Chapter Text

SEMESTER 1: SUMMER 2019.

20 MARCH 2019.

These big-city Tokyo hotshots give great gifts. Maybe it has something to do with getting a monthly stipend higher than the allowances handed out by parents in Sendai City.

None of Yuji’s old classmates could’ve afforded this high-tech projector Megumi’s just plopped into his lap (“I got it from Yodobashi Camera,” he says without prompting), nor the designer jacket Nobara swore up and down would give him the ‘perfect silhouette,’ whatever that means. The now-third years pooled their funds together to get him the Human Earthworm Deluxe 4K Blu-Ray Steelbook Box Set and special edition popcorn bucket, a horrifying monstrosity he adores but definitely could not stomach eating out of. And, last but not least, never to be outdone, Hakari presents him with a wad of cash and a knowing wink.

The best birthday present of all, however, is their presence, no matter how corny it sounds. Any sort of proof that they’re here and alive and together is priceless. A deep warmth fills Yuji’s entire being as he watches his friends squabble over the minuscule tri-thousand-fold instruction manual. Shouting over each other with both insults and suggestions, he wouldn’t be surprised if this ended with someone getting throttled (that someone being Yuji himself, realistically speaking) — and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He watches the others out of the corner of his eye, making sure they’re sufficiently distracted, as he nudges a cardboard box out from under his bed. An unimpressed stare from a clay-like cyclops greets him in lieu of words, the twisting mouth underneath one cartoonishly large eye eventually muttering, “This is quite undignified.”

Yes, Yuji imagines that being reduced to a slime toy after a lifetime-and-a-half of being a gargantuan four-armed creature would be undignified. Still, for all his sympathy, he prods, “Hey, I could’ve put you in the porn stash box.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I was referring to your dereliction of duty, abandoning your guests as they work to entertain you. Truly, have you no respect for hospitality? Does anyone in this day and age?”

Rich, coming from an entity that hijacked two entire people not even six months ago.

But it’s not like he’s capable of it now, nor has he attempted it again in all this time. He’s taken the humiliation of turning into consolidated flesh-flakes, squishy and stress ball-like, quite well, all things considered. Ryomen Sukuna has many epithets, but Sore Loser does not appear to be one of them.

“I’m checking up on one of my guests,” Yuji protests. “Though, I guess roommate is a more accurate term.”

Sukuna doesn’t pay rent, but neither does he go outside — a regular hikikomori, as it were. The simple thought of it makes Yuji snort. He would encourage the curseling to roam around if he could, if it wasn’t too dangerous, if every sorcerer in the nation wouldn’t rush over to stomp on him like a cockroach or centipede or any other ghastly critter Sukuna bathed in. It wouldn’t kill him, Yuji’s pretty sure, but neither would it be a very pleasant experience. Pity abounds where Sukuna’s concerned, so it seems.

“I brought you some cake,” Yuji continues. No one had batted an eye at him grabbing his eighth slice of the night, though the second fork had caused Nobara to pull a face and ask if he was going to ‘double-fist it like some sort of freak.’ Such a charitable opinion she has of her best friend. “How’s that for hospitality?”

“Unremarkable, the bare minimum,” deadpans Sukuna. He wriggles onto the paper plate anyway, mouth perfect level enough to take an unaided chomp out of the spongy cake and a mouthful of frosting.

Fine, Yuji can admit his intentions were not wholly altruistic — he fights back a snicker as Sukuna’s eye bulges out of its already amorphous socket, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he gasps, “So… sweet,” and heaves all the while. The blob curls protectively around the cake when Yuji reaches down to take it away, glaring balefully at him. “I did not say that I disliked it, boy, leave it be.”

Yuji raises his hands in surrender. “It’s all yours, man.”

This is a familiar routine to them now: Yuji presents some mundane human experience, Sukuna gawks at the modern trappings of excess, and then he admits that his protestations were all performative in some circumspect way.

It’s not an ideal situation. When Yuji brushed the Shinjuku rubble off of Sukuna’s boneless frame, he’d promised him a life side by side. Even in a perfect world, this might not be achievable. The world of jujutsu is a chiaroscuro labyrinth, but the King of Curses is a touch too dark for most. This is as close as they can get for now.

“Cease your scowling, Itadori,” commands Sukuna. It still feels strange to be addressed by name. It should sound more clumsy, unfamiliar as it rolls off of Sukuna’s tongue. Somehow, it sounds anything but. “Or, if you must, direct it at your friends and the crater they’ve just put in your wall.”

“The what?”

Everyone freezes when Yuji whirls around, making a tableau of Where’s Waldo? chaos. Nobara and Kirara hold the opposite corners of a Meg Thee Stallion poster midway through trying to hide the aforementioned hole while Megumi and Inumaki pore over the now-shredded instruction manual as though it makes them any less culpable. Maki slaps the drill into Yuta’s hand, prompting a squawk, the only ones to move now that Yuji’s looking. It’s a pretty big pit, too, born of a crooked drill bit and unsteady hand. He didn’t have to pay a security deposit before moving into the dorms, but if he had, he’s definitely not getting it back.

He feels Sukuna vibrating against his hand — laughter, he realizes, a series of repetitive clicks passing through his broad, toothy grin. This may be the most innocent amusement Yuji’s ever seen from him. Huh. So it doesn’t take an ocean of blood and an eternity of misery to make Sukuna giggle.

“Really, guys?” says Yuji, which draws a chorus of relieved sighs from his friends. Yuji rises to his feet and moves closer to observe the damage, shaking his head. There’s a pile of drywall on his pillow, the projector mount sitting discarded on his nightstand and the screw anchor buried at an odd angle. Even he can’t pry it out. “Were you guys trying to make this thing fall on me in the middle of the night?”

“‘Course not,” Nobara shoots back. “You’d lose what few brain cells left and forget how to breathe.”

“Hardy har,” Yuji replies, though deep down, he does actually think it’s pretty funny.

8 APRIL 2019.

Kusakabe’s classroom is located on the second floor, and it’s much neater than Gojo’s.

For one, there are no dents or scorch marks on the walls. The classroom is well-stocked and well-furnished, with unused chairs and desks stacked neatly in the back, walls lined with organizer trays and spare notebooks and pencils below the window (“So ‘I forgot my backpack isn’t an excuse," Kusakabe had said). Adorning the walls are various mnemonic posters, which must’ve thrown the printers for a loop, and a roller map of the country is bolted above the chalkboard, marked by multiple hand-made dotted lines to denote Tengen’s Pure Barriers. The latter is an ornery sort that either gets tangled up in itself when it retracts or refuses to stay up unless Kusakabe hooks its handle to a nail. But of everything else in the carefully managed classroom, it is the only (inanimate) troublemaker.

In fact, the only other thing out of place that Yuji can see is the chicken scratch carved into a corner of his desk — Hakari’s handiwork, if he had to guess. He wonders if a mirroring Dickbutt is etched into Megumi’s seat beside him or if Kirara had taken Nobara’s place on Megumi’s other side. Though Yuji’s seat was closest to the window, most of the sunlight fell on Megumi, which suited Kirara more.

The differences between first and second year only deepen as Kusakabe shuffles into the room, notebooks tucked under his arm as both hands remain shoved into the pockets of his slacks. He’s not one for bombastic introductions, certainly not on the level of Gojo, but Yuji’s used to it. Kusakabe had finished out the rest of the previous school year with them, after all.

Between the three of them, Megumi is the only one to have received a full year of instruction, compared to Yuji and Nobara’s two-and-a-half semesters — though, in Yuji's humble opinion, cataclysmic events and death tournaments should at least count for some credit. And now here they are, all pushed through to their second year, so maybe their undeniable heroics counted after all.

“You all know my three rules,” Kusakabe intones, voice still gravelly with the vestiges of sleep as he leans on his forearms against the podium. One hand ticks off the rules as he points at each of them. “One.”

“No talking when you’re talking,” Megumi drones dutifully.

“Two.”

“No name, no grade,” Nobara recites.

“That’s right. I don’t care if there’s only three of you, it takes two seconds and I am not going through any process of elimination bullshit.” Kusakabe inclines his head at Yuji. “Last but not least?”

Reflexively, he sits up a little taller. “If we’re gonna do our homework in the twenty minutes before you collect it, we should at least try to hide it from you.”

“Good. Now that we’ve ascertained that none of you have suffered any debilitating memory loss in the last three weeks or so, are there any questions?” He leaves no window for them, instead turning to the chalkboard. His lines are surprisingly straight as he splits a timeline into three parts. Pausing intermittently so his hand can catch up with his mouth as he transcribes each word, Kusakabe explains, “I’m sure you’ve heard an earful from your predecessors, but I’ll go over the year just so we’re all on the same page.

“We’re split into three semesters as usual. Semester 1, which is this one, will focus on barrier techniques. You’ll learn the basic ins and outs of each kind, how to set your own curtains without an auxiliary manager’s assistance, all that good stuff. So I don’t want to hear any crap on the news about imploded buildings or what have you by the end of July, got that?”

“Yes, sir,” they bark in unison. Kusakabe takes this brief break to wet his throat.

“Second semester will cover rituals and Binding Vows. Unlike previous years, the main assignment of this semester can be either a research paper or a practicum. It’s up to you kids, though forgive me if I have doubts about your judgment.” Though he’s still facing the board, he snaps, “Itadori, Kugisaki, you will refrain from making faces at me. I appreciate your performances of how I will feel having to read your papers, but remember this is a school, so you should remember that you’re expected to do schoolwork.

“Finally, third semester will serve as an on-ramp to your third year.” Kusakabe brushes the chalk dust off his fingers as he turns to look at each of them. “You’ll be doing independent study for these last three months, with a curriculum tailored by you and me to better service your specializations, whatever they may be. Some of you may be assigned peer mentors and you’ll all be going on both group and solo missions, but the gist is that you’ll be out of the classroom for the majority of the semester. You’ll have to work on the two mandatory essays on your own time.”

Yuji has never felt a smile drop so quickly from his face.

He’s been trying to be optimistic lately. At least it isn’t three essays. It doesn’t work.

Graciously, Kusakabe cuts class short after going over the first semester syllabus. Reading constitutes the majority of their first week assignments — another marked departure from Gojo’s more hands-on teaching style. Yuji hadn’t really experienced much of it, in hindsight.

He and Nobara jumped headfirst into the tail end of the first semester before the break, and the second had barely made it halfway before Shibuya. Any remedial teaching had been minimal, given that their teacher was always so busy. Most of it was exercises to keep Yuji occupied instead of written assignments. Maybe each instructor's course load reflected their schedule. Though he supposes Kusakabe’s equally as busy doing the work of principal, teacher, and council member, so it may just be tailored to how they themselves learned best.

Before Yuji steps over the classroom threshold, trailing behind his classmates, Kusakabe catches him by the shoulder. The others’ voices start to fade down the hall; he gives it about seventy-six seconds until they realize he’s not with them.

“Hey, I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends,” prefaces Kusakabe, which is such a promising start. “It’s not your fault, since you didn’t come from a sorcerer family. I understand you didn’t grow up with what the other two might’ve learned as common ‘knowledge’ — but you’re… pretty severely behind when it comes to basic technical knowhow.”

Oh. Yeah. Probably for the best that he’d waited 'til the others got out of earshot for this.

“What?” Yuji says once he unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “But… I thought… That month I was, uh. Gojo-sensei helped me catch up. And, like, you didn’t hold me back.”

“Gojo got you combat-ready,” Kusakabe corrects. “What I don’t think he taught you were the different categories of curses and rituals, any barrier history or even rudimentary incantations. There’s a difference between bare minimum and first-year basics. And — I’ll let you in on a little secret — we actually don’t hold anyone back, ever. For better or for worse.”

“Oh,” Yuji mumbles faintly. “Awesome.”

Shaking his head, Kusakabe sighs. He drops his hand as he shrugs. “I can give you a list of books to help you get caught up, but I’m pretty swamped as it is. Without this stuff, second year’s going to eat you alive. Maybe ask Okkotsu or Panda for some tutoring. Or I could do it for you, if you’d prefer.”

“No, I — I can ask ‘em myself.”

“If you’re sure.” Kusakabe squints at him. “That’s all I wanted to say. You’re free to go.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Yuji doesn’t need to be told twice.

As expected, the others are waiting for him outside, Megumi scrolling on his phone while Nobara taps her foot and harrumphs with aggressive eye contact. They’re far enough from the door that he doesn’t need to worry about eavesdropping, but his cheeks flame nevertheless.

“What was that about?” Nobara demands. “You bribing sensei for an A?”

“No, he told me to stay so he could tell me that I’m a fucking moron,” Yuji answers.

Nobara scoffs. “Oh, nothing new, then.” She leaps over his foot as he kicks out at her, then traipses on down the hall without a care in the world.

Megumi follows wordlessly after a single glance, lagging along until Yuji catches up in a few strides. He’s not entirely sure what the plan is, if they’re splitting off to do their own thing or if he’s expected to become Nobara’s pack mule as she trawls once again for blouses that will match her eyepatch.

But — and here’s where the optimism thing kicks in — at least he didn’t lie to them this time.

29 APRIL 2019.

Sorcerers who have no families to claim them are interred by date of death. Yuji’s sure the original intention was to memorialize the fallen, but it sometimes seems a little more macabre, especially when you’re in the ossuary all by yourself. More akin to a long line of ashes or a trail of bodies left in curses’ wakes, the eternally extending hall (courtesy of Master Tengen) is also kind of an okay place to study. None of the dense material sticks for him, but it’s at least quiet and far away from other people. That’s not why he and Megumi are here today, though.

Gojo Satoru is one of the minority residents who’d requested a spot on the infinite wall to avoid being sealed in his clan’s mausoleum.

Technically speaking, the barrier technique and associated complementary glyphs make the students’ upkeep redundant. Rather, the chores are meant to instill discipline — and, if Yuji’s being entirely honest, they’re also another way for them to grieve. In the months since Shinjuku, they’ve taken to cleaning the headstone on rotation and in pairs. Hence, Yuji and Megumi hard at work with their sleeves rolled up.

It isn’t entirely backbreaking labor, anyway. Most of it is just wiping — first the layer of dust on top of the carefully etched granite, taking care to really get into the engravings, and then buffing it with wax. Occasionally, there are a few leftover incense butts to clear out, but Yuji finds the real struggle is not going down the rest of the line and cleaning a thousand years’ worth of dead sorcerer compartments. Nanami’s isn’t so far away, even if it’s only half as full as most, so he at least makes it his duty to clean that too.

Megumi hardly talks at times like these. He slinks back into comfortable reticence, though any concern Yuji might’ve had is mitigated by the fact that he’s plenty talkative (for Megumi, at any rate) outside of the burial barrier. With his recent loquaciousness, though, keeping things from him feels more disgusting than usual. It’s like a layer of grime that just won’t wash off. One step forward and another back. Practically a leap, even, considering Yuji’s secret is the survival of an unrepentant murderer whose slaughter created the very headstone they’re now cleaning.

Unrepentant may not be the right word, but blasé feels too inaccurate; Sukuna’s general attitude toward things that happened in Shinjuku and before is ‘what’s done is done, I can’t go back in time and it wouldn’t help to dwell on it.’ Yuji can’t exactly argue with that logic. It doesn’t mean that there isn’t more to be desired, or that it doesn’t still make him feel icky, though. What’s worse is that there’s no one else he can talk to about this. No one who can respond with any advice, anyway.

Oblivious to his tumult, the only thing Megumi asks of him all the while is for a rag, and once they’re finished with the polish, he offers a single grunt of praise. After a brief break to sit and drink some Pocari, he reaches for new sticks of incense and lights Yuji’s before his own. Yuji grabs another from the pack and uses the first to ignite its tip.

He pushes all thoughts of Megumi out of his mind as he clasps his hands together, head bowed in prayer. His little speeches are never eloquent, stumbling along until he gets where he needs to be. But it’s the thought that counts.

Gojo-sensei, Nanamin, I hope that you both are at peace, wherever you are. I hope that you’ll continue watching over us all, especially Kugisaki and Fushiguro. I hope that I can carry on your hopes and dreams and make this world a better place. I hope that I can make you both proud. And, uh, I’m sorry about Sukuna. I hope you both can give him a second chance and see that he’s trying to do good. Not that you have to forgive him or anything.

Actually, maybe don’t think about him at all. Just forget this whole last part. Backspace. I miss you guys.

A strong finish. Yuji can only hope that he’d made at least one of them laugh.

He finds Megumi staring at him once he opens his eyes, stern and dark brows furrowed. Oh no, was he mouthing the words again? Cautiously, and avoiding all eye contact, Yuji places the sticks of incense into their respective brass pots. Ultimately, there’s no prying into the nature of his prayers — whether out of respect or superstition, it’s not entirely clear — but the obvious suspicion still lingers.

It’s when they grab their things, dropping sponges into buckets and twisting closed the nozzles of spray bottles, that Megumi asks, “So, what did Kusakabe pull you aside for?”

The word really is embedded in tone instead of text. Yuji winces. No weaseling out by using the same excuse as last time. “Oh, just some stuff about homework,” he drawls as casually as he can. “He could probably tell that I was going to freak out about the essays.”

Megumi blinks, then nods. “Oh, that makes sense.” It doesn’t quite feel like a victory — both because ouch, he’s not wrong, but still, and because the words sound more like Megumi’s trying to convince himself than confirm Yuji’s falsehood.

He’s not even sure why he lied, to be honest.

Is Yuji ashamed, as Kusakabe had implied? He shouldn’t be. They’ve both seen each other at rock bottom, the lowest points of their lives, and they’ve quite literally bared their souls to one another. That’s about as close as any two people can get. And yet, he couldn’t bear to tell Fushiguro the truth: that their teacher had told him he was kinda-sorta-maybe in danger of flunking-but-not-really. Hard to fall behind when you were never caught up in the first place, right? Megumi already knows he’s dumb; he didn’t even have any problems with blatantly saying so right now. So why lie?

Maybe it’s just a bad habit he’s grown too used to. Addicted to it, even.

“You…” Megumi hesitates, gnawing on his lower lip. Averting his eyes, he rubs at the back of his neck. “You know, if you ever need help, you can always ask me, right?”

“Yeah.” It rolls off Yuji’s tongue as easily as his own name. “Yeah, of course, man.”

“I have a meeting with Kusakabe later today,” Megumi explains as he rises to his feet. Brushing the dirt off his pants, he pulls his phone out to check the time. “I wondered if it had anything to do with what you guys were talking about, but clearly, it doesn't.”

Oof. Right into the heart yet again. It’s gotta be on purpose — yep, there’s a sliver of a cheeky grin. Yuji swats at his knee and waves his hand as if fanning him away. “Well don’t let little old me keep you, then. Go on, git.”

And when he does, leaving the barrier with a quiet fwoomp, that leaves just Yuji, the artificial sunlight, and the graves of Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento before him. He reaches out to trace the engravings of their names, careful not to smudge any of the newly shined stones with his fingerprints. He reverently follows the paths of their names, of five and seven and precepts and the sea — and it makes him smile. It’s all a numbers game in the end, sandwiched between shards of broken dreams, isn’t it? That he’s here and they’re not?

A collection of coincidences guided them to this point: that Gojo burned enough of Sukuna’s cursed energy to keep them all from being wiped out in seconds, that Nobara had woken from her coma in time to incapacitate Sukuna, that Yuji had somehow struck that chord in him, had said the right words and dealt the right amount of damage to convince Sukuna toward renewal if not atonement. It’s almost like getting the secret ending of a video game, if such a thought wouldn’t be a disservice to everyone they’d lost to get to this point.

He had Choso buried with his grandfather back in Sendai when he went to put the last dormant finger back. One day he’ll join them — but he’d wanted Choso and their brothers to have company in the meantime. He’ll have to apologize to them too. Yuji's lips twitch. Maybe on his next break. What an excuse to visit, huh?

10 MAY 2019.

Despite Kusakabe’s little aside on the first day of class, Yuji is technically ahead of his cohort. For the first unit, at least.

Following the usurpation — though Kusakabe dislikes framing it in this way — of the New Shadow Style, the council immediately and unanimously agreed that Simple Domain ought to be inserted somewhere into the curriculum. It’s too important of a technique to simply gloss over.

Evidently, the best spot they could find was at the very beginning of the year, ahead of all other barrier techniques. Being that he’s already cheated learned pretty much all there is to know by picking his teacher’s brain, Yuji is allowed to sit this lesson out.

In his defense, he’d attempted to participate by helping Nobara. His efforts unceremoniously collapsed when she snapped that he was terrible at explaining things and shooed him off the field so Kusakabe — “a licensed teacher,” Nobara had sneered — could help. Megumi needed less instruction due to nailing the basics of a Domain, and so Yuji’s been relegated to the shade. It’s not like Kugisaki’s wrong, either. He hadn’t realized it was possible to use the word ‘thingy’ upwards of sixty times until he’d done it himself. With proper, experienced instruction, it looks like she’s finally getting the hang of it.

Still, his exile is not a break. Yuji makes the mistake of meeting Kusakabe’s eyes. He does the two-finger ‘watching you’ thing and punctuates the gesture with an aggressive downward stab. Sheepishly, Yuji returns his gaze to the textbook open on his lap.

It’s not really a textbook in the conventional sense, more of a handwritten manual from hundreds of years ago, dug up by his teacher’s recommendation. It’s more of a cross between journal and tutorial with hand-drawn diagrams in between blocks of text. Yuji’s grateful that it’s at least a bound book and not a miles-long scroll he’d inevitably tear and have to recreate by hand. Though, honestly, that might help him learn better than sitting here and staring at the words.

When Nobara had kicked him off of the practice field, Kusakabe dryly commented, “Looks like you’re free to do some studying.” Free, when stressed in that way, adopts the complete opposite meaning. But Yuji can’t make heads or tails of the damn thing, so even when he’s trying, it’s not like he’s really studying. And all the archaic language really isn’t helping. God forbid sorcerers make a 21st-century annotated edition or something.

Rather than pulling his phone out, which would probably get him yelled at, Yuji nudges his hood with a shoulder blade. “Hey, uh… Do you know what this section means?”

“That had better have been a rhetorical question, boy.”

The weight pulling his collar against his throat shifts, climbing up the back of his neck and then sliding over Yuji's right shoulder — the side of him facing away from the rest of the class. Yuji represses a shudder as Sukuna orients himself, the ticklish sensation drumming against his nerve endings. It’s a wonder Satoshi never accidentally flung Pikachu into the sun.

Yuji doesn’t reply to the comment, fairly certain that Sukuna’s just fishing for compliments. The fact that he’s now an undulating mass of flesh — a rhythmic movement up and down coinciding with him reading each column of text, Yuji realizes — has not diminished his knowledge or experience at all. Frankly, Yuji feels that asking Sukuna for assistance is a little bit like asking Michael Jordan to teach him how to dribble. It’s a desperate measure, to be sure. But there’s also a bit of pride in the way Sukuna holds himself, less boneless than one might expect of a bag of meat.

He hums once he’s finished, as though pondering how to put it into digestible terms. “Let’s see… the passage is about conditional barriers of all types.” Sukuna clicks his tongue at the surely clueless look on Yuji’s face. “Barrier techniques are malleable. You’ll recall Shinjuku, when Gojo Satoru shrank his Domain tenfold. Certain barriers can be manipulated to enhance specific qualities at the expense of others.”

“Oh, right,” Yuji mumbles. “But, didn’t it not work?”

“Against someone else, it may have.” Sukuna has only the highest praise for anyone but Yuji, apparently, though that’s nothing new. Turning his attention back to the manual, Sukuna extends a nub toward the opposite page. “This part focuses on anti-barriers as a subset of conditional barriers — the removal of one’s containment in exchange for another effect. I’m sure you can come up with an example all on your own?”

How could he not?

Bile stings at the back of Yuji's throat. He swipes at his nose with the side of his thumb to chase off the memory, the iron tang in the air and the accompanying clouds of red mist just starting to fade away when he’d regained consciousness. Nightmares that still paralyze him in the dead of night, phantom screams his most replayed lullaby. Yuji fumbles for his notebook. The tip of his lead snaps off twice as he jots down Sukuna’s explanation.

Part of him wants to shut the book right then and there; this isn’t anything anyone has to learn. Except it is, especially for him, and he knows better than to use this knowledge the way that Sukuna did. Not that he could, given that Malevolent Shrine wasn’t embedded into him the way the standard technique was.

“Honestly,” Sukuna drawls, his caustic tone snatching Yuji from his thoughts, “this is the sort of thing small children learned back in my day.”

“You did it,” says Yuji, “You said the old geezer thing.”

Predictably, Sukuna ignores him. “That Gojo Satoru failed you by indulging your cinephilia for a lunar cycle. I suppose his method was to pique your curiosity by appealing to your interests, but he neglected to make certain you understood the material. Shoddy work.”

Criticism better levied against someone who was far less busy, who’d pawned Yuji off to Frodo and Sam because he was lazy, maybe — but that person was not Gojo Satoru.

“Still… I can admit your intuition is acceptably exceptional.” Yuji has no idea what Sukuna means by this, more annoyed at having been cut off the moment he opened his mouth. “By modern standards, you’re almost as much of a prodigy as Higuruma Hiromi. Almost.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“However, instinct cannot teach you everything.” Sukuna’s mouth twists wryly. “Perhaps your compatriots should count themselves lucky that you are literate at all.”

Yuji swats at him, fingers grazing against Sukuna’s sort-of head as the other dodges expertly with a snort. He can’t say he regrets asking for help, because he’d be on his twelfth re-read with no comprehension in sight. Who told the sorcerers of yore to refer to barriers as ‘earthwork’? He blames Tengen for this.

Sukuna’s one scrutinizing eye draws lines of fire across his skin as he observes Yuji. “Fushiguro Megumi would know all of this,” he declares confidently, lip curling at Yuji’s agitation.

“Yeah, probably,” Yuji snaps, meaning definitely. “What’s it to you? I thought you were over him.”

And Yuji thought he had a greater vocabulary than that of a jilted lover, though that was neither here nor there.

Somehow, the other has the gall to roll his eye at him. “I have no intentions of possessing him again,” utters Sukuna with all the enthusiasm of a grade schooler asked to recite the golden rule. “Any use for him died with Mahoraga and Agito — and either way, I’m not one to take promises so lightly. Did I not already swear to you that we would coexist peacefully?”

Yuji sighs through his nose. Sure, make him out to be the unreasonable one.

“My observation — which you so rudely interrupted — was merely to segue into my question of why you would reject his aid, knowing that he possesses such knowledge and an unerring patience for you.” Damn it, Yuji was being ironic, not asking for an actual call-out. A ridge forms on Sukuna’s dome resembling an arched brow. “Moreover, you hadn’t even given him the chance to fully extend an offer. Why? If you find his intelligence intimidating, the girl may be willing to help. Or that simpering Okkotsu, as suggested by your instructor.”

At that, Yuji can’t help but scoff. “Nobara’s probably worse at explaining things than I am.” This earns him dubious and then begrudging agreement. “Okkotsu-senpai’s busy with his own stuff. Getting used to third year and whatnot.”

“Should it not be the job of the teacher to teach?”

“He’s doing that right now.” Yuji feels proud of himself for that one. Sukuna, heavy-lidded with disapproval, apparently doesn’t feel the same way. “Y’know, Yaga-sensei had to choose between admin and teaching. Kusakabe-sensei’s doing both.”

“Only because there’s no one else to pawn half of those responsibilities onto,” Sukuna scoffs. “There you go, boy, making excuses for everybody. Or, perhaps more accurately, making excuses for yourself.”

“Fine, if you’re such an expert on education, what was your teacher like?”

A cackle — loud, sharp, like a thunderclap — pierces through Yuji’s petulance in reply. For a moment, he’s afraid they’ll get caught, undone by volume. When he looks back toward the field, Megumi is attempting to open Chimera Shadow Garden on Nobara while Kusakabe watches, but the panic persists. Sukuna, seemingly oblivious to his distress, continues to snicker.

“Ah, you kill me, boy.” If he’d been in his other form, he may have wiped a stray tear from his eye. “I had no master. Everything I am was carved by mine own hand.”

It makes sense, now that he thinks about it. Cast out at birth, left to fend for himself. Of course Sukuna learned everything he knew about jujutsu on his own. It’s why it’s so easy for him to push boundaries, why sight-learning is second nature to him. His pride comes entirely from being self-made — his strength was not borrowed or copied from anyone, and he was supposed to be proof positive that might made right. But that’s not what sticks out to Yuji the most.

The words fly out of him thoughtlessly: “You should teach me.”

Sukuna does not dignify this with a response. Yuji is undeterred.

“‘Cause, like, since you learned all of this stuff on your own, you should be the best at explaining it. Not like this guy — uh, Taira no Masakado — does.” He tosses the book over his shoulder for emphasis, then remembers it’s the library’s only copy and swiftly moves to straighten out the fragile pages. Still, his eyes never leave Sukuna’s. “You get how I think, you learned by intuition, like me. You’ll tell me if I’m totally off-base, right? ‘Course you will. Besides, it’s not like you have anything else taking up your time.”

“And what am I to derive from this besides stimulation?”

“Um, a feeling of accomplishment achieved by altruism?”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Your alliteration is unimpressive, Itadori Yuji.”

“But I thought you liked poetry.”

“That is hardly—” He snapped! Victory! Sukuna takes a deep breath to compose himself. He stares at Yuji for longer than is necessary, probably because he knows Yuji’s been holding his breath this whole time, and then finally says, “Very well. We’ll see if you’ve oversold this altruism.”

Wait, that actually worked? It takes all of Yuji's strength not to voice his sentiment out loud.

Given the way Sukuna’s smile darkens and sharpens, all jagged teeth, this was probably for the best. “I won’t go easy on you,” he promises, a little too gleefully. Surely he can’t do too much damage in blob form, right? And on as basic a subject as barriers? If he whips out Malevolent Shrine again, that would be a problem. But he wouldn’t. Probably.

“Any regrets, boy?”

I dunno, can you smell my fear? Sure seems like it. “N-no.”

Sukuna snorts as he climbs over Yuji’s head to settle back in his hood — his version of ruffling his hair. “Forgotten that you’re a terrible liar, have you?”

11 MAY 2019.

He finds his way back to the practice field well after lights out, guided only by the beam of his phone’s flashlight. Granted, it’s probably enough to blind whoever might come across him, but there’s an eeriness to the school at night that Yuji just can’t quite explain. It’s too quiet, no bugs chirp, the wind doesn’t rustle any leaves, the entire campus is completely still. All work of the glamouring barrier, he’s sure, though he has no idea just how.

It could also just be the guilt carried with sneaking around. Yuji knows the curfew exists to keep students safe and prevent any tampering with the dangerous cursed artifacts or sacred ancient texts, sure. But they can’t get mad at him for sneaking out of bed to study, can they? This is the nerdiest thing he’s ever done in his life.

Worrying at his lower lip, he shuts off his flashlight anyway. Anyone patrolling the grounds would see it from a mile away. Muscle memory will guide him there, Yuji concludes. And surely Sukuna won’t let him walk into a wall. Little fella (and he almost laughs aloud at his own turn of phrase) would suffer an equally nasty fall if he did.

The crush of the astroturf beneath his foot confirms his arrival. As expected, the field is bare, practice equipment packed away. Unlit, the grass is a shade darker than the surrounding dirt track. It makes Yuji miss his old school just a bit.

“Okay, what now?” he asks, too loud even in his quietest whisper.

The next familiar sensation is a surprise: the mounting pressure in his ears that climaxes into a pop, operating in harmony with the sudden darkness that overtakes his vision, the weird sensation of faceplanting in water but coming away dry, the skeleton graveyard, an edgier 14+ version of the one from The Lion King. As he struggles to find his feet on the murky yet reflective surface, Yuji can’t stop his mouth from falling open. He hears a chuff from behind him and whirls around to point an accusatory finger. “You could still do this the whole ti— oh, that’s new.”

He’s not sure if ‘that’ can be considered objectifying, but Sukuna is unimpressed nonetheless. He looks different than Yuji expected. The tattoos remain, as does the kimono, but his face is different — no longer a mirror of Yuji’s, Sukuna looks more like his true form, malformed right side and all.

A younger version of the monster he’d fought in Shinjuku blinks tepidly back at Yuji, another boy of six-and-ten. His kimono bulges around his sternum, the flesh underneath shifting under Yuji’s stare. They’re his extra arms, Yuji realizes, as the ones properly threaded through his sleeves bat Yuji’s finger away and deliver a swift chop to the middle-center of his head.

“Your lesson has already begun,” Sukuna snaps. “Look around, this is a demonstration of a barrier technique.”

“In what way?” Yuji demands as he rubs his scalp. “Seriously, what gives? Did you just feel like living the cutesy sidekick life for a little bit or something?”

“Focus.” Sukuna sighs and rubs his temple as Yuji offers a mostly ironic salute. “You have been drawn into my Inner Domain, brat — a Domain Expansion in its infancy, an interior barrier.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

“How on earth did you manage to attain a Domain Expansion if you —” Shaking his head, Sukuna holds up a hand. “No, never mind, don’t tell me. It’ll just piss me off.”

“It was a feeling,” says Yuji anyway.

Wisely, Sukuna decides to move on, taking a breath to let what Yuji assumes is the murderous rage subside. “Make a curtain,” he orders. “Surely you’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

“Uh,” Yuji mumbles, feeling tinier than ever, “usually, Ijichi-san or one of the other aux managers does it for us…”

Yuji watches him literally swallow a barbed retort. In a gentler tone than the vein in the center of his forehead may suggest, Sukuna prods, “But you know how it’s done, yes? The words, the gestures, what the final result is supposed to look like? Then show me.”

“Uh. Okay.”

Shit, is it two fingers or three? Is he supposed to only use his left hand? Fuck it, it probably won’t work anyway. He fixes his eyes on a spot of shadowy nothingness over making awkward eye contact. It’s already bad enough that his voice cracks right off the bat. “Emerge —” He clears his throat. “Emerge from darkness, blacker than dark…ness. Purify that which is impure.”

Um. Yuji’s pretty sure he saw the air wiggle just now. But it’s so dark that he can’t see anything else.

His shoulders jump as Sukuna exhales slowly, a drawn-out noise as loud as thunder. It doesn’t quite sound like irritation or disappointment, but he feels his cheeks warming anyway. Performance issues are never fun — especially not in front of history’s strongest sorcerer. Before Yuji can draw back, a shockingly cool hand engulfs his own. Sukuna is more cool than freezing, the pressure of his fingers adjusting Yuji's furthering the chill.

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Such sloppy somatics.”

“Your alliteration is unimpressive, Ryomen Sukuna.”

“No more unimpressive than your abject failure at performing an elementary-level barrier technique.” Ah-yup, there it is. Once Sukuna has rearranged Yuji’s hand, folding his ring finger and straightening his thumb and forefinger, he steps back to re-appraise his form. “Do you understand the purpose of the gesture?”

Does Yuji look like he understands?

“You’re pointing up at the center of the curtain,” Sukuna explains. “It is a gesture of intention — emerge from the darkness, purify that which is impure, center the purification around this area. Does that make sense?”

“Oh… Yeah.” He makes it sound so — simple. Not a single one of his textbooks had made any mention of this; either it’s an extrapolation of Sukuna’s own making or simply a ‘no duh, you big idiot’ common sense tidbit. Whatever the case, he feels a little dumb — but also a little more prepared to try again.

“There are no such things as mistakes in jujutsu,” Sukuna declares. An image of Takaba holding a thumbs-up flashes in Yuji’s brain, but it’s probably for the best not to press the issue. With an approving nod as Yuji shifts his posture into one more confident and resolute, feet shoulders’ width apart, he commands, “Try again.”

Yeah, okay. He can do this. Intention and stuff. Yuji’s never felt aimless, adrift, or unsure of what to do in his entire life, he’s got this ‘deliberate’ thing down pat.

Eyes squeezed shut, he takes a deep breath. Cursed energy pools in his gut like a simmering stew, bubbling foamy scum, fed through his body to the tips of his skyward-facing fingers. “Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure.” His nose twitches with the impulse to add an expletive to the end for emphasis, but Yuji’s immeasurable restraint prevails.

Curtains are not quiet, not if you know what to listen for. In the earliest days, Yuji had mistaken it for simple adrenaline, the sound of his blood rushing through his ears and his pounding heart. Then, Nobara had grumbled during a mission that some curse was still skulking around, and he realized that warm tingly noise — a little too ASMR-esque for his liking — was the hum of the still-erected barrier. The gentle rippling of Sukuna’s Innate Domain obscures the distinction between the two barriers somewhat, but that low buzz is here now. Yuji opens his eyes.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “I did it.”

It’s not a big curtain. Not large enough to swallow a skyscraper, barely a blip compared to what had fallen over Shibuya. It was more like a tarp, maybe big enough to cover a living room, encircling both himself and Sukuna. Streaks of violet swirl around the midnight blue of the curtain, though it obstructs no light from Sukuna’s Domain. Yuji’s grin freezes at the sight of Sukuna’s own jovial expression. The red wash of the blood moon makes it look more sinister than he probably intended it to be.

“Well done,” Sukuna rumbles with — warmth? Pride? Both sound off coming from him. Yuji expects irony and insincerity to rear their ugly heads, but Sukuna instead falls silent. Huh.

They stare at each other for several long, agonizing moments. Then, Yuji mumbles, “Um, so… how do I get rid of it?”

“Well, what conditions did you set?”

“I had to do that?” Would’ve helped if that was included in the instructions.

Sukuna huffs, good humor now gone with the wind. The curtain falls apart at once, as though the other’s breath had blown it away. Fearful that Sukuna can still read his mind, Yuji thinks, It’s me! It’s my fault! I’m an idiot who screwed up! A placid expression glides onto Sukuna’s face. Karate chop to the top of his dome successfully averted.

Sukuna claps sharply with his uppermost hands. “All right, let us look over what worked. What did you do right this time?”

“You fixed the hand sign, I didn’t stumble on the incantation, I did it with intention—” He chuckles nervously at the glare he receives for his spot-on impression. “But I didn’t set any end-state condition things, and since I didn’t do that, the whole thing went pffffbt after I stopped focusing on it…?”

“Look at that, perhaps you are capable of logical thought after all.” It’s absolutely not a compliment, but Sukuna grins at him like it is, a flash of razor-sharp canines more a threat than anything. “You have the right of it — setting a condition for the curtain, even as simple as ‘remain until I say so,’ mitigates having to split your focus. Most common among you sorcerers is likely ‘remain until every curse within is slain,’ the like.”

“What about talismans?” Yuji asks. “Like the ones in Shibuya?”

Sukuna blinks, surprised. “Those aren’t quite conditions, but they follow the law of subtraction,” he answers slowly. “Rather than partitioning or reserving cursed energy in the same way a condition might — which is a skill barrier for some pathetic sorts — talismans imbue the cursed energy required to maintain a curtain. Like a… battery, if you will.”

He’s impressed, Yuji knows it. Even if he’s currently pondering the effectiveness of his comparison while stroking his chin, such a perfectionist. Maybe it’s a reflection of Sukuna’s low opinion of him, that simple clarification and conjecture would disarm him, but it’s… nice, almost, to have shaken those notions. It isn’t as though Yuji has ever been a reluctant student, at least where sorcery is concerned.

He can’t exactly blame Sukuna either, though, seeing as he was there every time Yuji had muttered, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about’ during Gojo’s colorful lessons. He wonders if it’s just a teaching style thing, or if Sukuna’s the only one to have realized just how much Yuji needed everything dumbed down for him. “So, what now, sensei?”

Wrinkling his nose at the honorific, Sukuna tips his head back. “Next, you’ll try again. But this time, I want you to make it so that the curtain encompasses every bone within my Innate Domain.”

“Y-you mean the ones outside of a body too?” A stupid question, half-rhetorical. Yuji knows the answer. Sukuna’s nonplussed blink tells him that he knows that Yuji knows. But it’s like what people on TV always say (even though Wasuke had just as frequently said, ‘That’s stupid, no you don’t’), Yuji had to ask.

Yuji almost loses his balance from trying to see the top of the pile of buffalo skulls, to say nothing of the giant Founding Titan ribcage framing them. Hey, hadn’t Sukuna kicked him off of that once upon a time? His rump stings with the memory of it. Yuji gulps. “So, like, are you gonna give me any sort of pointers, or…?”

“No,” says Sukuna.

“Awesome.” If all that cursed energy earlier could barely muster a glamping tent-sized curtain, he’s going to have to give himself a hernia. Or he could just think about that time Nobara maxed out his credit card without telling him. Or — wait a minute.

The law of subtraction, the maxim of cutting corners.

“Emerge from darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure.” And expand until you veil all the bones in this Domain. Cheeky bastard had been dropping hints after all.

Mustering the cursed energy to erect the barrier goes easier this time. The tugging sensation of the technique is familiar; Yuji knows to brace for it. And just as expected, a milky darkness encompasses them, obscuring the red glow of the Innate Domain’s outer fringes.

“Wouldja look at that!” Yuji crows triumphantly, throwing his hands above his head. “Whoo! And I didn’t even poop myself, not even a little bit!”

Sukuna groans. “You had to go and ruin it, didn’t you?” He allows Yuji to drag him into a high-five. “And your dissolution condition was…?”

“Oh, fuck.” It’s like the curtain was never really there…

Another huff, but fonder this time — the shake of Sukuna’s head matched by the curve of his lips. “I suppose incredible progress might be too much to ask of you at this time.”

“I just forgot!” Yuji blusters, though it’s only half-sincere. Something warm takes root in his chest at the sight of Sukuna’s amusement. A bloodless, painless type of amusement — so normal, like an ‘I told you so’ in fewer words. They could’ve been friends, he’d once thought. I’ll win him over. Yuji felt stupid for ever considering it for a good long while. Maybe all he needed was a healthy dose of pity to wash all the rest away.

Before he thinks better of it, he reaches out. Yuji’s not sure whether he intended to pat Sukuna’s shoulder or poke his cheek. Either way, his hand drops before he gets close. Sukuna hadn’t missed the motion, brow raised in suspicion. “You’re pretty good at this, y’know.”

“At sorcery?” says Sukuna incredulously. He feigns striking at Yuji’s head. “You had best be joking, you sanctimonious little —”

Yuji flinches and raises his hands. “I meant about teaching!” he cries, so quickly that the statement sounds more like one long word.

“Oh.” The shades of shyness color the way Sukuna turns away, obscuring his face as he returns his hands to his sleeves. Movement whispers what an absent blush silences, discomfort over sheer embarrassment. The band around his waist wriggles, like Sukuna’s absently scratching his side. How cute.

“Have you… done this before?” Yuji ventures. “You just… seem experienced.”

Whatever Sukuna’s initial reaction is, it doesn’t make it out of his mouth. Yuji sees it bubble in his throat, sees the pinched skin between angry brows and the flash of teeth preparing for a harsh rebuke. Then, his jaw clicks shut. Still surly, there’s less bite than Yuji had braced himself for.

“Not with anyone as imbecilic as you.” The nugget of honesty, buried underneath all the vitriol, is even more unexpected. It doesn’t last. “Well? Don’t get so complacent, Itadori Yuji. Another hundred curtains. You had best get started.”

Yuji gapes. “What? But that’s so many!”

“Complaining?” Sukuna grins, as menacing as he’s ever been. Yuji feels a familiar chill crawl down his spine in spite of himself, only just dampened by indignation. “Go ahead, keep that up and I’ll make it a thousand.”

24 JUNE 2019.

The bleachers are absolutely scorching, like touching the surface of the sun as Yuji leans back on one hand. Yuta gives him a perturbed look at his Goofy-like yelp and then a pitying one as Yuji cools his now-reddened palm with the side of his soda can, cradling it in both hands the way a baby would his bottle. The elder student’s posture leaves much to be desired, but his track pants seem to protect him well enough from the seat-turned-skillet.

Looking out on the grass, the bottle trees, and the clear sky, Yuji thinks he’s a little tired of this view. Between class, private lessons with Sukuna, and his classmates requesting his help in training, he’s fairly certain he sees the practice field more than he does the inside of his dorm room. Especially so given that he stumbles around it with his eyes closed shortly after waking up and bumps around in the dark after Sukuna-cram-school so as not to advertise that he broke curfew. He makes a mental note to request a different venue for tonight. For this encounter, it was the boy next to him who’d decided where they should meet.

“You did well,” blurts Yuta, pulling Yuji from his thoughts. “To be honest, I’m not sure why Kusakabe-sensei thought you needed tutoring…”

Because he does, and he’s already getting it from someone else. From who? — sorry, whom? — …yeah, don’t worry about it.

Instead, Yuji mumbles, “I’m a quick study,” which isn’t untrue. “Hey, at least you’re getting class credit for doing nothing. Not that they’d ever flunk a Special Grade.”

Yuta hums noncommittally.

The back of Yuji’s throat feels ticklish in the long silence. “Do you have to make up for a lot, since you’ve had to deal with the Gojo and Kamo clans instead of going to class?”

Yuta shakes his head. “Third year is more mission-based, so not really. I can get an auxiliary manager to rearrange my schedule.”

“Ah.”

“But extra credit never hurts. Maybe I’ll finally get to beat out Panda for top of the class.”

“Cheater.”

The other snorts. “A grade’s a grade, isn’t it?” His impish grin reminds Yuji of Shinjuku. The honesty of the dishonest. And with such an innocent baby-face, too, big and sparkly eyes and whatnot. It’s a wonder any of the elders take Yuta seriously.

“How’s that going, by the way?” In truth, Yuji has little by way of reference. Gojo had been careful to keep himself away from politics and Yuji ignorant of them, Kusakabe would devolve into a grumbling snit, Megumi plugs his ears to any and all talk of his recently deceased relatives, and Sukuna’s brain is filled with an encyclopedia of infighting from before Japan was ever unified but empty of any whispers of today. Why on earth would I pay attention to what that person had to say? he’d spat when Yuji asked if Kenjaku ever caught him up to speed.

Yuji has the feeling that Yuta doesn’t really have anyone to vent to about this, save perhaps Inumaki, and so he’s compelled to lend an ear.

His suspicions are proven correct when the other boy slouches further, proverbial weight made manifest in the slope of his shoulders. Yuta sighs with all the misery of a wisened, arthritic old man, and he sways as Yuji sympathetically pats his back.

“Both clans are still floundering. They run around like headless chicken, crashing into walls and stuff.” He rolls his can in between his palms, looking down at his ring. “They’re not very happy with the democratization of sorcery, though that’s hardly unexpected. They just — they don’t listen. The Gojo clan keeps acting like I’m nominally one of them, like I’m Gojo-sensei now. I don’t really think they understand that the old ways are over.”

“Yeah, sure seems like they moved on to you pretty quickly.” Yuji blinks. He hadn’t meant for that to come out so prickly. Raising his hands in surrender, he quickly adds, “I mean, like, they never visit him or anything. Like they were waiting to forget about Gojo-sensei, that’s all.”

There’s a playful glimmer in Yuta’s eye that negates his kind, forgiving smile. “You’re just trying to pass off your cleaning duties to Gojo’s parents, aren’t you?”

“Uh, duh. Do you know how hard it is to scrub with only eight fingers?”

His joke has the opposite effect, a flash of guilt crossing Yuta’s face. Dangnabbit.

“Well…” It’s a miserable transition. Nevertheless, Yuji persists. “Gojo probably wouldn’t have wanted their grubby little hands all over his headstone anyway.”

“You’re probably right,” Yuta mumbles in agreement.

Yuji pitches himself into a falsetto, mimicking Kugisaki’s boastful tone. “That’s ‘cause I’m always right! Don’t’cha go forgettin’ it!” There, that’s the laugh he was looking for.

Not much has changed in the past six months, really — for Yuta, anyway. Besides the scar across his forehead and the deeper eyebags, and the disarming smile Yuji’s since grown used to, he looks mostly the same. Whatever’s going on between him and Maki is another story, but it’s none of Yuji’s business.

He supposes his point is that Yuta doesn’t really look like the strongest, and his countenance outside of battle doesn’t much lend itself to that moniker either. On the one hand, Yuta’s solid and unwavering sense of duty is precisely what makes him the ideal shepherd, and he’s still a growing boy. On the other, Gojo’s stature was informed by genetics instead of sorcery, and to have them transfer the weight he carried so effortlessly onto another’s shoulders would make him roll in his grave. Gojo was confident they’d all stand tall together. Yuji promised him as much. It’s bad form to lie to the dead.

His voice catches on a hard ‘c’ before he even formulates the question: Can you give me your opinion? Could you tell me if I’m doing the right thing? Can a monster really turn good? Can anyone convince them to? There are a million, billion, trillion possibilities in a voiceless velar stop. No right or wrong questions — that’s what Yuta would say, to go with the earnest, encouraging, open expression on his face. But the word coward also starts with a hard ‘c.’ Yuji pivots.

“Could you show me that thing Rika does where she turns into a surveillance room?”

“Hm? Oh, sure.”

The familiar paneling and the tower of screens blank without the corresponding crows are not as comforting as Yuji would have hoped. Burying his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, he tips his head all the way back to look for a ceiling in the pitch darkness stretching above them. “The tesselation kinda makes this a mix of an Empty Barrier and an Innate Domain, huh?”

Yuta blinks. “Yeah, you’re right.” He squints suspiciously. “Are you sure you need tutoring…?”

Yuji shrugs, the tips of his ears warm. “I’m nothing special,” he demurs. With an accommodating nod, Yuta thinks he means, Anyone could’ve put two and two together. And Yuji did mean that, in part.

He’s content with keeping the rest of it to himself.

25 JUNE 2019.

For the most part, Yuji’s been incredibly compliant with his lessons. If it didn’t make things easier for him, Sukuna would probably call him a doormat. He doesn’t question the curriculum even if it doesn’t align with Kusakabe’s, he adheres to the outlandish hours, and he runs drills without complaint. But today, of all days, Yuji has started to feel the slightest of doubts.

In truth, Kusakabe’s lessons now seem easy as a result of Sukuna’s teachings. It’s still a little hard to synthesize the knowledge in the neverending writing assignments, but his inability to articulate is more of a ‘Yuji has a small vocabulary’ problem and less of a ‘Yuji doesn’t know shit’ one. Some days, he feels bored because he’s already learned the material, not because he’s so lost it feels impossible to catch up. Once in a while, Sukuna will humble him by throwing a bunch of technical jargon like reinforcement and external barriers and mumbo jumbo about understanding the shape of his technique, all terminology that Gojo dumbed down or glossed over, but if there’s anything Yuji’s good at, it’s rolling with the punches.

He wonders if the class above his had to do this much cramwork too. They’d had a fairly busy six months in their time as well, so he’s heard. Must be exhausting to survive two catastrophic Christmas Eves in a row. Either way, their landing pad was probably much softer than his current one.

It’s far too early to start learning about Domains.

Yuta has begun helping Megumi with his, sure, but Fushiguro had already started developing his technique as far back as last July if not earlier. Their Domains are of similar archetypes as arsenals, so it makes sense.

Sukuna’s particular interest in Yuji’s Domain, in turn, reeks of ulterior motives. It has to be morbid curiosity, a fascination with the leading factor in his undoing, that compels him. Unlike the other two, Malevolent Shrine isn’t anything like Yuji’s Domain. It’s a whack ‘em, smack ‘em ‘til they’re dead kind of Domain, like Unlimited Void — though, if Yuji thinks about it, he did use his Domain to beat Sukuna into submission and right onto death's door.

The realization is not nearly as unsettling as the toothy grin being sent his way. “You know,” Yuji begins, peering at Sukuna out of the corner of his eye, “if you wanted to catch crayfish with me so bad, you could’ve just asked.”

“I will hit you,” Sukuna declares, his smile unwavering. Rather than make good on his threat, Sukuna flicks him on the forehead instead. “You should be glad that I’ve deigned to acknowledge you and your half-baked Domain, Itadori Yuji.”

“Whuh —?!” If he had intended to provoke, it’s worked perfectly. “Half-baked? I’ll show you half-baked!”

He should know better than to fall for obvious bait, to give in to Sukuna’s challenging smirk and throw himself headlong into something he doesn’t understand. The first time was a fluke — that’s what Sukuna’s trying to say and what Yuji already realizes deep inside. And yet the urge to prove him wrong is just as inexorable, scored into him like Shrine into Yuji’s flesh.

Compared to forming a curtain for the first time, Yuji’s hands fall into place easily. It’s instinctual on some level, he’s pretty sure, the closest he’s ever come to understanding the intrinsic nature of innate techniques. A ring of white swirls around the perimeter, expanding in a flash of blinding light, cursed energy flooding the space like a fountain from his opened ribcage as it bubbles up from his sternum in a torrential flow.

There’s less desperation in it than there was in Shinjuku — maybe that’s why half-baked ends up being quite the apt descriptor.

It’s Yuji’s hometown they’re smack dab in the middle of, all right. But it’s weird. Everything looks off, the photorealistic vibrance instead replaced with a cartoony scribble — like the background is straight out of Crayon Shin-chan or something, a mixed-media mishmash of ever-shifting watercolor and colored pencil. The set pieces are familiar: the stable and the troughs within, the scary swing he once got stuck in, the sink by the sandbox at the park. It’s just that he looks like he’s tossed them headfirst into a children’s storybook.

“What is this?” asks Sukuna, perplexed.

“I don’t know,” spits Yuji, face ablaze with equal parts embarrassment and confusion.

Sukuna doesn’t think very highly of him, he knows that. The man never misses an opportunity to call him a nincompoop or a simpleton or a troglodyte or any number of sophisticated (Hardly, scoffs the Sukuna-like voice in his head, you’re just so illiterate that everything sounds sophisticated to you) insults under the sun. And even though Yuji knows they’re said with as much affection as Sukuna’s shriveled little heart can muster, he tries not to give him any more ammunition. Falling flat on his face has never shamed him as much as this exact moment, whether it’s because of his boasting from three seconds ago or because he’s just humiliated himself in front of Sukuna specifically. Yuji forces himself to stare at the patchy, chicken scratch ground.

“I haven’t expanded my Domain since Shinjuku,” he mutters into his collar. It barely qualifies as a defense, let alone an acceptable one.

Sukuna sighs amidst a flurry of tsks that truly shows his age. “You’ve allowed your blade to dull,” he chides. Hand coming to encompass the entire dome of Yuji’s head, Sukuna maneuvers him so that they make eye contact. “Perhaps I should put you in mortal danger once more?”

“Would that work?”

Yuji would not be surprised to find five grooves in the shape of Sukuna’s fingers embedded into his scalp from how hard he’s currently squeezing. Once he feels Yuji has sufficiently cried uncle, he cuffs him on the ear. “No, you fool. You’re lacking in cursed energy output.”

The Domain shatters into twinkling pieces of shadow glass just to prove his point. Yuji watches them fall mournfully.

“There’s a reason why our lessers can only do it once a day,” Sukuna continues.

Huh. Our. Yuji could read too much into that.

Or he could continue to work off the excess embarrassment by grumbling some more. “Oh, so, what, did you open your Domain every day for six years or something, Mister Discipline?” That Sukuna isn’t as easily prodded only irritates him even further. It seems only yesterday that Yuji drawing breath would in turn draw Sukuna’s unerring disdain. “It’s a wonder Japan isn’t just a giant crater after, like, a thousand days of Malevolent Shrine-age.”

“I did not atomize my surroundings daily for six years,” Sukuna corrects. “But I did train myself on the basics. I reduced the time it took for me to expand my Domain. I tested its limits in terms of size and strength. I toyed with hard and soft barriers. I saved the most destructive parts for last. Then, I meal-prepped.”

“Oh, ew!” But Yuji laughs in spite of himself, which brings a pleased flush to Sukuna’s cheeks. Yuji wonders if he knows it’s there. He supposes even the King of Curses needs validation every once in a while. He clears his throat. “So, um. If you’ve never had a teacher, how did you know to do that? How did you even know you could channel cursed energy?”

Wordlessly, Sukuna gestures to his face with his upper arms and the rest of his body with the lower ones.

“Oh. Yep, that’ll do it.”

“Still, I suppose some of it was instinctual,” admits Sukuna, rubbing his chin. There’s a faraway look in his eye, a gaze piercing back a thousand years. Yuji feels a little bit like he’s intruding. “Duress is a harsh but competent master, more so than any man.”

Abruptly, he uses both hands on his left side to snap at Yuji. “Anyway, cease your procrastinating. Open another Domain — and take care to do it properly this time, Itadori Yuji.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yuji’s still not entirely sure what that means. Sukuna hardly ever gives step-by-step tutorials in his lessons, evidently expecting Yuji to learn by observation alone. It’s helped somewhat, allowing him to recognize patterns in certain techniques and identify spikes or changes in cursed energy. He should count his lucky stars that Sukuna hasn’t chosen to demonstrate a properly executed Domain with Malevolent Shrine, Simple Domain mastery or otherwise.

He ultimately settles on taking his time — mere seconds in reality, but an internal, sorcerous hour. Yuji concentrates on the cursed energy in his gut, feels it ebb and flow like a tide until he can twist it into a typhoon, into the swirling mass of a hurricane as seen from outer space. He recalls his lessons of intention, pictures Kirakami in his mind’s eye (the fluffy clouds in the sky, the dirt between his toes, the earthy scent before it had become all smog, cotton candy melting on his tongue). And when he opens his eyes, he’s there.

They both are.

“Okay,” Yuji says, trying not to sound too proud of himself. “What now? Wanna ride a horsie? Or should we smack each other around for old times’ sake?”

Sukuna’s not even looking at him, holding up a finger in the universal gesture for shh. His face is tilted skyward instead, brows furrowed as he searches for… something. A flaming meteor to crash into the planet and put them both out of their misery, maybe? The lattice surrounding him, Hollow Wicker Basket, unfolds and sinks into the ground. Finally, he says, “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” Yuji asks. “The mall? It’s, like, ten minutes by car that wa—”

“No, you imbecile. Where’s the sure-hit attack?”

Yuji stares blankly at him. “Um… I’m not trying to kill you?”

A look of annoyance crosses Sukuna’s features before he recalibrates. He really is making leaps and bounds with this whole patience thing, though Yuji isn’t going to applaud him for that. “Purely illusory cursed techniques do not typically form the framework of a Domain,” he explains. “Conventionally, they are isolated techniques — the constant torment of that hostess girl, things of that nature. An Innate Domain and a technique meant to obscure something or disorient a target are distinct entities. If anything, an illusory Domain’s sole purpose would be to knock their target unconscious.”

“Uh-huh,” says Yuji uncomprehendingly.

Sukuna ticks off each finger as he continues. “Consider the different types of sure-hit attacks: Malevolent Shrine and Unlimited Void have immediately debilitating effects of the physical and mental variety, Authentic Mutual Love applies the sure-hit to one specific technique, the information overload of Idle Death Game serves as its sure-hit despite its relatively passive nature. The closest I can ascribe to your Domain here is the farce of a trial enacted by Deadly Sentencing, in which certain conditions must be met before the sure-hit is activated.”

He gestures to the plain, quotidian scenery. “Soul sundering was unique to our conflict, to be sure. But is that your sure hit, or was it a technique you deliberately injected into the Domain?”

Yuji doesn’t have an answer to that question; all he can remember is the panic and the desperation, frantically grasping at Megumi as he continued to wriggle out of his grasp like the world’s most powerful salmon. There was no time to think and choose, it was all act! act! act! And maybe it felt right, but maybe that was just because he wanted it to. Helplessly, Yuji shrugs. “I don’t —”

The scenery around them starts to blur a muddy brown, streaking across in a thick band like they’re spinning the way Jack and Rose did in Titanic. Darkness loops around them, shrinking the sepia-toned kaleidoscope into widescreen, and then the rotation slows until full images are visible, stuttering and grainy in the style of early silent film and Chaplin. Yuji recognizes each of these vignettes, both pivotal (a figure crumbling to ash before him in Shinjuku, that fateful night on the roof of his old school, the fluorescent lights in Shibuya Station as a charred half-husk turns to smile) and inconsequential (his grandfather begrudgingly clambering onto the other side of a seesaw, getting hit in the face with Kugisaki’s sixth skirt from Uniqlo, that time Sukuna had woken him up by climbing onto his face to look at the snow).

And then, at some point, the reel of film takes a nosedive toward the unfamiliar. Pastoral and quaint, a countryside people think of when they hear where Yuji’s from but which he’s never known. Farmers and samurai, retainers one has to crane their necks to look up to, then meet their eyes head-on, and finally look down their nose at. A pagoda, a shrine, offerings of grain and desperate prayers. A group of sorcerers whose bravado dies mangled in their throats, spilling out with lifeblood as they’re slit. A — what the hell, a naked woman bouncing — bounding, that’s what he meant! — toward him, a faceful of her breasts. An awful place for the barrier to break.

“Memory,” Sukuna blurts, the word mildly distorted in the back of his throat. It’s too late; Yuji’s seen more than he ever wanted to. “Your Domain has to do with memory. Somewhat like Deadly Sentencing, as I suspected.”

“Oh, does it,” replies Yuji, trying not to side-eye the other too hard. That last montage certainly wasn’t of his own recollection, so…

Sukuna notices, observant as he is. The scowl is more irritated than indignant, exasperation more than embarrassment. Yuji thinks there might be a twinge of begrudging fondness in Sukuna’s gaze, but he can’t tell if it’s genuine or if he simply doesn’t care enough to develop actual distaste. Sukuna does not elaborate on that front, valiantly staying the course as an educator.

“You’ve yet to fully develop it,” he continues. “Deadly Sentencing has its participants partake in a Vow that prevents conflict, manufacturing a criminal trial scenario. You’ll notice that a Domain’s name tends to inform its appearance and its abilities in equal measure. Because you have yet to discover yours, it is incomplete. But you are making progress.”

“Huh…” The reluctant praise barely registers. “Don’t users name their Domains?”

“That’s not been my experience,” answers Sukuna. “If anything, it comes to you — the way sorcery naturally does. Pieces of a puzzle for you to put together.”

“Aw, balls. There goes my plan to inflict psychic damage on curse users by calling it something like Buttlestar Galasstica. Or calling it something one-worded and mysterious, like Olive. It’d make you think about a deeper meaning or something.” Yuji snickers. “Then again, I guess it makes sense. No one as crotchety as you could come up with as raw a name as Malevolent Shrine on the fly.”

Sukuna’s reply is a flying kick that Yuji just manages to dodge.

As the Innate Domain fades away and the sturdy ankle in his grasp transforms instead into a nub, flashes of Sukuna’s memories play against the backs of his eyelids with each blink. He doesn’t know how to broach this — he probably shouldn’t, if he knows what’s best for him — but it seemed… lonely. Both what he expected of Sukuna’s past and not.

Yuji’s heart aches for him, a warm sting.

3 JULY 2019.

Two against one, most of the time, isn’t a fair fight. Sometimes, it’s necessary — like Yuji and Nanami beating the snot out of Mahito together, or Yuji working with Todo to disorient Sukuna with Boogie Woogie. In this instance, Megumi and Nobara tag-teaming in a frantic attempt to take him out, Yuji can’t blame them. He tries not to be too smug about it (though he’s probably failing miserably).

It’s supposed to be a battle royale, every man for himself, but Kusakabe doesn’t break the duo up (assuming he’s even still watching) and so Yuji adapts. Neither of his classmates can beat him hand-to-hand; he knows that and so do they. Still, fisticuffs are what he has to resort to if he’s not going to use Shrine. He’s not that great at adjusting its potency and any strike that lands will probably require Shoko’s attention, so it’s better left alone until he has better control. In exchange, he’ll allow Nobara to bap him on the head with her squeaky hammer — if she can catch him first.

Yuji had told the others he wouldn’t use Cleave or Dismantle, and he isn’t going to, but this doesn’t stop him from leaving its tracks. Unlike Sukuna’s invisible, jarring strikes, the perforation and cut-here lines present a perfect avenue for misdirection. Funneling the two into a straight line is child’s play, Yuji thinks with a manic grin.

Megumi realizes their misstep first, but he can’t do anything about it as Yuji grabs him around the elbows and rolls into a front tuck. His feet dig into Megumi’s gut as he springs him forward, using the momentum to fling him through the air and directly into Nobara. She goes down like a bowling pin with an unsuspecting ‘Oof!’ Yuji takes advantage of their shared dizziness to clock them both on the head (gentler than they’ve ever been with him, mind) and declare his victory.

Kusakabe confirms it with a half-hearted thumbs up. “Good job, Itadori,” he says around his cig. “Fushiguro, Kugisaki, you need to be as aware of your teammates as you are of your environment. Anything can be used as a weapon, including yourselves. But other than that, nice work. You’re all dismissed.”

He’s the first to leave, beating a hasty path back to the administrative building before Yuji can bow.

Both Megumi and Nobara take his hand when he offers to pull them up, but only the latter has anything to say (typical, he thinks), snarling, “What the hell was that?” as she brushes the dirt off her hands.

“Oh, just something I learned from Sukuna,” Yuji shrugs.

The execution was sloppy, in truth. He knows for certain that Sukuna would agree; without an extra pair of arms to stabilize his trajectory, he easily could’ve fumbled the toss. Megumi could’ve gone flying to the side, or the kick could’ve been too weak and left Yuji vulnerable to an attack from Nobara as he righted himself. It may not have even worked in the reverse, Nobara’s reflexes just slow enough whilst Megumi could’ve summoned a shikigami to catch her. All in all, he supposes it was a good first try, if nothing else.

— Wait, what did he just say?

“The fuck was going on out there in Shinjuku?” Nobara grumbles, apparently oblivious to Yuji’s entire foot inserted into his mouth. She continues to dust off her clothes as she scoffs at him. “Was he bowling with you guys out there? Good lord.”

Yuji just manages to keep his sigh of relief internal. He’s never been so happy to be on the same Dumbass wavelength as anyone else before.

If Megumi chooses to level him with a suspicious and confused look, however, Yuji chooses not to acknowledge it. It’s for the best, for both their sakes.

14 JULY 2019.

Having a totally unique, never-before-seen cursed technique sounds super cool. It should come with bragging rights, surely. But then reality sinks in and you realize that you’ve got to figure out all this stuff by yourself. Or, in Yuji’s case, ‘by yourself with an annoying Ryomen Sukuna in your ear telling you that you’re doing trial and error all wrong.’

Because of that, they’ve shifted gears back to general ed. Sukuna goes over standard, basic Binding Vows, debates battlefield tactics, teaches new maneuvers like his roll, and even finds it in himself to compliment Yuji on occasion. It’s clear there are other things on his mind. A curiosity as insatiable as his can’t be pacified with one measly revelation, but he’s shown considerable restraint. One would think that someone of Sukuna’s caliber has forgotten just how taxing it is to expand a Domain. Yuji hadn't noticed it the first time, hopped up on adrenaline as he was during Shinjuku.

As such, Sukuna seems to believe three or so weeks is an adequate resting period before trying again. In Yuji’s opinion, the sticky humidity and oppressive heat, hot rains that never truly dry even after they’re over, mixed in with his sweat, isn’t an ideal time to do anything. But any more waiting, and he might just forget, and Sukuna’s irrepressible curiosity may have debilitating consequences.

“Wait,” Sukuna says incongruously, weighing heavily upon Yuji’s shoulder. “You should take one of my memories.”

That is perhaps the last thing Yuji expected to come out of his mouth.

“Your Domain touches the soul, does it not? As nosy as you are, you should have no issues with picking one.” Sukuna’s single eye rolls, his mouth quirked in amusement at his own barb.

“Are… are you sure?” Yuji’s pretty certain that he knows what the response will be, but that’s assuming that this isn’t a hallucination to begin with.

“Would I have suggested it myself if I was not certain?” Yep, right down to the last word. He’s not really sure whether it’s a good or bad thing that he understands the King of Curses so well.

The thing is, Yuji’s also certain that Sukuna’s the type to bottle up his discomfort if he can’t immediately extricate himself from a distressing situation. It's a whole stiff upper lip sort of thing. He seems too proud to admit any regrets or that he’s shot himself in the foot. He takes pride in his ability to grit his teeth and endure, in his identity as a survivor. Yuji has no idea the depths from which Sukuna’s had to claw his way out — depths he’s now been given license to check — but he doesn’t want to add to the hurt. There’s also no way he can bring this up without offending Sukuna, so there’s not much Yuji can do but shrug.

When he expands his Domain, it’s much easier going than last time. The barrier is sizable, reinforced, and strong. They’re both sucked into a blackened void, the whole of Sukuna stretched out into his humanoid form — his True Soul, perhaps — with only an elbow lingering on Yuji’s shoulder. The darkness flickers to life like an old-timey projector slowly warming up. Rather than the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flashes from the previous expansion, scenes from Sukuna’s life play out just a little faster than in real-time.

Unsurprisingly, a good majority of it is blood and strife and death. Yuji feels Sukuna chuckle, a tad patronizingly, as he waves a hand to skip through all of it. It’s all very Iron Man to him, manipulating the imagery with swipes and pinching and pointing fingers, and it takes Sukuna muttering that he’s having way too much fun with this to get back on track. Refocused, Yuji finds himself drawn to the peaceful moments in Sukuna’s life. They’re few and far between and Yuji’s nosy, just like he said. Sukuna had to be someone before he became the King of Curses.

Like a little boy strung to his mother’s back by thick strips of cloth.

“Ah,” Sukuna says, his face carefully blank.

Mama Sukuna’s face is beaded with sweat as she tills her fields, her back hunched from both years of labor and the weight of the child tied there. Said child, though obscured by a thick, dark coat at odds with the harsh sun, seems just on the cusp of too-large to carry. A pang of pity strikes Yuji right in the center of his chest as he hunches over to see the little boy.

All that’s visible of him are kicking feet attached to thin legs. Under the sack-turned-cloak is a small, gaunt face marked with four eyes. Two tiny fists rest curled against his mother’s back, one thumb jammed into the corner of his mouth and the last grabbing a clump of his mother’s hair to absently chew on like straw.

“Aw, look at you,” Yuji coos. The cuteness aggression is almost too much to handle, he wants to uppercut someone. “Heh, a foodie since birth, I should’ve known.”

“Would not the son of a magistrate be privy to all the best food his province had to offer?” Sukuna scoffs, crossing his arms as the view changes. Pulling them both in a StreetView streaky blur, he stares impassively at an important-looking man as he lounges in his office and puffs from a pipe. “His Eminence my father, easily bribed by meat and coin.”

There’s something off about the way Sukuna lazily turns his head to offer a crooked grin — something expectant, challenging, a dare veiled in the daggerpoint of a canine. He’s probably waiting for Yuji to say that he looks nothing like his father.

To be fair, if he had less tact than he already does, Yuji might’ve. Sukuna and his mother share coloring, roseate hues common among both them and Yuji too. But the magistrate is nothing like Sukuna. He has high, full, aristocratic cheeks, his nose flatter and smaller above an equally tiny mouth. His skin is much paler compared to his farmer-tanned wife — another oddity considering she should’ve been pampered by her husband’s wealth and position — and his frame overall much more diminutive in comparison to the behemoth his son would grow into. Where Sukuna is all broad bulk and corded muscle, the magistrate is slight and curved inward. The only thing father and son have in common is the heavy-lidded apathy (or antipathy, perhaps) in their eyes.

When Yuji won’t say his line, Sukuna explains, “I was a curse for my mother’s sin.”

A child out of wedlock. Blameless persecution personified. It makes sense.

“My beginnings were more wretched than humble,” muses Sukuna as Yuji guides them back to the fields. Bemusement slants his mouth. “Perhaps that is how I knew to aim so high.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a king,” Yuji agrees in an absent mutter.

There’s a loud splash as soon as the moment unfreezes, a flurry of sound and movement so quick and thunderous that Yuji can’t follow what has happened. It’s only when he spots a bony ankle replacing the hoe in the woman’s grasp that he realizes she had flung Sukuna off her back. She seems not to notice the sling twisted around her windpipe as the boy splashes around in the muddy paddy.

Not a second after a spluttering Sukuna resurfaces without his cloak does a hand strike him across the cheek. The force of the slap is strong enough to fling his head to the side. It’s so loud it makes Yuji’s ears ring.

“How many times have I told you to stop wriggling while I’m working?” Sukuna’s mother shrieks, unmoved by his trembling lips and ensuing wail. Instead, she grabs two of the arms on one side, already instinctively raised to protect himself. Tears start to spill from her own eyes as she cuffs him on the ear. Her voice drowns Sukuna’s out as she continues to scream.

“Why are you crying?” she demands. “I’ve more right to cry than you ever will, little demon. You wretched thing, if you had never been born—”

Yuji reaches out to grab her arm or hit her or something, but they glide seamlessly through one another. Sukuna stands off to the side, tense, and refuses to look upon his younger self. He knows what’s coming next, knew before Yuji that there would be no third hit, but he’s still so tightly wound. A vein bulges in his neck, jawbone jutting out against taut skin.

Little Sukuna shrinks away from his mother, though her raised arm is just to point. “Go back to the house,” she orders. Her voice is now an eerie calm as she smooths down her hair and untangles the sling. Grabbing the sopping and heavy fabric from the muck, she tosses it in her child’s face. “Go on, brat. And remember to hide your revolting face.”

So the boy goes, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind him. He breaks into an unsteady sprint, hiccups audible.

“Shit,” is all Yuji can say, hardly a breath. What could he offer Sukuna at a time like this? A snarky quip — that Sukuna had won the Shitty Evil Mom Olympics or that this errs a little too close to the plot of Wicked? Should he extend his condolences? Would Sukuna even prove receptive to that? “That — that’s awful.”

Sukuna looks at him for a long time in silence. Then: “Is it?” He quirks a brow. “If I hadn’t chosen to run away at this very moment, I would have died a miserable death here.”

A quick trot is all it takes to catch up with the strides of a small, now obviously malnourished child. Yuji catches himself outpacing the memory fragment once or twice, having to skid to a stop once they reach the family hut. The boy stares at it, lingering, hands trembling as they clutch his hood. Then, he uncurls his fingers.

Letting the fabric hit the ground, he takes off again — this time heading further down the road. He passes a Jizo statue around the height of his knobby knees in his flight, leg catching on the round head. The flatland of the paddies makes it easy to see the boy despite the distance as he bypasses the terraces to the south. He clutches his stomach like he’s starving, head bobbing along in what looks like delirium, but he just runs and runs and runs and runs.

“This was my true birth,” says Sukuna, seeming as though he’s speaking more to himself than Yuji. His eyes never leave his younger self until he’s but a speck on the horizon.

Quietly, Yuji asks, “How old were you?”

“From the looks of it, four or so. We didn’t really keep track.” Tall for his age.

“And you survived, all on your own?”

There it is again, that shark-like grin. Equal measures of pride and spite and resentment. Sukuna is not as enlightened and transcendent as he likes to appear. It must be hell, holding onto such hatred for over a thousand years — but, then again, could Yuji blame him? He’d never know what it was like. He was fortunate to grow up in the modern age, still marred by prejudice but mostly unfettered by superstition, raised by a stern and loving grandfather who’d more than made up for his absent parents.

“Theft was the only answer,” says Sukuna, recapturing Yuji’s attention. “I got quite good at it, actually, seeing as there was no alternative. Charity is reserved for the pure.”

“But children are pure,” Yuji pushes back. There’s a flash in his periphery from somewhere down below, but he’s too busy trying to catch Sukuna’s eye. He has his work cut out for him, with all four resolutely gliding over the top of his head. He’d reach out to touch a shoulder or an elbow if it wouldn’t cost him a hand — anything to tether Sukuna to him, not necessarily comfort but at least acknowledgment.

Unfortunately, they’re equally stubborn. And while Yuji is fine with accepting accusations of weakness, the mere implication of it is too much for present company to handle. Sukuna means for his scoff to be the end of it, Yuji knows. If he wanted to be cruel, he could tell Sukuna that he asked for this.

How lucky Sukuna is that mercy comes more easily to Yuji. “I’m sorry,” he says, going more for pointed than patronizing, “for what happened to you. It was awful no matter how you try to spin it, and I’m sorry no one helped you see that before you strayed down a darker path. It doesn’t have to be this way anymore.”

By now, the golden glow has burned into a harsh white, impossible to ignore. Yuji holds out a hand over it, hovering over the light of the Jizo statue — an instinctual act, as though he’s been puppeted if not for the complete consciousness and consent for the gesture — and a staff materializes in his grasp. Six feet in length, it has a wooden shaft, one end covered in brass. Twelve rings sit interlocked on the ornamentation as he moves it into a vertical position. A khakkhara, he recognizes dimly. There’s a cursed tool that looks like one somewhere in the school’s vault. Thoughts better shelved for another time; right now, he turns back to Sukuna.

The road in the memory, now long empty since the child disappeared over a low hill, splits into two paths, then four, then eight. Wariness colors Sukuna’s face as he looks between Yuji’s eyes, his khakkhara, and the morphing landscape. He leans back on one foot, poised to run even as both sets of arms are crossed defensively in front of him.

“This could be yours,” Yuji intones, tilting his staff toward the other.

“For a low, low price of ¥6500?” snarks Sukuna, lacking his usual bite. “Spare me the infomercial pitch.”

“For the price of a Vow,” corrects Yuji. The words are both his and not, popping into his brain as he speaks like the upcoming lines of a karaoke video. Sukuna takes a step back as Yuji moves forward, a light chase. “Absolute Power could be yours, provided it’s used only to protect another.”

Sukuna’s heavy brow furrows, then swiftly smooths with realization. “This is the purpose of your Domain,” he concludes. “The trial of memory, and then — what, a gift, instead of punishment? By forswearing harm to innocents, I will become the most powerful man alive?”

“You’ll be worthy.”

“Ha!” Sukuna sneers. “How boring. No.”

This time, the Domain doesn’t break — it goes like fog, clearing in clumps that move to either side until it completely evaporates. All that’s left once it’s fully dissipated is the empty indoor basketball court, Yuji, Sukuna perched on his shoulder, and the distinct scent of sulfur. Good to know that the Domain will just throw him back into the fight once its purpose is fulfilled. He’ll have to figure out how to make it last like it did in Shinjuku, assuming it’s worth the cursed energy cost.

“I would prefer not to handicap myself with some Grand Jizo Vow,” declares Sukuna apropos of nothing. He’s trying to convince himself that denying his curiosity was worth it, Yuji assumes. “I would rather derive power from myself than some arbitrary standard of worthiness.”

“Okay,” replies Yuji. “But how did you know?”

“...I know a great many things, Itadori Yuji. You will have to be more specific.”

“You said it, kinda. The name of my Domain — Awakening of the Great Vow.”

26 JULY 2019.

“...so, that was a little confusing at the end,” says Kusakabe, absently scratching the side of his head with the top of his red pen. “But even though your train of thought went a little off the rails, you did have very interesting conclusions and well-sourced evidence. I’d say this is a B-grade paper, which brings your overall grade up to a — C.”

“Really?” Yuji gasps.

Kusakabe nods. “Really. Maybe with some language arts tutoring, you might be able to kick yourself up a letter or two for next semester.”

With reverent hands, Yuji takes the progress report from him. “I’m — wow,” he stammers. “Thanks, sensei. This is, like, the highest grade I’ve ever gotten outside of P.E.”

“And you were doing so well in maintaining what little respect I had for you.”

“Eh, I was bound to lose it at some point anyway.”

Kusakabe chuckles through an exhale. The friendliness is a little disconcerting, though it seems that all they needed was time. Without the threat of Sukuna — to varying degrees, since Kusakabe doesn’t know he’s still alive and Yuji doesn’t think he’s a threat — there’s actually an undercurrent of warmth to him as a teacher. A genuine desire to watch his students succeed, even if he’s a little lazy about it sometimes.

“You know,” he drawls gently, “you really have come a long way. I already knew you were a quick study because of the Replacement training and all that, you just needed to work on the finer details. I’m proud of you, Itadori.”

Oh, aw jeez, aw shucks. Yuji feels his face grow hot. Tucking his chin into his collar, he hums quietly. “Thanks, Kusakabe-sensei.”

“Of course, if I was Usami, I’d follow that up by going on about how wonderful of a teacher I am,” huffs Kusakabe as he leans back in his chair, which creaks ominously. He props his feet on his desk and folds his hands behind his head. “But I’m humble enough to realize this isn’t all my handiwork. So, who should I make the thank you card out to? I know it isn’t Okkotsu.”

“Huh?” says Yuji intelligently.

He should’ve also asked Sukuna to help teach him how to lie. All he can do is flap his mouth open and shut like a half-dead tropical fish bobbing in a dentist’s waiting room tank. For all his reflexes when in fight mode, his brain is startlingly blank now. Yuji could be having a stroke (unlikely; he doesn’t smell toast) for all he knows, the synapses dying one by one.

Kusakabe, who’d been watching him with expectant and beady eyes, pauses before nodding in understanding. “Ah, I see,” he says. “One of those.”

“Um,” Yuji says in reply to his teacher’s eye-twitch that may or may not have been a conspiratorial wink.

“I heard they helped Maki out during the… whole thing. Is it the same guys?” Before Yuji can reply, Kusakabe shakes his head and waves a hand at him. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Plausible deniability and all that, don’t worry, I’m no snitch. Although, I guess there’s really no one else to snitch to except me.”

Yuji laughs weakly. He’s still not entirely sure what’s going on. “Yeah. Right.”

The weight of Kusakabe’s realization, probably his fifth round of relearning that he’s one of the foremost authorities left in the Yamato Jujutsu Society, sits with him before he clears it with a blink. Yuji obligingly pretends they haven’t been sitting in awkward silence when Kusakabe looks back at him.

“You… probably are eager to get to your summer break,” he says stiffly. “You’re dismissed, Itadori.”

With a quick but deep bow, Yuji starts to stuff his progress report into his back pocket, phone pulled out to gloat over his grades until Kusakabe calls his name and brings him to a stop. “Yeah?” Yuji calls over his shoulder.

“I forgot to mention, but we’re doing some restructuring regarding our ranks.”

Yuji had heard about that. Special Grade is a bit of an arbitrary designation, and Yuta’s the only one left. It’s Yuji’s opinion that anyone can get there with hard work and dedication, but the rank is a modern one so it makes sense to rework the system entirely to accommodate their new philosophy. especially with their numbers as few as they are now. “Yeah?”

“I hope you haven’t forgotten all about your Grade 1 Promotional Assessment.” Heh. About that… Kusakabe rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. Shuffling the papers on his desk, he continues, “Yours — and your classmates’, for that matter — is back on. So, while I encourage you to ease up and have fun this coming month, you should expect those missions to start rolling in even though you’re on break from school.”

“Oh.” There isn’t much else to say. Everything had been so hectic following Shibuya that Yuji had honestly forgotten Mei Mei — or was it Ui Ui? — was supposed to be his proctor as much as his team leader. And, if anything, he thought they would scrap the whole ranking system entirely. But this is fine too. Flashing a thumbs up, the sum of all his thoughts on the matter, Yuji simply says: “Cool.”

7 AUGUST 2019.

It’s strange to think that they’re the entire student body — the whole lot of them, stuffed into the large-in-name but small-in-size karaoke room. Their shared propensity for dark clothes makes them look like they’ve all been sucked into the couches, an assortment of limbs akimbo in some Ito Junji-esque multi-human mass. Panda sits on Kirara’s lap, snuck in under the guise of being a Round 1 prize. Here’s to hoping the staff aren’t listening and counting the number of voices inside the room.

Being that it’s Nobara’s birthday, they’d considered getting a fake ID for booze. Hakari looks reasonably old enough to run a solo mission. But then they’d all taken one look at the birthday girl and decided a dry party was probably for the best.

Yuji’s exhausted from his turn on the mic. The dimly lit room, washing everyone in a sultry but headache-inducing magenta glow, is not helping the sudden weight that’s taken over his eyelids. Leaning his head back as far as it’ll go, he hopes to have gravity erase the sleepiness. All that happens is that his vision becomes even more unfocused. His throat is sore from performing five songs in a row, two of which were passionate duets, but that isn’t nearly as painful as watching Inumaki Inumakify some idol ballad with Kirara. Mostly because the ache in his throat is eclipsed by that in his cheeks for smiling so broadly, exacerbated at the same time by a wheezy laugh. His pleas for them to stop fall on deaf ears. Merciless bastards.

A finger prodding at his kidney finally puts an end to his misery, sharp enough to instead draw a hiss. “What—”

Nobara seethes to his right, partially tucked under his arm as he throws it across the back of the seat. Her eyes are trained on the pair across from them. For someone celebrating her seventeenth trip around the sun, she looks particularly venomous, in Yuji’s humble opinion. “Look at them,” she grouses, thrusting her chin in Yuta and Maki’s direction. “They’re gross.”

They’re just sitting next to each other, but okay. Maki’s arm stretches lazily across Yuta’s shoulder, the latter leaning into her as he crosses his legs. It’s a little hard to tell under this light, but Yuji’s pretty sure he reciprocates the gesture with a hand curled around her waist.

“Yeah, it’s gross,” Yuji whispers back. “Look at them subverting gender norms or whatever. I can’t believe she’s the man in the relationship.”

Instead of a poke, Nobara pinches him this time. Yuji’s yelp is only covered because Hakari is screaming directly into the mic at the top of his lungs. Unsatisfied by his lackluster reaction, Nobara smacks him all the way up his arm in her own little percussive jazz performance and then slaps him on the back of the head. “What kind of person do you think I am?” she demands.

He grimaces as he rubs the already forming welt. “I dunno, I thought you were in denial or something.” If his elbow digs its way into her cheek as he massages his arm, she has only herself to blame. “You ready to admit which one you’re jealous of yet? Is it both?”

“...It’s both,” she mutters under her breath.

“Well, you could always ask to be their third,” Yuji jokes.

“My birthday wish was to not be single anymore, so it’s only a matter of time before they come to me.”

“Not when you’ve just jinxed yourself. Didn’t whichever pack of wolves that raised you tell you that it’s bad juju to blab?”

This time, he sees her hand coming and manages to block it. “I was raised by my grandma, you asshole. You know that.” Nobara crosses her arms with a harrumph. “Besides, I’m a lady. Ladies don’t chase, they get chased.”

Yuji lets her have this one, because it’s her birthday.

“What, is being direct how you got your girlfriend?”

Let it be known, Sprite does not feel good coming out of your nose. Yuji hacks wetly into a napkin before using it to mop up the mist of snot-soda he’s just sprayed all over a dozing Megumi. If he wasn’t still reeling from the accusation, he might’ve noticed that all he was doing was spreading his germs around. Alas, there are bigger things at stake.

“You’re not supposed to inhale your drink, dummy,” says Nobara helpfully. “Now it’s all up in your lungs. You’re gonna get pneumonia.”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Yuji gasps out in a single breath.

Thankfully, Nobara does not choose to be obtuse. She shifts uncomfortably — at either the flimsy evidence she’s conjured or the subject matter itself — and averts her gaze. Her words are skewed by her pout, the purse of her lips curving each syllable. “Well, like… you sneak off all the time.”

“Yeah, to study. That’s why my grades are almost better than yours.”

“Almost is the operative word here, you pink-haired bastard,” retorts Nobara without missing a beat. “There’s also whoever you’re texting — you do it all the time, and you’re always hiding your screen from me and Fushiguro.”

“‘Cause it’s none of your business!” He’d used up his stipend buying Sukuna a tablet so they could communicate even while apart. To be honest, he was mostly using it to clarify stuff during class, but now Yuji’s starting to see where she’s coming from. It doesn’t look good. “You guys aren’t my parents!”

“Yes, we are, we raised you with our own two hands.” Her last point is just to look at Yuji, squinting suspiciously up and down the length of him. He feels oddly exposed under the scrutiny, like she’s peeling off a new layer of skin with every flutter of her lashes. “You just… I dunno. You seem more confident in a way, it’s annoying.”

So she’s just as illogical as she’s ever been, good to know. It doesn’t exactly explain why Yuji himself feels so weird about this, though. It’s not like his relationship status has ever bothered him; he’s always been a ‘let the cards fall where they may’ guy. And more often than not, his cards have fallen on the single pile.

(Could it be because someone has already come to mind? No, self-awareness is not a skill he’s proficient in just yet.)

Against his better judgment, Yuji asks, “What about this implies that I have a girlfriend, though?”

“Oh, a boyfriend? Good for you.”

Foot, meet mouth. Hammer, meet nail (and its big, shiny, stupid head). “No, that’s not what — it’s not like that.”

She frowns sympathetically. “Ah, you’re ‘casual?’ Congradolences.”

Since words clearly aren’t working, he settles for a frustrated groan.

“Are you their third?” Shamelessly, Nobara points directly at Kirara and Hakari, who are thankfully too occupied by mixing four types of soft drinks together to notice the giant finger thrust in their direction. She blinks tepidly as Yuji splutters in incredulity. “I just figured your advice about Maki and Okkotsu was given from personal experience.”

“It was a joke!”

“Sure it was.”

For a single, blessed moment, it seems like she’s going to drop it. Fingers drumming on her knee, Nobara looks at the walls and then up at the ceiling, and then she leans over on one side, bony shoulder poking Yuji in the heart of his armpit.

“Is he in the room with us right now?” she asks out of the corner of her mouth. She couldn’t be more obvious unless she held a blinking neon sign pointing directly at Megumi, who is now deep in REM and sliding halfway off the couch.

“Don’t you think you would’ve noticed if we were sneaking off together?” Yuji hisses. “No — on both fronts.”

“Do I know him?”

“Not — really.” Oh, can someone please put him out of his misery?

“What is that supposed to mean?” she says, as though Yuji himself has any clue.

A sigh deflates his shoulders, making him sag forward. Clearly, Nobara isn’t going to leave him alone of her own volition. Yuji’s only recourse is to swap her focus to something else — like her pride. He gives her shoulder two gentle pats.

“I know what this means to you,” Yuji says so gravely that Nobara shifts to fully look at him. “You’re only behaving this way ‘cause you’re scared.”

“Hah?”

“But you don’t have to worry. Just because we’re growing older and growing apart doesn’t mean that I’m replacing you. I will always, always have room for my little girl in my heart.”

She fights back at first, smacking his chest with the heels of her palms as he goes in for a hug. “Are you giving me a divorced parent speech, you piece of shit? Hey! I’m being nosy ‘cause I am nosy, you —” Before long, she settles, resting her pointy chin on his shoulder. It seems she's more sentimental than usual tonight. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

Yuji allows her to thump him on the back twice and violently throw him across the couch. Megumi still isn’t roused from his slumber even though the back of Yuji's skull definitely clacked against his cheekbone. Yuji throws up a haphazard salute. “Thank you so much for your generosity, Madam Prime Minister.”

27 AUGUST 2019.

Even without the extra tutoring, Yuji is surprised to find that he’s glad to have Sukuna around. He understands the value of silence the way Fushiguro does and makes him laugh out loud as much as Kugisaki. When he congratulates Yuji on a particular breakthrough, it gives him the same rush of endorphins as Gojo and Yaga’s praise had. Sukuna doesn’t open up much, but he’s not uncompanionable.

He feels pretty weird about it, given that Shinjuku was only eight months ago.

The passage of time feels both fast and slow — the days of summer are leisurely and draped in comforting warmth, but a look at the calendar makes Yuji feel as though even the detention center was just yesterday. Sukuna never really left him, he thinks, not even in the month they were apart.

Yuji likes to talk at him, even though Sukuna seldom responds. This time around, he seems to actually listen. Without any nefarious plans to bide his time for and only YouTube for stimulation, Yuji supposes it makes sense that Sukuna would hang on to his every word. And it’s nice to just get the noise inside of his brain out.

Mission reports are clinical and stiff, meant to dictate facts in the driest and most clinical of terms. When he recounts his misadventures to Sukuna, Yuji gets to make all the explosion noises he wants. Or, he would, if there were any explosions in his last mission (...or the last ten).

No matter. One of the things Yuji looks most forward to is Sukuna’s crooked smile and the way he says, “Well done, boy.” In this instance, the praise — not that it should matter — may or may not be because of his emphasis on a Cleave trick Sukuna had taught him a few works before.

“It’s weird of you to be so nice,” Yuji snickers, as if he hadn’t planned for this. “But it’s even weirder that you hand out compliments like an old man. Freshen it up a little. Like, ‘Nice going, homes’ or ‘All right, brother!’ Go ahead, try it.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Eh, that’s your loss.” He pops the tab on his soda and pours some into the novelty shot glass he got for Sukuna on his last assignment to Hokkaido. A laugh bubbles in his chest at the way Sukuna tosses back a glass a quarter of his size the way it’s supposed to be used. There’s an urge to pet him, stonewalled by the suspicious slant of his eye as Sukuna looks up at him.

“Spit it out.”

So much for easing him into it. Then again, maybe Yuji’s the one in need of a dramatic segue. He’s waited an awful long time to ask: “So… why did you decide to stick around with me anyway?” Shifting uncomfortably in the wake of Sukuna’s silence, he mumbles, “Like, what changed your mind? Is it ‘cause you didn’t wanna die? If so — no judgment there.”

Sukuna merely watches him. Then, midway through an extended exhale (although Yuji is fairly certain he doesn’t need to breathe), Sukuna snorts. “It is a testament to your nature that you welcomed me with open arms and only now have questions.” The words sound like a commendation, but his tone is too neutral for that, mouth arching in a manner that more befits a sneer than a smile.

He’s like that when it comes to philosophy, on the rare occasions their conversations drift in that direction. Yuji knows where he stands, or at least where he did on Christmas Eve. But now, he’s a mystery.

“To answer your question,” Sukuna says, “I… gave it some thought, and I wanted to know why I lost. It could not be the result of a perfect series of events guided merely by chance.”

Couldn’t it, though? Or, a better question would be — would Sukuna’s ego be able to handle it if that was the case?

“My first life was spite, my second stubbornness,” continues Sukuna. “For my third, I have chosen curiosity — so if you are expecting any genuine altruism on my part, I would suggest unavailing yourself of that notion. I am simply trying to live by your example, for experimental purposes.”

“By… mine?”

“You were the one who vanquished me, after all.” Sukuna cocks his eye ridge, amused. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Itadori.”

It is, but it’s somehow even more embarrassing to deny it. “I’m not trying to be some great savior or anything. I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

“And that is what confounds me the most,” Sukuna replies softly, contemplatively. “How you define such a thing, your certainty in acting upon it is… foreign. It is puzzling — but intriguing.”

Yuji wishes he could read more into this, wishes that it’s a swell of pride in his gut and joy fluttering the chambers of his heart. Yet as much as he loves to lie by omission, Sukuna’s been very forthcoming in this third life of his. He lives by blunt honesty, with particular emphasis on the adjective. When he speaks of intellectual stimulation, this means his moral compass hasn’t moved a single inch. Yuji is patient. But sometimes he does wonder if he’s just sitting around waiting for pigs to fly — and if he’s doing so because he doesn’t know any better.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m a puzzle that comes with hints,” Yuji hums. The idea comes to him, like they always do, in a clap of lightning-clarity. “Try it, spend a day in my shoes, look at the world through my eyes.”

“Oh, must I?” drones Sukuna, rolling his eye.

“Hey, I mean it,” insists Yuji. “You’ve seen my past. Now you can see my present. Maybe use that to figure out your future.”

Any time he tries to be rhetorical or poetic, Sukuna laughs at him. In this instance, he manages to subdue his derision into a weary press of his lips. “If you are quite certain…”

“What, are you scared?”

“You’ve already convinced me, Itadori Yuji. Don’t go erasing all your progress now.” Then Sukuna pauses. “Although, if we may return to our previous topic of conversation…”

“Yeah?”

“Where was your proctor during your mission?”

Immediately, Yuji’s vision goes red. “Don’t get me started on Usami, that guy sucks. So get this —”

Chapter Text

SEMESTER 2: FALL 2019.

31 AUGUST 2019.

“I’m glad to see you all so bright and chipper this morning,” Kusakabe says to a sea of (three) bleary-eyed teenagers. He’s hunched over his podium once more, eyes framed by shadow and cheek bulged by a lollipop tucked between skin and his lower jaw. He must be trying to quit again. “I hope you all enjoyed your summer break. No one in this room wishes it was longer than I do.”

Knowing Kusakabe, that's actually probably correct. It wasn’t really a break, per se, since they still regularly went out on missions handed down by HQ. But they got paid for them (like real sorcerers, pa!) and when they were off the clock, they had nothing but free time. There wasn’t any summer homework either, though Yuji has wondered on occasion if this was a deliberate move on Kusakabe's part. He wouldn't have to grade anything if he didn’t assign anything. Even Sukuna adhered to the school system and honored the respite, barring one or two pushy inquiries about Yuji’s Domain.

Kusakabe’s eyes skim the tops of their heads. “Surely you all remember what the focus of second semester is meant to be?”

“Binding Vows and Rituals,” the second-years intone all at once.

“Whoa, you’re all blowing me away with your enthusiasm.”

When no one laughs, he mumbles something inaudible under his breath and turns to the chalkboard. He makes a large Venn diagram — with surprisingly perfect circles — and labels each end with the aforementioned subjects. “Okay,” he says, brushing the chalk dust off his fingers. He resumes facing the students and spreads his hands. “Who wants to take a stab at filling this thing up?”

Megumi’s hand is the first, albeit reluctant and only, to go up. “Both of them can be made with or upon oneself.”

“Uh-huh.” Kusakabe scrawls each of their answers hastily but legibly. “Anyone else?”

Yuji beats Nobara to the punch. “Both can harm the user if violated or done incorrectly.”

“Sure.”

“Rituals require material components that can sometimes run out,” Nobara offers. “Not every ritual is permanent, but Vows are.”

Megumi again: “Binding Vows are instantaneous.”

“Rituals are more for… I dunno, restraint or bindings? Defense?” Yuji suggests.

Kusakabe scrunches his nose. “Mm. That’s not entirely true, but it’s not untrue either so I’ll put it up.” He gestures to the chart. “Looks a little lop-sided, right? Vows and rituals have a lot in common, that’s true. What we’re going to do for the next three months is dig into the nitty gritty of their differences. That way, it’ll be easier for you all to decide which better supplements your school of sorcery. Are we all on the same page?”

Waiting until he’s called upon, Yuji asks, “Are we gonna make Binding Vows this semester?”

“Good question.” Kusakabe taps the first bullet point under Binding Vows. “It’s up to the discretion of each sorcerer which Binding Vows they would like to take — to customize their load-out, if you’ll pardon my use of your young people lingo. We are not going to force young sorcerers to take a Vow that may or may not prove beneficial just for the sake of education. Even if some of them are no-brainers, like the Vow of Revelation.”

“Oh.”

“For the record, that used to be part of the curriculum. We’ve since replaced it with the research paper.”

…Honestly, Yuji would rather make the Vow. “Well… what about Vows that are inherent? Like the sure-hit of a Domain or something?”

Something akin to interest glimmers in Kusakabe’s eye. “As I said, we’re not forcing Vows on you. It doesn’t mean you can’t go off on your own and do it — though I’m not endorsing that, just to be clear. And you should note that sure-hit Vows by Domains are typically not true Binding Vows since they only last for the duration of the barrier.”

“Makes sense,” Yuji mumbles.

The class moves on after that, but Yuji can’t help but keep looking back at the board. Binding Vows are permanent. Only death can break one, as Yuji himself can attest.

His resurrection after Yuta fulfilled Okkotsu's Vow, but it hadn't broken Enchain. The deal with the higher-ups was completed on a technicality, now wholly buried with the men themselves. Sukuna’s bindings were a completely separate matter. Maybe Yuji wasn’t dead long enough to make the Vow? Or, maybe, it endured because it was made when he’d died the first time? Perhaps Shoko would know something about it.

Unlike the higher-ups, Sukuna hadn’t died either. Enchain should still be well and active.

But — no, it’s wrong to doubt Sukuna on a whim. They’re in a good place, one they’re both satisfied with despite the secrecy.

As if sensing his tumult, Sukuna is especially agreeable by the time Yuji returns to his dorm room, waiting plaintively under his bed and asking, “How was class?”

“We didn’t learn much,” Yuji replies. He watches Sukuna’s face as he elaborates, and not once can he detect anything but what’s on the surface — curiosity, resonant boredom, some form or other of relaxation. The closest to anything remotely sinister is a brief flash of mischief, but that’s clearly preceding something glib.

“I’ve often wondered what exactly a day in your school entails,” muses Sukuna. “As you can imagine, I’ve no memories to compare it to, and I hadn’t paid much attention when I had the chance.”

“You could come with me next time.”

The blob grows six chins as it recoils. “And be forced to suffer the indignity of hiding in your hood for the entire duration? I should think not.”

He hadn’t meant it as a test. Words usually come out of Yuji’s mouth as soon as they occur to him unless they’re particularly rude or unkind, so there’s no ulterior motive for his suggestion. But the very fact that Sukuna hadn’t himself said anything about taking over Yuji’s body — especially in light of his other offer — is a good sign. Maybe. Surely. Definitely.

Isn’t it?

2 SEPTEMBER 2019.

Presumably, the intention of the research paper was for the students to do actual research — to dig up records of a historical ritual or vow, maybe to interview someone about the ones they've performed and their effect on their sorcery. Based on Kusakabe’s calm but emphatic answer to Yuji’s first query, he would not approve of his current course of action.

Yuji should be considered an exception to the rule, though, seeing as his entire Domain hinges on a Binding Vow — as Sukuna has hypothesized, anyway. They haven’t stress-tested it much.

Yuji doesn’t know how long he can let a memory play out, if he can load a whole bunch in a queue and have them auto-play like a streamer, if he even needs to make the offer at all, or if the Domain will last as long as he needs it to. All of these questions could (sort of) be answered by making the appropriate Vows and setting certain conditions, of course. But the more curious part of him would like to know what he’s capable of carte blanche.

“Let’s take Higuruma Hiromi’s Domain as an example,” declares Sukuna, speaking the other man’s name so reverently Yuji wants to tease him for being so disgustingly in love. No, that thought doesn’t do funny things to Yuji’s chest at all. “The Domain enforces mutual pacifism between sorcerer and target for its duration. I humored you in Shinjuku, but as you are well aware, there is nothing to stop physical violence within your barrier.”

“So, how should I put it?” asks Yuji. “Like, I give up violence in exchange for a memory?”

“No!” Sukuna roars before Yuji has even closed his mouth. “If anything, both you and your opponent must not raise a hand against one another, lest you open yourself to getting battered within your own Domain with no recourse. Additionally, given that your Domain cuts right to the soul, I would hesitate to eliminate combat from within its boundaries in any capacity. You would not have been able to defeat me if you hadn’t struck me at the barrier between core and form.”

“Gee thanks,” Yuji mutters, though he can’t really argue with that. “Your concern is touching.”

“I would hate for all my hard work to go to waste,” Sukuna snarks, which doesn’t refute what Yuji said. Though his face is arranged in a textbook depiction of exasperation, pinched brows and a scornful, beakish mouth, he adds, “If you must indulge that insipid bleeding heart of yours, the condition you ought to place upon your Domain is that neither you nor your opponent can bring harm to one another until the Vow of Adamantine Indestructible Conduct is embraced or denied.”

“That’s kind of a crazy mouthful, though,” Yuji mutters. “Does it have to be that specific?”

“Specificity ensures survival, boy.” Sukuna loves his little adages, they make him feel cool — the wisp of a triumphant curl dissipating once the mask of a tutor slips on once more. He looks older than their shared sixteen years, his face boyish and unlined but maturity doubled (or quadrupled, as it were) in his weary eyes. It’s hard not to feel small next to him, even though Yuji’s got a few inches if he stands fully upright. As if sensing his waning attention, Sukuna snaps between Yuji’s eyes.

“Sorry! Sorry, I’m listening.”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Listen well, unless you wish to end up a blathering idiot — even more than you already are — for the rest of your days because you mucked up the rite. If made with oneself, a Binding Vow needn’t be said aloud. If between two people, there must be an agreement, stronger still if done with the proper words. For example: I swear never again to invoke the Vow of Chains so long as Itadori Yuji is my keeper, by these words I shall be bound. And now it’s your turn.”

Somehow, words elude Yuji. He has no idea how this could be.

Never once had Yuji hinted any anxiety about the Vow, and certainly not to Sukuna’s face. He’d only learned of it after he was no longer playing host, the memories returning to him in a flood. That he even knows of it at all must affect its potency, given that one of the original conditions was that it would get wiped from his memory, but it's not like either of them has seen what this effect is. Now, along with being a ‘keeper,’ whatever that means — it’s a lot to take in. Yuji isn't even sure how he’s supposed to respond.

“Usually, you can just say what the other person said in reverse.”

Sukuna still sounds too casual about this. To let go of his ace in a hole like that, it’s practically unheard of. There must be some underlying reason to it, and yet Yuji can’t fathom one — to teach is too simple and unlike him, to lull Yuji into a false sense of security counterintuitive. If it had been a simple promise, that would make sense, but a Binding Vow is the most solemn oath a sorcerer can take. It’s something only a fool would take lightly, and no one has ever accused Ryomen Sukuna of being one.

“There is no time limit for a Vow to become null and void, but I would like to get on with the rest of our day, if it pleases you, Itadori Yuji.”

“Oh!” he stammers. “Um. Right.” Repeat it but backward, how hard could it be? “I swear to serve as Ryomen Sukuna’s keeper so long as he never again, uh, invokes the Vow of Chains, by these words will I be bound.”

“So mote it be.” Yuji isn’t sure at first, but it appears to be another one of Sukuna’s isms since there isn’t an ensuing impatient cough to repeat after him. Which is fine, Yuji’s okay with overthinking to the point that steam comes out of his ears. “Ahem. Now, your Domain?”

Or maybe not.

Yuji chooses to make the Vow quietly in his head rather than stumble over his words openly before an increasingly unimpressed Sukuna. He copies the other’s phrasing verbatim, even though the words feel unwieldy and burdensome on his tongue. It’s best not to paraphrase and lose the airtight contract in Sukuna’s suggestion because ‘hurt’ and ‘bring harm’ mystically mean different things. Nothing feels like it’s clicked into place — but neither had a feeling struck during their earlier agreement, so Yuji isn’t too fussed about it. There’s only one way to test it, after all.

Expanding a Domain now feels as easy as tying his shoes. Incomprehensible at first, easy to get tiny and sticky fingers tangled in the web, but with time and practice rendered to muscle memory. He hasn’t shown any of the others. They might ask questions about how he got to be so good at it. But here with Sukuna, the approving nod serves the same function as a thousand pats on the back.

Before long, it’s just the two of them in the dark void, watching mildly familiar scenes swirl around them.

“So, should we test this out?” Yuji asks. “Take a swing at each other, see what happens?”

“Don’t be absurd, boy,” Sukuna replies, which is an oddly kind reprimand for him.

The Domain repays this generosity with cruelty, as is the way of sorcery. Yuji doesn’t search through the memories like he usually does, halfway through formulating a quip he knows will make Sukuna laugh, when suddenly the midday sun blazes upon them through the copse of trees. The light filtered by leaves and branches draws irregular patterns across Sukuna’s face.

The area isn’t entirely wooded; a sprawling manse is but a few feet away, set before a well-trodden road that stretches behind them to thinning verdure. Yuji hazards that it belongs to a prominent warlord — if not for the estate’s size and opulence, then for the swath of men both young and old seeking to pledge themselves to a daimyo’s service. Foremost of which, and given a wide berth besides, being a Sukuna just a smidge older than the one standing next to him now. This Yuji could only tell by getting closer, as the memory-Sukuna kneels with his face obscured by shadow and dirt. He hadn’t realized Sukuna even knew how to prostrate himself.

“I thought you didn’t have a master,” Yuji blurted, a sting even to his own ears. Curiosity unfiltered, a blunt instrument held between his teeth. He looks up at Sukuna and frowns, shamed by his relief that Sukuna’s too distracted to notice his misstep.

As soon as the figures came into focus, shapeless men into the specters of his past, Sukuna’s hackles raised like a cat. His shoulders rose as bristly hairs would, shoulder blades like mountains from the back of his yukata. Both his jaw and all four hands clenched, a vein on his forehead forced into prominence by the scarred plate on his right side. Yuji had thought he’d seen loathing laid bare on Sukuna’s face before — rage, offense, apoplexy, a thousand years of flames in blood-red eyes. But in Shinjuku, Sukuna deemed him worthy of words, arranged in the form of insults and gory promises. Here, the enmity in his silence is as suffocating as a wildfire’s heat.

“I never did,” says Sukuna slowly and deliberately, as though forming the words pains him greatly. “That man taught me nothing and never once deserved my loyalty.”

And yet, once upon a time, he’d given it, forehead pressed into the ground. “Sadayuki-sama, I swear you will never regret this,” he promises. His eyes squeezed shut and chin pressed to his sternum, this Sukuna is the picture of humility. “I will serve the Konoe clan until my very last. I will ensure the clan is remembered for all history.” It does not sound like mere sycophancy falling from his lips, and yet.

The lord chuckles and commands him to rise. Sukuna bends at the waist again, then moves with steady and sure steps into the Konoe estate. Yuji squints at the pennants flapping in the air as Sadayuki addresses the rest of the gathered men. He’s not the best at recognizing clan symbols beyond Gojo and Inumaki, but he doesn’t recall ever seeing an ibis wreathed in flame. It should come as no surprise that Sukuna neglected to keep his promise — and perhaps he had reneged on this promise purposely.

No, what was meant to shock Yuji, the true significance of this memory as judged by one of their subconscious, is this: “See this, men? The Creature of Hida, at my heel at last. Why on earth would I need any of you against the Genji with that thing on the field?”

Sukuna simply stands on the threshold, posture mirroring his modern duplicate. Instead of turning and slashing the others, who tittered and snickered openly despite their chagrin, as Yuji expected him to, Sukuna — walks away. He follows a girl, too well-dressed to be a mere attendant, a miko with her hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck, deeper into that house of horrors. His fury is evident in his panther-like gait, but there’s no outlet.

“His daughter Matsu, the only good person in that wretched hive,” Sukuna answers Yuji's unspoken question, mouth set in a grim smile. “She was married off a year or so later, I believe. Made to produce heir after heir for her husband’s clan until she died.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuji murmurs.

“Whatever for? Those were the times.” Whatever fondness that remained for the girl in the curve of his lips evaporates, leaving behind dry bone and brush ready to catch fire. Sukuna’s tongue is laden with the ashes of history. “In my time, feudal lords collected sorcerers like trinkets. They set us against each other like pieces on a board. When they weren’t warring with one another, we were used as entertainment. Show ponies for their guests, ever boastful for power that was never their own.

“Is there any wonder, then, that I soon had enough?” A swipe of Sukuna’s hand dashes through Sadayuki’s torso and Yuji lets the memory fall. Sukuna points to another one in the rolodex that is almost entirely orange and red. Expansion proves the backdrop to have been the Konoe home ablaze, a full-grown Sukuna wearing Matsu’s hair ornament wrapped around an upper bicep. At his side is Uraume’s familiar round head bowed, eyes closed and hands clasped as if in prayer.

Those moving columns are bodies, Yuji realizes as sound and motion collide. Death throes and rattles reach up to the stars along with pillars of smoke. The members of clan Konoe run in blind panic as their eyelids melt and their flesh roasts. Bile surges up Yuji’s throat at the stench of it all and he heaves, only just managing to keep it away from his shoes. Vengeance on Sukuna’s behalf had struck him with the lord’s callous words — but not like this, Yuji thinks. This is barbaric.

As the flames dance across Sukuna’s face, a dual glee and catharsis playing across both accursed visages with gleaming, joyous teeth, he glows with pride. “This is the work of my brothers and I,” he practically gushes. “Konoe no Sadayuki’s own collection risen against him, the River King’s dominion dried and scorched to cinders. Uraume was the newest member of his retinue, only a child, but even they knew he deserved this and worse.”

Then Sukuna’s light dims like clouds drawing over the sun. Regret is a foreign look on him. “Yet I showed him mercy. He called me Monster every day of my service and I wished to prove him wrong. I convinced myself it was the crueler fate, to leave his legacy in ashes and force him to watch as it burned.” A scoff, like a whip taken to his own back. “I was a fool. I was weak. I had not known the powerful never lose.”

“You never lost until you met me,” Yuji tries, a poor attempt at a joke.

Sukuna humors him with a smile. “Just that once,” he concedes.

Yuji has learned to recognize the khakkhara before it comes. There doesn’t need to be a Jizo statue nearby — anymore, at least, a requirement reduced in his training — for him to make the offer. His thumb draws over the familiar wood as the rod molds to his fingers. The jingle of the rings is a familiar tune.

Each time, Sukuna has refused his Vow. Most of the time (every time, even if his tone says otherwise), Yuji is genuine in presenting it to Sukuna. Adamantine Indestructible Conduct is a Vow few sorcerers would be willing to pass up: infinite cursed energy and ultimate control, and all one has to do is surrender malice.

But, but, always but, Ryomen Sukuna is the greatest sorcerer of all time, and he has no need for gifts.

He and Yuji are both immovable. They both know this. They trace the familiar steps anyway. “You were a protector once,” Yuji says, because trying is better than nothing. “You can be one again.”

“Have I not done enough to protect you? Get that thing away from me, Yuji.” Maybe it’s that this set of memories leaves him tetchy, or (in a more delusional bent) it’s the quick bolt of embarrassment at addressing Yuji by his given name that causes Sukuna to roughly shove Yuji’s hand. Whichever is responsible, he receives confirmation of the Binding Vow’s effect with a wince and a hand to throbbing temples.

Yuji wouldn’t personally qualify the push as violence, but that might be why a migraine is Sukuna's punishment rather than spontaneous combustion. Quickly, Yuji withdraws his Domain, and with it goes the ache. “Are you okay?”

Sukuna looks shaken, still, or as close to shaken as his current blob form can manage. “Of course I am,” he says anyway.

“Living by my example also includes relying on other people too,” Yuji reminds him.

Sukuna levels him with a stare. Then, he laughs, one quick burst of derision.

It was worth a try, though Yuji can’t exactly blame Sukuna for blowing him off. It’s not like Yuji’s been doing much of that himself. There’s no reason for him to acknowledge a hypocrite’s advice.

14 SEPTEMBER 2019.

For obvious reasons, they try to minimize Sukuna’s time outside the four walls of Yuji’s dorm. Yuji knows for a fact that Sukuna gets bored, which is why he’s tried pretty much every form of indoor enrichment under the sun, short of getting Sukuna a pet. The iPad worked for a while, as did the books, but nothing assuaged Yuji’s guilt as much as it soothed Sukuna’s ennui. So in a way, this little adventure is more for Yuji than anything — to defy any internal criticism and prove that he did have a thing or two to teach about life after all.

That isn’t to say, of course, that Sukuna’s been stuck in the box this whole time. On the occasions he’s left the premises, it’s always buried in the well of Yuji’s hood. It’s the optimal hiding spot, deep enough to hold all of Sukuna and malleable enough that he can mold himself to fit its many shapes. Yuji knows he finds it humiliating.

Given how often Sukuna insults him, though, one has to wonder if he feels any different possessing him now, at a fraction of his power and fueling his control with Yuji’s cursed energy rather than dominating him with Enchain.

This variation is a consensual swap, unlike their previous partnership’s hostile takeovers, with Yuji taking Sukuna’s place in his Innate Domain as Sukuna roams the physical world with Yuji's body. It’s a little like being inside Rika during the Shinjuku fight, but the feeling is still discomfiting, like being over at a friend’s house for the first time and getting left in the bedroom while they argue with their mom. Except, God willing, Sukuna isn’t going to get into arguments with anyone’s parents. The barrier remains open so Yuji can switch back at will, anyhow. He hopes it won’t have to come to that.

So far, everything’s going smoothly.

Following a well-walked path in Yuji’s memories, Sukuna has no trouble getting to the nearest budget theater. He manages to purchase a ticket without assistance, though Yuji’s a little miffed by his choice — an American movie over the low-budget shlock Yuji insisted would be more his speed. (Okay, so maybe Yuji wanted to watch the low-budget shlock, but it’s his body. He should get a partial say.) Sukuna is a little smug about how his complaints die as soon as he sees the name Quentin Tarantino attached to the film, holding his phone and the Wikipedia page on it too close to his eyes as a taunt. Yuji chooses to see the positive side in this, that Sukuna’s actively enjoying himself in some shape or form.

But he must not enjoy himself that much, because partway through staring at the soles of Margot Robbie’s feet, Sukuna whisper-hisses, “What is it that you like so much about film? This is gratuitous.” Yuji can admit that he probably should have given him some warning. “Was this affinity borne of your training? Or did you inherit it from that Yoshino whelp?”

It shames him that Yuji hasn’t thought about Junpei in a good, long while. “A little bit of both,” he eventually answers, whispering too even though there’s no fear of being overheard on his end. Besides the fact that Sukuna picked an awful seat tucked away in a corner and far from everyone else, Yuji is inside of him and therefore inaudible. Inside of himself, really. …He should quit thinking about this while he's ahead.

“I’m a teenage boy, I like bright colors and —”

“Explosions?”

“ —boobs,” Yuji finishes, making Sukuna almost choke on his concessions. “But… spending time with Junpei, talking movies with him, it gave me a new appreciation for them. They’re, like, escapism and social commentary at the same time. You can tell a lot about what’s going on in the world by what movies were made that year, you know.”

“Huh,” says Sukuna. He sounds both dry and sincerely contemplative. “And what is this film indicative of?”

More bare feet, this time propped on a car dashboard. Yuji winces, remembering Death Proof.

“Uh, nostalgia and power fantasies?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Someone a few rows in front of them turns around and shushes them, a noise louder than Sukuna’s murmurings. Though his jaw twitches, and though there’s half a moment when Yuji’s afraid he’s going to fling his soda at the stranger, Sukuna only scowls and sinks lower in his seat. He watches the rest of the movie in stony silence, but Yuji feels a pleasant hum through the Innate Domain during the final few scenes — especially at the brandishing of the flamethrower.

“So, what did you think?” asks Yuji as the lights turn on.

“The effects were impressive, compared to the theatre of my day,” muses Sukuna. “Though I’m still not quite sure I followed everything that was happening.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what was up with that cult either,” Yuji agrees, rubbing the back of his head. “That last segment was brutal, though. That’s Uncle Tara for you.”

Sukuna makes a noncommittal noise. Squinting at the sunlight as he exits the cinema, he keeps to the wall so as not to block the busy sidewalk. There’s still the whole day ahead of him, having caught the matinee showing at Yuji’s insistence. “What now? I understand you’ve created a schedule for today?”

That’s a bit of an exaggeration; it’s more of a bulleted list he made on his Notes app while on the toilet a few days ago. “I’m glad you asked!” Yuji crows anyway. “I know somewhere we can go to get you in on some action instead of just watching it. But, uh, try to use as little strength as possible. I’d like to come back to these places, so… Seriously, whatever you think the minimum is, half that.”

“Yes, father.”

He whines, but the advice is sound; Sukuna does a little too well at pretty much every game at the arcade, and Yuji’s almost certain he’d have destroyed more than one machine in his endorphin rampage if there hadn’t been for the prior emphasis on restraint. Sukuna flits from floor to floor and machine to machine, Fruit Ninja, Taiko no Tatsujin, even Dancerush Stardom, pockets overflowing. It occurs to Yuji that an employee might be watching them, that he won’t be allowed back because Sukuna’s cleaning house — but that’s not nearly enough to dishearten when he can’t stop grinning at Sukuna’s childish glee. If Yuji had an actual face at this moment, he’s sure it would be sore.

It’s nice that Sukuna has this, the chance to play and screw around that he’d never gotten to in childhood, even if he’s approaching each game with all the seriousness of a grown man going to war. Yuji would give him an eternity of this if he could. Neither of them pays any attention to how long they've been in the arcade until Sukuna meets his one true foe, the claw machine, and roars, “How long have I been standing here?!” as Pochaco flops out of the metal prongs’ grasp for the twentieth time.

By the time he’s all gamed out and ready to cash out his mountainous tickets, Sukuna’s managed to acquire enough to get a skateboard, the second-best prize below a wall of plushies about half of Panda’s original size. As he leans forward to look at the numerous colorful designs mounted on the wall, he murmurs, ostensibly to himself, “Which one would the brat want?”

“H-huh? But those are your tickets.”

“He’s the one who’s going to ride it more often. Or look at it hung on his wall, I suppose.”

Oh, that’s — sweet of him. His tone suggests some level of exasperated pragmatism, but he could’ve easily just gotten a bunch of candy and called it a day. Math is no obstacle to Sukuna the way it is for Yuji, and there are better things to choose if he wants to waste the tickets and deprive Yuji of a starting balance. This is a gift, plain and simple. A gift for Yuji, once upon a time the brat Sukuna hated most in all the world.

In the end, Sukuna’s grumbling stomach (his own bottomless pit, Yuji’s perfectly aware) propels him into a decision: a deck that is bright orange, almost obnoxiously so, with random black scribbles all across it. Sukuna himself would never have chosen such a design, that much is clear by the wrinkle of his nose, but he dutifully tucks the deck under his arm nevertheless and makes his way out to the dusk-darkened streets of Tokyo.

“There’s a barbecue place nearby that’s pretty good. Foreigners are obsessed with getting their first taste of wagyu there,” Yuji explains. “Not sure why, must’ve gone viral or something.”

The notion of high-quality meat has arrested him, but Sukuna rifles through Yuji’s very light wallet with something like despair on his face.

“Oh, yeah, just use my credit card if I don’t have enough cash.”

“... I am not entirely sure how that object works,” Sukuna confesses. Now that Yuji thinks about it, he can’t remember Sukuna paying with anything but cash all day.

“What, did you guys not have banks or credit back then?”

“Why would I involve a financial institution in my affairs when I could just take what I wanted with impunity?”

Yuji’s not stupid enough to voice this thought out loud, but Sukuna’s flustered excuses are adorable.

They're almost as adorable as the way he eats — slowly, in small bites in equal delicacy. Yuji thought him a glutton (and the number of side dishes he ordered after Yuji offered to momentarily swap for payment proved him right), but he doesn’t stuff himself in the typical manner. Rather, Sukuna is methodical in his indulgences. He savors the flavors, almost worshiping each morsel on his tongue. If their places were reversed, Yuji would’ve inhaled everything and then some by now.

He’s so used to thinking of Sukuna as larger than life. He has a way of tripling in size when it comes to his presence, his cursed energy awesome but stifling and fetid in abject disdain. Long before Yuji had ever seen his true shape, Sukuna was imposing.

He still is, even in his blob form, though it’s the weight of his history and knowledge more so than his whims that are scariest. He’s fond of corporal punishment for academic failure, but that’s about the extent of his harm in recent days. Yuji likes being slapped upside the head and kicked in the behind as much as the next person.

Barring a few moments of pity, however, Yuji knows next to nothing about the guy currently grilling his third kilo of beef. This must be what he was like as a mere mortal. Before his mother began to blame him for existing. Or before he realized she did.

Perhaps, most likely, this is the grace Sukuna now allows himself after spending an entire adolescence starving.

“Did you have fun?” asks Yuji, trying not to sound too patronizing.

“What a frivolous —” Sukuna seems to catch himself. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Good.”

A snort, barely a huff through his nostrils. “Am I to assume this is a consequence of choosing love over strength?”

“It’s — it’s not supposed to be this lonely,” Yuji quietly admits.

“I scarcely noticed it,” Sukuna says, and Yuji believes him. “Besides, I have you. I was not alone.”

An admirable sentiment where it lacks comfort. Yuji takes over to call for the check. Sukuna wilts back in the Innate Domain. Occupied as he is, Yuji doesn’t see it. But he feels the weary exhale, the drag on the shoulders.

It’s still a walk and a half back to campus. Another twenty minutes couldn’t hurt. He was getting to like the decor, anyway.

“Careful,” Sukuna says with Yuji’s mouth and tongue. “A little too much self-indulgence is unhealthy.”

“So says the ultimate hedonist,” Yuji retorts.

“Ah, I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“This is the first I’m hearing of it.” But it must be true, because Sukuna allows him to have the last word.

He lets Sukuna take in the sights and sounds, the shorter daylight hours and twinkling lights, Halloween promotion advertisements plastered to windows, the chittering of solicitors who only back off at being told they’re badgering sixteen year-old. Sukuna lingers at the construction sites across Shibuya. An artist admiring his handiwork, a misanthrope scowling at resilience, or a sinner seeking absolution, he wears three faces at once with hands buried in his pockets. No one who’d been close enough to see his face would have survived the massacre. No one else knows what this place means to them.

Sukuna hesitates. “A saint,” he muses with a half-smile. And then he continues on his way.

They make the last swap back in Yuji’s dorm, safe and sound from prying eyes. Sukuna shrugs off his body with an exhausted whuff and clambers into his shoebox, circling once before settling into a comfortable position and closing his eye. The towel Yuji introduced as a blanket still sits unused in the corner of the cardboard.

“Do you…” Yuji wets his lips. “Would you like to sleep with me?”

Sukuna’s eye cracks open and rolls over to him. The squint itself says a thousand words, and the ensuing laughter stokes the inferno blazing across Yuji’s cheeks.

“I didn’t mean it like that, you know I didn’t mean it like that!”

Sukuna cackles. But he does not fight when Yuji slides a hand under him to carry him over to the mattress.

16 OCTOBER 2019.

They have since tried other methods to carry Sukuna around.

He bulged oddly in a sweatshirt pocket, so they’d tried to wrap him around Yuji’s waist like a fanny pack under his shirt. Nobara, of course, had pointed and laughed and asked if he was pregnant, so that was a no-go. Trying to put Sukuna in cargo pants yielded similar failures; he was not as light as he looked, and none of Yuji’s belts seemed up to the task.

So, hood it was. And is, in the middle of a lesson on Binding Vows. Yuji can only imagine how boring it must seem to someone who’s made a million of them. He should’ve checked the syllabus before scheduling this little ride-along.

Kusakabe’s droning voice drifts back into focus with the tremble of Sukuna’s snickering. “The optimal number of Binding Vows is three to five. Obviously, this is subjective to each sorcerer, and it does not include inherent Vows like the ones Itadori mentioned during week one. But recall that it is the purpose of a Vow to augment one’s ability, not to supplement it entirely. Unless someone doesn’t have an Innate Technique, there is little a Vow can do compared to just studying the damn thing and unlocking techniques through experimentation.”

“A coward’s attitude,” snorts Sukuna, not nearly as quietly as he could have.

“Care to clarify?” Kusakabe asks, looking directly at Yuji. He doesn’t look insulted, which is a minor blessing.

“Uh.” Yuji clears his throat, ready to stammer his way through what he hopes will be a coherent sentence. He should’ve made Sukuna swear to keep quiet before he brought him into the classroom.

It’s for the best that he doesn’t now, barely managing to keep up with Sukuna by flapping his mouth as he continues to speak, ventriloquism at its worst. “Vows are a trade-off for greater power. Sorcery is already a game of minimalism. A Binding Vow is just a more consequential version of what the greatest sorcerers are already trying to do.”

“I can see that,” Kusakabe says obligingly. “But I’m not trying to make you a great sorcerer. I don’t need any one of you trying to be the next Gojo Satoru. This year is simply all about making sure all of you come home at the end of the day. But you’re more than welcome to add Binding Vows as an area of focus for your third and fourth year.”

“Cool,” Yuji says sheepishly. “Just my two cents.”

He sinks further into his seat as Kusakabe proceeds with his lesson, deliberately crushing his hood into the back of the chair. Sukuna twists and writhes bonelessly but hisses his apologies eventually, unhurt in all but pride. After Yuji eases up, Sukuna grumbles, this time taking care to watch his volume.

“Have I embarrassed you?”

“No.”

Disbelief rolls off of Sukuna in waves, but he doesn’t protest.

31 OCTOBER 2019.

Yuji does not like this guy.

He’s been staring daggers into the back of Usami’s head the entire drive over, though the man either hasn’t noticed or simply doesn’t care. It has little to do with inadvertently getting him killed at the detention center; Usami’s vibes are just, as Nobara would say, off. Judging by the pinched look on her face, she would agree. Megumi is a little harder to read, having turned to stare out the window in contemplation.

“I would hope you kids read the dossier cover to cover before tonight,” Usami begins, his words doing nothing but confirming their dislike. If anything, his verbiage and his reedy, nasal voice make him even more annoying. Sadly, it’s too late to switch proctors. “The Council worried there would be a Shibuya copycat, now that the general public is aware of sorcery, which is why Halloween gatherings have been banned this year. Luckily for us, this group of idiot arsonists has decided to commemorate the anniversary by targeting condemned buildings. Your mission is to subdue them, obviously. There’s three of them, so one for each of you.”

Perfect for their promotional assessment.

“Oh, like Fight Club,” is the conclusion Yuji voices aloud instead.

“It’s not,” says Usami. Killjoy.

The sedan pulls up to an old, fenced-off parking garage, still chipped and caved in from the fight with Mahoraga. Rebar sticks out of it like scraggly hairs. Sukuna stayed home this time, though Yuji doesn’t think he’d find much pleasure in the sight.

They verify their strategy with Ijichi and Usami so both know what to look for: Megumi and Nue will go after the cursed user on the roof behind the garage while Nobara will harass (she squawks in protest at Yuji’s word choice) the one in the basement level. Both of them will push their respective targets toward the first sub-level, where Yuji will hopefully have already subdued his own curse user.

They’ll play to their strengths; Megumi’s shikigami can mitigate the rooftop curse user’s heat emission, Yuji’s quick enough to get in close quarters since all they know about his guy is that he fights mid- to long-range, and Nobara’s output and the closed environment will make quick work of the basement dweller.

Ijichi lowers the curtain as Usami nods approvingly. “Good luck,” they both say, though only one of them sounds confident that they don’t need it. Then Usami pulls his phone out and starts playing Solitaire while leaning against the car. So much for keeping an eye out.

The entry points to their target are not ideal; the garage is sandwiched tight between buildings with just a smidge wider gap to the left and an office building and music store sealed to the right. The squat structures escaped the worst of the damage by virtue of being short, but it’s more of a curse than a blessing now that collateral damage is a concern. They have their work cut out for them on all points except Fushiguro’s, who can take advantage of the open air and his technique’s mobility. But they can’t just turn around and go home, so they proceed with the plan.

Nobara sprints down the stairwell as Yuji goes for the lower ramp, unable to sense any cursed energy on floor zero. Nue’s wings beat large gusts as it takes Megumi to the top.

At the precise moment that Yuji reaches flat ground, vaulting over the pay machine, the smell of gunpowder hits him square in the nose — unfamiliar, rank, and hot. Skidding across the concrete with the abruptness of his stop, Yuji’s mouth falls open at the scene.

It’s everywhere.

It’s what he imagines a salt mine to look like, except grayer. Piles of gunpowder sit in the four corners of the floor, tiny dunes built intermittently between them. Some of it’s even floating in the air, manipulated by what looks to be a teenager barely older than Yuji himself. Dark circles sit under sunken, heavy-lidded eyes not unlike the wreaths of powder he guides around support beams in fluid hand gestures. He spots Yuji, levels him with a dead-eyed yet challenging stare, but does nothing beyond scoffing and grazing Yuji's cheek with his cursed technique. Without any source of ignition, it’s only just a threat. But, says a voice suspiciously similar to Sukuna’s, nestled in the back of Yuji’s head, you can never be too careful.

It’s somebody’s failing, either theirs or Usami’s, that there was no safety net for this. The supposition was that they were going to beat the tar out of each other upfront to prevent the block from going up into flames. Nowhere did they account for talking them down; presumably that was going to be for when they were cuffed and in the car, before being hauled off to stand trial before the new council. Honestly, Yuji should know better.

None of Kusakabe’s training ever encompassed de-escalation, and there is no chance in hell that Sukuna would ever add it to his syllabus. Given that most curses can’t be reasoned with, the omission makes sense. But it’s not even him being a goody-two-shoes this time. This is the safest way to keep his technique from going off.

“Hey,” he calls, hands outstretched like he’s approaching a skittish deer. “Hey, man. What are we doing over here?”

“What’s it look like?” the boy spits. “You here to stop me? Or are you also here to watch the show?”

“Not much of a show if it threatens to take out the mall a block over. But I do like pyrotechnics. If you come with me, we can figure out how to put on all the shows you want — as long as they’re up to code.”

There was a verbal landmine in that sentence somewhere, and he’s just put his full weight on it. Before Yuji can ask what it was he’d said, a globe of gunpowder gets launched at his head.

In the split second before he ducks, he notices it start to glow and rolls behind another pillar. Great. The curse user is the detonator. The other guy upstairs is — what, for show? Yuji bites back a curse. There’s nowhere to hide, tendrils of gunpowder framing him on either side. Even if he’s not sitting (or squatting, more accurately) directly, one burst of heat would probably lose him a leg and a good chunk of his side.

As one starts to wind its way around his ankle, Yuji clamps down on his tongue and spits a glob of blood onto the tendril. It goes limp and inert, just as he suspected. He’s got no water to neutralize the gunpowder, but he does have Kamo blood. Now, if only he wasn’t working with such a limited supply, RCT or otherwise.

A burst of heat flattens itself against the nape of Yuji’s neck as rubble starts to sprinkle around him and into his hair. It was a small detonation, but the crack appearing above the pillar behind him has Yuji lurching out of the way regardless. He keeps low as he sprints around the floor’s perimeter. A few spurts of blood shoot forth from his fingertips to pin wandering wisps from getting too close. The curse user is still standing in the center of the floor, surrounded by a ring of gunpowder and then six tentacle-like appendages of gray dust that he snaps periodically like a whip. He’s framed by four pillars—a box of his own making.

Fine, Yuji thinks. Two can play at this game.

The first Dismantle is just a warning, though there’s no surface large enough for its symbol to appear. The curse user only notices it because it pares through his ring easily like a knife through the rind of an orange. The next few shred a tendril into pieces. With an outraged cry, the curse user’s attention is diverted.

Lashing out with one arm, he spends the rest of his focus on mending the one Yuji had just Dismantled — not noticing that Yuji had also sliced clean through the beam beside it, or that he was doing the same to two more pillars as he darted by close enough to be in range, or that part of the ceiling is also now diced up. Just so he doesn’t get completely flattened into a pancake.

It falls just how Yuji expects it to, catching the cursed user on the back and splitting off into tinier pieces. The rubble holds itself up but doesn’t leave a big enough gap for the curse user to wriggle out, also pinning his arms to his side for good measure. That snapping sound with each ignition, like a lighter, had been his fingers. With any luck, he has the good sense to stay still. There are no crush injuries to speak of as far as Yuji can see, and the threat is suitably pacified. Now all he has to worry about is washing all this crap out of his clothes without gunking up one of the school’s three machines.

Or it would be, if he didn’t notice Nue’s silhouette at the mouth of the garage. With, naturally, a glowing-white man in its claw.

Yuji’s pretty sure he didn’t have the time or signal for a warning phone call, but he feels stupid anyway.

“Oh, shit!” he gasps, leaping over the concrete encasing his curse user to kick Megumi’s mid-fling. The man crashes into the wall across the street and collapses onto the pavement with a groan. He hadn’t caught any of the gunpowder scattered across the floor, but he did ignite the fine layer of it coating Yuji’s shoe, which he just manages to launch off into the night sky. There’s a popping noise as it goes up in flames. At least they don’t have to smell the burning rubber. Yuji puts his foot down mournfully.

Now he feels stupid and he looks stupid. Megumi’s nonplussed expression confirms this.

“Maybe converging was a bad idea when we had only had reliable intel on one of the three CTs,” Yuji mutters, absently scratching his cheek. “Is your guy…?”

“Passed out,” confirms Fushiguro, before he trots further into the structure to collect Yuji’s quarry into Toad’s mouth.

The surly teenager mutters something under his breath once they get back to the street level, but he refuses to repeat himself when prompted. Yuji feels like an exasperated parent.

“Oh, is Kugisaki done with her guy too? I didn’t hear any —”

The entire building moans, rumbles, and shakes, which answers Yuji’s question well enough. He and Megumi blink once at each other before launching themselves at Nue.

They’re still airborne when the ground bursts open and spits out a massive blur like a popped zit. The poor sap they’d left Nobara with resembles a cross between a sumo wrestler and the Blob of X-Men fame, bellowing and slamming his massive fists into the crumbling roadway. Yuji feels a pang of relief when he sees Kugisaki scramble out of the crater, looking more peeved than anything.

“What the hell happened?” he calls as Nue swoops low enough for him to jump off.

She pulls a straw doll out from her shirt pocket, two nails and a scrap of — something held between her fingers. “Dunno, he took one look at me and started punching himself in the face before moving onto everything else in the vicinity,” she grits out of the corner of her mouth. “I don’t think he could hear me, it’s like he’s stuck in his own head. I can stun him, but it doesn’t last very long before that cloud comes over him. I think it might be his technique? Either way —”

The sheer force of their opponent’s strikes shatters the tempered glass of the surrounding windows, raining shards all along the street. This isn’t good; there’s nowhere to go to open the playing field, all big streets outside the curtain’s range. Yuji supposes they could ask Ijichi to expand it, but they might not have that kind of time.

“Someone’s gotta calm him down,” Yuji finishes. “Get me that opening.”

“You’ve got a plan?”

“More than that,” he winks, making Nobara gag. “Just you watch.”

“What about me?” asks Megumi.

“Watch for collateral, the both of you.” The basement guy’s punches rattle the interior of the curtain. It’s probably going to hold, simply due to the nature of the barrier itself, but he doesn’t want to take chances. “He’s facing northeast, right? FUKURAS is in that direction.”

“On it,” both of them nod.

Nobara readies her hammer and Yuji crouches for a running start. He feels the crackle of cursed energy as she hits her target. The curse user recoils as if shot, clutching at his head, and Yuji closes the distance. He weaves his fingers together, one over the other, middle ones pointed skyward, thumbs linked.

“Domain Expansion: Awakening of the Great Vow.”

“The what of the what?” screeches Kugisaki, the last thing Yuji hears before his Domain envelops him and the curse user.

The other figure, still crumpled, slowly lifts his head. He still towers over Yuji, a boulder of a man — boy, Yuji thinks once he gets a good look at his face. He looks about as young and unlined as the rest, especially now with the open curiosity stretched over a visage previously twisted in blind rage. His features are much too small for his face and head, but Yuji instead finds himself oddly endeared.

“Hi,” Yuji says with a little wave. “I’m Itadori. What’s your name?”

“Y-Yurimoto,” the curse user replies, ducking his head in a quick, polite bow.

It’s not right to call him a curse user, Yuji thinks. He’s just a kid. So are the other two, but… “What happened tonight, Yurimoto? Why did you come here?”

“Um, Sekigawa and Okada asked—” Yurimoto pauses as the memory Yuji selected expands. His voice is small, diminutive, and gentle, the bass of it all that he owes to his size.

He plaintively looks around at the back alley next to a konbini. There’s a dumpster at the far end blocking that route, stains of what look like dried-up vomit and piss spotting the ground and side of the building. Yurimoto's past self can barely fit in the alley itself, wedged between the buildings by the other two approaching curse users. All of them are dressed in their school uniforms. Present Yurimoto flinches when one of them opens their mouth, so Yuji makes sure no sound comes out, drawing the other’s attention himself.

“Did they ask you? Or were you forced?”

Yurimoto doesn’t answer at first. He presses his lips together, brows furrowed as he tips his chin down. “I feed the strays behind the school. They said they’d hurt them if I didn’t help them. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“They’re bullies,” Yuji tells him firmly. “You’re a good person. You don’t have to be scared of me, or any of my friends. We’re here to help.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I guess Kugisaki is kind of terrifying,” Yuji admits, earning him a smile. He watches as the tension seeps out of the taut line of Yurimoto’s shoulders. He lets the khakkhara droop in his grasp, allows the rings to clink gently against each other in warning so as not to spook Yurimoto. “But we’re sorcerers. We’re here to help, it’s what we do. You could, too.

“My Domain offers a lot of power, as long as you promise not to use it to hurt anyone else. I already know that’s the last thing you want to do.” For now. But who knows what’ll happen in a year, in a month, in a week, tomorrow? People can change fast and they can change hard. Faith, for better or for worse, is all Yuji knows. “There are exceptions, like if you’re going to protect someone else from getting hurt. But I think it’d suit you well. You could work with us — or you could protect your kitties.”

He’s not sure which of the appeals works. It doesn’t matter, he supposes; Yurimoto reaches out and takes the khakkhara regardless. Its size adjusts to be proportional to his big, meaty paw.

Huh, Yuji thinks as the barrier drops, leaving them encased in only Ijichi’s curtain once more. This is the first time someone’s taken the Vow.

The victory is short-lived, axed by a deafening explosion from the first floor of the parking structure. They hadn’t tied up Heat Guy, Yuji realizes too late, only left him and Toad with Gunpowder Guy. Nobara and Megumi, who’d been standing closer to the parking garage, are knocked clean off their feet by the blast.

Megumi summons Max Elephant to put out the fires, but for all the good it does, it exposes the structure’s instability — and the water pressure starts to tip it over. “Shit!” Megumi chokes. Piercing Ox batters its head against a wall, but its feet start to drag trenches through the pavement as it’s pushed backward.

“It’s too small,” Yuji breathes. “It can’t — it can’t hold the whole thing up by itself.” And there’s no room, either, squeezed between low buildings with overhangs on a tiny street. He doesn’t know what to do.

He could slice the building up with Cleave and Dismantle, maybe, but that would take longer than he has and they’d inhale all sorts of dust and asbestos all the while, and —

Yurimoto gently pushes Yuji aside as he strides forward. He gets bigger and bigger with each step until he’s as tall as the building attached to the garage’s rear, all eight meters of it. Then, like he’s lifting the lid of a lunchbox, he tears the top of the garage off and places it on top of the foliage nearby. The thump sends Yuji on his ass.

Nobara army-crawls over to him as Yurimoto gingerly picks Max Elephant up with both hands and wields it like a hose. “What the hell did that Domain of yours do to him?” she demands.

Yuji swallows, finding his mouth exceptionally dry. “I think I turned him into Ant-Man?”

With the three targets subdued, the curtain fades.

Sekigawa and Okado (whichever’s which; Yuji hadn’t bothered to clarify) get hauled off by Nitta first. Yurimoto, even after shrinking to his original size, needs a separate car all to himself. He waves off Yuji’s promise to testify on his behalf before the council but accepts the one to be friends no matter the outcome. Nobara ribs him about keeping his Domain under wraps and Fushiguro, unprompted, announces that Toad is fine.

“I never liked that one,” Nobara tells him dismissively as Usami walks up, making Megumi’s face scrunch up in offense. She ends up mirroring this expression at the intruder, who appears unfazed by if not entirely ignorant of the derision.

“It looked a little dicey there for a bit,” Usami says. Yuji is certain the thought of lifting a finger to help never once crossed this guy’s mind. “But you guys pulled it off. I’m impressed. Good work, kids.”

Yuji smiles tightly at him. If he wasn’t so bone tired, he’d — Yuji doesn’t know. Do something. “Thanks, dude,” he replies cheekily, relishing the scowl his irreverence pulls across Usami’s face.

Victories, both big and small. He’ll take them.

7 NOVEMBER 2019.

Sukuna’s Innate Domain seems… cozier somehow. Yuji can’t put his finger on it, exactly.

Maybe there are fewer bones — or fewer bones just lying around, most now artfully arranged in grim variations of furniture. Macabre hospitality. Malevolent Hospitality, Yuji had teased before. Maybe you can call it Creepy Kitchen or something. Does your Domain look any different?

Sukuna had threatened to hit him. For once, he didn’t follow through.

Yuji’s under no delusion that this is a manifestation of Sukuna’s redemption, though it is a nice thought. Nicer than the joke-hypothesis that Sukuna cleaned his place up to impress Yuji, perhaps. These days, they lounge on a comfy pile of skulls made up to mirror the bean bags in Yuji’s actual dorm room. Most of the time is spent in silence, a respite from the drill instructor and the motormouth.

Yuji’s usually the first to break it, too. He’ll own that.

“Hey,” he says, making Sukuna open his eyes in the middle of his not-nap (“Meditation,” he always insists, to which Yuji always rolls his eyes). “I feel like I’ve said it a thousand times, but… Thank you for helping me with school. I really wouldn’t have made it past the first month without you.”

“This is the first time you’ve thanked me, actually,” Sukuna replies.

Yuji squawks. “What? No! I’ve thanked you a bazillion times this past year. I take it back.”

“How ungentlemanly of you.”

“Fine, I’ll thank you, but for something else, ‘cause I’m all thanked out on that other thing!”

Sukuna looks at him, nonplussed.

Oh, right. Now’s the part where he has to come up with something.

One thought has consistently crossed his mind, but Yuji’s always felt a little wary of pointing it out. Like telling someone that they’ve got food stuck in their teeth, it’s awkward — embarrassing for them, and for you, and so you just keep looking at their mouth in the hopes that they’ll get the hint, but they don’t, and then it’s gone on too long so when you tell them, both of you know you sat through ten minutes of yapping while a bit of seaweed —

“Steam is coming out of your ears,” muses Sukuna.

“Thanks for being vulnerable with me,” Yuji blurts. Best to tear off the bandaid. “I know it was all in the name of guinea pig-ing my Domain or whatever, but I appreciate you letting me see glimpses of your past. You… bared your soul to me, literally. So, thank you for entrusting it to me.”

For all his fretting, Sukuna doesn’t look embarrassed, he looks — warm? Fond? Amused? He’s smiling, which makes Yuji’s stomach do all sorts of acrobatics that would put Spider-Man to shame for reasons he can’t quite articulate.

“Surely, you must understand by now,” Sukuna says indulgently, which is really giving Yuji the benefit of the doubt because he doesn’t know shit about shit. “You are special, Itadori Yuji. Do you think I would have done such a thing for anyone else?”

“Well, what about Fushiguro Megumi?”

“Is that supposed to be my voice? Envy does not suit you, Yuji.” And here he thought he’d done a pretty good job of hiding it.

Then again, he never could, could he? Not from Sukuna. Yuji’s known for a long time that they were going to be entwined for life. Even before Shinjuku, all the way back in June when he’d first heard Sukuna’s voice like nails on a chalkboard in his head angrily demanding release, a voice he thought would be the last thing he ever heard once he ingested all twenty fingers. And then came all of the revelations afterward, that Yuji was made for Sukuna in the most literal sense.

But this symbiosis is different. Without the cloud of loathing, a gut-dwelling parasite that also poisoned his brain, the great calamity behind them as much as it could be in this new world both familiar and strange, Yuji got to know Sukuna the Person and not Sukuna the Monster. He learned that it was easy to be himself around Sukuna, whose curiosity was earnest and shameless and without judgment, whose acceptance came with admiration, first begrudging and then not.

It feels good to be wanted. Sukuna makes him feel good.

At some point, Sukuna had walked over and was now leaning over him, Yuji entirely oblivious to it all. He raps a knuckle against Yuji’s head, more gently than he expected. “Any groundbreaking revelations you’d like to share with the class?”

“I really want to kiss you,” Yuji’s mouth blurts, entirely without permission. “Like, I’ll go crazy if I don’t do it right now.”

A pity that the ground won’t just open up and swallow him. Sukuna wouldn’t allow that, either crowing that Yuji ought to be true to himself or cooing over just how easily Sukuna’s disarmed him, mocking Yuji for exposing a weak spot — although everything about Yuji is weak in Sukuna’s eyes, most days. If he was flexible enough, Yuji would kick himself in the head for being so thoughtless. The fact that Sukuna has yet to respond only prolongs his suffering.

Finally, though not quite mercifully: “Well, we can’t have that.”

And so Sukuna kisses him.

It shouldn’t feel real. It isn’t real, because their physical bodies are in Yuji’s dorm room staring blankly at the wall or something. But Yuji feels — God, he feels everything: the warmth of Sukuna’s palms on his cheeks, the softness of his lips parted just a sliver, pressed insistently against his own in kiss after kiss after kiss, while Yuji feels oafish and clumsy in comparison. His mouth tingles, heart racing, face hot. With desperate hands, he finds the slight of Sukuna’s waist and pulls him close, hungry yet chaste and shy all at once. They don’t need to breathe here. He could do this forever.

But Sukuna pulls away first. “Couldn’t risk asphyxiating you on the outside,” he teases, because Sukuna knows him too well.

“Was — was that okay?” Yuji asks. The question is about as embarrassing as the hoarseness of his voice is.

“I would have told you if it wasn’t,” Sukuna reminds him, rubbing a thumb along his jaw.

Yuji nods. “Okay. I wasn’t sure ‘cause it was my first, so.”

“I know.”

“Okay, great.” Frustrated, Yuji groans and throws his hands up. Yuji feels the rumble of Sukuna’s chest as he chuckles against his cheek, slouched forward in his misery tinged with excitement. Two hands stroke his hair as their lower counterparts rub his shoulders and arms. “I’m sorry for being weird and being really bad at this. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“That’s fine,” Sukuna soothes. He guides Yuji’s face upward with a finger. His smile is a little too sharp to be called kind, but he feels enveloped in its warmth nonetheless. “I think we’ve already established that you’re a quick learner. And that I’m a pretty good teacher.”

10 NOVEMBER 2019.

Everything about this is carefully premeditated, just to show how adroit of a strategist Yuji’s become under Sukuna’s tutelage.

He’d shouldered Nobara out of the way to get the chair next to Yuta, plied him with menu recommendations and sparked a lovely conversation between the rest of the students to masquerade their topic of conversation. He even waited until everyone was too busy stuffing their faces to pay attention before opening his noxious can of worms, although he had to bob and wait for Yuta to swallow his food before interacting with him. All of this, Yuji had accounted for because he is a master tactician.

If only he’d also honed his tact.

“So, how does your thing with Rika work?”

Yuta makes an inquisitive noise. “What do you mean? She’s a shikigami.”

Yuji flaps a hand at him. “Oh, no, not — not this current one. I meant the one before.” He gestures to the chain around Okkotsu’s neck and the ring on it. “You guys were, like, a thing, yeah? You dated a cursed spirit?”

“Well — no. Because she was the spirit of a ten year-old girl.”

“But I heard you guys kissed and stuff.”

Okkotsu’s face flames. Yuji piles some kimchi on his plate to maintain their cover. “It — that wasn’t — who — oh, I know who.” He takes a massive gulp of his water, shoulders steadily climbing toward his hairline. “It was once, and it was more or less a goodbye thing.”

“... Oh.”

Not a day goes by when Yuji doesn’t feel like a complete and total moron, so this isn’t really a novel feeling for him.

“Should we just forget you said anything?”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

Yuta gives him a firm handshake. “Deal.”

It was probably (definitely) going to be a long shot anyway. They’re coming up on two years pretty soon, that little break-up. Yuta’s moved on, Rika’s passed on. There’s nothing comparable in this situation anyway.

He and Sukuna will just have to figure out their own path. And they’ll do it together. Yuji catches himself smiling at the thought. Together.

And then Nobara catches him too, squinting suspiciously when he looks up and meets her eye. Yuji only smiles more, aiming for enigmatic instead of seized-by-terror, and he sighs in relief at the sight of her incensed dismissal.

23 NOVEMBER 2019.

This Domain Expansion thing is barely a parlor trick to Yuji now. It fits him like a glove, as easy and practiced as pulling a shirt over his head. His barrier is strong and solid, bolstered by both vow and name. He doesn’t have to take as long to look through his target’s memories, though by today’s end he hopes to automate the process with another Vow.

But in this instance, for fun, he’s plopped himself smack dab in the middle of Sukuna’s memories. Sukuna can often be cajoled into telling stories — and he’s a master at it, never skimping on suspense, though Yuji must assume that every other sentence out of his mouth is an exaggeration of some kind. Whether his Domain reflects subjective memories or represents the unbiased truth is still up for debate, but Yuji likes being transported into a Kurosawa movie now and then — if a more vivid and technicolor diorama than the comparison would suggest. And maybe there’s something to how hot Sukuna is in his prime, too.

Yuji only laughs when Sukuna calls him out on it. “What, you don’t like it when I call you dreamy?” He reaches over to pinch a cheek, only for his hand to get slapped away while another arm slips around his waist and pulls him close. “You’re dreamy now too, if that changes anything. Wish you’d walk around shirtless more often.”

“I’ll not have you sully such memories with your insatiable appetite,” Sukuna replies, which is rich of him both because of how pleased with himself he now looks and because if there’s anyone with an insatiable appetite between them, it’s the man with two mouths. But alas.

He’s kind of right, in his own way (as Sukuna usually is). It’s illogical for him to be jealous of his past-and-future self, but it’s also illogical for Yuji to be envious of the other sorcerers in this memory.

Before there was Mount Hida, there was Minashi Shrine. Yuji had suggested visiting it in the present day, but Sukuna was disinterested. It’s not the same, he said, without the people — his people, the sorcerers who’d followed him after he destroyed Clan Konoe into a life of hedonism. A group of outcasts and pariahs orbiting the most monstrous of them all.

None of them, from the dark-haired woman clad in blacks and greens who worked her poisons (Shine, Sukuna had named fondly, making Yuji’s stomach twist into knots) to the reed-like man who melted into shadows as easily as Megumi (Terutaro, Sukuna supplied) to the last beside Uraume, who was so silent Yuji often forgot they were there (Sukuna shrugged, We didn’t give them a name), were so monstrous as the Two-Faced Specter. Yet he cared for them all the same.

“I miss Uraume,” says Sukuna with little prompting. There had been no trace of them left when the sorcerers regrouped with Hakari, Sukuna tucked haphazardly into Yuji’s sleeve. Sukuna seemed unsurprised by their death, the result of breaking an age-old Vow with Kenjaku to serve his ends in exchange for reincarnation. When Sukuna lost, they gave up, thereby going back on their word. Nothing Sukuna could’ve done would have saved them, so he said, using Uraume as an example in his many lessons.

But watching them now, short and quiet and glued to Past Sukuna’s side, there’s almost a paternal warmth to Sukuna’s gaze. “I suppose they could be considered my first pupil, though I was not nearly as thorough in their education as I was with yours.”

“Let me guess,” Yuji grumbles, “it’s because they were a thousand times more intelligent than I’ll ever be.”

Sukuna snorts, nosing along Yuji’s cheek. “You may be the first person in history to fish for insults instead of compliments.”

“Oh, probably not the first. Someone out there’s gotta be into that stuff.”

A trail of kisses, echoing Sukuna’s nose. “Are you?”

“No — I’m pretty sure.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing, idiot.”

Yuji snickers, palming Sukuna’s head to the side. He’s handsier than Yuji expected, maybe hoping to make up for what he couldn’t do in the physical world. Though, if he’d asked Yuji, the simple weight of him was enough. His presence, his company, once thought to be a blight upon Yuji’s existence, are now the brightest parts of his day — so much so that they’ve chased off most shadows.

“You think this lot would get upset at you missing Uraume most?” he asks. He doesn’t intend to instigate, but the finer details of Sukuna’s cohort still elude him. He tries to relate them to his own family, Yuji and Nobara and Megumi each some form of screwed up that fits perfectly into a whole. They’re not quite a mirror.

“Perhaps as a joke,” Sukuna answers after some consideration. That’s another thing Yuji loves about him: he may think a question is stupid, but if Sukuna chooses to answer it, he’ll do so with sincerity and gravity. If he deems something worth his time, he’ll make sure that it is. “We were a merry band of misfits, and there was a time we would have followed each other through thick and thin. But we were not bound. We prided ourselves on self-improvement above all. If they had to leave us to be their best selves — better than the world that cast them out — then they were all the better for it. That was the true promise we made to one another, not a shackling oath. It was not so lonely.”

So lonely. Not that it wasn’t lonely at all. Yuji opens his mouth, either to quip or comfort, but Sukuna speaks over him.

“Enough distractions,” he declares, brow set in mentor mode. “I think you chose the proper sacrifice for this Vow. Your aim, as nauseating and simple as it may be, is to have the target accept your Vow. Sacrificing the potency of your boon is the safest of offerings, but it matches the gain of your Domain automatically choosing the most persuasive memory. Limiting your pitch time would work against you, and your target would have no way of knowing they’re only getting half of what they would receive without the Vow.”

“Unless I was dumb enough to tell them,” Yuji confirms. “Which I am not.”

So, with Sukuna’s blessing, Yuji makes another Binding Vow. There’s no real purpose to lowering his head and closing his eyes; it’s just how he feels it should be done. Let this Vow bind the Awakening of the Great Vow eternal: for a memory that insists upon its acceptance, the Vow of Adamantine Indestructible Conduct shall be halved. “So mote it be,” Yuji says, just to see Sukuna smile.

And yet, it’s a wary scowl that greets him instead, suddenly surrounded by four walls instead of the pines and warm daylight bathing the previous memory. Yuji twists in confusion and then jumps when his elbow passes through a child’s forehead — Sukuna, he realizes, that cherub he’d first (and last) seen back in July, which might as well be a thousand years ago. This dusty and dismal interior — tools strewn about, dirt tracked around the entryway, spillage by the hearth, over which a pot of bubbling congee gurgles — must’ve been the hut he ran from in the first memory.

The Sukuna of this recollection moves unsteadily through the space, all four eyes fixed on a too-full bowl of rice porridge as he moves over to a cot. Some of it spills over the rim and scalds his fingertips, but he’s singularly focused on his task. His lower hands come up to the bottom of the bowl for better support, drawn back with a hiss almost immediately upon contact.

Yuji follows his trajectory to the bed, where Sukuna’s mother shivers pitifully, sweat marring her brow. Her skin is deathly pale compared to the sun-beaten ruddiness of the previous vision, though her mouth is still twisted in wretched misery. Yuji wants to feel sympathetic, but it’s a hard well to draw from.

“Would you care to explain?” his Sukuna — oh, aw, wait not the time — asks tightly.

“Huh? What do you mean? It’s the Vow.” Yuji blinks. “I didn’t do this on purpose.”

Sukuna clicks his tongue dismissively. “I don’t see how that would be the case, given that this is the last memory that would —” He harshly cuts off the crescendo behind gritted teeth. “This is what hardened my heart most of all. So this couldn’t possibly insist upon any —”

“Here, Mother.” Little Sukuna uses his lower hands to hold the bowl of congee as his upper ones bring the spoon to her mouth, one cupped under the other to catch any droppings. “Eat, please.”

She clicks her tongue — a habit he inherited in adulthood and beyond, transcending lifetimes — and moves her head away. It seems to take all of her strength to do so. “Not right now. Set it aside.” It’s the kindliest tone Yuji’s heard her take with him, and even then it’s not very nice.

Her son frowns. “But it’ll get cold.” Sukuna inches closer. Yuji wants to grab him by the shoulders and warn him that he’s doing something stupid. It’s futile, heartwarming, and terribly sad all at the same time. “Let me help you, Mother.”

He’s so small. So young. Well-coordinated for his age, considering how little he was when he ran away, and already so kind in a world that was anything but. Yuji looks at his Sukuna, all hard lines and serrated edges, and mourns how cruelly and how quickly he’d been carved into this.

The second rejection, a foregone conclusion, falls in line with Yuji’s previous assumptions. When simple words don’t suffice, the wretched woman brings her shoulder into play. Too weak to move her arms individually, her dramatic and infantile shrug drags the limb along with it in a wide, heavy arc. “I said no, you little brat!” It backfires, predictably, as all violent gestures at children should, her elbow knocking into Sukuna’s tiny hand and upending the spoon and its contents all over her.

But she’s not the only one harmed, Sukuna flinching at the harsh touch and in turn spilling the bowl onto his hands and part of a forearm. Both mother and son cry out in unison, miserable harmony, though only the former takes it a touch too far.

“Now look at what you’ve done!” she snaps, wriggling weakly in her bed as though caught in a glue trap. “You’re a curse of a child, you’ll always be one! Next time I tell you to leave me alone, you do so, do you hear? Now get out of my sight!” If she had the strength to fling the spoon at him, Yuji’s sure she would have.

With wet eyes and a trembling mouth, little Sukuna retreats to the opposite corner of the hut, blowing on his reddened skin. He squeezes his eyes shut and muffles his whimpers, fearful of reprisal from a woman who can’t even sit up on her own.

“I think I hate her,” Yuji says quietly.

“Then you may do so on my behalf,” says his Sukuna. “To hate her would require a level of effort that I’m unwilling to expend on that woman — on either of my so-called parents, really.”

His hands are unresponsive fists when Yuji reaches for them, white-knuckled and stone-stiff. Yuji inhales, then swipes his tongue across his lower lip. “I think you’re wrong,” he begins as gently as he can. “About a number of things, to be frank with you, but… I mean about this memory being the least convincing one my Vow would’ve chosen.

“Once upon a time, I think, yes, this would have been your confirmation — your reminder that my Vow is stupid and silly and that to adopt purely self-defense is a waste of your talent and power, blah, blah. But I think now, after this second chance and some soul searching or what have you, you know that what she said isn’t true. A thousand years ago, this was the moment that planted a seed into your head, that you’re a curse, you’re a monster, and love is nothing but weakness. You’ve changed. You can let go of this, of her, and of your old ideals now.”

Sukuna’s mouth is set in a grim line, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Somewhere in the middle of Yuji’s speech, his eyes had traveled over his shoulder and latched onto his younger self. There was a deep ache in his gaze, a yawning chasm in the dark of his pupils and the red of his irises like blood welling from an open wound.

Yuji knows that he’s thought of it. At least once, over a sleepless night or in broad daylight while the whole world quaked at the thought of him. Ryomen Sukuna, unnamed ‘til adulthood, adopting the title of a monster after a lifetime of having been called one, was a philosopher at heart. He pondered as much as he warred, so he must have entertained (and dismantled) doubt before. And perhaps Yuji has chosen to fight a battle already lost, but he could not forgive himself if he didn’t try. Sukuna, like any other person in the world, is capable of enlightenment.

“I had potential, didn’t I?” Sukuna asks finally. “To be loved. To be a great thing. I could have been so good.”

“Everyone does,” Yuji answers. “Sometimes they find it early, sometimes it takes a thousand years. But I’m glad you got there eventually.”

His lip curls — mirth, disdain, some strange combination of them both, or something else entirely, it’s rather unclear. But then Sukuna snatches the khakkhara from him wordlessly, before Yuji can even begin to make the offering, and holds it aloft. He squints as the khakkhara’s golden bubble bursts and the light seeps into his core, imbuing the cursed energy into his flesh. Once he stops glowing, Sukuna peevishly mutters, “That was next to nothing.”

Yuji can’t help but laugh. “Quiet, you. You’re probably the last person in the universe who needs the boost.” Although, given all his griping about the limitations of his pared-down form, he may just be trying to save face. Yuji chooses not to suggest such a thing, and Sukuna rewards him by allowing Yuji to hold his hand.

“Thank you,” murmurs Sukuna, stubbornly refusing to meet his eye as both the Innate Domain and Yuji’s Domain fade out into a bright light —

— the one attached to the ceiling fan in Yuji’s room. Yuji lifts the remote to turn it off, an affront in the late November chill. Sukuna curls up on Yuji’s chest like a housecat, warm and weighty. He doesn’t quite purr when Yuji curls a hand around him. But even if he wasn’t there, returned to his shoebox or settled into his customary spot under Yuji’s arm, his chest would’ve felt warm anyway — pride and love, twin flames stoked in the furnace of his soul.

20 DECEMBER 2019.

Kusakabe looks genuinely impressed by Yuji’s writing. Beyond marveling over the fact that it’s finally legible, he makes a point to praise him for a ‘much tighter and neater’ conclusion, even though Yuji barely managed to hit the minimum page count.

“I’m surprised you chose to experiment on your Domain for your paper,” he remarks, wetting his finger to flip a page. Such an old man gesture, and yet Sukuna hates when people do that. As if your oily fingers weren’t tormenting enough for the poor parchment. “Then again, knowing you, I guess I shouldn’t be. Did you ever take the Vow of Revelation too?”

“Uh, no,” Yuji admits. Though it’s an innocuous question with no bearing on his grade, the tips of his ears are still warm.

“Ah, a shame. Should’ve done it before you turned in your paper.”

“Does it work that way?”

“If you —”

“— word it right, it should,” finishes Yuji. “‘Course. Shoulda known.”

Kusakabe nods and gives him an approximation of a warm, approving grin. “Either way, well done. You’ve more than earned your A.” With a red marker, he circles a big 92 on the upper right corner of the page. “Congratulations on tying for second in the class. It’s not really that impressive considering there’s only three of you, but I’m trying to be more encouraging.”

“I think you’re doing a pretty good job,” Yuji replies.

“Thanks, kid.”

Yuji receives the paper with both hands. The words are so familiar he feels the phantom exhaustion of writing the paper just by looking at them. The night before he turned it in, he couldn't even bear getting past his introductory paragraph. Good to know that fresher eyes are kinder to Yuji's ramblings than he is. “My Domain’s pretty useful in the whole ‘bring people home’ department,” he explains. “If I can talk someone down instead of engaging them in combat and putting others at risk, if I can win us new allies instead of permanently ending an enemy, then that’s what I’ll do. And on the flip side, the cursed energy bump could be what cinches a fight, so if you’d ever like to take a trip down memory lane…”

Kusakabe barks a laugh. “That’s an ethical Gordian Knot I do not want anywhere near my figurative and literal blade. And even if there wasn’t an issue with letting my underage student sift through all of my memories, I am too sober for that conversation.” Fair enough. “Now scram so I can leave too.”

Nobara, who also balked at being subjected to his Domain, teasingly pokes Yuji's cheek later, chiming a singsongy, “Loser’s three points shy of the top grade, dummy.”

“We tied for second place,” Yuji hisses without any real heat, yanking at her bob in retaliation. She squeals directly in his ear loud enough to make his vision blur. “If I’m a dummy, so are you!”

“Three points,” Megumi murmurs faintly. He'd hummed contemplatively about the Vow of Adamantine Indestructible Conduct but ultimately passed on it 'for now.' Yuji and Nobara both twist to see what he’s looking at before concluding it’s just another one of his thousand-yard stares. Typical Friday afternoon. “I can’t let you close the gap…”

One fist over the other, arms held out in front of him, elbows bent slightly. A familiar gesture.

“Hey, friend,” Yuji says, “let’s not be too hasty —”

Fushiguro sucks at practical jokes because he can’t hold in his laughter. There’s not a lot he finds funny, which is probably why he has no resistance when he finds something he does. It’s endearing, if a bit pitiable. He cracks as easily as glass, shoulders jumping with each snicker as his head drops. Yuji and Nobara look at each other, lips twitching, and slug Megumi on either shoulder.

24 DECEMBER 2019.

Sukuna is, for better or for worse (and not that Yuji has anyone to compare him to), incredibly low maintenance for a partner.

He enjoys quality time and will seek it out, but he doesn’t demand dates. They go to the movies and the arcade and out to dinner like they first had so many months ago, but sharing a body is unwieldy, and Sukuna’s increased energy now leaves a residual that may attract unwanted attention.

And though Yuji feels less shame than the average person, looking like a loser on a paddleboat all by himself and getting spotted like this by his seniors was a distinct low point in his life. “Didn’t want to intrude on ur me-time,” Hakari had texted him, with a super zoomed-in, low-res picture of Yuji with an expression one could only describe as Affleck-esque.

He’d been happily lounging away with Sukuna in his Innate Domain at the time, like he is now, but it’s not like he could tell Hakari that.

So, the cheapest and most efficient place to be together is in Yuji’s dorm. They split their time between the physical and metaphysical world, watching movies on the iPad or talking about anything that crosses their minds. What matters most is that they’re together. Today, the topic of conversation is how Sukuna found a cave in Mount Hida where he perfected his cursed technique in seclusion.

It should be a regular Tuesday, Yuji had thought when he woke up, which ought to have been an ill omen in and of itself. His subconscious was trying to tell him that he had forgotten something, but he waved it off — like a proper fool. If I forgot, it probably wasn’t that important. He should get drawn and quartered for this thought alone.

“It did not look like a cave from below, and so I —” Mid-sentence, Sukuna pauses and looks up.

The scenery changes quite literally in the blink of an eye. One moment, Yuji’s enamored with the impish glint in Sukuna’s eye, enhanced by the long shadows of his lashes drawn from the Innate Domain’s light. The next, he’s staring at an open door, Nobara and Megumi gaping at him at the threshold. Megumi’s hands are still arranged in his summoning somatics, Snake hissing between Yuji’s legs.

He remembers now, at the most helpful of times. It’s Christmas Eve. It is a very important day. This, presumably, is where the word ‘probably’ got milked for all its worth.

The compromising situation is this — Yuji, fully clothed, cross-legged on his bed, Sukuna balanced on his thigh. Attacking with Snake was a deliberate move, no mere reflex, missing Yuji’s unmentionables by inches is Megumi’s way of lashing out without words. He’s always had trouble finding them.

Nobara has not. “What the hell is that thing?” she recoils, confusion curving her features where Megumi’s are knotted by rage.

“You should be asking who it is,” Fushiguro spits.

“Wait,” blusters Yuji, “guys, I can explain —”

He can’t, really, and they know that, so Megumi plows forward. Yuji feels the lightest smidge of pride despite the onslaught. “I thought that stench was because you two shared a technique,” he whispers, voice shaking, “that you reeked of him because you were his host for so long. I — I chose to be blind to it. I should’ve known. I did know.”

And you didn’t say anything, Yuji thinks but doesn’t say aloud. Such unkindness would be of no help. Instead, he holds out his hands as if he’s taming raptors and rises unsteadily to his feet. Sukuna is still curved defensively by him, refusing to cower behind, eye narrowed. “He’s harmless,” Yuji says slowly. “He’s spent a year — exactly a year to the day, in fact — in this room, and he hasn’t caused trouble once.”

Megumi scoffs. “Are you sure about that? He’s not stuck to you anymore. For all you know, he sneaks out while you’re asleep.” He gestures to his face, to his brow and cheek. “Those are bits of my flesh walking around.”

“We — we made a deal.” It’s weak, even to Yuji’s ears.

“So he…” Paling, Fushiguro swallows. “A pound of flesh for his freedom? Is that it?” And now it’s not fear in his eyes but wounded pride. The lines around his mouth deepen as he grits his teeth. The fight starts to drain from his shoulders, lowered but still tense, hands trembling. Snake slithers back to him as it dawns on Yuji what he means.

“No,” Yuji gasps, “no, I’d asked in my Domain, but he said no. We forced him out. You forced him out. And then in his last moments, he agreed to live on in peace. It was a last-minute, last-ditch thing. But that’s not the —”

“That’s even worse,” Nobara interjects. “Why would you believe anything he said?” Traitor. It was always them against him, at least in jest, and now she chooses to switch teams.

“He’s changed,” insists Yuji. “He’s — he’s helped me with schoolwork, and in a genuine, nonlethal way, too. You remember what he was like in Shinjuku, playing with Higuruma like he was food; the guy who was all ‘learn or die’ would never go out of his way to make me an A-grade student.”

“Do not talk to me about Shinjuku,” Megumi snaps. “Not today.”

Exactly a year to the day. Yuji’s mouth clicks shut.

Megumi’s hair hangs in his face as he lowers his head, takes a shuddering breath that sounds like both a laugh and a groan. “Today, of all days, you do this. Cozy up to his killer on the first anniversary of his death, make excuses for him like picking up a teaching job could in any way make up for what he did to our teacher. To my —” He cuts himself off and presses a fist to his mouth.

Sukuna twitches. “I do not intend to —”

“Shut the fuck up,” immediate and harsh, a wolf-like growl tearing out of Megumi’s throat. “You don’t get to speak to me.”

Sukuna recoils. “I need no permission to —”

Yuji nudges him with his heel. He doesn’t know what to do, much less what to say. It hurts that neither of them is listening to him, but it’s not as if Megumi’s anger is unreasonable.

The self-righteous part of him chafes at Nobara’s quick and sharp judgment, and yet, he can’t blame her either. Surely someone’s told her about everything Sukuna’s done — Shibuya, Tsumiki, Shinjuku. She was there when they lost him, while he’d relaxed in the basement and binged the director’s cuts of Lord of the Rings. He thought they’d gotten over that, but his survival didn’t erase all that time they spent grieving.

Especially now, there’s nothing he can say to get them to forgive Sukuna the way he has, for things Yuji has no right to forgive him for.

He shrugs helplessly. “Gojo-sensei’s dream was for us to stand together,” Yuji says simply. “The weak would grow strong, and we’d all stand back to back, and we’d protect each other and those who need it most. I know Sukuna’s not perfect. But he’s strong and he’s trying to be better. I think sensei would want this. Don’t you?”

Megumi shakes his head wordlessly in disbelief, then takes a shambling, stumbling step back. All he can muster is a scoff, and then — he’s gone.

Nobara shakes her head at him too. “I honestly can’t believe you just said that,” she tells Yuji. Without waiting to let the weight of her words or disappointment sink in, she darts off after Megumi and calls out for him, footsteps clattering down the hall.

Since he’s already standing, Yuji goes to slide his door shut. No sense in letting everyone else stumble in on Sukuna too. Nobara will probably blab and Maki will kick his door down and run him through as everyone else tries to squash Sukuna like a cockroach, but that’s a worry for the afternoon. At present, they should take their solace where they can. Yuji trips on the sudden shift in elevation as he touches the ground. He hadn’t even realized that, by standing on his bed, he’d been forcing them to look up to him.

God, Yuji’s such an idiot. There’s no possible way that could’ve gone worse.

“I do not need you to fight my battles,” Sukuna says stiffly, picking at the shreds of Yuji’s comforter left behind by Snake’s swift strike. He squints in concern when Yuji returns to the bed, sits facing his wall, and hunches over so that his forehead presses against the smooth surface. Sparing one look at Yuji’s curved back, Sukuna climbs onto his knee. “I had thought Fushiguro Megumi to be a more logical sort.”

Yuji bashes his knuckles into the wall accidentally as he brings his hands to his face and hisses a curse. “You killed his kind-of dad,” he says into his palms. “This is all my fault.”

“In what way?”

“I should’ve —” Not done this at all? Left Sukuna to die, one life to balance the untold number he’d taken? Left him to a fate he deserved? It’s unthinkable, now. He’s allowed them to get too entangled in each other’s lives. Sukuna’s like a piece of gum stuck in his hair down to the roots. Even though he should, and there are plenty of reasons to do so, Yuji does not want to go bald. “I should’ve been more careful. I lost track of time and they came looking for me. So this is all on me. I didn’t want them to find out this way.”

“Did you ever want them to find out at all?” Sukuna asks. It should twist the knife, shouldn’t it, that his tone is more of the same clinical curiosity instead of resentment? Because it does; it digs into his gut like a corkscrew, churning Yuji’s insides.

The proper answer is no. Yuji lied precisely because this was a time bomb that would blow his hands and face off, and instead of trying to disarm it, he just kicked the explosive under his bed and hoped for the best. Everyone here deserved better — except Yuji, who made his dung heap and now has to lie in it.

If Sukuna had any sense, he’d run while he could. But he’s both proud and honorable, waiting for an answer he may never receive. Acutely aware of his shortcomings in a way Yuji thought he was, Sukuna does not try to comfort him anymore. He seems to hope that physical contact — his warmth and the feel of him through the fabric of Yuji’s pants — will do what his words can’t. And it helps a bit. But Sukuna doesn’t get it. Yuji doesn’t think anyone would.

There’s a name written on the proverbial blade in his gut: Expectation. He’d failed to meet Fushiguro and Kugisaki’s because they were too high. They thought the world of him — or at least they thought him above falling for the two-time King of Curses. Then there’s Sukuna, who doesn’t expect anything of him at all, who’s glad to be Yuji’s dirty little secret, a thing that skeeves Yuji out and makes his skin crawl, and who complains about a lot of things but never that Yuji’s not done enough for him. The dead have their expectations of him, too, and to think of them would have Yuji gored through and through.

The blade called Expectation is lodged pretty deep, cutting him a little more each time Yuji inhales and exhales. So even though Sukuna doesn’t understand its existence, he should at least understand why Yuji wants to stop breathing.

He would understand this if Yuji explained it to him, but it would be cruel to do so, and Yuji is not a cruel person.

He’s not, he tells himself. He’s not.

The plan was to visit with the rest of the students. Beyond that, there wasn’t much detail — whether it was supposed to be a picnic sort of deal, if they were all going to give speeches, how long they would spend around Gojo’s grave. All that the students agreed on was that they would visit Gojo on the first anniversary of his death. It was the right thing to do.

Until a few hours ago, Yuji was supposed to be part of that group. No one’s contacted him, but he’s just about 100% sure he’s been uninvited. Mitigating circumstances have freed him of his obligations to his classmates, but the trappings of human decency and guilt compel him to visit the ossuary on his own. He’d simply waited a good long while so he could avoid potentially getting jumped by everyone else. And then he waited some more, until it was dark out, just to be sure.

(Yuji’s fairly sure he could take all of them. Not unscathed, mind, but he would win the war of attrition. But if he didn’t have to beat the tar out of people he still considered friends, he wouldn’t go out of his way to.)

Gojo’s grave looks well-loved, littered with sticks of incense that still waft through the air despite being long burnt out, altars covered with enough candies and confections to rot an entire mouthful of teeth, piled all around the wall in a half-circle almost like a welcome mat. Yuji can almost picture him rifling through the bags, popping the treats in his mouth one by one in a graceful arc. It makes him smile in spite of everything. The compartment itself is neat, and there isn’t any other evidence of visitors beyond faintly disturbed dust — probably Megumi and Yuta’s work to end subspace littering.

Megumi. He’d never promised his secrecy. Yuji would never ask him to, nor even expect it, even though there had always been a blood pact of loyalty, a cone of silence, between the three of them. He imagines it’s the same for all the rest; each cohort was a tightly knit unit equally defensive of each other, even and especially, perhaps, against their fellow students at both campuses. But was this transgression of Yuji’s a touch too far?

He has no framework to base hypothetical consequences on besides general despair. The previous nonagenarian higher-ups would kill Yuji and Sukuna and be done with it; that’s what they wanted all along. The newer council, with an average age of about thirty-three save for massive outlier Gakuganji, is considerably more lenient — so said Fushiguro, the only one of the class who paid any attention to politics. Their mercy may very well be a curse. Even if they chose to spare them both (because Yuji and Sukuna have always, always been a singular unit), this would not come with protections.

The Vow Yuji had insisted upon him now renders Sukuna vulnerable. And what would happen to Yuji, if not execution? Expulsion? Exile? Would they be reassigned to the sticks or cast out entirely to eke out existences as curse users in Sendai? Would they have to duke it out over territory with the handful of lingering Culling Game players? Would anyone come after them not for retribution, but for the chance to test their mettle against Ryomen Sukuna regardless of his current state?

Worse yet, would the two of them get forcibly separated, one being cleaved down the middle?

He could go back to school — regular school — maybe. But Yuji has nothing without sorcery. This world has a tendency to swallow people whole. Yuji has already long been digested.

Debating for a good while between sitting or squatting, Yuji settles on staying put and standing as he says his piece. He scuffs the toe of one shoe against the heel of the other. “I wish you were here,” he whispers, sounding like a thunderclap in the isolation. “I know you’re probably happier in the afterlife. Or you’re all settled in now and therefore not willing to move.

“Sometimes I think I’ve been cursed.” The admission comes with a frail chuckle, hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets. “I could never tell if I was the one who owed Choso or if he owed me after all the bloodshed. It canceled out when he died, I think. He was the last of my family, but at least we were at peace. You and Nanamin… that’s a different story. I don’t — feel like I should be the inheritor of your will. I don’t think I deserve it.

“I’m strong, but I’m not strong enough. Otherwise, figuring out right from wrong would be easier. I wouldn’t be questioning every single decision I’ve ever made — I’m pretty sure you never did.” Yuji’s lips twitch. “I’m pretty sure you would never have found yourself in this situation.”

“Yuji.” Sukuna wriggles and leans further down his front to make direct eye contact easier. He had nothing to say to Gojo that their duel hadn’t already expressed, so Sukuna said, but Yuji thought it was a bad idea to leave him unattended in the dorm. He had also thought that meant Sukuna would keep quiet. His voice is solemn and quiet, at least, not his usual bombastic confidence. “Contrition is not one of my many skills. I find it simpler — no, easier — to move on and rectify or improve, rather than dwell on misery. But I am sorry that I am the root of your pain. Hurting you, Vow or otherwise, is the last thing I wish to do. I cannot stop it, but I — I thought I should tell you.”

Yuji leans into the nub as it meets his cheek, careful not to put too much weight on it. Pigs should start flying any time now, right? He wants so badly to crack a joke, to take his mind off of everything. But repaying Sukuna's honesty with mockery would be negative reinforcement, and this is the kind of behavior Yuji wants to encourage in him. Next, he’ll get Sukuna’s heart to grow three sizes — like what food scientists do to chickens, or something.

It’s not as though the words help much, anyway. Sukuna’s right that his regret (if one could even call it that) changes nothing. He already makes Yuji feel less alone. For now, at least, that is truer than ever. Still, Yuji smiles and says, “Thank you, although I think there’s someone else here you should apologize to instead of me.”

Sukuna catches his meaning quickly, though he still recoils in confusion. “He is not present to hear it. What would be the purpose?” All right, so maybe expecting Sukuna to feel regret over his actions themselves as opposed to their mildly foreseen consequences was aiming a little too high. “Gojo Satoru agreed to fight to the death. He understood there was a chance he would not survive, no matter how small he thought it may be. Did I not give him a proper death? As we are of a like mind, I believe he would agree to that much at least.”

It’s so simple, so matter-of-fact, so certain and sure, how he says it. What Yuji would give to move through the world with such unwavering confidence. Sukuna would say he’s fettered by boyhood, but that’s not true. From how Shoko tells it, her classmates walked around like they expected the world to bend to their will. The final fight in Shinjuku may have moved a cloud to the east, but Yuji did not clear Sukuna’s skies. He doesn’t know if he ever could.

“I guess we’ll just have to live with the mystery,” Yuji hums. “Since Gojo-sensei isn’t around to tell us one way or the other.” Just like Yuji will have to live with the mystery of their futures. He should’ve spent the day celebrating Gojo’s life with those closest to him, and yet now here he is, begging for answers in the dark with Gojo’s killer against his beating heart.

Well. He supposes he can delay the inevitable just for a little while. Not forever, since he’ll starve, and it’s bad form to steal a dead man’s meal (or pile of candy, as it were). Just long enough for him to stop wanting to bash his head into a wall, maybe.

“I think I would like to be alone,” Yuji says quietly. He lowers himself to the ground, bringing one knee to his chin and folding the other leg underneath.

Sukuna’s response is immediate and flat. “No, that would be unwise.” He knows Yuji too well.

“Okay.” Sukuna stays, and Yuji lets him.

13 JANUARY 2020.

To be one hundred percent honest, Yuji’s a little bummed that Megumi turned out to be a snitch. He held out for a good while, sure, but the optimistic (delusional, more like) part of him thought that after three quiet days passed, bro code went back into effect. Oh well. Yuji can’t exactly blame him.

Though taking place in a different room, the tribunal feels eerily similar to Yuji’s first meeting with Gojo. Except there aren’t talismans plastered all over the walls and he’s not tied to his chair and, hopefully, the people in front of him aren’t going to tell him he’s been sentenced to death. Yuji struggles not to wilt under five pairs of eyes, two more than which Gojo had been watching him with. None of them exude his easygoing air, instead perpetuating a mirthless, oppressive cloud of anxiety. The open floor plan and dimmed lighting of the assembly chamber enforces the ominous unease, though they’ve done away with the opaque screens.

Gakuganji speaks first, though as far as Yuji knows, he isn’t the leader. The thought should comfort him a little, but it doesn’t mean the old man’s powerless. “What a grand disappointment,” he rattles, eyes invisible under the weight of his brows. Yuji is suddenly reminded why nobody likes him. His tone errs just shy of smug. “You were given an inch, and then a mile, and yet all you’ve done with it is prove a gut instinct correct.”

The instinct that he shouldn’t be allowed to live, presumably, and yet which he won’t say it aloud?

“I’m disappointed too,” adds Utahime, “but more than that, I’m confused. After everything he’s done to you and your friends and countless innocent people, why would you want to save Sukuna? After everything we sacrificed that day in Shinjuku, you’d still give him a chance?”

Then there’s Mei Mei, purposefully missing the point by a country mile: “Moreover, it’s disappointing that you got caught.” Folding her arms across her chest, she arches a brow. “As far as willing and sincere mentors go, Sukuna is one you’d be a fool to pass up. I can understand doing a stupid thing in the pursuit of knowledge. But it’s still a stupid thing.”

“I’m speechless,” says Kusakabe oxymoronically.

Okay, so they’re just going down the line. Yuji thought he’d built up an immunity to displeasing authority figures, but apparently it’s just that he didn’t think much of the three earlier ones. Lying by omission is not the same as pulling the wool over a teacher’s eyes.

Kusakabe flaps his mouth open and closed three separate times as he tussles with his words. Not so speechless after all, which he at least acknowledges: “Except I’m not, really, because of course the little knucklehead who swallowed a cursed finger to begin with would have delusions of grandeur about his ability to rehabilitate a mass murderer.”

They make eye contact, but then it seems like Kusakabe’s looking through him, brows pinched in consternation and betrayal. Yuji can’t say that he didn’t mean to lie or withhold things, because that’s all he meant to do and he was well aware of the implications in doing so. Saying he never meant to hurt his teacher would be melodramatic, saying he was sorry that he lied in itself would be another lie. He’s starting to see why Sukuna’s never bothered with apologies. They’re a minefield.

Higuruma casts a long look to his right, fingers steepled in front of his mouth as he watches his colleagues before turning back to Yuji. He’s just as inscrutable as he’s always been. Yuji’s not looking forward to seeing Judgeman again. “My kneejerk response is to agree with the other esteemed members of this council,” says Higuruma, “not in the least because I am a stranger to jujutsu society on top of my experiences with Ryomen Sukuna. But as a man of the law, I say Itadori should at least get the opportunity to defend himself.”

His only opportunity — that much is clear from the grumbling agreement. The accusatory stares now morph into expectant ones, though Yuji’s fairly certain that they’ve already made up their minds. Still, there's no harm in trying.

Yuji shifts in his seat. His right cheek had fallen asleep at one point, and the mere attempt to rouse it from its slumber is enough to make the Kyoto folks tense. “Look — there’s no one else who knows more about the evil Sukuna used to be capable of.” He watches Kusakabe’s jaw tighten. “A few of you have witnessed his carnage with your own eyes. He used these hands to make it.”

“Either say something to exonerate yourself or don’t bother,” suggests Higuruma generously.

“My point is that I’m not under the impression I fixed a secretly nice guy, or whatever.” There were smoother transitions, surely, but he feels like he’s rapidly losing their interest. Yuji twists his hands in his lap, letting the words pour thoughtlessly out of his mouth. Strategy is new to him, and in this instance, he finds it unhelpfully insincere. His appeals must come straight from the heart — his greatest strength and his most glaring weakness. “From the start, it’s always been about new beginnings — making different choices, putting in the effort to change. Sukuna’s done that. He was a product of a philosophy where peace and forgiveness were never options. This was both because of circumstance and personality flaws. But he’s willing to learn, and he has, leaps and bounds' worth. And if you guys are worried about him going rogue suddenly, he can’t. He’s taken a Vow.”

“I taught you that breaking a transactional Vow just reverses the transaction,” stresses Kusakabe. “If he harmed another person, he’d just lose the boost he got from your Domain. Based on the fact that you yourself wrote in your paper that you halved the gains, I doubt Sukuna would miss it.”

“Maybe if Sukuna was at full strength,” Higuruma cuts in.

“Whose side are you on?”

Higuruma ignores the question. “In his current state, Sukuna was weak enough to go undetected and overlooked for an entire year. Only one of his fingers remains, locked away and just as diminished. Even if he somehow got his hands on it, the power he’d receive by consuming the final digit is negligible. His only ally is right in front of us, being given the third degree. There’s no one for him to possess, and that is assuming he even can. I don’t think Itadori’s off in his threat assessment.”

“The very same Itadori who was born to host him?” asks Gakuganji. He’s getting a little too close to the truth.

Yuji sinks in his seat, trying to disappear, only to freeze when his public defender gestures to him.

“I chose my line of work because I believe everyone deserves an advocate.” Higuruma looks pointedly at Kusakabe, a belated answer to his interjection. “While I appreciate you all overlooking my inexperience in electing me to this council, I refuse to perpetuate a system that punishes a person — a child, in this case — for crimes not yet committed. The only thing we can find Itadori guilty of is having an egregious lack of judgment, which I feel is punishment enough. He deserves greater trust. Where were we when he and his classmates faced Sukuna down alone? In hiding or in the infirmary?”

Utahime makes a dissenting noise but offers no solution, while Mei Mei dips her head.

“We can keep a close eye on them if we must,” Higuruma concludes. “But I feel that no further action is currently needed. You’ve made your point with this little display of authority.”

Well. Yuji wasn’t going to say it.

Customarily, he’d make some blustering, impossible-to-live-up-to promises. At this moment in time, he doesn’t think it’d go over very well. Yuji instead opts to nod gratefully at Higuruma and then at the rest of the tribunal, hopefully projecting some sort of reassuring or reliable air. He won’t hold his breath. If he opens his mouth, he’ll probably erase all of Higuruma’s hard work. So he keeps it shut, and then he exits the room as soon as he’s excused. Now all of the fretting seems silly. His body doesn't know what to do with the leftover nerves. As Yuji makes his way back to the dorm, he struggles to come up with what he would tell Sukuna about the whole affair. He couldn't guarantee the council would be just as lenient.

Sukuna ought to have been there with Yuji, but the council insisted on separate interrogations. The curseling himself hadn't minded, taken by a sense of calm that only slightly rubbed off on his partner-in-crime. Maybe they were worried he would influence Yuji or something. He snorts at the thought.

They should be so glad that it’s the other way around.

24 JANUARY 2020.

Kusakabe spends the first few minutes of an ostensibly school-related meeting laying into Yuji after he couldn’t do so at the tribunal, and Yuji sits there and takes it. Throughout his ranting, which ramped and lulled rhythmically as though rocking him to sleep, he picked Yuji’s survey up half-a-dozen times and proceeded not to read it because “Another thing!” occurred to him.

They’re supposed to be using this precious time to work out the solo curricula of Yuji’s third and fourth year, picking apart his goals and ambitions to tailor the right program for him. Part of it also includes whether he’d want to promote further from Grade One and what types of missions he’d like to specialize in, if any. He supposes he could make Special Grade if he focused his attention on perfecting Shrine, but since everyone’s still afraid of Sukuna, politics might get in the way of any promotions. As always, everything circles back to him. Kusakabe’s circuitous yammering on the same subject is only further proof.

Absently, Yuji pats Sukuna’s head. It's a gesture the other used to find demeaning, like he was some sort of lapdog. The movement also seems to snap Kusakabe out of his furor, as he blinks and halts mid-sentence. Yuji hadn’t been trying to make a statement; he’d given up on that after Kusakabe interrupted him for the third time when trying to get them back on track.

“... He does look kind of harmless, doesn’t he?” Kusakabe says eventually.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone,” Yuji replies, though he knows he’ll pay for it later. He chuckles quietly as Sukuna huffs in offense and crosses his nubs. In the end, neither of them were to be penalized for their deception, though the council insisted that they Sukuna go wherever Yuji went, now an official custodianship. He supposes they wanted to minimize any time he spent alone plotting. If only they’d believe him if Yuji told them Sukuna just likes watching One Piece in his downtime.

Kusakabe sighs wearily through his nose. “I just wish you would’ve told me.”

Yuji snorts. “You would’ve freaked out.”

“Yeah, probably,” Kusakabe agrees, folding immediately. He braces his forearms against his desk. “It was obviously eating at you, though. This wasn’t something you should’ve taken on alone. You’re still a kid.”

“That’s patronizing,” Sukuna mutters.

“Not talking to you.”

It’s not exactly an out-and-out I forgive you. But Yuji can find the absolution without looking too hard. Kusakabe isn’t the type to openly express sentiment of any kind, anyway. It’s better this way. Easier to smooth things over — or to pretend they never happened.

Yuji wishes it was this simple with Megumi and Nobara, too.

“Thanks, sensei. I’ll, um, keep that in mind.” Yuji clears his throat. “Uh, so, about my survey…?”

Kusakabe looks at the sheet in question as if it’s mysteriously teleported into his hand, like it’s his first time ever seeing it. “Oh,” he says. “Right.”

Chapter Text

SEMESTER 3: WINTER 2020.

25 JANUARY 2020.

Classroom time is a thing of the past come the third semester. The students train one-on-one with Kusakabe on a block schedule now, with the occasional guest mentor thrown in — though there aren’t many who want to fit teaching into their busy schedules. Yuji can’t imagine why.

Especially considering a not-insignificant number of them balk at having to tutor him specifically. Luckily, he still has Sukuna, who continues to perform his original contracted duties with minimal complaint (and questionable professionalism).

Classmates are still expected to support each other on group missions as peers, but the council is reluctant to let Sukuna loose on the world, even as a tool against curses. It’s probably for the best, since his presence would just throw Kugisaki and Fushiguro off. But that also removes any opportunity to make amends or discover that they actually have more in common than previously thought in a high-intensity environment, thereby creating an impenetrable camaraderie that will endure for a twelve-movie franchise.

Because that’s what’s going to happen on a mission to exorcise the bloody cuticle curse or something, yeah?

Needless to say, Yuji has been under house arrest in all ways but name, punished with hearing the world turn without him.

He feels the rumble of their footsteps, first — eight pairs of feet stomping down the too-tight corridor — before he hears their voices. Yuji’s not sure what compels him to open the door as the other students walk past, whether it's a greeting or a complaint on his tongue since they’d woken him up from a nap. Only his head pokes out from the frame, but that alone is enough to bring the phalanx to a full stop.

“Where are you guys going?” he asks mildly.

With the utmost maturity, Megumi looks at him, huffs, and then half-turns away.

His dismissal still hurts, even if Yuji can write it off as being kind of justified. He’s not as angry as he was before; either his rage simmers under his cold, stony exterior or it’s been mixed with guilt — probably not over Yuji’s ostracization but for all the sacrifices made to get him back, rendered moot by Sukuna’s continued existence. But that’s not something Megumi should have to contend with. It's Yuji's burden to bear.

Then again, Yuji had urged him to live more selfishly. Being self-centered is somewhere in that ballpark. Actions and consequences disagreeing with him yet again, big surprise.

“We’re going to dinner,” Okkotsu says, equal parts innocent and wary. He grunts in pain as Maki swats him in the clavicle, rubbing his chest with a wince.

“I’m not asking to come,” Yuji replies, “I just —”

“Well, good! You’re not invited!” Nobara has both hands on her hips as she stares him down, head lowered like a bull about to charge. At least one of them has the gumption to be upfront about her distaste.

Yuji shakes his head. “I wasn’t expecting to be.”

“Good,” she repeats venomously. “‘Cause none of us can trust you, or that weird blob boyfriend of yours, as far as we can throw you. You’re a conniving little traitor, you—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before.”

“Well, maybe this time it’ll get through that thick skull of yours!”

So she says, as though this isn’t pretty much all he’s thought about for the last month. They truly think his head is just completely empty, don’t they? That he’s as easily distracted as a puppy? If anything, they’re the ones who've moved on in no time at all, spreading news of Yuji’s mistake and poisoning the well against him as they go about their days unfettered. Whether his explanations would have swayed any of the third- or fourth-years, he'll never know. But the way she’s blocking Panda from seeing him like a mother bear protecting her young stokes a fire in Yuji’s belly that he never thought would be directed at her.

“You’re lucky, you know, that we didn’t say anything about you hooking up with Sukuna too,” Kugisaki sneers. “Talk about disgusting.”

Yuji does not snap. He doesn’t. Raising his voice doesn’t mean he’s at his limit. Obviously. “What do you want me to do? Grovel on my hands and knees again? It won’t change anything. I still believe in Sukuna. It won’t turn back the clock. I wouldn’t change my mind even if I could. So if I have to kowtow and hold up a frame to my face again to appease your gargantuan ego, fine. Have it your way.”

And then, so very like her, she scoffs instead of offering a rebuttal. Pretending she’s won, like anybody who heard this exchange could see her as the bigger person. “Whatever. C’mon guys.”

The rest of the students trail after Nobara, only Yuta and Kirara sparing any glances. The pity is almost as hurtful as the disdain.

When Yuji closes the door to his room, he makes sure to do it as gently as possible. Slamming it means Nobara got a rise out of him, another thing for her to hold over his head as evidence of his insincerity. It is hard, though. It’s like holding back a sneeze.

All his life, Yuji has always tread the fine line between stubbornness and determination. The former lends itself to blind faith, to plugging one’s ears and shouting LA-LA-LA until the naysayers are proven wrong (or, in many such cases, tragically right). The latter is more honorable in some ways. Heroic. Like he’s a martyr. There’s idealism in it, and that’s why Yuji must cling to it. It must be worth it — he hasn’t thrown away the closest friends he’s ever had out of a misguided sense of empathy. Sukuna has changed, and he deserves someone in his corner.

Yuji watches him, either dormant or asleep (he’s never really made the distinction quite clear) on the bed. There’s no way to tell if he was privy to the earlier spat, but they had been pretty loud. Sukuna’s face is blank and neutral, and he doesn’t rouse when Yuji dips the mattress beside him.

In Yuji’s entirely unbiased opinion, he looks the very definition of peaceful and harmless. If the others refuse to see that, then he can’t force them to.

7 FEBRUARY 2020.

Yuji has made his gratitude for Sukuna very clear, in many different ways.

But he cannot deny that his backseat teaching is utterly embarrassing and, at times, confusing on the occasion it conflicts with Kusakabe’s instruction. Compounding the general annoyance Kusakabe feels as a baseline with Sukuna’s unapologetic intrusion and the fact that his forgiveness was for Yuji alone… he’s surprised they haven’t blown up at each other yet.

He’s also reluctant to admit it — probably because it feels too much like I told you so — but Sukuna’s starting to get on Yuji’s nerves too. He tries to comfort himself by saying it was bound to happen. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, then, what? Spending every waking moment turns dreams into nightmares? He thought finally being allowed to go out on missions, although supervised, would help. But it’s the little things, tiny pinpricks that add up to greater agony.

The 'crotchety old man in the body of a teenager' thing was fun at first. Charming, even. And then their days were oversaturated with complaints and comparisons, and frustration mounted when their values drifted in different directions.

There were moments when Sukuna appraised him more than listened, when he made clear he was emulating Yuji more so than internalizing his ways. An offhand comment about how Yuji would have killed a curse faster if he let a little girl fall two stories here, an uncomprehending flatness in his eyes when he nods in agreement there. The doubts start to have more credence. It’s thankless work. Yuji’s only human, as Sukuna loves reminding him; that’s his most effective weapon, and he wields it often. The guilt dwindles.

Perhaps as a testament to his years, Sukuna opts to shut down conflict with confrontation when he can. He’s calm and patient and direct, which a few people could learn from, but it often reads as condescension (and, if Yuji wants to be wholly honest, it might actually be that).

Wisely, he’s chosen to have this conversation man-to-man. Yuji couldn’t take it seriously if it was man-to-blob, though the vaguely hostile appearance of Sukuna’s Innate Domain does little to alleviate Yuji’s mounting headache. He knows that it’s a part of Sukuna, that this is a reflection of his true self — full of dead things, dressed up to seem warm and inviting for Yuji, what a wonderful interpretation — and yet Yuji can’t help but feel some resentment at losing the home field advantage.

Though his tone leaves a bit to be desired, Sukuna at least deserves credit for trying to keep things from festering. “If you are in some way displeased, explain it so that we may rectify the issue.”

So dependably results-oriented. It’s hard to be mad at him. (Yuji’s pretty good at achieving the impossible, though.) Yuji hangs his head and trills his lips. “I’m just — frustrated. And lonely.” These are internal issues Sukuna can’t just wave away.

“You have me, though.”

A few weeks ago, Yuji might’ve attempted to coddle him in return, mumbled something affirming like I know, and I appreciate that. He’s recently discovered that he’s all out of platitudes. “Yeah, but I used to have friends, and we used to hang out all the time.”

“You spend as much time with me as you did with them, is that not comparable?”

“No.” Yuji does not mean for it to be so forceful, doesn’t mean to laugh from deep down in his gut like Sukuna’s the second coming of Pagliacci (that would be Yuji himself, of course). But once the floodgates are open, it’s hard to bar them shut. “Not even remotely! You’re — not enough. I had friends, plural, but now I’m just stuck with you, and maybe once in a blue moon, one of the handful of adults assigned to babysit me! My friends, former friends, whatever, won’t get within a mile of me as long as you’re around, and thanks to the council, that’s all the time.”

Sukuna’s shoulders lift, undermining the careful neutrality fitted to his face. “So this is all my fault?”

Isn’t it? All of Yuji’s self-control has led to this moment.

Perhaps the most damning thing about his situation is that Yuji truly does find this supposed ‘other side’ blameless. Trying to kill someone and/or the people you love (and, especially in this case, succeeding in doing so) is a pretty low bar. Killing a loved one with the express purpose of breaking your soul is undeniably evil. Sukuna has never once claimed otherwise, only tried to refer to such instances as the past. Seeing as he's an old man, it should be unsurprising, though no less exasperating, that he does not understand the freshness of the hurt. And seeing as he’s Ryomen Sukuna, he does not understand that there is very little difference between trying to kill someone and trying to fight them to the death.

Sukuna is not stupid, however. He takes Yuji’s silence for what it is and replies in kind. His voice is not quiet, not quite strangled, but low and unwilling to brook any argument. “I acknowledge all of the harm I have caused, by my hands and the hands of others,” he stresses. “But I will not accept responsibility for your errors in judgment. Such foolish magnanimity is yours to be blamed for.”

“The same foolish magna-whatever that you’re currently taking advantage of right now?” Yuji lobs back.

An eye roll that only provokes a wave of spite. “Of course I would. You will now blame me for accepting your gift instead of dying? I suppose my passing would at least reflect my principles, which is more than can be said for your death wish.”

“My — You, you’re lashing out.” Yuji flops face first into his words more so than trips or stumbles, vibrating in bright hot anger. “This is the first time you’ve allowed someone to love you and you’re scared to lose it. Newsflash, genius! I already picked you. Even though you’re the reason this has turned into a one or the other situation.”

“That is a vast oversimplification of the issue —”

See, Yuji knew he would say that. Sukuna is often quite receptive to change, as befits his claim that this third lifetime is about learning. When it comes to simple things like being nice for niceness’s sake, he approaches it with skepticism but will concede when it yields results.

What he’s most resistant to is anything to do with himself. After accepting the Vow of Adamantine Indestructible Conduct, he behaves as though his past and all of the issues deriving from it are as good as resolved. He vowed to be a good guy, so now he is one, no if’s, and’s, or but’s. His lack of freedom is all that bars him from practicing the goodness he's supposedly accepted into his heart. Sukuna still thinks vacationing in the Heian era is the only reason Yuji practices opening his Domain with him.

Because he isn’t expecting it, it ends up being a Domain clash — between the Innate Domain barrier encasing them and the barrier Yuji is currently trying to erect. Sukuna’s fatal error here is teaching him how to quick-draw his Domain, a warm moment of communion now weaponized. All for his own good, of course. Yuji is slightly faster, able to break through the inner confines of the Innate Domain.

The Vow kicks in, filling the void with a comparable darkness: an unlit night road, half-moon hanging in the sky the only light on the dirt, Sukuna and Uraume surrounded by three familiar silhouettes.

Their mouths are moving, but Yuji can’t hear. Too much to ask for while he and Sukuna are technically still at war. Consternation mars the phantom’s Sukuna’s brow first, then a hint of anger and offense, which then smooths out into a dark, bloodthirsty grin grappling with both resignation and anticipation. A figure bursts out from the trees to the east, and then another, and another, some wielding weapons and others just their techniques. The purpose of their frantic, aggressive approach is clear. This is an ambush. On anyone but Sukuna, this might’ve worked.

On Sukuna-and-the-Frozen-Star, it’s just barely enough.

It’s not easy, anything but. The late-night mists mingle with blood spilt by Shrine, gushing like geysers from the seemingly endless onslaught of sorcerers. Uraume erects a jagged wall of ice that spears half-a-dozen enemies. Those unfortunate to be embedded within are shattered to pieces by their own compatriots, making the road slick and funneling the fools towards Sukuna.

The King of Curses is the most resplendent warrior of them all, truly worth of his crown. A crushed skull in one hand, another fist pierced through a torso, wearing a man like a bracelet, the remainders meet to have Malevolent Shrine cleave right through the forest, wiping out the trees and any sorcerers hiding within. Score after score falls before him, and with each passing moment, he's painted red-black by another layer of blood and gore. Only his teeth and the whites of his eyes gleam in the moonlight.

But when Terutaro slinks into the plentiful dark and threatens to take Uraume with him, losing seven frostbitten fingers in the process, it’s the beginning of the end. It looks all too similar to Shinjuku — Shine pouring her poison down the mouth on Sukuna’s stomach (and getting bisected in a Black Flash), three blades piercing through Sukuna’s torso, a hard punch to his right jaw that flings Sukuna’s head into the side. These Heian ambushers have the numbers modern sorcerers don’t, and they descend upon him, covering every inch like maggots on rotten meat, an ibis embroidered onto the backs of their uniforms.

Of course. It’s not enough that his old so-called friends would test their strength against his; that, Sukuna would find respectable. It’s that they turned their backs on him for their old master. Disloyalty or pragmatism, for their survival or a bid to weaken Sukuna in particular, it doesn’t matter. Betrayal is betrayal.

He snaps off all twenty fingers in his jaws and spits them at Uraume. The memory is still muted, but Yuji can read the command on Sukuna’s lips easily: Run.

No sooner does Yuji meet this revelation than Sukuna ultimately wins their clash, the compression too much for Awakening of the Great Vow to bear. It splinters into fractals with a furious cry of “Enough!” and then the Innate Domain immediately closes on top of them, as if sucked into a vacuum. The sight of Sukuna’s face, all four eyes wide and teeth bared in a scowl, mangled with an anger Yuji thought had been eroded by time, is burned into the backs of his eyelids.

Sukuna’s current body, as small as it is, can only contain so much enmity, the excess of it causing him to shake. This is the kind of fury that consumed him back when he wanted Yuji dead. When he yells at him, it’s with enough force to send Yuji falling off his bed and onto his ass.

“You’ve had your fill, yes?” Sukuna roars. He doesn’t give Yuji space to respond. “You had no right to root around my head until you found something compelling enough to confirm your beliefs. You may tell yourself that you’re trying to help me, but you are so drunk on pity that you never gave me any thought.”

“But —”

“You lack respect for me, for yourself, for anyone else you come across,” Sukuna plows on. “I remember what it was like being in your head in the wake of Shibuya. No longer do you fancy yourself a cog, but a load bearing pillar. A shining star guiding the wicked to absolution. It seems to me that you are still bound by the shackles of martyrdom after all. You will never fix me, Itadori Yuji. I shall not give you any more chances to try.”

Futilely, Yuji begs, “Wait!”

But Sukuna is gone. It happens quickly — the small face disappears from the little lump, and then he turns a deep mauve taupe, the same color as his dismembered fingers. He’s withdrawn before, either because Yuji’s prattling annoyed him or to have the eye and mouth reappear in the direction he wants to look rather than turning his entire body, but the discoloration is new and concerning. He’s heavier than before when Yuji picks him up. He’s hard and stiff like stone. No matter how much pressure Yuji applies with his thumbs, no matter which way Yuji tries to knead his body, Sukuna doesn’t awaken.

Terror seizes his chest. “Sukuna?” Yuji whispers. “I — I’m sorry. Please.”

Still, there’s nothing.

A faint pulse stirs, just enough cursed energy for proof of life, dulled the moment Yuji recognizes it. He’s still there. He cares enough to let Yuji know. But not enough to return.

Maybe all he needs is a little time. His words sounded permanent but — this is just him giving Yuji the space he asked for. How kind of him, Yuji thinks, with a bubbling in his chest that he hopes is a laugh.

16 FEBRUARY 2020.

Since June of 2018, Yuji’s fucked up plenty. Some of these mistakes were of his own making, others woven into the tapestry of his fate by the man sitting across from him, eyeing the conveyor belt sushi as it rolls past.

Kenjaku is another monster who’s been granted clemency, but this time, it’s not by Yuji’s choice. There are a few people who are considered untouchable now that the last true Infinity user is gone. Takaba is leagues above Yuji in that ladder, and it’s equally infuriating and hilarious that he doesn’t even know it. Takaba alone is why they’re allowed to meet in plain sight — or, to be more accurate, it’s why Yuji didn’t bother to hide.

Sukuna is still a lump of coal in his pocket. He hasn’t moved in over a week. Yuji’s Valentine’s surprise went to waste.

“You look like you’ve seen better days.”

Yuji looks to his left. Takaba, for some reason sharing his side of the booth instead of his partner's, looks genuinely concerned. It would be touching, if Yuji’s patience wasn’t on its last threads.

“I sure have. Thursdays are my favorite,” he deadpans.

“Ah-ha! Good one! Delivery is a bit weak, but we can work on that.”

Yuji silently begs for help with his eyes. Maybe if he curves his brows fully inward and pouts a little, it’ll awaken those long-buried parental instincts.

Kenjaku doesn’t need that much pushing. “Hey, Fumi-chan,” he coos, so cloying that Yuji’s lip curls in revulsion on instinct, “do you remember that thing we have to set up? You know, for the Sada bit?”

“Hm?” It takes a few moments, then an actual lightbulb appears over Takaba’s head. It plonks onto his crown and shatters into pieces, dusting Takaba and their table with crystalline shards. Takaba does not seem to acknowledge this, though his face still reddens. “That’s not the sort of thing you should talk about in public, Kenjaku-kun, but you’re right!” He leaps out of the seat into a pirouette, catches his foot on a leg of the table, and faceplants in time with a cartoonish horn from… somewhere. Pushing himself to his feet, he bows. “You’ll have to excuse me, Itadori-kun. I have to go make sure our studio doesn’t burn down. Housing market’s a real nightmare these days, y’know!”

And with that, he flounces into the street. Yuji thinks he hears a tire screech and a crunching noise, but that may just be wishful thinking.

Kenjaku winks at him. Yuji, whose mouth has not yet unfurled, twists even more. “You’re welcome,” Kenjaku smiles. “Now, come. Tell Mother all of your woes.”

Yuji’s torso springs backward, again a reflex, his chin plastered against his neck as he tries to press himself as far back into his seat as he can. He has to make a conscious effort to return to something like politeness. He clears his throat. “Uh, it’s really not that much of a woe…”

“Mm-hm,” hums Kenjaku, meaning I don’t believe you even a little bit. In retrospect, Yuji could’ve been less transparent.

“It’s more of a question,” Yuji amends. “During the Culling Game, I sort of made peace with never getting any answers. Our priority was to defeat and kill you. But now that you’re here… somehow… I have my chance.”

“And what question would that be?”

He takes a deep breath to collect his words and brace himself. “It’s a simple one: why?”

“Simple questions beget simple answers: because I wanted to.” It’s that easy for Kenjaku. Of course it must be, when he doesn’t have to care about other people. “I wanted to see what would happen. Where it would fall on that grand spectrum of peace to calamity — though with Sukuna as a catalyst, I suppose only one outcome was possible.”

Back then, maybe. Absently, Yuji thumbs along Sukuna’s dormant body. It’s more of a paperweight or a fidget toy these days. If Sukuna’s upset with being repurposed, he’s stewed silently in it. Yuji shakes his head to clear the thought; he was hoping to keep the moping to a minimum today. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Then, I guess my only other follow-up is what happened to my parents.”

Kenjaku makes a low noise in his throat. Cocking his head, he furrows his brow in a display of — anger? Disappointment? Yuji’s not quite sure. He has to remind himself not to care too much. “They’re together now.”

“That’s nice,” Yuji swallows.

He suspected as much. After so many years, it would’ve been odd seeing them again. Somewhere around the ages of eleven and twelve, he wished they would stay gone, and that's been a pretty consistent opinion throughout his life ever since. He wouldn't feel anything if they returned. Some might call it tragic; Yuji would consider the hypothetical a meeting between strangers. With his grandfather, he’d wanted for little, rarely envious when other children spoke reverently of Mom and Dad — and that’s also where most of the regret lies.

There are a few do-overs he’d like (and never get) as far as Wasuke’s death is concerned. He regrets cutting the old man off. He regrets taking his eyes off of him. He regrets not noticing he was gone until he went quiet, so caught up in his own thoughts and insisting to both Wasuke and himself that he didn’t care. Talking to Kenjaku is not as close to a replica as he would like. Whatever his grandfather had to say about his parents, he was probably as ignorant as Yuji about their whereabouts. But the topic, at least, is close enough. Yuji’s able to fill in the blanks left by his grandfather’s ellipses. This is atonement, forcing himself to desire closure.

Makes it easier to ignore how badly he screwed up on the parts that his grandfather did say.

“I grew fond of your father,” Kenjaku continues, sightline drifting upward. Whatever displeasure he derived from Yuji even bringing up the query melts into nostalgic fondness. “He was very forthright and sincere. Being loved so wholeheartedly, even if the man was outright delusional was… refreshing. He ranks pretty high on my list of favorite pawns.”

“I’m surprised you keep track.”

Kenjaku waves a hand. “Oh, you know. You’re supposed to say you don’t pick favorites, but deep down there’s always a pull.” Maybe. Yuji refuses to give Kenjaku the satisfaction. The man’s eyes shine with interest anyway. “You remind me of him, to be honest. Such earnestness must be hereditary — God knows you didn’t get it from me.”

He thinks of Choso and Eso and Kechizu, wonders which of their parents they take after.

Arching a brow, Kenjaku leans across the table, elbow braced against the lip of it. His mouth slants conspiratorially. Like they’re both in on some scandalous secret. “So, is this little lunch date everything you hoped for?” he asks. “We’ve come a long way from you trying to kill me when we first met.”

“I was trying to save Gojo-sensei,” Yuji corrects.

“Oh, my mistake. Forgive me for being so self-centered.”

Yuji feels a grin tug at the corner of his mouth in spite of himself. Maybe what he inherited was Kenjaku’s sense of humor. Better than his lack of empathy. “I didn’t have any expectations,” he answers, reciprocating his parent's (eugh, he'll stick with Kenjaku, thanks) honesty with some of his own, “let alone hope.”

Kenjaku clicks his tongue. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

Yuji shrugs. “I wanted to understand you and… I don’t know, put you and those unanswered questions behind me. I guess I kind of did both. All you care about is pleasing yourself and having fun.”

A winning smile. “That’s why Sukuna and I get along so well,” Kenjaku nods, patting Yuji’s wrist. “Though he does have a tendency to take things too far, doesn’t he?”

“And you don’t?”

“Touché.” Finally, he retreats, arms spread along the length of the booth seat. It’s strange to think of this face as belonging to someone else, as Gojo saw it. That silky voice had been his undoing, soft and svelte, going down in pleasant warmth like a soup during a wintry afternoon. Yuji’s never known anything different. He wonders if this was the case for his father, too. Kenjaku makes no outward note of Yuji’s staring, though his eyes roam over the entrance and across each security camera hanging from the ceiling. “Will you indulge a question of my own, son?”

The endearment is still weird to hear, and Yuji doubts it will stop at just one. “Yeah?”

“Just how did you get permission to see me? One would assume multiple sorcerers would have raised objections to such a meeting.”

Oh, right, he’s afraid of a manhunt. To be fair, there’s a nonzero chance that the council is already aware of him; they’ve just chosen not to make any moves. Shuffled priorities — both theirs and Kenjaku’s — have allowed them to orbit each other freely without collision. If Kenjaku tries anything, all bets are off. But with Takaba occupying his days, providing all the stimulation Kenjaku could possibly want, Yuji has a feeling he won’t get the chance to fall to apocalyptic boredom.

“Ah.” Realization dawns with a smile wide enough to force a squint. “Not an ‘asking for permission’ kind of person, huh? Looks like we do have something in common.”

Not as skin crawl-worthy as shared traits could go. He’ll take it. Yuji toys with the straw in his iced tea and slurps noisily. “So, “ he says in the midst of a brain freeze, “that’s it for me, then? No grand plan, no greater purpose?”

“None that you haven’t already foiled,” Kenjaku answers after an equally loud slurp of his own. Yuji’s pretty sure he was trying to make fun of him. The little trill at the end of his statement, soaring an octave, could be frustration or pride or both. “You could always come up with one for yourself, you know.”

Last time he tried to follow his moral compass due north, he ended up here. So maybe Yuji’s sense of discernment is a little untrustworthy, or at the very least short-sighted. “Thanks,” he says anyway. “Maybe I will.” Because at the end of the day, in a vacuum, it is good advice.

Kenjaku huffs lightly through his nostrils. His eyes search Yuji as he shovels some edamame into his mouth. His mouth is arranged in a Cheshire cat grin all the while, a crescent moon of all teeth, just so the irony of his next statement strikes true: “Your smile is a bit unsettling, Yuji. Did you know that?”

4 MARCH 2020.

Although it was mostly sarcasm dripping from the verbal spear he launched directly at Nobara’s head, Yuji learns that groveling does, in fact, work. There might be other factors at play, like how much his old friends like him and whether they also missed him just as deeply, but that feels a little too self-congratulatory.

And it opens a whole new can of worms, like why he didn’t do this earlier or why Sukuna never suggested it as a solution in their major fight — whether Sukuna too figured Kugisaki and Fushiguro lost causes or if it was a deliberate omission in an attempt to further isolate him. It’s not healthy to think about something he’ll likely never get answers to, so — other forms of self-deprecation it is.

Successful though it may be, Yuji’s attempt at reconciliation still depends a bit on manipulation. It's the bread and butter of any sorcerer worth his salt, mind, so there’s only a little bit of shame and guilt there. Yuji’s a true interdisciplinarian. He all but ambushes the two of them on their way back from a mission, loitering around the school gates on Ijichi’s cue.

Both Megumi and Nobara look utterly exhausted, and yet the mere sight of Yuji has them on high alert — but they look around him rather than directly at him, or at the least in his eye. They zoom in on his shoulders, his pockets, his hands, his feet, the nearby bench. Belatedly, Yuji realizes that they’re on the lookout for his companion.

“You don’t have to worry about him,” Yuji says, lifting both hands to show he’s unarmed (or, rather, un-Sukuna’d). “He’s gone into… hibernation, I guess. And yeah, I told the council. So feel free to point and laugh and tell me ‘I told you so.’”

Megumi does laugh, but it’s a sharp, misshapen thing. “Is that how you see it? That we were waiting for you to fall flat on your face?”

“‘Course not. But I know it would make you feel better.”

“Then you don’t know us at all,” Fushiguro hisses. “We wanted to help you, but you didn’t want it. This was never anything about feeling better than you or having the last laugh.”

That wasn’t communicated especially well in the midst of all the accusatory ‘how could you’s, but Yuji is willing to overlook that since Megumi’s kind of bad at communicating anything. He presses his lips together.

“Some part of me still doesn’t,” Yuji admits. “I still think I did the right thing. We live in a world where curses and hatred, all these negative emotions, fuel our powers. I want to make a world where grace and mercy are just as powerful. And yeah, some people probably don’t deserve it, but I don’t believe we should look at it that way. Everyone has the potential to change, and if they deserve anything, it would be the chance to do so.”

“I thought you came over to apologize,” Nobara cuts in. “This apology fucking sucks.”

“Oh, shit, yeah, thanks.” Yuji’s fumbling sparks an incredulous huff from Fushiguro.

Here goes nothing. “I’m sorry that I let Sukuna get between us. I lied and hid him because I was afraid you guys would get mad at me, which I guess ended up kind of being a self-fulfilling prophecy. I understand why you guys hate him and why you always will, and I understand that that’s not a good enough reason to lie. I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m sorry. I got a lot of shit wrong, but the one thing I didn’t mistake is that — it’s so fucking lonely without you. Both of you. I’m so sorry.”

Megumi sucks in a sharp breath between clenched teeth, fists trembling at his sides. His lips part but the words get tangled in the back of his throat and he retreats, looking down. The distance between them, though a few feet, still feels like an immeasurable gorge.

“Oh, for the love of —” Nobara stomps around Megumi and disappears behind him, her legs only visible once she starts charging forward with what could be any combination of hand, shoulder, and/or forehead, pressed into Megumi’s back. She propels him forward like a torpedo, somehow sending him crashing into Yuji despite not being able to see where she’s going. “You stopped being mad and started getting mopey about him ages ago, you big baby. Hug it out already!”

Yuji’s arms go up instinctively and Megumi’s reluctantly, but at the end of the day, it’s the latter who squeezes harder. Yuji holds him like he’s as fragile as glass or made of mist, a little afraid he might’ve made this whole thing up and the real Nobara and Megumi are just watching him smile into the middle distance like a dope. But Megumi’s grip is grounding and solid and his palms are chilly in the way only a Fushiguro’s can be. Yuji dares, as he always does, to hope.

“Wait.” He wedges his face around the side of Megumi’s head so he can look at Nobara through the wild spikes of black hair. “What about you? Are you still mad at me?”

She pretends to think long and hard about it, tapping a finger against the center of her chin. Finally, she declares, “Take me shopping and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

Yuji huffs and rolls his eyes before flapping a hand at her. “Oh, just get over here already.”

She manages to wriggle her giant head under his elbow and wraps an arm around both their waists. As far as group hugs go, it’s a bit on the uncomfortable end — Megumi’s hair keeps finding its way into Yuji’s mouth, his armpit is apparently crushing Nobara’s boob from the way she keeps wiggling around to adjust, and Yuji’s spent this whole time on his toes. Yet for all his lost balance, Yuji wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Eventually, Megumi bites the bullet and takes on the arduous task of breaking the embrace, lest Yuji tip over and take them all with him. Stepping fully away and locking his arms back at his sides, he gives Yuji another brief but thorough once-over. “So…” It’s the question on both of their minds; Yuji can tell. “Where is Sukuna?”

“Here.” Yuji pulls the purplish lump from his pocket and snorts at Nobara’s immediate EW! “He’s been like this for about a month. Pretty sure I got dumped.”

Despite her disgust, Nobara moves closer, hovering right over Sukuna as she bellows, “Hey, you dried up little turd, what the hell is that all about? You think you’re too good for my best friend? You’re a literal clump of dead skin cells, so maybe humble yourself, you purple fuck!”

Yuji laughs in both amusement and surprise, meeting Nobara’s expectant grin with equal parts confusion and gratitude. Best friend, almost as if this schism had never happened. Megumi’s lips are curved too when Yuji spares him a glance, so subtle and minute that only those nearest to him would have even noticed. This is as close to normal as Yuji’s getting, he thinks. Closest to a happy ending. The villain vanquished and the heroes reunited.

What a nice story it would be, if it ended here.

15 MARCH 2020.

All three of the second-years are present for this mission, but only Yuji’s participation will be assessed for his final exam. He thinks the other two should at least get extra credit on theirs for helping, but it’s not as though grades have ever mattered outside of teasing Megumi anyway.

Yuji’s pretty sure the reason why their efforts aren’t being academically counted is also due to their respective specializations. Megumi is a free-for-all pinch-hitter, but Nobara explicitly trades in exorcisms. It’s what she’s comfortable and most experienced with, drawing on her time shadowing her grandmother. Megumi’s decision was a pragmatic one based on his technique’s versatility. Though Mahoraga would have been a great ace up his sleeve, he’s still got his tricks.

As for Yuji, who’d declared on his survey that he’d like to take on missions against curse users? That’s all passion, baby. He’s happy with his assignment.

Unlike their last great adventure in the dense metropolis of Shibuya City, this mission calls them to the island of Shikoku, to a lush valley and a gorge on the opposite end of the tourist trap areas. Although Kyoto is much closer, the sister school seems to be dealing with a population crisis — hence the flight to Takamatsu Airport and then another two-and-a-half hour drive. Everything Yuji’s heard about this place on the way here sets his teeth on edge — but it’s a good kind of apprehension, not quite the dread hanging over most sorcerers.

What he’s not happy with is that Usami is proctoring this exam too, since Kusakabe was called away on council-related business. Usami still hasn’t done anything to him personally. Yuji still doesn’t like him. He’s pretty sure he never will.

Even the way he flips his hair out of his face while reading from his iPad is pretty irritating. “I understand this mission bears some passing resemblance to an incident in your first year,” he prefaces. They all know he means Shibuya. It’s not that similar.

When all he receives is a set of blank stares, he clears his throat and continues. “We have an active hostage situation that reportedly began thirty hours ago, when a curse user took his entire village captive. Although the perpetrator has made varying requests for ransom, we do not believe it is sincere as he’s altered the amount requested about half a dozen times, and, once presented with the money, has proceeded to reject the ransom with bizarre demands like certain quantities of different denominations. Any attempts to deliver the cash have also been met with hostility.”

“What a weirdo,” Nobara mutters. “It’s free money.”

Usami seems to have the same objections as Yuji to that statement, but he chooses not to voice them. “The curse user appears to be a first-time offender local to the village. We’re not certain what exactly his cursed technique is, only that it bears the properties of both invisibility and intangibility.”

“Oh,” Yuji hums. “Like the Cheshire Cat.”

“Does he always relate his missions to movies?” Usami asks. Oh, so when Nobara says demanding a ransom is ‘free money,’ she goes unchallenged, but when Yuji references an incredibly popular book and animated film, suddenly it’s a problem?

“Prick,” Yuji coughs into his fist.

“Yes,” Megumi says mildly, harmonizing with Nobara’s more cheering agreement.

Yuji sneaks them both side glances, unsure if their utterances were for him or Usami. Whatever. Not the time; people to save and curse users to — also save, God willing.

“Let’s do a pincer maneuver,” he proposes. It’s his final, so he gets to take point. “Kugisaki and I will draw the curse user’s attention, while Fushiguro sneaks around back to release the hostages. Stealth is more of your thing and your shikigami should make carrying two dozen people a lot easier than it would be for either of us individually.”

“Be advised that surveillance now indicates potential fatalities,” Usami cuts in, reciting a notification from his tablet. “There also does not appear to be a rear exit in the structure the hostages are contained in.”

“Damn it, so we’ll have to make one,” Yuji tsks. Holy fire hazard, Batman. If the circumstances weren’t so dire, Yuji would hope this served as a lesson. “Change of plans, then. Kugisaki, you pull fire first. I’ll go with Fushiguro to secure an exit route and regroup with you as fast as I can.”

“Feel free to take your time,” she boasts. “I guarantee you that little freak has never handled a woman like me.”

Yuji snorts. “Sure.”

Beyond that, there’s little else to discuss. Their opponent is smart, able to recognize Mei Mei’s crows as drones. Only one bird managed to scope part of the building before getting crushed. Discretion and haste are the priority here. For now, until they receive further news, the hostages are paramount over their captor. They have their marching orders for now.

And so the huddle breaks.

Nobara makes a bombastic approach through the curtain, creating a large ripple to cover for the ones drawn from Yuji and Megumi’s entrance. Her voice booms in the enclosed space as she shouts, “Hey, Tiny Penis! Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you! Come out and face me if you have any balls!” They hear the successive thunk-thunk-thunk of her nails being shot into the front of the building as they creep around the side.

A curtain has been drawn over the entire hamlet, a threadbare settlement with small clusters of mostly abandoned structures orbiting something of a town hall. None of the buildings are particularly reinforced; the dossier indicated that this community was built on the bones of an outlaw town to house workers building the nearby highway and their families. It was so far out in the gorge that transporting proper materials was costlier than demolishing the whole place once they were done. Only that never happened, so now there was a remote village with a population in the double-digits and all the trappings of immediate post-war architecture.

Yuji counts his lucky stars for the town center’s primitive construction — easy enough for Shrine to cut through, consisting of only a single floor, with a small window in the back that Yuji can peer into if Megumi gives him a boost. A few of the hostages startle at his sudden appearance, but they don’t look panicked. Yuji swallows roughly as about twenty pairs of red-rimmed eyes swivel to look at him once he taps on the glass. His own gaze is drawn to a shadowed corner, where a limp hand peeks just beyond what seems to be a pool of blood is barely visible.

The curse user is either incredibly bad at this or suicidally overconfident (though these things are hardly mutually exclusive), as none of the hostages are bound. They’re almost piled on top of each other in the narrow space, something like a broom closet given the dusty shelving framing the room, but they appear otherwise unimpeded.

Their only exit is the wooden door on the far side of the room, leading to a hallway that lets out into the atrium and then the front door, as per the floor plan delivered by Mei’s crow. To the east and west are a couple of offices and meeting rooms for town leadership, but there remains only one exit route to the entire building, out where Nobara has moved from vicious taunting to cries of effort and what Yuji suspects is frustration. The window is too small to sneak anyone through, just about the size of Yuji’s face. He can’t see a latch, either.

With outstretched palms, he gestures for them to scoot back. There don’t appear to be any children, the youngest of the group apparently a woman in her early twenties, so it takes a bit of shuffling and wincing to get appropriate clearance from the back wall. It would have been faster if they hadn’t repeatedly stopped and looked at Yuji as if to say Is this enough? when it clearly wasn’t, but he’s still young and limber and spry, so what does he know?

Once everyone is at a safe distance, Yuji uses Shrine to cut a small doorway from the floor to the bottom of the windowsill. Megumi has to step back and drop him for him to cut steadily and evenly. He can only assume that no one’s stupid enough to move back toward him as he slices so finely that the wall turns into dust. Sukuna would be proud.

But as the villagers clear the space swiftly with heads ducked and frantic whispers of thanks and prayer, a sense of failure strikes Yuji — and Megumi, by the pallor of his face — hard and fast. He’d half-stepped into the building to make sure no one had been left behind and check if any mobility aids were required for the hasty retreat. He wishes he’d just asked the hostages instead.

The hand he spotted through the window indeed belongs to a body, haphazardly tossed on top of another, both with their chests torn open. Nothing else seems out of place besides the chasm and the blood that poured from it, glassy eyes looking up at the cobwebbed ceiling and chins caked in flaky rust. It smells like iron, the tang reminiscent of the Shibuya crater. Yuji thinks Megumi, his gaze spellbound to the wounds, might be thinking of something else.

Technically speaking, it’s the fault of the local municipality for being too late. They hadn’t noticed the communications blackout from a hamlet so small and far removed form main roads that they weren’t on most maps. Country bumpkins who would eventually die out when their young left for urban skies. Based on the set of rigor mortis, these two — a woman and a man in their forties — died long before the school was notified, maybe even before the other hostages were rounded up. Maybe they’d resisted and fought back, earned evisceration for their trouble, tried to protect their neighbors from harm. For Yuji and Megumi, ignorance is a valid excuse here. You can’t save everyone — the first lesson a sorcerer learns. But it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still sting.

Yuji jumps as a gnarled, mottled hand falls on his shoulder. Only the pads of its fingers meet the top of it, most of the palm pressed against his back. He whirls around, eyes wide, and meets a filmy, cataract-laden plea. The old woman is a full head shorter than him, thin and reedy as a bird, her paper-white hair a cloud around her head. Only a few teeth remain in her gums and her voice is the grating rasp of sliding stones, but her words are clear.

“Please,” she rattles, “my Chihiro, my grandson. He’s stupid, but he’s a good boy. He’s my boy.”

Yuji’s hand dwarfs her when he takes it and squeezes gently. “I’ll help him. I promise.”

One of the earliest lessons of fieldwork that Gojo instilled in them ages ago was never to make promises. Even he couldn’t, he had said, because although he’s the strongest man alive, he’s no oracle. Missions never go exactly to plan. Their job is to end the curse by any means necessary. Of course, they should try to avoid or at least mitigate casualties — but their work isn’t done until the threat, curse or curse user, is stopped.

Promising a life is the worst mistake Yuji could make. And yet, he does it anyway. There’s some wiggle room in the world ‘help,’ but they both know what she thinks he means.

The old woman gives him a nod, and then allows Megumi and Divine Dog: Totality to herd her away with the rest.

“Fuck!” Nobara yells, closer than she was before.

“Take them and hurry,” Yuji barks, meeting Megumi’s eye. The time for secrecy has ended; speed is of the essence, and Megumi needs no help with that. “I’m gonna go back her up.”

He only just rounds the corner before a face forms out of the wall and shouts, “Boo!” And then a fist flies out from beside it, Yuji bending backwards to slide under it as he skids on his heels.

The swing he sends back should have made contact, but all his knuckles meet is concrete that breaks off into chunks and dusts the back of his hand. The building creaks and groans from the hit, but the curse user — Chihiro, Yuji tells himself — only cackles and reappears in a different spot. Intangibility and invisibility, a combination of powers that makes Yuji’s successive misses look like a bad round of whack-a-mole.

He nearly catches Nobara with his elbow as he kicks in another hole, apologizing as he yanks his foot out. At this point, he can’t even tell if Chihiro is going back inside the building or just fading from view and dodging.

“Every time he vanishes, he phases in and out of — reality,” Nobara shouts. “I can’t pin him down with Resonance. Hope you’ve got a plan.”

“Do I ever?” Yuji grunts, pulling her back to avoid a sudden punch. He can’t see anything — but he has a cursed technique that can pick up on cursed energy. Sending a Cleave forward that strikes through the entire length of the wall, he’s rewarded with a cry and a splattering of blood against slate gray. It’s no World-Cutting Slash, but it’ll do. For a backup plan. “Okay. Let me talk to him.”

“What?” Nobara hisses. “This guy —”

“My final, remember?” Then, just to placate her, he says quietly, “Prep a few Hairpins so he has nothing to retreat into. I can trap him in my Domain when I draw him out.”

Kusakabe had warned him against whipping out his Domain first thing in the fight and depleting his cursed energy, strongly insisting he save it for a last resort. But there’s no need for a last resort when all of the hostages should be clear. A howl pierces the curtain — just the proof Yuji needed to convince himself and the Kusakabe-like voice in his head.

Nobara looks skeptical, but she nods anyway. His mission, his say.

Yuji drops his fists, but not his guard. “Hey, Chihiro, right?” he calls. No response. Air buzzes by his nose. “Your grandmother’s pretty worried about you. She said you’re a good person. Wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would you?”

Again, the other ignores the bait. Yuji’s ears prick at a rustle and he just manages to raise a forearm to block a jab. Before he can draw back, Yuji locks his fingers around Chihiro’swrist and drags him closer. It looks like he’s grabbing nothing but air, but Chihiro wriggles like an eel and the weight of him makes it easier to visualize his shape.

“It was just me and my grandpa out in Sendai for a long while too,” Yuji says in firm, measured syllables. “It doesn’t have to be this way.” Two lives are not a point of no return. “Now!”

The Hairpins all along the remaining wall left standing after Cleave detonate, showering them with debris. Yuji feels Chihiro twist, but it’s toward him to get away from the explosion, and Yuji takes a split second to release him and thread his fingers together. “Domain Expansion: Awakening of the Great Vow!”

Externally, the barrier is just big enough to contain them both, Yuji guesstimating the other’s size. Internally, it looks like they’re standing inside the gutted Epcot Ball with only a single spotlight shining down on them both. With combat outlawed until the ultimate yes or no, Yuji is finally able to take a good look at his quarry.

He’s just a guy.

Slightly older than Yuji, that still makes him the youngest person in his village — if he did indeed take every living soul hostage in the town center. He’s a bit shlubby, chin adorned with a few unkempt sprigs of uneven facial hair and a slight hunch in his posture. His glasses sit a little low on his nose, forcing Chihiro to narrow his eyes down them in order to be able to see. He’s dressed in the dark gray jumpsuit of a maintenance worker, torn in one straight line across his chest. The wifebeater underneath is also ruined, slit and stained with red. Despite having no previous recorded encounters with jujutsu society, he does not seem very impressed with Yuji’s magnum opus. In fact, were it not for him blinking, Yuji would be unsure from Chihiro’s blank expression whether he was awake at all.

“Hi,” Yuji greets, lifting a hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Chihiro’s nose twitches.

“Do you speak?”

Ah. Yuji’s offended him.

“Off to a great start,” he mutters under his breath. Yuji arranges his face into a smile, trying for small and friendly over large and overbearing. He approaches Chihiro slowly, coming to a stop shoulder to shoulder as they face the pitch black darkness. Chihiro is a few inches taller even in spite of his slouch. “My name’s Yuji. I’m a sorcerer from Tokyo. This is my Domain, Awakening of the Great Vow.”

“I heard.” Chihiro’s voice sits toward the back of his throat, giving him an inflection almost like Kermit the Frog.

“Oh! Resident funny man of your village, huh?” Yuji’s grin widens as the other’s mouth twitches. “My Domain is a little different than most others — though I assume this is the first one you’ve seen?”

“There’s not really much to see.”

The jokes are a good sign. He’s opening up, letting his guard down. Yuji has an in, and he’s going to keep pressing at it until Chihiro lets him through. “Heh, got me there. A Binding Vow on my Domain prohibits us from hurting each other until you either accept or deny my Vow of Adamantine Indestructible Conduct — so I really wouldn’t recommend throwing a punch at me if you wanna keep the hand. And when you punch someone, you should hold your hand like this.” He demonstrates. “Hurts less and hits harder.”

Yuji’s stalling, and he wonders if Chihiro notices.

They still haven’t been transported into a memory, a Binding Vow Yuji had taken specifically to avoid a situation such as this. Something should have come down the pipeline by now, exploded into sight and sound and smell as if they had fallen headfirst into the majesty of Jurassic Park or something. Yuji had latched onto a similarity earlier: they were both young men raised by a single grandparent. No parents stepped forward from the rescued hostages, and a quick scan of Chihiro’s memories confirms he had no relation to the two whom he killed.

But more than that, there is nothing, apparently, that could have sparked all of this.

There is no cruel mother calling him a curse, no deathbed confession, no broiling sacrifice, not even a single childhood bully or a lost pet. Trauma is no catalyst, and neither is loneliness. Boredom is the next best thing, but even then, he seemed to enjoy his work in sanitation. Some of the tourists, overbearing and entitled Americans, were liable to harass the staff at the campgrounds or onsen, though they left Chihiro well enough alone. He was invisible to a lot of people and — this should be it, this is his grand bid for attention, except. Nothing. That’s not why they’re here.

This whole thing lacks the foresight of Kenjaku’s intricate and long-thought plans, and there’s no mind numbing tedium from which he snapped. It’s not that the Vow broke itself. It’s that it could do nothing but break, since it couldn’t take effect.

He just — killed two people and held a town hostage because he could.

Yuji has no clue what to do with this.

The mission has two objectives: to rescue the hostages and take the curse user into custody. They’re halfway to completion, the rest should be a walk in the park. Nobara can bonk him on the head with her hammer and tie him up, or Megumi can let one of his animals earn a new chew toy. But if Yuji wants to prove that there can be another way, he can’t just drop his Domain. He has to see this through.

Shinjuku seems like his best bet. The Vow only pre-selects what’s most likely to get the target’s acceptance; it’s not a guarantee. Yuji still has to put in the work. And so he does.

He walks Chihiro through all of it. Gojo’s double output Hollow Purple, first blood and the trash talk, the singularity formed by the Domain clash, Agito’s destruction, the miraculous feat of cutting through spacetime. “My teacher, the greatest of us, who sacrificed his life to ensure we — his students, the whole world — had a future. He fought my… friend. Someone who also thought there was only one way.”

Not the most encouraging response, though at least this is one: “Hm.”

And then there’s the rest of it. Kashimo, Higuruma, Kusakabe, all of them flinging themselves into Sukuna like bugs on a windshield. Choso. Todo. Yuta in Gojo’s body. The Domain and Yuji’s first rhetorical failure — which prompts yet another a response from Chihiro, a quiet huff through his nose — and the soul-splitting punches. Nobara and Resonance. And then that final moment when Sukuna gave in.

Fragments of him like paper fluttering in a whirlwind around them, Sukuna small and wheezing in Yuji’s cupped hands. “Let’s do it again,” Yuji tells him softly. “Not to curse one another, but to live side by side. Even if no one else gets it, I’ll be with you. Every step.”

Quick breaths, the lump rising and falling like the chest of a hummingbird. The unwavering gaze of a cyclops, filled with promise. “Okay.”

Yuji looks at Chihiro out of his periphery. The man looks interested, at the very least, quietly watching the unfolding scenes and looking up in surprise when it freezes. Best to cut things off here, lest he see what exactly became of Sukuna after his second chance — even if it was of his own volition.

“Ryomen Sukuna lived and died as a monster twice,” he tells Chihiro, matching his tone to that of the memory they just witnessed. He makes a show of lifting his hand so the other can see the khakkhara materializing in his grasp. “Yet, he chose to be reborn again — symbolically, since he didn’t actually die. He let go of his past deeds and became a better, stronger, and wiser person. I don’t know what caused you to hurt the people around you, but that’s not your only path forward. You can do your time and transform just like Sukuna did.”

“Into that?”

Yuji laughs. “No, no, not into a blob. But a better, stronger, and wiser person.” He turns the khakkhara over so that it’s sitting on his extended palm. “This is the Vow of Adamantine Indestructible Conduct. In exchange for a Binding Vow to swear off causing harm to others, your cursed energy gets multiplied.”

Chihiro moves closer as Yuji takes a step toward him. The glowing rod washes his face in a flattering golden hue.

“We could help you figure out your technique,” continues Yuji, as though coaxing a skittish stray. “It’s pretty cool. In some ways, it reminds me of Gojo-sensei’s.”

“The guy who was the strongest?”

Yuji nods eagerly. “Yeah. And maybe you could find a new purpose helping us exorcise curses. No two days are the same. You definitely won’t find anything dull there. We meet all kinds of people and make their lives better, fight a bunch of cool monsters along the way. So what do you say? Do you accept the Vow?”

Chihiro tilts his face upward, meets Yuji’s eyes. He smiles. Hey, he’s got crow’s feet.

“No.”

Oh. “Well, that’s too —”

Itadori Yuji has the fastest reflexes of just about anybody he knows. But reflexes mean very little when your enemy’s hand is already inside of your chest.

Huh. When did that get there? Yuji thought the pained smile was just how he grinned. But maybe it was from pre-empting the Vow, fighting through the barrier’s nonviolence condition to strike first. The blissful relief on his face seems to indicate as much, now that Chihiro’s not beholden to the Binding Vow.

Either way, it really, really hurts when his arm becomes solid and Yuji’s torso splits (or caves? He can’t tell) to accommodate the now-filled space. Five fingers close around his heart as his vision goes spotty and a rush of blood climbs up his trachea.

Man, this sucked when Sukuna did it the July before last, and it sucks just about the same now.

But, at least he tried, right? It’s not a bad way to go out. The other two can clean up. He doesn’t have very high hopes for Usami, though.

Yuji hears a cry just before he slips into unconsciousness. Four syllables, deep and bassy. Yuji smiles. If he never gets to say goodbye, hallucinating his voice one last time is an altogether unsurprising capstone on his life.

The first thing that Yuji notices is that the afterlife is bright. He supposes that it’s not that strange; most depictions of it are large, white rooms. Like Harry Potter.

(After Usami mentioned it, he can’t help but notice he really does relate everything back to movies.)

The second thing is that it’s quite uncomfortable. He awakens in the void sitting, his back hurting something fierce from a stiff plastic lounge chair. Yuji snicks. Maybe they could lure Gojo back to life with the promise of memory foam. Yuji can picture him wriggling around his seat trying to look for some position that would offer lumbar support. Gojo’s fairly easily bribed. With Yuji gone, he can look after Megumi and Nobara.

From his left, brash and nasal: “As if!”

Yuji opens his eyes and turns to meet opaque and black circular lenses sitting under a shock of white hair. The boy’s wide mouth is twisted into a knot, caught in between pursing in a childish pout or smoothing out into a welcoming grin. The latter wins out. Apparently, his smile has looked exactly the same for over a decade. “Yo, Yuji.”

Yuji recognizes this iteration of Gojo Satoru from the stack of old photos they found while cleaning out his office. Freshly sixteen, ready to take on the world, so convinced of his own invincibility that he mistook it for immortality. A rude shit, Shoko had chuckled, voice low with adoration. He looks like a senior Yuji would’ve followed into trouble. “Hey, sensei.”

Gojo’s grin widens. “It’s gonna take a lot more than just my comfy chair to tempt me into reincarnation, y’know.”

“Oh, that? Yeah, we sold that chair. Took up too much space.”

“You guys what?”

“Heh, kidding.”

From his right, warm but exasperated: “Don’t tease him, Itadori-kun. He gets even more riled up than usual these days.”

The other figure he sees when he twists in the opposite direction was also in that pile. He’s glad Shoko had identified him without prompting, since Yuji would never have made the connection himself. This young Nanami’s hair is more limp, his cheeks fuller with youth. He watches Gojo with the same disdain, but he sits partially slouched with one knee spread wide — like a teenage boy would — in comparison to his prim and proper posture as an adult. He doesn’t smile as readily at Yuji as Gojo does, but there’s a twinkle in his eye that serves a similar purpose.

“Oh, Nanamin,” says Yuji. “You’re here too.”

“Well, hey,” Gojo grumbles, “don’t sound too thrilled to see us!”

Yuji whirls around with placating hands. “it’s not that! It’s just — I was hoping for time to collect myself first, I guess.”

Nanami nods sagely, looking well beyond his years. “If I may be frank, we also had hoped we would not reunite with you so soon.” He blinks placidly. “Realities of our occupation aside, of course.”

Of course — the reality that progress is slow going, that it would take several lifetimes to see the average lifespan of a sorcerer to go up a few decades, that Gojo and Nanami themselves were incredibly young by regular human standards when they were killed (so what does that make Yuji?), and that even in spite of their youth, they’d made an indelible mark on history. Some more visible than others, some irrevocably on Yuji’s soul in particular, even if the world at large will never know it. They’re a triumvirate of tragedy, the lot of them.

Yuji stands quickly, flailing out of his seat, and bends fully at the waist. The rapid movement makes his head spin, an insistent pressure in his nasal cavity. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m very sorry for not doing enough.”

“Eh?” says Gojo, bewildered.

Stars swim across the backs of Yuji’s eyelids. “You both entrusted your legacies to me,” he explains, though part of him thinks his frequent visitations to their graves should have filled in some more blanks — unless his words never reached them or, worse, neither of them ever paid any attention. “I’m ashamed of greeting you again without anything to show for it.”

“We—” Gojo’s jaw clicks a little when it falls open. There’s a rustle of fabric and then a dulled thump, like he’s smacking Nanami on the arm or shoulder. The lounge chair creaks in tandem with his footsteps, and then Yuji feels Gojo’s warmth before him, comforting like the rays of the sun. A hand tips his chin upward. Gojo’s glasses have slipped a little down the bridge of his nose. The Six Eyes seem to glow a little brighter each time Yuji sees them. “I think we’ve run into a bit of miscommunication. I told you that I wanted to see you become a strong adult, right?”

“Yeah…”

“That means you fall into the winning category of ‘people I want to have outlived me,’” Gojo continues, rapping a knuckle against Yuji’s forehead gently. “What matters to me is that you lived — not precisely the way that I did, sacrifice in the name of progress, but in that you did as you pleased, because you had the freedom to. Because you were young and unburdened by the responsibilities of adulthood.”

“Was it —” Nanami cuts himself off, head lowered. “I chose my words poorly. If I had known how you would take them, I wouldn’t have said anything.”

“Hey, not everyone can be an improv genius,” Gojo says, not nearly as reassuring as he seems to think he sounds. “You only had a few seconds to come up with something before you —” He blows a raspberry and mimes an explosion with curled fingers.

Yuji is struck right in the center of his chest with just how deeply he missed them. No one could ever fill the void they’d left behind, he's told their headstones that multiple times. Kusakabe never tried, weary eyes that knew grief just as well, content to leave them to it. Yuji and Megumi and Nobara consider themselves three, but they had always been four, even when they thought the expiration date was because of the school system and not the permanence of death. Yuji doesn’t talk to Ino as much as he should.

There’s a lump in his throat when he swallows, a sting behind his eyes. “I screwed up. Like, a lot.” He holds a hand up to cut off Gojo’s next platitudes. “I know what you guys meant. I just always pictured having a fun story to tell you when I saw you again, so maybe I just feel like I’ve disappointed myself as much as I did the both of you. I kind of went out like a chump.”

Nanami shakes his head. It occurs to Yuji, less than a week short of his seventeenth birthday, that he’s older than both of them as they appear now. And yet, their approval is as soothing as it’s always been.

“I disagree,” says Nanami. “It was never your responsibility to be great. Your power is a gift, even in a literal sense, and it’s good that you’re using it to help people. I would say that you should, but never that you must. That was something that took me years to figure out. Your only obligation, Itadori-kun, was to be you. And you were. You died heroically, extending a hand in friendship, living by your principles. That’s not a fun story, but it’s a good one.”

“Better than how I went out the first time,” Gojo quips. “The heart thing’s cool and, like, biblical. I got turned into a pincushion.”

“Gojo,” Nanami hisses.

“What? He laughed!” Gojo waves a hand at Yuji, the gust of air from the gesture briefly lifting Nanami’s bangs. “Whatever, this isn’t about you anyway. We’re proud of you, Yuji. For everything.”

“Even Sukuna?” Yuji ventures. Surely they’ve made some note of it here in the afterlife.

“Hell yeah,” Gojo says. It’s a surprisingly chipper tone to take about one’s killer, but Yuji supposes Sukuna was always a little weird about Gojo in return. “Isn’t that your most impressive feat by far? You took a being we all considered pure evil and turned him into a real boy. And, look, I get it.”

Yuji scratches his cheek. His fault for bringing his love life up first, he supposes. “Yeah… Maybe…”

For the first time, Yuji examines his surroundings. Above them are vaulted, ribbed arches for ceilings, with slats in between to allow natural light, held up by ‘Y’-shaped beams. The walls are a comforting beige, the floor tiles various shades of brick. Yuji eyes the more hospitable-looking pleather lounge chairs with ‘Priority’ printed across them. “Hey, how come I didn’t wake up over there?”

“I moved you myself to mess with you,” Gojo deadpans. “Carried you bridal style and everything.”

“Gojo.”

“Nanamin.”

“Whoa!” Perhaps he should’ve noticed the massive wall of windows and the waiting airplanes outside first, lighting them from behind this whole time. In Yuji’s defense (and if Gojo is to be believed), he was placed in the seat facing the wall when he came to. Now that he’s not bogged down by guilt, or at least trying not to be, he can appreciate his new environment. He jumps over some of the chairs to press his nose into the glass.

“So, is this what heaven looks like?” Yuji asks. “That’s pretty cool. I’ve never flown anywhere, so I’ve also never been inside an airport. Guess a whole new world really does open up after you die, huh?”

He watches the muted reflections of Gojo and Nanami share a glance through the window. “You know you don’t have to stay here, right?”

“Eh?” Yuji turns. “Is there also, like, a heavenly space station or something?”

“Or something…,” Gojo mutters with a snort. “This kid’s funny.”

“What do you remember about what happened just before you died?” Nanami asks.

Well, the first thing that stood out was that it hurt. A lot. And that was nearly drowned out by the overwhelming disappointment, mostly at himself for being unable to talk Chihiro down and then for allowing the other sorcerer to get the drop on him. With the King of Curses as his mentor, Yuji truly should’ve known better.

Then time started to slow, and he could only see the dark void of Chihiro’s eyes and the faint yellow of his teeth. He could feel each heartbeat as his organ frantically pumped in the curse user’s grasp. His face and ears and chest blazed but everything else was cold and muted, as though he was encased in a block of ice.

Everything except a single gravelly rasp and the harsh consonants that followed.

“Enchain,” Sukuna had said, breaking a Binding Vow. Two, even, if he hurt Chihiro after Yuji died, which would’ve voided the protector clause of Adamantine Indestructible Conduct.

Nanami reads the panic and upset plain on his face, his own hazel eyes grounding as he steps forward and hovers a hand over Yuji’s shoulder. He endures a round of internal debate before allowing it to drop.

“Since Gojo-san so kindly brought up symbolism earlier, I’ll tell you what I told him when he first arrived a little while ago,” Nanami says, his voice a steadying rumble. “Ms. Mei once said that the north was the land of transformation and new discoveries, whilst the south represented an anchor to your past self. Gojo and I chose to stay the same. We’re — not quite shackled — but beholden to our histories and regrets in the same way.

“Yet when I look at you, I start to doubt her words. I think if anyone were to resist this binary and forge a new direction forward, it would be you, Itadori-kun.” Now, Nanami graces him with a smile. A true one, visible from both up close and at a distance, softening his eyes and crinkling them at the corners, encouragement over a farewell.

“Yeah!” chimes Gojo. “You could go west or east or northwest—”

“My point,” says Nanami, an irritated edge to his tone through a tight jaw, “is that you are one of the most earnest and least dissembling people I’ve ever known, Yuji. Starting anew for you does not mean losing yourself and your core. Staying true to your past does not mean breaking the chains of regret one link at a time.”

“But…” Yuji wets his lips. “You think — you think I should go. That I can go.”

“You managed to break through the barrier of a Domain with your bare hands,” Nanami chuckles. “So, yes, I think you can go wherever you want to.”

The doubt hits him like a bolt of lightning. Not denial of Nanami’s words, but of shadowy figures in the distance, looming corpses asking if Yuji’s ready to bear their weight. He has no trouble with strongarming the world to suit his needs, but he hasn’t the reach to keep everyone else from getting crushed by the walls he knocks down.

But he’s not the only person in the world with hands. That’s what they’ve been trying ot tell him this whole time. Yuji is not a cog or a martyr; he’s a friend, a son and grandson, a scholar, a fighter and lover, and the one thing that he isn’t is alone. There are people waiting for him. Rather than not wanting to let them down, he’s excited to see their faces when he wrestles death into submission yet again.

That settles it. “Then, I guess I’m headed south…west. You were so close, sensei.”

“Then you might want to face the right direction, kiddo.” Gojo’s hands spin Yuji around, a move more easily facilitated with Yuji mid-step, one foot off the ground. He chuckles in Yuji’s ear before playfully flicking it. “Maybe you need someone to keep you from getting lost?”

For a second, Yuji wonders if this means Gojo wants to come with him, but then heavy footfalls come to a stop at his side, and then a familiar white sleeve exposes a sliver of equally pale flesh as an arm is offered to him. “That sounds like a job for me, doesn’t it?”

Choso’s name catches in Yuji’s throat, coming out as little more than a teary gurgle. “I’m…” Sorry? Happy to see you again? So grateful to call you family? All of the above, and then some?

“You’re… never too old to need a big brother’s help?” Choso finishes with a knowing grin.

Yuji rolls his eyes, though that makes them leak, and allows Choso to pick up one of his wrists and place his hand in the crook of his elbow. The tiling on the floor and walls starts to peel off and expose a tunnel of bright, white light. Yuji throws a look and a wave over his shoulder to Gojo and Nanami, who each wave back until they’re black spots soon swallowed by the glow.

The tunnel grows more blinding and deafening with each step he takes, a howling wind carrying away the words he and Choso trade back and forth, but he keeps marching on. And when Yuji can’t see anything at all, not even himself, he clutches onto Choso’s arm and walks forward until he’s carried off into oblivion.

20 MARCH 2020.

Shoko uncharacteristically keeps her infirmary lights brighter than the afterlife airport does theirs, which is a feat for recessed cans when compared to a heavenly sun. Yuji blinks away the sting of the harsh greeting, but all the crust in his eyes makes it just hurt even more.

Everything aches, his limbs feel heavy and unresponsive, his throat as dry as the Gobi, and the curtain being pulled next to his head sounds like six thunderstorms at once. Megumi and Nobara hover over him and block the light with their huge noggins soon enough, though, so that’s something. Megumi hands him a paper cup full of water, cradling the back of his head to help him drink. Yuji’s cracked lips sting when he smiles at him in gratitude. He’s pretty sure they’ve started bleeding too. Hopefully neither of them are too put off by it.

“You’re an idiot,” Nobara and Megumi say together, as though they rehearsed it.

“Screw you,” Yuji rasps. “I’m taking my non-verbal thanks back. You both suck.”

Still, in spite of the easy insult, Nobara picks up on his worm-like wriggling and helps him into a sitting position. She disappears for a moment and returns with a jug of water. “So you can thank me verbally for this,” she says helpfully.

Yuji huffs through his nose before he swallows and rubs at one eye with the heel of his palm. Eugh. Gross. “I guess you’re not that horrible,” he concedes. “Since you’re not making me do the funeral portrait thingy again.”

“Oh, will you let that go already?”

Megumi, who is usually content to let their bickering play out, cuts in. “We took the curse user into custody.”

“Really?” Yuji blinks. “I expected Sukuna to just lop his head off and call it a day. Then again, he’s a better fighter than I am, so keeping him alive was probably a cakewalk too.”

Megumi falls quiet, and Nobara looks to him instead of jumping in to fill the void like she usually does. It takes Fushiguro a few moments to gather his words, and even then, they are few. “Did you know,” he begins slowly, “that any of this would happen?”

“What,” Yuji snorts, “getting taken out by someone who refused my offer of redemption? Sure, it was bound to happen some day.”

“And yet you did it anyway?”

“Well, yeah, of course.” Yuji shrugs, which makes a tendon in his neck twinge. “At the time, that’s all I could do.”

Megumi’s gaze sharpens. “Would you do it again?” Nobara leans forward too, apparently equally as interested in his answer.

“Um, this hurt a lot, so probably not.” He winces in preparation for a swat that doesn’t come, instead replaced by a shared look between his classmates. Okay, this is weird. They usually would’ve already hit him for being unfunny. And then, just as Yuji starts to relax, Nobara turns and socks him in the shoulder. Hard. “Ow! What was that for?!”

“For doing something so astronomically stupid,” she snaps, hitting him again in the same spot. “If you think life would be a bummer without us, then you should know it’s the same in reverse. No more killing yourself on our watch, do you hear? That is so 2018.”

Reluctantly, she adds, “Also, your boyfriend is pretty cool when he’s on our side.”

“Ex,” Yuji corrects, grumbling.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Wait —” He tears open his hospital gown, prompting Nobara to shriek in disgust and turn away. Palming over the center of his chest, Yuji searches for any sign of the wound Chihiro dealt him. His chest is entirely unblemished, smooth and whole — just as it had been when Sukuna revived him the first time. Like Nobara said, so 2018. When he concentrates, he can feel the traces of his cursed energy. So, then, he had time to heal Yuji before the consequences of breaking his Vows got to him. Yuji looks between Megumi and Nobara, who now suddenly look shiftier than usual. “Is he — where is he?”

Megumi sighs, more like he's bracing himself than exasperated over a question he expected, and retreats across the infirmary. When he returns, he has his hands cupped together like he’s carrying a liquid in his palms. He tips his hands down, displaying the ashen lump of Sukuna’s dormant form. It’s a far cry from his typical rose taupe, the deep purplish-red he became when he first turned from Yuji. This — thing is gray and hard, all edges, more resembling shale. Megumi’s placed him on a cloth, ostensibly serving as a cushion.

“We found him in your pockets after his possession over your body broke,” Megumi explains. “He was already like this — calcified. His cursed energy is still there, it’s just very faint.”

“Like in his fingers,” Yuji whispers, gently taking Sukuna with both hands. “He’s just — a cursed object now?”

“We think so,” Megumi answers. “Or, he’s in some sort of coma.”

It feels terrible to think it, but Yuji supposes this is a fairly light punishment for breaking a Binding Vow. Adamantine Indestructible Conduct could’ve held if he fought Chihiro to protect Nobara and Megumi — and judging by her words, she was at least close enough to see him in combat, if not in the line of fire herself. Sukuna may have scoffed at the cursed energy boost, but it could very well be the reason he’s still here. The reason there’s still hope. Yuji finds his cheeks sore from grinning, in spite of everything.

“Hey,” Nobara says uncomfortably. “This isn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

“Sukuna made his choice because he — loved you,” adds Megumi, starting to look a little green. “But that doesn’t mean he’d want you to destroy yourself in order to bring him back.”

Yuji snorts, his brows raised. “Yeah? I know that.” Their cheeks redden as he laughs, and he sees Nobara actively restrain herself from hitting him again. “You guys are corny. I wasn’t blaming myself, I was trying to figure out a way to get him back to normal.”

“You already have ideas?” Geez, Megumi. Don’t sound so surprised.

“Kinda sorta,” Yuji shrugs. He beckons them closer, lowering his voice. “Promise not to get mad at this secret I’m about to tell you?”

Megumi heaves a world-weary sigh and nods.

“Just because it’s your birthday,” Nobara mutters.

“Don’t say that,” Fushiguro scolds, “he’s just going to milk it.”

Yuji doesn’t for the record — but he does crack a toothy grin when both of their brows twitch in unison at his grand revelation.

23 MARCH 2020.

“Hope you enjoyed your five-day nap,” Kusakabe grouses around his lollipop. “Wish I could’ve taken an impromptu week off of work. Maybe I should assign some catch-up work to make up for it.”

“Please don’t,” Yuji says. “I was an invalid.”

For all his teasing barbs, it’s hard not to notice Kusakabe looking at him. Rather than staying with Yuji’s eyes, his sightline keeps drifting lower every minute or so, compelled toward a spot half-hidden by his desk and completely obscured by Yuji’s uniform. He’d been on a mission of his own when Chihiro eviscerated Yuji. He wonders if Kusakabe came running after his work was completed, if he’d seen the aftermath his classmates keep tiptoeing around. If he had, he’s keeping tight-lipped about it — like Kusakabe does with most things of substance.

The man makes a show of shuffling the papers on his desk around. “Well, needless to say,” Kusakabe drawls, “getting knocked out like a loser has not kept you from passing this class.”

“Whoo,” says Yuji flatly, pumping a fist in the air. He toots the noisemaker Nobara gave him for his birthday, to which Kusakabe recoils in disgust. To be fair, Yuji does feel a sense of pride and accomplishment, but it’s hard to focus when there are other matters that demand his attention. “How’s Chihiro?”

Kusakabe blinks. “Suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised that you care.”

“Of course I do.”

“Yeah, yeah, we can’t all be as saintly as you, kid.” He says it with something of a smile, so Yuji grins back. “Still not a lick of remorse for his actions, so he’s going to get locked up for the foreseeable future. He did seem intrigued that you survived, though I’d hesitate to categorize that as a good thing.”

Yuji hums. “There’s still time.”

“If you say so,” exhales Kusakabe in disbelief.

“Hey, how else are we supposed to get our numbers up after Shibuya and the Culling Game? Gojo-sensei used to say you had to be crazy to be a good sorcerer.”

Kusakabe’s lip curls. “Yeah, ‘cause that guy was a freak all unto himself.”

“You’re not that normal either, you know,” Yuji snickers.

“I can still knock you down a letter grade, kid, so watch it,” Kusakabe snaps, though the amused glint in his eye does him no favors. “You are so lucky you saved the world. You know the kind of shit people would give you if you didn’t? Endless. But I guess it’s only fair. We got pretty lucky that you’re a good kid too.”

Before they can get too sentimental ‘round these parts, Kusakabe gets to his feet. His rolling chair smacks into the wall behind him with how hard he pushed off from his desk, but he ignores it as he shakes Yuji’s hand. This is different from all the other times, courtesies with limp wrists and half-hearted fingers. This is a real handshake, firmly locked around Yuji’s hand, strong pumps, the other hand coming round to pat Yuji’s twice before he lets go, as much a goodbye as a congratulations. It’s touching — in both definitions of the word.

So, naturally, Yuji puts an end to that. “Thanks, sir,” he says. “I would probably feel prouder of this moment if you hadn’t already told me that you never hold anyone back ever. But I’m gonna miss you most of all, sensei.”

Kusakabe shoves an accusatory finger in his face. “Quit fishing for compliments, Itadori. I’m immune to that shit.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“Smartass.”

1 APRIL 2020.

Although Yuji is here alone (by his own request, admittedly), this was a group effort — mostly because Yuji is an absolutely terrible artist. Sukuna would never forgive him if Yuji resurrected him in a fugly, single-toothed man-baby-Rabbids-esque creature, and so he was forced to outsource in this endeavor.

For someone who lost his opposable thumbs in a freak Pikachu accident a year-and-some-change ago, Panda is surprisingly the best sculptor of them all. Maybe artistic skill is something he inherited from Yaga.

Yuji would hate to have the little guy’s efforts go to waste, so he’s done his due diligence in preparing for this ritual. He’s blown what remains of his stipend on the highest quality materials, memorized the instructions so thoroughly that Megumi thumped their shared wall because he started reciting the steps in his sleep at the top of his lungs. All Yuji can hope now is that he doesn’t slip on the pond floor and that he’d caught Kenjaku on a good day (and not a ‘hehe, let’s cause problems’ day).

The campus ritual pool is the one facility that shockingly sees the least amount of use. Passersby may be surprised to see it’s been barred off for privacy’s sake. Yuta and Megumi are stationed outside just in case something goes terribly wrong, but Yuji feels good about this. The bubbling sensation in his chest rings more of excitement than nausea, his cheeks tingling with the urge to apple in a broad smile. He only just manages to hold it back for fear of freaking Sukuna out with a manic expression first thing in the morning.

Rolling his pant legs up seems useless now, given that Yuji's currently waist-deep in the center of the pool and his hands are full with material components. He’s past the point of no return. He can’t even scratch his own nose, let alone fix his outfit. The clay body floats just before him, ankle caught against Yuji’s hip to keep it from floating off. Yuji wipes the sweat on his brow with a sleeve, careful not to let the contents of the bowl in his hand drip onto his hair. He exhales.

“Well. Let’s rock and roll.”

His right hand carries a bowl of grave wax, which he drips slowly into the pool at four cardinal points around the body eight times, until the container is completely empty. In his left hand, he has a mortar full of crushed rubies — by far the most expensive of the ritual’s materials, even with Nobara’s own sacrificed pieces of jewelry mingled with the crimson dust. Yuji takes it by pinches to sprinkle over the body. He presses the shards into the clay chest, above where Sukuna’s new heart will form. Though his palms itch from the fragments embedded into his skin, he doesn’t brush them off. Next, the words: “Earth Treasury, Unblemished, Cintamani, Thus I Have Heard.”

Last, but not least, he needs the original body. Yuji lifts Sukuna’s husk from his hood and places it over the rubies. Like an anchor, it weighs the body down. They both sink slowly, so steady and even that neither ripple or bubble escape from the mass. The pond’s water is so clear that Yuji can see them when they hit the bottom.

And then, in the blink of an eye, they’re both gone in a massive cloud of reddish brown — almost like someone lobbed a bath bomb into the ritual pool. Warm to the touch when Yuji brushes his fingers through the shiny, wet granules, the clay comes off of the body in puffs, giving way to skin, to flesh and blood and bone and humanity. Try as he might to squint, Yuji can’t make anything out from the all-encompassing murkiness.

An index finger breaks the surface of the water, long and elegant, finely manicured to a point, and then a hand follows, wrists encircled by rings of black. Three more follow, another of its kind and the rest in the opposite orientation.

Yuji’s laugh is wetter than he intended. Leave it to Sukuna to come back to life in the most dramatic way possible. Grabbing the two upper arms, Yuji hauls Sukuna up and out of the water. To the other’s credit, he does help once he’s got enough leverage to push off the floor with his feet — but all of the muscles Panda carved onto him come with the appropriate weight.

It’s not entirely Panda’s fault, though; he was only try to recreate Sukuna under Yuji’s advice, trying to make him look as close to the Innate Domain version as possible. Looking at this Ryomen Sukuna now, all four eyes the right shade of red, the prominent brow softened in greeting, dimple placed just right, it’s good work. It’s him, just how Yuji remembers him.

Except for the being naked part, but that’s just a symptom of (re)birth.

“Oh!” Yuji splutters, forcing himself to look at the ceiling as he backs away. “I, uh, left a towel for you on the side. Over there. Or maybe a little bit to the left, I can’t tell where I’m pointing.”

The sound of Sukuna’s new body cutting through the water gets closer, to his dismay. Yuji leans so far back he has to windmill his arms to keep from falling over. His palms ghost over Sukuna’s warmth as he does so, almost furnace-like in the mid-spring chill.

“Itadori Yuji,” Sukuna says quietly. His voice isn’t quite the same — it has the same pitch, still sits deep in his throat, half-nasal and half-fry, but he sounds almost, just a bit, human. Full of wonder, lacking the otherworldly, ancient ring. Yuji doesn’t think he dislikes it, but he would’ve gone wobbly-kneed with yearning either way. “You… you did this?”

When it becomes clear that modesty is not an unlocked feature on New Sukuna+, Yuji lowers his eyes, making very sure to end where the water (the very clear, very mystically pristine water) does. “Hahaha yeah,” he says with the least amount of chalance humanly possible. “Y’know, since I’m the greatest sorcerer of all time, yeah?”

Sukuna is too busy looking at his hands and marveling at his own skin to reprimand him for the bad joke. Eyes glued to the faint green underneath his flesh, the smoothness of his cuticles, the fuzz on his forearms, it’s clear that he’s somewhere else entirely. It should stand to reason, then, that this is a bad time to apologize — but if he does it while Sukuna’s full attention is on him, Yuji will chicken out.

Scratching the back of his neck, Yuji mumbles, “Um, but even though I’m such an awesome sorcerer and whatnot, I can admit that I’m not the best boyfriend. Or whatever term you prefer, ‘cause we didn’t really do labels, did we?”

The closest Sukuna gets to acknowledgment is a pause and a blink.

“You were right that I spent all that time trying to fix you — that I thought those bits of your past were pieces to a Why’s Sukuna So Messed Up? jigsaw puzzle, and not kernels of truth and weakness that took you effort to show me. I’m sorry for abusing your trust. I’m trying to be better about the whole savior complex thing, and —”

“Stop. Stop, stop, stop.” Each hand goes up in emphasis in time with each utterance. Sukuna shakes his head and mutters, “Hells, I forgot how much you like to talk.”

For one, this is something no one could ever forget about Yuji. Secondly, this is so very rich coming from him. But Yuji supposes this whole thing must be incredibly overstimulating and disorienting, so he allows Sukuna to tell him what to do — just this once.

Sukuna pinches the bridge of his nose, a move so him that Yuji can’t help but grin. “As intrusive as your methods were, you… were not entirely incorrect in your accusations, and my reaction was one of deliberate cruelty.” This concession is as close as Sukuna can get to those two words for now. Baby steps. That’s the most important thing to Yuji anyway — that they have time. That he’s here. A happy ending, or happy beginning, or a happy in-between, or all three at the same time. “Your absurd lack of caution allowed me to atone. I had thought my life sufficient recompense for your anguish.”

“You couldn’t bring yourself to apologize so you just killed yourself?” Yuji doesn’t mean for the words to be so accusatory, trying to soften the incredulousness with a laugh. At least Sukuna seems to see the ridiculousness in it too, based on his amused huff and hopeless shrug.

Dare he say — a match made in melodramatic heaven?

“And now you’ve gone and tipped the scales once more,” Sukuna sighs. The tug at his lips does his weary tone no credit. “Well done, Yuji.”

“You like it? Your new body? ‘Cause I do.” He slaps a hand over his mouth, face hot enough to start boiling the sacred pond if he dunked himself into it like he so desperately wants to. Suddenly, Yuji’s collar feels too tight, his pants uncomfortably waterlogged and heavy. “Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Sukuna humors him. “Kenjaku’s work?”

“Panda made the body, Kenjaku taught me the ritual,” Yuji corrects. “Why? Does something feel wrong?”

“Quite the opposite,” Sukuna hums. He flexes his fingers, twists at the waist, cracks his neck. The way he tests his body out reminds Yuji a little of breaking a brand new glowstick. “Except for one thing. My cursed energy is… quite low.”

Yuji scratches the back of his head, a little sheepish even though he knows he shouldn’t be. “Yeah, there’s… not much I can do about that. Looks like you’re one of us mere mortals now, sorry.”

Mere mortals don’t move as fast as Sukuna does — closing the distance between them in a flash, lower arms encircling Yuji’s waist as the upper ones cup his cheeks and tilt his face to the side. Sukuna’s presence, his weight, his warmth, his breath, is tremendous. Yuji isn’t sure how he managed to remove himself from Sukuna’s orbit earlier. Nose tracing along the side of Yuji’s, he murmurs softly, “Whatever do you have to be sorry for, hm? You’ve given me the chance to do this.”

Then he kisses Yuji, for the first time in what feels like centuries.

It is not hurried, it is not desperate. It is full of that certainty that Yuji loves about him, equal parts gift and oath, cherishing and reassurance. Yuji clings to him in turn, surging toward Sukuna as though he could melt into him. He feels weightless in Sukuna’s arms, even as the taller of the two now, rising instinctually on the balls of his feet like sheer euphoria is sucking him into the sky. It’s all very War of the Worlds in this way — the roaring of blood in his ears is a little like the tripods’ horn.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Sukuna whispers, nipping on his lower lip.

“My bad,” Yuji grins. “Let me make it up to you.”

And he does.

5 APRIL 2021.

Yuji has an alarm, but he wakes to a forehead kiss instead.

Ten minutes until your phone tries to blow your eardrums out, all encompassed in a single wet smack. Then, four minutes later, a kiss to the tip of his nose causes it to twitch, and three minutes after that, he abandons all pretense of sleep to grin dopily as Sukuna plants one on him like he’s Sleeping Beauty. But maybe Yuji should’ve at least opened his eyes — because Sukuna pinches his nose shut just as his alarm goes off, the shrill screech accompanied by flailing panic as he fails to inhale mid-doze.

Sukuna has the gall to snicker at him and flick him right in the center of his forehead. “Are you awake now?”

“Are you going to strangle me if I say no?” Yuji shoots back.

“Careful, boy, you almost sound excited by the prospect.”

…Maybe just a little.

But his retort wasn’t entirely facetious. It’s still much too early for anyone, human or curse, to be awake. Despite his new incarnation as the former, Sukuna’s just a freak who claims discipline is the sole key to waking at the ass-crack of dawn with ease. Yuji, for his part, struggles to keep his eyes open as he pads into the bathroom and brushes his teeth.

It’s hard to read his tablet through his lashes, but he has to. Yuji’s always found that he retains mission details better if they’re the first thing he takes in each morning — Sukuna’s affections (and assassination attempts) notwithstanding. There are a few teensy doubts about how much he’s able to absorb at this very moment, though he needed to wake up this early (“Ugh,” he groans at the white, sans-serif 04:46 at the top of his screen) to account for travel time.

He’s being shipped off to Osaka, where Dotonbori ferries have started to temporarily go missing. Though they eventually return at the ends of their routes, the majority of the sightseeing trip occurs off all possible radars, and passengers and crew alike report falling into a fugue state for the duration of their disappearance, each missing a valuable or two by the time they return to dry land.

It's clearly the work of a curse user, which means it’s clearly a job for Yuji. It’s a petty crime, but the sheer number of victims piling up has compelled Jujutsu High to intervene.

Sukuna swipes the tablet while Yuji bends over to spit in the sink and skims through the intel. “You’re going to take Fujioka with you,” he declares once he’s finished, holding the device above his head so Yuji has to crowd him against the wall.

“I don’t want to play babysitter again,” Yuji whines. He wishes the press of their chests together visibly affected Sukuna at least as much as it does him. “Seriously, why did you decide to become a teacher if you were just going to foist your students onto me?”

Sukuna scoffs. “As I recall, it was your pitiful institution that begged on its hands and knees for me to train the newest generation of sorcerers.”

“That sounds like a lie. If Kusakabe got on his hands and knees, he’d never be able to get back up. He’s too old.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.”

“Please don’t.” Yuji plucks the iPad from Sukuna’s hand mid-transfer from upper to lower, setting it on the counter as he bears down on him, ever closer. As he watches Sukuna’s pupils dilate, he offers a flash of teeth. “Would you be willing to spare me if I got on my hands and knees too?”

“You are a dog, Itadori.”

“Woof,” Yuji replies, with all the seriousness he can muster — which is not a lot. His forehead slots easily into the place where Sukuna’s shoulder meets his neck, and he can feel him shaking with laughter too.

Sukuna’s hand cups his chin to lightly push him away and then squish his cheeks. “Puppy’s okay with having a tag-along though, isn’t he?” He sounds a little too smug for Yuji’s liking, even if the saccharine tone feels nice and warm in the pit of his stomach.

Defeated, all Yuji can do is sigh. “Fine. I’ll let Nitta know.”

Sukuna rewards him with a kiss. “Good boy.” Well. That settles things, doesn’t it?

Yuji supposes he has little to complain about. As a fourth-year, he’s given a level independence just below graduated sorcerers, something Hakari and Kirara only achieved after getting expelled. They still joke that he's granted such leniency because he’s hooking up with one of the teachers, though Yuji’s decreasing shame and increasing commitment to the bit have started to suck the fun out of it for them.

Nobara likes to act like she’s cutting in to defend Yuji, but she’s as much of a bully who only wants to make mocking kissy faces and insist on planning Yuji and Sukuna’s wedding. Only Megumi is really on his side, and that’s just because he can’t bring himself to care. Things are still awkward, and Yuji doubts whether they’ll be able to fully reconcile. But at least there isn’t open hostility.

Even if Sukuna wasn’t the groveling type, any attention he doesn’t expend on Yuji is focused on his students. He’d scoffed when Yuji pointed out his and Gojo’s teaching styles were similar, claiming Gojo could barely handle the class of three, let alone Sukuna’s current class of five.

If he were quicker on his feet, or if he felt like putting actual weight behind his protestations, Yuji could’ve drawn a parallel between his own scant months under Gojo’s tutelage to poor Fujioka being forced onto the ferry mission. Like Gojo, Sukuna prioritizes fieldwork over class time, insistent that students should be prepared early on for the constantly shifting realities of actual missions that worksheets can’t replicate. Yuji agrees, though he struggles to see the first-years as anything but a bunch of toddlers.

Alas, this also would mean admitting he’s the Nanami in this analogue, and Yuji’s not quite sure if he ever wants to open that can of worms.

It’s more fun to sit back and watch Sukuna bluster around accusations that he cares — that it’s a matter of pride and ego over any responsibility he feels toward the kids. Yuji knows better; Sukuna’s just a big ol’ softie. That’s why he sends these kids off with him instead of into the trenches with Nobara, Megumi, or — God forbid — Yuta and his Special Grade missions.

They go their separate ways by six, Sukuna off to his classroom while Yuji swings over to headquarters for his in-person briefing. Nitta looks unfazed by his announcement, proudly declaring that she got another ticket for the shinkansen because she had another one of her patented feelings. Yuji’s just glad Fujioka’s seat won’t get taken out of his per diem. Dotonbori is chock full of food, and if Yuji has his way, so too will he be once the mission’s over. One last time, they go over his itinerary and their contact, a window who owns a takoyaki stand facing the waterfront, who called in the curse user.

It’s almost nine by the time Yuji lounges around the campus gate, waiting for Nitta to bring the car around. Hands in his pockets as he leans against the brick wall, it’s Sukuna’s cursed energy that he feels and reacts to first. Not that there was much else to register; Fujioka’s the runt of their class, weak in both body and curse. They came from a normal human family, the only one of them to see cursed spirits. Yuji knows Sukuna will never admit to having a soft spot for a fellow outcast.

He tries to smile at the kid, belatedly realizing they probably can’t see it through his face mask, and receives only a meek nod in return. It occurs to Yuji that this is the first time he’s chaperoned Fujioka in particular. He’s gone on missions with the rest of Sukuna’s class, bright pupils who can each hold their own.

Yuji’s good at what he does, his Domain designed to de-escalate, and so he’s never had to worry about the first-years under his care. Maybe it’s because he sees shades of himself and his friends in the kids. He sees his determination, Nobara’s raw power and daring, Megumi’s precision and steadiness. When he looks at Fujioka, though, Yuji sees — fragility. It’s patronizing, surely, to see the equivalent of a squalling infant when looking at someone only three years younger than him.

But he should be right to worry, shouldn’t he? Curse users are not as predictable as cursed spirits are. This petty thief could fold like wet paper, or he could seriously hurt one of them.

He catches Sukuna’s eye. Are you sure?

Of course. The words are as protracted and succinct as Sukuna’s nod. The utmost faith, and he thinks Yuji deserves it.

Why shouldn’t he?

Yuji’s converted dozens of curse users and dispatched just as many who’d chosen immutability. He survived the bloodbaths of Shibuya and the desolation of Shinjuku, a little battered and bruised but not broken. He’s lived through getting his heart torn out twice, and each time convinced the King of Curses to put it back together — thrice, if they want to get metaphorical about it. He was made to be a vessel of hate and spite and destruction but lives every day trying to carry hope inside of him instead. And even though Yuji doesn’t know how the future will go, if he’ll crack open like Pandora’s jar in the next decade or year or month or day or even second — he knows he doesn’t have to face the unknown alone.

That is a gift his friends and mentors and Sukuna have given him. So it’s only right that he passes this on to Fujioka too.

“Hey,” he calls once they come to a stop before him. Fujioka’s two heads shorter than Sukuna, who is himself a few centimeters shorter than Yuji, and they both already tower over almost everyone on campus. He resists the urge to squat while talking to the kid. “You ready?”

“No,” Fujioka answers immediately. Their shoulders bow toward their chest as they look balefully up at their teacher.

“Oi,” Sukuna grunts without any real offense. “No embarrassing me.”

Catching the black sedan rolling up behind him, Yuji snorts as he reaches back to grab the handle. He rests his chin on the top of the door and gestures for the first-year to enter. Nitta leans back in the driver’s seat and bonks her head against the plastic partition. Her eyes crinkle at the corners with a comforting smile, also obscured by a surgical mask.

“There’s no need for that,” Yuji says warmly. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes but refrains from commenting. That’s fine; Yuji knows it would be in agreement anyway.

Fujioka looks at him dubiously as they climb in. “Are you sure about that?”

Yuji shuts the car door behind him with a quiet grunt and waves at Sukuna through the tinted glass. The man resolutely refuses to indulge him. One of these days… Prompted by a cleared throat, Yuji turns back to his underclassman.

“‘Course I’m sure,” he declares. He lowers his head like he’s letting them in on a big secret. “I’m one of the strongest.”