Chapter Text
Yuuji wakes up to a sort of artificial light streaming through curtains left astray around his bed, stabbing into his retinas with what seems to be all too much and also way to much at the same time. No too little. This feels like ten million little bees decided to transform into molten sunlight and invade his eyes screaming for freedom.
Memories return to him like how it feels to unearth old toys from his closet — vaguely familiar with little specks of memory dotting each one until they form a just not coherent picture his mind. Like a puzzle he finds in the drawer half-finished, with the border just missing that one crucial piece hidden away under the bed or beneath the sofa cushions.
Finally, the previous night surfaces when he tries to dig it up, allowing themselves some kind of place in his mind, finally, finally. And he remembers — he really does, he remembers everything, from Gojo and Geto and Shoko and the notebook—
His hand darts to his pocket, outlining the protruding rectangle. It burns into his fingertips like a condemnation of sorts, like an iron branding him to this report for his mother. It's soothing like how pain is — in the sense that it shouldn't be satisfying, yet it is.
The thought of getting up, out of the now molten gold blanketing him rather than actively trying to send him to his death, seems so far away. It dangles from a tree along with the absent thought that he should probably try to find someone rather than lying here like a scallop buried in sand.
..So he stays, of course. Why expend the effort when he can simply laze around here like a sloth? Not like there's anywhere he needs to be right now except here, without anything or anyone speaking to him. Except for a glass of cold water. Yuuji can hear it calling his name, quite loudly at that.
He'd like to think it's only fifteen minutes before the door squeaks open, and he rolls over to glance at the newcomer with bleary eyes. Pools of dark brown, nearly black if it could be called that, meet his open eyes with a concoction brewed with stewed-over stress lines and the tiredness only someone in a high-ranking position could have.
Yuuji's lips make the motion to part before pressing together, unsure what to say. The good old 'wanna join your school' bit is surely ruined with whatever led him to be hospitalized, of all things, and he gets a feeling this man in particular wouldn't appreciate any kind of 'lightening the situation'.
Thankfully, the man spares him of that bit with a hefty sigh and an old chair groaning as he sits down, surveying him with a polished ease — almost disconcerting, if he had to place a word to it. "Yaga Masamichi," he introduces himself, sharp, businesslike. "Ieiri says your name is Itadori, yes?"
"That's right," Yuuji confirms the statement, filing this man's name away for later. The notebook burns a distinctly rectangle-shaped hole in his sweater pocket, deteriorating away at the fabric as he offers a newvous smile. "It's nice to meet you, Yaga-san," he tries as a polite nicety.
"And Kusakabe said you murmured something about wanting to join Jujutsu High," Yaga presses further, seemingly unafraid of any…other reports this 'Kusakabe', who Yuuji's assuming to be the man at the front, might have given to him. "Correct?"
Get in, Yuuji. Whatever the cost.
He nods, trying to be less obvious about it but surely failing spectacularly. "I'd like to join!" he tries to chirp, coming out more as a strangled choke of a high-note, his voice failing when he actually needs it to work. Mmm. Life kicks in again, the strange rules of the universe dictating where everything is as the gods above laugh at his mistakes they cause. "I can do stuff, see?"
Yuuji waves his hand in the air enthusiastically, and there's a crash above as sawdust comes sprinkling down on his blanket, revealing three ceiling beams now hanging on by a thread, a splinter, and the broken wills of the people who'd painstakingly stuck them up there while balancing precariously on a ladder. But at least they're all sliced neatly, not higgledy-piggledy, so perhaps it'll suffice as brownie points with Yaga?
A quick glance at the man informs him that no, he'll not be getting extra brownie points for making it a clean slice, and perhaps, it was enough to impress the man — at least enough for an entry into this school of devils sorcerers?
"You just committed property damage as your example," deadpans Yaga, staring at the ceiling with the look of a man all too accustomed to students breaking down the school on a regular basis.
"I can do neater slices too!" Yuuji protests. "I just don't have an apple conveniently on hand!"
Yaga pinches his nose in a gesture that comes too familiar for a man looking his age, inhaling slowly and deliberately before his eyes flick to Yuuji once more. "You, young man," he says solemnly, "have just tossed my hopes of any normal student out the window and stomped all over them. Take that in and reflect on your actions."
He says in so dryly Yuuji can't quite tell if he's joking or not, so he just reverts back to the old 'smiling nervously and hope the gods above have enough mercy or at least remember the times he offered perfectly crisp tofu with sesame on them to those kitsune statues every half-year' stratagem. "I'm sorry?" he tries, the question mark being the perfect punctuation mark for this specific situation.
"At least you care enough to repent," Yaga reflects dryly, closing his eyes for a good five minutes before sighing deeply, fixing him with a contemplative look that's enough to instantly drench him in phantom washes of cold nervousness over his spine. "Are you fine to share the name of your technique?"
It takes Yuuji a moment to process the roundabout way of questioning, but when he does understand, he nods enthusiastically. "Altar," he says, jazz hands accompanying his words in what's meant to be a joke/explanation of the technique but just makes Yaga look as if he'd just been about to commit more property destruction, which would be not only completely wrong but also highly offensive. "It's like a kitchen, as Go—mmmmmmm, I-ei-ri-san said," he barely manages to catch the name before it hits, remembering Gojo's words last night.
Yaga's eyes narrow in a nerve-wracking moment before letting his words go, still contemplative as his eyes roll up to look at the ceiling above, three wooden beams neatly split down the middle and barely holding on for dear life above the others. "So that's a knife slash is what you're saying," he mutters to himself, pondering.
"That's Slice, actually," Yuuji corrects him, anticipating the snappish tone of Sukuna and getting nothing, reminding him of the arcing swoops of ink still staining his skin. "And there's..ah..Dice! Like dicing vegetables, you know! And, uh, uh, Fuuuaaame. Flame! That's what it's called, flame. Like, Oven, Open, and then there's a flame."
"I see," murmurs Yaga, apparently too tired to discuss to intricacies of a technique relating to the kitchen and why it's called 'Altar' instead of 'Kitchen'. "You're awfully cordial about the technique, Itadori-kun," he notes suddenly, swerving off the conversation's former boundaries onto more established land.
"Ieiri-san said the same thing," Yuuji chuckles, hoping his nervous laughter bordering on downright drunk distracts his nervously fidgeting fingers under the blanket. "Do sorcerers not like to reveal their technique?" he asks curiously. His mother had never mentioned anything about people wanting to keep their fancy magical powers a secret. He'd have thought they'd be more blatant about it if anything, using them for mundane tasks like cooking or throwing out the trash. Or incinerating recycling.
"You don't know about that?" Yaga mutters under his breath almost incredulously before raising his voice, tone shifting to more of a gently lecturing one. "Revealing anything about one's technique normally has to benefit the user for the given information," he says. "Even the name can hint to something about it, which is why—"
"Only stupid idiots like Gojo reveal it," Yuuji cuts in, the words flying from Shoko's mouth to his, united by a mutual understanding of the enigma known as Gojo Satoru — the one that blitzes in and renames your entire technique after raw fish.
The abrupt pause in conversation brings his attention forward, where he meets Yaga's suspicious gaze with another onslaught of the entire Atlantic Ocean being poured over every nerve ending he possesses.
"Ieiri-san," he provides as explanation, watching Yaga's suspicious gaze smooth out to understanding, though traces of suspiciousness still linger in his facial movement as he relents.
"I see."
There's a pause for about five seconds before Yaga speaks again, more made-up than contemplative at this point as he regards Yuuji. "Back to applying for Jujutsu High," he says, catching Yuuji's attention instantly.
He nods. "Yes!" he manages to squeak in a rush, making him cringe in the eagerness and mentally noting to kindly shut up for the next forseeable future.
"I'm not the executive board, so I'm afraid I can't make that decision," Yaga tells him with what he's sure is meant to be kind but still bombs every idea Yuuji's had of him during this entire conversation in the process. A smile plays on his lips at the surely crestfallen expression on Yuuji's face. "I'm just a lowly homeroom teacher," he chuckles, the first real emotion that's shown on his face for the entire conversation. "But what I can do is take you to see the principal, and he'll be the one deciding your fate, Itadori."
"..we can go right now," Yuuji suggests when Yaga says nothing more. "I'm not exactly occupied at the moment, and if you're a teacher and talking to me right now, it means it's not classtime right now, is it?"
Yaga's eyes glimmer with what he hopes to be amusement at his words rather than his attitude. "Actually, it is classtime," he says, amused. "I just have to see you because Ieiri says you're about the age of my students, and thus you'll be my responsibility if you apply and get in."
He pauses, as if considering if he should say anything more before he continues. "Next year, I'll be teaching for the second-years, so I'll be your teacher for that time as well should you get in," he extends, leaving on off that note as he arises from his chair.
Yaga glances back to Yuuji, beckoning for him to follow with an ambiguous flick of his finger before disappearing out the swinging door.
Yuuji flings the blankets aside to follow him, making sure they at least land squarely on the mattress before his fingers curl around the door's handle and swing it open, greeted by extravagantly painted sakura on the walls in front of what he assumes to be the infirmary. Sunlight pours through the windows like golden sugar, scattered across the oak-panelled floor with a dappling pattern like leopards, racing through the lines like plains of tall grass.
Ahead of him, Yaga's already striding ahead, so he breaks into a light jog to catch up with the man. "What's the principal's name?" he asks, just so he doesn't walk into an interview with only a moniker to go by, idly wondering what Yaga's technique is on the way. Considering the previous conversation, it might be a bit presumptuous to ask..
"Call him Mizoguchi-sama, if you please," provides Yaga with the faintest dregs of hope coloring his voice, hope that someone might address the principal with his proper name rather than something else Yuuji's learning was probably Gojo and his words against the world. "I'd like to keep my job, thank you."
"Gotcha," Yuuji tries the name, carefully sounding it out and wondering what the kanji are for such an old-fashioned last name. It sounds as if it'd been taken straight from the Sengoku-Daimyō.
"Any advice you could provide me with?" Yuuji hedges when the conversation trickles to nothing but their footsteps sounding on the floor, perfect synchroneity entwined. "Does he like jokes, or more serious-type, or.."
Yaga side-eyes him before deciding that Yuuji looks serious enough asking the question to give him an answer. "Just imagine you're meeting with the Prime Minister," he tells him with dead seriousness, acting as if the interview is more a necessary evil than a step to getting accepted into a school. "Serious. Real. If he tells you to jump, you don't ask how high. You just do it."
"So if he tells me to show my technique, I have full creative freedom in what I can show? I just do it?"
"Except that. Try to find an apple. If I hear one word of property damage from this interview, I can promise you the aftermath will not be pretty, nor will you get into this school."
"Well, that's not a very fair measurement, is it," huffs Yuuji, though he's relieved he won't have to try to hide a technique surely an experienced sorcerer would know at first glance. If his mother knew, surely the headmaster of a school for jujutsu would know the King's technique at first glance.
"Welcome to jujutsu, Itadori," Yaga sweeps his hand in a grand flourish. "The world where everything is shit, including fairness."
…Accurate. Quite.
They reach a door after a good two minutes, and Yaga gestures to it before turning away. "The principal's already aware that you're here, and he's informed that you're not a threat to the school, so do try not to antagonize him or set the school on fire, yes?"
"Gotcha," Yuuji nods in understanding, ticking the list off on his fingers aloud. "No burning the school down. Call him Mizoguchi-sama. No antagonizing. No acting like Gojo."
"The last one might encompass all the others," mutters Yaga under his breath before clapping Yuuji on the shoulder and walking away with one final encouragement. "Try to get in, Itadori. I need some wholesomeness instead of whatever shitshow my class is as of now."
"Keep fighting, Yaga-san!" Yuuji calls after him, cupping a hand around his mouth to encourage him enthusiastically, receiving a lifted hand of acknowledgement in return. "You're great!"
When Yaga's footsteps recede to nothing, he slowly breathes in, raises a hand, and knocks three times. Thoughts rush through his mind like a torrent — what if he doesn't like knocking, what if his favorite number if two, what if my hand wasn't loud enough— but a voice sounds, calling for him to come in with a wheeze accompanying it.
He goes in to see an elaborately carved desk and someone who resembles a prune gained sentience with dust bunnies glued onto one particularly lined curve sitting behind the desk, and for that one moment, he realizes Jogo is on the spectrum of 'more aesthetically pleasing to the eye' curses than 'oh my god it's a curse' curses.
"Itadori, I presume," the prune wheezes — Mizoguchi — heavily, eyes barely discernible below the shaggy mess called his eyebrows and eyes, and Yuuji manages to muster a nervous smile before a skinny hand, barely even worthy of being called a stick, gestures to a chair. "Sit."
He sits. And says nothing, allowing the principal's eyes to rove over him with the social equivalence of a fish blubbing to another fish through the glass in a pet store.
"Masamichi tells me you stumbled in through Tengen-sama's barriers and told Atsuya you want to join Jujutsu High," Mizoguchi continues to stumble through his words, still surveying Yuuji with the same eyes as he glances down at the table and back at him. "Am I correct?"
"That's right, Mizoguchi-sama," Yuuji manages, the image of a dried prune clearer in his mind than ever. He could tell a story about the little shrivelled fruit in his mind, write about it, about its journey from a plum to a raisin on steroids in someone's mouth. "Yaga-san told me you're the one accepting people, right?"
Mizoguchi's expression stays unchanging in the least menacing way possible. "That's right. You're in."
Sorrel eyes blink. "Sorry?"
"You're in!" Mizoguchi says again, slapping the table and making his nerves alight with ice-cold water as he does so, tone sounding awfully drunk. He breaks into amused wheezes at seeing Yuuji's dumbstruck face. "I'm not up for paperwork, and to slip through Tengen-sama's barriers is more than enough. If Masamichi didn't immediately turn you away, that's good enough for me, ya know?"
..Yeah. This guy's drunk for sure. One hundred percent drunk and definitely not thinking straight at all, but who's Yuuji if not to play that to his advantage?
"Great!" he stands up abruptly, leaving no time for Mizoguchi to break out of his drunken stupor, the sharp scent lingering outside the office awfully clear now. "I'll be off then. Will you do the paperwork for me, Mizoguchi-sama? Please?"
Mizoguchi only coughs for a couple seconds more before giving him a reassuring grin that doesn't bode well at all for his future and will surely bring up complications in future matters, but it's all water under the bridge at this point, right? "Ask Masamichi to do it," he declares, Kansai accent slipping through after his hastily gathered disguise falls apart. "Go join the first-years' class, Toratsue!"
"Itadori," Yuuji can't help but correct him.
"This, that, everything," Mizoguchi slurs, hands waving in some motion meant to convey worldly knowledge but ends up resembling an ancient ritual used to summon demons. "Who cares in the long run?"
Yuuji weighs his options. On one hand, he can leave now and let all this be sorted out later, when the principal's mind is actually functioning normally and everything will be logical. On the other hand, he can start his mission early, and leave to see the first-years and Yaga-san earlier than he anticipated. And which one is more fun more crucial to the mission?
He chooses the latter.