Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sharp nails drum noisily against the wooden arm of the sofa, irritation lacing each rap of polished black against lacquered birch. He keeps his breathing steady: inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Long breaths. Pause between. Techniques once utilized to help their son calm down, regulate his breathing and more tumultuous emotions. Smell the flowers, blow out the candles. Another inhale, but an exhale through a clenched jaw, through gritted teeth. The voice in his mind grates on his nerves, a reminder of the source of this irritation he so seeks to combat.

His hand lifts from the sofa, drags through thick pale rose locks before dropping back down. The drumming resumes. Louder now. More forceful. His fresh manicure threatens to chip.

Across from him, seated in a tufted grey armchair—wooden arms, matching the sofa—the woman shifts slightly. There’s a polite smile on her face, but it strains with each passing minute, then each passing second. Her hands are clasped in her lap, perhaps to prevent any nervous fidgeting, any irritated tick, anything that could betray her professional façade. It threatens to slip soon. She blinks too often.

And he almost laughs. Almost. Of course Satoru fucking Gojo has the power to drive even the calmest, most composed figures to the brink of ebullition without even so much as existing in their presence. Once he actually arrives…this woman is doomed.

But he’s late. Thirteen minutes late. Not his usual seven, or even eight. Thirteen minutes.

And Sukuna is ready to kill him for it.

The woman clears her throat, sitting up straighter in her chair. “Perhaps we should discuss rescheduling?”

“Two minutes,” he counters. “He’ll be here.”

She tries to smile. Her lips press too thin. “Two minutes.”

In reality, Satoru had arrived outside the office approximately five minutes ago. However, when it came to finally breaching the threshold, he’d paused. Sweat slicks his palms, which he’s tried to wipe off on his expensive slacks many times, to no avail. His heart races in his chest, pulse pounding in his ears. He musters up his courage, squares his shoulders, curls his palms into fists.

His feet remain rooted to the pavement.

And the thing is, Satoru Gojo is no stranger to challenge. He’s faced off against hordes of curse users, defeated the strongest of cursed spirits, laughed in the face of reality’s limits and defied even death itself. But this…This new challenge could perhaps be the most difficult yet—infinitely worse than all the others combined:

Couple’s therapy.

He huffs. C’mon, Satoru. You’re the strongest guy in the entire universe—in the history of the universe. This is nothing. Just go in there and get it over with. It was your idea, after all.

His jaw clenches. He forces away the tension. Just remember why you’re here. You’ve got to make this work. You’re doing this for Yuuji and Megumi. And Nobara, I suppose. Yuta too, maybe? Oh, and definitely Tsumiki. And Aoi?

He snorts. Okay, no, not Aoi. But everyone else.

He takes a steadying breath, adjusts the sunglasses perched on his nose. He leans down to retrieve the small paper bag that had slipped from his grasp minutes earlier. Another deep breath, an exaggerated rise and fall of his chest. Then he plasters on an award-winning smile before pushing open the glass-paned door.

Showtime.

A minute passes, quickly bleeding into two.

The office door clicks open.

Satoru struts into the office, well-dressed in a pressed pale blue shirt, grinning as though he hadn’t been keeping them waiting for the past fifteen minutes. He flashes a three-fingered peace sign with his free hand, the other tucked behind his back, poorly concealing a small green bag. “Hey! Sorry I’m late. The funniest thing happened on the way here—I’ll tell you about it later.” He rounds the back of the sofa, leaning over it to quickly press his lips to Sukuna’s temple, ignoring the latter’s glare.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Sukuna asks—well, demands—as Satoru comes to stand by the opposite end of the sofa.

“I just told you,” Satoru says with a sigh, “I’ll tell you later. Anyways, I brought gifts!” He holds up the green bag, showing it off with a flourish. “Taadaa! Kikusuian’s kikufuku mochi!”

Smell the flowers, blow out the candles. “Satoru Gojo, if that funny thing that happened on your way here involves travelling all the way to Sendai for mochi, I will flay your skin from bone and string your mutilated body up by your innards.”

Satoru’s grin widens. “Hey now, don’t threaten me with a good time. Besides, my trip to Sendai had nothing to do with it. Promise.”

Sukuna fixes him with a Look—one that says not only that he doesn’t believe him, but that he’s also trying to decide which blade would be the best for slicing through his flesh.

“So…” Satoru holds the bag out again, giving it a slight shake. “you don't want the mochi?”

“Give it here.”

Satoru tosses the bag onto Sukuna’s lap—who immediately digs in—then plops down onto the sofa with a sigh, gracefully crossing one long leg over the other, an arm draping along the sofa’s back. He finally addresses the woman, who’s been watching the exchange with a mix of emotion—annoyance and confusion primarily showing through the crease in her features, the tilt of her head. “Glad to officially make your acquaintance. I’m Satoru Gojo. Sorry again about the tardiness.”

The woman smiles that thin-lipped smile again. “Yes, well, Gojo. I hope you do not make a habit of arriving late to these sessions. You only get the hour you paid for, and I’d hate to see you squander that time.”

“Well, if I had known our counsellor was as lovely as yourself, I would’ve rushed to get here as early as possible. I know it’s rude to keep a pretty lady waiting." He grins, batting his eyelashes flirtatiously over the rims of his glasses. "Won’t happen again, I promise.”

Sukuna snorts.

Satoru tilts his head in the former’s direction, eyebrow raised. “Something funny?”

“Making promises you can’t keep.” Sukuna plucks a mochi from its wrapper, tossing the trash at Satoru. “If this were a binding vow, you’d be fucked.”

Satoru glares at him from behind his glasses. “I can be on time,” he insists, throwing the wrapper back. “I’m never late to the really important stuff!”

Sukuna raises a brow in challenge. “You sure?”

Satoru crosses his arms over his chest. “Name one time I was late to something that was actually important—no offense.” He adds this last part as an afterthought, addressing the counsellor once again. She waves the comment off, busy scribbling away in her notebook. Wait, did the session start already?

Sukuna reclines against the sofa, hands resting behind his head. “Our wedding.”

“I was not late to our—shit, I was late to our wedding.” Satoru ignores the smug smirk Sukuna sends his way. “But I had a good excuse that time, so it barely counts.”

And, okay, Sukuna will give him that. But still. “I’m telling you, Satoru. You’ll be late to your own death.”

Satoru tips his shades down so he can shoot Sukuna a wink. “I already was.”

The counsellor clears her throat, drawing the men’s attention back to her. She smiles that professional smile, setting her notebook off to the side. “Right. Well, now that we have all arrived and gotten settled, it’s time to begin. Since this is your first session, I would like to spend some time getting to know each other. I’ll start by briefly introducing myself: my name is Yua Sato, and I’ve been a marriage counsellor for almost twenty years now. I’ve worked with all sorts of clients and situations, and helped guide them to effective solutions. Now, it’s important for you to understand that relationship issues are often quite complex, and counselling doesn’t provide any quick-fix solutions. However, if you work hard and stick with it, I know you will see improvements in your relationship. That being said—” She leans back comfortably in her chair, gesturing towards the pair on the sofa— “I’d like to get to know the two of you as a couple. Tell me about yourselves. How did the two of you meet?”

“We met in high school, actually,” Satoru starts, then quickly backtracks. “Well, I was in high school—senior year. He was an ancient cursed spirit at the time, terrorizing the masses and all that.”

The woman—Yua—flicks her gaze to Sukuna as though gauging his reaction to what was so clearly intended as an insult, but rather than anger finds the other nodding along in agreement. Yua’s eyes narrow slightly in confusion. “Uh-huh,” she says slowly. “Right. And how long have the two of you been together?”

Satoru taps his chin in thought. “Hmm…well, Yuuji was eleven when we got married—”

“Megumi was eleven,” Sukuna interrupts, correcting the other. “Yuuji had just turned twelve.”

“Right.” Satoru quickly counts it out on his fingers. “So, I guess we’ve been married for four years now—almost five! Unless,” he adds, as an afterthought, “you exclude that time we were…separated, so to speak.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Yua probes.

Sukuna jabs a thumb in Satoru’s direction. “This dumbass got himself sealed away in a Special Grade cursed object, Prison Realm.”

Satoru scoffs. “Oh, you’re one to talk. You got your power sealed away inside a literal baby.”

“And just whose fault was that, huh?”

The two look about ready to rip out each other’s throats, teeth bared and bodies tense, mochi bag careless tossed aside on the floor. Session verging on the brink of disaster (though still not the worst she’s ever had), Yua tries to redirect the conversation. “And Satoru,” she starts, pressing on despite her growing confusion, “for how long were you, uh, sealed?”

Satoru relaxes back against the sofa. “Barely a year,” he says. “I probably could’ve been released sooner, but somebody was too busy sulking about it.”

Sukuna scoffs, incredulous. “You laid eyes on your ex—who you claimed to harbour no unresolved feelings towards—for a mere second, and it struck so deep into your very soul that it rendered you—the invincible Satoru Gojo—completely vulnerable to attack. And, what? Am I just supposed to be okay with that?”

“That’s not what happened!” Satoru insists, and by the way he says it—the worn exasperation in his tone—it seems as though they’ve had this argument before. “I just—”

He cuts himself off, gaze flicking to Yua. “Sorry, I’m sure none of this is really making sense to you. We should probably backtrack a bit, yeah?”

Yua blinks, gradually catching up. “Yes. Uh, yes, that would be best.” She’s quick to recollect herself, clearing her throat. “How about we start at the beginning.”

“The beginning?” Satoru echoes, humming in thought. “Yikes. Well, I guess it all started the day we almost killed each other…”

Satoru had always known he’d have to face off against Sukuna one day. It was destiny: the fated battle between the world’s strongest sorcerer and the world’s strongest curse. He was born for this, had been training for this ever since his cursed techniques manifested. It was never a matter of if, but when.

But he never thought the battle would turn out like this.

Consciousness returns slowly, gradually, icy blue eyes blinking open to gaze upon a grey sky. He winces, pulling himself to a seated position, ash cloying to his tongue, smoke burning in his lungs as he inhales sharply. Coughs rack his body. He doubles over. Blood splatters the earth below.

He gets his breathing back under control, lifting his head in an attempt to regain his bearings. All around him, the forest lies in ruins. It stretches as far the eye can see, a barren wasteland of ash and dirt, and distantly he hopes the damage didn’t make it far enough to reach civilization. He had been lucky—even he can admit—that Sukuna had agreed to a battle in the countryside rather than in, say, downtown Tokyo. Something about utilizing the open space, perhaps not wishing for anything or anyone to hinder their battle, prevent Satoru from going all out.

And all out did he go.

Flashes of battle dance across his memory—visions of sharp blue light, angry flames, invisible blades. Smoke. So much smoke. And blood. A nightmarish figure, a devilish face. Twin malicious grins throughout it all. They’d been equal in almost every aspect—he and Sukuna—and while Satoru would never admit it aloud, he had expected it. He had anticipated that the being who had so terrorized Japan since the Heian period would prove a challenge even to someone as powerful as Satoru.

Which is why he had come up with a (potentially insane) experimental technique, a complicated manipulation of both his Six Eyes and Limitless that allowed him to seal away some—if not all—of Sukuna’s power, gaining him the upper hand.

But had it worked?

Satoru hadn’t been able to test his experimental technique yet, had barely conceptualized the idea when the call to action had sounded, when he’d rushed off to fight. This move was a desperate bid to tip the scale of an expected stalemate, a final Hail Mary with no guarantee of success. Hell, he hadn’t even considered the effect such a technique could have on himself; could his body handle the output? Did he have the cursed energy left?

He's alive—through luck or strength, it’s too early to tell. His cursed energy has definitely taken a hit, and his body is in a sorry state, but he’s alive. He concentrates his Six Eyes; Sukuna’s energy is still present, but it’s different now. Fainter. More subdued. Enshrouded in a binding unmistakably Satoru.

It must have worked.

With a grunt, Satoru rises on unsteady feet, muscles protesting with every twitch, every contraction. There’s a body on the battlefield several yards from him; still, almost lifeless. He makes his way towards it.

The body. It’s unfamiliar. Not the usual monstrous, two-faced, four-armed form of Sukuna Ryoumen, King of Curses, but instead the body of a man—no, not quite a man: a boy who’s barely gotten a glimpse at adulthood, maybe nineteen or twenty by the looks of it. The only indications that this boy was—is? —Sukuna are the black markings tracing his face, dark ink staining sallow skin, and the shock of rose hair atop his head, caked and coated in ash. He’s still alive—pulse in his veins, chest rising and falling with every laboured breath—but barely. Deeply wounded, bleeding out on the forest floor. No cursed energy flows through him. No longer a cursed being. Human—if such a thing were possible.

And Satoru has to kill him.

He gathers his cursed energy, preparing to finish the job, but something halts him in his tracks, shocks him, distracts him enough to have the energy build-up fizzle out in his palm: a cry, high-pitched, human. Unmistakably human—a baby, wailing for its parents.

Satoru frowns.

He leaves Sukuna’s still form behind (he wouldn’t be going anywhere, anyways), following the sound as it echoes across the desolated landscape. Sure enough, a baby lies amongst the ruin: tiny, with golden eyes and wisps of hair atop its head so pale they’re practically white. An ordinary baby, by all appearances, though inexplicably here upon the battlefield. But deep within…

Cursed energy.

Sukuna’s cursed energy.

Wrapped and bound tightly by Satoru’s own.

What the fuck.

In his seventeen years of life, Satoru had never once seen a human baby—not in person, at least. And honestly, he had never been in a rush to see one. In fact, he could have gone his entire life without once seeing a baby and have been completely satisfied. And yet here he is, standing amongst the rubble of battle, gazing down upon a tiny baby who had somehow come to possess the cursed energy of the strongest cursed spirit to have ever existed.

What. The. Fuck.

For the first time in his life, Satoru is at a complete and utter loss as to what to do. He glances back at Sukuna’s body—still unmoving, still unconscious—then back to the baby. He needs to finish his mission. He’ll kill Sukuna, destroy the body, then…figure it out from there.

Mind made up, he steps towards Sukuna

The crying intensifies, and Satoru pauses mid-step, body tensing. For despite his insurmountable power, his ego, his self-ascribed divinity, Satoru Gojo…

He’s only human.

He turns back towards the baby, kneeling down and scooping it up awkwardly in his arms. “Hey. Hey little guy, it’s alright. Shh, it’s okay.”

The soothing attempts are clumsy at best; Satoru had never been good at providing comfort, having no experiences of his own to draw upon. Still—miraculously so—the baby does calm down, cries replaced with gurgling, spit bubbling in its tiny mouth, and it should be disgusting—it is disgusting—and yet…

Staring into those golden eyes, Satoru can’t breathe.

There’s something dangerous about the child—the influence of Sukuna’s vile energy churning deep beneath his skin—but beyond that, there’s something undeniably good. Something undeniably right. Something undeniably Satoru. A perfect yin and yang. Darkness and light, reconciled in one tiny, helpless body. So vulnerable. So strong.

And Satoru knows he has to protect it. He has to keep it safe.

He awkwardly shifts the baby to one arm so he can unzip his uniform jacket—a bit tattered, coated in dirt and ash and blood—carefully tucking it inside, holding it close to his chest as he zips the jacket up around it, mindful not to smother it. The baby quickly snuggles against him, and Satoru’s breath catches in his throat.

He spares Sukuna’s still body a final glance. Still teetering on the brink of life and death. No cursed energy with which to heal the fatal wounds. He’d succumb to them soon enough.

Satisfied, baby pressed to his chest, Satoru begins the long walk back to Jujutsu Tech.

Chapter Text

Satoru did not think this through.

He had managed to sneak the child back into Jujutsu Tech without alerting anyone, arriving sometime in the middle of the night. The baby slept the entire walk back, thankfully, and remained asleep even as Satoru arrived back at his dorm room, as he pseudo-swaddled it in one of his soft cotton t-shirts, and as he laid it down in his bed in the school’s dorms—building a barrier of pillows to prevent it from falling out. Satisfied with his handiwork, he retreated to the small ensuite, hoping to wash away the sweat and ash and blood of battle, as well as patch himself up well enough that he’d survive until he could get Shoko to heal him with her Reverse Cursed Technique (Satoru still had yet to master his own; perhaps if he had before the battle with Sukuna, he could have won without resorting to, well, birthing (?) a child).

Clean and no longer bleeding out, he had collapsed upon the makeshift bed he prepared on the floor (he had considered slipping into the bed next to the baby, but reconsidered for fear of accidentally rolling over and crushing it in his sleep), passing out easily despite the uncomfortable arrangement.

Still, it feels as if only he’s just closed his eyes when he’s awoken to the sound of a cry—shrill, infantile. Way too fucking loud.

Satoru groans, blinking open his eyes to find sunlight streaming in through his window. Well, at least he had managed to get some sleep.

The crying continues, echoing off the walls of his dorm room, and Satoru quickly scrambles to his feet to check on the baby. Its chubby arms and legs toss and kick as it wails, face blotchy red and tiny mouth spread open as wide as it can possibly go. God, babies are ugly.

Must take after Sukuna.

Satoru can’t even laugh at his own joke, the cries suddenly intensifying as though the baby somehow knows Satoru is just standing there, observing. It’s so loud, grating on his ears, threatening to burst his eardrums as it continues its tantrum, loud enough to be heard across all of Tokyo, probably.

Loud enough to wake the entire dorm.

“Shh, hey now.” Satoru springs into action, reaching out to pick the baby up, rewrapping the t-shirt around its body as he cradles it in his arms, rocking and shushing it in the most soothing voice he can manage. “It’s alright. I’m here. No need for crying.”

He carries on, nonsensical words of comfort drowned out by the baby’s cries, unwavering, unsubsiding. It was only a matter of time before the baby draws the attention of others.

Unwanted attention.

For Satoru knows that this child must remain hidden. A secret. A child with this power, with this energy, would not be welcomed by Jujutsu society. In fact, this child shouldn’t even exist in Jujutsu society.

But Satoru can’t let anything happen to the baby. He won’t.

The baby keeps crying. Satoru keeps up the rocking motion, the movement growing jerky as distress sets in. Think, Satoru, think. What do babies need?

Food. Hunger. Maybe it’s hungry. Quickly, Satoru goes into his secret stash of sweets—the small box hidden in his sock drawer—and pulls out a lollipop. Maybe this will help with the crying. He unwraps it with one hand and pops it into the baby’s mouth.

The crying stops. The baby suckles on the treat. It worked.

Satoru can’t help the sigh of relief that flows from his mouth, tension leaving with that long exhale as he slumps into his desk chair, gently cradling the baby as it enjoys its little treat.

“Don’t know why people complain all the time,” he mumbles to himself, watching as the baby contents itself with the lollipop, red drool dribbling down its chin. “Parenting’s not that hard.”

The lollipop clatters to the floor. The baby takes a deep breath.

Satoru's eyes widen. “Wait—”

The baby screams.

Shit! Satoru springs from the chair, rocking motion resuming. Shit, shit, shit. What do babies even eat?

There’s a knock on his door, barely audible amongst the wailing, followed by a voice: “Satoru, are you in there?”

Satoru tenses. It’s Suguru’s voice—Suguru Geto, Satoru’s best friend, love of his life, soulmate, etc.—and he sounds concerned. Shit. Shit, what do I do?

“Uh, yeah, I’m here,” he replies, trying to keep his voice steady, casual. “What’s up?”

“Is everything alright in there?” Suguru asks, voice muffled by the door. “I hear crying.”

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine. I just—hold on a sec—”

Suguru does not, in fact, hold on a sec, twisting the knob and pushing open the door, dark eyes widening at the sight he’s greeted with.

For surely a sight it must be: Satoru—still in his sleeping clothes, hair mussed with bedhead, icy blue eyes wide and frantic—and a tiny baby—poorly swaddled, t-shirt practically falling from its body at this point—clutched in his arms.

Suguru stands frozen in the doorway, long hair loose around his shoulders, mouth open in a silent question. Satoru holds a placating hand towards Suguru. “I can explain.”

Suguru is about to reply, but before he can, Satoru pulls the other boy into his room, shutting the door behind him and locking it—which he probably should’ve done last night.

Satoru continues to try and soothe the baby but to no avail. Suguru narrows his eyes. “Satoru, what’s going on?” he asks hesitantly. “Did you…did you turn Sukuna into a baby?”

Satoru barks out a laugh, letting himself get distracted by the image for a moment. A tiny tattooed baby with four arms and two faces, screaming death threats despite not having the musculature to hold himself upright on his own.  “Haha, no. No, the reality is much, much stranger.” Satoru shifts the baby so that, rather than laying in his arms, it's pressed against one of his shoulders, a hand supporting its head. “So I was fighting Sukuna, right? Well, one thing led to another, and then suddenly BOOM! Baby.”

Apparently, Suguru doesn’t follow, blinking stupidly (cutely) at Satoru. “What?”

“Look, I’ll explain it all in a moment,” Satoru starts, bouncing the baby, “but first I’ve got to figure out what to feed this thing!”

“It’s a baby,” Suguru points out. “It probably needs milk still—”

“Milk!” Satoru exclaims, cutting the dark-haired boy off. “That’s it! You’re a genius. A gorgeous, gorgeous genius!” Satoru crosses the room, handing the baby off to his friend. “Here, hold this for me for a sec, yeah?”

Suguru takes the baby that’s thrust into his arms—more out of instinct than anything else. “Satoru, wait—”

But before he can finish his protest, Satoru winks and says, “I’ll be right back.” Then he’s warping away to the kitchen.

The kitchen is silent. It’s a jarring change after enduring the baby’s cries for so long. His ears are still ringing from the assault.

He opens the fridge, scanning the shelves for milk. He shifts around other bottles and packages and dishes, but there’s no milk to be found. Just his luck.

Satoru’s about to retreat, but his eyes catch sight of something. There—mercifully there—on the bottom shelf:

Individual bottles of strawberry milk.

And hey, flavoured milk is still technically milk, right?

Grinning victoriously, Satoru grabs one of the bottles, making a mental note to replace it later. Right, that’s one problem solved, now on to the next: how was the baby supposed to drink it without a bottle?

Thinking fast, Satoru also grabs a sports drink from the fridge—one with the push-pull sort of lid—quickly swapping the lids of the two bottles. He tests it out, squirting the strawberry milk into his mouth. It works flawlessly.

Honestly, Satoru impresses even himself sometimes.

He warps back to his dorm, taking Suguru by surprise judging by the other’s slight jump at his appearance. “Here, I’ll take it now.” Satoru reaches for the baby, and Suguru gently places it in the crook of his arm, leaving one arm free to gently tip the bottle to the baby’s mouth. “Here you go, little guy. Drink up!”

It takes a moment, but eventually, the baby starts suckling on the bottle’s lid, drinking down the strawberry milk—though some does spill from the corners of its mouth, dribbling down its chin in pale pink trails. It must have been hungry; it doesn’t even fuss over the strange sensation of the hard plastic lid.

“There you go,” Satoru encourages it. “That’s some yummy strawberry milk, huh?”

“Strawberry milk?” Suguru echoes. “Satoru, you can’t be feeding a baby strawberry milk! It needs real milk—real nutrition.”

“Well, we were all out of white milk,” Satoru defends. “And I know I wasn’t the best at biology, but even I know that neither of us is exactly equipped for producing the right type of milk.”

And, well, obviously Suguru can’t argue with that particular nugget of knowledge, rolling his eyes in obvious agreement, Satoru decides, for certainly there’s no other response someone as incredible as himself could elicit.

The baby drinks for a little while, pulls becoming fewer and fewer, eyes steadily drooping, until finally it slips its mouth from the bottle altogether, eyelids slipping shut as it gradually dozes off, satisfied and sated.

Satoru releases a breath, slowly crossing the room to deposit the bottle of strawberry milk on his desk, careful not to jostle the baby awake.

Suguru watches silently from where he’s seated on Satoru’s bed. As Satoru settles himself down next to him, Suguru starts, “So—”

“Shh!” Satoru hisses. “You’ll wake the baby.”

Suguru raises a brow. Still, he tries again, voice a whisper. “So, care to explain what exactly is going on?”

Satoru awkwardly shifts himself so that his back can rest against the wall, then gently lowers the baby onto the bed before him, reassembling the barrier around it. He fiddles with the blankets and pillows, busying himself with perfecting the barrier, mulling over his choice of words. “Honestly?” he decides eventually. “Even I’m not really sure.”

Suguru waits, face expressionless, but open. Willing to listen without casting immediate judgment. There’s trust here, Satoru knows; whether he understands it or not, Suguru has faith in the decisions Satoru makes, and the reverse is true as well. If there’s anyone who can bear the truth of this situation, it’s Suguru.

Satoru takes a deep breath, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “I was fighting Sukuna. Tried out a new technique on him—one I had never used before, one I didn’t even know would work. The idea was to limit his cursed energy, seal it away or inhibit his access to it. I tried it, and it worked—I managed to seal away all of his cursed energy—but then…” Satoru shrugs a shoulder, gaze settling on the baby’s still form, on the gentle rise and fall of its chest as it slept. “The technique used up a lot of my own cursed energy. I passed out, and when I woke up, I found this baby—mine and Sukuna’s cursed energy trapped inside of it.”

It sounds crazy, saying it all out loud. Hell, it is crazy, no matter which way you slice it. And yet, Suguru doesn’t seem phased by the explanation. His brow is furrowed, gaze on the baby as well, but he’s not upset—just deep in thought. It’s the expression he gets when puzzling over a particularly difficult math problem, or when trying to select the perfect film for their biweekly movie nights. “So, this baby…it has yours and Sukuna’s cursed energy?”

“All of Sukuna’s,” Satoru specifies, “but only a fraction of mine. I had to sacrifice some of my energy to act as a seal, preventing his energy from escaping.”

“And Sukuna? What became of him?”

“He won’t be a problem,” Satoru says, voice firm. “Not anymore.”

It’s not quite the right answer. Not the one Suguru is looking for, judging by the long look he levels Satoru with. Nor is it the one the higher-ups will want to hear—not the confirmation of the cursed spirit’s death, the decimation of his form. Still, Suguru doesn’t comment, doesn’t pry. He just nods. Trusts. “And yourself. Are you still feeling alright?”

Satoru flexes a bicep, grinning. “I don’t even notice it missing.”

A small smile tugs at Suguru’s lips. “You wouldn’t, huh?”

“Still need to visit Shoko, though,” Satoru admits, rolling out his shoulders with a wince. “Everything hurts like a bitch.”

Suguru huffs a small laugh. “You should do that, then—though I’m not certain how kindly she’ll take to being awoken so early. Especially if it’s you waking her up.” He adds this last part as an afterthought.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You should check in with the higher-ups as well,” Suguru goes on, ignoring the question. “I’m sure they’re eager to hear about the battle.”

“Right.” Satoru glances down at the baby again. “Hey, Suguru.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sure this goes without saying, but—” Satoru lifts his eyes to meet his best friend’s gaze— “you’ll keep this a secret, right? The baby, I mean. No one can know. Especially not the higher-ups.”

Suguru holds his gaze a moment, serious, dark eyes searching pale blue ones. Finally, he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course.”

Satoru returns the smile. “Thanks. I knew I could count on you.”

“You’d be helpless without me,” Suguru playfully points out. “Especially now that you have a baby. I mean, honestly Satoru, how could you forget that a baby drinks milk?”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. You try coping with the emotional whiplash of dealing with a vengeful curse to suddenly having to care for his baby. It’s not as easy as it looks!”

“But I’m sure you make it look harder than it is,” Suguru says with a chuckle.

Satoru crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, I’d like to see you do better.”

“I will.” Suguru nods his head towards the door. “Go see Shoko and the higher-ups. I’ll watch the baby while you’re gone.”

Satoru blinks. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”

And, fuck. Satoru knew there was a reason he loved this man—something beyond his stunning looks and impressive strength. He smiles, reaching out to grip the other man’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thanks, Suguru.”

Suguru reaches up to grab his arm, giving it a squeeze in return. “It’s nothing. Now get going—and maybe get dressed first. And brush your teeth. Your breath is awful.”

Satoru gives Suguru a playful shove, quickly regretting the action when it jostles the baby. The two of them freeze on the bed, wide eyes fixed on the baby. Watching. Waiting.

Thankfully, the baby just shifts slightly, dropping back into its slumber without so much as a sound. The two boys breathe a sigh of relief.

Shoko is—expectedly—upset by the early wake-up call. Satoru is apologetic about it, at least, and while her gaze remains wholly unimpressed, she keeps her complaints to a surprising minimum as she uses her reverse curse technique to patch him up. Apparently, saving the world from a vengeful curse earns Satoru some leniency.

Next, he’s on to report to his favourite high-ups; it’s really just Yaga-sensei and Principal Ito who should be at the school right now, if Satoru remembers correctly, so it’s really not as bad as dealing with, say, that old goat of a principal from the school in Kyoto, but still. Having to deal with any of the haughty higher-ups is enough to send annoyance prickling beneath his skin.

Still, his meeting goes off without a hitch. He invites himself into the staff lounge (despite having been told countless times not to do that), helping himself to the freshly brewed coffee (loaded with cream and sugar, of course), before gracefully taking a seat on the sofa. Yaga-sensei and Principal Ito seem less than pleased with his entrance, but when he delivers the “mission accomplished message”—confirming (lying) that he destroyed Sukuna’s body and dutifully leaving out the part about spawning (?) a baby—they are much more pleased.

He delights them with a bit of small talk while he finishes his coffee, then swiftly warps his way back to his dorm. Well, he warps himself to the hallway just outside his dorm, to be precise, cognizant not to appear suddenly in the midst of his room and startle Suguru and the baby, not wishing to risk upsetting either of them.

He unlocks the door, pushing it open slowly.

Suguru is seated in the desk chair, hair pulled back into its usual bun, the baby cradled in his arms as he sways gently back and forth. He’s got a small smile on his face as he idly hums a gentle tune, unperturbed by the tiny fist that clutches the long hair of his bangs.

And the scene—it does something to Satoru. It steals his breath from his lungs, replaces it with butterflies that flutter deep in the cavity of his chest. There’s the love of his life, illuminated in the glow of the pale morning sun, gazing at this baby—Satoru’s baby, for surely the child is his now, isn’t it?—as though it were something precious, something worth protecting.

And Satoru entertains an idea—one where this sight isn’t so rare. Where Satoru returns home from a long day, a tough mission, to be greeted by the sight of his friend—his husband—and his newborn child, greeted with soft smiles and laughter, with a warm embrace, a playful remark. Where he walks into a room and feels nothing but love.

And when Suguru turns his head towards him now, small smile stretching into a grin that wrinkles the skin at the corners of his eyes, Satoru allows himself to believe such an idea is not so far out of reach.

“Welcome back,” Suguru greets as Satoru enters the room, quietly closing and locking the door behind him. “How did it go?”

“Perfectly,” Satoru tells him, crossing the room. “Shoko patched me up, and the higher-ups don’t suspect I’m hiding a baby. How were things here?” As he poses this question, he notices something…different about the baby. “You changed its shirt.”

“Yes. He had a bit of an accident,” Suguru says with a light chuckle. “Apparently strawberry milk doesn’t settle well in baby stomachs. You’ll need to purchase some proper formula. And diapers too.”

“Noted.” Satoru goes to plop down on his bed, only noticing then the absence of his sheets—and the placement of a towel.

“I threw your sheets in the wash,” Suguru supplies when he notices Satoru looking. “Though you’ll probably be better off purchasing new ones. And a new mattress, for that matter.”

Satoru lifts the edge of the towel and—yup, he needs a new mattress. “Double noted.”

“So, what now?” Suguru asks as Satoru perches himself on the edge of the desk. “What happens to the baby?”

Satoru hums, thinking. “Well, with all that cursed energy he has, I can’t exactly just hand him off to somebody else. I guess gotta I try to raise him myself, yeah?”

“And how will you manage that?”

“I’ll figure it out.” Satoru shrugs. “I mean, there’s only about a week left of school, and then we’ll be fully graduated. I’ll move out of dorms, won’t have to worry about hiding him away, then.”

“And until then?” Suguru prompts. “We still have classes and training—not to mention missions.”

Satoru waves him off. “I’ll find a sitter, no problem. Right now, no one knows this baby exists but us—and that works in our favour. No one will be able to target him, so I won’t have to worry about putting him in childcare for a bit.”

Suguru frowns. “You’re only concerned with others targeting him? What about his cursed energy? Do you think that—”

“He’ll be fine,” Satoru insists, cutting him off. “Cursed energy is only as bad as its user. If I can raise this kid to be even half as awesome as I am, we won’t have to worry about him becoming a Sukuna two-point-oh.”

The baby has dozed off by now, lulled by the gentle rocking motion, hand fallen away from Suguru’s hair to rest against his chest. Just from looking at him—at his whisps of pale hair, his fists barely the size of small mochi—it’s impossible to tell there’s anything superhuman about him, that the volatile energy of an ancient curse roils beneath his skin. He can’t imagine this baby terrorizing the masses, razing entire civilizations. Not him, this baby whose bright golden eyes rival even the light of the sun.

“I hope you’re right.” Suguru gazes down at the baby in his arms. “If not for your sake, then for his.”

Satoru huffs a small laugh. “Don’t worry so much.”

“I have to worry,” Suguru says, but the smile has returned to his face. “You never worry enough.”

“Hey,” Satoru says, swiftly changing the subject, “want to come shopping with me and the little anomaly?”

“I would, but I can’t,” Suguru admits. “Yaga-sensei has a mission for me today. I leave in half an hour.”

Satoru pouts. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Suguru rises from the chair, carefully handing the baby off to Satoru. “It would draw too much suspicion if I backed out last minute, anyway.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Satoru sighs, accepting the child. “You’ll stop by when you get back, yeah?”

Suguru stops by the door, turning back to Satoru with a smile. “Of course. I’ll see you this evening.”

 “Good luck on your mission,” Satoru says as Suguru leaves. Once the door closes again, Satoru sighs, gazing down at the baby. “Well little guy, guess it’s just you and me.”

Sneaking out of the school proves to be slightly more challenging than sneaking in—though the presence of daylight and the wakefulness it brings is really to blame. Still, Satoru manages to slip away unnoticed, the baby tucked safely against his chest, hidden beneath the bulk of an oversized coat that’s really much too warm to be wearing in the mild spring weather, but with Satoru’s fashion sense already eccentric enough as is (yes, he’s aware his sunglasses indoors look is a bit ridiculous, and no, he’s not about to stop), no one really bats an eye as he makes his way out of the school’s front gates.

His first stop is a massive department store. It’s a bit of a trek from the school, so he calls a taxi for himself, keeping the baby hidden away for the duration of the ride, not wishing to raise any questions regarding the baby’s peculiar state of dress or its lack of a proper carrier. The baby, blissfully, doesn’t fuss at all during the trip, remaining asleep through every bump in the road, every sharp turn and sudden slam of the breaks. An absolute angel—just like his (human) father.

Satoru unzips the baby from his jacket when he arrives at the store, of course, cradling it in one arm as he pushes a cart along with the other. He’s not certain what all babies actually need, but his problems are solved moments later when he crosses paths with a young mother in the baby section of the store. Ten minutes, five dazzling smiles, and a well-placed bat of his eyelashes later, and Satoru’s now got his cart filled with all the finest in baby essentials, as well as a list of recommendations for the best pediatricians, daycares, and elementary schools in the city (not to mention a phone number with a little heart next to it). He pays for his purchases, paying no mind to the total, then struts his way out of the store with his spoils.

He quickly gets the baby changed into proper clothes, then tucks it into the stroller. One task accomplished, now on to the next: finding a sitter. Satoru consults the list of daycares he had acquired from the young woman, and after looking up the locations on his phone, he decides to check out the one closest to Jujutsu Tech first—just to make travel time easier on him.

Another taxi ride later, and Satoru and the baby arrive at a cute two-storey home, yard enclosed by fence and filled with various toys and play structures for the kids. Satoru stands at the gate, waving to the older woman who approaches from the house. Her dark hair is pulled back, baring her weary face to the world, but she still offers Satoru a beaming smile as he approaches. “Good afternoon! How can I help you?”

Satoru flashes a smile of his own. “I’m in need of a sitter for my son. I’ve been told you’re the best in the city.”

The woman laughs at this. “I highly doubt it, but I try my best.” Her gaze shifts down to where the baby lies in his stroller. “You have a beautiful son,” she says, as though said son were not still a fleshy mess of fat rolls and slobber. “How old is he?”

And, well, that’s a good question. Technically speaking, he’s only a day old—less than that, even—but by appearance alone…even then, Satoru can’t make a guess. He knows nothing about babies. Nothing. “Uh, about a month?” he says, hoping the age is at least somewhere close to believable.

The woman frowns slightly, and Satoru swears inwardly. Not believable then. “I’m sorry,” the woman says, looking back to Satoru, “but I don’t take in any children under a year old.”

Satoru leans against the handle of the stroller, tipping his shades down so he can catch her in his icy blue gaze. “Won’t you make an exception,” he says, turning his smile sultry, “for me?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot,” she replies, voice stern. “My wife and I have a strict policy.”

Okay, new direction. “I’ll pay you double.”

“No.”

“Triple.”

“I’m sorry, kid, but we can’t help you out.” The woman backs away from the gate. “I wish you luck in your search.” With that, she departs.

Satoru groans, pushing the stroller away from the gate, down the sidewalk. “Great, just great,” he mumbles.

“Excuse me. Kid.”

There’s a voice just up ahead—masculine, gruff—and Satoru’s pulled from his grumbling, looking up to see an older man calling out to him. Satoru pauses. “Yeah?”

The man approaches. There’s a brown paper bag of groceries in one arm, a set of keys in hand. Like he just got back from a shopping trip. “You’re looking for a sitter, huh?” the man asks. His dark eyes are lined with wrinkles, and his expression seems stern.

“I might be,” Satoru replies cautiously. “Why?”

The man looks down at the baby, studying him for a moment before his eyes return to Satoru. “You’re awfully young to have a kid.”

Satoru just snorts. “Believe me, it wasn’t intentional.”

The man quirks a brow, but the corner of his mouth raises in something resembling a smile. “Dumbass kids. Always so reckless. Still, maybe I can help you out with your babysitting problem.”

Satoru perks up at this. “You would? I have to warn you, it might not be easy. I have classes all day, and I work a lot of evenings and weekends—sometimes last minute, too.”

“I don’t mind,” the man says simply. “It’s been lonely around the apartment these days. I wouldn’t mind the company. Of course, I do expect to be paid well.”

“You can name your price, I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” Finally, an important thought occurs to Satoru. “Wait, you’re not, like a criminal or a pervert or anything, right old man?”

The man’s eyes widen with shock, then his face creases in rage. “What? Of course I’m not!” He reaches out with a free hand, slapping Satoru upside the back of his head. “Damn punk! Hasn’t anyone ever taught you to respect your elders?”

“Alright, alright, jeez.” Satoru rubs the back of his head. “I believe you! I just had to check.”

The man is still grumbling under his breath, and Satoru laughs at the display. Sure, the man’s literally a stranger, and sure, maybe Satoru shouldn’t just be taking his word for it, should be running an extensive background check on the man who would potentially be caring for his son, and yet…

He seems like a good guy. Rough around the edges, sure, but kind. Caring enough to offer his services to a stranger in need. And there’s something soft in the way he looks at the baby, cold dark eyes lightening almost imperceptibly, tension in his face easing. He may be a stranger, but he’s a good man. Satoru knows it. He’s not sure if it’s a lesser-known capability of his Six Eyes, or something unique to Satoru himself, but he’s always been a good judge of character. He can trust this man.

“So, do we have a deal?” Satoru asks, interrupting the man’s annoyed grumblings.

“We do.” He holds out his free hand to shake. “My name is Wasuke Itadori, by the way. I’m in the apartment complex just back there, unit 104.”

“Satoru Gojo,” he replies, shaking the man’s—Itadori’s—hand.

Itadori nods. “And the kid?”

Ah. There’s another important thing that Satoru has forgotten: naming the baby. “I don’t have a name for him, yet,” he admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. “None of the names I can think of really fit and, well, I don’t exactly have anyone to give suggestions. I’ve just been calling him Baby for now.”

Itadori’s eyes narrow, but it doesn’t seem to be out of anger. “The boy’s mother?”

“His mother—” Satoru starts, having to hold back the amused chuckle that accompanies the thought of Sukuna being anyone’s mother. “She didn’t survive his birth. And, well, it was something of a forbidden relationship, you could say, so I don’t really have the family support either. It’s just me and him.”

The corners of Itadori’s mouth turn down, and his eyes drop to the baby. “I see. It’s difficult dealing with the loss of someone precious, especially without the support of family.” His gaze returns to Satoru’s. “I’m certain the right name will come at the right time, Gojo.”

Satoru smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Itadori.”

They exchange contact information, setting up a schedule for the week and ironing out any other details necessary before parting ways, Satoru making his way back to Jujutsu Tech. He decides to make the walk back this time, mentally patting himself on the back—and also physically, when he realizes there’s no one around to judge him—as he pushes the stroller along, taking pride in all he’s managed to accomplish. Not only has he successfully devised a plan for hiding the baby from the higher-ups, he’s also acquired the best of the best in infant supplies and secured an essentially on-call babysitter—not bad for his first day as a parent.

He hums a joyful tune as he walks, the baby once again dozing in the stroller. Surely he’s going to crush being a father to this little anomaly. He’s Satoru Gojo, after all—he’s good at everything. Surely that applies to parenting, too. Really, he practically raised himself; he could raise a child alone.

How hard could it possibly be?

Chapter Text

Apparently, parenting is pretty fucking hard.

Baby—the name Satoru eventually settled on for now after deciding against Satoru Jr., Sukuna Jr., and Junior—has been nothing but a menace these days, taking after his dearly departed dad in his devilish attitude. Baby awakes several times a night to cry and fuss, and it’s a miracle the commotion has yet to rouse anyone else in the dorms—besides Suguru, of course (who has done his best to aid Satoru in Baby’s care at nights). It’s been only a few days, and already the two teens have dark circles underlining their eyes, the product of too many sleepless nights.

Beyond the lack of sleeping, Baby has also been rebelling against bottle feeding. This child—who only days prior had happily lapped strawberry milk from a hard plastic push-pull lid—has now decided he’s too good for the top-of-the-line baby bottles and formula Satoru had purchased. And, sure, Satoru’s aware that these items are nothing but cheap imitations of the real, but considering Baby hasn’t even experienced the real, he really has nothing with which to compare. A spoiled brat, just like his father—both fathers, probably.

Luckily, classes and missions provide a reprieve from Baby’s indelicate sensibilities, however temporary of a reprieve it may be. But even this proves to be a slight issue, Satoru constantly running back and forth between the dorms and Itadori’s apartment complex at outrageous times of the day. It’s exhausting making the trip, having to wake up far too early or arrive back at the dorms so late in the evening, and while warping would solve the problem, Satoru still isn’t confident Baby’s fragile body could withstand the technique. And so, Satoru resigns himself to this tiresome game of back and forth.

Itadori has been a godsend through it all. He never seems perturbed by Satoru showing up at any and all hours of the day, Baby in tow. He’s stern and rough, but steadfast and dependable. He accepts Baby without complaint, regardless of the situation.

Of course, the exorbitant amount Satoru pays him for his services probably helps.

So yes, parenting is hard. It’s exhausting. But school ends in a few days, and with it comes new freedom. No longer will he have to sneak through the grounds with Baby, travel crazy distances at even crazier times. No, from then on it will all get easier. Things can only go up from here.

He resists the urge to knock on wood. There’s no way he just jinxed himself, right?

Right?

It’s early in the morning now as Satoru makes his way through the school grounds, Baby once again hidden within his oversized jacket. The sun has barely appeared on the horizon, and the morning is cool without its oppressive heat. No tumultuous city sounds breach the landscape, souring the cheerful chirp of birdsong with its human-made clamour. Honestly, the morning is beautiful—peaceful. But it’s hard to enjoy it while running on less than three hours of sleep.

Satoru reaches the front gates of the school, slipping through with ease. There’s no one around at this point, but he errs on the side of caution still as he glances about, scanning his surroundings before finally releasing Baby from the folds of his jacket.

Baby fixes big golden eyes on Satoru, unphased by the strange treatment, already used to the routine—or, more accurately, incapable of forming rational thought and therefore unable to find anything wrong with such treatment. Satoru smiles at the child. “Just you wait. Pretty soon we won’t have to deal with all this sneaking around. Just a few more days, and then Daddy will be graduated, and we’ll have our own house, and you can have all the toys you ever want. How does that sound?”

Baby, predictably, doesn’t respond. In fact, Baby barely gives any indication he’s heard anything Satoru has said—let alone understands it. Satoru sighs. “I can’t wait until you’re older. I feel like I’m always talking to myself.”

After another cursory glance around him, Satoru reaches into the thick bush next to the gate wherein he’s been hiding Baby’s spare carrier—finding it much easier to stash and retrieve the item there rather than smuggling it from the dorms all the time. He sets the carrier down on the path, then gets Baby settled inside, buckling up the straps and draping his blanket around him so he’s nice and snug. “Alright, let’s get you to Mr. Itadori!”

“Satoru, what are you doing?”

Satoru jumps to his feet, nearly tripping over himself as he spins to face the newcomer. It’s Shoko, hands on her hips and face mostly impassive, the slight furrow of her brow the only indication of her confusion.

Satoru laughs uneasily, situating his body to try and block Baby from view. “Uh, nothing. What are you doing? You’re never up this early.”

“Just getting back from a mission.” Shoko’s eyes drift down, somewhere behind Satoru. “Why do you have a baby?”

“Would you believe me if I said you were dreaming?”

“No.”

“Right.” Satoru rubs the back of his head. “Just give me a second and I’ll think of something better then.”

Shoko sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Who’d you knock up?”

“Nobody!” Satoru retorts, appalled. “You know I’m gay!”

“So?” she challenges, raising a brow. “Am I just supposed to believe this baby randomly appeared, and you decided to take care of it?”

“I mean, it’s not that far from the truth. Look—” He quickly changes the subject— “I’ve gotta get Baby to the sitter. Can we talk about this later? I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”

Shoko pauses for a moment, thinking. “Alright,” she decides eventually. “Tonight. You’re picking up takeout from that ramen place I like.”

Satoru grins. “It’s a deal.”

Sure enough, that evening finds Shoko, Satoru, and Baby settled in Satoru’s dorm room, bags of takeout food and various other snacks spread around them on the bed where they sit (Baby in his carrier, though not strapped into the harness).

As Satoru ensures Baby is settled, Shoko busies herself with sorting out the takeout, frowning at the abundance of containers. “Why did you get so much?”

Satoru finishes situating the blanket around Baby, not sparing Shoko a glance. “Suguru’s coming over too.”

Shoko raises a brow. “Suguru knows about this?”

As though summoned, Suguru pushes the door open at this moment, catching the tail end of the conversation. “Of course I do,” he says, closing and locking the door behind him before making his way across the dorm, pulling the desk chair up to the edge of the bed so he can sit comfortably and still be part of the group. “It’s hard not to notice the crying baby in the room next door. The kid’s pretty annoying, too.” Suguru adds this last part with a cheeky grin aimed in Satoru’s direction.

The white-haired teen rolls his eyes. “Ha ha, very funny.”

“I should’ve expected it,” Shoko says, chopsticks swirling in her noodles. “I’m always the last one in our group to find out about anything.”

“That’s because you hate being involved in any of our drama,” Suguru points out, accepting his portion of the takeout when Satoru passes it along.

“Yeah, I hate being involved in it. I still want to know about it. Speaking of—” Shoko turns her attention to Satoru. “You. Baby. Explain.”

“Eloquent as ever,” Satoru chuckles. “Well, I’m sure you are already aware that I was sent out to defeat Sukuna earlier this week.”

“Wait,” Shoko’s eyes widen a fraction. “This baby—did you turn Sukuna into a baby?”

“No! Why is that always everyone’s first assumption?” Satoru shakes his head. “Look, let me explain.”

So he relays the story of the battle to Shoko, doing his best to put words to the strange technique malfunction(?) that lead to Satoru’s acquiring of a child. Shoko listens attentively, face expressionless as she quietly slurps at her noodles, letting Satoru speak. Finally, when he’s done, she sighs. “That’s it?”

“That’s it?” Satoru echoes incredulously. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

“I don’t know, I was just expecting something a little more elaborate and wild.” Shoko shrugs. “Honestly, I’m a little disappointed.”

Satoru scoffs, glancing over at Suguru with a look that he hopes conveys his thought of can you believe this bitch? Suguru snorts, almost choking on his ramen. Satoru turns back to Shoko. “Well, sorry my personal drama isn’t amusing enough for you.”

“It’s fine.” Shoko glances down at Baby thoughtfully. “It’s really too bad that you didn’t turn Sukuna into a baby. I mean, it’d sort of be like—poetic justice or something.”

“You know what they say,” Suguru adds. “The best way to defeat your enemy is to make them your baby.”

Shoko nods, pointing her chopsticks at Suguru. “I have heard them say that.”

“Anyway,” Satoru says, shaking his head in equal parts amusement and exasperation, “obviously you can’t tell anyone about this, Shoko.”

“Obviously,” she repeats. “Although it’s too bad; Utahime would’ve loved to hear this.”

Satoru laughs. “Seriously? She’d probably have an aneurism if she heard.”

“I do just have one question.” Shoko’s suddenly serious now, and she faces Satoru with a stern look. “How does it feel to be a teen mom?”

Satoru lets out a surprised laugh. “What?”

“That’s basically what you are now,” Shoko says, shrugging. “Satoru Gojo: Special Grade sorcerer, teen mom.”

“Right.” Satoru sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Honestly? It kind of sucks. It’s a lot of added responsibility, especially having to keep Baby a secret. It’s barely been a week, but I’m already exhausted.”

“And doing a terrible job keeping him a secret,” Shoko points out.

“I know.” Satoru sighs, cradling his face in his palms. “At this rate, the higher-ups are sure to find up about him soon, and if that happens…” Satoru lets the thought trail off. He knows what’s at risk here, should the higher-ups ever find out. He knows. But he can’t speak it into existence, as though doing so would give power to those words, those thoughts, bring them ever closer to fruition.

There’s a palm that settles on his shoulder, heavy, comforting. Satoru glances over to Suguru, who gives his shoulder a squeeze. “It’ll be alright. Once we graduate, things will get easier. And even if they don’t, Shoko and I are here for you.”

Satoru smiles. “Thanks. It—it means a lot to me.”

In lieu of a response, Suguru grins. Then he’s clapping Satoru lightly on the back. “Now, how about we throw on a movie?”

Shoko agrees quickly, and Suguru moves to grab Satoru’s laptop from the desk, handing it to her. “Nothing too violent!” Satoru says. “And no offensive language. Babies are very impressionable. Probably. I don’t know.”

Shoko laughs. “Yes, mom.”

Graduation comes and goes, celebration lost to the flurry of what comes next? Satoru barely has time to bask in the occasion—barely has a chance to breathe—as he’s swept up in the sudden responsibility of being not only a graduated Special Grade sorcerer, but also functionally an independent adult—on top of his still unfamiliar role as a single father (or teen mom, as Shoko so eloquently put it).

It's…It’s been a lot. And honestly, there are moments Satoru wonders if it’s worth it. If the added stress and strain of raising this child in secret really outweigh the risks of revealing him to the higher-ups. Maybe they’d be understanding. Maybe they’d help.

Maybe—but it’s a big maybe.

And each time those thoughts creep in, those unfamiliar doubts, those strange insecurities, Satoru has to fight to keep them from overtaking. But then he looks into big golden eyes, and one by one those thoughts, those doubts, those insecurities—they all fade away; nothing is worth the risk of losing the light embedded deep in those young eyes.

Satoru moves out of the dorms soon after graduation, and (with the help of Yaga-sensei, since Satoru is still seventeen) rents a simple two-bedroom apartment. It’s far more understated than anything Satoru had really seen himself living in in the future—far below what he can reasonably afford, considering the pay he receives as a sorcerer—but it’s located in the same complex as Itadori (just a few floors up, apartment 307), so it’s perfect for Satoru.

At least, it’s perfect for now. Once Baby grows up a little more, Satoru will find a place that’s more his style.

Itadori watches Baby while Shoko and Suguru help Satoru move in—not that he has a lot to transfer over from the dorms at this point. There’s definitely a shopping spree in Satoru’s near future, a quest to supply furnishings for his simple space. Shoko and Suguru are really the only ones Satoru can trust to aid in this task, not for their keen eyes and decorating skills, but simply on the basis that they’re the only ones who know about Baby, and the only ones who won’t raise a suspicious brow at the abundance of baby supplies he needs to amass.

A steady routine develops: Satoru drops Baby off with Itadori whenever a mission arises, picking the child up promptly after he finishes his task; and whenever Satoru has a spare day, he dedicates it to being Baby’s one-hundred-percent involved father. And sure, sometimes it’s tough. Sometimes, Satoru misses being a reckless teenager, going off on spontaneous adventures with his friends. But he pushes those thoughts away. His friends don’t disparage his time put towards his fatherly duties—even stopping by for visits when they get a chance, and helping with Baby should the need arise.

Suguru stops by most often—Shoko kept busy by her recent decision to pursue a medical license. Although Satoru had offered a room in the apartment for Suguru to move into, Suguru had declined, choosing instead to live out of Jujutsu tech’s non-student residential buildings for the time being. His excuse had been a desire to finally get a good night’s sleep, and a wish to not become a father figure for several years, but there’s something in the way he admits this—something in the shift of his gaze, the tilt of his grin—that tells Satoru there’s more to it than that.

But Satoru doesn’t pry. Suguru is his best friend—his one and only; if there were in fact something wrong, something else going on, he’d tell Satoru.

Right?

Regardless, Suguru spends much of his time outside of missions hanging out with Satoru and Baby at Satoru’s apartment. He stops by the day after move-in bearing gifts of groceries, sweets, and even a coffee mug with the words “World’s Greatest Dad” emblazoned on the side, and ends up staying the night, sharing a bed with Satoru. They don’t do a lot when they hang out—what with having to care for a child and all—but any time spent together is worth it, in Satoru’s opinion. He and Suguru chat about their missions while playing with Baby, laughing at the strange expressions Baby makes sometimes, fighting over who has to change Baby’s diaper when a particularly unpleasant smell suddenly permeates the air. And while Baby sleeps, they binge movies or television together, curled up on the sofa, stuffing their faces with sweets. It’s…domestic. Peaceful. Satoru wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Weeks pass, time continuing its gradual march, and soon Suguru starts coming by less and less. He claims he’s been busy with missions, but Satoru’s no fool: they’re heading into their down season, as Jujutsu sorcerers—the time when they have relatively fewer curses to deal with, compared to the influx caused by the winter months. No, Suguru’s avoiding him, and Satoru wants to figure out why. And yet, whenever he tries to breach the topic, his concerns are swept to the side, the conversation cleverly diverted.

Suguru is over one evening, arriving after having just finished up with a mission. He’s fresh from using the shower, clad in a pair of borrowed sweats but forgoing a shirt (hey, Satoru’s not going to complain), propped up on an elbow as he lays next to Baby on the floor. He’s holding a small stuffed tiger over Baby, talking through the tiger in a funny voice as Baby watches, golden eyes wide, not understanding a single thing that’s going on but altogether unbothered by it. From his place on the sofa, Satoru watches, a soft smile on his face at the sight of his two most favourite people (excluding himself, of course) playing together on the floor. And when Suguru’s eyes flit up to Satoru’s just for the briefest of moments, Satoru’s breath catches, his heart flutters.

Then there’s a knock on the door, drawing an unwilling Satoru’s attention away as he leaves the sofa to go answer it. He swings the door open to reveal Itadori. Satoru greets him with a grin. “What’s up, old man?”

“Disrespectful punk,” Itadori mutters, then holds out a familiar blue children’s blanket. “You left this at my place. It’s the kid’s favourite. I figured I should give it back. He might have trouble sleeping without it.”

“Yikes,” Satoru says, accepting the blanket. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“Indeed.” But Itadori isn’t looking at Satoru anymore, and the latter follows his gaze further into the apartment. Suguru is watching them, gaze meeting Itadori’s, and there’s something…not quite hostile in his dark eyes, but unfriendly all the same. In fact, it almost looks like disgust.

Satoru maintains his grin, not letting his confusion show. Itadori and Suguru have never really interacted before, so why are they behaving so strangely?

“Anyways,” Itadori says, gaze turning back to Satoru, “I’ll be off now. Just wanted to get that to you.”

“Thanks, we appreciate it,” Satoru replies. “We’ll see you later!”

Itadori nods in farewell, then turns to head down the hallway. Satoru closes the door, making his way over to where Suguru and Baby are. Suguru’s attention is back on Baby, and whatever ill emotion that had been in his eyes has disappeared now. Satoru brushes it off; maybe he was just seeing things.

Satoru tosses the blanket onto Suguru’s head with a laugh, joining the other teen on the floor as he comes to lay behind him, draping an arm over the latter’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. Suguru just laughs at the action, pulling the blanket away from his face and draping it over Baby instead. “Thanks for that.”

“Of course!” Satoru turns his head to look at Suguru. “You good?”

Suguru smiles. “Yeah. Are you?”

Satoru leans down to nuzzle his head against Suguru’s neck. “Never been better,” he says, tightening his grip on the other boy’s waist, holding him even closer.

Suguru relaxes into the embrace, resuming his play with Baby as Satoru’s hand dances across his skin. It’s warm to the touch, mostly smooth, though some coarser hairs grow on the expanse of his chest. Satoru lets his palm travel down, over broad pectorals, over the ridges of bone—ridges that are far too pronounced, far more prominent than they had been before.

Satoru frowns, his hand coming to rest on the muscle of Suguru’s abdominals. “You eating enough? I can whip something up real quick if you want.”

“I’m alright for now,” Suguru says, dodging the initial question. “Maybe later, if we do a movie.”

“We should definitely do a movie,” Satoru decides, sitting up. “I’ll get Baby ready for bed. You pick something out for us to watch.”

Before Suguru can respond, Satoru’s scooping Baby up in his arms, heading towards the bedroom. A short while later, Baby is clad in a fresh diaper and sleeping clothes, laid peacefully in his crib and ready for a good night’s sleep—or at least, the few hours of sleep he’ll get before waking up again.

Satoru returns to the living room to find Suguru now seated on the sofa. The Netflix home screen is on the tv, but Suguru apparently hasn’t picked anything in particular to watch. He stares at the screen, eyes unfocused, brow furrowed—a look that shows movie night is the last thing on his mind.

Satoru plops down on the sofa, jostling the other teen from his stupor. “Pick the movie yet?” he asks, but not because he really needs the answer. “You’re sure putting a lot of thought into it.”

He hopes Suguru will read between the lines. Are you okay? What are you thinking about?

Suguru doesn’t answer any of Satoru’s questions, though. He takes a deep breath, then turns to him, face carefully expressionless. “Can I ask you something, Satoru?”

“Of course,” Satoru says, but his answer is half-drowned out by a sudden cry. Satoru sighs. “Actually, hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”

A quick trip to the bedroom later, and Baby’s settled back into his crib, eyes slowly slipping shut in sleep. Satoru sighs, tiptoeing back into the living room. “Right, so you were going to ask—”

The crying resumes. Suguru’s lips press into a firm line. Satoru groans. “Sorry.”

He’s back in the bedroom before he can hear Suguru’s reply—if any reply had indeed been spoken.

Baby refuses to settle back in his crib, only calming down in Satoru’s embrace. The teen sighs. Looks like Baby would be joining them for movie night.

With Baby cradled in his arms, Satoru makes his way back out to the living room, settling back into his spot on the sofa next to Suguru. “Right,” Satoru says as he makes himself comfortable, taking care not to jostle Baby around too much. “You were saying?”

Suguru pauses, jaw working over as though physically chewing on his words. Finally, he sighs. “Never mind,” he says, beginning to flip through the movie titles. “What did you want to watch?”

They settle for a simple family movie (Satoru’s still not certain of the potential risks associated with exposing babies to violent cinema), and as he rests his head against Suguru’s shoulder, Baby held gently in his arms, Satoru lets the unposed question slip from his mind. He doesn’t want to press, not when he’s already so tired, not when Suguru himself seems unwilling to breach the topic tonight. He frees a hand, reaching out to grasp Suguru’s, intertwining their fingers, smiling up at the other teen.

Suguru returns the smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Looking back, maybe Satoru should have pressed the issue. He should have demanded Suguru ask the question, commit to it, brave the conversation no matter how difficult he feared it may be, no matter how uncomfortable or upsetting. He shouldn’t have let it slide. Shouldn’t have let himself off so easily.

If he had, maybe he could have prevented it:

The end of the world.

Chapter Text

He’s running.

Shoes slapping the pavement. Heart hammering wildly in his chest. Shouldering roughly through the crowds, noises of complaint not reaching his ears over the sound of his pulse thrumming in his temples.

But he’s not cognizant of any of it, not really.

There’s only one thing on his mind, one incessant thought stuck on replay:

Suguru, what the hell did you do?

It’s a nonsensical thought, entirely redundant; Satoru already knows what Suguru did.

What he really needs to know is why.

Today was supposed to be Satoru’s day off. He had every intention of spending it all with Baby, hanging out in the apartment, playing with toys, watching baby-friendly programming, stuffing his face with sweets. Instead, he had received a call from Yaga about an urgent mission that had just come up, and so, begrudgingly, Satoru had dropped Baby off with Itadori, then warped himself away to Jujutsu Tech to meet with his former teacher.

Greeted by Yaga’s strained composure, Satoru had expected some pretty bad news.

What met him was far worse.

“Our Windows reported a small village had been massacred—one hundred and twelve victims total. Just five days prior to this discovery, Suguru Geto had been dispatched to this village to deal with a cursed spirit problem. At first, it appeared the villagers had been killed by a cursed spirit, but upon further investigation, cursed energy residue revealed that a Cursed Spirit Manipulation technique was instrumental in their deaths. Suguru Geto has not been heard from since.”

The words wash over him, reaching his ears but getting no further.  “What are you trying to say?”

Yaga’s jaw clenches. “You know damn well what I’m trying to say. Suguru massacred that village, and now he’s on the run. There’s nothing left of his in his room, and his childhood home has been cleared out of all but his parents’ remains. Judging by the pattern of injury and the bloodstains, he must have attacked them—"

 “No,” Satoru interrupts. “No. There’s no fucking way—”

“Satoru—”

“He wouldn’t—” Satoru trips over his words, breath ragged, pulse thrumming in his ears. “Suguru’s not— he wouldn’t—he would never—”

“He did, Satoru!” Yaga shouts, and the sudden influx of emotion breaking through his steely façade catches Satoru off guard. “Do you think I want to believe it either? But he did it, Satoru, and now under Jujutsu regulations, Suguru Geto is a curse user and a criminal, and our orders are to execute him on sight.”

Satoru’s bottom lip trembles, and he hides the shake by pressing his lips into a firm line. He shakes his head, sniffling sharply. He can’t look Yaga in the eye, head turned, gaze on some random patch of wall. “Why are you telling me this? Why did you call me?”

Yaga sighs. “You already know why.”

“No. No, you can’t possibly ask that of me.” Satoru’s voice is weak, threatening to break under the weight of his words. “Please don’t ask that of me.”

There’s a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Satoru. It has to be you.” And Satoru knows this, knows it’s all part of his role as the strongest sorcerer, but dammit, he’s also just a kid.

A kid with the powers of a god and the world’s weight upon his shoulders.

Yaga gives one of said shoulders a squeeze. “I really wish there was more I could have done, but…” He lets the thought trail off, clearing his throat after a moment and stepping away from Satoru. “You’ll get a full mission briefing in fifteen minutes. You have until then to pull yourself together.” With that, Yaga disappears into one of the conference rooms—the one where the briefing would take place, no doubt—leaving Satoru alone in the hallway.

He never shows up to the meeting. He’s outside the front doors of Jujutsu Tech when his phone rings, Shoko’s name flashing across his screen. He answers quickly. “Yeah?”

“I just saw Suguru,” Shoko says, getting right to the point. “Shinjuku.”

“Did you try to stop him?”

“Do you really think I’d be calling you right now if I had?”

Satoru huffs a humourless laugh. “Yeah, good point.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I guess—” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to Shinjuku.”

And mere moments later, that’s where he is, warping himself close to Suguru’s last known location in Shinjuku, then beginning his mad dash down the crowded sidewalks, searching the crowds for that familiar face, hoping to find Suguru, to intercept him, to…

To what, exactly?

Reason with him?

Execute him?

Save him?

As a member of Jujutsu Society, and the strongest sorcerer therein, the answer is simple: Suguru Geto was to be executed, no questions asked. But as Satoru Gojo, the man…

He can’t lose his best friend, his one and only. He just…can’t.

There’s a familiar shock of long dark hair up ahead, and Satoru screeches to a halt. Suguru’s making his way towards him, and Satoru puts himself in his path, waiting, hands clenched into fists, breathing steady despite the racing of his heart.

And when Suguru finally comes to a stop in front of him, the rest of the world seems to fall away. No longer is Satoru on the busy sidewalks of Shinjuku. No, now it’s just him and Suguru, suspended in space, in time. All that exists is Satoru Gojo and his best friend, his greatest love, and now…

His most tragic enemy.

Suguru smiles warmly at him. “It’s good to see you, Satoru,” he greets him amicably, as though he had expected Satoru’s appearance, as though they were meeting under normal, more pleasant circumstance. “Have you come to kill me?”

“Explain yourself, Suguru!” Satoru demands, bypassing Suguru’s question. “They tell me you massacred an entire village, that you murdered your parents—your parents!”

Suguru’s smile drops. “I can’t be expected to make exceptions, not even for family. There’s no place for them in my new world.”

“And just what the hell kind of world is that, huh?”

“A world of sorcerers, of course,” Suguru replies, as though the answer should have been obvious. “A world free of curses.”

Satoru’s eyes widen behind his shades. “That’s insane! Killing all the non-sorcerers just to have a world free of curses? It’d be impossible.”

“You could do it,” Suguru points out. “It wouldn’t even be particularly difficult for you, would it, as powerful as you are? If you can achieve it, how then could you call it impossible?” He crosses his arms over his chest, brow creased in thought. “Or perhaps you’re just implying that I could never achieve it. I’m not nearly as strong as you are, after all. But if my name were Satoru Gojo, would I be wrong to pursue my goal? Would I then seem so crazy?”

Satoru grits his teeth. He doesn’t have an answer, doesn’t even want to consider the question.

Suguru takes it as answer enough.

He sighs, releasing his arms and shrugging. “But then again, you probably have no desire for the world I aim to create. Without curses, there’s really no need for a Special Grade sorcerer such as yourself, is there? You’d be useless. Nothing.”

“That’s not true!”

“Face it, Satoru: your strength is all you have.” Suguru begins to turn away, but he pauses, head tilting to look Satoru in the eye. “Without it, who are you?”

Satoru files that particular question under Things I Definitely Don’t Have Time to Think About Right Now, then quickly redirects the conversation. “Look, Suguru, if a better world is what you want, there’s gotta be another way—the right way. We’ll figure it out. Together.” He takes a step towards his best friend, a long stride attempting to bridge the ever-widening distance between them. “Just let me help you.”

Suguru chuckles. “It’s far too late for that.” He turns his back on Satoru, footsteps carrying him further away, his retreating form threatening to disappear into the crowd. “Right or wrong; this is the life I have chosen.”

Satoru takes a step after him. “Suguru!”

Don’t do this. Don’t become my enemy.

“Kill me if you must, Satoru—or seal my cursed energy away in a baby, if that’s more your style.” Suguru glances back over his shoulder, one final time. “There’s nothing you can say to stop me.”

Satoru grits his teeth, one arm outstretched towards his friend, other arm braced against it as he gathers his cursed energy, feels the swirling mass of power coalesce, ready to be unleashed, to fulfill his duty to Jujutsu Society.

Without it, who are you?

His hand shakes. Trembles. The energy disperses as he curls his fingers into a fist—anything to stop the pathetic tremors. His arm falls uselessly to his side.

In that moment, he’s no longer Satoru Gojo, Special Grade Sorcerer.

He’s just a man—no, a boy—who is too weak to save his best friend.

Satoru Gojo is seventeen when his world ends.

It can’t be more than an hour after Satoru’s confrontation with Suguru that Yaga finds him, still out on the streets of Shinjuku, a broken shell of a man, slouched on a set of cement stairs a ways off from the main walkway. He reports his failure to his former sensei, eyes never meeting the latter’s gaze, not even when he tries to provide what little comfort he can muster. But for a moment, Satoru thinks he sees the stoic man’s composure slip. For a moment, Yaga seems just as broken as Satoru.

But then Satoru walks away before too many cracks can show through.

He wanders Shinjuku for hours, watches as afternoon becomes evening, as day bleeds into night. It’s easy to step outside himself, to put himself and all his trouble aside when he’s surrounded by strangers. Easy to pretend he’s not Satoru Gojo for a while, but just another weary salaryman, strung out from a day of crunching numbers or whatever other tedious task such a position entails. The details aren’t important, he just…

He needs to be away from himself, just for a while.

For a while, he needs to be anyone else.

He finds himself on a bench, watching the heavy traffic go by, watching as people scurry about, kept busy by their daily tasks. How they dart in and out of shops, arms laden with bags. How they strut down the sidewalk, heads buried in their phones, unaware of their surroundings. How they flock in pairs and groups, laughs and shrieks filling the air. How they carry on, ignorantly, blissfully. How they simply exist.

And it’s strange: somehow, the world keeps spinning long after its end.

It’s well into the evening when Satoru returns to the apartment complex, bone-weary and empty of all but despair and regret. He trudges along the gaudy-carpeted floor in the hallway, feet carrying him unconsciously to the door of Itadori’s apartment. It’s all routine at this point: knock on the door, wait a few minutes for the old man to answer, Baby hoisted on his hip and a permanent scowl on his face. Itadori greets him, passing Baby along to Satoru, not commenting on the latter’s obviously subdued composure.

Baby makes a noise of upset, squirming in Satoru’s grasp as he presses Baby against his shoulder. “Hey, little guy. What’s up?”

Baby, predictably, doesn’t respond—unless the sharp squawking counts. Itadori sighs, scowl betraying his own exhaustion. “He’s been fussy today. Just got him to settle down a short while ago. Might be colic, but it’s too soon to tell.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Satoru replies, making a mental note to Google what colic means when he’s done processing the aforementioned end of his world.

They part ways, Itadori disappearing back into his apartment and Satoru making his way up to the third floor—via elevator, legs unwilling to traverse the stairs. Baby makes his displeased squawks the entire time—like he’s always on the verge of crying, but never quite commits. Satoru bounces him idly, trying to keep him calm and happy. The last thing he wants to deal with right now—the last thing he can probably handle, at this point—is Baby’s crying.

But of course, the universe isn’t through with Satoru just yet.

Satoru closes the apartment door behind him, deadbolt sliding into place when Baby’s face screws up, his lips tremble. Satoru tenses, already quick to comfort the baby, hoping to dissuade the oncoming tantrum with a soothing rocking motion, with gentle words and as sweet a smile as he can manage. But Baby will not be deterred.

High-pitched cries pierce the air, echoing off the apartment walls, rattling the shards of Satoru’s very soul. “C’mon, Baby. It’s okay,” Satoru says, pacing around his apartment, clutching Baby in his arms, patting his back placatingly. “Just settle down. It’s alright.”

But nothing works. Baby won’t take a soother, doesn’t care for his favourite blanket or his cute little tiger plush. His diaper is empty and dry, and he refuses the bottle Satoru hastily prepares. Baby just cries, and Satoru’s quick to resort to desperate pleas to abate the incessant onslaught of noise. “Please, just stop crying. Please.”

But his words are lost in the sounds of infantile cries. The universe grants little mercy—least of all to Satoru.

Satoru slumps against the wall, Baby held against his shoulder as he continues his pleas, voice devolved to a mere whisper in Baby’s ear as he feels what little strength inside him snap. He slides to the floor, clutching desperately to Baby. “Please,” he whispers, unsure of whom this plea is truly directed towards. “Please, just stop. Don’t do this to me. I can’t do this, I can’t—”

His voice breaks. His eyes sting.

Through it all, Baby keeps crying.

And Satoru does the same.

The world keeps spinning, night giving way to day. Even Satoru Gojo, pseudo-divinity that he is, can’t stop the passage of time. Well, perhaps he could, if he really tried. Capture the world in a timeless void, in his Infinity—still imperfect, but perhaps sufficient—cease its spinning for just long enough to catch his breath, to allow his heart and soul some form of reprieve, regardless of brevity.

It's a tempting thought, almost tempting enough to try. But he doesn’t; very few could possibly survive his Infinite Void. Satoru could interrupt the world’s continuous cycle, could pause time for his selfish gain, but to sacrifice the world for the sake of his comfort?

He’d be no better than a curse.

So no, he won’t stop time, won’t condemn the world for the chance to breathe. The strong must make sacrifices for the weak, and Satoru’s the strongest of them all; so too, then, should his sacrifices be the greatest.

The world won’t stop for Satoru Gojo, so Satoru Gojo won’t stop either.

A world without curses—that’s what Suguru was after, wasn’t it? Maybe it wasn’t so impossible. Maybe, if Satoru just put his full strength into it, he could wipe out the entire population of curses, rid the world of their corruption before they had the chance to really sink their claws in. He wouldn’t stop their production, but he could at least minimize the harm they cause—to sorcerers and non-sorcerers alike. This was his burden to bear as the strongest, wasn’t it? A life of sacrifice to ensure others a life of safety.

Maybe, if he did enough, Suguru’s goals would be meaningless. Maybe, if Satoru were strong enough, Suguru would abandon his delusions.

Maybe he’d come back.

Maybe he’d come home.

All Suguru wanted was a better world. So that’s what Satoru will give him.

Satoru throws himself into his Jujutsu work, taking on countless missions, no matter how big or small—anything to ease the burden on his fellow sorcerers. He’s the strongest; it makes sense for him to take it all on. He’s stronger, faster. He can do more, and he can do it quickly. Besides, it’s not like anyone’s complaining about Satoru’s sudden spike in productivity: the more time he spends out on missions, the less time the higher-ups have to deal with him directly, after all. It’s a win-win for everyone.

Satoru’s gone more often than not, very little time granted between missions to rest, to care for Baby. Itadori—ever the godsend—continues to care for Baby with no questions asked, though Satoru can tell the temptation grows on the tip of his tongue with each passing day, with each sudden appearance, each abrupt departure, with every stretch of time with no word from Satoru, growing longer and longer at every drop-off. When Satoru returns home, almost an entire week after having dropped Baby off initially, Itadori fixes the young man with a stern look, a challenging eyebrow, waiting for Satoru to explain, to rattle off some shitty excuse.

But Satoru just takes Baby back, flashing as bright a smile as he can muster. “I’ll pay you triple this time.”

Itadori’s dissatisfaction is obvious, but he presses no further. Satoru can’t tell if the older man is giving him the benefit of the doubt, or if he simply doesn’t care enough about Satoru to pry. Either way, Satoru is grateful.

It doesn’t help that Baby has been a menace lately, Itadori eventually confirming that Baby indeed is suffering from colic, and so any rest Satoru may have hoped for upon his return home is plagued with Baby’s incessant crying, unabating no matter what Satoru tries, no matter how many remedies the mommy bloggers offer online, no matter how much advice Itadori tries to offer. Is it really any wonder why Satoru stays away for so long?

(He tries not to feel too guilty about the thought)

So Satoru continues to throw money at the problem, continues to throw himself into his work. It’s fine—everything is fine. He’s the strongest. He can handle this. Everything is just fine.

It’s barely been a month, and already the delusion is cracking under the harsh weight of a cruel reality.

To reference the illustrious Smashmouth, the curses start coming, and they don’t stop coming. It seems that no matter how many curses Satoru exorcizes, no matter how many days and nights he dedicates to the cause, there are always more abounding, crawling out of the woodwork in nearly insurmountable swarms—nearly, for Satoru is always able to overcome them. But there are just…so many. The hordes never seem to end, and with the state of the world, the reality of pain and fear encompassing human psyches breeding more and more curses by the second, the number of curses steadily increases even as Satoru takes them out.

Were he truly a god, this would be of no consequence: his cursed energy is nearly infinite, and his strength monumental. Regardless of the uneven odds, he’d overcome. But at the end of the day, no matter how much Satoru wishes it weren’t true, he’s just a man.

A very tired man.

He returns to the apartment complex late that evening—back after another mission spanning multiple days. His feet drag along the carpet as he makes his way to Itadori’s apartment, exhaustion weighing down every limb, making it a challenge to even lift a fist to knock. Itadori answers barely a moment later, and Satoru can’t find it in him to muster up a smile. “Hey.”

Itadori’s eyes scan over his pathetic form, heaving a heavy sigh. “Go get some sleep, kid,” he says, voice gruff but with an edge of softness. “I’ll keep the baby for another night.”

“I’ll be back for him in the morning,” Satoru says, though more so out of social obligation than actual intention.

Itadori’s lips twist, and for a moment Satoru fears he’s going to call him out. But then Itadori simply nods. “We’ll see you then.”

But Satoru doesn’t end up sleeping, not that night, though it’s not for lack of trying. He lays in his bed, tossing and turning in his premium silk sheets, on his luxury mattress, but comfort evades his weary limbs. His mind races, unable to relax. There are curses nearby—weak things, maybe Grade Three if he’s being generous. They pose no serious threat, and yet…

Satoru can’t sleep, so he might as well be useful.

He exorcises the curses easily, but still his mind refuses to settle. There are more curses out there—always more, more and more and more, his Six Eyes tells him. So he stays out on the streets long into the evening, footsteps silent on the pavement, scanning the streets for those curses. The city is alive even at night; neon signs flooding the concrete, crowds barely thinning despite the late hour. Satoru keeps to the shadows, examining dark alleyways and decrepit buildings as he patrols the area.

Hours pass. No more curses emerge, though he knows they’re still there—he can sense them, ever-present, ever lurking. None dare appear before him. None risk challenging a god, even one who bleeds like a man.

(For surely he’s bleeding—not his body, perfectly unmarred, perfectly perfect—but his soul. It bleeds, it weeps, a part severed from its whole, phantom limb pain in a wound yet to close.)

And Satoru wonders: could the curses around him now, could they be of his own creation? Born of his pain, his anguish, his fury? Could these curses be shadows of the remnants of his shattered soul?

He barely entertains the thought. It’s laughable to consider it, even for the slightest of moments. He’s a Jujutsu Sorcerer—a Special Grade, at that. His control over his cursed energy is nigh perfect. There’s no conceivable way he could create curses, in life or in death.

(Though, then again, he had spawned a child from seemingly nothing, so perhaps there’s some credence to grant to things so-called impossible.)

Suguru’s words echo in his mind:

If you can achieve it, how then could you call it impossible?

The curses won’t stop coming. No matter how many Satoru exorcises, they won’t stop coming. For as long as there is human suffering—for as long as there are humans—there will always be curses.

Maybe Suguru had been right. The only remedy to this broken world was a complete rebirth—a transformation into a society of sorcery. Suguru can’t achieve it. As strong as he is, he won’t be able to do it.

But Satoru can.

And maybe, just maybe, he should.

But…

But.

Where’s the morality in that? Sacrifice the majority to save the minority? Rid the world of humanity’s curse but for the comfort of the few elites? Is that truly the only way?

But then again, there’s meaning in that genocide; there’s mercy, though twisted and vile. For is it truly moral to allow humanity to live in this festering wound of reality? To suffer under the pain of a cursed existence? Would it not be better to free them of this strife through death? Would the ends justify the means?

Which is truly right in the end: condemn Suguru to save the world, or condemn the world to save Suguru—and all sorcerers, to that end?

Whose lives matter more?

And should Satoru Gojo—false god that he is—truly be entrusted with that decision?

Satoru does go home eventually, does fall into a restless sleep. But when he awakens the next morning—the next afternoon, really—he doesn’t return to Itadori’s apartment to retrieve Baby. Nor does he head to the school to accept another mission. No, today Satoru just…needs a day to himself. Needs some time to think—or, to not think. Time to abandon himself, to forget his accursed existence and just…float. Unexist in the realm of time, just for a little while.

There are ways to stop time—divine ways, godly ways. Trap himself in Infinity, float in an endless void. But to do so requires concentration. Requires control. The one thing Satoru wishes he could relinquish, if only for a fleeting moment.

But there are other ways to stop time, to stop thoughts—ways that are so purely human. And so that’s what Satoru does.

There’s a liquor store not far from the apartment. Satoru had never cared much for the substance—never liked the taste. But now, he’s grabbing an expensive bottle of something he doesn’t recognize, smiling and flirting with the cashier in an attempt to avoid being ID’d, and before he knows it, seventeen-year-old Satoru Gojo, Special Grade sorcerer, is well and truly on his way to getting absolutely fucked up.

It doesn’t take a lot for intoxication to take hold, for the alcohol to infiltrate his bloodstream, make his mind fuzzy and his skin flush with an artificial warmth. It’s nice. For a moment, he feels like a teenager—a real teenager, whose biggest problem is underage drinking or petty relationship drama. A teenager who doesn’t bear the weight of the world on his shoulders.

But no matter how much he drinks, no matter how his senses dull and distort, he can still feel them. The curses. The constant reminder that Satoru is anything but ordinary.

(But he could be. He could slaughter all of humanity here and now, even in his inebriated state. Maybe then, there’d be no curses to sense. No reason to fight. Maybe then, once he cleaned humanity’s blood from his hands…maybe then he could be an ordinary teenager. Maybe then he’d be free.)

He takes a long drink. As if his hands could ever be clean.

His apartment’s a mess. He trips over something—some pastel-coloured toy of Baby’s—and for once his limbs fail to catch him, too entangled in a drunken embrace. He crashes to the ground hard, the impact not all that painful, but still pulling a curse from his lips as the clear acrid liquid sloshes past the brim of the bottle in his hand, spilling onto the floor. Great. Just fucking great. How can he be expected to decide the fate of the world when he can’t even walk straight? How can he be expected to save anyone when he can’t even save himself?

World’s Strongest Sorcerer. What a fucking joke.

Suguru was right. He was right about everything—about humanity and curses. About Satoru.

Without his strength, he’s useless.

He’s nothing.

Who are you?

Satoru’s not sure where the answer lies. Maybe he doesn’t want to know.

He takes another swig from the bottle. It burns his throat, tears a cough from his lungs. But it doesn’t clear his head. Doesn’t make the thoughts go. Doesn’t let him float.

It just makes him sick.

With an angry shout, he tosses the bottle against the wall. It shatters with a clamorous impact, glass shards and sharp liquid splattering against the plaster, scattering across the ground. Adding to the ever-growing mess that is Satoru’s life. Brokenness begetting brokenness.

There’s a knock on his door. “Gojo! Open up!”

Itadori.

Satoru freezes.

The knocking continues, pounding and incessant, shaking the door on its hinges. “Gojo, I know you’re there. Now open this door!”

But Satoru’s doing his best impression of someone that is very much not there. He waits, silent and still, hoping to outlast Itadori’s efforts.

But the old man is nothing if not stubborn.

Still, the knocking does stop—not a mark of defeat, but a shift in strategy. “I don’t know what the hell is going on with you lately,” Itadori says, the edge to his voice not tempered by the door’s muffling, “but it needs to end. You’re a father for Christ’s sake, so act like it!”

There’s a pause. Maybe Itadori’s awaiting a response. Maybe he’s just thinking.

Finally, he sighs. “Look, I’m not saying that being a father means you’re not allowed to feel grief or pain or any other negative emotion. It just means you have to learn to deal with them without letting your world fall apart. Because your world isn’t just you anymore, kid. You’ve got a baby to think about. You need to pull yourself together—not for your sake, but his.”

I know, Satoru thinks, eyes squeezing shut. I know. That’s the fucking problem.

Itadori continues, “Baby needs you, Gojo. He’s already lost his mother; don’t deprive him of a father as well.”

The thought of Sukuna as a mother crosses Satoru’s mind, catching him off guard and pulling a shocked laugh from his chest. It sounds more like a sob, choked and wet.

If Itadori hears, he doesn’t show it. “I’ll take care of Baby for the time being,” he says, voice tired, and it finally occurs to Satoru that Baby isn’t the only one suffering his absence. “God knows he doesn’t deserve to deal with this mess. But Gojo—” he adds, almost like an afterthought— "get your head out of your ass, kid. You’ll soon realize the world isn’t all shit.”

With that, Itadori retreats, his footsteps growing quieter and quieter as he makes his way towards the elevator. Still, Satoru waits until he’s certain the old man is gone before he dares to move from his crumpled position on the ground.

Fuck, he’s pathetic.

Satoru chokes out another laugh, pushing himself to a seated position and wiping away the wetness from his cheeks. Itadori’s right. It seems that lately everyone but Satoru has been right. And it’s…a humbling thought, maybe, as much as it is frustrating.

He rakes his hands through his hair—coarse, far from its usual clean softness. Honestly, he can’t remember the last time he washed it, the last time he really took care of his body beyond just the barest tasks for survival.

He surveys the mess around him, the toys scattered everywhere, the dirty dishes covering any available surface, used clothing strewn about. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. The whole goddamn situation is pathetic.

But Baby isn’t. Baby is perfect. Baby is the best thing to have come from any of this fucking mess.

And Itadori is right: Baby doesn’t deserve to deal with it.

So when Satoru finally climbs to his feet, it’s not for his own sake; it’s for Baby’s. He hauls himself to the kitchen, searches the cupboards for a clean glass. The only one available is the gifted World’s Greatest Dad mug—and it’s a cruel irony, the universe still refusing to pull its punches where Satoru’s concerned, but Satoru’s done being knocked down by petty jabs. Sure, not only has he failed to uphold his title of World’s Strongest Sorcerer, but also that dollar store designation of World’s Greatest Dad. Hell, at this point Satoru can barely call himself Baby’s Greatest Dad—and considering his other “dad” is dead, well…

That’s saying something, isn’t it?

But still. Failings aside, Satoru’s still Baby’s Alive-est Dad, and that’s not a title he’s willing to give up so easily. And that’s got to count for something, no matter how slight.

So he fills that mug with water, chugging it down before repeating the action again. Then he’s off to the shower, washing away the dirt of the past from his skin. He cleans up the apartment, does the laundry, has a real meal that isn’t just takeout from some random shop. It’s not easy, desperately tugging the pieces of his soul together, but he has to do it—not for his sake, but for Baby’s.

The next day, when he’s feeling a bit steadier, when he’s feeling a little more whole, he goes to pick up Baby.

Itadori answers almost as soon as Satoru finishes knocking. The door swings open, revealing Itadori with Baby in his arms, cooing gently. The old man fixes Satoru with an expectant look, lips downturned and a single eyebrow cocked. There’s no greeting; Itadori just waits.

Satoru sighs. “I owe you an apology—both of you. I just…I wasn’t dealing with certain things as well as I thought I was, and not only did I hurt myself, I hurt you and Baby, and that’s the last thing I ever want to do. So, I’m sorry.”

Itadori studies his face. Satoru holds his breath. A beat passes—a mere moment, though tension stretches it to eternity. Finally, Itadori speaks. “This can’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” Satoru insists, urgent. “I swear by it. I won’t let you or Baby down, not again.”

“Yuuji.”

Satoru frowns. “Huh?”

“Your son needs a name, Gojo. A proper one.” Itadori gazes down at the child in his arms, expression softening in the way it only ever does for Baby. “In your absence, I’ve taken to calling him Yuuji. That was the name of my grandson.”

“Was.”

Itadori’s lips press into a firm line. “He died a few years ago—his parents too. Car crash.” His expression is far off for a moment, stuck in a past too recent to forget, too precious to let go. But the moment is just that: a moment. It comes to pass, and Itadori clears his throat, eyes back on Satoru. “Obviously you don’t have to use it,” he says, passing the child to Satoru, “I just…”

Satoru accepts the baby in his arms, smiling softly at the small bundle. The baby coos happily, golden eyes as bright as ever. “Yuuji, huh?” The baby smiles at Satoru’s voice, swinging his arms with childish abandon, and Satoru huffs a laugh. His eyes meet Itadori’s. “It’s perfect.”

And, for perhaps the first time since meeting him, the old man smiles.

The baby—Yuuji—continues to squirm, though the movement is decidedly joyous. “You like the name too, don’t you little guy?” Satoru says, voice light with laughter, even as something squeezes in his chest. It’s uncomfortable, but…it’s not bad. Just unfamiliar.

Satoru presses Yuuji against his shoulder, embracing the playful child. He takes a deep breath, then speaks his next words like a vow. “I’m going to do my best,” he says, voice low, for Yuuji’s ears only. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to be the best father to you that I can be. I promise, Yuuji: I’ll do better.”

The words mean nothing to Yuuji—far too young to comprehend, let alone understand the weight they bear. But that simple fact makes them no less true. Makes them no less binding.

And against the calm determination that settles in Satoru’s mind, a voice rings out:

Who are you?

Satoru still doesn’t know the answer to that question, but maybe someday, he’ll figure it out. For now, he’ll start small: he’ll be Yuuji’s father, the best damn father he can be.

It's not much, but maybe, just maybe…

It’s enough.

Chapter Text

It’s a beautiful day—disarmingly so. So peaceful and serene that Kento Nanami allows his shoulders to relax, his breaths to come more easily, his guard to diminish.

Honestly, even freshly turned seventeen years old, Kento should have known better.

It’s a rare day off for Kento—no classes, no missions, nothing to occupy his time—and he’s determined to make the most of it. Jujutsu Tech is strangely and blissfully empty today, with most others out on missions or running errands in the city, and while Kento could technically have picked up an extra mission or offered to help one of the senior sorcerers with their daily tasks, Kento has long since determined there’s really nothing wrong with only offering the bare minimum. Why should he be expected to exert any unnecessary effort—especially on his first day off in what feels like months.

Especially when he’s already had enough of Jujutsu sorcery.

Kento sighs, closing his eyes as he continues his solitary walk around the calm grounds of Jujutsu Tech, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin, the idle chatter of birds in the trees. Honestly, as soon as he has completed high school, as soon as he obtains his diploma, he’s quitting sorcery altogether, leaving this cruel life behind, never to return. Sure, he’d have to leave behind those he’d call companions, those he’d grown close to, but…

He was always going to lose them in the end, wasn’t he? He had already lost a few. What sense was there in delaying the inevitable?

So he’ll quit, find some mundane career to occupy his time as he works to save up just enough money for early retirement—outside of Japan, of course. He’ll find somewhere with a low cost of living, preferably someplace with a beach, and live a life of contentment. A life of simplicity.

A life completely opposite to the one he has here.

Maybe, once he’s through with his walk, he’ll begin researching potential destinations. Yes, that’ll be a nice way to spend his day off.

“Satoru Gojo, you six-eyed bastard! Show yourself at once, else I’ll raze this entire institution!”

The belligerent shouting draws Kento from his musings, and he sighs. Great, what did Gojo do this time? But when Kento opens his eyes, the sight before him is…

Well, Kento can already tell it’s bound to be a problem.

A problem that he is definitely not involving himself with.

Now, Kento has never personally crossed paths with the King of Curses, but he’s familiar enough with his general description. And surely the man standing in the main courtyard of Jujutsu Tech, hands bound in fists at his sides, wrists and biceps ringed with black lines, dusty pink hair mussed and in need of proper brushing, meet many requirements of that description. Despite being short two arms and roughly half a foot in height, there’s no mistaking it: Sukuna Ryoumen is here.

Well, there are other possibilities—more rational ones too, perhaps—but Kento has long since learned that, when Satoru Gojo is involved, it’s often best to assume the worst.

And what could be worse than the King of Curses coming back from the dead?

Satoru Gojo, just what the hell did you do?

Kento doesn’t waste time entertaining the question. Rather, he decides to partake in the most logical course of action at the time:

He turns and walks away.

Of course, Sukuna’s eyes flicker to Kento at the exact moment the latter tries to depart, irises burning red—a two rather than four, he notes—and Kento comes to a shocking realization.

He has no cursed energy.

It’s this thought that roots Kento in place, even as Sukuna turns on him fully, teeth bared as he stomps towards him, growling, “You, sorcerer! Where is Satoru Gojo?”

Nanami holds back a groan. So much for not getting involved. Aloud, he points out, “He isn’t here, although that much should be obvious at this point. And before you ask—” Kento adds when Sukuna opens his mouth again— “no, I do not know where he is. I have far more pertinent things to worry about than Gojo’s whereabouts.”

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me,” Sukuna spits, invading Kento’s personal space and attempting to tower over the sorcerer despite them being roughly the same height. “Do you know who I am?”

Kento stands his ground. “I have a good idea, yes. But I’m also aware you presently lack cursed energy and therefore pose little threat to me. Even so,” he carries on when it appears Sukuna may actually implode at the implication of weakness, “I will not be executing you as per Jujutsu law as it is currently my day off, and I would rather not put in any unnecessary overtime. What I will do for you is a favour—an exchange, really.”

Sukuna quirks a brow. “An exchange?”

“I will call Gojo for you,” Kento explains, “in exchange for being granted freedom from this rather tiresome conversation.”

“You will summon Satoru Gojo here,” Sukuna counters, “and only upon his arrival will I dismiss you.”

Kento sighs inwardly at the use of the term dismiss, but doesn’t argue. “Agreed.” He pulls out his cell phone, finding Gojo’s contact and quickly pressing to dial. He switches to speaker phone for Sukuna’s convenience.

After a few rings, Gojo answers. “Nanamin! To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

Kento feels a headache coming on.  “Sukuna Ryoumen is here, and requires your presence.”

Gojo laughs. “Good one, Nanamin! But really, why’d you call?”

And, yup—there’s the headache. Kento rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m serious, Gojo.”

There’s a pause, then, “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” Sukuna echoes. “And if you don’t get your ass here in the next five minutes, I’m killing your sorcerer friend.”

Kento rolls his eyes. “Unlikely.”

Gojo laughs, but this time, it’s much more forced. “Well, fuck, huh? Guess I better get over there.”

The call disconnects. Kento pockets his phone. “Well, I’ll be off then—”

“You may leave once Satoru Gojo has arrived,” Sukuna interrupts, “and not a second sooner.”

Kento sighs. What a nuisance.

Fortunately, Gojo appears but a moment later, having warped his way to their location. He’s dressed casually, also having been enjoying a day off, and his sunglasses sit perched on his nose as he takes in the situation. “Damn Nanamin, you weren’t kidding: it really is Sukuna. That’s hilarious.”

“I fail to see how any of this is amusing,” Kento says.

Gojo waves him off, turning to Sukuna. “Well, my ass is here—try not to stare too much, I’m actually rather shy.”

Sukuna doesn’t waste a second. “What the hell did you do to my cursed energy?”

“That’s actually a funny story—you’re gonna lose your mind, let me tell you! So, get this—” Gojo pauses for dramatic effect. “I sealed it in a baby.”

“You did what?”

“But more importantly,” Gojo continues, ignoring the twin questions directed at him by Sukuna and Kento, “how did you survive—hey, Nanami! Where are you going? Don’t you want to hear this?”

Kento walks away, back to Gojo even as he replies, “I have decided this matter is none of my business, and seeing as I’m no longer required here, I will be leaving.”

“You will not be leaving, Kento. Not yet.”

It’s a new voice that makes this command—an authoritative voice, familiarity stopping Kento in his tracks as he turns to see Yaga-sensei (no, Principal Yaga, now) approach, arms laden with grocery bags.

Honestly? What miserable timing.

Principal Yaga’s gaze travels from Kento to Sukuna, from Sukuna to Gojo, back to Sukuna, then finally settles on Gojo. He takes a deep breath, perhaps calming himself, perhaps bracing himself for what is bound to be an utter mess. “Explain. Now.”

Gojo does what’s most likely the first impulsive thing that comes to mind. He reaches out and grabs Sukuna’s hand. “We’re in love.”

 There’s a pause, a heavy silence that settles over them. Perhaps all involved are simply too stunned to speak. Perhaps they are awaiting an elaboration, or for Gojo to try again, come up with literally any other explanation. Yaga’s look never wavers from Gojo, even throughout this extended pause, and when it’s clear Gojo is not about to offer up anything further, he sighs. “Satoru, Sukuna, my office. I expect a real explanation. Kento, please do me a favour and put these groceries away in the kitchen.”

Kento nods, closing the gap and accepting the groceries from Principal Yaga. Without another word, Yaga proceeds toward the building where his office is located. Surprisingly, both Gojo and Sukuna follow without comment or complaint—though not before Sukuna quickly rips his hand away from Gojo’s grasp, mind having apparently finally caught up to the situation.

The trio disappears inside the building, and alone once again, Kento sighs. What a bother. Still, he makes his way toward the kitchen. Perhaps, after this, he can still make the most of what remains of his day off. God knows he’ll need to—come tomorrow, Kento foresees he will be dragged into another of Gojo’s messes.

Yeah, he’s definitely quitting Jujutsu sorcery.

The walk to Yaga’s office is quiet, the soft padding of footsteps the only sound breaching the silence. Of course, Satoru’s mind is anything but silent, gears spinning in an attempt to figure out just what the actual fuck is going on. Sure, he was able to mask his shock and apprehension quite well on the outside, but on the inside…

Satoru’s freaking the fuck out.

There’s no conceivable way Sukuna should’ve survived. Not a fucking chance—not when he had been on death’s literal doorstep last Satoru saw. And yet, there’s no mistaking it: that very same body Satoru had left lying bloodied and broken on the battlefield is now walking down the halls of Jujutsu Tech right beside him, face carefully impassive, hands shoved into the pockets of his black sweats—the modern garb looking strange on the ancient curse (former curse?). The whole situation is…surreal. Maybe it’s a dream, the result of too much stress and too many sweets before bed. All Satoru needs to do is wake up, and all will be right in the world again.

He slaps his cheeks, trying to jostle himself awake. All he earns is a side-eyed glare from twin red eyes. So, not a dream, huh?

Well, fuck.

And as if the situation were not bad enough, Satoru of course had to make it worse by revealing Yuuji’s existence to the (former?) cursed spirit; he might as well have fed his son to Sukuna on a silver platter, announced in neon lights, All you can eat cursed energy buffet! Get it while it’s fresh and defenseless!

But the real maraschino cherry on top of his sundae of fuck-ups, the crowning jewel of his disastrous life, the final nail in his heavily bedazzled coffin:

We’re in love.

(Honestly, it’s a miracle Satoru didn’t lose his hand in that moment. There’s no way Satoru’s clumsy grasp of Reverse Cursed Technique would’ve allowed him to regenerate said appendage had Sukuna chosen to rudely separate it from his body, and he doubts Shoko would have taken enough pity on him to help. Thankfully, luck was on his side for once.)

Now, exactly why that declaration of love is the first thing that came to his mind remains a mystery to Satoru; perhaps it’s the product of too much stress built up over the past months, perhaps he’s simply been binge-watching far too many romantic dramas lately, or perhaps it’s a combination thereof. Regardless, it’s what he said, and now he has to live with it. All he has to do is come up with a plausible explanation behind it, and hope that Sukuna’s feeling charitable enough to play along. No biggie, right?

Yeah.

Satoru’s fucked.

He tries to take his mind off of his impending demise. “So, Principal Yaga,” he starts, tone light and carefree, “enjoying that recent promotion?”

Yaga doesn’t reply. He turns his head just enough to shoot Satoru a look over his shoulder—one that reads thoroughly unimpressed, a what do you think? type of look.

Satoru laughs uneasily. Okay, so Yaga’s obviously in a mood. Maybe he’ll have more luck with his other companion. He turns his dazzling smile on Sukuna. “Nice weather we’ve been having, yeah?”

Sukuna doesn’t spare him a look. “Read the room, idiot,” he says, tone bored, though perhaps with an underlying (and completely unnecessary) annoyance.

“Technically, it’s a hallway.”

This time, Sukuna does look at him. He levels Satoru with a long, studying look. Satoru’s smile twitches, but he forces himself to maintain it. Finally, Sukuna looks away. “You have a terrible personality,” he says, more like a statement of fact, a mere observation, rather than an insult. “It’s apparent no one truly enjoys your presence.”

Satoru’s smile drops, and from up ahead, Yaga snorts, though he tries to cover the sound with a cough. They’ve reached Yaga’s office at this point, so before Satoru can bite back with a clever comment of his own, Yaga turns to them and speaks. “I have a few preparations to make before this conversation can take place,” he says, and if Satoru had to guess, at least ninety percent of those preparations are mental. “Please wait outside until I call you in.”

Yaga doesn’t wait for an affirmation. He enters his office, closing the door behind him and leaving Satoru and Sukuna alone in the hallway.

Satoru whirls on Sukuna. “Okay look, all jokes aside—”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“—we need to get our stories straight.” Satoru, for the sake of getting through these next few minutes with as little strife as possible, chooses to ignore Sukuna’s interruption. “Now, when we get in there, just let me do all the talking, and whatever I say—no matter how crazy—just go with it. Okay?”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Obviously. But I’ve got a plan, and I think it’ll work out for the both of us.” He doesn’t, in fact, have a plan, more like a general idea, a vibe even, but Sukuna doesn’t need to know that.

Sukuna crosses his arms over his chest. “And just why should I listen to you? You may have taken my cursed energy hostage, but that doesn’t mean I’m inclined to cooperate.”

“You can’t get your cursed energy back if you’re dead, can you?” Satoru points out. “‘Cause unless you follow my lead in there, that’s how you’ll end up: dead. For real this time. Which, I’ve been meaning to ask—” he adds as an afterthought— “how exactly did you manage to survive?”

But before Sukuna can answer—if he were going to answer—the door to Yaga’s office opens. “Alright,” Yaga says gruffly, “let’s get this over with.”

Satoru and Sukuna follow Yaga inside, the latter closing the door behind them as they make their way to the chairs in front of Yaga’s desk. Yaga settles into his office chair, clearing his throat. “Right. Satoru, Sukuna, right now we are on a conference call with several members of the Council—”

“Who?” Sukuna interrupts.

“A bunch of old conservative geezers who are basically running Jujutsu society into the ground,” Satoru helpfully explains.

“How dare you, you insolent—”

Yaga presses a button on the phone, silencing the voice. Then he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “We are on speaker phone with the higher-ups,” Yaga stipulates, “so I would appreciate if you feigned even a modicum of respect for the duration of this call.”

“So let me get this straight,” Sukuna says, ignoring Yaga, “your society is gerontocratic rather than strength-based?” He snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

“I know, right?” Satoru agrees. “I keep on saying—”

“As I was saying,” Yaga interrupts, “the higher-ups are here on a conference call to hear this situation and determine the best course of action. I’ve already established the basics of this situation, those being the fact that Sukuna Ryoumen is currently alive and absent of cursed energy, and Satoru’s involvement in the matter. Now, I am about to take the phone off mute. Please refrain from disrespecting the people in charge of deciding your fate.”

“Deciding my fate?” Satoru echoes incredulously, casually leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, I’d like to see them try.”

Yaga’s brows crease. “Satoru.”

Satoru sighs, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be on my best behaviour.” Not.

Yaga looks like he doesn’t quite believe him—and rightfully so. Still, he leaves the matter alone. “Alright, we’ll proceed.” He presses another button on the phone. “I apologize for the interruption, Councillors. As I had mentioned before, we are about to hear the matter regarding Satoru Gojo’s failed execution of cursed spirit Sukuna Ryoumen. Both parties are present on this call and will issue an official statement of explanation, after which you, the Council, will decide on the proper course of action. With that said, Satoru Gojo will begin his statement.”

Satoru sits up straight in his chair, clearing his throat. Alright, showtime! “As I had mentioned to Yaga just moments earlier, Sukuna and I are in love. Now, I know what you’re all probably thinking: Satoru, why would someone as amazing and strong and intelligent and sexy as you settle for someone like him? Well, there’s a very good explanation for that…”

And so, Satoru launches into a dramatic monologue definitely worthy of a limited series on Netflix—a story of love and loss, of betrayal and revenge, of star-crossed lovers reunited by fate. Essentially, he had arrived on the battlefield, prepared to defeat Sukuna once and for all. However, when his eyes met Sukuna’s, suddenly the world fell away; the present gave way to the past, a lifetime from a thousand years ago playing out before his eyes like a movie. He and Sukuna are soulmates, bound by fate: they had met back when Sukuna was still a human sorcerer, and they had fallen for each other then—two powerful sorcerers with the potential to change the world. Of course, said world felt threatened by them and of course had to interfere, launching an attack that managed to destroy them both, or so they had thought. In the end, Satoru gave up his life for Sukuna, who in his overwhelming grief and anger became the infamous cursed spirit whom present-Satoru was tasked to exorcise. Of course, knowing all this and rekindling the old sparks of passion that had once existed in their past lives, the two realized they could not fight each other. In fact, having been finally reunited with Satoru, Sukuna no longer had the same desire to destroy the world. And so, Satoru and Sukuna hatched a plan to fake Sukuna’s execution so that he and Satoru could live a peaceful life together, and in a show of faith, Sukuna even gave up his cursed energy so that he could be with Satoru.

“And so,” Satoru says, wrapping up his story, “I sealed Sukuna’s energy away inside of a baby that I created—because, as I have told you many times before, I am God—and voila! The rest is history. Or, no wait, the rest is present? ‘Cause it’s currently happening?” Satoru rubs his chin in thought.

Sukuna’s staring at him, face masked in unconcealed horror. Yaga cradles his face in his hands. Still, Satoru—feeling rather satisfied with his explanation—puffs his chest up with pride, clasping his hands behind his head as he relaxes back into his chair. “Well?”

Yaga removes his glasses so that Satoru can see the full extent of just how thoroughly unimpressed he is. “I’m certain absolutely none of that is true.”

Satoru jabs a thumb at Sukuna. “Well, Sukuna here definitely doesn’t have cursed energy anymore. And I did spawn a child—I have proof!” He then proceeds to show Yaga some very cute selfies he took with Yuuji—his camera roll is full of them, so they’re pretty easy to find. Afterwards, he returns to his seat, casually crossing one leg over the other. “So really, you should just take my word with all the other stuff, yeah?”

“And the display at the school this morning?” Yaga prompts.

“Just a minor miscommunication—all my fault, of course.” Satoru holds his hand up placatingly. “But don’t worry, we’ve gotten it sorted out now.”

Yaga doesn’t seem convinced or impressed. Still, he turns his attention to the other half of the so-called soulmates. “And you, Sukuna. Is it true you no longer pose any threat to humanity?”

It takes a moment for Sukuna to respond. “…yes.”

Satoru releases the breath he’d been holding, grinning. “See? There’s literally nothing to worry about. So, we’ll just be on our way—”

But of course, Gakuganji—principal of the Jujutsu school in Kyoto and permanent pain in the ass—has to interject. “Now, if I’m understanding this correctly, there is currently a child acting as a vessel to all of Sukuna’s cursed energy. While Sukuna himself may not pose a threat, that child still does.”

“What are you suggesting?” Yaga asks.

“That child is basically a curse,” Gakuganji explains, “and according to our regulations, must be exorcised. A thing like that cannot be allowed to exist—"

Satoru’s on his feet before he realizes what he’s doing. “My son is not a thing!”

“Satoru,” Yaga warns.

“Your son?” Gakuganji echoes incredulously.

“Yes, my son—mine and Sukuna’s. He’s the product of our immense power and love, and we’ll raise him as such.” Satoru jabs a finger towards the phone, the action completely useless considering it’s literally just a phone and so the motion is lost on Gakuganji, but still. It just feels right, in the moment. “Don’t you dare go imposing your cynical worldview on the only good thing I’ve got in my life right now! Besides, there’s no guarantee he’ll even have access to that cursed energy, vessel or not. So don’t you tell me my son is a threat when you’ve got no idea who he is. Even as a baby he’s still twice the man you’ll ever be!”

“Who are you to speak to me this way?” Gakuganji retorts, voice even but irritation lacing his tone. “You youth never treat your elders with the respect they’re due.”

Satoru grins meanly. “I’ve given you the exact amount of respect you’re due, old man.”

Yaga throws his hands up in defeat.

Before Gakuganji can reply, another councilman speaks up, his voice unrecognizable to Satoru. “I do feel executing a baby is a bit extreme in this situation, all points considered,” he says, redirecting the conversation to the real topic at hand. “However, there is still the matter of Sukuna Ryoumen’s present survival. With or without cursed energy, he still must be held accountable for his crimes and executed as per our laws.”

Surprisingly, it’s Yaga who speaks up. “Jujutsu laws regulate disputes between sorcerers, curse users, and cursed spirits. Humans are not included in that mix. For all intents and purposes, Sukuna Ryoumen the cursed spirit died the moment Satoru sealed his energy away. According to our laws, his punishment is complete. Now, any charges lain against Sukuna Ryoumen the human will have to be dealt with by standard Japanese law. In other words, it’s out of our jurisdiction. That being said—” He directs this last part at Sukuna— “should he choose to implicate himself once again in Jujutsu society for any purposes beyond what can be reasonably expected from his…relationship with Satoru, any misdemeanours will be punished with the full extent of Jujutsu law.” He fixes Sukuna with a hard glare. “Am I clear?”

Sukuna’s jaw clenches. “Perfectly.”

Satoru scratches his temple. “Actually, I’m a little confused—”

Once again, Gakuganji interjects, “So you’ll let a mass murderer walk free and a potential Special Grade curse live, all on a minor technicality?”

“You call it a technicality; I call it mercy.” Yaga leans back in his chair, hands folded on the desk before him, and addresses Satoru and Sukuna. “But do not mistake this leniency for acceptance: you will be closely monitored by the Council, and held to the highest standards of conduct. Should you fail to uphold these standards, or should your relationship fail to pass our scrutiny, this deal will be void and you will face severe punishment—all three of you.”

“We won’t fail,” Satoru declares.

Yaga sighs. “For your sake,” he says, sliding his glasses back into place, “let’s hope you’re right.”

There’s a brief pause. Satoru’s gaze flickers from Yaga to the phone, then back to Yaga. “So,” he starts, dragging out the vowel, “does that mean we’re free to go?”

“For now. The council will determine the specific conditions of this arrangement and inform you of them before the end of the day. Until then—” he meets Satoru’s gaze over the rims of his glasses— “don’t fuck up.”

At the therapist’s office, a pen comes to an abrupt halt, ceasing its furious scribbling across the page. “I’m sorry, but I have to interrupt,” Dr. Sato says, brows furrowed slightly. “I just want to be sure I’m understanding this properly. The two of you agreed to a marriage only as a way to fool these higher-ups into believing the legitimacy of your coupling?”

Satoru snorts. “What? No, of course not! We didn’t get married until much later.”

“And that was just for the tax benefits,” Sukuna adds.

“Hell yeah it was.” Satoru holds his fist out to his husband, who returns the fist bump. However, whereas Satoru pulls his hand back in mimicry of an explosion—even going so far as to add a boom! sound effect—Sukuna simply lets his fist fall to the sofa between them.

Dr. Sato raises a brow. “Right. Yes, well—” She quickly checks her watch— “Gentlemen, I do regret to inform you, but your hour is up. Now, how about we quickly talk about scheduling a session for next week—”

“Aw, but we’re just getting into it!” Satoru whines, bottom lip jutting out in a childish pout.

“Unfortunately, I do have other clients to attend to today,” Dr. Sato explains, closing her notebook.

“And just when is your next client scheduled to arrive?” Sukuna asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That is privileged information.”

Sukuna stares at her. Dr. Sato sighs. “At 3:30 pm, but—”

“Excellent. That leaves us around two hours still.”

“But I’ve yet to take my lunch break—”

“We’ll order in.” Satoru already has his phone out, pulling up a food delivery app. “What are you feeling? And don’t worry about the price—money is no object for us.”

“It would not be professional of me,” Dr. Sato argues, adjusting her glasses. “Really, gentlemen, as intriguing as your story is, I don’t feel—”

Satoru meets her gaze over the rims of his glasses. “We’ll pay you double what those other losers pay.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Saying other losers implies that we too are losers.”

“I stand by what I said,” Satoru replies with a shrug. Then he turns his attention back to the marriage counsellor. “Well? Do we have a deal?”

Dr. Sato is already opening her notebook again. “Order in something greasy,” she says, clicking her pen open. “And let’s jump back into it.”

Satoru smirks, tossing his phone over to Sukuna to handle the food order so he can resume the story. “As I was saying, we had temporarily managed to convince the higher-ups that Sukuna and I were in a relationship, but now we really had to sell it. So of course, the obvious next move was to move in together…”

With help from Yaga (considering Satoru is still seventeen and not a legal adult), Satoru manages to purchase a sleek five-bedroom home out in the countryside—just a five-minute drive from the city limits. The location was intentional: it’s still close enough to the city for general convenience, yet far enough away from the hustle and bustle to ensure the safety of not only the home’s inhabitants but also those who should find themselves unlucky enough to be their neighbours (re: the former cursed spirit occupying the home). But, more importantly, the location offers something that would be almost impossible to find in the city:

Privacy.

The yard is quite large, extensive green lawns stretching out in every direction from the home itself, and surrounded by a thick shelterbelt of trees and other foliage. Not only does it provide coverage from any outsiders who may catch wind of Yuuji’s existence, but also ensures the higher-ups don’t have an all-access show to Satoru’s (and Sukuna’s, he supposes) business.

The size was negotiable. Even the style could be compromised upon—though Satoru isn’t going to complain about the home’s modern rustic décor. However, privacy was one thing Satoru wasn’t willing to sacrifice.

Not with so much at risk.

Surprisingly, it’s Nanami who helps Satoru with the move-in process. While the blond sorcerer has made his disapproval quite evident, he’s also provided nothing but steadfast support while transferring Satoru and Yuuji’s belongings to the new location. And honestly…it’s been a while since it’s felt like Satoru’s had any support—Itadori notwithstanding, bless his soul—especially from anyone within the Jujutsu world, and it’s nice.

Especially considering the monumental task to come.

Seriously: a relationship with Sukuna? What in the Kentucky fried fuck was Satoru thinking?

(He wasn’t thinking—that’s the problem. All he was concerned about was ensuring Yuuji’s well-being, Sukuna being an unfortunate addition to the equation.)

It’s fine, though—it will be fine. Satoru just has to humour the situation until Yuuji is old enough to protect himself. So…ten years? Maybe fifteen?

…It’ll be fine.

Probably.

They head out to the house—driven by one of the school’s assistants, a generally unremarkable man who Satoru honestly can’t remember the name of. Itadori, with Yuuji in care, is going to meet them out there later on—once the bulk of the moving is done. It shouldn’t take too long: Satoru had hired a company to fully furnish the home for them. It was really just a matter of transferring their personal effects.

And Sukuna…well, he was supposed to be meeting them there after he completed whatever preparations he claimed to need—not that Satoru cared enough to ask. Honestly, Satoru doesn’t expect him to show up at all, so it’s a surprise when they pull up the long drive to the house to find a familiar figure lounging on the front step, no bags or other belongings in sight, still wearing the same outfit from before.

(And Satoru wonders: does Sukuna even own other outfits? Does he own anything at all?)

As Satoru and Nanami step out of the car, Sukuna tips his head towards them, eyes narrowed. “You took your time.”

Satoru grins. “My apologies, your highness,” he says mockingly, making his way up the steps past Sukuna so he can unlock the front door.

“This better not be a regular occurrence,” Sukuna spits, rising to his feet.

“It isn’t.” Satoru winks at Sukuna over the rims of his glasses as he makes his way inside.

“It is,” Nanami says as he follows Satoru into the house.

Sukuna grumbles something under his breath that Satoru doesn’t catch, but then he too joins them inside.

It’s a nice enough space: clean lines, fresh white walls offset by warm wooden accents. It’s much more Westernized than many of the homes in the area, but Satoru figures that’s what happens when you hire a high-end international decorating company based out of the United States. It feels…a little empty, if Satoru is being honest. Too open. Too clean. But he supposes all new homes feel that way at first; it’s up to the occupant to breathe life into the space.

Nanami makes his way directly to the kitchen, passing through the initial living area without comment. Sukuna, on the other hand, takes his time, slowly pacing around the space, a brow raised inquisitorially. Once he’s gotten a good look at the space, he turns to Satoru. “Really?”

So, the King of Curses isn’t into Westernized modern-rustic décor? Considering the whole traditional Japanese motif he’s got going on, it’s really not surprising. Still, Satoru flops down onto one of the plush sofas, stretching out his legs and clasping his hands behind his head. “Now, now, I don’t want to hear any criticism from you. You never provided any input during the house hunting process, so you don’t get to complain.”

“Yes, well. I suppose it’s my mistake for foolishly trusting your judgment on the matter.” Sukuna folds his hands behind his back, turning away from Satoru. “It won’t happen again, I assure you.”

Satoru sticks his tongue out at Sukuna—not that he can see the action, his back turned and all—but Nanami catches the movement, even from across the open-concept space to the kitchen, and he rolls his eyes at the display. Still, he doesn’t comment on it, instead closing the doors of the pantry he had just been inspecting. “You ensured the property was furnished,” Nanami observes, leaning against the kitchen island. “I assume you’ve ordered a grocery delivery as well?”

Satoru waves a dismissive hand. “I’ll get to that eventually. I’m sure it won’t kill us to eat a little take-out for the time being.”

“It may not kill you,” Nanami concedes, “but need I remind you, Gojo, that you also have a young child under your care who cannot survive off of cheap take-out.”

“So I’ll order expensive take-out—kidding!” he adds before Nanami can interject. “Don’t worry, I’ve still got plenty of baby formula packed in with all of Yuuji’s things. He’ll be fine.”

From where he’s investigating a strange-looking plastic potted plant, Sukuna cuts in. “The hell kind of name is Yuuji?”

“It’s sentimental,” Satoru claims. “And it’s not like you could have come up with anything better.”

 “…Sukuna Jr.”

“My point stands.”

It’s not long after their arrival that Itadori arrives too, Yuuji held firm on his hip as he makes his way inside the house, Satoru quickly coming to greet him. “Mr. Itadori! Welcome! And little Yuuji too!”

Itadori passes Yuuji to his father, the baby cooing happily as Satoru bounces him lightly in his arms. Nanami comes to join Satoru, though rather than fawning over Yuuji, he chooses to help Itadori with Yuuji’s travel bag, the older man issuing a gruff thanks. Satoru’s quick to jump in with introductions. “Itadori, this is my friend Kento Nanami. Nanami, Itadori—the man who’s been babysitting Yuuji. And Yuuji—” he adds, looking down at the child in his arms— “this is your Uncle Nanamin! Say hi!” He wiggles Yuuji’s arm in a wave, the child giggling at the action.

Nanami sighs. “Please don’t call me that.” Still, he turns to Itadori, extending a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Itadori.”

Itadori returns the handshake. “Likewise.”

“So, this is the vessel?” Sukuna says, materializing from out of nowhere and startling Satoru. The former curse had been occupying his time by investigating every inch of the house, but apparently, he had decided the new commotion at the door was far more interesting.

Satoru frowns, turning his body, to try and shield Yuuji from Sukuna’s view. “This is my son, yes. Mr. Itadori,” he says, turning to the older man again. “This is my…partner, Sukuna. Sukuna, Mr. Itadori.”

Sukuna only spares Itadori a brief glance, gaze sliding back to Yuuji, but Itadori spends more time taking in Sukuna’s appearance, brows furrowed as he studies the man. “So, this is what’s kept you so busy, Gojo.”

“Yeah,” Satoru decides, “let’s go with that.”

Itadori hums. “How’d you get stuck with this one?” It takes Satoru a moment to realize Itadori is asking Sukuna, not him.

Sukuna just grins wryly. “Karma, I suppose.”

Itadori snorts. Satoru jabs a subtle elbow into Sukuna’s ribs—partially in retaliation, partially to gain some distance between the former curse and Yuuji.

“Well, I should be off. Let you get settled in.” Itadori makes his way back to the door, and Satoru accompanies him.

“Thanks for helping out with Yuuji today,” Satoru says, standing at the threshold. “Feel free to stop by and visit anytime! And I’ll be sure to contact you to set up Yuuji’s babysitting schedule.”

“Sure thing, kid.” Itadori shoves his hands into his pockets. “You take care out here, okay? And if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

Satoru smiles—a real smile, not some arrogant grin. “I will. Thanks.”

They bid each other farewell, Satoru manipulating Yuuji’s arm in a wave once again as Itadori departs, car disappearing back down the drive to the main road.

It’s a little later on into the evening when the driver from the school returns for Nanami. Satoru’s lounging on his side next to Yuuji’s playmat on the floor of the living room, where Yuuji himself is softly dozing after his long day, while Nanami is seated in one of the armchairs, one leg crossed over the other. Sukuna is…somewhere. He had disappeared quickly when it became apparent he would not be let anywhere near Yuuji, and while Satoru should perhaps be a little more concerned about the former curse’s whereabouts, he decides he has much better things to worry about.

Such as his sleeping son, chubby face relaxed, mouth forming a slight ‘o’ as he breathes in and out, one tiny hand resting against his cheek from when he’d been sucking on this thumb earlier (Nanami had warned against allowing such behaviour, but the action was cute so of course Satoru would allow it!).

Nanami gets the message that his ride is outside, and with a sigh, he rises from the armchair. “Well, I’ll be off now.”

Satoru starts to rise from the floor. “I’ll walk you out.”

“The door is literally right there. I can find my way out no problem—”

“But Nanamin! I insist!”

Satoru follows Nanami out the door, lingering on the front landing as Nanami makes his way down the stairs. At the bottom, Nanami pauses. “I’m quitting Jujutsu sorcery,” he says after a pause, back to Satoru.

Satoru huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Okay,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the doorframe.

“I’m serious, Gojo,” he says, turning to face the other man. He takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “I’ve put a lot of thought into this,” he continues eventually. “These past few months have shown me that this is not the life I want to live—not a life I can live. As soon as I graduate, I’m done.”

Satoru’s smile threatens to fall, but he holds it in place with every ounce of will he possesses. “Sure, sure. But you’ll be back.”

Nanami looks at Satoru—really looks at him—and Satoru can’t help but feel his composure start to slip. He swallows the lump in his throat, waiting for Nanami to reply. Still, whatever response Nanami might’ve had remains unspoken, the other sorcerer shifting his gaze away slightly, nodding to Satoru. “I should get going.”

As Nanami turns towards the car, Satoru quickly calls out, “Nanami.” Nanami looks over his shoulder at Satoru, and the latter continues, “Thanks. You’ve been a huge help this past while, and I just—Thank you.”

In lieu of a proper response, Nanami smiles. It’s a small thing, but more than anything he’s offered Satoru before. Then he turns, continuing back towards the car. “There’s still plenty of time before graduation. I’m sure our paths will cross in the meantime.”

Satoru’s grin is back now. “Of course! And hey, don’t be a stranger around here; stop by to visit anytime. Yuuji needs his Uncle Nanamin after all!”

“I told you not to call me that.”

Once Satoru is finished seeing Nanami off, he returns inside the house, shutting the door softly behind him. But when he turns to check on Yuuji, he finds Sukuna there too, seated on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as his red eyes gazing studiously upon Yuuji’s vulnerable form. And Satoru’s crossing the room in long strides before he can really think about it, Sukuna’s gaze flicking to him only when Satoru pointedly positions himself between the former curse and Yuuji. Satoru places his hands on his hips. “Join me in the kitchen for a hot sec, yeah? We need to have a little chit-chat.”

Sukuna makes no attempts to move, but Satoru’s not about to budge either. Finally, Sukuna rolls his eyes, rising from the sofa and making his way to the kitchen, Satoru following after. “Well?” Sukuna prompts once they arrive. “What have we to talk about? Don’t tell me you want to break up already.”

“I would if I could,” Satoru says with a laugh. “Unfortunately, you’re stuck with me a while longer—a year at least, according to the higher-ups. If we can manage to convince them of the validity of our relationship in that time, maybe then we can swing a new deal. Until then…” Satoru trails off, then shrugs. “My hands are tied.”

“And by your own doing, nevertheless!” And suddenly the carefree mockery turns to actual scorn, Sukuna’s red eyes burning with fury as he slams his palms down on the countertop. “I mean, seriously, what the hell were you thinking? We’re in love? Of all the idiotic, poorly evolved excuses you could have come up with it, why the fuck would you go with that one?”

Satoru scoffs. “Well, what should I have said then, huh?”

“The truth!” Sukuna spits. “I mean—this is perhaps one of the very few situations wherein the truth is better told than any lie, and yet what do you do? You lied. And not only did you lie, you lied poorly.”

“I panicked, okay?” Satoru admits, throwing his hands up in defeat. “I messed up, I know that. Sorry for being such a bad liar, I just—I’m kind of going through a lot of shit right now, alright?”

Sukuna scoffs at that. “Oh, you’re going through shit? My cursed energy was stolen from me and trapped inside a literal infant.”

“So what? It can’t be that bad.”

“I would rather be dead.”

“Yeah, I’d rather you were too. Would make this whole situation a hell of a lot easier, that’s for sure!” Satoru pauses, his words catching up to him. He drags a hand through his hair. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“You did mean it. And why should you apologize for it?” Sukuna shrugs, though he’s no longer looking at Satoru anymore. “We’re mortal enemies, after all; I’d wish the same for you—in fact, I do wish the same. Perhaps then I could do away with the brat and finally regain my cursed energy.”

Satoru rounds the island so he can stand directly in front of the former curse. “Look, let me make one thing clear: I meant what I said during that conference call. Yuuji is the only good thing I’ve got in my life right now, and I won’t let anything or anyone ruin that for me.” He towers over the curse, using his new height advantage to look down on the other. “If you try anything with him—if you so much as even breathe wrong in his direction—I will kill you. For real this time.”

“Is that a promise?” Sukuna asks, meeting Satoru’s gaze, lips curled into a cruel smirk. “Or a threat?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Sukuna hums thoughtfully. “Well, it seems we have a problem here, for I will find a way to take back my cursed energy, even if it means sacrificing the boy.”

“Over my dead body!”

Sukuna cocks his head. “That’s also part of the plan, yes.”

“I’m serious, Sukuna. One wrong move—”

“I’m aware,” Sukuna interrupts. There’s a pause, and then Sukuna’s stepping back to place more distance between the two. “I suppose we’ve reached an impasse.”

“So, it would seem.”

“Well, lucky for you I’ve grown bored of this exchange.” Sukuna turns on his heel, making his way towards the stairs that lead to the second floor. “I will be retiring to my chambers for the night.” He throws one final glare over his shoulder. “Do not bother me.”

Of course, it’s only when Satoru is preparing to put Yuuji to bed that he realizes Sukuna has actually claimed the master bedroom—the bedroom that Satoru had set up for himself and himself alone. Well, himself and Yuuji, seeing as the baby’s crib was also in there until he was old enough to move it into the nursery. Which, in addition to the loss of the luxurious king-sized bed, also posed a new problem.

Satoru sighs, gazing down at Yuuji’s sleeping form cradled in his arms as he makes his way towards the bedroom intended for Sukuna. “Well buddy, looks like you’re sleeping with me tonight, huh?”

And as Satoru lays in bed that night, sleep evasive, staring up at the dark ceiling overhead, he can’t stop the apprehension that curls deep in his stomach, the lump that works his way up into his throat. He closes his eyes against the heat that prickles there.

There’s no way in hell this plan is ever going to work.

Chapter Text

Satoru doesn’t see a lot of Sukuna that first week, and while it is something of a relief not having to cross paths with the irritable former curse at first, it also lays the perfect foundation for new anxieties to take root, for if Satoru can’t see Sukuna, he has no way of knowing just what the other is up to. And given Sukuna’s previous declarations of reclaiming his cursed energy, well…

Satoru doesn’t leave Yuuji alone.

It’s not a major issue at first. It’s well into the summer, and with cursed spirit activity at a seasonal low, Satoru is able to take an extended leave from his sorcerer duties to care for Yuuji. He loves it, the time spent with his son. They play together, watch a variety of (child-friendly) movies, take frequent naps. And Yuuji seems to be progressing well, according to Satoru’s brief mommy blog research. He’s able to roll from his stomach onto his back without assistance, but tends to get stuck on his back still. It’s entertaining for both of them at first, both Yuuji and Satoru laughing when the former manages to flop onto his back. But Yuuji grows frustrated with his struggles quite quickly, and the laughter often bubbles into angry squawks until Satoru helps Yuuji back onto his stomach—at which point Yuuji’s sunny disposition returns.

If only it were always that easy.

Yuuji still cries a lot, mostly in the evenings and at night. Satoru loses a lot of sleep, Yuuji’s crib (which Satoru had discovered had been removed from the master bedroom after that first night) relocated to his bedside. It’s a wonder Sukuna has not barged in at any point, demanding the child be silenced or otherwise threatening ill-intent, and it’s often in those moments that Satoru wonders: is Sukuna just a heavy sleeper, or has he finally fled the house for good?

But Satoru knows he’s still around. He catches brief glimpses of him in passing, though rare. And every now and then, he’ll notice certain items shifted from where last Satoru had placed them—blinds drawn across a window once left open, a chair at the dining room table skewed slightly to the left, minor things like that.

It’s…strange. Like living with a ghost—or a double-faced spectre, if you will. But as long as Satoru is around, he’s confident Sukuna won’t make a move against Yuuji.

Of course, Satoru’s work leave only lasts that first week; in just a few days, Satoru would be back running regular missions, leaving Yuuji in Itadori’s care.

God, he hopes Itadori’s stronger than he looks. And, okay, it’s not that Satoru expects Sukuna to be stupid enough to attack the older man to get to Yuuji, it’s just that he doubts Sukuna will continue to do nothing at all—that he’ll try to sink his claws into Yuuji some other way. And that’s not something Satoru can risk.

Maybe Satoru should think about hiring extra protection. Mei Mei would probably do it, so long as the price was right.

Yeah, he should get on that.

It’s the weekend, just a few days before Satoru is due back for sorcery work. The day is quite relaxed, Satoru out in the yard enjoying the fresh air and sunshine with Yuuji, who’s happily flopped on his stomach on the blanket laid out on the grass for him. Shoko will be by for a visit anytime now—though not to see Satoru, but Yuuji. While pediatrics isn’t her primary area of focus, she had apparently decided having some knowledge of infant and child medicine would be an asset, and therefore is looking to use Yuuji as her test patient. While Satoru doesn’t like the idea of his son being used as a sort of guinea pig, he’d also rather not have to consult a real pediatrician regarding his health—in the event something…unusual were to appear—and so Shoko would have to be his next best bet.

Sure enough, Shoko arrives early in the afternoon, stepping out o her car and making a beeline for Yuuji. Yuuji squeals in delight as she scoops him up in her arms, and she laughs. “Hey, kid.”

When Shoko fails to address him, Satoru rolls his eyes. “Great to see you too, Shoko,” he says, climbing to his feet.

Shoko waves him off dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. How’s Yuuji been?”

“Good. Still cries a lot though.”

“Perhaps his being an infant would be the cause.”

It’s a new voice that speaks, and when Satoru turns, he sees Nanami approaching from the car, dressed casually in a t-shirt and jeans rather than in his Jujutsu Tech uniform. Satoru grins. “Nanamin! What a surprise! I didn’t expect you back so soon. Must’ve really missed me, huh?”

“I merely came to ensure everyone was still alive.” Nanami walks past Satoru, up the front steps to the house. “The weather is quite warm this afternoon. We should head inside before Yuuji gets too hot.”

And so they make their way inside the house. Shoko immediately sets to work examining Yuuji, the child happy at all the attention, giggling and cooing even as he’s poked and prodded, measured and weighed. He seems to see it more as a game, and despite treating it all as business, Satoru sees the way Shoko’s face softens, the way the corners of her mouth curve with a smile. She asks Satoru questions about Yuuji’s behaviours—his capabilities, feeding and sleeping habits, bowel movements, etc.—and Satoru answers them to the best of his ability.

Shoko makes notes, nodding along. “Well, it looks and sounds as though everything is fine. Yuuji is a happy and healthy baby.”

“Of course he is!” Satoru puffs his chest with pride. “He’s my son after all.”

“Not just your son,” Shoko points out. “Speaking of which, where is your other half?”

Satoru waves the question off. “Oh, y’know.”

“No, we don’t know.” Nanami fixes Satoru with a serious look. “Do you know?”

“He’s got…hobbies—completely legal, super boring stuff.” Satoru shrugs. “I mean, it’s important in a healthy relationship to have some degree of independence, especially when it comes to pursuing personal interests, no? Anyways—” Satoru quickly changes the subject— “it’s about time for Yuuji’s afternoon bottle. Nanamin, be a dear and prepare your nephew’s bottle.”

Nanami sighs. “Gojo, I do not feel comfortable with the designation of Yuuji’s uncle.” Still, he does make his way to the kitchen, retrieving a clean bottle from the drying rack.

“Oh, you’ll get used to it soon enough!” Satoru decides, unphased. “The formula is in the cupboard just beside the sink—yeah, to your right. One full scoop, mixed with water, warmed-up for about thirty seconds.”

Nanami pulls the container of formula from the cupboard. He looks at it, then back in the cupboard, then back to the container. He looks at Satoru. “Gojo, this is protein powder.”

“And?” Satoru watches as Yuuji—placed back down on his playmat—rolls from his stomach to his back, laughing and kicking his arms and legs in delight.

“Gojo,” Nanami repeats slowly, carefully enunciating his words, “you can’t feed protein powder to a baby.”

“Well, how else is he supposed to get stronger?”

Nanami’s mouth opens to reply, then snaps shut quickly. He takes a deep, slow breath. “Ieiri.”

“Protein powder doesn’t provide complete nutrition for infants,” Shoko says, making more notes. “Honestly, it’s a wonder Yuuji’s in as good of shape as he is if you’ve been feeding him protein powder instead of formula.”

“If Yuuji is fine, I don’t see what the problem is,” Satoru whines, leaning his head back against the sofa.

Of course, Nanami has begun to root around through the kitchen—perhaps in search of proper formula. “You’ve also failed to acquire adequate groceries, it appears.”

“I did just fine!”

“Your pantry is filled with candy, and there isn’t a single vegetable in the fridge,” Nanami observes. “Which part of that would you consider fine?”

“If this is how you stock your kitchen, I doubt Sukuna’s pursuing a hobby,” Shoko says dryly. “More likely he’s suffering hyperglycemic shock or has fallen into a diabetic coma. This much processed sugar can’t be good for his digestion, that’s for sure—especially considering the difference between ancient and modern cuisines.”

“While I admit Sukuna’s digestive ailments are of no concern to me, I am concerned for your wellbeing, Gojo.” Nanami exits the kitchen, coming to stand in front of Satoru. “You need to take better care of yourself. You have a son to think about now. Don’t put yourself in unnecessary danger like this.”

And Satoru recalls Itadori’s words from that night, Nanami’s words echoing that same sentiment. Your world isn’t just you anymore. Satoru sighs. “Alright. I get it. Tomorrow morning, we’ll go shopping—and I’ll get proper groceries, I promise.”

Which is how, bright and early the next day, Satoru finds himself banging on the door to Sukuna’s room. “Come on! Rise and shine, sleepy head! We’ve got a big day ahead of us!”

The door opens a crack, one angry red eye peering through. “Cease this racket and be gone.”

“Nuh uh, no can do. It’s family errand day!”

“You and that brat are no family of mine.”

Satoru juts his lip out in a pout. “Aw c’mon, don’t be like that! Yuuji will be so upset if he finds out his mommy—”

The door slams in his face—expected, but still annoying. Satoru bangs on the door again. “Come on, we won’t be gone for long. We need groceries, and I’ve been informed your digestion may have more delicate sensibilities, so you need to come along and make sure we get food that won’t upset your little tum-tum.”

“Fuck off.”

Satoru laughs. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about!”

Sukuna doesn’t respond this time. Satoru sighs. “Look, part of the agreement with the higher-ups is making regular public appearances as a couple—as a family. Let’s just get this first one knocked out of the park, and then you can go back to ignoring me for another couple of weeks, yeah?”

There’s shuffling on the other side of the door, then a sigh. The door opens, and Sukuna steps through. “Let’s hurry up and get this over with.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, not so fast!” Satoru stops Sukuna with a hand on his chest. “You can’t go like this.”

“The hell is wrong now?”

“You need to change, for one,” Satoru says, clocking the fact that Sukuna is still in the same outfit he had been wearing at the school. “And two, you definitely need a shower.”

And so, around an hour later the unlikely trio makes their way into the city, Satoru driving the personal car he had purchased soon after moving in, Sukuna riding shotgun and Yuuji safely strapped into his car seat in the back. Sukuna had showered and changed, thankfully, and through that process Satoru discovered that Sukuna did in fact not have any personal possessions of his own. As such, a shopping trip for a new wardrobe was in order, the clothing borrowed from Satoru’s own not the best fit for the former curse. Sukuna’s much shorter than Satoru now but still a bit broader, so the borrowed joggers and t-shirt are a bit tight on his frame—not that Satoru’s complaining per se, but he can tell Sukuna’s not exactly comfortable with the attire, constantly pulling at the sleeves cuffed too tightly around his biceps, at the fabric clinging to his abdomen, his thighs.

Sukuna looks good, in Satoru’s objective and humble opinion—especially less the extra appendages—but a large part of looking good is feeling good in what you wear, and it’s quite apparent that what Sukuna’s feeling is far from good.

Luckily, since Satoru’s such a nice guy, he’ll help him out.

A thought occurs to him. “Y’know,” he starts, turning down the radio a bit to speak, “since I’m going to be the one paying for all the stuff you’re getting, that sort of makes me your sugar daddy.”

“Do not test me, Six Eyes,” Sukuna warns, gaze fixed outside the window. “I will make you crash this car.”

Satoru relents for now.

They arrive at the supermarket in one piece, no children or Satorus harmed in the process. “Alright,” Satoru says as he starts climbing out of the car, “you have two options: you take Yuuji in his baby carrier or push the cart. Your choice.”

Sukuna follows suit, unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out into the parking lot. “Before I choose, I have one question: what do you mean by baby carrier?”

“I’m glad you asked!” Satoru ruffles through Yuuji’s things, pulling out the pale blue harness of the baby carrier. “Taadaa! You just strap yourself into this—” He slips the harness on to demonstrate— “adjust everything to the proper fit, baby slides into here and voila! Baby carrier.”

Sukuna raises a brow. “I’ll push the cart.”

Satoru shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He adjusts all the straps, making sure everything is secure before lifting Yuuji from his car seat, fastening him into the carrier. Yuuji had just awakened from a short nap minutes prior, so he’s still a little cranky, but he brightens up when Satoru bounces him a little in the carrier. Easily amused, his Yuuji.

Sukuna wrinkles his nose. “Disgusting.”

“Takes after you, then,” Satoru bites back.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sukuna says. “Despite having my cursed energy, the brat takes more after you—unfortunately.”  He adds this last part under his breath, so Satoru barely catches it.

But Sukuna is right: with the exception of his eye colour and the fact that he’s still a chubby undeveloped infant who more so resembles a potato than an actual human person, Yuuji does resemble Satoru more than Sukuna. It’s all in the hair, really—downy-soft pale locks almost white in colour, though much blonder in the right light—but the fact that Yuuji is adorable and has the face of an angel (minus the potato-like quality) also contributes somewhat.

They make their way into the supermarket, Satoru grabbing a cart for Sukuna. However, when Satoru offers the cart to the former curse, the latter just crosses his arms. “I don’t see why I should be forced to partake in such a mundane task,” he says, eyeing the cart. “You’re clearly capable of handling both carrying the brat and pushing the cart yourself.”

“It’s not about my capabilities,” Satoru argues, “it’s about working as a team, presenting a unified front. We’re out in public—anyone could be watching.”

Sukuna raises a brow. “I highly doubt the higher-ups of your society have followed us into this supermarket.”

“No,” Satoru concedes, “but I did pick this particular supermarket because I know Yaga often shops here.”

“Still, the chances of us actually crossing paths with—”

“Oh look!” Satoru interrupts, already veering off in a different direction, Sukuna quickly grabbing the cart and scrambling to follow. It’s apparent what’s caught Satoru’s attention: just leaving the checkout, arms laden with bags, is Masamichi Yaga.

“Yaga! Wow, what a coincidence running into you here,” Satoru says in a tone that implies it absolutely was not a coincidence but rather the product of extreme personal vigilance bordering on stalking.

“Yes, it’s good to see you,” Yaga replies in a tone that implies it absolutely is not good to see them but rather the last thing he had hoped would befall him on his day off.

Despite all of Yaga’s body language reading stop talking to me, Satoru continues, “As you can see, we’re out on a family shopping trip—” Satoru drapes an arm over Sukuna’s shoulder, the latter tensing up immediately— “The three of us, all together, a team competing for nothing but the chance to show—nay, celebrate—our unbridled love and dedication to one another.” Satoru squeezes Sukuna’s shoulder. “Isn’t that right, honey?”

Sukuna—who’s currently engaged in a very serious staring match with Yuuji—waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Shopping for honey with love.”

“Yes, well.” Yaga tips his head politely, ready to make his esca—departure. “I will leave you to it.”

“Thanks! See you Monday!” Satoru calls after Yaga’s (hastily) retreating form. Then, once the other man is out of sight, Satoru smacks Sukuna upside the head.

“Hey, what the fu—”

“What the hell was that? How’s anyone going to believe we’re in love when you’re not even paying attention? And quit staring at Yuuji like that!” Satoru turns so his body shields Yuuji from view.

“It’s not my fault. The brat started it,” Sukuna says, eyes narrowed. “He just kept staring at me with his disturbingly large eyes, and I refused to be bested in any competition with someone who doesn’t even have fully-developed kneecaps.”

“How the hell would you know about the development of his kneecaps?”

“It’s common knowledge—”

“Wait,” Satoru interrupts, the first part of Sukuna’s excuse finally registering in his brain, “when Yuuji was staring at you, did it look like there was absolutely nothing going on inside his brain, like a complete no thoughts, head empty type of thing?”

Sukuna tilts his head. “Yes, but I don’t see how that’s any different from his usual—”

“Sukuna! That’s Yuuji’s pooping face!”

“He has a pooping face?”

Which is how Sukuna found himself standing outside the supermarket’s washroom, guarding the shopping cart while Satoru deals with Yuuji’s…well, business. Now, why exactly Sukuna needs to guard an empty shopping cart, he isn’t certain, but when the alternative is considerably much shittier, he’s more than happy with his station.

“We’re back!” Satoru announces their arrival, exiting the washroom with a smiling Yuuji. “Now then, let’s get shopping!”

Satoru—being the most experienced of the group when it comes to grocery shopping—takes the lead, determining that the best course of action is to walk up and down every aisle and buy anything that looks good or interesting. Of course, this leads to their cart rapidly filling with various colourful boxes and packages that even Satoru can’t identify.

And so, about two and a half aisles later, their shopping cart is full.

Now granted, those two and a half aisles were primarily stocked with candies and other over-processed sugary junk foods, which Satoru is essentially powerless against, but still.

Nanami would be disappointed.

“Okay, new gameplan!” Satoru claps his hands together, startling Yuuji—who thankfully doesn’t cry. “Instead of buying everything that looks interesting, we need to get serious and buy only what looks boring and basic—things that Nanamin would buy!”

Leaning against the shopping cart’s handle, Sukuna raises a brow. “Who?”

“So first—” Satoru ignores the question, turning towards the front entrance of the shop— “we’ll need a second cart. I’ll go grab one, while you stay here.”

Satoru bounds away before Sukuna can reply. Still, despite grumbling in annoyance at the whole matter, Sukuna stays put—not because Satoru told him to, but because, despite being older than supermarkets themselves, he’s never had reason to set foot in one before and therefore is a little out of his element (his element being expansive battlefields of glorious bloodshed and gore, of course).

Minutes pass, and Satoru has yet to return. Really, he should’ve been back by now—they hadn’t made it that far from the entrance. Perhaps something…unfortunate had happened to Satoru.

Sukuna grins wickedly at the thought.

He abandons the shopping cart to go investigate—only concerned with recovering the brat, really; Satoru can go fuck himself for all he cares—but the scene he stumbles upon is far more gruesome than anything he could have imagined.

Satoru is surrounded by a flock of starry-eyed young women, each cooing and fawning over him—well, him and the baby, but it’s a bit of a toss-up regarding who’s getting the most attention. And the two of them eat it all up: Yuuji grinning, showing off his disgusting, slobbery gums to the world as his pudgy cheeks try their hardest to swallow his eyes whole; and Satoru, sunglasses pushed up onto his head to show off his creepy blue eyes, flashing a smile that’s all glitter, no substance. It’s nauseating, the way the air seems to sparkle around them, and Sukuna, despite having only arrived on the scene mere seconds ago, is definitely over it.

He may not strike quite as imposing of a figure as he once did, but he’s confident he’s still more than intimidating enough to scare away a few women.

So he stomps up to the group, face twisted into a menacing scowl. “Satoru Gojo—”

“Oh, hey!” Satoru greets as though he hadn’t abandoned Sukuna with a shopping cart full of junk just moments earlier. Before Sukuna can give Satoru a piece of his mind, however, the sorcerer turns to address the crowd once more. “Ladies, this is my partner, Sukuna. I know, I know—” he adds when the news is met with a chorus of disappointed awws— “it’s a shame a handsome man such as myself is already taken, but alas, not even I can defy the power of love.”

“What the fuck?” Sukuna intelligently replies as the women swoon over Satoru. A few have turned their attention on Sukuna, though, and instead of running away in terror, the reaction is, well…the opposite.

“How are we supposed to compete with him?”

“Of course the whole family would be attractive!”

“Pretty people belong with pretty people, I guess.”

Again, Sukuna replies, “What the fuck?”

Satoru turns to him again, and there’s a teasing look to the curve of his smile now, a playful light in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sukuna quickly cuts him off before he can speak. “Never mind, just—did you get the cart?”

“I got something even better,” Satoru announces. “Here, catch!”

Satoru’s barely finished giving a warning before he’s tossing a mid-sized container Sukuna’s way. Luckily, the latter still has incredible reflexes, so he catches it easily. He eyes the container, squinting at the label. “Infant formula, zero to six months,” he reads, confused.

Satoru puffs his chest in pride. “It’s actual baby formula—best of the best, according to these wonderful ladies.” Satoru winks at the women, and Sukuna swears one of them almost faints.

Sukuna examines the container closely, unsure of what exactly he’s supposed to make of it. “Is this formula for infants what you used to spawn the brat?”

“He’s already got dad jokes!” one of the women says as they all start to laugh.

Satoru also laughs, but it’s far more mocking. “Nah, it’s a milk replacement for Yuuji. Now we don’t have to feed him protein powder anymore! Nanamin will be so proud of me.”

“You were feeding him powdered protein?” Sukuna questions, but again, before Satoru can answer, Sukuna cuts him off. “Never mind, I don’t need to know.”

Yuuji starts to squawk, probably fed up with his current surroundings—and Sukuna finds himself empathizing with the brat. They’ve been here far too long.

“Alright, well—” Satoru turns back to the women—“we should carry on. It was lovely meeting you all, and thanks again for your help!”

The women bid them farewell, being sure to wave specifically to Yuuji before they all disperse. Finally free from that particular crowd, Satoru turns to Sukuna. “So, good job staying with the cart.”

Sukuna crosses his arms. “Good job getting a second cart.”

“…Touché.”

They do manage to reclaim their first cart and obtain a second cart, completing their shopping trip without too much of a hassle—Sukuna only uttering nineteen death threats the entire time—eighty-one fewer than Satoru had expected. They procure a number of culinary staples such as rice and different cuts of meat, and in addition to the abundance of sweets acquired by Satoru, Sukuna manages to slip actual produce into the cart as well. At the checkout, Satoru pays no mind to the final total, though judging by the astounded faces of everyone around him and the receipt that winds up being longer than he is tall, he’s probably spent the perfect amount on groceries.

Finally, they make their way back out to the car, pushing along their carts full of grocery bags, Yuuji dozing softly in his carrier, a successful shopping trip behind them—

A car almost backs up into them. Sukuna abandons his cart. “Watch where you’re going, you fucking incompetent waste of flesh!" he shouts, shaking an angry fist, "You think you’re any match for the King of Curses? I could have your pathetic body flayed seventeen different ways before you even so much as breathe. This disgusting iron vessel will not protect you!” He starts kicking the car, and Satoru has to quickly pull him away before he causes more of a scene.

Okay, up to twenty death threats now.

Maybe they’ll stick to online shopping from now on.

Chapter Text

It’s surprisingly easy to settle into a routine—to walk the tightrope he’s constructed for himself, the precarious balancing act of his duty to Jujutsu society and his role as a family man. One foot in front of the other, perfectly placed, no matter how much the wire sways and bends. Even the slightest misstep could be fatal, every millimetre the difference between life and certain death. To fail means to fall—to endanger the world to the grips of curses, or endanger Yuuji to the wrath of the higher-ups. Neither is acceptable. Neither can happen.

So it’s one step in front of the other, each step a day, each day giving way to weeks, then months, until all of a sudden December rolls around, and Satoru is no closer to ridding the world of curses nor placating the higher-ups than when he started. His balancing act was perfect, no step out of place, but in the end, it never mattered; the tightrope had collapsed beneath him long before, he had just failed to notice.

But Yuuji is safe—strong and happy, nearing nine months old and able to finally sit on his own, crawl around, and even attempt to pull himself into a standing position. He’s cuter now, too, finally starting to grow into his big golden eyes, his pudgy features. He looks less like a potato now and more like an actual human infant, though with his aging comes developments Satoru is less than keen about.

His hair is no longer white.

Sure, Yuuji’s hair had started to take on more of a pale blond quality around the three- or four-month mark, but it was easy enough to play it off as a mere trick of the light. But now, those pale locks have darkened, the upper strands appearing almost reddish at times, while the bottom deepening further to a dirty blond, almost brown.

And it’s…jarring, in a way. Before, when Satoru looked at the child, he could undeniably lay his claim to him. He could see those fuzzy wisps of white and think, that’s him, that’s my son. But now…

He sees himself there still, sort of—in the glitter of his eyes, the softness in his cheeks, his smiles. But beyond that, there’s something undeniably Sukuna in his features, in the strange bi-colouring of his hair, in the unnaturally sharp incisors beginning to poke through his gums.

But Satoru loves him. He loves him more than he thought himself capable of loving another person, more than he loves himself most days. Unfortunate features aside, this is still his son. And no matter what setbacks and stagnancy he had been facing as of late, Satoru isn’t about to let anything happen to him.

He won’t lose anyone else. He can’t.

Satoru’s just put Yuuji down for his afternoon nap when there’s a knock at the front door. He frowns, making his way across the living room to answer, swinging the door open to find the last person he’d expect to see on his doorstep: Kento Nanami.

Actually, no, Nanami definitely isn’t the last person he’d expect to see, but unexpected nevertheless—especially considering he had given no indication of his visit, unlike his previous (and scarce). Still, Nanami is here, a thick jacket pulled over his dark school uniform and a tired expression on his face, and while Satoru would like to believe Nanami is simply here on a social visit, there’s something about that expression that tells him otherwise. “Gojo,” Nanami greets, nodding his head politely.

Satoru grins. “Nanamin! What a pleasant surprise!” He stands aside, opening the door wide and gesturing for the blond. “Come in, make yourself at home.”

Nanami enters, carefully removing his shoes at the door. “I will not be here for long,” Nanami says as he makes his way into the living room, Satoru tailing behind him. “I’m sure you’ve already concluded that this is no simple visit.”

That confirms his suspicions. Satoru may not know a lot about the blond sorcerer—him being a year younger and generally having avoided Satoru in school—but even still, Satoru’s aware that Nanami isn’t the type to go unnecessarily out of his way for someone, especially someone he holds in as little regard as Satoru. Someone put Nanami up to this, and Satoru already thinks he knows who.

Still, Satoru grins, flopping down on the plush sofa with a satisfied sigh. “Aw, and here I was hoping you just couldn’t get enough of me.”

Nanami takes a seat in the nearby armchair, though he’s perched right on the edge of the cushion, poised for escape despite his otherwise calm demeanour. “Don’t be absurd,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “Several months back, I was asked by the principal of the Kyoto school to do some reconnaissance on you, Yuuji, and Sukuna. That has been the reason behind many of my prior visits as well.”

Gakuganji. Of course that old bastard would get someone else to do his dirty work. Still, Satoru doesn’t let his frustration show, flashing a grin. “What a sweet old man, sending someone to check up on us! I never knew he was so invested in my and Sukuna’s relationship. I should have him over for tea sometime, yeah?”

Nanami frowns at him. “Is this a joke to you?”

Satoru scoffs. “Sort of, yeah—kidding!” he quickly tacks on when Nanami’s frown turns considerably more murderous. “Geez Nanami, lighten up a little, would you? I’m aware of how serious this situation is—Sukuna and I both are. And we’re a team in this, making sure Yuuji is safe, and that the higher-ups stay placated.” He waves a dismissive hand. “So don’t worry about it. We’ve got this covered.”

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering, “You can’t honestly be this stupid.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know the relationship between you and Sukuna is a farce—as do the higher-ups,” Nanami reveals. “You can’t tell me you seriously believed you had them fooled.”

“My story was so good though. And my acting’s been flawless!” Satoru groans, tipping his head back over the edge of the sofa. “It’s obviously Sukuna’s fault. He’s the one who can’t put on a convincing performance.”

As if on cue, footsteps come stomping down the hallway, and Satoru sighs, bracing himself. Speak of the devil.

“Satoru Gojo,” Sukuna snarls as he enters the room, red eyes fixed on the white-haired sorcerer with a single-minded focus. In his hand are two brightly-patterned shirts, which he shakes viciously at Satoru. “If another of these hideously gaudy garments appears in my closet again, I swear to god, I will ki—”

Nanami clears his throat, and it’s then that Sukuna registers the other figure in the room. “—iss you,” he finishes carefully, eyes flitting now between the two sorcerers. “On the lips—”

“You can drop the act,” Satoru interrupts, rubbing a tired hand across his brow. “He knows.”

“—with my fist, you fashion-blind fuck.” All pretenses dropped, Sukuna’s rage is back in full force, directed solely on Satoru. “You have Six Eyes—perhaps you can try using them to find a shirt that’s actually wearable.” He shakes the garments again for emphasis.

A quick scan of his appearance reveals that Sukuna is in fact wearing the simple black sweater and matching joggers that Satoru had purchased for him months ago—having discovered his lack of a wardrobe—completely undermining the former curse’s assertion (though Satoru helpfully doesn’t point that out).

“Hey now,” Satoru admonishes instead, “that’s Dolce and Gabbana.”

“It’s revolting and offensive,” Sukuna spits. He holds up one of the shirts—a long-sleeved button-up comprised of two pastel floral patterns spliced together, the shirt that Satoru had definitely purchased as more of a joke than anything else. “Really, who would go through the trouble of ruining two different disgusting shirts to create one that’s infinitely more grotesque than its components.”

“I don’t think that’s how it was made—”

“And this!” He holds up the second shirt now—the one that Satoru thought Sukuna might actually like—a loose red button-up with a leopard on its front, complimented by subtle leopard print patterning. “What the hell were you thinking when you purchased this?”

“The red matches your eyes.” And Satoru could leave it at that, but restraint has never been one of his strong suits. “And leopards are basically just oversized housecats, kind of like you now, so—”

He’s cut off when both shirts are thrown (with impressive force) at his face. Sukuna juts a threatening finger towards the sorcerer, eyes alight with his rage, and while a lesser man may have cowered under the pressure of that gaze, Satoru barely bats an eye. Sukuna takes a deep breath. “Fuck you.”

With that, the former curse spins on his heel, stomping his way back out of the living room and down the hall. Moments later, a door slams, echoing harshly throughout the house. Satoru winces, waiting for the commotion to startle Yuuji from his nap, but thankfully the house remains blissfully quiet. Satoru’s shoulders relax, and he sighs. “Yeah, okay. I can sort of see how the higher-ups may not have been fooled—but in my defense, we’re more convincing when we’re actually, y’know, trying.”

Nanami doesn’t seem convinced, raising an unimpressed brow. Satoru rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine. It was a dumb plan that of course was never going to work. There, happy?”

“I do not take pleasure in the suffering of others,” Nanami replies simply, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.

“You’re such a saint.” Satoru leans forward so he can lean against his knees, head hanging as he heaves a heavy sigh. “This whole situation is ridiculous. I mean, why would the higher-ups go along with the whole relationship thing for so long if they don’t even believe it? It makes no sense!”

“They’re trying to trap you, Gojo,” Nanami replies. “They know you and Sukuna will only be able to play house for so long. Eventually, one of you is going to mess up, and the consequences will be dire. And when that happens, they’ll be able to turn the entire Jujutsu world against you.”

Satoru shakes his head, looking up to meet Nanami’s gaze. “They’ve already got enough dirt on me based on Sukuna’s survival and Yuuji’s existence. They could easily turn the Jujutsu world against me already, so why drag it out?”

“Because Principal Yaga convinced the others that those reasons aren’t good enough.” Nanami holds Satoru’s gaze steady, eyes meeting even past his dark shades. “As it stands, Sukuna is no longer a threat, and if Yuuji can be properly trained to wield his cursed energy, it’ll be a great asset to us in the future. It’s more beneficial to keep Yuuji alive and keep you on our side.”

“But the higher-ups want to get rid of me,” Satoru finishes, the pieces finally falling into place. “And humouring me in this relationship is their best chance.”

“Exactly.”

Satoru laughs—a humourless puff of breath. “Well, we’ve been keeping it together so far,” he points out. “Guess we better not mess up now, huh?”

“What you choose to do or not do is of no consequence to me,” comes the reply. “I simply came to inform you of this.”

Satoru sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Why tell me at all? Won’t you get in trouble with the old man?”

“I am not concerned with my standing in Jujutsu society. I plan to leave it, after all. As for your first question…” Nanami trails off, measuring his words carefully before continuing. “I’ve simply grown tired of being a pawn in this political game of chess the higher-ups are playing. Nothing more.”

Satoru grins wryly. “Right. Well, thanks for telling me—even if it was only for your benefit.”

“Selfish as my reasons may be, I do not wish any harm to fall upon you or Yuuji—especially Yuuji. Whatever happens, I hope for Yuuji’s safety above all else. He’s just a child, after all.” Nanami rises from his seat, nodding to Satoru. “Now that that’s done, it’s time I take my leave.”

Satoru remains seated a moment longer, even as Nanami makes his way towards the door. “Promise me something, Nanami,” he says, and the other stops in his tracks, turning to look back at Satoru. “If anything ever happens to me, promise me you’ll take care of Yuuji.”

Nanami doesn’t reply immediately, gaze calculating and guarded as he appraises Satoru. Finally, he asks, “Why ask me this?”

“You’re the only one strong enough to protect him—the only one I trust.” Satoru rises from the sofa, closing the distance between them easily with his long strides. He removes his shades so he can look Nanami directly in the eye. “So promise me. Please.”

Nanami takes a deep breath. “I can’t make that promise,” he replies, and before Satoru can protest, he continues, “But, what I can promise is that, should circumstances call for it, I will do whatever is in Yuuji’s best interest.”

And when Satoru smiles this time, it’s earnest. “Thanks, Nanami.”

December is cold—bitterly so, even in its early days—and Satoru feels the chill settle deep into his bones, into his very soul perhaps. It makes him want to stop everything, curl up in a pile of blankets and disappear for a while until spring arrives and returns some warmth to his skin.

But there’s too much to do, curses growing in numbers as seasonal depression takes its toll on the human population. Satoru barely has a day off anymore, so swamped with missions, so it’s a surprise when he arrives at Jujutsu Tech for his usual morning briefing, only to have Yaga intercept him at the gates.

The older sorcerer stuffs his hands into his pockets when Satoru approaches, a thick winter jacket pulled over his usual attire to ward off the chill. “What are you doing here, Satoru?”

Satoru smiles, waving a hand. “Ready to receive a mission, obviously.”

“On your day off?” Yaga asks, frowning slightly.

And that catches Satoru off guard, hand paused mid-wave and smile frozen in place even as he asks, “Come again?”

Yaga sighs. “Satoru, do you have any idea what day it is today?”

“Thursday?”

“It’s December seventh.”

“Oh.” So he hadn’t been paying very close attention to the specific days—sue him! It’s not like he owns a calendar anyway. Still, he protests, “Well, that doesn’t mean—”

Yaga cuts him off. “Go home, Satoru,” he says, voice stern and leaving little room for argument. “Take the day for yourself. God knows you need it. We can handle things just fine in your absence.”

“But—”

“Satoru.”

“Fine,” Satoru relents, bottom lip jutted in what’s definitely not a pout. He sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Still, he makes no move to leave just yet.

Yaga appears unconcerned with the display, simply resuming his trek past the front gates. “Oh, and one more thing before you go.” When he reaches Satoru’s side, he reaches out to rest a hand on the other’s shoulder, smiling as he gives it a gentle squeeze. “Happy birthday, Satoru.”

His birthday. His eighteenth birthday. The year he’s finally considered an adult in the eyes of the law. But the distinction makes little difference to Satoru: he’s long since been forced to bear the mantle of adult.

Birthdays have always been a time of celebration for Satoru—a time where he can demand praise and attention without coming across as arrogant, the one time of the year his self-important nature was deemed acceptable by society. But something’s shifted this year; the day that once brought nothing but joy now fills him with dread, weighs down his feet with heavy steps as he chooses to walk the distance to Itadori’s apartment rather than warp or call a car. The cool air helps him keep a clear head, slows the thoughts that threaten to swirl in a tumultuous storm in his mind.

Because Satoru hadn’t forgotten the current date—contrary to what he had told Yaga. He was well aware of the month, the day, the very minute and second. He had felt it when the clock struck midnight last night, when the sixth had transitioned to the seventh and carried with it the weight of another year to press upon his tired limbs. And he had tried to fight against it, tried to deny time its victory by refusing to acknowledge its passing, but despite the overwhelming power granted to him through Limitless and the Six Eyes, there’s little he can do to stop the passage of time.

So he returns to Itadori’s apartment with the excuse of a schedule mix-up, his shift bumped to that evening. Then he treats the older man to a nice lunch despite his protests, taking him out to a fairly expensive restaurant that they really have no business being in with a child, but given a little…persuasion (bribery), the waitstaff makes an exception.

(And it takes a bit more persuasion not to kick them out after Yuuji ends up dumping a plate of steamed vegetables all over the floor, shattering said plate in the process and creating a commotion with his subsequent crying.)

They spend the afternoon at Itadori’s place, lounging and playing with Yuuji until finally the evening hits and Satoru excuses himself once more for his “shift.”

Back in the cold air, Satoru fishes his phone from his pocket, powering it on and waiting for the onslaught of messages to come in, birthday wishes from friends and acquaintances alike. He disregards most of them for now, only deciding to reply to Shoko’s invitation to hang out and celebrate, claiming he’s busy with Yuuji, but maybe they can celebrate another night.

(Not that he plans to follow through.)

One quick stop to a nearby supermarket for a premade sheet cake, and Satoru’s got all he needs for an evening of birthday fun.

He warps his way directly into the kitchen, setting the cake on the island before rooting around in the cupboards and drawers for a plate and a fork, ultimately returning the plate after a moment’s thought. Fuck it, he decides as he settles down at the island, pulling the cake towards him and pulling off the plastic cover. He doesn’t bother cutting the cake, simply digging in with his fork, scooping up a large section and stuffing it into his mouth, eyes closing in ecstasy as the sweetness hits his tongue. He takes another bite. Then another. It’s not like anyone’s around to judge me, anyway.

“Well, this is just pathetic.”

Scratch that—there is someone who’s around to judge.

Sukuna’s appearances are few and far between these days. With the exception of the routine family outings and his occasional rebuke of Satoru’s totally awesome clothing deliveries, Sukuna makes himself quite scarce, holed up in his room for hours on end or perhaps even absent altogether. It’s nearly impossible to track Sukuna’s comings and goings when he lacks cursed energy to sense, and while Satoru could always just bust down the locked bedroom door and check, he’s never brought himself to do anything beyond the occasional knock (which almost always go unanswered, though whether it’s because Sukuna is away or simply ignoring the sorcerer is a bit of a toss-up).

Boundaries had quickly been established—wordlessly, derived from mutual understanding and agreement rather than conversation—and while all areas of the house were largely fair-game for use, bedrooms were another matter. Sukuna never breached Satoru’s private space, and in return, Satoru respected Sukuna’s private space as well. And while there had been some anxiety at first allowing this blind spot within his house, Satoru quickly came to accept it; beyond the occasional long, studying gaze, Sukuna had made no moves against Yuuji. He observed quietly, watching Yuuji’s every move with a carefully guarded expression, but nothing more—and never anything when Satoru wasn’t around, though that was simply based on Itadori’s confirmation that he didn’t see any suspicious people hanging around, why the hell would you be asking that?

But Sukuna’s here now, gracing Satoru with one of his rare unscheduled appearances, and honestly, he’s looking a bit worse for wear. Dark circles underline red eyes, and pale rose hair is mussed and tangled in a way that most likely wasn’t intentional. He’s in his usual sweatshirt and sweatpants combo, both garments hanging loosely on his frame—though Satoru can’t remember if they had been purchased oversized or not. He pushes the thought away; it’s not like he can judge someone on their appearance when he’s probably looking like shit himself.

Satoru stabs his fork into the cake with more force than necessary. “It’s my birthday,” he says, scooping a large chunk of the cake onto his fork, only to have it promptly fall off. “If I want to celebrate by sitting alone in my kitchen eating an entire cake by myself, then so be it.”

Satoru tries to scoop the piece of cake again, but it’s simply too big to balance on his fork, and once again it goes tumbling to the tray below, landing directly on the icing. Satoru sighs. He reaches out and grabs it with his hand, shoving the cake into his mouth and ignoring the crumbs and icing that smear across his lips and cheeks or escape to the countertop below.

Sukuna raises a brow. “If you’re going to throw yourself a pity party,” he says, lips curling in disgust when Satoru proceeds to lick the crumbs directly from the countertop, “the least you could do is be an adult about it.”

Face still pressed to the countertop, Satoru frowns at the former curse. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Apparently, it means getting shit-faced drunk, for moments later Satoru and Sukuna are rolling up to the nearest liquor store in the former’s car, quickly darting inside to avoid the evening chill. A bell chimes and signals their arrival, but the clerk at the till pays them no mind as they wander the aisles, both inexperienced in this particular environment (Satoru being still underaged and Sukuna being born in a time before the creation of liquor stores) but neither is willing to admit it, so eventually they settle on purchasing a couple of bottles at random—based almost entirely on how cool they think the bottles look. Which is how they end up placing a sparkly silver bottle of some impossible-to-pronounce wine (Satoru’s pick) and a glass skull-shaped bottle of vodka (Sukuna’s pick) on the counter.

The clerk—an older woman with whips of grey streaking her pulled-back hair—eyes them, taking in Satoru’s obviously youthful appearance with a raised brow before shifting her gaze to Sukuna. Her eyes visibly trace the dark lines marking his face, and finally, she shrugs, ringing up their purchases without asking for ID.

As they exit the store moments later, Satoru heaves a relieved sigh. “Right, what now?”

Sukuna grins, twisting open the cap on his bottle. “Now,” he says, raising the crystalline skull to the sky, “we get fucked up.”

It doesn’t take long for either of them to get fucked up, all things considered. Satoru has always been something of a lightweight with very little interest in drinking, so it takes nothing more than a whiff of liquor for intoxication to set in. And while in a bygone era Sukuna may have been able to drink anyone and everyone under the table, his newly imposed human form does not have the same capabilities. And so, barely twenty minutes after arriving home from their impromptu trip to the liquor store, Satoru and Sukuna are without a doubt absolutely inebriated.

“Oh my god,” Satoru practically moans, words muffled by a mouthful of cake. He’s leaning heavily against the kitchen island, half-sitting on one of the stools as he stretches out his hand again, tearing away another chunk of the dessert. “Why does this taste so much better than before?”

Sukuna’s also seated at the island—actually managing to situate himself properly on his stool—and while he tries his best to maintain an air of sobriety, the slight sway of his body betrays him; had it not been for his grip on the countertop, he’d be on the ground. With his free hand, he grabs a piece of cake for himself, squinting at it briefly before popping it in his mouth. His nose wrinkles. “It’s revolting,” he hisses, grabbing another handful to shove into his mouth.

“You know what would make this taste even better?” Satoru asks, and before Sukuna can actually offer an answer, he declares, “Music!”

“That doesn’t make any sense—”

But Satoru does not let Sukuna’s naysaying dissuade him, sliding from his stool and skipping (or rather, stumbling) across to the living room where a Bluetooth speaker sits, turning the speaker on before selecting a playlist from his phone and cranking the volume up. As the sounds of cheerful pop music fill the house, Satoru grins, tossing his phone aside on the sofa. “Yes! This is my jam!”

He's pretty sure he hears Sukuna mutter something along the lines of this is my hell, but it’s hard to be sure over the thrum of bass in his ears. Regardless, Satoru ignores him, instead pushing the coffee table off to the side to create a makeshift dancefloor. After a quick return to the kitchen to take another swig from his wine bottle (face scrunching at the sharp taste, not nearly as sweet as he had been expecting of the sparkling bottle), he’s out on the dancefloor, moving his body to the beat—or at least to some approximation of the beat, arms and hips and feet swaying along as he dances (read: flails clumsily).

And the thing is, he knows he looks ridiculous, knows it in the way his feet trip over one another, in the strange contorting of his lanky limbs, but there’s heat flowing through his veins, setting his confidence and arrogance alight, bubbling and boiling and spilling over until all he can feel is that jubilation, that certain kind of freedom that only comes with utter shamelessness. So even if in reality, he’s nothing more than a clumsy heap of limbs, he feels like the greatest, the best, the most talented, most attractive—

He feels like the strongest. He feels like himself.

Sukuna, of course, does not share the same sentiments, and he makes his disagreement known. “You are absolutely terrible at this,” he shouts, voice muffled by a mouthful of the cake he keeps eating despite proclaiming his disgust with it. Speaking of— “You’re even worse than this fucking cake.” He punctuates his point by grabbing another handful of said cake, lobbing it with surprising accuracy at Satoru, who abruptly stops his movements in favour of shooting the former curse a scandalized look. Sukuna throws more cake.

Satoru doges the next attack, planting his hands on his hips. “I’d like to see you do better,” he challenges.

But Sukuna doesn’t take the bait. “Not a fucking chance.”

Satoru isn’t deterred—quite the opposite, actually. He grins, slowly making his way towards the kitchen, a predator on the prowl. Sukuna cocks a brow. Satoru’s grin turns dangerous.

Before the other can react, Satoru reaches out to grab him by the wrist, tugging him from his stool and practically dragging him to the dancefloor, ignoring the way Sukuna flails and swears at him—hissing and spitting like an angry housecat. Satoru laughs, then immediately yelps as Sukuna lashes out, nearly catching Satoru with a fist to the jaw.

Sukuna’s got his feet back, and he manages to wrench himself free of Satoru’s grip, red eyes blazing with rage. “Satoru Gojo—"

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” Satoru cuts him off, dodging around the next fist Sukuna throws his way, then reaches out to catch the one that follows soon after. He uses the momentum of the strike to spin Sukuna around in a circle—a mockery of a dance that has Satoru cackling with glee but only serves to fuel Sukuna’s rage.

Soon, any thought of a dance is forgotten, the two locked in a sloppy brawl. It’s not a proper fight; compared to their last bought, it’s nothing more than toddlers squabbling on the playground. Uncoordinated attacks, little strength behind their strikes, all posturing for the sake of appearances, no real intent behind the actions.

At some point, one or both of them trips, and they crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Satoru manages to twist his body so he can land bodily on top of Sukuna rather than colliding with the hardwood floor, and the impact knocks a pained grunt from Sukuna. Satoru laughs. “Whoops. Sorry.”

Sukuna raises his head to glare at Satoru. “I’m sure you are.”

Satoru goes to push himself up, pettily using Sukuna’s torso as leverage, but when his palm presses against the latter’s ribs, he freezes. Even through the thick cotton sweater, Satoru feels the sharp ridge of bone beneath his fingertips, much too prominent, no suggestion of the healthy muscle or fat that had been below the skin months prior.

And suddenly Satoru is back in his old apartment, sprawled out on the floor with Suguru in his arms, the warm press of his skin a comfort as he runs his hand up and down his chest, along his side, and he’s so caught up in the memory that he doesn’t notice the way his hand now traces that same pattern across Sukuna’s sweater, the way the former curse tenses under the movement.

And maybe it’s the strange nostalgia or the alcohol in his blood, but Satoru finds himself braving the question he should have asked Suguru all those months ago:

“Are you okay?”

Something like surprise flashes across Sukuna’s face, overwhelming the anger and disgust. But it lasts barely a moment, a blink of an eye, before his expression returns to careful indifference. He shoves against Satoru, pushing him to the floor. “Get your filthy fucking hands off of me.”

Satoru lets himself be shoved aside, rolling over to press his back against the cool floor. The ceiling spins above him, making him dizzy, but the feeling only gets worse when he closes his eyes—when it seems like he can feel the world spin as it hurtles through space. So he opens his eyes again, tilting his head to follow Sukuna’s movements as he rises unsteadily to his feet, as he makes his way over to the kitchen to retrieve his skull of vodka, taking a large pull. If it burns on the way down, he doesn’t show it.

Satoru expects Sukuna to retreat to his room—as is typically the routine after any of their interactions—so it’s a surprise when Sukuna returns to the living room with glass skull in hand, lowering himself gingerly to the floor next to Satoru, back pressed against the sofa. He doesn’t speak. Neither of them does. They sit in silence—though silence is a definite misnomer; the music still blares in the background, bass shaking the house to its very foundations, tangible even in his bones, resounding in the beat of his heart. And it’s all too much, too loud, but his phone is still somewhere on the couch, and he can’t seem to bring his body to move, so he resigns himself to suffer.

Thankfully, the suffering doesn’t last long, the next song considerably slower than the previous one, and Satoru can finally breathe a little easier now. He sighs, letting his eyes slip shut once again, letting the flow of the universe reclaim him.

“From what I’ve observed,” Sukuna says, startling Satoru from his reverie, eyes blinking open at the ceiling as Sukuna continues, “human birthdays are intended to be celebrations, joyous occasions. So why are you so sad?”

“I—” Satoru pauses, weighing his words, testing them on his tongue. Finally, he sighs, pushing himself up so he can sit up properly next to Sukuna, back against the sofa. “It’s been a rough year,” he replies eventually, reaching back across the sofa to retrieve his phone and turn the music down to a more acceptable volume. “Believe it or not,” he continues with a slight chuckle, “the battle with you was actually the least of my problems this year.”

Sukuna frowns. “I take offense to that.” And Satoru laughs.

Satoru holds his hand out expectantly, and Sukuna passes the crystalline skull to Satoru. The sorcerer takes a tentative sip, the vodka burning his throat and pulling haggard coughs from his lungs. Satoru screws his face up in pain, shoving the bottle back to Sukuna. “Fuck, why would anyone drink that?”

Sukuna takes a swig without flinching, maintaining eye contact with Satoru the entire time. Satoru scoffs, turning away. “Anyway, it’s been a long year, and I just—I keep thinking about everything that happened, everything I failed to do—” He shakes his head, taking a deep breath—“Everyone I’ve lost…”

“You really don’t have to explain—”

“His name was Suguru Geto,” Satoru continues, ignoring Sukuna’s protest. “He was—he is—my best friend, my one and only. Earlier this year, he wasn’t doing very well, but I was so caught up in my own shit that I didn’t notice, not until it was too late.” Satoru’s hands grip the fabric of his pants, knuckles turning white. “He has this dream, this ambition. He wants to reform the world, turn it into a society of sorcerers by killing off all the non-sorcerers. He massacred a village, even killed his parents, and now…” He shakes his head. “Who knows what he could be doing.”

Sukuna snorts. “Sounds like a great guy.”

Satoru ignores the comment. “I thought I could stop him, but I could barely raise a hand against him. So I tried to get him back a different way. I thought if I could kill off all the curses, he’d have no reason to create his sorcerer-only society. He’d come back, and things would return to normal. But I couldn’t do it; I’m the strongest sorcerer, and I couldn’t do it.” Satoru leans his head back against the couch, carding his hands through his hair. “And the whole time I was out there,” he continues, “I kept on having this thought, that maybe Suguru is right. Maybe the only way to get rid of the curses is to get rid of the non-sorcerers. But that can’t be right! The strong are supposed to protect the weak, not kill them off! And yet…” He sighs, hands dropping to his knees.

“You’re both wrong,” Sukuna says, and Satoru tilts his head towards him. Sukuna’s not looking at him, though, his gaze fixed on the skull-shaped bottle in his hands. “You can’t save a world that doesn’t wish to be saved. It’s better to simply burn it all down—destroy everything and anything that stands in your way—leave nothing but ashes in your wake.”

“Is that what you were doing?” Satoru asks.

The corner of Sukuna’s mouth quirks upward, just slightly. “Something like that. Though obviously things did not turn out as intended.”

Satoru hums, turning his head to gaze up at the ceiling again. The song changes again—an upbeat tune, though Satoru’s pretty sure the lyrics are strangely dark. After a moment, he speaks. “On the battlefield. You were practically dead. How did you survive?”

“Spite.” The response is automatic, reflexive more than anything.

Satoru rolls his eyes. “But actually.”

This time, Sukuna hesitates before answering. “I—I’m not certain.” Sharp nails tap against the glass skull, the clack audible even above the music. “The moments after the battle are a blur—flashes of image interspersed with darkness until eventually I awoke in some human hospital, and once I’d regained enough strength, I escaped.” He takes another swig from the bottle, and this time, he does wince at the taste. He coughs, wincing as he shakes his head. “All I truly remember of that time,” he continues, “is pure agony. Wishing that I had died.” He laughs, though it’s humourless. “Sometimes, I still do.”

And something in Satoru’s heart clenches at the admission—no, that can’t be right. There’s no way that Satoru Gojo—the world’s strongest Jujutsu sorcerer—could possibly feel any shred of sympathy towards Sukuna Ryoumen—the King of Curses himself. It must just be the alcohol messing with his system, making him feel phantom emotions that would never exist otherwise.

Still, he finds himself teetering to the side, knocking his shoulder against Sukuna’s. “Damn, sounds like you could use a pity party too. I’ll have to plan one for you! When’s your birthday?”

Sukuna shrugs, the movement jostling Satoru who continues to lean heavily against his shoulder, surprisingly having not been dislodged yet. “I don’t know,” Sukuna admits. “I have little memory of that time.”

And damn it, Satoru’s heart squeezes again. Fuck, he’s never drinking again if this is how it makes him feel, makes him sympathize with the devil. Still, he pushes the thought aside. “I bet you were born in the summer,” he decides. “You’re definitely a Gemini.”

Sukuna frowns. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re a two-faced bitch!”

“You may be too idiotic to have noticed,” Sukuna retorts, glaring at Satoru, “but I’m currently in possession of only one face.”

Satoru’s grin nearly splits his face. “But you don’t deny being a bitch.”

“Had it not been for my lack of cursed energy,” Sukuna spits, shoving Satoru away roughly, “I would have slaughtered you.”

“Aw, Sukuna! Again with the death threats?” Satoru whines, flopping dramatically back against the couch. “Man, we had a good streak going on there—almost an entire day. Wait—” Satoru sits upright, eyes wide— “we should get a sign! ‘Days since last death threat.’ Then we can actually keep track!”

“It’s not an act, is it?” Sukuna asks, levelling him with an unreadable expression. “You truly are this stupid.”

Satoru winks, grinning. “All part of my charm.”

They lapse into silence again, and it’s…nice, in a way. A moment of truce, of understanding between enemies. But they aren’t truly enemies anymore, are they? No, what they have is something else altogether, something that Satoru’s intoxicated brain can’t even begin to surmise.

So he simply enjoys the silence, even as sleep tugs on his limbs, weighing down his eyes until they’re impossible to keep open, until he has no choice but to let them slide closed, to let the world spin around him. His body slumps against the sofa. His head rests against something warm, something solid.

“Sukuna?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks. For crashing my pity party.”

Sleep claims him before he can hear a response.

Chapter Text

Satoru hums a cheerful tune as he finishes piping icing onto the final batch of cookies, grinning proudly at his handiwork. He’s really outdone himself this time, he’s sure, going the extra step with his cookie decorating by modelling the batches after popular Christmas characters. Trays of Santas, reindeer, evergreens, and snowflakes cover the counter space in the kitchen—more cookies than what would be needed for the small Christmas party Satoru decided to throw, but he’s not too concerned. He can always just finish off the leftovers for breakfast tomorrow, after all.

“All done!” Satoru announces triumphantly as he lays the piping bag on what little counter space remains.

Shoko—who had come over to help with some of the party preparations—leans over his shoulder to assess his work. “What the hell is that supposed to be?”

Satoru scoffs. “What do you—they’re snowmen, obviously!” He lifts one of the cookies from the tray, practically shoving it in Shoko’s face as though a closer look were simply all she needs. “See? It’s got a hat and carrot nose and everything!”

And, okay, maybe calling the globs of icing a hat and carrot nose is a bit generous. Maybe his cookies really do more so resemble a Jackson Pollock painting than an actual snowman. And maybe more icing ended up in his stomach than on the cookies. But still. Satoru is proud of his work!

Shoko frowns at the cookie, then shrugs. “Whatever. I suppose taste is all that really matters anyways.” As if to illustrate her point, she plucks the cookie from Satoru’s fingers, taking a large bite despite Satoru’s scandalized protest. She chews thoughtfully, nodding her head. “Not bad,” she decides after swallowing her bite. “Not great, but definitely better than anyone would expect of you.”

“Oh?” Satoru plants his hands on his hips. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means,” Shoko replies, rounding the island to perch atop one of the stools. “Face it, Satoru. You might be a great Jujutsu sorcerer, but you’re shit at basically everything else.”

“Not true!”

Shoko raises a brow. “You managed to burn water while cooking instant ramen.”

And, okay, she makes a good point. “So?” Satoru challenges. “We were first years at the time! I’ve obviously gotten better since then.”

Shoko finishes off the cookie. “And how many batches of these things did you burn before you finally got it right?”

“…a few, but in my defense—” Satoru jabs an accusatory finger at the oven— “I’m pretty sure the oven is cursed.”

“Right. Speaking of curses—” Shoko quickly changes the subject, leaning against the countertop, eyes glittering with mischief— “just where exactly is that boy toy of yours? Shouldn’t he be out here helping set up for the party too?”

Satoru groans. “Okay, first of all, please don’t call him a boy toy. He’s like, a thousand years old. It’s just…wrong. And secondly, Sukuna is—”

He pauses, not really sure how to explain the fact that his supposed enemy-turned-lover has been avoiding him without raising any red flags. And it’s not that he thinks Shoko actually believes the whole relationship farce—especially considering the fact that, apparently, no one does—it’s just that…

Satoru’s been paranoid lately. Ever since that conversation with Nanami a few weeks ago, Satoru can’t help but feel watched, followed. He had chosen this house in such a secluded area for the sole purpose of privacy, but who’s to say the higher-ups haven’t found a way to infiltrate without his knowing? His house is the one place he’s allowed himself to let his guard down—maybe not at first, but gradually he had let those protective walls come down. If the higher-ups had in fact been using Nanami as a sort of spy before, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume they had found other ways to surveil him. And once the thought had taken root, he found it impossible to shake. He’s always on edge, always on his guard, never sure who to trust with the truth.

Hence why he’s decided to throw this Christmas party.

Hence why Sukuna’s been avoiding him lately—more so than usual, at least.

The morning after his birthday, Satoru had awoken on the floor of the living room, a nasty crick in his neck exacerbating the pounding ache in his head, gut swirling with nausea as he pushed himself back up into a seated position. There had been a blanket tossed over his body—one of the decorative throws that had been draped artfully over the armchair before—and when Satoru did manage to drag himself to the kitchen for a glass of water, he noticed all the scattered cake crumbs had been cleaned up, the remnants of said cake tucked safely back inside its plastic container.

And there was only one person who could have possibly done all of it. His chest heated at the thought, his stomach flipped—though perhaps that was just the hangover.

Fuck, he’s never drinking again.

Still, the days following had shown a marked improvement in his and Sukuna’s relationship. While they rarely crossed paths outside of their planned public outings, on the occasion they did happen to occupy the same shared space, they at least acknowledged one another, coexisted without outward complaint. And when departing for a public outing, it took far less convincing to get Sukuna to cooperate. Beyond that, even their conversations—although still few and far between—were better; no longer did they devolve into petty bickering or full-blown arguments. Now, their squabbling felt more like teasing banter than a verbal brawl, and honestly? It was kind of fun.

But the brief respite couldn’t last for long. All it took was one simple argument for the façade to fall apart.

A few days prior (and after watching one too many Hallmark holiday specials), Satoru had come up with the perfect plan to shake his paranoia and finally placate the higher-ups for good: a Christmas party. He and Sukuna would host a holiday party in the comfort and warmth of their quaint country(-ish) home, inviting the higher-ups and a few friends to come and bask in the joy of the season. After seeing how utterly infatuated Satoru and Sukuna were during the party, the higher-ups would be convinced of their relationship for sure! Christmas was such a romantic holiday, after all.

Of course, Sukuna had disagreed.

Satoru had been in the midst of decorating the house, hanging twinkling lights from the ceiling, covering every available surface with garlands and wreaths and several other Christmassy decorations he had purchased from the local home store. The scene was barely contained chaos, as Itadori pointed out several times while over for a visit, though Yuuji seemed more than content with the mess around him, grinning and laughing as he gazes with wide eyes at all the glimmer and shimmer, Christmas lights dancing in his eyes and a stray strand of tinsel draped over his head. Cheerful holiday music played in the background, Satoru humming along as he finished hanging a final strand of lights, climbing down the ladder to assess his handiwork.

“What the hell is all this?”

Satoru turns to find Sukuna in the kitchen, distracted from his initial objective by the colourful commotion flooding the living room. Itadori huffs at Sukuna’s appearance as Yuuji squawks in delight, yet none are paid any heed as the former curses’ red eyes scan the room in unconcealed contempt—as though the scene were personally offensive.

Satoru crosses the room to the kitchen, a grin stretching his cheeks as he casually drapes an arm over Sukuna’s shoulders (a feat he can only accomplish without the threat of dismemberment when Itadori or another is around). “Christmas decorations!” he explains excitedly. “Tis the season, after all.”

Sukuna’s shoulders are tense beneath Satoru’s arm, but just as Satoru thought, he doesn’t push him away. He does twist so he can face Satoru a bit more directly though, one eyebrow cocked. “Why?”

“It’s tradition,” Satoru says, cluing into Sukuna’s confusion. Of course the former curse wouldn’t be familiar with the specific practices surrounding human holidays. How lucky he is to have Satoru to explain! “People all over the world put up decorations to help celebrate Christmas—and other holidays too! The decorations usually don’t have a lot of practical purposes, but they’re nice to look at, and they help with the spirit of the season, y’know?”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “I know what decorations are. I’m not an imbecile,” he says with an annoyed huff, crossing his arms over his chest. “There were several festivals and rituals in my day, and I’ve borne witness to countless more throughout the years.”

“Then what—”

“What I was asking,” Sukuna cuts in, finishing Satoru’s question, “is why decorate for this one. In the time we have lived here, other human holidays have passed that traditionally require decorum, yet this is the only one you’ve taken the time to decorate for. So why?”

“I really like Christmas!”

Sukuna glares at Satoru, unconvinced by the simple answer, so Satoru sighs. He had to tell Sukuna eventually; he had just been hoping it could be done much later. “Also, I wanted the place to look extra festive and joyous when the higher-ups arrive for the Christmas party we’re throwing this Friday.”

Sukuna blinks once. Twice. Slowly the words register. “You’re throwing a Christmas party.”

“No, we’re throwing a Christmas par—”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

Satoru winces, quickly shoving Sukuna out of the kitchen and down the hallway. He’s not sure if Itadori’s really been listening in on their conversation thus far, but he’s not willing to take that risk now. Besides, it’s better not to have an argument in front of precious little Yuuji, right?

Safely out of earshot of the living room, Satoru releases his hold on Sukuna, putting some space between them. “Look, I have a plan—”

“Does your plan entail unravelling this whole relationship farce?” Sukuna spits, crowding Satoru’s space. “Because that’s exactly what you’re inviting. Allowing your enemy into your very home. I always knew you were an idiot, but this—” He shakes his head, letting the sentence hang in the air.

Satoru shrugs nonchalantly, maintaining an air of calm despite the racing of his heart. “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. I mean, it’s what I’m doing with you, after all.”

There’s a finger thrust in his face, and Satoru has to take a step back to avoid being struck. “Don’t you dare think this is the same thing.”

And staring into Sukuna’s burning red eyes, it finally dawns on Satoru: Sukuna relies on him. When Satoru had first devised the relationship plot, Sukuna’s well-being had never been at the forefront of thought. All Satoru had cared about was keeping Yuuji safe while mitigating risk to himself. Sukuna’s safety had been an unfortunate side-effect of the matter.

But along the way, something had changed. Satoru wants to chalk it up to the night of his birthday, the realization that Sukuna’s struggling just as much as Satoru is, that he’s just as lost as he is. And while Satoru has his insurmountable strength and near unlimited cursed energy to rely upon, Sukuna has…

Nothing.

Nothing, except Satoru.

And Satoru shouldn’t care about Sukuna’s wellbeing. At first, he didn’t care. But he remembers how easy it was to push Sukuna around that night, the feeling of bone too close to skin, the sudden realization that he’s not okay—

And Satoru wants to help him.

When Satoru looks at Yuuji, he can’t help but see Sukuna there. But maybe, just maybe, the reverse is true too.

While Sukuna would rather throw himself to the mercy of the higher-ups than admit it, he needs Satoru’s help. He needs his protection. And right now, Sukuna must feel that protection—that safety—is at risk. There’s no trust between them, not really; if it came down to it, Satoru would sell Sukuna out if it meant keeping himself and Yuuji safe, and perhaps that’s the outcome Sukuna foresees. That’s the real reason he’s so angered by this Christmas party:

He's afraid.

Like a cornered animal, lashing out at anyone who comes too close regardless of their intention to help or to harm, battling between a response to fight or flee. If Satoru’s not careful, he risks ruining his own plans long before they even come to fruition. He’s taking a major risk here, designing a plan that’s success hinges solely on Sukuna’s cooperation. He needs Sukuna to trust him, to believe that Satoru isn’t trying to endanger him, that Satoru won’t betray him. It’s an impossible task, really, but Satoru has to try.

For Yuuji.

For Sukuna.

Slowly, gently, Satoru pushes Sukuna’s arm away. “Look,” he begins, voice far quieter than it had been moments before, lacking its usual enthusiasm in favour of calmness, “just let me finish explaining my plan. If by the end of it you still think it’s a terrible idea, we’ll figure something else out. Okay?”

Sukuna holds Satoru’s gaze despite the shades the latter wears, eyes narrowed and studying. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t agree, but his silence seems to be an acquiescence, an opportunity for Satoru to continue.

So he does. “Christmas is commonly seen as a romantic holiday, right? So, my plan is that we throw the perfect Christmas party and invite all the higher-ups. During the party, we can show how well we work together as hosts while also acting completely infatuated with one another. That, combined with the spirit and romance of the season should be enough to convince them that our relationship is real. They won’t feel the need to constantly monitor us anymore.” Because surely Sukuna’s felt it too, the eyes constantly upon them, watching their every move. This plan was their best chance at freedom. “If this plan works,” Satoru finishes, “we can finally get the higher-ups off our backs once and for all.”

“That’s a big if,” Sukuna points out.

“I know.” Satoru sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I know this plan is risky, but I wouldn’t be suggesting it if I didn’t think it was worth it.”

Sukuna cocks a brow. “It’s more than a suggestion at this point.”

And it’s true: the party is going to happen, whether Sukuna agrees to it or not. “So you’ll play along?”

Sukuna doesn’t answer immediately. He’s deep in thought, turning over every possibility, assessing risk and reward. Satoru can practically see the gears turning in his mind, and he can’t help but hold his breath. Maybe, just maybe, Sukuna would be convinced. Maybe, just maybe, everything will work out.

“Your plan is destined to fail,” Sukuna says eventually, and Satoru’s sure his heart stops at the admission. “Even if all goes as you intend, those higher-ups will not be so easily assuaged. You’re a fool to believe otherwise.”

Satoru huffs a laugh, trying to disguise the unease settling in his core. “I really hope there’s a but coming here.”

“But nothing,” Sukuna spits. “This plan will fail, and I refuse to fail with it.”

“Sukuna—”

“Throw your pathetic little party,” Sukuna says, turning his back to Satoru as he makes his way to the door of his bedroom. “When everything falls apart, I will be long gone.”

Satoru takes a step after him. “Sukuna, wait—”

He’s met with the sound of a slamming door.

“Satoru? Hello, Satoru?”

Satoru’s pulled from his thoughts at the sound of Shoko’s voice, brought back to the present moment. He blinks a few times, refocusing his gaze to find his friend glancing at him with barely concealed worry. So he chuckles, rubbing the back of his head. “Sorry, zoned out for a sec there. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

Shoko hums. “Yuuji?”

It had, in fact, not been Yuuji’s cries keeping him up at night, not this time at least. Lately, Yuuji’s been doing very well sleeping through the night, with only the occasional upset or waking to feed. But even despite the peacefulness in the house, Satoru had been up much of the night, tossing and turning under the perceived gaze of watchful eyes, mind running over every possible outcome of the coming party but coming up with no plan for success—Sukuna’s threatened absence all but ensuring utter and catastrophic failure.

But Shoko doesn’t need to know. No one does.

So he nods. “Yeah. Poor little guy wasn’t feeling so well last night. He was doing better this morning though—especially when Itadori came to pick him up!”

Shoko nods, buying the explanation. “Well, if it gets any worse, let me know. I can have a look and see if there’s anything I can do for Yuuji.”

“Thanks, Sho.” And when he smiles this time, it’s soft. Genuine. But he’s quick to change the subject, clapping his hands together. “Right. Looks like everything is good to go here! Everyone should be arriving in a couple of hours, so we’ve got plenty of time to get ourselves ready and finish any other setup.”

“You have a spare room I can get ready in?” Shoko asks, rising from her seat at the island and giving her shoulders a stretch.

“Guest bedroom. Upstairs, first door on the right.”

Shoko nods, waving a quick farewell as she goes to retrieve her bag from the living room before making her way up the stairs. Alone in the kitchen, Satoru sighs, removing his sunglasses so he can drag a tired hand across his face. For a moment, he allows himself to feel the weight of the situation, allows his shoulders to sag under the burden, under the knowledge that, in just a few short hours, the entire façade he had built up around himself—everything he had done to keep Yuuji safe—was about to crumble around him. And he was helpless to stop it.

Then he takes a deep breath, gives his head a shake to clear the thoughts away, squares his shoulders and straightens his posture. Helpless? He’s Satoru fucking Gojo. Even as a child, he held more power in his pinky finger than most adult sorcerers had in their entire being. Even if his party plan goes to absolute shit, he’ll find a way to keep Yuuji safe. He has to.

Satoru makes his way to the living room—to the giant evergreen nestled in the corner there, brightly decorated with lights and ornaments, base filled with colourfully-wrapped presents of all shapes and sizes. Itadori had been utterly shocked by the size of the tree when he had first come over to help Satoru decorate earlier that week, unable to fathom how Satoru had managed to even get it inside the house, not finding Satoru’s explanation of teleportation an amusing joke—despite it being the honest answer.

Satoru crouches at the base of the tree now, reaching out to grab the newest present to grace the stack. It’s perhaps the most unassuming of all the presents, a simple rectangular box wrapped in glossy white wrapping paper, dotted with shiny silver snowflakes to add subtle accents, topped with a simple red bow. The package had arrived the day after his argument with Sukuna, and at first, Satoru had debated the need to even wrap it—to keep it at all. It was a gift for the former curse, after all.

But in the end, hopeful optimism won out, and the present found itself snuggled under the tree with the rest. Satoru had planned to give it to Sukuna on Christmas day—a little way of inviting him into such a human tradition without being too overbearing—but now…

Satoru carries the box to Sukuna’s bedroom door. There’s no guarantee the former curse is still around, if he had made good on his promise and was long gone, but as of this morning, Satoru knew Sukuna was still around—a mug left in the kitchen sink that had not been there prior to Satoru’s waking. It was a long shot, appealing to the other for perhaps the final time, but Satoru was no stranger to impossibility. Or perhaps it was less an appeal, and more an attempt at closure.

After all, if even his best friend couldn’t stick around, why then should his greatest enemy?

Taking a deep breath, Satoru knocks on the door. “Hey, Sukuna?”

There’s no answer. There rarely is, and Satoru expects no different. And so, like many other times before, he continues talking through the door—to the door? —regardless of the resounding lack of response. “I know it’s technically not Christmas yet, but I just wanted to say merry Christmas! I got you something—it was kind of a joke since I know how much you appreciated all my other fashion suggestions, but still. If anything, I guess you can burn it—like a celebration that you’re finally free of me, or something.”

Satoru chuckles at his poor attempt at a joke. “Ah, anyway. I’ll just leave it outside your door. If it’s still out here in an hour, I guess I’ll know you’re actually gone, huh?”

He waits for the response he knows will never come, pausing only for a moment to listen for any signs of life beyond that bedroom door. He could go in there, twist the nob and snap the feeble lock with ease, push inside and lay all his curiosities to rest, but he doesn’t. He won’t breach what fickle excuse of trust the two of them had devised, not now, maybe not for a long time, when Satoru is certain Sukuna is gone, never to return.

When he’s met with more silence, Satoru sighs, crouching down to place the present at the base of the door, just as he said he would. Satisfied, he rises once more, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “Well, I guess that’s it then. I’ve gotta go get ready for the party, and you’ve gotta…do whatever it is that you do.”

Satoru makes for the door of his room, but for some reason, he stops a few steps away, turns around, his feet carrying him back to Sukuna’s bedroom door. There’s one more thing he wants to say—one final piece to get off his chest, to finally bring himself the closure he never could receive with Suguru, that he perhaps never would.

So he faces that closed door, takes a deep breath, and starts. “For the record,” he says, sliding his sunglasses off his face, eyes bared to the world—and perhaps his very soul, too, “I’m glad you’re still alive. It’s probably pretty fucked up of me, and selfish and wrong, but I’m glad. It’s been…nice, having someone around to share in the suffering, who’s struggling just as much as I am—who’s as fucked up as I am. So…thanks, I guess. For sticking around as long as you did, for staying even when I thought you wouldn’t. Honestly, as stupid as it sounds—” he huffs a humourless laugh, shaking his head— “I think I’m going to miss you, just a little bit—though I’m sure you’ll miss me more.”

It's easy to admit it, to say these words to lifeless wood, let them hang in the air with no guarantee they’ll be heard. It’s cathartic, in a way, speaking words to an empty room—vulnerability softened by the anonymity granted in solitude. No one to hear. No one to judge. No way to know if the words really make a sound at all.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s why Satoru finds it in himself to speak the words he’d never even admit to himself. “I understand why you want to leave. If I were you, I’d probably do the same. So I know it’s only selfishness talking, but…” He takes a deep breath, eyes sliding shut. “I wish you’d stay.”

The admission hangs in the air, and Satoru holds his breath—listening, waiting, but for what he doesn’t know.

Then the moment is shattered, a door opening on the second floor, footsteps on the stairs. “Satoru?” Shoko’s voice calls out, and Satoru blinks his eyes open, stepping away from the door and glancing down the hallway. “Come help me with the zipper on my dress?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in just a sec!”

He slips his shades back on, stuffing his hands casually into his pockets and allowing his typical grin to slide back onto his lips. Then, with a final glance back at the door, he retreats down the hallway.

And when Satoru returns moments later to head to his own room, the present at the door is gone.

The party is in full swing. Joyous holiday music fills the house, accompanied by twinkling laughter and the hum of conversation. Figures crowd the living room and kitchen—far more than Satoru had expected would arrive—sorcerers young and old adorned in festive sweaters and classy dresses, hands laden with treats and drinks as they mill about the space. And Satoru, the dedicated host, flits around it all, sunglasses covering his eyes and a friendly grin on his face as he converses with his guests.

He's already spoken to Yaga and a few of the other higher-ups—a brief conversation mostly consisting of a warm welcome and simple small-talk—as well as a few sorcerers he doesn’t personally know but who of course know of him (hey, it’s not arrogant if it’s true, right?). He hasn’t made his way over to his friends yet—Shoko, Utahime, and Mei Mei are all gathered around the kitchen island where the refreshments are, passing a bottle of something alcoholic between them, and while Satoru has seen Nanami from the corner of his eye on occasion, it appeared the young sorcerer was avoiding him—wanting to get the more monotonous conversations out of the way first before finally being able to relax.

Of course, there’s one person standing between Satoru and his actually being able to enjoy the party: Gakuganji.

The old man sits on the sofa in the living room, surrounded by peers from the Kyoto school and looking ever the picture of a man who’d rather be anywhere else, face shadowed in a deep frown despite the cheerful atmosphere around him. He makes conversation with his companions, though it is clear by the lines of tension in their shoulders that it’s far from pleasant. Honestly, that’s the reason he’s been avoiding conversation with Gakuganji up until this point: while the other higher-ups had not commented upon Sukuna’s absence this evening (though Satoru would be foolish to believe they hadn’t noticed), Satoru is certain Gakuganji would be the first one to point it out, to ridicule Satoru and use it as the leverage needed to undermine Satoru’s standing in the Jujutsu world. Gakuganji had been the one to voice the most dissent towards Satoru and Yuuji, after all; he would not miss this opportunity.

But Satoru couldn’t put it off forever. Maybe—and this was a big maybe—Gakuganji wouldn’t say anything, or maybe he’d simply accept whatever lame excuse Satoru could come up with regarding Sukuna’s absence, and Satoru could have more time to figure out a gameplan in preparation for the year-end deadline.

But Satoru’s no fool. He knows the chances of that happening are next to impossible. The longer he avoids Gakuganji, the longer he simply drags out the inevitable. Gakuganji would not let this little hiccup slide, and soon Satoru and Yuuji would be the ones to pay the price.

(Then again, Gakuganji’s strength is nothing compared to Satoru’s. If the worst came to be, would killing all the higher-ups and saving Yuuji really be such a bad thing?)

Satoru pushes the thought away, adjusting his glasses as he takes a deep, steadying breath, then forces his lips into a grand smile as he crosses the room to the Kyoto principal. “Gakuganji! I’m so glad you could make it,” he greets, voice full of false cheer. “Here I was worried your poor old bones wouldn’t last the trip.”

Gakuganji attempts to maintain an unaffected visage, but Satoru notices the subtle furrowing in his brow. His eyes scan Satoru, lingering on his Christmas sweater a moment with a look of thinly veiled disgust—misplaced, of course. Satoru’s sweater happens to be the perfect blend of classy and sassy, a rich navy blue with stripes of white and silver snowflakes along the top and bottom, sandwiching a picture of Santa Claus with a speech bubble that reads Where my ho ho hos at? Gakuganji’s obviously just jealous of Satoru’s fashion sense.

Still, the look lasts barely a moment, and soon Gakuganji is tipping his head in polite greeting. “Satoru Gojo,” he says, voice gruff but carefully neutral. “I noticed you seem to be missing your—what was it you called him again—your soulmate.” He leans forwards, hands clasped in front of him and a threatening glint in his eye. “It would sure be a shame if your relationship has already fallen apart.”

Satoru laughs, ignoring the way his stomach twists. Of course Gakuganji wouldn’t waste any time bringing that up. “Nah, everything’s fine! Sukuna’s just—he’s still in his room, getting ready. Always has to look his best, that one.”

Gakuganji hums. “His room, you say? How odd—are you suggesting that the two of you don’t even share a bedroom?”

“I—well—” Satoru rubs the back of his head, quickly trying to backtrack and repair his little slip-up. “You see—"

“I apologize for the interruption,” a new voice cuts in, and Satoru turns to see Nanami has arrived at his side, hair combed immaculately and clothed in a simple sweater and smart pair of slacks. He nods at Gakuganji, then at Satoru. “Principal Gakuganji, Gojo. I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation, and wanted to provide my input, if that’s alright.”

Satoru grins, clapping a hand on Nanami’s shoulder. “It’s more than alright, Nanamin!”

Nanami’s eye twitches slightly at the nickname, but he doesn’t comment. “Many studies have shown that couples who sleep in separate bedrooms often experience positive gains in their relationships. In fact, my parents have slept in separate bedrooms for years now, and their marriage has never been stronger. Considering the differences in sleep habits that must exist between Gojo and Sukuna, having separate bedrooms is the mature and rational thing to do.”

And Nanami perhaps just became one of Satoru’s favourite people.

Satoru grins, giving Nanami’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “That’s right! Smart as ever, Nanami.”

Gakuganji grumbles, perhaps not expecting Nanami to come to Satoru’s defense in this situation—not when the old man had been relying on Nanami in the past. “Even still,” Gakuganji says, annoyance creeping into his polite tone, “that does not adequately excuse that thing’s absence. It certainly reflects poorly on you, Gojo.”

But before Satoru can come back with a sassy retort, Nanami frowns. “Absence?” he echoes, head tilted in confusion. “Sir, you must be mistaken; Sukuna’s in the kitchen.”

And it’s probably comical the way Satoru’s head whips towards the kitchen, nearly snapping his neck at the immense speed of the turn. He doesn’t even try to mask the shock on his face when his gaze falls upon a familiar shock of pink hair, and he’s thankful his glasses are there to hide the widening of his eyes at least, though there’s nothing to be done to conceal the way his jaw has dropped to the hardwood at his feet.

Thankfully, Gakuganji appears too angered by Sukuna’s sudden appearance to notice Satoru’s state. His eyes are narrowed and shadowed by the deep furrow of his brow as he grumbles something about how disgusting it is for a vile curse to be allowed to move so freely amongst the gathered sorcerers. And while Satoru would love to have some clever retort to rub it in Gakuganji’s face, his mind is still trying to catch up to the fact that Sukuna’s here. He didn’t leave. He’s actually here.

Satoru claps Nanami on the shoulder a final time. “Right. Excuse me for a moment.”

He doesn’t wait to hear a reply, feet taking him across the living room to the kitchen, to where Sukuna stands with a glass of eggnog in hand, frowning down at it as though he’s not quite sure what to make of the beverage within. Beside him, Shoko giggles and Mei Mei smirks at the former curse’s puzzled expression, while Utahime looks as though her flight sense is about to kick in, warily eyeing Sukuna as he takes another sip from his drink.

When Satoru enters the kitchen, all four turn to him, but he’s focused only on one. Sukuna looks bored when he sees Satoru arrive, and his eyes lazily trail down to Satoru’s sweater, lingering there a moment before shifting so he can gaze at his own sweater. His eyes slide shut, and he sighs. “I should have known there was a catch.”

For the sweater Sukuna wears is the very one Satoru had gifted him earlier that day, one that matches Satoru’s own; it’s the same navy blue with white and silver snowflakes, only whereas Satoru’s sweater features a picture of Santa, Sukuna’s only displays the words Ho ho ho. It’s a simple sweater, understated yet festive—until it’s beside its match.

Shoko catches on first, snorting as laughter racks her body, and Mei Mei’s shoulders shake as she tries to hide her own laughter behind a hand, eyes gleaming with amusement. Utahime, in contrast, has begun to slowly back away from the others gathered in the kitchen, shoulders stiff with tension.

Still, Satoru finds himself alongside the other girls. “Oh my god,” he practically wheezes, draping an arm over Sukuna’s shoulder to help keep himself upright. “I can’t believe you’re actually wearing it!”

Sukuna shoves Satoru away. “I’m going to change.”

“No!” Satoru and Shoko shout at the same time, gaining the very unwanted attention of the many other partygoers. Satoru smiles and waves, and soon the others resume their conversations. “You can’t go change,” Shoko continues once the attention is off them again. “Not before I get a picture of you two!”

“Not a fucking chance—”

But Satoru grabs Sukuna by the arm before he can leave, pulling the other flush against his body and wrapping an arm around him to keep him in place. Sukuna is stiff as a board next to him, and he’s most likely glaring daggers at the sorcerer, but Satoru’s too busy smiling widely as Shoko pulls out her phone to snap the picture. She takes several, apparently having some trouble getting a good photo due to her ceaseless laughter and perhaps the amount of alcohol she’s already managed to consume, so Satoru takes the time to tilt his head down so he can speak out of earshot of everyone else, lips almost grazing the shell of Sukuna’s ear. “I thought you were leaving.”

“So did I,” Sukuna admits, voice low so only Satoru can hear it. “Don’t read into it.”

Satoru grins. “Too late!”

“Okay, okay, I finally got one!” Shoko announces, waving her phone victoriously, and Sukuna’s quick to separate himself from Satoru’s side. Shoko tucks her phone away, sighing. “Fuck, I need another drink.”

“One for me too, please!” Satoru says as Shoko turns toward the intricate glass bowl of eggnog on the counter, and she raises a glass in acknowledgement.  Satisfied, Satoru turns to finally address the other women. “Mei Mei, you look ravishing as always,” he says, nodding towards her black floor-length gown. “Utahime, you’ve looked better.”

Utahime—dressed in what’s essentially a fancier version of her usual attire—scoffs at him, rolling her eyes. “You’re as insufferable as ever, I see.”

“I think he’s gotten worse,” Shoko supplies, handing Satoru his glass, and Satoru feigns offense, gasping dramatically and clasping his free hand over his chest.

“At least you don’t have to live with him,” Sukuna adds, taking a sip from his drink. He swallows, frowning at his glass again as though he’s still not sure what to make of the drink, and it’s a funny enough sight that it almost distracts Satoru from the fact that Sukuna had just insulted him. Almost.

Satoru whirls towards the former curse. “Et tu, Brute?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Satoru says, waving his hand dismissively. “Obviously you aren’t well versed in the classics. And speaking of classics—” Satoru glances back towards the living room, where Nanami is still trapped in a conversation with Gakuganji, who’s been throwing dirty looks Satoru’s way this entire time. Satoru smiles politely, waving at the elderly sorcerer before turning back to Sukuna. “Wanna help me bully an old man?”

Sukuna grins with unrestrained glee. “With pleasure.”

And so the night carries on, Satoru making his rounds once again, but this time with Sukuna at his side and a triumphant grin on his face. Sukuna—to Satoru’s pleasant surprise—plays into the role of dedicated host quite well, an uncharacteristically non-murderous smile on his face as he makes small talk with guests or swaps teasing quips. But perhaps most impressive, in Satoru’s humble opinion, is the former curse’s way of delivering overtly scathing and underhanded remarks with such a charismatic air that, to the casual listener, they sound just like compliments.

And Satoru realizes—Sukuna’s a natural at this, at commanding the attention of a room, at knowing exactly what to say to elicit the right response. It makes Satoru wonder; just how many times has Sukuna done this before? He’d been human at one point, hadn’t he—long before he became a curse.  How many similar events had he endured, how many people had he subtly manipulated with the saccharine words of a clever tongue? And if Sukuna could so seemingly effortlessly charm a room of Jujutsu Sorcerers who had been raised to despise him, who’s to say he couldn’t do the same to Satoru? Perhaps he already had.

Satoru shakes the thought away.

Right now, everything is going according to plan, working to gain favour, to establish their validity as a happy couple. The last thing Satoru needs is to ruin it by thinking.

Still, space feels like a necessity at the moment, so Satoru politely excuses himself from the conversation, muttering something about needing a refill as he slips from Sukuna’s side, making his way through the crowd and into the kitchen.

His steps are unsteady, limbs laden with an unnatural weight, and he has to lean against the counter to keep his balance, taking a deep, calming breath. His mind feels fuzzy and slow, and when he closes his eyes, his head spins. Despite his previous vow to never drink again, he had perhaps accidentally indulged in a few too many glasses of eggnog that, at some point during the night, had been spiked by someone (Shoko), and the effects were hitting him hard. Maybe that’s the reason behind this new wave of paranoia. Really, if he thinks logically about it, he and Sukuna barely interact in an average day, and up until recently, those interactions had been far from pleasant. There’s no way Sukuna could have been manipulating him this entire time—not like the sorcerers at the party. No, the cause of Satoru’s sudden change in disposition towards the former curse must be something else.

And Satoru doesn’t want to think about it.

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

Satoru nearly startles at the voice, and still braced against the counter, he turns to look over his shoulder at Sukuna, who’s making his way into the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest and an amused gleam in his eye.

Satoru huffs a breathy laugh, turning so he’s leaning over the counter once more. “If I do, will you hold my hair back?” he asks teasingly. “It’d be so romantic if you did.”

Sukuna snorts. “You and I have differing views on romance.”

Satoru hums, closing his eyes. “Fuck. I’m gonna kill Shoko.”

“You should be thanking the woman,” Sukuna replies. “The alcohol is the only thing making this party even slightly tolerable.”

Ah. So maybe that’s it then. Sukuna’s not trying to cleverly manipulate anyone; he’s just a really friendly drunk.

“All jokes aside,” Sukuna continues, arriving at Satoru’s side, “if you do throw up anywhere in my immediate vicinity, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

Satoru blinks his eyes open, fixing Sukuna with a wry smile. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

There’s a glass of water thrust in his face then, and Satoru accepts it unquestioningly, not certain when Sukuna had retrieved it but not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He downs the water in a few long gulps, and as soon as that glass is done it’s taken from his hands, replaced moments later full once again.

“Thanks,” Satoru says, sipping at the second glass of water.

“Don’t thank me. It’s not an act of kindness” Sukuna leans his back against the counter, gazing upon the partygoers still mingling in the living room. “I simply can’t have you fucking everything up because you can’t handle a little alcohol. That’s all.”

It’s not kindness, he says, and yet he stays at Satoru’s side all the same, refilling his glass with water each time it empties, simply waiting as Satoru’s mind gradually settles, as he sobers up just enough that the room no longer spins and he feels a little steadier on his feet. It’s not kindness, and yet it warms Satoru as if it were, sets his stomach aflutter in a way Satoru tries to blame on the alcohol—nothing more.

He ignores the feeling, pushing himself from the counter with a sigh. “Okay, I’m good now,” he says, beginning to make his way out of the kitchen. “We should get back out there, keep the party going. It’s about time we started the gift excha—”

But his sentence cuts off abruptly when Shoko darts in front of him, blocking his path and causing him to come to a rapid stop lest he collides with her. Of course, Sukuna—who had been following just behind Satoru—ends up crashing into Satoru. “What the fuck are you—”

“Shoko,” Satoru interrupts the former curse, addressing his friend. “What’s up? You need something?”

But Shoko doesn’t respond—not verbally, at least. Instead, she takes a large step back, a wicked grin creasing her face as she points to something above Satoru’s head. And Satoru, confused, slowly lifts his gaze as directed, eyes widening as they fall upon the small decoration strung up from an exposed wooden beam in the ceiling—a decoration so easy to miss, yet one that Satoru is certain had not been there at the party’s onset:

Mistletoe.

And he and Sukuna were standing right beneath it.

Satoru returns his gaze to Shoko, laughing uneasily. “That’s funny, Sho. But I don’t think—”

But Shoko isn’t listening. Instead, she’s turning towards the gathered party guests on wobbly feet, getting their attention and trying to incite a chant of kiss, kiss, kiss! Thankfully, most of the guests appear just as uncomfortable with the situation as Satoru feels, though a few of those who had perhaps indulged a little too much in the spiked eggnog took up the rallying cry with an enthusiasm that, had the circumstances been different, Satoru might have admired.

But the circumstances aren’t different. He’s here, standing under the mistletoe with Sukuna—his former enemy, the curse he tried to kill, who would not hesitate to kill Satoru given the opportunity and means, who had become his false lover and unlikely ally. And Satoru was supposed to kiss him.

And the worst part: Satoru isn’t exactly opposed. He knows he should be, given who Sukuna is, but he’s also been privy to the other less-murderous parts of him too, ones that drape a blanket over him so he doesn’t get cold, that show up in his times of need, make him feel a little less alone in the universe. Ones that stay. Ones that try.

Or maybe there’s less to it than that. Maybe Satoru just wants to make out with a hot guy at a party. Is that really such a bad thing?

But the jarring reality is, Sukuna is still a former curse, and the thought of locking lips with a curse in front of a crowd of Jujutsu sorcerers does curb some of Satoru’s desire.

Shoko returns from her task, the chant of kiss, kiss, kiss still carrying on in the background as she crosses her arms over her chest, a satisfied smile on her face. “Well?” she prompts. “We’re waiting.”

“I don’t know,” Satoru objects, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sukuna’s not really into PDA, and I’d hate to put him in an uncomfortable position—”

“I can make an exception,” Sukuna surprisingly interjects, and when Satoru turns to look at the other, he finds not the predicted anger or discomfort on his face, but amusement. His red eyes are alight with it, and his lips curve in the barest hint of a smirk. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

“Still—” Satoru weakly protests as Sukuna steps forward, closing the space between them, a hand gripping Satoru’s waist to keep him in place as he presses their chests together. Satoru feels his face flush—probably a bright red against his starkly pale skin, and from this close, there’s no way Sukuna doesn’t notice.

Sukuna tilts his head up towards Satoru, and there’s a challenge burning in his eyes now, daring Satoru to back out, but ultimately leaving the choice to Satoru, and there’s a part of Satoru who wishes he wouldn’t, who wishes he’d simply take without any regard to Satoru’s feelings on the matter. It would be easier to rationalize it later, easier to lay blame on anything that isn’t Satoru’s own confusing feelings on the matter.

Because he shouldn’t want this.

And yet, he does.

So wrapped up in thought, Satoru doesn’t realize he’s started to move, head dipping down, closer and closer to Sukuna’s own. He’s barely a breath away when his mind catches up though, and he quickly turns his head aside just before contact, Sukuna’s lips brushing lightly across his cheek instead.

Someone in the crowd boos at the action—Shoko most likely—but Satoru’s barely aware of it, too distracted by the feeling of a warm puff of laughter against his cheek, by the hand that gently grips his shoulder, pulling him further down so that Sukuna’s lips brush the shell of his ear when he whispers, “You wanted to prove the higher-ups wrong, didn’t you?”

Satoru shivers at the contact, at the tickle of breath against his sensitive skin, and he turns his head away slightly, just enough to gaze out over the crowd, eyes scanning the faces of his friends and co-workers alike. Shoko’s still grinning, watching the scene unfold, and Mei Mei is close by, amusement betrayed by the slight smile on her face. Utahime, in contrast, appears close to vomiting, though whether it’s the by-product of the display before her or the eggnog is anybody’s guess. Yaga’s pointedly looking away from the scene before him, a palm rubbing across his forehead, while Nanami—ever the gentleman—appears seconds away from intervening. And Gakuganji…the old man looks moments away from a heart attack.

The hand on his shoulder squeezes, drawing Satoru’s attention back to Sukuna. Now’s your chance,” Sukuna whispers as he begins to pull away.

He doesn’t get very far.

Satoru’s hands cradle Sukuna’s face, holding it steady as he crashes his lips against the other’s with perhaps too much speed, too much force, not allowing himself the chance to hesitate, to think, jumping in headfirst (lips first?) with no thought to the consequences. A cheer arises from the crowd, and somebody even whistles, but the sounds reach Satoru’s ears through a thick layer of cotton, muffled and distorted, senses alight and focused only on the rough glide of lips against his.

It ends almost as soon as it begins, both Satoru and Sukuna pulling away for a breath as the guests cheer and clap politely. But that’s all it is: a breath.

This time, Satoru’s not certain who moves first. But he has no time nor desire to think about it, lips pressed to his once more, and this time Satoru angles his head to line up their mouths properly, deepening the kiss.

Sukuna’s lips are rough, slightly chapped, nothing like the soft plushness Satoru had once been used to. There’s a hand gripping his waist, fingers pressed in hard enough to bruise, nothing like the gentle caresses he had once known. And when he shifts a hand, sliding it along Sukuna’s jaw to cradle the back of his head, his fingers don’t tangle with long, silky strands, nails instead scratching through coarse, shortly cropped hair. It’s nothing like he’s used to. Nothing like he’s craved.

But it’s good.

Every point of contact sends electricity coursing through his veins, his racing heart pumping liquid heat through every part of his body, threatening to set him ablaze. Sukuna’s hand trails roughly from his shoulder to the base of his neck, sparks dancing in its wake. There’s no real pressure placed by that hand, simply resting against his throat, cradling it in a way that could be affectionate. Possessive. Dangerous.

For Satoru’s vulnerable here, a hand around his throat. Even void of cursed energy, Sukuna could snap his neck—would snap his neck, regardless of the present company, should he find reason or desire to. And the thought should make him nervous, should jolt him from his stupor, force him to break away from the kiss, return to safety, but he doesn’t. Instead, Satoru presses even further against it, throwing himself at Sukuna’s mercy, unwavering even as a much too sharp nail scrapes across sensitive flesh, sending shivers down Satoru’s spine.

For as dangerous as that hand can be, it’s also grounding. A hand on his waist, a hand on his throat. Keeping Satoru in place, holding him steady even as the ground seems to shake beneath him.

And when the barest hint of teeth scrapes his lips, threatening to bite, to break skin, the sparks finally catch. Satoru welcomes the burn.

And fuck, it shouldn’t feel this good, he shouldn’t feel this much. Maybe the alcohol is to blame, still a bit tipsy from how much he’d consumed. Or maybe Satoru is simply that starved for touch, for affection. Or maybe…

Fuck it; it feels good. It’s been far too long since anything truly has.

Sukuna kisses like he fights, putting everything he has into it, goading his opponent to do the same. So when that challenge arises, when the barest hint of tongue enters the fray, teasing the seam of Satoru’s lips, Satoru doesn’t hesitate. There’s a brief battle for dominance, but Sukuna gives in surprisingly easy, Satoru’s tongue slipping into his mouth, sliding against his own. Sukuna tastes sweet with something sharp beneath, the product of the eggnog he’d been drinking before, and it shouldn’t be pleasant, should make Satoru recoil, but Satoru can’t find it in him to care.

And they carry on like this, numb to the world around them, locked in this embrace. But soon the pleasurable heat that envelops his body shifts to his chest, concentrated and painful, and Satoru remembers he still needs to breathe—

They break apart—though not too far, still close enough that their noses almost brush—breaths panting hot between them, neither letting go. Satoru’s eyes slide open to fall upon Sukuna’s face, the latter’s eyes still closed as he simply breathes, and Satoru takes the opportunity to examine his features, to allow his eyes to trace the dark lines on his skin, the way his lashes fan against his cheeks, and the faint, barely noticeable flush painted upon them.

Then he opens his eyes.

And Satoru burns.

All around them, the crowd is silent.

Then Shoko clears her throat, drawing attention away from the shocking display. “Right. So… Now’s a good time to begin that gift exchange.”

Satoru’s eyes are still locked on Sukuna’s. “Yeah. Gift exchange. Let’s—let’s do that.”

There’s a pause, Satoru still frozen in place, breaths intermingled with Sukuna’s, and Shoko clears her throat again—more intentionally this time. “Satoru.”

And it’s the sharp utterance of his name that finally jolts Satoru from his stupor, embarrassment flaring in his gut as he quickly steps away from Sukuna. “Right, Okay.” He claps his hands together, slipping back into his role of host with ease. “If you brought a gift for the exchange, go grab it now! We’ll gather in a circle in front of the Christmas tree, gifts in the centre.”

As everyone moves to follow his directions, Satoru turns back to Sukuna. Sukuna’s expression is neutral now, but in a way that’s carefully been washed blank. Guarded. It’s nothing like before, and Satoru tries not to think too hard about it as he extends a hand to the former curse. “Wanna come watch?”

For a moment, it looks as though Sukuna might take him up on his offer, fingertips twitching at his side. But the moment passes as quickly as it comes, Sukuna shoving his hands into his pockets. “Later,” he says simply, turning away from Satoru. “I…need to get some air.”

“Yeah. Go for it. Take your time.” Satoru lets his hand fall back to his side, ignoring the creeping disappointment in his stomach. “I’ll save a spot for you.”

But Sukuna’s already making his way toward the door, giving no indication that he’s heard. And Satoru wants to follow, wants to pick the other’s brain and see exactly what he’s thinking—what he’s feeling—but Shoko’s voice stops him before he can. “Satoru, we’re ready to start!”

“I’ll be there in a sec!” he calls over his shoulder to Shoko, watching Sukuna’s figure disappear through the front door. When the door closes behind him, Satoru finally turns to join the group.

He settles down in a spot next to Shoko, who quickly leans over to quietly ask, “Is everything alright?”

Satoru’s eyes wander to the front door again. “Yeah,” he replies eventually, shifting to look at his friend. “Everything’s fine.”

It’s later in the evening, and all the guests have departed, returning once more to their homes for the night. Shoko had passed out on the sofa at some point, so Satoru—ever the caring and doting host—had carried her up to the guest bedroom so she could at least have a more comfortable sleep. He descends the stairs once more, exhaustion clinging to his muscles after such a long day, and he finds Sukuna still in the kitchen, quietly tidying up anything that could spoil or attract pests, movements slow and a yawn stretching his jaw every now and then.

Silently, Satoru joins him at the sink, grabbing a towel so he can dry the glasses Sukuna washes. “Thanks for cleaning up,” Satoru says.

Sukuna just hums in response, continuing his task.

They work in silence, a perfect team, and for a moment, Satoru is struck by the domesticity of it all, of the comfortable way their arms brush every now and then, bringing back memories of earlier in the evening, when those same arms had wrapped around him, those hands had gripped his sides, those lips…

And Satoru needs to know if Sukuna felt the same.

Satoru finishes wiping down the last glass, putting it away in the cupboard with a satisfied sigh. “That should do it for now. Everything else is a problem for tomorrow.”

Sukuna lets the water drain from the sink, saying nothing. Satoru sighs. “Hey, Sukuna—”

“Nothing changes.”

Satoru blinks. “What?”

“Everything that happened tonight,” Sukuna explains, gaze somewhere out the window rather than on Satoru, “was all an act, something to fool those higher-ups into complacency, nothing more. But between us—” his gaze shifts now, pinning Satoru with eyes of startling red— “nothing changes.”

And Satoru has to look away. “Right,” he replies, busying himself by folding the damp towel, hoping the slight tremble of his hand isn’t noticeable. “That’s what I was going to say.”

On the night of Christmas Eve, a new present finds its way under the tree. It’s clumsily wrapped in glossy white wrapping paper, dotted with shiny silver snowflakes to add subtle accents, and while the paper is absent of any tears, it does appear slightly crumpled. There’s no bow on top, but there is a handmade tag on it—addressed to Satoru from Yuuji, written in unfamiliar cursive. It’s probably a last-minute gift that Itadori had snuck under the tree, and Satoru smiles at the thought, deciding he’ll have to wait until the following afternoon to open it, when Itadori was to be coming over to spend Christmas with him and Yuuji.

On Christmas morning, Satoru finds himself bundled in soft pyjamas, pattern matching the onesie that Yuuji wears as he crawls along the floor, laughing in delight at the crinkle of torn paper beneath him. Sukuna had refused to join the tradition of opening presents on Christmas morning, so that had left Satoru and Yuuji to partake—not that the young child had seemed too upset. No, Yuuji had taken to tearing open gifts like a fish to water, taking more joy in the act of pulling and crumpling the shiny colourful paper than at beholding the gift within.

Now, sprawled amongst the mess of paper, watching as Yuuji finally takes an interest in one of the many toys Satoru—eh hem, Santa—had gifted him, Satoru can’t help but find his mind wandering towards the mystery present below the tree. There were still a few wrapped boxes beneath the tree, ones Satoru had gotten for Itadori, and while Satoru had initially intended on saving the mystery gift to be opened alongside the other ones, his curiosity soon gets the best of him.

Yuuji occupied, Satoru makes his way to the tree, grabbing the clumsily-wrapped present before making his way over to the sofa, sitting with a relaxed sigh. Quickly, he tears into the paper, revealing a small chalkboard sign, and Satoru’s breath catches in his throat when his eyes fall upon the inscription at the top, block letters spelling out Days Since Last Death Threat, a space below left blank to record the number. The gift had not been from Itadori after all.

Nothing changes, Sukuna said.

But everything already had.

Chapter Text

It snows sometime during the night, leaving a fresh blanket of soft powder covering the yard, coating the trees with delicate flakes that shimmer in the afternoon sun, barely a cloud in sight to block out its rays. It’s a picture-perfect winter day despite the present chill, and having been granted a few extra days off over the holiday season, Satoru’s determined to take advantage of the beautiful day.

Itadori is over once more, having arrived sometime during the morning with the excuse that Yuuji had left one of his favoured blankets at his apartment, but Satoru knows there’s more to it. Itadori had been coming over more frequently during the holidays, always with one excuse or another, but it’s plain to see the real reason for his frequent visits: loneliness. How hard must it be for the older man to spend his holidays alone, no family to surround himself with? It sends a pang of pity through Satoru’s heart, so while he never fully believes Itadori’s grumbled excuses, he always welcomes the man with open arms and a warm smile. It’s the least he can do.

Besides, Yuuji adores the elderly man, and Satoru isn’t nearly enough of a monster to deny his son the extra company.

The pair are out in the front yard, Yuuji adorably bundled up head-to-toe in a pale blue snowsuit, laughing and pumping his arms joyously as Itadori slowly pulls him along on a simple wooden sled. Swaddled in winter clothes, only his golden eyes and pudgy cheeks left uncovered, Yuuji more so resembles a misshapen blue marshmallow than anything else, and the adorable sight had made Satoru’s heart squeeze, the sorcerer wasting no time in filling his phone’s camera roll with photos of the young child.

Surprisingly, Sukuna has also joined them outside today—just as bundled up in winter clothing as his son. It was an interesting and amusing discovery, in Satoru’s opinion, just how sensitive to cold the former curse is. Apparently, temperature had no effect on Sukuna while a cursed spirit, but now once again returned to the body of a human, he’s far from acclimatized to Japan’s weather—especially that of the winter months.

And so here he sits on the front step of the house, clad in a pair of well-insulated boots, thick ski pants, a heavy parka, and a knit toque, mitten-covered hands tucked into his armpits as he wraps his arms around himself to further fend off the chill. And—like father, like son—the sight is adorable, even despite the frown that creases his brow, and Satoru may or may not have snuck a few quick photos of him as well.

(Suguru had never had a problem with the cold, his body practically a furnace. His skin could burn at the barest of touches, but Satoru never shied away from the flames. No, he welcomed the sting of that heated skin against his.)

Satoru shakes the thoughts away, exiting the house with three steaming mugs cradled in his hands. He joins Sukuna on the step, lowering himself with a contented sigh, settled in close enough that their arms brush together ever so slightly—though Satoru doubts Sukuna can feel the contact through the thick layers of his winter coat. The former curse doesn’t acknowledge his presence, gaze fixed on Yuuji as Itadori slowly pulls him in circles on the sled.

And as Sukuna watches Yuuji, Satoru watches him, the way his red eyes track Yuuji’s every movement, though no longer with that same conniving, calculative look he had first graced the young boy with. Instead, there’s something far more neutral about the look, something more akin to boredom or idle curiosity, no sinister motive underlying his gaze.

Satoru nudges Sukuna lightly with an elbow, drawing the former curse’s attention. “Adorable, isn’t he?”

“Disgusting,” Sukuna replies, eyes narrowing. “Just looking at him makes me sick.”

It’s an obvious lie, of course; if he were really so bothered by him, he wouldn’t be out here now. But Satoru’s nothing if not benevolent, so he helpfully doesn’t point that out. Instead, he replies, “You know, he takes a lot after you, appearance-wise.” Because Satoru, in fact, is not benevolent at all.

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “He may bear my colourings,” he says, gaze drifting to Yuuji once more, “but that sickeningly sweet disposition of his is all yours.”

“Aw, you think I’m sweet?” Satoru drawls playfully.

“Sickeningly,” Sukuna repeats, stressing the word as though it would do anything to distract from the fact that he had, in a way, complimented Satoru. And Satoru doesn’t read into it, absolutely not, for there’s nothing to read into. Sukuna continues, “I hate sweet things.”

And yet he had helped Satoru devour almost an entire sheet cake, knocked back countless glasses of eggnog at the Christmas party, and even helped himself to several of the leftover sugar cookies from the holiday. Still, Satoru doesn’t read into it.

Satoru hums thoughtfully. “If that’s the case,” he starts, nodding down to the mugs in his hands, “I guess you don’t want this sweet, steaming mug of hot chocolate, hmm?”

“Hot chocolate,” Sukuna echoes, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.

“Mmhm. Freshly made, nice and warm—super sweet though, so you wouldn’t like it.” Satoru sighs dramatically, shrugging his shoulders. “Oh well, more for me I suppose.”

“Give me that!” Sukuna darts a mitten-clad hand out, snatching a mug from Satoru’s hands, jostling the beverage within but somehow managing not to spill it everywhere. He raises the mug to eye level, peering at the dark liquid suspiciously, then hesitantly takes a sip. He jolts back, face screwed up in pain as he hisses. “Fuck. You said it was warm, not scalding.”

And Satoru can’t help the laughter that bubbles up from his core. “Aw, did the big bad curse burn his tongue?” he asks, voice layered with false concern. “Want me to kiss it better?”

It’s a joke—mostly. Satoru can admit that, yeah, he’s not opposed to kissing the other man again, not when it had felt so good to do so before, but it wasn’t because he actually liked Sukuna in any capacity—least of all romantic. It’s just that, ever since Suguru’s sudden…departure, Satoru has been starved for touch, for affection. That’s all.

Sukuna glares at the other man over the rim of his mug, which he cradles firmly in his hands and holds close to his face, the wafting steam providing some warmth against the outdoor chill. “Fuck off.”

Satoru decides to take mercy on him for now, turning away from the former curse with a laugh. “Hey, Itadori!” he calls out to the old man, still pulling Yuuji around the yard on the sled. “Time for a little break, yeah?”

Itadori joins them at the front step, accepting the mug of hot chocolate that Satoru offers him upon arrival, muttering a quick thanks. From the sled, Yuuji squawks in displeasure, bouncing on his bottom and reaching his arms out towards Satoru, and the white-haired man laughs at the display, setting his mug to the side so he can reach forward and lift the small boy up to his lap. Yuuji giggles happily as Satoru arranges the child, balancing him against one arm so the other can hold his hot chocolate, and as he goes to raise the mug to his lips, Yuuji reaches out for it, and Satoru clicks his tongue. “Nuh uh, too hot for babies.” He shoots a sly glance at the former curse next to him. “Sukuna can attest to that.”

Sukuna sips carefully from his mug, eyes narrowed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Right.” Satoru takes a long swig from his mug, the pleasant sweetness caressing his tongue. He swallows it down, sighing in satisfaction. “So, Itadori,” he says, changing the subject, “any plans for New Year's Day?”

The older man shakes his head. “Years ago, we used to try to get the family together and visit the shrine. I didn’t make it there last year, and this year…” He lets the sentence trail off, expression wistful as he stares down into his mug.

“This year,” Satoru continues his sentence for him, “you’re coming to the shrine in Harajuku with us. If you want, that is.”

And Itadori appears surprised by the invitation, eyes widening, mouth open but unable to come up with an immediate response. “I—” he starts after a moment, voice slightly choked, and he coughs to clear his throat. “I’d hate to impose—”

“If it were an imposition,” Satoru interrupts quickly, “I wouldn’t have invited you. C’mon, we’d love to have you!”

Something softens in that hard gaze of Itadori’s—something usually reserved only for Yuuji. His lips curve in a gentle smile, the slight crow’s feet at his eyes crinkling. “I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”

Of course, the soft moment is ruined when Sukuna interjects, “Wait, since when were you planning this shrine visit?”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “I told you about it, like, a week ago.”

“Obviously not,” Sukuna spits back, “considering this is the first I’ve heard of it!”

 But Satoru had definitely mentioned it to him before—hadn’t he? Oh well, nothing he can do about it now. Satoru waves a hand dismissively. “Sure, sure. You gonna join us?”

Sukuna huffs, taking another sip of his drink. “It’s not like I have anything better to do. And you’ll bother me about it until I agree, anyway.”

“You know me so well!” Satoru grins, and Sukuna quickly averts his gaze with a scowl. Satoru brushes off the action. “So, looks like the whole family is going!”

Which, as far as keeping up appearances goes, will be perfect for them in the end. If any higher-ups spot Sukuna on a peaceful outing with not only Satoru and Yuuji, but Itadori—an ordinary human—as well, they’ll have no choice but to see him as a non-threat and accept his and Satoru’s relationship.

Not that their relationship ploy was a particular concern right now, anyway—not since the Christmas party. The eyes that Satoru had felt following him had vanished the day after the party, the higher-ups for now sated by the display under the mistletoe that night. And honestly, Satoru doesn’t blame them for being so fooled; if he didn’t know any better, he’d be convinced of the relationship too.

For Shoko had sent Satoru the photos from the party. Amongst all the slightly blurred shots taken throughout the night of Shoko and Satoru and their other friends, there were two that stood out. There was the one of Satoru and Sukuna in the kitchen, matching sweaters on display as Satoru grins teasingly down at Sukuna, who’s scowling at the camera. And there’s the other one, a snapshot of their kiss, and despite the finger slightly blocking the camera lens, it’s easy to see the way their bodies are pressed flush together, the faint dusting of pink on their cheeks. At first, Satoru had to do a double take, hardly believing it was him—it was them—in the picture, looking so…so…

They looked like they were in love.

Which, of course, is far from true. They hardly tolerate each other on good days, so love? A ridiculous thought. Satoru knows how love looks, how love feels…

And what he feels for Sukuna isn’t it, no matter what that picture says.

New Year's Day arrives, the weather much milder than before, ushering in a sense of optimism for the new year. Itadori had stayed the night, the three adults meeting the new year with a toast of sake (which Satoru had only pretended to drink out of respect to Itadori, who had supplied the beverage), and after a filling breakfast, the makeshift family made their way to Harajuku.

The shrine was already bustling when they arrived, residents and tourists alike flocking around to pay their respects, as well as to wish for a happy and healthy year. Yuuji’s eyes are wide as he takes in the unfamiliar surroundings, having never been amongst so many people before. However, rather than being unnerved by the display, the boy’s eyes shine with delight, and he grins and giggles as they make their way along, head on a constant swivel.

Sukuna, on the other hand, does not appear to appreciate the crowd. There’s an ever-present downturn of his lips, eyes narrowed in a frown and a tick in his brow whenever someone passes too close, worsening upon accidental contact. Satoru subtly hooks an arm through Sukuna’s, pulling the other man in close. It’s only partially to provide some form of comfort for the former curse; mostly, Satoru’s trying to keep the people around them safe.

Still, they do manage to pay their respects at the shrine with very few death threats uttered at the people around them (Satoru would have to update the sign when they returned home. A shame too; their previous two-day streak had been their best yet). They decided to make a stop at the gardens next, and are on their way there when Satoru’s phone rings. Curious, Satoru digs his phone from his pocket, frowning when Yaga’s name appears on the screen.

He quickly accepts the call. “Yaga! What a pleasant surprise! How ya been?”

But Yaga skips the pleasantries, cutting right to the point. “There’s a mission for you. I’ll send you the details promptly, but you must leave at once. It’s of the utmost urgency.”

“Aw, but Yaga,” Satoru whines, jutting his lip in a pout, “you promised I’d have the day off. I’m with the family right now!”

“Another village has been massacred, Satoru.”

And that catches Satoru off guard, wiping the faux display of petulance from his features. For if a village had been massacred, and they were calling him about it…

It’s Suguru. It has to be.

“Satoru?” Yaga prompts, pulling him from his thoughts.

Satoru hesitates before responding, glancing over to Itadori, who’s waiting patiently despite the slight frown on his face, then over to Sukuna, who’s doing his best to appear disinterested—though Satoru is certain he’s eavesdropping on the conversation. If it had just been Yuuji and Itadori, Satoru would have been fine—though slightly guilty and disappointed—to simply leave the child in Itadori’s care while he left for the mission. But with Sukuna here…

Satoru’s nervous. He’s always been sure to be present when Yuuji and Sukuna are around each other, never willing to risk his son’s safety. For Sukuna had made it very clear: he would get his cursed energy back, no matter what it takes. Yuuji is not safe with Sukuna, and even without cursed energy, Sukuna could easily overpower Itadori.

But then again, it had been around seven months since Satoru, Yuuji, and Sukuna had started living together, and in all that time, despite his initial threats, Sukuna had never made a move against Yuuji, had never attempted to seize the child when Satoru had left him with Itadori previously, despite most likely having the means to. Sukuna hadn’t been a true threat yet—in fact, he’d been something of an ally as of late. So maybe, just maybe, Yuuji would be safe with him.

Satoru would just have to trust him.

So he sighs, squeezes his eyes shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright,” he tells Yaga, resigned. “Send the details. I’ll be there.”

With that, he hangs up the phone, stuffing it into his pocket before grinning wryly at his companions. “Sorry, work call. Apparently, I’m needed—urgently—so…”

He lets the sentence trail off, hanging in the air as he shrugs a shoulder—nonchalant, though there’s an anger smouldering in his core, animosity and frustration flickering like small flames, but he won’t let the others know. One day—that’s all he had asked for, one day to spend with Yuuji (and Itadori, and Sukuna) doing normal holiday things, being a normal family. But Satoru should have learned by now: despite his ability to manipulate infinity, to bend the very universe to his will, normalcy will always be the only thing out of his reach.

Though perhaps, more accurately, it’s because of this power, his unmatched strength, that a normal life cannot be an option. It’s because of this strength that he’s being called out now, after all. If the initial assumption of Suguru’s involvement is indeed true, then Satoru is the only one strong enough to deal with him.

(It’s a laughable thought, really; Satoru hadn’t been strong enough before, so what makes this time any different?)

Itadori’s frown deepens at the news, wrinkles accentuated by the action. “Really? Today of all days?”

“Really,” Satoru replies. “I’m sorry to ask this, but do you think you could watch Yuuji today? I can pay you extra—and Sukuna can help you! Right, Sukuna?”

Satoru meets Sukuna's gaze, steady and serious, trying to convey a message with just his eyes. Play along. Don’t you dare try anything when I’m gone. Sukuna holds his gaze, though whether he gets the message or not is impossible to tell. Still, a moment passes, and finally, Sukuna huffs, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Great.” Satoru hands Yuuji off to Itadori, then passes Yuuji’s bag to Sukuna, who roughly snatches it from Satoru’s hand. Satoru raises a brow at the display, then quickly shifts his attention to Itadori. “Okay, you can take my car back to the house. Keys are in the bag, and I’ll leave my credit card with you too just in case. Feel free to hang out at the shrine for as long as you’d like, and help yourself to anything at the house. I’ll try to be back as soon as possible, I promise. Call me if you need anything—and I mean anything.”

Itadori just nods in confirmation. Satoru turns his attention to Yuuji, gently ruffling his pale rose hair. “Sorry Yuuji, but daddy’s gotta go to work now. I’ll be sure to tuck you in later tonight though, okay?”

Yuuji obviously does not understand his words, but he still grins and coos back, and Satoru can’t help the smile that stretches his own cheeks. He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to Yuuji’s forehead. “See you later. I love you.”

Then Satoru turns to Sukuna. “Sukuna—”

But the former curse cuts him off. “Relax,” he says, shifting Yuuji’s bag to hang from his shoulder. “We’ll be fine. Stop wasting time and go.”

Satoru huffs a quick laugh. “Right. Okay. I’m off now. See you all later!”

With a final wave and a smile, Satoru finally departs.

The village is far to the north, a trip that would take an ordinary person several hours—if not days. But for Satoru, it’s a matter of minutes, warping himself to the middle of the small rural village, a fresh layer of snow crunching under his boots when he arrives.

It’s silent—eerily so. Nothing but the howl of the wind through the trees, his footsteps as he slowly paces the streets, scanning the scene before him. The homes are intact, buildings worn with age but bearing no sign of external damage, and added to the recent snowfall and pressing silence, Satoru can almost convince himself that the inhabitants were simply asleep, nothing more.

But beneath the pristine white snow lies the grim reality.

Satoru approaches the nearest house, the door unlocked, and it swings open with a grating creak that echoes harshly against the silent landscape. But it’s the smell that hits him first—putrid and sharp, burning his nose and making him gag. He quickly shoves his face into the stiff collar of his winter jacket, doing his best to stifle the stench as he finally peers around the house.

And…look, it’s not Satoru’s first time seeing a dead body, it’s just…

It doesn’t get any easier. It never does.

He steps outside the house once more, closing the door firmly behind him and taking in lungfuls of clean air. He wastes no time after that, Six Eyes searching the village for any signs of life—survivors or assailants—but finding none, no one in the village but the dead. A massacre, just as Yaga had said.

So he tunes his senses to the traces of cursed energy, the residues still lingering in the aftermath. He doesn’t need to look too hard, the residues revealing themselves almost instantly, their energy signature far too familiar.

And they were right: it’s Suguru’s energy.

It’s Suguru.

The residues chart a clear path through the village, almost mapping out the exact course of the attack, of the slaughter, and there’s nausea churning in Satoru’s gut the further along he strides, following the trail, the destruction. It’s easy. Too easy. The trail too obvious, baiting.

He knew I’d come.

And Satoru knows he should stop, shouldn’t fall for the obvious plot. But Satoru’s never been one to do what he should, so he continues along, even as the path leads him away from the village, further into the bordering forest. Drawn like a moth to a flame, he follows, and though he has the foresight to know this won’t end well, it can’t, he still goes, ready to burn, to catch the whole forest ablaze just to see Suguru again, to speak with him, touch him, anything—

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

And it’s like the spell is broken, Satoru stopping abruptly, eyes blinking behind dark shades. He pulls his phone out, Itadori’s name on the screen, and his stomach drops.

Yuuji. No, no, please no—

He answers the call quickly. “Yuuji, is he okay?”

“What?” Confusion laces Itadori’s gruff tone, and Satoru’s shoulders ease slightly. “Everything’s fine. Yuuji’s a little cranky, but we can’t find his tiger plushie anywhere. That’s why I’m calling.”

And finally, Satoru can breathe again. He drags a hand through his hair, smiling with relief. “Right. It should be with the laundry. I had to give it a wash.”

“Okay, we’ll look.”

“But everything else is okay?” Satoru quickly asks, needing confirmation once more.

Itadori sighs. “Everything is fine. But are you? You’ve never been this worried before.”

It catches Satoru off guard, being called out so directly. He tries to laugh it off. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m good. I’m just about to start wrapping things up here, so I should be back in a few hours.”

“Alright,” Itadori replies, but there’s a certain hesitation in his voice, like he doesn’t quite believe Satoru. “We’ll see you then.”

He hangs up then, and Satoru quickly pockets his phone. He takes a deep breath—long inhale, long exhale, breath visible in the cold air. “Right,” he mumbles, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Let’s wrap this up then, yeah?”

There’s no answer, of course there isn’t, none but the trees and wind to keep him company. His gaze follows the trail of cursed energy residue once more, but before he can overthink it, he turns and walks away, back to the village.

He wants to turn around. He almost does.

But he has a son to get back to—a family.

His feet keep moving.

An unregistered curse, Grade One. That’s the report Satoru issues upon his arrival at Jujutsu Tech. Easily exorcised, the curse held no trace of Suguru’s cursed technique, simply born of the humans living in the village, nothing more. The elders find it hard to believe, at first, so convinced of Suguru’s involvement, so quick to lay that blame, but Satoru’s insistence eventually quells their doubts—at least on the surface. They’ll go check the village again, search for any lingering trace of Suguru’s energy.

But they won’t find anything. Satoru made sure of that.

And he’s not sure what he’s trying to accomplish with this lie. Is he trying to protect Suguru? Protect himself? Or is he simply just a coward, too afraid to face the truth? A better sorcerer—a good sorcerer—would tell the truth. But Satoru…he’s the strongest. That’s it. Not good. Not bad. Just strong.

So he doesn’t think about it. 

It’s far later than he had anticipated when he finally makes his way through the front door of his house, bone-weary and ready to collapse into bed. The lights are dim in the house, except for in the dining room, light spilling over the floorboards as Satoru approaches, finding Itadori and Sukuna seated at the table, a game board littered with small black and white pieces between them.

The two look up as Satoru enters, Sukuna’s gaze lingering a little too long, too similar to the way he used to look at Yuuji—calculative, analytical, like he’s looking at Satoru, but not actually looking at him. Satoru tries to ignore those eyes, coming to stand next to the table. “Hey, sorry I’m so late. Things got…complicated.” He pulls out a chair at the table, settling down with a sigh. “Did you guys have a good evening? Yuuji go down okay?”

“As I told you before,” Itadori says, voice gruff, “everything was fine. Once we found the tiger, Yuuji settled down easily.” He places a white piece on the board with a gentle clack. Sukuna’s eyes flick from Satoru to the board then, a small frown creasing his face as he studies the array before him.

“Good, I’m glad,” Satoru replies, leaning his elbows against the table. “Whatcha playing? Go?”

“Gomoku,” Sukuna corrects, finally placing his piece.

Satoru hums, eyeing the game board. “I didn’t know you were into board games. You’ll have to show me how to play this one.”

“I doubt you’d be any good,” Sukuna replies haughtily, and Itadori snorts.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Itadori says, a mean grin on his face. “You’ve yet to win a game. Speaking of—” Itadori places one of his pieces with a loud clack, then leans back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest— “That’s five. I win again.”

Sukuna fixes the other man with a glare, indignantly tossing the game piece he had held in his hand down to the table below. “I’m out of practice, that’s all,” Sukuna spits. “I haven’t played this game since I was a child.”

“You say that as if you aren’t still practically a child,” Itadori replies, still grinning.

And Satoru has to bite back a peel of laughter at that, hiding his smile behind his hand. It’s an absurd accusation, an ancient curse being compared to a child, and it’s obvious the irony is not lost on Sukuna, who’s got a brow raised in an obvious challenge, as though seconds away from revealing the reality.

But before he can, Satoru reaches over to clap him on the shoulder. “Sukuna’s an old soul,” Satoru says, then yelps when Sukuna roughly shoves his hand away. “Hey!”

Itadori’s expression is unreadable as he watches the display before him, and eventually he sighs, rising from his chair. “Well, it’s late. I better be off.”

Satoru rises as well. “I’ll see you out.”

It’s a short walk to the front door, and Satoru follows Itadori out the front door, closing it behind him. The older man raises a quizzical brow, and Satoru shoves his hands into his pockets, trying to appear nonchalant as he says, “Hey, before you go, just one quick question.”

Itadori pauses next to his car, silent as he waits. Satoru takes a deep breath. “While I was gone, did Sukuna act…weird around Yuuji at all?”

“Weird how?” Itadori asks, and there’s something about his tone of voice—the suspicion lacing his words—that tells Satoru he’s jumping to the worst conclusions. “Satoru, if you or Yuuji—”

Satoru cuts him off quickly. “No! No, everything’s okay, I promise! It’s just that…Sukuna’s not great with kids, y’know? And he’s trying to do better with Yuuji, but he’s still super awkward around him. So I just wanted to check.”

The lie rolls off Satoru’s tongue easily. He’s gotten far too good at lying, lately.

Itadori hums, the tension leaving his shoulders. “He seemed fine around the kid. Stand-offish, but fine.” Then the old man huffs, a small smile creasing his face. “You don’t have to worry about that one, kid. He’s decent company—far more civilized than you, anyhow.”

Satoru laughs. “Right, I bet he is.”

“You’ve got yourself a good one,” Itadori says as he opens the door to his car. “Rough around the edges, but good. He’ll warm up to Yuuji; just give him time.”

With that, Itadori bids him farewell, taillights gradually disappearing into the dark as he drives away. Satoru lingers a moment longer on the doorstep until his exhaustion becomes too much to bear, then makes his way back inside, intent on paying Yuuji a quick visit—as promised—before grabbing a snack and passing out for a few hours. He lightly pads down the hallway to Yuuji's room—right next to Satoru's—poking his head inside to check that Yuuji is in fact safely tucked away into bed, before retreating once more to the kitchen. Sukuna’s still at the table when Satoru crosses to the kitchen, the former curse not acknowledging his return, too focused on the game board before him, appearing to be playing against himself. Satoru snorts softly at the sight, turning to the fridge to find something to eat. There are leftovers from the dinner Itadori and Sukuna must’ve had earlier, and Satoru’s quick to help himself, humming lightly as he reheats the food.

“You reek.”

Satoru whirls around, fixing Sukuna with a glare that goes unnoticed: Sukuna has yet to look up from the board. “I do not reek,” Satoru says, hands on his hips. “I just showered this morning! And I didn’t even break a sweat on my mission. You’re just being mean.”

Sukuna finally glances over to him—only so Satoru can see him roll his eyes. “You reek of curses,” Sukuna stipulates, returning his attention to the board. “Low-level ones at that.”

And there’s something about the way he says it—the disdain in his voice as he spits those words—that grates on Satoru’s nerves. For any cursed energy residue that could possibly be left clinging to his clothes, his skin, is the product of Suguru’s cursed spirit manipulation. It’s Suguru’s. And Suguru’s not a low-level anything—never was, and never will be. So to hear Sukuna—devoid of any cursed energy, fatally weakened—insinuate that Suguru is anything other than the best—

Satoru can’t stand for it. He won’t.

But he’s also…he’s so tired. And Yuuji’s asleep. And he doesn’t want to risk an argument so late at night, doesn’t want to waste the energy. So he simply takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m not in the mood to deal with your bullshit, so just…fuck off.”

Sukuna snorts. “Really? Of all the insults I’ve hurled at you, this one—saying you reek of curses—is where you draw the line. Pathetic.”

“I don’t reek of curses,” Satoru says, defensive, a slight pout on his face to mask the anger still churning in his core.

But Sukuna doesn’t take the statement at its simple face value. He catches on to the insinuation lying beneath, and for a moment he’s studying Satoru again—looking at him, but not looking at him. “Just one,” Sukuna concludes after a moment, eyes sliding away to place another piece on the board. “But not a curse. A sorcerer.” Then those eyes are back, but this time, Sukuna’s looking at him—truly looking at him.

My best friend. My one and only.

Satoru had told Sukuna about Suguru before, hadn’t he? Had poured his heart out with the aid of a little liquid courage, had spilled a part of his soul on the floor between them. He had figured Sukuna wasn’t really listening, didn’t care enough to remember the details, but maybe, just maybe, he knew more than he let on. Maybe he knows enough to put the pieces together. Satoru hopes he doesn’t.

Quickly, Satoru changes the subject. “So, Gomoku. Did you really used to play as a kid?”

“Of course,” Sukuna replies, turning his attention back to the game. “Why would I lie about something so trivial?”

It feels like a pointed question, an accusation, almost. But there’s no way Sukuna could know Satoru’s recent thoughts, his recent lies. It was simply a question, nothing more.

Satoru watches as Sukuna places pieces on the board, alternating between the black and white stones, face creased with too much concentration considering he is, in fact, playing against himself. They sit in silence for a few moments, Satoru content with his dinner and Sukuna with his game.

And then Satoru finishes his plate, sighing in satisfaction. He should go to bed—eyelids heavy, yawns stretching his jaw—but for some reason he remains at the table, cheek resting against his hand. “How do you play?”

Sukuna’s eyes flicker up to Satoru’s—perhaps surprised by the sudden question, the stark break in silence. Satoru holds his gaze steadily, trying to convey the sentiment that he’s not just asking for the sake of asking; he genuinely wants to know.

After a moment, Sukuna sighs. “Gomoku,” he explains as he begins to clear the board, “is a variation of Go. The goal is to form an unbroken row of five stones—horizontally, vertically, or diagonally.” He places a pile of white stones in front of Satoru, keeping the black for himself. “Now listen closely, for I will only explain this once…”

They play well into the night.

Satoru never wins a game.

Chapter Text

Satoru is no stranger to nightmares. In fact, one could argue that nightmares are most familiar, most common—especially amongst Jujutsu sorcerers, whose waking hours are filled with horrors far beyond what ordinary people could ever comprehend. The life of a sorcerer is one of torment, unyielding awake or asleep. Always a nightmare, or a dreamless sleep—for as a sorcerer, to dream is dangerous. To dream is to allow foolish optimism inside, to delude oneself into believing that life is anything but what it truly is: a tragedy—unrelenting, indiscriminate—from which the only escape is an untimely death, utterly alone, drowning in guilt and regret.

So Satoru has nightmares.

They hadn’t been particularly bad ones, not for a while, at least. Strange images of disfigured curses, of blood and bone, of death—easily shaken off come the light of morning. But as the winter drags on, the bitter chill remaining even into February, the nightmares worsen. Faceless figures now bear faces—familiar visages stretched in pain, in fear, blood dripping down their skin, the same blood that bathes his hands. He doesn’t dream of death, but of slaughter, of decimated battlefields and lakes of red, of a fated adversary with a hole in his chest, a beloved friend torn from his grasp to the darkness beyond.

But the worst ones always begin as memories—his dorm room at Jujutsu Tech, bathed in early morning light. The most beautiful man alive draped on his side across the bed, dark hair pulled back in a messy bun as he smiles softly down at the young child next to him, dangling a small tiger plushie just out of reach of the child’s grabby hands. And Satoru knows the memory itself is not real, but a conglomeration of memories that are; Yuuji is too old in this version, and the tiger plushie had been purchased after Satoru moved from the dorms. But it’s still familiar enough that Satoru can almost believe it to be true, can allow himself to be caught up in the little inconsistencies without question.

But it’s in this distraction that the horrors arise.

So caught up in his thoughts, Satoru doesn’t notice the sudden change in the air, the swell of cursed energy that almost crackles like electricity in its intensity. He only notices something has changed when he feels the slimy glide of a curse around his ankle, and he realizes the room is full of them—swarming the floorboards, covering the walls, disgusting bodies writhing upon every available surface. More and more wrap around his limbs, immobilizing him until the only thing he can do is shout, call out for help, for Suguru to do something—

But Suguru isn’t looking at him. His attention is trained on the bed, on the young child surrounded by curses, open maws gaping with sharp teeth, Yuuji crying out at the sight. And Satoru needs to move, to fight, to save him, but his cursed energy doesn’t respond, his limbs remaining trapped. And as he shouts out for Suguru, for Yuuji, for anyone, Suguru turns his head to him and smiles.

If only you had been stronger.

The words echo in Satoru’s mind, set against a background of harsh laughter from Suguru, who has risen from the bed, slowly backing away into an inky void. If only.

Satoru calls for him, begs him to save Yuuji, please, please Suguru, save him—

Then a curse lunges for Yuuji.

Satoru doesn’t wake up screaming. He hasn’t for a long time. But his breathing is still harsh and laboured when he awakes, bolting upright in his bed. He’s in his room, in his house, no curses around for miles and miles. It’s still dark, still night, thin slivers of moonlight streaming in between the curtains on the window, and save for the rush of his breath, the racing of his heart, the house is silent. Safe.

He tries to shake the nightmare off, steadying his breathing as he runs shaky fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Smell the flowers, blow out the candles.

His breathing steadies eventually, his heart returning to a more normal pace. Satoru settles himself back into bed, pulling the thick covers up around himself as he closes his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him once again.

But images flash across his mind—the curses lunging for Yuuji, the child’s eyes filled with tears, with fear—and Satoru decides sleep is the last thing he needs.

He pushes his covers away, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and pushing himself up with a yawn. It’s a bit chillier in the house tonight, and Satoru wraps his arms around himself to maintain some of the warmth that his bed had granted him. He makes his way from his room to the one just down the hall, poking his head into the small nursery.

Yuuji’s nestled away safely in his crib, sleeping soundly to the gentle white noise machine that plays quietly in the background. The tension that had laced Satoru’s shoulders lessens as he takes in the sight, and he slowly enters the room, flipping on the lamp in the corner to allow a little more light to illuminate the room, casting the child in a warm glow.

Yuuji’s sprawled out in his crib, mouth open as he breathes deeply in and out, pink hair an absolute mess. He had kicked his blanket away at some point in the night, the cozy fabric caught up in his legs, and Satoru smiles as he gently pulls the blanket free, draping it over the boy’s body once more. Yuuji sighs softly but remains asleep.

Seeing Yuuji alive and safe eases Satoru’s troubled thoughts, yet he finds he’s not quite ready to head back to his room, not yet. He carefully carries the rocking chair from the corner to the side of the crib, sitting close enough that he can stick a slender finger through the slats in the side of the bed, carefully caressing the tiny palm of Yuuji’s outstretched hand. It’s instinct, reflex, when Yuuji’s fist closes gently but firmly around Satoru’s finger, keeping it in place, and while Satoru is not usually one to be dramatic (a total lie), he swears there’s a moment his heart stutters in its rhythm, squeezed tight by an invisible grip like the one wrapped around his finger.

And there’s heat building in the backs of Satoru’s eyes, tears threatening to spill, but he wipes them away with his free hand. He almost laughs at the absurdity of the situation, how such a simple gesture is enough to bring him to his knees, the strongest sorcerer crumbling beneath the weight of his child’s hand. He wants to hold Yuuji, hold him close enough to feel his soft breaths, his steady heartbeat, but doing so risks disturbing Yuuji’s sleep—a risk Satoru is not willing to take, not when Yuuji’s finally started sleeping on a more regular schedule. So he settles for the simple point of contact instead, leaning his forehead against the edge of the crib and letting his eyes drift shut, the gentle cadence of Yuuji’s breathing lulling him to the edges of sleep.

He’s not sure how long he floats there before the gentle pad of footsteps rouses him, unfettered eyes blinking open slowly just in time to see Sukuna pass by the open door. The footsteps stop suddenly, then backtrack, and soon Sukuna is back, leaning against the doorframe with a brow raised in question.

“Yuuji had a nightmare,” Satoru says, voice still rough from sleep.

Sukuna crosses his arms over his chest, head cocked to the side. “Yuuji did.”

“Yup,” Satoru confirms, popping the ‘p’.

Sukuna hums in thought. “Yuuji had a nightmare,” he repeats steadily, “yet I never heard him cry out.”

“What can I say?” Satoru shrugs a shoulder. “You’re a deep sleeper.”

“I haven’t slept.”

“You have old man hearing.”

And Sukuna actually huffs at this, though it’s difficult for Satoru to determine if it's amusement or annoyance. “Well, this old man is going to prepare himself tea, and he can prepare a second cup should Yuuji like.”

And Satoru can’t help the way his eyes widen at the unexpected invitation, not sure how to reply at first. Tea…would be nice, actually. But to get the tea, he’d have to leave Yuuji’s side, and…that wouldn’t be nice. He’s not ready yet.

“Yuuji’s alright for now,” Satoru replies eventually, a small smile on his face as he glances over to his sleeping son, “but thanks—Yuuji says thanks,” he quickly corrects with a laugh. “At least, he would if he were awake, and, like, could talk.”

Sukuna pushes himself from the doorframe, rolling his eyes. “Fool,” he mutters, beginning to walk away, and Satoru must be more exhausted than he thought, for the former curse almost sounded fond.

“Hey,” Satoru calls out, halting the other in place. “You should get some sleep.”

Sukuna turns towards him, levelling him with a long look, studying. After a moment, he turns away. “So should you.”

But it’s easier said than done—Satoru knows this, and he’s pretty sure Sukuna does too if his late-night activities are anything to go by. It’s empty advice neither is going to take, but there’s…comfort, maybe, in still speaking it aloud, and it almost makes Satoru want to try.

Just. Not yet.

Sukuna disappears from the doorframe, continuing along on his task, and Satoru turns his attention back to Yuuji, leaning his head against the crib once more, watching the sleeping child through the crib’s bars.

Eventually, the position grows uncomfortable, his muscles cramped from the slumped position, restlessness itching in his limbs. He’s still not ready to sleep, but he does need to move, so it’s with great reluctance that he finally wiggles his finger out of Yuuji’s grasp, rising to his feet and stretching his stiff body. He watches his son for a moment longer, then flicks the lamp off and leaves the room.

He makes his way towards the kitchen, noticing the light has been left on, yet when he enters, he finds the room empty, Sukuna most likely having retreated to his room long ago. Satoru sighs, already preparing himself for the tongue lashing he’ll have to give Sukuna the next morning about wasting electricity, wondering if it’d be worth ruining their current death threat-less streak of two days, but his thoughts come to a halt when his eyes fall upon the kitchen island—or rather, what sits upon the island:

A mug, still faintly steaming, the tea within not hot, but warm all the same.

He cradles the mug in his hands, inhaling the earthy, sweet scent of the tea, a small smile curling his lips. He sips the drink, crossing the kitchen to where the death threats counter hangs on the fridge, quickly wiping away the two and replacing it with a three.

He’ll let Sukuna off the hook—just this once.

It’s a surprising fact to many, but Satoru has, in fact, never spent a Valentine’s Day as a taken man. This is because, even more surprisingly, Satoru has never been in an official relationship. Sure, he and Suguru had practically been dating for much of their time at Jujutsu Tech, but due to the nature of their roles as sorcerers and the frailty of life such a role brings, they had never bothered to make things official, leaving whatever was between them unspoken, simply as it was until the day it suddenly wasn’t. So, to summarize: Satoru Gojo has never been in an actual relationship on Valentine’s Day.

Until now.

(Well, he’s not certain if his and Sukuna’s fake relationship should count as an official relationship, but it’s official enough to everyone around them, so that’s good enough for Satoru.)

Seeing as this year would mark Satoru’s first ever Valentine’s Day with a partner, he of course had to go all out—and what better way to spend Valentine’s Day with your (fake) beau than booking an expensive hotel, spa, and dining package for two?

Satoru thought it was a great idea when he saw the ad online, booking immediately without seeking Sukuna’s input. Really, as someone so obsessed with his own pleasure, Sukuna should be thrilled with Satoru’s choice—an entire day at a luxury hotel, being waited on hand and foot by highly trained staff. It sounded like paradise.

It had been weeks ago that Satoru booked the package, planning to wait until the morning of Valentine’s Day to reveal the surprise to Sukuna. And now the time and day had come, and Satoru was ready to knock the former curse’s metaphorical socks off!

He arrives outside of Sukuna’s room, knocking incessantly on the door and grinning like an idiot. And he doesn’t let up on his knocking, not until the door finally swings open, revealing Sukuna’s dishevelled form, eyes narrowed and hair sticking wildly in every direction. “Cease this racket or die,” Sukuna hisses with way more annoyance than what was warranted.

Still, Sukuna’s bad attitude doesn’t spoil Satoru’s mood. “Good morning to you too!” he greets the other, leaning an arm against the doorframe. “I hope you slept well, ‘cause we got a big day ahead of us!”

Sukuna’s frown deepens as he crosses his arms over his chest. “We’ve nothing planned.”

“It’s a surprise!”

“Tell me.”

“But that’d ruin the surprise.”

“Tell me.”

“I booked us a hotel!” Satoru finally reveals, practically vibrating in his excitement. “It’s super luxurious, and it includes a spa package and a fancy candlelit dinner.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes, and he points out, “That doesn’t sound like something the brat would enjoy.”

“He’ll be staying with Itadori. This outing is just for you and me.” Satoru shoots him a wink.

Maybe the wink was a bad move, for now Sukuna eyes him suspiciously, hesitating slightly before finally hazarding to ask, “Why?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day, of course!” Satoru shrugs a shoulder. “Would be pretty suspicious if the two of us didn’t have a romantic date planned, you know.”

Sukuna sighs. “Are we being watched again?”

“Not as badly as before, but…” Satoru lets the thought trail off; Sukuna will understand what he means. “Regardless, a night away from this place would be good for us! I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a change in scenery.”

“It’s bad enough being trapped in this house with you,” Sukuna points out. “Why would I want to confine myself to a single room with you?”

Satoru huffs a laugh. “Oh, it’s not just a single room—trust me.”

Sukuna studies him a moment, debating within himself the merits of agreeing to the plan, jaw working over as though physically chewing on the idea. Finally, he clicks his tongue. “You’d better not disappoint.”

“I never do!” Satoru declares, clapping the other on the shoulder—much to Sukuna’s displeasure. “Now quick, get an overnight bag packed. We leave in thirty!”

It’s been a while since Satoru had last been in Shinjuku—almost a year—but the circumstances of that last visit had been…less than pleasant, to say the least. But it’ll be different this time, he tells himself as he and Sukuna arrive at the hotel, valets and attendants quickly rushing out to meet them. Satoru and Sukuna climb out of the car, and Satoru hands the keys off to the valet before directing the other attendants to their meagre luggage, being sure to tip the staff well. That taken care of, he turns to Sukuna—who’s not even trying to conceal the look of awe on his face as he takes in his surroundings, eyes comically wide and head craned back to behold the massive skyscrapers before him.

Satoru laughs at his expression, draping an arm across his shoulders and a self-satisfied grin on his face as he asks, “Well? Whaddya think?”

“It’s…adequate,” Sukuna decides, nonchalant as though his jaw had not been on the pavement only seconds before.

Still, Satoru urges the other forward, and it’s a testament to his bewilderment that Sukuna has yet to dislodge the sorcerer’s arm from his shoulders as he allows himself to be guided along. “C’mon,” Satoru says, grin widening. “We’re barely getting started.”

Their room is high up in the towering building, nearing the top floors. An elevator takes them up to their floor, and excitement electrifies Satoru’s skin, makes his heart race in his chest and his muscles restless. Despite trying to appear unaffected, Satoru can tell the anticipation is getting to Sukuna too, fingers drumming impatiently against his biceps where his arms cross over his chest.

Finally, the elevator arrives, and they make their way down the hallway to their room. Satoru quickly unlocks the door with the keycard, entering the room with a flourish. And Satoru’s seen the room before in pictures and videos, but nothing quite compares to the actual experience of being there, of seeing it with his own eyes.

The room is dark—cozy and intimate with its soft lighting and black and grey accents, luxurious with its glass and metal finishings. Traditional Japanese artwork adorns the walls, and lines of bookshelves lead further into the room, beckoning them forward as they enter. The room is more of a small apartment than an actual hotel room, with a full living area furnished with a plush sofa and sleek chairs, a kitchenette with a dining table and minibar, a grand piano in one corner, and doors leading off to an office space, the bathroom, and of course, the bedroom. The outer walls of the room are comprised only of windows, showing off an impressive view of the city’s skyline.

Satoru slowly takes in his fill of the room, a smile plastered to his face. “So, does this meet your standards?” he asks Sukuna, turning his attention to his companion.

And Sukuna…he’s smiling—not his usual sadistic grin, typically reserved for his delight at the plight of others, his cruel satisfaction in causing it, but one of simple wonderment, of excitement even. That grin stays fixed in place as he slowly turns in a circle, soaking in the surrounding decor. “No matter the era,” he says, voice alight with a certain amusement, “you humans certainly never compromise on luxury. It’s a little too modern for my tastes, but I suppose I can indulge in it for now.”

Satoru cocks a brow. “So…you like it?”

“It’s passable—for now.” Sukuna turns his gaze to Satoru, and while he’s managed to subdue his expression, there’s no hiding his glee. “But as you said before: we’re barely getting started, aren’t we?”

“That’s right!” Satoru makes his way further into the suite, Sukuna following unbidden as Satoru makes for the minibar. He continues to explain as he walks. “Our spa appointment starts in about a half hour, and after that, we’ve got a couple of hours of downtime before our dinner reservation. And to kick it all off—”

Satoru reaches the minibar, scanning the shelves until his gaze lands on the miniature-size bottles he’s looking for. He grins victoriously, pulling two bottles from the shelf before turning to Sukuna, gently waving the bottles in the air for emphasis— “Champagne!”

Sukuna cocks a brow but accepts the bottle that Satoru hands him. “I was under the impression you had sworn off alcohol.”

“Really?” Satoru asks incredulously, as though the sentiment were hard to believe rather than, well, the actual truth. “What makes you say that?”

“You aren’t that slick,” Sukuna says, peeling the foil from the top of his champagne bottle. “New Year's Eve. I know you only pretended to drink the sake the old man brought.”

Satoru busies himself with his own bottle, shrugging a shoulder. “Maybe I just didn’t feel like drinking.”

“Maybe,” Sukuna concedes easily. “Or maybe you’re afraid that you can’t trust yourself around me, not when alcohol is involved, at least.”

And, well, he’s not wrong if recent history is anything to go by. But he’s also not entirely right either. “You didn’t drink much either,” Satoru points out, turning the conversation back on Sukuna. He doesn’t look at him though, eye contact too staggering a feat at the moment, gaze instead focused on the bottle in hand as he pops the small cork. “Maybe you’re the one who can’t trust himself.”

Sukuna hums, not denying the thought as he mimics Satoru’s actions with his own bottle. “I suppose we’ll find out tonight, won’t we?”

When Satoru finally glances over at the former curse, he finds Sukuna’s gaze already on him, lips pulled in a smirk and eyes alight with the prospect of a challenge. And Satoru can’t help but mirror the look, peering over his dark shades at Sukuna as he tips his bottle toward the other. “I suppose we will.”

About a half-hour later, the two find themselves slightly stumbling through the doors to the spa, having downed their bottles of champagne much quicker than their low tolerance could handle. Thankfully, the staff are seasoned professionals, not even blinking an eye when Satoru nearly topples over a potted palm in the lobby, giggling when the fronds tickle his cheek. Sukuna pulls him upright again, and Satoru takes the opportunity to wrap an arm around the other man’s shoulders—for balance, of course. With his free hand, Satoru flashes the receptionist a peace sign. “Got an appointment for two! Should be under Gojo.”

The woman at the desk nods her head curtly. “Yes. Right this way.”

She leads the two to a small changeroom, instructing them to change into the bathrobes provided before making their way to the main spa area. She departs after Satoru thanks her, sliding her a handful of slightly crumpled bills that he pulls from his pocket, uncaring as to the actual amount enclosed (though judging by her wide-eyed expression, it must have been a lot).

Safely inside the changeroom, Satoru’s quick to change out into the bathrobe, the white cotton soft against his skin. He adjusts the collar in one of the floor-length mirrors, tightens the belt so it’s snug yet still comfortable around his waist, and slips his feet into a pair of matching slippers. “Y’know,” he says to Sukuna, gaze still on his reflection in the mirror, “these bathrobes sort of look like your old kimono!” He smooths his hands over the plush fabric, sighing at the softness. “These are probably way comfier though. I can’t imagine wanting to commit mass murder in this, am I right?”

It's an obvious barb, yet Sukuna doesn’t respond. Satoru frowns, watches his brows crease in his reflection. “Am I right?” he prompts again, but being met with no response, he finally pulls his attention away from his reflection, turning to the figure next to him. “Sukuna?”

Similar to Satoru, Sukuna stands before a floor-length mirror, bathrobe wrapped snuggly around his body, belt tied much more carefully—more skillfully—than Satoru’s. And while Sukuna’s eyes are on the mirror before him—fingers adjusting the cuffs at his wrists, the collar around his throat, smoothing over the fabric perhaps appreciatively, perhaps appraisingly—it appears his mind is elsewhere, red eyes slightly unfocused even as he takes in his appearance.

And there’s a wistfulness in his distraction, for Satoru is right: the bathrobes do resemble Sukuna’s old kimono—the resemblance more noticeable upon the former’s curse’s body. It’s a reminder of the past, of the existence Satoru had ripped away without mercy, a reminder Satoru had—even if unwittingly—brought about. And Sukuna should be mad about it, shouldn’t he? Enraged to have his deficits thrown back in his face so blatantly. So Satoru braces for the worst, for the storm that’s sure to come.

And yet, despite Satoru’s fears, Sukuna doesn’t seem upset. On the contrary, he appears…content, perhaps—the movement of his hands as they adjust the robe preening rather than nervous or irritated. And while the nostalgia doesn’t abate, it manifests less as a longing for what once was, but a simple appreciation for the past.

Finally having had his fill of his own appearance, drawing himself from his own musings, Sukuna turns his attention to Satoru, finding the other’s gaze already on him. Sukuna’s gaze trails lazily up and down Satoru’s form. “I wear it better.”

Satoru lets the subtle insult slide, huffing a laugh. “Yeah, you do.” He slides his hands into the pockets of the bathrobe, gesturing with his head towards the door of the change room. “Let’s get going. Relaxation awaits!”

The spa experience begins with a quick trip to the sauna, their bathrobes swapped out for towels—at which Sukuna grumbles his displeasure, the pointlessness in donning the robes if they were to take them off almost immediately after. Afterwards, it was over to the massage area, skilled masseuses pressing the tension from heat-soaked muscles while attendants ensured the provided glasses of champagne never stayed empty for long. At one point, Sukuna appears to actually fall asleep on the table, thoroughly relaxed and lulled to a peaceful slumber.

And Satoru…well, it’s not that the massage isn’t good, ever-present knots worked out, muscles releasing their long-held tension. No, the massage is very good—perfect even. It’s just…

He’s not sure if he likes the feeling of a stranger’s hands on his skin.

But Sukuna doesn’t complain. So neither does Satoru.

After the massage, the two are ushered to a couple of plush armchairs, and they’re offered another glass of champagne—this one noticeably sweeter than what they had consumed back at the room, and honestly, Satoru wouldn’t be surprised if the champagne had been forgone in favour of a non-alcoholic sparkling juice. Next, some sort of mask smelling faintly of citrus is applied to their faces, gently massaged onto the skin before being left to sit. In the meantime, the attendants work on their hands and nails, providing care to the skin before beginning on the nails. Satoru’s never had a manicure before, and with all the rough and tumble action of Jujutsu sorcery, he’s not certain a manicure would be able to withstand it. But the options shown to Satoru are too hard to turn down—especially with the bubbly warmth that had been building in his core thanks to the champagne—and he eventually settles on a simple French manicure. Simple, classic, and something he won’t feel too upset about inevitably breaking later.

Sukuna, on the other hand, goes far bolder. Matte black polish paints his nails, the tips shaped and sharpened to points. Claws—reminiscent of the ones that had once adorned his fingers. Sukuna inspects them with unbridled glee, relishes in the way they clink against his glass.

The face masks are removed at some point, a variety of other creams and serums applied to their skin afterwards, and their appointment moves to its conclusion, Satoru and Sukuna invited to relax poolside for as long as they desire. They lounge on well-padded loungers, polish off another glass of champagne (juice?), then make their way back to the changeroom to retrieve their things.

They don’t bother to change out of their bathrobes; it’s sheer laziness really, and the desire to maintain the atmosphere of comfort and relaxation even as they make their way back to their hotel room. The next hour or so passes in relative silence, but it’s a content sort of silence. They help themselves to the expensive and pretentious-sounding wines supplied in the room’s minibar, toss the occasional remark to one another as they flit about the room, but otherwise, they mostly keep to themselves, lounging on plush sofas and armchairs, perusing the shelves of literature old and new, tapping a few disjointed notes on the grand piano in the corner.

And it’s…nice. Slowing down. Enjoying the stillness. The silence. Being able to allow his guard to come fully down, release the tension that had been weighing down his muscles for…well, his whole life. He feels lighter, somehow. He feels—perhaps for the first time in his life—

Safe.

He knows it won’t last forever. He’ll enjoy it while he still can.

It’s about a half hour until their dinner reservation. Satoru sighs, shutting the book he had been lazily flipping through and setting it aside on the end table, then raises his hands above his head in a stretch. “Right. Well, it’s about time to get ready for dinner.” He pushes himself up from the sofa, standing on unsteady feet, nearly stumbling as he makes his way towards the bedroom. Apparently, the combination of champagne and wine was not serving him well. “It’s a pretty posh place—as you can imagine—so we gotta dress fancy. Don’t worry; I packed you some things you can choose from.”

Sukuna hums, but that’s all the acknowledgment Satoru gets. Satoru pauses at the door to the bedroom, leaning heavily against its frame as he turns toward Sukuna, finding the other standing before the expansive windows lining the far wall. He’d been standing there for—god, it’d been a while, hadn’t it? Satoru’s not certain when Sukuna had finally drifted towards the windows, why he had chosen that particular place to find his rest, but once he had, he hadn’t moved from that space at all. And while the view offered from those floor-to-ceiling windows is indeed impressive, the expansive Tokyo skyline glittering like stars against a backdrop of an ever-darkening sky, it’s certainly undeserving of such faithful observance.

Sukuna’s eyes may appear to be on the sky, but if Satoru were to guess, his mind is anywhere but.

The former curse still wears the plush bathrobe he had acquired from the spa, and there’s a half-empty glass of wine delicately held in his hands, the liquid inside occasionally swirled absent-mindedly, sharp black nails clicking loudly against crystal. Overlapping the backdrop of twinkling city lights is Sukuna’s own appearance, reflected back to him on the window, though from this distance Satoru can hardly make out the expression on his face.

But even without the visual confirmation, Satoru is certain: Sukuna pays no mind to the city before him, but to his own reflection—his own being, his life as it had once been before all had been stripped away. Here in this luxury hotel, suspended hundreds of feet above the bustling urban sprawl, so far removed from any life he had once known, yet Sukuna looks more like himself now than he had in almost a year.

And the thought makes something uneasy coil in Satoru’s core, something like guilt rising in his throat like nausea. But Satoru swallows the feeling down.

He has nothing to feel guilty about, not really. He had only been fulfilling his duty as a Jujutsu Sorcerer, doing what he had to do to protect the people he loved—to protect the world. It was either him or Sukuna, and had things gone differently, Satoru is certain Sukuna would not have hesitated to deal the final blow, would have done so with sadistic pleasure, not remorse. Why shouldn’t Satoru feel the same?

But there’s a marked difference between the two: Sukuna had been a curse back then, fuelled by nothing more than the negative emotions of humanity, by hate and fear and pain; and Satoru, for as much as he claims the powers of a god, is just a man, with all the subtle and overt complexities such a designation entails. Sukuna may have been incapable of remorse, but Satoru…

The life of a sorcerer is one of regret, isn’t it?

Maybe that’s all this is: his mind’s predisposition to guilt exacerbated by the alcohol in his blood, clouding his judgement and misconstruing—or misplacing—his true emotions. He’s far from the right state of mind to be dealing with such complexity of thought. It was better to put it out of his mind for now; he’d get nowhere with it now.

Satoru turns his attention back towards the bedroom, sighing. “Y’know,” he calls over his shoulder to Sukuna, gaze still focused elsewhere, “I’m starting to feel pretty tired, and honestly? In my state, I don’t think I could actually make it to the restaurant.” He heaves another dramatic sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I’d hate to deny you the pleasure of a full fine-dining experience, but I think I’d rather skip the reservation—just order food to the hotel room instead. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

Satoru may have taken a life from Sukuna before, but he’s not willing to take this—whatever this might be—from Sukuna. Not yet.

Once more, Sukuna hums, and when Satoru turns his attention towards the other man, he sees Sukuna bring the wine glass to his lips, downing the rest of it before speaking. “And in ordering to the room,” he asks, gaze still on the window, “will the food still be of the same quality as it would had we gone to the restaurant?”

“Absolutely!” Satoru confirms cheerfully. “The only difference is that we get to enjoy it from the comfort of our room.”

Sukuna nods but says nothing more. Mulling over the decision, perhaps. Satoru crosses his arms over his chest as he awaits Sukuna’s response. The minutes tick by, until finally, Sukuna turns away from the window, looking almost taken aback when he finds Satoru standing at the bedroom door. “Well?” Sukuna asks, a brow raised expectantly. “What are you waiting for? Order the damn food!”

Dinner is a relatively quiet affair, shared not at the dining table like proper guests, but on the comfortable sofa, dishes scattered atop the glass coffee table, a random movie playing on the TV in the background as they eat. They don’t talk much, him and Sukuna, aside from the occasional comment on the food (it’s good—undeniably so) or on the romcom on TV (“If he loves her, why not just say so?” “It’s more dramatic this way!”), but the silence is…comfortable—pleasant, even.

And maybe it’s dangerous, being so comfortable in the presence of an enemy, but—well, Sukuna hasn’t been his enemy in a long time, has he? So Satoru supposes his complacency is forgivable.

They pair their meal not with wine, but with water, and between that and the food, Satoru finds himself sobering up significantly—still slightly tipsy, but no longer stumbling around like a drunken fool. He finishes off his final bite of dessert—a rich chocolate cake with a sweet fudge drizzle and decorative chocolate roses—sighing in satisfaction as he sets his plate aside, leaning back on the couch and letting his eyes slide shut as he simply basks in the feeling of a full stomach, of a good meal.

Next to him, Sukuna scoffs. “Pathetic,” he says, voice dripping derision. “Why the hell would she turn down a lucrative career that she’s worked her entire life for all to be with some mediocre man she only met, what, a few weeks ago? It makes no sense.”

“She loves him,” Satoru replies, not moving from his reclined position on the couch. “Sometimes you make sacrifices for people that you love.”

“There’s sacrifice,” Sukuna points out, “and then there’s just plain idiocy.”

Satoru shrugs. “When you’re in love, it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.”

And suddenly Satoru finds himself back in that forest, a trail of cursed energy laid bare before him, beckoning him away, deeper into the darkness, and he wonders: if he had followed Suguru’s trail, what would that have been? Sacrifice? Or just plain idiocy?

“Pathetic,” Sukuna repeats, drawing Satoru from his thoughts.

“Maybe,” Satoru concedes, his lips curling in a slight smile. Of course Sukuna would have such a damning view of love. Which, now that he thinks about it… “Have you ever been in love before?”

Eyes still closed, Satoru can’t see the expression Sukuna makes, but he’s certain the former curse rolls his eyes. “Do you really have to ask?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Satoru manages a half-hearted shrug. “Aside from the whole King of Curses, ancient evil thing, there’s not a whole lot I really know about you.”

“And it will remain that way.”

Satoru huffs a laugh, head tipping to the side so he can turn his eyes on Sukuna. There’s a snarky reply on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t get a chance to speak it, not when his gaze falls upon the smudge of chocolate cake smeared atop Sukuna’s upper lip. The sight is just so ridiculous, so human, and Satoru can’t help the ugly snort that rips from him. He brings a hand up to cover his mouth, but it does nothing to stifle the peels of laughter bubbling up from his chest.

“What?” Sukuna asks, frown creasing his features. “What the hell are you laughing at?”

“Nothing!” Satoru insists, waving a hand. “Nothing, it’s just—you got a little something—”

Unthinkingly, Satoru reaches out, about to wipe the cake smear away, but he comes to himself about halfway through the action, hand pausing midair, not wanting to cross a line. For it’s one thing to act all couple-y in the presence of others, to put on a convincing front for a crowd, but it’s a whole other thing to do so here in the privacy of this hotel room, where there’s no one watching, no one to perform for. He lets his arm fall to the back of the couch, hoping the action looks casual, hoping Sukuna doesn’t connect the dots, figure out what Satoru had been about to do.

Sukuna narrows his eyes, grabbing a cloth napkin from the table and wiping at his face. “It’s not funny,” he says, face pinched in what is undeniably a pout.

And Satoru has to force himself to keep from laughing again. “You’re right, you’re right. It’s not funny. I mean, it’s a little funny—”

Sukuna’s glare sharpens, and he chucks the napkin at Satoru, who lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry!” Actually, no he’s not—but Sukuna needn’t know that. “Here, I’ll make it up to you. I got you a Valentine’s Day gift.” Satoru pushes himself up from the sofa, motioning with his hands for Sukuna to do the same. “Come with me.”

Satoru begins to make his way towards the bedroom, and a quick check over his shoulder reveals that Sukuna does follow him, though with some degree of hesitance. And as they finally cross the threshold into the bedroom, that hesitance peaks. Sukuna crosses his arms over his chest. “If this is another stupid joke of yours—”

“It’s not, I swear!” Satoru holds his hand up placatingly, putting on a dazzling smile. “I mean, I understand contextually that this may seem a tad…suggestive, but I assure you, this is one hundred percent innocent and serious!” He turns away from Sukuna so he can reach into his bag, rooting around through his clothing until he locates what he’s looking for.

Present in hand, Satoru turns back to Sukuna. “Taadaa! Here, open it up.”

Skeptically, Sukuna accepts the present—a small rectangular box wrapped in glossy red paper. Sukuna easily slices through the paper with his sharp nails, letting the wrapping fall to the floor as he inspects the white box in hand, opening it slowly. “It’s a…?”

“It’s a phone!” Satoru informs him excitedly, mentally patting himself on the back for such an incredibly perfect gift. “I know we’re pretty late in the game for this, but I figured we need an easier way of communicating with each other.”

Sukuna pulls the phone from the box, letting the latter fall unceremoniously to the floor. There’s a slight frown on his face when he turns his eyes to Satoru. “Why now? We’ve gotten along just fine without up until now.”

“We’ve almost reached our year deadline. In a few months, we’ll be back in front of the higher-ups, and I just know they’re going to start monitoring us a lot more closely now, waiting for us to slip up. And we can’t let that happen. So, we need to work together—really work together. And that starts with better communication. Don’t worry—” he adds quickly, as Sukuna continues to scrutinize the little black rectangle in his hands— “I’ve already got the phone all set up for you, and I’ll teach you how to use it.”

“I don’t need you to teach me,” Sukuna insists with a scoff. “I mean, if even someone like you can use it, how difficult can it be.” Still, rather than demonstrate that he can, in fact, figure out how to operate the phone, Sukuna just stares at the black screen, brows furrowed.

Satoru presses his lips into a firm line to keep from laughing. “You have to turn it on.”

“I know that! I was just—”

“It’s the button on the—no, the other side. Yeah, just press it down—”

The screen lights up, startling Sukuna, who almost drops the phone. Satoru quickly clamps a hand over his mouth, though not quick enough to stifle the first bark of laughter. Sukuna glares at him. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

Sukuna raises an unimpressed brow, then turns his attention back to the phone. Satoru shakes his head, sitting on the edge of the bed. He takes a deep breath, fiddling with his fingers. “I, uh. I also got you another gift. Well, got isn’t the right word for it, but—” He cuts himself off, huffing a quick laugh. “Anyway. I was thinking. At the end of our deadline, no matter what the higher-ups decide, I think—” He takes a deep breath. “You can leave. Or stay. Whatever you want. You should just…do what’s best for you. Whether that means staying with Yuuji and me, or leaving. You should do it.”

For a moment, Sukuna seems surprised. His gaze darts away from the phone to fix on Satoru, brows raised momentarily, before lowering in a slight frown. “Why?”

Satoru cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Why give me that option?” Sukuna specifies. “Those higher-ups of yours may not be placated, and my leaving may only put yourself and the brat in greater danger, so why take that risk?”

“I don’t know." Satoru shakes his head, runs a hand through his pale hair. "I don’t know why. Maybe it’s sacrifice. Or maybe it’s just plain idiocy.” Satoru shrugs, sighing. “I just—you need to do what’s best for you, and I need to do what’s best for me and Yuuji, and forcing you to stay just isn’t it. But that being said, if afterwards you try anything against Yuuji—”

“I can’t.”

And that catches Satoru off guard. “What?”

“I can’t harm the brat.” Sukuna’s gaze drops to the phone in his hands, nails clacking loudly against the screen in a nonsensical rhythm. “I’ve been…looking into it, and it appears that as much as that cursed energy should be mine, it’s the brat’s now. If he dies, so too will my cursed energy. Don’t get me wrong—” he adds, eyes flitting back up to meet Satoru’s— “I will get my energy back, but…I cannot harm the brat in the process.”

“That—” Satoru takes a breath—a deep breath, one that expands his lungs, the crushing weight lifted from his chest making it easier to do so. “That’s actually really good to hear.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now, on to more important matters.” Sukuna holds the phone out to Satoru, scowling. “How the fuck do you use this thing?”

Satoru teaches Sukuna the basics of using the phone—texting, calling, and other essential operations. Sukuna catches on relatively quickly, and Satoru supposes he shouldn’t be all that surprised: Sukuna’s sharp mind and adaptability were among his greatest assets on the battlefield, so it’s no wonder such abilities translated to other learning avenues. In no time at all, Sukuna has not only learned to set a new passcode for his phone, but also managed to type out his first text message: an emoticon of a middle finger sent to Satoru.

(Sukuna doesn’t let Satoru see the screen as he types, grinning wickedly as his nails clack loudly against the glass. He sends the message, then turns his gaze on Satoru, grin widening impossibly as Satoru’s own phone buzzes, and when Satoru checks his messages to find a solitary middle finger sent from Sukuna, he can’t help but laugh. But aside from amusement, there’s a warm feeling of pride that settles in his chest at Sukuna’s antics, at his sense of delight in his newfound texting abilities. But that doesn’t stop Satoru from cheekily replying with a kissy-face emoji.

Sukuna glares at his phone when the message comes through. “Disgusting.”)

It’s late into the night now, and Satoru finds himself lounging back in the bed, eyelids beginning to grow far too heavy. His jaw stretches in a yawn, and he slips his shades from his face to rub at his eyes.

“Go to sleep,” Sukuna tells him, not even looking up from his phone. The former curse is seated at the foot of the bed, slowly scrolling through a random news article. He had stumbled upon the pre-loaded news app some time ago and had been wholly engrossed in it ever since. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Satoru pushes himself up from the bed, languidly stretching out his back. “I’ll sleep on the couch. I wouldn’t want to force you to share the bed with me.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Sukuna still doesn’t look up from his phone screen. “You take the bed. You’ll sleep far better in it than on the couch, and I know you need it.”

Satoru frowns. “I don’t need it. I’ve been sleeping just fine.”

“I’m not stupid, sorcerer,” Sukuna says, glancing at Satoru so the other can see him roll his eyes. Then his gaze flickers back to his phone. “I spoke to the old man. Apparently, infants don’t acquire the ability to dream until they reach the age of two, and even then they generally don’t experience any real night terrors.”

“So?”

“So—” Sukuna repeats, finally locking his phone and setting it aside so he can focus his full attention on Satoru, “you haven’t been sleeping lately—not well, at least.”

Rather than confirming that entirely accurate statement, Satoru quickly turns the accusation back on Sukuna. “You’re one to talk. I know you spend most of your nights awake, too.”

Sukuna hums thoughtfully. “So what if I have?”

And there’s something challenging about the way he says it, like he’s daring Satoru to comment upon it, to condemn or ridicule him for it. But Satoru finds himself shrinking from the challenge—for if he scorns Sukuna for his actions, he too scorns himself.

Instead, Satoru glances away, fiddling with the seam of the comforter. “Is it the same for you?” he asks eventually. Hesitantly. “Nightmares?”

“Memories, I think,” Sukuna reveals. “Ones I had long since hoped to forget—that I thought I had forgotten.”

And Satoru is surprised by the honesty in the admission, raising his head to look at Sukuna again. “Memories,” he echoes. “But they can’t be all bad, huh?”

Sukuna’s jaw tenses, clenches and unclenches as though he’s about to speak. As though he’s forcefully holding himself back. Finally, he clicks his tongue. “It doesn’t matter. They’ll soon come to pass.”

“That’s the hope, isn’t it?” Satoru says with a laugh. “I’ve gone through worse before. I’ll get through this eventually—we’ll get through it.”

And Satoru expects that to be the end of that conversation, doesn’t expect Sukuna to turn his gaze back on him, face devoid of all but gentle curiosity, an expression so foreign on the former curse’s face that it catches Satoru off guard. And if Satoru thought he couldn’t be any more stunned by the other’s actions, he’s proven wrong when Sukuna asks, “How did you deal with the nightmares before?”

And Satoru wonders: for whose sake is he asking? Is he seeking possible solutions for his own ailments, or is he—no, that must be it. For the only other option—that Sukuna might want to help Satoru—is far too preposterous to even be worth considering. So Satoru pushes the thoughts aside, masking himself with an affable grin and a casual shrug. “Suguru helped. He’d talk me through it, rub my back, hold me till I fell asleep again.” And then, just to be a cheeky little shit about it, he raises a challenging brow at Sukuna. “Why, you offering to do the same?”

Predictably, Sukuna’s nose wrinkles in disgust at the suggestion. “Fuck no,” he hisses emphatically, offended by the simple implication that he might possibly care. Sukuna shakes his head disbelievingly, and Satoru laughs at the melodramatic display.

There’s a beat of silence then, and Sukuna seems to pause mid-thought, disgusted visage melting away as he levels a long look at Satoru. His expression is almost impassive—almost, but for the steady, calculating look in his eye, like he’s seeing right through Satoru, gazing deep into the broken depths of his fractured soul. He’s thinking about something, searching for something, and it takes all of Satoru’s willpower not to squirm under such scrutiny.

Finally, Sukuna sighs, shifting his gaze away from Satoru, the sorcerer finally feeling as though he can breathe again. “I am not him, Six Eyes,” Sukuna says evenly, voice betraying none of his emotions. “You must understand as much.”

And he says it in a way that makes it obvious it’s not what he really means, some deeper message hidden in obvious observation, and if Satoru considered it for a moment, he’d no doubt uncover that underlying message. But he’s certain what Sukuna means is not something Satoru wants to think about, not now, maybe not ever, so he doesn’t allow himself a moment to consider.

Instead, he rolls his eyes, scoffing. “Obviously,” he replies, casually inspecting his fresh manicure. “Suguru’s way prettier than you, after all.”

Sukuna huffs. “Idiot.”

“Anyways,” Satoru changes the subject swiftly, ready to be done with…well, whatever it was that was currently going on, “I think we can agree that we both need to get some sleep, and the bed is technically plenty big enough for the both of us so—” Satoru shrugs, gesturing at the expansive king bed— “we might as well just share it, yeah?”

Sukuna eyes the bed warily, contemplating. Finally, he sighs. “Fine,” he concedes, moving to the head of the bed to begin to settle in. “But touch me while I sleep and I will kill you.”

“And there goes our streak,” Satoru grumbles.

It’s dark, far too dark, no light reaching his eyes. Cursed energy swirls and cascades around him, suffocatingly thick as it curls around his limbs, and when he tries to move, flails his limbs against the writhing masses of slimy curses that bound him in place, his body fails to budge from the chokehold. Cruel, familiar laughter echoes in his mind, but when he tries to call out for Suguru, for anyone, no sounds escape. He’s being pulled under, water filling his lungs, drowning him—

A hand collides with Satoru’s face, startling him awake. Chest heaving, it takes a moment for Satoru to come to himself, to recognize the ceiling of the darkened hotel room, the sharp black nails partially obscuring his vision.

Sukuna, still half asleep, smacks him again lightly with the back of his hand. “Shut up,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, barely comprehensible to Satoru’s muddled senses.

And still, Satoru can’t help the slight snort that escapes his nose. He gently removes Sukuna’s hand from his face, lets his fingers tangle slightly with the other's as he smiles. “Thanks,” he whispers, giving Sukuna’s hand a slight squeeze.

Sukuna mutters something else, but this time Satoru can’t make any sense of it, and soon Sukuna’s pulling his hand away from Satoru’s grasp, curling himself up in the comforter and rolling away from Satoru—completely stealing all the blankets in the process.

Bared to the slight chill of the room, Satoru sighs. Still, he lets his eyes slide shut again, waiting for sleep to claim him once more.

When it does, it’s blissfully dreamless.

Chapter Text

Satoru sighs as he places his armful of bags down on the worn wooden picnic table, Yuuji cooing happily where he’s strapped to Satoru’s chest in the baby carrier. Satoru smiles down at the young boy, shifting the phone once balanced precariously between his ear and shoulder to his hand. “Have you made it to the bakery yet?”

“Like I said five seconds ago,” comes Sukuna’s voice through the phone, the annoyance lacing his tone potent even through the small speaker, “Not. Yet.”

Satoru scoffs, making a silly face at Yuuji. “Yeah, yeah. Just hurry up. We’ve got less than an hour before everyone shows up, and I want everything to be set up perfectly before then.”

“I’d be able to hurry a lot faster if some idiot didn’t keep calling me every five seconds to check in.”

Satoru ignores the comment. “You remember which bakery, right? The one on the corner, right next to—"

“—the flower shop with the floral archway around the door,” Sukuna finishes. “Yes, you’ve only reminded me about a thousand times now.”

“The order is under Gojo,” Satoru confirms, nodding his head despite being on a phone call. “And don’t forget to pick up the fancy birthday candles they got there—some of those super sparkly ones, and one that’s shaped like the number one.”

Sukuna heaves a sigh. “I will. Now stop pestering me.”

“I’m not pestering you,” Satoru retorts. “I’m just reminding you. This is Yuuji’s first birthday after all; everything has to be perfect! I can’t risk you screwing it up.”

“If anyone were to screw this up, it’d be you.”

Satoru scoffs. “Oh yeah? Remind me, who was it that threw that super successful Christmas party last year?”

“Oh please, that gathering could hardly be considered super successful,” Sukuna replies, and the eye roll is evident in his tone. “And the only reason the night wasn’t a complete disaster was thanks to my presence, nothing more.”

Satoru shakes his head, mouthing can you believe this guy? to Yuuji, who of course has no comprehension of the words said, but giggles at the action anyway, his chubby little hands reaching up to try and pinch Satoru’s lips. Satoru blocks the motion with his free hand, smiling. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say, your highness. Are you at the bakery yet?”

“I’ve just arrived. Now leave me be so I can actually complete this task.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll let you go. See you in, what, half an hour?”

“Depends. You going to call me again in five seconds?”

“Depends,” Satoru echoes cheekily. “You gonna mess this up?”

Sukuna sighs—a lengthy and loud exhale, an attempt at calm. “I’m hanging up.”

“Wait, no!” Satoru says, but despite the urgency of his words, there’s laughter underlying his tone. “At least say bye to Yuuji first!”

“What? No! Why would I—”

But Satoru misses the end of Sukuna’s sentence, already shifting the phone so he can press it against Yuuji’s tiny ear. Yuuji squeals in delight at the cool press of glass against his cheek, face scrunching up, honey-brown eyes almost swallowed by plump rosy cheeks. Satoru keeps the phone held there for a moment until Yuuji begins grabbing for it, then pulls it away with a chuckle. The call had ended at some point, and Satoru clicks his tongue. “Unbelievable. Your other dad is very rude, huh Yuuji?”

Yuuji makes a strange gurgling noise—which Satoru assumes is an agreement.

But there’s no time to dwell; Satoru has a party to set up. Satoru slides his phone into his pocket, grinning down at Yuuji. “Alright, little guy. Time to throw you the best first birthday party ever! At least—” he adds as an afterthought— “the best Nanami-approved first birthday party ever.”

For some reason, Nanami had claimed that Satoru’s original idea of travelling to Wakayama to rent out the entirety of Adventure World for the day was not an appropriate idea for a child’s first birthday, especially considering Yuuji would hardly be able to truly enjoy it—or even remember it. And so, after much deliberation, Satoru had eventually settled on a simple picnic in a secluded park near Jujutsu Tech for Yuuji’s birthday; entirely underwhelming, but adequate enough for now, Satoru supposes. He’ll save Adventure World for Yuuji’s tenth birthday.

“Okay, ready Yuuji?” Satoru asks, and the child just blinks at him in response, waiting. Shrugging, Satoru slides his hands beneath Yuuji’s armpits, then lifts the boy from the baby carrier, mimicking the sound of a rocket blasting off as he raises Yuuji high into the sky. Yuuji laughs and squirms in the air, and Satoru gives him a few gentle tosses before finally bringing him in for a landing in the soft grass beneath their feet, accompanied by the sound of a dramatic explosion that gets Yuuji squealing with delight.

Yuuji safely on the ground, Satoru removes the baby carrier from his chest, setting it aside. He then crouches before Yuuji and fixes him with a very serious look. “Now Yuuji,” he begins, holding the child’s gaze over the rims of his shades, “Daddy has a very important mission for you. While I’m busy setting up for the party, I need you to stay close by and keep yourself occupied. I even brought some of your favourite toys along to help. Now, I’m not going to lie to you, it’ll be a difficult mission. Think you’re up for it?”

Yuuji blinks at Satoru, babbles a few random syllables. Satoru’s face breaks out in a grin. “Atta be,” he says, ruffling the boy’s pale pink hair. “I knew I could count on you!”

After laying out a large blanket for Yuuji to play on, scattering the toys across its surface, Satoru sets to his task of setting up for the party. The park is nothing special and appears to be in a state of disuse—most likely due to its secluded location. There are only two picnic tables and a couple of benches on the premises, surrounding a small sandbox that’s spotted with weeds, but thankfully the play structure within appears to be in decent condition, swings and slides coated in a layer of dirt but still up to standard.

Yuuji settled with his toys, Satoru sets to work, humming a random tune as he lays a colourful plastic tablecloth over the nearest picnic table, using little metal clips to secure it before rummaging around in the pile of bags he had brought for the additional decorations. Everything is going smoothly so far, the weather mild and the air still, Yuuji happy and occupied, and so long as Sukuna doesn’t absolutely screw up his one and only task, Satoru is certain this really will shape up to be the best Nanami-approved birthday party ever.

(Maybe he should have knocked on wood.)

He doesn’t feel it, not at first. He’s preoccupied, shuttered gaze watching as Yuuji gets distracted by a small yellow butterfly fluttering past, the young boy giggling and falling over himself as he attempts to reach out for the flying insect, then crawling after it when his first attempts are unsuccessful. Satoru huffs a small laugh, shaking his head as he turns his attention back to the task at hand—

—and finds a long silver blade piercing through the center of his chest.

Satoru freezes, muscles taut with surprise first, pain second, red blooming around the protrusion registering seconds before the sharp sting, the burning inferno that fills his chest. He chokes on his next breath, tries to turn it into a laugh—for only he could manage to get himself stabbed at a kid’s birthday party. Only he is so loved by the universe to have earned such good fortune.

He doesn’t think too hard about it—has much more important matters to deal with, the most of them being the sword still stabbed through his chest. He winces, a bead of sweat rolling down his cheek as he cranes his neck as far as he can, trying to gain a look at the lucky assailant who happened to get a drop on him.

It’s a man—tall and broad, greasy mop of dark hair and striking green eyes, a scar cut through the edge of his lips. He’s vaguely familiar, and yet… Satoru forces a smile to his face, though he’s certain it comes across more as a grimace. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

The man smiles back—cruelly, scar tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, voice deep and slightly gravelly. “I’m bad with names too.”

Then the sword is withdrawn roughly, the man preparing for a second attack. Satoru reads the movement this time, ducking easily beneath the man’s next swing, blade cutting harmlessly through the air above his head. Satoru counters quickly, knocking the sword from the man’s grasp before launching a devastating punch to his torso, sending him flying back to the treeline beyond.

Cursed energy thrums beneath Satoru’s skin—a little too late to prevent the damage, but quick enough to mitigate it. His chest still hurts like a bitch, but at least it won’t kill him—not yet, at least. If only he had already mastered Reverse Cursed Technique, if only he could repair the damage, not just hold himself together by mere threads of energy. He quickly glances back over his shoulder at Yuuji—still happily entranced by the butterfly. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Satoru turns his attention back to the tree line.

The man ambles slowly towards him, stray twigs and leaves caught up in his hair, but otherwise no worse for wear. There’s something wrapped around his shoulder now—a worm, maybe more of a slug. A cursed spirit, whatever the case.

And it’s then that Satoru realizes: this man has no cursed energy.

The man rolls out a shoulder—the one not supporting the grotesque cursed worm. “What a shame. That strike was s’posed to kill you,” he says, face creased in a frown. “Guess I’m getting’ rusty.”

Satoru frowns. “So you’re here to kill me.”

“Not exactly.” The man stops a few paces away, reaches toward the worm, and Satoru’s muscles tense, ready for the attack. But it never comes; the worm’s mouth stretches open wide, and the man reaches inside, slowly withdrawing a new weapon—a cursed tool, Satoru realizes, eyes widening. The man smirks. “Pretty neat, ain’t it? It’s hard to come by cursed spirits that double as storage for cursed tools, but I guess I got lucky.”

Satoru wrinkles his nose. “Pretty disgusting is more like it.”

The man laughs. “Well, we can’t all afford to be picky. Not everyone was born as blessed as you. But as for why I’m here—” he adds before Satoru can respond— “There’s a rumour that’s been circulating the Jujutsu world, lately. Something about the emergence of a vessel for the defeated King of Curses’ cursed energy. Sound familiar?”

Suddenly, Satoru is all too aware of Yuuji, still happily playing in the grassy expanse behind him. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Is that right?” the man asks, voice a slow drawl, obviously disbelieving. “The rumour also claimed the vessel was actually a small child, held in the care of one Satoru Gojo. My employer’s offering quite a hefty prize for the child—though honestly, I would’ve done it just for the bonus of killing you as well. So, am I starting to ring a bell, yet?”

“Satoru Gojo, huh?” Satoru replies, making a show of scratching his chin. “Never heard of him. Sounds like a handsome guy, though.”

“Cut the bullshit, Gojo,” the man snaps, all traces of humour gone from his face. “Hand over the kid.”

“Over my dead body!”

The man rolls his eyes, sighing. “Weren’t you listening? That’s kinda the idea!”

With that, the man springs into action, charging forward, sword drawn and ready. Satoru predicts his movements, dodging each swing with practiced ease, so focused on the tool that he’s barely able to block the kick that comes flying his way, unexpected. Satoru counters with a strike of his own, and though the man manages to block it, the force of it is still enough to send him stumbling backwards, putting a bit of distance between the two of them.

No cursed energy, Satoru thinks, readying himself for attack once more, yet he’s still incredibly fast. Natural ability? Or something else?

He doesn’t dwell on the thought for long; had he been here alone, he may have drawn out the fight, toyed with the strange man, took his time to understand who he is and who sent him. But with Yuuji still playing mere metres away…

It’s a risk Satoru can’t take.

He needs to create some space between the fight and Yuuji first and foremost. After that, he can focus on ending things quickly. Satoru doesn’t give the man a chance to attack first this time, darting forward, prepared to strike. The man swiftly side-steps the attack, almost faster than Satoru’s eyes can see. He swings his blade for Satoru’s head, but Satoru ducks under the instrument, using his momentum to land a solid counter on the man’s side, sending him flying once more to the treeline far beyond.

This time, however, Satoru pursues him, hesitating only a moment to check and ensure Yuuji is still safe and oblivious before rushing in the general direction the man had flown, finding broken branches and scattered leaves, but nothing more. The man is hiding, Satoru’s sure of it, but with no cursed energy to sense, it will be difficult for Satoru to locate him amongst the dense foliage. Satoru groans. Guess I’ve got no choice.

He gathers his cursed energy in his palm, feels the power swirl and coalesce, building up to his maximum output. Then he releases it, the immense surge of cursed energy consuming the forest around him in a rush, leaving nothing but rubble in its wake. Sorry, trees. It’s nothing personal.

There’s nowhere to hide now. Satoru scans his surroundings, his senses on high alert as he searches for the man. His heart thumps loudly against the walls of his chest, blood rushing in his ears as his eyes dart all around, searching, searching—

There’s a rush of cursed energy—weak, barely noticeable against his own—and Satoru whirls towards it, fists poised to strike. He’s met with a swarm of flyheads, too many to count, the tiny creatures darting all around Satoru, racing past him in all directions as they make their way to their target, towards the playground—

Satoru darts forward, arm outstretched. “Yuuji!”

He senses it a second too late.

This time, he can’t see where the blade has struck, only recognizes he’s been struck at all when he feels the warmth of blood running down the column of his neck, filling his mouth and dripping past his lips. The pain registers a moment later, white-hot and all-consuming, stealing his breath, sapping every ounce of strength from his body. It’s a powerful cursed tool, much more so than the ones the man had used before, and while he tries to gather his cursed energy, tries to struggle against the darkness that swims at the corners of his vision, it’s no use; something blocks him, prevents him from fighting back, from doing anything—

The last things he sees are the man’s eyes, glinting with unrestrained glee, a near-manic grin cruelly twisting his lips. And then, blissfully, terrifyingly—

Nothing.

The fight with Satoru Gojo had been remarkably underwhelming in Toji Fushiguro’s opinion, though really, he shouldn’t be surprised; he had carefully prepared this plan to ensure the Gojo brat would go down easily. Even still, he’s almost disappointed as he withdraws the Inverted Spear of Heaven from the sorcerer’s throat, the other man’s body collapsing to the ground below, only held up before by Toji’s strength. Toji scoffs at the body at his feet, blood staining the grass a deep shade of red, soaking into the dirt and turning it to mud. Gojo’s eyes are still open in wide-eyed shock, though no longer do they shine that same inhuman blue as before. No, now his all-seeing eyes see nothing at all, staring off lifelessly into the distance.

Toji flicks the blood from the blade of the spear, returning the cursed tool to its place, the cursed worm atop his shoulder easily swallowing it down, storing it within. Hard part accomplished, Toji makes his way back across the grass to where the child-vessel still plays, wholly unaware of the danger fast approaching.

And so focused on the vessel, Toji doesn’t notice the newcomer that arrives, not until there’s a heavily-iced sheet cake being shoved into his face, stinging his eyes and obscuring his vision. Toji swears, doubling over in pain as he wipes the frosting and sponge from his eyes, reopening them to find that the child has disappeared.

A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that the Gojo brat is still there, still lying dead on the cold forest floor. Someone else had intervened, had gotten between Toji and his hefty bounty prize.

Toji chuckles, licks at the edge of his lips where frosting still paints his skin, much too sweet for his tastes. Then he rolls out his shoulders, begins his hunt anew.

Looks like the fight isn’t over just yet.

What did that damn six-eyed fool get himself into this time?

That’s the only coherent thought that manages to make its way through the cacophony of shit, shit, fuck, shit echoing in Sukuna’s mind as he runs, the brat cradled in one arm and the sword he had recovered in the other. He doesn’t need to look behind him to know they’re being pursued, can sense the man not by his cursed energy—which appears to be lacking, from what Sukuna could tell in their brief interaction—but through a finely tuned battle sense, honed over centuries and centuries of strife.  The man is closing in fast, footfalls almost audible now, and as fast as Sukuna may be, it’s clear the man is faster.

He had to be, to get the jump on Satoru Gojo.

Binding vow? Sukuna wonders. Heavenly restriction? Either way, it doesn’t bode well for Sukuna, sans cursed energy.

Still, he pushes the thoughts aside for now. All that need concern him is coming up with a plan, a way to slip the man’s pursuit and get to safety, get to that so-called sorcerer school maybe, as sick as it makes him. For surely the man isn’t near stupid enough to attack an institute teeming with sorcerers, no way he’s skilled enough to survive such a feat unharmed.

But then again, if he had managed to overpower Gojo…

No, not the time. He just needs to get to the school, which is…which is…

The opposite direction to which he had run.

Okay, plan B.

There’s a sheer drop-off up ahead, a place where the mountainside had been cut away to make room for the roads. Sukuna veers off his path at the last minute, ducking into the thick foliage and darting through it as quietly as he can, taking cover behind the thick trunk of a tree. He’s well out of sight now. With any luck, the man in pursuit will carry on over the edge of the cliff, will take care of that little issue himself.

But Sukuna has never been able to rely on luck. Not for a long time.

He spares a glance behind him, around the edge of the trunk. No sight of the man, no sound of approaching footsteps or the faint smell of sweat carried along by the breeze. No sights or sounds but the forest around them, the heavy hammering of his heart in his chest, the weird gurgling coming from the child in his arm. Sukuna grits his teeth, returning to the cover of the tree, shifting the child so he can look him in the eye. “Alright, kid. I’m done messing around. Give me back my cursed energy.”

But the child just stares stupidly back at him, brown eyes much too big for his face, drool dribbling down his chin. He babbles something nonsensical, kicking his arms and legs and wriggling in Sukuna’s grasp, and Sukuna groans. “Focus, you fool. Give me my cursed energy or else.”

And this time, the brat has the absolute gall to laugh, kicking and grinning and spitting all over himself. Sukuna’s face wrinkles in disgust, trying to distance himself as much as possible from the boy while still cradling him in one arm. Okay, obviously attempting to reason with a child incapable of intelligent thought was a poorly devised plan, but in Sukuna’s defense—

His body moves before he can really think, ducking and rolling out of the way mere seconds before the trunk explodes in a mess of splinters, bullet lodging itself into the rough bark where his head had just been. This time Sukuna registers the next shot as it’s fired, hears the sound of the gun moments before the bullet strikes the ground at his feet, kicking up a cloud of dirt and spurring him forward, running once more.

And it’s clear the man is leading him somewhere, using the gunfire to chase him out into the open. Had he been seriously trying to kill him, Sukuna would be dead by now. So either the man is unaware of just who he’s dealing with, or he’s sorely underestimating what Sukuna is still capable of.

Either way, Sukuna will make the man regret not killing him with that first shot.

Sukuna bursts into the clearing just as the sixth shot rings out—the final shot for now, Sukuna hopes. He’s not familiar with guns, admittedly, especially not those developed in this modern era. He’d never needed to worry about them before, had been much too strong, too powerful to ever feel threatened by human weaponry.

But this body—this new fleshy form, so painfully human—

He’s not certain of its limits. He’s not willing to find out.

“Well, well. Now this is a surprise.”

The voice comes from behind, and Sukuna whirls towards it, sword raised defensively, angling his body to shield the child. Their pursuer casually approaches, drops the empty clip to the ground and swiftly replaces it with a new one, sliding it into place with practiced ease. “I’d heard rumours that the King of Curses had survived, but I never believed it could be true.”

Sukuna grins, ignoring the bead of sweat that trickles down his jaw. “I suppose I should be flattered. Seems my reputation still precedes me.”

“Not much of a reputation anymore,” the man reveals with a laugh. “They also said Gojo was keeping you as a pet. Nothing more than a harmless little lapdog. And it looks like they were right.”

Sukuna grits his teeth, eyes narrowing in a sharp glare. Still, he’s smart enough not to let himself get worked up over the barbed comments; he’s been around far too long to let meaningless words puncture his skin.

The man takes another step closer, gun loaded but not raised—though Sukuna is certain the man could take aim and fire with deadly accuracy even in the blink of an eye. Still, Sukuna refuses to back down, steady and poised to strike. The man shakes his head. “Look at you. Ever the faithful guard dog. Your master’s dead, you know. You don’t gotta bow to his whims any longer.”

And Sukuna laughs. “You really know nothing about me. It’s actually rather insulting.” He adjusts the grip on the sword minutely, feeling for its weight. “I bow to none, follow no whims but my own.”

“That so?” the man asks, raising a slender brow. “If that’s the case, surely you won’t mind handing over the kid.”

“No can do,” Sukuna replies. “Unfortunately for you, this brat is still useful to me. I won’t be relinquishing him so easily.” For surely that’s the only reason Sukuna had intervened at all, had swooped in to recover the child only to collect his cursed energy. There had been no affection guiding his movements, no hint of a familial bond or an altruistic drive to protect. No, the reasons were far more selfish than that. For if the kid dies, so too does Sukuna’s cursed energy die with it. And if the kid falls into the hands of someone else…well, that would be a whole other nuisance Sukuna would rather not deal with.

The man smirks. “Lucky me. Looks like I get to kill another legend today.” He plants his hands on his hips, head tilted in thought. “Think I’ll get paid more if I hand over your head too? Then again, looks like you’re not worth much these days anyways.”

Sukuna sighs, rolling his eyes. “Your arrogance isn’t nearly as cute as you think it is.” He glances at the child still held at his hip, considering. With the handicap of only two arms instead of four, it would be too much to keep the child in his grasp while fighting. The sword isn’t the heaviest thing, well-balanced and slender, but it’d still be much better wielded by two hands than one. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the math doesn’t add up. He turns his attention back to the man. “Let me ditch this dead weight. Then I’ll give you a real fight—much more entertaining than the sorry excuse for a struggle that Six-eyed freak put up.”

The man waves a hand—the one holding the gun—dismissively. “Do what you want,” he says, sounding bored almost, “but I doubt it will make much difference in the end.” And as Sukuna sets the brat down at the edge of the grassy clearing, sword still raised defensively, only taking his eyes off the man for the mere second it takes to ensure the child is safely out of the way, the man continues, “After all, you’ve been around far longer than I have. You should know better than to bring a knife to a gun fight.”

Sukuna barely has time to react to the shot that rings out. He raises his sword, braces it with two hands as the bullet connects with the blade, ricocheting off course even as the metal breaks against the force. Sukuna grunts, gritting his teeth. Fuck this.

Before the man fires his next shot, Sukuna acts, throwing the hilt of the now-broken sword with deadly accuracy. It must catch the man off guard, for he’s too late to react as the hilt meets its target, knocking the gun from his hand and sending it clattering to the grass below. Sukuna doesn’t give the man time to recover, closing the distance between them in a mere breath, momentum driving a heavy punch toward the man’s face.

This time, the man is ready. He slips the punch easily, pivoting on his lead leg and sending a sharp elbow into the side of Sukuna’s head. Sukuna winces, arms raised to protect his head from further assault, and the man takes advantage of the guard, landing a solid kick to his stomach and sending him flying backwards. Sukuna hits the ground hard, the kick and collision knocking the wind from his lungs.

And fuck, it hurts. It’s been so long since he’s felt pain like this, since he’s had to bear the brunt of attacks without cursed energy to reinforce his body. His ears ring and his vision swims slightly, head throbbing from a blow that, had it landed even slightly lower would certainly have shattered his jaw. He fights past the dizziness, bares his teeth as he slowly eases himself upright, kneeling in the dirt, chest heaving.

The man laughs. “That it?” he asks mockingly, bending down to retrieve his dropped gun. “What happened to giving me a real fight?”

The man’s vulnerable, and Sukuna acts. He launches forward, catching the man around the waist before he’s able to reclaim his weapon. And the man’s built like a tank, sturdy and strong, but Sukuna has the element of surprise on his side, so while there’s resistance, Sukuna still manages to tackle him to the ground, pinning him in place. He doesn’t let up just yet, gripping the man’s throat with one hand so he can’t evade, then smashing his fist into the man’s face. The bone crunches beneath his knuckles, the impact sending pain up Sukuna’s arm, but he’s not about to relent, pulling his fist back for another hit—

And suddenly their positions are reversed, the man somehow managing to flip him so that it’s Sukuna sprawled on the ground below. And Sukuna’s not able to block the first strike, the man paying him back in kind with a shattered nose that sends tears springing to his eyes, but luckily, he gets his guard up just in time to block the next onslaught, the man’s fists connecting with his forearms instead of his face. His arms tremble, but he holds the position, racking his brain, searching for a way to escape. If he keeps this up for much longer, his bones may actually shatter beneath the force of these strikes.

He lets one arm fall to the side, fingers scrambling in the dirt, throws a handful of the stuff into the man’s face. The man hisses in pain, hands going to wipe the dirt from his eyes, and it’s the distraction Sukuna needs. He bucks his hips hard, throwing the man off of him and finally scrambling away, putting distance between the two, giving him time to catch his breath, to assess. Blood drips down his chin, and he tastes its metallic tang on his tongue. His head is still throbbing, much more incessant now, harder to ignore, and it takes all his willpower just to remain standing. Fuck, I’m really out of practice.

That’s what he gets for taking a year off, he supposes.

The man climbs to his feet, spitting dirt and blood from his mouth. Still, despite the pain he must be in, the man grins, blood staining white teeth. “Now, that’s more like it.”

The man launches the first attack this time, closing the distance and lashing out with a jab. Sukuna blocks and counters, but his strike is easily brushed off. They continue to trade blows, but it becomes clear all too soon that this fight is entirely one-sided; while Sukuna does manage to land a few good hits, it’s the man who dominates, picking apart Sukuna’s guard like it’s mere child’s play, landing precise strikes where he knows it hurts the most—the liver, the solar plexus—reducing Sukuna to a glorified punching bag.

And maybe Sukuna would feel more embarrassed about the whole thing if he weren’t in so much goddamn pain.

It clouds his senses, dulls his reaction time dangerously. The man nearly crushes Sukuna’s knee with a kick the former curse is too slow to block, sending him stumbling to the ground. The next kick connects with his side, ribs breaking under the force, nauseating pain ripping through his core as he slams face-first into the ground. He tries to push himself up, hands braced against the ground, but his entire body is shaking, trembling. It collapses under the strain.

Footsteps approach slowly, and Sukuna grits his teeth, digs deep into the reserves of his strength, his adrenaline, tries to force his muscles into action. But there’s a hand that tangles harshly in his hair, roughly hauling him to his knees. Sukuna winces, glaring up into the man’s amused eyes.

“I’ll admit, you put up far better a fight than I expected,” the man says, and Sukuna can barely breathe past the pain in his chest, let alone speak, so he just spits on the man, a mix of saliva and blood connecting with his cheek. The man clicks his tongue, wipes the mess away with his other hand—the hand now holding a gun. “Now then,” he says, pressing the cool metal barrel to Sukuna’s forehead, “be a good dog and play dead.”

“Hey, party crasher,” comes a childish, sing-song voice, distracting the man before he can pull the trigger, green eyes widening almost comically. “Long time no see, yeah?”

The man’s grip on Sukuna doesn’t abate, but the gun slides away from his forehead as the man turns towards the newcomer, dumbfounded. “Seriously?”

And Satoru Gojo grins back at him, eyes wide and alight with an almost manic glee, clothing tattered and saturated with blood, pale skin and teeth stained red with it. “Seriously.”

Satoru Gojo feels like a god.

And it’s not like those times before when he only scraped the surface of divinity, only dipped his toes in the cosmos, dragged his fingertips through shallow heavens. No, this time his being is submerged in it, bathed in an unfathomable, unlimited power that surges through his veins, the entire universe ready to bend at his whim. This is it—the core of his cursed energy, the true nature of his powers.

And Satoru has never felt more alive.

He approaches the scene slowly—not out of caution, but simply because he is in no rush, feels no urgency regarding the situation anymore. For no matter what happens, Satoru won’t lose. He can’t, not anymore. Gods do not fall to mere mortals, after all.

“Now,” Satoru says, hands slid casually into his pockets as he steps closer to the man, “mind stepping away from my partner? He gets real shy around guns.”

The man grits his teeth but wisely releases his hold on Sukuna, backing away. He scoffs, shaking his head—in awe, in disbelief, it’s hard to say. “You’re a real bastard, aren’t you?”

And Satoru laughs, head tipped back and voice echoing into the heavens. “You got me there,” he admits once he gets a handle on himself, grin stretched near painfully across his lips, wiping a stray tear from his eye.

The man takes another step back, cautious and calculating. Satoru disregards him for now, checks in on his people. Yuuji is crawling around at the edge of the clearing, nibbling on long strands of grass and spitting them out again, a mess of green slobber dribbling down his chin, face screwed up in disgust. And Satoru would have to have a little chit-chat with him regarding his dietary habits later, but he’s satisfied for now that he’s safe and unharmed, still blissfully unaware of the dangerous situation at hand.

Sukuna, on the other hand…

He’s kneeling on the ground still, shoulders slumped and barely able to hold himself upright. His face is marred with the beginnings of a nasty bruise, swollen around his jaws and nose, blood dripping from a cut above the brow, from a nose much too crooked to be unbroken. Chest heaving, his wide eyes never leave Satoru as the sorcerer approaches, doesn’t even blink as he stares, and Satoru’s not sure what to read in those crimson eyes—disbelief, admiration, or outright horror.

“Hey Sukuna!” Satoru says as he reaches the other’s side, and it’s like a spell is broken, Sukuna blinking out of whatever stupor he had been caught in, eyes narrowed in his signature scowl. Satoru laughs. “Looking good.”

“I see death has not affected your intelligence,” Sukuna replies, wincing as he slowly pushes himself to stand, swaying unsteadily on his feet.

“I feel fantastic—better than ever! Thanks for asking.” Satoru turns towards the other man, placing himself defensively between him and Sukuna, and Yuuji beyond. He glances at Sukuna over his shoulder, winks as he gives him a thumbs-up. “You let me take it from here, yeah? Watch Yuuji for a bit while I end this fight.”

“End it?” the man echoes, smirking. “Don’t get cocky, sorcerer. This fight is only just beginning.”

“It is?” Satoru asks, grin stretching impossibly wider. “It is!” He splays his hands out to the sides, leaving himself completely vulnerable, practically begging to be attacked. “C’mon now, come at me with everything you’ve got.”

The man clicks his tongue, then tips his head back, reaching down his throat and withdrawing a small object—a condensed version of the gross cursed worm thing he had worn earlier in the fight, Satoru recalls. The worm grows to its proper size, draping over the man’s shoulders. It opens its mouth, and the man slips the gun inside, withdrawing that same cursed tool from earlier, the one that had nearly ended Satoru’s life. “With pleasure.”

The man lunges forward with impossible speed, but this time, Satoru can read his movements perfectly. Time has little meaning to him in this moment, the universe held in the palms of his hands, waiting to be shaped and moulded to his desires. Satoru dodges the first swipe, laughing near hysterically at the way the man’s eyes widen. Satoru grips the man’s extended arm, crushing the bones in a tightening fist, and the man grunts in pain, the cursed tool falling from his hand to the grass below. Satoru kicks it far out of reach, releasing his hold on the man and lashing out with a palm strike to his chest, sending the man flying backwards.

Satoru watches as the man slowly staggers to his feet, gripping his injured arm just above the break. There’s no humour in his expression now, only rage, teeth bared and green eyes alight with it. He reaches for his worm again, readying another tool.

Satoru drops to a fighting position, begins to gather his cursed energy in his palm. “I’ve never been able to use this technique before,” he says, feeling the different properties of cursed energy spiral and coalesce in his hand. “You’ll have to let me know what you think of it—that is, if you can.”

But before Satoru can launch his attack, the man’s body goes lax. His shoulders droop, the point of the thick blade now held in hand resting in the dirt at his feet. A surrender, perhaps; even this man knows he cannot defeat a god. “So, this is it then, huh?” he says with a chuckle. “Y’know, I got a son too. Born just a few months ago, December.” He laughs again, shaking his head. “Fatherhood, it’s really something, ain’t it? Gettin’ to witness all those firsts. Speaking of which—” He grins, nods his head towards something behind Satoru— “don’t look now, but I think baby’s taking his first steps.”

Satoru’s eyes widen, and he looks behind him. “Huh?”

And suddenly the universe shifts, the limitless void condensing to a single point, to a single child with rosy hair and golden-brown eyes making his way across the grass on unsteady feet, hands held out for balance, a grin stretching his chubby cheeks.

The energy in Satoru’s palm disperses. He races towards the child, dropping to his knees just a few feet in front of him. “Yuuji!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Sukuna’s irritated shout cuts in, but Satoru pays him no mind. “Finish it!”

Satoru holds his arms out toward Yuuji. “That’s it, you can do it!” Yuuji laughs, steps quickening as he closes the distance between them, feet tripping over themselves until he finally falls into Satoru’s embrace.

And forget godliness, forget before. This feeling here—this warmth, this euphoria, Yuuji held tightly in his grasp, giggling and squirming with delight as Satoru presses kisses into his hair, his temples, his cheeks—

This is how it feels to be alive.

“Yes! That’s my boy!” Satoru praises, pulling away from the embrace just enough so he can see Yuuji’s face, just enough to notice that he’s gotten blood all over the front of the boy’s clothes, that his lips have left stains on the boy’s skin. But it can be washed off. It won’t remain forever. “Such a good boy, so good at walking, so fast and strong!”

“You let him get away!” Sukuna reprimands, and when Satoru glances back over his shoulder, he realizes that Sukuna is right: their attacker is gone, disappeared somewhere into the forest beyond. “I knew you were an idiot, but this—this is a new low, even for you.”

Satoru laughs, waving a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. That guy won’t be bothering us again. He’s smarter than that. Now—” he holds Yuuji up to Sukuna— “come give your son some kisses! He was so brave today!”

Sukuna glares at him. “Disgusting,” he says, though whether he’s referring to Satoru’s blood painting the boy’s skin, or just the thought of kissing the child at all, Satoru can’t tell.

Satoru cradles Yuuji in his arms once more, showering him with even more love and admiration to make up for what Sukuna refuses to give. Meanwhile, Sukuna sighs. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

Satoru laughs, glancing up at the former curse just as he finally collapses. “Oh shit,” Satoru says, managing to sort of catch Sukuna before he hits the ground, “you’re serious.”

Sukuna doesn’t respond, slumped bonelessly against Satoru’s shoulder, perhaps already unconscious. Satoru can’t help but smile. “C’mon, let's head back to the park,” he says, shifting Yuuji to his hip so he can slide an arm around Sukuna’s waist, hoisting him up against his side. It’s awkward, and he’s practically dragging Sukuna across the grass, but he makes it work. “I’m sure the others have all arrived and are waiting for us. Shoko will be able to patch you up, no problem.”

And when they finally arrive, caked in blood and dirt, at the park where the others wait, well…

They have a lot of explaining to do.

The higher-ups convene in the room just beyond the intricately patterned fusuma; the faint hum of their voices carries through the screen as they deliberate, but from where he stands leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the hall, Satoru can’t quite make out what they’re saying. And he can’t deny the stress that prickles beneath his skin, can’t slow the racing of his heart as he waits, the future of not only himself, but of Yuuji and Sukuna as well, all hanging on the decision of those within that room. Satoru jams his hands into his pockets, hoping to hide the fidgeting of his fingers.

Sukuna stands next to him. In contrast to Satoru, he appears all too relaxed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed and chin tilted forward as he dozes, but surely he must feel it too—the tension, the nervousness. If he does, he doesn’t let it show. Satoru envies him for it.

Satoru’s foot taps against the wooden floor. His fingers twitch, and he pulls his hands from his pockets and balls them into fists, crossing his arms over his chest too. “Hey, Sukuna.”

Sukuna grunts in acknowledgement, but nothing more. Satoru continues. “I still mean it, what I said before. Whatever happens in there—”

“I will do whatever I deem best for myself,” Sukuna interrupts, red eyes sliding open to meet Satoru’s own blue—unfettered by his usual shades, open and honest. “Just as I know you’ll do whatever you think best for yourself and the brat.”

Satoru smiles. “Good. I’m glad.”

The doors slide open, and Yaga steps out. “We’re ready for you.”

The higher-ups are seated in a semi-circle, knelt on plush cushions, dressed in traditional garb. Yaga gestures for Satoru and Sukuna to kneel before them, and Satoru does, knees meeting not the same cushions, but the thick tatami mats below. After a moment, Sukuna joins him—playing nice for now, though that could change in a matter of moments. Satoru feels the same.

Yaga returns to his place amongst the council, and as he does, Satoru takes a moment to scan the faces of the men gathered. He recognizes Gakuganji, of course, the elder doing nothing to hide the vitriol in his expression. There are a few others who Satoru vaguely recognizes, though he can’t quite recall their names. There’s the old man from the Zenins, he’s pretty sure, another from the Kamos, one from the Itos. There’s careful neutrality in most of their faces, though their eyes betray the truth: they are not happy with what has transpired.

The old man at the head of the circle is the one who speaks—a man Satoru can’t for the life of him remember, but who he’s certain he may never forget depending on what happens within this room. “After a year of carefully monitoring the situation regarding Satoru Gojo, Sukuna Ryoumen, and the cursed vessel—”

“Yuuji,” Satoru interrupts, and there’s a visible ripple of annoyance that passes through the council. Satoru ignores it. “His name is Yuuji.”

The councilman studies Satoru a moment, face unreadable. Satoru meets his gaze steadily, refusing to back down. Finally, the man sighs. “—and Yuuji,” he corrects, “the lead Council of Jujutsu society has come to an agreement on how best to proceed. From what we have observed, neither Sukuna Ryoumen nor the cursed—nor Yuuji—currently pose a threat to Jujutsu society. In fact, in light of the actions taken by Sukuna Ryoumen during the recent attack by mercenary Toji Fushiguro, we might consider Sukuna an ally to Jujutsu Society.”

Satoru presses his lips together to hold back his laughter, and he can feel more so than see the side-eyed glare Sukuna sends his way. Still, his amusement is short-lived when the councilman continues.

“However,” he says, and Satoru feels his muscles tense, fingers digging into his thighs, “while they may not pose a threat to us currently, we cannot be certain this will remain true in the future.”

Sukuna goes rigid beside him, and Satoru’s arm lashes out, gripping him around the wrist, squeezing tightly—though whether it’s to bar Sukuna from action, or simply to ground himself, he can’t be certain. All he knows is neither of them can afford to act out, not now. They need to be smart about this—for Yuuji’s sake.

The councilman raises a thin grey brow at the action, but doesn’t comment. “With all this in mind, the council has come to a decision: we cannot, in good faith, allow a potential threat to our society to go unchecked. Therefore, an execution order will be placed for both Sukuna Ryoumen and Yuuji.”

Satoru’s grip tightens on Sukuna’s wrist. The other hasn’t moved, hasn’t reacted; the hold is undeniably for Satoru’s benefit, this time. “But—”

“However,” the councilman continues, glaring pointedly at Satoru for speaking up a second time, “we will simultaneously be ordering a stay of execution for both Sukuna Ryoumen and Yuuji, postponing their executions indefinitely. Call it a mercy, or a failsafe, if you will. Sukuna and Yuuji will not be executed immediately, and so long as they remain allied with Jujutsu society, the execution order will not be carried out. However, we will continue to monitor and re-evaluate this situation going forward, and if either Sukuna Ryoumen or Yuuji are deemed a real threat in the future, we will have no choice but to follow through with their executions. Understood?”

Satoru thinks he nods, thinks Sukuna must do the same, for the councilman seems satisfied with the response. “Good. We will officially table this discussion for the time being and revisit it as necessary in the future. Satoru Gojo, Sukuna Ryoumen, you are dismissed.”

Satoru’s not certain how he makes it to the front steps of Jujutsu Tech again, body moving but mind miles elsewhere. He only comes back to himself when the cool spring breeze reaches his skin, raising goosebumps along the exposed skin of his arms. Sukuna’s still with him, is looking at him expectantly, a little annoyed too, perhaps, and it’s then that Satoru realizes he has yet to release his grip on the other’s wrist. Satoru huffs a small laugh, finally letting go. “Sorry.” His fingers leave behind red marks, and Satoru wonders if they’ll bruise.

Sukuna rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond, jerking his arm away and stuffing his hands into his pockets as he turns away from Satoru, making his way down the long path. Satoru follows behind him. “So, that went well. I knew my genius plan would work!”

“Yes,” Sukuna replies, sarcasm evident in his tone, “living with the looming threat of execution over my head has always been the most desirable outcome for me. What a fortunate turn of events.”

“Oh, c’mon. It could have been worse!” Satoru decides. “I mean, they could’ve made you pay off your debt to society by forcing you to teach at Jujutsu Tech.”

“I would rather die,” Sukuna declares.

“My point exactly!”

They reach the front gates of Jujutsu Tech, and just beyond them, Sukuna stops. Satoru reaches his side, curious, simply waiting to see what he’ll do next. But Sukuna just stands there, eyes a little vacant as he gazes out over the landscape before him, the vibrant green forest that stretches down the mountainside, the sprawling cityscape beyond—possibilities endless, going further than even the eyes can see.

And the thought should be thrilling, should fill him with excitement, with freedom—

But Satoru can’t help but think he looks lost.

Satoru gently nudges the other with his shoulder. “I’ve gotta stop by Itadori’s to pick up Yuuji, then I’ll be heading home,” he says, smiling as Sukuna glances at him from the corner of his eye. “Wanna come with?”

And Sukuna regards him fully this time, turning towards him and studying him with those eyes—seeing but not seeing—and then—

“Yeah,” he decides. “I do.”

Chapter Text

“…and that about covers our first year together,” Satoru finishes recalling, rummaging around in the bag of mochi he had brought in at the appointment’s onset.

Empty takeout containers litter the coffee table that separates Dr. Sato and her clients. She hums, tapping her pen idly against her notebook as her eyes skim the lines of neatly-written notes. “So,” she begins after a pause, processing the information, “I just want to quickly summarize to be sure I’m understanding everything. You two were set to battle to the death, but the clash resulted in the… creation of your son, Yuuji. Yuuji was deemed a threat to your society, and so to prevent his execution, you entered into a fake relationship, hoping that doing so would convince the leaders in your society that Yuuji—as well as Sukuna himself—were not a threat. This plan was not particularly successful until the events of Yuuji’s first birthday, during which you two teamed up to defend against the mercenary, Toji Fushiguro. Because of your actions on that day, the execution orders for Yuuji and Sukuna were suspended indefinitely, and the issue resolved.”

Satoru nods, cheeks stuffed full of mochi. “That about sums it up,” he confirms, voice muffled by the desserts in his mouth.

“Right.” Dr. Sato flips to a new page, considering. “Now, before we carry on with the next part of your story, I’d like to ask a question.” She turns her gaze to the other half of the partnership. “Sukuna—”

Sukuna quirks a brow at the call of his name. He’d been picking away at his teeth with a sharp nail prior, generally disinterested with the topic of conversation, seeming content to let Satoru take the lead and tell their story. But that just wouldn’t cut it; if this couple wanted to get anything from this session, both would need to contribute first.

Attention gained, Dr. Sato continues, “After the ruling was made by the council, you decided to continue living with Satoru and Yuuji. Now, from my understanding, doing so was not a necessity. In fact, all prior signs had pointed towards your leaving as soon as an opportunity to do so presented itself—”

“You had a question,” Sukuna interrupts, eyes narrowed—unimpressed by the turn of the conversation.

Dr. Sato nods, gets to her point. “Why did you stay?”

A beat passes in silence, then another. Sukuna’s expression doesn’t change, face carefully unreadable despite the present frown. He’s mulling over the question, perhaps, deciding how to answer—deciding if he’ll answer at all. The silence stretches on, nearing uncomfortable levels. Satoru swallows down the last of his mochi, prepares himself to speak on his partner’s behalf. But before he can, Sukuna sighs, shoulders slumping slightly.

“I’d like to say I was being purely pragmatic,” he admits. “The brat still housed my cursed energy, and I was determined to get it back. Staying close gave me access to him, provided me more opportunity to figure out how to get my cursed energy back. But looking back on it now, I think that was just an excuse. The truth is far simpler: where else could I go?”

There’s a subtle twitch of Satoru’s finger at his partner’s admission—like he wants to reach out, but is stopping himself. It’s a telling gesture if there ever was one, a physical manifestation of the emotional wall between the two, the one they perhaps were hoping to overcome through this session. And Satoru doesn’t seem surprised by Sukuna’s words, had seemed to have figured him out even before Sukuna himself had. But he stays silent, waits for the other to process it in his own way, in his own words. It brings the ghost of a smile to Dr. Sato’s lips, though she does her best to mask it, expression carefully neutral. She had been worried at the appointment’s onset, but now…

Perhaps there is hope for this troubled couple yet.

“I had failed to find a place for myself in those months following the battle and my loss of cursed energy,” Sukuna continues after a pause, brow furrowed more in thought now than anger. “My supposed death brought with it the end of my reign as the King of Curses, after all. And without my power, I was thrust to the bottom rung of the hierarchy. The battle with that mercenary Fushiguro only proved it further: I had become weak in a society that has no room for weakness. I had to remain where I was, lest I fell prey to those I had previously and so joyously preyed upon.” He huffs a laugh, though it’s dry, humourless. “It sounds rather pathetic, doesn’t it? Now that I’ve said it aloud.”

Dr. Sato opens her mouth to disagree, but Satoru cuts in before she can. “It was more convenient for the both of us that he stuck around,” the other man says, deftly changing the topic. Eyes hidden behind shades, Dr. Sato can’t determine exactly what his expression is. “I probably would’ve been begging him to come back even if he had left.”

Dr. Sato hums, allowing the topic to flow in this alternate direction. “And why is that?”

“Even after the initial ruling was made,” Satoru begins, reclining back on the couch, “many of the higher-ups weren’t exactly placated. And so, about a week or so later, a certain addendum was put into place…”

After a long, gruelling fight, replete with desperate pleas and shed tears, Satoru has finally managed to get Yuuji settled down for his afternoon nap. He silently slips from the sleeping infant’s room, shoulders aching from the near hours of rocking he had to endure to lull the boy to sleep, mind and heart set on the comfort of his sofa and the planned marathon of his favourite show, when the doorbell rings.

Satoru freezes.

The doorbell’s echo still lingers in the halls, punctuated only by the sound of Satoru’s racing heart, his desperate mental pleas. Don’t wake up, don’t wake up, don’t wake up—

The doorbell sounds again, joined this time by an impatient hammering on the door. Even so, Satoru doesn’t hear Yuuji stir. He feels his tensed limbs go slack, heaves a sigh of relief, then finally makes his way to the front door and whoever the hell dared interrupt his peaceful afternoon.

He wrenches open the door, eyes narrowed to a glare behind his shades as they fall upon the man on his doorstep, looking impossibly older and far more pretentious than he had when Satoru had seen him in the conference room at Jujutsu Tech only days before. Satoru crosses his arms over chest as he leans against the door frame, mustering up his fakest smile. “Well, well! Principal Gakuganji, what an unpleasant surprise. What brings you to my humble abode, hm? Get lost on your way to hell? Well, I’d be more than happy to escort you the rest of the way.”

Surprisingly, the old man does not lose composure. He folds his hands over the top of his cane, shaking his head. “There’s no need for that. I’ve already arrived. Speaking of which—” Gakuganji pushes past Satoru and into the house, and while Satoru easily could have prevented the old man’s entrance, it wasn’t worth the effort— “your home appears to be absent two demons today.”

“Yet it gained a devil, barging in here on cloven hooves,” Satoru remarks, closing the door behind him. “What do you want, Gakuganji? I’ve got better things to do than entertain senile old men.”

And Gakuganji must be in a particularly pleasant mood, for even Satoru’s pointed comments do little to rile the old man up. Instead, the man ignores the insults, eyes scanning the room around him with mild interest. “I’m simply here to observe. You may have fooled the council into believing the validity of your relationship with that curse, but you cannot fool me. Sooner or later you will misstep and reveal the true nature of this façade, and I want to witness your downfall firsthand. Still, that is not the main reason behind my visit.”

Satoru stifles an annoyed groan then thinks better of it, letting his displeasure be known. “Get to the point, old man.”

“That child,” Gakuganji begins, turning to regard Satoru once more. “He may one day inherit the cursed technique of the demon who sired him, wouldn’t you agree?”

Satoru crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, so what?”

“Power like that will require careful moulding,” the old man continues, “and we currently have so few special grade sorcerers in our employ capable of such direction.”

And Satoru…he thinks he knows where this is going, but he has to be sure. “You don’t think Yuuji will be able to control Sukuna’s cursed technique, is that it?”

Gakuganji hums. “I’m simply saying, it would certainly be a shame if that child was incapable of properly wielding his cursed energy. Such inadequacy could prove detrimental to our society, after all. Either the child is useless to our cause, or he is a threat. In any case, it’s cause enough for execution.”

No. No, there’s no way. “Nobody would agree to that!” Satoru argues, fingers digging painfully into his biceps as he attempts to reign in his temper. Because they wouldn’t, there’s no way they could—

“Oh?” And there’s a clear smugness about the slight smile on Gakuganji’s lips. “But the council already did agree with me. Just this morning, in fact.”

“You can’t be serious!” Satoru almost shouts, but with little Yuuji still peacefully napping away in his room, he manages to control his tone. “You’d really put an innocent child to death?”

Gakuganji scoffs. “I’d hardly call that thing an innocent child, not while he holds the energy of that villainous King of Curses within him.”

“Sukuna has nothing to do with this,” Satoru spits back. “If you want to hold him accountable for his past then fine, I won’t get in your way. But don’t you dare pin his transgressions on Yuuji. I don’t care what I have to do. Even if Yuuji can’t control his cursed energy, I won’t let you lay a goddamn finger on my son.”

Gakuganji studies him a moment, expression unreadable, and though the man is far from Satoru’s stature, he still manages to look down his nose at him. “We shall see about that.”

Satoru bites his tongue. It’s the only thing that helps keep a lid on his temper. He forces a grin to his face. “Well, if that’s all you had to say, then I’ll respectfully ask that you get the hell out of my house.”

“Know your place, Satoru Gojo,” Gakuganji scolds, grip tightening around his cane. “Six Eyes or not, you are still a man just like anyone else.”

With that said, the old man leaves, and this time, Satoru can’t control his anger, slamming the door shut behind Gakuganji, the force reverberating through the walls of the house, shaking even the windows in their frames. Silence follows the clamour, broken only by the harsh breaths forcing their way in and out of Satoru’s lungs. And, moments later—

A sniffle. Then another, working their way up to a full cry, Yuuji’s sobs echoing down the hall from his bedroom.

Satoru sighs, head thunking against the wooden door. “Shit.”

Satoru doesn’t hear him return. Either the former curse is purposefully sneaking around after his daily dalliances doing fuck knows what, or Satoru is simply too consumed by his thoughts to notice him. In any case, it’s not until he hears the slight clatter of cupboard doors that he realizes he has company.

And maybe…maybe he needs company right now.

Long limbs sprawled out over the sofa, head lolled back against the arm rest, Satoru forgoes a greeting. “Have you ever thought about the future?”

“There’s nothing to think about,” Sukuna replies, sounding bored. “Pleasure and displeasure are matters of the present. I need nothing else.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Satoru waves a dismissive hand. “Still. Just—humour me a moment. Like, what are you gonna do five, ten years from now?”

There’s a thoughtful hum, glassware clattering about on the counter. “I’ll have regained my cursed energy and resumed my reign as King. There’s little more to think about.”

Satoru frowns. He pulls himself to a seated position so he can regard the former curse in the kitchen. “But what if you don’t get it back? What then?”

“A future wherein I do not regain my cursed energy is not a future worth considering.” Sukuna fills a glass of water from the tap, then—surprisingly—a second one. “What’s brought this on?”

Satoru groans, folding his arms over the couch’s backrest and leaning his chin against them. “Gakuganji stopped by today—”

“Who?” Sukuna interrupts, face creased in a frown.

“Council member,” Satoru explains, eyes tracking the other’s movements as he rounds the island to enter the living room. “Sort of resembles a goat.”

“Ah, yes.” Sukuna places one of the glasses on the coffee table before taking a seat in the nearby armchair. “Continue.”

Satoru twists around on the sofa again, flopping back against the cushions with a groan. “Apparently the higher-ups came to a new decision. If Yuuji isn’t able to control his cursed energy, they’ll execute him, and if he isn’t able to use his cursed energy at all, they’ll still execute him.” He glares at the glass on the table, fingers flexing into fists. “They demand nothing but perfection of him. Anything less spells death for the kid.”

Sukuna scoffs. “Fools,” he says with a roll of his eyes, raising his glass to his lips. “But I fail to see how that concerns me.”

And this is the tricky part—the part that had consumed Satoru’s thoughts for the better part of the evening, ever since Gakuganji’s departure. Will he agree? It’s…it’s a long shot, a one in a million chance—

But there’s a glass of water on the table. One Satoru hadn’t asked for. One that had simply been offered to him, nothing to gain from the action.

Satoru reaches for it, presses the glass to his lips and lets the cool water wet his parched throat. Then, he takes a deep breath. “Yuuji needs a teacher,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “Someone who can help him reach his potential. Someone who’s already mastered the ins and outs of his cursed technique.”

“No.”

Satoru’s shoulders slump. “Sukuna—”

“I’ve fulfilled my end of the deal,” Sukuna interrupts, levelling Satoru with a cold glare, “feigning that disgusting relationship with you. With my life no longer forfeit, there is nothing for me to gain.”

“C’mon,” Satoru whines, replacing the glass on the table and leaning his elbows against his knees. “Can’t you just do it out of the goodness of your heart?”

Sukuna sips his water, one brow raised.

Satoru laughs—a humourless exhale, really. “Right. Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to for a moment. Even with this new body, I doubt you gained a heart.”

Oddly, Sukuna doesn’t respond to the jab. No, his face is completely unreadable as he leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other as he idly swirls the glass in his hand as though it were a chalice filled with the richest wine, not simple tap water. After a moment, he speaks. “You’re the strongest sorcerer,” he says, and Satoru can’t help the surprise that paints his features at the freely offered admission. “Threats from these so-called higher-ups should mean nothing to you. If they intend to harm the brat, just kill them.” Sukuna shrugs a shoulder. “It’s really that simple.”

“But it isn’t.” Satoru argues, raking a hand through his hair. “If I killed them, it’d only be a temporary solution—one that causes more problems than it solves. More conservative assholes would take their place, and I’d be declared an enemy of Jujutsu Society. Everyone would turn against me—against Yuuji—” He stops there, shaking his head. “No, either I need Yuuji to perfect his cursed technique in the least amount of time possible, or I need to reform the entirety of Jujutsu Society. Honestly, I don’t know which one would be harder.”

Because Gakuganji had been right: even with his god-like abilities, Satoru Gojo is still just a man. And what can one man really do in the face of an entire society—an entire history of discrimination and bloodshed?

Sukuna groans. “How the hell were you ever able to defeat me with this kind of thinking?”

“Hey now! That was a completely different situation—”

But Sukuna cuts him off, levelling him with a challenging glare. “Answer me this, Six-Eyes.” And Satoru braces himself, unsure of where Sukuna is going with this. “Being the strongest—what does it really mean to you?”

Satoru inhales sharply. For suddenly, he's seventeen again, standing on a crowded sidewalk in Shinjuku, powerless to save the only man he had ever truly cared for—had ever truly loved—

“I—” Satoru pushes the thoughts away, averting his gaze. Even now, over a year later, he still doesn’t have an answer—not a good one, at least. “I don’t understand what you’re really asking.”

“Figure it out. Once you do, you’ll find your problems are really quite simple. In any case—” Sukuna pushes himself up from the chair, downing the rest of his water as he does— “cursed techniques don’t emerge until at least five years of age. You have at least that long to finally get your head out of your ass.”

And Satoru laughs at this—a real laugh. “You need to work on your pep-talks.”

Sukuna waves a dismissive hand. “It wasn’t a pep-talk,” he says, returning to the kitchen to deposit his glass in the sink. “I’m going to bed. If you bother me with pointless conversation again, I will kill you.”

“Ah, ah! That was a death threat!” Satoru jabs an accusing finger at Sukuna, but there’s no heat behind the action, grin warping his features all but disposing of any that might have existed. “You need to update the board!”

Sukuna glares at him, but—surprisingly—he does.

It feels as though Satoru has just managed to fall asleep when he’s awoken once more by the sound of Yuuji’s cries. While Yuuji had gotten far better at sleeping through the night, there were still occasions on which Satoru woke to the child’s screams reverberating through the house, the boy’s lung capacity impressive for his young age. Any other night, Satoru would’ve been on his feet in an instant, quick to attend to the distressed child, but tonight…

He can barely peel his eyes open, sleep-clouded gaze fixed absently on the ceiling above even as Yuuji’s piercing cries assault his ears. He should get up, just needs to roll a foot or so to the right to hit the edge of the bed, topple onto the floor, and yet he finds his limbs unable to move, bogged down and weary, pressed upon by some unseen weight, one Satoru refuses to name. Maybe he’ll be able to soothe himself this time, Satoru thinks, eyelids heavy and threatening to slip closed once more. It’s good to let babies cry it out sometimes, right?

As if he could sense Satoru’s thoughts, Yuuji’s crying only intensifies. Satoru groans, manages to drag a tired hand over his face before he flops himself over on the bed, awkwardly shuffling his way to the edge. It takes longer than it should to swing his legs over the side, longer still for his feet to find purchase on the cool hardwood, for his muscles to pull him to standing. He doesn’t bother flipping on a light, feeling his way in the dark as he exits his bedroom, unsteadily padding down the hall towards Yuuji’s—

The light is on. It spills from the doorway of Yuuji’s bedroom and into the hallway, casting sparse illumination across the floors, upon the walls. Heart hammering in his chest, Satoru picks up his pace, nearly stumbling over his feet in his rush to reach Yuuji—

Slowly, Yuuji’s cries taper out, settling to mere sniffles. And in the sudden quiet that follows, Satoru hears a voice.

Satoru freezes.

“See? This behaviour is entirely unnecessary,” Sukuna scolds, though the effect is lost to his hushed tone. “Cease this pathetic snivelling at once. You have the strongest cursed technique buried deep inside you, so act like it. Your tears are unbefitting of such potential.”

Curiously, Satoru peers around the edge of the door frame, careful to conceal his presence—not that he thinks Sukuna would notice. No, Sukuna’s focus is nowhere but the child resting in the crib, the former-curse leaning over the rails with a hand extended, gently—albeit, awkwardly—patting Yuuji’s stomach in what’s likely meant to be a soothing motion. Still, despite the clear discomfort in Sukuna’s tense form, Yuuji appears content. After a moment, his cries fade entirely, a smile spreading across his pudgy cheeks, golden eyes practically sparkling.

And just like that, Satoru’s fears disappear. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief, slumping against the door frame as he continues to observe the scene before him.

Yuuji kicks his arms and legs, still grinning as he babbles something incoherent.

“I will hear none of your excuses,” Sukuna responds, withdrawing his arm. Yuuji’s face wrinkles in response. “No—don’t look at me with those eyes. I’m not nearly as spineless as that six-eyed bastard.”

Yuuji’s lips begin to tremble. A sniffle escapes him.

Sukuna heaves a sigh—far more dramatic than need be. “Fine. But just for a minute—no longer. Then it’s back to sleep for you.” Unexpectedly, Sukuna reaches into the crib, slipping his arms under Yuuji’s slight form and lifting him, cradling him gently yet firmly against his chest. Yuuji gurgles and coos in delight as Sukuna begins bouncing him. Sukuna rolls his eyes, but if Satoru’s not mistaken, there’s a slight curve to his lips now—not quite a smile, but close enough. “If you are to grow into the most powerful sorcerer, you’ll need your rest. I won’t waste my time coddling some weakling.”

Yuuji grins, a bit of spit dribbling from his lips onto his chin. Sukuna’s nose wrinkles in response, but he doesn’t flinch when Yuuji reaches towards him, perhaps attempting to ease the lines with his tiny hands.

“Disgusting brat,” Sukuna chides, but there’s something almost fond about the way he says it. Yuuji must think so, at least, for he giggles at the insult.

And Satoru’s heart flutters at the sound, smile stretching across his face, a warmth filling his chest that threatens to spill out into laughter of his own. But he holds it back, unwilling to ruin such a precious moment, knowing the second his presence is made aware of the scene would come to a sudden and untimely end. Still, he allows himself to linger a moment longer, lets his heart get its fill before silently stepping back from the doorway, returning to his bedroom once more.

And this time when Satoru falls asleep, it’s with a smile still plastered to his face. For now, Satoru is certain of it:

Come whatever may, they’ll be just fine.

Chapter Text

Yuuji trips over his feet in his rush to reach Satoru, tumbling to the soft grass beneath with a huff. He pouts, pushing himself to his feet once more, and Satoru has to hide a smile behind his hand when Yuuji overestimates his balance, toppling back and landing on his rear. His bottom lip trembles, and he holds his hands out to Satoru. “Da! Da!”

Satoru doesn’t hide his grin this time, leaning down to scoop the young boy up into his arms. “What’s up, bud? Get a little boo-boo?”

Yuuji’s face brightens immediately once he’s in Satoru’s arms. “Boo-boo! Boo-boo!” he repeats, kicking his arms and legs in excitement. Obviously, the fall had not injured him at all.

Satoru laughs, shifting Yuuji to rest on his hip as he makes his way up the walk to the house, finding Wasuke seated on a blanket spread out across the lawn, a collection of Yuuji’s toys scattered thereupon. Surprisingly, Sukuna is also outside, though he takes up a perch on the home’s front step, out of the action but close enough to observe. Satoru waves to them, Yuuji copying the action. “I’m home!”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Clearly.”

Satoru heaves a dramatic sigh, and again, Yuuji mimics him, though the effect is lost to the toddler’s vibrant grin. “Sukuna,” Satoru whines, “we’ve been over this! You’re supposed to say welcome home!”

“I refuse,” Sukuna says, crossing his arms.

Satoru scoffs, turning to Yuuji. “Can you believe this guy?” he asks, and Yuuji laughs. “Such a meanie!”

“Me-me,” Yuuji agrees.

Meanwhile, Wasuke rises from his place on the blanket, crossing the grass to Satoru. Satoru nods to him. “How’d the day go?”

“It was good,” Wasuke replies, hands on his hips. “He’s a good kid, surprisingly bright too, considering who his dad is.”

Satoru laughs. “Hey now, since when did this become pick on Satoru day?”

Wasuke huffs, but there’s a slight upward quirk to his lips. “Well, you’re never around. What else are Sukuna and I supposed to talk about?”

And he’s right; while curse activity this season is nowhere near a record high, it’s still rather busy for the summer, and the past few months have seen Satoru away on countless missions. That left Yuuji to the care of Wasuke more often than not, and when the older man was unavailable, Sukuna stepped in to watch the child—though not without complaint, of course.

And Satoru…he can’t deny, there’s a lot of guilt that comes with his absence in his son’s life, Yuuji clearly noticing when Satoru isn’t around, always so upset at his departure, so excited upon his return. But Satoru can’t afford to take too much time-off, not right now, not while he’s still trying to figure out how to shape Jujutsu Society into something worthy of his son.

Satoru pushes the thoughts away, tampers the guilt that twists in his gut with a vibrant grin. “Aw, you two talk about me when I’m gone? I’m flattered!”

“You shouldn’t be,” Wasuke huffs, hands on his hips. “You need to be here for your son, kid. He needs his dad.”

Satoru sighs. “I know. And I’m trying, I swear.”

“Yes, well—” Wasuke shakes his head. “I’m busy too, y’know. I can’t always come out here to be with the boy. You really ought to be looking into a daycare for him, now that he’s old enough. He needs to be around kids his age, not an old man.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Satoru says, “Sukuna isn’t that old.”

Well, he is, but Wasuke needn’t know that.

Sukuna flips him off. Satoru winks in response, though the action is hidden behind his shades.

Wasuke shakes his head again. “You youngsters,” he mutters. “In any case, you better take my words seriously, Gojo. Get Yuuji into daycare.”

“I will.” And he will, once he figures out how to. “I know I’ve been relying on you a lot, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for Yuuji and me. Seriously.”

Wasuke rubs the back of his neck, eyes on the ground. “Yes, well—” He clears his throat, turning his gaze back on Satoru. “I should get going.”

He makes to leave, but Satoru intercepts him, stepping into his path. “No, stay for dinner. I insist! I promise Sukuna won’t accidentally poison you again.”

The former curse scoffs. “That was one time, and it was barely a poisoning!”

Wasuke chuckles, shaking his head. “I can’t stay. I have work of my own to do.”

He steps around Satoru, making his way towards his car parked in the drive. “Another time, then!” Satoru decides, turning to watch the man as he climbs into the car. Wasuke doesn’t answer, just waves a hand.

The car roars to life. As it backs out of the drive, Satoru waves goodbye, instructing Yuuji to do the same. “Say bye!”

Yuuji flails in arms in something of a wave. “Bye! Bye!”

The car disappears down the road. In the lingering silence, Satoru regards Yuuji. “Well, little guy. We should probably clean up and head inside for the day, yeah?”

Yuuji nods, though he wriggles in complaint when Satoru bends to return him to the ground. Satoru laughs lightly. “C’mon, Yuuji. You can walk yourself over there.”

Yuuji pouts, reaching for Satoru. “Da! Da!”

Satoru sighs, extending his hand to the child. “Here, you can hold my hand.”

Yuuji accepts, and while it’s a little awkward considering the vast differences in their heights, they make it work, Yuuji’s hand closing around one of Satoru’s fingers. They cross the lawn to the blanket where Satoru gathers up the toys, Yuuji releasing his hold in favour of picking up his favourite tiger plushie.

Toys bundled in the blanket in Satoru’s arms, they make their way up the steps, Sukuna rising as they pass. “You aren’t seriously considering leaving the brat in the care of some stranger,” Sukuna says, following them into the house.

Satoru deposits the blanket of toys onto the living room floor, Yuuji plopping down beside it. “Yeah? I don’t see what the problem is.”

Sukuna scoffs. “Countless attempts have been made against him. It’s far too dangerous.”

Well, countless may be an overstatement, but Sukuna raises a valid point. Ever since the kidnapping attempt made by Toji Fushiguro several months prior, a few more attempts had been made at capturing Yuuji, news of the cursed energy within the boy’s possession having spread to the underworld. Each attempt had been feeble in comparison to that initial one, however, easily thwarted by Satoru or Sukuna, keeping Yuuji and Wasuke none the wiser. Still, leaving Yuuji without any protection is risky.

But Satoru can’t admit that Sukuna might be right. The former curse would never let him hear the end of it.

So, Satoru crosses his arms over his chest, challenging. “What? You offering to care for Yuuji full-time then?”

“Of course not!” Sukuna says, nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Then daycare it is!” Satoru shrugs, making his way into the kitchen. He opens the fridge, scanning the shelves for something to prepare for dinner. The shelves are rather sparse, however, leaving few options. Satoru sighs. One more thing to add to his never-ending to-do list. Maybe if he sent a picture of the barren shelves to Nanami, righteous indignation would spur the man to do the shopping on Satoru’s behalf…

Nah, probably not.

Satoru closes the fridge door, finding Sukuna has followed him into the kitchen. “Don’t be a fool,” the former curse chides.

Satoru just grins. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were actually worried about Yuuji,” he teases. “I knew he’d grow on you, eventually!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t care what happens to the brat. I simply cannot allow my cursed energy to fall into anyone else’s hands before I can reclaim it.”

“Uh huh.” Satoru searches the cupboards, finding them equally bare. Shit. Meanwhile, he waves a dismissive hand. “Well, you don’t have to worry about it. I’ll figure something out.”

“I just said I wasn’t worried!”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you.” Satoru closes the cupboard doors, finally turning to Sukuna. “Takeout?”

Sukuna still doesn’t look impressed, glare never leaving his face. “It better be good.”

Satoru groans, flopping down onto a nearby park bench and carding a hand through his pale hair. The summer sun beats down heavily upon him, its rays far too bright even through the lenses of his shades. He had taken the day off, intent on spending quality time with his son, and while he doesn’t regret his decision, he does regret spending that quality time with him outdoors.

Yuuji doesn’t seem bothered by the heat; he totters across the grass to the nearby play structure, smiling and laughing all the while. Satoru had taken care to apply a thick layer of sunscreen to the child’s delicate skin, had further protected him under a pale-yellow bucket hat still a little too large for the toddler’s head, but even still there’s a faint trace of redness in his cheeks. It wouldn’t be long before they’d have to tap out, return to their home to spend the rest of their day under the blissful caress of A.C.

Next to him, a second figure sits. Like their son, Sukuna appears rather content in the oppressive midday heat, hands folded behind his head and eyes shut as he turns his face toward the fiery ball in the sky, an overgrown house cat lazily sunning itself, or—perhaps, more accurately—a cold-blooded lizard. And Satoru can’t understand how someone could take such pleasure in the scalding summer heat, though he figures the temperature is only partially responsible for Sukuna’s current pleasant mood. No, there’s a certain smugness there too, the slight curve of his lips, the satisfaction in his sigh as he lounges, the knowledge that he had been right all along.

For they had spent the entire morning visiting several daycares across the city, following Satoru’s heavily-researched list in their hunt for one befitting their son, and in the end, none of the daycares had met Satoru’s strict criteria. And it’s not that the daycares were bad, per se, it’s just—Satoru has high standards, okay? The daycare couldn’t be too busy for fear of Yuuji being lost to the clamour, nor could it be too barren, for how poorly did it reflect upon the caregivers themselves if they had so few clients? The daycare couldn’t be too messy nor too clean, too far or too close, too rural or too urban—

And none of the daycares on Satoru’s list had fit the bill.

Just as Sukuna predicted.

Satoru groans again, head lolling back over the edge of the bench. There’s a slight laugh next to him. “Finally ready to admit defeat, sorcerer?” Sukuna asks, amusement clear in his tone.

“I’m not giving up yet,” Satoru argues. “I just—need a new strategy, that’s all.”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “New strategy or not, the end result will be the same. You’re scared to leave the brat in a stranger’s care, especially now with the increased risk to his safety. As such, you’ll find fault with every place, regardless of how perfect it may appear.”

“That’s not—” Satoru begins to protest, sitting up so he can glare at Sukuna over his shades. But he cuts himself off, excuses dying on his tongue. For maybe Sukuna is right about this too. Maybe the daycares themselves haven’t been the problem; Satoru has.

But Satoru can’t admit that to Sukuna. Instead, he shifts his gaze to Yuuji, who’s sitting on his rear in the middle of the sandbox, throwing fistfuls of sand into the air and laughing as it scatters down upon him. Satoru smiles slightly at the sight. “Well, what about you?” he asks Sukuna, challenging. “You can’t deny the thought makes you nervous too.”

“Which is precisely why I’m so against the idea of placing the brat in a daycare,” he replies, opening his eyes so he can level Satoru with a glare. “Have I not made my stance clear?”

He has; Satoru’s just trying to change the subject. He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, we need to do something. Itadori is right—Yuuji needs to be around kids. I mean, just look at how happy he is out there.” Satoru gestures towards their son, who’s now been joined by a small group of toddlers playing in the sand. Yuuji throws another fistful of sand, and the toddlers squeal and laugh in delight, so easily amused. Satoru sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “There’s gotta be a solution here.”

Sukuna hums, eyes sliding shut once more. “At this rate, you’ll fry that pathetic brain of yours before you ever find it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Satoru waves a dismissive hand. Still, a break would be nice, a chance to let his mind refresh. Idly, he scans the park around them, notices the stalls set up along a nearby street. “I’m gonna go grab us drinks,” he announces, pushing himself up from the bench. “Keep an eye on Yuuji for me?”

Sukuna doesn’t acknowledge him. His eyes remain closed.

But Satoru isn’t worried. Sukuna won’t let anything happen to Yuuji, even if only begrudgingly. He claims he’s doing it only out of selfishness, but his actions these past few months betray him. For it isn’t selfishness that drives him to intervene on those difficult nights in which Yuuji struggles to sleep, nor is it selfishness that inspires his sudden interest in Yuuji’s daytime activities, regardless of how hands-off that interest may be. No, though his words speak to the contrary, insults and grievances leaving his tongue as easily as breathing, Satoru is certain of it:

Yuuji is safe with Sukuna.

The stalls are busy, the noon-hour rush crowding the sidewalks and streets, stretching the lines to ridiculous lengths. At first, Satoru is content to wait, idly humming a tune as he stands in place, inching forward with the rest of those braving the line. But there’s little cover out here on the sidewalk, sun shining unobstructed down upon him, and as sweat steadily builds upon his skin, Satoru finds he can wait no longer. He forgoes the stalls altogether, finding a vending machine nearby instead—its contents not nearly as good as what the stalls offered, but it’s a necessary sacrifice. He makes his purchase—two bottles of tea, one plain, one sweet—before making his way back across the street to the park, to the bench on which he had left Sukuna several minutes before.

Someone has taken Satoru’s seat.

She’s pretty enough, he supposes. Long glossy black hair that spills out from beneath a fashionable sunhat, cascading down her slender shoulders. She has one dainty leg crossed over the other, the hem of her floral sundress riding up just enough to expose the pale expanse of her thigh as she leans in close to Sukuna, not quite brushing his side, but still far too close for a friendly chat. Still, Sukuna doesn’t seem put off by her closeness, still reclined casually on the bench, lips spread in an easy smirk, a too-sharp canine exposed as he speaks to her. She laughs—light and airy, definitely fake, for Sukuna isn’t that funny, not in a conventional sense, at least, not enough to warrant that sort of laughter. She responds, smile plastered to her lips, long lashes fluttering as she reaches out to place a perfectly-manicured hand on his shoulder, the touch lingering just a moment too long—

And there’s no reason for Satoru’s actions, no relationship façade to maintain, nothing that could justify the way he bodily slides between the two figures on the bench, nearly sending the girl toppling to the ground below. “Hey babe, I’m back,” he greets Sukuna, slinging an arm around the other’s shoulder, pressing himself right up against the former curse’s side. “Got you your favourite!”

The tea is not, in fact, Sukuna’s favourite. Satoru’s never bought him this kind before, and he doubts the former curse would have purchased it for himself, doubts he even knows how to work a vending machine. And Satoru expects him to point this out, to shove the sorcerer away with a litany of objections and insults—

But the smirk never leaves Sukuna’s face. “Thanks, babe,” he responds as he accepts the bottle from Satoru, from the hand still wrapped around his shoulder. And there’s something almost playful—almost dangerous—about the light in his red eyes now, something that reminds Satoru of a time many months ago, a joyous Christmas party, a strategically hung mistletoe—

Someone clears their throat. Satoru tears his gaze away, fettered eyes falling upon the woman he had so rudely displaced moments before. She stands before them now, arms crossed and a scowl twisting her features as she regards Satoru.

Satoru flashes her his best smile. “Hmm? Oh, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

She scoffs. “Whatever.” But then she turns her gaze back to Sukuna, frown disappearing entirely, face settling into its sunny disposition from before. “Call me later?”

Satoru responds before Sukuna can. “Not likely!” She glares at him, then turns on her heel and stomps away. Satoru calls after her, “Bye now!”

When she’s finally out of sight, Satoru relaxes against the bench, a satisfied sigh escaping his lips. Now, as long as Sukuna doesn’t bring up what just happened, everything will be a-okay—

“So,” Sukuna’s voice cuts into his thoughts, “care to tell me what that was?”

Dammit.

Satoru shrugs a shoulder—cool, casual. “She stole my spot.”

Sukuna raises a brow. “Is that all?”

Yes, that has to be all. For there’s no other reason for Satoru to be upset, right? There’s no reason for the sour taste that had settled on his tongue as he watched the woman blatantly flirt with Sukuna, no reason for the strange, heavy weight that had settled in his stomach. No, he had just been annoyed that some side character had tried to take his place. That’s all.

So he scoffs, rolling his eyes—though his shades mask the action. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Sukuna echoes, but there’s something decidedly mocking about it, about the way that amused expression still hasn’t left his face.

Still, he doesn’t pursue the topic further. He twists open the lid to the tea Satoru had brought him—the unsweetened one—presses the bottle to his lips and takes a long drink, assesses the taste on his tongue. His nose wrinkles slightly. He recaps the bottle, doesn’t ask before he’s reaching across to swap it out for the sweetened tea Satoru had bought himself. He cracks open the new bottle, takes another drink, nodding this time in approval.

But Sukuna doesn’t like sweet things—he had told Satoru that many times before. He’s not supposed to like sweet things, not supposed to like airy laughter and fluttering lashes, gentle touches and saccharine smiles—

Satoru pushes the thought away, taking a drink of unsweet tea. Satoru hates unsweet tea, especially when it’s cold. But he’s not about to get up and purchase a new bottle from the vending machine, not about to risk a repeat of prior events.

Because he doesn’t want his seat stolen again. Obviously.

Satoru shifts his attention away from all that, eyes scanning the playground for a familiar tuft of pale rose hair. He spots Yuuji easily, his peculiar colourings standing out amongst the monotonous tones of black and brown surrounding him. He’s chasing after a group of slightly older kids now, hands outstretched towards them as he totters along on unsteady feet, the shifting sand making it difficult to run. Still, he appears delighted by this apparent game of tag going on, a bright grin splitting his features and his giggles echoing in the air no matter how fruitless his chase is, no matter how many times he stumbles and loses his footing, falling to the soft sand below.

Satoru smiles at the sight, though it’s quickly erased when bitter tea meets his tongue again, taste worsened by the sour thoughts still lingering in his mind. “Did you actually get her number?”

Sukuna hums, looking bored as he examines the colourful label on the tea bottle. “Would it bother you if I did?”

“No,” Satoru answers quickly—too quickly—then scrambles to recover. “I just—I’m curious, is all.”

Sukuna chuckles slightly. “Curious, hmm? Is that what humans call it now?” Still, he doesn’t give time for Satoru to answer. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans (jeans, for he’s finally gotten over his aversion to modern clothing enough to feel comfortable in more than just sweats, has finally allowed Satoru to convince him to wear jeans, because Satoru finds it funny to see him in normal people clothes, no other reason) to retrieve his cell phone. He shows it to Satoru, though the dark screen reveals nothing. “Well, to sate your curiosity, no. I still don’t know how to use this accursed thing for that purpose.”

Which, Satoru’s traitorous mind supplies, implies that he would have added her number, had he known how. But he hadn’t, hadn’t bothered to learn how to add contacts, had never needed anyone’s number aside from Satoru’s.

“Good,” Satoru replies before he can catch himself. “Uh—that is, good that you helped sate my curiosity.”

“Mm-hm.” Then Sukuna’s leaning in, pressing himself impossibly closer to Satoru’s side as he continues, voice dropping to a near whisper, conspiratorial. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

Satoru nearly chokes on his tea. “Me? Jealous?” he asks, voice too strained for his liking. He laughs, trying to cover it up. “Yeah right. Why would I be jealous?”

This time, Sukuna doesn’t relent. “That’s what I’m curious about,” he presses, bright red boring into icy blue even through the dark lenses of Satoru’s shades, locking his gaze in place. “Were you jealous of me for attracting that woman’s attention, or—” He’s so close now, close enough that Satoru can feel the whispers of his breath against his skin, and he fights not to flinch, to remain as impassive as ever even as his heart races, his stomach flips— “were you jealous of her for gaining mine?”

Satoru needs to say something, to dispel these ridiculous inquiries altogether. For some reason, his mouth won’t form the words. He fingers flex, tea bottle crinkling in one hand, other hand gripping tightly to Sukuna’s shoulder, arm still hooked around the former-curse, having yet to be dislodged, allowing Sukuna to invade his space even farther—

“Well?” Sukuna prompts, voice dipping impossibly lower. “Which is it, Satoru?”

It’s summertime, yet Satoru shivers.

A sharp cry pierces the air—a familiar cry—and never before has Satoru been so glad to hear the sound. He springs from the bench, nearly knocking Sukuna in the back of the head as he does. “That’s Yuuji!” he says, voice still a little strained. He clears his throat, disguises it as a laugh. “I’d—uh—I should go check on him, yeah?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, turning on his heel and crossing over to the play structure with long strides—hurried strides. And he’s confident Yuuji isn’t in any serious danger, not really, but he needs to put as much space between himself and Sukuna as he can, needs to escape the conversation before he can admit—

No. No, there’s nothing to admit. Because Satoru isn’t jealous. He isn’t.

He finds Yuuji beneath the monkey bars. The older kids had climbed atop them, far beyond Yuuji’s reach, and the small boy reaches towards them, face wrinkled and frustrated tears streaming down his cheeks, the kids above paying him no mind. Satoru sighs, kneeling next to his son. “Hey now, it’s okay buddy.”

Yuuji’s crying stops, but his bottom lip still trembles. He reaches for Satoru instead. “Da!”

“Come here,” Satoru says, scooping the young boy into his arms. “It’s alright. Some day you’ll be big enough to climb up there too! You just wait!”

Yuuji doesn’t look like he quite believes him—that, or he simply doesn’t understand. Still, his face relaxes further, cheeks still red and tear-stained. Satoru grins at him, planting a big kiss on his cheek. His skin is hot beneath his lips. “Yikes. It’s about time we got you out of the sun.”

After gathering up all their things, the trio returns to the car. Satoru can practically feel Sukuna’s gaze burning into him the entire time, but he pays the former curse no mind, dedicating his full attention to Yuuji as he buckles the child into his car seat, making funny faces and eliciting shrill shrieks of laughter from him—cheering up his son while avoiding a return to an uncomfortable conversation.

Still, as he climbs into the driver’s seat, he expects Sukuna to say something, to further pin Satoru under the weight of suggestive words, cruelly watching him squirm. But as they head off, car slowly pulling away from the curb and onto the busy street, Sukuna says nothing, finally tearing his gaze away from Satoru to watch the lines of buildings pass beyond the window.

They’re about halfway home when Sukuna does speak, though his words catch Satoru off guard. “Forget about the daycares for now,” he says, gaze still trained out the window. “I’ll watch the brat until we figure something out.”

Satoru’s eyes dart over in surprise, but he quickly masks it with a teasing laugh. “See? I knew Yuuji would grow on you eventually!”

Sukuna doesn’t respond.

And Satoru knows that isn’t the case, knows there must be something else motivating this sudden decision, something beyond the desire to protect and reclaim his cursed energy. But Satoru doesn’t ask. Honestly? He doesn’t want to know.

Chapter Text

Something isn’t right.

That’s the only thought running through Satoru’s mind as he idly sips his heavily sweetened coffee, pale blue eyes tracing the path Sukuna makes as he flits about the kitchen, doing—hell, Satoru doesn’t even know, the former curse’s actions much too fluid and quick for Satoru to make sense of, Six Eyes and all. A part of him is convinced Sukuna isn’t truly doing anything at all, is simply making himself look competent and busy to fool Satoru, to throw him off his trail, disguise whatever plot he’s been hatching over the past two weeks.

For surely Sukuna must be plotting something, must be striving to distract Satoru from his shady dealings with his (admittedly impressive) display of domestic showmanship. That’s the only explanation Satoru can contrive for this sudden and unexpected turn of events. Sukuna is up to something, and though Satoru can’t even begin to determine what that something is, there’s one thing of which he’s certain:

Something isn’t right.

“Keep your eyes to yourself, else I’ll tear them from your skull—all six of them,” Sukuna threatens, pulling Satoru from his thoughts. Sukuna had yet to halt his actions in the kitchen, retrieving something from the fridge, them a few items from the pantry, combining them in a dish using a small appliance Satoru can’t name, let alone recall when they acquired it.

Satoru just laughs at the threat, taking another sip of coffee before replying. “Kinky,” he says, pointedly not removing his gaze from Sukuna. “But I’ll have to pass. Dismemberment doesn’t really do it for me.”

“Shame,” Sukuna replies, setting aside the small appliance—some sort of hand mixer, Satoru assumes, though far different than any he had ever seen. “Your generally unpleasant disposition would be much more palatable as a pile of bloodied—”

“Ah, ah, ah!” Satoru interjects, quickly reaching over to cover Yuuji’s ears. Yuuji—seated in his high chair next to Satoru at the kitchen island—giggles and squirms under Satoru’s hands, spit and oatmeal dribbling down his chin as he continues to eat his breakfast. Glaring at Sukuna, Satoru continues, “Yuuji is right here! Could you please be a little less graphic?”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “You’re the one that brought it up.”

“I seem to recall you threatening me first,” Satoru replies, uncovering Yuuji’s ears. Yuuji laughs, dirty hands coming up to cover his ears again, leaving behind clumps of his breakfast not only in his ears, but in his hair. Oh well. Not Satoru’s problem.

For true to his word, Sukuna has been Yuuji’s primary caregiver for the past two weeks. Wasuke still babysat the toddler when he had the chance, and Satoru made a point to have a day off every week to dedicate purely to Yuuji, but otherwise, the boy was left in Sukuna’s care. And while Satoru had expected the former curse to crumple under the weight of this newfound responsibility, Sukuna had surprised him; not only did Sukuna prove to be a competent caregiver, he actually appeared to thrive at it. He kept up with Yuuji’s busy routine with apparent ease, ensuring the child was happy and healthy, making a point to take him out to a park a few times each week to ensure he was still spending time with other kids. And he did it all without so much as a complaint, playing the role of the parent with near perfection.

Satoru had not expected this, had continued to look into possible daycares and babysitters whenever he had a chance, predicting Sukuna would go back on his decision in a matter of days. But now, two weeks have passed without issue, and while Satoru should be thankful that at least one thing in his life is going right, he can’t help the paranoia that creeps upon his mind. For Sukuna is doing a good job—too good of a job—and Satoru can only think of two explanations for this uncanny behaviour:

One—Sukuna is only pretending to take care of Yuuji, leaving the child is some third party’s care after Satoru has left for a mission, then retrieving the boy before Satoru returns.

Or two—Sukuna is taking care of Yuuji, but is using his above-par parenting skills to get into Satoru’s good graces, using it as some form of distraction to disguise his true motives.

And Satoru can’t decide which possibility is worse.

Either way, Satoru is determined to get to the bottom of it, and fast.

Sukuna shrugs a shoulder, pouring the slightly lumpy mixture he had created into smaller containers. “Agree to disagree.”

Satoru finishes his coffee, rising from his stool to deposit the mug in the sink. “What are you doing?” he asks Sukuna, pausing briefly to watch the former curse’s actions.

“Preparing an organic vegetable puree for the brat’s lunch,” Sukuna replies, finishing tightening the final lid on one of the smaller containers.

Satoru frowns. “What’s wrong with the jars of baby food I bought?”

Food prepared, Sukuna begins tidying up the kitchen. “They’re chock full of preservatives and added sugars.”

“So what?” Satoru crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the edge of the counter. “I happen to love preservatives and added sugars!”

“Precisely my point!” Sukuna declares, pausing his task so he can turn on Satoru with a glare. “I’d rather the brat have a little more respect for his body than you do. He’ll never rise to his true potential if he treats his stomach like a landfill.”

“Hey now,” Satoru cautions, a grin finding its way to his face. “This landfill beat you, y’know.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes, waving a hand dismissively. “A lucky fluke, nothing more.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” And then a new thought occurs to him. “Where did you even learn about organic vegetable purees?”

Sukuna hums, returning to his task, placing the dirtied dishes into the sink. “I happened to pick it up from one of the women at the park. She provided the recipe and even gifted me the immersion blender.”

Well, that explains where the small appliance—the so-called immersion blender—came from. But Satoru…he’s not satisfied with that answer, quite the opposite in fact. “You talk to the other parents at the park?”

“What the hell else am I supposed to do?” Sukuna retorts.

Satoru scoffs. “Gee, I don’t know—maybe play with Yuuji?”

Sukuna abandons his dish washing, whirling on Satoru and jutting an accusing finger at him, soap and water still clinging to his skin. “You’re the one who wanted me to bring the brat to the park,” he points out. “You wanted him there so he could play with the other brats. My involvement entirely defeats that purpose.”

And he’s right; Satoru’s just being petty. Still, Sukuna is getting far too defensive about this, and it only solidifies in Satoru’s mind that there’s more going on here than Sukuna is letting on. But arguing with the former curse now is pointless, would only put him on edge, make Satoru’s plans all the more difficult to accomplish. So he backs down, sighing as he lets his arms fall, hands finding their place in his pockets instead. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m just—surprised, I guess. Never thought you of all people would be out making friends.”

Sukuna’s glare sharpens. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Oops, miscalculated that one. Satoru deftly dodges the question, glancing at his wrist and his nonexistent watch. “Oh, would you look at the time! I gotta go.”

He doesn’t sprint out of the kitchen, but it’s close. Before he leaves, he ducks down to press a quick kiss to Yuuji’s soft hair. “See you tonight, buddy. Be good for mommy today, alright?”

“You six-eyed bastard! Get back here so I can—”

He flees before he can hear the end of Sukuna’s threat.

Satoru climbs into his car, starting the engine and preparing to leave. As far as Sukuna knows, Satoru is heading to Jujutsu Tech for meetings and missions that would take most of the day. What Sukuna doesn’t know is that Satoru had actually taken the day off, had left his schedule open so that nothing could interfere with today’s personal mission:

Spying on Sukuna and Yuuji.

Still, he needs the act to seem believable, so he backs the car out of the drive, heading down the long approach and pulling onto the main road. However, instead of making his way towards the school, he goes the opposite direction, pulling the car around a bend and parking on the shoulder, close enough that he can observe the lane to the house, but far enough away that he can still observe. Sukuna and Yuuji wouldn’t be leaving for the park until mid-morning, so until then, Satoru will just have to wait.

The car arrives to pick Sukuna and Yuuji up right on schedule. Satoru had hired a driver from the school a couple weeks ago to provide transportation to and from the park, had thought it the easiest way to ensure Sukuna was sticking to his word and bringing Yuuji out to be with other kids. Because of this forethought, Satoru is certain Sukuna and Yuuji are heading to the park as planned; however, it’s everything after the initial drop-off that has Satoru worried.

But no longer. Today, Satoru is getting answers.

The car pulls out of the drive, and after a beat, Satoru follows behind at a safe distance, avoiding detection from the car’s occupants. The drive passes without incident, and as the car pulls up at the park to drop Sukuna and Yuuji off, Satoru parks a few blocks away, deciding to approach quietly on foot instead—far easier to disguise his presence that way. He plants himself on a park bench to observe, peers over the top of a newspaper he’d conveniently thought to bring along as he watches Sukuna climb out of the car, the former-curse rounding to the trunk where he retrieves a stroller—one Satoru definitely hadn’t purchased. Another gift from his little mommy friends, perhaps?

Satoru’s fingers tighten, crinkling the edges of the newspaper.

After loading Yuuji into the stroller, Sukuna makes his way towards one of the picnic tables where a group of women is gathered with similar strollers, all clad in what appears to be workout gear—tank tops, leggings, running shorts. They greet Sukuna warmly as he approaches, though Satoru is too far away to hear exactly what they say, and what Sukuna says in return. And when Satoru takes the time to actually look at Sukuna, he realizes the former-curse is similarly dressed in athletic clothes—the loose joggers a familiar sight, a well-worn t-shirt that—

Wait. Is that Satoru’s shirt?

It’s hard to tell from this distance, but he’s almost certain he recognizes the faded logo on the front, the shirt one that Satoru had mostly grown out of last year but never bothered to get rid of. The shirt fits Sukuna far better, though it’s a little tight around his biceps, pulled taut across his chest, accentuating his—

No, bad Satoru. Focus.

A few more women join the group, each pushing a stroller along just as those gathered before. They stand around chatting for a few more minutes, and then the group takes off together, beginning a brisk walk along the path that cuts through the park before eventually breaking into a jog.

No way. No fucking way.

And Satoru must be seeing things, must have somehow accidentally stumbled into a curse’s domain, the scene before him some strange, warped version of reality. For that’s the only explanation he can come up with for the images playing out before him, the only way he can justify the scene as it unfolds.

Satoru blinks a few times. Removes his glasses so he can assess the scene completely unfettered. But there’s no curse activity here, nothing that would warp his perspective. No, the scene before him is real—entirely unbelievable, but real nonetheless. Satoru cannot deny the reality, not when he has witnessed it with his own Six Eyes:

Sukuna joined a mom-and-tots jogging group.

Satoru quickly discards the newspaper in his hands in favour of digging around in his pocket for his phone. He pulls it out, fingers scrambling over one another in his haste to swipe open to his camera app, training the lens on Sukuna and rapidly clicking away to capture images of this monumental moment. And yeah, he probably looks like an absolute creep, photographing a jogging group like this—one comprised almost entirely of young mothers—but he doesn’t care. Part of him is still convinced this is some sort of twisted fever dream. He needs these photos, if only as proof that this is really happening, that his eyes aren’t deceiving him.

The blackmail potential is just a bonus.

Satoru chuckles lightly to himself, scrolling back through the countless pictures he had taken. If only the Jujutsu world could see him now—the former King of Curses, scourge of the earth, now pushing a stroller along on a casual jog around the park, making polite small-talk with a group of young mothers. It’s difficult to believe this man had ever been a threat.

And maybe Satoru’s a fool for it, but he can’t help but think it true: that Ryoumen Sukuna, King of Curses, really had died on that battlefield over a year ago. That the man before him now is entirely someone else.

The group does a few easy laps around the park before returning to the table at which they had initially gathered. They park the strollers, unbuckling the toddlers and letting them loose on the play structure before sitting together at the table, downing bottles of water and sharing snacks as they watch their children play. They make conversation too, laughing and smiling like old friends, and even Sukuna seems to join in, though Satoru doesn’t know what the former curse could possibly have to say to this particular demographic.

And Sukuna sticks out quite comically in the group, and not just because he’s the only male there. His dual-coloured hair and face tattoos are a stark contrast to the black and brown ponytails around him, an anomaly in this group of ordinary women. Yet he seems…well, happy isn’t the right word for it. Satoru doesn’t think Sukuna could be truly happy anywhere but a bloodied battlefield riddled with corpses. No, content is probably a better word for it. Though this definitely isn’t the situation he would’ve chosen for himself, he doesn’t appear particularly put-off, is finding ways to be okay with mundanity.

Sukuna is fine. Yuuji is fine.

Maybe Satoru was worried for nothing.

The morning passes by quickly, nothing untoward nor suspicious occurring at the gathering at the park, and Satoru considers calling it a day. Sukuna and Yuuji were likely heading home soon, the car scheduled to pick them up from the park any minute now. As such, there’s little else for Satoru to observe at this time.

Punctual as ever, the car from the school arrives. As Yuuji totters along the sidewalk, Sukuna collapses the stroller and hands it off to the driver, who loads it into the trunk. He says something to the driver, who seems oddly nervous, face far too pale and hands fidgeting uncomfortably. Still, the driver nods, climbing back into the car before pulling away, leaving Sukuna and Yuuji behind.

And that…that’s not good, is it?

Sukuna hails a cab—when did he even learn how to do that? —and soon he and Yuuji are climbing into a new car, about to take off to who knows where.

Satoru quickly scrambles for his car, warping across the short distance in his haste. He takes off after the cab, swerving recklessly into traffic, ignoring the screeching tires and angry horns that blare in response. He can barely hear them anyway, his pulse pounding in his skull drowning out the sounds around him, his sole focus the receding end of a nondescript taxi, on the fact that something’s not right.

Maybe it’s nothing to be worried about. Maybe Sukuna just wanted to do some sightseeing, or maybe they’re going to visit Wasuke.

But as the taxi takes an exit, rapidly making its way outside of the city, Satoru’s hopes are dashed.

Sukuna, what the hell are you up to?

Satoru follows at an inconspicuous distance, fingers white-knuckle tight around the steering wheel. His body is rigid with tension, so wound-up he fears his muscles may snap. The taxi continues on for a few more minutes until finally it veers off the road, pulling up onto the shoulder at a seemingly random location, so unexpected that Satoru finds himself slamming on the brakes to avoid getting too close. He pulls his car over just as Sukuna climbs out of the taxi, Yuuji in his arms, stopping to say something to the driver before turning and making his way across the ditch and into a heavily wooded area.

Satoru waits for the taxi to depart before setting off after the two. It’s easy enough to track them even through the dense forest, the cursed energy within Yuuji practically a beacon beckoning him onward. He traverses the woods quickly, scales a slight incline with ease, eventually reaching the edge of a small clearing where Yuuji’s energy remains stationary, where the two have come to rest. Satoru pulls his own energy in close, trying to keep himself as hidden as possible as he peers around the thick trunk of a tree, gazing upon the scene before him.

What appears to be a small shrine stands at the far edge of the slight clearing, though it looks as though it hasn’t been properly maintained or used in years. The wood is stripped of paint, some of the panels rotting and fallen from their proper place. The short set of stone stairs leading up to the shrine have largely crumbled away, weeds and wild grasses growing out through the cracks, and the path that once preceded it is all but nonexistent, similarly overgrown with foliage save for the initial clearing, a space that Satoru is certain had been intentionally cut away.

Sukuna stands at the centre of the clearing, Yuuji propped up on his hip. In and of itself, it’s nothing too worrisome—strange, yes, but not life-threatening by any means. But Satoru remains on edge, eyes piercing through the scene as though he could pick it apart, determine just what is going on. He senses it before he sees it.

Someone else is here.

A figure emerges from the shrine—a curse user, perhaps, certainly not a sorcerer Satoru can recognize. They dress in traditional clothing, the dark robes resembling those of a monk’s, hair the colour of fresh snow save for the streak of blood-red across the back of their head. They hold a long red spear in their hands—a cursed tool, Satoru senses—and as they come to a stop in front of Sukuna and Yuuji, they hinge in a deep bow. A subordinate of Sukuna’s, perhaps? Satoru hadn’t been aware any remained, not after the former curse was stripped of his cursed energy. Still, the stranger’s cursed energy is impressive—nothing compared to Satoru’s, of course, but impressive nonetheless. They’d be a formidable enemy to face, likely outclasses many of the sorcerers on the school’s roster currently—

But are they truly an enemy? Satoru has yet to determine it.

As the stranger straightens their posture, they share a few words with Sukuna. From this distance, Satoru can’t make out what is said, but he can’t inch any closer either, not without being noticed. And with this potentially dangerous curse user before him, perhaps he should intervene. That’s what a good sorcerer would do. But if this were truly one of Sukuna’s followers, and if Sukuna were truly allied with Jujutsu society—

Well, Satoru will keep watching for now. At the very least, Yuuji doesn’t appear to be in harm’s way. No, he appears to recognize the white-haired stranger, bounces excitedly in Sukuna’s arms as he reaches towards the stranger, hands making a grabby motion. The stranger doesn’t seem to share the same sentiments towards the toddler, face pinched in a slight frown as they regard Yuuji briefly before turning their attention back to Sukuna, pointedly ignoring the young boy from that point onward. So, whatever businesses the stranger and Sukuna have, it appears Yuuji is not part of it, at least not directly. The thought helps settle Satoru’s nerves slightly, but he remains on his guard.

The stranger and Sukuna share a few more words, then Sukuna turns away, heading towards the crumbling steps of the shrine. He deposits Yuuji there, out of the way, then rejoins the stranger, who passes him the cursed tool. From there, the two put a bit of space between them, standing at opposite ends of the clearing, then dropping into fighting stances. Satoru frowns. What are they—

The curse user attacks first, a streak of ice launching towards Sukuna with lethal speed. Sukuna dodges easily, a near-manic grin stretching his lips as he darts forward, rapidly closing the distance between him and his opponent. The stranger throws up a wall of ice to block his approach, but Sukuna easily slashes through it with the cursed spear, maintaining his momentum the entire way. The battle changes to close combat now, the two trading blows back and forth, evenly matched by all appearances, though Satoru can tell the curse user is holding back. Other than the initial strike, the stranger has largely taken up a defensive position in this fight, putting up icy barriers for Sukuna to smash through, giving the former curse a target for his attacks.

Finally, the pieces fall into place.

They’re training, Satoru realizes, watching as Sukuna fails to evade a sudden attack, too focused on slicing through one of the barriers to notice the slick ice coating the ground below, his feet slipping out from underneath him putting him off balance, the curse user making easy work of knocking him to his back. The battle pauses briefly as the curse user waits for Sukuna to recover, and as the former curse slowly climbs to feet once more, Satoru can hear him shout something about a cheap shot.

The curse user bows their head, mouth moving in perhaps an apology, but if Satoru isn’t mistaken, there’s something almost smug about the smile that barely twitches at the corner of their lips.

The battle resumes, a steady back and forth between opponents, Sukuna attempting to sharpen his skills with the cursed tool against the stranger’s icy attacks. All the while, Yuuji stays sitting on the shrine’s crumbling steps, seemingly content to simply watch the action before him, though he occasionally crawls away to explore the nearby foliage or play with small rocks. And although his focus is largely on the fight, Sukuna must be paying some attention to the child still, always mindful to keep the battle away from the shrine, occasionally shouting at Yuuji when the child wanders too far from safety. In those moments, Yuuji totters back to the steps without complaint, as though he’s used to this routine, as though they’ve done this several times before—

So, Sukuna’s likely been doing this far longer than the past two weeks, had probably brought Yuuji along with him on those rare days he had watched the child before the new arrangement had begun. Sukuna’s been training like this for a long time without Satoru’s knowing, has been bringing Yuuji out here enough that the boy is at least somewhat familiar with his surroundings. And Satoru’s not sure how to feel about it—how he should feel about it.

For what purpose is Sukuna training? To aid Satoru, or to once more oppose him?

It’s impossible to tell, and while Satoru wants to give Sukuna the benefit of the doubt, it’s difficult. For Sukuna has been keeping this a secret from Satoru for a reason, and Satoru fears the reason may be less innocent than he’d like to believe.

But Yuuji is safe, that much Satoru is certain of. Whether this secret plot involves Yuuji or not, it’s clear the child will not come under any harm. And it’s because of that little fact that Satoru finds himself wanting to believe in Sukuna, is willing to wait and hear an explanation from Sukuna himself before casting too harsh a judgment on the former curse.  

And with that thought in mind, Satoru finally departs, making his way back through the woods to his car, deciding to pay a quick visit to a certain driver at the school before making his way home. Tonight, he’ll confront Sukuna about this strange plot. Tonight, he’ll get to the bottom of this mystery.

Satoru has just finished getting Yuuji settled for the night when he finally breaches the subject with Sukuna. He finds Sukuna seated on the sofa, frowning down his nose at the TV remote in his hand, puzzlement clearly painting his features, and he so much resembles an elderly man befuddled by modern technology that Satoru has to stifle a laugh, is almost distracted from his true goal. Almost. But he’ll make fun of Sukuna’s technological illiteracy some other time. Tonight, Satoru has far more important things to do.

Satoru slides himself between Sukuna and the (still powered off) television, sitting on the coffee table so he can face the former curse directly. “So,” he starts off casually, dragging out the vowel sound, “what did you and Yuuji get up to today?”

Sukuna’s gaze briefly flickers up to Satoru, then back down to the remote. “Nothing of note.”

“Is that right?” Satoru hums. “Y’know, you never really tell me what it is that you do with Yuuji all day, other than going to the park.” He huffs a light laugh, shrugging a shoulder. “It almost makes me feel like you’re hiding something from me.”

Sukuna doesn’t spare him a glance this time—purposefully avoiding his gaze, or simply too focused on the remote, Satoru can’t tell. “Well, clearly you’re delusional.”

Satoru sighs. He should have known better than to dance around the topic. “I know about the shrine—about your sparring matches with that weird looking monk.”

It’s minute, but Sukuna tenses. Still, he doesn’t give too much away, eyes lifting once more and raising a questioning eyebrow at the sorcerer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Satoru snaps, snatching the remote from Sukuna’s hand so the other has nothing to distract him. “I followed you today. I saw everything with my own eyes. You can’t lie to me, so don’t even bother. What the hell are you up to?”

Sukuna rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “What I do with my time is none of your concern—”

“It is when Yuuji is involved!” Satoru interrupts, voice a subdued shout. For he’s angry at Sukuna—angry that he’s been keeping secrets from Satoru, angry that he continues to deny it even now—but he can’t express that anger the way he wants to, not with Yuuji sound asleep just down the hall. “Now hurry up and come clean, otherwise I might have to let slip to the higher-ups that you’ve been conspiring with a dangerous curse user!”

Sukuna’s eyes widen. With a scoff, he shakes his head. “You can’t be serious. Are you really resorting to threats now?”

Satoru throws his hands up. “I don’t have a choice! You won’t tell me anything otherwise, so what the hell else am I supposed to do?”

“You could try trusting me,” Sukuna practically spits, red eyes gleaming with some emotion Satoru can’t name, something deeper than just anger, “instead of just assuming all my actions mean harm.”

“Trust you?” And Satoru can’t help but laugh, a sharp bark that echoes too loudly through the space. “Up until last year we were enemies, and now you just expect me to turn around and completely trust you? Even when you keep threatening to steal Yuuji’s cursed energy—”

“My cursed energy,” Sukuna interrupts, “and I already told you I cannot harm the brat in the process of regaining it.”

Satoru shakes his head. “And I’m just supposed to take your word for it? You show nothing but disgust towards Yuuji, you threaten me with physical harm nearly every day and death at least once a week, and you’ve been very clear in your intentions to return to your position as King of Curses as soon as you get your cursed energy back, and yet I’m the crazy one for thinking you might have bad intentions towards us.”

And Sukuna seethes at the accusation. “Six eyes, yet you’re still so fucking blind!” he shouts, looking mere seconds away from leaping from the sofa and throttling Satoru. Still, he keeps his anger under control, digs his too-sharp nails into the seat cushion rather than into Satoru’s flesh like he’d probably prefer. “I’ve helped watch the brat for months now! I’ve protected him from harm, made sure he’s happy and healthy, been there for him more than you ever have! Yet you still can’t find it in you to trust me.”

And he’s not wrong, not by a long shot. Sukuna’s words often bely his behaviours, making it difficult to discern exactly what is going on within the former curse’s mind, difficult to decide which part Satoru should believe. And even if he wants to trust those actions more than those words, Satoru knows better than anyone that actions and intentions don’t always align. So Satoru just scoffs, leaning back on his hands as he deftly shifts the subject. “So what? It’s not like you trust me.”

For a moment, Sukuna’s eyes widen—realization, like something missing had finally clicked into place. And with it, his anger all but disappears. Without it, Sukuna just looks tired. “So, you’re blind and an idiot,” he mutters, tension leaving his muscles as he slouches back against the sofa. “I’ve trusted you this entire time. I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t. And for a while there, I thought you might actually feel the same, though clearly I was foolish to believe that. You don’t trust anyone, do you? Not even yourself.”

“I—” And Satoru doesn’t know what to say. That…that can’t be right. No, it just can’t be. For he and Sukuna…whatever feeble excuse for trust that existed between them was purely situational, was offered simply because there was no other choice. Sukuna had to trust him in the beginning, for the only other option was death. Without that threat lingering, that trust was no longer necessary. Right?  

Right. Sukuna doesn’t trust him, not really. This is all part of his plot, a way to make Satoru feel guilty, to lure him into a false sense of security all so he can betray him, all so he can throw that supposed trust back in his face. Yeah, that has to be it.

But what if he’s not lying? What if he really does trust me?

Would it really change anything? Could Satoru really believe that Sukuna’s actions are entirely innocent—or at least, not outright malicious? But if Sukuna isn’t plotting against Satoru, then why keep it a secret at all?

What am I missing here?

Satoru bites back a frustrated groan. Maybe Sukuna is right about one thing: Satoru really can’t trust himself. If he could, he wouldn’t be having these doubts. But he can’t agree with Sukuna—on pride, on principle, or simply on pure stubbornness. So he shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“Then prove it to me. Trust me.” It’s a clear challenge, one that Satoru isn’t sure he can rise to. Still, Sukuna waits, surprisingly patient now, as though he hadn’t been ready to tear out Satoru’s throat only moments prior.

And when Satoru fails to respond, the former curse just sighs. “A while back, you told me that I should do what’s best for me, and that you’d do what’s best for you and the brat. Is it really so hard to believe those fates are one in the same?”

And it is. For not so long ago, those so-called fates were diametrically opposed. How then could they align now?

Fate has never been kind to Satoru, has never bent to Satoru’s will. Why would he expect different of it now?

He avoids the question. “Look,” he says, running a hand through his pale hair, “I want to trust you. Just…don’t give me reason not to.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “I don’t have to. You give yourself all the reasons you need.”

“Sukuna—”

“No,” Sukuna interrupts, leaning forward to snatch the remote from Satoru’s hand. “We’re done talking. Leave me to enjoy my night in peace.”

And Satoru could stay and argue—could try and wrestle the truth from Sukuna as he’d originally planned. But with Sukuna’s attention firmly fixed on the remote once more, on whatever the hell he’s trying to accomplish, Satoru knows any further attempts will only be met with failure. No, if he pushes too hard now, with Sukuna as defensive and volatile as he is, he’ll only risk making things worse.

He'll find out the truth eventually. Just…not tonight. Not from Sukuna.

Already, a new plan forms in his mind. Satoru grins to himself, rising from the coffee table and making his way across the living room.

“Actually, before you go,” Sukuna says, halting Satoru’s actions. “You said you followed me today. Does that mean—”

“Oh yeah, I saw everything,” Satoru confirms with a laugh, glancing back at Sukuna over his shoulder. “That little mommy group of yours is pretty cute. I was sure to take lots of pictures, sent them out to everyone I know so they could see what a wonderful mother you are—”

“Satoru Gojo you six-eyed bastard! You’re a fucking dead man!”

Chapter Text

It’s just past midnight when Satoru departs, shadows clinging to his skin as he silently slips out the backdoor, making his way out into the cool night air. He had taken extra care to ensure the home’s other occupants were fast asleep before venturing out, had paused outside of rooms and listened to the soft snores coming from both toddler and former curse—surprisingly adorable, and maybe Satoru would have to tease Sukuna about it later.

That is, if all goes well tonight.

Outside, Satoru checks the house once more for any signs of wakefulness, for a bedroom light, a shifting silhouette. Finding nothing of note, he turns his attention back to the task at hand, gathers his cursed energy and prepares for his mission.

It’s easy enough to warp himself to the old shrine, the distance remarkably close to the house, and not for the first time does Satoru wonder how he’d never noticed it before, how he’d been kept so in the dark about Sukuna’s apparently frequent journeys out to this neck of the woods. He doesn’t bother to sneak around this time, lets his energy announce his presence as he sets foot within the small clearing. Around him, the clearing is bathed in pale moonlight, illuminating overgrown foliage in spots of light, in dappled shadows. Save for insects buzzing in the grasses, the wind fluttering through the leaves, all is silent, and if Satoru didn’t know any better, he’d say the shrine was empty, the area completely abandoned.

But he can sense them, that foreign cursed energy, the stranger with whom Sukuna had previously met. And, if he had to bet, he’d say the stranger has likely sensed him too.

Hands tucked casually into his pockets, Satoru approaches the shrine, the place where the cursed energy is coming from. He slides open the brittle shoji, takes a step inside—

The shard of ice stops right before his eyes, trapped in the Infinity that wraps around his body like a second skin. The monk, still poised for attack, regards him with wide eyes, likely not having known the extent of Satoru’s abilities—if they did indeed know anything about him at all. Satoru grins widely, casually knocking aside the shard as he steps further into the shrine. “Now, now,” he chides playfully, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Is that any way to treat a guest?”

The monk regains their composure quickly, though their eyes narrow in annoyance. “I do not recall inviting you,” they practically spit, folding their arms, hands tucked into the long sleeves of their robes. “Hurry up and state your business, sorcerer. If it is not worth my time, I will not hesitate to remove you from this shrine.”

Satoru just laughs. “As if you could.”

The monk’s eyes narrow further, body tensing. And for a moment, Satoru entertains the idea of provoking the stranger, of driving them to attack once more. It’s been too long since last he battled a worthwhile opponent, and based on the cursed energy he senses coming from the monk, a fight with them could potentially prove entertaining.

But he shelves the thoughts for now. If he is to be successful in his mission tonight, he needs to cooperate, needs to remain at least somewhat on this stranger’s good side.

Before the curse user can respond, Satoru continues. “Anyways, I need to ask you a few questions—”

“Why would I bother cooperating with scum like you?” the stranger interrupts, and despite the insult in their words, their tone comes across more bored than scathing.

Satoru huffs a laugh. “Well, it would save us both a lot of trouble. Now, answer me truthfully, or else I’ll have to drag the truth out of you myself. And don’t think you’d be able to defy me—” he tacks on before the curse user has a chance to do just that. “I took down the King of Curses, after all. Compared to him, you’re barely a pebble in my path. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

Well, maybe staying on their good side was too tall an order for Satoru Gojo.

Still, the stranger doesn’t respond to the obvious insult. Their features settle into something impassive, though there’s a marked tension in their form, a stiffness in their posture that cannot be hidden even by the large robes draping their form. “Ask your questions,” the curse user responds after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll decide whether they warrant my honesty.”

And that’s good enough for Satoru. The sorcerer plants his hands on his hips, deciding to get the easy question out of the way. “First off, just who exactly are you?”

“My name is Uraume,” the curse user—Uraume—replies, “a loyal servant of Lord Sukuna.”

Satoru nods. “Uh huh, kinda figured as much. Then my second question is, what is it that you and Sukuna are plotting?”

Uraume pauses before answering this time—trying to come up with a lie? “I don’t know to what you’re referring.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Satoru chides, eyes narrowing behind the lenses of his shades. “I know you and Sukuna have been training together, and I want to know why.”

Uraume scoffs, rolling their eyes. “Shouldn’t that be obvious? For what purpose does anyone train?” And Satoru isn’t sure if the question is meant to be rhetorical. Still, when he doesn’t respond right away, Uraume continues. “Lord Sukuna has been working to regain the strength you stole from him.”

“But why?” Satoru presses, for surely there’s more to it than that. “Why does he need to get stronger? What are you two plotting?”

“There is no plot—”

“I don’t believe that, not even for a second.” Satoru shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “No, there’s gotta be a reason for it. He wouldn’t be getting stronger just for the sake of getting stronger. There has to be more to it than that. He’s still trying to steal back his cursed energy, isn’t he?”

Uraume studies him a moment, gaze piercing and unreadable. Satoru meets it steadily, bracing himself for an answer—for a truth he isn’t sure he’s prepared to hear. For he has to be right about this. All that talk of trust before had been nothing more than a ruse, an attempt at manipulating Satoru into complacency all so Sukuna could drive a knife in his back when he least expected it. It just has to be.

So caught up in his thoughts, Satoru almost misses when Uraume finally responds. “You are so unfathomably foolish,” they mutter, shaking their head. “How you were ever able to get the best of Lord Sukuna is truly beyond my comprehension.”

“Hey—”

“Fine, if I must spell it out for you, then I will.” Uraume slips their hands from their sleeves, crossing their arms over their chest, and though their face remains expressionless, Satoru can’t help but think they almost look like they’re pouting. “Lord Sukuna is training not to regain his cursed energy, but to protect it.”

“I—” And of all the things Satoru had expected, that wasn’t one of them. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” Uraume replies with a scoff. “After his battle with you, when he had finally recovered and resurfaced, he and I worked to devise ways to reclaim his cursed energy. However, our search proved fruitless. We determined it’s likely impossible for him to reclaim his energy from the child. For a while after that, I did not hear from Lord Sukuna. But then, something changed.” Uraume pauses their recollection for a moment, taking a deep breath before continuing. “He did not divulge a reason, but soon he enlisted my aid in training, as well as in finding cursed tools that would serve as a satisfactory replacement for his absent cursed energy. He also ordered me to monitor rumours in the underworld that pertained to his cursed energy and the child who housed it. If ever he determined someone posed a threat to the child’s safety, he or myself would take care of it.”

Satoru’s mind races to catch up, to process what Uraume has just revealed. “He’s training…to protect Yuuji. But if he can’t get his cursed energy back, then why…? Why would he do that?”

“That I cannot tell you,” Uraume replies, gaze dropping to the weathered floor at their feet. “It is not my place to question his orders, just follow them.”

But there’s a certain edge to their tone—something disproving. They may not understand Sukuna’s actions, may not question them directly, but they clearly do not agree with them.

And it raises another question in Satoru’s mind, something he hadn’t taken a moment to consider before. “You still follow him. You’re far stronger than he is now, yet you still choose to serve him. Why?”

“Not all loyalty is based purely on strength, though I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.” But before Satoru can question just what they mean by that, Uraume turns their back to him, hands slipping inside their sleeves once more. “I’ve answered your questions. If that’s all, then I’ll demand once more that you leave and do not return.”

It’s not all, not by a long shot. Satoru had come seeking answers, but finds himself with only more questions, more doubts. Could Uraume really be telling the truth? They didn’t appear to be lying, appeared much to resigned—much too displeased—to be covering for Sukuna. But if they really were telling the truth, if Sukuna really were acting out of a desire to protect Yuuji—

No, that doesn’t make sense. Sukuna wouldn’t do that.

Would he?

But why?

Still, whatever the former curse’s motivations, it’s clear Satoru will not be gaining any further insight Uraume—not when they’ve so certainly dismissed him, not when they seem as equally confused by Sukuna’s actions as Satoru is.  

So Satoru relents for now. “Right,” he says with a nod, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for the help, Uraume.”

“Do not waste your thanks on me,” they respond, back still to Satoru, annoyance evident in their tone. “Just go.”

Mind still reeling, Satoru leaves without another word.

The next morning, as Satoru takes his usual seat at the kitchen island, again watching Sukuna fly through his developing morning routine, the sorcerer finds himself no closer to answers than when he began. He’s trying to protect Yuuji, Satoru recalls, eyes following Sukuna as the former curse places a dish of something pale and lumpy in front of Yuuji, the young boy seated in his high chair. Sukuna’s lips are moving, but the words never reach Satoru’s ears, not through the storm of thoughts still raging in his mind. He’s been training so he can protect Yuuji. But why? Is that really all there is to it?

A mug of coffee appears in front of Satoru—fresh, the contents still steaming. Satoru accepts it mechanically, thoughts still a mess as he reflexively lifts the mug to his lips, taking his first sip—

—and promptly spitting it out again, his tongue met with a sharp bitter-sourness that assaults his senses, jolting him into the present moment. “What the fuck?” Satoru practically hisses, choking on the words as he fights the urge to physically scrape the offending taste from his tongue.

“Are you finally paying attention?” Sukuna asks, an amused smirk painting his features as he leans against the island, watching the scene unfold—the one he undoubtedly created.

Satoru pushes the mug away, glaring at the former curse before him. “You don’t have to try and poison me to get my attention! What the hell did you even put in there?”

“The spoiled milk you were supposed to dispose of. And a little salt—well, perhaps a lot of salt is more accurate,” Sukuna reveals with a shrug. “And I already tried getting your attention every other way. It’s your fault I had to resort to such drastic measures.”

Satoru scoffs, rising from his stool and rounding the island to the sink, pouring the disgusting liquid down the drain. Sure enough, there’s a thick layer of salt still clinging to the mug’s bottom, oversaturation preventing its full dissolution. “Oh please. I wasn’t that distracted. If you were really trying to get my attention, I would’ve noticed.”

“I’ve been speaking to you for the past ten minutes,” Sukuna responds. “Tell me, what do you recall of that conversation?”

Satoru rinses his mug, filling it with fresh, uncontaminated coffee. “…okay, may I was that distracted. But you didn’t have to try killing me.”

Sukuna hums. “Agree to disagree.”

After fixing his coffee the proper way, Satoru returns to his seat. He takes a sip, sighing as the sweetness soothes his ailing senses. “Well, you’ve got my attention now. What were you saying?”

“I’ll be dropping the brat off at Itadori’s tonight,” Sukuna says, back to Satoru he goes about preparing a mug for himself. “I have business to attend to, and I figured it’d be easier leaving him with the old man than changing both of our schedules.”

Satoru raises a brow. “Business, huh? And I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me what that business is?”

“Why should I bother?” Sukuna returns to the island, leaning his forearms against it and rolling his eyes at Satoru. “If you’re really so concerned, you can always just stalk me again.”

“I was doing reconnaissance, not stalking you,” Satoru defends. “And as long as Yuuji is safe, I don’t really have a reason to do any further investigation.”

Sukuna hums, taking a long sip of his coffee. “That’s certainly not what it sounded like last night,” he points out. “Why the sudden change?”

“Nuh uh,” Satoru chides, waggling a finger at the former curse. “If you get to keep secrets, then so do I.”

Sukuna opens his mouth to reply, a snarky retort undoubtedly on the tip of his tongue, but a hollow clattering sound cuts him off, followed by a childish, “Uh oh!”

Satoru turns toward the sound, a grin breaking out on his face at the scene before him. Somehow, Yuuji has managed get the contents of his breakfast everywhere—his hair, his face, his body, the tray of his high chair—while the plastic bowl rolls away along the floor, leaving a further trail of mess in its wake. “Aw, did you make a mess?”

“Look!” Yuuji points at himself, giggling. “Mess!”

Sukuna, ever the spoil sport, is the only one not laughing. “Disgusting brat,” he scolds, rounding the island so he can check the damage. “Food is meant to go in your mouth, yet you’ve managed to get it everywhere but.”

But the displeasure in his voice must not register in Yuuji’s mind, for the boy just laughs again, wiggling in his chair and flailing his arms around in delight, the bits of food once clinging to his skin now soaring through the air.

Sukuna reacts quickly, taking the boy by the arms to halt his movements—the action firm, yet gentle enough to not hurt Yuuji, by the looks of it. “No, don’t wave your arms like that! You’re getting oatmeal everywhere.” He turns to Satoru then, face creased in a frown. “Six-eyes, make yourself useful and grab a cloth.”

Satoru sighs. “Ah, you see, I’d love to, but I’ve actually gotta get going. Busy day today, wouldn’t want to be late!” He climbs out of his chair, reaching past Sukuna to ruffle his son’s hair, barely concealing a grimace when his hand comes back coated in sticky oatmeal. “See ya, Yuuji. Be a good boy today, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Yuuji grins, eyes shining as he wiggles free from Sukuna’s hold, waving at Satoru. “Bye-bye!”

Sukuna refastens his hold, groaning. “Brat. What did I just say?”

The day’s missions are a breeze—lately, they always are. With Satoru’s cursed technique as near-perfect as it is, the curses he faces can do nothing but cower in the face of his unfathomable power, are helpless to all but be crushed beneath it. But despite the ease at which he completes his missions, despite the hordes of opponents he defeats, it never seems like enough. Where one curse falls, two more take its place, regardless of his continued efforts to defy that natural order, to flip the universe on its axis, never able to breach that impossible distance towards a curse-less world.

A yawn stretches Satoru’s jaw as he sits through another debriefing. There’s really no point to his being here; the mission had been straight forward, the curses killed without issue. And yet, the higher-ups seemed determined to pick apart each and every of Satoru’s actions, still seeking fault where it cannot be found. It’s always the same story, the same song and dance that Satoru has long since grown tired of, and not for the first time does he let his mind wander to that pipe dream, that complete restructuring of Jujutsu society. His fingers itch to destroy, to tear down the archaic hierarchy, to completely reform the world around him.

But how?

No matter how tempting, he can’t just kill the higher-ups. Certainly, the act would be gratifying, would bring Satoru nothing but pleasure to tear through their flesh, to see them tremble in fear of his godlike powers, helpless but to crumble under his foot like the insects they are. But that pleasure would only be temporary, a moment of bliss before more foolish old men took the places of the former, the cycle forever doomed to repeat.

The curses never change—the higher-ups, too.

(But, then again—)

As one of the leaders drones on, Satoru’s mind continues to wander. By now, Sukuna’s likely dropped Yuuji off with Wasuke, has likely set off on whatever business he claimed to have. While it hadn’t been unusual in the beginning for Sukuna to disappear for days on end, it's far rarer now for the former curse to be away for long. And Satoru’s not exactly certain when Sukuna’s presence became such a sure thing, when he became someone Satoru can rely on.

But something had changed. Uraume had said much the same thing.

But still.

He wants to trust the former curse’s recent actions, wants to believe Uraume’s words, and yet…

The Shibuya sidewalks are busy this time of day, but despite the crowd around him, Satoru only has eyes for one man, can hear nothing above the clamour of his pulse in his ears, above the voice in his mind screaming—begging—don’t do this to me, don’t go—

No, that won’t happen again. Satoru will make sure of it.

Somehow.

It’s late when Satoru finally returns that night, greeted by nothing more than an empty house. He helps himself to a quick meal, eats in front of the TV so he can watch reruns of his favourite show, but even that does little to appease him. And he can’t explain why he’s so nervous, why he can’t simply bask in the peace of a quiet home. He’s certain that Yuuji is safe and sound with Wasuke, but still he can’t shake the nagging discomfort that clings to his mind, no matter how hard he tries.

The hours tick by, and still there’s no sign of Sukuna. But that’s fine, right? Sukuna’s a grown man; he can take care of himself just fine. So Satoru isn’t worried about him, of course he’s not. No, there must be another reason for his unease, one that actually makes sense. Perhaps it’s still that nagging paranoia, that fear of whatever diabolical scheme Sukuna must surely be plotting. For while Uraume had claimed Sukuna was acting only to protect Yuuji and the cursed energy within him, surely there must be more to the story. For Sukuna is selfish by nature, acts only out of his own interests without a care for anyone else. If he were indeed trying to protect Yuuji, it must be for self-gain. He wouldn’t do it for Yuuji’s sake—for Satoru’s sake—not unless…

Something changed, Uraume had said, though they couldn’t provide a reason. And maybe if Satoru knew what had changed, what had caused such change, he wouldn’t be having these doubts. For he wants to believe everything is okay, wants to trust Sukuna—

Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he just wants this waiting game to be over, to get the inevitable betrayal out of the way now while he still expects it, before it has a chance to really hurt—

The door clicks open, rousing Satoru from his thoughts. Sukuna steps through the doorway, shoulders hunched and movements slow as he closes the door behind him, face creased with exhaustion. He doesn’t acknowledge Satoru—doesn’t seem to have noticed him—as he me makes his way past the living room with lethargic steps.

So, still sprawled on the couch, Satoru tips his head back to look at Sukuna. “Welcome back.”

Sukuna pauses. Slowly, he turns towards Satoru, expression unreadable. “You’re still up?”

Satoru swings his legs around, twisting so he can push himself up from the couch. “Yeah. Guess I lost track of the time.”

Sukuna hums, but says nothing more. Movements still sluggish, he turns away, continuing on his original path towards the hallway. But the more Satoru studies his movements, the more he realizes it isn’t just exhaustion weighing down his limbs. Tucking his hands into the pockets of his sweats, Satoru approaches. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Sukuna grits out, pausing at the edge of hallway. He leans heavily against the wall, takes a deep breath that he must regret, a wince twisting his features.

“Uh huh.” Satoru reaches his side easily, and from this close, it’s much easier to sense the foreign cursed energy that still clings to his skin, to notice his state of disarray—the dishevelment of his hair, the tears in his sweater, the patches where the fabric is stained a slightly darker shade. And when Sukuna takes another step forward, body swaying, Satoru reaches out to steady him. “Whoa, easy there. C’mon, let’s get this taken care of.”

“I don’t need your help.” Yet he still slumps against Satoru’s arm, doesn’t resist when the sorcerer gently guides him to the bathroom.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Satoru flips on the light, gesturing with his head towards the tub. “Sit. And take your shirt off.”

Sukuna chuckles lightly, doing as he’s told. “My, my. How forward of you.”

Satoru can’t help the smile that paints his lips, reaching into the cabinet to retrieve the first aid kit. “If you’re still cracking jokes, guess it can’t be that bad.”

And when Satoru turns back to him, the former curse seated on the edge of the tub, sweater discarded on the floor, it’s much easier to see the extent of the damage, the dark bruises already mottling the skin around his ribs, the gash across his bicep, skin around it stained with drying blood. Satoru crouches before him, rifling through the first aid kit to retrieve the antiseptic wipes. “What happened?”

And Satoru doesn’t expect an answer—not a real one, at least—so it’s a surprise when Sukuna does respond, gaze resolutely fixed on the wall beyond as he speaks. “Was dealing with a group of low-levels—hardly a challenge, mind you—but one managed to get the drop on me. Obviously, I made him pay dearly for that transgression.”

“Obviously,” Satoru echoes with a laugh, gently cleaning the skin around the wound. Thankfully, the bleeding has stopped by now, and retrieving a fresh wipe, Satoru begins cleaning the wound itself. Sukuna hisses slightly at the action, the wound likely stinging as the antiseptic makes contact. Satoru disguises his laugh with a cough before continuing. “These low-levels, they were targeting Yuuji, weren’t they? I spoke with Uraume—” he adds before Sukuna can try to deny it. “They told me about the training, how you’ve been trying to protect Yuuji.”

Briefly, Sukuna’s body tenses. “You spoke with Uraume. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” He breathes out a long side, shoulders slumping. “Yes, I’ve been working to rectify my lack of cursed energy. With so many threats arising against the brat as of late, it’d be foolish of me not to.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Sukuna echoes, frowning as he turns his head to regard Satoru. “Why what?”

Satoru doesn’t respond immediately. He inspects the gash, determines that it’s really not that bad, would be fine with a simple bandage. He grabs a bandage from the kit, considering his next words carefully. “Why are you protecting Yuuji? Before, you were only concerned with getting your cursed energy back, but Uraume said it’s likely impossible. And yet, even knowing that, you’re still choosing to protect Yuuji.” Satoru finishes bandaging the wound, then turns his gaze on Sukuna. “Why? What changed?”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, averting his gaze. “Does it matter?”

Yes, Satoru wants to say, it does. But Sukuna doesn’t give him a chance to answer, pushing himself up from the tub with a sigh. “I’m heading to bed,” he says, stepping around Satoru’s crouched form. “I still need to be up early to retrieve the brat—”

“Sleep in tomorrow,” Satoru interrupts, halting his movements with a hand on his wrist. “I’ll take the day off to watch Yuuji. You should rest.”

Sukuna's gaze snaps down to the hand around his wrist, then to Satoru's face—studies him, searches his features for something, some ulterior motive, some hidden meaning. And Satoru’s not sure what he finds there—honestly, he doesn’t think he wants to know. A pulse races below his fingertips, still wrapped around Sukuna’s wrist, though whether it belongs to the former curse or Satoru himself, he can’t begin to tell. So he squeezes that wrist a little tighter, as though it would do anything to help figure it out.

The action must pull Sukuna from his thoughts. Expression unreadable, the former curse nods, a wordless acceptance of Satoru’s offer, and satisfied with his answer, Satoru finally releases his grip, watches Sukuna’s back as he finally retreats.

Alone again, Satoru can’t help the small smile that creeps upon his lips, the small spark of hope that ignites in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he can trust Sukuna. Maybe this time, it doesn’t have to end in hurt.

Chapter Text

“I’m telling you, Sho, the guy makes no sense!”

Satoru makes the declaration while swirling the ice in his drink, frown hidden behind his shades and a downward quirk to his lips. It’s a relatively calm afternoon, his missions for the day having easily been completed during the morning, and with this unusual free-time, Satoru had decided he and Shoko were well over-do for a catch-up. They had decided to meet up at a small coffee shop near the campus where Shoko is pursuing her medical degree—mostly so Shoko could multitask this meet-up with additional study time. As such, Shoko only appears to be partially paying attention to him as he recounts the events of the past few months—of Sukuna’s seemingly out-of-character behaviour, of Satoru’s doubts on the matter. The table is cluttered with textbooks, and her gaze quickly skims the lines of text and graphic diagrams as he speaks. Still, she gives an acknowledging hum, idly tapping her highlighter against the page. It’s good enough for Satoru, so he continues.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just overthinking everything. Between the higher-ups’ annoying obsession with me and their unrealistic expectations for Yuuji, I just—” He groans, running a hand through his hair. “There’s a lot at stake here, y’know?”

No response from Shoko. She scribbles something down in her notebook, a deep frown on her face. But that’s fine—Satoru’s got more to say, anyway.

Satoru resumes stirring his iced coffee with his straw. “If I could trust Sukuna, it’d be a load off my shoulders. But he’s Sukuna. A year and a half ago, he was public enemy number one. And sure, he’s playing nice for now, but there’s no guarantee that’ll last. I mean, no one can change that quickly, right?” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

Shoko’s eyes lazily lift from her textbooks. “You won’t like what I have to say.”

Satoru grins, challenging. “Try me.”

Shoko pauses before speaking, considering her words. “I think your fears are grounded, but not for the reasons you’ve given,” she decides eventually, reaching for her coffee. “In fact, I’d say Sukuna himself has little do with them.”

Satoru tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Shoko rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.” But then her gaze is back on her books, though it’s clear she’s not reading them, just pretending. “None of us were expecting Suguru to turn like that. It’s hard to accept that someone like him could.” She shakes her head, returning her gaze to Satoru, and for the first time, Satoru realizes just how tired she looks—the dark circles under her eyes, the pallid tone to her skin. “You were the closest to him at the time. Obviously, his betrayal struck you the most. It’s not surprising you’d have such a difficult time trusting someone else now.”

Satoru scoffs. “That’s not what this is about,” he argues, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I still trust Suguru. I might not completely understand him, and I might not agree with his methods, but I know his intentions are good. They have to be.”

“Why?”

“Because—because—” Satoru cuts himself off with a huff, struggling to find the right words. “I know him, okay? And like I said, people don’t change that quickly.”

“And what if they do?” Shoko asks, idly twirling her highlighter between her fingertips. “What if both Suguru and Sukuna really have changed?”

“No, there’s no way—there’s no proof—”

“There’s nothing but proof,” she interjects. “You just don’t want to see it.”

And Satoru wants to argue with her, wants her to be wrong. But…maybe she has a point. It’s not like Satoru hasn’t considered his own biases before.

Regarding Sukuna, that is. Satoru’s right about Suguru. There’s no way he couldn’t be.

“Want my advice?” Shoko asks when Satoru’s been silent too long. Without waiting for his assent, she continues, “Forget about who Sukuna was. Try seeing him for who he is now. You might be surprised with what you find.”

Satoru sighs. Easier said than done. “I’ll try.”

Shoko nods, a slight smile on her face now as she turns her attention back to her books. “While you’re at it,” she adds after a moment, “try clearing up some of that sexual tension with him too. Might help you think straight—for lack of a better term—if you just fucked and got it out of your system—”

Satoru nearly chokes on his drink. Sputtering, he holds up his hands in defense. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up! There’s no—I’m not—”

“Mmhmm.” Shoko’s grin widens, a spark of humour glimmering in her dark eyes. “That scene at the Christmas party begs to differ.”

“That was an act!”

“You’re not that good of an actor, Satoru.”

Satoru crosses his arms, a pout on his lips. “Yes, I am! I’m good at everything!”

“Uh huh.” Shoko waves a dismissive hand. “Mind being delusional somewhere else? I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Satoru checks the time on his phone. By now, Yuuji and Sukuna should be home. “It’s about time I headed out anyway,” he decides, finishing the rest of his drink as he rises from the table. "And I’m not delusional! If anything, you’re the delusional one!”

And as he turns to make his dramatic exit, Shoko just laughs. “Whatever you say, Satoru,” she calls after him. “Make sure you invite me to the wedding.”

Satoru flips her off.

The long drive home helps Satoru settle himself, helps him process his conversation with Shoko. While he’s still not willing to accept that Suguru might have changed—that he’s no longer the man Satoru used to know, his best friend, his only love—perhaps he can offer Sukuna the benefit of the doubt. For the situations with Suguru and Sukuna are vastly different by nature: Suguru lost faith in a system Satoru already knows to be flawed, had determined to take matters into his own hands for sake of his fellow sorcerers; while Sukuna had been stripped of his cursed energy, forced to part with a life of villainy, a violent scourge against Jujutsu society finally defeated. Regardless of what the higher-ups say, Suguru has never been an enemy, unlike Sukuna. So unlike Sukuna, Suguru has no reason to change.

Simple, right?

And so, Satoru decides, he’ll try taking Shoko’s advice—some of it, at least. For he’s not attracted to Sukuna, no way. That scene at the Christmas party had been a fluke, the product of too much stress, too much alcohol, and too long without affection. There’s no need to read any further into the matter than that.

But then again, if Satoru were—hypothetically speaking, of course—attracted to Sukuna in some regard, it would help explain a lot. The strange feeling he’d gotten when he saw that woman flirting with Sukuna at the park, the way he can’t help but stare when Sukuna wears anything that isn’t an overly baggy sweat suit, how his chest warms when he watches Sukuna care for Yuuji, when Sukuna extends that same care to him through subtle acts of service, how his eyes always seem to trace the stark black tattoo-like lines that paint Sukuna’s body, wondering just how far they go, how much they cover—

But no, Satoru isn’t attracted to Sukuna. He just isn’t.

Satoru arrives home, stepping through the front door with a flourish, loudly announcing his presence. “I’m home!”

Yuuji is the only one to greet him. “Dada! Dada!” he cheers, pushing himself up from the floor where he had been playing with his toys, racing across the floor towards Satoru.

Satoru crouches, opening his arms to the small boy. When Yuuji’s close enough, he practically leaps the rest of the way into Satoru’s arms, and Satoru catches him easily, swinging the young boy up into the air, Yuuji’s laughter ringing out through the room. Settling Yuuji on his hip, Satoru grins down at him. “Hey buddy, how was your day?”

Yuuji’s grin falters. His lip trembles slightly, and he wiggles in Satoru’s hold, maneuvering himself so he can point at his knee—at the plain bandage stuck there. “Dada, ouch.”

“Aww, did you get hurt?” Satoru asks, cradling Yuuji just a little tighter against him. “What happened?”

It’s Sukuna who answers. He’s seated on the couch, eyes transfixed on the TV screen before him, though from this angle, Satoru can’t tell what it is that’s got him so enthralled. “The brat tripped while playing at the park,” the former curse says, eyes never once straying from the screen. “He scraped his knee. Hardly worth the fuss.”

Yuuji clearly seems to think otherwise. His bottom lip trembles, honey-brown eyes gazing miserably at Satoru as he points to his injured knee once more. “Ouch.”

“It’s okay, Yuuji,” Satoru soothes. “Here, Daddy will kiss it better.” He maneuvers the boy in his hold, cradling him so that Satoru can lean down and press a kiss to his bandaged knee—once, twice, then a few more times when Yuuji begins to squirm, giggling with delight. Satoru grins at him. “See? All better now!”

Yuuji claps his hands, all hint of misery gone from his features now. “All better!” he echoes, giggling.

Satoru returns Yuuji to the floor, the small boy scampering off to resume playing with his toys. And Satoru decides to join him—in a moment, at least. First, he wants to check out what’s managed to capture Sukuna’s attention.

Satoru sits on the arm of the couch, arms crossed over his chest as he takes in the screen. It appears to be some sort of reality show—a dating show, if he’s not mistaken, one where a group of men competes to earn a woman’s affections. Of all the shows he had expected, this was not one of them. “Huh, didn’t take you for a reality TV kind of guy.”

“I’m not,” Sukuna retorts, tearing his gaze away from the screen only long enough to fix Satoru with a sharp glare, turning his attention back to the show immediately after. “The women have been pestering me all week to watch it. It’s practically all they talk about nowadays. I simply wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

“And?”

Sukuna scoffs. “It’s completely ridiculous and contrived. I cannot fathom how such shows gain so much popularity.”

Satoru hums. “Yet you’re still watching it.”

“I can’t stop,” Sukuna admits, slumping back against the cushions. “This show is maddening and repulsive, and I don’t even think I’m enjoying myself, yet I can’t bring myself to look away.” Still, contrary to his words, he does look away, fixing Satoru with wide eyes that almost appear distressed. “Surely there must be some sort of sorcery involved in the creation of this show.”

“Nope,” Satoru replies with a laugh, clapping Sukuna on the shoulder. “That’s just the mundane magic of reality TV.”

Sukuna’s gaze is back on the TV even as he brushes Satoru’s hand away. “Ridiculous. Now cease your racket. I’m trying to focus.”

And that focus carries on throughout the evening. Although Sukuna does part from the TV long enough to share a meal with Satoru and Yuuji, he rarely leaves the sofa except for when he has to. It’s absolutely hilarious, and of course Satoru sneaks a few pics, his camera roll rapidly becoming nothing more than a collection of Yuuji and Sukuna, but that’s probably fine, right? It’s all potential blackmail material, after all. Nothing more, nothing less.

After putting Yuuji to bed, Satoru sets to work tidying the kitchen. Usually, Sukuna helps with this task—though his version of help largely consists of ridiculing Satoru for doing something wrong—but with the former curse’s attention still occupied, the task is left solely to Satoru.

That’s fine. As boring as it is, it’s also far more relaxing this way.

But that relaxation doesn’t last long—thank God. The sound of something clattering to the floor echoes through the relatively quiet house, followed by an indignant, “No!”

Tossing the damp dishtowel onto the counter, Satoru rounds the kitchen island to investigate the clamour in the living room. Sukuna’s on the edge of his seat, a TV remote in hand—the wrong one, Satoru of course notices, the proper remote having fallen to the floor alongside other clutter that had once occupied the coffee table—pointing towards the screen. He clicks the buttons frantically, teeth gritted. “No, no, you can’t be serious! That’s it?”

Satoru takes a seat next to him, investigating the screen. The season’s episode list is displayed on the screen, and sure enough, Sukuna has already watched all that have been released.

For this season, at least. Satoru isn’t kind enough to point out that there are several other completed seasons Sukuna could be watching. Instead, he reaches over to retrieve the remote from Sukuna’s grip. “Yep. Looks like the finale doesn’t air until next week.”

Sukuna groans, folding over to cradle his head in his hands. “Of all the cruel fates to befall me, this is undeniably the worst.”

“Worse than losing your cursed energy?” Satoru asks, and when he’s met with a wordless glare, he just laughs. “Sorry, sorry. Too soon.”

Sukuna doesn’t respond. Face again buried in his hands, he simply just sits there, wallowing. Curiously, Satoru inches closer, reaching out to poke his head. “Aw, what’s wrong? You cryin’?”

Sukuna whirls on him, eyes blazing as he bats Satoru’s hand away. “No, I am not crying, I’m furious!” He waves an arm emphatically at the screen, lips curled in disgust. “Of all the men on that pitiful roster, only one even came close to being worthy of her affections, yet she sent him away like nothing more than cannon fodder! I thought I had lost all faith in humanity years ago, yet it seems I still had some left to lose.” He shakes his head, slumping back against the sofa cushions. “Turn it off,” he demands, dramatically draping an arm over his face. “I no longer have the strength to deal with such travesty.”

Satoru snorts. “You’re ridiculous,” he chides, retrieving the proper remote from the floor so he can turn the TV off. Honestly, when Sukuna acts like this, it’s easy to forget he was once a bloodthirsty mass murderer. Maybe Shoko really was on to something.

Tossing the remote onto the table, Satoru makes himself comfortable on the couch. “How are your injuries feeling?”

“Fine,” Sukuna grumbles, not moving from his position. “I hardly notice them anymore—don’t touch me,” he hisses, tilting his head to glare at Satoru, whose hand stills mid-air, still in the process of testing the former curse’s assessment. “Is my word not good enough?”

“Sorry, sorry. Couldn’t help it,” Satoru says with a laugh, letting his hand fall to the cushions between them. “Other than the travesty of reality TV, your day was good?”

Sukuna hums, shrugging. “It was passable. The brat continues to thrive being amongst his kind, though his blunder today was quite unbecoming.”

“He’s a kid,” Satoru points out. “Kids cry when they get hurt.”

“Yes, well…still.” Sukuna shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. After a moment, he asks, “How was yours?”

“My day?” Satoru asks, surprised. “It was good.” He lets his head fall back atop the couch, gaze on the ceiling as he recalls his day. “Missions were boring as usual, but I got a chance to catch up with an old friend, so I can’t complain.”

Sukuna makes a sound of acknowledgement, but doesn’t respond further. Curiously, Satoru tilts his head towards him. “Y’know, I’m surprised you even asked about it. Didn’t think you’d care about how my day went.”

“I don’t,” Sukuna denies, rolling his eyes. “I was simply trying to distract myself.”

“From?”

Sukuna’s at the edge of his seat again, zero to one hundred in the blink of eye. “That godawful television program, obviously!” he shouts, pointing emphatically at the black screen before him.

Satoru laughs. “Okay, easy now,” he cautions, leaning forward to grab Sukuna’s outstretched arm, “let’s not get worked up again.” Predictably, Sukuna wenches his arm free of Satoru’s grip, seeming no more comforted than before. Satoru just shrugs. “It’s probably time you head to bed anyway. You need your rest after such a difficult day.”

“Do not patronize me,” Sukuna grumbles, but does rise from the couch, making his way towards the hallway.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Satoru replies with a grin, watching Sukuna’s retreating form. “Goodnight!”

And maybe he just imagines it, but after a moment, he almost swears he hears Sukuna mutter, “Goodnight.”

Another mission passes—easily, of course, laughably so. He’s not certain why his talents were wasted on such a mission, the difficulty better suited to the current first years at Jujutsu Tech rather than someone of his esteem. But then again, the decisions made by the higher-ups rarely make sense, and until Satoru can figure out a way to completely and effectively remove them from society, he’s elected to simply play nice with them for now.

Well, maybe not play nice, but cooperate nonetheless.

He takes his time as he makes his way back to the school to deliver his report. It’s a beautiful day, after all, and he’s almost certain there’s another mission request awaiting him—another one not worth his time. And really, there’s no reason to prolong the mission beyond the simple annoyance it would bring the higher-ups, and—actually, that’s a good enough reason for Satoru. He slows his steps even further, grinning to himself. Maybe he should double back, return to one of the shops he’d passed along the way. He’d spied some delectable sweets in the window of one of them. He could go back, purchase an unreasonable amount of the treats to bring back to Jujutsu Tech, and though the higher-ups would be unimpressed with his lateness, they’d decide to overlook it this time, so touched by the fact that Satoru deigned to bring them a gift—

Only for Satoru to consume the treats entirely by himself.

He laughs as he imagines the faces those old geezers would make. Maybe the audacity would cause them to fall over dead.

Probably not, but hey—a man can dream.

Still, before he can enact his plan, there’s a flash of cursed energy—vaguely familiar, though Satoru can’t quite place it. Not immediately, at least, not until the newcomer plants their self right in Satoru’s path, hands tucked into the sleeves of their dark robes and eyes narrowed in a glare.

Satoru grins, greeting them with a small wave. “Uraume, what a pleasant surprise! How’ve ya been?”

“Do not waste your pleasantries on me, sorcerer scum,” they practically spit, hand coming up to jut an accusing finger at Satoru. “What did you do to Lord Sukuna?”

“Other than take away his cursed energy?” Satoru thinks for a moment, making a point to tap his chin in thought. “Hmm, nothing really comes to mind.”

Uraume’s cursed energy flares slightly, their masterful control wavering slightly in the face of Satoru’s charms. “Quit with this ignorant act! Lord Sukuna has been acting rather strangely today, and I demand to know why!”

And that catches Satoru’s attention. His smile slides from his face, and he seriously regards Uraume now. “What do you mean, strangely?”

“He has been distracted, and strangely subdued,” they reveal, returning their hands to their sleeves, quickly regaining their composure now that Satoru isn’t actively attempting to antagonize them. “Surely you must have had something to do with it.”

Ah, that’s all it is. Nothing too serious, yet Uraume appears near beside their self with worry—well, as beside their self as one so impassive can be. Still, Satoru finds himself relaxing, usual grin returning to his face as he considers the situation. To think, Sukuna would be so affected by something as trivial as reality TV, could get so wrapped up in something as fickle as human emotion, as love—

Maybe he really has changed.

Satoru pushes those thoughts aside for now, turning his attention back to Uraume. “You really care about Sukuna,” he observes, tucking his hands into his pockets. “That’s cute. But honestly, I didn’t do anything. He’s probably just suffering from a reality TV hangover.”

“…a what?”

Satoru waves a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing to worry about. He’ll get over it soon. Although—” he adds, a plan slowly formulating in his mind, “if you really are that worried about him, there might be a way we can help.”

Uraume eyes him warily. “What do you propose?”

Satoru doesn’t answer the question—not immediately. “You’ve known Sukuna a long time, right?”

“Ever since he so graciously allowed me to stand at his side, yes,” they reveal, a certain pride in their words.

“…right.” Satoru decides not to look too deeply into it, moving on to his next question. “So you would happen to know when his birthday is, yeah?”

Uraume scoffs. “We never concerned ourselves with such trivial things.”

“So it’s in the summer,” Satoru surmises, snapping his fingers. “Just as I thought!”

Uraume frowns, shoulders tense. “What are you getting at, sorcerer?”

“I’ve got a plan,” Satoru declares, planting his hands on his hips, “and you’re gonna help me.”

“Why would I do such a thing?”

“Well, it’s for Sukuna, after all,” Satoru points out. “And besides, you’re an unregistered curse user on Jujutsu sorcerer territory. Would certainly be a shame if someone—say, the strongest sorcerer of his generation—happened to report you to the higher-ups, hmm?”

There’s a pause before Uraume responds. When they do, it’s with a resigned sigh. “What exactly is this plan?”

“I’m glad you asked!” Satoru grins widely, hooking an arm around Uraume’s shoulder—though he’s promptly shoved away. Still, he’s undeterred, opting to simply lean in close, whispering conspiratorially, “So, here’s what I’m thinking…”

It takes about a week for all the pieces to come together. Most of Satoru’s initial ideas were quickly shut down by Uraume, who vehemently insisted they would not be well-received by Sukuna. Still, they did agree to some of Satoru’s ideas, and while the end result is far from the fanfare that Satoru had desired, he’s still happy with what they came up with.

He only hopes Sukuna will feel the same.

Now, all the pieces are in place, the brightly coloured decorations hung with care, presents wrapped and waiting on the coffee table alongside an expertly crafted cake—purchased from a local bakery, of course, no trust placed in Satoru’s baking skills. Both the cake and decorations had been dropped off by Shoko earlier in the day, who had also helped set up much of it, a coy smile on her face the entire time, constantly shooting knowing winks at Satoru that he pointedly ignored. And just a short while ago, Uraume had briefly stopped by, dropping off their offerings before quickly departing, begrudgingly helpful throughout the entire process. Even so, they refused Satoru’s invitation to stay and celebrate, seemed offended that Satoru would even offer.

Oh well, not Satoru’s problem.

Now, it’s just Satoru left in the house, awaiting Sukuna’s return. Satoru had requested Sukuna drop Yuuji off with Wasuke for the night—though he’d coordinated with the old man to make it seem as though the request came from Wasuke himself, ensuring nothing about the evening would appear amiss to Sukuna. And while Satoru feels a little guilty about keeping Yuuji out of the festivities, he’d done it with the child’s well-being in mind.

For Satoru isn’t certain how Sukuna will receive this surprise. He wants to believe that Sukuna really has changed, but there’s still a niggling of doubt in the back of his mind. Even besides that, Sukuna had not been particularly enthusiastic about these sorts of events previously, and Uraume had pointed out that they had never partaken in such festivities in the past…

So, there’s no telling how Sukuna will react now.

And so, after much deliberation, Satoru decided it best Yuuji be away, at least for this first trial run. While Satoru is confident Sukuna wouldn’t purposely harm the child, there’s still a risk there; even if Sukuna’s displeasure is only shown through a verbal sparring match, it’s better Yuuji not be present for such conflict. At least, that’s what Satoru’s determined from his brief foray into the internet’s most popular parenting blogs.

Satoru checks his phone for the time. Sukuna should be returning any minute now. Satoru finishes the final touches, closing the curtains and flicking off all the lights before crouching behind the sofa, a nervous excitement fluttering in his chest and a smile on his face as he awaits Sukuna’s arrival.

A few minutes later, the door opens, footsteps entering. There’s a brief pause—a momentary confusion, perhaps—before the lights flicker on, and on cue, Satoru leaps up from behind the couch. “Surprise! Happy birthday!”

Sukuna blinks. His gaze shifts from Satoru to the countless balloons and streamers hanging from the rafters, then back to Satoru. “It’s not my birthday.”

“You don’t know that,” Satoru points out, rounding the couch to approach Sukuna. “And besides, we already celebrated mine and Yuuji’s. Now it’s your turn!”

Sukuna frowns. “I don’t understand—”

“There’s nothing to understand,” Satoru interrupts, taking Sukuna by the arm. “C’mon, don’t just stand there. It’s time to party!”

Despite the suspicion still clear on his face, Sukuna allows Satoru to lead him into the living room where the party had been set up. He glances at the spread on the coffee table, then back to Satoru. “What’s really going on here?”

Satoru releases his arm, flopping down onto the sofa with a satisfied sigh. “What, can’t I just do something nice for you? It’s not weird.”

Sukuna remains standing, glaring down at Satoru as he points out, “You’ve met me with nothing but suspicion for weeks, and yet now you’ve decided to do something nice for me.” He shakes his head, again glancing around at the decorations. “What part of that isn’t weird?”

“Aw c’mon.” Satoru smiles up at him, tilting his sunglasses just so and innocently fluttering his lashes. “I thought you trusted me.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Perhaps a foolish decision on my part.”

Satoru laughs. “Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses, then pats the seat next to him. “Just come check out what we put together for you, and if you’re still not into it, we can scrap it all and pretend it never happened, yeah?”

Sukuna glances around again, gaze lingering a little longer on the spread set upon the coffee table, deliberating. Finally, he sighs. “Fine. I’ll play along for now.”

“That’s the spirit!” Satoru cheers as Sukuna takes the offered seat beside him. “Right, so I got everything we need for a great birthday—minus the guests, of course. For some reason, no one wanted to stick around.”

“I can’t fathom why,” Sukuna grumbles.

“Right?” Satoru laughs, then gets to business, gesturing to the array of items set out before them as he explains, “Anyway, I managed to track down bottles of that expensive Champagne we had at the hotel on Valentine’s Day, got the cake that you claimed to hate but I know you secretly love, and I even had Uraume prepare a few of your favourite dishes—though for moral reasons, the recipes had to be altered.”

The corners of Sukuna’s lips quirk upward in a slight smile, and he shrugs a shoulder in a sort of oh well, what can you do? motion. Deciding not to dwell on that particular topic, Satoru carries on. “Next up, we got a couple gifts for you to open after you’re done eating, and to top it all off…ta-daa!”

He gestures to the opposite wall, the one on which the TV hangs—powered on, already set to a certain show. Sukuna’s eyes follow Satoru’s motion, widening as they take in the screen. “The finale.”

Satoru’s grin widens. “All queued up and ready whenever you are.” Proud of his hard work, Satoru leans back in his seat, chest puffed up. “So, what do you think?”

“I—”

Impulsively, Satoru cuts him off, reaching out and slapping a hand over Sukuna’s mouth to prevent him from speaking. “Actually, don’t answer yet! Open your presents first and then tell me. I know I said to wait until after but I can’t. I’m too excited!” He pulls his hand away before Sukuna can even react, quickly grabbing one of the gifts from the table and shoving it into Sukuna’s chest. “Here, this one first. It’s from me and Yuuji!”

Sukuna eyes the gift warily, inspecting the glossy gold paper. Next to him, Satoru practically vibrates with excitement, using all of his willpower to keep from bursting into laughter and ruining the surprise. After another suspicious glance Satoru’s way, Sukuna tears away the wrapping, opening up the box beneath and pulling out a folded piece of bright pink fabric. Frowning deeply, Sukuna unfolds the fabric, revealing it to be an apron—the words Kiss the Curse cheekily embroidered on its front.

Sukuna heaves a deep sigh, setting aside the apron and dragging a palm across his face. “I…don’t know what I expected.”

Satoru finally releases his laughter. “It’s perfect, right? You’ve been such a good mommy for Yuuji—”

Sukuna’s sharp glare silences him. “Choose your next words carefully, Six-eyes.”

Satoru sighs. “Okay, so maybe that one was sort of a joke. This next one is serious though.” He retrieves the other gift from the table, handing it off with much more care than the first. “Uraume helped me out with it, so I guess it’s sort of from them too.”

Sukuna hesitates before accepting this time. Slowly, he unravels the wrapping, a similar box unveiled beneath. He throws a wary look at Satoru, and Satoru just quirks a brow, heart hammering in his chest as he waits, far more nervous than he has any reason to be.

But this gift…he hadn’t been sure about it when he first proposed the idea to Uraume. Uraume had supported the choice, however—it was one of the only pieces they truly did support—so Satoru had ignored his worries, had gone through with it in the end.

Sukuna lifts the lid on the box, revealing pristine white fabric below. He stops.

Satoru holds his breath.

Gingerly, Sukuna sets the lid aside, carefully pulling the item from the box. It’s a kimono—luxurious in quality—immaculate white bordered with a deep contrasting shade of midnight blue, an obi of a similar shade folded in the box below, an intricate pattern woven throughout in white thread. Sukuna stares at it, entirely silent, gaze unreadable, and that…that’s not a good sign, is it?

Satoru releases his breath, fingers tapping against his leg as he works to fill the silence. “I had to pull a lot of strings to get one made so quickly. I consulted Uraume about the design, so it should be as close as possible to your original one.”  There’s still no response from Sukuna—no reaction. After a moment, Satoru prompts, “Well? What do you think?”

“Why?”

Satoru frowns. “Why what?”

With far more care than he had afforded the apron, Sukuna returns the kimono to the box, finally turning his gaze on Satoru. “Why would you do this for me?”

Satoru rubs the back of his neck. “When we were at the hotel, with those robes, I just thought…”

He trails off, searching for the right words. He should have expected this, should have prepared for the inevitable questioning. He averts his gaze, fidgets with his hands as he considers what to say before finally heaving a heavy sigh. “I know what it’s like, having something so familiar suddenly torn away from you, being unable to get it back. I can’t return your cursed energy to you—honestly, I wouldn’t even if I could. But I can do this for you. I know it’s not much, but…I hope it helps.”

Sukuna doesn’t respond, weighing his words, perhaps. Satoru looks up at him again, finds emotionless red eyes staring back at him, ever unreadable. Satoru shifts in his seat, tries to disguise the discomfort in the action with a casual shrug, easy grin sliding back into place. “Well, what are you waiting for? Try it on!”

Wordlessly, Sukuna does. He carefully removes the kimono from the box, standing as he slips his arms into the sleeves, pulls the fabric over his shoulders and pulls it closed over his waist, fastening the sash with easy, fluid movements. Satoru had to guess regarding the size—had purchased enough clothing for the former curse to be somewhat confident in his estimations—though Uraume had advised he order it a little big—more comfort, more mobility. As such, the kimono appears a little large on Sukuna’s frame, though perhaps it really is better that way. It’s not like Satoru is too familiar with traditional clothing anymore, hadn’t clothed himself in such a way since he was a child still living in the Gojo clan’s vast estates.

In any case, Sukuna doesn’t comment on the size—he doesn’t comment at all. He carefully adjusts the drape of the fabric, smoothing it so it lays just right over his form, and though he’s still oddly silent, he doesn’t appear angry or upset. No, there’s something almost contemplative about his expression now, not unlike the one he had worn that night at the hotel, though this time there are no mirrors around to fully take in his appearance, no reflective surfaces in which he can grow lost.

Satoru watches him a moment longer, until the silence becomes unbearable. He slaps his hands down on his thighs, pushing himself up from the sofa with a satisfied sigh. “Well, that’s all from me. I’ll head out now, leave you to your evening in peace—”

“Stay.”

Satoru pauses, eyes wide. “Huh?”

“I sat with you through your pity party,” Sukuna says, and—oh. He’s…he’s smiling now. It’s small, barely a curve of his lips, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “Now it’s your turn.”

“This isn’t a pity party,” Satoru points out, shoulders slumping with relief.

Sukuna hums. “Then what is it?”

An apology, an olive branch, something he doesn’t want to put a name to…

“Whatever you want it to be,” Satoru decides eventually.

And there’s that look again—the one that seems to see through Satoru, through the layers of masks he wears, right into his very soul, whatever little of it remains. Satoru hides his discomfort behind another smile, another mask, though he knows his attempts are useless.

Still, whatever Sukuna finds there must be satisfactory enough, for he simply nods. “Stay,” he repeats, returning to his seat, regally crossing one leg over the other, “and suffer this godforsaken finale with me.”

And Satoru does.

There’s a brief recap at the beginning of the episode to get viewers back up to speed, and as Satoru and Sukuna dig into the meal Uraume had prepared, Sukuna is sure to provide plenty of his own commentary, bemoaning the loss of who he still claims to be the only worthwhile contestant on the show, sparing no insults for one of the finalists. And even as the final episode begins, Sukuna’s running commentary continues, insults only growing more colourful the more Champagne they consume, the tipsier they become.

And Satoru finds that he’s hardly watching the show at all, is far more interested in Sukuna’s reactions to it, to the disgust that so clearly paints his features every time that man enters the shot. And maybe it’s the result of the alcohol, but Satoru can’t stop laughing, lips spread so wide in a grin it’s nearly painful, and even Sukuna’s attempts at forcefully shutting him up with either a palm slapped across his mouth or a fistful of cake shoved between his lips fail to silence him. And at the end of the episode, when the female lead finally has to make her decision—

“No! No, don’t you dare choose him! You’re better than this! Don’t—oh my god, what did I just say?” Sukuna jumps up from the sofa—kimono askew on his shoulders, obi having been removed at some point. He gestures wildly at the screen, lobbing fistfuls of cake at the images of the happy couple. “You foolish woman! How could you be so easily and utterly deceived by that wretched excuse of a man?”

Satoru rises just enough to grab Sukuna’s arms, preventing the further desecration of his beloved TV. “Hey, hey! Quit that!” he scolds, pulling Sukuna back down onto the sofa. “God, you’re worse than Yuuji.”

“I’m not the one at fault here!” Sukuna defends, glaring at Satoru. He shakes free of Satoru’s hold, then pauses, a scheme formulating behind bright red eyes. He grabs Satoru’s arm this time, tries to pull him up from the sofa. “Come, we must hurry.”

Satoru laughs, resisting Sukuna’s pull. “What? Where?”

“To find that woman,” Sukuna practically spits, pointing at the TV once more, “and let her know what a horrible mistake she has made!”

“Calm down,” Satoru insists, though his words are largely lost to his laughter. “I’m sure she’ll figure it out soon enough.” Sukuna stops pulling at Satoru’s arm, and Satoru dislodges the former curse’s hand, wiping a stray tear from his eye as he gets a handle on his laughter. When he can finally speak again, he continues, “Most of these TV couples never last. After it’s all said and done, the couples usually break off within the year.”

Sukuna tears his gaze from the screen, head tilted questioningly. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Satoru vaguely waves a hand towards the screen. “You’re right about the show being contrived. These sorts of relationships develop under such unnatural circumstances, so they don’t usually transfer well into the real world.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and then Sukuna shrugs, nonchalantly adjusting his kimono as though he hadn’t just been screaming at the TV. He clears his throat. “Yes, well, I suppose that’s acceptable for now.”

“Yeah, yeah, now sit down, would you?” Satoru tugs on Sukuna’s sleeve, pulling him back towards the couch. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Sukuna argues, though he does return to the sofa—nearly lands on top of Satoru in the process, quickly scrambling away after.

Satoru just rolls his eyes. “Sure you are.”

The finale finally comes to an end, credits rolling down the screen. Finding nothing of interest there, Sukuna reaches for another bottle of Champagne, popping the cork with ease and refilling both his and Satoru’s glasses. As he does, the screen changes, a preview for a new show starting.

Sukuna pauses.

“…three women and twenty-four men—half of whom are nice guys, half who are self-reported fu—"

Satoru reacts just a moment faster than Sukuna, snatching up the remote before Sukuna can, quickly clicking away from the preview. “No!”

“We have to watch it,” Sukuna insists, eyes wide.

Satoru huffs. “Do we?”

“Yes!” Sukuna slaps Satoru shoulder, incessant but not particularly painful. “Hurry, find it!”

Hands raised in defense, Satoru laughs. “How ‘bout we save it for tomorrow, yeah? You still need to recover from tonight’s shocking finale.”

“I’m perfectly composed,” Sukuna argues, crossing his arms.

“You were literally just throwing cake at the TV.”

Sukuna huffs, reaching for his glass of Champagne. “I don’t recall that happening.”

Satoru can’t help the laugh that escapes him, shaking his head at the former curse. “You’re so…”

But he trails off, unable to finish the thought. He claims his own glass of Champagne—barely filled, the task having been abandoned upon Sukuna’s previous distraction. Satoru takes the task upon himself, pouring the bubbling liquid into his glass, hoping Sukuna won’t comment further.

But of course, Sukuna doesn’t leave it at that. “So what?”

“Different.”

The word leaves Satoru’s lips before he can stop it. He takes a sip from his glass—well, more than a sip, nearly downs the whole thing in one go. He almost chokes on the carbonation, however, coughs and wipes his mouth, trying to play the whole situation off. He returns his glass to the table, hazarding a cautious look at Sukuna from the corner of his eye.

Sukuna idly swirls the Champagne in his own glass, one brow raised. “Is that meant to be a compliment?”

Satoru shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe?” He leans back against the sofa, slipping his glasses from his face so he can rub at his eyes. There’s a question at the tip of his tongue—one he’s asked before, one he still has yet to find an answer to. He debates posing it again, doubts Sukuna will even answer it. But maybe, just maybe… “Can I ask you something?”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “You’ll ask regardless of my response, but fine.”

“What changed?” Sukuna opens his mouth to respond, but Satoru cuts him off, explaining, “Before, you were working with Uraume to get your cursed energy back, but then you started working to protect it—to protect Yuuji. So, what changed?”

Sukuna glances away, evasive. Satoru sighs. Yeah, he’d expected as much. For all that talk of trust before, there still clearly is something Sukuna won’t talk about, something he’ll perhaps never share, not with Satoru of all people. And while Satoru can no longer deny the former curse really has changed, it would seem the reason behind that change will forever remain elusive.

The silence stretches on. Satoru goes to slide his sunglasses back on, then reconsiders. He probably won’t need them for the rest of the night, not when it would seem the party is rapidly drawing to a close. Sukuna would likely come up with some excuse and bid a hasty retreat, if indeed he chose to say anything at all—

Satoru nearly startles when Sukuna does speak.

“When Uraume and I realized my cursed energy would not so easily be regained, I…” Sukuna pauses, gaze transfixed on the swirling liquid in his glass. “I suppose I lost more than just my former strength and status, back then. I lost who I thought myself to be, lost the pleasures I had once found in living. No longer did I have a place in the world I once knew. It all seemed…pointless.”

Silently, Satoru watches as Sukuna lifts his glass to his lips, taking a long sip as he seems to consider his next words. After a deep breath, he continues, “But then that mercenary attacked. I should have felt hopeless, powerless, and yet…I remembered something—how good it feels to fight, to stand against a truly strong opponent. For the first time in so long, I had finally felt true pain, true fear, and—despite it all—truly alive. I remembered a part of me I thought I’d lost, and though I knew it would never be the same as before, I was determined to grab hold of it, to never let it escape my grasp again.”

He pauses again, and Satoru waits for him to continue. This time, however, the silence remains, nothing more left to be said—not now, at least. Still, Satoru can’t help but ask, “Why did you keep it a secret? The training, the impromptu missions.”

A wry smile curls Sukuna’s lips, a humourless laugh escaping them. “I was…embarrassed,” he admits eventually, nails tapping against his glass. “The fight made clear how weak I had grown. I didn’t want you to know just how pitiful I had become, had thought I could keep it a secret until I regained some of my strength, until I had something to show for my efforts. Along the way, I discovered something new about myself—how good it feels to fight for the sake of another beyond myself, to fight to protect. But of course you had to interfere.”

“Can you really blame me?” Satoru asks, laughing slightly as he runs a hand through his hair. “You went from deadbeat dad to father of the year in the blink of an eye! You were doing too good of a job. I couldn’t help but be suspicious.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “I’m good at plenty of things, and I happen to take pleasure in my own excellence. There really is nothing more to it than that. But then again,” he adds after a moment, waving a hand vaguely at Satoru, “you sorcerers have always been rather duplicitous. Of course you learned to expect the same of others.”

And Satoru can’t exactly argue that point, not when every conversation with the higher-ups—with any of the elders in Jujutsu society—felt something akin to a game of 5D chess. Satoru meets Sukuna’s gaze, frowning slightly. “So, that’s really all there is to it? You’re not hiding anything else from me?”

Sukuna shakes his head. “I have nothing more to hide. I am not like you nor the sorcerers you answer to. I do not need to hide behind false righteousness or manipulations. If I want something, I take it.”

“And you want this. To take care of Yuuji. To—” He takes a deep breath, unsure, but ultimately decides to go for it. “To be here, with me.”

There’s no hesitation when Sukuna answers, not even a hint of doubt in his eyes as he holds Satoru’s gaze. “I do.”

And—fuck, maybe Satoru should have put his glasses back on, suddenly finds himself missing what little protection they afforded. For if Sukuna's eyes had been burning before, they’re an outright inferno now, fiery red all consuming, setting Satoru alight with nothing more than a look. And Satoru should look away—doesn’t want to look away, doesn’t think he can—

Those eyes grow closer—by Sukuna’s doing or Satoru’s it’s impossible to tell. There’s a slight quirk in Sukuna’s brow, something expectant there, like he’s waiting for something, for Satoru to respond, for Satoru to…to…

“That’s—” Satoru’s voice comes out strained, and he clears his throat, trying again. “That’s good. I’m glad,” he finally manages, but still that look doesn’t change. Satoru swallows, Sukuna’s eyes dropping down to track the movement of his throat, lingering a little too long on his—

Satoru pulls away, averting his eyes as he takes a deep breath. “Uh, thanks. For telling me all that.”

“Mmhmm.” But Sukuna’s still moving closer and—oh God, is he going to—does Satoru want him to—

Maybe…maybe Shoko had been right after all.

Unbidden, against his better judgment, Satoru’s eyes return to Sukuna’s face—fall to his lips, curved into a smirk now, predatory. Sukuna leans closer still, arm moving too now, reaching out…

…and snatching the forgotten remote from Satoru’s hand.

Of course. Of course he wasn’t going to…

Satoru should feel relieved. So why does he feel…

Disappointed.

“So,” Sukuna says, returning to his original place on the sofa, a sizable distance between the two of them now, “about starting that new show…”

Satoru quickly comes back to himself, huffing as he plucks the remote back from Sukuna’s fingers. “Nuh uh, not a chance, pal!” Still, he begins flipping through the collection of shows, ignoring the scowl Sukuna fixes him with. Serves him right, trying to pull that stunt on Satoru. “No, it’s about time I showed you the best show ever created! Gotta cleanse your palette of all that trash you just watched.”

Sukuna scoffs, but makes himself comfortable anyway, waiting. “As if your taste in television is any better.”

Satoru finds what he’s looking for, grinning as he selects the first episode. “You’d be surprised.”

And as the familiar intro begins to play, Satoru gets up from the couch to shut off the main lights, leaving a lamp lit to provide some illumination. Then he returns, settling in just a touch too close to Sukuna this time, retrieving the blanket from the back of the couch to drape over their laps. And he expects a snide comment from Sukuna, ridiculing him for this pathetic attempt at closeness, but—as Satoru is rapidly coming to find—Sukuna is nothing if not surprising. He closes the rest of the distance between them, wrapping them more comfortably in the blanket, even adjusts his shoulder to a position where, if Satoru just so happened to tilt his head a little farther—

He rests his head on Sukuna’s shoulder, the fabric of his kimono smooth beneath his cheek. Still, Sukuna doesn’t comment, doesn’t tease or poke fun, and after a moment, Satoru finds himself relaxing completely against the other’s side, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

And it’s…not what Satoru expected, not by a long shot. But it’s comfortable. It’s nice—

“This show is ridiculous.”

“Shut up.”

Yeah, Satoru could get used to this.

Chapter Text

Warm dappled sunlight shines through the leaves of the tree that drapes overhead, casting shade across the picnic table at which they often gather. The heat is near stifling, the women seated next to him fanning themselves with their hands or pressing cool water bottles to their skin, but Sukuna doesn’t mind the heat, sits close to the edge of the shade and turns his face towards the sun, letting its warmth caress his skin and sink deep into his bones. He only half-listens to the women’s idle chatter, snorts lightly as they complain about their pathetic excuses for partners but offers no additional input. They wouldn’t appreciate his suggestions on the matter, anyways.

“It’s always the same, day after day,” one of the women says—Mizuki, Sukuna thinks, though he hasn’t yet taken the time to learn each of their names. “He wakes up with just enough time to eat breakfast and head to work, comes home just in time for dinner, and then spends the rest of the evening either out with his friends or planted in front of the TV. And anytime I ask for his help with something, he always just complains about being too tired from work.” She groans, massaging her temples. “I feel like a single parent, most days.”

“Ugh, my ex was the same way,” someone else—Hana? —says, the bracelets around her wrists jingling as she vigorously fans herself with her hand. “He was always out—claimed to be working overtime—yet his paycheques never changed. I ended up hiring a PI to follow him, found out he wasn’t working overtime at all, was busy shacking up one of the company interns!”

The women gasp, scandalized. Hana nods, lips pursed. “Mmhmm. Kicked his sorry ass to curb as soon as I found out, let me tell you!”

“Oh my god, do you think—” Mizuki’s dark eyes widen, face paling despite the day’s heat. “Could Jun be cheating on me?”

The women are quick to comfort her, hands patting her shoulders as they offer reassurances. “I’m sure it’s nothing like that,” the woman at Mizuki’s side—actually, Sukuna can’t recall a name for her at all—says, brushing stray strands of dark hair from Mizuki’s face. “Jun’s completely taken by you! There must be something else going on here.”

Mizuki’s shoulders slump. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Just talk to him,” Asami—the group’s primary organizer—suggests. “You’ll never get anywhere without good communication.”

“You’re right, but…” Mizuki sighs. “I don’t know. Even if I do talk to him, there’s no guarantee he’ll actually listen. You know how guys can be. Actually…”

Sukuna feels the shift before he sees it, the way several pairs of eyes come to fix on his form. Here we go…

“Sukuna,” Mizuki starts, leaning against the tabletop so she can meet his gaze past the woman at her side, “you’re a guy. You must have a fresh perspective on this. What do you think I should do?”

Sukuna hums, only pretending to consider the problem before responding. “There’s no harm in using diplomacy in the initial stages.”

“And if that doesn’t work?” Mizuki prompts.

Sukuna shrugs a shoulder. “Kill him.”

It’s not a joke, yet the women take it as such, bursting into a raucous laughter that garners the attention of several passersby. “Oh my god, Sukuna!” Hana practically shrieks, a hand over her mouth as she laughs. “You are so bad!”

“Kill him!” Mizuki echoes through bouts of mirth, but there’s a certain gleam in her eyes when she asks, still chuckling, “I mean, how would I even do that?”

“There is a variety of common household chemicals that, if mixed improperly, can create quite potent poisons,” Sukuna replies simply. “Easy to pass off as an accident.”

This triggers another round of obnoxious laughter from the women. Wiping a stray tear from her eye, Hana says, “Okay, you seem way too prepared with that answer. It’s almost like you’ve considered it before.”

Sukuna smiles slightly at that. “You have no idea.”

In all actuality, it’s been a rather long time since Sukuna last considered any method for disposing of Gojo, a long time since he’s even threatened the sorcerer with death—almost a month now, if he recalls the board on their fridge correctly. Has he threatened the other with bodily harm? Absolutely, that’s just a given considering Gojo’s personality, but after a heated argument several months prior as to what exactly constitutes a death threat, they had determined that simple bodily harm didn’t count.

So no, Sukuna has not, in fact, considered poisoning the sorcerer for a long time now. Surprisingly, things have been rather good lately—not in the way his former life had been good, but good nonetheless. There’s something to be said for the simplicity of a domestic life, finding his pleasure in even the smallest things—the warmth of the summer sun, the sweetness of a new modern delicacy—though he’s certain his former self would ridicule him for such thoughts. Still, it’s a rather fond change, not needing to struggle for anything, no concern for sorcerers and curse users alike plotting his demise. Though his craving for battle still remains, he’s found ways to sate himself—his training sessions with Uraume, the missions to thwart curse users attempting to capture the brat, even disposing of the weaker curses that occasionally wander too close to the homestead.

Though he will admit, he does miss some aspects of his former life—how weaker beings would shower him with gifts and reverence, pitiful attempts at appealing to his better graces, at receiving mercy (always unsuccessful, but he couldn’t fault them for trying, not when his reaping was always so bountiful). But, then again, he does receive something of the like even now, though on a much smaller scale. There’s still Uraume who falls over their self in service to him, this gaggle of women who seem rather fond of him despite him not providing them any reason to. Even Gojo is complicit, meeting Sukuna’s demands with feigned annoyance that barely conceals a strange sort of amusement, or returning home with various delicacies of the modern world for Sukuna to try, acquired while wasting time during the more trivial of his missions.

 Even the sorcerer’s affections have become more readily provided—a most unexpected turn of events indeed. For while Sukuna had noted how tactile the other man appeared to be, he usually saved such actions for those closest to him, always kept a tangible distance with everyone else. Sukuna has seen his ability in action while out in public, that barrier he surrounds himself with to keep the outside world at bay, but Gojo always drops it upon returning to the house, always leaves himself open for the brat to cling to him, for Sukuna to do so should the desire strike him.

And lately, Sukuna has found himself wanting that contact, those brief moments of skinship. It's the one thing he found lacking in his past life—the one thing he can’t recall himself ever truly desiring back then. But he wants it now, doesn’t bother to read too far into the matter beyond that simple fact. For if it brings him pleasure, there’s no need for further analysis.

Sukuna wants, and so he takes.

Uraume is occupied with other business this afternoon, so upon departing from the park, Sukuna and the brat head straight home. They nap away most of the afternoon—Sukuna on the sofa, the brat on his playmat on the floor—and when that business concludes, the brat entertains himself with one of his many toys while Sukuna takes care of other menial tasks around the house. He tidies the kitchen, pulls something out to prepare for dinner later, considers doing more before determining that he’s earned a break, returning to the living room and scanning the titles on the overflowing bookshelf that he has not once seen the sorcerer ever touch, the materials all for show, most likely.

There’s a tug on his pant leg. Rolling his eyes, he shifts his gaze down to the brat. “What?”

“Kuna, play!” the brat demands, pouting up at him.

“No,” Sukuna says, turning his attention back to the shelf. “I’m far too busy for such a childish activity.”

“Kuna!” the brat demands again, tugging more insistently on his pant leg. “Play! Play!”

“Must I repeat myself?” Sukuna asks, frowning at the boy now. “No.”

The brat’s face screws up in an ugly manner, eyes filling with tears, bottom lip trembling. “Kuna—”

“Fine!” Sukuna relents, sighing. “Retrieve your toy of interest at once.”

The brat beams up at him, giggling—his previous upset all for show, damn him. He scampers off to the mess of toys on the floor, and Sukuna follows after, huffing as he takes a seat on the sofa. The boy retrieves a brightly coloured ball, smiling as he shows it to Sukuna. “Ball!”

“Yes, I’m aware.” Sukuna accepts the ball, frowning at the strange cartoon images emblazoned upon its surface. He clicks his tongue, tossing the ball aside.

The brat squeals—high-pitched, grating on Sukuna’s eardrums, but it’s a sound Sukuna has come to identify as joy or excitement, so there’s no cause for concern. The brat takes off after the ball, tottering across the floor to where the ball had landed, grasping it in stubby fingers before making his way back to Sukuna, handing the toy to him with a gummy smile on his face. Sukuna rolls his eyes, tosses the ball again, and again, the brat chases after it, not unlike how Sukuna had observed humans playing with their pets in the park.

Well, whatever.

They spend the rest of their afternoon in this manner, Sukuna multitasking dinner preparations and tossing the ball for the brat, who apparently does not grow tired of this tedious game, so easily entertained. He must take after Gojo in this regard.

Speaking of the sorcerer, it's nearly dinner time when Gojo arrives home—later than usual, later than he had said he’d be when he’d departed that morning. It’s the first sign that something isn’t quite right.

The second comes in the nature of his arrival; where Gojo usually boisterously announced his return, this time he’s eerily silent, seemingly lost in thought as he quietly shuts the door behind him, as he slips off his shoes and makes his way inside—so lost in thought, in fact, that he doesn’t seem to hear when the boy greets him, passing him by without a word.

So Sukuna does a quick assessment. Gojo doesn’t appear to be injured—he never is, no curses able to make their way past his Infinity—and Sukuna cannot detect the metallic tang of blood clinging to his form, nothing but the stench of low-level curses still sticking to his clothes, though rapidly fading.

No, wait. That’s not quite right.

Deeper, beneath that initial curse-stink, there’s another stench—cursed energy that isn’t Gojo’s own. A teammate, perhaps? But—no, Gojo works alone on these missions, has never required backup to take out such minimal threats. No, this cursed energy must come from elsewhere. Moreover, this particular scent is…familiar, only vaguely so, not something that Sukuna can easily place. But that misplaced familiarity is an itch in the back of his mind, impossible to scratch, annoyingly so. He wishes he could brush it off, but…there’s something important there, something that he can’t quite seem to recall.

It's only when the sorcerer nearly trips over the young boy at his feet that he finally seems to awaken from his stupor. “Oh, sorry buddy! I must’ve zoned out,” he says, grinning as he scoops the child into his arms, but there’s something off about his smile, something Sukuna can’t place. “You have a good day?”

“Uh huh!” The brat doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss—of course he wouldn’t. He wiggles in Gojo’s hold, patting his stomach. “Hungry.”

“Hmm, it is that time, isn’t it?” Then Gojo turns his attention towards the kitchen. “Sukuna—”

“It’ll be ready in a few minutes,” he interrupts. “Plenty of time for you to shower. You reek.”

“Huh?” The sorcerer tilts his head stupidly, then shrugs. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be done in a few.”

And that’s…odd. Normally, Gojo would have responded in kind to Sukuna’s insults, would not have complied so easily with his command. Clearly, something unusual had transpired during his mission, something Sukuna can’t even begin to determine. Oh well—that strange cursed energy aside, it really isn’t Sukuna’s problem.

The evening passes just like every other. Gojo gets the brat settled in for the night, while Sukuna prepares the television for their nightly viewing—some old cartoon or such, Gojo’s favourite, and while Sukuna would never admit it out loud, it isn’t that bad.

Sukuna’s sprawled along the entire length of the sofa, making himself comfortable while simultaneously claiming the space for himself, eyes closed as he dozes lightly, waiting. He hears footsteps approach, Gojo returning from the boy’s room. “Right, so I gotta warn you, this season starts off a little slow, but when it picks up, you’re in for a real treat.” The footsteps pause next to the couch. “Move, I need to sit.”

Sukuna gestures vaguely across the room. “There’s a perfectly good armchair over there.”

“It’s not comfy!”

“Then why did you purchase it?”

“It’s a strategy for keeping unwelcome guests away, duh.” There’s a tap on his legs, a gentle push to dislodge them, which Sukuna resists. “Now scoot.”

And there are many ways this can go—but which one will be the most enjoyable? There are plenty of things that Sukuna wants from Gojo, that he could take if he felt so inclined. But there’s also something to be said for the chase, a strange sort of pleasure to be found in the act of pursuit. If he takes everything he wants now, he cuts short that other pleasure, risks ruining things for himself in the long run. So, he’ll play it safe for now, proceed slowly, tease pleasure out bit by bit until finally the moment is right to take.

Sukuna swings his legs over the edge of the sofa, pulling himself up into a seated position. “Fine.”

The sorcerer raises a brow at him. “Really? That easy, huh?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Right. Well, as I was saying—”

And Sukuna tunes him out as Gojo prattles on about the show, instead focusing on gathering what he needs. He retrieves the blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over his lap, grabs the nearby throw pillow, tests its downiness and, finding it satisfactory, tosses it on Gojo’s lap.

Gojo carries on, unperturbed for now. “It’s actually a bit of a continuity error, but there’s this theory that everything from episode seventeen onward is actually—”

Sukuna lays down again, head resting on the pillow he had previously placed—for good reason too. He doubts the sorcerer’s spindly legs would provide any comfort. Still, at Sukuna’s action, Gojo cuts himself off, body tense as he stares stupidly down at the man in his lap. “What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable,” Sukuna says, pulling the blanket more snuggly around himself. “You ruined it before, but I’ll make do.”

“Oh. Uh—okay then.”

They start the episode. Gojo is tense at first, arm hovering awkwardly over Sukuna, perhaps unsure if it’s truly okay to touch. But he seems to resign himself to his fate soon enough, giving into impulse as his arm falla atop Sukuna’s form, fingers gently tangling in his hair. He idly scratches his blunt nails across Sukuna’s scalp, and Sukuna stills, surprised. But it feels…nice, actually, unexpectedly so, and he finds his eyes slipping shut once more, a contented hum escaping his lips.

Satoru laughs lightly. “You really are like an overgrown housecat.”

“Cease your racket, else I’ll—”

As he speaks, Sukuna twists so he can level the sorcerer with a glare. But rather than the dark lenses he expects, he’s met instead by bright blue, the sorcerer’s strange eyes unfettered and gleaming with amusement as he gazes down upon him, and Sukuna…Whatever he’d been about to say, he can’t seem to recall. Oh well; it likely wasn’t important anyway.

He turns back to the screen. “Just shut up.”

And it’s not until hours later, as Sukuna lays in bed, eyes fixed on the shadow-draped ceiling above, that he finally places the source of that mysterious cursed energy.

He groans, dragging a palm across his face. This will not be fun.

The letter sits heavily in Satoru’s pocket—a single sheet of paper bearing the weight of a difficult past. He’d received it from an elder of the small village in which a previous day’s mission had taken him, a Grade 1 curse lurking in the surrounding forest easily disposed of. The curse had been planted there, the strength deliberately chosen to require Satoru’s intervention without placing the villagers themselves under too much harm—though several members had already fallen victim to its wrath before Satoru had arrived—all a ploy to draw Satoru’s attention, to make contact with the sorcerer after more than a year of silence.

The elder claimed a dark-haired man had instructed him to pass the letter along, and even before Satoru had accepted it, had scanned the familiar script therein, he knew who had sent it.

His scent was all over the village.

Three days have passed since then, and Satoru’s read the letter countless times, its contents all but seared into his memory. Even now, letter tucked safely into the pocket of his pants, Satoru can recall the words perfectly.

Satoru,

I apologize for the manner in which this letter has been delivered. Please trust that I intended no harm to village or its people. This was simply the best way I could think to gain your attention. I’m sure you understand.

I have a proposition for you, one that must be discussed in person. Meet me at midnight in three day’s time, at the village in which you’ve received this letter. I trust you’ll oblige me, but if you choose not to show, the villagers will pay the price.

I can’t wait to see you.

Your best friend,

Suguru

Tonight. After more than a year apart, he’ll be seeing Suguru tonight. He’s been a mess of nerves ever since receiving the letter, had done his best to mask his emotions with his usual carefree joviality, and while he easily fooled the higher-ups and other sorcerers, he’s almost certain Sukuna has noticed something’s up, has been under the former curse’s silent scrutiny ever since returning from that mission. Even Yuuji appears to sense that something is amiss, has been strangely clingy whenever Satoru is around, though his young underdeveloped mind could never determine what’s wrong.

It takes longer than usual for Yuuji to settle in for the night, the young boy perhaps affected by Satoru’s own restlessness. Still, the boy does fall asleep eventually, and after ensuring he has everything he may need for his midnight rendezvous—phone, wallet, keys, the letter itself—Satoru prepares to head out for the evening.

Of course, there’s still one obstacle in his way.

Sukuna is waiting for him in the living room, TV paused on the intro to the show they’ve been watching together. Any other day, the sight might have brought a smile to his face, but in his current state he can’t find it in him to muster one up. So, he avoids Sukuna as best he can, silently making his way to the door.

“You’re heading out now?”

Satoru sighs. It was wishful thinking at best—delusion at worst—to believe he could slip away without notice. “Yeah, gotta follow up on something from a past mission,” he says, slipping his boots on. “I’ll be back late, so don’t worry about waiting up for me.”

Sukuna scoffs. “As if I would.”

Thankfully, he leaves it at that.

Satoru arrives at the village with plenty of time to spare. He’d arrived early with the intention of scoping out the village, ensuring the people really are safe, verifying there isn’t a trap awaiting him. And it’s not that Satoru doesn’t believe in Suguru’s words—doesn’t trust him—it’s just that…

There was something off about the letter, the words not sounding like Suguru’s own. He’s certain the letter had in fact come from Suguru, had been penned by his hand, but the way it was written—the voice it had been written in—sounded so foreign, so unnatural, so unlike the Suguru he knows…

Something’s up. Satoru just isn’t sure what.

Suguru arrives at exactly midnight. The villagers are asleep in their homes, lights out, only the moon overhead left to illuminate the main square, empty of all but the two men. Suguru looks good, far better than he had when the left, the dark circles no longer prominent under his eyes, his form broader and well-fed. He’s dressed rather casually, a simple black sweater and trousers, and his hair—longer than it had been before—is half pulled back behind his head.

From where he had been seated on the edge of a small fountain at the square’s centre, Satoru rises, taking a slow step towards his old friend, heart erratic within the walls of his chest, nearly audible in the silence of the night. He takes a deep breath, swallows his nerves. “Suguru.”

“Satoru,” Suguru greets with a small smile as he approaches, hands tucked into his pockets. “I’m glad you showed. I had no doubt you would.”

Satoru’s mirrors his pose. “Of course. I needed—” To see you, to see that you’re alive, that you’re okay— “to protect the village, after all,” he decides at last, the answer easiest to admit. “I’d be a pretty terrible sorcerer if I left these innocent people to die like that, yeah?”

“Is that so?” And there’s something strange about the way Suguru says it, something Satoru can’t even begin to place. But his smile drops slightly—so slightly, likely unnoticeable to anyone who doesn’t know him—

But Satoru knows him, knows something is wrong.

Still Suguru continues, shrugging a shoulder. “Regardless, you obviously received my letter. I’m sure you’re curious as to my proposition.”

Straight to business, so formal in his speech. It’s Suguru, and yet…and yet…

Satoru pushes the thoughts aside for now. “What’s this about, Suguru?”

“There’s something I need to do,” Suguru says simply, coming to stop a few feet before Satoru, “something that requires your assistance.”

Satoru laughs lightly, the sound coming out forced. “Is that right? Care to enlighten me on what that might be?”

When Suguru laughs, it isn’t forced. “Now, now, Satoru. Don’t be so hasty,” he chides, almost playfully, and that feels more like the Suguru that Satoru knows. “As it stands, we’re currently enemies—a Jujutsu sorcerer and a curse user. I can’t simply tell you my plan, not without the guarantee of your loyalty, first. What I can tell you, however, is that my plan is a pure one, one that will benefit all sorcerers—all of society. Surely, you can get behind that much.”

A pure plan, one that benefits everyone. It’s…almost too good to be true, isn’t it? Even so, it’s a marked difference from the previous goal Suguru had revealed to him, his plan to create a society of sorcerers, to sacrifice the non-sorcerers in that pursuit.

But it’s suspicious. Satoru will need to tread with caution.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, Suguru. I want to believe you, but you’re really not giving me much to work with here.”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Suguru says with a slight bow, “but that’s simply the way it must be.”

It’s a dead end, questioning him directly about the plan. Satoru changes tactics. “If I don’t agree to help, what then?”

“I will carry out my plans regardless.” Suguru shakes his head. “Don’t get me wrong, Satoru; while your cooperation would make this endeavour far more feasible, it’s by no mean impossible without you. I will achieve my goals by any means necessary.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a warning siren blares. He can barely hear it over the pulse pounding in his ears. “Why bother asking me then?”

“Blame it on sentimentality, I suppose. We were always such a good team, you and I—the strongest.” Suguru takes a step forward, the distance between them closing. The closer he gets, the quieter his voice drops, the words he speaks meant for none but Satoru’s ears. “I may not need you by my side, but I want you there. I want you, Satoru.”

He’s so close now, dark eyes boring into Satoru’s own. Satoru finds it hard to breathe. He closes his eyes, tries to focus. “Suguru—”

“I miss you, y’know,” Suguru interrupts, voice barely a whisper, breath tickling Satoru’s skin, and he fights to repress a shiver. Then there’s a hand at his jaw, a thumb slowly caressing his cheek, and Satoru loses the fight. “Do you miss me too?”

“Of course I do. I just—” He takes a take breath, hates how it rattles in his lungs. His nerves are alight now, heat spreading from that simple touch all the way through his limbs, warming his chest. No, focus. Think.

He dares to open his eyes—just a fraction—his sight filled with nothing but Suguru. In the low light, his eyes are so impossibly dark, a void that draws Satoru in, drowns him in shadows. And now Satoru can’t look away, helplessly trapped but comfortably so, that familiar darkness something like home.

Suguru smiles. He drags his thumb slowly down Satoru’s cheek, smooths it across his bottom lip, and against his will, Satoru’s eyes flutter shut again, body relaxing into Suguru’s touch. The other chuckles lightly. “Well, Satoru?” he prompts.

Satoru swallows, voice strained when he speaks. “Can I have a little time? To think about it, figure some things out.”

“Of course. I didn’t expect you to decide right away.” Then that hand is gone, Suguru withdrawing, the space between them returning. And Satoru can breathe again, cool night air filling his lungs, far colder than it been before, far colder without Suguru pressed against him. “I’ll give you one week,” Suguru continues, slowly back away. “If I don’t hear from you in that time, well…I suppose I’ll have my answer.”

“A week. Right.” Satoru nods, forces his mind back into action. “And this village—”

“I will keep my word,” Suguru confirms. “You showed tonight, so this village will be spared.”

“Thank you,” Satoru breathes out in a sigh, smiling softly at his friend.

Suguru returns the smile. The he turns on his heel, offers a slight wave. “Farewell for now, Satoru,” he says, retreating into the long shadows that drape the village. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

Satoru arrives home late to a silent house, thank God. He’s not sure he’s in any shape to stand an interrogation right now, limbs leaden, mind a mess. He has just enough energy to strip off his clothes and throw on his pjs before flopping into bed, pulling the covers up over his head. But despite his exhaustion, sleep does not come easily. He tosses and turns for hours, drifts off only to awaken moments later, some unseen force pulling him from the sweet relief of sleep.

Still, he does manage to fall into a restless sleep at some point, one minute glaring up into the ceiling, the next blinking his eyes open to sunlight streaming in through his curtains. He groans, dragging a palm across his tired eyes, body still feeling far too sluggish. He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, checks the time, ignoring the endless missed calls that fill his screen—just after noon. He’d slept for hours, yet feels no better now than he had before.

He should get up, eat something—drink something, at least. He lays there a little longer, debates whether or not he should even bother. But there’s a sound from beyond his door—from the kitchen, he thinks—an airy, childish laugh, and Satoru frowns. They shouldn’t be home yet. Did something happen?

He doesn’t bother to get dressed, slipping his shades over his eyes before making his way out of his room and to the kitchen. There he finds Yuuji and Sukuna—the former in his highchair, the latter at the island next to him. Yuuji laughs again as he smacks his hands down onto the tray of his chair, turning his food—rice, maybe? —into nothing more than mush that squishes up between his fingertips. Sukuna’s lip is upturned in disgust as he watches the child, but he makes no move to interfere—had probably tried before, but to no avail.

As the sorcerer enters, Sukuna’s gaze shifts from the child to him. He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “About time you decided to rouse.”

Satoru ignores the jab, takes a moment to greet Yuuji and ruffle his rosy hair before turning his attention to Sukuna. “Is everything alright?”

“You tell me.” Sukuna finishes the rest of his drink, nearly slamming the mug on the countertop before whirling on Satoru. “The brat and I were set to leave when our path was waylaid by some pitiful sorcerer demanding to know why you had failed to arrive for your mission, as well as why you were neglecting to answer their apparently plentiful calls. Because of your inconsideration, I had to spend my morning being interrogated by that sorcerer sent to investigate, having been apparently accused of murdering you—as if I would take the time from my busy day for such a tedious task. Besides, if I had killed you, I would have made a far grander spectacle of it—and before you say anything,” he adds quickly, jabbing an accusatory finger at Satoru, “no, I’m being far too hypothetical for that to be considered a true death threat.”

“I wasn’t gonna say it,” Satoru denies, hands raised defensively.

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Regardless, that sorcerer refused to leave until he had confirmed your status himself, and even still he felt that I must somehow be guilty of putting you in such a pitiful state. So of course, I agreed with him, if only to get him to leave.”

Satoru frowns slightly. “What did you tell him?”

“I can’t repeat it,” Sukuna admits, eyes gleaming, an almost sadistic smirk on his lips, “not with the brat present, at least.”

Satoru huffs a laugh. “Sorry I asked.”

Satoru rounds the island into the kitchen, opening the fridge and scanning its contents for anything palatable. His stomach churns at the thought of eating, however, and he quickly abandons the task, retrieving a glass from the cupboard instead and filling it with cool water. As he does, he pulls his phone put, scanning the list of missed calls, locating Yaga’s name. He quickly calls him back to explain—well, to give an excuse, really.

Yaga picks up on the second ring. “Satoru—”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Satoru interrupts. “I was feeling sick last night, only really got up now.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

Satoru scoffs. “Of course not!”

“According to Ijichi, Sukuna said—”

“He was just messing with him, honest,” Satoru interrupts, sighing inwardly. Of course they sent Ijijchi for the task. It’s a wonder the weakling managed to survive an interaction with Sukuna, was probably trembling and crying the entire time. At this rate, the poor kid would have grey hair before graduation. “I’m just sick, should be fine by tomorrow.”

At first, he thinks Yaga will argue. Then the man just sighs. “Alright Satoru. Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He hangs up without another word.

Sukuna shoots him a strange look—judging, with a hint of something else Satoru can’t place. He ignores the former curse, taking a sip of his water. The cool liquid soothes his parched throat, but leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He forces down another gulp before dumping the rest in the sink.

“Dada,” Yuuji calls to him, twisted around in his highchair, straining his stubby neck so he can look at Satoru. “Play?”

Satoru sighs. “Sorry, buddy,” he says, rounding the island so he can regard the child. “Daddy’s not feeling well today.”

Yuuji frowns at him. “Ouch?”

Satoru laughs lightly at that, a small smile on his face. “Nah, not ouch. Daddy’s sick.”

“Dada sick,” Yuuji repeats, deadly serious.

“That’s right, buddy.” Satoru ruffles Yuuji’s hair again, then turns to Sukuna. “I’m heading back to bed. Try not to need anything.”

Sukuna doesn’t reply.

Satoru sleeps in spurts for the rest of the afternoon, makes an appearance to have dinner before retreating to his room again. His sleep that night is plagued by nightmares—abstract images and emotions, nothing he can make sense of—and at around four in the morning he finally gives up on a peaceful sleep, plants himself at the kitchen island and works his way through almost an entire pot of coffee. He leaves for Jujutsu tech far earlier than he needs to—right around the time Sukuna rises, purposefully avoiding the former curse and his inquisitive gaze. He completes his mission, sits through a boring meeting that nearly has him nodding off, then returns home, intent on returning to his bed, to hopefully getting some sleep.

For if he’s asleep, he doesn’t have to think—about Suguru’s offer, about his strange behaviour, about anything.

He’ll need to think about it, eventually. He only has a week—less than that, now. He’ll give Suguru an answer soon, once he figures out the right answer, the right choice.

But for now, he’s too tired to think, to muddle through his thoughts. Maybe tomorrow, he’ll feel better.

Of course, Sukuna has other plans for him. He intercepts him in the hallway in front of his bedroom, blocks his entry. “So,” Sukuna starts, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the wall, “when are you going to tell me what's really going on?”

Satoru bites back a groan, tries to play the situation off with a casual shrug of his shoulder. “There’s nothing to tell. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Do you really think me foolish enough to believe such a lie?” Sukuna asks, eyes narrowing.

“It’s not a lie,” Satoru defends, for he isn’t lying, not really. He’s just…not telling the full truth. “And even if it was, it doesn’t concern you.”

“The matter is making you more insufferable than usual, which I find increasingly annoying,” Sukuna says matter-of-factly. “Therefore, it does concern me.”

Satoru lets the façade drop. He shakes his head, pushing past Sukuna and into his room. “I’m not doing this right now.”

“Then when?” Sukuna follows him, though he doesn’t cross the threshold, choosing instead to lean against the doorframe. “Are you going to wait until it finally tears you apart?”

“The hell are you talking about?” Satoru demands, discarding his jacket in a heap on the floor, uncaring.

“It’s that man, isn’t it?” And at Satoru’s questioning look, Sukuna elaborates, “The best friend you spoke of before—Gato, or whatever.”

“Geto,” Satoru corrects before he can stop himself. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Sukuna doesn’t argue the point. “You’ve been meeting up with him. You reek of his cursed energy.”

Satoru strips off his undershirt, huffing an amused laugh as he replaces it with a soft, oversized sweater. “Jealousy’s a bad look for you.”

Sukuna takes a deep, measured breath, eyes on the ceiling above. “Why do I even bother?” he mutters to himself.

“I’m telling you not to.” Satoru sits on the edge of his bed, pulling his socks off his feet. “Look, I’ve got everything under control, okay? Just lay off it.”

Sukuna studies him, and for a moment, Satoru fears he won’t drop the matter. But then Sukuna sighs. “Fine,” he decides, pushing himself off the doorframe. “I will relent for now. But this isn’t over.”

Satoru wishes it was.

Still, Sukuna leaves the matter alone for another day, and Satoru takes the time to actually consider Suguru’s words. A plan—something that will benefit all sorcerers. It sounds far too similar to his original goal of killing off all the non-sorcerers, but if that really were the case, why would he be so secretive about it? It’s not like Satoru doesn’t already know, not like Suguru hadn’t told him before. So then, perhaps this is a different plan, a better one, one not so cruel, one that stands a better chance of success.

Even so, the matter is still complicated. For if Satoru aligns with Suguru, he places himself in opposition of Jujutsu society, makes himself an enemy of the very people he wishes to protect. More importantly, he puts Yuuji’s safety at risk, for if Satoru becomes an enemy, so too does Yuuji by association.

Sukuna too, he supposes, though that’s a far lesser concern. For at least Sukuna still has Uraume to rely on should things go south. But if Satoru is busy helping Suguru, then Yuuji…

Actually, wait—maybe it’s less complicated than he thinks. Sukuna and Uraume have both been protecting Yuuji for a while now, after all. Even if Satoru goes along Suguru’s plans, makes an enemy of Jujutsu society, Sukuna and Uraume will still be there to protect Yuuji, to keep him safe. Neither of them has allegiance to the Jujutsu sorcerers, after all. They’d have no reason to oppose Satoru on the matter.

So, he supposes he’s made his decision. That leaves only one difficult task ahead:

Informing Sukuna of his plans.

And he’s not sure why the task is so daunting. Sukuna has no reason to disagree, after all. And yet, his stomach is all twisted up in knots as he approaches Sukuna the evening of the next day, after Yuuji is tucked soundly into bed.

Sukuna is waiting for him, just as he had all those nights before, but this time, the TV is powered off, his form noticeably more tense. He’s clearly expecting this conversation, will not let Satoru off as easily as before. And so, Satoru braces himself, taking a seat next to Sukuna on the couch.

“Well?” Sukuna prompts when Satoru doesn’t immediately speak.

Satoru takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. “Right, let’s just jump into this.” Still, he pauses again before speaking, considering his next words. “You were right, I did meet up with Suguru—Suguru Geto. But it was just the one time. My mission earlier this week…I was sent to a secluded village to exorcise a Grade 1 curse—a curse sent there by Suguru to draw me out without alerting the higher-ups to his presence.”

Sukuna frowns at him. “What do you mean, sent there?”

“His cursed technique—Cursed Spirit Manipulation.” Satoru shrugs. “It’s…pretty self-explanatory.”

“He can manipulate cursed spirits,” Sukuna surmises. “Any cursed spirit?”

Satoru nods. “Any he can conquer and collect, yeah.”

“That’s…” Sukuna trails off, and Satoru can practically see the gears turning in his mind. Perhaps he hadn’t come across such a technique in all his years. “…an impressive technique,” Sukuna finishes at last, though his tone is neutral, far from reverent.

Still, Satoru smiles. “Yeah, it is,” he agrees, chest filling with warmth, pride for his friend. “Anyway, he used the villagers to deliver a letter arranging a meet-up with me. There, he asked for my help. He…” Satoru stops, backtracks a bit, approaches the topic from a different angle. “Jujutsu society is broken. I’m sure you already know that. But Suguru…he says he has a plan to help, to benefit all sorcerers, but he wants my assistance in enacting it. And I think…I think I’m gonna do it.”

Sukuna hums thoughtfully. “This plan he speaks of, what does it entail exactly?”

“I don’t know yet, but I trust him.” Satoru’s gaze shifts to his hands. He fidgets with them, searching for the right words to convey his thoughts. “He’s made mistakes in his past, but I know in his heart he really does want to save Jujutsu society, and I’m going to help him do it. But in the process, we’re going to anger a lot of sorcerers. And that’s why I’ll need your help too.” He shifts his gaze to Sukuna, the former curse’s expression impassive, betraying none of his thoughts. Even so, Satoru presses on. “By aligning with Suguru, I’ll basically become a curse user. The higher-ups will call for my execution—yours and Yuuji’s too, I’m sure. So, I’ll need you to protect Yuuji when I can’t—you and Uraume, ideally. We can figure out the details once I know more. So,” he prompts, “you in?”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Need you even ask?”

Satoru’s shoulders relax, a smile curving his lips. “Yeah, guess not. Obviously, you agree—”

“I refuse.”

“What?”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Sukuna demands, venom lacing his words. “Not only has this man betrayed your society, he has also betrayed you, and yet you’d so willingly put yourself and others at risk by allying with him based on nothing more than blind optimism?”

“It’s not blind optimism,” Satoru insists, “it’s trust—”

“It’s foolishness,” Sukuna interrupts, shaking his head. “He has spurned the very purpose of your society—he has killed those he had once sworn to protect. Do you honestly believe he plans to save this society? Or do you simply not care if non-sorcerers die?”

“Of course I care!” Satoru shouts, hands curling into fists. “And if we can save Jujutsu society, we’ll be able to save them too!”

“How?”

“Suguru has a plan—”

Sukuna laughs—haughty, fake. “Oh right, a plan! A plan that he cannot risk sharing with you while you’re still a Jujutsu sorcerer. Does that not seem at all suspicious?”

Satoru grits his teeth, averting his gaze. “Obviously it’s not reassuring, but I trust him, and he trusts me.”

Sukuna scoffs. “Fine, then I’ll ask a different question.” And Satoru braces himself, unable to predict just where Sukuna is headed with this. Arms crossed over his chest, Sukuna asks, “When he turned his back on your society, when he set off on his first crusade to supposedly save the sorcerers, did he ever once request your aid?”

Satoru sighs. “No, but that was—”

“Different?” Sukuna hums. “Yes, you’re likely right. But why is it different now? What’s changed? That’s the question you need to consider before stumbling blindly into his trap.”

“There’s no trap,” Satoru argues. He huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, Suguru, he—back then, he wasn’t well. He made some poor choices, lost his way. He didn’t ask for my help because he knew I’d never agree. The fact that he’s asking now must mean that he’s better, that he’s himself again.”

“And if he’s not?” Sukuna challenges. “What if the reason he seeks your aid now is simply because he failed to achieve his goals alone? What if all this is simply a plan to trick you, to use you—”

And Satoru’s on his feet before he realizes he even moved. “He wouldn’t do that!”

Sukuna just raises a brow. “And how can you be certain?”

“Because I know him! I know he wouldn’t do that to me!” Satoru paces the length of the sofa now, hand dragging through his hair, nearly tugging at the strands. “He’s my best friend, my one and only. He’s—fuck, he’s everything to me, okay? I love him! I love him so damn much, I can hardly bear it.” His chest burns. He presses his hand to it, wills the feeling away, but it doesn’t dissipate. It never does. Perhaps it never will. He looks down upon Sukuna, forces all the vitriol he can muster into his words when he continues. “I can’t expect you to understand how this feels. I doubt you’re even capable of something as human as love.”

And Sukuna doesn’t respond, not right away. He levels Satoru with a glare, so cruel, so callous, and it’s a wonder how eyes so red can burn so cold. “You’re right,” he says at last, and despite the emotion in his gaze, his tone his oddly neutral. “And that’s precisely why I’m not so blinded by such a trivial emotion, why I can see just how foolish you’re being.”

Sukuna leans back against the sofa, crosses one leg over the other, and despite their difference in elevation, he still manages to glare down his nose at the sorcerer. “You’ve let your love—no, your obsession—eat away into your very soul. The moment that man betrayed you, you should have severed him like a dead limb and cauterized the wound. But no, you’ve left yourself bleeding out for far too long now, let ruin and rot lay waste to your soul. If you keep going like this, it’s only a matter of time until you completely succumb.”

And Satoru…he just laughs—exasperated, humourless. “No,” he says, shaking his head, a near manic grin on his face. “No, I’m not doing this. I’m not just gonna stand here and let you lecture me about this.”

He makes his way for the door. Sukuna’s voice follows him. “You’re making a mistake, Six Eyes.”

Satoru tugs his boots on. “I’m leaving.”

“This won’t end well,” Sukuna warns as Satoru rips open the front door. “This will destroy you.”

Satoru throws his hands up, whirling on Sukuna. “Then I’ll let it! I don’t care anymore.” His eyes burn, his chest burns, he’s not sure if he’s even breathing anymore. “I want this, okay? I want him.”

“Wait, Satoru—”

He slams the door behind him.

Though Suguru never gave him directions for finding him again, Satoru knows he’ll find him in the village, has a feeling that’s where he’ll be. Sure enough, Suguru is waiting for him, seated on a bench in front of what appears to be a small hostel, judging by the signs posted out front.

When Suguru notices his approach, he sets aside the book he was reading, smiling warmly up at him. “Satoru. I knew you’d return.”

Satoru offers him a charming smile, hands tucked into his pockets. “Of course. You know I wouldn’t leave you waiting long.”

Suguru laughs lightly at that. “I assume your answer is favourable, then?”

“It is,” Satoru confirms, extending his hand to his old friend. “I’m all in, Suguru. Let’s save this fucked up world.”

Suguru takes his hand, smile spreading even further across his face as he allows Satoru to pull him up from the bench. “Come,” he beckons, threading their fingers together, keeping him close. “We have much work to do.”

And Satoru should be thrilled, should be excited.

He feels like throwing up.

Chapter Text

Satoru wakes to pale dawn light, to warmth beneath his cheek. He sighs, nuzzling further into Suguru’s chest, unwilling to part with such comfort just yet. He’ll need to soon—he still has to return home before making his way to Jujutsu tech, after all—but he drags this moment out a little longer, lets his body melt into the heat of Suguru’s own, drifting on the edge of sleep.

He had stayed the night with Suguru in the quaint hostel, had spent the first moments hashing out details of the initial phase of Suguru’s plan, spent the hours following that…catching up, so to speak. And now, finally feeling rejuvenated after a long, sleepless week, it’s time to put their plan into action, time for Satoru to rise, to do his part.

Slowly, he untangles himself from Suguru’s grasp, careful not to wake his sleeping friend. Suguru’s face creases as the bed shifts, and Satoru freezes, doesn’t dare move again until Suguru has settled, until his features relax once more, his chest maintaining the steady rise and fall of slumber.

He gathers his scattered clothes, silently pulling them on before sliding his shades into place. He does a quick pocket check—phone, keys, wallet all there—then casts one final look upon his sleeping friend. Suguru is beautiful like this—he always is, but there’s something especially enticing now about the way early dawn light illuminates his pale skin, the way his usually sharp features soften in sleep. Silky strands of ebony hair fall across his face, and Satoru doesn’t bother fighting the impulse, reaching out to swipe those stray strands away, pressing a gentle kiss to Suguru’s brow.

He pulls away, but he doesn’t get far. There’s a hand looped gently around his wrist, two dark eyes still clouded with sleep blinking blearily up at him. “You’re leaving?”

Satoru smiles softly. “For now. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Suguru mumbles something, eyes slipping shut once more. Satoru slips his wrist free, lingers long enough to gently squeeze Suguru’s hand before finally departing, making his way home for what is to be, on the surface, another ordinary day.

For that’s the first step: making sure the higher-ups don’t suspect a thing. According to Suguru, the plan will not reach maturity so soon, will need a bit of time to prepare, and though Satoru had insisted upon aiding him in the preparations (which Suguru still failed to elaborate on, but it’s fine), Suguru decided it best if Satoru maintained peace with the higher-ups for now. For as long as Satoru remains in their good graces, so too is he in a better position to keep an eye on them, to ensure they do not catch wind of Suguru’s plans. He supposes it makes, regardless of how underwhelming and tedious the task is. Regardless, he’ll complete his missions as usual, will actually pay attention to the meetings and report back any pertinent information to Suguru. His part is simple for now, almost…pointless, he has to admit, but if this is what Suguru wants of him, then he’ll go along with it.

He returns home a little later than intended, finding Yuuji and Sukuna already awake and in the kitchen. Yuuji sits in his high chair, rambling on about anything and everything his limited speech will allow as he stuffs his face with brightly coloured cereal. Sukuna doesn’t appear to be paying the boy’s ramblings any mind, gaze vacant as he leans against the island opposite Yuuji, occasionally lifting a steaming mug to his lips.

Still, his demeanour changes the instant Satoru arrives, gaze sharpening, red eyes burning with an anger Satoru has not before seen on the former curse’s face, as though he’s mere seconds away from making good on any one of his previous death threats. And the shift is so sudden, so quick, that Satoru can’t help but wonder: how much of that emotion is true, how much is an act?

He doesn’t bother to consider it for long, not when Yuuji appears so ecstatic to see him, is wriggling and bouncing in his chair with bright eyes and a massive grin as he makes a grabby motion with his hands. “Dada! Dada!”

Satoru matches his grin, bending down to plant a kiss to the child’s hair. “Good morning Yuuji! Sukuna.” He offers the greeting with a nod, but Sukuna just turns his back to him, making his way towards the half-full coffee pot. Satoru pats Yuuji on the head, then makes his way over too. “Leave some of that for me, would ya?”

Sukuna doesn’t respond. He tops off his mug, then shifts his burning gaze to Satoru, maintaining eye contact as he proceeds to pour the remaining pot of coffee down the sink.

Satoru scoffs. “Are you serious? C’mon—Sukuna.”

Still, Sukuna says nothing, replacing the pot on the counter before snatching up his full mug, roughly shoving past Satoru as he exits the kitchen. Moments later, a door slams—Sukuna’s bedroom door, Satoru assumes, the perfect way to complete such a childish display. Satoru huffs, eyes the now empty pot as he considers brewing more, then ultimately decides against it. Instead, he gets himself a glass of water and fixes himself a bowl of cereal, sitting next to Yuuji at the island to eat. Yuuji continues his ramblings from before, and Satoru offers a bit of input between bites as he eats his breakfast.

They finish eating, but Sukuna has yet to emerge. Satoru inwardly rolls his eyes, lifting Yuuji from his highchair and setting him loose to play, then busies himself with the dishes. Still, Sukuna remains absent. Satoru checks the time on his phone; he’ll need to leave soon if he wants to be only a little late for his morning briefing. If Sukuna doesn’t get his shit together soon, well…

He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

After ensuring Yuuji is happily occupied, Satoru heads to his room to change into clean clothes, then stops by the bathroom to finish getting ready. He pokes his head into the living room to check on Yuuji, still finding no sign of Sukuna. Satoru sighs.

He crosses the hallway, knocking on Sukuna’s door. “Hey, Sukuna. I’m about to head out. You got Yuuji today, yeah?”

There’s no response—oddly nostalgic, but Satoru doesn’t have time for it this morning. He knocks again, more forcefully this time. “Sukuna! As funny as this little temper tantrum of yours is, it’s really starting to piss me off. Just answer my damn question so I can leave.” No response. Satoru pounds his fist on the door. “Sukuna!”

The doorbell rings. Satoru groans, abandoning his current task. Who the hell could that be?

Satoru stomps his way to the front door, practically ripping it open. Upon the doorstep stands Uraume, and they appear as equally unimpressed to see Satoru as Satoru does them. And if Uraume is here now, after what had transpired last night, it can only mean one thing:

Sukuna is up to something.

Still, Satoru greets the curse user politely—voice a little terse, but oh well. “Uraume. I didn’t expect you today. What’s up?”

Uraume sneers at him. “Do not speak to me, sorcerer,” they demand, pushing rudely past Satoru and into the house. “Where is Lord Sukuna?”

Of course, after spending his morning completely ignoring Satoru, Sukuna is quick to emerge now, appearing so suddenly in the entryway, it nearly startles the sorcerer. “Uraume, come,” Sukuna orders, beckoning the curse user inside. “We’ve matters to discuss.”

Uraume complies, offering Sukuna a slight bow before heading into the living room. Still, Sukuna does not follow them immediately. Instead, he glares up at Satoru. “Well? I thought you were leaving.”

Satoru scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I am. Don’t neglect Yuuji today, yeah?”

From the living room, Uraume warns, “You are in no position to be giving out such demands, sorcerer.”

“Whatever.” Then Satoru forces the biggest, fakest smile he can muster to his face, utterly insufferable as he winks at Sukuna over the rims of his sunglasses, fluttering his fingers in a farewell wave. “Have fun conspiring against me!”

The rest of the day passes without incident, without interest; if Satoru were not gathering intel on Suguru’s behalf, he likely would have departed early, come up with some excuse to appease the higher-ups, or—perhaps more accurately—would have simply left without a word. At least then he’d know he’d have a good tongue-lashing waiting for him the next day—something to look forward to, something to break up the monotony of the day. But no, he needs to pull his weight in this partnership, even if it means sitting through boring meetings with sorcerers he can’t stand—who can’t stand him.

It's a shame it was all a waste of time today.

Satoru heads straight to the village once his business at the school has concluded for the day. He warps directly to the hostel, not wanting to waste anymore of his time, eager to return to Suguru. And so, it’s with a big smile splitting his lips that he throws open the door to Suguru’s room—left unlocked, the other man apparently unconcerned by the thought of intruders—loudly announcing his presence. “Honey, I’m home!”

“Welcome back,” Suguru greets, rising from where he’d been seated on the edge of the bed to meet Satoru, pulling him in close for a chaste kiss. “How was your day?”

Finally, a proper greeting. Satoru wraps his arms around Suguru, shrugging. “Boring. Nothing to report intel-wise. The higher-ups are as foolish as ever.”

Suguru chuckles at that. “Well, I suppose that works in our favour then.”

And perhaps Suguru has more to say on the matter, but Satoru doesn’t hear it, dipping his head to capture Suguru’s lips once more in a kiss, body relaxing against his friend’s. It would be so easy to get used to this, would make the suffering of sitting through even the most tedious meeting worth it if he could always come home to this. Satoru’s only had a taste of this possible life, a mere glimpse, a breath, and already, he’s hooked.

Suguru withdraws too soon, slipping from Satoru’s hold with a smile, paying no mind to the pout that settles on Satoru’s lonely lips. He steps around Satoru, making his way for the door. “Come,” he says, beckoning Satoru along. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Suguru leads him away from the hostel, through the oddly vacant streets until they reach the edge of the village. From there, they travel by air, carried on the back of one of Suguru’s curses, making short time of the trip. And Satoru missed this, the wind cutting through his hair, the feeling of being so high up, the speed, the exhilaration. It had been far too long since he and Suguru had done anything like this, since they had gone for joyrides through the sky, truly embraced the mischief their minds and abilities could devise.

Even so, the ride does not last long, Suguru bringing the curse down at the gates of a traditional estate, grand yet noticeably aged and worn. They dismount their ride, the curse disappearing when Suguru releases his technique, then leads the way inside, through the broken gates and up the expansive walk. There’s a garden that greets them first—once a sight to behold, now unkempt and overgrown—and after crossing a short foot bridge over a narrow stream, they finally reach the main house. Suguru slides open the shoji, beckoning Satoru inside first.

Satoru enters, whistling at the sight that greets him. The place is impressive, the furnishings all in relatively good condition, artwork still adorning the walls. Everything is coated in a thick layer of dust, but otherwise, the place seems untouched. Sukuna would love this, Satoru thinks, then quickly pushes the thought aside. No, stop that. Don’t think about him when you’re with Suguru.

“What is this place?” Satoru asks, turning towards Suguru.

Suguru hums. “I’m not certain who it once belonged to, but they must’ve been quite well-off. Even so, it’s been abandoned—has been for some time, as far as I can see. I figured it may be a better choice of headquarters for you and I.”

“It’s nice, that’s for sure.” Satoru toes off his boots, making his way farther inside. Abandoned, Suguru had said, and he’s certainly right about that. There’s no suggestion that anyone had been here in years. But why abandon such a beautiful home? Why leave all their possessions behind in the process? It doesn’t make sense, not unless… “There was a curse here,” Satoru observes, the traces barely lingering, near impossible to sense. In fact, had it not been for his abilities, he likely wouldn’t have noticed. “Either the inhabitants were driven out, or they were slaughtered.”

“I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating,” Suguru says with a frown. “I assure you, I had no hand in the matter.”

“What? I never said that you did,” Satoru points out, confused. Suguru had sounded so defensive—so offended—by Satoru’s innocuous statement. Perhaps he feels guilty about the non-sorcerers he had previously slain, the mistakes he had made. It’s a good sign—reassuring, even.

Still, when Suguru’s frown doesn’t relax, Satoru sighs, shaking his head. “Relax, would you? It was just an observation. I meant nothing by it, I promise.”

Suguru doesn’t respond.

They continue their exploration, checking out the rooms one by one, finding all in much the same state as the first. As they walk, Satoru asks, “How are the mysterious preparations coming along?”

Suguru hums. “Everything is going smoothly so far,” he reveals, though provides no true detail on the matter. “Currently I’m working to determine the most opportune moment to enact my plan. I fear I will only have one shot at this, so best to get it right the first time.”

“We,” Satoru corrects. “You mean we will only have one shot at it.”

“Isn’t that what I said?” But before Satoru can refute him, Suguru waves a dismissive hand. “Oh well, it’s not important.”

They finally come to a stop in what appears to be the main sleeping room, two futons already laid out, a small duffel bag next to one—likely Suguru’s possessions. “Well?” Suguru prompts, turning to Satoru with a smile. “Will this for now suffice as our base of operations?”

“It’s a little out of the way for me,” Satoru points out, shrugging a shoulder, “but I can make it work. At least the seclusion makes it easier to warp back and forth.”

Suguru’s head tilts. “What do you mean, out of the way?”

“Y’know—” Satoru shrugs again— “it’s pretty far away from my house. And if I’m gonna be going from here to the house to the school, then back here, it’s a lot of jumping around.”

Suguru’s expression is noticeably more strained, his smile no longer reaching his eyes. “You…are returning home? I had assumed you’d be staying.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to—trust me, I really, really, want to—it’s just that—” Satoru sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I need to go home tonight, make sure Yuuji’s okay. I…sort of messed up yesterday. I told Sukuna that I’d be partnering with you again—tried to convince him to join too, only to ensure Yuuji had additional protection against the higher-ups, but…I’m worried I may have done the opposite. I’m certain Sukuna’s plotting something, I just don’t know what. So I need to go home and check on the two of them, just to be safe.”

The smile has vanished from Suguru’s face at this point, expression nothing more than a blank slate—carefully impassive, carefully guarded. After a moment, he responds, “I see. I had heard rumours of the alleged relationship plot between you and that curse, but I was unaware you were still entertaining such a farce.”

“He’s not a curse anymore,” Satoru defends, then wonders why he’s even bothering defending Sukuna, “and we dropped that whole fake-relationship thing a long time ago. Now we’re just…acquaintances—barely that. He’s only sticking around because of Yuuji.”

Suguru hums. “And what of his abilities? Has he retained any of his former power?”

Satoru shakes his head. “No, all of his cursed energy is sealed away. But he’s been training with a subordinate of his to build up his natural physical strength, and has access to a variety of cursed tools now. Honestly, I couldn’t really say how strong he is at this point—just that he’s still leagues below you and me.”

“Then your little mistake is easy to rectify,” Suguru points out. “Dispose of him and any who ally with him before he has the opportunity to create problems for you.”

“It’s not that simple,” Satoru argues. “If I get rid of them, that’ll leave no one else to protect Yuuji.”

Suguru shrugs. “Yes, I suppose if protecting the child is your true goal, my suggestion would create issues. In any case, it’s likely far too late for such action. Sukuna has probably already sold you out to the higher-ups and absconded with the child.”

And Satoru…he hadn’t considered that possibility yet, had he?

“Shit. I gotta go. Now.”

Without awaiting Suguru’s response, Satoru warps himself away, appearing directly inside the living room of his house. He does a quick assessment: there are no Jujutsu sorcerers present, so the likelihood of Sukuna involving the higher-ups is slim, thank God. More importantly, Satoru can still sense Yuuji’s cursed energy within the home—that strange mix of Satoru’s and Sukuna’s energies easy to locate. Satoru’s shoulders slump, tension evaporating in an instant. Everything is fine; he’d been worried for nothing.

Well, maybe not for nothing, but still.

Satoru finds Sukuna and Yuuji in the child’s bedroom, the latter preparing for sleep. When Satoru enters, two heads turn toward him—only one appearing happy to see him. Yuuji stands up in his crib, leaning against the railing as he reaches out for Satoru. “Dada! Book!”

Ah, so it’s story time. Honestly, Satoru is a little surprised Sukuna has even bothered with this aspect of the child’s bedtime routine. Typically, it’s Satoru who puts the boy to bed, after all. And yet, seated in the rocking chair pulled up next to crib is Sukuna, one of Yuuji’s small storybooks in hand and a sharp glare on his face as he regards Satoru.

Satoru ignores him for now, crossing the room to ruffle his son’s hair. “I see that, buddy. C’mon, lay back down now. It’s time to rest.”

Yuuji complies, still giggling and wiggling until Satoru maneuvers the boy onto his stomach, soothingly rubbing his back. And Satoru expects Sukuna to leave then, to hand over the book and shift the responsibility back to Satoru, so it’s even more surprising when Sukuna just rolls his eyes, flipping open the book and beginning to read.

And Satoru…now he feels a little more guilty, doubting Sukuna’s intentions, especially when it comes to Yuuji. After everything they’ve been through, everything they’ve discussed, Satoru should know better than to assume Sukuna would do anything to put Yuuji’s safety at risk.

But still.

Sukuna’s never been this angry with Satoru—not since the very beginning of their tentative partnership, long before Sukuna had began dedicating his time to Yuuji’s care. Satoru can’t really be blamed for his worry.

Between the story and the backrubs, Yuuji falls asleep easily. Satoru and Sukuna depart from his room, shutting off the lamp but leaving the night light. Before Sukuna has a chance to slip away, Satoru grabs his wrist. “Hey, Sukuna—”

But Sukuna frees himself from Satoru’s grip easily, turning on his heel and crossing the hall to his bedroom. He disappears inside, closing the door firmly—but still gently, quietly—behind him. Satoru sighs, something twisting within his chest.

He should’ve just stayed with Suguru.

Sukuna bounces the brat idly on his knee as he waits, the child squealing with delight at the action. It hadn’t started off as a game, a source of entertainment for the brat; Sukuna had been restless that afternoon, leg bouncing without his notice, and the child had simply capitalized on the opportunity. Sukuna allowed the game to continue, if only because the child had been admittedly quite masterful in catching Sukuna unawares, in luring him into his scheme.

(Maybe it’s a little funny too, watching the boy struggle to remain upright as Sukuna bounces him. It’s an easy distraction from his thoughts, in any case.)

Uraume should have returned by now. After their discussion yesterday—after giving them their orders—he had instructed Uraume to report back to him by noon the day following regardless of their findings. And yet, it’s now nearly two in the afternoon—long past the deadline—and while that sort of lateness once would have infuriated Sukuna, would have been grounds for punishment, for execution, now…

Sukuna is just worried.

Not that he believes Uraume weak—they never would have lasted a minute at his side had they been anything less than exceptional—but with an opponent as powerful and presently unpredictable as Suguru Geto, Sukuna cannot help but grow more anxious the longer it takes for Uraume to return.

Finally, there’s a knock on the door. Sukuna nearly sends the brat flying in his haste to rise, to answer the door. Still, he does still have half a mind to wrap an arm around the child before he can fall, setting the boy against his hip as he makes his way to the door.

Uraume bows low as soon as the door opens. “Lord Sukuna, please forgive my impertinence. I had not intended to keep you waiting.”

“Raise your head, Uraume. There is no injury here.” Sukuna steps aside, beckoning his servant forth. “Come. Tell me what you’ve uncovered.”

With another bow, Uraume complies. “I must apologize again,” they say, making their way inside. “I was unable to find out anything more about Suguru Geto. Since leaving the sorcerer school, no trace of the man remains.”

Sukuna frowns. “Really? A man with that power and ambition has left no trail at all?” He hums, depositing the brat on the playmat before returning to his seat on the sofa. “How strange.”

Uraume nods. “That’s precisely what I thought. So, I tried looking into it further—possible aliases, witnesses, anything I could think of. Even so, my search turned up empty.”

“So, either he’s acquired an ally capable of completely erasing his presence,” Sukuna surmises, “or he’s simply left no witnesses alive to betray his movements.”

“No record of such an ability exists within the sorcerers’ records, and he seems far too careful a man to risk allying with a stranger,” Uraume reveals. “I’d say the latter is more likely. As such, I looked into the village in which your sorcerer first made contact with Geto.”

Your sorcerer. Sukuna huffs, leaving that matter be for now. He has far more important things to deal with. “And? What did you find there?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Sukuna echoes, frowning. “You mean, the villagers had all been slain?”

Uraume shakes their head. “No, I mean the villagers were never there. That village had been abandoned several years prior.”

Sukuna sighs, leaning forward on his elbows, fingers steepled before him. “So, it was a set-up from the start. This is…more troubling than I’d originally thought.”

Uraume bows. “I’ll continue my search at once. There must be something else I can—”

“Rest for now, Uraume,” Sukuna interrupts, waving a hand. “You’ve done well.”

Uraume hesitates a moment. Still, they do not argue, dipping their head in a slight nod before slowly lowering their self into the nearby armchair. “Thank you, Lord Sukuna.”

Sukuna rises from his seat, mulling over this new information as he heads to the kitchen, setting a kettle to boil. So, Geto had created a falsified village to use as leverage against Gojo, a way to ensure his initial cooperation. Geto must have a cursed spirit under his control capable of such illusions; it would explain why Gojo hadn’t noticed anything amiss within the village, had likely attributed the scent of Geto’s cursed technique to the man himself, not the curse under his employ. It was a clever ruse, Sukuna has to hand it to him, masterfully accomplished as well. The man certainly seems capable.

So why insist upon Gojo’s involvement? The more Sukuna considers the facts, the more certain he is that Gojo is walking into a trap. But what kind of trap? What is Geto’s end goal?

He finishes preparing the tea, pouring it into two cups, carrying them out to the living room. Uraume rises, a panicked look in their eye. “Lord Sukuna—”

Sukuna shakes his head, placing one of the steaming mugs on the coffee table before them. “Allow me, Uraume.”

Uraume’s eyes are still wide. And Sukuna—well, he supposes the reaction is warranted. Had he ever been the one to prepare and serve their tea before? He can’t recall. Still, Uraume eventually accepts the offer, doesn’t call him out for this strange behaviour. “Yes. Thank you.”

They sit in silence for a moment, savouring the tea. At some point, the brat grabs one of his books and climbs up onto the couch next to Sukuna, pressing himself right next to the latter’s side. Sukuna clicks his tongue but allows the action, if only to avoid a potential tantrum. The boy holds the book up to Sukuna—it’s an animal book, one that depicts one animal for a corresponding letter of the alphabet—and when Sukuna makes no move to accept the book, the boy huffs, bringing the book to his lap and opening it himself. The brat hums to himself as he flips through the pages, and while Sukuna is certain it occurs by mere coincidence, he can’t help but smile when the boy pauses on the page for the letter S, pointing to the creature shown there. “Nake.”

“A snake indeed,” Sukuna confirms with a chuckle. He takes another sip from his tea, then addresses Uraume once more. “It’s been far too long since we last came upon such an intriguing opponent. If time were on our side, I’d have liked to draw this out longer, truly pick apart this man’s strategy and technique, work it to our favour.”

Uraume frowns. “You don’t believe we have time.”

“No. For the man to be so willing to align himself with Gojo once more, either he is far too confident in his plan, or too desperate.” Sukuna shakes his head, setting his now-empty mug aside. “In either case, it won’t be long until he acts. And with so much still left unknown regarding the curses at his disposal and his true intentions, we simply do not have the time nor the means for a satisfactory pre-emptive strike. We’ll have to fall to defense this time.”

Uraume nods, placing their mug on the coffee table before rising. “Understood. I’ll begin preparations at once.”

“Good. While you’re at it, continue to monitor the underworld for signs of Geto’s movements. He may still reveal himself in the final hour. And one more thing—” he adds before Uraume departs. “Simple cursed tools may not be enough for this fight. Without my cursed energy, I’m at too severe a disadvantage.”

“You’d like to take back your cursed energy from the child?” Uraume asks, sounding just a touch too eager.

Sukuna shakes his head. “No, that feat has already proven impossible. We must approach the matter differently now. Scour the underworld, seek out a tool or ability capable of granting cursed energy—if only temporarily.”

Uraume frowns. “Something capable to granting cursed energy. I shall do my best, but—"

“Yes, I’m aware this is likely an impossible task,” he interrupts, “so do not neglect your prior duties in favour of this.”

Uraume bows. “Understood.”

“Good.” And there’s a familiar excitement that flares in his core, the anticipation of a difficult battle ahead. Though there is still much left unknown about the situation, there is one thing of which Sukuna is certain. “Regardless of what you find,” he declares, a grin stretching his lips, “we will not lose.”

It only takes a few days of meaningless missions, of boring meetings and tightly-kept secrets, for Satoru to reach the end of his patience. He paces the length of the engawa that lines the front of the old estate, arms folded over his chest and fingers tapping impatiently against his biceps as he awaits Suguru’s return.

He senses his friend’s arrival before he sees him, feels the pulse of his energy as he releases his technique, the curse he’d been travelling upon disappearing. Still, Suguru takes his time in his approach, strolling up the long walkway with an amused smile on his face and a shopping bag hooked over his arm. “I’m back,” he announces as he reaches the edge of engawa, ascending the stairs.

“Welcome back,” Satoru replies, stopping next to Suguru. “I’m losing my mind.”

Suguru laughs. “Join me inside. I have sake and good news.”

Suguru leads the way inside, Satoru following at his heels. As Suguru goes to retrieve two cups, Satoru settles next to the kotatsu—doesn’t bother stretching his legs out beneath it, the temperature far too warm for such a thing (though with the winter months approaching, Satoru should really acquire one for his home; there’s plenty of underutilized space on the second floor for it). Suguru joins him moments later, filling their cups with sake after he settles across the table.

“So,” Satoru prompts, “what’s this good news?”

“I have a new task for you,” Suguru says, taking a sip of his sake. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Inverted Spear of Heaven?”

Satoru nearly chokes on his drink. He disguises it as a laugh, nervously rubbing his neck. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Still, Suguru notices the discomfort in his reaction. “I apologize,” he says, though there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes. “That was rather tactless of me. In any case, do you know what became of it after the attack?”

After you pulled it from your still bleeding neck, is what Suguru means. Satoru nods. “Tengen has it. After the close call with Fushiguro, the higher-ups felt that was the best place for it.”

“Just as I thought.” Suguru takes another drink, then sighs. “In that case, I’d like you to retrieve it.”

Satoru blinks at him. “Why?”

“I’d think it was obvious,” Suguru says with a shrug. “In the process of saving Jujutsu society, it’s unavoidable that we will first make an enemy of them. It would be irresponsible of us to leave such a powerful weapon in their hands, wouldn’t you agree?”

 Satoru laughs, fidgeting with his cup. “Yeah, guess you’re right. But it’s not gonna be easy getting it back. I mean, I doubt Tengen will just hand it over, not without good reason. It would be easy to take it by force, but…”

“The higher-ups will know you are no longer their ally,” Suguru finishes his thought. “Yes, I had considered that. Still, it’s far more important we obtain the spear now instead of waiting until it’s too late.”

And everything Suguru says makes sense—Satoru knows it does—and yet… He can’t help but hesitate. And it’s more than just a general nervousness that surrounds the spear, the thought of what it’s capable of. It’s the recognition that, once Satoru reveals himself in opposition to the higher-ups, the threat against Yuuji increases tenfold even with Sukuna and Uraume’s protection. And with still so much unknown about Suguru’s plans…

Can Satoru take that risk?

After a moment, Satoru sighs. “I’ll get the spear, but on one condition.”

Suguru raises a brow. “I didn’t realize this was a negotiation.”

“Just hear me out.” Satoru takes another swig of sake—of courage. “I’ll retrieve the spear, but in exchange, you have to tell me your plan—everything about it. No more keeping secrets.”

“Is that all?” Suguru asks, a slight chuckle in his voice. He refills their cups, raises his to Satoru. “In that case, we have a deal.”

Satoru knocks his cup against Suguru’s. “Deal.”

It’s early in the morning of the next day that Satoru returns home, long before either Yuuji or Sukuna would rise. He slips silently into his room, throws his essentials into a bag. He’s…not certain how long he’ll be gone, only knows that he has to leave. He has to—if Yuuji stands any chance at survival, he has to.

It doesn’t make leaving any easier.

Bag slung over his shoulder, Satoru pauses at the door to Yuuji’s room. The boy is sound asleep inside his crib, chest rising and falling in gentle waves, blankets tangled around his feet. Satoru should leave—should get it over with, rip the bandage off, suffer the hurt all at once rather than drag it out—yet still he lingers, quietly slipping into the sleeping boy’s room.

Yuuji’s face is relaxed, mouth slightly parted, soft snores drifting through the air. Satoru smiles down at him, resisting the urge to reach out, to caress his soft skin, ruffle his hair. He can’t rouse the boy—would only make things so much harder if Yuuji were awake to see him leave.

Satoru swallows the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry, buddy,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Daddy’s gotta go away for a while.”

For it’s only a matter of time before Satoru is declared an enemy, only a matter of time before the hunt for him begins. If Satoru returns home after, he endangers Yuuji, leads the sorcerers right to him. But if he can draw them away, give Sukuna time to get himself and Yuuji into hiding until it’s safe, until Satoru and Suguru have completed their plan and reformed the Jujutsu world…

It's a long shot, but it’s the only shot he has.

Satoru sighs. “There are a lot of bad people in the world—people who don’t deserve someone as good as you. But I’m gonna change that. I’ll force this broken world to change its ways, turn it into something that’s worthy of you. I promise.”

Yuuji shifts slightly, snores interrupted as he kicks a leg, still tangled in his blanket. Thankfully, he settles again after a moment. Satoru smiles, gently unwrapping the blanket from around the boy’s leg, laying it next to him in the crib. Yuuji makes a soft noise, but remains asleep.

Satoru takes a deep breath—one that rattles painfully in his chest. “Bye for now, Yuuji,” he says, slowly backing away from the crib. “I love you.”

He doesn’t linger any longer after that.

Satoru makes his way to Jujutsu Tech, bypassing the initial protective barrier by warping directly to warehouse in which cursed objects and tools are typically stored. He pauses there a moment, seeking out the Inverted Spear’s energy, but finding it absent within the warehouse—disappointing, but not surprising. A tool that important was likely being held within Tengen’s chambers, impossible to penetrate without invitation. It…makes things a lot more difficult for Satoru, surely, but…

Oh well; he'll figure it out.

He traverses the indoor forest area, locating the elevator that would bring him to the Tomb of the Star’s main corridor. Upon exiting the elevator, he emerges into a massive cavern lined with old buildings, a thick and gnarled tree at the centre reaching high to the ceiling above. There’s a path that leads to the base of the tree—the location of Tengen’s chambers, if Satoru’s intel is correct—and he makes his way along it, coming to a stop at the entrance to Tengen’s shrine. This is the moment of truth, for even with Satoru’s abilities, he will not be able to bypass this final barrier without Tengen’s permission, will likely be unable to receive their permission without good reason.

Taking a deep breath, Satoru steps inside.

Before him stands who must be none other than Tengen, the ancient sorcerer treading a fine line between human and curse. Traditional robes cloak their body, disguising the true extent of their uniqueness, though the effect is lost to the strangely square shape of their head, to the four eyes that peer curiously at Satoru as he enters. And for Tengen to be here now—or rather, for Satoru to be—it can only mean one thing:

Tengen must have known he was coming, must have sensed his approach and granted him entry, must not have determined Satoru to be a threat.

Not yet, at least.

“Master Tengen!” Satoru greets cheerfully, plastering a bright smile to his face. “You look…different than I thought you would.”

“That is far from a polite greeting, Satoru Gojo,” Tengen scolds. “Though I suppose your reaction is warranted. After the failure to protect the Star Plasma Vessel over one year ago, my form has continued to evolve into something a little less…human.”

“Star Plasma Vessel?” Satoru echoes, hands on his hips. “This is the first time I’m hearing about this. Why wasn’t I called in for the mission?”

Tengen tilts their head. “I had thought you were. Perhaps my memory is failing me.” They shake their head, explaining, “It was your friend Suguru Geto who headed that mission, alongside a few students from the Tokyo school. I believe it would have occurred shortly after your graduation.”

Suguru had been involved. But if that was the case, then why…?

“He…he never mentioned anything of the sort,” Satoru admits, frowning. “Why wouldn’t he have told me about it?”

Tengen hums. “I cannot say. Perhaps you were otherwise indisposed at the time. Still,” they say, shifting the topic. “I’m certain you are not here now on a social call.”

Ah, so Tengen must already have their suspicions. Still, Satoru just shrugs. “What makes you say that?”

“Call it an old granny’s intuition,” they reply, a slight smile on their lips. “Though I do not sense the world is in danger yet, I fear something may be brewing. That is why you are here, is it not?”

Satoru shakes his head. “Nah, nothing of the sort.” Still, if Tengen is already this suspicious, there’s no need for Satoru to drag things out. “Look, I’ll cut right to the chase. I’m gonna need the Inverted Spear of Heaven back.”

“You claim there is no danger, yet request such a powerful tool,” Tengen observes. “That strikes me as rather odd.”

“It’s just a precaution,” Satoru says, waving a hand vaguely. “Can’t have anyone use it against me again, y’know.”

“Which is precisely why it was entrusted to my protection in the first place.” Tengen takes a slow step forward, approaching Satoru. “Something is wrong with you, Satoru Gojo. You aren’t normally so insecure.”

“I’m not—” But he cuts his protest short, scoffing. “Look, I’m really not in the mood to mess around here. Either hand over the spear now, or I’ll have to take it by force. And you know you won’t be able to stop me.”

Despite the threat, Tengen does not appear swayed. “Humour me a moment, would you?” they ask. “I don’t receive many visitors. I know it’s vital to the safety of our society, but…that doesn’t make it any less lonely. I’m sure you understand.”

“I don’t, but fine.” Satoru crosses his arms over his chest, playing along for now. “What’s up? Want me to catch you up on the latest gossip? I’ve got a hilarious story to tell you about Utahime—”

“Why have you grown so unsure of yourself, Satoru Gojo?” Tengen interrupts. “All the stories I’ve heard of you speak to your grand confidence—arrogance, many have called it, though based upon the power I sense in you, such confidence is earned. And yet, when I look upon you now, you appear…”

“More handsome than you pictured?” Satoru interrupts, tipping his shades slightly to fix Tengen with a wink. “Yeah, I get that a lot—”

“Afraid,” Tengen finishes, and Satoru stills. “Your soul quivers, Satoru Gojo.”

His smile wavers, but he holds it in place, forcing a laugh. “You must be going senile, grandma. I’m perfectly fine.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets—casual, unbothered. “It wasn’t even my idea to get the spear—ah, probably shouldn’t have let that slip.”

“Not your idea?” Tengen echoes questioningly. “Then whose?”

Satoru does not respond. Still hidden away, his hands tighten into fists.

Tengen sighs. “Yours is not an easy path, but I fear you make it even harder.”

Satoru frowns. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly as I say.” Tengen dips their head slightly, gaze dropping to the floor below—despondent, almost. “You see the proper way, yet let yourself be pulled astray.”

“That’s not—”

“Is it love, Satoru Gojo?” they interrupt suddenly, four eyes lifting to peer into Satoru’s two. “They say love is a source of strength, so why does yours cause you to waver?”

Satoru looks away first. He scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “This is ridiculous. All you old geezers trying to lecture me about love.” He shakes his head. “I’m done listening. You have nothing you can teach me.”

Tengen pauses. For a moment, Satoru fears they will try to argue further. But then they relent, dipping their head in a nod. “Then do what you must,” they say, and from within the wide sleeves of their robes, they retrieve the spear—had they had it all along? Satoru never sensed it, but perhaps Tengen had it hidden within another barrier. Whatever—it doesn’t make a difference now.

Tengen holds the cursed tool out to him. “Take the spear—I know I cannot stop you. But before you do, Satoru Gojo,” they add, and Satoru’s hand pauses mid-air, “please heed my advice: do not lose your head in pursuit of your heart. The world may not survive if you do.”

Wordlessly, Satoru accepts the spear, fingers trembling slightly as they wrap around its hilt.

If Tengen notices, they say nothing.

Satoru spends the next day holed up in the old estate, awaiting the inevitable confrontation, for Yaga or one of the higher-ups to question his theft of the spear, to declare him an enemy. And yet, the day passes without incident; it would seem Tengen had not reported the crime—not yet, at least. Perhaps they are giving Satoru an opportunity to repent, to return the spear and make amends…

As if he would.

Even so, Satoru doesn’t mention his success to Suguru right away, keeps the spear hidden in a separate location—somewhere secure. Whenever Suguru asks about it, Satoru claims he’s still trying to ascertain a way to bypass Tengen’s barriers, and though Suguru doesn’t seem convinced, he doesn’t call him out for his obvious hesitation either—likely understands his reasoning, the risks associated with stealing the spear.

And Satoru isn’t sure why he continues to keep the spear’s possession a secret from Suguru, why the thought of making it known tangles his stomach into a myriad of knots, nor does he want to think about it.

(It's all he can think about.)

He takes the next few days off, texts Yaga for the request, a phone call too insurmountable a task. Yaga accepts the request without challenge, without question even, and it’s…far too suspicious. Perhaps Tengen had revealed what had transpired, had instructed the sorcerers to stay their arms for now, wait for Satoru to act first. Still, it works in Satoru’s favour, gives him more time to think—to not think—to run his mind in circles until nothing makes sense anymore.

Satoru spends much of his time alone in the estate. Suguru is out for most of the day, busy with his preparations, or so he says. What those preparations entail still eludes Satoru, Suguru remaining tight-lipped on the matter, revealing none of his plans to Satoru now, even a week into their new partnership—won’t reveal them, not until Satoru hands over the spear. And Satoru gets that, knows they made a deal, but still.

They never used to keep secrets from each other.

(But Suguru hadn’t told him about the failed mission to retrieve the Star Plasma Vessel, hadn’t confided in him when his faith began to waver…)

Still, they trust each other, trust that they have the best intentions in mind. There’s no cause for concern here, not while there’s still trust—

You don’t trust anyone, Sukuna had said. Not even yourself.

And Satoru doesn’t want to think about Sukuna right now, but once the memory returns, it’s hard to ignore. For even Tengen had said something similar, hadn’t they? They’d called him insecure, unsure, afraid—

And they’re right.

There once was a time when Satoru could say he’s the strongest and mean it. Now, it’s an empty phrase, a reflex, one his many facades. He hadn’t always been so paranoid, so unconfident, had strutted into situations without all the pieces and still managed to come out on top. Back then, he never once doubted his abilities, his decisions. But now…

His peace of mind is all but gone, another part of him that had died long ago; he just failed to notice.

“What’s going on inside that mind of yours?” Suguru’s voice breaks through his reverie. It’s late, the only illumination in the room cast from the moon overhead, slotting in through tiny holes that speckle the worn-out shoji.

“Huh?” Sprawled on his back on his futon, Satoru turns his head towards his friend. “Oh, nothing really. Just…thinking.”

Suguru chuckles. “That much was obvious,” he teases, propping himself up on one arm, peering down at Satoru. Like this, his body blocks out the light, his face cast in dark shadows. “You can tell me anything, you know.”

“I know,” Satoru replies, reaching up to play with the stray strands of hair that fall over Suguru’s shoulder. After a moment, he finally comes to a decision. “I’m… I’m gonna get the spear tomorrow.”

Suguru stills. “You’re certain?”

Satoru nods. “Yeah. I promise.”

Before Satoru can react, Suguru is upon him, lips capturing his in a kiss—deep, lingering. Satoru wraps his arms around him, pulling him in closer, fingers tangling in soft hair. And even when they have to pull apart to breathe, Suguru remains close, head pillowed against Satoru’s chest. “You better keep that promise,” he says.

And Satoru replies, “You better keep yours.”

No more insecurity, no more doubts. For Satoru…trusts Suguru, but more than that, he trusts himself. No matter what path lays ahead, Satoru trusts himself to handle it.

He’s the strongest, after all.

Satoru wastes no time after that. He departs the next morning to retrieve the spear, warping himself to the far-off continent on which he had stored the tool for safe keeping. He returns to the estate soon after, finding Suguru seated on the front steps of the estate, two mugs of tea set out next to him. Satoru joins him, passing along the spear—still bound tightly in cloth and sealing papers, but unmistakably the spear.

Suguru hums. “So, this is it?” he asks, easily removing the bindings. The mid-morning sun shines brilliantly upon the spear’s sharpened blades. Suguru inspects the tool, carefully turning it over in his hands. “What a marvelous tool.”

“Yeah,” Satoru agrees, though he still averts his gaze—busies himself with the tea Suguru prepared for him. It’s warm, but a little too bitter for his tastes. He swallows it down regardless. “Looks a lot better when it’s not stabbed through my neck.”

Or in your back, a voice in his mind supplies, but Satoru ignores it. It sounds too much like Sukuna.

“Well, you carried out your end. It’s time for me to do the same.” Suguru sets the spear aside for now, lifting his mug to his face instead. Still, he doesn’t drink it, just lets the steam caress his skin. “Although I have managed to acquire an acceptable arsenal of curses, I know I’m not near strong enough to reform society to my liking. Ordinary curses will never be enough. That’s why I determined I had to think bigger. I had to target not just ordinary curses, but legendary ones, ones that managed to conquer entire armies single-handedly, whose reign spanned countless generations of sorcerers.”

“I—” Satoru pauses, runs through Suguru’s words once again. No matter how he looks at it, the result remains the same. But that can’t be right—it can’t be. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying, are you?”

Suguru shrugs. “At first, I thought that task impossible—you already took care to destroy the most eligible candidate, after all. But then I recalled something: you never truly destroyed that cursed spirit, you simply sealed it away.” He shakes his head, dark eyes distant. “All that unfathomable power, that untapped potential, locked away in a pathetic vessel. It would be irresponsible of me not to take advantage.”

And Satoru...he can’t believe he’s hearing this. “No—no, no way. You can’t—” He scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair. If he doesn’t keep his hands occupied now, he may actually throttle his friend. “He’s a child, Suguru!”

Suguru just raises a brow. “So? Jujutsu society sends children to fight their battles all the time—sends them to die, meaningless sacrifices for a so-called greater good.” He sneers, face twisting with bitter emotion. Still, he composes himself quickly, continuing, “But this sacrifice—it has meaning. Countless sorcerers saved, all for the price of one child—a child that shouldn’t exist in the first place.”

Satoru shakes his head. “This—this has to be some sort of joke, a dream, a fucked-up nightmare.” But the way his hands shake, the way his heart races in his chest—that’s real. “You can’t seriously be suggesting this.”

“It’s the only way, Satoru.”

Satoru springs to his feet. He’s a little unsteady, rage throwing off his balance. “Bullshit it is!” he practically spits. “He’s my son, Suguru. My son!”

And Suguru laughs—he fucking laughs. “Then you should be proud,” he replies easily. “Your son is about to save Jujutsu society.”

Satoru’s breath comes in laboured gasps. He struggles to keep a lid on his fury—to focus, to think—but he fears it’s a losing battle. “What the hell happened to you, Suguru? This isn’t like you. You—” He reaches out, gripping his friend by the collar of his shirt, shaking him— “You were supposed to be good, Suguru—the best! Why did you change?”

“I could say the same of you.” Suguru grips Satoru’s wrist, not dislodging the hold, more like steadying Satoru, keeping him in place. “Since when did goodness mean anything to you? The only thing that ever mattered was strength—being the strongest, defeating any enemy that dared cross your path. You used your purpose as a Jujutsu sorcerer as a mere cover. At the end of the day, good and evil alike, they’re all just insects under your foot.”

Satoru shakes his head vigorously. “No, that’s not—”

But then the world jolts beneath him—no, the world doesn’t move, it’s his legs that have simply failed to hold him up. What the hell? Satoru staggers, a knee striking the hardened earth below. Keep it together! His fingers tighten in Suguru’s collar. He uses that grip to haul himself upright once more, panting. “That’s not true!”

Suguru hums. “Maybe not. But we don’t have the luxury of debating such pointless things now,” he decides with a shrug. “You likely don’t have much time left.”

“What—” Satoru’s vision swims, wave of dizziness washing over him. He tries to blink it away. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll have to forgive me, Satoru,” Suguru says, finally dislodging Satoru’s hold, letting him collapse to the ground below, “but I couldn’t take the risk. I was aware you had retrieved the spear earlier than you said, that you were keeping it hidden from me. I knew that, despite your words, you were not so convinced to my cause just yet, and that I likely would not be able to sway you completely to my side. As such, I had to take precautions to ensure you wouldn’t get in my way.”

The vision of Suguru before him blurs, smile swimming before his eyes. He pushes his shades aside, rubs viciously at his eyes. This—this isn’t just rage. His lungs heave, his stomach flips. Satoru clutches his chest, heart beating hard beneath his palm, ricocheting painfully off of bone. Something’s wrong—something—but what—

Satoru forces his legs beneath him, struggles to stand, but his limbs refuse to cooperate, to bear his weight. He collapses once more, unable to hide a wince. He activates his Reversed Cursed Technique, hopes it’ll assuage the strange heaviness pressing upon him. “Suguru, what—”

Suguru kneels before him. Despite the soft smile on his lips, the gleam in eyes is cruel. “It took a long time, finding the right sedative that would work on you—a poison that could incapacitate you without killing you, one that would work faster than your Reverse Cursed Technique. Even now, I see I was hasty; you’re fighting it quite well. You truly are the strongest, aren’t you?” Almost mockingly, he caresses Satoru’s face, his sweat soaked skin. His hand travels across his cheek, fingers threading gently through the hair at the back of his head. “Ah well, I already accounted for this. Thankfully, there’s a way to deal with that pesky ability.”

The hand in his hair tightens painfully, holds his head in place. Something cool presses against the exposed line of his throat.

Satoru’s eyes widen.

“Suguru, please.” He struggles in Suguru’s grip, hands clumsy as he tries to push Suguru away, push himself away. He activates Infinity in a last-ditch effort. “Don’t—”  

But he’s too late.

The spear breaks skin, its technique activating, rendering Satoru’s own null. Satoru gasps, uselessly gripping Suguru’s wrist, but without the aid of his RCT, the sedative is free to work unhindered. His limbs grow slack, vision spotting. Still, he fights it, teeth gritted, a thin trickle of blood trailing down his neck. “Suguru!”

“Shh, it’s alright.” Suguru presses the blade just a touch deeper, cradles Satoru’s trembling body against his chest. “Give in, Satoru. That’s it. Sleep, and awaken unto a new world.”

Satoru’s eyelids are too heavy, falling shut against his will. Still, he struggles, shaking his head, much too numb to notice the way the spear slices deeper into his skin. “No—I won’t—”

I can’t give in—I can’t—if I do—then that means—that means—

“Yuuji!” Satoru forces his eyes open, world a dizzying spectacle that twists his stomach. His limbs won’t cooperate, won’t listen as he pleads with his body to move, to fight. He gasps for breath, vision darkening. “Yuuji!”

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Please—

Suguru’s malicious smile is the last thing he sees before the world goes black.

Chapter Text

Sukuna groans, the sound of infantile cries echoing throughout the halls of the house, reverberating even within his skull and jolting him from sleep. The brat’s been restless and upset all night, sleep interrupted frequently by bouts of wakefulness, and no matter how many times Sukuna has tried to soothe the boy or simply let him cry it out, nothing has helped.

Still, he doesn’t react immediately, remains supine in his bed, glaring up at the ceiling above as the brat’s cries grate against his patience, wearing away the fine thread until it finally snaps. Sukuna takes a deep breath—a feeble attempt at calming his frustrations—before pushing himself out of bed, making his way across the hall to the child’s room. He’s angry, yes, but he won’t take that anger out on the boy, not when the brat isn’t truly to blame. For of course, this is Satoru’s fault, his foolish decisions and recent absence taking their toll on the child, leaving Sukuna behind to suffer the consequences.

The child is upright in his crib when Sukuna enters the room, his face ruddy and tear-stained as he cries. His crying wavers when Sukuna arrives, though it does not cease, and he extends his arms towards Sukuna, hands making grabbing motions. Sukuna huffs but complies nonetheless, lifting the boy into his arms. “Quiet now. There’s no need for such behaviour.”

The brat clearly disagrees, bottom lip still trembling pathetically, tears rolling down his reddened cheeks. “Dada?”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Your idiotic father has yet to return—and trust me, he’s not worth the tears you spill.”

And Sukuna can’t be certain how many of his words the boy truly comprehends, but he must understand enough, for soon his cries pick up in intensity. Sukuna takes a deep breath, cradles the brat a little closer to him as he gently sways, hushing the boy. “It’s alright. We’re better off without him.”

The assurance feels weak, even to Sukuna.

The brat doesn’t calm, not for a while. Sukuna lowers himself into the nearby rocking chair, cradling the boy against him as he idly rocks back and forth. And he can’t be certain if it’s the motion that has soothed him, or if he had simply tired himself out, but eventually the brat drifts off to sleep, breathing steady and deep as he slumbers against Sukuna’s shoulder. Slowly, Sukuna rises from the chair, leaning over the edge of the crib to gently lay the boy down once more—

The brat awakens almost instantly, eyes wide, lips trembling.

Fucking hell.

The boy needs rest—Sukuna, too. And right now, though it’s less than ideal, Sukuna can only think of one solution.

So he hoists the brat into his arms, carrying him with him as he makes his way back to his bedroom. This time, he deposits the child on the massive bed, shoves the spare blankets and pillows to the side to create a barrier preventing the boy from falling. Satisfied, Sukuna settles himself on the opposite side of the bed—close enough that he can still reach out to the brat, can still lay a comforting hand on his form, but far enough that he likely won’t roll atop the boy in his sleep.

Honey-brown eyes follow his movements, still wet with tears that roll down his cheeks, though the boy isn’t nearly as miserable as before, only the occasional sniffle breaking through. Sukuna sighs, making himself comfortable and letting his eyes slide shut. “Go to sleep.”

The boy shifts beneath his hand. “Kuna,” he says, voice trembling.

Sukuna bites back a groan. “What?”

The boy shifts again, making a strange smacking sound with his lips. Sukuna cracks an eye open, turning his head just enough to see the child’s arms outstretched to him, lips pursed. Sukuna snaps his eyes shut once more, pretends he doesn’t notice, pretends he doesn’t know what the boy is asking of him.

But the brat doesn’t let it go. “Kuna,” he insists, shifting again.

This time, Sukuna does groan. “Fine.” Still, he hesitates a moment before finally rolling over, leaning down and brushing his lips against the boy’s hairline, a barely-there kiss. It’s enough for the boy, thank God, who giggles quietly as he reaches up to pat Sukuna on the cheek before letting his hand fall to the pillow below his head.

“Rest now, brat,” Sukuna whispers as he withdraws once more, settling back into his spot. “Tomorrow, we shall track down that pathetic father of yours and give him a piece of our minds.”

Sleep comes much easier after that.

Still, it feels much too soon when he awakes, something colliding with his face and jolting Sukuna from sleep. Heart pounding, he whips his head around in search of his assailant, finding the room empty of all but himself and the brat.

The brat—who has somehow managed to completely turn himself around in his sleep, his lower half now partially sprawled over Sukuna’s chest, a foot still pressed against his head.

Ah, so that’s one mystery solved.

It’s early morning, by Sukuna’s estimate—probably a little earlier than he’d usually rise, but not early enough to warrant heading back to sleep. Next to him, the brat shifts again, foot nearly colliding with Sukuna’s nose, though this time Sukuna is able to dodge the attack, rolling out from under the boy.  Of course, the motion is enough to startle the child awake, his eyes blinking open and face scrunched with displeasure.

Serves him right.

Still, with the two of them awake now, there’s no point staying in bed. And so, they get a start on their morning routine, breezing through it with an ease that comes with months of practice. Once the brat is settled in his high-chair, munching happily on his sliced fruit, Sukuna goes to fix himself a mug of coffee. It’s only after he’s already prepared the second cup that he realizes what he’s done.

Damn that sorcerer.

Three days—that’s how long it’s been since Satoru’s returned to the house. And while it isn’t unusual for the sorcerer to be away for a day or two at a time, he’s never been gone this long, not without first notifying Sukuna. And considering the circumstances surrounding these past few weeks, well…

Sukuna pretends it’s just anger that burns in his chest.

As Sukuna debates pouring the second mug down the sink—the beverage far too sweet for his liking—there’s a knock on the door. The brat’s head snaps up at the sound, breakfast forgotten as he stares at the door with wide eyes. “Dada?”

“Not this time,” Sukuna replies, for he can sense the energy on the other side of the door, and it’s definitely not Satoru’s. Sukuna grabs the second mug, crossing over to the entryway and pulling open the door.

Uraume greets him with a bow. “Good morning, Lord Sukuna.”

“Uraume,” he replies, leaning against the door frame. “You have news to report?”

“Nothing as to Geto’s whereabouts, nor any progress on the desired cursed tool or ability,” Uraume reveals. “However, I have managed to ascertain the whereabouts of the others you inquired about. I will be pursuing them today.”

“Good. I have a feeling we’ll be required to act soon, so stay alert.” He hands them the mug, steam still wafting through the air. “Here. This should help maintain your awareness.”

 Uraume bows again before accepting the mug. “Thank you, Lord Sukuna,” they say, then take a sip of the coffee, face screwing up at the taste. Still, they try to mask their reaction, face slipping back to impassivity, though there’s a noticeable wrinkle in their nose. “Forgive my asking, but…this wasn’t truly prepared with me in mind, was it?”

Sukuna just smiles and shrugs. “Dump the rest if you’d rather. It makes no difference either way.”

They part ways soon after, Uraume risking another sip before depositing the rest of the sugary beverage in the plants lining the front of the house. When Sukuna returns to the kitchen, he finds the brat slouched in his chair, the corners of his lips downturned as he idly mashes slices of banana in his fist. His eyes flicker up to Sukuna as he reaches the kitchen. “Dada?”

And this time, it really is just anger that surges through him—not towards the child, but towards that damn six-eyed bastard. For Sukuna couldn’t care less if Satoru never showed his face in front of him again, but to leave his own son behind, to abandon him without so much as a word…

Board on the fridge be damned; if Satoru’s own foolishness hasn’t killed him yet, Sukuna’s more than happy to finish the job.

He swallows his anger for now, forces gentleness to his hand as he brushes it lightly through the boy’s pink hair. “Finish your breakfast. You’ll need the energy if you are to outshine those other brats on the play structure this morning.”

The child complies, though there’s a clear despondence in his movements now, eyes never regaining their usual brightness, no smile gracing his lips. And Sukuna doesn’t shatter his empty mug when he places it a little too harshly in the sink to be washed, only cracks the ceramic slightly, easy enough to fix should he feel so inclined.

(He wants to smash it, wants to tear this entire fucking house down in his rage.)

He takes a deep breath, mind made up; once their business in the park concludes this morning, he and the boy would be paying a visit to that sorcerer school, would demand information on Satoru’s recent movements, would track him down and drag him home whether he likes it or not.

The driver from the school arrives on schedule, standing next to the car and greeting them with a bright smile when they emerge from the house. “Good morning! Is it just the two of you today? I had assumed Gojo would be joining you as well.”

Sukuna scoffs, settling the brat inside his car seat. “When has that bastard ever joined us on these excursions?”

And at Sukuna’s harsh tone, the driver’s smile wavers, the man quickly backtracking his statement. “Ah, right, it’s just—I heard that Gojo had taken a few days off. I just thought he’d be spending that time with Yuuji.”

Sukuna stills. “He’s taken time off?” he asks, closing the car door and addressing the driver directly. “When did he make this request exactly?”

The driver’s smile vanishes now, and he tugs at his collar. “I—I’m not certain. Around three days ago, maybe? Principal Yaga would know more than I do.”

Sukuna frowns, crossing his arms over his chest as he processes this new information. Three days at least. It certainly aligns with his period of absence from their home—much too perfect for it to be mere coincidence. No, for Satoru to have planned this, it can only mean one thing: Geto’s plan will come to fruition soon, far sooner than he had predicted. And with Uraume still occupied with their orders…

Though it pains him, it seems there is only one thing he can do.

The driver clears his throat, interrupting his thoughts. “Pardon me, uh, Sukuna?” he prompts. “Is something wrong?”

“Change of plans.” Sukuna rounds the car, pulling open the door on the other side. “Bring us to your sorcerer school. I have business with your principal.”

“Uh, yes sir!”

For surely with so many other sorcerers around, Geto will be less likely to attack right away, will give Sukuna more time to prepare. And even if the man is not dissuaded, at least the brat will have more people available to protect him.

Still, as the car makes its way to the school, Sukuna can’t help but feel that something is wrong—some warning siren ringing out in his mind, though he can’t identify the trigger. This unrest is all intuition, and Sukuna knows better than to ignore his instincts. They’ve never steered him wrong before.

And it’s precisely because Sukuna is so on edge that he senses the incoming danger mere moments before it strikes.

Sukuna pulls the brat to his chest, shielding him from harm as he throws them from the car, rolling down the steep ditch and into the thick forest beyond just before the curse comes down upon the vehicle, crushing it and the road below into pieces. Sukuna quickly ducks behind a thick tree trunk for cover, gaze darting down to the boy in his arms. He appears unharmed, though his eyes are wide with shock—with fear. Even so, an instinctive part of him must understand the pertinence of silence in this moment, for the child does not make a single sound, just curls farther into Sukuna’s chest, tiny hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt. Sukuna breathes a quick sigh, then turns his attention back to the task at hand, quickly scanning his surroundings for danger.

He locates the driver a short distance away. He too must’ve sensed the danger and jumped from the car, and though there’s a lightly bleeding cut along his cheek, he appears generally unharmed. After ensuring they can’t be seen from the road above, Sukuna beckons him over.

As the driver reaches his side, Sukuna passes the boy to him. “Get him out of here,” he demands, voice a terse whisper. “If anything happens to him—”

“I understand,” the driver confirms, holding the child tightly to his chest. “But what will you do?”

Sukuna takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “I’m going to clean up that shitty sorcerer’s mess.”

Sukuna waits until the driver is no longer in sight before slowly scaling the side of the steep ditch, keeping low to the ground as he moves, using the thick foliage for cover. There’s a thick tree at the edge of the road that he finally stops behind, peering out from the edge of the trunk to assess the situation.

The curse from before still lingers on the scene, lazily drifting in the air above the wreckage of aluminum and asphalt, but no longer is the curse alone. There’s a man there as well, long hair half-pulled back, an odd strip of bang hanging over his forehead. And though Sukuna has never before seen the man in person, he’s grown far too familiar with the stench of his cursed energy.

Suguru Geto.

Geto’s hands are tucked into his pockets, a slight frown on his face as he approaches the wreckage. “Defeated so easily?” he muses to himself. “How disappointing.”

But Sukuna is no fool. If Geto has not yet realized the error in his statement, he will once he investigates the wreckage and finds no bodies crushed within. From there, it’s only be a matter of time before he takes off after the driver and the boy, before he truly claims what he’s after.

And Sukuna can’t let that happen. He won’t.

So he steps out from his cover, a smile on his face as he makes his presence known. “If anyone has earned the right to be disappointed, it is I,” he declares, revelling in the momentary shock that paints Geto’s expression. “I had expected much from the man who had so beguiled that pathetic excuse for a sorcerer, but seeing you now…” Sukuna shrugs a shoulder. “I can’t help but find you wanting.”

Geto collects himself quickly, face settling once more into a frown. “So, you sensed the curse before it could strike.”

Sukuna’s grin spreads. “Of course, but that had been your desire all along.” He closes the distance between them farther, ignores the wreckage but pays half a mind to the curse still lingering above. “You don’t want this battle to end too quickly. You want to enjoy this.”

“Do not think me so similar to yourself,” Geto replies. “I don’t fight for my own satisfaction; I fight for a greater purpose.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes, waving a dismissive hand. “Sure, sure, whatever you say.” Still, Sukuna needs to keep the other man distracted—keep him talking, goad him into a fight. And Sukuna thinks he may know a way, may have ascertained an exploitable weakness in Geto, though it’s merely theory at best. Regardless, it’s worth a shot.

So, Sukuna plants his hands on his hips, feigns mild disinterest—disappointment, even—as he observes, “You’re just as delusional as Satoru. I suppose you two really are a perfect match.”

And it’s minute, but Sukuna still sees it: the unnatural way Geto tenses, the flash of fury that flickers in his eyes before he can tame it.  “I’d prefer you not refer to him so casually.”

“Who, Satoru?” Sukuna asks, grin spreading across his lips once more. It’s too soon to declare his theory proven, but… “Does it bother you when I call him by name? Oh, that’s cute. You and Satoru really are the same brand of pathetic.”

This time, Geto can’t hide the way his lips curl in a sneer. Perhaps he doesn’t even try. “You’re one to talk. Without your cursed energy, you’re rather pathetic yourself,” Geto says, turning his nose up at Sukuna. “The supposed King of Curses reduced to nothing more than a vile monkey. I never thought I’d see the day.”

The insults roll off Sukuna’s skin; he’s heard far worse, after all. “You had better get a good look while you still can,” he advises, subtly dropping into a combat stance. “I don’t need cursed energy to kick your ass.”

For a moment, the taunt seems to work. Geto’s hands clench into fists in his pockets, his cursed energy flaring ever so slightly. Unfortunately, Sukuna’s words fail to push him over the edge. Geto’s form relaxes once more, his face slipping into impassivity as he shakes his head. “As entertaining as that claim of yours is, I have no interest in testing it. I’ve come here for a purpose—one that doesn’t involve you.”

And Sukuna had already deduced Geto’s true target long before this confrontation had even began, Geto’s words only proving it. Quickly, Sukuna lets his focus stray, searching out the area for the boy’s cursed energy. He locates it a ways ahead in the woods, safely out of range of battle, but not nearly far enough away for Sukuna’s comfort. That’s what he gets for trusting that driver with such an important task.

He’ll need to buy more time, enough for the driver to get the brat to the school. After that…

Well, after is not important. He has a job to do now.

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “C’mon, humour me a moment. I haven’t had a good fight in far too long. You seem strong enough to make it worth my while.”

“There’s no meaning in fighting you right now,” Geto dismisses with a wave of his hand. “You pose no serious threat to my plans, after all. Killing you would simply be a waste of time.”

Sukuna hums. “So, it’s meaning you’re searching for. Let me give you one!”

It’s now or never. If Sukuna doesn’t properly exploit Geto’s weakness, this fight will end before it begins. Arrogantly, Sukuna drops his guard, idly tapping a finger against his chin as he pretends to consider the matter. “Shall I regale you with stories of mine and Satoru’s intimate relationship? It was rather easy manipulating that fool for my purposes—you left him so shattered, so desperate for anyone to give him even an inkling of affection. I took great pleasure in breaking him further.”

And there it is again—that tension, that fury. “What are you implying?”

Got him.

For as much as Suguru Geto is a weakness for Satoru Gojo, so too is the reverse true.

“I think you know exactly what,” Sukuna replies, a cruel grin lining his features now. “He cries so prettily—I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that. And the sounds he makes—”

This time, Sukuna lets the curse strike him.

It’s…a bit of a miscalculation on his part.

For he had known Geto would strike, could predict the precise moment of the attack based on the spike in the man’s cursed energy. He’d been counting on the attack, had goaded the man into it—

But he hadn’t realized it’d hurt this much.

The curse crashes into him, sending him hurtling backwards, colliding painfully with the thick trunk of a tree. His head knocks against the wood, searing pain shooting through his skull and reverberating throughout his body. The impact knocks the wind from his lungs, and as the curse keeps him pinned, he gasps for breath, blinking away the haziness that obscures his vision. Still, it isn’t long before Geto releases his technique, the curse disappearing, and with nothing holding him up, Sukuna collapses to the dirt below.

Sukuna plays it off, ignores the sharp pains racking his body as he grins at Geto. “That’s more like it. C’mon, give me another!”

He can barely hear his voice above the ringing in his ears.

Geto’s energy flares, but no attack comes. No, he gets a handle on his emotions much too quickly, levelling Sukuna with a studious gaze. “I see. So that’s what this is.” Geto sighs, shaking his head. “I admit, you almost had me. But unfortunately, your little distraction will not work.”

Geto turns to leave—turns the direction the driver had fled with the brat—and Sukuna takes the opportunity to strike, darting towards Geto on unsteady feet. The dizziness has dissipated immensely, but even so his movements are considerably slower than they should be, and Geto defends easily, a curse appearing to intercept Sukuna. And despite the small mercies granted him after his loss of cursed energy—the ability to see curses, to sense cursed energy—even Sukuna cannot defeat a curse without cursed energy.

Sukuna dodges the curse this time—he can’t afford to take too many unnecessary hits, not without his Reverse Cursed Technique. The evasion puts too much space between himself and Geto, however, and as he rolls out of the way of another attack, Sukuna racks his brain for a strategy. The more he observes Geto’s technique, the more he notices how similar it is to that of shikigami users—far more powerful, of course, but still similar. Geto likely uses the curses to attack in place of himself, manipulates them like foot soldiers easily expendable all for his protection. As such, the strategy is simple:

Ignore the curses, strike the user directly.

Simple, indeed—but not easy.

Sukuna stuns the attacking curse with a well-placed strike to a weak-point, moving in on Geto once more. Clearly, Geto had underestimated him before, for now he sends even more curses his way, tries to overwhelm him with the quantity. But the curses aren’t particularly impressive—none ranking higher than Grade 2, Geto likely assuming anything greater is unnecessary to defeat him.

It's a little insulting, honestly.

Still, it works in Sukuna’s favour, for with Geto too focused on manipulating multiple curses, he cannot pursue the brat. As long as Sukuna stays sharp, as long as he can hold off the attack—or, better yet, take Geto out—the boy will be safe. And the thought settles almost like a second wind, that extra bit of motivation to push forward towards his goal.

Fighting for his own sake is good, but fighting for someone else…

Even without his cursed energy, Sukuna has never felt stronger.

Sukuna dodges an attack at the last second, the curses closing in on him colliding with each other instead. A third curse attempts to sneak in behind him, but Sukuna is prepared for it—can use it—throwing up a block to protect his vitals but allowing the curse to strike him, propelling him across the road—

And right into Geto.

There’s a moment of distraction; Geto does not appear to have predicted Sukuna’s plan, did not expect Sukuna to close in on him so quickly. And Sukuna capitalizes on the opportunity with glee, twisting his body mid-air and using the momentum gained from the curse’s prior attack to enhance his own, his fist striking Geto’s jaw and sending the man staggering off balance. Sukuna doesn’t let up yet, landing in a crouch and swinging a leg around, sweeping Geto’s feet from beneath him. Geto goes down hard, but before Sukuna can continue his assault, a new curse appears, waylaying his attempt and buying Geto time to recover.

Sukuna grapples the curse—barely a Grade 4, easy enough to incapacitate. Geto’s just managed to regain his footing when Sukuna’s on him again, striking out with a fist. And the battle turns to hand-to-hand combat, the two men trading blows back and forth. And for someone who tends to hide behind his curses, Geto is adept even in regular combat, matching Sukuna’s strikes and blocks with skill. In this regard, the two are equally matched, and for while, neither is able to gain the upper hand.

But that shouldn’t be right.

Sukuna frowns, pondering this new turn as he rolls under Geto’s hook, lashing out with a jab that meets Geto’s block. With his technique, he should easily be able to break this stalemate, turn the tide in his favour, so why doesn’t he—

A cry echoes off the trees, steadily growing louder—infantile. Familiar.

And in perhaps the worst possible way, Sukuna gets his answer.

High above their heads, a curse swoops in, a toddler clutched tightly in its misshapen talons. The boy’s face is bright red as he screams, struggling in the curse’s hold but unable to break free. And for now, it’s probably for the best; the brat would never survive a fall from that height.

Even so, the sight is a distraction, one that Geto quickly capitalizes on. He strikes hard with a sharp elbow across the temple, and Sukuna can practically feel his brain rattle within his skull as he staggers back. Geto follows up the attack quickly, planting a heavy kick in Sukuna’s stomach, sending the other crashing to the ground.

“You aren’t nearly as clever as you think you are,” Geto chides, grinning triumphantly down upon him. “You were so focused on me, you never even considered I’d send a curse after the child. How foolish, King of Curses.”

The curse comes to hover next to Geto, and after accepting the screaming child from its talons, Geto releases his technique, the curse disappearing. The brat kicks and squirms in Geto’s hold, but the man does not release him. Instead, he chuckles at the boy’s spirited attempts at fighting back. “There, there. It’s alright,” he soothes, a mocking lilt to his voice as he reaches out to gently wipe away the tears cascading down the boy’s reddened cheeks. “Just relax. It will all be over soon.”

Teeth gritted, Sukuna pushes himself up to his knees. “Unhand that boy at once, or else!”

Geto just scoffs at him. “Are you really in any position to be making threats?”

And Sukuna knows he’s right—knows how outmatched he is, especially with the brat present. Even so, he forces himself to his feet, takes a threatening step towards Geto—

His legs don’t move.

The ground bubbles beneath his feet. A curse—mud-like in quality—latches onto his limbs, holding him in place, and though it isn’t particularly strong, its hold does not waver as Sukuna struggles against it. No, he’s far too disoriented to break free, muscles too weak with pain to overpower it. All he can do is stand there, trapped in place, helpless—

No. No fucking way.

Geto pays him no mind as he battles against the curse’s hold, instead turning his full attention on the child in his grip. “Now then, it’s time for me to claim my prize.”

The brat’s cries intensify as Geto presses a palm against his chest, preparing to activate his technique. Sukuna grits his teeth, fighting against the curse with all his might, but he still can’t break free. He turns his glare on Geto, forcing every ounce of vitriol into his voice as he shouts, “Don’t do it!”

Geto ignores him. His cursed energy flares as his technique activates—

Nothing happens.

Geto sighs, removing his hand. “Just as I thought. With Satoru’s barrier still in place, I won’t be able to extract the cursed energy within. It’s a good thing I came prepared.”

A new curse appears—small, weak, useless for combat. But it’s clear that’s not the purpose for which Geto had claimed it. With a strange creak, the curse’s mouth opens. “Such a shame it can only hold one cursed tool at a time,” Geto admits, reaching into the curse’s maw. “Still, it serves my purpose here well.”

And from the curse, Geto extracts a cursed tool—a short, dual-bladed weapon, one that Sukuna has seen before—

Lodged in Satoru’s throat.

“This is your final warning!” Sukuna shouts, struggling with a renewed desperation, and this time—this time—the curse entrapping him gives way slightly. Just a little more—

The boy’s eyes are wide with fear, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t escape Geto’s hold. Geto positions the spear over the child, hovers it just over the boy’s abdomen, prepared to strike—

He hesitates.

And Sukuna attacks. He breaks free of the curse’s hold, launching forward and tackling Geto. He knocks the spear away, but in the process dislodges Geto’s grip on the boy as well, and though Sukuna doesn’t see the child hit the ground, he can hear it, hears the thump of the boy’s body, the new pained edge in his sobs as he collides with the hard surface below.

And it hurts—more than anything Geto had done to him prior, it hurts to hear those cries, twists some unseen knife deep within his chest. But Sukuna ignores the feeling, the sounds, forces himself to focus on the task at hand. He takes advantage of Geto’s shock and scrambles for the fallen spear, retrieving it before Geto can, promptly stabbing it into the man’s hand as he summons forth his cursed sprits.

The spirits disappear as the spear’s effect initiates, and though Geto struggles, Sukuna’s hold remains firm, keeping him pinned to the ground. With Geto temporarily disarmed, Sukuna glances back over his shoulder at the boy—sprawled on the ground, probably bruised but otherwise okay. “Now brat! Run!”

It’s a pointless command, Sukuna knows—even if the boy does understand, he won’t be able to get very far on his own. But right now, Sukuna needs him to be a little farther away—a little safer—while he still has a chance, while Geto’s still trapped. The child shakily climbs to his feet, staggers a few paces away before stumbling, the hiccupping cries much too powerful for his tiny body. When he hits the ground again, he doesn’t try to get up. He wraps his arms around himself, entire body wracked with sobs as he cries out, “Dad! Dad!”

Not dada—just dad.

He’s calling for Sukuna.

Calling him—

Sukuna’s world jolts as Geto finally dislodges him, freeing himself from the pin and ripping the spear from his hand. And Sukuna’s too slow to react this time, is unable to block Geto’s next attack, the spear slashing across Sukuna’s front, slicing through the flimsy fabric of his shirt, through his skin—

The pain barely has a chance to register before the second strike lands, a curse slamming violently into Sukuna’s body, crushing it into the ground below. And he’s sure something breaks—multiple somethings, rather—but he can’t focus on the pain, not yet, not while the brat is still screaming for him, still needing him.

Though his limbs shake, muscles threatening to give way, he forces his body to move, shoving the curse off of him, staggering to his feet. His chest heaves with the effort to remain upright, exacerbating the wound on his chest, but he refuses to fall. He places himself between Geto and the boy, a flimsy shield, but a shield nonetheless. “Keep your goddamn hands off of my son!”

Geto pauses, studying him a moment. The ground sways beneath Sukuna’s feet—or perhaps, more accurately, Sukuna sways on his feet—but despite the light-headedness, the pain, he remains upright. He can barely stand, but he can’t fall either—not here, not now. If he does—

No. There’s no if here. Sukuna can’t fall, and so he won’t.

Finally, Geto sighs, shaking his head. “This battle has grown tedious,” he says, resuming his approach. “Make this easier on everyone, and just stay down!”

Despite his resolve, it takes little effort for Geto to knock Sukuna aside, and this time when he goes down, he knows he won’t be getting back up—not right away. Still, he refuses to relent, dragging himself across the ground, clawing at the pavement beneath his bloodied hands as he pursues Geto, latching on to the man’s ankle and pulling as hard as he can.

Geto staggers but remains upright. He sneers down at Sukuna, wrenching his leg free from his grasp. “What did I just say?”

He brings his foot down across Sukuna’s jaw.

And this time, Sukuna doesn’t feel it. He must have blacked out for a moment, for when he opens his eyes, Geto is no longer in front of him. No, he’s a little ways off, one hand gripping the collar of the child’s shirt—the boy dangling from his hold, thrashing with all his might—and the other hand holding the spear, poised to strike.

“No!” Sukuna tries to push himself upright, but the world jolts below him, nausea coiling dangerously in his gut. He collapses, arms unable to hold him upright, unable to do anything. “Yuuji!”

Geto presses the spear to the boy’s skin.

Yuuji screams.

There’s a flash—a bright light, a burst of cursed energy. And then it’s Geto who cries out in pain, recoiling sharply as three gashes appear across his torso. He drops Yuuji, staggering backwards.

This time, Yuuji doesn’t hit the ground.

Someone else has swooped in, black and blond blurring across Sukuna’s vision, scooping up the boy before he’s injured further and darting away out of Geto’s reach. Before Geto can react, he’s enclosed in a huge ice shard that surges forth from the ground, the energy signature easy to recognize.

A hand falls atop his back, Uraume’s Reverse Cursed Technique flowing through to him, stitching together the worst of the damage. “I apologize for my lateness, Lord Sukuna.”

“Nonsense. You’re right on time.” Slowly, Sukuna pushes himself upright, the movement far easier now. He tries to climb to his feet, but Uraume’s hand keeps him down, forces him to wait until they can heal him further. “Yuuji, is he—”

It’s not Uraume who responds, but the other sorcerer who had arrived with them—the blond one, the one Satoru had called Nanamin. “Yuuji is safe,” the man says, carefully cradling the boy in his arms. “I cannot speak to his condition exactly, but he is alive.”

And that’s good enough for Sukuna. He slumps under Uraume’s touch, waits patiently for them to finish. As they work, Uraume speaks. “When we arrived, there was a burst of cursed energy—Satoru Gojo’s at first, but then—”

“Cleave,” he finishes. “I noticed it too.” The slashes that had opened up across Geto’s chest were clumsy and shallow, but undoubtedly the product of Sukuna’s cursed technique. Even so… He shakes his head. “But it was not my doing.”

Uraume frowns. “But, if that’s the case—”

“There’s no time to consider it,” he interrupts, pushing himself to his feet, and though he’s not fully healed, Uraume doesn’t stop him, just rises to stand at his side. Quickly, Sukuna reassesses the situation, plan falling into place. “Uraume, you take Yuuji. Protect him with your life. You, sorcerer—Nanamin or whatever—”

“It’s just Nanami.”

“—you’re with me,” Sukuna finishes, and Nanami nods, passing the child off to Uraume. Yuuji is too still as he’s shifted to Uraume’s arms, too quiet. But he’s alive—in spite of everything, he’s alive—

And Sukuna will do everything in his power to protect him.

As Nanami takes Uraume’s place at Sukuna’s side, Sukuna cracks his knuckles, turning his attention on the large shard of ice—the cursed energy flaring within it—with a grin. “Come now. We have a battle to finish.”

As if on cue, the ice shatters, shards surging outwards from the force of the massive curse emerging within. Freshly freed, Geto staggers, clutching the shallow wounds on his chest, eyes wide and teeth gritted, ready to attack. But he halts himself at the last second, technique releasing as his eyes fall upon the newcomers—upon the sorcerer, in particular.

“Nanami,” Geto greets, face relaxing into something almost friendly, though there’s a certain edge to his gaze that betrays his true emotions. “I must admit, I hadn’t expected you of all people to align yourself with such unsavoury company.”

“Don’t misunderstand the situation,” Nanami replies. He slips the black suit jacket from his shoulders, and without the obstruction, Sukuna spies the harness he wears around his shoulders, the cursed tool held in the holster at his back. “I’m only here to protect the child. I made a promise to Gojo, and I don’t intend to break it.”

Geto hums, posture straightening as he slips his hands into his pockets. “Is that so? You want to protect that child, even though he’s the reason Haibara died.”

Nanami shakes his head, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. “That’s far too great a leap in your logic.”

And Sukuna doesn’t follow the conversation, doesn’t care to try. Instead, he focuses on the sorcerer, on figuring out his cursed technique, building a strategy around it. It likely has something to do with the weapon he keeps on his person—though whether the tool is necessary for his technique, or simply an extension of it, he can’t be certain. Perhaps it doesn’t truly matter in the end.

For if Satoru could trust him with such an important task as protecting his son, so too can Sukuna.

As Sukuna ponders the situation, Geto continues the conversation, clicking his tongue in response to Nanami’s assertion. “I wouldn’t be so certain. That child is the reason Satoru was unavailable for the mission to retrieve the Star Plasma Vessel, after all. Had Satoru been part of that mission, there would have been no reason for you or Haibara to be involved—no reason for Haibara to have died.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Nanami concedes. “But even so, Haibara’s death would merely have been postponed.” Nanami retrieves his weapon from its holster, a far-off look in his tired eyes—far too weary for someone still so young. “The only guarantee for a Jujutsu sorcerer is an untimely death. Maybe Haibara wouldn’t have died that day had Gojo been involved, but even so he was always doomed to die at the hands of curses or curse-users. That is the fate of all sorcerers.”

“But what if we could change that fate?” Geto asks, and the grin that stretches his features now is near manic. He sweeps his arms wide, slowly approaching Nanami. “In the world I aim to create, sorcerers will not be doomed to die such miserable, meaningless deaths. All it takes is the sacrifice of that child.”

It’s the same dream—the same trap—that he used to lure Satoru. And for a moment, Sukuna fears Nanami will fall for it too, the man hesitating as he considers Geto’s words. “Nanami,” Sukuna warns.

Finally, Nanami responds. “What happened to Haibara was a tragedy,” he says, taking a deep breath, “but I refuse to hold Yuuji or even Gojo responsible. Regardless of the circumstances of his birth, Yuuji is an innocent child. Although I’m certain a life of suffering awaits him in the future, especially given who his parents are—”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“—I will protect that innocence for as long as I can,” Nanami finishes, ignoring Sukuna’s interruption.

Geto’s smile disappears, arms falling to his sides. “You are making a mistake.”

Nanami’s grip tightens around the hilt of his weapon, but he does not falter. “Then I will carry that mistake with me to the grave.”

“As fascinating as this conversation has been,” Sukuna cuts in once more, “I do believe we were in the middle of a fight?”

“You really believe the three of you are capable of defeating me?” Geto laughs, shaking his head. “Very well then. Come at me with everything you’ve got!”

And with that declaration, his cursed technique spikes dangerously, summoning forth a large horde of curses around him, far more than he had previously. And though they are grossly outnumbered, there’s no fear that strikes Sukuna’s heart, no nervousness to temper his resolve.  

“You deal with the curses,” Sukuna directs Nanami, barely sparing the sorcerer a glance as he turns his sights on Geto. “I’ll handle that bastard myself.”

For Yuuji—for his son—

I will not lose.

Chapter Text

Satoru awakens with a gasp, bolting upright despite the wave of dizziness that crashes over him from the action. His heart hammers against his chest, pain throbbing behind his eyes that blurs his vision, and he pushes the heels of his palms against his eyelids, trying to quell the sensation at least enough to regain his bearings, to figure out what the fuck is going on.

He was—he was with Suguru, he remembers that much. And Suguru did something, he has the spear, wants to use it to—no, wants to use it on…

Yuuji. Yuuji’s in danger.

It might already be too late.

There’s a steadying hand at his shoulder, jarring him from his thoughts. He flinches, Infinity activating on reflex and pushing the offending hand away—

“Relax,” says a familiar voice, soft with sympathy, yet tinged with a hint of annoyance, maybe resignation, “it’s just me.”

Satoru releases Infinity, lowering his hands so he can blearily blink at Shoko, crouched beside him. She gives him a quick once-over then sighs, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes. “It’s about time you woke up. You almost had me worried, y’know.”

“Shoko,” Satoru says, voice strained, throat tight. “Yuuji, he’s—”

“Nanami and that monk are on it,” she says, lighting her cigarette. “Between them and Sukuna, I’m sure Yuuji will be fine.”

Satoru frowns, brain still sluggishly trying to catch up. “Nanami? I thought he quit.”

“He did. I’m not sure what Sukuna and that monk offered him in exchange for his help, but it must’ve been pretty convincing.” She shrugs, taking a long drag from her cigarette, exhaling a thick column of smoke into the air. “Thanks in advance for paying for my schooling, by the way. That was the price for my cooperation, though honestly, I would’ve been happy to help for free.”

“Sukuna,” Satoru clarifies, dragging a hand through his hair. “He asked for your help?”

He wouldn’t do that, would he? Seek the help of sorcerers? No, it doesn’t make sense, not unless he had to, not unless it was a last resort—

A last resort. For he couldn’t ask for Satoru’s help, not when Satoru wasn’t there—

Well, talk about a wake-up call.

“He did—well, he got his monk to, at least,” Shoko confirms with a nod. “Between the two of you, I never thought Sukuna would be the one with the brain, and yet, here we are.”

Satoru doesn’t acknowledge the statement, the insult within. She’s right, after all. “I fucked up, Shoko. I seriously fucked up, and now Yuuji—” He shakes his head, trying to push himself to his feet. He’s still unsteady, his equilibrium offset, but he forces himself upright anyway. “I need to get to him.”

Shoko rises as well, a brief flash of concern in her dark eyes. For a moment, he fears she may argue, may try to stop him. But then she sighs, dropping her unfinished cigarette and stamping it out beneath her shoe. “You capable of warping us there? Trains will take too long.”

“I’ll be fine,” Satoru says, reaching for Shoko’s arm, already gathering energy for the warp. “C’mon, we’ve wasted too much time already.”

Hang on Yuuji. I’m coming.

Looking back, the battle could not have lasted more than fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. In the moment, it feels like hours.

Sukuna dodges another attack, slipping around the curse’s mangled jaws and landing a blow to its weak spot—the side of the head, approximately where the temple should be. The curse crumples from the blow, momentarily stunned, providing Nanami the perfect opportunity to finish it off. Sukuna doesn’t stick around to watch the sorcerer slice through it, already moving on to his next target, the next curse Geto had summoned.

For as long as they’ve been fighting—seconds, minutes, hours—very little progress is made. The number of curses at Geto’s disposal is near inexhaustible, and as strong as Nanami has proven himself to be, he’s simply no match for such egregious numbers. Even with Uraume providing ranged support, picking off the outliers that managed to bypass both Sukuna and Nanami’s defense, there are simply far too many curses to handle, especially now with Geto going all out, summoning curses of higher grades, greater strength. And not for the first time does Sukuna bemoan his lack of a cursed tool, his mistake in not acquiring one before setting out that morning.

Hindsight is a real bitch.

Still, all is not lost. Geto still clutches the spear in his hand, still holds the key to their victory. If Sukuna could just get his hands on that spear again, the tides of battle would reverse in their favour without a doubt. It’s that thought that keeps him going, that glimmer of hope that fuels him despite the exhaustion quickly wearing on his body, despite the near-endless stream of curses preventing him from getting close to their handler. Thankfully, the reverse is true for Geto; he hasn’t been able to break their defense and get to Yuuji.

Speaking of Yuuji, Sukuna hasn’t heard the child make a single sound since the spear had been used, since Cleave had apparently been unleashed. And it’s worrying, the absence of his cries just as distracting as their presence, but he trusts that Uraume is taking care of the boy, that they had used their Reverse Cursed Technique on any injuries the boy had sustained.

Even so, the battle has dragged on for far too long. If they do not break this stalemate soon, it will only be a matter of time before the curses exhaust them completely, before Geto will gain the upper hand. They need a new strategy, something that will allow Sukuna close enough to obtain the spear, to finish Geto off once and for all. If he had Uraume at his side, they might be able to provide the cover he needs to get in close, but such a plan requires Nanami to take over protecting Yuuji. And while Sukuna knows Nanami is dedicated to protecting the boy, from what Sukuna’s observed, the sorcerer’s technique is better suited to offense—to close-range combat—than defense.

Still, it’s their best bet at winning this fight.

Sukuna strikes down another curse, this time pausing at its side as Nanami arrives to deal the finishing blow. He spares the sorcerer a quick glance. “Fall back.”

Nanami frowns. “Are you certain—”

“Just do it!”

They leap back to join Uraume, who doesn’t appear surprised by this change in strategy. They’ve likely figured out Sukuna’s plan already. And good thing, too; the curses are already beginning to close in.

“Sorcerer, take the child,” Sukuna commands, already bracing for the incoming attack. “Uraume—”

“I’m ready,” they interrupt, poised and ready to strike. “At your signal.”

Even with that confirmation, Sukuna doesn’t give the signal right away, holds out and waits for the perfect opportunity, waits until the curses are well within range, bearing down rapidly upon them, mere seconds from attack—

“Now!”

Uraume attacks on cue, ice launching forward and striking the curses with deadly force, destroying the weak while trapping the strong, incapacitating a large number of Geto’s army, nearly reaching the man himself. The ice stretches high into the sky, creating a protective barrier around the sorcerer and Yuuji, blocking them from Geto’s view.

Still, the powerful attack only buys them a moment’s reprieve. Geto summons a new curse—a strong one, far stronger than any he had previously manipulated, perhaps even worthy of Special Grade status. It barrels through the ice, shattering the barrier as it races toward Uraume. Still, they never falter, conjuring a thick shard of ice that launches from the ground, spearing through the curse and halting its progress.

Sukuna doesn’t stick around to watch—he has a job to do, after all. As Uraume raises another ice barrier, again blocking Geto’s sightlines, Sukuna darts away into the cover of the trees, using the thick foliage to disguise his movements. He can’t recall the last time he’s had to resort to such covert methods to win a battle, had once been able to crush entire armies with nothing more than brute strength—

No, there’s no time to think about that, no point in such meaningless ruminations.

Uraume is far stronger than Nanami, and as such, they plow through Geto’s curses with greater efficiency than the sorcerer and Sukuna had managed before. And it’s clear Geto recognizes this new threat, for now his focus appears to be less on capturing Yuuji and more on defending against Uraume as they close in upon him.

But Uraume is just the distraction.

Uraume destroys the final curse standing in their way of Geto, then attacks Geto directly. Geto dodges, summoning curses rapidly to defend while avoiding the ice attacks. But he’s so concerned with defense, he hasn’t realized just how deliberate and calculated Uraume’s attacks have become, herding him back towards the treeline, towards their trap.

When he’s close enough, Sukuna attacks.

Sukuna takes Geto by surprise, darting in from his blind spot and knocking the curse user to the ground. Geto thrashes beneath him, fighting to dislodge Sukuna’s pin, but Sukuna doesn’t let up, capitalizing on the opportunity and punching Geto hard in the face, the satisfying crunch of bone breaking under his fist more than making up for the resulting pain that shoots up his arm from such an attack. Geto recoils from the hit with a pained grunt, instinctively releasing the spear held in his grasp as he raises his hands in defense. Sukuna lunges for it, grabbing its hilt and turning the blade on Geto, lashing out at him.

The strike lands true. It’s simply a moment too late.

Sukuna barely has time to acknowledge the curse that has struck him before it disappears, the spear’s ability quickly taking effect the moment it pierces Geto’s flesh. He feels the injury though, the hole through his torso where the cursed spirit’s sharp claw had run him through, blood welling up from the wound and soaking his shirt. He gasps, the breath whistling through his punctured lung, pain searing through his chest like a wildfire. He’s dizzy with it, light-headed, and though his grip on the spear wavers, he forces himself to hold on, grits his teeth and endures. If he lets go, if he loses the spear, it’s all over.

But the wound has weakened him immensely, more so than plain stubbornness and willpower can make up for. Geto shoves him aside, the spear slipping out of his shoulder as Sukuna collapses to the side. His hold on the spear remains, though it’s useless at this point; with the blade no longer piercing Geto’s skin, the man is free to use his technique once more. He summons another cursed spirit—a true Special Grade, by far the strongest one he’s summoned thus far.

He’s ready to end this.

Sukuna tries to scramble to his feet, makes it only to one knee before the dizziness strikes again. Dark spots litter his vision, nearly obstructing his view of the spirit as it lunges towards him. Sukuna grips the spear in a trembling hand, tries to force his arms to rise in defense, in preparation for the strike, but he’s far too light-headed, the blood loss and breathlessness sapping away his strength, making it near impossible to move, let alone fight. So he braces for pain, for worse—

There’s a flash of familiar energy, a blinding light. The Special Grade doesn’t stand a chance against such immense power, dissolving almost instantly as the attack makes contact. But Sukuna doesn’t really see the aftermath, not through the shadows encroaching upon the edges of his vision, not when even brighter blue invades his sight only moments later, Satoru’s eyes stretched far wider than he’s ever seen them.

Beautiful, one part of his mind supplies.

I’m gonna kill him, says the other.

The sorcerer is saying something to him, but his words reach Sukuna’s ears through a thick layer of cotton, far too distorted and distant for him to make sense of. He can barely keep his eyes open at this point, exhaustion weighing him down, so he doesn’t bother trying to speak, just sags against the sorcerer’s hold and waits for…something, though he knows not what.

But it’s alright now. If Satoru is here, then at least Yuuji will be safe.

And it’s with that assurance that Sukuna finally gives in, eyes sliding shut as he submits himself to the darkness.

At first, Satoru feels nothing.

His senses narrow to nothing more than vision, the racing of his pulse in his ears drowning out all else, making him unable to focus on anything but the sight before him.

All he sees is red.

Pale red, Sukuna’s eyes far too dull, far too dead. Dark red, blood soaking fabric, staining skin that’s much too pale. Red, red, red—

He thinks he says something, can feel his lips move, though maybe no sound truly escapes them. It’s hard to think of anything, hard to even breathe, not when he’s so lost in the red, the blood now soaking into his own clothes, staining the trembling hands in which he cradles Sukuna’s body, the former curse so still, so pale, so—so—

Then a body collides with him, tears Sukuna from his arms and shoves Satoru out of the way, the hit finally jolting him to his senses. Uraume pays him no mind as they clutch Sukuna in their arms, Reverse Cursed Technique surging through the hand pressed to the wound on his chest. “Lord Sukuna!” they cry out, voice strained with panic. “Just hold on. Please, hold on!”

And Satoru can’t watch, can’t look away. He knows he should be doing something, he came here for something, but his disoriented mind is still too slow to catch up, the lingering effects of the poison, the warp, the attack all muddling his memory. He needs to do something, but what—

“Satoru,” a familiar voice greets, and slowly Satoru manages to tear his gaze away, eyes falling upon Suguru’s form. He’s far worse for wear than Satoru had last seen him, hair unkempt, clothing torn, blood spilling out between the fingers clutching his shoulder, staining his skin with more red. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here. Though judging by that look in your eyes, it’s safe to assume you haven’t changed your mind.”

“Changed my mind?” Satoru echoes, voice strained, higher pitched and nearing hysterics. “Suguru, you—how could you do this—”

“I’m afraid it’s time I depart,” Suguru interrupts, avoiding the question altogether, not a trace of guilt or regret painting his features. “I know better than to pick a fight I can’t win.”

And Satoru knows he should go after him, should finally end this. So he forces his limbs into action, goes to push himself to his feet as he cries out, “Suguru!”

His hand meets something cold, halting his movements. He clutches it with trembling fingers.

The Inverted Spear of Heaven.

The one he had stolen for Suguru. The one Suguru had used against him. The one he likely planned to—to use on—

Yuuji. Where’s Yuuji?

He whips his head around frantically, taking in the scene around him, seeking out Yuuji’s familiar energy. It’s still there, though there’s something different about it, the pulse of it far too erratic. But it’s there—Satoru locates the boy in Nanami’s arms, the blond gently transferring Yuuji to Shoko’s hold.

“Shoko,” Satoru calls out. “Yuuji, is he—”

“What the hell are you doing, Satoru?” Shoko shouts, Yuuji cradled in one arm, the other hand gesturing emphatically at Suguru’s retreating form. “Go after him!”

But Satoru can’t. Not when Yuuji sits like a dead weight in Shoko’s arms, eerily still, eerily silent. Not when Sukuna has yet to move, chest barely rising and falling with every laboured breath.

Not when it’s all Satoru’s fault.

And if Satoru wasn’t awake before, he certainly is now, realization washing over him in an icy wave, stealing the very breath from his lungs.

For Sukuna had been right: Suguru was using him from the start.

There’s a cool hand pressed to his chest, a surge of cursed energy—Uraume’s, easy to recognize even through the haze lingering in his mind. He feels the way their Reverse Cursed Technique slowly stitches him back together, patches the hole in his lung. Even so, the first breath in is painful.

Sukuna coughs, chokes on the next breath, shooting upright as he clutches his chest, nearly dislodging Uraume’s hold. But Uraume stays firm, propping him up against their shoulder as they reposition their hand over his wound once more, the stream of their cursed energy never wavering. “Lord Sukuna! I’m sorry, I should have—”

“It’s not important,” Sukuna dismisses, voice hoarse, scratching at his throat. He swivels his head, vision blurring slightly. “Where’s that bastard?”

“He fled as soon as I showed up,” Satoru says, voice strangely distant considering how close to Sukuna’s side he remains.

And—wait, Satoru is still here. He’s still here, on the battlefield, when he should be—

“Then what the hell are you still doing here?” Sukuna spits, nearly triggering another coughing fit with the force of his words. “Go after him, you fool!”

“I was a little busy saving your life!” Satoru retorts, now glaring at Sukuna—as if he has the right to be upset.

Sukuna tries to lunge at him, but Uraume halts his progress, keeps him in place as they continue to heal him. “My life wouldn’t have required saving had you not been such a goddamn idiot in the first place!”

“I know!” Satoru huffs, dragging a hand through his hair, streaking red in his pale locks. “I know, okay? I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apology, I want that bastard’s head—yours too, while I’m at it.” But there’s no point arguing with Satoru, not right now. Sukuna turns his attention elsewhere. “Uraume, where did Geto flee to?”

Uraume clicks their tongue, avoiding his gaze. “You’re in no condition to go after him.”

“That’s not what I asked!”

“I apologize for my impudence,” they reply, not sounding apologetic in the least, “but I will not allow you to pursue him. The other sorcerer is already tracking him.”

And sure enough, when Sukuna assesses his surroundings once more, he finds the blond sorcerer absent. The healer—Shoko, he thinks—has arrived too, a small body cradled in her arms. “And Yuuji—”

“He’s alright, just asleep,” Shoko confirms. “I’ve given him a cursory check and everything appears fine. He’s likely exhausted after everything. Still, there’s something you should see.”

Satoru’s the first to rush over, Sukuna and Uraume following close behind. And though the most pressing of his injuries have been healed, he still feels far from refreshed, nearly stumbling over his feet in his haste. Uraume’s there to steady him, sticks close to his side as they join Satoru and the healer, peering down at the boy in her arms. Yuuji’s clothes are spattered in red, face pinched even as he slumbers. But neither of those things are what capture Sukuna’s attention first.

There are lines on Yuuji’s face—two of them, thin black marks that line the tops of his cheekbones, just below his eyes. Almost like—

Sukuna doesn’t realize he’s moved until he feels his fingertips ghost across his own cheek—to the place where his secondary eyes had once been, the lines there now mirrored in the face of his son.

It’s Satoru who speaks first. “Shoko, what—”

“They’re just marks at this point,” Shoko interrupts. “Trust me, I checked. Even so…”

“His energy is different,” Satoru says, finishing the thought. “It feels like—” He cuts off abruptly, face pinched as he turns to Sukuna. “Sukuna, what happened?”

Sukuna crosses his arms over his chest. “You can damn well figure it out yourself.”

“Sukuna—”

But whatever Satoru is about to say, he doesn’t get the chance, not with Nanami’s return interrupting their conversation. Judging by the deep frown on his face and the clear absence of the fleeing curse user, it’s apparent he had failed his pursuit.

“He got away,” Nanami says, confirming Sukuna’s suspicions. “I tried to follow, but he used one of his curses to escape.”

Shoko sighs, shoulders slumping slightly. “I suppose that was to be expected.” Then she’s gesturing with her head, changing the topic. “C’mon, we should get out of here, get Yuuji back home.”

Sukuna scoffs. “You can’t be serious. After all that, you’re just going to let that bastard go?” No one responds—it’s confirmation enough. Sukuna shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “You sorcerers are far too sentimental.”

Sukuna should have known better, should have known that if anything is to get done, it must be done by his hands. So, he turns to leave, intent on going after Geto himself—not that he knows to which direction the man had fled. It’s of little consequence; he’ll figure it out. He barely makes it a few steps before a thick wall of ice surges up before him, barring his path.

Sukuna whirls around, eyes narrowed in warning. “Uraume—”

Uraume bows low, but there’s an edge to their voice as they speak. “Forgive my impudence once more, but I cannot idly stand by and watch you nearly die a third time.” They rise to their full height again, folding their hands within their sleeves, unwaveringly meeting Sukuna’s harsh gaze. “Your child needs you, Lord Sukuna. Now more than ever.”

And they’re right, Sukuna knows they’re right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to stay, to let Geto escape, his transgressions left unpunished. But if Uraume is so set on stopping him…

There’s nothing he can do.

So he swallows his frustrations, relenting. “Fine. We shall retreat for now. For Yuuji’s sake.”

“Nanami,” Shoko says, drawing the man’s attention, “I know it’s not your job anymore, but would you be willing to report back to Yaga about all this? Satoru and I will submit an official report later, but it’s better we give Yaga a heads-up.”

Nanami nods. “Right, I’ll head over now.”

“Nanami,” Satoru calls to the other before he can leave, “don’t mention anything about Yuuji—about his energy. Please.”

Nanami hesitates before responding, considering Satoru’s request. “I will reveal only what is pertinent,” Nanami decides at last. “I won’t put Yuuji in further harm’s way.”

Satoru’s shoulders slump, relief evident in his features. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“A month’s long holiday,” Nanami replies, turning to leave. “I’ll decide the location and itinerary later.”

A small smile plays at Satoru’s lips. “Of course.”

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Shoko says, gesturing with her head once more. “We have a lot to talk about.”

Satoru doesn’t leave Yuuji’s side for the rest of the day, refuses to take his eyes off the boy for even a moment. Though Shoko has already confirmed that Yuuji is okay, is likely just exhausted from the morning’s events, Satoru still monitors him—the cursed energy thrumming within him. No longer does Satoru’s own energy reside in boy, Sukuna’s cursed energy all that remains. And maybe that makes Satoru a little nervous; he hadn’t considered what would happen should his barrier be nullified, never considered it possible. And now, after the events that had just transpired…

There’s no telling how Yuuji is affected.

Upon their return to the house, Satoru had been caught up on everything that occurred during the fight with Suguru. Surprisingly, it was Uraume who did the honours, though it appeared every word they spoke was forced out, displeasure and disgust evident in their features as they relayed to him the events—how Suguru used the Inverted Spear of Heaven to nullify Satoru’s cursed technique, how doing so had apparently unleashed Sukuna’s own technique, Cleave leaving shallow slices in Suguru’s skin. Even so, it hadn’t been enough to deter Suguru, who likely would have succeeded in his plot had Nanami and Uraume not arrived when they did.

Nanami—who Sukuna apparently recruited after Satoru went absent. Shoko too, her healing ability considered a necessary asset in the plan Sukuna and Uraume had concocted—the plan intended to save Yuuji, not harm Satoru as he had originally thought.

From the start, Sukuna had only ever had Yuuji’s best interests in mind. From the start, Sukuna had been a far better caretaker than Satoru had ever been.

Satoru, who had pledged his life to Yuuji’s safety, who had sworn to create a world worthy of his son. Satoru, who had been the reason Yuuji almost never lived to see that promise take shape.

Never again, Satoru had said. I won’t abandon him, never again.

Funny—never doesn’t feel as long as it should.

Uraume leaves as soon as they finish catching Satoru up, can’t stand to be in his presence any longer than necessary. In fact, had it not been that the order to fill Satoru in came from Sukuna, Uraume likely would not have bothered at all.

And Satoru doesn’t blame them. He can barely stand to be around himself right now.

Sukuna had left as soon as he was able—as soon as Uraume had finished healing him. He didn’t depart peacefully, however, had stormed out and slammed the door behind him, the echoes of his shouting match with Uraume only moments before still lingering in the halls. And Satoru hadn’t been able to make out the specific words, only heard the heat in Sukuna’s tone, the ice in Uraume’s responses. Still, Sukuna hadn’t spared Satoru a word since the battle’s end—barely even looked at him since then—and Satoru knows he doesn’t deserve such a small mercy, should be the true target of Sukuna’s rage, not Uraume, not anyone else.

Leave it to Satoru to fuck up not only his own relationships, but everyone else’s as well.

He must be cursed—that’s the only explanation he can think of. For how can someone be so unfathomably powerful, yet so undeniably weak? How can a God be so helpless to protect his creation?

Perhaps there’s a reason Gods do not walk among humans. Perhaps they too cannot face their own failures.

A curse—yeah, that’s what this is. Too strong, doomed to destroy everything he holds dear. Maybe it’s time he got used to loneliness. At least if he’s alone, he can’t hurt anyone else.

(At least if he’s alone, no one can hurt him.)

There’s a gentle knock at the door to Yuuji’s room, stirring Satoru from his thoughts. From his seat in the rocking chair next to Yuuji’s crib, Satoru turns his head to find Shoko standing at the threshold. “Satoru,” she greets, quietly entering the room.

“Shoko.” Satoru turns his gaze back on Yuuji—still sound asleep. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“I’m about to head out,” she replies, coming to stand at Satoru’s side. “I wanted to check on Yuuji again before I did.”

Satoru shakes his head. “Still no change. He still hasn’t woken up.” He takes a deep breath, hating the way it rattles in his chest. “I can’t sense anything wrong with him, yet he still hasn’t woken up.”

“He’s exhausted, Satoru. What did you expect?” She rests hand atop the crib, eyes soft as she gazes upon the child within. “Give him time. Kids are surprisingly resilient. He’ll bounce back from this.”

He shouldn’t have to bounce back. He shouldn’t have to be resilient. Satoru was supposed to protect him, keep him safe from the harsh realities of the world for as long as he still held breath in his lungs.

Satoru swallows the lump in his throat, eyes burning. He leans his forehead against the crib’s railing and slides his eyes shut. “Where did I go wrong?”

“That better be a rhetorical question.” When Satoru doesn’t answer—doesn’t confirm nor deny it—Shoko scoffs. Even as her voice raises in volume, Yuuji never stirs. “I mean, fuck Satoru. Do you seriously not get it? You left. You abandoned your family to go chase after some ghost of the past—”

“I wasn’t chasing a ghost,” Satoru defends, turning on her, “it was Suguru—”

Shoko cuts him off. “No, whoever that man is, it’s not Suguru.” She crosses her arms over her chest, shaking her head. “He hasn’t been our Suguru for a long time.”

“I was going to change that,” Satoru says, lump in his throat returning, making it difficult to speak. “I—I love him. And love, it’s supposed to change people. So why couldn’t I change him?” And this time, he can’t keep the tremors from his voice, can barely keep the moisture from spilling from his eyes. “Did I not love him enough? Is that why I couldn’t save him?”

“You couldn’t save him because he didn’t want to be saved,” Shoko replies, gaze on the floorboards below. “No amount of love was going to change that.”

Because Suguru didn’t want to reform the Jujutsu world out of the love he held for it; he wanted to destroy it—out of revenge, out of pain—

Satoru just didn’t want to see it.

He sighs, the fight leaving his body all at once. “Maybe—maybe you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Shoko says. “You just never listen.”

“I’m listening now. I know it’s too late, but…I’m listening.” He gazes up at her, imploring. “So, what should I do now?”

She hums, considering. “As a doctor, I’d say you need to eat something, drink some water. You look like shit.”

Satoru laughs—a humourless exhale. “And as my friend?”

“As your friend, I’d say go fuck yourself.” She sighs, shaking her head. “Seriously though, I’m not the one you need to fix things with.”

Satoru’s lips quirk upward, a joyless smile. “I think I might have burned that bridge already.”

“Yeah well, the neat thing about bridges is that they can always be rebuilt.” Then Shoko’s reaching out, carding her fingers through Satoru’s hair with a gentleness he doesn’t deserve. “Go get some water. I’ll stay with Yuuji until you get back.”

Satoru nods, slowly pushing himself up from the chair. His back is stiff from staying seated so long, from his lengthy vigil at Yuuji’s side. “Thanks, Sho. I don’t deserve you as my friend.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a slight smile on her face. “You don’t, but lucky for you, you don’t get a choice in the matter.” The she’s shooing him away, practically pushing him out of the room. “Now go, before I decide I want to yell at you more.”

Satoru complies, making his way to the kitchen. It’s late into the evening according to clock on the stove, and though Satoru hasn’t eaten since breakfast, he doubts he’ll be able to stomach anything—he’s far too nauseous to even consider it. Still, he can manage a drink at least. There’s a steady headache that pounds behind his eyes, a tight scratchy feeling in his throat that water would likely help. So, he opens up the cupboard to retrieve a glass—

There’s a mug missing. There used to be six lined up on the shelf, three in the front, three in the back. But one is missing from the front row, providing a glimpse at the others tucked in behind, drawing a near perfect line to a mug Satoru has not seen in almost two years.

The one Suguru had got him.

World’s Greatest Dad.

What a cruel fucking joke.

He doesn’t realize he’s moved, barely feels the cool ceramic in his hand as he rips the mug from its place on the shelf, gripping it with trembling fingers before sending it crashing to the floor below. The mug shatters, the impact not nearly as satisfying as Satoru had hoped. Some of the pieces are too large still, that false title still clearly legible even spread amongst the shards.

So he drops to his knees, uncaring of the glass that litters the floor, smashing his fist down on the largest shard, shattering it beneath his knuckles. But he doesn’t stop there, keeps bringing his fist down upon the broken mug again and again until his skin bruises, his knuckles bleed, until the ceramic has turned to nothing more than dust.

It doesn’t help.

Chest heaving, Satoru collapses backward, back pressing against the cupboards. He curls in on himself, hands gripping his hair so hard it hurts, tugging at the strands until it hurts more. He deserves this, doesn’t he? Every ounce of pain he deserves.

A shadow falls across him. At first, he thinks it’s Shoko, drawn out by the commotion of his tantrum. But when he finally lifts his head, it’s not Shoko he sees.

Compared to this morning, Sukuna’s eyes are far too red.

He glares down at Satoru, and though his skin is still paler than usual, his hair more dishevelled, it does little to temper the rage that burns in his eyes. “Stand up.”

Satoru blinks at him. “What?”

“I refuse to lower myself to your level,” Sukuna replies, nudging him sharply with his foot. “Stand up.”

“Sukuna—”

“I said stand up!”

This time, Sukuna doesn’t wait for him to comply, doesn’t give him a chance. He grips Satoru by the throat, fingers nearly crushing his esophagus as he hauls him to his feet, slamming him against the nearest flat surface—the fridge, the appliance rattling at the force, knocking harshly against the wall, the whiteboard once hanging from its door clattering loudly onto the floor. Satoru does nothing to defend himself, lets his head slam back into the fridge, vision blurring as pain shoots through his skull. Sukuna’s grip on his throat never loosens, fingers tightening further as he pins Satoru there, completely cutting off his airway, granting him no reprieve.

Sukuna could kill him here.

Satoru would let him.

He deserves it, after all.

A hand cracks against the skin of his cheek, head jolting to the side from the force and snapping Satoru out of his thoughts. “Are you even listening to me?” Sukuna demands, tone dripping rage.

No, he’s not. He hadn’t even realized Sukuna had been speaking to him this entire time.

The pressure around his throat lessens, just enough for Satoru to suck in a harsh breath, just enough that he can manage a strained reply. “I’m sorry.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

“No, you’re not sorry!” Sukuna’s grip returns, and this time he hauls Satoru away from the fridge, tossing the sorcerer to the ground. “You haven’t even scratched the surface of how sorry you’ll be!”

Before Satoru has a chance to react, Sukuna is on him, pinning him to the ground as he lashes out with his fists, each strike hitting their mark uncontested. Satoru doesn’t bother fighting back, doesn’t even raise his arms or throw up Infinity. He just lies there, lets Sukuna take his rage out upon him, lets his words sink in through the wounds he inflicts. “He almost died because of you!” Sukuna spits, words punctuated by each strike. “You foolish, pathetic, waste of life!”

I know. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.

Pain wracks Satoru’s entire being—physical, emotional. It’s getting to be too much—he can barely see Sukuna’s face through the spots blurring his vision. Even so, he still doesn’t defend himself, lets Sukuna get it out of his system.

But that’s not what Sukuna wants.

Sukuna’s hands grip his hair, hauling him up as far as he will go, shaking him viciously in his hold.  “Fight back!” he demands as Satoru remains limp, as he lets Sukuna toss him around. “Don’t just lie there! Fight me, damn it!”

Satoru doesn’t want to fight back, hasn’t earned that right. But if a fight is what Sukuna needs to work through this, then who is Satoru to deny him?

This time when Sukuna lashes out, Satoru blocks the strike, escapes Sukuna’s pin with ease. It’d be far too easy for Satoru to win this fight—one strike with his cursed energy, and it’d be over. But he doesn’t, barely uses any of his natural strength as he grapples with Sukuna, trading blows back and forth, neither gaining the upper hand. It’s messy, uncoordinated, barely could be considered a fight at all. For all his previous anger, Sukuna tires far too quickly for it to be a true fight, wounds healed but body and mind still far from recovered.

At his next swing, Satoru catches Sukuna’s fists in his hands, and though Sukuna resists, he doesn’t seem to be trying to escape, not really, is more so putting pressure against Satoru’s hands. His arms shake with the effort—or maybe it’s Satoru who’s trembling—cheeks wet and eyes still burning. “He almost died,” Sukuna repeats, voice shaking as much as his body. “Right before my eyes, he almost—”

And Satoru’s not sure who moved first, if it was him who tugged Sukuna down or if Sukuna simply collapsed, but soon Sukuna’s face is pressed right against his chest, Satoru’s arms wrapping tightly around him.

You almost died too, Satoru wants to point out, but he holds his tongue. I almost lost you both.

A little over a year ago, Sukuna’s safety was a non-issue, his continued survival an unfortunate side-effect of keeping Yuuji safe. And Satoru’s not sure when that changed, when Sukuna went from being someone he couldn’t stand to someone he couldn’t lose. It doesn’t matter anyway; after this, there’s no way Sukuna will stick around. For Satoru is doomed to destroy all those he tries to hold dear. Sukuna is no exception.

Sukuna only allows the contact for a moment—maybe it had been Satoru who pulled after all. He pushes himself upright, shoving Satoru’s arms away. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he says, but his tone holds no heat, far too tired, far too resigned.

Satoru looks away, fidgeting with his hands. “I’m sorry.”

Sukuna slides himself backward until his back meets the cupboards—just as he had found Satoru only moments before. He shakes his head, drags a tired palm down his face. “Quit saying that.”

“I’m—” Satoru catches himself before he can finish the sentence. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Then stop talking.”

Sukuna sits with his head in his hands now, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyelids—trying to compose himself, trying to keep it together. Satoru doubts it’d been his intention to crumble before him, that Sukuna was only here to expend his ire, take out his rage on Satoru. And Satoru couldn’t even take a punishment right, ruined even this for Sukuna.

Slowly, Satoru slides up next to Sukuna, careful not to touch. “What can I do? How do I fix this?”

Sukuna huffs, turning his head just enough to glare at Satoru. “You speak as though anything remains to be fixed.”

Satoru slumps against the cupboards. “Maybe you’re right.”

“No, I’m not right!” Sukuna argues, shoving Satoru’s shoulder. “Why are you so quick to give up now? Is this not important enough to you?”

“Of course it’s important, I just—” Satoru sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I keep ruining things. Maybe it’s time I learned how to quit. You and Yuuji would be better off if I wasn’t around.”

Sukuna hums, turning away from Satoru once more. “Maybe so, but that’s not your decision to make—not alone.” He shakes his head. “The only reason you ruin things is that you try to do them all alone.”

“I have to do it alone!” Satoru argues, frowning. “I’m the strongest sorcerer; no one else can carry the weight but me.”

“Is that your answer then?” Sukuna prompts, and distantly, Satoru can recall the echoes of a past conversation—a past argument. He hadn’t answered back then, hadn’t understood the question. “Is that what it truly means to be the strongest? To be alone?”

It has to be, right? But no matter how much Satoru believes it, he can’t help but feel he’s failed some sort of test, has answered the question wrong. So he doesn’t reply, doesn’t confirm Sukuna’s assertion, doesn’t deny it either.

Sukuna reads into his silence, takes it as confirmation anyway. He sighs, shaking his head again. “Fine,” he says, pushing himself up off the floor. “Then leave. Run away again. I’m too tired to argue with you further.”

He leaves without another word, leaves Satoru alone in the kitchen once more. Alone, Satoru curls in on himself, presses his forehead against his knees and breathes in deep. Alone, he forces himself to his feet, scrubs the wetness from his cheeks. Alone, he pours himself a glass water, drains it in one go, refills it and does the same. Alone, he cleans up what little remains of the mug-turned-dust that litters the floor, picks up the pieces of himself that shattered alongside it.

Alone, Satoru realizes he doesn’t want to be the strongest, he doesn’t want to be a god.

Alone, he decides, he doesn’t want to be alone.

Chapter Text

When Satoru awakes, it’s to a soft touch on his cheek.

His back aches, muscles in his neck knotted from the awkward sleeping position he had been in—bent over in the rocking chair, face pressed uncomfortably against the crib’s railing. He blinks away the final vestiges of sleep, blurry gaze eventually settling on the pair of honey-brown eyes staring back at him.

Yuuji. He’s awake.

It’s Yuuji’s tiny hand that caresses the skin of Satoru’s cheek, the boy reaching out to touch, to make sure the image of his father at his bedside is real, that he’s really there. “Dada?”

His voice sounds so small, so unsure. And if Satoru’s heart hadn’t been broken before, it certainly shatters now.

Satoru sucks in a breath, reaching up to place a hand over Yuuji’s, pressing it further into his cheek. “Hey buddy,” he whispers, pulling the boy’s hand to his lips, leaving a kiss on the soft skin of his knuckles. “Good morning.”

Yuuji blinks at him. “Dada home?”

Satoru laughs lightly. It’s the only thing that keeps him from crying. “Yeah, Yuuji. I’m home. I’m not going anywhere, never again.”

Despite his words, Yuuji’s lip trembles—like he doesn’t believe Satoru, doesn’t trust him not to disappear again.

A lump forms in Satoru’s throat, his eyes burning from more than lack of sleep. “Come here,” he says, rising so he can lift Yuuji up from the crib and into his arms, holding him tightly against his chest. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.”

Yuuji curls into Satoru’s hold, a fist gripping the soft cotton of his t-shirt, and Satoru holds him tightly in turn, burying his face in the boy’s soft hair. “I’m so sorry Yuuji. I’m so, so sorry. I never should have left you, never should’ve let anything happen to you. You’re the most important thing in the world to me. I’m sorry that I made you feel like anything less. I won’t let it happen again, Yuuji. I love you so much.”

Yuuji doesn’t say anything, doesn’t really cry, either. Maybe he’s comforted by the words, by the feeling of his father’s arms around him. Satoru hopes that’s what it is.

He presses a kiss to Yuuji’s hair. “C’mon. Let’s get you something to eat. You must be hungry.”

Satoru brings Yuuji out to the kitchen, gets him settled in his highchair before grabbing him some breakfast, pouring cereal into a small plastic bowl, filling his sippy cup with juice. He places the items on the tray before Yuuji, then pulls up a stool for himself nearby, content to keep his eyes on his son, to never be too far away.

Yuuji slumps in his chair. He looks at his breakfast with dull eyes—far from their usual vibrance. He doesn’t reach for his food. He doesn’t really do anything.

“C’mon, buddy,” Satoru prompts, nudging the cereal bowl. “You gotta eat something.”

Still nothing. Yuuji glances down at the cereal in the bowl, then back up at Satoru.

Satoru takes a deep breath, ignoring the way his heart picks up in pace, the cries of something’s wrong ringing in his mind. “Please, Yuuji,” he insists, voice trembling slightly no matter how hard he fights to keep it steady. “Just a few bites—anything. Please.”

Yuuji blinks at him, a slight furl in his brow. “Dada ouch?”

“What?” Satoru’s on his feet in an instant, peering down at the boy, examining him as best as he can. “Are you hurt? What’s ouch?”

“No.” Yuuji points, frown deepening. “Dada ouch.”

Satoru matches the frown, confused. “Me?”

Yuuji nods, still pointing at him, pointing at something on his face. And it’s only then that Satoru notices the wetness painting his cheeks, the tears that have finally broken forth, spilling down from his eyes. Yuuji sees him crying, thinks he’s hurt.

He’s worried about him.

Satoru laughs lightly, trying to set his son at ease. “Yeah, Yuuji,” he confirms, wiping away the moisture from his eyes. “But I’m okay. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Yuuji doesn’t seem convinced, not when the tears refuse to stop falling. Yuuji reaches for Satoru, purses his lips, making a slight smacking noise. Like he wants a kiss, like he wants—

Oh. He thinks Satoru’s hurt. He wants to kiss it better.

And Satoru breaks.

“Yuuji,” he gasps out, pulling the boy up from the highchair, uncaring when he jostles the tray, spilling cereal across its surface, onto the floor. “Come here.”

Yuuji goes without complaint, allowing Satoru to squeeze him tightly against him, face pressed against the boy’s small shoulder, tears dampening the fabric below. “It’s okay. I’m okay,” Satoru whispers, apologies dripping from his tongue in an endless chant. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Yuuji’s arms wrap around him in response, the boy placing little kisses along the side of his face, trying to comfort him, as though he’s the one who needs comforting, as though it shouldn’t be the other way around.

Yuuji’s too perfect for this broken world, too kind to have experienced such cruelness. He’s far better than Satoru, far better than anyone else.

And Satoru almost—

“What’s the problem now?”

It’s Sukuna’s voice, cutting into Satoru’s thoughts. Satoru lifts his gaze, finds Sukuna paused at the edge of the kitchen, a frown on his face. “Yuuji, is he—”

“He’s not eating,” Satoru interrupts, voice strained from crying, still quivering with his sobs. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but he won’t eat his breakfast.”

And suddenly Sukuna’s at his side, pressing in close so he can assess Yuuji before glancing at the cereal spilled across the tray. After a moment, his shoulders slump. He sighs, stepping away from Satoru. “He hates this cereal now. Stopped eating it a little while ago—which you’d have known, had you been around.”

And the accusation stings, but Satoru can find no fault in it. He’s right, after all. Sukuna clicks his tongue at the mess, shaking his head as he steps into the kitchen. “Put him in his chair. I’ll prepare something else for him. And pull yourself together, would you?”

Satoru does as he’s told, sliding Yuuji back into his seat, then cleaning up the spilled cereal. Sukuna returns soon after, placing a different flavour of cereal on the tray, and sure enough, Yuuji begins eating away, shovelling the cereal into his mouth, practically inhaling it in his haste.

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Slow down. One brush with death is more than enough for your lifetime.”

Yuuji tries to respond, but with his cheeks full of cereal, the words are entirely incomprehensible. Still, the boy complies, swallowing down his massive mouthful, then proceeding to eat the rest of his cereal at a much more reasonable pace. Satisfied, Sukuna ruffles Yuuji’s hair, then returns to the kitchen once more.

Satoru reclaims his seat on the stool, watching Yuuji eat. It’s easier to get a hold of himself now, with Yuuji slowly returning to his baseline behaviour, the cereal in his belly giving him a bit more energy, a bit more life. But he’s still not quite his usual bubbly self, the light in his eyes not nearly as bright as before. Something’s still wrong—there has to be something wrong—

Satoru hopes it’s just tiredness.

There’s a soft clatter on the counter next to him, startling Satoru from his thoughts. He turns, finding a steaming mug placed before him, Sukuna watching his reaction with a raised brow. Still, he doesn’t comment on Satoru’s state of distraction, just scoffs and turns back into the kitchen.

And Satoru…he can’t help but feel surprised by the action, by the thoughtfulness and kindness within. After last night, he figured Sukuna would still be far too angry with him to afford him any shred of decency, let alone amity. He’s grown soft, Satoru’s sure of it—Yuuji’s doing, no doubt. Something must have happened during that battle—during Satoru’s absence—to further dull his edges.

Or maybe he’s just playing nice for Yuuji’s sake, unwilling to cause the child anymore stress. That’s more likely the case.

Satoru pulls the mug closer to himself, feeling the steam caress his skin. “Thanks.”

Sukuna doesn’t answer him, doesn’t even spare him another glance. He sips his own coffee, eyes never leaving Yuuji, watching as the boy polishes off his bowl of cereal. Yuuji raises the empty bowl, waving it at Sukuna, and Sukuna sighs, accepting the bowl and refilling it, returning it to Yuuji once more. Yuuji tucks into his cereal without hesitation, already reaching into the bowl to grab a fistful before Sukuna has had a chance to set it on the tray. “Brat,” Sukuna chides, but his lips curl into a soft smile, the insult laden with an affection Satoru had not heard from the former curse ever before.

Satoru doesn’t comment on it, however, just hides his own smile behind the rim of his mug.

Sukuna returns to his spot at the island, leaning his elbows atop the counter. For a moment, they sit in silence, savouring their morning brew, watching Yuuji as he powers through his breakfast. Surprisingly, it’s Sukuna who speaks first.  “So, you’re still here.”

“I’m still here," Satoru confirms. "And I’m not going anywhere. If you want me gone, you’ll have to kill me yourself.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Hardly worth the effort.”

The silence returns. Satoru drums his fingers against the side of his mug, then sighs. “So, are you going to say it?”

“Say what?”

“I told you so.” And Satoru finds he can’t meet Sukuna’s gaze, is far too ashamed—far too cowardly—to look him in the eye. “You were right about everything, after all.”

Sukuna hums, taking a sip from his coffee. “Maybe be later,” he decides eventually, waving a dismissive hand. “You’re far too pathetic now for it to be worthwhile.”

“Right,” Satoru replies with a laugh. After a moment, he adds, “Hey, Sukuna—”

“If you’re going to apologize again, I won’t hear it.”

“—thank you,” Satoru finishes, finally lifting his gaze to meet Sukuna’s. “I…I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here, protecting Yuuji. If I had lost him—if I had lost either of you…” And Satoru can’t finish the thought, not without risking breaking down once more, eyes already burning with the threat of tears. So he groans, burying his head in his hands. “God, I’m such an idiot. What the hell is wrong with me?”

“Would you prefer the list in alphabetical or chronological order?”

Satoru glares at him. “I’m serious—”

“So am I.”

And he certainly seems serious. But there’s no way Sukuna actually took the time to create a list, right? Right? “Is this your attempt at comforting me?” Satoru asks. “’Cause it’s really not helping.”

It is, perhaps, the wrong thing to say.

Sukuna nearly slams his mug down on the counter. “Why the hell would I comfort you? What, do you expect me to pity you for willingly subjecting yourself to a heartbreak you could have avoided if you’d only just listened to me?” He shakes his head, disgust evident in his features when he levels Satoru with a glare, jutting an accusing finger at him. “The only reason I haven’t killed you yet is for Yuuji’s sake, because I know he’d be far worse off with you gone than with you around. But mark my words, Satoru Gojo, if you even think about pulling this sort of stunt again, I will not hesitate to finish you. One way or another, you will die by my hands.”

And the threat to his life barely reaches Satoru’s ears, not when realization finally sets in, the missing piece to the puzzle that has been Sukuna’s behaviour finally clicking into place.

God, Satoru really is an idiot.

“You love Yuuji,” he says—doesn’t need to ask, can state it as simple fact.

Even so, he expects Sukuna to deny the observation—if only on principle, if only to be contrary. But Sukuna meets the challenge head-on, doesn’t even hesitate before he responds, “I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t.”

And Satoru doesn’t get a chance to comment upon that declaration—doesn’t know what he would have said even had he the chance, so taken aback by the resoluteness in Sukuna’s tone, so surprised by his answer. Yuuji bangs his now-empty bowl on his tray, interrupting their conversation with his chant of, “Done! Done! Done!”

Sukuna huffs—maybe exasperation, maybe amusement. “C’mon, kid,” he says, rounding the island so he can lift Yuuji from his highchair. “Let’s get you cleaned up."

The rest of the morning passes rather uneventfully—the perfect morning, really, considering yesterday’s debacle. A random show plays on the TV in the background, merely filling the silence, no one paying it any mind as they lounge upon the sofa, too caught up in their own thoughts, or perhaps caught up in trying not to think at all. Ever since returning from Yuuji’s room, after having gotten the boy changed, Sukuna has yet to let go of the kid, keeps him cradled in his arms as the boy naps, relaxed except for the small hand he keeps fisted in Sukuna’s shirt. And Satoru’s a little jealous, he can admit, though he knows he has no right to be; Sukuna never abandoned Yuuji, after all. This behaviour only makes sense.

So, it’s illogical for Satoru to feel this way, he knows it is. But for him, logic and emotion rarely align these days.

Much like his son, Sukuna lightly slumbers, head tipped back against the sofa, snoring softly—though unlike his son, his nap is frequently interrupted, like he keeps waking himself up, like he won’t let himself fall asleep, not with Yuuji in his arms. He’s still on his guard, his nervous system in overdrive, trapped in the past, in a battle that almost ended fatally, with an enemy long since departed. There is no danger here, yet he cannot relax.

And it’s all Satoru’s fault.

Sukuna wakes himself up again, shoulders tense as his eyes blink open, scanning his surroundings, reorienting himself with the present. And though his body relaxes after a moment, after his mind finally catches up, Satoru doesn’t miss the way his arms tighten around Yuuji.

He’ll never get any rest, not like this.

“Hey,” Satoru says, voice hushed. “Go back to bed for a bit. I can watch Yuuji.”

Sukuna glares at him. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You look like you haven’t slept.”

“So do you.”

Satoru waves a dismissive hand. “I slept fine.” A total lie—awkward sleeping position aside, Satoru’s night had been plagued by nightmares, by long periods of restless in which his mind refused to settle. All in all, he maybe got one—possibly two—hours of sleep. He won’t bring that up though, not now. “C’mon, quit being stubborn. At this rate you’ll make yourself sick. How will you take care of Yuuji if that happens?”

Sukuna’s glare sharpens. “Don’t use the boy against me.”

“Don’t be stupid then.” Satoru holds his gaze evenly, refusing to back down. “One hour. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Doesn’t sound like a question,” Sukuna points out, rolling his eyes.

Still, he does seem to be debating it. And he might have given in had Satoru’s phone not rang that very moment.

Satoru scrambles to answer it, cursing the thing when it nearly wakes Yuuji from his nap. He spies the caller ID, quickly accepting the call. “Yeah?”

“Satoru, where are you?” Shoko demands, annoyance clear in her tone. “You were supposed to be here at the school to deliver your report almost an hour ago!”

Satoru hums. “Was I? Huh, I totally forgot.”

“Whatever. Just hurry up and get here. Yaga’s patient, but not that patient.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get there when I get there.” He waves a hand, though Shoko obviously cannot see the flippancy in the action. She’ll hear it in his voice, if nothing else. “Thanks for the reminder, Sho.”

He hangs up without another word, sighing as he repockets his phone. Sukuna’s watching him, has likely overheard the conversation. And when Satoru makes no move to leave, he prompts, “Well? Shouldn’t you be going?”

Satoru shrugs. “I wasn’t in any particular rush. I mean, what’s one more hour gonna hurt?” He extends his arms towards the other, reaching for his son. “I’ll watch Yuuji while you nap, and then I’ll head out.”

“You’re avoiding it,” Sukuna accuses, refusing to relinquish his hold on the boy. “The more you drag it out, the worse it will become.”

Satoru groans, flopping back onto the sofa. “I just promised that I wasn’t gonna leave again. I’m not about to go back on my word so quickly.”

“This is hardly the same thing, Six Eyes,” Sukuna chides, rolling his eyes. Then he gestures with his head towards the door. “Go. Yuuji and I will still be here when you get back.”

Despite his reassurance, Satoru doesn’t feel at ease. It’s not that he thinks Sukuna would leave, take Yuuji and flee, it’s just…

What if something happens when he’s gone? What if Yuuji—

No. He can’t think about it, can’t bear the thought. It’s nothing more than paranoia, anyway.

It still doesn’t make leaving any easier.

Finally, Satoru pushes himself up from the sofa, stretching his stiff muscles. “Right. I guess I should just get it over with.” He reaches down, gently carding his fingers through his son’s soft hair, careful not to wake him. “See ya in a bit, Yuuji. Sukuna.”

And with a final glance behind him, Satoru departs.

For the first time in perhaps his entire life, Satoru is nervous to face Yaga and the higher-ups, though it isn’t out care for his own well-being. What he’s done should warrant him execution, should mark him as an enemy of their society. And if that happens, there’s no doubt the execution orders for Yuuji and Sukuna will be reinstated, their safety in jeopardy once more. And though Satoru definitely won’t go down without a fight, it’ll be annoying having to slaughter the higher-ups, to relocate himself, Yuuji, and Sukuna somewhere they won’t be found, would cause his broken family even more stress than they deserve. At that point, Sukuna really might kill him.

So, he needs to figure something out—a way to minimize the damage, a way to ensure that, no matter what happens to Satoru, at least Yuuji and Sukuna will be alright.

Shoko is still lingering in front of the school’s main building when Satoru arrives. She looks exhausted, bags under her eyes darker than usual as she lazily smokes a cigarette. Satoru joins her, nose wrinkling at the acrid stench of smoke. “Shoko, didn’t expect to see you here still.”

“Yaga and I were waiting for you to arrive so we could give our report together,” she replies, pausing to taking a drag, purposefully blowing the smoke in Satoru’s direction. “But obviously you didn’t show, so I gave mine alone.”

Satoru grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry about that. This morning’s been…well, I guess it could’ve been worse.”

Shoko hums. She finishes her cigarette, snubbing the spent butt out under her shoe. “How’s Yuuji?”

“He’s okay,” Satoru responds. “He finally woke up. As far as I can tell, he’s fine, but he still seems a little off. Not his usual energetic self, at least.”

“He’s probably still tired. I’m sure he’ll be back to normal in no time.” She stuffs her hands into her pockets, shrugging. “Still, I can stop by sometime and check on him, if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that.” And this time when Satoru smiles, there’s no hint of bashfulness, no suggestion of insincerity. For he means it—he truly means it—when he says, “Thanks, Shoko. Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she responds, waving her hand, returning the smile. “Now quit stalling. Yaga’s waiting for you.”

With that, she departs, leaving Satoru alone before the school, alone to face the higher-ups. Still, Satoru lingers a little longer, takes a deep breath as he steels his nerves, and then, finally, he makes his way to Yaga’s office.

The door is closed when Satoru arrives. Usually, he’d barge in unannounced, shamelessly interrupting whatever task Yaga had been occupied with, boisterously making his presence known. But this time, he knocks, waits for Yaga to call him in before sliding open the door and stepping inside.

Yaga sits alone in his office, working away on his cursed corpses. There are no higher-ups in sight, no suggestion of an active conference call either. And it puts Satoru a little more at ease, having only Yaga to answer to. It makes it far easier, after all, to throw away his pride and grovel at the man’s feet.

Before Yaga can even acknowledge his arrival, Satoru drops to his knees before him, hands and forehead pressing against the floor as he folds into a low bow. “Principal Yaga! I am deeply sorry for my recent behaviour. My continued failure to capture and execute the curse-user Suguru Geto is completely unforgivable. I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit.”

Yaga sighs, clearly not buying the act. “Sit up, Satoru.”

Satoru complies, raising his head and folding his hands in his lap, awaiting further instruction, determined to follow Yaga’s lead. For as long as he remains on Yaga’s good side, his plan stands a better chance at success.

After a moment, Yaga sets aside his creation, finally giving Satoru his full attention. “Well? What happened?”

Satoru takes a deep breath. “I—”

And Satoru knows he should lie, has thought of the perfect one, in fact. And yet, for some reason, the words don’t slide off his tongue like they should. He swallows, dipping his head. “I messed up. And it almost cost me everything.”

Yaga waits, offering Satoru far more patience than the young sorcerer deserves. He wants Satoru to elaborate, is willing to hear him out before casting judgment. And in the face of such compassion, Satoru can’t bring himself to lie—he just can’t.

And so, Satoru tells the truth, coming clean about everything that had transpired—how he and Suguru were conspiring against Jujutsu society, how he stole the spear from Tengen, how Suguru betrayed him and attacked Yuuji, how Satoru still let him escape after—

Through it all, Yaga is silent, eyes hidden behind his dark glasses, expression unreadable. Even after Satoru finishes, Yaga is quiet, considering. Finally, he sighs. “I’m surprised, Satoru. I expected you to lie.”

Satoru huffs a humourless laugh. “What’s the point? It’s not like Shoko or Nanami haven’t already told you everything.”

“On the contrary. Both Kento and Shoko both told a far different story—that you were working with Suguru against your will, that he had manipulated you into cooperating.” Yaga crosses his arms over his chest, a slight furrow in his brow. “It’s clear to me now they were trying to protect you.”

And that catches Satoru off guard. “Protect me?” he echoes, matching Yaga’s frown. “Why would they do that?”

“This may come as a shock to you, Satoru, considering your personality,” Yaga says, and Satoru lets the subtle insult slide this time, “but many people do care for you.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, averting his gaze. “They shouldn’t. Not after everything I’ve put them through.” He shakes his head, fingers gripping the fabric of his pant legs. “No, I deserve to feel the full weight of consequence.”

And he should probably stop talking now, shouldn’t make things any worse than he already has. But he can’t stop the next words from spilling out. “You know, Yaga, I don’t regret conspiring against Jujutsu society, not even a little. This world is broken, and I want to fix it no matter what it takes.” He shakes his head again, taking a deep breath. “No, the only thing I regret is that Yuuji was harmed in the process—Sukuna too, for that matter. Whatever happens to me, I don’t care, but—please, Yaga,” he begs, pride all but disappearing as he folds into a deep bow once more, “don’t let anything happen to them. Please.”

Yaga remains silent, considering Satoru’s words, giving no impression whether or not his please have reached him. And Satoru wants to lift his head, wants to get a read on Yaga’s reaction, but he remains folded, waits for Yaga to take the lead once more.

After a moment, Yaga finally speaks. “Come with me, Satoru,” he says, and surprised, Satoru lifts his head, watching as Yaga rises from his seat. “Let’s take a walk.”

Wordlessly, Satoru complies.

They walk the grounds of Jujutsu Tech silently, Yaga appearing deep in thought. And though the silence grates on Satoru’s nerves, he holds his tongue, fights the urge to fill the quiet with mindless chatter. He’s too tired, anyway, to come up with the words, to string together lines of asininity. It’s for the best, perhaps, that he remains silent now, that he keeps from aggravating Yaga. For Yuuji and Sukuna’s safety lies within his hands. Satoru can’t risk upsetting that precarious balance.

Eventually, they come to a stop next to the school’s training grounds. There’s a group of students out on the field—first years, Satoru thinks, judging by how young they appear, how inexperienced they are with their cursed techniques. Wordlessly, Yaga takes a seat at the top of the stone stairs that lead down towards the track, gesturing for Satoru to join him. As he does, Yaga speaks.

“You have failed Jujutsu society—that much is certain,” he says, gaze on the students below rather than on Satoru. “But, as much as you’ve failed us, so too have we failed you, Satoru.”

Satoru frowns. “That’s not—”

“Let me finish,” Yaga interrupts, raising his hand for silence. “We failed Suguru as well, I fear. We should have known better than to assign him and the others a mission so far beyond their capabilities—their experience—and we should have noticed how poorly he was handling the aftermath. So too should we have recognized how heavily Suguru’s defection weighed upon you, should have helped you work through it rather than add to your burden with the Sukuna situation.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Looking back at it now, current circumstances could have easily been avoided had we only done our jobs as your teachers, as your elders. Instead, we failed you.”

Satoru laughs—though it’s far too forced. “You don’t give me enough credit. I’m the strongest sorcerer of this generation—of course you’d trust me to handle everything.”

“You were only seventeen, Satoru—a child,” Yaga argues, finally turning to him. “Regardless of your strength, we adults had no right to place such a heavy burden on a child. We were lucky things turned out as well as they did, present circumstances considered.”

“I’d hardly consider things well,” Satoru points out. “You know I should be considered a traitor now, right? I allied with a known curse-user, stole a cursed tool from Tengen, conspired against Jujutsu society as a whole. There’s no coming back from that.”

Yaga hums, returning his gaze to the students practicing on the field—though judging by the laughter ringing out through the air, not much practice is truly getting done. “How many people know about your recent partnership with Suguru?”

“Other than you and I,” Satoru begins, counting the names off on his fingers, “there’s Shoko, Nanami, Sukuna, Uraume—actually, forget that last one. Don’t ask,” he adds before Yaga even has the chance to. “I think that’s all—though Tengen probably figured it out, too.”

Yaga nods. “Tengen already informed me of the situation with the Inverted Spear of Heaven. They advised me not to inform the council, and not to hold it against you. Still, seeing as the only active sorcerers who know the events as they truly transpired are myself, you, and Shoko…” Yaga trails off, considering. Finally, he heaves a heavy sigh, rising to his feet. “I’ve made my decision. Satoru, for your failure to capture and execute Suguru Geto for a second time, you will receive a three-month suspension—without pay.”

“That’s—” And Satoru can’t help but spring to his feet, eyes wide. “That’s it? I’m an enemy to society—”

“You made a mistake,” Yaga interrupts. “But not once did you truly act in opposition to our society. At least,” he adds after a moment, tucking his hands into his pockets, “that’s what the official report I’ll be submitting to the council will say.”

Satoru just blinks at him, mind racing to catch up, to make sense of what Yaga is saying. But he comes up empty, no conclusions able to be drawn—at least, none that make sense. “I don’t understand.”

But Yaga doesn’t explain himself, not really. Instead, he says, “You’re right, Satoru. Jujutsu society is broken. I see that now more clearly than I ever did before. And I believe that, if we ever want to see our society improved, we’ll need your help.”

“Me?” Satoru asks, bewildered. “I know I’m the strongest, but—to change an entire society?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I think you’re asking too much of me.”

“You managed to turn the King of Curses into an ally,” Yaga points out. “I’m certain you’ll figure out how to achieve this as well. Besides,” he adds after a moment, as though he can sense the doubt still lingering in Satoru’s mind, “you won’t be doing it alone. Like I said before, people care about you, Satoru—enough to lie for you, enough to risk their lives for you. You’re a leader, whether you like it or not. People will rally behind you. You just need to show them the way.”

“What if I screw up again?” Satoru asks, voice coming out far smaller than he’d intended, the insecurity he can’t hide seeping in through his tone. “What if I lead them wrong?”

“Then you’ll fix your mistakes, and you’ll grow from them.” Then Yaga’s reaching out, clapping Satoru on the shoulder. “You’ve got strong people in your corner, Satoru—smart people too. Don’t be afraid to rely on them.”

Relying on people…It’s never been something Satoru is good at—a side effect of being the strongest, of being told he’s the strongest. But, if that’s what it takes to fix what’s broken, to ensure it will never be broken again…

Then Satoru will do it. No matter how difficult it may be, he’ll do it.

So Satoru nods. “Right. I will.”

Yaga smiles in response, giving Satoru’s shoulder a squeeze before withdrawing his hand. “Nothing will change overnight—hell, it might not even change in your lifetime. But if you can begin to sow the seeds now…Change will come. It’s inevitable.” Yaga turns away from him, facing the field again as he continues, “Until that time comes, I won’t sell you out to the higher ups—Sukuna and Yuuji too. So enjoy your time off. Be with your family. There’ll be plenty of work for you to do once you return.”

Satoru returns the smile, dipping his head in gratitude. “You’re too kind to me, Yaga.”

“Maybe,” Yaga concedes. “Consider it an apology. I know I failed you as a teacher, and there’s little I can to now to make up for my mistakes.”

“You did your best,” Satoru argues. “I mean, we never made it easy on you.”

“No, you really didn’t—rowdy punks,” Yaga agrees with a slight laugh, shaking his head. “Even so, I refuse to make the same mistakes twice. Moving forward, I will do my best to support every student who comes through Jujutsu Tech, to shape them into better sorcerers than those who precede them. These kids are the future, after all. Maybe they’ll even rally behind you too, one day.”

And that…that’s a really good point. Perhaps Satoru had been approaching this situation all wrong from the start. He’d been so caught up in ridding society of the foolish higher-ups, he failed to recognize the true source of Jujutsu society’s power—its sorcerers. Its youth. If Satoru could help shape them, guide them…

Maybe his goal isn’t nearly as daunting as he once thought.

“I think I have an idea,” he decides finally. “But I’ll need your support.” He turns to Yaga, finding the other man’s gaze already on him. “So, will you help me?”

Without hesitating, Yaga nods. “I’d be happy to.”

Yuuji sits on the couch, a shape sorting toy in his lap, face scrunched in focus as he attempts to force a circle-shaped block through a triangle-shaped hole. He huffs, jamming the block against the wooden lid of the toy, eventually giving up around his tenth failed attempt to fit it through the wrong hole. He turns to Sukuna, holding the toy out to him. “Dad.”

And Sukuna’s heart does not perform a strange motion in his chest at the use of that title—no, absolutely not. He coughs slightly, forcing his heart back into its proper rhythm as he accepts the block from Yuuji, placing it in the proper slot. Yuuji claps, a small smile on his face, and again Sukuna’s heart does something uncomfortable.

He ignores the feeling, settling back against the sofa as he watches Yuuji pick up a new block—a cube this time. The boy examines it closely, turning it over in his hands a few times, shifts his gaze to the different slots in lid, then back to the cube, before finally—with the utmost confidence—

—tries to shove the cube through the triangular hole.

Dammit, the brat is going to take after Satoru in the intelligence department, isn’t he?

Betrayed by the shape sorter once more, Yuuji’s bottom lip trembles. He holds the cube in his hand, turning his watery eyes on Sukuna. “Dad?”

And there goes Sukuna’s heart again.

This time, Sukuna grasps Yuuji’s wrist, guiding his hand and the shape towards the correct slot. Yuuji drops the cub through the square slot, giggling this time when it successfully falls through. And Sukuna can’t help but smile, ruffling the boy’s hair as he withdraws his hand. “See, kid? It’s really not so difficult.”

Yuuji picks up the final shape—a triangle. He should have no issues with this one, previous attempts considered. Even so, he examines the shape, then glances back to Sukuna.

“Go on,” Sukuna prompts with a nod.

Yuuji nods, a serious expression on his face. He turns back to the shape sorter, triangle held firmly in hand, and—

—shoves it against the circular slot.

Fucking hell. His son is a lost cause, isn’t he?

There’s a knock on the door, and after helping Yuuji fit the triangle into its proper place, Sukuna rises, crossing to the entryway and pulling open the door, eyes widening as they fall upon the figure on the front step. “Uraume?”

Uraume offers him a slight bow. “I apologize for showing up unannounced.”

“None necessary,” he replies, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Uraume does, bowing once more before stepping through the door. They take their usual seat in the armchair, and as Sukuna returns to his spot on the couch, he notices Yuuji waving at Uraume. “Hi!”

For a moment, Uraume appears startled by the greeting. Finally, they nod. “Yes, hello Yuuji.”

Yuuji grins, turning his attention back on his toy—emptying the shapes onto the sofa to begin again. Sukuna watches as Yuuji attempts to fit the circle into the triangle slot once more, sighing in defeat. Still, Yuuji does not request his assistance, so Sukuna does not intervene, instead turning his attention back to Uraume. “Well? I assume you did not come to share simple pleasantries.”

“No,” they confirm, fingers fidgeting in their lap. “Lord Sukuna, we must discuss what happened yesterday.”

Sukuna groans. “Uraume—”

“I insist,” they interrupt. “And I will not be easily dissuaded.”

And they certainly appear resolute—far more so than Sukuna can ever recall them being. So Sukuna relents, settling against the sofa with his arms crossed. “Fine. Say your piece.”

“Thank you,” they respond with a nod, then take a deep breath. “I will not apologize for what I said, though perhaps the manner in which I spoke was disrespectful. Even so, I stand by every word. Lord Sukuna, your recent actions have shown a compete lack of regard for your own well-being, and I cannot allow you to continue such reckless behaviour—”

“Uraume—”

“—and while I acknowledge your perspective on the manner, I find I cannot agree with your insistent self-sacrifice. I cannot imagine what it must be like for you, having been stripped of your cursed energy, but even so, that is no excuse to simply throw your life away as if it is worth nothing—”

“Uraume—"

“—because it is worth something, at least to me. I cannot describe how painful it is to be forced to watch you treat yourself with such blatant disregard, and if you continue in this manner, I fear I will not be able to continue serving you. I simply won’t be able to bear it—”

“Then serve me no longer.”

“—and I understand that—” Finally, Sukuna’s words seem to reach their ears. They pause, blinking at him. “Pardon?”

“If that is how you truly feel,” Sukuna explains, “then I do not wish for you to serve me any longer.”

“But—” Uraume’s eyes widen as they leap to their feet, stammering, “Lord Sukuna, I—”

Again, Sukuna cuts them off. “Be my equal instead.”

Uraume stills. “Your equal?” they echo, as though they cannot believe the words.

Sukuna nods. “Our circumstances have changed. No longer does this relationship of master and servant do us any good.” He rises from the sofa, coming to stand before Uraume, holding their wide-eyed gaze insistently as he says, “You are my equal, Uraume. You have been for a long time.”

And Uraume—they don’t respond, it doesn’t appear they can. Their mouth moves, but no sound escapes their lips, their mind perhaps unable to make sense of his words. Sukuna grins, amused by the clear shock on the usually stoic monk’s face. “Well?” he prompts, when they’ve remained silent for too long. “What do you say?”

“I—” But they still can’t respond, still too taken aback. Finally, they lower into a slight bow. “It would be an honour, Lord Sukuna.”

And Sukuna can’t help but laugh lightly at that. “Please, just Sukuna is fine.”

“Alright.” Uraume nods, and when they straighten their posture, there’s a small smile on their lips. “Sukuna.”

“Thank you, Uraume,” he responds, dipping his head. “For everything you’ve done for me over this past millennium.”

“There is no need for thanks,” Uraume says, and this time there’s something almost cheeky about the way they say it. “Not between equals.”

Sukuna just scoffs, shaking his head. “Accept my gratitude regardless.”

“One more thing Lo—uh, Sukuna,” they correct, catching their self at the last moment. They reach into their robes, withdrawing a small object. “I’ve acquired this cellular device, one much like yours. This way, we can better communicate should any dire circumstances arrive in the future. But you must promise me that you will reach out if you require anything at all of me. Please promise.”

“Alright Uraume,” Sukuna confirms. “I promise.”

Uraume nods. “Good. Now then—” They extend the device towards him, averting their gaze— “could I humbly request your aid in working this device? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with modern technology such as this.”

“Of course.” Sukuna accepts the phone, Uraume watching him as he explains, “It really isn’t so difficult once you learn the basics. This button gives power to the device, and from here—”

The screen lights up, but the display is far different than what he’s familiar with. He pauses, faltering. “Ah, I must admit, mine was not like this when I first received it. Perhaps—”

“I will seek out the blond sorcerer for assistance at once,” Uraume finishes the thought, taking the phone back from him.

“Good.”

Uraume sets out soon after, intent on their new mission. After they depart, Sukuna settles back onto the sofa, checking on Yuuji’s progress. Feeling eyes on him once more, Yuuji pauses his attempt at fitting the circle through the triangular slot—had he been trying this entire time? —meeting Sukuna’s gaze for a moment, and then, without any hesitation or doubt—

—he slides all the shapes through the correct slots.

Sukuna stares dumbfound as Yuuji laughs, clapping his hands in celebration. And if Sukuna isn’t mistaken, there’s something almost mischievous about the boy’s smile now, about the gleam in his eyes, almost as if—

Sukuna sighs, dragging a tired palm down his face. “You’ve been messing with me this entire time, haven’t you?”

Yuuji just giggles in response, ever the picture of innocence. Sukuna rolls his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “You damn brat,” he chides. “You’ll pay for making a fool of me!”

Sukuna grabs Yuuji, pulling him into his lap so the boy can’t escape before beginning his assault, tickling the boy without mercy. Yuuji laughs and shrieks, wiggling in Sukuna’s hold as he cries out, “Dad! Dad!”

And it still does something to Sukuna’s heart—something uncomfortable, but perhaps not all that bad.

Maybe, just maybe, he could grow used to it.

Satoru returns to a house filled with laughter. Had he not cried all his tears that morning, he likely would have broken down again—though this time from relief. At his entrance, Yuuji scrambles from Sukuna’s lap, racing across the living room on stubby legs, eyes shining and a grin painting his lips. “Dada!”

Satoru scoops him into his arms, swinging him around a couple times before pulling him in for a tight hug. “Hey buddy!” he greets, planting a quick kiss to Yuuji’s head. “What’s going on in here?”

“Your son is a fiend,” Sukuna remarks, though the smile on his lips betrays the accusation in his words.

Satoru laughs, glancing at Yuuji. “This guy? No way. I won’t believe it for a second. Isn’t that right, Yuuji?”

Yuuji giggles and nods, squirming in Satoru’s hold, and Satoru places another quick kiss to his temple before setting the boy down, watching as he totters back to the living room to play with his toys. After slipping off his boots, Satoru follows the boy, joining Sukuna on the couch.

“Well?” Sukuna prompts.

Satoru shrugs. “Three-month suspension.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Sukuna scowls, shaking his head. “You sorcerers are far too soft! That’s hardly a slap on the wrist. You deserve to be put to death for your crimes.”

“I know.”

Sukuna shakes his head again, clearly not pleased with this turn of events. He crosses his arms over his chest, asking, “Why the leniency?”

“I’m too important to lose, I guess,” Satoru replies with a shrug.

Sukuna scoffs. “That’s hardly a good enough reason,” he decides, fingers drumming against his biceps. “Utterly ridiculous. Once more, I’m forced to take matters into my own hands.”

And Satoru can’t help but laugh. “What, you gonna kill me yourself?”

Sukuna rolls his eyes, sighing. “Unfortunately, I cannot bring myself to subject Yuuji to such hardship. No, I will keep you alive,” he determines, jutting a threatening finger in Satoru’s face, “but I vow to make sure you spend every single day for the rest of your life atoning for your sins, and even then, I doubt it will be enough to satisfy me.”

“Every day for the rest of my life, huh?” Satoru echoes, pushing Sukuna’s hand away. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that sounds an awful lot like a marriage proposal.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Sukuna huffs, crossing his arms once more. “Only a fool would ever marry you.”

Satoru gasps, scandalized. “Hey, I’m a catch!” He turns to his son, still playing with his toys on the floor before them. “Yuuji, tell him I’m a catch!”

Yuuji does not, in fact, do that. Instead, he crawls up onto the couch between the two of them, book in hand. He shows it to both of them, pointing at the cover. “Book.”

Satoru pouts, whining, “Yuuji!”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Ignore him. He’s the biggest fool of all.” Then he accepts the book from Yuuji, flipping open to the first page as he continues, “Come now, let us see what madness awaits us in this tale.”

Exhaustion clings heavily to his bones, but even so, Satoru can’t sleep. He tosses and turns for the better part of the night, mind and body unable to settle. And he knows Yuuji is safe, he’s alright, but apparently his nervous system has not received the memo, refusing to grant him rest. Eventually, Satoru gives up on sleep altogether, tossing aside his blankets with a huff. Maybe if he checks in on Yuuji, confirms he’s truly safe, it will be enough to sate him. With that in mind, Satoru leaves his room, padding down the hall to Yuuji’s—

Sukuna is already there. He’s slumped over in the rocking chair, gaze likely fixed on Yuuji as the boy lays in his crib, sound asleep. If Satoru had to guess, Sukuna’s probably having the same kind of night as he is, plagued by the same thoughts, the same fears—

So, Satoru makes a detour to the kitchen, fixes two cups of tea before returning to Yuuji’s room. Quietly, he reaches Sukuna’s side, holding out a mug to him. Sukuna startles slightly, too focused on Yuuji, too lost in thought to have noticed Satoru’s approach. He glares at Satoru, but accepts the tea nonetheless.

In the low light cast by the nearby lamp, Sukuna looks awful, heavy circles underlining his eyes, skin washed out. Satoru likely fares no better himself. And they had had a good day today—well, yesterday is perhaps more accurate, the time already past midnight. Yuuji had been happy, their house had been filled with joy. But even so…

One good day isn’t enough to fix everything. Satoru knows that better than anyone.

And so, Satoru settles on the floor near the crib, back leaning against the wall as he joins Sukuna in silent vigil. Neither of them speaks the entire night, simply sipping their tea until their cups run dry, eyes never wavering from the sight of their sleeping son, though their minds may wander miles elsewhere.

And if either of them happens to cry that night, silent tears streaming from tired eyes, well…

That’s a secret they’ll both take to their graves.

Shoko stops by the afternoon of the next day, just as she said she would. She checks over Yuuji, finding him to be in good health, even noting that his cursed energy has settled tremendously, no longer the turbulent spikes it had been that day of the battle. Even so, Satoru can’t help but be worried.

For though Yuuji has been in better spirits lately, there are still moments when the boy grows a little too quiet, a little too still. In those moments, it takes longer than usual to gain his attention, a little longer to snap him out of those strange spells. In other moments, Yuuji will seem to burst into tears for no apparent reason—lingering effects of trauma, or simply a natural part of being a toddler, Satoru can’t tell.

“He’s going to have rough moments, that’s just the way it is,” Shoko points out, leaning back against the kitchen island. “You can’t expect him to get better in just one day. God knows you two clearly haven’t.”

Shoko had lingered after finishing Yuuji’s check-up, beckoning for Satoru and Sukuna to join her in the kitchen—a little bit of privacy as they discuss Yuuji’s condition while still being close enough to monitor the child as he plays. Despite the proximity, Yuuji doesn’t appear all that settled. He frequently pauses his activity to glance over at the kitchen, watching the adults for a moment before returning to his toys. And maybe it’s just simple curiosity—wondering what the adults are talking about, hearing his name come up in conversation and glancing over in response—but Satoru’s restless mind can’t help but come to the worst conclusions.

He's checking on us, making sure we’re still here, that we haven’t left him—

Satoru fights the urge to run to Yuuji, to abandon the conversation in favour of comforting his son. He’s certain neither Sukuna nor Shoko would disparage him if he did, figures Sukuna probably feels the same way, considering how often he shifts in his seat, gaze also flickering back and forth between the child and the others.

But this conversation is too important to abandon. And with none of them certain just how much language Yuuji can truly comprehend, it’s best to have it somewhat out of earshot of the boy, just in case.

Satoru tears his gaze away from his son, sighing. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I just can’t help but worry.”

“Yes, well. You’ve got far more important things to worry about.” And it’s straight to business, Shoko’s expression serious as she continues, “We need to talk about Yuuji’s cursed energy. What happened with Suguru that day?”

“The spear nullified the barrier in which my energy was being held captive,” Sukuna responds, arms crossed over his chest as he sits atop the island’s surface. “Upon its release, it lashed out and struck the curse user—though unfortunately with far less strength than it should have.”

“But why did it do that?” Satoru asks. “There must have been some sort of cause beyond just the removal of the barrier.”

“Could it have been Yuuji’s doing?” Shoko wonders, glancing over her shoulder at the boy as he plays. “I mean, we don’t know the exact circumstances of his…birth. Maybe he has an instinctive connection with the cursed energy within him, and since he was in danger, he was able to utilize it. It would explain why such a powerful cursed technique caused so little damage.”

“I suppose it’s not impossible, but I don’t know.” Satoru shakes his head, dragging a hand through his hair. “I mean, he’s a baby. Instinct or not, cursed energy is far more difficult to use than that. Even I couldn’t wield mine until I turned four—and I’m something of a prodigy, y’know.”

Shoko hums. “Well, we could always test it, see if we can force Yuuji to use it again.”

“No, absolutely not,” Sukuna nearly snarls, jabbing a finger at Shoko. “I will not allow you to subject my son—”

“Our son,” Satoru corrects.

“—to some perilous circumstance all so you can test a theory!”

Shoko rolls her eyes, a slight smile on her face—amused by Sukuna’s reaction, no doubt. “Relax, it wasn’t a real suggestion.”

Before Sukuna can respond unkindly to their guest, Satoru speaks. “Maybe there’s a better explanation, one that doesn’t require turning our son into a guinea pig.”

They turn their attention on Yuuji once more, finding him already looking their way. Yuuji blinks, head tilting to the side. Then he turns away, back to playing with his toys. Eventually, it’s Shoko who speaks again.

“You were close by when it happened, right?” she asks, directing the question to Sukuna. “Maybe the cursed energy responded to you—I mean, it was your energy, after all.”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “No, I would have known had it been my will controlling Cleave, and it definitely would not have left Geto with mere scratches.”

“But are you sure?”

Sukuna pauses, considering. He then turns to Yuuji, brow furrowed as he focuses very hard on the boy for a moment. But when nothing happens, he sighs, turning back to the others. “I’m certain of it. Had I truly retained any control over the cursed energy, Satoru would have been halved by now.”

Satoru hums. “Hotdog or hamburger?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Anyway,” Shoko cuts in, rubbing her brow, “we can cross that one off the list. But I do have another idea.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, shrugging. “Maybe the cursed energy wasn’t obeying anyone at all. Maybe it reacted all on its own.”

“What are you trying to say?” Sukuna asks. “That it somehow has a mind of its own?”

Shoko shakes her head. “No, not like that. What I mean is, maybe after being trapped within the barrier for so long, once it was finally freed, it had no choice but to escape elsewhere.”

“Oh, I get it! Sort of like a can of soda!” Satoru mimes holding said can of soda, acting it out as he explains, “You shake it up too much and pull the tab, and then whoosh! Soda everywhere!”

Sukuna turns his glare on Satoru. “Do not compare my son—”

“Our son.”

“—to something as trivial as a canned soda!”

Shoko sighs. “Awful metaphor aside, Satoru’s got the right idea.” She shrugs, crossing her arms. “Maybe it was just a fluke, and there’s nothing to worry about. I mean, it’s not like Yuuji’s been able to use his cursed energy since, right?”

“Yeah, but he also hasn’t been in danger since,” Satoru points out. “There’s no telling what might happen if he feels threatened again.”

“Then don’t let it happen,” Shoko says, clearly directing the statement more at Satoru, which—fair enough. “In any case, you need to keep a close eye on him, make sure he’s not going around slicing up anything and everything in sight. I’m sure the higher-ups won’t be impressed if that happens.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that.” Satoru sighs, gaze wandering once more to his son. “I know this goes without saying, but we can’t let any of the higher-ups know what happened with Yuuji’s energy. Whether he can control it, or if it was just a fluke…”

It’s Sukuna who finishes the thought. “They’ll see it as far too great a threat to leave alone.”

Shoko nods. “You know my lips are sealed, and Nanami won’t say a thing either. As long as you continue to monitor Yuuji for changes, I think this secret is safe.”

Satoru has nightmares. It’s a known fact, a shared experience amongst all Jujutsu sorcerers—perhaps a twisted rite of passage, even. For nightmares denote experience, haunting medals granted through gruesome trials—exorcising curses with grotesque features, witnessing what little remains of their victims, never granted an easy death, bodies always warped, disfigured, maimed, inhuman—

And Satoru has long since grown used to the nightmares that plague his sleep, has made peace with the fact he may never know a peaceful night again for the rest of his life. Most terrors are abstract, vague feelings of fear, strange visions of blood and bone, of mangled bodies and horrific curses—easily shaken off come the light of morning. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it’ll always be.

And yet, for the first time in over a decade, Satoru wakes up screaming.

At least, he assumes he must have been screaming, can’t hear anything now above the racing of his heart, crashing painfully against the wall of his chest. For a moment, he can’t see anything, his room too dark, vision obscured by the lingering horrors still dancing in his mind’s eye. And though he can’t truly discern what the images are, what cruel impressions his mind had conjured to torture him this time, he thinks he can make a pretty good guess.

The worst ones always involve Yuuji.

Satoru pants, a hand clutching his chest as though it could do anything to slow his erratic heart. He forces himself to breathe deeply, slowly, eventually feels his body begin to settle with every agonizing second that passes, grounding himself in his surroundings, the familiar texture of his sheets, the faint hum of insects in the trees, the shadow-enshrouded figure hovering at the edge of his bed—

Wait, the what?

“What the fuck?” Satoru shrieks, preparing for attack before he notices the familiar lines that etch the intruder’s face. “Sukuna, what—why—”

“Are you finished yet?” Sukuna asks, sounding bored. “Seriously, do you ever shut up? At this rate, you’ll wake the entire island with your screaming and thrashing.”

Ah, so he really was screaming. No wonder his throat feels so raw, his voice so hoarse. But if he truly had been making such a clamour, then… “Yuuji, is he—”

“I left Yuuji with the old man tonight,” Sukuna interrupts. “He stopped by to pick him up after dinner—after you had already retired for the evening.” The he shrugs, a strange look in his eye that Satoru can’t discern. “I thought it would be good for Yuuji to spend time with a stable, ordinary human for a little while.”

“But, what if—”

Again, Sukuna cuts him off. “Nothing will happen to him. Uraume is keeping guard over the apartments. If they even suspect something is amiss, they will notify me immediately.”

And it still makes Satoru nervous, but not for that reason. For while Yuuji adores Wasuke, what if the young boy gets the wrong idea? What if he thinks they had abandoned him there, never to return?

Somehow, Sukuna seems to read his thoughts. “It’s been far too long since Yuuji and Itadori spent time together. The brat will be so thrilled, he’ll hardly notice we aren’t there. Besides, we’re heading over to the old man’s tomorrow, too. Yuuji won’t even get the chance to miss us.”

Satoru sighs, nodding. “That’s—that’s good, I guess.”

“Indeed.” Then Sukuna’s grabbing the blankets, lifting them as he shoos Satoru away. “Now move over.”

“What?” Satoru doesn’t move, groggy mind still racing to catch up with this new turn of events. “Why?”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? I need to lay down.”

“Then do it in your own bed!”

“And risk you waking me up with your pathetic wailing once again?” Sukuna scoffs. “Not a chance.”

And Satoru doesn’t understand how…this is supposed to help with that, but Sukuna’s determined, and Satoru isn’t in the mood to argue. So he moves, giving Sukuna room to lie down next to him. And he expects Sukuna to keep a vast distance between them—much like they had done on Valentine’s Day, in that luxury suite with only one bed.

So it’s a shock when Sukuna leaves no space between them, roughly rolling Satoru to face away from him, pressing himself against Satoru’s back, an arm coming to wrap around him, holding him just a little too tight, and—

Oh. The King of Curses is spooning him.

And Satoru can’t help the strange little laugh that escapes his lips. “What are you doing?”

“You said once this helped with the nightmares,” Sukuna states simply, removing his arm for a moment so he can adjust the blankets around them. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Six Eyes. Your well-being means very little to me right now. I’m doing this only for my own sake. I am exhausted, and I refuse to let your pathetic night terrors keep me from rest. If this is the sacrifice I must make to achieve such rest, so be it.”

Satoru laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.” And then, much softer, “Thanks.”

Sukuna settles in again, arm draped over Satoru’s side. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

But even with Sukuna there, Satoru can’t fall asleep. He still feels unsettled from his nightmare, heart rate still elevated far above resting. Not to mention he hates sleeping on his side like this. But he doesn’t want to kick Sukuna away, not when he’s trying to help, not when he likely needs this just as much as Satoru does. For Satoru doubts Sukuna is doing this purely to prevent Satoru’s own nightmares; he likely struggles with them himself.

Sukuna huffs, cutting into Satoru's thoughts. “Cease your annoying fidgeting.”

“Sorry, it’s just—” Satoru tries to make himself comfortable, adjusting and readjusting his position. “Here, can you…?”

Satoru doesn’t actually wait for Sukuna to respond, turning in his hold so he can gently but firmly push Sukuna to his back, and though Sukuna doesn’t appear impressed with Satoru’s handling of him, he doesn’t resist either. Satoru presses up against him again, wrapping an arm around Sukuna’s waist as he drapes himself over the other’s chest, heartbeat steady beneath Satoru’s cheek. Satoru sighs, eyes slipping shut. “There. This is better.”

Sukuna is far too tense beneath him, and for a moment, Satoru fears he’ll push him away. But then he relaxes, an arm slowly coming to wrap around Satoru once more. “It’s…passable.”

But even with the change of position, sleep evades Satoru, and this time, he can’t figure out why. He’s comfortable—Sukuna a surprisingly good pillow, a soothing warmth beneath him, though he runs a little more on the hotter side. But Suguru had been the same way, hadn’t he? Satoru’s own personal heater—

No, wait, back track. Don’t think about him, not now, not after—

Satoru pushes the thoughts away, focuses instead of the steady beating of Sukuna’s heart—slow and strong, a comforting rhythm, though not the one Satoru had grown used to, not the one he had fallen asleep to countless times before.

The heart Satoru had loved. The heart he thought had loved him back.

But if he loved him—if he truly loved him—then why did he leave him back then? Why did he use him, betray him—

His next breath rattles painfully in his lungs. Satoru tries to stifle it, squeezes his eyes shut tighter against the warmth that floods them, the tears threatening to escape. He stays as still as he can, as silent as he can, hoping Sukuna doesn’t notice, that he’s already fallen asleep, that he won’t see how weak Satoru really is, how broken—

Sukuna shifts below him, a heavy sigh leaving his lips, ruffling Satoru’s hair. “What foolish thoughts are rattling around in that empty skull of yours?”

And he doubts Sukuna is really looking for an answer, doubts he’s willing to engage in any sort of conversation, not with exhaustion still weighing heavy upon his mind. But the question gives Satoru an opening; if he tells the truth, spills his honest thoughts here upon the blanket of darkness surrounding them, he’ll likely scare Sukuna off—or at least annoy him enough that he’ll give up on this attempt at comfort, will leave Satoru to wallow in his feelings, blissfully alone.

(Satoru doesn’t want him to leave, not really. But Sukuna needs rest, and he’ll never get it here, not with Satoru’s mind still such a mess.)

Satoru takes a deep breath, lifting a hand to gently rub at his eyes. “I really thought I loved him, y’know,” he whispers, voice slightly muffled by the fabric of Sukuna’s shirt. “Maybe there’s a part of me that always will, no matter how much I wish I didn’t.”

Sukuna doesn’t respond. Maybe he hadn’t heard Satoru speak, voice as low as it was. Or maybe he’s pretending he didn’t hear, regrets ever posing the question in the first place—

“For what it’s worth,” Sukuna says eventually, voice just as quiet as Satoru’s had been, “I believe he loved you too.”

Satoru laughs. It comes out as a sob. “Thanks, that actually makes it so much worse.”

Sukuna sighs, his hand coming up to gently card through Satoru’s hair. “Satoru—”

That’s all it takes for Satoru to break.

He buries his face against Sukuna’s chest, clinging to him as he trembles, as he fights through the sobs wracking his body, the emotions bursting forth. He’s pathetic—he knows he’s pathetic, that he doesn’t deserve to mourn like this, not when this pain had all been his doing, but he still can’t stop, can’t stop the words from spilling out. “How could he do this to me? How could he love me, and still—” He grits his teeth, shaking his head, fingers desperately curling into the fabric of Sukuna’s shirt—an anchor, a lifeline, the only thing keeping him steady through this storm. “If that’s what love is, I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want it ever again!”

And Satoru doesn’t expect Sukuna to entertain this display for long, expects to be shoved aside, ridiculed for his weakness. That’s what he should do—that’s what Satoru deserves.

Sukuna’s hold only tightens, one arm secure around his shoulders, the other still running fingers through his hair. “It wasn’t love, Satoru. It may have started out that way, but it became something far more twisted. He took advantage of you, used your emotions against you—”

And for a moment, Sukuna almost seems angry about it—but that can’t be right, must be a product of Satoru’s imagination, projecting his emotions, seeing only what he expects, what he wants. For Sukuna should be angry with Satoru, not for him, not when it’s all Satoru’s fault—

There’s a harsh tug in his hair, pulling him from his thoughts. “Stop,” Sukuna demands, soothing the strands once more. “Whatever foolish thoughts you’re thinking, stop.”

It’s easier said than done.

Still, Satoru tries. He wipes at his eyes, tries to match the harsh pattern of his breaths to the steady rhythm of Sukuna’s own—deep, slow, in through the nose, out through the mouth. “What are we doing?” he asks eventually, because he needs to know, he needs to understand— “Why are you still here?”

Why haven’t you left me when we both know you should?

“Because I am not him,” Sukuna replies simply. “You must understand as much.”

And Satoru’s heard those words before, that loaded statement. But this time, maybe Satoru does understand—if only a little, if only just enough. Because Sukuna isn’t Suguru—he doesn’t do what others expect of him, doesn’t run from a fight, doesn’t quit when things get tough. He doesn’t abandon Satoru, doesn’t betray him, pushes only as far as he knows Satoru can take—

And maybe, just maybe, he understands Satoru too, understands him in a way Suguru never could.

Satoru smiles, though he knows Sukuna can’t see it. His fingers release their death-grip on the other’s shirt, smoothing out the wrinkled fabric left behind. “Thank you,” he whispers, relaxing once more in Sukuna’s hold. “For this, and for taking care of Yuuji. I know how much you love him, and I know he loves you just as much.”

Beneath him, Sukuna stills. And Satoru isn’t sure why the line has been drawn here—it’s nothing he hasn’t pointed out before, after all. Perhaps Sukuna’s tolerance for affection had finally been surpassed.

But then Sukuna speaks, his voice so low, Satoru almost misses it. “He called me dad,” he reveals. “During the battle. It was the first time he’s ever called me by such a title.”

“And?” Satoru prompts. “How do you feel about that?”

Sukuna hums. “I’m not certain,” he admits after a pause. “I never imagined it being something that I’d ever want, and yet…”

He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t have to.

Still, Satoru chuckles softly. “Well, whether you want it or not, it’s too late. Yuuji won’t let you go so easily, not anymore.”

“As if I’d go anywhere,” Sukuna says with a scoff. “I’m already in far too deep.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

Silence returns for a moment, broken only by the gentle sounds of their breathing, the hum of electrical in the walls, the distant buzzing of insects in the trees beyond the house. And their conversation could end there—it probably should, if either of them has any hope of getting a good night’s rest. But there’s still something on Satoru’s mind, still one more thing he needs to get off his chest.

“Can I change my answer?” Satoru asks, breaking the silence. “About what it means to be the strongest?”

Sukuna doesn’t reply, and Satoru knows he’s still awake, knows he couldn’t have fallen asleep so quickly, so he takes his silence as his sign to continue.

Satoru takes a deep breath. “I think…there’s always going to be some loneliness, being the strongest. Not everyone will understand what it’s like to have that kind of power, after all. But even so, I don’t think being strong means being alone. I just—” He frowns, searching for the right words to express what he means—what he feels. “I need to use my strength to protect the weak, to help lift others up, make them stronger too. And to do that, I can’t be alone, not truly.”

For a moment, Sukuna still doesn’t respond, and Satoru can’t help but wonder: did he get it wrong again?

But then Sukuna sighs. “You’re still a fool, Satoru Gojo,” he decides, “but there may be hope for you yet.” He doesn’t give Satoru a chance to respond, hand resuming its motion in his hair as he says, “Go to sleep, now—if only so that I may do the same.”

And though it takes a while, Satoru eventually does.

It’s been far too long since Satoru last visited Wasuke’s place—so long, that it’s almost nostalgic to return now. He had plenty of good memories here, in this place where he and Yuuji first found a home, first began to patch together pieces of their makeshift family. But there are bad memories here, too—the first time Satoru felt his world shatter beneath him, the first time he had abandoned Yuuji—

It's almost poetic, he supposes, returning here now.

He pushes the thoughts away, lifting his hand and knocking his fist in an obnoxious pattern against the door, not relenting until he hears the muffled swear from within, followed by the annoyed shout of, “It’s open! Just come in, dammit!”

Sukuna shoves Satoru aside, shooting him a glare before opening the door, leading the way into Wasuke’s apartment. And the place is a lot smaller than Satoru remembered—though perhaps he’s simply grown used to the expansive home in which they now live—and just as cluttered as it had been before. But it’s warm inside, bright sunlight spilling in through windows cracked open, welcoming a slight breeze. There’s no darkness lingering in the halls, nothing to weigh him down. It’s cozy. It’s safe.

For unlike that time over a year ago, Satoru’s world is not ending, not falling apart. No, now his world sits curled up in Wasuke’s lap, bright eyes shining as he gazes upon the two newcomers. Yuuji giggles, scrambling out of the old man’s hold so he can race across the floor, arms outstretched. “Dad! Dada!”

Satoru kneels down, opening his arms for his boy. “Hey Yuuji!”

But Yuuji doesn’t run for Satoru, instead launching himself at Sukuna. Sukuna lifts him into the air with a slight laugh, while Satoru gasps, scandalized. “Betrayed by my own son!”

“Our son,” Sukuna corrects.

With far less enthusiasm than the boy, Wasuke comes to greet them as well, giving them a long once-over, a deep frown on his face. “You boys look like shit.”

Satoru huffs, planting his hands on his hips. “Gee, gramps. Good to see you too.”

“Don’t call me gramps, you punk ass brat!” Wasuke scolds, reaching up to smack Satoru on the back of the head. “The hell is going on? This better not be like last time.”

And they must really look awful if Wasuke’s able to draw such a direct and accurate conclusion. Still, Satoru just smiles, shaking his head. “No, it’s not like last time. We had a rough week, but…” He glances over to Sukuna, to the boy nestled in his arms. “We’ll be okay. Really.”

Wasuke hums, unconvinced. “You better. I swear to God, Satoru, if you ever have another episode like that again—”

“It won’t happen again,” Satoru cuts him off, insistent. “I promise.”

Wasuke looks at him—studies him. Finally, he nods. “Good.” Then he’s changing the topic, sparing the watch on his wrist a quick glance. “Well, now that you boys are here, you might as well stay for lunch. Order us something in. I’m not wasting my fresh ingredients on you.”

Satoru laughs. “Sure thing, Wasuke.”

“And you—” Wasuke continues, turning his attention on Sukuna, catching him off-guard— “invite your other friend in. They may as well join us too.”

Sukuna just blinks at him. “I do not know to whom you refer.”

“How stupid do you think I am? Disrespectful punks.” Wasuke huffs, then gestures vaguely towards one of the apartment’s windows. “The white-haired fellow that’s been hanging around the apartment all night—don’t look so shocked. Of course, I noticed! Those monk robes don’t exactly blend in.”

Sukuna and Satoru share a quick look—one of panic, both trying to come up with an explanation, an excuse. But Wasuke doesn’t give them a chance, shaking his head. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, and honestly, I don’t want to know. It’s none of my business, I’m sure.” He crosses his arms over his chest, sighing. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with my life, it’s fine. So go invite them in.”

Wasuke reaches for Yuuji expectantly, and after a moment of hesitation, Sukuna complies, handing Yuuji back to the old man. Still, he lingers a moment longer, until finally Wasuke shoos him away, closing the door behind him. Satoru watches the scene unfold with unconcealed amusement—at least, until Wasuke turns his attention on him.

“Well? Don’t just stand there like an idiot. Hurry up and order!” Wasuke demands. “At this rate, I’ll catch my death long before the food even arrives!”

Satoru raises his hands in defense. “Okay, okay! I’m ordering!”

And as Satoru makes himself comfortable in a nearby dining chair, pulling out his phone to place the order, he senses Wasuke hovering over his shoulder, watching him. “And don’t even think about cheaping out on me,” the old man says. “I know you’re loaded, spoiled brat like you.”

Satoru laughs, waving Wasuke off. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

The door opens once more, Sukuna returning with Uraume in tow. And Uraume seems rather uncomfortable, posture far too tense, their wide sleeves unable to hide the fidgeting of their hands. It’s strange to see them so nervous—strange to see them express any emotion beyond anger or annoyance, really.

But then, from his place in Wasuke’s arms, Yuuji waves at them, a bright grin stretched across his face. And it seems to ease Uraume’s nerves—if only slightly—the boy’s demeanour infectious. They offer the boy a small smile, a slight wave.

Satoru wishes he could’ve gotten a picture.

“Itadori,” Sukuna says, gesturing towards the monk, “this is Uraume—a long time friend of mine.”

And Satoru doesn’t miss the brief flash of shock that crosses their features, though they quickly disguise it, hinging in a slight bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Itadori.”

“Likewise,” Wasuke responds with a nod. “It’s about time I met a kid with manners.”

To emphasize his point, he swats Satoru across the back of his head once more, nearly dislodging his sunglasses this time.

“Hey! Don’t bring me into this!” Satoru protests, readjusting his shades. “You want your damn food or not?”

There’s a peel of childish laughter, interrupting the argument. Yuuji laughs and claps his hands, wiggling in Wasuke’s arms. “Damn! Damn!”

Three sets of eyes turn on Satoru, glaring.

“…okay, there’s no way that’s only my fault.”

The looks still don’t waver. But then—

There’s another laugh that bubbles out, one Satoru’s never heard before. It’s Uraume, who appears shocked by their own actions, quickly slapping a hand over their mouth, eyes wide. But it’s the trigger needed to ease the tension, Sukuna breaking first, clapping Uraume on the back as his own laughter rings out, joined soon by Wasuke’s, then Satoru’s, until nothing can be heard over the chorus of their mirth.

And later they’ll gather around a table much too small for five, sharing a meal and swapping stories, making jokes at each other’s expense. And though Satoru knows their problems are not all gone, mistakes not all fixed, he’s not worried, not afraid. For here, surrounded by a family composed of nothing more than missing pieces and broken parts, he can’t help but feel optimistic, can’t help but feel whole.

For now, Satoru is certain of it: come whatever may, at least he’ll never have to face it alone.

Chapter Text

Dr. Sato sets her pen aside a moment, stretching out the tired tendons of her hand, massaging her forearm as she scans the notes in her book—already full, though it’s clear the couple’s story is still far from over. In the end, she had to reschedule two of her other clients’ appointments to accommodate the couple before her now, and she’s already made peace with the fact she’ll likely be rescheduling many more. For although the two men appear collected on the surface—relaying the story of their lives with considerably more agreeance than she had witnessed in other couples—she’s still certain of it:

They have a lot of work to do.

And, being the dedicated therapist she is, Dr. Sato is determined to help. The fact that this couple’s story is highly engaging is just the icing on the cake.

Dr. Sato flips through her notebook (she’ll need to retrieve a new one very soon), collecting her thoughts. “I just wish to clarify, this Suguru Geto, is he the ex that was mentioned at this appointment’s onset? The one whose appearance at the more recent, uh, sealing incident, rendered you, Satoru, completely vulnerable to attack, as Sukuna had said?”

Satoru hums. “Yes, but technically no.”

Dr. Sato raises a brow. “Care to elaborate?”

“You see, while it was Suguru’s body present during the whole Shibuya sealing fiasco,” Satoru begins, hands moving as he pantomimes…something, “it wasn’t his brain controlling his body—it was someone completely unrelated.”

Dr. Sato nods. “Yes, I understand.”

She does not, in fact, understand—not even a little bit. But she doesn’t get hung up on that detail just yet. They’ll likely explain it in greater depth once they reach that part of the story, and even if they don’t…

Well, she’ll just add it to the list of the couple’s particular eccentricities.  

“Now then, Satoru, Sukuna,” she continues, getting back to the topic at hand. “From what I’ve observed so far, I’d say the incident you’ve just described to me—the situation regarding Suguru Geto’s attack against your family—is perhaps the root of the current problem you now face today. I don’t believe either of you truly healed from it.”

Satoru scoffs. “What? No way!” He shakes his head, lounging back against the sofa as he waves a dismissive hand. “That incident happened, like, fifteen years ago! We’re totally over it, right Sukuna?”

Sukuna nods, arms crossed over his chest. “Of course. Do not think us so weak as to allow such an incident to haunt us so many years later.”

“This isn’t a matter of weakness,” Dr. Sato points out. “Emotional wounds are far more complex than physical ones. Often, we aren’t able to recognize how deeply we’ve been hurt, and if we aren’t able to identify that hurt, then it’s far more difficult to heal.”

“But we did identify it and heal from it,” Satoru declares. “We kicked ass at healing it. I mean, from that incident onward, we were an unbeatable team—a real power couple!”

And Satoru certainly seems to believe it, but Dr. Sato isn’t so sure. For if they truly were over it, then they would not be here now. But, then again, it may be too soon to draw that conclusion. After all, she has a feeling their story is still far from over. Who knows what else may be lurking beneath the surface.

So, Dr. Sato relents for now. “Well, it was simply my opinion. I suppose the two of you would know yourselves best. But I would be fascinated to learn more about this healing, more about what made you, as you say, a power couple.”

“Ah, so you’re ready to continue the story, huh?” Satoru grins, winking at her over the rim of his shades. “I knew we’d have you hooked!”

Still, he pauses a moment before continuing, tapping his chin in thought. “Well, those three months when I was suspended definitely helped a lot. I got to be home more, for starters, got to help out with Yuuji, be there for more of his big moments—the tough ones too. It was good for us—Sukuna and I—being able to more equally share the weight of bringing up a son while working through our own traumas, y’know? If I was having a bad day, he could pick up the slack, and vice versa. Of course, we also had a good support system—Wasuke, Shoko, Uraume.”

“And even after my suspension, I only returned to Jujutsu sorcery on a casual basis—only got called in when it was absolutely necessary. I had started attending university at that time, mostly online courses, so that I could eventually get my teaching license and start work at Jujutsu Tech. I think it was good for me—good for all of us—to take a step back from the madness of sorcery for a bit. I got to learn more about myself—about the kind of person I was beyond just being the strongest sorcerer, doubted myself less as I came into my identity more. Don’t get me wrong,” he adds, as though sensing Dr. Sato’s (nonexistent) disbelief, “there was still a sharp learning curve we had to get past—lots of complicated emotions we were working through, plenty of screaming matches—"

“Never while Yuuji was around,” Sukuna specifies, interrupting his partner’s ramblings. “We had made certain to keep amicable relations in front of him. He’s always been sensitive to the emotions of those around him. We refused to place the burden of our problems upon him.”

Satoru nods. “Right. But even those difficult moments were good for us, in a way. Eventually, we learned how to talk to each other, and more importantly, how to listen.” He pauses again, laughing lightly. “Honestly, looking back on it now, that suspension was the best thing that could have happened for us, as a family. It helped us build a strong foundation, one that we could truly build upon without fear of breaking—and just in time, too.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Dr. Sato prompts.

“Well, our family was about to change in ways we couldn’t have predicted,” Satoru says, and this time there’s something considerably softer about his expression, “ways I’ll forever be grateful for.”

And sensing the story is about to resume, Dr. Sato quickly cuts in, rising from her chair, “Ah, I apologize, but before we continue, I just need to grab—” She retrieves a new notebook from her desk, quickly flipping open to the first page as she returns to her seat. Pen in hand, she nods. “Thank you. Please, continue.”

“Right, as I was saying, our family was about to change,” Satoru continues. “Yuuji was around four years old at the time, I believe, just about to start preschool…”

Satoru sits at the island, a variety of forms spread out before him. They’re all pretty straight-forward applications for preschool enrollment, simple enough even for someone who has never before completed said forms to understand. Simple, except for one minor issue Satoru hadn’t considered:

In the eyes of the Japanese government, Yuuji doesn’t actually exist.

It was Satoru’s oversight at play—his failure to obtain a birth certificate for the child, to obtain any sort of physical record for him. But it should be an easy enough oversight to fix, should be possible for Shoko to forge a birth certificate for the child. And though it’s true that she’s far more familiar with death certificates, a birth certificate should be similar enough, right? Same, but opposite. Regardless, after getting the birth certificate, all he’ll need to do is bribe a government official or two into filing it as though he had obtained it on time, finish any of the other paperwork, and that’s that.

But there’s also an adjacent issue: the fact that Sukuna is also not considered a person—rather, a living person of the current era—but the solution is similar, though more pieces will be required to put together a traceable history for him, will require a bigger bribe for sure. But even so, it should be easy enough.

But Satoru’s getting ahead of himself. For before any of that can happen, there’s another matter that needs resolution, one Satoru hadn’t considered until this very moment:

Yuuji doesn’t have a last name.

And it doesn’t seem like it should be an issue—he could easily put the name Gojo down and be done with it—and yet…

It doesn’t feel right, giving Yuuji that name, not after everything that’s transpired these past few years. And in any case, an important decision like this isn’t one Satoru should make alone—isn’t one he wants to make alone.

So, he won’t.

Sukuna and Yuuji are in the living room; Satoru can hear the sounds of furious pedalling, of laboured breathing. Recently, Sukuna picked up a new hobby: indoor cycling. Unexpected, absolutely, but seeing it in practice, it makes a lot more sense—especially considering he forced Satoru not only to buy him the best bike available, but also to pay for an expensive membership that allows him access to live spin classes and—more importantly—the online leaderboard.

For Sukuna has made it his new life’s mission to destroy everyone else who dares compete against him during these online classes, even has an ongoing rivalry with another participant that Satoru wishes were one-sided, but unfortunately gets rather heated on occasion. At first, Satoru considered it harmless—healthy even—to have this level of competition motivating Sukuna, but he soon discovered that this rivalry had sinister origins.

For Sukuna’s current rival is also public enemy number one in the eyes of the women’s group he still attends. In fact, his rival used to be one of them—their former leader, no less. Sukuna had told him the full story at some point, how the woman had an affair with someone else’s husband, how the group had very brutally ousted her after the affair had come to light. And Sukuna had been quite proud when he had managed to rally the women’s group to the cause of vandalising the cheater’s fancy car, had video-called Satoru to show him the product of his efforts…

Well, Satoru was just relieved that they didn’t resort to murdering the cheaters, though he’s aware that was Sukuna’s first suggestion—that he likely could have convinced the women’s group to rally behind him had Satoru not intervened. Vandalism was a safe enough compromise, and honestly, it had been quite adorable that Sukuna wanted to share his conquest with Satoru.

(Which Satoru definitely pointed out to him later on, resulting in the end of their longest death threat-less streak of forty-four days—a worthwhile sacrifice.)

Now, the rivalry has grown far more mundane, simple spirited competition over an online spin class, replete with barbed comments and nasty texts sent after the fact. And Satoru had offered to get Sukuna into a real gym, but apparently the thought of being around a bunch of sweaty, panting strangers took too much joy out of the experience for Sukuna. Besides, his rival would not be in those classes, and so, in Sukuna’s eyes, they were worthless.

In any case, this new hobby led to an even more entertaining situation: Yuuji became fixated on the stationary bike, wanted to participate in the classes alongside Sukuna. And with a little help from Wasuke, they made it possible, mounting a regular bicycle atop a sturdy stand so that Yuuji could peddle alongside his dad to his little heart’s content—not that he usually lasts very long, typically rides for a few minutes before getting distracted by something else, then returning a little while later. Still, it’s perhaps one of the cutest sights Satoru has ever seen, a new folder created in his phone’s camera roll solely to capture images and videos of the father-son cycling duo.

After a few minutes, the sounds of the bikes in the living room cease, the class having finished for the day. Yuuji cheers, inciting a light chuckle from Sukuna, and Satoru turns to watch as the boys dismount their bikes, Sukuna ruffling Yuuji’s hair, smiles on both of their faces.

But Satoru can’t watch for too long, not without getting distracted. For Sukuna—apparently having no regard for Satoru’s well-being—has chosen to forgo a shirt for today’s workout, stark black tattoo-like lines all on display, sweat glistening upon his skin, highlighting well-defined muscles, and—

Yep. Satoru’s distracted.

In a feat of superhuman strength, Satoru tears his eyes away, turning his attention to his son instead, Yuuji shirtless just like his dad, but his skin bone-dry. He follows his dad into the kitchen, both still breathing heavily—though it’s clear Yuuji is just copying his dad, as he often does. “Well?” Satoru prompts as they pass, making their way towards the sink. “Did ya win?”

“That bitch never stood a chance,” Sukuna declares as he fills a glass of water from the sink, handing it to Yuuji.

“As expected,” Satoru replies with a chuckle. “What about you, Yuuji? How did you do?”

“I was the fastest!” Yuuji nearly spills his water as he thrusts his hands in the air victoriously. “Fastest in the whole world! Fastest in the whole city!”

And Satoru doesn’t point out that he may have gotten that order backwards, just grins at his son. “I believe it!”

After chugging down his water, Yuuji huffs. “I’m pooped,” he announces, flopping down onto the kitchen floor. “Gonna sleep for a hundred billion hours now.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes at his son’s antics, reaching over to retrieve the glass from his hands, bringing it to the sink. Meanwhile, Satoru laughs. “Sure, Yuuji. You do that. Just make sure you wake up in time for dinner.”

Yuuji doesn’t reply, already pretending to be fast asleep. After refilling the water glass, Sukuna joins Satoru at the island, but instead of taking a seat like a normal person, he drapes himself over Satoru’s back, Satoru cringing at the sensation. And it’s not that he’s uncomfortable with the closeness—he’s grown far too used to it, seeks it out just as much as he accepts it, if not more. No, the real issue is—

“Gross.” Satoru wrinkles his nose, nudging Sukuna away with an elbow. “You’re all sweaty.”

Sukuna doesn’t move, just laughs lightly at Satoru’s attempts. “What?” he asks, breath tickling the skin of Satoru’s ear. “Strongest sorcerer of his generation can’t handle a little sweat?”

“That’s way more than a little.” Again, Satoru (sort of) tries to nudge Sukuna away. “Move, you’re gonna drip on the papers.”

Still, Sukuna doesn’t move. He reaches around Satoru, placing his glass on the island and retrieving one of the incomplete forms instead. “You’re still working on this? You should have completed these by now.”

“Hit a bit of a snag,” Satoru reveals, tugging the form from Sukuna’s hand. “I don’t know Yuuji’s last name.”

Sukuna hums. “I had assumed you’d simply use your own—arrogant bastard you are.”

“Aw, thanks. You’re sweet,” Satoru says, turning his head so he can smile up at Sukuna. “But no. I just—I don’t know.”

He sighs, setting aside the form so he can run a hand through his hair, and if he just so happens to lean a little further against Sukuna, well…it’s not like he’s going to get any grosser at this point than he already is, right? “There’s a lot of baggage that comes with the Gojo name—especially when it comes to Jujutsu sorcery—and I can’t risk putting that on Yuuji. I know it’s stupid—I mean, people will always associate Yuuji with me regardless of his last name, but…I want to at least try and give him a chance, even if only a little one. And by that same logic, I can’t bring myself to give him your last name either—no offense. Well, some offense.”

“Unfortunately, I have to agree with you,” Sukuna replies. “I do not want Yuuji to have to bear the title of Ryoumen, nor can I stomach of the thought of him being designated a Gojo—full offense.”

And Satoru will let that one slide for now. “So, what do we do?” he asks, tipping his head back against Sukuna’s shoulder so can sort of look the other in the eye. “We gotta put something down.”

He feels Sukuna shrug. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Can we figure it out after you shower?” Satoru asks. “I was serious, y’know. You’re gross.”

And there’s a slight gleam of mischief in Sukuna’s eye, a sure sign that Satoru is in danger. “If I’m so gross, then you’ll probably hate it if I do this!”

Before Satoru has a chance to escape, Sukuna wraps his arms tightly around him, pressing his still-sweaty skin against his clothes. Satoru shrieks—a manly shriek, for the record—as he struggles in his hold, face scrunching up in disgust as Sukuna drags his slightly-damp hair across his cheek. “Stop! You’re disgusting!”

And Satoru could easily escape—he knows it, Sukuna knows it—but where’s the fun in that?

“Me too! Me too!”

And Yuuji—who clearly had not been nearly as pooped as he claimed to be—rushes at them, climbing up onto a stool so he can launch himself into their arms, caught easily between them. He also tries to wipe sweat on Satoru—not that he has any to offer—but Satoru still squirms as if he does. “No, Yuuji! That’s gross! You’re making me gross now!”

And Yuuji just laughs, unapologetic.

They break apart from their playfight eventually, Yuuji jumping down from their arms to go play with his toys, but Sukuna lingers a moment longer at Satoru’s side, an arm still loosely looped around his waist as they watch their son. And Satoru knows the racing of his heart is only due in part to the playfight, is too smart to misattribute these feelings. Years ago, they would have freaked him out—they had freaked him out, in fact—but now he finds them exciting, comfortable even.

But Sukuna really is gross, right now.

As though sensing his thoughts, Sukuna sighs, finally withdrawing. “We will figure it out.”

“I know.” Then he swats Sukuna’s shoulder, the markings there providing the perfect target. “Now go shower. I’ll handle dinner.”

Later that evening, after Yuuji is sound asleep in bed, Satoru and Sukuna finally get a chance to puzzle through this new conundrum. They sit at the dining room table, notepads before them filled with possible surnames, most already scratched out.

Satoru taps his pen on his page. “Okay, how about Goryo?”

Sukuna scoffs. “Awful. Ryoujo?”

Satoru considers it a moment. “Eh, not feeling it.” He jots something down on his page, humming. “Goumen?”

“Worse,” Sukuna decides, face creased with disgust. “Ryogo?”

“That’s basically the same as the other one,” Satoru points out. “Joumen?”

“That’s basically the same.” Sukuna scribbles something down on his own notepad, but judging by the furrow in his brow, even he doesn’t seem impressed by it. “Ryogomen?”

Satoru laughs at that one. “Hard pass,” he decides, and then, just to be silly— “Goryojoumen?”

Sukuna isn’t nearly as amused. “Do you want our son to be publicly ridiculed everywhere he goes?”

“This isn’t working,” Satoru finally acknowledges, rubbing his temples. “Okay, new strategy: let’s just pick a simple, common last name.”

“Sure,” Sukuna replies, tone dripping sarcasm, “if you want our son to be simple and common.”

But Satoru ignores the comment, thinking. “How about…Tanaka?”

Sukuna huffs. “What, are we farmers?”

Satoru throws his hands up in defeat. “I don’t know!” He cradles his head in his hands. “Ugh, this is hopeless. I mean, it was hard enough coming up with the name Yuuji—”

And—wait a minute. They didn’t come up with that name, did they?

Satoru drops his head to the table with an audible thunk. “We’re both idiots. The answer is so obvious.”

And even without explaining it to him, Sukuna seems to catch on, for he sighs, dragging a palm across his brow. “You are a terrible influence on me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Same to you,” Satoru replies, waving a dismissive hand as he scrawls out the name. Yeah, that’s the winner, no doubt about it. “Well, I guess we’ve got a quick stop to make before submitting these papers, yeah?”

And that’s how, bright and early the next morning, they end up in front of Wasuke’s apartment door, Yuuji taking it upon himself to knock. After a moment, the door opens, Wasuke still in his sleep clothes, eyes wide as he gazes upon his visitors.

Yuuji launches at him instantly. “Grampa!”

“Hey kid,” Wasuke greets, catching Yuuji with a groan. “Easy now. I’m not as limber as I once was.” He sets Yuuji back on the ground, stepping aside to allow the trio entry. “What brings you boys here? I didn’t think I had the kid today.”

Satoru shakes his head, making his way inside, Sukuna following close behind. “No, nothing like that. We were just about to submit these applications for Yuuji’s schooling, thought we’d stop by on the way.” He waves the folder of papers in his hand for emphasis. “I figured we should get a wise old man to look them over, make sure we didn’t mess anything up.”

“Don’t think calling me wise will distract me from the old, disrespectful punk!” Wasuke scolds, swatting Satoru on the shoulder.

“Ow, hey!”

“Well? Hand them over!” But despite his words, Wasuke doesn’t wait, instead snatching the folder from Satoru’s hand, flipping it open. “Let’s see if you—”

He cuts off abruptly, frozen.

Satoru chuckles a little uneasily. “Uh, Wasuke?”

The man turns his gaze on Satoru, frowning as he smacks the page. “What the hell is this?”

Satoru takes a deep breath, gaze flickering briefly to Sukuna before returning to Wasuke. “We couldn’t give Yuuji either of our last names—don’t ask, it’s way too complicated,” he adds before Wasuke even has the chance to question it. “So, we thought this was the next best option. You’re his family too, after all.” He grins, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Yuuji Itadori. Has a nice ring to it, yeah?”

Wasuke doesn’t reply—seems too stunned to speak. He shakes his head, turning away from them as he stares down at the pages in his hands. And that…that’s not a good sign, is it?

Satoru’s gaze flickers over to Sukuna, a little panicked, seeking aid. Sukuna raises a brow, shrugging—completely unhelpful. Satoru turns back to Wasuke. “I know it was your grandson’s name,” he continues after a moment, “so if you really don’t approve, we can change it. It’s not too late.”

Wasuke drags a hand across his face, still shaking his head, shoulders trembling so slightly, it’s almost unnoticeable. Satoru reaches out for him, concerned. “Wasuke?”

“Damn punks,” Wasuke says finally, voice strained, “springing this on me first thing in the morning.” Then he’s whirling on Satoru, a fierce glare on his face. “Get down here so I can smack you properly!”

“What—wait!”

Wasuke grabs Satoru by the collar, dragging him down and swatting him on the back of the head. And before Satoru can recover, Wasuke tugs on him again, this time pulling him into a hug and—

Oh. He’s crying.

Satoru returns the hug, gently patting Wasuke on the back as the man presses his face against his shoulder, still shaking. After a moment, Wasuke pulls away a bit, turning his watery glare on Sukuna. “You get in here too, punk,” he demands, reaching out to grab Sukuna by the arm before he can attempt to flee. “I’m not the only one who’s gonna look like a fool this morning! You too, Yuuji.”

Yuuji complies—far more enthusiastically than Sukuna does.

And so, the family shares a—slightly awkward, thanks to their varying height differences—group hug, Wasuke still sniffling slightly, arms wrapped tightly around the others. And though he practically clings to them, he doesn’t appear upset, not by a long shot.

Even so, Satoru has to ask, “So…I assume it’s okay?”

“Okay?” Wasuke echoes, freeing an arm so he can smack Satoru again. “It’s more than okay!”

Yuuji’s cheers drown out Satoru’s yelp, but not Sukuna’s laughter. “Yay!” Yuuji clings to Wasuke’s leg, grinning up at him. “I’m a Itadori just like you, Grampa!”

“Damn right!” Wasuke replies, breaking away from the embrace so he can ruffle Yuuji’s hair. “It’s a good name, Yuuji, so you better wear it with pride!”

“Yes sir!” Yuuji declares, nodding seriously.

Wasuke chuckles slightly, wiping at his eyes. It takes him a moment longer to collect himself, but when he does, he plants his hands on his hips. “Well? What’re you doing standing around here for? Go get those papers submitted!” He begins shooing the trio toward the door, shoving the folder of papers against Satoru’s chest. “My grandson needs to get into a good school, and those places fill up fast!”

Satoru accepts the folder with a laugh. “We’re going!” But despite his words, he pauses at the threshold, the last to leave. “Thank you, Wasuke.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Wasuke waves him off, but there’s a slight smile on his face. “Now go!”

It takes bit of time to get everything squared away at the government office, but with a lot of patience (and a lot of bribery), they get it done—Yuuji’s and Sukuna’s identities created, school applications submitted. From there, Satoru had scheduled interviews with their top choice schools, managing to set up the interviews to take place over the course of two days—one on the first day, two on the second—so they can get them over with and get Yuuji enrolled as quickly as possible.

And so, with everything perfectly in place, all that’s left is to ace the interviews and get accepted into one of the schools—easy enough, right?

Of course, there’s a slight hiccup the night before the first interview.

Satoru wakes to a weight settled on his chest. It takes a moment for his sleep-muddled brain to catch up, to recognize that it’s just Sukuna curled over him. He must have made his way over at some point during the night. And it’s not such a strange thing for Sukuna to end up in his bed—or Satoru in Sukuna’s, for that matter. After that first night several years ago, they determined sharing a bed to be the most effective method for fighting off the worst of the nightmares. So for Sukuna to be here now, so curled up against Satoru—

It must have been a bad one.

Still, his presence isn’t what woke Satoru up. No, it was the noise coming from Yuuji’s room—the worrying coughing, heaving sound. It’s followed by a bit of sniffling, and then, after a moment, Yuuji’s door clicks open.

Satoru sighs, idly combing his fingers through Sukuna’s hair as he waits for his son to arrive. He can hear his soft footsteps padding down the hall, pausing just before the door to Satoru’s room inches open with a muted creak.

“Daddy?” Yuuji calls, peering at him from the doorway. “I threw up.”

Satoru heaves another sigh. “It’s okay, buddy. I’ll be there in a sec.” He slides his fingers from Sukuna’s hair, gently jostling his shoulder instead. “Sukuna, hey, wake up.”

But Sukuna does not wake up. He mumbles something incoherent, pushing Satoru’s arm away as he nuzzles farther into Satoru’s chest. Adorable, yes, but now’s really not the time. Satoru shakes him harder. “Sukuna, wake up.”

Sukuna finally wakes, red eyes slipping open to glare up at Satoru. “What is it now?”

“Yuuji got sick. Let me up.” And as Sukuna finally rolls away, allowing Satoru to sit up, Satoru addresses his son once more. “Don’t worry, Yuuji. Dad’ll go clean it up for you.”

“Why me?” Sukuna protests.

“Well, one of us has to take care of dear Yuuji,” Satoru replies, rounding the bed so he can check on his son. “You can’t expect me to do everything.”

And for a moment, it looks like Sukuna might argue, jaw working over as he debates within himself. Still, he must find the prospect of arguing a pointless endeavour in the end, for he relents, kicking the blankets away with a huff. “Fine.”

And so, they get Yuuji and his room cleaned up—Sukuna complaining loudly the entire time, of course. Satoru gives Yuuji some children’s medicine to help with any lingering symptoms, though his son claims that he feels okay now. Better safe than sorry, Satoru decides. After, they all crawl back into Satoru’s bed—Yuuji jealous that he hadn’t been invited to the sleepover, as he called it—and for some reason, Satoru’s the one who ends up squished in the middle, trapped between two walking-furnaces. And Satoru can only hope that Yuuji simply runs warmer like his dad does, that it isn’t the product of fever. Regardless, the others fall asleep quite quickly, their matching snores rumbling through the still night air, and in the end, Satoru has to clamp a pillow over his head to drown the noise out enough to actually get some sleep.

Still, despite that night’s slight misadventure, they’re all bright-eyed and bushy tailed as they arrive at the first preschool. It’s an ornate brick building—massive, more so resembling a college than a preschool. But it’s ranked as one of the best, has a rich history considering it is, at the end of the day, merely a preschool, so of course Satoru had submitted an application.

Yuuji stares up at the towering building with wide eyes, his face a little more pale than usual—nervous, perhaps, or maybe still a little unwell from the night before. Satoru crouches before him, blocking his view of the preschool so he can capture his son’s full attention. “Now, Yuuji,” he says, reaching out to adjust the collar of the boy’s shirt. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? It’s not too late for us to reschedule.”

“I’m fine,” Yuuji groans, perhaps annoyed by his father’s fussing. Satoru had spent the better part of the morning adjusting and readjusting not only Yuuji’s shirt collar, but Sukuna’s and his own as well. Yuuji bats Satoru’s hands away after a moment, grabbing him by the wrist instead and tugging him forward. “Let’s go! I wanna go to school!”

Satoru laughs, allowing his son to tug him to his feet. “Alright, that’s the spirit!” He ruffles Yuuji’s hair with his free hand, the boy again swatting Satoru’s hand away.

And perhaps Yuuji isn’t feeling as fine as he claims, for he’s never disallowed Satoru’s affection quite like this before. Satoru turns to Sukuna, raising a questioning brow. Sukuna frowns, clearly thinking the same as him.

But then Yuuji is tugging on both of their arms, trying to pull them towards the school. “Come on!”

“Alright, alright!” Satoru says with a laugh. “Let’s roll.”

The preschool’s interior feels no more welcoming than its exterior, too much brickwork, too much wood panelling. And it’s not that the décor is unattractive by any means, it’s just…

Not preschool-like.

They check in at the front office, the hallway before them lined with pictures of previous classes, students and teachers in uniform rows, all staring blank-faced at the camera, not a single smile anywhere to be seen. And that…that’s probably not a good sign, is it?

He doesn’t have a chance to ponder it long, for soon they’re being invited into the principal’s office. It’s a fairly large space, considering its purpose, though made cramped by towering bookshelves cramped with leather-bound books, as well as a massive mahogany desk behind which an elderly man stands, haven risen from his leather desk chair to greet them. “Right, you must be our next interviewees. My name is Principal Watanabe,” he begins, then gestures to the woman standing just off to his side, “and this here is one of our teachers, Suzuki-sensei. And you are—”

“Satoru Gojo,” Satoru greets, extending his hand for the handshake, Principal Watanabe’s grip far more forceful than need be, likely trying to assert his dominance, prove his strength, as if Satoru couldn’t annihilate this man’s entire lineage with the twitch of a finger.

“Sukuna Ryoumen,” Sukuna greets after, following Satoru’s lead as he extends his hand. Principal Watanabe gives him a long glance, a downward curl to his lip, but pointedly does not return the handshake. Hand still outstretched, Sukuna’s fingers tremble slightly, like it’s taking every ounce of willpower not to wrap them around the man’s throat.

Satoru intervenes before that can happen, grabbing Sukuna’s outstretched hand and forcing it down to his side, chuckling slightly as he says, “Flu season, yeah? Gotta be careful of those germs and whatnot.”

And it’s clear that’s not what the principal had in mind, but no one acknowledges it. “Hmm, yes,” Principal Watanabe says as he lowers into his seat, gesturing for his guests to do the same. “Well, have a seat.”

There are only two chairs set out before the desk, so Satoru lifts Yuuji into his lap to sit. “This is our son, Yuuji,” he introduces.

Yuuji beams at the principal and teacher. “Hi! I’m Yuuji Itadori! I’m four years old and I like to run around really fast. Wanna see?”

Principal Watanabe merely clicks his tongue, gaze on the papers he shuffles atop his desk. “That will not be necessary.”

Thankfully, Yuuji does not appear put-off by this dismissal. No, he’s already moved on to his next point of interest, reaching out towards the ornate globe that sits at the corner of the desk. “What’s this? Can I—”

But his young hands are far too uncoordinated, and instead of spinning the globe as he likely intended, his fingers knock against its side, nudging it off the desk. The globe hits the ground with an echoing clatter, the sphere breaking loose from its stand.

Yuuji gasps, eyes wide. “I’m sorry! I can fix it!”

“That will not be necessary,” the principal snaps. He takes a deep breath, rubbing his brow. “Why don’t you go sit somewhere over there—” He gestures vaguely with a hand— “while we adults converse.”

Yuuji twists towards Satoru, eyes wet and bottom lip trembling. “Daddy, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know, Yuuji. It was just an accident,” Satoru replies, keeping his tone soft, hoping Yuuji doesn’t notice the strain in his words, the tension in his fingers as he rubs his son’s back. For while Satoru would love nothing more than to verbally lash out at this man for daring speak to his son in such a manner, he has to keep himself in check, can’t let his anger get the best of him. “It’s okay. Just hang out over there for a bit while we finish up, okay?”

Yuuji just nods, rubbing his eyes as he slides from Satoru’s lap, heading over to stand next to the bookshelves at the other side of the office. Something twinges in Satoru’s heart as he goes, but he tries to ignore it for now; he’ll be sure to pamper Yuuji later today.

“So, Mr. Gojo, was it?” Principal Watanabe continues, leafing through his papers. “Yuuji here is your son—”

“Our son,” Satoru pointedly corrects, nodding towards Sukuna—who has been far too silent this entire time, letting Satoru do the talking, likely not trusting himself not to say something too untoward. “Mine and Sukuna’s.”

Principal Watanabe raises a brow at that. “And yet none of you share a surname?”

“Ah, yeah.” Satoru laughs slightly, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s a—kind of a complicated situation.”

“Hmm.” Thankfully, the principal leaves it at that—probably doesn’t care anyway. “So, Mr. Gojo, what do you do for work?”

“I’m currently a student, just finishing up my degree.” But when Principal Watanabe’s brow furrows, Satoru adds, “I’ve already got a job lined up upon graduation as a teacher at the Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School.”

“Mmhmm, quite the string of words. Definitely sounds like a real school,” the principal dismisses with the click of his tongue, but before Satoru has a chance to point out that it is a real school—a private school, no less—Principal Watanabe turns his dark gaze on Sukuna. “And you, ah, Mr. Ryoumen. I don’t suppose you are able to disclose the nature of your…occupation?”

And neither Satoru nor Sukuna misses the way it’s phrased, the implications therein. Sukuna takes a deep breath, arms crossing over his chest to dig sharp black nails into his biceps. “Presently I am unemployed.”

“Is that so?” But there’s something almost smug about the way Principal Watanabe says it, like he’s won some sort of competition that exists only within his mind.

“He’s been staying home to take care of Yuuji while I complete my studies,” Satoru jumps in, trying to turn the tide back in their favour. “Honestly, he works harder than I do.”

At this, Principal Watanabe rolls his eyes—no longer disguising his true feelings, it would seem. “I’m sure.” Then he flips to a new page, clearing his throat. “Now, going over your application, I noticed—”

“Daddy?”

Yuuji tugs on Satoru’s sleeve, interrupting the conversation. Principal Watanabe’s eyes narrow, and Satoru just smiles innocently back. “Sorry,” he says to the man before turning to his son. “What’s up, bud?”

Yuuji’s gaze drops to the floor. “My tummy hurts.”

“Aw, come here.” Satoru lifts Yuuji into his lap once more, gently rubbing the child’s stomach. “Can you try and describe it? What does it feel like?”

“Like—like—” Yuuji’s brow furrows, gaze flickering from Satoru to Sukuna as he tries to come up with the right words. After a moment, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

And Principal Watanabe clearly doesn’t have the patience to let the child figure it out. “Boy,” he says, drawing Yuuji’s attention to him, “we adults are trying to have a serious discussion here. Now, why don’t you be a good little boy and go stand over—”

Yuuji throws up on his desk.

Satoru slaps a hand over his mouth, quickly stifling a laugh. Sukuna does not, his amusement ringing out clear in the air.

Suzuki-sensei pales, quickly averting her gaze from the mess coating the desk’s surface. Meanwhile, a number of expressions quickly flash across Principal Watanabe’s face—disgust, anger, disbelief—before he has a chance to collect himself, eyes sliding shut. He takes a deep, calming breath, but must immediately regret it when the stench reaches his nose. “That will be all,” he dismisses coldly, not once opening his eyes. “You may see yourselves out.”

After making a quick stop at the bathroom to get Yuuji cleaned up, the trio exits the school in a hurry. Yuuji sits curled up in Sukuna’s arms, fists clinging to the collar of his shirt, sniffling as he cries into his dad’s neck. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

Sukuna rubs his back soothingly, while Satoru reaches over to brush his son’s hair from his forehead—checking his temperature as much as comforting the boy. He doesn’t feel warmer than normal, but it’s hard to tell from just a simple touch. “It’s okay, I promise,” Satoru says, wiping tears from the boy’s cheeks. “But Yuuji, if you weren’t feeling good, we could have stayed home.”

“I was feeling good!” Yuuji grumbles. “But then that man kept being mean and looking at Dad funny, and then my tummy wasn’t feeling good, and then—and then—blegh.”

Sukuna sighs. “So, you were worried about me,” he surmises, and though he tries to hide it, Satoru can see the slight curl to his lips, the way his red eyes soften as he regards his son, as he holds Yuuji just a little tighter. “I appreciate your concern, but it was not necessary.”

“Honestly Yuuji, I think you did the right thing,” Satoru adds. “We really dodged a bullet with that one.”

Yuuji’s eyes are still wet, his face drooping—far from comforted. Satoru ruffles his hair, grinning. “Hey, why don’t we go visit gramps, yeah? That’ll help us all feel better.”

Yuuji just nods.

They head over to Wasuke’s apartment, Satoru shooting the man a quick text to let him know they’re coming. Wasuke opens the door for them almost as soon as they arrive, nearly vibrating with his excitement. But their moods must be written all over their faces, for the old man sobers quickly, sighing. “So, that bad, huh?”

“Yuuji threw up on the principal’s desk,” Satoru tells him as they step through the door. Sukuna carries Yuuji straight through to the living room, and with the young boy out of earshot, Satoru continues, “The asshole had it coming, though. You should’ve seen it—bald guy sitting all high and mighty behind his big desk. Such a dick. Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered what we said in there. The moment we walked in, he had already made up his mind.”

Clearly, Yuuji had not been as out of earshot as Satoru thought, for before Wasuke has a chance to respond, the boy is peering over Sukuna’s shoulder at them, eyes wide as he asks, “Does that mean I don’t get to go to school?”

Satoru crosses the room in long strides, reaching Yuuji quickly. “No, that was just the first one! And it was our lowest-ranked choice, anyway.”

Yuuji’s eyes are downcast, and he curls further into Sukuna’s hold, Sukuna gently nuzzling his cheek against the boy’s soft hair in response. Satoru watches the display for a moment with a small smile, then reaches out to rub his son’s back. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ve still got two more schools to check out. I’m sure we’ll find the perfect one for you yet—you just wait and see!”

But after today, Satoru’s having trouble believing it, and judging by the look he shares with Wasuke and Sukuna, they feel the same.

The second interview goes much the same as the first—minus the vomit, thankfully. The family is dismissed just ten minutes after the interview starts, and though no rejection was stated outright, it was implicit in the long looks the administrators shared, in their clipped tones and stiff postures. But Yuuji didn’t seem to notice, is in much better spirits today compared to yesterday. He happily chatters and skips along as they make their way to a nearby park with Wasuke accompanying them. There’s time to kill before the third interview, so they had invited the older man out to the park to grab a bite to eat from one of the food vendors there. That’s the excuse, at least. For really, Satoru just needs a chance to talk to Sukuna alone in a situation where Yuuji won’t be too curious, and having Wasuke around to distract the boy is the perfect option.

For Sukuna’s been much too quiet all morning—ever since that interview yesterday, really. Something’s wrong, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what.

Satoru stands in line with Wasuke and Yuuji, but his gaze follows Sukuna as the other departs to find a table. After a moment, Satoru turns to Wasuke. “Here,” he says, handing Wasuke a thick wad of bills. “Get Yuuji whatever he wants, just…”

He trails off, not sure how to finish the thought, not without alerting Yuuji. Still, Wasuke seems to understand what Satoru’s really asking, for he nods. “Hey, Yuuji,” Wasuke says, getting the child’s attention. “This line is too long. Let’s go check out what they have over there!”

Yuuji just grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Okay!”

“I’ll catch up with you two later, yeah?” Satoru says, smiling at his son. But Yuuji’s already racing off, Wasuke trailing behind, shouting for the boy to slow down, ya little brat!

Satoru watches them for a moment, chuckling slightly to himself. Then he takes a deep breath, turning and making his way towards where Sukuna is seated. The table he had grabbed is not too far from the playground, nicely shaded under a sprawling sycamore tree. As Satoru slides onto the bench next to him, he doesn’t react, gaze fixed somewhere beyond—on the families playing on the play structure, or maybe on nothing in particular. Satoru gently nudges him with his elbow, feels the tension in his muscles.  “Hey, you okay?”

Sukuna hums. “Fine. Just…”

“Angry? Frustrated? Murderous?”

This earns Satoru a glare. “Thinking.”

Satoru laughs. “That was my next guess.”

Sukuna doesn’t reply. His nails drum noisily atop the table, and though his glare has eased, there’s still a furrow to his brow. Clearly, whatever he’s thinking about, he’s thinking much too hard. He’ll get wrinkles at this rate, and if that happened—

Actually, he’d look cute with frown lines, wouldn’t he? But Satoru’s getting distracted. He sets the thoughts aside for now, taking a deep breath. “Hey, Sukuna—”

“You should go without me,” Sukuna interrupts quickly, then adds, “The final interview, I mean.” And he must feel Satoru’s frown, his confusion, for he turns a side-eyed gaze on him now, taking a deep breath of his own before elaborating. “I’m no fool, Satoru. I am well aware of what I look like, what impression my appearance gives off. And it certainly doesn’t help that we are two men entering those interviews. We clearly aren’t winning any points with these people.” He says this with a slight laugh, but there’s no humour to be found in it. Then he shakes his head, averting his gaze from Satoru’s once more. “No, you’d be better off taking the boy alone, making up some excuse about his mother. Hell, even if you brought Wasuke along you’d fair much better. At least he and Yuuji share a surname.”

And Satoru…he can’t believe what he’s hearing, that such ridiculous sentiments would ever leave Sukuna’s lips. He clicks his tongue. “No, no way.”

“Satoru—”

“No, and I won’t even consider it for a second longer.” Satoru drags a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sukuna, I’m not doing this without you. I refuse. We didn’t go through everything we did just to let some conservative assholes stop us now. No way in hell.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Sukuna insists. “Those institutions will not grant Yuuji entry, not as long as he’s associated with me.”

“Then fuck them!” Satoru shouts—perhaps a little too loudly, judging by the looks of passersby. “We’ll find somewhere else.”

Even at his impassioned declaration, Sukuna just shakes his head. He picks at his nails—a bad habit, a nervous tick Satoru has observed over the years. And Satoru wants to ease his concerns, wants to refute them, but…

He’s right. As long as the three of them are together, Yuuji’s chances of admission dwindle to near nothing, their unconventional family still unwelcome in their society. But Satoru’s right too, right to keep his family together despite the ridicule, despite the barriers they face. They’ll find a way to break through; they always do.

Satoru nudges Sukuna again, trying to gain his attention. “Hey, Sukuna.”

Sukuna hums his acknowledgement, but keeps his gaze elsewhere, red eyes avoiding Satoru as they scan their surroundings. But that won’t do.

“Sukuna,” Satoru nearly whines, pressing closer against his side. “Look at me. C’mon. Don’t make me—”

But when Sukuna still refuses to comply, Satoru takes matters into his own hands—literally. He reaches over, grabbing Sukuna’s face in his hands, slightly squishing the former curse’s cheeks between his palms as he forces Sukuna to turn his head. Sukuna glares at Satoru, but with his cheeks squished like this, the expression looks far more adorable than intimidating.

Staring into those red eyes now, Satoru starts, “Now listen here and listen well. We will find somewhere. Okay? Okay?” Sukuna rolls his eyes, but he nods slightly—unable to move much within Satoru’s grip. Satisfied, Satoru continues, “Honestly, if these places can’t even treat us with respect, then I sure as hell don’t want Yuuji going there. If these places can’t handle us, then they aren’t worthy of our son. Surely you must agree with me.”

Sukuna huffs. “I…suppose you make a fair point.”

It’s not total agreement, but it’s progress nonetheless. Satoru smiles, thumbs gently tracing the lines below the other’s eyes—the ones that match those of their son. “You know what I think it is? The real reason they turn us away?” he asks, voice dropping to a near-whisper—conspiratorial, almost. “I think it’s because they’re jealous of us. Honestly, I don’t blame them. If I had the two hottest, most charming men with the cutest son in the entire world come waltzing into my office, I’d be jealous too.”

Sukuna scoffs at this, but he’s smiling slightly now, the barest curl of his lips. “Your attempts at comfort are childish and asinine, yet they are somehow still effective.”

“What can I say? Childish and asinine are sort of my style.” He winks, as he says this, and this time Sukuna’s nose wrinkles in disgust, which—rude. “Seriously, though,” Satoru says, getting back on topic. “You’re his father too. I’m not cutting you out of this, not a chance. No matter what, we’re doing it together—you, me, and Yuuji.”

For a moment, Sukuna just holds his gaze, silently considering. Finally, he sighs. “You’re right,” he acquiesces, reaching up to grab Satoru’s hands, to remove them from his cheeks. But before he does, he turns his head, pressing a quick kiss to one of his palms. “Thanks.”

And that… that’s new. For though they are affectionate with each other, though they may hug and cuddle and even share a bed, they never kiss—that one Christmas party and the night of Shoko Ieiri’s Bad Bitches Birthday Bash notwithstanding. And it makes Satoru’s heart beat just a little bit quicker, makes his face flood with a warmth he hopes his skin doesn’t betray, mind racing to catch up. He kissed me. Well, he kissed my hand, but still. He kissed me. And he hasn’t let go of my hand yet—

“Dad! Daddy! Look!”

Satoru’s thoughts are interrupted by that call, and when he tears his gaze away from Sukuna, he spies Yuuji and Wasuke approaching—Yuuji with a massive stuffed crepe in his hands. It’s the crepe that he’s showing off, raising it as high as his little arms will allow, toppings nearly spilling as he waves it slightly for emphasis. “See? It’s bigger than my whole entire head! It even looks like my head!”

And he’s not wrong—the colours of the toppings do somewhat resemble the boy’s colourings, the reddish-pink of the strawberries, the brown of the chocolate. Satoru grins at his son. “Wow, you’re right Yuuji! That’s impressive!” he says as the boy and his grandpa join them at the table, Yuuji forcing his way between his fathers, breaking their linked hands—which Satoru is definitely not disappointed about, no way. “Do you really think you can eat all that?”

“I’m gonna share!” Yuuji says, holding the crepe up. “Dad, have some! It’ll make you happy!”

Ah, so Yuuji had noticed too. The boy is far smarter than they give him credit for.

Sukuna smiles at his son, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s hair. “Thank you, Yuuji,” he says before leaning in to take a small bite of the offered dessert. He chews slowly, expression unreadable save for the deep frown that settles on his face. “It’s…good,” he decides after a moment.

But judging by the wince he had tried so hard to conceal, it’s clearly far too sweet for his liking—which means it’s perfect for Satoru. Satoru reaches out with grabby hands. “Let me have a bite too!”

Yuuji holds the crepe up for Satoru next, but rather than go for the dessert right away, he pretends to take a bite of Yuuji’s head instead. “Daddy! No!” Yuuji squeals, grinning as he breaks off into giggles. “That’s me!”

“What?” Satoru’s eyes widen, and he switches his gaze between his son and the dessert, dumbfounded. “Oh, sorry Yuuji! You and your crepe just look so similar, I couldn’t tell the difference!”

Yuuji continues to giggle. “You’re so silly!”

And when he hears the tell-tale click of a camera shutter, he pretends not to notice, just laughs alongside his son—his family.

He’ll ask Wasuke to send him the picture later.

The time of their final interview arrives. Satoru had saved the best for last—their top choice school, best preschool in the entire city, in the entire country even. The school building is still relatively new, refreshingly modern in a way the others had not been. And it gives Satoru hope, makes him optimistic. Maybe this time, they’ll finally have a real shot.

They barely make it through the front door before they’re turned away, the administrators rambling of one excuse or another, none in agreement as to why they can’t grant them admission, just that they simply can’t.

And Satoru practically vibrates with his rage, a litany of disparagements on the tip of his tongue ready to be unleashed. And he’s certain Sukuna is much the same, red eyes burning with unconcealed fury.

But Yuuji is right there, tugging at their hands, honey-brown eyes wet with unshed tears. “I don’t feel good.”

They leave without another word.

Wasuke waits for them outside, had decided to accompany them to the interview after their trip to the park—moral support, like he already knew the outcome would be an unsavoury one. They join him on the sidewalk just before the school, Yuuji’s head hanging low as he trudges towards his grandpa. “They were full,” he mumbles—the final excuse that had reached their ears before their departure, the easiest one for Yuuji to understand.

But Wasuke must see the excuse for what it is. “They were full, were they?” he repeats, phrasing it as a question, though he directs it more to Satoru and Sukuna. And Satoru isn’t sure exactly what expression paints their features right now, is putting all his focus into keeping his temper in check, but Wasuke must find his answer there regardless, for he doesn’t wait for a response, sighing as he drags a palm across his brow. “I see.”

Yuuji sniffles. He turns to his fathers, lips trembling. “No school for me?”

And the heartbreak in son’s tone is enough to cut through Satoru’s fury, if only for now. Satoru drops to a crouch in front of the boy, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “We’ll find one, Yuuji. Don’t you worry,” he says, flashing his most confident smile. “I promise we’ll get you into school soon.”

Yuuji nods, rubbing his nose. “Okay.”

But despite his words, he doesn’t appear convinced—doesn’t appear any less miserable.

“Hey kid,” Wasuke cuts in, clapping the boy lightly on the shoulder, “how ‘bout you come back to my place for the night? It’s been too long since we had a sleepover, y’know. And I got this new flavour of ice cream I’ve been waiting to share with you.” He holds out his hand to the boy. “Well? What do you say?”

Yuuji nods, accepting Wasuke’s hand. Satoru’s smile softens at this, forever grateful for the old man’s support—his love for Yuuji. He’ll take care of the boy, comfort him when neither Satoru nor Sukuna seem capable, not when rage still boils within their cores. “Thanks, Wasuke,” Satoru says, pushing himself to stand. The old man just nods in response. Satoru turns his attention back to his son. “You have fun, okay Yuuji? Be a good boy for grandpa.”

“Don’t worry about Yuuji,” Wasuke grumbles. But then, gentler— “Do what you need to do.”

After bidding Sukuna goodbye as well, Yuuji and Wasuke depart, making their way back towards the station. Satoru watches them for as long as he can, expects Sukuna is doing the same. But when Satoru turns to speak to him, he finds the former-curse locked in a one-sided staring match with the school, red eyes nearly ablaze with emotion, and it’s probably for the best he no longer has his cursed energy, for if he had, the building would no longer be standing, the people within…

Well, it’s good he doesn’t have it.

Satoru reaches out, hand wrapping around the other’s wrist to get his attention. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

Sukuna doesn’t move. “This will never work.”

“It will. We just gotta…” But for once, he can’t think of anything—no plan, no snarky comment, nothing. He sighs, dragging his free hand across his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Finally, Sukuna turns to him. “If we stand any chance, you need to—”

“No,” Satoru cuts him off, anger lacing his tone. “Don’t bring it up again.”

Sukuna’s jaw tenses, rage flaring in response, and if this conversation carries on like this, with both of them already so close to their limit—

It won’t end well. They never do.

Satoru takes a deep breath. “Sorry, I just—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. Distantly, he notices how tight his grip on Sukuna’s wrist had gotten, tight enough to bruise. He loosens his fingers, smoothing his thumb over the skin below. “Let’s go home, pick something up at a conbini or something on the way.”

Thankfully, Sukuna accepts the olive branch. He sighs, shoulders slumping as he forces the tension out of them. “Fine.”

The conbini they stop at isn’t nearly as busy as Satoru had expected, considering the time of day. There are a few other shoppers browsing the store’s shelves, but they steer clear of Satoru and Sukuna as they glare upon the rows of prepackaged meals, must be able to sense their prickly mood even from afar and elect to avoid an unpleasant confrontation. It’s fine by Satoru; he’s having trouble summoning a mask of politeness right now.

There’s a broad selection of meals to chose from, but even so, nothing looks particularly appetizing to Satoru right now, his stomach still rolling with too many emotions. Maybe they should skip the meal, stop by a liquor store instead; it seems like the kind of night for it.

Nah, scratch that. After the whole ordeal with Shoko Ieiri’s Bad Bitches Birthday Bash, Satoru isn’t certain he can stomach even a drop of alcohol anymore.

Satoru pushes the thoughts away, sighing as he turns to Sukuna. “Anything look good to you?”

Sukuna just shrugs. It’s clear he’s not really looking, physically present but mind elsewhere—on another shitty preschool, another painful failure. Satoru grabs a random package off the shelf, turning it over in his hands. “I could just bribe them,” he suggests, after a pause. “Places like that…they’ll listen to money if nothing else.”

“Would it be for the best?” Sukuna asks. “Even if they did grant Yuuji admission, do you really believe those institutions would treat him well?”

“I don’t know,” Satoru admits, because he doesn’t, and he doesn’t want to take that risk. He groans, dragging a hand a little too harshly through his hair, pulling painfully at the pale strands. “This shouldn’t be this hard! I mean, it’s preschool, for fuck’s sake. Stupid, arrogant, conservative bastards—”

“Excuse me.”

Satoru cuts off, hand falling to his side as he turns toward the new voice—a small, plump woman apparently brave enough to approach them. Even so, she appears nervous, fidgeting with the straps of her tote bag as she continues, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt. I just—” She takes a deep breath, steeling her nerves, perhaps. “I know it’s rude of me to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re trying to get your child into preschool?”

“Yeah,” Satoru replies, perhaps a little too curtly, but who can blame him? He’s in a shit mood. “No one will give us the time of day, though. I’m sure you can figure out why.”

If she does, she doesn’t comment. She just nods, a sympathetic smile on her face. “You know, I work at a preschool not far from here. We’re not the biggest or the fanciest school, but we’ve got a great group of educators, and we welcome students from all sorts of backgrounds. I’m sure we could find a place for your child too, if you’d like. Obviously, you don’t have to make a decision right now, but—” She pauses, opening her tote bag and digging around for a moment, finally withdrawing a (slightly crumpled) pamphlet. She holds it out to Satoru. “Here. For your consideration.”

Satoru accepts it, a little hesitant. “Thanks.”

The woman excuses herself soon after, bowing slightly before returning to her shopping. Alone again, Satoru regards the wrinkled paper in his hand, Sukuna hovering at his side, peering at it as well. The pamphlet looks a little outdated and messily put together, too many clashing colours, not much to say for graphic design. Satoru frowns.

But it’s Sukuna who voices his opinion first. “How the mighty have fallen.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Satoru scolds, swatting him with the pamphlet. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks.”

Sukuna raises a brow, clearly not agreeing. Satoru sighs. “Let’s just give it a shot. No harm in checking the place out.”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, but relents. “Fine.” Then he’s reaching for Satoru, ripping the prepackaged meal from his grasp, ignoring the other’s complaints. “Put that trash back,” he demands, replacing it with a different container. “This one is far superior.”

It’s quite easy to submit an application and set up an interview for this preschool—apparently, they’re really struggling to get more students in, are doing everything they can to secure more applications and interviews as quickly as possible. And it’s not a great sign, but Satoru chooses to be optimistic. Yuuji’s excited, at least, and that’s what truly matters.

And so, only a few days after first receiving the pamphlet, they find themselves standing out front the preschool, dressed once more in their best, Yuuji tugging them by the hands towards the front door. The school isn’t particularly large, exterior noticeably worn with age, but the playground outside is in good shape, at least. Or maybe Satoru’s standards are just lowering by the second. Sukuna certainly doesn’t seem appeased by the play structure’s appearance, and though he won’t verbalise his criticisms in front of Yuuji—isn’t willing to dampen the boy’s sprits, not now, not with this—he still levels Satoru with a fierce glare.

Satoru just shrugs. “Maybe it’s nicer on the inside.”

Thankfully, it is nicer—full of colour and light, like it were actually intended to house children and not just small adults. There’s artwork on the walls, inspirational posters crowding bulletin boards, even a hand-painted mural down the hall that appears to have been created at least in part by a previous group of students. And—perhaps most importantly, in Yuuji’s opinion at least—

“Toys!”

Yuuji darts away almost as soon as they are welcomed into the classroom where the interview is behind held—a classroom, not some stuffy office with a too-big desk—making a beeline for the bins nearly overflowing with toys at the back of the room. He races past the room’s other occupants—two women, likely a teacher and principal—without even seeming to notice them.

“Yuuji!” Satoru calls out, biting back a groan. “Hey, hold on!”

Yuuji halts in his tracks, eyes wide, and Satoru immediately regrets raising his voice. Fuck, already off to a bad start, huh?

But the women don’t appear upset by either of their behaviour. Their smiles remain plastered to their faces, as though they were simply amused, nothing more. “It’s alright!” one of the women—dressed in bright colours, far more casual than her companion’s pantsuit—says, waving a hand. “Most kids who come through here do the same thing.” Then she’s turning to Yuuji, bending to be closer to the boy’s eye-level. “Yuuji, was it? Why don’t you pick out the toy you like best, then head back here and show us.”

Yuuji’s grin is back, eyes shining with excitement once more. “Okay!”

He wastes no time with the task, nearly diving into a bin of toys in his haste. Sukuna drags a palm down his face at the display, but Satoru doesn’t miss the way the corners of his mouth curl in a smile—the expression mirrored in Satoru’s own face, amusement quickly overtaking annoyance.

“Now then.” It’s the other woman that speaks—the pantsuit lady. “My name is Sae Ishii, and I’m this school’s principal. This here is one of our teachers, Imai-sensei.”

“Satoru Gojo, and this is Sukuna Ryoumen,” Satoru introduces on both of their behalves, cutting right to the chase. “We’re Yuuji’s dads—and yes, none of us share a last name. It’s complicated.”

And if they receive any judgement for that statement, it’s hard to tell. The two educators certainly seem friendly enough, neither batting an eye as they extend their hands to shake, first Satoru, then Sukuna—their gazes never lingering too long on the latter’s unconventional appearance, never spurning him for it either. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Principal Ishii says as they all shake hands, then gestures to a nearby table. “Come, let’s take a seat while we wait for Yuuji to return.”

They comply, but Satoru still raises a brow as they follow the women to the table. “You mean…you don’t want to do the interview without him?”

“Of course not!” Principal Ishii replies. “He’s the one who would be attending school here. His opinion matters just as much as yours—if not more.”

As they settle into their seats, Satoru hums. “That’s a very different perspective than the stiffs at those other schools have had.”

The women chuckle at that, sharing a look—some sort of inside joke, maybe. “Yes, we get that a lot,” the principal admits, turning her gaze back on Satoru. “We try to take a student-centred approach to learning here. Not everyone shares the same ideas about what that looks like, so we tend to have a smaller student body. Which is a good thing!” she adds, almost looking panicked for a moment, worried about the reputation her school may give off. “It means our teachers are able to better divide their time among the students, make sure no one gets overlooked. Not that your Yuuji would have that problem, I’m sure.”

As if on cue, Yuuji returns in that moment, a plush white tiger held firmly in his grip. “I got it!” he declares, racing up to table and showing the toy to Imai-sensei. “This one’s the bestest!”

The teacher smiles, fixing Yuuji with her full attention. “Yes, it’s a very nice toy. What do you think makes it the best?”

“’Cause tigers are cool and strong and fast—just like me!” Yuuji replies, thumping himself proudly on the chest. “And it’s got lines all over it like Dad, and white hair like Daddy!”

Sukuna nearly chokes on his next breath, and Satoru doesn’t fair much better, heart stuttering in its rhythm where he clutches a hand over his chest, gasping out an emphatic, “Yuuji!”

Imai’s eyes briefly wander to the two fathers, returning to Yuuji once more. “You must really love your dads, huh Yuuji?”

Yuuji bounces on the balls of his feet, clutching the tiger to his chest as he vigorously nods. “Uh huh! They’re the bestest, just like me!” But then he stills, mood changing in an instant as he leans towards the two women, a slight frown on his face. “Can I tell you a secret?”

And Satoru wonders if he should intervene, just in case Yuuji shares something a little more untoward. But his curiosity outweighs his concern, and after sharing a brief glance with Sukuna, he decides to hold his tongue.

The principal and teacher match Yuuji’s serious expression, nodding as they lean in a little closer to the boy. Yuuji’s gaze flickers to his dads, then back to the educators, his hand coming up to cup his mouth as continues, whispering far too loudly for his words to be a secret, “Lots of the grown-ups at the other schools were really mean to my dads, so you better not be mean to them too, or else my tiger will eat you.”

And if Yuuji keeps this up, Satoru might not leave this interview alive. “Yuuji!” he practically whines, pulling the child onto his lap and squeezing him tightly. “My sweet little boy!”

“Daddy!” Yuuji protests, squirming in Satoru’s hold. “It was a secret!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Satoru squeezes Yuuji tightly one more time, then kisses him on the temple. “I didn’t hear a thing, promise.”

“So, Yuuji,” Principal Ishii says, getting back on topic. “Why don’t you tell us more about yourself?”

“I’m Yuuji Itadori!” the child announces, chest puffed up. “I’m four years old and I like to run around really fast. Wanna see?”

“Sure, Yuuji,” Imai-sensei replies, glancing around the room. “Show us how fast you can run to that wall and back.”

Yuuji wastes no time, practically leaping from Satoru’s lap. “Okay!”

Yuuji races across the room, nearly colliding with the far wall. He regains his footing easily, however, and soon he’s dashing back, grin never leaving his lips the entire time. When he reaches the edge of the table, he skids to a stop, chest heaving from the effort. “See! I’m the fastest!”

And it’s somewhat true; Yuuji certainly is faster than any boy his age has a right to be, though whether it’s natural athleticism or the product of the cursed energy housed within him, Satoru can’t tell. His speed has certainly taken the educators by surprise though, the women gazing wide-eyed at the young boy. It’s Principal Ishii that collects herself first, smiling at Yuuji as she claps her hands. “You really are! Maybe even faster than a tiger!”

Yuuji’s eyes practically sparkle. “You really think so?”

“I do,” Principal Ishii confirms. Then she gestures towards the empty seat at the head of the table—the head of the table, the seat of importance. “Now then, Yuuji. Why don’t you join us so we can really get this interview started?”

And Yuuji does.

The interview takes a little over half an hour to complete—more than the length of the previous interviews combined. And this time when the trio leaves the school it’s with heads held high, with smiles etched on their lips and a lightness in their steps.

They pause when they reach the sidewalk out front, Satoru squatting down before his son. “Well, Yuuji? What did you think?”

“They were super nice and they had so many cool toys!” Yuuji gushes, face flushed with joy, eyes still sparkling that familiar light. “Will I get to go back there tomorrow?”

“Probably not tomorrow, bud,” Satoru says with a laugh, ruffling the boy’s hair. “But if you’re okay with it, and if your dad agrees…”

He trails off, eyes lifting to Sukuna. Sukuna hums thoughtfully, gazing back at the school with far more grace than he had offered the institution upon their initial arrival. And even before he speaks, Satoru knows they’re on the same page. “I suppose it is…acceptable.”

It’s perfect, is what he means.

And Yuuji must understand this too, for he’s leaping in the air with a cheer, hands raised high to the sky. “Yay! I’m gonna go to school!”

Satoru laughs. “That’s right, buddy! You get to go to school!”

The words are barely out of his mouth when Yuuji leaps at him, wrapping his arms around Satoru’s neck, squeezing him in a tight hug. Satoru’s arms wrap around his son, holding him close, but only for a moment. For soon Yuuji is wriggling from his grasp, turning to launch himself at Sukuna as well. Sukuna catches him easily, lifting him up into the air before settling him against his hip, arms secure around his son as Yuuji wraps him tight in an embrace.

Satoru watches the display, heart clenching. He pushes himself to his feet, reaching out to pat Yuuji’s back. “C’mon, let’s go tell that old man the good news.”

Chapter Text

Despite the preschool’s lower enrollment, the sidewalks out front are crowded as parents drop off their kids for their first day of school. Excitement and nervousness intermingle in a near-palpable buzz, parents taking their time to bid their children farewell for the day, shedding tears and sharing laughter, goodbyes growing longer as parents struggle to send their children off for the first time, as children hesitate to leave their parents.

But no goodbye is quite as long as Satoru’s.

“C’mon, Yuuji! Just one more!” Satoru pleads, phone camera in hand as he spams the capture button, taking an entirely necessary number of photos of his son. They had arrived at the school almost a half-hour prior—Sukuna having been insistent on leaving early to ensure Yuuji did not arrive late—and Satoru had spent the entire half-hour snapping photos of the boy, capturing him from all angles, putting even the most eager and ambitious paparazzi to shame. And while Yuuji had humoured him at first, had been nothing but smiles as he posed for the pictures, the boy has clearly grown tired of the routine, a slight pout on his lips as he casts longing gazes towards the preschool, towards the line of kids already heading inside.

But that doesn’t deter Satoru. He shamelessly lays upon the sidewalk, squinting behind the lenses of his shades as he works to capture the perfect shot. “And now a few from this angle—ah! Too cute! Now pretend I’m not here; I want a good candid shot—”

“Daddy,” Yuuji groans, gripping the straps of his backpack—tiger-themed, of course. “Can I go now?”

Satoru frowns, examining the photos he’s already taken, not yet satisfied. “Hold on, I just need to—”

But he doesn’t get a chance to finish the thought, not when Sukuna plucks the phone from his hand, holding it out of his reach. “Hey!” Satoru protests, scrambling to his feet. “I’m not done yet!”

“Yes, you are,” Sukuna decides, stuffing the phone into his pocket. “I will not allow our son to be late on his first day of school.”

“Can I go now?” Yuuji asks again, shifting from foot to foot.

“One moment.” Sukuna ignores Satoru’s pout as he turns to Yuuji, crouching next to his son. “Now, turn around for me. Let me ensure you’ve everything you need—”

Yuuji complies, but he stomps his feet in the process, frown deepening. “You already did that like a billion hundred times!”

“And I’ll do it a billion hundred times more!” Sukuna declares, tugging open the zipper of Yuuji’s backpack so he can peer inside, examining its contents. “Your father makes a big enough mockery of this family unit on a daily basis. I will not allow you to do the same.”

Satoru scoffs, planting his hands on his hips. “Hey now, don’t be rude. Just admit you’re nervous about Yuuji starting school, and that you’re gonna miss him, and that you’re gonna go home and spend all day crying—”

“Oh, how rich coming from you!” Sukuna retorts, pulling the zipper closed once more before whirling on Satoru, jabbing him in the chest with a too-sharp nail. “I distinctly remember it being your tears soaking the fabric of my sleep shirt last night, your pathetic blubbering over how quickly your little boy has grown up—”

“Did not!” Satoru denies, shoving Sukuna’s hand away. “You must’ve just dreamt that, you weirdo.”

“The only dreams I have in which you feature,” Sukuna begins, oblivious to or simply uncaring of the concerned looks granted by passersby, “depict your brutal and bloody demise at my hands, your limbs strewn upon the streets, body flayed like the finest of fish, ready to be devoured.”

And Satoru can’t help but laugh, bright grin spread across his cheeks as he points out, “Kinkiness aside, you just admitted that you do dream about me. Score one for team Satoru! High-five me, Yuuji. Yuuji?”

But when he turns towards where the boy had been standing, he finds no one there. There’s a moment of panic, that instinctual fear that someone got to Yuuji, that he failed to protect his son once more. But then he spies that familiar pink head farther up the sidewalk, swept along by the crowd rushing inside the school, and he heaves a heavy sigh of relief, limbs losing tension once more.

Apparently, Yuuji had gotten tired of waiting, had decided to ditch them and make his way inside without them.

And it…it kinda hurts, Satoru can’t lie, being left behind like that by their only son. It takes every ounce of willpower within him not to chase after him, to not clutch his child to his chest and pepper him with kisses, to simply let him go—

Fuck. Satoru needs something sweet, something to help him feel a little better.

Satoru crosses his arms over his chest, watching as Yuuji disappears inside the preschool. “And just like that, our little boy is all grown up and independent.”

And though he doesn’t see it, he can practically sense the way Sukuna rolls his eyes. “He’s a four-year-old attending preschool. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I can still remember the day he was spawned,” Satoru continues, leaning heavily against Sukuna’s shoulder. “That desolate battlefield, your corpse bleeding out in the background as I cradled him in my arms. He was so small back then, so potato-like. And now, he’s grown into such a handsome, kind-hearted young man.” He heaves a dramatic sigh, wrapping an arm around Sukuna and tugging him in close. “Could almost make you cry, huh?”

“You’re pathetic,” Sukuna chides, shoving Satoru off him, “and I cannot be seen with you right now.”

Satoru just waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, ditto.” Still, even as Sukuna makes his way down the sidewalk, clearly intent on ditching Satoru too, Satoru joins him, hands tucked into his pockets as he walks. “So, what are we getting up to today? Yuuji’s gonna be gone for hours. Plenty of time for us to stir up trouble, y’know. I was thinking—”

“Pass,” Sukuna interrupts, unwilling to even humour his suggestion. Rude. “I’ve already made plans with Uraume.”

And that has Satoru pausing, footsteps faltering on the pavement. “You made plans with Uraume…without me?”

Sukuna turns to look at him, eyes narrowed and mouth opening to reply. But Satoru doesn’t give him a chance. “Sukuna! How could you?” he implores, a dramatic hand clutching at his chest. And yes, he’s well aware of the fact he’s garnering even more attention from those around them, but hey, that’s show biz. “I thought you liked me, and now you’re ditching me for Uraume? In these tragic and trying times?”

Sukuna just rolls his eyes, clearly not swayed by his perfect performance. “Grow up. You’re an embarrassment to your clan and to Jujutsu sorcery as a whole.”

Satoru pouts, stuffing his hands back into his pockets as he joins Sukuna once more. As he does, Sukuna continues, “Uraume and I are to be patronizing a highly recommended esthetician’s shop. We’re long overdo for fills. I did not invite you on this outing as I knew it would not appeal to you, and I refuse to put up with your ridiculous complaints.”

Which is fair, in all honesty. Sukuna had first expressed an interest in regular nail care a few years back after one of the women in his group had made an offhand comment about the poor state of his cuticles (or something like that; Satoru sort of lost the plot about ten minutes in to Sukuna’s hour-long rant), and Satoru had of course accompanied him to his first appointment. It was, perhaps, one of the most boring experiences of Satoru’s entire life—second only to the tiresome meetings with the higher-ups. It’s no surprise that Sukuna refuses to allow Satoru to join him in any future appointments.

But still. It’s nice to be invited, if only so he can snidely turn down said invitation. And even besides that, Satoru had kind of been looking forward to spending a day with Sukuna—one where they don’t have to worry about who’s taking care of Yuuji, or aren’t busy with any number of menial tasks that detract from their quality time.

Because Satoru can admit it: he likes spending time with Sukuna. In fact, he likes Sukuna.

The only question is, does Sukuna feel the same?

(Probably not, considering he’s chosen to spend the day with Uraume over him.)

Oblivious to Satoru’s inner turmoil, Sukuna adds, “In any case, shouldn’t you be attending an educational institution of your own?”

Satoru groans. “Don’t remind me.” Honestly, Satoru should have simply cheated his way to his teaching license, like Shoko did for her medical one. But Yaga would have been disappointed in him if he had, and honestly, that’s probably worse than just attending the stupid classes.

Speaking of classes…

“I guess I probably should make an appearance in at least one class this week,” Satoru decides, though he’s certainly not thrilled by the prospect. He sighs wistfully, gaze on the pavement when he continues, “You and Uraume have fun without me.”

But instead of trying to comfort Satoru like he should, Sukuna just grins cruelly. “We shall.”

Sukuna departs soon after—handing Satoru his phone back before he does. Satoru pouts, checking the time on his phone before pocketing the device with a sigh. He’s already about ten minutes late to his class today, and by the time he makes the drive over to campus, he’ll have missed it altogether. And yeah, sure he could save plenty of time by simply warping himself to campus, but why waste the cursed energy? Besides, he’d have to abandon his car if he did that, which means he’d have to come back for it, and who’s got the time for that?

Nah, he’ll just go to class some other day. It’s not like he’s failing, and he already beguiled his profs with some sob story that would allow him to frequently miss class. As long as he completes his assignments and passes his exams, he’ll be fine.

Still upset at being ditched twice in a matter of minutes, Satoru stops by a shop to pick up something sweet for himself before heading home, finishing about half of his procured snacks on the drive home. He spends most of his morning sprawled across the sofa, downing the other half of his snacks as he lounges, bored out of his mind in a house that’s uncharacteristically quiet. He tries to sit through reruns of his favourite shows, but they simply aren’t the same—not without Sukuna’s snide commentary, without Yuuji’s enthusiastic ramblings.

Stupid Sukuna. How dare he leave Satoru behind. How dare he have friends and hobbies and interests that don’t revolve around Satoru.

Certainly Satoru can’t leave this injustice unpunished. He must have his revenge.

So he heads to the kitchen, cackling madly as he carries out his plot, swapping all the sugar and salt—the stuff set out in the shaker and bowl, as well as that in the original packages. Take that, Sukuna. Good luck making dinner tonight!

(And sure, this plan is absolutely going to backfire on Satoru, but it’s worth it to take down Sukuna too.)

He’s about half-way through emptying the bag of sugar into the box of salt when his phone rings, vibrating in his pocket. Satoru pauses his task, withdrawing his phone and checking the name: Yaga. He accepts the call, placing it on speaker before depositing the device on the counter, resuming his previous task. “Yaga! To what do I owe the pleasure of your call? If you’re checking in on my schooling, I assure you I’ve been the perfect student! Never missed a class, aced all my assignments. In fact, I’m studying right now!”

“I highly doubt that, Satoru,” Yaga replies, far too familiar with Satoru’s antics for his own good. “In any case, that’s not the reason I called. The higher-ups in the Tokyo district have called an emergency meeting. They requested your presence as well.”

Satoru hums. “Flattering, but I’ll have to pass. I’m pretty busy, y’know.” He finishes pouring the sugar into the salt box, sealing the top flaps with a little bit of glue to hide evidence of his tampering. “Whatever’s going on, I’m sure you all can handle it.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Then, without preamble— “Suguru Geto is making moves again.”

Satoru freezes. “What?”

“If you want the details, attend the meeting,” Yaga says, likely already anticipating Satoru’s decision. “You have ten minutes.”

Satoru grinds his teeth. He really, really doesn’t want to attend the meeting, doesn’t want to make a bad day worse. But if Suguru’s involved, well…

What choice does he really have?

“Fine,” Satoru responds eventually, eyes squeezed shut as he slides his shades up onto his head so he can rub at the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be there.”

He hangs up without waiting for a reply, heaving a sigh. What an unfortunate turn of events. It certainly puts a damper on his revenge plot, sucks the levity out of the situation. But Satoru can’t turn his back on his sorcerer responsibilities, not when he’s the one appointed as Suguru Geto’s executioner, not when he’s already failed multiple times before.

So he quickly cleans up his mess, places the sugar and salt containers back in their proper places before sending a quick text to Sukuna, informing him of the meeting Satoru had been called into, how he’d likely miss Yuuji’s afterschool pick-up—a fact that only makes the situation worse.

That completed, Satoru takes a deep breath, adjusting his shades over his eyes once more before finally warping to Jujutsu Tech, prepared for the worst.

The other parents give Sukuna a wide berth outside the school at pick-up, and quite frankly, he doesn’t mind in the slightest. Regardless of how long he’s spent mingling in this modern era, the one thing he still cannot find appeasement in is how crowded the lands have gotten. The country is in desperate need of a little…population control, and while Sukuna would have loved to offer his expert services, doing so would make Yuuji sad, and Sukuna could never risk that. So, he’ll just lean into the dangerous impression his appearance gives off, dark clothes and stark markings made more severe by the shades he wears—stolen from Satoru’s unnecessarily large collection, of course, their owner likely not even having noticed their disappearance.

It's for the best they’ve landed in Sukuna’s possession, anyway; they look far better on him.

As the school day finally draws to a close, the front doors swing open wide, a sea of students spilling forth onto the sidewalks. It’s remarkably easy to spot Yuuji amongst the crowd, his unique colouring a clear giveaway, not to mention his above average speed as he comes sprinting down the walkway, eyes shining as he shouts, “Dad!”

“Yuuji,” Sukuna greets, standing his ground even as Yuuji comes barrelling into him at top speed. The first time Yuuji had attempted such a manoeuvre, Sukuna had (embarrassingly) been near knocked off his feet by the unexpected force. But he’s long since adapted to it now, knows just how to brace himself for the wrecking ball that is his son. “I assume your day was satisfactory?”

“Today was the bestest!” Yuuji declares, pumping his fists. “We played with toys and sang songs and then we went outside and played a bunch of games and I had a race with the other kids and I was the fastest and everyone cheered and called me cool and then we went inside and we had quiet time and that was kinda boring but then we got to colour and I shared my crayons with Megumi since he didn’t have any and we became best friends and I coloured this picture of our family look!”

Yuuji finally pauses his ramblings, chest heaving for breath as he swings his backpack around, practically ripping open the zipper in his haste to retrieve something from his bag—a slightly crumpled sheet of paper. He holds it up to Sukuna—who’s still slowly trying to process Yuuji’s impassioned spiel—a bright grin on his face as he does. “See? That’s you, and Daddy, and Grampa, and me! We’re all playing outside and eating ice cream!”

It all just looks like coloured squiggles to Sukuna, but he’ll take Yuuji’s word for it. “A very creative interpretation, Yuuji,” he praises, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Even the greatest painters of my time pale in comparison to your whimsical artistry.”

And it’s clear Yuuji doesn’t truly understand his words, but he knows enough to recognize they are positive. His grin widens impossibly, and he clutches his drawing to his chest as he bounces on his toes. “I can’t wait to show Daddy and Grampa!” Then he pauses, a thought suddenly striking him. “Where is Daddy?”

“He was called in for work,” Sukuna reveals, but when Yuuji’s face falls, he’s quick to add, “But do not fret; he should be returning home soon after we do.” He extends his hand to his son, prompting, “Come, let’s depart.”

Yuuji accepts his hand, nodding.

The drive home is silent, Yuuji quickly falling asleep in the backseat, exhausted from his busy day. The hired driver attempts to make small talk with Sukuna, but Sukuna doesn’t humour him, is still bitter that Satoru’s absence had forced him to call for a car from the sorcerer school rather than taking Satoru’s far nicer vehicle. And really, it’s prime time for Sukuna himself to acquire the proper training and licensing to operate such machinery, but Satoru has vehemently opposed such action—and for no good reason either.

No, that’s not quite right, is it? For Satoru had tried teaching Sukuna to drive a few years back, but between Satoru’s inadequate teaching skills and Sukuna’s still-burning resentment for the man at the time, the lesson had ended, well…

Poorly is an understatement.

So perhaps there is good reason for Satoru’s reluctance. That doesn’t mean Sukuna can’t still be bitter about it.

Yuuji is still asleep when they finally reach the homestead, but rather than rouse the boy, Sukuna simply carries him inside, gently laying him upon the sofa to continue his nap. And that’s where Yuuji remains even twenty minutes later when Satoru finally returns home, footsteps heavy and shoulders stiff as he steps through the doorway. “I’m back.”

“Keep your voice down,” Sukuna demands, his own just above a whisper. “The child is asleep.”

And Satoru finally seems to notice the boy sleeping upon the sofa, posture relaxing at the sight. “Poor guy. All tuckered out after his big day,” he says with a small smile, crossing the room in long strides so he can crouch next to the couch, gently caressing Yuuji’s soft hair. “I should’ve been there to pick him up. I wanted to be there, but…”

Sukuna finishes the thought for him. “You cannot ignore the call of duty. Yuuji will not disparage you for that.” He returns his attention back to the task at hand—chopping vegetables for dinner. As he does, he asks, “What nonsense did those higher-ups regale you with this time?”

Satoru sighs, pushing himself back to standing. “I’ll tell you about it later. I don’t want to think about it right now,” he decides after a moment, crossing to the kitchen where he settles upon one of the stools at the island. “How was Yuuji’s day?”

“The bestest—his words, of course.” Honestly, that’s the only part that Sukuna can truly recall, the only part he was able to makes sense of during the boy’s ramblings. So he doesn’t elaborate on the point, simply shrugs a shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll have plenty to tell you once he wakes.”

And that brings a bright smile to Satoru’s face. “Good. I’m glad.” Then he’s nodding towards something else, Sukuna’s gaze following. “I assume that lovely picture on the fridge is one of Yuuji’s creations. Unless you happened to have picked up a new hobby.”

“Of course it’s Yuuji’s,” Sukuna replies with a roll of his eyes. “I may be out of practice, but I’m certain my skill still exceeds that of a child.”

“Sure, sure,” Satoru says, laughter edging his tone. But then he pauses, a new thought occurring to him. “Wait, if you’re out of practice, that means you were once in practice,” he surmises, brows slightly furrowed. “You used to paint?”

Sukuna grins. “I did. There’s a certain artistry in destruction, you know—in painting the battlefield with the blood of your enemy. No pigment could ever match the brilliant red of freshly spilled blood, no artificial imitation could do justice to the beauty of such a pure, raw hue—”

But Satoru cuts him off. “Right. Got it.” Then he hums, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Y’know, you’d probably love a Sip and Paint night. We should do one sometime, maybe for your birthday.”

And Sukuna would like to point out that he has no idea what a Sip and Paint night entails, but he doubts Satoru would stop to explain, too excited by the prospect of this new activity, every bit like his son as he begins to ramble. “I’m sure we could get Shoko on board, Uraume too, and your mommy friends—I’m sure they’d jump at the chance to get you wasted—and—oh! What if we also—”

“Daddy?” comes a small voice from the living room, interrupting Satoru. Yuuji has awakened, grogginess still clinging to his eyes as he pokes his head up over the back of the couch, blinking blearily at them. But the sight before him finally registers, and suddenly all traces of tiredness disappear as excitement overcomes him, the boy nearly launching himself over the couch as he darts towards Satoru. “Daddy!”

“Hey Yuuji!” Satoru greets, lifting the boy up onto his lap. “How was school?”

Yuuji wiggles in his hold, eyes shining. “The bestest! I played lots of games and won all the races and I even made a best new friend! Me and Megumi shared crayons today!”

“Megumi, hey?” Satoru echoes, something teasing in his voice. “I knew the girls would be all over you one day, but I didn’t think it’d start so soon.”

Yuuji huffs, crossing his arms. “Megumi’s a boy, Daddy.”

“Is that right?” Satoru’s gaze flickers to Sukuna, a brow raised questioningly, and Sukuna just shrugs. How the hell is he supposed to know? After a moment, Satoru turns his attention back to Yuuji. “Huh. Poor kid. What kind of sorry suckers would name their son Megumi?”

“I like Megumi!” Yuuji declares. “He’s grumpy and really smart. He can already write his whole name and he knows how to count to a hundred!”

“He sounds pretty impressive,” Satoru says, ruffling Yuuji’s hair. “You’ll have to introduce us sometime, yeah?”

Yuuji throws his hands into the air. “Yeah!”

The rest of their evening is filled with chatter, Yuuji gushing nonstop about his day, eager to answer any questions Satoru or Sukuna raise, practically vibrating with his excitement. Even so, he’s fast asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow that night, his soft snores rumbling through the air as Sukuna finishes tucking the boy into bed. Sukuna smiles slightly at the sight, lingering a moment at the threshold before finally exiting the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Satoru’s still in the kitchen, washing up after dinner—which had tasted noticeably sweeter than Sukuna had expected, though he’s certain he hadn’t altered the recipe. Perhaps the vegetables he had used were simply a special harvest, nothing more.

Satoru doesn’t notice Sukuna’s arrival, not immediately. He’s too lost in thought, it appears, the deep crease in his brow obvious without his shades obstructing his features. Sukuna leans against the counter, watching as Satoru continuously scrubs at a pan that has long since been cleaned, the movements more habitual than anything.

“You had better not wear a hole in that pan with your ceaseless scrubbing,” Sukuna says after a moment, Satoru jolting slightly in surprise, “or else you’ll be forced to buy me an entire new set—and I won’t be stingy on the price.”

Satoru laughs lightly, frown easing as he rinses soap suds from the pan, setting it aside in the rack to dry. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You only like me for my money.”

Sukuna shrugs. “It’s one of your more appealing qualities, yes.”

“One of them, hey?” Satoru grins, mischief glittering in his pale blue eyes when he leans in much too close. “Tell me more.”

“Not a chance,” Sukuna replies, shoving Satoru’s face away. “You’ve a big enough ego as it is. Now hurry up and finish the dishes.”

“I am hurrying!” Satoru whines, as though he hadn’t been zoned out scrubbing the same dish over and over only moments prior. “Go pick something out for us to watch, yeah? I’ll join ya in a minute.”

Sukuna pushes away from the counter, making his way towards the living room. “Very well. No complaining over my choice, then.”

“Don’t pick something I’ll complain about, then,” Satoru replies, winking at Sukuna over his shoulder.

Sukuna huffs. “Cheeky bastard.”

He tunes out whatever asinine response Satoru might’ve had, making himself comfortable on the plush sofa, firing up the television and scrolling through the menu, searching for something that may satisfy both of their tastes—a far more difficult task than it should be considering just how broad Satoru’s tastes are. Broad, but ultimately terrible. As such, by the time Satoru arrives from his task, Sukuna has yet to determine a feasible option for the night’s viewing.

“Seriously?” Satoru asks, flopping down onto the couch next to him. “At this rate we’ll be here all night.”

Sukuna doesn’t spare him a glance, still busy scrolling. “Do you complain only to hear to the sound of your own voice?”

Satoru grins, leaning into his shoulder. “Could you really blame me if I did?” But before Sukuna can reply, he snatches the remote from his hands, changing the topic. “Here, just pick something random.”

He picks some third-rate horror movie that likely has more cheap jump-scares than actual plot, then makes himself comfortable, stretching his ridiculously long legs across the cushions as he lays his head upon Sukuna’s lap. Sukuna rolls his eyes at the action but doesn’t bother complaining, this scenario far too common to raise a fuss over now—far too enjoyable as well. For like this, Sukuna is free to run his fingers through Satoru’s snowy white hair—softer than it has any reason to be, softer than Sukuna’s even though they use the same hair products. Like this, he can use his slightly sharp nails to scratch Satoru’s scalp the way he knows the sorcerer likes, can feel the way Satoru relaxes completely under the ministrations, no Infinity to interrupt the touch, to protect him from harm. Like this, Satoru’s vulnerable. It’s perhaps the only time he allows himself to be.

And it’s only because of Sukuna.

One hand occupied with the task of (essentially) petting the sorcerer, Sukuna allows his other to rest upon the man’s chest, making himself more comfortable as he views the screen with disinterest. The movie—or at least, this part of it—takes place in some form of medical facility, the so-called doctors rattling off strings of medical jargon that although sound intelligent likely make very little sense. He doesn’t care to ponder it, not when something else captures his attention.

Satoru takes the hand that Sukuna had laid upon his chest, pulling it up to his face so he can examine his nails. “They did a good job on these. I still think you should be more adventurous than your usual black though. Like you did last Christmas! Those were nice.”

They were nice, weren’t they? Last December, the women’s group decided to go for festive manicures as part of the seasonal celebration, and though Sukuna had been hesitant to stray from his usual black lacquer, the women had somehow convinced him to get a design on his nails—dark blue, nearly black, with patterns of shimmering silver meant to resemble swirling snow. The contrast had been pleasing to Sukuna’s eyes, interesting but not over-the-top.

But Sukuna knows that basic pattern had not been what caught Satoru’s eye. No, that was the accent nail, one on either hand that did not match the others, a point of interest. Those nails had been done far differently, silver and white with a sliver of sparkling pale blue, almost the same shade as Satoru’s eyes—pure coincidence, though Satoru never believed him, never could tear his gaze away from Sukuna’s hands until he had them redone in black after the holidays.

Sukuna hums, studying his nails as well. “Perhaps I could be persuaded. Red’s always been a nice colour on me.”

Satoru frowns at that, tipping his head back so he can peer up at Sukuna. “If you get your nails painted to look all bloodied, I’m kicking you out.”

“That hadn’t been my intention,” Sukuna admits, smirking down at the sorcerer, “but you do raise an interesting idea.”

Satoru pouts. “Sukuna.”

“Relax, it was merely a joke,” Sukuna says with a laugh. “You are far too easy to rile up this evening.”

Satoru’s pale eyes slide shut as he huffs. “Shitty day,” he admits, as though it had not already been made obvious. But this time, Satoru doesn’t dodge the topic, is finally willing to elaborate. “Suguru’s back—not back back,” he adds quickly, eyes flicking open almost in panic. Still, he scrambles to explain, “The Windows just detected his movements, that’s all. I didn’t meet with him or see him or anything, I swear. I was at Jujutsu Tech the entire time.”

And Sukuna hadn’t been worried in the slightest, hadn’t even humoured that possibility. After all, had Satoru encountered the curse user, Sukuna would have detected the man’s curse stench on him long before. And maybe Satoru’s defensiveness should be concerning, but Sukuna takes it in stride; though it had been difficult, though it had taken countless screaming matches, shed and unshed tears, and near-painful levels of honesty and vulnerability, they had finally worked through their Geto-related issues, and while Sukuna is aware Satoru’s feelings regarding the man are not entirely resolved, far too complex to simply vanish, he still trusts Satoru, trusts that he won’t make the same mistakes as he did before. He cares far too much about Yuuji—far too much about Sukuna—to ever do that again.

So Sukuna doesn’t call Satoru out on his defensiveness, just continues the soothing rhythm of nails against his scalp as he asks, “What did the Windows detect of his movements?”

“He’s set up shop at some shrine,” Satoru reveals. “Apparently he’s been exorcising curses there, has people coming to him from all over the country to take care of their curses—for a hefty fee, I’m sure.”

“That’s a far cry from his original goals,” Sukuna points out, frowning.

“Exactly. That’s why we had the meeting.” Satoru’s gaze is somewhere on the ceiling now, eyes a little unfocused—a little darker. “With Suguru now acting in the public eye, it complicates the matter of his execution—or so the higher-ups say. They aren’t certain how to proceed now, how to dispose of him without causing discord with the general public.”

“Ridiculous,” Sukuna says with a scoff. “After all that he’s done, the course of action should be clear.”

“Yeah, well. Leave it to the higher-ups to overcomplicate things,” Satoru replies, animosity bleeding into his tone. “They want to observe him a bit longer, see what he’s really up to. I opposed it, of course, but I was the only one.”

“You still want to execute him,” Sukuna surmises.

“I just want it to end,” Satoru corrects. “The waiting, the guessing…” He trails off, dragging a palm across his face. “At this rate, it’ll kill me long before Suguru has another chance.”

Sukuna shakes his head. “We can’t have that,” he decides, one hand remaining in Satoru’s hair while the other grips the man’s chin, forcing his gaze on Sukuna’s, forcing him to pay attention to his words, to finally get it through his thick skull— “Only I hold the right to your demise. You will die by my hand or not at all.”

At first, Satoru’s eyes are wide—surprise, panic, maybe something else. But then he relaxes, grin spreading across his face. “Who knew you could be such a romantic!” he declares, dramatically laying a palm across his forehead like some sort of swooning maiden. “If I weren’t already laying down, you’d have swept me off my feet for sure!”

“Idiot,” Sukuna chides, releasing his hold on the other. “Your views on romance are far too skewed.”

Satoru laughs. “Yeah, but you already knew that.”

But before Satoru can continue, before Sukuna can reply, there’s a strange guttural scream that cuts through the air, a startling reminder of the film they had planned to watch. Red and blue flicker to the screen, to the sight of an operating room in utter disarray, to too much poorly-rendered blood staining the scene, to some grotesque creature that looks vaguely like a…a worm, maybe? Satoru’s the first one to comment. “Not to ruin the moment, but what the fuck is this movie?”

“How would I know?” Sukuna snaps, glaring at Satoru. “You’re the one who picked it!”

Satoru hums. “Did I?” he asks, feigning innocence, though the effect is lost to the smug grin that curls the corners of his lips. “That doesn’t seem right.”

And perhaps Sukuna’s views on romance are skewed as well, for it’s his first desire to kiss Satoru, if only to wipe that ridiculous look off his face. But he holds himself back, practices an uncharacteristic level of self-denial. For Satoru—for all his flirtations and touchiness—is still strangely shy when it comes to such a form of affection, and Sukuna doesn’t care to push him just yet—not when it’s still so entertaining to fluster him with the mere thought of a kiss, the threat of it.

And so, despite the awkward position, he cradles Satoru’s jaw as he leans down, breath gently ghosting the other’s skin when he murmurs, “You’re a real brat, aren’t you?”

Satoru’s tense beneath him, eyes wide and the faintest flush to his cheeks as his lips move, soundless words leaving them, too flustered to speak—as expected. Sukuna grins, leaning even farther in, their lips almost brushing, barely a centimetre apart—

Then he laughs, shoving Satoru off the couch.

“Ow!” Satoru hits the ground hard, scowling as he rubs his head. “Sukuna, what the fuck?”

Sukuna laughs again, shaking his head. “My, my. What are you doing on the ground?”

Satoru scoffs. “You pushed me, asshole!”

“Did I?” Sukuna asks, a mocking echo of Satoru’s own words. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Satoru says, rolling his eyes. Then he holds a hand out to Sukuna. “At least help me back up.”

Sukuna grasps his hand, beginning to tug the sorcerer up. “Poor Satoru Gojo. So much unfathomable power, yet he’s bested by something as mundane as a hardwood floor—”

Satoru pulls Sukuna off the couch, the former curse hitting the floor with a pained gasp. Satoru grins at him. “Payback, bitch.”

The next day, Satoru makes sure he’s there for pick-up, makes the ultimate sacrifice of missing yet another of his university classes just so he can join Sukuna in the task. Ever since yesterday, Yuuji had been adamant about introducing them to Megumi, had originally wanted them to meet him when they dropped him off at school that morning but didn’t get the chance, not when Megumi was apparently late. Yuuji didn’t let the disappointment phase him, however; it just made him more determined, the boy forcing his fathers to promise their presence during pick-up with an unbreakable pinkie-swear.

And true to their oath, Satoru and Sukuna now wait outside the school with the other parents, watching as the school doors open to release the rush of students. It’s easy to spy Yuuji’s pink head as he makes his way towards them, dragging a boy with spiky black hair behind him—Megumi, most likely. But as they get closer, Satoru can’t help but think there’s something oddly familiar about Megumi, though he can’t immediately place it.

“Hey, Sukuna,” Satoru mutters, leaning in close to the other. “Don’t you think the kid—”

“Looks very familiar,” Sukuna finishes for him, a puzzled expression on his face. “Disturbingly so.”

They don’t have time to figure it out, not when Yuuji finally arrives with his friend—though Megumi appears very grouchy at having been dragged around. Even so, his sour mood does nothing to dampen Yuuji’s excitement. “See?” Yuuji asks, hand still gripping Megumi’s as he grins up at his fathers. “This is Megumi—my bestest friend!” Then he turns to Megumi, pointing to Sukuna and Satoru as he explains, “Megumi, this is my dad and my daddy.”

Megumi frowns at them. “What’s with the dumb looks?”

Satoru’s head cocks, hands planted on his hips. “Huh? Never mind that.” He quickly dismisses the question, moving on to far more pressing matters. He crouches before the dark-haired boy, examining him a little bit closer, the odd sense of familiarity an uncomfortable itch in the back of his brain. “Say, Megumi. What’s your family name?”

“Fushiguro,” the boy replies. “Why?”

Satoru doesn’t answer the question, humming consideringly. “Fushiguro, huh? As in—”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

It’s a new voice that cuts in—startlingly familiar, recognition washing over him like a wave, like the rush of blood spilling forth from a fatal wound. Satoru’s body moves before he has a chance to think about it, muscles wound tight with tension as he pushes Yuuji behind him, puts himself in the path between his son and one of his greatest enemies. “You—”

Toji Fushiguro just sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Put your teeth away. And those mangy little claws too,” he adds, nodding towards Sukuna, who had taken up a defensive position at Satoru’s side.

“Mangy?” Sukuna echoes incredulously. “This manicure cost fifty thousand yen—far more than your pathetic life is worth.”

Satoru grins. “Yeah, you tell him—wait, it cost how much?” He whirls on Sukuna as he asks, momentarily distracted. Sukuna just shrugs, and Satoru sighs, pushing the thoughts aside for now. “Not the point. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here,” he says, jabbing an accusatory finger at Fushiguro, “but if you even think about touching Yuuji, it’ll be the last thought you ever have.”

Fushiguro rolls his eyes. “Relax, tough guy. I’m just here to pick up my son.” Then he’s turning his attention to his bite-sized lookalike, gesturing with his head. “Megumi, let’s go.”

Megumi nods, hands gripping the straps of his backpack as he goes to follow his father. “Bye Megumi!” Yuuji calls after him, peering out from behind Satoru as he waves vigorously to his friend. “See you tomorrow!”

Megumi glances over his shoulder, lifting his own hand in a small wave. “Bye Yuuji.”

It’s only when the Fushiguros are out of sight that Satoru and Sukuna finally relax, tension leaving their muscles as they heave twin sighs. What a terrible start to Satoru’s week. Not only does he have the Suguru situation to deal with, but also the re-emergence of the only man to ever lay a fatal blow upon him.

At least he doesn’t have the Inverted Spear of Heaven, this time. Satoru made damn sure that weapon would not fall into the wrong hands ever again.

There’s a tug on his pantleg that pulls Satoru from his thoughts. He glances down, gaze falling upon Yuuji as his son peers up at him, a slight frown on his face. “Why are you mad at Megumi’s daddy?”

Satoru sighs. “It’s complicated, kiddo. Megumi’s dad isn’t a very nice person, and I’m worried he’ll try to hurt you.” He reaches out, gently stroking Yuuji’s hair as he admits, “Honestly, I’d feel a whole lot better if you and Megumi didn’t spend much time together, okay?”

“No!” Yuuji declares, stomping his foot on the pavement. “Megumi’s by bestest friend in the entire world! I’m gonna play with him forever and ever!”

“I’m sorry, Yuuji. But that’s not gonna happen.” He kneels before his son, getting on eye level as he tries to reason with him. “I’m sure you can make a hundred new best friends—ones that are far better than Megumi—"

“No one’s better than Megumi!” Yuuji declares with the utmost certainty. “You’re just being a big meanie! Megumi is nice and you’re mean!” Then he’s turning his back to Satoru, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t wanna talk to you anymore!”

“C’mon, Yuuji,” Satoru says, but the boy doesn’t acknowledge him. Satoru sighs, turning his gaze on his fellow parent. “Sukuna, back me up!”

“And incite the brat’s ire?” Sukuna asks, raising a brow. “I think not.”

Satoru gasps, offended, but it’s ignored by father and son alike. Sukuna holds his hand out for Yuuji, the boy accepting it without complaint. “Come Yuuji. It’s time we head home.”

Yuuji doesn’t talk to Satoru for the rest of the evening. For a four-year-old, he’s really good at holding a grudge. Satoru supposes it’s no surprise Yuuji would feel so strongly about this, considering Megumi is his first real friend. And maybe Satoru should’ve approached the situation with a little more tact, but in that moment he had been so angry—so afraid—

His hand comes up, idly rubbing at his neck. Thanks to his Reverse Cursed Technique, there’s no scar that remains. He feels the wound all the same.

So wrapped up in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice Sukuna’s return, not until black-tipped fingers curl into his own, pulling his hand away. “Stop that.”

“Sorry,” Satoru replies, for he doesn’t know what else to say. “Yuuji still upset?”

“Yes, but he’ll get over it.” Sukuna releases Satoru’s hand, turning away to begin preparing tea. As he does, he continues, “He adores you far too much to freeze you out for long.”

“Maybe.” Satoru sighs, leaning his back against the island as he drags a hand through his hair. “I fucked up again, didn’t I?”

“Perhaps, but that’s really no surprise,” Sukuna replies, not sparing Satoru a glance. “Still, I can’t fault you for it this time. In truth, I too am…unsettled by Yuuji’s friendship with the Fushiguro spawn.”

Satoru clicks his tongue. “Great. You couldn’t have spoken up sooner?”

This earns Satoru a glare. “What good would it have done? Yuuji would only be angry with both of us—a far more difficult position to recover from.”

And he’s right, no matter how much Satoru loathes the fact. He sighs, shrugging a shoulder. “Maybe. Still sucks though.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks, the sound of boiling water all that breaks the silence. When the tea is ready, Sukuna fixes two cups, loads Satoru’s with far too much cream and sugar before handing it over to the sorcerer. Satoru accepts it with a quiet thanks, then takes his first sip—

Oh, that’s right; the sugar isn’t actually sugar. Either Sukuna has yet to notice Satoru’s prank, or he salted Satoru’s tea entirely on purpose. In any case, Satoru refuses to react to the harsh bitterness, just swallows down the awful taste with the straightest face he can manage. Sukuna doesn’t comment, must not think anything is amiss.

So either Satoru has to finish the entire mug, or figure out a way to dispose of it without Sukuna’s knowing. He’ll figure it out later; they’ve bigger problems for now.

Satoru hazards another sip, barely hides a wince at the taste. He tries to play if off as temperature issue, setting his cup aside to cool before sighing, crossing his arms over his chest as he considers their most pressing issue. “What the hell are we supposed to do? It can’t be coincidence that Toji Fushiguro just happened to have a son enrolled in the same preschool as Yuuji, that his son befriended Yuuji. No, it’s all way too convenient.”

Sukuna hums, sipping at his scalding tea. “You believe this is all a plot—that the mercenary is targeting Yuuji once more.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense!” Satoru points out. “What, do you honestly believe there’s nothing more to it? You already said you felt unsettled about the situation.”

“I did,” Sukuna acquiesces with a nod. “But I’m also aware of how easily emotion can cloud judgement. There’s a fine line to walk between intuition and paranoia, but I feel we may be teetering towards the latter.”

Satoru frowns. “You think I’m paranoid.”

“I think we almost lost Yuuji twice in the span of one year, and that has caused us to be overly cautious,” Sukuna corrects. “We are not wrong for worrying about our son, but we also cannot risk isolating him because of that worry. If Megumi is who he truly desires to share his time with, then so be it. We can’t fault that boy for his poor parentage.”

And when he puts it like that, Satoru can’t help but feel foolish. He laughs lightly, shaking his head. “Pot meet kettle, huh?”

“The hell are you talking about now?”

“Never mind,” Satoru dismissed, waving a hand. “Just—when you think about it, Yuuji and Megumi aren’t so different, are they? It’s no wonder they’re drawn to each other. Whether they realize it or not, they probably understand each other better than anyone else—or at least, they will one day. And we can’t deprive Yuuji of that opportunity, can we?”

“No, we cannot,” Sukuna agrees. “Let’s feel the situation out for now, determine if that mercenary truly does have ulterior motives. And if he does, well…”

Satoru finishes the thought. “Between the two of us, it should be easy enough to hide his body.”

Sukuna smirks. “Like there’d be anything left of it to hide.”

“True,” Satoru says, matching Sukuna’s expression. “In any case, looks like I’ve got some apologizing to do tomorrow. But I think I know a way to make it up to Yuuji.”

The next morning, Yuuji still seems grumpy around Satoru, barely acknowledges him as he goes to Sukuna’s side in the kitchen, asking for breakfast. The disregard twists something painfully in Satoru’s chest, makes him more determined than ever to patch things up with his son.

So he joins the young boy at the kitchen island for breakfast, sliding into a stool next to Yuuji while the boy chomps down on his cereal. “Good morning, Yuuji. Did you sleep well?”

Yuuji doesn’t respond. His gaze flickers over to Satoru briefly, then goes back to his cereal.

Satoru sighs. “Listen, Yuuji. I’m really sorry about what I said yesterday. You were right—I was being mean to Megumi, and it wasn’t fair of me. He’s your friend, and he hasn’t done anything wrong. There’s no good reason for the two of you not to hang out. Even so…” Satoru trails off, running a hand through his hair as he tries to figure out the best way to word it. “His dad is a different matter. He’s not a good person, and it makes me worry about you. So, I had an idea: a playdate. You and Megumi can play to your heart’s content, while your dad and I have a little chat with Megumi’s dad, make sure he’s gonna play nice. What do you think?”

“You mean it?” Yuuji asks, nearly upsetting his cereal bowl when he whirls toward Satoru. “I can play with Megumi all day?”

Satoru laughs at his son’s enthusiasm, relief settling as a warmth within his chest. “Well, maybe not all day, but as long as he and his dad will allow—if his dad will even allow it.”

It’s not like Fushiguro seemed very thrilled to see them either, so there’s a pretty good chance he won’t even humour the suggestion. But Yuuji doesn’t seem concerned about the risk, eyes glowing with excitement. “Yay! I’m gonna play with Megumi for a hundred hours!” He claps his hands, his cereal spoon slinging lingering droplets of milk through the air. “Can we do it today?”

“Not today,” Satoru replies, ruffling Yuuji’s hair when the boy pouts. “We still have to make sure Megumi and his dad agree. We’ll try for this weekend, okay buddy?”

“Okay!” Yuuji shouts, previous mood abandoned as he launches himself at Satoru, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. “Thank you! Sorry for not talking to you.”

Satoru’s heart squeezes. “It’s okay, Yuuji. We all get upset sometimes,” he replies, rubbing his son’s back. “Now hurry and finish your breakfast. Don’t wanna be late to school, yeah?”

It takes some…convincing—in the form of incessant pestering at drop-offs and pick-ups—but eventually, Fushiguro agrees to bring Megumi out for a playdate at the park on Saturday. Apparently, he’s just as soft for his son as Satoru and Sukuna are for theirs—a good sign, but Satoru refuses to let his guard down. Last time he did that…

Well, it’s not worth considering. Not when he refuses to let it happen again.

Yuuji and Megumi run off to play on the play structure almost as soon as they arrive, leaving the adults behind. Satoru laughs when Yuuji trips over his own feet in his haste, faceplanting in the sand, earning Satoru a sharp elbow from Sukuna. Still, Yuuji’s uninjured, Megumi pulling him to his feet with a mumbled, “Slow down, dummy.”

Yuuji just grins at his friend. “Oops.”

And to think Satoru ever wanted to prevent such a beautiful friendship from blossoming. He really had been a fool back then.

Satoru and Sukuna take a seat at a nearby picnic table to watch their son play with his friend. Rather than joining them like any other parent would during a playdate, Fushiguro plants himself on a bench almost on the complete opposite side of the play structure, legs and arms spread to take up as much room as possible, deterring any unwelcome company from joining him.

But that’s fine; it makes it all the easier to observe the man, to gossip about him.

“Look at him. Sitting there all…normal.” Satoru scoffs, shaking his head, “I don’t buy the act, not even for a second. I mean, who knows what weapons he could he hiding, just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike.”

Sukuna hums. “He’s certainly dressed for combat. Those baggy, unwashed garments of his allow for superior mobility, while the stench deters opponents from engaging in close-combat. He’ll likely use that to his advantage.”

Satoru glares at him. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Sukuna admits shamelessly. But then he continues, more serious this time, “That mercenary isn’t near foolish enough to try anything in such a public setting, and especially not with your guard so high. No, as far as current appearances go, that man means no harm—well, excluding the fact that his mere presence is an eyesore—"

“You realize I can hear you, right?” Fushiguro interrupts. And Satoru supposes it’s not surprising the man would be able to hear their insults, not when the playground itself isn’t particularly large, not when— “You ain’t exactly whispering, y’know.”

“It was intentional,” Sukuna responds. “It’s a travesty you’ve chosen to sit well within my range of sight, though I am grateful you have at least deigned to remain outside of my olfactory range.”

“Is that right?” Fushiguro asks, a small smirk curling his lips. “Well, can’t have you being grateful for anything, can I?”

With that said, the man pushes himself up from the bench, beginning to make his way towards Satoru and Sukuna’s table.

Satoru groans. “Good going, Sukuna. Now he’s gonna sit with us.”

Sukuna sighs, rubbing his brow. “A grievous mistake on my part, I will admit.”

Fushiguro settles onto the bench opposite them, his broad figure annoyingly blocking their view of the playground. “Right,” he starts, leaning his elbows on the tabletop. “So. What’s the deal with you two, huh? Never expected you’d be so buddy-buddy.”

Ah, yes. What is the deal with them? That’s a question Satoru has pondered himself. But he hasn’t been able to come up with an answer, doesn’t know how to explain the situation between him and his former enemy who’s now his roommate and also the father of his son but who he isn’t in a relationship with even though he’s pretty sure he’s a at least a little bit in love with him and would like to think that the feeling is maybe possibly reciprocated—

“It’s none of your business,” Sukuna answers, summarizing Satoru’s thoughts perfectly.

Fushiguro hums, frowning. “I see. So blackmail?” he asks. “Or is this one of those Stockholm syndrome situations?”

“Of course not!” Satoru declares, smacking a hand down on the table. Then— “Wait, did I Stockholm you?”

“As if you could,” Sukuna replies with a roll of his eyes. Then he turns his attention back on Fushiguro, venom leaking into his tone as he continues, “What exists between Satoru and I is, as I said before, none of your business.”

“Ah, I got it,” Fushiguro says, a strange look in his eyes as he settles back in his seat, lips curled in a smirk. “It’s actually one of those sugar daddy things. Must be nice mooching off the Gojo family fortune.”

“It is rather nice,” Sukuna replies, matching Fushiguro’s smirk. “Far more lucrative than scrounging for tasteless jobs that offer only a scrap of coin—though I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Yeah, how’s that mercenary business going for ya?” Satoru adds, leaning against the table as he peers at Fushiguro over the rim of his shades. “Kidnap any more defenseless babies, or are toddlers more your thing now?”

Fushiguro just huffs a laugh. “How cute—this petty little banter you got going on.” Then he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I admit, going after your kid was a new low for me. But I’m a changed man. I’m a father too, y’know. I gotta be better for my son. I’m sure the two of you understand that much.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, not buying it one bit. “I don’t know. Sounds like a lot of talk coming from you.” He crosses his arms, regarding the man with heightened suspicion. “How can we really be sure this isn’t some convoluted plot to capture Yuuji again?”

And Fushiguro actually has the gall to look annoyed by the question. “Weren’t you listening? I already said that was a new low.” He huffs, shaking his head. “But I’ve grown from the experience. Now I only target whiny little sorcerers and their gold-digging pets.”

But before either Satoru or Sukuna can respond to the obvious taunt, Yuuji and Megumi race up to them, panting from the effort exuded during play. “Daddy!” Yuuji calls, tugging on Satoru’s sleeve. “We’re hungry! Can we go get some food? Pretty please?”

Satoru laughs, ruffling Yuuji’s hair. “Sure, buddy. A snack sounds like a great idea! We should all go.” Yuuji cheers, racing ahead to scope out the best food stalls, his dads following behind at a much more reasonable pace. But they’ve only made it a few steps before Satoru pauses, noticing he’s short a kid. Satoru glances over his shoulder. “You coming, Megumi?”

Megumi’s gaze flickers between Satoru and his father. “Uh—”

“C’mon!” Satoru prompts. “You can choose anything you like—my treat.”

“We don’t need your goddamn charity,” Fushiguro cuts in, glaring at Satoru. “I can take care of my son.”

Satoru waves a dismissive hand. “Sure, sure. But why not take the opportunity to mooch off the Gojo fortune, hm?” he asks, winking at Fushiguro over his shades. “You scared of becoming one of my gold-digging pets—ow!” He winces, rubbing his still-stinging side where Sukuna had landed a sharp elbow to his ribs. “Sorry, sorry!”

Megumi turns back to his dad, shoes scuffing the ground below as he asks, “Dad, can I?”

Fushiguro’s jaw clenches and unclenches, like he’s physically fighting with himself for an answer. Finally, he sighs. “Fine, but just this once. I don’t need your handouts.” He directs this last part at Satoru, leveling the sorcerer with a glare.

But before Satoru can reply, Yuuji comes racing back, grabbing Megumi by the hand and tugging him forward. “C’mon Megumi! You gotta try the crepes! They’re as big as your head!”

They depart from the park soon after finishing their snacks, Fushiguro rattling off some excuse about having work to do as he ushered Megumi away. But Satoru knows better:

Fushiguro was embarrassed.

Serves him right; he hurt Satoru’s pride before, so Satoru’s simply returning the favour—though in a far more harmless way than the man truly deserves.

The drive home from the park is relatively quiet, the radio turned down low to accommodate a napping Yuuji in the backseat, tired out after running around with Megumi for even the short time they had. Satoru smiles at the sight of his sleeping son in the rear view, the boy’s head craned at an awkward angle against the car door, mouth wide open and drool trailing down his chin. If only he wasn’t driving; he’d have loved to snap a picture.

“Well?” Sukuna prompts, drawing Satoru’s attention to the passenger seat where the former curse sits. “Are you satisfied with your observations of that mercenary?”

Satoru nods. “Yeah. I still don’t trust the guy, but…” He sighs, shrugging slightly. “I think he really does care for Megumi. And as long as Megumi and Yuuji get along, I don’t think he’ll do anything to harm Yuuji.”

“I agree,” Sukuna responds, examining his nails. “Though clearly we cannot let the slights against us go unpunished.”

“Absolutely not,” Satoru agrees, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “We’ll get back at him somehow.”

But it’s not until a few days later that the perfect opportunity finally arises.

Chapter Text

Satoru hums an idle tune as he waits, foot tapping an easy rhythm on the sidewalk in front of the preschool. It’s only the second week of school, but already Satoru and Sukuna have adjusted to the change in pace, have settled into their new schedule accounting for school drop-offs and pick-ups, for the school events planned in the future. But there’s one thing they’ve yet to grow used to.

Barely a metre away, Fushiguro joins them on the sidewalk. Well, joins is a bit of a misnomer, the man standing nearby but barely acknowledging their presence beyond the dirty looks he swaps with Satoru and Sukuna as they wait for their sons. And why the man had chosen that particular spot when he could have chosen to stand literally anywhere else is a mystery. Perhaps he figured it was convenient seeing as Yuuji and Megumi were practically joined at the hip most days. Maybe he was simply trying to annoy Satoru and Sukuna—mission accomplished. Regardless of the reason, regardless of the tension that still lingers between them, Satoru refuses to be the one to relocate, refuses to back down from this strange challenge.

When the doors to the school open, Yuuji is the first to race out, a bright grin on his face as he beelines toward his fathers, a flyer of some sort clutched in one hand, Megumi’s wrist held in the other. As Yuuji runs, Megumi struggles to keep up, eyes wide as he’s practically dragged along the sidewalk, young feet still lacking in coordination stumbling in step behind his fast friend.

“Look!” Yuuji announces, waving the flyer in the air as he finally comes to a stop before his dads. “Sensei said this was a super important note, and that we had to make sure we got it to our parents and didn’t lose it! I did good, right?”

Sukuna retrieves the note from Yuuji, ruffling the boy’s hair. “You’ve done very well, Yuuji.”

Yuuji beams at him. Then he’s turning to his friend, shaking the dark-haired boy’s arm. “Megumi got one too! You didn’t lose it, right Megumi?”

Megumi rolls his eyes, pulling his arm from Yuuji’s grip as he goes to slide his backpack from his shoulders. “Of course not,” he grumbles, pulling the note from his bag. “It’s right here.”

“Let’s see it then, kid.” Fushiguro snatches the note from his son, eyes quickly skimming its contents. “A fundraiser, huh? Great.”

“A fundraiser?” Satoru echoes, leaning against Sukuna’s shoulder as he peers at the note. “Why put in all that effort to raise money? I could easily foot any bill they need.”

“Then go tell the fucking principal,” Fushiguro demands, crumpling the note in his hands, “before I have to waste my time with this shit.”

“Do not swear in front of my son!” Satoru retorts, glaring at the man over the rims of his shades.

Fushiguro hums, but doesn’t reply. Instead, he turns his attention to Yuuji. “Hey Yuuji, say fuck.”

“Fuck!”

“Yuuji!”

Yuuji blinks at Satoru, confused. “Huh?”

Satoru crouches before his son, pushing his shades up onto his head so he can make eye-contact with the boy. “That’s a grown-up word,” he explains, gentle but firm, “Kids shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Oh.” Yuuji ducks his head, foot scuffing the concrete below. “Sorry.”

Satoru smiles at his son, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s hair. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault. Somebody’s a bad influence.”

Fushiguro just scoffs. “Whatever. Deal with the principal, and maybe I’ll consider letting your kid hang out with Megumi next weekend.”

“Don’t say it like you’re doing us a favour!” Satoru retorts, but Fushiguro doesn’t reply, just tosses a half-assed wave over his shoulder as he turns to depart, Megumi following after.

“Asshole,” Satoru mutters, rising to a stand once more. “But he does raise a good point. No need to have other parents stressing over this fundraiser if we could easily donate the funds ourselves. C’mon, let’s go find that principal.”

They make their way into the school again, quickly checking in with the front desk before being directed to Principal Ishii’s office. The door is open, but Satoru still pauses at the threshold, knocking to gain the woman’s attention.

Principal Ishii looks up from the papers she had been reading, a smile spreading across her face. “Ah, Mr. Gojo, Mr. Ryoumen, Yuuji. Please, come in.”

“Thanks.” Satoru enters the office, the others following behind. “Sorry for interrupting your work, but we just wanted to chat about this fundraiser.”

Principal Ishii folds her hands on her desk, nodding. “Ah, yes. We’re raising funds to repair the school roof. With any luck, we’ll be able to get the leaks fixed before the rainy season hits,” she explains, then quickly adds, “Of course, we do understand that not all of our families are able to spare anything for the fundraiser, so as the note says, participation isn’t mandatory. Please don’t feel obligated to donate—”

Satoru cuts her off. “Nah, that’s not an issue. It’s quite the opposite, actually.” He grins at her, hands on his hips when he declares, “Name the price of the roof repairs. We can donate it, no problem. No need to stress anyone else out about a fundraiser, y’know?”

“I—” Principal Ishii pauses, blinking a little too quickly as she processes the information, tries to come up with a response—probably overwhelmed by Satoru’s unmatched generosity, doing all that she can not to leap from her desk in joy, shouting her appreciation all the way up to the heavens. Maybe after the repairs, she’ll even name the school after him—

Ah, maybe Satoru’s getting a little ahead of himself.

Finally, Principal Ishii sighs. “That’s a very generous offer, but I would hate to place a burden on your family.”

“Nonsense,” Sukuna says, waving a dismissive hand. “The cost would be mere pocket change, I’m sure. We’d hardly notice it missing.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Satoru scolds, glancing at the former curse. “It makes us look bad.”

Sukuna frowns. “But it’s true nonetheless.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Gentlemen,” Principal Ishii interrupts. “I do appreciate your generosity, but—” She sighs, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I admit, we do have other motivations for this event. We’ve teamed up with a nearby elementary school—one that most of our students end up attending—to welcome in the parents and community with a sort of spring festival, something to kickstart the school year, create more excitement. It’s a good way to get our schools out there, to hopefully increase our attendance and future enrollment. Raising the funds is only a small part of it. Even so,” she adds after a moment, considering, “if you really are so eager to help, I ask that you instead donate your time and effort to the event. And if you still wish to provide monetary compensation, you can do so through the fundraiser.”

Satoru nods. “Sure, we’d be happy to help.” Though he doubts a mere fundraiser will be enough to earn enough for the repairs. He makes a mental note to send an anonymous donation to school later. “But honestly, I’ve never really participated in any sort of fundraiser before. Got any tips?”

The principal hums. “Homemade wares tend to be the most popular—especially foods,” she reveals. “Perhaps you could start there.”

Which is how, the day before the fundraiser/open-house event, Satoru, Sukuna, and Yuuji find themselves gathered around the kitchen island, wracking their brains for ideas on what to make.

“Cake?” Satoru suggests. “Everybody likes cake!”

“Too time consuming,” Sukuna dismisses. “We’d have to make several, and I doubt we have the materials for such a task.”

“Crepes!” Yuuji offers, bouncing on the stool with his excitement.

Satoru chuckles. “Good idea, Yuuji. But they’re a little too difficult for us.”

Yuuji pouts slightly, but gets over it easily. “Cookies!”

“We could do cookies,” Satoru realizes, turning to Sukuna. “I made some a few years ago for that Christmas party, and they weren’t horrible.”

“They weren’t good either,” Sukuna points out, ignoring Satoru’s offended gasp at his words. “But I suppose between the three of us, such a task should be feasible enough.”

So they set to work, throwing the necessary ingredients into a bowl, Yuuji helping crack the eggs. A few shells end up in the mixture, but Satoru just whistles innocently, stirring everything together before Sukuna notices the little white pieces that shouldn’t be there. Once the dough is done, they roll it into balls of various sizes, placing them on the baking tray before sliding them into the oven to bake. About fifteen minutes later, they pull the finished cookies out of the oven. They look pretty good, in Satoru’s humble opinion, and smell even better. It takes much willpower to wait for them to cool before taste testing, but Satoru endures nonetheless.

Together, the three of them take their first bite.

And promptly spit it back out.

“Yuck!” Yuuji yells, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Yuck indeed!” Sukuna agrees, face mirroring his son’s. He throws the bitten cookie at Satoru. “Did you remember to put any sugar in these?”

Satoru bats the cookie projectile aside easily, scoffing. “Um, remember who you’re talking to. Of course I put sugar in there! I put more sugar than probably necessary—oh. Oh. Oh my god—” As realization sets in, Satoru breaks off into laughter, so violent his body shakes with it. He clutches the counter for balance, his other arm gripping his stomach.

“What?” Sukuna demands, glaring at Satoru’s shaking form. “What the hell are you laughing about?”

Tears in his eyes, Satoru can barely get the words out between bouts of laughter. “Prank—last week—swapped sugar and salt—forgot—to swap back—”

“You did what?” Sukuna scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe this. So you’re the reason all our meals have been oddly sweet lately.”

Satoru finally gets a handle on himself. He wipes the gathered moisture from his eyes, a little breathless. “You noticed and you never said anything?”

“Neither of you said anything either!” Sukuna accuses. “I thought I was just mistaken.”

“Well, mystery finally solved,” Satoru declares, planting his hands on his hips. “Let’s make a new batch—and this time, we’ll actually use sugar.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes at Satoru, then turns away, grabbing the sheet of salty cookies. “Yuuji, help me dispose of these abominations—”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on!” Satoru interrupts, reaching out to grab the tray from Sukuna. “We might still be able to use these. I could always bring them to next meeting with the higher-ups, y’know.”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, but relents. “Whatever. Just get them out of my sight.”

Once the mess of their first failure is cleaned up, they start on the second batch, this time taking into account the sugar/salt situation. Once the cookies are out of the oven, they let them cool before doing another taste test.

Better, but still ultimately terrible.

“Ugh, I don’t get it!” Satoru groans, dropping his cookie back onto the tray. “We’re doing everything right, aren’t we?”

“How should I know? Desserts are meant to be your area of expertise!” Sukuna shouts back, jabbing a finger into Satoru’s chest.

Satoru sighs. “I didn’t want it to come to this, but looks like we have no choice. We need to call an expert.”

Sukuna’s got his phone out before Satoru’s even finished the sentence. “Already on it.”

Uraume arrives in record time, eyes wide as they burst through the front door. “I came as quickly as I could!” they announce, hastily crossing over to the kitchen. “What is the emergency?”

Satoru gestures emphatically to the tray of defective cookies. “This!”

Uraume blinks at him—once, twice. “The…cookies?” they say finally, a frown settling on their face. “I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“Here, try a bite,” Sukuna says, handing them one of the cookies. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

A little hesitant, Uraume samples a small bite of the cookie. Their hand flies to their mouth almost immediately after, frown deepening, though they’re polite enough to choke the cookie down rather than spitting it onto the floor. “These are…horrendous.”

“That’s the problem!” Satoru throws his hands into the air in defeat. “No matter what we do, the cookies taste like shi—” He catches himself, sparing Yuuji a quick glance before correcting, “like crap.”

“We’ve all the correct ingredients,” Sukuna explains, “yet they fail to produce a palatable result.”

Uraume hums, assessing the kitchen, the ingredients laid out along the counters. “Walk me through your process,” they decide at last. “Perhaps I can identify the issue.”

“Right.” Satoru gets to work, narrating the steps as he goes about preparing the ingredients once more. “So, we start off with our bowl. Dump some flour in there, the sugar—”

“That’s salt.”

“It’s sugar, trust me. It was a whole thing.” Satoru waves a dismissive hand, refusing to elaborate further. “Anyways, then we dump this baking powder in—”

He barely manages to shake any of the powder into the bowl before Uraume’s arm darts out, snatching Satoru’s wrist and halting his progress. “Enough!” they admonish, snatching the bowl of unfinished dough away. “Are you planning on properly measuring any of the ingredients?”

“Measure them?” Satoru echoes, scoffing. “Why waste our time?”

“The measurements are all intuitive,” Sukuna adds, agreeing with Satoru. “I’ve never once measured anything while cooking.”

“Cooking and baking are far different matters,” Uraume points out, rubbing their brow. “You may be able to intuit it while cooking, but baking requires more precision.” Finally, they sigh, shooing Satoru away. “Step aside. I’ll demonstrate.”

With Uraume taking the lead, carefully measuring out the ingredients using measuring cups and spoons that Satoru had not known they even owned, the next batch turns out much better. This time, when Satoru, Sukuna, and Yuuji taste test, the dessert is perfectly sweet, practically melting upon their tongues.

Satoru shoves the rest of his cookie into his mouth, closing his eyes as he savours the flavours. “So good,” he practically moans, hand darting out to retrieve a second cookie.

“Don’t touch that!” Sukuna and Uraume command simultaneously, both smacking Satoru’s hand away with startling unison. But it’s Sukuna who adds, “They’re for the fundraiser.”

Satoru pouts, rubbing his sore hand. “Oh c’mon. I’m just doing quality control! That first one could’ve been a fluke.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrow, a retort on the tip of his tongue. But before he can speak it, something else catches his attention, the tug of a tiny hand on his shirt. Yuuji peers up at him, eyes big and shiny as he asks, in a voice even sweeter than the cookies, “Dad, can I have another one?”

“Of course,” Sukuna replies without hesitation, retrieving a cookie for his son. “Careful, it may be hot.”

Yuuji grins as he accepts the cookie. “Thank you!”

Satoru’s pout deepens, arms crossing over his chest. “Hey, how come he gets another one?”

“I favour him more, obviously,” Sukuna replies simply, and Yuuji—mouth still half-full of cookie—sticks his tongue out at Satoru.

Brat. Satoru’s kind of proud.

“Now then,” Sukuna continues, oblivious to Yuuji’s antics, “we still require a few more batches before we have an adequate amount to sell. Uraume—”

“Understood,” they interrupt, rolling up the sleeves of their kimono. “Let’s get to work.”

All in all, Satoru is pretty satisfied with the spread they have to offer at the school fundraiser, cookies of various flavours nicely displayed in their trays on the tables that had been set up in the elementary school’s gymnasium. The place is a flurry of commotion as other parents and volunteers finish getting their stalls set up, the pseudo marketplace nearly ready to welcome in the community for the event.

And it’s a special type of torture, having to sit at a table filled with dessert and not be allowed to sample any of them, but Satoru’s smarter than to risk inciting Sukuna’s ire, especially after the number of wrist slaps he’d received yesterday from both him and Uraume—a deadly duo in any era, apparently. But Sukuna had agreed to let Satoru do some shopping around at the fundraiser once the marketplace was officially open, so at least Satoru has that to look forward to. He’s already spied quite a few tables set up with different baked goods. Surely, he’ll attain a satisfactory conquest later.

But for now, all that’s left to do is wait, seated in uncomfortable plastic chairs behind their table. Yuuji sits between them, excited by the prospect of helping his dads sell the cookies they (well, Uraume) worked so hard on. And while he’s sitting well for now, legs idly swinging through the air as he fidgets, Satoru doubts the kid will last very long before he gets bored. Satoru will likely need to take him for a lap of the gym soon to work off some excess energy.

No sooner than Satoru has the thought does Yuuji perk up in his chair, jostling the table a little dangerously when he leans against it, pointing. “Look! It’s Megumi!” He waves a hand vigorously in the air, table shaking below his other hand, and it’s only thanks to Satoru and Sukuna’s quick hands that none of the cookies go toppling to the floor. “Hey, Megumi! Over here!”

Megumi approaches at Yuuji’s call, Fushiguro unfortunately accompanying him, face settled in a deep scowl. Yuuji ignores the older Fushiguro’s mood, smiling brightly at Megumi. “Look at all the cookies! They’re super yummy and guess what? I helped make them! I cracked like a hundred eggs! Isn’t that cool?”

“I doubt it was a hundred eggs,” Megumi says, eyes scanning over the cookies. “Probably just fifty or eighty or something.”

“I dunno!” Then Yuuji’s turning to Sukuna, jostling his shoulder. “Hey, can Megumi try a cookie? Please? Pretty please?”

Sukuna sighs. “Fine, but just one.”

“Yay!” Yuuji quickly grabs one of the cookies, handing it to his friend. “Here, try this one! It’s the bestest.”

Megumi examines the cookie for a moment, turning it over in his hands a few times before finally taking a bite. “It’s good,” he decides, playing it cool, but Satoru doesn’t miss the way he quickly scarfs down the rest.

Yuuji’s grin brightens. “Right?” Then he’s scrambling out of his chair, ducking below the table to reach Megumi’s side. “C’mon, let’s go find Sensei and show her the cookies!”

Yuuji doesn’t actually wait for Megumi to accept the invitation, nor does he check with the adults to ensure it’s alright for them to go off on their own. He simply grabs Megumi by the hand, darting away into the crowd before anyone has a chance to stop them.

Oh well. The kids should be safe enough, and in any case, Satoru can still sense Yuuji’s cursed energy easily. If anything were to happen, he’d know.

Even after the kids depart, Fushiguro lingers at the table…for some reason. Satoru doesn’t bother trying to understand the man, just capitalizes on the opportunity to annoy the shit out of him. “Don’t worry,” Satoru says, leaning his elbows on the table as he grins up at Fushiguro, “we’ll keep that cookie free of charge. Hopefully our dear father-Fushi doesn’t get embarrassed about accepting another handout from little old me.”

Fushiguro scoffs. “Get over yourself. I had shit to do that day, that’s all.” Then he’s crossing his arms over his chest, glare sharpening as he gazes down on Satoru. “Speaking of shit to do, you were supposed to talk the principal out of this.”

Satoru shrugs. “I tried. Not very hard, but it still counts.” Then he leans back in his chair, humming. “From the looks of it, you didn’t bring anything for the fundraiser. Reflects pretty poorly on ya, dontcha think?”

“Don’t be rude,” Sukuna scolds, examining his nails with disinterest. “I’m sure he would have been more willing to bring something had he anything worthwhile to offer. Unfortunately, his particular expertise is not suitable to a setting such as this. What a tragic life it must be, being a one trick pony.”

“You really oughta put a muzzle on that mutt of yours,” Fushiguro says—addressing Satoru, of course, pointedly ignoring the glare Sukuna sends his way. “And just so we’re clear, I didn’t bring anything because I didn’t want to, not because I couldn’t.”

“Sure, sure,” Satoru dismisses, waving a hand. “You were probably just scared your ugly mug would scare all your customers away. Would be pretty embarrassing having nothing to show for your efforts, so why try at all, yeah?”

Fushiguro clicks his tongue. “Give me a break. I could sell this shit no problem—if I felt like it. But a fundraiser for a shitty school ain’t worth my time.”

Sukuna hums. “Spoken like a true coward.”

Fushiguro’s scowl only worsens, posture tense and teeth bared in a slight snarl that twists the scar at the corner of his mouth. And with an expression like that, Satoru’s certain of it: the man would never be able sell anything to this crowd of well-to-do people. Hell, he probably couldn’t even sell water in a desert. Satoru, on the other hand, with his stunning good looks and charming personality, would have no problem selling anything to anyone—

Oh. That gives him an idea.

“How ‘bout we make a bet,” Satoru proposes before Fushiguro can reply, grin stretching over his lips. “Whoever sells the most cookies by the end of the day wins. We’ll even share some of our wares with you, keep it fair.”

Fushiguro’s expression eases into something a little more neutral, perhaps a bit suspicious. “What’s in it for me?”

Satoru hums. “If you win, you’ll have earned my silence for the next month—Sukuna’s, too. No more annoying teasing from either of us, no matter what.” He holds out his hand to the man, grin never leaving his face. “Well, Fraidy-guro. Whaddya say?”

“Make it two months,” Fushiguro decides, “and we got a deal.”

“Deal!”

Fushiguro doesn’t shake his hand, but Satoru isn’t too put-off by it. He lets his hand fall, moving to retrieve a few spare containers of cookies before handing them over. “Here, these are the extras we couldn’t fit on the table, and you can take this tray too—just to keep the numbers even. I’m sure you can find somewhere to set up on your own.”

Fushiguro accepts, though he raises a brow at Satoru. “You’re making this too easy on me.”

Satoru shrugs. “Only because you hardly pose a challenge. I mean—” He slings an arm around Sukuna’s shoulder, gesturing between them as he points out, “We’ve got pretty privilege on our side, after all. There’s no way you’ll beat us!”

Fushiguro scoffs, turning his nose up at them. “We’ll see about that.”

He stomps off soon after, the action far more humorous than intimidating considering the armful of cookie dishes he holds. Once he’s out of earshot, Sukuna turns to Satoru. “Perhaps I am mistaken,” he begins, brows slightly furrowed, “but one of those containers—”

“—is the one I put the duds in, yeah,” Satoru says, finishing the thought for him. “I brought them along so I could drop them off at Jujutsu Tech later, but this is a good use for them too.”

A chuckle escapes Sukuna’s lips, the former curse grinning slightly as he shakes his head. “You are far more devious than I had given you credit for.”

“Aw, that’s really sweet of you to say,” Satoru replies. “I think my deviousness should get a reward, something equally as sweet. Maybe like a—”

Sukuna smacks his hand before he even reaches for the cookie. “Don’t push it.”

“Fine.” Satoru slumps slightly in his chair, but he’s not all that upset. For the victory he’ll soon claim will taste far sweeter than any cookie. “Now all that’s left is to see if my scheming pays off.”

Yuuji has a bright grin on his face as he hands the package of cookies to their latest customer. “Thanks for your paten—pare—pate—”

“Patronage,” Sukuna corrects.

Yuuji nods. “Thanks for your parrotage!”

Satoru laughs. “Eh, close enough.”

The customer departs, and Satoru leans back in his chair with a satisfied smile. “Well, not a bad turnout today. At this rate, we’ll be sold out within the hour.”

And it’s true. Though the marketplace had by no means been busy throughout the morning, it had somehow managed to keep up a steady stream of traffic, and now, just after noon, barely a quarter of their initial cookie-stock remains, many of the tables around them seeming to be much the same. Maybe this event would raise enough money for the roof repairs after all.

“I’m doing good?” Yuuji asks, wiggling a little in his chair.

Satoru smiles, ruffling Yuuji’s hair. “You’re doing perfectly, Yuuji. Best salesman ever!”

“Yay!” Yuuji cheers. “Megumi, come help too.”

Megumi’s seated at the side of the table, an extra chair pulled up for him when the boy returned with Yuuji after their initial excursion. He’d been hanging out at their table ever since then, a slightly grumpy expression on his face, though Satoru’s starting to think that might just be the kid’s default look. At Yuuji’s invitation, Megumi shakes his head. “You don’t need my help.”

Yuuji’s face falls. “But, Megumi—"

“That’s alright,” Satoru interrupts, trying to comfort his son as much as he is letting Megumi off the hook. “I’m sure Megumi’s just being careful. His dad is probably jealous enough that he’s hanging out with us instead of him. If he starts selling for us too, his dad might start crying.”

This earns Satoru a confused frown. “Megumi’s daddy is gonna cry?” he asks, head tilting to the side. “Is he sad?”

“He will be when he loses our bet!” Satoru declares with a laugh. But the joke doesn’t seem to land, Yuuji’s frown only deepening, his bottom lip trembling. Satoru reaches out to pat his shoulder soothingly. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo. It’s all just for fun. No one’s actually upset—”

“Satoru Gojo!”

Satoru groans. What perfect timing.

Sukuna must be thinking the same thing. He shoots Satoru a look over Yuuji’s head, mere seconds from calling Satoru out for jinxing it, but Satoru doesn’t give him a chance. “Not one word,” he mutters, then turns his attention towards the thunderous footsteps stomping across the gym floor.

Fushiguro stops just before the table, one hand balled into a fist so tight, the muscles of his arm are easy to see, flexing dangerously beneath his skin. In the other hand, he clutches a cookie, which he waves emphatically at Satoru as he growls, “What the hell is this?”

“A cookie, obviously.” Satoru rests his head in his hand, grinning at the furious Fushiguro towering over him. “Any other dumb questions you need me to answer?”

“I know it’s a goddamn cookie!” Fushiguro retorts, said cookie nearly crumbling in his hand when it involuntarily tightens. “What I want to know is why it’s so goddamn salty! What the hell did you put in here?”

“Hmm.” Satoru makes a show of pondering the question, tapping his chin in thought. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say salt,” he answers at last. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the substance? I mean, you do seem to be full of it.” Then his eyes widen, and he laughs. “It’s kinda poetic, isn’t it? Salty cookies for a salty boy, sweet cookies for a sweet boy—”

“You set me up!” Fushiguro accuses, throwing the chunks of now-broken cookie at Satoru—not that any of it reaches him, the sorcerer subtly activating Infinity to keep the pieces at bay. “You goaded me into a ridiculous fucking bet all so you could make a fool of me with these goddamn salt rocks!”

There’s a crowd gathering around them by now, everyone stopping to watch to drama unfold. And Satoru had predicted Fushiguro would be annoyed by the prank, but he didn’t predict he’d be so furious Honestly, the anger feels a little misplaced.

But Satoru doesn’t care to psychoanalyze the man before him right now. “Easy with the language, yeah?” he suggests with a light laugh, hoping to diffuse the situation a little with the swift redirection. “There are kids here, y’know.”

Shockingly, it doesn’t work. “I don’t give a fuck!” Fushiguro shouts, slamming his hands down on the table. “I’ve had it with your petty little bullshit—”

“Petty?” Satoru’s on his feet before he has a chance to think, jutting out an accusatory finger at Fushiguro. “You tried to kidnap Yuuji! You nearly killed me and Sukuna—”

“Just you,” Sukuna corrects, seeming more bored by the display than anything else. “I was perfectly fine.”

“—and you still think that’s petty?” Satoru finishes, ignoring the former curse. Satoru scoffs, shaking his head. “A harmless little salt prank is nothing compared to the shit you put my family through. I should have killed you for it!”

“Is that right?” Fushiguro’s eyes gleam dangerously, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. “Why don’t you fucking try?”

And Satoru’s about the leap the table, but there’s an arm that blocks his movement. Satoru doesn’t need to glance to the side to know it’s Sukuna’s, the thick black bands circling his wrist a dead giveaway. It’s the only reason the arm is even able to touch him, the sorcerer having habitually lowered Infinity in Sukuna’s presence, trusting that his touch is no longer meant to harm.

Next to him, Sukuna heaves a heavy sigh. “As entertaining as this is, let’s not get carried away,” he says, retracting his arm so he can cross both over his chest “Surely the two of you aren’t foolish enough to fight in the midst of a primary school fundraiser. At least find a more suitable location.”

Fushiguro just huffs, but his posture relaxes slightly. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna fight your master. Not now, at least.” Sukuna’s mouth snaps open to reply, but Fushiguro’s already turning his back to them, sauntering over to a nearby table. “Y’know,” he starts, conversationally, as though he hadn’t just been spewing curses at them, “after all that salt, I could use a drink. Ah, how convenient.”

He pauses at a table selling some form of smoothie—part of a juice cleanse or something as equally ridiculous, something Satoru hadn’t bothered paying much attention to during his hunt for sweets earlier. Fushiguro grabs one of the smoothies, completely disregarding the vendor as he departs their stand, slowly making his way back towards Satoru and Sukuna.

Satoru rolls his eyes, dropping back into his seat with a huff. “I hope you’re planning on paying for that drink. Pretty low of you to steal from a school fundraiser.”

“Why would I pay for it?” Fushiguro asks, tossing aside the drink’s flimsy paper straw, then discarding the lid altogether. “You’re the one that’s gonna be drinking it.”

“Huh?”

And just like all those years before, Fushiguro catches him off guard, moving with unnatural speed as he rounds the table. Before Satoru has time to react, Fushiguro upends the cup over Satoru’s head, and with no Infinity to challenge it, the foul-smelling substance within spills down upon him, coating his pale hair and dripping into his eyes.

“Shit, that’s rank,” Fushiguro says with a laugh, staggering back a few steps to put more space between them once again. “Finally, something to match that rotten personality of yours.”

Satoru’s on his feet in an instant, chair knocked over in his haste as he tears his glasses from his face, dragging a palm across his eyes, wiping away the cool sludge that still trickles down from his hair. “What the hell, man?”

“Now we’re even,” Fushiguro says simply, amusement lacing his tone.

“Even? Are you kidding me?” Satoru tosses his glasses aside, shaking his head as he stomps towards Fushiguro. “No, no fucking way—”

But a hand grips the collar of his soiled-shirt, tugging him backward. “That’s enough, Satoru.”

Satoru whirls on Sukuna, freeing himself from the other’s hold. “Sukuna—”

“Enough,” Sukuna repeats, and this time there’s something in his tone that has Satoru freezing in place, a coldness he hasn’t heard since the mess with Suguru a few years back. “This fight is mine.”

And Satoru doesn’t resist when Sukuna pushes him back a few more paces, when he steps out to take Satoru’s place—to defend Satoru—

And if Satoru’s heart happens to skip a beat at the action, well, no one else need know.

Fushiguro just grins at Sukuna’s approach, unintimidated. “Aw, what a loyal little guard dog, stepping in to defend its master—"

Sukuna punches him in the face.

Fushiguro recoils from the hit, staggering back as he clutches his face. Sukuna scoffs, shaking out his hand. “You talk way too much.”

“Bastard,” Fushiguro hisses, smile gone as he glares at his new opponent. “It’s on!”

With that, Sukuna and Fushiguro launch into battle, a ripple of alarm passing through the crowd at the action. And though the crowd has backed away slightly to give them more room, no one has departed, as entertained by the spectacle as they are shocked by it. As such, there’s very limited space for the two to really go all-out, the battle more of a basic fistfight than anything else.

So Satoru’s not really worried. As angry as they both are, they likely won’t kill each other.

Probably.

Maybe.

Actually…

“Dad!”

Yuuji’s cry pulls Satoru from his thoughts, gaze flickering over to his son. Yuuji and Megumi had darted away from the main action when Fushiguro had first arrived at the table, had been standing by with wide-eyes as they watched the fight unfold. But now, Yuuji is done watching. Tears pool in his eyes as he reaches out towards the quarrelling men, as he begins to race towards them. “Dad—”

“Whoa, hang on there, kiddo,” Satoru says, snatching Yuuji by the arm before he can try to interfere. The last thing he ever wants to deal with again is an injured Yuuji. He pulls his son back to Megumi’s side, using his own body to shield the two from the sight of the battle. “You two need to stay back. Way back.”

Yuuji’s tears finally spill over, lips trembling. “But—”

Satoru wipes the tears away gently, smiling reassuringly at his son. “He’ll be okay. Don’t worry about him.”

Yuuji doesn’t appear comforted, the tears never stopping no matter how many Satoru wipes away. But before Satoru can try again to reassure his son, Megumi reaches out, taking his friend’s hand. “C’mon, let’s go find Sensei or Principal.”

And Satoru would really rather they didn’t get school administration involved, but if that’s what it takes to keep the kids from danger, then so be it.

Yuuji sniffles, rubbing his nose with his free hand. “But Dad—”

Satoru cuts him off again. “—is fine, Yuuji. Trust me. I’ll make sure of it.”

Megumi tugs on Yuuji’s hand. “We can help them, but first we gotta find the teachers.”

Finally, Yuuji nods, and the two boys run off in search of help, Megumi guiding Yuuji around the outside of the crowd to keep them out of harm’s way. And Satoru will have to find a way to pay Megumi back for his help today. Maybe he’ll buy him a pony. Kids like ponies, right?

He puts the thought to the back of his mind for now, attention returning to the fight. It’s fairly evenly matched, but Fushiguro has a slight advantage with speed, strength, and size. Even so, Sukuna’s experience far outweighs his opponent’s, keeps him in the fight as he read Fushiguro’s attacks with ease, blocking them while sneaking his own through Fushiguro’s guard. It’s a far cry from their first fight—what little of it Satoru had observed, at least—and Satoru can’t help the grin that settles upon his face as he lingers at the edge of the crowd, a warmth settling within his chest.

But then Fushiguro somehow manages to land a heavy blow to Sukuna’s jaw, and things take a turn for the worse. Sukuna staggers from the force of the strike, clutching his sore jaw as he struggles to regain his footing, and Fushiguro’s quick to capitalize on the opening, launching a snapping kick right into Sukuna’s side.

And though Satoru’s first instinct is to jump in, he fights it, keeps his feet rooted to the ground even as Fushiguro manages to land another uncontested strike, then another. For if Satoru were to interfere now, after Sukuna had made such a show of taking on the fight himself, after everything that’s happened—

No, he won’t consider it any further than that. There’s no need for Satoru to interfere. Sukuna will turn the fight around, somehow. He won’t let himself lose.

Even so, the fight appears brutally one-sided now, the crowd rippling with unease. “Should we call someone?” a woman to Satoru’s side whispers to her companion.

No, that would be bad. Satoru weaves through the crowd, keeps an eye on the fight as he eavesdrops on the rest of the crowd, assessing the situation at hand, racking his brain for a way to keep the crowd from interfering—for calling the authorities, really. A little further along someone winces. “Yikes, that big guy’s got him now. No way pinky can turn it around.”

Satoru chuckles inwardly at the nickname. Pinky. I’ll have to try that one out sometime. He files the thought away for later, however, capitalizing on the new opportunity presented to him.