Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Four months and twenty days since Satoru Gojo was killed in Shinjuku.

Six months and fourteen days since Kento Nanami was killed in Shibuya.

One year, four months, and twenty one days since Suguru Geto was killed by his lover. The same for Satoru goes for when his body stops being controlled by that stupid fucking brain she wishes she could torture herself-

She can’t remember when Yaga Masamichi died. Sometime in November. Fuck, how horrible of a person is she, to not keep count of the days he’s been gone, since he took her into custody after being treated like a fucking slut all her life-

The faintest glimmer of familiar rage bubbles in her gut. Or it’s hunger pangs. She hates eating. Why should she, when they’re gone, unable to eat any more of what they like?

Her throat aches lightly. Three days since she failed to kill herself. Damn Ieiri for being perceptive and taking away anything she could use to try again. Actually, no, she can’t damn her, she’s the only other living, breathing evidence of what the world used to be. What she yearns for.

The bedroom’s curtains stayed sealed shut, leaving her body in pitch darkness. She can’t decide if she hates her room or if it’s her only safe space, reminders of them prominent alongside her unfinished or destroyed paintings, or the memorabilia of different American musicians she fell so in obsession with. 

She’s been living in the same baggy hoodie that wasn’t hers for a week now. Her body feels like a disgusting, sweaty cage made of sinew and skin, a hell of her own making with the lack of action she knows she needs to do.

But then there’s a knock on her door. She could tell them to fuck off, go away, go die so she can rot and eventually cease to exist. But any words she could easily shoot back with die before they even reach her tongue.

It opens, footsteps gradually growing slightly louder in the short distance to her. She assumes it’s Ieiri, to tell her to take that useless medication they switched to after she had her latest episode. It doesn't even work-

“I got you some food.” It's not a feminine voice. Not a stranger or someone she would turn her nose up to barging into witnessing her endless bouts of depression that seemed to never end.

Mustering up what little energy she can make herself have, she flips her body from the direction of the covered window, to the door far across the room. Light pours in, making her vision squint up and force adjustment. She can see the broad silhouette, regardless.

He’s taller than her. Not Satoru height, not Kento height, but tall. His hair is short, well kept, dark brown and looking near black against the shadows of the room. A healed, but visible scar gashed across his tan skin, right at his dark eyes and big nose. He wears that familiar suit, sunflower pin glimmering just slightly against the faintest remnants of light.

She glances from his face to the small box in his hands. They look much softer than hers, with his life being a lawyer being more mentally grueling than physically. He can tell her blue gaze is on his hands, so the foam takeout container is open to show a glimpse of the contents inside. Fried rice with a little scrambled egg inside it and bits of vegetables. 

She knows she’s hungry, she knows she has to eat something in the upcoming days or she’ll pass out, get put in the hospital, and get forced a tube down her throat until she isn’t holding the line between surviving and dying.

But the thought of eating anything makes her head spin and nausea grumble its ugly head in her body. God save her, the idea of chewing and having it in her stomach acid makes her queasy.

It shows in her face. She realizes it too late, with the faint crease of his thin lips and the crinkle in his brow. 

“You haven’t left your room in days. At least have some of it.”

She awkwardly adjusts herself to sit up, trying to ignore the pang of hunger and the sound her stomach emits. He sits next to her, bed dipping a little more under the newly added weight. 

He’s not one for physical contact. He’s not one for being an expert at comforting anyone. But he slowly lets his palm place onto her knuckles. They feel softer than her own, no outwardly familiar sensations of calluses she was forced to get accustomed to. Dammit, she shouldn’t be fixating on this again, like hell he would go for a slut like her, he’s not even interested in dating anyone. Only his job, only keeping what is wrong correct.

“Didn’t think you were so keen on helping the weak, Higuruma…” She knows it’s not true, Higuruma has said it outright the first time.

I don’t tout the idea of saving the weak. It just can’t leave what’s wrong alone.

He doesn’t give a verbal response, the most just being given a slight stink eye. She’ll take it as a win, her heart will slump with defeat if she doesn’t. But he simply places the small container into her lap, and the covered chopsticks that came with them from his pant pocket. 

She holds back a growl, or a huff of defeat. She can’t quite tell anymore. There isn’t much noise, other than the chopsticks being broken in half with a wooden clink, and the small sounds of the rice being shifted mindlessly, styrofoam and chopstick meeting once in a while. 

She avoids staring, even if those intrusively obsessive thoughts beg and beg and yearn to forever stare into the depths of his gaze. He’s so fucking perfect, a perfect deity and god of order and justice. At least, that’s what she wants to believe. She shouldn’t be thinking about this when he’s said he’s far from good. 

“I’m a monster, Kitani.”

“No you aren’t.”

“I killed innocent people before.”

“They deserved it, then.”

She can remember the violent thrash of his gavel at her words, successfully shutting her up. That was a long while ago, though. Now, he’s just staring at her, half paying attention as she picks up a small bit of egg and rice, then lets it fall back into the container. His hand is so warm. 

She doesn’t look up. The rice is warm, too, and even if the process of eating makes her cringe and internally wail, it does look appetizing. The peas’ texture could be a problem, but if she has it with enough rice and egg, she wouldn’t realize it’s even there. That, and if she doesn’t chew it and feel it grind against her teeth and make her spew, she would be fine.

Her hand instinctively latches onto his hand, eventually. Fingers interlock to one another, dark and calloused fingers squeezing tanned ones. Higuruma sighs softly, just squeezing back with one palm, then using his other to guide her movements properly latch some of the food to the utensils. Her shoulders, covered by the dark blue hoodie, press against his chest. His tie wrinkles, just enough for Kitani to notice. She is not thinking of him without his suit, she can’t, she’s a slut, and he’s a god. Gods don’t go for petty scum frothing at the ground, legs wide open for whatever filth wants her carnal form.

She felt the loss of contact on her cradled hand, his thumb gently grasping at her chin and leading her mouth to gasp open. Rice enters in, a forgotten warmth reminiscing on her tongue, as his nails guide to slip it shut. Involuntarily, she feels herself swallow it down. Her stomach growls again, making her wince in embarrassment. 

“Do you always have to steal my clothes, Kitani?” He doesn’t sound mad, though. Amused, tired, a little confused, but not mad. There was a faded symbol and words of the college he went to for law school, oversized on her body, and well worn from many years of use. 

She doesn’t give a verbal response, with another bite of food put in her mouth. She avoids looking, still, but her cheeks flush red. Dammit, she can't just let herself get so easily flustered, he doesn’t go for girls like her, for people like her. 

But his soft hum and faint quirk of his lips, even if it’s sad, makes her stomach twist and knot in an anxious mix of emotions she refuses to acknowledge. The slight creases when he smiles look so cute. So human. How can a God look so human, while being the truest form of judge, jury, and prosecutor?

It lasts like that for a while. The weight of the food in her stomach feels awkward, a forgotten sensation that any human should know the feeling of. It wasn’t even a lot in her system. No wonder she got that stupid anorexia diagnosis again. 

When the stir of discomfort cracks in the depths of her thin belly grows, she hides her face against Higuruma’s broader shoulder. She’s not stupid to the quiet sigh he does again, but he doesn’t force her anymore. The chopsticks and box is placed tactfully at his shoed feet, and he doesn’t move her head from his shoulder. The distance between their hands is short, but close enough for Kitani to yearn silently for his touch again.

“We’re going to have to go on a mission today to Hakuba.” His voice remains even as he says it, not acknowledging the involuntary thrash of her white, matted tail, “It’ll do you good to clean up and get out of this hoodie.”

“S’comfy, though.” Kitani lowers her head into the hood, hair lifted and showing her feline-like feature of her nose. His eyebrows slowly quirk up, fingers brushing white, flat locks.

“Yeah? The one you stole from me?” He could feel the grease from the lack of self care, as it tried clinging to her forehead, “Your hair needs washing too. You’ll feel better that way.”

She shakes her head lightly, “I bathe…”

“Licking yourself isn’t bathing, Kitani.” He motions to her tail, “Not to mention, I’m not sure I believe you.”

The appendage hits his leg, but she doesn’t argue back. She just glares away, weak and futile. He has to have some patience with her mood swings, she's still in grieving. Her, and to his knowledge, Shoko too. 

She just can't hide it as much.

“Kitani, it's either us, or Itadori and Kugisaki go.”

He didn't like that idea. They were still processing everything, he didn't know much of how to help, but all he knew is he needed to not leave what is wrong alone.

So he lets himself be a jujutsu sorcerer. The charges against him were somehow (and to his dismay) dropped, but it didn’t change the reality that he was a monster.

But what he says, at least gets a reaction out of the smaller individual. He can feel her body tense up, a faint twitch in her bandaged ears. The wrappings look dirty from constant attire, a lack of switching out prominent. 

“So? Which poison is it, Kitani?”

“-What do you think it is…” her nails dig into the fabric of the torn bed covers, cushion itself fraying from the constant abuse it has to take in her fits. He notes to himself to try and help her get a new one later.

“. . . You know I don’t like it as much as you, Haruho.” He feels her face bury more into his shoulder. Her breath is hot against his neck, warming the white collar of his undershirt and the tanned skin he sported. He’s not one to say her first name, even if she preferred it. Too close, too personal, for someone Hiromi, himself, hadn’t known for long enough. But she doesn’t pull back at it, now.

“Why couldn’t it have changed, though…” There’s that slight growl as she speaks, unable to see her glare burning into the wall’s wrinkled and sunbleached photo. He never got a good look at it, never asked about it. Two of them are unfamiliar, and the other were the strongest and her. Younger, shorter hair, more masculine appearing. But her face looked rounder, more youthful.

She would split if he asked her about it. He didn’t notice any particular details, though. 

“I know.” He keeps himself neutral. She doesn’t move for a long while. His hand keeps petting her slowly, until she slowly shifts off his lap. Her gaze refuses to meet his face, but she starts nudging him off her bed with small, rough hands.

“You want me to go?” There’s a hint of amusement fronting forward, causing the shorter girl to let a whine out.

“I don’t need you snooping through my shit, lawyer boy!”

His hands raise in defense, but he gets up anyway, grabbing the half eaten food before strolling out. 

Kitani knows, deep in her heart, he wasn’t the type to nose around about rather inconsequential contents. But the what ifs make her gut twist, and she not eyeing his ass as he walks out. No, she would not be a pervert, he doesn’t go for sluts that can’t save her friends and let bad things happen. 

But she eventually caves after staring at the empty space of her door entrance. She grabs some clothes from her closet, untouched for weeks after Shinjuku. She hates reminders, but dammit, pink just looks too cute on her. Her leg warmers, heels, and beanie follow suit, and then she leaves for the showers.

No one is probably looking at her, she knows this. People have their own business to attend to, she should just quit worrying about it. The sunlight is unbearably warm against the hoodie heavy on her shoulders, short, scruffy hair tangled and sticking against the back of her neck. The intensity of the light hurts her pale eyes. When she reaches the shower room, wet and smelling of shampoos and faint mildew, recently rid of but remaining with its stench.

She grabs a towel, puts the clean clothes right next to it, then strips naked. Her breasts, flat and barely jutting outwards, breathe in the sensation of air after being trapped in sweat and heat for days. She can see her ribs lightly again. She hasn’t been able to see them since 2015. So much for making progress. 

The water is at first chilly against her body, making her wince and unable to hide the groan that escapes. She turns the heat up, burns her scalp and back in the process, then gets it to be hot enough to sting just faintly. 

She hates that he’s right. Hates that, as she gets cleaned and shaves her legs and armpits, it feels less… miserable. No, she needs to suffer for not being able to fix the loss of them. Stupid slut. Only good for exposing yourself to others and aborting things because your body can’t even hold properly-

She digs too deep by accident, on the curve of her ankle linking together with her shin. It immediately spews blood, aching and holding back a whimper. 

That’s enough shaving for one day.

She moves onto her tail and hair. The shampoo and conditioner feel like a savior against the dirt and grime against the white, dirty locs. Her tail looks much smaller with the fur of it damp and sopping against the skin and bones. 

Eventually, though, the knob of the shower turns to the left, water diminishing until it ceases to exist. She shakes her head and tail until satisfied, goes to grab the towel, dry herself off, and change into her signature outfit. 

The long, baggy sleeves of her top still makes it warm to be outside, but the slit in the elbow makes it at least a little more bearable for her to deal with. She’ll have to find Hiromi, or just call him.

Leaning against the building of jujutsu high, tugging out the device with too many stickers on the phone case for it to be reasonable. She doesn’t have many contacts so finding the lawyer is relatively quick.

(She tries ignoring the pang seeing their names still there, knowing they won’t ever be able to respond if she called.)

But with only one ring, he picks up. 

“Hello?”

“Where’re you?” She strides forward as she speaks, tail flicking back and forth mindlessly.

“Packing.”

“Huh-?”

“We have to stay overnight, Kitani.”

When did-

“You never said that!”

“Oh? It’s afternoon, the train there takes almost four hours- unless you want to come back at four in the morning-”

“Fine! Fine- whatever, whatever! Just shut up for once!”

It comes out too loud, dark cheeks flushing red at her outburst. Dammit, it’s not that deep, she shouldn’t act like it is deep-

Higuruma waits a second before answering back, a faint rustle of clothes being put into a bag.

“I’ll take you to get tea. There’s a shop that sells that and coffee nearby. That is- if it’s still there…”

He can’t see the slight glimmer in her eyes over the phone. She bites the inside of her cheek for a moment, free fingers skimming over the hem of her skirt. Well, she supposes that it can't hurt to go through then… it’s only for a day, anyway.

“. . . I’ll pack up some shit.”

. . .

Later, when the sun is setting and people are leaving from their 9-5 jobs, they head to the train station. Higuruma isn’t oblivious to the glances and occasional whispers at him, gossip of “I heard he was accused of murder” and “I wonder why the charges were dropped.”

And Kitani’s tail instinctively thrashed at the nastier things she hears. Of paying them off, of being an apologist for crime, just because he was a defendant attorney. She’ll kill them for that, she just needs to expose her patterns and she can make each and every one of these fuckers kill themselves in-

“Kitani.” Higuruma’s deep voice breaks her from her thoughts. She didn’t realize her tail was hitting his pant leg, or the dark glare that had etched her features. He looks even, impartial. He always does, he always fucking does- how the hell does he do that?

But he adjusts his duffle bag to one shoulder, more securely, and offers a hand. He’s still not a touchy individual. She knows this.

But she grasps onto him like it’s a lifeline. Her eyes go to their shoes. There’s so many shoes, so many people. Lots of blacks and grays and browns, her platforms feel like they stand out too much. 

But she can tell which pair is Higuruma’s feet. He always looks so well put together, so professional. They just stand as the world before them passes by, Tokyo’s lights glimmering in dashes. He’s so warm against her. He’s so soft. 

But the bus stops eventually. The two of them get off, followed by strangers. Pale skin, tanned skin, monolid, dark hair, dark eyes. They all have their own distinctive features. She just feels like she stands out too much.

Hiromi pays for the two tickets. They switch from standing on buses to sitting in a train. Some child gawks at her, but even if it burns irritation in her chest, she can’t stay mad. She understands why. She would too, if she was them.

When Haruho lets go of his hand finally (sweaty from the heat, she didn’t want to think too much about it) and slumps into the leather seat of the train, Higuruma closes the corridor door of the department and sits next to her. His bag sits on the opposite seat, the smaller girl’s own dumped at her feet. 

She barely did anything, but her body sunk into the uncomfortable seat like it was the most comfortable thing ever. Dammit, she shouldn’t be tired…

But she doesn’t realize she sinks into Higuruma’s shoulder, or that it eventually slips down to his lap. His thighs are soft. Real comfortable. 

He doesn’t react. He’s reading some news thing on his phone she didn’t care to know the specifics of. But when her eyes droop slightly, ear twitching at the hand that slides over her head- when did he put it there? Whatever.

He’s comfortable. So, she lets herself sleep on the train ride to Hakuba, unaware of the world around them. It’s quiet, the window sealed shut and showing the world revolving around the train.

He’s comfortable… She likes that… Nothing more… She likes him… nothing more.