going on?

You have a gut feeling that you’ve just scraped the tip of an ugly, ugly iceberg.

Memories of that day drift into your mind. All their faces are blurred, but the voices attached to them are resoundingly clear. They came into your home. They destroyed everything you had.

Had these people gone through the same thing? Had they been sitting watching television? Had they been struck down blind? Or had they been hunted? How long had they been trapped in there before they were killed?

Were these women merely looking for a place to stay? Or was there something about the house that drew them in? Were they offered it by someone? Was it a suggestion? Were they all women?

You'll need to cross reference the missing persons reports to the lodging records to figure that one out.

Your phone pings.

GOJO (literally your most favourite person in the whole wide world):

pretty gruesome huh?

kinda reminds me of those time vessel association freaks

Except we have no idea who these people are.

Or how long they’ve been doing this.

Or why.

true

but i wanna know why theyre so interested in you

Your face slowly falls. Your fingers drift away from the keyboard.

Shit.

You have to give it to him this time. He’s got you. He'd gone about in such a cunning way too, lowering your guard with silly jokes and flirtations and then going straight for the jugular after you read the report. He probably knew you'd be a little shaken by it. Anyone would be after seeing those photos. 

You're not sure if should be angry or impressed. 

You need to careful with your answers now. Taking too long to respond will make him suspicious, but being too quick will probably come off callous. There's a line and luckily, you're very used to walking it.

I have no idea.

I think I’d remember talking to someone like that.

Their masks alone are a big fucking hint.

Maybe not

If what you’re saying is true, that means these guys know what they’re doing

They haven’t been caught and we don’t even know their name

Or their motive. They’re clean

The added punctuation to his texts makes you pause. 

But they send a psycho to do their dirty work?

To blab their secrets?

See, I reckon that was on purpose too

They've been anonymous for so long and NOW they shit the bed???

Why?

An internal issue maybe?

Conflict?

Something like that

Or maybe this is wayyyy more planned out than we realise

So not like the Time Vessel Association then.

Both kill kids.

Both have a fucked up religious fetish.

They clearly have numbers.

And funds.

One of them is just much smarter than the other.

Ritualistic sacrifices. Animal masks.

Seems targeted to a point. 

Maybe it's a puzzle? 

Like Zodiac or something?

A puzzle, or a message?

I guess they're kinda the same thing when it comes to psychos and serial killers.

What were the TVA like?

The target demographics, I mean.

From memory, pretty varied.

Old farts for sure. 

But also whole families. 

It was very 'drink the red coolaid' 

You shudder. Dealing with something like that at sixteen...

You wanted to kill them, back then, right?

Pretty much.

Suguru’s the one who stopped me

Which is very ironic now lol

You pause, staring at the screen. Gojo bringing up Suguru is the last thing you expected. 

All this time you've been circling a wound, trying to forget that night, and now he's just bringing it up like it's nothing?

y’know

it’s kinda weird you haven’t asked about him

not like, in a judgy way

i get it

but i thought you'd be a little more ballsy

Why would I ask about him?

I only knew him for two years.

He wasn’t exactly a major part of my life.

Gojo's text dots appear. You wait, feeling like your heart is in your mouth. Then they disappear. 

You put your phone back down on the bedside table. You'd kinda expected this, but it still makes you feel sick. 

A couple minutes later, after you're finished brushing Mem, a message comes through.

valid point

missions starting 

g2g

You turn your phone over and don't look at it for the rest of the day. 

You’re officially released from the confines of your sling after another checkup with Shoko.

As an apology for giving you the tiniest fraction of morphine when she wasn’t at all aware of your past, Shoko asks you have lunch with her. In your mind, lunch sounds like a delicately arranged interrogation into deeply personal experiences, and despite your many attempts insisting that none of what happened was even close to being anyone’s fault but your own, she doesn’t back down.

She orders pizza without even looking at a menu; which tells you she does this a lot. She drags you out to what you assume is her little quiet spot. It’s a tiny wooden bench beneath one of the trees outside her office. It’s big enough enough to cast a cooling shadow across the lawn, but unassuming too. A good hiding spot.

She plops herself down, and when she doesn’t immediately go for a cigarette, your shoulders tense. You expect a longwinded spiel from her about the dangers of not disclosing important medical information, but instead, she just asks how you’re feeling. It catches you off guard, and you trip through your answers, trying to find a loophole in her questions that explain why she’s acting like this isn’t a cataclysmic disappointment on her part.

Her questions aren’t a running list of symptoms from withdrawal either. There’s no patronising lecture about ‘self discipline’ or a clump of poorly printed pamphlets on nearby rehab centres. Everything you expect to hear—all the ways doctors have treated you in the past—it’s uncomfortably unaccounted for.

Shoko only gets through three slices of pizza before she’s called back to the ward for an emergency. She wraps up three extra pieces in a serviette and tells you to eat the rest. You give her a strained smile as she departs, watching her white coat flutter in the breeze.

You’d expected to be an extremely irritable conversation, and now your anxiety is buffering, trying to make up for the lack of closure. You sigh and rub your eyes until you see stars. This place is too calm. The silence between the ruffling leaves is making everything worse. You feel like someone should be yelling at you. Or at least speaking.

You organise up the pizza boxes and decide to do something horribly spontaneous.

You find the first years in their communal lounge sitting around a low set coffee table, chatting amongst themselves. When you knock on the shoji panelling to make yourself known, Yuji is the first to look up. His eyes nearly bulge out of his head when he sees you. He lets out an adorable shout and damn near dislocates your other shoulder with the bearhug he gives you.

You were not aware that you were on hugging terms with Yuji, but given the traumatic ordeal he’s been through with his friends, you’re not going to judge impromptu embraces. You have to balance the pizza boxes in my hand, but you decide that’s a minor inconvenience.

“Kanzaki-san!” He pulls away, grinning. “You’re okay!”

Gods above, Yuji looking that happy to see you is a terrible progression into your relationship.

“Yep,” you give him another awkward thumbs up. “All good.”

“What are you doing here?” Megumi asks.

“I don’t think you’ve ever come by the dorms before,” Yuji adds. 

“I, uh, I have too much pizza,” you explain. “I thought you guys might want some.”

Nobara grins. “If you’re offering!"

In a matter of moments you find yourself squashed between Yuji and Nobara on the floor, facing Megumi on the other side of the table. His expression doesn’t reveal much on how he feels, so you try not to read into it.

A grown adult sitting down sharing pizza with teenagers they don’t really know was never going to be a seamless transition. You hadn’t really thought this far ahead. Guess that comes with being spontaneous. Wow. Why did you think this was a good idea again?

You bite down on a slice of pepperoni pizza and chew it in silence. Yuji, who’s happily eating, smiles when your eyes meet. You duck your head a little and continue to chew, listening to the sound of grinding teeth. No one speaks. It’s definitely trickled into awkward territory.

“So,” Nobara finishes her slice. “Kanzaki. You lived in Australia, right?”

You nod.

“What’s it like over there?”

“It’s nice."

A simple, impersonal answer. One that Nobara clearly does not appreciate by the way her face wrinkles up.

“I heard it’s—“ Yuji swallows. “Really hot there.”

“It’s arid. Not humid like Japan. Well, it depends, actually. Some places on the coast can get pretty humid.”

Yuji nods. “There’s some beautiful islands there too. I thought it was all deserts, but Fushiguro said they have jungles there. And snowy mountains!”

“Australia is so big that it pretty much has every biome,” you explain. “Makes cursed spirits a bit of a nightmare sometimes.”

"I thought you said cursed spirits don’t really live anywhere else.”

“I said it’s rare, but it still happens.”

“Did you like living there?” Nobara asks.

Megumi gives her a sharp look. Nobara’s eyes dart down to the table sheepishly. She knew it was a personal question, perhaps even a rude one, but she’d had the courage to ask it anyway.

“I…well,” you take a sip of soda. “Yeah. Eventually I did. The weather’s kinda crazy. Bushland goes on forever. You get bugs in your shoes and you gotta be careful driving at night because a lot of the wildlife is nocturnal. The place is crawling with life, so it helped.”

“Like those giant spiders that eat frogs!” Yuji says.

You let out a short laugh. “Funnel webs aren’t so bad. They’re only on the east coast, and I’ve never seen one before. I’m more concerned with the birds.”

“Ohh!” Yuji practically vibrates with excitement. “Those giant fluffy things with the chicken heads!”

“Cassowaries,” Megumi says.

“Yeah! They have huge claws on their feet that can rip you apart, and they can jump two metres straight in the air!”

You chuckle. “I was more talking about swooping magpies, but cassowaries are terrifying. Y’know they’re as fast as wolves, right?”

Yuji is mid-sip when you tell him that little factoid and he chokes on his soda, cola streaming out of his nose like a pressure washer nozzle. Megumi ducks sideways, taking his plate of pizza out of the splash zone. You make a face, pressing your lips together to stop yourself from laughing.

Nobara has no such grievances, and breaks out into cackles.

Megumi gives Yuji’s back a harsh slap, but you’re not really sure if it helps. Yuji coughs and gags, tears pooling in his eyes as he hacks up his guts. After a few more back pats from a mostly unconcerned Megumi, Yuji manages to come back down from his coughing fit, using one of the giant pizza serviettes to wipe up his snotty, teary face.

“Yuuuck!” Nobara gags, pointing her chin away in disgust. “We’re supposed to be eating.”

“I can’t help it!” Yuji defends, dabbing at his eyes. “I was choking!”

“You eat dried up gnarled fingers without a problem but a cola nearly takes you out?”

Yuji pouts and grumbles something under his breath, ripping into another slice of pizza.

You decide to change the subject. “Y’know, most people outside of Australia are pretty unaware of cassowaries. I’m surprised you know about them Yuji.”

“Fushiguro told me,” he says through a mouthful of food. “He’s an animal expert!”

“I study,” Megumi corrects. “It’s useful for my technique.”

You turn to him, impressed. “Do you think studying animals is helping your understanding of shikigami?”

He shrugs. “Each of the Ten Shadow’s is a reflection of an animal in some way.”

“Except for the big guy," you add.

Megumi blinks at you in shock, but it barely lasts a second. He quickly looks down at the table, his thumb playing with the edge of his plate. “Yeah. Except for him.”

“Who?” Nobara asks.

There’s silence.

You frown. Has Megumi not told them about Mahoraga? You guess that makes sense. He probably doesn’t want to frighten them. No one in the history of the Ten Shadows has ever been able to subjugate that disaster, and really, it feels like a joke to expect them to. From what you’ve read, that shikigami is so far beyond anything else the Ten Shadow’s offers in terms of strength. It's an ultimate outlier.

Yuji swiftly changes the subject. “What about Nue then? What are they?”

“They’re closer to an owl than a cassowary,” you say, playing along.

"You know a lot about the Ten Shadows," Megumi comments.

You shrug. "I read a lot."

He nods. "You should train a class sometime."

He says it so matter-of-factly you have to hold back a laugh. You're not sure what he's getting at, but now's probably not the time to ask. "Maybe."

“Isn’t there one Australian bird that makes a weird laughing sound?” Yuji asks, steering the conversation back. “I swear I remember you mentioning that.”

Megumi nods. “The Kookaburra.”

“Yeah! That one!” Yuji does his best impression of a Kookaburra warble, but it sounds more like a broken washing machine. All three of you crack into giggles and Megumi sports a tiny, forced smile.

You feel bad about bringing up Mahoraga. It was tactless of you.

“What’s your favourite bird?” Yuji asks.

You take another sip of soda. “Currawong's. They’re mostly black, but they have these beautiful white markings beneath their wings and tail. They remind me of a kite I painted as a kid.”

Yuji smiles. “I haven’t flown a kite in ages!”

Yuji starts to explain a story where he went to the beach and flew kites with some friends, but he gets lost a specific detail and it suddenly becomes a grave warning about the dangers overfilled backpacks and bicycles. Nobara then jumps in with her own story about school. You watch them banter in silence, finding yourself unusually calm in the chaotic, teenage pendulum of their conversations.

You realise that what you'd been searching for wasn’t loudness.

It was company.

Your life returns to the same mission-forward bullshit you'd been dealing with before the accidental relapse. The intensity of the workload doesn’t surprise you. Nor the petty little games they play with information and time management. You just wish they'd at least  try to be subtle about orchestrating your demise.

Most of your missions have been overwhelmingly successful though. Whether that’s a misinterpretation of your abilities or simple happenstance, you’re undecided. You like to err on the side of caution when it comes to assuming intelligence from the higher up's. 

Yuji is another thing altogether. You can’t deny that he's an exceptional sorcerer, training or otherwise. He's incredibly discerning when it comes to battle strategy. He adapts to techniques with an almost feline quality of instinct. Nothing ever really fazes him for too long either. 

It makes sense. Yuji expresses himself in a very innate way. It's not exactly a teachable quality. His strength and his reflexes can certainly be learned, but not to the level he’s accustomed to. They seem built into him somehow.

He's a kinaesthetic learner, so he needs to physically interact with something to really get it. Trying to drill theory into his head is as effective as sitting in silence. Sometimes an analogy works to move him in the right direction, but for the most part, he needs stimulation and movement. His body is the driving force and his brain kicks in a second later.

After a whole week of missions, you can see the gaps in his technique, and as much as you keep insisting on not being a teacher, it feels negligent to ignore them. A bad habit in the jujutsu world is like an omen. It almost always leads to death. 

You do your best to quietly manage it when you're on missions. It helps that Yuji listens to every word that comes out of your mouth like it's life or death.

He's definitely...warmed to you, if that's the right word. He’s very smiley around; which sounds superfluous given Yuji smiles all the time. But he’s been…very, very smiley. 

You’re not really used to people openly enjoying your company, especially in such a serious situation, so you're probably more on guard then you need to be. But Yuji’s an exceptionally charming kid, and you know if you're not vigilant, he'll wear you down.

It also doesn't help that you've gotten yourself into a routine with him.

After every mission, you go out to eat together. Most of the time it’s some hole in the wall ramen joint, given Yuji’s on a student allowance and you’re running on nothing but savings until your paycheque cashes. Neither of you mind, though. Food is food. 

You know Yuji looks forward to those moments the most. You can see him counting down the minutes in his head until you bring it up; and then he’s unloading with ideas. Sushi. Steak. Burgers. He’s got a list on his phone, and you’re slowly whittling it down.

Through deliciously greasy burgers or pizza, conversation with Yuji get’s less awkward. There’s no more uncomfortable gaps of silence we’re you feel like you’ve aged fifteen years by talking to him. His questions aren't nearly as intense as Nobara’s and his facial expression are so much easier to read than Megumi’s.

You get into deep debates over your favourite movies. Yuji is particularly passionate about Human Earthworm—which you admit to not having seen, much to his dismay. You talk about horror movies more than any other kind. Yuji tells you that the other guys aren’t really into movies, especially horror. He talks about his time in an occult club at school. How much he loved goofing off. Making up ghost events and talking about folklore. 

“No one really understood why I chose it over track and field,” he says through a mouthful of noodles. “But I just wanted to hang out with my friends—and a lotta the guys in track were jerks.”

You nod. “The cliche of the cliche.”

“Right? And I’ve always really loved horror movies,” he says, wiping his mouth with a serviette. “Or at least, I used to. I still like ‘em..it’s just—it was easier to stomach the idea of it all being fake after the movie ends, y’know?”

“And then becoming a sorcerer made it very real,” you finish. “I get it. There’s a lotta stuff that’ll seem petty or silly in comparison now. But you shouldn’t let that stop you from doing things you like.”

He sucks up another mouthful of noodles. “M’not doin’ that!”

You crack a smile, shielding your face as broth from his bowl splatters on your arm. “Check the splash zone please!”

“Schorryyy!”

It's annoying, but now you can’t imagine doing it differently. Ending a mission and just going back to campus seems dull. Where’s the reward for risking your neck? Where’s the random questions about how Australia does things differently? How they’re traffic walking signs sound weird, and that it’s crazy that Solo isn’t a Star Wars inspired soft drink.

Then the Star Wars questions start. Do you think Master Windu could’ve survived falling out that window? What about Jar Jar being a Sith Lord?

“Hell no!” You're sitting in a booth at a dessert bar, snacking on stuffed cookies. You point your cookie at him. “Jar Jar was doing everything he could to protect Naboo and his people. Because of that, he ended up backing Palpatine. When the Jedi Order fell his entire planet made him an outcast. They saw him as a betrayer—and an idiot for trusting a Sith Lord. His entire legacy of peaceful negotiating turned to dust in one night. So no, he’s not even close to being a Sith. But he’s certainly a victim of one.”

Yuji’s bottom lip starts to quiver at your explanation. He spends the rest of the mission muttering about Jar Jar deserving better.

Another plus side to being out so much is that you’re not constantly hounded by Gojo whenever he has a millisecond of free time. Missions keep you thoroughly separated. Which is a relief at times, but also, a bitter confirmation that you'd made a calamitous mistake by opening up to him.

When you're away you don’t have to worry about censoring every word that comes out of your mouth so you don’t accidentally trip into uncomfortable feeling territory. The intense urge to jump his bones whenever you so much as look at him is also gone. So that's...nice?

The plan to ignore your feelings had been undeniably overconfident, but in your mind it was always been better than the alternative.

The logical side of your brain; the one you default to most of the time, is screaming at you now. You know nothing good will come from entertaining this fantasy, but your restraint is dissolving more and more with every second you're around him. Pretty soon someone’s going to notice and start asking you questions that land you in uncomfortable feeling territory—again.

You’d rather be forced to take a polygraph test.

At the very least, it’s nice to not walk around on eggshells.

You also have ample opportunities to absorb cursed energy without having to look both ways. Yuji has no idea what you’re doing most of the time, courtesy of having an invisible technique. And your Window, Ikkai, is also kinda slow.

“—sensei?”

You'd spaced out. “Sorry—what?”

Yuji gives you a tired smile, fiddling with the gauze patch stuck to his cheek. After a particularly harsh mission with some persistent Jinmenken, you’re both a little ragged. Words are starting to glue together.

“I said your phone’s buzzing.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

You awkwardly lift your leg off the car seat to fish it out of your pocket. 

Gojo Satoru:

when r u gonna be back?

Not even a hello. Guess you can't really complain. 

I’m not sure yet.

Why?

lesson plan

Shit. There go your plans of stockpiling cursed energy for the weekend.

Maybe half an hour?

An hour tops.

cool

we’ll be chillin’ on the oval

Talk to you soon.

You watch the three grey dots appear, hypnotically swaying as he types. Then they disappear. You wait for a couple seconds for him to restart, but he doesn’t.

You frown and pocket your phone. It feels like Gojo's been unnecessarily short with you this past week. If he's mad at you, you wish he'd just say something instead of doing whatever...this is.

“Who was that?”

“Gojo. He wanted to know where we were at. Has an afternoon lesson planned.”

He perks up. "Sweet!"

You press your lips together, feeling unsettled. 

Yuji gives you a look.

You clear your throat. “What?” 

He stares at you for a second, and then shrugs. “You don't really like Gojo-sensei, do you?"

Wow. Talk about timing.

“What makes you say that?"

"You get this look on your face when you talk to him."

"What look?"

He shrugs. "I'dunno. It's like you're annoyed, but also not."

"I see," you wet your lips. "Nanami's probably the same, yeah?" 

Yuji thinks about it. "I guess so!" 

You nod, turning to stare out the car window. 

The rest of the ride back is silent, which would've been fine given how exhausted you both are, but there's something off about it. Maybe you're just tired-spiralling, but you feel like there's an ugly assumption brewing.

You're afraid to speak on it in case you accidentally give life to something even worse. 

You sit and fiddle with your fingers, wrestling with all the possible things Yuji might’ve picked up from that simple text exchange.

Are you really that obvious?

The added stress of having next to zero cursed energy—which you can't fix now thanks to Gojo—is making your nerves feel like pieces of tightrope. 

When you arrive, Yuji speeds off across campus, excited to see his friends, leaving you to awkwardly jog behind him like someone chasing their off leash dog at the park.

Gojo is waiting for you beneath the shade of the munemon. He’s wearing his uniform and blindfold, same as always, except this time it conjures up a horrifying amount of images in your head.

That movie night was a terrible, terrible idea. Before, you'd at least had somewhat of lid on your feelings. A tiny, uninformed lid, but a lid nonetheless. Now, you're body is going completely off script. 

Your face starts to spasm and you hold back what could either be a grimace or a stupidly naive smile. The range is out of your control now.

You walk as casually as possible to eat up the space between you. “Hey,” you greet, stopping a few metres from him.

Gojo tilts his head at you, like he’s appraising you. “How’d ya mission go?”

“Easy enough."

Silence.

Gojo leans forward slightly, his lips thinning into a line as he blatantly stares at you. 

You look away awkwardly, staring at a random tree. 

“Why are you suppressing your energy?” He asks. 

You shrug. “Habit. I've been doing it a lot on missions." 

"Wow,” he whistles. “I thought I'd gotten pretty good at doing it! But shit, standing next to you I’m not even close, huh?” 

“It also helps that our cursed energy levels are vastly different.”

“Modesty?" He hums. "You’ve got a decent amount. Probably as much as Nanamin."

You make a vague gesture. This is definitely weird. He's being weird.

“How many threads can you use now?”

“A thousand," you say quickly. 

“Exactly a thousand?”

You nod. 

"You could do better than that."

You roll your eyes. Of course he'd say some bullshit like that. “You know I have to control each one individually, right?”

“Yeah, which makes controlling a thousand crazy. How’s the overstimulation?”

“Not as bad as it used to be," you say, your voice carefully placed. "Obviously I can’t tank a Hollow Purple, but I’ve gotten better against the elements.”

“How much better?”

You make a face. "What kind of question is that?"

“We could test it,” he smiles at you impishly. “I can get Megumi to blast some lightning ‘atcha."

“You wanna see me injured again that bad?”

“The opposite, actually. This ‘woe is me’ thing you’ve got going on is kinda pathetic."

Your eyebrow spasms. “Woe is me?"

“Yah. You keep talking like you’re useless. And in comparison to me, it's probably true, but that's an incredibly problematic mindset."

You’re not sure why you expected him to have a little more tact, but his non-reaction digs into you. It's the same song and dance as before. He'll disregard your abilities in some self-righteous quest to enlighten you on your faults.

You're never enough on your own. Your sacrifices are shallow to him. Your hard work is nothing but an expectation. He'll always want more. 

You let out a long sigh. You're done with this. 

You turn around, but Gojo anticipates it, teleporting in front of you. "You mad?" 

You give him a tired look. "I did my job, remember? You're still on the clock."

You swerve around him and keep walking. For a silly moment you think he might actually let it go. 

“You've gone soft!”

Your ankle tweak as it hits the pavement. Heat crawls up your throat. You spin around, eyebrow twitching. "What?"

His smile is so smug, you want to claw his stupid face to fucking ribbons. 

"All that time overseas has made you lazy." 

Your nostrils flare. "You have no idea-" you stop, pressing your teeth together. "You're talking out of your ass." 

"Am I? Or are you just not as good as you think you are?"

Your teeth feel like they’re about to snap. "You arrogant little fuck. What’re you playing at?” 

He shrugs. “M’not playing.” 

You narrow your eyes. "So you wanna fight?"

"Spar," he corrects. "I wanna see how far you can go without something sharp and pointy to attack with.”

“You’re serious?”

“What? Worried you’ll hurt me?"

You scowl. “Yeah fucking right. I don’t see how beating up against a wall of Infinity is going to prove anything.”

“I’ll go easy on you," he coos. "Maybee.”

The words leave your mouth in a flash. "Deal."

An instant wave of dread hits you when you see his reaction. A knowing smile.

Hold on. What hell are you thinking?!

Training with Gojo? Where you'll presumably use cursed energy—that of which you barely have. In close quarters with the Six Eyes, you'll have to be perfect. More than perfect. 

Fuck.

He'd got you again. 

And this time you'd been too angry to see straight. 

Chapter Text

You don’t get a wink of sleep.

You spend nearly the entire night propped up against your bedroom windowsill, staring out the open window as the bare bones of your technique absorb ambient cursed energy. 

Absorbing with Sew is something you’d inadvertently discovered whilst banished, and although it is very useful, it’s also incredibly time consuming.

You have your own version of a minimum efficiency scale—how much cursed energy you can produce versus the grade of the spirit you’re absorbing it from; and where it teeters into redundant.

Weaker spirits are quicker to absorb, but the trade off is pretty poor. Going after first and second grades is a lot more efficient. They take longer to drain, but comparatively have more energy.

Ambient cursed energy is the magnum opus of redundancy. It’s like trying to suck water out of a blade of grass. You don’t have much of a choice in the matter though. It’s either show up empty-handed and get your ass kicked, or show up ready to go and potentially get your ass less kicked. 

Thoughts of sparring with Gojo torment you most of the night, your mind spiralling into scenarios where he figures you out immediately and you’re ousted as a liar and a traitor—shit, maybe even a curse user.

You nearly nod off a couple of times, but the intense body shakes keep you awake. You sweat through two shirts during the night and finally finish absorbing around sunrise.

You take a long shower and try your best to ignore your reflection when you dry your hair. The dark bags under your eyes are unfortunately obvious, as well as the general demeanour of exhaustion you’re carrying.

You spend your morning standing in front of a washing machine, watching soap suds spin around behind the glass as you contemplate your demise. You imagine bleeding out on a cold floor with a katana wedged in your chest. Or maybe you’ll get the Reversal Red doughnut treatment, and your mind will be so splintered you won’t even know you’re dead.

Who do you give your belongings too? Where Mem will go? You’re pretty sure Yaga would adopt her in a heartbeat, so at least there’s that.

You have a light breakfast and dress for the day, thinking about the domino effect of fuck ups and bad decisions that have lead you to this point.

You regret Jigsaw (2017).

During breakfast Gojo sends you a really vague text with a time and instructions like it’s fucking Mission Impossible. You put your chopsticks down and contemplate blasting his inbox. He obviously knows something is wrong.The Six Eyes would’ve ticked him off to that. You just hadn’t expected him to give this much of a shit.

Going along with his games is a catastrophically bad idea, and he’d baited you into it like you were back in the goddamn sandbox, but ignoring him sends just as bad a message. It invites more than just curiosity into your life; it invites suspicion. Wonderfully intentional on Gojo’s part.

You realise halfway through typing the message that you’re tired and you sound like an insane person. You quickly delete it and put your phone away.

When the time comes, you don’t leave a note or anything. You just shut your flat door and leave. The walk to Gojo’s ‘private’ dojo is further than you expected, which barters more evidence to it being a murder den instead.

As it turns out, Gojo’s dojo (stupid) is a small revamped community hall from years back. It’s been stripped down to tatami mats, with a beautiful lacquered armoire placed in the centre of the back wall. There’s an air conditioning unit on the furtherest facing wall as well as a very out of place power adapter, where Gojo has a bunch of different things charging. You think one of them is a speaker.

Gojo’s standing by the open door, playing on his phone. He’s dressed in some jeans and a black tee-shirt, and he waves in your direction without looking up. He must’ve sensed your presence coming ages ago. Or maybe he’s just constantly aware of you on campus.

That thought is a little terrifying.

You take a step closer to him and realise that he’s horrifyingly uncovered in the eyeball area. You inhale sharply, ducking your head.

Gojo finally looks up from his phone. “Wow! You look terrible!”

Your cheek twitches, irritation warming your throat. “I slept bad.”

He snorts. “You’ll need to do more than that to get outta sparring, ‘Zaki. I’m a teacher, remember? I can spot a faker a mile off.”

“I’m not faking being tired, you shithead.”

“But you’re not denying trying to get out of it,” he points out.

“I don’t want to be here,” you bite out. “And if you’re going to act like my teacher the whole time, this is going to be a very short assessment.”

“Ooo, a threat!” He grins. “And technically I am your teacher, so you should be calling me Gojo-sensei.“

“I’d rather bite my tongue off.”

He sighs loudly. “You are so predictable, Kanzaki. Can’t you just play along for once?”

You’re dead flat stare in response makes him wrinkle is nose. He drags his eyes up and down your body and then frowns. “Why are you wearing that to a sparring match anyway?”

You look down at your outfit. It’s the same combination of things you always wear. Shorts, tights and a tee-shirt.

“I don’t have ‘sparring’ clothes,” you snap. “I packed for two-weeks tops, and activewear was not high on the priority list.”

“You really need to expand your wardrobe. This whole ‘hide my scars’ thing you’re doing reeks of insecurity.”

You scoff. “You’re giving me fashion advice? The guy who wore lime green and purple jeans?”

“Hey! It takes courage to go against the grain.”

“Right, and when you go out in uniform, do people think you’re doing a budget Kakashi cosplay?” You ask.

He gasps. “My blindfold is very different!”

“Speaking of,” you jump in. “Where is it?”

Gojo’s mock outrage instantly melts. He gives you a sly look. “Why? Worried about gettin’ distracted?”

“A little bit,” you admit. “It’s kinda like staring into a nether portal. Gives me motion sickness.”

“Yeesh! You really did wake up on the wrong side of the bed. Are you—“

“If you’re about to ask me if I’m on my period, I’m going to rip your brain out through your nose. You’re the one who forced me to come here, remember? You made all the arrangements, including the time.”

Gojo looks creeped out. “Are we talking…Egyptian mummification style? ‘Cause that seems like a logistical nightmare, even without Infinity. Also—I didn’t force you to do anything. You coulda ignored me if you wanted.”

You let out a tiny harumph and try to be as casual as possible as you walk in. Your face isn’t exactly cooperating.

“So…!” Gojo claps his hands. “I thought we’d start off with some wooden yari’s—I know, you’re favourite,” he smiles like he’s gotten you a cake instead of a weapon. “Pretty simple and I figured you wouldn’t like going straight to… physical contact.” There’s far too much suggestion in his tone but you’re so incensed by this entire ordeal that your body actually behaves and you just scowl.

“After that we’ll start a proper fight. Sound good?”

“Yep.”

Whatever gets you hitting him with a stick faster.

He seems to catch on to your thoughts, and grins wildly as he offers the staff to you. You snatch it out of his hands and stalk off to your side of the mat.

Gojo doesn’t get into a pose or anything. He just stands there like an idiot, watching you with an infuriating smile.

You bend your legs and raise the yari above your shoulders, readying the pointed tip downwards near the centre of Gojo’s body. Because yari’s are so long, they require you to move with your whole body. Accuracy is important, but footwork is key.

Gojo picked the yari because you’re good with it. You’d been the weapons expert between the two of you in school, which was nothing but necessity on your part and boredom on his. Gojo’s never been bad at anything, especially when it comes to fighting.

He’s what the Zen’in clan dub as a ‘pure’ sorcerer. No need to debase himself with silly little cursed utensils. Leave that to the women. He’s fucking with you. Making you fight with the one thing you’d been pretty good at.

“You’re thinking reaal hard over there.”

You tighten your grip on the staff and take a breath.

“So cold…” he chides.

.

.

.

“Begin!”

You lash out with your yari, aiming straight for Gojo’s face. It hits a wall of infinity and all your momentum dies. Your fingers shift and you spin your staff away, glaring at him.

“Really?”

Gojo blinks a couple times and then shakes his head out like you’d stunned him. “Okay—that was my bad, I wasn’t expecting you to move so quick!” He laughs, his face pink with delight. He makes a sweeping hand motion. “There! I swear it’s actually gone now.”

“You are such a fucking liar,” you mutter, sauntering back to your mat.

He tilts his head. “That’s a little rich coming from you, don’t you thi—“

You strike mid-sentence and this time Gojo dodges, smiling at you from behind his yari like he’d seen your plan coming a mile away. You thin your lips into a line. You expected the smugness, but it still gets under your skin. All the nerves you’ve stockpiled these past twenty four hours are now flooding into your blood stream, dialling your senses in.

You strike—once, twice, three times. All quick, careful jabs. Gojo blocks each one, but you do manage to get him to move back a step. A tiny victory which you immediately jump on, jabbing the point straight into his chest. He blocks the strike with ease, throwing you wide with the push. His countermove is lightning fast, and when it hits your partially formed block, it feels like you’re guarding a goddamn cannon ball.

You’re dragged back nearly a metre, Gojo bearing down on you without mercy. His strength is so oppressive, but manoeuvring a yari isn’t strictly about strength. There’s little tricks to it.

You lift your guard and Gojo swings, but it’s already too late. You’ve pulled the chair out on your block. He makes a wild swing back at you, but you duck. His staff gets nothing but open air, exposing his back.

You swing your yari across the length of your body, clashing it against Gojo’s. You immediately drag it up into the air and he moves the tiniest fraction of a bit to compensate. You stick your yari into the the floor behind you and then use the spring of momentum to slam it down over your head. Gojo’s block breaks.

You immediately pull the yari up, pointing the edge against his throat, check mating him. Gojo lets out a strange noise; a shaky exhale, and stares at you through the line of your yari. His eyes are so bright, it sends a shiver down your spine.

Your grip tightens on your staff. You’d won fair and square, but for some reason you’re expecting him to pull the rug out on you. Gojo lets his yari drop from his hands. It rattles across the tatami maps. You watch it roll for a moment and then you slowly lower your own.

Holy shit. You won.

Was he going easy on you?

Gojo claps. “Nice one! I liked that little move at the end—the flick where you stuck it into the floor to get more momentum on your next strike. Smart. Especially against a stronger opponent.”

You stare at him, completely lost. Did he just compliment you? About fighting techniques?

You straighten up. “Uh, yeah… —thanks.”

He smiles. “Now we can move onto the fun stuff!”

You barely have a second to react before he kicks you. You’re arms are only half up and his heel slides between them, landing right against your right side. The cursed energy imbued into it makes it feel like a buckshot from a sawn off shotgun. Pain erupts, your ribcage desperately trying to dissipate the blow as you’re sent skidding into the wall.

He doesn’t give you another moment—which is fair, you’d done the same. Punches start flying. You duck the first one and his fist sails over your head, shattering into the wall. His knee comes up almost reflexively and you shift his path with your palm and jam your elbow right into his throat. You get contact.

Your cursed energy doesn’t bite nearly as hard as his, but you can tell he felt it. He steps back, blinking, and then rolls his head from side to side. His eyes glimmer appreciatively as he runs his fingers over the spot.

Shit. You forgot how high he gets on this kinda stuff.

“Hm,” he tilts his head at you. “That’s not right, is it? Something’s sooo off about you.”

Your stomach drops, panicked thoughts rushing to the forefront of your mind. It’s a beautiful distraction. Gojo swings at your head again, his leg slashing out like a scythe. You duck and then pop right up, swerving sideways as his fists come in waves.

Left right left right, down. Up. You’re moving like it’s a goddamn Wii sports game. Swivelling from side to side as Gojo’s fist blur around you. You dance back and forth, covering an insane amount of ground as you trade blows.

He switches it up as soon as he realises you’ve got his rhythm locked, going for another kick. You lean back, managing to get by with a graze, but it still sends you stumbling. He goes for another high kick, spinning all the away around like some fucked up ballerina assassin.

You jump back, keeping up with his next swing by tilting your head left. He delivers another near fatal kick, eating up the space you’re trying to maintain. The speed is on another level with this one, and you’re forced to bend back as it sails right over your head. 

He stops his momentum mid-air, and then his heel is suddenly honing in on you like a fucking dumbwaiter. You roll out of the way just in time to hear the awful crack of his foot hitting on the floor.

You flip right side up, swinging your own leg around to sweep out his feet. For second you think you’ve actually tripped him up, but he just readjusts, doing the most core-intensive handstand you’ve ever seen. Then he pushes off his hands and comes back up standing.

You should be terrified by what you’ve just witnessed, but you’re not. Something else is going on with your body entirely. Somehow you’ve gone from agonising over this to wanting nothing more than to smack this fool in the skull.

Gojo shakes out his shoulders and you begin to circle each other again.

You’re not sure if punching him his even possible. You’ll be lucky to get a singular hit in, even without Infinity. You can take a punch—maybe—but the last thing you want is for him to grab you. If he does that, it’s over.

Gojo jabs his foot into your space and the following punch comes from so far behind his head it feels like he’s grabbing a giant hammer to squish you to death with. You move, cracking down on his arm with your elbow. He tries to grab you, but you duck beneath his shoulder. He sees it coming, and is already moving, swinging back around. You duck again, coming up with you own jab.

The fucker copies your own move and suckers his elbow right into your bad shoulder. Pain explodes behind your eyes. You swing back, but your aims off. Gojo arms descend, and you can’t move away this time. He grabs you by the hip, curls his arm over your back and and flips you over his leg.

You hit the ground hard.

All the air vacuum's out of your lungs. You roll over and press your head into the tatami mats to muffle the scream that pulls through your teeth. Your muscles feel like they’re convulsing, breathing ice to the edge of your skin. Your fingers sink into the floorboards, scratching deep groves into the woven surface.

Gojo’s voice bounces around, but his words are far away.

You tilt your chin to the side and find a blurry swirl of white and blue looking back at you. You blink rapidly for a couple seconds and Gojo’s face slowly goes from a Starry Night knock-off to a passable human being. The tunnelling effect smoothes over and your vision finally clears.

Gojo’s crouched beside you, his arms strewn over his thighs. There’s a tiny turn to the edge of his mouth. Is he…pouting?

You spit out a wad of blood and carefully stand up, schooling your expression as tingling pain shoots down your back. “Why the fuck are you so unhappy?”

Gojo’s pout turns into a grumpy frown. “I really thought we’d gotten past the whole ‘disclosing important medical information’ bit.”

You hesitate, wiping at your mouth. “Huh?”

“That—“ he points a finger at you, or rather, a part of your shirt that’s rolled up. “Was not on the bingo card. Did you get stabbed with an energy sword?”

You quickly tug your shirt down, covering the jagged scar line across your tailbone. “It doesn’t matter—it was years ago.”

“Shoko can’t work any magic on it?”

“It’s an old wound, Gojo. That’s out of her wheelhouse.”

“So you’re just walking around like that?”

“It’s a scar, not a fucking disease,” you snap.

He smiles. “S’okay Kanzaki. I’d still fuck you if you asked me to.”

Heat crawls up your spine. His vulgarity is so blunt it sinks right past your outrage, feeding a part of you that you’d all but shut off for years.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I think you like it.”

You lash out, dragging your palm across his face. Your hand moves like sandpaper against his skin, drawing a bright red mark on his pale cheek. The sound of the slap echoes around you, filling the silence.

Gojo stares at you, completely caught off guard. He reaches up to touch his jaw, moving it around. You can see his tongue pressing into the hollow of his cheek. Then his mouth splits open, revealing his tongue coated in his own blood. It’s all over his teeth too and he looks utterly delighted by it.

A broken laugh rips out of him.

Your rage twists in on itself. You finally hit the bastard and he thinks it’s funny? You swing for his face again, but he blocks your hand and comes back up with a combo that dazes you. You catch a palm to the side of the face, and the impact hurls your head back a bit.

You shake it off, spitting blood between Gojo’s bare feet.

His grin widens to something nearly manic. He looks fucking high, like he’s getting off on the pain.

He steps into your space, his feet dancing from side to side. He swings and you swerve, but it’s a feint, and he clocks you in the ribcage. You buckle just enough for him to step into your space.

He’s gonna hurl you into the mat again.

Your legs snap up, wrapping around his neck in a flying triangle hold. His entire face bulges with surprise. He rips his hand from your grip, trying to pull you off, but it’s no use. You’ve already got ahold on him.

Your fingers thread into his hair, using it like reigns to keep yourself from toppling backwards. Your grip is harsh, but Gojo doesn’t even flinch. A raspy laugh whistles out between his lips and blood speckles your face, but you don’t flinch.

You tighten your hold, squeezing the ever loving shit out of his neck. Gojo’s forced down to a knee, his fingers digging into your tights. There’s no mercy here either. They immediately tear and his fingernails dig into your thighs. The skin on skin contact makes you bite down on a noise.

Holy shit. Of all your fantasies that involve Gojo’s head between your legs, him tearing your tights apart while his face turns red between them is by far the hottest.

Gojo goes down on his second knee and takes you with him. This time, the fall is a lot easier on your back, but your thighs are forced forward from the angle of Gojo’s descent and you have to shift your hips to maintain your hold.

Gojo makes a strange noise and his fingers dig in harder. You expect him to pick you up by the hips and slams you back down into the floor, but he doesn’t. Gojo’s eyes are lasered into yours. The intensity in them feels like an ice burn crawling along your skin.

His fingers suddenly curl around the back of your thighs, and all at once he parts your legs, slamming them down into the floor on either side of him. You release your fingers from his hair, going for his throat, but Gojo flattens himself out, pressing his entire body over you.

Your heart kickstarts.

Shitshitshitshitshit.

Nopenopenope.

Exit strategy. You need an exit strategy, but Gojo’s got you pinned. With the added weight of his body along with his strength, there’s no way you can throw him off now.

You go deathly still, dragging your eyes up to his face, which is nearly smushed against yours. He’s staring at you so intently it feels like he’s about to pop your head open. Alarm bells go off inside you, but you can’t do anything about it.

“You look so pissed off right now,” Gojo breathes over your face, his eyes dotting in and out of focus.

You spit blood straight onto his face.

His eyes somehow burn brighter. Your blood trickles down his cheek and he parts his mouth, his tongue swiping out to lick it straight off.

Your entire body goes molten. Why did you find that hot? What’s wrong with you? 

“Your hearts beating so fast,” he murmurs, eyes glazed. “You nervous?”

You have no idea how to respond to that. You shift your arms, but they don’t budge. Gojo somehow sinks even further on top of you, using you like a goddamn mattress. All the pressure points from where you’ve been hit light up with pain, and you grunt, wincing away from him.

Then you feel it.

A bump against your hip.

Fuck. No no no. Bad Kanzaki. Don’t think about. Don’t do anything.

“Stop looking at me like that.” You intend for it to come out as a reprimand, but your voice twists it into some sort of breathy plea.

“Why?” He breathes. “Am I making you motion sick?”

Your throat bobs. “Don’t play dumb. Y-you—you know.”

“I really don’t…” he drags a finger across your hairline. “So you’re gonna have’ta be a little more specific.”

“You—“ you shake your head. “You just can’t leave it alone, can you?”

“Why would I?” He counters, leaning forward until your noses touch. His cologne, like some kind of witch's brew, hits you full in the face, scattering the words in your brain to alphabet soup. It’s spicy and musky with the faintest kick of floral. “I know you’re hiding something from me.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“People are usually pretty forthcoming when they know I could turn their skin inside out.”

“So you’re gonna torture me?”

He leans down until your lips are nearly touching and then breathes out the words like they’re aching in his throat. “Only if you want me to.” 

You’re breathing hard, staring at him. You want to. You want to so badly. And then all of a sudden, you’re scrambling to remember why you’ve been so adamant on pushing him away. This feels too good to be a mistake, right? He feels too good. Why shouldn’t you? What’s stopping you? Who cares.

You take a slow breath and arch your neck up. Your lips slowly slant over his, swallowing up all the sweat and blood that had pooled on the slope of his mouth. Gojo’s eyes widen above you, and you can see the rush of pleasure that hits him when he realises what you’re offering.

His arms lift off your own and his fingers are suddenly in your hair, cupping the back of your head and tilting it forward. His mouth descends, pressing hungrily into the seam of your lips. The sweat and blood and cologne swirl into your brain, making you keen. You kiss him back hungrily. He tastes so human; an imperfect mess of bodily fluids. It completely highjacks your brain to the point where all you want to do is touch.

Gojo moans softly against your lips, like your eagerness surprises him. You lick at his lips and he opens his mouth to you, letting you lave your tongue straight over his own. Gojo breathes out his nose, his hips stuttering against yours. You tilt his cheek a little and breath in, sucking the saliva right out of his mouth.

When you pull away to wet your lips, he drags himself over you like he physically can’t stand it being separated.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes hazy as they roll over you. “You’re good at that.” 

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

You bring his lips back to yours and you can feel his smile. Gojo’s still got you pinned to the floor, and with each filthy kiss, his hips hike up against your waist, battering into you. His erection feels like it’s branding your skin it’s so hot. It sends a gut-twisting ache through your body, and if you weren’t already going absolutely fucking nuts, that would’ve driven you over the edge. You’re so wet it feels like your underwear’s shrinking.

You tongues slide together in a wet dance. You’re basically slobbering over each other, but you’re so beyond caring. Every time his hips drag into yours, the breath shoots out of you, and he claims the sound with his tongue. You let him manhandle your head, angling it whatever way he wants. The feeling of his fingers in your hair drags you under, your eyes flittering open every couple seconds to catch the bright flush on Gojo’s cheeks.

His fingers dig into your scalp as he presses sloppy kisses to your mouth. Half the time he misses, catching the bottom of your nose or the tip of your chin. His hips drag you against the mats, pulling your clothes. You try to match his rhythm, but he’s so erratic it’s nearly impossible.

His lips trail down your neck, his kisses nearly panicked as he licks the sweat from your throat. He stops at the gap of your choker and his fingers deftly unhook it, revealing the long curved line of raised scar tissue. You feel him pause, contemplating what to do, but it barely lasts a moment, and then his lips are back on you. It feels electric.

Gojo kisses over the bump of your larynx, and then he sucks it into his mouth like it’s a lollypop. You shiver, your eyes falling shut as your skin blasts with heat.

“You’re sensitive here,” he murmurs.

“Y-yes…”

“Fuck that’s hot.”

You sigh appreciatively, curling your fingers through his damp hair.

“Let me—“ he kisses your collarbone. “Fuck..-let me fuck you with my fingers. Will you—“ he swallows, his lips red and swollen. “Will you let me?”

You nod like an idiot. “—please, g-god I’m—“ you realise why he’s struggling to speak. Your lungs feel like they’re on fire. “I’m gonna lose it.”

Gojo shifts his body so he can trail his hand down the length of your torso, stopping at your belt buckle. His fingers loosen the strap and then he loops the band out like it’s nothing. It’s entirely too dexterous and reminds you that he’s probably done this to hundreds of women, but having his hand that close to your cunt overrides the thought.

You squirm, pressing your pubic bone up into his palm. Gojo groans, his head dipping into your neck. The sidelong position makes the bridge of his nose press into the underside of your jaw, and when he speaks, his warm breath fans over your sweaty skin.

“Stop being mean to me,” he murmurs, his voice curling around your ear. “M’trying undo your belt and your making my brain fuzzy.”

You swallow, feeling his nose shift with the movement of your throat. “You seem fine to me.”

Gojo presses his erection against your hipbone. “M’anything but fine, ‘Zaki. I think m’actually goin’ crazy—you’re makin’ me crazy.”

He threads the metal buttons on your shorts and pulls down your zipper. Panic suddenly hits you cold in the chest. Fuck, you haven’t shaved. Your breath hitches with embarrassment, but it completely dissolves the second his fingers touch the bare skin of your navel. You react like you’ve been tased, your hips jerking sideways and Gojo uses his palm to pin your pelvis back down.

Your throat burns, heart pounding as his fingers skirt beneath the fabric of your tights and underwear. Gojo’s touching your bare skin. You lean your head on top of his, letting out a shaky breath as his index finger slides over the soft hair between your legs, and then parts the sopping skin of your pussy.

He stiffens. “Fuck Akari, you’re—god, -you’re so fucking wet.“

You muffle a whine into his hair, resisting the urge to bite his scalp when his finger finds your pulsing clit.

“You’re throbbing…” he breathes.

You let out a gods honest moan and tip your head back. Gojo circles your clit, rubbing it with the lightest touch. Pleasure sings through your stomach and you shift your knees, desperately wanting to close them.

“Keep ‘em open,” he orders, his voice making you shiver. “I wanna see how squirmy you get when you’re close.”

You tilt your neck away, your body growing taut as his middle and ring finger dip down towards your hole.

“D-don’t,” you hiss out, flinching. “Gentle—b-be gentle. I haven’t—” his finger is still on your clit and words are becoming very hard. “Shit, I—I haven’t done this in awhile.”

Gojo pauses, tentatively drawing his finger against your labia. “How long is awhile?”

You crack an eye open. “Why does it matter?”

“Because they’re’s a big difference between a ‘couple months’ awhile and a ‘couple of years’ awhile. A couple months means you can take my dick no problem, but a couple years—“

“Okay,” you cut him off, your face going hot. “I get it, you have a monster sized dick.”

He grins. “Not the point I was making, but I’m glad you noticed,” his fingers lift, dragging back down to your opening. “I wanna prep you properly,” he murmurs, his eyes glowing like fucking battery acid. “I want this to be good for you.“

Your heart jumps. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he licks your neck. “So good. I wanna see you cum around my dick like…ten times.”

You swallow thickly. “T-ten might be too much.”

“Nine then.”

“Let’s go for just one, maybe two.”

“Three—including my fingers.”

You huff out your nose, smiling dopily. “Did you just barter my orgasms?”

“I aim to please.”

“What about you then? How many orgasms do you want?”

His kisses your ear. “I’ll settle for just one.”

“You can be greedier.”

His eyes burn into you. “Next time.”

Your heart rate rockets at the unintended assumption that you’ll be doing this again. Gojo presses his nose into your temple, the movement strangely shy. He slowly sinks a finger past your walls and you fight the instinctive urge to move your hips. It always feels a little strange when you haven’t done it in awhile, but it’s not exactly a bad feeling.

You nod your head and Gojo slowly presses another finger into you. This time there is a burn. You tense, expecting Gojo to push through regardless—the way most men do with subtle sex cues—but he doesn’t. He stops and waits, pressing soft kisses to the side of your head. Your heart nearly fucking explodes from how tender the gesture is.

It takes a moment for the pain to fade and then your hips relax back into the floor, trembling slightly with the strength of keeping your legs open.

“Another?” Gojo asks, his voice a little high.

You nod.

His ring finger slides in and it pinches for a second, but you’re much more accustomed to the sensation. Your thighs quiver, the pressure shifting from a burn to an ache. You slowly open your eyes and find Gojo’s tunnelling back into you, his cheeks flushed bright red. His pupils are blown out so wide they’re’s only a tiny ring of blue left.

It looks like he wants to say something, but he decides against it. Instead, he spears his fingers into you hard. His fingers are longer than yours, reaching parts of you that you’ve never managed to stoke on your own. The friction of his hand being trapped against your jeans creates an unbearable amount of heat between your legs. His wrist motion is restricted by the fabric, but he doesn’t seem to mind—at all.

He sets a slow pace, letting your body get used to being stretched open. Each jerk of his fingers feels like it’s going deeper, spreading you wider. Watching him fuck you with his hand buried beneath your shorts sends thrills of heat through your chest. There’s something delicious about not being to physically see it.

Your mind spirals, thinking about his pretty little manicured fingernails and how they’re inside you. They’re covered in you. Your hips jerk up, chasing the feeling, imagining what his fingers look like as they drag against you. Gojo pulls back the second you start to grind against him, scissoring his fingers at your entrance, stretching you out even more.

You whine, your hand coming up to tug at his hair.

Gojo’s eyes look wild. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I’ll make it good.”

He fucks his fingers back into you, changing the angle slightly. They drag against your walls, curling and stretching, his wrist swivelling from side to side. It draws tiny  spasms out of your legs, your breathing hitching higher and higher in your throat. He finds your spot on his third try, and when he touches it, he nearly bends your pelvis in half.

Your legs fucking spasm out of control. “Fuck!”

“There?”

“L-lower,” you hiccup. “T-to the left—ohh, nngh, f-fuck -Gojo!”

He drags his tongue along the shell of your ear. “That’s itttt, good girl.”

Gojo twists his wrist and plunges his fingers right down into the heat of you. Your wetness makes a filthy splitting sound around his fingers and you throw your hips into the air, grinding up against him. The pleasure that had been happily stirring in your gut turns into an inferno; a taut, fiery tightrope that’s very nearly unravelling.

“You close?” He purrs.

You keen against him. “No fucking shit!”

Gojo’s eyes narrow to slits, and then his mouth is covering yours, your spit mingling. He jams his fingers into you over and over, the heel of his hand bumping your clit with every thrust.

“—gonna cum f’me?”

“Yes…!”

“-fuck, give it to me ‘Kari. C’monc’mon—“

Your name curling off his lips sets you off. You split apart at the seams, your body flooding with shakes as the breath sweeps out of you. Pleasure erupts burning through every blood vessel in your body.  You slam your head into the mats, your fingers clinging to Gojo’s hair, your mind flashing with colour.

Your chest rattles as blood cells dance behind your eyelids. You faintly register Gojo’s hand squeezing your thigh.

“Fuuuck—“ he exhales shakily. “I nearly nutted, holy shit.”

You release your hold on his hair. “-don’t joke, idiot.”

“M’not,” he breathes, circling your twitchy clit. “Your pussy has game, babe.”

The compliment makes you squirm. You lean forward and press a kiss to Gojo’s glistening throat to distract yourself. “You better have a condom around here if you wanna fuck on the floor of your dojo.”

Gojo’s eyes glint, and it sends a tiny flutter of pleasure through your trembling legs. “I have a better idea.”

The world spins and suddenly you’re standing in a dimly lit bedroom. Gojo’s holding your waist, keeping you upright. In a second, his lips are on yours, giving you no time to grasp your surroundings. He walks you backwards, his arms tugging at your tee-shirt relentlessly. You break the kiss, breathing into his mouth as you hike up the fabric of his own shirt.

Gojo doesn’t help you. Instead he slips his hands beneath your shirt and goes exploring. You tug his shirt up his torso, but you get stuck on his shoulders. Fuck. Why are your hands so shaky? You can’t think straight.

He kisses your neck.  “Need help down there?”

Shithead.

You reach down and grab his erection through his pants. He feels big—which you expected— but what you hadn’t expected was for his cock to jump in your palm. Gojo stutters on a breath, latching his mouth onto your neck to muffle his moan. His hands smooth up your spine, stopping over the raised skin of your scar. You shiver, stepping closer into his space as a wave of cool breaks out along your back.

Gojo’s tongue circles your ear, lathing over your piercings. You finally get his shirt up and yank it over his shoulder. He pulls away to shrug the rest of it off, and then his hands are back on you, sinking into the fabric of your shirt and pulling. He gets it up around your head, and you can’t see shit as your chest is exposed. It takes a second to get your head through the collar, and you watch Gojo toss your shirt away, his heated eyes raking over your skin.

“You have perfect tits,” he murmurs, leaning forward to mouth over the exposed flesh. You thread your fingers through his hair and pull him off your tits like a naughty kitten. He frowns, but when he realises that you’re fiddling with the rest of your belt, it quickly disappears.

Your hands are still shaky and you struggle to loop it out of your shorts. Gojo—not known for his patience—takes one end of the belt and whips it out of your waistband so fast it crackles in the air like a whip.

You laugh. “That would’ve been much less cool if I’d gotten belt burn.”

Gojo’s hands are all over you again. “As if I’d let that happen.”

You hook your thumbs into your shorts, and wiggle them off your hips, letting them pool around your stocking-covered feet. When you look back up, Gojo’s eyes dart over you, and you try your best to ignore it.

Too many scars.

You haven’t shaved anywhere.

You smell so bad too.

Gojo prowls forward, cornering you to the edge of the bed. He gently pushes you back and you land on his darkened sheets with a tiny bounce. He stands at the edge of the bed and works open his belt, the clinking metal loud in the otherwise quiet room. You watch his chest rise and fall, the perfect picture of calm, as if you’re not about to have sex.

Your eyes trail down his chest, silently admiring his muscles. You get to the line of his naval, and are delighted to find a soft trail of white hair that goes beneath his jeans. You have the sudden urge to drag your tongue down it, and from the look on Gojo’s face, he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

You bite your gums to keep from saying something stupid. You’ve never really been good at sexy talk—at least when it comes to lovers you’ve actually cared about.

Once Gojo’s belts off, he shucks down his pants, revealing a very expensive pair of boxer briefs. His erection is so painfully obvious it makes you feel a little bad looking at it, but the rest of you is trembling with excitement, heat sparking through your body.

You want to touch him so bad, but you’re afraid that level of intimacy won’t be reciprocated, even from someone as peacocky as Gojo Satoru.

“Lay back,” he breathes.

You obey, shuffling back awkwardly to rest your head on the pillows. Gojo kneels on the edge of the bed and somehow makes crawling to you look stupidly sexy. He straddles your legs, pinning you to the bed again. His weighted hips being pressed into you sends little fireworks exploding into your brain. He must know you’re capable of baring it, but it’s a little weird how intuitive he is about what you’re into.

He leans down, his damp silvery hair tickling your face as he kisses you. It only lasts moment, and it leaves you burning down your sides, your tongue swiping out to lick away his saliva. He kisses your neck as his hand drags down you arm. His thumb brushes the scar there and your skin breaks out in goosebumps.

“Look at you,” he coos. “I don’t think I’ve seen all your scars at once before. Are they all really sensitive?”

You smile. “It’s a secret.”

Gojo looks delighted. “Gimme a hint then?”

You take his jaw between your thumb and forefinger, and he lets you angle his head down, your lips brushing, not really kissing. His breath is hot and wet against your mouth as you whisper the word: “No.”

He groans, like your rejection physically hurts. “You’re so hot,” he whispers. “Like—super, super hot. Really hot.”

You puff out a breath. “Thanks, Gojo.”

He grins. “Don’t worry, I know you think m’hot too.”

“Good. Then I don’t have to say anything.”

He pouts. “You’re no fun.”

“You really think so?”

He ducks his head and plants his lips on your collarbone. “—no,” he mutters petulantly into your skin. His stops at the slope of your breast to lathe his tongue over the star shaped scar that marks the left side your chest. Your body reacts the same way, and he seems to get a weird kick out of it. His eyes sparkle and he drags his teeth over the mottled skin, sucking it into his mouth.

You groan, legs squirming.

He’s brutal with your tits despite his remark on your sensitivity. He pulls back the cup of your bra and squeezes them, making your nipples poke out. He drags one between his teeth, biting it roughly. You grunt in pain and he pouts against your skin, slobbering the abused nipple with his tongue. He does it over and over, biting you and then gently mouthing at the wound, sucking big, ugly bruises into your skin.

The attention sends a rush of heat straight to your cunt. Your hips fight against his, but it’s pointless. His weight is more than enough to immobilise you.

“Gojo,” you croak out. “I’m about to fucking explode.”

“Sorry—“ he murmurs, pressing his cheek into your breast with a pout. “M’being too much, huh?”

“No,” you keen. “I just want you inside me.”

He groans into your neck. “Fuck-fuck, okay.”

He hands go straight to your underwear and tights, and you lift your hips to help him pull them off. They’re sticky with your cum, and they peel off of your labia with a disgusting plapping sound. Gojo watches the entire thing without blinking, staring at your exposed cunt. You have no idea what to make of his expression. Your throat bobs, nerves fluttering around in your chest. You press your head back into the pillows, trying to calm yourself down.

Gojo clears his throat, and the noise drops like a pin in the air. He soothes a palm over your thighs, rubbing up and down the heated skin. With his free hand, he reaches into his bedside drawer and pulls out a line of condoms. Your breath stutters, anticipation coating your skin, raising the hairs on your arms. He peels one open with his teeth, his hand still casually petting your hip.

You swallow shakily as he hooks a thumb into his underwear shucks them down. The fabric drags over his cock and then his length pops out, slapping against his stomach. You’re imaginations had almost done him justice. His dick is stupidly pretty, with cute trimmed tufts of white hair tickling the base of his cock, and a flushed, drooling tip. It’s also not as ferociously ginormous as you’d imagined—which is a relief. You didn’t really want to go to ER today. 

“Satisfied?” He asks, his breath shaky.

“I’d be more satisfied if you were inside me.”

Gojo smiles, palming the condom down his erection as he looks at your cunt. You glare back at him. You’re unbearably wet at this point and your patience is precariously thin. You don’t have the wits to entertain whatever fantasies he’s cooking up.

“Gojo,” you warn.

He looks up at you, eyes shimmering.

“Now.”

His smug expression crumples. You watch his throat bob heavily as he leans over you, slapping your knees apart with an unexpected shakiness. He strokes his dick slowly, his wrist doing most of the work as he guides it to your fluttering entrance. His eyes drag up your body, and you try to imagine what your body would look like without all these scars. It doesn’t work very well.

When you open your eyes, Gojo is watching you intently through his lashes. His mouth parts, and he bites his lip as he presses into you. You fight to keep your hips still as he stretches you, but it’s not nearly as bad as you were imagining. His dick is definitely wider than three fingers, but the pain is manageable.

It’s hard to relax, especially when you start thinking about Gojo’s dick being inside you, but you manage to stay still long enough for him to push fully inside. The stretch sends electric tingles down your legs, and your pussy flutters. You both groan at the sensation, your hips shaking as they take the brunt of Gojo’s weight. Your muscles tighten, pushing back against him, holding yourself steady as his cock throbs.

Gojo’s eyes twist shut, his brow furrowing like he’s in pain. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen that expression before. You run your thumb over his cheek, tracing the flushed skin. Memorising him. 

“That feels nice,” he murmurs, leaning into your palm.

You kiss his nose—and then immediately regret it, knowing you’re being too affectionate.

Gojo expression flattens, and you remember that he can see through his eyelids, and that your reaction wasn’t even close to subtle. He leans out of your touch, curling his arms to cup the underside of your thighs. You open your mouth to apologise, but Gojo pulls your body down against him in one violent thrust. His cock surges inside of you, bumping your cervix with a dull shooting pain. You groan, your head tumbling into the pillows. Having him him seated so deeply inside you makes your stomach turn. You can see the tiniest scrap of skin peaking out of your cunt, and it sends your brain sideways.

Gojo presses his head into your neck and breathes in deeply. You stay there for a moment, simply enjoying the feeling of each other, and then he begins to move. Gentle, rocking thrusts at first, where his hips barely leave the bed. They circle your own, grinding down against you, swivelling, drawing wet squelching sounds from your pussy.

Your body radiates heat, sweat breaking out from every ridge line of skin on your body. It feels so good you forget where you are, curling your arms over his shoulders to hold him close. He muffles something into your shoulder, and you feel him draw back his hips and piston them back into you, his balls slapping against the curve of your ass. He starts fucking you—really fucking you, and you have to press your forehead into his shoulder to suppress an embarrassing noise.

You move as one, riding each other back and forth. Your fingers drag through his undercut, gently scraping at his scalp. He moans at the feeling, breathing these pitchy little whines into your ear with each thrust. It drives you up the fucking wall, your mind circling around it, revelling in it, desperate to pry more from his lips.

Your legs wrap around his hips, your thighs pushing against his ass, digging his cock deeper into you. Gojo’s hips stutter, and he tries to readjust his grip on your hips, but your skin is so sweaty he slips. His movements grow panicked, trying to find purchase on your skin, and after a moment he lets out what you’d nearly describe as a snarl, and curls his arm around your back, pressing your body flush to his.

His next thrust makes his dick shift inside you, and his tip bludgeons your sweet spot. You gasp, your fingers digging into his undercut. The press of his abs against your stomach, his mouth at your throat and his voice in your ear; it all tangles together, and your orgasm is suddenly right there—pulsing at the edge of your skin.

You groan through your teeth as pleasure burns through your body like a fire sparklier

Gojo stiffens above you. “F-fuck, d-did you…?”

You bite his neck in response, your thighs quivering as you cum. Gojo hisses, his his pace slipping a little as he fights against your orgasm. You claw your fingers through his hair, grinding yourself down against him, desperate to pull the same feeling from him. Gojo fucking shivers in your arms.

“You’re killing me, ‘Kari,” his voice comes out in that low, dangerous tone you barely hear him use. “M’not gonna last.”

“Don’t care,” you gasp, sucking a hickey into the stretch of skin between his shoulder and neck.

“-g-good to know y-you have such—nngn—low e-expectations.”

He actually manages to get a laugh out of you, and it makes you tighten up unintentionally. Gojo doubles over and grabs one of your legs with his spare hand, pulling it up so he’s nearly bending you, and then he rides you into the bed with such force that you nearly white out.

You’re so sweaty your hair is flattening to your head and your bangs are sticking to your skin. You press your forehead into his, your feelings bleeding out of you in waves. Your cunt flutters around him, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

“-Akari, Akari, Akari—“ he breathes life to your name. “Fuuck, y-you’re gonna- nngh, you’re gonna make me cum.” His eyes squeeze shut, his hips completely losing their rhythm, unravelling into jerky shakes. Gojo twitches against you, his flushed skin breaking out with goosebumps as he leans back and spears his cock into you, cumming with a violent shake.

The feeling of his dick convulsing inside you draws a broken, crackly noise from the back of your throat, and pleasure rockets down you’re spine. The tightness of your third orgasm milks Gojo right to the end of his own, and his face trembles, sweat coating the skin around his eyes. Your mind is somewhere else, cataloguing the expression on his face; the wrinkle on his forehead, the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes flicker beneath his eyelids.

“Akari,” he murmurs, kissing your jaw. “Fuuuck that felt so good, s-shit, keep milkin’ my dick. Yeah baby.”

You slump against Gojo’s sheets, breathing hard, your cunt pulsing. Your energy dwindles down to a puttering spark, and then it dies. Your eyelids feel so heavy and the delicious ache travelling across your body makes it hard to think.

You blink, staring up at Gojo’s glistening face, watching the sweat glide down his cheek and drip off his chin, landing on your chest.

“Kanzaki?”

Gojo’s voice sounds hoarse.

“Hm?”

“You good?”

You say something, or your try to, but no words come out. Gojo calls your name again, and you resist the urge to swat him. Why is he asking you so many questions? You just want to sleep.

There’s a sudden pressure between your shoulder-blades. You squirm against it, but Gojo’s voice murmurs in a tone that you sounds reassuring. You breathe, listening to the lull of his voice as the pressure curls around your chest. It takes you a moment to realise it’s his arm, and when he pushes you again, you roll into the crook of his elbow.

“I gotta clean you up,” he murmurs.

“Mmm,” you nod and then yawn.

You hear him snort. “Dick that good it put you to sleep?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

You’re feel yourself being moved to the other side of the bed. You drift, teetering on the meniscus of awareness, not realising Gojo’s left the room until you hear the faint sound of a trickling water. You contemplate opening your eyes, but decide it’s too much effort.

There’s a patter of bare footsteps and then a warm cloth gently drags across the crease of your thigh. You sigh at the feeling, letting Gojo bend your legs around to clean whatever he sees fit. The slide of the warm cloth against your skin is soothing, akin to someone softly dragging their fingers through your hair. It’s been so long since someone has done this sort’ve thing for you, you’ve forgotten how nice it is.

You turn and smoosh your face into the pillow, taking a deep breath. Every muscle in your body relaxes, and your breathing reaches down into your diaphragm. You feel like you’re sinking into a deep, comforting blue. One minute you’re breathing into the pillow and the next you’re blinking yourself awake, confused by your surroundings.

You twist your head, hearing weird cartoonish music and find Gojo’s stretched out beside you on the bed, laying on a giant, fluffy towel drinking a weird flavoured soda.

You squint at him and he smiles back at you from behind the lip of his can. His phone is on his lap, paused on what looks like Bloons Tower Defence. 

“Snorlax finally wakes.”

Dread settles in your bones. “Shit!“ You look around, frazzled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I was—“

“Really tired?” He finishes.

Your throat feels like it’s been rubbed raw, so you just nod.

Gojo looks alarmingly unbothered. His expression, even without the blindfold, is hard to read.

“I got you somethin,” he says.

He turns around and grabs something. A bottle of water. He tosses it to you. It lands beside your leg, and you stare at it. You don’t remember falling asleep with a blanket on, but you’re certainly grateful to have some breathing room between your naked body and a completely dressed Gojo. Your bra somehow made it out of the encounter intake, so you awkwardly smooth the blanket out of your lap and pick up the bottle.

The water does take a bit of the edge off, but you’re still sitting in Gojo’s bedroom nearly naked.

You had sex with Gojo. You had sex with Gojo. Gojo Satoru.

Fuck fuck fuck. You’re a moron. An imbecile. A complete disaster of a person. You’ve broken every rule you made and you did it without a care. You debased yourself and you revelled in it. You think you might cry, or scream, or break something, but you don’t. A calmness washes over you, like a brewing storm cloud. You silently look around Gojo’s bedroom as the ache grows behind your eyes.

It looks like a penthouse level view judging by the huge windows and drapes. His bed’s positioned in the centre of the room against the back wall so you’re surrounded by windows on all sides. To your right is a partition with two beautiful dark wood columns that probably lead into a bathroom. Between them you can see a glimpse of a walk-in wardrobe.

It’s incredibly well-lit so when you lean sideways to get a better look, you can see sections of cupboards and hangers full of designer clothes. There’s a shoe wrack between them that has multiple levels of draws that pull out from the wall. He’s got a surprisingly big collection of sneakers, but they’re not the weird or ugly kind. They’re actually cute. Envy grips you for a second, and you push it away. You don’t need a bajillion cute sneakers, you need to leave Gojo’s apartment before he thinks you’re a stage five cling-on.

“Done snooping?” Gojo asks. His tone is hard to place. You’re not sure if it’s annoyed, or just impatient.

“…sorry—force of habit.”

“S’cool. I woulda done the same, but your dorm is boring as shit.”

“I couldn’t bring everything with me.”

Gojo looks at you silently. It feels like he’s peeling back the layers of your skin.

Had you said something wrong?

You fidget on the bed and wince when a dull ache pulls between your legs. Shit. You’ll definitely be feeling all of this tomorrow.

Gojo snickers. “I really wore you out, huh?”

“That judo flip did most of the work,” you reply, refusing to give him anymore satisfaction than he already has. “Which I’m guessing wasn’t on purpose then?”

“I mean, the shoulder jab definitely was. But no—if I knew you had a Tokyo road map on your spine, I woulda cooled it. I was honest about actually wanting to spar.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Why not? It’s been what—nine years, right? We used to train together all the time back in school.”

“You mean you used to train me.”

“C’mon, I learnt some pretty cool stuff from watching you.”

You stare at him, waiting for the punchline to his joke, but it never comes.

“You learnt stuff from watching me?” You repeat.

Gojo hangs his head. “You really don’t get it do you?”

“Get what?”

“Your mentality—“ he locks his phone, which feels dangerous for some reason. “You’re so insecure about your strength that you think every compliment has some backhanded insult behind it. I’dunno how recent this is—or if you just hid it really well when we were in school—but thinking you’re inferior means you are inferior, and that chip on your shoulder’s gonna cause you a lot of problems,” he grins when he sees the look on your face. “Calmmm down. I’m not saying you’re weak. I’m saying that this version of you is.”

You scoff. “How is that any different?”

“You have the potential to be better, but you’re holding yourself back. When we were fighting the Octopus, you burned up a lot of cursed energy protecting the kids—which is admirable, I’m not saying you made a bad call—but don’t you think outright killing the guy would’ve saved you a lotta trouble?”

Words stall in your mouth.

“Your instinct is to go on the defensive, but the reality is, your technique should’ve completely dominated that space. Your threads weren’t affected by his gravity manipulation and I know how much damage you can do in an enclosed space. It would’ve been a dogwalk.”

“Would you have preferred I leave Megumi and Yuji to die?”

Gojo sighs. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. You made that decision based on undervalued data from yourself and others. But what if you died? Do you think it would’ve been worth it? Is that why you’re okay with it?”

You stare at him. “Is this a roundabout way of asking me if I’d die for someone?”

He shakes his head. “The opposite, actually. What if both those outcomes could’ve happened at the same time? Saving the kids and killing the curse user? You can’t imagine a stronger version of yourself—that’s the problem. You think dying for someone is a good outcome in a bad situation, but dying to win and risking death to win are completely different, Akari.”

His words hit you like an anchor, dragging you down. Your eyes begin to burn, and instinctively, you check your peripherals. You’re fine. It’s fine. You swallow thickly, battering away the tremble in your jaw.

“Not gonna challenge me on it?”

You slowly shake your head. “It seems pretty well-rounded, to be honest.”

Gojo hesitates for a second, like he didn’t expect you to be so agreeable. “Oh,” he sits up properly. “ Uh, well, that’s…good?”

“Yeah—“ you clear your throat. “I should, um…-I should get back.” You scratch your neck. “I’ve got mission plans to work on…”

Gojo nods and takes a sip of his soda. “Yeah, for sure.”

You look down at the foot of the bed, to where your clothes have been folded. You shuffle down the bed, clinging to your blanket. Gojo doesn’t get up or move, he just starts playing on his phone again. Guess that’s his version of privacy. Whatever, he’s seen pretty much everything anyway.

You swing your legs off the side of the bed and work your damp, disgusting underwear back up your legs. You forget about the tights, knowing they’re going straight into the bin when you get back.

As you’re awkwardly wiggling your shorts back on, you notice a shelf of books above his desk. The only book that’s been turned out is Frankenstein.

Your heart jumps. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You know goddamn well it’s not a coincidence. Is this some fucked up prank?

Rage burns down your sides. You know you can’t bring attention to it. It’ll only make you look more like a fool. But the fact that you’re forced to ask Gojo to teleport you back to campus just puts a metric fuck tonne of salt in the wound.

He doesn’t look up from his phone when he answers, he just gives you an absentminded hum of confirmation. Your shame intensifies, turning your chest into an aching hole.

He’d just fucked you to near oblivion, and now he’s sitting playing games on his phone like it’s nothing. 

It’s probably what he does with all his hook-ups. Play causal so they don’t get attached—because good grief it’s hard being so handsome and talented in bed. Everyone must want him.

Your heart feels like it’s being scrunched up into a ball.

He’s playing it so casual, but it’d been anything but casual for you. None of it—none of what you gave him was casual. You’d just had sex with the person you’ve been madly in love with for years, but to him, it’s just a fling. A fantasy he’s finally got to bring to life. Fuck the girl who used to give you grief in high school. It’ll be hot.

You’re pretty sure you have to revoke your feminism card now.

You did this. You. So you only have yourself to blame.

Gojo drops you off outside your dorm. You don’t say anything to him as you leave, but you sense that he knows you’re upset and wisely keeps his mouth shut.

When you close the door to your flat, the silence that greets you feels like it’s crawling into your blood and propagating.

It had been everything you’d wanted since you were eighteen years old. A kiss, a touch, an embrace.

Your lips quiver and you swallow the feeling down.

You won’t cry. You won’t.

Chapter Text

Your back is killing you.

Really, you should've expected it. If Gojo judo-flipping you into the floor didn't do it, then letting him mindlessly rail you into his mattress definitely did.

You should've said something about the position, but you'd been so caught up in the moment it hadn't really crossed your mind. You've paid for for that fuck-up with the total annihilation of your peace of mind. The pain feels incomparable to the absolute shit storm that's raging inside you right now. 

As far as fronts go, you do a pretty good job at pretending you’re not miserable. Yuji only asks you if you’re alright twelve times on the way to the curse siting, which is less than you’d expected.

He asks the way most teenage boys do; he starts off with questions about your day, what you’ve been up to, how Mem’s doing. Then it bleeds into what you’d had for dinner, if you’d slept well—that kinda thing. By the eleventh question, he flat out asks you if you’re feeling alright and you lie straight to his face.

You’re not fine. You just hooked up with his teacher—the one person you’d told yourself was off limits. You feel like diving headfirst into a metal spike, but punishing yourself won’t change anything. You have to live with the decision you’ve made; including the fact that your piece of shit hook-up is presently ghosting you.

Well…ghosting probably isn’t the right word. For you to be ghosted you would’ve had to text him in the first place. It’s more that you’d expected Gojo to pick up where he’d left off. With the way he’d acted yesterday, you expected nonchalance. Or aggravating calm. You’re just another notch in his belt after all, and stupidly, he’s the complete opposite of that to you.

He's centre of all your thoughtless wandering. He's every regret you've ever had and yet somehow the omphalos of all your desires. He’s apart of you in a way that’s become entirely inseparable.

There’s so much of him that you grew to love over time, and so much of him that still burns you. Through your teenagers years, he’d brought to surface a part of you that you never even knew existed. An angry, spiteful and mean person. But that meanness gave way to someone who learned what it meant to have real connections. To be vulnerable. To laugh. To cry. To touch and be touched. 

All these years apart should’ve snuffed out that flame, but it’s only forced it to smoulder in darkness, puttering off the tiniest chance of breath. 

A part of you resents him for doing this to you. Another part of you is exhilarated by that feeling.

It had been fine when you were gone. Fine-ish. The distance had stretched you out to the barest parts of yourself; and the time was the only thing that saved you from burning up from within.

His absence festered in your mind. Thinking about it became a punishment. The 'what ifs' suddenly had purpose, and your complete and utter lack of conviction became a curse. 

Years passed and time slowly smoothed over the ache just enough for you to breathe. It became easier to push it all away, but the feeling never left you entirely.

You tried to bury it. Really, really tried. You did all the things you were supposed to do. Dates. Dinners. Birthdays. But your relationships   always fizzled out when it got serious.

Engagement rings, family visits. Shared holidays. Baby talk. All the things you would never be able to do. All the expectations that came with them. You had rebounded with stifling apathy. 

The first guy you went out with was a sorcerer. It worked well until it didn’t. He wanted more—you wanted less. The second guy was nice. Normal and sweet and everything you might’ve imagined for a different version of yourself. You’d fucked that up real well. The last guy was an asshole, but so were you. You’d mostly just used him to get high, and he liked to fuck when he was high.

There’s probably some psychological fluff to explain your rejection to comfort and stability, but an explanation isn't a cure. You get can't past the idea of people liking you—and that’s mostly because they’re attaching themselves to a version of you that doesn’t exist. 

You have too many secrets, and secrets are like fires; if you’re not constantly keeping them in-check, they spiral out of control. To maintain that control, there’s a level of distance you have to apply to yourself.

It was easier to fantasise about a ‘what if’, but now that you’ve fucked the ‘what if’, you just feel stupid. You're clinging to the past, finding comfort in Gojo’s unavailability and then agonising over it in the same breath. 

You’re pretty sure he got sent on a mission yesterday, but you’ve been too terrified to ask anyone. You know it would make you look incredibly suspicious, and the follow-up questions would be torturous.

Why do you wanna know, Kanzaki?

Oh you know…just wondering when his dick is free again.

You throw that thought straight in the trash. You remind yourself that Yuji is a perceptive teenager, and that’s he clocked your feelings on Gojo before.

You always have this look on your face when you talk to him.

Hey Yuji. I’m actually kinda embarrassingly in love with your teacher. My bad about making things awkward. Lets go exorcise some curses!

Yeah, no. That’s not gonna work.

You start tapping your foot. The mission you’ve been sent on had been dropped by another sorcerer for ‘unrelated circumstances’ according to the email. You’d been immediately reapproved on the mission plan, but conveniently left out of the corresponding email regarding the time, location and management of the curse siting. Ijichi had sent you through some vague details he’d scraped together, but other than that, you were once again going in blind.

This is a pretty standard tactic from HQ. You’d expected it, but not to this degree of pettiness.

This mission is probably a test to see how capable you are of protecting Yuji. They’re prerogative is to blame you for any mistake regardless of it’s context. You’ll have to be damn near perfect for them to leave it alone. So you will be.

As far as you’re concerned; Gifu was a one off. They’d had their ticket out for you and they’d cashed it in. You realised pretty quickly after reading the incident report that the Octopus didn’t just know about the mission plan. It had been created for him. The location? Rural and completely out of the way. An underground arena that perfectly suited his technique and shikigami. It was planned entirely from within.

You stop in an empty parking lot. It’s odd that it’s empty in the middle of the day. You glance at your Window, Ikkai Hisomu, and the guy nearly spears his head into the steering wheel he jumps so bad.

You sigh. You’ve been on nearly a dozen missions together and he’s still absolutely terrified of you. Suppressing your energy tends to make you invisible in the eyes of sorcerers. It’s considered uncanny, and for more elitist individuals, a cowards tactic. Something that only fraudulent or suspicious sorcerers practice.

You understand the fear given how powerful Fushiguro Toji turned out to be.

You’ve tried to be friendly with Ikkai, but he isn’t really receptive. He talks to Yuji sometimes, but even then, it’s very clipped sentences. Maybe he resentments the both of you? He did kinda get the motherlode of assignments. Sukuna’s Vessel and the domain freak that HQ want to quietly murder in a ditch.

Guess it’s pretty shit deal.

You and Yuji crawl out of the tiny sedan. You shut the door hard and watch Ikkai jump in his seat, bonking his head against the steering wheel.

You flick through your phone, going over the mission detail. The cursed spirit sighting seems a little more convoluted than you’d expected. It’s still in Tokyo, but the witness reports are goddamn mess and they haven’t even noted who was working the case prior to the reassignment. You stare at the attached photos, trying to pick out the buildings from across the street.

No dice.

You’re about to suggest taking the side street to get a better grasp of the area when you notice a tall man in a tan suit walking your way. Your eyes narrow and you pull out a couple of precautionary threads, but as the businessman gets closer, Yuji lets out a gasp.

“Nanamin!”

Your ankle nearly bends into the curve of the gutter.

The man in front of you is tall, muscular and gorgeously tailored. His hair is neat and clipped and he’s wearing a very cool pair of polarised glasses. That's Nanami? Your mind spins. What happened to the emo-hair cut? The awkward, lanky posture?

“Nanami!” You nod in greeting. “It’s been awhile.”

“Hello, Kanzaki-san,” he tips his head slightly in return. “It has. Almost nine years, actually.”

You clear your throat. “Uh, yeah…I’m guessing Shoko or Gojo filled you in?”

“With general information, yes. And I didn’t say that with the intention of making upset. I’m good with numbers, that’s all.”

You smile. Guess some things stayed the same. “It’s good to see you, Nanami.”

“Likewise. We should catch up outside of work.”

“Sure. I’d love to hear why you decided to come back.”

“That’s quite a simple answer, in all honesty.”

“Work is shit. Being a sorcerer is shit, right?” Yuji says, like he’s quoting Nanami.

Nanami nods. “Yes.”

You huff. “Good impression.”

“I thought so too!” Yuji beams. “But Fushiguro says it's dumb.”

“I imagine he thinks a lot of things are dumb.”

A hard slam of a car door disrupts your conversation. You all turn to see Ikkai running up to you, sweat pouring from his face as he awkwardly tucks his phone into his pocket.

“Nanami-san!” He bows. “Y-you’re not supposed to be here!”

“I’m well aware, Ikkai-san. I have information that was undisclosed before I was summarily dismissed. Since I haven’t been reassigned in the meantime, and are quite familiar with the case, I am offering my services to Kanzaki-san.”

“We’ll take ‘em!” You say before Ikkai can intervene.

Yuji makes an auction hammer with his hand and slams it down into his fist. “SOLD!”

“Uh, w-well…” Ikkai fiddles with his hands. “That’s not proper procedure.“

“It’s okay Ikkai-san. I’ll note everything down in my report. You won’t be culpable for any messes.”

“I’m not concerned with messes. It’s simply that Nanami-san was not assigned this case and—“

“Two sorcerers shadowing a student is better than one though, don’t you think?” You shoot him a smile, your lips stretching up until you have to squint your eyes. “You’re just as concerned as we are, I understand. Yuji will be safe.”

His lips snap shut. “R-right…”

You all stare at Ikkai, watching the realisation slowly dawn on him. None of you are backing down. His chin starts to wobble and he stares down at the asphalt. “I-I understand. Y-you’re right. M-many hands make light work.”

He scuttles back to the car and scrambles inside. You swear you see him lock the doors.

“What the…?”

Nanami steps in front of you, shielding you from the sidewalk. “This is a trap, Kanzaki-san.”

You nod, your eyes scanning the block. “I’m gathering that.”

“A trap?” Yuji tilts his head. “Like the other time at the haunted house?”

“You’re referring to your mission in Gifu,” Nanami notes. “It might be similar. However there’s not enough information presently to make that assumption.”

“Wanna fill us in?”

Nanami nods. “We should get off the street first. I suspect we’re being watched.”

All three of you cross the road parallel to the parking lot. Nanami takes you down a long concrete alleyway filled with residential flats. They look unrented. The blinds are down on every window and there’s no lights on. You turn back to look at Ikkai from across the street. He’s talking on his phone to someone very animatedly. You look around again, suddenly aware of how quiet it is.

“I haven’t seen a single moving car since we got here.”

Nanami nods again. “I noticed that too. I asked around and apparently there was a health alert about a gas leak in the area. They’ve been told to vacate their premises until later this evening.”

You're pretty sure that's not standard practice. "This have anything to do with Ikkai being an informant?"

“Partially," Nanami replies. 

Yuji frowns. “Ikkai-san? Really? But he’s so quiet.”

“Quiet’s good for listening. This mission was reassigned to us specifically, that’s why he was so nervous about Nanami showing up."

Yuji slowly nods. “Do you think he’s dobbed us in yet?”

"I'm not sure, I doubt calling for backup will fix anything. He might just be relaying the change." You take a breath. “Okay. Give us the rundown quickly, Nanami.”

He clears his throat. “Several days ago there were complaints about a strange person lurking in the parking lot of this complex. A dead dog was found in a rubbish bin. There were reports of similar disturbances down the block—“ he gestures towards a cluster of buildings across the alleyway. “Other tenants reported hearing strange noises in the hallway outside of their apartment. An elevator also broke down on one property. I investigated the highlighted addresses and found multiple inconsistencies.”

Nanami takes out his phone and passes it to you with the attached documents already open. “In section three of that report, there was a note from maintenance saying that the weight limit in the elevator had been breached. That was what caused the mechanical fault, suspending it between floors. The elevator holds up to 700 kilograms. There are only four tenants registered in that particular building. I averaged their weight and it barely clears half the maximum occupancy.”

“So something much heavier than 700 kilos was in that elevator.”

Yuji looks a little worried. “Can cursed spirits get that heavy?”

“It’s unusual, but it happens,” you scroll down. “Okay, so the noises lead didn’t go anywhere? What about these witness statements? The person lurking in the parking lot?”

“According to the landlord it was a homeless person," Nanami replies. 

You frown. “And did they have an explanation for the noises?”

“The dog, who evidently was sick with something.”

“And ended up dead in a bin?” You twist the photo, trying to get a better look. “That's weird. There's a mark around it’s neck."

“The dogs remains were burned, so we can’t know for certain, but from my experience, that kind of wound typically comes from strangulation.”

Yuji winces.

“From the limited evidence the Windows supplied, I was able to narrow down the incidents to three main properties. I then looked into the history of the buildings. In this apartment—“ he turns to face it. “There was a homicide case. Nearly twenty years ago, a young woman was murdered by her husband. The police report stated he wrapped her corpse in a shower curtain and dragged her remains out into the hallway. It made a considerable amount of noise—so much so that a complaint was filed from a neighbour.”

You nod. “Noises in a hallway, okay. But this apartment complex doesn’t have an indoor hallway, or an elevator.”

“That’s correct, but it did have a rubbish chute and indoor hallways before it was rebuilt.”

Your throat tightens. “The killer tossed her down the chute.”

Nanami nods, fidgeting with his glasses. “He deposited her body into the chute expecting it to slide down, but he failed to consider it’s dimensions. The chute was too small for a human body, and she got stuck halfway down. It wasn't until forensics examined her remains that they found out she hadn't died from the initial strangulation, she'd been paralysed, and it had taken her thirty three minutes to asphyxiate in the rubbish compartment.”

You inhale deeply and cup your face, breathing warmth into your palms. “That poor woman. I can’t even imagine—” you stop yourself when you see the look on Yuji’s face. The disgust in his eyes. It mirror your own.

Nanami clears his throat again before continuing. “This area has seen quite a lot of residential change in twenty years—and these particular disturbances aren’t new. There are dozens of records of similar happenings. Strange noises, broken equipment, dead animals. This apartment she died in barely lasted two years on the market before the owners were forced into redundancy.”

Suddenly it clicks. “That’s why it’s three buildings instead of one. The original building was remodelled, and the curse needs an apartment with an elevator, an indoor hallway and a parking lot. The change in infrastructure quite literally split it’s cursed technique.”

Nanami takes his phone from your outstretched palm and tucks it into his blazer pocket. “That's why I've involved myself. I rarely agree with HQ’s decisions, but I do agree with rules and regulations. This follows neither. Reassigning the case when it was very nearly completed is a waste of resources and time. I decided waiting to see who would take over operations would be the quickest way to offload my report. When I saw you and Itadori-kun, I realised what was happening.”

You squint at the car, watching Ikkai fiddle with his steering wheel. “And judging from the security measures they’ve taken, this angry little curse is special grade.”

“Yes.”

Irritation prickles at your skin. You stare up at the line of doors, fantasising about all the different ways you could murder the higher up’s.

“Oh-kay!” Yuji breaks through the silence. “How do we start?”

You point to the painted markings on the pavement. “If we’re following the witness statements, it starts here—probably staring up at the apartment. Then it moves down the block—to the place with the indoor hallway. Then the last one—with the elevator, which mimics the trash chute. The added weight causes it to malfunction and break down between floors, suspending it.”

Yuji’s eyes widen. “Ohhhh, I get it now. The curse is replaying what happened."

You nod. “I don’t get is how it’s managed to stay under the radar for so long. Surely a special grade would create more chatter?”

Nanami shakes off his jacket and retrieves a colourfully bound cleaver from his back. “The disturbances intensify from early to mid September, but the curse itself only comes out one night a year.”

“The night she died,” you sigh. “Which is today?”

Nanami nods.

Your teeth slowly brush together. You swallow down your rage. “Yuji. Stay close, okay?”

“Ok!”

You summon a handful of threads, and a bright pimple of cursed energy prickles to life down the block. “We’re going straight for building three.”

Nanami stiffens slightly, but falls into step with you.

“Why building three?” Yuji asks.

“If we’re going with the logic of the curse reenacting her murder, she spent most of that time stuck in a rubbish chute—which is where it’ll manifest. I’m also guessing that it’s technique definitely has something to do with suffocation.”

“The dog,” Yuji murmurs.

You nod. There’s nothing you can say about that won’t be depressing.

The building itself looks abandoned, which is a good sign that everyone living here followed protocol. You press the tiny red button next to the motion-activated sliding door and it squeakily rattle opens. You’re the first to step inside. A light flickers on above you, illuminating a small foyer.

You’re immediately hit with the unmistakable scent of cat piss. Your nose wrinkles. The cursed energy in here is thick and hot. Ammonia maybe? Had the husband tried to clean up the smell before he tossed her body? No, that doesn’t make sense. Maybe she pee’d herself in the process of getting strangled. The more you think about it the darker it gets.

“Is it bad, sensei?” Yuji asks, noticing your expression.

You smooth out your face. “I told you to not call me that.”

You continue down the foyer and stop at the elevator, which has a large yellow sign taped to it. ‘WARNING. OUT OF ORDER’.

“Do we know what floor it got stuck on?”

“Three.”

You look around the room. The glow of the sunset beaming through the windows sets a strange warped light across the floor.

This place feels off.

You find the door to the staircase at the end of the hall and as soon as you open it, you’re hit with another heavy wave of ammonia.

“Ooh,” you take a deep breath. “That’s bad.”

“The smell is unpleasant?” Nanami asks.

“Very.”

It’s definitely more pungent here. You take the stairs with added caution. As you get to the second floor, curses begin to draw out of the walls, watching you. They’re attracted to the special grade’s cursed energy. They like to use it as a blanket to hide and feed. You pick them off as you climb, ignoring their pathetic little whines as they dissolve.

“Sew’s super handy for the allusive ones, huh?” Yuji says.

“I’ve always found it exceptional," Nanami replies. 

You turn slightly to look at him behind you. “First I’ve heard it.”

“I wasn’t aware you wanted my opinion on your cursed technique, Kanzaki-san.”

“It’s always nice to be useful to your kōhai’s.”

“I would not describe you as useful to me. You were a good mentor and friend.”

Your throat constricts and you rumble out a cough to clear it. Nanami’s always been frank with his thoughts; you just hadn’t expected his thoughts about you to be positive. “You’ve become a man of flattery, huh Nanamin?”

He sighs. “Please do not start calling me that as well.”

Yuji looks between you two and smiles.

You get to the exit door for the third floor. The cursed energy beyond the wall is nearly vibrating, like a swarm of hornets are living amongst the plaster. It’s entirely possible the curse has manifested that way, but Sew is telling you the opposite. What you’re looking for isn’t comprised of smaller entities. It’s nearly sludge-like. A mass of something; not too dissimilar to the Octopus’ shikigami. 

It’s energy is angry. Crawling. Building.

“Okay, this is it.”

You open the door and peak your head into the hallway. The ammonia smell is dense. The entire hallway is covered in it like a fog and it’s hot. You step through, your threads poised to attack. Nothing immediately jumps out, so you step across and let Nanami and Yuji through.

Yuji wrinkles his noise. “Egh! You’re right about the smell.”

You take out your phone and shine your flashlight down the hallway. “It’s probably related to some kind of cleaning solution,” you murmur, observing the walls. The cursed energy is rampant here, clinging to the walls, running across the floors. It’s like a fungal infection. “The elevators this way. Keep close.”

Nanami brings up the rear as you close in. You notice that the elevator buttons are flashing up and down. The floor sign above it indicates that the elevator is indeed on floor three, but the number keeps glitching, turning into a one and then a four and then for a split second, you see a word.

HELP.

ME.

You let your threads swarm, paving over the walls. You get no feedback. The energy doesn’t fluctuate at all. You hear a small creak from inside the elevator, and lean forward, placing your hand on the cool metal.

“Um, Nanami…” Yuji voice wobbles slightly. “Was it always this dark in here?”

You glance at the floor to ceiling window down the hall. It does look darker outside. You check your phone time and it hasn’t changed. You hadn’t felt the presence of a barrier when you’d entered the space, but given how it’s masking it’s energy, it’s entirely possible.

You’re about to voice the thought when you hear a rustling sound from behind the elevator wall. You press your ear up to it, straining to confirm it, but it’s gone.

“Did you hear that?” You whisper-yell.

“Yes,” Nanami replies in a normal whisper. “Rustling plastic.”

“What was the estimated time of death?” You ask, trying to remain as vague as possible with details so you don’t piss it off.

“Three in the morning.”

You lift your ear from the elevator and step back. “I think we may have stepped into a barrier.”

“What does that mean?” Yuji asks.

“It means I think it’s 3am in here—and our curse is stuck.”

Yuji frowns, but before he can speak a quiet wheezing noise fills the air. It’s a pained drag, like someone trying to breathe with a rope around their neck. You quickly look around, but Sew doesn’t pick up on any fluctuations.

“…h-help me…”

It’s barely a whisper, but you all it hear. The quiet, suffering voice of a woman.

You start walking backwards, gesturing with your fingers for Nanami and Yuji to follow.

“…I’m s-sorry…” 

“I’ll be pretty for you.”

“I’ll be yours.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“Please.”

It’s voice sounds pleading as it tapers off, like it’s been quietly snuffed out. Disgust rolls in your gut. That poor woman had begged for her life. She’d banked her life on the desperate hope of forgiveness and her killer hadn’t even pretended to listen.

You didn’t have the presence of mind to ask before, but you do now. “Did they convict the husband?”

Nanami nods very slowly. “Since the remains were left suspended, he couldn’t deny it. He got a life sentence.”

It’s not enough. It would never be enough. He'd get to live the rest of his miserable life not sharing even an ounce of the pain he inflicted on her.

It’s not very well-hidden that Japan as a country is excessively lenient towards perpetrators, particularly when it involves femicide. You remember when you were twelve, a woman that worked at your local bakery was getting stalked. The guy had been arrested multiple times. It got to a point where the police had more or less told her to quit her job. She refused. A couple months later, he killed her. 

Rage surfaces, coating your teeth like a bitter salve. You have to remind yourself where you are and who you’re with. You flex your fingers, fighting off the sensation—like venom burning beneath your skin, destroying everything in it’s path.

“—s-save me…”

“…I can’t breathe…!”

That steady line of stifling cursed energy explodes all around you. You don’t need to warn Yuji and Nanami this time because you know they can feel it. Nanami brings up his cleaver, reinforcing himself preemptively. Yuji readies his fists. You summon a shield of threads in front of you, preparing to take the brunt of whatever attack is about to pop off.

Nothing happens.

Your breath stutters with anticipation.

You wait in the darkness. You can hear Yuji and Nanami’s breathing just barely, but other than that, it’s dead silent.

There’s a long pause.

There’s a scraping sound, like elevator cords grinding.

“KILL ME!”

An amalgamation of flesh bleeds out of the elevator wall. Your mind stutters trying to comprehend it’s form. Two long, purplish hands appear, but they’re not connected where they should be. It’s limbs are broken and twisted, it’s bruised skin stapled together with large metal rings. You can see black, maggoty hair. It’s clumped in some places, stuck through with plastic straws and empty milk cartons. Other parts are as thin as oil, smoothing along the misshapen lines of it’s silhouette.

There’s rotten food smeared over where you assume it’s face should be. One piece of it’s hair has been completely intertwined with rotten noodles. It’s torso is corseted by a bloodied piece of translucent plastic, turning it’s waistline into a horrifying stick of skin.

It’s exactly what you should’ve imagined. The bloated corpse of a woman thrown down a trash chute in a piece of plastic.

You stare like an idiot, it’s oppressive cursed energy swallowing up the space.

It unhinges hit’s broken jaw and screams.

Some kind of gas spews out of it’s mouth; or that’s what Sew interprets it as. It’s completely colourless, odourless and tasteless—which doesn’t bode well for you. Sew can’t distinguish compounds on a molecular scale, but you can differentiate their energies when their broadcasted against each other. Unfortunately you don’t have anything to compare it to right now. The only thing you can think of that makes sense in regards to this curse is something carbon based that displaces oxygen. Either way, it’s bad fucking news.

“It’s released some kinda gas,” you yell. “Don’t breath it in!”

Nanami nods and covers his mouth with one arm. Yuji pulls his hoody up and tightens the strings around his head.

If it’s carbon monoxide, it won’t really matter if you block your mouths. You’ll be unconscious in minutes. But if it’s carbon dioxide, at the potency your interpreting, it’s less bad. Still bad, just not immediate unconsciousness bad.

Your peripherals react to movement. Curses start to sink out of the walls. Clusters of third and second grades, and a couple of firsts. They all resemble garbage. Rotten food. Torn clothes. Plastic containers. They’re not so dangerous by themselves, but paired with a demanding attention of special grade, it’s much more of a problem.

You send a corkscrew of threads down the hallway, eviscerating a horde as it starts to build, but it barely puts a dent in their numbers. They swarm, toppling over each other to fit into the narrow space. 

Nanami realises what you’re doing immediately and covers your blind spot. He swings at the special grade with his cleaver, severing two of it’s limbs straight off. The pulse of his cursed energy is incredibly focused, and the curse screams in protest, filling the room with more gas.

That’s a bit of a lose-lose situation.

You shred through another wave of curses, your mind running with ideas. The gas makes sense. The woman didn’t died from strangulation after all. She was forced to breath in her own carbon dioxide until she slowly asphyxiated. You feel like fate has intervened a little more than usual today, because if you hadn’t been forced to take up this mission, Nanami wouldn’t have known about the gas. You hate to think how things would’ve gone without you.

You send another spiral of threads down the hall, shredding the curses to dust. You have to parrot Nanami’s attack patterns to keep the special grade off your back. This works for a solid minute. You dance between each other, attacking each side of the hallway with everything you’ve got. Your technique isn’t as flashy as Nanami’s, so you’re able to retain your stamina whilst mirroring his movements.

The curse squeals with irritation, and after a powerfully aligned punch from Yuji, it decides it doesn’t want to dance with the three of you anymore.

“SUFFOCATE!”

It points a broken finger at Yuji and a beat of absolute silence fills the hallway. Your brain stalls and you’re forced to watch as a black mark draws itself upon Yuji’s forehead. The symbol is a pair of lips that have been sewn shut. You and Nanami stare at him, waiting for something to happen.

Yuji blinks, seemingly okay. He opens his mouth to say something and falters. He touches his neck, looking annoyed. He tries to speak again, and air wheezes out of him.

He starts palming at his throat. ““…c-choking!”

Shit.

The curse points at you. “ASPHYXIATE!”

There’s an obvious discrepancy in those two words; but you’re unsure of how they relate to it’s cursed technique. If you’re going by simple definitions, Yuji’s airways are probably being pressured by cursed energy right now, causing him to suffocate. As for you—any air, even the minute traces that you’re breathing in are probably going to be poisonous. There’s no longer any point in you covering your mouth. As far as your body is concerned, your breathing in everything but oxygen.

You can feel the mark brush along the skin of your forehead. You don’t know if it looks the same as Yuji’s, but you don’t have time to ask questions. The curse slams down it’s arms, swinging them from side to side like it’s having a tantrum. You and Nanami are forced to roll, weaving and jumping over each swing.

Yuji backs up behind you, facing the horde of incoming curses. Have their numbles doubled again? Fuck. There’s too much to balance right now. You probably have between five to eight minutes to exorcise this curse before you completely lose consciousness. Yuji has less time than that.

Your heart feel like it’s in your throat. You can’t think about the mark, it’ll just make things worse.

Time is of the essence. The carbon curse doesn’t have anywhere to go here—that’s your only advantage. The hallway’s too small and it’s encumbered by it’s own disfigured limbs. You flip your palms over, creating a helix of threads. You send them after it like a missile. The curse screeches, turns, and tries to melt into the wall, but your threads are covering it, blocking it’s escape.

It roars it's frustration, it's fingers pulling at it's hair as it looks around. You see a criss-cross of smoking cuts all along it’s faceless flesh from where it had pressed up against Sew.

Your other threads circle back to the menagerie of cursed spirits, annihilating anything that stands in your path. Yuji mirrors your back the same way you’d mirrored Nanami, and despite being slowly suffocated, manages to angle a reinforced kick to the special grades’ side. It’s thrown wide, exposing it’s corseted torso, and Nanami claps back with another smack of his cleaver.

Cursed energy bounces around the hallway, flashing like strobe lights in the dark. Nanami attacks are so graceful in their lethality, hitting the curse with every opportunity. You can barely keep track with his and Yuji’s movements with your eyes; but Sew manages without visual cues.

You wade through the crowd of dying curses, picking off whatever’s left. Your eyes are growing heavy and your starting to drag your feet a little as you move. You blink hard and shake your head, trying to centre your thoughts, but they remain scattered. 

You’re using too much cursed energy and you don’t have time to absorb anything back.

“Kanzaki-san!” Nanami yells, delivering another lethal blow. “You need to leave the building!” He’s not even looking at you as he speaks. 

You narrow your eyes. “That s’not gonna work.”

Nanami dashes in front of you, blocking an incoming attack you hadn’t seen coming. “I’m aware, but you’re about to lose consciousness, which is highly inconvenient.”

“Agreed.” You hiccup loudly. “Let’s just kill this fucking thing.”

You drag your hand through the air lazily, your threads slicing through the room in one giant cleave. The hallway becomes a splash zone of dust, the muted cries of curses dying all around. Nanami blitzes the special grade with a hit so powerful there’s a crackling effect.

Black flash. Holy shit. It’s been years since you’ve felt a black flash.

Yuji follows in suit, and you watch, stumbling over your own feet, as the two of them bash the ever loving shit out of the curse, passing it back and forth with equally lethal blows. It claws at the walls, it’s fingers burning against your threads. You create another woven shape and this time bring it down from above, squishing the curse into the floor like it’s been caught in a waffle press.

It screams so loudly one of your eardrums pops. You sway, falling down to one knee as your vision starts to blur. Yuji punches it in the side and a lump of ramen falls out of it’s hair, exposing a redden bald spot. It starts screaming again, pulling at it’s hair in a panic.

“WORTHLESS!”

You’re force to squint, reacting in slow flashes of information as something builds. A cannon ball equivalent of cursed energy comes blasting towards you. If your brain weren’t slowly being turned off, you could've reacted faster, but instead you just stare at it, contemplating if you should dodge. Probably not.

You raise your hands, forming a reinforced shield with the rest of your cursed energy. It barely constructs in time and you take the brunt of the hit, the force of it pushing your feet back against the carpet. Your threads begin to fracture under the pressure of it’s cursed energy. The blast tapers, and just as it’s about to shut off, your shield breaks, and it's cursed energy rockets straight into your chest.

You're flung backwards, your muscles fighting to push back against the force of it. You hit the ground hard, closing your eyes against the impact. It's a terrible idea. The lack of oxygen in your blood is turning your mind to mush. You’re beginning to lose consciousness, and the second you do, your technique will fail, and the curse will escape through the walls. You’re the only thing keeping it here fighting. Yuji will die if you let it go, but if you don’t—Nanami will die along with you.

Barely conscious, you make a decision that in the near future you’ll sorely come to regret.

You squint down the length of your body, angling the shot through your feet. A spike of cursed energy runs down your arm. This energy is potent. It’s rage. It’s venom.

You cut the curse in half with a flick of your finger.

You collapse onto the floor, the mark on your forehead lifting into particles above you. You breathe in through your nose, but it doesn’t help. The room's still filled with gas. You roll onto your side—or you try to. You manage to move one leg, but a rush of fatigue hits you in the chest, and you decide staying still is probably better.

Nanami has other ideas. He rushes you, strapping his cleaver to his back in one deft movement. He scoops you up in an awkward bearhug and you think for a moment he’s heading for the stairs, but instead, he sprints for the back window. Yuji’s following quickly behind him, and shoots you a weary thumbs up. You wince and return the gesture.

You readying yourself for the jump, but Nanami twists at the last second, shielding you as you break through window. The glass shatters, pelting the back of your head and showering the three of you in fragments.

You fall three stories, the cool night air whistling through your hair. Nanami hits the pavement and bends his knees, distributing his weight so he doesn’t stumble forward and fall. You jostle against him, your fingernails digging into the fabric of his button-up shirt as your legs unlatch from his waist and slam into the pavement. You can barely hold your weight as you step back and Nanami gingerly takes ahold of your shoulder to keep you steady.

“Breathe in deeply,” he orders.

What the hell does he think you’re doing?

You want to snap at him, but you don’t have the energy for it. You take a long breath through your mouth and let it roll through your diaphragm, flattening your shoulders and expanding your ribcage. Your brain feels less hazy after a couple breaths. 

You step away from Nanami, stinging pain shooting up your ankles as you plop yourself down on the sidewalk. You touch your left ear and your fingers come back bloody. Not good. You’ll definitely have to see Shoko when you get back; but as far as injuries go, you’re all doing pretty well.

“Thanks,” you rasp out to Nanami. “Sorry—my hearings a little buggy.”

Nanami readjusts so he’s standing on your right. “There’s no need to thank me.”

“You saved our lives, so they’re kinda is.”

“I believe you saved ours first. We would’ve been dead if the lesser curses had mobilised properly.”

You can’t deny that, so you shrug. “I wouldn’t have been able to balance both—you guys taking the special grades attention enabled it.”

Yuji wipes his face, which is covered in his own spit. “We did it, right? That's all that matters." His voice sounds exactly as you’d expected, raw and wheezy like he’d been strangled.

You look down at the pavement, your stomach squirming uncomfortably. Images from the fight are replaying in your mind. The look on Yuji’s face when he’d been marked. The way he’d tried to speak around it. You couldn’t do anything—or rather, you’d chosen not to do anything until the very last second.

You let out a long exhale, trying to silence the angry voice in the back of your mind.

“That was a powerful move you did to finish it off,” Nanami notes, his voice deceptively casual.

You rub your eyes. “Mm. It was a last ditch kinda thing. I’m completely out of cursed energy now.”

Nanami takes of his glasses and cleans them with the end of his jacket. “I see.”

You watch him carefully. He probably doesn’t believe it. He’s a smart enough guy. He would’ve felt the pulse of your cursed energy and noticed the difference. But you also know Nanami isn’t the type of person to give a shit about that kinda stuff. It’s probably why you got along so well in school. No personal anecdotes. No excuses. Just reasonable conversation.

You all sit on the sidewalk, breathing in the cool night air in paranoid silence.

As far as special grades go, it was definitely on the lesser scale, but it’s passive technique was brutal in an enclosed space. You grit your teeth. In the two times you’ve gotten yourself into a proper life or death situation, it’s been in an enclosed area—the very thing your technique is supposed to thrive on.

Your absorbed cursed energy just doesn’t cut it against reinforcement. There are so many holes in the techniques you’ve learnt abroad that just don’t work here. You really thought you’d be able to handle it. You click your tongue. What a stupidly naive assumption. Ishimori was right. You’re running the gauntlet coming back here. Taking up guardianship over Yuji is just digging the hole deeper.

Yuji lets out a shaky sigh.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “You good?”

He nods and looks down at his lap. You notice a tiny quiver in his jaw and your heart drops.

“Yuji,” you press. “Are you hurt?”

He rigidly shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

You hesitate for a second, and then gingerly put your hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to be. What happened in there was pretty scary.”

He looks up at the sky, wrinkling his face like he’s trying not to cry. “I know. I remember what you said about sorcerers and everything. I shouldn’t get upset about stuff I can’t change. But I just…” he trails off, letting out a shaky breath. “I thought getting stronger would give me more choice, but I realise now it doesn’t really matter.”

A lump forms in your throat.

“I hope when I get executed, I don’t die like that,” he says. “It was -painful.”

You close your eyes, silently wincing. You knew it was coming. Today or tomorrow. It doesn't really matter. You don't have the words to explain anything to him. Instead, you do something that's completely out of your wheelhouse. You reach over and put your hand down on Yuji's arm. 

He stiffens for a second, not expecting the contact, and then he nods, his nostrils flaring as he blinks back tears quietly. You rub your hand up and down his trembling arm.

"Sukuna isn't your problem, Yuji," you murmur. "It's mine. And it'll stay that way."

"But—"

"No," you say firmly. "That's it. You don't have to worry about anything else." 

Yuji's lips tremble, but he manages a small nod.

Nanami watches the interaction silently. He probably dislikes what you’ve said. It does come off like a paltry consolation—a lie everyone’s pretending is a truth. Maybe you should feel guilty and ashamed for being so vague about your priorities. But you get the feeling Nanami isn’t judging you for displaying vulnerability. Rather, his silence insinuates agreement.

Itadori Yuji also means something to him.

Promises are always dangerous when it comes to sorcerers. Luckily this is the kind of promise only you can keep.

At the rate of your cursed energy usage, you barely have two years left to live.

You’ve known this, fought against it, made terrible decisions because of it, but maybe, just maybe, you’ve made a good one tonight.

You decide in the moment. Or maybe in the hundreds of other moments you’ve shared together.

Itadori Yuji is worth it. 

Chapter Text

You arrive back at campus late. Medical checks are procedurally required after missions, so despite all of you being beyond tired, you make the long trek across campus to Shoko's office.

As you're walking the lantern lit pathway, the delirium of your long day hits it's peak, and you somehow end up debating a tier list of pastries. Nanami, as it turns out, is very well versed with baked goods, and has a lot of opinions on bread. Yuji is similarly enthusiastic, which is nice to see given the heavy conversation you’d shared on the sidewalk.

His ability to take such heavy things in his stride knocks you down a couple pegs. At the same age, you'd regarded your position in the jujutsu world with disgust. That disgust festered something much darker and meaner. The static worldview you trusted to justify your actions became a crutch. Rage—your memento. Nothing else penetrated. 

Yuji is the antithesis of that. He doesn’t bottle things up. He doesn't hesitate. He submits to his feelings in their entirety. It’s a refreshingly healthy way of living, and a good habit for a sorcerer.

You're proud of him for being so open about everything, and that pride feels unearned. 

“No, the icing to cake ratio does matter. Too much icing—you lose the essence of the cake.”

Yuji shrugs. “You can just scrape it off and eat the cake by itself.”

“So you have a cake with no icing? The whole point of the tier list is for both things to compliment each other so well they become evolved—like a Pokémon.”

“But we’re judging baked goods, not baked goods ‘with icing’.”

Nanami shakes his head. “The context is about cake, so that doesn’t apply. I’d argue that a chocolate cake needs icing to be good, otherwise I’d consider it a bottom tier item.”

You give a sharp nod. “Ah-greed.”

Yuji scowls. “What about cheesecake, huh? They don’t have icing.”

“They have accoutrements."

“Accoutre—what?”

“Y’know, passionfruit glaze, blueberry compote. Plain old chopped strawberries.”

Yuji folds his arms over his chest. “They don’t count either then. I’m talking about the basics. Y’know, the…the flesh of the cake!”

You slowly shake your head at him. “Don’t call it flesh.”

“Cake then!” He parrots, waving his hands around imploringly. “Cake is fine without icing. My grandpa used to make it for me all the time!”

“It’s a majority vote, Itadori-kun,” Nanami says evenly. 

Yuji gives you both a disgruntled look and stalks forward, grabbing the door handle to Shoko’s office building and yanking it open. You and Nanami share a concerned look and then follow after him. 

The lounge is empty, which isn’t surprisingly at this time of night. Shoko’s office door is just around the corner. You can see a post it note attached to the frosted glass. You get close enough to read it. 

'OUT FOR A SMOKE. BACK IN TEN’

“Outstanding,” you mutter.

Nanami sighs. “I guess it can’t be avoided.”

Yuji lets out a yawn and flops down on the couch. You follow, perching yourself. You tap his feet—warning him to move them off the upholstery. He sighs, but listens, pulling himself up to sit with his arms crossed over his chest.

Nanami goes over to the water urn and pours himself a cup of coffee.

“Would you like one, Kanzaki-san?” He offers. 

“M’good thanks. If I have caffeine this late I’ll be bouncing off the walls.”

Yuji puts his hand up. “I’ll have one!”

“Nope,” you deny.

Yuji wilts into the couch again. “I’m being ganged up on…”

You toss a pillow at the back of his head. “I’m looking out for your developing brain.”

He picks up the pillow and hugs it to his chest. “Is this one of those tiny miseries that only adults understand?”

You bark out a laugh. “Where the hell did you hear that?”

Yuji points at Nanami.

Nanami nods. “Being an adult is mostly shit. That is why chocolate cake with icing is important.”

You let out a silent laugh through your nose. “Annd it’s back to icing.”

“Do you like mochi?” Yuji asks, changing the subject.

You shrug. “Daifuku is great, but it also depends on the flavour.”

“Are we adjusting the tier-list for that?” Nanami asks.

“Well…” you strum your fingers against the armchair. “Once you start getting into flavouring, I fear the list could go on forever. I'd say that strawberry mochi is distinct enough on its own to be considered more than just a flavour variant.”

Yuji nods. “Strawberry is sooo good!”

Nanami takes a sip of his tea. “I prefer red bean.”

“You guys need to expand your mochi game,” a new voice chimes in. “You sound like old ladies.”

Panic sinks it’s claws into your face. You all turn towards the door as Gojo walks in. He’s got his hands in his pockets, a small smile playing at his lips.

“Gojo-sensei!” Yuji exclaims, sitting up right.

Gojo waves as he crosses the room, heading straight for the coffee pot Nanami made. Your eyes follow him, absorbing his body language. He seems relaxed, but that’s always been his fall-back state. You stare at the back of his head as he stirs his paper cup, wondering what he's thinking. Suddenly an image pops into your head; Gojo's flushed, tightened face. Your fingers dragging through his undercut. The way his voice had turned to a low, sultry purr as he made you climax. 

Your face spasms. No. Bad. Stop. You rattle off every disgusting thing you can think of until it goes away, but it’s already too late. Gojo's noticed you staring. His smile deepens, turning smug.

There’s no avoiding the accuracy of his Six Eyes, and it leaves you quietly mortified. Heat rushes up your spine and you duck your head to stare at the floor.

This isn’t how you planned on confronting him. Confront? Is that even the right word? Whatever it is—it certainly didn’t involve catching you in the act of checking him out.

Yuji bounces over to Gojo like an excited bunny. “I didn't think you'd be here! When did you get back?”

“Couple hours ago,” is his causal reply.

Your fingers curl into your palms. Him acting so put together in your presence stings. You're floundering around like a moron, trying to string sentences together in your head, and he's as self-possessed as ever. The logical part of your brain knows it's good thing that he’s being nonchalant. Any deviation from Gojo's expected countenance would create questions.

What would’ve you have done anyway? Skipped up to him and given him a kiss?

You cringe just thinking about it.

“We were just filling in time,” Yuji says, replying to a question you’d missed with your bad ear. “We gotta see Shoko before we can go to bed. The curse we fought that had bad breath and we kinda breathed it in.”

“It was carbon dioxide,” Nanami corrects.

"Yikes," Gojo hums, sipping his coffee. "I'm guessin' you helped them out with this one, Nanamin?"

“I assisted Kanzaki-san and Itadori-kun, yes.”

Gojo’s quiet for a beat. “Anything else I should know about?”

“Our driver is a snitch!” Yuji exclaims. “He lead us straight to a trap with a special grade and we still kicked it’s ass!”

Gojo tilts his head. “A special grade? Was that on your mission plan?”

“There was no mission plan,” you cut in, keeping your tone as level as possible. 

Gojo’s expression shifts. “Right.”

There’s a rasping sound as the sliding door on your right opens again, revealing a very tired-looking Shoko. She’s wearing a dark woven sweater and some high waisted jeans; a very chic look in comparison to her usual garb. She looks around at all of you and then quietly sighs. “Who’s injured?”

You and Yuji raise your hands like school kids.

“C’mon then,” she points at Yuji as she rubs her shoes on the doormat. “Students first.” She glances at you, the bags beneath her eyes turning to craters in the dull lighting. “It’s campus policy.”

You shrug. “All good.”

Shoko takes Yuji down the hall, shutting the door with a slight rattle behind her.

You sigh. “She’s pissed.”

Gojo gives a hard nod. “Yup.”

“I don’t blame her,” you gingerly stand up from the armrest, mindful of your back. “Shoko’s also getting the short end of the stick with HQ’s bullshit.”

Nanami frowns. “They’re very persistent in these underhanded tactics.”

You hum in agreement. "Who knows what would’ve happened if you hadn’t stuck around tonight."

“Without Sew, we would’ve asphyxiated long before we were able to exorcise the curse.”

You let out a sigh.

“We have such warm conversations,” Gojo croons.

You give him a look. “The jujutsu world isn’t exactly know for it’s stories on magical trees and rainbows.”

“Magical trees?” Nanami asks.

“It’s a children's book. And no, I will not be answering anymore questions about why I know that.”

Nanami takes another sip of his coffee. “Is this a weird hobby of yours?”

“What did I just say?”

“You read children's books, I believe.”

Gojo looks between you two, confused. “Did I stoke out? I swear Nanami just made a joke.”

You rub the corners of your eyes. “Shoulda taken your offer on the coffee."

“It’s terrible,” Nanami comments. “But it’s making the overtime marginally bearable.”

“Oi,” Gojo’s voice cuts in. “Are you two ignoring me?”

You turn slightly. “What?” You ask, confused. “Did you say something?”

Gojo’s lips twitch downward slightly and then he pouts. “I was talking that whole time! Were you seriously not listening?”

Nanami smiles slightly.

Did he do that on purpose?

Wow. Shit stirring behaviour from Nanami Kento of all people.

“I blew my eardrum on the mission.” You flick your left earlobe. “I can’t hear shit from this side.”

Gojo tilts his head at you. “Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

He take two large steps towards you like he’s playing hopscotch and leans forward into your personal space. His forehead pinches like he’s squinting at you, analysing the truth to your words. You fight every instinct inside of you to back up when he inches closer to your face.

“Why didn’t you protect your ear canal with cursed energy?” He asks. His tone is levelled—dangerous.

“I was preoccupied.”

“With what?”

“A mass of curses. I had to get rid of them first or we would’ve been inundated.”

“You reckon?”

This fucker. You know exactly where he’s going with this. “I was breathing in carbon dioxide the entire time. I barely knew what planet I was on by the time it popped my eardrum. It was a miracle I could even aim properly.”

“You let your guard down.”

You glare at him. “I handled it.”

Gojo’s expression flattens. You stare at each other, thoughts sparking behind your eyes. If he’s thinks he’s about to scold you on your decision-making skills in front of other people, you’re going to kick him between the legs.

Gojo seems to understand the silent threat and reanimates himself. “O-kay!” He claps his hands and it disrupts the tension in the air like a gong. “Now that we’ve settled that, you should ask Nanamin to nominate you for a first grade promotion! Taking out a special grade curse is a pretty big deal.”

Nanami looks between you two. His expression is beyond uncomfortable. “Please leave me out of your lovers spat.”

Your skull nearly pops off your head.

“Pfffft!” Gojo giggles. “Nanamiii, you’re gonna make me shyyyy.”

You both give Gojo a deadpanned look.

Shoko’s office door cracks open and Yuji’s loud, excitable voice filters down the hall. You all assume vaguely casual looking positions—like you hadn’t just nearly squared up in the waiting room.

“Kanzaki,” Shoko drones. “M’not doing anymore overtime tonight. Move your ass.”

You silently bless Shoko’s timing.

Thank god for your burst eardrum.

Mem wakes you up by pawing at your face. 

Your mind is somewhere else, digesting a kaleidoscope of random information from your dream, so you don't register what's happening at first. Not until Mem's god awful cat breath hits you in the nostrils. 

You groan, rolling over onto your side with a flourish of the sheets. Mem tips backward with a disgruntled meow and starts climbing your back like a monkey. Her claws dig into your shoulder blades, her whole weight pressing down into your skin.

You let out a muffled groan and slowly sit up, blinking around the glare that’s shining under your blinds.

Mem trills at you and brushes her chin against your knee. You absentmindedly pet her as your eyes blink into focus. Your mind is heavier this morning. Your thoughts feel as though they're falling out of orbit. It takes you awhile to remember where you are and what you're doing; and why you feel so messed up.  

Cursed energy. You used your cursed energy. Not the absorbed stuff. It explains the splintering effect. You sniffle, squinting your eyes around the room as the feeling settles into your chest. You'd almost forgotten how uncomfortable it was. 

You scratch your cheek and then touch your ear. The dull ache you’d been dealing with last night is gone. Shoko had fixed you up as best she could and sent you on your way with a dropper and some weirdly specific supplements that you hadn’t asked for.

You have no idea where you put that note. You barely remember making it back to your flat. You’d just gone to bed and passed out.

You peel back the sheets and set your bare feet on the carpet. Pain tingles up your toes. You fumble your fingers along the wall when you stand up, flicking on the light switch and squinting under the blue glare as you waddle into the lounge room.

Mem weaves in and out of your legs, nearly tripping you a couple of times.

“Can you fuck off outta my feet?” You grumble. “You act like you’ve haven’t eaten in years.”

You crack open a can of wet food with your eyes half open. Mem starts whining, jumping at your knees and purring as you grab a spoon.

“Get away from the landing zone,” you tell her as you crouch down to scoop out her food. She doesn’t listen and squishes herself between your legs like a chicken. 

You have your own breakfast in the dining hall, and when you're finished, you check your inbox for mission updates and are surprised to find it completely empty. The timing feels odd. Maybe HQ are testing the waters after last night. Whatever. It's your day off, and you know exactly how you want to spend it.  

You saunter into the bathroom and crack open the tap above the bathtub drain, cranking it straight into blistering temps. You give it a quick clean and add some lavender oil and epsom salts to the water as it fills. When it's done, you strip off and dip your toes in. The water is definitely hot, but it's a good hot. 

You sink into the water with a groan, tipping your head back until you're fully submerged. Your whole body trembles, fighting an invisible battle against your stiff muscles. 

You focus on your breathing, calming your system down so the water and magnesium can do their jobs. The lavender makes you a little sleepy, and instead of fighting the feeling out of paranoia, you relax into it, letting the smell coaxes away the tension in your brow.

You close your eyes and let your thoughts drift as the water takes the brunt of your weight. After ten minutes, the pressure in your back finally gives, and you flip over onto your stomach to stretch out. A series of pops ripple through your body and the next breath you let out feels like it’s coming from your soul.

Your phone decides now is the perfect time to start pinging with messages. You’d set it aside incase you got a call from HQ, and now you're regretting being so practical. Your reach over the lip of the tub and fumble around for your phone with wet, wrinkly fingers.

When you unlock your screen, it’s not an email. It’s Gojo.

Gojo Satoru:

yo

u at ur dorm??

You stare at the messages.

leaving me on read?

u still mad about last night???

lololol

What do u want??

i asked

r u

at the

dorms

Yes?

cool

umma stop by rq

You panic.

NO!

DON’T DO THAT!

NOPEEEDIE

Gojo’s immediately starts typing back. 

um

u ok?

You stare at the message. Is that….earnest?

I’m fine.

I’m just busy.

busy with what???

There’s a pause. He starts another message, then stops. You stare at your phone, waiting.

u getting off or sumthin?

You sigh and tap your forehead against the edge of the bathtub. 

Ur an idiot.

i was joking lol

wait.

r u?

rn???

If I was, why would I be texting you???

:(

Gojo, I’m not masturbating.

I’m having a bath.

oh

is that all?

y were u so freaked out?

Because I'm naked and u want to come over.

He takes a little longer than usual to reply.

I’ve seen u naked

(brag)

whats the deal?

Just cause ur fine with it doesn’t mean I am.

fair enough

i can just drop this stuff off and leave

Ur really gonna just leave?

…

I thought so.

i bought you stuff

was gonna hand deliver it

cause im a gentlemen (^ω~)

Uhuh

What kinda stuff?

food

coffee

U got me coffee?

mhmm

ಇ( ꈍᴗꈍ)ಇ

im so nice

very thoughtful

right?

You find yourself smiling for some stupid, so you do something entirely stupid in return. 

Fine.

Yayayayay!

(✿ ♥‿♥)(♥ω♥*)

You don’t get time to digest whatever the hell the emoticon means because there’s a loud, obnoxious BANG from your bedroom. It sounds like someone ran into a chair. Gojo, you realise. You hear a bunch of muffled cursing, and then the bathroom door opens.

Gojo walks in, a long paper cup of presumably coffee in his hand. He’s wearing an actual outfit instead of his uniform today. It's one of those casual streetwear looks; black sweatpants, a black hoody jacket, and a grey graphic tee. 

“I put your food in the fridge," he says in greeting, looking around your bathroom like it's a conceptualised art piece. It's painfully obvious he's avoiding looking at you, which is surprising. It's not like he's shown any deference to your sensibilities in the past.