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Like all prey animals, the underbelly of the Gojo clan was, of course, its eyesight. Poor in ocular rods - nightvision a conic hellscape.
They had frames passed down, ones carved from hawk bones, some hand-made screws. Their inherited technique - it was in itself a curse.
His father wore glasses - tortoise frames that made him look meek, his hair cropped short around them, long face, soft forehead. His grandfather had worn bifocals - tilted his chin to see out of parted lenses before he was blinded over. Gone dark to the world. Gojos were most usually blind before their eighties, eyes like pumice, great albino frost.
It came with wisdom. Cursed energy tenfold. Instability, the power of a minor demigod. The user was usually deadened by their own ability - infinity turning to lost sense of touch, reality gone as their blood settled, oxygen low. Red to blue.
It was penecostal.
His father was sitting in the clan’s throne room – cherry wood, glazed over in polish. Great banners that had their insignia threaded on, a product of the loom that sat in his mother’s quarters. That was kept by the house’s first mother, the weaver.
His father’s legs were folded where his grandfather had sat when Gojo was much younger - an elder coming forward for the man to touch at his faceplane with spotted hands, a slack jaw. An old man whose wish was to touch the Six Eyes in his lifetime, to have the fruition of their savior in his garden.
Speak, boy . He remembers the clarity, the nose pressed into his hairline.
Here am I , Gojo said, like his mother had rehearsed with him in the hall. Watched the gashed smile break on the old man’s face, closing marbled eyes.
The funeral was a week later - cancer in the face, hidden under his eye sockets. Nasal cavity. Ear drums.
It was the place he saw his great-grandfather longue in pictures - flashbulb stills from a reversed disk-mirror from a hundred years ago, the crop blurry, faded from white sun. A twentieth-century relic; the color sapped from the portrait; sepia drainage. His ancestors in paintings, the same place - the same seat, the same boiled eyes.
Not his.
He wasn’t like them, not for a hundred years back.
At his father’s feet was Utahime - kneeling in her miko attire, albeit with proper footwear, her usual boots taken leave. Gojo could tell she had cleaned up for this visit – her face was bright, her hair trimmed neatly, pulled back into a perfect bow. Curls around her ears. The scar had clipped part of her inner lobe off, dwarfed the shell to a fold, though Gojo loved it. Loved to pull on it, Utahime only aware of it from his weight, the singed nerves shot.
Her eyes were downcast as Gojo entered the room, letting a servant slide the door shut behind him. Barefeet on bamboo mats, telling himself to not feel out of place in his own home with a loose shirt and sweatpants, slippers left in some hallway bathroom. Utahime’s hands were in front of her on the ground, a frozen bow. Penitent for her own status, no doubt - Gojo had never received her into his home, though not without trying.
The council meeting today had been hosted with his absence, Yuta standing in place as his heir. Gojo hesitated in the full room - it was all elders, first grades, lined against the walls as his father watched him enter.
Before he could ask, his father spoke.
“You know Iori?”
Gojo nodded, found pockets in his sweats. Felt his chest swell - there were few certain things his clan would want with someone like Utahime. “Yeah.”
“You two went to school together?” His father was seemingly ignoring her, both of them, though gestured towards her knocked head. “You are both teachers?”
“Yes.”
His father nodded. “Good. These things are easier when there is familiarity.”
Gojo didn’t need to ask. Felt his feet start to sweat, wishing the heated floors had been turned off.
“You two will be married.” His father continued, undeterred at Gojo’s lack of response. “Gakuganji has recommended her – he says she holds the very conservative views you yourself lack. Perhaps she will be a positive influence upon the Gojo clan under your leadership.
“You must be aware, but she has no clan or other sorcerers in her family. This will mean any children you sire will belong to the Gojo clan. The lack of contesting wills is important here – let’s ensure you two are married before the year’s end.”
“Hey –”
“Be decent and show Iori around the guest house. Take a chaperone.”
It was a dismissal - Gojo looked at her - she was still, though a tremor went through her ankle as Gojo stepped towards her, grabbed under her arm.
“Come on, Utahime.” Gojo pulled her, Utahime following suit, standing to not be pulled in front of the gathering. “Let’s go.”
It was his mother who spoke next, quick. “A chaperone, Satoru.”
He didn’t have to play their games.
“Yuta,” Gojo gestured, calling him off the back wall. “Come on.”
“Gojo-sensei,” Yuta sighed. “I don’t think I’m the rightful choice.”
“You’re of age,” Gojo had them both trail him, Utahime’s arm still tucked into his side, wrist brushing his ribs. “Almost.”
He hurried - running through the spoke of their halls, connecting them from the public receiving rooms to guest quarters.
A boy met them there - dark haired, light-eyed. Probably born with a sloped retina, unable to make much of himself within the clan. “Here’s your bedroom during your stay, Iori-san.”
It only took a cursory glance at the young worker for him to pause at the threshold, Gojo shutting the door to seclude himself with Utahime, cutting off Yuta with a yelp.
He would speak to the kid, no doubt. Yuta was good with the young.
He went to sit down on the made bedding, head in hands. Mind rotted through to membrane.
“Do you hate me?” Gojo wanted to laugh – he hated himself at the moment. His entire family - the council that had sanctioned this. All for his own restraint.
“No,” Utahime shook her head. “I was worried you would hate me.”
“This isn’t your fault.” Gojo almost bit his tongue. “You had no say in this, I know.”
“I know you don’t want to be married,” Utahime was looking away. He realized she had on makeup – more than Gojo had ever seen her wear. Her lashes were long, her cheeks evenly brushed with a faint pink. She looked feminine , Gojo startled – something he hadn’t associated with Utahime in so many years, not since she first started wearing that sloppy bow in her hair. Not since she stopped wearing a school dress, uniform hem an inch above her knee. She tugged on it obsessively, bending over to show off pale thighs, the bottom frills of her tucked shirt. Gojo missed it once it was gone. “I’m not sure I would even make a good wife.”
“I don’t think I could be a good husband,” Gojo hesitated, the words then coming fast. “Maybe not to anyone.”
Utahime looked at him then, her eyes landing on his mouth. “It’s very strange, because I think you could be a good father.”
Gojo smiled. “You’re confused.”
“No, really.” Utahime was serious. “You’re strict when you need to be. And loving the other times.”
“Not to you.”
“I’m not your child.”
“No,” Gojo grinned. “I’m the one who acts like the child.”
“Yes.” Utahime blushed. “Sometimes.”
“Does this mean I can’t tease you anymore?”
“I think it means you can tease me every day for the rest of our lives.”
Gojo looked at her.
“You really don’t hate me?”
“I never hated you.” Utahime blinked. “I think we are very similar, is all. Stubborn.”
Yuta knocked on the doorframe, sliding the paper. “I think they want you both outside.”
Utahime covered her face - she had met Yuta before, held Rika’s hand as a sisterhood event concluded with sparse fireworks.
“Give us some reprieve, Yuta,” Gojo rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I knew her when she had a metal retainer on her bottom row.”
Utahime was red. “Shut up.”
Gojo laughed. “We all had to peel apples for her - the skin got stuck in the bar.”
She hit him - Yuta startled at the sound, Gojo finishing his laugh as Utahime looked away. It was a moment before he realized it was natural to have his infinity off for Utahime, that they touched more often than anyone else.
Yuta went out again, checking the timeclock on his phone. Sighing.
“Promise you won’t yell at me in front of my cousins.” Gojo scratched his face. “They actually respect me.”
“I doubt that,” Utahime was tugging on her own thumbs, pulling at nerves. “Your father told me you were made of iron and steel. That you were not a laughing child.”
“No,” Gojo grinned, moved closer to look at her. “That came out around the time I met you.”
“How convenient,” Utahime mumbled.
“Hey,” Gojo was still staring at her, how her lips were rouged, scrubbed soft with oiled sugar. “How about a kiss for good fortune?”
To his surprise, Utahime leaned over, pressing her lips to his cheek. They were cool – sticky. “You can wait a little longer.”
Gojo reached over to cover her hand with his. “I don’t think I can.”
It was like this when they were younger - he felt it happening all over again: the agony, wanting to lick at her heels. Roll over in her lap as she caved to him.
The thousands of almost-firsts, all thrown out. Not that Gojo had gotten to them in that meantime.
“Gojo.”
“Do you even want me?”
Utahime flushed. “Yes.”
“Really?” He looked at her - he had never wanted someone to only care for him, him alone. “Then I can wait.”
Yuta knocked once more before stepping in, his eyes shielded. “Please, both of you, utilize the gardens.”
“Fine.” Gojo rolled his eyes. “You can look, you know.”
“I’m never sure, Gojo-sensei.”
They routed themselves to the gardens - yards of hedges, lawn. Utahime seemed content in her layered robes - more crème than white, starlit stitchwork of vines more opal on the cloth. The red was overwhelming, her black hairs flying stray onto the light color.
Gojo picked one off, letting it go behind him. Something of hers in his, his feet wider than her own, even with her shoes on.
“Yuta moved in?”
Gojo nodded. “He took Megumi’s old room. I miss the little brat, but at least he visits for council.”
“Was he invited today?”
Gojo nodded. “I suppose he voted in your favor. It was unanimous.”
Utahime was quiet. “He’s a sweet boy. And Yuta. He is precious to Maki.”
“Yuta,” Gojo called behind them, walking backwards, sweats slack around his ankles. “Utahime thinks you’re precious.”
“Don’t tease him.”
Gojo grinned. “Fine. I’ll go back to teasing you.”
There was a willow - fielded with hyacinths, the flowers thick in the air and path.
“This is the place.”
Utahime seemed to know, as Yuta distanced himself. Instinct. “Where will the tent go?”
“Probably,” Gojo stepped, positioning himself. “Here.” It was where his parents were married - he had seen the stills. Where his cousins had been wedded, signed off to Kamo halflings and Zenin brutes.
Utahime looked up, around. “It’s very nice grounds.”
“They’re okay.”
Gojo did not deal in pastels - though he knew Utahime ran soft, lithe and wild. She turned away from him, nose red. “I’ve never had a yard. Much less this.”
“Uta.”
“I’m sorry,” she tilted her head back, mouth parted. Breathing through. “I think the day has gotten to me.”
He loved her. Gojo was sure of it; the splitting of a vine, cut to make more of its kind. It spread through him, had been there so long.
“There is something else,” Gojo did not touch her. “One thing, before I’m sure they have us signing our names for several more hours.
“It’s been empty,” Gojo walked the wing - the western windows, a chateau style. The house was planted a mile off from the main household, an auxiliary residence. “I had wanted it for a playhouse as a child. My parents compromised that I could use it as a marriage-stead.
“Do you like it,” Gojo was cautious. “I could choose another place. We could even build one by the lake-”
“No,” Utahime stopped him immediately. “I mean, this will be our home.”
“Yeah?”
Utahime smiled. “Yes. Don’t be so proud.”
The roof was a chateau green. Stark, off-putting, almost. A lance in the scenery. It was good to be joined on something tangible.
Yuta was standing guard beside the door - turning as they came out.
“I think dinner has been called.”
Gojo rolled his neck, crouching on the doorstoop, his shirt slipping down his chest. He’d need to eat, fill a suit again. “Tell them we’ll receive it out here.”
They sat together, Utahime with folded legs, her dressing more ornate as he stared.
“I had it bought last week,” Utahime was shied. “I was told of this in advance while in Kyoto.”
“Gakuganji recommended you?”
Utahime swallowed, nodded. “He thinks I’ll be his informant on you.”
“Will you stifle me with your traditionalist sensibilities?”
Utahime shoved him, her coiled hair bouncing. “Don’t play cruel.”
Gojo smiled, looking at her. Yuta walking the distance back, already a blip in the running fields, Rika dragged beside him.
“Hey Uta,” Gojo wished he could touch her. Knew that soon, he would, and that he would not stop. “Let’s give them hell.”
Utahime snorted, the cup of her ear moving with her smile. Gojo pressed his thumb into it - how it fit, ruined for himself.
“Okay.”