Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

---please read beginning author’s note----

"...Starlight?"

Oh, fuck.

The rain stops, but it's hardly a mercy when Yuuji suddenly appears in the murky swamp of Sukuna's Innate Domain, staring at him the way a child would if the monster under their bed started crying the moment a flashlight was shone on them, a look of sheer bewilderment on his bruised features. Like he can't believe what he's seeing, let alone hearing. A completely unpredictable plot twist.

All things considered, it's a fairly appropriate reaction when Sukuna has just accidentally called him the special name he used to refer to his children before their deaths.

It was an uncharacteristically careless error for someone whose every move has been scripted for a thousand years; a slip of the tongue that plunged him in freefall, and he'd rather hit rock bottom than never reach the ground.

For a man whose childrens' names meant dream and mercy, it's been a notable slice of forever since the heavens have granted him either one.

Still, even if foolish, Sukuna can't say it's particularly surprising: Yuuji is a patchwork of Yume and Jion in name, appearance, and personality, somehow, someway. But Yuuji is not Sukuna's children, and you'd really think possessing four eyes would prevent the lines from getting blurred, and yet––

Yuuji has proven there's a bleeding heart within the cavern of a chest that was supposed to be empty or at least frozen over, a final vestige of his dead wife's powers. A memento of sorts, somehow both ill-suited and fitting for the way he's always on the cusp of burning himself at the stake.

Hah. If nothing else, Sukuna can appreciate the dramatic irony of it.

But now he's stuck with a last scrap of humanity both himself and fate tried to kill –– and it just won't die, despite that his actions have none of it left in them. He's no longer capable of it, even if there's something so terribly human at his core after he's become the monster he used to tell his family stories about.

Well. It's curtain call, he supposes.

"Yes, Starlight," Sukuna hums, launching into an encore nobody asked for. "Do you recall that lesson you had in science class the other day? Not that I'd expect you to." Whether Yuuji's silence is due to ignorance or disinterest is irrelevant, so Sukuna continues, "Very well, I'll do you the favor of a reminder. Aren't I nice? In lieu of flowers, I'll graciously accept donations of your loved ones' mangled bodies."

Yuuji rolls his eyes. "Don't you ever get tired of listening to yourself talk?"

Yes. "Of course I don't, brat. Now listen to Great Professor Sukuna." He settles into the role. "Your class revealed that the light of distant stars can take thousands, millions of years to reach the earth, so what you're looking at in the sky is only a fleeting glimpse of a beautiful, distant past. In fact, you could be looking at the image of a star who has long since blown to pieces, making wishes on celestial bodies that are already fuckin' dead!"

Yuuji lifts an eyebrow.

"And that's what you are," Sukuna finishes smoothly despite that Yuuji's now glaring daggers at him, throwing knives instead of roses at his feet. "A ghost whose light has long since extinguished, and it's only a matter of time before everyone discovers you've collapsed in on yourself and I swallow them all into the black hole of my stomach." A final nod. "That's what I meant by Starlight. It's a perfect epithet for you."

Yuuji sighs, and it's almost impressive Sukuna can still disappoint him when he's literally never done anything else.

"Liar."

Without pressing further, Yuuji disappears.

Sukuna huffs. Tch. That went about as well as expected, as well as it always goes. Because Sukuna always lies, and the only argument he's ever won with Yuuji is the one the brat isn't aware they're even having. 

For better or worse, Yuuji is utterly clueless about the fact that Sukuna is the subject of his precious grandfather's final words.

‘But no matter how much you want to hate them, or how hard they try to push you away, don’t give up. Only you can reach their heart. Never let someone who needs you be alone.’

No. It will never happen. Sukuna will make sure of it.

In the morning, Yuuji swipes a thin layer of concealer atop his bruised under-eyes, chucks a handful of caffeine pills down his throat without counting them. He tugs on his school uniform then pads out his bedroom door.

The brat enters the kitchen. His father is toiling at the stove, a savory scent wafting from a cast-iron skillet. 

Sukuna frowns. Oh, how he despises that man. He can't wait for the day he devours Nanami limb by limb –– of course, not before force-feeding him the still-beating hearts of his wife and eldest son. Until then, however, he'll have to settle for their weird, largely one-sided rivalry.

For you can only be rivals if you've vying for the same position, and unfortunately, this is the second battle with someone in Yuuji's family that Sukuna is spectacularly losing.

Because what Sukuna wants, more than anything––

"Papa," Yuuji says, and he's not talking to him.

Nanami turns around. "Good morning," he greets. He's double-wielding a coffee mug and a spatula, wearing a pink frilly apron he got from the Six-Eyes that he repeatedly claims he'll throw out when he's talking to him but always wears when he's not around. Nanami leans closer, scrutinizing his son's tired face. "Yuuji...are you alright?"

"Of course!" Yuuji lies. With a smile, too. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Nanami pinches his brows, like he doesn't believe there could be more than one answer to that question and knows Yuuji is aware of this.

Well, at least this is a nice start to the morning. Even without mentioning him, Sukuna's presence looms over their every conversation, haunting the space between their sentences. Say a demon's name enough times in a mirror and you'll summon them: an easy mistake to make, since Sukuna and Yuuji share the same face.

And who would Sukuna be to disappoint his audience? "Ah, good morning to you too!" Sukuna singsongs, surfacing on Yuuji's cheek. "Even if you're not speaking to me, it's nice to know I'm always on your mind. It'd be an honor if I cared about you, so instead I'm just mildly flattered."

Nanami's expression flattens. "Oh," he deadpans, looking very much like he'd love nothing more than to pour his boiling hot coffee all over Sukuna's features if said features were not attached to his son. "You."

"Me!" Sukuna echoes. "Don't tell me you're going to take this brat's words at face value. You must be acutely aware he's not alright."

A bone-deep sigh. "And whose fault is that." 

"Yours, of course," Sukuna lies. "Some father you are! How tragic. You can see him suffering right before ya, and you can't do anything to save him! Tales like this are quite compelling, aren't they? It's an unavoidable fate, but you still try regardless! If nothing else, I'm thoroughly entertained." A triumphant nod. "I'll tell you what, Nanami. As a consolation prize, I'll be sure to leave rave reviews on your epitaph."

Nanami returns to the stove, barely listening to Sukuna's performance: a television show rerun he only has on as background noise. "Looking forward to it," he says flatly, "but I think there's a word count cap for tombstones, so unfortunately you're going to have to be concise for once about your many shitty opinions."

"Well, you know what they say," Toge signs, joining them in the kitchen, "Everyone's a critic."

Is that so? "Trying to put on a brave face, are we?" Bold when Sukuna has permanently left his mark on Toge's. "I suppose that's really all you can do, isn't it? Just stand by and watch it watch your beloved boy wither away." Sukuna knows firsthand what despair that is. "Go on, brat. Tell him when was the last time you got a full night's sleep or kept down a meal without the glorious nightmares I concoct making you puke out your guts."

Yuuji stiffens. "He's exaggerating," Yuuji lies, again. Twice in two minutes: at this rate, Sukuna's gonna have competition. "He just wants to get under your skin. I sleep great all the time! I've basically learned how to tune him out."

Scanning Yuuji's face, Nanami sighs. There's skepticism on his features: like he wants to believe him but isn't sure if he can. There was once a time Nanami believed his son never lied. If nothing else, at least Sukuna has succeeded in ruining that. 

And so: "Go on," Sukuna purrs, dragging his tongue across his fangs. "Call your son a liar."

Sukuna knows because his son was a liar, too.

'Papa...I have to tell you something. I knew Sukuna was good all along.'

Hah. Look how that turned out.

Resigned, Nanami exhales a sigh. And he's lying, too, when he tells him, "The only liar here is you."

The three of them eat breakfast in relative silence, punctuating their meal with idle chatter between crunching toast and bleeding egg yolks. Nanami bids them farewell and walks them to the door, giving each son a gentle kiss atop the forehead –– and Sukuna conjures an image of himself tongue-deep in Nanami's neck just in time to make Yuuji flinch at the affection. 

When he pulls away, Nanami can't hide the split-second heartbreak that shatters across his face.

Mortified, Yuuji opens his mouth, gets ready to stutter something between an excuse and an apology, but instead Nanami quickly says: "You know what? I finally put together the paperwork, so let's stop by the courthouse to file your official adoption today."

Pupils wide, Yuuji gazes up at him. "Really...?"

Nanami's firm expression softens to a smile. "Yes, really." He turns to Toge. "Would you like to come along as well?"

"Heck yeah," Toge agrees, and though his scarf is shrouding his mouth, his eyes are curved into grins. "You should invite Mom, too."

"I will," Nanami replies, then ushers his children past the threshold. "Have a good day. I'll see you two after school."

Yuuji spaces out as he walks to school with his brother, opting to remain in the back of the pack when the family's other children join them in their trek.

The brat doesn't pay attention in class for even a moment, which is nothing new. He makes up some shoddy excuse when his friends try to play with him at recess, disappointing Shadow Puppet Boy; Sukuna had almost forgotten him and his sister Goody-Two-Shoes have recently transferred to this school, too. 

As Tsumiki drags Yuuji to play with them despite his protests, Sukuna scowls. Ugh, this girl. It's bad enough that her name already sounds too much like Sukuna's sister's, not to mention she also serves the group's peacekeeper role. And if that wasn't bad enough, now she wants to yield Tears of the Emperor as well?

'When he thinks about you with that weapon...I can’t explain it. It’s like he loses his will to fight.'

Well, excuse him for the minor trauma of getting hacked to pieces with his own weapon by a crying little girl. 

After school, Nanami collects the boys and drives them to the courthouse. It's not long before they're joined by Shoko, waving her bus pass to flag them down.

Nanami instructs his children to wait as Shoko jogs up to them. "Heya, rascals," she quips, slipping her hands casually into the pockets of her scrubs. "You ready to officially increase the size of our family by one?"

Toge spins to face her. "Mom!" He points at the duffel bag slung around her elbow. "Are you back from med school for a bit?"

"Yeah! I'm crashin' your party for a couple days," Shoko confirms, patting the canvas. "Home stretch, though! I'm graduating in just over a month."

Yuuji twiddles his thumbs. "Then you're gonna stay with us for good?"

Wide-eyed, Shoko glances at Nanami. Nanami lifts a brow; Shoko gives him a smirk. This is likely a private conversation meant to be had beside bank statements, detailed plans, and lofty discussions of what lies ahead, yet here they are, deciding the future of their relationship solely through facial expressions beside a busy street. It's oddly fitting for them.

Eventually: "Yeah," Shoko murmurs, expression warm. "Yeah, I will."

Toge scoots closer to her. "Awesome. I'm looking forward to causing some property damage with––" Toge's fingers halt beneath his father's stare; he backtracks like a camper discovering a landslide blocking the highway, pressing pause on the road trip playlist with no choice but to turn around. "Uh, I mean doing lots of chores with you."

A sigh, too soft to pass for anything but fond. "What am I going to do with both of you?" Nanami mumbles. "I made an appointment, so we don't have to wait as long as Toge and I did last time we were here."

Shoko's lips quirk into a catlike grin. "Ah, right. How'd it go last time? You went to the Inumaki estate just to meet Toge, and it took, like, a grand total of fifteen minutes for you to leave with a stack of adoption papers?"

Nanami makes a face he'd forever deny is a pout, but Sukuna is not so merciful. "It was eighteen minutes, at least," Nanami says petulantly. Come to think of it, didn't he also almost slaughter all of them? Missed opportunity, in Sukuna's objectively correct opinion. "Let's go inside."

The boys and Shoko follow Nanami inside the courthouse. They're right on time: the clerk flags them up to the window, straightening a stack of papers like a drill sergeant correcting soldiers in a drumline, not a page out of place.

The clerk's entire countenance changes upon catching sight of them: she brightens from dim to blinding, frown lines a take-off platform for the crow's feet creased by years of smiling. "I remember you!" she beams. "Is this your wife? What a lovely family you are!"

Flushed, Nanami scratches the side of his face. Tch, he never corrects anyone for that assumption. Why not just propose already? Sukuna's already bored with all these agonizing slow-burns couples in modern time have devolved to. Seriously, he married Uraume after two weeks.

Internally, Sukuna sighs. Ah, what he wouldn't give to see them again.

"Thanks! I'm inclined to agree with ya," Shoko chirps.

The clerk waves at Toge. "Nice to see you again, Nanami-kun!" she greets. "How are you enjoying life with your new parents?"

Toge readjusts his scarf. "I love them a lot. They're the best."

Nanami opens his mouth to translate, but the clerk clasps a hand to her chest, moved –– perhaps it's a requirement for civil servants to be well-versed in communicating with all potential citizens. "Aw, that's so sweet!" she coos, then, gesturing to Yuuji, "and who's this?"

"This is Yuuji," Nanami introduces. "I'm filing to adopt him as well."

The clerk claps in excitement. "Congratulations! Adoptions are so rare. You two are doing such a good deed!"

That's it, Sukuna's heard enough. "Good deed?" Sukuna mocks, and ooh, it's fun to watch the entire Nanami family startle then force themselves to keep smiling. "Ah, that's right. You adopted Toge to save him from being hurt, didn't ya?" Glancing at the ugly scar on Toge's face, Sukuna snorts. "That scar is all you." Then to Yuuji, "and you, of course." 

Yuuji scowls. It was you, he shoots back internally.

"Oh, no no no. You can't blame me for that," Sukuna says, not granting him the mercy of turning this conversation inwards. "I'm simply following my instincts as the King of Curses! Would you blame a man-eating lion for feasting on a circus audience if it's let out of its cage while hungry? Of course you wouldn't! It's the tamer who should know better, so all that blood would be on their hands. Not that I'll be leaving any hands behind after I'm done eating." A satisfied smirk as he swings towards Toge. "Maybe I'll eat your hands first, Nanami-kun, so you can't say a word other than to die screaming."

"Okaka," Toge says defiantly. "Konbu."

Sukuna isn't sure what that means, but he's certain it's an insult. "Yeah, right back at ya."

Oblivious, the clerk simply jots down a few notes before glancing at Yuuji. "Will you be replacing your current family name with 'Nanami' as well?"

Yuuji rocks back and forth on his heels. "Can I add it to my name instead? I wanna honor my grandpa still."

Yuuji Itadori Nanami? Ugh, what a fucking mouthful. Try saying that five times fast, and Sukuna's sure both of his tongues would end up in knots.

The clerk grins. "Of course!" She hands Yuuji, Nanami, and Shoko each a stack of papers. "Now just read through and sign these, and you'll be all set!" 

Accepting the documents, Yuuji flits over to a bench and plops down. He flips through the documents only for show, disregarding any catches or asterisk-marked fine print. Sukuna's well aware that none of it matters to him, so long as he leaves this building as Nanami's son. 

Once Yuuji reaches the final page and uncaps his pen, ready to officially join the Nanami family forever, Sukuna speaks up.

Go on, sign it, Sukuna taunts, reclining in his throne. It's the same as signing their death sentence.

Yuuji freezes. Sukuna can feel how badly he wants to be loved, how badly he wants to be part of this family, but his hand is shaking now, and–– 

"Papa," Yuuji wavers when Nanami approaches him, and there's really no point to his hesitance when he's already calling Nanami that. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Of course," Nanami reassures, and though he's speaking to Yuuji, he's glaring directly at Sukuna when he says, "Nothing he says or does could ever stop you from being my son."

Sukuna seethes.

The next day, the whole irritating family convenes for their bi-weekly training sessions. It's mind-numbingly dull for the most part: they congratulate Yuuji, tease Nanami for being the only one to bother with a paper trail, blah blah blah. There are very few in this group who legitimately interest him, and all Getou's doing is controlling some grade four curses for the children to practice their techniques, so Sukuna zones out.

"Congratulations again!" Yuuta is saying to Yuuji when practice ends. "This is so exciting!"

Maki nods. "Yeah, that creepy mother of yours isn't your real family. We are! And we're gonna do anything to help ya, no matter what!"

Toji ruffles her hair. "That's right, kiddo," he agrees. "Ah, that reminds me! Yuki, didn't ya say somethin' earlier about finding new shit relating to Sukuna?"

Sukuna perks up. Toji remembered something? Groundbreaking. 

In any case, this just got interesting. "Yeah! I did," Yuki confirms. "I read in an old book that for certain curses, some objects might not reveal themselves until they're exposed to their owner's cursed energy."

Gojo tilts his head. "You mean there could be items relating to Sukuna in the Jujutsu Tech archives we've already raided, but we couldn't tell what they were because we weren't with him?"

Yuki shoots him with finger-guns. "Right on, kid." She places a hand beneath her chin. "We've already theorized Sukuna's cursed energy residing in Yuuji might act as a compass to find the rest of Sukuna's fingers. It makes sense it'd also apply to this."

Switching his hips, Gojo's mouth downturns. "Yeah, but bringing him with us isn't an option. We can't let the higher-ups know Sukuna has incarnated, least of all in Yuuji. He'll get slapped with an execution sentence."

Sukuna surfaces on Yuuji's jawline. Okay, this just got too interesting. "But he's the son of one of their best sorcerers," he tries, and by now, no one in the family is startled by his intrusion. "They would still order his execution despite that?"

"That's just what the higher-ups are like," Gojo tells him, frown deepening. "It doesn't matter who he is, or whose kid he is."

"Really?" Sukuna says incredulously. "Even yours?"

Gojo swallows hard. "Even mine."

Sukuna tenses. All along, this is why he's had his policy: if he kills one member of a family, he’ll kill all members of that family, so no one has to be alone like him. 

But Six-Eyes takes that policy to the next level.

He, who is also The Strongest, is also surrounded by a family he adores, by a lover and children he cherishes. He also places the weight of the world upon his shoulders, has made it his purpose to protect others, has lost many things and faced hatred and fear due to his strength, yet still smiles and is surrounded by love despite it. At least for now.

It's like staring exactly at Sukuna's human self before everything fell apart. 

And Sukuna's always thought it foolish when people say there are things they wouldn't wish upon their worst enemy. If they're your worst enemy, shouldn't you want to make them suffer as much as possible? But now, here he is, presented with an enemy with far too many similarities for comfort, and Sukuna finds himself hoping it doesn't happen. Praying it doesn’t happen. Because––

Oh god, he didn't realize the worst thing that could happen to someone would be to become him.

And this, this, is precisely why the Six-Eyes disturbs him like no one else. If something happens to Gojo's family––and Sukuna will ensure that it does––and Gojo blames himself for it, it is possible that he could become a curse like Sukuna. 

Unacceptable. Sukuna must kill Gojo first, before he gets to the rest of them. Gojo cannot witness his family fall at Sukuna's hands. Really, it's a mercy.

This world already has a king of curses. It doesn't need the god of them.

It could be a bad joke, maybe. There are only two people in the world Sukuna doesn't want to suffer, and his worst enemy is one of them.

"Well, if we can't bring Yuuji along, we'll have to figure something else out," Yuki acknowledges, folding her arms. "Everyone get to thinkin'! We gotta solve this."

The group bids farewell, then Nanami and his children return home.

It's a relatively quiet evening for the Nanami family. Once Yuuji bids them all goodnight, he locks himself in his bedroom, stares at his nightstand clock, and waits. 

Yuuji's eyes remain transfixed to its electric green lettering, glowing like a nightclub's neon entryway sign. There's no alarm set, but Yuuji still acts as if 1 AM is a magic number signaling the start of a race. He throws back the covers and changes his clothing, swapping his innocuous animal-printed pajamas to the all-black drapings of a thief on their next strike.

He grabs his schoolbag and empties its contents unceremoniously onto his floor, swapping them out for hiking supplies. Then, he slings the canvas over his shoulder.

And it's almost funny, really, that none of the halfwits in his family predicted he would do this. That Nanami trusts him enough not to put a lock on his window, Yuuji dismantling the screen covering with ease so automatic it could be mechanically programmed. He slides the glass pane open and crosses the threshold.

Ooh, this promises to be interesting. Sukuna's always been a sucker for a good show.

Sukuna rises from his front-row seat. Lying to them once again, are we? he taunts, stepping from the audience chamber onto the stage. What a delinquent you're becoming. By now, I think the scales have tipped that you tell them more lies than truths. 

A scowl as Yuuji's sneakers meet the sidewalk. I didn't lie, he denies. The first stage of grief: Sukuna's quite looking forward to this night progressing through the others. I just...didn't tell them I'd do this.

Sukuna lets out a cackle so harsh it makes the brat flinch, even though he's more than used to this. Newsflash, brat! A lie of omission is still a lie! As he should be with everything, Sukuna is the top authority on this. Take it from me. I always lie, so I'm an expert. 

Yuuji drops onto the bench sprouting from the bus stop. This is for the best. He tugs his knees to his chest. I don't wanna inconvenience them more than I already am.

Right, because how dare a child need help. Call it whatever you want to cope with your dishonesty. The forced smirk of an actor with anything but the play on their mind. I'm quite pleased you're picking up my tendencies. 

We're nothing alike, Yuuji snaps internally, kicking a rock. Even if it's a lie, I'm doing it to help them.

And it could backfire so spectacularly. Sure won't be any help if ya get caught! he reminds him. Lying is an art, and soon your skills will rival my own. How impressive! Not that you'll best me, of course. Like everything else I've ever done, I'm the best in the world at it.

Then that's a lie, too, Yuuji shoots back. If you always lie, that means there's things you've tried to do, and you totally failed to do it.

Ah, now what could that be referring to? Guarding the province? Protecting his family? Living the happy ending to this come-to-life story he told his son on his deathbed? Pick a card, any card. They're all winners, even if the prize is a tragic end. Have you no decorum? You're not supposed to point that out.

Yuuji rolls his eyes as the bus pulls up. Whoops. My bad, he deadpans. He flips his frown as he gives a polite nod to the driver, a grin that reaches his eyes, unlike most fake ones. He settles into a seat on the back of the bus, stares blankly out the window.

But it's quite the consolation prize hearing you talk like that! Sukuna quips. I wonder what your family would think if they heard such vitriol in that kind, sweet voice of yours. Ooh, I bet it would bring them to tears.

It has happened several times already, each more amusing than the last. It's become clear they never thought him capable of it; ah, how Sukuna loves proving kindness wrong.

As I've said, they don't know the real you, Sukuna continues, dragging this out. Switching off the safety. The child they love no longer exists. Maybe it never did. 

Yuuji squirms in his seat. Doesn't reply as the bus continues its trek from the city to the countryside. The Milky Way pours across the heavens like a bottle knocked over; you're not supposed to cry over spilled milk, yet here Yuuji is regardless, chest heavy and eyes stinging as Sukuna drones on.

You know what that means, don't you? It means the real you is unlovable, Sukuna lies. You're the most unlovable child in the world.

But instead of retorting back, Yuuji curls his knees into his chest.

Tell me something I don't know.

Sukuna's breath stutters. You're not supposed to agree with me, he wants to say, but the thoughts can't push past his own head. After all, there's someone who loves you right––

Hah! Right you are! he says instead. Self-awareness has always been one of your only redeeming qualities –– not that it makes up for your many, many faults.

As the bus winds up the countryside, Sukuna continues, You wish they didn't love you, despite how much you crave to be loved, he rambles. I bet it'll be heartbreaking to watch all their love for you disappear one by one. What despair that'll be! You'll be mourning them before they're even dead.

Yuuji flops against the headrest. Are you done?

Far from it. Someday you'll thank me. I’m doing you a favor by pushing them away. After all, Sukuna could've avoided the tragedy that befell him if he'd been alone. You don’t need them. You need me. 

I dunno, Sukuna, Yuuji echoes darkly, the prelude to an omen, like calling out into an empty cave only to hear something other than your own voice echoing back. I'm starting to feel like it’s the other way around. 

Fuck. This is how it's been more and more lately: Yuuji seeing through him is more like ripping him open and less like peering through cracks. You want to die surrounded by others, Sukuna tries. He can still go for the upper hand even if he has two less than he used to. But thanks to me, they will die surrounding you.

Yuuji curls his fists. You're wrong, he insists. You're gonna die surrounded by them. So thanks to me, you're not gonna die how you should.

Sukuna should've died the moment his sister plunged a stake into his heart, but here he still is, cursed to live. Oh? This had better be good. And how is that?

Yuuji hops off the bus, feet hitting the trail with a thud that's strangely final.

Alone.

Sukuna's jaw drops. 

Stunned into silence, Sukuna remains quiet as Yuuji climbs up the mountainside. Yuuji has never been to Jujutsu Tech, and he gets lost no less than three times on his way: armed only with an old map he swiped from Nanami's desk drawer, his one brain cell is on hyperdrive, like an old computer monitor running every program at once. It must be near 3 AM that he finally reaches the campus' perimeter.

If it's one thing Yuuji has never been, it's stealthy: here is no exception, Yuuji foolishly hiding behind bushes too bright even at nighttime to match his makeshift disguise, running fast enough for his footsteps to echo throughout the shrine's courtyards. 

The map wrinkles as he checks it over and over, paper crinkling like popcorn blooming in a microwave. No one should make something so loud as a midnight snack, but this is Yuuji he's talking about.

Sukuna frowns. Idiot.

Finally, Yuuji locates the storehouse, ducking behind a shed at the opposite end of the plaza. His breath hitches as he notices two guards chatting amongst themselves, both too absorbed in their conversation to notice the panicked rustling of an intruder.

Still, they'll sure as hell notice if Yuuji makes a mad dash for the door.

"Oh no, guards!" Yuuji mutters to himself, shoving the map in his back pocket. "What should I do?!"

Sukuna knows better than to think Yuuji is genuinely asking him, but he still surfaces on Yuuji's cheek to tell him, "You should kill them, of course."

Yuuji swats at him like he's a moth drawn to a dark street's only lamplight. "I'm obviously not gonna do that," he snaps. "I'll just––distract them."

Eyes sweeping across his surroundings, Yuuji finds a rock that must weigh half as much as he does: he still picks it up with brow-raising ease, hoisting it into the crook of his elbow. With a deep breath, Yuuji hurdles it across the terrain –– it streaks like a comet in record-low orbit, ready to crater an extinction-level event into the ground below. 

The guards both startle. "Hey! Did you see that?!" one of them says urgently. He rakes a nervous hand through already-tousled brown hair: a nervous habit, perhaps. "What was that! Do you think it was a curse?"

"Could be," says the other. He's more stoic, but it's clear he's also on edge. "C'mon, we should investigate."

"Y-Yeah. Right behind ya," stutters the first guard, wringing his hands. Sukuna snorts. Pfft, we've got a real hero over here.

Hastily, the two guards follow the diversion. Once they've disappeared from the courtyard, Yuuji bolts towards the door –– it's locked, but Yuuji's brute strength is more than enough to snap the chains and wrench it open. He slips inside, shoddily readjusting the chains to make it look like they haven't just been torn by bare hands; he's largely unsuccessful, which means he can't stay here for long.

Yuuji spins around. He coughs as his lungs protest the stale air of the storehouse, rotten and cursed as a mummy's crypt. Heaps of unidentifiable objects are strewn about, dubious lumps of flesh preserved in jars with embalming fluid the color of stomach acid. Throughout the room are dusty wooden boxes sealed in tape brushed with bold lettering: Seal! Banish! Death! written over and over like mantras, condemning whatever's inside to eternal solitude. They're piled floor-to-ceiling: the moving supplies of an exorcist.

The only illumination comes from the thin seam of empty space between the door and the pavement: Yuuji fumbles around in his backpack for his flashlight, his pupils shrinking in surprise as he accidentally flicks it on right in his eyes.

Sukuna cackles. "Strong start," he retorts as Yuuji blinks the mottled rainbow spots from his vision, dancing across his surroundings like fairies covered in sludge. "You gonna rattle those boxes to announce your presence next? By all means, be my guest."

"Shut up," Yuuji says, pointlessly. He sweeps the flashlight across the vault. "Do you sense anything relating to you?"

Is he for real? "What in my name makes you think I'd help you look for items you plan to use against me?" he snorts. "Good fuckin' luck, brat. I'll be right here, watching you fail."

Yuuji huffs. He wanders aimlessly, weaving through the aisles as if he's waiting for something to happen: for some random object to react, to beep or glow like he's getting closer to the hidden treasure in a video game. 

Eventually, he stops at a table near the back. Tilts his head, narrows his eyes at it, like he's not sure whether he's reached the X-marks-the-spot on a faded old map. Setting his flashlight down, he pushes aside several objects covering another.

When Yuuji finally withdraws what he was looking for, whatever's left of Sukuna's broken heart utterly stops.

It's a lacquered box Sukuna would recognize anywhere, would recognize if the world ended, would recognize even if his mind were wiped blank like Toji's. The last time he saw it was tucking it into his new, lonely palace right after he'd become a curse, empty if you didn't count the butchered bodies in his freshly-claimed throne room. 

It's the box he packed right before leaving his old province after wiping it out: the box that contains the only three mementos left in existence of his family. The tiger and swan plushes he made for Yume and Jion, Uraume's plum blossom crown. 

To Sukuna's hope and horror, Yuuji opens it.

And finds that everything is perfectly preserved, still the same as the day Sukuna tucked them inside, trying and failing to lock away his memories of his family forever. Yuuji himself already brought much of it back: yet here they are, still the same when Sukuna himself is not, when he's nothing more than the monster he used to tell them stories about. 

Sukuna's surprised when his shadow of a figure still has the capability to form words. "Why––" he exhales, features teetering atop the cliff's edge of Yuuji's cheekbone, "why are you opening this?"

Brows pinched, Yuuji examines the contents. "I...don't know," he admits. Tilting it at shifting angles, as if what he's staring at will change if he looks at it under different light. "I just felt called to it."

"How ridiculous," is all Sukuna manages. A paltry dilution of his usually-vibrant insults, barely a step from the monochrome sliver of the color wheel.

"What is this?" Yuuji continues. He draws it closer. "It doesn't feel like a cursed object."

"It's not," Sukuna snaps, then adds quickly, "you fool."

Yuuji narrows his eyes. "How do you know that?" he pries, and ah, Sukuna shouldn't have said that. "Is it yours?"

Sukuna opens his mouth. What can he even say? Yuuji hates his fucking guts and may not bring it home with him if he believes it's important to Sukuna, but he's here to find items relating to Sukuna, after all. 

When a minute comes and goes without a response, "Why would you have something like this?" Yuuji murmurs into the silence, his tone strangely soft. "They're actually kinda..."

Yuuji runs a tender hand over the tiger plush, picking it up. Sukuna's chest is supposed to be empty, but sentimentality finds something to clutch within him and pulls on it anyway: his cherished babies are supposed to be dead, yet here is another child who's just like them holding something he made as if it's something precious––

But because Sukuna is not that father anymore, all he does is the only thing he still can. 

"You think this garbage is mine?" he sneers, paving over the stutter in his voice the way he'd bury a body–– even if that corpse is his own. "What kind of hoarder do you take for? What use would I have for such worthless rubble? An entire storehouse of powerful objects, and you felt called to an old trinket and some ratty toys that look like they were plucked straight out of a dumpster. I mean, just look at these pitiful things."

When this does nothing but make Yuuji clutch the plush tighter, Sukuna taunts, "Are you that desperate for something to hold?" and it's just as much to Yuuji as it is to himself. "I've been here all along, but I can't promise you'll remain unbutchered if I wrap my tender, loving arms around you."

Yuuji swallows hard. And maybe he's not the only one thrown off by what he's looking at, because the only comeback he counters with is, "What are you even talking about."

"These items are obviously useless," Sukuna concludes, and then he stutters, "b-but perhaps you should bring them with you, just in case."

Then suddenly, Yuuji tenses. Thins his gaze, glares at Sukuna as much as he can when Sukuna's hiding in plain sight on his own face.   

"You want me to bring it," Yuuji says, and of fucking course he sees through Sukuna instantly. Hesitation shelved and swapped for suspicion, something almost like certainty in his voice. "Why?"

"Why?" Sukuna repeats, and he loathes how much his voice is trembling. "You're the one who was called to it, right? Don't look at me."

Yuuji's expression hardens. "It's yours," he says, all certainty now. "What is it? What are you gonna do with it?"

"I'm not going to do anything with it," Sukuna hisses, and it's maybe even not a lie. "Just––just bring it."

"No," Yuuji declares. He tucks the tiger plush back inside, sets the lid back onto the box with the finality of someone bolting shut a casket. Wouldn't want any corpses to break free and start eating people, now. "I'm not gonna bring it!"

Something Sukuna refuses to call fear arcs through him. "You're––you're not?" he wavers, tone halfway between horror and anger. "A-And here I thought you wanted to help your family yourself. Goin' through all this trouble and you're not gonna even bring home the one item that's allegedly mine?" A laugh, so forced it has to punch its way out of his throat. "That'd be a complete waste of fuckin' time, so you might as well bring it!"

"No!" Yuuji says again, shoving the box away from him. "If you want it so badly, that must mean you wanna use it to hurt my family!"

His family? Oh, he has no idea. "Bring it," Sukuna thunders, shaking the way lightning makes the clouds shake. "I command you!"

"No!" Yuuji says for the third fucking time, one awful repetition each for the three precious things Sukuna may never see again. "Why would I do that?! You're gonna hurt people with it, aren't you?!"

Sukuna's tongue trips over itself. He wants to say no, but his children died for the sin of being his, and if this goes on any longer Yuuji will be discovered and die for the sin of being his vessel, then history will repeat itself––

But still, all Sukuna can do is repeat: "Bring it, you brat!"

"Cut it out! I'm not gonna––"

Tugging on the roots of his hair, Sukuna squeezes his eyes shut. "Yuuji, please!"

And just like that, Yuuji halts. "...what’d you just say?"

Eyes flying open, Sukuna's entire body seizes as he realizes what he's said. Did he just–– beg? He's the King of Curses, for fuck's sake, the Strongest, the Disgraced One, the ultimate monster –– it's beneath him. It's so, so beneath him, yet here he is, pleading in a voice that could only be called desperate. Asking something of the vessel who wants nothing more than his death to do something that could, if you looked at through blurry glasses from miles away, almost be considered kind.

There's really no denying it, but Sukuna can still try. "I––" Sukuna scrambles back in his throne. "I-I didn't––"

But Yuuji doesn't let him finish. Instead, he slams his eyes shut, reappearing before Sukuna in the crimson sludge swamping the basin of his Innate Domain.

Fearlessly, because he's never been afraid of Sukuna, Yuuji marches right up to him: looms above him the way a god judges a nonbeliever, determining if his benevolence includes those who denied him. He leans closer, scans Sukuna's wrecked posture, and studies his face. 

Sukuna has long since lost the ability to cry, but whatever expression he's making must match that of a person with tears in their eyes: features twisted in anguish, hairline slick with sweat, chest rising and falling with the forced drumbeat of someone receiving CPR that isn't working. All he can do is sit there, pinned beneath the weight of Yuuji's stare, caught red-handed for the crime of needing help.

Finally, Yuuji releases a short exhale, makes some decision that for once, Sukuna can't read. He clambors down the ivory staircase of Sukuna's macabre throne and returns to the stagnant sanguine waters, then disappears from the prison only one of them can leave.

Consciousness returned to the outside world, Yuuji stretches his hands. His focus immediately drops to the box: he runs his fingers over it, gives it one final scan, then shoves it in his backpack.

Sukuna feels his eyes widen in shock. No way. There's no way. There really is no way––but Yuuji is plodding towards the exit anyway, the catalogue of his belongings increased by one. 

He listened to Sukuna. He helped him. He really did.

Sukuna manages a shuddering breath. "Hah, that's interesting," he wavers, releasing the tension from his shoulders. It's a victory, but it doesn't feel like it. Instead he's just–– floored. " You're giving me your compassion?"

Yuuji tightens his grip on his backpack.

"You've never asked for it."

And there's really nothing Sukuna can say to that.

Yuuji finally reaches the exit. He wraps his fist around the handle, jostles it open, and––

"I knew I heard voices!" one of the guards says to the other, and Yuuji and Sukuna both petrify as they realize too late that they've been shouting at each other––

Out loud.

The other guard takes a defensive stance beside his partner. "Hey! Who are you?" he demands, reaching for a weapon holstered at his hip. "What are you doing?!"

Yuuji opens his mouth, yet no thoughts solidify enough to bloom into words. "Um––" he eventually stutters, backing away, but there's nowhere to run. "I––I'm just––"

"Do you sense that cursed energy?" the first guard asks the other. "That's the same energy from those fingers that were stolen from the storehouse!"

His partner startles. "What?! No way! Do you mean that's the King of––" And Sukuna would relish in their fear if he were the one in control, if he were the one who could wring despair from their throats with his teeth and feast on their still-screaming bodies, but he's not ––instead Yuuji is the one with a mace and a sword pointed at him, frozen in shock. "It's really him! What should we do?"

The guard paints on the face of someone who knows they're about to die but is ready to go down fighting anyway. "We have to stop him!"

It's then Yuuji finally collects himself enough to say something. "W-Wait! I'm not Sukuna! You've got it all wrong!"

The guard is unconvinced. Gesturing his trembling blade at Yuuji, "Then what's with your cursed energy? What's in the bag?"

Pointlessly, Yuuji tries to hide it behind his back. "It's nothing!"

But the guard just shakes his head, glancing back at his partner. "I'm sure that's him! We can't believe a word he says. Haven't you heard the legends?" He inhales a deep breath, steadies his weapon, and shouts:

"Sukuna always lies!"

And that does it. "Right you are!" Sukuna singsongs, surfacing on Yuuji's cheek. "I'm right here, you miserable wretches! I'll enjoy wringing last words from your bleeding throats, so you better make this interesting!"

The guards charge at Yuuji. Urgently, Yuuji withdraws Playful Cloud from his backpack and parries their attacks, the sword's lunge glancing off the outer section and the mace blocked with the center third.  

Undeterred, the guards split off, a silent agreement to come at him from different angles. They streak towards him from north and south; Yuuji digs his heels into the cracked flagstone then vaults into a lateral salto at the last moment. The guards scramble to screech to a halt, only inches away from crashing into each other with their merciless attacks.

They want to kill Yuuji. They're trying to kill him.

One of the guards wavers in his conviction. "Man, what are we doing?!" he asks his partner. "He's just a kid!"

His partner shakes his head. "No, he's Sukuna's vessel! You can't think of him like that!" the guard declares. "He's an inhuman monster!"

Rage claws its way up Sukuna's esophagus and retches out of him like vomit. How dare you speak like that about my perfect, innocent child, he wants to say, but it comes out as:

"Now you're getting it! I can't wait to pick your broken bones clean with his tiny fingers. Maybe he should tell you all about how clearly he remembers the taste of his own brother's filthy blood in his mouth!"

Briefly, Yuuji halts. He exhales an exasperated sigh, like he hadn't expected anything to change between them but is disappointed nonetheless.

"See! He hurt his own brother!" says the second guard. This is how humans are, how humans have always been, and Sukuna knows this better than anyone: they'll believe anything to justify their own cruelty, to live with what they've done. "We can't think of him as a person!"

Sukuna feels Yuuji's heart twist in his chest.

The guards make another dash at him. Yuuji revolves Playful Cloud like the blades of a downed helicopter, metallic weapons clanging against his staff like a xylophone keysmash. The swordsman guard blasts through the flurry, slinging his blade towards Yuuji's ankles, and it's only split-second instincts that allow Yuuji to leap over it not a moment too soon.

The first guard swings his mace in a clockwise arc overhead. Yuuji tosses Playful Cloud skyward to handspring out of the way, catching his staff at his new, further position. Still determined, the guards gun for him again, the swordsman hurling his weapon at Yuuji like a javelin. When Yuuji's just barely able to duck and let it whistle over his shoulder, the guard's partner arrives: he pummels the pavement into concrete dust with the force of his missed attack, Yuuji tripping over his shoelaces as he stumbles out of the way.

He's only blocking, only dodging. He's not fighting back.

Sukuna's blood boils. "Missed me, you skittering rats!" Sukuna mocks, taunting them the way he used to toy with opponents in their futile struggles, yet Yuuji is caught in the crossfire. "I usually commend those who dare stand against me for their bravery, but this is so pathetic I can't do anything but laugh!" 

Boldened by Sukuna's cruel words, the guards surge forth. "You ain't seen nothin' yet! We're gonna exorcise you, with all of our power!"

"I'd like to see you try!" Sukuna chants, but it's Yuuji who has to slide low into a three-point landing to escape the onslaught, his fingertips scraped raw and bloody from the rough pavement. Sukuna clutches his claws into the softest part of his chest––why? Why is he doing this? He's making this so much worse for Yuuji, but he just can't stopstopstop–– "I do love toying with my prey in their final moments, but this is becoming a drag. I hate to break it to ya, but you can't bore me to death if I can't fuckin' die!"

But he can. When he's trapped in Yuuji's body, he can. He finally, finally can, but Yuuji would die too, and that's not an option––

Sukuna turns his attention towards Yuuji. "You fool! You have to kill them!" he demands. "Take their cursed tools and slit their necks! You can't let them leave here alive, or they'll tell the higher-ups you're my vessel and get slapped with an execution sentence!" 

Fervently, Yuuji shakes his head. "I can't kill them! No way!"

"Yes, you can," Sukuna insists, panic mounting as the guards make another run at him Yuuji barely parries, one of the mace's iron thorns nicking his wrist. "You're going to inconvenience your precious family once they hear about this. What frustration they'll feel when they learn of your execution sentence!"

Guilt twists in Yuuji's stomach, but Sukuna can tell his opinion hasn't changed. "I won't kill two innocent people!"

What a soft-hearted weakling. "Well, I can," Sukuna reminds him, rising from his throne. "Switch with me, and I'll save you all the trouble, all the guilt." He waves a hand in a paltry performance of nonchalance––not even the most listless of audiences would believe this act. "No need to thank me, though I do enjoy gifts––"

Yuuji shoots Sukuna a scathing glance. "Shut up! I'll never switch with you! I'll never trust you no matter what!" Frustrated, he grips Playful Cloud so hard his knuckles blanch rice-flour white. "Honestly, at this point, I––"

Distracted by his argument with Sukuna, the first guard's mace bludgeons Yuuji straight in the chest.

Yuuji shrieks in surprise. The iron thorns pierce his body like falling on a bed of nails and carve into irrigation tunnels as the guard rakes his weapon across Yuuji's torso, following it up with another bruising smack. The guard stomps a steel-toed boot into Yuuji's obliques and kicks him aside like he's worthless, striking him with another slicing shunt as he scrambles to his feet.

Still rattled, Yuuji doesn't notice the swordsman guard until it's too late. The guard reels a diagonal pitch towards Yuuji's neck and Yuuji barely evades what would be a fatal hit that instead slices deep through his shoulder, coating the silver blade with red, red, red.  

Sukuna loathes himself with a violence that would kill him, if it could. It's his fault Yuuji is getting hurt like this. It's his fault, his fault, again and again. 

Desperate, Yuuji dips low and whirls Playful Cloud around his back, deflecting the next onslaught of attacks. When the swordsman makes another charge at him Yuuji has no choice but to aim for his wrist with a gyrating smack, the staff colliding with the guard's wrist with a sickening crack. 

"Hah! This is great!" Sukuna taunts, but if Yuuji were to look inwards, he'd see nothing close to a grin on Sukuna's broken face. "I knew you'd eventually hurt 'em!"

Yuuji swallows hard, and there's water in his voice when he falters, "I-I have to fight back," he admits, plowing a heel into the first guard's stomach. "Mama, Papa, and Toge would be sad if I died."

Sukuna's ribcage tightens. "That's––"

That's the only reason you're fighting back?

Anger spikes in his chest. Whether it's at the guards, at Yuuji, at himself ––he isn't sure. "Don't forget about our promise," Sukuna reminds him, but Yuuji is barely listening now. "I can take over whenever I want!"

Does he have to, here? These guards can't be more than grade three, and Yuuji is rapidly approaching grade two. Sukuna would hate to waste his golden opportunity at a time like this, but if Yuuji doesn't slaughter these two insects quickly, then––

Sukuna slams a fist against a skull beside him so hard he shatters it. "Kill them now, brat! I know you can!" 

"No! I refuse!" Yuuji declares, still adamant, but something has to change or he's not getting out of this.

Yuuji sweeps his gaze across the landscape, then sprints towards the awning formed by the pagoda. The two guards follow, but when Yuuji whirls around with confidence, they discover they've been lured into a trap. Yuuji windmills Playful Cloud the way whitewater rapids bash rocks into rubble, then collapses the pillars supporting the clerestory.

Before the roof comes down, Yuuji tells them, "I'm so sorry."

Shouting, the guards run away just in time. It's clear Yuuji knew they'd be able to dodge it: but the momentary shock gives Yuuji the opening he needs to pivot towards Jujutsu Tech's perimeter and bolt. 

And he doesn't stop even once as he hightails his way down the mountain, tripping and stumbling over twigs and thickets like a wipeout show obstacle course. He reaches the bus stop out of breath even with his superhuman endurance: his inhales short and shallow, far too much so to oxygenate the blood getting lost on its way to his heart, taking a permanent detour through the trench on his shoulder. 

"You fool," Sukuna sneers. "Those decrepit higher-ups are gonna find out you're my vessel for sure now."

Yuuji gulps. "It's––it had to happen." He drops onto the bus stop's waiting bench. "I couldn't kill them. I just couldn't."

A laborious breath. His wound is practically gushing and the adrenaline is wearing off, robbing him of the innate anesthetic numbing his injury. He sways, dizzy from pain and blood loss, like he's one light tap on the temple from passing out on the pavement.

Yet still, what the brat is panicking most about is how to hide it from the bus driver when he pulls up at the stop.

Stupidly, all he can think to do is place a palm over it as he climbs into the vehicle, each shaky step up the staircase a minor miracle. It takes only seconds for slick crimson to seep between the slats on his fingers; not to mention it's already on his face, smeared like mud on his cheekbones beside the actual muck from the mountainside. A truly pointless attempt at feigning health, but because everything the brat does is pointless, he does it anyway.

And, just like everything else, he fails almost immediately. 

The bus driver's eyes widen in concern: it's not every day a small child bleeds out on his doorstep. "You okay, kid?" 

Yuuji plasters on a grin that's just as fake as it is convincing; Sukuna's heard of this, wax statues that look more genuine than their celebrity counterparts. "Yeah, I'm fine!" Yuuji lies. "I just tripped on the mountain. But don't worry! It looks way worse than it actually is!"

Despite Yuuji's reassurance, the bus driver's frown doesn't budge. "You sure? I can swing by the hospital––"

A lance of panic arcs down Yuuji's spine and skewers Sukuna straight through the stomach. "There's no need," Yuuji tells him. "My mama is a doctor, so she can help!"

But when he finally arrives at the Nanami residence, Yuuji marches straight past his parents' room to the medicine cabinet, then hauls a heap of supplies towards his room all by himself.

Curious, Sukuna emerges on Yuuji's forearm. "What's this?" Sukuna lilts, feigning curiosity above the concern confusion. "Not bothering Mommy Dearest for her assistance? And here I thought you had faith in her medical skills..." He purses his lips. "Though I suppose you are aware that she cheated on her exams." He swings his features in as much of a nod as he can manage in this form. "So you don't trust her, after all."

Yuuji rolls his eyes. "That's obviously not it," he scoffs, not shaken in the least by his taunting. Oh well, Sukuna tried. "I got into this mess myself. I don't want to trouble her. I don't want to worry her." His gaze drops to the mahogany hardwood, nearly black in the scant lighting. "This is my fault."

Sukuna's insides twist. His fault? His fault? "Ahaha! Right you are! It's all your––" my "––fault!" He reclines in his throne. "Man, it's refreshing to hear you admit it for once. Too bad it's useless! Don't look now, but you're tracking blood in the house."

Disobedient, Yuuji peers over his shoulder, scowl deflating into a frown. "I'll...clean it up soon."

With those injuries? He'd be lucky if he could lift a bucket of soapy water without blacking out in it. "Good luck with that," Sukuna snorts. More blood weeps from Yuuji's shoulder onto his chest, and alarm blares through Sukuna like a fire bell pulled long after a burning building is already beyond saving. "Still, while I love watching you suffer, I do think you should call for your mother. This is a job best left to a professional, no?"

"No," Yuuji shoots back. Tch, he's always had an irritating knack for actually answering rhetorical questions. "She's already sleep deprived enough. I'm not gonna worsen that all because of me."

Of course he isn't. Far be it for him to consider himself a problem actually worth having. "My, my. So far out of your way you're going for such an insignificant wretch."

"Don't talk about her like that," Yuuji demands. "She's my mama. I love her." 

Then two dark eyes meet Sukuna's single one, his glare alive the way a fire is alive, torching everything in its path. Sukuna's technique is supposed to make him immune to fire damage––yet still. "And I hate you."

A part of Sukuna he never even knew was still alive dies inside. It's not the first time he's said it, but this one is particularly scathing.

Sukuna recalls thinking the first time he held his precious children in his arms, their wide, perfect eyes staring up at him with wonder, that there was no feeling which could compare to my babies love me. None. 

Ah, the irony. Like most things he believed back then, he was wrong: there is one feeling that does measure up to it, even if it's on the opposite end of the spectrum.

My baby hates me.

So, so much. 

Sukuna manages a scoff that sounds more like a final breath –– not that he could ever take one. "Ooh, look at me. I'm positively crushed," he admits lies. After all, he always does. "Still, I really do think you need your mommy for this one. Shall I call out for her? I look forward to seeing the look on her face when she discovers the consequences of your disobedience." He curls his lips into a smirk. "Think she'll cry? God, I hope."

Yuuji clenches his fists. "Don't you dare," he whisper-snaps. "I'll never forgive you for that!"

Mm, something different. "Oh? Does that imply there are things you will forgive me for?" Sukuna taunts instead. "Well, this is news."

Yuuji teeters as a bottle of antiseptic nearly tumbles overboard. "Shut up," he counters. "It's just a figure of speech."

That much is obvious, since his critical reasoning skills are clearly worse than normal –– and that's already being generous with whatever half-excuse for thinking he only ever somewhat does. 

Still, if this scene unfolding is an improv act, then it's Sukuna's duty as a performer to work with Yuuji's impromptu script. "Oh, no no no. I'm not letting you get away that easily," he insists. "How about this? I'll be sure to let that pitiful brother of yours know that literally scarring him for life wasn't nearly as horrifying as the thought of crushing your mother beneath the weight of a minor inconvenience."

Yuuji readjusts his grip on the first-aid bin. "God, do you believe even half of what you say?" he sneers. "You already know you're wrong, so why do you even bother?"

Instinct? Habit? Grief? At this point, it's truly a mystery. "You're in denial, I see. I'm simply stating the obvious," Sukuna continues, because it's all he still knows how to do. "Think of me as a megaphone that echoes back all the things you hate most about yourself. And don't bother shooting this messenger! Believe me, I've tried, and it doesn't work."

Crossing the threshold to his bedroom, Yuuji pulls a face somewhere between surprised and disgusted. "You've tried?"

Ah, shit. Funny how Sukuna only recalls that cautionary tale of a man flying too close to the sun when his wings are already nothing but ash and bone. "Such insolence," Sukuna exhales beneath the unforgiving solar flares, and now it's his turn to stutter: "It's just a figure of speech." 

Yuuji drops the medical supplies atop his bathroom counter with a heavy thunk. "It's honestly not."

But he still doesn't ask.

Once he's clicked the door shut in some attempt at sound-proofing, Yuuji slips a hand beneath the hem of his wrecked hoodie, tugs it off with the kind of effort it would take to move a car with a dead battery from the middle of the street by hand. The sudden pain of the sizable movement is so sharp their shared vision whites out for a moment: cuts stinging beneath the strain like digging a fingernail beneath an orange peel, ripping through flesh to get to its soft, vulnerable insides.

Slowly, Yuuji pries off the fabric, mushy with blood and tissue like paper towels left in a sink too long. He drops it unceremoniously to the bathroom floor with a wet slop; and yet, the only thing that makes him flinch is how much blood spatters like spray paint on his cabinets he'll inevitably have to scrub.

Sighing in unison that bothers them both, Yuuji and Sukuna look in the mirror, ready to catalogue the damage.

It's––it's bad. Really bad. Horror movie victim levels of bad: a dead body dumped in a forest, found only when the main character trips over it and makes the audience scream, jump in their seats. He should definitely be in a hospital; he's maybe one more pint of blood loss away from a being in a morgue. 

Sukuna flexes, grips his fingers into the skulls on his throne so hard his claws score the bone with stress marks. Yuuji's entire torso is battered with cuts and bruises like plastic strewn on the side of the road, littered over his tiny, breakable body like he's nothing but trash––

At the sight, Sukuna nearly gets sick on the spot. 

This is all his fault. It is.  

His child is bleeding out in front of him, again.

Yuuji sets his jaw. "Would you quit glaring?" he snaps. Talking only further accentuates how close the wound on his shoulder was to severing his neck. "It's like I told the bus driver. It's not as bad as it looks."

Sukuna lets out a laugh too manic to pass for amused. "Hah! Who do you think you're talkin' to, brat?! Why bother lying when we share a body? I can feel your pain, and I'm relishing in it." Forcibly, he releases the tension in his fingers. "Besides, how could I quit glaring? Each of those wounds is like a gold star, all for me."

"For you?" Yuuji scoffs, blotting his chest with a hand towel. A white flag he'd never wave. "I know you'd think of that as flattering yourself, but it's my fault this happened."

Sukuna scoffs. "Don't rob me of my victories. I'm not pleased." Then even though Yuuji's not looking at him, he still points towards the crack in his phantom ceiling, the cavern pouring entirely unwanted light into his Innate Domain. "That wound on your shoulder is really something. If you don't get your mommy, it's gonna scar beautifully."

"I don't care," Yuuji insists. "She's done so much for me. I'm not gonna do that to her. How could I repay her kindness by making her clean up my messes?" There it is again, that self-reproach. Like it's his duty to suffer if it means others won't. "I can take care of myself. I know how."

But when Yuuji starts rummaging through the medical supplies, foolishly leafing past everything he's definitely going to need in order to do this, it's obvious he's clueless. 

Eventually he settles on a roll of gauze as his first step, his trembling fingers fumbling with where the bandage is stuck to itself on the roll. There's half-dried blood caked under his nail that contaminates the muslin as soon as he hooks it beneath the tattered edge: he starts unravelling the dressing, preparing to wrap it around his injuries, and––

"You're not even going to clean the wounds?!" Sukuna interjects. It's not like watching the brat pathetically fail at something is a new experience –– normally Sukuna detests enjoys observing his pointless struggles, but this is hard to watch, even for him. It's a circus of performers who haven't practiced together even once, stage acts crashing into each other like a clown faceplanting against a tightrope walker. There's a good and a bad kind of chaos, and this type is decidedly not entertaining. "Are you an idiot?!"

"Cut it out!" Yuuji shoots back. "I'd say to cut me some slack if I thought you would, so instead I'm just gonna tell you to can it."

Does he honestly think that's going to work? Right, because Sukuna has always listened to his gag orders before. "Goodness, what a harsh tongue you have." Even if it's only ever to him. "Fine. Since I'm so merciful, I'll guide you through it! All you have to do is obey me–– really, it's overdue." Then, Sukuna quickly tacks on, "For my own sake, of course. You getting an infection or bleeding out would inconvenience me, after all."

Yuuji tears off a strip of gauze. It's dirty, it's the wrong size, and it's the wrong timing, but still he says, "I don't need your help."

Imbecile. "You obviously do."

"I don't want your help."

Now that, Sukuna believes. "Well, you have no choice. You can't tune me out, so just shut up and listen."

Disappearing from Yuuji's forearm, Sukuna resurfaces on Yuuji's collarbone to get a better look, to properly guide him through this. Reluctantly, Yuuji sets down the gauze –– a silent confession to the crime of incompetence. He's ready; the stage is set.

Sukuna swallows hard at Yuuji's mangled reflection. It's hard to be objective when his baby his jailer looks like he's been put through a paper shredder, but wait any longer, and Yuuji won't be conscious enough to do this.

With a deep breath, Sukuna starts, "First, take a washrag––no, a clean washrag, not the one you already used, you fool ––and fold it carefully, don't wad it up, so you have a flat, plush surface. Now, soak it with warm water––stop reaching for the hand soap!" Internally, Sukuna scrubs his temples. How is this going so poorly already? "Spirits, you're exhausting."  

Yuuji slams down the soap bottle. "Why not?! You said to clean it!" 

Yes, but that was a summary, not an instruction. A playbill's abstract, far from the first act. "That's not the right cleaning agent for this. First, you need to remove the muck with something gentle." Which Sukuna is incapable of, so really, it's good Yuuji is the one actually doing this. "Smearing soap over a wound with dirt still stuck in it will only further irritate the contaminants buried in your skin."

Yuuji grumbles something under his breath Sukuna chooses not to listen to. Carefully, he presses the damp towel against his cuts, drawing out the muck with slow, firm movements. He blots the wounds until the fabric comes back smeared with nothing but blood, free of dust and muck. 

Once Yuuji sets it down, Sukuna instructs, "Now, take a cotton pad and soak it with antiseptic. You'll need more than one, since you must clean each wound individually so as not to dilute its efficacy with bodily fluids. Press it gently–– gently, I said, don't fucking wriggle it into your cuts, are you trying to annoy me on purpose?" He sighs. "Just pat. Don't scrub."

Wounds freshly sanitized, Yuuji's pupils dilate with alarm. "Hey! They're bleeding worse now!"

Obviously. "Well, of course they are. You just agitated them again, but it's necessary. Haven't you ever heard the phrase ‘ trust the process?'" He gestures his features towards the bin. "Now, take that aerosol hemostatic––I know, big words, stop looking at me like that––it's to stop the bleeding. I believe it's the one with the red cap. Next, spray it on your wounds."

Yuuji flinches as the cold spray coats his cuts, but visibly relaxes as the sealant does its job, slowing his blood loss. "Oh. It worked."

Tch, he doesn't have to sound so surprised. "Yes, it's revolutionary. Alright, now blot off the excess with a dry towel, and be careful not to disturb the actual wound itself. You just want your bandages to be able to stick to the skin around the spray."

Finally admitting his bewilderment at Sukuna's expertise, a question Sukuna knew would eventually come boils over. "Why do you know how to do this?" Yuuji asks him.

Because the best healer in Hida province was part of Sukuna's weird, wonderful family, and he ate her alive . "Is that so shocking?" 

"I mean, you can use Reverse Cursed Technique."

And yet. "Aren't you the one who called me on the lie that I could use it back when I was human?" A scoff, even though this is far from a triumph. "Come on, brat. The only working part of your brain is your memory. Don't tell me that's gone too."

Yuuji pulls a face. "Are you seriously reminding me that you lost an argument?"

"Are we seriously doing this right now?" Irritated, Sukuna props his cheekbone against a fist. "Stop your prying. I know how to do this because occasionally, I had to patch myself up from the tiny scratches I obtained during the glorious bloodbaths from my short time as a human."

In the mirror, Yuuji's eyes bore into Sukuna's own. "Liar."

When Sukuna is so generously trying to help? Rude. "Be a good little boy and just listen to my instructions."

Yuuji rolls his eyes but listens anyway. Once his injuries have been cleaned, sealed, and dried, both of their gazes fall onto the one wound that's going to need extra attention: the wide gash on his shoulder, still trickling blood like snowmelt down a mountain. Sukuna sighs.

"That's going to need stitches."

With a defeated exhale, Yuuji murmurs, "I don't know how."

Clearly. "Well, I do, because I know everything." When Yuuji's too overwhelmed to even retort back, Sukuna reassures, "I'm gonna talk ya through it, okay? Don't be nervous."

It's the softest voice he can manage, yet still comes out like a command. 

"I-I'm not nervous," Yuuji lies, pointlessly. The roof of Sukuna's Innate Domain thumps from Yuuji's increased heart rate, like a tenant with too-heavy footfalls in an upstairs apartment.

"Sure, you're not." 

Sukuna watches as Yuuji withdraws the kit labeled for sutures, carefully unpacking its contents. He inspects each one then glances at Sukuna, equally reluctant and expectant. "Well?" he prompts. "What now?"

Squinting, Sukuna surveys the tools. They look a little different than they did in the Heian era, but the fundamentals are the same: needle driver, forceps, trimming scissors. Twine pre-threaded with a needle, which is new, and will also make this easier for a child whose hand-eye coordination begins and ends at Mario Kart.

Sliding his features a few centimeters to the left, "Do you see that item there? The tool that has the handle of scissors but possesses a flat tip is called a needle driver." If this is a lesson it'll be in one ear and out the other, like everything else with him, but all Sukuna needs is fifteen minutes of retention and that'll be enough. "That's your main instrument for this."

Fingers hovering, Yuuji points to another tool nearby. "Then what are those things that have the handle of scissors and also the tip of scissors?"

Sukuna refuses to believe the brat is that dumb. "I'm not answering that."

"B-But don't I need to know?"

"No." Sukuna gestures to the tool between them. "Those are called forceps. You can use them to hold your skin taut as you stitch it up."

Yuuji's forehead creases in thought. "Force..."

Incredible how the brat manages to exceed his already-low expectations. "Tweezers, genius," Sukuna scoffs. "Let's begin. First, use the forceps to lift the suture thread at a ninety-degree angle––that's vertical to you, idiot––and clamp the needle driver tightly about two-thirds down the arc of the needle."

Fumbling with the instruments, Yuuji complies. He scrutinizes the needle the way a passerby would look at a dog on a leash, unsure whether there's enough lead for it to lunge out and bite him. "Okay. Done."

"Good." Sukuna slides his features closer to the wound. "Place your thumb and your ring finger in the loops of the needle driver to steady the tool. This'll allow you to twist the angle if necessary without losing your grip." 

When Yuuji is finished, Sukuna returns to Yuuji's opposite collarbone. "Now, carefully approach the top of the wound and place your finger as close to the tip of the needle driver as you can. Next, thread the needle almost vertically through your skin, twist your wrist, and pull." 

With a final deep breath, Yuuji pushes the needle through his skin with a dull pop. It's almost impressive that his expression hardly changes: just the twitch of an eyebrow, a bead of sweat along his temple. He clamps the torn edge of his skin with the forceps more gently than Sukuna thought him capable of, tugging the twine as if it's nothing more than threading a shoelace.

So Sukuna continues, "Alright. Don't pull very far, it's okay to have a long tail of excess thread for now. Then, thread it to the center of the cut, and pause there."

Though Yuuji listens, he still asks, "Not the other side?"

"Not yet," Sukuna tells him. "Once it's through, repeat the same loop on the other side. Hold the tissue firmer in place with the forceps if you need to." After Yuuji has done this, Sukuna says, "Next, pull the thread through, leaving a few centimeters tail on the opposite side of the wound."

And it's strange, really, to observe as Yuuji actually listens to him, obeys his words, even if it's more following instructions than submitting to commands. Yuuji heeds each step perfectly, something almost like trust in the certainty of his movements. Like for once, he fully believes that someone who always lies isn't lying to him––not one bit.

Sukuna thought it would feel satisfying, but instead he squirms uncomfortably. "Now, wrap the long edge around your needle driver twice, clamp the short edge, and pull it through. Then, do the same thing on the other side to tie off the stitch."

Once he's finished, "Oh." Yuuji stares wide-eyed at the completed stitch: the first of many. "Yeah, that closed it up."

"Of course it did," Sukuna says matter-of-factly. "Now, repeat this same process down the length of the wound. I'll berate you if you fuck it up."

Yuuji huffs, but doesn't hesitate. "Fine."

Sukuna watches wordlessly as Yuuji follows his directions. This whole moment is oddly quiet, especially for them, especially given what they've just been through. All that remains is the faint sterile scent of triage antiseptic, the sound of string lacing through skin, and the dim green glow from the charging light of Yuuji's electric toothbrush. 

Yuuji works diligently in a rare show of focus: clotted crimson blots pool in the ridges of his fingerprints, tongue poking through his teeth in concentration. 

But apparently there's only so much self-inflicted agony a ten-year-old can take with a straight face. When he yanks his next stitch through a particularly raw part of the wound, Yuuji sucks in a sudden, sharp inhale, upper lip trembling as his fingers struggle with their grip on the needle driver.

If Sukuna had a soul, he'd be sighing from the bottom of it. "Do you need to take a break?"

Yuuji shakes his head. "It's just pain," he murmurs, like it's irrelevant, like it changes nothing. Like it doesn't matter; not if it's him. "That's not gonna stop me."

Sukuna clicks his tongue. He could end the world before this brat showed himself even a speck of mercy. "I know that, you stubborn fool, but that doesn't mean that you have to––"

That you have to suffer so much.

"––that you have to put on such a pitiful performance before me. I bore easily, and this is worse than those hospital soap operas Nanami doesn't want anyone to know he actually watches." 

Slowly, Yuuji nods, and Sukuna quickly realizes Yuuji must be in much, much more pain than he's letting on, because all he has to say to Sukuna's taunt is: "O-Okay. I'll try to stop shaking."

To his credit––which honestly, is never much––Yuuji does do his best to steady his grip. In fact, he's putting so much effort into not shaking his hands that his shoulders are shaking instead, and why didn't he take any fucking painkillers, and why is Sukuna the one who can no longer take this––

"Listen up!" Sukuna declares suddenly. If all he can do is take Yuuji's mind off of this –– so be it. Distraction is a hell of a drug. "I'm going to tell you a story about the boy who cried wolf."

Yuuji pinches his brows. "I've heard that story before from Nanamin," he tells him. Another too-sharp tug on the needle driver that leaves the suture thread slick with freshly-drawn blood. "We went over it already."

Yes, Sukuna was there. "Oh please, give me some credit. I'm going to tell my own, superior version of the story."

The corner of Yuuji's mouth creases downwards. "Papa said it's wrong to mess with somebody else's intellectual property."

He does realize Sukuna has slaughtered over a hundred thousand people, right? "We are not having this argument."

"Yeah, because you would lose––"

"Silence!" Sukuna huffs. "Be a good member of the audience, won't ya? Just what is that Papa of yours teaching you?" Not that Nanami should have that role in the first place. "Don't you know it's rude to interrupt a performer in the throes of the masterpiece?"

"You literally haven't even started yet."

And yet it's tedious already. "I swear to me, brat. One of these days."

"One of these days what?"

"You don't want to know." Sukuna clears his throat. "Alright. I'm going to begin, and you've got a VIP seat despite your insignificance, so be grateful to me."

Sukuna pauses, then finds, for the first time, that he's grappling with a bit of writer's block. How long has it been since he last did this? He hasn't told a story other than the one he's been living for a thousand years –– hasn't had anyone who would listen, hasn't had anyone he'd even want to tell a story to. He once considered storytelling his greatest strength: it came naturally to him. It was never something he even had to think about.

He's entirely unaccustomed to whatever this is, something akin to forgetting his lines or stage fright. It's the same anxious feeling he'd experienced right before he told the first installment in The Tale of Yuu-Ji and Sukuna; ah, little did he know. 

Well. If this story is also going to miraculously come to life, he'd better make it a damn good one.

"Once upon a time, there was a little shepherd boy," Sukuna begins. Page one, chapter one, book one. A whole new world waiting behind it, ready to be filled with color as the story unfolds. "He spent all day, every day, out in the fields, guarding a flock of sheep all by himself. The sheep provided nourishment, milk, and warmth to the villagers, so his job was very important. The lives of everyone in the whole village depended on him."

Mind half-occupied by Sukuna words, Yuuji resumes his work. Pokes another hole in his skin like punching a new slot in a watch's wristband, prying steel and fiber where it doesn't belong.

When Yuuji gulps down a gasp, "The shepherd boy cared deeply about the villagers, despite that he couldn't spend much time with them," Sukuna narrates. "Because of this, he was lonely. How he longed to be with everyone...his heart ached for that kind of connection. To be beside someone who understood him and wouldn't leave even though his life was made to be lived alone: that was all he wanted. Just one person, and that would be enough."

"However, due to the nature of his role, this wasn't something he could ever have," Sukuna continues. "But because he was a self-sacrificial little brat, he was willing to suffer for them. To him, his loneliness was of no consequence if everyone he cared about was safe and happy."

There's too much blood on Yuuji's fingers to keep his grip steady. He pauses, wipes them off, picks his tools back up with the resignation and conviction of a kamikaze pilot on their first and final mission. 

To drag his thoughts from the dread, "Sometimes, the boy would see foxes, hawks, and other threats to himself and the sheep on the horizon, but mysteriously, they never got close," Sukuna says, building intrigue. "The boy had trained hard learning to protect the flock, but strangely, he never had the need to. Until––"

It's quite the victory when Yuuji glances at him expectantly, fingers still busy while Sukuna's the one he's focused on. "Until one day, the boy and his flock were confronted by the strongest predator on the mountain: a gray wolf."

"The boy panicked. What could he do? He opened his mouth to cry, 'wolf, wolf!'" Sukuna explains, a callback to the original story. But there's a twist, this time. "Yet all of a sudden, images of the wolf attacking the villagers flooded the boy's mind, and he couldn't stand it. What if they were hurt because of him? That thought scared him more than the wolf itself."

"And it was a special wolf indeed. Wolves are meant to live in packs, but this wolf was different. He didn't know how to share, how to work together, or how to protect others, so he was kicked out of the group. Thus, this wolf was the only wolf who lived his life all alone." 

And fine, fine, Sukuna will admit he's projecting, but this is how his best stories always are. 

"The boy was petrified, and the wolf relished in it. 'Look at the sight of you cowering before me!' he taunted, prancing around his prey. 'I've been waiting for––'"

Yuuji pauses for a moment. "The wolf can talk?" he interrupts.

That's his first thought? "It's a fairytale," Sukuna reminds him, defending his creative choices.
"Stop questioning things."

"That was my first question!"

"And it was one too many." Sukuna regains his footing after the unwanted intermission. "'Aren't you going to call for help, you weakling?' the wolf continued. "You're so pathetic, you're going to need it.'"

"Despite his fear, the boy's conviction remained unchanged. 'No! I can't stand the thought of anyone getting hurt because of me. I'll take you on myself!' he insisted, and the wolf was taken aback. 'But look at my teeth and my claws!' he tried. 'You're utterly outmatched! You haven't even fought any real hunters before. I'll gobble you up before you have the chance to react!'"

As Yuuji ties off another stitch, "But the boy realized something," Sukuna reveals. "'Wait. How do you know that?' he questioned. The wolf also realized what he'd said, but it was too late. 'How did you know I've never fought anything before?'"

"All the wolf could do was default to deflection. 'I've been watching you, day after day,' he started. 'I've seen you cry as you long pointlessly for the presence of others. I must admit, it's quite entertaining.'

Now thoroughly captivated, Yuuji's pupils dilate as Sukuna describes, "But the boy was unfazed, and simply smiled at him. 'Only part of that is true, isn't it?' he stated, and though it had the lilt of a question, it held the certainty of a fact. 'You weren't just watching me. You were watching over me. The one who chased off all those predators...it was you.' Then, to the wolf's horror, the boy asked him: 'Are you also lonely?'"

"Shocked and furious that the boy could see through him, the wolf snarled, 'Don't be mistaken! I chased them off so you would stay alone!' the wolf claimed, but it wasn't true. Despite that he was a wolf, he lied like a fox. 'You twist my intentions! I'll prove to you I'm every bit the monster your precious villagers warn you about!' Then he attacked the shepherd, and the boy struggled to defend himself."

"The wolf was the strongest on the whole mountain, and no one dared stand against him. But this particular boy was different." Now what could that be referring to. "Somehow, he was able to fight off the wolf, but he returned to the village that night covered in cuts and bruises."

All the while, Yuuji continues his handiwork, his fingertips guiding the instruments in a practiced pas-de-deux between metal and twine. Two fish swimming in opposite currents in a rain-making dance, a routine equal parts gruesome and healing. 

"'What happened? Did you get attacked?!' the villages cried upon seeing him. 'Nope, I just took a really bad fall into a thicket!' the boy lied, because just like the wolf, he was a liar too.'"

"Curious of the villagers' reactions, the wolf followed the shepherd into the village," Sukuna recites. "Confused that the boy was covering for him, the wolf stepped out of the shadows without realizing it. And then, he was spotted."

Yuuji's motions stutter. "They saw him?" he repeats. "Isn't that gonna be really bad?"

Well every story needs a good conflict. "Patience. I'm getting there," Sukuna snaps. "Upon seeing him, 'Wolf, wolf!' the villagers cried, and gathered up their torches and pitchforks. But the shepherd got there first. 'Never fear! I'll protect you!' he told them heroically. He grabbed his trusty staff and then charged towards the wolf, chasing him all the way back up the mountain."

"Ready for their clash, the wolf whirled around. 'Prepare yourself, brat! This is the end!' he shouted, but to his surprise, the shepherd boy dropped his staff. The wolf's eyes widened in shock as it hit the ground."

"'What are you doing, you fool? Have you a death wish?' he goaded, but the one whose panic began mounting was him. 'I didn't eat any sheep today, and while I've never known the taste of human flesh, I've certain I'm going to like it.'"

Sukuna lifts a finger within his Innate Domain. "Yet once again, the boy was unaffected by his cruelty," he describes. "'You can have some food,' the shepherd told the wolf, 'on one condition.' Intrigued, the wolf tilted his head. 'Oh? And what's that?'"

Equally intrigued, Yuuji listens intently. "'I'll bring some food for you tomorrow,' the boy explained. 'So you have to come visit!'"

Yuuji swallows hard. "The shepherd wanted him there?"

If only. "Indeed," Sukuna murmurs. "The wolf was rendered speechless. He, who knew not how to be kind or form bonds with others, was wanted. For the first time, someone needed him at their side. The boy was asking nothing of him beyond his presence: just for the wolf to stay beside him, despite how cruel and horrible he was, was somehow enough."

"Finally, the wolf managed to find his voice. He wanted to thank the boy, to tell him he'd be honored to keep him company, but instead it came out as: 'Foolish child. I'd rather starve! You take me too lightly. I'll make you regret your words!' And then he attacked the shepherd again, tackling him to the rocky ground with vicious claws and hungry teeth."

"But to his horror, the boy didn't even fight back," Sukuna wavers. "Despite all the fresh claw and teeth marks puncturing his skin, crimson seeping onto his tunic, he simply ran a tender hand through the wolf's mangled fur, and smiled up at him. 'Come visit me, okay? Promise!'"

"The wolf reeled back, mortified. 'Why do you say such things?!' His talons squelched nauseatingly in the boy's flesh as he leaned forwards. 'I'm hurting you!' And in response, the boy beamed at him. 'It doesn't hurt one bit,' the boy said, and it was almost not a lie. 'Because when you're with me, we're both finally not alone!'"

Yuuji's expression trembles. Whether it's from pain or emotion, Sukuna can't tell. "The wolf nearly choked," Sukuna tells him. "To be included in that statement, for the boy to believe his own pain was insignificant if it meant the wolf's loneliness would disappear: it was too much. The wolf couldn't take it." He heaves a bone-deep sigh. "The wolf's tongue and teeth were drenched with the boy's blood, and all of a sudden, he couldn't stand the taste of it."

By now, Yuuji's emergency triage is almost complete. Stitch by stitch, sewing the cut like tugging the zipper of a warm, fluffy jacket, cotton and plush in place of a hug.

"Unable to process any more of this, the wolf fled, disappearing high into the mountains. Exhausted, the boy flopped back." Though Yuuji can't see him, Sukuna still shrugs. "He wondered, would the wolf come visit? Or would he continue being alone?" He shakes his head. "He wasn't sure. All he could do was hope, and it was an unfamiliar feeling. He had never before dared to hope that he wouldn't be alone."

"And so, the next day," Sukuna finishes, reaching the conclusion, even though he's got a funny feeling it's only a temporary one. "The boy packed two lunches when he led his flock up the mountain. He sat at the top of the hill, and he waited." 

As he ties off the final stitch, "What happened next?" Yuuji asks, snipping the excess thread. "Did the wolf come visit?"

"Did he?" Sukuna prompts, and it's just as much a question for himself as it is for Yuuji. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

A sleepy nod. "Oh...okay." He's a riverside reed, swaying on his feet. "That was actually...a really good story." And then, quieter, like he's telling a secret: "I liked it."

Sukuna's throat tightens. This is the first time Yuuji has said anything remotely positive to him: even if he has no idea what he's saying, too spacey from pain, exhaustion, and blood loss to process his own words.

Sukuna made Yuuji happy. Even if only a little bit, even if only for a moment. He really did.

Equally unable to process this, "Of course it was good," Sukuna scoffs. "I already told you, I'm the best at everything I've ever done."

Yuuji huffs, but doesn't retort back. He rinses his hands, the water beneath them running pink and red like a butchered flamingo. He trudges to his dresser and withdraws a t-shirt, throws it on. 

It's not sunrise yet, but almost. Only the first third of his room is touched by light, the rest patched into hazy silhouettes, the blocks of a well-worn quilt. The atmosphere beyond the window is dyed in a reverse gradient, like rising towards the surface from a deep-sea trench. The shadows undulate atop his furniture in warped gridlines, the ever-shifting polygons of the ocean's surface from below. 

A bright band of color illuminates the border between the horizon and the land. Tangerines spill onto the windowsill as if shining a flashlight through maple syrup or melting citrine, seeping lazy and slow. There's no hurry, not now. Yuuji won't get much of it, but it's time to rest. 

But before he reaches his bed, Yuuji makes a brief stop at his backpack, withdrawing the box he swiped from the storehouse. Carefully, he removes the lid.

"What is this?" Yuuji asks, lifting the tiger plush, and though Sukuna knows the question is for him, it sounds almost rhetorical. "It doesn’t feel like a cursed object."

Repetitive today, isn't he. "As I said in the storehouse," Sukuna sighs, "it's not."

Yuuji runs his fingers over its seams, only in mediocre condition because of how much Jion used to play with it: to be loved is to be changed. "It's...really cute," he murmurs.

Sukuna swallows hard. "You can have it," he says, before he can stop himself. "It’s yours."

Yuuji holds it tighter. "Really?"

"Yes, really." Sukuna's existence is defined by his regrets, but this isn't one of them. "Now just–– take it, before I change my mind."

Hesitantly, Yuuji scans the plush, closes the box and stashes it under his bed without returning the tiger to its grave. He tucks himself under his covers, lays a pillow beneath his head. Then, he pulls the tiger close to him. 

Since Sukuna took over his soul and pushed him away from his loved ones, Yuuji hasn't been able to hold or cherish anything. Hasn't hugged his father like he used to, slung his arms around his friends. You'd really think he'd forget how to do it.

But the way Yuuji is holding the tiger plush so, so gently, hugging it like it's something precious ––it's too much. Sukuna's chest tightens to near-bursting, like his broken heart is trying to squeeze itself back together. Two halves that no longer fit.

Beyond exhausted, Yuuji sighs. He's asleep within moments.

-----------------------

Less than half a second after Gojo walks into Tuesday afternoon's session of Bullying Sukuna Club––and it is Bullying Sukuna Club now, not him, it'll catch on eventually, he's sure of it––Gojo can tell something is gravely wrong.

It's not something he can turn off or on: a smoke detector will shriek out its lungs at the first mouthful of fumes whether or not you want it to, whether or not you're sleeping and don't want to be woken up. Objectively, it's helpful. Sub jectively, not so much.

For better or worse, Gojo can tell after mere moments in Yuuji's presence that something happened. There's something off about the usual fire of cursed energy coursing through him: like a gas stove flicked to the highest setting but striker unlit, spewing propane.

Not to mention Shoko, Nanami, and Toge all look paler than normal. By a lot. 

Something happened. Something happened for sure.

And Gojo's evidently not the only one who noticed: looks of concern are peppered across the faces of the more perceptive members of the group. Taking one for the team, Gojo falters, "Hey, kid," slow and uneasy. "You alright?"

An innocent look. Even his eyes are duller in color, drained from a rainforest's floor to a dry desert's cracked tundra. "I'm fine!" Yuuji replies. "Why do you ask, Satoru?"

Still trying to hide it? "Are you injured?" Higuruma asks, picking up where Gojo left off.

"Um." He fidgets, fingers tugged like tangled shoelaces. "W-Well, I––"

"He's very injured!" a voice singsongs, and Gojo both feels and hears the collective groan the group lets out. "Yuuji snuck out late last night after his bedtime to raid Jujutsu Tech all on his own, and did a bang-up job gettin' himself banged up!"

A sharp inhale beside Gojo. "He...he did?" Megumi wavers.

"He did," Sukuna hums, surfacing on Yuuji's cheekbone. He's got the look of a cat that's just dropped the corpse of a family's pet bird, proud of its handiwork. "He nearly gave his brother and mommy a heart attack when they all woke up and found him reeking of gore and antiseptic, his blood tracked all over the house. Fortunately, his dear old daddy was there to calm them down."

Gojo glances at his best friend. Nanami was really able to keep it together after something like that?

"Yuuji," Maki exhales, approaching him. "Why did you do that?"

The sigh of someone who meant well, but knows intention alone is never enough. "I just...didn't want to trouble you."

"It ain't trouble," Yuki huffs, scrubbing her temples. "We woulda figured something out."

Yuuji looks apologetic but unconvinced.

Then, "Wait, he smelled like antiseptic?" Tsumiki chimes in, recalling Sukuna's words. "Who helped patch you up if Ieiri-san was still asleep? Did you visit a hospital?"

Yuuji fidgets again, heels wobbling like he's trying to squish a particularly elusive ant. "No. I, um...I watched a video."

Nobara's mouth tilts into a frown. "I'm not sure if 3AM YouTube is an effective alternative for a fully-trained medical professional."

"He did an alright job, actually," Shoko mumbles. "I still treated the wounds with Reverse Cursed Technique, though."

A collective silence before Yuuta asks the question everyone was thinking but didn't want to voice. "Did anyone see you?"

Shame clouds Yuuji's features. "Yeah," he admits. "There were some guards, and I got spotted."

"Damn," Toji curses. "Did they get a good look at ya?"

Regretful, Yuuji nods.

Fuck. "The higher-ups are gonna find out you're Sukuna's vessel, then," Gojo concludes. It takes a truly monumental amount of effort not to bite his nails until they're raw and bloody. "It's only a matter of time before he gets stuck with an execution sentence. Let's start preparing a plan for when it happens."

Suguru's head tilts towards the ceiling. "Ah, what a mess."

Yuuji looks guilty enough to slap on the kill-on-sight order himself. "I'm so sorry, everyone."

Suguru sighs. "We know you were just trying to protect us, but..." He runs a comforting hand through Yuuji's hair. Yuuji doesn't flinch: after Suguru's victory over Sukuna, it seems he's still the only one Yuuji feels completely safe with. "Please don't do anything like that again."

"I won't," Yuuji says, and despite that Yuuji never lies, Gojo can't help the feeling that statement is.

"It's alright," Yuki eventually says. "This was bound to happen someday. It's a little sooner than I woulda liked, but we'll figure something out. We always do."

Megumi's looking everywhere but his crush. "Did you at least find anything relating to Sukuna in the storehouse?"

Yuuji shakes his head. "No," he says, definitive. Certain. "I didn't find a single thing."

Nobara scowls. "Ugh, that's a shame." Her hands prop atop her hips. "Anyway, we'll think of some way to deal with the higher-ups."

"Exactly!" Maki agrees. "We're not gonna let anyone hurt ya, Yuuji. We're your family!"

"His family?" Sukuna repeats, strangely bitter for someone who was singing his own praises just moments ago. "Is that supposed to matter?"

Judgmental, Higuruma lifts the disbelieving eyebrow of an attorney listening to a guilty criminal claim innocence. Old habits die hard, it seems. "We're supposed to believe you know anything about family?"

"I know lots about family!" Sukuna counters. "I’m quite good at destroying them."

"I don't doubt that," Shoko scoffs, arms tight across her chest. "I'm pretty sure there’s no one worse with kids in the history of the planet."

"Hah." Sukuna huffs a hollow laugh that, if Gojo didn’t know better, he might almost call self-deprecating. "Well, you’re right about that."

Sukuna admitting someone else is right? That's a first. "In any case, I'll be the one to kill all the higher-ups to protect Yuuji." Then, he quickly tacks on: "Because he’s my prey, of course. You're all going down! First your family, then the rest of jujutsu society, then the whole world!"

"You wanna take over the world?" Maki snorts. "How original."

"Yeah, you sound like a One Piece villain," Toge signs.

"One piece of what?" Sukuna echoes, then his lips curl into the smirk of someone who's about to say something they find supremely amusing. A one-man stand-up show. "Bitches have wanted a piece of this for a thousand years."

Wow. "It’s a manga series," Toge corrects, rolling his eyes. "And an item, also. Well, we think."

"Yeah, and they've been looking for it since 1996," Maki adds.

Sukuna's grin withers into a frown. "What? And they still haven't found it?" It's almost impressive he can still scowl despite lacking any eyebrows. "Give me the pen, brat. I’ll find the One Piece."

"But you're already the King of Curses," Toge replies, as if the logistics of this hypothetical actually matter. "You can't be the King of the Pirates, too."

"The what?" Sukuna sneers. "Tch, It doesn't matter. I'll be the king of everything."

"As if," Megumi shoots back. "We'll put you in your rightful place."

Sukuna perks up. "A throne?"

"A dumpster."

Sukuna scoffs. "Such insolence."

Ah, something different. "You'd match the aesthetic," Gojo says, backing up his son. It's his fatherly duty! "Don't you agree?"

Sukuna swings towards Gojo. "You're talking about aesthetics?" he says, scanning Gojo up and down like a designer having second thoughts about the outfit they're about to shove onto the runway. "It’s like a zoo was slaughtered on your sweater."

Gojo pouts. Toji got him this sweater! "Hey!"

"What? That was a compliment."

Wait, it was? Finally! Someone recognizes Gojo's peak fashion sense! "You get me!" Gojo chirps, and then he pauses. On second thought: "Wait––"

But it's too late. "Oh, I do get you," Sukuna leers smugly, the villain in a storybook telling the protagonist they're on their side. Dramatic irony is only fun for the audience. "Haven't you ever wondered why I can read you so easily? Not like anyone else is much of a challenge, but you're especially transparent. Wanna know why?" A toothy grin. "It's because you're just like me. How unlucky!"

And it's almost funny how Sukuna can declare himself king of everything yet still say someone is unlucky to be like him. "Unlucky? Look around," Gojo counters, gesturing to his family. "I'm nothing like you."

Sukuna clicks his tongue. "Fine, fine. Stay in denial all you want. But know this," he begins, a rollercoaster's uptick before a steep, steep fall. "Take it from me, Six-Eyes. It is far worse to live hated than to die loved."

Gojo's breath hitches. How do you know that, he wants to say. What makes you so certain, he almost pries. But in this moment he discovers the massive difference between wanting to ask a question and wanting to know its answer, so instead it boils inside him like a geyser trying to punch a new hole through the earth's surface and he curls his fists with an explosive shout:

"Why would I take that from you?!"

Sukuna is undeterred. "You think they'll love you no matter what? Keep dreamin'. Their hearts will freeze over eventually." An exasperated sigh. "I'll tell you, one liar to another––your days with them are numbered, and it's all your fault."

And just like that, the fire in Gojo's chest snuffs out. "...huh?"

Does he know? Is Sukuna aware of Gojo's lie to Toji, of his cardinal sin, of how everything will fall apart when they all find out what Gojo's done? Even if he doesn't know the specifics, can he just tell Gojo is doomed to hurt everyone?

Amidst Gojo's silence, Sukuna continues, "You’re struggling with such an existence, but I’ll put you out of your misery. Really, it’s a mercy." He gives Gojo the sympathetic look of a doctor about to euthanize a rabid dog, too late to save. "The worst thing I’ll do to you is kill you, and I’ll even make it quick! No more pain, no more suffering. Aren't I benevolent?"

This is just getting ridiculous. "You don’t want me to suffer?" Gojo gawks, casting his arms wide. "You want everyone to suffer!"

Unfazed, "Oh, but you're suffering already, aren't you? The waiting is killing you." A satisfied smirk. "You're doomed by the narrative: I've always loved a good tragedy. But even for me, this is one story that may be a little hard to watch."

"Hah." Gojo's challenging grin is a bandage slapped atop a gunshot wound. "You scared of me?"

"I'm not scared of you," Sukuna replies, and Gojo's about to dismiss it as the expected response of the king who's scared of nothing until Sukuna finishes, "I'm scared for you."

Gojo petrifies. "...for me?" he repeats in a small voice.

"Like I said, I'll take care of you long before that has to happen," Sukuna declares, then with one final sweep across Yuuji's features, he says: "Good luck with your pointless struggle, everyone! I look forward to whatever useless plan you concoct to stand against me!"

A tense silence. Toji squirms; Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose. Finally, Maki cuts the quiet with: "Well that was weird." She pads over to Gojo, patting him on the shoulder. "Don't listen to him, he's just a weird individual. Let's start our training for the day."

Gojo releases a long exhale. "Okay."

It's awkward at first, but eventually, they all shake it off––or at least, they try to. But throughout the session, Gojo notices Nanami is more quiet, more tense than usual, and after they're done and the group disperses, Gojo clasps his best friend's wrist and drags him into Toji's cramped laundry room, shutting the door.

Nanami gives him a look that'd qualify as annoyed if he had more energy to express it. "What are you doing, Gojo."

What indeed.

Gojo gulps. He's never been one to shy away from confrontation, but Nanami hasn't done anything wrong, and this requires a measure of delicacy Gojo doesn't possess. He wrings his fingers, well aware he looks shifty as hell, but he's got no better way to do this and Nanami won't keep sitting on the dryer waiting for him to spit it out forever.

"It's just––" Gojo eventually starts, maneuvering through this conversation as if it's a chessboard, and he never learned how to play. "I dunno if I believe Shoko and Toge were the only ones who almost had a heart attack when they saw Yuuji this morning."

Nanami's eye twitches. 

And then: "I'm leaving."

"Don't!" Despite how small the laundry room is, Gojo has to teleport the distance from the dryer to the door to keep Nanami from shoving through it. "Nanamin, please. I just wanna talk to you."

Of all the things he could say, "Why?" Nanami replies.

"Why?" Gojo repeats. "Because you're my best friend. I wanna help you."

"There's nothing you can do," Nanami rejects quickly. "There's nothing anyone can do."

And that's the crux of it, isn't it.

But he's wrong. There's one thing Gojo can do.

"I can listen," Gojo says softly.

A long sigh. Nanami's dress shirt is rumpled like he's forgotten to iron it, shoes scuffed like he hasn't had the time to polish them. Little things, individually. Alarming together.

Eventually: "I can't do that to you."

"Why not?" Gojo presses. No, he needs a different angle for this. "Are you upset at me for leaning on you all the times I've needed help?"

"Of course not," Nanami says earnestly. "In fact, if you hadn't let me be there for you, I would've––" He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay, I hear it now."

"Hah." Gojo gives him a sheepish grin. "Thought ya might."

Resigned, Nanami shuffles back to the washing machine, props against it with a soft creak. He folds his arms, features tight like he's on the defendant's side of an interrogation table. Knowing this is as good as he'll get, Gojo hops atop the dryer across from him.

Once he's settled, Nanami lifts a shoulder. "What do you want me to say, Gojo? I had to scrub my son's blood off my hardwood floors with a straight face." He takes another deep breath, and the look in his eyes is distant, haunted, when he mumbles, "There was so much."

Gojo shifts in place. From how much Yuuji's cursed energy was fluctuating––yeah, that checks. 

"If it were enough to just suffer in his place..." Nanami's voice trails off. "How many times am I going to almost lose him before my luck runs out?"

"You're not gonna lose him, Nanamin," Gojo reassures gently, and Nanami is so unnervingly still that it makes Gojo want to twitch, like he can make up for the lack of motion in the room by putting Nanami's share into his own. "None of you are. You, Shoko, Toge. Our whole family."

A slow exhale. "If you say so." He hardly sounds convinced. "I just...cannot lose myself in front of them. If I despair, how are they supposed to not?" A helpless shrug. "The last time I felt this powerless was when Haibara got bitten in half in front of me."

Gojo's heart aches. Even though Nanami has learned a lot about letting loose, about just being a kid, he's still undeniably the most responsible in the group, the most composed. It's no wonder he feels like he can't break down and show his emotions. 

"How can there possibly be meaning in this?" Nanami continues, head tilting back. Then, his gaze meets Gojo's again. "May I ask you something?"

"Anything," Gojo replies.

"How did you deal with it when you didn't know if Getou would come home someday?" Nanami questions. "When all you had was hope?"

Gojo's breath snags in his throat. It may be too much to ask Nanami to show his true feelings in front of everyone, to confide in everyone. 

But if it can be just one person, then...

"Because I didn't just have hope," Gojo tells him. "I had you."

Nanami's eyes widen owlishly. "...what?"

"Yeah, that's right. I had you," Gojo confirms. "You were there for me every time I wanted to blame myself. Every time I started to spiral. Now it's my turn." He braces himself. "Do you remember the day you found out Megumi and Tsumiki were originally Toji's children?" 

Slowly, Nanami nods. "I remember."

Good, because for Gojo, it was truly unforgettable. "Back then...you told me it's not a sin to want to be loved." Gojo pauses, preparing to put his own spin on it. "With everything you're going through, it's not a sin to be suffering," he begins, "but to suffer alone when you don't need to be is."

When all Nanami does is gape at him, Gojo continues, "Let me be there for you. Please. Just talk to me. You can cry and scream or direct all your anger at me. I don't care. I understand why you have to be fine in front of the others, but––" He grapples for words. "––You had to be strong for everyone after Sukuna incarnated. You had to be strong for Yuuji after he lost his grandpa. You had to be strong for Toge because of his clan. You had to be strong for Toji after you found out his secret. You've always been strong for us, again and again."

"So even if it's just for a moment, just once..." Gojo leans closer, shifting his palms from the edge of the dryer to his best friend's shoulders, steadying them both. "Can you be weak for me?"  

A rough swallow. Nanami blinks at him, pained, dark irises damp and glossy as pottery varnish before it's fired in the kiln. "Satoru," he chokes.

And then, for what might be the first time––no surname, no nickname, no anything except the culmination of their entire friendship––Gojo says: "Kento," so, so softly. "Will you please let me give you a hug?"

After a long moment, Nanami nods.

With that, Gojo pulls him close. He wraps his arms around his best friend and squeezes, hopes it says everything else his words can't say: how grateful he is, how much Nanami has changed him. How much he cherishes having him in his life, and how much he hopes Nanami feels the same.

Eventually, Nanami hugs him back, resting his head on Gojo's shoulder.

The sun sets late, in summer. It's bright enough outside that it could pass for midday, but here, with the blinds half-closed, it could almost be sunset. The lone window's smudged glass dyes the five o'clock glow into tangerines, shades cutting the late afternoon sun into the stripes of a '90s arcade racing game. Fast and slow, all at once. 

They stay for a while like that as Nanami's breathing steadies, the room's scant light slowly dimming. When Nanami finally pulls away, the shoulder of Gojo's animal print sweater is damp.

As Nanami sniffles, Gojo looks around. "Ah...I don't see any tissues in here." Scanning the shelves, he frowns. "We can take something clean from the dryer?"

When Gojo reaches to fish something from its basin, Nanami holds up a hand: the universal stop-sign. "No, don't bother. I don't know if I believe Toji's things are clean even after they've gone through the wash."

Gojo snorts. Yeah, that's probably wise. "U-Uh, then..." He pushes down his glasses, searching for alternatives. "Can I offer you a dryer sheet?"

Nanami huffs something that, if you were generous, you could call a laugh. "What the hell, sure."

Gojo brightens. "Great!" He tears free a sheet of concerningly stiff fabric and can't decide whether to wince or laugh when Nanami tries to wipe his nose with it and it audibly crunches, folding in on itself. An exasperated sigh and a trip to the wastebasket later, Nanami wraps a palm around the handle to the laundry room door. 

"There is... something you can help with," Nanami starts. "The first time I ever spoke with Sukuna, I told him I'd learn to fight him by finding out about his past and discovering his policy. But since I made that claim...I haven't gotten any closer." His eyes flick towards Gojo. "May I ask you to analyze some of the strange things he's said to you? For me?"

"'Course, Nanamin!" Gojo agrees. Even after just today, there's no shortage of weird shit Sukuna's spouted both at and in front of him to pick apart like an in-class frog dissection. "And it's no trouble, really. Anything for my bestie!"

Nanami's glance flattens into a glare. "Don't call me that."

"But it's true!"

"Yes, but that doesn't mean you should say it." Nanami begins to twist the handle, but then he pauses. "And Gojo..." He offers a grin warm as freshly-baked pastries. "Thank you."

Then, Nanami exits the laundry room and slips out the front door of Toji's apartment. 

Meandering after him, Gojo slips his hands into his pockets, pensive. There's a lot of material to work through. He's gonna need a partner-in-crime for this.

And who better than the person who's committed the second-most crimes he knows?

Really, it's for the best that he's been demoted.

Fumbling in his pocket, Gojo fishes out his phone––well, one of them. He opens his address book despite that he's long since memorized the number, pressing the 'call' button for the only contact on the entire list.

The recipient picks up after maybe half a ring. "Suguru, my dearest love!" Gojo chimes before his husband can greet him.

A huff on the other end of the line that sounds halfway between annoyed and embarrassed. "Don't call me that."

Ah, that familiar stick-in-the-mud attitude. Gojo's face splits into a wide grin. "Someone else just said something similar to me to an equally-cute nickname. You can't all reject me!"

"Have you suddenly forgotten who all of us are?" Suguru snorts. "What do you want."

Cutting straight to the chase, Gojo sees. "I need your help with something," he starts, ambling through the door of Toji's apartment into the evening. "I wanna analyze all the weird shit Sukuna has said to see if we can figure out anything about him."

"Hah. Well, there's certainly no shortage of that." Shuffling as if Suguru is wandering into another room of his house; somewhere private. "Your place or mine?"

Gojo licks his lips. Ooh, wording. "Yours," Gojo replies, then fiddles nervously with the off-beat trot of his zebra phone charm when he adds, "but...probably not in the way you think."

"Oh?" There's amusement in there, intrigue, threaded into the rocking-chair lilt of his voice. "What do you mean?"

Propping against the outdoor railing, "I..." Gojo's blunt nails drum against the hollow steel in an eight-count, two, until he's tapped out the backbeat of a whole chorus and launched into the bridge. "I wanna see it." 

Unsurprisingly, Suguru doesn't need him to clarify. "Really?" he says dubiously. "For this?"

"For this," Gojo confirms. "Suguru, please."

The sigh of someone who was always going to cave. "Fine," Suguru agrees. "In half an hour, meet me in that clearing where I proposed."

Giddy, Gojo rocks on his heels. "Feeling nostalgic?"

"Something like that," Suguru chuckles. "See you soon, Satoru."

Unable to wait, Gojo teleports to the clearing right away. It really has been a while since he was last here: since he and Suguru wrestled each other into the ground and argued their lungs out, culminating in a passionate kiss and rings slipped around both their fingers. Reminiscing, Gojo stares at the sky with bated breath.

And feels his heart skip a beat when a gleaming blip appears on the horizon, growing closer as Suguru flies in on his Crystal Dragon curse. Beneath the citrus marmalade sunset, her milky-white crystals glimmer in shades of ginger and gold, like spiced cream rich with cinnamon and clove. Her massive body refracts the remaining daylight as she approaches, bathing the empty patch of forestry in a honeyed glow. 

"You're impossible," Suguru says as he recalls her, dropping into the clearing with a dull thud. A bulky canvas bag sways on his shoulder. "You know that?"

You'd really think he'd be tired of saying it by now. "I know," Gojo snickers. "Don't keep me waiting, now."

"So impatient," Suguru tsks. "You're the one who asked for this, so just sit back and watch."

Slowly, carefully, Suguru uses his good hand to position his scarred one into a chanting position: lips parted, poised in body and spirit to recite psalms and whisper hymns.

It seems he's finally learned to answer his own prayers.

"Domain Expansion: Altar of Righteous Sacrifice."

Gojo could brace himself for a thousand lifetimes, and still never be ready for the divine manifestation of Suguru's complete barrierless Domain unfolding before him. 

His Domain's namesake stands mighty at the heart of the inner sanctum, smeared with a healed wound of dried blood belonging to Yuuji, Toge, Sukuna, Rika, even Suguru himself. Without walls from which to hang, the wheel of dharma behind it hinges on air itself: it spins in lunar orbits, guiding the tides of deconstructed prisms churning in place of stained glass windows. Colors given hearts of their own, lost without their celestial guide. 

Gilded pillars stretch as far as Gojo's Six-Eyes can see. The amber skyline is dyed an indigo twilight, cosmos styled like traditional art. Meticulously-drawn clouds wander across the woodblock-print atmosphere, carefully encircled with the textured lineart of an antique calligraphy pen.

The once-ephemeral dragonflies have taken their final bow and let the understudy claim a permanent spotlight: doves flit freely throughout the open space, a magic wand of glitter cascading from their wingbeats, like a fairy godmother granting their child's deepest wishes.

Heavenly spires exude from the mandala sun hovering over Gojo, sparkling directly across the moon rising high above Suguru's head. A small oil torch hangs from the waxing crescent, bathing both of them in the warmth of eternal flame.

Hundreds of thoughts fight their way up Gojo's throat: Oh my god, I'm so in love with you, this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my entire existence, but instead he can only point at Suguru, a little dumbly, and state: "Your halo is gone."

For better or worse, Suguru grins like he'd expected this reaction. "Well, of course it is," he hums, hands falling to his sides. "I'm not a god. I'm just a normal person."

Gojo chuckles to himself. "Yeah. We both are." He shoves his hands into his skinny-jeans' pockets. "Hey, use your Domain Maximum Technique on me."

Suguru pulls a face. "What?! No! Absolutely not! I am never doing that."

"Aw, okay." Gojo shuffles closer as Suguru unpacks his bag, resting a heap of office supplies atop his Domain's central feature like an office job's conference room. "Wait, you're using the bloody altar in your Domain as a strategy table?!"

Offended, Suguru scoffs. "It's not my fault your Domain is useless for practical purposes," he retorts, flapping a piece of stationery. "Anyway, I brought this color-coded binder."

"God, I want you."

A flush Suguru tries and fails to hide behind his bangs. "Stay focused, Satoru." He reaches into his tote. "Also, I brought this corkboard and some red string to connect the dots, if we find any. And some highlighters, and pens, and sticky notes, and––"

And Gojo slips a sudden arm around his waist and draws him into a deep kiss, tongue grazing over the plush swoop of his lower lip. Suguru sucks in a sharp breath of surprise before melting into him, hand wandering through the snowy tundra of Gojo's hair, Gojo's hand trailing up the graceful dip of his spine, and then––Gojo quickly pulls away, 

"Alright!" Gojo chirps, clasping his hands and rubbing them together like a children's cartoon villain ruminating on their latest scheme. "Let's get started."

Suguru clears his throat. "Y-Yes, of course." Hey, he's collecting himself way too fast. "We can start with what he said today. It was something about it being worse to live hated than to die loved, right? And that he thought you'd be put in the same position because he thinks you're the strongest, and therefore similar to him?"

"Yeah," Gojo says, bringing a finger to his chin. "And he seemed to think my suffering is undesirable. And that my death would have to be quick, and it'd be a mercy to me."

"That's interesting." Suguru scribbles it down and pins it to the corkboard with a bright-green thumbtack. "Very interesting."

"In fact, all this time, he's been implying the strongest is a bad thing," Gojo continues, tearing off a sticky note. "That it drives people away and isolates you. He told me the second time we spoke that even though I'm the strongest, I can’t protect anything."

"Do you think there's something he tried to protect in the past, but couldn't?" Suguru posits, placing Gojo's post-its beside his own like kitchen tile backsplash. "Despite his strength. Despite how hard he might've tried."

Frowning, Gojo caps his pen. Sukuna? Protect something? It's nigh-unbelievable, but that's not a statement he'd just rattle off without any basis. "I mean, maybe." 

"He said love is the most twisted curse of all during our fight," Suguru goes on, flipping through notecards he evidently prepared in the short time before this. "Not to mention when he said he couldn't remember how many people he's killed, I told him I thought he did, then he dropped the act and agreed with me."

Weird. Definitely weird. And concerning how much those two were on the same wavelength. "Is it possible he feels guilty for his atrocities and just keeps carrying them out due to habit and to live with what he's done, telling himself it's worth it?" Gojo guesses. "Like you were."

Suguru's expression falters. "Were," he repeats, snagging on the past tense. "Don't say that."

Gojo resists the urge to roll his eyes. He'll get there, he'll get there. "Did he say anything else notable during your fight?"

Suguru clicks his tongue. "Fuck, what didn't he say." Suguru flips to another page. "Well, we've all heard he has a policy, not that anyone's ever known what it is. And he said that this time around, he's gonna have to break it." Right, Nanami mentioned his and Sukuna's conversation about that. "And he told me...I've also got the face of someone who's killed children." A tense pause as they both try not to dwell on that. "For him, it's not surprising since he wiped out cities, but I've got a strange feeling there was more to it than that."

"I see," Gojo murmurs. "That reminds me of our first conversation with him. He said his soul got destroyed, and there's nothing good left in the world." He folds his arms, pondering. "Does that mean he had a soul once, but someone or something destroyed it? And there's nothing good left in the world implies that once, something was."

"I noticed that too," Suguru says, holding up another page scrawled with stencil-perfect penmanship –– he always was a teacher's pet. "I'll add it to the corkboard."

Gojo watches as Suguru adds another leaflet, the pages already overlapping at the corners like flagstone pavers after an earthquake. Gojo takes a step back, inspecting their handiwork: how can he fill in the gaps?

Then, another thought occurs to him. "Hey, remember how Toge told us Sukuna healed him so he could curse Yuuji in his final moments?" Gojo recalls. "Do ya think it's possible he got cursed, and was hoping for Toge's words to overwrite it?"

Suguru absently clicks a mechanical pencil. "What makes you say that?"

Gojo chews on his lip. "When I first met them, Hajime asked if I thought a curse like Sukuna could be created without regrets." He squints, trying not to get lost in the memory of meeting them that day in the park. "At the time, I didn't believe them. But now?" His shoulders droop. "Not to mention that line Sukuna said about love and grief being synonyms."

"Ah, I see your point." Suguru jots it down. "And speaking of love...he did actually answer Yuki when she asked what his type was."

"Yeah, I remember," Gojo sighs, recalling that odd moment during the childrens' sports day event. "He said somethin' like, 'I love a bitch with a real frozen heart.'” It was awfully specific, and singular too. “He also said it was a bummer that fire melts ice."

Suguru taps his pencil as if this has jogged another memory. "Come to think of it, that reminds me of something else he said during our fight. He said he loves the cold," Suguru tells him, "and he mentioned another time that he believes water is best as ice." Suguru's pencil tip hovers over a fresh notebook page. "For a curse with a fire technique, that always struck me as odd."

Encouraging, Gojo nods. "Yeah, super odd," he agrees, tapping on the paper. "Write it down, write it down!"

Suguru scowls at him. "I'm writing, I'm writing!"

Shifting his attention from Gojo to his scribe duties, Suguru fervently scribbles down their theories, annotating the margins, adding footnotes. His nose is scrunched in effort, brows pinched in deep thought.

It's oddly cute. Really cute.

Because seriously, how many years has it been since he and Suguru had good, plain fun together? Even in the months before he left, Suguru was distant, withdrawn. It felt like Gojo had already lost him before he'd even really lost him yet.

But now...

Here they are, geeking out over myths and stories the way they used to play video games late at night during high school: scrunched beside each other on the lumpy couch they found on the street, eyes bloodshot from the electric neon glow of Suguru's beat-up old TV set. The setting is remarkably different than it was back then, but the vibes are, bizarrely, almost exactly the same.

Unable to contain himself, Gojo giggles.

Suguru lifts an eyebrow through his fringe. "What?"

Can't a guy just mysteriously chuckle anymore these days? Jeez. "It's just that––" Gojo scratches the side of his face. "––doesn't this feel weirdly... normal?"

Suguru gives him a look. "Satoru, we're reverse-engineering the possibly-tragic backstory of a thousand-year-old homicidal maniac while huddled around a portable whiteboard in my barrierless Domain Expansion."

Gojo clicks his tongue. "You're missin' the point."

"Am I?"

"You are," Gojo insists, lifting a finger. "I dunno, man. I know it's not the best subject, but this is..." He glances away, suddenly shy. "This is nice."

Gojo's expecting to get laughed at, but instead: "Yeah," Suguru murmurs, leaning his head on his shoulder. "This is nice."

The two of them work for a while longer. They recount other strange comments Sukuna has made, words he's frequently said; when they take a short break to brainstorm for a bit, Gojo realizes there are two words he sprinkles in far more than he has any real reason to. At least any reason he's directly said.

"Hey," Gojo starts, leaning against the altar. "Doesn't he say the words 'dream' and 'mercy' a lot?"

Suguru pauses, tallying the instances in his own head. "Shit, yeah. I think he does."

Gojo’s brows knit in concentration as Suguru shuffles through the folder beside him. The references seemed subtle before, but now that he and his husband have picked up on the pattern, there’s simply no way it’s a coincidence. Neither are terribly common words, yet Sukuna seems hellbent on stringing them into every conversation as if it’s second nature, as if it’s a reminder. Of what, exactly, Gojo isn’t sure.

Mercy and dream: two things the King of Curses neither shows nor does. It’s like he’s constructed an entire identity around their antonyms, but that just raises more questions: for wrath usually implies punishment, vengeful anger hand-in-hand with retribution. It’s uncertain what Sukuna’s true goals are, but it’s clear he isn’t happy. For some reason, Sukuna seems to think that if he’s living in a nightmare, then everyone must.

Dream and mercy. What could he...

And then, Gojo has a thought so horrible he wishes he could un-have it.

“Suguru,” Gojo breathes. It makes too much damn sense, yet somehow none at all. “Suguru, what if they’re names?”

The files slip from Suguru’s fingers like raked leaves in an autumn breeze. “Oh, fuck.”

Gojo slumps against the stone surface. "Yeah, fuck indeed." 

Crouching, Suguru begins to gather his scattered papers. "If they are names, then who could they be?" he asks. "A servant? Or maybe a friend?"

Gojo swallows hard. "Or––or maybe––" he starts, unsure whether he even wants to finish, "Or maybe a family?"

"Hm." Suguru rises, straightens his files with his good hand. Switches his weight, pondering, then shakes his head like a surgeon who's reading a particularly bleak patient's chart, preparing to tell everyone in the waiting room their loved one is beyond saving. "No matter how hard I try, I just can't picture Sukuna with kids."

"Yeah," Gojo lies. And it is a lie, and he knows what that makes him. Maybe he and Sukuna really are alike –– just two liars, doomed to hurt all those they call precious in the end. "Me neither."

"Dream and mercy," Suguru is repeating under his breath when Gojo shakes it off. "Well, dream is 'yume.' And there are a couple of ways to say mercy. 'Jihi,' 'jinkei,' 'jion...'"

Gojo's jaw drops as it dawns on him. "They all start with 'Ji,'" he notices.

"Yeah," Suguru mumbles. "And along with yume, if you put those together..."

"You get Yuu-Ji," Gojo exhales.

"Yuu-Ji," Suguru repeats. "Christ. Is that why he said Yuuji's name like that for so long?"

"It's definitely part of it, at the very least." Gojo shifts uncomfortably. "So what now?"

Suguru taps his pencil against the sweep of his cupid's bow. "How about...next time you see him, you could repeat the words dream and mercy to him, just like he does. Mention the cold and his policy, too, and maybe imply he's lost something. You can see how he reacts."

"That's a good idea," Gojo agrees. "Taunt it out of him by causing problems on purpose. Hah! I'm great at that."

"Then we have a course of action," Suguru says conclusively, gesturing to their handiwork. "This is progress. This feels like progress."

Gojo nods in agreement, then his attention is drawn to his pocket with the motorized blip of a text.

New Message From: World's Okayest Dad

> hey kiddo

> everything alright with nanami?

> not really? he's struggling more than he's letting on

> it'd be nice if someone went over to his house to help with cooking, cleaning, and general house stuff, i think

> plus cheering him up

> yeah that ain't a bad idea

With that, Gojo pockets his phone. He gives their research documents a final scan––wow, that is a lot of red string and highlighter––then faces his partner.

"Hey, Suguru," Gojo begins, nonchalant despite the gravity of his oncoming request. "I'm gonna spend the evening at Nanamin's. Can ya babysit our kiddos while I'm busy?"

Pupils wide, Suguru blinks. "Our kids," he repeats, as if he's testing the shape of the words in his mouth. "All of our kids?"

"Uh-huh. All of them." 

Even Tsumiki. 

Suguru shuffles in place. Wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, evidently overwhelmed at the trust he's probably not sure he's earned yet. But still: "Sure," Suguru eventually exhales, nodding fervently. "Yeah, of course. I'll make sure they all have a great time, Satoru."

"Great!" Gojo chirps, pecking him on the cheek. "I'll stop by in the morning, then, and we'll all have breakfast together as one big happy family."

After one final quick kiss, Gojo stretches, cracks his neck, then teleports right into the middle of Nanami's living room.

And alright, he already figured he wouldn't be alone in here. It is the Nanami family's house, after all.

But he's got more company.

Toji whirls around. Points at him like that Spiderman meme Toge sent him once, surprise evident on his rough features. Beside him, Gojo's sister wears a smirk, looking like she entirely predicted this turn of events but chose not to warn either of them nonetheless. Nanami stands awkwardly beneath the doorframe separating the living room and the kitchen: they are said to be the safest place to shelter during earthquakes.

"Oh, hey," Maki says nonchalantly. Her ponytail swings as she props her hand on a hip. "'Sup, idiot."

The nerve of this kid! Showing up inconveniently out of the blue is supposed to be Gojo's thing!  "'Sup yourself!" he shouts. "What are you two doing here?!"

Toji has the audacity to look offended. "The thing you just talked about!"

"Yeah, I meant I was gonna do it!"

"Well how was I supposed to know that?!"

Gojo tugs on the roots of his hair. "Uh, I dunno, basic critical thinking?!"

Toji huffs. Gives him a look like he's just asked something he should really know already, like what color the sky is, or if water is wet. "Don't ya realize who you're talkin' to?"

Ooh, self-burn. Those are rare. "Okay, ya got me there."

"I knew what you meant," Maki chimes in, smugly readjusting her glasses like a contestant about to win a spelling bee. "But this is way funnier. Also, we beat you. Heh."

And just like that, a nerve is popping in Gojo's temple again. Swiveling towards his best friend, "Nanamin! You're not supposed to let them beat me!"

Nanami folds his arms. "I didn't know either of you were coming,"  he says flatly, then jabs a finger towards Toji. "And he let himself in."

Does that really matter anymore? Everyone in Gojo's family has been barging into each others' places with zero warning for several years now. Nanami included. 

Lounging languidly on the couch looking deeply amused, Shoko takes a long sip of evening coffee. "I would've let him win, even if I did know."

"Shoko!" Gojo whines. She's always been a harbinger of chaos. He's about to tell her as much, then he glances at Nanami and what he's wearing finally sinks in: pastel frills and bows along the shoulder, draped over his clothing like an old maid dress transformed into a ballgown at a fairytale's midnight clockstrike. "Oh my god, you're wearing the apron."

Nanami flushes the same pink as the fabric. "Yes, because I don't care if it gets destroyed in the kitchen."

"To be loved is to be changed, Nanamin!" Gojo chirps. 

A long exhale. "Something like that." His arms fall to his sides. "Why are you three here?"

"To help you around the house, of course!" Gojo answers, and Toji nods in agreement. Maki only snorts.

Nanami lifts a dubious eyebrow. "You all want to help me with housework?"

"Well, I'm here to hang out with Yuuji and Toge," Maki explains, "but yeah, those two bozos are gonna offer a hand with all your cooking and chores!" A devious grin. "Great idea, right?"

The sigh of someone who knows exactly what they're getting into but is resigned to their fate. "It's... an idea," Nanami mumbles. "Are you sure about this?"

"'Course we're sure!" Toji confirms. "Why wouldn't we be? We're gonna be super fuckin' helpful to ya, you'll see."

Shoko sets her drink atop the coffee table. "I was planning to study for finals, but this is way better." 

See, she understands! "I'm glad you acknowledge our skills, Shoko!"

Shoko laughs, shoving her hands into the front pocket of an old gray sweatshirt she clearly stole from her partner. "Yeah, acknowledging you have zero skills still counts, I think."

Hearing the commotion, Yuuji and Toge materialize from the hallway leading towards the back rooms. "Maki?" Yuuji says by way of question. 

"Hey, what's going on?" Toge signs.

Maki spins around. "The dumbasses are here to 'help,'" she says, adding air quotes. Insulting! "I'm here to shield you two from the impending disaster."

Toji scowls. "Oi, disaster?!"

"I said what I said." 

Dramatic, Gojo sniffles. "My own little sister has no faith in me!"

"Yeah, that's exactly why I have no faith in you." Maki pads over to the boys. "You guys wanna go draw in Toge's room?"

Yuuji's expression falters. "Um, that sounds fun, but I can draw in my own room––"

Maki clasps Yuuji by the wrist and doesn't flinch even when Yuuji does. "No, you can't." Then she drags him away, Toge in tow.

Children sequestered, Toji and Gojo both stare at Nanami expectantly. 

Nanami and Shoko exchange glances. Shoko tilts her head, Nanami pinches a brow and scrunches his nose. Since when did they learn to talk solely through facial expressions?

Finally, Nanami huffs in what seems to be the loss of an argument. "Fine, you can help," Nanami surrenders––uh, agrees. "Let's start with something harmless...Toji, please put the laundry from the hampers into the washer, and move the laundry in the washer to the dryer. The cycle's almost finished."

Toji salutes like a footsoldier on his first real mission. "Got it, chief." 

Rocking on his heels, Gojo gives Nanami a wide grin. "What about me, Nanamin?"

Nanami presses a finger to his temple. Scrubs it in little circles. Yikes, migraine already? No, he must simply be overwhelmed with gratitude. "Something easy for you..." his voice trails off. "Alright, water the garden. The hose is on the side of the house."

Gojo beams. "You can count on me!" he reassures, and Nanami mumbles something under his breath Gojo's sure must be happiness. He skips towards the sliding glass door, pushing through it to enter the evening-touched backyard.

The yard is filled with rows of vegetables on the cusp of ripeness, flanked by flower petals folded in on themselves, flipped like paper shop signs, closed for the night. Small mounds of soil where Yuuji and Toge have dug for worms pepper the area like anthills, the lawn sprawling wide and open in the center.

Pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head, Gojo scrutinizes the plants with his Six-Eyes. He's got this!

Scanning the yard, Gojo finds the hose and tugs on it –– whoops, better untangle that knot. Gojo fiddles with it and tightens the knot twice before he manages to free it –– he's just checking the cord's structural integrity! Then he finally manages to free the hose of unnecessary coils, finds the spigot then turns it on––

And promptly blasts himself with freezing water.

Gojo hacks a cough. What! This thing is clearly broken! He shakes himself off like a dog protesting a bath, re-fluffing his hair. He swivels the nozzle away from him––okay, take two. He drenches the yard in water, soaking the soil until it turns swampy. The more water the better! Right?

Still carrying the hose, Gojo tugs the hose across the yard. What are these strange spiky plants? Is that some sort of miniature cactus? Well, its soil is extremely dry, so clearly Nanami's been neglecting it. How uncharacteristic of him.

Gojo soaks the gravel housing the spiky plants until the rocks are nearly floating. Drenching the lawn as well, Gojo prances back to the spigot and turns off the hose. A job well done! He pushes back through the door, ready to excel at his next task.

At his entrance. Nanami glances up from where he's sorting through a stack of papers on the couch. Scanning Gojo up and down, "Why are you wet?"

Shit, Gojo should've thought of something. "Uh...I was checking the water's temperature!" he tries. Alright, not his best work. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that every plant in your backyard is now nice and drenched!"

A dubious look settles over Nanami's features. "Every plant?"

"Every plant!" Gojo confirms with a snap. See, he did great. "Even those spiky ones! Their soil looked way too dry."

Nanami's eyebrow twitches as Shoko cracks up beside him. "You...you watered the succulents?"

Oh my, word choice. "Succulent? How raunchy, Nanamin!"

Nanami's stare flattens. "It's a type of plant." He sets his jaw. "And the soil is supposed to be dry, Gojo."

Gojo swallows hard. It is? "I-I knew that!"

Nanami's brows dip. "Then why did you drench them with water?"

Racking his brain, "I was just testing them!"

"They're plants!" He scrubs his temples. "No...it's fine. I should've specified. I can't just assume you know things."

Ouch? "Hey! Don't underestimate me!"

"Actually, I was over estimating you." Nanami's attention shifts as Toji enters the room. "Alright, what have you done?"

Toji huffs. "Oi, phrasing! You're sayin' that like I messed up already." He tilts up his nose. "I put all the clothes that were in the washin' machine into the dryer, just like ya said."

Nanami sets down his stack of papers. "All of the clothes?"

Oh boy. Has Toji fallen into the same trap Gojo did? "Yep! All the clothes!" Toji confirms.

Pushing to his feet, "Toji...some of those clothes can't be put in the dryer. They'll shrink."

Toji frowns. "How was I supposed to know that?"

Nanami folds his arms. "It's common––" He cuts himself off before he can finish: common sense and Toji don't mix. "No, this is on me too. That task was too hard for you." He brushes off his slacks. "I'm going to go see if I can save them. Gojo, can you vacuum the carpet? The tools are in the supply cabinet."

Gojo flashes a thumbs up. "I won't let ya down!"

Nanami blinks incredulously as Toji asks, "What about me?" 

Nanami ponders for a moment before responding. "You can put Yuuji and Toge's toys back into the cabinet in the hallway. Any shelf is fine for now."

"Gotcha," Toji replies. He dashes towards the cabinet. 

When Nanami exits, Gojo opens the supply closet and locates the vacuum, varnished the same glossy red as a racecar. Admittedly, he's not entirely sure how to do this: he's five years into a codependent relationship with his Roomba, constantly tossing it table scraps to keep it happy and fed. He withdraws the vacuum anyway and plugs it in, rolling the contraption towards Nanami's carpet. 

"Hey, Shoko," Gojo starts slowly, "you got any advice?"

Shoko knocks back the rest of her coffee. "Just do what feels natural, man."

Well that's unhelpful. Sighing, Gojo cautiously flicks the on switch. The vacuum whirs as the roller rakes through the carpet's tufts––hey, this is easy enough. 

Gojo shoves the vacuum forwards and immediately sucks its own cord into the powerhead.

Sparks fly as the vacuum eats itself like an ouroboros. There's an awful grinding sound of wire snagging on spokes, a loud snap as the cord breaks like a downed power line. Frantically, Gojo rushes to turn off the switch, but it's too late: there's no point to it when the vacuum has shut down already, dead on arrival. 

"Oof," Shoko snorts, looking supremely entertained. "Who coulda seen that coming?"

"Rude!" Gojo chimes. Still, sweat gathers along Gojo's hairline. Fuck, what now? It's bad enough that he's already destroyed a vacuum that looks like it cost a small fortune, now little more than a decorative prop. There's still lint and dust scattered atop the carpet, and something has to clean it up.

Returning the vacuum to its casket in the supply closet, Gojo huffs. Okay, damage control. He crouches, squinting at the fabric as he carefully starts picking up every speck of dust one by one, by hand. Yeesh, this is gonna take forever, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

The sound of shuffling from the laundry room. "Hey, I think Kento's comin' back soon," Shoko hums, resting her cheek on a palm. "Better think of somethin' quick. "

Gojo panics. What now? He hasn't gotten anything done yet!

A smile overtakes his features as something dawns on him. This is brilliant.

Gojo lifts his hands, cradling pure energy between them. Shifting his fingers, he chants to himself:

Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue!

A firestorm of energy trawls everything in, blue like the hottest part of a flame. The carpet dislodges from its place and the coffee table flips –– Nanami's coffee table book about coffee table books is caught in the crossfire, papers ripping from the spine like a mail truck caught in a hurricane. Alarmed, Gojo neutralizes his technique, but the damage is done.

Shoko's holding her sides from laughter. "Oh man, this is so much better than studying for finals!"

"Stop laughing at my misery!" Gojo whines, pointlessly. Shoko's staring at him like this is the best thing she's seen all year.

Welp, that can't be good. When the shuffling from the laundry room grows closer, the only damage control Gojo can think of is: 

"Hey, Nanamin!" he says, bolting to meet his best friend. He stretches all two inches he has on him to hide the living room from his view, swaying back and forth to cover it up. "Isn't it time to cook dinner? Toji and I can help you!"

Nanami sighs. "What are you hiding..." He shakes his head. "I saved the laundry, but I don't think Toji is done yet."

"Yes I am! I'm right here!" Toji says, sprinting into the room. "Yuuji and Toge's toys have been stashed away, just as requested."

Nanami switches his hips. "And by stash, you do mean organized carefully onto the shelves one by one?"

Toji gives him a weird look. "Hah? You can just chuck those things in the closet, right? A mess doesn't exist if you can't see it." A satisfied nod. "I live by that."

Something that could almost be called a smile ghosts across Nanami's face. "But we can see you."

"Hey!" 

"In any case," Nanami says, lifting his hands, "it is indeed time to cook dinner. Am I correct in assuming you two both want to help? Since of course, I can assume you've excelled at your most recent tasks."

Oh, he totally knows. "But of course!" Gojo says instead. "Lead the way, Nanamin!"

Wordlessly, Nanami pivots. Toji, Gojo, and Shoko follow suit.

Shoko hops atop the counter to observe as Toji and Gojo crowd the refrigerator. "What're ya makin' tonight, kid?" Toji asks him.

"A cheese soufflé," Nanami answers, withdrawing ingredients from the fridge. "It's a rather delicate dish. They can collapse if you make a loud sound or bump the oven, so it's probably dangerous for you two to simply exist near it."

Uh-oh. "That's not true! We can be soft and quiet, you'll see!" Gojo says with a confident nod. "Let us be your sous chefs, Nanamin."

Nanami sets an array of ingredients atop the counter. He presses a series of buttons on the oven then withdraws a ridged porcelain bowl, arming himself with a stick of butter. 

"I'm going to grease the inside of this dish," he tells them, shaking the butter at them the way someone would wave a spray bottle at a cat, warning them against chewing on houseplants. "Can one of you please grate some parmesan cheese?"

Gojo hops closer. "Ooh, me! Me! I can!" he offers. Dubious, Nanami passes him a grater and a block of cheese, then returns to his task.

Toji nudges Gojo in the side. "You know how to do that, kid?"

Lord, not even sort of. "Obviously," Gojo scoffs instead. "Just watch my expert cooking skills. I've got this."

Toji smirks, high and mighty despite that Gojo's a thousand percent certain he's got no clue how to do this, either.

Thinning his gaze, Gojo inspects the tools. Should be easy enough, right? He presses the cheese against the smooth edge of the grater –– okay, nothing happened, but this is only a minor setback. He tries the opposite direction, and a small shower of cheese rains from the underside of the grater onto the counter.

Gojo beams. Hey! He did it! Victorious, Gojo scrubs the cheese against the metal, snowing parmesan onto the marble.

After Nanami has finished his task, he gives Gojo a flat look. "Have you considered grating it into a bowl instead of my tabletop?"

The corner of Gojo's mouth tilts downwards. Okay, fair enough. "Yeah, I considered it, but this seemed more efficient." 

Nanami sighs. How many times is that today? No, Gojo doesn't want to know. "It's fine...just scrape it into this ramekin. I'll sprinkle it onto the sides of the casserole dish. It's to prevent the soufflé from sticking." 

Gojo follows his directions, brushing the parmesan into the bowl––some of it gets on the floor, but it's fine, right? Maybe Gojo can lend Nanami his Roomba. After what happened to his vacuum, he's going to need it. 

"Now, I'm going to whisk together melted butter, flour, and pour milk slowly to form a paste," Nanami narrates. "This step is challenging, so don't worry about helping me." He glances at Toji. "Can I trust you to fold the bowl with the egg whites?"

Toji knits his brows. "Fold the bowl...gotcha."

He accepts the bowl, sets the spatula Nanami gave him beside it on the counter, then snaps the bowl clean in half.

Nanami's jaw drops. Shoko barks a sudden laugh.

Despite the goo dripping through his fingers onto the counter, Toji still looks proud. "Done!"

Nanami scrubs his temples. Ah, there's no denying that's a migraine now... "My god." He tears off a paper towel. "I'll...clean this up. Your task is to observe."

Gojo and Toji watch as Nanami starts the dish from scratch again, demonstrating proper folding technique once he's arrived at the same step. Once he has poured the mixture into a baking dish, he slides it into the oven and turns around.

"The laundry cycle should be done. I'm going to go fold it. Please put the unused dishes into the cabinets and the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. I'll do the rest." He glances at his girlfriend. "Shoko, keep them in check."

Shoko hops down, pecking him on the cheek. "I'll do my very best."

Why did that sound sarcastic? Oh, well. 

Resigned, Nanami exits the kitchen, leaving the two of them under Shoko's minimal supervision.

Once they're alone, "Damn, we weren't much help, were we?" Toji sighs. "There's gotta be somethin' we can do to make dinner easier for him."

Gojo brings a hand to his chin. "Maybe..." He glances at the recipe. "This says it'll take 40 minutes at 400 degrees to fully set the dish. The oven's max temperature is 550, which is approximately 1.37 times higher!"

Toji quirks a brow. "Oi, since when were ya good at math?"

Why does that always surprise people?! "Since always!" Gojo protests. "Listen to my bright idea. If we turn the oven to maximum, the dish will only take 29.09 minutes! We'll save Nanamin eleven minutes!" He turns to his former classmate. "Think this is a good idea, Shoko?"

Shoko shrugs. "Hell if I know," she admits. "I'm a med student, man. I exist solely on a diet of instant ramen and Red Bull."

Knowing this is as much approval as he can get, Gojo proceeds to turn the oven to maximum temperature. 

But it's only a few minutes later that a strange burning smell begins wafting from the oven. Cautious, Gojo and Toji exchange glances, open the door, and––

And discover the dish has completely collapsed in on itself in some sort of gooey, char-flaked black hole.

"...oh boy," Shoko says. "Well, that worked."

Toji panics. "Now what?" He points at the noxious substance. "We fucked up his dinner!"

"We have to get rid of the evidence!" Gojo tells him. 

Toji wrenches open the trash bin. "Quick, put it here."

"I can do ya one better," Gojo says, then teleports the dish into oblivion.

Evidence disposed of, they move on to Nanami's next instruction. Toji shoves all the dirty dishes into the dishwasher; Gojo inspects the rest of the tools, holding them awkwardly as he opens up each cupboard, trying to decipher the contents.

Even though Gojo already knows the answer: "Shoko, are you gonna tell us where everything goes in the cupboards?"

Shoko kicks her feet back and forth atop the counter. "Nah, I don't think I will."

Unsurprising, but Gojo still has to complain. "Hey, this is your home too!"

"Not yet it isn't," Shoko shoots back. "I'll start helping after I move in. But until then..."

Gojo perks up. "You're moving in with Nanamin?!"

A breathless laugh. "Jeez, didn't you just call this my home too?" She slips her hands into her sweatshirt. "Yeah, I'm movin' here after I graduate. I'll get annoyed at you for fuckin' this place up once it's mine too, but for now it's just funny."

Alright, fair enough. Scooting towards his dad, "Oi, oi," Gojo whispers. "Is Yuki movin' in with you?"

Toji stiffens. "I dunno," he mutters. "We haven't talked about it yet."

Isn't that a bit of an oversight? "Didn't she literally propose?" Gojo's still not sure why she came home covered in that much blood, but he'll get the guts to ask her about it...soon. "And you said yes!" 

A vein bulges in Toji's temple. "I know I said yes! I was there!" A rough swallow. "I'll ask her soon. She practically lives there already, anyway."

Fair, but that's true of the entire family with how much they all treat Toji's apartment as some sort of home base. "When are you guys gonna tell everyone?"

"Soon," Toji answers. "I'm pretty sure half the kids thought we were already married, so we're gonna have to tread carefully. We can't just go sayin' it all willy-nilly––"

"You and Yuki are engaged?" Shoko chimes in.

Toji tenses. Well, it's not like he was being particularly quiet. "Uh." He fidgets uncomfortably. "Maybe."

Shoko's grin widens. "Were you even dating?" 

Defensive, Toji crosses his arms. "Oi, that's irrelevant! We're ready to get hitched!"

Just then, Nanami saunters into the living room. "What's this I'm hearing?" He arches a brow at Toji. "You finally proposed?"

"Apparently, Yuki did," Shoko corrects.

"Hm." Nanami shifts his weight. "Figures."

"Hey!"

"What? No offense, but you've always been a bit of a coward when it comes to her." He pauses, reconsidering. "Alright, some offense."

"Hey!"

Undeterred, Nanami asks, "Have you even gotten her a ring yet?"

Toji sputters. "It was three days ago! And it was a spur of the moment thing!"

"So?" He shakes his head. "In any case, I smelled burning. Do you two have anything to do with that?"

Toji and Gojo both stiffen. Oh, shit. What now? It's not like there's a dish left to give him. 

They're both still at a loss when Nanami opens the oven. To his credit, he doesn't look terribly surprised when he discovers there's nothing inside. 

Straightening up, Nanami shuts the oven door the way a coroner would shut a mortuary cabinet in a morgue. "Where is it?"

The Gulf of Mexico, maybe? There's truly no way to know. "Uh..." Gojo grasps at straws. "We ate it?"

Nanami huffs a sound that might qualify as a laugh. "You ate it."

"We were hungry!" Toji tries.

"Alright." He holds out a hand with––is that a smirk? Haha, no way. Unless...? "Then can I at least have my baking dish back?"

Gojo swallows hard. "...we ate that too?"

Nanami knits his arms. "You teleported it into the ocean, didn't you."

Gojo can't decide whether to be flattered or insulted Nanami knows him so well. "I...I might have."

A slow inhale. "It's fine," Nanami tells him, heading towards the refrigerator. "We can just have leftovers."

Withdrawing a set of serving dishes from the cupboard, Shoko pats Nanami on the shoulder. "I'll go grab the oven cleaner from the supply closet."

Once Shoko disappears beyond the doorway, Gojo slumps onto the counter. What a disaster. 

Gojo's clothes are sticking to his skin from blasting himself with the hose; Toji's fingers are starting to crust with egg whites, glass shards still scattered across the counter like a broken mirror.

Utterly defeated, "Sorry," Gojo mumbles as his best friend carefully spoons helpings of fried rice into serving bowls. "We came here to help, but ended up just creating more work for you."

Gojo glances up, expecting a frown, but instead––the look on Nanami's face is warm. 

With a final exhale, "...it's alright."

Gojo lifts his head. "It is?"

"Of course it is," Nanami confirms, setting the bowls in the microwave. "You two must be aware you're actively bad at this. So why are you here?" 

Toji squirms. "Well...we wanted to help," he explains. 

"And why is that?"

Gojo gulps. What more can he even say? All that's left is the truth, stripped down to its raw bones. "Because we love you, Nanamin."

Nanami's grin widens. "Exactly. I couldn't ask for anything more than that," he says softly. "You tried your very hardest, all for me. Besides, I expected this would happen the moment you showed up, but I didn't kick you out, did I?"

"Hah." Gojo releases the tension in his shoulders and finds that he's smiling too. "Guess not."

"Indeed not." Nanami withdraws the bowls once the timer rings. He sprawls the piping hot dishes before him, rising with gentle tendrils of smoke like a winter cabin fireplace. "Thank you for cheering me up."

Toji clasps a hand to his heart. "Aww, you were laughin' with us!"

"No, I was laughing at you. Don't be mistaken." He gestures for Gojo and Toji to help him carry everything in: this, they can handle. "That said, you two are fronting the repair costs."

Ah, that's fair. "Uh, if we're being honest about repairs...I broke your vacuum."

Nanami sighs, but it's through a smile. 

"Of course you did."

They follow Nanami as he shoves the kitchen door open with his toe. Nanami's eye twitches as he surveys the damage: there'll be no dining in this room tonight.

Nanami gestures towards the backyard. "Let's...eat outside."

After Gojo blasted the whole place with water? That may not be possible, either. "Nanamin, I have a confession. The grass is wet."

"Immaterial." Nanami waits as the pitter-patter of tiny footsteps grows louder. Shoko, Toge, Maki, and Yuuji all enter the living room: as soon as they do, Maki cracks up.

"Oh man, this went exactly as expected."

"Who won the bet for how many items got broken?" Toge signs. "I win if it's between a hundred and a hundred and fifty."

"But I win if it's between a hundred and fifty and a thousand," Yuuji says.

A thousand?! Gojo deflates like a wet cat. "None of you have any faith in me!"

Maki switches her hips. "So it wasn't you who destroyed the entire living room."

Oof, Gojo walked into that one. Defaulting to deflection, "Hey, did you hear we're eating outside?"

"We're having a picnic?" Toge asks. "Cool. I'll go grab Dad's best blanket."

Nanami opens his mouth to protest, but ultimately decides against it.

One by one, the group enters the backyard. Dusk dilutes the vibrant greens and rainbow florals of Nanami's garden into the muted hues of an impressionist painting; cloudcover dapples the starglow illuminating the foliage like light trying to shine through tempered glass. Shoko grabs pillows from the couch and arranges them in a circle when even the blanket can't shield them from the swampy grass, and they all perch atop them, lounging like a pride of lions beneath the summer sun.

They chatter away, sharing a nighttime picnic beneath the constellations. Maki drags Yuuji beside her when he tries to scoot away, leans against his shoulder without fear; and surprisingly, Sukuna doesn't interject and ruin the moment.

Once their meal is complete, Nanami returns to delegation mode. "I'm going to take all the dishes back to the kitchen. Shoko, back me up." He turns to Gojo's father. "Reedem yourself, Toji. Take the blankets and throw them in the washing machine. Put it on the bulky setting, cool water, long cycle. The detergent is in the purple bottle." He glances at his eldest son. "Maki and Toge, supervise him."

"But that washing machine is my nemesis!" Toge protests.

"Exactly. You have to keep it from vanquishing another foe." Then, Nanami looks at Gojo. "You––take the pillows back inside and return them to the couch. Yuuji, help him out."

Nodding, Yuuji leaps to his feet. "Got it, Papa."

Promptly, the group follows Nanami's diligent instructions. Gojo piles the pillows into his elbows, hauling them inside as Yuuji props the door open for him. Meticulously, Gojo places the pillows into their rightful places, glancing at Yuuji from the corners of his eyes.

Now that they're the only two in here––well, three, if you count him ––now may be a good time to test the theories he and Suguru devised together. 

Setting down the last pillow, Gojo clears his throat. "Hey, Sukuna," he begins slowly. Well, here goes something. "You there?"

A minute comes and goes before Sukuna surfaces near Yuuji's wrist. "No, I'm not here." Sarcasm drips from every beat of his theatrical drawl. "Since our last encounter four whole hours ago, I've gained freedom from my inescapable prison and slaughtered everyone you love! This is me giving you the memo. Better late than never, don't you agree?"

No need to indulge his taunts––not yet, anyway. "Y'know, I was thinkin' about something you said earlier. You said my death would be a mercy, didn't ya?"

"I did," Sukuna confirms. A pause like a blank space in a newspaper's crossword. "And it would."

Leaning against the couch's armrest, Gojo nods: for now, he'll fill in the boxes with the word Sukuna wants to hear. "I see, I see." Now it's time to take correction fluid to the newsprint. "Well, then what about yours?"

A derisive snort. "What, you think my death would be a mercy?" Mock-pensive, he slides closer to Yuuji's elbow. "Well I suppose so, considering you'd all survive in my absence. Unfortunately, you won't be so lucky."

"Nah, that's not what I meant," Gojo begins, stepping into the thunderstorm with a lightning rod, prodding a sleeping bear with a hiking stick. "I meant your death would be a mercy to you."

The pressure in the room plummets. "...excuse me?"

Yuuji squirms uncomfortably. "Um, Satoru?" He pinches his brows. "What are you..."

"Trust me, kid. I'm goin' somewhere with this," Gojo reassures. He turns his focus back to Sukuna. "You told Suguru love is the most twisted curse of all. But you've also said you're the most twisted curse of all, haven't ya?"

"Excuse me?" Sukuna says again, halfway between bewildered and furious, because this must be worse, so much worse than jokes at his expense. 

"You're not excused," Gojo retaliates. "When you said love and grief are synonyms, that's what you meant. That's why you have to break your policy, isn't it?"

A manic laugh. "Are ya finally realizing how horrible love can be?" Sukuna wavers, and it's jarring to hear that much tremble in his tone. "You of all people should understand. Even though I'm gonna break my policy this time around, knowing I gotta kill you first reminds me why I even made it to begin with. You're why it has to be like this because I'm why it has to be like this, you foolish, insolent man!"

"But it's a pointless dream, isn't it?" Gojo challenges, unrelenting. He can analyze the riddles in Sukuna's words later. "What was that you told me? 'It's far worse to live hated than to die loved.' You wanted that, didn't ya? But instead you're stuck here, out in the cold, when you would've done anything to keep those bodies warm."

"Do you have any idea what you're saying?" Sukuna falters, and his voice is really shaking now. "You know, I said earlier that I don't want you to suffer, but I always lie, so I'm willing to go back on that for just a bit." A pause, as if he's genuinely giving Gojo the chance to get out of this. "Consider this your final warning, Six-Eyes. Are you sure you want to go there?"

"You think I'll show you mercy?" Gojo retorts, locking them both in the bomb shelter with a lit grenade, ready to blow. "Keep dreamin'. I've got a frozen heart."

"That's it! Don't say I didn't warn you!" Sukuna explodes, swallowing them both in a sea of flames. "You know, I can never decide whether to be amused or sickened whenever I look at you. That hope you have for the future –– what a fucking joke! You think things could really end well for this family if you're one of them? It's a riot! None of them can have a future, all because of you." 

Gojo's jaw drops. He's heard the phrase offense is the best defense, but this is taking that to a whole new level. "What?"

"It's true," Sukuna hums, tone smoothing. Walking them both off the plank is still hitting his stride. "As your fellow god, I––"

That word again? After so long? "I'm not a god, I'm just a normal pers––"

"Liar!" Sukuna cuts him off. "See, you are just like me! Earlier, you said we're unalike because you're surrounded by others, but haven't you heard that gods outlive everything they call precious? Cherish it while you still can, because somehow, someday, you're to drive them all away, then be left all alone with nothing but the corpses of happy memories, wondering where it all went wrong."

Gojo shrinks into himself. He was half-expecting this to backfire, but he'd expected it'd be loud and harmless as a car backfiring, not a cannonball ripping clean through his chest. "...huh?"

Sukuna clicks his tongue. "Oh, don't make that pathetic face at me. Let me do you a favor and tell you now so it won't keep you up at night: it's because you exist! That alone is why you deserve it!" he declares, twisting the knife. "You dare exist as the strongest, so the universe is simply taking what you owe it. This is the curse of being the strongest: existence itself."

"We're both curses," Sukuna monologues. "The only difference is that you're a curse only in a metaphorical sense, at least for now. You're not a person; you never were. Humanity is a mere technicality for both of us."

Yuuji swats at Sukuna's features as if trying to stamp on a spider, but he keeps slipping through his fingers. "Sukuna, shut up!"

"Oh, no no no. Not this time," Sukuna shoots back, and Gojo wants to say that adding 'this time' implies he's shut up even once when anyone has asked him to, but he can't find any breath in his lungs. "Six-Eyes, why are you speechless? You're the one who played with fire, and you'd blame me when you get burned? I'd say to get some ice, but you already seem certain about what happened when my fire mixed with that in the past, so I'll show you the mercy of bringing bloody flowers to your funeral too!"

And from the laundry room, Toji must have sensed Gojo's cursed energy fluctuating like radioactive decay reaching its half-life, because he bursts into the living room, blaring alarms. "Hey kid, what's goin' on? Is everything––"

Sukuna's the first to reply. "Oh, look! It's dear old daddy, coming to the rescue!" His attention returns to Gojo. "You two really do look nothin' alike. He's daddy number two, isn't he? What happened to the first one?"

Toji's fist tightens around the door handle. "Satoru, you don't have to answer––"

But Sukuna doesn't need him to. "He's dead, isn't he? Good, good! Let me make a not-so-wild guess: it was your fault."

Even though Toji reassured him all those years ago that his father's execution for striking him wasn't his fault, all Gojo manages is: "Uh––"

"Of course it wasn't his fault," Toji shuts down, coming to Gojo's defense like always––like almost always. It's getting too easy these days to forget how they met. "You don't know shit about his birth father, so shut it."

"Really?" Sukuna says, and he's got a real way of mixing emotions that just shouldn't go together, sounding both beyond disgusted and enormously amused. "So you're telling me Six-Eyes' father didn't die for some reason related to him."

Toji stiffens. "That doesn't mean it was Satoru's––"

Sukuna lets out a cackle yanked straight from the devil's lungs. "Ahaha! Oh, this is good! I was right, wasn't I? It was your fault!"

Toji charges forward. "It's not his fault for being born!"

"He's the strongest! Of course it is!" The words are to Toji, but his gaze never leaves Gojo. "You agree with me now, don't you? Maybe you always did." A sidelong glance at Toji. "He cares deeply for you, doesn't he? And this is how you repay him? What divine cruelty! You're putting him in the same position as your birth father. How long until he also gets the axe for daring to call you his son?"

Toji sputters. "Oi, that isn't––"

Sukuna ignores Toji, reveling in the way it must show on Gojo's face that he's about to vomit. "Ah, look at that guilt on your face! How beautiful! It's not just an inevitable grisly end that you're leading him to, is it? You're hiding something else from him! Yes, that's it! Something so huge and horrible it would change everything, would tear your whole little world apart and crumble it into tiny pieces! Well, go on! Tell me! Tell him! What are you waiting fo––"

"What's going on in here?"

And for some god-forsaken reason, Sukuna actually disappears at Nanami's entry. Gojo and Toji can only stand there, petrified, flanking where Yuuji's still collapsed to his knees on the carpet, as if he's the one who needs to beg forgiveness here.

Yuuji startles at the interruption. "Papa! I think..." His eyes frantically sweep across the wrecked room. "...something happened to your coffee table book."

With a deep sigh, Nanami lifts the torn-up book from beside the overturned table. "That's alright," he exhales. "I think when Gojo stuffed the pages back in was the first time it was ever opened." He glances at his son, eyes soft. "Why don't you pick a new one, Yuuji? What would you like a book about?"

Yuuji chews on his lip. "I don't really like books." It's got the weight of an admission despite its predictability. And then, "Oh! How about animals?"

Joining everyone in the living room, Maki says, "But your favorites are racecars, right?"

Yuuji twiddles his thumbs. "Yeah, but...Megumi might read it."

Gojo's eyebrows jump to his hairline. Megumi? Not Fushiguro? Is it possible Yuuji still considers the two of them close, but is only pushing Megumi away to his face? If a thousand other things didn't already have Gojo spiralling, that alone would do it.

"I see." Nanami laces his hands behind his back. "Is that all?"

When Gojo finally finds it within himself to speak, it's to do the last thing in the world he wants to but the first he thinks of. "Yep!" Gojo lies. Lying and lying and lying, again and again and again. "I'm gonna get some fresh air."

Before Nanami can protest, Gojo spins on his heels, shoving through the door to the backyard. 

Then he lets the horror hit him full-force as soon as he's alone. He can't help the feeling that Sukuna is worse than having an opposite: he's a video game bad-end version of himself, if he'd made all the wrong choices, rolled all the worst dice for his luck's RNG. 

Gojo trudges towards the lawn, plops down despite that it's sopping wet, and doesn't even have the energy to flinch at the mushy squelch of freshly-crushed crushed grass smearing the hem of his oversized sweater. His lashes flutter shut as he tries to collect himself. 

But the solitude doesn't last.

The sound of hinges creaking open a second time. Gojo feels the tension leave his shoulders; he'd be able to tell who's behind him even if he couldn't read cursed energy.

Or lack thereof.

"Hey, kid."

Toji doesn't bother asking if he's alright. 

Gojo huffs a quiet laugh. No need for preamble, then. "Welp, that's what I get for poking the beehive." He cracks open an eye, barely a waning crescent behind the dark side of the moon cast by his glasses. "I guess I kinda deserved that, huh?"

The corner of Toji's mouth quirks downwards. "You didn't deserve that." He drops onto the grass beside Gojo. He doesn't hesitate, either, grass stains scoring the back of his already stained middle-aged-dad shirt, mottled as a painter's apron. "You know you didn't."

"Ahaha, do I?" Gojo scrubs a toe-shaped valley into the muck, then another, pockmarking the lawn with a marching line of divots. "I got a confession," he exhales. "The more I learn about Sukuna, the less I wanna know."

A joyless chuckle. "I'm beginnin' to agree with ya."

"What if Sukuna and I really are as similar as he says?" Gojo implores, turning towards Toji fully. "If whatever happened to him happened to me, would I turn into that?" His synapses start firing one by one as he spirals into a trainwreck, snapping fuel lines and spewing transmission fluid, drivetrain shot to hell. "If he's right and I’m just like him, does that mean I could become a curse too and––"

"Calm down," Toji says, firm but gentle, pumping the emergency brakes: somehow those are still working, despite that everything else about Gojo feels fractured, run-down. "For some reason, it seems like he doesn’t want that. It’s not even to maintain power," Toji murmurs, soft as falling snow. "He just...genuinely seems to think it’s a bad thing."

That much was obvious. "Right." 

Gojo releases a short exhale. He can't––he can't dwell on this. Not when Toji's here, not when it's only a matter of time before what Sukuna said about Gojo's secret sinks in. Gojo digs his bitten fingernails into the dirt, lets the sting ground himself. He straightens, pulling himself together the way a puppeteer stuffs the limbs of a broken doll into a bin with the rest of their failed creations, never to see the light of a shelf or the love of a child. Just dust and darkness, features still painted into an eternal grin. 

With a smile equally as fake, Gojo chirps, "And y'know, he might be making all of this up! He says it himself, doesn't he?" Gojo tilts back his head, prepares to recite the one thing he conclusively knows about the King of Curses. "'Sukuna always––'"

"No he doesn't."

Gojo stills. Doesn't let his smile budge, his pupils the only things moving on his face as he croaks, "...huh?"

"I’m beginning to think he doesn’t lie nearly as often as he says he does," Toji says pensively, confirming Gojo's worst fears one awful word at a time. "'Sukuna always lies.' Ironic, ain't it? That statement is itself a lie."

Gojo drops his grin. "So when Sukuna told you I'm hiding something..." he starts, clunky and awkward, something akin to skipping stones with bowling balls, "...you believed him?"

A resigned sigh. "Listen, kid." It's a sidestep of the answer Gojo doesn't want to hear. "I'm not gonna use the King of Curses' words against ya. Knowing Sukuna, that's exactly what he wants." Toji glances at him from the corners of his eyes. "So just...tell me whenever you’re ready, okay?"

Gojo gulps. Ready? Ready? Is there ever gonna be a ready? 

Because a bomb is never something you're ready for, not even when you're the one who lit the fuse, snipped the wrong wire, smashed the on-switch to the zero countdown: no matter how much you brace yourself or try to take cover, the explosion just happens, and all you can do is contain it the best you can. Pray nothing you love got blown into pieces. At least not beyond fixing. Not beyond hope.

"What if I’m never ready?" Gojo whispers.

Toji flops back. Slips his hands behind his head. He slow-blinks at the cloud-brushed cosmos, black eyes swallowing the light of the heavens until there are more stars in them than the sky itself. 

He's not going anywhere. Maybe he never will.

"Then I guess I'll never know."