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The door creaks weakly under Chōsō’s hand as he pushes it open. Ash swirls up from the sudden gust, sweeping into the charred interior to coat overturned furniture in streaks of soot. He stares critically at the small living room, noting the smatterings of glass shards, the steady drip from a broken pipe, the harsh white light from an open fridge, the lingering smell of a long-extinct fire. No signs of disturbance as far as the eye can see, but he’s not one for leaving things to chance. With careful steps, he navigates the ruined entrance to peek into the adjoining room, hands feeling the walls for residuals like second nature. An empty bedroom with a lone futon, clothes scattered all over like the owner threw them all out in a hurry. A slightly ajar door for what appears to be a bathroom. No sign of anyone in the apartment. Still, he extends his perception to encompass the small apartment, the building, the block. When he feels nothing, when his senses are not going haywire with the possibility of danger, he goes back to the door and opens it wider, letting moonlight wash into the pitch-dark space.
“It’s empty,” he reports dutifully.
Yūji jumps as if startled, fingers spasming around the broken railing of the hallway. “…thanks.”
Chōsō steps aside to let his brother pass, closing the door behind him and sending a second flurry of ashes into the air. Yūji stares at the floating particles, eyes far away in a way that has Chōsō’s lips pulling unhappily downwards. He goes to put a hand on his brother’s shoulders when the boy shakes himself from his stupor and slips out of his range.
“I’ll go to the bathroom,” he blurts out far too loudly in the scarce meter that separates them. He’s staring at anywhere but Chōsō’s eyes. Yūji doesn’t wait for a reply before he’s all but running to the adjoining room, glass crunching under his hurried steps. A moment of indecision before a door slams shut and there’s that, Chōsō supposes.
He bites back a frustrated sigh and entertains himself by checking the broken windows. It’s still dark outside, but the sky is turning purple with the coming dawn. Light will soon start spilling into the city, baring the scarring left behind by the battle and the yawning, bleeding hole that is the smoldering remains of Shibuya. Chōsō can smell it, the rot. The rolling miasma that emanates from the wounds carved down into the buildings, into the very foundations of Tōkyo. It hums and throbs like a slumbering creature, a mosaic of curse energy residuals splattered over the streets like a canvas. If he concentrates, he can smell the drying blood in the distance.
The sound of running water from the direction of the bathroom breaks the stillness of the early morning. Chōsō closes the blinds abruptly and goes to scavenge what he can from the broken fridge. He inspects the scarce offerings with a frown. Nothing more than a couple of somewhat charred apples and a closed container of some kind. Chōsō hasn’t eaten anything since he started inhabiting his body, doesn’t really need to, but he knows his brother is different. He will go hungry at some point, and Chōsō won’t let him suffer if he can do something about it. He pulls out the apples and leaves the unknown container behind in favor of inspecting the rest of the kitchen.
He's gathered cans of what he assumes to be some sort of fish when the bathroom door opens. Chōsō looks up and catches his brother’s eyes as he comes into the kitchen. Yūji’s sleeves are slightly wet, and he picks at them absently as he looks over Chōsō’s meager findings with a too-tight smile.
“That’s someone’s food,” Yūji says. “We can’t take that.”
Chōsō frowns. “You need it.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“But you’ll be,” he says with more bite, with more of the familiar authority he used to keep his siblings in check and safe. His eyes narrow at his little brother, and he can see the stubbornness in the set of his shoulders. Tough luck that Chōsō can out stubborn him.
Yūji looks on the verge of replying but seems to run out of energy for it and looks away with a sigh. It’s enough of an admission from him that Chōsō pointedly sets the food on the cracked counter in full range of the light blasting out of the fridge. He stares Yūji down until he reluctantly grabs one of the apples, and only moves away when he makes sure that he actually starts to eat it.
He leaves his brother behind in favor of clearing out the clothes from the bedroom. He throws them into a pile in a corner without much care. The futon smells slightly singed, but it doesn’t look too terrible, all things considered. There’s a couple of empty takeout boxes lying about, and those Chōsō throws towards the pile of clothes disdainfully.
Glass crunching has him turning away from his disgusted glowering to see his brother approaching. Yūji looks at the futon next to Chõsō and waves a hand. “You can have it.”
“I don’t sleep.”
“What…like ever?”
“Like ever.”
“Oh.”
A beat of silence. Yūji’s weight shifts visibly from foot to foot and Chōsō decides to take pity on him.
“Come rest and I’ll keep watch. We’ll move after you wake.” To where, Chōsō doesn’t know. Shibuya is in ruins not too far from their hiding place. Curses roam freely in the city, feeding off of fear with so many sorcerers dead and the Six Eyes sealed away. Pieces are on the move for a game that Chōsō, with all his years and his father’s legacy, barely understands. Sorcerer society is falling in shambles as they hide away in some hastily abandoned apartment within the ruins of Tōkyo. He doesn’t know where to go from here, he is powerless even though he’s supposed to be a Special Grade, but the patched-together thing that he has for a soul is roaring in defiance for the only family he can help.
Yūji takes a while to move. He sits down on the futon like it pains him, knees up against his chest, and Chōsō must suppress the urge to check him over for injuries he knows don’t exist. Sitting on the ground, swamped by the darkness of the coming day, with only the faint light from the fridge drawing his outline, Yūji looks too young.
Chōsō sits down next to him, overcome by something he can’t quite name. Yūji wraps his arms around his knees and seems to curl up tighter, seems to try to take up as little space as he possibly can. There’s something wrong in the way he hides his face, there’s been something completely wrong ever since Chōsō had to help him get away from the burning remains of the battlefield. He knows that something has broken in his little brother, something deep and jagged and bleeding, and the ache deep within his being is clamoring to fix it.
He is…still adjusting. Still finding the balance between his human spirit and the gnawing curse within. He can’t bring himself to feel anything but detachment for all the curses lost to the battle, all the sorcerers slain. Shibuya is but a second in an entirely too-long existence; Chōsō can’t feel anything other than burning hatred for their monster of a father and his hand in the deaths of their siblings. But looking at Yūji, at brave, wonderful Yūji and the hollow, devastated look he’s carried the whole night, he feels like something inside him is tearing in two. The permanent anger saturating his lungs is pushed away by something dangerously close to grief. To think he’s come so close to killing his own brother, that he would have done it and destroyed what’s left of his precious family. He’s supposed to be the Oldest, the protector, and he’s failed-
Yūji makes a soft noise, wounded and heartbreaking, and his fingers dig painfully into his elbows. Chōsō reaches out to him without thinking, something instinctive that wants to soothe driving him forward. No sooner have his fingers ghosted over his brother’s hands when Yūji moves. Quick as lightning, he’s wrapped his arms around Chōsō’s middle and buried a sob against his collarbone.
Chōsō comes to three realizations all at once.
1) He’s being hugged. He doesn’t remember ever being hugged before. Granted, he’s been in a jar for most of his life, but he never thought to hug his brothers when they incarnated before they passed. He’s overcome by a wave of sadness so strong that his eyes sting with unshed tears.
2) His little brother is falling apart in his arms. Chōsō vaguely remembers that there were sorcerers around Yūji’s age in the fight, and amongst the casualties. He hopes they weren’t his friends. He hopes Six Eyes wasn’t his little brother’s friend. He feels terror and disgust for having played a part in causing such distress for his brother, for allowing him to be taken over by Sukuna. He fears the damage is too great, the sins too insurmountable. He doesn’t even know how to begin to fix all of it.
3) He will burn down the world if it means his brother doesn’t have to suffer anymore. He’ll fight anyone, kill anyone. He’ll lay down his life for his brother if it means he’ll smile again. Chōsō can’t imagine how else he can take responsibility for what he’s done. No apology’s worth enough to absolve him. He’ll be executioner and sacrifice if it keeps Yūji’s hands clean.
Chōsō returns the hug fiercely, the same crushing strength wrapping around his brother’s trembling shoulders. One hand brushes pink strands softly, soothingly. The billowing sleeves from his robes curl around Yūji like a shield. He holds him as he wails, as he screams himself hoarse. He holds him as his own tears slide down his face, getting lost in pink hair. He holds him as he sags against him, too exhausted to continue crying but too tormented to sleep. Outside, the sun is dawning over the skeletons of crumpled buildings. Outside, orders are being given to hunt down a long list of names that include them both.
Chōsō is the Oldest, the protector, but he finds himself completely lost. He has half-formed plans to look for Yūji’s surviving classmates, to seek allegiances before someone comes looking for them and the overwhelming power of the King of Curses. He knows that they are running out of time. Every second that passes risks their father’s trap closing in on them, if they haven’t already been snared. The sorcerers, too, won’t keep away for too long. Once they rally behind their broken leadership, his little family will have to fend off attacks from multiple fronts. He can’t lose another sibling.
So many plans to make. Too many things out of his control. Chōsō abhors feeling powerless like this, like every direction they take is a sword pointed at their hearts. He doesn’t know what they’ll do come morning. But for now, he readjusts his hold on his little brother, and hides him for as long as he needs.