Chapter Text
Like too many things in life, the peace doesn't last. Halloween arrives and with it comes not dressing up and partying but a battle for his life and others’, civilians locked in a struggle between sorcerers and special grade curses. Yuuji joins Mei Mei and Ui Ui to provide backup for Gojo and the sorcerers, defeating the grasshopper curse and transfigured humans that flood the platform, then leaves the subway in order to alert the other teams of Gojo being sealed. One fight alongside Fushiguro against a curse user later, Fushiguro takes a wounded Ino outside the barrier, while Yuuji follows a familiar track of cursed energy. He's seen it before; it's the first cursed energy track he figured out how to read, his eyes opened to it by Nanami.
He gets there in time to watch Nanami die against the patchwork curse, then can only watch as Kugisaki falls. Todo and Nitta's assistance is a welcome relief, especially when Nitta says that there's a chance that Kugisaki may survive.
Less welcome is intervention from the curse with a black line across his nose, who stands between Yuuji and Mahito before Yuuji can finish Mahito off for good.
"Leave him to me, Mahito," says the new curse. "I'll take my revenge now."
"Get him, Choso."
Carrying injuries from Mahito and the battles before him, even with Nitta's technique applied, Yuuji isn't able to get past Choso. Once again, the patchwork curse slinks away, once more having brought death into Yuuji's life. Yuuji chases after him even as Choso attacks, passing Nitta and yelling for him to see to Todo's arm.
Inside the station again, Choso wins the battle, but doesn't finish him off, leaving Yuuji before the final blow. Either Yuuji is hallucinating or the curse calls him brother. Probably hallucinating, since the next time he blinks, his eyes meet a brilliant blue.
“Sensei,” Yuuji says, half-falling forward. "You're back."
“Don’t give up on me so quickly, hm? All this ruckus about me being sealed.”
Every single one of Yuuji’s wounds hurts. It doesn’t matter. He hugs Gojo tightly, bleeds onto his jacket. It’s a lost cause anyway, torn and dirty. Yuuji’s never seen Gojo in this state. Never seen him with other people’s blood on his face, and it gets in Yuuji’s hair when they hug.
"Is Kugisaki—"
"She's not dead," Gojo says, his voice tight. "Shoko has her."
Not dead isn't the most hopeful of descriptions, but it's enough to make Yuuji feel lightheaded. Or maybe that's the blood loss. "Nanami is dead." It's easier to say it to Gojo's shoulder than to his face. "The patchwork curse got away from me."
When they part from the hug, Gojo's gaze drops to the side of Yuuji's mouth. "Not without doing some nasty damage, I see."
Derision tugs at the same side of Yuuji's mouth that Mahito injured. "I did him worse."
"Good," Gojo says, and he pulls him into a warp.
Yuuji opens his eyes again in the medical tent, where dozens of medical staff work alongside Ieiri to get injured sorcerers and civilians to a state where they can be taken to a hospital. There's a line to see Ieiri; Gojo cuts past it, pushing Yuuji into a chair next to Ieiri's current patient, hand on his shoulder.
"I need to get back out there," Yuuji says. "There's so many curses. Mahito could still be in the area."
Gojo doesn't force him to stand down. He only says, "Get healed, then you can join me.”
Yuuji presses down on Gojo's hand against his shoulder, taking comfort from the living warmth of it, that he's here instead of sealed, then lets go. "I'll get it done."
He stands after Gojo vanishes, then leans against a cot. Manages to make his way three cots down, where Fushiguro is lying down, and grips his hand. Fushiguro's pulse is weak beneath his skin. Yuuji doesn't know who injured him; the last time he saw him, he'd been taking Ino away for treatment, not in need of any himself. None of the beds have Kugisaki in them.
“I’m doing life-threatening injuries only,” Ieiri warns when she finishes with her current patient. “I don’t have endless cursed energy.”
Yuuji lifts his shirt to show off the hole in his stomach. “Is this life-threatening?”
“Itadori,” Fushiguro manages.
Yuuji glances his way. “Fushiguro?”
“Idiot.”
Yuuji huffs. “Yeah.”
He heads out again after Ieiri heals him. She even got his foot despite it not being life-threatening and put a patch on his mouth that'll stop it from getting worse and encourage healing. The sensation of her cursed energy is a cool balm against the hurts even long after her hands have left his skin. Yuuji’s going to have to buy a fruit basket. Maybe an alcohol basket, going by the rumors.
It’s a long night, the longest of Yuuji’s life, and it doesn’t end until daylight. Shibuya is flooded with curses; when Yuuji helps carry out an injured civilian, a tired-looking sorcerer explains to him that a curse manipulation user fell in battle, releasing the curses that had been locked up inside of him. He sees Gojo briefly when their paths cross in clearing out the curses, in helping the civilians flee the area, and in the recovery of people crushed under rubble. Public transit doesn’t resume. A veil is cast by jujutsu sorcerers this time to keep order. Yuuji pairs up with some of the Kyoto students until their energy runs out, cursed and regular, then with Panda.
When the sun begins to rise, Gojo finds him again. “Let’s get you back to Jujutsu High.”
Yuuji opens his eyes to find Gojo standing in front of him. Yuuji's back is against a diagonal slab of concrete, rubble under his feet. “I only meant to close my eyes for a second.”
“Falling asleep here won’t do anyone any favors. The cleanup effort will continue after you’ve slept a good six hours.”
Yuuji can’t argue with that. He pushes himself off the slab, his feet steady even if his head isn’t. “Are you alright? The prison realm didn’t hurt you?”
“I’m better than that,” Gojo replies.
Yuuji looks at him, at the way he stands, at the way that his eyes aren’t as bright as they usually are. It’s all wrong, not the way that Gojo Satoru is supposed to be. Least of all because his eyes are still uncovered, the blindfold gone all this time. “You should get some rest, too.”
“Are you concerned about me? The—“
“Yeah.” Yuuji cuts off the nonsense ahead about Gojo being the strongest. “You look tired, sensei.”
“You look worse.”
“That’s true,” Yuuji agrees, easily.
But he bets that Gojo doesn’t even smell like his usual cologne anymore, not when it’s buried under sweat and blood. His untouchable, unbeatable aura is gone. He’s just a man, one who nearly got into a situation that he couldn’t come back from. Yuuji is no stranger to death, but he hadn’t quite realized that even the strongest can fall. Maybe Yuuji fell for the propaganda that Gojo himself perpetuates: that Gojo Satoru hovers over jujutsu society, unreachable.
“It’s nothing some sleep won’t fix,” Gojo tells him. It sounds like a lie, but Yuuji doesn't call him out on it.
Gojo doesn't warp them back to school, only to the street outside the curtain, where there are cars lined up to take sorcerers back to their respective residences. It says more about the state of Gojo's cursed energy than Yuuji realized. In the car, when Yuuji asks about what happened, Gojo explains that the Prison Realm wasn't able to hold him.
"I broke my way out," Gojo says, a tired satisfaction to his tone.
He reaches into the bag at his feet, taking out the cube that nearly destroyed the balance of the world of jujutsu sorcery—and more importantly, took Yuuji's teacher away from him for a time.
"You kept it?"
"I'll need to study it before I'm able to destroy it." Gojo throws it into the air like it's a simple Rubik's cube toy, catching it with one hand. "It was created using the final remains of the Buddhist monk Genshin more than a thousand years ago. Since then, only one person has made it out. There was a multitude of skeletons from those less powerful than myself."
"I'm glad you're here," Yuuji says, his gaze on the cube. He can't tell if the menacing aura is cursed energy or his own perception of the cube. "Does it still work?"
"Presumably. I wouldn't say any of its opening phrases if I were you." Gojo turns toward the assistant manager driving the car. "You, too!"
After a snort from Yuuji and a frantic agreement from the poor assistant manager, Gojo returns the cube to his bag. It feels unreal to have a special grade cursed object at his feet in a cloth grocery bag. Yuuji has the urge to try to crush it with his foot even though he knows it wouldn't work.
He doesn't quite fall asleep, but neither is he fully awake, eyes falling shut. When his head falls on Gojo's shoulder, Gojo doesn't push him off. Yuuji pushes the grief down, the fear, the anger. He imagines throwing all of it at Sukuna, imagines Sukuna slicing through it like he has so many times with Yuuji. Gojo's shoulder is a better pillow than any Yuuji's ever touched his head to—or maybe that's just the tiredness talking.
"You scared me," Yuuji eventually says. It's dark in the backseat of the car, the windows tinted and the sun not yet fully out. "I didn't realize that I should be scared for you." The strongest, what bullshit. There are still cursed objects that can hold Gojo, perhaps some more successfully than the Prison Realm. His teacher's not nearly as invincible as Yuuji thought.
He feels Gojo's breath against his forehead. "I still won. I'll win again, as many times as I have to."
"You'd better," Yuuji tells him. It's practically an order. The world has already turned inside out, friends lost and injured. He won't have the pillar of his life that is Gojo crash down to earth as well.
Soon after, the car brings them to Tokyo Jujutsu High. Yuuji only has to step out of the car for Gojo to warp them to Yuuji's dorm room. He blinks rapidly after flipping the light switch; beside him, Gojo doesn't do anything so graceless, his all-seeing eyes adjusting to the light.
Before he leaves, Gojo brings out a second item from his bag. When unrolled, the container bears eleven of Sukuna’s fingers. “By the way—I had another run-in with the volcano cursed spirit. We're lucky that they didn’t manage to get these into you.”
“Real lucky,” Yuuji agrees. He opens and closes his palm, remembering how easily Sukuna once ate the finger Fushiguro handed to him, and he doesn't take the satchel. “I ate another finger the day after the first one and nothing bad happened. So I can do the same with the others, one a day.”
“You’ll be up to fifteen fingers.” Gojo’s tone is hard to read.
“Three fourths of the way there. That’s the whole point, right?”
Yuuji holds out his hand; slowly, Gojo drops one finger into his palm. Sukuna must be in the mood to torture Yuuji because it doesn't get immediately devoured. Yuuji toasts the end of the night by swallowing a finger, the taste of soap and old blood lingering. When he turns to his teacher, he finds he still hasn’t said anything. Gojo must be even more tired than Yuuji realized.
“Let's call it every three days as a precaution,” Gojo says. “That’s some stockpile of cursed energy that you’re developing there. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” He picks up the satchel. “Why don’t I hold onto this in the meantime?”
“Probably for the best,” Yuuji admits. He rubs at his face, at the dirt and the blood. Sometime without him noticing, the patch on the side of his mouth has fallen off. "You'll call if something changes with Kugisaki? Or Fushiguro or Todo?"
"I'll call."
"Or you?"
"What could happen to me?"
"I dunno. Delayed reaction from the Prison Realm," Yuuji says. He holds Gojo's gaze. It's been a long night, maybe the longest of his life, but Yuuji will still find strength enough if he needs it. If the people closest to him need it. If Gojo needs it.
Gojo scoffs even as he relents. "This one time—yes. Don't get in the habit of worrying about your teacher. That's Principal Yaga's job. You can't take it away from him."
Is it? Yuuji wonders. Is Yaga doing it thoroughly enough? Is he paying enough attention? Even if he is, there's enough work to go around after a day like this.
More gently, Gojo says, "Go take a shower. It'll douse those restless thoughts. I'll leave some food on your desk."
Yuuji nods. "Good night, sensei."
He manages to get himself into the shower, less washing himself and more standing under the hot water for as long as he can. His wounds all hurt under the spray. When he closes his eyes, water falling on his face, he thinks of the smell that hits when a transfigured human explodes, the rot to it, like Mahito's technique accelerates even that. On the table is a takeout platter from the school's dining hall, which Yuuji picks at without enthusiasm long enough to say he tried. When he drops into bed, there’s nightmares beneath his eyelids, but that’s nothing new.
Even as his heart pounds, he thinks, I’ve seen better special effects in horror flicks, and Sukuna takes his head off again. It's better than dreaming of the Prison Realm and the man who was briefly inside of it, better than lingering on what could have been.
After he wakes up again, Yuuji returns to Shibuya alongside a few other students and sorcerers. The civilians have been cleared out, but curses continue to populate the area. Largely grade threes and twos. Nothing that will take out a skilled sorcerer, but enough for it to be a never-ending grind. From one of his colleagues, Yuuji learns that Gojo has already been by for any special grades and grade ones that didn't flee the scene. He gets dragged into the medical tent for a check-up and another application of Ieiri's cursed technique. On the way back, Yuuji sees Panda again, this time by minivan. Yuuji hadn't realized that the school owned any, too used to the fleet of black cars.
His day repeats the next day. The day after that, once the curses have run out, Yuuji attends Nanami's wake, then his funeral. It's all proper. Yuuji makes it out without tears and then sobs into Fushiguro’s shoulder an hour later.
Another wake, by contrast, Yuuji doesn't realize is happening until the second years drop by to say that there’s alcohol in the sorcerers’ lounge. Panda slips in first, then announces that the principal isn't present, so the other second years follow. Fushiguro and Yuuji follow after them. Yuuji thinks it's a party at first, the way most of the sorcerers gathered aren't wearing black. Then he sees the urn on the table, the flowers beside it, the man lying down on the couch just past it.
Fushiguro nudges Yuuji forward toward the alcohol table.
Maki whistles softly. "Is this Ieiri’s whole stash?"
"The vodka’s Kusakabe’s," Fushiguro says. "I've seen him drinking it."
Yuuji rummages around until he finds a case of beer, grabbing a bottle. "What’s happening?"
With a scowl, Maki turns back to look at him. "It’s Geto Suguru’s wake. They’re having one this time. Somewhat. I'm here for the drinks only."
Yuuji looks between her and Fushiguro. "Mahito mentioned him."
"That’s right, you’ve never met him. Fushiguro, do you want to tell the story?"
"No," Fushiguro says.
"Guess it's on me."
"It's a whole story?" Yuuji asks. He glances back to look over at Gojo.
As Maki tells it, Geto was once a student alongside the whole lot of them—Gojo, Ieiri, Nanami, Iori. He left jujutsu society before graduation in order to start a cult that advocated for the death of all non-sorcerers. He attacked the school last year intending to steal Okkotsu Yuuta's shikigami and he died for it by Gojo's hand. Sometime afterward, his body was snatched by another sorcerer, who appeared in Shibuya wearing Geto's body. Gojo put an end to it shortly after escaping from the prison realm. The furthest Maki's consideration for the somber atmosphere goes is to say that she heard Geto had a mental break of some sort. He wasn't evil for the entirety of his life, just the latter half of it.
Yuuji’s never met him. By all accounts, he wouldn’t have liked him. Maki’s description of him is unflattering. Panda’s is no better and Inumaki is in agreement with them both. The rest of the sorcerers gathered in small groups around the room don't seem to disagree; Yuuji gets the feeling that they're here for the drinks, too. The more the alcohol flows, the more the condolences turn into a roast. Yuuji overhears that Geto’s parents met their deaths at Geto’s hand; by the tone, he figures it was before the guy got possessed.
Yuuji ducks out to visit the vending machines, then returns to the lounge.
Gojo is sprawled on his back across a whole couch, arms crossed. It means that people who go over to him have to look down awkwardly to talk to him. On the coffee table across from the couch rests an undecorated urn. It’s not how Yuuji imagined his teacher to be when the alcohol’s pouring, but it’s not any kind of party, not today. Gojo's not wearing black, which must be deliberate because Yuuji's rarely seen him out of uniform. The sweatpants make him look softer, his shins hanging over the edge of the couch, shoes thrown off; the expression on his face runs that softness off.
There’s no seating left, at least none that's close enough. Yuuji takes a seat cross-legged on the floor, back against the leg of the coffee table. Like this, his and Gojo's heads are of a height. The throw pillow that Gojo rests his head on doesn't look all that comfortable, his head angled awkwardly against the arm of the couch.
"I don't want condolences," Gojo says to the ceiling.
"I haven’t got any." Yuuji reaches out to press the bottle of water against the back of Gojo’s hand, knocking it against his knuckles until Gojo takes it from him. "Used all of them up with Nanami."
"And I’m not drunk," Gojo grumbles, lifting the bottle over his chest.
He twists open the cap anyway, pushing himself up onto his elbow and drinking half the bottle like he doesn’t quite know how to stop. When he's done, he drops back down to the couch. He throws the water Yuuji's way.
Yuuji catches it. “You don’t drink?”
“Never developed a taste for it. I see you’ve already been into the beer.”
“Maybe Sukuna’s power keeps me from getting drunk. I won’t know until I test it out.” He keeps hoping for something positive out of all the crap that Sukuna throws his way. Just one redeeming factor in a sea of blood.
Gojo shakes his head minutely, but he doesn’t look like he has the strength to argue.
A few months ago, Yuuji would sit at his grandpa’s bedside like this. Wasuke was surly on the best of days and Yuuji never had much to say about the school club he was barely attending or the lessons he couldn’t find purpose in. He would stay with his grandfather for as long as Wasuke would allow him. Gojo doesn’t tell him to go, so Yuuji stays, and he keeps on staying. People drop by, discomfort clear when they have to look down at Gojo to speak with him. Geto doesn’t have any family to receive condolences, so they’re directed Gojo’s way. I was his friend too, says Ieiri, but she sends people over to Gojo instead.
After a while, Gojo speaks again toward the ceiling. "He died a year ago. This is a farce. I’m finished with grieving him."
Yuuji nods. He doesn’t mention that Gojo doesn't sound like someone who's finished grieving. He sounds like he’s been eating gravel.
"I was done a decade ago," Gojo says a little louder.
Nearby, Ieiri turns toward him from her group of Iori and two sorcerers Yuuji doesn't recognize. She doesn't come any closer, just says, "Maybe the rest of us want a turn."
Gojo lifts up onto his elbows to make a face at her. "You’re not entitled to it."
"Then neither are you." Ieiri doesn't seem particularly stricken with grief, but Yuuji knows what it's like when grief doesn't come on a schedule.
"I’m not too old to spray you with a garden hose." For all that Gojo likes a taunt, it doesn't come out as teasing as it would any other day.
Ieiri doesn't look convinced. "You haven’t gotten off that couch in three hours."
Neither does this inspire Gojo to rise. He does the opposite, falling back down from his elbows. When he does, he finally turns his head in Yuuji's direction. Inclining his head toward the beer in Yuuji's hand, he says, "That's one of Nanami's. They found the case while packing his belongings. Figured his cousins wouldn't want it."
Yuuji glances down at the bottle. He rubs his thumb over the label. It's from a microbrewery outside of Tokyo proper. He wonders if Nanami ever went there himself or if he just bought the beers at the store. "It's good. He would hate that I was drinking it."
"He'd go on about the laws governing our society and toxic drinking culture and the importance of protecting the youth. I sent Inumaki his way last year after catching him out. Took on Nanami's missions for a week for it. The kid was pissed, but I didn't catch him drinking again. This week being an exception."
Yuuji can almost imagine the lecture. Nanami's voice is still so clear in his head, his steadfast nature. He thinks, absurdly, that he would have liked to receive this lecture. A memento of a man he only briefly knew to carry with him until he comes of age. Yuuji takes another swallow of beer instead. "Nanamin didn't drink when he was a teenager?"
"He didn't even smoke. Concerts were his only vice." Gojo adjusts his position on the couch, turning over onto his side to face Yuuji better and bringing his knees in. He's still too big for the couch, long legs propped against the other end. "Shoko was always the one with the drinking issue. Don't turn out like her, Yuuji. You don't have RCT to un-pickle your liver."
"Wasn't planning to," Yuuji replies. "Grandpa never cared as long as I just had one. It's nothing exciting. Do you really not like the taste?"
"I have no tolerance for it. One bottle and I'll turn this wake into a karaoke night. It would liven things up at least."
Yuuji can't imagine alcohol bringing Gojo cheer. It's just not the day for it. "What song would you sing? Butter-Fly?"
Gojo digs his chin into the throw pillow. "Were you poking through my cabinets during your stay?" He doesn't sound upset; the opposite, really.
"Just the games under the TV. What, it's a good song. I'd sing it with you." A karaoke hit and a Digimon opening, what's not to love? If Fushiguro and Kugisaki were here, they could all do it together.
"Another day. I'll hold you to it," Gojo says. His attention turns from Yuuji to the table behind him, to the urn that rests atop it. "Shoko and I flipped a coin for who would do it. She won, the cheat. It took forever for him to turn to ash and bone. He's all in there, much as I could manage. I didn't want him in pieces."
"What will you do with the urn?" Yuuji asks. Nanami's cousins collected his, but it's not the same for Geto.
"I'm taking it to his adopted daughters tomorrow." Gojo's mouth twists. "I hope they put him in a cemetery. He would hate it, resting alongside the monkeys."
"I was angry with my grandpa for dying," Yuuji says.
"I was angry with him for living, then more so for dying." Gojo sighs. "He was a complicated man."
Wasuke was complicated, Yuuji thinks. Geto Suguru seems to be another word entirely. But it's Gojo's childhood friend there in this urn, Gojo's grief as vast as his cursed energy. It makes Yuuji feel protective, the way he gets toward Fushiguro and Kugisaki sometimes. Makes him want to push him down and ply him with homemade meatballs and jokes until the mood lifts. He’ll bring the fork to his mouth if he has to. But there’s no protecting Gojo Satoru, not from the pain of life as a jujutsu sorcerer. It doesn’t stop him from wanting to.
“You want to get out of here and watch his favorite movie?" Yuuji offers.
Gojo rubs a hand over his face, sliding it down between his cheek and the pillow. "I don’t know which one it is. The discs weren't in any order that I understood."
"Ah," Yuuji says. Shit.
"It's fine. Besides, if I leave then I’ll miss out on the gossip. I won’t know if Shoko and Mei Mei continue their post-funeral tradition."
"What’s that?"
Gojo leers briefly in answer, startling Yuuji letting out a breath. "The first time, we were fifteen and an upperclassman got himself lured into the maw of one of those special grades that like to play with their kills." He sounds almost nostalgic. What a weirdo. "You’re familiar with such things now. He died alongside the curse that puppeted him. To this day I don’t know if he was still alive at the time or if it was all for show. Doesn’t matter, probably."
"It matters," Yuuji says, firmly.
Gojo's tone turns rueful. "Doesn’t that make it worse?"
"Yeah. But if it doesn’t matter, then it makes you worse instead."
Gojo huffs. "My movie friend would have liked that one. Except you always sound sincere when you say it. Doesn’t it get tiring?"
"I’ve got a lot of energy to burn," Yuuji replies. "Tiring’s alright."
"The youth of today," Gojo grumbles, but he doesn't sound too bent about it. "It's alright if it stops being sincere, as long as you don't start a cult about it."
Yuuji swallows, grabs the water bottle that touched Gojo's lips to flush down what is more feeling than words: that he's not afraid of hard work, that he'll train and punch his way through, but that sometimes he closes his eyes in bed and wishes that it could be easier. That beyond the friends he's made, the layers of jujutsu society could unfold into something good, something decent, instead of what it is. Maybe he could have seen the good more easily without the execution order; maybe it's just on him and the demon eating at his gut.
"What about—" Yuuji cuts himself off.
"I'll support you," Gojo says, his tone indulgent.
Yuuji nods. It's not Geto's murder spree that he wants to go on anyway. Just a chase.
They talk for a while. Yuuji prods at the lighter bruises, asking about what Jujutsu High was like when Gojo was in school, and Gojo tells him about how the school's dining hall was even worse, if he can believe it. Poorly run kitchens, food always too hot or too cold. Things picked up after Yaga became principal. The man's a foodie, Yuuji learns.
The wake doesn't wind down as much as sort of end. When Yuuji looks around, there's no one left in the room besides the two of them. Even his classmates are gone, though Yuuji gets the feeling they left a long time ago. Gojo's not quite asleep, Yuuji figures, but he's out for conversation, mouth parted slightly. He'd bet his eyes are closed under his blindfold. When staring gets old, Yuuji quietly adjusts to rest his back against the couch instead. It's slightly more comfortable. When he concentrates, he can hear Gojo's breath close to his ear.
Like this, he faces the urn and he can't help but think of the man inside it. What it must be like to be disillusioned with one's place in a jujutsu society that takes so much. It gives, too. It gives Gojo, it gives Fushiguro and Kugisaki, it gives purpose and companionship and unforgettable bonds. And then it kills you about it.
Any minute now, he's going to get up and leave Gojo alone with the urn. Any minute now.
In the morning, Yuuji wakes to Gojo's hand waving in front of his face. Yuuji doesn't need it, but takes Gojo's offered hand anyway, letting his teacher pull him up from the floor. After sleeping in a sitting position all night, Yuuji's spine feels as though it's found a new permanent position. He stretches his arms first, then his back, then his neck. When Gojo names an exercise, Yuuji does that one too, dropping down into a lunge.
"Don't you know the etiquette for when to leave a party?" Gojo asks in that tone that's more about swiping something from a flat surface, claws hardly extended.
When Yuuji glances at the table, the urn is gone. "You didn't tell me to leave."
"It was implied."
Yuuji hums. Much implication, there, in the way that Gojo barely talked to anyone except Yuuji all night. "In what?"
"When I started reminiscing about our earliest missions. You have to let your teacher save some face. I still need to be able to teach a class after this."
Yuuji imagines them all back in the classroom: Gojo at the blackboard, Fushiguro to Yuuji's left, Kugisaki to his right. Or maybe the opposite, Kugisaki having organized a switch in order to check her answers against Yuuji's more easily in class, her left eye covered. Fushiguro likes to hide his paper specifically to be annoying about it, but Yuuji's never cared. He'd give up almost anything to see that vision come true.
"I liked those. My favorite was the one Ieiri cut in to tell, the one where you fell into a beehive." That was before Ieiri eventually left the party, Mei Mei not far behind. Yuuji only noticed because Gojo pointed it out; for a moment, mirth shone through in Gojo's voice.
"I'd hoped you wouldn't remember that one."
"I only had one beer."
Gojo doesn't let him play the innocent. “You picked up a second one after everyone left.”
“It was citrus flavored,” Yuuji replies, which isn’t so much an excuse as an explanation.
"Delinquency starts so young," Gojo sighs. Yuuji huffs, remembering other things that Gojo thought Yuuji wasn't at all too young for. Maybe Gojo reads it on his face because he changes his tune, adding, "I've always been in favor of youth making their own decisions, actually."
"Have you," Yuuji replies.
"Such as now: what do you want for breakfast? My treat."
"Something sweet?"
"Do I look that bad?"
It's not about that, not really. Yuuji has faith in Gojo's ability to bounce back. Even today, he looks far better than he did yesterday. "You look like you stepped off a magazine cover. Let's do crepes."
They do crepes. Gojo goes extra sweet, while Yuuji opts for a savory choice. A to go order for Fushiguro makes it onto the bill, Kugisaki still not yet awake to appreciate a crepe. It’s a small place, fewer customers on a weekday, especially following what has been termed a terrorist attack not too far away. It's nice, sitting across from his teacher and watching him eat unconscionable amounts of Nutella.
“You’re staring because you want a bite,” Gojo says as they dig in.
“Not really.”
“It’s a shame that you can’t even admit it. Society has an inherent bias against sugar. You're denying yourself.” He angles his fork Yuuji’s way as he says it; Yuuji doesn’t have far to reach to borrow the utensil for himself and see what he’s been missing out on.
Yuuji’s nose wrinkles. Too sweet, the taste of Nutella overwhelms the strawberry that's also theoretically inside. He hands Gojo back the utensil. “I’m not denying myself.”
“An issue of taste, then.” Gojo brushes away a false tear from his blindfold.
Yuuji can’t help but look at him and grin, the expression not quite light. “Maybe it’s an acquired taste.”
Gojo’s lips tug up in response. “How long will it take to acquire it?”
“Let’s say a decade.”
“A decade.”
“I’m set in my ways.” Yuuji sighs through his grin. “Slow to adapt to new things.”
“Have I met this Yuuji?”
Yuuji motions to his plate. “Do you want to try mine?”
“You can’t trick me into eating mushrooms.”
It's pointless to joke about it. Harmless, maybe. Yuuji won't be here in a decade. Yuuji wants it, impossible as it is: a decade of looking around and never finding Gojo far from view. Wouldn't that be something? The bookshops and the meals, the jokes and the companionship. A sweeter life in which there's room to grow and choose instead of never being far from the hanging sword.
It’s not meant to be; in a few weeks, Yuuji will have consumed fifteen fingers. At this pace he’ll be ready to go within a few months. With the way that Sukuna’s awakening has activated his remaining fingers, it won’t be hard to find spots in Japan causing the most deaths. Yuuji will be gone in one blink of white eyelashes.
There’s a lot of things that he can’t ask for. Things that would be unhelpful in the grand scheme of things, conversations that are pointless when Yuuji’s heart has an expiration date. Almost easier to simply hope to see Kugisaki rise from her hospital bed. And he wants to see a certain curse gone from this earth.
“The higher ups are busy now, right?” Yuuji starts it off. “They’re not micromanaging missions.”
“Better things to do for now,” Gojo agrees. He sets his fork down. “What’s your angle?”
“I want an assignment to go after Mahito. The patchwork curse that killed Nanami.”
"Your first revenge quest," Gojo says, hand over his heart. "I know what that's like. You get ticked off by someone and you can't rest until that little problem is taken care of, even if it creates a bigger problem down the road."
Yuuji's not sure if he wants to be like Gojo in this instance, but he can't deny it. He wants to track Mahito's trail like a hunting dog and then rip him apart with his jaw. “He needs to be dealt with.”
“Revenge did help me grow stronger. It can't be too bad for you,” Gojo muses. “We’re short-staffed after Shibuya. I can’t assign you a manager.”
“I don’t need a minder.”
“I can’t send Megumi with you, either,” Gojo warns. “He’s still recovering.”
Yuuji is, too, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s not anything that’ll help his case. Gojo knows it anyway, the way his gaze sometimes lingers on the wounds on Yuuji’s face. “I don’t want him there. I don’t want that curse to lay a finger on him.”
Gojo shakes his head. “I worry that you learned the wrong lesson in Shibuya. Alright, what the hell. Itadori Yuuji, you have a new assignment. I expect prompt status reports. I’ll check in with you every several days to drop off your snack box.” Withdrawing a card from his wallet, he slides it across the table. “Use this and keep your receipts or else you’ll get Ijichi on my case.”
Yuuji pockets the card. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Think of it as a work trip. Take your time. See some sights.” Gojo scrapes Nutella from his plate, licks it off his fork. His mouth must taste so sweet. "You don't need to be on the job 24/7."
“I'll take care of the curses I encounter on the way," Yuuji offers. He's rather looking forward to it. As for the other things… it's not worth it if he's going alone.
Gojo doesn't call him out on his one track mind. “At that rate, you might even qualify for an end of year bonus.”
"What will you do in the meantime?" Yuuji can’t imagine Gojo teaching class for only Fushiguro.
"I need to understand who I killed that day since it wasn’t Suguru, what their plan was and who they worked with. We’ve also had a few strange reports… I'll have you drop by if you're in the area." Gojo eyes the to go box for Fushiguro like it's tempting him, but instead places an order for a sweet drink to tide him over until lunch.
Yuuji traces the outline of the card in his pocket. When he looks out the window, he focuses on the tracks of curses. None are Mahito's.
When he gets back with his drink, Gojo sidles up next to him. "Already fixated on your target?"
"Not yet," Yuuji says, and he picks up the to go box. "You're still here."
It can only be a good thing that Gojo isn't joining him on the mission; Yuuji's liable to just keep looking at him instead. When he glances Gojo's way, he finds him facing him. Despite the blindfold, the weight of Gojo's gaze is clear.
Yuuji won't see him for a while, so he looks at him now, at the face that isn't injured like Yuuji's but holds its own trials, the nose, the lips that aren't as shiny after a meal. The strongest, Yuuji thinks, and it doesn't mean the same thing that it used to. He hopes that when it happens, Gojo wins the coin flip and does it himself. It's only that Yuuji's greedy; he wants someone to sit with Gojo afterward, too, but he can't pull any names for the job. Maybe Fushiguro will do it if Yuuji asks. Someone's got to stay with him.