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At any given moment, Yuji Itadori is engaged in mental warfare with his own mind. It was a grueling, endless war of attrition, and he was losing badly.
There was a voice in his head, one that he recognized, one that he remembered from when he was younger, that constantly spoke to him and fed into his fears. Back when he was in elementary school, the voice would raise the sudden hyper awareness of his breathing, forcing him to treat every breath of air like it was his last, lest he suffocate himself. He couldn’t focus in class as he obsessed over what should’ve been automatic, numberin each breath, patiently making sure his breathing was in repetitive sync. Over a decade of dealing with voice made it hard to remember when he’d first started hearing it, but he assumed that had been when it first surfaced.
It came and waned throughout the years, whispering different things with each occurence. In elementary school, it’d been his breathing, but that was a short-lived bout. In middle school when his grandfather had been hospitalized, the voice had whispered that anything and everything he’d do would lead to his death, and after multiple lunchtimes where the voice forced him to not eat, he was taken to his guidance counselor. She’d said something about “obsessive-compulsive disorder, and that she’d help him see a psychiatrist to get an official diagnosis.
But between his grandfather’s hospital bills, and personal living expenses, he didn’t have enough money for it.
So, any chances of receiving treatment had turned to zero, and Yuji quickly learned that he’d just have to cope with the voice. Sometimes, it’d whisper about serious, life-altering things that’d make him cry himself to sleep, and other time it was a nuisance as irritating background noise.
This time, it was the former.
Shibuya’s disheveled and dirty streets didn’t soothe him, the silence only serving to allow his mind the ambience race at speeds he hadn’t known it was capable of. Because when it was just him, his thoughts, and the abandoned parts of the city that’d been wrecked as a backdrop, the intrusive thoughts would pour in.
The silence seduced his brain to flash images of all those people he had killed only a few days ago. The bodies of hundreds, dismantled, cleaved, mutilated, and decimated at his hands across Shibuya were etched in his brain, and accompanying it were other machinations of his mind. What-if scenarios and day-nightmares of him slaughtering more innocents whether it be through Sukuna’s will or his— with the deaths falling on his
You’re a killer.
You’ll kill more people.
It was like his brain was prophesying some unstoppable future, and then he’d scramble to find or do something that’d tell him otherwise.
Sometimes, he’d make himself barf or he’d scream in defiance against the thoughts, and other times he’d chant mantras that “I will never cause someone to die again” over and over or hop across the ground and avoid cracks— and if he did something wrong in the process, he’d start from scratch until he did it perfect, feeling brief moments of calm when he was done. And then another thought would come, and he’d have to do it all over again.
What would probably look strange and unnecessary to most, consumed large portions of his day. And if none of that worked, he’d curl into a ball and close his eyes tight, begging his brain to stop.
Shibuya being damn-near abandoned was only good for one thing: no one was around to see him in all his insanity.
There were only a few moments of peace he’d find, usually only the first few minutes to an hour after waking, when his mind was clear and calm, but he could tell the thoughts were creeping in like an oncoming storm that’d ruin the rest of the day.
And sometimes when it got too much, he’d find himself staring into the puddles or cracked reflective glasses to see himself, and wonder why he was still alive. He’d trace the scars Mahito had inflicted upon him, permanent reminders etching his sins into his tired, bruised, tired, and ugly face, and he’d consider all the many ways he could kill himself.
Painful or painless, what type of death did a killer like Yuji Itadori deserve? If he was lucky enough, the voice wouldn’t follow him into Hell.
“You’ve got it from here.”
Ah, right, Nanamin told him to keep fighting, and he wasn’t sure if it was a Blessing or a Curse that that was the only reason he was still alive right now. Maybe death was too sweet of an atonement for his sins anyway.
So he turned towards other sources of comfort, and strangely, the first thing he turned to was…
“Choso.”
The fire crackled, spreading a warmth to Yuji that did nothing to warm his soul as he sat across from Choso, who’s eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice. A cold breeze swept through, and Yuji debated if he should continue.
“Do you think I’ll kill more people?” he finally said, the words leaving as cold as the gust that had just come through. He tapped his knee three times to calm the oncoming despair spurned from having to say that aloud.
A question from one killer to another. Yuji knew, loosely through Mechamaru keeping him updated on the events as they transpired that night and through Choso’s own admission to the deed, that Choso had likely murdered dozens of people that Halloween night, But Yuji was still questioning what it meant to die an unnatural death, especially after understanding that he and Mahito weren’t all too dissimilar, so while he acknowledged the fact that his so-called brother was a serial killer so was he, he had no room to judge.
Choso’s eyes were wide as saucers, probably because it was the first time Yuji had started a conversation over the past few days, and when he had finally regained his semblance of self, he replied by saying, “is this about Kechizu and Ezo?”
“No,” Yuji said all too soon. He stared at the crackling embers, taking in the warmth as the corpses of the two cursed wombs echoed in his mind as though they were rotting in front of him. He swore he could still hear Ezo’s death throes. “It’s not just about them.”
Choso nodded, his arms in his sleeves as he closed his eyes and pondered on the topic. “Humans, Curses, Cursed Spirits, Sorcerors, I think they’re all capable of killing their own and one another.”
Yuji’s head swung towards him and back to the flames. That hadn’t been the answer he was looking for.
“But, most people don’t end up doing such a thing, I think intention is what plays a part of it. As long as you don’t want to kill, then you won’t, it’s as simple as that,” Choso said, his voice warm, comforting, and eerily brotherly. There was a confident smile on his lips. “If you’re worried that the King of Curses may take over again, as long as you have no intentions of letting him out you should be fine.
Not for a second, had Yuji ever considered letting that happen again, between nearly killing Fushiguro, and fully seeing what Sukuna was capable of on Halloween, he’d been convinced that letting him out under any circumstance would cause far more harm than good. Sukuna would never be set free of his own volition ever again.
“But what if someone tries to make him take over?” That volcano Cursed Spirit had fed him enough fingers to force a possession. If that happened again…
“Then I’ll stop him before he can hurt anyone. I won’t stand around as someone uses my little brother’s body against his will.” Choso’s words rung confident, as though he spoke a series of events that followed the laws of physics, and while Yuji questioned if Choso was strong enough to take down the King of Curses, he found strange, eerie solace in the fact that someone would stop him if things got out of hand.
“Thank you, Choso.” The voice in Yuji’s head died down.
But that reassurance only lasted so long, and he’d find himself asking twice, thrice, four times, each time the relief that maybe he wouldn’t cause more people to die fading quicker and giving way for more desperation. Eventually, he came to understand that asking Choso was causing far more harm than good, so he stopped.
And so he searched for comfort elsewhere, beyond Choso and the rituals and chants he’d say when was alone to try and receive some solace.
And when the thoughts came rushing back in, he’d find himself missing Fushiguro, Kugisaki, and Gojo-sensei. Back at Jujutsu High, when he was with them, the voice always seemed to go quiet. They provided him with the few moments of sanity, in a world where his mind was always working at 1000%.
Gojo-sensei will never be freed.
Kugisaki won’t make it.
You’ll make Fushiguro die next.
Like always, the voice would attach itself onto the things he’d care most about, welling him with despair over that too. So while the fond memories of his friends calmed him at times, he decided it was best not to dwell on them.
Plus he knew better. After the death and destruction he had caused, he couldn’t go back.
That’s why he found comfort and atonement in fighting the curses littering Shibuya. When he was a cog in the machine of Jujutsu society, fulfilling a sorcerer's single role of destroying curses, his mind could only find a few moments to whisper seductions of madness. He served a single purpose and never had to worry about one day causing more mass death once more.
It was then that he truly remembered how similar he was to Mahito.
To say what he was doing was dangerous was an understatement. Exhaustion, both physical and mental, weared at him and threatened to make him stumble at any moment, and sloppily aimed attacks and sluggish reactions would nearly lead to being inflicted mortal blows. He was grateful that Choso was there to back him up.
“Brother, you should really get some rest,” Choso said, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing with concern.
If you sleep, Sukuna will come out again. the voice whispered in his head.
“No, let’s keep going,” Yuji said, obeying the whispers immediately and turning to walk further down the road. Choso didn’t move for a while before following. He felt guilty, but he was thankful that Choso had lots of stamina to continue the fight alongside him.
A beast-like curse bounded towards him, and Yuji moved to dodge.
If you avoid that attack, you’ll kill Choso next .
There was no room for rationality with that voice stuck in his head because Yuji couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if the voice was right. That what if scared him half-to-death, so he listened, bracing himself for the swinging arm of the beast full force that propelled him into a building lining the streets, the pain making Yuji let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Yuji stood from the rubble, begging his knees to not buckle, as he clutched his bloodied arm, and suddenly, he could feel a surge of cursed energy flow through him, like he was a bomb ready to explode. It was always like the when he listened to the voice during a fight.
He could feel it as he lunged towards the curse, the blue cursed energy coating his arm. It was as though he were suddenly hyper aware of the flow of cursed energy.
He paused the flow of energy as soon as he got close, sent his fist forward, and in that fraction of a nano-second, everything felt right. Nanamin had said something about the Sparks of Black not choosing who they blessed, bnow, Yuji felt as though he were choosing to bless himself with them. He restarted the cursed energy current and dug his fist deep in the curse’s flesh, black waves of cursed lightning spraying from the impact point. The curse exploded into purple bloody bits around him, and Yuji looked at his blood-slicked and steaming fist emptily.
The voice would put him in harm's way, he’d listen, and in return the chances of landing a Black Flash or dealing significant damage to the curse he was fighting raised dramatically. It was the only good thing to ever come out of the voice in the near decade and a half he’d been living with it.
But he knew he could only keep going like this for so long, his eyelids fell towards his nose heavy, he had to beg his sore body to move, and his will to fight were the dying words of his teacher and the sick thoughts that if he didn’t keep going that he’d kill again. He’d run out of steam far too long ago, and he didn’t want to continue living like this.
But he didn’t have a choice, perhaps his mind, those deaths during Halloween, and his current living hell were all punishment for having chosen to eat that finger to save Megumi all those months ago.
Sometimes, he’d regret that decision, thinking about what life would be like if he didn’t follow Megumi to locate that finger, if he didn’t ingest it, but none of that mattered.
He’d just have to cope with this like he did all those other times, or die in the process. He found strange comfort that he was okay with either option.