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It was a dark night… scratch that. It was a dark day. It felt as if the seventh seal had been plucked from the parchment, plunging the world into an unending chaos that only he acknowledged.
Nevertheless, it was a dark day. Most of them had been as such since the incident. To him, anyway. Not that anyone else seemed to notice. Everyone else had recovered with amazing speed, already celebrating, only a year after it all ended.
His shoes compacted the soft dirt, leaving a trail of shaky footsteps as he arrived at his destination. He came to stand in the centre of a grave, the dirt packed in and stamped down, to create the illusion of an inhabitant.
Could he use the word inhabitant for a dead man? Never mind that. The body hadn't been recovered, despite their efforts, so the coffin was empty.
He stared, glassy-eyed, at the tall black stone jutting out from the ground, reaching towards the sky like a final grasp at heaven.
‘七海建人’
His heart ached, staring at the simple inscription. That man, the one who saved his life, saved Itadori-kun, reduced to four Kanji on a stone.
There was nothing to cremate either. No ashes to scatter. Even if there were ashes, he wouldn't know where they should be scattered.
He was one of the few who had no will. As such, most of his belongings were taken to charity. Some had been taken by friends and family for sentimental purposes. And although Ijichi hardly considered himself a friend to him, but rather a subordinate, he had taken something too.
It was wrapped tight around his fist now. The silk kissed his knuckles as snow began to drift down, coming to rest on his eyelashes and the tip of his nose.
He tore his eyes away from that taunting inscription and stared at his hand. A silk tie, wrapped around his thin fingers, speckled like a leopard.
His legs gave up at that moment, as his eyes welled up with thick tears. He was gone. This was all that was left.
He desperately pressed his lips to it, like he never got to do, stifling a sob as he sat crumpled on the floor. It didn't smell like him anymore. Ijichi had taken the cologne too, but he had run out quickly, and it was too expensive to buy more.
He missed it. The sweet smell of pine sap overlayed with the masculinity of leather. He missed him. He was everything Ijichi couldn't be. Strong. Independent. Useful.
A sorcerer.
A silly dream, he thought, his forehead pressing into the black stone, his other hand pressing into his scarred stomach. A sorcerer with no technique. How silly he was to think he could ever be like him. No. He was lucky to get a job as a manager.
He was lucky to get a job at all.
His wrapped hand finally moved away from his lips, the tie soaked with spit and mucus and tears. He used his fingers to trace his name.
‘七’ meant 'seven'. A coincidence really, but he couldn't help but smile at it. He was born to have that technique, really.
‘海’ meant 'ocean'. He recalled a drunken memory, where he had whispered to Ijichi that he longed to go to Malaysia, live by the sea, and get away.
He had never gotten away. He wondered if that was what he’d thought of in his last moments. Malaysia.
‘建’ meant 'construction'. Another coincidence. It aligned with his organised nature. He was dependable. He was everything.
‘人’ meant human.
He couldn't bring himself to trace the last kanji. The simplest one, only two strokes. But he couldn't. That would mean it was over. Finality. That would mean he would have to stop mourning and join the festivities.
How could they celebrate?
He was almost holding his breath, waiting for a teasing call from Gojo-san, telling him to get back in and have fun!
Gojo was dead.
They were all dead.
How could they celebrate?
“It's Christmas!” Gojo would say, in this fantasy. “Come inside, you'll give yourself frostbite. I know what will warm you up!” Is what he would say, with a cheerful giggle.
Then Gojo would offer him a beer, and tell him to sit down and eat. And then, maybe, perhaps, he would look up and see him.
“I thought you might stay out there forever,” Nanami said lightly, clearly a few drinks in, judging by his flushed cheeks and slight smile.
Ijichi felt himself blush, staring at the contours of Nanami’s strong face, longing to cradle it in his hands and feel his lips press against his own.
“I'm fine. I was just… thinking.” He muttered hesitantly, worrying at his lip.
In this perfect world, Nanami, no, Kento would chuckle. Then, he would bring his hand up to Ijichi’s face and pry his lip from his teeth with a calloused thumb.
“Don't do that,” Kento whispered.
Ijichi couldn't respond. He went to bring his hand up to Kento’s cheek and noticed something wrong.
His face…
He couldn't remember it.
He blinked and his hand was outstretched to nothing, his stomach throbbing from the cold. Hopefully, one day, he would remember.
Until then, he let himself be vulnerable. It was what he would've wanted. He let his breath hitch, bringing the tie back to his mouth. “I won't.” He promised, staring at the kanji.
‘人’. He let himself trace those two forsaken lines, and sighed.
He got up. And he walked back inside.